Who

Elle, Finn

What

Elle stumbles into the Baths after a long night and is TOTALLY in the way. Boots are thrown.

When

It is midmorning of the twenty-eighth day of the sixth month of the second turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Igen Weyr

OOC Date

 

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Public Baths

Stout walls have been erected around several naturally formed pools, serving to provide a semblance of privacy and protection from the harsh wind and sand. Above the pools, well cleaned walkways criss-cross beneath tiled arches and descend with a stairway or two leading down to each pool to provide one means of slip-free access through the area. Surrounding the pools there are benches, receptacles to put used clothing and towels in, and areas to get sweetsand and towels from - if you didn't bring your own.


There are those who shy away from this notion of public bathing, who seek out the slow times to invade the steamy depths of Igen's pools. And then there's Elle, who was up until all the wee hours of the morning, almost fell asleep during breakfast-as-dinner-of-sorts, and now is half-stumbling into the baths with a zombied expression about her. She wears her standard outfit: a loose, long, oversized tunic belted at the waist, form-fitting leggings and heavy boots. She pauses at the threshold, staring at the maze of walkways arching over the pools proper, tilting her head as if trying to make sense of this strange sight.

And then there are those who have embraced the public baths like only someone who's bathed out of a ladle for the better part of his life can. ENTER: Finn. Alternately whistling and humming he is be-bopping along, he skirts around a young woman who's stopped stock still in the middle of the path. "Hey there, you're like to get run ove- You okay, miss?" The smith, wearning simple worn work clothes, be-sooted, his face a smear of grimy soot and sparkling metal particulate, dips his head down to crane a politely inquiring face into the Door Blocker's face.

"Oh, I'm fine." Elle startles from whatever daydream (or regular dream — there is no doubting the tired fan of unnatural lines about the corners of her eyes) to smile reflexively up at Finn. It warps to a side, twisting to be more than just mere formality. "A smith, are you?" She wears no knot-cords herself, this one, and in this state looks even more waifish: a girl of sixteen, perhaps, swimming in an oversized tunic with her hair plastered flat. It's just her voice that gives her away, soft and soprano and liltingly Holder-perfect.

Picking out womenfolk, however waifish, in this crazy world of SCANDALOUS breeches is something Finn's just got a gift for. Like he has a dowsing rod for femininity. A SENSE FOR IT. Gutter brain. He straightens up at the girl's pronouncement, cocking his head and peeering over his shoulder to track along what Elle had been looking at. And, "Ooof," now he's blocking the door and others aren't as polite as he is. "Arh!" He hustles to the side, making room for an auntie, her elbows fully deployed. "'scuse me, Ma'am." The smith rubs at his side, wincing, those elbows are pointy! "A smith I are. Finn. Of the Reika." He inclines his head, rather than extend his hand, because handling strange girls in the bath is, well, with a couple years on her and it'd be delightful. What was… Oh. "First time in the baths…?" There's an elognated silence at the end, an invitation for the young woman to introduce herself.

"Oh." There isn't necessarily disappointment at Finn's introduction, but Elle does pull herself a'right with a semblance more bearing than she was disclosing earlier. "I thought you were a real Smith." Her lips quip to the side, pursing just slightly in a moue of irascible amusement. She pulls herself to her considerable height, all scant-over-five-feet of it, and after moving from the direct entrance issues a crafter's bow from the waist, inclining her chin. "Pleased to meet you, Finn. Elle of the starcraft, at your service. No, not the first time, but it's been several turns since I've hallowed these… particularly dusty steps." Her dark eyes track in one such dusty creature, twined mummified in a long wrap of linen that covers all but the eyes, and just like that she's distracted again.

"Nope!" The Reika grins, "I'm a fake smith!" He straightens further, "With a fake anvil and a fake hammer and everything! Oh," he leans in conspiratorily, "And a forge furnace full of the char-coaled bones of real Smiths who died giving me their secr-" his eyes go wide, a grin flashing very white against scruffy grime, because he can't sell a joke this dark, "Probably shouldn't go spreading that around, hmm?" He winks, long over-six-foot frame in an easy slouch that is tall without being towering. "At my service? What services are those?" The young man's brow wrinkles, making sense of the 'clean' sweat runnel tracks that stripe his forehead. He must brow furrow a lot, this one.

"My father's a real Smith, trader," Elle lightly returns; there is easy humor there, which makes it hard to discern if she's truthful, being outrageous or just picking fun: "A Smithcraft master, even. Watch your words." With a voice like that, she could have a Master for a father. "I'll be sure not to tell him you're stealing his journeymen to milk the secrets from their poor charred bones," the slip of a young woman reassures, reaching out to pat his nearest arm without any concern of her hand getting dirty from the soot it may run across. "Not any services you would find interesting, I'm sure. Unless you are interested in the star stones, the prediction of weather and the intricate dance of the stars across the heavens?" She's tired, alright: she's being downright talkative.

"A masssterrrrr," Finn's light eyes widen, stark in his face and dancing as fingers steeple, tips tapping in a rhythmic cascade, "His bones would be mooossssst eeeeexcellent," Muahaha. Now all he needs a fluffy white cat to pet. A fluffy white cat named Sooty, because WOW it would get filthy. "Elle." Finn ponders her name. "Well, Elle." He blinks, smiling. "Well Elle. Well Elle. Well Elle," the fake smith (see, even lowercase) beams, apparently really pleased that those two things rhyme. "Welcome… home?"

"He'd crush you like a bug," Elle replies, an affectionate tone to her voice. Perhaps not as far-fetched as it would be, then? At the giddiness of the other she stills, cocking her head to one side to better assess him. There's a mien of thoughtful air about her, and the scrutiny she bestows upon Finn makes her quite suddenly look as if she does indeed land within the appropriate age range in which she exists. "Are you done making fun of my name?" Lightly asked. Are you finished. An actor's smile, then: polished, practiced, patient. "No, I came when I was an apprentice," she distractedly moves out of someone else's way, "Back when Aevryscienth first appeared." The harbinger of the oldtimers to come.

Finn barks a laugh, "Probably." Master Smiths tended to be huge. "Ow." Finn moves aside again. THESE AUNTIES AND THEIR ELBOWS, "'scuse me, Ma'am," called after Auntie McElbows. "Uh, I think I'm gonna," he tips a head towards baths, "Get outta the doorway." And, yanno, bathe. He takes a a step bathward and stops, looking genuinely surprised. "Making fun?" He shakes his head, "Not at all." Not making fun or not done? It's not clear. "I like it. Wellelle. My name rhymes with everything." He grins, undaunted. Is that a challenge? "You don't loooook like an Oldtimer." Because they have horns and cloven feet, right? Elle's wearing boots, so that confirmation will have to wait for the baths, "Well, except for the pants." Salacious pants.

"It sounds like some kind of cosmetic," Elle pronounces of Wellelle, and finally starts towards the pools as if someone kicked her into gear. Perhaps Finn's words did the trick. The self-composed young woman arches an eyebrow at him and shakes her head. "I'm no oldtimer," she states, her voice somewhat reproachful: that's as much of a direct hit as Elle ever gives reaction to. "Just well educated." She moves to pass him, spurring a sudden smile at him, impossibly impish. She halts almost immediately after she goes, once again staring at the pools. With a distracted air: "Which ones are the hotter ones?"

"Well, I'm no well-educated Starcrafter," Finn clears his throat, making for a cubby to disrobe, tottering briefly as he balances to pull off a boot, "But, uh," he tosses a chin at a pool nearest and tonguing the inside of his cheek, "Them with the most steam're usually the hotter ones." His eyes widen as the boot comes suddenly free and he topples over out of sight. "Oof." A hand appears pointing to Elle's left. Finn's disembodied voice is muffled, "Hottest." The finger pivots, switching to Elle's right. "To coolest." Was that a groan? A boot appears. Finn has conceded to gravity and is de-booting whilst prone. The stones and tiles are totally comfortable.

Over the top of a cubby comes a FLYING BOOT. Maybe it hits Finn on the head. It's surprisingly dainty for being such a heavy, solid piece of well-crafted leather. Elle's, "Oops," sounds saccarin-sweet and not entirely genuine. She's slipped into the next cubby over, see, in an effort to divest herself of her clothing. "If you die in there, you're going to make me have to inform the authorities," her plaintive voice carries from where she's tucked herself. "Imagine the smell."

"Hey!" as the flying boot makes impact. Clearly Elle has studied her ballistics adequately. Finn springs up, offending boot in hand. He cocks back his arm, poised to throw. "Hottest or coldest?" She can choose. He's a gentleman like that.

That is when a half-robed Elle comes around the corner, tucking the ends of the garment for bather's modesty closed probably a bit belatedly — she's all lean lines with a surprisingly plush curve of breast, when taken out of those baggy clothes — and flailing an arm upwards to HOPEFULLY block this little throw of Finn's. "It wasn't my fault. You'll ruin the leather. Give it back." She stays pretty cool, calm in her demand, one hand reaching out authoritatively. Give her the boot, Finn. GIVE HER THE BOOT. (Or she'll.. chew your ankles off? Faranth only knows.)

Finn's got a bit of a red, swelling spot on the crest of his cheek. Oh, Elle. There's no WAY she's gonna reach that boot. Not without climbing. And really, this isn't the place. Or the time. Three or four turns from now, maybe. If that glimpsed of plush curves was any promise of FutureElle, Finn'd give her a leg up. Sometimes analogies just WORK. Now, however, child-woman that she is, Finn is just a 'helpful' tourguide, "First rule of Igen. Keep your belongings close." Like this boot. Waggled. Finn has carefully boxed in his own cubby in the face of grabbyhands Elle. Eyes locked on Elle's face Finn draws back to throw and… and… and… chucks it at the door. Hopefully not into the face of someone entering. Possibly outside.

Pay no mind that Elle is a scant three turns Finn's junior; does that make him just-graduated-manchild? Maybe not even graduated. Still a manchild. Well he looks that way when he's talking about throwing her boot into some kind of horrible water tinctured with FARANTH KNOWS HOW MUCH Igen swampass sweat. She even has a scowl for him, Elle does. }:| "Come on, now. Be reasonab…" That's when he chucks her boot and the OUTRAGED noise she makes — it's quiet. Scarily quiet, even, eyes narrowed with dark portent. Finn has officially managed to annoy her. She spins on a (n unbooted) heel and marches away, off to collect her boot from the throngs of those now coming in, hot and sweaty from the dusts of Igen.

Are we talking mentally or physically? Emotionally? It changes on a daily basis anyway. Particularly when young child-women throw things at him. In some ways Finn is ancient. Or, more properly, timeless. In others, new a suckling babe. And still others, right on the mark. Forge-fit Finn ambles unashamedly nude into the second-to-hottest pool, bundle of clothes (and boots) tucked under his arm with a towel and a net of sand. He finished disrobing while Elle dodged sweaty junk and elbows. Throw things at HIM, will she? That sound, though, that angry little sound… Finn makes sure he has a clear view of the door and Elle's likely vectors of approach. He hisses entering the water and with lunging water-resisted steps, parks it at the least occupied edge of the second-to-hottest pool, clothes (and boots) and towel kept close. First rule, man. He winces, submerging to his chin, not at the heat, but at the bumpering Elle is getting. There's a qualm that flutters, right in time with throbbing pain in his cheek.

Ancient like a DINOSAUR maybe. The wee little sprite that goes to fetch her boot shows surprise prowress in weathering the storm of legs and feet and nasty people, moving with a certain awareness of self that naturally causes people to move out of her way. She retrieves her boot, lumps it with the rest of her clothing, and takes her prim self to one of the more lukewarm pools, POINTEDLY ignoring Finn as she goes. Her robe slips off slender shoulders, and there's only the faintest glimpse of glowing skin, unmarred as fresh cream, before the only thing that can be seen about her at all is her hair piled atop her head, and the sharp jut of her chin. Finn the Forge-Fit can stay over there; Elle the Elegant will keep herself far from such sorely tempting targets.

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