ArchivedLogs:Manners
| Manners | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
2014-11-10 ' |
| Location
<NYC> {Geekhaus} - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side | |
There's an open airy feel to the floorplan of this unit. The door opens up into a wide expanse of common space that is not so much divided up into rooms as it is simply multipurposed. Ash-grey resin flooring underfoot runs up against the paler grey of the exposed stone in the walls; between the stone support there are wide floor-to-ceiling windows looking out at the river on one side of the home and the Commons' central yard on the other. Half of the space has a ceiling at one-floor height, though half of the space is left open with a balcony up on the second floor overlooking the living space below. A slatted stairway heads up to the second floor balcony; on the other side of the room, a fireman's pole running straight down the the basement provides a quicker way /down/. The wide open space here is combination living and dining room; near the windows there are a pair of couches and large armchair around a wide coffeetable; further off a steel-and-glass dining table is surrounded by eight tall black chairs. A full bathroom behind the stairway is done up in dark granite; the glass-doored bathtub/shower is rather expansively large. The kitchen is tucked off in back, beneath the half-height ceiling; in here the appliances and cabinets and shelving recessed into the wall are in brushed steel, wide grey sweeps of tempered glass countertops running around the edge of the room and a large central island holding stoves and oven and deep double sink. Adjacent to the kitchen, beneath the ceiling as well, is a sitting area structured largely around the enormous television against one wall, a wealth of video games for a number of consoles held on the shelves around the television. Crates and beanbags and one low futon folded against the floor are arranged in good viewing distance; opposite the television, a sturdy large pen built out of wood shrines a couch amid a sea of brightly colorful playpen balls. A door in one wall opens up to the apartment next door; a door opposite leads down to the basement. Lucien’s footsteps are quiet on the stairs up from the basement, a soft pad of socked feet that has slowed to a tired kind of /trudge/ by the time he reaches the top. Dressed more nattily than the /usual/ style of Geekhaus’s inhabitants (or social callers, for that matter), he counters his sharp outfit (elegantly tailored grey vest and slacks together with his mandarin-collared dress shirt) with a slow drag to his step, an exhausted slump to his shoulders. One hand is rubbing at the hollows of his eyes as he makes his way towards the kitchen.
Upon her pearly gray skin, iridescent purple spirals reminiscent of smoke or climbing plants sprout from a mandala at the crown of her hairless head and run down either side of her head, behind her horns and ears, down her neck to disappear beneath her top--which for all the world looks like a broad lavender sash meticulously wrapped around her muscular torso. The pattern reappears on her arms, wing membranes, and midriff, then vanish again into a handkerchief hem skirt of the same dark purple, bearing the same spiral pattern in lavender. She nods at Lucien when he nears, folding her wings in so that she is not taking up quite so much kitchen real estate in case he needed to get past her. "Tea? Or something stronger?" Lucien closes his eyes, a slight relaxation trickling into his posture as the quiet music reaches his ears. It's almost put a smile on his face when he drops his hand, drifting further towards the kitchen. "This one is always so --" His softly accented words die on his lips once he's drawn nearer to find Isra occupying the room. The relaxation that had been there fades into a small tense of shoulders, even as his head inclines towards her in crisp-polite greeting. "-- Rejuvenating. Goodness, that is an eye-catching design. Ah." He doesn't enter the kitchen even with the helpful folding of Isra's wings. Instead he pauses, drifting to the outside side of the counters that edge the room and resting fingertips lightly on one of the glass countertops. "Do they even /have/ tea, here. In the past I have not found anything I would -- dignify with that label." If Isra notices Lucien's unease at all, she does not acknowledge it visibly. "It has always been my favorite work of his. Rimsky-Korsakov, that is, though I like Tag's work, also. This is his idea of 'subtle.'" She takes a black ceramic jar--a golden label on it reads "Indian Malibar - Empire" in flowing cursive--from the cabinet and piles a heaping spoonful of beans into a black marble mortar. "I am sure I do not know what you would or wouldn't call 'tea,' but how recently have you looked? You are not the only regular with a taste for the camellia leaf." "Subtle." Lucien's eyes sweep upwards over Isra's form, a very faint twitch pulling at his lips. "Given the canvas he is working with, that may be a difficult proposition." He rests his elbows on the countertop, face dropping down into his palms. The heels of his hands press to his eyes, now. "Not recently. I am not here often and when I do require tea in the past they have simply raided the kitchen next door. I do not believe they treat the units with a good deal of distinction." Though one hand drops back to the counter, his eyes stay closed, cheek now slipping into the palm of his hand as his head tips -- ear canted just a little bit more towards the music. "I tend to favour his /Capriccio/," he admits, after a quiet moment of listening, "but it is a close thing." "It might amaze you how well said canvas takes camouflage, but that was not the kind of subtle I wanted. This is." Sheherazade's voice of violin and harp gives way to her first story, a sweeping seascape of undulating strings. "Though no connoisseur myself, I hold that keeping some decent tea about is simply a matter of hospitality." Taking up the heavy marble pestle, Isra crushes the coffee beans with perhaps more violence than altogether necessary. "I have practically moved in since Dusk's trial began, and with me a couple of masala chai blends, one unbelievably green gyokuro, and a Fujian oolong that comes highly recommended, though I wouldn't know it from hot leaf juice." Grinding her coffee more sedately now, she unfurls one wing far enough to indicate a shelf in the still-open cabinet. "Mm. The /Capriccio./" Her voice softens and she smiles, only the barest flash of fangs behind lavender lips. "I saw the London Philharmonic Orchestra perform it when I was but a little girl." "I am glad someone here now has reasonable ideas about hospitality," Lucien murmurs with a very small thin smile, exhaling soft and /pleased/ as the music continues. "I believe to the residents, here, that means clearing stale takeout containers from a milk crate to provide a place to sit." Though he might be being overly generous; Hive would probably make guests clear the containers away themselves. He looks towards Isra, or at least towards the mortar in her hands, nostrils flaring on a slow breath. His arm tenses against the counter as though about to push himself up, eyes following the path of Isra's wing towards the cabinet, but he stays in place. "Mmm. I heard /this/ piece from the New York Philharmonic -- goodness. Two years ago, and change. It feels -- a sight longer." Isra shrugs, wings hitching up and then relaxing. "That may be premature--as I said, I am not not wise to the ways of fine tea." On the stove, the water has come to a full boil. She turns down the heat, dumps in the coffee, and starts stirring it with a wooden spoon set aside for the purpose even as the mixture threatened to boil over. "It's been about that long since I've attended a concert, myself." Her ears press back against her skull. "It's been a long two years." The smile fades into a look of mild disappointment. "Something," Lucien is admittedly saying this with a note of quiet amusement curled through his tone, "needs to be done about the state of education in this country." He's /also/ eying the brewing coffee with the same faint disappointment. Eventually he pushes himself up away from the counter, still dragging a little bit in his steps as he moves around into the kitchen, caaarefully sidestepping around Isra's large wings to move towards the indicated cabinet and frown critically at the tea selection. "What was the last?" "I heartily agree, though frankly I have never thought of that in connection with tea." Isra folds her wings in tighter against her back and curls her tail--also decorated with organic spiral patterns--out of the way. "Tag's advice about tea amounts to 'drink what you like,' which inclines me to stick to coffee." The coffee begins boiling again, and she lifts the pan up a few inches, waiting for the roiling to subside before lowering it gradually back toward the heat. The music swells toward the bombastic again as Sinbad's ship weathers perilous waters. "Holst's Planets Suite. Boston Symphony Orchestra." "That seems sound enough advice in many areas of life." Lucien is disregarding the tea labels in favour of opening the tins to sniff at their contents thoughtfully. His fingers drum against the side of the oolong, and he takes out that and one of the chai blends. Together with two mugs, which he fills with hot water from the tap to sit on the counter and warm. "Ah --" His lips press together, and his green eyes scan the kitchen pensively. "Some variety of steeper?" A small curl of smile tugs at his mouth. "Ah. I have never had that pleasure. Somewhat thematic for you, I hear. My sister is --" The smile fades into a neutral expression as he tips his hand upward. "Quite enamored of your astronomy club." "Some astronomers grow sick of Holst, but not I." Isra sets the pan back down and stirs the black, black coffee therein. "I used to think there was a planet for every mood." She glances over at the mugs Lucien has chosen and stretches one wing out to pull a drawer open with the index talon. "Will those mesh strainers suffice? If not, we could borrow a teapot. I really ought to just bring the one from my apartment, as it's not getting a lot of use there." Again, she lifts the coffee up just as it starts boiling, the casual precision in her motions suggesting long practice. "Good. I strive to keep them engaged and involved--as astronomers in their own right, and not just passengers." She pauses, even the hand that stirs the pot freezing for a moment. "I miss the children, and I especially miss the club." Her face is neutral, but her tail swishes slow and rhythmic between the petals of her skirt. "I had a series of Delta Cephei observations planned this week." "You do not think so any more?" There's a very faint amusement to Lucien's tone. "Was Pluto holding on to a vital mood or have you just discovered too many new feelings?" His fingers tighten against the tea tin as Isra's wing stretches out, a faint tension hardening his jaw. The look he gives the -- strainers is mildly displeased. "They'll do." /Reluctantly/. "Desi tends to be easy to engage, at the least. She has never lacked for enthusiasm." His eyes lower, watching the swish of Isra's tail ruffle at the skirt fabric. "When will you return?" "Too many new feelings." Isra chuckles softly, setting the pan down again and retrieving two mugs herself. "Perhaps I might prevail upon someone to compose a Dwarf Planets suite. Eris, the Bringer of Absurdity, Sedna, the Bringer of Moral Ambiguity, and so on." Her hand returns the the handle of the pan just in time to rescue the coffee from boiling over yet again, and this time she turns off the stove as well. "That enthusiasm--the wonder and excitement--is the heart of science. Mind you, science has other vital organs, but I'll not push that metaphor any further than necessary." Scheherazade's voice, sinuous and gentle, eases back into the foreground of the symphony. Still holding the coffee pan, Isra darts a quick glance at a black camera bag sitting on the counter. "Friday, I suppose." This last absently, bright green eyes losing focus for a moment. "Ah, but I should give you use of the stove. There should be a kettle in the tall people cabinet over top." So saying, she takes one long gliding step aside and pours the viscous black contents of the pan into her two mugs. "Do you feel uncomfortable in my presence?" She only looks up at the end of the question, one bald brow ridge slightly upraised. Lucien opens the cabinet, pulling the kettle out to fill it with water. He's just replacing its lid when Isra's final question comes; it puts a small hitch in the motion of his hand, a faint pause like a stutter before he lids the kettle. He sets the kettle down on a burner, slow and deliberate in motion as he switches it on. His eyes flick up to Isra. "Do most people feel comfortable in your presence?" "I do not read minds, nor have I conducted any in-depth studies, but in a very broad sense I would guess that they do not." Isra rinses the saucepan in the sink and regards the tremendously overcrowded drying rack with chagrin. "Generally, however, those who appear uncomfortable with me do not choose to converse at length." She dries the pot by hand and puts it away. "You have, and so I keep suspecting that I am reading too much from your body language. You needn't answer, of course. My curiosity finds enough satisfaction among the stars that I can suffer to leave this world's mysteries be." "You live here," Lucien answers, plucking the tea balls up so that he can scoop tea into each of them. "More or less. I am a visitor. And," this is just a hair more wry, "one in dire need of caffeine if I am to finish my work. I suppose I could ignore you. Go make tea next door instead. Those both seem remarkably discourteous options, though." The corners of his mouth twitch slightly upward. "Mmm. I have always found people the most satisfying of mysteries to puzzle at." "I applaud your skill for obligatory conversation, and I do appreciate courtesy, no doubt." Isra lifts one cup to her nose and inhales deeply. "But neither would it offend me if you did otherwise." She retreats to the other end of the kitchen and roots a serving tray from a perilously overfull cabinet. "Have you ever solved any? Human mysteries." Gingerly she takes a sip of her own beverage, then allows a very small nod of approval. "Might I trouble you to bring that--" She indicates the other coffee cup with an outstretched wing before settling both across her shoulders like a leathery cloak. "--downstairs when you go? Perhaps I should prepare some snacks, also." "Manners are often all that keeps humanity from devolving --" Lucien hesitates a beat before finishing on a wry exhale, "/further/ into savagery. Ah. Yes. I will bring it. I do not know how well Hive is tolerating /snacks/ just at the moment, but my brother will no doubt want some by the time he is through. And Flicker seems rather a bottomless pit when it comes to food." He leans back against the counter beside the stove, arms folding across his chest in a rustle of crisp fabric as he waits for the water to boil. "Near daily, in my line of work. But much like the heavens no matter what I learn there is always so much more to explore." "I do not think I can agree with you on manners and savagery, but I suppose the former can make the latter more tolerable at times. Beg your pardon." Isra sweeps past Lucien and opens the refrigerator, which, though somewhat sparse, looks remarkably organized in the semi-chaos of the kitchen. From a bank of leftover containers she selects a round glass bowl labeled "Baba ghanoush - 11/08/14" in flowing cursive. "No fresh pitas left, alas." She opens the bowl and sets it on the serving tray, then turns to the pantry--as crowded with junk food as ever. The solo violin fades into near silence as the movement draws to a close. "Pita chips will have to suffice until I can remedy that deficit." These she dumps unceremoniously into a glass serving bowl, regarding them with much the same expression Lucien offered the tea strainers. "That anyone can 'figure out' anyone else amazes me; I cannot even figure myself. Can you?" The kettle begins to whistle; Lucien dumps out the mugs of hot water, putting the tea balls into them and immediately filling the chai. He turns off the stove, leaving the oolong mug empty for now and setting the kettle back down. "Figure you out?" The twist of amusement in this words indicate perhaps a deliberate misinterpretation. "In all of five minutes? Even I am not that good." When Isra laughs, both of her vocal chords engage--to slightly disturbing effect, the bass voice like a sinister shadow to the alto. "Next you're going to tell me you cannot judge my entire personal history by the pattern of calluses on my hands." She puts Hive's coffee on the serving tray, too, then rearranges the other items. "You'll find milk and milk substitutes in the refrigerator. Sweeteners in the pantry." This said, she takes a long draught of her nearly opaque coffee. Lucien's brows hike up, another small twitch pulling at his lips as he pours water into the second mug, too. His eyes shift over towards Isra. Focusing on her hands for a long contemplative moment. Isra perches on a stool at the counter and drags the camera bag to her. She does not open it or even look at it, just curls one arm around it somewhat dubiously. Silence descends over the house as the first movement of /Scheherazade/ ends. Isra closes her eyes and wraps both long-fingered hands around her coffee, from which steam continues to rise. Her ears swivel almost imperceptibly, picking up the soft strains of the violin seconds before it enters the normal humanists range of hearing. The voice of the storyteller in her eponymous symphony weaves tight, intricate themes that conjure the labyrinthine streets of cities long bygone. A smile tugs at the corner of Isra's lips, though it is soon obscured by the coffee cup again. Lucien's gaze shifts to the camera bag, then back to Isra's hands. The music is underlaid with the rustle of his shirt as he shifts to remove the tea balls from the tea, empty them into the garbage, rinse them out and tuck them into the jenga-stack of dishes. The chai gets milk and sugar, the oolong nothing; both mugs get added to the tray. He is, still, quiet as he picks up the tray -- lingering a minute longer by the basement door to listen, eyes briefly closing, to the music. Then slip down the stairs, leaving Isra once more alone with the stories. | |
