Log Date: 1/29/99 Log Cast: Bronwen, Tance Log Intro: Passover has ended... and Tance has slogged back to work, back into the Ranges, and back to trying to pull himself out of the morass of debt in which he had floundered before he'd met Kesya... and in which he now languishes again. Renewed exposure to crystal, as well as the passage of time, has begun to blur his memory anew, putting distance between himself and certain painful things he doesn't want to let himself remember. But he is not quite so distanced that certain realities of his life as he perceives them don't still color his behaviors around strangers... ---------- You walk into the lounge. Singer Common Lounge This is where Singers can meet and relax after a hard day of work. Chairs and sofas are scattered around in conversational groupings. Several bright stripes lead off to the various Singer accommodation quadrants. Contents: Tance, just standing there Bronwen, sitting on a pile of pillows Shepherding Manual Online Terminal Shepherd Board Planetary Brochure Catering Unit Obvious Commands ("." for list): .wander .look .wait .pace .couch .pillows .table .catering unit Obvious Exits: Level 11 Level 10 Level 9 Bronwen is currently propped up in the pillows, frowning as she stares off into space. Bronwen looks at you for a moment. "--kark it, I freggin' knew... get it together, y'old... dammit..." These mutterings and others, delivered to no one in particular in a hoarse and gravelly baritone voice, are the initial herald of Tance Vokrim's coming into the room. The grizzled old Singer is frowning in intent concentration even as he casts a disoriented look around the room, looking distinctly as if he is having a problem recognizing his surroundings. Bronwen's eyes widen as the older singer comes in to the lounge. His mutterings loud enough to drive what ever was bugging her out of her mind. She sits up slightly and looks to see who the voice belongs to. "Master...was there something that perhaps I could help with?" Brown eyes lined at their corners by weathering and wrinkles snap a startled gaze in the direction of the unfamiliar voice, and then Tance blurts gruffly, "Level eleven. Where's it at?" Bronwen Fair of feature and of color would best describe Bronwen. Ash blonde hair flows easily past her knees when unbound. Pale grey eyes seem to absorb those things around her, and have a slight almond shape to them. Her skin, the color of freshly fallen snow shows nary a blemish. The only vivid aspect of her looks are the color of her lips. Red and lush, is it natural, or is she skilled with make-up? Along her left ear, there are over twelve silver hoops pierced though it, running all along the edge, and a chain of silver runs from the top down to the bottom hoop. The tips of her ears have a slight point at the top of them. A jumpsuit of soft dark green cloth, with all the necessary pockets and zippers is wrapped around her. Peeking out from underneath is darker green t-shirt, while on her feet are a very worn pair of leather boots, that have seen many years of wear and tear, but still look serviceable. Peeking out from one of the pockets are a pair of gloves, these too look like they have seen a bit of hard work. Her left arm is cushioned by a purple gelcast to protect the fractured humerus. Bronwen points at a door, and smiles. "Right there, right next to the door you came through." She grins and rises to her feet, "Master...my name is Bronwen Cinaed, and it would be a great pleasure for me if you would give me a tour of that level. I am new around here, and have never been there." Tance blinks. Five or six times. "Master?" he says blankly. This, apparently, is a form of address with which this seasoned-looking and decidedly unkempt fellow is unfamiliar. Bronwen nods and looks at the man, taking strides across the room. "Tis a form of respect that I bring with me." She tilts her head to the side and looks at the man. "Like Sir or Ma'am...here." "Oh," mutters the man, frowning vaguely, and then he peers with those distracted brown eyes of his at this woman who's approached him. A hand comes up to shove absently through his graying hair, and then he adds brusquely, "So I don't know you...?" Bronwen grins and shakes her head. "Now do you think I would be so rude as to address you as Master with no name, if we had met before?" She finds this man refreshing after the recruits she was with earlier. Tance blinks a few more times, and then grunts, more or less in affirmation. He squints off back the way he'd come, his attention drawn by the ocher stripe leading down in that direction, and then recollection flickers across his face. A step in that direction, and then he blinks yet again, back at Brownen Cinaed. "Whaddya wanna see Level 11 for anyway?" Bronwen grins, unable to help herself. "Why to see where such a man as yourself lived." You feel a harsh thrum in your bones, sliding along your nerves. Brown eyes widen; the grizzled Singer is apparently, yet again, startled. He then peers uncertainly at the younger Singer, before finally jerking a callused thumb in the direction of the wall stripe leading down to Ocher Quadrant. "Uh... brown, er, ocher," he mutters. "No big deal." Bronwen barely surpresses a laugh at the surprise. "Yes, I was noticing that. But seeing as I am new to this place, I am a bit in awe of those of you who have been around for a while. After a few trips to the ranges..." She shrugs slightly as if not quite sure what she is trying to say. "Awe?" repeats the older Singer, glancing down at his own rumpledly clad frame and then looking Bronwen up and down as if not quite believing what he's hearing. "Uh. Yeah. Well. Ain't nothin' much in there but quarters. Just like any other Singer level." His tone turns restless, and then the man abruptly crosses the room towards the catering unit, seemingly changing his mind entirely about his purpose. Bronwen watches the man change his course, her stomach growling loudly as he walks over there. "Yes, Master. Awe. It is a hard and difficult job. I know the crystal is in a way its own reward, but still. To survive out there." She shrugs again. "Tance," barks the Singer, as he dials up a mug of coffee, not looking at the young woman as she speaks. "The name's Tance." Bronwen smiles. "Yes, Master Tance." She heads back to her spot on the pillows. Curling up there, no longer scowling at the spot on the wall. The crystal resonance in your body is growing louder and harder for you to ignore. Tance shoots the younger Singer a discomfited glance, but doesn't bother to correct this new form of address as he starts gulping down coffee. In between swallows his only response is another baritone grunt. Not very conversational, is he? Bronwen watches the man as he drinks the coffee. "Master Tance, may I ask you a question?" "Y'ain't seemin' to have a problem with it yet," is the brusque -- perhaps uneasy -- reply from the older Singer. Bronwen smiles at that. "Well you ahve a point. Do you like being a Singer and living here on Ballybran?" Tance pauses over his coffee. "Why?" he asks warily, with another flare of unease in those dark eyes. Bronwen shrugs. "Cause I wanna know how you feel about it? I am curious that way." Tance turns away, then, and doesn't immediately answer. When he does, it's in a single, lowly barked syllable: "No." Bronwen nods, not really surprised. "May I ask why?" "What, ya wanna know what you're in for, girlie, is that it?" There's no amusement in Tance's voice; if anything, he sounds gruffer. Bronwen looks at him for a moment. "Yes. That and what to watch out for. If you get my meaning, Master Tance." The older Singer is still turned away, though, avoiding the gaze of the younger. "Ain't you been shepherded yet? They're supposed to tell ya that kind of thing when you're a sheep. I remember that much." Bronwen frowns. "My shepherd was very good. I don't know if you know him, Master Yitzchak." Tance mutters, "I don't remember." Bronwen shrugs, "It is not important. But you still have not told me, why you don't like it here anymore, Master Tance." Another pause, and then Tance mutters lowly, "That's personal." Bronwen flushes, "I am sorry, Master Tance." She adds softly, "Forgive me." Tance lowers his head, staring down into his coffee mug. "Don't knock yourself out over it," he rumbles sheepishly. Bronwen shakes her head, "I have been spending too much time around recruits of late. That must be where my manners went." She turns to smile at him, though a bit unsure of herself. Tance lets out a soft snort. "I ain't exactly the mannerly type. Don't knock yourself out over that, either." He tosses back the rest of the coffee, and then grimaces at the empty cup. Bronwen watches him finish the coffee. "Is something wrong with the mug?" Tance casts a glance over his shoulder, making an expression somewhere between smirk and smile. "Yeah," he answers, "it ain't got anything in it that'll get me drunk." Bronwen frowns. "Then why on earth didn't you order something that would. Oh, wait they did say that alcohol does not have the same effect on those who had adapted as those that did not." The resonance rushing through your ears is constantly distracting you. Tance's smirk quirks a bit more towards smile, though it doesn't quite reach those dark eyes. Soundlessly mouthing 'ah', he bobs a forefinger at the younger Singer by way of acknowledgement, before turning back round to eye the catering unit balefully. "It won't serve me nothin' strong enough, no." Bronwen frowns. "And here I thought I was the only one it did not like, Master." "Oh, it likes just about anybody with the credits for it," mutters Tance, grimacing again and leaning a forearm against the wall, and his head against his arm. Bronwen rises from the pillows, "Master Tance? Might there be something that I can do for you?" Tance, without much in the way of humor, asks darkly, "You ain't got any brandy on ya, do ya, girlie?" Bronwen pats her pockets quickly, and then shakes her head. "And I am still far gone in the red, and that machine hates me anyway." She looks around for perhaps a spare bottle left sitting around. Tance blows out a breath and then abandons the uncooperative catering unit, tossing his empty coffee mug into the recyc unit. "Get out to the Ranges, then, girlie, and cut while you still got a brain to cut," he says absently, crossing the room again towards the Ocher Quadrant wall stripe, heading this time for the door. Bronwen sits down rather in a chair, her knees rather weak. She sighs softly, "It was nice to have met you, Master Tance." Brown eyes shoot the younger Singer another puzzled, uncomfortable look, as though their owner doesn't quite fathom why anybody would find meeting him _nice_. "Right," he mutters gruffly, and with that, he's gone. [End log.]