Who

Ca'elian, Tzielle

What

An unlikely pair come across one another at the menagerie, and find out that something even less likely. (Tzielle just wants to see the white herdbeasts OKAY?!)

backdated, mild suggestiveness, and uh … awkwardness (it's not what you think)

When

It is afternoon of the twenty-second day of the second month of the seventeenth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Menagerie, Igen Weyr

OOC Date 10 Jun 2019 05:00

 

ca-elian_default.jpg tzielle_default.jpg

Family is a bitch.


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Menagerie

The labyrinth of square geometry was once a familial compound purchased by the Steens and reinvented to display animals of a different kind. A 10-foot high wall of neat stone and adobe encloses the menagerie's total property and in front, a trefoil arch with a gate leads the way into a small courtyard improved by several rock gardens and succulents, some many meters tall. Beyond brilliant alabaster pillars are quarters for a variety of animals: a pair of giant white cattle on loan from Igen Hold's closed herd, whersports from southern jungles, a dynasty of desert-dwelling snakes, and in a well-shaded enclosure heaped with boulders: a young watchwher still growing into his wing stubs.

In the northeast corner stretches many desert willows and a freshwater pool 3-feet deep at its margins, stocked with a breeding colony of pinioned waterfowl, striped and vivid-colored, once called mandarins.

Many benches are placed for strategic loitering, though a full troupe of firelizards with the run of the place monitor for wrongdoings and safety of the animals. The newness of the menagerie and several empty quads tell of more animals to come.


Some people celebrate their turnday with a massive party, while others simply have a slice of cake and call it a day. But Ca'elian is doing none of these things. As Igen prepares to spring into spring, the growing warmth of midday finds the menagerie a relative hive of activity, as people take advantage in the slow shift in weather to come out and admire the creatures contained within. The bronzerider has found himself by a less trafficked area near the snakes, anxiously pacing beside a bench. It may beckon for him to sit down, but he ignores it. Instead, the former bazaarite keeps moving ceaselessly, awkwardly prominent against the menagerie's curious landscape. Every now and then he looks up, searching the crowds for someone, but his efforts always end in disappointment.

And then there are those without a tribe to celebrate such an auspicious event such as a turnday: those who do not have the option of a party, and thus find themselves celebrating in different ways. One such slips through the throngs of the crowd threading through the menagerie, slim as a sparrow and given about the same amount of regard. Tzielle holds up abruptly, not far from Ca'elian's pacing area, to prevent being ran over by a large Akzhan man. When his fellows come laughing after him, the Smith-candidate side-steps deftly, ending up bumping her legs against the bench. It's enough to rate a topple, but she prevents it by bringing her arms up in cross-balance, wavering on her feet before taking another step forward lengthwise along the bench, capturing that momentum and grounding herself upright.

Ca'elian does stiffen at the sight of family members — albeit not ones he knows particularly well — but swiftly turns his head away so as not to be recognized. Admittedly, he's hard to mistake, but he's able to go unacknowledged, whether that be by his own design or the simple fact that they choose to ignore him. It's as his head is turned that he spies Tzielle struggling to maintain her balance out of the corner of his eye. The impulse to try and assist is at war with the desire to sidestep his way out of the equation, and in the end he's simply paralyzed with indecision. "Don't fall," he utters far too late, and with words that are utterly useless.

"I'll try not to," Tzielle replies with a damn-near reflexive smile upward for Ca'elian's useless comment. "Sometimes it's a challenge." Falling is always a beast of a thing, though Tzielle is typically as sure-footed as any other creature out there. "Oh," she says, recognition dawning: "You're — that one." She gestures vaguely, from either not remembering his name or not receiving it. She's slept since then, for one, and for the other… well, her brightness seems a bit muted on this day of days, some small strains showing on her rueful face. "Are you going to tell me all I'm doing wrong, here?" The girl's eyes widen as a young child starts running toward her, followed by a harried-looking nanny, and she deftly hops up on the bench. It gives her the momentary advantage of height.

Ca'elian makes a quiet noise of acknowledgment for her comments, agreeing with sound more than words that yes, staying upright can be problematic. At least with all that height, he has longer to catch himself. (That's how it works, right?) "Yes," he agrees without any hint of sarcasm, "I'm that one." He's just going to assume she's referring to the man she met in the abandoned caverns, and not some other entirely incorrect encounter. Unlike the first time they crossed paths, the flickering fire of his anger — so quick to catch and grow out of proportion — seems controlled today. "I could," he answers, giving her an assessing once-over. "But I see no reason to." Except then she leaps up on the bench to avoid the child, and he can't help but mention, "They can climb, you know."

"Yes, but they aren't going to climb after me," Tzielle plaintively replies. She smiles down at the child racing past the space she just vacated; a mild showing of her rays-of-sunlight personality showing through in muted fashion. Like Ca'elian, she seems… more reserved, here in the sunlight. She turns to look at the snake enclosure over Ca'elian's shoulder. "It's amazing how many people come out here just to look at creatures in cages," she remarks, looking down at the ground on the bronzerider's side of the bench as if considering hopping down there. She seems loathe to do it for some reason or another, her bright-amber eyes sliding back up to quizzically look at Ca'elian, though she asks no outward question.

It's clear that Ca'elian wants to argue that they very well might, but his objections are curtailed as the child passes without incident. Very well. "It would not be my choice of venue," the bronzerider admits, following the line of her gaze toward the captured creatures. "But some seem to enjoy it." His voice is rife with skepticism, but it isn't Ca'elian's style to try to understand them. Although he isn't entirely certain of what that look means, he tilts his head toward the ground, ushering her to sit if she so desires. Just then, "Iandicael!" It's a female voice, shortly followed by an older woman dressed in some of the richest fabrics the bazaar has to offer. "Iandicael, darling, I bought you your gift." The bronzerider looks like he'd rather be stabbed with a spork right now than take part in the hug he's being forced into. "And- oh!" She notices Tzielle, giving the girl a disapproving once-over. "I wish you wouldn't associate with them, it's not seemly." She gets a grunt in response as she shoves a box into his hands.

Tzielle starts to open her mouth to say something, but — she's still standing on that bench but she seems to shrink, to fold in upon herself at the sudden presence of a woman calling Ca'elian by a non-dragonrider name, by that woman's regard. She's not so clumsy as she can't manage the hop down from the bench unassisted, but given the activity on her erstwhile side, the candidate is left standing (and now shortened to her normal height) not far from where the gift-giving proceeds. Her eyes drop to the box and the reaction she has is tangible — a visible thing, surprise widening her hazel eyes and lifting her shoulders despite herself. "Do you have something against the Smithcraft?" Tzielle wonders to the woman, blurting out the words before she can consider if they're smart, or even sensible. Her freckles seem to darken as she goes white after saying the words — then a flush suffuses her features and she forces herself to stand straighter, her chin lifting and shoulders rearranging themselves to be upright.

Ca'elian seems caught between defending Tzielle's honor, and staying the fuck out of this conversation so it ends sooner. His mother, however, seems to have plenty to say to make up for her son's lack of verbiage. "Not the Smithcraft, dear, the weyr women." Not to be confused with Weyrwomen, although she's undoubtedly not too fond of those, either. "Especially those chasing after dragons," she adds, with a little sniff of disdain. Ca'elian eyes Tzielle with what might be admiration, still frozen in place with that box gripped tightly in his hands. Finally, he manages to summon the words to say, "You remember that I'm a dra-" NOPE. The woman cuts in again, reaching up to pat her son on the cheek as he flinches away, patronizingly stating, "You be quiet now, Iandicael. I know I promised you an afternoon spent with me in the menagerie, but I'm afraid something has come up. I simply must be going. Goodbye, darling!" She doesn't even acknowledge Tzielle as she makes her exit, swanning along in a way that ensures that everyone who passes her notices how very fine she looks.

Tzielle does glance, once, toward Ca'elian in the midst of all of this: her attention is otherwise engaged to his mother, and her treatment of… well, of everything around her. "Oh," is all she manages to get in when the woman declares her a dragon chaser, her tone faint - subdued is the wrong word, startled too strong: something in-between, closer to bewilderment than not. She looks after the swanning woman and then up at Ca'elian. Her nose crinkles. "Um," she says, casting around for something to say. "Is, uh…. is she aware that dragonriders are the only reason all of us are alive?" It's not really what she's SUPPOSED to say, but her bewilderment has just completely followed her and taken over her mouth's efforts.

It takes just a moment too long for Ca'elian to unlock joints and shift the gears into motion again, creaking to life like the Tin Man after too long in the rain. "Uh," he responds eloquently, a muscle near his eye twitching faintly, "I don't know. It's hard to say." He's not entirely sure anything about the woman is driven by logic. "I'm sorry." He blurts it out after a moment of silence, finally summoning the words he meant to say in the first place. "I didn't realize she would be so-" He attempts to come up with a word to describe his mother which is appropriate for use around a virtual stranger, but in the end simply settles for, "I'm sorry."

Tzielle seems surprised at the apology, scrunching her face up as she looks up at the bronzerider. "What do you have to be sorry about? You didn't do it." It's not the worst thing anyone's ever said to her, either; the words seem to roll off Tzielle like water off a duck's back, now that she's over the surprise of it all. "What'd you get?" She reaches out unthinking, either to touch the box or the hand holding it, in her normal bubbly fashion. She even smiles up at him as she goes, that particular expression of sunlight coming back — though it does, perhaps, seem a little forced. (Tzielle could be ALL ABOUT #fakeittillyoumakeit, too.) What is definitely forced is how casual she asks, "Is it your turnday or something?" as her eyes flicker back down toward the present the tall man holds.

"She is my mother." Which somehow — at least in Ca'elian's mind — makes him responsible for her actions. Family is a bitch. He flinches away reflexively when Tzielle's hand gets too close, even more jumpy than usual since his personal space bubble has already been violated. Although he doesn't apologize again, it's there in the furrow of his brow and the look he casts Tzielle's way — whatever his reason for avoiding contact, it has nothing to do with the box. "Do you want it?" He holds the gift out to her, careful to keep his hands on the far end of it this time. "It's probably useless, but it'll be worth a decent amount, if you want it." Again, there's a twitch to his facial muscles, as though the mere mention of his turnday is causing a tic to develop. He waffles for a moment on whether or not to answer, indecision written across his features (which may very well be an answer in and of itself) before he states, "Yes. Apparently so."

"Oh, no, of course not. I couldn't… I couldn't take your turnday gift from your mother," Tzielle says, a spasm of something that looks very similar to pain crossing her face as she quickly holds her hands up and away after either that flinch or Ca'elian's extending of the present out to her. Her pulse quickens in her throat as he acknowledges that it is a turnday gift, and she drops her hands back to her side. "Well," she says, awkwardly, "Happy turnday." She opens her mouth to say something and then visibly chooses not to. "You should open it," she prompts instead. "And then walk me over to the herdbeasts so I don't get run over by children." Or Akzhan relatives swanning about, but she doesn't say that because she's ignorant of that level of culture here.

"It isn't meant for me, it's meant for her to show off what her marks can buy," the bronzerider states, the fire of his anger stoked by the thought. He swallows it back upon seeing her expression, his hand now gripping the package as though he might crack it open from the pressure alone. "I chose to cut her out of my life a long time ago. If you don't want it, I'll just leave it here for someone else." And just to prove that he actually intends to do that, Ca'elian sets the package down upon the bench. "You don't have to say that," he mutters, ill-at-ease with her mention of his turnday. (The conversation skills here are just stunning.) Although the prompt to open the package is met with a firm shake of his head, he's more amenable to the latter part of her plan. "I can do that. Why are you here?" There's a short pause between his statement and the question, as though it only just occurred to him.

"Oh," Tzielle says, her voice very small, as if she couldn't fathom a son feeling such a way about a present from his mother. "Wait - no, you can't," she says, plaintive again, swooping down to pick up the present. "It's your turnday. And even if it's just to show off, she… she is your mother. I'm sure that whatever… whatever is wrong between you two, it can be overcome." Here's Tzi, butting into something she definitely doesn't know ANYTHING about. But there's some mild hurt there, some… pang of longing, maybe, an edge of wistfulness at that last comment. She clutches that box with white knuckles from her grip. But when he prompts her on why she's here, the girl's eyes dart sideways, one way then the other. "Uh, I um. Naneska told me about the white herdbeasts," she says all in a rush, "And I wanted to come see them."

Ca'elian's hand clenches into a fist, releases, and then closes again in a repetitive motion. It's this action which seems to keep his temper at bay — that, and the plaintive tone of Tzielle's voice. Patience is not necessarily one of his virtues, but he tries. "My parents would do anything for their marks. Anything." He places a heavy weight on this final word, leaving the implication hanging there. "I don't share their values." Or lack thereof. His expression verges on stony, but there's a pained tension to his features as he struggles not to give in to a lifelong anger and cause any further distress. He wants to ask, but he barely knows this girl. Boundaries. "You… wanted to see the white herdbeasts?" His head tilts, darker emotions temporarily overwhelmed by confusion — and suspicion. "What are you hiding?"

Tzielle's eyes drop to the clenching of his hand and she steps back a half-step, drawing herself up abruptly. "Um… I'm sorry," she says, looking torn between alarm and true apology; she's not quite the woman she will be one day, not here, not now. She's just a coltish filly, holding on to a young man's unwanted turnday present. "There's… there's more to life than marks, for sure." She offers it tentatively as some kind of olive branch, perhaps. "I don't mean to be getting all into your personal business," she says, looking momentary devastated as if she's just now thought about how unseemly this is, her abrupt interruption of his very personal life. Her face flames, and flames harder when he hardens his questions against her. "Nothing," she says, quickly. "I have nothing to hide. Why would I be hiding anything? I just wanted to see the white herdbeasts." Caught off-guard, there's no anger in her words, but a particular kind of misery at the end. It PROBABLY doesn't help that her eyes brighten, abruptly and suddenly, with unshed tears.

Ah, shit. That's not what he meant to do, and even if Ca'elian's jaw is still tight with restrained rage, there's an unmistakable flash of regret which crosses his features. "You don't have to apologize," he tells her gruffly. For a moment, it crosses his mind that this is not the place for this conversation — it's a shame they aren't in the caverns again, really — and he shifts the angle of his body as though that might shield them both from any prying eyes. "I shared willingly." As much as his family seems to stir his temper, Ca'elian has nothing to hide in that regard. He's not the problem. The sight of too-bright eyes causes an instinctual panic, as he's quick to say, "Please don't cry. It's fine, you weren't hiding anything. Are you sure you don't want my present?"

"No, I mean… I do. It's the right thing to do." Apologizing, that is; Tzielle's chin lifts, but she doesn't protest the way Ca'elian walls them off from the rest of the menagerie, even though it leaves her more closed-off from the world than him. She still grasps that present with an iron grip. And as it goes, the words 'please don't cry' only make things worse, because when DOESN'T it? She hiccups a breath and looks away, looks off toward the snakes again, lifting her free hand to swipe her knuckles under one eye and then the other. His question prompts a laugh to bubble up, a little breathless under the circumstances. "No, I want you to want your present," she says earnestly, turning her still-bright eyes towards Ca'elian, and holding it out to him. Her smile arrives again, this time a little wobbly. "But since you put it on the bench, it's not a present from.. whoever," she fluffs off that part easily enough. "It's a present from me." YOU CAN'T SAY NO TO THAT, CA'ELIAN.

"It's- you don't…" He attempts to protest, but it's weakened by the tilt of her chin and his desire not to cause any further distress. Rather than argue, Ca'elian abruptly shuts his mouth and simply nods. Whatever she wants, as long as it will keep her from- "Please." It's almost desperate, as one arm reaches out as though to lay a comforting hand upon her shoulder. The gesture falls short, however, his hand hovering just inches from her, not quite making contact. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you cry." THIS IS WHY HE DOESN'T HAVE A GIRLFRIEND. But for all that he seems on the verge of outright terror at the sight of Tzielle wiping at her eyes, he doesn't run away or attempt to look elsewhere. He does, however, sigh quietly in relief when it seems that she's recovering… a relief that's quickly quashed by the fact that she completely outsmarts him. He can't say no to that. GDI TZIELLE. Reluctant, but admitting defeat, he holds out his hand for the gift. "Fine, but only because it's from you."

Tzielle bites her lower lip when he stretches out that hand toward her, all but — no, actually holding her breath, because she's Tzielle and this kind of thing never happens to her. Well. Not like this. "You didn't make me cry," she refutes, shaking her head. Her hair shifts along her shoulders at the motion. "I'm sorry. I just…" She doesn't finish the statement. No, she will instead transcend back to her typical Tzielle self when he RELENTS, her multi-wattage smile all full of teeth as she sunnily holds out the gift. "Happy turnday," she says, to this rider whose name she really can't remember, not the real one, and she's not about to go trying to throw the one his mother just used. "I hope it's a real good one," she says, a continuation of her earnestness, even as she presses the box gently into Ca'elian's hands. She's careful to keep her fingers to herself, proof of observations going on behind hazel eyes that aren't shared.

Ca'elian has an acute sense that something is wrong even if he can't quite put his finger on what it is. Tzielle is still little more than a stranger (whose name he doesn't know, either), but he can't shake the sense that there's something beneath the surface here which ought to be addressed, even if it's not by him. So it's with both relief and concern that he watches that utter transformation from sadness to sunshine. "Thank you," he responds dutifully. A smile — though a restrained one — touches his lips when he notices the care she takes not to make contact. "But now that you've gotten me this… when your turnday?" Because politeness dictates he should return the gesture.

oh you smartass tzielle almost got out of this WHOLE, TRIUMPHANT, entirely successful at her deflection of that last little point that Ca'elian would forever consider… strange. "You're welcome," the little Smith says, with a smile upward that continues her happy expression from earlier. And then her face falls when he asks, and she scrunches up her face, and she looks upwards and considers the noonday sky. "Ummmm," she says, still face-scrunched. "Ummmm," listen she can't help it, she's STALLING and that's just the noise she makes when she's hemming and hawing, "Uh, next turn." Her nose screws up again. "About this time of turn?" she half-asks half-states, as awkward in her delivery as in her elbows and knees.

That's what you get for giving him a turnday present, Tzielle. REVENGE. Or, you know, honest curiosity and an attempt at manners. (And maybe a little bit of a crush, but shh.) Ca'elian is just about to delve into opening this present with slightly more enthusiasm than before, when Tzielle suddenly takes… a very long time to answer a simple question. His gaze narrows, first in confusion and then in growing suspicion as she offers up her vague answer. He might be jumping to a few conclusions, but there's only one reason he can think of for such stalling, and that's, "Today. Your turnday is today."

Tzielle cringes when he says it, because it sounds so trite, and — it's just not necessary in this narrative, for her turnday to be the same, given the amount of time we've all invested at this point to get Ca'elian to take the goddamned gift. So instead she just wilts a little, drooping like a plant left in the sun without water, looking up at him with hazel eyes that do a pretty good job of borrowing puppy-dog qualities from her more brown-eyed friends. "Yeah, I guess. I mean. It's the day I've always celebrated," she says, lifting a hand up to awkwardly rub her neck as she looks off to the side. "It's the day the healers say I was probably born. But I don't really know, you know? So it's … it's not like it really is, just the day I've always used to mark it."

TOO BAD, he took the goddamned gift, and he deserves some sort of reward for being so amenable. And the reward he chooses is knowing Tzielle's turnday, so he can make this awkward moment even more awkward by asking, "You don't know when you were born?" He squints, turning his gaze skyward as though asking Rukbat to grant him some sort of sense he doesn't have on his own. "You don't need to tell me that," he adds quickly, apology right on the tip of his tongue. "But… if it's your turnday-" or as close to it as they're going to get, "-I want to get you something. What do you want?" At least he isn't trying to offer her the gift she just gave to him. "Or is there something you want to do? I could… I don't know."

"Noooo," Tzielle starts to reply, finally dropping her eyes back to Ca'elian's face. She seems a little pained about the whole thing, but more resigned than not. "I… my parents…" she starts, and then stops when he says she doesn't have to tell him. "My foster father always said he knew, but he probably didn't." It's what she says after a moment's thought, simply. "But it's okay," hurriedly, "I'll take it. It's better than no turnday at all, right?" She smiles up at him, but this time it's a little more… reflective. Thoughtful. "No, no. I don't need anything," she refuses with a little push-off of a hand waving. "But I would like to see those white herdbeasts," she says, that wistfulness again returning to her voice. "Nan said they were real pretty."

There's a thread there which Ca'elian very much wants to tug upon, but although the questions are all but visible in his expression, he keeps his mouth firmly shut. It's not his place. Although his grip visibly tightens on that gift in his hands, he restrains himself, offering only a nod in response to her affirmation. "Unless you'd prefer no turnday at all." He's in that camp, but they're well past that point, unfortunately. "You got me this," he protests, holding up the box that she definitely did not get for him. But she opened up that door, and now it's going to be used against her. "The white herdbeasts." Again, faint skepticism, but if that's all that she wants, he has little argument to offer. "I'll take you to see the white herdbeasts, then." A gentleman would offer his arm, but Ca'elian remains unsettled by physical contact. He does, however, move a step closer as though that somehow makes it clearer that he is purposefully taking her to the beasts.

Tzielle screws her WHOLE face up at Ca'elian, because she can and she wants to and it's her turnday and nobody can take that away from her, not even tall dark and brooding bronzeriders with family drama and a certain penchant for monochrome colors. "Why would you prefer that?" she asks. "Turndays are AWESOME!" Mostly because she's going to get to see these mythical creatures. When Ca'elian actually starts to move, she falls in step, looking around her more curiously than when she first arrived. "Did you know that sheep look like drowned rats when you shave all that stuff off them?" she asks. "They're real weird looking." She pauses. "I think maybe they should have some sheep somewhere. I don't think Igen has any sheep at all." Except, perhaps, black ones.

Ca'elian certainly isn't trying to take her turnday away. If anything, he's trying to give her his, because surely someone who smiles that much deserves a day to celebrate themselves. "I don't celebrate it, usually." He went turns flying under the radar, with no overbearing mothers to shove gifts in his direction. Glorious turns of no one knowing when his turnday was! And now it's all ruined. "But you should enjoy yours." He'll even attempt a smile again, even though it's slightly stiff and awkward on his usually stoic features. He's trying. "Why do you know what drowned rats look like?" he asks, more concerned with that than the oddities of sheep. "I can recall if they have sheep, but they probably wouldn't be shorn yet." They shan't be shornt.

Oh, but see the problem is — now the girl with all the smiles knows exactly when his birthday is, and will probably find a way to return EVERY TURN, even if she ends up having to go back to Southern empty-handed after this clutch. Tzielle knows and will never forget and will likely never let this strange bronzerider forget either. "You should enjoy yours too. Even if you don't like celebrating it. If you can't enjoy your turnday, what can you really enjoy?" She tilts her head up at him, but follows along. And she smiles at him when he smiles at her, because it's the correct social thing to do and she's pretty good at that sort of thing. "Uh, it's more a figure of speech I think. All scrawny! With no hair!" She gesticulates wildly as they go along. And then she sighs. "Fluffy sheep aren't nearly as cool." She's a weird girl, if he hasn't noticed by now.

If Ca'elian waves his hand, can he do a Jedi mind trick to make her forget? There are no turndays here. Except hers, which he is more than content to celebrate, and unlikely to forget either. Ca'elian rubs a hand along his chin, mulling over her words with perhaps more seriousness than they warrant. "I don't know. Flying?" He enjoys that, at least. Whether or not the brooding bronzerider enjoys much else is up in the air (no pun intended). "I enjoy Tuanhjaliteth, most of the time." There's a wry little smile for whatever the bronze is undoubtedly saying about that comment. "Right, scrawny with no hair," he agrees, more for the sake of agreeing than out of any actual understanding of where this conversation came from. HE'S JUST HERE FOR THE RIDE. And speaking of here, it's about this point that they draw up to the pens holding those white herdbeasts. "Here. Happy turnday."

There's a lot of jokes to be made about Ca'elian and Jedi things in the same sentence, but that's neither here nor there. "Flying?" Tzielle replies, looking a little star-eyed about it all. "It sounds so awesome," she says, her sigh at the end of it very girl-next-door: she's flown, of course, she had to fly to get here, but …. it sounds so different when dragonriders describe it. "Tuanj…" she starts, then stops, and carefully sounds it out: "Tuanhja…" okay she's not going to get it. "That's a mouthful," she says, wryly, grinning up at him. "I guess your mouth is big enough for i…" The smith-candidate seems to realize that's not really what she's been trying to say and furrows her brow. "No, I mean, I just meant, you're so … I mean you're large," she gives an expressive shift of the hand up and down, and it really, well, she doesn't know what it looks like, okay, but her fingers are a little curved and the extent of her wrist's movement is approximately half a foot and — there's been better moments, let's just leave it at that. BUT THEN THERE ARE WHITE HERDBEASTS TO SAVE THE DAY, and Tzielle draws up to stare at the giant beasts. "They are so white," she marvels, like the same thing couldn't be applied to both of these guys right here. And then she beams up at him. "Thank you!" she says, grinning. It would TYPICALLY be joined with a hug, and she has this weird bounce as she leans toward him and then checks that whole motion, shoving her hands into her pockets.

"It is… awesome." The word sounds a little funny from his lips, without Tzielle's enthusiasm to lend it confidence. "Tuan," Ca'elian offers, to make her life a little easier. if only he'd offered it sooner, because the moment is going downhill far faster than he can keep up with it. His cheeks flame, because look, despite his hangups he's still a man and there's only so many ways to take a pretty girl doing and saying that. And since Tuanhjaliteth has yet to win a flight, well, his mind is about the only thing that's active. He swallows hard before clearing his throat, suddenly finding those white beasts super interesting. Wow, so white! So… herdbeasty! "They are," he agrees, because there's no denying that they are, in fact, white. His cheeks are still slightly red, and that flush deepens again when it seems that she might almost hug him. In a conciliatory gesture — and because it's her turnday — one hand reaches out to very tentatively pat her shoulder. It's as stiff and awkward as one might expect.

"Tuan," Tzielle echoes, relieved; her smile is thankful for the assist. She is World Class Oblivious to what she's just done and why Ca'elian suddenly blushes, but the herdbeast are enough to distract her from mercilessly interrogating him, which … let's face it, is a great thing all the way around. She beams up at the herdbeasts and even steps closer to offer her hand to one that's close enough to nose for any potential handouts. "So soft," she marvels, looking up and grinning at him, for either the shoulder-pat or the herdbeast or both. "I think it's…" she starts to say, before a VERY exasperated assistant weyrlingmaster stands on a bench up at the front (see, it's going around!) and places her hands on her hips and bellows, "TZIELLE!" The named candidate jolts as if something's burnt her, and her cheeks heat to a flush. "Whoops," she says, "I think time got away from me." She beams up at Ca'elian, despite herself, and says only, "Happy turnday!" before turning and scampering off. "I'm coming!" she calls, and then she's gone, leaving that nameless dragonrider behind with all the speed of her swift little legs. (If she starts asking around for a dragonrider with a dragon named Tuan, well, I mean, will anyone be SURPRISED by that…)

There are a dozen little things for Ca'elian to be grateful for in this moment, but the greatest of all is those herdbeasts. He's in no way prepared to answer questions about why he's blushing, now or ever. Because she smiles, he smiles, reaching out to touch one of those beasts as well. It comes with significantly more ease than a simple touch to her shoulder, as he strokes the beast's muzzle gently. "Should I get you one of th-" It's only her reaction that draws the connection between that shouted name (Zi-something??) and the candidate beside him. He opens his mouth as though to suggest something, but thinks better of it, instead merely echoing her smile with a far weaker version of his own. "Thank you for my present." He holds it up, proving that it hasn't yet been lost. "Happy turnday!" And look, if he goes inquiring about how much a white herdbeast would cost as soon as she scampers off, it's purely for educational purposes.

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