Who

Yukie, Threvobek

What

Threvobek tries to catch some shuteye but isn't allowed. So he jaunts.

When

It is the forty-ninth day of Spring and 79 degrees.

Where

Galleries

OOC Date 24 Jul 2014 07:00

 

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Galleries

Though occasionally cleaned by ambitious (or neurotic) drudges or weyrbrats being disciplined, the lack of Eggs over the last several Turns has led to the Galleries falling into a state of disrepair. Sand can be found…well, everywhere. On the benches, under the benches, on the railings and walkways. There is also the random tidbit leftover from people who've wandered into the gathering place since the last cleaning. A random bit of cloth here, a bit of something that might have been a carving-in-progress once there.


A carefree spirit exists within the young greenrider that comes splashing into the galleries with all of the abandon of a child. The sunny blond hair hangs in ropey strands around a face flushed and slick with rain. Yukie's steps finally still as the rider pauses to glance at the empty cavern of the sands, cavernous and deep where there's no mama looking after her brood. Limpid, dark blue-green eyes take in the scene around her with a single-minded seriousness that brings her steps to a slow pause before much more sedately slipping down towards the sands. Pausing at the edge, where galleries meets sand, the girl dips down into a strange parody of curtsey and digs her fingers into the hot sands. The leathers she wears are serviceable at best, but not going to win any fashion statements: Yukie borders on the austere.

Fair thee well, world. A long night, a day of hard labor, the burden of everyman. Solitude, now that's something precious. After wolfing down supper the stablehand forded the bowl to achieve the perfect place. No eggs are yet on the sands so the spinners are practically spinning cobwebs as we speak. Funny how a place so instrumental to destinies are so easily abandoned. Stairs were scaled in pairs, his heavy boots all but catching on the last. There's a red mark on a knuckle where he reigned his balance back but took a bench corner in the process. There in the back, centered more or less, is he lying down, fallen by a nap. He sees nothing but pleasant blackness.

Places are but a moment in time to hold a pivotal action to churn the great beast of Time; Yukie's light steps, after jumping through puddles, make little squelching noises that possibly alert the languid sleeper to her presence, but if not the shoe sounds, then surely the way she filters grains of sands through her fingers, sprinkling them across the stones. Errant eddies of air-flow tickle little grains to dribble in the errant sleeper's direction. The soul-deep eyes do not startle when they finally fall upon the sleeping Threvobek, light-footed steps carrying her ever closer before entropy demands that she bend to peer in a strange sort of clinical curiosity into the sleeping repose of the man's face. One breath, two breaths; two heartbeats later and the smallest whisper escapes: "Boo." Perhaps she is Pavlov intent to experiment upon the slumbering human psyche.

No dreams had the chance to snare him, just that blanket of black heavy as wool and just as comforting. If it's not the real itchy kind. Eyebrows in tandem ride upwards and pupils surrounded by green-brown color fit on the heads of needles when there's this, whoever, breathing on his face. It's usually the bovine brand. "What the— shells cracking, it's not nice to do that!" Threvobek's swung his legs down and drawn his torso upward. There's still a lot of slack in his arms. Shadows of slumber are scrubbed from his eyes and Yukie is looked at more thoroughly. "Who the Faranth are you?" No 'ma'am' this time. Too resentful.

Akin to animal curiosity, Yukie cants her face to the side and draws back when he sits up. Unconcerned with his lack of ma'am or respectful gestures, the young woman rocks back on her heels and regards Threvobek with nothing but a soul-searching gaze of vast intent. Silence hangs like fog between them whilst Yukie peruses the features of his face, as the greenrider is unconcerned with the weight of no words given. Her knot rests upon her shoulder, with nary a lock of tangled sun-colored hair to hide it, but she doesn't present the knot for his immediate intake either. She just stands and stares. Uncertainly so, but the tranquility that hovers about her mien cannot be denied. "Isn't it? Should I be concerned with nice?" The question tilts upward on the interrogative, as if posed to the aether rather than the boy in front of her. "I am Yukie. You are Sleeping." She makes it sound as if he is the act which she disturbed. It is a strange association.

So much for sanctuary. The sigh for the loss comes ragged at the end. Threvobek guides his hair out of his face, pulls his spine up further into a more presentable sit. "Correction, I was sleeping." As the blood returns back to a hand pinned under his body, the pins and needles response has the young man writhing his fingers. "And I wish you would be nice enough to let me sleep next time." He has a bad feeling this could be a repeat offense. "You Impressed in the last clutch," sense coming back to him now. "I was here that hatching day— well," gesturing ahead and a dragonlength away, "there."

"You speak the truth," Yukie's quiet voice is unassuming and wound between them as thin as gossamer thread. "If it were not I, it would have been someone else. Perhaps it was right to have you woken before the ceiling fell upon you. One never knows when natural disasters will take place, after all." Tranquil, serene; the girl gives these words as easily as she would breathe, uncaring if he plucks them from the air between them. "Everything happens for a reason." Falling silent, again those quiet eyes turn upon Threvobek, head slipping to the side in regard. "I did. Did you bet on my Impression, then?" No rancor, no judgment is held within the soft query, hands folding behind her back to give her an innocent cast to youthful posture. Wisdom yet lurks within dark blue-green eyes, for how carefully she gives the boy regard.

The eye rub evolves into a whole face smear, drawing the skin down his cheeks and keeping his nose contained between both hands. He listens to Yukie in this posture, turning his eyes up at the ceiling when it's mention to see if any fracture lines or subtle tectonic sounds can be discerned. Hands come back down, dangle in the gap of his legs. "It's not falling so I guess you can cross that off." Her 'everything happens for a reason' axiom is left bare of comments. "I can't remember exactly," seems honest. "not you specifically I don't think." He was even younger then, 'favors' likely his only gambling chips. "At any rate, you like playing in the rain, Yukie? I do too." He seems, at face value, engaging and opinionated.

"Can I? At any moment the ceiling could collapse and crush us," Yukie states this so seriously and in such a soft voice that could entirely be serious but for something that shifts behind the limpid pools of her eyes. "I am unsurprised. It was a while ago, and memories fade like rocks tumbling down a river." Rocking back on her heels, she sets her weight to rights again and drops her eyes to her muddied feet. Boots, she wears, likely from sweeps. The question seems to throw her, phrased as it is — that or she's taking a long time to answer, composing her thoughts into words that slip like rocks across the calm surface of a placid lake. "The rain is few and far between that it seems right to revel in what nature's provided the desert." Finally, eyes once more seek his, unblinking weighty stare given with only the gentlest of expressions. "What is it about playing in the rain that you like?"

Threvobek's eyes look up again, but it's just a flick. "Not now." Beat. "Or now." Timing it by seconds, "or now either." Notice a trend? "At any moment the thread cycle could dry up too, but it probably won't happen in our life timeeeeekch." He ends on a particularly long yawn. "Like rocks down a river, yes," the phrase word for word repeated with an improv grin. Suddenly he's on his feet and leaping on the tops of low benches— an activity resurrected from childhood. Arms barely spread, "it's— I dunno, something worth observing since it's so rare and brings a lot of good." Not the flash floods, but anything in its purest form can kill. "And I don't have to swim to get wet." He and bodies of water don't mesh well.

"The future is unpredictable, and the present is unknowable; it is only the past that dictates the next step," is Yukie's answer to the lack of the ceiling falling to crush them. She, too, turns her eyes to the stones above, mouth opening slightly from the act of tilting one's head almost entirely back. However, distraction comes to play when the boy suddenly moves, causing her to drop her gaze once more eyes widening as whimsy ripples the pools of tranquility that hold Yukie in their grasp. "It does bring good. It nourishes and gives us our food." Slowly, the girl approaches a bench and hefts one boot upon the flat surface, but does not launch herself upwards. "You do not swim? Whyever not. To be suspended in the ocean's embrace is a singular and wholly unforgettable experience. To hear the dull roar of blood behind the ears and to know that it is only the strength of will that holds life in your lungs."

His sudden bout of activity was prompted by the nagging pull of his eyelids again, of the comfort of just sitting and being full. He takes on a bench's thin target back, leaving dusty footprints in his balance beam rotation. "Were you a harper before you Impressed?" Threvobek poses, head lifting to give Yukie the question and a glance escort. This hampers his balance and he voluntarily hops to the sunken seat of the bench, then over the railing to the very sands themselves. What is a supreme transgression when eggs are buried, now is trespassing boon. "Because you talk like, 'old'." It's hard for teenager to be coherent, never mind a sleep starved one. "Ocean?" Snort. "I've heard people say such a word now and again." The smart-ass has seen it before, that's all.

Yukie slips her foot off of the bench, turned when Threvobek ventures onto the sands themselves. With neither mincing steps nor brashly charging steps, the girl's progress is steady, but not quick. "I am," for Yukie does not think of herself in the past, "a Healer. I am a dragonrider. I am a girl. I have learned a lot, but I am not old." The sands wobble beneath her feet, balanced perched on the balls of her feet as the muscles of slender legs carry her forward. Affecting a little hop, sands pray out behind her as arms swing out to her sides, head tipping back. Her eyes slip closed and a smile slips across her lips. "The ocean is a beast deep enough to swallow the world and holds mysteries unknown." Turning to Threvobek, she levels the depth of intense gaze upon the boy; if eyes were the windows to the soul, then hers is fathomless. "But so is the desert. They are the same, but one is full of wet and one is full of desiccation."

With distance between them Threvobek seems to take up more space, being comfortable when he can better put Yukie into perspective. He bets six marks to himself she's an Oldtimer. "Shoulda been a harper, I think you really would have went places," forgetting exactly what color dragon she binded minds with but it wasn't gold. Heavy boots launch a foot over the sand, kicking for all it's worth just to see the sand spray. Hee! He hasn't done this in a while! "I guess that makes sense about the different oceans. Air could be another then, right?" Rhetorical right. He's not really after acknowledgment. "What's your dragon's name?"

"I am what I was meant to be," Yukie answers serenely. She is a girl hard to place for she carries habits of old and now time, and a hefty blend of Other. She is both whimsical and grounded in a seriousness that approaches death. She is soft and yet a sense of cruelty exists behind those eyes — the cruelty of nature that cares little for the things that die in the onslaught of deluges and mudslides, but always brings regrowth and renewal. "I am always going places. Right now, I am going forward. Tomorrow, I will likely go up and today I even went down. I go." For all the fragility of her physical form, there exists a strength in the tension of muscle across bones for her lifemate requires her to be in tip-top condition. So when she launches herself in the graceful arc of a sudden jump, it's a springing to life of motion, of kinetic energy that stirs the sand and leaves her — for a second — breathless. "Inayalinaeth." She offers no more, no less, than the stated question. "By what name were you birthed with?"

Threvobek jaunts, yes, jaunts through the sands, absconding with this vantage point from the eye of the free, those not bound by white robes and terror. He's stood for clutches twice in his short history and hasn't had this opportunity since. "Nice." He appreciates the distance of that jump but not how out of character it probably is. At this distance he's safe from the void-like pull of the rider's expressive eyes. "You're a rare wher, miss. But tell Ina-yalinaeth Threvobek asked to have a fly someday." Fitting in a quick thumb point to his chest. "Threvobek's me." A second yawn is ground through his teeth, not willing to stretch his jaw anymore.

"Inayalinaeth perchance might grant it. She is a fickle creature, and should you face her jaws and ask her yourself, she might be amenable." Yukie's voice is soft, once again bordering on demure as the sudden explosion of kinetic energy dissipates like the soft rainfall that patters out-of-doors. So far away, and yet not; the physical lines connected by the sands beneath their feet and the stones overhead. "You should return to the darkness. Your body is speaking a language you should not deny." No judgement held for what he does or doesn't or didn't do; a mere observation that comes with the dip of her head. She holds to no requirement of obeisance to rank. "Threvobek." The girl tastes the name, the syllables, and the way they curl into the air, in almost clinical fashion. "I've duties to attend." He's given a last, long look that gives little away and absorbs much before she turns and plods across the sands. Whimsy has vacated, leaving the weight of a long tether to the abyssal chaos that lurks within. Until, that is, she slips free of the galleries. Into the outside air, whimsy is like the thin and filtered sunshine: soaking into a vessel waiting to be filled. With eyes tipped to the sky, lashes catching the rain drops, the greenrider once again spends precious moments hopping through puddles. Little care hath she for what ruin it does to her leathers.

Threvobek wonders if he dreamt Yukie up, but then his dreams are way more linear. He mumbles something about the time then zombie walks back to the stables minus any desire for brains.

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