====November 7, 2013
==== Cerise, V'dean; Ekerth, Jiamoth
==== Giving up on jogging in the rain, riders and dragons talk of niceness and expectations.

Who Cerise, V'dean; Ekerth, Jiamoth
What Giving up on jogging in the rain, riders and dragons talk of niceness and expectations.
When There are 0 turns, 9 months and 12 days until the 12th pass.
Where The Beach, Southern Weyr

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Beach
An eerie mirror, the glass-quiet Sea of Azov: the clear waters stretch along the dark-pebbled shores, and along this narrow beach. Here the faintest lap of waves belies the calm beyond; here the rocks have been ground down into finest, softest sand - those observant would mark upon the similarity between it and the sands of the hatching grounds. The soft sand soaks up summer sunlight as a sponge; painfully hot during the warmer months, it is only truly pleasant at wintertime. Rocks rise to east and west, lichen-limned and green against the abyssal darkness of stone.

It is the eighteenth day of Autumn and 91 degrees. Still dark and overcast, the autumn rain has picked up and become heavier, albeit still pleasant.


Untamed nature isn't exactly Jiamoth's thing, especially when the skies are behaving badly. Rain tends to scare people off, after all, and people are her driving interest, even at this young age. But as the weyrling pair has adopted a crude schedule in the time between chores and more chores and still more chores, this hour is set aside for Cerise to run and run she shall. Therefore, the little greenling has tucked herself beneath the verdant and rain-lashed tropical trees, sheltered in the lee of a large rock from the water that courses down at the beach from a slight angle. She has deigned to show some interest in the harsh blacks and purples that color the horizon out over the sea- the distant flicker of lightning, the bursts of silver skies and silver water where light and foam are tossed towards each other. As for her "rider", well…she emerges from behind that same clump of trees, soaked to the bone with shortened curls plastered to her cheeks, her hands busied in securing the drawstring of her black shorts. Nature's call must always be answered, especially when that call takes the form of water sounds everywhere.

There is one thing to be said of the rain — it makes a harder pack of the whole expanse of sand, giving a jogger a wider span of runway if they're looking to save their ankles from a loose-shifting slog. And yet, with all that beach to choose from, one bluerider has found himself tracking the filling-in footsteps that have gone before him. Far behind before, the weyrling's break in the clump of trees has allowed V'dean to catch up. It's Jiamoth he spots first, the novelty of finding a small dragon tucked out of the rain leading his steps to break into a lanky walk. Blinking water off his lashes and shoving it from his forehead with the blade of his hand, he's already looking for Cerise when she emerges. The cluck of his tongue is loud enough to carry over the crash of storm-whipped waves, but a grin is already skewing across his features. "Have I caught you breaking rules, weyrling?" Stretching up on his toes as he nears, he makes a show of glancing into the trees behind her as if expecting to find another figure.

The dragon alerts Cerise long before V'dena's tsk tsking, both girl and green turning their heads in the same moment to squint at the approaching bluerider. Or, Cerise squints. Jiamoth cheats with her second, inner set of lids slid over her eyes, muting their turquoise whirl of interest. "What, they make up some rule about peein' in the woods?" the human half of the pair inquires, only to suffer a check of wingtip against hip for the sauciness. Introductions, woman! "Ah…V'dean, blue Ekerth's, sir, may I introduce green Jiamoth." The salute, though tardy, is pretty and pristine- though the effect is rather lost when she transitions the movement of her hand into a scraping back of her hair, off of her face. A grimace follows. "Aye, aye, manners. Not that he's like to mind, lovey. Thought I was the only one dumb enough to run in the rain."

His heels drop down but his brows stay high. Peeing. It leaves his grin precarious a moment until that hipcheck induced salute spurs dutifully reflexive reply. Well — sort of. His salute tips from the wet-plastered scraggle of his forelock and leads him into a sweeping bow for the young green, but the wry cast of his expression makes it more a mocking parody better suited to such a waterlogged greeting. "Manners are never out of place," sounds the sort of quip V'dean is more frequently berated with than offering. His slowing steps lead him nearer Jiamoth so he can give her better consideration before another rumble of distant thunder twists his gaze briefly back to the sea. "It's the lightening that's more idiotic," he supposes as he shoves hair from his face as he looks back. "But when you've been cooped up…" He's forgotten something: "A pleasure to meet you, Jiamoth," is addressed to the dragon with a little nod.

Again the twinned headcock is performed, with Cerise speaking up after a low and thoughtfully pitched chuff from the green. "She's wondering if you're making fun of her." But even if he is, Jiamoth bestirs herself. The neat tuck she'd adopted is unraveled, the low-slung body winding out and out…and out and out, finally leaving her sitting back on her haunches and regarding the bluerider with narrow head tilted. The angle is meant to imply regality but she's in dire need of practice yet, and succeeds only in appearing cross-eyed, as if she were squinting down the hook of her snout at him. With her wings mantled up and out, Cerise seizes advantage of the four foot space created beneath and tucks herself in below these makeshift umbrellas. There, curled with arms around her knees and head tucked turtlelike against her shoulders, she adds, "The lightning came on after we got out here, if it gets closer we're for the barracks. Have you been cooped up then, sir? Drills as walls, regulations as ceiling, that sort've thing?"

The bluerider's grin spreads, either at the wondering or the pose the young dragon attempts. But. "No," his expression moderates somewhat to answer. Cerise's tucking is eyed a moment, and then the distant flashes a moment more. Jiamoth does have two wings… V'dean makes for the space beneath the other with a careful side-step, wet shoes squelching on wet sand. A cautious fix of his gaze is upon the young dragon's single-lidded eyes in their… imperious angling. "I meant you," is an answer that is none-the-less given with a quirk upon an edge of his mouth. "Stuffed in those barracks. All those teenage boys. I suppose you do have some company," girl company he likely means by the sneerish granting. For himself, as he plucks soaked fabric loose from its cling to his thighs, "I don't really get cooped."

Jiamoth's I am a queen posturing is shattered when she finds herself shelter to not one but two human beings. The green gives a little burble, bemused and curious both, and shrugs her shoulders up to offer half an inch more headroom- for the moment, at least, young muscles being the sort that tire easily and early. But for now, neither of them need suffer a 'sail hat, and when V'dean settles and plucks, Jia's beak is there a hair's width from that thigh to observe the process. Cerise isn't plucking at her shorts (as they are shortER). "S'true enough, they've us in there all hours working with strap leather and learning our firestone," Cerise says, either heedless or careless of her dragon's curiosity broaching his personal space. "Somehow what we have between our legs hasn't come into it at all yet. Funny how that works, aye?" A moment later, after a gust of meaty breath washes over V'dean, she explains, "Not funny ha ha. You'll have to ask him why it matters."

The green doesn't, of course, not in words. But after rearranging the muscles of her neck again, one eye is tilted to open up a view of the bluerider's face and some contrivance of brow-ridge lends it a look of inquiry.

V'dean's scrunching will have to be a little tighter than Cerise's, for all that the young green is accomodating. The rounding of his spine means there's not much room between his plucking fingers and the slant of side eye that watches Jiamoth's watching. His legs, kinked loosely before him, sway a little away from that curious beak. "I have trouble imagining Ja'kai addressing it so bluntly," he says in droll while focused on the close proximity of the dragon's curiosity. "I am sure the boys treat you exactly the same as if you were one of them." His dry sarcasm nicely offsets the wet squiggles of hair dripping down his forehead as he leans a look around that curved neck to Cerise. Still. "I'm glad you're keeping up." There might, just might, be a lighter spark of tease above the smarmy placation of his smile. Or that could just be the lightening licking at the bellies of those purple clouds out at sea.

"And yet somehow I doubt you'd be heartbroken were we the example of our weyrling class, mmm?" Oh yes. Cerise is seated in such a way that she's been keeping a close eye on V'dean, throughout Jiamoth's oh so gentle studying; it means she catches that look right off and answers it with a skewed smile of her own. "Y'know, every time I think I might be glad to see you, you open your mouth and say something that reminds me you're likely no friend of mine." It's an observation that's clearly troubling to Jiamoth, who has likely never even considered a world where Cerise isn't as adored by all as she is by the green. And, in that sudden spark of surprise and discomfit, her wings droop to treat each of her shelterlings to a velvet skullcap as each 'sail lays its fuzzy weight upon their brows. "…Jia, darlin', posture now, love. It's no great loss, aye?"

It's the smarm that stays, bunched into the bluerider's cheeks. that is, until his dimple presses deeper and he emits a a low chuckle. "You know you're…" Which is about when V'dean is treated to the muffling surprise of dragon wing. The reflexive duck of his head is not enough to deprive him of such a lovely green beanie. He manages to pull up short of shoving at her, the quick jerk of arms turning towards a gentler slide of hands that drags the stretched webs across his temples and more carefully puts the cage of his fingers between his crown and any stray wingknuckles. "I'm perfectly friendly," might be a little strained as it's made in… protest? To Jiamoth? In any case, with his rider under the collapsed tent of the weyrling's wing, now is when Ekerth deigns make his appearance. It's a sand-bound trudge by which the blue arrives, water streaming sheets down the drab of his hide. It doesn't seem to bother him much. The sight of the three under the windblown trees earns a heavy huff of breath.

Ekerth is pungent with new leather, as if the damp has seeped in and worked the scent loose from dark gleaming shine. « Afternoon. » Curt, polite — only the edge of spotlight's inquiry is allowed to swing upon the young green. »

There's no matching attempts at evasion from Cerise- either she was expecting it or she's accustomed to it. Hidden from view, V'dean might hear a quickly stifled note of amusement from the weyrling but it's soon replaced with a proper voice, and actual words. "Aye, perhaps friendly is different at Benden or wherever it is he's come from before then." That was for Jiamoth, whose effort to raise her wings is paused when Ekerth shuffles into view. They droop again, albeit briefly, in the most sheepish of droopiness for having been caught blanketing his rider. Now Cerise does protest, "Up, lovey!" And up they do go, the extrication slow, careful and ultimately successful as the little green stands to waddle forward for a proper greeting- in this case, the offering of bumping rain-dappled noses and a pleased chirrup. In her wake, Cerise- slightly mussed- gives the bluerider the ol' side-eye. "…what do I know?"

Jiamoth is, at first, a chaotic tapestry of fleeing brocades- the party busted by the arrival of the fuzz- but recovery is quick. Soon there are champagne bubbles on offer, and hints of murmured (uncertain) laughter in the background. « It was an accident! I had no intention of trapping him forever, I promise. You are Ekerth, yes? I've heard so much, » she bluffs. At least the delight is unfeigned, at having proper draconic company.

Mouth pressed thin, hands clasped protectively over his cringed hunch, V'dean is something of his own little storm cloud revealed by Jiamoth's shifting away. He's slow to unwind into the returned buffet of windblown rain. At least they must have some break offered by that rock the green had picked out for her spot. The drag of his hands has at least gotten most of the hair raked back from his eyes. "Exactly." It's hard to sound haughty with water dripping off your nose. Maybe that's why a rueful twist is so quick to curve up at one edge of his mouth. There's a quick cast of cool green eyes over her equally soggy state, those shortER shorts, and he drops a palm between them to help leverage his seat a fraction closer. "You didn't imagine yourself here," he recalls as his gaze is turned out to where Ekerth reluctantly lowers his snout within bumping range. It's an offer of silently staunch wall instead of a returned nudge. "What do you think, now?" the bluerider slants a glance back to Cerise.

Ekerth creaks, a skeptical shifting of tight-buttoned weight. « Have you. » Lamplight's gleam is allowed a little brighter. « I am Ekerth. And you, Jiamoth. » An edge of sueded softness turns, humor's scuff-worn surface. « How long had you intended? »

Cerise tilts to the side, away, but it's only to tug loose a twist of leather from the pocket of her shorts. The thong has gone curly from the rain but she pays that no mind, trapping it between her teeth before beginning the tedious process of scraping wet curls back into a tidy tail. V'dean will simply have to wait for an answer until she gets her hair secured. Women, amirite? "I think," she says once both hands and mouth are free again, "that I'm showing surprising aptitude. But then, one supposes I had a number of advantages going into it, in spite of my sex." She'd twinkle at him, but the spray of rain tossed down from sky and palm fronds both dampen the effect, turning grin into squint, and stealing dimples away in favor of scrunching the bridge of her nose at him. With arms draped loose over her knees and bare, wiggling toes churning up sand, she casts that look out over the water. "It's the boys who've had the harder time of it."

In the meantime, over there in dragonland, Jiamoth has proven she can't be trusted. With the blue presenting his nose for bumping, she angles herself at the last moment to drag shoulder to flank against his snout instead, catlike. If…cats came shaped like giant island lizards with wings.

Jiamoth fizzes at him, threatening the clean edges presented by the other's mind. « Oh, however long it might have taken to make him say something genuinely nice? So I suppose we might have been there forever or until Ilayth called. Whichever came first. »

Waiting. V'dean isn't particularly good at it. Her lean gets his eyes narrowed, the fiddling with the hair sends them rolling ever so slightly. Then again, he has his own arguably excessive length of hair to deal with — combed a little more neatly back by the habituated drag of fingers. Though he may chuff a laugh for her aptitude, there's a openness to the study tilted back to Cerise as she answers. As open as a glance can be found, that is, when one is squinting into the rain. It must be caught in periphery, her wiggle of toes, because the bluerider's eyes don't leave her. He does lean the hook of a finger to better settle the collar of one sodden shoe against his ankle. "Why do you say that?" he wonders about the boys.

Ekerth? Is not expecting a cat, in whatever form. There's a slight recoil of his neck that leaves the drag of his muzzle feather-light by the time her flank is rippling beneath the soft curve of his nostrils. Another huff of breath mists fallen water droplets back into the air. Chin lifting to the relatively safe retreat his greater size brings, the heavy built blue sidesteps so he can keep a wary eye tilted upon Jiamoth as one dull-sailed wing stretches to replace the fallen tarping of her sails above their riders.

Ekerth perhaps fogs a little at that chase of fizz across the hard polish of his resolute planes. « There's nothing genuine about nice, doll, » he bluntly opinions. »

"Because none have taken to it half so well? Between me and Yules…" Here Cerise lifts one fingertip- showing recent damage, a torn callous, from their leathersewing lessons- to tap against her temple. She could concede that she's had it easier than some in regards to personality, but…she's far, far too busy laughing with her eyes, at the way Jiamoth has sent Ekerth into full retreat. It's amusement echoed in the green herself, left to tumble onto her side where she burbles good humor- and then approval for Ekerth's consideration. "Now there's a gentleman, she says," Cerise supplies, head tilted back to smile at the wan tent the dragon has created to protect them, "and stronger shoulders as well. Thank you, Ekerth." Free of the assault of weather, she shifts on her seat to stretch legs out before, crossed at the ankles, and arms out behind to wedge hands against ground to support her weight. "…what were you, before you Impressed, V'dean?"

Jiamoth puzzles over this, folding it behind a screen of painted silks and heavily embroidered brocades- a truth cradled and studied and prodded at until she's left…no, just as uncertain as she was when it was first said. « How do you mean, Ekerth? » A more mannerly attention is offered, bubbles fizzing away and leaving only the rich tang of tannins, a trace of music come to a natural end. « One can only be genuine while being cruel, or hard? »

"To…" V'dean starts to suss out, a furrow dipping between his brows when the lift of her torn fingertip tugs his gaze to where he's distracted by the laughter in her eyes. That gets him looking towards where the young green tumbles into the damp sand, a diversion that makes the absentness of his gaze less apparent as wet fingers coil and uncoil in their airborne dangle, leveraged out from the prop of elbow on knee. He's a little slower to stretch to a greater sprawl under the incomplete shelter of the blue's steady wing. His smile is lopsided, small and a little hard. "I was a pretty kid, before I was a pretty bluerider. It was pretty, wasn't it," the lift of a damp eyebrow makes the question. "It matters to you," he's a little pointed for wondering as his hand bobbles in vague gesture towards Ekerth's strong shoulders. "Being a lady. Gentlemanly behavior." And while he's being curious, he'll return to a furrowed brow. "What do you mean, taking better to? The dragons? The work?"

Ekerth is more patient than his rider, quieting to a silent stand of darkness while she puzzles behind her finery. « No. » Recalled, he shifts from shadow into the tawny spill of lamplight, its dull gleam slipping revealingly along the absolute edges of his thoughts. « There's more genuine then that, kid. » Acknowledged. « But nice - it expects things. »

"Now you sound like Dimitri," Cerise accuses. A fond accusation, though one can be certain the affection isn't for this male rider. "He has a fondness for saying nothing to explain everything too. And he's as concerned with his hair. Just think, perhaps you're descended of one of our siblings. We lost a few to normal lives as we traveled. They seeded themselves over the continent and who knows where their children's children's children have ended." Her eyes remain fixed above, seeming to follow the delicate tracery of green-through-slate veins that mark Ekerth's 'sails. "As you've already said, sir, I'm not a woman what can expect gentlemanly behavior. Never have been, not even while playing the role of lady for all of those petty lordlings. Her mind's a match for mine, clean and true, and I've more muscles than all the bronzeriders together, aye? More than my brother, than D'cen the Starcrafter, or E'don the misfit, or S'yn the child." At mention of her past, Jiamoth perks but the distraction is brief. Still lolling in the rain-packed sand, her head swivels to survey Ekerth again.

Jiamoth would play that edge through her mind's fingers if she were bold enough. One day, perhaps. She creeps close though, bringing that background murmuring to the every edge of the lamplight's puddle. That she thinks she knows what he means shows in a muted flash, candlelight catching on crystal. « If he were nice to her, it would mean he wants something in return? »

V'dean doesn't argue the accusation. In fact, it presses the rain-filled divot of his dimple deeper. "Perhaps I am." Now he repositions further, drawing up a knee to support an elbow so he can prop his jaw into the seat of one waterslick palm. His nearer arm has fallen loose into his lap as he twists slightly to study Cerise - albeit, with less focus than she gives Ekerth's wing or the blue angles upon the lolling green. "That's not the same thing," he observes. A long breath sighs high in his chest and puts a bit of a rock to his head. "You oldtimers," is a mumble. "It's true, they are rather a sorry lot, aren't they?" That listing of bronzeriders, it tips bemusement into his smile. "They've the frames for some muscle. Well." The wrinkle of his nose is probably for his thoughts, unrelated to the rake of his gaze taking in Cerise's frame. "Maybe not E'don. The misfit." He chuckles, stretching a finger up to chase a trickle of water from his brow. "Are you now sewing your brother's straps and choosing his firestone, in addition to doing his laundry?"

Ekerth is a low creak of agreement, fingers stretching within the tight fit of a leather glove. Or perhaps the strain of a fist full of knuckles. « Wouldn't be any point, » is maybe more stubborn than blunt. »

"The blueriders are no better, sir," she tells him tartly, finally deigning to sling a glance towards that dimple before sighting on his eyes. Cerise's grin is sudden, sharp enough to cut. "Though perhaps they'll fill out as well. I've tested the weight on some of those bags and if that doesn't build muscle, nothing will. Tossing 'em is going to be trickier than learning a back handspring with a clean landing." That could well be a roundabout way of conceding his long distant point about the merits of women on fighting dragons, and their potential weaknesses. "But…I bet you couldn't do one of those right off, without months to practice either," Cerise goes on musingly, letting her gaze wander on to the fall of his hair. "What about us oldtimers, then? I think I've heard most of the complaints so far but you could surprise me."

Jiamoth treats him to a rare and prolonged moment of silence, of mental stillness, a hush so complete it might seem the conversation has been severed. But then, with crystal again making an appearing, rim to rim, the clink sharp and high and musical, she declares, « Or perhaps you are simply unsure of what to do with kindness and so have decided to paint it as a thing not to be trusted. Being uncomfortable with a thing can make one cautious. »

His palm turns up, easily relenting regarding blueriders, from it's fall across his shorts-plastered thigh. "I met one of them. T— ral." It takes him a moment, in which he becomes taken by her sharpening grin. Even the wind-spit sogginess can't keep the spark from his eyes as he follows that long come-by path. "A back handspring with a clean landing?" His brows are peaked in amusement. "Months," readily admitted, "if I could ever do such a thing at all. I am, after all, only half a player — despite my noble lineage of curly haired Bitrans." Alas. But her later question, it has him taking a breath and stretching up through the length of his spine, his hands falling to tug again at the sorry state of his shorts along his legs. His gaze checks in briefly with the dragons on its way out to storm roiled sea. The turning of his lip under his teeth gives him pause as he squints through an answer. "You… want to be treated with respect while rejecting the trappings of respectability. There's a little hitch left in his brow when he looks back to Cerise.

Ekerth leaves her chiming ring echoing into darkness, long moments of his looming presence left to creep like the lift of hairs at neck's nape. « Kind and nice are different, » is asserted with the gruff scrape of a boot sole on pavement. Light flicks on, glaring. « What's it matter to you, anyhow? »

"I could teach you." The offer is off-handed, uninvested, but there all the same. Cerise, who is doing a damned fine job of ignoring his fidgeting, particularly that dealing with shorts, opts to look out over the water as well after a brief welfare survey of Jiamoth. "Could be because trappings're just that: trappings. You can take 'em on and off. They don't make a thing, they just…tart it up, aye? I've met Lords not worth the blood their mothers spilled birthing them, and ladies worth less than the jewels 'round their necks. But…" The high brogue of amusement she'd begun with has faded gradually as she speaks, until finally she's left thoughtful enough to suck at her teeth and then vent an aggrieved breath afterward. The weyrling maintains a stubborn study of the elements for this moment of honesty. "I'll tell you true, I wasn't ever respectable. Not because of the dancing, mind, or what I wore while doing it. And that's what chaps my ass- you Nowtimers calling me on the things that didn't make me less. That's what you got wrong, aye? Never claimed to be a lady but I wasn't what you figured me for either."

Jiamoth brightens, and in the background the string quartet begins anew, a bright medley of notes to combat the weight of his presence. The chill ring of isolated light in the darkness is joined by squares of candlelight cast through diamond panes to mark that pavement, to warm it. The music floats behind them. « It matters because you matter, Ekerth. Am I right? I am right, aren't I? I won't tell anyone, of course, we all have the things that make us uncomfortable. You and yours, me and mine. »

She may start amused, but the chuckled breath that V'dean has for her worthless lords and ladies is already parched and caustic. The trailing returns his attention to the weyrling, the peek of his gaze made from underneath a fallen coil of hair while she watches sheets of rain strike waves. His smile is slow in curving and ebbs away more quickly while his eyes drop to where the upward curl of his knuckles have layered together between his knees. A thumb presses trace over the thick strength shaped by the balance of dragon oil and a dragonrider's work. "What I figured you for." He makes it a subtle challenge, a shadow of his smile returning as his tilt-browed look fixes back upon Cerise. "And yet you do think there's something that makes you less," he notes with a intent scan of her features. "By this same metric you use to compare worth to blood and jewels? Or something else? What does matter, to you?"

"You and the rest. You said it loud enough, aye? I thought maybe it'd be different here. But that's all you get from me today, sir, you with your "I was a pretty lad"." It would seem that there are limits to Cerise being candid, the return of a slanted grin making quick work of chasing away signs of deeper thought. "I know easy answers when I hear them and that was a poor effort at best. Lazy." A light push with her hand and she's seated upright again, heels curling in to shape a half-lotus while she looks down to brush sand from her palms. "Dimi's making up his own straps," she adds, casual of tone while calling back to an earlier question overlooked in the moment, "and sorting his own firestone. But he's been chopping Jia's meat for me, while I teach his bronze to stand tidy for oiling." So maybe she's answered, after all.

Ekerth dims, harsh actinic light relenting in the face of her music-swayed candlelight. « You don't know what you're talking about, kid. » It's as if a turned shoulder betrays timeworn frayed scuffing. And, perhaps, there's the sense that the blue says this more for himself than in actual argument. »

Jiamoth doesn't respond to Ekerth's silently sent remarks. Instead, she rolls onto her extensive belly and lets her chin rest against the sandy ground. Again she does the trick of brow ridges that give her face such an expressive cast- a peek towards the blue's head, the wing sheltering the riders. Then, ever so slowly, the flat splay of her paw is crept forward to fold and press over one tip of his tail. She knows this: got'cher tail.

V'dean can do it too, the flash of his dimple eclipsing all else. "I am, that." Lazy. Smug. A pretty lad. His chin lifts as she straightens, as if to reaffirm this too-easy identity, though he leaves his hands cast out over his stretched legs. The belated answer dances a quieter smile about the curve of his lips. "It would be pretty dire, if he were as useless as you'd made him out to be," he supposes. Again a run of his thumb across his palm, and then the bluerider is dragging his heels up through the sand so that he can make the shove up to his feet. "If only I would've had a sister as conscientious as you, picking up my slack." Both his hand and his smile are offered to Cerise. "Whatever you think you want of me… I'll tell you what— What I am, what I've always been: a disappointment." But such a cheerful one. "So don't start getting it into your head that we matter." His head tips a little towards Jiamoth, unseen, just about at the moment Ekerth breaks his stoic statue routine in order to flick his tail grumpily out from under that adorable green paw.

Oh really now? Cerise has eyebrows and she isn't afraid to use them- they arch high at this offered wisdom. That, at least, is genuine. The look that follows when she slips her hand into his for the aid in rising, the look that says 'oh you poor dear', is a little too quick to be anything other than artifice. "I'll tell you a secret, sir, gleaned from centuries of experience in such things: those of us born low, who live to shore up those born high, we matter more than they want us to realize. Because once we do…" Well. She sweeps her other hand, recently de-sanded, out towards the blue, the green. There they are. Just waiting! Though, at the moment, what they're waiting for is to be gathered up. Or, in the green's case, lightly and lovingly scolded. "Jia, stop teasing your elders now, girl. He kept me from the rain, that's worth some respect there." There. Responsibility performed, she turns back to the bluerider and adds brightly, "Forgetting your place is when the real fun starts. I'll teach you that some day too. But today it's back to the barracks for us and you to…?"

Jiamoth peeks as quietly as a ballroom full of dancers with a full orchestra can peek. « …thank you, for keeping the rain off of her. »

There's an argument shining in his eye and a tut that makes it to a click of his tongue. But beyond that, V'dean has his hand full of Cerise. At least in this he can be more the gentleman as he provides steady and sure assist. Really, the drift of his thumb across the backs of her knuckles is so small as to be unintentional, particularly since it occurs as her gesture directs him to the dragons. His smile is more easily askew once their gazes meet again. "Cerise." The releasing of her hand is a delicate thing, civility at odds with the spark laughing in green eyes. "Do take care promising me real fun. I will hold you to it." Perhaps there's something of Ekerth's dark solidity lurking at the edges of his smile. "But not today," he steps off, looking from green to blue as he ventures back onto the rain lashed beach. "You have fun with that, but I think I'll stick to the opposite of a barracks full of boys and no booze." His teeth flash. Poor, sober weyrling.

Ekerth, despite overt gruffness, is a suede-edged shrug. « You're welcome, kid. »

"You're not making me jealous, y'know!" That Cerise feels compelled to call this at his retreating back is probably a sign that she's lying, however. Everyone knows barracks full of boys are more tolerable with booze. "C'mon then, you need a rinsing and fresh oil, lovely," she says to summon Jiamoth, sending the green into a scramble to unearth herself from the sand she'd been wallowing in. The rain can only do so much. And so the younger pair sets off as well, with Cerise absently rubbing her knuckles beneath her chin and Jia trilling sweet and light to Ekerth to bid him adieu.

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