Log: Hoary Gardening
Apr. 22nd, 2012 06:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
citlaliIt's currently mid-spring on the northern continent.
The Starsmiths say it is the 19th Turn, 5th month, and 9th day of the 10th Pass.
That imported soil might make the place Eden for some, but paradisiacal is hardly the term that those working in the barely-spring soil would use to describe the place. Those from warmer climes are still bundled up to their ears against the chilly breeze ruffling under that deceptively blue sky, while local kids are faring a bit better if hardly any happier, trying to break through the soil that still clings to the hard edges of frost, on hands and knees, digging in the first herbs and vegetables of the season. Miahve, for whom physical labor is still cause for complaint, kneels off one of the paths, arguing with the ground, convinced that she's been given a patch of bedrock and not soil at all, chipping away at it uselessly with her little spade.
"Looks like ya could use a hand," Jedrek observes from near the garden gate, dark brown eyebrows raising as he watches his fellow candidate toil in vain for a few short moments. "Yer gonna want a much bigger shovel than that ta crack through that stuff." Thankfully the young man comes bearing such an instrument of vegetation plotting, and holds up a hand as if to ask, 'May I?' before taking a few steps towards his fellow candidate. "Gardenin' is far from somethin' m'good at.. but I've moved enough rock n'my life, at least."
Citlali is nearby, but she's been given a rather fairer job -- and not just because she's used to working in dirty situations, but because her job doesn't involve moving /rocks/. She's assigned to dead-heading the new growth, which results in many more cut fingertips but much less overall exertion than trying to move big rocks. "Oh -- if you guys need help with that?" she finally tunes in to the fact that there are other people in the area who are actually speaking as Jedrek speaks up. "They remember to include the dirt with all the rock over there?"
A hand? "Two would be better." Miahve, in a token of defeat, sticks her spade into the hard earth, just barely wedging the tip in far enough that it manages to stand up on its own, and pushes to her feet. Her gloved hands, after a quick dusting, answer the 'may I' gesture with a 'go right ahead' flourish and she steps back, totally failing to assert her competence and the capabilities of women everywhere. "What detail did they give you?" she asks with a confused frown, noticing Citlali. Noticing Citlali's snipped fingertips.
It's not that Jedrek doesn't think women are capable. It's that whole /respect/ thing that been born and bred into this displaced 'southern gentleman' type that has him swooping into help. This can be evidenced by the pleased smile he bestows on Miahve as he moves in with that shovel to begin to chip away at the bedrock, beads of sweat beginning to form on his brow before he notices Citlali. "This ain't easy work," he observes with a little chuckle, before shrugging. "If'n ya want ta help chip at some'a the bigger pieces, m'sure miss Miahve wouldn'a mind." There's a glance to the other young woman for confirmation before he continues his own task.
"I'm sure it's not," Citlali agrees, though she still looks rather gung-ho to help with it; likely more to spare other people discomfort than the idea of being super excited to chip rock out of ground. "And I've got a spade I wasn't even using, anyway -- dead-heading, is what I actually got told to do, so instead I'm cutting my hands open on account of not actually having gloves." Definitively an oversight, though on whose part is a good question! She picks up her unused spade and ambles in their general direction. "You could probably also use water."
There being no bench nearby enough to serve, and Miahve not so much seeking to bring down the wrath of the overseers by abandoning her post before she's even accomplished anything, she takes a graceless seat on a pile of border material a few yards away, peeling off her gloves as she goes. "So I guess efficiency and effective use of personnel isn't one of the things we're meant to be learning as Candidates," she chimes, smacking the gloves occasionally against her knee just to prove they exist - the gloves she has and doesn't really need, compared to the ones that Citlali needed and didn't have. While the well-mannered boy with muscles breaks up the ground that she wasn't so much as denting.
Citlali is unable to resist a giggle at Miahve's feedback of Fort's candidacy system. "That, or we're supposed to be figuring out how to do it entirely for ourselves," she suggests, with a tossed-over-the-shoulder shrug. "Since, I mean, I've got the spade and you've got the gloves, my hands are bleeding and you're exhausted, he's the only one fit enough to be actually getting these rocks out of the ground and nobody has any water! I'm Citlali, by the way," she adds, and her eyeroll is certainly not for the other candidates but rather over the situation of supplies. "And I think you're much more likely to be right. Boot camp indeed."
The work probably would have been good for Miahve, who hasn't exactly got a surplus of muscle going on, but she neglects to dwell on that aspect and instead comments, "Or maybe it's a lesson in futility. Like, 'you all had better learn that, sometimes, you're just going to fail.'" There are probably a dozen lessons to take out of it - teamwork, try and try again, ask for help if you need it, et cetera - and she, of course, picks the least optimistic of them. "Miahve," she tosses back, glancing from Mister Manners to the lake at the border of the gardens. Where there's all kindsa water, but she only acknowledges it with merry eyes and no attempt to harness any. "You want these?" She adds, lifting the gloves to offer for Citlali, should she go back to her dead-heading (which she'll never admit not recognizing as a term).
"I do!" Citlali practically chirps at the younger candidate, grinning as she gathers up the gloves and shoves them in her smock pocket. (She did at least get a gardening smock out of the deal. But still no drinking water.) "I definitely do. Thanks, Miahve, you're automatically wonderful. Even if you are a bit of a downer, which in this situation I certainly can't blame you for." Definitely still not a fan of the whole candidacy thing, this one. But she's taking it in stride, and at least seems -- relatively cheerful. Relatively.
For all she slumps forward, perching her elbow on her knee and letting her palm cup her chin, the very image of a downer, Miahve argues, "I prefer the term 'realist.' Or at least 'wittily acerbic.'" She releases the gloves and adds her other palm to the cup, now a pretty good sized bowl, and watching while Jedrek obligingly does her work for her. "Automatically wonderful is a good one, too, I'll add that to the list of acceptable monikers. So, in your real life, you're a...?" Her brows climb questioningly, obviously guessing something farmer-ish but not willing to risk insult in saying so. There are a handful of Candidates completing various chores in the garden today, with the three clustered sorta near each other - Jedrek breaking up clay-like ground with a shovel, Citlali wearing a gardening smock and shoving gloves into its pocket, and Miahve sitting on a stack of border-material nearby.
Well, she's not a gardener, that's for sure -- even if Citlali is pretending to look like she knows what she's doing. "Acerbic's a great word," she agrees, as she gets down toward the dirt to help Jedrek out with the removing-of-rocks. It's easy enough to battle the smaller stones for her, even if she does do her best to maintain perfectly-manicured nails. (It's far easier with gloves, which she realizes after a moment, and puts them on before starting again.) "I'm a stablehand."
And here comes the real Farmer. With a ... donkey? Today isn't a plow-day - the bigger subplots of the garden are in various states of disarray - but evidently weeding is a Big Deal for the eastern section. Rylsar ambles along with Hoary, a draybeast-in-miniature hooked to a cart roughly twice the size of a wheelbarrow. He offers a mild hello to the other candidates as he eyeballs the section critically, loosening the traces on the cart to enable -- Hoary to wander over and immediately inspect Miahve's hair, since obviously it looks like food. "Hoar," Rylsar's voice rises, in warning tones, towards the equine-errant. He doesn't, admittedly, realize how that could be misconstrued.
"Here or...?" Miahve uncurls one index finger to point toward the stables, visible if rather distant, and takes a moment to mentally superimpose the woman with her here today and what she knows of the Fort Weyr stables. Her nose winds up crinkling while she steers away from that thought, shaking her head to clear it well away, allowing her to focus instead on the work here before them. The work before the other ones, anyway, while she rests. "You're good at this whole rock-moving job, at any r--" The appearance of the donkey, which has her frozen in a deer-in-the-headlights response to being investigated, clips off any further small talk regarding Citlali's capabilities. Though, even totally motionless otherwise, she still moves her mouth to squeak out, "Did you just call me a whore?"
Citlali was in the middle of answering when Rylsar came in, and because she was speaking he only had part of her attention. At least at first. "Yeah, here, although for most of my life I was at the Hol--" And then what the farmcrafter actually /said/ clicks in her head, and she doesn't even get a chance to thank Miahve for the compliment directed toward her slow battle with the stones. "That better," she says flatly, "be the dray's name. Terribly unfortunate name, too. Can lead to misunderstandings."
"Uh--" Heavily accented words - Keroon back-hills redneck, to be precise - don't come for a moment, then Rylsar shakes his head and amends, "No, didn't call y'a whore. His name's Hoary." He points at the draybeast, who is currently prodding his furry velvet nose at Miahve's /face/ in an attempt to figure out why it's all propped up on her hand. Is her nose a carrot? "/Hoar/," Rylsar states more sharply than before, and the dray sidesteps off a pace, snorting huffily. Dumb caretakers. O hey, Citlali, your hair looks like food TOO! The Farmcrafter-turned-candidate straightens himself up, a glint to his eyes as he casts his gaze upon the ex-stablehand. "That better? Or what?" Sarcasm touches his words, here-- "Seems t'me like you're in th' same boat that we're in." We being ... him and Miahve; evidently Rylsar believes that calling her a spy once immediately qualifies her as on-his-team. Flatly: "Hoary. Like /frost/."
Leeeeeeeeaning carefully and slowly away from that curious set of donkey-lips, Miahve uncups her chin with meticulous care and only releases the tension in her posture when the critter wanders off to investigate another set of blondilocks. "You named your donkey whor-- ahhh. H-O-A-R-Y. Frost?" She seems to doubt that definition, her eyes squinting narrower while she watches the unfortunately named donkey, noting, "Doesn't hoary actually mean old?" To a Harper: yes. To a Farmer: probably not. "Regardless, she's right. You probably shouldn't go around screaming homonyms for whore at random girls. With or without an 'or what' attached to it, it's just bad form."
Jedrek has been here the whole time. Really. But he's been concentrating on the rock he's been trying (in vain) to get through with his shovel. It's a really humorous picture, actually. Having given up with a little groan, the now sweat-laden young man turns his ears to the actual conversation and blinks, narrowing eyebrows a tad. "Who'sa'what?" Wrong time to start paying attention, Jed.
So used to runnerbeasts chewing at her head, Citlali barely even seems to register the fact that there's a donkey gnawing on her hair. It's pretty unremarkable, and she's actually twisting about to give Hoary a scritch on the nose if he'll take it from her. "I've heard it like frost -- but maybe I've heard it like old /too/, I can't really quite remember," she admits. "He's kinda friendly, though. I don't see what's frosty about 'im." When Jedrek tunes back in, Citlali just smiles sweetly at him. Not a word.
"He's not /my/ donkey," Rylsar continues in exasperation-- "He was issued t'me." Like boots... or a hoe. Farmers, man. They're dirty. He blankly looks towards Miahve. "Does it?" Only then does he seem to realize that now Miahve's switched sides-- "Don't y'think that's aimin' more towards..." He scrounges for an appropriately wordy word, "...hyperbole?" He even pronounces it right. Miracles never cease. "Don't think I was /screamin'/ nothin'." At this, he moves to catch said donkey from further assaulting (or getting scritches from) Citlali. While re-trace him, exasperation shows in his movements. "Ya'll have a good day," he cracks sarcastically towards the two girls and a, "Good luck," to Jedrek, before moving off towards a DIFFERENT section of garden to weed. Women. Jeebus.
Hey, Miahve's never officially joined any sides. She's like Switzerland, kinda pretty but not really part of the action. Speaking of hyperbole, his use of it merits a quick golf-clap and the utterance of a low, approving, "Impressive." It's much easier to be 'cleverly acerbic' when you're not getting donkey-kisses, FYI. To fill in Jedrek, in as few words as possible, she explains simply, "The donkey's a whore." And, though she looks a bit confused by Rylsar's sudden decision to extricate himself from their merry band of gardeners, she doesn't seem inclined to abandon her hard-won task of sitting on her butt any time soon, just watches with a quirked brow.
"Thanks, man," is Jedrek's swift reply to Ryslar, utterly genuine even in the wake of the other man's sarcasm, before he's turning an altogether /baffled/ look onto Miahve. "... how kin..? Uh." Green eyes are large, before he simply barks out a laugh. "Ya Fortians.. yer a confusin' bunch sometimes." Apparently ignorance really is bliss in his case.
Citlali probably doesn't even know there are sides. It's the kind of thing she might miss -- Miahve's explanation has her laughing again, though. "You know, I was /going/ to say that but forced myself not to?" she says, as she watches Rylsar depart with just the slightest hint of confusion to her own expression. "Weyr people are definitely different than Hold people," she tries to explain to Jedrek, as if that's a defense or an explanation of anything that's happened in the gardens.
She's still watching Rylsar and his donkey leave when Jedrek's comments land on her ears, directing Miahve's attention toward him with an accusingly mild smirk (part of which owes to Citlali's admission about swallowing the comment). "Why my dear pot, I really don't think you ought to be calling us kettles black like that. Do you?" She finally does push off where she's been sitting, swiping her hands across her backside to clean it and saying to the pair of them, "Thanks for all the help, anyway. I think I'll just go tell the head gardener that I am actually incompetent and can't get this job done."
"Yeah well, m'cothold people. Ain't that supposed ta be a happy medium 'er somethin'?" Jedrek asks Citlali and then Miahve with a shrug of his shoulders as he lays that shovel on the ground somewhat close to where Miahve has gracefully parked her own backside. In the wake of the peculiar events of the last moments, there are, on his part, long moments of awkward silence before he heaves a little sigh and issues a low whistles. "Fardles, I smell worse than a wherry that's spent n'afternoon n'the herdbeast pasture. If'n ya don't mind, m'gonna run n'git ma'self cleaned up fer dinner." Each fellow candidate recieves a gracious little head bob as a parting gesture before he moves to head back towards that weyr, leaning down first to none too delicately sniff his armpit and make a face.
"Meanwhile, I'll get it done -- no, I'm kidding, I'm going to go finish off the dead-heading, thanks so much for the gloves," Citlali tells Miahve, after the shared smirk over the donkey being a whore (she couldn't resist smirking back at the younger girl, of course). She pulls herself to a standing position, yanks her hair out of its ponytail, puts it up again (never mind the draybeast slobber), and heads back toward the vegetables, calling over her shoulder, "And then I'll see you all at dinner, I suppose!"
The Starsmiths say it is the 19th Turn, 5th month, and 9th day of the 10th Pass.
Garden (#13992J)
With imported soil giving fertility to enhance Fort Weyr's diet the garden doubles as a small, quaint Eden. Priority of space is given to conventional rows of annual vegetables and herbs that must be carefully maintained during the brief summers. There's a central path where two may walk abreast, large enough for compost and harvesting carts. The small nearby lake provides a rudimentary form of irrigation with much manual labor. Several constructed posts support the wild growth of climbing varieties of peas and beans. This arrangement supports a small canopy of matted summer vines to present a sufficient screen for those who seek a carefully placed bench made of expired woody vines. The garden is no great expanse - a poor location and northern latitude limit plant composition - but it's a local piece of self-sufficiency and practical composure.
That imported soil might make the place Eden for some, but paradisiacal is hardly the term that those working in the barely-spring soil would use to describe the place. Those from warmer climes are still bundled up to their ears against the chilly breeze ruffling under that deceptively blue sky, while local kids are faring a bit better if hardly any happier, trying to break through the soil that still clings to the hard edges of frost, on hands and knees, digging in the first herbs and vegetables of the season. Miahve, for whom physical labor is still cause for complaint, kneels off one of the paths, arguing with the ground, convinced that she's been given a patch of bedrock and not soil at all, chipping away at it uselessly with her little spade.
"Looks like ya could use a hand," Jedrek observes from near the garden gate, dark brown eyebrows raising as he watches his fellow candidate toil in vain for a few short moments. "Yer gonna want a much bigger shovel than that ta crack through that stuff." Thankfully the young man comes bearing such an instrument of vegetation plotting, and holds up a hand as if to ask, 'May I?' before taking a few steps towards his fellow candidate. "Gardenin' is far from somethin' m'good at.. but I've moved enough rock n'my life, at least."
Citlali is nearby, but she's been given a rather fairer job -- and not just because she's used to working in dirty situations, but because her job doesn't involve moving /rocks/. She's assigned to dead-heading the new growth, which results in many more cut fingertips but much less overall exertion than trying to move big rocks. "Oh -- if you guys need help with that?" she finally tunes in to the fact that there are other people in the area who are actually speaking as Jedrek speaks up. "They remember to include the dirt with all the rock over there?"
A hand? "Two would be better." Miahve, in a token of defeat, sticks her spade into the hard earth, just barely wedging the tip in far enough that it manages to stand up on its own, and pushes to her feet. Her gloved hands, after a quick dusting, answer the 'may I' gesture with a 'go right ahead' flourish and she steps back, totally failing to assert her competence and the capabilities of women everywhere. "What detail did they give you?" she asks with a confused frown, noticing Citlali. Noticing Citlali's snipped fingertips.
It's not that Jedrek doesn't think women are capable. It's that whole /respect/ thing that been born and bred into this displaced 'southern gentleman' type that has him swooping into help. This can be evidenced by the pleased smile he bestows on Miahve as he moves in with that shovel to begin to chip away at the bedrock, beads of sweat beginning to form on his brow before he notices Citlali. "This ain't easy work," he observes with a little chuckle, before shrugging. "If'n ya want ta help chip at some'a the bigger pieces, m'sure miss Miahve wouldn'a mind." There's a glance to the other young woman for confirmation before he continues his own task.
"I'm sure it's not," Citlali agrees, though she still looks rather gung-ho to help with it; likely more to spare other people discomfort than the idea of being super excited to chip rock out of ground. "And I've got a spade I wasn't even using, anyway -- dead-heading, is what I actually got told to do, so instead I'm cutting my hands open on account of not actually having gloves." Definitively an oversight, though on whose part is a good question! She picks up her unused spade and ambles in their general direction. "You could probably also use water."
There being no bench nearby enough to serve, and Miahve not so much seeking to bring down the wrath of the overseers by abandoning her post before she's even accomplished anything, she takes a graceless seat on a pile of border material a few yards away, peeling off her gloves as she goes. "So I guess efficiency and effective use of personnel isn't one of the things we're meant to be learning as Candidates," she chimes, smacking the gloves occasionally against her knee just to prove they exist - the gloves she has and doesn't really need, compared to the ones that Citlali needed and didn't have. While the well-mannered boy with muscles breaks up the ground that she wasn't so much as denting.
Citlali is unable to resist a giggle at Miahve's feedback of Fort's candidacy system. "That, or we're supposed to be figuring out how to do it entirely for ourselves," she suggests, with a tossed-over-the-shoulder shrug. "Since, I mean, I've got the spade and you've got the gloves, my hands are bleeding and you're exhausted, he's the only one fit enough to be actually getting these rocks out of the ground and nobody has any water! I'm Citlali, by the way," she adds, and her eyeroll is certainly not for the other candidates but rather over the situation of supplies. "And I think you're much more likely to be right. Boot camp indeed."
The work probably would have been good for Miahve, who hasn't exactly got a surplus of muscle going on, but she neglects to dwell on that aspect and instead comments, "Or maybe it's a lesson in futility. Like, 'you all had better learn that, sometimes, you're just going to fail.'" There are probably a dozen lessons to take out of it - teamwork, try and try again, ask for help if you need it, et cetera - and she, of course, picks the least optimistic of them. "Miahve," she tosses back, glancing from Mister Manners to the lake at the border of the gardens. Where there's all kindsa water, but she only acknowledges it with merry eyes and no attempt to harness any. "You want these?" She adds, lifting the gloves to offer for Citlali, should she go back to her dead-heading (which she'll never admit not recognizing as a term).
"I do!" Citlali practically chirps at the younger candidate, grinning as she gathers up the gloves and shoves them in her smock pocket. (She did at least get a gardening smock out of the deal. But still no drinking water.) "I definitely do. Thanks, Miahve, you're automatically wonderful. Even if you are a bit of a downer, which in this situation I certainly can't blame you for." Definitely still not a fan of the whole candidacy thing, this one. But she's taking it in stride, and at least seems -- relatively cheerful. Relatively.
For all she slumps forward, perching her elbow on her knee and letting her palm cup her chin, the very image of a downer, Miahve argues, "I prefer the term 'realist.' Or at least 'wittily acerbic.'" She releases the gloves and adds her other palm to the cup, now a pretty good sized bowl, and watching while Jedrek obligingly does her work for her. "Automatically wonderful is a good one, too, I'll add that to the list of acceptable monikers. So, in your real life, you're a...?" Her brows climb questioningly, obviously guessing something farmer-ish but not willing to risk insult in saying so. There are a handful of Candidates completing various chores in the garden today, with the three clustered sorta near each other - Jedrek breaking up clay-like ground with a shovel, Citlali wearing a gardening smock and shoving gloves into its pocket, and Miahve sitting on a stack of border-material nearby.
Well, she's not a gardener, that's for sure -- even if Citlali is pretending to look like she knows what she's doing. "Acerbic's a great word," she agrees, as she gets down toward the dirt to help Jedrek out with the removing-of-rocks. It's easy enough to battle the smaller stones for her, even if she does do her best to maintain perfectly-manicured nails. (It's far easier with gloves, which she realizes after a moment, and puts them on before starting again.) "I'm a stablehand."
And here comes the real Farmer. With a ... donkey? Today isn't a plow-day - the bigger subplots of the garden are in various states of disarray - but evidently weeding is a Big Deal for the eastern section. Rylsar ambles along with Hoary, a draybeast-in-miniature hooked to a cart roughly twice the size of a wheelbarrow. He offers a mild hello to the other candidates as he eyeballs the section critically, loosening the traces on the cart to enable -- Hoary to wander over and immediately inspect Miahve's hair, since obviously it looks like food. "Hoar," Rylsar's voice rises, in warning tones, towards the equine-errant. He doesn't, admittedly, realize how that could be misconstrued.
"Here or...?" Miahve uncurls one index finger to point toward the stables, visible if rather distant, and takes a moment to mentally superimpose the woman with her here today and what she knows of the Fort Weyr stables. Her nose winds up crinkling while she steers away from that thought, shaking her head to clear it well away, allowing her to focus instead on the work here before them. The work before the other ones, anyway, while she rests. "You're good at this whole rock-moving job, at any r--" The appearance of the donkey, which has her frozen in a deer-in-the-headlights response to being investigated, clips off any further small talk regarding Citlali's capabilities. Though, even totally motionless otherwise, she still moves her mouth to squeak out, "Did you just call me a whore?"
Citlali was in the middle of answering when Rylsar came in, and because she was speaking he only had part of her attention. At least at first. "Yeah, here, although for most of my life I was at the Hol--" And then what the farmcrafter actually /said/ clicks in her head, and she doesn't even get a chance to thank Miahve for the compliment directed toward her slow battle with the stones. "That better," she says flatly, "be the dray's name. Terribly unfortunate name, too. Can lead to misunderstandings."
"Uh--" Heavily accented words - Keroon back-hills redneck, to be precise - don't come for a moment, then Rylsar shakes his head and amends, "No, didn't call y'a whore. His name's Hoary." He points at the draybeast, who is currently prodding his furry velvet nose at Miahve's /face/ in an attempt to figure out why it's all propped up on her hand. Is her nose a carrot? "/Hoar/," Rylsar states more sharply than before, and the dray sidesteps off a pace, snorting huffily. Dumb caretakers. O hey, Citlali, your hair looks like food TOO! The Farmcrafter-turned-candidate straightens himself up, a glint to his eyes as he casts his gaze upon the ex-stablehand. "That better? Or what?" Sarcasm touches his words, here-- "Seems t'me like you're in th' same boat that we're in." We being ... him and Miahve; evidently Rylsar believes that calling her a spy once immediately qualifies her as on-his-team. Flatly: "Hoary. Like /frost/."
Leeeeeeeeaning carefully and slowly away from that curious set of donkey-lips, Miahve uncups her chin with meticulous care and only releases the tension in her posture when the critter wanders off to investigate another set of blondilocks. "You named your donkey whor-- ahhh. H-O-A-R-Y. Frost?" She seems to doubt that definition, her eyes squinting narrower while she watches the unfortunately named donkey, noting, "Doesn't hoary actually mean old?" To a Harper: yes. To a Farmer: probably not. "Regardless, she's right. You probably shouldn't go around screaming homonyms for whore at random girls. With or without an 'or what' attached to it, it's just bad form."
Jedrek has been here the whole time. Really. But he's been concentrating on the rock he's been trying (in vain) to get through with his shovel. It's a really humorous picture, actually. Having given up with a little groan, the now sweat-laden young man turns his ears to the actual conversation and blinks, narrowing eyebrows a tad. "Who'sa'what?" Wrong time to start paying attention, Jed.
So used to runnerbeasts chewing at her head, Citlali barely even seems to register the fact that there's a donkey gnawing on her hair. It's pretty unremarkable, and she's actually twisting about to give Hoary a scritch on the nose if he'll take it from her. "I've heard it like frost -- but maybe I've heard it like old /too/, I can't really quite remember," she admits. "He's kinda friendly, though. I don't see what's frosty about 'im." When Jedrek tunes back in, Citlali just smiles sweetly at him. Not a word.
"He's not /my/ donkey," Rylsar continues in exasperation-- "He was issued t'me." Like boots... or a hoe. Farmers, man. They're dirty. He blankly looks towards Miahve. "Does it?" Only then does he seem to realize that now Miahve's switched sides-- "Don't y'think that's aimin' more towards..." He scrounges for an appropriately wordy word, "...hyperbole?" He even pronounces it right. Miracles never cease. "Don't think I was /screamin'/ nothin'." At this, he moves to catch said donkey from further assaulting (or getting scritches from) Citlali. While re-trace him, exasperation shows in his movements. "Ya'll have a good day," he cracks sarcastically towards the two girls and a, "Good luck," to Jedrek, before moving off towards a DIFFERENT section of garden to weed. Women. Jeebus.
Hey, Miahve's never officially joined any sides. She's like Switzerland, kinda pretty but not really part of the action. Speaking of hyperbole, his use of it merits a quick golf-clap and the utterance of a low, approving, "Impressive." It's much easier to be 'cleverly acerbic' when you're not getting donkey-kisses, FYI. To fill in Jedrek, in as few words as possible, she explains simply, "The donkey's a whore." And, though she looks a bit confused by Rylsar's sudden decision to extricate himself from their merry band of gardeners, she doesn't seem inclined to abandon her hard-won task of sitting on her butt any time soon, just watches with a quirked brow.
"Thanks, man," is Jedrek's swift reply to Ryslar, utterly genuine even in the wake of the other man's sarcasm, before he's turning an altogether /baffled/ look onto Miahve. "... how kin..? Uh." Green eyes are large, before he simply barks out a laugh. "Ya Fortians.. yer a confusin' bunch sometimes." Apparently ignorance really is bliss in his case.
Citlali probably doesn't even know there are sides. It's the kind of thing she might miss -- Miahve's explanation has her laughing again, though. "You know, I was /going/ to say that but forced myself not to?" she says, as she watches Rylsar depart with just the slightest hint of confusion to her own expression. "Weyr people are definitely different than Hold people," she tries to explain to Jedrek, as if that's a defense or an explanation of anything that's happened in the gardens.
She's still watching Rylsar and his donkey leave when Jedrek's comments land on her ears, directing Miahve's attention toward him with an accusingly mild smirk (part of which owes to Citlali's admission about swallowing the comment). "Why my dear pot, I really don't think you ought to be calling us kettles black like that. Do you?" She finally does push off where she's been sitting, swiping her hands across her backside to clean it and saying to the pair of them, "Thanks for all the help, anyway. I think I'll just go tell the head gardener that I am actually incompetent and can't get this job done."
"Yeah well, m'cothold people. Ain't that supposed ta be a happy medium 'er somethin'?" Jedrek asks Citlali and then Miahve with a shrug of his shoulders as he lays that shovel on the ground somewhat close to where Miahve has gracefully parked her own backside. In the wake of the peculiar events of the last moments, there are, on his part, long moments of awkward silence before he heaves a little sigh and issues a low whistles. "Fardles, I smell worse than a wherry that's spent n'afternoon n'the herdbeast pasture. If'n ya don't mind, m'gonna run n'git ma'self cleaned up fer dinner." Each fellow candidate recieves a gracious little head bob as a parting gesture before he moves to head back towards that weyr, leaning down first to none too delicately sniff his armpit and make a face.
"Meanwhile, I'll get it done -- no, I'm kidding, I'm going to go finish off the dead-heading, thanks so much for the gloves," Citlali tells Miahve, after the shared smirk over the donkey being a whore (she couldn't resist smirking back at the younger girl, of course). She pulls herself to a standing position, yanks her hair out of its ponytail, puts it up again (never mind the draybeast slobber), and heads back toward the vegetables, calling over her shoulder, "And then I'll see you all at dinner, I suppose!"
