Zeyta, R'keon


R'keon tries to make friends. Sort of. Game on.


It is the thirty-seventh day of Spring and 91 degrees.


Tea Room

OOC Date 11 Mar 2016 05:00


zeyta_default.jpg r-keon_default.jpg

« Journals are sentimental. Mine is not. »


Tea Room

This shop is easy to miss from the street. It bears the same striped awning that most shops have, this one in shades of lilac and sand, but it has no sign save for a plaque of sandstone hung beside the door, on which a teacup has been carved. When open, the heavy curtain that covers the doorway is pulled aside to allow entry. After stepping through, one will find themselves in a tiny space decorated with classic desert touches.

The walls are whitewashed to increase the sense of light within but the floor is tiled in hues of blue and green, with each tile bearing in its center a brilliant red lotus. There are only five small tables, all of them of dark, heavily carved wood set low to the ground. To sit at one requires reclining on the plethora of pillows and cushions and layered rugs provided for that purpose; each seat is provided with a carved wooden back-prop to rest the pillows against, for those who want spinal support. Tea is served from the service at the rear of the room, where a tiny smokeless hearth keeps water heated, and a row of trays are kept loaded with teapots, tiny cups, and containers for sweetener. There is a small selection of fruits, breads and cheeses also available for those looking for a snack but this is not a place for heavy meals.

Braided beehive piled high, floral cardigan draping low, and sunken predator crouched over tabletop and cross-legged with tea in hand, Zeyta remains a distinct, daylong presence in the tea room, a lone monster holed up in her corner. The Steen girls on shift content themselves to ignore her existence, so self-sufficient she proves, standing to refill her own teapot for her painted little tea glasses, balanced on her pretty metal platter, all come from her own precious hoard of antiques in her weyr (and scattered about The Weyr). Passing a slice of redfruit into her mouth, the crisp crunch of teeth of fruit flesh punctuates the silence, though concentration remains steadfast on the entry into the open ledger before her on which she furiously inscribes.

R'keon enters, or so the silver bell at the door announces, the lean rider all but born in these streets not always a faithful customer, but a known one. He exchanges pleasantries with a server, asks for something 'terribly exotic but not terrible' and feels the length of his chin, idling a bit while his order's honored. In dusty brown leathers, the bronzerider sees his wingmate. Rather than have Qalamath breach Zeyta's mind, he himself steps over to say in a ravaged voice, "mind company?"

The wafting aroma of sweet fragrance perfumes the air around Zeyta with her brew from Southern Bowl freshly steeping while she writes. Focus sets the line of her jaw hard in determination as she pours thought onto page, physical manifestation in ink catharsis for the soul — if the brownrider possesses one. That voice interrupting her only lifts her gaze for clinical assessment, scanning, identifying, and then rolling backwards in submission. "Suit yourself."

R'keon flexes his knees and lowers himself to a cushion, not at all trying to knock into the table and sway engrossed Zeyta's writing. He makes himself comfortable, taking in the pleasant smells, from perfume, to soaking toa, to fresh baked goods. "Two biscuits please." R'keon announces a request to the server bearing his tea. « You write like you have an obvious passion for it. » The basso harmonies of Qalamath perveate through to the brownrider, a sense of the bronze's void filled instead with his rider's sentiments. R'keon drinks from a small bowl, the Grande option, pale eyes finally looking more thoroughly askance.

Always a gamble when catching Zeyta mid-industry: this time, the ceaseless assault of stylus on ledger halts with the stilling of her hand. With R'keon seated she subjects him to unabashed, closer scrutiny with an intensity most find unnerving. Of course she recognizes a wingmate, has doubtless read his file, and yet she finds herself shocked by telepathic intrusion. Iron bars confront Qalamath as Kczyslawborth inserts himself, caging the bronze behind prison walls, squalid conditions hidden in the dim light of his labyrinth underworld. Recovering, she states in clear monotone: "I'm no harper. I'm simply logging mundane events." Albeit, with vigor.

R'keon has known fear and knows Zeyta and it are bosom buddies. She may hold for him a peculiar dogma. But having close acquaintance with famine and death, two Horsemen, unnerving female brownriders are survivable. As iron locks around his psyche, Qalamath holds fast and stays detained by Kczyslawborth, his otherworldly vacuum held from absorbing that which cages him. « A journal, I think they call it. » R'keon is not enamored into keeping one, his entries are lived out. « What did you do before Impression? » Given the biscuits, R'keon dunks one into his tea though they're still yet warm and pliable.

« Journals are sentimental. Mine is not. » A closer inspection reveals Zeyta composes more anecdotal lists than heartfelt essays inspired by daily introspection. A glacier to be thawed and chipped at, she melts not into easy sharing of a life lived, disclosing only to the page. Kczyslawborth, grounded and barred behind his own dank warren cell peers ominous yellow eyes through the darkness, presiding over the exchange with wary caution. "Wouldn't you like to know. Perhaps another time." For now, she invites him to silence with a smile cut wide and laden with the promise of subtle threat should he pry further. Thus, politely disengaging, she sips, picks up her stylus, and resumes her solitude.

Ah, two can play at that game, Zeyta now piped through a link of Kczyslawborth. High-strung R'keon is not, the temporary switch in communication met with the eating of soggy biscuits. At the request, R'keon slows a smile's spread and can value silence. He has to. He'll eat in this quorum of quietude and Qalamath will dissolve from Zeyta's mind like the dust of dead suns contracts back into a core of self.

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