[Log] Social Butterflies
Who: Ironeph, Quinley, Tristan
When: Day 9, Month 1, Turn 442
Where: Kitchens, Fort Weyr
What: Quinley, Tristan, and Ironeph run into each other in the kitchens.
Kitchen
One of the most functional and well-maintained caverns in the Weyr, the kitchen still has a half-abandoned feel to it. Most of the cupboards are empty, only those dishes and necessities for five hundred kept in a space meant for two thousand. There are ten stoves in the room, but only three are ever used, those nearest the living cavern for easy access. A series of pullies and levers make serving to the caverns easy. In a mostly-separate alcove to the south is the nighthearth, where there is always a fire, a pot of stew, some bread, and a pot of klah available regardless of the time of day.
The living cavern is visible from here, as the kitchen itself wraps around balcony-style. The hearths are all along the walls and the work-stations are arranged so workers can see down into the cavern. A rock barrier of four feet is supplemented by brass railings that further enclose the area, though the brass is in dire need of a polish. The cavern is mostly deserted right now. It's nighttime in the winter. The warmth of the room is welcome compared to the chill of the bowl.
Players:
Ironeph........6', athletic; olive skin, dark brown eyes & hair; early 20s.
Quinley........A short, skinny young woman with pale hair and green eyes.
Tristan........Tall, dark, and handsome.
Exits:
Living Cavern.................[W] Nighthearth...................[S]
Quinley
There are kinder ways to describe this girl's outline, but 'short' and 'scrawny' cover it most succinctly.
Light blonde hair is pulled back and braided up into a low, simple bun that rests at the nape of this young woman's neck. A few feathery wisps have worked their way free to halo a tanned, heart-shaped face with a chin that comes to a subtle point. Wide, round eyes are set beneath thin golden brows, their color a clear and vibrant green. Rather than coming across as pretty, their size and the fact that pale lashes seem not-there at certain angles leave her with an unintentionally intense gaze that can seem more jarring than inviting. Her nose is small and pert, lips thin and rosy.
A burgundey red tunic clothes this young woman's form from throat to hips, the heavy cloth fitting well enough to lightly outline the subtle curves of her slender frame. Shirt sleeves have been pushed up to her elbows revealing tanned arms with the thin ropey muscles that women's manual work can build. Hands are small, and long fingers end with blunt nails. A charcoal grey skirt begins a little before the tunic stops and falls down skinny legs to end just past her ankles. Simple boots, a light shade of brown, peep out from under the hem.
The top of the girl's head ends where the average woman's chin begins. She looks to be likely in her late teens.
Tristan
Tristan is a good example of the term "tall, dark, and handsome." He's in his late 20s and stands an inch over six feet with a lean build that shies toward sparse, long-limbed and trim. Dark brown hair is cut to a neat, curly cap, concordant with his deep brown eyes and heavy black brows. The features of his face are attractive, his nose straight, lower lip fuller than his upper lip, but the enigmatically dark eyes are what ultimately stand out the most. A summary of his features would rely on cliche terms like "roguish" and "enticing."
Almost without looking, most people could tell Tristan is Harper-trained. He tends to smell of wood oil and hides and ink though his clothes and person are usually clean and well-maintained. Further, his voice is a natural baritone with the clean, accentless inflection so common among lifetime Harpers, though he presently doesn't wear an actual Harper knot - no knot at all, in fact. His clothes are in rich shades of turquoise and black today: his overtunic black brocade with aqua threads, his undershirt darker blue-green and cuffed at the wrist, his pants black cotton.
Ironeph
About six feet tall and built along athletic lines, Ironeph is blessed with the dark, olive-tinted skin and dark brown hair more characteristic of a tropical climate. He keeps his hair close cropped, swept back off his forehead and to the right. Ironeph has brown eyes and thick dark brows above a straight nose and firm mouth, a slightly squared jawline framing his features. He seems to be in his early 20s.
Ironeph's clothes are in good condition, either relatively new or well-cared for, a pair of heavy dark brown pants and a long-sleeved shirt in a dusty green. His winter jacket is a little large on him, the sleeves and shoulder seams longer; based on its more worn condition, it's probably a hand-me-down.
A disadvantage to eating at odd hours is that food becomes painfully repetitive after a while. Stew and klah just not cutting it tonight, the weyr's healer makes her way into the kitchen to scrounge up some more exotic fare. Some cheese is found as well as cold meat slices and a bit of bread and Quinley goes about preparing a plate in the too-tidy way she has.
Tristan wanders grinning from the nighthearth, toting his omnipresent guitar and a knapsack just the right size for storing hides. Pencil stuck behind his ear as he walks, the harper looks at first like he means to stroll straight through the room on his way to the living cavern, but waylays himself on sight of Quinley. Or perhaps the food Quinley's successfully scrounged. Whichever is the lure, he deviates in her direction with a low, "Evening, healer."
"So I said, 'hey, what do'--" Ironeph, leaned up against a counter, breaks off as the kitchen girl he regales turns away, the young man knitting his brows. "You're busy. I got it. I'll... tell you later," he mutters, glancing away himself as she moves on, working on cleaning up the kitchens. Ironeph straightens and frowns slightly, though his expression changes to curiousity again as Tristan and Quinley enter in turn. "Evening," he offers the pair then, nodding once to them.
Quinley looks up and over first to Tristan, "Evening harper," is offered in a light tone, and then to Ironeph. "Hullo, Weyrleader." Isn't that joke old yet? apparently not. "Late evening foraging?" she asks to either one. A bit of cheese is pinched off the chunk and eaten.
Tristan repeats, "Weyrlea--" He gets no further, turning halfway around until his eyes track onto Ironeph and realization dawns. "Ahh, yes. The boy who would be Weyrleader. Evening," he chimes amiably, sending a mocking salute toward the younger man. "I never forage. When I want something..." He simply shrugs, looking over Quinley's head to the kitchen girl that Ironeph had been chatting up a minute ago. "Missed dinner again?"
It's old to Ironeph. He scowls but shrugs it off and answers, "Hello, Quin." The nickname is stressed slightly; perhaps he really does realize she doesn't care much for it. "Tristan. I ate already, actually--was just trying to come see somebody, but." A roll of his eyes, a glance back at the girl, who is patently unbothered by his regard. "Busy, much?" The latter question to both crafters, Quinley's late meal and Tristan's guitar receiving a glance.
Quinley leans momentarily against a conviently-placed stool. "Flue season," is her reply. "Though it's not very bad yet." Her attention moves from Ironeph to Tristan and her head tips a bit to the side. She seems about to say something, but closes her mouth and instead asks, "Have you decided about the Gather?"
Tristan nods to Ironeph, an expression of sympathy on the harper's face. "Kitchen girls can be so uppity for just being kitchen girls," he says lowly, keeping his voice from carrying on to the girl in question. "Busy's an overstatement. I was subjecting myself to mediocre compositions." Realizing the audience, he rephrases more simply: "Writing. And I have decided about the gather personally. You?"
Ironeph, curious, glances between the pair, brows arching. "Decided what?" he wonders. Then: "Some of them, yeah," he agrees with Tristan. "Way too caught up in working." Of course he'd think that, though.
"Decided whether to go," Quinley says to Ironeph, though her attention, for the moment, lingers on the harper. She does not add her own opinion of kitchen girls, uppity or otherwise. "No. I haven't yet." She wants to ask. The curiousity is apparent in her expression, but she doesn't.
"Being cast-offs from our respective crafts," Tristan begins, waving a hand between himself and Quinley, "we were discussing whether or not it would be professionally sound to attend a gather. At Fort Hold in particular." The same hand rests on the edge of the counter now, cushioning where his hips lean against it. "Ah, and Quinley's not a social butterfly. A further hitch. Are you going down to the hold?" he asks of Ironeph.
"Wait, wait. You're actually considering /not/ going?" Ironeph sounds shocked, appalled, that someone would even think about such a thing. "Even if you /aren't/ exactly in good with the Masters?" He shakes his head. "Of course I'm going. And I don't really see why you would let something like that keep you away--I mean, it's none of their business, is it, if a person who's, technically, not part of the craft wants to do something?"
The healer lifts her brows. "Easier to say than to do," she responds to Ironeph. "Besides, as Tristan says, I'm not really one for gathers. Short," she offers, holding a hand above her head and parallel to the ground. "Often trampled."
Tristan smiles tolerantly to Ironeph. "Not in good with the masters isn't _quite_ the way it is. I've technically been stripped of my knot, and going to this gather may be little more than a chance to finalize that technicality. And Quinley might get trampled, which would probably render her fairly useless to you weyrfolk." His non-leaned upon hand opens emptily. "As you can see, there's more to consider than just music and merriment."
"That's too bad," notes Ironeph, with a touch of sympathy. He shrugs, though, leaning back against the nearby counter again. He shakes his head, frowning. "Politics," he decides with disgust. "Can't they leave it out of a Gather?"
"My understanding was that politics was the very reason *for* this gather," Quinley says "First meeting of the Holder's conclave for the turn. Besides, it's a rare time when Weyr, Craft, and Hall are all rubbing shoulders. Political breeding ground if there ever was one." Then, succumbing to the curiousity she asks Tristan, "So then? What did you decide?"
"If it weren't for politics, I would be out of a job." Tristan smiles, shrugs, amused. "Anyone can be taught to play music, after all. Of course, when you become weyrleader--" He trails off there, grinning a tease at Ironeph before turning to Quinley with an attentive hmmn? "Oh, I have to go. As much as I might have considered it, not going simply isn't an option."
Ironeph knits his brows. "They still don't have to drag it into the normal everyday people's lives," he persists, shaking his head quickly. "Let them have their secret little--" He breaks off at Tristan's words, frowning. "Yeah, yeah," he notes long-sufferingly.
Quinley hums. "Why *have* to?" she asks and then to Ironeph she says, "Their decisions affect your life, whether you're aware of them or no. In which case, it seems better to be aware."
Tristan chuckles, asking, "Secret little what? If the conclave wants to throw a party every time they get together, all the better for us, isn't it?" To Quinley, he answers on a shrug, "I'd never forgive myself if I didn't go. I have an appointment with the Masterharper the night before, so I can't cancel now. You going to stay here the whole time?"
"I guess," Ironeph agrees reluctantly. "Secret little meetings, I was saying," he finishes to Tristan. Then, glancing toward the girl of earlier, who's just finishing up and trying to slip out, he straightens. "I should be on my way. See you two later," he tells the pair, before setting out after her.