Who

T'zaim, Linny

What

Linny finds a startled T'zaim, and after some poetry, they engage in something mighty dangerous: flirting.

When

It is afternoon of the fourth day of the ninth month of the fourth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Nighthearth, Southern Weyr

OOC Date 25 Apr 2015 05:00

 

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"Ode to the Hangnail on My Pinky Toe."


nighthearth.jpg

Nighthearth

A comfortable nook, this natural extension of the living room is cozily attired with overstuffed chairs and a couple of well-worn loveseats. All have been covered in various shades of green, giving the very incongruous appeal of a miniature forest hidden away inside… a grove of man-made proportion. Fish stews and spicy white-wherry chili are often kept hot on the minor hearths east and west of the main, for those whose hours defy when meals are kept. Ornate, the largest hearth towers high, rich with carving and utilitarian in fashion: it holds court by providing the weyr with rich klah, the air thick with the scent of cinnamon wafting.

It is the fourth day of Spring and 57 degrees. Partly cloudy, the storm seems to be mostly gone with only the occasional short falls of rain painting the ground.


The rare afternoon respite, the seemingly impossible-to-find midday break that eludes so many weyrlings has come to T'zaim. The adjacent living caverns are relatively quiet in the lull between lunch and dinner, so that the noise drifting yonder is easily ignored, and that's what the bronzeling manages to do. Sitting in a corner of one of the loveseats, with his feet up on an ottoman, with a notebook open on the arm of the loveseat, he has the look of one that had been engrossed in something mere moments ago but has now… drifted off… in thought, blue eyes turned toward the fire in the hearth but unfocused, unseeing, a pencil teetering idly between his thumb and his forefinger. Of course, all of that will fall apart in a moment when someone drops a tray of dishes with a loud crash and startles the shit out of him.

It's that chaos that Linny breezily enters upon, smirking as she glances behind her to where the noise originated from following the weyrling's epic jump. "Someone is about to be fired…" she muses with dark brown eyes widened dramatically as she helps herself to a seat across from the one T'zaim is in currently, crossing one leg over the other as she settles in with her mug of klah. Typically visits to Southern are much more enjoyable when she can scantily clad on the beach and not bundled up in pants, sweater, and boots. Still, the weyrwoman seems to be making the best out of it, and it certainly doesn't seem to be souring her mood, all smiles while she gestures at that notebook with her chin, hands currently busy being warmed up by her mug. "What are you reading?"

T'zaim has dropped his pencil because of the commotion, having nearly jumped out of his skin in sudden terror, a fact which would have caused him mild irritation on its own, but couple it to the arrival of a not-unattractive woman? Why, that's cause for downright chagrin. He pulls a face at the mention of the person getting the can, meanwhile shoving his hand down into the crevice between the cushion of the loveseat and the arm of it, wiggling his fingers in search of the fallen pencil. To no avail. But it buys him a moment to survey the newcomer, a survey that naturally unearths her knot during its perusal; his attention hangs from that gold-threaded giveaway while he glances down at the open notebook. "Writing, actually. Unfortunately, Jobless has put an end to that." He tosses his head backward toward the source of all that racket. "Southern's duties," he adds, sketching formality in broad strokes for the moment.

Eyes continue to watch him as he struggles to dig for his pencil, all while she sits comfortably over there in her seat, smirking around the rim of her klah mug as she steals a sip or two before commenting, "Well, if he wasn't fired then, he should be fired now, for interrupting you. Should I go and speak with someone on your behalf?" Obviously her tone is teasing, eyes dancing with mirth and mischief, but then she suddenly turns serious as she abruptly sets her klah mug down and strides over to him, hands imperiously waving him out of the way. "My hands are smaller, I'll get it for you." So please excuse her while T'zaim suddenly has a petite weyrwoman in his personal space, her body tilted to the side as she wiggles her hand down around in there. Linny's face gives the success away before she victoriously pulls the pencil out of the chair for him, holding it up very much like the prize it is. "See? Here you go," comes as she hands it over to him, beaming.

"As generous as the offer is…" T'zaim shakes his head to finish the answer, no, no speaking with anyone on his behalf, whether or not she's teasing. The imperious waving is a sudden surprise, and one that he doesn't initially seem to know how to place, what is this? What's happening? And then there's a petite weyrwoman in his personal space, which makes Linny's words and gesture suddenly make much more sense. The proximity probably also accounts for the casual way he crosses one leg over the other, even while he leans to one side to try to give her just a little more space for her to rummage around in that lint-filled crack next to where he's sitting. He summarizes his gratitude (and probably his blended discomfiture and amusement) with two little words; "I'm speechless." Plucking the pencil from her fingers, he also ever so surreptitiously closes that notebook, no peeking.

"I have that effect on men," is said way too casually, for all she has an overlarge and smug smirk on her face, and while typically she would add on a wink to all of that, given that he’s a weyrling, Linny keeps it reigned in and is a good girl by heading back to her seat, resuming her previous position of crossed legs and cradled klah. "So, what are you writing?" Don’t think that she didn’t notice how protective he was over that notebook. She’s a weyrwoman, one that specializes in diplomacy at that. She’s trained to note such subtle changes and shifts, whether accidental or purposeful. Eyebrows arch questionly to further emphasize that she wants an answer, being sure to keep dark eyes locked on him to allow her to pick up on any more tiny clues that might inform her whether he’s being truthful or not.

T'zaim just clears his throat and nods agreeably about the effect, adding the extra show of plucking at his collar with his forefinger like he needs to let a little steam out of there. When Linny sits back down, he repositions himself to tuck into the corner of the loveseat again, where he had been upon her entrance, comfortable now that she's safely across the room again. Back in command of his own personal space, he has no problems meeting the goldrider eye-to-eye, though his will drop presently to the betraying notebook, which he slides off the arm of the sofa and onto his lap. He thumbs the pages, rippling the fringes of them with his fingernail, and replies in what seems to be all honesty, "Terrible poetry. What brings you to Southern?" He lifts his own sharp-eyed gaze once again; he may not have the maturity or the gold dragon behind him, but he does seem competently attentive to all the little dead-giveaways in a person's expressions and gestures.

"No no no, let's go back to the terrible poetry part." There's no way he's going to be able to brush that under the rug with such a polite question. Both of her feet are set squarely on the ground as she leans towards him, resting her elbows on her knees as she continues to hold onto her klah mug with both hands. "First of all, what's it about? Your life, your dragon…a girl?" Broken hearts always seem to lend themselves rather well to terrible poetry. "Something dirtier?" He was rather secretive about it, after all. "And secondly, what don't you read me some of it, and I'll tell you if it's terrible or not." Linny's beaming smile returns at the simplicity of her response, thoroughly enjoying backing him into a corner. "Once I find out more about this terrible poetry, then I will tell you why I'm in Southern," making it sound as if there's a juicy reason behind it. Meeting with a secret lover. Confidential meetings. Escaping some dangerous situation in Igen. Something good like that.

T'zaim looks right into Linny's big brown eyes and lies, straight-faced and unapologetic. "Ode to the Hangnail on My Pinky Toe." As conscious as he was about closing the book before she got an eyeful of his scribbling, he seems to have no reservations about opening it (to a dog-eared page, not the one at the end where he'd been writing lately) and reading in a mild but appropriately lyrical voice. The poem is not an ode to a hangnail, and his player is not as good a poet as the character would be, but let us say that it is of the 'they flee from me that sometime did me seek' caliber and variety, the ardor of a young man's (evidently scorned) affection with just the hint of a non-chaste relationship thrown in there. Three verses without bashfulness, then he closes the book around his thumb and looks back across to Linny once more. "Quid pro quo."

Color Linny impress, even if she can see through the boldface lie of his poem's title without even batting an eye. But the poem itself warrants her eyes to go wide in an impressive manner, bobbing her head in approval as she leans back into her seat once more, fully lounging and comfortable. Even if she has to be all bundled up. Damn you Southern. "If you think that's terrible, you need to ask someone what the proper definition of terrible is," is what she has to say to that, her final say on the matter before lips curl up ever so slightly in a rather mischevious way. "I'm visiting Southern because I want to." Unfortunately, not nearly as scandalous as she'd like it to be. "Igen is unbearably hot right now, and I needed an escape. That and your Weyrlingmaster is hot." And so comes an easy shrug from the weyrwoman, no shame in her game.

When you've read as many poems to as many girls in your life as T'zaim has, you can get away with being a little cavalier about them; "Oh, that one's not terrible. Today's efforts, though?" He frowns and shakes his head like a disapproving teacher schooling his errant student. Leaning his chin onto the heel of his hand, looking across at Linny when she starts her answer in the blandest way possible, he makes a face at her similar to the one he had for himself, disapproving. "And for that I trotted out one of my better verses? You have led me on with false pretenses, weyrwoman." A flash of merriness - "So you fled one heat for another? Luckily for me, alas for you, K'ane must be indisposed."

"I'll make it up to you," Linny promises following her trickery, careful about not putting any sort of a timestamp on that statement, especially while he still has 'weyrling' in his title. She might like to break rules, but that's a rule that even she isn't about touch. Eyebrows arch at T'zaim's question, her disagreement with it made so clear in every detail of her expression. "You think this is hot? Oh honey, come to Igen right now. This is downright chilly." Hence why she's all bundled up. She'll promptly die of heatstroke upon returning to Igen. And when it comes to K'ane, well, that makes the werywoman look a little disappointed, lips twisting together in a crooked frown. "So I discovered. But! No matter. I've found you to keep me entertained," and she lifts her klah mug in a toast to that sentiment. Congrats T'zaim, it's your (un)lucky day.

T'zaim takes out his pencil and, while murmuring the words, writes on the edge of a page in the journal, "Linny," he looks up and over to assume quickly, "It is Linny, isn't it?" Back to writing: " - make - up - to - you - don't forget," with an impressively strident double underline on that last part, exclamation point. Now then, he smiles perfectly and explains, "I meant - Igen is hot, K'ane is hot, you see? But don't let that imply that I wouldn't come to Igen right now. Unfortunately, they tell me that I'm not allowed." Whether he thinks Linny's presence is lucky or not can't be ascertained, for he smiles pleasantly and asks the mild question, "Are you entertained?"

There's only an amused smirk for the fact that he actually writes down the fact that she owes him, but hey, that way he won't forget, something that may work in Linny's favor at some point in the future. "Linny, yes. I see that K'ane has been teaching you well, even if I'll have to be sure to tell him I didn't get a proper salute." That smirk grows, and it's hard to tell if that's just an idle threat or a promise; she's got such a stone cold poker face. "Ah, I see. Clever," comes as a good cover-up to her own goof, completely misunderstanding his intended statement. But there's no more talk about his Weyrlingmaster, especially after the question he poses to her. "Thoroughly. Why, I even had a poem recited to me. That's never happened to me on any trip I've taken, to Southern or anywhere for that matter. Congratulations on being my first in that department." If she smirked any more, her face might break, and it's clear that she's really in her element right now, even if she's walking a dangerous line: flirting with a weyrling. Tsk tsk.

Shaking his head, T'zaim denies that first assertion, that K'ane is teaching them well, though it's done without malice toward the Weyrlingmaster. Implication: his knowledge of the goldriders of Igen stems not from his studies as a weyrling. "He's trying," says the weyrling. "I still can't make a salute look convincing, despite his best efforts." His sigh is slight and apologetic, soon followed by a surprised widening of his eyes at Linny, aghast. "Allow me to apologize on behalf of every man on the planet, then. All women should have poetry, and beautiful ones doubly so." Enh, the line might be dangerous, but T'zaim clearly takes flirting about as un-seriously as a person can.

"Well, you'll forgive us Oldtimers for not being able to do anything nearly as well as the Nowtimers would like," and despite the potential acid in her words, it's said with a bright smile on her face: clearly, she has no qualms about being an out and proud Oldtimer, which means her favorite pasttime is riling up Nowtimers. And she probably does that better than anyone else on Pern. The transition from smirk to genuine smile is flawless following his apology, waving a hand to dismiss his words. "Well, we can't all have a beautiful poem written about us with such a glorious title as the one you read me. Clearly, I am not worthy of such things." Self-deprecation finished, Linny works on finishing up that klah now that it's cooled to an appropriate drinking temperature. "You know, maybe that's what I could owe you, whenever you're allowed to come to Igen. Surely I can teach you a thing or two. About saluting, of course." But of course.

The forgiveness due to Oldtimers is answered with, "Someday, perhaps." T'zaim smiles back as genuinely as Linny does, so that it even touches his eyes (by all appearances), and goes a step further with a quick laugh at her so-subtle entendre. "About saluting," he echoes, serious in tone but far from it in expression. "Certainly, if K'ane were to hear not only that you meant something other than saluting with one of his pwecious ickle weyrlings and that you implied you might be a better teacher for it than he is? Perish the thought."

T'zaim's got her there and she knows it, but it still brings about a crooked grin from the weyrwoman as she tilts her head to the side while she regards him in her typical charming way. "I'll keep your secret if you keep mine?" Mutually beneficial blackmail FTW. It seems as if that's the best option they have right now, even if Linny doesn't look particularly concerned aside from a slightly narrowing of her eyes in on him. "Although, who's to say K'ane would believe you? I mean, you're going to tell him that I tried to come onto you and— oh, shards." And the act drops that fast, closing her eyes as she shakes her head, waving a hand about. "Of course he'd believe it." It's not as if this behavior is out of the norm for the goldrider, and both being from Oldtime High Reaches, he probably knows her tendencies more than most. "So if looks as if we're sworn to secrecy."

"A pact, then," says T'zaim with that same seriousness, so grave that it really no longer conveys gravity. He stands then, levering himself out of the corner of the sofa and tucking the journal behind his back in one hand, with the other hand extended across toward Linny - to shake. Because of their pact. "I won't tell K'ane that you implied things," so devious, "and you won't tell him that I'm wholly susceptible to implications," he summarizes with a widening of his so-serious eyes, just ignore the way they shine.

Linny stares at the hand extended towards her for a second before flicking her gaze up to him, and after setting her mug on a side table, she, too, stands, even if she's terribly shorter than he, and places a hand into his, giving it a rather impressive handshake. Hey, it's what she does for a living; there's no way she'd have a whimpy, noodley handshake. "Agreed. And I'll also be sure to not tell him that your manners are terrible since you never supplied me with your name." Not bothering to hide the prompt accompanied by a bright and beaming smile. If she's going to have a pact with someone, it's only fair that she knows the person she's making it with. "Actually, you probably shouldn't tell him that you met me at all. You can tell him….that you met a beautifully alluring stranger but she never told you her name." While the adjectives are subjective, the rest is the truth. She didn't tell him her name, he simply guessed right. Oh, those loopholes.

Ah, lovely. A good firm handshake. T'zaim's isn't soft, per se, but he's obviously not trying to impress Linny with the firmness of his fingers. "Is this where I say, 'My name is T'zaim. Remember it because you're going to be dot dot dot?'" That's a sentence he can't finish, it's just that lame, so he lets his dimples finish the thought while he releases her fingers and steps back. "Truth be told, I intend to tell him nothing at all." Unless he asks. And why would he? "But now you'll have to excuse me. I have to go and be a weyrling." He sighs. Heavily.

"I think I can fill in the blanks until you can actually say it later." Assuming that he's going to want to, of course, but with Linny standing there, smiling up at him, who wouldn't want to? (At least that's how it goes in her mind.) Please excuse the complete disappointment in all of her features, even if she's surely over-exaggerating just a tad, when he announces he'll be leaving her company. "Of course. I should probably go and…be a weyrwoman, I guess." Whatever that entails. It definitely doesn't entail flirting with weyrlings, that's for damn sure. "Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, T'zaim, and I'll keep an eye out for you in Igen. I will expect more poetry next time." Showing off her manners, Linny actually grabs her empty klah mug to take back rather than leaving it there, and with the hand that holds it, she gestures towards the direction the crash came from earlier. "I'm going to go investigate. Maybe console the poor sap who got fired." That's in her weyrwoman repertoire, right?

T'zaim's fingers roll-thump on the leather cover of the journal behind his back, the one on which he has a death-grip, and promises, "Pages and pages of it." He looks duly regretful for their pair of duties, hers sounding only slightly less dreadful than his, and then he gestures for her to precede him from the nighthearth, so she can go and console said poor fellow. And possibly because he's an ass-man and likes watching girls walk away. Anyways, he has stuff to do so gawking is minimal.

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