Logs:But I Want to Keep Dancing
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| RL Date: 7 January, 2012 |
| Who: Ali, Val |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Isyath is starting to get proddy, Ali tours a possibly-Ruathan dive bar (as you do), and Val lets her rescue herself. (Visigoth... prompts.) |
| Where: Dive Bar |
| When: Day 21, Month 9, Turn 27 (Interval 10) |
| OOC Notes: Val = ST, but she also shows up. |
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| Where did they wind up? The wind is autumn-crisp, threaded with smoke and a whiff of drying vegetation, hay or some other crop; the stars are gone, and Belior with them, Timor already new and hiding. There is so little light, though what light there is burns green to dragonsight: glowbaskets, marking the crescent of a path from the long low hill that the blue dragon had envisioned for Isyath, to the stone barricades of... yes, there's the wind changing: runners and something else, a cow or a goat, a hint of dung the only giveaway to its identity. Is Isyath a connoisseur of dung? Again, a change in the wind: other dragons, out there. Somewhere. More distant. But the blue's already circling downward, his companion with the Threadscarred wing taking it more slowly, towards an area of darkness beyond the path that, if they can be trusted, is a flat expanse. If they can be trusted... but is there any reason to doubt? Isyath has no such doubts. She's more than content to indulge her rider in her (just lately) more unusual whims. And while the location is not somewhere that the queen immediately enjoys, it's the flight that draws her anyway: the dark, feeling more by a sense of where the blue is than anything else. Isyath touches each of those minds she senses, making herself known in a wordless way - friendly rather than invasive. Trusting to the older blue, she follows down in his wake, landing in the dark, guided only by the memories of the older dragon. There's a muzzy prickliness that responds with something closer to welcome as the old male wakes for the young queen; another of those minds is likewise male, chirpy with a « Hello! » and a yawn. Two more are more awake but engrossed in themselves, one reflecting glacial distance and the other, a muffled sense of fragile twigs and a wisp of something feathery. The last... there's little about his outer thoughts to give his nature away, more a good-humored reflection of the three of them descending, rare ducklings dangling down in a row. This, just before the old blue slows further, spilling air from his tilted wings, and lands with a little hop. He looks back to check on his charge before releasing his rider and hopping in ungainly fashion out of the way of Isyath and the third of their little group. Down here, it's slightly warmer in the hill's lee, and not silent: there's occasional wind-rustle of brush, and of sleepily moving beasts unbothered by predators beyond their fence. And! Music! Some sort of plucked instrument from within the long building built into the hill, and the buzz of conversation, and a not-inexpert drum. Isyath's contact is more of the non-verbal variety, though there is a pleasant rush of brilliant light in response to the chirpy greeting. The queen lands, divests herself of her rider, and is airborne moments later, to circle and wheel upwards in the unfamiliar - and thus, delightful - skies. Ali's clothed in an actual dress. Something she doesn't often do, but more of late. In the last seven, in fact. It's more of a sundress than anything, probably unsuited to the cold weather, and so the warmth draws her on, and in, rather quickly. There's a pleased glimmer of gaze and an exhale of delight at the sound of the music, and she's quick to usher her companions onwards, as if this were somehow all her idea. Blinding light! He gives a perceptible gasp, a blink, and shushes cheerfully enough; meanwhile, the middle duckling may be seen to all but bounce skyward as Isyath does, up to where there's... more sky. More clouds. More of that. Down below, a man in overalls emerges from beyond the path, fumbling at his fly; he startles at sight of the arrivals, then gives them a friendly-enough wave (with his other hand!) before hurrying to beat them inside where it's, yes, warm. And there's, you know, booze. And, as it turns out, a crowd in more rooms than might have been expected from outside. And food, salty meats and bread and cheese and the like to go along with the booze, sold from a long counter behind which is a red-cheeked woman with her hair done up in a kerchief. No waiters wandering around with platters of treats here, not like Boll, it's strictly serve-yourself. So many people, so many different rooms: a girl could lose herself here. Ali is, well, a little taken aback, possibly as much by where the man chooses to relieve himself, as the casual way he greets them. She's visibly flustered, but drawn on by her companions, the beckoning warmth and the music, nonetheless. It's easy to get lost? She looks, well, lost, just stepping into the main room itself. Chewing on her lower lip, she takes it all in, but it's too overwhelming. Her companions might be headed for the bar to seek out booze and food, but doesn't immediately follow, too distracted, perhaps, but what that girl over there is wearing - and it draws a fluster to her cheeks that has nothing to do with the sudden warmth - and took shocked by what those people in that corner are doing. And she's staring, which is never a good idea in a place like this. There's an appropriately tall-broad-muscly man by the entrance that's looking all grim whenever his mouth is closed... but luckily that's not often, talking with the people nearby as he is but never moving far from his post. Maybe, to a neophyte, he just likes propping up a wall? Now, he susses up the blushing girl in the dress, not that dress but the other one, and says to Ali, "G'wan, music's good. We've got Muster and the Bojangles, set's half over." He even has most of his teeth! He doesn't have a knot, though, but then, neither does anyone except for the boy (boy?) with the red cap and the slim muscled arms who's wearing a double handful of them like a shirt. "...had to do it, yeah?" says the soprano voice, pitched higher to carry to those nearby. "No backing off from that." But some people can still leave, it's not like they're imprisoned here forever, unless it's a year and a day: a dark-haired woman bustles past Ali as she heads out, hand in hand with her handlebar-moustached friend. She flashes the girl a smile, but she's moving out. And here she had all her clothes on, too! Ali starts, then turns, and stares rather blankly at the wall-propper. Half the words he says don't make any sense, and the rest are incomprehensible without the context. She latches onto the one single word that makes sense - the music - and moves away from the entrance, as much because the muscled man is obviously unsettling, as she's somewhat of an obstacle to those trying to enter. She's long since lost sight of her companions, though she strains to see them. Finally, awkwardly, she moves deeper, her gaze skipping away from this or that thing, making it very difficult for her to see much of anything. But it's the music, that draws her. Hopefully, somewhere in here, people are dancing. That's normal. Dancing she can do, and with great gusto. Dancing there is, especially deeper in: no need for a hearth here, with all the people, the people, not with the drumbeat not just audible but tactile to heat one's hands against. There aren't elaborately posed steps here, nor room to dance them in, though here and there are pockets: a girl slid up on her partner's shoulders in a lift, four elbow-linked and high-stepping women back to back, two men crouching and kicking in a duel. The string instrument's melody swoops up, and somewhere there's the red-capped youth again, laughing. There aren't any children, aren't any chaperones. It's a different world. And it's a world in which another kerchiefed and aproned helper presses a cool mug into Ali's hand, mouthing that it's for her: she's new. (First one's free. That, the woman doesn't say.) Oh, the music. It doesn't matter that there's no choreography. That everyone dances differently. Even as she's taking it all in her feet are tapping to the beat, and the mug pressed into her hand is accepted with a pleased, grateful smile. She takes a gulp, and the coldness, more than anything, makes her drink it all down, regardless of the alcoholic, bitter aftertaste. All she wants to do is dance, after all, and so the mug's set aside on a convenient surface, and she lets herself be drawn into the group. She's an enthusiastic dancer, and she's given to allowing any particular partner to spin her around at their whim. The thing is, Ali's young enough and not-bad-looking-enough and, apparently, willing enough that she's not going to run shy of partners, even if it's just for a few measures at a time. It's mostly men who seek to spin her, though there's a buxom woman who twirls her, laughing, if only to get herself and her partner past and across the way. The looks in the men's eyes are appreciative enough to be heady as the beer, and the music just doesn't seem to want to let go. One man's got a tidy little mustache and laughing brown eyes, his hands wide and callused on her hips as he moves to lift her off her feet; another's laughing too, but considerably younger and sweaty-handed, and then there are two others... brothers? Friends? Whatever they are, they'll link arms and pass her dizzyingly back and forth between them if they can, the shell buttons on their shirts gleaming in the light like the not-just-admiration in their eyes. If she keeps dancing with them, if she seems to enjoy it, the circle might snug itself up, casual distance might become low-voiced, teasing quips, subtly more and more familiar with how their hands might touch on hip or higher to guide her to their lead. Not far off, the red-capped youth's dancing too in all those knots, and once glances her way, dark eyes bright in a different sort of speculation than the men... a different sort of brightness than back at Boll. Boll, where at least one more difference is: here, no girl's grabbing her butt. The headiness of the music and the beer, and the entire atmosphere, not to mention the state of the dragon, means that Ali is totally, utterly relaxed. Just enjoying each dance, and each partner as they come, her laughter an audible, bubbling sort of thing. The brothers are refreshing, and their enthusiastic dance is more than welcome. As things get more heated, there is... capitulation. She doesn't fight it. Doesn't flee. Just enjoys the teasing, giving back as good as she gets. She's unaware of the red-capped youth, too distracted by the sensory overload present right here. Teasing back that way, that's something the men clearly enjoy, trading smiles with each other as well as with her: not just a girl who might give it up, but someone who might want life as much as they do, who might mirror the teasing finger that would slide beneath the strap of her sundress, who might dance ever more sultrily now that they have her between them. There's muscle there beneath one's short sleeve, there are shadows there at the other's throat within the vee of his collar, there's knowledge and more of that appreciation in one broad palm pressed against her, shaping her, letting her shape herself. What could happen, after all? It's in public, never mind what kind of public, never mind that the rhythm of the dance they set and the shield of their bodies makes it simple to eventually circulate towards a doorway and through, into a yet another darker but no less heated room: one where it's harder to see exactly what's going on, harder to see the woman panting with her head thrown back and her partner's face pressed into her shoulder, his hand... never mind his hand, vanished where his body conceals her from them all. Ali could have that, or better, two for the price of the first that's free: no coercion here, or at least not yet, invitation and encouragement and heady appreciation. His kiss is heated, his breath is fresh cool air that's ticklish against her skin, the music never seems to stop. But in that earlier room, as they drift away, there's a red-capped youth who's a red-capped woman who's a red-capped rider who reaches out to her Visigoth and... she frowns. Her hands tighten on her partner's arms. Her forehead tips against his shoulder... And she keeps dancing. Until. Until that hesitation, yet again, and she steels herself, murmuring something to him and then peeling away, lighter and lighter-footed, towards that other room and the door she knows is there. Ali too, explores in a way that a keen eye might suggests inexperience and subtle amazement more than anything, though know one here knows who is is. And that, in itself, is half the freeing experience. A hand that runs across his muscles, a press of her body in just the right, suggestive way - inadvertent or not - an exploration of fingers beneath the material of his shirt. There's no coercion, no; she just lets herself get swept up in the moment, the beats of the music, the heat, the voice in her head - that brilliant, shimmering voice that shines like a beacon in the night to those that know what to look for. She has gotten herself lost, but in that moment, it just doesn't seem to matter much at all. One moment, two, another... and then metal moves against metal, a latch unbarred, a door swinging inward beneath strong hands. It isn't the door to one of the littler rooms, but to the greater outdoors, to the night and the cool clear air. The red-capped... woman... leans hipshot against it now, her pose languorous enough to seem unintentional, and her attention seemingly towards drawing in a deep breath herself. Goosebumps rise on her arms (and is that a facsimile of a master's knot with its dark jewel right... there?) and inside, well. Someone curses. She looks back as though towards it, but it's towards Ali, through dark, dark lashes. Will she, won't she? Val won't judge. Will she? The chill of the night air is a shock to the senses, a splash of cold water in the midst of a sauna. Pressed between the two lads, the rush of air makes Ali gulp, and while it earns grumblings from those around her, the same is not true of the Fortian woman. Despite the teasing hands that urge her to stay, that promise so much more, she slips away, seeking the source of that coolness. By the time she reaches the door, she's flustered and gasping for breath. The air helps, as does closing her eyes for a moment, finding her way back. When she opens them again, she's studying Val, leaning against the door. Oddly, for everything else she's done tonight, it's the staring she finds most awkward. She parts her mouth as if to form a word, a thanks, maybe, but the words fail her. Well, damn. Poor lads: there is some heavily-breathed frustration going on, a fist thrust into one pocket because it's that or hit the wall. Still and all, they're tall enough that they can see she's not apt to come back, and something enough that they're not chasing her, not taking her down. (That'll come. Someone will.) At least the woman they'd passed is still getting her way, far enough back and far enough along that it's no interruption at all. As for Ali herself, there is an interruption in that long look that's Val's languid blink, as though to make things just a little easier there too, the brownrider smiling ever so slightly as she comes up. She can speak. "Feel good?" The fresh air. Surely. It's an easy question, and never mind her subtly widened smile. "I-" Ali gets a single syllable out, before she gulps in more air. Then finally, "Sorry. I just needed to-" get out, get away, get free, fly free. It's all in her expression, fleeting and obvious, if not explicitly voiced. The two lads are forgotten. Well, not forgotten, but she's trying very, very hard not to focus on her thoughts of them, though the fluster of her expression suggests she's not exactly succeeding at that, either. "It's very hot in there," she eventually manages to construct, and finish, an entire sentence. "Yeah," Val gives her with a wry look, a certain commiseration in her voice: girls, they know these things, right? She doesn't say more right off, just creates that breathing room in the door's frame, keeping it open with them on the right side as moonlight drifts there and away as the clouds play with letting Belior go. Eventually, though: "I'm going to close the door now," she tells Ali. It's a warm, teasing little warning, like it could mean something, and deliberately walks past the threshold and perhaps the girl. Not too fast. There's a little swing to her hip. The door falls (is pushed?) shut. There are moments to catch it, but barely. She glances over one shoulder at Ali: is she coming? There's no hesitation, which is unusual enough in itself for the girl, not that the other woman probably knows this. Ali doesn't look over her shoulder at the scene she's choosing to leave behind, just pushes free of it, out through the door. Takes another deep breath, and gives a slightly more sincere smile at Val. "I- think I've had enough for tonight, anyway." And now that she's through, now that the door's closed on those other rooms and other paths, now that they could walk along while girlishly chatting get-to-know-yous in the moonlight... Val leaves her be: just a smile over that shoulder with its knotted cords over smooth brown skin, a smile just for the goldrider with a so-simple, "Good night." I saw what you did. And with that, she steps beyond the light of the glows, to Visigoth and, eventually, home. |
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