Who

Mayte, Rhiscorath, Finn

What

Mayte needs bookshelves. Lots of bookshelves. Finn stands in for (NPC) woodworker Garlin.

When

It is afternoon of the first day of the eleventh month of the first turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Igen Weyr, Leadership Weyrs, Mayte & Rhiscorath's Weyr

OOC Date

 

mayte_default.jpg rhiscorath_default.jpg finn_default.jpg

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L-Space

1. Books
2. Bookcases
3. Reading nook
4. Wine bar and desk combo.

It is the thirty-first day of Autumn and 75 degrees. All throughout the day, the air is strangely still and unmoving. Overhead, the skies blaze a brilliant, cloudless blue.


Rukbat is still warming the ridges of Igen when Mayte and Rhiscorath return to their weyr from a day of Weyrling duties. They’re both pretty dusty, but only one looks pleased with that fact, and it’s not Mayte. The gold lands gently and Mayte is quick to slip off her back, unbuckling the straps and hanging them carefully. “He’s supposed to be here soon, so I have to get cleaned up,” she calls to her dragon as she moves through a weyr that is still rather barren - there’s a few rugs around the necessary furnitures of bed, a small side-board with some fruit and wineskins, and a table, piled with books. Conveniently, there’s a small, shadowed nook at the back from which splashing ensues briefly; Mayte emerges, looking at least cleaner. “Have you seen him?” Rhiscorath doesn’t make any noise, but obligingly looks out the entry to keep watch. Mayte takes up a glass and fills it with a pale wine, moving to watch with Rhiscorath out into the Bowl.

A low, appreciative whistle precedes the gritty tread and swivel-headed perusal of one Reika Smith. “Bagan’s gonna be sad to have missed this.” A little warbling trill in answer. “Look at that fountain,” the gritty tread stops and there’s some scuffling and, uh, a bit of a crash. “Whoops.” There’s the scrape of clay pottery on stone, strangely musical. Some more scuffling and then, after a moment, a man silhouetted against the weyr entrance. “Hello-ooh!” he spies the enormous 'baby' dragon, light colored eyes going wide. An unconscious smile splits the young man's face. He's staring for a long moment before he notices the wine-sipping young woman who belongs to the dragon. He unshoulders a pack stuffed with who knows what- it's fairly bulging at the seams- and strides forward hand extended, but stops abruptly, eyes cutting around, brow lightly furrowed. "Is there some… something, like, uh… do I salute or kneel or…?" She's a weryling, but to a queen dragon. A big damn queen dragon. A big damn future dam.

Rhiscorath is not shy about peering down at the Trader Smith moving into her weyr, taking one delicate, brief sniff. Ahem. Mayte sips from her glass and allows him the time to take Rhiscorath in - there is a fair bit. As for what the man’s suggestions of protocol? Mayte’s expression goes distinctly weirded-out even while she shakes his hand. “Well met. Uh… no, I don’t think there needs to be anything like that…” Discomfort laces through her tone but another sip of wine to cover it and an offer, “Would you like something to drink? While I can tell you kinda what I’m looking for?” A wave of the wineglass and the Weyrling continues, “I’ve got water and a bit of light wine, but nothing strong.” Lips tug sideways into a half-grin, “You’d think as a Vin… former vintner, I’d be all used to wine, but after a Turn and some away?” While waiting for the Smith’s response, Mayte half-turns to start walking into her weyr, leading in the direction of a nook (okay, a large one) where a dragon couch rests. Guess what’s piled around it? More books. Clues everywhere.

"Uh, evening… Maaa'am?" the Smith's address directed at the dragon with eyes narrowed and then darted at Mayte. "What do I call her?" He turns his attention back to the dragon, "Er.. you, I mean you. What do I…" he wrinkles his nose and rounds on Mayte who's disappearing into the inner weyr. He trots quickly to the bulging pack and shoulders it again, hustling past the tome-festooned 'nook' with a bow on the run for Rhiscorath and ducks inside. He blinks once inside, adjusting to the change in lighting. Mayte was really rattling around in here. Anyone would. Thinks the trader, who basically lives on a rolling bunk with drawers. Another low whistle. "…So much space." Hmm? He grins, "'Nough time away from anything will change it for you. Or you for it." What? "Water's fine, thank you, Ma'am." Eyes are looking about, taking mental measurements, imagining the clatter of marks that'd be needed to fill the space. "You were a Vinter before?" He settles the pack onto the floor and begins taking instruments out of it.

“Mayte is fine,” the short girl replies, “I’m still a weyrling. And it’s kinda weird, thinking of getting called ma’am at this age, y’know?” Evidently casual is the word of the day, and also, “Her name’s Rhiscorath.” A nod over her shoulder to the dragon who has turned around to watch the proceeding. Mayte takes a hasty sip of her wine and grins. “It’ll be less big when she’s done growing, so I was thinking of just putting in a few bookcases,” as necessitated by books on the floor! “and then seeing how many more we’ll be able to get in afterwards.” Mayte turns to watch the Smith get his things together, silent for a moment. Then, “Is that possible? I mean, I don’t want to have lots of different styles of bookcases in here, or it’d be,” nose wrinkle, “Weird, and I don’t want to have to replace them all in one fell swoop. But I’m tired of tripping over books too!” From Rhiscorath, a quiet snort.

"Finn," the smith replies, pulling a series of knotted cords and plumb bobs. He spreads everything out on the floor, and then, snagging a knotted cord, a neat stack of trimmed hides and a stylus. He hands one end of the knotted cord to Mayte and beckons her to the corner where the bed is. In some of the smaller backwater cotholds, they'd be married now. Finn eyes the bed, then Mayte, then the bed. "Garlin sends his regrets," the woodsmith who was supposed to be here, "I'm to take measurements and show you, uh, wood samples." Heh. "And then he'll draw up some plans." Finn sketches briefly on the first hide scrap, "Hold your end in the corner," he walks the cord out and jots down a measurement. Rinse. Repeat. Heights and widths. Lengths and depths. "May I?" Finn indicates the table and a chair.

Mayte grins a bit. “Well met, Finn.” She watches curiously, taking the cord and moves to the corner indicated: how fortunate there will be no surprise … shotgun? weddings today. “Garlin? Oh! Yeah, Garlin.” The other dude. “But he’ll get the measurements right?” And just to clarify: “Not you, I mean; just that, I wouldn’t have let anyone touch my wines in case something happened.” There’s a brief grin, “But if he trusts you, you gotta be good, right?” Whether he is or not, Mayte is still watching carefully, and nods to whatever use of table and chair, though Rhiscorath seems to be watching a bit more intently. “So yeah, I was a Vintner apprentice, posted in the Bazaar. I worked at Corks and Works, if you’ve ever heard of it?” A silence follows, enough room for Finn to reply.

Finn folds into a chair, "This is just for design," he reassures Mayte. "When you've approved a layout with all the features you want, he'll come with his apprentice and do it up properlike." Finn's recopying the measurements into a neater hand, with reasonably credible (looking) strokes of his stylus. "I'm good enough for the rough stuff." He keeps scribbling and pauses every so often to check his work. "Between you me and the flit," Finn looks up, "I think he's afraid of dragons. Garlin," in case Mayte had forgotten who they were talking about. Finn looks over at Rhiscorath, "Um, why's she looking at me?" He looks up at the young gold, "Want to see the sketches?" He holds the drawings up for Rhiscorath’s perusal.

Fiddling one-handedly with the bit of string, Mayte brings it back to where Finn sits, and leans over his shoulder to watch. Rhiscorath, a bit politer, waits. “She just likes seeing things that are getting written down,” Mayte says and placing the string where it won’t slither off, flips one of the books open - a book of small maps, but the pages are worn and old: “She… likes writing. And reading.” Bookwyrm. When Finn holds up his rough sketches, Rhiscorath inches closer, nosing so gently at the paper. Smelling it. Yummy. This leads to Mayte, in the middle of a sip of wine, choking and laughing at the same time. It takes a moment for her giggles to slow so Mayte can explain: “She approves.”

"Thanks," Finn murmurs at Mayte's return of the cord. They're divorced now. A shame, so many marriages ending. Finn's expression changes from mild confusion to pleased to confused again. "She… reads?" A gape-mouthed look passes from Mayte to Rhiscorath. He looks at all the books piled around. "I didn't know that was a thing." He laughs outright at the snuffling at pages, turning to beam up at Mayte, before looking alarmed at her spittake, "Oh, careful there. You okay?" Still grinning. He turns back to his work scootching the table closer and tilt the page so Rhiscorath can see as he works. Back to copying the notes onto more neat version of the floor plan. Distracted, "I'm not the designer, but I think your desk should go there," he points at a space right by Rhiscorath's couch. It isn't too long before he's finished copying the pages, a stack of neat figures and diagrams, a stack of messier ones. "Want these?" he holds the stack of messier figures out to Rhiscorath? A quick look over his shoulder, "Uh, she won't eat these, will she?" Still not sure on this dragon 'reading' thing.

“Well, no,” Mayte says, even though Rhiscorath isn’t about to let on, one whirling eye moving closer to examine the page myopically. O hai there. “She reads along with me, but she just likes… looking.” The hem of one sleeve is used discreetly to wipe at the corner of Mayte’s mouth, “I’m fine. Rhis is just funny, sometimes.” Speaking of which, the still-growing dragon will totally help herself to the stack Finn holds out, gently taking one page into her mouth and retreating a pace. “You… Uh, you didn’t need that again, right?” her rider asks, watching the process Finn goes through, “Because she might sort of… nibble a little.” Rhiscorath is dignified in her quiet ‘hmph’ noise, a look entirely ruined by the sheet hanging from her mouth. Mayte has other things on her mind, pointing to one horizontal part of the diagram and wondering, “Is that really gonna be strong enough to hold a lot of books?” Hey, man, she knows wine and dragons, not carpentry.

A thought strikes. A stupid thought (a specialty). A wonderful thought (an arguable specialty, we'll have to see). A thought that has fuck all to do with bookshelves and holding burdens of books and the purpose of his visit. Finn's face lights up completely, moreso than at the snuffling and snatching of the page. He shakes his head 'no' in answer to Mayte's inquiry about needing those pages. His neatly copied stack goes into the bulging pack and out come some more blank sheets. "I think she could totally write something, Ma'a-ayte." Just like she 'reads' things. He bites his lip, fairly bouncing with excitement and waggling a silverstick at Mayte.

“Nah, she’d probably put the stylus right through the page,” is Mayte’s analysis of the idea, but there’s a reluctant grin of the idea. Rhiscorath nibbles on her page in the background quietly, leaving Mayte to comment, “I mean, I get the feeling I’m gonna have a lot of books, right?” One track mind, sometimes, “So I really don’t want the shelf to collapse. Especially not the top one.” And while Mayte’s at it, she’s also going to tell Miners how to mine and Healers how to diagnose. “Had that once, in the store. Made an awful mess that took days to clean up; not to mention getting the smell of soured wine cleared out…”

Finn grins slowly, "I think I could work something out." He looks over at Rhiscorath and makes flappy-hand 'you-her-pantomime-writing' at the paper nibbling dragon. Setting the silverstick down he casts about for a sufficiently large book, something with a hard cover with some give. Maybe skin over board? "Oh, Garlin's work is great. He's done lots of…" Finn swirls his hand aloft and dips down to pick up a book, brows quirking with interest at the title, before finishing that statement distractedly, "…uh, rooms. Not weyrs. Big jobs, little jobs. We don't do fancy work," the Reika, "But it's solid." He flips through the book, eyes crossing at the tiny, tiny script. He tucks it under his arm as a candidate and keeps looking, "Books won't shatter at least. If they did fall." Coming back to a topic mentioned earlier, "Corks & Works. Yeah, I've heard of it." A headshake, "Haven't been in yet, though."

Flappy hands means nothing to Rhiscorath, who looks at Mayte, then back to Finn. The rider presses her lips together and shakes her head: “She’s alright, thanks. Says that’s what I’m for.” That is punctuated with a snort, and Mayte puts down her wine to examine the sketching again. “I don’t need fancy,” dragon coughs aren’t subtle, “yet, but solid is good. This’ll do.” As for the books? “They don’t break, but I’m not gonna be the one to tell a big cranky gold that her books are torn and bent.” The horror. As for Corks and Works? “It’s a good place. You should go.” Pause. “Sometime. I mean, it’s not like they’re closing down tomorrow or anything.” Suddenly, Rhiscorath looks over at Mayte, the sheet falling from her maw like a sad, slightly damp tissue. The girl groans and turns to Finn: “Um. I kinda have to go. I have an evening lesson on,” shudder, “Etiquette.” There’s a pause and Mayte continues: “Sooooo, how long do you think it’d take for Garlin to be able to set the bookcases up?”

Finn laughs, a good-natured chuckle, “Well, I imagine your penmanships IS far better than hers,” he returns the book to its, uh, ‘place’ on the floor. He nods at the urging to go to Corks & Works, he might have a purchase to make there. Thirsty. He coughs, clearing his throat, “Could I get that,” wheeze, “water?” Dusty. All these books. He grins broadly, packing up the measuring tools into the pack and pulling out different samples of wood and finishes. “Etiquette.” An eloquent snort tells Mayte Finn’s own (similar) feelings on the topic. “Depends on what wood you want, some are harder to acquire and work than others,” he shows the samples to Mayte, takes down her selection and packs the samples away. “Garlin will have a layout to you within the seven, but can begin collecting materials right away.” He shrugs, “He’ll have a better timeframe for you, but if I had to guess,” a calculating bob back and forth of his head, light colored eyes roving the weyr, “I’d say a month? No more than two.” It’s a big job. And he’s probably padding. He holds out forestalling hands, “But Garlin will have to give you a final quote. And he may have designs that cost and take different amounts.” It’s what he’d offer a client. Materials all packed away, Finn hefts the pack onto his shoulders, “If there’s nothing else Mayte, ma’am,” the courtesy is comfortable this time, “I’ll be goin’.” If there isn’t anything, be makes a bow to Mayte and another to Rhiscorath on his way out. “Fair skies, goldrider!”

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