Log: Evening in the Living Cavern
Who: L'vae, Milani, Rorkes, Whitchek
When: It is a summer night, 21:26 of day 18, month 8, turn 19 of Interval 10.
Where: Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr
What: Milani, Rorkes and L'vae do not want to beat up Whitchek. Rorkes has a bittersweet song in the works.
It's getting on towards late, but with the way the sun stays up late in the summer at the Reaches, it's still light out, just shading to dusk. Milani steps in from the bowl, sweeping a hand through her hair and laughing a little as her fingers come away with the fuzz of dandelion-like clocks. "Kids ..." she murmurs softly and moves through the mostly quiet cavern to pour out a tall glass of water from the pitchers on the sideboard with their slowly melting ice.
It's late, which means much of the crowd is gone, which means less audience for a certain playing harper, though you'd think he'd prefer the opposite. Rorkes has claimed a chair over to one side, bent over his guitar to finger through a song, experimenting with the melody as he idly plays. There are a few people with dinners loitering in the general vicinity, but overall, he has that little corner to himself.
Ice clinks as Milani pours and she tilts a look over towards the harper curiously. A moment more is taken, the headwoman collecting some little treats from one of the baskets then she heads over in that direction to perch on a bench, glass set down and sweets too. "Is that something new you're making up?" she asks curiously in a break between notes.
Rorkes
Tall and broad-shouldered, Rorkes is a big man, lanky-limbed but often slouching; strong features and a reddish-stubbled jaw put his age around thirty. With his touseled red-gold hair, blue eyes, and often melancholy smile, he affects a diffident demeanor matched in nothing-special clothes, button-downs and work boots all belying his harper's knot. More than his overall unassuming appearance, it's the voice that lives up to the knot's promise: a striking smooth baritone, obviously well-trained.
Somehow, even though he's not really concentrating on the playing, hearing a voice address him still startles Rorkes. He jumps a bit, fumbles a note, and then stills the strings as he looks up. "Oh, evening," he says then, with a somewhat flustered smile for the young woman. "It's... one I've been toying around with for a bit, a couple of months at least, but it just doesn't--feel right. I think it needs more--more." That's not really an answer, but it doesn't seem to be something easy to quantify; and with company now he strums a couple more notes, lighter ones than the rather melancholy tune he had been toying with.
Smiling gently, Milani bobs her head. "Good evening, Journeyman," she says warmly. "And my brother'd understand that," the headwoman adds with a little laugh. "He's posted at Telgar Weyr. You might have known him at the Hall actually. Giremi, you look about the same age. He did archives though." She picks up a cookie and starts to munch on it, head cocked as she listens to the shift in the music.
"Giremi, Giremi," Rorkes repeats the name to himself, thinking. "It sounds familiar, but I didn't know but a couple of archivists, really--not well, anyway. I'd probably know him if I saw him." More playing, picking up that cheerful tune, a somewhat well-known children's ballad. "Did he look like you, headwoman?"
"Mmhm. He kind of kept to himself a lot when he was there," Milani says slowly then bobs her head a few times. "Yep, really really tall, red hair, blue eyes. Only he's freckly and I'm not." Holding out a sleeveless arm with no freckles on it. "Well okay, I have a few," her finger brushes at her nose. "But Remi's like, /covered/." Big eyes made then she starts to hum along a little with that tune. "I know that one."
"I'll take your word for it," says Rorkes, with an easier smile for Milani. "And I think I remember who you're talking about. It's been some time since I was actually at the hall, though, so I don't remember as many people as I maybe should. Posted about five turns ago." He keeps playing, slowly, carelessly, while they talk; and grins again at Milani's humming. "Do you? It's my daughter's favorite--my younger one's."
This has been a bad day for Whitchek. It's hard not to tell that, owing to the fact that his lip is still badly split and swollen, if not actually still bleeding. He has the look of something hunted as he comes out of the lower caverns, scanning for threats before leaving cover. But then... nothing. The coast appears, at long last, to be clear. He heads in the direction of food, with a shuffle as though following a very long day's work. Once he has a plate, having spotted Milani, he heads over towards her, asks, "Have you seen N'thei? Tiriana? Um... Persie? Here?"
Humming stops and Milani beams. "How old are they again, your daughters?" And then she's chattering about her family again. "Mm, he posted almost right out of apprenticeship, went to Telgar, then he was back at the hall for a bit. Now he's back at Telgar. Weyrmated, little girl. He comes to visit pretty often," Millie explains about her brother. "Maybe I'll introduce you next time he stops by." Whitchek, incoming. "Er ... no, I just stepped in from outside ... shells, Whitchek, what happened to your /face/ ?"
"Five, and three," answers Rorkes after a moment. He nods to her description of her brother, but just as he starts to replying, Whitchek arrives, and Rorkes, taking one look at him, quiets his guitar and leans back in his chair, brows lifting. Clearing his throat, he offers, "I haven't been watching for them, either, man. Sorry," as though he'd know any of them on sight himself.
Without so much as a by-your-leave, Whitchek sits down next to Milani, who at least is someone he has established as being reasonably safe. "Good," he says first. Then, "Him." And only one male name on that list of three. He starts in with a fork on some rapidly cooling something-or-other, very deliberately biting and chewing on the right side of his mouth. He swallows, notice the sudden absence of the music that had been there before, properly recognizes Rorkes. "Sorry," he says. "Didn't mean to interrupt. I'm, uh," he gestures to Milani to indicate the prior reference, "Whitchek."
The former conversation with Rorkes has been duly derailed and Milani shoots him an apologetic look as she leans over to get a closer look at Whitchek. "You went to the infirmary, right? And ... N'thei. Go figure. What did you say to him?" And Milani flusters just a little. "Oh I'm so sorry, this is Journeyman Rorkes, one of our harpers," she does one half of the introductions at least.
"Oh, no. You're fine," says Rorkes, waving off Whitchek's apologies with a half-smile. "I'm just whiling away my evening. You're not interrupting. Pleasure to meet you, I'm sure." And he does indeed pick up a song again, but his hands fall automatically back into his first tune, toying back with those minor notes instead of the happier kids' song of a couple of moments ago.
Infirmary. That would have been a sensible option. "Um," says Whitchek, which is teenage-male code for 'no, of course not, but I'm not going to say no because you're going to be upset if I say no'. "I don't think it was so much what I said as my offending him by continuing to draw breath," he offers. "Thanks," he tells Rorkes, and then takes another bite, chews very carefully, swallows. "Harpers. Always impressed with the way you do that stuff," and he waves his fork generally in the direction of the instrument.
"Mmhm," Milani says, narrowing eyes at Whitchek. "You finish up eating then we'll go on over to get that all checked out," she says in a tone that brooks no argument. Her gaze slides back to Rorkes though and she takes another bite of cookie. "He's working on a new tune," she explains to the lad with the split lip.
"Mm. That sort, hm?" N'thei or Whitchek; Rorkes doesn't clarify which or what he means. Instead, sheepishly, he leans over his guitar again, focusing on the notes rather than his impromptu audience. "Ah. Not sure how new it is anymore; it feels like I've been working on it forever now. But thank you, anyway," he tells Whitchek. "It's really not so... Well. Impressive, I don't think."
"I'm fine," Whitchek protests between bites. "Really. Looks worse than it is." Which is why he winces every time he moves it the wrong way, of course. He peers over at the Harper. "Better'n most of us can do, isn't it? Can't carry a tune in a bucket, myself. What's it called, this one you're working on?"
"It sounds pretty," Milani says staunchly to the harper and dusts crumbs off her fingers as the last bit of that first cookie vanishes. A little look over at Whitchek is dubious and Millie doesn't even repeat the whole 'going to the infirmary' thing. She just gives him that look. Swallowing: "Yeah, I don't sing well either, but I like to listen and try to sing anyway."
With a small grin, Rorkes repeats, "Thank you," to Milani this time. "I suppose. I suppose you're born with a voice or not, but the playing at least's learnable. The composing, too, maybe." He sounds thoughtful, and maybe not quite convinced about the latter; but he shrugs it off in favor of playing another few notes that trail off at Whitchek's question. "Officially, nothing yet, not until I'm actually happy with the whole thing," he admits. "And the working title is... perhaps best left unspoken, too."
The young man with the busted lip takes a look down at his own hands. "If you say so. I don't think I could play one of those, anyhow," Whitchek tells Rorkes. "Don't mean to pry, of course. Was just curious. Never heard of songs with secret names before." Freed of Milani's scrutiny for the moment, he tucks into his food with renewed vigor, despite the periodic winces involved in the process of chewing.
"Really? Huh, I mean I guess if you have nimble fingers, you have nimble fingers," Milani says with a little bob of her head. That statement from the harper lifts her brows a little. "Oh ..."
And Rorkes actually flushes, concentrating more on his instrument. Time for a strategic tune-switchery. "It's, ah, for someone I used to know," he admits after a moment. "And I expect she'd rather--well. I'm sorry." So not finishing that statement either. Moving on! "So, Whitchek, right? Is everyone in the Weyr chasing you down now?"
In L'vae wanders from the kitchens, a little bowl in hand piled with a few perfect little scoops of orange sherbet. Well, perfect except for the one he's already taken bites from. The spoon is currently popped inside his mouth while he takes a look about the cavern. It's Rorkes' quiet music that initially catches the brownrider's attention, but the sight of Millie is what crinkles a smile about his eyes and brings him over in that direction. Spoon comes out once he's close, wielded in a little wave. "Evening." And since he's just arrived on that last question, a bewildered look flits about to finally rest on Whitchek. "We're chasing you down?"
For a second, Whitchek's eyes flick about with something very near panic, but then they settle on L'vae, then back to Rorkes. He shakes his head firmly. "Not everybody. Just... the wrong ones." Letting out a breath that's almost a sigh, he adds, "Evening," to L'vae. "I hope you're not. I can't take anything more today."
"Ohhh ... that sounds like a sweet or maybe a sad story," Milani says to Rorkes and smiels again, then she's dropping the topic too. Her head shakes a lot though at L've's approach and Whitchek's statement. "Oh no. This is L'vae, brown Bremuth's. L'vae, meet Whitchek. He's had a bad day with N'thei and Tiriana." She slides to her feet to welcome the brownrider though, leaning in to kiss his cheek.
"Evening. Join us?" Rorkes echoes too, as L'vae joins them. The brownrider receives a brief nod, Whitchek's panicking a grimace. "Not everyone, but the important ones, it seems," he agrees. And to Milani, the harper concedes, with a wry twist of his mouth, "Bittersweet, I suppose. You know us harpers: we always have to mess everything up to make sure we have something to write about."
"I don't think I am," L'vae answers, trying at reassuring as he takes in the younger man's split lip. He's already side-stepping towards Milani as he speaks, careful to keep his spoon well clear of her hair as he slings an arm about her waists in a loose hug and returns the kiss. "Both of them?" Ouch. Greater understanding and sympathy for the teen touches the brownrider's features after the Headwoman's introduction and explanation. But it's Rorkes that gets his final focus. "Thank you." Inverted, his spoon taps thoughtfully at his lower lip as he gives the Harper a curious once-over. "I don't think we've met, either?" Brows lift a little expectantly, smile bright but not quite wide enough to reveal dimples.
"Yes, both of them," admits Whitchek. Although he does seem a little bit heartened by the fact that nobody, at this point, is calling any of this his fault. He polishes off the last of the food on his plate, looks at it thoughtfully, and finally just sets his fork on it and leaves it be.
Milani smiles warmly at L'vae and drops back down into her seat, gestures to one nearby. "Have a seat?" she invites then looks back over at Rorkes. "Bittersweet, mm, that's the right word," she agrees and then makes a little face at Whitchek. "I'm sorry you've had such a rotten day. N"thei can be hair-trigger and uh... well Tiriana ..." she trails off, sighs and has some water instead.
"I imagine either one of them is enough to send most of us scurrying for the hills, so well done on... surviving, at this rate, I suppose." Rorkes is trying to be comforting, really. Probably. He casts a look from Whitchek up to L'vae, though, at the rider's words, and in turn, he too smiles. "No, no, I don't think so. Rorkes, recently posted," is his introduction, a handshake proffered around the bulk of guitar in his lap.
A skew of his mouth in further sympathy for Whitchek, and then L'vae moves over to the seat indicated by Millie. Nodding a little at the others' assessment of the bonze- and goldrider, he finds himself with a bit of a conundrum when the Harper extends that hand. It's a minute of indecisive juggling of the spoon first between his teeth, and then down into the bowl, and then the bowl into the opposite hand so he can reach out and return the shake. "Pleasure." The dimples to appear, this time. Dropping finally into the chair, the brownrider reclaims his spoon and takes another bit of sherbet. Which means he has an excuse for just looking around to try and get an idea of what bittersweet conversation he may have walked into.
What else can Whitchek say to Milani but, drily, "I noticed." He manages a bit of a smile, though, and nods to Rorkes. "Survived. That's the big thing, now. And hopefully to do the same the next day, and the next..." He starts getting a little pale and clears his throat. "Well. That's then. Maybe they'll both forget it all."
Poking at the shape of a small pie in her pile of treats, Milani just nods a few times in answer to Rorkes' assessment about N'thei and Tiriana. "I'm glad you're mostly all right," the headwoman says to the lad. "And . .. I suggest lying low, definitely."
With such a crowd around him, and conversation too, Rorkes moves to set down his guitar, leaning it against the side of his chair. He settles back, glances at his companions a moment. Whitchek's pallor apparently noticed, he offers a half-smile and then clears his throat. "So how is everyone else? Good days? Decent days?" It's something of a change of subjects, at least--or at least a redirection of the attention.
"There you go," L'vae says to Whitchek's resolve to survive, bobbing his spoon in accompanying gesture. It then gets swung over to help punctuate the Headwoman's point. "Definitely." He's an echo! "You're not," he thinks afterwards to wonder about the younger man with a dip in his brow, "some sort of diplomatic ambassador?" Eyeing that injury. He hopes not. That study lingering, it takes a moment for hazel eyes to drag back to the Harper while his smile renews. "Good day," the brownrider answers with a bob of his head. "Not so hot, a lot going on out and about." His spoon idly bounces again as he peeks a glance over at Milani. "A number of the Holds are starting, or gearing up for, harvest time."
The food is gone and the living cavern is still a suspiciously wide and open place. Resolving to survive or not, Whitchek's got reason enough to be nervous. "I think I'm going to head out," he says, tapping the empty plate with his fork. "But--thanks," he says, without specifying to who or for what. And then he takes the plate away and heads off towards the closed-in safety of the lower caverns.
"Decent day here," Milani says with a little nod. "And yes, gearing up for tithes. Time's going by fast and the first trains should be coming in within a fortnight or so," the headwoman informs. Whitchek excuses himself and Milani lifts a hand. "Go the infirmary!" she reminds him and makes a face. "He's not going to go ... is he?" she says with a sigh and reaches for her glass of water and drinks a healthy swallow.
A nod to L'vae, and Rorkes agrees, "The tithes, and gather season, of course. It's been a busy one, what with all the Weyr's territories to attend, and not just Nabol's now. I was posted there, before," is added for the benefit of his companions, though with Whitchek leaving, he offers the young man a wave in parting. "Good night. --And no, I doubt it, really. He seems to be well enough still, though," he says, with a nod to Milani as they watch the injured Whitchek leave.
"That should be fun." The tithes. L'vae gives a sympathetically skewed smile to Milani before turning his eyes to follow Whitchek's departure. "Take care," he bids in farwell. "Not a chance," is the agreeing comment on the probability of the teen's infirmary visit, pitched lower for his remaining companions. But. "You're from Nabol?" Asked more brightly. "So, do you love cider? Or are you absolutely sick of it?" the brownrider asks with a happy wrinkle of his nose. Added as an aside more to Millie, "maybe we'll have candidates to send to their harvest festival again, this turn."
"Well summer gather season is just wrapping up, but the autumn set should start up end of next month," Millie notes around a bite of pie. Her lips purse about Whitchek and the infirmary, then she re-focuses on L'vae and Rorkes. "Pretty sure we will," she notes about the candidates. "Eggs should be laid soon and that will bring them in."
"Oh, sick of it," Rorkes says quite earnestly, his smile broadening now. "Though--I only spent five turns there, but it was more than enough. I'm originally from here, the Weyr, before I apprenticed to the Hall, so being back here is something like coming home." Something like it, anyway. Of the upcoming clutch, "Ah, yes. That should prove exciting, yes? What with the way things are already going." A gesture takes in the direction Whitchek disappeared to, in indication of his current state of disfigurement.
L'vae nods to Millie, scraping out and dispatching more of his dessert while he does so. "I don't suppose you'll be riding herd over them quite so directly this time, with everything else you have going on." He lifts a faint smile briefly away from his bowl and up at his friend. That last comment of Rorkes inspires a low noise in the brownrider's throat. "I doubt Tiriana's mood will be positively impacted by having her queen on the sands." He clears his throat, strays his spoon in the mostly-empty bowl. "So, you have family here?" Asked of Rorkes. "You grew up tog... well, maybe your siblings?" That as hazel eyes scan back and forth between the Harper and Headwoman, noting the age difference.
"Oh that's a shame. We should be getting some in soon. You know, with the harvest. I like cider though," Millie says chattily and finishes off her pie, has more water. "Actually, I will, it's always part of the job," the headwoman notes about coordinating candidates. Her nose wrinkles along with the comment about Tiriana. "Mm. It'll be okay though, we'll manage." Determination. "And my brother might've been at the Hall about the same time."
Of his family, "Only what I brought with me. My wife, and a pair of daughters." Rorkes lifts his shoulders faintly, and concedes, "I was a weyrbrat, fostered out. I can't say that I ever really knew my blood relations, or was especially close to my adopted ones. But I seem to have turned out well enough on my own." His smile is wry. Diplomatically, he leaves the question of Tiriana and her temper tabled for now.
"So it goes sometimes," Milani says diplomatically enough about Rorkes' background. Her last treat is finished up, water glass emptied down her throat and the headwoman rises. "Nice talking with you Rorkes. Lou, I'll see you," she says fondly to the brownrider and drops another kiss to his cheek. "I'm heading to bed though, gentlemen. Good night!" And with that the headwoman slips away.
When: It is a summer night, 21:26 of day 18, month 8, turn 19 of Interval 10.
Where: Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr
What: Milani, Rorkes and L'vae do not want to beat up Whitchek. Rorkes has a bittersweet song in the works.
It's getting on towards late, but with the way the sun stays up late in the summer at the Reaches, it's still light out, just shading to dusk. Milani steps in from the bowl, sweeping a hand through her hair and laughing a little as her fingers come away with the fuzz of dandelion-like clocks. "Kids ..." she murmurs softly and moves through the mostly quiet cavern to pour out a tall glass of water from the pitchers on the sideboard with their slowly melting ice.
It's late, which means much of the crowd is gone, which means less audience for a certain playing harper, though you'd think he'd prefer the opposite. Rorkes has claimed a chair over to one side, bent over his guitar to finger through a song, experimenting with the melody as he idly plays. There are a few people with dinners loitering in the general vicinity, but overall, he has that little corner to himself.
Ice clinks as Milani pours and she tilts a look over towards the harper curiously. A moment more is taken, the headwoman collecting some little treats from one of the baskets then she heads over in that direction to perch on a bench, glass set down and sweets too. "Is that something new you're making up?" she asks curiously in a break between notes.
Rorkes
Tall and broad-shouldered, Rorkes is a big man, lanky-limbed but often slouching; strong features and a reddish-stubbled jaw put his age around thirty. With his touseled red-gold hair, blue eyes, and often melancholy smile, he affects a diffident demeanor matched in nothing-special clothes, button-downs and work boots all belying his harper's knot. More than his overall unassuming appearance, it's the voice that lives up to the knot's promise: a striking smooth baritone, obviously well-trained.
Somehow, even though he's not really concentrating on the playing, hearing a voice address him still startles Rorkes. He jumps a bit, fumbles a note, and then stills the strings as he looks up. "Oh, evening," he says then, with a somewhat flustered smile for the young woman. "It's... one I've been toying around with for a bit, a couple of months at least, but it just doesn't--feel right. I think it needs more--more." That's not really an answer, but it doesn't seem to be something easy to quantify; and with company now he strums a couple more notes, lighter ones than the rather melancholy tune he had been toying with.
Smiling gently, Milani bobs her head. "Good evening, Journeyman," she says warmly. "And my brother'd understand that," the headwoman adds with a little laugh. "He's posted at Telgar Weyr. You might have known him at the Hall actually. Giremi, you look about the same age. He did archives though." She picks up a cookie and starts to munch on it, head cocked as she listens to the shift in the music.
"Giremi, Giremi," Rorkes repeats the name to himself, thinking. "It sounds familiar, but I didn't know but a couple of archivists, really--not well, anyway. I'd probably know him if I saw him." More playing, picking up that cheerful tune, a somewhat well-known children's ballad. "Did he look like you, headwoman?"
"Mmhm. He kind of kept to himself a lot when he was there," Milani says slowly then bobs her head a few times. "Yep, really really tall, red hair, blue eyes. Only he's freckly and I'm not." Holding out a sleeveless arm with no freckles on it. "Well okay, I have a few," her finger brushes at her nose. "But Remi's like, /covered/." Big eyes made then she starts to hum along a little with that tune. "I know that one."
"I'll take your word for it," says Rorkes, with an easier smile for Milani. "And I think I remember who you're talking about. It's been some time since I was actually at the hall, though, so I don't remember as many people as I maybe should. Posted about five turns ago." He keeps playing, slowly, carelessly, while they talk; and grins again at Milani's humming. "Do you? It's my daughter's favorite--my younger one's."
This has been a bad day for Whitchek. It's hard not to tell that, owing to the fact that his lip is still badly split and swollen, if not actually still bleeding. He has the look of something hunted as he comes out of the lower caverns, scanning for threats before leaving cover. But then... nothing. The coast appears, at long last, to be clear. He heads in the direction of food, with a shuffle as though following a very long day's work. Once he has a plate, having spotted Milani, he heads over towards her, asks, "Have you seen N'thei? Tiriana? Um... Persie? Here?"
Humming stops and Milani beams. "How old are they again, your daughters?" And then she's chattering about her family again. "Mm, he posted almost right out of apprenticeship, went to Telgar, then he was back at the hall for a bit. Now he's back at Telgar. Weyrmated, little girl. He comes to visit pretty often," Millie explains about her brother. "Maybe I'll introduce you next time he stops by." Whitchek, incoming. "Er ... no, I just stepped in from outside ... shells, Whitchek, what happened to your /face/ ?"
"Five, and three," answers Rorkes after a moment. He nods to her description of her brother, but just as he starts to replying, Whitchek arrives, and Rorkes, taking one look at him, quiets his guitar and leans back in his chair, brows lifting. Clearing his throat, he offers, "I haven't been watching for them, either, man. Sorry," as though he'd know any of them on sight himself.
Without so much as a by-your-leave, Whitchek sits down next to Milani, who at least is someone he has established as being reasonably safe. "Good," he says first. Then, "Him." And only one male name on that list of three. He starts in with a fork on some rapidly cooling something-or-other, very deliberately biting and chewing on the right side of his mouth. He swallows, notice the sudden absence of the music that had been there before, properly recognizes Rorkes. "Sorry," he says. "Didn't mean to interrupt. I'm, uh," he gestures to Milani to indicate the prior reference, "Whitchek."
The former conversation with Rorkes has been duly derailed and Milani shoots him an apologetic look as she leans over to get a closer look at Whitchek. "You went to the infirmary, right? And ... N'thei. Go figure. What did you say to him?" And Milani flusters just a little. "Oh I'm so sorry, this is Journeyman Rorkes, one of our harpers," she does one half of the introductions at least.
"Oh, no. You're fine," says Rorkes, waving off Whitchek's apologies with a half-smile. "I'm just whiling away my evening. You're not interrupting. Pleasure to meet you, I'm sure." And he does indeed pick up a song again, but his hands fall automatically back into his first tune, toying back with those minor notes instead of the happier kids' song of a couple of moments ago.
Infirmary. That would have been a sensible option. "Um," says Whitchek, which is teenage-male code for 'no, of course not, but I'm not going to say no because you're going to be upset if I say no'. "I don't think it was so much what I said as my offending him by continuing to draw breath," he offers. "Thanks," he tells Rorkes, and then takes another bite, chews very carefully, swallows. "Harpers. Always impressed with the way you do that stuff," and he waves his fork generally in the direction of the instrument.
"Mmhm," Milani says, narrowing eyes at Whitchek. "You finish up eating then we'll go on over to get that all checked out," she says in a tone that brooks no argument. Her gaze slides back to Rorkes though and she takes another bite of cookie. "He's working on a new tune," she explains to the lad with the split lip.
"Mm. That sort, hm?" N'thei or Whitchek; Rorkes doesn't clarify which or what he means. Instead, sheepishly, he leans over his guitar again, focusing on the notes rather than his impromptu audience. "Ah. Not sure how new it is anymore; it feels like I've been working on it forever now. But thank you, anyway," he tells Whitchek. "It's really not so... Well. Impressive, I don't think."
"I'm fine," Whitchek protests between bites. "Really. Looks worse than it is." Which is why he winces every time he moves it the wrong way, of course. He peers over at the Harper. "Better'n most of us can do, isn't it? Can't carry a tune in a bucket, myself. What's it called, this one you're working on?"
"It sounds pretty," Milani says staunchly to the harper and dusts crumbs off her fingers as the last bit of that first cookie vanishes. A little look over at Whitchek is dubious and Millie doesn't even repeat the whole 'going to the infirmary' thing. She just gives him that look. Swallowing: "Yeah, I don't sing well either, but I like to listen and try to sing anyway."
With a small grin, Rorkes repeats, "Thank you," to Milani this time. "I suppose. I suppose you're born with a voice or not, but the playing at least's learnable. The composing, too, maybe." He sounds thoughtful, and maybe not quite convinced about the latter; but he shrugs it off in favor of playing another few notes that trail off at Whitchek's question. "Officially, nothing yet, not until I'm actually happy with the whole thing," he admits. "And the working title is... perhaps best left unspoken, too."
The young man with the busted lip takes a look down at his own hands. "If you say so. I don't think I could play one of those, anyhow," Whitchek tells Rorkes. "Don't mean to pry, of course. Was just curious. Never heard of songs with secret names before." Freed of Milani's scrutiny for the moment, he tucks into his food with renewed vigor, despite the periodic winces involved in the process of chewing.
"Really? Huh, I mean I guess if you have nimble fingers, you have nimble fingers," Milani says with a little bob of her head. That statement from the harper lifts her brows a little. "Oh ..."
And Rorkes actually flushes, concentrating more on his instrument. Time for a strategic tune-switchery. "It's, ah, for someone I used to know," he admits after a moment. "And I expect she'd rather--well. I'm sorry." So not finishing that statement either. Moving on! "So, Whitchek, right? Is everyone in the Weyr chasing you down now?"
In L'vae wanders from the kitchens, a little bowl in hand piled with a few perfect little scoops of orange sherbet. Well, perfect except for the one he's already taken bites from. The spoon is currently popped inside his mouth while he takes a look about the cavern. It's Rorkes' quiet music that initially catches the brownrider's attention, but the sight of Millie is what crinkles a smile about his eyes and brings him over in that direction. Spoon comes out once he's close, wielded in a little wave. "Evening." And since he's just arrived on that last question, a bewildered look flits about to finally rest on Whitchek. "We're chasing you down?"
For a second, Whitchek's eyes flick about with something very near panic, but then they settle on L'vae, then back to Rorkes. He shakes his head firmly. "Not everybody. Just... the wrong ones." Letting out a breath that's almost a sigh, he adds, "Evening," to L'vae. "I hope you're not. I can't take anything more today."
"Ohhh ... that sounds like a sweet or maybe a sad story," Milani says to Rorkes and smiels again, then she's dropping the topic too. Her head shakes a lot though at L've's approach and Whitchek's statement. "Oh no. This is L'vae, brown Bremuth's. L'vae, meet Whitchek. He's had a bad day with N'thei and Tiriana." She slides to her feet to welcome the brownrider though, leaning in to kiss his cheek.
"Evening. Join us?" Rorkes echoes too, as L'vae joins them. The brownrider receives a brief nod, Whitchek's panicking a grimace. "Not everyone, but the important ones, it seems," he agrees. And to Milani, the harper concedes, with a wry twist of his mouth, "Bittersweet, I suppose. You know us harpers: we always have to mess everything up to make sure we have something to write about."
"I don't think I am," L'vae answers, trying at reassuring as he takes in the younger man's split lip. He's already side-stepping towards Milani as he speaks, careful to keep his spoon well clear of her hair as he slings an arm about her waists in a loose hug and returns the kiss. "Both of them?" Ouch. Greater understanding and sympathy for the teen touches the brownrider's features after the Headwoman's introduction and explanation. But it's Rorkes that gets his final focus. "Thank you." Inverted, his spoon taps thoughtfully at his lower lip as he gives the Harper a curious once-over. "I don't think we've met, either?" Brows lift a little expectantly, smile bright but not quite wide enough to reveal dimples.
"Yes, both of them," admits Whitchek. Although he does seem a little bit heartened by the fact that nobody, at this point, is calling any of this his fault. He polishes off the last of the food on his plate, looks at it thoughtfully, and finally just sets his fork on it and leaves it be.
Milani smiles warmly at L'vae and drops back down into her seat, gestures to one nearby. "Have a seat?" she invites then looks back over at Rorkes. "Bittersweet, mm, that's the right word," she agrees and then makes a little face at Whitchek. "I'm sorry you've had such a rotten day. N"thei can be hair-trigger and uh... well Tiriana ..." she trails off, sighs and has some water instead.
"I imagine either one of them is enough to send most of us scurrying for the hills, so well done on... surviving, at this rate, I suppose." Rorkes is trying to be comforting, really. Probably. He casts a look from Whitchek up to L'vae, though, at the rider's words, and in turn, he too smiles. "No, no, I don't think so. Rorkes, recently posted," is his introduction, a handshake proffered around the bulk of guitar in his lap.
A skew of his mouth in further sympathy for Whitchek, and then L'vae moves over to the seat indicated by Millie. Nodding a little at the others' assessment of the bonze- and goldrider, he finds himself with a bit of a conundrum when the Harper extends that hand. It's a minute of indecisive juggling of the spoon first between his teeth, and then down into the bowl, and then the bowl into the opposite hand so he can reach out and return the shake. "Pleasure." The dimples to appear, this time. Dropping finally into the chair, the brownrider reclaims his spoon and takes another bit of sherbet. Which means he has an excuse for just looking around to try and get an idea of what bittersweet conversation he may have walked into.
What else can Whitchek say to Milani but, drily, "I noticed." He manages a bit of a smile, though, and nods to Rorkes. "Survived. That's the big thing, now. And hopefully to do the same the next day, and the next..." He starts getting a little pale and clears his throat. "Well. That's then. Maybe they'll both forget it all."
Poking at the shape of a small pie in her pile of treats, Milani just nods a few times in answer to Rorkes' assessment about N'thei and Tiriana. "I'm glad you're mostly all right," the headwoman says to the lad. "And . .. I suggest lying low, definitely."
With such a crowd around him, and conversation too, Rorkes moves to set down his guitar, leaning it against the side of his chair. He settles back, glances at his companions a moment. Whitchek's pallor apparently noticed, he offers a half-smile and then clears his throat. "So how is everyone else? Good days? Decent days?" It's something of a change of subjects, at least--or at least a redirection of the attention.
"There you go," L'vae says to Whitchek's resolve to survive, bobbing his spoon in accompanying gesture. It then gets swung over to help punctuate the Headwoman's point. "Definitely." He's an echo! "You're not," he thinks afterwards to wonder about the younger man with a dip in his brow, "some sort of diplomatic ambassador?" Eyeing that injury. He hopes not. That study lingering, it takes a moment for hazel eyes to drag back to the Harper while his smile renews. "Good day," the brownrider answers with a bob of his head. "Not so hot, a lot going on out and about." His spoon idly bounces again as he peeks a glance over at Milani. "A number of the Holds are starting, or gearing up for, harvest time."
The food is gone and the living cavern is still a suspiciously wide and open place. Resolving to survive or not, Whitchek's got reason enough to be nervous. "I think I'm going to head out," he says, tapping the empty plate with his fork. "But--thanks," he says, without specifying to who or for what. And then he takes the plate away and heads off towards the closed-in safety of the lower caverns.
"Decent day here," Milani says with a little nod. "And yes, gearing up for tithes. Time's going by fast and the first trains should be coming in within a fortnight or so," the headwoman informs. Whitchek excuses himself and Milani lifts a hand. "Go the infirmary!" she reminds him and makes a face. "He's not going to go ... is he?" she says with a sigh and reaches for her glass of water and drinks a healthy swallow.
A nod to L'vae, and Rorkes agrees, "The tithes, and gather season, of course. It's been a busy one, what with all the Weyr's territories to attend, and not just Nabol's now. I was posted there, before," is added for the benefit of his companions, though with Whitchek leaving, he offers the young man a wave in parting. "Good night. --And no, I doubt it, really. He seems to be well enough still, though," he says, with a nod to Milani as they watch the injured Whitchek leave.
"That should be fun." The tithes. L'vae gives a sympathetically skewed smile to Milani before turning his eyes to follow Whitchek's departure. "Take care," he bids in farwell. "Not a chance," is the agreeing comment on the probability of the teen's infirmary visit, pitched lower for his remaining companions. But. "You're from Nabol?" Asked more brightly. "So, do you love cider? Or are you absolutely sick of it?" the brownrider asks with a happy wrinkle of his nose. Added as an aside more to Millie, "maybe we'll have candidates to send to their harvest festival again, this turn."
"Well summer gather season is just wrapping up, but the autumn set should start up end of next month," Millie notes around a bite of pie. Her lips purse about Whitchek and the infirmary, then she re-focuses on L'vae and Rorkes. "Pretty sure we will," she notes about the candidates. "Eggs should be laid soon and that will bring them in."
"Oh, sick of it," Rorkes says quite earnestly, his smile broadening now. "Though--I only spent five turns there, but it was more than enough. I'm originally from here, the Weyr, before I apprenticed to the Hall, so being back here is something like coming home." Something like it, anyway. Of the upcoming clutch, "Ah, yes. That should prove exciting, yes? What with the way things are already going." A gesture takes in the direction Whitchek disappeared to, in indication of his current state of disfigurement.
L'vae nods to Millie, scraping out and dispatching more of his dessert while he does so. "I don't suppose you'll be riding herd over them quite so directly this time, with everything else you have going on." He lifts a faint smile briefly away from his bowl and up at his friend. That last comment of Rorkes inspires a low noise in the brownrider's throat. "I doubt Tiriana's mood will be positively impacted by having her queen on the sands." He clears his throat, strays his spoon in the mostly-empty bowl. "So, you have family here?" Asked of Rorkes. "You grew up tog... well, maybe your siblings?" That as hazel eyes scan back and forth between the Harper and Headwoman, noting the age difference.
"Oh that's a shame. We should be getting some in soon. You know, with the harvest. I like cider though," Millie says chattily and finishes off her pie, has more water. "Actually, I will, it's always part of the job," the headwoman notes about coordinating candidates. Her nose wrinkles along with the comment about Tiriana. "Mm. It'll be okay though, we'll manage." Determination. "And my brother might've been at the Hall about the same time."
Of his family, "Only what I brought with me. My wife, and a pair of daughters." Rorkes lifts his shoulders faintly, and concedes, "I was a weyrbrat, fostered out. I can't say that I ever really knew my blood relations, or was especially close to my adopted ones. But I seem to have turned out well enough on my own." His smile is wry. Diplomatically, he leaves the question of Tiriana and her temper tabled for now.
"So it goes sometimes," Milani says diplomatically enough about Rorkes' background. Her last treat is finished up, water glass emptied down her throat and the headwoman rises. "Nice talking with you Rorkes. Lou, I'll see you," she says fondly to the brownrider and drops another kiss to his cheek. "I'm heading to bed though, gentlemen. Good night!" And with that the headwoman slips away.