Logs:Cuddly
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| RL Date: 1 June, 2014 |
| Who: A'rist, G'laer, Lythronath, Teisyth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: There are no knife threats this time, but rest-assured things are equally delightful. |
| Where: Guest Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 14, Month 12, Turn 34 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Rh'mis/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Back-dated. Follows Logs:And the Winner Is... |
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| Guest Weyr, High Reaches Weyr This broad ledge is dappled with bright light in the morning and commands a lovely view of the eastern end of the bowl, including the lake and the trees that dot the shoreline. Reached by a flight of stone steps that climb up from the bowl floor, the ledge is relatively low, an easy jump down to the ground; possibly its selection was a safety precaution, so anyone stumbling out the wrong way after a flight would be unlikely to break his or her neck. Within the weyr itself is a comfortably-sized dragon wallow, rarely used but swept clean nonetheless. The cavern broadens as it stretches back away from the entrance to reveal a neatly made double-sized bed pushed up against the back wall, a press at its foot with an extra blanket folded on top of it and two chairs standing guard to either side of the hearth. A rectangular table lurks against the side wall, kept stocked with a pitcher of water and a basket of seasonal fruits. The weyr is well-lit and kept immaculately clean, the refreshing scents of citron-infused sweetsand mingling with the tang of herbs.
Lythronath was out like a light the minute his head hit stone. Out, and leaning up against Teisyth, maintaining his claim more than that bronze could ever properly 'cuddle'. (Hahaha. Win.) A'rist is, conversely, not in specific contact with G'laer (though it's possible an elbow might be touching or something). He's not looking at the greenrider, either. He's looking down the length of his body, scratching idly at his abdomen, waiting for sweat to cool. "Ha," is about as unbidden as a hiccup might be. The greenrider is mostly on his stomach, shoulders twisted slightly so he can look over at the bronzerider. Nothing obviously hostile. It never hurts to be sure, "I don't need to worry about you knifing me in my sleep, do I?" G'laer's voice is pretty bland, like it's the kind of question you ask after every flight (though perhaps he's had to). A'rist makes a little face, though he's still looking down. He scratches a little lower. He then occupies both hands with shifting around the sheets, but he'll pause once he's got a good grip on them to look over to the greenrider. "No." So there it is. Back to inspecting, or is that sorting or preparing, the bedding? "Good." That might be it. G'laer's head sinks down onto the bed, not really bothering to find a pillow, and his eyes slip shut. Only after a moment there's a disgruntled grunt and he's pushing himself up and off the bed to find the chamber pot and wash basin, movements far from his usual quick efficiency. This is more like clumsy exhaustion. Gathering up the sheets so they're out of the way is a lot easier when G'laer's not there, it turns out. A'rist makes quick work of it once the greenrider's got up, though he doesn't stretch out, once a spot has been cleared. No, he just brings one leg up, and sits forward, with a hand out behind him for support, and the other one hanging from his raised knee, resting at the wrist. He'll wait for G'laer to finish, or at least until it's gone quiet over there, before saying, "It works better when I hold him back. Pretty hard, but not too much. He wins every time we get that right." "Mm." The noise might mean he's not really listening as he puts the basin back to its original state and takes a towel to his face. "Less frustrating, I'd imagine. When you win." So, he must have been listening after all. "Does he take loss alright or just better that you win even when you might rather not?" The question is posed as the older man heads back toward the bed. "Less bl-" his nose wrinkles, and he corrects, "ichor." It's got A'rist looking down again, and then all at once kicking both legs off the side of the bed. Once his soles have touched stone, it's time to go on a clothes hunt. "We don't like losing," answers, maybe, both those questions. "We like winning," clarifies. Oh look, a sock. And it's his. G'laer makes it almost all the way to the bed before it dawns on him that A'rist is clothes-hunting, and apparently, that he's not wearing any. Chalk it up to the exhaustion. It's probably only polite at this point, seeing as how he's still conscious, that he find at least his pants. He joins the hunt, albeit in a different part of the cavern. "Well, then good that you won. It's a nice change not to just exchange swear words and make a safe exit for once." "Sure," A'rist answers him, squatting down when he's found his shorts. While squatted, he executes a not-very-covert sniff. Then, gets that much more dressed. Once he's covered up that part, at least, the bronzerider does turn to give G'laer a cautious look, eyebrows drawing together. But he shakes his head. And go figure, the pants would be very near those shorts. Meanwhile, G'laer has stumbled upon shirts. A shirt. A shirt and a piece of a shirt? Does he remember that happening? The full shirt is balled and lofted toward A'rist while G'laer examines the sleeve of his own. The rest must be around somewhere. "Seam must have been worn," is more to himself than to the bronzerider. "You settling into your wing well?" He directs to the teen just as he notices that A'rist has, indeed, found his shorts and G'laer's pants are spotted and he heads that way. A'rist catches it, surprisingly easily, considering his general athleticism otherwise. Maybe it's Lythronath's influence, still present. Maybe that's why he bobs his head, once, and smirks grimly (it is possible) to say, "Maybe not," on the topic of G'laer's shirt. Further dressing ensues. "No," answers the next question. Just like that. G'laer quirks a brow at the bronzerider before crouching to snag up his pants and then pull them on. "I don't remember. I don't usually remember much. I think it's because she forgets so fast." Far faster than the average green. That's about the shirt and its possible run in with the beast that is not quite Lythronath. The laces are tugged snugly on his pants and tied as he responds in like fashion, "Why?" Just like that. "Oh," says A'rist. "I do." There's a brief look of uncertainty that flickers over his face, but then, it's soon obscured when he's going for a boot. Two boots. All set. "I don't know. It's not enough. My dragon can't just sit and watch all day." Those words are somewhere between envy and censure. The teen's cheeks have flushed. And he kicks one of G'laer's boots in the older man's general direction, all the while tucking his thumbs into his pockets. "Was this the first time he caught a male-ridden green?" G'laer questions. Maybe he caught the look, maybe it's just curiosity. He bends and reaches to snag the boot kicked to him and then moves toward the other one. "Should invent yourself a project. Take it to your wingleader. Like... extra hunting duties, or felling trees or something." Something physical, obviously, and a little bit violent. "You'll look good for following proper channels and being proactive," did he hear rumors about Lythronath and A'rist's lack of preoccupation in the few months before tonight? "And he won't be bored." Theoretically. "Ass is ass," the young bronzerider offers, not exactly congenial. "He's already doing extra hunting," comes next, though A'rist doesn't elaborate on it. "And we got a project." No elaboration there, either. A final check and tug at his clothes, and he turns to face G'laer full on, looking halfway expectant. "Easy to say when it isn't yours." G'laer answers, but distractedly as he finally finds his shirt and elects to simply tear off the other arm rather than wear it one-armed. "Still not enough, hm?" The greenrider's question comes through the shirt as he dons it. When A'rist looks at him like that, the greenrider's brow furrows just slightly. Is there some post-flight protocol he is, as yet, unaware of? He quirks a brow at the younger man and allows himself a congenially teasing lilt when he asks, "What? Want a hug?" "Sure is," is on the cold side. "Lythronath's not like other dragons," comes next, that same practiced refrain from weyrlinghood. And when G'laer offers his little tease, A'rist just snorts, turns while waving the greenrider off with a dismissive hand, and heads out. Lythronath, he's woken up, but he has no intention of getting his rider. No, he just raises his head, turns to give a bite to Teisyth's shoulder, and suggests, « Wherry. » She can go get that. He'll just wait here. Stretch. Once A'rist's on his way out, there's a flicker of disappointment on the greenrider's face; maybe G'laer really wanted that hug. More likely something struck the wrong chord somewhere along the way. Then suddenly there's the echoed hiss from elsewhere. Bitten awake from a sound sleep, the green is bucking away from the possessive lean and it takes her a moment before annoyance floods toward the bronze. « Ow! No! Bad Lynner. No wherry! » At least not from her, but then she's far more doting day to day than when flight time rolls around. But just because she has no intention of bringing him a post-coital sammich- er, wherry, doesn't mean she's not leaving for her ledge where she can sleep in peace. She'll probably even get G'laer since he's slowly walking toward the bowl after one look back at the bed in the guest weyr. |
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