[M'try] Solarium lunch.
RL Date: 8/18/10
IC Date: 7/9/23 --Log thievery at work.
Solarium, Fort Weyr
Up at the top of the stairs, the light grows stronger where a landing opens up and leads the way into a spacious room, slightly dusty room with smooth, walls. Nearly perfectly round, the space seems to have held a certain grandeur once, though it's fairly bare bones now, even after a good cleaning to remove tattered hangings and bug-eaten floor-coverings. The main attraction lies up above, where debris has been cleared away to show off the glass roof made of multiple panes of colored glass. The gap where broken panes shattered under the weight of old debris is currently covered with boards while the glasscrafters work on repairing the ceiling and its protective shutters. Once all the repairs are completed, this could be a nice space to sit and socialize. Already, someone's brought up a few chairs from the living cavern and left them standing about the room at random intervals.
M'try has been a busy boy lately. Often away from the Weyr on some errand or another, none of them especially formal or important, he's been scarce enough to have done little more than check in with Vanissa in several days, to say hello, kiss her cheek, then disappear into M'trydom once again. Today, though, he makes the effort to catch her in between drills, to ask her to come up to the Solarium when T'kyn's done with them for a late breakfast, and it's there that she can find him, struggling at the moment with a small, folding table that doesn't seem to want to cooperate, an ominous-looking picnic basket tucked off to one side (picnics are not their forte).
Thanks to missing that drill, Nissa's been busy as well flying extra sweeps, doing dawn watchduty, performing numerous menial and nitpicky tasks for T'kyn and thus she's been busy herself lately. So busy, in fact, that some of those check ins may have very well taken place on the fly outside the Weyr as they pass here and there. Today, however, T'kyn has been called to what looks like it will be a lengthy, out-of-Weyr meeting somewhere, leaving the greenrider, although still at his beck and call, somewhat free and thus she is here. Arriving in time to offer a (carefully void of amused), "Need a hand with that?" The recalcitrant table.
"Thank you, but it's a matter of principle now." M'try does not look up to offer this, having just now managed to locate the tricky catch on the underside of the tabletop, thus freeing up the legs to unfold themselves. With a blending of pride for having solved it and irritation that it took him that damn long, he sets it up in between two of the chairs already brought up, and turns to Vanissa only once that's done. "I sometimes feel that my incompetence knows no bounds. Hello."
Vanissa's lips move soundlessly, repeating the word 'principle' with a fond eyeroll while staying well out of his way while he struggles with the table. She's in no hurry now that she's here, her dash up those stairs aside. She takes the time to slip out of her flight jacket, seeks to put him at ease by saying, "Need to catch my breath, take your time." When it's safe, she steps nearer to brush her lips on his cheek, a bright smile for his success on her lips and quips, "Table wrangling. You've discovered Fort Weyr's newest sport. You're a genius, M'try. And hiya yourself."
Mildly, M'try comments, "Oh, to be remembered for so monumental a thing," as table-wrangling. His cheek tilts to be kissed and, briefly, he seeks to thread his arm around Vanissa's waist while she's there, saying, "Thank you for coming. I realize we typically fail at this sort of thing. But I thought, perhaps, with a table and some silverware, things might go better for us." With less quippiness, more frankness, he adds, "And I have missed you these past days."
With a sparkle of laughter that doesn't quite dispel the fatigue in her hazel eyes, Nissa leans into him for a moment, her arms slip around him for a public-appropriate hug, "To be remembered. And not be infamous? Is key." She nods sagely before stepping back and eyeing his efforts, that basket and the room at large, totally approving as she says, "This beats the living caverns by a long shot." Besides, what could go wrong here? Save for one of the workers overhead restoring the dome crashing in atop them... As she drapes her jacket on the back of her chair, she replies with equal sincerity, a faint knitting of tawny brows, "I've missed ya too. T'kyn's...yeah." Keeping her hopping. He knows, so instead of finishing that line, she asks casually, "Whatcha been up to?"
M'try, shaking his head, "I'm sorry for you. You look tired." Beneath knitted brows, his eyes follow Vanissa's for a moment longer before he resumes the business of food, setting a pair of plates and silverware rolled in napkins out. Then it's cold chicken, salad, wine even-- more like lunch than late breakfast, but beggars (as M'try notes often) can't be choosers. "Studying, mostly. I've been talking to my uncle about taking my exams later this year and perhaps getting my knot before Turnover. Start next year as a proper journeyman, but I'm out of habit with studying, so I have a lot to re-learn. --It's a little early in the day, but drink?"
Vanissa hooks one booted foot around the leg of her chair, pulls it out and sinks into it, all in one fluid motion. With a grateful sigh to be off of her feet she smothers a yawn, "Yeah, I am. Maybe once I get my restdays back I'll catch some rest." Chin propped in her hand as she watches him set out the food, she makes a pleased, 'mmm'. This will definitely save her time not having to stand in the chow line for lunch. As for wine, "Shells, yeah, I could use a drink. Drills aren't until this afternoon, so." Her shoulders roll, allowing concern about that to slip away, tilts M'try a curious look, "Journeyman, hmm? That mean you'll take commissions for-" Her hand waves vaguely. "Portraits? Book illustrations?" Whatever Journeyman harpers do. She has no clue.
"All this because you took one nap?" M'try tsks his tongue against his teeth, surprised and disappointed all rolled into one. Glasses are retrieved, set, and filled, and he nods to the spread once he settles into the chair across from Vanissa, now a matter of 'help yourself.' Which he begins to do presently, saying, "Book illustrations, perhaps. I don't like portrait work, though I suppose I would take the commissions if they paid well enough. Mostly, I would just like the prestige that comes with the title, I suppose. I make enough money on my own, but for more official matters, the rank would be helpful. Everything that happened at the Hold made me think that I really could be of some clerkly use, at least."
"Missed afternoon drills." Nissa points out needlessly, dryly adding with a grimace, "It's T'kyn." Needing no further prompting, piles salad on her plate, takes a piece of that chicken, but doesn't start eating just yet. "Prestige. Huh." Clearly a foreign concept to her, although she does observe idly while picking up her fork, "I guess it would open some doors for ya?" There's a dubious glance flashed his way for that, unsure, perhaps as to why he'd want that. Spearing a few greens on her fork she says with a touch of resentment, though not directed at him, "The interval is supposed to mean some folks can pursue their own interests."
Answering her dubious glance with a brief laugh, M'try points out, "What? Do you think I know nothing of vanity?" Never mind how he /looks/, he's obviously got some matters of personal pride. "I could wish, not just for your sake, that the Weyrleader saw fit to permit you more leisure time, Nissa. At the risk of complaining where I have little cause, I was disappointed when Flint resumed drilling more often again, though ours are shorter." Picking at some food of his own, he adds, "What would you do with your leisure if you had it?"
Vanissa's return smile is bemused, "More like wonderin' why anyone would wanna go hang out with all those-" Beat. "-formal folk is all." Yay, she's learned a little discretion, foregoing the use of 'stuffed shirts'. "After R'lis, I liked the extra training," she admits with a rueful shake of her head. "But now I wonder what he's thinkin' we're getting ready for. Flint's not drilling twice a day, too?" She's thoughtful while chewing her salad. "Ain't really sure," she says at last with a furrowed brow, lifting her eyes from tabletop to his. "I suppose if I had the marks, I'd take classes at Weaver Hall. Maybe embellish clothes with fancy stitching an' frippery." Impish then, she adds, "Though I might have to hang with formal folk doin' that."
For her bemusement, there's a moment when M'try wears an amused but cryptic smile, entertained though there's no immediate telling as to why. Pulling at a piece of chicken with his fork, rather daintily, he notes, "I have always been quite comfortable with formality." An entertained 'FYI' for her. Briefly, he shakes his head-- no, not drilling twice a day-- and laughs mildly at her latter comment; "Thankfully, I think most women who can afford such services are quite comfortable ignoring the people who perform them. Still, if it's only money that holds you back, I have plenty of it." Brows lifted questioningly; "To give or borrow, should you one day find yourself with spare time."
Eyeing that amusement of his warily but without commenting upon it, Nissa shrugs negligently, "Then for you it works out nicely, yeah? Ya can relax and impress 'em all with your wit an' charm." Though why he'd want to do that is beyond her, by the expression on her face as she forks more salad into her mouth. She's genuinely relieved for him and doubly annoyed with T'kyn that Flint isn't pulling double-duty like Obsidian is. "Lucky," is all she says once her mouth is clear and then she snorts disdainfully about rich women, "Yeah, see, that's just the reason I wanna avoid 'em. So I dunno if I would do it, but I'll keep your offer in mind? It's awfully sweet of ya."
"Perhaps I should take it up myself," M'try muses with another small laugh, contemplating the bite he's cut off of his chicken like he's not sure it's delicate enough. "I wonder at the things a person might overhear if he were there for no other purpose than embellishing clothes with fancy stitching and frippery," to borrow her turn of phrase. "I suppose, ultimately, it's all a matter of what a person's used to. They're used to being waited on, I'm used to playing nice with them, and you're used to finding it all silly," he comments, still amused.
Nissa smirks at that, "What, and waste your particular talent sewin'?" She's amused now too as she adds, "Somehow I doubt they'd want nekkid people embroidered on their clothes." She lifts her wine glass and shoots him a little, 'or would they?' glance over the rim as she sips. "Harper training comes in handy in many ways, don't it," she says lightly while she's settling it back on the table. "Maybe I should take harperin' though somehow I think the ladies would rather make nice with you than me." A spurt of laughter and then she says, "I just don't understand it all, to be honest. An' I'd mess it up."
With a 'touche' duck of his head, M'try counters, "I had thought more to /enhance/ my particular talent by taking up sewing. The talent for eavesdropping rather than the one for erotic fiction, that is." A real renaissance man, this one. Aside from that he can't do any sports. "What is there to understand?" he asks genuinely. "You tell them what they want to hear-- 'you do look lovely in yellow, madam, it makes your eyes look strikingly blue.' While quietly thinking, 'And it matches the sallowness of your complexion.' It's easy." With a wink.
"Yeah, I know ya did," Nissa returns dryly taking up her knife and fork to work on her chicken. Her attention on the task at hand, she says enviously without looking up, "It's something come in handy when the raiders were a problem." Lucky him, he could so contribute to society while her clumsy attempt at eavesdropping went awry. There's a little clatter as she replaces her knife on the edge of her plate, lifts her eyes to give him a keen look, "That's easy for you?" A bit of disappointment clouds her eyes while her fork makes it's way to her mouth. "That ain't honest." After chewing and swallowing, she admits candidly and a tad sheepishly, "I couldn't do it. I'd be more likely to say, 'Why ma'am, ya need to eat more fruit 'n' veggies an' get some fresh air 'n' exercise or I'll never find a color to make your complexion look like it don't belong anywhere but on the face of a corpse.'" See? She'd mess it up.
Her disappointment does not go unnoticed, though M'try seems prepared for something like that rather than surprised or hurt by it. "Should it be easier to say things that hurt people's feelings than things to make them feel better? I find social lies, the little-white-lies, to be easier than the alternative." He shrugs lightly, unable to argue that it's not honest-- indeed, it's not-- watching Vanissa at her sheepishness; "It's decent of you, to be so frank and forthcoming, Nissa. I might envy you."
Vanissa considers this, her expression troubled. Slowly, "I suppose... it depends whether y're... helping or hurting 'em in the end?" See, she's unsure how to play this social game. "I ain't gonna lie to folks just to make 'em feel good." With a slight frown down at her plate, "I mean, I know there's a better way to say stuff, I do." She reaches for her napkin, looks back up while holding it to her lips. Envy her? Laughter crinkles the corners of her eyes and with a little shake of her head, she replaces the napkin on her lap. With a half-smile, "Ya should never. You're the one's good with words. Me, I end up puttin' my foot in my mouth." Beat. "A lot." From her lap, her hands lift to rest on the table, one on either side of her plate as she leans forward a tiny bit, looking him straight in the eye, "With most folks, but especially with you, M'try, I'd prefer to have my feelings twinged by the truth than made to feel better by a socially pleasant falsehood." A moment later she thinks to add gently, "If ya can bring yourself to do it." Oh, she caught his 'easier than the alternative' so she's not going to push it.
"There are times I wish I could simply put my foot in my mouth rather than sugar-coating the truth. Alas." M'try shrugs, answering her direct look with one of his own, his fork settled onto the edge of his plate for the duration. "For you," he begins as if in all seriousness, never mind his eyes are still bright. "For you, I will make the extra effort." And, though there's a (small) table with two plates and some snacks between them, he sits forward on his own chair to kiss her across the table, fondly amused with her difficulties. And his own.
Effort he says. "I'm sure ya can find a way, bein' the resourceful harper that ya are," Nissa murmurs with equal amusement just before their lips meet. His eyes might be bright, but it seems that she's taking him at his word, for there's nothing but a childlike trust in hers when they part. Difficulties, perhaps. At least he's the one gifted with speech so he never need wish the ground would swallow him up after speaking his mind?
M'try settles back into his chair with a laugh, shaking his head at his own supposed resourcefulness. If nothing else, it's good for making light, pattery conversation throughout their lunch, enough that-- by the time they need to part company again for her afternoon drills-- there has been little lapse in chitchat, and little of it has approached grave. In short, if small talk were a sport? M'try could go to the Olympics.
IC Date: 7/9/23 --Log thievery at work.
Solarium, Fort Weyr
Up at the top of the stairs, the light grows stronger where a landing opens up and leads the way into a spacious room, slightly dusty room with smooth, walls. Nearly perfectly round, the space seems to have held a certain grandeur once, though it's fairly bare bones now, even after a good cleaning to remove tattered hangings and bug-eaten floor-coverings. The main attraction lies up above, where debris has been cleared away to show off the glass roof made of multiple panes of colored glass. The gap where broken panes shattered under the weight of old debris is currently covered with boards while the glasscrafters work on repairing the ceiling and its protective shutters. Once all the repairs are completed, this could be a nice space to sit and socialize. Already, someone's brought up a few chairs from the living cavern and left them standing about the room at random intervals.
M'try has been a busy boy lately. Often away from the Weyr on some errand or another, none of them especially formal or important, he's been scarce enough to have done little more than check in with Vanissa in several days, to say hello, kiss her cheek, then disappear into M'trydom once again. Today, though, he makes the effort to catch her in between drills, to ask her to come up to the Solarium when T'kyn's done with them for a late breakfast, and it's there that she can find him, struggling at the moment with a small, folding table that doesn't seem to want to cooperate, an ominous-looking picnic basket tucked off to one side (picnics are not their forte).
Thanks to missing that drill, Nissa's been busy as well flying extra sweeps, doing dawn watchduty, performing numerous menial and nitpicky tasks for T'kyn and thus she's been busy herself lately. So busy, in fact, that some of those check ins may have very well taken place on the fly outside the Weyr as they pass here and there. Today, however, T'kyn has been called to what looks like it will be a lengthy, out-of-Weyr meeting somewhere, leaving the greenrider, although still at his beck and call, somewhat free and thus she is here. Arriving in time to offer a (carefully void of amused), "Need a hand with that?" The recalcitrant table.
"Thank you, but it's a matter of principle now." M'try does not look up to offer this, having just now managed to locate the tricky catch on the underside of the tabletop, thus freeing up the legs to unfold themselves. With a blending of pride for having solved it and irritation that it took him that damn long, he sets it up in between two of the chairs already brought up, and turns to Vanissa only once that's done. "I sometimes feel that my incompetence knows no bounds. Hello."
Vanissa's lips move soundlessly, repeating the word 'principle' with a fond eyeroll while staying well out of his way while he struggles with the table. She's in no hurry now that she's here, her dash up those stairs aside. She takes the time to slip out of her flight jacket, seeks to put him at ease by saying, "Need to catch my breath, take your time." When it's safe, she steps nearer to brush her lips on his cheek, a bright smile for his success on her lips and quips, "Table wrangling. You've discovered Fort Weyr's newest sport. You're a genius, M'try. And hiya yourself."
Mildly, M'try comments, "Oh, to be remembered for so monumental a thing," as table-wrangling. His cheek tilts to be kissed and, briefly, he seeks to thread his arm around Vanissa's waist while she's there, saying, "Thank you for coming. I realize we typically fail at this sort of thing. But I thought, perhaps, with a table and some silverware, things might go better for us." With less quippiness, more frankness, he adds, "And I have missed you these past days."
With a sparkle of laughter that doesn't quite dispel the fatigue in her hazel eyes, Nissa leans into him for a moment, her arms slip around him for a public-appropriate hug, "To be remembered. And not be infamous? Is key." She nods sagely before stepping back and eyeing his efforts, that basket and the room at large, totally approving as she says, "This beats the living caverns by a long shot." Besides, what could go wrong here? Save for one of the workers overhead restoring the dome crashing in atop them... As she drapes her jacket on the back of her chair, she replies with equal sincerity, a faint knitting of tawny brows, "I've missed ya too. T'kyn's...yeah." Keeping her hopping. He knows, so instead of finishing that line, she asks casually, "Whatcha been up to?"
M'try, shaking his head, "I'm sorry for you. You look tired." Beneath knitted brows, his eyes follow Vanissa's for a moment longer before he resumes the business of food, setting a pair of plates and silverware rolled in napkins out. Then it's cold chicken, salad, wine even-- more like lunch than late breakfast, but beggars (as M'try notes often) can't be choosers. "Studying, mostly. I've been talking to my uncle about taking my exams later this year and perhaps getting my knot before Turnover. Start next year as a proper journeyman, but I'm out of habit with studying, so I have a lot to re-learn. --It's a little early in the day, but drink?"
Vanissa hooks one booted foot around the leg of her chair, pulls it out and sinks into it, all in one fluid motion. With a grateful sigh to be off of her feet she smothers a yawn, "Yeah, I am. Maybe once I get my restdays back I'll catch some rest." Chin propped in her hand as she watches him set out the food, she makes a pleased, 'mmm'. This will definitely save her time not having to stand in the chow line for lunch. As for wine, "Shells, yeah, I could use a drink. Drills aren't until this afternoon, so." Her shoulders roll, allowing concern about that to slip away, tilts M'try a curious look, "Journeyman, hmm? That mean you'll take commissions for-" Her hand waves vaguely. "Portraits? Book illustrations?" Whatever Journeyman harpers do. She has no clue.
"All this because you took one nap?" M'try tsks his tongue against his teeth, surprised and disappointed all rolled into one. Glasses are retrieved, set, and filled, and he nods to the spread once he settles into the chair across from Vanissa, now a matter of 'help yourself.' Which he begins to do presently, saying, "Book illustrations, perhaps. I don't like portrait work, though I suppose I would take the commissions if they paid well enough. Mostly, I would just like the prestige that comes with the title, I suppose. I make enough money on my own, but for more official matters, the rank would be helpful. Everything that happened at the Hold made me think that I really could be of some clerkly use, at least."
"Missed afternoon drills." Nissa points out needlessly, dryly adding with a grimace, "It's T'kyn." Needing no further prompting, piles salad on her plate, takes a piece of that chicken, but doesn't start eating just yet. "Prestige. Huh." Clearly a foreign concept to her, although she does observe idly while picking up her fork, "I guess it would open some doors for ya?" There's a dubious glance flashed his way for that, unsure, perhaps as to why he'd want that. Spearing a few greens on her fork she says with a touch of resentment, though not directed at him, "The interval is supposed to mean some folks can pursue their own interests."
Answering her dubious glance with a brief laugh, M'try points out, "What? Do you think I know nothing of vanity?" Never mind how he /looks/, he's obviously got some matters of personal pride. "I could wish, not just for your sake, that the Weyrleader saw fit to permit you more leisure time, Nissa. At the risk of complaining where I have little cause, I was disappointed when Flint resumed drilling more often again, though ours are shorter." Picking at some food of his own, he adds, "What would you do with your leisure if you had it?"
Vanissa's return smile is bemused, "More like wonderin' why anyone would wanna go hang out with all those-" Beat. "-formal folk is all." Yay, she's learned a little discretion, foregoing the use of 'stuffed shirts'. "After R'lis, I liked the extra training," she admits with a rueful shake of her head. "But now I wonder what he's thinkin' we're getting ready for. Flint's not drilling twice a day, too?" She's thoughtful while chewing her salad. "Ain't really sure," she says at last with a furrowed brow, lifting her eyes from tabletop to his. "I suppose if I had the marks, I'd take classes at Weaver Hall. Maybe embellish clothes with fancy stitching an' frippery." Impish then, she adds, "Though I might have to hang with formal folk doin' that."
For her bemusement, there's a moment when M'try wears an amused but cryptic smile, entertained though there's no immediate telling as to why. Pulling at a piece of chicken with his fork, rather daintily, he notes, "I have always been quite comfortable with formality." An entertained 'FYI' for her. Briefly, he shakes his head-- no, not drilling twice a day-- and laughs mildly at her latter comment; "Thankfully, I think most women who can afford such services are quite comfortable ignoring the people who perform them. Still, if it's only money that holds you back, I have plenty of it." Brows lifted questioningly; "To give or borrow, should you one day find yourself with spare time."
Eyeing that amusement of his warily but without commenting upon it, Nissa shrugs negligently, "Then for you it works out nicely, yeah? Ya can relax and impress 'em all with your wit an' charm." Though why he'd want to do that is beyond her, by the expression on her face as she forks more salad into her mouth. She's genuinely relieved for him and doubly annoyed with T'kyn that Flint isn't pulling double-duty like Obsidian is. "Lucky," is all she says once her mouth is clear and then she snorts disdainfully about rich women, "Yeah, see, that's just the reason I wanna avoid 'em. So I dunno if I would do it, but I'll keep your offer in mind? It's awfully sweet of ya."
"Perhaps I should take it up myself," M'try muses with another small laugh, contemplating the bite he's cut off of his chicken like he's not sure it's delicate enough. "I wonder at the things a person might overhear if he were there for no other purpose than embellishing clothes with fancy stitching and frippery," to borrow her turn of phrase. "I suppose, ultimately, it's all a matter of what a person's used to. They're used to being waited on, I'm used to playing nice with them, and you're used to finding it all silly," he comments, still amused.
Nissa smirks at that, "What, and waste your particular talent sewin'?" She's amused now too as she adds, "Somehow I doubt they'd want nekkid people embroidered on their clothes." She lifts her wine glass and shoots him a little, 'or would they?' glance over the rim as she sips. "Harper training comes in handy in many ways, don't it," she says lightly while she's settling it back on the table. "Maybe I should take harperin' though somehow I think the ladies would rather make nice with you than me." A spurt of laughter and then she says, "I just don't understand it all, to be honest. An' I'd mess it up."
With a 'touche' duck of his head, M'try counters, "I had thought more to /enhance/ my particular talent by taking up sewing. The talent for eavesdropping rather than the one for erotic fiction, that is." A real renaissance man, this one. Aside from that he can't do any sports. "What is there to understand?" he asks genuinely. "You tell them what they want to hear-- 'you do look lovely in yellow, madam, it makes your eyes look strikingly blue.' While quietly thinking, 'And it matches the sallowness of your complexion.' It's easy." With a wink.
"Yeah, I know ya did," Nissa returns dryly taking up her knife and fork to work on her chicken. Her attention on the task at hand, she says enviously without looking up, "It's something come in handy when the raiders were a problem." Lucky him, he could so contribute to society while her clumsy attempt at eavesdropping went awry. There's a little clatter as she replaces her knife on the edge of her plate, lifts her eyes to give him a keen look, "That's easy for you?" A bit of disappointment clouds her eyes while her fork makes it's way to her mouth. "That ain't honest." After chewing and swallowing, she admits candidly and a tad sheepishly, "I couldn't do it. I'd be more likely to say, 'Why ma'am, ya need to eat more fruit 'n' veggies an' get some fresh air 'n' exercise or I'll never find a color to make your complexion look like it don't belong anywhere but on the face of a corpse.'" See? She'd mess it up.
Her disappointment does not go unnoticed, though M'try seems prepared for something like that rather than surprised or hurt by it. "Should it be easier to say things that hurt people's feelings than things to make them feel better? I find social lies, the little-white-lies, to be easier than the alternative." He shrugs lightly, unable to argue that it's not honest-- indeed, it's not-- watching Vanissa at her sheepishness; "It's decent of you, to be so frank and forthcoming, Nissa. I might envy you."
Vanissa considers this, her expression troubled. Slowly, "I suppose... it depends whether y're... helping or hurting 'em in the end?" See, she's unsure how to play this social game. "I ain't gonna lie to folks just to make 'em feel good." With a slight frown down at her plate, "I mean, I know there's a better way to say stuff, I do." She reaches for her napkin, looks back up while holding it to her lips. Envy her? Laughter crinkles the corners of her eyes and with a little shake of her head, she replaces the napkin on her lap. With a half-smile, "Ya should never. You're the one's good with words. Me, I end up puttin' my foot in my mouth." Beat. "A lot." From her lap, her hands lift to rest on the table, one on either side of her plate as she leans forward a tiny bit, looking him straight in the eye, "With most folks, but especially with you, M'try, I'd prefer to have my feelings twinged by the truth than made to feel better by a socially pleasant falsehood." A moment later she thinks to add gently, "If ya can bring yourself to do it." Oh, she caught his 'easier than the alternative' so she's not going to push it.
"There are times I wish I could simply put my foot in my mouth rather than sugar-coating the truth. Alas." M'try shrugs, answering her direct look with one of his own, his fork settled onto the edge of his plate for the duration. "For you," he begins as if in all seriousness, never mind his eyes are still bright. "For you, I will make the extra effort." And, though there's a (small) table with two plates and some snacks between them, he sits forward on his own chair to kiss her across the table, fondly amused with her difficulties. And his own.
Effort he says. "I'm sure ya can find a way, bein' the resourceful harper that ya are," Nissa murmurs with equal amusement just before their lips meet. His eyes might be bright, but it seems that she's taking him at his word, for there's nothing but a childlike trust in hers when they part. Difficulties, perhaps. At least he's the one gifted with speech so he never need wish the ground would swallow him up after speaking his mind?
M'try settles back into his chair with a laugh, shaking his head at his own supposed resourcefulness. If nothing else, it's good for making light, pattery conversation throughout their lunch, enough that-- by the time they need to part company again for her afternoon drills-- there has been little lapse in chitchat, and little of it has approached grave. In short, if small talk were a sport? M'try could go to the Olympics.