[M'try] Made a picture for Isandre.
RL Date: 7/29/10
IC Date: 5/5/23 --Log thievery at work.
Nighthearth, Fort Weyr
An irregular archway leads into the alcove that houses Fort Weyr's nighthearth. The cozy little nook is kept stocked at all times with fresh, hot klah, a pot of stew and a basket of baked goods including breads and both savory and sweet filled rolls. Several leather upholstered chairs stand clustered around the hearth itself which has a grate for propping up chilled feet to warm up on cold days. The Weyr's aunties also keep the space well-supplied with a stack of perpetually renewed afghans in interesting color choices, while the headwoman's staff ensures that some of the older towels are always on hand for riders ducking in off of sweeps in bad weather. Otherwise, the nighthearth is undecorated but for the motley collection of mismatched mugs, bowls and spoons that line the mantel for general use.
Yes, it's the /night/hearth. No, it's not /night/. But it's a cold, drizzly rain outside, so it's not too unusual to find people holed up where it's warm and dry. Contrary to popular belief, M'try /is/ people-- a person, anyway-- and is thus hiding from the weather in one of the big chairs, his boots removed and set next to the fire, his socked feet propped up where they can dry. Although he has his customary accoutrements, portfolio on the floor next to his chair, jacket and stuff slung over the back of his seat, he's in the middle of reading, though he can't have been here too terribly long, judging by the general dampness of his person.
The commons is full. The Living Caverns is overflowing. Neither is very comfortable to poor Isandre, so it's to the Nighthearth she escapes, taking advantage of the fact that, though there may be people, it's not nearly as crowded as the rest of the Weyr's gathering places. At least she's not wet - that's the convienent part about being a healer. You never really have to go outside if you don't want to - or don't get called off to random emergencies. Ducking in, she moves to settle at a seat near the hearth, in the process of sitting down before she realizes she knows at least one people - person - here. "G'day, M'try."
The only other people-person here besides M'try would be a bluerider who had been dead asleep, but-- at the conversation-- he stirs awake with a groggily mumbled apology, hrum hurm excuse him, and shoves off to a proper bed with a fearful look at Isandre (healers = scary). Having watched all this from over the top of his book, the brownrider waits until the man's footfalls have faded to silence to answer, "Hello, Isandre. I have never scared anyone away before. How does it feel?"
"Distinctly awkward," Isandre replies after a momentary impression of a stranded fish - all gaping mouth and bulging eyes, shocked beyond belief at the bluerider's flight. "I know some people are nervy 'round healers - see it all th' time, in fact, but I ain't never scared no one off like that before. I wonder..." She peers off after the fleeing man, then shakes her head. "I think I knew him - but I know a lot of people, vaguely." Settling back in her chair, she crosses her legs and closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. "So. How's yer day goin', besides wet?"
"It's better that way," M'try offers placidly, closing the tip of his index finger in the spine of his book as a makeshift placemarker. "He was snoring when I first sat down, and it would likely make for an odd undercurrent to conversation." It's on the tip of his tongue to answer 'wet' before Isandre's addendum, and he can't help grinning faintly when she beats him to the punch. "I'm well, and thank you for asking. I have something for you." Whatever he was doing with his morning, it doesn't seem to have lent itself to hurrying through his afternoon, as he seems to have developed a distinct lassitude-- note how quickly he's not moving to retrieve whatever it is.
"Still. Ain't used t' people bein' skeered o' me. I mean," and here Isandre opens her eyes - just a crack, a flicker of green beneath pale lashes - "I ain't exactly B'kaiv or nothin'. Just a li'l ol' healer." With a wicked tongue and access to unlimited needlethorn - yeah. Stifling a snicker, she toes off one boot, then the second, swinging to tuck her legs beneath her in the chair as she leans thoughtfully on the arm closest the hearth, turning her gaze to the fire. "Glad yer doin' good," she murmurs, before slanting a confused look at him. "Something for - ah, another book?" she asks, lips curving slightly. "I've the last one ye lent me, and another aside for ye, but I left them in the Infirmary."
Ain't exactly B'kaiv, she comments, and M'try answers with a tidy, "Thankfully." As to what he has-- although he does put the book he'd been reading into the open space between their chairs, he also answers, "No, it's not a book. You're welcome to this one if you need fresh reading material, though. I've read it before, but I find it re-readable. All intrigue, a supposedly true retelling of a period of Ruathan succession. I have a feeling there's some poetic license taken."
His comment earns a twitch of her lips, as Isandre shifts her gaze back to the fire once more, resting her chin on her arms as she fits, neat as you please, into the embrace of her chair. There are, after all, benefits to being as small - height-wise - as she. "Not a - " Intrigued now, she swings her whole head around to study him, resting her cheek against her hand as she flicks a glance between him and his book. "Sounds interesting," she notes. "I might like t' borrow it when yer done."
M'try scoots it carefully on to the very edge of the arm of Isandre's chair, trying to make it balance there without letting it actually touch any part of the Healer; whether this is in deference to Isandre's person or just 'cause it's something to do is debatable. "By all means, take it when you go today. I have, as I said, read it before, so it's not as if the ending will come as some great surprise to me." It's a thick thing, either bought used or oft-read by the slightly banged up quality of the binding and the looseness of the pages, but it likely wasn't expensive to begin with, so.
Watching the book as it inches closer to her nose, Isandre snickers and slides her hand forward, hooking at the book so it falls to her lap. "Thank you," she replies, offering a sweet smile to the brownrider as she retracts her fingers again, tucking them once more beneath her head. "I'll try not to take as long t' get this one back t' ye as the other took." She watches him curiously for a moment, then returns to gazing into the fire. It might be a comfortable silence - for her - but she's incapable of sustaining it. "So what have ye been doing with yerself, of late? Ain't run into ye as much as I used ta."
Watching the book as it tips into her lap, M'try spares a brief look up to Isandre's eyes; all his hard work balancing, and she just knocks it over? But it's amused irony, really, and, with his hands now free, he draws his portfolio onto his lap, shaking a few drops of water off the scuffed leather before it lands on his knees. "I tend to work a lot more in the spring and the summer, Gather-seasons, but there's a bit of a lull at the moment. And you? Besides hoarding my library, that is." There's a pointed levity to that last remark, an effort to dispel her apologies.
"What can I say?" Isandre replies dryly as she continues to watch the flames jump. "I love books. Didn't y' know I only like y' for yer library, m'dear?" She's teasing, really - even if her voice, and face, are completely deadpan. "What kind o' work do ye do, anyroad?" she asks softly. "I mean, I know ye're a dragonrider, but I never see ye doin' that." Her eyes flicker - briefly - to the portfolio, in covertly curious way - before she looks away again. She's learned not to press him, at least, not on that point. "I've been patchin' hurts an' the like, mostly - ye know. Same ol', same ol'."
As if touched by her words, M'try looks over with a flutter of lashes to answer, "Well, I knew there had to be a reason." Her question has the fluttering lashes turn to a squint, his expression comical for a moment before he answers, "I peddle my wares, if you will. I used to go through a supplier; I would give him a few dozen pieces to sell for me, and he would pay me a flat rate. Lately, I've been doing my own bargaining, so I make a little more now, but I invest more time. So it goes." He shrugs conclusively and sets his attention to unclasping his portfolio, adding, "At least the mudslide means it's not all sniffles for you? Proper scrapes and bruises now."
Amusement flickers over Isandre's face, though she doesn't bother looking at him, still gazing at the shiny fire. Shiny. "Either I been spendin' too much time around T'rev, or the Weyr in general." Without expanding on what causes that particular statement, she rolls a shoulder in a kinda-sorta shrug. "Cuts, bruises, scrapes - bumps on the head, twisted ankles, banged up noses... y'know the drill. I swear, I think people are takin' hurts at th' mudslide just so they can gie me somethin' to do - and so they'll have an excuse t' trail mud all over my nice clean floor." That's pure resignation in her voice. "Still - keeps me busy, at th' least."
Somewhere between prompting and full of understanding, M'try half-asks, "Have you." Thankfully, what he takes out of his portfolio has nothing to do with what they're not exactly discussing-- excepting that it is a drawing. The only person in it is fully-clothed though. Held between two thin, stiff pieces of hide to keep it from folding or bending or getting damaged, he hands the item over toward Isandre, without the balancing act he used on the book. "Perhaps they're taking hurts, as you put it, only so they can see your smiling face?"
Colored pencil rather than paint. Oriented vertically, measuring 13 inches tall but only 9 inches wide, it's meant to draw focus up to the ceiling of the image. The newly discovered solarium-- the left half of the picture as it is: dusty, a broken pane spilling dirt, dark, shifting almost without delineation toward the right-hand side where it's as it will be-- at least in M'try's mind. A shaft of sunlight slices at an angle down the page, cutting off the 'old' view into the 'new' look, where the panes are polished bright. Half in sunlight and half-out, the aforementioned 'only figure' is shown from the back, clearly Isandre's height and build, and one will just have to imagine the rapt expression worn on the uptilted face, since this one isn't depicted.
"They're goin' about it the wrong way then," Isandre replies dryly, pushing herself up into a sitting position as he offers over the hide-protected drawing, reaching out to take it with careful hands. "I'll tell ye, I ain't smilin' much when half th' injuries as come in are a result of simple carelessness, nothing more." Still, despite the irritated words, her expression is alight with curiosity, and she falls silent once she's taken posession of what he's offered to her. Slowly - almost gingerly - she lifts the top hide away, staring down at the drawing balanced carefully on her knees. "I - " Whatever she might have said is stolen away, and she merely stares down in mute astonishment.
M'try, who has been known to cause himself some injury due to simple carelessness, can do nothing but shift guiltily at her first, making a production out of looking 'caught,' foolish boy. He maintains a similar quality to prompt, "You--?" Good? Bad? "I had this nagging thought that you live in a cold, sterile, colorless room," after the last time they talked. "While I don't necessarily believe it's true, the thought wouldn't leave me alone until I'd done something about it. Really, though, I ought to have taken the time to find a frame." Afterthought, oh well.
"It's wonderful," Isandre murmurs, after several more minutes of silence. It's a shame she's so engrossed in the drawing - his mimicry at her words might just have brought one of those apparently-coveted smiles to her face. Still, there's a hint of one, at the corner of her lips, softening the sea-green of her eyes as she drags her reluctant gaze from picture to artist. "My room is, I'll admit, a shade more comfortable than th' Infirmary, but this - this will make it all th' better a place." One might wonder why M'try would encourage her to hide there even more - but. Very carefully, she slides the protective hide back onto the drawing, securing it with one hand. "I'm sure I kin find somethin' appropriate. This is a - Is there even a word t' describe it? Thankee, M'try." Look. Smile.
Considering how much time the little weird spends with pencil in hand (not like that, perv), it's reassuring that he actually produces something sometimes, right? M'try listens with his head cocked all the way to the end, summoning up his own bright smile in response only after her very last. "You're welcome. 'Thank you' is rather the answer I had hoped for, so I'll consider it a job well done. Sometimes..." Here, he shrugs, lacing up the buckle of his portfolio again. "I don't always have a choice what I draw, it seems like, so it's nice when it turns out well."
He's got his pencils, Isandre's got her salves, and yet oddly enough, they both are exactly what they seem to be. Such a disappointment. The drawing, however, is clearly /not/ a disappointment, not from the pleased glow on her face as she tucks it carefully against her lap, trying to find the best way to hold it without risking any damage whatsoever. "It's a job well done in verra deed," agrees the healer, not quite beaming - but pretty damn close - down at the picture. And though his plaint may cause her eyes to flicker to him, confusion warring with the lingering pleasure, she doesn't inquire further, instead offering, near sotto voce, "I'm glad ye found yerself inspired t' this, then."
"That's not to imply there's someone looming over me with a whip and a quota or anything," M'try is quick to clarify in answer to that glimpse of Isandre's confusion. "Only that, occasionally..." He takes a breath, ordering his thoughts to say, "There are times when I simply /must/ create something specific, or it will not let me rest. This is one of those that nagged at me until I was finished." There, that's what he meant, that his muse was being a bitch. "And, when it was done, I thought, 'Who better to give it to?'" With a simple shrug, pleased with himself, yes, but it seems this sort of thing must happen to him often enough that it's almost taken for granted.
No whips? Such a shame. Isandre's faint giggle - yes, giggle, which is why it's not safe to please her too often - is soft enough to be easily overlooked, even as she finds just the right way to hold the drawing, and thus finds herself better able to offer her full - mostly - attention to the brownrider instead. "I kin understand that," she replies, nodding in emphasis to both his words and hers. "I've times like that m'self, where something just begs t' be done, and invades yer thoughts until ye have no choice but t' do it. Welladay, it's work well-appreciated, an' I know just the place for it. A shame," she adds wryly, "that it's only I who'll get t' enjoy it, but, rest assured, it will be." Enjoyed, that is.
The giggle has him making a face, and M'try answers to it with a wry, "Your relief that I'm not being made to do slave-labor is nearly palpable. Do try to control yourself." But even that is light, his mood today as fair as the weather is foul, no crossness. "That's hardly a shame at all, my dear healer. I would rather know that one person truly enjoys it than dozens merely glance at it. As we seem to be kindred spirits--" At the beck and call of their respective industries, he means. "--I'm doubly happier that it's yours."
Taking a deep breath, Isandre quirks a wry smile at him, even as she shakes her head. "That," she murmurs, "was not why I laughed." /Giggled./ "Though I'll be quite happy t' tell ye I'm glad that ye're not forced t' slave away under such conditions - your work, I feel, would suffer for it. I do not believe talent such as yours," and she has proof in her hands that he does, indeed, have talent, "is not meant t' be at the mercy of anyone but hisself." Gentle fingers smooth over the top most hide, soft enough in touch not to move it. "Well. Thankee again, M'try." Settling once more into comfortable silence, she shifts her attention back to the picture - yes, she's lifting the hide to peek at it, clearly delighted by her new acquisition.
This time, it's M'try who laughs, as short shout of it, a single, "Hah!" And, dropping his portfolio back at his feet, he settles to explain, "That's a fine ideal, Isandre, and I wish I could live up to it. In fairness, though, I do generally work for a profit. I console myself with the reminder that, even if I were still taking commissions from the Hall, I would still be getting paid. And I do hate portraiture." That last with particular vehemence. "I suppose it's a bit like you having to mend bumps and scrapes when you'd rather..." Er. What? "...do something with herbs?"
"Well, that's how th' world should work," Isandre replies serenely, hiding her quick, amused grin behind the fact that she's totally looking down, not at him. "Don't make a lick of difference in how it does work, but - well, y'know what I mean. At least y' occasionally get t' work for yerself." Or, in this case, for the betterment of a poor healer's lonely room. "I like my work," she murmurs, "and it's kind of - not the same as yours, as my work depends pretty much solely on caving t' the demands of others. But," she adds, lifting a finger, "I catch yer drift. It would be as if I had t' raise healing herbs rather than flowers in th' garden Hattie gave me, which is now," she adds wryly, "under mud."
"As soon as I'm granted the ability to alter how the world does work, I'll make sure to put that at the top of my to-do list. Though, in fairness, I think I might be addicted to what I do, regardless of the pay." M'try shrugs as if helplessly, like so many addicts, and lets his attention turn to the matter of her garden and not his... stuffs. "Think about it this way: as soon as the immediate things are dug out, people will be in prime shape to help dig out the garden? Every muscle finely honed to the task of slopping around mud..." Groan.
"When ye come by that ability, be sure t' grant me a few more inches height, deal? Not much, just three or four." Isandre's lips curve slightly, and she recovers the drawing, fingers resting protectively atop the hide. "There are many ways t' treat an addiction," she muses, "but for the most part, it's only replacing it with another. An' I can't think of one more healthy than drawing." Even if she doesn't know exactly what it is he draws. "And - hmm, yes. But by then time," she adds sadly, "'twill be too late t' plant most of the flowers I was after. Still," she adds brightly, "it'll give me a good laugh t' watch - from a distance - all them bodies at work." Laugh - or something.
Really; "But you're cute the way you are?" M'try's not saying it to be, like, flirtatious or anything, just a matter of fact: he spends a lot of time thinking about girls, and Isandre is neatly classified into the 'cute' category (since 'curvaceous' might get him in trouble, given certain givens). Still, he's prompt in moving on, saying, "Ah, very nice. So you will supervise from afar while the rest of us further exhaust our already weary selves to dig out what's ultimately /your/ garden." Tsk tsk, though-- "I'd do the same thing," in a conspiratory whisper.
"And has it occured t' ye that cute may not be what I'm lookin' t' be?" Isandre replies dryly, tilting one finger at him as she raises an eyebrow - example given. However, within nearly the same gesture, she waves it off, flatly refusing to have this particular conversation with this particular man. "Naturally," she replies serenely instead, offering him a sweet smile, unsullied by anything such as guilt or repentance. "Ye ain't gonna find me down there diggin' - bad enough both ye and B'kaiv now have got me in that damn crack - but I'll be more'n happy t' watch and offer suggestions. An' mend yer bruises, massage yer aches, an' all sorts of services I provide for ye lot o' workers at the end of the day."
With a slow tip of his head, M'try answers a slightly elongated, "Yes. Granted. But." In his defense. "I had other adjectives. You didn't seem to care for those ones, either." Yeah, so much for flat refusal. Anyway; "You went back?" A fact that he finds amusing, clearly, his smile deepening to a grin, despite the fact that he's got a very obvious blindspot about exactly who Isandre was with. Speaking of flat-out-refusing...
"Point." Isandre's not blind - nor is she terribly unwilling to admit to her own deficiencies. "Still." Absently tugging at the fingers of one hand with the other, she stares down at the picture in her lap. "I did," she confirms - to his question of her return to the evil crack. "Don't ask me why. B'kaiv asked me t', and in a moment of sheer insanity, I agreed." And, given her rather flat tone, her second expedition to darkness-enshrouded bathing chamber went about as well as her first - not to say unpleasant, but - well. She knocked M'try on his ass (in a manner of speaking) and made B'kaiv get all growly - not exactly glowing examples of time well spent. "This Weyr needs..." She trails off, shaking her head.
Again, with the whole kindred spirits thing, M'try points-- literally points, and says almost jubilantly, "That's exactly how I wound up getting searched." B'kaiv asked, moment of insanity, that part. "I'm not sure what that says about either of us, let alone the greenrider in question, but..." He trails off, unwilling to speculate further, though he does settle with a snicker. "What does this Weyr need, Isandre? In your opinion." He's honestly interested, though humor won't quite leave him at the moment.
"I'm thinking I have nothing t' worry about on that score," Isandre replies dryly, "and I'd say that worked out well enough for you," she adds, eyes flicking upward pointedly. "But all that came out o' the whole expedition was a rock for th' Weyrlingmaster's dragon and a great deal of insight on how th' various wings function." Disgruntled, she? Not exactly. "The Weyr needs... something. I dunno. I like t' talk," she adds, enough wry amusement to her tone to prove she's aware of how wordy she can be, "an' I like t' talk with ye, an' Vanissa... B'kaiv... even T'rev, when he's wearin' more than a towel," and yes, that was a snicker, "but sometimes, a body likes t' do somethin' with more than just the mouth, ye ken? Sometimes it feels like if I ain't workin' or sleepin', I'm jabberin'."
M'try starts to say something, wisely thinks the better of it, shuts his mouth with his breath exhaled impotently through his nose, instead. Yes. Impotently. Don't question it. A second attempt winds up much the first way, but the third times the charm, and he finally answers, "At the risk of embarrassing you. Do you recall how we were saying before that sometimes there are things we simply /must/ do? Things we're compelled to do, it seems?" Assuming so, "I'm compelled to comment that, sometimes, a body likes the somethings that a mouth does."
Blank look. That's what M'try receives for his pains. "I... see." And Isandre does, indeed, see - one can assume, anyway, from the glitter of wicked amusement deep in those sea-green eyes, which quickly drop from him to the picture on her lap so as to hide that particular expression. "Well," she replies, with a tiny cough, "I s'ppose that's true enough - or so I've heard," she adds, lifting a hand to hide a second cough - or, more likely, the grin that she can't keep from her lips. "But I was talkin' about doin' things other than just... talkin'," she feels the need to point out, innocently. "Which is what I," and there's a faint stress on the pronoun, "end up doin' with my free time."
Other than just talking: "You're really not making it better." M'try smiles in a sketchy sort of way, amused but good-gracious-girl, /think/ before you speak. "That said," with a lilt of irony (said, talkin', get it?), "you and I have done a bit more than talk, have we not? We explored an abandoned cavern, enjoyed the view in that room." With a nod to the picture. "You mended my ankle, even. While I admit that none of this is exactly swashbuckling adventure, at least some of it was marginally entertaining?"
"I know," Isandre confesses - to the picture, not to him - "but sometimes ye make it just a bit too easy, ye ken?" Finally managing to control her expression to something less than a smirk, she lifts her gaze, staring politely at the brownrider. "An' it be true, we have. As I have with B'kaiv, an' T'rev, an' a host of others." Tucking her tongue in her cheek, she waits several beats before adding, "Sometimes I jus' wish there were somethin' t' do on a regular basis. Occasional outings are all fine an' dandy - and more than marginally entertaing, as I know you are quite well aware," is added tartly, "however." However what, however, she does not expand on, merely rolling her shoulders in a shrug. "Mayhap it's just me," she murmurs, tilting her head to stare off past him. "Just feel like conversation gets stale." Of course, if she had more personality than a wet board...
M'try's brows raise and hover there for a spell, eyes resting almost placidly on the Healer for a long while, like he's waiting for her to proceed. Nothing? "Well," he begins slowly, working through Isandre's comment, searching for some way that it doesn't sound like she just called him totally boring. "Perhaps it will be better once the garden is all cleared out again and you can work on your flowers? At least it will be something to do that isn't healing and jabbering, as you put it." Industriously, he makes sure all the buckles are closed on his portfolio once he lifts it, then slings the strap around his shoulder, making way.
With an exasperated sigh, Isandre jabs a finger at him. "See? S'what I mean." Dropping her hand again to the painting, she smoothes her fingers over the hide, glaring at the fire. "I run out of things t' say, and I ain't got anythin' t' fill the spaces with. An' when I might have things t' say, it's crap ye people ain't interested in. Would y' like me t' tell ye how to make a salve? Bandage a cut? Th' difference a'tween a burn and a sear? I could. But - " She hesitates, lips thinning slightly, then, "I'm sorry, M'try. That was unfair t' ye, most of all. 'Cause of everyone I talk to, yer the least one I'm like as not t' run outta things to say. An' ye gave me this lovely drawing, an' all I did in return was tease ye." She waves a hand at him, frowning into the fire. "Yer too good a friend for the likes o' me, brownrider."
Her exasperated sigh at least has M'try pausing for a moment, listening to the rest of Isandre's words with an uncertain tip of his head. "At some point, those might be useful things to know, though I don't think I would be much of a pupil, when you really get down to it." Shaking his head, he chases away her apology with a calm, "It's really all right, Isandre, you don't need to apologize to me. I'm aware that I open the door to the teasing as often as not, so I can't exactly blame you." He will still stand, though it seems less like he's beating a hasty retreat as leaving her to enjoy the warmth of the fire without him. Shoving his now-dry socks into his still slightly damp boots, he adds, "Not at all, Healer. I like you. Even when you're being a touch acidic."
Sighing again, Isandre drops her chin to the back of one hand, gazing quietly at the fire. "Someday, I'm goin' t' realize that I really, really hate th' taste of my own feet." It's almost as if she plans to leave it at that, then, "Clear skies, M'try. Thanks again for the lovely picture - I'll get it framed as soon as I can." The fingers of the hand still atop the drawing smooth lightly over the hide, then lift in a brief wave - though she doesn't bother to actually watch him walk out. Self-pity, perhaps - or more likely, sheer embarassment.
"I find them almost palatable, myself, provided they're quite dry." M'try's, now quite dry, are put to the action of carrying him from the room, his last effort at reassuring Isandre contained to a quick, honest smile before he ducks out to do whatever things M'try does all day. (We don't care to know, truly.)
IC Date: 5/5/23 --Log thievery at work.
Nighthearth, Fort Weyr
An irregular archway leads into the alcove that houses Fort Weyr's nighthearth. The cozy little nook is kept stocked at all times with fresh, hot klah, a pot of stew and a basket of baked goods including breads and both savory and sweet filled rolls. Several leather upholstered chairs stand clustered around the hearth itself which has a grate for propping up chilled feet to warm up on cold days. The Weyr's aunties also keep the space well-supplied with a stack of perpetually renewed afghans in interesting color choices, while the headwoman's staff ensures that some of the older towels are always on hand for riders ducking in off of sweeps in bad weather. Otherwise, the nighthearth is undecorated but for the motley collection of mismatched mugs, bowls and spoons that line the mantel for general use.
Yes, it's the /night/hearth. No, it's not /night/. But it's a cold, drizzly rain outside, so it's not too unusual to find people holed up where it's warm and dry. Contrary to popular belief, M'try /is/ people-- a person, anyway-- and is thus hiding from the weather in one of the big chairs, his boots removed and set next to the fire, his socked feet propped up where they can dry. Although he has his customary accoutrements, portfolio on the floor next to his chair, jacket and stuff slung over the back of his seat, he's in the middle of reading, though he can't have been here too terribly long, judging by the general dampness of his person.
The commons is full. The Living Caverns is overflowing. Neither is very comfortable to poor Isandre, so it's to the Nighthearth she escapes, taking advantage of the fact that, though there may be people, it's not nearly as crowded as the rest of the Weyr's gathering places. At least she's not wet - that's the convienent part about being a healer. You never really have to go outside if you don't want to - or don't get called off to random emergencies. Ducking in, she moves to settle at a seat near the hearth, in the process of sitting down before she realizes she knows at least one people - person - here. "G'day, M'try."
The only other people-person here besides M'try would be a bluerider who had been dead asleep, but-- at the conversation-- he stirs awake with a groggily mumbled apology, hrum hurm excuse him, and shoves off to a proper bed with a fearful look at Isandre (healers = scary). Having watched all this from over the top of his book, the brownrider waits until the man's footfalls have faded to silence to answer, "Hello, Isandre. I have never scared anyone away before. How does it feel?"
"Distinctly awkward," Isandre replies after a momentary impression of a stranded fish - all gaping mouth and bulging eyes, shocked beyond belief at the bluerider's flight. "I know some people are nervy 'round healers - see it all th' time, in fact, but I ain't never scared no one off like that before. I wonder..." She peers off after the fleeing man, then shakes her head. "I think I knew him - but I know a lot of people, vaguely." Settling back in her chair, she crosses her legs and closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. "So. How's yer day goin', besides wet?"
"It's better that way," M'try offers placidly, closing the tip of his index finger in the spine of his book as a makeshift placemarker. "He was snoring when I first sat down, and it would likely make for an odd undercurrent to conversation." It's on the tip of his tongue to answer 'wet' before Isandre's addendum, and he can't help grinning faintly when she beats him to the punch. "I'm well, and thank you for asking. I have something for you." Whatever he was doing with his morning, it doesn't seem to have lent itself to hurrying through his afternoon, as he seems to have developed a distinct lassitude-- note how quickly he's not moving to retrieve whatever it is.
"Still. Ain't used t' people bein' skeered o' me. I mean," and here Isandre opens her eyes - just a crack, a flicker of green beneath pale lashes - "I ain't exactly B'kaiv or nothin'. Just a li'l ol' healer." With a wicked tongue and access to unlimited needlethorn - yeah. Stifling a snicker, she toes off one boot, then the second, swinging to tuck her legs beneath her in the chair as she leans thoughtfully on the arm closest the hearth, turning her gaze to the fire. "Glad yer doin' good," she murmurs, before slanting a confused look at him. "Something for - ah, another book?" she asks, lips curving slightly. "I've the last one ye lent me, and another aside for ye, but I left them in the Infirmary."
Ain't exactly B'kaiv, she comments, and M'try answers with a tidy, "Thankfully." As to what he has-- although he does put the book he'd been reading into the open space between their chairs, he also answers, "No, it's not a book. You're welcome to this one if you need fresh reading material, though. I've read it before, but I find it re-readable. All intrigue, a supposedly true retelling of a period of Ruathan succession. I have a feeling there's some poetic license taken."
His comment earns a twitch of her lips, as Isandre shifts her gaze back to the fire once more, resting her chin on her arms as she fits, neat as you please, into the embrace of her chair. There are, after all, benefits to being as small - height-wise - as she. "Not a - " Intrigued now, she swings her whole head around to study him, resting her cheek against her hand as she flicks a glance between him and his book. "Sounds interesting," she notes. "I might like t' borrow it when yer done."
M'try scoots it carefully on to the very edge of the arm of Isandre's chair, trying to make it balance there without letting it actually touch any part of the Healer; whether this is in deference to Isandre's person or just 'cause it's something to do is debatable. "By all means, take it when you go today. I have, as I said, read it before, so it's not as if the ending will come as some great surprise to me." It's a thick thing, either bought used or oft-read by the slightly banged up quality of the binding and the looseness of the pages, but it likely wasn't expensive to begin with, so.
Watching the book as it inches closer to her nose, Isandre snickers and slides her hand forward, hooking at the book so it falls to her lap. "Thank you," she replies, offering a sweet smile to the brownrider as she retracts her fingers again, tucking them once more beneath her head. "I'll try not to take as long t' get this one back t' ye as the other took." She watches him curiously for a moment, then returns to gazing into the fire. It might be a comfortable silence - for her - but she's incapable of sustaining it. "So what have ye been doing with yerself, of late? Ain't run into ye as much as I used ta."
Watching the book as it tips into her lap, M'try spares a brief look up to Isandre's eyes; all his hard work balancing, and she just knocks it over? But it's amused irony, really, and, with his hands now free, he draws his portfolio onto his lap, shaking a few drops of water off the scuffed leather before it lands on his knees. "I tend to work a lot more in the spring and the summer, Gather-seasons, but there's a bit of a lull at the moment. And you? Besides hoarding my library, that is." There's a pointed levity to that last remark, an effort to dispel her apologies.
"What can I say?" Isandre replies dryly as she continues to watch the flames jump. "I love books. Didn't y' know I only like y' for yer library, m'dear?" She's teasing, really - even if her voice, and face, are completely deadpan. "What kind o' work do ye do, anyroad?" she asks softly. "I mean, I know ye're a dragonrider, but I never see ye doin' that." Her eyes flicker - briefly - to the portfolio, in covertly curious way - before she looks away again. She's learned not to press him, at least, not on that point. "I've been patchin' hurts an' the like, mostly - ye know. Same ol', same ol'."
As if touched by her words, M'try looks over with a flutter of lashes to answer, "Well, I knew there had to be a reason." Her question has the fluttering lashes turn to a squint, his expression comical for a moment before he answers, "I peddle my wares, if you will. I used to go through a supplier; I would give him a few dozen pieces to sell for me, and he would pay me a flat rate. Lately, I've been doing my own bargaining, so I make a little more now, but I invest more time. So it goes." He shrugs conclusively and sets his attention to unclasping his portfolio, adding, "At least the mudslide means it's not all sniffles for you? Proper scrapes and bruises now."
Amusement flickers over Isandre's face, though she doesn't bother looking at him, still gazing at the shiny fire. Shiny. "Either I been spendin' too much time around T'rev, or the Weyr in general." Without expanding on what causes that particular statement, she rolls a shoulder in a kinda-sorta shrug. "Cuts, bruises, scrapes - bumps on the head, twisted ankles, banged up noses... y'know the drill. I swear, I think people are takin' hurts at th' mudslide just so they can gie me somethin' to do - and so they'll have an excuse t' trail mud all over my nice clean floor." That's pure resignation in her voice. "Still - keeps me busy, at th' least."
Somewhere between prompting and full of understanding, M'try half-asks, "Have you." Thankfully, what he takes out of his portfolio has nothing to do with what they're not exactly discussing-- excepting that it is a drawing. The only person in it is fully-clothed though. Held between two thin, stiff pieces of hide to keep it from folding or bending or getting damaged, he hands the item over toward Isandre, without the balancing act he used on the book. "Perhaps they're taking hurts, as you put it, only so they can see your smiling face?"
Colored pencil rather than paint. Oriented vertically, measuring 13 inches tall but only 9 inches wide, it's meant to draw focus up to the ceiling of the image. The newly discovered solarium-- the left half of the picture as it is: dusty, a broken pane spilling dirt, dark, shifting almost without delineation toward the right-hand side where it's as it will be-- at least in M'try's mind. A shaft of sunlight slices at an angle down the page, cutting off the 'old' view into the 'new' look, where the panes are polished bright. Half in sunlight and half-out, the aforementioned 'only figure' is shown from the back, clearly Isandre's height and build, and one will just have to imagine the rapt expression worn on the uptilted face, since this one isn't depicted.
"They're goin' about it the wrong way then," Isandre replies dryly, pushing herself up into a sitting position as he offers over the hide-protected drawing, reaching out to take it with careful hands. "I'll tell ye, I ain't smilin' much when half th' injuries as come in are a result of simple carelessness, nothing more." Still, despite the irritated words, her expression is alight with curiosity, and she falls silent once she's taken posession of what he's offered to her. Slowly - almost gingerly - she lifts the top hide away, staring down at the drawing balanced carefully on her knees. "I - " Whatever she might have said is stolen away, and she merely stares down in mute astonishment.
M'try, who has been known to cause himself some injury due to simple carelessness, can do nothing but shift guiltily at her first, making a production out of looking 'caught,' foolish boy. He maintains a similar quality to prompt, "You--?" Good? Bad? "I had this nagging thought that you live in a cold, sterile, colorless room," after the last time they talked. "While I don't necessarily believe it's true, the thought wouldn't leave me alone until I'd done something about it. Really, though, I ought to have taken the time to find a frame." Afterthought, oh well.
"It's wonderful," Isandre murmurs, after several more minutes of silence. It's a shame she's so engrossed in the drawing - his mimicry at her words might just have brought one of those apparently-coveted smiles to her face. Still, there's a hint of one, at the corner of her lips, softening the sea-green of her eyes as she drags her reluctant gaze from picture to artist. "My room is, I'll admit, a shade more comfortable than th' Infirmary, but this - this will make it all th' better a place." One might wonder why M'try would encourage her to hide there even more - but. Very carefully, she slides the protective hide back onto the drawing, securing it with one hand. "I'm sure I kin find somethin' appropriate. This is a - Is there even a word t' describe it? Thankee, M'try." Look. Smile.
Considering how much time the little weird spends with pencil in hand (not like that, perv), it's reassuring that he actually produces something sometimes, right? M'try listens with his head cocked all the way to the end, summoning up his own bright smile in response only after her very last. "You're welcome. 'Thank you' is rather the answer I had hoped for, so I'll consider it a job well done. Sometimes..." Here, he shrugs, lacing up the buckle of his portfolio again. "I don't always have a choice what I draw, it seems like, so it's nice when it turns out well."
He's got his pencils, Isandre's got her salves, and yet oddly enough, they both are exactly what they seem to be. Such a disappointment. The drawing, however, is clearly /not/ a disappointment, not from the pleased glow on her face as she tucks it carefully against her lap, trying to find the best way to hold it without risking any damage whatsoever. "It's a job well done in verra deed," agrees the healer, not quite beaming - but pretty damn close - down at the picture. And though his plaint may cause her eyes to flicker to him, confusion warring with the lingering pleasure, she doesn't inquire further, instead offering, near sotto voce, "I'm glad ye found yerself inspired t' this, then."
"That's not to imply there's someone looming over me with a whip and a quota or anything," M'try is quick to clarify in answer to that glimpse of Isandre's confusion. "Only that, occasionally..." He takes a breath, ordering his thoughts to say, "There are times when I simply /must/ create something specific, or it will not let me rest. This is one of those that nagged at me until I was finished." There, that's what he meant, that his muse was being a bitch. "And, when it was done, I thought, 'Who better to give it to?'" With a simple shrug, pleased with himself, yes, but it seems this sort of thing must happen to him often enough that it's almost taken for granted.
No whips? Such a shame. Isandre's faint giggle - yes, giggle, which is why it's not safe to please her too often - is soft enough to be easily overlooked, even as she finds just the right way to hold the drawing, and thus finds herself better able to offer her full - mostly - attention to the brownrider instead. "I kin understand that," she replies, nodding in emphasis to both his words and hers. "I've times like that m'self, where something just begs t' be done, and invades yer thoughts until ye have no choice but t' do it. Welladay, it's work well-appreciated, an' I know just the place for it. A shame," she adds wryly, "that it's only I who'll get t' enjoy it, but, rest assured, it will be." Enjoyed, that is.
The giggle has him making a face, and M'try answers to it with a wry, "Your relief that I'm not being made to do slave-labor is nearly palpable. Do try to control yourself." But even that is light, his mood today as fair as the weather is foul, no crossness. "That's hardly a shame at all, my dear healer. I would rather know that one person truly enjoys it than dozens merely glance at it. As we seem to be kindred spirits--" At the beck and call of their respective industries, he means. "--I'm doubly happier that it's yours."
Taking a deep breath, Isandre quirks a wry smile at him, even as she shakes her head. "That," she murmurs, "was not why I laughed." /Giggled./ "Though I'll be quite happy t' tell ye I'm glad that ye're not forced t' slave away under such conditions - your work, I feel, would suffer for it. I do not believe talent such as yours," and she has proof in her hands that he does, indeed, have talent, "is not meant t' be at the mercy of anyone but hisself." Gentle fingers smooth over the top most hide, soft enough in touch not to move it. "Well. Thankee again, M'try." Settling once more into comfortable silence, she shifts her attention back to the picture - yes, she's lifting the hide to peek at it, clearly delighted by her new acquisition.
This time, it's M'try who laughs, as short shout of it, a single, "Hah!" And, dropping his portfolio back at his feet, he settles to explain, "That's a fine ideal, Isandre, and I wish I could live up to it. In fairness, though, I do generally work for a profit. I console myself with the reminder that, even if I were still taking commissions from the Hall, I would still be getting paid. And I do hate portraiture." That last with particular vehemence. "I suppose it's a bit like you having to mend bumps and scrapes when you'd rather..." Er. What? "...do something with herbs?"
"Well, that's how th' world should work," Isandre replies serenely, hiding her quick, amused grin behind the fact that she's totally looking down, not at him. "Don't make a lick of difference in how it does work, but - well, y'know what I mean. At least y' occasionally get t' work for yerself." Or, in this case, for the betterment of a poor healer's lonely room. "I like my work," she murmurs, "and it's kind of - not the same as yours, as my work depends pretty much solely on caving t' the demands of others. But," she adds, lifting a finger, "I catch yer drift. It would be as if I had t' raise healing herbs rather than flowers in th' garden Hattie gave me, which is now," she adds wryly, "under mud."
"As soon as I'm granted the ability to alter how the world does work, I'll make sure to put that at the top of my to-do list. Though, in fairness, I think I might be addicted to what I do, regardless of the pay." M'try shrugs as if helplessly, like so many addicts, and lets his attention turn to the matter of her garden and not his... stuffs. "Think about it this way: as soon as the immediate things are dug out, people will be in prime shape to help dig out the garden? Every muscle finely honed to the task of slopping around mud..." Groan.
"When ye come by that ability, be sure t' grant me a few more inches height, deal? Not much, just three or four." Isandre's lips curve slightly, and she recovers the drawing, fingers resting protectively atop the hide. "There are many ways t' treat an addiction," she muses, "but for the most part, it's only replacing it with another. An' I can't think of one more healthy than drawing." Even if she doesn't know exactly what it is he draws. "And - hmm, yes. But by then time," she adds sadly, "'twill be too late t' plant most of the flowers I was after. Still," she adds brightly, "it'll give me a good laugh t' watch - from a distance - all them bodies at work." Laugh - or something.
Really; "But you're cute the way you are?" M'try's not saying it to be, like, flirtatious or anything, just a matter of fact: he spends a lot of time thinking about girls, and Isandre is neatly classified into the 'cute' category (since 'curvaceous' might get him in trouble, given certain givens). Still, he's prompt in moving on, saying, "Ah, very nice. So you will supervise from afar while the rest of us further exhaust our already weary selves to dig out what's ultimately /your/ garden." Tsk tsk, though-- "I'd do the same thing," in a conspiratory whisper.
"And has it occured t' ye that cute may not be what I'm lookin' t' be?" Isandre replies dryly, tilting one finger at him as she raises an eyebrow - example given. However, within nearly the same gesture, she waves it off, flatly refusing to have this particular conversation with this particular man. "Naturally," she replies serenely instead, offering him a sweet smile, unsullied by anything such as guilt or repentance. "Ye ain't gonna find me down there diggin' - bad enough both ye and B'kaiv now have got me in that damn crack - but I'll be more'n happy t' watch and offer suggestions. An' mend yer bruises, massage yer aches, an' all sorts of services I provide for ye lot o' workers at the end of the day."
With a slow tip of his head, M'try answers a slightly elongated, "Yes. Granted. But." In his defense. "I had other adjectives. You didn't seem to care for those ones, either." Yeah, so much for flat refusal. Anyway; "You went back?" A fact that he finds amusing, clearly, his smile deepening to a grin, despite the fact that he's got a very obvious blindspot about exactly who Isandre was with. Speaking of flat-out-refusing...
"Point." Isandre's not blind - nor is she terribly unwilling to admit to her own deficiencies. "Still." Absently tugging at the fingers of one hand with the other, she stares down at the picture in her lap. "I did," she confirms - to his question of her return to the evil crack. "Don't ask me why. B'kaiv asked me t', and in a moment of sheer insanity, I agreed." And, given her rather flat tone, her second expedition to darkness-enshrouded bathing chamber went about as well as her first - not to say unpleasant, but - well. She knocked M'try on his ass (in a manner of speaking) and made B'kaiv get all growly - not exactly glowing examples of time well spent. "This Weyr needs..." She trails off, shaking her head.
Again, with the whole kindred spirits thing, M'try points-- literally points, and says almost jubilantly, "That's exactly how I wound up getting searched." B'kaiv asked, moment of insanity, that part. "I'm not sure what that says about either of us, let alone the greenrider in question, but..." He trails off, unwilling to speculate further, though he does settle with a snicker. "What does this Weyr need, Isandre? In your opinion." He's honestly interested, though humor won't quite leave him at the moment.
"I'm thinking I have nothing t' worry about on that score," Isandre replies dryly, "and I'd say that worked out well enough for you," she adds, eyes flicking upward pointedly. "But all that came out o' the whole expedition was a rock for th' Weyrlingmaster's dragon and a great deal of insight on how th' various wings function." Disgruntled, she? Not exactly. "The Weyr needs... something. I dunno. I like t' talk," she adds, enough wry amusement to her tone to prove she's aware of how wordy she can be, "an' I like t' talk with ye, an' Vanissa... B'kaiv... even T'rev, when he's wearin' more than a towel," and yes, that was a snicker, "but sometimes, a body likes t' do somethin' with more than just the mouth, ye ken? Sometimes it feels like if I ain't workin' or sleepin', I'm jabberin'."
M'try starts to say something, wisely thinks the better of it, shuts his mouth with his breath exhaled impotently through his nose, instead. Yes. Impotently. Don't question it. A second attempt winds up much the first way, but the third times the charm, and he finally answers, "At the risk of embarrassing you. Do you recall how we were saying before that sometimes there are things we simply /must/ do? Things we're compelled to do, it seems?" Assuming so, "I'm compelled to comment that, sometimes, a body likes the somethings that a mouth does."
Blank look. That's what M'try receives for his pains. "I... see." And Isandre does, indeed, see - one can assume, anyway, from the glitter of wicked amusement deep in those sea-green eyes, which quickly drop from him to the picture on her lap so as to hide that particular expression. "Well," she replies, with a tiny cough, "I s'ppose that's true enough - or so I've heard," she adds, lifting a hand to hide a second cough - or, more likely, the grin that she can't keep from her lips. "But I was talkin' about doin' things other than just... talkin'," she feels the need to point out, innocently. "Which is what I," and there's a faint stress on the pronoun, "end up doin' with my free time."
Other than just talking: "You're really not making it better." M'try smiles in a sketchy sort of way, amused but good-gracious-girl, /think/ before you speak. "That said," with a lilt of irony (said, talkin', get it?), "you and I have done a bit more than talk, have we not? We explored an abandoned cavern, enjoyed the view in that room." With a nod to the picture. "You mended my ankle, even. While I admit that none of this is exactly swashbuckling adventure, at least some of it was marginally entertaining?"
"I know," Isandre confesses - to the picture, not to him - "but sometimes ye make it just a bit too easy, ye ken?" Finally managing to control her expression to something less than a smirk, she lifts her gaze, staring politely at the brownrider. "An' it be true, we have. As I have with B'kaiv, an' T'rev, an' a host of others." Tucking her tongue in her cheek, she waits several beats before adding, "Sometimes I jus' wish there were somethin' t' do on a regular basis. Occasional outings are all fine an' dandy - and more than marginally entertaing, as I know you are quite well aware," is added tartly, "however." However what, however, she does not expand on, merely rolling her shoulders in a shrug. "Mayhap it's just me," she murmurs, tilting her head to stare off past him. "Just feel like conversation gets stale." Of course, if she had more personality than a wet board...
M'try's brows raise and hover there for a spell, eyes resting almost placidly on the Healer for a long while, like he's waiting for her to proceed. Nothing? "Well," he begins slowly, working through Isandre's comment, searching for some way that it doesn't sound like she just called him totally boring. "Perhaps it will be better once the garden is all cleared out again and you can work on your flowers? At least it will be something to do that isn't healing and jabbering, as you put it." Industriously, he makes sure all the buckles are closed on his portfolio once he lifts it, then slings the strap around his shoulder, making way.
With an exasperated sigh, Isandre jabs a finger at him. "See? S'what I mean." Dropping her hand again to the painting, she smoothes her fingers over the hide, glaring at the fire. "I run out of things t' say, and I ain't got anythin' t' fill the spaces with. An' when I might have things t' say, it's crap ye people ain't interested in. Would y' like me t' tell ye how to make a salve? Bandage a cut? Th' difference a'tween a burn and a sear? I could. But - " She hesitates, lips thinning slightly, then, "I'm sorry, M'try. That was unfair t' ye, most of all. 'Cause of everyone I talk to, yer the least one I'm like as not t' run outta things to say. An' ye gave me this lovely drawing, an' all I did in return was tease ye." She waves a hand at him, frowning into the fire. "Yer too good a friend for the likes o' me, brownrider."
Her exasperated sigh at least has M'try pausing for a moment, listening to the rest of Isandre's words with an uncertain tip of his head. "At some point, those might be useful things to know, though I don't think I would be much of a pupil, when you really get down to it." Shaking his head, he chases away her apology with a calm, "It's really all right, Isandre, you don't need to apologize to me. I'm aware that I open the door to the teasing as often as not, so I can't exactly blame you." He will still stand, though it seems less like he's beating a hasty retreat as leaving her to enjoy the warmth of the fire without him. Shoving his now-dry socks into his still slightly damp boots, he adds, "Not at all, Healer. I like you. Even when you're being a touch acidic."
Sighing again, Isandre drops her chin to the back of one hand, gazing quietly at the fire. "Someday, I'm goin' t' realize that I really, really hate th' taste of my own feet." It's almost as if she plans to leave it at that, then, "Clear skies, M'try. Thanks again for the lovely picture - I'll get it framed as soon as I can." The fingers of the hand still atop the drawing smooth lightly over the hide, then lift in a brief wave - though she doesn't bother to actually watch him walk out. Self-pity, perhaps - or more likely, sheer embarassment.
"I find them almost palatable, myself, provided they're quite dry." M'try's, now quite dry, are put to the action of carrying him from the room, his last effort at reassuring Isandre contained to a quick, honest smile before he ducks out to do whatever things M'try does all day. (We don't care to know, truly.)