| Who | M'yck, Zeyta |
|---|---|
| What | Conversation occurs |
| When | Late summer, a sevenday after the first Comet strike. |
| Where | Malebolge (Zeyta's Weyr) |
Malebolge
Descend into the crypt. From the entrance, a tunnel snakes downward into the vast expanse of cavernous space sinking towards the center. Ancients carved this weyr, excavated coliseum-style with several circling stone trenches dug around the platform circle of the ground level. A large, looming chandelier hangs from the ceiling, a pale-yellow light cast by the dimmest of glows. Now museum or mausoleum, arcane shapes populate the dark, in the furrows, throughout the abode, all forgotten treasures hidden beneath white linen sheets. Peek beneath and you'll see antiquated fineries, hand-wrought craftsmanship of the finest caliber, lost relics scavenged from all across Pern - all exquisite, all buried in the shadows, shielded from dust and light and air and revealed sparingly. There's furniture too, ornate, plush, worn, old - couches, ottomans, chairs, tables, wardrobes, chests, and mirrors. There are trinkets and rugs and paintings. All this is covered, all this belongs to some restricted exhibit housing objects from ages long past.
But this, this is home: the stone couch draped in exotic prized furs and elaborate, woven tapestries depicted across carpets, and piled with tassled pillows attests to this. As does the four-post bed, stained rich mahogany with its crimson coverlet, all obscured by gauzy, transparent wisps of a golden canopy showering down around it, located in some far-off corner, some separate chamber. Visible too, are the bookcases lined with rare tomes and manuscripts, and the large desk strewn with hides, quills, and inkwells, forever in a perpetual state of change and study. Here both curator and the curated are prisoner and prize, kept locked and secreted away from the world just the same. So beware, and tread with caution, for what lurks beneath the plain surface of things is hardly ever what it seems. And always, there is the sense of being watched and judged, as if you too were on display.
From the moment talons scrape the black rock of her ledge, Zeyta undergoes a slight shift in mood from neutral gruffness to - more frenetic turbulence. She storms into her weyr (gait not unusual), yanking down her scarf and shedding her jacket, all dropped in a heap on the only uncovered furniture, a violet divan located in one of her trenches. The out-of-character action comes in her continued path towards the bar, a large, wax-sealed bottle hefted from inside a cabinet, and two high-ball glasses planted on the counter. Presumably, she expects company - whether she actually invited anyone remains to be seen.
Following closely behind, Oroqaith claims a section of the stoney ledge as his own, allowing M'yck to put his boots to ground. Much unlike the brownrider, M'yck's approach is slower and contains less fire- at least less than the menacing skyline. Peeking his head around the tunnel's edge, he spots Zeyta at her very peculiar and unused piece of furniture, and finds himself a seat. "Drinks," is stated purely in an observatory manner.
Honey-brown eyes flick up to see M'yck enter with a dull lustre; no ferocity in her gaze right now, no. Zeyta grabs the bottle to tuck it under one arm, clinking the glasses together as she divides the fingers of one hand to pinching them together for her to hold. "As I recall, you are thirsty." It comes as a statement of fact as she returns to the brightly upholstered couch, turning to indicate he should take the bottle and open it. After a pause, wherein she hooks her foot around a linen-draped nightstand and drags it in front of them, "Perhaps I am too."
"You'll get no praise for that bar trick- I'm always thirsty." Again, M'yck's words lack any resemblance of emotion, sounding more like a monotone track of indifference. Like a hound on a lead, the guardrider simply follows Zeyta's path towards the couch, falling into it as he arrives. Taking the offered bottle, the second cork of the day is pulled and held out in a pouring position, indicating he is ready for the glasses to be put in position. "It is certainly a day of days to pull you from your sobriety." Eyebrows raised and chin jutted in what looks like a tired expression.
"Since when I have I looked to you for praise." Zeyta smirks, although her voice holds no inflection, matching his with its stoic emptiness. Setting the glasses down on the raised surface she provides, the brownrider next sinks herself on the divan beside the bluerider, runner her fingers over the soft velvet. Watching as he pours, she nods, laying a hand on his shoulder - the closest she comes to physical assuagement. "I have known Sh'z since I was born. Our fathers raised us together. And - I have looked to Tuli as an antagonist for a long time." Her tone arrives at something less controlled, more pensive.
Focusing on his pouring, M'yck seems to miss Zeyta's smirk as he brings each glass to the halfway mark, carefully measuring as he works. Satisfied, the bottle is positioned just within arms reach as it is retired in place of a glass. Raising it towards the girl, "To losing old enemies, and finding new ones." Now it is his turn to smirk. Eyes flick to gaze on the swirling poison, "I'm sure we'll find something out of all this rubble- even if it is peace in death."
Zeyta awaits for the dark, cinammon-scented whiskey to stop moving in her glass before she picks it off the stand. Lifting it high, she very lightly taps it against his, send the liquor inside whirling again. As her hand slips away she smirks again, this time for him to see. "I'll always find a way to make enemies. But I don't plan on dying. You had better not either." With that, she drinks. And sputters. And swallows hard. Her novelty to drinking shows.
Watching Zeyta struggle to conquer the liquor, M'yck takes his drink after. He's apparently much more practiced, as there is little evidence that he has just swallowed the hard spirit. "I never really plan on much, to be honest. Been taking it as it came for the past few Turns. I don't think I can treat this as any different." The glass is swirled once more, an act to buy him time between thoughts. "How do you think this is all going to go down?" A pointed question, the guardrider's eyes switch to hone in on the girl opposite him.
Zeyta perseveres, and holds all of it down in her throat, swallowing again until the hard lump in her esophagus softens. Coughing, she intakes a large breath, lungs expanding. "It might be more, mm, prudent to look ahead this time," she advises, no real trace of insistence to what she says. Leaning her nose into her glass, she inhales, deceived by the sweet aroma of the whiskey. "I don't know. The comet will continue to displace people from their homes; they will look to major Holds and Weyrs for refuge. Our resources will run low, pressure will increase on dragonriders while the tithes lessen." Predictably, she has versed herself well in the literature regarding such incidents — and perhaps drawn on her own memories of a plague and famine in her youth. "I suppose people will die," she concludes, eyes chasing his.
"Plenty of people will die." M'yck's stare does not waiver as Zeyta runs through her expected chain of events. Another sip before expanding on his thoughts, M'yck sucks the burn through his teeth. "As the resources run low, people will resort to crime. We don't have enough to contain the situation as it is, never mind as more and more riders and able residents take flight to jump ahead." The glass is slowly set down on the table in front of them as M'yck leans back into the couch. "It will not be pretty- I just want you to know that. People will die."
"I am sure." Zeyta echoes that calm assurance, sliding the glass from nose to mouth to imbibe, this time with less visible reaction. She still coughs, muffled behind a palm she cups over her face to stifle the sound. "Focus needs to shift to guarding supplies rather than people, to ration for as long as possible. Personally, I am stockpiling. I have been arranging trader caravans' transportation forward in exchange for wares and goods." Meaning she herself is at least secure for some time - living high up affords an added defense, too. "I will not be pretty in the days that follow. I hope you know that." Glancing over her shoulder, she stares at him, resolve hard, like marble.
From his sprawled out position, M'yck looks back towards Zeyta as she threatens to turn ugly. "We do what we must." The glass is retrieved and lazily guided towards his mouth, straining his neck in order to minimize any spill. Once the sipping is complete, his arm is set to rest along the top of the couch's back, glass in hand. "Though you /will/ be pretty. I declare it."
"And if all else fails, we can scavenge the bountiful Southern continent," Zeyta proposes, further detailing her elaborate survival scheme. Glass a quarter filled, she rests it on the table to grip its edges, pulling it closer - so she can lean back, against the divan. "I'll promise to keep up my looks, but my behavior is another question," she delivers in expected rejoinder. "M'yck." For a moment, it appears as if she intends something to follow the pronouncing of his name. But in the end: nothing.
"Not sure how bountiful it is-" A rather large yawn interrupts M'yck's reply, nearly driving him off track from his original thought. "The sky looked like the whole of Pern is on fire." Much more experienced, M'yck has since polished off his glass, leaving only a couple of whiskey stained ice cubs remaining in the glass. With his head now leaning against the back of the couch, the guardrider's voice slowly trails off in volume, "Good. Good. Yes-" His left arm is ripped from his side in an attempt to snag the girl and pull her closer, revealing his closed eyes and failing consciousness. This guard's watch is seemingly over for today.
"I have not left the Weyr much," Zeyta admits, circling her finger around the rim of her high-ball glass until its faint, crystalline hum whistles quietly in her weyr. She drinks no more, only catches herself dazedly peering down the length of her tunnel-entrance whilst M'yck begins to fade. "Sleep," she replies to his final utterance. Fire quenched by what little she did drink, the thawed ice queen melts against his side on the couch. Quiet, and close, she leans, taking up the mantle of remaining ever vigilant, a sleepless companion watching over him. Plotting.
Aww, Zeyta seemed almost sweet at the end, I mean after all I'm going to save myself talk.