Logs:Dried Blood
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| RL Date: 30 August, 2015 |
| Who: Faryn, Z'kiel |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Igen Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Z'kiel and Faryn are on different business at Igen Weyr, but their crossing of paths is convenient nonetheless. |
| Where: Igen Weyr |
| When: Day 14, Month 9, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Farideh/Mentions, Irianke/Mentions, Kasdeja/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, R'hin/Mentions, T'mic/Mentions, Yesia/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Just catching up on backlog, don't mind me. |
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| Igen Weyr. It's a place Z'kiel's only been to a scant handful of times after his Impression - and, even then, only to pick up a few things. A permanent return isn't in his future - and more and more, it seems that it's not just Ahtzudaeth's presence that's influencing his decision. In this case, however, the blame can be landed squarely on the bronze's capable shoulders; it wouldn't be any secret at the Weyr that with Niahvth glowing, the old-young bronze has been keeping his distance when possible. It's not out of malice - indeed, anyone with any sense could tell that much - but, more likely, out of a desire to give her space. And that, then would be the reason that he and his are here. Ostensibly. But. That does little to change the fact that the bronze is in the bowl and with his straps, eyes bright and green with tinges of yellow. Z'kiel is just a smudge in the distance, his stride slow and purposeful. From a distance, it's difficult to even identify him as him - perhaps by height and the baldness of his head, but little else betrays him. Ahtzudaeth shifts his weight on the packed sand, a low rumble of sound escaping him. Thoughtful, that. And he waits. Faryn's on business a lot lately. With Farideh preparing for Niahvth's inevitable rise, Faryn's gone in her stead to plenty of corners of Pern on myriad duties. It was only a matter of time before she wound up at Igen, given Farideh's roots and many correspondences that direction, not that Faryn estimates any of the packages she's delivered this day are any more sensitive than the others she usually carries. She's dressed well: nothing so fancy as Farideh or Irianke might choose for such an esteemed location, knotted and in good breeches and a light tunic clearly of Igen origin. She must have borrowed it. She's closing her satchel up as she moves in a manner directly contrasting Z'kiel: quick and with no clear direction, rummaging through her satchel. She even sidesteps a dragon - Ahtzudaeth - with barely a glance up on her way to where she imagines the transport rider waits. Ah. Familiarity. The bronze's keen attention to the approaching figure is promptly diverted with a gape-maw grin. He doesn't step forward to make himself more immediately known, but he does issue a friendly rumble that ends in a chortling sound that might be his trademark at this point. The yellow's gone from his eyes, at least; nothing to see here, nothing at all. Z'kiel, however, is some distance off - but, at the least, he can now be identified, though he wears darkly dyed leathers - easily noted as being quite new from the looks of them - with a helmet and goggles under an arm and a heavy satchel slung cross-wise over his person. Also notable: his hands are not gloved - and they are definitely balled into fists. His shoulders are tight and his stride is, now, recognizable as predatory - and dangerous. "Sorry," says Faryn, she who has learned to apologize even when she isn't at fault for anything particular. That she does it specifically to a dragon is queer, but it does draw her eyes up to re-evaluate her location and, "Oh! Ahtzudaeth. Hello." She's not been close to them lately, but the dragons of her friends are a well-known factor; had she been looking, he may have gotten a greeting sooner. "Where's Zak--" Faryn ventures, casting around before spotting him. Frowning. Taking a very cautious step sideways that really doesn't put any more distance between them as he advances closer. Sotto voce, for the bronze: "He looks pissed." That apology is met with a chuff that's good-natured at its very core; Ahtzudaeth closes his maw and dips his head, aiming the tip of his nose for Faryn's shoulder. It's a companionable gesture - weirdly human, in some ways, but such is the odd bronze. The question's start - and answer - elicit another low sound of apparent agreement. Pissed, yes. Quite, in fact. But, it might be some small consolation that the char-marked bronze situates himself just so, and even drops a wing to serve as some sort of shield. There is no alarm in his eyes, no visible sign of concern; perhaps the gesture is purely to reassure her. Another few steps carries him close enough to converse with; another after that will reveal the glisten of something on his knuckles. Blood? There aren't many other options. He unshoulders the bag and sets it to the ground with a grunt. It's a second or two after that his gaze centers keenly on Faryn - or, at least, her presence in relation to Ahtzudaeth. His voice is low and raw, but there is no anger there: "Need a ride back?" Ahtzudaeth is not the only dragon from his clutch to be physical; she's dealt with Jorrth and Akluseth both, and the former specifically has trained her well in bracing for those gentle nudges. Her smile is quick, small, but almost immediate, and her hand will find the bronze's nose if he doesn't withdraw too quickly, with an affectionate pat-scratch. If the wing is meant to be a comfort, well, it doesn't work. She leans around, more curious than scared of Z'kiel, flipping her own satchel closed and taking him in with a quick up-and-down look. "No," she says at length, stepping around Ahtzudaeth's wing to face Z'kiel directly. "I'm not going back just yet. I thought you'd stopped hitting things." The bronze isn't terribly quick in pulling his head away, so that pat-scratch lands nicely and earns Faryn another of those chortling sounds. But then the situation takes a turn and he lifts his head properly to watch as Z'kiel digs through one of the bags attached to his straps for a cloth of some sort. Once found, he utters a throaty noise of irritation and examines his knuckles, then wipes at them to examine them again. He's silent for a few seconds after her answer, but only because the work is, in its own way, intense. Finally: "Good thing you're here now, then." He prods at the bag with a boot - a boot that's finely splattered with more of the same stuff on his knuckles. It leaves smears - but he's indifferent. "It's yours." A beat. "If you want it." None of that addresses her thoughts, of course, and it takes a very physical prodding of Ahtzu's nose to prompt a blunted, "Thought so, too. But. Sometimes, some things need hitting." Faryn's expression turns briefly confused, then her brows furrow down like she's annoyed. "What is it with bronzeriders and mockery? Do they pull you aside in weyrlinghood?" She's, clearly, had something of a day - or a seven - or a month. Which means she opens her mouth to insert her foot as he continues, her gaze dropping to the boot and the bag he's nudging with an incredulous look. "What is it?" she asks, not moving; he might have live tunnelsnakes in there, if her wariness is any indication. And of punching, "Yes. Things and sometimes people." She steps forward then, not to take the bag but to look at his hand, like she is trying to confirm exactly what's going on with them. And it's his turn to look confused, though that confusion is further tempered with lingering irritation. Z'kiel manages something resembling civility, but only barely. "I'm not mocking you, Faryn." The bag is toed again. "I mean it. It's good you're here. You can make use of it before you go back. Might need it if she's sending you all over Pern." Which hints plenty at what's inside, but he's not about to say anything more. "Things," is emphasized with a note of rarely heard vehemence. And, in all honesty, it is hard to tell if the blood is just his or someone else's. His knuckles are raw and oozing, but it can't all be his. Can it? When she approaches to look, he'll offer them up for her, but cautiously and with a definite note of tension that threads through him. Calluses on the palms and fingertips; scraped skin and scars on the backs of knuckles. They say plenty on their own. Faryn sucks the back of her teeth in disappointment, but waves off his first. Gentle fingers come up, hover without actually touching him. "I have numbweed, somewhere. I carry it just in case, old habits from the runners." Without asking if he wants it, she begins rummaging through her own bag, looking for it, and ultimately comes up with a small bottle that she'll toss his way, with the expectation he catch it unless he wants to add numbweed to the list of things living on his boots. After that, she turns to toe his offering open and, only when she's content there aren't live tunnelsnakes inside, she picks it up and goes through it, pulling the jacket out and holding it up. "This is yours," she says blandly, and ventures, "If you hadn't punched -- something, recently, I'd ask you if you're coming back here, like you wanted." It's still a question, as she plucks out bags and jars for quick evaluation. There is no protest - at least not one that's voiced. Z'kiel sucks his teeth and lowers his hands when she moves away to dig through her own bag. The toss is deftly caught and it's his turn to dig through the other bags on Ahtzu's straps to fish out a small bottle of oil. Between the two containers, some measure of first aid is had. A grunt of gratitude is given, but it's not until she's pulling out the jacket that he speaks again. "Had it fitted for someone smaller. Not sure it's right, still, but." He lifts his chin at the jacket. "Got new leathers. Figured you could use that, instead of needing to borrow. It's yours." And the rest? Another grunt, low and queerly melodic. Amused, if darkly so. "No. Blood's dried up here," he explains. "Kasdeja's the only reason I'd come this way - her and her cousin. Her cousin made the other things in there. Kas fixed the jacket." A shoulder rolls in a lopsided shrug. "Figured you might like something out of the lot." No proper lady, Faryn comes up from the rest of her perusal with a hunk of jerky hanging out of her mouth, setting the bag on the ground carefully so she won't break the jars. "Clearly," she says of blood, with a pointed look, or maybe just of his leathers. It's all the better to shrug into the jacket, checking the fit as he's estimated it, gnawing carefully on her spoils the entire time. Straightening the collar, she zips it, moves her arms in a silly windmilling. "Must've somebody else in mind," she says around the jerky after a bit, "big through the chest, but shoulders are okay. Could fit a firelizard in here." It's not complaint. "Thanks. Don't know why you wouldn't keep it as a backup, though." The 'Dragonfire' is of the peppery variety; 'Rukbat' is definitely made with some kind of hot pepper sauce. 'Sticky' is a vaguely sweet-spicy (and, of course, sticky) variety and the 'Plain' is just that. Regardless of which she picks, it'll be flavorful and good. Quality jerky. There's a low snort from Z'kiel at her words, her pointed look. He digs through the bag again to fish out some bandages - they're not sterile, true, but they'll do the trick. He leans against Ahtzudaeth while he starts to wind the bandaging around one hand, his attention divided between the task and watching Faryn try the jacket on. An eyebrow lifts and another of those amused grunts escapes him. Nearly a laugh, but not quite. "Been a while since we talked," is his best explanation for why the sizing might be off. As for the other? "We don't usually take passengers. Not much need. If we do, we get a spare jacket from the stores." He tips his head toward Faryn, sucks his teeth for a moment, then intones: "You might need it anyway. If you Stand again." There's a throaty rumble from Ahtzudaeth, assent offered with the bobbing of his head. "It has, hasn't it?" It's too warm now for the jacket, at any rate, and she's just as quick to shrug back out of it to sling it over one arm before wrapping both arms around her middle, rocking back onto her heels absently, jerky like a cigar poked out of one corner of her mouth. Gnaw gnaw. Her gaze flicks from his hand to his face, before she ventures, "I'd say you probably got this measured for someone else, though, and I'm the fall-girl for it. Not," she adds, "that I don't appreciate it. Those spare jackets smell like fish, most times. All those pickups from Tillek. And - well. I better Stand again. What kind of slap in the face is it if I leave the craft, ruin hundreds of lives, and then go, 'Nah, nevermind,' before skipping off to my future?" It's light, airy even, but she's chewing her lip fretfully. Too hot for her, maybe, but he seems perfectly fine in his full leathers. Mostly. Z'kiel does undo the front of the jacket - there's a shirt underneath, but it's thin and clearly meant for sweat-soaking duty. An eyebrow quirks skyward. "You don't believe me," isn't so much incredulous as it is confused - and what a strange kind of confusion it is, uttered in a deadpan voice that skews ever-so-slightly toward bewilderment. "Who do you think I got it measured for." For anyone else, it might be a demand; here, it's a flat point of curiosity. The other eyebrow rises at the rest of her words, only for his forehead to crumple in on itself in a series of deep furrows. Hnnnh. "Don't do that." He reaches out with one - clean, thanks to the cloth he was using earlier - fingertip to try to tap her lower lip. "That. You'll Stand again, then. You've made your choice. Don't second guess it." Yeah, well. He's got the advantage of being native, doesn't he? Faryn studies him neutrally, her head eventually tipping off to the side. "I just find it hard to believe you were thinking about me. You said yourself, we haven't seen each other for a while. I figure, you're busy, out of sight out of mind." Even if, as an addendum, she must say, "I've been meaning to find time, but time slips, you know?" She shrugs noncommitally, one shoulder hitching up. "I don't know. Anyone you just graduated with. Anyone in your wing. Any girl you have your eye on. I hear through the gossip mill that Yesia's inexplicably popular with the boys." Gross. She blinks owlishly when he reaches forward to touch her, bewildered enough that her expression betrays her, so of course there's a joke. "It's not like you were. It's not a Call. I might be safer not." "Time slips," he repeats and there's a faint snort - but from man or dragon, it's hard to say. Z'kiel pulls his hand back and starts to wrap the other. "Still. Done with weyrling training now and in a proper wing. Alpine." Shoulders rise and fall, the implications of that left to her interpretation. And then she's listing not names but concepts of females and that seems to be the one thing that puts a crack in his grim-faced demeanor. The chuckle is low and deep, heavy in the bones and impossibly visceral. "Them. Them. And her." It's too ludicrous for incredulity and he shakes his head a few times to try to clear it. "No. I sleep alone, Faryn. Have since I was Searched for the 'Reaches." At least the laughter subsides by the time things turn serious. This time, though, he closes a bit of distance, just a step - enough to lend just a bit more weight to his looming presence. Arms fold and he leans forward just a little to intone, "Stop that, too. The second guessing. If the dragons call, then there's a reason." He takes a breath, releases it slowly. "And I think you're better doing more than you were." Faryn doesn't venture a guess as to what exactly his wing does, just nods acknowledgement for the name and the apparent fact that he's reasonably content with it. At least not enough to be causing a fuss, which is pretty much contentment by her estimation. "Still?" she asks, surprised, but she seems happy enough that he's chuckled, that whatever melancholy or anger had taken him before is dissipating, if only briefly. "It was the braid, wasn't it? That's where you kept your sexy power and without it, women just won't have you." Even though it was she, long ago, who told him he looked good this way too. She's short enough that it won't take much distance to loom, but she's not prone to bowing beneath it, either. Her chin tilts just so, to look up at him and somehow down her nose in challenge, and she crosses her arms in kind, though her smirk dies down under his regard. "Yeah, yeah. I know. I wouldn't have left if I didn't know. Not that there's a dragon for me, necessarily. Just something better. A reason." Her challenge stands for a few more moments before she pushes out a breath. "I imagine I'll know soon enough." Then, the obvious, "Surprised you're not back at the weyr, waiting for Niahvth to pop up into the sky, actually. Auspicious, if he catches a gold in his first flight, isn't it? Nabs you Weyrleader?" "Still," Z'kiel confirms with a mild hnnnh. Faryn's theorizing is clearly considered by the Igenite, but ultimately dismissed with a slight shake of his head. "They're no good if that's what it takes to turn their noses up." Matter-of-fact, that. Not that he's going to offer up his own rationale; the facts are as they are, take them or leave them. Yet: "Shouldn't be that surprising," he notes. The shift in his mood does help to some degree; an ominous presence is turned into just a tall one with crossed arms. Arms that don't remain crossed much longer when she's done speaking. "You'll do well in whatever you do. I think so. He thinks so." And if there's a faint, oh-so-faint, press of dragon-mind - all tingling energy and motes of light that dance in the periphery - then so be it. He rubs over his shaved scalp, his features pulled into a pinched expression that's, fortunately, quite short-lived. "It's not-" is a start, but the struggle for words is a very real one. "It's not time, he says." He's not aggravated, but there's a bit of irritation there all the same. Pitched conspiratorially, "I'm starting to think he just doesn't like females." "Valid," concedes Faryn mildly of his assessment. "I don't even like being in the room with them, can't imagine their appeal in the bedroom. Sex can be all fine, but then you have to stop and talk, and that's the tricky part." Her shudder maybe a little too sympathetic. "Worse when they're shallow, I suppose. Thanks for the vote of confidence," and her nod undoubtedly includes Ahtzudaeth. "R'hin told me I was fucked, once, so that's a nice change of pace." If there's a tingling energy, it's in her head, and Faryn blinks the spots until they go away, a second or two at most, easier done when her expression turns sympathetic and she's distracted by his speechlessness. She tries to tamp her smile down, truly, but it fails at his lower tone, and she ends up laughing. "Maybe get a girl up there. It worked with Jorrth." Beat. "It was creepy, all that staring, but it worked. Mostly. I think." "Not a stranger to having someone around," Z'kiel snorts mildly. "Just haven't since I've been at the 'Reaches." Maybe it's the bronze. Maybe not. "Most are that. Shallow. The rest," he shrugs. "Can't deny a person who they are. If I don't like it, I'd say as much. Expect them to be the same." But, it loops back to the shallow part of things and he'll leave it where it is for now. More important things to talk about, after all, like that business and- "He talks out of his ass and basks in the stink of it." R'hin, that is. Which is probably all he has to say about the man, considering. And it's probably for the better that he spits after, as if to cleanse his mouth of the curse. The conversational shift that leads to laughter is, well. Confusion again. This time: "What green did you match with Jorrth?" Clearly, there's a crossing of wires somewhere here. A beat. Then: "I don't think that's how it'll work with him. Greens rise. He doesn't even blink. Golds glow. He wants to be away until it's over." Weird. "Ahm. Nevermind. I meant -- nevermind. It was weird, I shouldn't have suggested it even if --" That stammering is Faryn's just desserts for even subtly mocking him in the first place, and the universe will always deliver comeuppance when it's able. Or so she's learning. "It wasn't a green. It was - he was slow, I think, but I can't say it had anything to do with T'mic and me. I don't know if I'm even telling the truth; far as I can tell, Jorrth still hasn't chased either. There's nothing wrong with it. Maybe he just doesn't want you to end up like K'del." Zak's relative vehemence about R'hin, in the meanwhile, makes both of Faryn's eyebrows jump up in surprise, eyes widening briefly. "It's really easy to get that impression about him," she says when she recovers, a slow consideration, "but, on the whole? I'd say he's an okay guy. For a bronzerider, and all." And while she stammers, Z'kiel will just look at her. It's not a stare, per se, but it's a weighty analysis; a reptilian study of her entire demeanor. He waits. He listens. In the end, there's a grunt - because there always is a grunt at the end. R'hin is discarded as a topic entirely; his opinions were made, Faryn's were heard, and that's that. It's the other, though, that has him knuckling in just a little - in a verbal sense, that is. He busies himself with getting things arranged again on Ahtzudaeth's straps, though he's yet to put the helmet and goggles back on. "He knows we need time," is his response, a shoulder rising and falling in a lopsided shrug. "I need to learn more. He wants to see more. Greenflights, anyway. He can ignore those. The gold; he knows he can't fight that." Which is why they're there. "But he can ask about it. Find out from others." There's another sound, thoughtful and low. "Who knows," he muses flatly. "Maybe he'll never chase." Jorrth? Ahtzudaeth? Both? It is a possibility, no matter how remote. "I hear they are very good at knowing, the silly beasts." Faryn is not looking at Z'kiel as he begins prepping to leave, but at Ahtzudaeth, her head tilted slightly to the side while she really, truly examines the bronze, like it's the first time she's taken a moment to do it. It's entirely possible, given the cordial, sometimes extended distance of time and space between them thus far, it is. Aside and just under her breath, she scoffs lightly, "It's weird how big they got," and then she snaps back into the moment and conversation, her own gaze turning sharp on him. "They will. It's natural. There's no reason they shouldn't; they're just...late bloomers. It happens all the time, across animals. Someday, though, for sure. At least," she says, tone all 'look-at-the-bright-side', "you won't be Weyrleader fresh out of weyrlinghood." Ahtzudaeth, canny creature that he is, swings his head around to better look back at Faryn with a slight gaping of his maw in what must be a good-natured grin. He'll even lower his head to put himself at eye-level - more or less - to her, while Z'kiel finalizes his preparations. "He knows too much," and it's hard to say whether there's affection there - or just irritation. The bronze chortles - an odd sound, to be sure - and seems to say nothing at all otherwise, which earns him a dark look from the Igenite. "Maybe," but he has his doubts. Well-founded, thus far, and certainly only time can tell just what the bronze will be doing. A sidelong look is cast to her at that last, though, his mouth set in a flat line and jaw gone hard. "There is that." Matter-of-fact. Faryn makes eye contact with both of hers, crossing her arms and mocking Ahtzhudaeth's smile with something a little too toothy. It's through that she says, "Someone says they know what you know, just better. I don't remember who told me that." She looks askance at him, just enough to gauge his reaction and movements, before she moves as well, to start gathering up many more items than she came here with. "Maybe." And while he might try to keep the doubt from creeping into his voice, it's there if she listens for it. Z'kiel pulls himself up onto the bronze easily enough and, only once he's mounted, does he pull the gloves on. The helmet's last - and only after he says, "Tell me what you think of the jellies. The jerky's good," he knows that much at least. "We'll talk again soon." Promise. They won't take their leave until they're a safe distance away, leaving poor Faryn to deal with that bonus baggage. |
Comments
Alida (22:23, 5 September 2015 (PDT)) said...
It seems the more that people try to dig into Zak, the more convoluted he gets. ;)
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