Who

Zavyr

What

Zavyr, figuring.

Angsty.

When

It is late night of the tenth day of the fifth month of the eleventh turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Igen Weyr Weyrling Barracks - Nynnth's Couch

OOC Date 05 Jul 2017 07:00

 

zavyr_sitting.jpg


Igen Weyr Weyrling Barracks - Nynnth's Couch

Zavyr is an addict. Her drug is the spectacular mind of the blue dragon Nynnth. When he is awake, his constant presence is a buffer between her and the reality of a Weyrlinghood in which Zavyr has become lost, these last few days. After B’ram had overseen Zavyr and Nynnth’s removal to the far end of the barracks from those she’d bunked with, her friends with whom she’d Candidated with, Nynnth had found other dragonets to play with, to cuddle with. However Zavyr had, with the onus of disgrace implied by her banishment, become scarce. She’d collect food only after other Weyrlings had, and retreated to Nynnth’s couch to eat, companioned only by the blue. A few of her new neighbors made overtures. Zavyr made excuses.

First to get in trouble. Like nobody expected that, right?

When Zynnth sleeps, Zavyr cannot focus at all, but she is a performer. If he naps during the day, in classes, she simply sits; should she be in exercises, she performs exactly as told. No questions. No comments. No Foolery. But by night, when the blue slumbers, Zavyr doesn’t even bother: The wax tablet upon which she is supposed to be practicing her letters remains pristine on the small desk, and the remedial books the Harper sent back with her, out of which she is to copy words, serve only as a perch for brown Grit. The irregular stack of hides she’d asked for, thinking she’d write Sharps, write A’lira – have remained untouched since the AWLM reminded her that all notes must be vetted. The idea of anyone reading her thoughts, her badly-expressed words and horrible spelling, and the trouble that might come of that…

Twice shy.

If her flirting with A’lira, if her lewd thoughts, broadcasted compliments of her darling lifemate, resulted in six months of supervision by all authority figures, in Zavyr’s being removed from ‘her’ group…Well. Well. Zavyr’s not going to risk writing a letter and maybe saying the wrong thing and getting in trouble again. After the heavy restrictions saddled on her, on A’lira for what small sins may have ensued…Zavyr has no idea what they have left to slap Zavyr with, but she doesn’t want to find out.

Three’s a charm - wher-crap. First fellow dead. Second one, hand broken. Third one saddled now with the notoriety of being In Trouble…First. With the Fool – for half a turn. Potentially career-ruining, that. And what’s the story? Zavyr mentally cringes away from voiced renditions of the likely gossip, in the active theatre of her mind.

This night, sleep doesn’t come and the aching desire to awaken Nynnth just to bask in his mind-touch batters at Zavyr. She aches. She needs. She wants. She rises to check again by touch, the trouble patches on Nynnth that tend to flake, but they do not need oiling and the blue does not awaken. Zavyr's own hair brushes her cheeks, a few strands reach to her chin. In her self-imposed isolation, she’s missed the hair-shearing opportunities. Zavyr can at least do that and probably not fuck it up. She has practice at that. That won't get her in trouble. Get anyone she cares about punished.

Her knife slides out of her belt, and a whetstone is fished from her pouch. Some comfort is taken from the rhythmic hash of blade over stone: Shink, shink, shink, shink. Zavyr can lose herself in even this small motion, rocking slightly back and forth, blade flashing in dim light. But when she stops, the trickle of thoughts come, unbidden:

Zavyr was right. She is wrong. For this. For him. For here. She shoves the thought aside with an aching violence that threatens to reach through her bond, to her lifemate. Instead, Zavyr seeks the sensation of longish hair drawing through fingers, before her blade hacks through smooth hair. A shower of near-white length wisps down.

A stupid flirtation - not even a kiss – and she’s six months shamed; every AWLM, every member of the mentor wing, every…Authority figure knows. They might not even know her gender, but they all know that the bonded of Kyproith and Nynnth are to be kept apart, except under strict supervision. Because whatever she did was bad.

And they haven’t even seen Zavyr…Bad. More hair falls to the ground, draping now over Zavyr’s knee. She has tried to be good. To stay out of trouble. No one bled. No one died. No one was even hurt.

A’lira’s smart. He’ll find someone with some sense. The knife releases more hair; Zavyr’s fingers catching glob by glob, leaving a mishmash trail of erratic lengths behind and webs of fine hair scattered across her lap.

Nynnth deserved better. She shouldn’t have touched his egg so often. She shouldn’t have sat in the galleries thinking…Thoughts at that egg. She should have known better: One. Two. Three.

Four.

Add a New Comment