Suwert, T'ral


A trio of players, T'ral on harpsichord, Suwert on gitar and Southern itself on Winter Storm gather to delight and dismay denizens of the Harper Wing.


It is noon of the fourth day of the seventh month of the second turn of the 12th pass.


Southern Weyr

OOC Date


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Harper Wing

Learning takes place here, and mayhap a headache or two: this room is a continuation of the vaulted space of the main craft complex, two-levels and cluttered with the trappings of life. Above, classrooms and niches pocket the mezzanine that serves as the second level, while below lay open-air studios devoted to all the minutiae of Harper life: instruments of music and art and law and books, of learning and entertaining and everything yet in between. Far in the back, a tiny nook is carved out for the daily living: a few tables and couches, heavily used, and a hearth for klah, used yet heavier.

It is the sixty-fourth day of Winter and 37 degrees. Partly cloudy, the storm seems to be mostly gone with only the occasional short falls of rain painting the ground.

Suwert enters the room and heads over to get some klah. He looks like he recently woke up.

Rain and wind howl outside the shutters spun to let in weak winter light through high windows. A man is sitting at the harpsichord playing haltingly, "Crap," through a swift dark piece of music. Fingers travel swiftly over the keys, faltering, skipping on the fastest parts, "Fffff," a sharp shake of his head. Shoulders relax into a slower passage, foot tapping he carries on struggling through the piece. He straightens hearing someone at the hearth, eyebrows raising, mouth canted in an apologetic grimace, "Sorry for this." Not that sorry, he's still playing. Oddly enough, now that he's not so focused, he's making fewer mistakes.

((T'ral's Tune, just, yanno, well played.))

Suwert looks over at T'ral. "No problem. Have heard worse when was riding ciruit duty." He shrugs in a way that comes across that the 'worse' part was an understatement concerning some of what he had heard attempted.

The bluerider laughs, "Well, you're honest at least." T'ral straggles through the rest of the piece and, with a flourish, finishes. He spins on the stool to face the Harper and springs to his feet, advancing towards Suwert, "We didn't really get introduced at the 'dinner.'" T'ral's lips quirk in distaste. He smiles, eyes warm, bowing over a hand across his abdomen, "T'ral, blue Esanth's. How are you finding Southern?"

Suwert says, "Suwert, still stuck at Journeyman harper. Southern? Nice place. Better than the northern hinderlands I was riding circuit on."

T'ral's handshake is firm. He gives the older man a curious look, brow furrowed, as he moves over to get some klah for himself. "Stuck?" he prompts, pouring and fussing with fixings. The musical jangle of a spoon stirring then tapped smartly. He ambles back to where Suwert is tuning up his gitar and seats himself on the stool again, heavy mug cradled for warmth. These high ceilings were great for acoustics, but they didn't do much at all for holding in warmth. EXCEPT IN THE BEASTLY SUMMER. "It has its charms, does Southern."

Suwert shrugs. "When some of the masters at the main hall decide that they don't want you to advance, due to some disagreements of opinion, it usually doesn't happen. Especially if one of them is the head of the area I am a specialized in." He says it in a tone that is have 'no longer cares' and half 'they are idiots' in what he think of the situation.

T'ral's laugh is rueful, a short grunt of shared dismay. "Don't I know it." He takes a sip of the klah and sets it at his feet, "Came South for that same reason." He waggles his head back and forth, "Sorta." A grin, shared. He spins on the stool, facing the harpsichord again, hands poised over the keys. He turns his head so he can see Suwert in his periphery a grin slanted across the bearded mouth, "Shall we?"

Suwert nods. "I am all tuned up. Got a preference or just some improvisation?"

T'ral wilts, "Improvisation, please." He grins, head still turned, "Then it'll be less obvious when I screw up. I'll play something simple, you solo over it." Because a practicing Harper was going to be WAY more suited to soloing than an out-of-practice dragonrider. He picks out a dark resonant chord, echoing tinnily in the rafters up where wind howls outside, lashing rain against the panes.

Suwert smiles and starts to play around T'ral's start, aiming to blend in the sound from the weather as much as T'ral's playing. He is careful to leave openings for T'ral to respond to what Suwert is playing, that Suwert can then respond to in turn.

"Oh, man, I miss this sometimes." Playing. T'ral stumbles along, laughing at his screwups, shaking his head. Playful jangling responses as only a harpsichord can render in response to the smoother, rounder tones of Suwert's gitar. "Did you know," jangly jangly jang, "This is the only instrument of its like in the world?" Jangly jang. Because he's got the bass, T'ral's got the tempo, he drives the tune faster as the wind outside rises.

Suwert nods as he plays. "Knew I hadn't seen something like it before." He weaves his playing around T'ral's and the sounds of the weather, aiming at making it sound as if the weather was a living thing, something to work with and against.

A series of hard stacatto notes, lightning strokes. Folk from elsewhere in the complex are gathering in the doorway, peering in. There aren't often folks on the harpsichord. It's uniqueness means it's by and large off limits. Whoops. T'ral cranes around looks, "Oh, we have an audience. Let's bring it home." The bluerider grins rakishly and hammers out a raucous chorus, call and response with the storm and Suwert. Driving the impromptu storm serenade to a thundrous climax and then … silence. "Wooo!" There's applause from the door and broad grins from those gathered. A voice, barked, demanding, "WHO'S IN THERE!" T'ral's eyes go wide, his roguish grin slipping into a wary 'oh.' He laughs, "That's my cue," he sticks out a hand to Suwert, shaking the other man's hand quickly, "Good to meet you!" He snags his mug from the floor - can't have been seen to have beverages near the harpsichord - and vanishes in a swirl of leathern scented air and a crash of thunder. A harpermaster shoves between the apprentices in the doorway, his face a stormcloud itself. "Was it that bluerider?! Damnit. He goes too far!" The door recently exited slams shut.

Suwert downs his klah and packs up his gitar, grinning as he does. He had stuff to do.

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