Vanissa and M'try clear the air.
RL Date: 12/4/09
IC Date: 5/22/21
Herb Garden, Fort Weyr
The herb garden isn't only a feast for the taste buds, but a veritable feast for the eyes and nose as well. All manner of herbs -- from medicinal to the edible -- are grown here and tended to on a regular basis. The area is fenced in, separating it from the rest of the grounds around it, with a trellis arch over the gate leading into it. There are pathways made from bits of irregularly shaped stones that lead between the various plots and patches of the exquisitely aromatic plants, each section deineated with small signs to indicate what's been grown where. Others have been planted in pots or in boxes, though this treatment is only for those that can't thrive in the native soil.
There are a few benches scattered throughout the sprawling garden, providing places for quiet conversation or for gardeners to take a rest. Toward the southeastern corner of the garden is a smallish shack, which contains things such as clippers, baskets, watering cans and other useful tools.
Is there any other way to spend a day as fine as this one but to be outdoors, amid the early herbs and flowers, enjoying the sunshine, the soft breezes, the picturesque landscape... It's likely the latter that has M'try out here at present, in a state very similar to one months and months ago, a first encounter with Vanissa, as a matter of fact. Rather than sitting on the bench, he sits at the foot of it, using the seat to prop his shoulders, his knees bent, his sketchbook open across his thighs, his attention on a likely looking cluster of lavender growing just off the edge of the path. Scribble scribble.
And at least it isn't a miserable rainy day with nothing growing here to draw, which might beg the question what the artist was doing out here all those many days ago. Perhaps he really was contemplating moving in under that bench? It's a question Nissa doesn't ask when she spies her fellow weyrling. She ambles into the garden quietly, hazel eyes taking in the flowers, moving in a lazy way from rose to mint to thyme to... M'try? A tiny gleam lights her eyes and she steps with as soft a tread as possible until she can peek over his shoulder at that sketchpad. Her Neratian drawl sounds almost disappointed, "Huh. Ya draw flowers too? Thought ya only drew girls."
For a moment, there is no hiding the oh-hell look that darkens the green eyes M'try lifts to identify the voice, the owner of the voice. For a second, with a look shot over his shoulder, he visibly contemplates running away-- he doesn't, to his credit, but the thought crosses his mind. "Nissa," he greets with a credible smoothness, flickering a smile into place, a thousand times the harper's polish. "I'm a man of many talents. I also dance and write poetry, but only one of those talents gets me in trouble. Should I have my guard up?" He raises his fists as if to block his chin, pencil caught in his balled up palm.
Vanissa observes that various expressions that flit across M'try's face coolly until he mentions talents, then an almost-feral grin curves her lips, "The question is, is running one of them and can ya outrun Jiella yet?" There's a snort of amusement at the fists he raises, "Think you've had your guard up for quite awhile now." She plops down onto the bench, drawing her legs up until her bare heels are braced on the edge of the bench. See? No looming. She lowers her gaze to contemplate her own feet, wriggling her toes in the warmth of the sun silently for a moment before asking casually, "So are ya in trouble, M'try?" And then lightly, "If ya run, You'll get a head start, but I'm quick and good at tripping from behind. Ask T'rev."
The very first question is met with a slow, simple shake of his head; no, M'try can't outrun Jiella yet (and how sad is that?), so he just scoots a little down the bench to give room for Vanissa to seat herself. "You'll have to tell me if I'm in trouble, Nissa?" he answers back with a questioning lilt, head tipped back and up to keep her in his line of sight. With a long breath blown out, with the quirk of amused lips at the image of being chased down and tripped, he concludes, "I'm sorry. For... however you took... things. I should have said it a while ago, but rumor has it that you're planning my demise, and I'm quite a coward." While he knuckles his hair with a nervous squint.
Vanissa tilts M'try a sideways glance, the sun making her do the squinty-thing through her lashes as she considers his question, but doesn't answer it - yet. "Rumors're funny things," she says at last (perhaps letting him squirm for awhile?) "Murder was never the plan." Her eyes drop from his face to his hands and she comments off-handedly, "Ya have nice fingers. Guess I really shouldn't break every one of them." Hard to tell - she -might- be serious? But then there's that bit of mischief lurking in her voice. Eyes lift back to him and her tone is sweetly sincere, "How I took things. Tell ya what. Why don't ya set me straight, cos I mighta taken things wrong, seein' ya wouldn't ever let me see your book. Did ya draw me without clothes M'try?" Almost plaintively the tone says, 'please say no'.
A nod, rumors are funny things, with M'try adding, "So are old habits." His own attention flickers back to those nice fingers of his, pencil tucked back behind his ear with a deft twirl, a faint smirk that goes unexplained. But the smirk is brief, and he looks away in light of her tone, attention landing on the harmless poseys on his page-- no effort to hide this picture. Finally; "I drew my imagination, which isn't technically you. But as to the heart of your question instead of the semantics. Yes, I did. It's something I do." And verges on apology, his lips folded, his eyes still on his sketch, his sigh sort of long-suffering.
"Ya did." It comes out kind of flat when Nissa says it. She shifts on the bench, but not to punch him, rather to lean and see his page better. "Nice." She might mean that flower he's drawn. Leaning back, she crosses her arms atop her knees, mulling what he's said, "So your imagination. They might not really look like me then? That's what T'rev says anyway." She shrugs, considering that long-suffering sigh of his. Curious, "Guess you've had folks mad at ya b'fore 'bout it?" Her chin is propped on her arms, her gaze travels out over the garden, "Though truth be told, I was more upset with B'kaiv than you."
M'try taps his fingers over the neatly drawn petals on the page, chances a look back up at Vanissa with his brows raised doubtfully. "It might not really look like you, yes." And tomorrow, so says his doubtful tone, the sun might rise in the west. "Generally speaking, people don't find out unless I want them to, so less ill-will than you might think. I haven't been as circumspect as I should have been since coming to the Weyr." He maintains a look at the greenrider all the while, hunts her expression-- for forgiveness, likely. "Why were you upset at B'kaiv, Nissa? If you don't mind my asking."
Vanissa flashes a mild look at M'try for that doubtful tone of his and she frowns just a wee bit, "And... then again they might." His searching look catches her and she meets it without flinching or pique. It's mostly puzzlement lurking in the hazel glints. "Um, so nobody finds out unless... Ya mean you're not selling nekkid pictures of me to folks, M'try?" Back to the garden and she's thoughtful as she forms her answer, "B'kaiv-" She immediately calms the aggrieved tone and starts over, almost sullenly, "Dunno why his opinion matters, but he said stuff 'bout me bein' with some so what's it matter if others see." Her eyes take on an unfocused look as she raises her gaze up to the edge of the bowl's walls, "Back home things were just easy-like. No one pried or judged or invaded my privacy. Things were my choice. I just..." She shrugs, "I just dunno how to say, M'try. It's all been-" a handflip to include the Weyr, her Impression and the new life along with it "-overwhelming."
With a ducked head, M'try grants her assumption as far more likely-- they might. The duck increases until he's hunched into his own shoulders, an uncomfortable posture that borders on a squirm when he admits, "That's not exactly what I was getting at. I meant... most people don't find out that they're a muse?" Tricky term. "Unless I want them to." He clears his throat at that, pulling up his knees so he can brace his arms across them, his sketchbook wedged between his thighs and his chest now. "I can't say that I agree with B'kaiv, but I would hope-- I would hope you would be flattered, Nissa, rather than offended." /Hope/; not expect. "Will it help to know that you're not the only one overwhelmed?"
"Oh. I see." Nissa's deflating at that answer, shooting him an uncertain glance as she turns her head to rest the side of it on her arms so that her face is towards him. He's also ducking the selling question she's noticed. About flattered she all says is, "T'rev says you do nice work." She gives an uneasy nod, "M'sure we all are overwhelmed, M'try. Jiella is quite vocal about it. But you know... I just..." Her voice trails off, lashes glint gold in the sun as she shuts her eyes. "I'm not offended, M'try. Don't care what's in your mind and on paper. I just... I choose who sees me. Now-" her eyes open, the normally laughing expression in them darkened and seeking understanding, "-now you choose. It's weird for me." A shrug at that odd dichotomy in her life and she laughs shortly, "Makes no sense, I suppose."
Again; "I'm sorry." M'try seems to mean it, but then-- so do small children when they're caught with their hands in the cookie jar. "If it matters, there's no more of it. Of you specifically." No, he hasn't gone cold turkey. "And the likelihood that you'd ever meet anyone who has any of the existing work is slim. Likely, they just assume you're some sort of fantasy girly, certainly not a real person." Her dark eyes meet his placid ones, apologetic but calm. "You'll be all right, Nissa. It's okay to be overwhelmed, just try not to forget about the light at the end of the tunnel. We won't be weyrlings forever, and freedom will be an awfully sweet reward when we taste it again."
Vanissa eyes M'try skeptically for a long moment before her shoulders relax and that haunted look fades from her eyes. Easily, "I forgive ya, M'try." Lips twitch into a half-smile, "Fantasy girly. S'that so?" She ducks her head to hide her amusement, allowing her hair to tumble over her face. From underneath it she laughs, "So when I get that sweet freedom, travel to faraway places and hear that old pickup 'Haven't I seen you before?' I'll know why." She lifts her head, peering over at him, hesitates and then just asks, "Heya M'try. Are your really good pictures very expensive?"
Coughing, covering his lips with the backs of his fingers so the words come out a touch mumbled; "If you do get that line? I recommend a discrete look at the gentleman's lap." M'try demonstrates, a downward glance, a slow-spreading grin replacing his abashed look from before. "Depends on the picture? The Hall generally had a hand in pricing portraiture, sketches are generally fairly cheap, my... specialized work-- I don't set the prices. I sell a stack of pamphlets to a gent who sells them individually at Gathers. Why?" No point pretending the little pervert's not enraptured, in his own customary way, by the whole tumbling hair thing. Fastened attention or no, he seems genuinely curious about the why.
Vanissa bursts out laughing at M'try's comment and demonstration both, "Well, if he's an gross old lecher I may be giving a not-so discreet look at my beltknife as well." Eyes flicker knowingly over that expression of his as he watches her hair, but she doesn't comment. "Um, your really good ones? With detail and shading and... whatever else you put in them- highlights?" She's not an artist, so perhaps she can be forgiven not knowing the terms. She lifts a forefinger warningly, "Not one of your nudie drawings. One with clothes." As to the why, "Well... Ella's birthday is coming up and I think her portrait done by you would be something she might like." Her hands make a motion high-wide of about three feet by two, brows lift as if to ask, 'how much?'
Business as usual, despite distractions, has M'try asking, "Paint or pencil? For paint, I'd need a bit more time than pencil, but whatever you fancy." As to her how-much lift of brows, he answers with a quick, quirky smile; "Considering I've made a bit off of you already, pardon me saying so, we could call it even for the cost of paper." She says nothing about it, so he goes on to point out with an upward tilt of his chin to indicate Vanissa's posture and gesture, "Can you at least comprehend the reason why? It may be no consolation to you, but I don't draw ugly girls." Shaking his hair over his own eyes has a far less alluring quality, more a comically juvenile one, but he does it for affect anyway.
Traders having stopped by the waystation as frequently as they did, Nissa is no stranger to bargaining. She doesn't take the time to blink before answering promptly, "How about one of each? Do a smaller black and white drawing and the big one a painting." He's made some marks off of her, after all. "Ella's turnday is in just about a month. Will that be enough time to finish?" His question draws a slow smile, "Um, thanks? Though surely there's a market out there for ugly too?" One never knows, there might be, after all. She reaches a hand in an attempt to flick at the hair he's shaken over his eyes with a playful forefinger, snorting, "Ya look like some kind of wild runner like that." She tosses her own hair back over her shoulder, adding, "Well, if ya ever decide to sell some with clothes, I wouldn't mind posing for ya. Least I can do." Offering her own olive branch.
M'try tipples his hand doubtfully at the mention of the month, answering in all honesty, "It could be a close call, time wise, with everything else." His eyes flick back toward the barracks and /everything else/ that entails. "But I'll see what I can do." Turning his face up to let Vanissa manage his hair for him, an allowance he's made to a lifetime of shaggy hair and boyish visage, he laughs briefly but brightly at her olive branch. "Nissa, the market for girls with clothes on is perhaps even smaller than the market for ugly girls. And, even if I wasn't too bashful to ask you to pose for me, I'd spend the entire time trying casually to suggest you take your clothes off." He pushes himself up with his sketchbook in one hand, the other offered down to the greenrider; "But thank you. Generous offer."
"Thanks, M'try. If it's late, it's late. I'm sure she'll be just as pleased regardless." That hair managing is much more like an annoying sister-flick than anything else and a snicker to go along with it. "Is it really." Not such a question or a surprise, that. "Told ya we rarely had harpers to the waystation and the ones we had didn't talk art with us." She accepts the hand he offers, rising with a laugh rippling her words, "Bashful. Tsk. I suppose you're fortunate to be blessed with a vivid imagination then." As are others who remain blissfully unaware.
"It's served me well," M'try begins with a quick laugh, folding his fingers beneath Vanissa's while she rises, another laugh at her quip about his bashfulness. Courteous, he tucks her hand to his elbow with a soft pat once it's settled, his steps starting down the path toward the bowl. "And surprisingly few beatings have commenced from it, thankfully. Will you think less of me if I admit that I was genuinely terrified you might pummel me?"
"Few?" There's a light laugh up at M'try as Nissa walks beside him. "But you're young yet. You've plenty of time to collect bruises." She tips her head to watch where her bare feet go, mindful of small rocks. Think less of him? This draws a brief stare and a raised brow, "Um, welllll..." She draws it out, as if considering, then with a twinkle, "Nah. 'Sides, you still can't outrun Jiella." One lid flickers in a half-wink, "Though if I were you, I'd fake it until we all graduate." Does she enlighten him about the pummeling? Not at all.
After a few steps, as if it just occurred to him to notice let alone comment, M'try asks abruptly, "Why aren't you wearing any shoes, Nissa?" He slows his pace after the question, his shoes finding their way slightly off the path to lead where the ground is softer, where there are more patches of grass and fewer pebbles coating the path. "And why didn't occur to me to bolt while you were barefoot? I am such an idiot," with his free hand brought up to cup his forehead in a "d'oh" gesture.
Vanissa doesn't miss a beat, answering M'try's question about her bare feet with a widening grin and a cheeky, "Compensation?" At least her feet were nekkid? She makes a small 'mm' of appreciation as he guides her into the grass, continuing slyly, "Welcome to daw my feet if you have customers with a foot fetish." And here she lifts one foot for his inspection, leaving it to him to decide if it is draw-worthy. At least there are no bunions or thick calluses, always a plus unless marketing for ugly. She coughs, answering at last, "I was just gonna feel the garden dirt between my toes. Sorta like a mini-trip home." As for running, "Well, that would require...thinking." And he was too busy being the proverbial deer-in-the-headlights, but that goes without saying. She snickers, aiming a nudge at him with her shoulder, whether successful or not, it isn't a very hard one.
"Customers?" M'try repeats with a startled blink, makes no pretense that he doesn't take a second and important look at Vanissa's feet while they pick their way along that path edge. "What makes you think I'm not the one with the foot fetish? I am, as I've been told on more than one occasion, a weird little bloke, after all." After a few steps, when he's not oogling her tootsies, he adds in a more serious vein, "You're that homesick?"
Vanissa lowers her foot - otherwise she'd be hopping across the bowl and that's one exercise, thankfully, that Jantha hasn't made them do yet. She just laughs, "Why would that not surprise me?" Foot fetish or weird little bloke, she doesn't specify. "Ya were livin' under that bench when I first met ya, after all." She sobers just a little at his question, nodding, "Yeah. Not used to livin' inside rock walls. Miss the jungle, workin' our gardens, my folks." She quirks a funny smile at him, "You're not from a Weyr. Don't it- doesn't it ever have ya missin' home, even if it's close by?"
Shooting a look back over his shoulder toward the bench, his brows knitting faintly, M'try remarks, "I'm still trying to figure out how I can get Mohraith to fit under there." With his sketchbook tapping against his side the way he holds it tucked to himself, he drops a series of small nods to answer the list of things that she misses, his expression shading sympathetic. "Have you asked at all about working these gardens? I'm sure it's not quite the same as Nerat, but they're amply lush in the summer." People like him oughtn't use terms like amply lush, true. "It's different for me, Nissa," with a simple shrug.
Vanissa lifts her other hand - the one not tucked in the crook of his elbow, one forefinger waves at him to emphasize the point, as she seriously rejoins, "The answer for Mohraith is simple. You give him the upper level." Then he's receiving a look that clearly says 'are you daft?', "Um, nope? See, if I ask and get stuck in there, that sort of defeats the therapy. I sneak in and do a little weeding now and then." She quirks a brow at his shrug, "Different for you, how so?"
"You..." M'try gives up trying to imagine his dragon living on he bench he's living under, his attention now captivated by Vanissa with a furrow in between his brows. "You sneak in here and do a little weeding? Voluntarily, but you're concerned about the possibility of getting to do it as a chore? I might take the risk, personally, and hope I got a little slack with my other responsibilities." With a mind-your-step change of path, avoiding a little clump of herbs that's growing in their current trajectory, he repeats his earlier shrug. "It's just different. Harper Hall is lovely enough, but it's not precisely a Neratian waystation."
Vanissa strides along, picking her way perhaps not as carefully as some might, used to running around barefoot as she was, but she does mind those herbs he's guiding her around. "Slack just seems in too short supply lately for me to take the risk?" She's not really one to press or pry, but that second shrug is eyed a bit skeptically. "Well, no" she agrees, "But most folks miss-" Her comment abruptly halts as she lifts her head and stares towards the weyrling complex. "Shards." Quietly chagrined. "Liath." She slips her hand out of the crook of M'try's elbow, tosses him an apologetic look, and hastens from the garden, turning the pace up to a full sprint once through the gate. keeping to the grass as much as possible.
IC Date: 5/22/21
Herb Garden, Fort Weyr
The herb garden isn't only a feast for the taste buds, but a veritable feast for the eyes and nose as well. All manner of herbs -- from medicinal to the edible -- are grown here and tended to on a regular basis. The area is fenced in, separating it from the rest of the grounds around it, with a trellis arch over the gate leading into it. There are pathways made from bits of irregularly shaped stones that lead between the various plots and patches of the exquisitely aromatic plants, each section deineated with small signs to indicate what's been grown where. Others have been planted in pots or in boxes, though this treatment is only for those that can't thrive in the native soil.
There are a few benches scattered throughout the sprawling garden, providing places for quiet conversation or for gardeners to take a rest. Toward the southeastern corner of the garden is a smallish shack, which contains things such as clippers, baskets, watering cans and other useful tools.
Is there any other way to spend a day as fine as this one but to be outdoors, amid the early herbs and flowers, enjoying the sunshine, the soft breezes, the picturesque landscape... It's likely the latter that has M'try out here at present, in a state very similar to one months and months ago, a first encounter with Vanissa, as a matter of fact. Rather than sitting on the bench, he sits at the foot of it, using the seat to prop his shoulders, his knees bent, his sketchbook open across his thighs, his attention on a likely looking cluster of lavender growing just off the edge of the path. Scribble scribble.
And at least it isn't a miserable rainy day with nothing growing here to draw, which might beg the question what the artist was doing out here all those many days ago. Perhaps he really was contemplating moving in under that bench? It's a question Nissa doesn't ask when she spies her fellow weyrling. She ambles into the garden quietly, hazel eyes taking in the flowers, moving in a lazy way from rose to mint to thyme to... M'try? A tiny gleam lights her eyes and she steps with as soft a tread as possible until she can peek over his shoulder at that sketchpad. Her Neratian drawl sounds almost disappointed, "Huh. Ya draw flowers too? Thought ya only drew girls."
For a moment, there is no hiding the oh-hell look that darkens the green eyes M'try lifts to identify the voice, the owner of the voice. For a second, with a look shot over his shoulder, he visibly contemplates running away-- he doesn't, to his credit, but the thought crosses his mind. "Nissa," he greets with a credible smoothness, flickering a smile into place, a thousand times the harper's polish. "I'm a man of many talents. I also dance and write poetry, but only one of those talents gets me in trouble. Should I have my guard up?" He raises his fists as if to block his chin, pencil caught in his balled up palm.
Vanissa observes that various expressions that flit across M'try's face coolly until he mentions talents, then an almost-feral grin curves her lips, "The question is, is running one of them and can ya outrun Jiella yet?" There's a snort of amusement at the fists he raises, "Think you've had your guard up for quite awhile now." She plops down onto the bench, drawing her legs up until her bare heels are braced on the edge of the bench. See? No looming. She lowers her gaze to contemplate her own feet, wriggling her toes in the warmth of the sun silently for a moment before asking casually, "So are ya in trouble, M'try?" And then lightly, "If ya run, You'll get a head start, but I'm quick and good at tripping from behind. Ask T'rev."
The very first question is met with a slow, simple shake of his head; no, M'try can't outrun Jiella yet (and how sad is that?), so he just scoots a little down the bench to give room for Vanissa to seat herself. "You'll have to tell me if I'm in trouble, Nissa?" he answers back with a questioning lilt, head tipped back and up to keep her in his line of sight. With a long breath blown out, with the quirk of amused lips at the image of being chased down and tripped, he concludes, "I'm sorry. For... however you took... things. I should have said it a while ago, but rumor has it that you're planning my demise, and I'm quite a coward." While he knuckles his hair with a nervous squint.
Vanissa tilts M'try a sideways glance, the sun making her do the squinty-thing through her lashes as she considers his question, but doesn't answer it - yet. "Rumors're funny things," she says at last (perhaps letting him squirm for awhile?) "Murder was never the plan." Her eyes drop from his face to his hands and she comments off-handedly, "Ya have nice fingers. Guess I really shouldn't break every one of them." Hard to tell - she -might- be serious? But then there's that bit of mischief lurking in her voice. Eyes lift back to him and her tone is sweetly sincere, "How I took things. Tell ya what. Why don't ya set me straight, cos I mighta taken things wrong, seein' ya wouldn't ever let me see your book. Did ya draw me without clothes M'try?" Almost plaintively the tone says, 'please say no'.
A nod, rumors are funny things, with M'try adding, "So are old habits." His own attention flickers back to those nice fingers of his, pencil tucked back behind his ear with a deft twirl, a faint smirk that goes unexplained. But the smirk is brief, and he looks away in light of her tone, attention landing on the harmless poseys on his page-- no effort to hide this picture. Finally; "I drew my imagination, which isn't technically you. But as to the heart of your question instead of the semantics. Yes, I did. It's something I do." And verges on apology, his lips folded, his eyes still on his sketch, his sigh sort of long-suffering.
"Ya did." It comes out kind of flat when Nissa says it. She shifts on the bench, but not to punch him, rather to lean and see his page better. "Nice." She might mean that flower he's drawn. Leaning back, she crosses her arms atop her knees, mulling what he's said, "So your imagination. They might not really look like me then? That's what T'rev says anyway." She shrugs, considering that long-suffering sigh of his. Curious, "Guess you've had folks mad at ya b'fore 'bout it?" Her chin is propped on her arms, her gaze travels out over the garden, "Though truth be told, I was more upset with B'kaiv than you."
M'try taps his fingers over the neatly drawn petals on the page, chances a look back up at Vanissa with his brows raised doubtfully. "It might not really look like you, yes." And tomorrow, so says his doubtful tone, the sun might rise in the west. "Generally speaking, people don't find out unless I want them to, so less ill-will than you might think. I haven't been as circumspect as I should have been since coming to the Weyr." He maintains a look at the greenrider all the while, hunts her expression-- for forgiveness, likely. "Why were you upset at B'kaiv, Nissa? If you don't mind my asking."
Vanissa flashes a mild look at M'try for that doubtful tone of his and she frowns just a wee bit, "And... then again they might." His searching look catches her and she meets it without flinching or pique. It's mostly puzzlement lurking in the hazel glints. "Um, so nobody finds out unless... Ya mean you're not selling nekkid pictures of me to folks, M'try?" Back to the garden and she's thoughtful as she forms her answer, "B'kaiv-" She immediately calms the aggrieved tone and starts over, almost sullenly, "Dunno why his opinion matters, but he said stuff 'bout me bein' with some so what's it matter if others see." Her eyes take on an unfocused look as she raises her gaze up to the edge of the bowl's walls, "Back home things were just easy-like. No one pried or judged or invaded my privacy. Things were my choice. I just..." She shrugs, "I just dunno how to say, M'try. It's all been-" a handflip to include the Weyr, her Impression and the new life along with it "-overwhelming."
With a ducked head, M'try grants her assumption as far more likely-- they might. The duck increases until he's hunched into his own shoulders, an uncomfortable posture that borders on a squirm when he admits, "That's not exactly what I was getting at. I meant... most people don't find out that they're a muse?" Tricky term. "Unless I want them to." He clears his throat at that, pulling up his knees so he can brace his arms across them, his sketchbook wedged between his thighs and his chest now. "I can't say that I agree with B'kaiv, but I would hope-- I would hope you would be flattered, Nissa, rather than offended." /Hope/; not expect. "Will it help to know that you're not the only one overwhelmed?"
"Oh. I see." Nissa's deflating at that answer, shooting him an uncertain glance as she turns her head to rest the side of it on her arms so that her face is towards him. He's also ducking the selling question she's noticed. About flattered she all says is, "T'rev says you do nice work." She gives an uneasy nod, "M'sure we all are overwhelmed, M'try. Jiella is quite vocal about it. But you know... I just..." Her voice trails off, lashes glint gold in the sun as she shuts her eyes. "I'm not offended, M'try. Don't care what's in your mind and on paper. I just... I choose who sees me. Now-" her eyes open, the normally laughing expression in them darkened and seeking understanding, "-now you choose. It's weird for me." A shrug at that odd dichotomy in her life and she laughs shortly, "Makes no sense, I suppose."
Again; "I'm sorry." M'try seems to mean it, but then-- so do small children when they're caught with their hands in the cookie jar. "If it matters, there's no more of it. Of you specifically." No, he hasn't gone cold turkey. "And the likelihood that you'd ever meet anyone who has any of the existing work is slim. Likely, they just assume you're some sort of fantasy girly, certainly not a real person." Her dark eyes meet his placid ones, apologetic but calm. "You'll be all right, Nissa. It's okay to be overwhelmed, just try not to forget about the light at the end of the tunnel. We won't be weyrlings forever, and freedom will be an awfully sweet reward when we taste it again."
Vanissa eyes M'try skeptically for a long moment before her shoulders relax and that haunted look fades from her eyes. Easily, "I forgive ya, M'try." Lips twitch into a half-smile, "Fantasy girly. S'that so?" She ducks her head to hide her amusement, allowing her hair to tumble over her face. From underneath it she laughs, "So when I get that sweet freedom, travel to faraway places and hear that old pickup 'Haven't I seen you before?' I'll know why." She lifts her head, peering over at him, hesitates and then just asks, "Heya M'try. Are your really good pictures very expensive?"
Coughing, covering his lips with the backs of his fingers so the words come out a touch mumbled; "If you do get that line? I recommend a discrete look at the gentleman's lap." M'try demonstrates, a downward glance, a slow-spreading grin replacing his abashed look from before. "Depends on the picture? The Hall generally had a hand in pricing portraiture, sketches are generally fairly cheap, my... specialized work-- I don't set the prices. I sell a stack of pamphlets to a gent who sells them individually at Gathers. Why?" No point pretending the little pervert's not enraptured, in his own customary way, by the whole tumbling hair thing. Fastened attention or no, he seems genuinely curious about the why.
Vanissa bursts out laughing at M'try's comment and demonstration both, "Well, if he's an gross old lecher I may be giving a not-so discreet look at my beltknife as well." Eyes flicker knowingly over that expression of his as he watches her hair, but she doesn't comment. "Um, your really good ones? With detail and shading and... whatever else you put in them- highlights?" She's not an artist, so perhaps she can be forgiven not knowing the terms. She lifts a forefinger warningly, "Not one of your nudie drawings. One with clothes." As to the why, "Well... Ella's birthday is coming up and I think her portrait done by you would be something she might like." Her hands make a motion high-wide of about three feet by two, brows lift as if to ask, 'how much?'
Business as usual, despite distractions, has M'try asking, "Paint or pencil? For paint, I'd need a bit more time than pencil, but whatever you fancy." As to her how-much lift of brows, he answers with a quick, quirky smile; "Considering I've made a bit off of you already, pardon me saying so, we could call it even for the cost of paper." She says nothing about it, so he goes on to point out with an upward tilt of his chin to indicate Vanissa's posture and gesture, "Can you at least comprehend the reason why? It may be no consolation to you, but I don't draw ugly girls." Shaking his hair over his own eyes has a far less alluring quality, more a comically juvenile one, but he does it for affect anyway.
Traders having stopped by the waystation as frequently as they did, Nissa is no stranger to bargaining. She doesn't take the time to blink before answering promptly, "How about one of each? Do a smaller black and white drawing and the big one a painting." He's made some marks off of her, after all. "Ella's turnday is in just about a month. Will that be enough time to finish?" His question draws a slow smile, "Um, thanks? Though surely there's a market out there for ugly too?" One never knows, there might be, after all. She reaches a hand in an attempt to flick at the hair he's shaken over his eyes with a playful forefinger, snorting, "Ya look like some kind of wild runner like that." She tosses her own hair back over her shoulder, adding, "Well, if ya ever decide to sell some with clothes, I wouldn't mind posing for ya. Least I can do." Offering her own olive branch.
M'try tipples his hand doubtfully at the mention of the month, answering in all honesty, "It could be a close call, time wise, with everything else." His eyes flick back toward the barracks and /everything else/ that entails. "But I'll see what I can do." Turning his face up to let Vanissa manage his hair for him, an allowance he's made to a lifetime of shaggy hair and boyish visage, he laughs briefly but brightly at her olive branch. "Nissa, the market for girls with clothes on is perhaps even smaller than the market for ugly girls. And, even if I wasn't too bashful to ask you to pose for me, I'd spend the entire time trying casually to suggest you take your clothes off." He pushes himself up with his sketchbook in one hand, the other offered down to the greenrider; "But thank you. Generous offer."
"Thanks, M'try. If it's late, it's late. I'm sure she'll be just as pleased regardless." That hair managing is much more like an annoying sister-flick than anything else and a snicker to go along with it. "Is it really." Not such a question or a surprise, that. "Told ya we rarely had harpers to the waystation and the ones we had didn't talk art with us." She accepts the hand he offers, rising with a laugh rippling her words, "Bashful. Tsk. I suppose you're fortunate to be blessed with a vivid imagination then." As are others who remain blissfully unaware.
"It's served me well," M'try begins with a quick laugh, folding his fingers beneath Vanissa's while she rises, another laugh at her quip about his bashfulness. Courteous, he tucks her hand to his elbow with a soft pat once it's settled, his steps starting down the path toward the bowl. "And surprisingly few beatings have commenced from it, thankfully. Will you think less of me if I admit that I was genuinely terrified you might pummel me?"
"Few?" There's a light laugh up at M'try as Nissa walks beside him. "But you're young yet. You've plenty of time to collect bruises." She tips her head to watch where her bare feet go, mindful of small rocks. Think less of him? This draws a brief stare and a raised brow, "Um, welllll..." She draws it out, as if considering, then with a twinkle, "Nah. 'Sides, you still can't outrun Jiella." One lid flickers in a half-wink, "Though if I were you, I'd fake it until we all graduate." Does she enlighten him about the pummeling? Not at all.
After a few steps, as if it just occurred to him to notice let alone comment, M'try asks abruptly, "Why aren't you wearing any shoes, Nissa?" He slows his pace after the question, his shoes finding their way slightly off the path to lead where the ground is softer, where there are more patches of grass and fewer pebbles coating the path. "And why didn't occur to me to bolt while you were barefoot? I am such an idiot," with his free hand brought up to cup his forehead in a "d'oh" gesture.
Vanissa doesn't miss a beat, answering M'try's question about her bare feet with a widening grin and a cheeky, "Compensation?" At least her feet were nekkid? She makes a small 'mm' of appreciation as he guides her into the grass, continuing slyly, "Welcome to daw my feet if you have customers with a foot fetish." And here she lifts one foot for his inspection, leaving it to him to decide if it is draw-worthy. At least there are no bunions or thick calluses, always a plus unless marketing for ugly. She coughs, answering at last, "I was just gonna feel the garden dirt between my toes. Sorta like a mini-trip home." As for running, "Well, that would require...thinking." And he was too busy being the proverbial deer-in-the-headlights, but that goes without saying. She snickers, aiming a nudge at him with her shoulder, whether successful or not, it isn't a very hard one.
"Customers?" M'try repeats with a startled blink, makes no pretense that he doesn't take a second and important look at Vanissa's feet while they pick their way along that path edge. "What makes you think I'm not the one with the foot fetish? I am, as I've been told on more than one occasion, a weird little bloke, after all." After a few steps, when he's not oogling her tootsies, he adds in a more serious vein, "You're that homesick?"
Vanissa lowers her foot - otherwise she'd be hopping across the bowl and that's one exercise, thankfully, that Jantha hasn't made them do yet. She just laughs, "Why would that not surprise me?" Foot fetish or weird little bloke, she doesn't specify. "Ya were livin' under that bench when I first met ya, after all." She sobers just a little at his question, nodding, "Yeah. Not used to livin' inside rock walls. Miss the jungle, workin' our gardens, my folks." She quirks a funny smile at him, "You're not from a Weyr. Don't it- doesn't it ever have ya missin' home, even if it's close by?"
Shooting a look back over his shoulder toward the bench, his brows knitting faintly, M'try remarks, "I'm still trying to figure out how I can get Mohraith to fit under there." With his sketchbook tapping against his side the way he holds it tucked to himself, he drops a series of small nods to answer the list of things that she misses, his expression shading sympathetic. "Have you asked at all about working these gardens? I'm sure it's not quite the same as Nerat, but they're amply lush in the summer." People like him oughtn't use terms like amply lush, true. "It's different for me, Nissa," with a simple shrug.
Vanissa lifts her other hand - the one not tucked in the crook of his elbow, one forefinger waves at him to emphasize the point, as she seriously rejoins, "The answer for Mohraith is simple. You give him the upper level." Then he's receiving a look that clearly says 'are you daft?', "Um, nope? See, if I ask and get stuck in there, that sort of defeats the therapy. I sneak in and do a little weeding now and then." She quirks a brow at his shrug, "Different for you, how so?"
"You..." M'try gives up trying to imagine his dragon living on he bench he's living under, his attention now captivated by Vanissa with a furrow in between his brows. "You sneak in here and do a little weeding? Voluntarily, but you're concerned about the possibility of getting to do it as a chore? I might take the risk, personally, and hope I got a little slack with my other responsibilities." With a mind-your-step change of path, avoiding a little clump of herbs that's growing in their current trajectory, he repeats his earlier shrug. "It's just different. Harper Hall is lovely enough, but it's not precisely a Neratian waystation."
Vanissa strides along, picking her way perhaps not as carefully as some might, used to running around barefoot as she was, but she does mind those herbs he's guiding her around. "Slack just seems in too short supply lately for me to take the risk?" She's not really one to press or pry, but that second shrug is eyed a bit skeptically. "Well, no" she agrees, "But most folks miss-" Her comment abruptly halts as she lifts her head and stares towards the weyrling complex. "Shards." Quietly chagrined. "Liath." She slips her hand out of the crook of M'try's elbow, tosses him an apologetic look, and hastens from the garden, turning the pace up to a full sprint once through the gate. keeping to the grass as much as possible.