Who

Myziri, T'ral

What

Something is gnawing at Myziri and she brings it up to her Wingleader.

Language.

When

It is afternoon of the fourth day of the twelfth month of the sixth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Southern Weyr, Nighthearth, Beach

OOC Date 21 Jan 2016 08:00

 

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"Be careful. Er. Careful-er. MORE CAREFUL."


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Nighthearth

A comfortable nook, this natural extension of the living room is cozily attired with overstuffed chairs and a couple of well-worn loveseats. All have been covered in various shades of green, giving the very incongruous appeal of a miniature forest hidden away inside… a grove of man-made proportion. Fish stews and spicy white-wherry chili are often kept hot on the minor hearths east and west of the main, for those whose hours defy when meals are kept. Ornate, the largest hearth towers high, rich with carving and utilitarian in fashion: it holds court by providing the weyr with rich klah, the air thick with the scent of cinnamon wafting.


It's been a crap sevenday, with one thing and another, and the soaring temperatures just make it worse. Thus, Myziri's mood is a bit snappish and cranky. Which is why she's hiding in the nighthearth during the day, in order to avoid people in general (and several in particular) while she eats a cool meal of cheese and cold roast herdbeast on fresh bread, slices of fruit also on her plate. Of course, the fact that there's an empty pie plate on the table next to her chair in no way suggests she had dessert first, right? Wrong. It's seriously been that kind of sevenday!

The door from the stairs up to the Star Stones creaks open and T'ral tramps down, landing with both feet. The bluerider is in PT gear and a passel of Lynx riders hustle through, headed off to the baths, to dive out of the opening onto the Azov and end it all or to simply collapse. Lynx's apologies to the 'hearth and the 'caverns, sweaty dragonriders in the house. "Chow at," pant, "Seventh candle." T'ral's chest is going a'bellows, jaw run out, head slung forward. His gaze slews towards Myziri and her array of meal, empty pie plate noted. "After," pant, "noon," pant, "Myziri." Stretching up, T'ral laces fingers behind his head, expanding lungs as much as possible to recover equilibrium.

Never has Myziri been so glad that she had early sweeps this morning, and so got to miss out on PT with T'ral, which is always deadly. "Sir. You look like you could use something refreshing." She points out, but without her usual verve; something's got her down, and no doubt about it! "I could get you something, if you like." It's a polite suggestion, coupled with a salute that might not be as snappy as she usually makes them. "Or a towel." Before he drips sweat all over everything.

"Ob-" Pant. "-bliged." T'ral braces the lace of fingers, bowing his chest as he paces to and fro, legs nice and rubbery, a pleasant thrum of racing blood under his skin, pulse so strong if he stilled long enough, Myziri could probably read it in the jump, jump, jumping in the fabric of his shirt. He doesn't specify which thing he's obliged to her for, but he'll take Myziri up on her offer. Whatever she cares to bring him is one less thing he needs to get. He breaks the lace of fingers to brace arms on the wall, stretching calves. Yup. He's definitely dripped some sweat on the floor.

Myziri solves the quandry by the simple expedience of bringing both refreshing juice (nicely chilled) and a rag to mop up all those pesky sweat droplets. "Here y'go." she says, before flopping back in to her chair and idly picking at a piece of fruit. She's kind of full after the pie, though. "You all been running the stairs? I do that at least two or three time a sevenday. Great for the butt and thighs and calves, isn't it?" Making idle conversation, here.

There's a grunted rumble of thanks when T'ral takes the rag and juice, glass lifted in salute. The rag is slung around his neck in favor of tipping the glass back and draining the contents with a few long pulls. He pants a breath out. Relief. The glass is set to nearest flat surface, and he drags the cloth up and down his face, swiping down his beard to settle the growth, "Yeah," hoooooo, breath panted, out, "I know." T'ral is there when she runs them. Unless Myziri means extra. He taps his chest over his heart with two fingers, "Good fer the ticker." He seems to be recovering equilibrium. He glances at the ruins of pie and up at Myziri and the meal she's picking at. "Dessert first, eh?"

Of course Myziri means extra - she wouldn't state the obvious, would she? Those and the late night or early morning swims in the ocean keep her in tiptop shape, with a little punching of a bag in the guards' sparring room tossed in for good measure. "And good for the ticker." She agrees, glancing over at her empty pie tin with a guilty look "Had a piece left over from last night." She qualifies - not mentioning that she ate all but that piece of pie last night; this particular midnightly snack of hers is the reason for her extra PT. "You can have some of this if you like. I'm not too hungry right now." She indicates full, mostly untouched plate, and eyes her wingleader thoughtfully "Sir, can I ask you something?"

Rag settled around his neck, T'ral grips the ends, and nods at Myziri's explanation. She keeps up in PTs, drills, Threadfall. He'd know if she didn't. "They the same since Ardstelle left?" IE - is that a REAL pie or some healthful sham pie? The bluerider tosses his chin at the tin. At the offer of food, "No, gonna cool down first." He rubs his belly and could eat, but … yeah, not just yet. "Thanks." His brows quirk up, curious, "Sure. What's up?"

Myziri doesn't seem to want to ask the question, once she's gotten T'ral's attention. She picks at a piece of bread instead, then sets it back on the plate. Fidgets. Then she sighs. "The stuff our wing does. Does it all come through you? I mean…do riders ever take it into their head to do something on their own?" Is it allowed?

T'ral straightens, the tension of the rag around his neck drawn taut before he looses it, dropping it to the floor. Attention falls to the scrap of cloth scooted with his toe to mop up where he's sweated. "Wouldn't want anyone to slip." He takes a deep breath, nods, "There's a process, yes. I'm not sure what you mean." His expression is bland, interested. "Is everything okay?" A note of concern creeps into the bluerider's warm tenor.

Myziri fidgets a bit more, then changes tacks slightly. "I've been in the wing for months now. I've met everyone, but some of them, I still don't know well." She takes a drink of her own juice, then adds "For instance, Sashlyn. I don't know her well at all."

T'ral leans down to snare the sweat rag and fold it before he glances around trying to place it somewhere out of the way. Uh. "Just a tick." He trots to toss it in the basket with soiled table linens, snagging his glass on the way. He leans back into view abruptly, "Get you anything?" Since he's up and all. In moments, he returns with whatever Myziri requested and another glass of that refreshing juice. Sipped this time. He leans against the jamb and regards Myziri with curious concern. "'For instance?' Listen, I can connect the dots. If there's some problem between you and one of your wingmates, I'm happy to discuss it." He gestures around at all the little eyes and ears, the people milling about. "But not here." It's not professional. "Meet me in a half candle at the beach. Wear your PT gear." Lucky Myz, gets to PT after all! T'ral smiles and tips the glass in salute to Myziri before turning on his heel and heading out.

"I don't have a problem with a wingmate, Sir." Myziri protests, but seems unable to figure out how to get what she wants without giving away what she promised to keep. Soe she nods in agreement. "I'll be there." As fidgety as she is, PT would be welcome. She rises to go get ready, policing her items before doing so.


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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 fourth day of Summer and 108 degrees.


Myziri is early for this meeting with her wingleader, pacing onto the beach in shorts and a tank top, barefoot for running on the beach or swimming if that's what T'ral has in mind, hair up in a runner tail. She paces as she waits, wiping sweat away every now and then since it's absolutely broiling beneath the afternoon sun reflecting off the sand. Eventually she goes to water's edge and lets the water run over her feet to help cool her, occasonally glancing back toward the Weyr.

Still more PT for T'ral. He probably should have eaten the playte Myziri offered. Long ago breakfast feeling longer and longer ago. He is early too, though not earlier than Myziri. He ditches a pack at boulders up the beach and makes his way towards Myziri, magnificent feet squelching in the wet sand. He leans towards the cove, inviting Myziri wordlessly along with a toss of his head. After they've been tramping along a while, the surf and gulls and everpresent insect chorus, are all that can be heard. That and the rhythmic schluck of feet and the breathing of the riders. "All right. What's eatin' ya?"

Myziri falls in with T'ral easily; she's in shape what with all of the PT both mandatory and personal, so it's easy to keep up with the older man. And even talk while doing it. "I can't tell you." Gee, she probably could have told him that before he got out in the swelting heat, right? "At least, not directly. I just need to know if Sashlyn is trustworthy. She wouldn't put a wingmate wrong, would she?"

T'ral nods, listening, cutting a look at Myziri when she says she can't tell him. Words are parsed out on breath carefully, not the flow of a normal conversation, but conversationAL. The pace is an easy one, and steady, not meant to test endurance or wind. That's later. He thinks on this a while, brow furrowed. "Did she … confide something in you?" He cocks his head, looking at the greenrider for a coulple paces before focusing forward again? He holds out a forestalling hand, "It's clear she did." He sighs, steady breathing interrupted, "Listen. I trust her with my life every Fall. And so do you." Pak, pak, pak, pak. Steady footfalls, steady heartbeat. "And vice versa." Pak, pak, pak, pak. "Do you have any reason to doubt that?" There's a thrum to T'ral's tenor that suggests if she does, he needs to know about it.

"She confided nothing." Myziri says, her own breaths steady; she's ignoring the actions of her body beyond making sure her arms pump and she controls her breathing, that her legs are steadily moving to the pace. Even the ocean does not draw her this day; her focus is on the conversation, T'ral. "She asked something of me, and I did it. I regret it now, more than I can say." And that's truly the limit of what she can say "It's also put me at risk. But that's on me. I accepted the tasks, even not knowing what it was. I'll take my lumps if I have to, but …" she trails off - it's not due to lack of breath, but lack of ability to explain "There's a third party involved."

This gets better and better. T'ral listens, trying not to make leaps with insufficient information. T'ral draws a deep breath instead of a conclusion. "My position as Wingleader compels me to remind you that your only duty is to Sahizath and fighting Thread. Lynx is the lead wing of the upper flight." He swipes a hand forward, slashing, "Nothing gets in the way of that." Got it? Company line delivered, his tone shifts and he leans back, (magnificent) feet digging into the sand and he stops on a mark, pivoting into Myziri's way. "Wait." He cocks his head, chin tucked, "You are 'at risk.' Or you were 'at risk?'" It's quite a thing, that dark blue eyes, midnight and fathomless can burn. It's the sort of look that makes firestone seem superfluous.

"Have we missed a 'fall, Sir?" Myziri says, a hint of irritation in her tone "Not a one. And the last 'fall Sahizath could have lasted more than the half she was allowed. She's got more stamina than some of the blues, maybe as much as a smaller brown." A bit of a sore point, that, having to only fight half of the threadfall. "It wasn't anything that would put us in jeopardy of missing our prime duty." And then he's in front of her and her own toes dig into the sand to halt her forward progress. She stands staring up at him, breathing coming heavily but not overly so. "Possibly still at risk, if only of getting my ass kicked and someone's friendship and trust taken away." And it would seem she's more concerned about the latter than the former. "It was stupid, saying I'd do it without having a clear idea of what was wanted…but I didn't have time enough to think it through and I had to do it after I accepted." Because that's Myziri - if she says she'll do something, it gets done.

"No." T'ral knows this. He knows it well. He knows that Sahizath and Myziri train hard. And fight hard. And have good stamina. But his brows rise at Myziri's bristling. "Reconcile a thing for me, then." He eases back, giving Myziri some space, "You say your duty wasn't jeopardized, but that you might have been or may yet be assaulted?" There's a flash of that white phosphorous in dark eyes again at the thought of one of his riders coming to harm. He straightens, "That a friendship may be in danger." He processes this. Myziri. What have you done, girl? Oh, these greenriders. They're going to give me gray hair. It is hard not to react when she says 'stupid,' and she may detect a flicker in the man's expression. He takes a deep breath and expels it through his nose, relenting. "You seem to understand where you misstepped." T'ral and Lynx debrief after every mission every 'Fall. She's taking those lessons to heart, it seems. "We need you here," he taps his chest, "And here," he taps his forehead, "Before we can be there." T'ral points skyward. East. To the baleful eye that glares and will for the next forty Turns. "How can I help?" Is there a skull he needs to crack? Because he will not stand for anyone fucking with his riders. Even if it is one of his riders.

"I know." Myziri breaks slightly there - her worry has been eating at her, it seems. A hand goes to her stomach, which has not been happy every since the scene in the latrine. "So far, it hasn't affected my performance. I don't plan for it to. I think I resolved the issue…covered my ass…" She chews her inner cheek a bit, frowning. "And there's nothing you can do to help, other than tell me….fuck! I can't even do that. I made a promise." She turns, running hands over her hair. "I shouldn't have even said what I have except….can I be held to a promise, when it affects someone I care about?" She turns, moss-green eyes anguished "I made a promise, but ….it wasn't a fair promise, was it? All the risk was on me." And all the scrutiny.

"Lunges." They've been standing still too long, it seems. T'ral steps back into a lunge, knee dipping slowly, steadily to the sand. He doesn't miss that hand-to-belly bit. It's a gesture he's very attuned to at the moment. He laughs, rising slowly, grin lopsided. "Be sure to tell me when you plan for something to affect your performance so I can ask for your transfer." He cycles another lunge. 'Other than to tell me…' What? 'Promise.' Points at Sashlyn. The bluerider's eyes are calculating. He makes no apparent effort to conceal this. "A promise is a promise. Your intent matters." T'ral purses his lips, "But your intent matters." He's not going to advise Myziri here except to say this: "If you ask me, I think your next move is to talk to Sashlyn." HAI SASHLYN. T'ral aims the (half) cocked and loaded Myziri at Sashlyn and pulls the trigger. "Keep in mind. I want you both at the next muster." It's a joke, say the twitched lips. T'ral might have his own talk with Sashlyn soon. "Take some time." This time. "Think about what you want to do. What you want to achieve." He takes a deep breath, bobbling briefly for balance as a wash of water sweeps higher and erodes sand from under his feet, "Why did you say 'yes?'" He seems genuinely curious.

It takes Myziri a moment to figure out what T'ral means, then she nods and starts doing lunges herself, not even worrying about the burn in her muscles as she goes deep. "It's not nice to tease, T'ral." She says with a little glare for her wingleader - she's canning the sir for now, since he seems to be amusing himself at her expense. But she nods, her expression unhappy "I did promise. I had to promise before I knew…I thought a wingmate wouldn't put me in harm's way, right?" Her reason for doing it "And obviously I'm a trusting idiot." Because being told you'd be torn limb to limb is not exactly what she had in mind. "You're right. I do. Shit!" Myziri suddenly realizes an acute mind has put two and two together and made four. "I didn't tell you. You guessed. Right?" Please tell her she didn't let it slip. "Shit." She's not lunging anymore, she's pacing. "I'm an idiot, that's why I said yes. A naive, gullible, idiot. I thought I was over doing stupid shit." She sighs, finally standing still "Thanks, T'ral. You've been a help. But you're right. I need to keep my promise and I need to..resolve this myself." With a little help from a certain bespectacled greenrider. "I promise not to harm anyone…much."

"If that's a joke," T'ral grins, "It's on me." He smiles even broader. She's invoked his name, not his rank — that sets the tone for escalation. Reap what you sow, Myziri. To the shift in tone, Myziri's exclamation T'ral straightens, flaring his hands. The bluerider is good at maths. He did a good bit of those maths back at the nighthearth. T'ral takes a deep breath, deeper, eyes dropping to the sand, "You're letting a lot slip." He walks back through the conversation, doing a quick backtrack through his deductions, "You're troubled. You ask about how our small team drills work. You bring up Sashlyn. You ask if she's trustworthy. If she'd… endanger you." T'ral winces, shrugging, "I'd be disappointed in myself if I didn't put that together." He takes another deep breath, "With that as a basis, which," he winces again, "Your reaction just now confirms," Sorry. "She," he allows for someone, "Or someone, extracted a promise from you to do something. Something involving a third party. Something you regret. Something that has…" he squints, "Betrayed a… trust or a friendship. And might put you in physical danger." Did he miss anything? "Sashlyn could be the third party…" T'ral taps his lip, coming up from a lunge. He blinks, considering this. "And you might be betraying her, but," no. He shakes his head. "Why mention her if you were going to name someone else. Unless," T'ral squints at Myziri, "Unless you're playing me now." Hmmm. "If so, wow. It's… you've put on quite a performance." He's not joking. He's shaking his own damn head at his own gullibility. There's white phosphorous again, "You lay a finger on her and I will ground you for a month." Sashlyn is a Lynx too, Myziri. "She is not responsible for this. You are. That's frustrating, I know, but don't take it out on her." T'ral's voice is softer with the last, "Okay? And, hey," he grins, cocking his head, "Stupid shit is how we learn." T'ral said 'shit.'

As T'ral goes on, Myziri's scowl deepens - but it seems to be self-directed for the most part. "You're too smart for your own good, maybe." She mutters, staring at him. Then she resumes pacing, throwing in a lunge every once in a while as if unconsciously; maybe the burn helps? "Well, that was as helpful as fuck, T'ral. Thank you. I'll be a good little wingrider." And then suddenly she stops, looks out at the ocean, and smiles a bit. "I've been practicing, you know. Deception. It doesn't come easy." Her smile fades "I gave the performance of a lifetime the other day. I should get a fucking medal or something for it." Maybe only exceeded by this performance? Or maybe not - she'll leave it up to him to make that decision "I didn't like it. I puked afterward." She sighs, runs her hand over her hair again and tugs on her runner tail as if to jerk her back to reality "I won't be touching anyone, T'ral. At the moment, I'm the least experienced person in this little party I've managed to fuck five ways to seventh day." She blinks then - did T'ral say shit? "Don't do that. You start cussing, I get worried." Because that's her go-to thing.

T'ral gives a rueful laugh at that, "Oh, definitely." He grins, lopsided, "And not half as smart as I think I am." He bends deeper into a lunge, holding it, his knee a few grains shy of touching the sand. Holding that position in the sand takes focus. "Dial it down, wingrider." T'ral has given Myziri plenty of license to speak freely. And she may have run out to the end of that rope, "You came to me with something you intended not to tell me. And I gleaned a lot." He dips his head, conceding, "Because you trust me, sure. And you should." T'ral is nothing if not trustworthy. "And I'm taking that into account. But given what we do." He winces, "Be careful. Er. Careful-er. MORE CAREFUL." T'ral <— totally smart. Maybe he should eat. His stomach growls. It definitely agrees. Deception. The bluerider wrinkles his nose, "Yeah. That is hard. Hardest with those close to you." There's a flash of pain there. "Muuuuch easier undercover." T'ral tongues his teeth. "You puked, huh?" That calculating reel behind T'ral's eyes is spooling up again. He twitches at her admonition for him not to cuss. "That's a lot of fucking." Deadpan. His lips twitch. "Swearing is a spice, Myziri. To be used judiciously and to effect." As shown. "You're gonna be okay. And if you're not — you call me. Immediately. Got it?" T'ral grins, "I'll spot you ten paces to the frozen-juice stand on the boardwalk. Loser buys." He's saying this as he trots to collect his bag — those are the ten paces, maybe.

"I'm feelign mighty spicy, Sir." Myziri almost growls that out, but she subsides and lets his words sink in. Finally, she nods. "Okay. I'm trying to be careful. I've been avoiding everyone, but I…needed to talk about it." And if you can't trust your wingleader, who can you trust, right? "I'll let you know if I need help." is also agreed, though she looks highly reluctant to do that - she doesn't like other people fighting her fights for her, not at all. And then? Then she decides to let it all go for a bit - because seriously ULCER! and a quick grin suffuses her face "Deal. I'm in the mood for you to buy me a frozen juice." And with that she takes off, sprinting as if it weren't over a hundred degrees out, the air hot enough to sear her lungs and the sand not much cooler. She's gonna WIN!!!! Because something has to go right.

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