Who

Thierry, Veresch

What

An uneasy but brief truce-of-sorts is formed.

When

It is sunrise of the seventh day of the second month of the first turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Igen Weyr Central Bowl and Lake

OOC Date

 

thierry%2019.jpg, veresch_default.jpg


Central Bowl

Cradled, childlike, in an easterly mountainous embrace, the steppes of the central bowl nestle cozily between lake and weyr. The latticework of dusty adobe paths spider out from the southerly Weyr Road, the wagon-ruts of which curve lazily to the northeastern bazaar, the adobe sprawl of the New Weyr reflected in the lake that dominates a large portion of outdoor Igen. A small footpath, just as abused, ambles away from the shores, travelling over rock and hill to the northern dragonet complex and branching itself due west to end at the entrance of the blessedly cool inner caverns. One cracked path, faint with disuse, leads southeast to the crumbling ruins of Igen-that-was. All around, the dizzying heights of the caldera's sharp-sloped sides are pocked here and there with ledges, the weyrs' draconic occupants needing no path to guide their way.


It's just gone lunchtime, and the bowl is far from empty at this winter-sun hour. A gentle breeze keeps things fresh, which one Thierry is certainly enjoying right now; he's dressed for PT, red-faced and /sweaty/, with his hair damp enough to cling to his brow. He's stalking his way from somewhere further in the Weyr back to the homely confines of the bazaar, looking bedraggled, dusty, and exhausted, on top of that sticky sweaty shine he sports.

Well now. Well now. This is not a scene that Veresch ever thought she'd see, especially not with those noisome fags that Thierry likes to smoke. She, just being back from a delivery when she sees his red-faced form, watches in amazement as he ambles towards her. She, feeling somewhat cautious, doesn't stop directly in his path but not too far off, and a frown pulls her face into an unpleased expression. She waits, ponders, and finally steps forward, decision made, only to hold out a waterskin in his direction. Nothing said, just the silent offer of water. No one should have been that sweaty over noon — the sun is still poisonous even though it's winter.

He mightn't have seen Veresch if she hadn't held out the skin, but maybe his sweaty self can /smell/ the water in it. Thierry looks up from where he's watching his boots to look warily at Veresch - /tiredly/, too. He snorts out a short breath, then grabs the bottom of his vest to drag it up and over his forehead, wiping away the sweat and giving her a good flash of his tummy while he does so. There's a few scars there, if she dares to look! Once he's de-sweatified himself as best he can, Thi reaches out to take the skin with a half-arsed, crooked smile, raising it up to chug on its contents.

Veresch catches a glimpse, and that reels her in for a good look: her eyes linger, somewhat fascinated, somewhat horrified, until she's not sure if she wants to look or get the earth to swallow her up whole. She settles for looking away, colour high: sex might not be a common-place thing, but seeing people that always cover up this naked and sweaty is enough to make her mouth dry. Gnawing on the inside of a cheek, she merely holds her hand back out for the empty skin, eyes pressed devoutly closed. Shut up, stupid body.

Thierry might /die/ if he knew he was having that sort of reaction on Veresch. He's blissfully unaware though, eyes closed as he drinks. When he lowers the skin he coughs to clear his throat, and rubs the back of his hand over his mouth as he hands it back to Veresch with a thankful little nod. /Little/ being the operative word; he's not going to gush over a damned drink. And then it becomes awkward, as he doesn't know what to do next. Thierry fumbles with the hem of his damp vest, frowning at the younger girl, not sure whether to just bold back home or… well, or /what/ to do.

It's like a raging storm of teenaged awkwardness, isn't it? She doesn't want to look, he doesn't know what to do… sad, really. "You should go and cool down," she manages with a reasonable semblance of normalcy. "It's really not good to exercise this late in the day, even if the weather is colder now. I normally do my running early or late, depending on the weather." Sometimes she does it really early, just to perve over A'dan. She reaches out to touch the side of one sweaty wrist, not grabbing, but giving a nudge. "C'mon. I won't look, but it'll be good for you. I promise."

Veresch's touch makes Thierry pull his hand back like he's been burnt; he glowers down at her, nose wrinkled in displeasure. "Who said I had a choice in it?" He turns his head to spit, then rubs his hand over his face. Still sweaty! The sound of the lake /does/ appeal to him though, and he looks up in that direction as he considers. After a long moment? "Fine." Then a sweeping gesture for little V to lead the way.


Lake Shore

Sprawled out beyond the Weyr proper's hustling activity and ambling roads, the cool, blue paradise of the Weyr lake promises escape from the oppressive hammer of Igen summer's cruel climes; the asymmetrical, sandy white shores hook delicately around the deceptively still waters running deep and sure, greedy peninsulas reaching white fingers stretching in crooked lines towards its center. A sturdy shack, weather-beaten and brown as cured leather, resides in isolated splendor upon one such finger, screened shelving offering a variety of brushes and fragrant oils housed in colorful tureens. Out beyond a small and dusty paddock ringed by a white fence, a long rocky pier stabs out into the lake, providing a panoramic view of the Weyr itself, while the southern shores provide varied shrubs and grassed for the massed herds in their pens.


Veresch leads the way to the lake shore with no further comment. Indeed, it's only as they arrive at the lake that she even looks at him again, just a quick, sidewards flick of lashes and eyes. "I won't look." It needed to be said, okay? Still, with it being said she moseys off a little way and sinks down at the lake's edge herself, picking up handsful of water to cool the top of her head from the persistent sun, and the wash off a little of the grime that she might have picked up already today. She keeps her promise: no look whatsoever. Fact is, when it comes to him he's taught her to be mighty leery.

Thierry's narrow-eyed look suggests he doesn't give a damn if she's looking or not, as he reaches the water's edge and tugs his vest up over his head. It's dropped carelessly onto the shore, followed by his shorts after he's kicked off his boots. "Prude," is all he says as he steps into the water in his underwear, going deep enough to still be able to stand, but where he's able to duck under water to scrub at his sweaty hair. He's not shy about glaring over at Veresch when he comes back up out of the water, just like he's not intending on lingering any longer than needs be - with that simple all-over dunking, he's already heading back to shore… and light-coloured underwear /doesn't/ hide things well when it's wet.

Right. We all know how well teenagers work: you tell them not to do something, and they go and do the exact opposite thing. He just couldn't keep his mouth shut. Veresch's eyes flick open immediately, and she gives him a glare of such intensity that it's almost like a touch. She does look, yes, look and look and look until she can even see his ankles. Hey… nice feet. "It's not about being prudish," she manages to grit out between clenched teeth. "I just don't want to cause the pretty-flippy boy to sulk again when I don't admire his figure." Which she does, and how, but she'll die before she tells him that. "Don't you ever cut your hair right? Do you do it yourself, with a knife?" Hello, segue.

"Fuck off, you've been in the baths." While Thierry was there too, suggesting it's all something she /should/ have seen before. Well, not /all/ of it. He shakes his head, sending a shower of water droplets out around him. Perhaps some of them even make it far enough to splatter onto Veresch. It also causes his messily-cut hair to stick to his face, and he sweeps it back in annoyance. "The fuck d'you do with yours? Get a dragon to flame it?" He mimics breathing fire, while bending down to grab his shorts. They're tugged up, hiding everything away as he buttons the front of them. "And who the fuck you calling pretty, anyway?"

"Well," Veresch says as she stands, trying not to get hit by the water and failing miserbly, "No. I cut it with my knife as well, but I do a better job." Now that he's dressed, she ambles over to peer at his chest, mouth canting slightly. "But in the baths, you saw me all the way naked. This time the situation is reversed, don't you think so?" She scoffs. "I'm not going to lie just because you hate hearing that you're pretty. You're no Reilan, but you're not a total caprine either." She pauses. "Besides, if you want to fuck off here, as you put it, you're going to get a sunburn in a place you don't need one, so just stop with the foul mouth, okay? Or I'm going to put some advice into action and punch a motherfucker out. Why were you exercising in this heat?"

"Oi," Thierry leans in to loom over Veresch with his finger in her face, an inch or so from her nose and his expression thunderous. "Fuck off with the pretty. And what the fuck, sunburn. Psht." That waggling finger is swept away dismissively as he turns around to grab his sweaty, now very dusty vest. Too gross to put back on, for sure. "The only thing you're punching out, little shit," /yes/, V's still got that /adorable/ nickname, "is a trundlebug. Now get your fucking nose out of my shit."

Veresch just looks at him, looks and looks until she turns away, waterskin tucked back into the belt's loop.

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