====February 1, 2014
==== Cerise, D'tri
==== D'tri resurfaces to have his wounds tended to.

Who Cerise, D'tri
What D'tri resurfaces to have his wounds tended to.
When There are 24 days until the 12th pass.
Where Cerise's Weyr, Southern Weyr

cerise19.jpg dimitri08.png

Musee d'Arts Aux Costumes
This weyr is testament to a long, colorful and rather unconventional life. Upon first entering, one finds themselves in an antechamber intended for draconic occupancy. The wall to the right has been hollowed and filled with a rush-lined couch of a size suitable for a blue or green dragon- provided they duck, when they curl themselves into that niche. To the left, stretching from floor to ceiling where the couch's occupant can gaze upon it, is an immense tarp that has been painted as a stage backdrop. The scene, only slightly faded from its original bright colors, is that of a ballroom filled with dancers, overseen by a Lord and Lady seated on a dais above the crowd.
The doorway leading from antechamber to inner weyr is hung with a curtain of tiny glass beads all in different colors. Beyond, the room is simply furnished: a bed draped in sheer linens, a wardrobe and chest of scuffed wood in dire need of polishing, and a desk with chair, both piled with rolled papers. What saves the chamber from drabness are the costumes and masks that have been pinned (or nailed) to the walls, all in the finest of fabrics, all in the brightest of colors and some with painted masks adorned with feathers, lace or even more expensive accessories.

With what seems like half the Weyr in quarantine, things have been quiet and that suits Cerise just fine. She's had sweeps as an assistant to Lynx in the mornings, physical therapy for Jiamoth in the afternoons and evenings for herself, neither of which are greatly disrupted by the quarantine- not with dragons to provide instructions for the wingleaders confined to the infirmary. And it's the evenings that drag for the greenrider, besides. In the way back when, evenings were for lounging around the campfire singing songs and dancing dances with friends and family. Now, while Jia seems to entertain every dragon in the weyr on the ledge, Cerise retreats into her weyr to be boring. There are hides for her continued attempts at reading. There are exercises to undo the damage she did to her fitness while caught in the throes of depression. And occasionally, when Jia asks nicely, there is her gitar and a few songs. At the moment, though? At the moment, it is time for push-ups. Jiamoth the ever patient is curled upon the ledge outside, tail over her nose, eyes only single-lidded- she's busily conducting six different conversations with various friends- while Cerise works on toning her upperbody and back. "…twenty-three, twenty-four…" By the sweat dripping from her nose, and the dark patch on the stone beneath her face where that sweat has been puddling, she's been at this for awhile.

The noise of someone arriving on the ledge outside is not one of subtlety. Soon after the telltale sounds of wings and the weight of an extra dragon comin' on down, there is the tump-athump of something more person-sized - quite ungracefully, rolling? - off and onto solid ground. Barely a few signature, slow throaty clicknoises from Chorzeczoyth later, and someone's off stumbling past the drape of canvas separating outside and in. The person left clinging to the drape as he pushes it aside as though it may otherwise threaten to latch onto his face and never let go, is a person who has been… vaguely absent from the surrounding area lately. In fact, outside of where he's been required to attend whatever needed to be attended, he's hardly stuck around to even talk. So one might one why, now, he's standing in the entrance. Still holding onto that cloth, as he peers around like something might jump out at him. Perhaps the muddy spots on his the back of his clothing and the trickle of blood running down the side of his head has something to do with it. Whoop. "'V'y'gotta… towel? Or something?" And, perhaps, that slightly drunken drawl.

Jiamoth is quite happy to share ledgespace with Chorzeczoyth, though she's not so mannerly that D'tri doesn't go stumbling into that curtain without a puff of snorted breath at his back when the green lifts her head to survey these new arrivals. « Still taking good care of him, I see, » is her wry remark for her larger brother. And Cerise? Well, Cerise's work-out hardly pauses even after a quick mental whisper from the green informs her of her visitor's identity. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. All the way to thirty she goes before wedging a knee in beneath her and levering herself back to eyeball her sibling. "Chair by the door there," she instructs. Rather flatly, considering!

Considering the honour of having her brother to visit? A crime in and of itself! « Some times. » Comes back from Chorzeczoyth to Jiamoth, the bronze's head up high as he stays put but peers towards the drape. Alert, yet his eyes do a decent job of showing the keen amusement before his attention promptly switches to Jiamoth herself, though nothing about him shows sign of worry so much as simple curiosity. Meanwhile, D'tri's still where he was. Chair? Oh great, a chair. Slowly, he peels away from the drape's opening and sits himself down, before finally cracking a grin at his sister. One as wide and smug as they come, head tilted slightly upward while he scratches at the thin line of dried blood on the side of his face. "Who're you getting all pretty for, then?"

What's there to worry about? Certainly not Jiamoth, who's doing a damned fine job of keeping her foreshortened limb tucked out of view. It helps that she's as plump as ever, with softness aplenty and another still functioning limb to layer over the other. « One cannot be vigilant at all times, » she surmises, cocking her head at the bronze. A kinder sentiment than the one Cerise is about to unleash on D'tri. "You look like shit." Yep. There it is. She pushes herself to her feet and grabs the towel she'd thrown over one of the posts on the bed. It's used to wipe her face off before she throws it in Dimi's direction; it's on him to pluck it from the air before it connects with his head. She turns to begin digging through the open trunk in search of a shirt to pull over her tank top. "If you're looking for gossip, you've come to the wrong weyr. What're you doing here, Dimiwit?"

Flop. That's the sound of D'tri not plucking a towel from the air, and subsequently sitting there with it draped halfway over his face. It wronkles his nose slightly, but the grin does not let up much. "Visiting!" As if that answers the question all on its own, he grabs nonchalantly for a bit of hanging towel and scrubs it idly against the side of his face, though never quite high enough to get to his hairline. Oh so casually, he continues, "'Sides, if you're not willing to share— pffh. Must be serious then. Chorzeczoyth!" He calls suddenly, head jerking toward the drape again while the bronze outside barely moves, save for a twitch of one of his wings. Nevermind the curious flitter of bird moving from branch to branch somewhere else entirely, as D'tri repeats obnoxiously loudly, "'S serious!"

"S'not serious," Cerise says- insists is far too strong a word for the tone of voice she chooses- as she pulls the selected shirt on over her head. It's one of her old billowy shirts, blousy and poofy and black, with ribbons at neck and cuffs to pull those in snug. When her head pops through the neckhole, her hair springs back into place and suffers some quick petting to "smooth" it out again. "Just took a page from your book and tried to drink myself into happiness. Didn't work too well, so I'm undoing it now before I get fat. Like you." Because he's fat? Maybe in the head; surely she cannot be referring to Dimi of the lanky limbs. She repeats the rummaging process to find a pair of loose cotton trousers, calf-length, and drops onto the edge of the bed to pull them on over her shorts. "What're you really doing here? Y'don't visit. Owe someone marks? Hiding out after getting a death threat?"

Dimi of the lanky limbs looks down. Fat? Head still halfcovered by the towel, posture a slouched and dreadful thing to behold, he now peers at his stomach and pushes it out as far as he can so he can pat it while his grin slowly withers. Perhaps for comedic effect, perhaps due to real doubt. Who knows! He moves past the subject soon enough, however, lowering the towel to scrub his face now, with both hands and quite some vigour. In the process of which he not only covers up that horrid expression but also partly muffles the unabashedly simple answer of "Missed ya." Scrubscubscub.

Cerise is an expert at deciphering answers like these. Out of practice, maybe, but still an expert. Unfortunately, she's also long past the point of being touched by confessions of that sort. In fact, the look she gives him- though he's sure to miss it, scrubbing as he is- is a little on the hard side. Skeptical? Considering that he's bleeding, maaaaaybe just a bit skeptical, yes. But…old habits are the hardest to break. After getting the pants secured around her hips, she stands, searches out a square of linen and a canteen of water, and ambles over to begin dabbing at the hurty spots. Searching out the source of the blood, even if it takes her into that nest of wild hair, and cleaning away the stains. "Y'look pregnant when you do that. What happened here?"

"Claimed I was vastly more attractive than someone else." D'tri answers openly, expression blank when he lowers the towel, save for a pinch of eyebrow furrowing at the dabbing. But he stays still, for the most part. "… To the 'someone else's' wife." His arms shoot up in imaginary fisticuffs with an invisible sparring partner, ducking slightly lower and propping his shoulders up to hide behind his fightin' fists like he's ready to go fight a thing right NOW. Puffed out chest and everything. "Should'a seen 'm, man was a monster, tall as two and a half men at that. Slung his meaty fist at me once, I dodged! Second swing, with a knife, hit!" rrright at the top of his head, a slash, in said mess of hair, from the looks of it, "but I showed 'm, jumping up onto his shoulders and BASHING—" An interruption from outside cuts this story short, a KRRAWH as Chorzeczoyth retucks his wings in delight. To Jiamoth alone, the bronze explains eagerly, through a couple more borderline chortling noises, « He ran the moment the man came around the corner, tripped and hit his head on a sharp rock. » A pause. « It was an ugly man. We were both prettier. »

The question here is, will Jiamoth share the true version of events or no? It is a MYSTERY. « He is rather gangly and clumsy, your lad, for all that he is pretty. You could have him do drills. To improve that. » Every so helpful, she is. The very soul of helpful. Nevermind that behind the helpful, there is a veritable fountain of fizzy amusement, champagne bubbles swamping the immediate area- as she relays this tidbit of info to Cerise, yes. It was going to happen, okay? Cue a ripe snort from the human female, and a thump of knuckles against shoulder as his floating like a feather moves him out of the way of her attempts at first aid. "You're a bald-faced liar," Cerise points out, "and I'm not one of our audiences. Now hold still." So she can inflict more pain upon him while parting his hair to clean out the gash atop his head. Dab dab dab. "What's with men and other men's wives, anyway? S'true you'd lead less exciting lives, not chasing them, but less exciting also means less bloody. Y'need a stitch here, and you've likely scrambled your brains a bit."

Down go the fists, and up comes a ponderful expression onto D'tri's face. Is he that bad of a liar? Surely not! A twitch of his lips later and he's all confidence again, sitting up a little to hold still properly. Except for when he inevitably winces, looking suspiciously much like he's resisting the urge to glare at his sibling. "Didn't know she was one 'til it was too late. I was in the middle of a thing! The three cups, ball and a rope bit, yeah? And it needs a lovely lady from the audience, an' I was on my own so, y'know, I picked one out of the herd to be tied u— ow. OW. You keeping pulling and we'll both need a stitch or three." As if the two subjects are related, he doesn't pause before tacking on with an idle halfsneer, "What sort'a happiness were you after?"

"Don't be a baby." Really, Cerise was listening! Honest! It's just that it's reflex that she come out with that line when he comes out with the whining. "If you got this in mortal combat with a man both bigger and stronger than you, you're tough enough to handle a bit've pulling, aye?" And that, friends and neighbors, is what we call being hoisted by one's own petard! She resumes cleaning away the crusted blood, dribbling a bit of water on the area to help with dislodging the stubborn bits. Absently, idly, she says, "Oh, y'know. The sort that comes of almost dying and then having a paw chopped off and all the folks y'know moving on with their lives and heading off or out while you're stuck behind, crippled'n'useless. Just the usual. But we got better. There. Y'oughta go see the healers but I can slap a bandage on over it, if you want."

Properly hoisted by his own petard, D'tri is silenced for a good few seconds. Or was it Cerise's answer that did it? Perhaps a combination, considering his eyebrows squoosh closer to one another once for each potential cause. "Not going to the healers." He mumbles once he finally does find his voice again, adding only slightly louder, "And my head's not scrambled. Never felt better." He looks up, now, to search Cerise's face for something, gaze coming to rest on her eyes and staying there. "Fit as a feline in a ffff…. ff? In a something." He trails off, sloowly… sloooowwwly lifting a hand with the intention of touching fingertips to the top of his head. Gotta touch, gotta feel. Gotta pick? Absentmindedly adding, "'Member Daux 'n his family? Travelers? Man didn't have any arms, mauled off at the shoulders by a swarm of nightmares one morning, he told me when we were wee. Still got people t'see 'm, got by better'n we did, some evenings." He says this as if it's somehow not only relevant, but also tremendously helpful.

"If your brain weren't scrambled, you'd've been able to finish that funnier," she points out, like the ever so helpful little sister that she is. Check it out: Cerise even has a grin to go along with this remark, a shift of expression timed to his searching gaze. A dimple is tossed in for good measure to punctuate the effort. Then she's padding off to fetch out more raw linen- why does she have this, again?- for tearing into a strip suitable for folding into a bandage pad. "Don't pick at it." Yeah, she saw that. As for the armless wonder Daux, she has an absent-minded nod for remembering the man, and a snort for the supposed moral of the story. "I'm not selling tickets so folk can ogle Jia's stump. 'Sides, there's likely to be a lot more like her, once Thread starts coming down regular. Won't be the novelty Daux was. Here, press this down on top of it." She's back! And with a pad that's poked at his hand so he can apply the pressure himself. Another strip waits at the ready, to be wound about his head once the first is positioned. "Th'seus is letting us help his wing with sweeps. We're not knotted but it's something, at least, eh?"

Okay fine. Not picking at it. Touched it though, and D'tri checks his fingertips for blood immediately afterwards. He frowns at the tiny amount there on his skin, before looking back up to study Cerise's expression again. Oh so critically. He knows this face well. "Wasn't meaning tickets. Just meant you're not useless." Said with a lacklustre tone and matching shrug, as he holds the pad in place. The subjects of sweeps and somethings seems to garner little interest. At least externally, though a loud huff from Chorzeczoyth's nostrils may indicate the conversation around that subject has been taken up elsewhere. Despite D'tri's best efforts to sneer it away, while he's getting tended to.

Awww, she's touched. So touched that, after wrapping the strip of linen several times around his head, Cerise secures the knot extra tightly directly over the site of the injury. That's going to sting! "So happy t'hear y'say so," she drawls as she steps back to inspect her handiwork. Lookin' good there, Dimiwit. He's given a double thumbs up. All of the huffing and sneering pulls a glance, feathery brows raised as she tosses a look towards the ledge and then back towards her brother. "What's got him all twitterpated?"

The thumbs up earns a genuine and perfect smile. Of course he's looking good. He's always looking good. He'd look good sleeping in a puddle of his own throwup after having spent the night figuring out how much one would need to drink to literally not be able to hold the bottle anymore. As if he hasn't done that before (and still looked dashing, indubitably!). "You know what," The currently mostly sober D'tri replies, with one of his prominent eyebrows raising in mirror image to his sister, likewise glancing toward the exit, "sometimes I think I know, and he's already moved onto something else. Must be time for the daily sea visit. Gotta have 'em, gotta STRETCH THOSE WINGS." He says this aloud, getting up a little too quickly and spreading his arms only to wobble a little — and then steadies himself again, as though he'd been steady all along. And then he is, simply, on his way out again. Reaching up to poke somewhat gingerly at the bandaging. "After, how about we don't drink for happiness, but to." Not a question, it seems, so much as a decision. "End the evenin' well."

He's ushered out of the weyr by a snort, much as he was ushered into it. Cerise's snortiness is on a much smaller scale, at least. And not nearly as meaty in the breath region. "If you can get yourself back up here without falling and hitting your head on a rock," see what she did there, with the obscure I know the truth references?- "then sure, I've kept back a bottle of the good stuff. The last bottle." Just to make it worth his while. Not to say that she's entirely fooled by the excuse given, or the abrupt urge to escape- but she's also quite happy to give her beloved older brother the space he desires. Uh huh. Slightly more knowing is the gaze he'll step out into, originating from Jiamoth out there on the ledge. Hello. Good-bye.

Knowing gazes? Are things to avoid, which D'tri does with a sort of grace that comes with experience! Oh yes let's stare at Chorzeczoyth instead, while pointedly ignoring Cerise's comments. Smooth. "See you in a bit, leafgreen. Lookin' good." He looks toward her just long enough to click his tongue and wink, though the tilt of his head that goes with it ends his cockiness with a wince. Bandaging too tight! Pfh. Chorzeczoyth's amusement is clear in both his eyes and the restlessness that spreads to Jiamoth through gusts of wind through bright red foliage, and the bronze lowers himself only just long enough for D'tri to hoooiisst himself up - a little awkwardly, as per usual - and strap himself in. Probably not well enough, but the sea waits for no man! Nor does escaping conversations! When Chorzeczoyth has bumbled back and forth enough to aim his wide chest and head back toward freedom without accidentally destroying something or another, and right before he spreads his wings to prepare for take off, he tells Jiamoth, « I'll tell the water hello for you. »

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