Who

Atticus, Vosji

What

After having his ride blow him off in a really bad place for it, Atticus convinces Vosji to save him and take him to the frosty end of Southern. She doesn't get to turn around and leave after.

Atticus being nice for a spell. UNNATURAL XANAX MAGIC.

When

It is afternoon of the seventh day of the seventh month of the tenth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Standing Stones, Igen; Frozen Lake, Southern Barrier

OOC Date 26 Mar 2017 04:00

 

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He's plotted an entire itinerary, Vosji, beware.


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Standing Stones

It is perhaps a pity that the Standing Stones lie in quiet isolation, half-forgotten in the Weyr's easternmost corner. Or perhaps it is inevitable: the grandiose beauty of these red rocks is ill-suited to Igen's coarse grit, and maybe only their loneliness allows them to survive unmarred. Whatever the reason, it cannot be denied that the Standing Stones, a lonely jumble of ancient boulders, have a glory about them. The tumbled field of pillars and arches has been shaped by eons of wind and water into strange shapes, twisted and rutted. The going is treacherous: only the Weyr's half-feral herd of caprines navigates the terrain with any ease. To the northwest, the lakeshore glimmers; to the east, rough-carved steps lead towards another ancient pile of rocks - though the Star Stones are less haphazardly placed than their Standing cousins.


Why exactly is Atticus here, at the Standing Stones of Igen, during THE HOTTEST FUCKING DAY OF THE YEAR? Well, really, it's anyone's guess. It looks like he's waiting for someone. A ride, perhaps? A heavy jacket lies crumpled at his feet, below a stack of clothing he's also skinned out of, leaving him in black pants and a white undershirt that clings to him, damp with sweat.

Nobody should be outside at this hour, considering how much the sun is eagerly trying to bake everyone in the Igen coverage area. Unfortunately, many people's jobs are not entirely able to accommodate shifting schedules around to match the weather. They try. They can't always make it work. Weyrling training is one of those jobs, it seems: there was some sweeps training involved, and as a result, Iskanzivoth is blinking in from ::between:: and coming in for a landing … apparently bypassing the Star Stones for the more precarious landing spot of the Standing ones. "SHELLS, I DO NOT WANT TO FALL AND DIE," is audible from up on the blue's neck as he cautiously and daintily settles down across two of the boulders. If dragons laugh, this one definitely just did: it's clearly a snort, at least. His rider sliiiiides down his side, then hops down a couple of rocks and makes it to where Atticus is standing, now only looking more confused. "… Did someone leave you out here?" she asks, head canted to the side, birdlike.

Hazel eyes lift to the skies to assess the precision of Iskanzivoth's landing. Beaded sweat clings to the crag of Atticus' brow, but the elegance of his stance presumes ignorance to the indelicacies of his condition. "You didn't fall and die, rider," he says to her in greeting, the line of his lips curving up in a simile of a smile. "I am waiting," he responds, then, sweeping his attention back to the skies with visible impatience.

"I almost fell, and had I fallen, I would possibly have died," Vosji says with a thin, mischievous sort of grin. "Which means that he also would have died, which is why I insist that that was a terrible place to land, but I have been forcefully overruled on that front. May he quickly forget that it didn't kill me so we don't have to do that again." The dragon merely sits up a little bit taller, looking both proud of himself and surprisingly comfortable for all the awkward angles. "That, I see. You seem to have been waiting long enough to have begun melting." She doesn't look much better, hair all pinned to her head and riding jacket quickly abandoned … for a similar clingy-tank-top and pants look.

Turns out that sweat + dust = mud! Who would have thought? See: Atticus' face as executive evidence of this, because after flinching his eyes shut at Iskanzivoth's second landing, he lifts a hand to wipe the detritus away only to find that it smears. He stares at his hand for a length of time and then peels out of his undershirt, using it to thoroughly clean his face before dropping it to the ground. He shrugs on a button-up and his leather jacket, leaving the sweaty garment discarded in the dirt as he follows Vosji's lead towards her dragon. "I hope they do, too." His voice is dark and not at all stated in a similar vein as Vosji's line of thought. To cold and ice-skating, ho!


Frozen Lake
To the southwest of the hold proper lies a jewel for those willing to trod the ice shelf to skirt the frozen forest: a lake that lies in clear crystalline reflection of the cirrus-clouded sky above. Frozen firm for all of the clarity, it is hardy enough for ice-booted runners to cross, though dragons would likely cause unsightly jagged cracks. Skaters are a frequent sight at this glorious location, as ice-blades are nearly mandatory to cross this locale: to the southwest, the landscape drops off strangely for those curious. To the west and northwest lie the grazing pastures of the Hold, just beyond the guarding frost-forest.


Vosji did not laugh at Atticus' mud-dappled display, really. She didn't. There was no laughter, just … the sort of smile and look away that constitutes hiding laughter. She remained instead the consummate helpful professional dragonrider, and one with several turns' Interval experience with transport as a primary form of work, and even remembered to warn her passenger before going between. The escape seconds later into Southern Barrier's atmosphere is one that comes with a happy bugle from Iskanzivoth; partially for the watchrider, partially for himself. It's a new place and it's cold! The landing is as elegant as the one on the Standing Stones wasn't, a single calm glide to the ground that will allow both humans to dismount without difficulty or sliding around on frozen ground. Just near it, because of course he is going to land as close to this icy water as possible.

Atticus still has some streaks on his face, but don't tell him, okay? It would absolutely ruin his vanity. Plus, there's something about a little bit of grit… he wouldn't mind, if he weren't thinking of it as dirt. The shock of ::between:: is enough to revitalize anyone wasting away from Igen's heat, and the continuing cold-snap of Southern Barrier has Atticus removing the scarf from the interior of his jacket to wrap loosely around his neck. "Very nice. Thank you, sir," Atticus smartly addresses to the blue, before swinging around and smiling crookedly at Vosji herself, "And ma'am. Ah! This is fantastic." His voice is cat-in-the-cream satisfied.

So long as the dirt does not actually freeze to his face; that could be dangerous. Vosji, Istan to the absolute core (she's High Reachian several centuries' worth of generations back, but we don't talk about that), is not designed for cold and is pulling a little bit of a screwed-up face. The kind that needs moisturizer, because it's cold. "Glad I could make up for the mis-step in service," is what she actually says, instead of some unhappy mutter about how she's freezing to death because someone else couldn't show up on time. "Even if I am going from falling to death to freezing to death, he's happy." Iskanzivoth is SUPER happy, and all about making Atticus' dismount as smooth as possible because that means he might ask him to come to this place again.

Dangerous smangerous. His Blood is ambrosia, should one believe the living canon of the Charter, and surely such rarified individuals must be above such dismissive things as frostbite-in-spots. What's that noise? Stop laughing! "Freezing to death isn't in the plan, darling." Atticus can play the part when given the opportunity, being not entirely smarmy, arrogant or holier-than-thou at every given moment: he offers his arm to Vosji, and gestures towards the brightly-attired tents cladding the edge of the frozen lake. "I think I smell hot klah," is his coaxing commentary. "And tea," on the crisp breeze as he lifts his face into the wind.

Weyrleaders' blood is not quite so holy, and so Vosji is left perfectly able to develop a frost-nipped nose. Tents with hot drinks sound like a fantastic way of avoiding that, and while she may not have been expected to be invited along with the gentleman she gave the ride to there's no complaining. The opposite, in fact: she accepts the offered arm, especially because he's actually taller than her and it isn't awkward, and lets herself be led toward warm. Warmish? "I'm easily sold," she admits. On klah and tea, anyway. Iskanzivoth is totally happy to ditch them both for the lake. He's just going to sit on top of it.

Atticus enjoys many things. Undeserved privilege, screaming relatives, and being taller than 99.5% of women are all under that rooftop. Even if he now has to work for a living, hypothetically. "If he breaks the lake, you've bought it, not me," he murmurs at the sight of her blue making a break for the solidly-frozen field. Humor chuffs those words even as they crunch down the snow between here and the tents of splendor and warmth. "Allow me," he says, gently extricating himself to open the cloth door of the lake's temporary promenade. So dashing! … so unlike his normal bastard self. Someone must have put Pernese xanax in his klah this morning. (Even odds it was Topiltzin.)

"It'll just freeze again, won't it?" Never mind that that would ruin some ice skaters' day; Vosji (who is also taller than most women, and appreciates company that manages to physically look down at her as a result) doesn't really have a lot of familiarity with how long it takes things to freeze. She seems relatively optimistic that Iskanzivoth's bulk won't do any serious damage, unconcerned as she walks, bows her head, smiles sweetly and takes her step in. She would be surprised to hear a lot of people think Atticus is a dick.

Probably because to an astronomically high number of people, Atticus is a dick. But something about Vosji keeps her from that company. She reminds him, perhaps, of one of his cousins, with the neatness of his composition. He joins her inside, blowing briefly on his fingers as if to warm them. The merchants inside are doing brisk business in foamy klah and ice-skate and cold-weather rentals. He opts for the drink rather than gear, at least to begin. (It's not a 15 person line, at least!) "It might," the Bitran allows, his voice drawling out. "But I'm not sure that would be much comfort to anyone on it when it breaks." When, not if? Such a pessimist.

The drink lines are never as long as the bathroom lines. Is there a bathroom line? Thankfully nobody is currently looking for a bathroom. "Oh. Hm. Hadn't thought of that," Vosji confesses, though she still manages to look a little bit on the amused — or bemused — side. She can't hear any screaming or people panicking about the dragon, and the dragon himself isn't reporting any alarm, so there's nothing to worry about here! Squinting at the drink preparations, she's got the birdlike headtilt back again, in the other direction. "That's an interesting preparation, I don't think I've seen that before either. It must get fancier when it's colder. The Dustbowl's fancy klahs are less … expressive." Also alcoholic and not foamy lattes. And she isn't in there often enough to know that he works there, either; it's another one of those places where being a really tall female kind of sucks.

"There's a dedicated klah shop here, up above the hold proper. A little shack on the roof, if you'd believe me." Atticus' snort of derision is visual, not audible, but very easy to note. "Very tasty, if placed in a way that seems… manic." It came out of a manic mind, Atticus. Klahbucks is a THING. Rather than stiffen up at mention of his workplace, the man gives a liquid shrug. "We don't really make them to be warming in the way they make them here. At that point they're really just warm conductors of alcohol."

"That's worse than landing on standing stones." Another place Vosji won't go, because she will fall and die. Regardless of things like having a dragon who will save her and the fact she's not actually particularly clumsy. There are lots of other people who would probably fall and die, though. "Seems like it would almost be part of the challenge, hm? Get up here, get a drink and get back down without falling? Is that the name of a drink, by the way, Warm Conductor of Alcohol, because it should be." It's not on the drink board in front of her, though. A lot is. She is not used to having this much in the way of options for KLAH. "… And what's worth trying, of this?"

"I'll keep that in mind," Atticus says, droll, for the drink name recommendation. And look! The person in front of them finally is done, so up to the plate he goes. "I want something not-very-sweet. But with that foam. You know what I mean." He makes an ambiguous gesture with one hand, and then grandly transfigures the same into a sweeping notion toward Vosji. "And whatever the lady prefers." Because nothing is better than putting someone on the spot, right? He returns to their conversation with an offhand, "Well, the roof is more like… if you've never been, I will have to escort you up there. After our skating, of course." He's plotted an entire itinerary, Vosji, beware.

It seems to dawn on Vosji that she might be subbing in not just for a canceled lift to some sort of meeting, but someone else's date, as she gives Atticus the briefest look that is a cross between surprise and total bewilderment. She's never been high up enough in Weyr leadership totem poles to need to be able to mask those kinds of expressions, but it does disappear quickly. "I'd like …" There's thinking going on, but she catches a whiff of a drink near her in someone's hand and simply points at it, "That. It smells good." Without actually pausing so much as redirecting her speech again: "Probably not a roof a dragon can land on? I also meant it when I said I hadn't ice skated since just after weyrlinghood." Nobody asked how old she was when she Impressed. Or how old she is now.

Atticus likely doesn't even mean it as a date, so used to accompaniment and entourage when he visits… well, visited anywhere. Past-tense, now. Very sensible logical leap, that said. "A hazelnut cream for the gentleman and a Four Horseman of the North for the lady," the bright-smiling cashier-of-sorts says, and Atticus doles out the required markpieces with a practiced hand. "I do think you'd be surprised at the size of this roof," he shrewdly comments, and then, "Oh, and how long ago was that? A turn or two at most?" Listen, she looks young. He doesn't realize she's nearly a decade his senior, bless his arrogant socks.

"When the answer isn't immediately no, I'm surprised." Vosji should probably be a little bit afraid of that drink name, but she seems to think it's delightful instead. She's also letting him get away with paying for her, because she can just consider that payment for the ride. If Iskanzivoth's good mood isn't payment enough; the poor dragon still hasn't really warmed (pun not initially intended but deliberately not removed) to Igen. The eyes widening in surprise, that doesn't happen until Atticus' earnest-sounding comments about her age. Doesn't sound like politeness, so much as that he actually believes that. "Mm, he just turned nineteen." Two and twenty are similar numbers.

And her face claim is FORTY, the woman has insanely good genes.

Here, Atticus' hands still after just taking his hazelnut cream; he was in the process of stirring, but now stares appallingly directly at Vosji's face. "Did you just say nineteen?"

"Yes." Vosji takes a careful sip of the Four Horseman of the North, which at least is kind enough to do justice to how it smells, and is missing the issue of confusion, here. "He just turned nineteen, so it was about eighteen turns ago the last time I tried to ice skate. As I recall it wasn't too difficult, though." And clearly, she was about four when she Impressed, right?

"Were you three when you Impressed?" Atticus says, the asshole. "There's no way." He shakes his head in flat repudiation of her assertations of, you know, her reality, history, and age.

Thankfully for the sake of not being even more confusing, Vosji doesn't say the first thing that crosses her mind, which would have been something along the lines of 'essentially.' Because for a rider, she was practically an infant! And as a weyrlingmaster, she's about as tolerant of people as young as her as her weyrlingstaff was when she was the kid: that is, not very. "I was thirteen and bred and raised for the gold, a total embarrassment in every corner of dragonriding." She looks incredibly pleased with herself, too, as she sips klah around talking.

Atticus tilts his head, doing mental math. He belatedly stirs his klah, still unabashedly staring at Vosji. "You look amazing," he says, and it is probably not as complimentary as it sounds, given his utter surprise. No tact, Atticus. And you WONDER why Wroll said no Bitra for you… "I'm just… wow," he shakes his head, "That's surprising." It's okay to hit him, Vosji. Nobody would blame yooouuuuuuu~

A lack of tact might run in the family; that Lethea tends to open her mouth and say dumb things sometimes, too. So that'd be the part of the family that doesn't live there anymore … Vosji isn't going to hit anyone, though, because Iskanzivoth would never forgive her, and that would be a total lack of any sleep until he forgot why he was keeping her awake. "Thank you?" she manages, a kind of awkward squeaked-out comment, as she doesn't seem entirely sure how she is being judged. Just sip your klah and pretend it's normal, Vos. "I actually don't get that a lot. Riders stay pretty young looking for longer than most other people, due to the fitness regimen, I'm told?"

You lie, Vosji. YOU LIE. IT'S BECAUSE OF @REAGE.

"You're welcome," Atticus says, taking a sip of his klah and finding it, now that he's actually thinking about things that aren't holy-shit-Vosji-should-be-a-milf BUT SHE DOESN'T LOOK LIKE ONE, quite pleasant to the tastebuds. "Fitness, hmm. I suppose that could be it." His face sharpens in thought, though, craggy forehead creasing further under the weight of whatever kind of thought just infiltrated up to his mind. Faranth only knows. "Well," he says, dropping gear back into the debonaire once-upon-a-time-heir mode: "Shall we skate, then? It's not been quite so many turns for me. I'm sure I can catch you if you fall." His eyes have a predatory gleam that perhaps was missing before this point.

Vosji has two children. *finger guns*

Atticus, dead.

Vosji didn't mean to break any brains, but how could she have known. It might be the second time in her life that anyone has commented on misreading her age, whether or not it's actually because her height throws people off anyway. Being tall always makes people think you're older, right? "That's what I'm told, anyway. Or there's some kind of magical … something in Impressing that makes people live longer and age slower, because I've seen 75-turn-olds fly Thread without issue. And they don't look seventy-five, either." She was pretty sure she looked thirty, though. "I'm willing to try," she concedes with a polite nod. "I'm not sure how much of a disaster trying to catch someone wearing ice skates would be, but …" It sounds funny, so she's game.

"Magical something. Very interesting." Yeah, Atticus is going to commission a study… or something, on the effects of Impression on aging. "Maybe all the years cut short by Threadfall get routed back into wingmates," he says, his voice dark and quiet and introspective. It's a really surreal vibe for him, considering his typical casual conquest of the world. Anyhow. He gestures towards the skate-merchant, gallant again. "After you, m'lady. Let's get you fitted, and then see if you're fit to skate." Oh, the puns, the puns.

That's one of those disturbing thoughts that, considering Pern's long history of 'dragonriders are this way because they always have been,' might actually be accurate. Threadfall death karma. Threadfall Bathory-style makeup. Vosji bites the edge of her lip, thinking about that for about two seconds, which is way too long to think about something dark like that when you're trying to have fun not being entirely sure why you're at Southern Barrier ice skating, but going with it. Which is precisely what she's going to do instead. "As my lord commands," she says, and it's supposed to be as light and teasing as her voice sounds; he's far from the only person she makes comments like that to, but she's unknowingly being kind of rude with it. Totally unknowingly. Due to the height, her feet are big enough she ends up in mens' skates, but they look pretty good on her — and no one falls. Or dies. Iskanzivoth hasn't broken the ice yet, either, even if he has one paw precariously settled on the edge of the lake the entire time he's there.

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