Who

T'ral, Dione

What

T'ral's first day back and Dione's first flight.

When

It is night on the 2nd day of the eighth month of the first Turn of the 12th Pass.

Where

Southern Weyr

OOC Date

 

t-ral_default.jpg dione_default.jpg esanth_default.jpg

beach.jpg

Beach

An eerie mirror, the glass-quiet Sea of Azov: the clear waters stretch along the dark-pebbled shores, and along this narrow beach. Here the faintest lap of waves belies the calm beyond; here the rocks have been ground down into finest, softest sand - those observant would mark upon the similarity between it and the sands of the hatching grounds. The soft sand soaks up summer sunlight as a sponge; painfully hot during the warmer months, it is only truly pleasant at wintertime. Rocks rise to east and west, lichen-limned and green against the abyssal darkness of stone.

It is the thirty-fourth day of Winter and 63 degrees. The night is clear and bright, stars twinkling merrily in the darkness.


The day had started out gray, with fitful squalls that did nothing to deter Serval's riders from their duly appointed drills. One pair in particular, returning to active duty, are bringing their long first day to a close. The moons are bright above, casting pale moonlight onto the dark sands of the beach, stars and moons reflected on the glassy Azov's waters except where disturbed by T'ral and Esanth, out in the bracing sea breezes on a warm Winter night. And while the air is relatively warm, the water isn't and so this evening finds the young bluerider living up that name. "Through Fall, Fog, Fire and Hypothermia, eh, Esanth?" Wading waist deep in the star-spangled waters, T'ral uses a long-handled brush -suddenly very scarce throughout the Weyr- to scrub under one of Esanth's uplifted wings. A bucket bobs at his side, tethered to him by a thin rope looped loosely around his waist. At the young man's query, the blue stands looking intently out to sea and turns his heavily-jawed head to utter a deep-chested rumble. The bluerider laughs, a short bark, "I've never known you to be so literal." The dragon tilts its head, eyes narrowing, rumbling again. Shaking his head and leaning harder into the scrubbing, T'ral laughs again and replies to Esanth's silent rejoinder, "Yeah, yeah, rub it in."

Dione's trapped in the hell of having a body adhering to a schedule she doesn't need to adhere to on an off day, and has been caught by the fact that she needs to wander, even though it's not really her lunchbreak. That's why her booted treads can likely be heard on the quiet boardwalk from quite some distance away, and why she's stepping onto the sand with the firm crunch-crunch-crunch of black sand beneath her feet. She's got a jacket around her, a thin one given the winter night's heat, and wanders placidly to her spot overlooking Azov before noise and ripples distract her attention from the undulating surface of the midnight sea. She tilts her head, curious, and finally makes out the pair in the water, wandering over curiously. There's no recognition - she only arrived after he had his fall - and so she's free to stare without associations. "Aren't you guys freezing?" she calls after a moment or two of walking. "Should I make a fire?"

T'ral leans out around Esanth's stocky flank to peer at the person who belongs to the voice. "Mind over matter," he grins, cheeks and eyes bright with the cold. And though his skin is a not particularly pleasant shade, he doesn't move with the stiffness of someone struggling with the cold. His reply belies the denial though, "A fire would be great!" He peers moment longer -just a moment- consulting a mental catalogue and then resumes the scrubbing.

Dione gives a shrug and meanders back up the beach — if the guy wants to freeze his dangly bits off it's not her problem. She sets about making a fire, the hissy, sparky, driftwood type inside a hollowed-out firepit. It takes a while to get going, likely only roaring into full life when he finally chooses to exit. with the crackling established, she makes herself at home on one side, looking up at the stars instead of out towards the bay. Funny, how the least little bit of light makes everything else look dark.

It's a while before the two are done, T'ral trudging along with bucket and brush, Esanth plodding slowly behind him. Esanth settles with little fuss on the far side of the fire from the water's edge, curved around the fire, a great windbreak, the heavy head resting beyond forepaws curled to his chest. T'ral's belongings and Esanth's straps are beside the firepit. "Mmmm… can't beat that smell," he dips to snag folded garb and hop over one of Esanth's outstretched hind legs. Changing clothes. Lifting his head to look over at Dione where she watches the sky, "Thanks," he tips his head at the firepit, merrily crackling. In a trice he's dressed, hopping back over Esanth's leg and draping wet drawers on a log where they being to hiss and sizzle as water evaporates away. He pauses at the edge of the firelight, a moment's hesitation as he studies the seated woman a moment -the spill of red hair, sparkling eyes pale, color indeterminate at this remove, the pale skin- holding it up to faces in memory. Nope. He leans forward, tipping past the moment of hesitation and bows informally over a hand folded to his belly, "T'ral, blue Esanth's." He straightens, head tipped, thinking, "Or just now, blue T'ral, Esanth's." His skin looks better, what's visible now, but his lips are still pretty blue. He folds onto the sands and leans back onto Esanth's flank, wriggling against it to get comfortable. The dragon rumbles and the rider rolls his eyes, grinning.

"I'm Dione," the woman says, averting her eyes from the man dressing, even if it's behind a dragon leg. "Pleased to meet you, and Esanth." There, mystery solved, no prior meeting whatsoever. With the wind being blocked so handily, she has no compunctions about relaxing a bit, curving her body towards the fire as well as one hip digs out a comfortable hollow in the black sand. "Blue indeed — you're going to get a cold if you keep on doing that, you know. At least that's what my granny used to say, I remember, and she was rarely wrong. What brings you two to the beach this hour of the night?"

T'ral looks at Dione, dark eyes intent as she give him her name. There's a sense of rain soaking into sand in the way he looks at her before nodding, "Well met, Dione." Esanth rumbles and T'ral thumps his side, "'Evenin' Miss Dione,' he says," T'ral repeats for the dragon. The dragon's faceted eyes whirl a slow blue-green, faintly luminous. "Feel free to grab a patch of hide," T'ral tosses his head at Esanth, "Armpit's the best bit, softer." Indeed, behind Dione is an expanse of dragon scuffed and scarred, starred dusty-looking blue hide, paler where it disappears under Esanth's curled forelimbs. Leaning forward to fetch his pack to him, T'ral smiles lopsided, looking out of the corner of his eyes, "Granny's seldom are. Did Granny have any wisdom about the restorative powers of mulled wine?" He digs in the pack and produces a small, beaten metal cup with a curved wooden handle, a bottle and a sachet of spices. He uncorks the bottle with his teeth then pours, setting the cup close to the fire. "Only have the one cup, sorry," dark eyes glitter with humor. "Me? Well, this is later than I'm usually up," he tips his head back to look at the moons, measuring their paths at a glance, "But Esanth and I get out here a good bit. Nothing clears the head like a spell on the beach." Or amnesia. "You?"

There's a startled look, then a grateful one, and Dione forsakes her spot for the comfort of Esanth's elbow. It takes a little for her to wiggle in against the unfamiliar feel of hide and muscle, but when she does she closes her eyes and leans her head back for maximum comfort. "This is marvellous," she states, requiring only a last wiggle for ultimate comfort. "Thank you, Esanth." T'ral is considered, from the lean body to the smile. "About booze? My granny would never have been without wisdom on that subject, although she did prefer her brandies, did the old hag." Despite the insult, there's a broad streak of wordless fondness. "Wish I had known her better before she passed on. One mug'll be fine if you're not afraid of cooties. I normally come out here on my lunchtime break - I work at the Kitten - so I guess my body got used to it, and insisted tonight." There's a long pause. "At least I didn't go dipping." That's still amusing.

Out on the sea the water has stilled to a glassy stillness again and stars are reflected above and below a nearly seamless starscape. T'ral sits back against Esanth again, fiddling with the sachet of spices, smelling it, before dropping hands into his lap to peer out at the waters. Esanth rumbles, a deep-chested groan that resonates through his hide shivering into Dione, pitched up against him as she is. T'ral's further down, but smiles, knowing what that rumble feels like at Ground Zero. "'Much obliged for the fire, Miss.'" He wrinkles his nose, "At least, that's the best I can make of it." He takes a deep breath lifts his arms to link hands behind his head, "Your Granny sounds a lovely woman," eyes cut sideways offer polite sympathies before crinkling with humor and he's looking forward again. "'Afraid' is a strong word. The Kitten," the name is deliberately spoken, "How's Sevreni doing? Haven't seen her in a wherry's age." T'ral isn't among the regulars at the Kitten it seems. At Dione's rejoinder on dipping he shrugs good-naturedly, a fond look at Esanth before he looks back up to the stars, smoke and embers flowing upwards.

It's like a massage, though Dione's startled by it at first. Relaxing slowly, she slides down until she's compactly folded right where the inhale-exhale of breathing will only press gently against her, and she turns a little sideways to keep her boots away from the scarred, star-dusted blue hide. "Y'welcome, both of you, and she was." She considers him quietly. "Sevreni's doing fine, still as lean and mean as ever, I'd hazard. I don't know her all that well, barely two months now, yeah?" From what she can tell of the angles of his body, the odd deliberances of the way he speaks… "Y'know," she finally gets out. "I'm a good enough listener. If y'want to talk. Seems like you have some on your mind."

The bluerider watches as Dione slips longways along Esanth, "You've got a month on me, then," there're those considering eyes again and the sense of rain soaking into dry sand as he watches her. "Two months," he nods, "So you're new." A long pause as he considers the offer, looking out over the sands to the starflung stretch of water. There's a quiet whickering sound and he sits forward abruptly, a smooth motion, and moves the metal mug a little away from the fire before dropping the sachet into it. Sitting back again he takes a deep breath and folds hands over his belly. He turns his head, rolling it along Esanth's side, "I'm new too, after a fashion. You hear about that rider lost his memory?" He tips a look at Dione with eyebrows canted in amusement.

"Ah, so you are he?" Dione questions gently once she's found the sweet spot to lounge in. "I've heard some of the rumours, yes, but I can't say that I'd have recognised you from the description that came with the gossip." It leads, of course, to another examination, from the tip of his brown head to his toes, whether they're on display or not. "I've never met anyone with amnesia. No spots, no sudden urges to homicidal tendencies, I see." Rose lips tilt up to show the joke for what it is; she seems more interested in the wine mulling than whatever deficiencies might be perceived. Though, "Have you been cleared for duty then?"

A nod is all T'ral supplies in answer to Dione's confirming query. He laughs, dark blue eyes crinkling, as they flicker to Dione's and back to the fire. It's an expression that suits his face, laughter. Through her perusal he smiles to himself, eyebrows ticking up as he looks at her sidelong, "No? I'm sure it was flattering," he chuckles. He adjust against Esanth's side, looking thoughtful, "Neither have I," met anyone with amnesia, "Least wise…" his grin splits wide, showing lots of teeth -wait for it- "Not that I can remember." Booyah. He sits forward to dunk the sachet, coaxing the spices out into the brew, "None yet," his face stills and he cuts a dark look at Dione, eyes narrowed. He holds the dark, sinister look rather longer than is comfortable, before the grin reappears. "This should be good to drink," he sits back again, mug in tow and spins it Dione-ward so the handle is facing her. "Ayuh, cleared for duty yesterday. Today was our first day back. Bet you hear some good stories, tending bar."

The young woman takes the mug of mulled wine eagerly, cupping the fat belly of it gingerly not to scald her palms. Considering him, on an impulse, she stretches out a leg to try and toe him on one hip, eyes rolling. "Terrible sense of humour, you, making a strange girl think that." Nevermind that dragonriders rarely go around the bend until really stressed, and he seems perfectly fine. When she sips at the mulled wine, a smile appears on her delicate face, and she hums in apprecation. "This is going to send me to sleep, I think. I should just have gone past the Kitten… and yes. I do, but a bartender rarely tells, not so?"

T'ral rocks to absorb the toe jab and holds up a finger, straightening judiciously, "In point of fact, you thought it first and then gave voice to thought." Oh yeah, um, the bit not tangled with in T'ral's memory was his training as an Archivist and Litigator. He continues, canting his head sympathetically, "Aww, don't be hard on yourself, you're not strange, you're," he turns his hands, searching for the right word, then, settling on it spins hands out with flair, "'Unique.'" Impish the grin, now, becuase he's rather certain that's not the meaning of 'strange' she meant. "Don't fall asleep out here, I hear there are marauding amnesiac blueriders about," he shivers dramatically. Ever keen on words and their use and meaning, "Rarely, hmmm?"

Amnesiac blueriders or not, the jest brings a gleam to her eyes and a firmer sip at the cup before it's handed back. "Rarely enough that almost never might apply, but some things are too irritating not to pass on." This then the measure of her secrecy; if it keeps her interest and the person doesn't piss her off, it's good. If not, there might be some irritation incoming for someone. "Doesn't thought follow on outside stimulus? By raising the topic, you did, in fact, force me to think about it." With a lazy grin she waits for rebuttal, though Esanth's lovely warmth is already making her eyes sleepier than when she arrived.

T'ral takes the mug with a grin and sips, rumbling speculatively, "So it's not a professional guide, but a personal one," lips pursed, considering that, he nods. He takes a deep breath of the fragrant steam from the mug before looking at Dione sidelong again, "I'm reasonably certain you raised the topic. Was it a real concern?" He looks suddenly worried, humor still underlying his expression, eyes going a bit wide, "What were those rumors?" Purely rhetorical. "You look," delicate, vulnerable, "Ready to fall asleep. Can we drop you somewhere?" A yawn cracks the bluerider's jaws and he covers it sheepishly.

Dione, seeing that yawn, is hard-pressed not to emulate it, and slowly (reluctantly) stands from the spicy-scented hollow she had been in. Dragons — great hot water bottles. "It has absolutely no import whatsoever," she happily absolves him and steps forward to offer her hands, warm now, to pull him up. "If you can drop me off just outside the Living Cavern it'd be nice. That way I won't wake up from the walk home. Thank you, T'ral, Esanth. I appreciate it."

T'ral downs the rest of his mulled wine and takes the offered hands, making Dione work to get him to his feet. "Sturdier than you look," he grins down at Dione, sobering as he takes in their close proximity. He blinks and takes a half-step back, "Here," shrugging out of his coat, "You'll want this up there," the coat in his hands is gestured with skyward. If she doesn't take it, he'll fold it over his arm and gather his things. Bottle, mug, pack, undershorts.

Fair do, there's a lot of theatrical grunting involved in getting T'ral to his feet; whilst he might step away at their proximity she's not even noticed it, and gladly takes his coat to pull it on. Given the disparity in their heights and builds it swamps her a bit, and she has to roll the sleeves back several times to get her hands free. Climbing up Esanth is a matter of some concentration - he's her first dragon, and in the end it looks oddly like placating a runner: little pats here, a murmur there, and a wincing climb up his paw and neck for the hide that, she imagines, is truly as fragile as it looks.

T'ral kicks sand on the fire, fishing an unburnt stretch of log to scatter the ashes and embers. Not that rainy Southern was at risk of catching fire, but it's a good habit. Dione seems content to scramble up Esanth's side unaided, T'ral watching with some amusement as he secures his pack to the straps. Esanth rumbles, a deep rattling sound, "Hang on, he's gonna stand up," and this, Esanth does, T'ral dipping to Esanth's undercarriage to check securances and fit and findings. He thumps Esanth's trunky leg and clambers up to settle behind Dione. "You flown much before?" he asks fiddling with things.

"Not at all," Dione admits over her shoulder as she shuffles into place; if she had known the man at all better she'd've made a joke about the width of Esanth's neck. Instead she sits quietly, hanging onto the straps as Esanth stands, and lifts her arms afterwards for all the straps to be done before they wing aloft. "First time. Esanth'll be gentle, right?" Not that she couldn't handle a little rough flying, but she's so almost asleep that she's just about got enough energy left to stumble to the dormitory after they drop her. "Remind me to buy you a drink sometime to say thank you."

"Ah, 'gentle' is not Esanth's forte," the blue rumbles offense, turning his heavily-jawed head to look reproachfully at T'ral, despite the canted eyeridges, the blue's eyes are still a deep blue-green, any offense he's taking is feigned. T'ral snorts, "What? She should be prepared." Then to Dione, "Here, lift…" and she's already lifting her arms, "Sure you haven't flown before?" T'ral secures a flight belt around Dione's waist and clips her in. Some more shifting and then, "All right, I'm gonna put an arm 'round you, steady you for take off. When we're aloft, tap my leg three times if you need to land." When he's confident the instructions are recieved, "I'll do that. All right. On three we go. One, two, three," Esanth lunges forward and after two huge bounds springs aloft over the sea, wings snapping out to beat and bear them skyward. Out over the glassy Azov, stars above and reflected below, the three fly surrounded by a dazzling starscape before turning to wing back towards the weyr and rest.

Dione's resolve not to squeak disappears right around the time she feels the first lunging hop, then the second; when the blue lifts them into the air with the beat of powerful wings she does squeak, fingers curling tighly into the straps to stop her body's worry that she'll fall off. She doesn't grab onto him, but there's tension in the stomach he has the arm around, and it's not until they're high enough in the sky to make her viewpoint different that she peeks again. Little by little her eyes open, until she sighs happily, snuggling into the coat for warmth from the slightly-chilly winds. That flash of stars'll likely ruin her forever; there's even a suspicious sniffle as she tries to stifle wordless amazement.

It was a joke that blueriders were fit chiefly for taxi duty, but T'ral and Esanth enjoy sharing flight with… well, anyone. Riders, non-riders. A first flight is special. "It's something else, isn't it?" Esanth bugles at the watchdragon, then banks and takes a longer than strictly necessary spiral inward, skimming the caldera. Below, the Weyr, picked out in pools of golden light against the moonlight darkness. Windows, cheery, warm and figures glimpsed briefly within, and -a taptaptap- to Dione's shoulder, then T'ral is pointing, his outstretched arm moving as it tracks The Kitten. Wide turns eventually narrow and Esanth rears up to backwing and drop, realtively gently, to a landing.

It's amazing how soothing the flight is even when wind ruffles at the coat and the chill bites at her cheeks. There's a soft laugh quickly snatched away as he points out the Kitten - she's definitely arriving in style today - and a wordless hum of approval as, finally, Esanth touches down gently. Fine, there's a bit of a bump, but all it does is wake her up a little bit until she can clamber off his blue side herself, murmuring her thanks as she finally makes it to the bowl surface. "Thank you, Esanth, T'ral, that was far lovelier than I had imagined it would be." She struggles out of the coat, sleep-mazed, and holds it up. "Goodnight to both of you. I'm for sleep, but let me know about that drink." With that it's off to the dorms with her, well-and-truly in the mood to sleep the sleep of the circadian-disturbed.

T'ral is set to dismount and help Dione down when she's all managed it herself. He cocks his head at her fixing her with an amused measuring look, still uncertain as to the truth of this being her first flight. He stows the extra belt and fastens the passenger straps, leaning down to take the offered coat. Esanth turns his great muzzle towards Dione, rumbling. "'Think nothin' of it, Miss.'" T'ral's lopsided grin and salute echo the same sentiment, "Will do. Good night," salute drops. He watches to make sure she gets safely in, at least as far as the Cavern doors, anyway, and then in a couple bounds the two are aloft, well-and-truly in the mood to sleep the sleep of the we-have-drills-in-the-morning.

Add a New Comment