Castle Anvard

Lanisen, though it is well past the time he has usually left for the day, is still wandering around the kennels, perfecting tasks completed hours earlier.

Tyren slips into the kennels, keeping as quiet as he can manage. Considering his stature, this isn’t /quite/ the easiest thing, but he does a decent enough job. He scans the kennels and the sleeping hounds, and makes his way over to where Elek and Durant usually emerge from when they’re awake.

Lanisen, adjusting a stack of metal bowls on a shelf in the back, overestimates and sends a dozen clattering and rolling across the floor. The cacophony sets a couple younger dogs yapping.

Tyren turns at the sound, Elek coming awake and raising his head as well. Tyren is quick to put a hand on his hound’s head, reassuring him that there’s nothing to get worked up over, it’s just Lanisen.

Lanisen scrambles to chase down the escaping bowls and retrieve them before they roll too far away. The clattering doesn’t improve.

Durant wakes up at this as well, and Tyren soon has both of his hands full.
…so to speak.

Lanisen finally recaptures the dishes, restores them to their previous inert states, and imprisons them on their appropriate shelves. He stands back, eyeing them suspiciously, then turns away, investigating a squeaky hinge on one of the pens in the back.

Tyren manages to keeps Durant and Elek reasonably calm. Durant soon curls up again, while Elek keeps close to Tyren, apparently deciding his master is FAR more important than mundane SLEEP. The knight furrows his brow a bit as he observes Lanisen’s demeanor.

Lanisen opens and closes the offending pen door several times to determine the exact nature of the squeak – about like a live cat being slowly deep-fried – and sits back on his heels to consider the problem.

Tyren asks simply, “Something wrong?”

Lanisen says, “Uhn. It’s rusty.”

Tyren says, “Not quite what I was referring to.”

Lanisen continues mumbling to himself, frowning deeply down at the hinge. “‘S like there’s somethin’ stuck in it, makin’ it squeal worse… if I had somethin’ small enough…” He tries to dig the mysterious ‘somethin’ out with his fingernails – and rips one down to the quick. He briefly turns the air blue and sticks the wounded finger in his mouth.

Tyren coughs slightly, perhaps saying in a rather less eloquent manner what he tends to think of such eloquentness of /that/ particular manner.

Lanisen doesn’t even seem to notice, already frowning at the hinge from another angle.

Tyren says, “Seems like rather an awful lot of fuss to make over a simple hinge.”

Lanisen asks, “You heard this thing? ‘S like a whole horde of Tash’s own minions!” He deals said horde a frustrated and probably-ineffectual blow with one fist.

Tyren waves his free hand in a bit of a dismissive manner. “Poppycock. I have seen you deal with these hounds at their friskiest, which is, I imagine, far more harrowing an experience than a squeaky hinge.”

Lanisen doesn’t seem about to let these observations deter him from his goal. He scrambles up and jogs across the room to dig through a box of assorted rubbish until he finds the tool he is looking for. He returns to the hinge and drops to his knees, using the tool to pry out the nails holding the door to the hinge to the pen.

Tyren lets out another soft sigh, glancing to Elek, who cocks his head in a manner conveying something akin to, “Well, what do you want ME to do about it??”

Lanisen sticks the implement of destruction in his mouth and finishes working apart the hinge with his fingers, frowning in fierce concentration.

Tyren chooses not to interrupt for the time being.

Lanisen, having effectively rendered the pen unuseable, sets the door flat on the floor and tries to remove the pin from the hinge. This does not meet with much success, and his efforts grow increasingly random and frustrated until at last he drops it (with somewhat more force than is necessary) with another oath.

Tyren clears his throat again at this.

Lanisen lets his forehead thunk against the still-intact portion of the pen, appearing to have shut out the knight’s presence.

Tyren gives Elek a pat on the head, then stands and walks over toward said pen. Elek follows close on the knight’s heels, apparently still feeling the obligation to stay near.

Lanisen, as Tyren approaches, picks up the hinge and tries again.

Tyren says, “I don’t think that’s going to make much difference, honestly.”

Lanisen mutters, “Prob’ly not, the whole thing’s rust, look at it. Piece of junk. Oughta throw it out, be doin’ us all a favor.”

Tyren pauses a moment, brow furrowing. After a bit of silence, he asks simply, “Are we still talking about the hinge?”

Lanisen’s muttered rant breaks off and he glances up at Tyren, startled. “Huh?”

Tyren merely repeats, “Are we still talking about the hinge?”

Lanisen looks a bit blank. “Dunno what else we’d be talkin’ about, sir.”

Tyren shrugs a shoulder. “Then perhaps I’m overanalyzing again. I can be rather prone to that, but then again, it suits a knight to be at times… in any case, I gather that hinge isn’t the sole source of your frustration.”

Lanisen asks, “What’re you talkin’ about, sir?”

Tyren quirks a brow slightly, scratching Elek behind the ears as the hound nudges his hand. “It’s rather evident you’re frustrated. It seems rather an unbalanced amount to expend as a result of a mere hinge, however.”

Lanisen waves the partially-dismantled hinge wildly. “It’s stuck! An’ I can’t get it out! And I want to fix it but I can’t! How’s that not enough to be frustratin’?”

Tyren holds up a finger. “Never said it wasn’t. It seems rather… disproportionate, however.”

Lanisen lets out a breath through his nose. He stares balefully at the hinge, his shoulders slumping and leaving him looking tired and defeated.

Tyren puts a hand on Lanisen’s shoulder for a moment, the gesture clearly meant to be at least somewhat supportive – and it appears it is almost automatic. Removing it again, he says, “I won’t press you. But it might do you well to find some way to sort through it before Danall finds himself with no pens in the kennels.”

Lanisen stills briefly until Tyren lifts his hand and makes no reply, but after a moment he begins the process of reassembling the pen, working silently and efficiently. The hinge is no better, but by the time he has finished, the door hangs at a better angle than previously, and the latch actually stays latched.

Tyren remains quiet as Lanisen does this, and Elek keeps a close eye out as well – though neither appear unfriendly as they do so.

Lanisen stands once finished, his mad rush of productive (destructive) energy apparently spent. He bows to Tyren, performing the formality earlier neglected, and glances to the stairs. “Excuse me, sir.”

Tyren nods. “Of course.” If he has anything to say on the lack of formality previously, it does not manifest.

Lanisen dips his head, murmurs a quiet, “Evenin’, sir,” and turns toward the stairs.

Tyren says simply after him, “Take care.”

Lanisen disappears into the darkness of the kennel’s second level without looking back.


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