LOG: Throwing Things Off Ledges
Date: Day 17, Month 11, Turn 23
Location: K'del's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
Synopsis: K'del is sad. Val is nosy. Together, they... drink whiskey.
Rank certainly has its privileges, and among them are amply appointed apartments. The short flight of stairs from the Weyrleader's Complex opens up into the larger of two chambers, formally decorated and clearly designed to cater as much to important guests as the occupant's personal living. Old, but obviously expensive, llama wool rugs dyed blue-and-black cover the stone floor, leading towards the second chamber, the stairs, and the rush-filled dragon couch and ledge beyond it. A formal seating arrangement - a sofa and chairs, all blue-and-black - sits around a large, tiled fireplace, whilst along the other wall, a finely made, if now somewhat antique, desk sits between a bookshelf and a tall cupboard to which tack-hooks have been attached, riding gear arranged neatly inside. Two tapestries hung from the high walls depict overdone splendour for High Reaches Weyr, one a long view of the snow-covered bowl, and the other a hazy impressionist piece of dragons flaming over a springtime countryside.
The inner weyr, made up of a sleeping cavern and a private bathing area, is smaller and cosier and distinctly less ostentatious. An oversized wooden sleigh bed fills much of the space, the mattress piled high with overstuffed down pillows and comforter, their covers dyed in varying shades of navy blue, light blue and bronze. There's a nightstand on either side, both with reading lamps, and against one of the other walls, a tall, heavy wardrobe made from a dark wood that matches the bed. The bathing area is part of the same cavern, a folding screen shielding the toilet and slightly raised, double-sized bathtub built into the stone, and a small shelf holding toiletries, shaving equipment, and clean towels.
It's been a remarkably pleasant day at the 'Reaches for this time of Turn, all soft breeze and near-clear skies, and perhaps that's why constantly inconstant Val's still here even as the sun's half-sunk below the horizon. Still here: after the wingleaders' meeting she and Visigoth had arrived just before, and separately kept themselves busy during, though not without an eye towards poor Cadejoth's low ledge. Half-sunk: a darkening day, but only because it's late in the Turn, with just the beginnings of pleasant food smells rising up the passage-shaft for poor Cadejoth's lucky rider. Up on a higher ledge somewhere, Visigoth's found an another brown to hang out with, a green to tease, and once it looks as though Cadejoth's ledge just might have cleared out, that's when Val drops by. With drinks, from the man's own bar. And if there's a wingleader or two still remaining? She's /also/ working a mighty fine new pair of boots.
Poor Cadejoth, indeed, left to watch over his weyr as /others/ get to come and go, and take their riders with them, too. He's aware of the Benden brown's presence, and if he is, almost certainly so too is his rider - his rider, who certainly doesn't /look/ surprised as he glances up from conversation with the final two Wingleaders, as Val enters. Though F'der and Mielline smirk knowingly at the arrival of a pretty girl, K'del seems unperturbed. "Come on in, Val - we're just finishing up. Was that all, then?" The last seems to be towards the Wingleaders, whose distraction means they're paying rather more attention to Val-and-her-boots-and-booze than the Weyrleader.
If only Val had bigtime booty to go with her boots and booze! Or maybe a boat. But she doesn't turn around, so maybe it doesn't matter, instead just giving the wingleaders an interested look and a lift of one of the glasses. And: "Afternoon," all of Benden warm in her voice. She does come in, and lingers. Trails a hand across the top of the bookshelf, even. She's attentive. Casual. Doesn't stare, just looks, little feathery glances here and there.
K'del's Wingleaders are-- okay /mostly/ professional, after their initial moment of curiosity, and shift their attention back to the bronzerider. "I think that's everything," confirms Mielline in her soft, upper-class voice, and so the pair excuse themselves, bobbing heads once more towards Val as they head out to the ledge, and then beyond. K'del is silent until they're gone, watching, then turns his attention back to Val. "Reckon they think it's a booty call," he tells her, more amused then he probably has any right to be: it wouldn't exactly be out of character for him, after all! "But a booze call may be even better."
She's still looking after the wingleaders, all right, particularly Mielline, with the sweet smile with which she'd acknowledged the head-bobbing. It takes Val a slow moment to turn, to look over her shoulder with a, "What, you don't combine them?" Those dark brown eyes look oh so worried, even, like it might be a sickness, or else some fault in K'del's character. Maybe she doesn't want to live in a Weyr run by a man who doesn't keep his alcohol with everything! What if it's contagious? "You don't seem to think I'm a girl. It's very odd." She /will/ extricate his glass from the two she's got one-handed, and offer it to him, but only en route to nosing about the rest of the weyr.
K'del accepts the glass, taking it into his hand and from there, immediately towards his mouth. There's an array of empty glasses already spread through the weyr, and in addition, an empty bottle of whiskey, which, combined with his words, provides explanation: "Usually, I've got the booze already, and all the girl needs to bring is the booty." See! He's not flawed. Not-- well, not in that way. His gaze follows Val as she explores, as /he/ adds, "'course you're a girl. We just-- seem more /friends/ than anything else. Should I have propositioned you? Would it make you feel better?" There's a cradle towards the back of the main room; a baby blanket over the back of one chair. Otherwise, the place is pretty tidy.
His words get a laugh, and as she moves by the bottle, flicked nails make the glass go ting. "Good man." Considering, considering, or else just buying time, the Bendenite sees about taking a look at more of his gear: a touch to one of the hangings intending to turn its back briefly in view, a glance at more of those books, a pause by the mantel like she'd warm herself by the fire. Even if she's also reaching for that little statuette, to get a better look. The nekkid one. Not even a glance for the cradle: she might not even have seen it. "I don't know, could you do it dramatically? By way of entertainment? If it starts to rain."
It seems to amuse K'del, to watch her examining his things. He stays back, transferring his glass from one hand to the other, still in the same standing position he was in when she arrived. "May have to practice, see what kind of dramatics I can come up with," he decides, biting back outright laughter. "Better hope the rain holds off, for today. Besides-- don't know if my ego can take /that/. Your laughter, my misfortune." He tips his head to the side, perhaps as much to stretch his neck as to get a slightly different view. "Does it meet approval? My weyr."
"Do that. In your free time, to tide you through the frigid winter," and look, the little woman stays in Val's hand as she wanders some more, the brownrider not bothering to keep it particularly concealed. She sends a smile back to him, and it lingers even when her attention doesn't, refocused onto the map and then the desk and its nooks. Is there string? She's looking for string. Or anything else interesting. "Does it need approval? Your weyr. I suppose I could, put a big placard above the door. Approved by Val. And Visigoth, he tells me, it has a ring to it... Or did you mean something else?"
"Long, lonely, frigid winter," says K'del, all woe-is-me, his eyes, now, on the curvy little statue in Val's hand, though he blinks away again after another few moments more. There's no string to be found - there's not even dust. Or dirty socks. It must be a wonderful thing, to have your weyr cleaned for you on a regular basis. "Approved by Val and Visigoth! Well, it'd certainly be a conversational topic," he laughs, tracing fingers over the back of the couch in an idle kind of fashion. "Dunno if I met anything in particular. Just: you're exploring. But not judging, then?"
Wonderful indeed! "I wouldn't call it judging. Should I? Would it make you feel better?" Val asks, the better to give K'del his words back now that the desk is reluctantly shut. She does knock briefly upon its side in some perhaps-random fashion, maybe for good luck, before wandering back to the bookcase. And its books. And what's behind its books, if only more empty space, since he doesn't seem to be stopping her. Along the way, the little woman disappears: to be rediscovered later, if only by the larger and more animate cleaning women. Perhaps. Perhaps it gets slipped beneath the cushion to which she gives an absent pat. "For that matter, how has your sevenday been?" Or two. Or so.
"No," says K'del, quickly, but not without a smile. He drains the rest of his drink, too, setting the glass down on a convenient surface, drawing both hands, then, to hang loosely from his pockets. His eyes continue to follow her, but nothing she does seems to cause him any concern: if that's anything to go by, she can explore as much as she likes. Mostly, there's dust behind the books - tsk. "Probably better not asking that," he tells her, though he sounds so cheerful about it it might be initially confusing. But; "Got thirteen eggs that may or may not hatch, and may or may not hatch monsters, a bunch of weyrbrats too wary to Stand, oh, and my girlfriend-- I guess-- has abandoned me for the south 'til she gets over the birth of our son and is able to be happy again. What about you?" Okay, maybe slightly bitter by the end there.
Certainly it's enough to get him a direct look, one that lasts for a few moments before it slips away beneath her lashes again. She's frowning. "No eggs," and here the brownrider makes a face that's got enough drama to its sorrowfulness that some of it might even be real. "No weyrbrats, no missing sons or girlfriends, even." Val appears to give that a moment's thought, lips pursing into a bow. "Though those last two, are they weyrmated? We could change that... Did she leave any of her things? We could toss them off a ledge. That always helps /me/."
Despite himself, despite /everything/, K'del can grin, suggesting, "You can share my eggs. our eggs. If you're transferring here..." It counts. The grin doesn't last, though, despite the rest of what Val's said, despite the hint of amusement that meets her suggestion of throwing things off the ledge. "Not really like that," he explains, finally, after a pause during which he's been biting at his lip. "She needed to go, and she'll come back-- I think. Hope. Not /pissed/ at her, just-- sad. And my son is still here. Though," he glances around hastily. "Not /here/ here. Fostered. But here. Do you... end up throwing things off ledges often?"
"Already packed," Val says so offhandedly, so much more interested in everything else, such as the gear cupboard she currently has her head stuck into. Though that won't last for long, if it's smelly from sweated-in leather and all. "I'm sorry." It's got a subtly uncertain air. And then she's looking over her shoulder, that much more puzzled, "Which girlfriend is it? You have the two boys, right? It's not the..." one he loves? Is it? She can at least try to reassure, "Everyone should be fostered. And only when people deserve it. I don't /try/ to, until I do. It just... happens, sometimes." She picks up a couch cushion but instead of looking properly beneath it, she just hugs it to her.
It /is/ smelly, that cupboard - apparently there's not even much professional cleaning staff can do about that. K'del has a bob of the head for being packed, but - well, seems Val's a convenient person to unload to, at this moment, and it's distracting. "The actual girlfriend," he confirms, with a low sigh, probably less woe-is-me than it might be were he not trying so hard (and visibly) not to be depressed. "Avey's mostly just a friend, but /Milani/." Milani's different. And gone, for now. He's silent a moment, apparently thoughtful. "Reckon fostering is good, makes plenty of sense, it's just--" /Just/. "Ah. Cathartic, I guess. Throwing things. Fair enough."
Maybe Val can sense that, even through the solid wood and solid stench that does indeed have her vacating both quite quickly, because she doesn't murmur much more than a she-remembers-now about the /headwoman/. With the /hair/. A little sigh's followed by an obliging, "Just?" And, "It's not just throwing things, it's throwing things /off/. /Much/ better. But if you won't do that," yet, "How about you show me the rest of the booze? An occasion like this, I'll even pour." Which she mimics with the empty whiskey bottle, forlorn eyes following its very. last. drop.
Milani's hair earns a smile that is utterly, utterly fond, though the way his eyes close makes him seem just slightly mournful, too. His, "Under the bed," accompanied by a bob of the head towards the further cavern, is not soppy, though, at least; presumably, he's referring to the rest of the booze, hdiden away from greedy wingleaders, but not, apparently, from nosy brownriders. And 'just'? "Reckon it's just that I had this idea of us being a family. Coming home at night and passing the baby around. But... guess you and I could just booze it up, instead." It's... not really the same. But still!
Under the bed: it hikes up Val's brows, and it's /amazing/ how the pseudo-sadness turns to snickering... if snickers that, upon his next words, are soon squelched in favor of something like solemnity. "/Not/ the same," the brownrider points out on the very long odds that he'd missed it. "Pretty much the opposite. Unless you were planning to pass the baby around and..." whatever Val was going to say, she mimes buttoning her lip below relentlessly mischievous eyes. "Never mind. She'll be back. Until then, bottoms up." With the /bottle/. And more drinking. And maybe, no, /definitely/ more bad jokes along the way.
Location: K'del's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
Synopsis: K'del is sad. Val is nosy. Together, they... drink whiskey.
Rank certainly has its privileges, and among them are amply appointed apartments. The short flight of stairs from the Weyrleader's Complex opens up into the larger of two chambers, formally decorated and clearly designed to cater as much to important guests as the occupant's personal living. Old, but obviously expensive, llama wool rugs dyed blue-and-black cover the stone floor, leading towards the second chamber, the stairs, and the rush-filled dragon couch and ledge beyond it. A formal seating arrangement - a sofa and chairs, all blue-and-black - sits around a large, tiled fireplace, whilst along the other wall, a finely made, if now somewhat antique, desk sits between a bookshelf and a tall cupboard to which tack-hooks have been attached, riding gear arranged neatly inside. Two tapestries hung from the high walls depict overdone splendour for High Reaches Weyr, one a long view of the snow-covered bowl, and the other a hazy impressionist piece of dragons flaming over a springtime countryside.
The inner weyr, made up of a sleeping cavern and a private bathing area, is smaller and cosier and distinctly less ostentatious. An oversized wooden sleigh bed fills much of the space, the mattress piled high with overstuffed down pillows and comforter, their covers dyed in varying shades of navy blue, light blue and bronze. There's a nightstand on either side, both with reading lamps, and against one of the other walls, a tall, heavy wardrobe made from a dark wood that matches the bed. The bathing area is part of the same cavern, a folding screen shielding the toilet and slightly raised, double-sized bathtub built into the stone, and a small shelf holding toiletries, shaving equipment, and clean towels.
It's been a remarkably pleasant day at the 'Reaches for this time of Turn, all soft breeze and near-clear skies, and perhaps that's why constantly inconstant Val's still here even as the sun's half-sunk below the horizon. Still here: after the wingleaders' meeting she and Visigoth had arrived just before, and separately kept themselves busy during, though not without an eye towards poor Cadejoth's low ledge. Half-sunk: a darkening day, but only because it's late in the Turn, with just the beginnings of pleasant food smells rising up the passage-shaft for poor Cadejoth's lucky rider. Up on a higher ledge somewhere, Visigoth's found an another brown to hang out with, a green to tease, and once it looks as though Cadejoth's ledge just might have cleared out, that's when Val drops by. With drinks, from the man's own bar. And if there's a wingleader or two still remaining? She's /also/ working a mighty fine new pair of boots.
Poor Cadejoth, indeed, left to watch over his weyr as /others/ get to come and go, and take their riders with them, too. He's aware of the Benden brown's presence, and if he is, almost certainly so too is his rider - his rider, who certainly doesn't /look/ surprised as he glances up from conversation with the final two Wingleaders, as Val enters. Though F'der and Mielline smirk knowingly at the arrival of a pretty girl, K'del seems unperturbed. "Come on in, Val - we're just finishing up. Was that all, then?" The last seems to be towards the Wingleaders, whose distraction means they're paying rather more attention to Val-and-her-boots-and-booze than the Weyrleader.
If only Val had bigtime booty to go with her boots and booze! Or maybe a boat. But she doesn't turn around, so maybe it doesn't matter, instead just giving the wingleaders an interested look and a lift of one of the glasses. And: "Afternoon," all of Benden warm in her voice. She does come in, and lingers. Trails a hand across the top of the bookshelf, even. She's attentive. Casual. Doesn't stare, just looks, little feathery glances here and there.
K'del's Wingleaders are-- okay /mostly/ professional, after their initial moment of curiosity, and shift their attention back to the bronzerider. "I think that's everything," confirms Mielline in her soft, upper-class voice, and so the pair excuse themselves, bobbing heads once more towards Val as they head out to the ledge, and then beyond. K'del is silent until they're gone, watching, then turns his attention back to Val. "Reckon they think it's a booty call," he tells her, more amused then he probably has any right to be: it wouldn't exactly be out of character for him, after all! "But a booze call may be even better."
She's still looking after the wingleaders, all right, particularly Mielline, with the sweet smile with which she'd acknowledged the head-bobbing. It takes Val a slow moment to turn, to look over her shoulder with a, "What, you don't combine them?" Those dark brown eyes look oh so worried, even, like it might be a sickness, or else some fault in K'del's character. Maybe she doesn't want to live in a Weyr run by a man who doesn't keep his alcohol with everything! What if it's contagious? "You don't seem to think I'm a girl. It's very odd." She /will/ extricate his glass from the two she's got one-handed, and offer it to him, but only en route to nosing about the rest of the weyr.
K'del accepts the glass, taking it into his hand and from there, immediately towards his mouth. There's an array of empty glasses already spread through the weyr, and in addition, an empty bottle of whiskey, which, combined with his words, provides explanation: "Usually, I've got the booze already, and all the girl needs to bring is the booty." See! He's not flawed. Not-- well, not in that way. His gaze follows Val as she explores, as /he/ adds, "'course you're a girl. We just-- seem more /friends/ than anything else. Should I have propositioned you? Would it make you feel better?" There's a cradle towards the back of the main room; a baby blanket over the back of one chair. Otherwise, the place is pretty tidy.
His words get a laugh, and as she moves by the bottle, flicked nails make the glass go ting. "Good man." Considering, considering, or else just buying time, the Bendenite sees about taking a look at more of his gear: a touch to one of the hangings intending to turn its back briefly in view, a glance at more of those books, a pause by the mantel like she'd warm herself by the fire. Even if she's also reaching for that little statuette, to get a better look. The nekkid one. Not even a glance for the cradle: she might not even have seen it. "I don't know, could you do it dramatically? By way of entertainment? If it starts to rain."
It seems to amuse K'del, to watch her examining his things. He stays back, transferring his glass from one hand to the other, still in the same standing position he was in when she arrived. "May have to practice, see what kind of dramatics I can come up with," he decides, biting back outright laughter. "Better hope the rain holds off, for today. Besides-- don't know if my ego can take /that/. Your laughter, my misfortune." He tips his head to the side, perhaps as much to stretch his neck as to get a slightly different view. "Does it meet approval? My weyr."
"Do that. In your free time, to tide you through the frigid winter," and look, the little woman stays in Val's hand as she wanders some more, the brownrider not bothering to keep it particularly concealed. She sends a smile back to him, and it lingers even when her attention doesn't, refocused onto the map and then the desk and its nooks. Is there string? She's looking for string. Or anything else interesting. "Does it need approval? Your weyr. I suppose I could, put a big placard above the door. Approved by Val. And Visigoth, he tells me, it has a ring to it... Or did you mean something else?"
"Long, lonely, frigid winter," says K'del, all woe-is-me, his eyes, now, on the curvy little statue in Val's hand, though he blinks away again after another few moments more. There's no string to be found - there's not even dust. Or dirty socks. It must be a wonderful thing, to have your weyr cleaned for you on a regular basis. "Approved by Val and Visigoth! Well, it'd certainly be a conversational topic," he laughs, tracing fingers over the back of the couch in an idle kind of fashion. "Dunno if I met anything in particular. Just: you're exploring. But not judging, then?"
Wonderful indeed! "I wouldn't call it judging. Should I? Would it make you feel better?" Val asks, the better to give K'del his words back now that the desk is reluctantly shut. She does knock briefly upon its side in some perhaps-random fashion, maybe for good luck, before wandering back to the bookcase. And its books. And what's behind its books, if only more empty space, since he doesn't seem to be stopping her. Along the way, the little woman disappears: to be rediscovered later, if only by the larger and more animate cleaning women. Perhaps. Perhaps it gets slipped beneath the cushion to which she gives an absent pat. "For that matter, how has your sevenday been?" Or two. Or so.
"No," says K'del, quickly, but not without a smile. He drains the rest of his drink, too, setting the glass down on a convenient surface, drawing both hands, then, to hang loosely from his pockets. His eyes continue to follow her, but nothing she does seems to cause him any concern: if that's anything to go by, she can explore as much as she likes. Mostly, there's dust behind the books - tsk. "Probably better not asking that," he tells her, though he sounds so cheerful about it it might be initially confusing. But; "Got thirteen eggs that may or may not hatch, and may or may not hatch monsters, a bunch of weyrbrats too wary to Stand, oh, and my girlfriend-- I guess-- has abandoned me for the south 'til she gets over the birth of our son and is able to be happy again. What about you?" Okay, maybe slightly bitter by the end there.
Certainly it's enough to get him a direct look, one that lasts for a few moments before it slips away beneath her lashes again. She's frowning. "No eggs," and here the brownrider makes a face that's got enough drama to its sorrowfulness that some of it might even be real. "No weyrbrats, no missing sons or girlfriends, even." Val appears to give that a moment's thought, lips pursing into a bow. "Though those last two, are they weyrmated? We could change that... Did she leave any of her things? We could toss them off a ledge. That always helps /me/."
Despite himself, despite /everything/, K'del can grin, suggesting, "You can share my eggs. our eggs. If you're transferring here..." It counts. The grin doesn't last, though, despite the rest of what Val's said, despite the hint of amusement that meets her suggestion of throwing things off the ledge. "Not really like that," he explains, finally, after a pause during which he's been biting at his lip. "She needed to go, and she'll come back-- I think. Hope. Not /pissed/ at her, just-- sad. And my son is still here. Though," he glances around hastily. "Not /here/ here. Fostered. But here. Do you... end up throwing things off ledges often?"
"Already packed," Val says so offhandedly, so much more interested in everything else, such as the gear cupboard she currently has her head stuck into. Though that won't last for long, if it's smelly from sweated-in leather and all. "I'm sorry." It's got a subtly uncertain air. And then she's looking over her shoulder, that much more puzzled, "Which girlfriend is it? You have the two boys, right? It's not the..." one he loves? Is it? She can at least try to reassure, "Everyone should be fostered. And only when people deserve it. I don't /try/ to, until I do. It just... happens, sometimes." She picks up a couch cushion but instead of looking properly beneath it, she just hugs it to her.
It /is/ smelly, that cupboard - apparently there's not even much professional cleaning staff can do about that. K'del has a bob of the head for being packed, but - well, seems Val's a convenient person to unload to, at this moment, and it's distracting. "The actual girlfriend," he confirms, with a low sigh, probably less woe-is-me than it might be were he not trying so hard (and visibly) not to be depressed. "Avey's mostly just a friend, but /Milani/." Milani's different. And gone, for now. He's silent a moment, apparently thoughtful. "Reckon fostering is good, makes plenty of sense, it's just--" /Just/. "Ah. Cathartic, I guess. Throwing things. Fair enough."
Maybe Val can sense that, even through the solid wood and solid stench that does indeed have her vacating both quite quickly, because she doesn't murmur much more than a she-remembers-now about the /headwoman/. With the /hair/. A little sigh's followed by an obliging, "Just?" And, "It's not just throwing things, it's throwing things /off/. /Much/ better. But if you won't do that," yet, "How about you show me the rest of the booze? An occasion like this, I'll even pour." Which she mimics with the empty whiskey bottle, forlorn eyes following its very. last. drop.
Milani's hair earns a smile that is utterly, utterly fond, though the way his eyes close makes him seem just slightly mournful, too. His, "Under the bed," accompanied by a bob of the head towards the further cavern, is not soppy, though, at least; presumably, he's referring to the rest of the booze, hdiden away from greedy wingleaders, but not, apparently, from nosy brownriders. And 'just'? "Reckon it's just that I had this idea of us being a family. Coming home at night and passing the baby around. But... guess you and I could just booze it up, instead." It's... not really the same. But still!
Under the bed: it hikes up Val's brows, and it's /amazing/ how the pseudo-sadness turns to snickering... if snickers that, upon his next words, are soon squelched in favor of something like solemnity. "/Not/ the same," the brownrider points out on the very long odds that he'd missed it. "Pretty much the opposite. Unless you were planning to pass the baby around and..." whatever Val was going to say, she mimes buttoning her lip below relentlessly mischievous eyes. "Never mind. She'll be back. Until then, bottoms up." With the /bottle/. And more drinking. And maybe, no, /definitely/ more bad jokes along the way.