Log: A Lack Of Directness, Leads To Offense
Who: Hattie, P'draig
When: day 18, month 5, turn 22 of the 10th interval
Where: Lake Shore, Fort Weyr
What: Paddy tries to be subtle and discreet and makes a muddle of it when Hattie comes across him at the end of his day at Fort.
Lakeshore, Fort Weyr
The lake's shore is a broad crescent of golden-hued sand, stretching from the southwest wall near the feeding grounds and arcing toward the southeast and overlooking the blue waters of the lake. Where the lake deepens, that water turns a murkier blue-green, hiding an untold number of perils in its depths. It is an oft-used location for dragons seeking a place to sun or for residents and riders who feel a need to take a stroll; the sand is generally kept pretty clean and while there are no shells, there are periodic bits of obsidian and other volcanic stones to be found if one feels like picking around.
>---< Local Weather for FTW >------------------------------------------------<
Current Temp: 62 F Today's Lo/Hi: 52 F / 76 F
Belior: waning gibbous Timor: new
Weather: mist
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Some people call it refreshing. Other people call it cold and miserable.
Whatever the case, a periodic, misty rain falls on and off throughout the
day, mostly just enough to make everything damp rather than soaked.
>-----------------------------------< 15:16 D18 M5 T22, spring afternoon >---<
The afternoon is slanting toward later, Rukbat's rays gleaming through the mist that sticks around on the tail end of a rainy day. P'draig's been hanging around the Weyr for a while, first visiting some former clutchmates and a former assistant weyrlingmaster, then trying out some of the Glass Fountain's specialties. Now he's standing around the curve of the lake, away from where most tend to cluster to swim or bathe dragons, thoughtfully skipping rocks acros a placid stretch of water. Jekzith's probably out there somewhere. Probably.
"What are you doing at my Weyr?" Hattie's voice, only half-joking with either the demand or the insistence that Fort is hers. A few more steps and the weyrwoman emerges properly from grey surroundings and hazy mist, to perch on a flat rock someway back from the shore without further greeting or remark, gaze resting somewhere between the brownrider and the lake. Elaruth is nowhere to be seen, not in the vicinity of her rider at any rate.
P'draig looks up at the sound of the weyrwoman's voice and laughs, lets the next stone fly: only four skips. "Visiting the large number of friends and clutchmates who're still here," the brownrider answers readily. "That and Jekzith likes to 'come home' every now and then and make friends with the bottom of the lake so he doesn't forget it." A nod towards betraying ripples and then there's headknobs and eyeridges and a brown head peeking around furtively, then dropping out of sight again.
"I suppose it would be only good manners to let you stay, in that case," the goldrider decides after a moment's thought, folding her hands in her lap. Hattie looks out across the water, focusing when Jekzith briefly becomes visible and only for that long, attention lifting to miserable skies. "Elaruth isn't here, otherwise I'm sure she'd have said hello by now. She's somewhere over the northern ranges, from what I can gather."
"Thanks," P'draig replies and turns slightly, rocks folded up in fingers, his other hand sliding into his pocket. "He might like to go join her in a little bit. He's sticking his head through some of the rock formations down at the very bottom. Making sure the fish are still hiding there." He looks over at Hattie's composed position for a moment or two then asks more quietly: "How've you been? I haven't seen you in a little while."
"He'd certainly be welcome, if he were to join her at some point," Hattie assures with a little nod, kicking one boot up onto the base of the rock for balance. For a while it's as if she won't answer the question and might ignore it completely, but eventually dark eyes drift down from grey clouds and fix on P'draig. "The same as ever," isn't the most detailed of responses. "There's work to be done; things and people to be sorted. Thankfully, some difficulties seem to have been sorted with assistance from Fort's Warder, so that's making life easier for some people. Less apt to snap, at least. You?"
"I've let him know," P'draig relates about Jekzith and he waits patiently for either an answer or lack thereof. When it does come he nods, smiles a little. "Always something to be sorted," he remarks mildly. "I'm glad that it seems like things are looking up though. Less snapping - easier on the ears." He shuffles the rocks in his palm then turns back towards the water to send one of them skipping, this time, six hops. "The restaurant is doing well. We might actually turn a profit this turn."
"Less likely to get savaged in response, too," Hattie mutters darkly, likely more so than she means. She blinks a few times and waits a second or two before going on, dragging her voice up and out of that tone. "That's good to hear. Well, for you. I can't say I'm pleased for Ista in general, but as far as you're concerned, I can. How many days a seven are you opening at the moment?"
That darkness in Hattie draws a shadow briefly to P'draig's expression and he takes a half-step in her direction, then halts. Her remarks about Ista lift his eyebrows though and he shakes his head. "You're not?" a note of puzzlement there, given the lack of detail from their last conversation. "Four so far," he answers the latter question and hefts the flat stone that still lies in his palm, then traces its edge with his thumb, like he's taking its measure for the next toss.
Hattie shakes her head, saying, "Doesn't matter," dismissively. "I tend to think of it more as your place anyway, which it is, so Ista doesn't really factor in in my mind unless I'm visiting." She shrugs. "Which is probably unwise." The not factoring, that is. "Four. Four and still a probable profit, that's not bad." High praise. "Here's hoping business continues as it's started, then."
The rock goes skipping: 6 again and Paddy's hands are empty, but he slides both back into pockets and moves a little more towards Hattie's perch. "It's my place ... but part of it's purpose to help support the Weyr, not just me," the brownrider admits, sometimes too honest for his own good. "It's been busy a lot. I'll probably need to hire more cooks and open more days. Though I'm still kind of feeling my way through what works and doesn't on the menu."
"Well then, you'll just have to humour me in thinking it to be your livelihood and not theirs," Hattie replies evenly, gaze tracking the brownrider closer. "Or choosing to believe as such." She shrugs, the lift of her shoulders barely there. "I suppose you have to try and cover everything. People arriving for dinner, children, people arriving after a drink or two and so on. I don't expect it's something that anyone would get absolutely right immediately."
"I'll humor you," P'draig says with a little nod. "Though I'll admit to curiosity about ... what's going on," he adds, words slow. "I'll lay odds it's not my business though. Should I be ... concerned about visiting Fort though?" Breath out. "Yeah. And how high end to go in this case, since it's meant to offer something that Ista's bars don't. Palia's been having fun playing hostess too when Mic's not there or the other girl who helps with seating and managing the flow of things."
"No, it's not, and not mine to tell, besides. Perhaps others might see differently, but..." Hattie doesn't explain further, taking a breath in before deciding, "You probably shouldn't be as concerned about visiting Fort as I am about Ista. But that's the different knots. I'd advise you to be careful, though - some people might suspect you of being after information." She doesn't look very apologetic for lack of explanation. "It's just how things are."
That only crinkles P'draig's forehead all the more. "Information ... about what?" he asks and then shakes his head. "Sorry. This is just ... it's puzzling," he looks uncomfortable for a moment then nods. "Not that most people don't know who I am anyway except for the more recent riders, so there's not really much point in hiding out, I guess."
Hattie shakes her head again, insisting, "Nothing you should know or do know, I'm assuming, so anyone who goes asking anything of you will probably figure that out pretty soon anyhow." The goldrider looks up and laces her fingers together, thoughtful expression on her features. "You really want to know, I guess you could ask at Ista, but I'd put marks on being better off out of it and not getting information there either. Everything is quite quiet at the moment, so it doesn't need stirring up, besides."
That earns Hattie a long look, but Paddy doesn't push further, looks down at the ground nodding. "It just feels strange. The idea of being ... unwelcome at either place," the brownrider says quietly.
"Yes. Well. As I say, better off out of it. Your opinions of people can't be altered, that way," the junior says bluntly. "I don't know that it's that people are unwelcome. It's just complicated. I'm not entirely certain everybody knows where they stand, so..." Hattie brushes away any concern as quickly as ever, stating, "Don't let it trouble you. Nothing's different from day to day, not really."
"People suspecting me of spying because I'm an Istan rider ... makes me feel off-base," P'draig replies and then looks away, lost in thought for a moment or two. When he speaks next, it's a change of subject. "The kids like living down at the beach. They spend so much time there anyway on the average day, it's convenient."
"People should have thought about how it would affect others before they acted," Hattie says lowly, focus drifting to the lake, being something that won't mind the cold stare she fixes it with. When she tunes back in, she looks up again, the change of subject throwing her for a moment. A complicated expression smoothes out again and she nods. "Sounds like a fun time for a child. A nice way of living to grow up with."
She advised letting things go and Paddy is doing so. His expression is a careful, neutral blank as she utters that low remark, though her own look might reveal renewed concern. "I hope it will be, yeah. It's a lot easier to have your family close when you live on the ground and aren't splitting time between weyrs."
"Are you all living on the beach now? Or some time in your weyr and some at the beach?" Hattie asks, looking away and across the shore this time, though there's not much to be seen beyond grey and mist.
"Mostly at the beach, but the weyr too, mostly on the nights off. Mic has company up there sometimes while I'm working," the brownrider explains without any sign of discomfort. "Even with things so complicated ... will you come by sometime soon? Try out some of the things I've been making."
The goldrider plants her other foot on the rock's base, hunching over to rest elbows on knees and chin on folded hands. "I see," Hattie responds, with not a lot of understanding, really. She carries on looking down the shoreline for a while in silence, only vague shapes able to be discerned through mist. "I can't," she says finally. "I got more than a couple of looks for my knot when I went to the opening. You'd probably have a line of people at home willing to say 'yes', anyway, so I'm not really required."
"It's all part of things being open," P'draig says, maybe an attempt at closing the gap on understanding. His chin drops, gaze directed at the sweep of a booted toe across loose, gravelly ground. "I didn't ask for lack of taste-testers," he remarks after a moment and looks up again but doesn't speak further.
More staring into the distance. "Would you rather hear me say as I have in another way, or is it not easier to take me at my word?" Hattie asks the bleakness, unmoving on her perch. "I don't mean to be rude. I hope you know that by now and if you don't, then you'll just have to believe me or not. I don't want to cause an incident. I don't want to cause trouble for you." She's clambering to her feet then, finding her balance on the sand.
"No, Hattie," P'draig answers, shoulders slumping a little and he tries to catch her eye, even as a hand pulls free of his pocket, hovers toward her elbow to offer a steadying touch. "You don't have to come to the restaurant to try my food," he elaborates. "I guess I'm not ... good at subtle."
Oversensitive or overly concerned, Hattie carefully steps just out of range of any contact being made despite the odds of anything being seen or read into being pretty much nil. "No, you're not," she says plainly, not even teasing. "I don't know what you expect me to say. Nine times out of ten, I let you talk me into something. You just can't do it /here/. I know this was your home, but it's /my/ home now and you can't-" One hand lifts to cover her mouth. "Fuck," she mutters, the word almost smothered. Backtracking, she states, "I won't go to Ista. Somewhere else."
Sheepish, P'draig's chin drops and one hand pulls free of his pocket, rubs along his jaw. "That's ... what I'm trying to say without being direct and offending you instead. So. I'll be direct instead and hopefully save us both any further tripping," the brownrider continues, though he keeps his voice low. "The usual place, four days from now. I'll bring the picnic, you bring the blankets. You can even bring work if you want."
After a moment of staring, Hattie begins to say, "Oh for fu-" but manages to bite back the rest and promptly turns away to try and hide any embarrassment. A half-minute or so of studying the sand passes, then she turns back and says quietly, "Next time, if you don't mind... maybe you could just be direct and risk offending me?" There's quite the odd expression on her face, torn between exasperated laughter and holding back the urge to throw or hit something. She can at least promise, "I won't bring any work."
"No ... that's what I mean, by not being direct, I've wound up being offensive," P'draig says with sudden rueful laughter. "I wasn't afraid of doing it ... just trying to be discreet and subtle and failing /miserably/," the brownrider offers over. That odd expression has him crooking a finger though. "Here, give my arm a solid whack. I can take it."
"Well, now you've just about offended everyone every-which-way," Hattie decides through a bark of harsh laughter. Because, apparently, she counts as everyone. She considers for a second, looking the brownrider up and down, and then really does swing for his arm whether he's serious or not. "You're an idiot!" she exclaims, trying to keep her volume down. Evidently all but punching people is on the list of acceptable things to risk being seen doing.
And there goes P'draig ducking his head again, but he's laughing as she takes that swing. "Oof. You've got a mean punch, weyrwoman," he teases her and lifts a hand to scrub through his hair. "Wouldn't be the first time," he has to admit, of his own idiocy. "Just means I'll have to /really/ pull out all the stops, make it up to you," Paddy promises.
"I've had practice," Hattie answers in a voice that's nearly a growl. She backs off though, again for appearance's sake, a couple of steps towards the lake. "I think I'm just going to have everyone give up talking in code altogether," she murmurs dryly. "Not entirely your fault; if I could see past politics for five minutes, I probably would've understood." She paces back and forth a little, smiling slowly, even if it is faint. "I'm not complaining about the making it up part, however," the goldrider says quietly.
"And I hardly ever think much about politics, so there you go. Fertile ground for misunderstanding," P'draig says quietly in turn and watches her pace. "Four days then," the brownrider confirms. "The usual place. I'll be waiting, just after lunch hour, Fort time."
The junior pauses and peers up at the sky, hands on her hips. "Faranth, I'm in the wrong job," Hattie tells the clouds, not without a trace of amusement. She turns back again and nods, slowly inclining her head. "Four days. After lunch. Got it," she says more low than softly. Picking up her pacing again for another few seconds, she goes on, "I have about a dozen requisition forms screaming my name, so I'd better go pay them some attention."
"You'll have to tell me what the /right/ job is in a few days," P'draig notes and sticks his hands back in his pockets. "Won't keep you. I should head back myself. It's heading towards bed time for the younger kids back at Ista."
Hattie snorts. "Don't think there is one. I'll think on it," she answers, running a hand over her eyes. "Safe trip back and I'll see you... when I see you." She lifts a hand in a brief wave, then turns and heads off down the shore, towards the bowl, hidework and what she'll likely consider to be unreasonable demands.
"Has be something for everyone," P'draig continues in a teasing vein and pulls one hand out of one pocket, returns the wave. "Good luck with the papers," he wishes sincerely and takes over Hattie's rocky perch, to just sit for a while until Jekzith gets back from range-jumping with Elaruth.
When: day 18, month 5, turn 22 of the 10th interval
Where: Lake Shore, Fort Weyr
What: Paddy tries to be subtle and discreet and makes a muddle of it when Hattie comes across him at the end of his day at Fort.
Lakeshore, Fort Weyr
The lake's shore is a broad crescent of golden-hued sand, stretching from the southwest wall near the feeding grounds and arcing toward the southeast and overlooking the blue waters of the lake. Where the lake deepens, that water turns a murkier blue-green, hiding an untold number of perils in its depths. It is an oft-used location for dragons seeking a place to sun or for residents and riders who feel a need to take a stroll; the sand is generally kept pretty clean and while there are no shells, there are periodic bits of obsidian and other volcanic stones to be found if one feels like picking around.
>---< Local Weather for FTW >------------------------------------------------<
Current Temp: 62 F Today's Lo/Hi: 52 F / 76 F
Belior: waning gibbous Timor: new
Weather: mist
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Some people call it refreshing. Other people call it cold and miserable.
Whatever the case, a periodic, misty rain falls on and off throughout the
day, mostly just enough to make everything damp rather than soaked.
>-----------------------------------< 15:16 D18 M5 T22, spring afternoon >---<
The afternoon is slanting toward later, Rukbat's rays gleaming through the mist that sticks around on the tail end of a rainy day. P'draig's been hanging around the Weyr for a while, first visiting some former clutchmates and a former assistant weyrlingmaster, then trying out some of the Glass Fountain's specialties. Now he's standing around the curve of the lake, away from where most tend to cluster to swim or bathe dragons, thoughtfully skipping rocks acros a placid stretch of water. Jekzith's probably out there somewhere. Probably.
"What are you doing at my Weyr?" Hattie's voice, only half-joking with either the demand or the insistence that Fort is hers. A few more steps and the weyrwoman emerges properly from grey surroundings and hazy mist, to perch on a flat rock someway back from the shore without further greeting or remark, gaze resting somewhere between the brownrider and the lake. Elaruth is nowhere to be seen, not in the vicinity of her rider at any rate.
P'draig looks up at the sound of the weyrwoman's voice and laughs, lets the next stone fly: only four skips. "Visiting the large number of friends and clutchmates who're still here," the brownrider answers readily. "That and Jekzith likes to 'come home' every now and then and make friends with the bottom of the lake so he doesn't forget it." A nod towards betraying ripples and then there's headknobs and eyeridges and a brown head peeking around furtively, then dropping out of sight again.
"I suppose it would be only good manners to let you stay, in that case," the goldrider decides after a moment's thought, folding her hands in her lap. Hattie looks out across the water, focusing when Jekzith briefly becomes visible and only for that long, attention lifting to miserable skies. "Elaruth isn't here, otherwise I'm sure she'd have said hello by now. She's somewhere over the northern ranges, from what I can gather."
"Thanks," P'draig replies and turns slightly, rocks folded up in fingers, his other hand sliding into his pocket. "He might like to go join her in a little bit. He's sticking his head through some of the rock formations down at the very bottom. Making sure the fish are still hiding there." He looks over at Hattie's composed position for a moment or two then asks more quietly: "How've you been? I haven't seen you in a little while."
"He'd certainly be welcome, if he were to join her at some point," Hattie assures with a little nod, kicking one boot up onto the base of the rock for balance. For a while it's as if she won't answer the question and might ignore it completely, but eventually dark eyes drift down from grey clouds and fix on P'draig. "The same as ever," isn't the most detailed of responses. "There's work to be done; things and people to be sorted. Thankfully, some difficulties seem to have been sorted with assistance from Fort's Warder, so that's making life easier for some people. Less apt to snap, at least. You?"
"I've let him know," P'draig relates about Jekzith and he waits patiently for either an answer or lack thereof. When it does come he nods, smiles a little. "Always something to be sorted," he remarks mildly. "I'm glad that it seems like things are looking up though. Less snapping - easier on the ears." He shuffles the rocks in his palm then turns back towards the water to send one of them skipping, this time, six hops. "The restaurant is doing well. We might actually turn a profit this turn."
"Less likely to get savaged in response, too," Hattie mutters darkly, likely more so than she means. She blinks a few times and waits a second or two before going on, dragging her voice up and out of that tone. "That's good to hear. Well, for you. I can't say I'm pleased for Ista in general, but as far as you're concerned, I can. How many days a seven are you opening at the moment?"
That darkness in Hattie draws a shadow briefly to P'draig's expression and he takes a half-step in her direction, then halts. Her remarks about Ista lift his eyebrows though and he shakes his head. "You're not?" a note of puzzlement there, given the lack of detail from their last conversation. "Four so far," he answers the latter question and hefts the flat stone that still lies in his palm, then traces its edge with his thumb, like he's taking its measure for the next toss.
Hattie shakes her head, saying, "Doesn't matter," dismissively. "I tend to think of it more as your place anyway, which it is, so Ista doesn't really factor in in my mind unless I'm visiting." She shrugs. "Which is probably unwise." The not factoring, that is. "Four. Four and still a probable profit, that's not bad." High praise. "Here's hoping business continues as it's started, then."
The rock goes skipping: 6 again and Paddy's hands are empty, but he slides both back into pockets and moves a little more towards Hattie's perch. "It's my place ... but part of it's purpose to help support the Weyr, not just me," the brownrider admits, sometimes too honest for his own good. "It's been busy a lot. I'll probably need to hire more cooks and open more days. Though I'm still kind of feeling my way through what works and doesn't on the menu."
"Well then, you'll just have to humour me in thinking it to be your livelihood and not theirs," Hattie replies evenly, gaze tracking the brownrider closer. "Or choosing to believe as such." She shrugs, the lift of her shoulders barely there. "I suppose you have to try and cover everything. People arriving for dinner, children, people arriving after a drink or two and so on. I don't expect it's something that anyone would get absolutely right immediately."
"I'll humor you," P'draig says with a little nod. "Though I'll admit to curiosity about ... what's going on," he adds, words slow. "I'll lay odds it's not my business though. Should I be ... concerned about visiting Fort though?" Breath out. "Yeah. And how high end to go in this case, since it's meant to offer something that Ista's bars don't. Palia's been having fun playing hostess too when Mic's not there or the other girl who helps with seating and managing the flow of things."
"No, it's not, and not mine to tell, besides. Perhaps others might see differently, but..." Hattie doesn't explain further, taking a breath in before deciding, "You probably shouldn't be as concerned about visiting Fort as I am about Ista. But that's the different knots. I'd advise you to be careful, though - some people might suspect you of being after information." She doesn't look very apologetic for lack of explanation. "It's just how things are."
That only crinkles P'draig's forehead all the more. "Information ... about what?" he asks and then shakes his head. "Sorry. This is just ... it's puzzling," he looks uncomfortable for a moment then nods. "Not that most people don't know who I am anyway except for the more recent riders, so there's not really much point in hiding out, I guess."
Hattie shakes her head again, insisting, "Nothing you should know or do know, I'm assuming, so anyone who goes asking anything of you will probably figure that out pretty soon anyhow." The goldrider looks up and laces her fingers together, thoughtful expression on her features. "You really want to know, I guess you could ask at Ista, but I'd put marks on being better off out of it and not getting information there either. Everything is quite quiet at the moment, so it doesn't need stirring up, besides."
That earns Hattie a long look, but Paddy doesn't push further, looks down at the ground nodding. "It just feels strange. The idea of being ... unwelcome at either place," the brownrider says quietly.
"Yes. Well. As I say, better off out of it. Your opinions of people can't be altered, that way," the junior says bluntly. "I don't know that it's that people are unwelcome. It's just complicated. I'm not entirely certain everybody knows where they stand, so..." Hattie brushes away any concern as quickly as ever, stating, "Don't let it trouble you. Nothing's different from day to day, not really."
"People suspecting me of spying because I'm an Istan rider ... makes me feel off-base," P'draig replies and then looks away, lost in thought for a moment or two. When he speaks next, it's a change of subject. "The kids like living down at the beach. They spend so much time there anyway on the average day, it's convenient."
"People should have thought about how it would affect others before they acted," Hattie says lowly, focus drifting to the lake, being something that won't mind the cold stare she fixes it with. When she tunes back in, she looks up again, the change of subject throwing her for a moment. A complicated expression smoothes out again and she nods. "Sounds like a fun time for a child. A nice way of living to grow up with."
She advised letting things go and Paddy is doing so. His expression is a careful, neutral blank as she utters that low remark, though her own look might reveal renewed concern. "I hope it will be, yeah. It's a lot easier to have your family close when you live on the ground and aren't splitting time between weyrs."
"Are you all living on the beach now? Or some time in your weyr and some at the beach?" Hattie asks, looking away and across the shore this time, though there's not much to be seen beyond grey and mist.
"Mostly at the beach, but the weyr too, mostly on the nights off. Mic has company up there sometimes while I'm working," the brownrider explains without any sign of discomfort. "Even with things so complicated ... will you come by sometime soon? Try out some of the things I've been making."
The goldrider plants her other foot on the rock's base, hunching over to rest elbows on knees and chin on folded hands. "I see," Hattie responds, with not a lot of understanding, really. She carries on looking down the shoreline for a while in silence, only vague shapes able to be discerned through mist. "I can't," she says finally. "I got more than a couple of looks for my knot when I went to the opening. You'd probably have a line of people at home willing to say 'yes', anyway, so I'm not really required."
"It's all part of things being open," P'draig says, maybe an attempt at closing the gap on understanding. His chin drops, gaze directed at the sweep of a booted toe across loose, gravelly ground. "I didn't ask for lack of taste-testers," he remarks after a moment and looks up again but doesn't speak further.
More staring into the distance. "Would you rather hear me say as I have in another way, or is it not easier to take me at my word?" Hattie asks the bleakness, unmoving on her perch. "I don't mean to be rude. I hope you know that by now and if you don't, then you'll just have to believe me or not. I don't want to cause an incident. I don't want to cause trouble for you." She's clambering to her feet then, finding her balance on the sand.
"No, Hattie," P'draig answers, shoulders slumping a little and he tries to catch her eye, even as a hand pulls free of his pocket, hovers toward her elbow to offer a steadying touch. "You don't have to come to the restaurant to try my food," he elaborates. "I guess I'm not ... good at subtle."
Oversensitive or overly concerned, Hattie carefully steps just out of range of any contact being made despite the odds of anything being seen or read into being pretty much nil. "No, you're not," she says plainly, not even teasing. "I don't know what you expect me to say. Nine times out of ten, I let you talk me into something. You just can't do it /here/. I know this was your home, but it's /my/ home now and you can't-" One hand lifts to cover her mouth. "Fuck," she mutters, the word almost smothered. Backtracking, she states, "I won't go to Ista. Somewhere else."
Sheepish, P'draig's chin drops and one hand pulls free of his pocket, rubs along his jaw. "That's ... what I'm trying to say without being direct and offending you instead. So. I'll be direct instead and hopefully save us both any further tripping," the brownrider continues, though he keeps his voice low. "The usual place, four days from now. I'll bring the picnic, you bring the blankets. You can even bring work if you want."
After a moment of staring, Hattie begins to say, "Oh for fu-" but manages to bite back the rest and promptly turns away to try and hide any embarrassment. A half-minute or so of studying the sand passes, then she turns back and says quietly, "Next time, if you don't mind... maybe you could just be direct and risk offending me?" There's quite the odd expression on her face, torn between exasperated laughter and holding back the urge to throw or hit something. She can at least promise, "I won't bring any work."
"No ... that's what I mean, by not being direct, I've wound up being offensive," P'draig says with sudden rueful laughter. "I wasn't afraid of doing it ... just trying to be discreet and subtle and failing /miserably/," the brownrider offers over. That odd expression has him crooking a finger though. "Here, give my arm a solid whack. I can take it."
"Well, now you've just about offended everyone every-which-way," Hattie decides through a bark of harsh laughter. Because, apparently, she counts as everyone. She considers for a second, looking the brownrider up and down, and then really does swing for his arm whether he's serious or not. "You're an idiot!" she exclaims, trying to keep her volume down. Evidently all but punching people is on the list of acceptable things to risk being seen doing.
And there goes P'draig ducking his head again, but he's laughing as she takes that swing. "Oof. You've got a mean punch, weyrwoman," he teases her and lifts a hand to scrub through his hair. "Wouldn't be the first time," he has to admit, of his own idiocy. "Just means I'll have to /really/ pull out all the stops, make it up to you," Paddy promises.
"I've had practice," Hattie answers in a voice that's nearly a growl. She backs off though, again for appearance's sake, a couple of steps towards the lake. "I think I'm just going to have everyone give up talking in code altogether," she murmurs dryly. "Not entirely your fault; if I could see past politics for five minutes, I probably would've understood." She paces back and forth a little, smiling slowly, even if it is faint. "I'm not complaining about the making it up part, however," the goldrider says quietly.
"And I hardly ever think much about politics, so there you go. Fertile ground for misunderstanding," P'draig says quietly in turn and watches her pace. "Four days then," the brownrider confirms. "The usual place. I'll be waiting, just after lunch hour, Fort time."
The junior pauses and peers up at the sky, hands on her hips. "Faranth, I'm in the wrong job," Hattie tells the clouds, not without a trace of amusement. She turns back again and nods, slowly inclining her head. "Four days. After lunch. Got it," she says more low than softly. Picking up her pacing again for another few seconds, she goes on, "I have about a dozen requisition forms screaming my name, so I'd better go pay them some attention."
"You'll have to tell me what the /right/ job is in a few days," P'draig notes and sticks his hands back in his pockets. "Won't keep you. I should head back myself. It's heading towards bed time for the younger kids back at Ista."
Hattie snorts. "Don't think there is one. I'll think on it," she answers, running a hand over her eyes. "Safe trip back and I'll see you... when I see you." She lifts a hand in a brief wave, then turns and heads off down the shore, towards the bowl, hidework and what she'll likely consider to be unreasonable demands.
"Has be something for everyone," P'draig continues in a teasing vein and pulls one hand out of one pocket, returns the wave. "Good luck with the papers," he wishes sincerely and takes over Hattie's rocky perch, to just sit for a while until Jekzith gets back from range-jumping with Elaruth.