Logs:Party At Azaylia's
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| RL Date: 3 September, 2014 |
| Who: Azaylia, A'rist, Bones |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: A'rist and Bones hang out after going for drinks, and Azaylia gets to let her hair down. More of a small get together, really. |
| Where: Azaylia and Hraedhyth's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 18, Month 9, Turn 35 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: K'del/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Off-duty-Azaylia, A'rist, and especially Bones means crude humor, content and language. |
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| Azaylia and Hraedhyth's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr Accessed via a narrow staircase from the Weyrleader's Complex, or from the broad, sunny ledge beyond, this weyr was clearly designed to be for one of the weyr's junior queens. Spacious, but not extravagant, it boasts a well-sized outer room, narrowing in front the well-sized dragon couch and ledge beyond. Much of this main room has been turned over to a couch and several chairs, which circle the hearth and the blue rug set down in front of it. There's a low table here, too, set in the middle of that rug. A tack-cupboard stands tidily behind the couch, keeping out of sight a rider's paraphernalia. Three low steps lead up onto a peculiar little landing, just large enough for the brand new desk and set of shelves that have been placed there. Here, too, there are definite pointers to the lived-in state of the weyr: the desk could in no way be described as tidy. Behind the desk, a narrow passage leads in an inner set of chambers, made up of a sleeping cavern and a private bathing area. A decent-sized bed fills much of the space, the mattress piled high with overstuffed down pillows and comforter. There's a nightstand on either side, and against one of the other walls, a tall, heavy wardrobe made from a dark wood that matches the bed. The bathing area is part of the same cavern, a folding screen shielding the toilet and slightly raised, double-sized bathtub built into the stone, and a small shelf to hold toiletries. Unusually, the walls, ceiling and floor of this weyr have all been whitewashed thickly, covering the natural stone. The hearth is brand new, too, as are most of the built-in fittings, as though they have recently needed to be replaced.
Lythronath is still. Mostly still. Except for that spot where he's gnawing, on and off, and more or less gently, on Hraedhyth's elbow. It makes up for the fact that one side of him is well and truly immobilised, and the other is doing not much more than letting one of those big rear feet slowly slide across the stone, farther and farther away from his body. « Azaylia! » gets her greeting, of course. Then he's mostly lounging in fire-warmth. Gnaw. A'rist isn't walking all that awkwardly, when he gets there, though the burp that came partway through his trip up the stairs to the Weyrwoman's weyr - to the ledge his dragon is occupying, and being occupied on - smells very much like beer, and maybe a little of tubers. His brain's quick enough, still, that, "What's his tally, so far?" is an immediate greeting upon seeing Azaylia and her inspection. Bones follows A'rist from behind, the entrance feeling a bit too narrow for the broad-shouldered man to do otherwise. It's the belch that snaps him from his daydreaming, giving the rider a hearty slap between his shoulderblades. "Ha! Nice one." He doesn't follow him immediately out to the ledge, instead making a beeline to the hearth where his nose already pinpoints a brewing pot of klah. It was all he drank at the Snowasis, but there never seemed to be enough in the gardener to satisfy the craving. He made it out to the ledge just after A'rist asks the question, chuckling over the steaming mug. "Also, hello. He says hello, too." "I've learned how to speak A'rist by now." Azaylia tosses over her shoulder with a soft laugh, pausing to offer a fond smile to both rider and gardener. There's favor in tending her own dragon first, naturally, but Lythronath will not be left to his own discomfort for long. If he even feels it. "I don't think any of these will scar. Counting from weyrlinghood, I'd say about three or four." Not that Hraedhyth doesn't give as good as she gets. The warrior queen doesn't seem to mind Lythronath's teeth on her elbow, and when he does cross a line he gets a nip at his neck for it. Even so, her motions are easy and content. While the Weyrwoman is cautiously running a hand over Lythronath's stretching haunch, she aims another amused glance over, "Did you boys have fun?" Playing stick-ball or whatever it is that men do when she's not around. The pride that was there for that belch (or more, the accolades it earned him) turns quick into a red face. Still, A'rist doesn't give any sort of correct greeting in response, beyond a short nod. "I think I'm supposed to buy, next time," has the sound of affirmation, even if he's not said an outright 'yes' in answer to Azaylia's question. A sidelong glance to the big man, to that mug, and then, A'rist aims a chin-point toward Hraedhyth. "How 'bout hers?" He's started to circle around toward the Lynner side of the dragon pile, though more for looking, and not near enough to actually touch or assist. Trust, maybe. With a roll of his eyes at the dragontending, Bones brings the hot mug of klah to his lips, only to have it briefly scorch them. The heat has him cough and sputter, quickly pulling the drink from his mouth and rubbing at it with the back of his leather cuff. He doesn't let the too-hot drink discourage him from mocking the other two. "Yeah, make sure the giant killing machine is still okay. Heaven forbid it get scratched up." He chuckles as he shakes out his hand, klah splattering off of it and to the ground below. "I'm kidding, don't sic 'em on me now." "Three. Hraedhyth tries not to leave lasting marks." A habit learned from wrestling with smaller and more vain dragons. Azaylia works her way up, fingertips brushing along the bronze's hide until she reaches his gnawing snout. "There. All better." A hand smooths over Lythronath's jaw, a kiss swiftly following the stroke. Rather than defend him from Bones' tease, there's a coo, "It's just his way." Hraedhyth aims a stare at the large man, pale head offering very little in the way of readable expressions-- what with being a dragon and all. Finally breaking away from the dragons, the goldrider brings her hands together, "So! I thought you might be hungry," or need to sober up, A'rist, "And I had some sandwiches and things brought up. Stew. Pastries." A growing teen, a giant thug, and her infamous appetite calls for a large spread. Lythronath makes little clicks, without any head-bobbing whatsoever, at Azaylia. "He's... getting better, at not going for the weak ones." More unsaid than said, in that. « Boring, » the bronze adds, and chews a bit further down from the elbow, this time. A'rist turns his head quickly to Bones, again. "Nothing wrong with scars," comes with one foot lifting to scratch at the calf of the opposite leg with a toe. It's not long-lived, before he chooses to regain a more stable balance. "You're awesome," A'rist tells Azaylia, without inhibition. "Weyrwoman," is an afterthought. Shaking out his hand one more time, Bones' toothy white grin lights up at the prospect of food. "Fuck yeah she is." No need to add her title in his mind. "Y'ever dunk your sandwhich in stew so it's all wet and meaty? The best! C'mon, lets get inside before one of your dragons eats me." He wipes his still-wet hand off on his pants, getting it 'clean' before the upcoming meal. Azaylia gives a soft laugh at such high praise, tucking the basket more firmly in the crook of her arm, "I should feed you two more often." She walks past the two in order to lead them back into the weyr proper. Hraedhyth rumbles at Bones and his concerns, up until her attention is stolen by Lythronath's teeth. Incoming headbutt. There's an airy groan, "I'm going to do that, now. It's 'beast stew." The best kind. Sure enough, there are the appropriate number of plates and bowls resting on the low table between hearth and couch. The Weyrwoman walks further into her private chambers, quickly returning without the basket and her long hair freed from its fashionable buns. "How was your day?" Offered to one or both, whoever speaks up first. There's room enough on the couch for all three, though it'd be a tight squeeze, with an armchair positioned just off to the side. « Beasts, » provides Lythronath, helpfully, hopefully, his head lifting. A'rist, following, turns to Bones as Azaylia heads inside, a thumb jutting in the direction she's taken. "She always feed you like this? And you don't even-- want to leave?" amended as she returns. "'Cause I wouldn't want to, anyway." Muttered. "'Pends on your meanin' of always." Bones is far too focused on the upcoming meal to pick up on anything less than the fully overt. It shows in how quick he hops onto the couch, at one point entirely airborne before his heavy weight thumps fully onto the cushions. "Pretty good! I think I mighta pulled an ass muscle, because there was this weird fuckin' twinge in my left cheek when I was doin' my mornin' squats. Y'know, right under the heart tattoo?" All manner of personal information dumped right out on the table like so much beast stew. "How's 'bout you guys?" After the solid thud of Hraedhyth's head against Lythronath's, « If you are hungry, you should hunt. » And though she doesn't feel the stirrings of her own hunger, « I will watch. » Because surely Lythronath doesn't like to show off while bloodying up the pens. Azaylia does catch the tail end of the conversation, or so she thinks, and smiles at A'rist. "You could visit more often." Thus ensuring his chances of being fed-- as anyone who takes advantage of her open weyr policy might. "You... I don't know if we have muscles, there." In the ass. There's a shoo-ing motion for Bones to make room, the Weyrwoman choosing to curl up on the other end of the couch. "I did some paperwork, watched the weyrlings for a bit... Popped into a gathering at a small cothold." Hence her lovely, but not overly fancy dress. Reaching for a bowl, there's an expectant look toward A'rist, whether he take the available gap on the couch or the armchair. Is Lythronath hungry? He's not sure, though the investigation is shared with Hraedhyth. Not really. Could Lythronath hunt? Teeth are drawn along gold hide. Hmm. "Where'd you get the tattoo?" A'rist is giving full attention now. "Not where on you," he can deduce that, with those observational skills of his, "but who?" He's eyeballing the spot on the couch, but it's the armchair he takes. For now. "We had an off day. Went-" Azaylia gets eyeballed. "Around." Of course, now he has to get back up from his perch - not a thump or thud, but a perch - on the chair, and retrieve his bowl. Then it's back to that chair, careful, even polite. Until he tucks one foot up underneath him, boot and all. Bones leans heavily forward, hunched over his bowl, as he does his best to answer despite food being on the forefront of his mind. "That one? That one I got in the mines." His eyes briefly lift, looking at nothing in particular as the fuzzy details are sorted through in his mind. With a single nod, he confirms. "Yeah. Got it in my first year down in the dark. Probably ain't a big surprise to learn, but that's kinda the easiest one to remember gettin', Ha!" He looks over at Azaylia with a grin. "And maybe you don't got muscles back there. I put muscles on my muscles." He flexes one bicep and then gives it a few slaps with the other hand, showing off for the weyrwoman before turning back to A'rist. "And whaddya mean by around? That sounds shady." Lythronath can always hunt, and Hraedhyth knows it. « Do not waste. » The lives of the herdbeasts, as well as the meat. Teeth against hide earns a throaty rumble, and the queen's oversized jaws are put to use-- scraping and grooming. Azaylia is dipping a sandwich corner into her stew when A'rist aims a glance at her, the hearty bite softening the suddenly suspicious look she sends his way. Bones is always good for a distraction, and the goldrider points out, "I may not have muscles there," As opposed to the rest of her, "but I've never heard any complaints." At least not about her backside. The gardener's masculine display is humored with a smile, one that manages to last as she looks to A'rist. "It does sound awful shady." Soft, if probing, a chance for the bronzerider to elaborate. « Herdbeasts, » snorts the bronze, mental and physical, even as he submits to the grooming. Especially when a tooth hits that spot right there at the base of his skull. Oh yes. But that still doesn't make those beasts worth that much, in his estimation. "It's not shady," says A'rist, after little reaction to the flexing, but perhaps for his own arms tensing as best they can, around that bowl of stew. Brown eyes track over to the goldrider, over the goldrider. But he says nothing beyond, "Just visiting people and stuff." As if to distract from that vaguery, he asks Bones, eyes square on the bigger man then, "What else you got?" "Just visiting people and stuff." A'rist doesn't quite slip that in without it being noticed, and the dragonless one slips a smirk and a raised eyebrow at Azaylia. "See Zay? It's not Shady. Just unknown strangers in mystery locations. Totally legit!" Bones takes a bite of sandwich and immediately lifts the bowl to his lips in a half slurp, half chew to get as much meat into his mouth as possible. Despite the bulging cheeks, it only takes a few rolling motions of his jaw to work down the mouthful and continue talking. "Alright then question dodger, maybe you'd prefer we just keep the conversation on asses then? We gone through with my tight and white, Zee's round and brown. Hahahaa!" He holds up one finger to signal that he's pausing to eat, and does so with another noisy slurp of stew. He surprisingly avoids getting that much in his beard. "Nah, nah. We'll leave your ass alone. Tats. I got too many to keep track of all of em. I think this one's my favorite though." He unbuckles his vest and gives a few taps to one of his pectorals, where a wicked looking creature somewhere between octopus and sea serpent uncoils it's tendrils around his arm. "But it cost the most, so y'know, y'get what you pay for." Hraedhyth is used to other dragons not sharing her particular view on food, her contralto a low rasp, « Without them, we could not survive. » That spot will get more pressure, followed by a swipe of her tongue, before she moves on. Azaylia is not impressed by A'rist's answer, exchanging a glance with Bones as the gardener makes his comments. Her lips part, expression set to scold before they close again and twist up into a thin line. The bronzerider earns himself a long stare, before the Weyrwoman decides to dip her sandwich again and take a smaller bite. From around her mouthful, "I'm sure I'll hear about it, if things go wrong." Whatever it is. Luckily for A'rist, Bones' tattoos are a curious thing, enough to draw Azaylia's eyes to the gruesome beast staining his skin. Airy and thoughtful, "Sometimes I think about getting one." And while she's not pleased with A'rist, "Would you?" « Lots, » Lythronath informs Hraedhyth, though his tone has gone a bit slower, the beginnings of dopey, and really as close to conversational as the bronze has. « Wherries, » added for good measure. And then, an echo, not meant so much for Hraedhyth as the young man in the weyr, an innocent, « Puppies...» A'rist is almost ready to let it go, those comments from the others almost ready to be content that he wasn't pressed for details, here, in front of his new drinking buddy. But a sudden paling weakens his resolve, and, eyes toward the ledge, he can't quite keep a tense mutter of, "Not everything we do goes wrong," from tagging along at the end of Azaylia's words. His sensitive ego and wounded morals are then hidden behind a mouthful of stew, a big one, one he has to chew for a bit, and swallow with care. "Maybe," lacks some luster, "if I did go for one, I'd get it along where he opened up my leg, in weyrlinghood. Like a dragon claw right on the end of the scar or something." Sulkyface tries not to be so sulky, but it's so hard. Bones' big grin drops a little as A'rist sullenly assures Azaylia that his mysterious whereabouts were nothing to worry on. "Hey, relax kid. You're with friends. We're just giving you shit." Most of the solids of his stew are gone, so he continues dipping the bread of his sandwich into the juices as he continues. "If I had a mark for every time I was up in someplace I couldn't chat about, I'd have enough to buy the Snowasis! Hehe." With a smirk fired Azaylia's way, he re-laces his vest to cover up what ink didn't show itself along his bare arms. "Ain't no real reason to get art up here though. Y'gotta bundle up so much of the time that y'can't show 'em off. Unless you're a stubborn fuck like me who's willin' to let his arms frost over." His bites are more reasonable now, chewing on one side of his mouth so he can keep talking, albeit with his mouth partly full. "Course then y'get that look on a special somebody's face when they take your clothes off and they're like, whoa, is that a dragon claw on your leg? Well I was already gonna , but now I'm gonna twice! Ha!" He finishes a bite and then points at the two of them, one finger for each. "If y'wanna get your stuff done good, I know a guy. Heats his needles proper so you won't get all itchy and red." « You would hunt and kill all of them, too. » The wherries. « If allowed. » Which Lythronath is not -- something Hraedhyth presses with oversized jaws and crackling heat. It takes Azaylia a moment to relax thinned lips, and it's only when Bones tries to soothe that wounded ego that her expression softens. "I just... I worry." With good reason, given past 'incidents'. Placing her bowl back down, the goldrider stands and walks toward her cupboard, "But Bones is right. We're off duty, and all friends here." So, it's the perfect time to bring out a mostly-full bottle of brown liquor, as well as two shot glasses. The first is placed near A'rist with a quick glance and apologetic smile. With renewed energy, she plops back down next to Bones and pushes at his knee with a bare foot, "And if the person you're with doesn't like inky, scarred skin? Men can be picky." She pours herself a shot, offering the bottle of good whiskey to the only other person who drinks. « Hahahaha! » answers Lythronath, gleeful, if still submitting to the grooming. And, to some extent, that wave of heat as well. "And when you worry too much, maybe you miss what we can do, too. Well." It borders on reproachful, but after speaking the words, A'rist backs down, relaxing visibly, and stirring at the stew in his bowl. Bones gets a laugh out of that bronzerider, though. "So what if she's one of the ones who likes me 'cause of his hide? Does that mean three times?" To Azaylia, while reaching for that bottle, and with only a bit of red still on his face for that last comment having been timed with her return, "Girls can be, too. But some of them like scars and stuff." "Oh baby, that means all night long! Ha!" The two could have their liquor. Bones already seems to have a permanent buzz going. "And if there weren't chicks who dug scars, then I'd be shit out of luck wouldn't I? Already gotta contend with pretty guys and their dragons." The last of stew and sandwich go down, and Bones wipes his mouth with his leather cuffed wrist again. "S'fine with me. They don't know what they're missin'. See, what I got goin' on is like Hrae and Lyth. When you first see it, it's like, oh sweet Faranth! Hide everyone, that monster will end us all! But then when you get used to the size, and the intensity, y'can never go back! Ha!" Hraedhyth's affections eventually slow, and as if the gold didn't already have Lythronath's attention, there's a sudden impact of her brow against his. « Your turn. » Her stocky 'knobs are offered, helpfully. Azaylia doesn't look convinced by A'rist, and where his words might have weight, hers are an airy reminder, "Some think I don't worry enough ." With whiskey, and on the subject of scars, "I like scars." Far too casual, "It means he won't break, or isn't afraid to." She's lifting a dripping sandwich to her mouth when Bones describes himself , and the food is slowly lowered. With a far too delicate drawl, "Did you... did you just compare your cock to my," A glance of amused disbelief for A'rist, "to our dragons?" Once it finally sinks in, she dissolves into laughter, bare foot shoving harder at Bones' leg this time. One nod, consenting, and from that point A'rist - on the topic of worry and confidence, anyway - holds his tongue, happily covering it in whiskey instead. On that other one, once he's set his glass down, "Can't be my dragon. Only person who compares his cock to my dragon is me." Hopefully, the laughter from Azaylia and the kick to Bones will keep them both occupied enough for A'rist to recover from what's half a blush, half an attempt not to laugh at what he's just said. Someone give that kid more whiskey. Lythronath presses his head right back into Hraedhyth's for a time, giving one throat-click to her, and then, with a heavy groan, shifting his front legs better beneath him, and rubbing the sides of his teeth over the offered headknobs. "Well I beat you to it this time kid." Bones gives a few long seconds of staring at the booze, but reaches for his mug of klah and takes a deep drink of it to give his beard a bit of chocolate coating before wiping it away and pointing a finger at Azaylia. "And scars don't mean shit. Plenty of folk get 'em doin' something as stupid as slippin' on ice. Y'could still break that dude. Come to think of it, muscle don't mean much neither. A lot of big, bulging cowards down in the mines I'll tell you that much." Bones leans back on the couch and puts his hands behind his head, shifting his gaze back over to A'rist. "But look at this little fucker right here." Little compared to Bones maybe. "Maybe he eats nails and broken glass for breakfast. Maybe he's packin' a firelizard in his pants. Maybe he's already slit the throat of five- no, ten men! Ha!" Bones suddenly stands up and gives a playful slap to A'rist's arm before sitting back down next to Azaylia and presumptuously letting an arm drape over her shoulders. "Y'can't ever really know somebody till you fight 'em or fuck 'em, I say." Azaylia is all too happy to add, "Nothing about my intimate parts are anything like Hraedhyth, thank you ." She scoots to the edge of the couch in order to reach long arms over and snag the whiskey, knocking back a refill with an unashamed spasm. Squinting through the burn at Bones' finger, the goldrider clicks her teeth in empty threat, moving only to hand the bottle off to A'rist. When she leans back, it's with little care that the gardener's arm is already there-- when has the Weyrwoman ever shied away from affection? From anyone? "No, I mean scar -scars. Like mine," The darkly raised slashes that will forever stain her belly, "Or A'rist's. Or yours. Not ice-scars." Because those are apparently a thing, now. When instructed to, Azaylia aims a curious look toward the young man, adding to Bones' assessment with a too-light, "Or drowned them." It's meant to be humorous, as morbid as it is, no longer willing to aggravate that sore subject. While Hreadhyth is appreciative of the bronze, her headknobs are a particularly sensitive place. It's sudden, when deep rumbles of pleasure turn into a startled snarl, and she sharply nips his nearest foreleg. There is no demand for him to be careful, given that it's Lythronath , but she doesn't attempt to chase him off after her toothy reprimand. A'rist just jerks his head up as Bones approaches, and blinks at that slap. Blinks a second time. The first bit of a twitch of a smirk at his lips gets halted in some strange, nascent expression when Azaylia speaks. He's got composure back when he, finally, accepts that whiskey, pouring carefully, brow knit in concentration. "I don't know if fighting or fucking's how you get to know people. Not the people ." Lythronath answers that nip with one of his own - but a harmless one, aimed to a much sturdier neckridge. It's the bony top of his muzzle that goes to work next, complete with warm dragon-breath that smells, just a little, of some bit of meat that never worked its way out from between his teeth. "Well how else do you find 'em without the filter?" Bones seems pensive for a moment, scratching the back of his head and looking down at his lap for a few short seconds before lifting his gaze back to A'rist. "Y'know what I mean right? Like, y'get a cold, calm, together looking dude. You're like, whoa, that guy's chill as fuck. Then you end up scrappin' with him and he's spitting, clawing, biting. He's pullin' your hair and hurlin' every nasty ass insult he can think atcha so loud that his voice is givin' out. Suddenly you're like, okay that dude weren't chill at all." He smirks a little as the next example pops into his head, sitting up a little straighter and smiling. "Or you get a chick who's built like a tank. A real one of the guys type y'know? Chick who wears pants, drinks like a fish, beats dudes at arm wrestlin', has more scars than you? Ha! You get her into bed and she's suddenly blushin' and got her eyes closed. S'like coaxin' a kitten outta box with a saucer'a milk or some shit. She winces 'errytime you move!" Bones shrugs, as if he's confused himself by the behavior of his strictly hypothetical examples. "Fightin' and fuckin', the quickest ways to see what's underneath. The shortcut." Bones' excitable rant is met with gentle amusement on Azaylia's part, lips twitching with stifled laughter-- if she does, he might stop . Never mind that his equally talkative hands have narrowly missed striking her, the goldrider doesn't flinch as she leans forward to grab up a pastry. "Or you could ask ." Quickly followed by, "But everyone lies anyway, so." Perhaps the gardener is onto something. A'rist's knit brow catches her attention, "Something on your mind?" Or more likely, "We're not keeping you, are we? Is Bones talking too much? He does that." Hraedhyth is slow to settle back down, wary of Lythronath until he's been rubbing for a good minute or two. Finally the queen lowers her head, blunt neck and 'ridges offered with a low, content rumble. Tawny hide stretches and bulges as she flexes her limbs, and there's a smoky appreciation for that foul meat breath. Strange dragons, indeed. A'rist certainly doesn't look convinced, though he's listened carefully to that whole tirade from the bigger man. He doesn't look particularly comfortable, either, shifting around a bit, one way, the other, and when he does settle back into that armchair, bringing the glass of whiskey right up to his lips. There's not much tasting that goes on there, and he gives his head a little shake before he can focus on the goldrider, when she speaks. "Not... really." A quick smile goes onto his face. "Besides, wouldn't she get mad? If you took Lythronath away now?" While he's actually giving , instead of getting? "So you," and he's looking to the big man again, "really think people are just one way or another? Like why can't they be both ways? Or maybe- well, it might not be just the one, anyway." It's with a scratch at his chin that Bones ponders the question, although mostly from an angle of comprehension rather than intellectual thoroughness. "Oh!" Is the start when the light bulb goes off above his head. "No no, I ain't sayin the brawl or the bedroom is the only place you see what a person's got. It's just the place you see the uuhhh..." Again, he has to pause to think, a very good chance he's overheating his brain with this level of philosophical discussion. "It's where you see the lies and the limits, y'know? It's where y'get the passion of a person. And for some fuckin' reason everybody hides their passion in public. But that's the beauty of my weird little theory there! Y'can see if the snooty booty is willin' to get nasty when she needs to. And... I ain't sure if I was talkin' about the fightin' or the fuckin' on that one. Same thing sometimes right? Hehe." "She'd just follow him back up to your ledge." Azaylia warns with a soft laugh, "I think she's found her company for the night." And though Hraedhyth still greatly favors Cadejoth, her mate, the queen has since returned to spending quality time with the rest of her pack. The goldrider adds to Bones' explanation with a gentle, "Like I said. Everyone lies. Everyone... I don't know." Before she can become too bitter, Azaylia throws back another half-glass of whiskey. With a wheeze, "All I-- all anyone can do is just be ourselves. I'm not going to hide my excitement just because I might get funny looks, or because I'm Weyrwoman ." That last word holding every ounce of propriety that is likely expected of her from others. For A'rist, "It's why we can all hang out. You try to be genuine." And Bones, with sing-song amusement, "You always mean fucking." A'rist sips the next bit, the last bit, of that glass, and broods for a while, broods unapologetically, with brown eyes staring at that spot right in between Bones and Azaylia. Or, the parts of them that would be the median line between them. Whatever. "Is it lying," the bronzerider asks, finally, "to just keep some of those sides back? I mean, like, if everyone went around all passions out all the time," and something in that makes him smirk like a fourteen-turn-old, as opposed to his very mature seventeen, "I mean, if we all went like that, wouldn't it just be..." His gaze drifts toward the ledge, but he ends on, "Chaos?" Bones gives probably the biggest, toothiest grin of the evening for what his theories bring about. Understanding. Both in Azaylia's judgement of him, and in A'rist's understanding of the old gardener's paradise. "Now you're getting it kid. My kind of party. Everybody sayin' what they mean for a change, and eatin' the occasional fist like they probably should." He gives a quick cock of his head towards Azaylia as he keeps eye contact with the bronzerider. "Why you think me and Zee stay so close? She's the Weyrwoman. People got a nasty habit of spittin' lies at the girl. I'm a dirtball, but at least I'm honest." That earns a shrug from his shoulders, and he unfurls his arm from around Azaylia to reach for a pastry from the table. "But most people get their feelins hurt a little too easy, so I'unno. Probably talkin' nonsense." Azaylia, on the other hand, has an entirely different opinion. With a playfully scolding look aimed at Bones, "No . Chaos would be bad ." Slow and sweet, as if she's talking to a child. Thankfully, her casual tone returns when regarding A'rist, "I think if people were a little more honest with themselves, and each other, it wouldn't be that bad." Her own pastry disappears, fingers swiped with a quick lick before she reaches for the whiskey again. "But, I guess you do have a point, if we're talking about restraint . Or manners." It's obvious the goldrider has abandoned any hope of late-night paperwork, generous with her liquor while in friendly company. "It's not how the world works, anyway." So there's little point in dwelling how things could and should be. It takes far too long for her to realize the gardener's self depreciative comment, adding with a laugh, "And you aren't a dirtball ." A'rist makes a sour face, and leans forward in that armchair. "But politics and stuff's not the same as..." A finger points at the weyrwoman after she's said 'manners'. "That. High Reaches could go for lots more just saying shit with politics." The words should make him look older, surely, but the alcohol's taking effect, and his face isn't quite responding. The lack of hard lines to it just now don't take away from that baby-faced effect in the least. "I just mean that for a person , maybe letting go of all that and just going with guts actually gets rid of some of what they are." With a sudden and sloppy smirk, "And he is kind of a dirtball." Amicable. "Bah. Manners is just a fancy prancy way of actin' like someone you ain't. If somethin' you're doin' bothers somebody, they should straight up tell you. You end up with a handful of like minded friends and a buch of folk who hate your guts, and that's better than havin' twenty sorta half friends who you only sorta really know. Least my by reckonin'". He takes a big bite of pastry, leaving a gigantic crescent in the side from where his mouth had taken it's fill. There's a low growl from the big man's chest as he rolls his eyes up into his head. "Fuck. Why'd you gotta let me know these things exist in the kitchen. Gonna get fat now." That's the intermission between his thoughts on manners, rolling his jaw to chew a bit before continuing. "And if you're sayin' some of what can define a person is that they hold back all the time? Well, suppose that's just followin' your instincts. But what a sad fuckin' life that'd be. Just walkin' around with a stick up your ass all day." "Every second you aren't eating, you're working out." Azaylia gently reminds Bones, "You aren't going to get fat." And, "You give terrible advice. Never work with young people." That's said more firmly, even if it's mostly playful. Mostly. A'rist's pointed finger will earn him that same threatening air-bite from afar, "We're supposed to be having fun . Not talking about politics." At least the Weyrwoman isn't sulking, but there's a weight to her words as she mumbles, "If I ever have to have another meeting with a Lord or Lady Holder, it'll be too soon." No one remind her of tomorrow's agenda, please. With A'rist's glass empty, she sets the bottle of whiskey on the table in front of him, flopping backward into the couch. There's no 'between' Azaylia and Bones now, the goldrider claiming all of what's left of the room with a long stretch. A'rist pulls that finger back, as if, across all that distance, those teeth were an actual threat. He's hardly aware of that reaction of his, his face staying mostly serious as he looks at Bones. "It's not just sticks up asses, though. It's what makes us human , instead of just beasts. Trying to be better than all that." The whiskey gets his attention next, only a solemn sort of look, as he gives his own mumble of, "I kind of liked going around with K'del, when Cadejoth was hurt." Amended, more loudly, "When we hurt him." When he does reach toward the whiskey, it's to give it the slightest nudge on the table, away from himself. That forward lean requires both feet planted firmly on the ground, and he flumps back into the armchair. Quite separate from any of the talk thus far: "Can I crash here? I'll crash Lythronath," the smirk is back, hazy and sleepy and tipsy all at once, "otherwise." "What separates us from the beasts, eh?" Bones ponders the words with a brief touch of seriousness before his grin pops right back out. "That explains a lot about me then, don't it? Hahaha!" He reaches down to take the whisky, holding it towards Azaylia without actually knowing whether or not she wanted more. "There's tryin' to be good people, and then there's lyin' to yourself about who you are just to try and save face or meet some bullshit ideal that got crammed into your skull when it was still soft. Too many in that second group. That's all I'm sayin." If Azaylia doesn't take the bottle, he'll set it down on the table and set about rubbing the soles of the weyrwoman's feet without even looking, his focus still on the conversation. "And yeah! Y'can totally crash! It'll be good havin' ya!" It doesn't even occur to Bones that it wasn't his weyr to offer, at least not until a short second later. "Oh, uhh. Y'know, if Zee's cool with it. Ha! I'm a dick, my bad Zee." He tries to make it up to her with a good press of his thumb in the arch of her foot. The Weyrwoman leaves the boys to their chatter, arms crossing on the cushioned arm-rest and nestling into her couch as the whiskey warms her from within. Bones' offering of the bottle goes unnoticed with Azaylia's eyes closed, opening only after he begins the unsolicited, yet appreciated, rubbing of her feet. It's A'rist who snags her attention, head lifting to look over at him, "Tell him that. He might want to... help?" Or make the attempt, like so many others have tried in regards to Lythronath. She doesn't sound particularly confident in K'del's success, but, "It'd be good for you to get to know each other more. Maybe learn some stuff about good Weyr and Hold relationships." A'rist's request has lips parting to answer, only to be interrupted by Bones. With a laugh, "I thought you were a dirtball?" There's another long stretch and a sweet, sleepy coo before she flumps and smiles, "Of course you can. My bed fits three," tested and proven. "Or, I suppose Bones could give up his couch for one night." Either way, Azaylia intends to follow Hraedhyth's cuddly lead. "I did. He knows." Of the weyrleader. "He's not... I don't know, things are weird sometimes. He doesn't get it, I don't think." Seriousness if more and more fleeting, and those smirks, less and less so, as the bronzerider is all too happy to chime in on that other topic with, "A dirtball with a dick!" The smirk doesn't even leave when the younger rider's eyes go wide. On the ledge, Lythronath bites. Sleepily. "Welp," Bones gives a slap to the tops of his thighs as he stands up. "This dicky dirtball's gonna get a headstart on that bed thing." He reaches down to grab his klah, guzzling down the last of it with luckily only a drop or two dripping down into his beard. Once it's done, he quickly slams the empty glass to the table as if the drinking was an accomplishment on par with whisky. "C'mere you!" His hands clasp up underneath A'rist's thighs, and with a quick grunt and a lift, he's got the rider up and over his shoulder, his neck bulging with the weight. "Whoof, you're heavier'n you look. You're packin' some secret muscle ain't you boy? Haha!" With those words, Bones marches him straight to the bedroom. There's a concerned glance for A'rist and his opinion of the Weyrleader, lips parting to perhaps help, as buzzed as she is. Then Bones has to go and make a spectacle of himself, coaxing a squeak of laughter from Azaylia when he actually lifts the bronzerider. There's that whiskey! The Weyrwoman also stands, but rather than move to free A'rist or follow Bones, "I'm going to clean up a bit." Already, she's picking up those bowls and little pastry plates. With an easy smile, "I'll be there in a moment." Whether A'rist tries to free himself or not-- that's between him and the gardener. She's not intending to stay up much longer, and whether there are two or only one in the bed when she gets there, much cuddling will be had. What starts as disbelief turns into an, "Ack!" in all the time it takes A'rist to be airborne. Or, rather, Bonesborne. The bronzerider squirms and thrashes and holds onto the bigger man's shoulder all at once, though in all this, there's only an initial, "What in th'name-" that gets out before he shifts into a silent protest. It's only when Lythronath's head goes up (a few thrashes in) that A'rist forces himself to settle. Slightly. The weight of the bronzerider is settled neatly and not at all uncomfortably on Bones' shoulder, not much adjustment made for the half hearted struggling. "C'mon sport, I'll let you revenge wrestle with me in Azaylia's bed." Something that he only realizes a few steps later sounds, well... "But with our pants on. Don't want Zee gettin' too excited, ha!" With that, the big man and his smaller passenger head deeper into Azaylia's weyr, where a bed is waiting. As Azaylia goes about collecting dishes, there's a gentle scold for the disappearing gardener and his captive, "Don't scar my bronzeriders, Bones." Her movements slowly come to a halt, as if only just realizing his implication. "Don't break them, either!" A'rist is safe under the Overprotective Weyrwoman act. At least for tonight. Once she's finished tidying up, Azaylia turns to find her own spot in the bed. It is a good size for three, but no doubt she'll find an excuse to snuggle. Like dragon, like rider. |
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