Who

Il'ian, Mayte

What

After escaping the storm, Il'ian finds himself in a land of tiny dishes and a junior weyrwoman. Mayte's accused of matchmaking and leaves angry. Il'ian eats cake.

When

Occurs directly after a storm brews in the bazaar. It is afternoon of the fourth day of the seventh month of the second turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Tea Room, Igen Weyr

OOC Date

 

31.jpg mayte_default.jpg

tearoom.jpg

Tea Room

This shop is easy to miss from the street. It bears the same striped awning that most shops have, this one in shades of lilac and sand, but it has no sign save for a plaque of sandstone hung beside the door, on which a teacup has been carved. When open, the heavy curtain that covers the doorway is pulled aside to allow entry. After stepping through, one will find themselves in a tiny space decorated with classic desert touches.The walls are whitewashed to increase the sense of light within but the floor is tiled in hues of blue and green, with each tile bearing in its center a brilliant red lotus. There are only five small tables, all of them of dark, heavily carved wood set low to the ground. To sit at one requires reclining on the plethora of pillows and cushions and layered rugs provided for that purpose; each seat is provided with a carved wooden back-prop to rest the pillows against, for those who want spinal support. Tea is served from the service at the rear of the room, where a tiny smokeless hearth keeps water heated, and a row of trays are kept loaded with teapots, tiny cups, and containers for sweetener. There is a small selection of fruits, breads and cheeses also available for those looking for a snack but this is not a place for heavy meals.


Timor: moon3.jpg
Belior: moon5.jpg

-- On Pern --
It is 9:29 PM where you are.
It is afternoon of the fourth day of the seventh month of the second turn of the 12th pass.
In Igen:
It is the sixty-fourth day of Summer and 107 degrees. For all the fury of the sandstorm, the night is strangely still and hot.
In Southern:
It is the sixty-fourth day of Winter and 37 degrees. The night is clear and bright, stars twinkling merrily in the darkness.
In Southern Mountains:
It is the sixty-fourth day of Winter and 0 degrees. It's cold and dark out.




Just in the nick of time, the door bangs shut as Il'ian ducks in, seeking refuge from the storm. A storm that rages in waves of wind and rain, vibrating the shutters and howling a rage outside that can only be a familiar fury to those born of Igen. He is a nowtimer male, a bazaar brat, and thus very comfortable in all elements of Igen. Well. Except for this place as he finds himself suddenly faced with very small things and very delicate things and a world of feminine pursuits. Or, what he deems to be feminine pursuits. He pauses and half-turns, almost chancing to brave the storm outside just to get away, but the stupidity of that has him halting with his hand hovering above the doorknob. With a sigh, he turns around and lifts a hand to run fingers through his blond hair, aqua blue eyes scanning the room for anything that might be somewhere he'd fit and not be awkward. That's so not happening.

The room of small foods and dainty cups is not a comfortable place for everyone, but any port in a storm - or any shop in a sandstorm, right? As if she was following him here, the door to this little shop bangs open, Mayte pushing her way in, coughing and gagging on sand. "Ptah, ptui!" The Steen girls won't forgive her if she spits up gobs of sand on their floors, but the junior weyrwoman pushes past Il'ian desperately to hack out some dust and sand. After a moment, the coughing dies and Mayte straightens, glowering around the room - no one saw nuffin, okay? She starts brushing herself off furiously and looks over at the poor bronzer she bowled past: "Oh. Hi there." A pause, "Il'ian, right?" She's happily sort of clean now (happily but for the Steens), and waves to a table. "Wanna sit?" Whether Il'ian agrees or no, Mayte's already moving over to sit at the admittedly tiny table for 1.5.

Flummoxed, Il'ian watches the goldrider go through her spitting routine as he watches the girl shed more sand than she looks like she could hold. He might even lean away from her just slightly, remembering the rather mercurial nature of her temper from the other evening in the living caverns. "Aye," he murmurs to the statement of his name, and while he might eye her like she could suddenly turn into a virago, he does actually seem to gamely follow behind towards the tiny table meant for two small people or one large person. Given that at least he eclipses the "small" person into the "large" person, it's not without some awkwardness that he angles his tall frame into a seat. The tea room is relatively empty on such a day, the wind howling to create a torrential atmosphere in the out-of-doors while inside is the eye of the storm: a calm that pervades into a soft susurration of sound as barely anyone speaks above a whisper. "Sure." Belated does he agree, after he's seated. Ill-at-ease and not afraid to show it, he tries to fold his hands in his lap but with his knees all sorts of awkward under the table, he finally settles on setting them on the pristine white lacy cloth that adorns the table. Beat. "Mayte, right?" So few words given, but each is weighed and uttered in careful consideration.

See? Everyone's happy. Except for the young serving girl with the broom sent out. Mayte settles in with a little grin on her face, plucking at the table cloth a little and mmming. "That's me, yup." A sudden narrowing of the eye upon hapless Il'ian, "You were with that young Journeygirl - Elle." As soon as that eye is given, it relents to sunnier moods. "Just a great selection here of teas and they usually look the other way if you, uh…" Mayte's black jacket peeks open briefly to hint at a silvery flask in the breast pocket, "doctor to your tastes." Or if they do, Mayte ignores it. "And the little cakes here are awesome." Not ossom, but awesome enough. One of the great things about this big heavy fancy knot? Mayte gets to put in her order so much more quickly: "A nice selection of those little cakes and tarts. Green tea for me and…" Suddenly, a blank look as Mayte waves to poor Il'ian, "Whatever he'd like."

Il'ian is definitely ill-at-ease within all of the elements of a teahouse; and so he watches Mayte with a singular sort of quiet fascination as if her and her kind (women) were a species all unto themselves. After the babble of words — during which a brief bob of his head indicates that yes, he was with Elle — he watches the interplay between Mayte and the serving girl with a mix between abject horror and sudden discomfort of having to order something. Never having had tea really, he turns a blank-eyed stare towards the girl and mumbles something along the lines of, "Um. Regular?" Because tea can be regular, too, right? And that is how he comes to merely shrug and finally settle the fullness of his blue-eyed attention upon the goldrider. It is the delayed reaction to the gleam of her flask that gets a deeper interest in the goldrider. "Rum? Vodka? Whiskey?" Words are found from the back of his throat as he shifts his hips to get more comfortable. Finally, he just stretched his long legs out and damns the consequences. Ahhhh, finally. A measure of relief.

The server is clever enough not to roll her eyes in public company but her expression changes into the epitome of 'oh. One of those' as she nods with their order and moves away. Under the weight of Il'ian's full attention, Mayte mms and leans back in her seat, watching him with her own dark eyes. His question about the flask is answered with a cheerful, "Whiskey. Goes with nearly anything," which isn't true because chocolate cake. Yet. When the poor man's finally put himself into some kind of more comfortable position, the server comes by with a platter of little cakes that gets set up on a stand next to the table, and two small pots of steaming tea, with cups, are placed before each. "You gotta try these little citrus tarts," Mayte advises, taking up a tart with citron curd and a single berry on top, "They're just…. mmmmmmm." So her eyes roll up a little in delight as she takes her first bite of it, even before the tea is poured.

"Truth." Il'ian is game for anything that involves alcohol, and now that he's got the measured relief of not folding his long legs beneath the tiny table and is, in fact, letting them become objects to trip over, the bronzerider is quite a bit more amicable. That is until the tiny tea set comes complete with tiny tea cups and small little cakes. Il'ian stares at the fare as if, perchance, some fairy has come and sprinkled shrinking dust on everything to make them impossible to really… observe. Give the man a giant herd beast sandwich any day of the seven; it's at least something to sink his teeth into! "Hnnngh." It's a kind of positive sound? With a wariness that's bone deep, the young man leans forward, hunched over the table as he is, and delicately picks up one of the little tarts. He eyes it like it's going to bite him, before shoving the whole thing — fingertips and all — into his mouth. With a slurp, he sucks it off his fingers and blinks sandy lashes into the negative space between the two of them. "Not to shabby." That seems to be a positive as suddenly little cakes are disappearing at an alarming rate. He is still a growing boy! Maybe. It's an excuse anyway.

Watching Il'ian's first bite, then second and third, Mayte grins and takes over pouring tea - his first, then hers. Of course, the flask comes out and a dollop is poured into her own before the flask is handed, quite openly, in Il'ian's direction: "They're really good here. I can't come often or I'd be the size of Rhiscorath." Mayte does manage to snag another cake, more citrusy stuff, and bites into that while she watches with wide eyes: "It's like we don't feed you anything!" she complains in amusement, but takes up her tea cup with her free hand and says, with almost haughty grandeur, "To sandstorms. Leading us to new discoveries and experimentations each day." Except then Mayte's grinning and tipping back half the tea.

Pausing in the grazing upon dainty little cakes, it is probably what allows Mayte to get more than one little cake, honestly; it is this pause that he eyes the liquid of the tea with something like distrust. Blue eyes flick from the cup to the goldrider — well more importantly her flask — before he takes the flask and sniffs it. With an approving nod, he dumps a good portion of the whiskey into the tiny teacup. Passing it back, he quirks a quicksilver grin towards the goldrider. It's a smile that's entirely endearing and wholly boyish in that brief moment where features pull and brows lift. "Maybe you don't." Feed him enough. A faintly wicked cast is given to the goldrider for that. When she lifts her teacup, he follows suit although the thing almost tumbles to of his grip. "To… storms." A strange toast, but he gamely goes along with it. Much like he's downing a shot, he throws back the entire tea and whiskey affair and proceeds to immediately start choking. Aqua blue eyes widen as coughing immediately starts and the bronzerider is squeaking out, "Hot." Beat. "Fucking hot."

Mayte's in a good mood: in response to Il'ian's sally, her mouth drops open in shock, she tells ya, just sheer shock, "I will have you know we put our bes…" Okay, now is not the time for an attack of the honesties but it's here anyways, "We put our pretty good out." Honesty will let that one pass by easily enough. Green tea is served traditionally just a little cooler than regular, so Mayte's half-cup of tea doesn't hurt nearly as much but when the blue-eyed bronzer starts to choke, Mayte eyes him in horror for a moment. Then to the concerned server who wanders by: "Cold water, now. As cold as you can make it." And of course, Mayte has to ask the second-most annoying question ever: "What didja do that for?" The girl's come back with that water and it's not really 'cold', but she's handing it to Il'ian, if he can take it. Time for the most annoying question, "Are you gonna be okay over there?" For all that Mayte's voice is concerned, there's a faint burble of amusement trailing after her words.

Cold water is grappled for as soon as the girl arrives with it. Even if it the most tepid water ever, it will feel good on a scalded throat. Absolutely, eagerly, does Il'ian gulp down that water and finally wipe his lips with the back of his hand. "I didn't know it was going to be hot!" When riled, it seems, the bronzerider has a thing for words, spilling out in pure, male affront. Like a scrappy tomcat with raised hackles and hissing fangs, but even he can appreciate the sudden humor of the situation now that his throat doesn't feel like he's swallowed a hot poker. "Didn't know," he didn't pour, actually, "it was that hot." Of course, he can soothe his toasted tissues with another cake. Lifting a second cake — he's two fisting, okay? — he pops one in his mouth and uses the other toast the goldrider with it. Cheek puffs out when he shoves all the food to one side so that he can speak with his mouth full, "I'll live." That is his way of saying that yes, he'll be okay. The second cake is pushed into his mouth after the other, before he's properly had time to chew it. The little tiny tea cup is eyed again. EYEBALLED.

Well, he's not on the floor, curled into a fetal position. Mayte raises a skeptical eyebrow: "You do know how tea is made, right?" The patient seems to have made a full recovery according to how many cakes are vanishing. She has to wave for another set of cakes, just in case, and Mayte snickers at the glare Il'ian has reserved for the tea cup. Instead, she gestures with her own green pot as if to fill it, explaining, "This'll be cooler. Especially if you don't chug 'er back like that." Also, it's had some time to sit. Nibbling on a morsel of tart shell that had fallen, Mayte watches him for a moment, then shakes her head: "So how is Elle doing?" Maybe she's still under the impression that this gentleman and the Journeywoman are best pals or what not, "Is she feeling a little more comfortable around the Weyr?"

Okay. Il'ian will try Mayte's tea instead of the black tea that's in his pot. With exaggerated care, he pours the tea and then peers into the cup. He'll leave that to sit, thankyouverymuch, until it's no longer close to having steam curl up from it. Instead, he reaches for another cake and finally turns the weight of his consideration onto the goldrider. He's just about to bite into the pastry when she asks her question, "What?" Sandy lashes fan against his cheeks in the quick succession of blinks that belies a quiet surprise. "I 'unno what that girl gets to." A careless shrug that, complete with the duck of his head. "Ain't her keeper." This is when he'll chance grappling that tiny little teacup handle and lift it to his lips for a cautionary sip. This comes with a nose wrinkle. Maybe he's not a tea man?

Mayte observes this over-drama over tea while plunking her elbow on the table and resting her chin into her hand. She's grinning faintly, though and gestures like he should know what she's referring to. "Not her keeper, sure, but her… paramour? Sweetheart? Carnal partner?" Even the goldrider's blushing a little by that last one, but she shrugs, "Just thought I'd ask if she's settling in okay, getting to… know her fellow crafters…" Now Mayte's really stabbing in the dark. A sympathetic look on the tea: "Don't like it? Green tea's not for everyone. I won't take it if there's nothing 'extra' in it." She should probably be a little ashamed of how her eyebrows waggle over that highlighted word there.

Once again, Mayte has given Il'ian pause, just as he's pouring himself another cup of the black tea after dumping the green tea back to the green tea teapot. Don't judge him, 'kay? "Carnal… " One brow lifts as incredulity overtakes his expression and freezes his actions to the moment. "Listen." He sets the pot down and leans closer to the goldrider, those blue eyes latched onto her face, their color a vibrant shade of the tropical ocean. "I don't keep track of no one." That explains it all, right? The blush is noted with the widening of aqua eyes before he's sitting back and finishing pouring of the drink. The storm rages outside, pounding the building with sand as Rukbat's punishing light is dimmed to a sandy darkness all around them. "Iffen I didn't know better, I'd think you were matchmaking, goldrider." The longest sentence she's probably heard - longest sentence she has heard come from the goldrider, it's stated with the singular look leveled on her through sandy lashes. His head may be downcast, but he's watching her. "That or…" The thought isn't finished, the words halted before they can even bring it to fruition.

"Sooooo you're not." This is what Mayte gains from this. Despite Il'ian's leaning in, she hasn't moved back an inch; since he isn't reaching a hand or anything creepy like that. The dark brows furrow like a cloud over the water until realization dawns: "Or, it's a casual thing!" Mayte's very satisfied with this new logical conclusion, ordering a second pot of tea for herself in celebration, but when Il'ian says the m word, she pauses, eyes going wide with surprise, "Wait. Me? Mmmmmm-," this word is hard to say in respect to herself, "Matchmaking? Are you nuts?" She's so startled she doesn't have time to get mad. In her own head, she runs right over his considering of the other option: "No. None of that here. I just have a dragon who's gonna have questions when I get home, and she gives me this look if I don't have 'em." That's her staunch defense. Oh thank goodness for hot tea - if anything, Mayte can use it in self defense, but for now she'll pour another cup for herself and ridiculously, another one for Il'ian too. Just go with it. "And she basically said she was with you…" What's a goldrider to think? Or confabulate.

In the midst of all of this, Il'ian is getting a collection of barely tasted teacups full of tea. It's like they're breeding like rabbits. In fact, these cups that seem to be mysteriously appearing get a wall-eyed look from the bronzerider before he lifts one up — the one he poured? or the one Mayte poured? who knows — and tests it. "Mmrrr." This is his intelligent response to the girl's babbling as he focuses his attention upon the liquid and actually, properly tasting it. It's not that he's ignoring Mayte, because he's not as his eyes are lifting to regard her over the rim of the cup every so often. It's just that he has very little to add until she's done. This will be the point that he shrugs and states, "Think what you want." Because that doesn't muddle the issue much does it? However, a close cousin of humor surfaces within those warm blue eyes, putting a devilish sparkle to them as he flashes her the quicksilver smile of wicked intentions. "Asking about my sex habits seems to me to be matchmaking." The soft sound of a laugh escapes partially open lips. "Not gonna work." The matchmaking. And now? He's bent on trying this tea out.

It's not Mayte's fault if the servers are lining up to give Il'ian their special tea cups - the ones with their name and firelizard on the bottom. She's not paying attention to them anyways. Instead, she's colouring a little pink at the ears in annoyance, "I don't give a shit what you do or who you do it with. Rhis wants to know so if I don't ask, I'm gonna get the Look." No one wants a Disappointed Exec. Assistant look in their direction. That's Mayte's excuse, dammit. This conversation has turned weird fast, and it's not her fault. The junior weyrwoman freezes in her seat for a moment to collect herself and huffs, "Whatever. See if I care." Mayte tosses back the rest of her tea (thankfully it's cooled by now) and stands, some red creeping up from her collar. "If you'll excuse me, Il'ian," so pointed, "I'm going to visit the wine store on my way home." She's not fleeing the conversation, she's leaving deliberately. Proud as a peacock, Mayte huffs and makes her way to the door, entirely forgetting that a sandstorm will invite itself in faster than an unwelcome visitor as she yanks that door wide open. The last word anyone hears from her tonight is "Shit," before she manages to get out, hand over her mouth and nose, and closes the door behind her. The staff of the Tea Room? They're just relieved to see her go.

In the storm that is Hurricane Mayte, Il'ian kind of stares at her like she's grown a second head and a siamese twin. Pro-tip: this is why Il'ian avoids temperamental females! Those bright eyes of his widen slightly as the goldrider continues on her tirade, executing a slow blink that has sandy lashes resting on sand-gritted cheeks when she pointedly uses his name, and slowly follow her as she leaves in a move that has only the eyes moving in their sockets until she's past his peripheral vision. If there are waitresses leaving their names and fire lizards on the bottom, he's not paying attention. Actually, when Mayte leaves him alone at the tiny table with its tiny tea service and its multitude of tiny teacups, he'll give the table a perplexed look and then shrug. Hey, she left the little cakes behind. And that, my friends, would be a travesty if they went to waste. So while Mayte leaves in a huff, Il'ian says not a word, content to pack away little cakes and put the goldrider's strange, strange behavior to the back of his mind. You can bet, however, that Il'ian will be avoiding any matchmaking functions in the future, because he's convinced that goldrider is angling to see him matched to another female!
Add a New Comment