Who

Renalde, Kultir

What

Kultir doesn't think there is anything wrong with plopping his clothing in any old laundry bin. Renalde does not share that feeling.

When

It is evening of the twenty-fifth day of the ninth month of the first turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Southern Laundry

OOC Date

 

renalde_default.jpg kultir_default.jpg

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Laundry

Renalde disapproves of this desc, and will get around to fixing it at some point. For now, look at the pretty picture.


Timor: moon4.jpg
Belior: moon6.jpg


Regardless of what the desc might say, THESE DAYS the Laundry room is bastion of CLEAN and PROPER. There is almost always someone here scrubbing or hanging or doing the other things that people do without laundry machines. Right now, that includes scrubbing the floor. The proper laundry mistress is not in session, and Renalde is. He is currently instructing a teenage girl on the PROPER way of folding shirts so that the folds are HIDDEN. It's rather long winded.

Kultir slips into the laundry with a half-full pack on his shoulder and looks around the laundry. He nods briefly in greeting to the people working at keeping this area just as clean as the other places in the Weyr. The sound of a lecture going on draws his attention, his lips quirking in a slight smile at the sight of the Headman giving instruction to a young girl he's seen in here before. Slipping past the pair to a free washtub, he murmur, "Pardon me, miss, Headman." The tracker opens his pack and dumps the five or six pieces of his clothing into the tub and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows to shove the fabric down into the hot water.

"Now, do it properly." Renalde steps back from the table and gestures for the teenager to pick up the clothing. However, his attention only stays there for a moment before it is caught up by the tracker putting his clothing into the bins. "Kultir. What are you doing?" His tone holds alll the patience of one who is just about to lose every ounce of it because the person they are talking to is doing something wrong.

Not thinking anything of what he's doing, Kultir takes up a scrub brush and tackles a particularly bad mud-stain on the seat of a pair of trous when Renalde's voice breaks into his quiet thoughts. Looking up, his expression is a little confused as he looks at the older man. Frowning at the tone, the tracker tilts his head slightly and looks down at the task beneath his hands. "Umm … washing my clothes? Sir?" His tone is perplexed since he hadn't thought he was doing anything wrong, it's what he does every few evenings when he's in the Weyr.

"Why are you washing your clothes?" Perhaps it is Renalde's evening to be nice, he hasn't swung into lecture mode yet? His hands fold behind his back as those ice blue eyes of his stare downwards at the trapper.

Kultir blinks at the man as his confusion deepens at the question. "Because … they're dirty?" The young man doesn't intend to be flippant but he can't figure out just why the Headman is asking such obvious questions … why else would he be washing his clothes except if they were dirty.

"No. Kultir." These words are said with the UTMOST PATIENCE. "Why are you washing your clothing," He gestures a hand wide, as if to encompass the whole of the laundry. "There are those here better suited for such work. They have received training in the best ways in which to distill from your clothing the dirt which you have ground into it in your jungle wanderings. MOREOVER," And while it isn't quite a yell, Renalde's voice does tick up a notch on that word, "have you any idea of the mess you have made out of the bin rotation which was in place? Now that bin will have to be emptied and refilled before it can be used for the clothing it ought to have held. So I ask again. Why are you washing your clothing?"

The confusion slowly fades from Kultir's expression as the Headman goes on what can only be termed a tirade and is replaced with a hard and stubborn expression. His amber eyes flare with a surge of anger that the older man considers him inept and thoughtless into the bargain. "I always wash my own clothing, sir. I make such a mess out of them that I feel it is unfair to ask someone else to deal with them." The tracker pulls himself to his full height as he just barely keeps himself from glaring at the Headman as his jaw sets stubbornly. "And I always leave the washbin the way I find it, sir."

"Have you even considered that this bin is needed right now?" Renalde waves away the protests that Kultir puts up with a single sharp wave of his hand. "You may believe you are making the task lighter for those who work here, but you are not. Leave your clothing and go hunter, or take it with you and wash them in a stream. There are schedules put in place for a reason, and you have interrupted those schedules enough." Even standing at his full high Renalde doesn't seem that much smaller than him. Especially when you account for the faint streaks of gray that have begun to streak though his hair. "My lower cavern folk are more than able to deal with messes, and you do them no service by belittling their work."

Kultir's jaw clenches as his anger flares again, his ears reddening with the effort to keep from lashing out at the Headman. The tracker's hands tremble slightly as he carefully replaces the scrub brush in its tray before the young man lifts his trous from the washbin. Stripping as much water from the fabric as he can, the strong hands fold and wring even more from the fabric as he twists the heavy garment. The muscles of his forearms stand out in cords as he wrings and then stuffs the garments into his pack. "As you wish, Headman Renalde," is the growled reply. As soon as the clothing is back in the pack, the young man pulls the plug to drain the washbasin. The water is glared at as the tracker's damp hands grip the edges of the basin, intending to return the bin to the condition he had found it in.

Renalde has said his piece now he will simply WATCH. If Kultir doesn't put that bin back the way that it was when first proposed then Renalde MIGHT speak again. Until then…. yes. FIX this. His face is utterly impassive.

Once the water has drained, Kultir finds a small scrap of cloth used as a cleaning rag and wets it. Adding a little soapsand, the young tracker scrubs the interior of the washbin to remove any grunge that the filthy water might have left around the outside. As soon as every inch of that bin has been scrubbed over, the young man rinses the minimal suds out until his fingers moving over the smooth interior make squeaking sounds. Finally, fresh hot water can be run into the basin until the water reaches just over the half-way mark. Once finished, the hunter bends and retrieves his pack and slings it over his shoulder. "Excuse me. Sir." There is a glimmer of anger still lurking in the darkened amber gaze as his eyes flick over the Headman as he moves to exit the laundry to find a rock to beat his clothing against.

Renalde has stood still as a stone, watching the young man work. When that bin is cleaned he'll nod just once. This is as it ought to be. The 'sir' is met with the slightest of nods as his eyes swing upwards and around the room, alighting on a worker on the far end. "HOW many times must I tell you…" His voice can be heard ringing after Kultir as the micromanaging headman moves on to his next victim.

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