The sordid heat of the day hasn't completely died away, but the face-melting intensity of a Southern summer is dampered by Rukbat's slow slide over the horizon. The dark sands of the cove remit all the heat they have saved over a day's baking, making by necessity tough feet or sandals… or alternate transportation. Treivyshe cheats in this as in everything, riding an ambling draft runner along the saber-curl coastline. The wildling wears shorts that appear to have once been pants, slashed knee-height, and a loose shirt that looks newer. Where sweat dampens the small of his back, the fabric clings translucent. He doesn't seem to mind. It was one helluva deal.

Alternate transportation? Amani has that for certain, though whether a dragon might be considered "alternate" at a Weyr is a matter for debate. Having been on her feet most of the day, however, she's quite happy to be astride her lifemate, heading for the cove from the direction of the jungles. Zymuraith angles for the sand but pulls up with a rumble and a huff when there is, unexpectedly, a runner with a man astride there. The massive gold hovers well above for a moment, watching the runner's path before she wings out over the water and banks to glide in for a landing well ahead of the beast and man astride. The dark-eyed goldrider slides the considerable distance down her dragon's shoulder to the sand, unslinging a collapsed crossbow from her back and setting it against a small boulder as she looks to the other visitor to the cove and then bending down to tug off her boots. Will man and beast continue on a different tack with a queen present, or venture closer?

The runner spooks, unsurprisingly, to the sudden proximity of an apex predator. More surprising is the ease that Trei keeps his seat, bareback and riding with a simple hackamore as he is. His voice is low and soothing and demanding all the same. The runner stands briefly, head high, ears and tail twitching in alert observation. When Zymuraith doesn't appear to be immediately interested in eating either wildling or runner, the pair continue along their course. The wildling's eyes rove over the dragon, obviously unused to anything of that size, lingering at points of conformation here and there. He seems to have forgotten that where dragons are, there are typically riders, but his trajectory will soon take the pair of them in proximity to the dark-eyed goldrider.

Zymuraith, given the height of her perspective, simply watches the runner's frightened antics with placid regard, though notes the firmly soothing behavior of the man astride with greater interest. The rumble she utters this time is rather approving, but she's soon more concerned with going for a swim, which is what Amani is currently working on allowing her to do. There's much less of her than there is her lifemate, so if she's missed as she goes about removing Zymuraith's straps, it's understandable. That task accomplished, however, there's soon no mistaking the rider's presence as Pern's second largest queen slips into the turquoise waters, leaving the young goldrider stand in the sand. Amani's gaze swings back to the small mountain of man and runner then, a smirk tilting full lips. "Sorry for spooking your runner. There's really nowhere that's out of the way for her here." It's a small cove to a gigantic dragon.

There's further attention given from Treivyshe to the dragon's massive rumble, more felt than heard even with a distance of remove and with feet off the ground. He pulls up the draft when Amani is left in the wake of the queen's passing into the water, and tips his attention to her with a small quirk of his lips askance. "Thank her for me? Not eating my ride." He pats the piebald runner in question. Then, total afterthought: "Ma'am." She's got that triple gold plated thing going for sure, even if he can't see her knot in the gloaming.

No knot for Amani today! They're hard to wear with tank tops, which the goldrider is wearing in deep green along with a pair of long, sand-hued shorts - both of which are smudged with dirt along with some of her skin. She might be a simple resident emerging from the jungles after a hunt, but Zymuraith makes things rather obvious. She laughs softly to his first, though nods and passes it along. "She'd have to ask you off before getting to your ride, but…runners aren't for eating anyway, as she's asked me to remind people numerous times. Too tough, and too useful. Amani will do, by the way," she adds in the wake of being ma'am-ed. Reaching down, she scoops up a handful of water to dash over her arms, rinsing away a bit of the smudging. "Who are you, if you don't mind my asking?"

The likelihood of Amani trying to stay incognito — at least in vicinity of her lifemate — is, indeed, quite a slim thing. "They are too tough," Treivyshe agrees with the gold's statement. He digs a hand through the side of his hair affected by the breeze, rifling it back into a semblance of order. It's a very bare semblance. The wildling kicks a leg up and over the runner's neck, sliding down on his right hip the short distance — for his legs — to stand in the sand. "Amani." He tests the name out, finds it sufficient, nods briefly. "Treivyshe." If the flavor 'wildling' hasn't distinguished itself by his presence yet… well, he exhibits all the diagnostic signs of such heritage.

Amani can't help the arch of dark brows that comes when Treivyshe hits the ground and she finds her head tilted back so considerably to look up at him. "Treivyshe," she echoes, trying not to be too obvious as her klah-dark gaze takes as much of him in as possible at a glance. She might have to take half a step back for satisfactory results, there. "Well met. Faranth, I didn't think I'd meet anyone taller than our Weyrsecond," she notes amusedly, shoving her hair back over her shoulder when the breeze picks up and suddenly tries to mask her face with it. "Are you from one of the clans living nearby, or are you settled in somewhere?"

If Treivyshe is at all aware of his impact as an imposter of the long-lost ancient Greek god of hair and transparent shirts, it's not visible. His eyes are a contrast, Aegean-blue and bright even in the failing light, focused on the weyrwoman's words — there's not even a hint of that smirky line that often obscures his mouth; instead there's a brief a-ha! look, and he gestures about eye-height. "P'quil!" he says, then, beat. "No. D'wane." At least he didn't call him Rocio. "I came into the Weyr to sell a haul. I live," and he gestures briefly, north-northwest. "When I can." When Threadcharts are consistent enough to seek cover, as dubious a prospect as that may be.

There's a burst of laughter held back when the first name to leave the wildling's lips is that of her old weyrlingmaster (who isn't even close to either this man or the Weyrsecond). "Yeah, D'wane," Amani affirms, and does chuckle then. "P'quil used to be weyrlingmaster. Nothing alike, those two." Mention of a haul piques her curiosity. "I'd heard we should be expecting some trade from the natives nearby. What was your haul? Are you a hunter?" she ventures, and her gaze darts to his hands, studying what she can of them briefly. "Wood or stonework, maybe?"

Treivyshe has accustomed himself in the last twenty-four candlemarks to unexpected laughter from conversational partners due to things that he says. Not that he really understands weyrfolk, regardless. Airsick lowlanders. "D'wane," he confirms, repeating it as if to imprint it. "Good eyes," he remarks to her acute assessment, turning his right hand and lifting it to better display the plethora of tiny scars running down the fleshy curve where thumb meets wrist. "Mostly seasoned planks for the seacraft. Hides. Smoked fish." A jack of all trades. His gaze flicks to her crossbow, not forgotten by the observant wildling: "And you? A hunter?" There is a distinct tone of curousity within his baritone inquiry.

Amani can't help but look pleased for having guessed correctly, tilting her head a bit to view the big man's scarred hand when he lifts it. She nods approvingly as he lists off what he brings in, her gaze lifting to his again inquisitively. "Thank you for what you bring in. Though…I assume you haul in for your own people first?" It would stand to reason, in her mind; the Weyr demands no tithes of the wildlings, after all, so he's making her doubly curious. As to her being a hunter, she gives a little nod, glancing back toward her crossbow. "When I can," she replies, lifting her own hands. They're nowhere near as scarred as his, but clearly no strangers to work and a bit of roughing up, either. "I'm desert-bred; I did a lot of hunting to get by for a handful of Turns up there. Much less since I came here and Impressed. But I try to stay sharp. It's…a whole different challenge, hunting here." A lot more in the way…and a lot more places for things with claws and teeth to hide.

"You are welcome. The jungle provides." Trei's voice isn't so low as to rumble, but there is a depth to it that reverberates in those three words, ranging between rote and reverence. "Of course." It's acknowledgement that his own people eat before the weyr, light eyes again turning to land upon the goldrider. "We require little. You require more. It is… just." He shrugs his shoulders and pats at his pockets, looking for something or another, even as his eyes land on her hands. There's approval there, in the attention he lifts to the crossbow again. Dark eyebrows raise at the commentary of being a desertborn. "Desert. I've never lived longer than a click from The River." The capitalization is obvious even in his verbal presentation. "I cannot imagine a place so dry." His eyes go distant, as if mentally evoking such a foreign, alien place.

There's another nod from Amani at Treivyshe's reply, another rueful bit of a chuckle following his mention of the Weyr needing more. "I have to admit, hearing that it's 'just' from someone native isn't something I hear very often. But it's not something we can exactly help, either." Bonding to dragons tends to do that to a place! She smiles outright when he speaks of being unable to imagine the desert. "When I lived there, I was never able to imagine anywhere like this, myself." She gestures around them with both hands. "So much green, all these trees, the sea. I only learned to swim last Turn." She actually flushes slightly at that, still not being as good at it as she'd like. "The desert is dry, but it has its own beauty, too. If you ever want to see it, you need only ask," she adds, slender shoulders hitching in a subtle shrug as though it's no big deal, though the pride in her origins glints subtly in dark eyes.

Treivyshe gives an unflappable shrug. "Dragons are part of it all. Without them we all die. It seems very… simple to me." The cadence of his words are slow and steady, refusing to be hurried along. His hands finish the questing, coming up with a cord. He starts the ritual of tying his hair back, letting the lead to the runner drop to one elbow as he digs his hands in his hair, gathering it back into a messy bun. Mid-effort, he pauses to lift an eyebrow at her, completely baffled. "You didn't know how to swim?" He sounds properly scandalized, which is an entirely unfamiliar emotion to this particular wildling.

"Well, that's refreshing to hear," Amani says to his first, and it's truly appreciative. While Treivyshe goes about tying up his hair, she tugs off her tank in preparation for a swim - the reason she's here, judging by the two-piece top she's wearing beneath. Rinsing off in the baths doesn't seem quite as comfortable in this heat, after all. At his scandalized tone, she grins, making a quick fold of her discarded tank and dropping it one the rock beside her crossbow before looking up at the big wildling again, hands planted on her hips. "No, I didn't. And I'm still working on it. But I bet you wouldn't know how to survive a sandstorm," she counters with a rather cheeky arch of a brow.

"We have… poor relatives." Treivyshe's face screws up briefly. "I'm sorry for my cousins." They don't spend enough time in the mountains, up by the sources of all things. Airsick freakin' lowlanders. "They're distant cousins," he feels compelled to add, putting the more militant tribes at arm's length from the peaceful persuasion of he and his own. Shameless in his own shamelessness, his eyes rove down the expanse of lean flesh made bare in her stripping off that tank top, appreciative. The piebald runner snorts in a timely manner, prompting him to raise his eyes to Amani's. "Sandstorm?" he blankly replies. Wait. What? She cheated!

The more Treivyshe apologizes for his "relatives," the more Amani's smile grows. "Probably distant enough to not be related?" she ventures gamely. "No justification needed." It doesn't seem to occur to her that she's given the blue-eyed man a good reason to let his eyes roam until the last second, and even then she only flushes a little. Though she does decide not to go the rest of the way with her shorts just yet. His incredulity over the sandstorm, whether aided by her distraction or not, is met with a rather mischievous smile as she nods. "The wind lifts the sand and carries it for candlemarks, usually for miles and high into the air. It blows so hard it might scour your skin off without protection, so thick you can hardly see your hand in front of your face. Sometimes a duster comes up so fast you barely have time to prepare. Summer and autumn are when they're most common."

"No," Treivyshe says without missing a beat, "Related. One cannot handfast a cousin." Life lessons by Trei, right here. His keen eyes catch that flush, and he tilts his head slightly, no doubt puzzled by the rampant tales of weyrlife hedonism so populace the world over. He leaves the topic alone as she starts discussing the logistics of a sandstorm, his gaze going distant as if summoning the visual of this horrific nightmare of a description. "Like the world itself rises up to kill you." He shakes his head. "Makes sense it happens North."

Amani looks a bit bemused at that. "I know you're not all related." How she knows, she doesn't elaborate. His summing up of the sandstorm has her brows twitching upward, and then she decides to get on with the rest of her bathing attire, moving as though by reflex to get her shorts out of the way as she speaks. "The world has plenty of ways to rise up and kill you down here, too, I've noticed," she counters. "Quicksand, winds that bring the trees down on your head, volcanoes, felines… And then there's Thread that falls everywhere." Her shorts join her tank on the rock, and she stands in an indigo and gold two-piece now, arms folded upon her chest as she peers back up at Treivyshe. "The North is no more dangerous than the South, honest. The variations on how to die between them might be notable, but they sure aren't out of balance."

Trei glances at her for the relation comment, but he doesn't act further upon it. There's that faint smirky line again, edged masculine humor lighting the leonine lines of his face as he casually watches the weyrwoman's actions. He grunts at her final statement, shaking his head. "I'll take your word for it. Amani." He's going to get this name thing down. Honest. "Enjoy your swim." He takes a step back, now that she's ready to depart for deeper waters, combing his fingers through that draft runner's mane as he returns to his original stance.

Amani's return glance for the big wildling has a somewhat sly edge in counter to that smirk, and she laughs softly. "See for yourself someday. Treivyshe," she says, and turns to the water, where Zymuraith has rather stealthily surfaced to watch the end of their exchange. "I'm sure I'll see you around." He's a rather distinctive sort, after all! It isn't long before she's out in the gentle surf and submerged herself, continuing to work on the swimming she's still apparently working on…and just enjoying a relaxing rinse before Rukbat's rays abandon the crystalline waters completely.

Treivyshe's expression changes abruptly at the hint of sly edge to Amani's own features — he grins at her, an unrehearsed burst of emotion from the otherwise pretty steady man. It makes him look more boyish than the even slate of his normal expressiveness. "Well-met, Amani. How do you say? Clear skies." He watches her wade into the shallows and shakes his head at something within it, turning his piebald runner back toward the jungles. Soon, Trei is lost to the dark edges of the treecover, headed to darkness whilst the goldrider enjoys the last of the light.