Mikailee, Threvobek


Two young professionals meet in the baths and maybe not again.


It is evening of the seventh day of the fourth month of the second turn of the 12th pass.


Public Baths

OOC Date


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Public Baths

Stout walls have been erected around several naturally formed pools, serving to provide a semblance of privacy and protection from the harsh wind and sand. Above the pools, well cleaned walkways criss-cross beneath tiled arches and descend with a stairway or two leading down to each pool to provide one means of slip-free access through the area. Surrounding the pools there are benches, receptacles to put used clothing and towels in, and areas to get sweetsand and towels from - if you didn't bring your own.

Dirty, dirty people. At least that's the theme to go with, no fewer than a dozen are washing in the baths and it looks like two of them are entwined enough there in the back to occupy only once space. A young man dead to the world is off to the side of the chamber, standing in the pools, water skimming the base of his back. A nest of arms cradles his head, dark hair half dry disorderly. He's tanned, but then again so is nearly everyone calling the desert home. Assembled voices address multiple topics, each woven into incoherent white noise as soothing to the man as any lullaby.

Dirty people, indeed. Mikailee shows the detritus of a day within the harried confines of the labyrinthine bazaar, heavy hair limp from a thousand cycles of sweat wrung from fair skin and lost to the eternal, arid heat of Igen. She traverses an arch from entrance to the pool in which Threvobek is interred, slips her clothes from herself in a way that gives a body of evidence to the argument of her discomfort with such public endeavor, and slips into the safety of the pool with a slight hiss to the heat of it. Eyes of darkest green belatedly lift, recognition dawning of the fact that she is not alone. "Are you quite all right?" The husky lyricism of her voice blends too-well within the bath's lullaby of vocal amalgamation.

Threvobek is reluctant to stir because there's this dream of having caught a flight without a dragon but the voice in his dream-head is his best friend's who starts talking like a girl… and then hello reality. Mikailee's precise intones register as no voice he's ever heard and his head lifts. With the imprint of a horsehair bracelet on his cheek, Rev looks into the maker of the question of vague concern, eyes adjusting to new focus. And she's very naked. "Never better. My best sleep's in here." His own voice rasps and he responds by clearing his throat. Posture straightens, hands still braced on the stone. A steady self-assuredness sinks into him like rainwater to wagon ruts. "Haven't drowned yet actually."

Roseate bloom rises to adorn the upper curve of high cheekbones, the only outward symptom of any discomfort Mikailee may be experiencing. "Perhaps you should have your bed checked," she murmurs in response, the full curve of her lower lip manifesting the full extent of a smile that seems perfectly self-aware of any entendre beyond the single import of her suggestion. She merges into the waters of the pools, all soft skin flushed under the slight opacity of the soft-flowing water, drifting to find the perfect depth. "I can't imagine you would have any saviors, a busy place like this." Malachite carved thoughtful, her eyes consider the corners of the pools. "A good place for a murder," she ascertains after a moment.

Threvobek, now fully functioning since being back on the conscious plane, mentally cycles through the last actions he remembers to find out whether he washed or not pre-doze. This introspection comes at the cost of overlooking the girl's inconvenience. "My bed's usually adjacent to a herdbeast stall but I usually sleep pretty steadily. The boluses they chew provides that hushed rhythm it's easy to sleep to, you know?" I mean, doesn't everyone venerate falling asleep to sounds of cow regurgitation? "I don't know if I'd trust any of these people to tie my boots." Old man, a flighty woman, at least two oldtimers, a kid cutting teeth, and a vintner (sorry Mayte). His wines tend to be sour. "Can't say I've seen you before, miss…" insert-name-here-while-I-pretend-to-have-x-ray-vision.

If only bare shoulders yielded knots and badges and other adornments of rank and structure; alas, there are no trappings to hint at how one makes a livelihood in the naked sanctity of the baths. Mikailee's attention holds rapt upon the young man for a moment, now for his words rather than the thick span of his shoulders. A girl has eyes, after all, and even Mikailee isn't immune from the siren call of aesthetic appeal. "Better than the snores and farts of the apprentice dorm," bald reply hinting of the soul of a cynic. "At least the herdbeasts are honest about it, I would assume." The calculus of her spine defines a particular arc as she leans to submerge her hair fully, hair impossibly darker than before, stark and vivid against her complexion. "Mikailee. I'm recent to Igen, I can't say I've had the benefit of your company either, sir…"

Threvobek shares no notice or concern for the faint braided line pressed over his cheek, it's fading after all. "I thought you were kind'a pale. Recent, as in this Pass?" No routing or nuancing this information, Threvobek is plain: oldtimer or nowtimer. A male's eye cavorts over the shapes Mikailee presents as she submerges her hair, watching the weight of it absorb then shed excess water. "Rev, short for Threvobek," gesundheit. "What did you mean: good place for a murder? Should I not be turning my back to you?" She looks too pretty to be an obvious sociopath.

"Yes." There is no shame to the declaration of allegiance inherent within claiming a birthright of some hundreds of turns prior to current day, not to this one. Mikailee's eyes raise fearless to meet Threvobek's without any of the shrinking demeanor of a nowtimer woman, born to abide the whimsy of man's beck and call. "But more recently of Harper Hall. I have been in Fort since the jump, until…" Artfully arranged are long fingers, gesture to encompass. "I'm studying to become a legist. We always think of murders." Her eyes dance with momentary impudence. "Well-met, Threvobek. You spend much time… listening to the herdbeasts chew their cud?"

An interchange of bathers counts for a net loss of two, the lovers in the back still collaborating in a world of their own making— and lots of hippie patchouli. The spirit willfully branding her as the oldtimer she is, does not cow Threvobek or overshadow his pillar of tradition. After a curt inhale he's search for sweetsand, Faranth help him if she falls into the Modern School of Veresch. "I can think of better things to think about, but whatever fills your sails." Adapting the readied 'whatever blows up your skirt' to a kindler, gentler sailor term (one of the few gentle ones). "You can say that. I've worked in the stables since I was a tender." Too lazy to procure sweetsand that doesn't smell like grandmother, Rev courses bare water over his arms and shoulders.

Lover's passing is noted with a Harper's analytical analysis, Mikailee's distraction only a moment long. Her nose wrinkles momentarily at his over-perfumed choice of sweetsand and she takes a discrete step away, now encased in steaming bathwater to a fingerswidth below the articulate angles of her collarbone. "To each their own." Amicability lends itself to the husk of her voice, eyes drowsing feline-narrow, basking in water cleaner than she herself is. "Have you ever given thought to Herding?" The question is curious rather than pompous, a girl's wondering of choices unmade.

By now Threvobek's digits must be pruned, maybe irreversibly the more times he considers siestas of the soaking kind. "Not really my thing, being an apprentice. Writing, lectures, the regulations, I don't know about you but I learn better by example. And never wanted to leave the Weyr." Without direct expressions from dragons there is nonetheless a presence to them as most anyone living in Weyr can testify to. It's hundreds of background personalities, a choir of distinct thoughts and links having a home in unity. Weyrbred, he is the sum of a greater whole. Hazel eyes skip over Mikailee to another looking for a grand rinse. A soul he knows and gestures amicably to. "How long are you calling Igen home?" Desert inflictions cast off every word.

"Restrictions are a bit much," Mikailee agrees, her voice vaguely wistful. "The writing and the lectures aren't bad… for me." She likes that type of arcane torture, she does. "It's very interesting, living in a Weyr. I've never spent much time at one before now. Igen seems so… not what I expected?" Slowly do her limbs move to start soaping all of the critical parts, suffused with soak-driven languor. Her own vocals respond to the last with clear-bitten precision, somehow still harmonious, as the velvet appeal of her voice is quite nearly a tactile thing: "Until they give me my journeyman's knot." A grim underlining to that, a Determination capitalized verbally.

"That might be never," thus breaks the dam. "No offense, but are you prepared to handle that?" In caricature, Threvobek is not an orthodox nemesis, but favorably a devil's advocate. His tone is stable. As a conservative he is no obvious blowhard. Step turning in profile he raises a leg under the water to rub the back of his calf where a set of hooves made their point this morning. Ovines can be unforgiving bastards in full fleece. "Can I ask what you did expect?"

"Never is for simpletons and those weak of will," Mikailee returns with no little asperity, her eyes narrowing upon Rev with a spark behind her demeanor that gives life to the possibility of her actually adding such coveted loops to her existing knot. Further analysis of his composition gives her pause enough to unwind from spring-sprung tension and dip her chin in a conciliatory nod. Curiousity attracts her gaze to his attention to bastard-borne bruising, a wordless noise questing forth in query. "Hmmm," this noise more articulate than the last: "You hear all of the stories about… dragonriders. You think they'll be either these mindlessly hedonistic sybarites, or these noble guardians of Pern. And they aren't either, to what I've seen, and the bazaar…" Mikailee drifts off, as if the bazaar's bizarreness is self-explicable.

Threvobek locks a stare on a back wall, hooks it right on some volcanic intrusion rock. Faranth give him the patience to outlast oldtimers. Amen. "To the dragon with half a wing dessimated by Thread, never is certainty. He won't fly again." And his name was Tyonth. Before his stare bores through the chamber, providing a port hole to the archives, Rev focuses on something abstract Mikailee can wax on, "sybarite?" Let the other adjectives of Igen and its aspects stay in mystery.

"There is a certain sophistry to comparing my attainment to journeyman to a dragon losing half a wing to Thread," Mikailee replies with narrowed eyes, as she finishes rubbing sweetsand through her hair. It seems an eternal task to rinse it clear again, but she endures it with the sense of one who knows the word 'never' is for… ah, well. "Sybarite. A.. person consumed by attaining their own pleasures, no matter how depraved."

"You didn't see it happen!" The clarity of that overpowers his inability to know what the word 'sophistry' is. Rev's public outcry is quickly eaten by the moisture in the air. In stark contrast he treats the next statement to a feeble volume. "He was the Weyrlingmaster's dragon." Threvobek takes strides to an overhead footbridge where he lodged a towel. Attaining a bit more height on the balls of his feet the cloth is grabbed and driven over his face. "Dragonfolk are like you and me with dragon-touch, a greater capacity for greatness. They're conditioned for it." The pendulum can swing the other way as well but he won't be the one to shatter their mystique.

"I'm sure it was a horrible thing to behold." Impatience in Mikailee's voice writes clearly the exact reasoning of her not following in her parents beloved craft, for she is no Healer, not one gifted with exceptional bed-manner. She is brusque and wounded from a perceived slight, proud as a cat and as ruffled. She piles her clean hair atop her head and secures it with a scrip of ribbon that was previously twined about one delicate wrist. "But your pain at watching another's is no fundament for you to attack mindlessly what my future may hold, unless you are one of those simpletons who cannot quite comprehend both breasts and a knot larger than a single loop on the same chest." Mikailee is sporting only one of the aforementioned attributes as she rises out of the water, skimming past Threvobek in her quest to leave the waters. "Dragonriders are men and women just like us, Rev. They are great because they willingly put their skin on the line for ours, not because of some mythical subjective thing that separates them from the rest of humanity." She ticks an eyebrow up at him, and then she's moving past, shaking her head. (Well, that escalated quickly…)

The towel hustles over the stablehand's hair and if the style is in poor taste, so be it. Surely this is deja vu, switch Mikailee out, input a leggy Veresch and voila. History repeats itself and another young woman will leave with clean fingernails and a sullied disposition. He's here all night, folks. Breasts take the edge off a blackened mood but he isn't honoring the harper with a second parting look. "I thought legists were trained to see all sides? Take better notes." He's not about to let Mikailee assert victory by leaving first. He really aches to slam that door and frankly, he can get by in public with much less clothing.

"Not when one is utilizing logical fallacies," Mikailee retorts, then sweet as cyanide, "Oh, I'm sorry. Would you like me to explain what those are to you?" She reaches for a towel but does not seem to be in the hurry that Rev is, content to let him race ahead heedless of consequence. "Good night, Threvobek. I hope you enjoy your cud-chewers." To her credit, she doesn't spit the last part out but offers it pitched neutral, distracted by the fluffiness of the towels she dries herself with.

Threvobek's breeches are slid on, still customarily half wet and foregoing a belt for expediency. "Those terms contradict each other." So he thinks. Movements are efficient despite the advent of adrenaline leeching into his system, but a crisis this isn't. Just as it isn't worth running to herd anything where you want it to go. "Thank you," grinning, glance catch and release, "I could use the beneficial noise." What few items he came with leave either on his body or tossed over a shoulder. He eschews yanking the door behind him after all, but it falls on its own hinges with a dead 'thud'.

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