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… What's happening?!
Over twenty turns of Thread has fallen in 12th Pass over a conservative Pern peppered liberally (pun intended) with progressive Oldtimers from 10th interval, in Harper's Tale's current iteration. The conflict of ideology between the traditionalist Nowtimers and the Oldtimers - liberal survivors of apocalyptic comets from 10th Interval that both destroyed Crom Hold and changed the face of Pern as any remembered it to be - makes life, as they say, interesting.
More than Thread challenges those that walk the many roads available in HT's setting. From dirty trader politics in Igen Weyr's in-house and eccentric bazaar, icy antics of the indigenous wildlings in Southern Barrier Hold, and the struggles of both weyrs (Igen and Southern) that rise to defend all of the above, there's a little taste for any plotline that a player may be interested in delving into. Log in and check us out for more information!
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Title | OOC Date | Summary |
The Eggs, The Myth, THE HATCHING @ IGEN WEYR | 11 Mar 2024 04:00 | Igen's Hatching Announcement |
Previous announcements can be found here.
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Title | OOC Date | Summary |
2024 Q1 Threadfall (January - March) | January 2, 2024 | Threadfall Summary - January - March 2024 |
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Title | Cast | Summary | ||||||||||
Hope vig
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"How you thinkin' dreams get started, princess?" Sriella walked behind the little herd of bovines, her staff comfortable in her hand. Kip darted one way and Sriella whistled a soft command. When the canine bolted the other way, Sriella whistled a different sound. She wasn't giving the command and then making Kip do it - she was going the other way. Kip did a thing, and Sriella named the action. It was a technique Helena had taught her down in Boll, and now that Kip was old enough, it was time to start training in earnest. Kip darted forward and Sriella called, "Down," and the canine took a few more steps. "Down," Sri called again, and Kip fell to her belly. "That's a girl," Sri cooed, walking up to ruffle the canine's ears. She was in that ridiculous stage of puppy growth where she was all legs and ears, and Sri couldn't imagine she would ever look like a well-proportioned canine. The bovines paused, and Sriella gave them a minute, crouching beside the canine and gently scratching her neck beneath her collar. 'Kip' was stamped into the leather, an iron ring ready to clip on a lead if needed, but the canine hardly left Sriella's side. Unless there was work to be done. "Alright girl," Sri murmured, giving a whistle. She was pleased when Kip went the way she wanted her to. Weaving back and forth behind the herd, they kept them moving down the pasture and then brought them back. Using her staff, Sriella guided the beasts into the barn for their evening meal and some rest, and she headed into the house. She had high hopes for the canine, that she'd grow into as good a herding canine as Tweed had been, and even better with runners and bovines. Tweed had been trained on ovines, and had always been a little tentative around the larger animals. She hoped that Kip wouldn't have those issues. So far she was showing promise. Hope. She had a lot of hope about a lot of different things. It had been on her mind a lot, especially after her talk with Khy'ai. She'd wanted to explain to him more about hope, but she hadn't been able to find the words. About how she'd lost hope for her future, about how she'd clawed it back. About how she had to nurture it, tend to it, feed it with dreams.
She had little dreams that she was nurturing. Giving that attention and that thought. She was pushing back the 'what ifs' and the darker thoughts of past mistakes, and instead planting seeds of hope for the future. Even if they were small hopes. Even if they were nothing more that the hope for a nice day the next day, or the hope of seeing a beautiful sunset. The hope of Evie sleeping through the night without any nightmares, the hope of seeing Daemon smile. Small things. Little things. Hope. "Daddy, why did you name Grace, Grace?" she asked her father. She'd heard the answer hundreds of times but she still liked it. "Because your mama was my saving grace, peanut," he said with a soft smile. If I ever have another daughter, maybe I'll name her Hope. Hope was a soft, constant refrain as she moved through her days. Small, but there. Dusty, but tenacious. Holding on, despite the rocky soil of her soul. She'd lost hope for a while. For turns, she'd lost hope. But she'd found it again. Somewhere, somehow, she'd found it again and she cradled it and she wasn't going to let it go so easy this time. Her wagon was ready to go, and she really should have been on the road a month ago. But sometimes time just gets away from a girl. She'd enjoyed being home. Helping her family with harvest and preparations for winter. Getting to know her newest sibling, and giving her mother a break. Plus, Sriella had to admit, Evie was getting so big that it was nice to hold a baby. Sometimes she wondered if she'd paid enough attention to Evie's early months, or if she'd been too caught up in her own troubles to really focus. No going back now, but she vowed that if she ever had another child that she'd be more present. And she made a point to be present for Evie now. She had a few more jobs scheduled, and then she would get on the road. Angle further south, to avoid the worst of the snows. It was a wagon, after all, not a sleigh. It was going to be fine. What was freedom if not a chance to make your own choices? And right now she wanted to stay at home. Surround herself with family, and let Evie spend more time with her father. And let Daemon spend more time with his daughter. She wasn't in any hurry. She was nurturing her hope, letting it grow in the warmth of her family's love. Cahia looked down at the paperwork in front of her, in the Harper's office of Igen Weyr. "And you're sure this is what you'd like to do?" the man asked. "I'm sure," she said, reaching for the stylus to put her name to the parchment. Gullian did not want to keep the bakery, and Cahia didn't want to come back from Southern. So the next logical step was to sell it. To sell Miss June's gift. It was a decision that weighed heavy on her heart, but she knew it was the right one. She wondered if she should send Miss June a letter, but every time she tried to write one it all fell flat. There was really nothing to say. Was it a failed business? She'd kept it for a while. It was successful when she had it. Was the definition of success that it never ended? Was that all she wanted out of her life? She wanted more. She wanted something different for now. She had hope for a different future for herself. She had hope that she could make something of Whiskers & Words. That Southern would be good for her. A place she could flourish, like the summer flowers. She had hope for more. She signed the paperwork to put Miss June's up for sale, and sent out flyers to the weyrs to post. Bakery for Sale - Igen Bazaar - Contact Cahia in Southern Weyr for Details She had hope that the bakery could find a new owner, someone who would love it as much as she had. And she had hope that she could grow in this new home, and find her feet again, and put her fears and failures behind her. She held that hope tight in her hands, and breathed it into everything she baked. She let it carry her forward. Hope Hope vig has 1 comments. |
Sriella and Cahia ponder their futures and the hopes that they are nurturing. |
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Ripples
"I feel like so many things end up being lies." Cove A saber's curl along the coast of the Azov Sea, the cove is a clash of green and black; where deeply forested jungles encroach upon the curving expanse of this tiny cove, found only past the rocky barrier that serves as demarcation between cove and beach. Lacking the softly ground sand of the beach, the cove is made up of dark, volcanic pebbles, making it trickier to navigate than the beach itself. Yet, what a surprise is given if one braves the less comfortable path that curves around a long-forgotten cinder cone to find the quiet tranquility of seclusion. Brilliant against the black pebbled beach, greenery is only enhanced by the purest of turquoise waters, pleasantly warm all turn from the heat of a deep volcanic vent and churned by hidden currents that further feed into the relative calm of the sea itself. A small school of rainbow fish and yellowfish swims around here. Sometimes you're not yet ready to go to bed. Sometimes memories are a greater pull than sleep, and sometimes… sometimes you just need to get out for a bit. Which is why, after finishing up mailing the books to River Bend, Sriella and Kip did not head for their little room, but instead she let her feet carry her along very familiar paths. Back to the Cove she walked, letting Kip off the leash so the canine could bound around. The cove is empty this time of night, the moons and stars bright above. She adjusts the sleeves on her loose tunic to cover her arms as buzzing insects dart about, but she isn't too worried. She has very few natural talents, but avoiding bites from bugs seems to be something she's good at. They weren't hardly ever interested in her. She'll take the anonymity and be happy with it. Bending down at the edge of the water she finds a stone and chucks it into the water, not trying to skip it, but instead to watch it sink and watch the ripples flow from the center point. She smiles, picking up another one to toss with a satisfying *plop*. Sriella wasn't truly alone her in the saber's curl of cove, no, for Khy'ai had been walking the farthest distance. Nothing more than a blurry shadow at the edge of her vision at first, but his footsteps measure the distance slowly between them. Night breezes ruffle his hair, gilded silver in the moonlight. All of him is washed clean of color until he's nothing but a daguerreotype image of himself. Eventually, eventually, steps carry him closer to Sriella and his voice sounds in surprise, "Sri?" Perhaps he thought of her and now here she appeared. Shifting until moonlight shafts across his features, silvering the shape of his cheek and scruffy jaw and darkening his eye sockets like a Kabuki mask of another time and place. "What are you doing out here?" Sometimes the beaches of Southern give you exactly what you're looking for. She turns and smiles, Kip bounding across the stones to him with tail wagging happily. "Getting some air." Or does he mean Southern? "Had a few jobs. I looked for you earlier." She closes the distance between them, arms opening for a hug. First Kip gets a ruffled-fur greeting, becasue Khy'ai has a soft spot for animals, and then Sriella gets enveloped into a bear hug. "Glad you stuck around," he says, voice rumbling through his chest in sincere tone. "Good to see you. How've ya been?" The last time they spoke, they'd both been walking a wobbly road. "Any job that brings you back down this way is a good one," he adds, pulling back with a grin. Kip wiggles in delight, leaaaaning against Khy'ai's legs and hoping for more pets while Sriella hugs him back tightly. "Careful before you say that, you don't know what I was doing," she teases, but her eyes are bright in the moonlight with good humor. "All legit, I promise." She watches him for a moment and then smiles. "I'm… I'm good, Khy'ai. Better." And she can't ask for more than better than she was, right? "How are you?" she eyes him thoughtfully. "I'm not afraid to get dirty," Khy'ai laughs. "New canine?" If he knew of Tweed's retirement, he's forgotten in this strange, chance run in with her in the dark of night. "Now that," he slings an arm around Sriella in an easy embrace of comforting friendship, "is good to hear." He cants a look down at her, shadows intermingling across his face, shielding him from prying eyes. At least, immediately. "I'm okay. I don't know if I'd say 'good'," unless he said he was 'fine' while the world burned down, "but I'm not… not good either. Just… living, I guess." Sriella laughs. "So if I told you I was stealing herdbeasts to sell to an illicit ship on the Black Rock River, you'd be okay with it?" "Yeah," she nods, "Tweed had to take an early retirement. This is Kip. I'm… trying to train her from scratch. It's been interesting." Challenging, as her arm slings back around his waist for a tight side-hug. For a woman who seems to revel in pushing people away, she really does like physical contact with people she cares about. She craves it. "Just living?" she asks softly, peeking up at him in concern. "I meant actual dirt, not criminal activities," Khy'ai frowns, shooting her a look. Maybe he's unsure if she means it or not, or what. But… He's quick to let it go, not wanting to argue over the RIGHTS and WRONGS of life. "Kip is adorable," he has zero clue on training, so he'll comment on what's right in front of him: the adorableness of the Kipster. "Nothing especially exciting to report," and his secret of wandering out to the northern edges of the Southern Continent and sending love letters to a girlfriend he no longer has… well, he's not going to confess to that. It seems — feels — lame. "I don't know," rueful note, with a hint of sadness. A harkening back to the Khaetien who came to Southern Weyr filled with pain and sorrow. "Maybe I've peaked already in my life." And the rest… like a boulder going downhill hitting all the sad notes. Don't worry your sweet moral compass, Khy'ai, she was kidding. She gives his waist a tight squeeze. "I don't envy your lack of freedom." She, at least, can get a wagon and hit the road. He has duties. "Oh? At…" how old is he? "Your mid 20's? What does Raiyodakarith have to say about that? He content to coast through the rest of life?" "I haven't let him try for …" Khy'ai might look a little ashamed were it not for the cloak of night. Yet, he turns his face away from hers all the same. "… anything. Oh, he'll fly the odd gold or two, but for anything bigger, no. It is hard to think that the one time we won might have been an accident." For he neither shined brightly nor fell spectacularly in his tenure as Weyrleader. "I feel like so many things end up being lies. Lies told to us as we grow up, lies told to us by accident, lies told to us to make us feel better, to humor us, but in the end it's all lies and no happiness exists." Sriella frowns when he looks away, but that expression only deepens as he continues to speak. Her heart thuds painfully in her chest and she is both guilty she hasn't been around as much as she thinks she should be, and also at the depth of his despair. She shifts away from him but only so her fingers can tangle with his in a tight clasp of palm-to-palm. Giving him a slight tug, she starts to walk along the water's edge. "Tell me about lies," she says quietly. "What lies weigh so heavy on your soul, Ten." Khy'ai clasps her hand and lets her lead him along the water's edge. "That everything will be all right. That your decisions, if made in the right heart, will end up all right. That life will end up okay, but it's lies. Don't mistake me," he shoots her a look, "My life isn't awful. I've got a weyr, I've got a dragon… Just because I can't have what I wanted out of life doesn't mean it's bad. But… It's hard to let go of the stories I thought I'd be writing in my life. It's hard to see… that, none of it has worked out how I thought. I don't know where I fit anymore… Sriella, I am isolated and alone." Sriella watches their feet move together on the pebbles of the shore as she listens to him, and she frowns. "So the truth is that everything is shit? That you make decisions and they're always wrong? Khy'ai," she says with a soft sigh. "I know, I understand, believe me. The loss of that future, of those stories, of those dreams… it cuts deep. Especially when you were the one who set yourself on that path." She looks down again, giving her arm a little shake and reaching for Kip's ears to ruffle as the canine bounds past. "But you can't keep looking back and wishing for what is already past. You can't keep reaching back." She gives his hand a firm squeeze, a tug towards the water - into the shallows. "If you went under, would you give up and let the sea take you?" she asks him seriously, turning to walk backwards into deeper water, pulling him with. "Have you lost so much hope in your future?" Khy'ai remembers the boy he was when he arrived to Southern: riddled with the guilt of his part to play in his sister's death. Riddled with the guilt of the pain he caused his entire family. Riddled… "I don't know," he admits, unwilling to comment on her other statements and does not answer whether or not he'd let the water take him away. In truth, Raiyodakarith would not let him, and would probably fish him out so it's a moot point, but the idea of getting lost… "I almost let myself get lost in Raiyodakarith. I almost gave myself over fully to the bond and let him… be me." It was a very fine line, though the bronze had better behavior than his rider did, for he'd shoved Khy'ai back to balance the pendulum. "I don't know what I'm doing. I want…" He trails off. His wants are impossible to achieve. Sriella takes both his hands in both of hers when she's thigh-deep in the water, letting the currents bouy her weight somewhat, letting the waters flow around her legs. "That's possible?" she asks in some surprise. She didn't know that was even a thing with dragonriders. She knows so little about that bond. "What do you want," she pushes. "Tell me. What would bring my best friend back." "Everyone's bond is different," Khy'ai comments, shooting Sriella a glance. "Just like anything else." For him, the waters eddy around his legs though he stands as solid as stone. A slight smile and he shakes his head, "Nothing you can do. I have to — it's something I have to do for myself, Sri. I have to find my way. I have to find the purpose I lost." It is an inner battle that no one can fight for him, he knows it. "But thank you. It means a lot — to ask, but there is something out there for me, I know it. Some drive, some focus, some… passion. I merely have to find it." Sriella lets the nuances of dragon-bonds slide by, because really… she has nothing to offer on that. But it's curious, just the same. She frowns a bit, giving his hands a tight squeeze. "I know this is a journey you need to go on, I know," the pain of her own journey, so similar to his, shows in her pale eyes, "but I…" She gives her head a firm shake, tears springing to her eyes. "I want to help. And I know I can't, I understand, I went through it, I'm still going through it, I know, but." She looks up at him, expression pained. "I want you to be happy again, Ten. I want that for you so badly." "I'm not unhappy," Khy'ai answers honestly, his hand squeezing around hers, "It's an adjustment, to life after everything that happened. Weyrleader, Kovie… Raiyodakarith wants so very much to try again, and I don't let him, so it's a struggle. Without Kovie… it's difficult, yes, but more… I think I'm realizing how much of who I am has been put on external choices, external events. What rank I have, who I'm with. Nothing about me, the man, and what I want to do with my life." Does she understand? Are his words sufficient to paint a picture of his failings to harbor a port for his life's desires. "I don't know — anymore now than before I Impressed — what I want to do when I 'grow up' and I'm grown now. With a dragon and a wing and still, something is missing." Sriella watches him, nodding slowly as she listens to him explain more. "I understand," she says softly. "It's hard to start…within. So much of life is focused on the outside, isn't it. Rank, job, success or failure, relationships, married, unmarried, mother…". She nods. She gets it. "Who are you without him? Who am I without my Craft? I don't think it's a bad thing for some of your identity to come from outside things, but." She finally lets his hands go and bends into the water, digging for stones to pull up and hold in her palms. Why are they out here? She lets the stones fall from her hand, watching the ripples expand from the point of impact, hitting their legs and rebounding to other places. "You're not unhappy, but are you happy?" There's a difference, in her mind. He gives a brief squeeze before she lets go, and Khy'ai tucks his into his pockets, digging deep. "Yes, no. Not really? I'm not unhappy, that's the best I can say. I'm living in a day-to-day mundanity that feels impossible to break out of. I feel both useful and useless." He nibbles the inside corner of his mouth, his hair too long, his facial hair too scruffy. In general, the bronzerider looks and feels a little too unkempt, as if he walks a scrubby line of uncaring about his appearance. "Gotta lotta self-work to do. I'm going home in a seven or so for a little vacation. Nothing big, a few days. It'll be good to be home with my family." Yet, he also knows he'll spend some of that time with his guilty pleasure, sending unsent love notes into the ocean. Sri would have Things to Say if she knew about that. :( "I'm worried about you," she says honestly, with a sigh. "But I get it. I'm not…like. I'm not trying to swoop in here and make you better, I know it's a journey, a process, but I am worried about you. Do you remember when you found me over there," she points up the beach towards the rocks, "and you brushed my hair and took care of me? I want to do that for you, Ten, but I don't know what you need. I don't know how to help. But I'm glad you're going home for a bit." "Oh Sri," Khy'ai once again leans in for an arm around her shoulders, giving her a big hug. "Thank you, that means a lot. I'm not… in bad shape. For all my words, I'm not lingering in unhappiness. Am I stupid happy? No, but then not every moment in life will be that way. I don't know, I have to figure myself out. I don't know — and if I'm honest with myself, after getting Weyrleader, I didn't let myself process that. The whole event, the ending of it. The desire," he inhales sharply as if admitting something he doesn't want to admit, "to try again. To do better. To see if we can try again and this time, make our mark." Sriella folds into his embrace for a tight hug. "Okay," she says quietly against his tunic. "I believe you." And she does. She will. "And I believe in you. If you want to try again, go for it. Rare is the time when you excel the first time you try something." She grins. "Ask me how Kip's training is going," she teases herself a bit. Another squeeze and she steps back, bending for more stones. "I love you, Khy'ai. I want only the best for you and your life." "I love you too," Khy'ai says after a chuckle over the when plans first meet the enemy. "Actually, I do want to hear all about your training and kip. Hang out with me tonight, you can stay in my weyr and tell me all about it. I've a bottle of wine and haven't eaten dinner." It's an invitation to spend the night chatting about her life and — "Also, when are you traveling again? Is the wagon all fixed up?" Because that leads into even deeper questions of Sriella's life, and of course, "And Evie. She's two turns now? I've got a turnday gift for her… I forgot to send." That? Is one sheepish look, especially relieved as the conversation turns away from him and his woes. Sriella studies him for a long moment, as if weighing something, and then she smiles. "I'd love to stay. If you can find me a ride back home in the morning, and cancel my ride tonight." She starts to splash towards the shore, bending to let fingers trail along the waters surface as she does. "Oh, I'm not sure. The wagon is ready but I'm lingering at home…" For Reasons! "She's two, yes, if you can believe it. I can't understand how time has moved so fast…" A warm smile given as she stands, dripping, on the shore. "Don't worry about it. She'll be delighted to get a present out of the blue!" Post-birthday gifts are the best. Bonus prizes! "That is what Raiyodakarith is for," Khy'ai grins, for his bronze will be happy to ferry her home at the butt-crack of dawn tomorrow morning. "It's almost like someone has their finger on a giant lever to speed up time against our will," he grins, joking. "Good, c'mon. I'm hungry and want to hear about where you're going to go to next…" And he does — he truly is interested in all of Sriella's travels and her struggles and joys and successes in training. It's a night of friendship and brotherly love, of stories and general good companionship. And maybe, when he takes her home and sees his parting smile, Sriella will realize that merely being there, spending time with him and telling him of the joys and trials of her life has helped him in small, but very measurable ways. And that gift for Evie? Is a tiny bronze dragon as copper-bright as the sun with a tiny little dude leaning up against his haunch: a replica of Raiyodakarith and little Khy. And Sriella will tell him everything. About her travels, about her hopes for where she's going next, about her and Daemon and how she's finally let go of the past and is looking to - hopefully - build something new. She talks of hope like it's a living thing she is carefully nurturing, regrowing within herself. About how his parole is almost up and she's not sure what will happen next. About Grace's engagement and how she's having a wonderful time finding strippers and would he maybe be interested in being their designated flyer for the evening? When he drops her off Evie is there, toddling happily to the steps to greet her mama with squeals of delight and a wave and happy yell for "Unka Kai!" She will treasure that little figure, balancing it so carefully on the roof of her dollhouse the next time she's at her father's. "Top." She will insist. All dragons go up. Ripples has 1 comments. |
Khy'ai and Sriella talk about life, choices, and hope. |
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A Day at the (Dolphin) Races A Day at the (Dolphin) Races
Floating Race Stands Race day or not, these stands are comfort in itself. A boat landing, small in size, strays off to a walkway, leading to the stands proper. The lower level houses sturdy wooden tables, coupled with gently padded chairs of metal. A small metal mini-bar resigns in one corner, ready to serve any who wish to watch the races 'in style.' Up a few steps and you'll reach the standard benches for some old-school race viewing. It can be a herculean task sometimes to juggle the calendars of two adults with all their various responsibilities to find a moment of spare time, often times requiring planning at least three sevendays in advance. And other times, the stars just align and two otherwise busy adults may find themselves with a spare moment at the exact same time like today. There was no planning on Ilyana's part aside from walking down to the boardwalk with a great big sunhat and towel over her shoulder and sans children for once. She just so happened to run into a certain bronzerider on the way down at the same time a group of dolphin-apprentices rushed by squealing about their need to get to Ista and how they couldn't miss the start of the races. "Dolphin-races? Sounds like a sight to see!" "Dolphin races? I've never seen dolphin races. We could go!" R'zel's up for a new experience, it seems, and so it's not long before Verokanth is taking off for Ista. Actually finding the races takes a bit of asking around, but eventually they find their way to the stands, where there is a conveniently empty table with a decent view and two free seats. "I think we've missed the start," R'zel says, which seems a good bet as there are dolphins visibly racing and everyone else in the stand is cheering on their favourite! "If they're anything like runner races, the early ones are just warm ups. You save the real attractions until prime time, where people either have more marks to spend from previous winnings or they're more willing to go big to make up for earlier losses," Ilyana says with a smile, her Bitran childhood showing through a bit there as she slides her seat around the table to sit next to R'zel's and get a view of the action as well. "Do you have a wager for the next match? Even if the wager is just between the two of us?" R'zel gives a regretful chuckle. "I'm not much into wagering - especially when I have no idea who's racing and I've only got the marks I happened to have on me, which I'm inclined to save for getting something to eat in a bit. But if you can work with that…" He peers towards what seems to be a starting point, though nobody's actually ready for the off just yet. "Ah, looks like they start on those yellow lines. Right, I'm going to go for the one in the middle lane." There are cheers as the current race finishes. "As children, we wouldn't wager marks, since we rarely had them. But didn't stop us from placing up doing chores. Or various sweet treats," Ilyana reminisces slightly, not often she talks about her own childhood. "Though don't think I'd be much help doing most of your chores without a dragon of my own." A wink there. "I always did like an underdog. I'll go for the smallest dolphin in the second lane. He looks speedy!" "The middle one looks quite powerful," R'zel replies, defending his totally random choice with a grin. "And I doubt I'd be much better at your chores. Now, are they racing with partners, or without?" There are dolphineers in the water, but it's not clear to him why they're there. "Oh, look, they're getting to the start marks now!" He leans forward, keen to see how the start is done. "Power takes time to get up to full speed. He better hope he can catch up with speedy!" Ilyana is also going to claim that her choice is based on something besides just random feelings. "And you at least have an idea of my chores… the official ones anyways. Farming is a lot like gardening on a grander scale." And she scoots her chair forward, the excitement building. By the time the bugle blows the start, she jumps up to give a hearty cheer. R'zel jumps up when the race starts, too, but soon sits again for the sake of the people behind, though he's on the edge of his seat. How convenient to get a table with such a good view! And it seems Ilyana's right, Middle Lane Dolphin does get off to a slow start, but as the race continues he - or perhaps she, as R'zel has no clue how to tell the difference - starts to catch up. "Well, mine's in last place - but I think he's gaining on the rest!" Ilyana bashfully sits back down as well, taking her hat off as well so as to less block anybody's view. "Mine isn't doing that much better," the littlest dolphin is still ahead of the middle one, but he's struggling to try and catch up with the rest. "May have been a case number one will indeed be number one." Ilyana can't help it. As the dolphins come back into view again, she lets out a loud whoop and enthusiastic clapping as if that will urge her pick on. It doesn't, but it's the thought that counts. "Do the dragons ever have races like this? Not in the water, clearly." "Oh, sometimes. I mean, sometimes people race for fun, you know?" R'zel's answering but his eyes are on the race. Is that middle dolphin gaining some more as they approach the finish? It looks like it, but there's not far to go! Formal races, though - there are inter-Weyr games when we're not too busy with Thread, but it's been turns since anything like that happened. I think it's more of an Interval thing." Ilyana pumps her arm in the air, on the edge of her seat for the final stretch. "That makes sense, the too busy during a Pass. But with all the logistics needed for runner races and those still happen for Big Gathers, even having herders make journeys across the continent to be at especially important ones, seems like a slightly more formal race every now and again would be a thing. People do love a good excuse to party." A grin there as getting swept up in an excuse to party might be this very afternoon, seeing as she didn't know dolphin racing was a thing an hour ago and now she's here. "At this point in the Pass, there's Thread somewhere pretty much every day, so it's hard to find an opportunity to get all the Weyrs together," R'zel explains. "And it's just not that important. I think some individual Weyrs still had their own internal things early on. Oh, they've finished! If wonder if there are races over different distances." None of the chasers has managed to catch the leader, though a couple were a bottlenose apart behind him or her. Ilyana lets out a little aww as her pick surged forward giving it his or her all and yet in the end, the little dolphin was one of those just missing by a bottlenose or two. "I'm sure there must be other distances. Or races with partners. Variety and all. And true about the Thread everywhere," A sigh at that. It's a fact of Pass life, even she barely remembers a time before Thread. "Just another thing to add to the list of things to look forward to for the Interval. Only…. nineteen or so more turns to go." Whose counting? "Do you want to go find a meal?" The stands seem to be clearing out for now, competitiors swimming away and none taking their space yet. An intermission in the festivities. "Yes, let's do that." R'zel stands, saying quietly, "It's too far ahead for me to start looking forward to it, really. For Vero and me, we're just over halfway there." Nineteen turns of Threadfighting is a long time, even if it's less time than they've already been doing it. He continues more brightly, "Do you fancy fish, seeing as we're in Ista?" And the day continues with a meal and more racing, and just maybe they'll get a bit better at spotting the winners! A Day at the (Dolphin) Races has 0 comments. |
An overheard remark leads to an afternoon out. |
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Igen Visit Igen Visit
Galleries Though occasionally cleaned by ambitious (or neurotic) drudges or weyrbrats being disciplined, the lack of Eggs over the last several Turns has led to the Galleries falling into a state of disrepair. Sand can be found…well, everywhere. On the benches, under the benches, on the railings and walkways. There is also the random tidbit leftover from people who've wandered into the gathering place since the last cleaning. A random bit of cloth here, a bit of something that might have been a carving-in-progress once there. Mid-morning is as good a time as any to visit the Galleries. It's bound to be a little less crowded, but the heat won't be as oppressive inside. Outside? Is another matter entirely. As the midday hour approaches, the summer temperatures soar to almost unbearable highs. Most will be seeking refuge in the cooler inner caverns of the Weyr or elsewhere throughout the Bazaar. Not here, where heat remains constant. Kopriva has staked out a little area for herself on the lowest tier; a little out of the way to offer some 'privacy'. It's also a way to gain some distance from the sands, but not leave entirely. Pariisamith has taken to brooding over her clutch remarkably well, though the young gold does prefer her rider's presence for decent spans of the day. Right now, the gold is sleeping, curled in half-moon repose around one of the larger clusters of eggs … there seems little rhyme or reason to their spacing. Some are buried more than others and that tends to change on the day. Nhiuzukkath might be away hunting for more gifts … his latest one's tidied up and so mercifully there are no butt-less sheep. Faranth only knows what actually may be lurking out there? What could top a whole-ass tree or a (actually kind of pretty) boulder? For now, it's calm. Quiet. Kopriva is as comfortable as she can be, dressed in light Igen desert style with her hair braided and coiled up. There are refreshments, mostly fruit or light finger food — remnants of a late breakfast. More importantly … water. Her attention though, is on the book open on her lap. She has fully absorbed herself into the contents of that book; in fact, it looks like she's nearing the end! It must be great … storytelling … for her to be unaware of the surroundings — or time passing by. One little Southern greenrider slips from the heat of the bowl to the grounds' entrance, taking the tunnel to the wide staircase up to the galleries, while a young green may grouse about settling on the caldera's rim rather than taking a soak in the lake's cool waters. A basket's handle hanging from the crook of her arm, Kovie mounts the stairs with a squint-eyed look at all the sand — not on the Sands — not just underfoot, but on the galleries' benches… everywhere. Such an appraising look flees, however, when she spots Kopriva in the little haven she's made for herself on the lower tier. Treading the aisleways to the goldrider, she calls with a cheerful, lilting voice, "I didn't know if I'd find ya here," for she would not have Naianth inquire of Pariisamith, not whilst the queen was tending her clutch, "but here you are!" in perhaps something not totally decorous of a visiting rider when addressing a weyrwoman. However, once she is near Kopriva's station in the galleries, she does turn that pleased look towards Pariisamith, and her eggs, and inclines her head in a respectful greeting to the queen: a wordless acknowledgement, before her eyes shift back to her friend, dropping to her area, briefly noting the book. "Is now an alright time for a little visit?" Kopriva startles at first, her preoccupied mind scrambling back to reality. It takes a moment of blinking for the voice to register and recognition to follow swiftly on the heels of that — and once it does? The book is shut, not even properly bookmarked in her haste, because that is not the important matter at hand! Heat be damned, the young goldrider is quick on her feet and rushing to close the distance between herself and the visiting greenrider — no, a (very missed) friend! "Kovie!" Kopriva exclaims, all delighted with surprise and giddiness. Clearly, there is no need for decorum here; she skips over formalities in her greeting. She forgets, for a moment, that there's plenty changed between them — or maybe little has, save for distance, homes, rank and title. Maybe, maybe … none of that matters here and now, just between them? Kopriva will seek to hug Kovie, however brief because of the heat. "Of course now is alright for a visit!" That much was caught, at least! Her hands will, hug or no, perhaps come to rest lightly on Kovie's arms or hands, as though she is still assuring herself that she is here. "Is this a surprise or … oh, I hope you didn't send word and it got lost or mixed up too!" No, seriously. What has been happening lately? Then, remembering some politeness, Kopriva gestures with a wide smile, "Come and sit!" During the height of Kopriva's reaction, Pariisamith woke up, but only long enough to blink her eyes open and tilt her head inquisitively in their direction. She hums, low and long, but there is approval in it; this is fine. More than fine! She resettles her head on a foreleg, but her mind? Her mind wanders, lazy sunbeam and reflective dust motes searching, searching … perhaps finding Naianth; the touch is warm as it is gently welcoming. The Southern green is no threat, an ally by proxy through Kopriva's trust and familiarity in Kovie. The hug received and returned with enthusiasm, however brief, Kovie steps back to get a good look at Kopriva like she's a long-lost friend. Which, technically, she is — other than being lost. "I actually didn't send word ahead of time, I probably should have," she laughs, "though I did get someone else's mixed up mail, and I did bring that with me to Igen. But you," and she gives Kopriva's hand a little clasp, a little squeeze, "are my primary reason for coming. I'm sorry… I'm sorry I haven't come sooner to visit." She says all of this as she follows Kopriva to the seats she indicates, settling down on the benches and sitting the basket there between them. "Little treats and snacks from Southern's kitchens," she says of the basket. "Like rolls," though no longer warm or buttered, alas! Between! Stealing freshness! "I kind of miss packing snacks for Vassa, when she was on the Sands." So this? Visiting Kopriva when Pariisamith is Sands-bound? A little bit of happy nostalgia for Kovie, even with the heat. She leaves the basket for Kopriva to set aside or open — whichever she's inclined to do — and finally devotes proper attention to the what's visible of the clutch upon the Sands, tilting her head this way and that to try and guess the breadth and scope of the eggs. Any common colors? Can she guestimate a number? Is one larger than another? Naianth receives the welcome with a burble of spring water, a merry brook that bubbles refreshingly sweet, and serene, flowing mentally to the young queen as proper respects paid from the visiting green. Yet there is a sunlit warmth to her returned salutations, as if she has heard personally of the one attached to Pariisamith and has already decided she likes them both very much. "You don't have to apologize for not visiting," Kopriva is quick to interject on that note, clasping and squeezing Kovie's hand in turn, before she reclaims her previous seat. The book is hastily placed elsewhere and absentminded enough; a glimpse will only yield the word 'Weaver' in the title. Her smile is gentler, a little wistful, towards her friend. "I … I could have come and visited too." And never did, but their lives took turns at opposite times; it wasn't so much forgetfulness as simply just not feasible. There is no judgment and maybe only a small shred of regret. Kopriva's gaze lowers to the basket, a broader smile now at play for the reveal. Even if the rolls are no longer warm or buttered — the thoughtfulness is what really, truly matters. And despite the heat, she will (politely!) pluck a favorite from the basket, while Kovie takes a moment to observe the clutch of eggs on the Sands. "Thank you," Kopriva begins, all warmth and open honesty. The nostalgia Kovie gains is not lost on her. In the next breath, she is leaning a little towards the greenrider, amused beneath her conspiratorial hushed voice. "I've missed some of Southern's treats…" No offense meant to Igen's kitchens, of course! "Even though there is plenty of unique foods here and in the Bazaar," Kopriva amends with a lopsided smile. Nostalgia then, for the two of them! There is so much to touch upon and inquire about and for a moment the young goldrider seems at a loss. Where to even begin? Her attention is solely on Kovie, but the words stick in her throat. As for the clutch, it's a good size for a first! Counting may be a little tricky, as some are more buried than others — one remains buried entirely. Otherwise the colors vary across a broad gamut and the placement of the clutch holds no true rhyme or reasoning to it. Eventually, Kopriva finds her voice — or one thread of conversation to pursue. "How have you been?" Then neither will hold the other guilty for life's twists and turns, for here is what matters now, and now is what matters here, and Kovie will happily pick up with Kopriva as if no time has intervened — save for the major life changes, one who sits in front of them on the Sands; another who perches above, having moved from the caldera rim to come to the dragon viewing ledges to take a look for herself at the clutch below. Kovie may even point out to Naianth an egg that reminds her just a smidge of the very one her green hatched from, though she is leaning back towards Kopriva with the thought of, "I should try something from the Bazaar, then, while I am here," for unique and different sounds like a fun option before she must go home. The silence that follows is comfortable, for Kovie, and contented, until the question draws her gaze from the lovely clutch to her friend. "I'm alright, I think." Her voice may express some doubt. "Getting used to… the life of it. We like our wing, and the riders in it…" She trails off, to present Kopriva a semi-fragile smile. "It's hard to… sum it up." Make it sound neat and tidy. "I could give you some recommendations," Kopriva muses, "Depending on whether you want food, drink or both — and if you want a certain level of atmosphere or entertainment. I'd take you personally but…" She gestures with a tip of her head to the obvious in front of them. Pariisamith tolerates her leaving — in moderation. Perhaps with time, it'll ease. Or is it a little of her too, not wanting to stray too far? There is a brief frown, replaced by a small smile. "I could see if one of Oasis' riders are available? It's — the Bazaar is unique." But? She exhales, "And not without its own risks." Blessing and caution given, Kopriva keeps her gaze on Kovie until that expression of doubt; space is offered by her looking away, still listening but without pressure. That semi-fragile smile is glimpsed, echoed in the gentle half-smile on Kopriva's lips and plenty of unspoken understanding. "It really is," she agrees, wistful. "Usually all I can tell those who ask, is that I'm… adjusting. It's not a lie, really… But how else to put it?" Is there a little apology threaded in there too? For putting the question to her friend. While they talk, Pariisamith will crane her head, likely to try and spy Naianth up on the ledges; part curiosity and playful. If she does, the gold will hum a warm note. There you are~ "I'll take 'em," Kopriva's recommendations, said with a grin to the goldrider, "anything you think I should try," for Kovie is keen for new experiences, new places, new samplings. "And I wouldn't expect ya to be able to leave for something so trivial as that," she waves off the half-trailed statement, as well as the next. "And, no, don't worry over that, please — I wouldn't want any Igen riders to think a Southern rider would need such a fuss." Part pride, part mortification, she's a young enough rider to care a little too much how others from a different Weyr could possibly perceive her; and also young enough to know how insignificant she is even think it possible she have a guide. "I'll be fine." It's not false confidence, necessarily, even if it may be falsely placed: for a girl who survived the Southern jungles and the Orokee cannot fathom being any more in danger in the Bazaar, even if it would be wise for her to be a little more cautious, a little more wary, and heed Kopriva's warning. But that semi-fragile smile morphs to one of brightness, just a little, as if the potential for (mis)adventure is just what she needs to distract her from the complexities of new-rider-life she momentarily left behind. "Adjusting, though, that's a good way to put it," she seizes on Kopriva's statement, tempering her grin into agreement. "But you —" and her eyes glance to the knot, "and this — " enfolding the clutch and all it entails with a vague gesture, "this all truly does look like an adjustment." Sincerity, concern, it's one and the same, with a strong thread of curiosity woven in the look she gives to Kopriva here. "But one you look like you're handling nicely." Admiration presents itself here, a glance which softens to Pariisamith as the Sands-bound queen acknowledges the small green. Naianth trills in response, an equally playful sound, tilting her head back and forth in consideration of the queen and her clutch. "Have you found… people? People you can…" Kovie licks her lips, trying to get question out without sounding too intrusive, too forward. It has been a long time since they've seen each other! "Are you lonely, here, is what I am trying to ask." Kopriva's laugh is as light as it is brief, though no less genuine; it could be that it couldn't quite be contained for Kovie's grin and eagerness. It staves off the worse of the lingering concern in her gaze to her friend, a warring indecision playing out in her head. Eventually, she nods and relents to the suggestion of an escort guide. The only sign that there's any lingering doubt and worry (and there is plenty), is the short-lived worrying of her hands, before they resettle in her lap. "I'll share some of my favorites then, before you go." she promises, with her usual warmth. It will be a little brightness for later, when the inevitable sees them parting again. Her smile brightens further, when Kovie seizes upon her statement, only for it to slip to something far more uneasy for the breath it takes Kopriva to recollect. "It's been…" she begins, flounders for the right words to describe a nebulous riot of emtions and fails. Her exhale becomes sheepish, as does the look she casts to Kovie. Maybe the greenrider understands? "There's been ups and downs." As expected. "Some struggles." Understatement. "I have had plenty of support, though. And the other goldriders… they've all been kind. Patient." Kopriva's tone takes on a faint note of wonderment; as though the notion still surprises her, to this day. She turns her full attention to Kovie then, lips parted to say more, only to have them press tightly shut as Kovie asks that question. It has been a long time since they've seen each other! And how was she to know how it would sting? "Yes," Kopriva admits in a tightly hushed voice, as though admitting something blasphemous to Kovie. "… and no." She exhales that last, with a quiet clearing of her throat. "I'm never truly alone," There's no glance to Pariisamith, but the meaning hangs unspoken. "But I've… I never really got a chance to — to find those connections." Now her smile twists, almost a little sad. "And now it's complicated." Or she complicates it, more than necessary. "There are those I know I can go to if I need to, but —" Kopriva pauses again, distracted as she fumbles. "It's more surface level issues? There's no … I'm still trying to make friends, without this," Her hand flicks to her knot. "Potentially muddling things." There are some things so vast and deep and layered that it's difficult to give an accurate summation, or to narrow down its complexities into something easily relayed: that is what Kovie understands, and her slight lift of lips in a little, compassionate smile hopefully conveys that she does understand the challenge of wrapping neat little words in something not-so-neat. "I'm glad," she murmurs sincerely, about Kopriva finding support and kindness among the other weyrwoman, for the knot itself could potentially be isolating enough. That seems to be what Kopriva alludes to, with her admission. Here, now, a more sorrowful smile, mirroring her friend's, for while she knows — she can feel it, too — the constancy of a dragon's love and companionship, it also isn't the same. Not less: but different. But she listens to Kopriva's answer quietly, watching her friend. "I've struggled, too, after Impression," lest Kopriva think it is her issue alone: it may have been why Kovie asked it in the first place, a clue of her own lack. Her loneliness. "How is it more complicated?" she asks after a moment, curious, hopefully not prying, but spinning off on one thing Kopriva said. Her eyes drift over to Pariisamith's clutch, wondering if that is what she means, or if she has misunderstood. Kopriva's gaze lingers on her friend, expression gentle and her smile small but no less warm. The turn in their conversation is heavy, but even with the stretch of time between, the young goldrider's trust in Kovie has not lessened. Maybe it helps, to have that shared understanding or the ability to relate, even parallel. Perhaps, Kopriva simply feels safe and so she speaks a little more freely than she would around others who may press. "The knot, the rank… complicates things. At least…" Kopriva pauses, only to huff in light amusement. "It's most likely just me overthinking and worrying over 'what ifs' and other broad assumptions. I just — It'd hurt worse to find out others got close, not for me, but for the position I hold." Her lips purse for a moment, followed by a vague grimace. "Not sure I'm explaining it well." she mutters, with a little humor. It's then that she turns the conversation back to Kovie, also trying not to pry, while offering what support she can. "I'm sorry that you struggled too," soft and yet so sincere, "Was it a mix of everything?" she asks, with no weight or expectation to her tone; Kovie has the choice to elaborate as much or as little as she wishes on her own struggles. “Oh,” and Kovie’s reaction suggests an understanding dawning, a thought which had not occurred to her, even with her turns as Vassa’s assistant. She never waded into her older sister’s personal relationships, though, and what drove them. “That’d be so shitty of them, to try to use you like that.” A blunt declaration when the greenrider does not temper her words tactfully; her expression, too, sees a fading of that curiosity into something loyally displeased, not at Kopriva but on her behalf, as if she would be ready to face-off with these unnamed people. A more sedate view or approach is not yet in Kovie’s methodology. It sets the stage, though, for Kopriva’s returned question to deflate her quick-fuse ire, ebbing once more to a sad softness. “All of it. Khy and I… we aren’t anything anymore, and have you ever imagined things going one way? But then, when you get there, it’s nothing like you thought?” With sadness is the pain of disappointment, still fresh enough for her fragile smile to resurface. “I didn’t get close to anyone in our clutch, either, not really. Not when it counted. That was as much my fault as Naianth’s. She’s… I don’t know the right way to say it, but protective of us or something.” Possessive, in actuality but Kovie guards her words when her keeper watches from the rafters, so to speak. That blunt declaration draws a rather prolonged stare from Kopriva, until there's a break in the form of a slanted smile and — yes, a little bit of swallowed laughter. "It would be," she agrees, no doubt pulled from the spiral of thoughts and what-ifs by Kovie's loyalty. Her mood sobers, following in the greenrider's wake and she is quiet throughout the time she speaks. Kopriva's expression twists with understanding, and while she has not yet spoken, she may shift closer; heat be damned, she will offer her hand to Kovie, whether to lightly rest against her arm or to fold over hers. Gentle, but supportive. "I have," she softly admits, to her own nebulous experiences to that vein of disappointment and pain, of the expected and unexpected. "And I think I understand what you mean, about you and Naianth." Protective. Possessive. Not the same, but close enough in ways that she can piece a little of it together. Quieter, almost hushed, as though to cushion as much of the potential sting despite the honesty. "I'm sorry about you and Khy." Kovie's hand clasps over Kopriva's — it may not last long with the heat — but she appreciates the gesture, and the slight pressure in response hopefully communicates as much. It's enough her longtime friend met her with understanding: she doesn't press for the experiences from which Kopriva can draw that empathy she feels from her. "We'll find our way," she says, both concerning her complicated bond with Naianth and the loss of her relationship — her love — with Khy'ai. "Thank you." She would say more, probably, but a sudden swell of emotion seems to choke out those words, and she swallows against emotion's betrayal. This was, afterall, supposed to be a happy, supportive visit! Not one in which she cries over that which was long-lost. Clearing her throat, with a slight sniff to reorient her body's reaction to the bittersweet sting of Kopriva's kindness, she turns another of those smiles, saving face, to the goldrider. "I've got to look for a farmer while I'm here, for a herder I know," she asides, a swift topic change to keep the spring of tears at bay. "He owes this herder Sriella I know some marks. And then I want to have a good rummage around the Bazaar to take my mind off things," because this conversation has helped Kovie to see she might need al little distraction. Kopriva won't press beyond the 'thank you' voiced. Either plenty was said, even unspoken or she is perceptive enough in that moment not to chase that thread of conversation. "I won't keep you then," she offers one of her own smiles in turn, leaning away not to put distance between them but to give enough comfortable space in which to stand. Her hands fidget, fingers worrying one another in subtle movements as she weighs against the urge to fuss over her friend. Surely there is no need to caution too much on Igen's heat, when Southern's summers aren't terribly kind in their own way. "And I can walk with you — to the entranceway, at least." Pariisamith is preoccupied at the moment, having roused herself to begin a routine check-over of the clutch; a few eggs are given paused and tenderly adjusted by the gold. There is no rhyme or reason to it and she does not seem bothered if Naianth remains to observe. "I wish I could take you to the Bazaar myself," she wistfully remarks, as she waits to fall into step alongside Kovie. "Another time? I — will come and visit Southern, soon, too. Maybe right after the clutch hatches." It may seem sudden, her blurting out that thought. Or was it a low simmering plan? "I'll try to send word ahead, when I do. It was good to see you again, Kovie." The last is said quietly, but weighed with considerable warmth and unspoken emotion. Kopriva begins to say more, then fumbles and a 'I've missed you' turns more to a lighter: "Let me tell you where you can find some of the Bazaar's best — in my opinion," And if their walk to the entranceway seems to slow considerably, while she describes in length where to find those venues? Well, there could be cleverer ways to stall, but for Kopriva it is all based in an honest gesture to see Kovie off with plenty of options. There may even be a parting hug, if the greenrider is willing! Igen Visit has 1 comments. |
Kopriva & Pariisamith, Kovie & Naianth |
A Southern greenrider comes to visit her longtime friend while she is Sandsbound |
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Chair, Competition, Coincidence Chair, Competition, Coincidence
Ista Hold Cove The peppered sand of Ista's beaches drifts just a few feet below the water's surface, gradually shallowing upwards til it leaves the water, and becomes the main beach just below the Hold. Farther out is the main cove, filled with the activity of a full-sized seaport. To one side of the Hold is the shipping cavern, where fleets dock and undock, unloading thier goods for trade. Along the other end of the beach is the spar, thrusting far out. You can see another cavern spanning there, the home of Dolphin Hall, and the offices of Seacraft, as well as Ista's drydock. Tropical sun? Check. Rest day? Check, check. No cares? Hell yeah, baby. Ember strolls across the black sands of Ista Hold's Cove, her feet sinking into the soft, supple depths of dark grains and she luxuriates in that feeling. A color as dark as her own hair tumbling in messy strands down her back. Oh, she's long shucked her leathers for a bikini in fuscia, lavender, and dark blue and hopes to soak up some of Rukbat's light into her pasty-white skin without turning into a really terrible rendition of a red sea insect. In the crook of one arm, she carries a basket likely laden with all sorts of delectable delights and some damn alcohol. The perfect spot looms in her vision, free and clear of any other Istan beach goers as the person vacating it makes his old-wrinkly ass off of it. Already, beach vultures see this spot directly beneath a palm tree, with the best views. Ember narrows her eyes, the towel slung over her shoulder flapping as she quickens her stops. Not today, strangers, no one is going to get her spot. Chayallanth is too busy biting fishes in half and letting their bodies wash upon the shores far, far, far down the beach to care about some dumb spot beneath a dumb, curving beautiful palm tree. "Fuck that, you are not getting my spot," she mutters under her breath, all but running now. The spot even has it's own cabana chair. It's perfect. Dear, dear greenrider. Get thee away from this cabana chair, for Haverick, coming from the opposite direction as Ember, has already set his pretty blue eyes upon it as his for the afternoon. He may not rush like she does — nor any of the others — but longer legs? A solid walk? Less to carry? Check, check, check. He has just himself, in sandals and shorts and an unbuttoned button-down flapping open, no basket or bag or towel, and this may not even be the first time he's visited this beach… today. He may arrive just a heartbeat before the bikini-clad woman, unabashed in the smile he lights her way for the image she holds rushing so, and he turns to these other vultures vying for the very same spot before noting to them, magnanimously, "I heard the Holder's giving free samples of the specialty wine he just shipped in from Paradise. It's named after him." Do they believe him? Some might, and turn to go have a taste; and for the others? He has the graciousness to grin in much the same way he did to Ember, before shucking off his open shirt and laying it at the top of the chair. Is that motherfucker rushing to her chair? Not today! This interloper, this cabana chair thief is not going to get away with it. Ember arrives mere seconds after him, in time to hear how he dismisses the others and throws his shirt on her chair. Does her giant picnic basket land on a big toe? Whupsie! "This is my chair, I saw it first," Ember proclaims, throwing her arms out wide after giving the THIEF a big, fat, glare with large eyes as blue as the endless horizons she throws her towel at Haverick to throw him off the scent, and then falls onto the cabana chair, fluffing her hair. His grin? Is NOTHING to the ten thousand watt smile she levels at his still-standing face, even fluttering long, dark lashes and fluffing hair as dark as the black sands he stands on. "I was headed this way first," she ran, you see, "And I don't care who you are. You could be the Queen of Sheba, and I'm not giving up this chair. It's perfect. Look how Rukbat aligns just so — if you would kindly step to like three inches to your left, though. You're blocking the light, and I really don't want 'muscled man' as a sunburn on my belly. It's not a great look." If possible, her beaming smile WIDENS. Has she forgotten she threw herself on a chair held by his shirt? Maybe, or maybe she's being a sassy wench and just LAYING THERE, ON IT. Haverick, sadly, gets away with quite a lot: so when Ember does not back down, or flutter away airily by his smile he's used too many times for his advantage, he's almost — no, not almost — he is taken aback. "Yours," he repeats skeptically, disdainfully, sarcastically, yanking his foot out from under her basket and nudging it, surreptitiously, further away from the chair. Another retort was rearing its ugly head — lips parting not to smile but to rebuke — when her towel hits his chest and he snatches at it, holding it hostage the way she holds hostage his chair. He collects ammunition from all that she says, but she catches him off-guard (again) with one comment. "The queen of — there's no Weyr called Sheba," Haverick scoffs, narrowing a scornful look to that smile which could compete with Rukbat for its shine. "Listen, lady," his eyes refuse to drift from her smile, no matter how much he can still see how ready she looks to soak in the sun's rays, "I'm not moving an inch, unless it's to take back my chair. I was here this morning, I went to have a nap in my wagon, and some old guy has had it and it's finally free." He has her towel — which he is not relinquishing anytime soon — so he does not make a play for his shirt, yet, captured by her body, and as if plotting his next move, his eyes drift down to the basket. "Do you want to see my boobs? I can flash them for the chair if you want," Ember is absolutely not at all giving a single inch, pretty-boy smiles or not. She has her own amunition and right now? A well-endowed chest should be good for any man to wander off into the ocean for. "I don't care if you were sleeping at the old dudes wrinkled old feet like a giant muscled lap dog, you're not getting this chair." She has the audacity to stretch her legs down to her little ittiest bittiest tiny toe and throw her arms over her head to stretch all the bones and muscles and ligaments of her arms over her head, the inner points of her elbows sticking out so delicately in such a maneuver. A dragonrider's life hones her body to perfection, and nature has given her quite a few assets and being a greenrider has taught her how to use them. "If you take every word so literally, it's no wonder you find yourself too slow to have gotten to the chair first. A shirt? Means nothing. I'm laying on it right now, and claiming squatter's rights. So unless you think you're going to manhandle me off this chair, you'd better come up with something better than twinkling eyes and handsome smiles to get me moving, because that right there," a lazy, lazy sweep of her hand, "is a view to die for." She shoots a narrow-eyed look at Haverick, "Besides, who naps in a wagon in the middle of the day? What are you? Fifty? You nap in the chaaaaaaaair." The chair she CURRENTLY OCCUPIES, NEENER NEENER, PUMPKIN EATER. "Now, since you can't sit on me," but can he? "… then… shift three inches to your left." With a perfectly manicured big toe, she stretches one leg juuuuuuust far enough to jab him in the calf if he's close enough to the chair to be POKED. "I'm not fifteen," Haverick laughs outright, "and I trade for a living, so I can smell a scam when it's thrown right at me. But thank you," he'll totally misconstrue that he is the view to die for, seeing as he is still currently blocking hers of the water, and while he has no intention of letting her flash him for the rights to the chair, he also has no intention, now that she has put herself on display, of denying himself his view, her squirming most becomingly on the beach chair. He may have had something in mind for his next tactic, but that rather rude poke of her toe to his bare leg sees him looming — then leaning — over her, his hands pressed to the chair on either side of her hips, while he comes closer, long blonde hair falling in his face. Ember now can have a close-up view of those twinkling eyes and handsome smile, for he turns it all upon her as he challenges, sweetly, "What if," jutting his scruffed chin out with his enunciation, "I did?" Manhandle — not sit on — her. His voice doesn't carry past their private little battleground, no, it's low and drawled with his kind-hearted, thoughtful threat observation. "You're looking a little toasty, sweetie. You're acting like you can't really handle the heat." His teeth appear as his smile widens. "Maybe you need a little soak in the water to cool yourself down." "Coulda fooled me," Ember retorts, "Your loss, you'll never see them now," once again giving him her oh-so-bright smile. And that smile WIDENS when he takes in all the skin and shape she has on display. She absolutely knows what she's doing and gives zero fucks for messing with the beach bum's man-brain. Yet, she did not expect him to turn the tables on her, and those endlessly bright blue eyes narrow when he has the audacity of bracketing her hips with his arms and leaning in so close. "You really do not want to mess with me," Ember notes, her eyes narrowing even further. "I bite back, and if you so much as touch an inch of me," she vaguely gestures at herself, purposefully accidentally smacking him in the side of his blonde-whiskered jaw, "You'll be sorry." Is her threat real? Her expression falls into mutinous as she raises herself up on her elbows, her own chin jutting forward. "First, I'm not your sweetie, you don't even know me. Second, you wouldn't dare on a beach full of people, and I'm handling Rukbat just fine if you'd get your man-meat out of my way. You are the chair thief!" Yet for all her ire, she flips it on a dime with a thousand-watt smile which somehow bodes ill. "Don't say I didn't warn you," she sing-songs, squirming her hips as if she were setting roots in this chair, purposefully hitting the edge of his thumbs with her wiggling. Then she falls back in exaggerated drama back onto the cabana chair, making sure it's all stretched back and sighing HUGELY, as if aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh. THE CHAIR HAS BEEN CLAIMED. “Will I?” That seems what hooks Haverick’s attention, the assurance and not speculation he will be sorry for any of this, even if her threat was delivered with the smack to his cheek, his eyes blinking in surprise at it. That little, careful question comes on a low rolling tone, however, like a soft purr just as ominous as her thousand-watt smile. But her next words draw that smile back in place, a tilt of his head and a lift of his eyebrows for when he retorts, “You don’t know what I’d do on a beach full of people.” Sweetie. Can she hear it’s loud, patronizing usage in the way his smile shifts, something taunting about it. And maybe he would have taken heed — maybe he would have been wise to obey her warnings — but when she sets to her damnable squirming again, brushing her skin against his hands, the trader flinches, visibly, and grits his teeth in some cousin of irritation. Is this even about the damn chair anymore? Probably, most likely, assuredly not. But whatever it is about doesn’t cause Haverick to second-guess himself, for it’s an easy shift in stance to turn those hands over and scoop her from her lower back — he has the decency at least to avoid her rear — to himself, and to turn and swiftly carry her straight to the water’s edge, stepping around other folks sunbathing on his way there. "Oh yes. Oh very much yes." Ember, so certain of her words, leans back and watches his reaction. Never mind the way her teeth grit at his fucking patronizing tone. Oh you better beLIEVE she can hear that fucking sweetie. She does not know him from a foot corn, much less as a person! (However attractive that foot corn is, ahem.) "What? Are you in pa-" the moment his hands DARE to scoop her up, her voice rises on a squeak, "-AIN. THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!" Decency to avoid her rear doesn't mean all her bikini-clad flesh isn't now pressed up to a strange (yet built) hot man chest that — a really loud wailing sound comes from down the beach. Maiden? Or Monster? Ember gives a good few kicks, but the moment she hears THAT SOUND, she unaccountably laughs, smacking at his shoulders as if she's busting a gut in a comedy show. Oh, she could put up a good fight and will still get a good few kicks, but her voice — slightly throaty and breathy from being SNATCHED — caresses his ear in a drawwwwwwllll, "Remember how I said you'd be sorry?" oh how Ember gloats. "Lookie there, here's the consequences of your actions, comin' a'callin'!" The wailing sound comes louder, as if something very large comes their way. Does the ocean roll? Are the waves higher? Haverick ignores such threats and wiggles and laughing taunts for the moment, no matter how —good— annoying they are, the man intent upon his purpose of getting her little ass out of the chair and into the water. He does not, despite what it may seem, unceremoniously drop said ass right on the water’s edge, but he wades into the water with Ember still held to him, and it’s only when he is thigh-deep with her in the warm shallows that he finally, with a sharp frown, turns his head towards that horrible wailing sound. “What the fuck is that?” Distracted and confused, he doesn’t yet release her, but it will be easy enough for Ember to get away for in the water he does not hold her tightly to him. As annoying as it IS to be SNATCHED up like a hotdog by a man a good foot and an inch taller than she is, well… Ember's eyes dance with wicked delight and she has the AUDACITY to boop his fucking nose. "That, man-meat, is insurance." Oh, the oceans swell but only for the BEAUTIFUL and TERRIFYING visage of a very dark, cat-like green surging out of the waters from down the shore. It is from her the screams of a dying woman spill over the beach — not unlike a mountain lion's screams — as the green swoops in low across all those suddenly startled beach goers. Oh no, Ember is not going to push out of his hold for this one. Nope, she's right there to watch all of his reactions. Does he need to be poked (hard) in the soft meat where biceps muscle connects to shoulder and ribs? That soft spot where a manicured, long-nailed finger might find a VULNERABLE SPOT? "Look behind you." Chayallanth, beautiful cat-monster she is, has arisen from the waters, yes, but does not go after Haverick to rescue Ember. Nooooo, even if he might think that, no, she heads straight for that cabana chair and lifts it up and FLIES OFF WITH IT (and his shirt). Hope it wasn't a favorite. Smirking — yes smirking — Ember's sing-song tone says, "Hope you weren't attached to that chair," and her thousand-watt smile looks instead like the cat that just ate the canary while stealing the cream behind another cat's back. Do Haverick's arms momentarily tighten around Ember in realization that this beautifully terrifying creature is coming for him? — and he isn't meaning the dragon, not yet. His eyes widen, at any rate, and he only wrinkles his nose in irritation at that ill-timed, condescending nose boop. "You're a dragonrider?" It's said almost like an expletive, a curse, a disappointment. His shoulder twitches at her poke, and he does turn — half-holding her still in his dawning horror — as the green dragon spares him and instead punishes by confiscating the chair so no one shall have it. Or Ember will, eventually, depending on where her green retreats with it. There are startled, horrified sounds of surprise from the beach-goers, many rolling or crawling out of the way of the spray of sand and wind gusts from the swooping dragon, and for a split second the trader is thankful he is out in the water to avoid some of that wailing chaos on the beach. "That's crazy," lectures the man who scooped up a stranger just over a damn chair. Which does remind him she is a stranger, and he finally puts her down in the thigh-high waters. "Well." Chayallanth forced a stalemate — or would it be checkmate? — and now there's nothing more to argue over, is there? "Have a good afternoon, lady." Nice manhandling you. He turns to head back towards the beach, where his shirt most certainly isn't but Ember's towel he dropped en route to the water surely is. "What's wrong with being a dragonrider?" Ember snaps, a hint of actual anger clipping her tones — anger, but a note hurt. Damn all these men in her life making her feel like a second-class citizen. Or strange. Or weird. The chaos on shore earns nothing more than a gloat from Ember, though when Haverick lets go of her, his thigh-high water is like chest-high for her and she makes another sound. "It's no more crazy than tossing a woman in the water," but he didn't, so she amends, "or wanting to, over a chair." She splashes after him, not quite sedate, not quite not, but also wanting to get out of the water. Of course she's slower than he is, and has to fight more water than he does, but eventually she explodes from the water with a final, "My name isn't lady, it's Ember and that beautiful green you just disparaged is Chayallanth of Igen Weyr." No one curses Chaya but Ember herself, and she will… again… sometime, when she has to fish out another Dot from another unwelcoming lake, but the next time? It's not going to be with onlookers! "You could have shared the space, you know. Instead of being all smarmy and trying to claim with put-on charm." If he's going for her towel, she's not racing him. No, she gives herself a delicious little shake, the ends of dark hair wet enough to trail down her back, but as she'd intended to go swimming at some point? What's a little water? She can sunbathe on a different chair or on the sand or whatever. Here, Haverick would protest — or argue — or even mock the attribution of smarmy to him. He would sputter over the implication his charm was not true, or real; and throw back at her how she willingly used her assests to his disadvantage and made no mention of the possibility of sharing anything with him — other than her breasts. "What did you say?" No, not the part about tossing her in the water — should he have? — and not the part about her belonging to the very Weyr he currently bases himself out of. Her words have followed him up the beach, all of them, but one word in particular stops him, hooks him like she had a cane 'round his neck and has effectively, verbally, tugged. Haverick wheels around to face her, not quite up to the vacant space where an overturned basket and her rumpled towel now lies, sand-strewn, beneath that coveted curving palm. "Ember." The name, articulated, without ire: just almost laughed disbelief. "You're Ember?" How popular is that name around Pern, particularly Igen's area? How common? — for Haverick has never heard it before. A blue-eyed look drags over the siren, as if he's seeing her in a new (tropical) light. "Figures." Turning back around, he leans over to snatch up her towel, drying his waist, hips, even if the warm Istan air would've seen to that in under a few minutes. Mercurial in nature, Ember does not hold onto any one emotion so even ire fades as she wrings the tips of her hair out. Large blue eyes might widen at when he proverbially trips over her words, and not the ones she expects either. "Yeah?" Her tone suggests, initially, a 'what of it' attitude, eyes rolling as the stranger finds another reason to — to what, exactly? "That's my name, you're wearing it out," she sighs in mock exaggeration, lips pressing together slightly when he uses her towel to dry off, not amused at all the little black sand grains covering it's pretty pink and white coloring. Her favorite towel. Figures. He probably got toe-jam all in it. "Figures what, exactly? You're a very strange individual," she proclaims her judgment, feeling quite safe to do so from her perch of lofty viewpoint. Eventually, she gets tired of him using her towel and reaches to tug it out of his grip. "Now you're a towel thief," she grunts, fingers closing around the material. Does she accidentally hook his shorts? His skin? Grab an arm? Her hands are indiscriminate in their grappling. "How do you know my name?" Haverick is used to such judgments — strange, eccentric, unexpected — and it rolls right off of him like the very grains of sand he sloughed off with her towel. "Tell me something I haven't heard," he needles back, with a grin, an imperative to try again, if that is the range of insults the bikini-clad woman has to offer up. He holds his end of the towel just because he can, letting it pull taut, may even give it a little yank towards him, so that her hand could very well end up hooking to his forearm, draped by the towel and, by physics, bringing this Ember all the closer. Leveling a look to her, his eyes a bright blue, he delivers the news he has of some-Ember, any-Ember, this-Ember: "Some old sap returned your shit, but to me." He tilts his chin up the beach, towards the grounds. "I have it in my wagon," shipped all the way from Big Bay to the Island, for his temporary vacay stay here. "If you feel like you need it back." Will she hear the generosity dripping from his voice? His free hand lifts to shove his hair out of his face, his gaze still upon her. "Otherwise, it's made a nice footstool for me the past couple months." A number of adjectives spring to mind when he challenges her to try again, but rather than yield to his challenge, Ember holds her tongue, especially after finding herself suddenly closer to this stranger. Blue-to-blue, a reflection of endless color, though different in different shades, Ember stares his ass down when he explains how he knows her name. "Oh, great." The skin of her eyelids twitches a few times, but she turns her face away from him lest he get a good look at a very real measure of pain — not in relation to Haverick — and she abruptly drops the towel, the game no longer holding her interest. "Well, that's where that went," she sniffs — it's allergies; she is not shedding any tears over a no-good man — with a lift of her chin and sharp shake of her head, sending dark hair over her shoulder. "You actually have a wagon," forgive her for sounding surprised. "How do you get a wagon from Ista Island to the mainland? By boat?" A stalling tactic until he comments on how he is using her stuff as a footstool. "A footstool." She closes her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose, and takes a deep, calming breath before leaning down and picking up her basket, the lid flaps and inside is a bottle of wine, cheese, grapes and other very delicious snacks. "Lead the way," to the wagon. Since there's no cabana chair here any longer. Not that she's apologizing for that — a bit short-sighted, but he definitely got screwed as much as she did! Chair, Competition, Coincidence has 0 comments. |
A ridiculous, silly competition over a beach chair leads to another of Pern's mysterious coincidences adult themes, beach chairs, childish behavior, ridiculous competitiveness |
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The Haircut The Haircut
The Breach (Khu's weyr) A slightly curving passageway connects ledge to weyr. The rift in the rock opens abruptly, bubbling and swelling into a high-ceilinged space that echoes loudly and easily. Shelves and nooks are carved into the rock, with hooks embedded in other places that are suitable for leathers and straps to be hung. The immediate space is for the dragon-half of the equation, with a rush-filled wallow, rather than a couch. Dragoncare items occupy the left wall entirely, from straps to paddles to oil and more. The rider's leathers, too, are arranged in that space, helmet and goggles and all with their own special places. A full three-quarters of the weyr is for the dragon for reasons that are obvious to those that know the beast in question. The rest - to the right of the entrance - is cordoned off with a privacy screen of wood. On that side, there is a table and a pair of chairs; the table is oft-covered in hidework of various types, while the chairs are adorned with well-worn cushions. An old, abused wardrobe is pressed against the far wall. The bed is modestly-sized, but burdened with entirely too many pillows. A couple of braziers are available for heating and limited cooking purposes; little more than charcoal-fueled bowls of fire, elevated and with a convenient lid to snuff them out. Light is provided through a combination of glow-baskets and oil lamps, and the entire weyr smells pleasant overall, with a combination of draconic, spicy hide and something sweet, like vanilla and lavender. This is a weyr that is kept clean and neat, with places for everything - and everything in its place. The wind's not yet risen to a sand-choked shriek just yet - but it's still a little too close for comfort. Minutes will pass after their arrival on Ixzhulqvoth's ledge, after they've set foot inside, before the first spatters of wind-slung sand strike stone. Khu leads the way further inside - taking the potted plants from the ledge with her - and she wasn't lying about the weyr being well-sheltered; that curved entrance does much to provide shelter from the wind, though it plays hell with the acoustics of the place. Even footsteps sound haunting here, especially once the wind really picks up outside. Ixzhulqvoth will stake his claim out in the weyr proper, while his lifemate leads further, to the right, where the wooden divider can be tugged a little wider for ease of entry. The sitting space is comfortable, but it's clear she doesn't often keep guests; just a pair of chairs and, of them, only one seems to see regular use, for the other has a little bit of dust on it. The plants are settled on some shelves, where they'll reside until the storm has passed. Everything is nice and tidy and clean otherwise; save for a bit of dust here and there, that is. But that can't be helped: Igen is a kingdom built on sand and dust. "Sit where you would like," she provides, while she sets about lighting up a brazier and preparing some hot water. "And tell me how you like your tea, sha." She might as well make some; they're going to be sequestered for a little while. He feels nearly naked without his jacket, especially in the onslaught of a storm: this is no commentary on Khu's accommodations, for it is as she promised, well-sheltered, yet Ral rues that he didn't think to bring his jacket along with him, even if it were a race against the sands (of time). Not that he needs it — he'd be shedding it anyway, now inside — and perhaps that's what reminds him he didn't bring it, he has nothing to sling over a chair in a casual air, like the most normal thing in the world is to get a haircut during a sandstorm. And maybe he hasn't been a rider in Igen long enough to realize: it totally is. One cannot also choose openings for this sort of thing. At any rate, he passes no judgments over decor or dust, nor the sparse amount of sitting, and does choose a chair, the one which looks most unused as if for the time here, he'll change that status. R'sare's eyes, meanwhile follow Khu rather than his immediate surroundings. "Hot," first answer, rolling off a dumb smile; and more seriously: "Strong, of whatever you like for yourself." On an afternoon like this, with a storm outside and not-often-kept-company. His hands have fallen comfortably once more to lay on his thighs, without the rub of restlessness witnessed earlier at the 'Stones. No, here, he's still and quiet, watchful of Khu as mistress of her domain. And she is the mistress of it, to the bones; everything she needs is readily at hand, without the sense that she must search or dig through drawers or anything of the sort. "So shall it be," Khu intones, words edged in enigmatic tones. But the resulting tea is a variety of chai that leans into ginger and nutmeg, with the essence of clove at the back. Trellis delivers the milk - fresh from wherever it's stored - and the concoction is pulled together in what feels like no time at all and a lifetime. She functions in silence, allowing him the space to acclimate to her weyr, to breathe, to get a sense of the woman that she is behind that wooden divider, past the weyr that houses her equally enigmatic lifemate. Two cups of chai are served, his first, then hers, in matching cups of delicate china that have been painted with roses. No sugar cubes - but there's no need of them, either. The drink is flavorful enough without. She lets hers cool while she collects a two-part kit - a battered wooden box with a sturdy latch and a smaller box that rattles, filled with ceramic containers - and sets those on the table. "We shall see if you can handle what I drink after," she muses, a Cheshire curl to her lips that's there and gone if he's not quick enough to spot it. "But this is a familiar drink. Comforting on the nerves and soothing on the stomach." Truth be told, R'sare doesn't learn much right away that he doesn't already know: that Khu works with a quiet purpose, and diligence, without the distraction or dithering he's seen others fix a cup of tea with; that everything here seems as-in-order as Khu herself, collected and contained in seemingly simplicity save for those rare, enigmatic instances here and there. That cracks are no longer visible, not here in something as peaceful as her sanctuary, despite what rages outside. Inside? He cannot tell from this distance. The bronzerider sits up straighter when he's served the tea, painted roses noted but it's the scent which draws his hummed sound, pleased, though he'll wait to sip when Khu does, too. "After," he repeats amusedly, stressing the most interesting word to him, while flicking a look at the boxes, unfortunate enough to miss that curious curve of her smile so brief, for all that he's watched her so studiously since arriving. "I'll like it," he's sure, maybe referring to the chai in hand or her allusion to after — whatever may be served up and tested on his tastes. But as for comforting his nerves and soothing his stomach, he half-jests, almost sly, "What kind of haircut is this if I need something to ease my nerves you're having so much compassion upon, Khu?" No Wingleader or Dragonhealer title he typically hooks to her in their interactions: for this, off-hours, is a social call. And that was a sociable tease. Home is more than where the heart is; it's where the cracks and fissures of stress and woe can be left to mend. Once the kit is laid out, she finally sits in the other chair, hooking it close enough to R'sare that her knee comes within a hair's breadth of touching, but without making contact. Her cup is taken up in both hands, cradled and warm in the curve of palms. "Are you going to vanish the moment I am done shearing you?" Eyebrows lift just a little, her tone shaded in teasing notes. "There will be time after, yes, unless you have more pressing things to see to." A sip manages to mask her next smile, but only barely. If he doesn't sip, there will be an encouraging nudge - and maybe she'll gently nudge him anyway, because he's here and she is far more intrusive of personal space when he's in her space. The half-jest of his prompts a click of tongue and a roll of eyes that is most definitely in good humor, but she pulls off exasperation dangerously well until the smile betrays her at the end. "I do not need you twitching or trembling when you see the straight razor. You must be relaxed and you must trust me, or it will be more than just a haircut for you, yes?" One hand frees itself of the cup, but only to reach for his hair, to thread fingers through it as before. A touch of nails to scalp; a gentle slide of strands past knuckles. "And I do not wish to have to explain why I have a beheaded bronzerider in my weyr, R'sare." With the slant of her accent and lack of a title, his name is more purred than spoken; a breathy intonation smoothed over by the richness of chai. "No," lightly remarked, of R'sare's chance of vanishing and likelihood he'd have pressing things to see that he could up and leave, letting that single-syllabled answer stand in answer to both. But these arrangements are all observed, from kit to chair to nudging tease and R'sare, his cup in hand, takes the prompt wisely, willingly, lifting it to his lips for a sampled sip of the chai. He can barely swallow fast enough to try to stem the tide of her growing exasperation, an explanation almost ready, yet the reveal of the smile resolves that with a huffed exhale of humored agreement, instead. "I would like to leave here without too many nicks," he'll allow, gathering steam for further rebuttal: which is effectively silenced by Khu's reach, and subsequent touch. As if she requested it — (she didn't) — he tilts his head towards her, chasing the sensation of nails to his scalp, of his hair in her hands. His name, from her mouth, that way. And here, in the seclusion of her space, he does not shutter from his eyes a more visible reaction to such broach of personal space: how his narrowed glance may encourage a continuation of it, leaving unspoken the dare — the question — of, what if he does, in fact, want it to be more than just a haircut? What was she saying about soothing nerves? — But he swallows after a moment too long, when chai was temporarily forgotten, and on a blink he can summon a flickering smile as he says to her, lowly, "I trust you, Khu." Another blink, slow. "With a straight razor. And my nerves." Satisfaction in his responses - all of them - is a soft exhalation and a settling of her smile into something more nuanced. Complicated. There's an inscrutability to it that still carries an echo of an ache, half-remembered and then dismissed on an exhalation. Her fingers linger in his hair, as if forgotten, fingertips reaching for his scalp again as if compelled by some unknowable impulse. Or is it so unknowable? With the walls of the Weyr to shelter her, what need has she for more walls within? Lips thin for a moment, the bottom one drawn in and worried over by teeth for the span of a breath, maybe two, before the attention continues - without the pretense of preparing him for a haircut, this time. It's a slow and steady exploration, a tender raking of nails over equally tender skin, with the agonizingly slow drag of fingers through his hair to draw out the sensation all the more. She's closer now, closer than perhaps she needs to be, but the cant of her head and dip of eyelids suggests a different kind of scrutiny is at work. Does she pick up that unspoken aspect? She must. Surely she must, or her fingers wouldn't be tempting fate the way they do. And yet- "Finish your drink," soft, breathy, and unmistakably imperative; words that curl so perilously warm against his ear, "and we will begin." Loath as she is to pull her hand free from his locks, there are other preparations that will need to be seen to: warming some water, preparing a heated towel, and other things that smell nice and rich and perfectly aligned with the scents that already lace his skin. He holds perfectly still throughout, an even, leveled look upon her: approving, distantly, that she did not pull away if she had doubts or second-thoughts that she should. That she answered his bid with more freedom, more exploration. Exploration which causes, despite his relative stillness, a catch of breath, a soft exhale; a series of blinks which tell of his inner resistance against fully closing his eyes. Willing, instead, his gaze to stay weighted upon her, unwilling to miss even the slightest change of her expression, the concentration, the study. Even if he knows not, fully, the nuance, the ache, the cost. R'sare subjects himself to this, willingly, silently, wishing no words to mar whatever tension builds from Khu's hands in his hair, the chai unsipped for all his focus, concentration, sharpens to the feeling not just that, but also the air between them, how close she is. It's a brutal, delicious slow agony, all of it, and one he takes in full; his gaze, this time, not denying this proximity breach the way he might've at the Stones. His exhale comes not at her directive — no, he shivers at that, her breath to his ear, instead — but when she does, finally, pull away. Then, then he hurries his look away, with a shift to his posture, sitting up once more where he had leaned so close in response to her. Now, sipping the chai as told, he studies her quarters. Not rushed in hasty obedience, nor lazy in languid unhurriedness, the chai slowly disappears; he may very well need steadied nerves, though not perhaps for what originally dictated it. After a time, he finally gathers enough of himself to look back at her. It is good that he doesn't hasten to finish his drink, or else it might impede the rest of her preparations. It is better still that he's keen, aware, and responsive. Even as he keeps an eye on her every move, expression, and shift, so, too, is she fiercely aware of him and his presence here. Of the struggle to keep his eyes open, of the labored breath of pleasure, at the shiver- all of it is drawn in, noticed, absorbed, and returned in some sense through the methodical movements of her preparation. A towel is dampened and set aside. Another is shaken out and readied. The kit is opened, exposing steel tools that are sharp and bright and well-kept. A pot and shaving brush; a bottle of something clear. Her return to him is marked not with a touch, but the draping of fabric over his chest as the towel is put into place and clipped at the back of his neck. His hair is pulled free and soon wetted with her fingers; the warm water isn't a proper washing, no, but she only needs his hair damp enough to relax and she'll get her fingers to his scalp to make sure it's done thoroughly. Both hands, this time, with her shadow stretching over him, her head bent to observe her own work. She's quiet, here, but there's precious little room for words to breathe when a moment has its own gravity; powerful, heavy, and drawing them toward a singularity that cannot be so easily seen. Hair wetted, she goes for the comb, taking her time and measuring out the length of his hair-to-be with a touch, a gentle tug, and a quiet consideration. Perhaps it will be as he prefers it, in the end; all signs seem to trend in that direction. Is it the chai? Or the lulling ministrations Khu makes out of this haircut? For R'sare is relaxed — or does, gradually — beneath her touch, beneath the quiet, beneath all that could be said but isn't. His eyes do not go so far as to close, but there is a distanced, faraway look to them however much he continues to be aware of everything she does, even if he cannot always see, does not always look. Some spot on the cavern wall is where he hangs his gaze: unfocused. Convening with Strath, who is weathering this storm in their quiet weyr? Or removing all thoughts and perceptions save for what he can feel of Khu watering down his thick hair? He has gotten haircuts before; he can trim up his hair, himself, even, though mystery why he hasn't since Khu first made that comment at the yard— after the goldflight — all those sevens ago. But as he told her, truthfully: he trusts her with the shears and her having good sense of judgment. Of considering him, nerves or otherwise. It's not until he can feel the slight tug of his hair that in a blink his eyes shift sideways, and up, to see what he can of her in his periphery. Which might not be much. Something spurs a break of the silence, a question that finds itself willing to be asked: "Do you cut hair for riders often?" This is not vetting of her expertise or experience; an uncurling curiosity, over a dragonhealing wingleader who happens to have a hair cut kit in easy reach within her weyr. It's some manner of spellcraft, perhaps - if ever Pern housed witches, Khu would be one without a doubt. Whether the warmth of the drink, of the room, or the fingers that work through is hair is the catalyst matters not: the end result is the same - and the very effect she's sought thus far. Not compliance or complacency, but relaxation and calm. Ease. Relief. The walls of this space are full of shelves - some plants, yes but plenty of jars and bottles and jugs, glass and porcelain and clay. Dried flowers hang in profusion in one section; herbs claim another. Her work is more plainly on display here, the quiet work she does when she's not stitching wings or leading her wing or, indeed, working her strange brand of witchcraft on those troubled souls that need a calm hand and a soothing voice. The stirring of Ixzhulqvoth in the weyr betrays his presence only briefly; he rests, lapsing into a slumber and lulled there by the sounds of the sandstorm outside. In here, in this space, it's a susurration of sand and wind; a sigh, dampened to spare the senses. With his hair combed, she finally takes up the scissors and starts to work. She's unhurried in this; there is no need to rush, when this is more than just a routine cutting of hair - yet, why has it become a pampering process, prolonged and purposeful? If she has answers, they are not forthcoming. She clips away with a steady hand and a periodic hum of thought; he'll surely feel the shifting weight of hair being removed, hear it whispering to the ground. He speaks and she pauses, scissors at the ready while she considers it. The work begins again and, with it, her words come in a low, melodic cadence by virtue of her peculiar dialect: "I cut my own, mostly. I used to cut for another and he would cut for me. But those days have passed, as days do." More snipping; more silence. Then: "I will sometimes do it for riders in the infirmary, who have been there a long time." A pause. "You are the first I have taken here." R'sare might not be allowing himself to think too deeply upon it, lest he make a bid for those answers Khu hasn't quite offered up. Why hurry, though, when trapped by the sandstorm for however long it takes to spin itself out? To the soft sound of the shears and the quiet contemplation of Khu about her work, he submits himself to the process, an occasional twitch of his nose or flicker of his eyelashes when bits of hair fall from the scissors and tickles his face. But he keeps still, spine straight, hands upon his lap now that the rose-painted cup was safely placed on the table once it was emptied. What he makes of her answer? The first part receives no further prodding; it was what it was, and — as she said — has passed, no matter if a curiosity exists around it. And he could've guessed the next, that she does; but the last? Perhaps it is the hair that falls with her next snip that has caused a more fluttered blink, a more narrowed glance sharp to the side, to catch sight of her figure as she moves around him to cut his hair. But no words, no follow-up, to question that: only a soft 'mhm' to at least acknowledge, without elaboration of thoughts that might stir up from such an answer. Silence, then, stretches. Then another thought. He noted it before, and will note it again: it's a little like a sanctuary here. "My weyr is bare, compared to this." No signs of hobbies, nor decor; it's a spartan existence, his bachelor's weyr, with no flourish of life that seems to bloom with Khu's interests and side-hustles. "Strath is on me, to buy art for him." Gratitude is a secret thing, but spoken in a subtle smile that lingers at the corners of her mouth. Khu pauses briefly to brush some stray hairs to the ground, to work fingers through his hair to loosen up more, and then to run a comb through her work to see how far she's come, how much further she has to do. Does she feel even more relaxed? More at ease? With it comes an openness; questions asked will always be answered, for that's how she is and always has been - but perhaps the loosening of her mood will mark a loosening of her lips in due time. His fluttered blink - does she suspect hair or surprise? - comes just as she steps more into view, her scissors gliding along the sides of his head to shorten and neaten there. Both sides are evened out, the sides shorter than the hair on top, but there's yet more combing, more care, until she seems satisfied enough with the cut that she can set her tools aside and work her fingers through instead. "I have had a long time to fill it," she replies, fingers skimming down to his neck before she glances askance to consider the razor. Not yet, though. Not yet. Instead, she points to the mirror, a small disk of a thing, while making sure her gesture is seen in some sense - even if it's the corner of his eye; the fingers of her other hand busy themselves with styling his hair loosely. "Why haven't you given him any art?" Curious, that, though without judgment; what reasons exist, she cannot - will not - speculate. He blinks once more against the scattering of clipped hairs, giving a little shake of his head beneath Khu's hands to help aid in their freedom; but he's back to a lightness, figuratively with the topic change — weyr decor, of all things — and, now, too, with the dead ends cut away, returning him to a more well-groomed R'sare. Less disheveled than he typically presents to the wingleader, always by accident. With her hovering near, but not always directly in front of, his eyes follow her where and when they can, always watching even as her fingers stroke through his hair at the end of the cut. Unconcealing, once more, the way his lips twitch in betrayal how good it feels, her fingers on his neck, in his hair. Picking up the small mirror, he dips his chin, tilts his head, this way and that, attempting to get a thorough look at the change wrought by Khu's hands and craft. Answering, even as his fingers lift to brush away some stray hair stuck to his forehead, "Most of the stuff I've seen is — stuffy Hold stuff that I grew up with. When I've looked around at Gathers." Not that he's been to much. "Or the Bazaar's usual of — portraits and landscapes of deserts and canyons. Nice, but. I don't know…" So it is less a reticence to accommodate his bronze and more an innate pickiness, of not having found what is just right for the both of them. There is something meditative about it - running fingers through hair, slow and steady, over and over again. It's soothing - for both her and, it would seem, R'sare as well. A final sweep of fingers over the back of his neck finds her fingers slinking through his hair again, without any trace of shame - nor any pretense of doing so for any other reason, either. The gentle press and knead of fingertips adds a massage-like quality to the contact, her other hand joining the one already in his hair and giving a final, thorough, working through. "I need to clean up the back of your neck," Khu provides after a moment, chin lifting to the mirror. "Is the rest to your taste?" She'll leave him to answer matters of hair while she, in turn, ponders the artistic conundrum with a thoughtful hum. There's that meditativeness again, as stroking turns to kneading turns to a slow, deep rubbing at the back of his neck and his shoulders in a physical expression of how deeply she thinks. Eventually, "Does he like colorful things? Black and white? Single colors?" Best to start at the barest bones of preference before building up from there. If he takes time to question it, the touch without pretense, that she does it because she can — and wants to — R'sare will not risk acknowledgement of it in case, by calling attention to it, he mucks it all up. That he certainly enjoys it , and finds the sensation, the care, satisfying, will not be beyond detection, no stoicism on his part existing here. He may even try to find Khu's gaze in the mirror's reflection, however distorted or small; and while its curve of the disc cuts off the image of his lips, she may see the smile — the approval — in his eyes. "It's perfect, Khu. Exactly what I wanted: Presentable, at last." Wry, but appreciative of her work. Before he can drop the mirror, she could easily catch sight of the shift in his expression, when her contemplative kneading takes a stronger turn, but he's already fleeing from view when the mirror's replaced on the table and, unthinkingly, bending his chin to his chest in reaction to the deepening touch — and thought. Are a dragonrider's shoulders ever not tight? Is a dragonrider's neck ever not tense? For the muscles there bear the knots of strenuous labor; a body physically and frequently exerted; worked out often, and, from the way his skin even twitches beneath the tunic and towel, touched little. His eyes have closed, not holding out here: he allows himself to feel every bit of Khu's physical thought process spelled out on his muscles. "I… don't…" What are they talking about, again? "Uh," one eye squints, either in concentration or concentration, "Sunrises and sunsets. He likes the end and beginning of the days." Dusk and dawn, twinned beauties. Wasn't she supposed to do more? A shave? The tools are there and the towel, damp and warm, is ready to be applied, but her hands persist in their work of finding those knots and coaxing them loose. Her fingers are cunning and clever, experienced in the art; surgeon's hands, hers, strong and steady and canny. "Good," and she is satisfied that the hair meets his desire, her own smile perhaps caught in the curve of the mirror before he sets it down. "More than presentable," she does amend, tilting her head a little to glance at him from a different angle. "I have some waxes to try in your hair if you would like." But she's making no move to get them, not now, when she finds herself anchored to him through the dance of sinew and bone, muscle and skin. Fingers slip further, seeking entry past the barriers of cloth, to make the skin-to-skin contact that will make this easier. Burrowing deeper into her thoughts; deeper into his tensions. Deeper into the shared knowledge of the work that they do and how so very necessary these moments of relaxation and rest are. It may be that she's doing work - but it's every bit as relaxing for her as it is for him and it shows in the muted sigh that slips past scar-split lips. "Mm," is that melodic mote of thoughtfulness, tumbling a bit into a drawn out hum. "I will speak to my brother. He knows more artists than I." An offer made, the seeds of an idea planted, she moves on with a murmured, "Does the emptiness of your weyr trouble you?" "I'd like that. I like things like that." He could be accused of being, at times, a little vain or particular when it comes to his hair and they wouldn't be completely wrong, but R'sare is a guy who would appreciate more hair products, such as the wax offered. He'd say more, maybe, but silence seems a little wiser, at least until his skin acclimates to the feel of her fingers, now unimpeded by his tunic. His own exhale is not so muted, a soft, relieved sound when she works through a particularly tense spot by his shoulder blade, common for the effort it takes to sling or haul firestone sacks filled-to-brim. Lips parted, it takes him a minute to find his words to answer her question. But his eyes are open, once more, considering his answer. "It takes time to build a life, as you said. And we're new." Young, he means, and inexperienced. Untested. "Seems foolish to rush to fill something that may have to be cleaned out by someone else not much later." And while anytime, any rider could be escorted to between by Thread's help, R'sare seems to feel more keenly the likelihood could happen in the early turns of sheer inexperience. "But it's his place too," honesty unfurls, a quieter thought, Strath in his mind and heart, "and he would like some art," and so art he shall — eventually — have. "I just needed to be more resourceful," acknowledging now, Khu's connection, and her comment about it. "How old is Ixzhulqvoth?" How long has Khu had to build what he now sees? Hummed is her assent, her agreement, her reassurance that she will provide what she has suggested. Rukbat knows she has plenty of containers here; how many are dedicated to the vanity of others? She seems to use precious few - shampoos, yes; lotions and some oils… but little else. It's a little more difficult to get at the more troublesome points of the neck and shoulders, where she knows the gnarling of muscle and nerves runs tightest or, at least, are the most difficult to unravel - which finally forces her hands to retreat with a soft sound of lesser frustration. She wets her lips and draws her hands away, a final smoothing motion over his shoulders and neck - with the cloth serving as a barrier - only to move for the towel. It's aromatic, pleasantly scented, and she adjusts the folding of it while assessing R'sare's face. "You are new, yes. Fresh. But life is for the living - and living is filling your world with things that help you grow. Things that bring you joy. It is not foolish to wake up and look at a painting that gives you life - if only for another day." There's her smile again, soft and tinged bittersweet. "If not for you, then for him." Her thoughts align with his in that sense, reaffirming his words with a further bolstering of her own. "Head back, just a little. I am going to drape this over your face and neck to soften the skin and hair." Warning given, she'll do just that, holding fast to her answer until she's satisfied with her work thus far. It won't be there long - but it might feel like a long time, needing to breathe through warm, damp cloth. "It has been twelve turns and nearly a month since he gave me my name and purpose." Affection limns her words, an ache and tenderness thrumming deep - and, perhaps, some measure comes from the brown himself with a subsonic rumble resonating through stone. To the next stage of the impromptu appointment, R’sare slouches enough to tilt his head to the back of the chair, neck supported, eyes closed to receive the pleasantly warm towel with its lulling scents. It gives him time, this quiet darkness, this momentary separation, to ponder the truth in Khu’s answer, of ‘living today, for tomorrow we (could) die’. Something he has struggled with from the beginning: the emotional investment into that which may be so easily lost — no, taken. When he resurfaces with the removal of the towel, having heard the words and the ache that wrought them, he quietly recalls, “You were Khulan, before,” remembering the name written on the one he received, one of the few things he thought he could understand. "I was. As you were Ralisared once." His old name holds a different sort of melody on her tongue, more sighed than purred; still soft, soft, soft. "I like R'sare better. It breathes." The towel is set aside and the process begins with an efficiency that speaks of skill borne over turns; how often has she done this? How long has it been since last she set warmed cream to skin and a razor to it after? The blade is sharp; her hands are sure. Where there was a species of distant intimacy before - even with the partial massage, her physical distance was distinct - there is something more here, as proximity tightens and the sphere of her own scents mingles with his. Should his lips part to speak, the blade will be removed - she might have plans for how to deal with a beheaded bronzerider, but today is not the day to enact them - but, otherwise, it will do its steady work, removing stubble with care from throat and jaw and cheek. The edge is cleaned, more cream applied as necessary. Finished sections are wiped clean with a deft hand, chased with a light caress to be sure all the stubble is gone. And, all the while, she speaks in a low murmur, words for his ears alone - for Ixzhulqvoth already knows her story to the bones and sinew of his own self. "I was born to traders, the Khan. We grew and sold healing herbs and lotions, all of the things you see here. I might have become a trader here. I might have joined the Healers. I might have been lost to the Bazaar. These are all possibilities that existed once, but He chose a new one for me. I do not forget where I am from - I cannot - and those lives still guide my hand. If I die tomorrow, I can die satisfied that I have lived and lived more lifetimes than most." R'sare, does, too — like the new name, the new him, the new life far far better, despite the struggles, the adjustment. The differences. And perhaps there is more he would or could say, but silence here is as comfortable as it is necessary, and he can hold his tongue. Registering, instead, the close proximity of Khu, not just the physical nearness but the different quality it takes; and with it, the tactile sensation of the careful scrape of blade against skin, buffered by the cream. He is a captive — and captivated — audience, though, to the unfolding of Khu's biography, little known of it before now, other than the glimpsed images shared by Ixzhulqvoth, or the vague references she herself has made in the past. Still, he does not speak — he won't, until she's finished, not wishing to interrupt any of this — but watches the cavern's ceiling, or whenever Khu comes into range, her; and only a swallow might impede her progress, when his eyes flick to find hers, if only to request — beseech — a silent more when she pauses. More. More attention to his jaw, where the curve of it may make stubble stubborn to scrape away? More testing that the scruff upon his cheek has been erased away? Or more of her — her story — of how she came to the Weyr, what led a stubborn-hearted Khulan to be discarded by her trader lot and seek a new life in Igen? She has a surgeon's steady hand and those periodic swallows of his are taken in stride; barely a skip to her stride, in a figurative sense, with the blade working oh-so-effortlessly in her grip. The snag of stubborn stubble is easily felt, his wordless pleas somehow heard and answered with a barely there tip of her head in mute acknowledgement of what skin says to skin. Her thumb will tuck into that place, working over that juncture of jaw and throat; that expanse of cheek. Featherlight, but just enough; enough for the whisper of sensation to set a tingle in motion. More cream, then; another pass of the blade, for she has time to make this right and she is not a woman who works in half-measures. As more is scraped free, her fingers set to work again, seeking out the secrets that they might find; the curves and planes that a person knows are there, but which another has yet to experiences; the angles and aspects that are so easy to see, but much harder to appreciate. But is there more to tell? She's quiet for a time, eyes gone dark. What more is there to tell that doesn't reside in the oblique territory of a world so alien that it might as well be the Red Star? Lips twist a little, words stirring but not yet spilling; twisting, as if she were trying to chew her way to a beginning, only to find another ending instead. Eventually: "My parents are dead. I regret that I did not tell them that I could pay my own marriage price." Sardonic, her lips finally curl. "A single nanny caprine of breeding age. I could have trampled them with a herd of them. But, those roots are dead. My brother came to me in his grief and found his heart twice over - and I have gained a brother after a gift of forgiveness." Should he feel guilt, holding her hostage? Nevermind Khu is the one with the blade to his neck: for she met his requests without hesitation, in all ways; and R'sare benefits from it. Chai might have done its job well, or else it could be wholly attributed to Khu: for the pulse she could find beneath blade or fingers is steady, rhythmic, strong. The shaving blade has not caused him to quake, and neither does the darkness perhaps to be found in the prolonged silence, then words she chooses to finish out the rest of her more. It is not until the razor is stayed and her fingers, instead, trail across his throat, or jaw, that he risks movement, rather than words. His hand lifts, slowly enough to prevent accidental nicks — despite what he joked earlier — and slowly enough to capture her fingers, his own curling around hers. A gentle squeeze, before he seeks to thread his fingers with hers, interlocked touch without the placement of context. But as already, as if developing a particular habit, much is said without the shape and sound of words: herein, this touch, an intimacy of compassion; of solidarity in loss, or of living with a few regrets. All with the release of the fresh scent of the shave cream, what hung onto her skin now imparted to his. He skips the 'I'm sorry' he said at the Standing Stones, but his grasp grows from the same root: recognition of a painful past, of survival, of finding a way through. The work is done - or near enough to it, by now; the back of his neck needs tending, but that can wait - and, so the blade is on the way to being set aside when he finally does move. Something flickers across her face, something that casts shadows into her eyes before it passes. Her hand is caught, her fingers easily threaded through - for they seek soil of a sort to take root in and he provides that solid ground. Fingers thusly linked, she finishes the task of putting the blade away and, in taht moment, pivots just enough to make the table in front of him a perch for her to half-sit on. To face him. To study him. Subtle are the movements of fingers and eyes, of nostrils and lips as all of her senses are engaged in the absorption of those details of him. Of his actions. His reactions. The words said - and those unsaid, which might still be felt thrumming in the space between. Her free hand is not as still as the rest of her and it moves, restless, to skim up the line of his throat, to skirt his jawline, and to finally alight where her thumb can feel along his cheekbone with only the barest pretense of making sure no stubble remains. Scent and touch and presence all mingle, lines blurred between both body and mind to allow that intimacy to take root and grow, bit by bit. "What is your story?" For she's shared enough of hers - for now, for now, she's spilled enough of herself and the idea of bleeding more is too much. R’sare is not the species of man who blathers on with aimless chatter, who is prone to filling gaps in the quiet, so when he comes under Khu’s scrutiny, he does not crumble, nor flinch. Perhaps she is admiring her handiwork: for without the scruff, his sharp features look sharper; without the length, the loosely-tousled hair gifts the suggestion in another life, he could have been highborn heir of a stingy little cothold. Features which normally keep a staid composure, here, trend introspective, her question eventually bringing about an answer that isn’t necessarily reluctant to be shared, just unused to it. Straightening in the chair, he leans a little, adjusting his grip on her fingers to loosen and come, instead, to rest upon her knee, where a thumb strums a repeated, if errant, stroke as if to aid the unfolding of words. “I’m firstborn of a cothold, small but successful, that looks to Bitra’s main.” Holdborn, then, which could explain his innate reticence Khu may have noticed; the inward struggle towards flights, or lust, or intimacy. “Raised to eventually take it over, and a younger brother who got it all instead.” Rueful, his waste, how he threw his inheritance away. “It was a bet, a stupid wager, I made in anger and pride and didn’t think he intended to take it seriously, when he won. He went to our father, though, who let it stand.” A birthright traded for ego, and turns later it still smarts, his error, his folly, and what still feels like a family’s betrayal. “My mother still won’t speak to me, and I thought — for turns — wouldn’t return my letters.” His thumb, here, pressures into the muscle right about her kneecap. “The letter you found was from my brother, who told me my father burns my letters before my mother ever sees them.” It's a trait she appreciates, given her own tendencies; the quiet is preferred to prattle, for words should have purpose and weight and meaning. Khu must surely have concluded her assessment of his cheek and, yet, her hand remains, though her thumb grows still along the carved line of bone beneath skin. His hand will find a solid knee, unyielding and unbending under the weight of his touch. Freeing her hand just finds it slipping back, resting on the table to grant her a little more security and balance. There is no effort made to dislodge his hand or calm that strum of thumb; no effort made to expedite his words. They will come in their time and, when they do, she is silent and focused and intense all the while, with a slight nod here or there when it seems the words are slower in being spun. Sympathy cuts a crease in her brow, stitching between her eyebrows and finally forcing a parting of lips that, just as quickly, seal shut before a sigh or gasp might escape. Is it for his words or the pressure to that muscle at her knee? She will not say. There is no 'I am sorry' from her - the words are meaningless without action to support them - but her thumb glides over his cheek and her weight shifts, just so, to better balance his hand on her knee - to keep it right where it belongs for now. "It is admirable of you to keep trying, even when your words do not echo back. You are the better man, for taking the punishment and proving yourself in a different arena. You could have lived so many lives of misery," and perhaps he has, yes, but he's here now, a bronzerider and full of potential, "and, yet, you are here." “Here, yes,” draws quiet in R’sare’s repeat, a stray smile for he purposely misconstrues Khu’s overarching meaning — Igen — to be, here, in the middle of a sandstorm, freshly shorn and groomed and now quietly, if also purposefully, stroking the band of muscle a over her knee. “It was good, I know now, to go,” he admits, finally glancing away from whatever he sees in Khu’s eyes; instead, to tilt his chin towards her hand, a turn of his face that will see just the softest brush of his lips against her palm, a precursor to a kiss, without fully committing to it. They are only, after all, sharing stories and a haircut. Against her palm he murmurs thoughtfully, “I’d repeat all those turns of misery,” for there were, as she supposed, turns of it in the aimless, lonely in-between of Bitra and Igen, “if every time I knew I would arrive at Strath. If that is what led me to be whom he would choose, I’d do it again.” If life were a series of rolls or deals wrought, he would gamble again and in the same way. Much like, perhaps, he is gambling here, with this errant noncommittal — yes — kiss. However she may interpret the gesture, or the way he won’t quite look at her, the bronzerider gives a soft smile to her palm, before straightening out of her grasp, abruptly releasing his hold on her knee, an absence of pressure when his hand comes, instead, to snake through his hair. Resuming, presumably, this appointment. "Yes, here," and perhaps she picks up on his smile and his interpretation - or perhaps it's just a fleeting amusement for her to put herself in his shoes, to replay the events of the day and all the days leading up to now, and see how strange and ephemeral it must be. Her hand twitches a little when his chin tilts toward it, her fingers curling a touch and palm tipped a little more to receive that almost-kiss, that barely there touch of lips that feels so warm against skin that's warmer still. "As it should be," breathes she, of living all those terrible times, through that broken mirror of the past, if it meant getting to Him in the end. Before he can pull away fully from her hand, her thumb sweeps down, snake-quick, to touch just at his lips in a return gesture that might not have the same weight, but it shares an intention all the same. As he straightens, she uncoils, gaining her feet fully while he rakes fingers through his hair. Her movements are languid, dreamlike, and deliberate all at once, as she steps past and behind him, fingertips glazing over his shoulder along the way. "Head forward," she directs, fingertips briefly steepling at the back of his head in a gentle gesture, before she goes for the razor again. "You are nearly done and ready for the world again." Amusement lurks under the words, chased by a mote of gentler curiosity: "How does Weyrlife agree with you?" How did it? How does it? His Holdbred nature is no surprise, in retrospect, as she pieces those aspects together with his reticence. In that, perhaps, they come from a shared sort of origin - with wildly divergent responses. An obedient tip of his head forward has R'sare complying once more, exposing the back of his neck with the towel slipped down a little bit. Threadfall is what will await him later today, post-sandstorm, and he smiles at the thought it somehow won't appreciate Khu's work quite the same way he will. For Threadfall, of course, doesn't care how handsome you look when it's eating you to the bone. "Weyrlife," he echoes to gather his thoughts. "When I worked around here," pre-Strath, "it was — fine. I had little interactions with the 'riders, and their life. Didn't know any." Nor did he even try to. Even though weyrfolk and dragonriders live in the caldera together, it was easy for Ralisared to live seemingly separate from them. "The adjustment wasn't quite so — stark." He cannot glance to Khu, behind him, to gauge if he's making sense. But then a thought unfurls, a sideways grin, there a second before relaxing. "Of course the goldflights were — different, that first Turn. But then you get used to it, you know. It's felt like it's a different thing when you have an up-close view of a dragon's perspective on flights." A young, virile, lustful bronze one's, to boot. But there is more to Weyrlife than just flights, of course, and R'sare contemplates that. "I like the structure of the days, the purpose in them," drills and PT and sweeps and Threadfall prep and escorting queens, "and the predictability of it — the expectations, I mean — and the belonging." The job, the lifestyle, the strict requirements, the high standards. "I guess," exhaling, summing it up, "the job agrees with me." The razor works its magic up his neck - neatening the line, transmuting short hair into a subtle fade that only she and those behind him will ever truly appreciate. Sometimes, it's worth doing things just to do them, regardless of how much another might appreciate it. A final sweep of fingers, a soft sound of satisfaction for a job well done, and Khu lingers, listening; expressions on both sides go unseen, her introspective one, his slanted smile. One hand busies itself with dusting scraps of hair from his shoulders, long after the last is gone, while the other keeps hold of the razor until silence on his part - after that summary of his thoughts is given - grants her a moment in which to move. To the table again, where the blade is set aside to be cleaned and sharpened, where she can make an easy perch at the edge of it, both hands resting on the table to either side while her spine curves, serpentine, into a posture of contemplation. "The goldflights without a dragon were-" her tongue works a little, tapping at its cage of teeth on the inside "-difficult. It is more tolerable with a deeper understanding." She can sympathize. Greatly. But there's a slight nod for the rest, catching up on his words now that she can look at him fully. "The routines allow sanity to set roots and grow. To find balance. It is good that you have adapted well to the strange soil of the Weyr and found growth. Not everyone does." Fully trimmed and groomed, R'sare slowly tugs the towel from around his neck, careful to catch any hair that wasn't sufficiently (it was, though) dusted away by Khu's fingers. Leaving it on the table, he tests out the lightness to his face, his hair, by a quick sweep of fingers over and through, stopping at his chin where the backs of his fingers momentarily slide against his jaw. "Yeah?" Forehead lines appear with an arch of his eyebrows, glance turned up to Khu now in slight height advantage over him perched on her table; his forearms drop to rest on his knees, body leaned forward slightly, shoulders rounded, a little back stretch that turns into a slight slouch. He's thinking back to his first turn at the weyr, obscure in the mundanity of it, save for the slights, perhaps. A groundhog-day existence, perhaps. "I had always known of them: but feeling your first one…" Silence fills in what they both know it's like. But he's nodding, next, to her affirmation. "If it was chaos all the time," of flights or Falls without the security of knowing their place, their purpose: his blinked grin suggests he knows the adjustment — agreement — with Weyrlife would be far more troublesome. "It's the constant opportunity to die that's… that's my hang-up." One he has alluded to earlier in the haircut. Why decorate? Why fuck? Why invest — why why why. "But you." His eyes drift over her, sitting there, as if imagining a Khulan before she became Ixy's, became Khu. "Weyrlife agrees with you?" That first goldflight- it sets off a momentary cascade of memories that are, out of necessity, filtered out of Ixzhulqvoth's reach. The brown, slumbering, yet maintains enough of a connection to the world outside that dreams may still slip the ink-on-white boundaries of his mind. Khu knows this and restrains it, but her expression skews distant for a moment, two, before she shakes her head to render her into the here and now. "Perhaps that is where we differ most," she says at long last, picking up not on the chaos, but on death itself - the notion of it, hanging overhead always. "I did not fear it in my youth, because there are worse things than death." Especially for a woman, trader-born to fiercely conservative people - death is not the worst bedfellow she can have: it's just the last. The tip of her head his way allows her to observe him through lashes; any other time, she might look coy or coquettish but, here, there's an echo of distant melancholy and recollection. She draws her lower lip in and chews it, gently, before she lifts her head to look at him and continues: "Weyrlife agrees with me, yes. I came here knowing nothing of goldflights. I knew nothing of dragons or Weyrs, only that the sheltering stone would provide shade for a time until I could set roots or drift onward." The ghostly tracery of scars on her arms are most visible when she's still, memories writ in flesh; the girl-that-was had more of them, deeper and more livid. Time has scrubbed all but the most egregious away. "I did not expect it to embrace me." R'sare's not privy to what Khulan's earliest experiences at the Weyr were like: though he can see its indelible mark in the slight change in her expression, even if he knows nothing of what memories were spurred from his statement or question. But as he's proven, he can sit through a thoughtful silence without growing nervous or uncomfortable, and as much as they've done in that quiet back-and-forth pattern they've established, he waits her out until she, now, sums it up for herself. His early life, for the most part, was privileged: trials of a different kind came to his cothold's door, for in no way would he have ever — then — thought of worser things than death. Sadness, though, touches his features, a blinked look away to spare Khu from it whenever more and more of her upbringing gets brought to the light. Instead, he focuses on the latter of her statements, able to glance back at her when he finally speaks. "Embrace, I like that thought," he snags on that word choice, not for innuendo's sake — he means no doubled-meaning here — but the idea that the Weyr can be a haven, a home, for lost hearts and souls. As it is surely promises to be, for him, in time. What scars formed her, then released her, Ral has for himself not yet pursued: and even now if he could find the evidences of phantom pain left on her arms, he does not embrace — or take, rather — the opportunity Khu hasn't quite freely given him. Another lapsing silence, comfortable, though distant, with thoughts of pasts starting to close in with a heaviness. Finally: "Thank you, Khu, for — the haircut." In time, perhaps, those stories will be told - traded for more of his history, for snapshots and snippets of a life she would never lead; a life that was never even an opportunity by virtue of the accident of her birth. Khu, for now, is satisfied in the bleeding of self and the mingling of memory that, now, leaves its indelible residue over this moment and all that came before. Her smile emerges, slow and aching with something that touches her eyes to make the shadows shift, just so. "The stone is warmer than some hearts. I am grateful for it." She gives him a good looking over in that silent span, though it's more than a superficial survey of her works. It's something deeper, more assessing, more thoughtful - something that rides a line of intensity, without pushing too far into discomfort. "Thank you," trails after his words, wading in the wake of gently-cracked quiet, "for trusting me - and being trustworthy." One hand lifts from the table, reaching to tuck fingers under his chin and her thumb on it, to tip his head ever-so-slightly upward so she can better look into his eyes. "And thank you," is added with a curl of a smile at one corner of her mouth and a glance to the razor gleaming in the lamplight, "for not moving abruptly." Because cleaning up that much blood is hard and she has far better uses of her time - and it would be such a tragic, tragic waste to of a life. A sound of amusement, exhaled out, though it's neither a huff nor a full-blown laugh: but it carries all the same, that her comment caught R'sare off-guard. "I'll thank Faranth later that you've the steadiest of hands, Khu, for I like my neck and I'd like to keep my head, too." No blood spilled today. "At least through the next Threadfall." If he loses his head today, it will have not been by the brownrider's hands. He moves easily by her direction, not resisting a longer — better — look when his green eyes lift meet her dark ones. Therein, perhaps, without a trace of shadow, is a shift to a seriousness, even against her curling smile: an intention of the … and more he will not, today, verbally raise; and so the look shall not be restrained, even if R'sare himself will be. Slowly, while his eyes drift over her face to take in the woman who held, generously, his life in her careful hands, he notes, "Storm's slacking. I should go get ready for Threadfall." The thumb at his chin is restless, not content to stay where it is for long. Perhaps it's motivated by that look or something that stirs in dark, dark eyes, it's impossible to say. The facts remain that, after his last words, the pad of Khu's thumb glides over his lower lip, a featherlight touch that whispers of something similar, of intentions echoed deeper than can be seen and left to resonate in nerve and skin alike. "Mm," rises, falls and takes with it amusement to leave her with a shadow of his seriousness; a darkling mirror of the same. More and more yet lurks beneath, but no words exist to give it shape. A half-step closer draws her tighter to his proximity, piercing any remaining bubble of personal space with the same disregard that her lifemate has for others. She bends, then - slow, slow, slow - with a press of warm lips aimed for his forehead, while her free hand curls at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, fingernails touching the line of his spine. Words are breathed along the way, husked yet soft and firm in the same breath: "Fly well. Survive. And, Rukbat willing, return here, because I owe you a drink." A drink promised earlier, when he said he wouldn't flee immediately after - but things have taken longer than intended, haven't they? Long enough for the storm to ease, long enough for Threadfall to draw inexorably closer, and long enough for orbits to swing perilously close. His teeth come to press his lower lip where Khu's thumb lifts, testing nerves stirred by feather-touch with a deeper, distracting pressure. Though R'sare's lips part in a shallow draw of breath, when she breaches that which he so staunchly, so carefully, has tried to maintain throughout the haircut, the sandstorm. Does he exhale, ever, in the diminishing space? In the heartbeat's count as time suspends for that seemingly chaste kiss to his forehead? As he feels every slow, deliberate drag of fingernails over his skin? "Khu." There, that's the exhale: her name, a short breath; one he can't quite catch, one that tells of a restraint so threadbare it's close to shredding away. It would be so easy, barely nothing, to tilt his face up, towards her — The poor beleaguered bronzerider swallows, sharply, to finish a thought intended the entire time, or so he'd like it to seem: "Thank you." For the benediction, the torment, the nerves. Can he possibly recover? Not here; not with her, this close. "We'll drink sometime," R'sare soldiers on pathetically, a man who faces down Thread and yet, no matter how put-together Khu has made him look this afternoon, will still seem to be leaving her weyr so… disheveled. He's too out of sorts to offer up he'll bring the drink he favored in Bitra, if the impulse to do so was once there. He has other impulses to contend with, instead, and without the indignity of sliding out of the chair, he stands — slowly — taking her arms around his neck with him as he tries to gain his height and some form of internal order. There may be a moment his hands, firmly, find her hips: surely just to steady her with his rise from the chair, the two now even closer; the one now looking down to her. "I've got to go find my jacket." As if that is the most pressing errand at hand, but it's what makes him finally release her, stepping sideways to safety. A stir of wings, as the wind has let itself down; it's Strath, rumbling a greeting to the ledge's owner, in a sound that is nothing short of amused. The Haircut has 0 comments. |
Takes place right after Storms, where Ral endures a haircut |
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Moving out vig Moving out vig
Akzhan Tenement Apartments Tightly packed apartments jam together in an old adobe building that had once seen better bygone days of a different era. At the edge of the Bazaar, far away from the poshest places in the Bazaar, this three-story adobe-sandstone building has been repurposed from derelict disrepair to a place to house the poorest of Bazaar residents. Cheap accommodations lie within but boast of little creature comforts. Tenement housing operated by the Akzhan means missed payments get dealt with harshly, but repairs come months too late. Very few apartments have windows, though there are some, and more people than anyone can shake a stick at live crammed into tiny, layered apartments. Privacy is rare, as every apartment can hear what happens in the ones around, and doors are often a luxury where hanging linens are the norm in the lowest levels and cheapest accommodations. Only a fool would live here, or those hiding from secrets best not discovered. They'd been in Igen almost 7 months now, and Ryeklom didn't recognize himself anymore. The kid who used to race toy boats on the lake and enjoyed riding runners and sneaking pastries from the kitchens was no more, in its place a young man with callouses on his hands and a slight bend to his nose from one too many fights. He hadn't told his sisters he was moving out. He couldn't bear Keturah's concern and Naveah's delight to be rid of him. Or at least that's how he imagined it would be. He didn't fear a lot of things anymore, but he was afraid of that. So he snuck out, knowing it was the chickenshit way of doing things. He packed his meager belongings, made up his bed, and left. He didn't know which sister would take over his bed, but part of him was proud that he could do that for them at least. They could each have their own space with him gone. It would be much easier for two girls to share a room. Take care of your sisters. He'd known he'd be the first one to move out. He didn't want any bad choices following him home and hurting them. He was a growing boy, a young man, and sharing a room with two sisters was not something that could last very long. He'd been saving his winnings from the pool hall and the other bars, working his way quietly around the unofficial circuit. He'd hidden his marks in a plant pot in the rooftop garden that Herder had told him he could make use of. The plants had all died immediately, but it was a good hiding spot at least, and the old lady who lived there sometimes left food up there for him. Once he saw one of the other kids about to climb into one of the windows and he hauled him down and ran him off. The snacks had been a bit more regular after that. Still, that wasn't home. He needed a space to call his own, so when the old building out by the auction yards started to show activity and rumors swirled that it was going to be a new place to live, he'd started saving. He was one of the first folks to put down his marks and sign a contract for living there. He'd asked for a room on the top floor, not worried about stairs. He was more worried with neighbors, and if he was on the top floor at least he wouldn't have anyone above him to cause noise. They'd given him his key and directed him up the wobbly stairs. Up, up he climbed, to the third floor. Down tangled corridoors that were cluttered with trash and broken things - already - to his room. It was at the very end of the hallway - he walked straight up to his door. It was narrow, barely wider than the hallway itself. It looked like they had just put up a wall and a doorway at the end of the hall to make another room. He had a window at least, and one of the first things he'd need to get would be heavy curtains that would keep the sand out (sort of) when the storms kicked up. There was a tiny bed and that was it. He didn't even have a dresser, a table…nothing. He just had a bed, and the key that he hung around his neck for safe keeping. He sat on his bed, sneezing when the movement sent up a cloud of adobe dust and sand. He felt a surge of anger - old, long buried fury - at the path his life had taken. He'd been an heir, dammit. He'd had a big room, a beautiful carved bed, a soft mattress, down pillows, a clean floor… But the anger was brief, shoved down by his practicality and by the reality of his situation. He did not have any of that anymore. He was not that anymore. And he'd be dammed if he let life get the best of him. He wouldn't be here long, after all. This was just a place to start. His own space, his own room, so he could let his sisters have their own space, and so he could stretch out a bit. He was a growing boy, and living with his sisters was not sustainable. Kala appeared above him with a soft chirp and he beamed, reaching eagerly for the gold that was the joy of his life. Cradling her to his chest, he stroked her soft hide and dug into his satchel for the little tin of oil he'd bought that morning, eager to care for her. To take care of something. "This is our new home, Kala, okay? You can be here whenever you want, but if someone comes in, run away alright?" He'd tried to keep her hidden from the rest of the world, not wanting people to know he had a queen. Why, he wasn't quite sure, but it felt like a secret worth keeping. He didn't want anyone bothering him about eggs, or trying to take her from him. He didn't think anyone could steal her from him, but he wasn't positive and it was a definite worry. He sent her off and left his little room, heading into the Bazaar for the day's work. He had his own place. It was a shithole, but it was his, and he could have some pride in that. Moving out vig has 2 comments. |
Time to move out. |
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It Already Happened It Already Happened
Infirmary Sterile and scoured, the surfaces of the infirmary, well-tended and beloved by the complement of Healers due a weyr of Southern's size. Soothing tissane simmers at the large hearth, while comfortable chairs circle that particular feature in a waiting-room of sorts. Tables of dull-gleaming oldtimer metal lie as examining slabs, neatly lined in rows with pull-curtains enabling full privacy as needed. A low wall separates the southern half of the room from the rest, and those practicing the apothecary's trade can be seen compounding medicines under the watchful eye of the posted Master. In time, the nature of the sound changes. There's a final rise to the roar of voices, way over there, beyond the stone, and over minutes it ebbs away, while the basso thrum of dragon song dies out gently. Soon there's not so much the sound as the subsonic texture of displaced air from the wingbeats of dragons returning to their weyr or their Weyr. The remaining hubbub of voices relocates, out of the galleries, into the living caverns, where the feast already awaits, fragrant. It's over, then. And Albertine, in her bed, slowly closes her eyes. They'd turned him aside the first time. From the quiet of a mid-Hatching infirmary. When he returned, it was with sweetness — and sweets; pilfered from the Feasting tables as he elbowed his way past an incoming tide of dignitaries, shell-shocked family members, his wingmates who had pre-gamed, drudges (but not her), and, soon, the sloped shoulders of heart-weary candidates being unleashed on the open bar. Also not her. The Healer on duty could not be said to have been mightily impressed with the unshaven scruff on his face but she melted to the cinnamon syrup cake in his hands, "made with apples all the way from mainland Nerat." And that's the cliche yet effective way bronzerider N'iall has been in the periphery of Albertine's subconscious as it wrestles with restfulness under the circumstances. Sat on a stool because the staff wouldn't let him drag in a waiting room chair. N'iall's propped it on two feet, balancing between that and his crossed legs propped up on the wooden board at the foot end of the cot. Though his jacket is slung on, he gives the air of having been there some time, with his head down, fully involved in the sketching pad he has braced into his stomach. Flicking through bouts of vague consciousness, she may even try to say that, at some point, there was idly soft — skilled — singing in the room — but he would roundly deny it, so clearly it cannot have been true. Wakefulness is not a binary, as it turns out. A minute or two ago, Albertine was lying closed-eyed and prone, but with a sort of constant twitching that would not occur in proper sleep. And now the twitching gentled, and she's looking up at the ceiling, but with an empty sort of expression that would not occur in proper wakefulness. There's an empty glass on her nightstand that still emits the sharp smell of fellis, and perhaps it's good to know that the healers gave her something. You know. For the pain. Her expression does not change when her eyes find N'iall, just there, close by. There was something… Her mouth works in silence, and then her entire face wrinkles. "Is it okay?" she asks, the words thick in her mouth. There's a soft scrape as N'iall's charcoal stick skips a line. Lifting his chin, his expectant gaze lands upon a minutely more conscious girl in the cot, while the side of his hand is blindly engaged in swiping off that additional mark he hadn't meant on the paper. In the infinite mystery that is charcoal, more will come off on his hand than off of the drawing. A faintly bemused smile begins and dies on his face as he turns over his shoulder, cannot immediately see the silhouettes of any healers, and so looks back at the patient. "Hey, Albacore," he greets - for her to forget or remember. The bronzerider doesn't move into any slowly spoken empathy when he speaks to her; those with bedsides manners will deliver that in spades. N'iall just sounds like… N'iall: too dry for his baby face, and too high for his cynicism. "What do you need?" If she can even tell, as he side-glances off that fellis. Albertine thinks about that for a moment. The set of thoughts she can afford to think right now is a tad limited: on each sides are chasms of anger of grief that can't be looked at, lest she falls in, and who knows how she'd ever clamber back out. (What does she need? For the world to not be so damn bleak. She needs to be lying curled up on a couch in the barracks with her baby blue breathing against her chest. She needs a do over, she needs her Pa, she needs her Ma while we're at it. She needs a break.) "Can you," Albertine asks, slower than normal, "bring my books? From the library. Y'kim knows which." Books are safe. Books are an escape. She squirms and once more her whole face squints with focus. "Is it okay? It's mostly grey and blue, like a sky with clouds, but there's a large spot like, like a spire rising into the sky, right, with a jagged white line touching the top, kinda like a lightning bolt I guess. Can't miss it. Is it okay?" He flips the sketchpad closed with a flick of the wrist. "Yes, of course." The feet of the stool thunk down with N'iall's standing shift of weight. All a little too quickly, so he has to awkwardly duck and catch the stool from clattering all the way in the other direction and most likely having him thrown out by his ear. After, the sketchpad is placed atop. "Y'kim." Licks of salt water at the back of his throat is Ciceroth but he refrains from answering the sound of the rushing sea in his ear, resisting what noticeable glaze would clear his eyes, instead of looking at her. He can be fed the identity of this 'Y'kim' when he has need later. Unless— the man's eyebrows lower, casting another glance over his shoulder while one hand rubs strongly at the forefinger of the other. Does she mean… - now? Being smartly dismissed would not surprise him. This — here — he's stepped over the line drawn by the normal purview of their… what relationship? Well-timed fishing? And the abrupt concept that he may have been his usual stupid self in launching into this instinct is the vibrato of his voice, "I… I'm so sorry. I do not know what you mean." A soft wince. He could've just lied so she'd rest again. He knows he wouldn't have each time. Considering that Albertine does not look like she remembers she just asked about books, it's probably okay if such are not delivered right away, no. Should N'iall inquire later on, though, he'll find that this Y'kim is a prolific producer of novels of questionable virtue and Albertine is, if not quite a fan, at least an avid consumer of the genre. Possibly she mentioned those once or twice while fishing with the bronzer. Wise of her, too, to be asking for things to take her mind off the present. The present would weigh heavy on her mind — however much of her mind, anyway, as is hers right now. N'iall's puzzlement at her sibylline query leaves her thoughtful for a moment. "I may have dreamed it," she says, slowly. Then her face contorts with something too close to pain, and she rolls onto her side — tries to, anyway, but thankfully her leg is immobilized and she does not accidentally harm herself further. "I'm pretty sure, though… Its shell has a nice texture. You know? All warm from the sand. I hope it's okay." She squirms a bit, strains in the general direction of the living caverns, the path toward the Hatching Grounds. Her breathing is growing labored. Little by little, there's more of her in her eyes. Those eyes find N'iall's. "Wait, though… It… already happened, right? The Hatching?" Lie, N'iall, you asshole. Lie, distract her, use— Anger at his own ineffectiveness realizes he's already been nodding, a straightforward acceptance of her assumption, no more and no less, no frills nor pity. His hands have slipped into his pockets, the safety of all fidgeters hiding their compulsions while the more Albertine drains back into her self, the less N'iall feels appropriate being here. She's mentioned her — well, not other; he's not; her rider friends, and he can recite their names for he was trained to recall details. But he'd never looked into who they were, it was always a tomorrow project. The seconds pass, where he's left breathing space for her processes— but not so much she might pitch over into them entirely. His chin has lowered some in a mere touch of this regret, which otherwise feasts on the insides of men, and he stays his ground, just rocking slightly back on his boot heels and down again. "I didn't really stay for it," he informs her in a continuance of that plain speech, only to affect a disgruntled lip tug at the last second, "It was sorely lacking in Albertine, and I thought: why a mark in many Hatching, when I could be being coolly berated by someone much my junior." Not about the books, however. He had found no fault in the girl's genre of choice, as he'd be painted a hypocrite — his romanticist song lyrics don't even have sex appeal as an excuse for existing. This is a roundabout way of saying yes, but it's still yes, then, isn't it. Albertine produces a throaty grunt and closes her eyes, her head resting heavily on her pillow. Her breathing comes oddly wheezy through her nostrils. Two fat tears roll down her cheeks. For a fair amount of time she speaks no more, only lying there, catching up with reality and the hollow ache it has in store for her. It's a sorrow too big for her to let it come out in force, though; it would submerge her. Before too very much longer she opens her eyes, dry again: no longer bereft, only dull, the jagged shards of what-should-have-been buried deep, deep within where she can look away from the pain of it. "Thank you for visiting me," she says. "It's kind of you. I, uh, I hope I'm not asking too much, but, if you're in the library one of these days, can you bring me some books?" Apparently forgetting she already asked earlier. "The infirmary gets boring, you have no idea." Before she can finish the sentence, though, her eyes close again, this time in weariness. At this rate, looks like maybe she'll be dozing off before hearing the answer. And you know, sometimes, the oblivion of sleep is a blessing; and tomorrow's another day. "Yes, of course." No hesitation to be said just like the first, whether she hears it or not insignificant to if it seeds even a little into the weariness of her thinking. His kindness is debatable, just this is not an appropriate platform for it. A statue is made of N'iall as he ticks away the time with his foot until it feels secure enough she is again in the grasp of medication or the grip of depression's sleep. Safe is not being accounted for, he states, "I didn't get to be in my place either." Though the cool rush of the tide at his feet is evident amongst the subtle creaking of settling wood, it bodes no warning; his bronze of second-rate has always known. Though he draws the closer hand from his pocket, he'd have to get nearer to physically touch the girl, and the longer he lingers there, wondering if it's even a meaningful gesture at this point, the worse he feels about it, so his fingers shake out and his head shakes out, and he twists on a heel to gather up his tucked away satchel, his sketchpad. A looser sheet begins to slide less in line with the others and he yanks it out speculatively. From it, he looks back at Albertine in her cot. As quietly as possible, the rider closes in just enough to set the drawing on the bed beside her. Then he picks it up. Exhaling loudly in exasperation, he sets it back down and immediately strides for the entrance—- catches it on the threshold and walks straight back to determinedly retrieve the sketch, stuff it into the pad. At this point, he's brought up short by the healer wondering what's the matter and whispered reassurances are in order; the pad going to be tucked under his arm so he can assuage her with both palms as he is just short of escorted out. With a new purpose of hunting down a Lynx bluerider in the middle of a celebratory Feast and nuisance him long enough to get some books. And the little piece of sketch nudged loose when the pad went upside-down, sifting out onto the floor towards the cot… just enough in the furniture's shadow so as to completely obscure its presence. It Already Happened has 0 comments. |
After realizing Albertine's not at the Hatching, N'iall skips the Feast for the Infirmary. loss |
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You are not alone. (Vig) You are not alone. (Vig)
Rise Up by Andra Day Infirmary From the astringent smell of redwort, to the gleam of counter and cabinet, this place positively defines the concept of antiseptic cleanliness. Despite the yawning exit to the Dragonhealer Courtyard, the floors remain scrupulously swept of sand and particulate matter. Back behind the counter where the healers usually are, are shelves full of bottles and jars, as well as cupboards hiding away more delicate items that shouldn't be exposed to too much sand. Beyond the counter, there is the Desk, where patients are checked in and taken to one of the examination areas by a healer. The windows are usually kept open for the flow of air, but there are both shutters to shut out dust storms, and curtains for other occasions. Issa's consciousness wavers, caught in the nebulous space between waking and dreaming, pain and relief. As her mind drifts in that nothing, it isn't the infirmary with its sterile smells and soft murmurs of healers that she finds herself in, but into a landscape vastly different. She wanders through Shabeth's mindscape, his monochrome world with its vast, open plains stretching infinitely, dotted with the occasional tumbleweed and the distant dust of unseen herds. It is quiet there, with no pain, worries, or expectations to do anything but wander and sit by the fire at night with nothing to do but to watch the stars pass by. Pictures of pain flash through her head as she sees herself in the distance, staring blankly at the ceiling, her body a map of pain and determination. Every breath is a reminder of the fight she had survived, and every movement a testament to the battles yet to come. Her leg, once strong and sure, was now a source of constant pain, wrapped in bandages that seemed as much a part of her as her own skin. "Why can't I stay here?" she asks the wind as it picks up around her, softly caressing her face and wrapping around her like an invisible hug. You know the answer to that. The wind whispered back with its richly masculine voice. Another picture erupts through the night to replay as she watches herself scream as a faceless person removes her new skin and another faceless person holds her hand. The pain is overwhelming as it washes over her in waves, threatening to pull her under into the darkness that looms at the edge of her perception, at the edge of the mindscape she finds herself in. "I am broken there," she tells the wind as she tries to push the flashing images of what is happening with her body away. Yet even as she flinches away from the memory, Shabeth's presence envelops her, his mental voice a grounding force amidst the storm of her emotions. You are not broken. It is just a part of your journey. Issa looks around, her gaze settling on the campfire that burns steady and true, the wagon nearby offering a semblance of home in this vast nothingness. It's here, in this place of vulnerability and openness, that she feels closest to Shabeth, where their bond deepens beyond the physical realm. "I know," she responds to the unseen voice, her mental voice tinged with sorrow. "But it's so hard." The landscape subtly shifts, colors beginning to bleed into the starkness. The pain from the memories doesn't disappear this time, but in Shabeth's mindscape, it becomes just another part of the narrative, a challenge to be faced and overcome. You are not alone, Shabeth's voice reassures her, as vivid and comforting as the fire that warms her against the twilight chill. We will face this together. With that, Issa feels a gentle tug, a reminder that she cannot stay any longer, and her physical body awaits her return, along with all its limitations and pains. But she also carries back with her a renewed sense of strength and purpose, a conviction that, with Shabeth by her side, they can weather any storm. As she slowly opens her eyes back in the infirmary, the memory of the campfire and the open plains lingers, a beacon of hope on her long road to recovery. You're broken down and tired And I'll rise up For you When the silence isn't quiet And I'll rise up For you All we need, all we need is hope I'll rise up And we'll rise up You are not alone. (Vig) has 0 comments. |
Issa takes refuge in Shabeth's mind. threadfall injury rp |
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Should Have Been You Should Have Been You
"Thought I'd take a couple days of vacation, I've earned it." Infirmary Sterile and scoured, the surfaces of the infirmary, well-tended and beloved by the complement of Healers due a weyr of Southern's size. Soothing tissane simmers at the large hearth, while comfortable chairs circle that particular feature in a waiting-room of sorts. Tables of dull-gleaming oldtimer metal lie as examining slabs, neatly lined in rows with pull-curtains enabling full privacy as needed. A low wall separates the southern half of the room from the rest, and those practicing the apothecary's trade can be seen compounding medicines under the watchful eye of the posted Master. Albertine's bed is not hard to spot from a distance: it's the one with the pile of dubiously commendable books on the nightstand. The infirmary has got this distinctive vibe to it, and one of the primary components thereof is boredom. And another one is the overwhelming availability of too much time to think. Books help in both cases, as much as anything will. Presently Albertine herself, propped up on a pair of crutches, her leg in a splint, is slowly, painstakingly clopping back to said bed. She's wearing a kind of loose robe, clear-colored, and of course it's an infirmary gown, but in the circumstances, you'd be excused for having a different thought at first glance. Albertine sits on her bed, closes her eyes, lies down, carefully bringing her leg up onto its resting pillow. She should be reaching for her next book, fill the threatening void of time, but she doesn't, not right away. Apparently the ceiling is in need of some staring for a bit. J'rel had stepped into the ward to check on Albertine, and by first glance, it was not the check he had anticipated. It takes a moment of averting his eyes until he registers exactly what he saw, as in not more of Albertine than he anticipated visiting today, and continue his path forward towards her bed. "Oh, hey," he greets, a tight smile offered knowing that the topic of their last conversation did not come to pass. There was no Albertine on the Sands, and even without that frame of reference, it's impossible to know who her egg went to, let alone which egg it was. He approaches cautiously, not wanting to jostle her injured leg with an unintended jump. "How are you feeling?" Albertine looks toward the visitor after a slight delay — there's an empty glass on her nightstand among the books, and it still carries the heady smell of fellis, if diluted — and as neurons fire and realization dawns, she looks away, her cheeks coloring. Ashamed. Furious. You better come cheer for me at the Hatching. Stupid, stupid girl. But it doesn't last very long. When she looks at J'rel again, she only looks tired. It's hard to look him in the eye, either way. Like what happened — what didn't — reflects on her in a way that's hard to deal with. "Hey," she finally says with a forced grin. "Thought I'd take a couple days of vacation, I've earned it." The joke falls waaaaay flat, and she wrings her hands, and there's nothing she can say, nothing she can do, just deal, if she can. It's not clear whether she can. "They should have let you on the Sands," J'rel flat out says, coming to lean against the rail of her bed, ensuring he doesn't quite get to the point of sitting on it - he's not that familiar with her (yet?). There's a sense of annoyance from him that perhaps he shouldn't have, not being that close to the former candidate, but it hits that nerve. "You know. They could put a chair out there, prop up your leg. If your dragon was on the Sands, they'd come to you regardless of your ability to move." Something painful gently drains out of Albertine, and it seems like she lies flatter on her infirmary bed, deflated, enveloped in something beyond relief, as J'rel, through wisdom or through luck, abstains from giving her his pity. Pity would have killed her. She closes her eyes, opens them, and this time it seems she can keep her gaze steady on him. There's an ill-advised shrug that jostles her leg a bit, and she winces, then sighs. "Thanks for the thought. That's not how it works, though," she says. "Standing's one thing, but then you gotta take care of— of him. That's a lot of work, they say. Not an option if you're crippled. And, well, sometimes dragonets on the Sands get confused or upset and you really want to be able to jump out of the way." There's something on her face that looks like a grin but isn't. "Ask me how I know." Those eyes close again, and once more she looks so tired, and so taut too. There was that one egg. Now it's one of the dragonets in the barracks, and he has a name and someone loves him, and not thinking about that takes a monstrous amount of sustained effort. "S'fine, I'll just Stand again," she concludes, and exhibits a more careful shrug, like she isn't tormented by the thought her time maybe came and passed. But it's finally with more common Albertine-style annoyance that she adds, "Come on, you can sit, don't just stand there like that." J'rel is about to give another retort when he pauses and just lets out a defeated sigh. He's normally such a quiet gent, taking things as they're thrown having lived a life of rolling through the punches, but this, this annoys him. Fingers rhythmically tap against his leg as he tries to flush the excessive, unnecessary, drawn-out what-if commentary before it hits his lips. Even with her request for him to sit, and following the recommendation, those fingers continue to drum. "Yeah, you should Stand again." The past is over and it cannot be changed - although perhaps it's better he not know about ::between:: timing lest he try. "Maybe another queen will be proddy again." It's weird, isn't it. Practically speaking, Albertine isn't worse off than she was a few days ago — a stable life in a safe place; and a low rank, for sure, but all hope for something better is not gone, not yet. And yet somehow the maybe that didn't come to pass is a bleeding wound. It would be so easy, given a do-over, to change any one small thing — don't bathe Ariith, bathe him away from that one rock, hold tighter onto I'rian's hand, any one of an infinite choice of small changes and everything could be different. But it's this Albertine, in this bed, who has to say, "Yeah, for sure, it's what queens do." Studiously avoiding the point that the dragons of the next clutch will be different dragons, and if her blue was in this one, he won't be in the next, or any other clutch again. She grunts. "I don't like to put this on you, but hitting the latrines earlier knocked me on my arse harder than I wanna admit, so, would you mind a lot fetching me some water? I'm out." There's an empty pitcher on her nightstand. "Else, uh, I'll just hail one of the healers, it's not a big deal." "Well, proddy again soon, that is," J'rel sheepishly corrects, placing his drumming hand on his lap. It's what queens do, and greens, and soon to be his green as far as approximate ages go. And with that comes all the potential embarassment and none of the eggs. The simple request pulls him to his feet again, and thankfully back to the matter of Albertine and the present. He takes a half turn, looking towards the nightstand, right where the indicated pitcher sits. "Yeah, no problem, I can get it for you. Rest up, alright? We've got you." The greenrider takes a small step over, picking up the dry pitcher and holds it between his hands. "Do you want ice?" If the kitchen doesn't have any directly available, it's always a ::between:: away. In the fullness of time, the trouble of a first Flight and the torment of a missed Hatching will be but a memory, a shared point in time around which some improbable but valuable bonding occurred. The road there might yet be a little twisty. But it's fine. It's life. And after everything, it's this offer of ice that nearly breaks Albertine, because it's so gratuitously kind. She blinks rapidly and says, "Uh, actually, just water is fine. But, uh, thanks." She squirms a little in her bed, and winces and lets her leg lie still. "For this, and… and for coming to visit me. I appreciate it." There's some color to her cheeks, a tad. It's been weird, but less and less so, and J'rel is cool and she likes him. "Water it is, then." Shifting the pitcher forward slightly, J'rel bows his head out of respect of his… friend? "And, you're welcome. On all counts." He nudges his head over towards the entry of the Infirmary and comments, "I'll be back in a few, alright? Don't… uh, go anywhere." Hopefully that mild tease doesn't fall flat. With a pat of the pitcher with the hand not on the handle, he turns towards the door. To the kitchens and their water supply, and… perhaps a treat of a fruit or two as a surprise upon his return. Should Have Been You has 0 comments. |
The day after the Hatching, J'rel visits Albertine at the Infirmary. Backdated to the day after the recent Hatching. |
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