Mayte, G'tan


Mayte dumbfounds G'tan, but there's still good conversation to be had.


It is late night of the seventh day of the second month of the second Turn of the 12th Pass.


Crater Lake, Igen Weyr

OOC Date


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Crater Lake

Four centuries ago, a chunk of the very comet that drove some Oldtimers forward crashed to the desert near Igen Weyr, collapsing the original inner caverns and breaking through to a new spring that now feeds into Igen’s underground aquifer. The result? Beauty from destruction - a long, crystalline lake of brilliant sapphire blue. Sharp sandstone rings the water in jagged peaks, where sparse desert shrubs cling to steep, sandy slopes and reflect darkly on the pristine, mirror-like surface. Out in the midst of the lake, a small island pierces the glassy plane, umber from azure in a near-perfect cone. A startling break in the stark desert and savannah surrounding the Weyr, the crater lake sits like a jewel in the rough - a picturesque, inviting respite from the rough, dry terrain beyond.

It's late. It's pretty dark, even if Timor and Belior are putting in 1.25 worth of two moon's light. And in the corner of the mostly calm Crater Lake, there is a suspicious silence… And then a very large splash - the type that describes the 'cannonball' move in effect. There's a shriek to accompany it - one that describes the greatness of being alive and the woe of being in really damn cold water. Still, Mayte isn't hauling herself out of the water just yet, splashing about in invigorating fashion.

There's been an extra boulder sitting on the shore of the Crater Lake for the past candlemark or so - the curled up form of Zinakoth, though his eyes have been constantly turned skyward from where his head has been resting on an actual boulder this entire time. The lanky bronze likes to stargaze, and G'tan doesn't mind it either, preferring to do so while on the move. Mayte must have arrived at some point while he was on the opposite side of the lake, so when that splash comes, it's fairly close by since he's gone around half his circuit again. Needless to say, he's not expecting it. By the moonlight, he can tell someone is swimming around down there; it's a woman, obviously, and she has to be INSANE to be doing this out here right now. But she's obviously not in trouble or anything, so he slips down the bank to the edge of the water to try to figure out who it is. "Uh…hello? Who's out there?" She'd better not be planning on staying out there long; even the island boy knows about hypothermia.

It's freezing in the water, and Mayte is starting to feel the effect of her own personal polar swim, so she's starting to move towards shore when she too freezes at the sound of a voice. Shit. She pauses to reconsider her crouched, not-quite-revealed self to the nearby runner. Still, she plays it off as a-okay: "No worries! I'm fine, jussssssst taking a quick dip!" She can't quite keep her teeth from chattering on the S. Right close to where the dark shape is standing, there's a towel on the ground. "A polar dip, gets rid of the lice!" And there's a quip in her tone, if the dark form can understand humour. "Who's out there?" Mayte would like to know.

G'tan is…incredulous. Even Zinakoth is perplexed, rousing from his spot among the boulders to wander over and peer down at what's going on down the nearby incline. The bronzerider thinks there's something familiar about that voice, but he isn't positive. The quip about the lice is definitely taken as such, loosing the laughter that's been threatening to rise from nearly the outset of realizing someone's out here swimming. "Are you fucking kidding me?" is his return as he hears the shivering already seeping into her voice. "It's sharding winter!" When she wants to know who in return, he snorts, and Zinakoth slinks down toward him a little way, allowing his rider to reach his straps and a pouch thereon. "G'tan," is his return. "And I'm still learning to match voices to faces, but I know I know yours." By the moonlight, he makes out the shape of the towel on the ground, and when he comes away from Zin, he's holding something that looks remarkably like it.

"I'd better not be." From this, Mayte emerges, clad in undergarments that guard… most of her sensitivities. "Gimme that towel, will ya, please?" she asks so politely, one arm wrapped around herself to conserve modesty or heat but the latter's the more losing proposition. A moment of quiet from this shadowed figure, whose hair has to be brushed back violently, and then, "Oh! G'tan, hi." It was less awkward when he was a nameless rider with a namelessly large dragon. "Mayte."

"Mayte…" Her name is voiced in a way that sounds like there ought to be some sort of question or admonition tacked on, but it doesn't come. Instead, G'tan steps down the incline a little more to grab the towel on the ground with another snort. Nope, he's not even going to try saluting her right now. The towel is unfurled and held out toward her, and he sighs. "Should I even ask 'why'?" There's some amusement to his tone, but it lessens when he asks, "Is Rhiscorath nearby, at least?"

Yeah, Mayte is not phased by disappointment or lack of salutes. Instead of mounting a defense of her actions, she takes the towel and wraps it around herself while chattering, "Y'ever done it-t-t-t?" A grin as she becomes BatMayte, surrounded by her mysterious cape of terrycloth clutched close to her still-shivering form: "It's like going ::between:: but better because you can decide how long to stay in!" LOGIC. A shake of still-wet hair, "Naw, she'd just fret." She's BatMayte! "Hey, what are you doing out here at this time?" Mayte's cheerfulness holds a faint tone of reproach: "I thought Whirlwind ran in the morning, like W'rin does."

"She'd do worse if you just happened to fucking freeze out here by yourself," G'tan nearly snaps with a huff, but he softens as he observes Mayte's shivering. The thing he'd retrieved from Zinakoth happens to be another towel - a large one, since it's normally a large guy that's using it, after all - which he lets fall open and holds out toward Mayte. "Use this one too," he says, stepping forward to her with it held before him. "Some of Whirlwind does, me included. I'm out here because Zin likes to stargaze, and I've never been out here at night." He glances skyward again, another sigh sending faint plumes of fog from his nostrils. "It's amazing. And frigid. Where are your clothes, anyway?" he wants to know, shoving a hand through his hair as he looks down at the young weyrwoman, concern still evident in the steadiness of his gaze even in the dim light.

And with irrefutable logic, "That's why I won't." Oh hey, new towel, yay! Mayte may be a proud brat, but she's not gonna say no to more warmth. One slowly drying arm reaches out to snag the towel and winds it around herself with a cheerful, "Thanks!" At G'tan's mention, she too looks upward and sighs briefly: "It's really nice." As for clothes? "Oh! Uh yeah, they're a bit further up." One hand waves further from shore, "Didn't wanna drip on them before I was dry." In fact, Mayte takes a few steps that way and recovers a warm, long, lined jacket and some pants that she jams her legs into post haste, towels falling away one by one. Belt of the jacket tied, Mayte stoops to pick up the forgotten terrycloth and hands the larger one back, the second going to wrap around her longer hair. "So Zinakoth likes stars, huh?" A long, measuring look to the bronze and she grins, "Do they look really different here than from Ista?"

A sort of quiet growl sounds low in G'tan's throat - a mildly frustrated noise as he trails Mayte those few steps and turns mostly away as she gets dressed, keeping her in his peripheral vision. "You can't just…take it for granted that nothing's gonna happen," he grumbles, but he's soon shaking his head, chuffing as he remembers days when he would do just that. Once she's decent again, the bronzerider swings his gaze back around and tosses his towel over his shoulder, folding his arms. "Zin…likes cycles, signs, patterns in nature. Stuff he can learn from. Stars are one of those things. Though secretly I think he just finds them beautiful, too," he adds with a smirk. "I catch him sometimes, when he thinks I'm not paying attention." Eyes rising skyward again, he gives a little shrug. "Not really, though you can see them clearer up here. Less haze in the air, I guess; Ista's humid, so the air's thicker." Looking down again, he starts back up the incline to the level ground above the shore, then turns and holds his hand out to Mayte. "Hand up?" he offers. It's dark, and a bit steep, after all.

Shaking her head, Mayte makes sure that one stray end of towel is tucked under so the whole affair doesn't unravel: "I knew nothing was gonna happen. I do it every Turn." Which might actually just prove G'tan's point, but Mayte is totally unconcerned. She grins and as a finale, puts feet in warm boots before marching her way up (no, she didn't stumble on one rock), turning to smile almost so sweetly at the poor polite bronzerider. "Thanks though!" And then the grin fades into a fond, resigned look as Rhiscorath swoops in to land neatly and nearly silently next to Mayte. What timing. A sheepish look settles over Mayte's face and she shrugs once, twice, and then looks to G'tan. "So they're prettier here?" Take THAT, Ista! It's like Mayte's coming back to the conversation and the goldrider looks up again and hums. Rhiscorath nudges her nose in greeting to Zinakoth before looking up as well. "On the other hand," Mayte is philosophical, "They must be easier to watch when it's warm, right?"

"Every…" Yep, G'tan is still baffled. That's even enough to distract him of the fact that his hand has been refused, and he finally laughs, resigned. "Damn. Yeah, you officially fit in with just about every other goldrider I've met," he declares, jogging the rest of the way up to level ground in Mayte's wake just as Rhiscorath wings in. He glances back at the water. "Don't think I could do it. Ista sort of spoils a guy, y'know?" Zinakoth rumbles a warm greeting to the young queen, a gentle nudge given back before he settles beside her, the simple peace of the night sky mirrored above the still, tranquil canyon of his mind his only presence in her mind for the moment, rather than words. "Guess you could say that," G'tan replies with a grin. "Though nothin' beats just throwin' a towel down on the beach and lyin' out under the stars on a summer night up in Ista. So yes, a little easier. Unless you want detail." Which Zinakoth does.

Nodding enthusiastically, Mayte explains, "It's like… refreshing. Times a billion." She smiles briefly at G'tan, "Used to be a bit of a tradition back at Vintner, y'know - starting the new Turn on a fresh note, except I'm a little later this year." Rhiscorath is the open, silent library, even if the ceiling has somehow become the night sky above, stars streaming their light down onto open, moonlit books, while a blank book opens and celestial circles and stars are impressioned onto the pages. Mayte is intrigued: "Like, for a picnic, with wine?" Because Mayte can totally do wine, "And snacks? And you just… watch the stars move?" And then her nose wrinkles: "Dontcha get cold if you fall asleep?"

One of G'tan's brows arches high, an ambiguous bit of a head-wobble preceding his echo of, "'Refreshing.' That's one way to put it, I guess." That it's been a tradition draws another chuckle. "So how cold is it there compared to here?" he asks, glancing up at Zinakoth. The lanky bronze observes what appears on Rhiscorath's pages curiously, as usual, and then gently pushes a breeze up through the library, rustling pages softly to draw her attention to the sky, where he starts highlighting patterns - groups of stars that he's joined together with faintly glowing lines. How he holds them all so clearly in his mind is uncommon; he's likely had G'tan do some studying of his own to keep the constellations intact. At Mayte's question, the bronzer shoots her a broad grin. "Always with wine. Or, y'know, something else good. And yeah, you just…watch the sky. Sometimes you'll catch sight of a falling star, or even better, a shower of them. On the best nights, there's this…cloudy band, far, far, off that stretches across the whole sky. Looks like it's way beyond all the other stars. You can see it now; look." He raises his hand, drawing a finger in an arc across part of the sky where, sure enough, that band stands out almost starkly in the deep blackness. "I've seen the dancing lights that happen at night sometimes, up north," he murmurs. "I'd like to go see 'em again sometime." Whoops! Mayte's stumbled across G'tan's romantic side. To her last, he shrugs. "Sometimes, yeah. But it's usually worth it. You get smart and learn to start dragging blankets with you."

The patterns that now glow against the night sky that replaces the ceiling are quickly repeated on the page of Rhiscorath's constellations and feeling a little cheeky, she adds a little comet with fiery tail dashing into the distance. A little embellishment does little harm. Well, now G'tan is talking. "Mmm, whatever's your poison?" Despite dire wording, Mayte grins a little before looking up to catch the band and mmms: "I used to love watching that when Pern was turned just right. And then I got taken in at Vintner and that kind of ended that." She shrugs and starts to rub her arms gently, snarking, "You'd need about three tonnes of blankets to stay warm overnight out here…" This from the girl who was just in the water, right? "Oh hey, do you have a flask on you at all? With a tipple of anything in it?" Meanwhile, Rhiscorath's started naming some of those stars, elegant writing just small enough to be legible. She names what she can, and other stars remain blank.

The comet is met from an outward snatch of draconic chuckling from Zinakoth, who takes a moment to etch a little glyph of a comet on his own record of the stars - another boulder riddled with dots and lines and named with symbols that only he and G'tan understand - for now. "Rum," is G'tan's reply, and he shrugs. "Istan, rum…pretty standard, I guess." He nods when Mayte comments on the band of far-distant stars, glancing at her sidelong when she rubs at her arms. "Or two tons and some good company," he amends matter-of-factly. He snorts when she asks after a flask and reaches down to his belt. "One thing you can always count on from me, weyrwoman Mayte," he says, emphasizing her title and name like a tease as he unscrews the cap on the steel and bronze flask, "is that I'll always have a flask on me." He passes it to her and glances over at his lifemate briefly. "You can always lean on Zin if you want a little extra warmth. He's always been pretty warm-blooded."

Ahh, rum, rum at last! Mayte at least doesn't snatch it from the poor bronzer's hand but she does accept it quite happily for a little tongue-wetting, and then a larger one. "Mmm, that'll do it," she says, slightly hoarsely as the flask goes by the other way. "A good man to have his flask at hand…" Must be one of those Vintner sayings, but after a moment Mayte stops the momentary trembles of chill. "It is warmer here than that new Hold that they're building on the Southern continent, if you can believe that," and this fact is uttered with complete seriousness, "Like, it's all ice down there. Go figure!" And then her hand sticks out again, little grabby-grabby motions for the flask she so recently returned but at least Mayte has SOME manners: "Please?"

G'tan knows how this goes; in cold weather, a sip or two is never enough. Which is why he hasn't put his flask back, keeping it in hand and sipping from it a little himself until Mayte asks for it back. His grin as he returns it is knowing. "Well, since you said 'please'…" The very thought of a Hold out in the midst of ice has G'tan shivering a little himself. "I'd heard about that. Not interested in visiting, even for a 'mark." The island boy in him doth protest! He makes one more motion back to Zinakoth, eying Mayte with raised brows. "Warm dragon? Not gonna let you drink all my rum, even if you do outrank me," he quips lightly.

Mmmm, rum. Admittedly, Mayte's sip is a little longer this time and she does hand it back a little more slowly, then mmms, eyeing where Zinakoth and Rhiscorath huddle, thinking of stars. "Yeah. Warm dragon." A haughty sniff: "Why, your rum is my r…" Nope, Mayte can't finish that with a straight face as she starts towards the dragons with their useful warmth. "Yeah, like I'd ever let anyone do that with my stuff," she boasts, while grinning happily, "It wouldn't go well." Promise, threat, what's the difference. "So, I take it you still haven't been back to Ista." Mayte says this with resounding fact, nearly daring him to contradict her.

G'tan gives a greatly amused snort when Mayte cuts her own words off, grinning at the threat/promise/whatever-it-is. Her last comes as he leans up against Zinakoth's side, the grin gradually fading as his eyes drift upward again for a moment. "Nah. It's…gonna be awhile before I can head back there without getting chased off again, I think," he answers, folding his arms and settling back. "Well, in the Weyr, at least. I'm still planning on sneaking back to the beaches when it warms up, of course."

Resting into draconic hide, Mayte mmms and wonders slowly: "What did you even get in shit for? I mean, you said you hit your wingleader, but why?" Nevershemind that it's not her business, but her lips curl into a grin and she huffs, "Yes, this black sand you mentioned. I still haven't gotten a break to go see it but I'm planning a Day Off," like such things can be planned around a Weyr, "soon. Maybe I'll go thataways for a little day off." Still something pulls at her lips, quirking them sideways: "Wait, is the beach large enough so you can have yourself and Zinakoth," a thumb hitches to the larger bronze, "Totally unseen by anyone in the Weyr?" Evidently Mayte needs to see Ista for at least some scale perspective: "I figured the beach was right outside their windows or something."

G'tan shifts around a little, his right shoulder pressed up against his lifemate so that he can better see Mayte. Her question draws silence from him at first, but he eventually sighs and pushes gloved fingers through his hair. "Just…decided to get over myself and speak up for letting women stand for other colors. It's the dragons that pick, not us, after all. My wingleader started making sure Zin and I got the shittiest sweeps, the latest watches, the least effective positions during Falls, without fail… The last straw was an insult to Zin I'm not gonna repeat, but." He shrugs. "That was that." As for the matter of Istan beaches, the bronzerider's grin returns. "Ista's not a small island, Mayte. Lots of beach to go around, and it's not all near the Weyr." Presently, Zinakoth shifts a little, briefly whuffling at Rhiscorath before turning his head down to the two riders. "Yeah, yeah," G'tan says aloud, pushing off the bronze hide with a clap against Zinakoth's ribs. "He's remindin' me we've got early sweeps, so we'd better had back. Care to fly along?" She'd better; he's not going to let her stay out here by herself with the temptation of the gigantic ice puddle anymore, after all.

The only change in Mayte's expression is how her eyebrows rise incrementally but she's nodding by the end of it, and for at least now, lets the subject drop. "But I just…" she starts in response to Ista, except that Zinakoth butts in, rather literally. A nod and then Mayte is leaving the warmth of dragonhide and nodding a little. Rhiscorath huffs quietly and draws a day's schedule, split by each hour, and far too early on that list is sketched 'Sweeps'. And a sadface. "Yeah, Rhis'n I'd better get back too. Some holders are coming by tomorrow and I need to get a good rest in to deal with 'em!" Far too energetic for this time of night but at least Mayte isn't shivering anymore as she moves to accept a limb up onto Rhis' neck and waits until G'tan is also on Zinakoth before Rhiscorath starts to launch herself into the air, gliding leisurely for the bronze to follow back to the Weyr. Soon, all that's left of proof of the evening's exploits is a sad hair-towel that fell off sometime, landing next to an otherwise quiet lake, insolvent among the mountains.

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