Deliciously Shadowed Nooks and Crannies Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
The entrance to the weyr is straight and narrow, a dragon couch taking up most of the space there. Once past the couch, the room opens up incredibly to reveal a truly odd bit of artistry. This part of the weyr is a nearly perfect circle and actually quite small. However, what it lacks in floor space it certainly has in ceiling room. A past tenant has made use of this by building a wood framed bed that leaves one sleeping seven feet off the ground and has a desk nestled underneath it. The cathedral ceiling is domed and appears twice as high as the ones found in most rooms at High Reaches. The unusual stonecutter that designed this weyr certainly had his own sense of style. A gigantic glow basket has been hung in the center of the doomed ceiling, though the light it spreads downward are like gloomy fingers grasping from above. A rope runs from the basket through a series of loops along the side of the wall, tied off where it can be easily reached to lower the glows for changing. The dim light of the weyr washes over the walls, revealing tiny glints and sparkles here and there. All over the wall of the cavern from about five feet off the ground to about twelve feet overhead, hewn nooks have been left. While most of the lower ones are empty, the higher ones each contain a glass bottle or dish of some sort which causes the eerie glittering.
With Iesaryth taking leave in the early afternoon, there is nothing to stop Hraedhyth's fire from spreading. No longer kept in tentative balance with cool ocean, her drums pound to be felt rather than heard by those eager suitors. Her days have been spent lounging on her own ledge, oddly inactive other than the time she spends flexing muscles beneath glowing amber hide. Now, that heat focuses on Arekoth in particular, contralto husked in something like a murmur, « You and yours? » How are they? Wasn't his little rider sick? (Hraedhyth to Arekoth)
To Hraedhyth, Arekoth has been among those males happily tuning in - feeling those drumbeats, basking in that heat. Its focus brings a dull glow of pleasure for the attention, the faintest hint of cold, similar to the air outside, but dryer, with it in the initial contact. « Well enough, » is too tongue-in-cheek to be a proper referral of his rider's usual answer, the sense of amusement sticking around well after the words. « You and yours? » has more suggestion to it, though that same playfulness.
To Arekoth, Hraedhyth gives a soft growl that isn't entirely pleased. « We wanted to visit. » Intentions may be mutual, but it will take more than a 'well enough' to have the queen braving autumn showers. « Perhaps mine should see for herself? » Block the exit, Arekoth. Her mental touch sizzles with even his hint of cold, drums speeding up with movement, the wind beneath her wings. A whisper of primal thrill, but no. Not yet.
Block the exit? When he could have the gold on his ledge, and, perhaps better yet, Azaylia in H'kon's personal space? « Maybe she should. » Arekoth likes that sizzle, basks in that, too, all presence, no image. « He could use a woman's company, » is simply too irresistible to keep back, a laugh rolling just beneath the surface of mock-serious intonation. In the sheltered couch just off the ledge, the brown shifts from the hunched posture he'd held, turning his head away from his rider within the weyr, wicked gaze set to watching for Hraedhyth's approach. (Arekoth to Hraedhyth)
Even with the shift in her demeanor, Hraedhyth's landing upon their ledge is a heavy one. She won't wait for her rider to dismount, rolling steps taken so that she might find shelter within Arekoth's weyr. The motions are deliberate, as if she doesn't already have his full attention. Only then is Azaylia given the chance to hop down, hand smoothing down the bunched knitted fabric. Dark blue turtleneck is too long to be just that, and yet not long enough by any conservative means. She's foregone the usual leggings, bare thighs leading down to knee high boots with subtle bows down the side. A, you guessed it, basket is tugged free from the riding straps, and Azaylia gives a cheerful "Hello?" That borders on sing-song.
The brown makes room enough that Hraedhyth can be sheltered, wings and limbs drawn in at first for Azaylia's dismount, but afterwards relaxed so the shelter comes at a price of close proximity. His rider is at least aware of the approach, and so has come to stand - in heavy fisherman's sweater overtop of his riding leathers and boots, as dressed down as he might get even in the privacy of his own weyr on his rest days - at the entrance. "Weyr-woman," is stilted, fault of the look given her. The look he then sends to his dragon is entirely murderous. "Arekoth said... that you would be coming." If not in those words. Lips press tight as he steps out of her way, invitation only faintly belated.
Hraedhyth would have managed to tuck in close to the brown, even if his weyr had enough room. Oiled hide still carries a smokey note that mingles all too well with the queen's own scent. She eases herself against Arekoth to achieve full contact without putting too much of her larger bulk onto him. "Huh-kon." Azaylia mimics with a light laugh, already inviting herself in before the man finally remembers to do so. "I heard you had the sniffles." They may be well and gone now, but that won't stop her from using them as an excuse. Instead of simply walking past, the goldrider stops to wrap her arms around his neck for a hug. Strength not completely unchecked, it's pretty tight before she lets go and flounces further into his weyr.
Arekoth is pleased; a pinkish auroral glow occupies mental space so much as his body occupies the physical space - or lack thereof- alongside the gold. It's a tight squeeze, but not impossible for him to turn his head enough that he can try run his hooked snout along Hraehdyth's neck, or shoulder, just once, as proof of her being on his ledge, and no one else's. H'kon is not so at ease with such closeness; Azaylia's hug takes him off guard, and by the time he's stiffened up and thought to try grab at the goldrider's waist to keep from being pressed too close, he's more than casually close to her chest. "Well, it has mostly passed." His back is still rigid when he makes a vague gesture for the one chair in the weyr, near the table where hides were turned over to protect their contents from casual glances.
Hraedhyth is pleased that Arekoth is pleased, more that she's the cause of such pleasure. Proud head is lifted to give him access to her short neck, thoughts burning hotter at the flash of pink. Azaylia makes no mention of how stiff H'kon is, moving on to the offered chair and sitting with a little after-bounce. The basket is placed on the table with those hides, some moved out of the way if need. "That's good. I'm glad to see you bundling up." Brown eyes flick up and down, biting her lower lip to perhaps stifle a giggle. "Still, some wherry noodle soup will help." She sounds so sure of it. With one leg crossed over the other, she takes a moment to tug the dress down, hands folding atop her knee as she turns to smile at him. "How're you?"
Really, her movement of the hides is helpful; it's a focal point, that motion he watches so warily. The look to Azaylia afterwards, he keeps disciplined, and on her face, after that first tug of attention toward those legs. "Well. That is very kind." The man's head bobs, chin brushing at the heavy wool about his neck. With no other chair (though he may consider getting one after this, if purely for defensive purposes), H'kon is left standing, a rare chance to look down to the weyrwoman, who usually towers over him. "Well enough," is, from him, entirely serious. "You?" A beat later, "Did you want anything? Water, tea..." Arekoth, meanwhile, cannot but follow up that first preening attempt with a few more, when the gold seems so willing. Very pleased indeed.
The task of keeping Hraedhyth looking this good has fallen solely on Azaylia, who has done a fantastic job. Naturally. She won't turn Arekoth's efforts away, lids closing as her favorable growls fill the weyr. It's enough to have the weyrwoman glancing past H'kon, tender coo quickly turning to a breathy laugh. "Don't turn around. You'll hate it." She teases, as if he won't have any idea otherwise. His question has her giving a little shake of her head, "No thank you." It's now that she realizes he has only one chair, leaping to her feet. "Aw, H'kon. I don't want to steal your chair." She's on the prowl-- er, approach again, circling him to place hands on his shoulders and give him a not-so little push. "Here. You sit, I'll pour you some of that soup."
And so long as Hraedhyth is encouraging him, Arekoth will carry on. And, no doubt, give his rider a play-by-play. So when Azaylia gives him that heads-up, H'kon simply makes a bit of a grimace that he tries to turn into something of a smile. "I appreciate your warning." He tries to hold up a hand, to keep the young woman seated, but to no avail. "Truly, it's no concern." The push has him taking one step forward, but he turns, reaches a hand for her arm, again in mostly-passive defense. "You are the one visiting." Invited or otherwise.
For once, Azaylia doesn't flinch at H'kon's failed attempt at a true smile, and she won't be kept at bay. When he turns, she'll allow him to grab her arm as she laughs, her free hand finding his other wrist. It's like a game, and the goldrider is intending to win. Not that she'll play fair, leaning down to level impish gaze with his, "Sit down. Or... I'll hug you again." Possibly worse, judging from the faint quirk of her brow as she stares him down. It would be far more intimidating if not for that wide grin of hers.
H'kon wears just his face as best he can when she's grabbed his other arm, but the grin there is unnerving; he doesn't manage to hold the gaze too long, starting to glance down, and then sending another of those death glares toward the brown. The happy, preening, flaunting, shoulder devil of a brown. "Very kind of you," comes dry, and the brownrider does as he's told. And sits, straight-backed, not leaning against the chair's back. And waits for soup.
The brownrider is released once he's agreed to be a good boy. Distance is probably H'kon's safest bet, which is a shame when Azaylia looks to rob him of that as well. Leaning over the table, her loose curls fall on either side of her face, "Let's see. Some crackers, a little bottle of whiskey," He might need that, soon. "Soup." The thermos is wide rather than tall, more of a mug with a hearty helping of wherry meat and broth in it. She's ever-so careful about taking a step or two closer, one hand balanced under the steaming lid. Even more precarious is how she slides into his lap, serving the soup up with a soft laugh, "You really should get more chairs."
"It smells good," comes out a bit forced, and without a preceding sniff. The comment is, most likely, meant for the soup, even with that hair hanging so near him. H'kon stays in forced posture, and stares straight forward, even past the spread being laid out on the table. Or in his lap, although that latter finds the brownrider closing his eyes, eyebrows drawing together in a focused scowl. Arekoth's continued preening, and careful attempts to drape a wing, a tail, whatever, over parts of Hraedhyth can't be helping. "I really must," is curt. The hand that moves for the young woman's hip is surely there only if he need try to manoeuvre her off. For any reason.
"I didn't make it." Azaylia admits, sounding more like her usual self. "It's good for keeping your strength up. Just in case." And just like that, Sybil returns. The goldrider takes a moment to inspect H'kon's scowl, finding it endearing rather than intimidating judging by her giggle. "You don't like me very much, do you H'kon?" Isn't that funny? She seems to think so. Lips round themselves in order to blow away some steam, offering soup to the brownrider. Hraedhyth is all too accommodating. The gold is not one to preen, but she will nudge her nose along his jaw and 'knobs, tail swishing closer to rest against his. Stupid humans, making everything so complicated.
Arekoth makes his own happy little throat-chirp noise. Indeed, why make things complicated when they can be simple? For H'kon, being inspected is at least easier. He can set his gaze on Azaylia's, this way, rather than tempt toward any other attributes that her outfit might accentuate. Or leave quite frankly open for perusal. "You're a very sweet young woman," is carefully measured, and comes only after he's swallowed on nothing, an attempt to keep his throat clear. Only then does he reach for that soup, the smile that comes only in his eyes far more fitting as he ducks his head in thanks. It's gone soon, don't worry. "And," now he can look at the soup, also easier, and continue to speak softly, "I do not wish to take advantage of that nature for my own purposes." If that last gets redirected toward Arekoth toward its end, so be it.
Measured or no, that's a compliment. From H'kon. Azaylia leans in further once he relieves her of the soup, resting her cheek against his temple with a soft coo. "Aw." Her arm tucks up beneath his chin, resting on the opposite shoulder to fully envelope the shorter bronzerider. Know what makes soup better? Snugglin'. "You have a funny idea of what it means to be taken advantage of." Her voice is even more gentle, so close to his ear. "But if I'm bothering you..." The weyrwoman gives shifts, wriggling in search of comfort no doubt. In the heated calm, Hraedhyth's flames begin to spread once more. Little by little, her focus is less on the brown and more on a dashing bronze figure which cuts through the sky in front of the ledge. Hmmm. Oh, of course Arekoth is still very important, giving his chin an upwards nudge; he's the one she's with, isn't he?
H'kon is not used to being aw'd, and there's actually a flush to the man's face, beneath the beard (though it might also be the snugglin'). "I was not speaking of soup," manages to stay softly spoken. Soup, the eating of which is now delayed by Azaylia's wriggling. H'kon scowls a little and bears it. The hand, which had been ready at her hip, shifts when Arekoth does, held out as if undecided or guarding for a fall, should the goldrider somehow lose balance - or in that same possessive way that Arekoth pushes his chin against Hraedhyth while trying to make sure that bronze sees, see?, the way he has Hraedhyth on his ledge. That's right. "If you wish to stay, you may," might be a cryptic gift to the brown. Or maybe even H'kons need human contact now and then. Or just soup.
Hraedhyth likes this, perhaps a bit too much. Drums pounding loud enough to distract the bronze into looking over, she otherwise doesn't play along with Arekoth. « He has strong haunches. » "I know you didn't mean the soup." Azaylia might not roll her eyes but the tone certainly makes the urge to do so known. She soothes herself by toying with his short hair, nails raking through it with most attention being on the forward 'plume' of his. "I'm in your lap, and you're afraid of taking advantage of me?" It is to laugh, so she does albeit softly. Her head ducks some, looking to catch his eyes even as she moves closer. "I'm a sweet young woman." She quotes him. "But I'm not that boring..." Hraedhyth makes a noise in her throat, one that has Azaylia pulling back a few inches short of H'kon's lips. "Oh." Arekoth is not so much as shaken off, as the gold is slipping from under wing and tail, head craning to see where the other dragon has landed. Is he also younger than Arekoth?
H'kon lets out a half-shaking breath, leaning into that sweet young woman who's taking advantage of him, letting that arm fall along her back, if only resting lightly. "Perhaps not," has lost some of the edge so often in his voice. On the ledge, Arekoth's wings rustle, sitting forward, and his chest puffs. « Haunches help him sit. Strong wings help me fly. » Arekoth and all the experience that the young bronze must surely lack. H'kon shifts, so best he can, in the chair, in relation to the goldrider, as the situation comes to demand, flattens his hand more firmly at the small of her back. He hasn't shifted to close the distance when she pulls back. And that, of course, brings a grimace. "Not boring, but certainly influenced," has the sound of a groan. What timing for being reminded, though he has yet to try move her from his lap.
« Haunches and tails are good for other things. » Hraedhyth counters even as whorling eyes settle on Arekoth's rustling wings. Coarse fur brushes up against his mind to make up for their lack of physical closenss, « Your wings are better. » Or are they? Sounds as if she needs to get a closer look at that bronze in order to make a fair comparison. Azaylia is all too aware of what her dragon is doing and this time that breathless laugh is tinged with frustration. "Proddy don't mean crazy." She quotes, rather than argues on her being influenced. A saying that has circulated Reaches from when I'daur was Weyrlingmaster. Finger lifts to tap his bottom lip as she slips from his lap, goldrider stealing a quick kiss before she's gone completely. "I have to go make nice." That earlier cheer returns, tugging the edge of her dress down and turning to where Hraedhyth is waiting.
"No it does no-" H'kon is nearly through agreeing when he's on the receiving end of that kiss. There's no time for much of a response from him, other than the beginnings of a press forward. As she leaves, he maintains his same position, almost perfectly but for the slight lifting of his arm to allow her departure. "I understand," comes muffled by the lack of overt motion from his jaw. It's only once he's heard her footsteps recede toward the gold that he lets out a heavy sigh, slouching back in his chair, and after a moment, giving a tug to adjust his pants some. Arekoth makes sure to drag bits of himself along Hraedhyth as she's so clearly preparing to leave. « There are other parts of me that are better, too, » he promises, competition clear in his voice.
"Sweetie," A coo for Arekoth rather than his rider. "I'm going to need room to get up there." Azaylia will manage, given that her dragon is reluctant to shoo the persistant brown away. « Are there? » Hraedhyth's low register is a murmur, not a challenge. « Show me. » That is a challenge. One meant for when the time comes, when blood is spilled and she takes to the sky. Not today. The goldrider will toss a sweet farewell back towards H'kon, not given much time before the gold takes off. If that same bronze aims a brag or two at poor Arekoth, it's his own fault.
Arekoth, at least, is used to it all, boasting against the bronzes, waiting for the proddy female's rise. His amusement and anticipation will surely outlast any frustrations. H'kon, meanwhile... It's only when Azaylia and Hreadhyth have taken their leave that he claws that big sweater up and off his head. And when Arekoth most assuredly makes some comment, that same sweater flies through the air toward the dragon's couch, if only for lack of any better sort of projectile at hand.
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