====October 21, 2013
====El'ai, Maosa
====El'ai finally confronts Maosa. It ends poorly.

Who El'ai, Maosa
What El'ai finally confronts Maosa. It ends poorly.
When There are 0 turns, 11 months and 3 days until the 12th pass.
Where Training Grounds, Southern Weyr

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training_grounds.jpg

Training Grounds
A broad and sheltered swoop of bowl lies bare for the talons and tread of countless weyrlings that-will-be, encased by stone scoured and scarred by those-that-were. Dirt lies as neatly as dirt can lie, swept and raked daily, at the mouth of the caverns that must indubitably be the weyrling barracks. Devoid of decoration, the place stands strangely absent of pressence when empty, the everpresent wind of Southern giving strange acoustics to those under the shelter of the towering bowl-wall.
It is Summer and 95 degrees. It is a bright, sunny day.
To the southeast, you see a bronze and a green dragon and one runner.
On the perch are Pele and Magrat.
Bronze Qianvaelth, blue Osweith, and bronze Sekhaenkath are here.
You see Flamer Charging Unit here.
Maosa is here.
Obvious exits:
Weyrling Barracks Training Pens Upper Bowl//


-- On Pern --
It is evening
It is 8:34 PM where you are.
There are 0 turns, 11 months and 3 days until the 12th pass.
It is Summer and 95 degrees. It is a bright, sunny day.




A hot summer evening finds a few of the youngling dragonets outside, riders in tow. Osweith and Maosa are to be found a little ways away from the others, though still close enough to remain under the AWLM's watchful eye. The wild girl is, specifically, sitting on the fence, with her lifemate flopped on his back in the dirt, attempting (with, it must be said, more agility than your average baby dragon) to wiggle under the lowest plank. He keeps being forestalled in his attempts by a foot that keeps getting in the way — which seems to be the subject of conversation. "— Yeah, fine, when you're older, but I told you. You'll fall asleep on the way if we go there. And I'm not dragging your butt across the Bowl." Some inaudible response earns a silent scowl, its meaning clear: NO.

Does Maosa have a lurker? A stalker? A doe-eyed boy that's just been waiting in wait for Maosa to be alone? Should Osweith's stalker-song also have applied to El'ai? Because he's here, with a crumbled clutch of raggedy flowers that look as if they've been sniffed a few too many times. Sekhaenkath lurks close by, enflaming darkness a dark presence of fae-lights and twilight forests. "Ahem." The bronzerider steps closer, and with high spots of color in his cheek, he holds out this sad little crumbled handfull of crushed wildflowers with a sweet, sweet smile. "Congratulations." Does she know him? "On Impression." In case she was confused. Then he wiggles the flowers, which cause the petals to tumble to the ground like colorful confetti. Y'know. Just in case she didn't know if she should take them or not. See that smile? It's sweet and earnest and totally not creepy.

There is a long moment, after El'ai offers the flowers. Maosa and Osweith, cautious from the moment of first approach, both go statue-still at the sight of them. The human half has an expression of absolute blankness, accompanied by the sort of startled-animal STARING that they'd just started to wean her off of. Her fingers grip the rough wooden beam with knuckle-whitening intensity. It's not entirely a pointless gesture: the fence is shaking, because Osweith is suddenly and hastily wiggling back out from under it, flipping gracefully onto his forefeet, back arched, wings half-unfurled. WEIRD. Her dragon's movements finally shake Maosa from her silence, but it's not to El'ai that she speaks first: "Osweith!" It's a complaint and a caution, both. "Um listen " this is to El'ai, finally, " thank you and everything but — Osweith."

Blink. Blink. Blink. "But Osweith?" Did El'ai just gloss over all that foreboding action that's just occurred between Maosa and her little feline-esque blue? Sekhaenkath has a touch of the feline to him, too, and watches the proceedings with a kind of 'I-keel-you-with-my-mind' expression before wandering off. Babies are not his thing. "Oh. I should give this to Osweith, but they were for you because you Impressed and you're so," that soft, mooning expression is abruptly brought in check. "A weyrling. Right. Here, Osweith!" The flowers are awkwardly waggled in Osweith's face so he can what? Eat them? "He's really pretty. The prettiest of the entire clutch." Sorry Jiamoth — Maosa takes the cake in El'ai's eyes and since he can't reference her, well. Osweith wins. "I don't want to scare him." Does he seem uncertain? It's hard to tell with the bronzerider, his expression is so damnably earnest.

Osweith is trying. Honest. You can SEE the way he's attempting to soothe his (metaphorical) ruffled fur, the subtle flattening of the spine, the slow and cautious rucking of wings. He is a normal, handsome little blue, nothing suspicious, nothing that should draw the attention of an unknown and unknowable THEM — oh uh El'ai maybe… "I don't think he likes flowers." Maosa's bare foot comes down on her little lifemate's shoulder, a gentle little stroke carefully delivered to a dragonet who is clearly freaking out and trying not to freak out and freaking out even more because of it. She seems herself uncertain, now, but when she hops down from the fence it's with the planks between herself and El'ai, and it's with her rumpled form between him and her live-wire dragonet. The wild girl stares at the bronzerider, unblinking, for a too-long moment. Finally, the grudging result of too many lessons: "He is pretty. Thank you."

Finally, the lack of a good response penetrates El'ai's brain and he draws himself up, opening his hand as he does so to let the flowers fall like little crushed things to the ground. "Oh." He can't look at Moasa, embarrassment turning his cheeks pink and causing him to blink his eyes furiously. He is not a predator, but more prey. "Well." This is muttered now, as the young man starts to back-pedal his way out of this terribad situation. "I just wanted to you know say congratulations because it seemed like you were maybe not as — didn't have as much people to tell you that and I know when I'm alone and don't have no one it's nice to have people tell me thatbutanywayIjustwantedtotellyoucongratulationsandI'msorryifIupsetyourblue." The last is given in such a rush that the words come out as all one giant word.

Even Maosa, often more than a little oblivious to social cues herself (albeit for somewhat different reasons) can read El'ai's distress. And even she seems slightly… uncertain about how to react. Kind of awkward? Somewhat embarrassed? Maybe just a little regretful? She doesn't flush, exactly, but the downward cast of her eyes has an unexpected touch of feminine shyness. "Look, sorry, he's just kind of -" Freaking out? Staring at El'ai with BIG AZURE-LINED EYES from around her legs? Maosa's vocabulary is not up to the task of describing her lifemate: she settles for a remarkably expressive shrug and a simple, "You know." A baby. Or maybe she means 'crazy'. Either makes sense. Mumble: "Sorry about your flowers." A LONG PAUSE. And then, perhaps the worst words imaginable: "What's your name again?"

"No, it's okay, it's my fault and I - " El'ai is edging away, doing his very best to extricate himself from the situation before he starts crying — not really, but. "I didn't mean to hurt your - your Osweith. I - " Words trip too fast, and without much more than a pained kind of tormented sound, the boy doesn't answer further. What? He's a runner. And he bolts away from Maosa - the most beautiful and wonderful creature that ever was, but all his hopes and dreams are DASHED upon the ground. Sekhaenkath takes to the skies shortly thereafter, though not before giving Maosa and Osweith an enigmatic look. Those flowers? DISCARDED, on the ground.

From Maosa and Osweith, a long moment of silence — audible silence, anyway. The little blue is almost certainly talking a storm behind the closed door of a mental link: a thing confirmed when, after a minute of contemplation, Maosa reaches down and grabs him (gently) by the underside of his jaw. "Listen," she says, patiently. "I think he was just soft in the head. No one would have an agent that — Osweith, you could use that logic to prove anything, whether or not it's true — yeah, but — okay, let's let it drop for now — Osweith — Osweith — OSWEITH." Thus let us close: a heart broken, an agent UNCOVERED, a girl annoyed.
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