Logs:What Am I?
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| RL Date: 21 January, 2016 |
| Who: Leczuth, A'sran, Sully |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Sully tries to guess what A'sran is. |
| Where: Feeding Grounds, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 19, Month 11, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
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| The woodsmoke in the air mingles with the less pleasant scents of blood and livestock at the feeding pens, where a few dragons are terrorizing the herd; amongst them a tawny-patterned bronze with large eyes and an aggressive stance. Two riders stand at the fence: one, leaning heavily against the slats, and the other with his back to a post, reddish-blonde hair ruffled by the breezes that blow through the bowl every now and then. He is reading a book, or seems to be at first glance, but a closer assessment would see his book, imprinted with bold letters on the front, is upside down. A distance away, Sully meets up with the pens' fence, her hands curling around one post with a quickness likened to aggression. A bold curl over her forehead, and the rest a sweeping up-do, her hair-- her fur-trimmed bolero and boots-- seem to clash with the smells, the sights. Pressed against the wood, she'd be more suited on the cover of a saucy book, herself. But the sight looks to calm her and, gradually, she leans off the fence and begins to walk its length, eyes heavily and curiously on the involved dragons; that stance, she studies. And then she's come upon the riders. A glance over becomes a second (hold on...) and, unbidden, her expression becomes quizzical. Hungry dragons spare not a second's hesitation for the sensitives of the human along the fence, and as quickly there is a standoff between green and blue dragons, over a particularly plump herdbeast that the green has pinioned under one foot. Leczuth is too busy meticulously ripping his own prey to shreds to mind his meal-mates. "In such situations, it is polite to remain unattached and.." the rest is a mutter, as blue eyes flick over the pages -- yes, those upside down pages. Those same blue eyes, deep and yet warm, lift from the book and study the gussied-up woman over the top the nearer she gets. Sully's smile's quick and sweet, and banishes all the question from her eyes as best it can. Her lips part to speak. But it's the noises inside the pen that pull her attention and she turns, staring with an intensity bordering on affection, despite that she's no knotted color, herself. Not green, blue, or certainly bronze. She reaches up to smooth down the bandana keeping most of hair in place as a breeze picks up, carrying with it Leczuth's cast-offs. Sully breathes deep as she looks back to the upside-down bookworm. "A love note, perhaps. Or a scandalous subject!" The book slowly lowers from the bronzerider's face, revealing a half-smile to match the mirth alight in his eyes. "I wonder.. you may be surprised to find that you are not the first woman to accuse me of such. Do I look like that much of a romantic?" A'sran closes his book with a soft snap and it finds itself in his hand at his side, while his attention roves to the pens and the bronze with the bloodied-snout, taking pleasure in his kill. "Herder?" he asks, his eyes flicking back to the girl with the bolero and other accoutrements. A vague puzzlement passes over Sully's face, leaving behind traces of discontent in her drawn eyebrows as she sneaks a look down. Fingers graze her cheek, where it's been rosied by other means. But when she replies-- and question-- simply, "No...?", there's no sign that she's taken offense, or finds the guess distasteful. With the book in his head, the telltale turned around spine is gone, but she pursues it with a soft nod. "Dear. It's not only romantics who receive love notes. But scoundrels, too. Those who've come into a bout of power or money. Oh, I hear convicts can be very popular pen pals." "No?" invites explanation with its single syllable. "I cannot find fault in your words. What do you think I am, then? Romantic, scoundrel, heir, or convict?" A'sran's arm hooks around that post he had been leaning upon, and now he leans in a different way, side to wooden post. He, of course, is smiling. Sully's unnaturally large eyes only somewhat successfully narrow into slits; her little nose scrunches up to meet them. A'sran's studied quite carefully, no detail left buried, no area politely skirted. "Hmmmmm," is low, drawn out. The tune by which she lays her elbows on the post next to his, looking out to the field. "We shall see," she declares loftily, beginning to examine her nails. A smile digs at her dimples. She looks aside at him, "You don't want me to judge you on first glance, d'you?" Any other man might have been far less studious, but A'sran's gaze does not sway nor his attentions falter, even if his reddish eyebrows hike impressively. "It is hardly uncommon to judge upon the first glance. In fact, I hear many a love at first sight happens that way," he contends, his smile widening. "I will not lose heart if you do. I can call it a learning experience, fix that which others might find a character flaw." A beat. "Do your worst?" "Love," she laughs, and it's not at the concept, though it interrupts her sentiment the same, "must weather many more sights after that." Which is, as her tone generally opines, is neither here nor there. A stalling tactic, then. Sully breathlessly laughs at much of what A'sran says, clutching her chest into the post and leaning over it till her weight's lifted onto her toes. She drops heavily as he concludes, looking over at him with a tempted mouth-- but, ultimately, shaking her head, loosening the coil of hair above her forehead. "I can't. I can't! I daren't. That which I find a flaw, your letter-writer may find hopelessly endearing. Perhaps your heart can take it, but what about theirs?" "Love." A'sran is as amused as she is, without all the fuss of actual laughter, which lingers around his eyes and in the lopsided slope of his smile. "Who says they find me endearing? Who says they wrote the letter? I believe you are concerned for my pride when," fist pressed to the maroon fabric of his shirt over his heart, "I can assure you that it is will managed. I will not weep. I will not shout. Would it help if I turned around?" And already, he twists, starting to look in the opposite direction. "Only my view," remarks Sully without a lick of sheepishness as she, herself, turns slightly to fully make use of what A'sran might offer. She angles one arm higher than the other and lets her cheek rest against her knuckles. Briefly, perhaps thinking he can't see, won't notice, she flicks her gaze to the pens with more investment. "I suppose you never said it was a good love letter," is idly acknowledged, looking back over. Never mind the entire conversation's been born, bred, and fed on assumption and theory. "Could be erotica." The man's fingers drum on the top of the post, but he maintains his turned away posture, giving Sully the chance to make her assumptions without having to see his face in the meanwhile. "No," A'sran replies, "I did not, nor did I say it was a love letter." As to erotica.. there is no reply, which could be good or bad, depending. Silence doesn't seem to fit well on Sully. Her lips itch to smile, but it dies without the proper provocation. Instead, those painted lips press together and she sways slightly, fingers drumming against her cheek. "I've gone too far," she concludes in the pause, more practical than simply apologetic. A shove off from the fence, a quick wistful look at the structure of dragon feeding. The soft crunch is her first step backward, lining her up to turn back the way she came from. It must be the crunch of her step that has his head turning. "Have you given up?" A'sran remains amused, despite the woman's retreat. "Should I say goodbye?" He shifts from his lean against the fence post, fingers lifting to his brow in a jaunty salute to match the mischievousness of his smile. "Goodbye, mystery girl. I hope we meet again. Maybe then you can tell me?" In the wake of those words, he turns to address the bronze, now sated, that has been loitering by his clean-picked meal. "Time to go, brute." Oh, he's amused-- ! Sully's shoulders tighten alongside the raising of her eyebrows. Her lips tremor with half a started word before she accuses, "You let me-- " but never mind that; she's gone to fill in her name, but never mind that, too! Squinting at his mischievousness, her curt nod is all business. "Oh, I'm thinking something of you now," are her prim little words, marked more for herself, as it's entirely possible he's gone on to ignore her in lieu of his dragon. Since her boot's already cut a spot in the packed dirt around the fence, she lets it take its lead, turning off to find the purpose she started with. |
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