Who

Elle, Ennis, Il'ian

What

Ennis is watching a teensy shiny Cynferth hunt the nimble goats, Il'ian makes plans to scrape the leavings off the rocks and Elle seeks the purity of the night skies soiled by talks of blood and sausage. Such pleasantries!

When

It is afternoon of the fourth day of the first month of the fourth turn of the 12th pass.

In Igen:
It is the sixty-fourth day of Winter and 32 degrees. It is a bright, sunny day.

Where

Standing Stones, Igen Weyr

OOC Date 04 Feb 2015 08:00

 

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"I wonder if you could scrape the remains off to cook later?"


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Standing Stones

It is perhaps a pity that the Standing Stones lie in quiet isolation, half-forgotten in the Weyr's easternmost corner. Or perhaps it is inevitable: the grandiose beauty of these red rocks is ill-suited to Igen's coarse grit, and maybe only their loneliness allows them to survive unmarred. Whatever the reason, it cannot be denied that the Standing Stones, a lonely jumble of ancient boulders, have a glory about them. The tumbled field of pillars and arches has been shaped by eons of wind and water into strange shapes, twisted and rutted. The going is treacherous: only the Weyr's half-feral herd of caprines navigates the terrain with any ease. To the northwest, the lakeshore glimmers; to the east, rough-carved steps lead towards another ancient pile of rocks - though the Star Stones are less haphazardly placed than their Standing cousins.

It is the sixty-fourth day of Winter and 32 degrees. It is a bright, sunny day.


Timor: moon7.jpg
Belior: moon5.jpg

Soon enough the sun will begin to creep toward the horizon. Already Rukbat's light has taken on the lush orange tint of impending sunset, a color so rich and deep and akin to fire that it seems strange the air should become so chill. But it has. The temperature has plunged, desert nights at their worst in desert winter. All right-thinking people should aim for inside, where hearths are already lit and klah can be had. Ennis, Telgari and Lemosian, does not mind the chill so much- she's come equipped with a wardrobe made for mountains, made for winters. Her leathers are fur trimmed, her scarf thick and soft to the touch, a haze of white about her neck. Here, where red rocks are tumbled like dice from some giant hand, she leans back against one specimen and shades her eyes. She's looking up because up is where Cynferth banks, up is where the feral caprines skitter like unnatural things on inclines near vertical, up is where a flicker of speeding green collides with rocky pillar- the scrape of talons on stone, a terrified bleat, the chuff of bellowing breath released and the snap of wingleather pulled in and pushed out to full extension. A white body plumments, end over end, and the greenrider tracks its fall, from the heights where those sure-footed goats ruled to the patch of rocky soil that puffs up a cloud of dust upon impact. The thud small, pathetic, far less grand than the creature was in life. Cynferth herself, lean though she is, makes more of an impression on the earth when she comes skidding in to land nearby before prowling in close enough to pin crushed body beneath splayed paw.

In Il'ian's world, there are two kinds of people: desert-dwellers and not desert-dwellers. To his eyes, it is easy to spot the ones not born of the harsh environs of the desert, his inheritance shown in the lack of additional warmth beyond his riding leathers. Yes, the cold seeps into his bones, but it is a familiar ache that the young man is accustomed to. The jacket of his leathers is kept open, showing the blue tunic he wears beneath that complements the dark, heavy trousers and black boots. His attention is less on what's getting eaten and more contemplative on the sunset or perhaps, the standing stones themselves. Better yet, it is quite possibly the vantage point that they give towards the lake. "Not many," carefully are words chosen to the area's only other occupant at the same moment he's tucking his hands into his pockets, a toothpick held in the corner of his lips, "opt for the rangy game here."

This lack of protection against the elements is noted when Ennis turns her head to survey he who speaks. Dark eyes flick down and then they flick up, an instant assessment in that way confident women have, as if one glance is enough to pin the measure of a man. Her smile follows a beat later but this is reflex rather than approval. One smiles when greeting another and- in her case- one does so with warmth enough to drive desert chill away. Such warmth has to compensate for the lack of other respectful shufflings, in a bronzerider's presence. She continues to lean against sandstone boulder, for instance. "Easy isn't worth the effort," she says, in the tone of one reciting an oft-heard quote. The source of that quote may well be the green herself. Cynferth is drawn from her meal of wild caught caprine long enough to swing a sapphire look towards the pair, the rattle of her voiced rumble snaking to them through the field of fallen rock. Less pleasant sounds follow when the green dips head begin the process of peeling hide from flesh and flesh from bone.

Il'ian's regard of Ennis is composed, drawn in the hint of stoic curiosity; ultimately a quiet affair even when she offers up her assessing regard, the carefully neutral expression is held, though the brows lift upwards as if in open consideration. That she doesn't offer up immediate respect neither seems to please or displease him, though it does draw his eyes slowly away from the woman herself towards the green's rumbling pursuit of her dinner. "Quite." The word has a dryness to it as it's slowly given, polished through other thoughts tumbled about his mind before being the one chosen. Sargaeroth is not in sight, but that is not wholly unusual for he is a strange bronze, given to land perusal rather than people watching. Rolling the toothpick about from one corner of his mouth to another, he finds a deadpan, dry humor in something, the words falling out as dusty and parched as the land of his birth. "Probably the fattest things about." The caprines, that is. Not the woman. Or the dragon. Not that he clarifies, of course, but rather rocks back on his heels and wheezes out another dry laugh to his own internal joke. Given that the goats probably eat better than most.

It isn't unsurprising to see Elle trundling from bowl to star stones, in the way the dragonless are given: on their own two legs, without any petty charity from obliging lifemates. Dark eyes absorb: there, a foreigner and Il'ian. The latter receives a Particular Look at his wheeze of laugh, Elle having remembered the LAST time they were up here about the standing stones, kthx. She starts to edge 'round the pair, lips grimly set. Maybe she sends a few paranoid looks about her. No Sargaeroth. That's. A good thing. Yes.

"It's part of our charm, in these parts." Women: always taking things personally. But if that is indeed what Ennis is doing, she's brushed it with the sort of mild amusement that allows a deepening tick of smile timed to the man's own huff of laughter. It has to be a joke in return, given Cynferth's ranginess, and the greenrider's own athlete's physique- and what surer sign of a foreigner than someone willing to make light of the loss of weight for Igen's fairer sex, through these hard times? Charming indeed. Whether it be arrogance or ignorance, or something else shielding her, she's oblivious to that particular nuance. Or maybe it's just that the Starcrafter is providing too great a distraction to consider deeper layers of converstion. Shaded gaze slides on to Elle and lingers there, the curl of her lips remaining to serve in lieu of greeting words.

Long does Il'ian offer a stare at Ennis, before letting out a soft, "Heh," sound for he is male and he knows better than to even think about touching some topics in the presence of a female; even worse, in the presence of two females. Elle's arrival forestalls that which had come to the tip of his tongue, almost set free to vocal discovery as the man's tropical blue eyes shift from the greenrider to the star crafter, returning the Particular Look with a droll mien of dry, desert amusement. "Evening, Elle," the greeting is given carefully as Il'ian maintains a tight hold on the nuance of his tone, eyes narrowing briefly on the Starcrafter. Rolling the toothpick across his lower lip, mouth slightly parted, he considers his words long and hard before squinting at Ennis, "New here, aye?" The dying light of Rukbat's favored fire-golden light is harsh against light eyes, giving him a particularly squinty-eyed look for a moment. The stoic expression still bleeds true, though perhaps yet lingers a touch of curiosity.

"Il'ian," Elle states in return, halted by the direct greeting. A few conflicting things shade across her face before she turns towards the pair. "Sargaeroth off scaring someone else tonight, I see." The weyr's starcrafter considers him momentarily, then turns to Ennis. "Greenrider," neutrally-pitched in greeting. She opens her mouth to say something else, then looks, more narrow-eyed, at Il'ian; closes her mouth on whatever she was planning on saying.

There's light enough- harsh though it is!- to mark the hitch and start of Elle's reactions to Il'ian. It leads to a skewing of Ennis' smile, a twist that in this instance signals curiosity of her own. How else to explain lifted brows over the glance that skips from smaller female to taller male. "Ennis," she supplies, as names are bandied about. "New to Igen, as such things go, this is true. Telgar." And, because she is who she is, that is followed with a bright, "And Lemos before that. Don't let me interrupt you." This last is meant for the Starcrafter and is coupled with a sweeping gesture that indicates the bronzerider, a conspiracy of no support that leaves her looking off to where her lifemate is making bloody work of reducing the goat to its essential elements.

Il'ian is a man of Igen if there ever was one: more so than even some that have lived here longer than he has been alive for simply having been bred of this harsh and tricky climate. It shows in the stoic silence of his expression and the careful way he speaks and even the easy way he stands in his native land. There are those that are marked as natives even long after they've left and Il'ian would be one of those types. "Ennis." A name slowly given as remembered rumors tickle the mind of a man who's not yet gained a breadth of experience. "I know that name." This is as far as he willingly gets, the words arrested in his throat before he halts and considers the two women. Elle prompts a quirk'd smile, the dry desert air surfacing, "Sargaeroth never scares, Elle." Look at the mock innocent look that includes them both, the proclamation given with the dip of his head and another roll of that toothpick. It would be bashful on anyone else, but something suggests its more hiding than bashfulness. If Il'ian is noticing any half-started words or looks shared between the women, he gives no clue. He is a man with a strong sense of self-preservation! However, perhaps something prompts him to turn his attention to the green dragon and let loose a seemingly random phrase that's so carefully chosen it likely isn't random, "I wonder if you could scrape the remains off to cook later?"

There's recognition in Elle's gaze when Ennis identifies herself; it isn't as though the starcrafter, with her link to leadership, would be unfamiliar with significant transfers. She inclines her chin to the greenrider accordingly, but doesn't pursue it other than to murmur, "My regards to your Cynferth." Good memory. Her LOOK at Il'ian after he goes so far as to say what he does is touched outraged, but she steps back with a, "Oh no," to Ennis, her words so sweet: "I wouldn't dream of interrupting you." Her eyes are for Il'ian at the last, no matter the recipient of the words. Does Il'ian think his companions weak-stomached? Elle, mayhap surprisingly, just turns a speculatively look towards the eating green beyond.

"Well you should recognize the name." So it was arrogance then, though lightly spoken- Ennis has that knack, to deepen smile to grin, to make it seem she might be poking fun at her own social standing. Maybe. Maybe not. Incrutable doesn't always come with a stoic's mask. Her retains a twinkle visible even in fading daylight. "She thanks you for the courtesy and bids honor to your Craft," though the green seems more intent on twisting a thigh bone from its socket than engaging any of them in conversation. Certainly there are no more glances, appetite superceding pleasantries. Those are left for Ennis to perform, which may be why she finally draws herself up from the boulder-lean to stand upright. Her hands flush cashmere scarf about neck and jaw. No interruption? All right then, she'll fill the empty air with breezy natterings, vacant words and sentiment fit for the finest Lord's court where serious is best left behind closed doors and sparkle reigns supreme. "I've heard blood sausage is a favorite, out Reaches way. That might be all the leavings fit for cookery…are they down to chewing leather yet? Some of the stories I've heard have been dire but with Southern's meat coming in, surely there are hides enough for snacking."

And here, here lies the true nature of a boy filled with the spirit of entropy: Il'ian almost looks disappointed that neither of them found his idea repulsive nor squirmed away from such gore. Women these days! He slants a look to Ennis, brows lifting as a contrary nature steals across that stoic mien to yield a demeanor more akin to a hint of stubbornness. "Should I?" Surface the dry humor with the deadpan expression and one finds a blend of ideas that makes his humor hard to discern except that it is there in existence. "I have seen you in drills." Because Il'ian is a contrary fucker, see. Elle's good manners remind Il'ian of his lack and so the mumbled words that come are said around the toothpick — it's the toothpick's fault they are murmured and not because he forgot, okay? — "Regards to your green, Ennis." The weight of Elle's look earns a flash of a smile that shows teeth before the bronzerider is caught by the topic of the hungry. A topic that hardens the features briefly and causes the young man to back up half a step away from them both to kick at the dirt. The bazaar, his people; The stress of divided loyalties brings out something real and true to Il'ian's mutable expression: anger. Anger only fuels the careful words that fall from his lips: "Blood sausage would still feed. If she does not mind." The sentence is arrested, and while permission is asked upon the surface, something indicates that the night might fall with Il'ian scraping the leavings off the rocks after all.

Again, an elegant inclination of chin from Elle for Ennis' bidden greeting, as somber and proper acknowledgement on behalf of the Starcraft as any stodgy mathbound master would desire, even from a girl. In pants. Her face turns shadowed at mention of the bazaar's plight in particular: while she doesn't have Il'ian's attachment, she's lived at the weyr long enough to find the brighter parts, the parts she enjoys. There's a longer look for Il'ian, and maybe Elle inches half a step closer to Ennis. It's a strange world, and a strange girl, and she stands un-awkwardly but silent for the moment.

Strange that it would be when Il'ian withdraws most that Ennis' own sense of humor shows strongest. He slides away, Elle slides closer, and her gaze sweeps them both with a deepening of smile that suggests unvoiced laughter. "Regards and respects and now I suppose an apology is in order. What a formal bunch we are. She doesn't intend to leave much of anything, bronzerider, but…" The pregnant pause that follows is filled with the myriad cues of a woman dividing attention, splitting conversations between words spoken aloud and sentiments flowing in private. "She'll fetch you down another when she's finished. Now that she has the knack of it. She promises not to let it split on the ground, if it's blood you want," she says, voice blurred just enough to make this a direct and real time quote of the green's, who has not yet deigned to honor the trio with a second glance.
Sargaeroth thinks to you, Ennis is the rider of green Cynferth of Igen Weyr and Whirlwind Wing.

As quickly as emotion displayed, it is gone again as Il'ian reclaims himself to this place, rooted in the desert grain beneath his feet. The sharp and cold wind that stirs a desert's night. "Thanks." This is said with a narrow-eyed look to Ennis, this look of one of assessment, deeply forged of something. Elle receives the weight of such a look, though it changes to something less contemplative and more… something else. Something that includes the humor given to the way Elle steps closer to Ennis. Entropy requires Il'ian to take a step closer to both women, suddenly flashing a charming, boyish smile that lights up those tropical hued eyes. "I am sorry to miss Cynferth's light this evening but Sargaeroth demands my attentions." A subtle hint of notice to the green's shinier hide; perhaps it is his bronze that noticed, truly. For Elle, the smile slips, brows fall, "I will see you again in the observatory, perhaps. Without murderous killers this time." The young man gives both a salute and turns to take his leave. But wait: "I'll be back." You know. For the bloody bits the green doesn't savage. And on that note, he leaves. Terminator style. (Only not.)

It's almost as though Elle stands apart from this last bit of conversation — and indeed she takes one perfect step backwards, almost belatedly glancing between the two riders. "Ennis, Il'ian," is what she says, immediately before the bronzerider leaves. She watches him go with wrinkled brow, then executes a hybrid curtsy/nod to Ennis, strange as it is to see with her in her loose tunic and snug leggings. "Greenrider," is what she says, simply, before departing back on the way she left: back towards the star stones.

Boyish smile, meet unrestrained grin. "I'm sure she'll demand his soon enough. We'll be here," Ennis says for Il'ian and if she doesn't blink or shy away from that long, steady look, well… "It was a pleasure, Starcrafter. I hope your evening's productive." And then, safely free of company, of witnesses to the flaws in her perfect presentation, she lets herself sink back against the same large rock that had supported her and turns her face up into the wind. That it's copper-scented, and full of the most unpleasant of sounds- thank you, Cynferth- barely registers.

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