Who

Threvobek, Roslin

What

Continuing to ignore Linny's demand for him to stay away from her daughter, Threvobek and Roslin find the time to get together for a lunch chat, discussing everything from their future sibling to his snoring to the pressures put upon them by parents.

When

It is afternoon of the twenty-fifth day of the tenth month of the second turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Kitchen Courtyard, Igen Weyr

OOC Date

 

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Kitchen Courtyard

The domestic space of the kitchen courtyard is small, dusty, slightly over-grown, and practical. The focal point of the stone courtyard is a large well found directly in the middle. Turns have worn the once angled bricks to soft, crumbling curves about the lip, and a bucket always slightly damp is tied, secure, and ready to use at the side. Though a broom has swept here since last you passed through, it would appear the wind-borne dust has merely been heaped under the cobble-cracking shrubs of a stubborn environment that grow ever upward. A few benches are scattered around, but the feel is not comfort, for this small slice of sky and wind are saved for a kitchen staff always on the move.


It's another day in Hades but hell is home. After some sevendays of an unfulfilled promise, an interlude of Threvobek and Roslin's schedules happened to coincide. They've made it through the trappings of an early lunch, gathering breakfast leftovers and what fresh bread the kitchen staff has already completed for the true midday meal. There's a long bench under the crooked tree likely only alive because its root system matches the same water source that feeds the well. Rukbat's placement in the sky and the caldera's natural walls coat half the courtyard in shade and half in blistering light. They're playing it safe. As they transport their food, Threvobek is filling Roslin's ears with edicts from the Charter: "…That the Lord Holder and provincial Council shall take care that all laws, statutes, and ordinances which shall at any time be made within the said province be duly and diligently executed…" A word or two has dents in its pronunciation but the candidate perseveres to another edict. "That's enough, for all those words none of 'em are filling. I'm starved."

Breaking free from Yansa, especially when she lives in the Akzhan household now and in the room directly next door to the girl, proved to be a little more than difficult, and as much as she adores her new best friend, there's definitely something refreshing about hanging out with someone not overly privileged and, say she say it?, horribly spoiled. Roslin's head bobs at his declaration, shooting him an eager and excited smile: at this point, she's really just thankful to be out of that house and doing things that were normal and everyday to her before her appointment to her position. "Me too. I'm surprised you actually have time to eat and that they could spare you now, what with all of the chores they pile on candidates." Roslin's lived in Weyrs long enough to have witnessed time after time the slop they make candidates do, and as much as there's something expected of her as Linny's daughter, she's been thankful to have avoided it thus far.

There's more memorized in his brain but mostly he's boring Roslin to tears to hone speaking in public. And Roslin's a public of one, which is how they start. After chasing down other riders during F'dan-programmed sprints and sinking double reps of pull-ups, Threvobek bathed and has on a matching outfit, all linen and bland but serviceable. He has, unlike Roslin's more esteemed company, no sense of style. Hair, still long, is set back with oil, no part visible. Then it was time for 'lessons' on basic culture. "It won't be long, after this I'm due in the creche." Where he can make babies laugh 'til they puke and pretend they're all dragons with the older bunch. "Has Linny pressured you into Standing?" He's already on the bench gnawing on some of (maybe Sienna's?) sheep cheese.

"The creche, huh? I should stop in there, too. Get practice for our new sibling," Roslin comments, wide eyes sent up to him before they roll dramatically at the idea of her mother having another baby. It's been Turns since the girl had to deal with a baby, since Dalia who's now ten Turns old, so she could definitely use a refresher course, even if she's lucky enough now to not have to live with her mother and her brood. A shrug meets his question, lips twisting, "Yes and no. No, she hasn't said anything outright, but I know she hopes for it. She's super proud of L'denn becoming a dragonrider, but he has D'ren as a father. My father was a trader." So therefore Roslin doesn't feel as if being on the Sands is necessarily something in her future, if she follows in Xilaros' footsteps. "Have you heard any of the odds on you? Surely they've changed after everyone found out about you being F'dan's son."

Those 'culture' classes aren't a total waste. Threvobek reins his eating habits down to match Roslin's, women by their nature are daintier eaters and paradigms for this sort of thing. "Uhh, yea," still working on eloquence. They can talk about their sibling later. "Seems so she should be able to get you as a candidate, if that's something you wanted," as a base layer of encouragement. "Allegedly my mother was a trader," so there is hope for Roslin yet. "You still have a long line of rider blood in you." Despite their newly established tie Threvobek is somewhat cautious with Roslin, having only truly met a scant handful of times. "Quintupled in some cases," he has to grin. "But I can't say it makes it easier. Yea, so there's a rider background but guess who gets to continue the legacy." The grin's center collapses and he takes a suitable bite of thin-stuffed meatroll. "Which," chewing methodically before swallowing, the baby in the room resurfaces, "is how you and me become family?"

"You don't need to remind me," Roslin comments with another roll of her eyes when it comes to the thick dragonrider legacy in her family, gone back as far as her grandparents and great-grandparents, but with a goldrider as a mother, the pressure was never as heavy as it is on her own shoulders. "If it happens, it happens. I'm not worried about it," said the child of every dragonrider ever, but how she really feels is kept a closely guarded secret. Now it's her turn with some of that cheese, chewing carefully and thoroughly, much more practiced with proper etiquette now that she's a part of the Akzhan house, swallowing it completely before she dares speaking. "I guess so. But to be fair, I doubt we'll be having family dinners together." Though the idea of Linny, F'dan, Threvobek, herself, and the new baby gathering together around a table for a meal is a rather amusing thought, Roslin unable to stop herself from smirking as she ponders over that scene in her mind.

Threvobek keeps watch on Roslin's face at the answer of neutrality, the same answer he and countless others with riding blood in their veins use so he's not fooled. But nor is he familiar enough to pry it out of the girl. The next scene she paints has the grin nurtured back to his face, "you reckon things'll be thrown?" Without hearing first hand from either source gossip often labels F'dan and Linny's relationship as 'tense'. "It's hard to imagine Linny was partnered with Finn before. He's a good shit." A faux pas against present company and Rev, with the pressure put on his lips, will try not to make gutter speak popular at this luncheon. "Tell me more of your new position to the Akzhans." This should be worthwhile, leg crossing horizontally anew.

"You mean food or insults or both?" As far as things 'thrown' goes; she's leaning more towards the 'both' side herself. Roslin takes a measured breath in and out, the smirk removed and replaced with a more serious and concerned look before commenting, "She's my mother, and I love her, but Linny is not known for her good choices in men and relationships." That's her own way of saying that her beloved mother messed up in leaving Finn for F'dan, an opinion likely shared by the whole damn Weyr. The conversation switch to her present job has a little smile returning to her face, brows lifting as she hurries to finish chewing in order to answer. "Basically, I get paid to be a friend to Yansa. I accompany her when she needs to do shopping, I assist her in getting ready. Some days I get paid to sit around and talk to her." Dark eyes glance around to make sure there are no listening ears other than the ones belonging to Threvobek, and despite being reassured, she still leans in towards him. "The house is tense. Scary. I know there's more going on than what their outward appearance lets on." Then, her nose wrinkles as she adds, "Malach wants to marry me off to someone, too."

There's still a comfortable amount of shade secreted by local structures both living and good millennia old rock. Rev's hair from repeated downward angles of his head is starting to rival the oil and overpower it into a crooked part he tries to avoid by combing it back with the ends of his fingers. It's an uphill climb. "I suppose it is for them to work out." Diplomatic-like. Relations are not generally for young men to worry over. Completing the meatroll and most of the cheese, Rev accepts a sip of water he was mindful not to pour too much of. "You're right, they have stakes in a lot of what goes on in the bazaar and beyond most like. Be careful, and don't find yourself marrying into that." If there's to be something resolute in their conversation that is it. "You'll wind up just like your friend."

"Sometimes I worry if I have a choice or not. People don't say no to Malach, and when they do, it's the last time they make that mistake." Even if Roslin carries a lot of standing with Yansa, so hopefully that will win her some favor with the man should she refuse his list of potential husbands for her. A careful shrug as she picks at her food now more so than actually eating it, and since growing tired of the conversation about her, Roslin is quick to turn the questions upon Threvobek, giving him a soft, gentle smile. "How's candidate life? Got any good gossip on anyone? Anyone kicked out yet or a terrible snorer?" The girl may have a lofty position in the Bazaar, but that doesn't mean she doesn't still enjoy Weyr gossip.

Threvobek chews with greater horsepower, that is, with more effort than what's required to turn cheese into paste. "Someone on your behalf can say you've already got spoken for, I can do it." He volunteers to perpetuate a lie for a higher cause without so much as batting an eye. He's aware of the bazaar's underbelly and has no desire for anyone he knows to fall victim to it. Meager meal finished, Rev brushes his hands past his lap and sets down his leg, the immortal boots clashing with lighter desert garb. "I can speak for most of the guys who wish the criteria for candidate material was stricter. Too many girls, and not steadfast ones I'd trust my life to. Not many are hot on Safid, he's an older kinda stoic fella, but I'd take groundcrew with him over Thread chewing my arse any day." Arse is better than ass. "And there's a Boll kid the Weyrleader hates, he might get tossed back to his Hold, and they say I snore but I can't trust the sources." Hrmph.

The thought of Threvobek marching up to Malach and telling the man that Roslin is already spoken for has her smirking, once more amused with the thoughts that fill her head. "And who would you say I'm promised to, hmm? Don't you think he'd follow up with your news, to make sure that I actually marry the person you say I'm with? I appreciate the thought, though, but I'd hate to get you on Malach's bad side just to save my own hide." Roslin's not about throwing someone under the proverbial dragon, especially not while she's actually getting along with the candidate. She settles in for the goods on the candidates, since she's been desperately out of the loop on all things Weyr-related, chewing on a meatroll while she eagerly listens to his tales, a contented grin plastered on her face. "Oh man. You're the snorer. That's hilarious." There's one in every bunch. "Any guesses on when the eggs will crack?" Hopefully, she's not eating up too much of Threvobek's time, but Roslin's thoroughly enjoying her current company, not to mention the time off of 'work'.

"S'none of his sharding business who." Threvobek says callously and calmly. "If it was necessary to know he'd receive an invitation. There." By thunder, that's how you fabricate a marriage (he's got practice). He of course isn't taking Malach seriously as he rightly should be, but finds himself untouchable for a Weyr grunt. Candidates may be low-rankers but they're protected as potential future riders. Off that subject Rev takes the tension out of his knuckles by cracking their joints. In his defense, "like I said, I don't trust the sources." He never hears himself but doesn't seem too bothered by keeping other candidates from a good night's rest. Revenge! "The best wagers are next month for sure, second, maybe into the third week. Going to be there whooping for me?" The simple request has his eyebrows set rakishly high.

Roslin leaves the subject of her imaginary fiance alone with the force that his answer provides, left to hope that it doesn't come to making Threvobek do her dirty work for her. Or perhaps she should be hoping that his threat actually comes true, that she meets someone on her own so that she, or he, doesn't need to lie to Malach to get her out of his arranged marriage. Though Threvobek's question is close to warranting a smartassed remark out of the girl, wanting so desperately to bite back with something snarky and sarcastic, Roslin opts for a more genuine smile for him. "Of course I will be. I wouldn't miss it." She lets her answer hang in the air for a few moments before following it up with, "What color should I be keeping my fingers crossed for you? I assume bronze, but I don't know if that's F'dan's wish for you and not your own."

A flurry of activity from the kitchens means midday preparations are reaching their crescendo. Threvobek increases the distance between his feet and throws the center of his weight over them. "Any dragon is a windfall for the Weyr," the tactful response came ingrained. "But if I trade minds with a green everyone better watch out. And according to the Weyrsecond's history," still not able to pronounce him as F'dan or 'daddy-o', "there's no shortage of family brown and bronzeriders and a greenrider everyone wants to forget. So there y'have it." It's do or die. At a sudden loss of words, Rev looks to the heavily worn flagstones and a vague imprint of his boot.

Roslin's expression falls with his response, knowing all too well the pressure he's feeling: if she were to impress brown or blue, it would likely warrant much the same reaction from Linny, even if she would never admit to it publicly. Even a green would bring about memories of Lzi, and no one wants that. So it's gold or nothing. Frowning, she reaches a hand over to his thigh, giving him a little squeeze as a hopeful grin is flashed his way. "If you impress green, I'll still invite you over for dinner. Our own disgraced family dinner," causes her grin to grow wider into a smirk. Might as well turn something negative into a positive. They can be disappointments together, maybe even with that new sibling of theirs depending on how he or she turns out, given the pressure that both F'dan and Linny will put on the poor child.

Roslin's neat little fingers cross into Threvobek's frame of sight and he follows them up the path of her arm until he can smile at her face. "Thanks, that means a lot." Black sheep are still a flock. Speaking of which, "and if not then I'm going to be here to see all these Pass dragons fed. You don't want to know the numbers." No wonder Holders get pissed. "I'd best follow the screams to the creche," nap time is nigh and the natural resistance thereof. Rev pushes off his knees to arrive on his feet. "Well done, Ros." Daring a nickname. He reaches to tote the girl's hand to his face, decides not to kiss it in case that's creepy, but maintains the esprit of the overall action. Dishware picked up, he doubletimes for duty.

For all their previous encounters seemed to have ended poorly or in some weird, awkward way, Roslin's smile seems all the more thrilled that this has been enjoyable for the both of them, some things addressed and friendly conversation had: she'll check this as a win in the appropriate column. "Good luck. Maybe I'll see you at dinner tonight, if you don't end up smelling too badly of puke and poop." Which is such a lovely combination that it can almost be imagined, causing an amused wrinkle of her nose. "Leave the rest, I'll make sure it gets where it needs to me." Since Roslin doesn't want to be the reason that the candidate is late to his duties, especially considering that she's got no real time to be back at the Akzhan's. "See you around, Threvobek."

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