Who

Dione, Mi'lo

What

A discussion on candidate minds, dragon tastes, and singing.

When

It is the twenty-second day of Winter and 57 degrees. Partly cloudy, the storm seems to be mostly gone with only

the occasional short falls of rain painting the ground.

Where

Southern Weyrling Barracks

OOC Date 01 Apr 2015 04:00

 

dione_default.jpg, mi-lo_default.jpg


Southern Weyrling Barracks

Weyrling Barracks
Natural entropy lies restrained by sheer force of will within the chaotic spiral of Southern's weyrling-barracks. The large entry hollows out into an immense common area at the front of the barracks, where sustenance can be procured for both sides of the lifebond: tables are typically set out with at least the trimmings for sandwiches, and often carcasses lie in the hollowed pit for fresh weyrlings to carve chunks of meat for their new lifemates. Beyond, the couches are set within a U-shape around a long pool, spring-fed, large enough to bathe growing dragons.
Heavy tapestries line the stone walls towards the rear of the barracks, while space is at a premium towards the front: shelves and pegs hold leathers and tools, books and useful trinkets of the dragonriding trade. The narrow-point of the U branches into two hallways: one for the candidate barracks, and one for the weyrlingmaster's office.

It is the twenty-second day of Winter and 57 degrees. Partly cloudy, the storm seems to be mostly gone with only the occasional short falls of rain painting the ground.


Dione
She has a thin, delicate facial structure, with lush red hair surrounding it in a loose, sometimes-curly mess. Her eyes are light green, almost mint, and thickly fringed with lashes; her cheekbones are high and her mouth somewhat full, with a rather stubborn chin making her uniquely attractive rather than conventionally pretty, with a willful, spirited cast to her expression. Her body is as sleek as a pampered, petted cat with high, slightly small curves and a thin waist that lead to sleek hips and lithe legs; though it renders her a tad boyish, it's her creamy-sweet skin that normally gets attention for its glowing, smooth perfection rather than a slightly lacking build.
Soft, gauzy white material drapes from her shoulders in a single layer to gather about her waist via a drawstring that ties at the front. The resulting skirt flares out over her hips to hang about her knees in a show of loose pleats while a single snowflake decorates the front, its shape outlined with white embroidery floss.
She is a young adult of about 21. She is awake and looks alert.

Mi'lo
The slightly tousled brush of sloe-dark hair tickles at the nape of his neck as the dark and lazy curled fringe cascades over his forehead to oft overshadow a boyish gaze. Cracked moonlight and shadow have their way with his eyes, dappling irises of palest pewter, framed with lashes as dark as his hair. Youthful features are harshly angled, the strict lines drawn with the descendant of the same native blood that grants his skin its paler cast. Adding insult, he is bespeckled with far too many freckles across his prominent cheekbones. With his pronounced features and despite the gaunt appearance, a lithe grace characterizes his slightly less than average height as the low swell of toned muscles leave his wiry form svelte.
He is just one of a group. This teen is now outfitted in some rather general issue weryling uniform in the colors of Southern Weyr. His pants are utilitarian, with all of the wear and tear that comes from tending to a new and rather gangly dragon. His shirt is sturdy and suited for the climate, a few pulled stetches along the tail of the shirt might come from teeth tugging. Lastly, his boots show scuffing particularly at the toes.
He is a teenager of about 15. He is awake and looks alert.

It might be the first time in hours that the rain isn't falling in steady sheets. It's still cold, of course, but no longer that deep chill that settles in with skin-wet clothes. Here is an example come rushing into the barracks: Dione, clad in uniform and thin jacket, already shaking the rain off her oiled parasol with a firm twist of wrist and a panicked expression on her face. "Is he awake? Is something wrong?" She's leg-spattered with mud and her stubby ponytail is askew — His Eminence, on the other hand, is still snoring sibilantly during his post-prandial nap, tail twitching lazily every so often. Dione, seeing this, groans and mutters something muted as she sinks down on the edge of the couch.

Mi'lo's head comes up at a rather panicked voice, and the scent of rain now joining the other assorted (and often questionable) scents permeating the air of these well-attended barracks. The young teen has found himself a fine bit of floor upon which to sit, legs stretched before him, fingers attentively working on a bit of stitchery. His eyes follow Dione's progress, and a rather curious glance is cast in the direction he last saw the Weyrlingmaster disappear to (whenever ago that was). "Uhm, I didn't know he was headed to take a nap. I -er- Am I supposed to be panicking about something about now?" His eyes flick along the length of the cavern, curious of things to be freaking out over. Akeniath? Half-draped out of his own couch. Most of his upper half is on the floor somewhat near to his rider. His arse-end in the couch. Yes, somehow this is acceptable.

Pfft. Dragons sleep as they wish. That Dione found out the first week when Fieranaoth insisted on being big spoon. She stutters to a halt in front of Mi'lo though, and her expression relaxes. There's a ruffle of his dark brown hair, or at least a pet on the head, much like one pets a cat when one wants to relax. "No. It's alright. It's just that for the first time, I saw something. This image of a golden hall…" Her voice trails off. "He's never done that before. I panicked, I thought something was wrong." Another sigh, and she hitches up the waist of pants going slightly loose with all the PT they're doing. "How is Akeniath doing? Growing like a hunk of bronze, I see. Please tell me Fieranaoth hasn't called him a draybeast again whilst I was bathing."

Mi'lo is stitching, mind you. While some may consider this to be a mindless process, this boy has been trying his very bestest in centering his thoughts on this sort of thing. The needle parting threads while pulling a thread, mending a frayed hem. Each stitch near the equal of the one previous, keeping to a line of near perfection. Thus is mended one of his weyrling shirts, the green cloth a little faded, but respectable nonetheless. And it is into this movement that Mi'lo is touched. The teen more feels as though his kitten fur just got rubbed the wrong way with that pet. Needle sinks into the meat of his thumb. "A golden what?" Belated smudge of red to add to the green cloth, and now the kid is literally sucking his thumb. "Mmabbmmmmffffh." Er. He'll speak around it now, seeing as that bit of communication went ever so well. "Hunks of bronze really don't grow, unless you add more bronze to them, or another metal." Keeping to the literal theme.

Dione clears her throat prissily, half-afraid to ask what that mumble really was. "I don't know. Yours seems to be growing very well, with all the herdbeast you keep on adding. Fier too." Pause, then a grimace. "Would you like me to mend that? I'm sorry." Her hands lift to scrape the damp tendrils on her cheeks back, then wipe on sleeves before she motions to the mending that Mi'lo is involved with. An explanation follows: "A golden hall. Some riders see things when their dragons speak, imagine voices and forests and strange stuff. I never have. Fier has always communicated by taste — very strange, but right as I got out the bath today, I saw an image of this hall covered in gold and mirrors, richer than a Lord's Hold. I nearly slipped and fell on the tiles."

Mi'lo looks almost offended at the idea of someone else doing his mending for him, and one can certainly tell with that look he gives her, complete with drawn-together dark eyebrows, tightened bespeckled cheeks, and confuzzled eyes. It's a great look. Goes well with the thumb sucking. It pops out (thankfully) before he speaks -oh, and he looses the offended look for something far more companionable. "Herdbeast and wherry and redfin and silvertail and caprine and ovine. I add a lot of things to him. Just as much comes back out." *Snortwhuffle* That last comes from the bronze in question, eyes open, just drape-laying there. You know that feeling when you just wake up, but you really don't wanna get up? That's Akeniath at the moment. He'll just look at things for now. "Can you tell the difference between your dragon and… well, you?" This is pertinent to his interests.

"Ehhh?" Dione asks, mid-poke at one tired arm to see if the muscle has grown significantly. Perhaps she should be eating like a vacuum too. "Do you mean in my mind? Or in the bond? Generally, yes, because I don't think in tastes, and I'm surely not as sarcastic about things, but there are times…" Her eyes dull, phase over as she thinks. "Sometimes there are moments when I don't really know which one is speaking out of my mouth, or which one's thoughts are being thought. So close, and yet so very … not. It's difficult for me to explain, Mi'lo. Some dragons, they're strong and have a lot of endurance and they are physically imposing. Fier is big for a blue, or he's going to be big for one, but I think his mind is very strong, if I can put it like that?" There's a slight tinge of despair in there, as if making sense is not in her grasp. "He's got such large opinions and feelings for such a young dragon, I have to work hard to think straight at times."

Mi'lo drops his hands to his lap, watching Dione as she speaks. His head tilts a touch to the side, as if a puppy-canine considering things anew, from an angle that may show him a different way in which to view how things are. As she continues, teeth gnaw on his bottom lip, a thoughtful movement. "I think that you put it very well. It is hard to put to words thoughts that… that don't have words. And I'm not so good with words." The last part actually gets something of a rueful sigh, "Even if I have been accused of saying too many words. My mother used to wonder if I said so many things because I have so many things in my head… or none at all. That was usually followed with me being banished to a corner for some quality time with the masonry. Masonry listens very, very well, but that is the extent of its capability for communication." Words. "What do you do? To 'think straight'?"

Dione is used to a lot of words, although they generally include 'one more drink' and 'ripped her bodice in twain' and the like. Normal words like these, spilling in a fountain? They wash her back to the here-and-now. She stops fussing with her arm and considers the ceiling instead, draping tiredly backwards on the piece of couch not occupied by sibilantly-snoring blue. "I sing. In my head, I mean. All the silly songs that I know, and teaching songs, and anything that reminds me of being me. Fier doesn't like them that much, I think — they're too low-brow for him, so he scores them with sugar that clogs the back of the throat and bitter-roasted aniseed, and backs off a little, and I have a moment to breathe again. Believe. That I'm me and he's himself, and though I love him dearly, we are not forever going to be one brain with two bodies, like we were on the Sands for that single moment."

"You say singing -I am fairly sure I haven't sung a thing since I was single digits in age," Mi'lo muses and admits. "And another talks of erecting barriers. I wonder if sea chanties discussing the merits of 'lifting her sails' would be appropriate yet… and walls build of head-sized rocks of bronzen alloy mortered with welds would be compatible. I-" The teen pauses as the draping dragon shifts in place, his hindquarters slithering off of the couch so that all four feet are firmly planted on the dingy floor, wings limp at his sides. "A neat box I try to put you in," he addresses Akeniath. « Why a box? » "Good question. Something worthy of thought and my sketching slate." The teen blinks away from his lifemate, vibrant blue eyes onto the young woman, "I've never seen a golden room before. I wonder what that would look like or where it would be."

'What a very strange boy,' Dione muses idly as she listens to Mi'lo speak, letting the words wash soothingly over her. "It might be a little too early for that," she says finally, voice dry. "But when it's time I'll trade you song for song — I'll wager I know fully as many dirty ones." Unthinking, she slips to her elbows, then shuffles backwards whilst Fieranaoth uncurls just a little to wrap around her body, back safely against belly. There's a creeling murmur of complaint for damp clothes, but soon silence. "It was very majestic and very fleeting," she attempts to explain. "I can barely sketch stick figures, but it had rows of arched windows, and gilded woodwork above, and ceilings covered with beautiful paintings, along with a floor of beautiful stonework where dancers could dip and sway…" Yup, lost there for a moment.

Mi'lo continues his musing as to the merits and construction of a golden room, "It would have to be a particulary kind of stone, because metal would be far too costly and difficult to keep… well, golden. The architecture alone would be-" The teen cuts off from his mumblings, as Dione fills in the particulars. "I'm not sure I would consider the songs of my people dirty, more colorful and imaginative. And something that I know would probably have gotten me a sideways smack upside the head in some company or a pint in celebration in other venues." Akeniath takes one sideways look at his lifemate before cleanly pouncing over the kid's legs, fine talons scratching flooring and a tail just missing Mi'lo's noggin. It does cause his fly-away hair to fly-away ever more. The teens lips purse and he blows, sending the wayward forelock out of his eyes. "Do you get lost in your dragon's pictures? Are they all fast and vivid like you describe? Places he probably has never been… unless there is a gilded hall around here and somehow I've never been in it. If so, I think I'll be rather upset."

Dione fights the urge to ruffle Mi'lo's hair again, fights it with a rueful, pinched-in small smile and a twitching of fingers. "It's the first time he's ever done it to me, sent that kind of image. Previously? Imagine a blackness, all-enveloping, muffled. Perfect. Into that comes the taste of a fruit tart, or rare roasted meat, or cheese flecked with gold and spices, made from rich caprine milk. Sour milk, if he is displeased, or tart pears when he's surprised. My Fier speaks a language of tastes, of fruit-sweet beers and sparkling liquids. Get lost? Sometimes, yes." Her eyes clear, and she looks down to Akeniath, leaning forward at the pounce, grinning. "And yours? What does he dream of?"

Mi'lo waits 'til the dragon is away before climbing to his feet. The shirt that he was so studiously mending is settled onto the lip of his couch, left to be tended to another time. As he comes to stand, a moment is taken to stretch, hands to his lower back while getting the kinks out of his spine. He twists this way and that, silent and listening to her. "Not that," he answers. "But if you keep talking about food, I will get hungry. And then Akeniath will get hungry. And then we'll both be hungry. It just becomes a downward spiral from there as I want a juicy wherry breast and he wants a creampuff, or the other way around, or both. Both are delicious things." He pauses in his movements, casting a look to the outside world, then looking back to Dione. "Was it still raining out there?"

The young woman laughs softly. "I can't help it. It's all that I have to talk about, that and strange architecture, right?" She slinks backwards, legs pulling up close to her chest. "You are a sly one, aren't you? Yes, it was still raining, but in little drizzling fits, like the heavens are almost done crying but not willing to concede to the truly monumental headache it's going to have later on." Her nose wrinkles, and she fluffs at her bangs again, frowning up at them. "If you want to go for a walk and you don't want to get wet, you can borrow my umbrella if you'll bring my towel back from the baths. I forgot it in the rush here."

Akeniath is already at the door. The bronze has navigated the gauntlet that is the weyrling barracks to stand before the entranceway, paws damp from the mud inevitably drug in. He lowers his muzzle to the slop, lifts his dirt-smudged nose, and looks back to his tousled lifemate. Mi'lo drags fingers back through his dark hair, briefly clearing his vision, only to look at Dione as if she just spoke jibberish. "I'm not sure what you mean by that. I once heard a drunk Harper talking about her soul being parched and the only thing that could fill it was mead and a man. She also mentioned 'kaleidoscope emotions' and 'throbbing loins'. It was at about that point when my aunt covered my ears. I tried to read the woman's lips, but none of it really made sense, at least less so than what she already said." As he speaks, he heads towards the entranceway. "An umbrella would be pointless, other than to create drag. I've been advised that I need to work on my stamina, and Akeniath needs to work on expending energy. Towel. Sure." With that, both dragon and teen gallop right out into the elements for their twice-daily sprint/jog/scamper/run.

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