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Sunday, November 12, 2000 -- 01:33 p.m.
The healer journeyman circles the cot so that she's facing Aida squarely. "It /is/ time for your medicine, rider, and you have to -- " But then she sees the uneaten bowl of stew. "You were supposed to finish that first. The tea goes down better on a full stomach." Aida just pouts. That's her style, never mind if it makes her look like she's regressed to about ten turns. The young healer apprentice hovers near Kysaire for cover; safer there than near the recalcitrant brownrider.
Safer? That's a slightly improbable thought, considering Kysaire is well on her way to badgering Aida until that stew flies. At least, that's what she'd like to think. Disregarding the Healer, she persists, seemingly considering herself to be 'good' at this. "Do you want to just get sick and -die- then?" It comes with a snort, and a roll of her dark eyes. She'd probably not be overly mournful, too, if her intonation has anything to say for itself.
Leaning casually against the entrance to the weyr, Riole merely grins at the apprentice. Poor thing, caught in the middle. "Ah, it's the cute brownrider," he drawls, flicking a strand of hair out of his eyes. "Did you get hurt, then?" Genuine concern tints /that/ particular query's tone. "And the Healer's right. Medicine always /does/ taste better with food. Though my mother said that it's always best with sugary things." Innocence radiates outwards -- a ham, through and through.
Riole's riposte is ignored as Aida and Helicyth, as one, turn to glare at Kysaire -- and Helicyth is glaring, yes, with faint crimson tainting his gaze. "That's /not/ funny," the brownrider says simply. But she takes the darned stew and begins to eat it. Journeyman Jeryn wisely fades into the background, waiting for Aida to finish before she pushes the medicated tea onto her.
-Everyone- knows that a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down, and noticing Riole for the first time, Kysaire turns her head, nodding rapidly. "That's right!" Ooh, wait, her words got a response. Blushing ever so faintly, raising her chin in mock authority, the girl words tentatively, "It's true, though." Even if it wasn't a very nice thing to say.
Riole clicks his tongue ruefully, shaking his head. "That redheaded temper strikes again, I see," he observes, winking at both dragon and resident. "At least she's not being frozen again, hmm?" Kysaire is treated to a broad grin and a chuckle. "And who're you, oh cute one?" Charm, charm, charm. Oh-so-much fun.
Could they take the charming elsewhere then? This is an /invalid/ weyr, after all. Balefully spooning stew into her mouth, Aida continues to glare fiercely at her two unwanted visitors, while Helicyth settles down now that his initial shock is past. "Tell them to leave," she barks at the journeyman. "They're bothering me." But even Journeyman Jeryn looks faintly amused at all this commotion.
Kysaire sniffs delicately; she's not cute, she's beautiful-. Or not, but her opinion has to count for something, doesn't it? "Kyssa. Kysaire. Excuse me, I'm working." She's certainly not having anything to do with charming; life is about work, not play. She smiles prettily in return to Aida, returning to her dusting with at least one and three quarters of her hearing fascilities resting outwards. "Sorry; I can't help being here."
Ah, but sugar is dripping from Riole as he continues to beam. Wouldn't that aid the medicine in going down? Turning his charm upon the Healers, the boy sighs wistfully. "I simply wanted to assure myself that the lady Rider was healthy and not near death." Unwanted or not, Riole's casual stance against the arch's entrance denotes an intention to stay. An amused grin to match Jeryn's flickers across his face. "I'm sorry -- the light must've hit your face wrong, Kyss-" A play-on-words Kysaire's most likely heard far too many times, but still amusing to one who hasn't heard it "-and I didn't notice that you are /very/ beautiful." Persistent, isn't he?
Nauseatingly so. Aida polishes off her stew in double-time and extends her hand for the tea. "Quick, quick." Before she upchucks at the saccharine sweet lines being exchanged around her. Even the healer apprentice, hiding near Kysaire, peers forward to consider Riole -- any treats for her, even if she's barely twelve?
Please excuse Kysaire while she joins those in the infirmary, no doubt green from overdose of saccharine. "Kyssa. -Not- Kyss." Grumble, whine, wrinkle of the nose. Not so adult yet as to enjoy the attentions of one of the darker (as appossed to 'fairer') sex. Aida's progress is remarked upon with a delighted smile; not so much saccharine as sunlit -- which comes to much the same thing: "Look at that! You're doing so well."
Riole hmphs -- literally, /hmphs/ -- at the snub. Horrors, his charm doesn't work on women, it seems. Can't even make 'em blush. This does /not/ bode well. "Sorry, Kyss," he chirps, turning back to the apprentice with a grin. "I think /she's/ got a temper, too." Not even close to a whisper. How subtle.
Pausing before she drinks her tea, Aida snaps, "Go away" for the third time today -- but who's counting? The mantra doesn't seem to work anyhow. She gurgles the tea down -- or at least, that's what it sounds like -- while Helicyth makes sure none of the others interfere with this important step in the healing process. Once the mug is drained, Journeyman Jeryn and her apprentice obligingly retreat, leaving Aida to contend with the two young folk herself.
Poor Aida. Or is it poor Riole, considering that he's being left alone with two easily tempered women? Kysaire has not even the compassion to blush, let alone respond verbally, at Riole's words to the apprentice, straightening her neck to return to work with increased productivity. "Try gargling, perhaps it'll make your throat hurt less -- or perhaps it doesn't hurt? What -are- your symptoms, Aida?"
Riole bats his eyelashes at Aida, a bright grin back upon his face. "I think you're losing your voice, Aida-dearie," he drawls mischievously. "I didn't hear what you said." Poor Riole, in his opinion. Trampled, ignored... what's Pern coming to, ignoring such a cute boy? "Gargle with sugar. It helps, really."
Aida has no trouble gargling, but since he offered, she pokes his arm. "Get me a drink of sugar water then. Go on -- be useful." And maybe it'll give her a bit of peace and quiet while he's gone. Kysaire suddenly seems tame and even harmless in comparison.
Kysaire could easily be doubly annoying, just to make up the difference. It's quite easy, in fact, especially since she says, "So, Aida, still not talking to me about what's up? Honestly, one would think that you were -pregnant-, or something equally horrible the way you're keeping up at it." Eyelashes flutter in an attempt at being convincing; please, please, please spill?
Zevay enters from the ground weyrs
Do Riole's ears detect something /interesting/ about this particular line of conversation? "Do /tell/!" Abandoning his comfortable pose against the wall to hastily jog over towards the pair, the boy's eyes glitter. Information. A lovely thing.
Aida's gaze is bereft of all sunlit insouciance as she turns to Kysaire -- so much for her assumptions of tameness. "I will tell you that it's something equally horrible, and you," Riole, she means, "go get me a glass of sugar water or I'll have Helicyth bite your pants off." The brown dragon seems unperturbed at this, having settled down to watch the little drama. He doesn't look as if he'd bite a wherry even if it strutted right past him.
Kysaire would probably get along with Riole very well, if it wasn't that he was, in her opinion, a slimy prick. "Be useful, for goodness sakes," she snorts in Riole's direction, ears pricking up at mention of Helicyth's name. She'd forgotten, or didn't know, but all is now remedied. "Something equally horrible? That -does- open up paths of interest. No details?"
"None," Aida insists, tugging the sleeves of her oversized shift up to her elbows. Maybe it's the medicated tea she just drank, but it's getting warm in here. Or maybe it's all these nosy parkers.
"Ah! That might be fun, actually. Shall I wiggle my rear end in his face?" Riole asks chipperly, eyes widening. Insane. "Aww, Aida dearie, you don't want that sugar water, do you? And anyway, you've just had some medicine. Don't ruin its effect with other things," he continues, airily waving a hand through the air. "And can't you tell us the tiniest little thing?"
"No sugar water, no details," Aida decides. There, that settles things. Helicyth considers Riole's behind briefly, but then goes back to watching his rider. She's his priority, in these days, more than ever.
Zevay strolls in at around this time....he doesn't seem to be looking for anyone in particular. In fact his direction indicates that this is probably just a shortcut from the bowl to the infirmary. He holds a rag against his right elbow. Apparently he was in some sort of tussel since his hair is ruffled and his clothing covered in grime.
Kysaire's face shows mournful signs at Aida's decision, but she nods, "I suppose it could be slightly embarrassing to discuss the workings of one's body, when there are children around." Not her, of course.
Riole wrinkles his nose, and spots the way out. Delegate! "Hey! You with the rag! Could you do me a big favor and go fetch me a glass of water with a little sugar added?" he calls, waving at Zevay. Child? Him? Not likely. Must mean Zevay. "See? Sugar water. Now, details."
Aida repeats: "No sugar water, no details." Which part of that bargain did Riole not understand?
Zevay frowns at Riole, "WOuld you like that before or after I bleed to death." The amount of sarcasm coating that phrase makes it understandable that though he will not actually be in any sort of peril of expiring at this moment, clearly the request is not very high on his importance list.
"She's made herself plain," asserts Kysaire with a vague snort towards Aida, then adding slightly snarkily, "If you two are going to argue, it's probably better if you do it -elsewhere-. This is a sick room, and I'm working."
Aida turns to Zevay, vaguely remembering him as slingshot boy. "You're not bleeding," she presumes to say. The floor's still clean; that's how she knows.
"Working?" Riole echoes incredulously. "You're not working. You're doing the exact same thing I am: trying to figure out what's wrong with Aida-dearie." Zevay gets a slightly miffed glance through slitted grey eyes. Pout.
Kysaire can't allow herself to be seen in the wrong light; especially since she's obviously the only mature one here, so, calmly, she shakes her head, "I'm not. That's only a minor concern. I'm dusting." And she is -- she's done about three square centimeters of the area in front of her.
Zevay narrows his eyes at Aida and removes the rag which he has been using to keep pressure on the wound. The rag looks rather nasty with colorations that make one wonder if bleeding would have been more hygenic. "I'm just going through to get some numbweed if that's okay? Ya don't gotta jump down my throat."
Aida squints at Zevay's elbow, then points at Riole. "You're unharmed and obviously have too many free thoughts. Get me the sugar water and quit passing the job to someone else." Never mind if she's passing it on herself; she's the convalescent, in case anyone forgot with her strident demeanor. "He needs numbweed. Go inside -- Journeyman Jeryn's about," she informs Zevay. See, she /can/ be helpful.
Maturity is Bad. So says Riole (and he believes it, too). "Dusting my... foot." That didn't sound quite right. A smirk, full of mischief and condescending amusement, casts a sinister light across his features. "Ah, Kyss, your name ill befits you." Peering at Zevay and then at Aida, he pouts in truth. "Not until you give me the details. I don't know if you'll try to sneak off before I come back with the water."
Which only leaves Kysaire? Of all the luck. Or un-luck. Or--well, anyway. "Go on, the lot of you. You've no -real- reason to be here." Not like Kysaire, she who dusts. "Dusting your foot? No, I am -not- going to dust your moldy old foot. And my name is -Kyssa-, for the last time." She dusts another centimeter or two, just for effect.
Too much noise, too much acrimony. "Do I look like I'm going anywhere?" Aida snaps at Riole. She doesn't mention that she can barely totter from the cot to the necessary without two healers supporting her.
Zevay says, "I ain't a baby, I can get it myself." He goes to one of the tables and looks through a few pots trying to find some of the things he needs to dress the wound. Finally he comes across the correct pot and begins to clean the wound. Its a nasty little thing which he quickly slathers the numbweed on. Satisfied that it isn't going to bleed much anymore, He wraps the limb lightly and heads back to where the gathering is. "Have they got you your water yet?""
"Spunky," Riole mumbles, rolling his eyes at the pair of women. "Fine. I'll be back in just a second." With that, the boy pads out of the room, heading in the direction of the kitchens.
Riole slips out of the Invalid Weyr.
*snip*
Riole slips into the Invalid Weyr
Kysaire does not, and will never, understand the mugs, but she nods her head, smiles vaguely, and ohs, "Of course. Helicyth would. A lovely collection." Head turns towards the doorway as Riole's footsteps are heard, then turns away again. Not -him- again. "He's a man. They dawdle."
Riole returns, bearing a glass of vaguely clouded water and a spoon with excessive care. "You have /no/ idea how hard it is to get decent sugar around here. The cooks are on a baking spree, I think, and the sugar's being passed along far too quickly to really grab it. But I got it, Aida-dearie," he announces, beaming sweetly at the bedridden rider. "Now, spill."
Aida's gaze plainly agrees with Kysaire's opinion, extending her hand for the glass first. "Not before I have a drink."
"It would be an utter waste to spill the water before she's had some of it," agrees Kysaire, obviously attempting to ensure that any information that is passed on will be for her own ears only. Gossip is only good if you're the very first to have, and embellish, it.
Riole eyes the rider suspiciously, but hands the glass over with a close-eyed grin. "Fine. But I /will/ waggle my rear end in front of Halicyth's face unless you tell me what's going on." Oh, wait. They might actually /enjoy/ the spectacle. "Ah, the dainty beauty speaks. Dare I even listen to her lovely tones?" he adds, arching a brow at Kysaire. "Kyss love, you're too beautiful to ruin it with talking."
Aida is starting to feel ill again, and she hasn't even tasted the sugar water yet. But she does, quickly, before offering in return: "I was ill. I'm getting better, and they'll keep me here for a few more days to drink their medicated tea." There, those are the details.
Some details. Even Kysaire seems disappointed; it's not much to talk about. In a no-nonsense manner, she announces, "There, you have the information. Leave the poor woman alone." Like she is. Or, rather, like she's not. Clouds of dust swarm about her again, and she coughs, muttering something unintelligable into the mess.
Zevay continues to take his sponge bath. Removing a great deal of dirt from his face. He seems to have gotten into soem fort of trouble from the amount of wounds, mostly scratches and scrapes.
Riole beams at Kysaire, flicking a couple dust particules out of the way of his nose. "Ah, Aida-dearie, you /have/ to give us more detail than /that/, or we'll just announce to the Weyr that you're pregnant and have it done with and have all the men you've slept with-" here, he arches an inquiring brow at Aida "-ask if it's theirs." Sparkle. Twinkle. Look innocent and prepare to run.
Aida will have Helicyth bite off more than Riole's pants for that one. "Really? And what makes you think I won't take you out and drop you off in the middle of threadfall for doing that?" she inquries acidly. The sugar water doesn't seem to have assuaged her temperament at all.
Kysaire, by the way, completely ignored Riole's words to her previously. They weren't worth responding to, and she'd rather not lower herself to that level. "Please," she says, scornfully, "It's quite improbable that anyone would believe that dribble. Expectant mothers are overly sweet and--ugh, and Aida isn't." Trust Kyssa; she knows from experience. She nods quickly in regards to Aida's words; she'll even join sides with -Aida- against Riole. This is saying something.
Riole has a ready reply to Aida's threat: "Because you're bedridden and won't be allowed to fly Fall for quite a while, if my guess is right." Tossing a scornful look over at Kysaire, the boy continues, "Much less would I ever really decide to go out during Fall on my own, and definitely not with you, Aida-dearie, much as I love you."
Zevay has had a busy day it seems. For while the others had been discussing affairs and such, Zevay has fallen asleep with cloth in hand and head propped up with the free hand.
One more dearie and -- "They didn't say anything about me being unable to fly 'fall. Soon as I'm better, I'll be out there again -- by the end of the next sevenday, I'll bet." Take that, O glib-tongued one. Why can't they be quiet like Zevay over there? This is an /invalid/ weyr.(Aida)
Kysaire smirks triumphantly in Riole's direction, the reasons for which are hazy, but probably revolve around Aida being right, and him being wrong, or something similar. She's being quite silent, thank you very much, at least at the moment, except for her coughing -- put on -- and her waving of dust-clothes -- for amusement -- although that doesn't make a large amount of noise anyway.
Riole beams in saccharine sweetness Kyss-wards briefly before flicking his attention back to Aida. "Well, I still think, Aida-dearie-" He tenses, preparing to flee for his life. "-that I'm far too intelligent to actually ride on dear Halicyth during Fall."
Zevay is very peaceful. Something that many would pay full marks to see. Not a peep is issued from the sleeping telgarian transplant, just soft breathing.
"Whatever," Aida responds succinctly, setting the empty glass down beside the bowl that formerly held her stew. "Now go away." She's suffered long enough, hasn't she?
"Or far too stupid," remarks Kyssa sweetly, turning upon her heels. "Excuse me -- I'm going to go and do some work elsewhere. And Leave Aida in -peace and quiet-, so that she can recover quickly." A real Pernese Girl Guide. "Rest well, Aida!" Dust, dustcloth, and young girl are gone, calmly.
Kysaire walks toward Ground Weyrs.
Riole waggles his finger at Aida, beaming. "One day, Aida, you'll be nice to me. And I'll still be nice to you, too," he says, rising. "Now, take care. I still want to know what's going on."
Riole walks towards Ground Weyrs
Wednesday, November 8, 2000 -- 02:41 p.m.
Western Curve
All subtlety is cast aside as brash angles dominate the steep slope of stoney
wall, shadowing the sandy floor with a patchwork of shady shapes. Noise is at
a minimal here, except when there are weyrlings practicing in the adjacent
training grounds but even then the sounds are usually carried away by
frequent gusts of wind. The Weyrs' children have claimed this spot as one of
their favorites since a few nooks and crannies can be found if one looks
close enough.
A crisp breeze swirls around the air, carrying the scents of Autumn with it as
it makes its way down from the mountains. The sky is gloriously clear, not a
cloud to be seen... Belior is slightly less than one quarter full and Timor
is a quarter full. It is a fall night.
You see Baby here.
H'navu is here.
The following dragons are here: Vaith and Velynth
From here you can go:
Northern Curve Training Grounds
Central Bowl Craft Courtyard
H'navu
A solid brick of a young man formed by thick-strung muscles and linear
shoulders laid perpendicular on the cement of his broad chest. From a face of
blended nut-brown hue stares dark eyes with a dew-drop of dove grey at their
epicenter, though they are shadowed by an enormous broad-brimmed hat. Stark,
high cheekbones draw up to frame a high-bridged hooked nose, their
aristocratic delicacy off-set by a square, heavy jaw. His thick dark cinnamon
hair is cut close and stylish to his head. While the rest of him is durable
and utilitarian, his fingers - all eleven of them - are long and spindly. His
speaking voice is thunderous and stentorian, counterbalanced by his usual
whisper.
Riole slings his carrysack over his shoulder, casting a close-eyed smile over
his shoulder back at the Istan blue before flopping upon the sand. One hand
reaches up to brush those persistent bangs out of his eyes, then drops back
into his lap. "Well, I'm here..." he mutters, then glances up.
H'navu is here, too, lounging on a rock with one propped up, the other
dangling, his head at a decidedly odd angle as he attempts to sketch a lake
scene below. Riole's arrival manages to catch his attention, and he gets a
quiet, "good day ..."
"Ah, so there is /indeed/ life in this Weyr," Riole announces drolly, rising
from his slumped position. "G'day. Just got dropped off by Reith there, and
all I've seen s'far are the watchrider and a bunch of sunning dragons." That
closed-eyed smile reappears as the boy shoves his hand out abruptly. "Riole.
You may call me Ri, or Rio, or any variation on that."
H'navu sets down his drawing stick and reaches out with the opposite hand to
shake the other's. "Good to meet you," he says quietly. "H'navu ... that
there is my Velynth ..." He nodds to the drowsing bronze, who snapped open
one eye suspiciously at the mention of sunning dragons and is now peering
rather baleful in Riole's direction.
Riole tosses a cheerful wave at the bronze, studiously ignoring the baleful
glance. It's no different from what he got fairly often back home -- usually
with reason. "Bronzerider, huh? Well met, indeed, m'dear H'navu," he replies,
shifting his haversack to his other shoulder.
H'navu flashes a brief smile. "So Velynth takes some pains to remind me ..."
He lifts one shoulder in an amiable shrug. "New here?" Why use pronouns
when you can do without? Save wear and tear on the vowels.
"Indeed, I am. Freshly hauled from the warmth of Ista and deposited in what I
have to admit is absolutely /freezing/ Telgar," Riole answers, shuddering
melodramatically even as those bangs fall back over his eyes. Mischief
appears in one coy glance. "Care to warm me up?"
Thankfully for H'navu, possible implications of that statement somehow manage
to fly right over his head. "I could point you to the baths ... they're kept
heated turn-round ... and this isn't nearly the winter temperature ..." He
pauses, blinks at Riole once. "Say what?" rolls out belatedly.
Riole pauses; how to deal with this? "A cup of klah wouldn't go amiss," he
explains hastily, adding his most endearing grin. "And baths aren't fun
unless there's company. Childish of me, perhaps, but..."
H'navu flushes slightly for a moment, glancing down at his hands before he
shrugs and gathers up his sketchpad. "Not ... at all, I suppose," he says
softly. "There's always something bubbling on the hearth, if you want
something to drink ..."
Riole
Black contrasts sharply with oh-so-pale skin, silken strands of ebon
determinedly tumbling over dark grey eyes limned with eyelashes surely too
long for decency. The softness of those eyes is belied by the rangy, lean
body: Turns of work have shaped too-slender frame into some semblance of
masculinity, adding sharp edges to shoulders and trim waist, yet bringing no
bulk of muscle to defy that delicate appearance. Clearly-defined, however,
are his features, sharp chin and straight nose adding a canny, worldly air to
add the final complexity to his definition.
Black, again, coarse and well-worn, hangs loosely from Riole's shoulders -- a
loose shirt, comfortable and light. Around the cuffs, simple embroidery
appears, a light pattern of white-edged flower blossoms. Pants, too, are
loose and comfortable, matching the shirt in both embroidery and color.
He is awake and looks alert.
Riole's eyes light up at the sight of the sketchpad, their dark grey
lightening to something approximating slate. "Ah! You're an artist as well as
a bronzerider. /Very/ talented, indeed," he exclaims, reaching towards the
pad. "Might I see some of your work? I'm /very/ interested in such talented
people." Another double-entendre. This rider certainly blushes cutely.
H'navu looks rather surprised, but relinquishes the sketchpad after a moment
with the ease of someone who isn't shy about his work ... even if he more
than makes up for it with other things. "No talent as to Velynth, just
luck," he says lightly, a light blush coloring his cheeks again. "Could
happen to anyone, if you're the right person in the right place at the right
time."
H'navu's Sketchbook
A painstakingly hand-bound volume with extra pages stuffed in hither and
thither. If you flip through swiftly, flashes of dragons - at first looking
more like large firelizards than the real thing, but remarkably realistic for
large firelizards, then metamorphing into truer form - landscapes,
instruments, abstract designs and people swirl by at a rapid pace, many in
vivid and exotic color, the rest plain black-and-grey. Most recent seems to
be a collection of dragon eggs.
Riole beams up at the bronzerider, flipping the sketchbook open. "Very
nice..." he observes absently, bobbing his head at the landscapes, and
finally landing upon the dragon eggs. "Nice, indeed. The queen let you stare
at her eggs that long? You /truly/ must be favored. Or is Velynth, perhaps,
the clutchsire?" A sly expression, now, flickers across his mobile face.
"Lucky you, if that's the case. I'm afraid I must've missed that particular
bit of information..."
H'navu shakes his head. "No, Velynth hasn't caught a queen ..." A low,
warning grumble from the bronze warns his rider not to let on that he hasn't
caught anything yet, thank you very much. Leave his poor dignity intact.
"Some of it was done from memory and seeing the eggs at another point ..." he
trails off, cocks his head to study the other. "What have you heard instead?"
Riole waves a slender hand through the air, still perusing the sketchbook.
"Ah, ah. Just gossip, and I don't trust gossip unless I know the source and
can verify it," he replies airily. "Ah, dearie me, you poor bronzerider. No
queens? Must settle for the lovely greenriders, then? Mother was a
greenrider, you know, and quite a lovely one. She passed it on to me."
H'navu lifts his shoulder in a shrug. "Worthy trait," he says quietly.
"Gossip rarely comes to good end ..." Velynth chuffs softly, the sound laced
with amusement. "Yes, I know ..." He smiles a bit. "I ... ah ... no."
That's about as coherent answer as he can muster. "The greenriding or the
loveliness?" he asks before he can censor the thought.
"The loveliness, of course." Riole smiles again, a coy grin limning his lips.
"Aren't I lovely? Or at the very least, handsome?" Ah, the poor bronzerider.
"But enough of my own little family. I've been transferred from Ista to learn
a bit of your solid cooking. Hot and spicy palls a bit after a while, so my
dear boss decided that it was time I learned slow and warm."
H'navu ducks his head, fiddling with the drawing stick in one hand. "I umm,
am not much of a judge of that," he hedges in a mumble, then nods. "Maybe
you could add some spice to the dishes here, too?" he adds. "We've only had
spice disasters."
"Per/haps/," Riole drawls lightly, returning the sketchbook, but not without a
last trailing of fingers over its cover. "Though I'd be delighted to cook for
you, dear bronzerider. Do you eat much seafood? I know a lovely recipie for
spiced flatfish. It's supposed to loosen you up considerably, but I've never
needed that particular aspect of it."
H'navu idly slots the drawing stick into the pages where he was working before
he closes it again. "I ... loosen you up?" The question emerges as a
squeak. His mind hurries in search of the innocent interpretation of this.
"Ah ... I've never had much fish, but I enjoy it ... you don't see too much
of it up here," he explains, recovering.
Riole smiles cheerily, eyes nearly closed once again. "Ah, that'll just /have/
to change, indeed. Fish is /good/ for you, lots of lovely things that the
Healers always /insist/ upon you having. Though the Healers also suggest lots
of nice sweaty exercise, too."
Oh, Faranth. H'navu jumps, clutching the sketchpad a little tighter before he
closes his eyes. All right, nice, sweaty exercise ... jogging works, doesn't
it? "I didn't know that," he confesses. "What other things do the healers
recommend? Foods, I mean." Hastily added.
"Oh, plenty of other boring things," Riole drawls, shifting his pack to the
other shoulder. "Much as I'd love to talk-" Rather, torment "-with you more,
I think I'd best go see about settling in, grabbing myself a cot and such."
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