==== November 16, 2013
==== Donatien, Renalde
==== On his rest day, Dien's relaxing any way he sees fit. Renalde probably wishes he wouldn't. (some… er, potty humour)

Who Donatien, Renalde
What On his rest day, Dien's relaxing any way he sees fit. Renalde probably wishes he wouldn't.
When Eight months and 15 days until the 12th Pass
Where The Latrines

Dien7.jpg renalde.jpg


Spotless and clean, the toilets shine with the glow of units well-worn from the numerous backsides of residents of Southern. The left half is for skirts, the right for pants, and there is a little protest petition tacked up under that skirt sign… something about discrimination, with a Serval rider's name prominently displayed.

It may be a bright and sunny day outside, but on the left side of the Latrines, there's a man, sitting quietly to go about his business of going. Whatever is shining off the toilets also gleams off his head, and occasionally, there's a little shuffle of thin hide. And didI mention the whistling? It's a pleasantly on-tune whistle, going over perhaps a bar of music, over and over again, as if the whistler didn't learn any other part of this tune, but it rings throughout the room - fortunately, either no one was in here when the music started, or the whistler chased everyone out. A few moments before the whistling pauses, there's a contented sigh, and then the whistling resumes. Ohhhhh yeah, it's a rest day, and Donatien's going to make the most of it.

Good weather, bad weather, whatever the weather is the effect it has on Renalde seems rather inconsequential. The tall headman strides into the latrines, his eyes glancing at the add-on sign just briefly before moving on. The whistle causes him to look around, his lips twisting in slight annoyance. But, there is a particular code to the latrines, and Renalde holds stiffly to it. Several seats away he settles himself, ready to do his business.

Tweet tweet twooooot, Dien continues, pausing mid-twoooo at the sound of company. He too is quite aware of the Man Code of the Latrines, and lets the whistling die out for a little while, to be filled with the shuffling hides back and forth. The contented sighs, however? Those don't end, until Dien is done, darnit. Annnnnnd done. Finishing up, the tall man gets off the pot, moving over to wash his hands, a thin roll of hides trapped under one arm. And since he wouldn't be violating the Man Code (as much), the Weaver's whistling starts anew. Twooooeeeet tweet tweet twoooot…

With his back to the weaver, Renalde's expression twitches just slightly when Donatien begins to whistle again. However, his hands are quite full at the moment, as a quiet sound of falling liquid issues from the headman. Unlike the weaver the headman takes little pleasure in the necessity of this break in his activity. For a moment the quiet splashing pauses… then resumes again.

It's not so much that Donatien is enjoying this specific part of the day, but he's going to enjoy it all the same. Tweet tweetery twittle, and on that note, Dien lets the tune die out, but who wants to hear another man's splashing? So the Weaver starts to hum quietly. Wash wash washing his hands, soapsand once, rinse, soapsand again, Donatien's low hum gets a bit louder as he tries to scrub away some stubborn stains under his fingernails. Ho humdeedum.

Again the splashing slows, this time to a slight drip. A long second between drips and there is the sound of leather ties being redone, scratching softly against one another in a complex bow. A slight shuffle of fabric as he sets his clothing to rights again. Inscrutable is Renalde's face as he turns and steps towards where the weaver stands.

It seems that Donatien's giving up on that stain, because he moves to rinse his hands off one last time. As the Headman steps closer, Dien looks over and nods politely, his hum having died the moment it was no longer masking other noises. Shaking his hands loose of extra water, Dien reaches for a towel to dry them completely, forgetting that he had his little rolled hide tucked under that arm - it falls to the floor, unrolling to reveal Dien's latrine-reading material. Dien just hmphs, entirely not embarrassed as he bends over at the waist to pick it up.

"Weaver," is Renalde's quiet reply to the man. Blue eyes follow the man as he bends to the floor to pick up the hide. Too proper to ask what the man could POSSIBLY be reading in the Latrines of all places, Renalde puts his hands under the water, careful to keep any of the flecks from dancing backwards to land on his clothing.

Due to the ground being so darn far away, Donatien's fingers brush the hide on his first try, rolling it further open to reveal… soles. Measurements, materials, and very occasionally, a drawn leg emerging from the top of a designer boot. Oh baby, let me feel your arch support. The weaver does manage to snatch his reading up on the second try and straightens, giving Renalde a little grin, "Headman," he says in moderate tones, given the size and echoing in the room. Hide carefully secured elsewhere, Dien dries his hands on the towel, and then mms thoughtfully. To ask, or not to ask… What the hey, this might be the only time Renalde is standing in one spot for longer than a trip ::between::. "Headman, I was wondering if you know if the Weyrlings will be up flying with their dragons soon?"

Renalde catches the picture for just a moment, and a disapproving frown arches across his face momentarily before he banishes it back into the pit of good manners. Trapped he is, until he can finish washing his hands of the filth of the latrines. Not that there is much filth here, what with his ever exact requirements for the cleanliness of the area. "The weyrlings will fly when their training masters see fit. Some may be prepared earlier, some later." Renalde continues to scrub his hands, the soapsand getting into every crevice of his fingers as he rubs them together for maximum effect.

A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do: Dien catches sight of Renalde's expression for a moment and manfully restrains himself from chuckling, instead offering a quiet, "Information on new boot-making techniques from my Hall, sent out every few sevendays," as explanation. Anyways, awkward moment aside, the Weaver nods thoughtfully, and replies, "I'm sure the Weyrlingmasters will approach me soon enough, then. I wasn't sure if there was already a protocol for ordering leathers in place, as I wasn't established here for the first Hatching." It's a pat enough explanation, but in the face of possibly breaking more Man Code by speaking further, Dien starts to make his way towards the door to the hallway.

Ah, well. Renalde's prudish expression falls away, and some of the stiffness in his pose smooths out. "Yes, I am sure the Weyrlingmasters will be in contact if they do not send the weyrlings themselves to make the arrangments. Many riders can be very particular about their leathers." The last of the soapsand is rinsed from Renalde's hands as the weaver walks out. As Renalde follows his steps he again looks at the crudely made sign, his fingers itching to tear it down, but knowing from experience it will simply be replaced within the sevenday.

Add a New Comment