Exchanges

Half Moon Bay Weyr - Laundry Room
The laundry rooms has for a long time been the primary source of weyr gossip and stories. Many aunties hustle and bustle about the place, taking care of the weyr's steady supply of laundry. The room itself is large and has been divided into two halves. The main half is for actual washing and drying of clothes. The other half is for mending, sewing, sorting and folding.


It isn't /uncommon/ for Pritkin to find himself where he's currently at: sitting at a table with busy nannies bustling around him while they tend to the clothing needs of the weyr, but it isn't exactly the /norm/, either. Pritkin's got a rather /sad/ looking tunic in hand that he's currently (and clumsily) working to mend. It's frayed in parts that have clearly seen better days, and is looking worse for the wear, as if the guard has patched it up over and over again as opposed to replacing it. Blond hair is sticking up in angles that taunt gravity (unfortunate, really), and he's dressed in rather loose clothing that /also/ looks in sore need of replacement. There's a vicious needle jab to his finger, a string of curses, and then Pritkin leans back and away from his work with thumb in his mouth while he breathes away his frustration. He really should just let somebody else do this /for/ him.

It's the magic of narrative convenience that someone else who is going to take pity on him actually notices the sad event with the tunic. But Lysanne — who is carrying a skirt of her own and having a seat, which is now the one next to Pritkin — smiles gently. It's a little bit couched with arrogant snobbery, but it's also clear that the Harper girl is trying to get rid of it, and therefore is genuine when she asks, "Why don't you just get a new one? Or … ask someone else to mend it?" Soft, and not demanding.

Pritkin's eyes are closed to the world when Lysanne approaches, opening only when the harper addresses him with questions in regards to his clothing choice, and /why/ he hasn't done what he should have done a long, long time ago. Despite the hint of arrogance and snobbery, Pritkin actually smiles around his thumb looking completely unperturbed, and then laughs. "Well, I don't want to bother anybody," he answers her, soft but far from meek. "And well they're comfortable." Her skirt is eyed for just a moment, and then Pritkin is looking away to lean over his disastrous clothing, work resumed. "Are you good at it? Mending, I mean. I haven't seen you before." Not that that's something implausible.

"I can imagine it's comfortable, it looks comfortable," Lysanne admits honestly, because really she IS working on not being a snob, and it's true. Well-worn things are comfortable. "It's just, there are people whose jobs it is to do that, you know? You don't look like a mender. I'm not one either," comes with another, smaller, nicer smile, "but I have more training in domestic tasks than the average man, I'm sure, so I am at least not bad."

Pritkin blinks green eyes from his work, to Lysanne, to the bustling traffic moving back and forth in the laundry room. "I'm aware of that," he murmurs, splaying out the fingers of one hand and making a vague motion around the room with it. "But they all look so busy." He leans back over his work then, in just enough time to give himself another vicious stab in the thumb with a rogue needle. This time he minds his manners (and his tongue), choosing to wince instead of curse as his attention trails back to Lysanne. "That obvious, huh?" he inquires drily around the brutalized appendage, in regards to him not /looking/ like a mender. Pritkin pulls his thumb free from his lips with a hint of smile and sighs. "Well, I certainly wasn't trained. If you're no mender though, why aren't /you/ letting them do it?" He's not being rude, just genuinely curious.

A shrug, from Lysanne; if she had an answer to that, she has evidently forgotten it long ago. "Sometimes I do," is where she starts. "Sometimes I have something I want done just so, and this embroidery is one of those things, so I'm doing it myself because it's easier than having to explain it. People are generally glad to do their jobs, though, even if they are busy — with their jobs." She doesn't mean to be condescending. Does she sound condescending? She starts to thread her embroidery now that she's done talking, glancing quickly down at the hem of the skirt before returning her attention, head tilted just slightly, to Pritkin. "What do you actually do?"

And while Lysanne talks, Pritkin listens - even when her words /definitely/ sound a little condescending. Instead of being annoyed by it, Pritkin merely looks on in exasperation with muted amusement that dissipates when he shakes his head. "Fair enough," is the only response he gives her, because it's the only response he can think of. She might be doing her best to mask her snobbiness (not that Pritkin is /aware/ she's an apparent snob), but the teenager still gets the very distinct impression that there's a whole lot of fight and feistiness underneath those soft, albeit condescending tones. "I'm a guard," he answers, looking back to his hack-of-a-mend job so that he can pick up where he left off. /Again/. "Training to be one, anyway. So fixing things isn't really in my nature to begin with. What do you do?"

Lysanne is a recovering snob, thankyouverymuch. Half Moon Bay has gotten far less snobbery than Harper Hall, which in turn got less snobbery than Ista … "That's interesting, though, and important. Guards. You should look good, being a guard, representing your — Weyr, I'm guessing, and platoon. They should provide you with new clothes." She's judging his captain, now, so there is a little judgment more blatantly in her voice. "I'm an archivist. I organize things and read old stuff."

And what a fine job she is doing! Pritkin is all ears when Lysanne praises his profession, while insulting his clothes and managing to make it clear that he should /still/ have new ones which is now the fault of his 'boss'. The teenager laughs when she's done, shaking his head before holding up his mangled piece of cloth. "I guess I gave a very /bad/ impression, which wasn't my intention." He didn't expect the conversation to keep /going/, after all. He's not usually a conversationalist. "These are not my normal clothes; these aren't even /work/ clothes. I use these to train in and to run in. Point being: they're just going to get tattered and ruined over and over again even if I /did/ replace them. It seems more… reasonable to just… fix them." When she goes into her profession, Pritkin makes a thoughtful hum in his throat, and then places his shirt back on the table, temporarily discarded. "Interesting. So, you know a lot of history?" His interest is piqued.

"You didn't make a bad impression to me, at least," Lysanne says more brightly. "Don't worry about that. If you actually look good training and running, then you'll make an even better one. Maybe I'll come watch some time and see how impressive you are." People don't have to be blatantly gorgeous for her to enjoy looking at, so long as they have good form. "But if you're wrecking your hand fixing them then someone has to fix you. I know a lot of history, sure. Not as much as someone who is just a historian, but probably more than the average Harper? Did you need some history?"

When Lysanne mentions coming to see how 'impressive' he is, Pritkin fixes her with a playfully incredulous look. "And if I /don't/ look good training and running, are you going to judge me?" he demands, though the tone is a far cry from serious. He dismisses her point of him needing to get his hand fixed if he keeps doing what he's doing with a wave of said appendage, and then shakes his head. "If my hand needs fixing because of a couple violent needle jabs, I really have no place being a guard." There's a pause, as he regards her from the side of his eyes, and then a hesitant, "Well, no. No history needed, I just… enjoy hearing about it is all. /Without/ having to read it." The face Pritkin makes leaves no question as to just how he feels about /study/. "Anyway, do you enjoy it?"

"Judge, no, but I may not be impressed," Lysanne admits. She's amused now, but she's keeping her smile focused on the skirt and not on his face. "Though yes, you're very right that I guess guards need to be good at getting injured and keeping on going. You hear a lot of that in old diaries. Guards' diaries are fascinating." Lysanne likes reading as much as Pritkin doesn't. "And yes, I do. I like the archives." Pointedly leaving out other things she may not enjoy about her craft.

"May not be impressed," Pritkin repeats, exasperation clear in his voice, curbed by amusement. "I don't think it matters anyway. I usually am up to train and run /well/ before most descent people consider reasonable." And then she's talking about injuries and the journals of guards, and Pritkin is silent throughout until she's finished speaking. Brows arch, curiosity is evident in green hues, and then the guard forces his attention back onto the waiting piece of clothing before him. "If I impress you, will you tell me some of the stories?" he tries not to sound too hopeful, because that might sound desperate, and he's /not desperate/. He's also catching on to her omitted tasks. "Just the archives?" he inquires, because he isn't going to press for information if she doesn't want to give it.

Lysanne embroiders. Lysanne thinks while she embroiders. She could have just told him a story, regardless; she would have just told him a story regardless. But since he's now offered up a trade — "Yes," she concludes, "I will." If he impresses her! "And I don't like performing. It's kind of dull, and you run out of things to learn and experience, and you can't fix anything with acting and music and dancing. Of course dancing, especially, is important to know for diplomatic reasons, but — " Shrug. Embroider.

Here Pritkin is thinking he's just struck the deal of a lifetime, when in reality… Let him think that way; it's less painful. The look on the blonde's face speaks of excitement, but he's quick to bury the emotion when Lysanne plows ahead in the conversation with just what it is that she /doesn't/ like. His hands still in his work again, and this time he turns to face her nice-and-slow like. "Can you do all of that, though? Act, and make music, and dance?"

"Pretty much anyone can, with effort and a few lessons." Lysanne speaks not of professional levels, exactly, but just about anyone can learn, right? "And you have to, to make journeyman, be at least decent at rudimentary levels. My piano is better than rudimentary, but it's something for fun." Her embroidery is also pretty good, and she's quick at it, as it turns out. Loop, loop. "Too much about me, though, hm?" Lesson one in being less of a queen bee snob than she was in her youth: talk about other people. Good thing Lysanne's interested.

Pritkin rolls his eyes and stifles a laugh when Lysanne goes on with semantics, exasperated again, but never annoyed. "You are very serious," he observes, and his tone lacks any type of judgement, reprimand, or even distaste. "I'd like to see you play the piano." If it's for /fun/, perhaps the pretty-good-at-embroidery harper will loosen up. In regards to her question, Pritkin tilts his head to one side, and then inquires a very genuine, "Isn't it polite to let ladies talk about themselves?" A pause, and then he's saying, "Speaking of manners, I'm Pritkin. I never did ask you for your name. May I?"

"I am?" Lysanne, unimpressed, now with herself. "Ick, I'm sorry. I don't mean to be, it's just hard not to when that's what's expected. Archivists are, you know. They're serious. And somewhat stuffy and prim." Which she's really not, but she's trying to learn to be … while being a leggy twentysomething with more ample chest than she even wants. "But I'm getting to watch you train, so you can watch me play the piano." Listen. Watch. Both. "Lysanne."

Pritkin looks alarmed, actually, and tries to amend with, "It isn't a /bad/ thing. I just… It's…" Whatever he's going to say, he never says it, opting to close his mouth instead. Brows furrow, he looks momentarily bemused, and then he says, "Well, maybe /they/ are, but that doesn't mean you have to be - right? Unless you /are/, of course, which…" He's going to stop now, evident by the sigh he emits when it's clear he's not talking himself into painting a better picture of meaning. He'll just focus on the /not/ so damning parts of their conversation - with a smile. "Good. Well met, Lysanne."

Teenage boys. So easy to talk to! They never know what to say and clam up all on their own. Lysanne's satisfied with that, and apparently also with her work; she flips the skirt over and starts on the other side. "I think I'm probably not, really, but I do a great impression of stuffy," she whispers with a grin, coming off a bit conspiratorial. Now you're in on her secret, Pritkin. "Do you actually want help with your mending, because I don't mind." Where her definition of 'help' might just be 'do it for him,' but it MIGHT be assistance instead. "Domestic arts are my secondary talent. After old diaries. And the piano."

Indeed, they are rather lacking - not an ounce of suaveness to be found in this one! Pritkin rubs at the stubble on his chin, and then tilts his head towards Lysanne when she gives him a conspirators whisper. He laughs then, taut muscles going visibly lax underneath a too-large tunic, and then he's shaking his head. "I'll manage," he offers her - he's actually finished anyway, evident by the way he knots off his patch and cuts the remaining thread with is teeth. He has been here /much/ longer than Lysanne after all. "Do /you/ need any help?" If Lysanne bothers to look, Pritkin is actually looking rather devious; he is, after all, expecting her to say no. Why wouldn't she? He is /awful/.

Lysanne ruins that. "Yes," she says, "here, hold this down." If he's going to offer, she's going to take him up on it — when it comes to holding a corner of the skirt down to the table so it doesn't move. An extra hand means she doesn't have to use her elbow! "Thank you for offering, and, oh, did I mention it's better to use scissors for that? Lesson one, even before learning not to cut your fingertips with needles."

Pritkin looks absolutely /exasperated/, but tosses his shirt over his shoulder, gains his feet, and moves to Lysanne's work desk so he can do as requested. "I wasn't expecting you to have something," he admits, but there's a hint of amusement in his tone. And then she's lecturing him again, and Pritkin is rolling his eyes, and shaking his head, and pushing his free hand through his unfortunate, gravity taunting hair as a smile takes hold of his features. "I'll keep that in mind," he says, tone dry despite the clear playfulness. "Any other important mending lessons you have for me, my lady?" he inquires, feigning somber respect perfectly if not for that damnable /smile/.

"Don't ask if you won't follow through," Lysanne teases, working appreciatively around the hand-pinning-skirt. "That's probably my best life lesson for anyone, and you've given yourself a fantastic example. It's not just mending, though, obviously." She did say life lesson. "Also, calling girls 'my lady' will potentially take you a long way, if you want to go a long way with girls and you don't use it entirely facetiously."

But Pritkin does follow through! And he's extremely patient about it even, green eyes observing her handiwork like an apprentice might any master. When she speaks again, he raises his eyes to her with another smile. "Yeah," he says softly. "I'm starting to get that." And there's a gentle laugh for her. He will, however, stay just long enough to help her finish. Once Lysanne is done, he's letting go and offering up, "I look forward to hearing you play, but I have to go." There's a glance for the door, one last albeit distracted smile for the harper, and then he's gone. Poof!


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