[Log] In the Caverns
Who: Mikandros, Tiriana, Whitchek
When: Day 28, Month 10, Turn 19
Where: Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr
What: Tiriana runs into Mikandros and Whitchek.
It's storming. Many in the Weyr are holed up now, in their weyrs or the caverns; and Tiriana's one of them not--but not before she's gotten remarkably damp already. Her clothes are wet, and her hair curling more than usual as she curls up in a chair by the fire, trying vainly to squeeze the excess water out of her hair while she curses the rain.
Luckily for Mikandros, his chore for the day has kept him snuggly indoors. Unluckily, with so many -others- holing up inside, it's meant he's been rushed off his feet all day. Even more unluckily, it's currently sending him in the direction of the fireplace, and thus the soggy Weyrwoman next to it. Looking a little ragged around the edges, strands of hair straggling out of his runner tail, a small bucket in hand with a small selection of cleaning tools. Tall-sided, wide shovel, heavy bristled hand broom. Yay, time to scoop out and sweep up the ashes off the hearth before building the fire back up. "G'day, ma'am," murmured respectfully as he nears.
Tiriana looks up as Mikandros comes up, and she leans back in her chair, pushing her damp hair back over a shoulder. "Hello," she answers, eyeing the big man for a moment. "What are you--oh." She catches on a beat later, and her chairlegs scrape when she scoots it back away from the hearth. "Don't get me dirty. In fact, you should just leave it until I'm warm and dry. And gone," she advises.
Working outside in this mess, this afternoon, has proved an impossibility, leaving Whitchek at loose ends, although it's plain that some attempt was made--for all he's in dry clothes now, his hair's still wet. He wanders in from the lower caverns with hands in pockets, shooting glances to the bowl exit like maybe glaring can change the weather. And spots someone. "Oh, hey! Mik. Um, partner," he calls. Evidently no notice of the Weyrwoman, who can't simply be identified as 'the gigantic Candidate who *has* hair'.
"An' let th'fire die an' create more work t'do," Mikandros is tired and not thinking clearly. Clearly. "Don't worry, Weyrwoman, not gonna get ye covered in soot." Well, if she'd really wanted to send him packing, she should have a) not pushed her chair out of the way or b) phrased that advice as a clear order. Because the sturdily built candidate is already lowering himself onto green-clad knee, bucket and tools clattering together as he sets them on the floor. Not that he's hard to miss even without his height, head swivelling when someone hails his name. That someone. He tries to smooth the disgruntlement from his expression at the word 'partner.' "Whitchek," rumbled neutrally in reply. "Baths, or they chuck ye outside?"
"Partner?" says Tiriana, shifting around to eye Whitchek when he approaches. She looks him over, but then her chair scoots back further, glaring at Mikandros' back. "I don't really care if /you/ have more work to do, candidate," she says, disgruntled herself. "I can give you as much work to do as I want to, I'll have you know."
A hand goes up to self-consciously smooth over his hair, and Whitchek says, "Was s'posed to be outside sacking firestone. Just got started when, well, the rain." And that's when recognition hits, this woman Mikandros is talking to is not just some lady. "Ma'am," quieter, an attempt at a polite tone. Maybe he could be forgiven for not realizing--after all, who would be standing anywhere near Tiriana voluntarily? "If you need help," he offers towards the other Candidate, "I haven't got anything else to do." Gesture of goodwill?
Mikandros's broad shoulders are lifted in a shrug. If he could see that glare directed at his back, he might not be so nonchalant. As it is, he picks up the shovel and uses it to poke the smouldering remains of logs in the fireplace more towards the back, sending a shower of sparks swirling up the chimney. "Course ye can, Weyrwoman. Never said ye couldn't." Then with a teeth-grating scraaaaaape he's taking out the first scoop of ashes and tipping it into the bucket. Slanting a glance over his shoulder - the opposite shoulder from Tiriana, so he has an excuse to continue pretending she isn't the person she is - he arches his eyebrows upward at Whitchek. "Heh. Most'd be takin' advantage of their luck, not lookin' fer more work. Though if ye wouldn't mind snaggin' me a cup of klah I c'n down quick, I'd be grateful. Blackest they've got. Please."
"That's it, both of you just jump in there," Tiriana says, rather sourly. "Jump in there and block all my heat." Her arms cross over her chest, and she scowls. "I'm getting lunch," is her announcement eventually. "Have that done by the time I get back." Whenever that is; she gets up then, going to get her food.
"I'm just trying to be nice," says Whitchek, a bitter edge to the tone, but he goes off in search of klah anyway, out of the way until Tiriana has vacated, returns with some of the late-hour sludge in a mug. "I get a bit..." He glances towards the exit again. "Stir-crazy, in this kind of weather. Rather be doing something. Even if it is fetch-n-carry. Better than just standing around."
Mikandros scowls for the bitterness, tells the fireplace, "Weren't a criticism." Scrape, schlumph. The steady sound of ash-scooping. Almost as fun as watching paint dry. He barely acknowledges Tiriana's departure, a murmured 'aye, ma'am' without even a glance upwards. At Whitchek's re-arrival, he settles back on his heels, a genuine-sounding "Thanks, man." Tipping his head towards the bowl exit, before looking up at his fellow. "Aye, c'n understand that. I'd rather be out in th'rain t'day, tell ye true." Pause. "Ye see th'list?"
Klah-less himself--possibly just sane enough not to want to drink tar--Whitchek snags a nearby chair, just far enough to stay out of the way now. "The rain by itself isn't too bad, but the rain plus the cold, well." And yet there's a weird smile as he looks towards the outdoors again, that vanishes when he looks back. "Saw it." Tap-tap-tap of a finger on the table. "Look, I know there are almost certainly people you'd rather be stuck with." Sometimes he's an idiot, but he's not that much of an idiot.
The tar - er, klah - is worth every disgusted variation of a grimace that passes across Mikandros' face. Doesn't stop him from drinking it, though, and the strain around his eyes is probably answer enough as to why. "Aye, wrong time of year fer bein' stubborn. Like bein' under th'sky, m'self." If he's awake enough to notice the weird smile, he's too mind-numb to care what might cause it. Rather than look at Whitchek, he squints into his klah. Slowly, "Whit. Chek." Perhaps hedging that maybe the shortened moniker wouldn't be welcome from him. "Ye an' I... could be we jus' got off on th'wrong foot. Ye were pissed an' I..." He doesn't finish what he was. Shrugs. "Not sayin' we're gonna be friends."
A short exhalation of breath there. "Not asking to be friends. You know what I think about things around here and I know what you think and I don't think we're gonna *be* friends, but I don't want to get my ass handed to me." There, basically puts it all into a nutshell. Whitchek pauses for a moment, more tap-tap-tap on the table. "You seem like a dec--well, an okay person, anyway. And I don't think a free day's all it's cracked up to be, but I'd like to make an honest attempt, anyhow."
Mikandros transfers his squint from klah to Whitchek. He snorts quietly, tosses back the last of his tar and manages not to gag, and picks up the hand broom to start sweeping the hearth. "Jus' 'cause I'm big doesn't mean I'm an asshole. Unless ye got plans t'start swingin' first, ye c'n rest easy. I don't like fightin' an' I don't like beatin' folk just fer th'sake of beatin' 'em." And, while they're being honest, "Yer a prickly little cuss, an' no mistake." So, now they both know where they stand in each other's view? "Thinkin' I c'n get that work order from miss Milani. An' I do carvin' m'self; could maybe talk shop with A'son an' work somethin' with Leova. Saw yer girl's name. Anyone else ye think ye'll have an easy time with?"
"Never know around here," says Whitchek to the first, with a bit of a wry smile. The finger-tapping actually stops for a moment as he thinks, then. "Not sure I like this whole business of everyone bothering Madilla, even though I know she must have volunteered. But yes, I can get that. I don't really know... Persie seems like a nice girl, but she kinda slapped me once, I'm not sure what to think of her." More thought. "Barely met the others. You'd best take A'son, anyway, he doesn't like me." Like there isn't a huge long list of other people that description would apply to.
Mikandros quite visibly bites the inside of his cheek, probably even counts to ten. Shrugging - he does that alot - "Obviously she don't mind it, or she wouldn't've put herself forward. Nothin' ye c'n really say t'that." He blinks in surprise, "Miss -Persie- slapped ye?" Almost, you could call his expression impressed. "She's a fun gal. Met her when I was still workin' as a handyman. She got a nasty splinter helpin' me repair a bench." Even now, there's a hint of regret for that incident. He frowns a little, scraping the swept ashes into the shovel and dumping this last portion into the bucket. "We c'n try," he ventures carefully, "t'meet th'others t'gether, maybe?" So that hopefully Mik can keep Whit's mouth from losing them the hunt.
"Well, I *could* say something," Whitchek maintains, "but I won't. Er, yeah. I gather... she's not usually like that. It was a strange evening all around. I didn't do anything to deserve it." Which for once might be *close* to true, he says it sheepishly rather than defensively. At least he didn't do anything to her, personally. "Anyway, sounds like a plan to me," he says, whether or not he recognizes the motivations behind the suggestion. "Think I might see if I can't find Madilla. Might be busy, but can't hurt to check. And leave you to your..." A nod to the bucket. "See you later." So, he heads out again, in the direction of the infirmary.
Perhaps fortunately for Whitchek, Tiriana doesn't return, dinner finished and dessert in hand, until he's gone. She ambles back up and pauses beside Mikandros and the fire to eye both a long moment as he shovels everything into the bucket. "Are you done, then?" she wonders, dragging her chair back closer to the fire before she flops in it.
Beyond a nod of farewell, the departure of his fellow candidate doesn't seem to make much of a difference to Mikandros. Unless one counts the easing of the small strain upon the shoulder seams of his shirt, as he puffs out a sigh of relief. Sometimes being nice is hard, even for him. "Later. Much later, Faranth willing," the words spoken only after Whitchek is well beyond hearing. But then, oh goody goody -gumdrops- Tiriana's back! "Almost, ma'am. Jus' need t'lay a new fire on top of th'old. Should have it nice an' cracklin' fer ye in no time." He, unwisely perhaps, dusts his hands off with a vigourous rub of palm against palm, raising a soft cloud of silver-grey ash into the air. Hands find knees, as he prepares to push himself to his feet.
"Yeah, you better," says Tiriana, but she seems in a much improved mood now that she's actually eaten. She settles into her chair, puts her feet up on the hearth while he finishes up. Then, "So which one are you again?" she asks, brows lifting. "I gather your fashion sense hasn't improved any, any at all."
Mikandros might not have his back turned in time to hide the rolling of his eyes ceilingward from Tiriana. Stepping over to the nearby woodbox, still happily possessed of some nice dry logs, he says over his shoulder as he chooses an armload, "Mikandros, ma'am." And if she thinks he's bad, just wait until she catches a glimpse of the rest of his family! 6 people, from aged in their 40s to 7 (not counting the candidate), all as equally insanely brightly garbed. "Not dressin' t'please anyone but m'self, ma'am."
"That's good," says Tiriana, snickering. "Because nobody else is sure going to be impressed. Hell, I don't know how even /you/ can stand that. Don't you know those colors don't go together? You look like a gay... just gay," is her verdict, with a shake of her head while she takes a bite of the small pastry she's got for dessert.
Very large man holding an armload of relatively heavy-ish blocks of wood, here! Lucky for Mikandros, he isn't the type to go off half-cocked. Or fully cocked for that matter. His temper is permanently jammed. Not non-existant, though, judging by the scowl that's set itself quite confortably across his brow. It's the embers of the old fire that get a block of wood thrown at them, not Tiriana. "They go t'gether jus' fine, ma'am." Kneeling down again, he reaches into the fireplace to stir up those coals and set them to glowing, which will be followed by a slow wave of released heat pouring outwards. Then, placing the rest of his small armload of not-projectiles in practiced order on top, setting a slow-burning fire. Twisting his torso, he glances across at her for the 'gay' comment, lips thinning slightly. However, "An' it please ye t'think so, ma'am." Translation: yeah, whatever.
There's finally heat, and Tiriana is getting up now. "Well, enjoy it. You still look like an idiot, though," she announces as she turns to leave, heading toward the caverns now.
When: Day 28, Month 10, Turn 19
Where: Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr
What: Tiriana runs into Mikandros and Whitchek.
It's storming. Many in the Weyr are holed up now, in their weyrs or the caverns; and Tiriana's one of them not--but not before she's gotten remarkably damp already. Her clothes are wet, and her hair curling more than usual as she curls up in a chair by the fire, trying vainly to squeeze the excess water out of her hair while she curses the rain.
Luckily for Mikandros, his chore for the day has kept him snuggly indoors. Unluckily, with so many -others- holing up inside, it's meant he's been rushed off his feet all day. Even more unluckily, it's currently sending him in the direction of the fireplace, and thus the soggy Weyrwoman next to it. Looking a little ragged around the edges, strands of hair straggling out of his runner tail, a small bucket in hand with a small selection of cleaning tools. Tall-sided, wide shovel, heavy bristled hand broom. Yay, time to scoop out and sweep up the ashes off the hearth before building the fire back up. "G'day, ma'am," murmured respectfully as he nears.
Tiriana looks up as Mikandros comes up, and she leans back in her chair, pushing her damp hair back over a shoulder. "Hello," she answers, eyeing the big man for a moment. "What are you--oh." She catches on a beat later, and her chairlegs scrape when she scoots it back away from the hearth. "Don't get me dirty. In fact, you should just leave it until I'm warm and dry. And gone," she advises.
Working outside in this mess, this afternoon, has proved an impossibility, leaving Whitchek at loose ends, although it's plain that some attempt was made--for all he's in dry clothes now, his hair's still wet. He wanders in from the lower caverns with hands in pockets, shooting glances to the bowl exit like maybe glaring can change the weather. And spots someone. "Oh, hey! Mik. Um, partner," he calls. Evidently no notice of the Weyrwoman, who can't simply be identified as 'the gigantic Candidate who *has* hair'.
"An' let th'fire die an' create more work t'do," Mikandros is tired and not thinking clearly. Clearly. "Don't worry, Weyrwoman, not gonna get ye covered in soot." Well, if she'd really wanted to send him packing, she should have a) not pushed her chair out of the way or b) phrased that advice as a clear order. Because the sturdily built candidate is already lowering himself onto green-clad knee, bucket and tools clattering together as he sets them on the floor. Not that he's hard to miss even without his height, head swivelling when someone hails his name. That someone. He tries to smooth the disgruntlement from his expression at the word 'partner.' "Whitchek," rumbled neutrally in reply. "Baths, or they chuck ye outside?"
"Partner?" says Tiriana, shifting around to eye Whitchek when he approaches. She looks him over, but then her chair scoots back further, glaring at Mikandros' back. "I don't really care if /you/ have more work to do, candidate," she says, disgruntled herself. "I can give you as much work to do as I want to, I'll have you know."
A hand goes up to self-consciously smooth over his hair, and Whitchek says, "Was s'posed to be outside sacking firestone. Just got started when, well, the rain." And that's when recognition hits, this woman Mikandros is talking to is not just some lady. "Ma'am," quieter, an attempt at a polite tone. Maybe he could be forgiven for not realizing--after all, who would be standing anywhere near Tiriana voluntarily? "If you need help," he offers towards the other Candidate, "I haven't got anything else to do." Gesture of goodwill?
Mikandros's broad shoulders are lifted in a shrug. If he could see that glare directed at his back, he might not be so nonchalant. As it is, he picks up the shovel and uses it to poke the smouldering remains of logs in the fireplace more towards the back, sending a shower of sparks swirling up the chimney. "Course ye can, Weyrwoman. Never said ye couldn't." Then with a teeth-grating scraaaaaape he's taking out the first scoop of ashes and tipping it into the bucket. Slanting a glance over his shoulder - the opposite shoulder from Tiriana, so he has an excuse to continue pretending she isn't the person she is - he arches his eyebrows upward at Whitchek. "Heh. Most'd be takin' advantage of their luck, not lookin' fer more work. Though if ye wouldn't mind snaggin' me a cup of klah I c'n down quick, I'd be grateful. Blackest they've got. Please."
"That's it, both of you just jump in there," Tiriana says, rather sourly. "Jump in there and block all my heat." Her arms cross over her chest, and she scowls. "I'm getting lunch," is her announcement eventually. "Have that done by the time I get back." Whenever that is; she gets up then, going to get her food.
"I'm just trying to be nice," says Whitchek, a bitter edge to the tone, but he goes off in search of klah anyway, out of the way until Tiriana has vacated, returns with some of the late-hour sludge in a mug. "I get a bit..." He glances towards the exit again. "Stir-crazy, in this kind of weather. Rather be doing something. Even if it is fetch-n-carry. Better than just standing around."
Mikandros scowls for the bitterness, tells the fireplace, "Weren't a criticism." Scrape, schlumph. The steady sound of ash-scooping. Almost as fun as watching paint dry. He barely acknowledges Tiriana's departure, a murmured 'aye, ma'am' without even a glance upwards. At Whitchek's re-arrival, he settles back on his heels, a genuine-sounding "Thanks, man." Tipping his head towards the bowl exit, before looking up at his fellow. "Aye, c'n understand that. I'd rather be out in th'rain t'day, tell ye true." Pause. "Ye see th'list?"
Klah-less himself--possibly just sane enough not to want to drink tar--Whitchek snags a nearby chair, just far enough to stay out of the way now. "The rain by itself isn't too bad, but the rain plus the cold, well." And yet there's a weird smile as he looks towards the outdoors again, that vanishes when he looks back. "Saw it." Tap-tap-tap of a finger on the table. "Look, I know there are almost certainly people you'd rather be stuck with." Sometimes he's an idiot, but he's not that much of an idiot.
The tar - er, klah - is worth every disgusted variation of a grimace that passes across Mikandros' face. Doesn't stop him from drinking it, though, and the strain around his eyes is probably answer enough as to why. "Aye, wrong time of year fer bein' stubborn. Like bein' under th'sky, m'self." If he's awake enough to notice the weird smile, he's too mind-numb to care what might cause it. Rather than look at Whitchek, he squints into his klah. Slowly, "Whit. Chek." Perhaps hedging that maybe the shortened moniker wouldn't be welcome from him. "Ye an' I... could be we jus' got off on th'wrong foot. Ye were pissed an' I..." He doesn't finish what he was. Shrugs. "Not sayin' we're gonna be friends."
A short exhalation of breath there. "Not asking to be friends. You know what I think about things around here and I know what you think and I don't think we're gonna *be* friends, but I don't want to get my ass handed to me." There, basically puts it all into a nutshell. Whitchek pauses for a moment, more tap-tap-tap on the table. "You seem like a dec--well, an okay person, anyway. And I don't think a free day's all it's cracked up to be, but I'd like to make an honest attempt, anyhow."
Mikandros transfers his squint from klah to Whitchek. He snorts quietly, tosses back the last of his tar and manages not to gag, and picks up the hand broom to start sweeping the hearth. "Jus' 'cause I'm big doesn't mean I'm an asshole. Unless ye got plans t'start swingin' first, ye c'n rest easy. I don't like fightin' an' I don't like beatin' folk just fer th'sake of beatin' 'em." And, while they're being honest, "Yer a prickly little cuss, an' no mistake." So, now they both know where they stand in each other's view? "Thinkin' I c'n get that work order from miss Milani. An' I do carvin' m'self; could maybe talk shop with A'son an' work somethin' with Leova. Saw yer girl's name. Anyone else ye think ye'll have an easy time with?"
"Never know around here," says Whitchek to the first, with a bit of a wry smile. The finger-tapping actually stops for a moment as he thinks, then. "Not sure I like this whole business of everyone bothering Madilla, even though I know she must have volunteered. But yes, I can get that. I don't really know... Persie seems like a nice girl, but she kinda slapped me once, I'm not sure what to think of her." More thought. "Barely met the others. You'd best take A'son, anyway, he doesn't like me." Like there isn't a huge long list of other people that description would apply to.
Mikandros quite visibly bites the inside of his cheek, probably even counts to ten. Shrugging - he does that alot - "Obviously she don't mind it, or she wouldn't've put herself forward. Nothin' ye c'n really say t'that." He blinks in surprise, "Miss -Persie- slapped ye?" Almost, you could call his expression impressed. "She's a fun gal. Met her when I was still workin' as a handyman. She got a nasty splinter helpin' me repair a bench." Even now, there's a hint of regret for that incident. He frowns a little, scraping the swept ashes into the shovel and dumping this last portion into the bucket. "We c'n try," he ventures carefully, "t'meet th'others t'gether, maybe?" So that hopefully Mik can keep Whit's mouth from losing them the hunt.
"Well, I *could* say something," Whitchek maintains, "but I won't. Er, yeah. I gather... she's not usually like that. It was a strange evening all around. I didn't do anything to deserve it." Which for once might be *close* to true, he says it sheepishly rather than defensively. At least he didn't do anything to her, personally. "Anyway, sounds like a plan to me," he says, whether or not he recognizes the motivations behind the suggestion. "Think I might see if I can't find Madilla. Might be busy, but can't hurt to check. And leave you to your..." A nod to the bucket. "See you later." So, he heads out again, in the direction of the infirmary.
Perhaps fortunately for Whitchek, Tiriana doesn't return, dinner finished and dessert in hand, until he's gone. She ambles back up and pauses beside Mikandros and the fire to eye both a long moment as he shovels everything into the bucket. "Are you done, then?" she wonders, dragging her chair back closer to the fire before she flops in it.
Beyond a nod of farewell, the departure of his fellow candidate doesn't seem to make much of a difference to Mikandros. Unless one counts the easing of the small strain upon the shoulder seams of his shirt, as he puffs out a sigh of relief. Sometimes being nice is hard, even for him. "Later. Much later, Faranth willing," the words spoken only after Whitchek is well beyond hearing. But then, oh goody goody -gumdrops- Tiriana's back! "Almost, ma'am. Jus' need t'lay a new fire on top of th'old. Should have it nice an' cracklin' fer ye in no time." He, unwisely perhaps, dusts his hands off with a vigourous rub of palm against palm, raising a soft cloud of silver-grey ash into the air. Hands find knees, as he prepares to push himself to his feet.
"Yeah, you better," says Tiriana, but she seems in a much improved mood now that she's actually eaten. She settles into her chair, puts her feet up on the hearth while he finishes up. Then, "So which one are you again?" she asks, brows lifting. "I gather your fashion sense hasn't improved any, any at all."
Mikandros might not have his back turned in time to hide the rolling of his eyes ceilingward from Tiriana. Stepping over to the nearby woodbox, still happily possessed of some nice dry logs, he says over his shoulder as he chooses an armload, "Mikandros, ma'am." And if she thinks he's bad, just wait until she catches a glimpse of the rest of his family! 6 people, from aged in their 40s to 7 (not counting the candidate), all as equally insanely brightly garbed. "Not dressin' t'please anyone but m'self, ma'am."
"That's good," says Tiriana, snickering. "Because nobody else is sure going to be impressed. Hell, I don't know how even /you/ can stand that. Don't you know those colors don't go together? You look like a gay... just gay," is her verdict, with a shake of her head while she takes a bite of the small pastry she's got for dessert.
Very large man holding an armload of relatively heavy-ish blocks of wood, here! Lucky for Mikandros, he isn't the type to go off half-cocked. Or fully cocked for that matter. His temper is permanently jammed. Not non-existant, though, judging by the scowl that's set itself quite confortably across his brow. It's the embers of the old fire that get a block of wood thrown at them, not Tiriana. "They go t'gether jus' fine, ma'am." Kneeling down again, he reaches into the fireplace to stir up those coals and set them to glowing, which will be followed by a slow wave of released heat pouring outwards. Then, placing the rest of his small armload of not-projectiles in practiced order on top, setting a slow-burning fire. Twisting his torso, he glances across at her for the 'gay' comment, lips thinning slightly. However, "An' it please ye t'think so, ma'am." Translation: yeah, whatever.
There's finally heat, and Tiriana is getting up now. "Well, enjoy it. You still look like an idiot, though," she announces as she turns to leave, heading toward the caverns now.