====August 31, 2013
====Br'er, Hannah; Atmanth, Dhiammarath, Khalyssrielth
====Unexpected circumstance: Br'er and Hannah meet on common ground and come away as friends.

Who Br'er, Hannah; Atmanth, Dhiammarath, Khalyssrielth
What Unexpected circumstance: Br'er and Hannah meet on common ground and come away as friends.
When There is 1 turn 4 months and 6 days until the 12th pass.
Where Star Stones, Southern Weyr



Star Stones
Jutting from the jungles, the caldera's northern most edge has been fashioned into the necessary star stones; two great boulders push up against the sky, weathering the winds that scour the ever-encroaching lichens that cling to the humid-moistened rock. A singular stone, so obviously man-made, serves as the eye-rock, long forgotten with only the wind's erosive touch to keep the greenery away. The stones stand upon the flattest point of the caldera, and any who climb the winding stairs, up the mountain's face, will be treated with a view worthy of the effort of the climb of the seemingly endless stone steps. Far and away, the entire weyr is exposed as are the vast jungles and terraced fields that dot the horizon. The Southern Barrier Range looms above the weyr, and from this vantage point, one can see the snows that clings to the summits. The winding Black Rock River sparkles far, far below. The ledge itself is small, however, so only a few brave souls and possibly one dragon could fit up here. With no handrails, the edge of the star stones's ledge offer a danger to the unwary who think to stand where the rock curves down into the bowl below.
It is Winter and 64 degrees. It is raining heavily and thundering.
On the perch is Pegasus.
Gold Dhiammarath is here.
Br'er is here.
Obvious exits:

-- On Pern --
It is afternoon
It is 4:07 PM where you are.
There is 1 turn 4 months and 6 days until the 12th pass.
It is Winter and 64 degrees. It is raining heavily and thundering.

Time has a way of quickening towards the end of something; the long build up stretching out like taffy to an inevitable conclusion. High, high above the weyr, the treacherously narrow stairway that leads up to the star stones is slick with the pouring rain. So close is the clash of thunder and the blink of lightning that washes everything out in the brilliance of white light. Hannah stands on the edge of the narrow outcrop that holds the weyr's Thread sundial. The wind whips the thin material of the garment that could be called a dress about her petite form. Pale hair has darkened to the color of cream and flaps about in straggly, wet strings while the storm crashes overhead. By this point, the junior weyrwoman has little care for what the others of the weyr might think: haters are gonna hate on what she does no matter what. If Pern had honey badgers, she'd be one; no fucks to give in these final hours.

Both accident and design bring Br'er here. Accident, because he surely wasn't looking to see if there was a WET CAT of a woman at the Star Stones when he and Inlayraith first appeared from Between some dragonlengths away, some fifteen minutes ago. They had hovered a long moment, then departed — for the leadership courtyard, for whatever reason. Design, because Br'er, his lifemate curled safe away in the dry warmth of a ledge, now comes climbing the steps. He is, sensibly, wearing a raincoat. He is also carrying another raincoat, tucked carefully to keep the inner lining dry. Coming to the top of the rain-slick stairs, he moves towards Hannah with quick, determined steps. And holds out the coat, without a word — though that slight eyeroll carries a sentence or two, doesn't it?

Oh Br'er. The ONLY male in the entire weyr that can come up upon these stones and not get immediately attacked: either lustfully or ragefully. Something about Br'er — it must be Inlayraith. Or the man's connection to Q'fex. The raincoat is allowed to be put around her shoulders, passive as the storm subsides. A flash of pale, pale hide can be seen flying just beneath the lower belly of the heavy skies. Inadvisable, to be sure. "Br'er." A greeting. Even the husky curl of her voice, carries only a remnant of the sultry air of previous days. "You care." Is that sarcasm given for the roll of his eyes, dripping from the near-shout that Hannah has to use to be heard over the storm. She half-turns towards him, profile given with the bowl and hazy views behind her. Lashes lower and water streams over her cheeks. "And here I thought you didn't." Still it is amusement, dangerous amusement that is woven through that statement.

The raincoat's not his: too big. Probably raided Q'fex's wardrobe again. At least that makes it a good cloak for a petite woman, right? "Inlayraith asked me to," he responds, voice loud, and thus harsh: not by design, but because of the storm. The distance of the statement is modified, immediately, by the addition of, "I agree with her. You'll catch a cold." Perhaps she's right to deem him no threat (nor temptation): the greenrider's examining gaze is brisk, thoroughly non-sexual, lingering on the wet dress only out of platonic concern. Brushing droplets off the rim of his poncho's hood, he catches her eye before flicking a thumb towards the north bowl. "If you want to be alone," Br'er says, voice cool, but not unkind, "you're welcome to my weyr." That would sound weird, except for the explanatory clause of, "I'm not using it."

<Southern Weyr> Dhiammarath senses that she is the sensual slide of cornsilk over bare skin, the hedonistic glory of a bubblebath indolent with the scent of rich oils and sweet, seductive jasmine. Her time is nearing, now, precious close: a day or two at most, with only the cold wet of the storm's fury to temper her desire, to stave off the inevitable. Until then her lanterns blaze with red-scalded light, her rock-garden turned into the lap of luxury, silken sheets over jewel-crushed sand.

"I'm too hot," Hannah's returning yell is not meant in any way to be sexual in nature, it's a simple matter of fact. With flushed cheeks, and eyes that glint feverishly, and the faint flush of warmth of her skin, the goldrider is, quite simply, running hotter temperature wise. "The rain feels good." The raincoat is suffered, though the woman doesn't back away from the edge, wanting to feel as high in the sky as her lifemate, but she does tuck her fingers around the edge of the coat's material and draw it around her: concession. She slants the greenrider a look, "Are you encouraging me to hide?" Yet Br'er's qualification has Hannah spinning on her heel to give the greenrider a much, much more thorough look. "Ahhhh. I see." Lashes lower, some coquettishness enters her tone. "He mades delicious sandwiches. Nut butter and jelly. My favorite." The smile that touches lips is feral, with a hint of tooth showing. YUM, YUM.

<Southern Weyr> Dhiammarath senses that Khalyssrielth freezes the storms wrath into icy, curling promise. A bitch to her core, she cannot allow the other to exist without the touch of winter's presence; instead she seeks to drive frostfire's wrath along the sensual slide of Dhiammarath's heated touch, freezing all that's left in the other's wake.

<Southern Weyr> Dhiammarath senses that Atmanth is all easy in the freeze and fire, that's life ain't it. Extremes and his well loved guitar strums to the music of the golds. « Hey Debies, you're given the cats around here mixed signals. Can ya dig? » Only his molasses drawl carries a wiff of amusement in his whiskey tones.

"That won't save you from sickening," reply-rasps Br'er, implacable. Though it's immediately softened - even as his expression does - as he adds: "Do you think I don't know how you feel?" He moves closer to stand by her side, pale eyes scanning the long, wet drop before he adds (somewhat quietly: they're near enough, now to not have to screech), "I always want to. When I don't want to fuck everything I see. Or want to do both. But," up he looks, at the pale flash of gold in the sky, contemplative. "Inlayraith," a curled up ball in the back of Kraakenhaeth's ledge, "is no Dhiammarath." There is an almost imperceptible pause at her tale of Q'fex's 'culinary' prowness. And then, at the corners of his mouth, the slightest hint of amusement. "You should have held out for something fancier."

"Ahhhh…" Something clenched tight within Hannah's chest is loosened. This is why Br'er is not seen as anything other than what he is: a fellow rider who can commiserate with exactly what she's going through. "The males never understand. Always wanting, always seeking to touch, to conquer, to have." Her own tone lowers now that they stand close enough beneath the storm's fury to not be required to yell. "Before, I wanted to fuck everything I saw, but now. Now, it is so close. I would give none of them the chance to cheat." The world could be ending when Hannah, shivering a little, leans just so slightly into Br'er's side. Lets not call it a huddle, shall we? Just enough to touch, but not enough to mean anything. It could be that she's reaching the end of her rope. "What can I say? I've a weakness for nut butter and jam. Perhaps, you'd suggest a grilled sandwich, instead?" She's definitely teasing, though the huskiness of tone doesn't go away. "She's beautiful, isn't she?" So connected are they.

Tone light, humorous, Br'er rasps, "Let's call them 'riders of males'. Indulge my pride a bit." Without comment or chance in expression, he moves to put an arm around her shoulder — the move considerate, not covetous. Warmth with no strings attached. His free hands scratches idly at the edge of a neat-trimmed beard, displacing a little cascade of water from his hood. "I always hate it," the greenrider says, thoughtful. "Or — love it. But when I love it, I always come back around to hating it. Or resent it, maybe, with the way it makes others view me." For Hannah has surely caught on to the awkward ways Nowtimer gender politics splash back on the male greenriding contingent. Sandwiches (and 'sandwiches') are a more comfortable topic: he smirks. "Grilled is a start. I held out for a full-course meal, thank you." A still, calm moment, pale eyes seeking out Dhiammarath above. "She is. Southern will be fortunate to have her children."

"I'll try," prim in this moment, Hannah is grateful for the warmth-without-strings, the non-covetous touch something not to be taken for granted. "I feel alive, but not myself. I feel as if I could conquer the world, but yet I am not that person. I would drive them to their knees, but that's not me." No whine cloys with the simple thought of her tone, these are statements of fact. A colder assessment of her emotions than she's thus far expressed, at least openly to someone else. "I'm sorry that for you, the ramifications are trickier." Sincerity has her head falling to the side, to rest against Br'er's side. Warmth and the chilly cold rain are conflicting feelings that both give shudder and flush to the goldrider's form. "If you'd been in my time… " The thought is left dangling, though, topic turning to: "Full course meal, eh? Is he — " Q'fex is very much male, " — worth a full course meal?"

"It's hard not to be jealous of the others. Of blue, and brown, and bronze." Again, that light, humorous tone: the Br'er equivalent of cool assessment, a way of holding a difficult concept at a distance, to be examined impartially. "They only have those emotions so - strong - during the flight itself. And can choose to leave." He is content to be a simple heat source, a solid presence to lean on: it's fairly obvious his mind is much more on his thoughts than on physical matters. Quiet, barely audible over the rain: "If I had been in your time, I would be a different man. Just as much as if I had Impressed bronze, in this time." There's a long quiet before he responds, after that. And this time, there's no distancing humor, only slow, uncertain sincerity. "I sometimes wonder if he realized, you know, how much it would — mean, that he was kind to me when I was in that cell. I was so tired, and… lost. Desperate for someone's comfort." A pause. "But he's never used it against me. Never pushed, or made demands." Br'er's free hand comes up, shoving under the hood: he's probably smoothing his hair down. He's predictable that way. "He could have. But he hasn't."

"They have it easy," Hannah's comment is dark, and though Br'er can't see for the way her gaze is cast out to the storm and the weyr that bustles below. "If they don't want to and they leave, they can find a willing partner in someone else. And they aren't denigrated for it." She falls silent, her voice holding to this cold calculation that — much like Br'er — holds these thoughts at bay. Giving them a bubble of distance that doesn't affect her. "I think we would all be different if another avenue had chosen us," the goldrider muses on this thought, "If I'd never been found where I was abandoned. If I'd never been fostered by my mother. Never Impressed. Or had Dhiammarath perished in the plague. If I'd never seen Thread." A silence is allowed to fall between them, which is then filled with Br'er's sincerity. "I'm glad, Br'er. Because everyone needs someone. As trite as it sounds, it… we are creatures made for kindness and touch. And each one of us deserve to find something to make us feel… valued." In the way that Br'er has his own uncertain tone to the sincerity, so to does Hannah allow a touch of wistful desire to her tone. "You are lucky." Said with no rancor; only an earnest and heart-felt sincerity.

"They do," Br'er admits. There's a faint aftertaste of rancor to it, to be sure: but the prevalent note is simple, wry acceptance. Things are what they are. They also suck, but there you go. He has little to say to her musings, save a small and thoughtful nod, and a murmur of, "I suppose we're all children of fortune, at the end of the day. Dragonriders more than most." Pause. His hand drops from his hair, and finds purchase on the stone barrier before the drop. "Especially once thread begins to fall." How many of Dhiammarath's children-to-be will perish to the extraterrestrial menace? How long will little Inlayraith go before her pretty clover hide is marred with threadscores? Br'er's thought pattern is writ clearly in his face — and maybe in the quickness he seizes on the somehow less fraught thought of warmth and affection. "We are. And I am." There's a moment, here. It's a little awkward. And then he takes a breath, and grins (rather cheekily, actually) before adding, "You'll find someone. And there's always Q'fex's sandwiches, for the less… ah, ineffable needs." In other words: hey, man, he's a dragonrider! He shares well with others.

How many children has she already seen of her lifemate's fall in the epic battle to win the livelihood of Pern? A catch of the woman's breath and the tension that comes to the small frame beneath Br'er's arm is the very physical reaction to the direction of her thoughts. Hannah's reply is long coming, but when she does respond it is to the topic of emotions and relationships; a safer topic by far. "I had everything once, Br'er." She sneaks a look up at the greenrider, the warmth of friendship sparkling in the depths of her green eyes. A strange day, indeed. "I can't expect to have it all again." Perhaps the proddy has put her into a maudlin mood, her gaze falling back to the rain-soaked weyr. "Mmmmm. Sandwiches." Definite tease, definite — warmth. So much has changed towards this man she used to hate.

There's a slight, subtle squeeze, an automatic reaction to that tension. Comfort unspoken. Br'er is more than happy to keep to the safer waters, unfamiliar as they are. His tone is thoughtful. "You never know. I used to think, you know, that you only had one shot. To be really, truly happy. And I'd missed mine." There's a world of old bitterness bubbling under the words, all the hurts of a life gone not quite as planned. And yet! The shrug that follows is simple, a thing more felt than seen, but there's an awkward strand of earnestness to the way he says, "Maybe there are multiple paths. To the same goal. You'll find another." Words of comfort and encouragement? Egads, they really have become friends, haven't they? Oh how the mighty have fallen! Or, perhaps - oh, how the mighty have found their common ground. "Speaking of actual sandwiches. I promised Inlayraith I'd try to lure you out of the rain." Because it is cold, and wet, and Inlayraith worries :( "I can play bouncer, if you want to go eat something. Or — do you play chess?"

"I suppose it doesn't hurt to have hope," Hannah's tone is soft, almost sad, but she doesn't linger on the emotion. As much as Br'er is closed off to some things, so does she snip things away and push them into the darker recesses of memory. The heat flowing through her veins from Dhiammarath has her awkwardly looking towards the long staircase down into the weyr proper. "If I promise to eat, can we go somewhere … where there aren't people?" She tips her head back to Br'er, a certain uncertainty — and not fear, but a lack of desire to get caught up in the rush of wanting to do things she shouldn't. It is most certainly a plea. Oh yes, how the mighty have fallen, but it's not too bad of a catch. "Maybe Inlayraith…" Can come get them? And then he can get food? And… "I like chess. Mother and I used to play chess. R'ave and I …" That is a topic that is best left untouched. A man 450 turns dead isn't going to do them any good.

"If you don't mind it being a little dusty," because he's spent most nights elsewhere, lately, hurr hurr, "I have a set in my weyr. No one will think to look for you there, either." It's not a perfect solution, but it's the best Br'er can do, and honestly given. Soon after, there is Inlayraith, gamely willing to face her fears for another's sake. And then a dry weyr, and dinner fetched. And the soothing distraction of chess, accompanied by light conversation: harmless gossip, a few light tales. An evening off, in fact! Shared between - of all the things - friends.
Add a New Comment