Who

Azraelle, I'dre

What

The aftermath of Zhivvyrhaelth's first on-camera flight.

flight-appropriate content

When

It is past midnight of the twenty-fifth day of the second month of the nineteenth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Ground Weyrs, Southern Weyr

OOC Date 26 Jan 2020 06:00

 

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Ground Weyrs

Neatly ordered are a series of ground-weyrs, each generic and functional rather than ornate. The caverns are unevenly staggered in a variety of sizes: some so small as to be a snug fit for the smallest of nowtimer greens, while others are roomy enough to fit two oldtimer queens. Each ground-weyr is fitted with a reed-strewn couch
and a cozy nook with a bed and clothespress.


Greenflights are fast and furious, and Zhivvyrhaelth is exemplary for her color: a tidy fury that ends less than a candlemark later with her still casually tangled-up with Mhiruth, a piebald green at peace with the world. She's asleep and dreaming, painting the mirrorlake of her victor's mindvoice with the now typically-turquoise thunderstorms of her making. Azraelle's sated her lust and taken her own brief nap, waking now to the dim light and the stillness of a Southern night with a stranger. She stirs, stretching, heedless of the bluerider in this space with her, limbs moving shamelessly against his. It's not in inducement to a round two, though Azraelle's not opposed to those in general; it's more an investigative stretch, the greenrider taking inventory of any bruises or pulled muscles.

Ever-gentle Mhiruth is content as well to his current situation. What is there to complain about? All is well and right with the world and he invites Zhivvyrhaelth to paint the mirror-lake to her heart's content. She's earned as much of that right, for now! I'dre has likewise fallen into a light slumber again, roused first by that investigative stretch and unfamiliar limbs. A small tremor-like jerk, as he catches himself just before inadvertently brushing her away with a sweep of arm or leg. His eyes, barely open, squeeze shut briefly before blinking open. Hello, focus? It's taking him a moment, groggy and more than a little out of it (thanks to alcohol, sleeping, the flight, sex and more sleeping). It's a rather unusual kind of hangover, okay? "… hey." Stranger. I'dre grunts a little, tentatively stretching out but far more cautiously - there's a lot more of him than her and he doesn't seem in the mood to add 'toppling from a bed' to his list.

"Hey yourself, Igen," Azraelle says after a moment, shifting a little to give him more space: beneath her hardass exterior she's nothing but a hedonist, and in sleep perhaps she's moved closer to the bluerider than someone else, given the humidity and the heat. The assistant weyrlingmaster turns onto her back, looking up into the dark without a current care in the world. Unlike her current partner, she's used to this particular hangover - and probably no more than half-awake herself, despite it all. It's late. The greenrider tests her lifemate's state, and finding her wholesomely wrapped up with Mhiruth and dreams, laughs aloud - a soft noise despite the depth of her husky voice.

"I'dre," He corrects bluntly, only to realize that 'Igen' would've suited just fine and now he's gone and made it feel a smidgen more amicable. Cursing silently under his breath, he doesn't seem outwardly repulsed by Azraelle's closeness but neither is he actively seeking further contact. I'dre doesn't come off as the shy or modest type, either. Satisfied than nothing seems awry outside of the expected, he will resettle on the bed. It IS late and he is unhurried despite being in a bed with a woman he doesn't know. Where would he go, anyhow? Southern isn't home. He tilts his head sharply at her laugh, soft though it may be, eyes narrowing beneath furrowing brows. "What's so funny?"

In lieu of responding on what she finds funny, Azraelle instead just drawls out the name given to her. "I'dre," she tastes it, instead. Perverse enough to have found traction within the corps of the weyrlingmasters, she's happy to stay anonymous for the moment. "I'dre of Igen." The woman rolls to her side, propping her head on her hands. "What I found funny," she speaks in her voice of Southern and the coasts, "Was my lifemate finally not bothering me for the first time in an entire sevenday." Her lips curve into a smile — or perhaps a smirk. "You've got a mighty fine blue there, I'dre of Igen."

Annoyance wars with confusion in his expression as he keeps his gaze fixed on Azraelle. He grimaces, going as far to even wrinkle his nose slightly when she tacks on 'Igen' to his name. Ugh! Resting his head back on his folded arm as a pillow, he's content to let his eyes drift to the darkness above them. "Sounds maddening." It's almost a question, gruff spoken as it is. Is he sorry for her? Not at all. "Just…" Stop it. "I'dre, alright?" he suggests, faintly tinted with some withheld exasperation. The compliment does throw him off too, as he awkwardly lapses into a fumbled silence. Uhh… "Thanks. He'd be flattered to know." But he's not about to delve further into his lifemate's particular quirks and personality. "So what am I to call you?" he quips instead, sarcasm lightly bubbling to the surface.

"'Your best ever'?" quips Azraelle in response, her smile heard rather than seen in the dark. She doesn't offer any number of other superlatives he could call her, instead saying, "Most people who know me call me Azraelle." She reaches out with a dragonrider's lack of propriety when it comes to contact, running the very tips of her fingers over the delicate skin on the sides of his ribs, the sensitive area laid bare by his arm-pillowing position. "It is maddening," she says, after a moment, but the exasperated smile of her voice says it's not as maddening enough to be a true predicament.

"Try again, Azraelle." he grunts, purposely over enunciating her name and likely even going as far as to roll his eyes ? even if she can't see it. Lack of propriety goes both ways and her touch isn't met with resistance or disapproval, though there's a subtle note of unsureness at those fingers. Ticklish, he is not, but he does not find the current spot of her attentions troublesome. Should she venture a little further, however, he will immediately rest his hand over hers to halt it. Not to push away but merely to set the boundary, unspoken. So far, he is not finding her company entirely undesirable! However, he has limits and lines he cannot cross and doesn't wish to share, currently, why. "Worth it?" The madness, he means. "I'd say Zhivvryhaelth is quite the green but I know even less of her than I do you. Only that she managed to lure Mhiruth…" And that, in itself, is worth something and so much so that I'dre brings it up, on a whim.

The woman's laugh again rouses in the dark. "I could," she says, on trying again: but she's not a succubus and the challenge is for her own amusement's sake rather than a declaration of impending seductions. Her hand withdraws, an unspoken question answered: Azra lazily rolls over and stretches to her feet, languid as a cat. "Zhiv's worth everything," she says, after a moment of thought. "Madness. Death." Laughingly: "Life." She reaches down for a piece of clothing and works to discern if it is his or hers: the dimensions alone should indicate that, I'dre having almost a foot and a half on her. "Does Mhiruth not chase frequently?" she asks, glancing over her shoulder toward the sound of his voice. The garment is determined to be I'dre's. Azraelle's perverse enough to allow it to drop back to the ground rather than be helpful.

Luckily for both of them, then, that she is not a succubus and not about to make a decently comfortable moment anything but. I'dre will leave her to rise out of the bed first, not for privacy sake and more for selfish reasons. Sleep interrupted not once, but twice, he's going to lay there for as long as he possibly can. Even when he does roll over, it's a gradual, lazy movement and wholly unhurried. Just in time for him to glimpse her dropping that article of clothing back and knowing it was his. He scoffs, bitter amusement but does not chide or bark disapproval. "I like that," he admits, belatedly, to her answer on the worth of Impressing to her green. If only he could agree! So he doesn't, save to vaguely compliment her view on the matter. The bed creaks, sign that he's standing and moving to reclaim what is his. "Yes and no," he answers after thoughtful consideration and a glance sidelong in the semi-dark. Will that bring judgement? "He's never won before, though." So there is that.

"What?" says Azraelle, as if she hasn't quite heard that last bit and must needs ask pardon?. She holds another garment - this one is hers, by the black of it - and turns to face the tall (fucking hell, tall) bluerider. "Do you mean to say…" she starts, then stops, faintly astonished. "Well," she says, after a moment, "You're a graceful winner, bluerider." Anyone calling I'dre graceful is absolutely in the dark, let's face it, though Azraelle seems to be close to genuine with it, though a curl of amusement lights her dark voice. She hesitates, as if she'd say something else, but then pulls on the tank-top she holds, pulling it down over her head.

What? I'dre freezes for a moment, for that start and stopped conversation on Azraelle's end. Another scoff, then a low bark of laughter and maybe he's thankful it's dark because she won't be able to see any hint of a flush of color. He makes a grab for something and it is indeed his ? partially, at least. The other belongs to her and he'll move his (hellishly tall) frame closer to her. Its held out, wordlessly and from a point that is close enough but not intimidating or setting out to loom over her. "Never thought I'd hear myself called graceful," he replies, with a touch of an edge to his voice. "They call me a lot of things but that?" Another first. It's amused him greatly, in a bitter sort of way. Belatedly, out of the blue (har har), another tangent strikes him. "Not a first in any other sense!" Clearly. Was that what she was aiming at? I'dre's going to just focus on dressing, muttering to himself what sounds closely to a few choice oaths and curses.

Azraelle takes her underwear from I'dre - thanks buddy - and pauses long enough to reach out, still craving contact despite her lifemate's peaceful slumbering. Unless I'dre moves off quicker than she can, her hand will flatten against his lower belly, for no reason other than to touch. "I would certainly call you graceful," she says, "And certainly don't mean to imply I'd think for a heartbeat that I took your virginity, I'dre-not-of-Igen." Her smirk curls into existence, even in the dark, and she steps back to find her pants.

See? Not even a flinch for having returned her underwear! He'll just scrub his hands thoroughly later ? nah, he's not that twitchy either, honest! Neither does he evade her reach and Azraelle will get that touch she craves. Some part of I'dre must desire some form of contact, for he briefly slips his arm around her, loosely, so when she goes to step back there is no resistance. There's a platonic edge to the whole exchange, as though he finds nothing amiss from touch. If she had desired more of him, well … without the influence of flight, he could not help her there. "Uh huh," he drawls, unconvinced but there's a hint of a smirk in return from him and a huffed exhale of breath. "If you're gonna insist though," On the graceful part. "I'd say you've been similar… if considerate. So." Thanks for not making this hellish and awkward! Slipping on one more piece of clothing, he'll give himself a cursory pat down. Everything there?

Pants (and underwear) on, Azraelle shifts around to make sure she's not missing anything. "He took my damn bourbon, didn't he?" she questions, more for herself than for anyone else. It's either A'kehm or Fja'vn she speaks of, or maybe both. Maybe together. "I'dre," she says, having proceeded to the doorway, "It was very nice to meet you." The light from the hall halos her dark hair but gives enough ambient light to outline the extent of her smirk. "Southern's finest regards to Igen." With that last, teasing comment she exits, heading to find her bourbon, or other bourbon, or a bed to sleep in.

"I'd have loved some of that." I'dre exhales in a wistful way. Woe and lament! Moreso for Azraelle, really, but he can only shrug helplessly in the dark for her query. He? Which one? There were many and he never twisted names from either. "Hmm." He can't bring himself to say 'nice to meet you too', the words sticking and leaving him to merely grunt a sound of mutual agreement. Yeah, sure! What's he supposed to tack on from there? Hope to see you again? Because let's face it… That last teasing comment is chased with laughter from him, short and gruff but genuine and follows her exit, as much as is. Where to go? She has her bourbon to hunt or a bed and I'dre is… "… shit." Vosji is somewhere, Mhiruth isn't budging and Southern is NOT his stomping ground. But what every Weyr has is some/ venue of nightly entertainment and vices and so he goes on a leisurely 'hunt' of his own. What could go wrong from that?

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