Logs:Curcles
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| RL Date: 3 February, 2013 |
| Who: Ainslee, Z'ian |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Introductions, discussions of dragons and weyr sizes. |
| Where: Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 21, Month 12, Turn 30 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Sleet |
| Mentions: H'vier/Mentions |
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| Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr(#555RJ)
Some of the smaller stalactites still roam the ceiling, their jagged teeth tracing a bumpy, inverted spine to the hearth. There, a thick rug with a low klah table and comfortable armchairs and couches sit, their upholstery and cushions changed sporadically to match the season: bright, light colors in the summer, fresh greens and yellows in the spring, warm autumnals in fall, and clear, rich hues for winter. Small tables litter the rest of the cavern, enough to fit up to four people each, while stools stand along the smooth wooden bar behind which is the passthrough window to the kitchen. Glass-paneled cabinetry behind the bar provides a clear view of the available liquors, the many colors reflecting the soft light of glows tucked into strategic niches around the cavern.
Ever since it started to get cold out again, Z'ian began spending much of his free time here at the Snowasis. Tonight isn't any different and the bronzerider detaches himself from a group of his rowdy wingmates currently haunting the back of the establishment. He pushes his way though the crowds until he's at the bar, shouldering his way into a mostly free spot. Ainslee is hard to miss as she leans over the counter a few people down. And while she doesn't catch the attention of the woman pouring the drinks, he definitely notices her. So through some tricky maneuvering, he manages to end up at the stool next to hers. He doesn't have to stand on the footrest to stretch out and get the bartender's attention. "So, what did you want to drink?" He asks casually as he flashes her a smile in between whistling down the way to the blueriders. "Also, quarter mark says those guys throw up outside." It's crowded and loud in that obnoxious fashion of bars everywhere, distractions abounding - but a girl has to be seriously off her game to not notice Z'ian's sudden proximity. Teeth flash in a grateful grin upwards and over a leather-covered shoulder. "Oh, thank you! Mulled wine - if you can get her attention." Ainslee sinks back down on her barstool, craning her head the opposite way to check out the blueriders. She raises her voice to be heard over a sudden swell of noise from the poker-players just yonder, husky alto holding a Bitran accent: "I will /take/ your bet, good sir. Quarter mark says those guys throw up inside." Her infectious grin is back again, this time turned towards Z'ian rather than down the way. (And look, here comes the bartender... so predictable.) It looks like he's talked to the bartender before, by the way he leans in with his forearm on the counter to order their drinks. She's one for mulled wine and he's just a regular house brew. Z'ian hooks his feet onto the lower rung of the stool, "No problem. It can be hard to get their attention sometimes, I know." He grins broadly and glances over his shoulder at the pair of blueriders. "Great. But you can't ply them with extra booze when I'm not looking, that's not fair game. They have to vomit of their own free will, so to speak." It is exceptionally loud tonight, the result of so many people crowding inside to escape the cold. In order to hear to hear Ainslee without basically shouting, he moves closer and leans a bit closer in. "Z'ian, Tsanth's. You're... the new dragonhealer that transferred in? I'm sorry I never got your name." There's something in that chronically-amused expression that Ainslee surveys Z'ian's interaction-with-the-barkeep with; an exasperated admiration for getting the job done, perhaps. After, she laughs aloud for his admonition - leaning in herself, with little regard for personal space, the better to reply, "Ha! Are you trying to insinuate that I'd /cheat/?" The whimsical smile is entirely *too* whimsical: an element of devilry lies just beneath, apparent through the thin veneer. She laughs again afterwards. "Ainslee," she introduces herself; "Kalaith's. Z'ian! I've heard of you, I think. Tsanth was one of the ones injured, after the flight, right?" A bit of dawning, then, and then laughter bubbling again, politically incorrect and shameless with it: "The one who tangled with H'vier's?" "Oh, I wouldn't dare to insinuate anything about a woman that I didn't know. Carefully laying the framework for the ground rules is all." Z'ian drawls slowly, even as the corners of his mouth turn up and he ends up smiling crookedly at her. Their drinks arrive and he slides her wine over to her, taking his beer up in one hand. Her recognition of his name has him laughing and ducking his head briefly. "Yeah, that was us. H'vier's is something of a bruiser. Not unlike his rider, I guess." He tips the bottle to his lips and rolls his eyes for that piece of information. "What can you do?" Casually he slings his arm around the back of her chair, to help him balance as he remains leaned in. "How're you finding the 'Reaches?" In the many varied flavors of Ainslee's laughter, what Z'ian elicits with his commentary on insinuation and ground-rules falls along bemused delight. "You caught me," she declaims, claming her mug with a murmured thanks and a flashed smile. "I'm not sure if my Healer's oath necessarily allows me to knowingly induce alcohol poisoning, though...." She rolls her eyes, at that and at the topic of H'vier: "I've had the pleasure of meeting him. He seems--" She lifts a hand, wavers it back-and-forth on the axis of her wrist; what can you do, indeed? A bark of laughter at the question (this laughter wry): "Very active, I suppose you could say! Benden never had this amount of--" Crazy weyr-rocking politics? "--things happening!" Her smile widens, merriment dancing in her eyes. "The bronzeriders seem nicer, here, too." "Don't worry. I'll stop you from unknowingly inducing alcohol poisoning. Just in case the wine goes to your head." He flashes her a mischievous smile, he's a very helpful man, yes. "You met him and can describe it as a pleasure? Are you sure that we're talking about the same man?" The bronzerider asks teasingly before he takes a long draw from his bottle. "Well, we aim to please. Nothing quite like joining a place that's on the verge of upsetting the very traditions on which most of Pernese Weyr society is based, yeah?" Z'ian's smile is ironic and maybe just a touch difficult to pin down as sarcastic or just amused at this point. "We're basically the nicest bronzeriders out of all of the weyrs. Except for H'vier, but he's Istan. He can't help himself." He rests his drink on the counter, "Benden couldn't keep you interested enough to stay there?" "Thanks. You never know what they put into the mulling spices, right?" Ainslee smothers a laugh into the aforementioned wine. Her sly glance askance at the "pleasure" of meeting H'vier can't help but be teasing. "Well, I'm sure he treated /me/ a fair sight different than he treated /you/." She shifts herself slightly, curving in to the line of his arm in an undeniably feminine gesture of pliant comraderie. Her charming little smile has the slightest of self-mocking about the edge of her expression. "Are you one of the offended parties?" She'll reach out to casually brush fingers where his knot is (or would be if he isn't wearing it), as if to point out her point. "I've heard that some of the bronzeriders are-- less than pleased." How the hell does this conversation happen in the middle of a loud and crowded bar? Must be a High Reaches thing. "Benden just couldn't handle me," is her light response after, obviously joking... but maybe not. "He temporarily rearranged the features on my face, that's all." Z'ian turns his head this way and that so she can see everything is where it's supposed to be. Now anyway. His nose even looks like it basically wasn't broken recently. "I'm a little tougher than a paper doll." He smirks and picks his bottle up again before he circles his arm more closely around her shoulders. His blue eyes flicker down at the touch of her hand to his shoulder knot, "Offended parties would insinuate that someone did something to me directly." He answers, dancing around the actual answer she's looking for. "But yes, some of the bronzeriders are less than pleased. Is it surprising?" It is possible it's a High Reaches thing and possibly it's the same topic that's being brought up again and again across the weyr too. "Figure you'll disappear into the background of 'Reaches more tumultuous landscape? No one will notice you?" His gaze lifts to her face, glancing at the head of red hair before dropping down again. There's a more-serious wince for his words. Ainslee will refrain from mapping any structural damage to Z'ian's face with her hands - see, there's some benefit to her patients being dragons instead of humans! Awkward moment /averted/. "I'm sure you're as tough as anyone is," she replies wryly, "Against a man of his size." What does Ista do, after all, feed their bronzeriders Miracle-Gro? She falls silent on the topic of politics - likely a weyr-wide phenomenon, truth - only to nod. "You'd think there would be some sort of middle ground." It's cause for thought, this more-serious bend of conversation. She shakes her head as if to clear it, setting those red curls bouncing. That last question prompts a quirked smile. "I had reasons to seek out High Reaches." It really comes out less doom-and-dire ominous than the words would otherwise imply. "I haven't really regretted it yet! Other than the /weyr/. Are they all small, around these parts?" Her gaze rises to his directly, and she manages to keep her face straight for the delivery of that question. "Sure, I mean really it's a testament to my manly prowess that I even survived the assault." Z'ian jokingly draws his eyebrows together, nodding with a smirk. Yes it seems to say, so very tough against cement-fists. He drains the rest of his beer and places the bottle down on the counter, pushing it away. "Could be that the middle ground will be more evident as time progresses. But for some of us the wounds are still much too raw, I think." He stares her down for that question, so very serious. "I don't know, I haven't been in all of them yet. I'd show you mine, but I'm afraid you'd find it lacking in width or length." He doesn't manage to keep the straight face though; he begins to laugh and brings his knuckles to his mouth. Clearing his throat, "I don't know if my fragile ego could handle the hit." The arm that he has encircled around her shoulders shifts and he teasingly tugs on a curl of her red hair. "Oh, surely," about Z'ian's prowress, complete with a sage nod. Ainslee isn't quite down to the lees of her wine yet - not close enough to get another mug, at least. The redhead leans companionably against his arm, nestled as she is in the crook of his elbow; she doesn't seem to find this a displeasing locale from which to discuss weyr politics and ... sizes of weyrs. She laughs freely at his reply, shoulders back and head tilting to a side, the clean line of her throat visible. Bemusement remains when she straightens, nudging her chin towards that curl-tugging hand. "In /weyr/ sizes," she clarifies, "I swear I have the smallest one I've ever stumbled across. Yours can't be any smaller." She tries to keep a straight face, fails, shoulders quaking from the effort. "They must just keep all the good ones for the native-born sons and daughters of High Reaches." There's an inquiry there, an eyebrow lifted-- "Are you one of those?" A native. She doesn't make it sound like a disease, really. Their more or less absentee bartender returns at some point, replacing the empty bottle with another one. Z'ian doesn't go reaching for it straight away, since he's becoming much more distracted by the way she's tilting her head to the side. Exhaling, "They're not very big." he finally concedes, on the actual topic of her question. "Mine's a bit strange in that my bed is actually separated from the rest of it. Doesn't make it any larger, but maybe more private feeling. There's a window." He laughs at her suggestion and shakes his head, biting down on his lower lip. "Sorry, they stiff us just like they stiff the transfers and the impressions from non-natives. Born and raised at High Reaches Hold." Here he takes his beer and lifts it. Amused by the way she phrases the question, "Would it be better if I pretended I was from somewhere else? Like Ista?" A smile still plays for the almost-but-not-quite remaining double entendre of the conversation. Ainslee is curious for how Z'ian describes his weyr, a brow furrowed as she tries to imagine how /that/ may look. (The window, not his clothes on the floor... though that probably is also archived somewhere behind those blue-green eyes.) "Mine's just a little hollow at the end of the couch," she admits. "Barely wedged in a tiny little bed and a clothespress. I use Kalaith as a desk for my hidework!" She leans over, places her mug down on the countertop with a brief glance over to the argumentative pair sitting on the other side of her seat, and returns to paying attention to Z'ian with a hint of relief about her expression: so much more preferable company! She lifts a hand to fluff her hair, a distracted habit, leaning in. "I think High Reaches has all the Ista it ever needs." Her tone is rueful, her glance momentarily thoughtful as she studies Z'ian's features, shameless as an artist. "You don't to pretend. You're pretty enough without needing to be exotic." Awww, Ainslee knows just what to say to all the gir-- er, bronzeriders. He looks sympathetic to the plight of her tiny weyr, his lips pursing to the side before asking, "Are you sure you're not exaggerating?" Z'ian teases playfully. "After all, your hidework can't be all that neat and orderly if you're using your dragon to write on." When she moves, he takes the opportunity to shift and see if the two blueriders are throwing up anywhere yet. They're both still inside, that doesn't bode well for his quarter of a mark. Focusing on Ainslee again, he's once more leaning in. What's personal space? "I could pretend to be from... Southern? Ah, Igen? Do you prefer cold or warm climates? Fort?" The bronzerider definitely doesn't sound serious in his line of questioning. Her remark has him laughing again, smiling brightly. "If I was a younger man you'd be making me blush right around now." His gaze flickers to her hair once more, distracted by the motion of her playing with it. "No," Ainslee admits freely; "I'm not sure I'm not exaggerating." She's forgotten the bet, or so it would appear, absorbed in this conversation as she is. "Kalaith would never tolerate holding still that long, either." Her eyes roll in affectionate exasperation. "She's--" There's no way to explain her, really, so she leaves it open-ended, except for saying, "I don't think people who have... non-difficult lifemates can really understand!" She doesn't necessarily group him in with that category, either, it being delivered more as a statement. The greenrider laughs at his line of teasing inquiry, though-- "I love all the weather. I've found if you love everything, there's nothing to hate." Ainslee's zen like that, yo. "Though that may have to do with coming from a place with seasons. I'm not sure if I could handle Ista or Southern or Igen!" She playfully places a hand on his chest in a mockery of a push - a push requires force behind it, and not a tendency to linger, right? - at the end. "I'll just have to work harder for that blush." It probably doesn't help that she's flushed a little herself, at the moment, with the wine and the warmth and the flirting. That second beer he was going to drink gets little more than a cursory sip before he slides it back onto the counter. Where it pretty much remains ignored for the next little while. "You're telling me. I listen to a non-stop monologue all day long and sometimes into the night too. I've just grown used to it over the last fifteen or so turns that I've been tuned in." Z'ian expresses the same level of affectionate exasperation for his lifemate. Complete with eye rolling and everything as he smiles crookedly at her. "High Reaches might test your patience with the overabundance of snow. But some of us like it." Since he's no longer preoccupied with that bottle, he has the free hand to snatch at her fingers when she goes to 'push' him. If he's successful, he'll keep her hand right there against his chest. His mouth curves into something just a touch wolfish as he pitches his voice lower, "I don't think you're going to have to work that hard, beautiful." Ainslee winces visibly for Z'ian's internal monologue - but can't help but look rather terribly fascinated soon after. "Mine is rather on the opposite side. All--" she gestures vaguely, "--silent symbols and shit, only talks when /she/ has something to say. I'd like her to talk more." More of that curiosity- she can't help but impulsively ask, "What's he talking about now?" She doesn't seem at all put-out by the claiming of her hand, swaying towards him as if attracted by gravity - or other fundamental force of attraction. "Oh?" Her husky voice is a little too breathy, and she sways backwards with a laugh. "You're worse than the wine!" is exclaimed, free hand fanning her face as if suddenly overheated. "Maybe I want to work hard for it." The protest is faux-plaintive and low-voiced comparative to the volume of the bar around them; fingers curl slightly against the fabric of his shirt, blue-green eyes fixed upon blue. "Not a single symbol. No blades of grass, no animals, no fire, wind or rain. His voice is sort of sandy, which is soothing but can get really aggravating." Z'ian is glancing past her head to the exit, almost as if he knows exactly where Tsanth is out there in the bowl. The green by the lake. She's a good looking green. I should go see her. Why am I busy? What could be more important? Why don't I care? Oh look, that snowflake is huge. Biggest snowflake ever. Why are you repeating what I'm saying?" He cuts off there, catching himself before he begins to laugh. His fingers squeeze her hand and graze down her forearm, tracing little circles against her skin absently. The bronzerider is back to biting his lip again, always a surefire sign of something being afoot. "I'm cheaper than the wine." He shoots back, this time allowing himself laugh quietly, just for her audience though. "Well, I'm not going to stop you if you want to work hard for it." He glances down at her curling fingers before slowly bringing his gaze back up to meet hers. " The laugh that startles out of Ainslee is probably the -truest- laugh of the night. Who wouldn't laugh at that? Poor Tsanth. Poor /Z'ian/. Her sympathetic expression follows the laugh, quick on the heels. "Kalaith is..." Her gaze goes distant, soft-unfocused. "She's always the stars and the moon, and -- light, but not light. Moonbeams. Emotion. Intangibles. And when she talks she sounds like sand/paper/, or a woman who's spent her life since childhood smoking and drinking bad whiskey." She probably could go on, but she doesn't, because Z'ian is doing the most damned distracting thing with his fingertips. The flush is still present - but more present when she half-slips off her barstool to lean in completely, hand lifting from his chest to stabilize against his collarbone, curved against his side in one fluid movement. Chin lifts, cheek ghosting along his, lips against his ear the better to whisper - the hair at his nose scented with sweetness. "Promise?" A simple word, for such a many-layered question. "She sounds relaxing." Things intangible that sound like moonbeams and emotions probably would sound relaxing to him, given the land of opposite that he lives in with his own dragon. Z'ian begins to say something else, but it doesn't exactly come to fruition. His words die in his throat when she slips off of the stool and presses against his side like that. Alright. He runs his hand up her arm, along the top of her shoulder until his fingers are curling at the nape of her neck. Tipping his chin down, he catches the full scent of her hair and ducks his down to speak low into her ear. "Promise." It's firm, but breathless as he sneaks his hand around to brush along the underside of her chin to prompt it upwards so he can catch her eyes. "Interested in seeing another small weyr?" Kalaith? /Relaxing/? The look that Ainslee aims towards Z'ian is nothing short of-- well, reserved, maybe. She's not going to correct him. They've moved on from that, or so it would appear, a smile likely felt rather than seen - until he's tilting her chin up like that, of course, the better to be seen. Deliberately, she dips her chin again, to better press the lightest of kisses along a fingertip. It's like that one line: she'd be a tease, if teases generally went past teasing. And in public? For shame! (It helps that she has none.) "Only if it's yours," is her reply to that last, a hint of humor in the catch of alto, husk so very well-defined: "That window sounds... so very interesting." Clothes-on-the-floor sounds more interesting, but also more hormonal-teenaged-boy, so she'll refrain from blurting that one out. Thankfully. She slips fully off her barstool, the dredges of wine and bluerider bet completely forgotten. That's good. Because the blueriders who continued to drink this entire time? One of them is starting to look pale and sickly. He's not going to last very much longer in here. But he has nothing on Z'ian, who is already unhooking his feet from the lowest rung of the stool and sliding off. Whatever their drinks happened to cost, he must be good for because he places the right looking amount of marks onto the counter. "It'll definitely be mine. We can even open the window if you want." He's by now nearly helplessly distracted by her lips pressing onto his fingertips. There's a low groan in his throat for that. His own bottle of beer is long forgotten there and he steals that hand of hers again, to pull her close against him so they can make the escape out of the bar together. Poor sickly blueriders. Ainslee would be sympathetic if her whole attention wasn't currently occupied by a certain bronzerider. Some enterprising sort will be more than happy to drain Z'ian's mostly-full warm beer for him, after-the-fact; Ainslee, meanwhile, will be more than happy to confound the speed of leaving the bar by the trickery of contact. Laughter must ensue - delight in that which deserves so; delight for the intensity of desire and the expression thereof. But a good girl never kisses and tells, now, do they? |
Comments
Barnabas (Barnabas (talk)) left a comment on Mon, 04 Feb 2013 19:00:42 GMT.
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You better watch yourself Ainslee. Jo might come after you now =D
Azaylia (Dragonshy (talk)) left a comment on Mon, 04 Feb 2013 19:02:10 GMT.
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Pleasant riders pleasing each other. Yeah, sounds about right.
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