Leadership and contagious sneakiness (slightly backdated)
Ista Weyr Living Cavern(#1100RJMs$)
The cavern is filled with people, rider and nonrider alike for the evening meal. The reddish glow of the setting sun filters in through the large bowl entrance to the northwestern wall. Through the constant movement of drudges to and from the northern side of the wall, you can see the four large hearths there, each put to the task of cooking the large Weyr meals. An occasional drudge filters in and out of the entrance to the Lower Caverns entrance on the western side of the room. New riders and others are still filtering in through this entrance as well, leading out to the rest of the lower caverns.
Multiple archways to the northeast lead to the kitchens, allowing for chaotic traffic without collision. A wide passage leads out to the bowl and a smaller corridor leads down into the lower caverns. To the west is a short tunnel to the infirmary.
Contents:
V'lano
Xielar
The weyrleader and the dockworker Xielar are seated at a table sharing bread. "A hindrance," echoes the weyrleader from something the lad said, one raised brow lofting a little higher. But Xielar has -questions- and V'lano receives them with good humor, a smile playing again at the corners of his mouth; he suppresses it with the aid of the bread and cheese, chewing while listening. "I like to think it's a bit better than a possibility so long as Aerianth's the gold in question," he murmurs, voice rather droll. "And I came here specifically wishing to do it the first time she rose, so I suppose I must have achieved what I wished to do. I am not sure these are times in which it would quite be right to say I'm -happy-, though; I'm never happy to see people struggle and die." Having offered this much for the teenager to chew upon, V'lano chews on his own meal a moment and swallows, then lobs back: "A hindrance to what?"
"To my life. To me. To the way I want to live my life," comes Xielar's response to the Weyrleader's last question. Xielar clarifies his remark by adding, "I have ideas on how I want to live. What I want to do here at Ista. To be able to live freely, to love life and enjoy what the island has to offer. I don't want people hindering that, even if they are like aunties to me." Xielar then lobs back toward the weyrleader, "No, I suppose it wouldn't be right to be happy. Maybe that's not the right word I was looking for..." He trails off, considering his words carefully, but is quickly caught off guard by V'lano's former remarks, "You actually wanted to become the Weyrleader? Why? There's so much to be put on your shoulders." Xie gestures with his hands, one hand clutching his sourdough bread. "Like you said, being a rider means having to deal with people struggle and die." This concept seems to puzzle the teenaged dock worker, so he asks of the weyrleader: "Why would you want that on your shoulders?"
Fayre is scooting around the living caverns, stopping here and there to examine various people eating their meals. An apron is loosely tied around her broad hips, covered with so many stains one could almost tell the day's menu simply by looking at it. Finally, her rounds bring her towards the Weyrleader and Xielar's table, where she stops rather abruptly when the word 'die' reaches her ears. "Oh dear, people dying? Er, not from food poisoning, I hope?" A round 'oh' of realization forms on her lips as she hears Xielar's response. "Ah. The life of a dragonrider, right. Never mind then." She eyes the Weyrleader's large knot and casually remarks, "Well, at least the job pays well. But I suppose having the marks to buy fancy clothes doesn't really ease the burden of deaths, eh?" After glancing around the room to confirm everyone's satisfied with their food, the young woman takes a seat at the table. "I hope you don't mind if I join you...?"
V'lano's smile takes over at last. It is a crooked smirk, reflected in bright stars in the dark of his eyes, and as it spreads over his mouth he takes up his cup and leans back into the chair, evidently done with bread and cheese just now. "It was my ambition, then, and it's my duty, now. Why wouldn't I welcome a burden I am fit to bear?" Beat. A moment after Fayre's had her say and requested permission, a moment just long enough to either let her wonder if he's going to be angry about the crack on his clothes or just long enough to cool himself from it, the weyrleader looks up at her. "Of course, be our guest." His fingers drum almost silently against the curve of his cup. "I was just asking," a glance at Xielar in which the lad's probably expected to supply his name, but also designed to affirm that this question is aimed at him, "what exactly your ideas about how you want to live freely and enjoy the island's offerings might be."
Xielar looks up at Fayre with surprise. Being so engrossed in his conversation with V'lano, Xielar did not apparently see the aproned woman. "Uh. Guess not," is his response to Fayre's choice to join them. "I've seen you around," he tells Fayre matter-of-factly, and then his attention swivels back toward the Weyrleader. "Oh. Sorry, sir," he notes. "I'm Xielar." He gives V'lano a brief smile before replying back, "An ambition to lead a weyr. That's... -really- ambitious." He nods again before saying, "I'm not really sure. I mean, I'm young enough to have enough time to figure out exactly how to live freely. I just know I want to support the weyr as best as I can in whatever way I can, sir." The last remark is said more quietly than the previous ones, noting perhaps a thoughtful or introspective choice of words.
Fayre gulps loudly at the /look/ she's given by V'lano and offers a crooked grin to try and break the tension in the air. "No offense meant, Weyrleader. Just sayin', glad I'm in charge of the kitchens and not people's lives. Well, I s'pose food could kill people, but I'd have to /really/ mess up for that to happen. You could do everything perfectly right and people still...well." The assistant headwoman snaps her fingers. "Y'know, just like that." She nods seriously at Xielar, just the bare beginnings of a smirk lingering on her face. "I'm sure I've seen you around, too. Can't say I remember the occasion, but it's bound to have happened. The name's Fayre, and if you have any complaints about the food, be sure to let me know." Her eyebrows twitch slightly and she gives Xielar a once over. "Awfully serious for a young boy, ain't ya? Shouldn't you be worrying about pulling on girls' hair or somethin' instead?"
"None taken," allows the bronzerider to Fayre amongst her comments, at the appropriate juncture, and allows her to have her say while he indulges in drinking punch. Her estimation of the dockhand widens the weyrleader's smirk, so perhaps in this she wins back whatever grace she lost in comment about rich clothing. "I was weyrsecond at Telgar when I conceived of the ambition," V'lano informs Xielar, his voice lower now; perhaps he's learned some lesson from the sudden interest of the headwoman's assistant. "It came to me in steps, not as a boy or anything - though I do know of boys with such ambitions." He glances over at Fayre, warmth enough in his expression to presumably assure her the tension is gone. Of course, he doesn't invite further conversation about deaths upon the snap of fingers, either. "I trust there've been no complaints of any substance today, Fayre."
Xielar blinks a few times at Fayre, telling her, "Wow. You talk an awful lot, even for someone who works in the kitchen." He smirks at her before saying, "I'm not really all that serious." Xielar sits up in his chair a bit before saying, "And I'm not that young. I'm nearly 15 turns, thank you very much." He pauses before saying, "Why would I want to pull on anyone's hair? I don't think I even did that when I was younger." He shakes his head, as if to clear his head of the nonsense from Fayre. "I suppose that's how ambition works," he tells V'lano, as if the weyrleader asked. "You work you're way up to wherever you want to be headed and one step at a time you get to that place you want to be."
"Thank Faranth no, Weyrleader. You should've heard some of the insults us kitchen staff got during the whole mould situation. Oy." With one hand Fayre rubs her temple in exasperation while the other makes the universal 'blah blah blah' hand motion. "As if it was our fault half the stores had to be destroyed. But now that more tithes are comin' in, we're doing alright." The young woman positively /beams/ at Xielar for his comment. "Oh! Why thank you. People always tell me I'm quite the chatterbox, and I'm proud of it. Used to be a bartender, y'see. Always important to chat people up in that line of work, y'know?" She does her best not to laugh at the dockhand's defense of his age, but a little snicker manages to peep its way out. "Oh. 15 Turns! Well then, I take it all back. The cooty age definitely ends at 14."
The weyrleader laughs lowly at Fayre's yammering hand and looks down into his drink, shaking his head. "Maybe," he says to the punch left in the cup, then glances up first at the headwoman's assistant, then at Xielar; it's to the lad, apparently, that V'lano speaks. "Sometimes you don't know where you want to be headed; sometimes an entirely different goal leads you on the path your final ambition will take. I think sometimes, we only get to know in retrospect. Which isn't to say I didn't feel quite certain of myself at the time." His turn for a hand gesture, this one a dismissive overturning of his free hand, fingers wriggling once to wave such an idea good-bye.
Xielar smirks back at the woman, shaking his head at her. "Wow, you take something like being a talkative person as being a good thing?" he asks of her, surprised. "I'm not sure I meant it as a good thing. But I suppose for the sake of our company, I shouldn't really make comments like that about other people." He shrugs once before telling V'lano: "I suppose you're right. Before my mother got pregnant with me, she anticipated becoming head of the kitchenstaff at Boll. And look where she is now?" He shrugs before saying, "I suppose you can never truly guide yourself to the spot you want to be, unless you are experienced enough in how to get there." He pauses and shakes his head, looking at Fayre again in surprise, telling her, "Maybe I -am- too serious for my own good."
Fayre shrugs casually as she sets about scrubbing a stain off of the table with her apron. It's already dirty anyway, so she might as well put it to good use. "Eh, I try to take every comment as a compliment. Like if someone calls me...er, y'know, pudgy, I just think...hey! At least I'm not a starving Holdless lass, y'see?" She taps the side of her skull a few times, smiling lightly. "But maybe all that time in the Sandbar has just addled my brain." And back she goes to determinedly scrubbing at that stain. "Ain't nothin' wrong with being serious, really. Pern needs serious people, usually to run stuff. But even the most important people need to let loose and relax sometimes, otherwise they'll go insane. And you don't want the people in charge to go insane, eh?" She bobs her head approvingly in the direction of V'lano. "I think our lovely Weyrleader here is quite good at not going insane." An odd compliment, but a compliment nonetheless.
"If she were in the kitchens at Boll, why didn't she give them a shot here?" There's a lot more in the conversation between the other two that he could probably remark upon, yet it's Xielar's mother's career the weyrleader queries. He does offer one effort at peacemaking, however, or maybe a judgment of his own couched in an excess of syllables: "You are both, I think, rather prodigious conversationalists." To this notion V'lano raises his cup a fraction, teasing a toast of sorts, then finishes his drink at a swallow. "Thank you, Fayre." He gives her a nod, bemusement in his expression. "I think."
"I'm sure you're right, but I'm not sure I'd ever call our Weyrleader... lovely," Xielar admits, grinning at V'lano. "No offense, sir." He pauses and goes on to reply to Fayre, "Oh, I'm pudgy too. But that doesn't bother me in the least." Xielar nods and goes on to say, "I happen to like my beans and bread." Xie pauses as he listens to V'lano, blinking a number of times as if to process the word use of the weyrleader. "Prod- what kind of conversationalists?" he asks, looking somewhat agape at the use of 'prodigious'. Hey, he's young, he can't know -all- the words in the dictionary. "And she couldn't. She had me at a turn old, she found that having other nannies around to take care of me helped her. And one thing led to another and she just fell into the job." Xielar pauses and admits quietly, "She doesn't say it, but I think she's good at her job, too."
Fayre nods enthusiastically at Xielar's acceptance of his weight. "See! Aren't you glad you're not a starving Holdless lad?" She chuckles hoarsely at the dockhand's trouble with words and attempts to simplify, "Hrm, prodigious is basically...uh, well, really good. So we're really good at conversation. I'll take that as a compliment, as usual." And there's another flash of yellowed teeth as Fayre grins. "Oh, is she a nanny, then? Places always need those, 'cause there are always little brats running around." She flicks her long braid over her shoulder as she turns to scan the living caverns, making sure all is still well in her precious realm. "I'd say people are usually good at their jobs, or else they wouldn't get 'im, eh? I suppose if you're a real Crafter it might be different, 'cause it's hard to know what you want to do with your life at apprentice age. I could never commit to a profession like that."
"She could have," corrects V'lano, mildly, to Xielar. "But she'd have had to leave you there, which was evidently not her choice. Maybe that's to your credit." The weyrleader offers the lad a smirk on that, and does nothing to help with clarifying what he said a moment before about the conversationalists at the table. He does note, "I believe the crafts do have fairly good experience in helping young people determine whether they at least might be able to make a career in the work, if not become masters. And there's always taking off for a Weyr if that doesn't work." His mouth twists a wry smile, and he leans forward to give up his now-empty cup to the table.
Xielar nods in agreement with Fayre's last remark, telling her, "I could never do that either. I'm only an average dock worker as it is, I doubt I could do anything in a craft like the Harpers or Miners. And I sure as shells could never do work with the weavers." He shows off his stumpy fingers at the woman. "Better Starving Holdless Lad than than Lady Holder, which is what T'mic calls me." He smirks at the term before shrugging it off. "Are you weyr-bred, then, sir?" he asks of V'lano before looking to Fayre, eyeing her for a moment before asking her the same, "And you? Are you originally from here, or a Hold somewhere?" He pauses and nods in agreement to the weyrleader's former comment, "I suppose so. Maybe that is to my credit. And I don't consider myself a good conversationalist. Just someone who talks a lot."
Fayre inspects Xielar's stubby fingers carefully before giving a nod of approval. "Well, those might not be Weaver fingers, but they look like they're perfect for rugged dockwork." She snorts loudly at Xielar's nickname and slaps her hand on the table in an amused, if a little awkward, gesture. "Lady Holder? Oh my, you certainly don't evoke that image in my mind. Can't exactly picture you in a pretty flowery dress." Her jovial laughter dies down enough for her to answer, "Born and bred here, dear Xielar. And I doubt I could ever leave. Food, drinks, and glorious sand beaches...it's a wonder we're not filled to the brim with folks."
Anderon enters from the narrow corridor.
Anderon has arrived.
"No, holdbred, I guess, if you like," V'lano replies to Xielar. The weyrleader's leaning back into his chair, stretching his legs a little before himself; he, the assistant headwoman and dockworker have managed to converge on one table and are there for now conversing. Some remains of a midday meal are present. "Why Lady Holder? There's folk I know who'd find that right funny. And some that might find it offensive. Not in the way I imagine you do, either." Though he does not laugh outright, the threat of it fills his voice.
Xielar beams at Fayre's latter remark in approval, "Exactly. So why would any person living here be angry? What reason could they have if they're living here?" He nods again, seemingly in agreement with Fayre. He pauses and looks to Fayre again after another bite of his bread, "Oh, this was before my decision to actually do some work for a change. When I was taking more naps than an old auntie." He smirks at the Weyrleader, telling him, "I was gesturing like one, I suppose. Making like other people should do my work and such." He shrugs and goes on to say, "That's just T'mic, I guess. Vladilen gave me another name, but for the life of me I can't remember what he called me." He pauses and goes on to ask, "Which hold were you raised in then, sir?"
"Istan folk seem to have an obsession with nicknames. Have you met T'ace? He insists in calling me Betting Lady." Fayre coughs, voice lowering slightly. "I mean, of course I gamble and take bets and the like, but that's not all there is to me, y'know?" She chuckles softly and adds, "Just as I'm sure there's more to you than taking naps." Her eyes roll sarcastically at the mention of Vladilen and the assistant headwoman flicks her hand in a dismissive gesture. "Oy, that cad. He laughed at me when I dropped a bunch of redfruit and called me fat. Rude fellow." She quiets down for once when her tablemate asks V'lano about his origins; perhaps she's curious about where her Weyrleader came from too.
Anderon slinks into the living cavern, back hunched and hat pulled that much lower over his face. He doesn't look over his shoulder -- he hides enough from people to know that's about as suspiciously paranoid as you can get -- but he does make a point of sidling in front of the really big people, moving from the shadow of a tall, burly bronzerider to that of an equally tally, burly stablehand. He seems headed for the infirmary, but then his gaze alights on the Weyrleader's table and suddenly he's headed there instead. "Hello, hello," he says hurriedly. "Don't mind me. Just here to clean up. Can I take your plates? Yeah?" Nevermind that the assistant Headwoman is here, and she'll likely know that Andy isn't part of the kitchen or living cavern staff.
"If you're directing that question at any particular situation, Xielar," begins the weyrleader, straightening in his chair again, the better to look on the lad more carefully, "A little specification might be in order. Better for me to answer." He turns his smile on Fayre thereafter, though a brow quirks at what she relates about Vladilen, aiming to set the table at ease if his seriousness might have unsettled it - of course, here comes Anderon, and after a pause looking at the fellow's sprawling frame, gestures dismissively at the plate that previously held his lunch of bread and cheese. Onward to what he was directly asked, evidently unawares of Andy's ploy, V'lano answers Xielar, "A few of them, but mostly Lemos."
Anderon is obviously still growing, tall and all coltish awkwardness. He has big hands, narrow shoulders, and a body that falls somewhere between 'lean' and 'stick-like.' He's a few shades paler than most Istans, and he sunburns almost as much as he tans; he wears a hat most of the time, which does double-duty as shade and as a way to hide the fact that he never combs his pale, orange-brown hair. He still prefers short over long sleeves, however, and though the freckles on his face are usually concealed by the big hat's shadow, they're faintly visible on his bare arms and legs - that is, where they're not angry red from burns or dark with various scratches and cuts.
Xielar considers this thought before saying, "Maybe it was T'ace that called me Lady Holder? All these T-named riders confuse me." He snorts once as he replies back to Fayre, "Vlad's a cad, for sure. He insinuated he'd find my mother and bed her the first chance he got because apparently Boll women were the best." He snorts once and goes on to say, "He's more than just a cad, really. But I won't call him names. It's just not worth it." His eyes are then drawn toward Anderon in puzzlement. Xie shrugs his shoulders in response to his arrival before returning his attention to V'lano. Blinking a couple times in surprise, Xielar merely nods in response to V'lano's answer. "Lemos," Xie says. "You're a fair distance away then."
Fayre looks Anderon over from head to toe, her eyebrows furrowing in amusement at his large hat. "I know I have a bad memory, but not /that/ bad of one. Why do you want to clear dishes when you don't even work in the kitchens, young lad?" She reaches out to pat Xielar on the back, in what's hopefully a comforting gesture. "Ah, nothin' wrong with calling him a name when he's not around. Who're we going to tell? Besides, what he said to you was even worse than him insultin' me." She snickers loudly, a clear look of bemusement taking over her face. "Though, from what I've heard about your ma, I'd love to see him try and get totally shut down by her, y'know?"
Anderon reaches for the Weyrleader's plate, and then for the one closest to Xielar, though the boy hasn't given him permission to take it yet. "Vlad the cad? You've got a bit of work to...er. I don't?" He blinks innocent eyes at Fayre, though if she squints, she might be able to see the gears turning in his head. "Yes I do. New to th'kitchens, yeah? Been hanging around in the back, doing what I can, trying not to, er. Cause any trouble. Yes'm, that's probably why you don't recognize me." He tugs a little nervously at the brim of his hat before flashing Fayre as charming a grin as he can manage and asking, "Can I take your plate?"
"I can't say it sounds more like the kind of thing one or the other of them would say," V'lano grins to Xielar of his nickname with a needlessly magnanimous gesture of one hand, leaning back into the chair again, relaxing as the conversation evidently turns down paths he prefers. "I mentioned I was weyrsecond at Telgar," he notes. "The harpers posted here really should have taught you that, if you'll excuse me a moment's vanity." Xielar gets a wink; Fayre's confronting Anderon gets barely a glance, though through the latter's explanation V'lano is curiously silent, choosing not to pursue other conversation with the dockhand in favor of simply overhearing what the hatrack has to say.
Xielar gets up from the table after having downed the last bit of fruit in his bowl. "Speaking of my mother, I should really go see her. I promised I'd spend some time with her on my day off and this being my day off..." He trails off, letting everyone come to the same conclusion. He does seem comforted by Fayre's gesture, giving her a half-smile. "It's okay, I know Vlad would have no chance whatsoever with her. It was just the thought of him..." He trails off again, shuddering at the thought but still allows Anderon to take his plate and bowl. "Here, have my seat," he tells Anderon. "Unfortunately I don't really pay that much attention to the history of the weyr's leaders. The history of the weyr yes, but not its leaders." He gives V'lano a cheeky look before telling him, "I suppose I still have a lot to learn." He pivots and takes a few steps away. "It was nice meeting you both," he tells V'lano and Fayre before giving Anderon a simple nod.
Fayre leans back in her chair and removes her elbows from the table, letting Anderon clear it if he so chooses. "Nope, I'm quite certain you don't work under me. If there's one thing I gotta do, it's remember my staff so I know who to yell at and who to give bonuses to, y'see? But hey, if you want to do the manual labour part of my job for me, feel free." She says with a laugh, gesturing widely towards the plates. "Have at 'im, if you want." Her head tilts curiously at Xielar and she wiggles her pudgy fingers at him in a semi-wave goodbye. "You too, Xielar. Try not to think about Vlad too much while you're with your mama, eh?" She covers her mouth as she gives a weak cough, perhaps covering a snicker.
Andy balances the plates with a certain grace, though the weight of the Weyrleader's curiosity makes him fumble a fork and drop it with a curse. "Seat?" he asks Xielar blankly. "Thanks, but, y'know. I'm just clearing the plates, doing things what people working in the kitchens do." He waves the fork in a vague gesture. "You know?" He plops the fork onto Fayre's plate and adds both to the small pile in his arms -- and abruptly realizes he's got no more excuse to hang around here. He looks sidelong at the entrance to the bowl, then puts his stack of plates back onto the table and asks brightly, "Hey, want me to wipe down the table for ya? I can do that, too."
"A bold distinction," muses V'lano to Xielar, allowing a nod and a lift of one hand to serve in place of words as farewell. Fayre gets a bit of a sharp sidelong look for her parting shot; to that, the weyrleader remarks, "I think I had better keep an eye out for this Vlad. His reputation's familiar." A beat. There's some sort of mischief bright in the rider's dark eyes, but he only asks, "He's not new to the island, is he?" Anderon, determined to serve as kitchen staff, gets a deliberate taste of what they're sometimes treated like: invisible. But still, amusement twitches at the corners of the man's moustache every time the faker asks about another task he might serve in doing.
Xielar smirks back at Fayre covering her snicker and shakes his head, "We'll talk later, I'm sure, Fayre." The teen rolls his shoulders and chuckles at Anderon again, saying "Busy work. I've done that." He looks around the living cavern and grabs one last roll before waving to V'lano. "It was nice talking to you, sir." And with that, the teen's gone, leaving the cavern behind for the corridor to the lower caverns.
Xielar walks down the corridor.
Xielar has left.
Fayre gives Anderon more of a surprised look when he refuses to let go of his odd gig. "Buddy, I know you don't work in the kitchens. Why don't you just sit down and chat rather than...whatever it is you're doing now. Making up excuses to stay? There's no need to, really." She pats Xielar's recently abandoned seat and gestures welcomingly to the young lad. "I know I don't mind if you join us. And put those plates down before you drop 'im all." Turning back to the Weyrleader, the assistant headwoman chews on her lip in thought. "Hmm, I believe Vladilen was on a boat headed for somewhere else, but he got sick so they dumped him off with us so the rest of the crew wouldn't fall ill. He works in the stores now, I think."
Anderon takes V'lano's lack of response as assent and whips out a rag from somewhere in his pocket. It's not exactly the cleanest rag, so far as rags go -- a fact that Andy tries to hide by curling his wide hand around it so only the very edges of it can be seen. At least it doesn't leave streaks of grime behind it, right? "I do work in the kitchen," he insists. "I'm just good at...what?" There's a pause as the boy parses what Fayre said, and then he blinks. "Well, when you put it that way. You sure you don't mind if I join you?" This question is asked of both Fayre and V'lano, the latter included by a sidelong and vaguely hopeful glance.
"A sailor," nods V'lano, thoughtful. "But he hasn't shipped out again. Is he still recovering?" Anderon's direct question succeeds in what all of his act did not: the weyrleader looks at him with a welcoming, if somewhat smirky, smile. "Tables are free for anyone to sit. Doesn't seem you have any contagion other than chronic sneakiness. Why would I mind?"
Fayre continues to give Anderon the same look; a mixture of surprise and amusement. "What, do we look like the type of people to kick people from our table? C'mon, don't insult us like that." Her expression suddenly changes to serious and stern, but only long enough to note, "It's better to ask than to lie to get your way, y'hear?" Her usual happy look comes back in a flash and she grins at the odd young man. "Though, try not to hit me with your big hat, alright?" To V'lano she answers, "Oh? He's planning to ship out again? I got the impression he planned on settling in here. Maybe he just wants to be a pain in our lives, Weyrleader. Or perhaps the lovely weather got to him."
"Chronic sneakiness isn't contagious," Andy counters immediately, before he realizes who, exactly, he's talking back to and hunches his shoulders more. "Uh. Dunno. Never really thought about it, I guess. Ain't lying to get my way, anyways, unless by 'my way' y'mean 'staying alive,' in which case I suppose you might have a point." He tucks the rag back into his pocket and falls into Xielar's abandoned chair, all the while squinting at Fayre. "I think? Don't think I really know anymore."
"No, I was just thinking aloud. Normally in a case like that you'd expect the fellow would intend to ship out again as soon as he was well, no?" V'lano offers this supposition to Fayre with a one-shouldered shrug and a flip of his hand. To Anderon, another smirk and dark, merry gaze. "It actually is, in my experience. And are you in any particular danger of a youthful demise here? If so, perhaps I can help." Another dismissive gesture of one hand, as if to say, he is only the weyrleader; his help is unlikely to be of much use, but he does do so kindly as to offer it.
Fayre's eyebrows reach skywards in response to Anderon's claim. "Sneakiness isn't contagious? You kiddin'? I've seen lads who are as perfect as bubbly pies when they're by their lonesome, but get 'im with their friends and they turn into right ol' bullies. /You're/ not a bully, are you?" Her eyes narrow cautiously at the young man, but a smirk still twitches at the corners of her mouth. "Well, I wish I could say he's shippin' out, but I'm pretty sure we won't be seeing the last of Vlad for a while." She tilts her head towards Anderon as her fingers begin to drum anxiously on the table's rough wood surface. "Now see, that's the kind of lad you could hang around and be swayed by. I'm sure if you two became friends you'd start being much more evil. It's just how things go."
Anderon pushes the hat up so he can more clearly see his tablemates, though it remains firmly on his head. The hat probably does a better job of giving him away than of hiding him, but that doesn't seem to be something the hunter has given any thought to; he absently tugs at the rim again before saying, "Existing. Existin' helps a lot. I kinda figure no one would want to give me a, uh...youthful demise in front of the Weyrleader, yeah? And hey!" he protests, twisting around to face Fayre. "Rumors'll like that are what ruins reputations. I'm a good kid. Sneaky, maybe, but I'm not /evil/, thanks."
"Fayre, I'm not sure that's exactly the sort of advice you intended to give," says V'lano, but there's a chortling laugh threatened under the droll roll of his low voice, and he casts a bit of a too-amused look the assistant headwoman's way. But the amusement drains out of him as he turns his attention back to Anderon. Dark brows loft high over now-concerned eyes, and the bronzerider's mouth presses thin, anything but merry. "I will take pains to continue doing that, then," he assures the broad-hatted boy, but leans forward to ask, "Can you tell me anyone who'd like to give you a youthful demise behind my back?"
Fayre sighs in exasperation, shaking her head. "No, no. I didn't call you evil. I'm saying if you surround yourself with evil people, you'll become evil, 'cause majority rules in groups. Get it? It's like...disease. You stay around it, it takes over you. Consumes your soul n'stuff." She gestures wildly about, trying to make her point get through to Anderon. She leans back in her chair, causing it to creak under her weight, and she grimaces slightly. "I better get a handyman in here one of these days to make sure all the furniture in here is stable. Would be awfully embarrassing if the chair you or your weyrmate was sitting in collapsed, eh Weyrleader?"
"Everyone," Andy says darkly in response to V'lano's question, and abruptly slouches down in his seat, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes fixed on a point just beyond Fayre's left shoulder. "Uh. Currently, though? The rider I almost shot, I guess. I was...practicing." The boy at least has the grace to look embarrassed, though the expression is rather at odds with the wariness and the rebelliousness that are also vying for representation. "Gosham told me to practice, so I was. Didn't expect th'man to come running up out of shardin' nowhere. And I ain't gonna turn /evil/, I already told you. I'm just..." He waves a hand broadly through the air before tucking it back under his armpit. "...Accident-prone."
The moment might be imperfect for Fayre to be suggesting harm, even merely humiliation, might come to the weyrleader or his mate; the glance he casts over at the headwoman's assistant is just shy of a warning. He does, after a moment, get his nose into joint enough to murmur, "There's a fellow name of Nic, hasn't been here long enough to get used to the humidity yet. Might be a good job for him." Anderon's explanation steals his attention away after that - and that explanation leaves the weyrleader blinking. In a moment, V'lano's leaning back into his chair again, crossing his arms over his chest in a slow and thoughtful way, fighting back bemusement. "And what rider would this be?"
Fayre blinks at V'lano's unusually short tone. "Hey, I'm just trying to look out for the safety of the Weyr, here. Who wants to be in the middle of a nice meal and then suddenly find themselves on the floor with a sore bottom?" Before she can say anything else too offensive, the young woman clambers to her feet. "Well, I should check to see how my staff is doing in the kitchens. 'fraid they'll burn the place down while I'm gone." With a bob of her head for each of her tablemates, she heads off towards the kitchen.
The cavern is filled with people, rider and nonrider alike for the evening meal. The reddish glow of the setting sun filters in through the large bowl entrance to the northwestern wall. Through the constant movement of drudges to and from the northern side of the wall, you can see the four large hearths there, each put to the task of cooking the large Weyr meals. An occasional drudge filters in and out of the entrance to the Lower Caverns entrance on the western side of the room. New riders and others are still filtering in through this entrance as well, leading out to the rest of the lower caverns.
Multiple archways to the northeast lead to the kitchens, allowing for chaotic traffic without collision. A wide passage leads out to the bowl and a smaller corridor leads down into the lower caverns. To the west is a short tunnel to the infirmary.
Contents:
V'lano
Xielar
The weyrleader and the dockworker Xielar are seated at a table sharing bread. "A hindrance," echoes the weyrleader from something the lad said, one raised brow lofting a little higher. But Xielar has -questions- and V'lano receives them with good humor, a smile playing again at the corners of his mouth; he suppresses it with the aid of the bread and cheese, chewing while listening. "I like to think it's a bit better than a possibility so long as Aerianth's the gold in question," he murmurs, voice rather droll. "And I came here specifically wishing to do it the first time she rose, so I suppose I must have achieved what I wished to do. I am not sure these are times in which it would quite be right to say I'm -happy-, though; I'm never happy to see people struggle and die." Having offered this much for the teenager to chew upon, V'lano chews on his own meal a moment and swallows, then lobs back: "A hindrance to what?"
"To my life. To me. To the way I want to live my life," comes Xielar's response to the Weyrleader's last question. Xielar clarifies his remark by adding, "I have ideas on how I want to live. What I want to do here at Ista. To be able to live freely, to love life and enjoy what the island has to offer. I don't want people hindering that, even if they are like aunties to me." Xielar then lobs back toward the weyrleader, "No, I suppose it wouldn't be right to be happy. Maybe that's not the right word I was looking for..." He trails off, considering his words carefully, but is quickly caught off guard by V'lano's former remarks, "You actually wanted to become the Weyrleader? Why? There's so much to be put on your shoulders." Xie gestures with his hands, one hand clutching his sourdough bread. "Like you said, being a rider means having to deal with people struggle and die." This concept seems to puzzle the teenaged dock worker, so he asks of the weyrleader: "Why would you want that on your shoulders?"
Fayre is scooting around the living caverns, stopping here and there to examine various people eating their meals. An apron is loosely tied around her broad hips, covered with so many stains one could almost tell the day's menu simply by looking at it. Finally, her rounds bring her towards the Weyrleader and Xielar's table, where she stops rather abruptly when the word 'die' reaches her ears. "Oh dear, people dying? Er, not from food poisoning, I hope?" A round 'oh' of realization forms on her lips as she hears Xielar's response. "Ah. The life of a dragonrider, right. Never mind then." She eyes the Weyrleader's large knot and casually remarks, "Well, at least the job pays well. But I suppose having the marks to buy fancy clothes doesn't really ease the burden of deaths, eh?" After glancing around the room to confirm everyone's satisfied with their food, the young woman takes a seat at the table. "I hope you don't mind if I join you...?"
V'lano's smile takes over at last. It is a crooked smirk, reflected in bright stars in the dark of his eyes, and as it spreads over his mouth he takes up his cup and leans back into the chair, evidently done with bread and cheese just now. "It was my ambition, then, and it's my duty, now. Why wouldn't I welcome a burden I am fit to bear?" Beat. A moment after Fayre's had her say and requested permission, a moment just long enough to either let her wonder if he's going to be angry about the crack on his clothes or just long enough to cool himself from it, the weyrleader looks up at her. "Of course, be our guest." His fingers drum almost silently against the curve of his cup. "I was just asking," a glance at Xielar in which the lad's probably expected to supply his name, but also designed to affirm that this question is aimed at him, "what exactly your ideas about how you want to live freely and enjoy the island's offerings might be."
Xielar looks up at Fayre with surprise. Being so engrossed in his conversation with V'lano, Xielar did not apparently see the aproned woman. "Uh. Guess not," is his response to Fayre's choice to join them. "I've seen you around," he tells Fayre matter-of-factly, and then his attention swivels back toward the Weyrleader. "Oh. Sorry, sir," he notes. "I'm Xielar." He gives V'lano a brief smile before replying back, "An ambition to lead a weyr. That's... -really- ambitious." He nods again before saying, "I'm not really sure. I mean, I'm young enough to have enough time to figure out exactly how to live freely. I just know I want to support the weyr as best as I can in whatever way I can, sir." The last remark is said more quietly than the previous ones, noting perhaps a thoughtful or introspective choice of words.
Fayre gulps loudly at the /look/ she's given by V'lano and offers a crooked grin to try and break the tension in the air. "No offense meant, Weyrleader. Just sayin', glad I'm in charge of the kitchens and not people's lives. Well, I s'pose food could kill people, but I'd have to /really/ mess up for that to happen. You could do everything perfectly right and people still...well." The assistant headwoman snaps her fingers. "Y'know, just like that." She nods seriously at Xielar, just the bare beginnings of a smirk lingering on her face. "I'm sure I've seen you around, too. Can't say I remember the occasion, but it's bound to have happened. The name's Fayre, and if you have any complaints about the food, be sure to let me know." Her eyebrows twitch slightly and she gives Xielar a once over. "Awfully serious for a young boy, ain't ya? Shouldn't you be worrying about pulling on girls' hair or somethin' instead?"
"None taken," allows the bronzerider to Fayre amongst her comments, at the appropriate juncture, and allows her to have her say while he indulges in drinking punch. Her estimation of the dockhand widens the weyrleader's smirk, so perhaps in this she wins back whatever grace she lost in comment about rich clothing. "I was weyrsecond at Telgar when I conceived of the ambition," V'lano informs Xielar, his voice lower now; perhaps he's learned some lesson from the sudden interest of the headwoman's assistant. "It came to me in steps, not as a boy or anything - though I do know of boys with such ambitions." He glances over at Fayre, warmth enough in his expression to presumably assure her the tension is gone. Of course, he doesn't invite further conversation about deaths upon the snap of fingers, either. "I trust there've been no complaints of any substance today, Fayre."
Xielar blinks a few times at Fayre, telling her, "Wow. You talk an awful lot, even for someone who works in the kitchen." He smirks at her before saying, "I'm not really all that serious." Xielar sits up in his chair a bit before saying, "And I'm not that young. I'm nearly 15 turns, thank you very much." He pauses before saying, "Why would I want to pull on anyone's hair? I don't think I even did that when I was younger." He shakes his head, as if to clear his head of the nonsense from Fayre. "I suppose that's how ambition works," he tells V'lano, as if the weyrleader asked. "You work you're way up to wherever you want to be headed and one step at a time you get to that place you want to be."
"Thank Faranth no, Weyrleader. You should've heard some of the insults us kitchen staff got during the whole mould situation. Oy." With one hand Fayre rubs her temple in exasperation while the other makes the universal 'blah blah blah' hand motion. "As if it was our fault half the stores had to be destroyed. But now that more tithes are comin' in, we're doing alright." The young woman positively /beams/ at Xielar for his comment. "Oh! Why thank you. People always tell me I'm quite the chatterbox, and I'm proud of it. Used to be a bartender, y'see. Always important to chat people up in that line of work, y'know?" She does her best not to laugh at the dockhand's defense of his age, but a little snicker manages to peep its way out. "Oh. 15 Turns! Well then, I take it all back. The cooty age definitely ends at 14."
The weyrleader laughs lowly at Fayre's yammering hand and looks down into his drink, shaking his head. "Maybe," he says to the punch left in the cup, then glances up first at the headwoman's assistant, then at Xielar; it's to the lad, apparently, that V'lano speaks. "Sometimes you don't know where you want to be headed; sometimes an entirely different goal leads you on the path your final ambition will take. I think sometimes, we only get to know in retrospect. Which isn't to say I didn't feel quite certain of myself at the time." His turn for a hand gesture, this one a dismissive overturning of his free hand, fingers wriggling once to wave such an idea good-bye.
Xielar smirks back at the woman, shaking his head at her. "Wow, you take something like being a talkative person as being a good thing?" he asks of her, surprised. "I'm not sure I meant it as a good thing. But I suppose for the sake of our company, I shouldn't really make comments like that about other people." He shrugs once before telling V'lano: "I suppose you're right. Before my mother got pregnant with me, she anticipated becoming head of the kitchenstaff at Boll. And look where she is now?" He shrugs before saying, "I suppose you can never truly guide yourself to the spot you want to be, unless you are experienced enough in how to get there." He pauses and shakes his head, looking at Fayre again in surprise, telling her, "Maybe I -am- too serious for my own good."
Fayre shrugs casually as she sets about scrubbing a stain off of the table with her apron. It's already dirty anyway, so she might as well put it to good use. "Eh, I try to take every comment as a compliment. Like if someone calls me...er, y'know, pudgy, I just think...hey! At least I'm not a starving Holdless lass, y'see?" She taps the side of her skull a few times, smiling lightly. "But maybe all that time in the Sandbar has just addled my brain." And back she goes to determinedly scrubbing at that stain. "Ain't nothin' wrong with being serious, really. Pern needs serious people, usually to run stuff. But even the most important people need to let loose and relax sometimes, otherwise they'll go insane. And you don't want the people in charge to go insane, eh?" She bobs her head approvingly in the direction of V'lano. "I think our lovely Weyrleader here is quite good at not going insane." An odd compliment, but a compliment nonetheless.
"If she were in the kitchens at Boll, why didn't she give them a shot here?" There's a lot more in the conversation between the other two that he could probably remark upon, yet it's Xielar's mother's career the weyrleader queries. He does offer one effort at peacemaking, however, or maybe a judgment of his own couched in an excess of syllables: "You are both, I think, rather prodigious conversationalists." To this notion V'lano raises his cup a fraction, teasing a toast of sorts, then finishes his drink at a swallow. "Thank you, Fayre." He gives her a nod, bemusement in his expression. "I think."
"I'm sure you're right, but I'm not sure I'd ever call our Weyrleader... lovely," Xielar admits, grinning at V'lano. "No offense, sir." He pauses and goes on to reply to Fayre, "Oh, I'm pudgy too. But that doesn't bother me in the least." Xielar nods and goes on to say, "I happen to like my beans and bread." Xie pauses as he listens to V'lano, blinking a number of times as if to process the word use of the weyrleader. "Prod- what kind of conversationalists?" he asks, looking somewhat agape at the use of 'prodigious'. Hey, he's young, he can't know -all- the words in the dictionary. "And she couldn't. She had me at a turn old, she found that having other nannies around to take care of me helped her. And one thing led to another and she just fell into the job." Xielar pauses and admits quietly, "She doesn't say it, but I think she's good at her job, too."
Fayre nods enthusiastically at Xielar's acceptance of his weight. "See! Aren't you glad you're not a starving Holdless lad?" She chuckles hoarsely at the dockhand's trouble with words and attempts to simplify, "Hrm, prodigious is basically...uh, well, really good. So we're really good at conversation. I'll take that as a compliment, as usual." And there's another flash of yellowed teeth as Fayre grins. "Oh, is she a nanny, then? Places always need those, 'cause there are always little brats running around." She flicks her long braid over her shoulder as she turns to scan the living caverns, making sure all is still well in her precious realm. "I'd say people are usually good at their jobs, or else they wouldn't get 'im, eh? I suppose if you're a real Crafter it might be different, 'cause it's hard to know what you want to do with your life at apprentice age. I could never commit to a profession like that."
"She could have," corrects V'lano, mildly, to Xielar. "But she'd have had to leave you there, which was evidently not her choice. Maybe that's to your credit." The weyrleader offers the lad a smirk on that, and does nothing to help with clarifying what he said a moment before about the conversationalists at the table. He does note, "I believe the crafts do have fairly good experience in helping young people determine whether they at least might be able to make a career in the work, if not become masters. And there's always taking off for a Weyr if that doesn't work." His mouth twists a wry smile, and he leans forward to give up his now-empty cup to the table.
Xielar nods in agreement with Fayre's last remark, telling her, "I could never do that either. I'm only an average dock worker as it is, I doubt I could do anything in a craft like the Harpers or Miners. And I sure as shells could never do work with the weavers." He shows off his stumpy fingers at the woman. "Better Starving Holdless Lad than than Lady Holder, which is what T'mic calls me." He smirks at the term before shrugging it off. "Are you weyr-bred, then, sir?" he asks of V'lano before looking to Fayre, eyeing her for a moment before asking her the same, "And you? Are you originally from here, or a Hold somewhere?" He pauses and nods in agreement to the weyrleader's former comment, "I suppose so. Maybe that is to my credit. And I don't consider myself a good conversationalist. Just someone who talks a lot."
Fayre inspects Xielar's stubby fingers carefully before giving a nod of approval. "Well, those might not be Weaver fingers, but they look like they're perfect for rugged dockwork." She snorts loudly at Xielar's nickname and slaps her hand on the table in an amused, if a little awkward, gesture. "Lady Holder? Oh my, you certainly don't evoke that image in my mind. Can't exactly picture you in a pretty flowery dress." Her jovial laughter dies down enough for her to answer, "Born and bred here, dear Xielar. And I doubt I could ever leave. Food, drinks, and glorious sand beaches...it's a wonder we're not filled to the brim with folks."
Anderon enters from the narrow corridor.
Anderon has arrived.
"No, holdbred, I guess, if you like," V'lano replies to Xielar. The weyrleader's leaning back into his chair, stretching his legs a little before himself; he, the assistant headwoman and dockworker have managed to converge on one table and are there for now conversing. Some remains of a midday meal are present. "Why Lady Holder? There's folk I know who'd find that right funny. And some that might find it offensive. Not in the way I imagine you do, either." Though he does not laugh outright, the threat of it fills his voice.
Xielar beams at Fayre's latter remark in approval, "Exactly. So why would any person living here be angry? What reason could they have if they're living here?" He nods again, seemingly in agreement with Fayre. He pauses and looks to Fayre again after another bite of his bread, "Oh, this was before my decision to actually do some work for a change. When I was taking more naps than an old auntie." He smirks at the Weyrleader, telling him, "I was gesturing like one, I suppose. Making like other people should do my work and such." He shrugs and goes on to say, "That's just T'mic, I guess. Vladilen gave me another name, but for the life of me I can't remember what he called me." He pauses and goes on to ask, "Which hold were you raised in then, sir?"
"Istan folk seem to have an obsession with nicknames. Have you met T'ace? He insists in calling me Betting Lady." Fayre coughs, voice lowering slightly. "I mean, of course I gamble and take bets and the like, but that's not all there is to me, y'know?" She chuckles softly and adds, "Just as I'm sure there's more to you than taking naps." Her eyes roll sarcastically at the mention of Vladilen and the assistant headwoman flicks her hand in a dismissive gesture. "Oy, that cad. He laughed at me when I dropped a bunch of redfruit and called me fat. Rude fellow." She quiets down for once when her tablemate asks V'lano about his origins; perhaps she's curious about where her Weyrleader came from too.
Anderon slinks into the living cavern, back hunched and hat pulled that much lower over his face. He doesn't look over his shoulder -- he hides enough from people to know that's about as suspiciously paranoid as you can get -- but he does make a point of sidling in front of the really big people, moving from the shadow of a tall, burly bronzerider to that of an equally tally, burly stablehand. He seems headed for the infirmary, but then his gaze alights on the Weyrleader's table and suddenly he's headed there instead. "Hello, hello," he says hurriedly. "Don't mind me. Just here to clean up. Can I take your plates? Yeah?" Nevermind that the assistant Headwoman is here, and she'll likely know that Andy isn't part of the kitchen or living cavern staff.
"If you're directing that question at any particular situation, Xielar," begins the weyrleader, straightening in his chair again, the better to look on the lad more carefully, "A little specification might be in order. Better for me to answer." He turns his smile on Fayre thereafter, though a brow quirks at what she relates about Vladilen, aiming to set the table at ease if his seriousness might have unsettled it - of course, here comes Anderon, and after a pause looking at the fellow's sprawling frame, gestures dismissively at the plate that previously held his lunch of bread and cheese. Onward to what he was directly asked, evidently unawares of Andy's ploy, V'lano answers Xielar, "A few of them, but mostly Lemos."
Anderon is obviously still growing, tall and all coltish awkwardness. He has big hands, narrow shoulders, and a body that falls somewhere between 'lean' and 'stick-like.' He's a few shades paler than most Istans, and he sunburns almost as much as he tans; he wears a hat most of the time, which does double-duty as shade and as a way to hide the fact that he never combs his pale, orange-brown hair. He still prefers short over long sleeves, however, and though the freckles on his face are usually concealed by the big hat's shadow, they're faintly visible on his bare arms and legs - that is, where they're not angry red from burns or dark with various scratches and cuts.
Xielar considers this thought before saying, "Maybe it was T'ace that called me Lady Holder? All these T-named riders confuse me." He snorts once as he replies back to Fayre, "Vlad's a cad, for sure. He insinuated he'd find my mother and bed her the first chance he got because apparently Boll women were the best." He snorts once and goes on to say, "He's more than just a cad, really. But I won't call him names. It's just not worth it." His eyes are then drawn toward Anderon in puzzlement. Xie shrugs his shoulders in response to his arrival before returning his attention to V'lano. Blinking a couple times in surprise, Xielar merely nods in response to V'lano's answer. "Lemos," Xie says. "You're a fair distance away then."
Fayre looks Anderon over from head to toe, her eyebrows furrowing in amusement at his large hat. "I know I have a bad memory, but not /that/ bad of one. Why do you want to clear dishes when you don't even work in the kitchens, young lad?" She reaches out to pat Xielar on the back, in what's hopefully a comforting gesture. "Ah, nothin' wrong with calling him a name when he's not around. Who're we going to tell? Besides, what he said to you was even worse than him insultin' me." She snickers loudly, a clear look of bemusement taking over her face. "Though, from what I've heard about your ma, I'd love to see him try and get totally shut down by her, y'know?"
Anderon reaches for the Weyrleader's plate, and then for the one closest to Xielar, though the boy hasn't given him permission to take it yet. "Vlad the cad? You've got a bit of work to...er. I don't?" He blinks innocent eyes at Fayre, though if she squints, she might be able to see the gears turning in his head. "Yes I do. New to th'kitchens, yeah? Been hanging around in the back, doing what I can, trying not to, er. Cause any trouble. Yes'm, that's probably why you don't recognize me." He tugs a little nervously at the brim of his hat before flashing Fayre as charming a grin as he can manage and asking, "Can I take your plate?"
"I can't say it sounds more like the kind of thing one or the other of them would say," V'lano grins to Xielar of his nickname with a needlessly magnanimous gesture of one hand, leaning back into the chair again, relaxing as the conversation evidently turns down paths he prefers. "I mentioned I was weyrsecond at Telgar," he notes. "The harpers posted here really should have taught you that, if you'll excuse me a moment's vanity." Xielar gets a wink; Fayre's confronting Anderon gets barely a glance, though through the latter's explanation V'lano is curiously silent, choosing not to pursue other conversation with the dockhand in favor of simply overhearing what the hatrack has to say.
Xielar gets up from the table after having downed the last bit of fruit in his bowl. "Speaking of my mother, I should really go see her. I promised I'd spend some time with her on my day off and this being my day off..." He trails off, letting everyone come to the same conclusion. He does seem comforted by Fayre's gesture, giving her a half-smile. "It's okay, I know Vlad would have no chance whatsoever with her. It was just the thought of him..." He trails off again, shuddering at the thought but still allows Anderon to take his plate and bowl. "Here, have my seat," he tells Anderon. "Unfortunately I don't really pay that much attention to the history of the weyr's leaders. The history of the weyr yes, but not its leaders." He gives V'lano a cheeky look before telling him, "I suppose I still have a lot to learn." He pivots and takes a few steps away. "It was nice meeting you both," he tells V'lano and Fayre before giving Anderon a simple nod.
Fayre leans back in her chair and removes her elbows from the table, letting Anderon clear it if he so chooses. "Nope, I'm quite certain you don't work under me. If there's one thing I gotta do, it's remember my staff so I know who to yell at and who to give bonuses to, y'see? But hey, if you want to do the manual labour part of my job for me, feel free." She says with a laugh, gesturing widely towards the plates. "Have at 'im, if you want." Her head tilts curiously at Xielar and she wiggles her pudgy fingers at him in a semi-wave goodbye. "You too, Xielar. Try not to think about Vlad too much while you're with your mama, eh?" She covers her mouth as she gives a weak cough, perhaps covering a snicker.
Andy balances the plates with a certain grace, though the weight of the Weyrleader's curiosity makes him fumble a fork and drop it with a curse. "Seat?" he asks Xielar blankly. "Thanks, but, y'know. I'm just clearing the plates, doing things what people working in the kitchens do." He waves the fork in a vague gesture. "You know?" He plops the fork onto Fayre's plate and adds both to the small pile in his arms -- and abruptly realizes he's got no more excuse to hang around here. He looks sidelong at the entrance to the bowl, then puts his stack of plates back onto the table and asks brightly, "Hey, want me to wipe down the table for ya? I can do that, too."
"A bold distinction," muses V'lano to Xielar, allowing a nod and a lift of one hand to serve in place of words as farewell. Fayre gets a bit of a sharp sidelong look for her parting shot; to that, the weyrleader remarks, "I think I had better keep an eye out for this Vlad. His reputation's familiar." A beat. There's some sort of mischief bright in the rider's dark eyes, but he only asks, "He's not new to the island, is he?" Anderon, determined to serve as kitchen staff, gets a deliberate taste of what they're sometimes treated like: invisible. But still, amusement twitches at the corners of the man's moustache every time the faker asks about another task he might serve in doing.
Xielar smirks back at Fayre covering her snicker and shakes his head, "We'll talk later, I'm sure, Fayre." The teen rolls his shoulders and chuckles at Anderon again, saying "Busy work. I've done that." He looks around the living cavern and grabs one last roll before waving to V'lano. "It was nice talking to you, sir." And with that, the teen's gone, leaving the cavern behind for the corridor to the lower caverns.
Xielar walks down the corridor.
Xielar has left.
Fayre gives Anderon more of a surprised look when he refuses to let go of his odd gig. "Buddy, I know you don't work in the kitchens. Why don't you just sit down and chat rather than...whatever it is you're doing now. Making up excuses to stay? There's no need to, really." She pats Xielar's recently abandoned seat and gestures welcomingly to the young lad. "I know I don't mind if you join us. And put those plates down before you drop 'im all." Turning back to the Weyrleader, the assistant headwoman chews on her lip in thought. "Hmm, I believe Vladilen was on a boat headed for somewhere else, but he got sick so they dumped him off with us so the rest of the crew wouldn't fall ill. He works in the stores now, I think."
Anderon takes V'lano's lack of response as assent and whips out a rag from somewhere in his pocket. It's not exactly the cleanest rag, so far as rags go -- a fact that Andy tries to hide by curling his wide hand around it so only the very edges of it can be seen. At least it doesn't leave streaks of grime behind it, right? "I do work in the kitchen," he insists. "I'm just good at...what?" There's a pause as the boy parses what Fayre said, and then he blinks. "Well, when you put it that way. You sure you don't mind if I join you?" This question is asked of both Fayre and V'lano, the latter included by a sidelong and vaguely hopeful glance.
"A sailor," nods V'lano, thoughtful. "But he hasn't shipped out again. Is he still recovering?" Anderon's direct question succeeds in what all of his act did not: the weyrleader looks at him with a welcoming, if somewhat smirky, smile. "Tables are free for anyone to sit. Doesn't seem you have any contagion other than chronic sneakiness. Why would I mind?"
Fayre continues to give Anderon the same look; a mixture of surprise and amusement. "What, do we look like the type of people to kick people from our table? C'mon, don't insult us like that." Her expression suddenly changes to serious and stern, but only long enough to note, "It's better to ask than to lie to get your way, y'hear?" Her usual happy look comes back in a flash and she grins at the odd young man. "Though, try not to hit me with your big hat, alright?" To V'lano she answers, "Oh? He's planning to ship out again? I got the impression he planned on settling in here. Maybe he just wants to be a pain in our lives, Weyrleader. Or perhaps the lovely weather got to him."
"Chronic sneakiness isn't contagious," Andy counters immediately, before he realizes who, exactly, he's talking back to and hunches his shoulders more. "Uh. Dunno. Never really thought about it, I guess. Ain't lying to get my way, anyways, unless by 'my way' y'mean 'staying alive,' in which case I suppose you might have a point." He tucks the rag back into his pocket and falls into Xielar's abandoned chair, all the while squinting at Fayre. "I think? Don't think I really know anymore."
"No, I was just thinking aloud. Normally in a case like that you'd expect the fellow would intend to ship out again as soon as he was well, no?" V'lano offers this supposition to Fayre with a one-shouldered shrug and a flip of his hand. To Anderon, another smirk and dark, merry gaze. "It actually is, in my experience. And are you in any particular danger of a youthful demise here? If so, perhaps I can help." Another dismissive gesture of one hand, as if to say, he is only the weyrleader; his help is unlikely to be of much use, but he does do so kindly as to offer it.
Fayre's eyebrows reach skywards in response to Anderon's claim. "Sneakiness isn't contagious? You kiddin'? I've seen lads who are as perfect as bubbly pies when they're by their lonesome, but get 'im with their friends and they turn into right ol' bullies. /You're/ not a bully, are you?" Her eyes narrow cautiously at the young man, but a smirk still twitches at the corners of her mouth. "Well, I wish I could say he's shippin' out, but I'm pretty sure we won't be seeing the last of Vlad for a while." She tilts her head towards Anderon as her fingers begin to drum anxiously on the table's rough wood surface. "Now see, that's the kind of lad you could hang around and be swayed by. I'm sure if you two became friends you'd start being much more evil. It's just how things go."
Anderon pushes the hat up so he can more clearly see his tablemates, though it remains firmly on his head. The hat probably does a better job of giving him away than of hiding him, but that doesn't seem to be something the hunter has given any thought to; he absently tugs at the rim again before saying, "Existing. Existin' helps a lot. I kinda figure no one would want to give me a, uh...youthful demise in front of the Weyrleader, yeah? And hey!" he protests, twisting around to face Fayre. "Rumors'll like that are what ruins reputations. I'm a good kid. Sneaky, maybe, but I'm not /evil/, thanks."
"Fayre, I'm not sure that's exactly the sort of advice you intended to give," says V'lano, but there's a chortling laugh threatened under the droll roll of his low voice, and he casts a bit of a too-amused look the assistant headwoman's way. But the amusement drains out of him as he turns his attention back to Anderon. Dark brows loft high over now-concerned eyes, and the bronzerider's mouth presses thin, anything but merry. "I will take pains to continue doing that, then," he assures the broad-hatted boy, but leans forward to ask, "Can you tell me anyone who'd like to give you a youthful demise behind my back?"
Fayre sighs in exasperation, shaking her head. "No, no. I didn't call you evil. I'm saying if you surround yourself with evil people, you'll become evil, 'cause majority rules in groups. Get it? It's like...disease. You stay around it, it takes over you. Consumes your soul n'stuff." She gestures wildly about, trying to make her point get through to Anderon. She leans back in her chair, causing it to creak under her weight, and she grimaces slightly. "I better get a handyman in here one of these days to make sure all the furniture in here is stable. Would be awfully embarrassing if the chair you or your weyrmate was sitting in collapsed, eh Weyrleader?"
"Everyone," Andy says darkly in response to V'lano's question, and abruptly slouches down in his seat, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes fixed on a point just beyond Fayre's left shoulder. "Uh. Currently, though? The rider I almost shot, I guess. I was...practicing." The boy at least has the grace to look embarrassed, though the expression is rather at odds with the wariness and the rebelliousness that are also vying for representation. "Gosham told me to practice, so I was. Didn't expect th'man to come running up out of shardin' nowhere. And I ain't gonna turn /evil/, I already told you. I'm just..." He waves a hand broadly through the air before tucking it back under his armpit. "...Accident-prone."
The moment might be imperfect for Fayre to be suggesting harm, even merely humiliation, might come to the weyrleader or his mate; the glance he casts over at the headwoman's assistant is just shy of a warning. He does, after a moment, get his nose into joint enough to murmur, "There's a fellow name of Nic, hasn't been here long enough to get used to the humidity yet. Might be a good job for him." Anderon's explanation steals his attention away after that - and that explanation leaves the weyrleader blinking. In a moment, V'lano's leaning back into his chair again, crossing his arms over his chest in a slow and thoughtful way, fighting back bemusement. "And what rider would this be?"
Fayre blinks at V'lano's unusually short tone. "Hey, I'm just trying to look out for the safety of the Weyr, here. Who wants to be in the middle of a nice meal and then suddenly find themselves on the floor with a sore bottom?" Before she can say anything else too offensive, the young woman clambers to her feet. "Well, I should check to see how my staff is doing in the kitchens. 'fraid they'll burn the place down while I'm gone." With a bob of her head for each of her tablemates, she heads off towards the kitchen.