Logs:Inaction, Intention and Action
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| RL Date: 19 March, 2015 |
| Who: Lycinea, R'oan |
| Involves: Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Lycinea and R'oan are both waiting for things. Lycinea uses him as a source of entertainment. R'oan isn't thrilled. Then a green rises with his brown the only chaser and... |
| Where: Southern Boll Hold, Boll Area |
| When: Day 18, Month 4, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Rh'mis/Mentions |
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>---< Southern Boll Hold, Boll Area(#887RJs$) >------------------------------<
The low-slung stone building of the hold sits atop a rampway lined
with cotholds that leads up to the main courtyard. Here a fountain tinkles
in the tree-scented breeze and captures rainbows from the sun during
daylight hours. Firelizards frequently flit in and out of the water,
bathing, playing and wetting their whistles. The doors to the great hall
are frequently left open to invited cooling breezes indoors and the
massive windows use sliding shutters of thick bronze instead of the type
that swing outward to provide more airflow. Splashes of color from jewel
toned stained glass sheets fall across the courtyard's flagstones from
many decorative windows. Outside the hold, the immediate vicinity is kept
as green-free as possible, though the jungle endlessly encroaches on the
main structure and the outbuildings. A staggering line of cotholds tucked
into the trees dots the landscape, alternating with open meadows and the
tidy lines of fruit orchards.
Beyond the cotholds, the roadway eventually slopes downward to the
hold's golden sand beach and the docks. Branching off to the west, a side
road leads the way to the Weaver crafthall and its outbuildings. It's a sunny spring day at the WeaverCraft Hall, the heat not yet too intense. Things are green and vibrant in this part of the world, renewing themselves in the natural course of the seasons. Lycinea doesn't seem to have any particular course or aim as she wanders along the road between the Weaver crafthall and Southern Boll Hold, barefooted, boots tied together and slung over top of a satchel that is, in turn, slung across her chest. Her fingers grip the strap of it quite tightly, enough that her knuckles are white. She's not dressed for this kind of heat, her clothes markedly of northern make and function, but she's rolled up her long sleeves past her elbows and her brown trousers folded up to just below the knee. She's making the best of it. Blue-green eyes range over the flora along the road, stopping now and again to look at something more closely - those wild blooms off to one side of the road just barely peeking into existence from their green buds, for example. It isn't unusual to see a dragon or two along the beaches near Weavercraft Hall, and it may be especially easy to overlook the smaller brown that basks in the sun there, eyeing a pretty green that isn't far from him along the beach with a keen interest. Her rider hasn't seemed to notice this, nor the especially flirty way that the green responds to the attention from that male, but at least she doesn't seem to be glowing. His rider seems less interested in the opposite sex despite spring in the air and the bloom of new life. Where R'oan may usually gather at least one or two interested apprentices, today he has set himself apart; he hasn't even set foot inside the hall after delivering his passenger for their appointment, instead setting himself up to nap off a hangover on the sill of one of those stained glass windows, color falling over the brownrider but gone unnoticed as his skin and blonde hair take on the jeweled tones. Lycinea's path is winding, but it does bring her eventually to the Hold proper and its stained glass. She moves from one pane to another, just looking, and then stops short in front of the rider she notices too late. If she's lucky, she can just step back and-- Lya isn't a lucky person. That her bare foot finds a sharp something on the flagstone that makes her yelp is proof enough of that. Proving that he isn't that dead asleep, one grey eye peels open lazily at the yelp, a sharp thing that slides over Lycinea and then-- dismisses her. R'oan shifts, arms sliding across his chest and his head moving to find another comfortable spot against the glass as his eye shuts again. "There's nothing interesting in there," he offers, even as he pretends to sleep. "Everything here is more interesting than just waiting." Lycinea answers, even as she has her foot pulled up, balanced on the opposite to brush the bottom of it and check for damage. Her glance toward the blonde is cursory at best. "Even you, I guess." He probably qualifies in her everything. "Though not much more. Sleeping isn't interesting unless you're doing it yourself and having dreams." R'oan wanted to know, right? Lya will inform him whether he does or not. "Darling, I could care less whether you think I am interesting or not," drawls R'oan, though again he peels one eye open to slide one narrow look over the young woman. He even offers a smile, a dry, crooked thing that doesn't touch the rest of his expression. "If you want interesting, I'm sure you can find it." "Are you my father?" Lycinea asks, with tilted head and narrowed eye. "Shards, I hope not," is R'oan's dry answer, though the question manages to earn his other eye open as he looks over the young woman. "Then I don't see any reason why should be calling me 'darling.'" Lycinea answers pointedly. "And if you were my father, that would be basically the worst answer ever, so think about that in case your daughter shows up some day. You seem the type," presumably to have surprise illegitimate children. A breath of laughter catches in the brownrider's throat, those grey eyes only seeming to reflect amusement at Lycinea's answer. "Just when I thought this seven couldn't get better, I am getting life lessons from a teenager," he drawls, mostly to himself. Out loud, so that Lycinea can hear, but not directed to her for an answer. What he does direct to her is a dismissive, "Sweetie, don't get your panties in a bunch. It's just a word." "I'm sure you could find someone older to give them to you, if you like." Lycinea flashes him an entirely and obviously fabricated smile. "Did we just back-slide into 'Dad' territory?" She questions with decided judgment. "And talking about my panties, which don't exist," he needed to know, right? "-makes you the creepy kind of father that other fathers 'lose' between. So, Dad, do you want to keep on down this road?" She does offer, "We could start over if you'd like." It's probably a limited time offer. "You say that as if I'd give a fuck even if they came from someone older," counters R'oan dismissively, a brow curving upwards as he slides a dismissive look over Lycinea. "There's a life lesson for you: if you don't give a fuck, none of this matters." That, obviously, will act as his answer for the offer to start over; that, and the hint of a wryly amused curve of his lips. "I say it as if I expect you'll have to be given it more than once," Lya returns with another insincere smile. "As it happens, I learned that one the first time. Have anything more interesting and less obvious to teach me or is this the extent of your entertainment value?" R'oan doesn't answer that question with words, instead making a gesture of a swept hand over the length of himself. This is all he has. But, he is finally stirring from his attempted nap, reaching into his riding jacket and extracting a flask with ease. That is what he is focused on, for the moment. Lya squints at him, "You want to caution me about engaging in a life of prostitution and drink by showing me what misery comes from it?" She's guessing the lesson the gesture and flask together is meant to impart. "That's pretty lame. Are you one of those responsible adults I've read about in fables?" "Faranth forbid," replies R'oan with mocking indignation, tipping his flask in Lya's direction in a salute before he lifts it for a long, grateful sip. It is only once he's finished that he adds, dry, "I am not here for any life lessons or entertainment, darling. Find someone else who would be interested." "Do I seem like the type of girl who does what she's told just because she's told?" Lycinea asks without directly answering any of his words. That earns a breath of laughter from the brownrider, the sound barely escaping from R'oan's lips as he tips his chin in a gesture. 'Touche'. He even holds out his flask in an offer towards Lycinea at that, but he warns, "If you take it and pour it out or don't return it, or something of that nature, I am going to tan your backside. Too many of your kind find that funny." "I wouldn't find it funny." Lycinea replies with absolute honesty, but she doesn't reach for the flask, "But I don't drink, and I don't let men lay hands on me, so perhaps it's simply best if I leave you your disgusting vice and just not take your flask." She's judgmental about the drinking, too; it's subtle. So. So. Subtle. "I do appreciate your having offered. Manners, and all that." "You're welcome," drawls the brownrider, undisturbed by her subtle judgments as he tips the flask back for another sip. "You really are an uptight stick in the mud. I think sweetie and darling aren't actually appropriate for you. Maybe sourpuss." R'oan rolls his shoulder in an unconcerned gesture, as he finally caps his flask again. "I admit, I'd prefer that, if you really can't help yourself. Do you have a name or should I just call you 'Daddy'?" Lya inquires, her hands have curled back around the strap of her bag, and her knuckles are verging on the whiteness of before. She's holding very tight to that strap, obviously. There are certainly jokes that could be made from that inquiry, but R'oan doesn't make them. There is a curve of brows upwards, grey eyes lazily meeting Lya's before the brownrider offers, "R'oan." He doesn't ask for her name. He already has one for her, after all! "And are you just waiting around, R'oan?" Lycinea queries with uplifted brows, her manner not entirely unlike a journeyman speaking to an apprentice at test time. There might be a right answer to this particular question. "Yes, but purposefully," R'oan replies carelessly, a smile tipping at a singular corner of his lips for the young woman's questioning. He doesn't make it easy on her; if she wants to know the purpose, she is going to have to ask. "So you have nothing better do than keep me company." Lycinea decide and move to lean against the wall, the grip on the strap of the bag loosening just a touch. "Are you originally from Fort?" She asks, though perhaps only because she's bored. "Born and bred," is R'oan's dry answer, for some reason that question drawing a hint of sarcasm as he leans back against his own stained glass behind him. "And you?" "Don't know," Lya answers offhandedly, not seeming terribly interested in talking about that than she is in asking, "How long have you been with your dragon?" R'oan's brows curve upwards, but he doesn't press on that point. He only throws out a flippant reply for her question, seemingly willing to answer these all day, "25 turns, give or take. I was only 13 when I Impressed." "Thirteen, wow. You're old," Lya observes before moving right along. "Were you happy when you Impressed? Was a brown what you wanted?" "You'll find that there are people who care about the color of their dragon, but I'm not one of them. Never was, even as a Candidate," R'oan dismisses with a roll of his shoulder, uncorking his flask again for another small sip as he slides a look sideways towards Lya. He only smiles, crookedly, at her observation. "I was happy in that moment. Impossible not to be, isn't it?" "Maybe. I heard of this brownrider, who might also be a leper," a necessary side-note, "at 'Reaches who doesn't seem happy being a rider at all. I wanted to ask him if he was happy when he Impressed, but he's pricklier than an Igen pear, so, I never have, but you could, and could tell me. Though I'm not sure he'd talk to you either." Lycinea considers the large man a moment and then shrugs. "Were you happy about it later? The color. Doe it end up mattering?" That smile, there, curves sharper at Lycinea's words, even as R'oan agrees carelessly, "Being a rider is bullshit. Brownriders do always have the brains, it seems." Whether that means that R'oan wants to talk with this 'Reachian brownrider and commiserate or not, he doesn't comment on the consideration. Instead, he only continues to answer the questions with a: "Not for me. Glad I didn't end up on bronze, I guess; not with his stupid desire to try to chase queens. Catching a queen is too much work," for him, obviously. "And the expectation that comes along with a bronze-- That you want to lead anything, that you have to have ambitions. I'd've hated that, I imagine." "They do? Where do you keep yours?" Lya ask, her lips puckering dubiously. "So, no ambition either. Well, at least there we're alike. See? I knew we'd find common ground eventually." She flashes a cheeky smile in his direction before letting herself roll her shoulders along the wall going from leaning single-shouldered to her upper back making contact with the stone. "You're just a regular wingrider? Nothing special?" It's a question this time, not a judgment. R'oan shakes his flask in an answer to that question, liquid sloshing around there even as grey eyes reflect wry amusement. But then he lifts it to his lips again, only replying afterwards, easily agreeing, "Nothing special. I like it that way." The first makes Lycinea laugh, a real laugh that's truly amused. "I think I'd like to be nothing special forever, too, only people don't seem to understand how that can be." More common ground! She rocks a little forward and then back against the wall again. "What's your dragon like?" "Being special comes with expectations of you, like you owe people something. People already feel entitled enough without giving them more reason to want things from you," is R'oan's summation of why, his own understanding of how that can be. This question, though, only gets a huffed laugh as the man's gaze draws to the beaches in the distance. "How do you describe him? He's a lot like me, I suppose, after all these years, for whatever that's worth." "And how would you describe you?" It's the logical follow up. Lycinea tilts her head a little toward him, her gaze fairly intent for a conversation that began as just a way to kill time. "How would you describe you?" counters R'oan, even as grey eyes meet hers. "I'm a nosy, stubborn weirdo," Lya responds without having to think about it (which probably means she's spent an unhealthy amount of time thinking about it already). She looks at the older man expectantly. R'oan tips his chin in consideration of Lycinea's response, tossing back after a moment with a quiet laugh edged in his words, "That seems accurate." If she's waiting for a response, it still doesn't come. "I think you need to check your flask. Your brain may have escaped." Lycinea informs him dryly before carefully enunciating, "How would you describe you? Or how would you describe your dragon?" Since the questions are now one and the same. "I like to think I can't be boiled down into a sentence or two," R'oan counters, sloshing that flask again as a punctuation to his sentence. Or perhaps just checking his brains, there. "If you were to try... I suppose you could say that I am indifferent, amused, and unattached." Lycinea makes a nasal noise of amusement. "I'm sure most men, and probably women too, would prefer to think that. The truth is, we can all be boiled down. Some people don't care to look too deeply. Let's call this a starting point for me. Of course, that holds the implication that I'll continue on, I suppose." She looks at the brownrider some moments. "I'm not sure that's a commitment either of us would like me to make. I hear I can be quite irritating with my persistence in pursuing friendships with people who don't want to be my friend." R'oan's laugh catches in his throat, a quiet sound there as he meets Lycinea's gaze with a intense one of his own. But he only says aloud, "Let's be clear. I don't want to be friends." His gaze draws away briefly towards the beach, where Etrevth has suddenly sat up alert as that green has begun glowing. "Fucker. Where the fuck is her--." R'oan stands up suddenly as well. The clearly expressed words make Lycinea's lips curl into a smile. Good luck with that, R'oan. When he stands suddenly, she exhales in a huff - involuntary surprise, and she presses herself back against the wall, as if that might make her less noticeable in this particular moment. R'oan's gaze does slide over Lycinea, regardless of her attempt to make herself less noticeable, but except for a darkening of grey eyes, it seems that the emotions of his dragon are well in check, at least for now. "I need to go see a man about a runner," he offers dryly to her, turning on a heel to stride into the Hold. It must have been the suddenness of his standing and his cursing that prompted her fainting violet impression because Lycinea doesn't seem to realize that there's any more to it than that. Her fingers tighten a little around the strap of the bag across her chest, but she follows, asking, "What do dragonriders need with runners?" Her question doesn't pierce R'oan's thoughts immediately, so focused is he on trying to find the green's rider before glow turns to something more, at least attempting to stop what might be about to happen. When it does, he shoots a look back over his shoulder to Lycinea, showing a hint of confusion briefly before he answers distractedly, "I don't need a runner. I have a dragon." His strides lengthen as the green outside stretches leisurely, flirtatiously in front of Etrevth. "Did you leave your flask outside?" Lycinea queries, glancing back over her shoulder only briefly as if she might really think so and is concerned about how much brain he has when he's separated from it. She has to quicken her pace to keep up, but she does. Her attention is more on the way they're going than on the man himself. It's enough to miss his distraction, or perhaps mistake it for something benign. R'oan may have, the flask forgotten in the urgency of the moment. And then, the urgency is gone. It almost goes unnoticed when that glowing green takes to the sky, with the lone brown launched on her tale, especially given that neither dragon bothers to blood. A fisherman catches sight of the flight, a pair of children playing on the beach, and the green's rider, of course, who stops what she is doing with a gasp with her gaze lifting to the skies. She also happens to be at the Weavercraft Hall and not the Hold, which means that R'oan's search was fruitless to begin with, the search that he stops without warning, coming to a halt even as fingers scrub over his face harshly. That he stops without warning and that Lycinea's eyes are on the inanimate around them has the expected result. The slender blonde will bump right into his back if he's not a. quick of reflex, and b. motivated to move out of the way or otherwise stop her. R'oan's reflexes aren't nearly what they should be at the moment, made worse that he starts to turn towards her to say something even as the young woman bumps into him. He reaches to catch her wrist as if she might fall, as if that might help. Or perhaps it's just a different type of reflex, as darkened eyes fall over Lycinea. He warns, "You shouldn't follow me right now." The blonde is surprised. Surprised by the bumping, by finding herself face to face with him, by the hand around her wrist. That's where her eyes fix for a dumb moment. Her eyes flick up to his face, expression bordering on mutinous, though perhaps that's just because he's touching her with his manhands and that was already listed as verboten. "Why?" Then, "Is this about you not wanting to be friends with me?" Her arm pulls, trying to slip her wrist out of his grasp. His fingers slip from her wrist even as she pulls, a struggle chasing across his expression as R'oan meets mutinous expression with his own desperate seeking. And as she question, instead of moving away, he gives in to the urge to bury fingers into blonde hair instead, leaning in to capture her lips in his. That takes surprise to a whole new level: shock. Possibly the only reason it even happens is because Lycinea is too stunned in the moment to even do so much as lean away. So his lips find hers. The shock doesn't last though. And that's when she bites him. Hard. A curse escapes sharply at that as R'oan pulls himself away, the pain and blood the swells on his lip enough to flash a darker anger in that desire. And as Etrevth chases, the flight fast and hard, the brownrider draws in a breath and only moves to push past Lycinea this time. Lycinea must be growing as a person because rather than intentionally put herself into a bad situation, she steps quickly back and to the side as he makes move to go past her, her hands returning to the strap of her bag as if it's the only thing keeping her from running without thought or direction. She stays where she's at; maybe horny brownriders can't see pretty blondes if they don't move, one never knows. "I didn't mean to do that," isn't an apology, but it is delivered like one for all that it is over R'oan's shoulder. "I told you not to follow me." He doesn't stop for further talk, nor does he look back. But he likely assumes that this time she isn't. "But you did," is out of Lycinea's mouth before she can stop it. The words chase him as he goes, but she doesn't move from her place against the wall. Not until he's definitely gone. Then she begins to retrace their steps, a low blush burning in her cheeks and knuckles whiter than ever. |
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