Who

Sevreni, Arlemond, Mailli

What

Kitten Makeover! Check out that VENTILATION SYSTEM. Oh, baby.

When

It is evening of the thirteenth day of the first month of the second turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Southern Weyr

OOC Date

 

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The Tipsy Kitten

Here there be drunkards: a marble bar and the gorgeous array of colored bottles behind it would be enough to draw them in, but more yet lures those to enjoy the recreation the Kitten has to offer. Windows allow light to naturally illuminate the first floor of the tavern in the daytime, while green-tinted glows shine after nightfall. A door behind the bar leads to the tiny kitchen, while a stairway leads above to the rooms available for rent. Among the hubbub and the ruckus, a calamity of tables scatter through the open space, plenty enough for dragonpoker tournaments on restday eve.

It is the seventy-third day of Summer and 105 degrees. The morning is clear and humid.


Today is a momentous day at the Kitten. It has, in the last few months, attracted enough clientele to warrant some new, improved hardware, even if the cost had made Sevreni wince. There had been no doubt that it was needed — the current kitchens and seating space could not handle the overflow of the wildlings, even with some moving to the hold. Thus her presence in the kitchens of the place, and her look at the craftsmen starting to pile up the new stoves and vents and goodness-knows-what. It looks like an impressive pile, and dark eyes hint at the intelligence to try and put it together herself, but the woman witholds herself from the labour — this is what she's paying the professionals for, in barter and bits of money.

Whenever he can be, Arlemond in onhand for installations. This particular installation is of keen interest to him. Efficient stoves, yes, and well made. New pots and pans, all good. But the ventilation system… Hoooboy. He couldn't wait to get it installed and see it in action. The Smith's sleeves are rolled up, eyes focused, half in the present, half in the future, directing workers, apprentices and journeymen brusquely in the lull before Sevreni's evening crowd shuffle in. "Watch your corner, Tren. Easy does it." He steps forward and leans into balancing the hood on its brackets. Tren, once the thing is stable, begins hammering. Work proceeds apace under the stern-eyed Senior Journeyman.

There's a slight lessening of tension as Arlemond takes over the direction of the operation. Sevreni leaves him to it after a few moments, satisfied that her new kitchen space won't get banged about, and turns to request a cup of tea from the just-as-nervous cook she employs. Cupping her hands around it for unnecessary heat, she loiters in the division between pub and kitchen. Out in front, though alcohol is still being served, and cold snacks, there's a sign up that says all meals will be on hold until the evening.

The hustle of the Kitten is something that has been sorely missed by the dolphincrafter that steps in. Hard to mistake such a strikingly tall woman for anyone other than the red haired Mailli. A smile is on her face, and a map tube is tucked under one arm. A bit of art from the ancient past, a chart she'd forgot she'd even packed rolled safely in the weather proofed tube, "Afternoon," cheerful call to all and sundry, "Brought you something to hang on the wall," said to Sevreni, still in that perhaps too cheerful tone as the tube is dropped onto a table where it bounces twice and rolls to a stop just shy of falling off said table. The chart, when unrolled, is of the waters around a small and now obscure little island off the coast of Ista, "Nice huh?" grin.

There's much hammering and banging and some VERY unpleasant screeching. Metal makes the most peculiar sounds. And there's a LOT of it in this kitchen now. Before very long, the installations are complete, apprentices and journeymen filing out with dark looks for the taskmaster Arlemond. "Don't leave without your drinks, boys." Dark blue eyes drop to Sevreni's brown. "A round for my crew, whatever they like." He looks up at Mailli's entrance, "Good afternoon, Master Mailli," the gravelly-voiced Smith rumbles, "How fare the 'phins?"

Sevreni, surprised in the midst of her tea-filled gaze at the smithcraft's doings, blinks as Mailli wanders in. Her eyes track the map that bounces, once-twice, before she reaches out to still the scroll. "Why, Master Mailli," she says happily as she unrolls it, eyeing the precise inking and the delicate detail, "this is a wonderful gift. I'll have it put up as soon as I get a good frame for it. And… ah, thank you, Senior Journeyman." Her head tilts a little. "Such mouthfuls, those titles. May I call you Mailli and Arlemond?" It'll be easier, see. Moments later, still waiting for their answer, she directs one of her staff to start drawing drinks for the other apprentices and journeymen. "May I offer you two something of my private stock? Anything."

"Well enough," is Mailli's answer. The smile fades just a little, "Lost one of the younger calves during that last Threadfall," then it hits her, and she's eyeballing Arlemond, "I don't suppose it'll do me any good to insist you just call me Mailli?" because that's something that makes her twinge. Even now she's done this whole eye twitch thing that she really can't control. A great big beaming smile is the barkeeps answer, "I'd prefer it," she's never been one to stand on protocols, pomp, or circumstance. Casual is probably the very best word for Mailli, "And you're most welcome. My grandmother made that map," pause as she tries to remember the story behind it, and fails, "Oh a long time ago. Part of her journeyman project, but it does no one any good here so may as well hang on a wall and be pretty," grin given as a hip flask is drawn out, "I still have contact with an old friend what went back north. Sends me some of his 'special' brew from time to time."

"Mailli," rumbles the Smith. "Arlemond is fine. A drink would be most welcome, Sevreni. Bourbon?" Arlemond inclines his head to the proprietess. He dips his head and eyes at the report of the pod having lost a calf and then his eyes widen at Mailli's moxy to Bring Her Own into the Kitten and flaut it at the proprietess herself, but has nothing to say on the matter. The three toast fair weather (hah!) and clear skies (well, those ARE there more often than not). The three Southerners share spirits and stories and spirited stories, leaving with Arlemond having taken measurements for a frame for the map and an exhortation that, "I'll be back this evening to troubleshoot any difficulties that have arisen." He doesn't anticipate anything dire, but he'll be back to check regardless. "Ladies, it has been a pleasure. Good evening." The smith bows and departs, the Kitten filling up with patrons coming in from a long, hot, day's work ready to relax at Southern's own inestimable Tipsy Kitten.

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