pineslog | (no subject)

Who: Eshkol and Lantar Sidonis and anyone who wants to help move stuff around at the bar.
Where: Weaver's.
When: Around the start of the flooding.
What: Floodproofing and possibly some non-human stand-offishness.
Warnings: Grumbling and lots of it!
[Open]

The past half hour had been spent slowly moving all the inventory up from the first floor into the bar proper. Fortunately he was between deliveries and the stock was relatively small.

The problem was just he keeps getting winded now.

10K had disappeared. He didn't know what'd happened to the guy after the plague struck. He's not sure where Malia went either- which just left him here, all by himself. A spry 22 year old Turian who should not be getting exhausted just carrying small crates up the freaking elevator.

... He'll put a damned wheelcart on the next order list. This wasn't a one-man operation with his current physical state.

If you're a hopeful customer, you'll find the front door unlocked and a sign that says 'Free Drinks for Helpers'. Wanna drop by?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Eshkol finds his way up those stairs eventually, footsteps silent as ever upon them. He skirts the pile of boxes with some care, glances around the room — and immediately spots the denizen of it. There's a species he's certainly never seen before. He takes his time with the observation, standing in his silent place at the top of the stairs and just staring. He might look a little unsettling, but that kind of thing has never made it to Eshkol's sphere of concerns.

He thinks. He's not actually positive on that, what with the fuzziness in his memories, but it feels right to think so.

Eventually he pushes forward, making his way in a beeline directly for Lantar. He pulls out a small notebook and pencil from a pocket as he goes, and will have it ready to present when he arrives (either by holding it out or flopping it down onto the guy's lists, whatever it takes to get it read).

In elegant, looping handwriting: So? What species are you?

A mandible twitches, slanting vaguely in Eshkol's direction when he arrives at the top of the stairway. Lantar doesn't look up, brain just registering him as 'customer'. The stopping and staring wasn't new either, even as it elicits another twitch of annoyance.

In fact, the Turian doesn't bother looking up at all- at least, not until Eshkol just about shoves the little notebook in his face. Rearing back with a start, he blinks down at the words- then up at the guy-

Huh.

Eyes narrowing, Lantar slowly sets his pencil down.

"Turian," he says simply. "You're the asshole from the forum post, huh?"

So. Not a human- or at least, he didn't smell like one. Which he kind of thought so from the wording on the posts, but he'd figured the guy was like one of those 'Servant' weirdos running around.

The asshole on the forum post — yes, he supposes that sums him up neatly. He gives a quick nod. He hasn't taken his eyes off of Lantar yet, seeing nothing at all wrong with openly staring even up this close. Eventually, though, he decides he's seen about all there is to see of him. That's when he drops his eyes back down to his little notepad, scrawling out a second message below the first:

I'll help if you want it. Point where.

He's almost loathe to make the offer, but... this guy isn't human. He's automatically a little better disposed toward him — not that anyone might guess it from the apparently permanent frown etched into his brow.

That gets Eshkol another little twitch of a mandible, a curious and somewhat warier one this time. Honestly, Lantar's not sure what he'd been expecting, but an offer for help from a guy who probably can't accept the 'free drinks' reward wasn't one of them.

Maybe he was like the Hanar? Just absorbed their drinks with their tendrils and stuff? Who knows? Lantar didn't really care that much. He's not giving out a cash prize if the guy tries for it though and that's that.

"Downstairs," he says finally, nodding his head towards the elevator. "I need to move everything up in case the water rises any higher."

He doesn't even bother to nod his acknowledgement; he just shoves the notepad back into his pocket and turns, showing himself downstairs. And, honestly, he's a pretty good worker. He moves ceaselessly and tirelessly and, obviously, without complaint. He's silent down to the footsteps, anything he's carrying going quiet as well until he drops it. And as stopping to ask questions is inconvenient, he mostly just goes with his own best judgment unless specifically told otherwise. Generally speaking, he'll work until told to stop, since he's decided to lend a hand.