A week after the brawl on Xanthee's Turnday, Daenerys actually takes a moment to actually think about where his life is headed.



Approx one week after "It's My Turnday, I'll Brawl If I Want To!", nighttime.


Daenerys' Yurt, Caravan Grounds, Igen Weyr

OOC Date 21 Jan 2018 06:00



Daenerys' Yurt

It's remarkably plain, Spartan, even: a loft curves along one wall, just large enough for bedding to be comfortably placed. Beneath, a workbench, leather bits piled up on it like a small mountain. And in the remaining area: nothing bar a set of well tanned, black and white feline hides spread out on the floor, heads well preserved with the skull intact, facing the door of the yurt as though prepared to attack any invader.

The night has grown longer still since he’s been freed from his punishment duties — truth be told, he’s grateful for the opportunity to be active, to be doing something besides working leather over and over. He’s bored, quite frankly, and it’s driving him mad. Fighting had been gratifying, reluctant though he is to admit it, even to himself; an outlet for the building aggression within him, a release from the tension of being at loose ends for the second time in his life. It’s trouble, and he knows it, but the last thing he needs is more trouble of any kind.

What he needs is a reliable outlet for these things. Stripping himself of his sweaty working clothes, he bathes himself in warm, scented water and soapsand, enjoying the play of suds over soft golden skin. Drying himself off, he slips into his sleeping clothing, a brief pair of white cotton shorts and nothing else. Settling on his bed, he picks up his brush and begins to clear his long hair of tangles, enjoying the soothing ritual of preparing for bed. But his mind — oh, it roils! All the things he’s been trying to deny to himself for so long — they refuse to be denied any longer. He must think of them. He must face them. Slowly, he raises his long lashes to stare at himself in his mirror, studying his fine-boned face, twisting a lock of hair in his hand as he does.

He's been working himself into the ground, trying to prove his value — to the Caravan, to the Leader, and most of all, to himself. Wound tighter than a ball of string, it started to unravel the night Xanthee was attacked by that damned brownrider, and seems to have caused him no end of trouble with Reveka — though both seemed to be resolving. But the loss of control worries him; he's simply not used to having so much free time on his hands. Time to think, time to mourn the loss of new challenges, the loss of things to learn and apply himself yo. It's the old trouble all over again, the need to create a certain level of…. excitement. To be admired for what he can do and be.
The need to protect, it's strong — and the need to move with grace, to exercise the other skills bequeathed him by his lamented father is too much. But he can't run again; here, he believes he belongs. He can be useful, not merely ornamental. But how?

Oh, but how. Of late, the bellydancers — most especially Tallel — have caught his interest. There, he could put his appeal to good use. And as a guard, he could put his other skills to use. He’d be no good as a spy, but perhaps they could use a man who is able, and flexible, and willing to protect even unto the giving of his life. It’s an idea. Are the two even efficacious to learn? Perhaps they are; he doesn’t know, yet. But he shall; oh, he shall.

Pushing himself out of bed, he begins pacing his yurt like a caged animal, suffused with an energy that overtakes him, building like the caged feline of the Menagerie. He just has to — stop drifting like this. Long fingers slide through hair as dark as night and made silken through the judicious use of oils and brushing. His dark eyes shift over the spartan walls, the few show items of his leatherworker’s skill. That life is behind him now, and the path lies open before him, he believes. He thinks much better while in motion, bringing clarity to a mind gone befuddled by feverish overwork and too little engagement.

In the wake of that clarity, a plan forms: to investigate the possibility of volunteering to train with the guard, to offer his skills in the defense of his new family — and perhaps, to learn a new skill that appeals to the sensuality that lies so close to the surface that he’s found difficult to tame. Oh, it needs an outlet, and perhaps he’s found one within the ranks of dancers, where he might be looked upon with admiration, and yet, he will be in control of whether he is touched, or not. To rouse desire, but to deny access — oh, how it appeals to the inner feline nature.

There’s a canny smile, then, for the satisfactory outcome of this night’s meditation.

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