In which a turnday is celebrated
Who: P'draig, T'mic, Nolee
Where: Ista Pool & Garden
When: It is a summer night, 23:11 of day 23, month 8, turn 17 of Interval 10.
P'draig, T'mic, Nolee
It is a summer night, 23:11 of day 23, month 8, turn 17 of Interval 10.
Garden and Pool, Ista Weyr(#456RJ)
From bowl to waterfall, the gardens of Ista stretch out across the plateau. Nearest the bowl are the practical plants--the herbs and crops and an orchard of fruit trees--but the closer to the stream one ventures, the more fanciful the foliage becomes. Lush dark leaves, flowers as big as a hand, jungle creepers hanging from old-growth trees--like most of Ista, the plant life grows rampant here, everything outsized and richly green. The streambanks in particular are impressively overgrown, until every rock is moss-covered and pockets of still water in pools on the banks teem with algae.
Only the waterfall itself seems to have escaped the onslaught of flora, cutting a channel through the rock and falling toward the pool below. The craggy cliffs leading downward post a number of places to sit and swing your feet, or to wade in the shallow puddles that collect in dips in rocks and around the edges of the water. For all the cliffs and their outcroppings, however, the best way down is still the steep, slick stairs switchbacking down the rock face.
P'draig
Mic has an affable, tooth-flashing grin that he uses like some men wield grunts and blank stares. His hair is nearly black - in bright sun it shows auburn highlights - and tightly curled despite being cropped close to his skull. His skin is perpetually tan with only a few scars from acne and childhood. Apart from smallish ears the rest of his features are unremarkable: muddy blue eyes are set neither too far apart nor too close; his nose has just the slightest hint of a ski-jump; a strong, blunt chin. Though he possesses a workingman's broad muscular shoulders and arms, the rest of him is trim. He's short, standing a little more than a hand under six feet tall, and his age is probably around thirty turns. Southern's easy-going vowels run unchecked through every word.
He wears a loose and open dusky blue shirt, the color of shadow on snow. It has no collar and short sleeves, while the neckline hangs open nearly to mid-chest. He wears it loosely tucked into a pair of dark gauze trousers that float more than hang. Closed-toes sandals finish the outfit, offering glimpses of skin. A simple rider's knot is affixed to his shoulder, Ista's orange and black with a single strand of green.
T'mic
Mic has an affable, tooth-flashing grin that he uses like some men wield grunts and blank stares. His hair is nearly black - in bright sun it shows auburn highlights - and tightly curled despite being cropped close to his skull. His skin is perpetually tan with only a few scars from acne and childhood. Apart from smallish ears the rest of his features are unremarkable: muddy blue eyes are set neither too far apart nor too close; his nose has just the slightest hint of a ski-jump; a strong, blunt chin. Though he possesses a workingman's broad muscular shoulders and arms, the rest of him is trim. He's short, standing a little more than a hand under six feet tall, and his age is probably around thirty turns. Southern's easy-going vowels run unchecked through every word.
He wears a loose and open dusky blue shirt, the color of shadow on snow. It has no collar and short sleeves, while the neckline hangs open nearly to mid-chest. He wears it loosely tucked into a pair of dark gauze trousers that float more than hang. Closed-toes sandals finish the outfit, offering glimpses of skin. A simple rider's knot is affixed to his shoulder, Ista's orange and black with a single strand of green.
T'mic extends one finger toward the green, letting her get a good sniff. "Yeah, I guess. Aath wants a bronze, sometimes." Which would go along with the 'decorative' bit. While Lady's investigating he tilts his head back to spy the brownrider again. "So'd Piper appreciate the letters you sent? Or didn't you ever get to that?"
Lady chirrups sweetly and ducks her head under that finger, hops over onto Mic's arm and sidles up along his shoulder. Apparently the greenrider attracts flirty greens of all kinds. "Heh, well, Lady sometimes deigns to leave her eggs behind for me," P'draig notes. "Though I can never tell when she's been flown by a bronze." The next question turns Paddy's gaze away, out over the twilit pool and his fingers drum along the bench back. "We wrote back and forth for turns."
Nolee's arrival is fairly peaceful as her arrivals go, absent of tripping or other melees. Instead, the blonde's brows are furrowed in thought, an expression of concentration marring her slightly rounded face as she consults a to-do list. Only after she's passed the bench where the two men are resting does she realize there's someone else here with a surprised, "Oh." She turns about to leave them to their contemplations, then hesitates, shifts her messenger bag to the side, and squints at them both. "You. Hmm."
Somewhere off in the twilight there's an irritated huff, but Mic only grins as Lady claims his shoulder. "Ah, Aath's enough for me anyway. You know how much running I have to do to keep up with her." He adds, idly watching Nolee pass, "Imagine the trouble I'd get into if I had two of them. --Evening, ma'am," he adds to the goldrider's surprise. After a moment, and with exaggerated caution, he pushes himself upright on the bench, one hand offering support to Lady, and scooches closer to the bronwnrider. "How's Nalaieth?"
The sound in the twilight grabs Nolee's attention, and she turns toward it, fascinated, not entirely understanding its source. "Evening," she returns, a little more friendly and less abruptly than her previous greeting. "Thought it'd be quiet out here." Her moment of mild irritation passes, and she manages a smile. "Nalaieth's well. She's annoyed about not getting an oiling. Maybe those firelizard pests could be taught to do that as well as help with the washing." A pause. "How's Aath? And Jeskith, no - Jeksk--your dragon?"
"It /is/ quiet," the greenrider points out, his teeth flashing in the night. "We're just talking." He glances up at Lady's happy croon and mirrors P'draig's caress, running his finger down the small green throat. "Aath and Jekzith," he puts only the tiniest of pauses after the brown's name, "Are doing well, thank you." A larger pause this time. "Suppose you're to be congratulated, ma'am?" No familiar first-name basis from Mic, not tonight.
Nolee smiles. "That's true! And you're nowhere near as noisy as those littles that have taken to playing queen-of-the-ledge right outside where I've been trying to work. One more peep and I might've had to join in." She watches the firelizard, content, then repeats "Jekzith," dutifully, with a nod to P'draig - understanding she mangles it, and this her only accuracy, in repetition. "Mmm. Am I? I liked it better before Gree-r had that little to distract her." Dismay, then politeness. "But thank you. And thank you; the bathing we've got. The oiling, not quite."
"You'll do just fine, Nolee," P'draig says with quiet confidence and offers the goldrider another smile. Mic's request earns a "Hmm? Oh." And he leans over, hefts up the half-empty wineskin they were both working on earlier. "Here, but I think Nolee'd rather have juice?"
"You could? Jays, I thought only when you were in your cups. Though I've only heard stories, not actually seen myself." Nolee's smile widens, here, the very gentle tease well-meaning. "I /can/ do both." But why, if someone else will do it for you? "But the firelizards are only good at the washing. They mostly roll in the oil and then I'm oiled too." Wry grin, and she accepts the skin, taking a small and even a little bit dainty sip from it, making a face, and handing it back. "Yeh, I would. Are you celebrating, or just drinking?"
T'mic coughs hastily into the hand he takes from P'draig's knee, ignoring the flare of wings at his ear as Lady tries to keep her balance. "Uh. Right. Juice." He sends another squint-eyed grin Paddy's way before reaching to reclaim the 'skin, his own swig more than healthy. "Who says it has to be 'or'?" He relents, though, and toasts her with the 'skin before handing it back to P'draig. "S'my turnday."
Lady is actually quite careful not to dig claws into T'mic's shoulder though she bobbles a little before the greenrider takes to holding still again. "Citrus, right Nolee?" P'draig inquires, looking up at the goldrider with another one of those wide grins of his, then he's taking the skin back and swigging healthily in turn. "Thirty turns. Good turnday that one."
"Well, a very merry turnday to you," she smiles, the weather lines ingrained in her face deepening. P'draig's recollection of her preferences causes some of the tautness in her shoulders to release, and Nolee claps her hands together with a vestige of girlish glee, her list still trapped between them. "That's exactly right, citrus." She shakes her head, regarding T'mic intently for a moment. "Thirty. Jays. Seems the turns flow faster and faster by. Maybe cause enough for drink -and- celebration, having made it through the comet and all the rest."
T'mic says, "Thanks," cheerfully and settles back against the bench where he can grin at Nolee in peace. "We'd be down at the Sandbar, except...." He doesn't expound upon 'except', save to jerk his head beachward. "Yeah, I've been at Ista... shells. Nine turns? Ten? Something like that. Aath's almost eight. Never thought I'd stick around this long, but I'm glad I did." He reclaims the 'skin once the brownrider's finished, though he politely offers it back to Nolee, first. "S'been good."
There's a wink for Nolee from P'draig. "Hard to forget the last time I lived at Ista," the brownrider says with a low chuckle. "Jekzith still keeps in touch with 'his babies' even though they're grown and he's flown one of them," Paddy states with a hint of wry humor in his voice. "As for surviving the comet, I definitely think that's worth a drink and a toast or two." His arm slips around T'mic casually, gives the greenrider a squeeze. "Glad you did."
A shake of her head declines the 'skin, and Nolee follows T'mic's head-pointing indication toward the beach, nodding as she makes the connection. "Ugh, the dust. And the noise." Agreement with their choice, surely. "Eight?" There's a groan. "Seems like she was just shelled. Well, maybe not shelled. Maybe first having flights." Of Jekzith, the blonde only smiles. "Nalaieth doesn't even recall which ones are hers. Everyone gets bossed equally." A smirk, then a nod. "A toast. To turndays and sticking around."
T'mic only smirks at the thought of flights. "Seems like she was only just shelled to -me-. Except then I have to remember what being a weyrling was like. So maybe I'll stick to flights, yeah." He toasts again, obediently, and has another swig, hands the wineskin back to the brownrider. "Good thing she's got us to remember then. Seems like I can name off every one of my weyrlings, sometimes." Another grin flashes. "Usually when I wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat."
"Sounds like it'll be better for the construction though," P'draig notes of the Sandbar. "I can't complain about a full kitchen," states the former Baker. "Kip might be more willing to put up with my hankering to cook for everyone than the head cook," he says joshingly and takes the 'skin back from T'mic, lifts it. "Here's to clear skies, good friends, good birthdays and wonderful weyrmates." T'mic gets a kiss on the cheek right before Paddy drinks. "And I remember all of my Weyrlings too, Mic. Minus the cold sweats." A lopsided grin and he takes a deep breath before speaking. "Jekzith keep all sorts of stuff stored in my head. Crazy how he can just pull it out."
"Maybe you can get a job working for Kip," Mic teases back, hoists an invisible glass at the toast. "After all, s'how I started. Sort of." He leans his head into the other man's shoulder, eyes half-closed and supremely content. "It's... you take lots of notes, Nolee. 'Least, I do." He pries one eye open for a mock-glare her way and adds, "I'm not old, I'll have you know. Neither's Aath. Are you, sweet?"
P'draig holds the skin out to T'mic. "Sure, why not. Part-time around duties," the brownrider says with a chuckle. "He can pay me in beer." Paddy's hand gives Mic's shoulder a little squeeze. "The important things stay in your head, Nolee," the former Fortian remarks lightly. "And none of us are old. Just old/er/ than we were?" Grinning again.
"It is? I didn't know that," Nolee responds, head-tilted, to T'mic. "Though I suspect if you did, it might've been for payment in full 'skins." There's a soft giggle for the intimacy of the two men, and a wistful little smile as they're bathed in mostly-faded evening light. "Heaps of notes, right. Then you have to sort them and find them again at the right time." A face. "Certainly! Older than we were. Though to see the younger ones - sometimes, I don't miss it." So spoken from the woman who sometimes seems stuck in an earlier day.
Whether Aath considers herself old or not is something that's likely to remain a secret - at least, neither she nor T'mic shares enlightenment. "More like - I needed a place to doss down and something to do that wasn't on a boat heading back to Southern," the short man corrects with another grin and no ire. "And keeping the notes straight was Q'vek's job. Or Fadra's. I just tossed 'em on their desk and there you go." He watches, bemused and buzzed, as Lady takes flight to head into the darkness but makes no move after the wee green. "I know I -feel- old watching some of the weyrlings. --Not weyrlings any more. Almost make me want to take up drinking as a hobby."
"I don't really miss it either," P'draig says slowly, thoughtfully. "I like myself a lot better now, than then. I feel more ... sorted out. Mostly." Neither does Paddy head after the green. She'll be back later no doubt. "Drinking as a hobby isn't much fun and doesn't get anyone anywhere," P'draig remarks, voice suddenly very quiet as he looks off into the dark over by the pool. "A little for fun, just fine. But not as a hobby."
"Was there something at Southern you didn't want to go back to?" Nolee, tactless in words but not in intent, inquires earnestly. "Jays, I wish I could give all the notes tossed on my desk to someone else." There's a moment where she makes big bovine eyes at the men, but gives up in short order. "Sorted out, like grown up?" is directed to P'draig, then her curiosity trails off into silence at the brownrider's sudden set of somber. "Easier not to drink at all. Then I can indulge other vices. Like citron."
"Someone," Mic corrects dryly. He sits up straight and corrects, "/Two/ someones. But that's all sorted," a grin flashed sideways for his usurpation of P'draig's word. "Yeah, you get older, you get more comfortable in your own skin. 'Least, that's how I feel." To Nolee, then, with an inquisitive head-cock, "Don't you have an assistant, or something? You could probably get the headwoman to lend you somebody. Or one of the harpers, maybe." He shoots another grin at the brownrider before finishing primly, "I have -other- vices."
"Grown up and just, more able to take things in stride," P'draig muses then he chuckles softly. "Is citron really a vice, Nolee? Maybe it is when it's done up in a nice cake." One hand rubs at his chin and he tilts a look over at T'mic, grinning ear to ear. "Two someones who bore you two /wonderful/ children," he points out, teasing the greenrider. He nods though about assistant talk. "Definitely a good idea. Don't know what I'd have done without mine when I was Weyrlingmster at Fort."
"Sordid," Nolee agrees, perhaps misinterpreting the word on purpose, though that level of clever is not generally ascribed her, and her giggling doesn't inspire faith. "A harper, yeh. That's a good idea." She snaps, delighted, still laughing at T'mic's faux-primness. "It is the way I can eat it. Juice, straight fruit, cakes, cookies, in my hair to color it, as a scent in my baths - one of the washers said she thought it was a laundry in my weyr from all the citron scent." The detailed explanation brings more smirking, this time with a little brow-quirk as well. "I -seeee."
T'mic'd like to know, "Who's sordid? --Or what's sordid?" with another look P'draig-way for the translation. After a second he reclaims the 'skin and tips it back, back, balancing it in his hands for his pour. "I think there's citron in Kip's greenrider." Drink finished he settles against the taller man again, his smile turned decidedly tipsy and loose.
"She meant sorted," P'draig murmurs in an undertone to T'mic with a wise little nod and clears his throat, smiles up at Nolee. "Citron cake is definitely a good vice to have. I'll have to make some sometime for you. And a harper is definitely a good idea." Paddy again wisely, takes the skin back from T'mic, drinks, then sets it /down/ on the ground beside the bench.
T'mic's progression brings Nolee a certain degree of ease as well, though the list smashed in one hand draws her eventual focus back to it, a beacon of ill-tidings which renews the tension in her shoulders. "Jays. I mean to check on the harvest, have a look at it before it got dark, but I forgot. And too dark to see much at the Sandbar, either." She turns to go, pausing and recalling her manners to add, "We're glad to have you here, Patchdrag," she very formally relays, getting closer - closer! to his actual name. "And good tidings on your turnday, Aath's. If you'll both excuse me? I've to check off -something- before sleeping can be done."
Mic ohs with little comprehension for the near-homonym. "All right. --You want some, uh, help, Nolee? We could go check on something for you. Sandbar," he intones, reading off an invisible list. "Still full of sawdust." He makes a decisive mark in the air: done! and grins at her again. "I'm happy to have him here too. Plenty happy. Lots happy. Specially on my turnday. S'a good turnday."
"Paddy," P'draig offers up, still gentle, the turns-old correction, fondly even as he smiles up at Nolee. "Good luck with your list-checking, and when you get there, sleep well with sweet dreams, Nolee," Paddy continues sincerely. "And thank you. It's good --" there's a slight pause as he eyes tipsy Mic "-- to be here. Though I think I'd better get a certain greenrider home."
Nolee can't help it: she just laughs. "Thank you! That'll save me the walk down there, as I'm sure nothing's changed." This time, the repetition doesn't follow, Nolee instead giving the duo a warm smile followed by an nod of assent. "That sounds a good idea. I think he's nearly finished that wineskin." As she goes, she waggles her fingers, calling back "Sweet dreams to you both."
Where: Ista Pool & Garden
When: It is a summer night, 23:11 of day 23, month 8, turn 17 of Interval 10.
P'draig, T'mic, Nolee
It is a summer night, 23:11 of day 23, month 8, turn 17 of Interval 10.
Garden and Pool, Ista Weyr(#456RJ)
From bowl to waterfall, the gardens of Ista stretch out across the plateau. Nearest the bowl are the practical plants--the herbs and crops and an orchard of fruit trees--but the closer to the stream one ventures, the more fanciful the foliage becomes. Lush dark leaves, flowers as big as a hand, jungle creepers hanging from old-growth trees--like most of Ista, the plant life grows rampant here, everything outsized and richly green. The streambanks in particular are impressively overgrown, until every rock is moss-covered and pockets of still water in pools on the banks teem with algae.
Only the waterfall itself seems to have escaped the onslaught of flora, cutting a channel through the rock and falling toward the pool below. The craggy cliffs leading downward post a number of places to sit and swing your feet, or to wade in the shallow puddles that collect in dips in rocks and around the edges of the water. For all the cliffs and their outcroppings, however, the best way down is still the steep, slick stairs switchbacking down the rock face.
P'draig
Mic has an affable, tooth-flashing grin that he uses like some men wield grunts and blank stares. His hair is nearly black - in bright sun it shows auburn highlights - and tightly curled despite being cropped close to his skull. His skin is perpetually tan with only a few scars from acne and childhood. Apart from smallish ears the rest of his features are unremarkable: muddy blue eyes are set neither too far apart nor too close; his nose has just the slightest hint of a ski-jump; a strong, blunt chin. Though he possesses a workingman's broad muscular shoulders and arms, the rest of him is trim. He's short, standing a little more than a hand under six feet tall, and his age is probably around thirty turns. Southern's easy-going vowels run unchecked through every word.
He wears a loose and open dusky blue shirt, the color of shadow on snow. It has no collar and short sleeves, while the neckline hangs open nearly to mid-chest. He wears it loosely tucked into a pair of dark gauze trousers that float more than hang. Closed-toes sandals finish the outfit, offering glimpses of skin. A simple rider's knot is affixed to his shoulder, Ista's orange and black with a single strand of green.
T'mic
Mic has an affable, tooth-flashing grin that he uses like some men wield grunts and blank stares. His hair is nearly black - in bright sun it shows auburn highlights - and tightly curled despite being cropped close to his skull. His skin is perpetually tan with only a few scars from acne and childhood. Apart from smallish ears the rest of his features are unremarkable: muddy blue eyes are set neither too far apart nor too close; his nose has just the slightest hint of a ski-jump; a strong, blunt chin. Though he possesses a workingman's broad muscular shoulders and arms, the rest of him is trim. He's short, standing a little more than a hand under six feet tall, and his age is probably around thirty turns. Southern's easy-going vowels run unchecked through every word.
He wears a loose and open dusky blue shirt, the color of shadow on snow. It has no collar and short sleeves, while the neckline hangs open nearly to mid-chest. He wears it loosely tucked into a pair of dark gauze trousers that float more than hang. Closed-toes sandals finish the outfit, offering glimpses of skin. A simple rider's knot is affixed to his shoulder, Ista's orange and black with a single strand of green.
T'mic extends one finger toward the green, letting her get a good sniff. "Yeah, I guess. Aath wants a bronze, sometimes." Which would go along with the 'decorative' bit. While Lady's investigating he tilts his head back to spy the brownrider again. "So'd Piper appreciate the letters you sent? Or didn't you ever get to that?"
Lady chirrups sweetly and ducks her head under that finger, hops over onto Mic's arm and sidles up along his shoulder. Apparently the greenrider attracts flirty greens of all kinds. "Heh, well, Lady sometimes deigns to leave her eggs behind for me," P'draig notes. "Though I can never tell when she's been flown by a bronze." The next question turns Paddy's gaze away, out over the twilit pool and his fingers drum along the bench back. "We wrote back and forth for turns."
Nolee's arrival is fairly peaceful as her arrivals go, absent of tripping or other melees. Instead, the blonde's brows are furrowed in thought, an expression of concentration marring her slightly rounded face as she consults a to-do list. Only after she's passed the bench where the two men are resting does she realize there's someone else here with a surprised, "Oh." She turns about to leave them to their contemplations, then hesitates, shifts her messenger bag to the side, and squints at them both. "You. Hmm."
Somewhere off in the twilight there's an irritated huff, but Mic only grins as Lady claims his shoulder. "Ah, Aath's enough for me anyway. You know how much running I have to do to keep up with her." He adds, idly watching Nolee pass, "Imagine the trouble I'd get into if I had two of them. --Evening, ma'am," he adds to the goldrider's surprise. After a moment, and with exaggerated caution, he pushes himself upright on the bench, one hand offering support to Lady, and scooches closer to the bronwnrider. "How's Nalaieth?"
The sound in the twilight grabs Nolee's attention, and she turns toward it, fascinated, not entirely understanding its source. "Evening," she returns, a little more friendly and less abruptly than her previous greeting. "Thought it'd be quiet out here." Her moment of mild irritation passes, and she manages a smile. "Nalaieth's well. She's annoyed about not getting an oiling. Maybe those firelizard pests could be taught to do that as well as help with the washing." A pause. "How's Aath? And Jeskith, no - Jeksk--your dragon?"
"It /is/ quiet," the greenrider points out, his teeth flashing in the night. "We're just talking." He glances up at Lady's happy croon and mirrors P'draig's caress, running his finger down the small green throat. "Aath and Jekzith," he puts only the tiniest of pauses after the brown's name, "Are doing well, thank you." A larger pause this time. "Suppose you're to be congratulated, ma'am?" No familiar first-name basis from Mic, not tonight.
Nolee smiles. "That's true! And you're nowhere near as noisy as those littles that have taken to playing queen-of-the-ledge right outside where I've been trying to work. One more peep and I might've had to join in." She watches the firelizard, content, then repeats "Jekzith," dutifully, with a nod to P'draig - understanding she mangles it, and this her only accuracy, in repetition. "Mmm. Am I? I liked it better before Gree-r had that little to distract her." Dismay, then politeness. "But thank you. And thank you; the bathing we've got. The oiling, not quite."
"You'll do just fine, Nolee," P'draig says with quiet confidence and offers the goldrider another smile. Mic's request earns a "Hmm? Oh." And he leans over, hefts up the half-empty wineskin they were both working on earlier. "Here, but I think Nolee'd rather have juice?"
"You could? Jays, I thought only when you were in your cups. Though I've only heard stories, not actually seen myself." Nolee's smile widens, here, the very gentle tease well-meaning. "I /can/ do both." But why, if someone else will do it for you? "But the firelizards are only good at the washing. They mostly roll in the oil and then I'm oiled too." Wry grin, and she accepts the skin, taking a small and even a little bit dainty sip from it, making a face, and handing it back. "Yeh, I would. Are you celebrating, or just drinking?"
T'mic coughs hastily into the hand he takes from P'draig's knee, ignoring the flare of wings at his ear as Lady tries to keep her balance. "Uh. Right. Juice." He sends another squint-eyed grin Paddy's way before reaching to reclaim the 'skin, his own swig more than healthy. "Who says it has to be 'or'?" He relents, though, and toasts her with the 'skin before handing it back to P'draig. "S'my turnday."
Lady is actually quite careful not to dig claws into T'mic's shoulder though she bobbles a little before the greenrider takes to holding still again. "Citrus, right Nolee?" P'draig inquires, looking up at the goldrider with another one of those wide grins of his, then he's taking the skin back and swigging healthily in turn. "Thirty turns. Good turnday that one."
"Well, a very merry turnday to you," she smiles, the weather lines ingrained in her face deepening. P'draig's recollection of her preferences causes some of the tautness in her shoulders to release, and Nolee claps her hands together with a vestige of girlish glee, her list still trapped between them. "That's exactly right, citrus." She shakes her head, regarding T'mic intently for a moment. "Thirty. Jays. Seems the turns flow faster and faster by. Maybe cause enough for drink -and- celebration, having made it through the comet and all the rest."
T'mic says, "Thanks," cheerfully and settles back against the bench where he can grin at Nolee in peace. "We'd be down at the Sandbar, except...." He doesn't expound upon 'except', save to jerk his head beachward. "Yeah, I've been at Ista... shells. Nine turns? Ten? Something like that. Aath's almost eight. Never thought I'd stick around this long, but I'm glad I did." He reclaims the 'skin once the brownrider's finished, though he politely offers it back to Nolee, first. "S'been good."
There's a wink for Nolee from P'draig. "Hard to forget the last time I lived at Ista," the brownrider says with a low chuckle. "Jekzith still keeps in touch with 'his babies' even though they're grown and he's flown one of them," Paddy states with a hint of wry humor in his voice. "As for surviving the comet, I definitely think that's worth a drink and a toast or two." His arm slips around T'mic casually, gives the greenrider a squeeze. "Glad you did."
A shake of her head declines the 'skin, and Nolee follows T'mic's head-pointing indication toward the beach, nodding as she makes the connection. "Ugh, the dust. And the noise." Agreement with their choice, surely. "Eight?" There's a groan. "Seems like she was just shelled. Well, maybe not shelled. Maybe first having flights." Of Jekzith, the blonde only smiles. "Nalaieth doesn't even recall which ones are hers. Everyone gets bossed equally." A smirk, then a nod. "A toast. To turndays and sticking around."
T'mic only smirks at the thought of flights. "Seems like she was only just shelled to -me-. Except then I have to remember what being a weyrling was like. So maybe I'll stick to flights, yeah." He toasts again, obediently, and has another swig, hands the wineskin back to the brownrider. "Good thing she's got us to remember then. Seems like I can name off every one of my weyrlings, sometimes." Another grin flashes. "Usually when I wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat."
"Sounds like it'll be better for the construction though," P'draig notes of the Sandbar. "I can't complain about a full kitchen," states the former Baker. "Kip might be more willing to put up with my hankering to cook for everyone than the head cook," he says joshingly and takes the 'skin back from T'mic, lifts it. "Here's to clear skies, good friends, good birthdays and wonderful weyrmates." T'mic gets a kiss on the cheek right before Paddy drinks. "And I remember all of my Weyrlings too, Mic. Minus the cold sweats." A lopsided grin and he takes a deep breath before speaking. "Jekzith keep all sorts of stuff stored in my head. Crazy how he can just pull it out."
"Maybe you can get a job working for Kip," Mic teases back, hoists an invisible glass at the toast. "After all, s'how I started. Sort of." He leans his head into the other man's shoulder, eyes half-closed and supremely content. "It's... you take lots of notes, Nolee. 'Least, I do." He pries one eye open for a mock-glare her way and adds, "I'm not old, I'll have you know. Neither's Aath. Are you, sweet?"
P'draig holds the skin out to T'mic. "Sure, why not. Part-time around duties," the brownrider says with a chuckle. "He can pay me in beer." Paddy's hand gives Mic's shoulder a little squeeze. "The important things stay in your head, Nolee," the former Fortian remarks lightly. "And none of us are old. Just old/er/ than we were?" Grinning again.
"It is? I didn't know that," Nolee responds, head-tilted, to T'mic. "Though I suspect if you did, it might've been for payment in full 'skins." There's a soft giggle for the intimacy of the two men, and a wistful little smile as they're bathed in mostly-faded evening light. "Heaps of notes, right. Then you have to sort them and find them again at the right time." A face. "Certainly! Older than we were. Though to see the younger ones - sometimes, I don't miss it." So spoken from the woman who sometimes seems stuck in an earlier day.
Whether Aath considers herself old or not is something that's likely to remain a secret - at least, neither she nor T'mic shares enlightenment. "More like - I needed a place to doss down and something to do that wasn't on a boat heading back to Southern," the short man corrects with another grin and no ire. "And keeping the notes straight was Q'vek's job. Or Fadra's. I just tossed 'em on their desk and there you go." He watches, bemused and buzzed, as Lady takes flight to head into the darkness but makes no move after the wee green. "I know I -feel- old watching some of the weyrlings. --Not weyrlings any more. Almost make me want to take up drinking as a hobby."
"I don't really miss it either," P'draig says slowly, thoughtfully. "I like myself a lot better now, than then. I feel more ... sorted out. Mostly." Neither does Paddy head after the green. She'll be back later no doubt. "Drinking as a hobby isn't much fun and doesn't get anyone anywhere," P'draig remarks, voice suddenly very quiet as he looks off into the dark over by the pool. "A little for fun, just fine. But not as a hobby."
"Was there something at Southern you didn't want to go back to?" Nolee, tactless in words but not in intent, inquires earnestly. "Jays, I wish I could give all the notes tossed on my desk to someone else." There's a moment where she makes big bovine eyes at the men, but gives up in short order. "Sorted out, like grown up?" is directed to P'draig, then her curiosity trails off into silence at the brownrider's sudden set of somber. "Easier not to drink at all. Then I can indulge other vices. Like citron."
"Someone," Mic corrects dryly. He sits up straight and corrects, "/Two/ someones. But that's all sorted," a grin flashed sideways for his usurpation of P'draig's word. "Yeah, you get older, you get more comfortable in your own skin. 'Least, that's how I feel." To Nolee, then, with an inquisitive head-cock, "Don't you have an assistant, or something? You could probably get the headwoman to lend you somebody. Or one of the harpers, maybe." He shoots another grin at the brownrider before finishing primly, "I have -other- vices."
"Grown up and just, more able to take things in stride," P'draig muses then he chuckles softly. "Is citron really a vice, Nolee? Maybe it is when it's done up in a nice cake." One hand rubs at his chin and he tilts a look over at T'mic, grinning ear to ear. "Two someones who bore you two /wonderful/ children," he points out, teasing the greenrider. He nods though about assistant talk. "Definitely a good idea. Don't know what I'd have done without mine when I was Weyrlingmster at Fort."
"Sordid," Nolee agrees, perhaps misinterpreting the word on purpose, though that level of clever is not generally ascribed her, and her giggling doesn't inspire faith. "A harper, yeh. That's a good idea." She snaps, delighted, still laughing at T'mic's faux-primness. "It is the way I can eat it. Juice, straight fruit, cakes, cookies, in my hair to color it, as a scent in my baths - one of the washers said she thought it was a laundry in my weyr from all the citron scent." The detailed explanation brings more smirking, this time with a little brow-quirk as well. "I -seeee."
T'mic'd like to know, "Who's sordid? --Or what's sordid?" with another look P'draig-way for the translation. After a second he reclaims the 'skin and tips it back, back, balancing it in his hands for his pour. "I think there's citron in Kip's greenrider." Drink finished he settles against the taller man again, his smile turned decidedly tipsy and loose.
"She meant sorted," P'draig murmurs in an undertone to T'mic with a wise little nod and clears his throat, smiles up at Nolee. "Citron cake is definitely a good vice to have. I'll have to make some sometime for you. And a harper is definitely a good idea." Paddy again wisely, takes the skin back from T'mic, drinks, then sets it /down/ on the ground beside the bench.
T'mic's progression brings Nolee a certain degree of ease as well, though the list smashed in one hand draws her eventual focus back to it, a beacon of ill-tidings which renews the tension in her shoulders. "Jays. I mean to check on the harvest, have a look at it before it got dark, but I forgot. And too dark to see much at the Sandbar, either." She turns to go, pausing and recalling her manners to add, "We're glad to have you here, Patchdrag," she very formally relays, getting closer - closer! to his actual name. "And good tidings on your turnday, Aath's. If you'll both excuse me? I've to check off -something- before sleeping can be done."
Mic ohs with little comprehension for the near-homonym. "All right. --You want some, uh, help, Nolee? We could go check on something for you. Sandbar," he intones, reading off an invisible list. "Still full of sawdust." He makes a decisive mark in the air: done! and grins at her again. "I'm happy to have him here too. Plenty happy. Lots happy. Specially on my turnday. S'a good turnday."
"Paddy," P'draig offers up, still gentle, the turns-old correction, fondly even as he smiles up at Nolee. "Good luck with your list-checking, and when you get there, sleep well with sweet dreams, Nolee," Paddy continues sincerely. "And thank you. It's good --" there's a slight pause as he eyes tipsy Mic "-- to be here. Though I think I'd better get a certain greenrider home."
Nolee can't help it: she just laughs. "Thank you! That'll save me the walk down there, as I'm sure nothing's changed." This time, the repetition doesn't follow, Nolee instead giving the duo a warm smile followed by an nod of assent. "That sounds a good idea. I think he's nearly finished that wineskin." As she goes, she waggles her fingers, calling back "Sweet dreams to you both."