Logs:Nice... Boots
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| RL Date: 22 January, 2014 |
| Who: N'dalis, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: The night before Suraieth's first flight, N'dalis and N'rov run into each other in the Solarium. |
| Where: Solarium, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 15, Month 11, Turn 33 (Interval 10) |
| It's late, so maybe it should be quiet, but it's crowded; the organized circles-with-a-circle of furniture have been disrupted into great sprawling amoebae, and it's all full. There'd be more room to sit if it weren't for people like N'rov, though, sprawled on his back on a couch, booted feet hanging off the edge as the bronzerider stares at the glass he holds up in the air. "So then what happened?" he asks it, or possibly his neighbor, or someone else walking by. N'dalis likely counts as someone else walking by, but provider of useful, intelligent, or interesting answers he is presently not: "Huh?" he says, vague to the point of complete and utter bewilderment. For most, it would count as far too late in the day for klah, but that does seem to be what the mug he's holding in front of him - carefully, and with both hands - contains. He may have answered N'rov (if that even counts), but it's the mug that has his attention. Maybe it's the mug and the glass who're really talking to each other, and not the men holding them at all. "Yeah." N'rov, or N'rov's. Gray eyes roll up towards N'dalis, or given the angle, possibly just N'dalis' chin. They do not, however, belong to the glass. (Unless the glass is using them as a sort of remote visualizing mechanism.) "What?" Poor N'dalis, he sounds utterly confused. And this time, he tears his gaze away from the mug so that he can try and find some kind of relevance or meaning or something in the bronzerider's face. It doesn't seem to work, though: his expression is as bewildered as ever. "I'm sorry, were you talking to me?" "I thought," says the glass, or rather N'rov this time. "You were talking to me. Aren't you?" N'rov's dragon may not be proddy, but he may have had a little too much of what's in the glass. Or, rather, what's no longer in the glass. His expression may not be bewildered, but it is bemused. "Now, anyway." N'dalis' mouth opens, and he just stares at N'rov, for several seconds, clearly trying to piece this all together. His brows knit. "Oh," he says, finally. And then, "I'm confused. Can I sit down?" Clearly he can, but may he? He's clearly beyond grammatical correctness. N'rov doesn't seem to mind. "Sure," he says. "Go ahead." Not that he moves those long legs at all, but what does that have to do with anything? "Shall I sit on you?" N'dalis is apparently enough in command of his own mind that he does think to ask before actually following through on that... though he does take a step forward. "You have nice--" He even stops himself! And raises one hand to scrub at his face, looking, once again, completely out of it. "Fine," N'rov says grumpily, and shifts his feet onto the floor to make room, though he moves as little of the rest of him as possible; it's not a pose he's likely to hold for long. "Boots. I know. Shani's fault. Except fault makes it sound bad, but it's not; it's good, as long I don't scuff 'em up too much. Most of my others, I can scuff however." Roughly halfway through N'rov's words, N'dalis ends up hopelessly lost, and blinks owlishly at the other rider as a result. He could add another 'Huh?' but perhaps that would be redundant at this point. Instead, he sits down, pressing himself as far into the end of the couch as he can, as though N'rov's very presence is discomforting. "Uh," he says. "Yes." His klah gets eyed. He can do that all he wants. N'rov promptly moves to prop his boots right up on the arm of the couch where they had been before; that way N'dalis can get a better look, and N'rov can be comfortable. "Better?" N'dalis looks. Oh yes, he looks... though it's less the boots that he seems to be looking at, and rather more the legs that eventually get hidden by the boots. One of his hands reaches out, perhaps unconsciously, as if to touch... and then stops. "Uh," he says. It's not like N'rov's looking where N'dalis is looking; evidence of that (or evidence of that would normally be, minus the glass at least) that he's still lying there so comfortably instead of running for the hills. "Good," he says. Comfortably. "Thought I saw you there, at the tournament thing. How'd that go down for you?" Cheeks flushing, N'dalis keeps staring. He may even have forgotten about the klah he was so desperately interested in, not so long ago. It's all intense enough that the other rider's question quite goes over his head: he's silent, unmoving, rather as if the other rider hadn't spoken at all. There's a long pause. Then N'rov very carefully balances the glass on his chest, holding it down with one hand so it doesn't fly up, and crooks his neck to look over at the only slightly younger man. What he sees must not be enough of an answer because, "Dal?" More silence. And then, Dal physically starts, very nearly dropping his klah in the process. "Huh?" he says, glancing around wildly before finding N'rov again. Oh. You. Hello. That gets a stare. "Dal?" This time, it's not so much sharp as getting closer to stern. "You okay? Give me that." As long as N'rov's leaning up anyway, he engages in some complicated elbow-bracing glass-swapping maneuvers and reaches for the mug. Stern. Dal relinquishes the mug without protest, giving N'rov a fairly shamefaced glance. "Su," he explains. "She's..." N'rov doesn't bother trying to ascertain the mug's contents before going for a trial swallow (klah with cream, not so exciting)... which means that it's just in time to lead into a sputter. "That?" he asks, staring at Dal. He doesn't have the hands free to wipe his shirt. "Really, you know, 'that,' not just with a skin condition or something?" One of Dal's hands lifts, as though he's about to try and lean forward and do the shirt wiping... but no. Luckily for N'rov! "She glows," says the greenrider, sounding somehow both fond and awed and utterly besotted, all at once. "She's beautiful." By his glance, or rather, the way he glances, so is N'rov. Luckily for N'rov, luckily for the rest of klah and everything, luckily all around. "Oh," he says. "Huh," he says. "I'm sure she's... very beautiful." He licks his lips, and not in the 'come taste your klah on them' sort of way. "I'm happy for you," he says very sincerely, even if he is also trying to discreetly slide his feet over where they can go back on the ground, putting the integrity of glass and mug alike at risk. It's discreet enough - or Dal is spacey enough - that the greenrider doesn't appear to notice immediately. "I'm not," he says. "No. I mean. I am, but I'm not? I'm glad for her. She's beautiful, and I'm very glad for her." He may still be staring at N'rov, maybe even at those lips, but at least he hasn't moved. "But I'd like for it to be over. My head..." "I'm happy for you that she's beautiful," N'rov tries, or at least tries to make more clear, even if it's more layered than that. Very slowly, no sudden moves, he sits up. This is his friend (even if he's in one of those other wings), with his dragon of Vhaeryth's siring. So he's careful. "Does it hurt?" It's the sitting up, however slow, that finally seems to catch Dal's attention; his expression turns bemused. "I'm not going to... do anything," he promises-slash-reassures. "Hurt?" And then, quickly: "Oh. No. But it's fuzzy. I can't... her logic stopped making sense. Mine did. Ours." N'rov nods, once, and now that he's more or less upright, hands Dal one of the drinks back if he'll take it. Only thing is, it's the one that used to be his. "This when she's so... logic-y, most of the time. For dragons, anyway. I suppose it makes sense. Because it's a change." N'dalis does take it, and really, doesn't seem to pay any attention to which one it is: he sips at it without noticing. Around the rim, "Yes," he agrees. "And sometimes I think it makes sense, until I realise that what I'm doing doesn't actually make sense at all." Like staring soulfully at the other rider, for example. It's a good thing that what the other man has isn't catching, or else N'rov might be getting it too, because he's started in on drinking what's left of the klah and it may even be from the same side of the mug. "Huh," N'rov says, the whites of his eyes showing just a little. "Where is she, right now? Suraieth?" Greenrider cooties! N'dalis presumably has a lot of them, right now. This question, at least, is one that the greenrider knows the answer to without even having to think: "She's on the rim. It was better when the sun was shining, but the moons are still pretty to glow by. She thinks they should fight for her. Maybe they should. The best dragon is the one who should have her and no one else." "Fighting means ichor means we get annoyed so let's not do that, okay?" N'rov eyes N'dalis all over again, then seems to come to some sort of a decision. Certainly he drains that klah mug in nothing flat, setting it on the floor by the couch with unconcern; someone will clean it up, or knock it over, or whatever. That's what drudges are for. Standing, he says, "Come on," and reaches for N'dalis' wrist. N'dalis abandons his own glass, N'rov's glass, and doesn't hesitate at all before standing up, letting his wrist be taken. "Where are we going?" he wonders. He may, yes, be eyeing the other rider's hand on his wrist. He may even shiver, and it's definitely not with cold. "We're going to go to your weyr," N'rov tells him as they proceed towards the stairs, securing his grip as though he hadn't felt that shiver at all. "Then you're going to get some sleep, and I'm going to go to my weyr," this louder for the benefit of those people who like to listen, "and get some sleep, and we'll all feel better in the morning." It's that first statement that has Dal's expression changing so dramatically, clearly torn between shock, horror and a clearly Suraieth-induced hopeful longing. It fades, quickly, replaced by something rather more vague, as the greenrider's eyes wander this way and that. "Will we? I hope we will. I'd like to feel... I have so many feelings, do you know?" Hopefully N'rov is looking where they're going; Dal clearly isn't. And if Suraieth happens to go up while Dal's stuck in his weyr, this is not a problem for N'rov here and now. "I didn't know," the bronzerider says with something approximating patience and maybe even an iota of sympathy, not that he goes and asks N'dalis what he could possibly mean. But it's only because he's busy, surely: busy helping them get down the stairs without falling down them (since it's Dal, N'rov actually goes down first, just in case), and no, N'dalis cannot just hole up in the broom closet along the way. It's really very kind of N'rov, and that is not at all helping the way the greenrider is looking at him... Suraieth is pleased. Those stairs are pretty dangerous, after all. Someone less nice could simply have given him a nudge, and down he would have flown. Instead, as his foot finally makes solid contact with the ground at the bottom, Dal positively beams, a very unusual look for him indeed. "Oh, lots of feelings," he repeats, quite as if there hadn't been a big gap in conversation in the middle there. "You have lovely wings. No. Wait. He has... um." That's N'rov, kind guy. Of course, he has experience with the possibility of being pushed down stairs, and Vhaeryth's waiting. "He has handsome wings," N'rov instructs Dal, which isn't entirely disagreement, and directs him the short distance to the bronze... who happens to be substantially taller than Suraieth. Vhaeryth's eyes are particularly blue right now, too, lit by highlights of terribly amused turquoise in the gloom. "Up with you." N'dalis can do that on his own, right? Dal blinks owlishly at N'rov. Maybe he's not quite following. Well: physically, he's following, but mentally? It's hard to tell what's going on behind those dark, dark eyes. Vhaeryth's presence turns his attention, at least, as he tilts his head up and up and up to find the bronze's eyes, and to smile at them. "Hello, Vhaeryth," he says, sounding abruptly more like himself. "I don't think she'd mind you. She might even like you. We'll see, though. You will..." he trails off. Perhaps N'rov's instruction has finally made it in to his fogged brain. It's been a long time since he's ridden a dragon other than Suraieth, though, and he's especially clumsy, now: this could take a while. Whatever Vhaeryth's now minded to share with the dragon in question, her rider gets an indulgent rumble; his rider doesn't hear a thing, of course, although to look at him, N'rov also doesn't so much as see the very large beast who's reputed to be mindlinked with him and who is right there. N'rov doesn't seem to object to its taking a while, either, although if push does come to shove, the bronzerider will make with the pushing-or-shoving more literally as needed to get N'dalis up there, just so they're not there all night. Even if he's hoisting N'dalis up onto someone who's invisible. Unlike Vhaeryth's rider, Suraieth seems very aware of the bronze, rather as though she's living vicarious through her rider: he gets to touch him, and through that, so does she. Sensuality is not her game, not in ordinary life, but who can blame a girl for giving in to her baser urges? It's only... logical. Meanwhile, as much as the Suraieth-brain in him encourages pushing-and-or-shoving, and indeed all physical contact, the very suggestion of it has him hastening up to a mounted position. There's no need for N'rov to touch him. Or get close. Really. He has such supple, sensitive hide, too, beneath which the smooth play of muscle can be felt... as well as the unvoiced twitch of amusement when her rider gets moving at last. "Buckle yourself in," N'rov says, or maybe threatens, "Or I will." If Dal hadn't fallen down the stairs, well, he won't let him fall off Vhaeryth; leather will have to do it, since N'rov won't be holding onto the other man, choosing instead to sit in front where the rider goes. Tonight, N'dalis is very much the passenger. Whatever it takes to get the greenrider situated, once he finally is, it should be a smooth-enough flight to the ledge; with N'dalis wearing N'rov's straps, Vhaeryth flies with great caution indeed. It won't always be so. This, too, Suraieth watches - mentally, and likely physically, too, though she's not presently visible through the dim evening. Do bronzes get brownie points? Do their riders? Dal does what he's told, buckling himself in without blinking. Really, he seems a little more present, now; his gaze is surer. It's also perhaps a little awed, turning up and up towards the rim, bright-eyed. "Thank you," he says, abruptly. A wingbeat later, there's N'rov's gruff, "Welcome." And for that watching, for whatever awe there might or might not be, Vhaeryth doesn't after all visit Suraieth's ledge right away; rather, he turns in a sweeping arc over the green, his angle steep enough that it's that much easier for each of the pair to see the other. Look. It's only when they've had enough, man and green, or when N'rov has had enough, that he'll set their passenger down. Is N'dalis' sigh lost into the breeze? A glance back at him would show a return of that earlier expression, the one that is so utterly besotted; meanwhile, up on the rim, Suraieth draws herself up, eyes whirling rapidly, so bright, like the sea-green of her glowing hide. She tracks them, up and over, watching and watching; perhaps she could watch forever. But it's Dal who turns away first, and in a way that speaks of contented fulfilment, as though - for now - he's been sated. Vhaeryth lands, Dal unbuckles himself. He climbs down. "It'll be soon," he says. But Vhaeryth and his rider are now no longer needed: Suraieth is on her way back, and they are in her way. Shoo. "Get a good night's sleep," N'rov tells N'dalis in return, seriously. He's silent again even before Suraieth approaches, even before Vhaeryth crests his neck and intimates that it's such a spacious ledge, and she such a supple green, how could they really be in the way of such as she? Perhaps.... But that's when his rider kicks him with his heel, and Vhaeryth's rumble is all masculine laughter as he leaps towards her, past her, the near wingtip brushing too closely for sense. It would be, some might think, N'rov might think, a good night to visit High Reaches. But Vhaeryth reminds him of what he said, and calls it a promise: his own ledge. Suraieth is dismissive of Vhaeryth, as much as she as admiring, earlier. His rumble may be laughter, but hers is all contentment. Can any of them truly live up to the standards set by her Dal? Perhaps not. |
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