Dione, Nathanael, S'yn


Just getting off from work, a young woman seeks shelter from the storm under a random bronze's wing and gets invited for klah.


It is before dawn of the twenty-eighth day of the seventh month of the first turn of the 12th pass.


Lower Bowl, Living Caverns

OOC Date


dione_default.jpg nathanael_default.jpg s-yn_default.jpg


Lower Bowl

Cobblestones sweep as far as the eye can see, a unique feature to the lower section of the bowl — but necessary, perhaps, as the stepped western bowl drains off into this high-trafficked area. The shallow bowl is bounded by craggy-black bowlwall with entrances pockmarked — and some boarded over in an effort to prevent entry from un-renovated caverns. Directly south, the wall neatly crumbles away to roll southerly into rollicking fields of soft hills; a glance of the stables can be seen through the gap, nestled against the entrance bridge that spans westward.

Day eighty-eight of the winter, and STILL RAINING. It's not so much that Dione minds the rain or the temperatures or, well, Southern, it's the constant drizzle of both until she's quite sure she's not seen the sun for days. Today's no different: given that it's a few hours after closing time for the Kitten and she had the cleanup shift, she's only now running towards the Weyr under the cover of an entirely ineffectual hand-umbrella, serving just to keep it out of her eyes. The rest of her is getting soaked in the heavy rain, from dark jersey to black leggings, and her hair soaks up water to turn it from flame-bright to a darker crimson. Just as she's almost halfway, there's a renewed downpour and she swears, still given to imagining she might get there somewhat dry (she won't.) At the last moment, seeing something large unfurl, she ducks in and sideways, crunching up a bit to avoid being swept off her feet by a bronze wingsail. Her eyes pinch shut at the sudden cessation of rain, and she gives a groan of thankfulness and a wet-cat shake. Of all the days to forget her umbrella at home!

Habit more than desire to be awake has a certain young bronzerider up before the dawn and on his way to breakfast despite the rain pattering down from the heavens without surcease. S’yn is dressed in his black riding leathers, everything done up as snugly as possible to keep out the persistent outpouring of water from above. Iaxryth lands neatly despite the low visibility, wings mantling as he settles lightly onto the ground in defiance of his large size, just in time for the barmaid to seek shelter under his sail. A low rumble issues from the bronze and he cranes his neck to peer at the woman with his whirling green gaze tinged with blue, the slow speed speaking of bemusement more than anything. “Eh?” The young rider glances back toward the underside of the wing that the young dragon keeps held out over the damsel in distress even as his fingers undo the habitually clipped straps. “No, I don’t know who it is, Iax, and I’m not about to make a move… Clearly you’ve been listening to too many greens and their riders.” The teenager slides down off the back to land lightly and lifts his flight googles up to settle on his riding helm as he comes up under the citrine membrane. “At least the rain helps keep the Thread at bay,” he offers by way of greeting to Dione, his expression one of curiosity.

If she had been at all drier Dione would have been amused by the bronze's inferred comment to his rider. As it is, there's little but relief in her expression - he might make a thousand saucy remarks, if only he keeps his wing where it is. With the citrine sail acting like a (bigger, better!) umbrella, she has a chance to bend her hair forward and squeeze the ends of shoulderlength hair dry. Given her colouring and fair skin it's likely at least a little curly when dry, but for the moment it clings to her like a red skullcap, straggling until she sweeps the sodden locks back. "My thanks to you, bronze sir, and your rider," she says with a broad drawl, accent from midst-Nerat and only lightly touched by stranger climes. The man — boy, when she finally sees him clearly enough after wiping her eyes dry — gets a curious look. "Listen to a lot of greenriders then, do you?" She eyes the dreary, thickly overcast dark sky that she can see, and a m-hm comes, curious. "Why'd that be, then? Does it drown? I feel drowned."

Eyes go out of focus for a moment before S’yn’s lips take a wry cant to them. “You’re quite welcome, miss.” The question earns a flick of his bright amber eyes toward his dragon that seems to match his irises with a little snort. “I don’t, but I’m convinced he does.” Shoulders roll in a shrug before the other question earns a nod. “It does drown,” he confirms helpfully. “Which we could use a lot more off and… a lot less of other things.” The incident with the Weyrleader’s bronze comes to mind readily before being shunted aside and his head shaken to clear that disturbing thought. “I was just on my way for some breakfast… I doubt we’ll have drills in this, especially if it gets worse, so perhaps I might share some klah with you?” he offers with a chivalrous flair and a gentle gesture toward the not too distant living caverns. “It might help take the chill from your bones if not the moisture. I’m S’yn, by the way.”

Given the way dragons gossip sometimes and people certainly do, Dione's expression turns grave as well. Not only Southern, but an Igen gold broken as well, and a Southern goldrider nearly damaged… "Bad business," she tcches, surmising the thrust of his thoughts from the cant of his expression (and a night's worth of chatter about it). "But no lives lost, thankfully, and an odd idea it is to think that Thread can drown, right?" She stops her surreptitious scoot towards the bronze's warmth, looking out miserably at the rain that still separates them from the Living Cavern. "What a welcoming thought," she mutters, finally getting her hair fingercombed into place, and looks up at him with laughing green eyes. "Dione. I'll race you." And so she does, dashing out underneath the bronze's wing, unwilling to depend on what kindness he might have in seeing her safely sheltered all the way to the klah. "Come on, long-legs!" she taunts over her shoulder.

“Thankfully,” S’yn agrees with a grave nod. “If only it stays heavy like this.” Iaxryth for his part is quite happy to shelter the barmaid with his wing and encourage all kinds of things from his rider, watching them from beneath those merrily canted eyeridges. Her laughing gaze makes the young rider chuckle, the introduction and abrupt challenge momentarily startling him before he is spurred into motion by that taunt. “Stuff it, Iax!” he mutters at his dragon even as he pelts with his too long limbs toward the living caverns, more rain slicking his leathers for the effort. Breath steams out before him in misty plumes as he catches up to her with his elongated stride and Turns of running practice, though he holds himself back from actually beating her, out of some inborn sense of chivalry. Once they are finally under the cover of the cavern’s vaulted ceiling he laughs softly, amber eyes amused by the game. “Nobody challenges me to races anymore,” he bemoans good-naturedly as he saunters toward the serving tables and through the gathering crowds seeking their own fast breaking.


Living Caverns
Grand and spacious, the cavern curves high aloft in naturally-vaulted ceiling that soothes any sense of claustrophobia. Rich woods line the cavern floor, varnished and stained a rich mahogany, while round tables scatter about candlelit and intimate. The largest table lies southerly next the sideboard, long trestles that seem oriented to providing for the weyr's youngest. The rich blue of Azov can be seen from a distance in good weather, when the heavy stone doors covering the entrance are allowed to stand open.

Pah, men should be challenged all the time, or they grow lazy and grouchy. This, at least, remains unvoiced as Dione clatters into the Living Cavern barely inches ahead of S'yn. He might not be winded, but she is, given her legs are a good six inches shorter and she had to hoof it to get there that fast in any case. The bowl circuit is her thing, not quick sprints. "Can't think why," she says as she straightens, having the courtesy to stand on the rush-rug put there for dripping and cleaning feet on. Her shoes are wiped fastidiously clean and her jacket removed to squeeze that dry as well, leaving a thin, rather damp tunic and a shiver. "Y'riders oil yer leathers?" she asks curiously, looking at his black set before wandering off the mat in the direction of the hearth and (hopefully) the klah. "How'd you take it? An' please don't say 'strong an' sweet, like m'women.'" Clearly the pretty girl's had more than her share of lame pickup lines, if the eyeroll she gives is any indication. As she waits for her order she drapes her jacket in front of the hearth, then arrows straight for one of the last oversized mugs left.

A low chortle rolls from the young bronzerider even as S’yn peels off his gloves to clip them onto his belt. “Probably because I’m a mile tall,” he jokes with a helpless shrug for his height. The inquiry about his riding leathers earns a pause and a nod, the teen inspecting the cured hide briefly, damp but not soaked through. “Hafta,” he admits. “Through fog, Fall and fire, right?” A shrug is given to that fact of dragonrider life as the youth ambles toward the serving tables. The inquiry on how he takes his klah and the subsequent request that it not be a bad pickup line earns a soft chuckle, hand moving in unconscious gesture to rub the back of his neck. “Er, no. Just black and plain, nothing special,” he rejoins without much fanfare. “I can get my own klah though, and yours too, if you’d like.” He lays claim on a table by unbuckling his jacket and tossing it to drape across the back, turning to head for the serving tables himself. “You’ve been serving all night after all.”

For all the differences int their ages, S'yn looks older then Nathanael just by virtue of the fact that he's so bloody tall. (Stop being tall man), but when it comes to duties there is little question about who has been awake longer. Nathanael pushes open the door to the caverns with a hip bump, arms full of the early morning catch before the winter winds drove the boats home again. For all the cooler chill he is wearing his shirt without sleeves, showing recent bruising to his upper arms, and outlining the long scar that runs along one. His destination is the kitchen, and that is where he goes with that fish, only to reappear soon after empty handed and looking around.

"I'm sure there are still people around that can give you a run for your money." Oh, the puns. Dione waves away the offer to fetch klah, already at the table, and sets about making two people happy. One mug gets the default splash, dark and simple, and another is whipped into a frothy concoction with sweetener and milk, quite generous helpings of each until it's more half-and-half than anything else. She turns in time to see Nathanael go past, nodding a hello to him, before idling back to the table that S'yn had chosen for them. There, handing over his mug, she slides in with her back to the hearth, trying to ignore the wet rain dribbles down her neck from soaked hair. "T'Fall's not always predictable I hear though, what with this latest? The Weyrleader's bronze and that Igen queen beached, and all the dragonhealers in the Weyr practically rushing out to tend 'em. Must have gotten really gravely wounded."

The pun is not lost on the wingrider, who chuckles softly at that jib. “Probably. Maybe I’ve just kept myself too busy.” The Seacrafter is spied and earns a grin and a jaunty wave from S’yn. “Hey ‘thanael!” is offered when the elder teen saunters from the kitchens with his hands free of fish before accepting that dark mug of klah to sip on, the stimulants much appreciated and indicated by his low sighing. The commentary on fall earns a little wince from the youth, though he does his best to retain his composure in the face of that uncomfortable line of discussion. “It was pretty bad.” The amber eyes are briefly haunted by the visceral visage that pops into his mind from that last Threadfall. “I’m just grateful there haven’t been any casualties from that.” With his jacket off and the green tunic clinging to his lean frame it isn’t hard to see the shiver that rolls down his spine, though the boy buries himself in his mug of klah for a moment to regain his composure.

A smile breaks across Nathanael's face as the voice matches the face he had thought was in the caverns. Even as he moves forward to greet S'yn a voice calls out from behind the kitchen door, "Thanael! Breakfast for that brownrider as long as you're here!" Choices. Greet friend, go do his duty. Finally, he choses a middle path. He'll take the proffered fistbump from S'yn, "Ye 'n I've got some talkin' t' do S'yn, whene'er we got time!" Then, he has to turn and dash back into the kitchens to gather up Cha'el's morning meal for what has become almost a daily ritual. When he pops back out again he'll wave at Dione before disappearing.

Dione silently watches the two boys interact, eyeing the bruising on Nathanael before she returns her bright gaze to S'yn. "He's having a rough time, it looks like," she finally says after a couple of sips. "Not something a woman can comfortably deal with, I'm gathering." For long moments there's no suggestion of any desire to pick up sensitive topics, despite the listening attitude that every bartender gets sooner or later. Then, decision made, she stands and goes back to the buffet table, gathering a plate of cookies. She returns, sets them down on the table and wordlessly pokes the plate towards him with a fingertip and a crooked little 'Eat one' gesture from her hand. For herself, she takes two, holding them together before dipping them into her klah.

The accepted fist-bump earns a bright sparkle in S’yn’s amber gaze for a moment before regret colors his expression at the Seacrafter’s rather rapid need for departure. “We definitely need to do that!” he agrees wholeheartedly and with a measure of youthful enthusiasm, looking perhaps for a moment like the mere fourteen-Turn-old that he is. The bruising is noted but not really commented on until the barmaid brings it up and those hawkish eyes refocus from the departing Nathanael to Dione again. “I dunno,” he admits after a thoughtful sip. “Maybe he just got tangled in his work.” He knows that he’s gotten his share of nasty bruises from perfectly innocuous stuff… along with not so innocuous. He finally sinks into the chair and sprawls his long legs out at an angle under the table that won’t trip other passerbys and will prevent him from playing inadvertent footsie with his companion. The offer of a cookie nets a surprised blink, the youth seldom indulging in such things anymore, but after a moment of contemplation he takes one and emulates her gesture, letting the black klah soak into the sweet cinnamon cookie and finally takes a bite of that softened sweet. “Mmm.”

There's no counseling attempt, no acknowledgement that it must be difficult to be a rider at his tender age. S'yn is a rider. He has a dragon. It's what happened, and no amount of being sweet and delicate is going to make Thread any less scary, or drive away nightmares. Instead, munching her mouthful of softened cookie happily, Dione spends a few moments in contemplation of the table … or her navel, as the case might be. She's to the point of picking up crumbs with her finger when she speaks up again, offering the only feel-good she may: "You know, when it's not raining insanely like this, I go for a sprint around the bowl every morning. Nothing fast, but it'll stretch your legs for sure. You'e welcome to come and run with, perhaps the distance'll challenge you if nothing else." Her eyes snap at him, merry and teasing. "Perhaps even in the rain, if I remember my umbrella, or start stashing one at the Kitten."

S'yn is perfectly happy in that quiet companionship as he works his way through the offered cookie, the sweet treat and the slightly bitter klah blending rather well together and providing a simple pleasure for the youth that he rarely remembers to take for himself anymore. There is absent communication with his dragon as he gnaws his way through the baked good, licking his fingers free of crumbs and klah when the server speaks again. Her offer nets a curious and even intrigued glint, the idea of jogging with another person somehow perking his interest. "When I was a Weyrling they had us out most every morning, rain, shine, fog, ice… I wouldn't mind a little company again for such things." Naiveté prevents the youth from making any sort of real pass, though his dragon is no doubt encouraging him to do such. "Maybe I could get Iaxryth to run with us," he suggests with a wry smile curling his lips unevenly. "Put those big wings of his to good use." A chuckle escapes him. "That'd be a sight to see I'm sure." Amber eyes sparkle at the mental visual even as he reaches for another of those soft treats.

Dione muffles a grin behind one hand at the thought of having a portable umbrella along. "I don't know," she mutters behind the cage of fingers. "I'm guessing he'd outpace us by far, but if he wants to run with then it's fine with me. At least it'll stop the ridiculous rate at which I have to dry my clothes these days. Once it's summer again, I'd be glad to use him for shade, if he's got no problems with it." With the last bite of two cookies disappearing, she reluctantly slips the plate all the way over to him. His backside looks as if it can tolerate a ton more of them in any case. "S'yn. I'm not running with you through fog and ice. I don't have a dragon to rescue my ass, so put that thought right out of your head, okay?" There will be ground rules!

Eyes go briefly out of focus as Iaxryth has his say in the matter, resulting in a droll chuckle from his rider. "He says he can amble while we run." Lips quirk in a ghost of a smirk before S'yn takes another cookie from that offered plate, though his belly is grumbling for something heartier. The mention of drying clothes obviously nets some comment from the bronze for the boy's eyes go briefly out of focus before his tanned cheeks darken with embarrassment and he quickly takes a drink of his klah to cover the expression. A cough still escapes him as he swallows slightly wrong and has to clear his throat noisily before he chuckles at Dione's firm assertion of conditions in their exercise. "I'd never ask you to risk illness on my behalf, miss," he assures her even as he sets the half gnawed cookie down and pushes himself to his feet to go and get himself a plate of something more substantial. "I'm for some eggs and whatnot. Care for anything?"

One hand waves off the offer of anything more substantial. Two cookies and klah, her ideal dinner-breakfast-bed snack. "No, thanks. I don't want anything heavy in me now." The blush is noted, grinned at. "Do I want to know what he said, or was it something perverted?" Poor blushing boy, to be stuck with a dragon like that. "In fact I need to get going soon if I'm going to be making it to bed on time. For the next seven I'm on late shift, but we can start running after that if you want. I'll meet you here every morning at … half-six? Six?"

"Fair enough." The inquiry earns a deeper blush at a little cough of embarrassment as S'yn rubs the back of his neck. "I'm afraid Iaxryth has his mind between his hindlegs and not in his skull where it belongs." With a dragon having so many perverted thoughts, the boy hasn't quite gotten around to having any on his lonesome yet. The posed timeframe is heard and mulled over as the growing boy meanders to the serving tables and helps himself to a hearty helping of breakfast. Some sort of sticky grain with cinnamon, coconut, mango and peach bits cooked into it is claimed, along with spiced porcine links, scrambled eggs of some variety, and some more klah to wash it all down before he returns. Plonking down at the table he finally gives her his answer with a smile even as his spoon goes into the cooked grain dish. "That sounds good to me, Dione. Maybe with a little luck this blasted rain will go away and save you from risk of ailment due to exposure?"

Men with their brains between their legs? Occupation hazard, at least in her line of work. Dione gives an idle shrug of 'don't-worry-about it' and drains the last of her klah, spending a few moments to let it settle. She eyes the breakfast that he returns with, shakes her head — damn hollow boys — and stands, pushing her chair in neatly. "I wouldn't count on the rain going away," she states happily, too warm now to mutter about it. "I'll just get an oiled coat or something tomorrow. G'day to you, S'yn. See you in a few days." With that she ambles away from their small table, putting the mug away before scooping up her now-damp jacket and heading for bed.

Add a New Comment