. x [ fleeting visions ] x .

[Vignette] - Reva: Grind

2009-09-19T21:45:34Z

In which Reva reflects upon her past while dreading her inevitable future.

So much to do; not enough hours in the day ... nor enough days in a sevenday, for that matter. Reva finally dared to look up from her heaps of records, only to realize that the better part of the morning had marched right on past and taken all the sticky buns with it. Her mouth distorted irritably and she shoved the stack aside. Fingers laced, she lifted her arms above her head with an audible series of cracking noises that made her flinch.

Khadrivath, ever the unhelpful one, simply radiated mental warmth; sharing how it feels to be in the sun, outside, doing absolutely nothing.

"I hate you," was uttered with no real rancor. Laughter bubbled in the back of her mind like so much caustic lava. Reva snorted.

Twenty turns spent as a perpetual junior weyrwoman had taught her much; primarily, that she didn't want the senior's knot. She was thoroughly satisfied to do the grunt work, all the hidework and everything else that the others didn't want to do. Yet, now, it was looking more and more likely that she would have that knot. Kisai was getting worse and handing more duties to her -- to HER, an outsider! -- and the other juniors were too scattered to really focus. They worked hard, but none could really hold a candle to the eldest junior among them.

When the trouble at Benden started, it just didn't feel right to be pushing hides and handling storage records when other things were going down. It didn't feel right to do so much insignificant work when real work, helpful work, could be done. Ultimately, it was M'yr's fault; if she didn't meet him in the first place, she'd have never thought to see if she could visit Fort for the duration.

She and Khadrivath helped move refugees at first, but with refugees came an increase in hidework; an increase in hidework meant she was asked to stay on and help a little more at Fort. And, of course, she wound up saddled with the extra hidework -- most of which dealt with supplies.

The irony of it all did not escape her.

More bubbling lava laughter from Khadrivath followed that thought.

Reva pushed her hands through her hair and pushed to her feet. Better get something to eat now before the hides eat me alive, eh? Her musings fell into the drowsy void of Khadrivath's thoughts. The gold seemed to agree, a brief flare of supernova brilliance filling their shared mindspace before she withdrew.

The rider pulled her knot off, tossed it on the stack of hides, and went out alone ... if only for a little while.

[OOC] - Inspiration: Sublime Alchemy Gold Khadrivath

2009-09-19T21:24:18Z

Sublime Alchemy Gold Khadrivath

Egg Name: Cosmic Crucible Egg

Egg Desc: A swirling mass of gold and black comprises the majority of this egg, broken only by a base of alchemical silver that serves to contain it. The rest of the shell glitters with the effect of innumerable stars, a veritable swirl of constellations and faint rainbows, like those caught in oil. Whatever powers are at work within, however, are impossible to see for the veil of shadows and light encasing them.

Egg Inspiration: Simply an idealized concept of how the cosmos was concocted; what better place than in a silver alchemist's crucible?

Hatching Message: It's almost like a magic trick -- one moment, the Cosmic Crucible Egg is twitching gently ... and, the next, it seems merely to dissolve, fragments and pieces spilling to the sands. The construction within is slow to awaken, her golden hide twitching and rippling with every dubious movement. Once she's assured all of her limbs function as intended, the Sublime Alchemy Gold dragonet discovers something else -- energy. With only a quick, backwards look to dam and sire, the young queen sprints forth, eyes a-whirl and sand flying as she begins her search.

Hatchling Name: Sublime Alchemy Gold

Hatchling Desc: A touch on the smaller side as golds go, Khadrivath is well-configured if a bit long of limb, neck and tail -- a veritable construct, seemingly hand-made of pure, pale gold and designed to be a living lightning bolt. She is a refined and delicate thing, from the tip of her sharply pointed muzzle to the ends of her forked tail. The pallor of her hide is relatively unbroken and smooth, with only a smattering of brighter gold dusted along her fragile neckridges and narrow wings, like a speckling of stardust cast upon her. Looking more closely, one might catch subtle whorls, like an oil rainbow cast in gold, along the long, lean lines of her muscles; those swirls lend a sense of never-ending movement, exaggerating even the slightest shift of her weight. Despite her seamless and ever-so-symmetrical appearance, she forever seems slightly uncoordinated and clumsy, just a little off; surely some hidden imperfection at work.

Name: Khadrivath

Name Inspiration: Khadrivath's name is a hybrid of two names: Khadroma and Shahrivar. Khadroma is a Tibetan name that means 'celestial beings', while Shahrivar roughly means 'desirable power' in Avestan. Together, they embody both Khadrivath's elemental and powerful nature as well as her more sublime aspects.

Inspiration: She is a symbol of elemental force, pure and simple. She is a thing without meaning, without purpose, without beginning or end; she just is -- fire, wind, water, earth, metal ... if it exists, she embodies it, in some form or another.

Mindvoice: A host of elements bends to her whim when she speaks; words are hardly necessary with the vast world of sensations at her talontips. Pleasure is a resonant hum, a gust of cinnamon-scented wind; sorrow is a foggy blanket and a sluggish swirl of water. Irritation is a dusting of thorns and rust ... and her rage is a terrible force of thunder and metal, the taste-sound of metal-on-metal and the twang of sacrificial blood. For each emotion, there are elemental connotations and strange, fey symbols that dance just out of sight; it will take years to fully decipher the symbols residing within her thoughts. When she does deign to speak with words, her voice is rich and full, a veritable roll of thunder that supercedes all of the noises and sensations that she might employ.

Public Impression: After a short, fervent search, the Sublime Alchemy Gold sets her sights on *that* one. That one there. Yes. Sand sprays behind her in a fan as she makes a full U-turn, tail whipping and damp wings fanning ineffectually to keep her balance. Head down, she plows forward until she stumbles to a halt in front of a former gardener, a native of the Weyr. It's there that she stands, head tilted just so and staring into the young woman's face with disturbing intensity.

Private Impression: The sands are overwhelmingly hot, made oppressive by the weight of so many eyes. Watching. Waiting. An egg cracks, a veritable thunderclap amidst the other noises of the sands ... and then silence and darkness descend upon you. In the darkness, a pinpoint of light manifests, venturing closer and closer with an inscrutable purpose. Its purpose becomes clear when it draws near; it sears the flesh from your bones, laying your insides bare and picking your bones clean, scrutinizing you more thoroughly than anything else in the world ever has. And when it's done, it envelopes you, restoring you once more and making you radiant and golden, like the dragon that has found her way to your feet. Not a word is spoken; not a word is needed. You are now her; she is you. Khadrivath. Her name is indelibly inscribed in every cell of your being, just like the hunger that now gnaws at your bones.

Personality:

Oh, she will be a difficult one. From the outset, you will find that she dislikes the use of words and will use them only when absolutely necessary. Her lack of direct communication will complicate even the simplest of tasks; her hunger will translate into direct hunger in yourself, her itching will leave your skin crawling until you figure out what part is her and what part is you. Once you figure out the faint mental triggers that are her way of talking to you, things will be easier ... but not by much, not at first. Just when you think you're communicating, she'll change things or insist on certain rituals for this or that. These rituals will continue to change until she hits adulthood, where they'll codify into a set of rites that must be performed to keep her in check. For you, a person of direct communication and free-wheeling tendencies, this may take some time to acclimate to ... if you ever do.

As a weyrling, she'll be a queen, right and proper; she'll take to lessons readily enough and will perform exceptionally in all ways -- except one. Her communication skills will not be particularly stellar and, even among other dragons, she will be enigmatic and difficult to understand. Other dragons will be referred to with a smear of color and a feeling or perhaps a sound; she may associate humans and other things in the same way. When she must command, she will command; but in all other ways, she will not express herself in a way that makes sense to others until they get to know her.

In keeping with her elemental nature, she often seems to reflect whichever element she's in at the moment -- on the ground, she's a lumbering, graceless thing; in the water, she's as comfortable as a fish; in the sky, she is a veritable cloud, drifting easily along. Likewise, her moods are constantly in flux, a quirk that will persist no matter how much effort is made to rein her in. To pinpoint her desires at any given moment is an exercise in futility; she will take as she needs and ignore if she doesn't. Worse still is the fact that she's always got to be on the move; always doing something, always getting into something or otherwise causing havoc without meaning to.

Finding a purpose for her directionless self will be nigh impossible and all you can hope for is to find a way to distract her long enough to keep her from getting in trouble. On the upside (if it can be construed as such), she is an independent sort of dragon, able to occupy herself during those times that you need to be left alone.

As an adult, she'll prove to be slightly less mercurial than in her youth; she'll still have communication difficulties, but will be more receptive to the idea of surmounting them. Her regular rites will be set firmly, which will be one less headache for you ... but her moods will, inherently, be no less predictable. She is a moody, fickle beast ... and all you can do is serve to temper those moods into something tolerable. She will settle easily into her role as a queen, shifting tempers aside, and will deign to speak in words a bit more frequently than usual. For the most part, however, things will not change ... until she gains her wings and the glow of some distant star.

In flight ... she is a tempest, a seething thing full of energy and with only one way to release it. Her first flights might be painfully short, in fact, while you struggle with the emotions and feelings of them; by the time you figure out she's supposed to blood, she'll have feasted heavily and been caught by whatever opportunistic and quick-winged male is conveniently there. Once you learn the cues for her heat and figure out what reins need to be placed, however, her flights will prove to be long, athletic ordeals; furious and wild, she'll never be the sort to follow a flight plan or take time to taunt the males. No, this lady just wants to get AWAY and MOVE and Faranth take those that can't keep up.

Incidentally, you'll know when the time is near when the symbols of her thoughts become erratic and jagged or simply cease to manifest entirely; headaches will be a slightly more direct cue, in addition to the classic deep sleep that all queens seem to display just prior to rising.

As clutch mother, she is touchy, at best. She may permit candidates to touch the eggs, but this is never a guarantee. She may allow the clutchsire to stay on the sands with her, but this is also never a guarantee. It will be a trying time for the sire as much as for you, as the elements of her mind are whipped into a frenzy over possibilities. The hatching will bring with it a climax of that tumult, her internal storm brought to an impossible peak; all that energy pent up and no other way to release it. Tail lashing, jaws gnashing, she will be a terror to behold until all of the eggs are hatched and paired.

Then and only then will she calm, taking wing to return to her ledge as if nothing had happened at all.

Size: 36

[Vignette] - Cybil: Close Call

2009-09-15T02:47:16Z

After a failed attempt to prevent the kidnapping of a young woman, Cybil returns home to clean things up.

OOC: Log will be linked when it's posted. :)

Only when she was positive the black van hadn't followed her did Cybil finally slow down and stop in an alley. She killed the engine, dropped the kickstand, and marveled for a long moment over the temporary acceleration of her heart rate.

Coulda been worse, she finally thought, coulda wound up with stitches.

The blond dismounted, slipping around the back of the bike to remove the borrowed license plate. While she would normally return them -- with the owner none the wiser -- it would just be too risky tonight. After a quick, paranoid wipe-down to remove any dirt or fingerprints, the plate is tossed in a garbage bin. She checked her jacket next and grunted irritably; the marks from the taser were apparent; she'd have to fix it. Tomorrow.

After affixing her registered plate to her bike, she mounted up again and made the long drive back home in utter silence, with not even a thought to accompany her.

Later, she might reflect that it's a sure sign she's slipped a cog when even her own thoughts wanted to leave her alone -- or were simply too terrified to trouble her.

~*~

Once inside her apartment, she stripped off the helmet and jacket, tossing them onto the loveseat. Her pistol was removed, the holster soon following suit. The remaining ammo was dumped out on the table, leaving her free to examine the interior of the barrel. While they -- whoever the fuck they were -- would be able to identify the type of gun used to shoot that schmuck, they wouldn't be able to match it unless they had her gun to compare.

She wouldn't give them that chance.

On the other hand, given how coordinated they were ... best not to take chances.

Cybil spent the next half hour violating the gun's barrel with a file; it would have to be rifled again later, but, for now, this would do. Another half hour spent cleaning, thinking.

Damn shame about that girl, she mused, idle thoughts clinking at the back of her mind like so many shards of glass. No remorse, no sorrow; just a dim sense of disappointment in herself for not taking one of those bastards out. Perhaps the surreality of the situation hadn't had time to- no. No. It was strange. Odd. Totally out of the blue. And she was unphased.

Her jaw tightened.

A glance at her watch told her she needed to get a move on. A glance back at the door to her 'office' told her she had something else to do.

Something more pressing.

Cybil's hands clenched.

Ultimately, the compulsion won out.

And when she was done writing, it was nearly dawn.

Another night wasted; another opportunity lost.

Update!

2009-09-14T17:09:33Z

So, slight change of plans (haha, two weeks later ...)

Just leaving the old crap up and stacking more onto it. ;P I'm on PernMUSH still (as Sunika and Reva). The other game I'm on is Heroes MUSH (yay, wiki). It's based on the Heroes television show and is just now starting 'season 4'.

It's fairly slow, still; nice game, though.

Cybil is my latest alt there (yes, she will look familiar; I just like the look that Laurie Holden had in Silent Hill and wanted to play off that). Marie is my first. Both are up for RP if they're logged on.

Marie's an omnilinguistic therapist; Cybil's a sociopath with access to guns. It's fab. ;)

Also.

I am a horrible WoW addict. Horrible. Though it's been easing up of late, due to increased interest in MU*ing again. Well, that, and I'm not a huge fan of raiding or any of that. Don't mind doing it ... but I do mind when it takes several hours to do anything because the raid leader insists on spending 40+ minutes explaining the freaking fight.

Still, I do have a plethora of characters that I play, though I swap between about three of them on an irregular basis. They are, in no particular order:

Laluz - 80 Night Elf Druid on Blackwater Raiders

Aeluria - 80 Draenei Shaman on Blackwater Raiders

Laluz - 25 Tauren Druid on Spirestone

Annnnnyway. Thanks much to those responded to my previous posting. :) Things are slowly starting to settle; we're just waiting now to see if my brother is going to move in or not. Mother is now in Sacramento and, thus, far enough away that we can safely disregard her existance.

For those unfamiliar ... my brother is a drug addict who is prone to violence. I live with my aunt, who is in her fifties, and my grandmother, who is nearing eighty. So, the level of fear I have is fairly high that I'll come home and find something horrible. For now, though, he's still staying wherever he's staying and hopefully that continues.

Well now.

2009-08-28T05:06:04Z

So, I've dumped all my old LJs (sorry peeps, the culling had to be done -- Sunniva, S'kris, Shakti, et al have long since been lost into the ether) and will be converting this one. Having recently (and oh-so-warily) ventured back into the realm of MU*ing, I felt it might be a good idea to put this perma-account to use.

I do have all my old logs. They are unclean, but if folks re-eally want them, I have them.

In the meantime, do not be shocked when the logs and userpics on this one are yanked. Cleaning up and all. If not tonight, then this weekend for sure.

There may be WoW-related postings here. Not sure. We'll see.

There may be considerably more personal posts made here as well. Life has proven to be a grand pain in the ass lately and it helps to apply those words to paper (digital or otherwise). Not sure. We'll see.

Stay friended if you like or de-friend yourself at your leisure; whatever floats your boat.

[OOC] - Inspiration: Smoking Mirror Bronze Tezcath

2008-12-11T14:10:09Z

Smoking Mirror Bronze Tezcath

Egg Name: Don't Panic Egg
Egg Desc: Plain white drapes this egg, covering it entirely ... save for a single place at the apex where that austere hue is broken utterly and completely by lucid disk of candy-red upon the top. So much like a button, just begging to be touched -- but, when touched, will do absolutely nothing. Or will it?

Hatchling Name: Smoking Mirror Bronze
Hatchling Desc: A swarthy bronze is this, draped in luxuriously smoky shades of bronze layered so heavily that one might wonder if he were truly bronze and not some stocky shadow of the same. In the right light, however, one will see it -- the brilliant bronze beneath the smoke, lucid metallic hues that wink and glitter just so. His dour-seeming countenance is marked with tribal patterns in antiqued gold, outlining deeply set eyes and cresting his great head, only to tangle around that first neckridge and then vanish. His wings, by contrast, are nearly mirror-bright panes of pure bronze, startling against onyx-dark spars while his tail can be likened to a spear, tailtips seeming dipped in that selfsame brilliance.

Personality:

<

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Smoking Mirror Bronze Tezcath

<lj-cut text="Delicious Dragon Spam">

Egg Name: Don't Panic Egg
Egg Desc: Plain white drapes this egg, covering it entirely ... save for a single place at the apex where that austere hue is broken utterly and completely by lucid disk of candy-red upon the top. So much like a button, just begging to be touched -- but, when touched, will do absolutely nothing. Or will it?

Hatchling Name: Smoking Mirror Bronze
Hatchling Desc: A swarthy bronze is this, draped in luxuriously smoky shades of bronze layered so heavily that one might wonder if he were truly bronze and not some stocky shadow of the same. In the right light, however, one will see it -- the brilliant bronze beneath the smoke, lucid metallic hues that wink and glitter just so. His dour-seeming countenance is marked with tribal patterns in antiqued gold, outlining deeply set eyes and cresting his great head, only to tangle around that first neckridge and then vanish. His wings, by contrast, are nearly mirror-bright panes of pure bronze, startling against onyx-dark spars while his tail can be likened to a spear, tailtips seeming dipped in that selfsame brilliance.

Personality: 

<<Why bother?>>

That one phrase will illustrate the entirety of your Tezcath's thoughts for the rest of his life. Even from his youth, he will be a dour sort, rarely pleased or even remotely satisfied by anything. If well-fed, he will complain bitterly that he feels a bout of thicktail coming on; if well-oiled, that the process is futile as he'll just be itchy later /anyway/. All the rubbing and scritching in the world will only earn a heaved sigh and a remark to the effect that he needs a bath or an oiling or just wants to be left alone to contemplate life, the universe, and everything with his own brand of misery.

Lessons will be handled with a bored air and a tendency toward laziness; he will learn, of course, but grudgingly. <<If they are trying to bore us to death, they are succeeding quite handily at it,>> will be a common lament. He will do sufficiently well, well enough to suit his ends and to pass the lessons, just as you are due to do likewise; he is not one to be confused with any aspirations of greatness, although a deep down desire to do better for the sake of improving the system may periodically manifest.

<<This can only end in tears,>> he might remark with a slumping of massive shoulders and a shake of his head at any suggestion to alter the traditional way of things or to do anything that hasn't been tried-and-true. Tradition, he feels, is important. No, more than that, it is Important Business and it is there for a Very Good Reason -- no, really, just ask. On the other hand, he is troubled by the bizarre bureaucracy of things and feels trapped by the very nature of a matriarchal monarchy -- it breeds corruption, somehow, to leave things up to something as random as flights -- but ... tradition works well enough (for now) and he can't be bothered to come up with anything better -- again, <<Why bother?>> when he knows such an exercise is as futile as changing the shape of the stars -- so it will suffice well enough for him.

Ambition is not -- and will never be -- his strongest suit, although he is unbelievably intelligent and will make a fine tactician -- to the point where he will pick apart plans laid by the Wingleader with a sardonic, <<Oh, yes, that makes perfect sense. What's next? Setting ourselves on fire? It would certainly be more effective.>> While he might not deliberately pursue such lofty heights as Wingleader or Weyrleader, he will settle into them with a distinct air of <<We can hardly botch this any more than other riders before us have.>> Despite that, he will lead and lead well, again out of that inexplicable desire to prove that it /can/ be done better, even if it must prove his dour nature is not so dour after all. He will have an endless fascination for probabilities and statistics, of his own brand of prediction and augury (sometimes going so far as to include idle speculation on the meanings of the organs of his latest kill); it is best not to question too deeply ... nor to press that red button that may periodically crop up at the most inopportune of times in the starlit expanse of his mind.

He will, by the bye, insist on you talking out loud until you sort out the scrambled up mess you call a thought process out. It bothers him, that kind of chaos, and moreso when you attempt to relay some image or a thought and it comes out all kinds of jumbled. The bond you two will share will, someday, be stronger than that of some others ... but, until you get your mental affairs in order, there will always be an interminable sense of distance between his cool and clinical self and your warm and chaotic one.

<<Oh, why stop now? The very fabric of our culture is being undone; why not unravel it completely?>> he may dryly note upon the observation of a green impressing to a young woman. For whatever reason, this -- as well as any trend to buck tradition -- will bother him to no end ... but not enough to stop him from chasing.

The probability of him catching a green is incredibly low -- even by bronze standards -- but not impossible; his odds of snaring a gold, naturally, are much higher. One could attribute it to the idea that golds are more suiting to his tastes, but that one would have to be unaware of his miserable nature. In the moments before the female du jour takes wing, he might comment on the futile nature of flights, on the probability of success versus the probability that he's going to just need a cold wash in the lake later, even on the fact that he's pretty sure that herdbeast he just blooded really wasn't all that great; but the moment he is up there, all of that fades and you are allowed to merge, to lend your particular brand of mojo to the mix. It may well be the only time you and he are truly complete, where all pretense of control is given up on both sides.

Afterward, should he fail, he will inevitably mutter <> and insist on a scrubbing, wherein he will complain that the sand is only going to dry his hide out.

Should he win, the complaints might fall along the lines of being sore or irritable or <> There is just no pleasing him. After a successful flight, he will not cuddle, will not linger, and will move on without a second thought -- typically long before you have left the bed of the rider.

On the off-chance he should sire a clutch, he will be no more jubilant or proud than a rock. While he will obey the requests of the gold, he will not do so with any pretense of excitement or happiness; he will do it because that is his job, as a male, to do whatever strikes her fancy -- and he will remark on it only to you, with plenty of dull, sardonic commentary. The eggs will endure no end of sendings on his part, most of which are dire predictions to their fates -- recountings of probabilities and statistics, of odds and various superstitions ... and reminders to follow the dictate of tradition, as he deems it so. As soon as those eggs hatch, he will depart, though he will always be available to give dour advice for as long as he remembers they are his -- and, no, he won't ask you to remember and he might even tell you to forget, just to spare him the guilt.

Whether you are aware of it or not, your Tezcath will only seem to search girls when a gold egg is on the sands; and, then, only after insisting that you quiz them on their thoughts of Impression and their political affiliations. The most important question he might have you ask is their answer to the meaning of life, the universe, and everything. His inclination is decidedly toward selecting young men, though only because <<There is a greater probability they will come out of this happier than I am.>> Girls, he rationalizes, will be far more miserable -- which may result in baffled reactions from those that know him. Of course, he will never be a prolific searcher; there are too few he likes, too few who wouldn't be crushed by the chance their lifemate won't be there, and much as he adores wallowing in misery, he is conflicted by the desire to protect others from it -- or, more accurately, hoard all that misery for himself.

Only when it comes to fighting Thread will he truly come into his own and prove himself. To protect others or in selfless disregard of his own existance, it matters not; with a devil-may-care attitude will he take to the skies, taunting the Thread with <<Oh, do your worst. You can hardly top /life/.>> While one might not consider it a deathwish, he certainly gives no thought to performing suicidal tactics if that means less Thread in the world. Yet, even while diving into the thick of battle, he will do so with a certain, methodical boredness. He will never hasten, never pick up the pace, never panic. Why hurry? Let death come at its leisure, if it dares endure his grousing.

This is him. Your Tezcath. Your one and only; your bitter heart to contrast all the too-sweet-things in the world, the hopeless realist to drag down those silver-lined clouds of hope and whimsy. And he's got your back, so: Don't Panic.

Mindvoice: Every word he issues, every thought he spares, will come in a dull, dry monotone of a voice that only serves to convey his boredom and misery with the world at large. This voice is as dry as his sense of humour, though one could point out that at least he *does* have a sense of humour. A darkened void serves as the backdrop, illuminated by hundreds of thousands of celestial flickers -- like so many wayward stars that got duped into falling here. Their brilliance is not wasted as he uses it to light his various means of sharing images; for what he lacks in terms of inflection, he makes up for with the varied and often baffling means of augmenting it: incense smoke, tarot cards, the clatter of bones or dice. A candle light, perhaps, or a constellation thrown up to illustrate his point. In anger -- which is rare, because ... well, << Why bother? >> -- such illustration may come as a spattering of blood; in bliss, the tinkling of chimes and an immediate dissection of the meaning of them. Lettering, if there is any to be given, will be stark contrast to the darkness; luminous, evenly-spaced printing of a most impersonal type.

Itchy Spots: His head, oddly, is his most itchy anatomical feature. Headknobs, cheeks, eyeridges and chin ... all of it will need a bit of extra tending. Of course, to hear him speak, every part of him is unbearably itchy at all hours of the night.

Impression: Blink and the world vanishes. Blink again and stars litter the darkened void. A third blink yields tangible results, a red button that glows tantalizingly in the chilled darkness. Some deep compulsion drives you and you reach, fingers resting atop it and, finally, press. The button transmutes, shifting through what feels like a hundred permutations of form and colour before resolving into a draconic silhouette. <<Fascinating, isn't it?>> Dull, dry, monotone. Bittersweet smoke. Utterly nonplussed. Somewhere at the fringes, contemplation of probability lingers -- you being here, him finding you, what are the odds? -- but it's all erased by a stomach-wrenching lurch straight down. Blank whiteness erupts, then resolves into the sands again. At your feet, a darkling bronze looks up at you with boredom in his whirling red eyes. <<You'll do, I suppose. Let's get this dirge over with, shall we? I am Tezcath, you are Z'frex, and all of that rubbish.>> A mental sigh and then: <>

Inspiration: The highly improbable combination of Marvin the Paranoid Android (and other details from that particular universe), Tezcatlipoca, and myriad means of telling fortunes. ;)

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[OOC] - Inspiration: Snake Oil Elixir Blue Irsith

2008-12-11T13:46:21Z

Snake Oil Elixir Blue Irsith

Desc: He is a thickly-built beast of murky cobalt, like bottles left long enough in the stores to acquire a fine layer of dust -- perhaps for good reason. His face is well-meaning, but somehow pinched, eyeridges set just so to give him the appearance of one who is perpetually squinting or else in some sort of indistinct and invariably displeased mood. His muzzle has begun to gray prematurely, the hide picking up a faint, silvery sheen. Lazy tendrils of slate seem to stir just beneath what might have been a once-bright veneer, lacing around his limbs and teasing sluggishly across his belly. But, there are places where an unseen hand has clearly been motivated to try to clean him; the tips of his neckridges are lucid and bright, his wingsails equally so, revealing not just cobalt but a turgid swirling of something lighter and bubbly beneath. He moves slowly, purposefully -- never one to waste energy, but with a calculated efficiency.

Personality: From the moment his mind insinuates itself in yours, you'll know two things: Irsith is both relentless in his pursuit of knowledge ... and nearly impossible to understand.

In short, a complete pain in the ass.

In weyrling lessons he will insist on not just knowing the 'hows' of things, but the 'whys'. <

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Snake Oil Elixir Blue Irsith

<lj-cut text="Dragon spaaaaaam">

Desc: He is a thickly-built beast of murky cobalt, like bottles left long enough in the stores to acquire a fine layer of dust -- perhaps for good reason. His face is well-meaning, but somehow pinched, eyeridges set just so to give him the appearance of one who is perpetually squinting or else in some sort of indistinct and invariably displeased mood. His muzzle has begun to gray prematurely, the hide picking up a faint, silvery sheen. Lazy tendrils of slate seem to stir just beneath what might have been a once-bright veneer, lacing around his limbs and teasing sluggishly across his belly. But, there are places where an unseen hand has clearly been motivated to try to clean him; the tips of his neckridges are lucid and bright, his wingsails equally so, revealing not just cobalt but a turgid swirling of something lighter and bubbly beneath. He moves slowly, purposefully -- never one to waste energy, but with a calculated efficiency.

Personality: From the moment his mind insinuates itself in yours, you'll know two things: Irsith is both relentless in his pursuit of knowledge ... and nearly impossible to understand.

In short, a complete pain in the ass.

In weyrling lessons he will insist on not just knowing the 'hows' of things, but the 'whys'. <<Why do we need to fly alone first thing,>> he'll drawl. <> This can (and will) get you in trouble, as he encourages you to toe the line as far as rules are concerned. He's forever pushing boundaries, just in his particular way; he's also forever in search of knowing /everything he possibly can/. This may later evolve into the ability to be a Weyrlingmaster someday, if only by virtue of the fact that he will know enough to answer any questions younger dragons might have.

Hunting will be an especially interesting thing with him. On the one talon, he hates to see anything -- even his prey -- suffer. On the other, he has no compunctions against picking a corpse apart to study it. He will kill quickly, but take his time in consumption for the sake of performing a thorough necropsy on it. He will become quite adept in recognizing how others kill and adopt theories on why, periodically asking why they do what they do.

With other dragons he will be distant, aloof, uncaring ... unless they show they're in pain or otherwise suffering. Suffering is something he will not endure, least of all when others are the ones dealing with it. Only to those in pain will he offer to examine them, to diagnose, and then excise or otherwise sooth their agony. He is a therapist, in a sense, even if he's loathe to let others into his world -- which does include you, in many ways. Your connection to him will never be as strong as with most others; he's yours and you're his, but just as you have your darker side, so does he -- better, then, that those two halves be kept separate.

If you've never had aspirations to be a dragonhealer ... you do now. Medicine and the art of healing -- and, of course, an insatiable desire to know how things work and /why/ -- are two things that fascinate him utterly. Expect to be headbutted to the infirmary to learn and, even if you never become a dragonhealer, he will ensure you know more than the average rider at the very least. The same goes for people-healing, though he'll be slightly less interested in that -- being a dragon, he's far more fascinated by his own species -- and won't be quite so pushy about things.

He'll be something of a slow starter when it comes to flying. Others might make the mistake of assuming he's late to mature, but the truth is that he's simply biding his time and learning as much as he can before he finally does decide to go up. He wants to know why he feels what he feels, what purpose the urge serves, and only then will he finally decide to take to the skies. He's an experimental chaser, testing new maneuvers, examining old methods and coming up with new ones; for some females, a certain sort of chasing can be safely prescribed ... for others, something radical or unorthodox. In all cases, however, he will not blood; it is a peculiarity of his that will never change, something he generally explains away with, <<Ain't no reason to make something else suffer when it doesn't have to. If I ain't gonna eat it, it's a waste.>>

There is, always, a method to his madness, a need to use tried-and-true methods for a 'sure thing', and yet a desire to try something new in cases he's never seen before. And if he should catch, rest assured that he'll check on the green to ensure she's well, while you'll be expected to do a follow-up exam on the green's rider.

When it comes to search, he is a thorough and analytical beast -- there will be plenty of pointed questions to ask and awkward postures for the potential candidate to endure. All to make sure they are of sound body and mind, of course -- and for you to write down, later, so he might study the connection between this candidate and that. That will be another constant of yours -- writing. His theories, his hypotheses. Everything must be written and kept, if only for later perusal.

Mindvoice: His mindvoice is a strange and dusty place, the clink of bottles, musty tomes, and glint of surgical steel being prevalent -- a perfect match to his clinical tendencies. He pokes, he prods, he probes; all with various implements of his choosing. He speaks with a twang, a slow and steady drawl, with his words carefully chosen and periodically illustrated with images. He is both brutally direct and succinct, using as few words as possible -- yet using words that are far larger than are completely necessary. More often, he'll focus on scents and sounds as a means to convey what he's saying, as his words are dark and his thoughts darker still. In brooding moods, he will be a morbid thing; congealed blood and the scent of bone dust taking over where dried herbs and sterile glass might have dominated otherwise.

Impression: One second, you're looking across the sands at one of the still-rocking eggs; the next has a headache blossoming and the distinct sensation of having been slapped resonating across your brain. Muddled, you wonder what just happened and why, but the answer comes in the form of a drawl, words slowly selected but edged with cool, dry wit. << That, >> he explains, << was to secure your attention. >> The clink of bottles, the strange smell of medicine floods your senses. Foremost, though, is /him/, dusty blue hide and all. Clinical, distant Irsith. << G'eon, I reckon we ought to see about getting something to eat. >>

Itchy: If he were human, he'd be the sort to pinch his nose often or rub that creased bit right between his eyeridges; lacking that ability, he will insist that you rub or oil there most especially.

Inspiration: None other than the lovable, grave-robbing Doc Cochran of "Deadwood" ... and Virgil, without whom this guy wouldn't exist at all. XD

</lj-cut>

[Vignette] - Rascela & Uanth: Home

2008-12-03T17:07:52Z

The ledge was a tricky one for Uanth to land on; the staggered tiers were unusual, to be sure, but spacious for all their lack of continuity. She picked her way up to the topmost, leaving the brown to sprawl out on one of the lower ones. His satisfaction was a mingling of elemental pieces, of warmth and burbling and earthy sensations. She couldn't blame him; she couldn't begin to have words for the raw thrill of it. Even if the weyr was as shoddy as they said all the weyrling weyrs were, she didn't care.

It was theirs.

Their place.

Their home.

It was privacy incarnate and that filled her with incoherent glee.

The top tier already held promise. Firepit. Benches. A view to kill for. And never mind that the place was covered in dirt and leaves and everything else; nothing a good sweeping and scrubbing couldn't resolve. Her boots scuffed a little, kicking a heap of leaves down and she just stood there, surveying the bowl.

In so doing, she was unaware that Uanth had finally shifted, enough to poke his head inside the weyr proper without setting foot within.

<<What are those?>> he wanted to know, casting an image of an elaborate fireplace to her. Ironwork. But it wasn't the fireplace and hearth that he was wondering about -- it was the odd collection of ...

>>Th' fuck are they?<<

Down the ledge she scrambled and into a weyr that was every bit as unusual as the staggered ledges leading to it.

The rooms were staggered as the ledges were, steps leading up from the main room to the one Uanth was peering into. Another step from that room was the bedroom, following the same tiered format as the ledges; that the rooms were a bit smaller than she imagined they would be was of no consequence. A spiral staircase, all iron and dark wood, twisted up, terminating in an alcove above his couch that would be perfect for storing things.

Everything was a dusty, dirty mess, but she didn't care; it didn't matter. For the moment, her attention was held purely by the odd utensils hanging over the mantle of a fireplace that must have been expensive. Wood, most of them. Some were more elaborate with bits of metal or fancy carving; others were rough-hewn. Some had names on them, names that she leaned in to peer at. Places? Odd. Must be where they came from, she determined.

"Forks? Spoons?" In her bafflement, she simply spoke aloud, forehead creased.

<<Foons? Sporks?>> Uanth countered, taking in their hybrid nature.

"Sporks. Sounds better." Though she wasn't sure why.

A moment later and she was actually looking around -- dragon couch out there, a bit big for Uanth now, but later would be perfect. And in here, the living space, the fireplace and sporks, though a table and chair and possibly some sort of couch would be nice. She dug the fingers of a hand through her hair, the other rested at her hip. Thoughtful.

Even without, she'd be fine. It was hers. His. Theirs.

And then she turned just enough to spy the bedroom.

Hooks over the entry must have held curtains -- as surely as the hooks over the entry to the living area must have -- but those curtains were long-gone. But it wasn't that paltry detail that snagged her, no.

"Jays."

The bed. All iron and dark wood, an impressive monstrosity of a thing that she had trouble imagining how it must have been brought in. Pieces, probably, to assemble there. Around the bend, another step that surely lead into a decently-sized storage space ... but it was only worth passing interest.

Across the room she went, to examine the state of it. Mattresses were good, unstained; musty, sure, but easily fixed. And dusty, too, as she discovered when she sat on it, which resulted in a coughing fit that dissolved into laughter.

>>K'del's gonna have a wherry when he sees this.<<

The thorns were there before she could finish the thought and she sighed, reaching up to rub at her temples. No words from him, just an ominous rattling, a dry clacking of jawbones set in unseen skulls.

>>Y'gotta knock that off. Ain't gonna have this discussion with ya every shardin' time.<<

He didn't have words for once, just a bubbling sense of something meant to just be understood; jealousy wasn't the right word for it, neither was protectiveness, but both were present in some form. Rascela shoved herself off the bed and headed to the step leading down to the living area; rather than enter, she sat there, hands extended.

He stretched in, small enough still to be able to squeeze into the living area if he crawled on his belly; it left his tail in a coil in the main chamber and his head right there to press forehead to forehead with her.

>>Look, a'right? I understand. I do. But, soon 'nuff, yer gonna be chasin' greens an' prob'ly golds, an' you'll have t'get used ta it. We talked 'bout this a'ready, remember?<<

And Uanth snorted but didn't pull his head away, simply allowing inarticulate feelings to filter through. The thorns were watered by them, she realized and she heaved a sigh of her own.

>>Ain't leavin' here. Ain't movin' anywhere else, neither. Ain't thinkin' 'bout weyrmatin' or anythin' like that. Ain't how I am an' you know that.<<

<<You like him.>> And that, really, was the crux of it. The damning truth of it. A violation of his warning to not get too close.

>>Yeah, I'm gonna. 'Cause we're close like that, he'n'me, bein' friends an' all. But it ain't so deep it'd ever change anythin' we -- You'n'I -- have. Nothin'll get that deep.<< She butted his forehead gently with hers, then pulled back, enough to show him a rare smile. >>Promise.<<

There was a painful moment when the thorns tightened, but slowly, oh-so-slowly, did they start to retract.

His logic for it was the startling part.

<<If you linger too long with just one,>> he finally intoned, his thoughts churning ponderously, <<it might.>> To his mind, it was the difference between being a stagnant lake and a waterfall; a lone rock and a rockslide. One became a fixture, unchanging; static. The other ... the other meant a certain essential freedom, true to its element and yet ever-changing. <<To walk the same path and never move forward would be the greater travesty; to never learn, to never expand.>>

It took a moment -- more like three -- for her to come to a tentative understanding. With it came a sudden and overwhelming sense of relief.

>>Ain't like I was plannin' on bein' with just one person, anyway.<<

<<Good.>> His satisfaction came with a rumble, his head withdrawing from her hands. Like the strange, fey thing he was, his mood shifted, lifted, and his attention turned to more pressing things ... like demanding an oiling.

She was all too willing to comply.

And in the place where their minds converged, all was finally as it should be.

Seamless.

[Vignette] - Rascela & Uanth: Week 6: Fly

2008-12-02T14:34:05Z

Flying: it's slightly more constructive than killing stuff.

Finally.

Straps done.

Dragon ready.

>>Let's go.<<

<<You are done with everything, my Lady?>>

>>Fuck it. Let's go.<<

Dealing with P'ax, dealing with lice, dealing with all the meetings and the notes and the helping and the raw everything was going to drive her insane if she didn't just ... get away. Just for a little while.

To say she didn't mind it was something of a lie, the sort of thing she'd tell herself while she was gritting her teeth and wishing she could just walk away and go kill something. It always made her feel more at ease when she had something to do that she knew how to do; with all of this other, though, she felt like she was grabbing fistfuls of straws and hoping to find the one she needed, the one she could cling to.

She didn't mind playing the role of big sister to the younger ones -- that part she genuinely had no trouble with. Talking to them, showing them, that was all easy enough. Uanth delighted in it, in being a part of that whole thing. He liked talking to his clutchmates, adored showing them things.

But the meetings? The notes? So much of it just went over her head. She could fake that she was 'getting' it, could fake that it all made sense, but the fact of the matter was that she was spending more and more nights up; studying rather than sleeping, studying rather than eating. She'd never neglect Uanth, not for the world, but herself? It was a minor sacrifice that was rapidly compounding on itself.

And then, of course, K'del's little 'test' as put to him by I'daur ... it was enough.

She didn't see a need for the straps but Uanth had insisted so fervently that she could not deny him. Now, she was grateful for them, holding onto them with a white-knuckled grip as the brown gathered himself beneath her. The shift from awkward, lumbering beast of the earth to graceful entity of the air was a fluid one, just a leap and a wingbeat away.

<<How far shall we go?>>

>>As far as yer wings'll take us.<<

<<As you wish.>>

Ink-marred, moon-pale wings pulled at the air and she leaned into it.

Her eyes shut and he opened his to her, showed her the world as he saw.

Her arms spread and he shared the sensation of air spilling over his wings to her.

And everything else fell away in their communion.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Just breathe.

[Log] - G'eon in: Lunch, Interrupted

2008-12-02T00:53:39Z

When: December 01, 2008 (IC: 10.18.05.10)
Who: G'eon, Lorne
Dragons/Others: None
Where: Living Cavern @ FTW
What: G'eon's lunch is briefly interrupted by the appearance of a dirty young girl. While eyebrows are raised, nothing really eyebrow-raise-worthy happens.

While the kitchen and serving staff are gearing up for lunch, one man has slipped in well ahead of the usual crowds to see what he can garner before the masses have had a chance to descend. This, naturally, necessitates a trip into the kitchen, some unspeakable act of finagling, and his triumphant withdrawal with an early meal. G'eon claims an out of the way nook, his early selection designed to allow him the singular luxury of taking his time to eat and to watch the others as they finally do trickle in at first. That it also affords him a prime spot to sit, one he has no intention of giving up, is simply a beneficial side-effect.

A crowd of kids, a jumbled mix of girls and boys of the weyr-bred variety, precede Lorne's entrance into the Living Caverns. She's not with them, and that becomes unavoidably obvious as they veer away from her once inside. It's not a spiteful move in the least, simple a consequence of them going one way, and Lorne going the other. Likely, that hoard of teens didn't even know the girl was back there, and Lorne seems all the happier to have the path in front of her cleared. A dirty hand pushes at her equally dirty forehead, removing the stray hair and leaving behind a streak of dark, sweaty grime. A quick, futile rub of her palms on her pants is an attempt to clean them before, equally futile, she attempts to get something to eat. She's turned away, not nearly as successful as the older bluerider, and chastised rather thoroughly for her appearance. So it's off to find a place to sit, somewhere conveniently placed, while she waits for lunch to come to her. Unfortunately for G'eon, that happens to be his table. Lorne drops into a seat without invitation, sighs, and thumps her filthy elbow onto the tabletop in the exaggerated motion only a fourteen-turn-old girl could pull off.

His food selection appears to be as meticulous as his choice of location; it's an insufferably healthy assortment of things, with veggies occupying a full half of the plate (steamed, without the addition of butter), a slice of bread adjacent (very lightly buttered), and some slices of wherry meat to provide some substance. Water to drink, with a small dish of fruit, completes the assortment that he's currently picking through. That picking, though, comes to an abrupt end when everything's jostled by that thump and he's joined rather unexpectedly, his fork poised and one eyebrow making a slow creep upward. G'eon takes his time in appraising her, but when he speaks, it's nothing short of polite amusement, "Baths are that way." A thumb is cocked helpfully in that direction.

As if she just realized her location was not secluded, Lorne jumps at his voice. Wide-eyes find first the bluerider, then his plate and meal. A face is made for the latter, the tongue stuck out most likely for those vegetables. "Yeah, I know," she answers easily enough, as though it had been a genuine goodwill statement, and not a remark on her appearance. "Waiting for lunch." Obviously. Her nose crinkles a little, dirt standing out in harsh relief in those tiny creases. "That's not all their serving today, is it?" Dread, oh the dread!

Her surprise elicits a rare, good-natured chuckle from the bluerider. His fork is put down for now, the plate nudged back a bit, and then he's folding his arms on the table. "Could go there, come back. Should be ready by then," G'eon points out. As for the food? His brows lift high, eyes dropping briefly to study his food before fixing back on the girl. Cryptic, "Well. Could tell you, if you want to know." His chin is lifted to her. "But, I don't think you really do."

In all innocence: "Why?" Lorne just looks at her hands and begins picking out the dirt under her fingernails. "No point," she says finally, flicking away a bit of black grime carelessly. Thankfully, her aim is away from the table, not towards it. "I'll just get dirty again." Practical, that last one, even if she's grinning widely across the table at the unfamiliar bluerider. "Well, if that's all they're serving, I think I'll just skip lunch completely. Who can run on vegetables and... fruit?" Ignoring the meat and bread, naturally. G'eon is now given a more serious looking-over, unabashed, from head down as far as Lorne can see. "Who're you?"

"Can't imagine dirt tastes all that good, but to each their own," he settles on, straightening back up so he can rub the side of his nose with a knuckle. "Clean, though. That's important, even if you don't stay that way. Good for appearances." There's a sly pull to his mouth at the next, but he doesn't address it directly. "Might be a nice pastry in it for you if you do. One of the good ones." As if there are bad ones. Not bribing, just testing. The 'who', that's worth a more serious consideration of her. "Well. That's a trig question, isn't it? Who is anyone?" It's purely rhetorical, though, and he moves on. "Name's G'eon. Irsith's my blue. Telgar." And he'd offer a hand, but hers are filthy, so he settles on a tip of his head. "What's your name?"

A brief furrowing of her eyebrows; Lorne obviously not getting the connection between dirty hands and tasting it. She ignores that statement soon after, deciding it's not worth her brainpower. "Yeah but, who cares if I'm clean?" is her quick counter, a quick toss of her shoulders into the air in an exaggerated shrug. His offer of a pastry has her grinning, and rolling her eyes in the typical teenage fashion. "I'm a bit too old for bribery," she tells him, though there's a quick little look for the kitchen all the same, a calculating sort of study. "S'it bother you that much?" Her dirt. She seems to come to this conclusion in around-about manner, her hands given quick consideration as another fingernail is picked clean. But all that cleaning stops at his rhetorical answer, and Lorne just blinks at him in confusion. And finally a name, something she can associate with. "From Telgar, ah," and a brief, satisfied nod is given. "I'm Lorne. Mom's Laena, and she's a bluerider too."

"They do, for one," his head tips toward the kitchens, his tone gone subtly wry. He must have spied her failed attempt earlier to get something; that's the only way to explain it. The bread is taken in hand and broken in half, then again, with him taking a bite and thoughtfully chewing. To her decline, a musing and satisfied-seeming, "Good girl." Paternal, that. It can't be helped. Even as he addresses the next with a roll of shoulders. "I'm not the dirty one and you're not trying to get something from me. So, no." The completion of introductions brings with it a repetition of names to commit them to memory, "Laena, hm? Pleasure to meet you, Lorne. Might know my daughter, Virgil. She's another bluerider here."

'They'. A glowering look is given towards the kitchens and the unsuspecting staff within. Lorne manages not to pout, but it certainly appears to be a temptation, her lower lip jutting out just briefly before it's sucked back in and she settles for a resigned sigh. "I can wait," she decides finally. She abandons the attempt to clean her fingernails, and settles her elbows back on the table so that she can slump and rest her chin in her hands. A brief face. "Then, I think I'll stay dirty," Lorne decides, as if the subject had been up for debate. A little shake of her head at the mention of his daughter, and Lorne gives a little snicker. "No, I don't. Don't know all the blueriders in the Weyr, just the one. And, well, a couple that fly with my mom's Wing. But that's it. Less they come to the stables." She wobbles a little, weaving at the table in apparent impatience. "Why're you here, if you're from Telgar? Is it cause of your daughter?"

"Mm-hm." It's a non-thing, just a noise to fill the space between her speaking and his eating. A little of this, a little of that. A swig of water and then she's done, with G'eon giving her words some consideration. All else being heard, nothing sparks a desire to respond so much as her last question -- and, even then, it's the answer he's probably given a hundred other times before. "Figured they could use another crotchety old blueriding pair from Telgar 'round here. Turns out, they did." Bread gone, he proceeds onward, clarifying, "Lot of Telgar riders made the move here, too. Virgil was one; others I knew, too."

Listening, that's what Lorne's doing now. Mouth shut, eyes on G'eon, she just watches and listens, waiting for her answer. And then she's got it, and her nose wrinkles slightly. "Yeah, but... well. I guess I understand." Though clearly she doesn't, not entirely at least. "Mom says the whole thing's complicated," and Lorne seems to agree. "But Fort's a good place to be. You'll like it," and she seems to feel that her word is assurance enough, smiling in satisfaction. An annoyed sigh next, mood switching at the drop of a hat. "Fine. I'm going to wash," is decided quite abruptly with little explanation, though she only moves so far as to unthump her elbows and straighten her back.

"Complicated is a good way to put it," G'eon admits. "Smart woman, sounds like. She from here, too?" And Lorne's assessment has him regarding her with a slight inclination of his head, with an eventual movement of his mouth into what must pass as a smile for him. "I'm sure we will. Thank you." Assurances made on both sides, he looks prepared to settle fully into his meal when Lorne makes her proclamation. "Good choice." And that's all he's got to say on it, it would appear, as his fork dips to spear some pieces of fingerroot and peas.

"Yup," for Laena and being from Fort. "And so am I. Born and bred," as if her blind adoration of the Weyr wasn't giveaway enough. "Enjoy your..." but apparently Lorne doesn't consider it possible for anyone to enjoy a meal of un-buttered vegetables and bread, and she can't even form the words for it, either. "Well. Bye at least." And now she is moving, as quickly as if she had somewhere important to be. Around the chair, past the table, and suddenly dashing towards the Lower Caverns.

There's just a rueful bit of a smile for her words, a rusty chuckle. "Plan on trying," he replies, fork of veggies lifted as if in some strange species of a toast, and then to his mouth. Chewed, swallowed, he finds he has enough time between her 'bye' and departure to interject his own "See you 'round." G'eon finishes his meal quickly enough, gathers his things, and makes only the briefest of detours before departing. Should Lorne come back to the table she'd left, she might find it -- a pastry on a plate with a fork, still warm and likely one of the first to be served.

[Vignette] - G'eon & Irsith: A Place To Rest Our Heads

2008-11-27T16:23:51Z

G'eon moves from Telgar to Fort to be closer to his daughter, Virgil. Irsith starts to question his rider's sanity. One could say that questioning is a bit late in coming.

It took a few trips -- excluding the first, to visit and clear the space out once the transfer was finalized -- but it was well worth it. The transition from Telgar to Fort went off without a hitch, but such was to be expected.

G'eon would permit nothing less, after all.

A few wingriders had offered their help, but he declined; "This is my thing," he had told them, forestalling any further attempts to offer with a curt gesture and an ominous look. Irsith understood, of course; he always did, or at least was good enough about lying that his rider never suspected otherwise.

The hardest part, really, was doing it all without Siraqueth or Virgil catching wind of it. A surprise for his daughter, as much as it was a change for him.

He sat in the new nook that would be his room, finishing the task of piecing his bed together with a soft grunt. The mattresses were hauled over and placed, the bed made. The other boxes, the ones residing in the weyr proper, would be seen to shortly.

After thirty-nine turns, one tends to acquire some peculiar things -- when those turns are spent with a dragon with particularly morbid interests, many of those things tend to reflect that. Animal skulls and medical books were neatly packed in with a mirror and grooming supplies; a first aid kit in a leather case for dragons and humans alike -- a gift from the dragonhealers at Telgar -- was settled in with some tomes on herbalism and a small collection of knives. Carved figures of bone and some fine crystal glasses -- four for wine, four for whiskey, and one shot glass for himself -- were nestled with his towels; a chess set of metal and dark marble was at the bottom of the box that his spare set of riding leathers was in.

Dark furniture, for the most part, all dark wood and leather with ivory and brass accents: a leather sofa, nudged into place with the old blue's help; a table with an inlaid mosaic, two chairs. Two bookshelves and the boxes of things to fill them with; a glass-fronted curio cabinet of a sort that he feared the most for and was relieved to the point of laughter when it survived the trip unscathed. Tapestries and rugs; all high quality, naturally. A nightstand and oil lamp; a suitably large wardrobe. The bed was the last piece, having required a bit of clever strap-work and ginger handling by his clinical beast.

Mental notes were made to arrange for cabinets, for shelves, and for a few other things of that nature; he'd left the wine rack behind, so a new one -- and wine to fill it -- was in order. These notes were filed with other notes to meet with other folks and visit that bar he's heard about. The idea of working up his connections again was irksome, but a necessary evil.

And so his thoughts turned in their silent, slippery gyres.

Irsith settled on his new ledge with a disgruntled noise, eyes lidded and a paw coming up irritably to rub at his forehead in a disturbingly human display.

<<If I did not know you better, I'd figure you were crazy.>> Observational.

>>Maybe you don't know better.<< Sardonic.

<<Ain't stupid, G'eon.>> Nonplussed.

>>Ain't trusting, either.<< Gently mocking.

<<Ain't trusting of your moods.>> Honest.

>>What's not to trust about my moods?<< Demanding.

<<Everything. Figure you just make up a reason after the fact for all the shit you do that don't otherwise make sense.>> Unapologetic.

>>Nothing wrong with it. My moods; my prerogative.<< Irritated.

<> the blue finally intoned, resettling on his ledge and then lapsing into sleep -- or seeming to, at least. The door between their minds was shut and locked, with Irsith retreating into his dark place. The clink of bottles and rustling of unseen things was the only clue he was still awake; sifting through his own thoughts or just masking them with perceived busy-work.

"There's only one reason," G'eon said aloud, knowing better than to try to force that door open to be heard, "and it's good. Don't question me on it again." A futile demand, if ever there was one; one repeated for the past thirty-nine turns and one that was disobeyed at every turn.

The rest of the day was spent in purposeful silence, boxes being unpacked and possessions organized.

Not home.

Not yet.

But it will be.

[Log] - Rascela in: Enlisted

2008-11-24T20:24:24Z

When: November 23, 2008 (IC: 10.18.04.14)
Who: Rascela, Satiet
Dragons/Others: None
Where: Satiet's Weyr @ HRW
What: Rascela is summoned to Satiet's weyr and palaver is held. The weyrling comes away with two new tasks and some brandy; the Weyrwoman gets out giving dancing lessons. Win-win.

The Weyrwoman's weyr, sparsely decorated, but inviting with its lit hearth and plush rugs. Midst this, Satiet stands by her stone table, her fingers curled about the tops of a crystalline glass filled with brandy while another, similar glass, sits nearby. That it's before the lunching hour seems to matter very little as the glass lifts to press briefly to her lips, enough to wet her tongue, before it's set back down again and with her free hand lifted to press fingers into her temple, the pale eyes look to the entrance. Watchful. Veiled impatience. Perhaps waiting for the weyrling she's taken the time to invite by written note to her weyr, at this hour.

Quiet in more than just the verbal sense, it's not until she's nearly at the entrance of the weyr that she might be heard. The slight scuff of a boot, another step, and then Rascela comes into view. She doesn't enter the weyr, instead taking the span of a few seconds to note the decor and the location of the Weyrwoman. She's neat enough -- shirt tucked in and all -- and, if she's tired, she hides it well enough. Her chin lifts and the greeting is completed with: "Mornin'."

That she's neat enough is summarily dismissed; it's to be expected after all. That she's quiet with only the slightest boot scuffs; that merely draws Satiet's gaze belatedly to Rascela's arrival, just catching sight of the weyrling's study of her quarters before her greeting. The thinnest smile is favored the brownrider, her glass lifted to toast the other woman's arrival. "Morning. Sit, have a drink."

A nod suffices as unquestioning acceptance, the young woman closing the distance between here and there with just as many steps as are needed. Rascela takes that seat, of course, and summarily reaches for the glass to take just a taste of it, thus fulfilling all of the directives given. "Thankya," is eventually given, gray eyes slanting askance to study the other woman in a silence that might be expectant in others, but in her merely translates into simple patience.

"I am," begins the weyrwoman, her fingers playing along the sides of the glass, "Supposed to teach those of you that are marked specially, dancing." Boy, is she looking forward to it, what with the drinking in the morning bit. "But you don't seem the dancing type. You don't seem the social type period. So please," Satiet's hands draw away from the glass, palms up in mock supplication, "Tell me now that you feel otherwise, or we'll just ignore that part of your 'leadership' training." The sarcastic airquotes are palpable about that word.

Another sip of brandy is taken while she listens, attention unwavering. The glass is set down and Rascela straightens a little, palms coming to rest on her knees. "Is it somethin' I gotta know?" is the question she has, which conveniently leaves the actual question asked unanswered. Not that it lasts long, as one shoulder rises and her features scrunch up a little. "Ain't my kinda thing," an unsurprising confirmation of Satiet's assessment, "but if I gotta know it, I gotta know it."

Satiet's, "You don't gotta know anything," is mocking, but amused nonetheless at Rascela's attitude towards dancing. Still standing, the slight woman begins to walk slowly, rounding about the table and observing the brown weyrling out of the corner of her eye. "How's the training taking to you, brownrider? Do you find any of it particularly difficult? Do you have any thoughts of your own?"

The mocking is selectively edited out, or at least discarded as being not worth pursuing. Instead, Raz remains seated as she is, unmoving save for her eyes, eyes that track Satiet as far as possible without requiring her to move her head. "Thinkin' they mighta made a mistake," she answers flatly. "But they figured we're ready, so we're doin' th' best we can." A soft snort, more at herself than anything, precedes, "The social stuff ain't easy. The writin' and meetings. But I ain't been much for academics." The last word being carefully enunciated, of course.

"No, you're not," says the goldrider, not without a little regret. "Academics and social aptitude are not quite your forte. I wonder what then, is?" Disregarding mistakes in the selection process. Disregarding that /she's/ a likely part of the selection process. Satiet roundabout path halts behind Rascela, a hand falling onto her shoulder, light, barely touching. "What are your strengths, brownrider?"

Nor does the brownrider move when the hand touches her shoulder. There's just a steady sense of tension lurking there in the muscles of her shoulder, a detail usually hidden by her usual manner of slouching. Rascela's thoughtful frown, however, goes unseen -- but not unheard. "Doin' things. That's my strength. If it's gotta be done, I'll do it." Come fog, 'fall, or fire. Her mouth pulls. "Helpin' th' others, too. Self-defense, mostly, but sometimes they got questions an' they figure I've got th' answer. Don't do any good if any of us can't keep up." Another pause, more thoughtful digging. "Gettin' better at the writin', at least. Takin' notes an' all. Tryin'."

The delicately held fingers, when finding the tension that lies beneath the slouching, pauses, poised just about the round of Rascela's shoulder. Then it weighs a little more pressure, her thumb digging into a particular point of tense muscle before she releases and steps back. "Doesn't sound much like leadership, does it? Writing. Talking. Socializing." Satiet returns to her side of the table, returning to her glass and finally takes a seat. Her legs cross neatly, her posture straight, and leaning back into that seat, she lifts her glass of brandy once more. "Would be nice if it were just about helping people, or doing things. I've a project I'd like you to take on."

"It don't really," she agrees, eyes only momentarily half-lidded at the pressure to that point of her shoulder. The moment passes and Rascela forces herself further upright, just in time to see Satiet claim her seat and her glass. The brownrider reaches to take her glass as well, though not to drink, not right away. "But, someone's gotta do it." Whether that includes her or not is, as yet, undecided on her part. To the last, a slow, curious lift of her eyebrows, "A'right."

A fortifying sip later, Satiet's glass is held in the curve of her palms and her gaze is flat upon Rascela. "I have another mentee." Which should just say it all, but the weyrwoman continues, her slim, straight posture folding as she leans forward into the table, her elbows braced into the top. "You don't talk much. He talks entirely too much, too often, and without thinking. And you say you're good at- helping. People. And he needs help that neither I, nor the weyrlingmaster staff, seems to be able to provide. I'd like you to speak to him and then send him my way once you believe he's ready to rejoin the- Weyr at large." Pale eyes lift, guileless. "Just talk to him. See where you go with it."

And while Satiet speaks, Rascela drinks. Not gulping, but not sipping either; as a result, her emptied glass is set down well before it probably should have been. It's set down gently, though, and her hand withdraws. "Hnh." Considering, though there's not much /to/ consider. "A'right," she repeats from before. "Reckon we could do that." Her and Uanth; maybe more Uanth than her. But she seems to have connected enough dots to know who, or else felt now was the time to add an incidental, "P'ax has somethin' for ya. Peace offerin', sounds like."

Rascela's ability to connect dots, to pick up on those unspoken cues, or at least know enough of the goings on of her fellow weyrlings to know who Satiet's other mentee is -- it draws a thin smile and a tacit nod. Approval. Then amusement. "Do you think I'm a woman to be bought over with peace offerings, brownrider?"

"Told him it couldn't hurt," Rascela does admit, but she ultimately shakes her head, fingers tapping on her knees in a single, quick circuit -- pinky to pinky, the fingers from left to right tap once. "Don't figure you're th' type to be bought over by anythin' less than honesty, ma'am." A glance to the weyr resolves in the brownrider looking more squarely at Satiet. "What folks do, how they act, that's more important." To her, to Raz? Both, perhaps. "I can talk to him. Ain't gonna promise a miracle, but I can promise I'll try."

"Before our next encounter." The please is unsaid, but possibly heard in the lilting intonation of her words. Or in the pale eyes that lift, frank and filled with clarity as they look up to try and catch sight of Rascela's gray. "An essay, as well. If you find the time in between helping others and just doing. Just your thoughts on why I'daur is weyrlingmaster, despite his own talent for taciturnity. And just how his team complements his teaching methods." In one fluid motion, Satiet gets to her feet, reaching across to the bottle of brandy in the middle of the table and pushes it forward. "I'm sure you know a few fellow, non-silvered weyrlings that might enjoy that with you."

"Will do," is a reassertion of that promise, Rascela brushing her hands off on her thighs. While the essay might be worth a soft exhalation that's not quite a snort, she acquiesces with a nod. When Satiet rises, so does she, perceiving that the encounter is either at an end or coming close enough to it that a bit of stretching wouldn't be looked oddly upon. The bottle, though, that does garner a curious look and a tilt of her head. "I do. 'ppreciate it, Weyrwoman. They will, too." Her reaching for it, though, results in a moment where her hand hovers over the bottle -- awaiting confirmation, implied as it might be.

There's a beat, where she's standing and Rascela's standing. There's a beat where Satiet just looks upon the gruff, taciturn weyrling. "If you need anything else, have Uanth ask Teonath. And don't get drunk." Another, silent beat that's then followed by ironic advice; "A leader doesn't get drunk in front of her men. Clear skies, Rascela."

"Fair 'nuff. 'ppreciate it." Earnestly meant, with a nod. To the last, a flat, "Don't plan on it," being drunk, that is. The bottle is taken up, briefly appraised, then tucked in the crook of an arm. A tipped salute is given, then Rascela turns. Her usual tendency to forego a farewell is dropped, however, for her to echo, "Clear skies, Weyrwoman." And, soon enough, she's gone, precious cargo in tow.

[Log] - Rascela in: Impulsive

2008-11-24T20:11:22Z

When: November 22, 2008 (IC: 10.18.04.11)
Who: Dagany, Rascela
Dragons/Others: None
Where: Bathing Pools @ HRW
What: Rascela happens across Dagany in the pools. A line is crossed, unrepentently; rules remain intact.

'Tis better to find sleep when you can, if you can, and if you can't then to make yourself as comfortable as possible until maybe graceful rest claims you. One should not, probably, choose such a place to rest as the pools with in the bathing room. Because, if one thought ahead, finding rest while partially submerged isn't the safest idea. Still, Dagany finds himself here, arms tucked back and up on the edge of the bath, rest of him sunk low. Slender though he is, all that isn't just bone and skin; he's actually quite sturdy, muscle corded through his shoulders and what of his stomach can be seen easily.

It's been a long day and due to be a very short night, given the duties she's been assigned -- and others, still, that she's questioning the logic of accepting. In either case, it's a tired, grime-covered, sweaty, and altogether Not Happy (and thus Very Oblivious To Others) Rascela that trudges into the cavern. Some slight bruising hints at self-defense training gone slightly awry, made all the more evident when she strips off her jacket and overshirt to get down to the tanktop beneath. A former hunter and current weyrling with a dedication to the physical aspects of the job; obviously.

Oh, she won't be happy. How many times have they met under such late and strangely solitary circumstances? She won't like it. The arrival of anyone else would have tipped him off, this part of the Weyr being so exceptionally quiet just now, and it's very likely that 'anyone' indeed would be preferable. If not only because by now Dagany knows that his isn't a presence she finds much, if any, comfort in. For whatever reason. Really, he's been nothing if not cordial. Upon his glance over to note her existence his eyebrows furrow and he returns his gaze very quickly to a wall, over there. Do not look. Instead of speaking he finds it easier to emit one loud gruff 'aherm. herm.'

'Hello' is comprised of entirely too syllables for her to articulate, so Rascela settles on a grunted "Hnh." that might be 'hi' if one felt comfortable about twisting the Pernese language a little. In either case, she doesn't seem fussed with the man's presence in the pool, not even as she sets about the task of stripping her clothes off and stacking them in a heap. Clean clothes and sweetsand might have been a good thing to have brought as well, but she's fortunate enough to have remembered to get a towel. Everything is pulled off with a bit of a growl and Rascela, soon enough, is just in the water. Right there. Maybe an arm's length away from Dagany, give or take the length of one's fingers.

Fingers can be very long things. Dagany's are, and the bone of his knuckles shows in sharp relief suddenly when his hand tenses. His shoulder twitches too, like he might want to bring at least one of his arms down, now that there's somebody else here. Lounging so completely puts him in something like a vulnerable position. Not that she hasn't seen him being utterly languid before. The few encounters they've had have taught him not to speak to her, at least so as not to make her uncomfortable. So he doesn't.

And the revelation of the lack of sweetsand hits. Her nose wrinkles, sufficing to break her scowl and turn it into something resigned and somewhat sour. The weyrling tilts her head to him, studying him from the corner of one gray eye before: "Sand. Y'got any?" Civil enough. Gruff, but civil. Even with the question laid out, she could just as easily shift her gaze elsewhere; but, no, he's not so fortunate, and her eyes remain on him. Waiting.

Appraising? No. Maybe? No. Now he does move his arms, lowers them, rolls his shoulder with a resounding pop that makes him wince. Silently, for he moves slowly enough not to move the water much, he reaches over for a small pouch not far. Arm's reach. She is too, so he transfers from hand to hand and offers it over to her. And, when he manages the fortitude to actually meet her eyes, he smiles. /His/ eyes are kind, amused, stormy water.

All of which is watched, studied, and analyzed in some sense. The line of her mouth set in a dour line, a slight crease between her eyebrows signifying some lingering annoyance. At what? It's anyone's guess. But when that movement resolves in his offering the pouch to her, Raz takes it -- and if it so happens her fingers, rough things that they are, should touch his, then so be it. "'ppreciate it," she replies, head turning just a bit more. Eyes meet eyes and his smile is partly reflected in a half-smile of her own.

Dagany's, "hm," is hardly an answer at all. 'Hm' is a diverse creature, capable of speculation or suspicion or acquiescence. In this context, still, it's hard to tell. She might have noticed that, when her fingers touched his, his hand twitched again. Withdrawing into his own personal space, he doesn't return his arms to their edge; instead he assumes something more uncomfortable looking and goes back and forth from staring at the water and glancing at her with the corner of his gaze.

The first or second glance gets a wordless pass from her; she's busy, see, with working the sand into her hair and over her face. It's the third glance that prompts a sidelong look of her own and a sudden, though not unkind, "What." Not really rhetorical; not really a question. An askance observation that she anticipates an answer for, her curiosity intense enough that she even stops what she's doing. This leaves Rascela with suds in her hair and spilling over her shoulders, but she doesn't appear to particularly care that much.

His eyebrows lift; 'what' was a trigger. Now that he's been found out he can't very well continue with his hedging glances can he? So discovered, Dagany pushes his mouth out and shrugs up his shoulders. Timid? Maybe. But in a scruffy way. "You never talk t'me." His voice carries with it several accents, the gift of an existence spent never in one place longer than it took to pick up on the dialect. It results in a lilting burr, something that sounds gentle and oddly aged. Another glance. This one sticks.

"Y'want me to?" is the next question. Blunt, in much the manner a punch to the shoulder would be; she's the sort that might be liable to do that, as well. More important would be the fact that she's now /looking/ at him and appears to be listening. Raz doesn't dip under the water -- to do so would be to risk either missing an answer or giving him an opening in which to escape in -- and settles, instead, on scooping up water to rinse herself off with. One more benefit for having such short hair, surely.

"Why don't you?" And it might be amazing how-- /wounded/ he sounds, just then. Accusatory too, maybe. Afterall, they've met before, been in the same place before, surely she's seen him outside of those meetings. Maybe they even said hello. But a few brief greetings does not a conversation make. And for whatever reason, odd as it is, Dagany has chosen to take actual personal offense to this lack of communication.

"Ain't got much t'say." But there's an amendment, a shrugged, "Ain't got much t'say t'anyone, usually." More rinsing. Then more sand, worked methodically into shoulders, arms, across chest. Silence lingers, the sort Rascela'd be fine with until a certain brown noses into things, signified by a hazing of her eyes. Then: "Don't seem th' type that wants t'be bored by weyrling talk. Ain't got much t'talk 'bout, 'side from that." Her assessment of him, but nothing more. Another rise-fall of shoulders, though her eyes don't move terribly far from his.

Oh. Well that makes sense. Not that making sense makes Dagany any less troubled. Quiet during that silence, he looks away, probably wishing he was anywhere else but naked in the water with a woman. 'Uncomfortable' isn't an appropriate descriptor; he's plenty comfortable, you learn to be if you aren't naturally accustomed to bathing with others. But there is tension, the unsettledness of something not quite satisfied. But she speaks again! Hopefully his eyes turn again to her. "You don't seem the type t'be boring."

"How d'ya figure?" Raz wants to know, one brow slowly creeping upward. Openly curious. If anything, for all that gruffness and growliness, she's not judgmental. And it's back to a purposeful silence, left there for him to fill as he sees fit while she continues her self-appointed task: scrubbing. Still. She's had a long day, of course, and it takes a while to scrub that off in its entirety -- and some days just never come fully clean, but she's determined enough to try.

His smile, then, is the small and certain kind. Crooked. "Any person who's ever done anything has a story. You have a story, you can't be boring. It's a simple perspective I like t'think of as ineffably true." And his mouth quirks on those last two words, his eyebrow lifted. It's good she's distracted; that way when he reaches back he won't have to feel so selfconscious, same for when he pulls himself up to the edge of the pool where he can sit on his towel and wrap its corners around his hips, tie them. His feet dangle in the water, which resettles after not long from his sudden movement.

"Ineffably," is just echoed, rolled around in her mouth, and absorbed. Another "Hnh," for all that, silence reigning when she decides to duck under the water, after all. Just a quick thing, down and up in a few seconds. Both hands lift, pushing water out of her face and intent on slicking her hair back. His shift in position is duly noted, though Rascela doesn't comment on it. Instead: "Reckon I could say it wasn't me that did anythin'. He did all th' work, makin' his choice." Her lifemate, of course; the brown.

"Last I checked it wasn't the way of it that you're born the right age'n a dragon finds you. Chances are pretty well in my favor you had something goin' on before." Whether or not it was a good something /is/ a concern to him, but Dagany built himself this trembling platform of questions and dialogue and he's going to sink with it if that's how it all ends, damnit. "I'm not even asking for a story. I'd-- I'd listen, if you went on about the weyrling stuff." Which implies more than that he simply /would/, like existing is all it takes. It implies he'd like to, would prefer it.

"Was a hunter. Fort Weyr." A shift in her stance, her placement, brings her around just so she's facing him more fully. Relentless and not-quite-cornering, but still with a purpose to it. "Nothin' special to it," Rascela adds, another shrug being given and with one shoulder voicing its protest rather audibly. No wince from her. A tip of her head, ever-so-slightly to one side at the next. "Ain't much to it. Feedin'. Oilin'. Drills an' more shardin' drills. Lessons." And more lessons on top of that, though she decides to stop there. "Uanth's somethin', though."

Hunter. Fort. Fort he understands. Fort he's seen. Hunter. This new insight turns him to regard her freshly. New. She can be relentless, can pen him in if she wants. As long as he has a higher advantage, like a feline he's more comfortable. 'Ain't much to it'. Is there much to anything? Instead of interjecting, Dagany listens. He said he would. It's his turn to choose a path down the crossroads of conversation: to say something judgemental or not? Not. It isn't his style. "Tell me about him," he gently prompts, big hands curled around the pool's edge.

Arms fold. Preparing to balk? To clam up? But, no, Rascela finally just gives a small shake of her head, opting to choose the next fork of this winding path they call a chat. "He's -- y'ain't seen him, but y'should. Gotta thing for eyes," the arms drop and she moves again. Restless energy; might be meaningless if her attention weren't on him. "Wants me t'keep one under th' cot; keep an eye out." Literally. She doesn't laugh, but the amusement is there. "Likes tellin' stories," she continues, mouth pulled, just so. "Likes givin' me things t'draw."

Dragons are very strange things. Still, they're a part of the world, a big part in more ways than one, and Dagany is nothing if not accepting. That she folded her arms at first concerned him; surely she'll choose to stop talking now. No? His relief isn't obvious, hopefully he succeeds in waxing over it with his attentiveness. And, when it's time, response. Amused, his grin curls. "That's-- that's funny. He has a sense of humor?" Or he's serious. Let's not think about that. After a brief pause of consideration he decides, "I think I like the sound of 'im."

"Would be, I guess," funny, she means, "but he keeps tryin'. Shares th' taste of 'em when he eats 'em." That gets her to shiver, even now. Her expression sours, then settles back out again a moment later. "Gotta headful of things. Hard t'keep up, sometimes." And Rascela taps her forehead, demonstratively, adding, "He likes everyone. Figures th' same that you do -- everyone's gotta story an' all that." A tip of her head to him, then silence, as if uncertain of how to proceed. She doesn't often go this far into conversation with relative strangers, even if she knows their name.

And he is. Strange. Strange enough to openly pursue conversation with stoic, strong Rascela. Maybe they're exact opposites and that's what works, what keeps him asking the questions and her answering. Or maybe that's just them being aware of how these social interaction things work. "Shares. The taste. Right." Why wouldn't he? Valiantly, Dagany tries to understand, to grasp what that must be like. He can't, though, not that he's disappointed. Her last comment brings his gaze to hers again. Quietly, "Everyone does." And, again, he looks away, down at his knees, at his hairy legs. That's no good, at his hand then.

"Hard t'explain," she settles on. "Like feelin' him bein' oiled. Shares that, too. Sometimes he lets me borrow his eyes, but it gives me a shardin' headache most times." A lot of peculiarities that she doesn't -- or just can't -- elaborate on. Rascela continues her slow movement -- predatory pacing, were she in a mood conducive to such a description -- from side to side at a slight curve. "Ayuh," to the very last, as he's looking down and then at his hand. "What's yours?" being asked shortly after, with her stopping. Growing still. Listening.

Still. And listening. Just when he thought maybe she was uncomfortably restless and would never stop moving. Could never stop. She stops. The ceasing of the water's slow sounds as she moves through it brings his attention to her again. Somehow it's easier for him to focus on her when she /isn't/ so fully focused on him. But, "Traders. My family. We've been everywhere." A point of some pride for him, judging by his little smile. His voice, then, /is/ muddled for a good reason. One eye squints; he brings his hand up to scratch in his hair. "Stopped that though, didn't I." Clearly, as his time spent with the Weyr has been longer than any mere pit stop.

Mute appraisal ensues, though not in any overt fashion. Wondering, "What kinda tradin'?" her lack of familiarity with traders is thusly laid out. Even that's asked with a wary quality, much as the next is: "What's th' best place y'saw?" And more silence waiting for his answers to fill it, intense and lingering. His squint, his next words. "Reckon so," she decides, but then shrugs it off. "Y'doin' whatcha want to, at least?" That, above all, seems to be most important to her.

"That would rely very heavily on my actually knowing what it is I want. Reckon." Which is tacked on, reckon, so she might not think him pretentious. The country burr is enough, hopefully, to distract from his vocabulary. For how well-read or well-something he could be. Moving right along. "We traded clothing, mostly. Nothing anyone would consider necessary I don't think. But then, that was part of the appeal. We came, we entertained people. Then we left. People had stories to tell of us." Weight on the word 'stories'. "My favorite place is Keroon. I was born there. Well. The wagon was there." He was born. In a wagon.

"Hnh." For the tacked-on reckon. Neither approving nor disapproving; observational, at best. "Entertained?" That idea is one worth pursuing, her chin lifting his way. Prodding, if wordlessly, for further elaboration. To the mention of Keroon, just a shake of her head; it's not a place Rascela's familiar with. Still, "Y'wanna visit, we can take ya, when we're allowed to." It's as good as a promise, that.

A fact that isn't lost on Dagany. It's the first time he's come close to looking downright uncomfortable, so shy of it before with his would-be fidgeting. To smoothe over his reaction he adds words, words that might not serve to smoothe anything at all, actually. "It's all fields, Keroon. Golden. Their gathers are, oh, great times. They race runners there, you know." This time when his hand lifts it's for the back of his neck. Maybe if he ducks his head and looks hard at his knee it will be easier to forget he ever just overreacted. "I find that people are normally very entertained by bright colors and lots of sudden movements. We painted our wagons, we wear certain-- outfits. I juggle." All very mundane stuff, really, she shouldn't be interested.

To make up for her silence, Rascela just moves in a little closer. Surreptitious-like, taking advantage of his head-ducking. "'Swhat I hear," she replies of his description, her proximity finally being betrayed. Her chin lifts, direct contrast to the way he's lowered his head; all the colours, the costumes, she ignores all that in favour of the one thing she is interested in: "Juggling." Beat. "Have t'show me some time. Ain't seen anythin' like that before." Could even be a request for teaching, in a roundabout fashion.

She doesn't make a sound this time. No warning. She's only just /there/, in the edge of his vision where she wasn't before and Dagany doesn't lift his head up to look startled. He isn't, then, and maybe it's a better vantage, she with her chin up and he with his down. That his talent /does/ hold something for her to be interested in isn't much of a surprise. It's the roles they're in, have been in: he's the magician, the entertainer, for her very dangerous royalty. Yet in all the times he's encountered her, never once has there been any traces of a lack of confidence. An easy smirk tugs up one corner of his mouth. "I have other tricks," he lets her know.

"So y'say." His smirk is mirrored in her own. "Prove it." And it's an easy matter for her, just to close that little bit of distance and stretch up to close the disparity in their respective heights. To stretch up oh-so-deliberately and with an intent that might not have been there any other time; it might just be because he's there and she's there and she /can/ ... but Rascela rarely needs any more reason than that. Just up, a little, lips aimed for his shamelessly and with a speed that might be unsettling; enough time for him to withdraw, surely, or sidestep, but only just. No other contact sought, none needed.

More than enough time. And maybe, had he more thoughts ahead, Dagany would have taken advantage and leaned away, put a hand up. He has two, afterall, and both of them are close enough that it'd be easy. Still, there's a sudden stalling of his mental capacity, a natural reaction likely any man would have upon seeing an attractive woman leaning up like that. And there's a second natural reaction, after the first, that has him tilting his chin down further to intercept her. The third reaction, the one that would close everything up, is close. Closer. But just when he's about to lean in he stops and smiles, his mouth moving nearly against hers, again when he asks, "Wouldn't they really rather you didn't?" Surely he is mischief incarnate.

"Kissin' ain't gonna get us in trouble." Not quite a growl, but close; not malicious, just the way her voice tends to be in this kind of situation. "'Sall I want." For now. Rascela does, however, keep her hands to herself, resolutely so -- perhaps with far more self-control than she cares to have, in fact -- and stays where she is. Not advancing, now; he's the one that voiced concern, so he'll have to be the one to complete what she started. Just a flick of the tongue out, enough to wet her lips and maybe just enough to touch his lips in turn, then utter stillness from her.

/He/ should be fine in the self control department. /He/ doesn't have another voice in his head aside from his own, one that could, if it so chose, make this a very public situation indeed. And, in the end, he has nothing to lose. There's no program to kick him out of, no punishment for being a complete scoundrel. Not in this Weyr, anyway. And she did say it's all she wants, and she did just do that thing she just did. And it isn't like anybody else is here. Dagany would shrug if it wouldn't be utterly bizarre a thing to do right now. Instead he schools his smile so that he can lean in and give her what she's so politely -- expertly -- asking for. There's room enough for her to move closer when his knees part, his towel draped across his lap. So they kiss, and she might be happy to know she didn't doom herself with an inexperienced partner.

Nor is she grievously inexperienced, either. Obviously. Her hands come to rest on either side of his hips and she moves in, just enough to further the kiss to her own ends. With rules being rules -- and a certain brown weaving thorns through her mind -- however, her withdrawal is guaranteed just a few moments later. But, oh, what a grudging withdrawal it is, at least at the start. Just a quick lick of her lips after and she's pulling away fully, as if nothing had ever happened. "So. What other tricks y'got?" And, yes, that would be the corner of her mouth drawn up in an all-too-amused smirk for the situation.

They're both amused, then. Perhaps for different reasons. Dagany, for his part, very likely wonders how this happened. Why it happened. Surely he's been bathing with others for years, /this/ is a new installment to that routine. To say he's attached would be one way of putting it, though he never sought to further their contact. There was always that invisible line, she wouldn't go too far and neither would he. And when she pulls away he must guess why for he doesn't impede her, simply sets himself back on his hands and tilts his head at her. His expression, for all his smirking, is an underlayer of troubled. "I'll have to show you," he tells her serenely. "Not now though."

"A'right. I'll hold ya to it," she replies, moving now for the edge of the pool. To get out, now that she's done all she intended to -- and a bit more, perhaps. Rascela hauls herself out with a fluid grace, incongruent with her usual manner as others tend to perceive it, and crosses to where her towel resides not far away. Not in a hurry to get away from him, as she comes to sit near him to take care of her hair and so forth. The happening itself is something of no consequence to her, as natural as breathing or eating or drinking. Much like those, there's no reason to ask; just to do. No one asks to breathe, after all. Amused, "I might have a thing or two t'show you, too."

He's being given a small break, then. Even more gracious of her to remove herself from directly within his line of sight... or was that remove him from hers? Soon as she's distracted elsewhere he lets the calm facade slip and his mouth to relax; his eyes stare, unseeing, at the water and his brow furrows when he realizes his arms are all trembly. Lifting one hand to stare at it while its fingers shiver, /he/ is distracted from when she returns to his side. So quickly that hand is settled in his lap with the other and he looks over at her, smile in place. "I can't imagine it'd be as cool as juggling."

"Maybe," but she sounds unconvinced. If she detects any lingering trembling on his part, she makes no sign. Drying is a quick enough process for her, enough so that she's done not long after sitting. Still, she lingers, keeping just a bit of space between them, but not enough that can't be closed with a bit of leaning. Raz does just that after a moment's consideration, intending to touch shoulder to shoulder in an amiable nudge. "Maybe not," is added a moment later. "Have t'see, I reckon."

Reckon. That, with the addition of her nudge, widens the smile Dagany wears until it's a boyish grin. At first he chooses not to reply; perhaps he makes this a conscious effort to let the silence linger, perhaps he really doesn't have a comeback. Whatever his reasoning, it only matters for a moment or two before he says, "Is this some vague point in the future I should be waiting for then?" His eyebrows lift when he looks over at her. "Waiting for you t'come out of some shadowy corridor t'kidnap me?"

"Ain't really kidnap if th' other person's willin'," or so Rascela seems to believe. "If y'ain't, then I reckon it would be." A rusty chuckle and then she's straightening, standing, and finishing off her drying. "Right now, though, gotta tend t'things. Uanth's insistin'." Just like that. No apology to her tone, of course; none needed. It's just her job, what she does. But that doesn't forestall her hand from reaching down, with all the intention of dragging rough fingertips lightly across his shoulder in passing. Onward, to get dressed.

But still. She is dangerous. A little, at least. And though Dagany bites his lip to button in his grin this time, though he looks like her comment amused him, he glances down at his hands when she stands so she might not see his expression sobering. She gives him no explanation further than that, no apology; he, being so well who he is, demands neither. There isn't even an expectance to him, when she announces her reasons, he probably assumed she was already gone, disappeared like a shadow might. Thus her lingering touch in unexpected and rustles up a shiver from the base of his spine that travels upwards while he keeps his eyes carefully pinned, until he sneaks a glance intended to watch her leave. He remains there after she's gone to ruminate.

[Log] - Rascela in: Kissin' Weyrlings

2008-11-23T17:42:28Z

When: November 21, 2008 (IC: 10.18.04.08)
Who: K'del, P'ax, Rascela
Dragons/Others: None
Where: Bathing Pools @ HRW
What: Rascela seeks solace in the baths a few days after getting her silver thread. K'del shows up and tensions are smoothed over. A kiss seals the deal, while P'ax looks on; advice is then given to the greenling by the brownling on the topic of love vs. lust.
Notes: Some implied adult concepts, nothing explicit.

The day's usual ordeals are finally over, though they're really /far/ from over for some of the weyrlings. There's enough time for a meal and a good bath before other duties have to be handled ... and it's the bath part that Rascela's currently enjoying. She's sunk in as deeply as she can get in the pool, eyes half-lidded and looking, for all the world, like someone just on the verge of a nap; the scrubbing's done so she's just basking, and, of course, watching those few people that happen to be bathing near her.

K'del has been... not /avoiding/ the other weyrlings, in particular the silver-threaded ones, but 'too busy to stop and chat' most of the time, spending every free moment at work in some way or another. But even he needs a bath sometimes, and with the snow outside turning to dirty slush, and Cadejoth being the kind of dragon he is, that time has come now. Kas is wet, and dirty, and even so, he sort of hesitates on his way in, just enough of Rascela visible to be recognisable - his foot hovers, just off the ground, expression one of intense deliberation.

Perhaps it's nothing more than a hunch, perhaps she catches a glimpse of a shadow ... or, more likely, nothing more than wanting to check out the guy headed just that way after finishing his bath. In either case, it's enough to spur her to tilt her head -- under the pretense of rubbing behind an ear -- and note her fellow weyrling's posture. And, for a moment, she's silent, deliberating, before she flicks her fingers at him in a wordless 'come on over'. "Hey." No smile, of course, but there is a sense of uncertainty in the creasing of her forehead as she regards him.

Sprung. K'del's expression turns bashful, an embarrassed hand running through his hair, but he nods, venturing, with slow, not quite reluctant, footsteps, towards the bath where Rascela reclines. "Hey," he echoes, trying - audibly trying - to sound entirely comfortable, calm and friendly. "Nice bath?" He sits, pulling off his boots, then sodden socks, still moving slow.

Uncertainty dissolves almost immediately when he answers, a slight nod being offered and her mien settling into something a shade more friendly than her usual indifference. There's a not-quite-smirk on her lips at his question. "Better'n it was." And while Rascela might normally be perfectly fine with any ensuing silence, she shifts a little, then cranes her head to look at him a bit more acutely. "Ya a'right?"

"Yeah?" Kas doesn't press that point, instead simply nodding, as his shirt joins his boots and socks not far from the pool's edge, and he moves on to his pants. He seems to be avoiding actually looking at her, except that, every so often, his head ducks up a bit, as if to prove that it's not that at all, he just needs his concentration for pulling off his pants. He does not, however, lift his head at all, as he answers her question. "Fine, sure. Why wouldn't I be?"

And, despite all appearances to the contrary, she's not oblivious to any of it. "Yeah," is a noncommittal and answering echo of K'del's words, the gray-eyed young woman studying him with that lingering, half-lidded gaze. "Ain't seen ya all day," him being busy, her being busy. "Just wonderin'." And as he gets to the pants-removal portion of the stripping, Rascela drags her gaze away and tilts it up; the ceiling is a safe thing to look at. "Was thinkin'," she begins, "wouldn't mind someone t'spar with. Later."

"Busy," says K'del, by way of explanation, as his pants hit the floor with the rest of his clothes. Despite his mood, he's not unaware of Rascela's gaze, and there's a twitch of his lip in her direction as she stares at the ceiling. "Someone to spar with?" he repeats, as he steps into the water, positioning himself so that he can look at Rascela - but only if he wants to. "Can fit that kind of thing into your day, can you?" Your /busy/ day.

"Figured." Shoulders rise then fall, with her straightening just a little to try to work a kink out of her neck. Tilt, tilt, *crack*. He repeats her question and Rascela snorts, ever-so-softly. "Yeah." Didn't she just say that? Of course, his latter words are enough to pull her attention from the ceiling and over to him, just a sidelong flicker of her eyes. "Can, for a friend." There's a beat, then she continues, her attention shifting away, "Hittin' things an' bein' hit sometimes helps if I'm in a pissy mood. Work it out."

K'del misses Rascela's sidelong glance at him, his own commencing a few seconds later, as he mulls this over, visibly deliberating over how to respond. He takes up some soapsand to fill in the gap before he speaks, lathering it up with focused intent. "/Yeah/," he says, finally, looking at his knees through the water again, instead. It's probably a response to the last - the usefulness of hitting things. "Maybe that'd be good," he tacks on, several beats later. "If you do have the time."

Movement in her peripheral vision is worth a look askance, just watching him from the corner of her eye. "A'right." And Rascela continues to observe, mouth slowly moving to one side. Thoughtful. Then: "If I don't," she reasons, "I'll make it." Simple as that. Silence follows. And perhaps it's all that avoidance that's got her gaze slowly, but surely, tracking more fully to him. The crease right there between her eyebrows starts up again and deepens, subtly. Maybe he notices; maybe not.

"That's--" begins K'del, breaking off before he gets out more than that single word. He tries again, his gaze, just briefly, meeting hers - then moving on, two ships passing in the night. If he notices that crease, he makes no comment on it, verbal or otherwise. "Thanks. I'd like that. I--" Another break off. This time, K'del concentrates on soaping his knees, feet bobbing on top of the water. "If you can't, that's cool, though. Might be busy myself, anyway. Lots going on."

"What?" follows that broken off 'that's' and hangs relentlessly there. At the passing of his attention again, Raz eases just a little closer, barely a ripple following her slow, calculated movement. The 'what' isn't repeated again at his second break-off, though her brows lift inquisitively, wordlessly seeking more -- though it does nothing, if he's not looking at her. "Don't think I'd keep t'my word?" is bluntly asked, with her a good foot and a half closer than she was. "Or don't want me to?"

K'del, angsty teenager, doesn't look up, or even seem to notice Rascela's progress, until she's that foot and a half closer - at which point he blanches, and turns his head away again. "Neither of those," he explains, head shaking awkwardly, though he doesn't continue the thought immediately. He dips his hands back into the water, clearing the soapsand from them, and sighs. "Know you'll keep your word. You're good like that. Just," he looks up, finally, and his cheeks are pink, his expression embarrassed. "Kinda don't want you to, so that I can resent you." There. The words come out jumbled, too fast, and he sounds properly disgusted with himself.

"Hnh." It encapsulates everything he says, with her ceasing her progressive movement. And then silence, while the words are digested and fully mulled over. At least he's looking at her now; the hand that's half-lifted from the water just drops back down and Rascela nods, once, before wanting to know, "Why?" There is no judgment in her tone, just an open sort of wondering. And while there's that single verbal prod for more, her eyes are searching, head tilting just a little while she attempts to catch and hold his eyes. To pin him.

K'del can't seem to look away, though the way he keeps shifting, some uncomfortably, he almost certainly wants to. "You, and the others," he clarifies, sounding utterly miserable. No prize for guessing who he means by that. "But mostly you, because I like you, and I respect you, and it would be easier if I could just point at lots of reasons why I would have been a better choice. But you're nicer than you pretend to be, sometimes. You just hide. And you're good at stuff." Beat. "I'm such an idiot. Sorry."

"You woulda been," she replies, shoulders rolling in a shrug. "Their loss." Statement of facts made, she considers him for a moment or two longer before breaking the gaze to lift her chin at him. A ghost of a smile, not more than a slight movement of the corners of her mouth, follows and she slides just a little closer until she's next to him. "They'll see. Prob'ly mixed our cots up." And, for that, Raz does sound serious -- but, then, doesn't she always? There's that worry-wrinkle at his apology; she shakes her head, sharply. "'Sa'right. Don't need to 'pologize, yanno?"

Despite his awkward contrition, K'del can't help but look pleased at Rascela's words, accepting without question that she means what she she says. "Doubt that," he says of the cots, his head shaking. "Just have to prove they were wrong, is all. And I will." He watches her, as she comes closer still, visibly relaxing with every word in her response, though there's still a crease in his forehead, marking his own awkward unhappiness. "If you say so," he says of her last, lips parting into a half smile. "Feel bad, though. Not really used to not getting-- to not succeeding, you know?"

"Ayuh. You'll do a'right." It's as good an admission of faith as any. Rascela tilts her head toward him, then returns his half-smile with a small one of her own. "Can imagine. Ain't easy bein' th' one that's overlooked an' not havin' any way t'prove yourself otherwise." Rascela settles back, elbows being rested on the lip of the pool and her head tipping back. "Ain't your fault, though. So, just focus on doin' what yer doin' an' I'll try t'keep up."

K'del nods, just the once, and reaches for more soapsand, lathering it up to continue his scrubbing. "Yeah," he agrees, to everything, or perhaps something in particular, but unspecified. "You'll keep up, though, no problems," he assures her. "And-- if you learn anything interesting, pass it on? 'd like to know." He lets out a long breath, swishing water over his body to rinse away the lather.

"Enh." Where she has faith in him, it's sorely lacking in herself. But, she's now unmoving, contented to rest where she is, if only for the time being. A vague noise rattles at the back of Rascela's through at the last bit, a noise of assent that's given proper shape when she says, "Yeah. We'll let ya know. Keep notes an' all that. Reckon it'll do you more good'n me." Fingers flick absently in the water after a moment, much the same way that Uanth 'rolls' his claws on his couch.

"/Raz/," childes K'del, head shaking, pulling away from the wall so that he can glower at her face-on. "They saw something. Bet Uanth agrees. Me, too, even if I am horrendously envious. Shouldn't doubt yourself like that." He stays there, looking fierce, aside from the lather sliding down his cheek from a clump caught in his hair. "And if you really are having trouble, let me know, and I'll help. If I can."

A snort precedes a return to her 'normal' self, conceding his point without a word and only a slight tip of her head. "Got suds on ya." Obviously. Helpfully -- or just because she *can* -- Rascela reaches over in an attempt to flick some of the lather off of K'del's cheek. No answer to his offer to help, but there's not much of one needed; she will and he knows she will. The two are in one of the pools, which has been effectively abandoned at this point with people either making their way to get dinner or having finished their baths by now.

"Huh?" says K'del, intelligently, blinking around, although he stills in time to allow Rascela to flick the lather away, looking, by this point, amused by the whole thing. He doesn't push that other topic of conversation any further, dropping it as easily as she does - just grinning at the brownrider as he splashes water on his arms to remove the last of the suds from them, too.

P'ax comes in off of dinner duty with flour in his hair and a towel slung over his shoulder. The mostly empty cavern is mostly unnotable except for two of his fellow weyrlings. He approaches the bathing pool carefully. "Hey guys."

"Might wanna go under," she remarks, gesturing at his hair. Rascela's hand lifts just a little, perhaps primed to ruffle K'del's hair and a breath away from doing just that, but then P'ax arrives and her attention shifts that way. "Hey." The hovering hand is then withdrawn and she pulls back from K'del, elbows going back on the edge of the pool and back arching just *so* in an attempt to pop it. "Jays." Muttered, mostly under breath.

Though K'del nods, registering Rascela's suggestion, he stills, watching both her hand and her face, until the both are pulled away, and he, too, turns his attention towards the new arrival. His nose promptly wrinkles, and, instead of greeting P'ax, he follows that earlier advice, ducking under the water to free himself of the remaining suds.
P'ax frowns just a little, looking between the two of them. "Oh, I've interupted something, haven't I?" He sniffs and rubs his hand through his hair, coming away with a cloud of white powder. "Oh well, shouldn't be canoodling in the baths anyway." Over it as eay as that.

"Just talkin'," is all Rascela supplies, fixing P'ax with an even look -- if upside down, since she has to tip her head a bit further back to see him, rather than the ceiling. The look is a brief one and her attention shifts to the water, to where K'del ought to be. Then back to the back arching, with her expression darkening. She's met with a series of loud pops for her effort, but it's evidently not the one she's looking for from the way her expression sours. "How's th' kitchens," is meant for P'ax, even if she's not looking to him directly.

K'del, still underwater, misses P'ax's remark, and Rascela's response to it. His head emerges from beneath the water just in time to hear - and see - Rascela's next round of back arching, to which he winces, just slightly. Sounds awful. Stretching out, he paddles back towards the edge, leaning against it, though his gaze sweeps this way and that, lingering on neither of his companions for long, though more on Rascela than P'ax. He has, however, a smirk, for the reference to the kitchens - and this he aims directly at the other boy.

P'ax considers the two of them for another moment before turning away to undress and proceed into the water. "If you want, i could pop your back for you,' he offers, sinking into the warm water. "Oh, it's kinda peaceful, you know. I mean, not as peaceful as knitting, but there's something a little soothing about it. Don't get to hang out with Yyth so much, but she won't care once the sun comes out again and things warm up." He simply returns K'del's smirk with a smile. "How are weyrling lessons going?"

There's a slight shake of her head for the offer, even as she turns away and digs her knuckles into her lower back. "I'll get it." Eventually. Rascela listens or, at least, seems to, grunting just a little at the mention of Yyth. She glances over at P'ax when he asks his question but, discerning it's for K'del, she says nothing at all. Instead, a look over her shoulder is given to the bronzeriding weyrling, a brow quirked curiously. Amused.

K'del's expression is about as amused as Rascela's, though perhaps for a different reason. He shifts himself, again, reclining in the water so that his head rests upon the edge of the pool, and, with a light shrug, says, "Fine. Good, even. Start flying together, soon. And our own weyrs, in another month or so." He seems most taken with this idea, a self-satisfied expression crossing his face. "You got that yet, Rascela? The noise..." Makes him twitch, apparently.

P'ax shrugs at Raz. "Suit yourself." He glances between them and nods. "Yeah, yeah.. that's cool." He swirls his fingers in the water for a moment. "Must be nice. Dunno where they're putting me yet. Probably staying in the barracks." He drops his head back into the water to swish the flour clean of his hair. "So has Uanth come up with any more occult rituals to teach my dragon yet?"

Annd ... *crkk* ... "There." No sigh of relief for her; she just turns and gives her fingertips a once over. Pruned; lovely. It doesn't stop her from reclaiming her leaning spot against the edge of the pool ... it just means she's lacing her fingers behind her head from here on. "Better have a shardin' good bed," is all Raz will say on the topic of their soon-to-be weyrs. To P'ax, just a shake of her head. "He's been dreamin' up things, lately."

K'del's left eye twitches for that final *crkk*, before his face smoothes back into a more normal expression - light, easy, unconcerned. "Anything'd be better than a teeny tiny cot, like the ones we've got. But: mm, a bed'd be nice, yeah. Proper one. Guess you probably will stay in the barracks, P'ax," he adds, /sounding/ friendly enough, though his expression cools a little. "Yyth's not allowed to fly yet, is she? Uanth delights Cadejoth. Think he believes all of the stuff Uanth shows him; gets really excited, sometimes."

P'ax's eyebrows raise. "Sounded like a good one," he notes conversationally of Rascela's final back pop. "Yeah, the queens are keeping her on the ground. She's pretty peeved about it, too. She keeps trying to fly when noone is paying attention. She never gets very far. One of them always tunes in and slaps her down. It's pretty wearing." He smiles just a little. "Yeah, Yyth eats it up completely. She really likes Uanth. Cadejoth, too."

No comment on the grounded green, nor on the popping of her back. As talk shifts to include hers, Raz' eyes haze over briefly. "Yeah. He believes a lot of it, too," she finally says, eyes clearing and shifting from one to the other as they speak. "Reckon he likes everyone. Says it's interestin', how they're all connected." Not that she can explain it any better than that. "Has me drawin' most of th' stuff in his head." But, her mouth abruptly pulls to a side. "Ain't gonna have much time for it, though." Huh.

"And you haven't bothered to apologise to Satiet, yet?" Kas sounds dismissive as he says this, though that's no surprise when talking to P'ax. Like, ever. "Cadejoth likes her, too." Unspoken: weirdo. "Sure you'll fit a little time in there," he tells Rascela, smiling again. "Even if it's just-- you know, rest days and stuff. Occasionally."

P'ax nods at Raz sympathetically. "Yeah, the leadership stuff. Sorry about that. Well, I mean, sorry if you'r enot happy about it. But - yeah-" he agrees with K'del, "I'm sure you'll have time at some point." His eyes smooth towards K'del and he shrugs slightly. "I'm supposed to meet with her in a couple days. I will then. She's sorta been elusive. I got her something though, so ... maybe it'll be better."

Whether she's happy or not about it, it's hard to say. She shrugs, then shifts her stance a little, enough to put her palms on the edge of the pool. Not yet getting out ... but soon, from the looks of things. "Enh. We'll work it out," she says. Rascela doesn't offer a proper smile to K'del, but it's close enough -- a half-smile that reaches her eyes, if only for a second or two. Then impassivity sets in and she looks at P'ax. "Reckon so?" about the 'something' making it better, of course.

For a split-second, K'del looks relieved: no mention of himself, in relation to the leadership program. Moving along, he puts in, quickly, "What /did/ you get her? Do you trust yourself to-- you know, not screw that up, too?" Rascela's half-smile gets returned with one of K'del's own, a brief, encouraging, grin. "Don't really know Satiet, myself. But. I'd be careful."

P'ax gives Raz the most reassuring smile he can manage - it probably looks like he's about the vomit. He's not a good smiler. "Hope so." He drifts back against the edge of the pool, setting his chin in his palm and glancing at K'del appraisingly. "I hope, yeah. She was knitting, when I saw her. And /I/ like to knit. So.. well, I mean, I already got Eila some yarn to make up for what I said about Kelerith, so I couldn't afford anything new... but I was going to give her one of the skeins of yarn I got before I got Searched. It's nice, it's like, different shades of black and purple. So ... so maybe she'll like that." He sinks down a little, insecurely. "She probably won't. She'll think I'm trying too hard, won't she?"

"Might like it," is Rascela's eventual guess on Satiet's response to the gift. "Can't hurt." She finally pushes herself up and out of the water, if only to get so far as to perch on the pool's edge and then lean back to get her towel. Beyond those words, she seems to have nothing really to say, a shrug of 'your guess is as good as mine' being sufficient for now while she works the towel vigorously over her face and hair.

"Maybe," says K'del, his tone dismissive, though probably more due to lack of interest - knitting! girly things! - than any particular distaste for the gift in question. "No idea. Women tend to like presents, though, I think." He tilts his head up, watching Rascela as she hops out of the water, though less in an oogling kind of way, and much more thoughtful. "Mostly, though, reckon you just need to be honestly apologetic and contrite. Reckon she'd appreciate that more."

P'ax hurriedly looks away from Rascela, turning a horrible shade of red that has nothing to do with the heat of the water. "Well, I mean, we'll see." He clears his throat and asks brightly, "What are you guys up to now?" Distraction, whoo!

It might just be out of spite that she just /sits/ there, though the towel's draped over her neck. Rascela glances to P'ax, asking a flat, "What?" of his hurried looking away. If he was trying to keep attention off him, he's failed. Utterly. As to his latter question ... no answer; she's doing it. Sitting. Ta da. To K'del, though, she issues, "Most do. Some don't. Depends. Somethin' sweet usually wins 'em over. Or jewelry." Neither of which work on her, from her tone.

K'del smirks openly at P'ax's discomfort, leaning back against the side of the pool lazily, one toe extending out of the water, but most of the rest of him still comfortably submerged. "Going to smooth down the pads on my straps tonight, I reckon. And show N'par some of it; he's having trouble. Maybe do some reading before bed. Still bathing, here, though, right now." His head inclines, thoughtfully, at Rascela's remark. "And those that don't?" What wins /them/ over?

P'ax clears his throat and wrinkles his nose. "Nothing. Just, you know, shouldn't wave those things all around and all." He moves to get some sweetsand, lathering it into his hair. "Oh, you've already gotten pads onto your straps? Were they very hard to make?" His ear cocks towards Raz. "Girls are so strange. Boys don't really like things, you know?"

"Gotta be a damned good kisser," Raz responds without a blink to K'del. "Works on me every time." A rare break in her usual mask comes in the form of a wink for both of them, though it might just be a deliberate act of teasing in the case of P'ax. Especially at that 'things' remark; the aforementioned 'things' are jiggled. Ah, spitefulness. "Ain't nothin' no one's seen before." Back to talk of straps with, "Gotta finish mine. Ain't quite done yet. Uanth's bein' particular 'bout how much paddin' he wants."

See K'del. See K'del cheshire cat grin. "Duly noted," he tells Rascela, returning her wink, with a little extra flutter of his long eyelashes. By now, there's really no denying it: he can't help himself, but stare at Rascela's-- 'things', as it were. Seen before, sure, but: this is all but free license to stare! And, also: fifteen. "Not too hard," he reports, though his hands, covered in needle punctures, might deny that. "Cadejoth's not so keen - says they feel like he's being trapped, caged, or something. But I think they're nearly done."

P'ax shudders just a little. "K'del may have seen them before, but /I/ try not too look." Hence, not looking. "How do you know if someone's a good kisser, anyways? Can you just tell by looking?" Eyes soooorta shift toward Raz, firmly planted on her face and not at her jiggly..things. "Oh, well. I'm sure yours will turn out okay, Raz. And... Well, Cadejoth just has to get used to the way they feel, right?"

"Dunno. Just gotta do it. Ain't no harm in kissin' -- or lookin'," or so Rascela seems to think. "An' if it's bad, it's bad. Happens." She leans back just a little, palms flat on the ground behind her and her legs still in the pool. "Never had a complaint on mine, if y'wanna find out," is half-joking, half-serious. Mostly amused. Of straps, "Uanth likes his. Mostly 'cause they're t'protect me."

"Kissing's fun," pipes up K'del. "And most people get better with practice, so you can always just... keep trying. Which is better for everyone." He presumably takes her half-serious offer as intended for P'ax, for makes no comments on it except to smirk over at P'ax, again, concluding, on the other topic, "Yeah, he will. Looks forward to having me up there, so, guesses it's worth it, I think. Can't wait, really.

P'ax kind of just gapes at Raz. And then he replies stiffly, "I've never kissed anyone." Quickly he picks up the topic of straps. "I thought about maybe trying to make some, but I'd probably get in trouble and I don't want to dig myself in any worse. They'd probably get suspicious if they saw me examining the pattern or anyone else's straps too closely anyways. They left me up on the Star Stones last night, anyways, so I don't think I'm their favorite person to begin with."

"Gonna have to. Otherwise, yer gonna be in a world o' hurt when Yyth goes up and y'ain't ready." Ah, the joys of being Weyrbred. Rascela tilts a look to K'del. "Y'want to?" As shamelessly as that. Straps still manage to be interesting enough to garner her attention as she adds, "Yeah, prob'ly would," to P'ax' observation. "Could getcha some drawings, though. Diagrams. Ain't hard. Just takes time."

"You're too old to be that innocent," remarks K'del, lazily. "Raz's right: need to fix that one up." A beat after Rascela's question, shameless or no, he replies, as easy as if she'd asked if he wanted to wear shoes, "Sure. I'm up for it." Despite his apparent nonchalance, he doesn't quite manage to respond intelligently to the rest of what gets said, only noting, "Probably." Probably what?

P'ax scowls and says acidly, "No chance of Yyth going up if she can't fly. It'd have to be a run, not a flight. And no self-respecting dragon's going to hop after her over hill, over dell." K'del gets a slightly dirty look. "Apprentice, Candidate, Weyrling. Where'd I have time for kissing? Or, well, anything." His throat clears and he glances between the two of them, quietly letting the subject of straps fall away. "Er - you're not going to kiss /now/ are you?"

"Ain't no reason they'd keep her down for that. 'Course, if y'pissed off the Weyrwoman bad 'nuff that she can't fly when she's mature-" well, Rascela leaves it at that, snorting a little for P'ax' excuses. "There's time, if yer inclined." And then her head tips to K'del, brows lifted in mute curiosity. The ball's in his court for that, it would seem. For fixing up P'ax, though: "Could do it, if no one else will." Such a selfless volunteer.

"Cadejoth probably would," puts in K'del, though his nose wrinkles at the idea. "I think he'd think it was fun. Surely you could've gotten away with /kissing/ as an apprentice. Madilla has." And the healer apprentice is well known for being a /good/ girl. "If you've the time, I can make the time," he tells Rascela, already rising to a standing position, to wade closer. "It'd be educational, P'ax. Good for you. Learn some tips, maybe."

P'ax shrugs. "Who knows. I've made a good enough mess of things, it's possible I just won't catch up in time. When do greens normally go up, anyways? I have no clue. Not something we learn in Harper lessons." He glances between bronze and brown rider, sinking uncomfortably into the water. "Er, dunno so much about that, Raz." And then: "Who's Madilla? And there aren't a ton of girls at the Hall, you know? They keep us pretty well apart unless there's an adult hovering over you."

"Suit yourself," is aimed at P'ax. "An' Uanth'd chase, for th' record. Said as much." A beat, two, "A turn, turn an' a half?" Something like that, though she seems a bit uncertain herself. Ah well. She flicks a look to K'del, then straightens, leaning a bit forward now. "Yeah, educational. Ain't gonna kill ya. An' it ain't 'gainst th' rules." Then the corner of her mouth lifts and her attention turns to K'del. One brow lifts. Well?

"Yeah, you've probably got, like, a turn to catch up. If you're good. So you should probably-- you know." Be good. Kas takes the last few steps towards Rascela, position himself in front of her - with her sitting, and the depth of the pool, the positioning is at least relatively workable. "Healer Apprentice," is K'del's last comment, an explanation to P'ax. "Coulda kissed a boy, if you were forward thinking enough." But. Enough of P'ax. Rascela's eyebrow lift draws a smirk, a grinning one, one that gets wiped away as he leans in to smooch the other weyrling. Good and long, if he has anything to do with it.

P'ax doesn't look like he believes the girl. "Are you /sure/ it's not against the rules?" he asks carefully. "Er, yeah, coulda kissed a boy. Too late now." Oh, and then they're kissing, and P'ax just gapes awkwardly at K'del kissing Rascela. And.. Rascela kissing K'del. P'ax clears his throat and goes about rinsing soap out of his hair.

"It's not 'gainst th' rules," and she would know, if only because she's the sort that wants to know when those rules are /lifted/. That is uttered from the side of her mouth in a noise that's more of a growl, a growl silenced by K'del's kiss. Good and long if he's got anything to do with it; verging on rules-breaking if she does. But it does break. Eventually. And Raz intones a wry, "When's that other rule lift? Coupla months?" Hopeful? Never.

K'del doesn't respond to P'ax. There's this girl, see. And oh, rules-- so close to being broken. When it breaks off, Kas looks positively pleased with him. He's clearly had some practice with this kissing thing, perhaps even as much as his bravado suggests - but it's been a while, just to make it all the better. "Maybe when we get our weyrs," he suggests, though this might be hope as much as anything else. Soon. Please.

And they're still kissing when P'ax runs out of soap to wash off and so he just stands there watching dumbly, a nice unhealthy shade of pink. When they break apart, he offers helpfully, "I think they said.. um, when the dragons are old enough for mating flights, last I heard." Sorry to burst your hormone bubble, guys.

Satisfied, if only for now, Rascela reaches over with the full intention of ruffling K'del's hair now, if only because she can. And if he's had experience, she's had more -- and across a much broader spectrum -- which could be interesting. "Hnh. Maybe. Reckon they wouldn't keep us from it /that/ long," being directed to both of them, most likely. "'sides, ain't like they can supervise if we've got our weyrs."

K'del lets her, well pleased with himself, with her, with, presumably, everything - except perhaps P'ax. "Can't believe they would," he agrees, pulling his gaze away from Rascela and towards P'ax, briefly, so that he can roll his eyes at the other weyrling. "Right. Privacy, yeah. Can't really patrol it, if they give us our own space. Besides, Cadejoth didn't seem at all fussed by that kiss. Bet he'd be fine with more, even now." Though the water still covers him above the waist, Kas sinks lower into the water, pruned hands sweeping at its surface, splashing, vaguely, in the direction of Rascela's legs.

P'ax crosses his arms over his chest and eyes them both suspiciously. "Well, you should ask, if you're so curious. I mean, if it's that important and all. Don't get the big deal though. It's just mashing your faces together. What's so great about that?" Blue eyes roll and then a deep breath is exhaled. "You guys go ahead and test that theory when you get your weyrs and let me know how it goes, yeah? Just don't tell them I knew. I'm in bad enough."

"Plan on it," Rascela answers P'ax, sliding a look askance to him that lingers only as long as necessary. Then, back to K'del -- mostly to look a bit amused at his lowering in the water and his vague splashing. She kicks a bit of water back at him, adding, "Uanth's got his thorns all up," but she seems to dismiss that as being normal or expected in some way. "He just don't want me gettin' too close t'anyone that ain't him."

"Wait until you try it to pass judgement," Kas promises P'ax. "You'll see. Unless you're too nasty to everyone for anyone to want to get close, in which case, well, I guess you won't." He looks almost embarrassed for Rascela's amusement, but also resigned, maybe even a little amused: what can you do? "Poor Uanth. He shouldn't worry; no one could usurp him. Just a bit of fun."

P'ax shrugs and admits without any hint of his usual self-pity, "Probably right. Likely won't ever find out." He grabs a towel, slinging it around his waste as soon as he's clear of the water and hoping up to sit on the edge of the pool rim just a bit from Rascela. "Yyth's kinda like that. She gets jealous, especially when I pay more attention to someone and not her. She's a little better since I started working in the kitchens though. It means she has to spend a lot more time without me. Really good for her to learn independence. Uanth'll get used to it, I'm sure." He gives the female weyrling a look like he imagines she isn't going to give up flirting any time soon. Or everything that follows.

"So y'think," Raz snorts, then flicks a look to K'del. "Enh. 'Swhat I'm tellin' him. He's settlin'. Tryin' t'explain th' difference between one an' th' other. Sure he'll be fine with one, so long as it ain't got th' other attached." Love versus lust; that age-old thing. A nod to P'ax, "Yeah. Kinda like that. Reckon he will, though." Some day. More water is kicked in K'del's direction, just because.

In response, K'del flicks more water at Rascela, pausing then to examine his wrinkled hands, and grimaces. Time to get out? Awkward, though. He seems to have followed her words well enough, because he nods: "Only ever had experience with the one, myself. Plenty happy with that alone, though." After shooting a glance at P'ax, for an unspecified reason, he begins to wade back towards the side of the pool, where he hovers, as if waiting for exactly the right moment to hoist himself out.

P'ax isn't paying attention to K'del, he's paying attention to Raz. "So what did you do before you were Searched, Raz? I know you were Weyr-bred. Here, or another Weyr? Did you work in the lower caverns?" His eyebrows raise expectantly, trying to engage the airy girl in conversation. For whose sake, it's hard to tell.

"Ayuh. None of that shardin' ... nonsense goin' with it," she agrees with the bronze weyrling. "Any time y'wanna." And he can fill in the blank after that. While K'del's obviously got to wait -- and, yes, that is a wickedly knowing look shot his way -- Rascela's moving to get up and finish the drying off process. "Hunter," is her initial reply, though she does clarify with, "From Fort Weyr." A hand is dragged through her short-short hair, spiking it up a bit.

"Right," agrees K'del, with a lazy roll of the eyes. "Waste of time, the nonsense. Life's too short, all of that." His head inclines with her offer, a rueful grin, a sharper nod: noted. And, probably, reciprocated, though he doesn't say as much verbally. Despite his predicament - and, well, made easier because P'ax isn't paying attention to him at all - he now pushes himself out of the water, covering the evidence with his towel in short order. "Got things to do," he reports, mostly to Rascela, maybe to P'ax. "See you all later." He'll dress, evidently, somewhere else. After.

P'ax tips his head in interest. "Hunter, huh? Yeah, guess that fits. Uanth and all. Him and Yyth are something. He still like eyes?" His eyes flick to K'del covertly and he drawls, "Yeah, I bet you do."

Her clothes are here, so here's where she'll dress. Raz lifts her chin to K'del, "A'right. See ya." And, to her credit, she doesn't chuckle -- though there is definite amusement there. /Smug/, even. And maybe, just maybe, understanding. While she dresses, she answers P'ax with, "Yeah. Still likes eyes. Likes sharin' th' taste." She sticks her tongue out, briefly, with disgust. "He's odd 'bout it, still wants me t'keep an eye under my cot at night."

But K'del isn't fussed by P'ax's drawl, merely returning it with a light shrug of the shoulders: well, what do you do? He has a similar expression for Rascela, if tempered by more amusement, matching hers. "Later," he agrees, and then he's gone, taking his dirty clothes with him.

P'ax watches K'del leave and gets to his feet to likewise dress, perhaps with more modesty than the girl, but - well, she's not interested in what he has anyways, so what's to be bothered about. "So, you like him?" he asks, chin jerking towards where K'del just exited. "At least he isn't making you keep what the eyes are encased in. Yyth's got me hiding whole skulls under my cot now. I have to boil them or.. you know.. it'd reek."

Anything might be more modest than Raz. Pants on, she's halfway through pulling her shirt on when he speaks. She grunts, jerks the shirt down, and starts to tuck it in. "Yeah," is fairly matter-of-fact, without any elaboration. To the last, she quirks a brow, "Really. Sounds like somethin' she'd want done. Don't envy ya that."

P'ax grins just a little. "It's kinda cool. I've never gotten to see something's insides. Their bones and everything. It's pretty fascinating." He tugs his pants up over his hips and says carefully. "I don't think he likes me. I think he would have left the minute I came in if you weren't here. I don't know what else I can do. I don't have-" he gestures at his chest emphatically. "And kissing might work for you, but I'd get punched. Or.. stabbed. Or something."

"Ayuh. I'm used t'seein' it all; had t'clean kills an' butcher 'em, yanno?" So, it's nothing new for her, at least. To the last, though, Rascela just cants her head. Silent for a moment, then: "So, y'like him." Not judgmental; not demanding. Just curious in her weird, somehow disinterested way. Though, to emphasize the fact, "Ain't nothin' wrong with it. I'd do th' same with some of th' girls."

P'ax nods his head. "It's a change. Well, it's not all bad, at least. Grossed me out, at first. But that's just the blood and insides. The bones - they're just kinda... well. You understand." Deep breath in, deep breath out. "Yeah, I guess I do. But - don't tell him that, okay? He'd probably hate me even more if he knew." If he hadn't already guessed. "And I guess it's not wrong, but that doesn't mean he'd like it."

"Yeah," she understands. Rascela moves to sit and pull her boots on, making quick work of the lacings. "Y'like girls too, or just boys?" she wants to know, not addressing any of the rest. Perhaps silence is agreement; one can only hope. In either case, she observes, "Ain't sure he's th' sort that'd be into guys outside of flights." Cheeky thing.

P'ax considers, "I dunno. Think I like just boys. But... mostly I haven't known enough girls to know if I like them are not. I can tell if a girl is pretty, but I don't... think about them. Does that make sense?" He presses his thumbs to his closed eyes for a moment. "You're probably right. Just wasting my time."

"Makes sense." Rascela finishes up, the towel being tossed around her neck again for the time being. Her belt's adjusted and everything else is given a thorough checking to make sure it's all right. "Well, if y'wanna try, t'find out if y'like girls any, lemme know." For kissing? For more? She leaves that up for interpretation. To the last, "Yeah. Ain't like th' Weyr ain't crawlin' with guys, though. Reckon you seem the sort t'want more than someone t'screw 'round with."

P'ax eyes Raz thoughtfully. "We'll see," he agrees in an uncommited way. "What makes you think that?" He rubs ferociously at his hair with his towel before tossing it into the used towel bin and jamming his feet into his boots. "I mean... do I give off the love vibe instead of the lust vibe?"

Rascela studies him for a few moments, then answers, "Yeah, well, someone that ain't kissed anyone before's gotta be holdin' out for somethin'." She moves toward the bin, considers her towel, and then lobs it in to join the others. "If y'were into th' lust thing, you'd have done at least that much." But, she shrugs, adding, "Could be wrong. Ain't usually."

P'ax grins awkwardly. "What makes you think I haven't wanted to? I just have never been in the position to. And even if I was, I wouldn't know how to go about it. I'm not really sure if I'm holding out for anything except someone willing." His eyes sweep up and down the brownrider. "Who knows. You seem to have a better handle on this than I do, so maybe you're right."

"Lust means y'just ... do it," she points out. "First time kissin' a boy was just ... takin' an' doin'. Same with th' first girl. Y'don't think 'bout how t'do it or whatever an' ta hell with th'consequences. Love- that's where yer waitin' for th' right moment, th' right person, th' right everythin'." Rascela extends a hand, offering to lay it on P'ax' shoulder. "Reckon you'll figure it out, but y'gotta be blunt." A corner of her mouth jerks up. "'Specially with boys."

P'ax wrinkles his nose, the tip of it drawing upwards and accentuating his grimace. "Again... going to get stabbed. Maybe I'll try it. Just... kiss someone. Get stabbed. To hell with the consequences." His mouth twists into a grin. "Actually - I sort of like that idea. To hell with the consequences indeed. So, will you make those drawings for me, then? I think I have some riding straps to make."

"Depends on what y'get stabbed /by/," Raz snorts, the sound sufficing as laughter. "Just do it. Ain't gonna kill ya, I promise." And then she's moving away, her pace casual. "I'll getcha those sketches later. Reckon there's no harm in givin' someone drawings, yanno?" What he does with them? That's /his/ business.

P'ax grins at Rascela, and calls, "You just hope I don't get killed. You never know, I might." It could happen. He laughs, like he's choking. "Erm, good night, Rascela. I'll see you later. There's something I gotta do."

"Ayuh. Well, y'do, y'do. Y'don't, good on ya. Get it outta yer system." She tips a two-fingered salute to P'ax, then Rascela's off, moving with her usual quiet footfalls. "See ya."

[Vignette] - Rascela & Uanth: Week 5: Silver Thread

2008-11-21T22:31:15Z

Rascela teaches Maraya some self-defense and finds a surprise waiting for her at the barracks. She's not sure how to take it.

"Just shardin' hit me a'ready."

"But what if I-"

"Do it."

Rascela braced herself, fists up and body ready. Maraya wasn't the strongest of the lot, not by a long shot, but she had some good potential; the weyrling greenrider hauled off and swung, aiming for Raz' midsection in a body blow ... only to pull back at the last second. The brownrider grunted her annoyance and lowered her fists, reaching to take Mara's hand and place it where she wanted her to hit.

"Don't be afraid, a'right? Ain't like I'll bite ya." And then there was a smile, one of those strange and dangerous ones, as she added, "'less y'want me to."

Maraya shook her head fervently. It was about what Raz expected, but she didn't feel terribly disappointed either; the girl wasn't her type, not by a long shot.

"Then hit me. If a fella gets it in his head to hit ya, he ain't gonna pull back. You shouldn't, neither."

Self defense. As with all of the more physically oriented sorts of lessons, Rascela took easily to it; it didn't hurt that she'd had her fair share of scrapes and scuffles with the older boys in her youth. Managed to get two broken noses and a cracked rib at some point because of it, so she was no stranger to the idea of pain. The last guy that busted her nose wound up worse for it; a broken nose and a broken jaw for his trouble. Now, of course, she was trying to get Maraya and Briora up to snuff.

It's what she usually did, in the spare time she had that wasn't devoted to drawing or tending to Uanth; helping the girls out, sometimes the boys. Self-defense, mostly, but Uanth was happy to fly with their lifemates, to encourage them and goad them along with his mental critters. Sometimes she answered questions, being somewhat older than the others and having had plenty of experience in all things relating to Weyrlife.

Despite preferring to be taciturn and aloof, Uanth was the one frequently nudging her to help the others -- <<She needs guidance,>> he had said of Maraya. Not long after and she was engaged in mock-fisticuffs with the girl. It still amazed her, how easy it was for him to tug her strings and get her to do things she'd never thought possible.

She was doing well in her other lessons, too -- all his doing, all of it, her handwriting was much improved from what it was months ago. And then Maraya finally landed a hit and Rascela's thoughts turned to the here-and-now, a grin lighting her face up rather than the grimace or scowl the other girl had no doubt been expecting.

"Again."

And it went on for another good half hour before Maraya just couldn't keep up any more. Both were sweating and ragged, bruised up a fair bit and due for a bath and rest, but only Rascela was smiling still.

"Good," was all she said, then she turned and walked away.

~*~

Needed a bath, needed a change of clothes. So, off to the barracks she went, Uanth loping along behind her. Proud, though he didn't say a word; didn't need to. She could feel it; a string of jewels interlaced with flowers in the mind, a crown that tingled just under her skin.

Raz reached her cot and stopped, gray eyes sharpening when her gaze caught on something upon the blanket.

"Hnh."

A silver thread. Uanth leaned forward, neck curving over her shoulder to peer at it. <<What does it mean?>> he wondered, his voice a curl of conspiratorial smoke, the chitterlings going eerily silent.

>>Don't mean nothin'. Musta been a mistake,<< she answered, rubbing at the brown's jaw with a raw-knuckled fist. She eyed the thread warily, then moved to get some clean clothes. Maybe it'd be gone after her bath and change. Uanth stayed, promising he would keep an eye on it.

The thread persisted.

She didn't dare to touch her cot, as if the thing had infected it somehow; her arms crossed over her chest and she just stared, mouth set in a line and her thoughts grinding, grinding, grinding over the hows and whys of it. Those thoughts were abruptly halted by the casual intercession of her lifemate, an idle-seeming: <<Why not?>>

>>Th' hell's that s'posed to mean?<<

<<You are at a crossroads,>> he explained, clambering up to his couch and perching there. He sat high, neck curved, and she pressed her forehead to his, rough hands to his cheeks. Reverent. Worshipful.

<<Few get to choose their fate, my Lady.>> In their mental space, she found herself on a path that split, the ends unseen. <<No one can see the end of the path they are on -- perhaps they are the same, in the end. But, perhaps- perhaps they are far more different than you could ever imagine.>> The only difference was that a silver thread lay across one. <<Choose,>> he directed.

And where she thought there would be hesitation, there was none.

>>Ain't much of a choice, is it?<< Sardonically intoned.

In the place where their minds met, she reached for the thread and started on that path, only to be gently jostled free and into the physical world again, nudged toward her cot. She sat, heavily, and pulled her knot off, fingers blindly seeking the silver thread. Methodically, she wove it in, silent all the while.

~*~

The finalized leader's roster was worth a brief looking over. It took a second skim to catch what was missing.

One eyebrow lifted at the perceived omission.

"Hnh."

No K'del.

And she couldn't help but wonder, briefly, if the silver thread in her knot should have been meant for him.

[OOC] - Inspiration: Moonstruck Runes Brown Uanth

2008-11-21T01:01:12Z

Moonstruck Runes Brown Uanth

Desc: A strange and pallid thing is he, his hide a pale, moon-kissed brown that, when oiled, glistens with a fey brilliance. Otherworldly whorls of slightly darker brown, as if brushed upon his hide like ink, decorate his broad forehead, his low eyeridges cloaking his eyes in perpetual shadow. Headknobs curve slightly down and then forward in a peculiar curl, while his muzzle is sleek, but somewhat flattened. His limbs are also marked -- whorling patterns, exotic tribal designs, all of which soon dissolve into twisting, gnarled markings that ease over prominent joints and lead down to incongruently long digits with matching ebon claws. His wings are equally pale, the contrasting ebon-dark of his spars bleeding out like so much ink, dragged into faint spirals and ragged lines upon the 'sails. His tail is long and marked with a spiral of inky darkness which ends rather abruptly at the tips. He moves with an odd kind of grace, a disjointed sort of fluidity that is paradoxically smooth and awkward -- while it lends him a jarring lope of a stride, the rest of him moves with a contrasting and preternatural ease of motion.

Personality: You are in for a wild time, Rascela. Uanth is a beast prone to vivid flights of fancy, starting the very moment he chose *you* and continuing in perpetuity. As a weyrling, it will be difficult to get him to focus on the tasks at hand, as he will be far more interested in conversing with his fellow weyrlings and telling stories to them with the characters that populate his mind. The Harpering lessons will be of particular interest to him, and he will ask, plead, /beg/ you, his Lady, to remember them all or write them down. More importantly, he will insist that you draw -- for, in you, he senses an artist just waiting to break out of her pragmatic shell.

As he grows, he will start to settle into learning the lessons as they're put forth, though all for your sake and not terribly much for his. Unfortunately, he will never move particularly gracefully, something which will only compel him to excel in the skies, as opposed to the ground -- he will move rarely and when he does, it's with his peculiar jerky elegance that often gives him an otherworldly appearance. << Fire, my Lady. This is something I must learn to protect you, >> he might remark. << We have to learn to fly below the clouds if we are to reach the stars.>> This is just the start, the barest beginnings of a dragon who will serve as both a guardian and a guide for you, a protector who can only show you the way.

Hunting will be a rare pleasure for him, something he will revel in with a certain kind of glory. While he will not be one to torture his prey, he will be selective in what he kills and how he kills it, adopting a sort of ritual about the whole thing. The most important part of this 'ritual' is eating the eyes of the creature first and foremost. This quirk is not one he will attempt to explain, any more than he'll explain why he likes to share the taste with you. Get used to it; it's not something he'll be dissuaded from.

He'll never be an ambitious sort, though he might someday desire to become a Weyrlingmaster -- if only to serve as a guide, a guardian, for the young as much as he is for you. Of course, there is a streak of the trickster in him, but it's a well-meaning sort of thing -- if you complain of feeling unwell at night, he might suggest placing a bowl under your cot filled with a random array of items. He will be full of these inexplicable 'folk remedies', most of which he will insist you do, if only to humour him -- at least until he forgets why he told you to do it in the first place. He is also fond of giving 'quests' to you, tests which consist of cryptic requests or suggestions that will linger in the back of your mind like a barb until you figure them out -- it's his way of nudging you, to ensure you're on the path you're meant to be.

There is also a streak of mischievousness in him that only truly manifests when you start to venture into the realm of romance; because he is one that is devoted only to you and expects you to be the same to him. While he will be permitting -- even encouraging, with a rush of summer wind and butterflies in your belly -- of fleeting dalliances with men and women alike, he will become irrationally jealous of anyone you choose as a long-term lover. Then and only then will his pranking come in earnest with a casually malicious edge, meant to drive a wedge between you and yours.

Even in flights will this be prevalent; while he will chase with a single-minded purposefulness, regaling the female with stories, with boasts and seeking to outmaneuver the other males with a trickster's shameless techniques, he will always leave her side mere moments after the afterglow has left -- and he will expect you to do the same. He will, notably, be more forgiving of any lingering in the presence of another woman, but males will be especially worthy of his ire. He will chase often, of course -- gold or green, he cares not, only that she's female and receptive; trying to ground him will be a terrible ordeal, as his desires burn with an intensity that is rivaled only by his love for you.

If he's ever fortunate enough to sire a clutch, expect him to prefer being on the ledges to watch rather than the sands. He will obey the queen, of course, but he will do only what is necessary to ensure her comfort and happiness before he insists on spending time with /you/. The eggs will be the recipients of stories, fanciful wanderings through his mental scape, and the day after those eggs have hatched, he will withdraw.

Searching, now ... that is one of his strengths. He will be almost as prolific at blues as sniffing out candidates, though he will be notorious for putting them through tests before he deems them worthy. It could be as simple as finding him something with fish in it eat, or asking them to tell him a story he's never heard. He might ask what a colour tastes like, or have them catch a tunnelsnake to bring to him. Of course, one could say the test is less for them and more to see if you will actually voice his request, but such is how he is.

All in all, he is a flight of fancy to contrast your earthiness; an elemental, whimsical thing to balance your straightforward tendencies. He will be your guide, your best friend, and your worst nightmare ... all in one, pale brown package.

Mindvoice: His mental space is a strange and terrifying thing, filled with more than just thoughts but also bizarre creatures and ominous portents that are forever lingering at the edges of that mist-filled wood. Chitterlings and a shambling shape, oddities of all sorts might make an appearance or lend their voices to his own. Ancient ruins provide a backdrop for most conversations, arcane patterns floating just out of reach. His voice is rich, melodic, but with a strange accent and a subtle lisp that can make it difficult to understand. When he's in storytelling or quest-giving mode, he might pull out an ancient tome, blood and ink used to transcribe his thoughts into words; when he's in a rage, his voice will rise into a high, howling shriek, of wind tearing through trees and bloody spatters will dominate his mental palette. The elements are a particularly fond prop and it will be common for him to rumble as the earth or sigh as the wind, to chuckle like crackling flames and to converse as a babbling brook.

Impression: The heat, the sand, the noise -- for one bright and painful moment, it becomes too much and you are forced to shut your eyes, to cover your ears, to grimace in an effort to make it all just go *away*. Instead, you find yourself in a bizarre and twisted forest, mist clotted about the distorted trees, and the whole tableau illuminated with a muted and all-too-surreal blue light. Lost and frozen in place, you cannot find your feet to move when a pair of luminous red eyes floats into your vision. And, oh, but his voice is a resonant thing, exotically accented with a slight lisp as he speaks, << A long time ago, there was a girl -- a Lady among hunters -- who walked away from the only life she knew to see the world beyond. A huntress, but destined for something more, something greater. That Lady is you, Rascela, >> the name is a purr, << and this is your destiny. >> And before you can articulate the question of 'who are you', he is answering, leaves rustling in the fey trees of his mind to emulate pleasure, << Mm. I have as many names as there are stars in the sky, names that only the air and earth can pronounce. >> His sigh is a gusting of wind, a rattle of leaves, and a return to the reality in which a brown dragon is standing at your feet. << For you, I am ... I am your rock, your mountain, your ocean, your forest -- your Uanth and your most humble servant, my Lady. Let us eat and talk a while.>>

Itchy: Dry hide will be a common complaint for him, most especially around his knobbly joints and especially where all those markings are -- the ones on his forehead, in particular, will need special attention.

Inspiration: Faun, from Pan's Labyrinth with a liberal dash of the horned god Pan as well. ;) All in keeping with the theme of 'monsters' from the clutch.

[Log] - Rascela in: Talkative, Shockingly

2008-11-20T23:53:54Z

When: November 18, 2008 (IC: 10.18.03.27)
Who: C'mryn, Rascela
Dragons/Others: None
Where: Garden Patio Ledge @ HRW
What: Raz' artistic proclivities, Uanth's ocular obssession, and the state of the Snowasis are discussed. Also: the possible past use of the mug C'mryn is drinking from.

It's after the weyrlings have been released on their free time that Rascela's found herself some dinner and trekked all the way from the living cavern to the one place she can usually find a place to sit that's not insanely loud or crowded. Sure, she's got to deal with the dinner crowd here, but at least it's not indoors and /packed/ feeling. She sets up shop, as it were, in an out-of-the-way corner, her dinner placed in the middle of the table and a leather-bound book opened in front of her. Stylus in hand, her eyes unfocus ... and then she applies the tip of the utensil to paper and begins to draw.

Freedom for Weyrlings means, more often than not, freedom for Weyrlingmaster Assistants, as well. And who would begrudge any of 'em, really, for heading straight to the relaxing comforts of the Snowasis, however... relaxing they seem to be these days. Perhaps it is just that reason, lack of comfort or lack of umbrellas, that has C'mryn walking *out* of the bar at a hurried pace. Collar turned up, one hand stuffed in his pocket, Cam leaves the bar with a beer in his other hand and a scowl on his face. It might have something to do with the less-than-clean appearance of his mug. A glance around has him dismissing likely tables, either for their location or for their occupants, and he settles on a familiar face. He walks over, kicks out a chair, and drops himself at Rascela's table whether she wants him there or not. "Whatcha got there?"

Gray eyes flick up, just over the edge of the book, and the stylus stops its movement across the page. She'd normally be content to just say, "Nothin'," and leave it at that, but her eyes haze over again, briefly, as Uanth makes his opinion known. Then, and only then, does Rascela add, "Somethin' he wants t'show me. Gotta draw 'em, otherwise he says they die." She disbelieves, naturally, and yet, here she is, indulging him. "Ice critters or somethin'; ain't sure, really." Of course, she's not showing what she's got. Instead, her eyes drift purposefully to his drink and consider it. Then, in her low, gravelly drawl, "Fine mess, ain't it?"

That certainly gets an amused look from the assistant, eyebrows raised even as he lifts the glass to his mouth - oh, he's going to drink it alright, dirty or not. "Ice whatsits?" he questions once he's swallowed, but it's more a rhetorical tease than anything else. Ungloved hands coil around his mug for something to do, and he keeps it against him as he leans back in his chair. "Dragons. Peculiar creatures. 'Least yours has hobby that doesn't involve hours of bathing later." He clears his throat as he considers his mug a second time, one finger unwinding to scratch at something suspicious looking on the rim. "Yeah," he agrees. "Not much to be done, though."

"Reckon it could be worse. Still ain't used t'him sharin' his food," Rascela answers. "Loves eyes, Faranth knows why." At his teasing -- or, rather, perceived curiosity -- she sets the stylus down, then flips the book around. Ice critters, to Uanth, are vaguely humanoid; faery-like with crystalline wings and jagged hair. Not half-bad for someone with a self-professed lack of imagination; there's a lot of potential there, yet unrealized. To the last, she tilts her head just a little. Thoughtful. But all she can say to the situation as a whole is a flat, "Damn shame."

Curious. Cam leans forward, pushing away from his chair to lean over and inspect the drawing. Though they seem to confuse him a bit - ice creatures indeed - he settles back into his seat with a complimentary, "Not bad. Coulda been an artist." Maybe. He goes back to idly picking at that something on his glass. "That?" with a jerk of his head towards the Snowasis. "I imagine it'll sort itself out. Can't be good for business, ya know?"

"Better at killin'," is her observation. The book is withdrawn, closed, and then set in her lap. For safe-keeping, of course. The plate is drawn closer to her with her fingertips, then her fork dug into whatever happens to be most convenient for her to eat. "Ayuh," she confirms at the indication of the Snowasis, her shoulders rising and falling with relative indifference. "Either it'll work out or it ain't gonna. Reckon it'd just turn into somethin' different if it don't." That being spoken around a mouthful of mashed tubers and peas.

No comment is made for the withdrawn sketchbook, Cam occupied with his cleaning-of-the-glass routine now. It's almost a game: how big of a chunk can he pick off at one time? "That so?" for killing things. "Never had much stomach for it, when I was younger. Had to grow one, ya know. Tausreth's messy and very happy to share. Doesn't like eyeballs, though," and there's a grin over his glass for Rascela. If Cam minds her manners, or lack of them, he says nothing. "Oh, it'll never be anything different," he's certain. "N'thei wouldn't have it. Gotta have his bar, ya know?"

"Was a hunter." But, he might have already known that. No matter. Rascela continues her methodical shoveling, eyes fixed more on the food than on the man in front of her. "Killed, skinned, gutted ... all that. Know how t'make decent jerky, too. Ain't bad work. But, yeah. The eyes -- ain't right." There's a flicked look to the Snowasis again, then, observing the obvious, she intones, "'Least he can do is treat it right, if he wants it so bad."

Maybe he knew. Maybe he knew and forgot? Either way, Cam gives Rascela a curious look, then a smirk, and a brief, "Yeah, I can see that." Killing things. "Ever asked him why he likes 'em?" For the eyeballs. He gives up on the grime, taking another long swallow despite the chill of the air and the chill of the drink. A snort. "Can't say that I know N'thei's mind, but I'm hoping it's in his plan for the place. Bring back a few of the-" half-beat, "Napkins and things." Certainly not the barmaids, nope. "Didja go in ever? Before, I mean."

The plate is turned and she sits up a little, brows quirked. "Yeah, I did." Straightforward, that, though it's another glassing over of her eyes that's soon followed with a grudging, "Can't really explain. It's ... a thing. Like th' ice things." She has no clue. Rascela shrugs, glances at her plate, and settles in again. Silent, at least while he speaks and she eats. There's a grunt, in the end, "Nah. Didn't have much chance to. Heard it was nice. Not as nice as th' Sandbar, but I ain't been there, neither."

"Ah," for dragon 'things'. Cam offers a lazy sort of shrug, well settled into his chair now. "Well, see, they're vastly different, Snowasis and Sandbar. Snowasis is all about rugged, rough and roudy... Sandbar's all glitz and glam, 'refined' or something. I think I like the Snowasis better. I don't feel like I have to wash up before I walk into it." Especially considering the current situation. "Shame, really, that it's sunk to where it is. I mean, s'not so bad just yet. Few dirty dishes, missing things. No umbrella's for fruity drinks. Used to be cleaner, but the atmosphere's not changed much."

"Hnh." Eloquent as ever. The fork is set on the near-empty plate, the plate shoved away, and her hands wiped quickly on her thighs. "Too shardin' warm down there, anyways," Raz remarks, settling into a proper slouch in her chair. A hand is placed possessively over the book, keeping it in place, but she doesn't open it or otherwise move it. "'Sa'right here. Good- what'd ya call it? Atmosphere. Reckon that's all that matters, really." Her chin lifts, indicating the glass, "But it ain't that hard t'wash a cup, yanno?"

"I hear ya there," agrees Cam, raising his glass in a mock-toast about the weather. "Talk about unnatural. We've still got snow, and they're swimming." A small 'go figure' shrug. "Seem to fit," her and the atmosphere. "And no, it's not. But it's a chore that most aren't apt to doing without being told to, and less are likely to put much effort into it. Bit short staffed, I think. Although... they probably could start sneakin' a few down to the kitchens to get washed there." A thoughtful pursing of his lips as he gives the idea more serious consideration. "Meh. Not really my problem, though. And I, at least, don't mind." And just to prove it, he'll take another gulp or two, ignoring the bits of something-or-other that float in his beer.

Lacking a glass, Rascela just returns the mock-toast with a slight tip of fingers toward him in a half-hearted salute. "The cold's good," she intones, snorting just a little at nothing in particular. There's a shake of her head, then her fingers drum idly on the book. Just an empty rattle that ends abruptly. "Nah, it ain't," she concludes. "Still a damned shame. Woulda figured folks woulda, yanno. Thought of that." Not that she did, either, but that's hardly the point here. Then, abruptly, "Whaddaya figure musta been in that'un last?" Meaning his glass, of course, from the way she cocks a thumb at it.

Her drumming fingers, audible to Cam even if he can't see that book, earn a bit more of his attention, a attempt at craning his neck over the table to peek curiously at the still-closed book. "Cold's cold. But I think I'd prefer having some sorta winter to having no winter at all." Another shrug, a curious look into his glass, and a dry, "Ya know, I don't think I *want* to know. S'long as it doesn't kill me, I'll be happy!" He downs the rest of it, closing his eyes to avoid actually *seeing* those floating things going in his mouth, and then thumps it onto the table. "So. You draw just what Uanth tells you to draw, or didja draw before him, too?"

Her laughter isn't much more than a slightly different sort of snort, paired with a toss of her head. Rascela agrees, "Prob'ly best y'don't know. Reckon it ain't gonna kill ya, though." Pause. "Maybe." Joking, maybe; hard to say with her. Her palm flattens on the book, smoothly sweeping over it, then she shakes her head at his question. "Never before. Too busy workin'." There's a thoughtful pause, then she continues, "He musta figured I had it in me, otherwise he wouldn'ta mentioned it. He's funny 'bout that, what he sees."

"Well, if I do, I don't mind. Had a good life. Besides, if I am a casualty to the unknown beer mug, maybe it'll prompt 'em into more thorough cleaning?" Nothing like a little death to make people step up in chores! Cam laughs, his much more easily distinguished as such. A flop back into his seat, a slide down his chair, Cam looks exceedingly lazy. "Shame," he echoes from earlier. "Is it something you'd do now, without his prompting?" And then a small snort. "Funny how? Funny like, he gets upset if you don't draw it?"

More laughter, if one can call it that. Rascela shifts in her seat, twisting enough to snare a spare chair with a boot and draw it closer -- only to prop her boots up in it. "Reckon so," but she doesn't sound overly convinced. Still, one corner of her mouth remains jerked in a half-smile of sorts. Amused. "Ayuh. This?" A tap to the book is given, "Yeah, prob'ly. Ain't had a reason t'draw anythin' else, least nothin' I wouldn't get th' stink eye for drawin'." To the last, she shakes her head. "Yeah. Well. He's got a headful of stuff. The shamblin' thing's th' only one he don't let me look at. Everythin' else, he wants me t'draw. And then he's got stories. Ain't sure where he gets it."

A smirk. "Ah, well," decides Cam. "Could always draw dragons?" Of course he'd pick the obvious one. "I won't presume to know what goes on in any dragon's head, least of all one that's from Malsaeth and Rielsath's clutch. Whole lot of 'em - you guys - are nuts. If it's not Xatolaeth's water phobia, Yyth's bloodlust, it's Kelerith's energy. Don't know where they get it from." Another up-down of his shoulders, this one lingering up just slightly longer than normal. "Well. I oughta get that back," is said with a nod for the glass, "And leave you alone with your drawings."

"Reckon so." There's a pause, considering, then, "Reckon Tausreth'd stay put long 'nuff for it?" Worth a shot. In either case, she just shrugs, glancing back over a shoulder in search of the brown that may or may not even be visible from this point. "Yeah. Well. Reckon storytellin' ain't so bad, even if he's got his eyeball thing. Could be worse." Rascela just won't try to elaborate how. Coincidentally, she's no longer got a reason to stay; at least, not if the fact that she's rising to her feet is any indication. "Enh. Maybe y'oughtta just wash it an' re-use it," she suggests of the glass, her things being gathered up in hands or tucked under an arm as appropriate.

"Could try to bribe him, if you want?" offers Cam, hauling himself to his feet. "Usually sits still well enough if bribed, and reminded of the bribe." A smirk, and it's Cam's turn to laugh again. "Not a bad idea, but I think I'm to lazy, even for that." He swipes the glass from the table, gives it a suspicious look, and shrugs. "Enjoy your evening, Rascela," he tells her finally.

There's a grunted reply -- assent, probably? -- and the young woman just nods. Up, down, center. Nothing further from Rascela, not even a thank you or good bye; she just turns and heads away with a light scuff of boots, off in the general direction of the living cavern to drop off her dishes and possibly the barracks beyond.

[Log] - Rascela & Uanth in: Snow Play

2008-11-20T23:43:10Z

When: November 15, 2008 (IC: 10.18.03.18)
Who: K'del, Rascela
Dragons/Others: Cadejoth, Uanth
Where: Eastern Bowl @ HRW
What: Gliding practice involves ice critters. K'del and Rascela continue to talk dirty.

It's later in the day, not quite evening but getting close; there's still enough light to see by, though, and despite the cold, there are those still milling about in the bowl. Off to one side, near the weyrling area, is Rascela. She's bundled up, hands buried in her jacket pockets and a scarf wrapped 'round her neck that covers her nose and mouth for good measure. She's just watching, quietly, while Uanth goes about the all-too-familiar process of leaping, flapping, and gliding to a landing just over there.

Far down the other end of the bowl, Hailstorm is just finishing their late-afternoon drill, the wingriders dispersing and B'ren and his Wingseconds pausing to talk amongst themselves for a few, quiet moments. K'del is there, a lonely figure, accompanied only by his playful lifemate, watching from a distance, apparently waiting. But the Wingleaders disperse without paying him any mind, and, finally, weyrling and bronze turn to head back towards the barracks. As they approach, Cadejoth darts forward, eager to join in on Uanth's practice - K'del hesitates, sticking his hands into his pockets. "Hey," he says.

She's probably just oblivious to whatever's going on over there, for all the attention she seems to pay to them. No, Rascela's occupied with supervising Uanth, talking with him, even if all the talking is in their shared headspace. Her posture doesn't change, shoulders squared and mien unshifting as she watches him. The brown is a clumsy thing only at the landing, which he's slowly, but surely, whittling into something a bit more fluid. The approach of another weyrling pair isn't worth a look; Uanth warbles to Cadejoth and that likely informs her who's there, as if the greeting didn't. "Hey," is shot right back at K'del, the word muffled by the scarf.

K'del pulls his coat more tightly about himself, eyeing the barracks hopefully, but he doesn't move again: Cadejoth has, apparently, elected to stay, and K'del is, apparently, required to stay, too. The bronze greets Uanth with enthusiasm, a great rumble as he lands upon his feet again, executing a heavy, awkward glide and a tumbling landing. More practice clearly required. Sighing, Kas lets his hands droop, a low arc ending in his pockets. "Reckon they're going to get this down, eventually. Dunno that I'd want to be up there," meaning on their backs, presumably, "while they're doing it just yet, though."

The brown tips his head to the bronze with a delighted trilling sound, appraising for a moment before he takes an ambling step away to demonstrate his method. 'Like so', or so his manner seems to say, with a gentle mental touch in the form of a casual breeze; be like the wind. Leap, flap-flap, shallow glide, stiff-legged landing. Then his head cranes back, observing the progress of his fellow weyrling. Rascela, however, barely affords K'del more than a sidelong look. "Hnh." A shrug, a slight tilting back of her head to peruse the sky. "It'll be a'right. 'Swhat they're supposed t'do." Pause. "What we're supposed t'do."

Cadejoth doesn't seem to mind not being as good as Uanth at this, though his rider eyes the pair of them, lips curving into the bastard step-child of a scowl; his gaze seems to suggest an urging on, a 'Cadejoth, you're better than him', but he doesn't say anything. Not, at least, out loud. The bronze tries again, modeling his actions on the smaller dragon's, eager in both physical movement and mental touch, the latter matched by a clink-clink-clink. It's not a one move fix, but: better, this second time. Getting there. "Fly, in general, you mean? Mm. Yes. Older dragons look like a much smoother ride, is all."

Delight registers in Uanth's mind in the fluttering of fey wings and excited mental chittering. Encouragement. Turn, try again; and there's that gentle, mental breeze to support the wings of Cadejoth. His landing is still awkward; Raz pays it no mind. A look askance picks up on K'del's expression and there's a vague noise, a half-snort, half-grunt, that goes without further elaboration. "Yeah," she concurs. A brow quirks. "'Course they do; they're older." Obviously. Her chin lifts, tilted toward the dragons. "They're doin' a'right."

This excites Cadejoth further: he is /learning/, K'del, from someone who knows better. Good! That thought seeps into his sending to Uanth, probably by accident, but his mind stills again, as much as it ever does, as he makes his next attempt. Better still. K'del, if he notices that snort-grunt of his companion's, makes no challenge of it. He huffs out another long breath, visible in the chill of the late afternoon. "Sure, but... Eh. Suppose they are. Better than they were at first. Not as good as they will tomorrow, right?"

Satisfaction is a subtle, sublime thing, indescribable even as far as Uanth is concerned. The smiling crescents of the moons are, however, an everpresent thing throughout all of their wordless exchanges. While the lesson is repeated (again and again and again ...) Rascela shifts her attention to K'del, not that it's strayed terribly far in the first place. But, for all that, her answer is just a succinct, "Ayuh."

Breathless, awe-filled, with a silent, glorious howl to those moons, Cadejoth exults in the lesson, the learning, the /doing/. Again, the hope, glide, land combination, this one no better than the last, but it doesn't seem to matter. Cadejoth is having too much fun to care. Kas meets Rascela's gaze blandly, his eyebrows raising in a gesture that seems to encourage further comment from the other weyrling. But instead of waiting for it, he says, "So. Anything going on in your life that isn't weyrling stuff?"

This sort of fun is decidedly alien as far as Uanth is concerned; it thrills him more to be a thing of the air as much as the earth, a chance to connect with that other aspect of self. All the better that he can enjoy it with another, can share the thrill. Rascela doesn't take the bait, as it were, the flattening of her mouth hidden by the scarf. She exhales, a thin plume of condensation signaling such. "Nah," she replies. But the brown pauses in his gliding efforts to pin a look on her and she adds, "Ain't talked t'family since bein' Searched." There's a pause, then, "You?"

Shared thrill is better than singular; Cadejoth honestly thrums with the pleasure of it, spreading his wings wide to reach towards the sky with each little hop - though he takes care not to go too far, and give those wings a proper beat. "Not at all? They don't know about Uanth, even?" Kas sounds honestly horrified by this idea; his head shakes, no, no, no. "I wrote home again the other day. Eila suggested I invite my sister to come and stay for a few days. I don't know if they'll say yes, but I'd like it very much."

"Shells," Raz observes, "ain't talked t'family since before I was Searched. Didn't tell da. Just left. Figure he found out some way or another." But not from her. She watches Uanth, who settles to his narrow haunches on the ground and mantles his wings, fluttering them wide before resettling them to his back. Break time for him, though he delights in watching Cadejoth. The rider speaks again with, "Figure I'm 'nuff of a disappointment bein' a girl; don't need t'hear 'em pissin' an' moanin' 'bout how I'm screwin' up the family trade." She slants a look to him, briefly. "Hnh. Maybe. Don't see why they wouldn't let 'er."

K'del looks quietly gobsmacked, his head shaking just slightly, very slowly, as he digests this piece of information. "Suppose it shouldn't surprise me," he says, finally, "that you're not too fussed about family. But. Does anyway. He was genuinely disappointed that you were a girl?" Honestly? Cadejoth has far too much energy to stop - now, or perhaps ever - and takes another swing at the gliding thing, this time doing passably well, until he tumbles to the ground, his fall cushioned by slushy snow. But it's laughter, more than anything else, that he releases after; Kas pauses for a moment to eye him, reassure himself, but then it's back to Rascela. "Because she's a girl, and already, to their mind, too spunky for her own good. I think they think she'd refuse to come home again."

"Boys all th' way down th' line 'til it got to me," Rascela replies flatly, her words coupled with a shrug. "Taught me huntin' anyway; took to it well enough. Had a lotta uncles; grandda was less forgivin' than they were. Ain't like I had a choice t'be born without a dick; had t'make up for it by bein' ballsier'n they were." And if it bothers her, she doesn't show it; instead, she looks to where Uanth is, his wings rattling with amusement even as he heaves himself to his feet to plod over to where Cadejoth is. To K'del, she asks, "How old is she?"

"Couldn't your parents just... have more kids? Get a son that way?" asks K'del, curious now, but also confused, his face wrinkling up in concentration as he tries to accept this piece of information. "Not that I think it matters, boy or girl. /I/ wouldn't care." If he was the father? If he was a girl? The latter seems unlikely. "Would you rather have been a boy?" he adds, then, a sudden thought taking him. Cadejoth attempts to right himself, looking up at Uanth with a rumble of-- delight? Evidently, that was kind of fun. "Fourteen," supplies K'del, meanwhile. "Just."

"Nah. Ma was lucky t'have me and da's afraid of tryin' again with anyone else, I reckon." It's not something she seems to have given much thought to; their issues, not hers. "Just th' way they are. Even if they ain't Holdbred, they're stuck in their ways." A boot scuffs; just over there, Uanth rumbles amusement, then drags his too-long digits through the slush. Testing. Rascela shrugs, "Woulda made it easier on long huntin' trips, havin' t'obey the call of nature an' all," she remarks of the 'what if she were a boy' thing. On the topic of his sister, though, she makes a guttural noise. "Old enough t'make her choices, ain't she?"

"Oh," says K'del, probably an answer to most of what she says - from why she has no siblings, to calls of nature. "Well. I suppose." He fastens his gaze on her, looking her up and down not appraisingly, just curiously, as if all of this information requires a review of Rascela as a whole. "Sort of," he agrees, of his sister. "But, she's holdbred. We are, I mean. Not so much freedom, really, and they'll hope for her to get married and have a family in a few more turns. It's kind of just... the done thing." Cadejoth flicks his tail across the snow, beating it down with sharp motions - it shifts nicely, solidifying, then breaks apart when he flicks it /just so/.

Indifferent to his curiosity, she just stays as she always is; unmoving, strangely stoic. Perhaps just stubbornly so. Rascela nods once to his words, mouth pulling to a side and the gesture unseen save for a slight twitch of the scarf. "Life happens," she finally says, "an' sometimes it don't do what ya want it t'do. Figured yer folks mighta learned that a'ready with you an' yours, there. Ain't like a Weyr's a bad place; ain't like she can't have a family here, neither." And if there's more to the thought, she doesn't give in; she's spoken too much. Uanth, of course, is amused, though he stands over here and starts to make nonsensical squiggles in the slush and snow. Arcane patterns; simple designs. And then a bit of slush-snow is oh-so-casually flicked Cadejoth's way with his tail and wordlessly blamed on some snow creature he makes up on the spot.

Snow creature? Where? Cadejoth comes positively alive with this idea, his mind sending out tendrils of chain to rattle like bone-shakers, to scare away anything that might still be lurking about. Hah-hah! "I'm not a girl," explains K'del, quite calm, his shoulders shrugging easily. "I'm supposed to go off and do something, because there's not much place at home for me. But girls are supposed to go off and marry. Anyway, she's the baby. They'll want to keep her close."

Ice-winged beastlings are sketched out in Uanth's mind, given life even as a bit more snow is flicked toward the bronze. The rattling chains are touched with chill fingers, the chittering mental laughter of the brown being all the more gleeful for it. "Hold folk are strange," Rascela decides rather abruptly and unapologetically. "Gotta let her be her own; ain't doin' any good keepin' her like that. Do it long 'nuff, she'll wind up like me." For good or ill, it's hard to say.

Cadejoth shivers in gleeful pleasure, the creepiness of these beastlings matching with his own excitement at the -- game? Does he see it as a game? Unknown. He heats his chains, so that steam rises from the chill touch, whipping them around eagerly. Take that, small creature. "Like you? What, no longer talking to your family?" Kas purses his lips, saying nothing, neither confirmation or denial, about hold folk. "I hope they'll let her come. I'd look after her."

And while Uanth is too dignified to pout, the dissolution of the creatures into puffs of steam and water is still regarded rather mournfully. No more snow-flicking follows and the brown lowers his head, long digits prodding morosely at the slush. Alas, poor critters. Rascela shrugs. "Took t'girls after da told me not t'mess with boys." Not like it stopped her from messing on both sides of the fence. "Left at th' first chance I had. Stopped talkin' t'family." Her head lifts, chin pointed to Uanth. "Impressed that'un." So, good things, for the most part; at least from her position. Not so good for family. "Be a good thing for her," she somewhat agrees.

Pause. "As in... 'mess with' as in sleep with?" Kas wants to know, bug-eyed and eagerly interested. He doesn't even seem to have heard the rest of it. Teenage boy for you. Cadejoth rumbles triumphantly, tail mashing into the snow in sheer delight: he did it, he beat them! He eyes Uanth, however, noting the brown's reaction. What, he wasn't supposed to? They were /flicking/ snow at him.

"What?" Raz tilts her head to him, a gloved hand finally coming up to tug her scarf down. "Yeah, why not? Sex is sex; don't really matter t'me who I'm gettin' it from. Just means y'gotta be creative. Girls are shardin' crazy," but, here, there's a bit of a twisted half-smile, "makes it interestin'." Uanth, of course, makes no indication either way as to what Cadejoth /should/ have done. His sadness passes quickly, though; the things must not have been /that/ easy to 'kill', as there's more snow now being flicked at the bronze. Not that the brown's making any special effort to hide the fact that it's his tail, but hey.

"/Huh/," says Kas, digesting this slowly, though the way his smile has spread suggests he really does like the idea. "Girls," he adds, then, "Are /fun/. So long as they don't just... lie there, you know?" He pulls his coat about himself more closely again, then redigging his hands into pockets, shuffling his shoulders in against the chilly wind. Probably, Cadejoth is just pretending to not know that it is Uanth flicking the snow, though it's hard to know for sure. Out come his chains again, whipping, swinging, as the snow resumes - and he darts sideways, ducking out of the way as more gets flicked at him.

And there's a bit of snorted laughter, Rascela reaching up to rub a knuckle along the side of her nose. "Hnh. They don't, not with me," now it's her turn to boast, even if it's all just matter-of-fact as far as she's concerned. "Just gotta know what yer doin'; helps t'have the same parts." Uanth, of course, is happy to play this little game; the whipping chains meet air, the chilly creatures dancing and fluttering, having learned their lesson. Such distraction is the only way to explain why the snow stops hitting ... and not the fact that the brown must now actually move to take it up again.

Amusement shows itself on K'del's face, but also keen, measured interest. "You could give lessons," he remarks, all too casually. "You know, from someone who knows how to give and receive, as it were, to all of us clueless men. Which isn't to say that we don't necessarily know how to please a woman! But. You know." Uh-huh. Cadejoth seems intent upon dancing /with/ the little creatures, his body swaying and shifting in time to unheard music, tail darting this way and that as he moves. Oh - such delight! He seems intent to bubble over with it.

"Was doin' it, back at Fort. Kinda. Every guy I had, anyway. Learned a fair bit from 'em, too." Rascela smirks, "Don't mean y'all listen, though." The scarf is pulled back up again, muffling the sound of a light cough. Uanth might not dance, but he does seem to ... scuttle. Over here or there, wings rattling. The creatures do all the dancing, of course, flirting with death-by-chains and having ceased their flicking of snow. It's as excited as the brown seems to get, channeling it all through the creations of his mind, rather than actively indulging.

"Going to take that up again, when you're allowed?" K'del wants to know, ever so casual. "Only makes sense, really. Gets you a better time, as well as the others. Men? We're easy to please, really." He ignores that comment about listening: he's listening, after all! Thus far. Cadejoth positively trills - mentally, not physically, given his physical voice is less suited to such activities - as the dance continues, chains sweeping dangerously close to the creatures, though he seems intent not to kill them this time, but to enjoy their presence. K'del, momentarily distracted, eyes his lifemate. "Weirdo."

"Yeah. Ain't no fun in scratchin' that itch on my own," she replies, shoulders rising and holding for a beat before dropping. "Just don't know 'nuff folks here." But, she'll work on it -- that being implied, if not spoken outright. Raz flicks a look to K'del, but soon finds her eyes drawn to where Uanth is. "Heh." The brown stops in his scuttling about, though he keeps the mental dance going -- the ice things are starting to slow, though, just a bit, as the dragon generating them is also a bit tired.

K'del's whole face lights, for just a moment, as he digests that comment: a fellow practitioner! But he nods, only, saying, "Know what you mean. Sure you'll get plenty of - well, plenty of opportunities. And once the dragons start to chase..." This, too, draws a satisfied smile to the young man's face. Cadejoth seems mildly disappointed by the slowing of his creatures - /his/ creatures - for he is still full of energy, darting about, enjoying himself.

And perhaps that's a knowing quirk of her brow at his lighting up, his ensuing comment. "Ain't sure he'll take to it well," Rascela observes, watching the brown as he settles to the ground. "But, we'll see. Seems t'like flyin', so that's somethin'. Don't seem too keen on lettin' me outta his sight, though." For the lounging brown, his eyes start to lid, the ice critters slowing further in their flirtatious gyres until they finally fall away like so many snowflakes. Apologies are spared, a thin and rather earthy rumble escaping him toward that end.

"No?" says K'del, glancing towards the rapidly drooping brown. "Sure he'll grow into it. Cadejoth-- not as though he's shown any interest. But he will." He's sure of this much, nodding rapidly as he says as much. "Cadejoth's not too keen on me doing things without him, either. /He/ can do things without me, but I'm not supposed to leave him behind. Makes things fun, sometimes." Cadejoth stills, not entirely, but mostly, his tail still flicking though his limbs remain in place. He rumbles in response to the brown, respectful, though there's a note of disappointment, too. Oh, man. Not fair.

"Nah, with him- it's different. Protective. Don't like th' idea of sharin' me; don't like doin' things without me, neither." Not that it makes much sense to her, but Rascela seems to understand. "Figure he'll like it once he's up an' doin'." Uanth, meanwhile, is mentally 'silent' for a little while, withdrawing into the darkened sanctuary of his psyche. A moment later and he re-emerges, as it were, sharing the crystalline shapes with Cadejoth -- giving him some ice-critter seeds, to make his own. Still apologetic, though; the spirit being willing, but the body unable.

"Huh," says K'del, cogitating over this, sinking his hands deeper, his shoulders lower. "Yeah, probably. Figure we all branch out a bit, eventually, right? Still ages to go before that, anyway." It is with great, and obvious, pleasure that Cadejoth accepts these seeds, and within moments, there are critters racing about him again, buzzing here and there - treated with great delight from the young dragon. He has some sympathy for the brown, a sense of understanding.

"Yeah," she answers without really answering anything, a gloved hand being withdrawn from her pocket. Curled into a fist, it's aimed for a companionable punch to K'del's arm, if he's permissive of the brief contact. In either case, Raz withdraws, taking a step back and turning toward the barracks. "Gotta get him in. Needs sleep." A moment, then, "Comin'?" Uanth, of course, seems pleased that Cadejoth is pleased, promising more seeds if he should ever want them ... especially since, as he conveys, he's the only one that knows where they are. And then a promise; another time, they will fly again.

K'del doesn't seem to mind at all, amused more than anything, grinning. "Yeah," he agrees, to nothing - to everything. To something, anyway. He nods, head inclined slowly, as she turns towards the barracks. "Yeah, he looks tired. Come on, Cadejoth." Yes, it's also time for them to go in, the distraction on their way back concluded. Cadejoth is exceptionally pleased with the offer of more seeds, of more flight, of more everything - soon, he tells Uanth, wordless. Yes. Soon. And the bronze begins to follow in: the game is over, it's time to rest.

[Log] - Rascela in: Some Sexy Talk

2008-11-20T23:36:53Z

When: November 14, 2008 (IC: 10.18.03.15)
Who: Eila, K'del, Rascela
Dragons/Others: Kelerith, Uanth
Where: Garden Patio Ledge @ HRW
What: Chatting with K'del and Eila. Eila's not her type. K'del, though ...

It's time for midday meals -- or roundabout that time, at least -- and Rascela's taken her food well away from the bustle of the living cavern. Why she's chosen this place when she's got so many others to hide away in is anyone's guess, but it's relatively quiet and she is, for now, undisturbed while she plows through her food. Two large sandwiches, it looks like; some sort of potato salad, some green salad, and other odds and ends with a glass of water. Nothing sweet, naturally. In her lap is a leatherbound book, one rough hand resting possessively over it. Of Uanth, there is no immediate sign, but the brown is probably lounging around somewhere, just out of sight.

But not for long. Rascela is not the only one with the idea of taking food outdoors - K'del has come later to the meal, but now, with an overstuffed sandwhich in each hand, he ambles his way up the stairs and onto the ledge. His mouth is full, when he spies Rascela, changing path immediately with the obvious intention of joining her, so he doesn't actually manage to greet her, but he does smile (mouth closed, still, thankfully), swinging into a nearby chair.

It's the sound of approaching footsteps that prompts Rascela to lift her head and grunt something that might be a greeting -- at least, it doesn't have a distinct 'go away' tone to it -- to K'del. She finishes chewing and swallows, taking her time to do both, then grates out a "Hey," in case her previous welcome was missed. Then, silence, as the other half of her sandwich is demanding to be consumed in as few bites as possible. The book, interestingly, is somehow pulled in closer. Hers; don't look.

K'del swallows his, too, lifting the sandwich that's already had a few bites taken out of it as if he intends to take another one immediately, but hesitates, dropping it back so that he can actually talk to his newly-found lunch companion. "Hey, Rascela," he says, dipping his head in her direction as she does so. "What's in the book?" Again, his head dips, this time to indicate the book that has completely failed to be missed by his notice, her intent on pulling it closer notwithstanding. He swings one leg over the arm of his chair, looking - well, quite relaxed. /Now/ he takes another bite.

"Nothin'," she replies oh-so-helpfully, flicking her gray gaze up to study him. There's a slow blink, an equally slow roll of her shoulders, and then she straightens a bit. She might be content with that, but Raz' gaze goes briefly distant and she adds rather grudgingly. "Ain't nothin' yet, anyway. M'name and Uanth's; 'bout it." And lest she be compelled to say further by the brown-that-shall-not-be-named, she takes a large bite of sandwich, which she intends to take some time working through.

K'del takes his time, chews, swallows. "An empty book, then. You're going to write in it?" The whole two-sandwich thing, while a good idea in theory, appears to be causing him some problems: he has no hands left, and, from the way he tries to use the back of his hand, an itch on his forehead. He gives up, after a moment, dropping both hands to not far above his lap, a more convenient position.

"Prob'ly." That's uttered between the last bite and the next, barely articulated. Not that it's going to work in her favour if she eats as quickly as she has been; she'll soon have no excuse to be so terse about things. How bothersome. Rascela quirks a brow subtly at K'del's perceived fidgeting, but she doesn't comment. Of the book, "Gift from X'lar. Figured we could use it," Uanth being naturally included. There's another pause and likely more goading that prompts, "Might draw. Dunno."

K'del accepts this explanation, one word though it might be, without pushing for more immediately, his head nodding as he chews through his latest bite. "He's been up to visit since the hatching, then? Haven't seen him around. Good for him, though, to pay attention. From what Cadejoth tells me, Uanth'd like that." He finally sets down one of his sandwiches onto the leg his trousers, which aren't the cleanest pair ever seen, but they'll do (apparently). /Now/ he manages to get that scratch it, pushing his hair out of the way to do so. "You draw?"

"Just th' once," she figures. She doesn't know. Rascela snorts, softly, "Reckon they'd be thick-as-thieves, Malsaeth an' mine. They talk sometimes. Says Malsaeth's 'blustery'." A grunt, a shake of her head, and then she looks to K'del. "Mine likes yours; likes pullin' his chain, whatever that means." A shrug comes before she answers the last, "Yeah. Sometimes. Better at drawin' than writin'. Ain't nothin' great." Her chin lifts in his direction, quizzically. "You?" Draw? Write? Have hobbies? All of that seems somehow implied in the small gesture.

"Blustery?" Kas queries this with his head tilted to one side, and a torn off piece of sandwhich already on its way to his mouth. Between chews, he adds, "Don't know that Malsaeth and Cadejoth have talked at all, but maybe he just never told me about it. Oh," he adds, head bobbing, "Cadejoth - it's like there are chains in his head. Going everywhere. He keeps pulling on me, when he wants me. Less now, though. Likes Uanth, too, anyway. Says he's fun." He nods through her talk of drawing, shrugging his shoulders when it comes time for him to respond. "Like to read. Drink. Flirt."

"Shardin' storm," is her clarification of 'blustery'. It just makes her nose wrinkle, though. Raz nods to the rest, content to settle into her food in silence on her part. He can talk; she'll eat. Works fine for her. She's listening, though, if the periodic looks and nods sent his way are any indication; listening or faking it, it's hard to say. To his 'hobbies', though, there's a curious uptick of a brow. "Whaddaya read? Gotta read a fair bit, since y'can't do th' others." Not without raising eyebrows, anyway, but that need not be spoken.

K'del doesn't seem too much more enlightened by Rascela's clarification, by his expression, but he nods anyway. When he concludes speaking, he takes another bite of his food, eating this while Rascela asks her question, and then some, resulting in a pause between bits of conversation while he swallows. "Bit of everything," he shrugs. "Stories, sometimes, but other things, too. Wingleader reports and notes, lately, mostly. Though," he adds, grinning, and /winking/, "I can, too, flirt. Flirting's harmless."

"Hnh," is for his reading material. Thoughtful, that. The plate is shifted around, the better to prod at the rest of the stuff on it with a spoon. Shoveling commences, at least for three bites-worth before Rascela deigns to look at him -- which happens to coincide with the winking. That gets him a blank look, her mouth slowly pulling to a side. "Harmless," is repeated flatly. "Depends on who with, I'd figure. Ain't always folks keen on it." Deadpan; observational.

"I'm getting myself in the habit early. Before the leadership program. Give myself a head start, you know?" Kas explains, leaning back in his chair and kicking his foot lightly. He looks honestly amused for her response to his wink, laughing merrily. "Are you saying you're not keen on it yourself, Rascela? That'd be a shame. Doesn't have to mean anything, you know. Just a bit of fun."

"Yeah." That's all for his explanation, roughly articulated around a mouthful of something or another. She swallows, then lifts her head again, her plate being nudged away with the back of a hand. He leans back and so does Rascela, her impassive mien holding fast through his laughter. And it might even look as if she's giving serious consideration to leaving then and there, but for an odd glint in her eye and a sudden, if somehow savagely amused, pull of her mouth. Smiling, or as close to it as she gets. "Didn't say that," she answers. "But ain't somethin' I do."

K'del flashes Rascela a smile for her 'yeah', as if he's taken the comment as a confirmation that she, too, has just assumed on his inclusion in the program, or something similar. He shifts, just slightly, as it looks like she might leave, settling back when the moment passes. "Why not?" he prompts, curious, leaning forward again. He's got a sandwich in his hand again, about to lift it to his mouth for another bite.

Fingertips drum an idle beat on the book, an unconscious imitation of the way Uanth's claws tend to rattle on the edge of his couch; Rascela's head tips to a side, indifference settling in after that brief -- and perhaps somewhat unpleasant -- smile. "Waste of time. Figure it's easier t'just go for whatever." Elaboration comes a beat later, "Y'like someone, y'say it. Y'don't, y'don't. Easier'n pussy-footin' 'round the whole shardin' thing. Get busy doin', rather'n get busy talkin' 'bout doin'."

"Ah, so it's all about the sex for you, is it?" Kas wants to know, interested by this, wiping the crumbs from his first sandwich off of his palms and onto the ground. "No romance, just get down to it. Well, I can respect that," he tells her, grinning. "But the flirting /is/ fun, too. And I flirt with people even when we both know we're not going to actually do anything with it. Some girls need the flirting, to-- loosen them up. Do you just walk up to people and tell them that you want to sleep with them?"

No blushing from her, just a rise-fall of shoulders. "Works well enough for me. If it ain't broke-" why fix it? Rascela leans back a little in her chair, both hands on the book and shoulders rolled back a little as she looks at him. "Enh. Depends on th' girl," is mentioned in passing, though she concedes, "guys're sharding easier." But his wondering of her methods garners only a shake of her head, a straightforward 'left-right-center' and a vague, "Depends."

"Fair enough. If it's working for you - well, I won't argue." Kas breaks off a piece of his second sandwich, pushing it in the direction of his mouth, though it doesn't quite make it there. "Not all girls, true. Like you. Guys," he breaks off, grins. "We tend to have one thing on our brains, I'm afraid. But: depends, how? Why?" Now, finally, he puts that piece of bread and filling into his mouth.

The book in her lap is given another drum of fingers, then she forces them to be still. As everything he's said thus far is pretty much the same as she's thinking, there's just a slight grunt of assent and a tilting of her head back. Rascela remarks, "Depends on th' who. Other stuff. Can't explain." But, she does have one bit of useful information, though it's obvious to any who's lived in a Weyr more than a sevenday, "An' if yer in a pinch, riders fresh off a failed flight ain't bad."

"I did note that much," admits K'del, showing his teeth as he smiles. "Not that I'm usually quite that desperate. Plenty of girls - well, until I was Searched, and since. But once we're allowed..." His head inclines slightly, that smile turning - salacious, even. "It'll be nice to have a place of my own, to take them." Backtracking, as he breaks another piece off of his lunch, he adds, "Okay, so it's different with different people. What about... Okay, for demonstration's sake. Just hypothetical. If you were going to ask me, how would you do it?"

"Ask what?" Eila's a heartbeat on the heels of K'del's words as she pokes her head around the cobblestone corner from the Snowasis, a cup of something warm and still steamed in her mittened hands. She slips into a chair nearby, cuddling deeper into her fur-lined jacket as she aims herself for the most part towards her clutchmates; her gaze distant is focused, however, on the cornflower blue dragonet scampering some 'lengths further distant.

"Enh. I'll be glad for th' quiet." That being her primary thought when it comes to getting a weyr of her own. Raz tips her head forward again, to look at him, silent for the most part until he gets to his 'hypothetical'. "Knowin' you," she begins, eyes slanting askance to Eila and with a slight lifting of her chin toward the bluerider to suffice as greeting without interrupting her thought, "I'd just ask. Might sweeten th' deal with booze." And, yes, that /would/ be a twisted sort of half-smile, not quite lascivious but disturbingly close -- at least, for someone who so rarely shows anything beyond ambivalence. "But, yer young."

K'del's hand lifts in a wave towards Eila, though he doesn't respond verbally until Rascela has finished speaking entirely. "And what does being young have to do with anything?" he wants to know, not sounding hurt, just, perhaps, a little suspicious. "Anyway, you think I wouldn't do it, without alcohol?" He sounds more amused with that, admittedly. To Eila, he explains, "Ask to sleep with me. Apparently I'd need bribing. That's kind of sad, isn't it?"

"Oh. Oh? Oh." So eloquent, Eila coils her hands tighter around her mug at K'del's explanation, drawing both it and her knees up to her chin. "It's got lots to do with it," she offers with the hesitance of one perhaps not quite sure of themselves. "To some people, at least." Her shoulders move in what might be an attempt at a shrug; falling quiet, she moves her mug to her lips and draws at the warm liquid.

"Didn't mean nothin' by it," Rascela snorts, "just statin' facts." Back to looking all dour and indifferent, then, though she does reiterate, "I said 'might'. Ain't sure I'd wanna spend the marks if I didn't haveta." Teasing? Couldn't possibly be. Gray eyes soon fix on Eila, appraising for a second or two before flicking a look back to K'del. "She'd need bribin'," as if the poor blueriding weyrling weren't sitting right /there/.

"Phhbt," says K'del, waving his hand as if to wave away this idea of age. "I've slept with plenty of women older than me, and none of them have complained." He returns his gaze to Rascela, eyeing her as if determining whether he should really be offended or not; apparently, he decides on not. "Right now? You definitely wouldn't. But. It's been a while." He winks at her, laughing outright as his attention turns back to Eila. "Mmm, probably. What /would/ work as a bribe, Eila?"

Eila buries her nose in her coat, though overtop the furred lining her eyes narrow slightly towards Rascela. Her words are muffled beneath the layers, but her tone is distinct enough as she mutters, "Might not be such a bad thing." K'del's words - boast? - earn nothing more but a crinkling of her eyes, an indulgent hidden smile and she shrugs lightly again. "We'd have to see, K'del."

"Says you," seems to be worth pointing out, though Rascela scarcely seems to smile. It's there, somewhere, in her voice; just not in her face. "Figure we'll haveta find out." Later, obviously, though this -- with everything -- is intoned without any concept of shame or ambivalence. The brownrider shifts her attention to Eila, then, considering. "Ain't my type," she ultimately decides, so she has no suggestions of her own with regards to useful bribes.

K'del sets his over-long eyelashes fluttering as, laughing, he tells both girls: "Oh, you will. No doubt about that." His sandwich finished, he brushes down his breeches, and then his hands, adding, "It's not really fair, you know. Being stuck in the barracks with all these girls who're older than me. Not," he adds, quickly, "that age /does/ matter. Everyone just keeps bringing it up." After another moment, he adds, "Anyway. Can't wait until all those restrictions are lifted."

"/You/ brought it up," Eila comments with a little wiggle of a gloved finger, noncommittally, towards who could either be K'del or Rascela, like she's actually not quite sure where it came from in the first place. "Not so long, now," she adds in regards to all those restrictions. "Not mine, either," is tossed back Rascela's way - just in case it was a matter of contention, you know.

"Ain't really fair," Rascela counters to K'del, "that I gotta be stuck with a lotta folks younger'n me, either. It's interestin'." But that's as far as she feels inclined to take things. There's a tip of her head to Eila, granting her that -- good? good. -- and then silence, mostly owing to the fact that she's still got a half glass of water that needs to be drunk. It's just coincidental that she has nothing to say afterwards.

K'del's thumb points towards Rascela: /she/ brought it up. /He/ was just flirting. Sort of. "No, not so long. That'll be good. Real privacy. Never had my own room before. Spent most of my time sneaking out, or sleeping with people in funny places." Pause. "Well. Not sleeping, rather. You know what i mean." His eyebrows raise for Rascela's 'interesting' comment, but he doesn't push that, instead concluding: "Anyway. You're all my type. Or maybe, like I said, it's been too long."

Eila, almost perfectly in the middle of that age range, has nothing much to say on it, instead shrugging her coat higher around her ears against the faint chill. The blueriding weyrling does say, "Real privacy. Our own weyrs, you mean? But it'll be - so quiet. I think it'll be weird." Rascela gets an incline of the girl's head; good. Agreed.

There's just a quirk of a brow at K'del's thumb pointing. She's innocent; swear. But, again, not much else to say, other than a blunt, "Y'ain't got much in th' way of taste, neither," being tossed K'del's way. Rascela stacks her dishes, her book being shifted to rest under her arm. Somewhere, just out of sight but close enough to be heard, a certain brown lifts his voice in an odd, flute-like trill. Well, as flute-like as a brown can be, at any rate. The weyrling just snorts.

"Nothing is ever all that quiet with Cadejoth around," grins K'del. "Anyway, I intend to have very few nights alone." His boasting - it surely must be, even if he is fifteen, and tall, and not entirely unattractive especially now that his face is beginning to clear a little - is self-satisfied, but not completely arrogant. "I have plenty of taste," he continues, this time eyeing Rascela. "I don't go after /every/ woman. And anyway, who said I'm really going after you two?" But then again, maybe he is.

[High Reaches/Flurry] Leova thinks it would take intensive concentration.
"Nor Kelerith, but they're -" just dragons, Eila doesn't say, instead leaning forward to gently put her mug down on the patio deck and wrap her arms around her legs. K'del's straight-up bravado? Her snort is clear even tucked under her coat, the puff of steam rising past her and tracked by slate-blue eyes. "There's not even that many girls in the Weyr. Not if you're planning on year-'round bed warmers."

Eila's snort is mirrored with one of Rascela's own, even as she rises with an audible protest by some of her joints. "Reckon it'll work itself out," she decides, nebulously, then twists her head around to the source of the trilling. "Comin' a'ready, jays." There's not much of a 'bye' offered for the other two, just a tip of the head and some vague sound ... and then the young woman's headed away, dishes in one hand, book under her arm, and a brown seeming to all but manifest some distance further away to trot in his odd, stiff-legged way after her.

[Log] - Rascela & Uanth in: Inspection!

2008-11-20T23:27:16Z

When: November 12, 2008 (IC: 10.18.03.09)
Who: I'daur, Leova, Persie, Rascela
Dragons/Others: Uanth
Where: Weyrling Barracks @ HRW
What: Barracks inspection time. Rascela shows off her best 'wannabe Weyrlingmaster' face, which coincidentally doesn't look much different from her usual 'don't look at me' face.

Sometimes, the weyrlings get real, actual free days Today is nominally one of those, but while the weyrlings are free of lessons for the afternoon now, this does not mean they get off completely clear: it's time for inspections. And though I'daur more often than not leaves this to his assistants, the weyrlingmaster himself is out today, heading down the rows of cots and couches to look them over.

And as tends to be something of an expected disappointment, Rascela's cot and couch area is predictably clean and relatively bare. A recently oiled Uanth is coiled on his couch, while his weyrling is on her cot, thumbing through a blank book with an unusually thoughtful expression. It's the former that alerts the latter to the encroaching inspector, however, and the young woman rises stiffly, book tucked under arm while she waits.

Meanwhile, Persie is a bit ahead of I'daur, walking between the cots and couches and making quiet hisses and furtive gestures to get some of the weyrlings to try to clean up in the few minutes they might have before I'daur gets around to them. It's kind of like she's helping them cheat. Just a little.

Today that weyrlingmaster also seems to cast a shadow, even inside, even though it's substantially shorter and in the person of his most junior assistant: training? A'stel gets a discreet nod, Rascela a longer look, but for the most part she's silently following along while Persie does nice things up ahead.

Surely he must notice, since it's Persie and she's not /that/ subtle. But if I'daur does notice, he makes no indication of it and continues on down the line, pausing to check up on some weyrlings, and to give other (messy) ones pointed look. He stops by Rascela after a moment, looking her over and sliding his hands in his pockets. A nod points out her book. "Ain't nothing in there," he remarks.

Eventually, Persie's made it all around the barracks, everyone has been warned, everyone who's present at least, or paying attention to least frightening of the weyrlingmasters. And now she comes trotting back around to catch up to Leova. She links her arm with the other greenrider, her eyes watching I'daur with only a few glances toward the cot and couch he's commenting on. Really, all that matters is the weyrlingmaster's reaction.

Gray eyes flick to Leova and Persie, briefly, before she's being addressed. "Ain't yet, sir," is a blunt rebuttal, Rascela unblinking as she looks to I'daur. Calloused fingers tap once on the leatherbound tome, then grow still. Perhaps to forestall any awkward questions as to why or where it's from, she explains, "It's a gift. From X'lar. Figured we could use it, I reckon." Uanth, meanwhile, manages a fluted trilling sound; pleased.

Leova gets to practice her own pointed look, attempting to be all solemn and generally succeeding, but then Persie's got her arm and she's leaning into the other greenrider's shoulder. Watching. X'lar: her brows hike up a notch and Rascela gets a closer look.

"Yet," repeats I'daur, eyeing the book and the girl again. He assumes, "Going to put those stories in it." A glance takes in the brown that warbles now, and then the movement behind him as his two assistants join up. I'daur looks around at them, his own brows arching. "Followin' me?"

"Yes, sir!" Persie chirps, even if her smile teases just a bit. "We're trying to learn how to be really spectacular weyrlingmasters. Leova's practicing her faces." She tips her head to Leova, who -should- be making a face on cue. Cue!

"His, yeah," a tip of Raz' head indicates the brown, whose foredigits writhe and talontips rattle against the stone of his couch. Clickity-click-click-click. His head dips, mien shadowed, but still satisfied. "Maybe some drawin'." Pause. "Sir." And then she shrugs, leaving it succinctly at that. Persie and Leova are looked to again, greeted with a low, oddly plural, "Ma'ams."

Clue, clue, who's got the... /cue/. Leova's attention has shifted at that repetitive rattling of claws. Click-click, her far hand's fingers flick against each other, and then she's looking past his rider's greeting and up to her weyrlingmaster, eyes catching the light. "All dutiful-like," she agrees, and juts out her jaw some.

"You draw, too?" is the absent question aimed at Rascela, I'daur is still looking at the two greenriders behind him. "Don't look like /that/," he tells Leova, though /his/ weyrlingmasterly expression takes on a smirk. "Keep practicin'."

"Oh, you know, I bet Rascela could a make mean weyrlingmaster face," Persie considers, now eyeing the weyrling through narrowed lashes and with a fingertip placed just so at the corner of her mouth. And in this case, 'mean' means 'very good'. Or, well, maybe not. Persie flicks her own mischievous smile at I'daur, perhaps infected by that smirk. "Come on Rascela. Let's see your weyrlingmaster face." And aside to Leova, more privately, "Maybe we can make her do the rest of the inspections."

"Yessir." Rascela slants a look at the claw-clicking Uanth, who stops a moment later with another light trill. She is not the sort to fall prey to bewilderment, but the young woman does look at Leova and Persie with an ever-so-faint creasing of her forehead. No words, though; she's not being asked anything, so she supplies nothing. Persie's request nets her a look -- which is to say, Raz' usual look, but with a slight scowl; still wordless.

Leova gives him a slight curve of a smirk back, mirrored rather than matching, emphasis on the set of her shoulders: better? "Yessir," nearly matching Rascela's but far too amiable, and if she winds up practicing through drills or over breakfast, so be it. To Persie some moments later, just a slip of a sideways glance, "When it's her turn, hm? Eila." Maybe it's code.

Skeptical, I'daur turns to look at Rascela again at Persie's instruction, though that particular assistant earns herself a long look for it in return. "Think that's her normal face," he remarks.

"I think it would really work, though. That sort of..." Persie attempts to make the face, that sort of humorless look, though when Persie does it, her lips purse a bit and her brows tug together. It comes off just a smidge comical. "Good for making weyrlings clean their cots." She flicks a look of her own over at one of the kids over there that really did have quite a bit to clean. But Leova distracts her; "What about Eila?"

"Y'satisfied?" is a bare grunt directed toward Persie, issued as respectfully as such can be. In case it's not enough, another, "Ma'am," is tacked on clumsily. Rascela shifts her weight just a little, boots scuffing, and the blank book is shifted to rest more solidly at her hip. A sidelong look to I'daur leads to a querying tilt of her head in a mute 'are we done here?', no 'sir' implied.

"Wingleader." To Persie, Leova still looking at Rascela. Then, "Maybe it's a sign. Next clutch, she'll assist. Seeing as how she doesn't need to practice." She gives the other greenrider's arm a pat and then moves past her and I'daur both, crouching at the edge of the brown's wallow so she can look even further up at the brownrider. "Do you care yet? Fighting wing or Flurry."

I'daur is still watching Rascela, though he cocks his head slightly at Leova's words. "Yeah? Can teach, without saying nothing?" he wonders of her. And for Persie's sake, "Eila. Wingleader this month." Look, two more words than Leova gives her!

Persie can't help it. She rolls her eyes just a little bit at Rascela persistent seriousness, but she does it with a smile. "Oh right!" she says of Eila and her wingleadership, though frankly, the face Persie makes just a beat later promsies she has no idea why Eila and her wingleadership came up in the first place. With Leova gone from her side, the blonde just takes a breath and crams her hands in her back pockets, looking around for something to do.

"Reckon he'd like t'work with young'uns," pins the decision entirely on the brown, with Rascela shrugging her acquiescence. "We'll fit where we're needed." The brown ducks his head inquisitively, head craning this way and that to just look at Leova. To study her in his inscrutable way. Clicky-click goes his claws. And a look flicked to I'daur punctuates her next words, "When I got somethin' t'say, I say it." With a shrug to suffice for when she doesn't.

At the young brownrider's words, still-crouched Leova rests her forearms across her thighs, gaze slipping from Rascela to Uanth himself. Focused, though there's a deliberate nod for where-they're-needed: "There you go." And flick-flick go her fingers, just before she begins to straighten. Raz has partly answered I'daur for her, but, "Partway. Sometimes. Depends on what..." we? "they pick up on."

"Well. Good for you," says I'daur after a moment. Then, apparently out of questions, he turns about to move on down the line to the next weyrlings in need of inspecting. Albeit, first he takes a slug from the flask that appears as if from nowhere. And he eyes Leova crouched down, shakes his head, and then he moves on.

Persie gave all those weyrlings a heads up, now they're all on their own with the weyrlingmaster. She's wandering off toward the office, to do whatever gets done in the office, or maybe just to look at see if there -is- anything to do. She brings a broom with her, just in case.

Uanth cants his head, claws a-clicking once more before his digits rest. A rattle-thrum escapes him, ultimately amused in his strange way, before his head twists away to eye his chosen. Rascela appears oblivious, her attention now on Leova, where the brown's was before. Brows lift, just a little, and then it seems the group is moving on. She remains unmoving until they pass.

And if their weyrlingmaster's moving on, seems his shadow is too, Leova brushing off her palms and leaving Rascela and Uanth in sweet peace. Without that pair's taciturnity to make up for, and without teasing Persie accompanying them, her end of the rounds is likely to be comfortably quiet.

[Log] - Rascela & Uanth in: Leatherbound

2008-11-20T01:19:30Z

When: November 11, 2008 (IC: 10.18.03.06)
Who: Rascela, X'lar
Dragons/Others: Malsaeth, Uanth
Where: East Bowl @ HRW
What: X'lar and Malsaeth visit. The dragons get along famously; surprisingly, so do the riders.

It's a bit later in the day, not quite time for the weyrlings to be in ... but late enough that other duties are done and they have some free time before curfew. Standing some distance away is Rascela, arms folded and looking, for all the world, like a human statue. Unmoving; just watching as her pale brown lifemate goes through the motions of leaping, beating his wings once, and moving into a shallow glide. His landings leave much to be desired, but must surely be an improvement over his initial ones.

Malsaeth flies overhead, a gleam of crimson underneath the moonlight. Soon, he lands, and X'lar dismounts easily, scampering off his foreleg. "Shells," X'lar utters. "It's still /winter/ here?" He chuckles softly and quickly hugs his jacket closer to him, walking toward the lakeshore. Malsaeth rumbles as he spots Uanth's leaping and alerts his rider. Instead of moving on, Xie turns about, rummages into his messenger bag, and takes out a leatherbound book. "Ista's duties," the Istan teen calls out to the weyrling.

Dragon> To Uanth, Malsaeth seems rather smug. << He did not believe it was still winter. >> Soon, lightning flickers and presents himself to his spawn. << We have arrived as mine said we would, Uanth. >>

Gray eyes flick askance at the arrival of another, a few seconds spent discerning an identity before she grunts out, "'Reaches duties," in response. A salute is an after-thought, Rascela pulling it off easily but without passion. If there is interest in what the rider brings, she does well to show nothing. Uanth, for his part, ceases his efforts and swings his head around, a throaty hum escaping him. He bows to the elder dragon before settling fully to the ground with a bit of awkward shifting.

Dragon> To Malsaeth, Uanth chuckles, branches knocking against themselves with his amusement. << It is a place of neverending winter, >> he muses. << My Lady is pleased, >> even if she doesn't look it, << and I am even more so. >>

Dragon> To Uanth, Malsaeth considers his son's words before replying back: << You truly are my son then, Uanth. >>. Thunder booms, his amusement clear as day.

Malsaeth isn't shy about inspecting his brown spawn, craning his neck some to look more closely at Uanth. X'lar just rolls his eyes before going on to tell Rascela: "The beast didn't want anything to do with them as eggs except when he was telling them bloody stories and now he's all about wanting to know more about his little beasts." He too looks at Uanth, smiling briefly before glancing back to Rascela, asking her: "I hear that he's a storyteller, hm?"

Dragon> To Malsaeth, Uanth permits a thin rumble of his own thunder, the earth itself groaning and heaving to make the noise. << You should see her illustrations, Sire-mine. They are glorious. >> Pride is resonant in a luminous glow.

And, fortunately for Malsaeth, Uanth is plenty pleased to stay as he is to endure such an inspection, moving if bid, but otherwise seeming unmoving. Raz pays it all no heed, her gaze still -- more or less -- on X'lar for now. "Figures, don't it." Rhetorical. She lifts her chin a bit at the last though, though no smile cracks her features. "He is. Fulla stories. Usually puts me to sleep with 'em." And if that's affection in her voice, it must surely be a fluke.

Dragon> To Uanth, Malsaeth considers the reply of Uanth, studying each side to each syllable until finally. << Do you know how to visualize yet, Uanth? >> comes the bronze's question. << Can you show me an illustration of hers? >>

X'lar chuckles softly before, pausing in whatever he was going to say. "Just a minute," Xie offers, lifting a finger before he returns to the messenger bag by Malsaeth, rummaging through before taking out a gold-gilded leather bound book then soon offers it to Rascela. "Look at this first," he tells her. "This is the first compilation of Malsaeth and Rielsath's stories. Obviously not to keep, but I just wanted to show you what it looked like." He shows her the second book, this one with blank pages. "This one is for you," Xie tells her. "To write his stories." After a moment's look to Mal, Xie looks back to Rascela. "You do illustrations for him?" he asks curiously.

Dragon> And in his mind, a book is pulled out, aged pages sifted through and one finally selected -- Uanth picking through his rider's mind as much through his own memory, it would seem. Notes, inconsequential to him, are surrounded by a border of tightly twisted, thorny vines -- much improved from the crude illustrations of before. A flower with an eye in the middle. Hooved limbs of an unfinished beast. <> Pleased, oh-so-pleased. (Uanth to Malsaeth)

And she waits, weight shifting only a little as she considers the rider's movement. Rascela says nothing, reaching out only when the first book is offered. She thumbs through the pages, if she is allowed, then offers it back in order to take the blank one. That, at least, elicits a reaction. Her eyes widen, just a little. "Y'sure?" sounds dubious. Very dubious. But her fingers hold fast to it. Touching. "I, uh. Yeah. Sometimes."

Dragon> To Uanth, Malsaeth seems satisfied with his answer enough that there is no response back but the study and admiration of the images sent to him with regard to Uanth's riders illustrations. No words. Only darkness reigns now with the infrequent blazes of lightning.

Dragon> To Malsaeth, Uanth offers more drawings for Malsaeth's perusal, all of them strange and dark, of creatures and plants which have no business existing on this world -- or any, for that matter. In sepia-toned ink or graphite. And he is satisfied with all of them.

"I didn't start writing his stories until a month, maybe more, after he was Hatched," X'lar tells her, smiling. "I know the value of stories. And, apparently, illustrations too." He smiles warmly once again to the brown weyrling, offering: "And yes. The blank one is yours. Just for you." He pauses before going on to add, "There's nothing like going to sleep with your dragon telling you a story, I know. Even as scary as Mal's get, they're still priceless."

"I can't repay ya," is Rascela's main concern, even as she passes a hand over the cover again, eyes grown dark with wonderment and perhaps a bit of confusion. "Been copyin' all his stories on bits of paper and hide. 'Bout a month in, yeah. He ain't -- he tells some right scary stories, when he's of a mind to." Not that it seems to phase her, though. A glance is given to the brown, who is currently unmoving, much as his rider is.

Dragon> To Uanth, Malsaeth flips through each drawing happily. Sometimes he'll focus on one instead of flipping through. Satisfied with his spawn and his rider's drawings, Malsaeth tells the young dragon: << These are all very good, Uanth. >>

"Free of charge, Rascela," Xie tells her, chuckling. "Malsaeth's stories are scary as shells, yeah. I know the feeling." Not that it phases X'lar either. "If you weren't very good at writing before, you will once weyrlinghood is over, I can guarantee that, for sure."

Dragon> To Malsaeth, Uanth's happiness swells, trees sighing happily, and a gusting of night wind bringing with it some fey floral scent. << My Lady has talent, more than she ever thought. I shall pass your compliments to her. >> There's a slight pause, then a considering, <>

She seems uncertain of this 'free' thing, but Rascela grudgingly nods. The book is tucked under an arm for safe-keeping, her other hand bracing it for now. "Reckon so," is both question and statement; wondering as much as intoning a fact. "Better at drawin' than writin'," she does admit, shoulders lifting then dropping rather abruptly. A sidelong look is given to her beast, but his attention is clearly elsewhere.

Dragon> To Uanth, Malsaeth considers the request before agreeing to it. << When I have found the right story for you, Uanth, I will tell it. >> This seems to be a certainty. Lightning flickers again and Malsaeth remarks to his spawn: << We shall have to leave soon. But we still wished to give your rider the book of blank pages. >>

"That right?" X'lar asks her. "Seems like it. Mal's shared a few illustrations with me. Seems like visualization practice won't be very hard for you and yours." He smiles briefly before hugging his jacket closer to him again. "We can't stay long, but we wanted to see you and yours, give you the blank book and tell you good luck with the stories and the rest of weyrlinghood."

"Yeah," she answers easily enough, a thumb idly stroking the binding of the book. Raz considers X'lar a beat longer before ducking her head to him. "Nah, we're good. He'n I. Thankya. For the, uh. The book." So difficult for her to say, which means it's likely spurred in some way by the brown that's so placidly settled there. "'ppreciate it." A longer pause. Then, "You comin' t'see us again soon?"

Dragon> To Malsaeth, Uanth accepts the elder dragon's words, returning with, << Then I shall do the same for you. My Lady is appreciative; she will put the book to good use. You and yours will be pleased, I trust. >> So much faith, it fills his mindspace with moonlight, the glitter of stars.

"I'd be here more and frequently had I not been so busy with the candidates at Ista, Rascela," X'lar remarks. "Once the Hatching happens and I've had time away, I'll come on by. Malsaeth still wants to go hunting with Yyth too, not to mention see the other beasts." He smiles once before hugging his jacket close again. "We'll be seeing you soon, just wait," he tells her. Malsaeth stretches some, before rumbling once to his spawn.

"A'right. Maybe you can help," she taps the book, but doesn't elaborate. Hopes she doesn't have to. Rascela takes a slight step away, hugging the book a bit closer, and tries on a small smile that doesn't settle well. A nod is more fitting. Uanth, for his part, finally rises to his feet rather stiffly and rumbles a response, the sound a bit higher, with a faint trill -- like a flute. "Be seein' ya." Pause. "Thankya. 'gain."

X'lar chuckles softly once at Rascela, nodding once more at the weyrling. "You're welcome. Good luck, Rascela." And with that, the rider salutes her and mounts up, clamoring back onto the bronze where they soon vault into the sky.

And as they depart, the brown trots gamely to Rascela, muzzle aimed to press at the book, then at her. Insistent now; lessons are /over/, storytelling time is /now/.

[Vignette] - Rascela & Uanth: Week 4: Preparing

2008-11-19T18:24:23Z

Rascela gets her first set of riding leathers. Uanth is only somewhat impressed.

Riding leathers. They were finally done. Rascela had gone at her usual unhurried pace to get them; it took a bit more effort to keep that pace as casual and unconcerned as usual for her return to the barracks. Putting it on was an exercise in her usual methodical tendencies.

Pants. Shirt. Jacket. Belt. Boots. Gloves. Helmet. Goggles.

"There." She spoke aloud, the word only for one; Uanth was coiled on his couch, claws all a-rattle on the stone while he watched.

<<Suiting,>> he decided, a deep, earthy rumble filling his chest. <<But, you need another set.>>

>>Th' fuck for?<< This thought, to spare her fellow weyrlings the expletive. He took it without flinching.

<<You need something nicer, much nicer than those. They will suffice, for what they are, for what you are now,>> and there was subtle emphasis on the last word, <<but not for what you will be.>>

>>How d'ya figure?<< she wanted to know.

<<Indulge me,>> he intoned with the moons in their smiling crescents in his mind and she knew, in her heart of hearts, she would obey.

[Vignette] - Rascela & Uanth: Week 3: Pleasure

2008-11-19T18:13:31Z

Raz is a people-watcher, indulging in her 'guilty pleasure'. Uanth sets boundaries.

People-watching: a fairly innocuous task, typically. Not so much when watching people in the baths, of course, but still. She's good about it, about watching without being overt; constantly weighing this one or that one, deeming that young woman as something she'd like to see about later, that young man as not being quite her type. None suspected, if only because of her impassiveness, her emptiness; the deadness that she conveyed so wonderfully.

Uanth had once asked, <<Why? What is it that you see in them that you would like?>>

She'd answered with a shrug and a snort, >>Their body? Reckon that's all I've gotta like.<<

Another pointed <<Why?>>

>>Because.<<

And that's where the discussion stayed for the longest time.

Rascela settled a bit more deeply in the pool -- all the look she wants, just no touching.

No touching them, at any rate. But that's not something she allowed herself to think on too much, not while he was awake.

Back to watching, studying the bodies more than the faces; never was much of a 'face' person, it's always been about the body and musculature. Their thoughts, hopes, dreams ... were inconsequential.

<<Why?>>

>>Because. Ain't none of them can compare t'what you are,<< she finally said. >>Don't care 'bout their minds, just th' body; that's all I want. Just like you'll want greens and golds. It's a flesh thing, not a mind thing. Don't mean anythin' more'n that.<<

He mulled it over, then poked and prodded at the visuals of the people she was looking at -- not looking through her eyes, but at the things laid bare in her mental space. Uanth considered them, then rattled his wings and flicked his claws. Dismissive.

<<Do not let them get too close,>> he cautioned (threatened?), thorny vines creeping up; not a barrier to the physical, but warding from the other.

>>Ain't gonna.<<

Look, but don't touch; touch, but don't get too close.

[Vignette] - Rascela & Uanth: Week 2: Covet

2008-11-19T14:42:38Z

Uanth gets inquisitive about crossbows.

<<What is that?>> he wondered, head tilted and slowly whirling gaze fixed on the object in his rider's hands.

Rascela looked up from her work, which was the self-appointed task of cleaning her grandfather's crossbow, passed down (grudgingly, oh-so-grudgingly) to her.

>>Crossbow,<< she answered, the lack of words being supplemented by a series of visuals, flickering images reflected on the mist of his mind. How it was used, how it worked, how it felt in her hands.

<> And Uanth considered the ramifications, took the image of it and warped it as he warped everything else that filtered into his mindscape. Shrank it, put it in the scrabbling claws of one of his many mental companions -- the chittering things, like insects but not quite. She didn't know how to describe them, just that they were always there.

>>Yeah, like that,<< she observed, watching the chitterling use the device upon its brethren.

<<It was a gift,>> he surmised, digging deeper into her thoughts. She couldn't deny him; wouldn't. <<A tainted gift.>> The chitterling dropped the crossbow and both things vanished in a puff of smoke. <<Given without desire, taken with hatred.>>

>>Somethin' like that.<< Couldn't argue the truth.

<<You do not need it, my Lady. I shall hunt for you. My talons and teeth are better weapons than this- this paltry thing,>> he decided. <>

>>Ain't mine t'give up.<<

<<Who can give it up, if not you? It is a terrible thing, something ruined. It might be a gift from your elder, but it is not your destiny, not as it was for your sire or your sire's sire or him before.>>

>>It reminds me of what I was, y'know? Can't just ... give that up.<<

<<Why not?>>

And she didn't have an answer. Rascela grunted, put the finishing touches on the device, and then moved to put it away. Bury it.

Forget it.

[Vignette] - Rascela & Uanth: Week 1: Revelation

2008-11-19T14:39:20Z

<< For you, I am ... I am your rock, your mountain, your ocean, your forest -- your Uanth and your most humble servant, my Lady. Let us eat and talk a while.>>

And with those words, she knew she had no regrets.

She had gone with him then, a rough hand resting on the whorls of his broad forehead, shoulders back and head high; no tears from her, just a savage sense of satisfaction. Of knowing. Of unrelenting certainty.

And she had fed him, listening all the while and saying nothing; just listening to the wind in the trees of his mind, reveling in the sanctuary he had for her -- just for her and her alone, within that circle of strangely marked rocks and buried deep within the twisted tangle of his mental forest -- and wondering at the noises and ill-formed shapes that danced just beyond.

She was unrepentent, shredding the meat with her hands, handing it over in an offering to him, to her savior, to her one-and-only -- and if god were a word, it would be one she would have applied to him and still, somehow, fallen short. She would sacrifice all for him, all of it, at his bidding and all without a blink of an eye. And he was pleased. Oh, how did the trees of his mind knock and sway and seem to fill that mental space with rattling laughter.

Bloodied hands applied oil with bone-deep reverence, tracing the patterns that she didn't even need to see to know they were there -- yet she was compelled to see, to look at, to adore; to look away was sacrilege. To feel it as he did, to shiver for that shared sensation. And he talked and talked, though she'd be hard-pressed to have words to explain what he said; it was all through that strange, fey language of his, in the satisfied burbling of a mental brook, of the pleased groan of the earth.

When the first mist rolled in, she felt herself absorbed by it, swallowed up in it, and was scarcely aware that they'd moved to a place with a convenient cot, a couch. He clambered stiffly onto the couch, taking his rightful place on that shabby throne, and she joined him as best she could. An ink-marked wing lay over her like a blessing and he settled there, claws rattling on the stone and head resting near hers.

Whispering. Whispering to her. To her and no one else.

>>Yours,<< she had finally thought, the first word, the only word she could conjure up. Her voice, to him, was a scintillating thing, a spilling of lucid blue light in the mist-choked darkness.

<<Mine.>> he had confirmed, mist enveloping the her-that-he-saw, the leather-clad huntress, the finery-clad Lady; two images reconciled in a way she couldn't articulate, didn't need to.

And when she slept, it was to the stories he told, intoxicated by the presence of him; and only after the last folds of velvet darkness draped themselves over her thoughts did he follow into the dreamless depths.

<<Mine.>>