Who

Chievel, Ryott

What

While musing about a better way to do klah, Chievel comes across Ryott who tried to fix her flamethrower with not so favorable results.

When

It is sunset of the sixteenth day of the fourth month of the seventeenth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Craft Complex, Southern Weyr

OOC Date 17 Jun 2019 04:00

 

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"I can assure you that we smiths talk of little else besides our equipment and how we can improve upon them,"


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Craft Complex

Expansive and airy, this space, now adorned and decorated with the pride of well over a hundred crafters. A vaulted cavern encompasses two levels, fit with clever skylights from innovative smithcrafters that illuminate tapestries displayed from the bannister of the second-floor: Healer purple, Harper blue, the yellow of the Farmcraft — all the colors and all the crafts are upon display, proudly. The lower level is given to tables and chairs and a hearth stocked with klah; it is brightly-illuminated and a place to study and congregate socially both. The upper level is given to residential rooms, lending the whole atmosphere a pleasant, if somewhat supervised, aura.


There seems to be a heck of a lot of low grumbling coming from the Smith Wing, the sound echoing into the greater Craft Complex. The voice is deep, not angry, but there's definitely more than a hint of disappointment in it. "I needs build a device that can dispense klah at my very whim. Surely the Ancestors had such a contrivance? I doubt they would have to go traipsing across the Weyr to the Kitchens every time they needed a fresh mug…" Soom a rather large form comes rounding the corner into the Complex proper, temporaroly distracted as he eyes the inside of an empty mug. He's a broad, muscular man, with a sharp build that would be worthy of a warrior if they had need of any. His wear includes the wher-hide apron common to those of the Smithing kind. "It is either this or I invent something to keep a larger supply of klah warmer for longer periods, without possibly setting the whole Weyr ablaze… Hmmm…"

Walking in from the bowl into the middle of grumblings about improvements made to current klah technology, the Weyr's only teen weyrwoman is juggling a mass of tubes, nozzle and tank that might have once been a flamethrower. At barely 5'2, and outwardly kind of on the scrawny side, Ryott shuffles with some struggle towards the nearest table, which just happens to be occupied by a couple of apprentices chatting idly. "Move," she commands, her normally deadpan tone strained under the cumbersome load she carries, some bits slipping from her grip, threatening to cause a catastrophic chain reaction. One look at her knot and her emcumberance and the pair scuttle off apologetically, leaving the girl to let the deconstructed flamethrower drop unceremoniously ont the tabletop in front of her with a final groan of effor. Her short, dark hair clings to her head from the increasingly steady rain outside, her long trench coat keeping the rest of her relatively dry.

There is a momentary pause in the Sithy's steps as he looks at the amalgamation of parts being dumped upon the table, before then looking to his own empty mug. There is a long sigh of resignation before the mug comes to rest at his side, his trajectory and his purpose altered, much to his chagrin. He renews his smile as he takes a moment to look the teen over, along with her dilemma, as he approaches. "You look like a woman with a problem…?" he asks as he sets his mug down next to the pile of tubes and such, offering his hand to her. "Chievel, newly of Southern Weyr, Junior Journeyman Smith. At your service."

"Nah, it's supposed to look like this," Ryott replies in her dryest sarcasm as she tilts her head with a narrowed gaze up at the smith who towers a foot over her, although showing no sign of being intimidated by him. The offered hand is given a long and critical look before she gives a bit of a curt nod in his direction and relents to taking the man's hand for a quick up and down shake, firm, though his hand dwarfs her own, "Ryott," she states simply, her rank of junior weyrwoman clear as the knot on her shoulder, yet not claimed out loud. Looking back at the mess she'd deposited on the table, her hands reach up to run figners through wet hair, pushing it back away from her face, before weaving fingers behind her head and looking back at the Smith. "I was trying to make adjustments but I think I took it too far," she finally shares with a lift of dark brow in his direction, silently questioning if he can help.

Chievel returns the shake in kind, neither is he intimidated by this unintimidatable woman. He grins a little as he watches her put her hands behind her head so, then shakes his own head as he focuses on the machine before him. "Bound and determined to gain more efficiency from the machine, eh? Don't think I haven't met your kind before in the guild…" he says, before he starts to undo the knot of parts and set them aside, neatly separated. "Personally, I'm more a man of reliability. If you lose a little efficiency and gain an instrument that will never fail you, then I think it's a fair trade. Especially with one of these. If I've said it before, I've said it a thousand times. When you're staring down the gaping maw of a Thread burrow, the last thing you need is for your flamethrower to fail on you." As he carefully begins to inspect the separated parts and checks the tank, he queries, "When was the last time you filled it, and does it still have fuel in the tank? What adjustments did you make, and what goal were you aiming for?"

"Something like that," Ryott grumbles in response as she finally drops her hands to splay out on the table in front of her, leaning onto them as she considers the collection of parts she's brought in. "You sound like Wrayth," she snorts, "always harping on me to take better care of that sharding thing. I was just trying to adjust it better to my size. It's obvious it was made for someone taller with a longer reach. I mean, it's been doing the job since we graduated, but…." she trails off, having a hard time articulating just what was wrong in the first place. The girl's no Smith herself, her only training with the contraptions from Candidacy and weyrlinghood. His questions get answered as best she can, "The tank was last filled for the last Fall we had just a couple days ago, but I remembered to empty it before starting to work on it," At least she retained that from Flathrowers: 101.

Chievel hmmmms at the machine again then, eyeing it more critically. He then begins to eye Ryott more critically, looking her up and down slowly. One might think he was preparing t make a move on her, except for that thinking look on his face, one hand coming to his chin, the other to his opposite elbow, causing the powerful muscles in his arms to flex and show off a bit. He circles her slowly, almost like a predatory cat, pausing a moment behind her before coming around to her other side. It's only then that he nods once. "It definitely needs modification for your body style. Unfortunately, these things tend to be made one-size-fits-all, not necessarily true. I can adjust the harness and the hose length easily enough, to keep it tighter to your back and with less extra hose getting in the way. Not sure if the wand needs adjusting… I could also build a completely new, smaller version, but it might mean refilling more often because you'll have a smaller tank. What are your thoughts?"

Holding still as he examines her from all angles, Ryott only tnses slightly under his scrutiny, trusting that he's doing more than leering at her. What small amount of prickliness there was potential for quickly melts away as she considers the options being put towards her with a crease of her brow, crossing her arms over her chest. Thoughtful gaze turns vague a moment as she consults with her other half briefly, coming back to herself with a roll of her eyes. "Of course she'd say that," she mumbles the non-sequitur before looking back at Chievel with a snort, "We'll take both. No Fall for over a seven yet, would that be enough time to adjust this one?" she asks, nodding down at her current flamethrower, "Then I can use this one while the other one is getting made." Seems like a simple enough solution to her.

Chievel laughs a hearty laugh, one that bends him back with the force of it as his hands go to his hips. "This thing? I can make the adjustments to the hose and the harness within a day. Snip, crimp, press, test. You can give it the final fitting test, then it's off to fighting thread with you! In the meantime, while you're fighting the next Threadfall, I'll start working on the smaller replacement. I think I have a pretty good idea of your measurements… I hope you don't mind me ogling you for them. Purely professional, I assure you." He grins at that, then tilts his head subtlely. "Do you know if anyone else has been having fitment problems with their flamethrowers…?"

Chievel's laugh surprises Ryott just a tad, a momentary start in her shoulders, though she tries to hide it with a shrug at his confidence. "Fine," she snips with a brief bob of her head, the corners of her lips finally lifting into the ghost of a smirk as she looks him over almost as thoroughly as he did, "I kind of gathered that it was purely professional, but you might as well get a good look while you're at it." The teen isn't bashful, and she's aware that her almost boyish looks aren't often seen as the pinnacle of beauty, so oggling doesn't occur much to her. As to everyone else and problems with their 'throwers, Ryott shrugs, "No idea, we weyrwomen don't actually sit around talking about our equipment all day," she replies in her dryest deadpan yet. Then an idea strikes her, and she wonders idly outloud, "So if this new smaller version has a smaller tank, how hard would it be to make the tanks easy to remove and replace, even in mid-flight?"

Chievel stands a little taller as Ryott looks over him so, his arms crossing over his chest to great affect given his chiseled musculature. His grin widens a bit, a curious brow arching upwards at her commentary. "I can assure you that we smiths talk of little else besides our equipment and how we can improve upon them," he says, leaning in against the table, his hand reaching out to lay across the wand of the flamethrower. After her next queston though, his mind starts to follow thought after thought, starting a chain that causes his expression to return to thinking mode. He steps back behind Ryott again. glancing over her shoulder at the cylindrical flame thrower tank, before he reaches out for her shoulders. "Forgive me, but what if…" he starts, before he traces his fingertips along her trenchcoat back, along the muscles of her back, straight down from her shoulder muscles to the small of her back. "What if we reshaped the tank for your frame? If you can handle the weight, we might be able to redistribute it across your back, shortening it and making it so that it's no longer along your spine. In fact, we might even be able to increase capacity." If it wasn't obvious before, it may be now, that he was tracing out the width of the new tank across her back, visualizing it.

"I have no doubt," Ryott replies with little irony at the idea of Smiths and their equipment. She's soon regretting asking her question when it leads to the man to touching her back. The first makes her tense briefly, fingers twitching in reflex, so she curls them into fists at her side. When it quickly registers that he's not just coping a cheap feel, the teen wills herself to stand still as the Smith considers some things while tracing the new tank design literally on her back. She doesn't fully relax though once he steps back, turning quickly to face him, hiding a little shudder in the motion. "Well looks like I came across the right Smith today, I like it, let's do it." Which really means, Chievel can do it all by himself. "Can I leave all this with you then?" she asks, pointing at the dissassembled flamethrower she showed up with.

Chievel takes another step back, his smile gentle and easy as his hands clasp behind his back. He lowers his head to her respectfully. "I should have the old flame thrower ready for your testing within the day. Give me a few sevens to get the new design ready, though. It's going to be a little more complex than I had first imagined it, due to the reshaping of the tank, and I want to get this right for you." He then tilts his head a little to one side, looking apologetic. "I hope I didn't get too bothersome there? I'll admit, sometimes I get too into my work." He then moves around her side, returning to the flamethrower. "Let me get to this first, and I will have it back to you in no time!" His smile warm as he lets her have the last word.

"I'll be back tomorrow then," Ryott concludes with a satisfied bob of her head towards the Smith. His apologetic tone gets an almost annoyed flick of her fingers, "You were just doing your job. It's fine. Although make it worth it and figure out that tank." It's not exactly an order, more like a very strong suggestion. When she's satisfied that she's found the right Smith for the job, the fact that he's the first one she ran into is a bonus as well. What are the odds? "Anyway, I'll see you tomorrow Chievel. Thanks for this," she calls over her shoulder after abruptly spinning on her heels and heading swiftly to the bowl, presumably to get back to her own work. (Not likely)

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