The following is a log of roleplay on Threadfall MUSH, logged by Zarvind.
All references to the world and characters of Pern based on Anne McCaffrey's fiction are copyrightę 1967 by Anne McCaffrey, all rights reserved. The Dragonriders of Pern« is registered U.S. Patent and Trademark Office, by Anne McCaffrey and used here with permission.
Kitchens - Ista Weyr
Alive with all the wonderful smells of Pern's finest Bakers and most ambitious cooks, the sweet scents of desserts mingle with the warm smells of main courses that linger in this area no matter what the time or day. Almost always a bustling hive of activity, there is little room for those who wish to stand about and chatter in here without some narrow-eyed staffmember coming over to usher people into business or departure. A cacophony of sounds generally greet the ears - the clang of pots and pans and the sizzle of cooking meats, the shouting of harried kitchen staff and the giggling of light-hearted passers by.
Counter space abounds in here, from the large butchers' block to the long rows of countertops that run the length of the kitchen. Racks for spices and cabinets for storage are also to be found within, sometimes left open to whack the unwary in the forehead. A swinging door leads to and from the living caverns, the hinges always well-oiled. One small tunnel branches back into the Weyr a ways, opening onto a large storeroom with all manner of dried fruits and vegetables, grains and sweetener.
Storerooms Living Caverns
It is currently early evening on day 21 of the 11th month of Turn 198. 10th Interval.
Goran comes in amidst the clatter of a metal pail and a metal bristeled brush, a bit of water sloshing onto the floor as he heads to the hearth; he's already head to toe soot, but doesn't seem to mind it at all, despite looking as if he's been charred like roast herdbeast. His hair is singed, too, from getting to near a fire at one time or another, leaving stray fray ends on usually short and neat auburn locks. He's whistling, however, if a bit off-key, and he smiles at the cooks, who wave him towards the smoking hearth with impatient hands; they do hate having their scheduled mussed.
Tall, but not thin, there is an air of strength about this man, the bulkiness of muscles evidence of a life of hard labor, the tanned skin suggesting that much of this occurred out in the sun and fresh air. Candid green eyes watch the world with muted humor, their pure, clear color switching to murky moss or swirling smoke given certain angles of light. Dark auburn hair brushes the back of his neck, curling slightly but cut short and kept in order, except for one errant lock that must constantly be pushed back by a large callused hand from the high foreheard above even brows. Firm lips and a ready smile add to his air of friendly welcome, and despite his size and obvious physical power, there isn't a mean bone in his body, although a hint of arrogance can be seen in the jut of a well-shaped yet slightly prominent proboscis. Goran is in his early 20s.
Goran wears comfortable yet faded clothing, their sturdy construction suggestive of the need for long wear and hard work; a wherhide jerkin in a once-dark green, now faded to a kind of olive shade hangs over a faded white shirt of cotton, both stretched tightly over muscles. Baggier trous of black-turned gray wherhide tuck into almost brand-new boots. After all, you can't go walkabout without proper footware. The clothing is simple, suited to a farmer; his only other possessions seem to be a wide belt around his waist and a worn leather haversack over his shoulder, only somewhat stuffed with his worldly possessions. A knife hangs from the belt, more for utilitarian purposes than the need to defend himself. An addition has been made to Goran's clothing of late; he proudly sports the simple white single knot of an Ista Weyr Candidate on his shoulder.
Evening sees Zarvind still with chores on hand: he's currently scrubbing at a resistant piece of Ista's plate, not looking very pleased -- but that's of consequence, of course -- he glances upwards and sees Goran. Its pure reaction that works those lips though, "Don't-wet-the floor."
A mop of black caps an awkward seeming demeanour, dripping askew over one ear in unpractised roguishness. His face is highly angular, sly curve of cheek almost childish in the peak of youthful delicacy. Grey eyes and clipped chin straggle casually together with the rest of this youth's sturdy but slightly lanky form, long legs claiming a striding gait as an obscure slur marks alto voice.
A spare pair of sandals fits loosely over Zar's feet, chapped flesh evident on the exposed toes. Otherwise, his clothes are ordinary, Weyr issue, brown tunic clapped over mid-length middling umber trous reaching to calf level. Crinkled, his outfit at least appears clean, without frills, but his knot surpasses his clothes in its mundanity: a single white knot identifies him as an Istan Candidate.
He is 14 Turns, 2 months, 27 days old.
Goran turns his head as he settles the bucket to the floor by the still smoldering hearth; the cooks don't seem to have put it out all that long ago for him. He follows the sound of the voice to it's source, smiling at the boy from whom the words emitted. "My apologies..I hope I ain't messed up your work?" And so saying, he heads back to the wet spot with a rag, mopping it up as best he can and only leaving a /little/ smear of soot in its place. Again he looks at plate polisher, standing and staring at the white knot that can signify only one thing "Y'are a candidate too, eh? M'name's Goran...I'm going to clean the hearth. Looks like they've got you helping in the kitchen..." Either that or he just likes to clean plates. "Well met."
Zarvind emulates the fussy woman-type, and he's justified in this, if you count the hours he has spent before hearth and floor. The relatively new candidate slants a grey look at Goran as the other goes through the routine of greeting; he eyes the soot too along the way. He goes on polishing the plate even while attention leaves his task. "Zarvind, and yes I am a candidate. Well met, Goran. --Believe I saw you getting Searched."
Goran heads back to the hearth; after all, he has his task as well, nodding as he goes, crouching with surprising grace despite his size. Burying his head in said sooty opening hides his embarrassed flush as well as his voice, muffling it to gruffness "Aye, if y'did, you saw me makin a fool of myself, no doubt." Is his response, even as he takes up brush and flat shovel to clear the hearth of ashes and embers preparatory to cleaning it thoroughly. "I didn't even know what was going on, see." Ignorance is not necessarily bliss after all.
"Nor did I," Zarvind mentions for his benefit. But further disclosure isn't for now, so he simply puts down the plate and picks up another from the horrendous stack before him. "And I thought residents of the weyr should know about these things. I'm not," and because it bears asking, "you are--"
A small cloud of ash fluffs into the air as Goran dumps his pile of the gray and black stuff into a metal pail just for the purpose, choking a bit as he starts to laugh and gets a mouthful. He turns an even blacker face to you, still chuckling "Y'think I look like Weyrfolk, eh? I ain't. I'm from a farm cothold, and never put foot one into a Weyr until a couple seven day ago. I wanted to see what one was like, y'know? Explore a bit. I've never been away from the sweetcane fields before this. I stuck for the hatching, see" And now a somewhat pleased, if slightly shy-tempered smile curves through the streaks of soot across his cheeks and chin. "It looks as if we'll both have a bit better view of the eggs than we might have expected." Again he brushes for any leftover ash, sifting it into the pail before sprinkling sweetsand for the next step -scrubbing.
Zarvind, caught out, pushes the stack slightly away from him. His wash-cloth flops; flops pitifully on the greased counter where grime has stained it brown. "I see. Not weyrfolk eh? Well, that's all right too, and does account for your not knowing the customs. I've never seen much of farm holds myself though, never liked them much." He shakes his head; makes yet another statement of fact. "You are happy here."
No one could say that Goran was the most observant of men; but then, he perhaps isn't the least so. Something in the tone of your voice causes him to pause in his vigorous scrubbing, gazing back over his shoulder with perplexion "Y'ain't happy?" he wonders, not sure if he understood the boy "Here, I mean. Y'can't have been here long enough to make a decision." He sloshes water back over the still-black stones, scrubbing a bit more before adding philosophically "For me, this place is better than a farm. There's more to see and do. A bit more variety to life." He seems to share your lack of interest in his previous occupation. "And I mean t'learn more about the customs, soon as I have the time and can scare up a Harper....I should have paid more attention to m'lessons before this."
Announcement: The Oracle shouts "The OOC color seminar, graciously hosted by J'sen, will begin momentarily in the Istan Weyrling Barracks. Everyone - candidates, riders, applicants, residents, bored people - is invited to attend. @tel #57. :)"
Zarvind remarks, without missing a beat after Goran has paused in his invective, that "I never said I wasn't," and fences back with a sly smile. "Surely, a harper would do you good. Oh. Excuse me." Without a word, he crosses the kitchens; turns back on retrospect. "Maybe you'd like to join me. Some rider was going to give a lecture. I heard."
Goran smiles. After all, he knows he could use a bit more learning about the whys and wherefores of Weyrlife and even life on Pern beyond the fields of sweetcane. "Well, glad that you ain't unhappy. It'd be a shame, as everyone here is really friendly." He smiles, standing up, and looks down at himself and you. "And a lecture would do me some good, wouldn't it" is added with a chuckle, brushing at his clothes "Let's go, then. I ain't getting any cleaner at the moment."
Goran heads through the swinging wooden door to the living
Goran has left.
You head through the swinging wooden door to the living caverns.
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