Meeting N'rov
Who: N'rov, Palia
When: It is a spring afternoon, 14:31 of day 18, month 5, turn 34 of Interval 10.
Where: Work Rooms, Fort Weyr
What: N'rov is looking for a man who owes him a favor, Palia winds up owing him one too.
>---< Local Weather for FTW >------------------------------------------------<
Current Temp: 61 F Today's Lo/Hi: 52 F / 76 F
Belior: waning gibbous Timor: new
Weather: Foggy
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dense fog greets the morning and lingers until well after midday when the
sun finally breaks through enough to start dispelling the mist.
>-----------------------------------< 14:32 D18 M5 T34, spring afternoon >---<
Mid-afternoon is often a busy time in the work rooms, various crafters busy at work tasks, but it's turned into a nice day after a foggy, wet morning, so there's only a handful of folk occupying the work tables today. Palia is one of them, perched at one of the higher tables, one booted foot hooked around the chair's leg, the other swinging freely back and forth, while she chews on the end of her pencil. There's a mixed stack of hides, books and papers in front of her, though the immediate subject of her work seems to be a single sheet caught under one elbow, the shape of the characters look more like musical notes than writing. The apprentice seems more interested in what's going around the cavern however, gaze roaming idly from person to person: the chubby weaver cutting what looks like a new pattern, the baker writing down what are probably recipes, a leather-working punching holes in piece of green leather.
In strides a tanned man, his hair cropped too short to curl, a ''man on a mission'' if his intent expression is anything to go by; his bronzerider's knot bears Southern's colors, and yet there's nothing in the least tentative to him. He scans the cavern, bypassing the pencil-chewer; frowns; crouches to glance under the tables; and then starts for the quiet workroom to try its door.
It's the purposeful stride that catches Palia's attention and gray eyes track N'rov across the room. The Southern knot earns a slight brow wrinkle, but it smoothes out rapidly, giving way to neutral, right before she speaks up. "Are you looking for a kid, or something dropped?" the apprentice harper directs rider-ward: her own knot clearly displays her rank and craft affiliation, though her clothing is non-descript: tunic, pants, boots. Her hair is largely tamed back into a tail at the back of her head, though it's taken two leather straps to keep it that way.
It's after he checks the quiet workroom, apparently to no avail, that N'rov turns back: just long enough to appraise her, and to say dryly, "A leatherworker of the vagrant variety, it seems." Then, "New?" as though she might be the interloper and not he. Another long, sweeping look and he's off for the production workroom, not waiting for her reply but then again, he's still in earshot.
The answer earns a quirk of Palia's lips, not quite a smile, but almost. She opens her mouth to address "New?" but N'rov turns away and that earns a raised brow. She shifts in her seat, both feet dropping to rest on the chair's cross bar and both elbows to the tabletop. "Yes and no," she lifts her voice a little to reach the bronzerider and earns a /look/ from the pattern-cutting weaver. "Haven't seen any other leatherworkers except him," she points her pencil to the hole-puncher, since lunch."
No luck there either, if the quick way he pivots is any indication once the door closes behind him; "/That/ one," N'rov says as he approaches, "is a staid, staying-put leatherworker of whom I would heartily approve, except that /he/ doesn't owe me a favor." He cocks his head at the man, who by now is listening in, "Do you?" It's amused, as though he'd be so very glad to be wrong; the two engage in a brief conversation that ends with the missing man purportedly having a case of the runs and N'rov swearing that no, he's not going to follow him in there. Which leaves him at loose ends, drumming his fingers on the tabletop, after a moment glancing towards the weaver's pattern and then Palia's music like he might snatch up the latter at any moment.
"Staid and staying-put have their merits," Palia observes briefly, falls silent during the exchange between the two men, during which her pencil becomes a chew-toy again. "What kind of favor?" she queries, "Or is that private?" once N'rov's at loose ends and apparently in danger of committing theft when bored.
"Nothing terribly embarrassing," N'rov tells her, grey gaze swinging her way, with the implication that that makes it not terribly /interesting/. "'Yes and no,' you said?" His drumming fingers take up a new occupation, spinner-creeping towards the edge of her music with slow intent.
"So not the sort of thing anyone else could help with," Palia states, more than questions, though there's a hint of lilt on the end of the sentence. Spinner-creeping fingers are noticed and the harper simply pushes the sheet over in their general direction: "Also nothing terribly embarrassing," she remarks with a little matter-of-fact shrug. A half-completed composition, the music is barely sketched in, four lines of lyrics about the duties of the Weyr. "I was born here, lived here when I was a little kid, moved to Ista, grew up there, apprenticed, now I'm back," she summarizes succinctly.
"Could," says N'rov with a sideways look at that other leatherworker there, "except then I'd owe him, and what fun would that be." The other man clears his throat; N'rov does consent to lower his voice a fraction, but then, he's looking over the music and spotting... duties. Duties, duties, duties. "Well, welcome back," he says, sliding the music back to the harper with a quick smile, teeth flashing white against that tanned face.
"So ... you like being the one owed," Palia remarks, this time with a full grin that dimples her cheek very deeply. Her sheet of music is reclaimed and her expression shifts, nose wrinkling. "It's an assignment. I was hoping by posting out I'd get fewer assignments and more real harper work, but it's both instead: help teach the kids in the morning, assignments in the afternoon." One finger pushes the paper slightly away toward the stack. "Thanks." Pause. "Haven't I seen you around with a Fort knot before?" head-tilt and a slight squint the general direction of the Southern knot.
"Don't you?" remarks N'rov with a conspiratorial lift of one brow. Not that it's going to last, given the talk of /assignments/ and /teaching/ that summons a wry twist to his mouth. "Ease into it, I suppose. Still, you look old enough to have walking the tables not too far off in your future. As for the knot, would you believe me if I said I stole it?"
Palia only smiles quickly in answer to that conspiratorial brow lift, a quick flash of teeth. "Something like that," she agrees about 'easing into it'. "At least it's not hard for now," she allows with a shrug. "Mm. Next turn or two, maybe." Palia considers the Southern knot for a moment longer and smiles sweetly up at the bronzerider. "Who from? A drunken bronzerider sleeping it off in a bar?" Wide-eyed blinking, clearly feigned.
He laughs. "No, that's too easy," N'rov determines /without/ a sideways glance at the man who's not-unamusedly cleared his throat again. "Those are an eighth the dozen. I like to think it'd have involved more derring-do than /that/. Although I did brave the wrath of my wingleader to do it," except for the part where N'muir was actually far more sympathetic than not. "It's on loan. I'm to be back for good in a few months. Ali, you know; I'm N'rov."
"Of course they are," Palia agrees, true mirth warming her eyes. "Seen them all the time at Ista, just lying around, heads down ... mostly at the Sandbar, sometimes at Papa's place." Laughter at the supposed bravery to obtain said knot. "Vhaeryth's," she puts the other piece of the puzzle together and sits up a bit straighter, offers her hand, palm up. "Palia, nice to meet you, sir." Because it's 'sir' now, of course.
"'Papa's place'?" N'rov leans to cross Palia's palm. "Well met, Palia." Brief amusement colors his expression, that repetitive 'p' given extra emphasis. "Vhaeryth's made himself at home. Of course, it's getting into autumn there, but it's not like it's going to stop being warm." His voice carries Southern Boll's drawl with it, too, inflected with that far more than with Southern Weyr or even Fort.
"The Beach House at Ista. He used to run it," Palia elaborates on the alliteration. "Good your bronze has been able to settle in so easily. Moving can be tough, autumn there's a far cry from autumn here though, nice and warm. The weather ought to be a nice break from the chill up here, hm? You're from Boll originally, sir?"
'Used to' gets a crook of one brow, but even so N'rov is nodding, like the place is familiar; he nods again to confirm Boll, more amused than surprised. "It's about as good as it gets," he says. "Coming here from Boll... well, let's just say I might feel your pain when you moved from Ista to Harper. Although, maybe ''you'' liked it." He gives her a mock-suspicious look, though one that disappears when he looks past her towards the doorway. "But he's ready; I'd best report in. Any last words, Palia?" Last chance.
"Yeah, it took ... two turns to get used to the cold," Palia agrees. "And I still miss the surfing." Genuine regret colors her expression for that particular pasttime, likely very hard to fit in except in passing. Her gaze does not track after his, likely used to rider behavior vis-a-vis dragons as a lifelong weyrbrat. "Good luck with that," reporting in, she offers, then laughs. "Actually, if you wouldn't mind passing this to Azath's rider when you get back to Southern, I'd owe you a favor." Reaching into her pile of stuff, she extracts a sealed letter. "Not that I'd expect messenger service, but if it's not /too/ inconvenient ..."
N'rov's shrug is an easy one, as he reaches to pluck the letter from her hands, despite the face he'd made at the mention of that particular dragon's name. "I'll make it happen," he says. "Even if I have to drop it off and run, yeah?" And with that he's going, going, gone.
"Running might be a good idea," Palia agrees with a little wry quirk of her mouth. "And thank you." That's earnest enough. A little wiggle of her fingers follows him out. "Clear skies, sir."
When: It is a spring afternoon, 14:31 of day 18, month 5, turn 34 of Interval 10.
Where: Work Rooms, Fort Weyr
What: N'rov is looking for a man who owes him a favor, Palia winds up owing him one too.
>---< Local Weather for FTW >------------------------------------------------<
Current Temp: 61 F Today's Lo/Hi: 52 F / 76 F
Belior: waning gibbous Timor: new
Weather: Foggy
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dense fog greets the morning and lingers until well after midday when the
sun finally breaks through enough to start dispelling the mist.
>-----------------------------------< 14:32 D18 M5 T34, spring afternoon >---<
Mid-afternoon is often a busy time in the work rooms, various crafters busy at work tasks, but it's turned into a nice day after a foggy, wet morning, so there's only a handful of folk occupying the work tables today. Palia is one of them, perched at one of the higher tables, one booted foot hooked around the chair's leg, the other swinging freely back and forth, while she chews on the end of her pencil. There's a mixed stack of hides, books and papers in front of her, though the immediate subject of her work seems to be a single sheet caught under one elbow, the shape of the characters look more like musical notes than writing. The apprentice seems more interested in what's going around the cavern however, gaze roaming idly from person to person: the chubby weaver cutting what looks like a new pattern, the baker writing down what are probably recipes, a leather-working punching holes in piece of green leather.
In strides a tanned man, his hair cropped too short to curl, a ''man on a mission'' if his intent expression is anything to go by; his bronzerider's knot bears Southern's colors, and yet there's nothing in the least tentative to him. He scans the cavern, bypassing the pencil-chewer; frowns; crouches to glance under the tables; and then starts for the quiet workroom to try its door.
It's the purposeful stride that catches Palia's attention and gray eyes track N'rov across the room. The Southern knot earns a slight brow wrinkle, but it smoothes out rapidly, giving way to neutral, right before she speaks up. "Are you looking for a kid, or something dropped?" the apprentice harper directs rider-ward: her own knot clearly displays her rank and craft affiliation, though her clothing is non-descript: tunic, pants, boots. Her hair is largely tamed back into a tail at the back of her head, though it's taken two leather straps to keep it that way.
It's after he checks the quiet workroom, apparently to no avail, that N'rov turns back: just long enough to appraise her, and to say dryly, "A leatherworker of the vagrant variety, it seems." Then, "New?" as though she might be the interloper and not he. Another long, sweeping look and he's off for the production workroom, not waiting for her reply but then again, he's still in earshot.
The answer earns a quirk of Palia's lips, not quite a smile, but almost. She opens her mouth to address "New?" but N'rov turns away and that earns a raised brow. She shifts in her seat, both feet dropping to rest on the chair's cross bar and both elbows to the tabletop. "Yes and no," she lifts her voice a little to reach the bronzerider and earns a /look/ from the pattern-cutting weaver. "Haven't seen any other leatherworkers except him," she points her pencil to the hole-puncher, since lunch."
No luck there either, if the quick way he pivots is any indication once the door closes behind him; "/That/ one," N'rov says as he approaches, "is a staid, staying-put leatherworker of whom I would heartily approve, except that /he/ doesn't owe me a favor." He cocks his head at the man, who by now is listening in, "Do you?" It's amused, as though he'd be so very glad to be wrong; the two engage in a brief conversation that ends with the missing man purportedly having a case of the runs and N'rov swearing that no, he's not going to follow him in there. Which leaves him at loose ends, drumming his fingers on the tabletop, after a moment glancing towards the weaver's pattern and then Palia's music like he might snatch up the latter at any moment.
"Staid and staying-put have their merits," Palia observes briefly, falls silent during the exchange between the two men, during which her pencil becomes a chew-toy again. "What kind of favor?" she queries, "Or is that private?" once N'rov's at loose ends and apparently in danger of committing theft when bored.
"Nothing terribly embarrassing," N'rov tells her, grey gaze swinging her way, with the implication that that makes it not terribly /interesting/. "'Yes and no,' you said?" His drumming fingers take up a new occupation, spinner-creeping towards the edge of her music with slow intent.
"So not the sort of thing anyone else could help with," Palia states, more than questions, though there's a hint of lilt on the end of the sentence. Spinner-creeping fingers are noticed and the harper simply pushes the sheet over in their general direction: "Also nothing terribly embarrassing," she remarks with a little matter-of-fact shrug. A half-completed composition, the music is barely sketched in, four lines of lyrics about the duties of the Weyr. "I was born here, lived here when I was a little kid, moved to Ista, grew up there, apprenticed, now I'm back," she summarizes succinctly.
"Could," says N'rov with a sideways look at that other leatherworker there, "except then I'd owe him, and what fun would that be." The other man clears his throat; N'rov does consent to lower his voice a fraction, but then, he's looking over the music and spotting... duties. Duties, duties, duties. "Well, welcome back," he says, sliding the music back to the harper with a quick smile, teeth flashing white against that tanned face.
"So ... you like being the one owed," Palia remarks, this time with a full grin that dimples her cheek very deeply. Her sheet of music is reclaimed and her expression shifts, nose wrinkling. "It's an assignment. I was hoping by posting out I'd get fewer assignments and more real harper work, but it's both instead: help teach the kids in the morning, assignments in the afternoon." One finger pushes the paper slightly away toward the stack. "Thanks." Pause. "Haven't I seen you around with a Fort knot before?" head-tilt and a slight squint the general direction of the Southern knot.
"Don't you?" remarks N'rov with a conspiratorial lift of one brow. Not that it's going to last, given the talk of /assignments/ and /teaching/ that summons a wry twist to his mouth. "Ease into it, I suppose. Still, you look old enough to have walking the tables not too far off in your future. As for the knot, would you believe me if I said I stole it?"
Palia only smiles quickly in answer to that conspiratorial brow lift, a quick flash of teeth. "Something like that," she agrees about 'easing into it'. "At least it's not hard for now," she allows with a shrug. "Mm. Next turn or two, maybe." Palia considers the Southern knot for a moment longer and smiles sweetly up at the bronzerider. "Who from? A drunken bronzerider sleeping it off in a bar?" Wide-eyed blinking, clearly feigned.
He laughs. "No, that's too easy," N'rov determines /without/ a sideways glance at the man who's not-unamusedly cleared his throat again. "Those are an eighth the dozen. I like to think it'd have involved more derring-do than /that/. Although I did brave the wrath of my wingleader to do it," except for the part where N'muir was actually far more sympathetic than not. "It's on loan. I'm to be back for good in a few months. Ali, you know; I'm N'rov."
"Of course they are," Palia agrees, true mirth warming her eyes. "Seen them all the time at Ista, just lying around, heads down ... mostly at the Sandbar, sometimes at Papa's place." Laughter at the supposed bravery to obtain said knot. "Vhaeryth's," she puts the other piece of the puzzle together and sits up a bit straighter, offers her hand, palm up. "Palia, nice to meet you, sir." Because it's 'sir' now, of course.
"'Papa's place'?" N'rov leans to cross Palia's palm. "Well met, Palia." Brief amusement colors his expression, that repetitive 'p' given extra emphasis. "Vhaeryth's made himself at home. Of course, it's getting into autumn there, but it's not like it's going to stop being warm." His voice carries Southern Boll's drawl with it, too, inflected with that far more than with Southern Weyr or even Fort.
"The Beach House at Ista. He used to run it," Palia elaborates on the alliteration. "Good your bronze has been able to settle in so easily. Moving can be tough, autumn there's a far cry from autumn here though, nice and warm. The weather ought to be a nice break from the chill up here, hm? You're from Boll originally, sir?"
'Used to' gets a crook of one brow, but even so N'rov is nodding, like the place is familiar; he nods again to confirm Boll, more amused than surprised. "It's about as good as it gets," he says. "Coming here from Boll... well, let's just say I might feel your pain when you moved from Ista to Harper. Although, maybe ''you'' liked it." He gives her a mock-suspicious look, though one that disappears when he looks past her towards the doorway. "But he's ready; I'd best report in. Any last words, Palia?" Last chance.
"Yeah, it took ... two turns to get used to the cold," Palia agrees. "And I still miss the surfing." Genuine regret colors her expression for that particular pasttime, likely very hard to fit in except in passing. Her gaze does not track after his, likely used to rider behavior vis-a-vis dragons as a lifelong weyrbrat. "Good luck with that," reporting in, she offers, then laughs. "Actually, if you wouldn't mind passing this to Azath's rider when you get back to Southern, I'd owe you a favor." Reaching into her pile of stuff, she extracts a sealed letter. "Not that I'd expect messenger service, but if it's not /too/ inconvenient ..."
N'rov's shrug is an easy one, as he reaches to pluck the letter from her hands, despite the face he'd made at the mention of that particular dragon's name. "I'll make it happen," he says. "Even if I have to drop it off and run, yeah?" And with that he's going, going, gone.
"Running might be a good idea," Palia agrees with a little wry quirk of her mouth. "And thank you." That's earnest enough. A little wiggle of her fingers follows him out. "Clear skies, sir."