Logs:What It Is, What It Isn't
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| RL Date: 16 April, 2016 |
| Who: Lys, T'mic |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: After Jorrth catches Evyth, Lys and T'mic share some moments. |
| Where: Guest Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 25, Month 7, Turn 40 (Interval 10) |
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| Things carry on just as they should. Evyth is warmth and adoration, and Lys is rather likewise until the dragons are settled comfortably together (his ledge, her ledge, it doesn't matter to Evyth, so long as they're together). Evyth doesn't want to sleep. It's been too lovely, to perfect a memory to quickly pass over so she keeps meandering through it in her sleepy surface thoughts. It's made Lys' slumber a little restless, and so she wakes (not for the first time, but for the most wakeful time) in the middle of the night, having gotten in enough hours that wakefulness is more appealing than continued sleep. She stretches slowly, perhaps as yet not fully aware of the other in the bed, no matter how close they might be. Jorrth is tired now, now that the job is done, but he doesn't need to drop into the depths of sleep. Dozing will be fine. He's enjoying the bits that surface, that he can share with the green, his own rememberings to add here and there. The blue's pleased at having the one he's caught so close. And he's only caught himself snoring once so far, and managed to quiet it. T'mic is sleeping a bit more soundly, as soft and cuddly as Jorrth was during now that it's finished. Lys' restlessness hasn't disturbed him until now, until that stretch. And then his sleepy response is to loosen the arm that was laid across her hips in favour of trying to tuck her in, eyes still closed, head still buried into the side of her pillow, into which he seems to mutter, "smur." Evyth is sublime in her contentment. Lys-- well, Lys is having a little bit of an awkward moment. There's still, surely, bleed over from her green, from those feelings, and then the greenrider's own satisfaction in the wake of flight, but here she is being tucked against someone... she has to turn her head, squint and try to identify. It's not one of her usual snuggle companions, that much can be assessed by the look. So after that awkward moment, there are some choices. Certainly, she's been told sneaking out is poor form, and that probably explains the bracing breath and the way she hesitantly reaches down to T'mic's arm to give it a gentle touch and then a rub that isn't quite a caress, but more an attempt to wake him gently. The noise that gets out of T'mic is content. Whatever the intentions of that arm rub, it must feel good. Enough to make him nuzzle a bit into the pillow. Lys is fortunate that pillows do not facilitate breathing, and that, only a moment after, his head jerks back - not overly violently, but enough to bring a cough and to find his eyes open. Give him a second. It might be a while before they can actually see. Lys' next awkward moment is visible on her face, but she covers it with, "Water?" already shifting in the wake of the offer to move to get said offering from where it's kept on that table whose distance away might matter much more if it weren't a warm (for 'Reaches) summer night. T'mic blinks. Several times. But by the time Lys is already up, he's processing, and nodding, and sitting up on the bed, idly replacing the pillow more or less where it ought to be, once the bed is made. "Oh. Sure." A brief glance after her, and he starts pulling sheets into place. Even though he's not yet fully out from under them. "The coughing-" Lys tries, by way of explanation from the way she was out of the bed so quickly and padding across the floor to efficiently pour two glasses. She doesn't attempt to cover herself, although she's carefully focused on the task at hand. There's at least one steadying breath taken before she turns back, cheeks lightly flushed, to make the return trip and offer out one of the glasses to the bluerider. Once one glass is out of her hands, she'll climb carefully back into the bed, drawing the sheets around her waist while she sits and sips her water in (slightly awkward) silence. And upon her return, the sheets will be in such a position as to cover even her feet. T'mic takes that water with a quick, "Thanks," and downs in one draught. Which leaves him an empty glass to rotate, and look at, mostly, until he thinks of something to say to Lys. As it turns out, that's, "I think I saw our kitten in the caverns last week." Of all the things T'mic might have said that Lys might have expected, this was not one of them. It makes Lys cough the water she was just drinking (oops), before turning her blue-green gaze on the bluerider, brows lifting. She looks at him a moment and then... "Seemed well enough to you?" "She got fast," says T'mic, voice almost surprised, almost laughing, as he looks over to Lys, and stays looking for a while. "I guess she's probably been hunting. Unless someone's adopted her." More to himself is, "Little Kitten." "Probably all of those kids from the nursery have been feeding her and making her fat," Lys replies, perhaps accusing since it certainly wasn't her who introduced Little Kitten to any nursery children, but if it's accusing, it's teasingly so, for she's laughing, just a little, shaking her head. That seems to have eased the awkward and when next she looks to T'mic it's with a small, genuine smile. "Everything alright?" she asks, bravely, "With this? Evyth's first." In case he didn't know, since her green was a late bloomer and it would be easy enough to assume this as her second. "Hah, maybe." It's almost nostalgic, thinking of those weyrbrats. It's a reverie, until Lys says, 'first.' "Oh. Faranth." T'mic sits up a little straighter, resting the empty water glass in his lap. For the bit of a rush in the change of his posture, he takes a moment before he offers, with a careful smile, "I should probably be asking you if everything's okay, then, right?" "It's not my first," Lys tries to clarify, only that does have her cheeks touching with a little bit more blush. "I'm good," she answers after she takes a sip of water that doesn't get coughed out. She looks to T'mic, rolling her shoulders in a little shrug, "I mean, I'll be a little sore," but that's a compliment right? She looks back to her water. "I was going to head back to my weyr, but I thought-- I didn't want to just go without saying anything." "Good," says T'mic. And then, again after she's said the word, he repeats it. Compliment or not, T'mic blushes, and looks into his lap, and raises the water glass to pass between his hands. "Okay. Did you... I can get Jorrth to call someone to take you up, if you don't want to bother Evyth. I think she's kind of... happy where she is? What he said." That last has Lys' smile blooming full, fondness showing in her face and amusement. She nods, tresses of blonde falling to shadow her face. "She's very, very happy. Particularly just where she is." Her eyes are on her water still, contemplative. "Maybe I'll stay. To sleep a while more." Her brows furrow a little and then she looks over at him, "Would that be weird?" Implicit in the question is probably also 'would he stay?' "It's a pretty decent bed for a ground weyr," is T'mic's endorsement of the plan. "If you're worried about getting too hot," because he knows he's a furnace, "I can find somewhere?" 'Should he?' That first makes Lys' smile twitch wider with a silent laugh. There's another moment taken before she shakes her head. "I'm not worried. We're comfortable." She probably means herself and her dragon. That prompts her to finish off her water and then reach for his glass so she can set them both aside, on the floor, just under the bed for lack of a better place to put them. Then there's the matter of negotiating back into a comfortable position, which Lys seems to intend, if she gets her way, to be curled up with T'mic much as they were before she stretched and insisted on wakefulness and words. While Lys settles the glasses, T'mic scooches farther down onto the bed. He's holding the sheets up for her, and he'll tuck her in - loosely and consciously, this time - before letting that arm fall. Human contact for its own sake can be something of a rarity in the Weyr; T'mic, too, means to enjoy it for what it is, as much as what it isn't, until morning comes. |
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