Who

Sa'mael, Myziri

What

Sam's actually being normal, but Myziri is just leaking misery.

mild language

When

It is late night of the seventh day of the fifth month of the seventh turn of the 12th pass. It is the thirty-seventh day of Autumn and 83 degrees. The night is clear and humid. A thousand stars twinkle overhead.

Where

Archive Library, Southern Weyr

OOC Date 11 Mar 2016 08:00

 

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"Who … … … … …"


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Archive Library

Where once books reigned supreme, this open space is now dominated by a stalwart skybroom reaching to the sky through a broken ceiling. What was once evidence of collapse is now ornately carved with engraved ivy, matched by a clever contraption of stone that allows the gap to be closed in inclement weather. A small garden occupies the space around the tree-trunk, all manicured bushes and flowering shrubbery enclosed by a grated gutter. The walls are lined with bookcases, while a spiral staircase leans on the western wall to wind upwards to the second level. Tucked in the corners and scattered in the main areas are tables and chairs, cafe-style, and comfortably worn overstuffed armchairs. It is the perfect place for individuals to gather, to enjoy the offerings of the food-cart or a spirited conversation.


It's a rare night of stars as autumn still holds the warmth of summer, but within the weyr the temperature is moderated by the weight of stone that settles around the weyr. The library is hushed with only a few people out and about, and the librarians moving through the shelves of books. At a table, Sa'mael sits, sprawled with a random book open and his head resting against the curled knuckles of his finger. The weight of his own head is enough to wrinkle the skin, and it's with the weight of that medallion hanging from the thick chain-and-leather bracelet that his hand hovers over the book and turns a page. In truth, the bronzerider looks utterly bored. Baggy clothing as usual, the tip of that long knife of his peeks out from beneath the hem of his tunic, but his sprawl covers most of the single weapon he's never without. His hair falls around his face, still long, but the downy blond beard is mostly gone: close cropped to barely a shadow of stubble. Creeeeeaaaaaaaakkkkkkk - a woman pushes a cart, and its wheels make a loud noise, breaking the utter silence.

Boredom. It seeks to drive even Myziri into the archives. Or perhaps she's here out of voluntary whim. Whatever the reason, she wanders in in a fashion suggesting she doesn't really have purpose here, so much as an idea of purpose, i.e., to find a book to read. Perhaps one that doesn't have anything to do with dragons, dragonriding, threadfall, or formations - or anything wing related, for that matter. No, she's here for entertainment value, and Sahizath can just gnash her teeth in silence over what she considers 'nonessential reading.' Myziri wants a good bodice ripper, one with lots of sex and violence; just the kind of thing one needs as a bedtime story, right? So, off she goes to the shelves and begins to peruse them, a nod given to a librarian as she passes by - she's a familiar sight in the archives from her weyrling days and even beyond, thanks to her lifemate with a thirst for knowledge. "Evening.." she murmurs. Eventually she finds the section she's looking for and her head tilts in that time-honored 'let's read the spines of the books sideways, mkay' way.

The woman nods back and continues on her way. Perhaps with a murmured helpful comment on where Myziri can go off and find her fill of stories full of gratuitous sex. Meanwhile, Sa'mael turns the page of his (not entertainment) book and yawns. Flicking some crushed crumb from possibly turns ago from the page, he runs his finger down the columns of neatly written words before frowning. Another page turned. Enough people filter in and out that he's not paying attention to the coming and goings of other people. That woman is pushing her cart down another mini-hallway. Creeeeeeeak… Creeeeeeeeeeeeeeeak. Sa'mael lets out a sound of annoyance, but only gives a good glare in the general direction of the noise.

Like fingers down a chalkboard, that creeeeeeeak is a sound that runs straight up Myziri's spine and into her brain, digging at that very last nerve. Because her mood wasn't all that stellar to begin with, and that's just icing on the cake. "For fuck's sake, oil the sharding wheel." It's only a whisper, and it's meant for her own personal edification, really, a twist of the valve to let off some of that pressure she's got going on. Well, okay, so maybe it wasn't quite a whisper since everything in a library above the merest wisp of sound is a shout. She doesn't seem to care if anyone hears her (and actually is hoping the lady with the cart does). But she keeps her eyes firmly on those book titles. Selecting one, she pulls it out to thumb through it. A shake of the head, she puts it back.

Errr-eee-errrr-eeee-errrr-eeee-errrrr-eeeee - The lady has filled her cart and is pushing it back to the harper archivist's desk. Sa'mael's attention is pulled by that outburst - enough that he allows a smirky sound escape followed by a sardonic, "Don't be bitchy," that's given by way of distraction. Recognition probably lies in the sharp sound of the greenrider's voice, but after only a huff, his attention is turned back to his own reason for being here. The woman is slowly (okay so she's old) unloading her cart. One painful book at a time: the thing squeaks every time ample hips bump against it. The other patrons mill about, silence falls again.

Teeth clenched against thsi new sound to cause friction to her frayed nerve, Myziri glares at the old bat all the way to the archivists desk; it doesn't do much except make her feel better (damned laser eyes are on the blink!) on some visceral level; it certainly doesn't change the squeaking any. Her glare slides over to Sam when he opens his trap, and her appreciation for his comment can be summed up in two words "Fuck off." She doesn't even try to sugar coat it, either. She turns back to her head-tilting maneuver after, and another book is brought down, thumbed through. Nope. Not enough violence. Myz needs violence.

Sa'mael lazily shrugs after narrowing his eyes at Myziri. He mutters something under his breath, but if Myziri is in a mood, he's certainly not going to poke it. The woman has emptied her cart and is busy doing something else for the moment, so the annoying sounds aren't present at least. He shifts and lifts his ass to fetch the flask from his back pocket and press it to his lips, drinking the burning booze while keeping an eye on his book until he flips the page again. Then a few more pages, and a few more. Until he's about in the middle of the thing and flicks another crushed crumble of graham cracker out from the valley the pages make.

You overhear Sa'mael mutter, "Who … … … … …" to himself.

Finally, that sound stops. And Myziri's temper eases just a wee bit. Her nerve begins to heal itself, slowly. And, she finds a book that might provide enough entertainment to lift her mood. Certainly, she seems finished with the browing portion of her evening. Said book is taken and a comfy chair is found, which she flops in to with a sigh that is, if not exactly ecstatic, at least somewhat suggestive of comfort. She then pulls out her own flask right about the time Sam brings out his - and finally, finally there's a glimmer of sunshine through all that cloud cover obscuring Myziri's usual sweet nature (hahaha!) - er, somewhat less cranky everyday demeanor. She raises hers to his, as if she didn't just tell him where to, and flips open her book. Reading commenced. Looks about on par for Sam's for interest, however; she eventually glances up, right about the time he flicks another crumb. "You reading or cleaning that book?" she wonders, taking a little sip of her drink. Because apple pie is to be savored, not gulped; at least the night after having drained almost a full jar yourself.

Sa'mael lifts a brow when Myziri then goes onto pretend she didn't just pull a bitch move and tips a flask at him after finding herself a seat. The Jekyll/Hyde move earns a small snort and a shuttered look before his attention returns to his book. He tips the flask to give a good dash of whatever's in there to his klah mug before tucking the thing back into his pocket. "Looking shit over," he answers her finally after lifting the front cover and closing the book with a rumbling finality. "K'ane's order." He leaves it at that, reaching for his klah. He might spare a look for his clutch mate over the rim of his mug, though it's hard to tell. "Not my fault someone ate their way through that book."

Flasks are nice things; they fit in a pocket, and no one can accuse you of being a lush if you aren't carrying a bottle around, right? Myziri's own flask is tucked back into its little nest, and she shrugs at that lifted brow "It's my go-to response when people tell me not to be bitchy." Because she can be a bitch if she wants to! "You want to go another round, or you want civilized conversation? Or maybe you'd prefer none at all, seein as how you are doing homework." Little smirk, quickly gone - she's not really in the mood to smile "Sucks." Having to read boring books at the whim of your wing's leader. "That punishment, or…?" she lets the question hang, looks down at her own book with a frown, but nope - still not getting in to it. She sighs and snaps it shut, rising to pour her own mug of klah and see what's on the sweet tray — ooo, gingersnaps. Spicy. She'll take a handful of those, yes she will.

Sa'mael gives her a flat look for the first half of her words; it's not friendly, but at least doesn't yield the 'fuck you' that might be on the tip of his tongue. He doesn't answer her; instead he lets the coldfire silence be answer enough. Until she says something that's worth replying too and he glances over at the book. "Punishment?" He squeezes out a wheeze as if such a thing would be preposterous, and shakes his head. "No, just shit we gotta know." It's boring, therefore he's not going to go into the nitty gritty detail of what it is. Suffice to say, his tone is enough to indicate that it is not at all scintillating. He cradles his mug in his lap, pushing the chair back away from the table. Maybe he's about to ask her about her book when she's getting up and getting herself something to eat. So he lays his head back and slouches further into the chair until his tall frame is all but stretched out, feet obnoxiously in the way. Not like he cares.

Myziri smirks in the face of coldfire silence…rather smirkily. Hands raise and she waggles them in mock terror. "Oooo…help! Sam's staring at me, I'm so scaaaared." And she can feel that fuck you, even if he doesn't say it. She returns to her seat with klah and cookies and flops again, biting into one of the spicy snacks, savoring the flavor. "Yeah. Not scary, just so you know." In fact, boring. "All stare, no action if you ask me." She cheshire grins after swallowing her bite (now you know how those crumbs got in the book, right?) and promptly takes another one; her mood swings are just off the charts tonight, high or low but not much in between. That smile doesn't fade, it's just gone, gone, gone in an instant, although she doesn't quite sink back into bitchy territory. More…detached. "Still sucks." She points out, cookie in hand trailing a few crumbs as she waves it about. "But such a good little wingrider you are."

And that, that right there causes Sa'mael to check out - his expression hardens and loses whatever amicability he'd had in the exhaustion between one moment and the next. From his sprawl, tension climbs through his muscles, through her mockery and into the moment when she stills. "I don't know what the fuck is wrong with you, but since I was doing nothing but trying to fucking research on what K'ane wants in order to try and find something for all the shit raining down on our heads? You can kiss my ass Myziri for your declasse mockery." With dragged weight, he stands and grabs his book, not at all going to stick around to be mocked. That shit's for the birds. The only thing that pauses him is the moment it takes to drain the klah mug.

"Yeah, figured you couldn't take what you dish out all the time." Myziri's tones are bored now, though she continues the mocking vein with a raised cookie salute, a kind of gingersnap 'see ya.' "On the plus side, I get to watch your ass as you walk out on me. It's a good view. I see it allll the time. Yummy." Because he's always walking away from her. Or pushing her off his ledge onto her dragon; basically, just pushing her away in general. "Try to go slow though, okay? So I can really savor it." She bites into a cookie and smirks at him, does a little swivel with her finger. "Come on now, turn around. Let's see that ass, baby." Oh, and there it is!! "Woo. Work it, Sam!" Does she care if she's making an ass out of herself? Likely not - the volcano is firmly in control tonight, and the magma is just spurting out all over. She might regret it in the morning, but for now she's riding the burning high of rising lava.

Times have changed since his time as a Candidate and Czhaevth's re-making leaves Sa'mael pausing to give Myziri a cold smile, "Now I remember why." And that's all he says, but with each words, something is changed. A key twisting in a lock. Indelible, the world shifts as Sa'mael's fists clench but he shakes his head - is it pity? - and turns and walks away. Each step taken is another shift in the world and the expectations of it. It is a remembrance of a time before, in the hazy banality of Time, her words nothing more than the buzzing vtols that land their mark upon the existence of the moment. He consumes the world in front of him with each steps the confident belligerence is at the forefront, defiance riding high against the killing edge that lies beneath Czhaevth's chains of air. Whatever it was he was going to ask her at the outset, he leaves with Myziri firmly behind him and that question falls to dust, crumbling into shadows.

Times may have changed for Sam, but for Myziri they're just the same; as he walks away, she's left alone with her book, klah, and cookies, none of which satisfy her. The book is ignored, the klah left to go cold, and the cookies set aside - spice turns to ash in her mouth, a dirty taste left behind much like her last failed encounter with Sam. The last one. Because she just can't do it anymore. She waits only long enough for him to be long gone before she stands abruptly and hurries for the exit, and she'll apologize later for the mess she's left behind - to the librarians, at least. For now, she needs the comfort of Sahizath and the cool, crisp night. A long flight against the moon and stars; perhaps that will quell the unnamed something that simmers inside her, ready to explode; disappointment, shame, guilt, unhappiness are all fine fuels to stoke her inner volcano, bring it to life, and she's had too much of all of them of late. It's not long after that moonscaped green and rider take to the sky and wing off into the night, not to be seen again until next duty shift.

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