log [ if at first you don't succeed ]
Where: Patio & Garden, Benden Weyr
Who: Esseira, H'lam
What: More failed attempts at eliciting laughter from everyone's favorite vortex.
Patio Spring. Rain. 47F / 8C.
A very small plot of land has been reserved for the kitchen garden. It covers no more than 100 feet by 100 feet, tucked along the wall of the bowl near the lake where water is easy to bring and where shade is available for the more tender plants. There are about ten rows of various herbs here, at bloom or dormant during different seasons. Just off to one side, a set of steps carved into the wall of the bowl leads to an adjacent, slightly raised patio.
Situated on a ledge about twenty-five feet off the ground, facing west overlooking the lake, up a short flight of unguarded steps, the patio is a simple place to get some fresh air. The ledge itself is smaller than most of the Weyr's inner rooms, host only to a few weather-sturdy pieces of furniture. A wrought-iron bench, a chair carved out of the stone itself, two wrought-iron tables, and the occasional wooden bench or chair dragged out by an enterprising visitor.
Sitting in her favorite place of the patio, Esseira leans back against the armchair of the stone chair, a sheaf of hides in her hand and a thin shaft of charcoal in the other as she makes an idle mark here or there. Carefully moving one hand to hold both charcoal and hides briefly, she drops a hand down to her side to draw the rich blue coat she wears closer about her before returning it to the hides.
H'lam's amble up the stairs is just that - casual, not rushed or bothered by anything. His hands are in his pockets, his head down, and while it's doubtful that he doesn't immediately notice the Weyrwoman, he doesn't acknowledge her, but instead moves to one of the chairs and settles into it. His movements are easy, and his legs are drawn to his chest so he's a small ball in the seat, and from that moment he remains very, very still, eyes cast out across the bowl. Because Faranth knows if he doesn't move nobody can see him.
The Weyrwoman seems to sense H'lam's impending approach, and accordingly so, doesn't even move. As he crosses her field of vision, she simply raises her gaze to follow him until he's to the far side of her vision and her eyes just drop back to the hide. "Did you know that there are three kinds of people, H'lam?" She says, by way of greeting to the bronzerider, pausing briefly. "Those who can count and those who can't." Ba-dum ching!
H'lam doesn't move. He might as well be a statue, permenantly and artfully attached to his seat, looking completely pensive about the world. Esse's words don't even seem to register, at least not at first. Then his brows crease down slightly, making his normally smooth forehead wrinkle. He angles his head, looking extremely disappointed in the goldrider, and says, plainly, "That's only two."
In all honesty, it really seems like Esseira's working on her hides. Really. Until she finally gives up and freezes, simply waiting for H'lam's response. It's not what she was wanting. A long suffering sigh, "Yes. That's the point. That joke's making fun of the person talking. By saying it, it's making me look stup..." A narrow look to the weyrling, and another sigh. "You're just a lost cause, aren't you?"
"Why is it such a cause," H'lam retorts, but not quick enough to make it sound like a challenge; matter of fact, he still sounds somewhat bored by the whole thing. It's his eyes, which have turned thier attentions fully to her, that betray him: he's bothered, for whatever reason, and if he was prone to it he'd no doubt be pacing and ranting. "I'm sure you don't need a joke to make them loo--" Stop. Rewind. H'lam closes his mouth, seems to think (or listen?) and then decides, "I don't get it."
This causes Esseira to frow, lips pursing. "It's a cause because... Well, do you not wonder why people laugh? I'm sure you've seen plenty of people laughing, but I don't think I've seen you laugh once. Ever." This is apparently quite a troubling fact to the Weyrwoman. "Don't need a joke to make who what?" If H'lam was aiming to confuse, he was successful. "Don't get...what? The humor? The joke? Laughing..?"
"I'm sure they have a good reason for it; or think they do," H'lam surmises, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket and shrugging off whether or not she's seen him laugh. Sure, it'd be easy for him to confirm or deny, but that's one of those things she undoubtedly knows the answer to already, and would be a waste of breathe to reiterate. "Any of it, I suppose."
"So... does that mean you have no reason to laugh? At all?" Esseira inquires curiously, a hint of earnestness in her voice. Her hand lowers the hides to rest against her lap, attention fully upon H'lam. "Any of it? Hokay... Well, lets start with irony. Irony is a good source of humor. Irony is simply the opposite of what you might expect. When people see something ironic, they usually laugh or chuckle--or at least smile."
H'lam holds out one hand, palm-up, almost apologetically. "Guess not." In anyone else it would just be being contrary, but H'lam's sincerity is unshakable. He looks momentarily exasperated. "I know what irony is," he sighs, "I just ...it's not funny. It's ...duly noted."
Esseira looks at him shrewdly for a long moment, eyes narrowed as she studies his response, expression moving quickly from suspicious to confused to something akin to pity. "I... guess not everyone can. I suppose I laugh enough for the both of us." Wryly, the Weyrwoman smirks at this. "Most people note the fact with laugher instead is all. I don't know many, anyone, really, who sees or hears something humorous and doesn't even crack a grin. Maybe it's my problem."
"I suppose," H'lam agrees. "You'd better, since it bothers you so much." His hand has found his pocket again, and when it withdraws he's got a small piece of peppermint stick, which he promptly sticks in his mouth. "You know someone now," the bronze weyrling provides lightly, one eyebrow raising. Look on the bright side?
The Weyrwoman's eyes narrow again, suspicion in her eyes all over. "H'lam," Slowly, even uncomprehendingly. "You... Was that /sarcasm/ I detected?" Alert the Weyr! She blinks somewhat owlishly at him, shocked. "I suppose that /is/ true, though. My catelog of people types is nearly complete!"
H'lam blinks once at her, perturbed. "Probably not," he says, shaking his head to one side just barely. He does seem to be particularly intrigued, though, by her next statement, and he even leans forward slightly. "You catalogue people?" This does not seem to be a good sort of interest, not for a second, but it's odd enough to keep him talking - or at least aware.
A sigh is heaved before Esseira shakes her head. "You can't fault a girl for trying." Squirming a bit to sit a little more upright as she leans against the armrest, blinking for a moment. A brow creases before she attempts slowly, "I... No, I don't really. Or at least not consciously. I was simply being sarcastic."
"Hmmm." He's quiet for a good few minutes after that, his eyes turning back to the distance across the bowl. It's five minutes, then six, then seven, before, "It helps. Cataloguing. Take stock of people, figure out where they fit in."
Esseira doesn't veil a glance every now and again over to H'lam, a little confused, perhaps, before tilting a head at his words. "I suppose it doesn't hurt, no. But I don't think everyone can be catalogued, really." A spark alights in the Weyrwoman's eyes, and she fixes him with a closer look. "Where do I fit in among the people you've catalogued, I wonder?"
"They can, if you look at them objectively," H'lam corrects. All at once, the bronzerider uncurls himself from the chair, dusts invisible offenders from his pantlegs and collar, and shrugs. "You probably wouldn't want to hear it," he remarks in a voice that says he's giving her fair warning; and then he's adding, quietly, "Excuse me," and moving down the stairs with that same ambling walk he came on.
"I suppose there's a fair argument to that.." Ailuth's is caught offguard by this, however, an eyebrow raising at that challenge. "I'm sure I could handle it, but s'up to you, I suppose. 'Night, then, H'lam." She gives him a short wave before returning to her hides.
Who: Esseira, H'lam
What: More failed attempts at eliciting laughter from everyone's favorite vortex.
Patio Spring. Rain. 47F / 8C.
A very small plot of land has been reserved for the kitchen garden. It covers no more than 100 feet by 100 feet, tucked along the wall of the bowl near the lake where water is easy to bring and where shade is available for the more tender plants. There are about ten rows of various herbs here, at bloom or dormant during different seasons. Just off to one side, a set of steps carved into the wall of the bowl leads to an adjacent, slightly raised patio.
Situated on a ledge about twenty-five feet off the ground, facing west overlooking the lake, up a short flight of unguarded steps, the patio is a simple place to get some fresh air. The ledge itself is smaller than most of the Weyr's inner rooms, host only to a few weather-sturdy pieces of furniture. A wrought-iron bench, a chair carved out of the stone itself, two wrought-iron tables, and the occasional wooden bench or chair dragged out by an enterprising visitor.
Sitting in her favorite place of the patio, Esseira leans back against the armchair of the stone chair, a sheaf of hides in her hand and a thin shaft of charcoal in the other as she makes an idle mark here or there. Carefully moving one hand to hold both charcoal and hides briefly, she drops a hand down to her side to draw the rich blue coat she wears closer about her before returning it to the hides.
H'lam's amble up the stairs is just that - casual, not rushed or bothered by anything. His hands are in his pockets, his head down, and while it's doubtful that he doesn't immediately notice the Weyrwoman, he doesn't acknowledge her, but instead moves to one of the chairs and settles into it. His movements are easy, and his legs are drawn to his chest so he's a small ball in the seat, and from that moment he remains very, very still, eyes cast out across the bowl. Because Faranth knows if he doesn't move nobody can see him.
The Weyrwoman seems to sense H'lam's impending approach, and accordingly so, doesn't even move. As he crosses her field of vision, she simply raises her gaze to follow him until he's to the far side of her vision and her eyes just drop back to the hide. "Did you know that there are three kinds of people, H'lam?" She says, by way of greeting to the bronzerider, pausing briefly. "Those who can count and those who can't." Ba-dum ching!
H'lam doesn't move. He might as well be a statue, permenantly and artfully attached to his seat, looking completely pensive about the world. Esse's words don't even seem to register, at least not at first. Then his brows crease down slightly, making his normally smooth forehead wrinkle. He angles his head, looking extremely disappointed in the goldrider, and says, plainly, "That's only two."
In all honesty, it really seems like Esseira's working on her hides. Really. Until she finally gives up and freezes, simply waiting for H'lam's response. It's not what she was wanting. A long suffering sigh, "Yes. That's the point. That joke's making fun of the person talking. By saying it, it's making me look stup..." A narrow look to the weyrling, and another sigh. "You're just a lost cause, aren't you?"
"Why is it such a cause," H'lam retorts, but not quick enough to make it sound like a challenge; matter of fact, he still sounds somewhat bored by the whole thing. It's his eyes, which have turned thier attentions fully to her, that betray him: he's bothered, for whatever reason, and if he was prone to it he'd no doubt be pacing and ranting. "I'm sure you don't need a joke to make them loo--" Stop. Rewind. H'lam closes his mouth, seems to think (or listen?) and then decides, "I don't get it."
This causes Esseira to frow, lips pursing. "It's a cause because... Well, do you not wonder why people laugh? I'm sure you've seen plenty of people laughing, but I don't think I've seen you laugh once. Ever." This is apparently quite a troubling fact to the Weyrwoman. "Don't need a joke to make who what?" If H'lam was aiming to confuse, he was successful. "Don't get...what? The humor? The joke? Laughing..?"
"I'm sure they have a good reason for it; or think they do," H'lam surmises, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket and shrugging off whether or not she's seen him laugh. Sure, it'd be easy for him to confirm or deny, but that's one of those things she undoubtedly knows the answer to already, and would be a waste of breathe to reiterate. "Any of it, I suppose."
"So... does that mean you have no reason to laugh? At all?" Esseira inquires curiously, a hint of earnestness in her voice. Her hand lowers the hides to rest against her lap, attention fully upon H'lam. "Any of it? Hokay... Well, lets start with irony. Irony is a good source of humor. Irony is simply the opposite of what you might expect. When people see something ironic, they usually laugh or chuckle--or at least smile."
H'lam holds out one hand, palm-up, almost apologetically. "Guess not." In anyone else it would just be being contrary, but H'lam's sincerity is unshakable. He looks momentarily exasperated. "I know what irony is," he sighs, "I just ...it's not funny. It's ...duly noted."
Esseira looks at him shrewdly for a long moment, eyes narrowed as she studies his response, expression moving quickly from suspicious to confused to something akin to pity. "I... guess not everyone can. I suppose I laugh enough for the both of us." Wryly, the Weyrwoman smirks at this. "Most people note the fact with laugher instead is all. I don't know many, anyone, really, who sees or hears something humorous and doesn't even crack a grin. Maybe it's my problem."
"I suppose," H'lam agrees. "You'd better, since it bothers you so much." His hand has found his pocket again, and when it withdraws he's got a small piece of peppermint stick, which he promptly sticks in his mouth. "You know someone now," the bronze weyrling provides lightly, one eyebrow raising. Look on the bright side?
The Weyrwoman's eyes narrow again, suspicion in her eyes all over. "H'lam," Slowly, even uncomprehendingly. "You... Was that /sarcasm/ I detected?" Alert the Weyr! She blinks somewhat owlishly at him, shocked. "I suppose that /is/ true, though. My catelog of people types is nearly complete!"
H'lam blinks once at her, perturbed. "Probably not," he says, shaking his head to one side just barely. He does seem to be particularly intrigued, though, by her next statement, and he even leans forward slightly. "You catalogue people?" This does not seem to be a good sort of interest, not for a second, but it's odd enough to keep him talking - or at least aware.
A sigh is heaved before Esseira shakes her head. "You can't fault a girl for trying." Squirming a bit to sit a little more upright as she leans against the armrest, blinking for a moment. A brow creases before she attempts slowly, "I... No, I don't really. Or at least not consciously. I was simply being sarcastic."
"Hmmm." He's quiet for a good few minutes after that, his eyes turning back to the distance across the bowl. It's five minutes, then six, then seven, before, "It helps. Cataloguing. Take stock of people, figure out where they fit in."
Esseira doesn't veil a glance every now and again over to H'lam, a little confused, perhaps, before tilting a head at his words. "I suppose it doesn't hurt, no. But I don't think everyone can be catalogued, really." A spark alights in the Weyrwoman's eyes, and she fixes him with a closer look. "Where do I fit in among the people you've catalogued, I wonder?"
"They can, if you look at them objectively," H'lam corrects. All at once, the bronzerider uncurls himself from the chair, dusts invisible offenders from his pantlegs and collar, and shrugs. "You probably wouldn't want to hear it," he remarks in a voice that says he's giving her fair warning; and then he's adding, quietly, "Excuse me," and moving down the stairs with that same ambling walk he came on.
"I suppose there's a fair argument to that.." Ailuth's is caught offguard by this, however, an eyebrow raising at that challenge. "I'm sure I could handle it, but s'up to you, I suppose. 'Night, then, H'lam." She gives him a short wave before returning to her hides.