Logs:Unironically
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| RL Date: 11 May, 2015 |
| Who: Faryn, T'mic |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: T'mic's probably been stalking Faryn; Faryn asks for help with a task |
| Where: Feeding Grounds, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 10, Month 10, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Though overall pleasant, the temperature has dropped just below the freezing mark, enough to allow the lightest sprinkle of snow to fall from the skies. |
| Mentions: R'hin/Mentions |
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>---< Feeding Grounds, High Reaches Weyr >-----------------------------------< Wedged between the lake and the rest of the vast bowl are the dusty feeding grounds. Here, the well-trampled ground is contained by a sturdy wooden fence, cutting right through one end of the lake to section it off into a muddy watering hole for the animals. Several gates allow people in and out, while at the back, large overhangs of rock provide the herd -- a mixed bag of herdbeasts, wing-clipped wherries, and fat porcines -- shelter from storms or the hot sun. What grass survives is usually bloodstained, but feeding troughs are stationed around the edges of the pen. -----------------------------< Active Players >----------------------------- Faryn F 22 5'4" lean, brown hair, brown eyes 0s T'mic M 21 6'4" broad, black hair, brown eyes 0s The change in weather has not been particularly sudden or bitter, or even really drastic, at least not until the sun starts going down. That marks some bitterness, with a brisk breeze and dip in temperature that says yes, winter is here. Again. Faryn's taking it like a (somewhat dramatic) champ, with her jacket drawn up tight around her and a scarf wound up to muff around her ears like a cowl. It's maybe not cold enough for it, but who can convince her of that? She's inside the pens, taking advantage of the lack of dragons to fill troughs for the sickly animals for the weyrlings, and is being bumped around by them in their silly rush to get at the contents, even despite whatever issues they have that make them good, easy targets. They were here earlier, were T'mic and Jorrth, in the late afternoon, after yet another oiling in the barracks. Here they are again, though, Jorrth looking bigger, looking older, looking with sudden interest at the milling around of the herdbeasts. And at why. The blue's step quickens in time with a snort. T'mic, prepared for the weather insofar as having donned a sweater, gets up to a jog as he goes after his lifemate. He nows what Jorrth knows. It makes him start to smile even before Jorrth's near enough to scatter those sickly little buggers. Lulled into security by the promise of food and a few annoyed pats on the head, the larger beasts worry quite suddenly when Jorrth is finally close enough to be acknowledged, filled with the anxiety of yet another dragon to pick away at their disabled herd. Faryn's nimble, and apparently used to this. As they jostle, stomp and hobble away, she slips between the troughs, plants a boot on the lower rung of the fence, and clambers over it in a handful of seconds. She lands on the other side with a low 'oof', giving the blue a suspicious look. "You already ate," she says evenly, letting her eyes slip to T'mic. "He's going to get fat." Jorrth, meanwhile, carries on trotting right on up to that fence, where he stops short enough that there's a bit of a forward sway and rock-back, and the slightest adjusting of his feet to go with it. He shakes out his wings, and rumble-grunts in answer to Faryn, quite happily, if the colour of his eyes are anything to go by. T'mic's smile's turned into a lazy grin. "He's growing," isn't exactly defensive, nor contrary, as the weyrling waves a hand in the air. He's drawn up a bit after Jorrth. One would think he'd get closer to Faryn, but then, his dragon has started to lean her way from the other side, so really. "Growing too fast, for that." "We'll see," Faryn says, her mouth carefully schooled into a line. She's not smiling at Jorrth, and indeed folds her arms over her chest with a pointed look as he leans. She even takes a little step away. "That's how it starts, you know. He's growing fast, and then he just keeps being ravenous, and the next thing you know, he's fat. Can't even get his chubby little body off the ground for it. Never to see true flight." T'mic waits, quite happily if the lift at the corners of his eyes is anything to go by, on that other side of the herder when she takes that step. He's still grinning. "Nah, look at his wings." Jorrth is stretching those out in times to his rider's words, perhaps even a bit before. "They're getting big, now." And his dragon's finally tall enough that T'mic can look up to see the extended wingtip. "Even if he were fat." Shorter than T'mic as she is, Faryn has an even better view of Jorrth's wings as he stretches them out, and she obliges him by craning her neck and looking up, up at them with a critical eye. "Hmmm," preempts her moving a bit - taking another step towards T'mic, in fact - and squinting. "They'd still only hold so much weight," is her ultimate decision. She's clearly teasing now, even if her expression is nothing to go by. She keeps that stoic. "You ever seen a fat bird?" Jorrth shakes out those shaggy wings, and makes a point of lumbering. In place. It comes in time with T'mic's crossing of his arms over his chest, eyes dancing, even if he's trying (not particularly successfully) to look... serious? "Do wherries count?" The blue forgets his posturing when some of the more adventurous beasts start to move back toward their food. He's watching now, wings slowly dropping again to his back. "We're not here to eat, anyway," is all sincere and Tomic again, with an easy, big-shouldered shrug. "No," says Faryn firmly, "they're not meant to fly." Despite being so much lower, Faryn still ducks reflexively as Jorrth folds his wings closer, just because one can't be too careful about not getting slapped in the head with a wing. T'mic's words cause an arching of brows, accompanied by a pointed look at Jorrth. "You could have fooled me," she says of his intensity. "If not food...." She trails off, leaving him to fill in the blanks. The look over to his dragon, proud and loving and still starry-eyed (it's the honeymoon period that may never, ever end), says it all: but Jorrth is. That same intensity carries on watching those beasts, some of whom have noticed the look, while others are so hungry it doesn't matter. It's hard work, being chased by ineffective dragons. The blue's tail swishes. T'mic just grins, and lets his arms loosen, then, when gravity wins out over friction, drop to his sides. "We just came to see you." Faryn looks at him sidelong, her mouth twitching into a smile. "Did you now?" she goads. "And what, praytell, is it I can do for you gentlemen this evening?" T'mic doesn't seem the least bit bothered by that sidelong look. There's another amicable enough shrug. "Anything. It's just... it's been a long time." More apologetic, now: "We haven't hardly got to the stables." Softer. "And the one time, you weren't there." It's a strange dance that two of those beasts seem to be doing for position, shuffling, shifting. It has Jorrth entranced, by the look of him. Faryn stops goading almost immediately, turning to him more fully and softening. Her brow furrows. "Don't be like that," she says at once, not sounding even the slightest bit upset. "It's not that big a deal, really. I'd rather you two focus on whatever it is you're learning." That holds a note of vague curiosity that passes. She's not paying attention to the beasts, even when one makes an agitated squawking sound and rattles the troughs. "I've been here more," she mentions, by way of explanation, gesturing to encompass the feeding grounds as a whole, "but I think you must have noticed that." Jorrth's serious study is interrupted, not directly by the beast's squawking, but indirectly. Because he tries to echo it back, eyes whirling faster, amused. "We did," T'mic agrees almost proudly, eyes tracking over to his lifemate again. His squawking little lifemate, even if he's bigger now. "And it is a big deal," is said more quietly, but with some emphasis of tone, when he looks back to Faryn. His fingertips press lightly against the edges of his pockets. "He's known that. Since... since the very first time. And we've got lots to learn, just us, and then weyrlings too, but that doesn't make everything else a... small deal." Huh. T'mic bites his lip and thinks that last one over. Spending so much time around the herds, Faryn's desensitized to their odd noises and squabbles, but less to Jorrth's reactions. She flinches reflexively at the tone that is unfamiliar, looking back over her shoulder at him with a scolding gaze that holds no weight at all. If the wherries are too dumb to leave in the face of mimicry, they deserve anything that comes their way. "Well, a lesser deal, then," Faryn says, apparently unwilling to argue the specifics. "Things hold different weights, and I'm not under any delusion as to where I fall." It's matter of fact and perfectly reasonable, delivered evenly. "And anyways," she adds, tucking a wayward strand that's gotten out of her braid, "I've needed time. To think about stuff." Alone is implied. Jorrth tries to make a deeper rumble, though he still can't quite manage deep, adult-y sounds all that well. It's not quite a burp, but the blue seems satisfied with it, and looks back to those few brave souls (can animals be called that? he'll consider it later on) who've remained to eat out of the farthest corner of that trough. "But it's-" and then she's adding stuff, and saying 'stuff', and that makes T'mic's eyebrows go up. And what he says, when he does speak, is simply, "We've got a little time, you know. Tonight." In case 'alone' doesn't still apply. "Do you really?" asks the herder, and her pleasure is there in her voice, warming it. "You're moving right up, then, all this free time. And you even look rested." She stuffs her hands in her pockets, considering him quietly. "I've got some time. That's the perk about the feeding pens: I don't have to check in the middle of the night. Usually." Faryn rocks back on her heels, rolls forward again, repeats, then seems to remember something. "You know how to dance?" "Well..." and whatever explanation it was going to be falls away, with T'mic instead settling on a simplified, if seemingly honest, "Yeah. Tonight. And Jorrth won't even test them." The them, those thems, over there. "Tonight." He's gazing back over to his dragon again, when she gets her idea. It's not what T'mic was expecting. Bemusement, when he looks back in front of him, back to Faryn. "Sure." "He can test them," Faryn says. "Dragons will be dragons." There's a small roll of the eyes, and she' still rocking, rocking, chewing the inside of her lip while she does. "Yeah?" sounds quite pleased, though she's not immediately forthcoming as to why. It's not phrased as a question, really, but it has the inflection of one: "You should teach me." T'mic just spares a final look to his lifemate, and gives another of those easy shrugs. A nod goes to confirm; yeah. Their conversation might have ended there, and the weyrling probably wouldn't have been bothered, to just be out in the evening air, and away from a table and glowlight, to be occupying the same space as Jorrth and Faryn at once. But it does go on. And so. with a quick glance to their environs, he says again, "Sure," but this time, differently. This time, with a bit of a chuff to start it off, that's not really a laugh. And drops his hands from the edges of his pockets, to his sides again. It's perhaps his chuff that draws her gaze and makes her look chagrined. Not quite enough, but the leading end of one, something to make her close off. "What?" Faryn asks, sharper than she previously was, if only by a modicum. But she catches his look around, and says, "I don't mean now, here. And," for good measure, "you don't have to. It hardly ever comes up anyways, but turns out I'm terrible at it. Even worse than I thought I was, in my own head. I thought I might be able to learn." The color on her cheeks can surely be attributed to the cold, even in spite of the scarf. "It's probably stupid anyways. I bet it's terrible advice." "Nothing," says T'mic. "I just..." He just needs to scratch at the back of his head, under that hair that wasn't so long it needed to be cut. That same hand is the one that makes a grab for Faryn's, next. T'mic is grinning. "Why not now and here? Who's going to see? Jorrth and some old food animals and maybe a dragon who's hungry before bed?" If his own face is redder than before, well. Shouldn't it be obvious why? "You just," Faryn echoes, looking expectantly at him, but not pressing harder than that. "Because," she says, "you never know whose dragon is going to want a late dinner. What if it's..." she fishes for a name, any name, and winds up finishing lamely, "someone who sucks." Her passionate opinions on dragonriders abound. "Also, Jorrth. He's very judgmental." She can't even say that without snorting a bit, even despite her concerns as he reaches for her hand, which she obligingly doesn't keep stuffed in her pocket. She'll even allow herself to be drawn closer. "I just," repeats T'mic, grinning since her 'assessment' of Jorrth, and not losing that grin any time soon, it would seem, "think we should dance, that's all." Drawn closer she is, and that hand, he goes ahead and lifts up towards his shoulder. Jorrth's attention has started to waver, with the jostling for position seemingly well jostled and done now, and this new thing going on, that holds his rider's attention so neatly. When the blue sits down, it is, of course, adorable, back legs akimbo, wings perked, and broad head staring eagerly. Go on. "So I think," reaching for the other hand now, while he makes good use of the freedom he's been given to rest his other palm (in perfect gentlemanly fashion of course) at the herder's waist, "maybe the first one my mom taught me? You don't dance like at all?" If Faryn has any suspicion of his explanation, she doesn't give it voice. She's gone a little rigid through the shoulders, her face not entirely serene. She's already casting nervous glances down at their feet. It's lucky, though; if she saw Jorrth's sudden attention?even as an extension of T'mic's?she might back out. As it stands, she allows him to position her, with all the flexibility and complaint of a doll. She gives a shrug for his first question, though it seems to require no particular answer; the second furrows her brow, and she delivers, like it's been a mantra her entire life, "Not unironically." A pause. "Actually, not even ironically. No, no I don't." T'mic looks down when Faryn is looking down. And then grins pointedly at her, for howsoever long it takes for her to realise and look at him. Or, let's say, ten seconds tops, otherwise. "You don't have to look down. Just feel here," and he shifts his hand from her waist to, more properly, the small of her back, and presses demonstratively, "and that'll be fine. We'll even count it out loud, okay? You're going to go backwards. And I'm going to go forwards. And it's going to be two slow steps and then two quick ones, okay?" He has confidence in confidence alone. "Dancing's easy. You'll see." Just like Jorrth will. It's T'mic's words and his movements that draw Faryn's eyes back up, because she's apparently already having waking terrors about crushing his feet. Poor feet. She feels, carefully testing his hand by leaning into it, her head tilting. Again, a glance at his feet, then back to his face, to his eyes, searching. She finds - or doesn't - what she's looking for there, and nods once, even if her, "Sure, easy," sounds incredulous at best. When the herder leans, T'mic offers a firm backing. One that might happen to bring Faryn that much closer, one that at any rate underlines the fact that he's got her in his (dancing) arms, and so prompts a smile at the corners of his eyes, and a not-quite quavering exhalation when he looks back at her. Then, he's centring. Finding a beat. Nodding to it when he repeats, again, "Easy." And then, it's one, "Step, step, quick-quick," counted out loud before he starts forward, with a push to the hand he holds. Hopefully she'll take the cue he forgot to tell her about. He's still counting out loud, at least. Faryn is ever-so-pliable this evening, it seems. Perhaps it's the company, or her willingness to learn that pulls her that little bit closer, until they're nearly flush, all the better to follow his lead when it does come. Or, well, maybe not. Faryn actually misses it, because she's so focused on what might happen to him in this dangerous prospect that she forgets to protect her own feet. "Ow," is her hissed announcement for that, but her other foot falls quickly into place. It takes a long and ungainly step to cover that distance, one made a little harder by proximity, and it's still not quite. The side-steps throw her, too. She looks like a hopping bird. She swears and apologizes, more profusely than is maybe necessary; after all, she's the one who is stomping. Her grimace is easily read emotions. she's not the one who is stomping, duh. T'mic's are all attempts at countering, at not stepping on Faryn again (which, by the way, earned a squelchy sound in his throat that might have made it to 'eep' had it more air behind it), trying to right her and himself, and finally, saying, "Okay, hang on," as he comes to a stop, a little pull at her back. It's about here that a laugh he was trying to keep down comes out, as non-judgemental as Jorrth, (though he's certainly curious), and seemingly having a wonderful time, despite all this. "Okay. Okay, this time, I'll go backwards. And we'll go a straight line?" Faryn inhales deeply and holds it, like a child about to throw a tantrum. When she exhales, it's with a sound that might be a huff of laughter, right on the tail of his own. At the very least, her mouth twitches from consternation briefly, before everything settles right back into that serious expression. His suggestion seems to surprise her. "I can't lead you," she says at once, apparently taking the suggestion for a full reversal and sounding a little panicked, giving him an up-and-down look. "Oh, I'm still leading," T'mic promises around the fading memory of laughter, though he shakes his head as if the idea of swapping roles is, well, backwards. "But I can do that backwards." It's just one step, back, one push to her back, to demonstrate. "Especially if there's no one here to bump into." Maybe even he doesn't notice Jorrth getting to his feet, interest whirling away in his eyes. "One, two, three-and, one, two, ready, one two, three-and, here, we, go-and," he's off. He'll undoubtedly feel the relief that takes her for that. Things are bad enough without letting her drive. "Alright. Okay." Another deep breath, a perfunctory, "Sorry for your toes," and Faryn shakes a little from the shoulders and down the spine, like she's shaking the tension off. She certainly doesn't notice Jorrth, not focused as she is on T'mic's face. She's got rhythm, that much is clear; she's got no issue with finding the beat and following it with counting nods as T'mic counts off. Something else, like a traumatic socialization injury, is causing her problem. But at least this time she's ready, and she follows, if not well then tolerably. "Oh!" is her surprised observation a couple rounds in, "I didn't step on you." T'mic is still counting under his breath as they start off. That stops only when Faryn says 'oh!', surprising him enough that his eyebrows jump a bit on his face, and his mouth twists a bit for a smile. "See? Not so hard." Jorrth, meanwhile, is on the move, his tail starting to swish in rhythm, those first initial footsteps rhythmic too. Then the pause, to watch again, more out of one eye than both, considering. That tail doesn't stop, though. Well, that reminds her. She should check her feet. Faryn glances down between them, but even when observed her feet don't betray her or step on him, so that's a win. "Not so easy, either," she asserts pointedly, continuing reasonably, "If dance floors were straight tracks, this would be perfect. If there were obstacles, we'd be screwed." "Straight tracks," says T'mic, "is such a runner way of saying it." He tilts his head, then, and squeezes the hand of hers he's got, and starts turning them in a circle. Jorrth had been approaching. Now, he has to sashay after them. It makes his weyrling smile bigger, and pick up the pace. Oh dear. Faryn's following is getting better and maybe she's actually smiling now. Maybe it even touches her eyes, her voice. "That's because it is. They're not fun, unless you have a --" her explanation is cut off very abruptly as they turn, half to focus on adjusting her steps in compensation, and half because in doing she catches sight of Jorrth. "Is he--?" she starts, flipping her head to adjust to his pace, spotting back on the dragon a second time. She sort of gapes at T'mic, at that widening smile. "Ohhh," comes then, knowing. Understanding. Jorrth is concentrating on two things now: mirroring T'mic's movements (as T'mic leads in two senses, now), and trying to make his ever-growing legs work properly when going sideways. To Faryn's question, T'mic gives simply a satisfied, "Yup." He's back to grinning full-out, changing his and Faryn's course again, this time with the added flare of lifting his arm, invitation, encouragement even, to twirl. There it is. A bright laugh of amusement at the dragon she'd so gamely ignored not a half hour ago. It looks ridiculous, and given a moment, Faryn will even tell him so, "He's so weird." It's a brief observation that she doesn't belabor, and a fond one beyond that, which segues nicely into her arching a brow at that arm, at the flair. "Hubris. Getting too fancy too quick," warns the woman, but under the bridge she goes. No theatrics; no flourishes even to match his. Her social risk-taking only goes so far. "Yeah," agrees T'mic, nothing but love in his voice. Jorrth tries a twirl of his own, and his growth spurt finally gets the best of him; he steps on himself, he butt-plants. T'mic goes to reel Faryn back in, but he's lost the rhythm, for a moment there. Until his dragon shakes his head and snorts. It's late in coming, then, the, "I never knew there's a word for getting too fancy too quickly." Faryn has another ringing laugh for Jorrth's butt-plant, a thing she doesn't see happen but notices the aftermath of as she's drawn back again. "Still more graceful than me. And he's got four more limbs." Even so, Faryn drily provides, "Slatterns," as a definition, and the conversation has moved into a different territory. She draws it back. "I just meant, you were getting a little overconfident in my skills. I'm lucky I didn't slam my head on your arm and knock myself unconscious." "And they won't stop growing," T'mic says in some mix of wonder and boast. "Sometimes I'm surprised he can still walk a straight line." Somewhere in all this, his feet have stopped, completely. He's still got his one arm around her, his other raised for their hands. "I don't know if dancing is a skill, anyway. It's like... I don't know. It works better if you don't think about it, you know?" Which brings a grin, and the sudden admission of, "Makes tonight better." With that, he's starting up again - starting his feet, and starting a hum, some song that almost everyone knows, that works for this. Jorrth will surely join in again soon. |
Comments
Alida (01:35, 18 May 2015 (EDT)) said...
Okay; I think that Jorrth is now the unofficial darling mascot dragon of High Reaches! ^^
Faryn (18:37, 18 May 2015 (EDT)) said...
Absolutely nobody would be able to deny that title to him.
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