R'nyr | |
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Location | Southern |
Position | Wingrider |
Dragon | Osynarth |
Birthplace | High Reaches Weyr |
Played By | Kris Holden-Ried |
Description
There is a pale power to this man of the curling chestnut hair and the neatly-trimmed beard, a set to his rangy muscle and lean frame. He is not slight nor brawny, but the deft build in-between: a swimmer or a runner, perhaps. His freckled skin has the grace to tan instead of burn, thankfully, though his light hazel eyes are oft to squint in the sunlight, leading to copious crows-feet about the edges, testament to his age. His broad hands are equipped with long, graceful fingers, nicked with scars and lamented by time and work… hands accustomed to hard work and manual labor, much like the rest of him.
Standard issue leathers, better suited for the cold ::between:: than for the tropical south in dark browns and blacks. A hint of cream can be seen at the throat where undershirt peeks up from the jacket worn. Glinting around his neck is some tarnished chain though what pendant dangles from it remains to be seen.
Common Knowledge
- Born, Raised, Impressed @ High Reaches Weyr
- More Mercenary in his views of Weyr loyalty; secrets can be bought and sold.
- Recent turns, R'nyr has publicly chafed beneath High Reaches Weyr's rule.
- Osynarth has sired a handful of clutches in his 18 turns since maturity and only one has been at HRW. Some reason always existed to have R'nyr at another weyr when one of their junior golds went up.
- About the time Q'fex and Kraakenaeth were taken out by Thread, R'nyr started get interested into a transfer to the "progressive South" as he's been heard to call it.
Relationships
Osynarth: R'nyr did not Impress a weak-willed lifemate. From the moment his shell cracked, it became apparent that Osynarth soldiered a mercenary's soul. Together, they sway for he who has the heaviest pouch of marks or he who has the right strings to allow progression into power. R'nyr may have once sported a heart of gold, but for the black fires of his desire for personal that tarnishes the soul and directs the pair onto the easiest, most lucrative path taken. Neither bronze nor rider care for the secrets of their weyr, rumored as they are for having sold them more often than keeping them.
History
Cloudy with no chance of sunshine.
Gallery / Icons
Logs
Title | OOC Date | Cast | Summary | ||||||||||
Child's Play Child's Play
The Tipsy Kitten Here there be drunkards: a marble bar and the gorgeous array of colored bottles behind it would be enough to draw them in, but more yet lures those to enjoy the recreation the Kitten has to offer. Windows allow light to naturally illuminate the first floor of the tavern in the daytime, while green-tinted glows shine after nightfall. A door behind the bar leads to the tiny kitchen, while a stairway leads above to the rooms available for rent. Among the hubbub and the ruckus, a calamity of tables scatter through the open space, plenty enough for dragonpoker tournaments on restday eve. It's five o'clock somewhere, right? That's the mode that R'nyr is operating on by gracing the 'Kitten with his presence so early in the morning. Is it early? It could be; the expression on the bronzerider's face makes one think that the truth is a flexible ribbon to be twanged to one's desires. Currently sprawling at a table, taking up two chairs with one leg extended, the other bent at the knee with his forearm resting on top. Not quite touched, not quite untouched is the drink that sits to his side, hooded eyes more intent on the bar than on the drink. It’s definitely five o’clock somewhere for why else would a colorfully bedecked young woman be breezing into the Kitten as if she owned the place? Probably because just now she’s sloshing not swanning and resembling a drowned kitten more than the prowling, proud feline look she’d been going for. At first, said bronzerider isn’t given much of the trader’s attention, that being fixated on the pair of chunky, smelly wet-canine wildling men clamped to the bar as if it were a lifeboat. Coming to a halt somewhere near where the rider is sprawled, hazel eyes narrow in sly contemplation of those two lunks of Peeyoo! Victims! Erm, poor souls clearly in need of hygiene guidance. With lazy indolence, R'nyr reaches for his tankard and lets it dangle from the cup of his fingers. His intent? Watching Prymelia, brows raised. If this is a game, it's a game of watching. The foreign bronzerider watches Prymelia watching the stinky wildlings. With slow, deliberate movements the man brings the glass to his lips and tilts it just enough to get a sip between the cage of his fingers. He's content to watch. For now. With a quick flick of dark sodden mahogany locks over a shoulder (which just might scatter droplets over the lounging bronzerider) so that they settle to drip-drip down her back, slender hands smooth rain splodged skirts and straightening her shoulders, Prymelia SASHAYS up to the bar and somehow, manages to insert herself RIGHT between the two odiferous individuals. “Gentleman,” she purrs, tilting the loveliest of smiles to each in turn, “allow me to introduce myself.” Pause for dramatic effect and to ensure she has their attention. “Prymelia, Weyrtrader, at your service.” Up arches an expectant brow – names, please? A huff of laughter accompanies a quick exhalation that could be labeled a snort. Close enough to see what yon trader girl is doing, R'nyr decides to drop his leg to the floor and sit up. Leaning over the mug now, body angled to watch Prymelia's progress with the wildlings. Before the stinky men can answer, the bronzerider answers, "Useless. Their names are useless." The baritone is as smooth as silk and carries the unmistakeable reek of High Reaches in the melodious sound. Amusement could be thy name of expression, though hooded hazel eyes watch from the corners, the look sly. “Hoda…” Begins the one and then comes to an abrupt halt when the bronzerider speaks up. The other guy, the one that looks to be wearing a dead animal on his head, eyes Prymelia, wraps a dirty mitt about his darkly bitter ale and shoves off two chairs over. The hand that had cupped narrow chin within its palm slams down to the counter in an exasperated gesture when the rider foils her plans. Slowly, eeeever so slowly the young woman turns and fits R’nyr with a look meant to flay flesh from bones. For many long moments he’s held with that tight regard as Hoda-something scuttles off after his friend. “You,” Prymelia starts and pushes away from the bar counter, prowling over to where the bronzerider holds court with himself one of those lovely smiles in place on pretty lips. “…should never underestimate the power of a name.” R'nyr is a man, not boy; experience is the mistress that gives one the power to not wilt beneath a little girl's look. "Useless," he reiterates, silky undertones clinging to the sound of his voice. "Everyone that useless should be staked in Threadfall." The man holds no love for the Holdless and it's clear he likens the wildlings to holdless. "And you should never underestimate who you speak to, little girl." The twist at the end is entirely mocking and comes with the half-smile of the proverbial rake, hazel eyes glinting. Little girl? Temper flares and then edges with cunning amusement that darken eyes of similar hue to the bronzeriders. Without so much as a by-your-leave, said little girl parks her derriere on the edge of R’ynr’s table. Placing a hand to her side, she leans toward him and utters a soft tsking sound while she gives him one of those slow once-overs. “Now what fun would that be?” She counters. “One fall and it’s all over. Poof. Gone, just like that!” Her free hand lifts and fingers snap in the air. “My way, will yield results for a longer term of….how shall I put it…benefit?” Oh yes, he’s older, probably enough to have fathered her if he started with sowing the oats early on his life BUT, Prymelia comes from stern stuff and isn’t so easily cowed. In the presence of her bluster, R'nyr is a cold calm that yields little heat. The hooded mystery of his eyes contains a sharp calculation that yields a not-entirely-friendly presence. "The fun? In staking the useless in Threadfall? Would be to rid the world of harpies and beggars." With deliberate laziness, R'yn lifts his tankard to his lips and slowly sips it. He watches her over the rim with nothing to give his thoughts away. "Your way? You're a girl. How can you even rub two thoughts together to come up with an intelligent plan?" Derision is quiet; velveteen tone masks the sharp edge the question carries. Friendly, not friendly, clearly this is one young woman that either has terrible social intelligence or, and this is probably more accurate, she has a twisted idea of entertainment. "Aaaah, see," naturally husky alto perhaps a touch patronizing in response to continued words of belittlement, "that's where little girls like me," smirk, "have one over on the old folk, "like you, is unspoken, "our minds are still fresh and not dimmed by age." Prymelia returns, a sugar sweet smile for the cold calm that R'nyr holds to is flashed. "Those two creatures," long fingers flick in the direction of the chunky wildmen, "are dim and slow-witted like slow-moving oxen of that there is no doubt. BUT," up goes a finger in the air, "if successfully harnessed will pull to my will. Trading," her tone drops to a conspiratorial level, "is all about give and take. They're going to give, and I…am going to take until I have what I want from them." What was playful toying hardens to a cold danger that solidifies features into pure derision. Dislike is too far of a stretch; R'nyr leans back in his chair a smirk tugging at his lips. Either it is impossible to offend the bronzerider or he's efficient at hiding what true ire looks like. "Dear child," where hers was a touch, his is a bucket of patronization, "If you think playing with dim-witted men accounts for anything, then go for it. Play with your toys." He lifts the mug, halts. "Easy prey." Barely are those words out then he's tipping the glass back to take more than a sip, the adam's apple working and drawing attention to the scruff that lines his cheeks. Sliding the glass onto the scratched wooden table, the smile he turns onto Prymelia is nothing but cutting. A laugh, silvery and just as sharp cuts low across the air. “You’re a wily one,” Prymelia declares and wags a finger in R’ynr’s direction. “I like you.” CLEARLY she’s off her trolley and well into wherryshit insane territory. A smile, adorable in its presentation if one discounts the sharp glint of cunning in hazel regard, is turned out and she hops off the table. “Play your cards right and maybe I’ll let you have them when I’m finished with them.” Yay for used ‘toys’. “But only if you promise to keep calling me ‘dear child’,” there’s a little shiver executed with the flair of a harper on stage, hands clasp before her and the trader exhales a contented sigh. “It makes me feel all warm and FUZZY inside!” The snort delivered ruins the Orphan Annie impersonation, the calculating intelligence of a feral creature out to feather its nest given a brief blink of stage time before its gone, tucked away behind the pretty-pretty smile and bat of lashes. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a drink with my name on it somewhere behind that counter.” "How sweet," R'nyr's tone is poison and reeks of a blackness of the soul. "You think you're at my level." With slow, slow deliberation the bronzerider pushes himself to his feet, purposefully pushing into her personal space. His voice drops to the hiss of a whisper. "You're nothing, girl. But do. Do try to play with the big boys. I've not had such sport in a while." Up close, the hooded eyes that held enigmatic mystery are clear and hazel. The man's posture drips with indolent mockery — of her. "Run along and play with your toys. Your dim-witted prey await you." With the mockery of a two-fingered salute, R'nyr strolls with feline grace from the Tavern. Nary a care in the world seeming to burden his shoulders. In the narrowing of eyes and tightening of jaw are the exhibitions of temper flaming when R’ynr crowds her personal space with mocking words. For the briefest of moments, barely a heartbeat in time, those hooded eyes draw the young woman in, the adrenalin junkie enticed toward the edge of the abyss. With a slow dip and lift of thick lashes, the spell is broken and this time, Prymelia doesn’t hold back. “Any time you think you’re up for another round, old man, look me up. Two marks puts you on your back and wheezing before I’ve even gotten started.” Cue the taunting smirk so typical of the arrogance of youth and she’s brushing passed the bronzerider to close back in on the ‘oxen’ waiting at the bar, R’ynr dismissed with a toss of head. Child's Play has 1 comments. |
Toys are not thrown when youth and age collide. |
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Bone Collector Bone Collector
Docks In dark morn and dusky eve fog lies grim and humid against the still waters of Azov Sea. Only the noontime sun burns away the concealing clouds of man's height, revealing that which lies beneath the mist- an awe-inspiring stone pier that stretches far into the inland sea, to the east of the line of orderly boat-slips for the locals and larger, open spaces for transport ships. Fishermen are often as common as seagulls upon the pier's length in particular, ill-concealed and ill-clothed in the loose dun homespun of Southern's natives. Southern's spring and High Reaches's spring are two entirely different beasts. In this case, R'nyr has shed the riding leathers in favor of a loosely woven tunic and lightweight pants that meet a bad-boy fashion sense in shades of royal and blue. Leaning against a wooden post, the bronzerider is keen on watching the noonday sun burn away what fog lingers while idly using a sliver of wood to clean beneath his fingernails. Maybe he lies in wait. Prymelia has been South long enough that the shift in season toward Spring is still considered cool enough that she has a light shawl drawn about her shoulders. Currently, the young woman is angling toward a line of sturdily built sailors offloading a ship that had docked the night before when her path carries her passed where R’nyr is leaned. “Waiting for your ship to come in?” She quips flicking him a little smirk. "Nah," R'nyr's casual deliverance is uttered with complete and total ennui. He flicks a bit of nail grit onto the ground, barely giving the girl any measure of a glance. "Waiting to see if any young girls come to me requesting a discard of their unwanted baggage." Hooded hazel eyes flick to the trader girl, but otherwise seems less than inclined to instill any energy in his conversation. "It's amazing what baggage tends to show up." The wicked gleam of sharp smile is flashed down at the nails he's continuing to clean, "Out of nowhere. Like rancid socks." Up arches a brow, R’nyr set with a faintly amused look. “If you’re hoping to waylay me and relieve me of my goods once I’ve taken possession of them, you’re doing it wrong.” Prymelia tells him and then rocks forward on her toes in the rider’s direction tone and expression taking on a conspiratorial cast. “You’re not supposed to warn me first.” Is added with a saucy little wink tacked on for good measure. “You’d make a terrible bandit.” Is decided. "Would I?" R'nyr's comment is slow and drawled out, finally dropping his hands to his side so that he can affix an intense stare on the girl. "I care little for whatever meager possessions you might have, girl." His own expression remains bland, bored. "I think you'd be more careful with your words," pushing away from the post, he catalogs a wicked grin that only leaves his eyes colder. "Would you care for a ride, little lady? Into the frozen northern lands?" Like cool silk is his voice, a measured beast that utters such wickedness, "Where all your worries are cast aside into Between where they can't come back and haunt you?" He leans back and the mask of boredom slips back into place. Fingernails once more hold more interest than a speck of a trader girl. "Unless, of course, you happen to find someone who remembers your cares you tried so hard to rid yourself of." Half-smile, half-smirk, then: "Just saying." Having glanced in the direction of the ship to see one of her trunks offloaded and set to one side, Prymelia’s mouth curls about an anticipatory smile in the offering of her profile before her attention glides back to the rider and she finds herself set with that reptilian stare. Brows of deep mahogany dip, hazel eyes narrowing and temper twitches. “I have, a name…” she begins to admonish but is drawn up short in a matter of moments, color draining from her face. For a few moments the trader is frozen in place, stomach tying into a sickening knot of dread and then, glancing first left and then right, she steps up close, voice lowered to a tight hiss. “You don’t know nothing!” Attempt made to fob off the veiled threat. "Eh," R'nyr's response in the face of the dread of her anger. "I suppose I might not. I'm feeling a little like a memory might be tickling." He bites his lip and affects a deeply thoughtful mien, all the while rubbing his fingers together. "Shells, where did I hear that story? Or was it a story? I've visited a lot of taverns between here and there." He shrugs, but affixates a hooded gaze upon the trader, lips curling. "What do you suppose someone would pay to bury their secrets?" That dark thing which haunts in sleep and twitches in the recesses of her mind in daylight hours breaks free from its confines and surges upward, twisting and writhing shadowing pretty features and lending expressive eyes a haunted look. “What…” Prymelia croaks and then swallowing makes a determined effort to pull herself together. Slender shoulders square and her chin lifts, expression tightening at the suggestion of blackmail but can she take the risk of calling it a bluff? “What do you want?” Magnanimous is he, the favored bronzerider of the north as R'nyr straightens and lays a heavy hand of sweet friendship upon her shoulders. "Dear child, they're just stories in the night," his voice is low, but cold. A quiet purr of dark mystery though the eyes hold fast to their intensity. "Me? I'm but a simple man who likes simple pleasures." He gives her shoulders a squeeze and that knife-sharp smile spreads. He leans in to whisper something to Prymelia, lips barely a finger's width away from where her hair curls around her ear. Prymelia’s first instinct is to rip away from the weight of that hand on her shoulder but common sense and a sick twist of fascination keeps her in place, mouth defiant and hazel eyes lit with the amber of blazing anger. How dare he!! “Bull.Shit!” She cuts out in response. “You’re nothing more than a scavenger trying to feed off the bones of…” And then the warm wash of R’nyr’s breath delivers bone-chilling revelation against her ear. Lips part in a soft gasp and the trader jerks away, eyes wide. Having gone pale beneath her tan, the hands that set to his chest in a bid to shove the bronzerider away from herself, tremble everso slightly. Even as she's shoving him away, R'nyr is stepping back, lightly allowing quiet chuckles to escape parted lips. "We understand each other. Good." His eyes look past Prymelia to something beyond her, on the water. "There's a man gesturing to you, girl. Better run along now." On his heel, the foreign-turned-Southerner turns to slip away but he pauses, raising his brows at her. "Be careful," grin, "the scavengers don't pick your bones clean, child." Condescension reeks through quietly uttered words, sharp and rancid. Then? Why then, the man turns and walks away, without a by-your-leave or fare-the-well. His stride is gratingly buoyant as he lopes through the docks until he disappears. With R'nyr stepping back as she shoves at him, forward momentum sees to it that Prymelia stumbles a step. Having to grab a hold of his tunic to stop herself from falling at his feet (Dream ON, bronzerider!), does little to improve the young woman's state of extreme unease. Teeth bare in the manner of a small animal backed into a corner. "Go fuck yourself." She grates out in a show of bravado, glaring daggers at this back as he saunters off without a care in the world. Under any other circumstances, she might have appreciated that tight ass as it meanders away but right now fantasies surrounding personal bodily harm are all that streak through a frantic mind. Only once R'nyr is well and truly gone from sight, does Prymelia exhale the breath that had been trapped in her chest and with uncertainty in her step she turns and heads for the Seacrafter waving to get her attention. Bone Collector has 0 comments. |
Things that go bump in the night. |
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Literary Advancement Literary Advancement
Archive Library Where once books reigned supreme, this open space is now dominated by a stalwart skybroom reaching to the sky through a broken ceiling. What was once evidence of collapse is now ornately carved with engraved ivy, matched by a clever contraption of stone that allows the gap to be closed in inclement weather. A small garden occupies the space around the tree-trunk, all manicured bushes and flowering shrubbery enclosed by a grated gutter. The walls are lined with bookcases, while a spiral staircase leans on the western wall to wind upwards to the second level. Tucked in the corners and scattered in the main areas are tables and chairs, cafe-style, and comfortably worn overstuffed armchairs. It is the perfect place for individuals to gather, to enjoy the offerings of the food-cart or a spirited conversation. Timor: Belior: Quiet repose fills the weyr tonight, at least here, far from the come-and-go of the nighthearth and the Kitten, or for that matter the kitchens, where drudges race around to get things ready for the next morning. Here, in the library, it's hushed and quiet and above all dim, with few glows still uncovered. One of the small baskets is nearly on the lap of a young woman curled up in a vast wing-backed chair close to the skybroom, and it casts ghoulish light on her face and beyond, making her shadow against the wall a humpbacked, ill-at-ease thing. Next to her, balanced precariously over the arm and one half of her lap, is a gigantic tome of some sort, heavy enough that fingertips turn white with pressure when she has to shift it. Just because Rukbat flees the skies when night comes doesn't mean a rider's duty is ever done. R'nyr's saunter into the library is a thing of loose limbs and predator's ease. His gait takes him past rows of books, fingers dragging along their spines with irreverent ease. "Lalalala, books." In one hand a glass glitters in what light is cast off by the scarcity of uncovered glows, a half an inch of deep, amber liquid sloshing around. "So, utterly, inescapably boring." That's the moment he spots Dione, who gets a sardonic glass tip just before taking a sip and turning back to the books. Hmm. Not the usual one hears from a new entrant to the library; R'nyr's form is scanned by Dione, as is the glass tipped her way, before a smile curves into being. "Pray tell," she asks after an interval spent ensuring that the bookmark is slipped in and the book is closed, "what would make this night more entertaining?" The drawl is Neratian in origin, thick, but with the slight slurring of a frequent traveller. She keeps on staring, though it's with a knit brow, perhaps trying to place his face somehow, and failing. "Thread?" R'nyr throws back, his voice bouncing off the books in front of him since he chooses to not turn around. "Something more than a dark room full of dusty old books." Finally, pivoting on a boot heel, the man regards the teenager with what can only be a laconic boredom. His own voice is clipped in pure High Reaches as he's a 'Reachian through and through. That earns a soft laugh, muffled behind the book as Dione lifts it slowly upright. She hefts it into one arm's crook eventually, standing and moving off to return it to the closest shelf. "High Reaches, aye? What a place it must be, if Thread at midnight is deemed entertainment." The thought tickles her enough to let the laugh fade naturally, and she ambles closer, head tilted. "Mad flying and the threat of death or grievous injury, hm?" A jovial essence settles on the half-smile R'nyr portrays, watching the girl's approach from over the rim of his drink. "You've no idea what High Reaches is like, girl." The silky purr of his voice is indolent, brows arching a fraction. "It's not a crime to want excitement. A thrill exists to fighting Thread that a young girl couldn't possibly understand." The lone floater of ice in his glass clinks against the sides when it's tilted again for a sip. Dione's shoulders lift and fall; the accusation is not an unjust one, as she's never been to High Reaches. "I've enough experience with what riders term entertainment," she returns drily. "One does when you're a bartender long enough. But you're correct, I've little enough experience with flying against Thread, not being a rider. I've enough experience on groundcrew though, to know that it's hot and filthy and frightening. You take care of the vast majority of it, but we don't have dragons to blink us between and freeze it." There's a little core of strength to that answer, then a tip of her head to the amber liquid. "What's the tipple of the night?" Impolite to lean in and sniff it, after all. "Experience," R'nyr's smile is not exactly friendly but neither is it essentially unfriendly. "Funny word coming from a young girl. I suppose it's easy enough to listen to a bar's gossip." The sweep of his eyes across her form is just shy of derisive of her fairer sex, though at least he doesn't voice his now-time misogyny. "Whiskey. Top shelf. I only dabble in the good stuff." As for her description of Thread, it only garners an amused look and the scratch of his thumbnail along the edge of whiskered jaw. The 'young girl' smiles. Even the apparently scant experience of eighteen turns have taught her something about men: don't confront them where they're most muleheaded. "No light flirtation to ease the night for you then?" she asks idly, watching him steadily from misty-mint eyes and an expression of idle content. "If not, S'pose you tell me what it's like to fly Thread then. Or is it inexplicable for you too?" That is a matter of some pique, being told again and again that it's inexplicable. "Flirtation?" R'nyr outright laughs at that. "Shards no, girl. The last thing I want is some chit trying to cut her milk teeth on me." He snaps his teeth with an audible click. "It would end in tears and they wouldn't be mine." The glass is shaken, getting that lone floater bobbing and clinking against the sides. "It would be impossible to describe what fighting Thread is like to someone who can't understand what having a dragon is like." He pauses, cuts a sharp smile. "No offense or anything." Not that he sounds all that sincere, but assholes rarely are. "Ah," Dione opines, making herself at home on the nearest chair's arm. "How very mysterious all of you are." That's not even the slightest trace of mirth with that, and her gaze darkens a bit, not quite so friendly. "None taken," is said next, and her hands fold on her lap; "I must say, what with yourself and D'rak, are all northern riders as close-mouthed and mean-spirited? Makes me glad I got away whilst the getting was good." Pause. "Whiskey's your drink then?" Friendly? Friendly is not R'nyr's middle name, no. So the darkening of her demeanor only causes the half-smile to appear, dimpling one side of his face beneath the sandy scruff. "Mean spirited? Don't recall the truth being counted as mean spirited. Imagine trying to explain how your arm is attached to someone who was born without an arm. It's like that." Not that the bronzerider is all that worried over his not-so-pristine reputation. "I've got a lot of drinks. Whiskey being one, yes." "With skin and gristle and meat and bones," Dione parries, drawing on the childhood cothold memories she'd almost forgotten. Thanks R'nyr! "But I take your point." Her eyes dip to the glass, and mouth furls into a thoughtful line. Something's lodged in that mind of hers, and the smile that slips back up is friendly, gregarious. Total bartender-face, really. "I'll inform Sevreni then, in case you show your face at the Kitten again." Misogyny is only allowed to stretch so far, after all, but there are more drinks to be banned than just the aforementioned whiskey. "Mmm," R'nyr's response is noncommittal at best, amused by the shifting display of emotions across the girl's expression. From friendly to dark and stormy to friendly again. "My thanks to you, girl." Again the dimpled half-smile appears as the glass is drained, "I won't say no to a free drink." Not that she mentioned free drinks, but he'll take it there. Laying the glass on the shelves, pressed against the spine of the books. "Take care." That's his exit. It does come with a half-assed salute and cheeky smile before sauntering his way out of the library. Dione's smile only increases in wattage, pique rendering it a brilliant thing. "Not at all!" she calls out as he leaves, though she wrinkles her nose at the press of the glass against the books' spine. "Have a good night, and clear skies tomorrow!" With that she waits until he's gone, then goes to fish the glass away with a huff. "Honestly. Some people." Literary Advancement has 0 comments. |
In the dark, two strangers have a differing opinion of books and other things. |
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Upon a Midnight Clear, Chaos Reigned! Upon a Midnight Clear, Chaos Reigned!
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Living Caverns Grand and spacious, the cavern curves high aloft in naturally-vaulted ceiling that soothes any sense of claustrophoba. Rich woods line the cavern floor, varnished and stained a rich mahogany, while round tables scatter about candlelit and intimate. The largest table lies southerly next the sideboard, long trestles that seem oriented to providing for the weyr's youngest. The rich blue of Azov can be seen from a distance in good weather, when the heavy stone doors covering the entrance are allowed to stand open. Timor: Belior: -- On Pern -- The weyr has been on edge for nearly two sevens, Dhiammarath taking her agonizingly sweet time to come to full glow. The waiting — oh the waiting. Speaking of waiting, there's a line for the buffet, and K'ane is standing there with a plate in his hand, waiting. Always waiting. D'ren was here not too long ago, and he's back again. Why? Well…lots of reasons, including some he's invented. With Linden still sick in bed, the bronzerider really doesn't have much reason to be here, but…here he is. "K'ane," he says, stepping up behind the oldtimer with a wry grin, and getting a plate. K'ane tosses a look over his shoulder, and actually does a double-take: "D'ren?" His gruff voice has a hint of surprise to it, followed by a quick grin. "Here t'see your boy?" The line shuffles forwards a half-step. D'ren returns that grin, and he nods. "Yes, but he's still sick in bed. Personally I think he just doesn't want to go back to that ice hold." He chuckles. "How've you been?" "Ha. S'cold down there," K'ane states, captain-obvious, bland. "Th' wildlings seem to love it, though. But they are a… strange breed." He shakes his head. "Oh, I've been good. Been interestin' adapting to Southern. You? Y'still at — Ista, isn't it?" D'ren tilts his head. "Wildlings?" he asks in mild interest, shuffling forward another half step in the dinner buffet line. "Ista, yeah," he says with a nod. "Been doing fine." There's a brief hesitation. "Thanks for Searching my boy." "Wildlings. Uh, from what I can tell, when old Southern died out from th' Comet, the holders left behind kinda… went native. They're an odd bunch." K'ane scratches his eyebrow. "Huh? Oh. That's all Dhioth, but you're certainly welcome." He hitches a half-grin to the fellow bronzerider. At least one unsuspecting victim, erm, visitor, is unaware of the waiting and saunters into the living caverns with a sheaf of hide in hand and brows crinkled in concentration. "Where the shards am I supposed to find one of those?" Mutters Igen's Weyrsecond into his beard, steering on auto-pilot to where drinks have been set out, the food ignored all the time spent in the Southern Weyr having mapped certain locals to instinctive path. And then a familiar voice and Cha'el's head jerks up. "K'ane." D'ren shrugs, "Yeah, I know. Still. He certainly seems to be loving it down here." His eyes travel thoughtfully around the cavern, and he smiles. "Huh. Interesting. Makes sense though, that they might do that." Shuffle forward another step in the buffet line. He turns at the approach of another, dipping his head in a respectful and silent greeting, since he's not the one being addressed. Ty'ai walks in from the Lower Bowl. Hannah's entrance is probably more felt than heard; something different exists about the goldrider today. Gone is the woman that struggles against Dhiammarath's proddy time, and in its wake is a woman refreshed. The strain of the past days has melted away, leaving her expression clear with a sensual bounce to her step. She's dressed fairly casually, honestly, for a proddy goldrider: modest sundress of emerald green to match her eyes, that exposes only the soft curves of shoulder and a length of thigh that's not indecent. She's shoe-less which leaves her standing at her natural height, which is not so impressive at all. The crisscross back of her dress is hidden by the waterfall of pale hair, and while she might be dogged by males, she doesn't let this deter her. What does she do? She cuts her ass in line, directly in front of someone or another and plucks a creamy delight right off the table. "Faranth. Ardstelle. I could kiss you." Yules walks in from the Lower Bowl. "Cha'el," K'ane replies, his expression not-quite a grin, not-quite not. Maybe more of a smirk than not. "How's Igen these days?" The Weyrlingmaster lifts his brows in a fair, unvoiced question: and why exactly is Cha'el here? To D'ren, "I'm glad. He seems like a smart, good kid." Another shuffle, and he POINTEDLY IGNORES Hannah. God, Hannah. Shouldn't you be closeted up with a certain tree-tall weyrmate?
Upon a Midnight Clear, Chaos Reigned! has 0 comments. |
15 Jun 2014 07:00 |
Arianne, Cha'el, Dione, D'rak, D'ren, Hannah, G'deon, K'ane, R'nyr, Ty'ai, Yules; Caelth, Sikorth, Ronith, Aikuonath, Dhiammarath, Nylanth, Dhioth, Osynarth, Taodath |
Southern's Leadership flight ends with an unexpected and cruel ending. |
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Title | OOC Date | Cast | Summary | ||||||||||
Men, Mountains And Mayhem Men, Mountains And Mayhem
Hillside Path Winding around the mountain, the pathway is not buried within the jungle as some of the other, more overgrown pathways may be. Instead, the relatively easy little dirt trail-head is bordered by stones buried in clinging greenery, with lichen and other moss and fungus holding fast to their stony faces. The dirt is loamy, easy to walk on, and provides a good grip to those who would walk barefoot through the pathways that lead down to the river's edge. The pathway itself is a series of switchbacks to allow for an easier time climbing and descending. In the distance to the east, the winding Black Rock River beckons. If Pernese didn't know any better, they might think that this beautiful spring day was handcrafted just for them. Rukbat's butter yellow light is warm enough to toast the jungles, but not oppressively hot. It is hot enough to require one to wear less rather than more, which has prompted Hannah to attire herself in a loose sundress with thin-straps that does much to hide her lingering post-pregnancy plumpness. The white dress with the splashes of yellows and blues is as vibrant as the day, and while her dress and shoes aren't what one would call 'hiking attire', the woman seems determined to make her way up the trail, pausing at the pinnacle. White-blond hair is pulled back into a long braid and one hand shades her eyes, the entirety of her attention directed towards the snowy-peaked mountains that seem to hold the day's allure. Hannah is working her way up and Prymelia is practically skipping her way down. With a basket in hand and mahogany tresses coiled into a messy bun that leaves tendrils forming a soft frame about her face, colorful skirts are a vibrant ripple of color about her ankles as she moves. Above her head the pair of firelizards flittering back and forth appear to be trying to follow the cheerful ditty she’s singing with sweet chirrups and croons. And then a familiar face is spotted and the trader comes to a swaying halt and turns in the direction Hannah is staring. “Exciting isn’t it? Have you been up there yet?” Beat. “Oh, and good morning!” Bright, cheerful and full of the joys of, well, Spring, it seems. "It is exciting," Hannah's tone is also light, carefree; a husky sound of contentment that's roughened only by an overall lack of sleep. Shading her eyes, the goldrider turns on Prymelia, lips twitching to a smile. "Seen any ghosts recently? No ghost girls exploring ships in the dark?" It's a light tease, full of warmth and laughter. "I haven't been yet. I need a little longer before I can between." Momentarily, her brows furrow but the expression is smoothed away quick enough that it could have been entirely as a result of Rukbat's burning light in her eyes. "And where are you off to, basket in hand?" A more sedate follow up, though no less cheery: "Good morn to you as well." “I can’t wait to go up there. I can’t take Soot and my wagon but I’m hoping to wangle a lift from a rider for a bit of a look-see. I have blankets. They’ll need blankets won’t they? And warm socks. I’ve been working on those too.” Babblelicious Prymelia is, hazel regard dancing with the thrill of a new adventure which spills over into a laugh and a wrinkle of lightly freckled nose for Hannah’s tease. “No. But there have been rather a few new faces arriving of late.” Bronzeriders, brownriders, weavers. “Oh. And congratulations. A son, aye? Th’seus must be so proud.” For what man doesn’t want a son. Her empty basket noted, the trader sends Hannah an enigmatic little waggle of expressive brows. “Shopping for a man.” Must be a very small man she’s after. "I have heard it is extremely cold up there," Hannah answers lightly, squinting up at Prymelia. "Thank you," this comes out rather demurely, a blush staining her cheeks. "He is. We both are very proud. He's a little screamer, though. This is my first excursion out away from him, but I have to get myself used to it." To being away from her newborn child. "So he gets to be with his father for a bit." Hannah's life is not the domestic life of a mother, and the struggle can only briefly be seen behind the friendly facade. "There are a number of new male faces." This gets the goldrider to wrinkling her nose. "They all want one thing, Prymelia, and it's not to enjoy our fair jungles." Green eyes narrow, taking in the trader and then turning to view the mountains. "I think someone would gladly take you, and I think the idea is to build at least one way station for weary travelers. And you can always ferry your runner across. Not so much a wagon, though." She squints back at Prymelia. "Wagons tend to sink across the seas." Oh, ho ho. "Shopping for a man? Do tell." “It must be hard,” Prymelia’s expression and tone both turn sincere for the matter of a first time away from one’s newborn babe. “You want some time to yourself but also worry that no one will take care of him as well as you do.” Spoken as if she were a mother herself. A soft snort marks the change in conversation and what it is male riders might be after. “If they think I’m about to offer a ride for a ride they can think again. This,” a slender hand flows down her willowy frame, “don’t come cheap.” Smirk. Of course there is the matter of what one rider in particular might want but only in the darkest and most lonesome hours does the thought break free to darkly mock. A quick smile bats the matter away. “I don’t think Soot would like a ferry very much.” Amusement deepens then and she swings her basket lightly back and forth. “He’s an almost-man. About your height, mop of blonde hair and the sweetest smile.” A pause in which her smile slips a little. “He’s leaving and so I want to get him something to remind him of Southern.” "It is. Especially when my body physically behaves — well. I don't need nor want to go into the details of that." Hannah's laughter is light, following the rueful shake of her head. "Keep that, hold to it. Although I think you should be mostly safe here. Most of those brown and bronzeriders are sniffing around Lendai and Talicanitath. The lure of the shiniest of knots is hard to resist. Especially with every male within a planet-wide radius thinks of goldriders as glorified breeders and not worth her weight." The junior might seem a touch bitter, and it is possibly true, but there's more of a world-weary exhaustion when it comes to this Pern's now-time males. "Oh Nathanael." A soft smile curves Hannah's lips as attention wholly turns upon Prymelia. "That is a lovely idea. He gave me a leave-taking gift. His baby blanket that my son uses even now." Curiosity sparks, "What are you thinking of getting him?" Prymelia flashes a knowing smile filled with theoretical understanding for the weyrwoman’s first. “My mother was…I mean is a midwife for our clan.” That said she glides on to the next topic with a roll of eyes. “Men! Honestly, is there no way for a goldrider to sway her dragon’s choice? To something a little more bearable and beneficial to the Weyr as a whole because if that smarmy bastard R’n…” Click. Teeth snap shut and she chases after a subject far more agreeable. “Yes, Nathanael. Awwww,” pure melty the expression that drifts into place, “he gifted you his own baby blanket? That is just adorable! You know, I think of all the people I’ve met since moving here, he’s the one that seems to just radiate Rukbat wherever he goes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him be mean to anyone, ever. He’s a special kid so I want to get him something special but I don’t know what. I’m hoping something might jump out at me down the Boardwalk.” A pause in which she tips her head to one side and sets the challenge Hannah’s way, “Any ideas?” "It's more difficult than you think," Hannah comments, "It's like moving a mountain of pure emotion. You have to keep so much control in the beginning to ensure she just bloods and doesn't eat. The desire for flesh is overwhelming, to satisfy a hunger you can't begin to understand yourself. Or, I can't. Since I am not a dragon," the goldrider laughs a little at that. "Sometimes, concessions are made and sometimes the choice is more hers than yours, but also not. Because you want what she wants. And when she finds her perfect mate, so do you. Until it's all over and you come back to yourself and your desires are yours again." This is how Hannah experiences flights, at least. "I think the boardwalk is a good place to begin. I would start first with a bundle of tiny trinkets from the weyr. Palm woven bracelet, a feline's tooth on a necklace of hemp. Maybe put together a bottle of sand for him to take with a few rocks from the Azov beach." The woman meets the trader's challenge with gentle words, "The best gifts are ones you make yourself." It's not that Hannah did not catch Prymelia's slip, but that she waits to the end to quirk a brow in silent, but authoritative, query. "Smarmy bastard?" Simple question that evokes so much demand for details. Beneath the honey hue of Rukbat’s kiss across her skin, Prymelia pales a little, a delicate shudder passing through her for the explanation given. Wide eyed she merely stares at Hannah for a moments and then catching herself clears her throat and wets her lips. “That uh…that sounds…rather tricky.” She ends lamely, her mind simply incapable of providing any other descriptor, the look she fits the petite goldrider with filled with sympathy for what it is she must endure whenever Dhiammarath goes up in a mating flight. In a distracted murmur she echoes the suggestions made for mementos she might put together for the young seacraft apprentice until finally a small smile once again appears. “I like those ideas. Perhaps we could work on it together? Go on a bit of a scavenger hunt for the bits and pieces and…” Crap. So much for thinking she’d gotten away with it. “Oh its nothing. Just a disagreement had with one of the new bronzers. You know how they can be. All ego and swagger. Its nothing.” Waved off with a gesture of hand and an airy smile. "It is tricky. And invigorating. It's like a rush of blood to the head and all you feel is a hedonistic desire to touch, taste, and you crave the things your lifemate craves." Hannah does not seem to be troubled by this aspect of her life, for she has a rider's practicality when it comes to such things. "The hardest part is control, and didn't I hear you stood for Igen's last? You might someday find yourself paired with a female dragon, Prymelia." Light tease, that. Though the goldrider is easily captivated by the trader's suggestion, both hands coming up to tuck stray wisps of pale hair behind her ears. Her hands linger about her jawbone before dropping to swing against her sides. "Disagreement?" A glitter comes to emerald green eyes that's so at odds with the innocuous cant of her head in the other girl's direction "What do you mean? Did he do something to you?" Carefully crafted, yet her tone hovers on the knife's edge of dangerous. Call it morbid fascination but the more Hannah expands so the more the mahogany-haired trader leans closer hanging onto every word as if it might be the last she is ever to hear. Until that last comment that is. That draws a short bark of amusement from Prymelia. “Flynn’s don’t impress. Well, not dragons any way.” There a wicked little grin appears. She’s about to add more on the matter when the goldrider presses on the matter of the disagreeable bronzerider. Hazel regard shades and drops and then lifts to the very mountain range Hannah’s gaze had been turned to carefully avoiding those penetrating green eyes. “No. He’s just an ass. Thinks he’s all that when really, he’s just a miserable old man clearly in need of getting laid.” Cue the haughty sniff. A twitch of her lips suppresses the hint of feral smile, though Hannah also tears her gaze away. Back to the mountains for quiet contemplation that's broken only by a single word comment, "Men." Luckily, she does not have much to do with the bronzeriders of late — it is all Bailey and Lendai capturing their attention. "Be careful. I will be happy to help you with your project for Nathanael, unfortunately Etheran is awake and I'd better get back to the weyr before Th'seus goes mad." Lovingly stated, it is clearly an oft-used joke for all the late nights with a newborn. "Take care of yourself, and maybe later this afternoon we can go to the boardwalk." Of course, it will be with baby in-tow, but who's counting that? "Take care and stay clear of wily brown and bronzeriders.. They are… worse than usual right now." Considering so much is at stake with Khaly's flight and Talicanitath's coming flight. Hannah, at least, is safe from the proddy chaos and so with a jaunty wave, the young goldrider takes herself back towards the weyr. Although aware of what’s at stake in terms of a big fancy knot being up for grabs, not being a rider has its advantages too. And so, Prymelia merely smirks at the advice given on otherwise male riders. She can handle it!! Maybe. Probably not. A light laugh follows. “It amuses me how the tiniest scrap of humanity can terrify men so.” Her too if she’s honest but Prymelia very rarely is with herself. “Until later then. I’ll keep an eye out for you.” A warm smile follows Hannah’s departure and after a last longing glance back the way of the beckoning mountain, the trader continues to wend her way back down in the direction she’d been going, brows stitched together telling a far different story to the cool, calm and collected she’d shown the weyrwoman. Men, Mountains And Mayhem has 1 comments. |
20 May 2014 07:00 |
Prymelia and Hannah catch up briefly |