NorCon MUSH - User contributions [en]

User:Kaleidoscope

2016-12-29T02:10:03Z

Kaleidoscope:

== Player Notes ==
* I can get inadvertently spammy in my poses. If it's a bit much for you, shout! I'll do my utmost to rein it in. No offense taken!

* My characters are touch-ok as long as you're not aiming to maim. Please check with me first if it's something unusual, major or violent.

* I'm a pretty flexible player. I like all kinds of RP from fluff to gritty to dark. I don't love things that are incredibly unrealistic or firelizard-focused RP. If a scene starts to go a direction you're not comfortable, please let me know ASAP so we can rework things.

* I'm all about organic RP. Nothing planned is set in stone. Plans are meant to be deviated from. Also, I like challenging my characters. (Read: making them suffer.)

* Any of my characters could die in a good story. If you have an idea and want to involve one of them (even in non-death things), please feel free to chat with me!

* My take: This is a game. It should be fun. If it's not fun, say something, talk to people, change your experience so that it is fun. Open and honest communication is key.

{{LogCountAll | player=Alts:Kaleidoscope}}

{{Cloud | player=Kaleidoscope | exclude=K'zin;Lycinea;Tayte;G'laer;X'vae;Jaecar "Farsights";U'by;Babetta;Laghnei;Tahvra;Yvalia;Tayre;An Unfortunate Tree;Aseana;B'gherio;Gallania;Leara;Gaelan;Raleri;Baera;Nieri;Gaela;Gheara;Estarra;Mikaelen;Zakari;Zakamor;Nazius;Akazi;Wakina;Kinai;Kinzi;B'ghero;Moriyah;T'lan;J'taryn;Baeli;Riola;Wesera;M'raz;F'tal;Tess;Dee;Kh'tyr;Dahlia;Lys;J'sae;Dee/ST;Tamsin}}

== Recent Scenes I've Played ==

{{NewLogs | name={{Alts:Kaleidoscope}}}}

Logs:A Little Nostalgia

2016-09-16T03:22:19Z

Kaleidoscope: Created page with "{{Log | who = Jocelyn, Tamsin, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, Tamsin{{!}}Tyth | where = Galleries, High Reaches Weyr | what = Former co-candidates Jocelyn and Tamsin wax a little nost..."

{{Log
| who = Jocelyn, Tamsin, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, Tamsin{{!}}Tyth
| where = Galleries, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Former co-candidates Jocelyn and Tamsin wax a little nostalgic near the eggs.
| involves =High Reaches Weyr
| day =18
| month = 6
| turn = 41
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2016.08.04
| quote = "Next, I suppose you'll say that you'll be tickled pink if she Impresses brown."
| weather =
| mentions = Quinlys, Yarsa
| ooc = Backdated.
| icons = Jocelyn.png, tamsin.jpg, Jocelyn Aidavanth.jpg, tamsin tyth.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| st =
| log =
It might be the sudden squeal from the young teenager who had, previously, been tittering over the eggs in a mannerly fashion, that gives away Tamsin's purpose standing at the edge of the small group. It's not two heartbeats between the squeal and the burst of movement from the girl as she leaps off the bench and throws her arms around the brownrider, the older woman's expression one of tolerant amusement. "Off with you then, to see the Headwoman or one of her assistants," is Tamsin's patiently drawled remark, given along with a shooing motion of her hands. The girl stays only a moment longer to let out a quieter, girlier squeal and hurry off, her friends quick to jump up and follow to bear witness (or sulk). The new candidate pauses just long enough as she's hurrying to offer a, "Sorry, ma'am," to Jocelyn what with her work space and the disturbance to the usual quiet of the Stands.

Tamsin's dark eyes settle on the familiar redhead a long moment but it's not until the girls are out of sight that she begins to glide toward the goldrider, slipping into a seat near, but not intimately near, as if she belonged there. "My apologies if they disturbed you, weyrwoman," there's an edge to the formality that tentatively treads the line of mockery - it's not that Tamsin is making mock of their ranks, the structure of the Weyr or anything so sacred as all that, but more in the way that friends might make light of such differences, an ''invitation'' to something less formal that doesn't pressure the junior to engage the brownrider on easier terms, if the goldrider isn't so inclined.

Aidavanth has been a diligent caretaker of her clutch, leaving the sands only to feed, bathe and spend brief moments ''between'' for the end stages of digestion. It's clear as the sevens march onward that she must prefer to keep Jocelyn close during this time; certainly, the redhead only leaves the galleries to eat, sleep and fulfill in-person job duties. Today is little different. The passage of the new candidate elicits a glance up from her writing, lips pursing briefly before the weyrwoman gives a silent, little nod to the back of the girl's head. Attention fully returning to her work, Jocelyn gives no sign that she's aware of Tamsin having settled nearby, not until pale eyes cut the quickest of glances sideways toward the brownrider before returning to where her pen scratches steadily. "Taking responsibility for the Weyr's children now, are we?" Her delivery is similar, if almost but not quite ''bored''. "Let me guess. You're already out of knots."

"I never bother to carry them. They need to see the Headwoman's staff anyway for anything they need in the barracks and chores and the like, so..." Why carry more than she needs to? Tamsin's reply comes with an easy shrug. "I'm not sure I'd call them children. Not when one of them could be a dragonrider when these hatch, or in a few turns, an assistant headwoman who grows and eventually becomes our weyrwoman." Dark eyes settle on Jocelyn thoughtfully, "Shall I go, ma'am?" she offers the out, evidently prepared to make herself scarce.

"No? And here I thought you'd want, " Jocelyn's lips quirk briefly, "to bestow the rank of candidacy and all the difficulties that come with it upon a hopeful, impressionable young person." The request for direction finally pulls eyes more gray than blue from her work to consider the other woman - a contemporary, and someone who was, perhaps, once almost a promising friend before time and changing circumstances caused them to drift apart. It's a long moment before she looks back down to where her pen has, for the time being, paused in its back-and-forth movements. Drily, "Go if you'd like. Stay if you'd like. You haven't lost the capability to make your own decisions, I trust. Tamsin."

"Oh, we do," Tamsin replies, something sharp about her smile and dimples, ''wicked'', but playfully so, "I'd just rather leave all the details of rules and so on to the people who know what they're talking about." Also, less work for her - though this brownrider has never been one to shy away from work, just one to know when there's a better person for the job than she. "No, I haven't," lost the ability, "but I'm still stalwartly clinging to the manners my mother taught me," she sighs, feigning the tone that implies it's a bad habit she ought long to have broken herself of. "No need to stay where I'm not wanted even if I'd like to be there." She flashes Jocelyn a small smile and then looks out to the eggs. "My and Tyth's congratulations on the eggs. Aidavanth has done her Weyr proud. And you?" That last is a question, not an assumption.

Dragon> There's something feral watching from the ledges. It might be threatening if it didn't seem so perfectly ''natural'' to be there. The primal presence has an edge of joy that brings sunshine and all the delicious smells of the fresh air (including prey just out of sight) as it observes the eggs, the ''young'', the future. <> the voice of wind but holds the gentility of soft rain as well as fierce thunder and wild lightning within its depths offers to the queen along with the expected civility of, << Congratulations. >> (To Aidavanth from Tyth)

Jocelyn's expression certainly makes it look as if she's about to craft another wry little response, but something turns that intake of breath into, "She has, " instead. There's a stare for the creamy, off-white shells so painstakingly grouped together down below, then: "Of course I'm pleased. I suppose neither of us can truly take credit for the creation of life taking its course, but eleven with the promise of good health will be a good contribution to our world." World, not Weyr, for some of those may yet end up at Monaco afterward. Still, it's a careful statement, and the goldrider picks up her pen again, makes another mark on a sheet.

Dragon> To Tyth, Aidavanth isn't at all unaware of those entering, leaving, lingering in the hatching grounds while she cares for her still-gestating offspring. That wind, that sense of being ''watched'' doesn't exactly leave the smooth surface of her presence rippled, but the stimulus is enough for her to lift her eyes briefly toward Tyth's chosen ledge. Her gracious, << Thank you, >> is effused with her usual warmth and surety of purpose. <> More interactive, at any rate, than a cluster of quiet, warm eggs.

"Sure you can," Tamsin replies to the matter of taking credit, "particularly her. Without her nurturing what was within, even if it was unconsciously done, they wouldn't be here. Without you to take care of her, she wouldn't be here." It sounds so simple, right? "Deny that you have the right to truly take credit and you make an argument mothers the world over won't thank you for." There's some amusement there but a touch of something bittersweet in her expression briefly. She looks at the eggs, "Now, I can understand if you want to wait to see if they're sweet good dragons or little rapscallion ones ''before'' taking credit, but credit or blame will be lobbed at your collective feet regardless. It's the way of things." She smirks just a little, perhaps amused by the way of the world.

Dragon> To Aidavanth, Tyth probably would like to think he could sneak in and out, if he wanted, but it's safer for the brown's ego if he willingly makes his presence known. Her notice is therefore expected, even if he might have half expected her to be too busy with her own matters to speak with him. There's a ripple within him that isn't smooth either, but his is pleasant surprise. <> Tyth hooks bits of images - a hunt, a flight, a swim and feelings of wind under wings, dirt beneath claws and flesh in the mouth - into the word 'exciting' to expound upon his definition of the word.

The up-and-down motions of Jocelyn's pen still again. Her reply comes at some length, expression inscrutable save for her narrowed eyes. In much the same, almost-bored tone as before, "You know, I've missed your little lectures on 'the way of things.' I see I've managed to disappoint you again, although I doubt you've taken the time to have a chat simply to tell me ''that''. What do you want?" Her words emerge defensive by the end, if weary without the bite of indignation or anger.

Dragon> A little bubble of amusement appears briefly, buoyed along their connection before it dissipates. << They'll be - more, >> Aidavanth agrees; ''her'' definition carries the feeling of having bulk and girth of musculature, of learning and growing (and growing) with another. << You'll help hunt for them, in the beginning, won't you. >> It isn't ''much'' of a question, accompanied by a sense of knowing rather than being any form of command. (To Tyth from Aidavanth)

Tamsin makes a face at Jocelyn's words. "You've never disappointed me. Besides, you wouldn't care if you did. You're Jocelyn. You're fearless." She doesn't even sound like she's teasing or joking. It sounds like she believes that as just another fact of life - a way the world simply is. "I was just trying to tell you that you should give yourself more credit. My daughter doesn't know I'm her mother and she's still one of the best things I could have put into the world." That last is quiet, and there's something a little vulnerable in her face. She's quiet a moment and then shakes her head, "I don't know. I guess seeing Yarsa Searched, as young as we were when we Stood together… It just stirred some memories. Memories of you. Us. Things in the past, I guess."

Dragon> It's good dragon memories are short or Olveraeth would have to thank Aidavanth for Tyth leaving whole (or partial or gnawed) carcasses in the training cavern for the little ones. Hopefully Tamsin won't remember the request for him. ''His'' response is immediate, << Of course. >> As if he ''needs'' an excuse to hunt. <> The brown shuffles toward the edge of the ledge and ''leans'' to get a better look. << Do you want me to hunt for you? >> This is a more immediate opportunity to hunt with purpose. (To Aidavanth from Tyth)

Fearless. Jocelyn's mouth opens and shuts again in the aftermath of being given such an epithet; the goldrider doesn't have a reply, not immediately, not while she finally puts down her pen and ''listens'' to Tamsin, watches that vulnerable turn to her expression. Stiffly, at some length, "Don't be ridiculous. It isn't accurate to call me fearless. I certainly wasn't then, " she simultaneously remembers and reminds the other, pale gaze turning toward the sands. "Even having grown up here and knowing what hatchings were and how they progressed, I was scared stiff out there, as I'm sure you recall. Even the fourth time wasn't exactly what I'd call pleasant." The fifth, though? There's a softer look for the orange-gold who's stretching to her feet so that she can better walk among her brood and turn them carefully.

Dragon> Hopefully neither of their riders will spend much time recalling that Lythronath found such offerings fitting for ''his'' children while the mother of this clutch was still in her shell. Aidavanth spends time checking first one egg, then a second before answering, focus mostly diverted to her task. <> she considers. << If you happen to be hunting anyway, I'd enjoy a little snack. ''Not'' a head. >> She's really not into snacks that smile (or grimace) back.

"Brave, then," Tamsin doesn't miss a beat in making reply, altering her original assessment. "Brave is probably a better word than fearless in any case. It takes into account your intelligence to recognize fear and your tenacity to act in spite of it." The words are genuine even if the delivery is casual almost to the point of dismissiveness. The brownrider's eyes linger on Aidavanth rather than invade Jocelyn's private moment of tenderness with scrutiny. "I was glad for you. When she found you. I'd have been glad if it was any of them, but I was more glad that it was her. I remember thinking, 'Of course, Jocelyn should wear that knot,' even if it comes with challenges."

Dragon> << Why? Brains are delicious. >> Tyth is genuinely confused. That doesn't mean he won't acquiesce to the gold's personal preferences, but evidently the question bears asking. << Tamsin has promised we will go south to hunt soon. >> Soon meaning today, so he can hold her to that ''soonness'' without risking forgetting the promise. <> It's something easily done, he seems sure. He is an accomplished hunter, after all, and wild prey does taste better than what's in the feeding grounds here. (To Aidavanth from Tyth)

Perhaps Jocelyn is, for once, rather at a loss for words. There's a level look given in reply to bravery, to knots and the challenges that go with them before she gruffly clears her throat with an embarrassed flush, jerking her chin briefly in the direction where one of the Weyr's newest candidates must be getting settled in. "Her first time, is it?" Yarsa. "I hope she'll grow from the experience, even if it isn't all pleasant." Her eyes betray her, however; she's not completely untouched by Tamsin's expressed reaction to her Impression, and the lines of her features soften a smidgen.

Dragon> To Tyth, Aidavanth is still very much focused on tending to her shelled charges, but her presence brightens in intensity, just a hair, just enough to give her an inward gleam of anticipation. Wild prey isn't a frequent acquisition for one so noticeable, particularly ''now'' that she's bound here by her offspring. <>

"Yes," is Tamsin's simple answer to Yarsa's first time, though the word comes with a rueful chuckle. "I think she might have waited a turn or two before asking to Stand, but Tyth had other ideas and she's pleased, so..." The brownrider shrugs; maybe that's all that matters? "I'm sure she'll grow, one way or another. Experiences like candidacy have a way of changing a person. Maybe more so when there's a dragon at the end." She arches a brow slightly in silent inquiry: of the two of them, Jocelyn has the better perspective on this.

Dragon> << In other words, you'll take what I give you, >> Tyth returns to the queen, not hiding his easy amusement. Nevertheless, << We hunt often. I will bring you things from my hunts until the eggs become more interesting. >> If he could, he'd probably give Aidavanth a big wolfy smile before he leans forward enough to fall off the ledge and catch himself on his wings, rising out of the cavern. This might be his haphazard goodbye. (To Aidavanth from Tyth)

"As will time, " replies Jocelyn to that raised brow, but certainly doesn't look as if she disagrees with Tamsin's assessment. "One way or another, she ''will'' grow. None of us are exactly the same afterward, regardless of whether we're found by our dragons or not." There's a considering look for where Aidavanth works on gently turning one of the eggs closest to the galleries, whirling eyes sparing a glance upward before her focus fully redirects itself to her children as Tyth takes off. Drily, "Next, I suppose you'll say that you'll be tickled pink if she Impresses brown." There's at least some lightness, there, however, and a faint twitch at the corners of her mouth.

The inclination of Tamsin's head is just enough to gracefully agree with the goldrider's first words. Her dry suggestion is met with a little laugh as Tamsin tosses her head back a little, the sort of gesture that holds charm more commonplace to a feast table in a Hold than the galleries of a Weyr. "I'll be pleased as long as the eggs hatch healthy and the candidates don't prove too much of a handful." It could be a token answer, but the brownrider's demeanor and expression are genuine. "If you'll excuse me, I believe Tyth has made Aidavanth the promise of something from his hunt and he's eager to be on our way." She presses herself to her feet, waiting only for Jocelyn's dismissal before heading for the bowl.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]

Logs:A Brief Encounter

2016-08-08T03:23:00Z

Kaleidoscope: Created page with "{{Log | who = Edyis, Tamsin | where = Riders' Lounge, High Reaches Weyr | what = Edyis and Tamsin speak briefly. | involves =High Reaches Weyr | day =28 | month = 6 | turn = 4..."

{{Log
| who = Edyis, Tamsin
| where = Riders' Lounge, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Edyis and Tamsin speak briefly.
| involves =High Reaches Weyr
| day =28
| month = 6
| turn = 41
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2016.08.07
| quote = "There - well there's a lot of bad blood there."
| weather =
| mentions = Irianke, K'del, Kyouri, Jocelyn, Nimae
| ooc =
| icons = edyis stoic.jpg, tamsin.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| st =
| log =
It's early in the day yet, but the nicer weather makes it a perfect time to visit the bar situated up on the weyr wall. Edyis is relaxed at least, leaned back in a chair with a mug of cider, her flight jacket slung over the back of her chair as she watches the occupants, a stack of ledgers sitting closed in front of her.

It doesn't seem that Tamsin has come to the Riders' Lounge for the drinks. She stands, perhaps as some sort of witness, a few paces away from a pair of riders bearing Taiga badges having a low, heated discussion. She does an admirable job of not listening, though surely both know she's there and she must've been invited by one or both to take up such a near position. Whatever it was draws to a tense but abrupt end as the bluerider growls, "''Fine''," and rises to head for the ledge. The other glances after and then murmurs a few words to Tamsin before heading to get a drink. It doesn't seem that the rider intends to rejoin Tamsin for she turns toward the ledge as though to go herself. Her path stalls when she draws near the other brownrider and the ledgers on the table. She draws up and stops, glancing to the woman's face and arching a single brow paired with a subtle smile in friendly, obvious curiosity. "I don't think I've had the chance to congratulate you. You're Rider Edyis, aren't you?"

Ink-dark eyes lift upward a polite smile settled upon her features. "Yes, that would be me. I think I remember you from he flight, but I don't know if I caught your name or not." Sort of distracted at the time. She glances over to the bluerider stomping out with a curious arch of a brow. "Something up with your friend?"

There's a little shake of brunette's head at that. "No, unfortunately we were out of the Weyr when Aidavanth rose. I'm Tamsin," she offers all the same, along with her hand. "Tyth is my lifemate. We were admiring the clutch this morning." She adds the details enough to explain her reasons for stopping at the table at any rate. The Taiga rider glances in the direction the bluerider departed and has a smile and shrug. "Just some disagreements getting settled before anyone who'd give extra work because of them has to hear about it. I'm sure you know how it is." Wingriders looking out for one another and all that, it would seem.

" Mielline runs a tight ship." Is all the brownrider says of it. "Still have a hard time believing that he had a hand - tail in making them." She snorts lifting her mug with a grin. "Hope your out of weyr buisness wasn't anything bad."

"No doubt she does. F'manis too." The words are accompanied by an easy shrug and smile. Doubtless, not every issue needs to be taken to a higher authority to get appropriate resolution, what with them all being adults. Tamsin shakes her head, "Just duties that took me out of the Weyr. We weren't back til after it was done. I heard it was a good flight though, and certainly the size of the clutch is proof the rumors are true. Are you enjoying it so far? Being a clutchsire? Tyth's never caught a gold." The last is probably tacked on to offer her own lack of experience as just a helpful tidbit for her own baseline of knowledge.

Edyis shrugs. "Couldn't say. Akluseth has enjoyed it, he's glued to her like gum to a shoe. " There's a faint smirk at the last. "He may yet, Igen encourages Brown catches amongst the junior queens during interval, who is to say if the weyrwoman intends to follow the tradition here though. Honestly so long as they are all healthy I will be pleased as punch."

"Oh, he may yet. He's one of Cadejoth's many sons, so if flight performance is hereditary... well." Tamsin has a wry smile for that but she doesn't seem overly concerned about whether he does catch or not. "We do try not to fly in foreign gold flights. Afterward, Tyth always feels guilty. Like he's been disloyal to High Reaches' golds just because some other one got him bothered enough to chase." There's sympathy for her dragon mixed into the wryness that continues. "I'm sure the eggs will all turn out handsome dragons. The candidate class is coming along, some a little young perhaps, but young isn't bad in an Interval, and having the Monaco candidates might help mend fences long in disrepair, so to speak. Does Akluseth mind much the idea that some of his offspring may end up choosing to go to Monaco in the end?" There doesn't seem to be any guile to these remarks, no political angling, just casual chat.

Edyis laughs. "I wonder if Ak will be the same, he would have to forget Aidavanth long enough to even chase at this point." Edyis shakes her head, "I haven't had a chance to look them over really. He doesn't mind, I have mixed feelings. There - well there's a lot of bad blood there. The idea that his sons or daughters might wind up in that place." But it is a different place now, under different leadership. That might make the difference.

"Have to wait and see I guess," Tamsin replies cheerfully. "Always new experiences around the bend for anyone who shares their life with a dragon." It's never dull~ "There is," the older brownrider doesn't have any qualms agreeing about bad blood. "There will always be a past with Monaco, and there's no saying that the future will be clear of things that make bad blood between Weyrs, but one would like to hope that Kyouri will be a better friend to us than her predecessor. That Savannah felt comfortable enough to return seems a promising step. Even Kyouri's willingness to make this deal with candidates instead of, say, the one Nimae made when Irianke was loaned here... it bodes well for a hopeful future."

At the mention of Savannah, Edyis' lips press together, and she finishes her drink. "Perhaps. It was nice to meet you Tamsin." The brownrider snagging her jacket and making her way out into the bowl.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs:A Little Gossip Between Friends(?)

2016-08-07T18:27:39Z

Kaleidoscope: Created page with "{{Log | who = Alysce, Tamsin | where = Greenhouse, High Reaches Weyr | what = Alysce and Tamsin might have made friends. They gossiped and talked about shit, so that's somethi..."

{{Log
| who = Alysce, Tamsin
| where = Greenhouse, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Alysce and Tamsin might have made friends. They gossiped and talked about shit, so that's something, right?
| involves =High Reaches Weyr
| day =3
| month = 6
| turn = 41
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2016.07.30
| quote = "What I am hearing you say is that everything we do is basically fucking useless."
| weather =
| mentions = Allent, Drex, Ellerey, Farideh, J'nason, K'hal, T'zur
| ooc = Backdated.
| icons = alysce hanging.jpg, tamsin.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =>---< Greenhouse, High Reaches Weyr(#2203RJ) >-------------------------------<

A rustic and unadorned vestibule leads in from hewn spiral steps to a
refitted ledge, enclosed by limestone pillars. Sturdy wooden framework
captures elongated glass panes, tilted to absorb the most light during the
day. The wash of heat from within, lush and humid, persists even into the
dead of winter; the air is heady with the scent of fresh-turned soil and
various flora.

Long, deep troughs of soil line the inner stone wall, planted with an
assortment of broad, leafy tropicals - practical and decorative alike.
Fruit and vegetable baskets hang from rafters, optimizing space, tempting
in reach with a perpetually ripening harvest. A series of stone shelving
is devoted to flourishing, aromatic herbs and new green shoots; even the
softest touch releases a burst of savory scent from tender leaves. Amidst
the greenery, a handful of wooden benches have been scattered, making this
a temptingly warm and secluded spot to sit.

Shuttered vents serve to regulate humidity and heat given off from a small
hot spring recessed into an alcove at the back; a secondary pool with
cooler waters siphons off to provide a constant, fresh supply for
irrigation. A small potting station nearby is cluttered with watering cans
and gardening tools of various uses, with a wooden bin for composting
materials tucked underneath.
| st =
| log =
It isn't unusual to find a crafter or two within the confines of High Reaches' greenhouse, given its close proximity to the complex that houses the Weyr's crafters. Today, however, that single crafter isn't of any actual use to the intricate systems being used in this warm, secluded transformed weyr, especially given the weather outside that has brought out the more useful crafters into the spring planting.

It also isn't often that one can find Alysce at an instrument, but today she has a gitar settled in her lap. Her fingers drift across the strings, technically sound but it's obvious that she isn't playing from any place of passion or emotion. Instead, the notes have the precise sound of practice, no voice joined to accompany them as she plays, seated on a bench with her black, tightly clad legs stretched before her.

Today's attire is functional for Tamsin, not leathers, but a plain set of work pants and a blouse that's seen its share of stains (with everything from what looks like paint to dirt to maybe even blood). Her entrance is quiet but her movements hold purpose, a rough sack in one hand. She pauses to draw a deep breath once she's stepped off the stairs that bring a person onto the ledge, but only that much dwaddling does she allow herself. Her goal likely seems obvious, given the way dark eyes latch onto the potting station with its tools and compost beneath, but the sounds of the gitar draw her eye. There's a hesitation, a decision, and then her boots carry her toward where the Harper is practicing. "Do you mind an audience?" is queried when there seems to be a natural pause.

Alysce's fingers slow against the strings, resting for a moment at the question before she plucks the next string and then the next with careful precision. She answers only after she has resumed, a careless, "No, I don't care. Just testing out a new piece from the Hall." She doesn't even need to watch what she plays, though, as her dark eyes lift to study Tamsin under the fan of dark lashes. "I didn't think anyone'd be in here today. Most of the activity seems to be outside."

"Oh, it is, but you see, I'm being selfish today," the subtle lean and softening of Tamsin's tone hints at an unwarranted confidence in a stranger such as Alysce. She wags the small (very dirty) bag. "I need compost for the pots on my ledge. But I'll listen before I get it so you don't have to smell the churned up stuff any closer than-" she glances to where she was heading and offers a wry smile as she looks back, "-well, than you already are." She observes the play a moment before her brows knit ever so slightly and she inquires, "Is there a method you use in learning it? Just the notes first or the notes with the notations for play or--?" If nothing else, Tamsin seems to have a genuine interest, though apparently no deep knowledge of her own on the subject.

Dark eyes slide to the waggled bag, and Alysce agrees with a dry, "Yeah, I'd rather not have shit dirt flying around, inhaling it." Though, if that begs the question of why she's chosen to play in ''here'', well, she doesn't answer it. Instead, she plucks the next set of strings on her gitar as her gaze moves back to Tamsin. "Boredom, mostly. That's the method. Read and read over and over again, and then I play with the notations over and over again. I'm still probably not playing it ''right'', but if the master who wrote this has an issue with it, he can come down from the Hall and play it for me himself, then, can't he."

"Well, some of it is probably citrus peels or greens," Tamsin returns, a hint of a dimple showing. Rotting fruit rinds and discarded vegetables are better than shit, right? At least she doesn't ask the predictable question. "Seems like a master mightn't spend his or her ''valuable time'' worrying over the learning of a singular apprentice not under their direct tutelage, but perhaps I'm wrong. I'm hardly an expert about master crafters." A subtle sort of smile of some deep amusement plays across her lips, "Not that I imagine your learnings aren't worthy of a master's attentions. Is this-" she gestures to the gitar, "-not your passion?"

"Given that the master who wrote it is my father-- No, he probably doesn't spend his time caring," Alysce offers so dryly and offhandedly to Tamsin, an easy, open book. She plucks another cord, shrugging up a shoulder. "Is gardening yours? Or dragonriding?"

The reply earns a brief look of sympathy despite the dry delivery. She reaches up to tuck a lock of dark hair behind her ear rather than making comment on the first. "Gardening... not my only passion. I keep a small herb garden on my ledge when weather allows for it. Mostly so I can make my own stew and such without bothering the kitchen for ingredients. Or my own fancy drinks." That comes with a wry smile of her own for some reason. I do like dragonriding much more than I ever thought I would just after I Impressed. I'm Tamsin, by the way. My lifemate is Tyth." She considers the gitar another moment, "What is it you like better than the gitar?"

Alysce's nose only wrinkles in a gesture for that sympathy, and she strums another handful of notes, though these are discordant ones that might possibly have nothing to do with the song she plays. "Seems like a waste of time. There ''is'' the kitchens, and Snowasis, and basically somewhere to find anything that you'd want to dig around in dirt and shit trying to grow," she points out to the dragonrider dismissively. "But then, so is dragonriding, isn't it? Like, for our lifetime's, right now during the Interval. Only really useful because you can go anywhere that you want." A pause, and then she shrugs. Her only answer is, "I'm Alysce."

"Only a waste of time if you don't enjoy it. I do," and therefore it's not, for her. Tamsin's tone and accompanying shrug doesn't challenge, in the least, that the story is quite different for Alysce. She studies the apprentice a moment before shrugging again. "Guess it's really a matter of perspective. I find purpose in my day to day, but not all dragonriders do. Seems to me that some apprentices might, as easily, struggle with a sense of usefulness. Just as a holder might. Just as anyone-" She trails off, shrugging a third time.

"What I am hearing you say is that everything we do is basically fucking useless. And ''that'' is a statement I can get behind," Alysce punctuates dryly, soft amusement drawing at the edges of those words as she offers them to the other woman. She is quick to add, "I don't ''actually'' really mean that. We all have our parts to play, don't we. But, whatever. More power to you if you can find meaning and enjoy what you do, Tamsin."

Alysce's summation makes Tamsin laugh, a light engaging laugh. "I'm saying some people could say so." Perhaps not this brownrider in particular. "Parts to play..." She weighs the phrase with a little wobble of her head from one side to the other. "I suppose that we are each players in other stories as well as the protagonist in our own, so in a sense I guess that's true. Give and take does seem to make the world go 'round. Until it's take-take-take and then there's trouble." The latter is a little offhand, but comes with a touch of a smirk before her expression softens again.

"Are you being taken advantage of, dragonrider?" is what Alysce will counter with her own little teasing smirk. "That sounded a little pointed." She even lowers her gitar to peer closer at Tamsin, curiosity sparked. "Oh, please tell me you have some amazing gossip that goes with the statement."

"If only," Tamsin replies with a laugh. "I'm sure my own story would be much more interesting if I ''were'', but we can't have everything." She pretends a fluttery sigh then grins. "I always have amazing gossip. But we've only just met and I know little more than your name." Now she carefully arranges her features into a look of exaggerated judgment. "How do I know that my ''top quality'' gossip would be safe in your hands, Alysce?"

Alysce huffs an appreciative laugh for the question, for the answer. Perhaps for Tamsin's refreshing attitude or finding someone that isn't ''put off'' by her own attitude. "What, you want your potential gossip partners to make commitments to you, Tamsin?" she counters easily, a buried smile at the corners of her lips. "I promise, promise I would never, ever abuse your gossip and I will give you all my own and if I ''do'' pass on your gossip it would be for a good reason and they wouldn't know who it came from, anyways." She pauses, quirking a brow, to see if that's good enough.

"Why, ''Alysce''," Tamsin breathes her name with an air of scandal, "Did you suppose I was ''easy''? Next thing you know there will be a rumor saying so," she gives a furtive glance around, then smiles (practically sparklingly!) and concedes, to a point. "Well, seeing as how we're still getting to know one another, I won't ask you to be ''all mine'', for now, but I will ask you to tell me what ''sorts'' of gossip appeals to you. I'd hate to give you vapid, useless things, unless you like vapid and useless?" She lifts her brows, curiosity coloring her tone.

"Don't worry; I already have that ''rumor'' floating around and I'm not even a dragonrider. I'm sure you'll be fine," Alysce assures offhandedly, rather careless with her reputation as she taps a finger against her gitar. "We are at a Weyr, for Faranth's sake." She shakes her head for the question, considering Tamsin with a tilt of her head. "No, not really. I like to know about people. I ''prefer'' things that are at least half-way true, or have the chance of being true. Like, did you know that one of the weyrwoman's weyrmates goes around ''threatening'' people's lives?"

Alysce's first makes Tamsin laugh, her weight shifting from one foot to the other, but only to alleviate stiffness from standing on the one so long - she still looks quite at ease, standing there. "Well, there's only one weyrwoman with a weyrmate here, so if it's here, that rather narrows things down," the brownrider replies with a mischievous grin. She gives Alysce a thoughtful look and then, "I can probably give you a list of people who are ''actually'' easy. I can tell you I missed most of the exciting bits of Ellerey's flight, but heard the winner had it rough, or Ellerey did, or they both did." So there's that, for a start.

"Rougher than the usual flight stuff?" Alysce questions with a flicker of interest, obviously not ''quite'' getting flights but-- She has been at the Weyr long enough. She adds, "I am ''actually'' easy." A pause, and then it bursts out of her as if she's been dying to tell ''someone'', and Tamsin is the first to hear as she smiles slyly. "I mean, I slept with a guy who held a knife to my throat. A dragonrider, even."

"I heard a trip to the healers for at least one of them. Maybe both. I got out of there pretty quickly. She'd stomped on him-- the later winner-- just when I arrived. I was finishing my dinner when Tyth went after her." And apparently didn't leave immediately to join the rest. That part is easy to say, the rest pulls a funny sort of look from Tamsin as she regards the young woman bragging about the experience. "A dragonrider who held a knife to your throat. Did you... ask him to? Or was it..." She seems to be failing to come up with a better 'could be' situation since, well, bragging. "Easy and kinky?" She wonders, brows lifted, but no apparent judgment in her expression.

Alysce's breath exhales in something that might be a laugh for the gossip, because she is the type to laugh at someone else's misfortune. But she asks easily, "Did he do something to deserve it? Or was it all of that dragon shit where they're in your head?" But then Tamsin is looking at her like that and asking questions--. "No, no. It wasn't like that. It was just-- He thought I was spying on him or something. But it was something ''interesting'', I guess," she says. "Not in like-- that way. But things are so boring, even here." Her nose wrinkles slightly. "Do you never feel ''bored'' here?"

"''That'' is an excellent question. You could ask that blonde from Ista. The one that transferred in and is flying with Glacier now. He was there. Ghena, too." Tamsin makes the suggestions but doesn't offer to seek out the answers herself. "I'm told it's harder for some pairs than others to keep some measure of civility during a flight. Tyth has none, but I manage, usually." The rest garners a grin from the brownrider. "Well, as long as it wasn't like that," she dismisses. "Was he worried you were spying on him? Was he doing something spy-worthy or just full of himself the way so many of them-" male dragonriders, one might guess from the words and accompanying flippant hand gesture, "-are?" The last doesn't have to be considered long. "Sometimes, but as you pointed out earlier, dragonriders can go anywhere, so when I'm not earning my keep, I can go where I like, not that anywhere in particular is so much more interesting than here, but they are ''different'' than here." So that's something.

"Oh. ''That'' one. No, thank you," Alysce replies with a wrinkle of her nose. Dryly: "He's an ass." She plucks a singular note at that before shaking her head dismissively. "I don't know. Even if I did-- Well, I don't ''actually'' want to die because I told anyone," she offers offhandedly. "I just want--. I don't know. Different is good. Where do you go?"

"Is he that bad?" Tamsin's tone is curious. Apparently she must not know him from A'dam. "The one with the knife sounds crazy," she notes as an aside. "Was he at least a good lay? Crazy sometimes is, as long as they don't stab," the last is offhanded and might be a joke. "I go all over. It depends on the weather and my mood. I can't say I've spent much time at the crafthalls. Enough to look around, but crafters always have a way of making things seem ever in a quiet state of urgency and I prefer... well, either calm or exciting, but not ''urgent''. It makes it feel too much like being at work, but not knowing where I fit in the pattern of things. An odd observer." She rambles a little, but perhaps she's never tried to put her choices into words. "Have you been many places?" she inquires of the apprentice.

"Now ''that'' I understand," Alysce agrees to the point about crafters, finding no offense in it. "I was stationed for a while at Southern Boll Hold. And the Hall, of course. And I bum rides around with dragonriders, but it's not really the same, is it?" She isn't offended, either, by the joke about stabbing as she offers up a quick smile. "He's just-- Whatever," she summarizes of the Istan. The other gets: "He was. Like, it was hot, in that way of dangerous people ever, right?"

Tamsin manages not to laugh this time, though her lips are pressed in a smile that might be keeping that laughter just barely at bay. After a moment she manages a very even and meant, "That's good, then," of the dangerous rider. "Bumming rides is probably as good a way as any to see more of the world. It's not the same as living in a place, but we don't move around much, as a culture. I mean, for the rare holiday, of course, and journeymen probably have more experience living in places than anyone else, but... There ''are'' perks to having a lifemate that can take you to somewhere different whenever you're feeling like it, so long as they're amenable," she adds the last as a good humored afterthought. "If you're getting bored and I have time, Tyth and I will take you somewhere different," she makes what must be a sort of standing offer.

"Careful; I ''will'' take you up on that offer, you know," Alysce points out with a quirk of her brow. But as she says it, she pushes to her feet, gitar falling to her side carelessly with only her fingers holding its neck. "I'll get out of your way. So you can get your citrus and shit dirt. But-- I'll see you around, ok?" A pause, before she offers, "Next time, I'll have a better bit of gossip for you."

"And I'll hold you to that," is rejoinder with veiled mirth. Tamsin grins at the apprentice glancing toward the compost. "You can feel free to stay and play. It won't take me long to get my shit and go," her lips press in that way they must when she's not letting herself laugh. "See you around, Alysce," is simple parting before she's going to tend to her task whether the apprentice stays or not.

"You will," Alysce promises. And true to her word, she doesn't stay as the brownrider busies herself with the compost, instead escaping to somewhere less occupied.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs:Full Circle

2016-08-07T17:26:37Z

Kaleidoscope:

{{Log
| who = K'del, Tamsin, K'del{{!}}Cadejoth, Tamsin{{!}}Tyth
| where = Galleries, High Reaches Weyr
| what = K'del and Tamsin have a chat while doing some early morning egg watching.
| involves =High Reaches Weyr
| day =28
| month = 6
| turn = 41
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2016.08.07
| quote = "Traditionally, we don't care for change." We, dragonmen; we, the Weyr, we, the world.
| weather =
| mentions = F'manis, Kasey, Sian
| ooc =
| icons = k'del cadejoth dog.jpg, k'del thinkinghard.jpg, tamsin.jpg, tamsin tyth.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| st =
| log =
Here in the galleries, the beautiful, bright summer morning gives way to the familiar overwhelming, suffocating heat. Dressed in her riding gear (despite her jacket being folded over her arm), Tamsin can't mean to stay overly long, but maybe just a moment is enough for the brownrider. She leans on the front railing, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet, her smile the silly sort that women sometimes get when cooing over a particularly adorable baby. This might just be her daily dose of "Aw~".

It's not really K'del's habit to stare at eggs-- especially when they're not 'his' eggs, as it were-- but his eldest son has recently joined the candidates for this particular set of eggs, and perhaps there's something in that: the look the bronzerider has been giving the clutch from his seat a few rows behind Tamsin, is not far short of determined. Over-long sentences aside, he abruptly shifts in his seat, and-- it seems likely-- notices the brownrider for the first time. "They're cuter when they're actually dragons, though, aren't they?" Hello.

Tamsin's mood must be less profound, given the bouncing and the fact that when the man speaks, she twists almost immediately before turning a little more properly so she can stand with her side pressing to the rail and address the speaker. "Oh, I don't know," is a bright, casual disagreement. "This is sort of as close as they ever get to being little things that stay where you put them. All full of possibilities." Her smile broadens a bit even if her eyes hold, very briefly, something a little sad. "Weyrleader," as a more formal acknowledgement is softened by the echo of shy affection that will probably always haunt her interactions with the man who was always too much older than she to be anything but a teenager's heartthrob, however briefly.

"Possibilities," repeats K'del, his voice carrying with it a hint of heavy thoughtfulness, though not the kind that keeps him from smiling anyway, his fingers curving about the wooden seat beneath him, one hand on either side of his thighs. "Spent hours staring at 'em when I was a candidate, of course. Picked out which one would have ''my bronze'' in it," he's scathing of his own teenage self, of course, "and stared at it for hours. Hatched green, of course. Since then, though..." he shrugs. "But eggs are a positive, of course."

"Well, hopefully Cadejoth isn't the jealous type." Tamsin's lips press together in a not-really-suppressed smile that shows her amusement as much as her tone of voice. "I suppose, though, in the end, what mattered was that your bronze was in one of the eggs. Some would say the act of sitting and thinking and wishing might have some meaning. Not for them, of course," her hand flicks in graceful gesture to the eggs, "but for you. Who can say if you would be the same man if you hadn't spent all those hours staring? Little choices add up to the sum of a life, I suppose." It's a little deep for this early in the morning, but what better place to have deep thoughts than in a room rich with possibility? "Eggs are always positive. We'll have a lot compared to some, like Monaco, but I suppose that's why it's good the weyrlings will be given the option to go."

Dragon> It's a playful thing, the breeze that zips along and seeks to leave the tingle of a tickle under Cadejoth's maw. It's a dare and a plea at once. There's time for ''play'', isn't there? Just for a few moments. Just before the day's duty (an important thing, to be sure) must be done. Tyth is in the sky of the bowl, but hovering, ''waiting'' to see if his sire can be tempted into just a ''moment'' of fun. (A moment that might become long enough to fully fill the span of now until Duty if one isn't careful.) (To Cadejoth from Tyth)

K'del's smile is as much answer as he gives to the idea of Cadejoth being jealous, because he's otherwise taken with the rest of what Tamsin has to say, his slow, meandering nod offering comment of its own. "That's true," he says, bypassing Monaco temporarily. "But then I think of my eldest... he did that, last time he Stood, but this time he's staying away. Did it let him down? Who can say." A moment of silence hangs after that comment, and then, blue eyes giving Tamsin curious consideration: "How do you feel about the Monaco business?"

Dragon> Play? There's always time for play-- ''always''. Cadejoth's not yet taken to the air, but now he does: a whoosh of air beneath his wings, and then higher, higher ''higher'' into the blue, shooting past his son (if he can) to take towards the open sky beyond the bowl walls. Is it a race, now? (To Tyth from Cadejoth)

"But that's a choice too," Tamsin's not really protesting, just highlighting a different perspective. "Staying away will have meaning for him as much as coming to see when all is said and done, whether one of these little ones are meant for him or not." She glances to the eggs and adds, "I only came when my friends were coming, or when someone wanted to talk about the eggs. And even then, I felt like I was making up fanciful stories more than hoping for something real. The real is always different from the stories," but the way that Tamsin smiles gently as she looks back at the bronzerider from the eggs indicates that she, at least, doesn't seem disappointed by the reality of her story. Then, of course, there's Monaco. "I've heard some grumblings each way, here and there," though probably nothing especially loud. "I think... it makes sense for Weyrs to help one another. I think it must be hard to sort wants from needs, things that would make us more comfortable versus things that might be necessary to other places. I think giving riders a choice is nice, but... there may come a time where deciding for some might be necessary. And I think I'm glad I'm not wearing your knot." She adds the last with a little hint of humor, eyes crinkling a little at the edges.

Dragon> Well, it ''wasn't'' a race, but it ''is'' now. Now that Cadejoth has gone and shot past Tyth, gone and given the brown a reason to make chase. Was this a race or tag? It's often a confused thing in Tyth's head - whether he's trying to catch up with Cadejoth or overtake him, but that's alright since it's fun either way. This son is on the larger end of the spectrum for browns so he doesn't have much advantage in his slightly smaller stature, but he makes the most of what he has, dipping powerful wings into the wind and sharing the wild pleasure of the sky with one who ''understands''. (To Cadejoth from Tyth)

That K'del worries about his son is plain from the way he shifts in his seat during this part of the conversation, and the frown lines in his brow, too. Still, aside from his slow nod as the brownrider speaks, he leaves that conversation alone-- for the moment-- in order to focus upon the rest of what she has to say, cracking a smile in the end for that last comment. "It's been said," he says, then, "that it's not always a good thing for us to be so attached to our Weyr; that we might be better off feeling less attachment, and thus being more willing to move, as required. But that's a hard thing. Once a place begins to feel like home..."

"It's not helped by our lifestyle," Tamsin's tone is apologetic. "I've recently made the acquaintance of some of our journeyman harpers and it occurred to me that they see places in a way we never do, becoming a part of a place, and then knowing they will move on from there. There might be some young dragonriders who haven't put down enough roots that such a thing would feel more awkward than exciting who might be willing to do the same." She's thoughtful in her observation and then shrugs, "It would be a lot of change," and she probably doesn't mean just for the young dragonriders. "Traditionally, we don't care for change." We, dragonmen; we, the Weyr, we, the world.

"No," agrees K'del. "We don't, do we? Change is hard." There's clearly something playing on his mind as he turns his gaze back towards the eggs, though he doesn't seem to be inclined to speak of it directly. Instead: "In any case, it'll be a good thing to improve our relations with Monaco, given givens. If a few of our young people end up there, that's to the best. Ditto, if a few of theirs remain. And the dragons will have who they have, as always."

"Mending fences," Tamsin sums up of the exchange of young people. "Easier than building new fences, to be sure, and sometimes a better choice, or one that's just as good." She glances back out to the eggs and smiles, "It will all come right, somehow," holds a certainty that she probably couldn't explain if asked, but it seems to help that sunny outlook she has. "We're positioned well to be mending fences. Three fertile queens. A lot of eggs. A lot of possibilities." There are things turning over in Tamsin's pretty little head, but none yet given voice. Instead, "What's it like for you? When you're the rider of the clutchsire?" It's an abrupt change of topic and Tamsin looks almost immediately bashful for having asked.

Mending fences, confirms K'del's nod-- and then another nod, too, on the topic of all those queens, all those eggs. He's surprised, according to his expression, for that question at the end, and leans back to consider it for several seconds before responding. "Cadejoth gets easily bored by it," he relates. "He's ever so proud, of course, but... ''sitting'' and ''watching'' is dull for him, and that never does much for me, either. As Weyrleader, there's plenty of your job you can do from the galleries, same as for the goldrider, which helps; imagine it's more complicated when you're ''not'' Weyrleader, on that front, since you've still got sweeps and drills and other duties, and it's a balancing act. Are you relieved, or disappointed, that your Tyth's not caught a queen thus far?" Despite her bashfulness, K'del's answer is genuine and easy, and comes, by the end, with a smile.

Tamsin's expression shows that she's listening, ''really'' listening to the explanation the man has to offer. She makes a couple thoughtful noises as he goes along, nodding her head here or there. She glances back toward the eggs as she considers. "I'm not sure there's a real word that describes my feeling. My mother told me once that wanting a family, when your young, is like standing on one bank of a river, gazing at the other and desiring what you see there, but that those things are so distanced that you can't appreciate the nuances or intensity." The brownrider's dark gaze flick briefly to K'del, a flush of embarrassment touching her cheeks and causing her next words to be hurried, "It's a little like that, for me, with the idea of eggs. Tyth is Cadejoth's son," as they both know, but here she's probably speaking of likelihood to catch a queen as much as any other part of his temperament. "I'm curious about what things are really like, but whether or not that's a bridge we cross isn't up to me."

"Mm," says K'del, almost more of an exhale than a comment, coming accompanied by a short nod. "Guess I can appreciate that. For me... Cadejoth was a father before I'd even really considered whether it was something we really wanted to chase or not." Lucky them. "But I felt it with actual children: ''desperately'' wanted them, despite being little more than a child myself at the time." He pauses, then shakes his head; he smiles ruefully.

K'del's admission earns a little laugh from Tamsin, which she smothers quickly, leaving a smile. "Sometimes, it's better not to think before something happens. Sometimes it's better to dream. Maybe that's why your son came last time and isn't coming this time. Maybe this time, it's just better for him not to think before facing the sands. There's always time for thinking ''after'' a thing has happened unexpectedly." That's rueful.

K'del opens his mouth, and then stops. He nods. "Think you might be right," he admits. "And... look, whatever the reasons are, for good or for bad, they're ''his'' reasons, right? His choices. He's older than I was when I became Weyrleader, so it's not like he's a child." By a given definition, anyway. He exhales, now, a sharp breath that nonetheless continues this theme of ruefulness. "He'd be horrified if he knew I was having a conversation about this. But that's a parent's job, I think."

Tamsin's smile is understanding and she even has a firm nod as she confirms, "It is. He may be grown now, but he'll always be your child. And if you don't talk about things sometimes, the worry just grows to something it needn't ever be for the price of a handful of harmless words." She shrugs. Certainly ''Tamsin'' isn't going to be going around bragging that she got to be the Weyrleader's sounding board for his worries about his son, even if she does seem to have the reputation for being generally well-informed of the gossip mill's rumblings. K'del is, at least intermittently, her wingmate, so his business is protected under the unspoken codes that govern such things. "I suspect I ought to be along to my duties. The Wingleader's a reasonable man, but dropping your name as an excuse for being late..." She exaggerates her skeptical look and holds it a moment before smiling at him. "Have a good day, sir." She wishes him, but then waits for actual dismissal, good wingrider that she is.

K'del opens his mouth, but stops himself before he says whatever it was he intended to. Instead; "Rather ''not'' get on F'manis' bad side, thanks all the same. Good talking to you, Tamsin. Have a good one, okay?" One hand idly dusts some (probably non-existent) sand from his trousers, but he makes no move to stand and make his own move: perhaps he's got more brooding to do.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs:Full Circle

2016-08-07T17:23:02Z

Kaleidoscope: Created page with "{{Log | who = K'del, Tamsin | where = Galleries, High Reaches Weyr | what = K'del and Tamsin have a chat while doing some early morning egg watching. | involves =High Reaches..."

{{Log
| who = K'del, Tamsin
| where = Galleries, High Reaches Weyr
| what = K'del and Tamsin have a chat while doing some early morning egg watching.
| involves =High Reaches Weyr
| day =28
| month = 6
| turn = 41
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2016.08.07
| quote = "Traditionally, we don't care for change." We, dragonmen; we, the Weyr, we, the world.
| weather =
| mentions = F'manis, Kasey, Sian
| ooc =
| icons = k'del cadejoth dog.jpg, k'del thinkinghard.jpg, tamsin.jpg, tamsin tyth.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| st =
| log =
Here in the galleries, the beautiful, bright summer morning gives way to the familiar overwhelming, suffocating heat. Dressed in her riding gear (despite her jacket being folded over her arm), Tamsin can't mean to stay overly long, but maybe just a moment is enough for the brownrider. She leans on the front railing, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet, her smile the silly sort that women sometimes get when cooing over a particularly adorable baby. This might just be her daily dose of "Aw~".

It's not really K'del's habit to stare at eggs-- especially when they're not 'his' eggs, as it were-- but his eldest son has recently joined the candidates for this particular set of eggs, and perhaps there's something in that: the look the bronzerider has been giving the clutch from his seat a few rows behind Tamsin, is not far short of determined. Over-long sentences aside, he abruptly shifts in his seat, and-- it seems likely-- notices the brownrider for the first time. "They're cuter when they're actually dragons, though, aren't they?" Hello.

Tamsin's mood must be less profound, given the bouncing and the fact that when the man speaks, she twists almost immediately before turning a little more properly so she can stand with her side pressing to the rail and address the speaker. "Oh, I don't know," is a bright, casual disagreement. "This is sort of as close as they ever get to being little things that stay where you put them. All full of possibilities." Her smile broadens a bit even if her eyes hold, very briefly, something a little sad. "Weyrleader," as a more formal acknowledgement is softened by the echo of shy affection that will probably always haunt her interactions with the man who was always too much older than she to be anything but a teenager's heartthrob, however briefly.

"Possibilities," repeats K'del, his voice carrying with it a hint of heavy thoughtfulness, though not the kind that keeps him from smiling anyway, his fingers curving about the wooden seat beneath him, one hand on either side of his thighs. "Spent hours staring at 'em when I was a candidate, of course. Picked out which one would have ''my bronze'' in it," he's scathing of his own teenage self, of course, "and stared at it for hours. Hatched green, of course. Since then, though..." he shrugs. "But eggs are a positive, of course."

"Well, hopefully Cadejoth isn't the jealous type." Tamsin's lips press together in a not-really-suppressed smile that shows her amusement as much as her tone of voice. "I suppose, though, in the end, what mattered was that your bronze was in one of the eggs. Some would say the act of sitting and thinking and wishing might have some meaning. Not for them, of course," her hand flicks in graceful gesture to the eggs, "but for you. Who can say if you would be the same man if you hadn't spent all those hours staring? Little choices add up to the sum of a life, I suppose." It's a little deep for this early in the morning, but what better place to have deep thoughts than in a room rich with possibility? "Eggs are always positive. We'll have a lot compared to some, like Monaco, but I suppose that's why it's good the weyrlings will be given the option to go."

Dragon> It's a playful thing, the breeze that zips along and seeks to leave the tingle of a tickle under Cadejoth's maw. It's a dare and a plea at once. There's time for ''play'', isn't there? Just for a few moments. Just before the day's duty (an important thing, to be sure) must be done. Tyth is in the sky of the bowl, but hovering, ''waiting'' to see if his sire can be tempted into just a ''moment'' of fun. (A moment that might become long enough to fully fill the span of now until Duty if one isn't careful.) (To Cadejoth from Tyth)

K'del's smile is as much answer as he gives to the idea of Cadejoth being jealous, because he's otherwise taken with the rest of what Tamsin has to say, his slow, meandering nod offering comment of its own. "That's true," he says, bypassing Monaco temporarily. "But then I think of my eldest... he did that, last time he Stood, but this time he's staying away. Did it let him down? Who can say." A moment of silence hangs after that comment, and then, blue eyes giving Tamsin curious consideration: "How do you feel about the Monaco business?"

Dragon> Play? There's always time for play-- ''always''. Cadejoth's not yet taken to the air, but now he does: a whoosh of air beneath his wings, and then higher, higher ''higher'' into the blue, shooting past his son (if he can) to take towards the open sky beyond the bowl walls. Is it a race, now? (To Tyth from Cadejoth)

"But that's a choice too," Tamsin's not really protesting, just highlighting a different perspective. "Staying away will have meaning for him as much as coming to see when all is said and done, whether one of these little ones are meant for him or not." She glances to the eggs and adds, "I only came when my friends were coming, or when someone wanted to talk about the eggs. And even then, I felt like I was making up fanciful stories more than hoping for something real. The real is always different from the stories," but the way that Tamsin smiles gently as she looks back at the bronzerider from the eggs indicates that she, at least, doesn't seem disappointed by the reality of her story. Then, of course, there's Monaco. "I've heard some grumblings each way, here and there," though probably nothing especially loud. "I think... it makes sense for Weyrs to help one another. I think it must be hard to sort wants from needs, things that would make us more comfortable versus things that might be necessary to other places. I think giving riders a choice is nice, but... there may come a time where deciding for some might be necessary. And I think I'm glad I'm not wearing your knot." She adds the last with a little hint of humor, eyes crinkling a little at the edges.

Dragon> Well, it ''wasn't'' a race, but it ''is'' now. Now that Cadejoth has gone and shot past Tyth, gone and given the brown a reason to make chase. Was this a race or tag? It's often a confused thing in Tyth's head - whether he's trying to catch up with Cadejoth or overtake him, but that's alright since it's fun either way. This son is on the larger end of the spectrum for browns so he doesn't have much advantage in his slightly smaller stature, but he makes the most of what he has, dipping powerful wings into the wind and sharing the wild pleasure of the sky with one who ''understands''. (To Cadejoth from Tyth)

That K'del worries about his son is plain from the way he shifts in his seat during this part of the conversation, and the frown lines in his brow, too. Still, aside from his slow nod as the brownrider speaks, he leaves that conversation alone-- for the moment-- in order to focus upon the rest of what she has to say, cracking a smile in the end for that last comment. "It's been said," he says, then, "that it's not always a good thing for us to be so attached to our Weyr; that we might be better off feeling less attachment, and thus being more willing to move, as required. But that's a hard thing. Once a place begins to feel like home..."

"It's not helped by our lifestyle," Tamsin's tone is apologetic. "I've recently made the acquaintance of some of our journeyman harpers and it occurred to me that they see places in a way we never do, becoming a part of a place, and then knowing they will move on from there. There might be some young dragonriders who haven't put down enough roots that such a thing would feel more awkward than exciting who might be willing to do the same." She's thoughtful in her observation and then shrugs, "It would be a lot of change," and she probably doesn't mean just for the young dragonriders. "Traditionally, we don't care for change." We, dragonmen; we, the Weyr, we, the world.

"No," agrees K'del. "We don't, do we? Change is hard." There's clearly something playing on his mind as he turns his gaze back towards the eggs, though he doesn't seem to be inclined to speak of it directly. Instead: "In any case, it'll be a good thing to improve our relations with Monaco, given givens. If a few of our young people end up there, that's to the best. Ditto, if a few of theirs remain. And the dragons will have who they have, as always."

"Mending fences," Tamsin sums up of the exchange of young people. "Easier than building new fences, to be sure, and sometimes a better choice, or one that's just as good." She glances back out to the eggs and smiles, "It will all come right, somehow," holds a certainty that she probably couldn't explain if asked, but it seems to help that sunny outlook she has. "We're positioned well to be mending fences. Three fertile queens. A lot of eggs. A lot of possibilities." There are things turning over in Tamsin's pretty little head, but none yet given voice. Instead, "What's it like for you? When you're the rider of the clutchsire?" It's an abrupt change of topic and Tamsin looks almost immediately bashful for having asked.

Mending fences, confirms K'del's nod-- and then another nod, too, on the topic of all those queens, all those eggs. He's surprised, according to his expression, for that question at the end, and leans back to consider it for several seconds before responding. "Cadejoth gets easily bored by it," he relates. "He's ever so proud, of course, but... ''sitting'' and ''watching'' is dull for him, and that never does much for me, either. As Weyrleader, there's plenty of your job you can do from the galleries, same as for the goldrider, which helps; imagine it's more complicated when you're ''not'' Weyrleader, on that front, since you've still got sweeps and drills and other duties, and it's a balancing act. Are you relieved, or disappointed, that your Tyth's not caught a queen thus far?" Despite her bashfulness, K'del's answer is genuine and easy, and comes, by the end, with a smile.

Tamsin's expression shows that she's listening, ''really'' listening to the explanation the man has to offer. She makes a couple thoughtful noises as he goes along, nodding her head here or there. She glances back toward the eggs as she considers. "I'm not sure there's a real word that describes my feeling. My mother told me once that wanting a family, when your young, is like standing on one bank of a river, gazing at the other and desiring what you see there, but that those things are so distanced that you can't appreciate the nuances or intensity." The brownrider's dark gaze flick briefly to K'del, a flush of embarrassment touching her cheeks and causing her next words to be hurried, "It's a little like that, for me, with the idea of eggs. Tyth is Cadejoth's son," as they both know, but here she's probably speaking of likelihood to catch a queen as much as any other part of his temperament. "I'm curious about what things are really like, but whether or not that's a bridge we cross isn't up to me."

"Mm," says K'del, almost more of an exhale than a comment, coming accompanied by a short nod. "Guess I can appreciate that. For me... Cadejoth was a father before I'd even really considered whether it was something we really wanted to chase or not." Lucky them. "But I felt it with actual children: ''desperately'' wanted them, despite being little more than a child myself at the time." He pauses, then shakes his head; he smiles ruefully.

K'del's admission earns a little laugh from Tamsin, which she smothers quickly, leaving a smile. "Sometimes, it's better not to think before something happens. Sometimes it's better to dream. Maybe that's why your son came last time and isn't coming this time. Maybe this time, it's just better for him not to think before facing the sands. There's always time for thinking ''after'' a thing has happened unexpectedly." That's rueful.

K'del opens his mouth, and then stops. He nods. "Think you might be right," he admits. "And... look, whatever the reasons are, for good or for bad, they're ''his'' reasons, right? His choices. He's older than I was when I became Weyrleader, so it's not like he's a child." By a given definition, anyway. He exhales, now, a sharp breath that nonetheless continues this theme of ruefulness. "He'd be horrified if he knew I was having a conversation about this. But that's a parent's job, I think."

Tamsin's smile is understanding and she even has a firm nod as she confirms, "It is. He may be grown now, but he'll always be your child. And if you don't talk about things sometimes, the worry just grows to something it needn't ever be for the price of a handful of harmless words." She shrugs. Certainly ''Tamsin'' isn't going to be going around bragging that she got to be the Weyrleader's sounding board for his worries about his son, even if she does seem to have the reputation for being generally well-informed of the gossip mill's rumblings. K'del is, at least intermittently, her wingmate, so his business is protected under the unspoken codes that govern such things. "I suspect I ought to be along to my duties. The Wingleader's a reasonable man, but dropping your name as an excuse for being late..." She exaggerates her skeptical look and holds it a moment before smiling at him. "Have a good day, sir." She wishes him, but then waits for actual dismissal, good wingrider that she is.

K'del opens his mouth, but stops himself before he says whatever it was he intended to. Instead; "Rather ''not'' get on F'manis' bad side, thanks all the same. Good talking to you, Tamsin. Have a good one, okay?" One hand idly dusts some (probably non-existent) sand from his trousers, but he makes no move to stand and make his own move: perhaps he's got more brooding to do.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs:A Respite

2016-08-07T17:13:49Z

Kaleidoscope: Created page with "{{Log | who = D'vro, Lys, D'vro{{!}}Colsoth, Lys{{!}}Evyth | where = Solarium and Practically Pragmatic Weyr, Fort Weyr | what = D'vro lets Lys waste a little time with him wh..."

{{Log
| who = D'vro, Lys, D'vro{{!}}Colsoth, Lys{{!}}Evyth
| where = Solarium and Practically Pragmatic Weyr, Fort Weyr
| what = D'vro lets Lys waste a little time with him when she's not ready to go home yet.
| involves =Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
| day =25
| month = 6
| turn = 41
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2016.08.06
| quote = "Colsoth isn't ashamed to be seen in public with me just yet."
| weather =
| mentions = Jocelyn, V'ret
| ooc =
| icons = d'vro.jpg, lys curious.jpg, lys evyth.jpg, d'vro colsoth.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| st =
| log =
Dragon> To Colsoth, Evyth has been in contact with Colsoth since she and her rider emerged from ''between'', of course. It's easy to have wonderful conversations when one can't remember the content of the one from more than a handful of days prior. They're there on business, but now she mentions, << Lys says you have a peculiar room. A little like our greenhouse, but without the purpose of it. >> A brief flash of the Solarium as seen by the greenrider is included. << She wants to know if D'vro has a recommendation for something tasty from the Sanctuary. >> Evidently, the rider must have some time on her hands before their return to their home skies - that, or she's making time.

Dragon> To Evyth, Colsoth is always quite happy to entertain Evyth while she's in Fort Weyr. Even while she's not, really. << D'vro is fond of the sweet biscuits and the tea. >> Neither are probably very surprising. << It's a nice room. But mine enjoys the greenhouse more. >> There's a pause, and then the bronze asks, << Are you in Fort for very long? >>

Dragon> There's the necessary pauses as Evyth confers with her rider, offering D'vro's recommendations (and no, there's no feeling of surprise from either part of this pair). << Lys says it depends on if D'vro would like to be visited or to visit with her here. >> It's almost an afterthought that Evyth adds, << This was our last stop today. >> At least with Lys and Evyth not being subtle, there can be no mistaking the invitation. Evyth, obviously, would love to stay a time, to speak at length with Colsoth, ''maybe'' even go for a fly! (To Colsoth from Evyth)

Dragon> To Evyth, Colsoth seems amused by the green's lack of subtlety, but that's part of what he enjoys about her. Perhaps it reminds him of his rider, too. << He says that Lys is welcome to come to his weyr if she likes. He's going over reports, but would be quite happy to make the tea himself if she'll bring a few biscuits. >>

Dragon> To Colsoth, Evyth is soon giggling, her good humor infectious even as she surely doesn't share everything her rider said to her when she relates, << Lys says she'll fetch for him, this time. >> There's a teasing lilt to her words, though, so it must be with good humor that that sentiment was given to the green too.

It's not too long after that Lys is delivered to D'vro's ledge. She has a shoulder bag that's a patched affair (obviously old, but kept in good repair) and one hand holds a small wooden box that she'll no doubt have to return somewhere before she heads back to High Reaches. She never has been one to wait for personal invitation into someone else's private space so she just heads into the weyr when she arrives. "I brought the biscuits," she informs D'vro with a small smile pressed to closed lips when she sees him.

D'vro has already put the water on to heat up, and he's still standing near the hearth when Lys comes inside. It's a nice weyr, comfortably but minimally decorated, with a separate room behind a curtained off doorway for his bed. He has reports on his desk, but he's abandoned them for the moment. They'll be there when he gets back to them soon enough. "Wonderful, thank you. The tea shouldn't take long. Make yourself at home," he says with a vague gesture at the sofa opposite the hearth. "What brings you to Fort today?"

"Harpers," Lys replies with a slight widening of that smile, though her lips still stay pressed together when she's not speaking. "Some delivery to the Hall. And ''Evyth'' thought since we were nearby, she ought to say hello to Colsoth. It's only polite after all, and..." The greenrider lifts her free hand and revolves it in the air to fill in 'and so on and so on.' "Here we are. Am I an imposition?" The rider is as direct as her dragon, but there might be something to be said for straightforwardness. Even if she ''is'' an imposition, she's walking in farther to place the box on his table. Her eyes shamelessly cast about, taking his space, his taste, all of it.

"Not at all," D'vro assures her in a way that's almost certainly been practiced to perfection on a lot of people before her. "You brought biscuits, after all. Thank you, for that." The bronzerider offers a small smile, still standing near the hearth rather than making himself comfortable. Perhaps he's never entirely comfortable, even if he's somewhat more dressed down than his leathers usually allow. He's wearing his riding pants, but no boots and no jacket. His shirt is even untucked.

Even practiced as it is, even if it is true, Lys gives him a disbelieving look before she glances to the box. "Imagine my relief that biscuits have excused my taking up your valuable time, Wingleader." There's sardonic humor in her voice. She turns toward him and approaches his position by the hearth, giving him a look over now that she's given his place an initial inspection. She's silent for an awkwardly long time, looking at him, but ''she'' seems completely comfortable in the awkward.

"You would have been welcome regardless, greenrider. I only assumed here would be preferable to... there." It's only on the last word that D'vro seems less certain about his assumption. Awkward isn't something that bothers the bronzerider very much, however, and he simply turns to take the kettle from the hearth and start the tea to steeping after a few moments of considering the young woman.

A subtle amusement plays across her lips for a moment after his answer. "I imagine your reputation has more to suffer by being seen spending your time with a young woman, but who knows, maybe my presence would make some men look at you with a whole new and worthless esteem." Lys' tone holds humor and she meanders closer to the hearth to look at his tea making process a moment before she shrugs out of her flight jacket. "That is unless you intended something more than casual talk, in which case I'd say public spaces are the sort of thing you save for the right moment." Something about the set of her lips suggests she didn't ''really'' think that was his reasoning.

"My reputation is inconsequential beyond being a competent dragonrider and wingleader." Neither of which he probably takes much stock in the opinion of others beyond his Weyrleaders and wingriders, granted. "If you'd prefer the Solarium, I suppose I could visit with you there for a short while." D'vro glances back toward the greenrider, genuinely asking for her preference while he gathers two mugs from one of the shelves that form the mantle of the hearth.

Lys' lips part now as her smile broadens, something fond in the expression and her chuckle is soft. She moves, pausing near him so she can reach with her free hand to touch his upper arm. "Here is great." The smile that comes with that is real and she aims to hold his gaze a moment before dropping her hand away. "I appreciate the hospitality, really. I don't want to go home yet."

His eyes settle on her hand on his arm for a moment, then look back at her face with a slight nod of his head. "Good." D'vro waits for her hand to move before he's pouring the tea and then handing off one of the mugs to Lys. "I can't say I often have that feeling. I enjoy spending time here." In his home.

"It's a nice home." Lys makes the compliment but doesn't linger on it even as she moves to hang her jacket over the back of one chair and settle herself in it, sliding the box of biscuits open. She fidgets a little. "I'm adjusting. I broke up with my boyfriend and my girlfriend, and both times it was ugly and awful, and I like time at home and time with just Evyth and time with work, but it doesn't always fill all the hours." She grimaces a little. "I'll remember how to be on my own again. It's just been a while."

"That," begins D'vro, considering his words before he says them out loud, "That sounds unfortunate. Though I'm not sure how anyone has time for one of those, let alone both. For any extended amount of time, at least." He could have considered longer. "Have you considered asking for more work from your Wingleader? I doubt they'd mind helping you find some way to fill your extra time."

"It wasn't great. Probably for the best. I don't have any experience with breaking up, so I can't tell if this sort of thing is normal." Lys rolls her shoulders and slouches down into the seat. "I've been doing extra work since I decided to break up with the first one. Pretty much as much as I can get." Another shrug settles her a little lower. "Have you ever broken up with anyone? Or been broken up with?"

D'vro makes his way toward the table and sets about settling himself into the other seat. He takes a careful drink of the tea, sets down the mug and reaches for one of the biscuits as he shakes his head in answer to her question. "I've never really been in the sort of relationship that would necessitate either." Other people might beg to differ.

Lys straightens enough to lean forward and claim her own mug and draw it more toward the edge of the table. "That sounds nice, to never end up hurting." The young woman studies the older man in silence then, perhaps searching his face for any telltale evidence of emotional damage. "You seem so... well put together. Maybe not balanced, because it seems like your life doesn't include some things most would consider part of a balanced life, but impressively collected and organized." It sounds a little like a compliment.

The bronzerider thinks about that while he takes a bite of his biscuit. Once he's swallowed, he'll allow, "It's not an active avoidance. It's just never... happened that way, I suppose?" There's no emotional damage to be seen in D'vro's face, just the same boring features as usual. "I'm not sure my life's balance should be based on someone else's definition of balance. Just as I wouldn't expect you, for instance, to avoid having other boyfriends or girlfriends or what have you."

"I might want to. I did for a long time, though I suppose-" Lys' lips pull at the edges to bring a smile back as she mimics his delivery, "-it wasn't an active avoidance." She reaches to collect her own biscuit. "Do you not really develop attachments to people? That's sort of where I got tripped up. I was fine until I became attached to someone, and then it was another and another until I found myself caring for all kinds of people who wouldn't care for me if they knew me well."

"I wouldn't hold that against you," D'vro assures the younger woman with a brief smile. "I've had attachments. Most of them developed when I was younger." But it must not be as much of an issue now that he's the age he is. "I can't imagine there's anything about you that would keep someone from caring about you, Lys."

"What happened as you got older? You got better at staying detached or just fewer interesting people the more that baggage piles up?" Lys wonders as she reaches for her mug, this time to draw it in and up to her lips to blow on it a little. Over the top of it, she gives him a measuring look. She places the mug to her lower lip but speaks instead of sipping. "I'm the wrong shade of grey. Not white enough to be one of the good guys and not black enough to be one of the bad. Happily situated in the middle." It's a melancholy admission, but she doesn't seem like being the wrong shade of grey has prompted her to try to change her ways one way or another; perhaps it's a little admirable that in spite of the desires of the world around her, even those she loves, she's staying true to herself. Maybe it's just that she's lazy.

"I'm... not entirely sure. I was never as interested in certain activities as other boys, and that hasn't really changed very much. They're not thoughts that cross my mind very often. Not until someone like you asks me about it, truthfully. Or someone insists on... certain aspects of my attention." D'vro is clearly struggling with putting the way his brain works into words. "I believe most people fall somewhere in the grey."

The delicacy of his phrasing has Lys hiding a smile behind the mug after her sip, but her eyes give it away too clearly. "There's nothing wrong with grey, unless you're too white or too black to be happy with something that's in between." She addresses that point first before leaning forward to place her mug on the table, though her hands come with it and she leans forward still, so she's just a little inclined toward the bronzerider. "Is it a ''terrible'' imposition to you when someone insists on certain aspects of your attention?" The rest seems to have been accepted easily enough, but there's an edge of mischief and teasing to her tone of curiosity in asking about this last.

"I suppose so." But those sorts of relationship dynamics don't generally come up too strongly within a professional setting. Or maybe just not in D'vro's professional setting. "Not generally terrible, no. I'll admit I sometimes have a hard time maintaining interest when I know there's work that needs to be finished." Or if not ''needs'' to be, then work he'd rather be doing. "There are plenty of people who require very little insistence, if any." So he's probably not sure why anyone would ever insist on ''his'' attention in particular.

D'vro's words about maintaining interest prompt a laugh from Lys and she elects to sweep up her tea and lean back again. "There are, particularly in Weyrs. I imagine some might like the challenge, or might be hunting for the moment of surrender and full of fantasies of what that surrender would mean. Surely, ''surely'', if they can just win you over, you'll ''magically'' become this ardent lover with a deep passion and inspired romance." The sarcasm is heavy, but Lys seems deeply amused by the notion. She takes another sip of her tea and then gives a glance toward D'vro's desk. "Would you like to get back to your work? I could sit and have tea while you do. I don't mind." It keeps her away from her weyr a while longer at any rate.

''That'' makes even D'vro snort a quick laugh. "Passion, on occasion, perhaps. Romance is, sadly, never something with which I've ever had a great deal of skill. Or any." The laugh is followed by a small frown, but the bronzerider takes a drink of his tea and glances in the direction of his desk. "I've a bit of time yet before I should go to bed." He must not be terribly swamped with things to do this evening.

Lys lifts her tea in silent salute of the wingleader's decline to her offer, but seems neither especially pleased or displeased by it, so the offer must have been made in earnest. What she does say is, "Come now, D'vro," as if he were surely exaggerating (just as surely as she is), "I have ''every faith'' that you have the capacity to research romance and provide a suitable facsimile with the right motivation." Then she pauses, taking a little sip before allowing, "I have less faith that you have any interest in finding the right inspiration," given everything he's said, but the whole of the thing seems to amuse the greenrider. If nothing else, she's finding her visit entertaining. "Has Colsoth ever encouraged you to pursue inspiration of that ilk?"

"You can't tell me that ''you'' would be content with researched romance over genuine romance, can you?" And since he assumes the answer is no before she's given one, he also certainly assumes any person would give the same sort of answer. D'vro lifts his tea slightly to her lack of faith in his inspiration for romance, answering, "Colsoth has encouraged me to pursue almost anything you can imagine at some point or another."

"I might," Lys' answer isn't exactly the expected, but nor does it rule out the possibility. "I don't know for sure. Then again, I don't really think I'm like many people in a lot of ways. When one grows up with…" She trails off a moment and then shakes her head a little, "really no affection, and experiences that are either too much or too little to suit… I can't really say." For Colsoth, the greenrider has a soft, warm smile. "I can see why Evyth likes him."

D'vro breaks another piece off of his biscuit to eat while he listens to the greenrider. It's another moment or two once he's washed down a swallow with another drink that he offers, "I think it's in our nature to believe that we're more isolated by our pasts and emotions than we really are. I've no doubt you're more like other people than you think you are." It's supposed to be comforting, maybe?

"I don't mind," comes with a shrug and a sense that she likely means either way. "Generally, I'm finding that it's difficult to predict contentment. I should have been content with either of my-" there's a little stumble as she hastily inserts, "-former-," before, "partners, but I wasn't." It's a thoughtful moment later that she asks, "Do you feel isolated?"

"I did when I was younger, to some extent. I don't now. I've worked with enough people to be more aware of how different we all are, and how similar we all are." D'vro seems unsure if he should say what he says next, but then he goes and says it anyway. "Is contentment what you truly desire out of your partners?"

"I'd rather not have growing discontent, but… I couldn't say. Not enough life experience to know what I want and don't. Well," Lys quickly amends her candid answer, "except children. I don't want any children." That is very firm indeed. "I suspect there's still a lot of time for me to figure out what I want, and the similarities and differences of us all."

"I should hope so," D'vro says of time. "You're very young yet. But I know you," as in younger folk, not Lys specifically, "do have a way of thinking you're quite well-informed about the world. I still think I'm often more naive than I ought to be about it myself." He offers a slightly self-deprecating smile before lifting his mug to his lips again. Then, "What's your plan now?"

"It's more fun to be well-informed about the world than to let yourself get treated as though you don't know enough to step out from under the fall of your betters' bootheels." Lys replies with a shrug, slouching a little more as she looks at him. "Don't really have one. Do I need one?" She tilts her head a bit, lifting her brows in inquiry. "Do you always have one?" It might be an extension of curiosity about his supposed naivety.

"I didn't suggest that you let people walk all over you, now did I?" D'vro must think this distinction is important. "I may not be a ruthless bastard who takes advantage of other people to get ahead, but I think I've done fairly well for myself. Colsoth isn't ashamed to be seen in public with me just yet." As for plans, D'vro says somewhat more seriously, "Not always, no. But I sometimes feel as though I've hit the peak of my life. That I have to hope it stays at a plateau for some time before it falls down the other side." Jokes ''and'' metaphors. It's almost like D'vro isn't a robot.

The greenrider rewards the joke and metaphor with a smile before addressing the first, allowing, "I suppose there's shades of grey between the two," with more veiled amusement. "''Yet''," is a word that she catches on and gives him a challenging look. ''Yet''. So many questions are there - what would it take? How close has he come? And on and on, but she asks none of them. Instead, "You don't really think so, not ''really''." She narrows her eyes with suspicion. "You can't be so old as all that." Even if Lys is only as old (maybe) as Colsoth.

D'vro only has a small smile for ''yet''. Would he really care if Colsoth were ashamed to be seen in public with him? So long as he doesn't start using dad puns, the pair are probably safe from that. "I'm nearly forty. In another few turns. But I've achieved everything I could have possibly wanted out of life and more. Now I'm simply doing what I do to the best of my abilities."

"How old is 'nearly'?" Lys apparently is unsatisfied with generalities. Evidently that's not the only thing she's unsatisfied with. It's an abrupt change from her repose that brings her up onto her feet and moving toward the hearth to stand and stare down at the flames, brow puckered. "Sounds boring," holds agitation but with her back to the bronzerider, it's difficult to say what her expression is, "having nothing to work for."

"Thirty seven." D'vro watches the greenrider as she rises, concern briefly furrowing his brows. For now he finishes the rest of the biscuit. "I'm not sure boring is the word I'd use for it. I enjoy my wing, my riders. And N'rov is a good Weyrleader. He's the reason I'm here." He considers for a moment, then adds, "I work ''for'' my wing. It's the lack of working ''toward'' something that can be dissatisfying at times."

"Why don't you pick something new?" Lys pivots to face him, expression challenging, though her arms wrap around her chest, hands hugging opposite elbows in a gesture of self-protection or perhaps discomfort. "A new something to work toward."

"What would you suggest that I do, Lys?" It's a genuine question. Sarcasm isn't exactly one of D'vro's strong suits. The bronzerider rises, moving closer with tea in hand, but not so close that he's likely to infringe on her personal space. Or his.

"I don't know!" The tone is uneasy and just a little too loud. Obviously this has touched something a little deeper in the greenrider. Lys' hands toss up in the air, helplessly, with her words. "Having nothing to work toward feels too much like just ''existing'', like waiting, contentedly, to die, at 37!" There's a little laughter, hysterical laughter, and she turns away, hands coming up to rub over her face.

That catches D'vro somewhat off guard. He takes a step back, to make sure it's not because he unintentionally stepped into the greenrider's space, then turns to head toward the couch. He's almost ready to sit when he says, "Perhaps wine would be better?"

It's some moments before Lys has scraped together enough composure to face the man whose time she's taking up. When she turns back to him, she's still visibly shaken by… Well, whatever that was. "Sorry," is sort of a mumble, but some of the anxious energy has left her. "Not my place to-" She stops, then starts, but questioningly, "I should go?"

D'vro's looking at her when she turns back to him, genuine concern for the young woman in his expression. "I don't mind. You're probably right that I've become too content with where I am in my life. But, if it helps, I don't feel as though I'm simply waiting to die." He looks down at his mug, then up at her, again, "You can go if that's what you'd like to do."

"As long as I don't have to find out that you died alone and for stupid reasons, I guess you can be as complacent as you want." Lys bites her lower lip, worrying it briefly before she apologizes, " Sorry, that was bitchy. I try not to be anymore, but…" Sometimes she doesn't manage. "Do you want wine?"

The bronzerider frowns at his young acquaintance's words, almost certainly not understanding their origin or why she might assume as much of his end. "You're welcome to be as bitchy as you like, Lys. Far be it from me to judge how you communicate. Especially about something that appears to be important to you. But," always a but, "I'm curious what ways of dying you consider to be not stupid." Then, "I have wine, if you'd like a glass. I wouldn't be opposed to one myself."

Lys sets her upper teeth on her lower lip and hesitates. "Wine first, then explanation," she decides, moving toward the couch to settle herself while he gets the asking price for her tale, whatever it may be.

D'vro nods. That must sound reasonable enough to him. "I hope you don't mind a dry red." He might not have much else but that. Once he's found a bottle and poured a glass for each of them, he gestures at the opposite end of the couch and the glass he puts on the small table in front of it while he settles on the other end with his.

"I don't really drink for the flavor," Lys replies, shrugging. "Finery is wasted on me, so..." Hopefully he won't want her to notice a fine vintage, if it is. The wine is accepted without ceremony, requiring a little resituating of herself to be in a comfortable pose to drink it. She drains half the glass in her first few swallows, licking her lips and letting it settle a moment before offering a start. "I suppose dying with purpose would be not stupid. Dying of old age because you've lived a full and varied life is reasonable enough. I can't say I'd have ''liked'' riding to meet Thread if I'd been born in a different time and found Evyth all the same, but defending others seems like a good way to go."

It's not a bad vintage. It's doubtful that D'vro has anything else in the weyr, truthfully. He's more deliberate about the way he drinks his wine, but there's nothing judgmental about the way he watches her drink hers. "I sometimes wish Colsoth and I could have flown Thread. It's something I imagine we're both suited for." There's a frown before he continues, "Whose definition of full and varied should that be following?"

"I can see it," Lys' head nods a little before she takes a more measured sip. "I suppose everyone has their own definition. Your doesn't seem very ''varied'', but I'll give it full, but my measure of it doesn't make much difference. I'm young enough to not be as well-informed about the world as I like to pretend, after all," her look briefly flickers into humor, but it fades quickly to something more sober, sadly sober.

"I detect sarcasm," offers D'vro. "I don't know how I would make my life more varied. Or if I would enjoy doing so. I enjoy my work. I miss Southern at times, but I don't suppose you're suggesting I return to the comfort of home to make my life more varied, are you." He takes another drink, crossing one of his legs over the other, his version of relaxing. "I don't desire a family. Or romantic relationships. I don't see where resigning from my wing would help anything." But he's certainly willing to go on little thought experiments of his own.

"Clever man," Lys replies darkly, but there's another spark of humor in her eyes. The rest is taken in with some thought. "What are you very, very bad at?" It's not idle curiosity. "Things you wouldn't mind being better at but have never made a priority."

That's a question that gives D'vro some pause. "I don't know if I've ever thought about that. I'm not sure there are any things I'm very bad at that I'd want to be more of a priority. What are you bad at?" An example might help him.

Lys makes a face at him, but then rolls her eyes toward the ceiling, probably so she can think. (How dare he turn the question back on her.) "I'm bad at a lot of things. Probably a lot more than you because you've been alive longer and had more time to work on the obvious things like being myself, like being nice to people even when they don't really deserve it. Other deep shit like that." She finishes her wine. "I guess I was thinking more along the lines of something like… Oh, I don't know, dancing. Or maybe building sand holds. Or... Embroidery." Then she eyes D'vro, "I would say not the lattermost for you, but you'd probably enjoy it. It's detail work."

"I do enjoy working on Colsoth's straps," he admits, since it's probably the closest to anything like embroidery that he gets to on a regular basis. "There are plenty of things I'm bad at. I just... don't care that I'm bad at them because I don't have any desire to be good at them. I'm quite skilled at the things I want to skilled at." There's a pause, then he decides, "My handwriting could probably be improved."

"Maybe start with straps," Lys says, apparently deeming the suggestion of his handwriting as too close to actual work. "You could look into learning how to work with the leather, to make other things. For Colsoth. For you. Tanners do make some interesting things. Journals. Stamped belts. Pouches." She looks a little like she's searching her memory.

"They do at that," make interesting things. D'vro considers it for a few silent moments, taking a drink of his wine. "Perhaps I'll go to the Hall and see what they're willing to teach an old rider. Or I could see if someone would come here and teach the wing something new." Always working.

"Do you never ''just'' think about you?" Lys wonders, "Is it always, 'the wing the wing the wing'?" The blonde looks at her empty glass and then at D'vro at the other end of the couch. Then she's moving to rise, to walk her glass over to the table and set it down, though her eyes linger on it for some moments.

This, again, makes D'vro think in a way he wasn't quite prepared. But he has to answer, "Not very often, no. My duty is to my wing, to my Weyr, to my dragon. That is me."

"Alright," is accepting. The greenrider turns around to look back at the older man, her expression lacking judgment. "Maybe that's what your other partners have been looking for. The you that is just ''you''. That's why they insist on intimacies, because they hope they'll discover something that isn't there because they can't imagine a world where it isn't." Then Lys' smile turns wry, "Unimaginative, if you ask me. Probably crap in bed."

"Perhaps," D'vro allows, watching the greenrider. "You can have more," he says before her last comment really processes. "''Me''? Or them?" Clarification is necessary.

There's laughter that seems to lift the greenrider's mood, her head tossing back and leaving her smiling at the bronzerider. "Hm, well, I meant them, but you know, it's been so long that I've probably forgotten the proof that I didn't mean you after all." There's something teasing in that remark, but her attention goes to the wine and her empty glass. She doesn't make a move yet, though, to fill it.

"I wouldn't be surprised if you meant me, but I suppose no one likes the idea that they've been terribly disappointing in that regard. Never mind the circumstances." In which they were both heavily influenced by their lifemates. "I don't know if I'd say any were particularly unpleasant. In bed, anyway." It's a strange subject for D'vro to be lingering on.

"Even so, I doubt you'd be disappointed if I had meant you. It's not like you're one of those men just looking for the invitation to refresh my memory." Lys observes as she finally makes move to collect the wine and refresh her cup, but only a half this time. She plucks up the glass and turns, leaning against the edge of the table and looking toward him. "I'm glad none of your sexual exploits have been particularly unpleasant." That's dry humor as her eyes drift around the room again and then toward the ledge and finally back to the man.

D'vro finishes the rest of his wine, rising with his glass in hand and moving toward where Lys has just refilled her own. "You're right. I wouldn't be looking for the opportunity to prove myself even if that's what you thought of me." Just in case she needs to hear him say it, too. He has a small laugh for the rest as he pours himself another serving. "I do hope yours have been similarly not unpleasant. Especially if you enjoy them more than I do."

The smile Lys has for the bronzerider is small, it's soft. She steps closer and leans up on her tiptoes, angling to brush a kiss to D'vro's cheek. "I'm glad you're you, D'vro." It's said quietly, but sincerely, and then she's leaning back, drinking her wine. "I've been fortunate. Good experiences, mostly. Some weird ones, but not ''bad''."

He doesn't move away from the gesture. He'll even lean slightly toward her to make his cheek more accessible if necessary. "I'm glad you're you, too, Lys," is returned even if he's not entirely sure what she means by it. "Good. That's good to hear. I hope it stays that way."

"If I'm lucky, maybe. Mostly life seems to be a mix of good and bad though, so..." Lys smiles, polishing off the last of what's in her glass. "Probably worth it to find the good, I guess." She glances toward the ledge again and then sets the glass down. "I should get back. Thank you. For the tea, the wine and the company, D'vro."

Even though D'vro frowns at the bad, he doesn't question her more about what all that actually entails beyond what she's told him. "The good in life is usually worth the trouble of finding it, yes." For as uninteresting as his life is now, at least to people who aren't him, he sounds like he knows that from experience. "Any time you need it." Within reason, anyway. "It's nice to have you, Lys."

"Thank you," comes with a smile that shows dimples before Lys is heading for the ledge. Evidently, D'vro will have to return the box the biscuits were sent up in because Lys is on her way home.
}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs:Once and Future Wants

2016-08-06T04:27:29Z

Kaleidoscope: Created page with "{{Log | who = Quint, Tamsin, Tamsin{{!}}Tyth | where = Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr | what = Quint and Tamsin meet | involves =High Reaches Weyr | day =22 | month = 6 | turn..."

{{Log
| who = Quint, Tamsin, Tamsin{{!}}Tyth
| where = Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Quint and Tamsin meet
| involves =High Reaches Weyr
| day =22
| month = 6
| turn = 41
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2016.08.05
| quote = "... I'm afraid I prefer pasttimes I excel at."
| weather =
| mentions =
| ooc =
| icons = quint.jpg, tamsin.jpg, tamsin tyth.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| st =
| log = Summer, by contrast to others, is a gentle season in High Reaches. This evening is one of those that proves it so, pleasantly cool, but not overly so. The lake shore is sparsely populated at this hour when those who've taken an early supper have finished and those taking a later one have yet to start, but there's a brown in the waters and a dark haired woman in a blue sundress on the shore keeping him company at a distance. It's possible Tamsin is in silent conversation with her lifemate because she has the occasional, apparently unprompted silly smile; then again, perhaps she's just very entertaining to herself.

A pair of Journeyman are taking an evening walk around the lake, chatting in low tones. One is distinctive in harper blue, even if Quint weren't wearing his knot -- which he is -- the other is burly and broad-shouldered enough to guess at his profession even if his smithcraft knot is somewhat dusted over. There's a brief pause, as the two shake hands (and the smith claps the harper on the shoulder, hard enough that the latter staggers a moment), before they part ways -- the smith towards the crafter's area, the harper along the lake's path. Quint gives the rider a nod, though perhaps he reads something in her expression, since he doesn't verbally address her as he approaches, his pace continuing leisurely near where she is.

Tamsin's bare feet don't want to stay still in the sand at lake's edge, so her meandering path, though constrained to a short distance, is a relaxed pacing back and forth, tracing patterns with her footprints. Though her eyes are frequently on the brown, as she twists or twirls to turn and walk back the other way, her eyes are drawn by movement. She catches the clap of the shoulder from smith to harper, not really fully suppressing her smile, and watches them part ways. The smile widens with her own return nod to the harper, glancing only once more toward the brown before she alters her direction a skosh to lead her toward the journeyman, "Good evening," is offered cheerily as she draws nearer.

"And to you, brownrider," Quint calls, pleasantly. Even if he might not recognize her personally, something in her expression and the way she keeps looking at the brown in the water is enough for a well-concluded guess. His glance goes past her, towards the dragon, lips twitching upwards. "Enjoying the warm evening, I see. Not tempted to slip down south to continue enjoying the sun, though? I saw a handful of riders leaving the bowl not an hour ago to do just that, I suspect."

"''Tempted''?" Tamsin replies, amused. "Always, but temptations would lose their thrill if they were always conceded to." Nevermind that the brown's head has risen with marked interest in the turn of conversation and is watching the two. "Tyth would be happier," she adds a moment later, "if I gave in to a desire to go to southern more often." She leans a little toward the harper in faux conspiracy, "Better hunting there." She glances back toward where the smith was heading. "Contemplating similar getaway plans or something more professional?"

"And yet, there are always greater heights to aspire to. Especially for one that can travel anywhere," counters the harper reflexively, before giving a wry sort of smile. "Ah," Quint makes a noise, like he comprehends a dragon's mind fully, hands clasping together behind his back as he regards dragon and rider in equal measures: "And you are loathe to give into ''his'' wants, because...?" The journeyman doesn't follow the rider's glance towards the smith, instead shaking his head. "Oh, not myself. I get out to Fort often enough to Hall, and to see my sister. I've worked all over -- being a Journeyman is satisfaction enough for any wanderlust."

The counter argument is met with a slight raising of her brows and a pleased smile that doesn't go so far as to say she's impressed by the harper, but perhaps it's a promising start. The use of the word 'loathe' has Tamsin making a sound that could be a balk or a strangled laugh, her jaw dropping briefly and giving him a look that suggests he's said something outrageous in the mundane. "I just didn't feel like hunting today, and he prefers not to hunt alone." She tries to make it sound light and does a passable job, but there might be something beneath it. She doesn't linger, though, saying, "I can imagine being a Journeyman does that. You have the chance to know places better than we that just visit. Have any favorites?"

Quint makes a sound in response to that, like he's considering the bond between rider and dragon for a moment, though like as not it's just a habitual response to indicate his interest in the conversation at hand without quite responding. "I went hunting down Honshu way once, though I'll admit, my skills are stronger with a gitar than a bow." Her latter question earns a twitch of lips: "I have more than a passing fondness for Ista Weyr, and Southern Boll Hold will always have a place in my heart," the harper confesses, although the latter is given a slightly different emphasis. "Are you High Reaches born and bred?"

"If you fancy trying your hand at it again," Tamsin replies, smile wry and tone dry, "I don't think it would even take a 'please' or 'thank you' to convince Tyth to take you along." The glance she makes back toward the dragon holds a deep fondness and then there's laughter as he snorts and plunges his head under the water as commentary. "Is gitar your specialty?" The rider's inquiry is made as she turns her head back toward the man. "I like Southern Boll more than a little. I'd even take it over Southern if someone else didn't have such a preference for places with a lot of prey that no one will fuss about getting devoured." She makes it sound like that's such an unreasonable thing, but there's a twinkle in her eyes as she smiles that proves the sentiment mock. The last holds more sobriety and tenderness, "I'm from a small Hold in Tillek sweep, but I've been at the Weyr long enough to call it the home in my heart."

"I appreciate the offer," the harper responds, with a nod of thanks to dragon as much as rider, hands unclasping to spread for a moment, "But I'm afraid I prefer pasttimes I excel at. Playing to a crowd of dancing, happy people is much more my thing." The query of his specialty has Quint shaking his head: "Teaching, actually," he admits with as much pride as any rider might convey talking about their dragon. "Mm, Tillek. I do hope to get a posting there one day. I think I'd like to try my hand at sailing -- enough though admittedly I imagine it's ''far'' too late to change crafts, should I develop a love for that, too." He's chuckling at the thought, glancing away towards the Weyr proper.

"Sailing ''is'' delightful," Tamsin willingly confirms for him, "though my brothers were always a better hand at the actual sailing than I was. I was mostly good at lounging in the prow. It's not quite as delightful as dancing, but less taxing of the body." There's a grin for that, but then she hones in on what might be the more important topic. "''Teaching''." The word holds invitation, but there are questions, too, "Do you find it's different to teach in different places? Was it something you always wanted to do--uh...?" There's the obvious moment when she realizes they haven't even exchanged names and she's peppering him with questions. There's an embarrassed flush barely visible in the evening light.

The harper nods thoughtfully. "Good to know," he says, with an easy grin. "Something to look forward to -- though I might leave the ''lounging'' until I'm more of an expert," is added with a low laugh. Quint, for his part, seems entirely unflustered by the lack of exchanged names. Perhaps he's used to it -- or perhaps it doesn't bother him as much. "We do try to regulate teaching as much as possible across Pern, but there are subtle differences, depending on the senior harper, who the leaders are, and sometimes even the weather. Napping throughout the noonday heat at Ista wasn't so bad an adaption," the harper reflects, with a smile. "I didn't always want to be a teacher, no. Did you always want to be a rider?" he counters, with a tip of head.

"Or until you've found someone to do the sailing for you," Tamsin suggests, though she allows with a fluttery sigh, "though I suppose that might defeat the point of having learned to do it yourself." There's a beat before she adds, "I'm Tamsin, by the way," just in case he'd like to offer a name in return after all. "And Faranth, no. ''I'' was going to be a shining example of a Holder's daughter. Married with a bevy of babies by now, surely. I just wanted a story to take home, to take to my ordinary life. Got more than I bargained for," she nods back toward Tyth. "What did you want to be before you became a teacher?"

"True, though that would defeat the purpose of finding the joy of doing it yourself," Quint observes ruefully. "Quintus," he replies, with barely a missed beat, nodding in turn as she offers her name. "Ah. Not so bad a life -- one many aspire to and achieve both." The answer for the latter is blithely given: "Me? Mm. Let's see. A healer, a lord holder, a baker, a sailor -- once even a gambler, when I thought that would be particularly attractive to the opposite sex."

There's laughter from Tamsin as Quintus provides the list, a light happy laughter that leaves her smiling in its wake. "Sounds like you lacked an imagination as a child," holds no truth whatsoever and much delight. "I never thought of being a Holder's wife as a bad life. This was all new," she gestures to the Weyr at large. "I hope the turn in your life has afforded you as much happiness and opportunity as mine has me. Even if it comes with some drawbacks. Like slaving over expanses of hide." That last comes with a little good-natured groan. "I'm needed," to that task, it would seem. "It was a pleasure, Quintus." She offers to the harper before she's twisting to take steps back toward her lifemate as he exits the water.

"You should have heard my plan for how I would become a lord holder," Quint replies, with a grin. "But all in all, I'm rather pleased with where I've ended up, the lack of sailing skills aside." He's well used to the abrupt exits of a rider tending to their dragons' needs; he doesn't even look that surprised. There's a lift of his hand by way of farewell, an easy, "And you, brownrider," before he continues his walk, hands clasping behind his back again as he does so.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs:I.O.U.

2016-08-06T04:24:52Z

Kaleidoscope: Created page with "{{Log | who = Odrick, Tamsin | where = Inner Caverns, | what = Odrick and Tamsin share misunderstandings and apologies. | involves =High Reaches Weyr | day =13 | month = 6 | t..."

{{Log
| who = Odrick, Tamsin
| where = Inner Caverns,
| what = Odrick and Tamsin share misunderstandings and apologies.
| involves =High Reaches Weyr
| day =13
| month = 6
| turn = 41
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2016.08.02
| quote = "There's nothing that any of my students could say to make me feel foolish."
| weather =
| mentions = Clefin, F'manis, K'del, Sian
| ooc = Slightly backdated.
| icons = odrick.jpg, tamsin.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| st =
| log = She looks out of place, or rather, as out of place as anyone can look in a place as diverse as the Weyr. If one were to erase the surroundings of the inner caverns just after lunch, with its swells of activity and bouts of quiet, one might place her better in the pretty little sitting room of a Hold, holding a book or plying some ribbons onto a hat. Tamsin's dress is ''nice''. It's not ''gather'' nice, but it's feminine and a little on the fanciful side, in a combination of coral and peach that hangs over her legs and has a feminine shape to its covering bust. Her dark eyes take in the comings and goings as she sits primly in a chair that's seen a fair share of use, the choice of seat only serving to make the woman look more out of place despite the way that her expression says she's entirely at home sitting here, sipping her tea.

Holders are people with whom Odrick is rather familiar, and perhaps it's that vibe coming from Tamsin that attracts his attention toward her. Then again, it could just be that she's a pretty woman sitting out where people can see her. Either way, the harper is watching her watch the comings and goings from a short distance down the caverns.

Tamsin might've gone on setting just there, only at some point she peeks into her cup and a fluttery sigh leaves her before she pushes herself up off the chair with her free hand and makes her way toward a pitcher on the waist-high shelf made for drink storage. Perhaps she brought it in anticipation of wanting more or maybe someone thought to make a communal pot and leave it for those with a thirst. It's on her way back from refreshing her cup that she espies the Harper and changes course, the dress' movement giving her a gracefulness that she might not truly own in trousers. "May I join you?" is friendly inquiry.

Odrick continues watching her, academically shameless. He doesn't look away when she spies him; he's not embarrassed at having been caught. "Please do," is the harper's answer, given along with a friendly smile. "That's an eye-catching dress you have. It's very nice." His gaze is focused on it for a few more moments, then he remembers himself, and introduces, "Journeyman Harper Odrick."

"Thank you," is probably both for his reception and the compliment to her attire. "More importantly, it's quite comfortable. If I thought it would suit your figure, I'd be glad to lend it, but-" Tamsin's gesture takes in the whole of him as if the rest should be obvious and sighs a little more dramatically than strictly necessary. Her dimples show when she smiles and offers her hand, "Well met, Journeyman, I'm Tamsin. Wingrider Tamsin if you'd prefer to be perfectly proper about it, though I find propriety often cumbersome in a Weyr, don't you?" All this in just two or three breaths as she's sitting down next to him, though she cheats her body to face him for ease of conversation.

"Tamsin," repeats the harper, thoughtfully approving, and still smiling at her almost offer to lend him the dress. "I think ''perfectly'' proper would require a bit more information than that, but I'm perfectly fine with foregoing propriety," Odrick says, accepting her hand for a brief, friendly clasp. "I prefer to get to know people more personally than all that tends to encourage."

"''More''," Tamsin pretends to be taken aback, her brows lifting quite high. "You mean like... Tamsin, daughter of Clefin and Sian of Briny Crag Hold in Tillek, lifemate of brown Tyth, wingrider in Taiga Wing at High Reaches Weyr. That sort of ''more''?" There's something teasing in her smile as it ghosts back into being after her moment of pretended horror. "And what sort of ''more'' would you add to your title? Your specialty? Your parents? Your wife, children, notable accomplishments?" Paired with the on-going teasing is a shadow of genuine curiosity, something ''real'' in the look of her eyes over the edge of her teacup as it's brought to her lips.

"That sort of more," Odrick agrees. "Although I'm not sure claiming your parents is necessary now." What with the dragon and all, teasing back. "I don't think there's much of interest there. I help teach the children. I enjoy it." Somewhat anticlimactic, perhaps, but he's kind of that sort of guy at the end of the day, isn't he? "Which wing is Taiga? The one with the crafters?"

"No, probably not, but I'm sure they'd like me to and if it doesn't harm me to do so..." Tamsin grins and shrugs. "Perhaps they'll have an inexplicable moment of pleasure because I've done so. Who can say?" There are surely inexplicable things in the universe, after all. "If you're helping teach the children ''here'', you might do well to learn which wing is which," the brownrider suggests, but it comes with a gentle smile. "After all, many of the wingriders are your pupil's parents. Taiga is F'manis' wing, though it might be more famous for K'del's long time role in it. There was a time when he was both Weyrleader and our wingsecond." There's some measure of good humor for that tidbit. "Tundra is the crafter wing."

"I'm not here to teach them about the Weyr. I have no interest in teaching them about the Weyr, and the Weyr knows itself much better than I ever will. I teach them things they need to know no matter where they end up in their lives. Arithmetic, reading, writing, critical thinking." Odrick is eyeing the woman somewhat more curiously, though, like he's not sure what to make of her now.

"So you'd like one of them to be able to make you look foolish if talk turns toward Weyr matters?" Tamsin seems to find this curious and she leans toward the harper, examining his face. "You have a love of teaching but not learning?" As she asks this, her curiosity is nearly palpable - ''avid'' even.

"There's nothing that any of my students could say to make me feel foolish." And nothing she could say, either, judging by how Odrick seems baffled more than anything by her assumptions. "I assure you that children under ten don't often care about the intricacies of which wing does what and why. You were under ten at some point, yes?"

"I was, but not here. I cared that my parents were from Briny Crag. That I was proud of them for being who they were. I can't imagine it's so different for the children here. They might not ''understand'' what it is their parents really do, beyond the care of their lifemate which is, by necessity often part of their lives, if the parent is raising the child, but children like to be able to say, 'My mother is so-and-so, she flies with Glacier.' Or whichever. In any case, I'm glad you like teaching them. It would be dreadful, I imagine, to hate it and have to." Tamsin sits back, eyeing him with some of that continued curiosity, but in a less pressing sort of manner.

"A child doesn't need a ''harper'' to teach them which wing their parents fly in. But if you don't approve of the curriculum, I'd suggest you bring it up with someone more important than myself." Anyone, evidently, since Odrick is starting to rise to his feet now, reaching for the bag that had been leaning against the far side of his seat. "If you'll excuse me, I suppose I ought to go learn all about your wings now." She must have struck a nerve. He's almost certainly not going to go immediately learn about High Reaches' wings.

"As if anyone would listen to me about something like that," Tamsin replies with a breezy sigh only to realize he's getting up to go and she's up onto her feet. "Oh, I'm sorry," and she does sound it. She's even reaching her free hand toward his forearm intending a light brush that might be meant to communicate the genuineness of that. "Please, Harper Odrick, don't go. I didn't mean-" She bites her lower lip a moment, cheeks flushing an embarrassed shade of pink (it nearly matches her dress!). "I really am sorry. I just-- I love my wing. I love what I do for a living. I guess it's-- I shouldn't have pushed you." She's risen to her tiptoes unconsciously for a moment before rocking back on her heels and twisting to put the cup down on a convenient table. "Can I make it up to you?"

Odrick allows the contact, given that it's brief, but his expression is tense, unhappy. "I don't see how telling someone they're not doing a proper job, of which you have little professional knowledge, is supposed to be defended by suggesting that you simply love your job more than they do. Perhaps I should suggest that you teach your dragons everything a person ought to know and give them the chance to pick their own craft, rather than expecting them to do the work they do." For now, at least, he hasn't stormed off, even if he hasn't answered her last.

"Not ''more''," Tamsin's tone is still steeped in true contrition. "I never meant to imply that I loved my job more than you do yours." She draws a quick breath, "I was just trying to explain why I pushed. I shouldn't have," she reiterates that much, "but it seemed like the wings are interchangeable to you and being a part or Taiga- ''specifically'' Taiga- is so much a part of how I identify myself..." The brunette struggles to explain but doesn't give up. "It would be like me saying harpers who teach children are just the same as those who dedicate their lives to the drum." She bites her lower lip again, briefly, still looking apologetic. "Explaining isn't excusing it and I ''am'' sorry." The matter of dragons is left alone.

"My not knowing the names of the wings by heart shouldn't imply that I think they're interchangeable. I wouldn't assume you're insulting my craft simply because you didn't realize I can't drum nearly as well as someone dedicated to them. I don't expect non-harpers to have a very nuanced knowledge of the Hall. And I certainly wouldn't want your Weyrlingmasters to come and teach it to our apprentices." Odrick, now that he's said what he needed to say, takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry for losing my temper. I'm sure the Weyr appreciates your... loyalty."

Tamsin considers all of that, processing his words in silence. There's a slight press to her lips that ''might'' indicate disagreement with some of what's been expressed, but perhaps she appreciates the importance of needing to express it and for whatever reason, instead of voicing disagreement, she takes a moment to gather herself, rolling her shoulders into less of a hunch and standing like the lady she's probably supposed to be when she's wearing the sort of dress she is. "Can we start over then, do you think?" Since, presumably, they've accepted one another's apologies.

Since she doesn't continue to disagree with him, Odrick doesn't continue to disagree with her. "That seems possible," he offers amiably, glancing back at the seat he'd vacated, then moving to sit down in it again. "Tell me about your wing?" It's an opportunity for her to explain to him just how deeply her identity is tied to Taiga.

Tamsin hesitates, dark eyes searching his face. "Will you take an I.O.U.?" She asks, smile friendly. "Over drinks. Tyth is asking for an oiling and my wing is a topic I'd like to do justice to."

"Oh," says Odrick, looking up at Tamsin now that he's sitting down and trying to get comfortable again. There's very brief confusion in his expression before it's schooled away. It's probably a handy technique for a teacher to have. "Yeah. Sure, that's fine. Another time, then."

"I'll find you," Tamsin's words hold promise. The smile she tries is both friendly and perhaps meant to be reassuring. She makes little time of whisking up her cup and making her way to where she can deposit it to be cleaned before she's heading toward the nearest exit to the bowl.
}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Dragon:Tyth

2016-08-01T00:43:28Z

Kaleidoscope:

{{NorConDragon
|insta=Yes
|body===White Egg==
This is a white egg.

''The hatching is unspectacular, understated and more importantly, as stealthy as one can manage, when a lot of eyes are on the happenings on the Sands. The solid brown left in the shards of this egg is quick to give a full body shake to clear some of the goo before casting his gaze around the world that is so new to him.''

==Public Impression Message==
Hatched a few minutes earlier, the solid brown sent flying by his smaller blue brother's actions flails on the sands for a few moments before attempting to right himself. No one comes to his aid, but in the end, it scarcely matters: all it takes is an upwards glance, and then he's found his girl, a local woman who wraps her arms enthusiastically around him. With that, there are now no hatchlings left: everything is still.

==Private Impression Message==
The world went dark. Fear raged through her, warring with her resolve not to run, not to make herself prey for these dragons. She felt that fear trickle down her spine-- or maybe it was sweat? Only no, it felt cool now, blissfully cool, like descending to a creek winding through wild hills. Suddenly, somehow she was seeing both the Sands and the solid brown glancing at her and this other place that felt terrifyingly primal and yet perfectly natural at once. Then she was taking the few steps it took and without hesitation, embracing the adorable dragon, all the while her mind screamed at her to ignore the adorable and remember the big and scary. << Strangers in a strange land, >> she heard whispered on wind that made goosebumps rise across her skin. <> He sounded so sure, so for that moment, that was all there was to it.

}}

Logs:Casual Distractions

2016-07-31T04:34:26Z

Kaleidoscope: Created page with "{{Log | who = Tamsin, V'ret | where = Garden Patio Ledge, High Reaches Weyr | what = Tamsin and V'ret distract themselves. | involves =High Reaches Weyr | day =4 | month = 6 |..."

{{Log
| who = Tamsin, V'ret
| where = Garden Patio Ledge, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Tamsin and V'ret distract themselves.
| involves =High Reaches Weyr
| day =4
| month = 6
| turn = 41
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2016.07.30
| quote = "You can tell a lot about a person from how they carry themselves, what sorts of gestures they make, tone and volume. Or at least you can guess, which is really half the fun of judging a near-total stranger."
| weather =
| mentions = Anvori, Leova
| ooc =
| icons = V'ret default.jpg, tamsin.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| st =
| log = The Garden Patio Ledge is attracting a lot of attention this evening, with the spring air not too nippy and the sky clear after a rather drizzley day. There's the usual assortment of riders and weyrfolk, some in knots of friends and some drinking alone. Tamsin is settled at a table near the entrance to the interior of Snowasis, her fingers wrapped around a glass of red wine. Fingerless gloves in a deep maroon compliment the browns of her sweater and trousers, though the latter can't be seen immediately given her seating position. Her dark gaze lingers on a small group of Snowdrift riders, amusement playing across her soft lips as she watches one bluerider animatedly relate some story or another to his fellows. She's eavesdropping, without a doubt, but she doesn't look like the sort to mind getting caught in the act - she's making no effort not to be noticed by those riders or anyone else, looking at ease, just enjoying the night and her glass of wine under the light of the glows.

When V'ret wanders out onto the patio, it's with a beer in hand, and a blonde girl on his arm. So much familiar, except for it being the wrong girl, and the fact that he doesn't exactly seem charmed by her presence. They've come out for some air, but it quickly devolves into an accusation that he's not paying attention to what she's saying--which he isn't--and before long she's headed back in, in search of someone more appropriately attentive. And the bronzerider is left on the ledge with his drink, nursing it in a way that increasingly qualifies as brooding. He sits by himself, but as time passes he winds up watching a woman, while she's watching someone else, as though he's trying to pick out the stitching on her gloves from several tables away.

Tamsin isn't so consumed by the story being told for not-really-her benefit that she's oblivious to other happenings on the ledge. Her eyes drift more than once. She catches first a glimpse of the blonde on the bronzerider's arm, another look later takes in the accusation, her lips twitching a little in a mixture of amusement and sympathy, and at some point later V'ret's eyes on her gloves. She flexes her fingers a little on the glass, perhaps for his benefit, to see how the stitches move or maybe just to see if it's really her gloves he's looking at. After a few moments more, she slides off the bench she occupied and meanders with her still half-full (or half-empty, depending) and slips into a seat nearby. "Lovely evening," she offers, lips curling into a smile that holds some unshared humor, her eyes resettling on the Snowdrift riders from this new vantage.

When her hand moves like that, V'ret's gaze shifts away, though not in a particularly subtle kind of way. He can hardly be surprised when Tamsin joins him, but it doesn't provoke too much response when she sits down. A ghost of a smile where there was none before, maybe. "Lovely evening," he echoes, agreement. He glances past her to the bluerider, then back. "Pick up anything interesting, there?" More than a ghost, for just a second, but he has some difficulty with sustaining it.

"There's always ''something'' interesting." The first remark holds humor mingling with a little air of mystery before the brownrider sets her glass down and folds her arms on the tabletop, leaning just a little toward V'ret in conspiratorial fashion. Perhaps oddly, she doesn't look at him, not even once as she confides, "Mostly I was watching the way he speaks. You can tell a lot about a person from how they carry themselves, what sorts of gestures they make, tone and volume. Or at least you can guess, which is really half the fun of judging a near-total stranger." Dark eyes flick to him and she quirks a half-smile in V'ret's direction before reclaiming her glass and bringing it to her lips.

That comment does at least straighten V'ret's shoulders a little more, but not too much--some attempt made here not to look self-conscious. Even if he is self-conscious. "So, what would you guess about our near-total stranger, from what you've heard so far? What kind of fellow is he?" With the improvement in his posture, the smiles seem to come easier. Practiced. "Worth your time and attention?" Brows lift with the question.

Tamsin has an easy laugh, one that brightens up her whole face and crinkles the edge of her dark-lashed eyes attractively, but without fine lines that indicate an excess of age. It's the last question that earns her laughter and she awards V'ret a broad appreciative smile, "Oh, if people only gave their time and attention to those who were worthy of it, life might be very dull indeed, especially since one can hardly know who's deserving by observation alone." Still, she looks back to the young man. He's tall, not classically handsome but attractive enough when the animation of his stories occupy his expression so thoroughly. "I would say that he has eyes for that greenrider," she gestures to a petite brunette lounging near the group, but not a part of it, "but that he hasn't worked up the courage to speak with her. I'd guess he's not usually so verbose and loud, but that he's hoping something might pique her interest. He's been at it a while, so by now she probably thinks he's adorable and she's playing it cool or she's dismissed him a blowhard. It's hard to say. Her body language is more subtle." So it's not ''just'' the young man that Tamsin's been observing. "What would you say? Does he have a shot with her?"

Through all this, V'ret keeps glancing, with some obvious skepticism, off in the direction of the bluerider, his friends, this greenrider. When Tamsin asks his thoughts on the matter, he shakes his head, rolls his shoulders into a shrug and sits back with his glass in both hands. "She's a greenrider. If she hasn't got her eye on someone else at the moment, I'd give him good odds." There's an unpleasant sort of undertone, there, but only an undertone, and he might not even be wholly aware of it.

If Tamsin has noticed the undertone, it doesn't show on her face; she's busy giving that greenrider a speculative glance. "I suppose that could be said of many riders. Dragons aren't exactly a recipe for marital bliss, though I suppose some people make it work." Her head tips back a moment toward the establishment proper, "Anvori and Leova are an example. I've never ''heard'' horrible scandal about them, but that's not to say it doesn't happen and no one ever hears about it. Bartenders are ''very good'' at keeping secrets." She flicks a glance toward V'ret; might her face be familiar from his time behind this bar? It's possible. She's no stranger to the place. "I can only assume that bar ''owners'' are all the better for their turns and turns of experience."

"Never anything that I heard of," V'ret confirms, though he doesn't have any correction of his opinion of greenriders or whether Leova might be considered to be an exception--maybe his thoughts just aren't lingering there for long, as he studies Tamsin. "Anvori isn't a rider. Perhaps that has something to do with it. Some riders together do make it work, but I suspect they're the sorts for whom fidelity... isn't a particular priority." Nothing of secrets: his lips are sealed. "But that's putting the cart before the runner, seems to me. Whether they'll still be together when they're old is a very different question from whether she'll go home with him tonight."

"True!" Tamsin tips her glass a little toward him with a smile to concede him the point. "I can't say I don't understand the appeal of playing games," she murmurs as she watches the greenrider play it so cool (or be so cool in truth, perhaps). "There's something to be said for the entertainment of it, for the distraction, although sometimes it's more fun to be a spectator than a participant." She sips from her glass, coming slowly to the end of what she has. "I suspect the personality of the dragon or dragons involved might have something to do with it too. Some seem more supportive of long-term relationships. It can be somewhat difficult to sustain something if one's lifemate is indifferent, or against it." Her tone is one of rumination, perhaps this is just another kind of distraction for the brownrider.

"Does your dragon maintain an opinion on such things?" If she's going to ruminate on it, V'ret will indulge it. It lands them on conversationally safer ground, allows him to relax more into his chair, into working on his drink. "I have a difficult time imagining Zoth taking much of an interest." This is not strictly true. It's not even vaguely true. But it allows him to maintain this as a purely theoretical discussion, and not one related to his own personal life.

"Hmm," is not so much a thoughtful noise as a drawn out sound while Tamsin finds the words she wants. "Tyth is not made to be a loner so he doesn't see why I ought to be on my own either, but he has standards for what sort of people I ought to be involved with. He can make things difficult if he takes a substantial dislike toward someone I'm fond of, but he tends to have good instincts so... we always work it out. "What is Zoth like?" holds real curiosity, but no press, no intention to pry.

Good instincts. It's somewhere around there that V'ret's attention drifts off towards the bowl. Somewhere. The whole thing about it being evening is that the light is poor, but he does seem to be looking in a particular direction, not just off into the vague distance. "You're fortunate, I would think. If he can steer you well. Zoth is... unfortunately sometimes greedy with my attention. I'm afraid," and here V'ret is rising, draining the rest of his glass, "that I'd better be off. Nice to see you." Still casual enough about it.

''Tyth'' may be a good judge of character, but Tamsin may be shrewd in her own way. It's as he rises and offers that casual farewell that the brownrider reaches out one of her fingerless gloved hands to touch his forearm lightly, briefly, to draw his attention back, "I don't know what's bothering you," it's quiet and quick and probably has nothing to do with ''this'' moment, "but if you ever want company to find some distraction..." He has but to ask, evidently. The offer doesn't, though, sound like the same kind of distraction the blonde might have offered if only V'ret had bothered paying attention to her instead of brooding. Tamsin has a flash of a soft, genuine smile for the bronzerider but her eyes are quickly drifting back to the Snowdrift riders, apparently wholly unbothered, herself, by being left there to the distractions the Garden Patio Ledge has to offer.

"If you're looking for a good time..." V'ret gives her a long look, almost critical, like he's tallying up her physical imperfections but also the charms, and then he puts the hand over hers. A brush of thumb on the wool; maybe he really was just looking at them, earlier? "You can do a lot better." Having settled on that, he pulls away from her, leaving his glass on the table to take the steps down into the bowl.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Dragon:Tyth

2016-07-31T04:31:07Z

Kaleidoscope:

{{NorConDragon
|insta=Yes
|body=
==Public Impression Message==
Hatched a few minutes earlier, the solid brown sent flying by his smaller blue brother's actions flails on the sands for a few moments before attempting to right himself. No one comes to his aid, but in the end, it scarcely matters: all it takes is an upwards glance, and then he's found his girl, a local woman who wraps her arms enthusiastically around him. With that, there are now no hatchlings left: everything is still.

==Private Impression Message==
The world went dark. Fear raged through her, warring with her resolve not to run, not to make herself prey for these dragons. She felt that fear trickle down her spine-- or maybe it was sweat? Only no, it felt cool now, blissfully cool, like descending to a creek winding through wild hills. Suddenly, somehow she was seeing both the Sands and the solid brown glancing at her and this other place that felt terrifyingly primal and yet perfectly natural at once. Then she was taking the few steps it took and without hesitation, embracing the adorable dragon, all the while her mind screamed at her to ignore the adorable and remember the big and scary. << Strangers in a strange land, >> she heard whispered on wind that made goosebumps rise across her skin. <> He sounded so sure, so for that moment, that was all there was to it.

}}

Logs:Troublesome Tamsin

2016-07-30T05:57:03Z

Kaleidoscope:

{{Log
| who = Bekah, Clefin, Iothan, S'faeo, Sian, Tamsin
| where = Briny Crag Hold and High Reaches Weyr
| what = How holder's daughter, Tamsin, became a dragonrider.
| involves =High Reaches Weyr
| day =8
| month = 12
| turn = 28
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom = Roughly Day 1, Month 10, Turn 28 to Day 8, Month 12, Turn 28
| gamedate = 2016.07.29
| quote = ... she felt ''tiny''.
| weather =
| mentions = Azaylia, Brieli, Iolene, Jocelyn
| ooc = Tamsin Impressed in [[Clutch:43]].
| icons = tamsin.jpg, tamsin tyth.jpg
| type = Vignette
| desc =
| st =
| log =
"You ''can't'', Tamsin!" Bekah sounded scandalized.

''Good'', Tamsin thought, hiding her too pleased smile behind a shirt that she held up between them for inspection and judgement. That's just how she wanted her friends at Briny Crag Hold.

"I can, I ''will''," she claimed with a haughty twist to her looks, calculated for magnifying the effect of the horror Bekah already felt for her intended undertaking. Bekah obliged, as she always did, buying into every one of Tamsin's plays and maneuvers. Tamsin realized that as they got older, there would be far more challenging people to manipulate, to impress. That's part of why she had to do this, now. Who else in her circles would be able to claim that they, brazenly, went to the Weyr in search of Search, who Stood - if she managed to catch a dragon's eye. She'd heard that's how things were done.

"Your parents will never allow it," Bekah tried, but her voice warbled with warranted uncertainty.

"Oh, tch," Tamsin dismissed folding the shirt haplessly over itself and tossing it into a pile on the bed - a servant would come fold and pack her things soon enough, and put away all that she'd chosen not to take. "My parents will give me anything I want, with the right motivation," she turned away before Bekah could catch the bitterness in her expression.

Her parents spoiled her. She was the only daughter among enough brothers that she often pretended she couldn't remember all their names. It's not that her brothers couldn't make advantageous matches, but none as advantageous as she. She could be some Holder's lady, where the brothers that weren't to inherit at Briny Crag could only offer a good home and decent living to some daughter of a neighboring hold. There wasn't expectation for a great match from them in the same way there was of Tamsin.

Sian, Tamsin's mother, had less sympathy, but probably, Tamsin thought, because Sian seemed genuinely happy with her father, Holder Clefin. Not ''blissfully'' happy, not happy like the old Harper tales, but ''happy'', which was a far cry from some from what she'd heard about some of the other matches and Sian probably held out hope that Tamsin would end up ''reasonably'' content in whatever marriage she ended up in.

Her father, on the other hand... Tamsin never ''knew'' for certain, but she guessed that his guilt must have been the sort to keep a man up at night because he let her have just about anything she wanted. He'd drawn the line once, but just once, when she'd tried to convince them to let her keep a wild wherry as a pet.

She didn't really want the wherry (who would, when they're so bizarre and wild?), she just wanted to see how far she could push the line and get her way, at seven. Her father had forbade the wherry, but within a seven he'd given her a puppy to make up for it. She'd have liked it less, she felt sure, if she'd had to clean up after it. But she didn't. She wasn't given responsibility here beyond doing her lessons with her tutor and her mother, and she did those things - they were easy, so why not?

Asking to go to the Weyr, intending to get asked to Stand... this was a bit bigger than a pet wherry. Still, Tamsin thought she had the right argument. It would reflect well on the Hold, if the Holder's daughter did her duty to the Weyr, were she asked. And what were the chances, ''really''? There were always far more candidates left behind than those that were claimed by a dragon. And there had never been a dragonrider in her family - never, not even once (she'd checked the genealogy in preparation for the argument) - so truly, she was quite safe and she ''wanted'' this.

She wanted this thrilling story, to be in the land of savages - well, no, not quite savages, she reminded herself. She didn't really believe the stories about dragonmen snatching up unsuspecting girls and keeping them locked away in their Weyrs for turns on end until the girls were so deprived of other pleasures that they loved their captors better than themselves and let themselves be placed on the Sands for clutch after clutch, just to see if a dragon would fancy them.

''Still'', she had heard some stories she did believe: communal bathing - men and women ''together'', women of loose morals who didn't even bother to collect money for time spent in their bed, and men-- oh, la. She'd seen the dragonmen a time or two when she accompanied her parents to one of the larger Holds. What girl wouldn't swoon for just a moment of attention from any one of them? Not fourteen turn old Tamsin, she was thoroughly prepared to swoon!

"Tamsin, are you listening?" Bekah was giving her that ''look''. The one that meant she'd probably been making an impassioned speech as to why Tamsin should give up on her plan while Tamsin had been thinking of dreamy, dreamy dragonmen prepared to catch her deepest swoon.

Tamsin blinked at Bekah and then with a drawn out sigh, she stepped daintily to sit beside her best-friend in all the world, taking up her hand and interlacing their fingers, "I know you're worried about me, Bekah," she sidestepped the question neatly and infused her tone with just the right amount of tenderness - it wasn't difficult as she really ''did'' care for Bekah (though Tamsin wasn't the least surprised that her own well-being would be such a concern; it was for most people in the Hold).

"Perhaps there won't even be a dragon who pays me the least mind once I get to the Weyr." Tamsin affected a light tone, "And I'm sure Rupert or Patrick or whichever one of my brothers-- maybe whatshisname, or thatotherone, whichever one will be going with me will take good care of me." She smiled at her friend, a sunny, reassuring look she'd practiced in the mirror for just such occasions - the occasions when an idea was questionable at best but when she didn't want anyone to stand in her way of going through with it anyway.

Bekah chewed her lip, on the edge of being convinced. Tamsin thought of putting forth the effort to tip her into acceptance, but she really didn't ''need'' Bekah's support, so instead, she changed the subject, "Let's go see if Cookie has cooked the dinner rolls yet." With a squeeze to Bekah's hand, Tamsin rose and tugged her along out the door.
----

"Clefin, you can't let her do this," Sian's tone was firm, even muffled as it naturally was by the door that separated the conversation in progress from where Tamsin pressed her ear to the wood.

"Sian," her father began. His tone was not nearly so firm as his wife's but Tamsin could tell by the particular timbre of his resignation that he was resigned to arguing on ''Tamsin's'' side. She nearly stepped away from the door to do a giddy dance for that much triumph. It wasn't the first time she'd pitted parent against parent, and she doubted it would be the last, but having one of them on her side meant that she had a ''real'' chance with this.

"It's mad!" Tamsin could imagine one of her mother's (rare) heated glares landing squarely on her husband.

"It's childish," her father replied. Tamsin didn't like that much, but she'd forgive him because he said next, "Sian, her whole future is decided. In another turn we'll announce her betrothal, another turn after that, she'll be married and gone from our care forever."

''Betrothal''. The word pitched Tamsin's heart into her throat. She hadn't heard a ''whisper'' about anything spoken of, let alone ''settled'' in the way it sounded.

She pressed her face to the wood, listening to nothing for some moments before her mother's voice came, "And what if she does end up with one of those beasts? It's not like a puppy. The servants can't just care for it, she can't keep it in a shed outside. It's too big a risk."

"Sian, there's never been a dragonrider in our family. There's no reason to think the Weyr would have any interest in our girl, even if she does go up there and traipse about in front of the dragons like a delectable meal. Iothan will keep her safe." His tone was soothing and Tamsin could imagine him wrapping his arms around her mother - wishing that he would step out into the hall and wrap his arms around her, to give her comfort and a feeling of safety when it felt like her world had slipped out from under her at that one word, betrothal. It wasn't that she didn't know it was coming, and likely too soon, but she wasn't prepared for it ''now''.

Iothan being named as her escort was at least a little bit of luck. He was not so much older than she and he would be more interested in seeing what the Weyr had to offer in the way of loose women to mind much what she was going to be doing there. Hearing the word "betrothal," so settled, so ''near'' had lit a new fire within her. She was going to get Searched if it was the last thing she did. She was going to get Searched if she had to make herself look entirely ridiculous to do it. She was resolved. It didn't sound like she was going to miss anything she didn't want to miss if she crept away now, so she did, already imagining the ways to get a dragon's attention.
----

Well, the Weyr wasn't at ''all'' what Tamsin expected.

First of all, they expected she and Iothan to ''work'' for the duration of their stay and the Headwoman's assistant hadn't seemed at all pleased that Iothan couldn't be more specific than "a seven or two" for their intended stay. He'd ''said'' that they'd come to visit a cousin, and that had been accepted, though Tamsin doubted the Headwoman's assistant had believed them, but since they were willing to work, she'd given them beds in the residents' cavern for the time being. Tamsin wondered how many young people showed up to visit distant relations when eggs were on the Sands

Secondly, not nearly as many dragonriders were devastatingly good looking as she had thought when you saw them up close. One of the women even looked like her Great Aunt Gerda, and ''no one'' would ever want to look like Great Aunt Gerda and no one in the whole history of Pern would feel the least bit faint let alone swoon by casting an eye on Great Aunt Gerda. So there was a great deal less swooning to be done and after her first night in the living cavern for dinner, she'd concluded that probably a great deal of these dragonmen and their support people (that's what the rest of them were, right? She thought so, and thinking so was enough to make it fact,) were as boring and empty headed as any old holder.

Thirdly, even though she'd told the Headwoman's assistant that she liked to work outdoors, she was finding that she was expected to actually ''work'' when she was outdoors, rather than just make eyes at the passing dragons. It had been nearly a seven and a half and none had given her the least bit of notice. And ''today'', she wasn't even outdoors, wasn't even where the dragons would be able to see her hard at work for the good of their Weyr (she liked to think that would be something that would impress them).

Today, Tamsin was stuck in the greenhouse, working with the gross decay, turning it, they said. ''She'' thought they probably just liked to see a nice holder girl get up to her elbows in muck. The laughter was in her head, until it wasn't. There was a bonny haired young man, only a handful of turns older than herself, looking ridiculous in flight leathers that had clearly been made to handle another growth spurt or two, and with the most ludicrous collection of facial hairs doing their best to imitate a moustache and goatee, and ''he'' was laughing, at ''her''.

"Oh, shove off," Tamsin glared in her best impression of her mother. "Can't you see I'm working here?"

"Is that what you call it?" The young man asked when he could speak.

"What would ''you'' call it?"

"Doing it wrong," came back to her just as quickly.

Tamsin stared at him in open disbelief. "There's a ''wrong'' way to stir shit?"

"Oh, come on, it's only a little bit shit." He shrugged out of his jacket and started rolling up his sleeves as he added, "It's mostly just vegetable and fruit scraps. Some egg shells, maybe." He stepped up beside her and reached his arms in alongside her own.

Tamsin drew back, not willing to surrender the compost bin to him - not willing to give him that much of a victory, but back enough that he wasn't only a breath from her own arms, her hands still submerged. She sideeyed him a long moment before allowing herself to take in the motion he was making with his own (well-muscled, her jerk of a mind made note for her) arms were making. She stiffened as she realized the difference it made: his effective motions versus... her well, ''not''.

Her lips settled into a pucker of distaste. It made him laugh which only deepened her resentment. She gave him what she hoped was a scalding look - she hadn't had much cause to practice those except on her brothers and it never worked on them anyway. It made him laugh harder. "Well, if you're so good at it," Tamsin said only barely remembering not to reach up and fluff her hair as she pulled her hands free of the ''stuff'', "why don't you just keep on? It seems like you have time on your hands." She flashed him a dazzling smile.

She should have known that he would just laugh. She wanted to slap that laughing smile right off his stupid face, the dirty hands would just be a bonus.

"You don't know how to accept help, do you," it wasn't really a question. "And here I thought Hold girls were supposed to be full of gracious grace or something." He quirked a challenging brow.

"I accept help with graceful gratitude all the time. I'm just not used to ''gentlemen'' being unwilling to really help a lady," Tamsin sniffed and then wished she hadn't, forced to recognize the irony of calling herself a lady... with shit on her hands.

She thought he'd laugh, but this time he just grinned. "I'm helping you a lot more by teaching you how to do it right than I would be for doing your work for you. No one gets a free ride at a Weyr, you know, and if you intend to stay, you don't want to be on the management's shit list." He glanced down and then grinned wider at his own cleverness.

Tamsin looked at her hands. She could leave a nice, ''big'' splotch on his cheek, she could-- "What do you mean if I intend to stay? Why would I want to stay?" Tamsin demanded (nevermind that that was just exactly why she came, to stay, at least until the eggs hatched.

When he reached up and scratched the side of his jaw with one of his own dirty fingers, slapping him lost all its appeal. Well, almost all. Tamsin sighed and stuck her hands back in, doing her best to mimic the motions he'd shown her. "You know about how people end up dragonriders?"

Tamsin balked silently, pausing to level another look at him. She wouldn't dignify that with a response.

The look made the dragonman grin. Dragon''boy'' Tamsin thought, nearly hatefully. It's like he was here just to vex her.

His, "Okay, maybe that wasn't giving you enough credit," was slightly mollifying. "Anyway, there are eggs on the Sands. So in a few months there'll be a hatching. If you wanted, you could stay and be a candidate, although," he scratched his jaw again, leaving another streak, "you'll probably have to learn to deal with shit a lot better than you can now, especially if you end up Impressing."

Tamsin didn't realized she'd started staring at him, jaw agape, but found herself to be so when he finished speaking, his look turning a little sheepish in the silent moments that followed.

"That... It was... I'm offering you the chance to Stand for the clutch here." The dragonman straightened, though he still looked a little awkward and fidgeted as she stared at him.

"Doesn't a dragon make those kinds of decisions?" Tamsin bit out the first thought she managed to form to give herself time to have a few more.

"Uh, well," the young man looked briefly abashed and cleared his throat, making gesture to the panes of glass and Tamsin felt a blush flood her cheeks when she realized there was a green close enough to the ledge the greenhouse was made from to be looking in the windows with some interest. "She wanted me to come in. To see about you."

When Tamsin turned her shocked regard on the young man she saw that he at least had the decency to flush along with her. "Oh," was all Tamsin could think to say.

"Yeah," he said, lamely, after a moment.

"Well." Tamsin went on, her mind still blank.

"Well?"

Tamsin looked at the young man who still looked so much like a caricature of what a dragonman ought to be. This wasn't anything like she imagined, but... It was a chance. ''The'' chance. She still didn't have interest in being a dragonman and, ''of course'', she would change a lot of the details of the real story to suit her when she went back home, but she'd have had the knot so no one back home could call her a liar.

"I'll do it."

"You will?" When the dragonman's smile broke, it actually made him look-- well, just a little bit swoon-worthy. "You'll be our first candidate." He gestured to the dragon, his look turning to one of pride.

"Will I?" Tamsin couldn't help returning such a nice smile with an unexpectedly real and gleeful one of her own.

He nodded, grinning. "I'll, uh, walk you over to the Headwoman's office, then, to get your knot?"

Tamsin looked down at her hands, "Maybe by way of somewhere to wash our hands?"

"The bathing cavern's on the way." He said it without thinking and it renewed her blush.

To distract herself, she began to brush the dirt off her arms, and inquired in her most ladylike manner, "Do I get to know the name of my escort and-- his excellent lady?" She glanced toward the window.

The question, the manner, ''something'' defused the building tension and the rider grinned. "S'faeo. And that's Leazanth."

Tamsin smiled, and extended a dirty hand, "I'm Tamsin."

His smug, "I know," almost made her return to her original desire to slap him, but she managed to only clasp his hand. She was unprepared when the clasp turned into a tug, "Come on."

And so they went.
----

Candidacy was more annoying than hard. A lot more of that ''work'' that one was expected to do, but at least she hadn't had to be the one to break the news of her candidacy to her parents - that became Iothan's job. She did half-expect her parents to show up and demand she come home, but the day didn't come. Instead, her private room at home remained vacant while she enjoyed the hospitality of the Weyr.

The barracks was much noisier than the private room that waited for her back at home, but it did have the advantage of a ready abundance of possible friends. The most noteworthy of these was an awkward redhead from High Reaches. Tamsin found her curious because she didn't come with her pre-established friendships and was, therefore, just as much in need of friends as Tamsin herself. There was nothing ''wrong'' with her, not really, but she wasn't taking advantage of her best qualities to make those friendships that last a lifetime. Tamsin, in the very least, was a people kind of person and could show her the ropes. Or thought she could, anyway.

She might have gotten discouraged by the whole experience, even with Jocelyn and some others to count among her (new) close friends and confidants, but reminding herself that ''this'' was her big adventure and that she could fancy up the story as she liked once she was back home got her through each day. She'd never ached so much in her life.

Though the bathing pools here weren't private, they ''were'' hot enough to ease sore muscles and enjoy a thorough soaking. Determined not to let the weyrfolk scare her into appallingly holderly behavior, she took ample advantage of the pools during her candidacy. She was relaxing, trying not to think of the eggs that were, it was said, going to hatch ''imminently'' when a not-really-familiar, "Hey," interrupted her not-really-private luxuriating.

Tamsin opened her eyes to find herself staring into S'faeo's clean-shaven face. It made him look older, oddly (and, her mind made note, more swoon-worthy). Though she flushed immediately at his proximity in this-- well, they were both naked, and-- Well, Tamsin refused to be made uncomfortable, so squaring her shoulders a little (and sinking a little further down in the water) she greeted him civilly, "S'faeo."

"I just wanted to say good luck. Well, we did. Leazanth and I." S'faeo was a little flustered, but Tamsin doubted it was because of the setting. "We bet on you."

Tamsin had been about to quip something witty to his wish for luck, but that last-- that had guilt suddenly crashing into her chest and she, just as suddenly, found it hard to breathe. She stared at him until his grin faltered.

She didn't realize she had tears in her eyes until he reached, awkwardly, to brush one away. "I'm sorry," she murmured, sniffing and stepping back.

"What's wrong?"

"You shouldn't have bet on me." The fact that S'faeo's voice held genuine concern for Tamsin's well-being only made her feel worse. "I'm sorry, S'faeo. I'll pay you back the marks if you tell me how much it was."

"Tamsin," S'faeo sounded confused and he reached to brush away another tear, "What're you going on about?"

"I'm sorry, S'faeo," came her hollow whisper and then the words poured out of her: how she wasn't going to Impress, how she only came so she could say she'd done it, how in just a few more days she'd be going home and he'd be out those marks because, for whatever silly reason, he decided to have placed undue faith in her.

And he ''laughed''. She didn't slap him, but she did splash him, which made him laugh harder.

She was so busy trying to stop crying that she didn't really notice he stepped closer, didn't notice his hands until they were on her shoulders. It wasn't until he breathlessly said her name that she really looked at him and then froze from the intimacy of their proximity. She couldn't recall, at that moment anyway, ever having been so close to a boy that wasn't one of her brothers.

"Tamsin," he said again, with just a little shake to her shoulders, "You don't know what will happen on those hatching sands anymore than I do. If I lose my marks, I lose my marks. No one ever knows."

"But there's never been a dragonrider from my family," she protested.

"That doesn't mean anything. Leazanth saw something in you, Tamsin." S'faeo studied her a long moment, "Tams," (no one called her 'Tams') "If this isn't something you want, you need to go turn your knot in ''right now''. Because if you step out on the Sands, no one can change what happens out there."

"But it does mean something," Tamsin clung to the arguments so long rehearsed. "You'll see, and then you'll be out the marks."

"Tams," was not quite pitying, but it wasn't a tone she liked either. Patronizing, tolerant, or ''something''. She reached up and pushed his wrists with her own, neatly detaching his hands from her shoulders and took a step back.

"You'll see I was right in the end." Tamsin was pleased that she managed to sound calm even if this conversation shook her much more than any others she'd had about dragonriding through the course of candidacy. With every other conversation, she was developing a wild fantasy, a world that would never exist where she was Dragonrider Tamsin, with some beautiful lifemate, lithe and ''perfect''. It was a dream, not one she wanted to have come true, but a dream nonetheless.

Right now, she just wanted to run for the nearest dragon and go home, to hide in her room until everything was over and this whole horrid experience could be put behind her.

The story might have had a very different ending if the hum of dragons hadn't resonated through the walls as she made her way back to the barracks.
---

People ''said'' hatchings happen fast. In long hindsight, Tamsin could entertain the idea that it ''had'' been fast, but at the time it seemed an eternity. It wasn't often that she felt small and young, even living in a place where some entries were made with dragonesque figures in mind, she hadn't stopped long enough to feel ''small'' after the first few days she'd been there. Standing on the hatching sands, bowing to dam and sire and filing into the semi-circle of others in white robes, many older than she, she felt ''tiny''.

There was little doubt from the moment she stepped onto the Sands that this was going to be one shell of a story to tell back home. She probably wouldn't even need to exaggerate anything. She was thinking on it when the first dragon spilled from its shell: a bronze. A bronze who found his lifemate with an Islander boy. She'd heard the gossip since being at the Weyr and wondered how much that would matter in his future. She didn't have long to wonder before other eggs were cracking and dragonets spilling onto the hot sands.

It was a blur from that point. She felt like a close-up spectator, trying to remember every moment so she could retell it one day, but with so much happening she never stood a chance. There was a green, pretty, and a gold: not. ''Then'' there was that brown haired girl telling another brown haired girl to get off the sands. Words about Ysavaeth, about the hatchling who was-- well, to her mind, frighteningly savage. She cringed back when the gold bugled, only too happy to take steps back and away and even more glad when the gold ended up lunging in any direction that wasn't hers.

She covered her mouth with a hand, eyes wide and horrified as the gold raked that big herder's midriff, and then her hand dropped away when she was left aghast that the very same creature that had savaged the woman also ''Impressed'' to her. Tamsin wound her arms around her young frame. She felt ill. She didn't belong here. She was too young, too afraid. Maybe she should walk off the Sands like the other girl had. But she knew her parents were in the galleries. She knew, too, that after she'd begged to be here, had willfully managed it all on her own, that she couldn't, ''wouldn't'' shame herself or her Hold by walking off before the last dragon broke shell.

Later, her parents would sob that that was her mistake. Tamsin would never be able to see it that way. She was frozen, with fear, with determination as the last shell cracked. All she had to do was to wait it out and it would all be over. All she had to do--

The world went dark. Fear raged through her, warring with her resolve not to run, not to make herself prey for these dragons. She felt that fear trickle down her spine-- or maybe it was sweat? Only no, it felt cool now, blissfully cool, like descending to a creek winding through wild hills. Suddenly, somehow she was seeing both the Sands and the solid brown glancing at her and this other place that felt terrifyingly primal and yet perfectly natural at once. Then she was taking the few steps it took and without hesitation, embracing the adorable dragon, all the while her mind screamed at her to ignore the adorable and remember the big and scary. << Strangers in a strange land, >> she heard whispered on wind that made goosebumps rise across her skin. <> He sounded so sure, so for that moment, that was all there was to it.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:Clutch_43_Logs]]
[[Category:Search_Logs]]

Logs:Troublesome Tamsin

2016-07-30T05:55:34Z

Kaleidoscope: Created page with "{{Log | who = Bekah, Clefin, Iothan, S'faeo, Sian, Tamsin | where = Briny Crag Hold and High Reaches Weyr | what = How holder's daughter Tamsin became a dragonrider. | involve..."

{{Log
| who = Bekah, Clefin, Iothan, S'faeo, Sian, Tamsin
| where = Briny Crag Hold and High Reaches Weyr
| what = How holder's daughter Tamsin became a dragonrider.
| involves =High Reaches Weyr
| day =8
| month = 12
| turn = 28
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom = Roughly Day 1, Month 10, Turn 28 to Day 8, Month 12, Turn 28
| gamedate = 2016.07.29
| quote = ... she felt ''tiny''.
| weather =
| mentions = Azaylia, Brieli, Iolene, Jocelyn
| ooc = Tamsin Impressed in [[Clutch:43]].
| icons = tamsin.jpg, tamsin tyth.jpg
| type = Vignette
| desc =
| st =
| log =
"You ''can't'', Tamsin!" Bekah sounded scandalized.

''Good'', Tamsin thought, hiding her too pleased smile behind a shirt that she held up between them for inspection and judgement. That's just how she wanted her friends at Briny Crag Hold.

"I can, I ''will''," she claimed with a haughty twist to her looks, calculated for magnifying the effect of the horror Bekah already felt for her intended undertaking. Bekah obliged, as she always did, buying into every one of Tamsin's plays and maneuvers. Tamsin realized that as they got older, there would be far more challenging people to manipulate, to impress. That's part of why she had to do this, now. Who else in her circles would be able to claim that they, brazenly, went to the Weyr in search of Search, who Stood - if she managed to catch a dragon's eye. She'd heard that's how things were done.

"Your parents will never allow it," Bekah tried, but her voice warbled with warranted uncertainty.

"Oh, tch," Tamsin dismissed folding the shirt haplessly over itself and tossing it into a pile on the bed - a servant would come fold and pack her things soon enough, and put away all that she'd chosen not to take. "My parents will give me anything I want, with the right motivation," she turned away before Bekah could catch the bitterness in her expression.

Her parents spoiled her. She was the only daughter among enough brothers that she often pretended she couldn't remember all their names. It's not that her brothers couldn't make advantageous matches, but none as advantageous as she. She could be some Holder's lady, where the brothers that weren't to inherit at Briny Crag could only offer a good home and decent living to some daughter of a neighboring hold. There wasn't expectation for a great match from them in the same way there was of Tamsin.

Sian, Tamsin's mother, had less sympathy, but probably, Tamsin thought, because Sian seemed genuinely happy with her father, Holder Clefin. Not ''blissfully'' happy, not happy like the old Harper tales, but ''happy'', which was a far cry from some from what she'd heard about some of the other matches and Sian probably held out hope that Tamsin would end up ''reasonably'' content in whatever marriage she ended up in.

Her father, on the other hand... Tamsin never ''knew'' for certain, but she guessed that his guilt must have been the sort to keep a man up at night because he let her have just about anything she wanted. He'd drawn the line once, but just once, when she'd tried to convince them to let her keep a wild wherry as a pet.

She didn't really want the wherry (who would, when they're so bizarre and wild?), she just wanted to see how far she could push the line and get her way, at seven. Her father had forbade the wherry, but within a seven he'd given her a puppy to make up for it. She'd have liked it less, she felt sure, if she'd had to clean up after it. But she didn't. She wasn't given responsibility here beyond doing her lessons with her tutor and her mother, and she did those things - they were easy, so why not?

Asking to go to the Weyr, intending to get asked to Stand... this was a bit bigger than a pet wherry. Still, Tamsin thought she had the right argument. It would reflect well on the Hold, if the Holder's daughter did her duty to the Weyr, were she asked. And what were the chances, ''really''? There were always far more candidates left behind than those that were claimed by a dragon. And there had never been a dragonrider in her family - never, not even once (she'd checked the genealogy in preparation for the argument) - so truly, she was quite safe and she ''wanted'' this.

She wanted this thrilling story, to be in the land of savages - well, no, not quite savages, she reminded herself. She didn't really believe the stories about dragonmen snatching up unsuspecting girls and keeping them locked away in their Weyrs for turns on end until the girls were so deprived of other pleasures that they loved their captors better than themselves and let themselves be placed on the Sands for clutch after clutch, just to see if a dragon would fancy them.

''Still'', she had heard some stories she did believe: communal bathing - men and women ''together'', women of loose morals who didn't even bother to collect money for time spent in their bed, and men-- oh, la. She'd seen the dragonmen a time or two when she accompanied her parents to one of the larger Holds. What girl wouldn't swoon for just a moment of attention from any one of them? Not fourteen turn old Tamsin, she was thoroughly prepared to swoon!

"Tamsin, are you listening?" Bekah was giving her that ''look''. The one that meant she'd probably been making an impassioned speech as to why Tamsin should give up on her plan while Tamsin had been thinking of dreamy, dreamy dragonmen prepared to catch her deepest swoon.

Tamsin blinked at Bekah and then with a drawn out sigh, she stepped daintily to sit beside her best-friend in all the world, taking up her hand and interlacing their fingers, "I know you're worried about me, Bekah," she sidestepped the question neatly and infused her tone with just the right amount of tenderness - it wasn't difficult as she really ''did'' care for Bekah (though Tamsin wasn't the least surprised that her own well-being would be such a concern; it was for most people in the Hold).

"Perhaps there won't even be a dragon who pays me the least mind once I get to the Weyr." Tamsin affected a light tone, "And I'm sure Rupert or Patrick or whichever one of my brothers-- maybe whatshisname, or thatotherone, whichever one will be going with me will take good care of me." She smiled at her friend, a sunny, reassuring look she'd practiced in the mirror for just such occasions - the occasions when an idea was questionable at best but when she didn't want anyone to stand in her way of going through with it anyway.

Bekah chewed her lip, on the edge of being convinced. Tamsin thought of putting forth the effort to tip her into acceptance, but she really didn't ''need'' Bekah's support, so instead, she changed the subject, "Let's go see if Cookie has cooked the dinner rolls yet." With a squeeze to Bekah's hand, Tamsin rose and tugged her along out the door.
----

"Clefin, you can't let her do this," Sian's tone was firm, even muffled as it naturally was by the door that separated the conversation in progress from where Tamsin pressed her ear to the wood.

"Sian," her father began. His tone was not nearly so firm as his wife's but Tamsin could tell by the particular timbre of his resignation that he was resigned to arguing on ''Tamsin's'' side. She nearly stepped away from the door to do a giddy dance for that much triumph. It wasn't the first time she'd pitted parent against parent, and she doubted it would be the last, but having one of them on her side meant that she had a ''real'' chance with this.

"It's mad!" Tamsin could imagine one of her mother's (rare) heated glares landing squarely on her husband.

"It's childish," her father replied. Tamsin didn't like that much, but she'd forgive him because he said next, "Sian, her whole future is decided. In another turn we'll announce her betrothal, another turn after that, she'll be married and gone from our care forever."

''Betrothal''. The word pitched Tamsin's heart into her throat. She hadn't heard a ''whisper'' about anything spoken of, let alone ''settled'' in the way it sounded.

She pressed her face to the wood, listening to nothing for some moments before her mother's voice came, "And what if she does end up with one of those beasts? It's not like a puppy. The servants can't just care for it, she can't keep it in a shed outside. It's too big a risk."

"Sian, there's never been a dragonrider in our family. There's no reason to think the Weyr would have any interest in our girl, even if she does go up there and traipse about in front of the dragons like a delectable meal. Iothan will keep her safe." His tone was soothing and Tamsin could imagine him wrapping his arms around her mother - wishing that he would step out into the hall and wrap his arms around her, to give her comfort and a feeling of safety when it felt like her world had slipped out from under her at that one word, betrothal. It wasn't that she didn't know it was coming, and likely too soon, but she wasn't prepared for it ''now''.

Iothan being named as her escort was at least a little bit of luck. He was not so much older than she and he would be more interested in seeing what the Weyr had to offer in the way of loose women to mind much what she was going to be doing there. Hearing the word "betrothal," so settled, so ''near'' had lit a new fire within her. She was going to get Searched if it was the last thing she did. She was going to get Searched if she had to make herself look entirely ridiculous to do it. She was resolved. It didn't sound like she was going to miss anything she didn't want to miss if she crept away now, so she did, already imagining the ways to get a dragon's attention.
----

Well, the Weyr wasn't at ''all'' what Tamsin expected.

First of all, they expected she and Iothan to ''work'' for the duration of their stay and the Headwoman's assistant hadn't seemed at all pleased that Iothan couldn't be more specific than "a seven or two" for their intended stay. He'd ''said'' that they'd come to visit a cousin, and that had been accepted, though Tamsin doubted the Headwoman's assistant had believed them, but since they were willing to work, she'd given them beds in the residents' cavern for the time being. Tamsin wondered how many young people showed up to visit distant relations when eggs were on the Sands

Secondly, not nearly as many dragonriders were devastatingly good looking as she had thought when you saw them up close. One of the women even looked like her Great Aunt Gerda, and ''no one'' would ever want to look like Great Aunt Gerda and no one in the whole history of Pern would feel the least bit faint let alone swoon by casting an eye on Great Aunt Gerda. So there was a great deal less swooning to be done and after her first night in the living cavern for dinner, she'd concluded that probably a great deal of these dragonmen and their support people (that's what the rest of them were, right? She thought so, and thinking so was enough to make it fact,) were as boring and empty headed as any old holder.

Thirdly, even though she'd told the Headwoman's assistant that she liked to work outdoors, she was finding that she was expected to actually ''work'' when she was outdoors, rather than just make eyes at the passing dragons. It had been nearly a seven and a half and none had given her the least bit of notice. And ''today'', she wasn't even outdoors, wasn't even where the dragons would be able to see her hard at work for the good of their Weyr (she liked to think that would be something that would impress them).

Today, Tamsin was stuck in the greenhouse, working with the gross decay, turning it, they said. ''She'' thought they probably just liked to see a nice holder girl get up to her elbows in muck. The laughter was in her head, until it wasn't. There was a bonny haired young man, only a handful of turns older than herself, looking ridiculous in flight leathers that had clearly been made to handle another growth spurt or two, and with the most ludicrous collection of facial hairs doing their best to imitate a moustache and goatee, and ''he'' was laughing, at ''her''.

"Oh, shove off," Tamsin glared in her best impression of her mother. "Can't you see I'm working here?"

"Is that what you call it?" The young man asked when he could speak.

"What would ''you'' call it?"

"Doing it wrong," came back to her just as quickly.

Tamsin stared at him in open disbelief. "There's a ''wrong'' way to stir shit?"

"Oh, come on, it's only a little bit shit." He shrugged out of his jacket and started rolling up his sleeves as he added, "It's mostly just vegetable and fruit scraps. Some egg shells, maybe." He stepped up beside her and reached his arms in alongside her own.

Tamsin drew back, not willing to surrender the compost bin to him - not willing to give him that much of a victory, but back enough that he wasn't only a breath from her own arms, her hands still submerged. She sideeyed him a long moment before allowing herself to take in the motion he was making with his own (well-muscled, her jerk of a mind made note for her) arms were making. She stiffened as she realized the difference it made: his effective motions versus... her well, ''not''.

Her lips settled into a pucker of distaste. It made him laugh which only deepened her resentment. She gave him what she hoped was a scalding look - she hadn't had much cause to practice those except on her brothers and it never worked on them anyway. It made him laugh harder. "Well, if you're so good at it," Tamsin said only barely remembering not to reach up and fluff her hair as she pulled her hands free of the ''stuff'', "why don't you just keep on? It seems like you have time on your hands." She flashed him a dazzling smile.

She should have known that he would just laugh. She wanted to slap that laughing smile right off his stupid face, the dirty hands would just be a bonus.

"You don't know how to accept help, do you," it wasn't really a question. "And here I thought Hold girls were supposed to be full of gracious grace or something." He quirked a challenging brow.

"I accept help with graceful gratitude all the time. I'm just not used to ''gentlemen'' being unwilling to really help a lady," Tamsin sniffed and then wished she hadn't, forced to recognize the irony of calling herself a lady... with shit on her hands.

She thought he'd laugh, but this time he just grinned. "I'm helping you a lot more by teaching you how to do it right than I would be for doing your work for you. No one gets a free ride at a Weyr, you know, and if you intend to stay, you don't want to be on the management's shit list." He glanced down and then grinned wider at his own cleverness.

Tamsin looked at her hands. She could leave a nice, ''big'' splotch on his cheek, she could-- "What do you mean if I intend to stay? Why would I want to stay?" Tamsin demanded (nevermind that that was just exactly why she came, to stay, at least until the eggs hatched.

When he reached up and scratched the side of his jaw with one of his own dirty fingers, slapping him lost all its appeal. Well, almost all. Tamsin sighed and stuck her hands back in, doing her best to mimic the motions he'd shown her. "You know about how people end up dragonriders?"

Tamsin balked silently, pausing to level another look at him. She wouldn't dignify that with a response.

The look made the dragonman grin. Dragon''boy'' Tamsin thought, nearly hatefully. It's like he was here just to vex her.

His, "Okay, maybe that wasn't giving you enough credit," was slightly mollifying. "Anyway, there are eggs on the Sands. So in a few months there'll be a hatching. If you wanted, you could stay and be a candidate, although," he scratched his jaw again, leaving another streak, "you'll probably have to learn to deal with shit a lot better than you can now, especially if you end up Impressing."

Tamsin didn't realized she'd started staring at him, jaw agape, but found herself to be so when he finished speaking, his look turning a little sheepish in the silent moments that followed.

"That... It was... I'm offering you the chance to Stand for the clutch here." The dragonman straightened, though he still looked a little awkward and fidgeted as she stared at him.

"Doesn't a dragon make those kinds of decisions?" Tamsin bit out the first thought she managed to form to give herself time to have a few more.

"Uh, well," the young man looked briefly abashed and cleared his throat, making gesture to the panes of glass and Tamsin felt a blush flood her cheeks when she realized there was a green close enough to the ledge the greenhouse was made from to be looking in the windows with some interest. "She wanted me to come in. To see about you."

When Tamsin turned her shocked regard on the young man she saw that he at least had the decency to flush along with her. "Oh," was all Tamsin could think to say.

"Yeah," he said, lamely, after a moment.

"Well." Tamsin went on, her mind still blank.

"Well?"

Tamsin looked at the young man who still looked so much like a caricature of what a dragonman ought to be. This wasn't anything like she imagined, but... It was a chance. ''The'' chance. She still didn't have interest in being a dragonman and, ''of course'', she would change a lot of the details of the real story to suit her when she went back home, but she'd have had the knot so no one back home could call her a liar.

"I'll do it."

"You will?" When the dragonman's smile broke, it actually made him look-- well, just a little bit swoon-worthy. "You'll be our first candidate." He gestured to the dragon, his look turning to one of pride.

"Will I?" Tamsin couldn't help returning such a nice smile with an unexpectedly real and gleeful one of her own.

He nodded, grinning. "I'll, uh, walk you over to the Headwoman's office, then, to get your knot?"

Tamsin looked down at her hands, "Maybe by way of somewhere to wash our hands?"

"The bathing cavern's on the way." He said it without thinking and it renewed her blush.

To distract herself, she began to brush the dirt off her arms, and inquired in her most ladylike manner, "Do I get to know the name of my escort and-- his excellent lady?" She glanced toward the window.

The question, the manner, ''something'' defused the building tension and the rider grinned. "S'faeo. And that's Leazanth."

Tamsin smiled, and extended a dirty hand, "I'm Tamsin."

His smug, "I know," almost made her return to her original desire to slap him, but she managed to only clasp his hand. She was unprepared when the clasp turned into a tug, "Come on."

And so they went.
----

Candidacy was more annoying than hard. A lot more of that ''work'' that one was expected to do, but at least she hadn't had to be the one to break the news of her candidacy to her parents - that became Iothan's job. She did half-expect her parents to show up and demand she come home, but the day didn't come. Instead, her private room at home remained vacant while she enjoyed the hospitality of the Weyr.

The barracks was much noisier than the private room that waited for her back at home, but it did have the advantage of a ready abundance of possible friends. The most noteworthy of these was an awkward redhead from High Reaches. Tamsin found her curious because she didn't come with her pre-established friendships and was, therefore, just as much in need of friends as Tamsin herself. There was nothing ''wrong'' with her, not really, but she wasn't taking advantage of her best qualities to make those friendships that last a lifetime. Tamsin, in the very least, was a people kind of person and could show her the ropes. Or thought she could, anyway.

She might have gotten discouraged by the whole experience, even with Jocelyn and some others to count among her (new) close friends and confidants, but reminding herself that ''this'' was her big adventure and that she could fancy up the story as she liked once she was back home got her through each day. She'd never ached so much in her life.

Though the bathing pools here weren't private, they ''were'' hot enough to ease sore muscles and enjoy a thorough soaking. Determined not to let the weyrfolk scare her into appallingly holderly behavior, she took ample advantage of the pools during her candidacy. She was relaxing, trying not to think of the eggs that were, it was said, going to hatch ''imminently'' when a not-really-familiar, "Hey," interrupted her not-really-private luxuriating.

Tamsin opened her eyes to find herself staring into S'faeo's clean-shaven face. It made him look older, oddly (and, her mind made note, more swoon-worthy). Though she flushed immediately at his proximity in this-- well, they were both naked, and-- Well, Tamsin refused to be made uncomfortable, so squaring her shoulders a little (and sinking a little further down in the water) she greeted him civilly, "S'faeo."

"I just wanted to say good luck. Well, we did. Leazanth and I." S'faeo was a little flustered, but Tamsin doubted it was because of the setting. "We bet on you."

Tamsin had been about to quip something witty to his wish for luck, but that last-- that had guilt suddenly crashing into her chest and she, just as suddenly, found it hard to breathe. She stared at him until his grin faltered.

She didn't realize she had tears in her eyes until he reached, awkwardly, to brush one away. "I'm sorry," she murmured, sniffing and stepping back.

"What's wrong?"

"You shouldn't have bet on me." The fact that S'faeo's voice held genuine concern for Tamsin's well-being only made her feel worse. "I'm sorry, S'faeo. I'll pay you back the marks if you tell me how much it was."

"Tamsin," S'faeo sounded confused and he reached to brush away another tear, "What're you going on about?"

"I'm sorry, S'faeo," came her hollow whisper and then the words poured out of her: how she wasn't going to Impress, how she only came so she could say she'd done it, how in just a few more days she'd be going home and he'd be out those marks because, for whatever silly reason, he decided to have placed undue faith in her.

And he ''laughed''. She didn't slap him, but she did splash him, which made him laugh harder.

She was so busy trying to stop crying that she didn't really notice he stepped closer, didn't notice his hands until they were on her shoulders. It wasn't until he breathlessly said her name that she really looked at him and then froze from the intimacy of their proximity. She couldn't recall, at that moment anyway, ever having been so close to a boy that wasn't one of her brothers.

"Tamsin," he said again, with just a little shake to her shoulders, "You don't know what will happen on those hatching sands anymore than I do. If I lose my marks, I lose my marks. No one ever knows."

"But there's never been a dragonrider from my family," she protested.

"That doesn't mean anything. Leazanth saw something in you, Tamsin." S'faeo studied her a long moment, "Tams," (no one called her 'Tams') "If this isn't something you want, you need to go turn your knot in ''right now''. Because if you step out on the Sands, no one can change what happens out there."

"But it does mean something," Tamsin clung to the arguments so long rehearsed. "You'll see, and then you'll be out the marks."

"Tams," was not quite pitying, but it wasn't a tone she liked either. Patronizing, tolerant, or ''something''. She reached up and pushed his wrists with her own, neatly detaching his hands from her shoulders and took a step back.

"You'll see I was right in the end." Tamsin was pleased that she managed to sound calm even if this conversation shook her much more than any others she'd had about dragonriding through the course of candidacy. With every other conversation, she was developing a wild fantasy, a world that would never exist where she was Dragonrider Tamsin, with some beautiful lifemate, lithe and ''perfect''. It was a dream, not one she wanted to have come true, but a dream nonetheless.

Right now, she just wanted to run for the nearest dragon and go home, to hide in her room until everything was over and this whole horrid experience could be put behind her.

The story might have had a very different ending if the hum of dragons hadn't resonated through the walls as she made her way back to the barracks.
---

People ''said'' hatchings happen fast. In long hindsight, Tamsin could entertain the idea that it ''had'' been fast, but at the time it seemed an eternity. It wasn't often that she felt small and young, even living in a place where some entries were made with dragonesque figures in mind, she hadn't stopped long enough to feel ''small'' after the first few days she'd been there. Standing on the hatching sands, bowing to dam and sire and filing into the semi-circle of others in white robes, many older than she, she felt ''tiny''.

There was little doubt from the moment she stepped onto the Sands that this was going to be one shell of a story to tell back home. She probably wouldn't even need to exaggerate anything. She was thinking on it when the first dragon spilled from its shell: a bronze. A bronze who found his lifemate with an Islander boy. She'd heard the gossip since being at the Weyr and wondered how much that would matter in his future. She didn't have long to wonder before other eggs were cracking and dragonets spilling onto the hot sands.

It was a blur from that point. She felt like a close-up spectator, trying to remember every moment so she could retell it one day, but with so much happening she never stood a chance. There was a green, pretty, and a gold: not. ''Then'' there was that brown haired girl telling another brown haired girl to get off the sands. Words about Ysavaeth, about the hatchling who was-- well, to her mind, frighteningly savage. She cringed back when the gold bugled, only too happy to take steps back and away and even more glad when the gold ended up lunging in any direction that wasn't hers.

She covered her mouth with a hand, eyes wide and horrified as the gold raked that big herder's midriff, and then her hand dropped away when she was left aghast that the very same creature that had savaged the woman also ''Impressed'' to her. Tamsin wound her arms around her young frame. She felt ill. She didn't belong here. She was too young, too afraid. Maybe she should walk off the Sands like the other girl had. But she knew her parents were in the galleries. She knew, too, that after she'd begged to be here, had willfully managed it all on her own, that she couldn't, ''wouldn't'' shame herself or her Hold by walking off before the last dragon broke shell.

Later, her parents would sob that that was her mistake. Tamsin would never be able to see it that way. She was frozen, with fear, with determination as the last shell cracked. All she had to do was to wait it out and it would all be over. All she had to do--

The world went dark. Fear raged through her, warring with her resolve not to run, not to make herself prey for these dragons. She felt that fear trickle down her spine-- or maybe it was sweat? Only no, it felt cool now, blissfully cool, like descending to a creek winding through wild hills. Suddenly, somehow she was seeing both the Sands and the solid brown glancing at her and this other place that felt terrifyingly primal and yet perfectly natural at once. Then she was taking the few steps it took and without hesitation, embracing the adorable dragon, all the while her mind screamed at her to ignore the adorable and remember the big and scary. << Strangers in a strange land, >> she heard whispered on wind that made goosebumps rise across her skin. <> He sounded so sure, so for that moment, that was all there was to it.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:Clutch_43_Logs]]
[[Category:Search_Logs]]

Tamsin

2016-07-28T18:00:17Z

Kaleidoscope:

{{ProfileTabs
|picture=Tamsin.jpg
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|Has rank=Dragonrider
|birthplace=Briny Crag Hold (Tillek)
|mother=Sian, Holder's Wife
|father=Clefin, Holder of Briny Crag Hold
|siblings=So Many Brothers
|body=
==Description==
Though frequently drawn back, Tamsin's hair falls in dark brown waves just past her shoulders, framing pale skin and nearly matching the color of her dark eyes. The planes and angles of her face lend themselves to a variety of looks that run the gamut from severe to mischievous. Despite her delicate pink lips and adorably rounded nose, the ageless quality of her eyes hint that only the unwise would buy into the "cute" rather than "formidable" aspects of her looks.

Her slender frame is bound with lean muscle and accented with feminine curves. Draping her frame can be outfits ranging from eminently practical thick woven pants or loose linen, depending on the weather, to fanciful or classy dresses that might be more at place in a Hold. Her riding leathers are cut attractively to hide and protect skin, but reveal some of the frame her life as a dragonrider has earned her. Her shoulderknot is that of a High Reaches Weyr wingrider, with a loop of brown to denote her lifemate.

{{wysk}}

=Tyth=
{{DragonTab}}

= History =
Tamsin was the only daughter of Holder Clefin and his wife, Sian. With no shortage of brothers to take on responsibility in the fishing Hold that did a tidy trade with some of the smaller vessels sailing between Tillek and Southern Boll, Tamsin quickly became the darling of the Hold. Though, yes, one could have used the word "spoiled" to describe her, she was sweet and generous of heart which tempered any ill-will she earned from bouts of boredom-based mischief.

It was a lark that sent her to the Weyr to Stand when she was asked at fourteen - oh la! What fun, to say she Stood on the sands, to see ''real'' eggs hatch before she settled into the expected life of an advantageous marriage and being lady of another small Hold that smelled of the ocean. Not even her pushover parents could be more surprised when pudgy little Tyth irrevocably laid claim to the Holder's daughter and changed Tamsin's life forever.

The adjustment was a difficult one, with Tamsin's expectations never truly having ever included having a profession of her own beyond wife of a minor holder and mother to his children. Fortunately, Tyth and Tamsin found their way together, slowly and sometimes painfully, but ''together''. In the turns since Impression, Tyth and Tamsin have honed their skills as a team and carry a solid reputation for being an excellent member of their wing, someone who might, in time, show potential for more complicated assignments.

= RP Logs =
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Logs:For the Best

2016-07-28T15:03:19Z

Kaleidoscope: Created page with "{{Log | who = Lys, V'ret | where = The Women Watching Weyr, High Reaches Weyr | what = Lys and V'ret break up. | involves =High Reaches Weyr | day =25 | month = 5 | turn = 41..."

{{Log
| who = Lys, V'ret
| where = The Women Watching Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Lys and V'ret break up.
| involves =High Reaches Weyr
| day =25
| month = 5
| turn = 41
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2016.07.27
| quote = "It doesn't change anything."
| weather =
| mentions =
| ooc =
| icons = lys overwhelmed.jpg, V'ret crossed.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| st =
| log =
It cannot be said that Lys' regular visits can be considered regular anymore, given her long absence and equally long avoidance of the bronzerider who owns the ledge on which she now lingers. Evyth was polite enough to let Zoth know that Lys would like to see V'ret and would be waiting for him there, but Lys was prepared for a wait, if a wait was in store. She hasn't made herself comfortable within nor apparently helped herself to any of the amenities available in this particular weyr. She sits with her back against the stone out of the way of any dragon making a landing, but not so far in as to be encroaching on what might now be space restricted to unwelcome visitors, in case her cowardice has, indeed, made her one.

V'ret isn't too long in returning, but he isn't there waiting for her. Zoth sits still long enough for his rider to dismount and attend to his straps before taking up a looming position on the ledge, keeping an eye on... something, someone, maybe many someones out there in the bowl, apparently disinterested in the young woman. V'ret's pulling his jacket off as soon as he's got the straps put away. He's looking a bit more rumpled, these days. He hasn't had a haircut, but maybe that's a deliberate choice? His hair was longer, once, after all. More notably, he's not smiling when he sees her there. "Did you leave something here?" No harsh edges to it, just a never-before-necessary formality.

"A shirt, shorts and a hairbrush," Lys answers, having gotten to her feet in the time that it took him to dismount and deal with Zoth's straps. Her stance is awkward. It's been so long since the natural thing wasn't to go to him, to embrace and kiss him. Perhaps it still doesn't feel natural now to not do so, but she doesn't move from where she stands. It's only a beat later that she says, "It's not that I don't love you," as if that's a good place to start. "I'm sorry," might be another attempt to start, but she's obviously really bad at-- well, all this.

"Ah." You'd think V'ret would have noticed these items. He heads into his weyr, though there seems to be some expectation that she might follow, there. Inside, his weyr has certainly seen better days, but then this is the first period he's occupied the place without someone else picking up after him. So, there's a sign he hasn't found some other girl to do his laundry--a bunch of it is piled on the sofa. There's an impressive collection of empty bottles clustered near the entrance, arranged standing on the floor like they're having a worried little meeting. "You don't have to say all that. It doesn't change anything."

Some part of Lys probably wants to immediately set about fixing all the things that have been let go - particularly that worried meeting of so many, and probably the relationship on the whole, but avoidance for a month sends a message that isn't so easily undone as all that and if she gave herself time to stall a kneejerk reaction, she'd probably find herself saying the same thing she is now, as she follows him, "I'm not what you need me to be, Ev. I can't be all in right now. I can't-" perhaps she hasn't even nailed down all the 'can't' she feels. She lets a heavy breath go. "Would it be better if I said nothing? Would it be better if I didn't love you?"

A few days in, V'ret might have indulged a sheepish bit of tidying up on their way in. But it's not like he's proud of this--more like it's hit a point where he hardly notices. He sits down to take his boots off, leaves them beside the chair. "I noticed," he says, able to maintain calm so long as he sticks to short phrases. It takes longer to steel himself for more. "It might have been better, once. Now, it doesn't matter, does it?" Notably absent: reassurances about his own feelings. "I think the hairbrush was in the bathroom. The rest, I don't know."

There's frustration from the blonde. It's probably not that she ''wants'' him to lose his calm, but probably just that it all feels very hopeless from where she's sitting. "Maybe you'll hate me forever, too, but I can't be what I'm not. Maybe someday I could be all in, but that's not today, but it doesn't change that I love you, doesn't change that whatever I've been to you--" She grits her teeth and still the stride of pacing that managed to come unbidden, "Just because I can't be ''more'' doesn't mean that--" And she can't even find the words, "Fuck," and she turns to disappear into the bathing room to retrieve her wayward brush.

"There was a girl before you, you know. There will be a girl after. There are a lot of girls." V'ret trails behind her, more in the fashion of lost duckling than spurned lover, lingers just outside the doorway, leans against the wall there but doesn't block it. "I could have been fine with less from you if you'd ''been'' less." More in those words than could have gone into any pat reassurance of his affections. "You can't. I can't. We can't. The world will keep spinning." How many days ago now? How many seconds, in aggregate, since he compared her to oxygen? Maybe he's very good at holding his breath. Maybe it only takes practice. He shifts away, moving back towards the bed, grabbing a shirt off the floor that is definitely not his, but doesn't turn to bring it back to her immediately.

There are a lot of ways Lys could respond to his words as she searches for her brush. She's probably paying absolutely no attention to the fact that as she looks for it, she's tidying up his belongings to the way she always put them in the way that he seemed to like. Maybe, just maybe, if he doesn't comment, she'll clean the bedroom while she looks for her shorts and shirt, too. The looking buys her a little time to think and she stops and turns to look at him, only he's not there. Still, her voice reaches out to him. "There were no men before you. I don't love anyone else the way I love you." Of course, that doesn't change anything, but at least she finds her hairbrush and can move onto the bedroom to seek her other belongings.

"You will. Give it time." This shouldn't be V'ret's job, the reassurances. Maybe the reassurance will distract from the question of whether he was or wasn't smelling her shirt when she walked out. No, surely not, just folding it with an efficiency that suggests he could totally handle all this laundry if he only wanted to. He hands it back to her, nudges about in another pile of clothes with his foot to dislodge the pair of shorts. Funny that he does seem to have a better idea of their locations, now. "You don't need to do that." Seems he has noticed what she was up to in there. "It's better this way." A mess? Maybe. He's not doing as well maintaining the facade; his own words make him flinch before it's smoothed away. He looks like a man who is not precisely well. Whatever secrets have been told don't apparently give her access to these private feelings, just enough to show that they aren't entirely in line with the careful words.

Lys reaches to take the shirt when it's offered, and the backwards glance toward the bathing room doesn't yield much clarity about if she realized she was cleaning for him or not. The shirt is clutched to her chest along with the hairbrush, but really she looks like she'd rather be clutching him. "I don't want to," love anyone like him, presumably, maybe even all of ''this''. To her credit, she does her best not to sound small and vulnerable. "But we're too far along to do things by half. There's no uncomplicated version of what we've become." She bites her lower lip, probably wishing he could come up with a better answer than anything she's been able to work out on her own.

"Oh, Lys." V'ret's poise breaks again, and longer this time. "If you could just... all I..." He swallows down those half-sentences, starts again with more calm. "This." Carefully. "Wasn't. Meant. That's all. Another time or place, maybe, it would have been different." Who's breaking up with who? He's firm about it, this time. "You do whatever it is you need to do." While he rubs at his face, takes a deep breath. "Just don't do it here." It's not a good way to end this, a good way to say goodbye, but it's as good as he's getting to.

"Maybe it will be meant someday. In another time." The words trip off Lys' tongue, colliding in their hurry to be voiced. Still, for all that she doesn't ''want to'', she doesn't seem to have lost the resolve that brought her here. Just because she doesn't want to doesn't mean she won't do what's needed here, which is apparently to break up. She's quick to move to grab up her shorts, and if she drops her shirt and doesn't notice in the process, well, that makes them even when he finds she never did give back one of his that she liked. That could be it, really, except that she moves toward him instead of going. "One kiss?" She asks it as a quiet plea. It's a terrible idea, of course, but she's pretty terrible at all of this, so she ''would'' ask.

"Another kiss will end me." V'ret could make all of this so much easier if he didn't seem to feel the need to be so damned melodramatic about it. His hands clench and unclench, not a threatening sort of fist, just a need to work off something in the way of tension in a moment where he doesn't seem to dare move any more than that. "If you'd--no, that would have been worse. Just go. Please? I really have things I need to be doing." Like laundry. Bets that he means laundry?

The words are a verbal slap, even if he didn't mean them to be, and Lys flinches back accordingly. She doesn't look at him after that, perhaps it's a new "can't," even. She barely nods at his last words before she turns to flee. Nevermind that it'll be a minute or two more where she anxiously waits on the ledge for her ride, provided Zoth will allow Evyth landing.

Not only does Zoth make plenty of room for Evyth to land, but he takes off just before Lys returns. V'ret may not have proven terribly considerate, but his dragon at least does not force her to endure any awkward audience for her pain. It's a kindness, if he's capable of such things. Or maybe he just happened to have something urgent to attend to elsewhere.
}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:Angst_Logs]]

Logs:Two Ovines Packed Together. About to Be Eaten.

2016-07-28T03:40:27Z

Kaleidoscope: Kaleidoscope moved page Logs:Two Ovines Packed Together. About to be eaten. to Logs:Two Ovines Packed Together. About to Be Eaten. without leaving a redirect

{{Log
| who = Lys, T'gar, T'gar{{!}}Asaroth, Lys{{!}}Evyth
| where = Guest Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Asaroth catches Evyth in her third flight.
| involves =High Reaches Weyr
| day =23
| month = 5
| turn = 41
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2016.07.27
| quote = "Sex doesn't have to be more than it needs to be."
| weather =
| mentions = Edyis, Jocelyn, V'ret
| ooc = Glossy sex.
| icons = lys cheered.jpg, t'gar amused.jpg, lys evyth.jpg, t'gar asaroth.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| st =
| log =
By Evyth's third flight, the signs of the green intent to mate are becoming a familiar pattern. Lys has worn a sunny, carefree smile since she awoke this morning and still wears it now as she stretches lazily against T'gar. Her blonde head is leaning against his shoulder, hair mussed, fingers lazily moving on bare flesh, not yet fully free of the sated grip of her lifemate. The drizzle of the rain persists outside and Evyth may have been ''surprised'' to find Asaroth the partner for her-- uh, romance? But she's well-satisfied ''now'', so her thoughts in the moment of being caught are hardly important, right? The first sign that Lys is coming more back to herself is the roll of her body against the bronzerider so she can push herself up a little and look down at him. "I thought it was you," doesn't sound disappointed, though not as lovey-dovey as Evyth's adoring thoughts are toward her mate of the moment.

Asaroth is likely equally surprised that he had caught ''someone''. Not that he hasn't before. He's there, settled with Evyth and being uncharactaristically gentlemanly at the moment. He's trying to shield her some from the rain with his ugly wing, and he may not say much to her but there's a load of images and scents being sent her to convey what he will not say. At least the smell and images aren't off-putting, for once. As for his rider, T'gar is there on the bed, sated beside Lys. He's half-asleep, only aware that Lys was coming to when her body moves against his. "Mm," comes from his throat, but the bronzerider doesn't move yet. When she speaks, he takes in breath before he indulgently give into a full body stretch. "Disappointed? I can go and get your...one of yours," he states once his stretch is done and his eyes open more.

Evyth is deeply appreciative of this kinder side of Asaroth, not that she's generally seemed to mind him as he normally is, but there's a time and place for gentlemanly behavior and she's all the more adoring because he seems to know that. She takes his chivalry with grace and gratitude and snuggles closer. Meanwhile, Lys appears to contemplate the question before quickly whipping a pillow to hand and meaning to bop his chest with it, though the move could easily be blocked. "Nah," comes with a grin, "Figured Asaroth would catch Evy sometime, and now I can brag I've seen you naked." Because so many people want to hear that, right? "We could even go again," this comes with a more thoughtful pause as if T'gar is now being weighed on his own merits since he won't have Asaroth's help if there's a round two. The matter of her whoever is not addressed.

T'gar is deft at blocking a pillow coming his way, but he's smiling now. "Sometime," he echoes that word dryly. "You've had no desire to see me naked and show it off to everyone, Lys, rider of Evyth," he adds that loftily as he reaches down to try a light smack of her exposed bottom. "Just because I'm skilled doesn't mean you have to ply on all the compliments ''now''." When is he not teasing, really? All teasing mostly aside, he fits her with a casual study at her offer, the luring lingers of his dragon lust indeed gone. After a moment, "''Do'' you want another go with me?" he chooses to turn the question right back on her now, his head tilting to angle a look at her.

The smack and accompanying remark, with its lofty tone, earns a little yelp and then laughter that the blonde seeks to smother in that pillow that can be now shield instead of weapon. When Lys lifts her head a moment later, she's smiling broadly, "I've never needed to want to see you naked. All those trips to the hot springs..." She trails off with a low, appreciative whistle, her tone giving as good as she gets in so far as the teasing goes. But then there's that detour to something more serious; perhaps she hadn't been expecting to have that particular inquiry turned back, to have to think on the offer she made beyond having made it. It's a moment of studying his face before she answers. "Yeah. Maybe not enough to mess up our friendship over, though, if it would. Lost enough friendships over sex," comes with a little grimace. "I did dump Jocelyn. Or she dumped me. Or we dumped each other. And aside from this morning, which was an accident, she's not really speaking to me." One friendship down because of sex (well, and honesty, but that's just details).

T'gar smirks at that little yelp sounds Lys makes, and her answer to nakedness earns her a wry "Oh, I see. Ogle me like I'm a piece of runner meat at the springs without even telling me." He sighs in mock tones to that, shaking his head. "And you women want to call us men bad when it comes to ogling. Well, I know ''now''." He nudges at her, rough fingers seeming to deliberately brush the fleshy side of her breast in the process. But then, only more serious topics. He watches her as she speaks on sex and friendships, and Jocelyn, before he sits up more to face her. He levels his gaze on her steadily, perhaps to ensure that he has her attention before he says back, "Look, I'm not trying to weyrmate you, so there's nothing to worry about, is there? Our friendship is silly and solid. We're like...two ovines packed together. About to be eaten. All of that. Sex doesn't have to be more than it needs to be. I'm not Jocelyn, though, I know I sometimes get mistaken for her."

"The resemblance ''is'' uncanny," Lys quickly agrees, "both in looks and demeanor," her tone deadpan all the way. "I've always thought so, even in my early days of ogling you like the very bad woman I am." Her lips curve into a softer smile after a moment before confessing, "I've always considered flights to be 'my' time anyway. Outside of whatever else might be going on. It's a bubble of-- just ''fun'', you know?" Her brow furrows as she regards him though, "Or maybe you don't. Asaroth hasn't caught any greens with really clingy crazy riders, has he?" Note, she said clingy ''and'' crazy, so she's disqualified from consideration. "You know, Jocelyn wondered if we were missing out because our dragons could never mate." There's something a little raw in that admission - a wound that festers. Of course, Lys is nothing if not a master of distraction, and now she shifts, to slide a knee over his hips to sit astride him. "It's undeniable, of course, that the dragon-inspired part is ''great''." She'll even grin at him for that.

"Clearly," Rat says on resemblances. "I think folks are starting to think I just hide my gold dragon underneath bronze paint. Apparently bronzeriders have all the fun." On flights, "I've heard other greenriders say that," he admits on flights being their own time. "Not everyone's going to see it that way. The ones that don't ride on green dragons. Flights aren't meant to be taken seriously anyway, I would think." As for mention of Asaroth, he looks towards the ledge before there's a slight shrug and a, "Well. He's not exactly one of those bronzes that chases anything that moves. I haven't dealt with any clingy riders, but then, I usually don't stick around we're all back to our senses, either." There's a slight frown on something told from Jocelyn before he asks, "She means greenrider?" But now she's straddled him and his hands find her hips easily enough. "At least Evyth's now picking dragons with riders you hate. There can always be awkwardness."

"I'm sure Asaroth is tickled by that notion," comes with wry humor that demonstrates some measure of understanding (probably courtesy of Evyth) about the bronze in question. "I guess I wonder if the sex with Edyis was just that fucking good that it made her question everything we had. I'd ''like'' to think I'm pretty good in bed," Lys is frowning though, and that may be all the answer T'gar is going to get about Jocelyn. "Ugh," is frustrated, "this is ''not'' inspirational. I hereby ban any discussion of people whose names begin with the letters J, E or V until we've had ''our'' fun." Because that's what this is: ''fun''. "It might even be one of those 'the less talking the better' kind of moments," she contemplates, even as she dips her head to try to catch his lips for a kiss that would preclude some of that for at least a little while.

"He's not tickled by anything I throw his way," comes from T'gar in regards to his dragon. "Unless it's rotting." He shakes his head on the flight and sex between Edyis and Jocelyn before he nudges her again and says, "It's not about who's good or not in bed. It's a flight. Just a flight." It seems simple to him enough to say so, laughing gently at Lys and her return to fun - mainly, the less talking moments where her lips are on his and his hands already have minds of their own in seeking bare skin.

There's plenty of bare skin to be found, for where's the fun in fun if it comes with shame or self-consciousness? Lys has neither for the duration, nor does she seem to be in any hurry to see the fun come to an end, a playful participant to the proceedings until they've thoroughly exhausted one another beyond words. Sleep - real sleep - is then a contented, restful thing for the greenrider, tucked comfortably with her back along T'gar's frame. One can only sleep for so long, even when it's real sleep, without nightmares, so eventually she stretches as she wakes, groggily lifting her head only to put it back down. "Klah," is what comes out of her mouth in a groan, even if she might have meant it to be 'good morning.' She eyes the direction of the dawn light starting to filter into the flight weyr, whimpers a little and buries her face in the pillow. Lys is not a morning person.

His body flushed with exertion, T'gar must be a morning person in contrast. The man is awake but staying in bed until he feels Lys stir beside him. He stays quiet until she speaks, the one words drawing a grin perhaps unseen by her. "It's a long ass walk," is his return greeting on that klah, though by the tone of his voice, he doesn't seem nearly as groggy as Lys does.

T'gar's ''cheerful'' truth is met by another whimper, this one complete with a little (fake) sob. It takes her a moment to rally in the face of reality: klah, so far away, but Lys manages to sit up after a moment, reach up and scratch an itch on her head and then let her fingers comb through tangled hair to assess the damage. The glances to the not nearly so groggy bronzerider, blinking a little. "Hi." She might (in the back of her mind) be calculating whether or not he would actually ''come back'' if she managed to convince him to go get some klah for her in the first place.

Watching her wake up fully, Rat is leaning back and looking for all the world as if he has all the time in the world. Eyeing her hair, the way she scratches, and there's low laughter before he says, "Hey. Don't tell me I've worn you out." He has to tease, still. After a brief pause, "I can get us some klah," he offer then with a yawn. "But, next time you find yourself taking advantage of me because of your dragon, ''you're'' getting the klah and food." He's straightening up then, getting out of the bed without a scrap of clothing on him as he reaches for a shirt.

"Don't give yourself too much credit, the day leading into everything did its fair share," Lys quips, though his yawn might well the the source of hers that echoes it. "Can you bring four cups? I'm not awake until my third." It's hardly a secret that the greenrider practically lives on klah, even when she wasn't doing as much as possible to keep herself "legitimately" busy. "I usually have a wingmate bring things to the weyr for me," probably in trade for doing the service for one of her fellow greenriders, "but I don't think even the favors I've earned lately would cover a dawn delivery by anyone who isn't already on duty." Which is to say, with her sweetest smile, "Please?" For the klah and breakfast. "But only if you promise to feel extra taken advantage of," she adds as a still sleepy afterthought, smile turning a little silly.

"Ego-buster," Rat declares of Lys with a look. He's up and about, picking up pieces of clothing and putting them on one by one save for the shirt. Might as well be topless. "I'm up before the sun comes up," he explains as he dresses. "Just a habit I kept from working in the stables. Helps me stay active longer in the day. You should come run with me one morning. Might like it." Right. Dressed, her last earns a snort and smile as he answers back on the way out, "Uh-huh. Yeah, I bet."

"I run!" is called to T'gar's back as he goes. The grumble of, "Just when ''sane'' people do it. After Rukbat has had three cups of klah," might carry, but only just. If the familiar banter is anything to go by, Lys and T'gar probably haven't ruined their silly, solid friendship with the night of post-flight indulgence. She'll probably even tease him more after her three cups of klah, just to be sure.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:Post-Flight_Logs]]

Logs:Two Ovines Packed Together. About to Be Eaten.

2016-07-28T03:20:49Z

Kaleidoscope: Created page with "{{Log | who = Lys, T'gar, T'gar{{!}}Asaroth, Lys{{!}}Evyth | where = Guest Weyr, High Reaches Weyr | what = Asaroth catches Evyth in her third flight. | involves =High Reaches..."

Logs:Sunshine and Rain

2016-07-28T02:22:50Z

Kaleidoscope: Created page with "{{Log | who = Jocelyn, Lys | where = Aidavanth's Ledge, High Reaches Weyr | what = Proddy Lys is sitting on Aidavanth's ledge. There's sunshine, rain and candor. | involves =H..."

{{Log
| who = Jocelyn, Lys
| where = Aidavanth's Ledge, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Proddy Lys is sitting on Aidavanth's ledge. There's sunshine, rain and candor.
| involves =High Reaches Weyr
| day =23
| month = 5
| turn = 41
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2016.07.27
| quote = "We were friends."
| weather =
| mentions =
| ooc = I'm just going to put this [https://youtu.be/C3uaXCJcRrE here].
| icons = Jocelyn in winter.png, lys cares.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| st =
| log =
Given the civility of what few interactions Lys and Jocelyn have had since that awful night when everything went sideways, Lys sitting on the edge of Aidavanth's ledge is almost certainly the last place Jocelyn might expect to find her. And yet, on this muddy morning, that's just where Lys is. It's early enough that breakfast isn't yet underway and the greenrider is dressed for a run despite the early morning drizzles that look likely to persist on and off the rest of the day. Her legs swing a bit, boots making a rhythmic thump-thump-thump thump-thump as she watches the bowl from this familiar vantage.

There's no warning for Jocelyn that Lys is ''there'' while Aidavanth sleeps on the sands. 'Unexpected' is undoubtedly an understatement for the sight of the greenrider once Jocelyn comes through the opening leading to the ledge, dressed to begin her day - and stops short, eyes wide for a long moment before the mask she's worn in their interactions since That Night slams firmly into place. Flatly, "Greenrider. I don't believe you have an appointment. This isn't a free-for-all rest stop just because you get too tired, " a lips-pursed glance for the other's attire, "on your little run." Her arms cross. "I'll thank you to leave."

It's really hard to recognize 'proddy' from the back, but once Lys twists at the waist and showers Jocelyn in a painfully genuine, sunny smile with no trace of sadness, badness or any variety of neutrality, it might be as obvious as a slap in the face. "I'm sorry, Joce," sounds genuine too. "I didn't think." She probably didn't. "I missed the view. I missed... you." Only she's not supposed to say that and briefly a cloud troubles that sunny disposition, but only briefly, the thoughts slipping away as water under the bridge. "Are you okay?" Maybe she's already forgotten the bit about being asked to leave.

Jocelyn's exhale is long and heavy once she sees that smile, that sunniness. "You certainly didn't think, " she agrees after Lys's apology, frown deepening. "I thought I've made myself clear. I don't want to see you here again, regardless of whether you're in ''this state'' or not. This is ''my'' home." The query on her well-being? She seems determined to ignore its existence, expression turning weary. "You need to go."

"We were friends, Joce," Lys sighs, clouds coming again to dim the sunshine of her mood. She lets her boots hump a pair of times more before she scoots back on the ledge and turns so she can get purchase with her feet to rise. "Before anything else, we were friends. There are a lot of things I didn't tell you, because what good would it do? For you to know? You can't heal old wounds any more than I can. We can't undo the people we've become with the lives we've led. You were valued in your job, even before Aidavanth. I was near enough to crazy, near enough to broken before Evyth. I've never fully mended." All of that, so candid, so plain, so painful, probably, but no tears, just another sigh. "I thought maybe if I kept it all locked in a box, you could have the outside of the box and be happy with that. But you wanted what was in the box too, only you didn't, not really. Not once you knew what was inside. Not even as a friend. Not even as a dragonrider in your Weyr." Something prompts her to add, "I'm not leaving. It's my home too." As if Jocelyn would ever ask her to transfer just because of a personal falling out. Then she stands, awkwardly, looking suddenly a little unsure and a little confused about just where she is and just what she's doing.

"We ''were'' friends, " Jocelyn repeats with emphasis after Lys is finished, lips pressing into a thin line. "You understand why that can't be the case now. Not after your, " her lips curl, "confession. This has never been your home. You made it ''very'' clear to me that you'll never live here. You have your own weyr, last I checked." As the greenrider's expression turns confused, the redhead straightens, grip tightening on her own elbows. "''Lys''." It's low, firm. "Go finish your run. That's what you were doing."

"This ''Weyr'' is my home. It has always been my home," Lys clarifies with another sigh. "I never could have lived ''here''. If you can't have been friends with me after I just told you the truth about what was in the box," that damned box metaphor ''would'' be something that stuck in her head, wouldn't it? "Then I certainly would never have been invited to live here." She shakes her head a little, and with it, her body. "I regret a lot of things," she decides as she takes a few steps in the direction of going, twisting back to say, "But not what we got to have. Just what we didn't. I guess." And again, that confusion touches her face, but at least this time she's taking a few more steps to continue going. "The world isn't only black and white. Neither are people." That's sort of a rumination that might not really have been meant for the goldrider but... well, it was loud enough.

"I can't deny that I've had moments lately where I've wished that it wasn't mine, " Jocelyn admits lowly, watching Lys's progress. There's sadness there, in her face, however briefly. "Decisions, however, have to be." And maybe that's her way of saying that she's finally accepting the, well, ''finality'' of theirs.

Lys was going to go. Really. Probably. But Jocelyn's words have her turning back to look at the redhead. "I'm sorry you're hurting, Jocelyn," is that same frankness as before, "But what you're mourning is what you wished could be but never could have been. Even if I reformed now, for you, it would be different, because my past would be a part of it, instead of something locked away in a box you never needed to know about or see." The box. The damned box. "Dreams are hard to let go of," she says after a moment, her tone coloring with sympathy, "but there are always new dreams. Different dreams. Better dreams." Then it's her turn to look briefly sad, though there's a little hint of a smile as she says, "I'm dreaming that maybe someday we'll be friends again. Maybe someday you'll want to hear the whole story. Maybe someday you'll look at me and see ''me''." She turns to go, again, and then pauses and turns back, "I always ''liked'' how you saw me, even if I knew you weren't seeing ''me''." And then the turning and the going again. Maybe she'll actually go this time?

Undoubtedly familiar, now, with Lys's ability to go off on ''tangents'' while proddy, Jocelyn listens impatiently, turning back into her weyr afterward with a dismissive, "What I ''mourned''. Good morning, Lys." It's only some minutes after that she adds, once her walls are her only audience, "I liked how you saw me, too."

At least Lys doesn't turn back to go off on some other tangent with the pointed past tense. No, the nice thing about a proddy Lys is that troubles are temporary and the next sunny smile is right around the corner, even if that corner is taking her back into the muddy bowl just as the clouds let loose another drizzle of rain.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]

File:Icon tamsin.jpg

2016-07-24T22:25:24Z

Kaleidoscope:

File:Icon tamsin tyth.jpg

2016-07-24T22:25:24Z

Kaleidoscope:

Tamsin

2016-07-24T22:07:07Z

Kaleidoscope:

File:Tamsin.jpg

2016-07-24T22:06:21Z

Kaleidoscope: Lily James

Lily James

Logs:Quiet

2016-07-24T05:18:27Z

Kaleidoscope: Created page with "{{Log | who = Lys, Lys{{!}}Evyth | where = Glitter and Glass Weyr, High Reaches Weyr | what = Lys broods about matters of the heart and self. | involves = High Reaches Weyr |..."

{{Log
| who = Lys, Lys{{!}}Evyth
| where = Glitter and Glass Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Lys broods about matters of the heart and self.
| involves = High Reaches Weyr
| day =11
| month = 5
| turn = 41
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2016.07.23
| quote = When had she stopped dancing?
| weather =
| mentions = Jocelyn, V'ret
| ooc =
| icons = lys brooding.jpg, lys evyth smad.gif
| type = Vignette
| desc =
| st =
| log =
She craved quiet.

For over a turn and a half, Lys' life was a dance. Though not always graceful in execution, the complex steps were a predictable pattern with beauty, depth and performed with passion, with ''love''. She loved them. Both of them.

Each had a different music. Jocelyn's pace was steady, dependable and the depth-- oh, the depth. That was ''terrifying'' and exhilarating and everything Lys wanted, and everything she didn't.

V'ret was an up-tempo toss dance, the moves no less exciting for the knowledge of what might come next. Only she didn't know the steps that came next. The dance had turned from a controlled rush to something frightening.

She longed for silence. The music had always balanced one another, each dance offering something the other didn't-- couldn't? -- offer. Something she loved, wanted... but needed? No. Evyth was what she ''needed'', what she could never live without now that she'd found it.

''Is something wrong with me, Evy? That I don't ''need'' them the way-- V'ret said... And Joce always... '' She couldn't even finish the thought; speaking the words would have been impossible.

<< Oh, Lys, >> sweet concern colored Evyth's voice, a surge of adoration coming from the depths of her very self to enfold her rider in her absolute acceptance. << Nothing is wrong with you, Lys. One of the wonderful things about the world is that no two beings are the same. Not even two caprines are replicas of one another. >> It was an afterthought (but an important one!) to add, << And they taste a little different, too, >> at least to her sensitive palate. When there was no reply, the green put into words the exact thing her rider needed to hear - proving, yet again, that Lys' ''need'' for her dragon was wholly justified, << It's ''okay'' for you to need different things than they do. For you to ''not'' need them. >>

''Is needing and loving the same?'' It wasn't the first time Lys had wondered.

There was a hum as Evyth considered, << No, I don't think so. >> But then: <>

Lys' laughter was real, but sorrowful. ''Neither do I, my love. Neither do I.''

There was silence- empty, blissful silence for a heartbeat, two.

<< Lys? >>

''Yes, Evyth?''

<< We can still learn, if we want to. >>

Lys smiled, ''Yes, I'm sure we can.'' Then she sighed, ''It won't be easy.''

<< No, it won't. Some things in life aren't, but that doesn't mean they shouldn't be learned. >>

Lys digested that. It wasn't that she expected a different answer, just that this answer, articulated now, had meaning that it might not if it had only been her own thought. Her next was barely a whisper in her mind, a fear so frightening that it could barely find voice, ''It's going to hurt.'' Then, with a choked sob, ''It already hurts.''

There was longing in Evyth's mind, that they weren't closer together just at this moment, a moment when Lys' knees were too weak to get her up from the chair before her fire, and there was comfort in the way she enfolded rider again, her love as comforting as the blanket across the greenrider's legs. <> And she did, feeling her rider's confusion and deep, aching hurt as keenly as she might feel some wound of her own.

Lys picked at the blanket and tried not to think of Jocelyn and the way things had gone so sideways. They'd promised they'd keep their friendship, if they could, even if the rest didn't work out. Maybe it had gone too far to leave anything salvageable in the wreckage. She'd never lied, but Jocelyn would never see omission of essential truths as anything but.

Her fingers dug into the blanket and she tried not to think of V'ret. V'ret who she'd abandoned in the middle of the night after a nightmare. V'ret who she hadn't seen in more than brief passing in the last month. The month where she'd been hiding herself in as much extra work as she could find for herself, to keep her legitimately busy, to have a ''good'' excuse, even if it was still ''an excuse''. She would have to see him... eventually.

''I'm a coward,'' she sighed, wiping the stupid tears from her face.

Evyth bristled, << You're not. >>

''I am.''

<< It's okay to need time. >>

''It's not fair.''

<< Who ever said life was fair? >>

Silence. The golden silence. When had she stopped dancing? She hadn't stopped loving the dance, hadn't stopped loving her partners, just... she couldn't finish the dance, not with Jocelyn, not with V'ret. Not now. Not with-- ''everything''.

''I'm not enough,'' the thought came unbidden. It was a deep fear, something dredged up from memory of the child who'd been unwanted, who'd been dumped into the Weyr's care, who'd never done things right and stopped trying for so long...

<< You are! You're ''my Lys''. >> It held vehemence and unshakable resolve.

If Evyth believed it, perhaps, in time, Lys could too. She could never believe that she could be everything Jocelyn wished her to be - a perfect partner, a weyrmate, and nor could she believe she could ever be V'ret's all-in partner in all too literal crime. All she could be was Lys. It was enough for Evyth. It would have to be enough for herself and the rest of the world, too.

}}

[[Category:Angst_Logs]]

HRWClutch:33/NPCs

2016-07-17T19:16:38Z

Kaleidoscope:

'''Islander boy and steady bronze'''

A pair of white eggs, in their enthused tremoring, collide against each other, causing one to fall apart to reveal a steady bronze. He takes a moment to look upward, his initial attention being drawn somehow to his dam, whose also eyeing him for a long breath before a pleased little drop of her chin urges him forward. With his mother’s consent, he makes short work of finding a mind to match his and a young islander falls to his knees as Impression is made.

'''Older woman and dainty green'''

The second of those initial eggs, continues to rock, falling off its carefully built perch and tumbles, losing pieces of itself along the way until a dainty green is revealed. She’s sitting on her bottom, tail tucked beneath her bulk, and she too pauses, jolted out of her attempts to right herself, to look to Ysavaeth. But it’s a split second before she’s up, shaking the sand off herself and making her way towards the candidates. But is that displeasure in the sniff of her dam, when the little green selects an older woman?

'''Two local boys and blues'''

One, two, three: in quick succession, two blues and a green are thrust into the sands, their limbs and wings akimbo. The two blues are quick to seek out their chosen ones, both locals, but the green takes far longer, eventually stopping short in front of a young Blooded boy from High Reaches, whose surprise is only tempered by his joy.

'''High Reaches Blooded Boy and green'''

One, two, three: in quick succession, two blues and a green are thrust into the sands, their limbs and wings akimbo. The two blues are quick to seek out their chosen ones, both locals, but the green takes far longer, eventually stopping short in front of a young Blooded boy from High Reaches, whose surprise is only tempered by his joy.

'''Local boy and solid, cinnamon-bright brown'''

Pounding from within causes one of the eggs to splinter and then collapse, all structural integrity lost. There’s a brown inside, solid and cinnamon-bright; he takes a careful step out of the ruins of his egg, and then another. On the third, he comes face to face with his first candidate, a local boy: Impression is immediate and absolute.

'''High Reaches Hold Blood and long, lean bronze'''
A flurry of shards marks the arrival of a second bronze on the sands, long and lean and full of energy. Cadejoth seems thrilled with the arrival, trumpeting his joy so loudly the poor creature tumbles in surprise. It’s a bold young Blood who steps up to help him, and who, a few moments later, is triumphantly calling his new lifemate’s name.

'''Two greens'''

Two greens hatch almost at once, if from eggs that sit across the sands from each other. Their movements are completely different, one slinking towards her chosen partner, the other bowling hers over. Still, the end result is the same: two more hatchlings, happily paired.

'''Tamsin and brown Tyth (Insta)'''

Hatched a few minutes earlier, the solid brown sent flying by his smaller blue brother’s actions flails on the sands for a few moments before attempting to right himself. No one comes to his aid, but in the end, it scarcely matters: all it takes is an upwards glance, and then he’s found his girl, a local woman who wraps her arms enthusiastically around him. With that, there are now no hatchlings left: everything is still.

Dragon:Tyth

2016-07-17T19:14:05Z

Kaleidoscope:

Tamsin

2016-07-17T19:04:38Z

Kaleidoscope:

{{ProfileTabs
|picture=
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|Has rank=Dragonrider
|birthplace=Briny Crag Hold (Tillek)
|mother=Sian, Holder's Wife
|father=Clefin, Holder of Briny Crag Hold
|siblings=So Many Brothers
|body=
==Description==
Though frequently drawn back, Tamsin's hair falls in dark brown waves just past her shoulders, framing pale skin and nearly matching the color of her dark eyes. The planes and angles of her face lend themselves to a variety of looks that run the gamut from severe to mischievous. Despite her delicate pink lips and adorably rounded nose, the ageless quality of her eyes hint that only the unwise would buy into the "cute" rather than "formidable" aspects of her looks.

Her slender frame is bound with lean muscle and accented with feminine curves. Draping her frame can be outfits ranging from eminently practical thick woven pants or loose linen, depending on the weather, to fanciful or classy dresses that might be more at place in a Hold. Her riding leathers are cut attractively to hide and protect skin, but reveal some of the frame her life as a dragonrider has earned her. Her shoulderknot is that of a High Reaches Weyr wingrider, with a loop of brown to denote her lifemate.

{{wysk}}

=Tyth=
{{DragonTab}}

= History =
Tamsin was the only daughter of Holder Clefin and his wife, Sian. With no shortage of brothers to take on responsibility in the fishing Hold that did a tidy trade with some of the smaller vessels sailing between Tillek and Southern Boll, Tamsin quickly became the darling of the Hold. Though, yes, one could have used the word "spoiled" to describe her, she was sweet and generous of heart which tempered any ill-will she earned from bouts of boredom-based mischief.

It was a lark that sent her to the Weyr to Stand when she was asked at fourteen - oh la! What fun, to say she Stood on the sands, to see ''real'' eggs hatch before she settled into the expected life of an advantageous marriage and being lady of another small Hold that smelled of the ocean. Not even her pushover parents could be more surprised when pudgy little Tyth irrevocably laid claim to the Holder's daughter and changed Tamsin's life forever.

The adjustment was a difficult one, with Tamsin's expectations never truly having ever included having a profession of her own beyond wife of a minor holder and mother to his children. Fortunately, Tyth and Tamsin found their way together, slowly and sometimes painfully, but ''together''. In the turns since Impression, Tyth and Tamsin have honed their skills as a team and carry a solid reputation for being an excellent member of their wing, someone who might, in time, show potential for more complicated assignments.

= RP Logs =
{{:Tamsin/Logs}}

=Icons=
{{Icons}}

}}

User:Kaleidoscope

2016-07-17T18:11:37Z

Kaleidoscope:

== Player Notes ==
* Availability: I aim to play 1-3 scenes a week for 2-4 hours per scene. Though it changes weekly, ''at most'' I will be 2 evenings-or-weekend scenes and at most two daytime-weekday scenes. I'm happy to try to schedule RP if we're having trouble catching one another spontaneously. Though gdocs is an option when scheduling just doesn't overlap, I'd prefer to keep most of my RP live-time for the time being.

* I can get inadvertently spammy in my poses. If it's a bit much for you, shout! I'll do my utmost to rein it in. No offense taken!

* My characters are touch-ok as long as you're not aiming to maim. Please check with me first if it's something unusual, major or violent.

* I'm a pretty flexible player. I like all kinds of RP from fluff to gritty to dark. I don't love things that are incredibly unrealistic or firelizard-focused RP. If a scene starts to go a direction you're not comfortable, please let me know ASAP so we can rework things.

* I'm all about organic RP. Nothing planned is set in stone. Plans are meant to be deviated from. Also, I like challenging my characters. (Read: making them suffer.)

* Any of my characters could die in a good story. If you have an idea and want to involve one of them (even in non-death things), please feel free to chat with me!

* My take: This is a game. It should be fun. If it's not fun, say something, talk to people, change your experience so that it is fun. Open and honest communication is key.

{{LogCountAll | player=Alts:Kaleidoscope}}

{{Cloud | player=Kaleidoscope | exclude=K'zin;Lycinea;Tayte;G'laer;X'vae;Jaecar "Farsights";U'by;Babetta;Laghnei;Tahvra;Yvalia;Tayre;An Unfortunate Tree;Aseana;B'gherio;Gallania;Leara;Gaelan;Raleri;Baera;Nieri;Gaela;Gheara;Estarra;Mikaelen;Zakari;Zakamor;Nazius;Akazi;Wakina;Kinai;Kinzi;B'ghero;Moriyah;T'lan;J'taryn;Baeli;Riola;Wesera;M'raz;F'tal;Tess;Dee;Kh'tyr;Dahlia;Lys;J'sae;Dee/ST;Tamsin}}

== Recent Scenes I've Played ==

{{NewLogs | name={{Alts:Kaleidoscope}}}}

Alts:Kaleidoscope

2016-07-17T18:10:41Z

Kaleidoscope:

<onlyinclude>{{Alts
|alt1=K'zin
|alt2=G'laer
|alt3=Tayte
|alt4=Lys
|alt5=X'vae
|alt6=Tess
|alt7=Dahlia
|alt8=J'sae
|alt9=Kh'tyr
|alt10=Tamsin
}}
</onlyinclude>

Logs:Melancholy Mistake

2016-07-16T04:46:23Z

Kaleidoscope: Created page with "{{Log | who = Lys, V'ret | where = The Women Watching Weyr, High Reaches Weyr | what = The day after Lys and Jocelyn break up, Lys visits V'ret. | involves =High Reaches Weyr..."

{{Log
| who = Lys, V'ret
| where = The Women Watching Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
| what = The day after Lys and Jocelyn break up, Lys visits V'ret.
| involves =High Reaches Weyr
| day =5
| month =4
| turn = 41
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2016.07.11
| quote = "I'm... shit at this sort of thing."
| weather =
| mentions = Jocelyn
| ooc = Backdated.
| icons = lys shadow.jpg, V'ret earnest.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| st =
| log =
Lys arrives as the poker game is wrapping up, on a regularly scheduled night. No foreboding dress or bottle of booze, nothing tonight to sound internal warning bells or trouble the mind. She's dressed down, in an overlarge (man's) sweater and wool leggings, her small overnight bag over her shoulder once she comes in off the ledge. Her expression is disconsolate as she crosses to the bronzerider to wrap her arms around his shoulders and press a kiss to his cheek in silent greeting. She doesn't disturb the game or the chatter that sees the last person off, availing herself of the amenities in the bronzerider's weyr while he finishes with his associates. By the time he's done, she's stretched comfortably on the bed with her journal before her, but the pencil limp in her fingers, eyes staring at nothing in particular.

"Baby, baby, baby. My good luck." There's some laughter going on, and more than a little drinking, and enough smoking that she's probably better off for retreating, but V'ret is clearly pleased by the arrival, presenting his cheek for that kiss. Apparently that last hand must have gone well for V'ret, since he's not one of those cursing at the outcome. But the goodnights are amiable enough, drawn out by talk that seems to have forgotten that there's a lady present at all. V'ret finally successfully kicks them out with the reminder, not put in gentle terms, that his evening's company is not hypothetical, and then makes his way in to his bedroom, stripping his shirt off as he goes. "Didn't mean to keep you waiting so long."

Lys is pulled out of her mental wanderings by the sound of his voice and she tucks the pencil into its holder on the leather bound journal and closes it with habitual care. "That's alright," she readily forgives shifting back onto her knees to wind the cord that holds the journal closed around the body of the book. That done, she leans over the edge of the bed to tuck it into her bag and then rolls onto her back to give him a soft, if melancholy, smile, "I had a nice bath while you were finishing. Good night?" She inquires of the game.

"Good enough. A little better than breaking even. My good luck got there in the end." Which is what earns her the appreciative look, or maybe it's the fact that she's got more skin on display, now. V'ret only gets as far as the shirt off before he's coming over to sprawl on the bed himself. He could probably use the bath to wash off the tobacco smell, but at least it's not stale. "Even though I was a bit distracted." Has he not noticed how sad she looks? Maybe he hasn't noticed. Or maybe he's waiting for information to be volunteered, if it's forthcoming.

Lys, the liar by omission, doesn't seem to be about to volunteer anything, but also doesn't seem to have the energy to make it genuinely seem that nothing is wrong. She reaches out to him as he settles, trying to encourage him to lay on top of her and give her that (however fleeting) sense of security that sometimes comes with being eclipsed by someone bigger and stronger. Even if he can't be quickly encouraged there, she seeks contact with him, but a touch that screams 'comfort' not 'sex.' "Ev?" The way she says his name is distracted, maybe she hasn't even heard his answer. They're a good pair. "I need to be good for a while, I think. Not take chances." No fun and games of the less than legal variety, she means.

This is not at all a position that V'ret minds being in, but from here he's much quicker to catch on that something is wrong, that he's not just here to be burying his face against her shoulder and smelling her and thinking of other things. "I'm not sure you and I have the same definition of 'good'," he muses, perhaps more lightheartedly than he should. Then he shifts over to one elbow, so he can actually properly look at her face. "You think I'm going to get you in some trouble we can't get out of?"

"No," Lys denies, but the word is drawn out. She's reluctant to tell him but after a moment manages a fairly steady and succinct explanation. "If I'm caught right now, Jocelyn has reason to make it bad for me. Really bad." A pause, "Jilted-bad."

"Jilted," V'ret repeats, and this has him stretching out more on his side--and rubbing his face, like this news is unfortunate, when he has every possible reason to think it's a good thing. "I'm... so sorry." For what? Even he might not be totally sure, since the face-rubbing continues, like he might actually abrade off all the drinking and find some clarity beneath.

"For the best," Lys replies, but her voice is brittle. "You were right," she adds a moment later, shaking her head and then looking away as a few tears escape and her breath draws a sniffle she tries to smother without being able to turn her head enough into the bed to effectively do so.

V'ret shifts, and if she's amenable, it might be best if she were little spoon--it avoids eye contact, but will maybe let him put his arm around her properly, now. "Even if it was true..." Collecting his thoughts. "Even if it was, I shouldn't have said it. I'm... shit at this sort of thing." A long breath. "If you have someone, if you have a hundred someones, not my place to have opinions about it. I know."

Lys slides into the little spoon position as much out of habit as the desire to be held. She's quiet, controlling those tears (or trying to). "It doesn't matter. It wasn't right." And she hates that, but is trying to sound like it's alright. (It's not alright. She is not alright.) If there's enough of a pause, if he doesn't get weird about it, she'll go to pieces there in his arms for a while, crying herself out in time and dozing off in his arms, here where it's safe. Nevertheless, she sleeps restlessly and is woken by dreams that have her flailing and pushing herself bolt upright, gasping in air. It's much the same as some of her worse nightmare nights, but somehow indefinably worse still.

He's quiet throughout all that--very quiet. Just a few minutes before, V'ret was joking, in not so many words, about how the rest of them needed to clear out so he could go attend to the girl in his bedroom. But the attending he's doing now seems to consist of laying very still until she falls asleep. At which point he does shift away from her. Long enough to get his boots off, to get a glass of water to make for fewer regrets in the morning, and then find his way back to bed. When she wakes, he's been sleeping soundly for some time. But the first slight movement is enough to start to rouse him, and her sitting up has him groping for her before he's even gotten his eyes open. A hand on her shoulder, or her arm. "Baby. Baby. Baby."

Per usual it takes Lys some moments to get her breathing under control, but she's practiced at this now and at least now there's no screaming as she awakes, as there once was a very long time ago now. She twists so she can meet that searching hand with one of her own and grip it like it's the lifeline that will keep her from slipping into nightmares unending. Her shoulders shudder as she digs deep to force her chest to expand in slow, gradually more even breaths and by the time she's able to speak, she just lays back, leaning into him. She doesn't bother to explain; he knows the signs by now. It's some moments later that she turns into him and presses her face against his neck.

Once his brain has at least slightly engaged, V'ret's able to do better, pulling her in against him in a more conscious way. "It's all right. It's... all right." A bit of a stretch worked in there, but he's not moving overmuch; the less he rouses, the easier it is to get back to sleep after episodes like this. "I'm right here."

Some nights, that much is a real comfort to Lys. Unfortunately, tonight is not one of those nights. Lys pushes herself up, head shaking. "I have to go," is never the greatest thing to hear in the middle of the night, but the words sound urgent, almost panicked and her jerky movements to de-tangle herself from sheets and blankets are ineffectual for some moments before she manages to make any headway.

"What?" It's baffled, to say the least, but not upset, like at this hour V'ret is willing to accept that these night terrors are just a fact of life. Like the weather. Unpredictable, not always pleasant, but what do you do? Especially when you're barely awake yourself. He's not in any position to properly help, but he doesn't do much to hinder her getting away, either.

She doesn't seem to expect his help, at least not with the blankets, and if she were thinking more clearly herself, Lys might be grateful that he doesn't hinder. She manages to free herself and struggle up from the bed to blindly search for her bag and journal. "Sorry. I shouldn't've come tonight. Sorry." Repetitive, hurried, still almost panicked. "I'll-- Later, I'll see you later," might be as much reassurance that she's not vanishing into the night forever as he's going to get before she's making to head for the ledge and the ride that will shortly arrive there.
}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]
[[Category:Angst_Logs]]

Logs:BFF/Wingman

2016-07-15T05:14:32Z

Kaleidoscope:

{{Log
|who=Lys, J'nason
|what=J'nason is lost, but Lys sets him straight in this new place.
|where=Central Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr
|day=12
|month=4
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.14
|quote="Do you always talk to yourself?"
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon lys amused.jpg, icon j'nason.jpg
|log=The stores are quiet with dinner in full swing in the living cavern. Not much of the noise that comes with such an affair makes it through the bustling kitchens and into the stores, but some does, providing a little background that might hide the shuffle of steps as Lys peruses the stores, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her slightly oversized flight jacket. Her path is meandering through the shelves, without apparent destination or much interest in the items she passes. Perhaps this just a way to pass the time away from the crowd.

"Hum." J'nason stops in the doorway to the stores, running a hand through his hair and leaving it tousled like he just walked through a windstorm. Blue eyes travel across the stacks. "This was not where I meant to end up. Well. Never a loss without a gain, some soap maybe..." And purposefully he'll step into the shelves as if this was exactly where he meant to be the whole time.

"Do you always talk to yourself?" might count as a pleasant opening remark given the reputation of 'Reaches women for being frigid. Lys comes round the end of the shelf as J'nason moves into them, stopping short to keep an arm's length between them.

"Sometimes!" J'nason turns a bright smile onto the woman, turning himself to lean against the stores. Never mind that he has no idea who she is, his smile is one of easy friendship mixed in with a little come-hither. "Helps pass the time."

Lys eyes him. There's so much to see: the smile, the blond, the-- crazy? That seems to be what she's trying to sort out. "Dragonrider?" might be more for confirmation than out of uncertainty. It comes with an inquisitive eyebrow while the rest of her expression suggests that his easy friendship hasn't hit its mark and the come-hither has gone a little wide.

"Guilty as charged." J'nason is not at alll bothered by the fact his come-hiter didn't work. Hey, sometimes a girl just needs a few drinks. Or she'll straight up reject him and //he// will get a few drinks. It's all good. Either way he has fun! "Just decided to give High Reaches a try." He doesn't drop a single hint that this move wasn't at //all// his idea. Of course, why blond-surfer-man would want to be in HIGH REACHES is //anyone's// guess.

"Decided to-" Lys stops, tone something closer to aghast than simply disbelieving. Her whole expression stops. She wrinkles up her nose and eyes him all over again. "Tell me you're visiting," is a kind of pleading, if not the kind he might hope to get from a pretty blonde.

J'nason probably shouldn't laugh, except he totally does, that grin on his face growing. "Nope, Gonna be staying for a while. You look like I'm replacing your best friend or something," Pushing himself up from the shelves J'nason turns his attention to the shelves and his search for soap. "But I promise you, I'll only add to your little weyr. J'nason - Jason if you prefer." The former Istan offers up his name.

For that laughter and the words that follow, Lys has a very put-upon sigh. "''Are'' you replacing my best friend?" She inquires with lifted brows. "I ''do'' tend to befriend the crazy ones," and she seems to have decided that he qualifies for that description, but not without another considering glance. "I also have a vacancy, for best friend." He gets a longer look as she steps up beside him. "What are you looking for?" Maybe she'll even ''help'', if they might be friends.

Reaching upwards Jason picks up jars and baskets then sets them down again. A flick of a gaze sideways at Lys holds a grin FULL of mischief. "I'm not a ''bad'' friend to have, and if the vacancy is ''open''...." Jason will totally slip right in there. "Figured if I got turned around then it would be best to find some soap while I'm here."

"Soap is a priceless commodity." Lys returns to the blond searcher with gravity, though if he's keen he might detect the humor under her tone. "I can't abide smelly friends," is intoned haughtily but then she slips him a sidelong glance and a slight grin. "Did you luck out and get one of the weyrs with a private bath?"

J'nason will just be happy he is totally clean except for a faint smell of sea-salt and sunshine. "Well, I'll just put that in my list of things to keep in mind as the best friend of....." He pauses dramatically for her to insert her name, "Nah, two levels which isn't bad. Hephaisth is settling in just fine flexible bastard he is."

"Lys, but I wouldn't brag about it." The greenrider offers the advice with a smirk. "Evyth's rider, with Equinox. Do you have a wing yet, Jason?" She gives the shelves a thoughtful look, "Two levels is nothing to sneeze at," she decides after a moment. "Maybe I'll get you a welcome gift. Cheap whiskey?" She inquires his tastes with a tilt of her head. Now that the name of his partner in crime has been uttered, a soft, warm mind reaches to greet him. With Evyth's touch comes the smell of all manner of delicious things, << Welcome to our home, Hephaisth. >>

"Lys. Not a bad name." As if Lys needed the blond surfer's opinion on her name. Except they're BFF's now, so maybe it's warrented? Or SOMETHING? "AHA!" J'nason turns from the shelves with a bag of soapsand in his proud possession. "Probably, but it's not Equinox." He won't tell her what it is because the player can't remember for the life of her what it is. "How about I, your new best friend, just have you show me where the ''good'' whiskey is?" Those delicious smells bang up against the acrid tang of the forge, Hephaisth's vocie a low rumble. << Aye, well. It is. That idiot rider of mine got us stuck here. >> (He's like a grumpy old man.)

"It's a perfect name," Lys returns with a curl of her lips that suggests she can fire him just as fast as she hired him for this best-friend gig should he choose to disagree. "My dragon chose it," at least explains ''why'' she might think that. "Do you not like J'nason?" It's a curious query. "I ''could'' show you where the good whiskey is. I could even show you where the good whiskey might be gotten a little cheaper than in Snowasis, but the convenience is hard to beat. I would've thought that someone like you," whatever that means, "would've found his way there already." This might have her rethinking his apparent intelligence. It marks Lys as the grumpier of the green pair, to be sure, since Evyth seems to be sugar and spice and all things nice. She's not unintelligent, though, so the remark from the bronze is taken thoughtfully. << Oh, I'm sorry your relocation wasn't under favorable circumstances. >> And she really is. It's sad for him, so it's sad for her on his behalf. <> As she does, but then again, she was shelled here.

"Far be it from me to nay-say what your Evyth has named you." J'nason holds up his hands as if showing that he's totally innocent of any offense about her name. Look, she can't get pissed at him TOO badly, right? His shoulder meets the shelves again as he eyes her. "Meh, J'nason's good enough, but I always prefered Jason - even before Hephaisth decided to rename me." Jaynason -- J'nason, it works but.... meh. "Well, best friend, I just arrived so haven't quite sussed out the best holes yet. So I ''could'' go wander or you could show me." His teeth are way too white - that's probably on purpose. Hephaisth hrumphs mentally, though the irritation doesn't seem to be directed at the green specifically. << Well. We're here. Make the best of it. >>

"I suppose I could show you," Lys allows with a little puff of breath, to precede it after she's taken in the rest. "I don't have other plans tonight. Are you going to buy me a drink?" She might show him even if he doesn't, given the way she wiggles her hand to indicate he ought to follow, with his prize. Evyth leaves room for that irritation, doesn't try to fix it or lessen it, but rather offers simply, << If you have need of anything, please don't hesitate to ask. >> It's a friendly overture; she's a friendly dragon.

"I wouldn't be a gentleman," no one start laughing here okay, "if I didn't at ''least'' buy you a drink." The sandsoap gets put into a pocket for use later and he follows the greenrider. He's an easy conversationalist too - so he'll keep it going as best as possible. He'll even NOT put a move on her - for now. BFFs first, okay? Though he WILL absolutely flirt with any other women who come along. He can't help it.

And Lys? In her role as newly minted BFF, she plays an excellent wingwoman.
}}

User:Kaleidoscope

2016-07-15T04:37:16Z

Kaleidoscope:

== Player Notes ==
* Availability: I aim to play 2-4 scenes a week for 2-4 hours per scene. Though it changes weekly, ''at most'' I will be 2 evenings-or-weekend scenes and at most two daytime-weekday scenes. I'm happy to try to schedule RP if we're having trouble catching one another spontaneously. Though gdocs is an option when scheduling just doesn't overlap, I'd prefer to keep most of my RP live-time for the time being.

* I can get inadvertently spammy in my poses. If it's a bit much for you, shout! I'll do my utmost to rein it in. No offense taken!

* My characters are touch-ok as long as you're not aiming to maim. Please check with me first if it's something unusual, major or violent.

* I'm a pretty flexible player. I like all kinds of RP from fluff to gritty to dark. I don't love things that are incredibly unrealistic or firelizard-focused RP. If a scene starts to go a direction you're not comfortable, please let me know ASAP so we can rework things.

* I'm all about organic RP. Nothing planned is set in stone. Plans are meant to be deviated from. Also, I like challenging my characters. (Read: making them suffer.)

* Any of my characters could die in a good story. If you have an idea and want to involve one of them (even in non-death things), please feel free to chat with me!

* My take: This is a game. It should be fun. If it's not fun, say something, talk to people, change your experience so that it is fun. Open and honest communication is key.

{{LogCountAll | player=Alts:Kaleidoscope}}

{{Cloud | player=Kaleidoscope | exclude=K'zin;Lycinea;Tayte;G'laer;X'vae;Jaecar "Farsights";U'by;Babetta;Laghnei;Tahvra;Yvalia;Tayre;An Unfortunate Tree;Aseana;B'gherio;Gallania;Leara;Gaelan;Raleri;Baera;Nieri;Gaela;Gheara;Estarra;Mikaelen;Zakari;Zakamor;Nazius;Akazi;Wakina;Kinai;Kinzi;B'ghero;Moriyah;T'lan;J'taryn;Baeli;Riola;Wesera;M'raz;F'tal;Tess;Dee;Kh'tyr;Dahlia;Lys;J'sae;Dee/ST}}

== Recent Scenes I've Played ==

{{NewLogs | name={{Alts:Kaleidoscope}}}}

Logs talk:Togetherness~

2016-07-12T04:20:32Z

Kaleidoscope: Comment provided by Kaleidoscope - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Togetherness~]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Kaleidoscope (21:20, 11 July 2016 (PDT)) said... ==

I enjoyed this! Interesting glimpse at their relationship. :)

Logs:Resignation Whiskey

2016-07-12T03:59:17Z

Kaleidoscope: Created page with "{{Log | who = Lys, T'gar | where = Far End of Lake, High Reaches Weyr | what = After Lys' talk with Edyis, she broods on her favorite brooding bench. T'gar happens along and g..."

{{Log
| who = Lys, T'gar
| where = Far End of Lake, High Reaches Weyr
| what = After Lys' talk with Edyis, she broods on her favorite brooding bench. T'gar happens along and gets an earful.
| involves =High Reaches Weyr
| day =3
| month = 4
| turn = 41
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2016.07.11
| quote = "Must be something bad if you're needing ''me''."
| weather =
| mentions = H'vier, Irianke, Jocelyn, V'ret
| ooc =
| icons = lys cheered.jpg, t'gar friend.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| st =
| log = Late afternoon hasn't brought any lessening of the spring flurries that melt as they hit the ground, but that flurry and the relative chill that comes with it hasn't deterred Lys from settling on one of the benches best suited to brooding at the far end of the lake. She has her oversized flight jacket to protect her from the worst, and a red crocheted cap pulled down over her ears to protect her from the worst of the early spring bite. With Evyth nowhere in sight, Lys seems quite alone here, unless one counts the companionship of a bottle of cheap whiskey getting treated to a brush of her lips every now and again. (This is what brooding looks like.)

Of course, a good place to brood is also a good place to jog. In this weather, T'gar is out and about with just a thin layer of clothing as he makes to where Lys is. He seems about to pass her by with no acknowledgement, but then - "Still early to drink," is his off-handed greeting as his jogging takes him backwards.

"Sometimes, drinking early gets to be the highlight of the day." Lys replies with sardonic undertones to the bronzerider. "You're making me tired," she observes of the jogging, even if she's known to enjoy jogging herself. Women may be whimsical about these sorts of things when the mood strikes. "Drinking is better than jogging," today, "want to join me?" It's a little quieter that she adds, "I could use a friend."

"That could be the point," says Rat, slowing down to a stop on his jogging. "I think I prefer to just watch you drink," he answers her now, shaking his head in declining the offer. Moving over to lean against something, he watches her as Lys speaks before nodding once and reaches over his shoulder to pull free the waterskin he has. "What's going on, Lys?" he asks her now with a slight frown. "Must be something bad if you're needing ''me''." There's a slight smile at the jest.

"More for me then," Lys sighs a little though, so that's not as cheerful as it is made to sound. She does smile a little at his jest though. "Awful," she confirms with a hint of levity before sobering (though that has nothing to do with the booze in hand, which she drinks). "I'm breaking up with Jocelyn." She pauses to let that sink in a little, then, "Maybe V'ret too. I might be packing up to go live in the wild with Evyth forever, though that might be a bit extreme." She peers at her bottle in a way that suggests she's made quite a lot of progress on it all by herself, perhaps unsure if that's the whiskey talking for her or not.

"Why?" T'gar seems to be encompassing all with that one-worded question as he continues to watch her with her drink.

"Why?" Lys repeats the question as if it doesn't make sense and peers at the bottle again and then sets it aside. She takes a breath, looking at the bronzerider. "I'm not what either of them wants me to be, who either of them thinks I am. It's like sides of a coin. Both of them want more than what I can give. Both of them are unhappy with not having it all, even though they wouldn't like it all if they had it all. They like what they imagine and I like to pretend that I'm that, for a while. But that's all it is, pretending." She shrugs her shoulders. "I love them. I want them to be happy, but I'm not the person who can make them happy." It sounds so simple, sitting here, after all that booze.

Slow to crouch down at something Lys admits, T'gar remains silent as he drinks from his waterskin and listens. Then, "Mmn," he grunts out, passing an assessing look over the greenrider. "I suppose," he says, "the next question would be to ask who ''are'' you, then, Lys? If you're not who they think you are? Are you the ''love'em and leave'em'' type?"

Lys's lips curl in sudden (drunken) amusement, "Wouldn't you like to know," is said with a tease and a waggle of her brows as she shifts to lean forward. "Maybe you'll find out someday. After all, we're friends, and you're not looking for me to be a specific someone, fit a specific mold." And all that might be a rambling way to say, "I don't really know. I didn't think I was a love'em at all type, before. I'm not a family type. A settle down type. The things that make me happiest in life are my dragon and my wing and my job. And maybe whiskey," though she shoots a suspicious look at that bottle as if it's betrayed her somehow, but she hasn't yet puzzled out just how. "I like them in my life, but it's selfish to keep them because I like them as pockets. As time outs from who I am. I like them in compartments and they don't want compartments. They want ''weyrmating''. They want ''commitment''," such a dirty word the way she says it.

"That's because I can't expect to fit someone else into some mold when I can't fit into one myself," T'gar lets her own with a shrug. "I know who I am." Which, segues into what she answers on knowing herself, and the bronzerider takes another drink from his waterskin before passing it over towards her as an offering. "It's okay if that sort of thing isn't for you," he tells her casually. "Nothing's wrong with that. Are you afraid to tell them that? Might end up being a better outcome than just dumping them outright, woman."

"I knew I liked you for some reason," Lys tells him offhandedly in the tone of one who might as easily say (drunkenly), 'I love you, man.' She'll even take the water and sip from it with a smile and lift of the skin to indicate her thanks before handing it back. "Not afraid. Resigned. This is resignation whiskey," she indicates the bottle. "I've never broken up with anyone before. But doesn't it follow if they want things from me I can never give them that it would be better to leave them now instead of later when it'll just hurt everyone more?" She looks to him, so it's not a rhetorical question for all that it's delivered like it could be.

With the waterskin back in his hands, there's laughter from T'gar at the offhanded comment before else said has him answering, "So, what? You're going to take up just fucking anyone that breathes, like ''some'' people I know? ''Love'em and leave'em'' fulltime? Get off on watching them being miserable with you in their lives?"

Lys makes a face at the idea, so the, "No," shouldn't come as much of a surprise. "Probably just... fuck someone that breathes when I feel like I want to fuck? I don't know. Maybe look for someone who doesn't want more in the long term. I mean... V'ret was my first, and Jocelyn was my first, so it's not like I have to figure out everything about settling down, if I want to even settle down yet, right? I mean, I'm only twenty-two. And H'vier was like... forty and he hadn't figured his shit out," because H'vier was such a great role-model. "I mean, look at Irianke. She's not committed and she's not miserable." Also a great yardstick - 'not miserable.' "Does everyone want to get weyrmated in the end?" She asks the bronzerider plaintively.

Chuckling again, "You can do whatever you want, Lys," T'gar tells her, a touch wry in his Bitran lilt. "I'm not suggesting you settle down. Just to know who you are and what you want. And...H'vier isn't exactly a shiny example, by the way." Yeah, he knows him, but he doesn't comment on the Weyrwoman. "As for everyone wanting to weyrmate," he goes on to answer, "neither of us can answer that. Me, myself, it's not something I'm aiming for. But," one finger lifts before shrugging, "right girl that sweeps me off my feet? I wouldn't turn away from the option, so long as she understands and accepts how much of a fur hogger I am."

"Then maybe I just haven't met the right girl yet. Or guy." Lys replies, rising to her feet and moving toward T'gar. She presses her hands onto her knees to lean forward so she's only a little taller than he is in his crouch, "And maybe that's the only point that really matters when it comes to resignation whiskey." She makes a funny face 'amirite?' face to go with that brilliant conclusion. "Give me a hug?" She requests, "I promise to pretend later that you were just showing me a self-defense move to protect your reputation."

"Or, maybe you're just not ready for that right 'girl' yet," Rat adds to that easily. "Or 'guy'." Beat. "Resignation whiskey. Shit." Low laughter comes next to that funny face. The request for a hug has the bronzerider studying Lys for just a moment before he gets to his feet and, muscles briefly flexing in his arms, opens them out for her to step into. "Don't got to pretend, friend. Someone will just think I'm hitting on you regardless." He grins.

"I thought you didn't want it that way," Lys returns as she steps into those arms, her own wrapping around his back to take full advantage of a really solid (and apparently much needed) hug. "I was willing to go the extra mile for you, Rat, but if you don't want me to go dissuading anyone--" she trails off, tone playful, giving a little squeeze before she's done with the hug and stepping back to give him a small, genuine smile. "Thanks," is just as embarrassingly sincere before she's turning back to collect her bottle. "Now go make someone else tired," she encourages him along on his run, fully intending to take her resignation whiskey back to her weyr where she can drink herself into oblivion.

"Who am I to deny giving a woman some of my sweat when she asks?" Surely Rat sees it that way, right? Grinning, he returns the embrace before she steps away and he's tying the waterskin back over one shoulder. To her thanks, he inclines his head in return and starts to jog in place. "Take care of yourself, Lys," he says back to her quip as she heads out - his words sounding genuine as he watches her leave.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]
[[Category:Angst_Logs]]

Logs:Neither Friend Nor Ally

2016-07-12T01:46:50Z

Kaleidoscope: Created page with "{{Log | who = Edyis, Lys | where = Galleries, High Reaches Weyr | what = Lys tries to talk to Edyis after Akluseth wins Aidavanth's flight. (Spoiler alert: it doesn't go well...."

{{Log
| who = Edyis, Lys
| where = Galleries, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Lys tries to talk to Edyis after Akluseth wins Aidavanth's flight. (Spoiler alert: it doesn't go well.)
| involves =High Reaches Weyr
| day =3
| month = 4
| turn = 41
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2016.07.11
| quote = "You'll be good to her?"
| weather =
| mentions = Jocelyn
| ooc = Dramaz~
| icons = edyis nopeface.jpg, lys judged.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| st =
| log =
It's early in the afternoon still, and the Galleries are mostly empty. Edyis has claimed the comfortable seats at the front, a bottle of wine and wooden tumbler at her side. Her flight jacket slung across the back of one of the seats nearby, and she is leaned back with her eyes closed and fingers resting lightly around the tumbler. Almost as though asleep.

'Reachian-raised Lys surely isn't daunted by the spring flurry without the warm cavern, so her stroll into the hatching cavern is probably prompted by something other than the need to dry the slightly overlarge flight jacket she shakes free of melted flakes as she comes to a stop at the front of the galleries. Blue-green eyes scan the empty sands and then the seating, stopping when her gaze falls on the brownrider at the front. Her lips press a little together in a momentarily tight expression before it smooths as she gives her jacket another shake and moves to sit near Edyis, but not ''too'' near, with at least two people's worth of bench between them. It would probably be the polite thing to actually offer a greeting, but instead the greenrider leans her elbows on her knees and folds one hand into the other fist, eyes back on the sands.

Edyis 's eyes remain closed, even at the sound of steps and the shake of leather. Slowly she breathes out. Eyes finally cracking open to see who has intruded upon her peaceful moment. Though she recognizes the greenrider, Edyis says nothing, lifting her cup to her lips and taking a long pull of wine.

Sometimes, words aren't the easiest thing to find, even with thousands at one's disposal. It's some moments before Lys slides over a seat, perhaps physically signifying her readiness to speak. Blue-green eyes seek out brown, expression unreadable. "You'll be good to her?" It's a lowly spoken question. Whatever the greenrider has to say to this woman, it's not ''really'' something she means to share with the whole world if she can avoid it.

"I don't make a habit of abusing those Akluseth catches." Edyis tones softly, her breath escaping in a deep sigh. Setting the cup down and refilling it, those eyes as dark as ink focused on the sands themselves. She drinks again, not shifting her gaze in the greenrider's direction.

"Not what I meant," Lys' tone briefly betrays frustration and the sidelong look she gives Edyis says plainly enough that she doesn't think the brownrider is stupid enough to have thought that's what she meant. "She's going to have to do this her whole life. She needs this to be a good experience so she doesn't always dread the next time and the next. She needs it," that last is repeated with quiet emphasis, the woman turning her head to search the brownrider's face to see if she's being understood.

Edyis inhales again deeply, silent for a moment, her patience wearing thin. "Do you honestly believe I am unaware of this fact, or that this is something I need to be told. Akluseth has caught during maiden-flights before Lycinea. And if you think I am so calloused or cruel as to make this a poor experience, then maybe you should be rethinking the reason you are really sitting here." Her tone even, as the glass is lifted once again.

"My name is Lys." That's sharp. This is one dragonrider who takes the name her dragon gave her with more than a modicum of seriousness. It prompts the blonde to take a breath after, trying to rein in her own temper. "What I honestly believe," is crisply enunciated but without feeling in the words, "is that if it was someone you loved, that you would be sitting where I am just looking for a little reassurance that the person suddenly an intimate part of your loved one's life is going to be an ally not an asshole. No one accused you of being abusive or a poor partner," there's aggravation there, but the feeling doesn't seem to be directed at Edyis, the greenrider's eyes on the sands.

"Well then, Lys." Her soprano cuts icily. "You should again ask yourself why you ''need'' those assurances because it sounds to me like either you plan on walking away, or you are afraid of being abandoned. In either case," The rider re-corks her bottle and finishes off the wine in her glass. "I will treat Jocelyn with all the respect and affection due her, as is custom and as my honor bloody well dictates." Ink-dark eyes focus sharply, "That's what those questions mean Lys. Either that or it is your own insecurities playing through. Whatever your relationship with Jocelyn is, is frankly none of my damn business, whatever it is lies between you two. But I won't sit here and smile like a simpering idiot so you can work out your own abandonment issues or guilt. I've neither the time nor the patience for it." The brownrider pulls to her feet, making in the direction of the stairs.

Lys doesn't make reply to the brownrider since she's obviously determined to leave, but she grimaces as she watches the woman go. There is some part of conversation that must not be said aloud - either with herself or her lifemate, but what does get voice after the other woman has departed comes with a soft sigh, "Well, she'll find out." The blonde lingers some moments longer and hopefully no one else in the galleries will take much note of the way her shoulders rises and fall unevenly, or the way she seems a little unsteady as she gets to her feet to make her own way out.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]
[[Category:Angst_Logs]]

Logs:Confessions

2016-07-11T19:01:49Z

Kaleidoscope: Created page with "{{Log | who = Lys, V'ret | where = Glitter and Glass Weyr, High Reaches Weyr | what = Lys tells V'ret about Jocelyn; V'ret has confessions of his own. | involves =High Reaches..."

{{Log
| who = Lys, V'ret
| where = Glitter and Glass Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Lys tells V'ret about Jocelyn; V'ret has confessions of his own.
| involves =High Reaches Weyr
| day =2
| month = 4
| turn = 41
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate =2016.07.10
| quote = "Do you actually listen to the words that come out of my mouth or do I just blather on at length while you smile and nod? Don't answer that."
| weather =
| mentions = Edyis, Jaine, Jocelyn
| ooc = Angst. Adult themes. Possible triggers.
| icons = V'ret ugh.jpg, lys judged.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| st =
| log =
It's not unheard of for V'ret to be invited to Lys' weyr for a date, but given the amenities and comfortable size of V'ret's weyr, it's far more often to find the couple enjoying themselves ''there''. Still, there's something different, almost ''formal'' about the note that Lys left for V'ret, inviting him up to her place on this particular chilly evening. The hearth has a hearty fire and with the heavy curtains that separate the inner weyr from the ledge closed, the inner weyr is toasty enough for Lys to be comfortable in the sundress that is better suited to an Istan beach. She must have chosen it as something V'ret's fancied on her before, for there's hints that the things worn under the dress, shown at the straps of the dress, are also things very much to his tastes. All this might be to the good, only the fact that there's a freshly opened bottle of whiskey and two glasses on the low table by the comfortable, upholstered chairs says quite clearly 'something is up.' (Not because there's whiskey, but because there's a whole fresh bottle ''and'' glasses.)

A free day for V'ret, but one spent back at Crom. Not terribly unusual, that. He has friends, still, or at least acquaintances who can make use of a dragonrider in exchange for a small supplement to his income. Diversification: that seems to be his central strategy, thus far. Sometimes he even returns with some small token of his affections, but today no such luck. If he's noticed anything amiss, it's not noticeable in the way he dismounts, sends the bronze on his way, and starts peeling out of protective outerwear on his way in. It gets strewn wherever it may as he passes, a scarf actually hung up but coat, removed last, tossed across the back of the chair he sets himself down in. "Well, don't you make me wish I'd cleaned up better for you?" Except he clearly has at least had a bath on his return--his hair, which is just about long enough to want cutting, is still not fully dry. But he hasn't gotten so far as dressing up. Or shaving--possibly for a couple days. The bottle gets a long look, but he pours from it without comment.

Lys already has a glass, she's already holding it to her lips, if not sipping it just now, as he peels off layers and approaches. She takes a sip once he settles in and speaks, and then sets her glass carefully aside, licking her lips before getting up and moving to settle in his lap, to drape her arms around his neck-- mindful of his glass-- and then to kiss him as if it might be the last time she ever gets to. "I love you," is quietly, but earnestly said. The 'but' is left to hang in the air, uncomfortably.

The glass is set aside as she's sitting down: this commands V'ret's attention, and not just because of her proximity. Or the dress. He's slower to get there, but there's a dawning awareness in the middle of the kiss, and a sudden urgency to it, cut short. His brow is furrowed, after, as he looks at her, as he reaches up and touches her hair. "Lys," and it's pained, more than that. There's a moment of silence in which he doesn't even seem to dare to breathe. "What did you ''do''?" Quiet. It's almost like he expects the confession here to be on the order of a murder, though--no sign of suspicion, no sign that he's figured out he's supposed to be the wronged party, not yet.

Now that they've moved from the maybe-last kiss to the question, Lys looks pained herself, taking a deep breath and shifting to rise from his lap, to reclaim her glass, to walk some paces away from him before turning back toward him. At least with Lys, there's no preamble. At least there's only honesty. Brutal honesty. "The other person-- my other person-- is Jocelyn." So there it is. "I thought I should be the one to tell you."

The moment after that news is delivered is utterly silent, except for the noise of him finishing off the contents of his glass--and pouring another--and doing the same again. Then V'ret sits, stares at the bottle, waits. For the news to sink in? Or maybe just the drink. "Someone else knows," he says as though this is the conclusion to a little argument he's had with himself, entirely in his own head, as to the meaning of all this. Or maybe with someone else, entirely in his own head. He speaks only when he seems sure that his voice will stay steady. A pretense of calm. "You realize how this is apt to make me look."

"Edyis," Lys replies to his supposition. "After the flight." She draws a careful breath and finishes off her glass before moving to place her glass back where it was on the table and then shifts to sink down onto her knees in front of him, but a little apart, so he has space if he wants to get up and make more space between them. "I don't know if anyone else knows." Except Jocelyn's assistant, probably, but who counts her? Not Lys.

While V'ret doesn't get up, he also doesn't spare her any particularly kind look, or reach for her. That position makes it easy, if nothing else, to study a spot somewhat over her head. Keep his eyes in her general direction, but avoid eye contact. "I wouldn't have guessed. Strangers would say you're a good match, of course. But, surely--does she even know you? Is she a hypocrite, or are you a liar?" All of this seems to disclaim his own part in their shared pastimes, but the whole thing seems to be entirely divorced from his own part in this, his own feelings. He does have feelings. He's had feelings all over the place, on numerous prior occasions. Right now, all he has is another drink.

Lys is silent a moment, her eyes studying his knee before she'll lift her mask of untouchable calm to look at him. "I'm a liar." It's a quiet admission, and then Lys is getting to her feet, one hand up to rub her face and what definitely aren't a few tears (stupid girly emotions), murmuring, "But then, you knew that," about her propensity for dishonesty when it suits. She turns, placing her back to him - a gesture of trust - to pour another drink for herself, to pick it up and walk to stand in front of the fire. "I never wanted--" she starts, stops, sighs and shrugs. "It's done. All of it." She sounds resigned, but it's hard to read more than that with her back to him, her arms hugging one another, glass held loosely in her hand.

"You could be lying about that, too." V'ret does not seem immediately inclined to budge from his chair. It's a comfortable chair. A safe place from which to watch her with eyes still critical. Once he empties his glass this time, it stays empty. He's had enough to soften the edges of things. "But I have to say, I can't picture it. Her wanting you, if she knew." Is it meant to wound? This is the first time in all of this that he's started to sound a bit pleased. And it's finally the moment where he gets up to follow her over there, to settle behind her and rest one proprietary hand on her hip. He leans in, taking a keen interest in her neck, but not actually pressing his mouth to it. "You'll make it up to me, of course. You really shouldn't keep things from me."

Lys is silent and still until he comes over. Probably, if he hadn't, she would have spoken eventually, but the proximity and his last words might change the direction of whatever she might have said in the moment before. She could challenge him, his proprietary hand and his presumptions, but that's not the smart move here, now, ''yet'', and Lys is a smart girl. She doesn't tense, only turns her head just a little and inquires in a voice hollowed of any emotion, "How?"

V'ret's hand still tightens, even if she hasn't tensed. "Don't be so cool with me. Should I take you over my knee? You've been a bad girl, but I can't take all my forfeits in the bedroom, not when you're in the habit of enjoying the things I do in the bedroom." But how, then? It seems to take a moment's consideration. "There's something I've been meaning to... attend to. It would be easier with both of us. Things usually are." It seems like the details are almost an afterthought to him. But it's not like he's had long to contemplate.

She hasn't tensed, but her expression changes just a little along with the slight hitch in her breath, registering the tightness of that hand in a way he can appreciate. Lys doesn't smile as she might at another time for his contemplation of punishments. She shifts, seeking to turn to face him. "I haven't done anything wrong. We keep secrets. We tell secrets, but we don't tell all our secrets. It's how we are, V'ret. I'm sorry that this secret--" upsets him? That's not a direction she wants to go, so she cuts it off and says instead, "If you want my help with something then you'll have it," which is a whole lot of trust for secret-keepers to give without asking questions.

"Secrets," V'ret says, "aren't the problem, until people start finding them out." His hurt, if it exists, is something that for the time being he's keeping close to the vest. Still, his hand releases its grip, and he steps back for a moment as she turns. "I think you know that as well as I do. When other people know them, other people can tell them. And then the general public thinks... well." Which, at least, he seems to shrug off, though he turns to go back to his glass. Evidently one more is required to smooth the way, even though that requires steadying himself with a hand braced on the back of a chair afterwards. He's coping just fine and only genuinely concerned for his reputation. Really.

Lys watches him thoughtfully as he goes, as he drinks. She brings up her own drink to her lips and swallows it down before moving up behind him, angling to press herself lightly to his side after setting down her empty glass. "I think the general public might be a little too consumed with the buzz that one of their weyrwoman prefers women in her bed than about who that is. They'll be thinking of Edyis, not me." She hopes. Her tone is meant to be soothing, but not overly so. As she speaks, one hand rises tentatively to seek to stroke his back in that way that usually helps calm him.

V'ret doesn't shrink away from the contact, though his eyes are fixed for a moment on his empty-again glass. It goes so quickly. "When you first told me," he says, slowly, words very careful in that way of someone who has realized that they don't fully have control of their speech anymore. "When you first told me," again, slightly more sure, "if you'd said her name, I might have just sent you off, even with the timing. But I need you. You know that, don't you?"

Lys doesn't progress her touch beyond what it is, but she does stay close to him in spite of whatever conflicting feelings she might feel in these moments. "You might have sent me off tonight. You ''need'' Zoth." She places delicate emphasis on that. "You love me," is said simply, "And I love you." She's not the sort to abuse that phrase, to say it too often with him, but when she does, as now, it carries weight. "I didn't know-- maybe still don't know-- if that's enough." Is the sort of feeling they have for one another the type to bow and break under the weight of hard truths? She studies him, shifting a little so she can come more toward his front, seeking some kind of answer in his expression.

"You always say that, like these things are mutually exclusive. I can need more than one thing in my life." Like another drink. He can need that, too. V'ret's brow is furrowed as he goes to pour again. He's going through it all very quickly--not that he hasn't had this much over the course of an evening plenty of times? But this fast is a different thing. Deep breath; this one he only sips instead of knocking back the whole thing. "Food. Air. Dragon." Then, gesture of glass in her direction. "But I need to know you're... all in. If you'd said you'd killed a man, I would have been ready just then to help you clean it up. You know?"

All in. Lys goes absolutely still at the words. Perhaps it says something about her that it's those words and not... you know, murder, that makes her stop breathing. She looks at the bronzerider a long moment, then suddenly, "''Shit''." And she's twirling away from him to pace, swearing low and fiercely. Then, just as suddenly, "I can't breathe," and she's heading for the ledge where there's ''air'', even if that air also comes with cold evening weather.

"Lys?" V'ret following her is a slow thing, like his brain is a good thirty seconds behind in processing what's actually happening, and his feet are about fifteen seconds behind that on moving. "Lys--" The brace of the cold air stops him before he's fully out from the shelter of Evyth's weyr. "You aren't dressed for this." Nor is he, arms quickly folded like it might conserve some tiny shred of body heat, hands tucked beneath them.

She's not, but she's standing on the ledge (in the middle of it) like she might let the wind that is no small thing tonight pluck her up and fling her into the sky if it had a mind to. Lys doesn't look at him, not initially, not until her hair is a bit tangled and her skin a little chilled. Only then does she turn, to walk back toward him-- to him? It ends up being to him, though it mightn't have begun that way. "I can't have this conversation right now," she sounds sorry. "I'm feeling too many things." Her voice makes the confession sound lame, or like she doesn't have the energy to make that explanation sound any more reasonable or to argue about it.

It doesn't stay that way long, either; V'ret's arms stay on guard, not just against the cold, and once she's said her piece he turns back around to head inside. He had more than just a coat when he came in, but that's all he bothers with reaching for. "That's as much answer as I needed, anyway." It doesn't seem to be said directly to her--at least, it's not said with anything that approaches eye contact. Zoth may have needed to be roused; the delay in arrival would have given V'ret more than long enough to go and find his gloves, if he were just a drink or two shy of the point he's at right now. Just buttoning up his coat is as much as he can manage, as it is.

There's only so much even Lys can handle before the mask breaks, and it shatters big time as V'ret walks away, as she trails him, as he speaks and as she finds some piece of wall to lean against and then sink down before she dissolves into tears.

Hand on the back of the chair again, V'ret's eyes lift heavenward, even though there can be nothing there--in the stone, or in the sky above it--that could possibly help with this. "Zoth's shell. Am I supposed to be staying or going, Lys?" He leans more heavily there, but not at quite the right angle--the chair starts to tip. He's thankfully still aware enough to right it. "If we aren't talking, what're we doing? Drinking isn't helping." At least he's finally recognized that much.

Lys' words are broken by sobs that can't be helped, but she manages, "I don't know, are you done with me? Are we over?"

"Air, dragon, you. Do you actually listen to the words that come out of my mouth or do I just blather on at length while you smile and nod? Don't answer that." V'ret has a bit of trouble with undoing the buttons, this time, and by the time he makes it back to her, it's about all he can manage to sit beside her, still wearing the coat, but at least without having it done up. "If I can't trust you, I am all kinds of fucked, but--" He makes a loose waving gesture with one hand. "I am probably all kinds of fucked anyway."

When one goes into an emotional conversation with expectations, one sometimes hears what one expects instead of what is said. Lys wouldn't be the first. The sobs continue, but they've turned to relief by the time he joins her. She does what she can to tuck herself against him until the tears are gone and the sobs have quieted to shuddery breaths. "Stay, please," is the quiet plea that comes to mind first when she can form coherent words.

V'ret gets as far as putting an arm around her before remembering the coat. At which point he removes the arm, removes the coat, discards it to his other side, and ''then'' puts his arm around her. There. "Not going anywhere." This wasn't too complicated. Really. At that point, it's just a matter of holding her until she's settled down a bit, which gives him a little time to collect his thoughts. "If you tell me you'll help me kill a man, I won't ask you about anything overly burdensome like actually living together." He pauses. "He does deserve it." There are proposals, and then there are proposals.

There are commitments and then there are commitments. Lys sits up a little, blue-green eyes now tear bright but no longer shedding tears. She's studying his face, studying it to see if he's serious or just drunk or -- well, who knows. "I don't want to kill anyone," is the first thought that manages to find voice. Then she puts her head back down on the chest of a would be murderer as if it gives her comfort. "But I won't stop you." Or, presumably, tell on him.

No, his face is entirely serious, looking more sober than it has any right to. "I'm not asking you to get your hands dirty." Had V'ret hoped, though, that she might volunteer it? He rests his face against her hair and takes a deep breath in, lets it out slowly. "If you'd say I was with you, though. If it came up. I don't expect you to... of course not. But I've put it off far too long, now. Too long for it to do any good, maybe." Another breath. "I saw him, today."

"V'ret," Lys' voice is quiet but the tone arresting, "be careful." It's a request that has more than one meaning, to be sure. Then quickly she's pushing up onto her knees, to kiss his forehead. "Come to bed," she entreats. "You've had a lot to drink," is possibly rehearsal for what she might say if she were ever asked about her knowledge of V'ret's plans to murder anyone. She might even believe that this is some strange byproduct of alcohol and emotional distress. There have been stranger things, surely.

It might be, at that. V'ret has had a lot to drink, enough that it seems to just dawn on him that this is the case when he goes to stand up, himself, which requires a sense of balance he does not have. It'll go easier if he can have her hand, but one way or another he can get to his feet. "Bed sounds a lot more comfortable than the floor."

Her hand and more is leant him to get up and get balanced, Lys tucking herself under his arm and against his side to casually wrap her arm around his waist to provide solid support over to the bed. She'll even undress him; it can't be said that V'ret doesn't have a reason to have thought of her as his little woman, even if tonight it has proven to be a flawed perception.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:Angst_Logs]]

Logs:Distraction Distraction

2016-07-11T18:11:42Z

Kaleidoscope: Created page with "{{Log | who = D'vro, Lys | where = Glitter and Glass Weyr, High Reaches Weyr | what = Lys finds distractions in the form of D'vro when Aidavanth rises in her maiden flight. |..."

{{Log
| who = D'vro, Lys
| where = Glitter and Glass Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Lys finds distractions in the form of D'vro when Aidavanth rises in her maiden flight.
| involves =Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
| day =25
| month = 3
| turn = 41
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2016.07.09
| quote = "I could use company. Distraction."
| weather =
| mentions = Irianke, Jocelyn, V'ret
| ooc = Glossy sex. Slightly backdated.
| icons = d'vro.jpg, lys persuasive.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| st =
| log = The ''dragons'' wanted to socialize, to take a nice flight, somewhere outside of the storm that drives heavy rain down on the weyr itself, while each of their riders went about their own business. It was supposed to be just any other day. Even outside the Weyr, it's obvious when Aidavanth is readying herself to rise. Within the Weyr, it's even more obvious. Lys is down one of the tunnels off the inner caverns, pressed against the cool stone just after one of the sharper twists in the rock. She drips, wet from having recently been out in the deluge. Her frame shivers but she's perhaps unaware of it with the way her hands press hard to the rock and her eyes stay squeezed shut.

Being left to his own devices in a foreign Weyr might seem like the sort of thing a man like D'vro wouldn't particularly care for, but the bronzerider makes the most of the opportunity while his dragon is otherwise occupied. The usually focused man, however, wasn't so careful as to entirely avoid the rising of a queen, even if he manages to keep Colsoth's attention focused on Evyth when he'd probably have very much liked to come and chase. And, so it is, D'vro is wandering the caverns - perhaps purposefully, perhaps not - when he comes across the young woman. "Lys?" is half-concerned, half-surprised. Not that he should be very surprised to find a greenrider in the Weyr that she lives.

Lys' blue-green eyes draw open slowly, a drip of water escaping her hair and traveling down along a temple toward her chin. They're unfocused at first, then lock on the bronzerider. Her eyes remain intensely on his a moment before she swallows and speaks, "It's hot," holds just a little emphasis. Nevermind that she seems to be shivering from the cold. Then, with no warning, she reaches to snag up his hand as she pushes off the wall and pulls, "Come with me," and unless he pulls, she's off down the tunnel and to another and another, winding them deeper into the Weyr with swift steps.

D'vro doesn't offer any sort of counter to her claim. He almost certainly assumes she means because of the gold, and he probably couldn't argue with her on that point even if he wanted to. And, given that, he doesn't protest her taking him by the hand to lead the way to somewhere else. Except to ask, "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere away," isn't probably as specific as D'vro was hoping for in response. It's all Lys is prepared to give him, short of stopping, until they are somewhere fairly "away." Then her intent becomes all too clear as she pivots suddenly and reaches for his shirt, meaning to draw him to her and find his lips with her own.

Away must work as well as anything for him just now. He's not inclined to demand something more specific, and simply lets her lead him where she will. Neither does he seem inclined to stop her from drawing him to her when she stops, letting their lips meet, moving an arm around her to pull her close, before he hesitates and starts to draw his head back.

The hesitation makes her fists thump lightly on his chest, but only because she gives his shirt a shake, her lips insistent for another moment before he's drawing back, leaving her breathless and looking up at him with vexation. "Do you want to go to my weyr instead?" Lys offers in a rough voice, the offer as thoughtless as the rest of this might be.

"No," offers D'vro in a similar sort of voice, low and heated but perhaps frustrated with the fact that desire exists in him at all. His no isn't because he wants to ''stop'', though, just that he doesn't want to take the time to move to somewhere more private. "Do you?" he asks with that arm tightening slightly and his head angled toward her.

"No," sounds a little confused, but probably not because she's unclear about what she wants. Lys seems all too ready, though, in light of the feelings that gold flights engender, to let go any misinterpretation she might've made of his movements. The blonde leans up on tiptoe to try to draw him back into a quickly deepened kiss, her hands slipping from his shirt down to his belt. "Fuck, it's hot," she swears just as her hands reach his belt and as swiftly go away, glancing to the nearest open doorway. It's not exactly more private, but it's out of the tunnel and into a storage cavern, at any rate, so that's where she aims to pull him to so she can shrug out of her jacket and make short work of her other wet clothes as if that might help with the heat, even as her body shivers.

D'vro is a little more distracted by that kiss, a little more eager to ''have'' her hands on his belt, but there's only a vague sound of protest when she leads them through a doorway. "You don't feel hot," he murmurs. He's touching her, so he should know. "You're shivering." D'vro looks very much like he wants to take off more of her clothes despite the shivering, but he still manages to ask, "Is there someone else that should be here?"

"He might be chasing," Lys doesn't sound like she's got any intention of finding out for sure now that D'vro is here. "And it doesn't matter. I want you." Here, now, and some might argue with clouded judgment, but it's not like she turned him out of the bed after Evyth's last flight was finished. "I never feel right during gold flights. Not since the first time. Just-- let's--" She seems frustrated, not able to find the right words, so she just looks up at him with her pretty blue-green eyes and says, "Please?" softly.

There are a few moments of inaction on D'vro's part. Whether he's trying to convince himself that he shouldn't take advantage of this moment, or convincing himself that he should, is anyone's guess. In the end, though, his hands are moving to get rid of the clothes between them and their path to release so he can lift her up against something sturdy, whether that's a crate or the wall, and do his best to oblige the lust.

Since that's the way whatever internal argument turned out, Lys is more than willing to be helpful to the cause, relieved and pleased to give into the moment. Her arms wrap around his neck once they've found a suitable hard surface and even if there ''is'' someone she's supposed to be looking for, she's very much here, with him, now finding the release they both need. Once they've found it, she's breathless, pressed tightly against him, her arms curled around his neck, lips brushing kisses after a moment along his neck. "Thank you," is soft. "Now it's cold." As it should be, and there's amusement in her tone, even if her teeth chatter a little as she says it.

The bronzerider is panting when it's over, mind quieted in the afterglow, forcing him to simply enjoy the moment for what it is. "Thank ''you''," he murmurs back, but then his brain is back in control and D'vro starts to shift away from her. There's a moment taken to pull his pants back to rights around his hips, but then he's reaching for his own jacket so he can wrap it around her shoulders. "We should get you near a fire. Put some klah in you. Or tea? Which do you prefer?"

"I could bleed klah," the greenrider tells him ruefully, her hands now tucked around her chest after reluctantly letting go of him. Lys glances down to her wet clothes and grimaces, flashing him a grateful smile when his jacket wraps around her shoulders. She looks back to her clothes a moment and then back to the bronzerider. After a moment of thoughtful contemplation, she invites, "If you're not pressed for time, would you come up to my weyr for a while? I could use company. Distraction. There's a fire and klah and booze and there's dry clothes for me." All good things in Lys' book.

Some part of D'vro probably wishes he was pressed for time in some way, but not so much that he's going to lie about it. "Sure. For awhile. I can make sure you don't freeze to death, anyway." It's some sort of teasing, offered as the bronzerider gathers up Lys' wet clothes so she doesn't have to.

"I would appreciate it," Lys tells him, reaching to take those wet clothes because-- like it or not-- she has to put them back on and go back out in the rain to catch an elevator dragon to get up to her weyr with him, "but if you'd rather not...?" She offers him the out, earnestly. It's not like he owes her anything for this brief entanglement, at least not so far as she's concerned. It's a process, to get back into wet things, one that involves convincing herself of the necessity and quite a lot of awkward wiggling to make wet leathers fit like dry leathers, but she manages after some moments to be ready to go, if they're going together.

"No, it's fine. I don't mind." It's not like they haven't already done what he might otherwise avoid, after all. "I'd much rather be with you than wandering around aimlessly until Colsoth and I can go home." D'vro tries not to watch her dress herself, though he absently offers his assistance to help her get back into the wet leather at least once.

Lys accepts his help, when it's useful, but otherwise manages on her own. She leads the way silently, after a nod to accept his words at face value. It's a stout blue that meets them in the bowl, but one whose rider has a friendly enough smile for the pair, if a little too amused and with too much assumption in her look. Lys doesn't bother to correct her wingmate or offer much in the way of introduction, only thanks when they do land on the little ledge with the view that would probably be exquisite in conditions other than sheets of rain in downpour. D'vro was given his jacket back for the trip outside, of course, but they're probably both fairly well watered now and once they're past the thick curtain that helps retain heat in winter, Lys is turning to the bronzerider offering her assistance to get him out of his wet leathers. "We can hang them to dry by the hearth while you're here," she explains, although her hands wander a bit more than is really necessary before she strips out of her things - down to nothing but flesh and gathers her clothes into her arms to traipse, shivering, into the the cozy inner weyr, whose first impression includes all that glittering in only the light coming from the low fire in the hearth and is therefore quite the pretty sight. The fire receives Lys' first attention, dumping the wet garments onto the floor nearby until she has time to quickly, carefully build up the fire and then draw out a collapsable wooden rack with a number of dowels at differing levels to hang wet clothes, and she tends next to that.

The Fortian Wingleader will let her take his wet clothes, the flight still easing his aloofness despite their already taking advantage of the lust. "Your partner isn't going to show up and get the wrong idea, are they? I'd prefer to avoid confrontation if possible." Though maybe if D'vro truly felt that way, he would have said something before letting her take his wet clothes to hang for drying.

"You're safe," Lys replies. "My partners are probably busy and even if they weren't..." She breaks of shrugging and shaking her head. She finishes settling the clothes and then puts the kettle on for the promised klah and breaks out a bottle of whiskey. "Are you prepared to be very interesting or should I take you to bed?" The greenrider asks-slash-threatens-slash-teases. "I'd like to be very distracted for the next-- well, at least as long as that gold is flying." Evidently she's game for good conversation or sex, or probably both, but the distraction seems to be the point.

D'vro has a terse laugh for her assurance of safety, but there's a brief, curious, "Partners?" too. "I can do my best. That's really all a person can offer, I think. But I do like to be good at what I'm expected to do. I'm not sure how often I've been accused of being ''interesting'', though."

Lys considers, and then tosses her head in a gesture to indicate the bed. It's not spacious as these things go, but comfortable enough for two people who like one another well enough to be in a bed to begin with. "The blankets will be warmer than the chairs while our clothes dry." Nevermind that she has dry clothes. It might just be whatever edge the flight might be providing or just her interest in being somewhat on common ground that keeps her in just her skin. She brings the booze to the bed and crawls in, glancing back to either make sure he's coming or to provoke that action, given the sultry look. Once she's climbing under the blankets and getting settled, she'll address, "Partners. I'm not sure monogamy is my thing, but I don't like a lot of partners I never get to know. I like a couple, maybe a few, I know well. Serious but never too serious. And I like good sex. I didn't think I would when I was younger, but it turns out I do." And D'vro's performance must meet muster since he's been invited here. "I expect," she clarifies dryly, "to keep myself distracted, either talking with you or ''not'' talking with you, until the gold flight is done. Then I'll give you back to Colsoth if he wants you." There's a touch of humor to the last, as if there might be some doubt.

He looks between the fire and the bed once Lys is crawling her way into it, and it's the latter that holds his attention just now. D'vro starts to step that way. There's something to be said about warmth, and the flight is making the idea of being close to someone else still quite pleasant. "Partners," he corrects himself as he settles in under the covers, sitting up with his back against the headboard. "He might not want me for awhile given I haven't permitted him to chase." There's a touch of humor there, too, but it's still true. "Especially since I'm here feeling all of it."

"And getting laid," Lys adds with a twist of dark humor as she moves to settle herself against him, a slow breath drawn and a shudder leaving her whole body less tense on the exhale. She offers D'vro the bottle of whiskey first. "Do you know what you want out of life?" might seem random, the question holding genuine curiosity. It might seem less random when she adds, "I don't know that I don't want monogamy, but I don't know that I ''do'', either. It's complicated. It feels like everything is under the surface."

"And getting laid," allows D'vro with a small grin. He takes the bottle, then a drink, and hands it back to Lys. "I feel like I already have what I wanted out of life. I have Colsoth, and my wing. Romantic relationships have never been very important to me. Perhaps if I didn't have Colsoth, they would feel more necessary."

As Lys listens and reacts, there's a momentary pause after his last in which she gives him a rather queer look. She remembers the bottle in her hand after a moment and shifts a little more upright, but still mostly snuggled against him so she can tip it enough to get a gulp. "I think that's sort of why I don't really know what I want. Romantic relationships..." She pauses, struggling to find the right words, "the ''people'' are important to me, their happiness is important to me, but it always seems like the relationship is something so much more... ''essential'' to their lives than it is to mine. It's ... nice, for me. They're nice. They're wonderful really, and I love them but the relationships... That doesn't matter the way I think they wish it would to me." She's abruptly embarrassed, hurriedly tacking on, "I know that must be different from what you meant, just-" she needed to say it, perhaps? She doesn't seem to know how to finish so she just shrugs.

"It's okay," says D'vro. That it's different from what he meant, presumably. "You seem to have a better idea of what you want than you give yourself credit for, though. I'm not sure many people know what they want in that regard until it happens, anyway. The only people I've ever loved were family, or near enough that it made no difference." He eyes the whiskey for a moment, but his gaze settles on her instead.

"I don't do family," Lys says it dismissively, "maybe that's why... But then," she cuts herself off and reroutes, "I'm not sure the whys matter." The bottle is offered, but absently, her eyes meeting his. "I enjoy you," is abrupt candor, but she doesn't dwell. "Tell me about your family?"

"You don't know me very well." It's self deprecating more than anything. D'vro knows perfectly well that he's not the most likable man on Pern when his libido is in it's more natural state. "But I enjoy you, too." As for his family, "There's not much to tell. The woman I hold most dear was a clutchmate of mine. Her family is my family more than my family is my family."

"Maybe we'll test the truth of that when dragons aren't involved sometime," is wry but holds promise (or threat). Lys thinks on the rest a moment. "Before her, who was there? Who raised you?"

"Perhaps." D'vro takes the bottle and a careful drink while he considers his answer. "I was raised by the Weyr, like most weyr children. My mother was distant. I don't know her very well. I'm not entirely sure who my father was. I find it amusing sometimes that we keep such detailed records on our dragons, but our own lineages are barely worth noting."

"Perhaps that's because people's bloodlines are only supposed to matter to the Blooded and their sycophants," which leaves little doubt as to how Lys fees about Holders. "Maybe if our bloodlines mattered at all to dragons in the shell, we'd keep better track." Her tone shows some amusement, tinged with a bitter edge. "Was it a good childhood?"

"It's said that the children of riders are more likely to be chosen by dragons themselves. Dragons don't care about our parents, or their parents, but our blood might call to them all the same." Is philosophy interesting? D'vro seems to think so. "I suppose so. I wanted for little." Except maybe familial affection. There's not so much of that in a weyrbrat's life. "What was your childhood like?"

"So it's said. But is that said so the children of dragonriders feel worthwhile or so we can justify putting forth more of our own and bothering the holders less, or because it's true?" Lys is evidently game for this sort of conversation: it must be distracting! "This Weyr raised me when my fosterparents dumped me here when I was six. I was a handful," probably still could be termed so if for different reasons, "and stubborn about being so. There were good people and bad people." She lets her free hand make a little gesture to indicate 'and so it goes,' or something along those lines.

"I wanted to be a harper," says D'vro as though it's some sort of commentary about feeling worthwhile as the child of a dragonrider. He takes another drink, then offers the whiskey back to Lys. "I can see you being stubborn." It's teasing, then more more serious, "But you seem to have turned out reasonably well. Though perhaps I should save my judgment until neither of us are under some dragon's influence."

"But did you want your parents to have been harpers?" Lys inquires with a lifted brow before taking a sip from the bottle offered back to her. "Perhaps you should," she agrees with a trace of the dark humor from earlier. "I think I have done alright, to Evyth's credit more than most. To Irianke's, too." She thinks on that a moment and then takes another sip. "In a way, meeting under dragon influence can be a little like meeting someone when you're drunk. Might be a totally different beast when you're sober."

"I didn't want my parents to be anything," admits D'vro thoughtfully. "I think I'm more likely to meet someone under a dragon's influence than drunk. I usually only get drunk after I'm under the influence, as it is." Like now? He's not drunk yet, but it could happen eventually.

There's amusement in the way Lys peeks up at him now. "Maybe Colsoth's the only one who knows how to get you ''properly motivated''," her suggestive tone holds humor but she asks with more serious curiosity, "Do you ever want outside of flights?"

"That may very well be the case." D'vro even smiles for a moment over at Lys. "Sure, sometimes. Maybe not as often as other men. Or women." Equal opportunity here. "It's not often much of a consideration until someone is interested enough to insist on consideration. And that happens less often than the wanting."

Lys pulls away from the bronzerider long enough to lean to put the bottle on the nightstand before shifting again to slide one knee to the opposite side of his thighs and come to straddle his lap while her hands find his shoulders. "Consider it," the blonde encourages with a sly smile and a slight movement of her hips, "I insist."

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs:In All Fairness

2016-07-10T23:18:52Z

Kaleidoscope: Created page with "{{Log | who = Jocelyn, Lys, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, Lys{{!}}Evyth | where = Jocelyn's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr | what = The day after Aidavanth's maiden flight, lovers have word..."

{{Log
| who = Jocelyn, Lys, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, Lys{{!}}Evyth
| where = Jocelyn's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
| what = The day after Aidavanth's maiden flight, lovers have words.
| involves =High Reaches Weyr
| day =26
| month = 3
| turn = 41
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2016.07.09
| quote = "Does it feel fair to you?"
| weather =
| mentions = Edyis, Jaine, V'ret
| ooc =
| icons = Jocelyn headache.png, lys overwhelmed.jpg, Jocelyn Aidavanth omg fail.png, lys evyth smad.gif
| type = Log
| desc =
| st =
| log = It's late in the morning the day after her flight before Aidavanth reaches for Evyth, interested to share perspectives and 'is-this-what-it's-like-for-yous' in best-friend, sisterly fashion. During a lull in ''that'' brand of chatter, there's also a more serious, << Jocelyn hasn't asked me yet to have you tell Lys to come see her, but she needs to talk with her. I think you should both visit when you're done working. >> As usual, Jocelyn still hasn't changed out of her crisp shirt and tailored pants by the end of the work day. Unusually, she's crouching in the doorway to her sleeping room, scrutinizing the floor with a frown. "Jaine, tell them to give it another round of scrubbing, " she calls in the direction of the exit to the weyrleader complex where, presumably, her assistant has just departed, brushing off her knees as she pushes to her feet. With that done, she unpins her hair and disappears into the bathing room, apparently adding something that smells faintly of lavender since the small bits of steam escaping into the outer weyr afterward reflect such a scent.

Evyth is warm, as usual, though as the conversation goes on, she ends up asking more questions than providing insightful comparisons since it has been long enough since the last time she rose that Lys has to be the source of all that information, and perhaps it's not Lys' favorite subject just now. When Aidavanth makes that invitation, there's something uneasy in the green's tone as she makes answer, << Lys... hasn't wanted to… ''intrude''... But if you think it is the right time, she will come. We both will. >> It's unclear if Evyth's playing escort is just because she'd like to spend time with her sister (as she often does) or because she'd like to be close for support, but an intelligent mind might well assume both correctly. That Lys hasn't wanted to intrude is not evident in her approach now, though, coming to lean in the doorway of the bathing room after a polite greeting to Aidavanth and leaving the girls to their own devices. She waits until she's sure she's not going to startle the goldrider at a bad moment before greeting her with, "Joce." Her tone is pleasantly neutral, her expression a mask, one that even includes the light touch of freshly retouched cosmetics. This effort with her face is at odds with the old, over-sized sweater (that once was surely a man's) worn over her warm wool leggings. It's a look of comfort, the sort for a night where a girl stays in on the couch, not gets dolled up and comes to see her lover.

<< Intrusions are sometimes necessary, >> replies Aidavanth delicately, affectionate relief washing over them both once Evyth's ''here''. It isn't a bad moment, but Jocelyn is certainly startled when she whirls around at the sound of Lys's voice, blue-gray eyes wide. "Lys." In contrast, ''she'' wears no mask for her surprise, and searches the other's face sharply. "What are you - " Lips pressing suddenly into a line that's very thin, the still-robed redhead folds her arms over her chest, throat bobbing in a swallow that looks more like a grimace. "Aidavanth. I see." Exhaling, she leans against the wall so that she can better face the greenrider, brows knitting. "So that's what you experience every time Evyth goes up. It's - not what I expected it to be." Not that ''any'' part of what's transpired has been. "And it's left me wondering if you're - happy with how things are, truly. We'll never be able to be as close as if Aidavanth had been shelled blue or brown and we could ''both'' - " One hand lifts, almost extends to the blonde, and then drops back to her side. "I don't want this to be unfair to both of us, but I especially want you to be as happy as you can be. Openly weyrmated with someone with whom you can share all of ''that'', too, if that's what you wish for. Last night, I felt, for the first time, that I've somehow been keeping you from the full measure of an experience you deserve." She doesn't bother to disguise the uneasiness that rolls through her features, and her grip on her arms tightens self-protectively.

Lys might've offered to go, but once the words are spilling out of Jocelyn, she remains silent, not moving from where she leans, in silent study of the redhead's face and body language as she speaks. There's a few moments of silence that follow; it's a lot to take in and that probably accounts for it. Lys studies the floor in those moments and then looks back up to the goldrider. Rather than answering Jocelyn's concerns immediately, she asks, "Is that what you want? Now. To be openly weyrmated with someone with whom you can share all of ''that''?" It's hard to say if there's silently, implicitly the question, 'With Edyis?' or if specific individuals haven't yet entered her consideration of the goldrider's words.

"I don't know." It's an honest answer, at least, and the goldrider's head shakes briefly. "Everything is still a ''blur'', Lys. I don't remember much of what happened between sitting down to dinner and fighting with Aidavanth before she took off. I felt - I ''feel'' - like I'm still re-gathering my wits." Lashes briefly casting downward, she adds more quietly, "I ''do'' remember that when I came to, the first thing I said to Edyis was, 'you're not Lys' because I wished that it ''could'' have been you with me. She - put two-and-two together, naturally. Nonjudgmentally." The last adverb is almost an afterthought, pale eyes lifting to peek up at the younger woman again. "I feel that I should be asking your forgiveness, both for inadvertently telling someone - and for letting her stay the remainder of the evening. Everything felt so - " Beat. "Close." It comes out small.

Lys' lips twitch just a little at the admission that their private relationship is no longer as private as it was the day before at this time. Briefly, her eyes betray the intensity of the thought processes going on behind that mask, calculating all the ways things could go from here - weighing those possibilities. It can't really be reassuring the way that the blonde continues to look at the redhead, the mask covering over even that much sharing with this woman she professes to love. It's moments of empty silence later that Lys manages to say in a tightly controlled voice, "You have nothing to ask my forgiveness for." She straightens, shrugging her shoulders, "Flights are flights." If it's hard for Lys to say that, there's no outward sign. "But if you think you want a relationship that includes shared flight experiences, that's something to figure out." It's said blandly, but a little shortly. It might explain why Lys isn't moving toward Jocelyn at all or displaying any body language that would encourage Jocelyn to come to her. "If you want a relationship that includes weyrmating, that's something to figure out, too," is said a little more quietly, a little more gently, with a trace more upset emotion than anything else has held.

It's not reassuring. Neither is the way that Jocelyn's expression shutters as she silently takes in Lys's various responses, and lack thereof. "I - had always hoped that there would be some set of circumstances in which we ''could'', " she admits to that last bit on weyrmating, posture straightening. "But I've never been sure that that's what you've wanted. If it's even something you've wanted. With me. I don't doubt how you feel for me, but even ''now'' Lys, you keep some part of you at arm's length." She's frustrated, but judging by the way the hold of her chin doesn't stay completely steady, it's more out of sadness than anger. "Has an evening at a time, here and there, been enough? Does it feel fair to you? Or is it just what's easiest, being with me, being with V'ret, being with ''whoever'' - without having to think about what could be, what might be, keeping everyone in their own little compartments?" Out on the ledge, Aidavanth has a mental cringe for Evyth, and a silent apology. This is ''not'' going according to plan.

Even in the face of that, Lys is silent and her eyes betray nothing. There isn't, at least, a pause before she responds this time. "I'm sorry you don't feel it's fair to you." Her fingers curl around the bottom of the overlarge sweater, a small movement that must be trying to wring a little more comfort out of the worn fibers than just this choice of wardrobe for this meeting already affords. She flinches just a little when she explains, "There isn't a whole person here," one hand rises to touch her own chest, "that you could love." Then, quickly, hurriedly, "I want you to be happy, Joce. It's what I've always wanted for you and I've been happy to be able to make you so, but-" But. She doesn't seem to know what else to say, so she's turning with a duck of her head to lead the movement to hurry toward the ledge and the perturbed green waiting there, Evyth's heart and mind heavy with a much deeper knowledge of her lifemate than anyone else in this conversation could possibly have.

"But what?" Jocelyn follows, expression fearful as she reaches for Lys's hand with the aim of tugging gently on it in an entreaty to ''stop''. "Fair to ''me''? Lys, I'm worried about what's fair for ''you'' and best for your well-being! And only you can tell me how ''you'' feel. I can't guess or read minds and I'm not going to use my dragon's connection with yours to find something you may not want to tell me. What do you mean that you aren't a whole person that I could love?" (What are you hiding?) "Please talk to me." (Don't leave.)

Lys doesn't fully stop when Jocelyn tugs on her hand, but does stop after just enough steps to be out of easy reach to half-turn back toward the goldrider and at least hear her out. "I can't," comes with a puffed out breath that is part frustration, part exasperation. "I can't talk to you right now. I have--" she makes a helpless gesture in the air, "too many ''things'' going on in here," she indicated her chest before letting her hand fall back to her side. "I'm not-- it's not the flight," maybe it would be better if it were the flight, "it's--" Lys obviously struggles to find anything resembling the right words. "I can't," are words loaded with frustration and defeat. She darts back long enough to press a quick kiss to Jocelyn's lips, as if this confusing gesture is somehow meant to be reassuring - or maybe it's just an apology - before turning to flee the room at what becomes a jog by the time she reaches the ledges. For once, Evyth has little to offer as she's moving to take off beyond a genuine, << Sorry, >> full of a quiet heartache.

Without information available to analyze beyond the admission that there's more going on than the greenrider's letting on, Jocelyn can't pull sense out of 'I'm not' and 'I can't.' Lys's quick kiss, however, that makes her face ''crumple''; although her fingers twitch as if she'd like to reach for the blonde again, she remains in place, watches her flee before wiping at her eyes with the back of one hand in a sharp, angry motion. Shoulders slumping, she resumes drawing her bath, remaining there long afterward with a far-off look for the wall. Aidavanth, a dragon of ''words'', has none for what's unfolded. Nor does she make to stop Evyth, despite having the capability. It's a quiet, << Me too, >> that reaches for the green some minutes after.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]
[[Category:Angst_Logs]]

Logs:Liftoff

2016-07-10T06:55:10Z

Kaleidoscope:

{{Log
|who=Edyis, Ja'son, Jocelyn, Kh'tyr, L'sha, Quint, Quint{{!}}T'zur, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, Edyis{{!}}Akluseth, Ja'son{{!}}Hephaisth, Kh'tyr{{!}}Mograith, Quint{{!}}Tziveth
|what=Aidavanth's maiden flight disrupts the High Reaches dinner hour.
|where=Jocelyn's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr, Benden Weyr, Ista Weyr
|day=25
|month=3
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.09
|quote=What, don't we get an eyeful for the price of admission?
|weather=Heavy rain in the middle of winter only means that the temperature is only a few degrees above freezing; it's more miserable for the soaking torrents.
|mentions=Farideh, F'reah, Irianke
|type=Log
|ooc=Warning: allusions abound. The suggested theme for flight poses was 'sci-fi / fantasy / cult favorite franchises' - and we ran with it with nods to The Abyss, Doctor Who, Firefly, Foundation, Highlander, Hitchhiker's Guide, Mass Effect, Pokemon, The Princess Bride, Stargate, Star Trek and Star Wars. Feel free to add your preferred icons!
|icons-new=Icon edyis.jpg, Icon Jocelyn shocked.png, Icon kh'tyr bodily harm.jpg, Icon l'sha.jpg, Icon quint.jpg, Icon Jocelyn Aidavanth proddy.png, Icon edyis akluseth.jpg, Icon kh'tyr mograith.gif,
|log=Those with dragons in the Snowasis may gradually begin to grow aware of a low, curling tension that's wholly separate from what the weyrfolk are experiencing tonight. Has it been there all day? It's hard to tell, although it increases rapidly into the very palpable sensation of something warm and ''bright'' that telepathically spreads itself over the Weyr. In the living cavern, an increasingly preoccupied Jocelyn stops pushing food around her plate to go very still, expression suddenly startled. Those in the bowl are about to get quite the show; Aidavanth, brilliantly luminous with more than just the frequent oiling of the past several days, awakens and appears on her ledge stretching luxuriously, even provocatively with arching neck and spreading wings. Her rider doesn't have much time to give a panicked look around, to grab the sleeve of the nearest rider and tell them to make sure Irianke and Farideh ''leave'' before she makes a run for the bowl. There will be time later for apologies and 'I told you so's'; for now, the redhead sprints through the rain, barely reaching the stairs up to the weyrleader complex before the queen is suddenly airborne, barreling toward the feeding grounds where several resident males have already begun their hunts.

Dragon> A familiar presence is here, nearby. He is subtle, as always, just a dimming of the mental landscape at first, slowly but surely quashing the noise of other thoughts as his grows more noticeable, dark trendrils seeking her. Tziveth watches, hidden in the rain. (To Aidavanth from Tziveth)

Edyis manages to step up near the foreigners catching a snippet of the conversation. "Hey, don't I know you." Stepping up to the outside of the group, reaching to tap the Benden rider on the shoulder. Except that, her eyes go distant and an "Fuck" Escapes. "Fucking brown." Whatever had drawn her attention she's now darting out into the rainy bowl. In the Bowl warm waves dappled with sunlight are shared the taste of the ocean coloring the adventurous brown's thoughts. << You look lovely. >>

There's the characteristic pause and unfocused eyes from L'sha that indicates that he's speaking with his dragon. "Rillaeth says that Aidavanth is about to rise." And sure enough, riders are suddenly scrambling outside. He sees Edyis rush outside and calls to her, "Good luck, Edyis! Hmmm, should I go out and watch from the patio? It's coming down pretty hard out there. Maybe we can get an umbrella or something."

It's always hard to say if being ignored in an increasingly busy drinking establishment is an intentional slight or accident. Kh'tyr's eyes draw to Ja'son only after T'zur has the good manners to reply to the other rider. His eyes swiftly rake the younger man, "Tightpants," he dubs the other rider with a slightly narrowed gaze (nevermind if his pants aren't especially tight), "Pay attention," as if he'd been with them all along, "We are scoping out the room," he spreads his hands in an unnecessarily large gesture to frame different tables - including, briefly, the one at which the harper and greenrider sits, "in the guise of assessing business. But now that I've explained..." His tone implies it's all ruined. "Where's my drink?" he demands of no one as he turns back to the bar. "Aw, shell," is a half-growl that has him dropping his head toward the bar top, only to straighten before it touches. "Where is my drink," is no longer a question, but a plaintive hope.

There's something bemused about the way that T'zur regards Ja'son, though whatever causes the expression is kept to himself. Instead, he tucks gloves neatly into his jacket, eagerly waiting for his glass when the bartender returns -- at least until he gets that tap on the shoulder. "Mm?" curious, blank expression is turned on Edyis; there might be a flicker of recognition -- but it's gone instantly as gaze goes distant. "Ah," he exhales, mouth twisting. When the bartender sets down the glasses, he snatches the first one (sorry, Kh'tyr!), practically gulping down the contents of the glass, tosses just enough coins onto the bar to make up for it, and pushes straight. "Follow the crowd, I guess?" to his fellow foreigners, trailing in the wake of that female brownrider. Tziveth is, for his part, largely silent -- there's no bellowy challenges or such. Instead, his thoughts creep out, subtly, extending outwards, making his presence felt in the movement at the corner of the eye, and the dark that lurks at the edges.

As Hephaisth makes his move unfolding his bulk like a wind-up toy, Ja'son throws back his head and starts to ''laugh''. "Oh that bastard F'reah is going to get it in his ''eye''. 'Punishment Duty'." A snort for that as he shoves himself up from his seat and winks at the bartender. "You just keep hold of that whiskey for now, aye? If I'm not back in a hour just give it to some poor smuck, coutsey of a lucky, lucky, ''lucky'' man. Shall we men?" And he'll keep in pace with the other two so they can follow the native brownrider. Hephaisth bloods a kill, his mind a maze of machinery, and his voice like the clank of gears turning over one another as if counting down to the ''real'' event.

"Aidavanth?" Quint echoes L'sha with an exhale, fingers tightening momentarily on his glass. "Ah," he adds, in a low whistle, like ''something'' suddenly makes sense. He regards the foreign riders in a new light, eyes narrowing like he's assessing them differently, now. "I'd-- yes, that's a good idea. Mind if I join you? Perhaps you can tell me who the chasers are?" he asks L'sha, starting to rise. "And -- maybe take the bottle? I think we'll need it." He's taking his glass, for certain.

Dragon> Though Kh'tyr might only now be realizing what Mograith must already have known, there's a brief flash of triumph, of victory - not the most important kind, what with ''that'' battle of wills and wants not yet begun, but the chance for that second comes from this first win. There's a dangerous sense of something primal having slipped the leash, and the faint sound of raucous, cruel laughter when his rider's barely breathed words, "Curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal," are hooked into that malevolent glee and shared with the rest. (To local dragons from Mograith)

Aidavanth's focus is singular; swooping low, she makes quick work of not one, but ''two'' ex-members of the High Reaches herd, tearing into both one right after the other. She's frenzied in her hunger, eyes awash in crimson. Jocelyn, who's bolted to the very back of her weyr with an adrenaline-fueled glare for the armoire as if wondering if she'd fit inside of it, clenches her fists and jaw. In the feeding pens, Aidavanth screams in all of a rising queen's usual fury before lowering her muzzle to each beast's neck in turn. If she can't ''eat'', she'll at least drain them dry before going in pursuit of a third, burnished hide gleaming through the rain.

Akluseth has been waiting for this, the fire licked brown already has his muzzle buried in the throat of a wherry, the sticky drip of ichor dripping down his chin as he drinks. Every muscle in his frame wound tight as a spring, his thoughts the shift and swell of a depthless ocean sinking deeper and deeper into the cool dark. The flicker of lights and glowing shapes hinted at through the deep waters. For the others who dare to vie for that golden warmth, Akluseth only has the boundless chill of the ocean depths. The ghosts of ships lost to the deep looming in the gloom. The promise of ruin.

Flight jacket unbuttoned, Edyis's steps bear her to where believes she will find the Jr. Weyrwoman. She smells of spiced rum, and her cheeks and exposed throat are flushed with something other than cold. "Jocelyn." Is soft, but she maintains her distance watching the Goldrider where she stares at the furniture. "Jocelyn." There's an apology in the word.

Hephaisth's hide is like that of the inside of a really well worked fireplace, dark and bronzed with time and the heat of the fire. His awkwardly proportioned body does the job well enough, flicking blood from the herdbeast as he keeps an eye on the gleaming queen. He'll take a moment to size up the competition also, gears whirling in ever more complicated connections to find ''just'' the right one.

Dragon> To Tziveth, Aidavanth's presence ''tilts'' and ''splashes'' dangerously. She's on a one-way course to a precipice she's never directly experienced. Is he just going to ''watch'' the entire time?

The rain makes it near-impossible to see, doubly so when you're in a foreign weyr. And while logic would dictate that T'zur don his helmet to protect his head from the weather, he's clearly got ''other'' things on his mind, such that, by the time he trails Edyis towards the appropriate ledge and follows it into shelter, his hair is plastered to his head. He looks neither left nor right, not as soon as pale gaze settles on Jocelyn; he exhales a breath, smiles, and steps closer. Not ''invasively'' close, but... he's there, hovering just out of sight, and he wants her to know it, too. Tziveth is done watching, done waiting. He's bidden his time, and the threads of his planning have been thrown out; whether they seek their mark or not remains to be seen. Gracefully, the small Benden bronze lifts into the air, unperturbed by the weather, seeking an appropriately sized buck. The kill is swift and bloodied, ivory-white talons sinking into flesh to choke out the life while his jaw snaps to the neck for blooding. The second is just as swift as the first, as is the third; and while his gaze may not be on Aidavanth, his brooding, dark presence hovers there, stretching towards her, seeking all the while.

Ja'son manages to be one of the first of the strange-bronzers here-just-for-the-flight-because-they-are-lucky-like-that and while the brownrider steps into the room directly, Ja'son does his best to slip around T'zur and put himself and his easy smile right into the doorway. "Why don't we give the lady some room, aye? Watch from here?"

Dragon> No, indeed, for Tziveth is ''done'' with watching. The black depths of his thoughts spiral, heating all unintentionally by her nearness, while the tendrils of his shadows strain and stretch, seeking her, seeking the ''core'' of her. He will know her; he will know who she is and what she desires. (To Aidavanth from Tziveth)

The pale brown is a wraith in the storm, diving to collect carcass-to-go before sweeping to the muddy ground. Mograith's blooding is as beautiful as the weather. The heavy rain drives away the gore that would otherwise cling to his maw as he rends the beast enough to get his mouth to the juciest places. He doesn't stop at one, though the second has a little more fight despite his predatory grace in the moment of the catch, trying to take as much as the beast has to offer while the thing's heart still beats - no mercy or gentility to the way he lets it bleed out into his mouth.

Kh'tyr arrives after the other foreigners, having stayed for that damned drink before trailing the crowd. He doesn't take care with his boots here, in point of fact, he tracks as much mud as will readily come with them into Jocelyn's weyr with little care that he's a dripping mess in her personal abode. As much as there's something dangerous to the feel of Mograith's mind, the humor seems to have left Kh'tyr in the waking of flight feelings, and there's something almost hateful in the way his otherwise lusty gaze searches for the redhead (whose fault this is, clearly).

Discarding her third kill with a cry that's both challenge and surety, Aidavanth tosses her head and springs upward, enormous wings pushing her higher and higher still. Altitude seems to be her first objective, and she climbs well until the spindles fall away below her, ''out of her way''. With the quick energy of blood and the flavor of flesh, if not its texture, some of her frenzy abates - enough for her to smooth her course, leveling out after some minutes to carve a wide orbit about the skies above her home. Is she on some sort of trek for the stars, boldly going forth in a blaze of incandescence?

Jocelyn probably ''hears'' Edyis, but gives no sign that she's listening, not until there are more voices, more footsteps, more ''people''. "Get ''out'' of my bedroom!" are the welcoming, rapidly bitten out words the goldrider hurls at the brownrider, at other incoming riders who come into view, arms folding across her chest. "The line must be drawn ''here''! There's another room over ''there'' you can very well stand in."

Fire licked and liquid all at once powerful muscles release all tension and Akluseth launches into the air, gaining altitude with every stroke of the brown's rippled wings. His thoughts now are laced with dancing glowing shapes, alien in their beauty as they drift on the currents. Those thoughts reach for the orange gold queen, inviting, protective even. His wings thrash violently against the air in the driving rain, up, and up and up after the glowing queen. A roar echoing out in a challenge to these invaders. Ink-dark eyes focus on the ones who have followed her and there is something decidedly fierce in the brownrider's gaze, if not downright territorial. "Marching into your bedroom is not what I had in mind ." Is growled low in that soft soprano, but then dark eyes are glaring at the ''poachers''. "If you are going to throw something though, better them than me."

The gears abruptly fall into place, lighting up the seven key icons, and bursting forth with blue light. Hephaisth leaves his blooded kill below and launches himself towards the sky. His mind is quick now that the plan is set in motion, his wings and body working like a perfectly constructed machine for splitting between space (and of course), time. He follows without words - for now - though his flight is straight. Ja'son reaches out to try to put his hands on the chests of the brown and bronze riders not-from here - he is PROBABLY going to get punched in his perfect blond face for this, and continuing to smile, "Why don't we just go wait outside, like the lady said?" There's a bit of an edge to his voice.

The rain serves a secondary purpose, besides concealment: it sluices the blood from Tziveth's messy kills, leaving only his dark, near-black shade. He is satiated, waiting, watching -- and when the moment comes he is ready, with the patience of someone who has planned for this moment. Upwards, he surges, with beats of his wings, his speed on par with that of the larger browns, falling behind the larger bronzes. This early set back doesn't seem to otherwise deter him, however: he knows his strength set amongst the others are akin to giants amongst children; such things he's seen again and again, cycle after cycle. For now, he's thrust in the middle of the pack, always mindful of Aidavanth's location, and ever seeking with the dark tendrils of his thoughts. Eventually, even stars die out and become blackness; what is old can be reaved and made anew, and a new cycle might find a brighter future.

T'zur isn't deterred by the goldrider's words. Small, they are, words -- it is deeds that determine the suitability of survival. He folds arms across his chest, daring to edge into the boundary she's set -- leaning over and eyeing the bed with a twitch of lips. "It will do. The rest are unworthy, however, and will fall as they always do." When Ja'son pushes at him, his teeth bare, his arms unfolding and shoving back. "Really, now. You're a child, you know nothing."

Time for some thrilling heroics. Mograith's coiled muscles loose their tension in an upward shot that has angular frame cutting through wind as he twists into the sky, wings unfurling. He's not the largest chaser, not by far, nor the smallest, but he seeks a course that nimbly swerves through others, narrowly avoiding another brown in the pack to levy a spot in the chase that is above the pack (until she gains more altitude), if a little to the back as cost for the advantages of height and a little more room to maneuver.

"A big damn hero, that's what you are," Kh'tyr growls at Ja'son's well-intended advice. Of course, that's growled as he angles to brush past the lot of them and wedge himself through that door. "What, don't we get an eyeful for the price of admission?" He (wisely) heckles the goldrider within, even if he's not made it to or through the door yet.

Reveling openly in her strength, her power, the way she can put more distance between herself and the dark sets of wings somewhere behind her, Aidavanth pushes on as if guided by some inner force, banking abruptly to the right to dive through the nearest cloud. Between the nebulous formation and the rain, it may well be trickier to track her for a few minutes. She moves with the grace of one who has honed her movements to best take advantage of her size, presence all but vibrating with a low hum. They're not too weak to seek her power, are they, these others who are pledged to pursuing her for the moment? There, another challenging trumpet as she climbs a bit more, levels out with a triumphant lash of her tail.

"You're all acting like children, " snaps Jocelyn, who despite herself, has to unfasten the top button of her collar as her forehead grows damp with perspiration. "We have a ''code'' of acceptable behavior and this is not it. Let me make this simple for you; see the room that's ''not'' dark? That's the side you should be on." And she makes a shooing motion with one hand, even as her words trail off into a half-mumble, eyes squeezing shut.

Hephaisth grinds out a challenge to the others around him - perhaps catching some of his rider's good-ish-natured jibing. (Which is about to turn less good natured, but that's not important, right?) What is IMPORTANT is that he has the ''answer'' to the greatest question Aidavanth could ever ask. She just has to let him get close enough so that he can crunch out the question for her to read back to him.

Ja'son sighs lightly, as if the two have just ''inconvenienced him''. "It's really too bad, but ''I'' asked politely, ''she'' asked not-so-politely, let's just make the after a bit more pleasant, right?" And despite the calm charm in his words he goes from trying to gentle them out to straight up hooking a punch at T'zur which will ''hopefully'' push him into Kh'tyr... and out of the room. Because they wouldn't want to break the nice lady's things, RIGHT?

Observe, note and judge. Only then shall Tziveth interfere. And yet... ''yet'', something makes him snap towards Hephaisth's tail, though he's for all intents and purposes stuck behind the other bronze. He misses Aidavanth's dive into the cloud, and loses sight of her; his frustration can be felt in the twitching tendrils of shadow, seeking, ''searching'' for her. His entire purpose thwarted by an unworthy foe, his frustration is bellowed out into the night sky. She is ''worthy''; she must be raised up and made true.

T'zur's chin lifts, mocking features surfacing as he regards Ja'son, "And you are ''who'' to decide? You are ''unworthy''. Your Weyr is nothing more than petty, barely sentient club-beaters. Your line will not continue, and well for the future of our race." And meanwhile, whilst he's busy speechmaking, Ja'son's busy ''doing''; he doesn't even notice that fist coming towards his face until the last minute; there's a ''crack'' and a cry of pain, and the Bendenite goes stumbling ''backwards'', into whomever might be behind him. "Ffffff," is about the only noise he has.

This is the kind of flying that the rippled orange-brown loves, He may not be as large but what he lacks in size he makes up for with sheer daring, matching her twist for twist, dive for dive and climb for climb, careful to keep himself away from claws and collisions with the others. Even with the scolding provided by Jocelyn, once fists start flying it's clear that the brownrider isn't going anywhere near that mess. She does stay well away from Jocelyn however. "Forgive me, but I really would rather not get sucked into that." Gesturing at the flying fists. But hey it's not a goldflight without a few punches right.

It's probably only the focus of the hunt, the driving need that presses Mograith to continue on and the lure of the gold to begin with that has this brown ignoring the rain. Just because he can ignore the persistent pelting of drops as he flies doesn't mean he can afford to ignore what the storm does to the air currents and that becomes his secondary focus, to use them, only vaguely familiar as they might be, to gain some speed in his pursuit of the gold. As she banks, he loses sight of her, but doesn't dive, as others might. It's a gamble, but it pays off when she climbs again and he makes quick work of maneuvering himself to a place that offers a better advantage in the chase.

Kh'tyr stumbles (and thus out of any turf he'd gained on that doorway) when T'zur rebounds into him, but he's not so ineloquent as T'zur ends up, so perhaps for both of them, he turns in toward Ja'son to take a solid swing at the Istan as he pronounces, "Well, my days of taking you seriously are certainly coming to a middle," as if he'd met the blond more than an hour ago.

At some point as her journey continues, Aidavanth has to assess those still in pursuit, crowing when first one of the smaller out-of-weyr browns, then another drops from the pack after they miscalculated their trajectories. In a battle of wills, however, that momentary slowing to see who's nearby costs her; she turns and pushes her way upward again, seeking to gain just a little more height. She's finally flagging, however, and there's a frustrated cry to reflect her state as her next few beats waver slightly. Whoever has their pinions in the right place at the right time has at least one advantage going for them: They'll be the very best, like no one ever was. All they need to do is carry them both across the Weyr, far and wide. And catch her, of course.

Had Jocelyn recognized the signs before Aidavanth rose, she might have had a chance to protect her weyr from devastation. Uniting everyone into her standards of acceptable behavior, however? Lost cause, as her weyrlinghood lessons will undoubtedly remind her in the morning. As her eyes finally open to take in the tableau, they're less focused on the fighting and more focused on ''them''. Her eyes travel to each in turn, pupils dilated with shared desire and eyes narrowing in calculation with what little wit she has left to her. She can denounce them until the bovines go indoors, but that she'll have to extend a reach toward one or another ''soon'' seems imminent.

Hephaisth is ready - more than ready - for this journey to reach it's terminus. The goal is in sight and he's angling down on it just as clearly as if he was a psychohistorian who had plotted this well in advance. (Never mind the inherent inaccuracy of judging the future by the past.) His gears click into a higher drive as he dives himself after the gold in his pathway, one goal in mind win!

Ja'son waves out his hand from the punch, mission get-the-jerks-out was totally a success. Except for the fact that one of them is closing in on him. He ducks ''just'' enough to avoid a face-punch, but Kh'tyr totally connects to the side of his head. "Dammmmnnnn man, you got a serious hook on that! Ear is totally going to ring for a while now." He rubs at it, stepping back into the doorway proper to keep it covered up until the gold DOES make her choice. Unless someone punches him cold. Which... would be really awkward for the winning couple to deal with. Just sayin'.

Wibbly wobbly timey wimy timing comes down to these last few stretches as Akluseth takes advantage of his position in attempt to twine his tail with hers, wings beating with the very last of his energy as the desire to fall overtakes them. He reaches and reaches for her. As for Edyis, she leans cooly against the wall, the rapid rise and fall of her chest and flush of her face suggesting the anticipation of the flights end. There can be only one.

Tziveth's frustration isn't abated by the expected blood. Instead, that frustration is fuel for him -- spotting the golden Aidavanth again -- seeking to outstrip the other chasers. He's flagging behind the larger bronzes, but he ''won't'' be undone -- his purpose must, ''has always'' been fulfilled, and this flight will be no exception. He will seek the core of the lovely gold, will ''know'' her thoughts and desires. They will be one.

T'zur is oblivious to the fight going on around (over?) him, spitting out blood all over Jocelyn's nice clean floor. This is clearly all the Istan's fault. He manages to rock back onto his knees, blood running from his nose and lips, wiping the back of his hand across it. His face is a tight snarl, pushing with effort to his feet, undaunted by the momentary sway. That ''ass'' of an Istan is in the way. But also, the Fortian. She's back there somewhere, and he wants to be there ''now'', and so he sets about shoving blindly.

Mograith would never tell ''this'' lady that she's his kind of stupid, but he might think it, quietly. There's that glee when her slowing costs her. That's when the predator living in the skin of this pale, angular brown shows to his best advantage. Sleek and agile, he take the route that puts him as close to Aidavanth as he can get, using his smaller-than-bronzes frame to slip past some claws. ''Normally'', if someone tried to kill him, he'd try to kill them right back, but the way a claw scratches across his spine doesn't ''quite'' count as trying to kill and there's a more important goal here. With a twist and a roll, he seeks to ensnare the gold.

Strange, probably, that a man can go from punching a guy to reaching to try to pinch that no doubt still stinging cheek of Ja'son's, to say only, "Your mouth's still talking, you might want to look to that," before he's shoved and jostled by the blindly shoving Benden. His jaw clamps like he might like to say more, his feet move like he might like to get out of the way, but apparently enough of him is still with Mograith that that part of him won't allow him to just ''step aside'' in a moment like this, so jostled and shoved, Kh'tyr doesn't really try to make any room for the younger man. Too bad, T'zur.

Aidavanth struggles only briefly once wings and tails begin fouling with her own. She's able to wrest herself free of the first and the second, but the third attempt truly is a lucky one; here's hoping Akluseth has the stamina to keep them both afloat while at long last, she indulges in the feelings that have had several days to build, enthusiasm bobbing from her watery thoughts to his as she grips the brown tightly to her. She's too sexy for her straps - and for the others as they begin their descent, together.

And Jocelyn? There will be room for mortification later. For now, she's unbuttoning the remainder of her blouse, cheeks high in color as she marches up to Edyis, expression brazenly triumphant. "I bet marching into my bedroom ''is'' on your mind, now." And she tilts her chin to meet the brownrider's with the aim of landing a fierce, thorough kiss. The bloody men might have something to watch if they don't clear out soon.

Hephaisth had totally and completely been focused on the gold body, but when it is TAKEN, his machine-like mine snaps, the gears grinding to a halt and moving backwards. Backwards until he notices - WHAT THE CRAP SOMEONE BIT HIM ON THE TAIL. Obviously, this is why he lost. Can't do the dance if he's got broken equipment. Spiraling away he's totally going to get away from the jerk that attacked him. Jerk. Ja'son can just walk through the rain to find him!

Ja'son really really really was going to hold his ground. But the brownrider is able to shove him out of the way... just in time for the choice to be made - and it is TOTALLY not him. "Woah, nelly, let's go buy a drink man." As the flight fog lifts Ja'son is going to remember the glass waiting for him. "PIck up some chicks. Ain't nothing here for us." He sounds like someone's best-friend.

To the victor go the spoils, and Akluseth's wings do the work they are meant to as necks and tails twine, her watery thoughts attuned with his own. Whatever Edyis had expected, that kiss is met, and returned with an equal fierceness as hands fumble to free her prize from her clothes.

A bellow of frustration marks Tziveth's failure, turning as tightly as he can manage, and woe whoever might be in the way of flexing talons as he ''escapes''. The small bronze begins his descent through the rain, exhaustion lining his features as he seeks the stability of the ground below.

Well, would you look at that. While T'zur was busy trying to get ''in''to the doorway, someone else won. He makes an inarticulate sound, gives Ja'son another shove for good measure. Scowling at the Istan, he turns and stomps out, dripping blood all the way. Maybe he's going to the infirmary, and maybe to drinks with his seconds-ago-arch-enemy; who knows!

Mograith's loss is expressed in a primal half-roar half-shriek that is equal parts rage and disappointment. He reaches a claw to swipe, but the gesture is curtailed before it has any chance of reaching anyone - the lucky winner, the gold or any of the other losers now sharing the sky with him. There's another sound of outrage for that, but perhaps in spite of how things have worked out, Mograith will take comfort in knowing he's still flying and even if that's not much, it's enough.

Kh'tyr's grinning like a fool with the privilege of getting to ''walk away'' from this goldrider's bower. Mograith may be upset, but clearly Kh'tyr is not. It's a damn fine shindig now, and that warrants a drink, which is where his feet will swiftly lead him.
|Categories=Flight Logs
}}

Logs:Liftoff

2016-07-10T06:53:15Z

Kaleidoscope: Icon swap!

{{Log
|who=Edyis, Ja'son, Jocelyn, Kh'tyr, L'sha, Quint, Quint{{!}}T'zur, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, Edyis{{!}}Akluseth, Ja'son{{!}}Hephaisth, Kh'tyr{{!}}Mograith, Quint{{!}}Tziveth
|what=Aidavanth's maiden flight disrupts the High Reaches dinner hour.
|where=Jocelyn's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr, Benden Weyr, Ista Weyr
|day=25
|month=3
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.09
|quote=What, don't we get an eyeful for the price of admission?
|weather=Heavy rain in the middle of winter only means that the temperature is only a few degrees above freezing; it's more miserable for the soaking torrents.
|mentions=Farideh, F'reah, Irianke
|type=Log
|ooc=Warning: allusions abound. The suggested theme for flight poses was 'sci-fi / fantasy / cult favorite franchises' - and we ran with it with nods to The Abyss, Doctor Who, Foundation, Highlander, Hitchhiker's Guide, Mass Effect, Pokemon, The Princess Bride, Stargate, Star Trek and Star Wars. Feel free to add your preferred icons!
|icons-new=Icon edyis.jpg, Icon Jocelyn shocked.png, Icon kh'tyr bodily harm.jpg, Icon l'sha.jpg, Icon quint.jpg, Icon Jocelyn Aidavanth proddy.png, Icon edyis akluseth.jpg, Icon kh'tyr mograith.gif,
|log=Those with dragons in the Snowasis may gradually begin to grow aware of a low, curling tension that's wholly separate from what the weyrfolk are experiencing tonight. Has it been there all day? It's hard to tell, although it increases rapidly into the very palpable sensation of something warm and ''bright'' that telepathically spreads itself over the Weyr. In the living cavern, an increasingly preoccupied Jocelyn stops pushing food around her plate to go very still, expression suddenly startled. Those in the bowl are about to get quite the show; Aidavanth, brilliantly luminous with more than just the frequent oiling of the past several days, awakens and appears on her ledge stretching luxuriously, even provocatively with arching neck and spreading wings. Her rider doesn't have much time to give a panicked look around, to grab the sleeve of the nearest rider and tell them to make sure Irianke and Farideh ''leave'' before she makes a run for the bowl. There will be time later for apologies and 'I told you so's'; for now, the redhead sprints through the rain, barely reaching the stairs up to the weyrleader complex before the queen is suddenly airborne, barreling toward the feeding grounds where several resident males have already begun their hunts.

Dragon> A familiar presence is here, nearby. He is subtle, as always, just a dimming of the mental landscape at first, slowly but surely quashing the noise of other thoughts as his grows more noticeable, dark trendrils seeking her. Tziveth watches, hidden in the rain. (To Aidavanth from Tziveth)

Edyis manages to step up near the foreigners catching a snippet of the conversation. "Hey, don't I know you." Stepping up to the outside of the group, reaching to tap the Benden rider on the shoulder. Except that, her eyes go distant and an "Fuck" Escapes. "Fucking brown." Whatever had drawn her attention she's now darting out into the rainy bowl. In the Bowl warm waves dappled with sunlight are shared the taste of the ocean coloring the adventurous brown's thoughts. << You look lovely. >>

There's the characteristic pause and unfocused eyes from L'sha that indicates that he's speaking with his dragon. "Rillaeth says that Aidavanth is about to rise." And sure enough, riders are suddenly scrambling outside. He sees Edyis rush outside and calls to her, "Good luck, Edyis! Hmmm, should I go out and watch from the patio? It's coming down pretty hard out there. Maybe we can get an umbrella or something."

It's always hard to say if being ignored in an increasingly busy drinking establishment is an intentional slight or accident. Kh'tyr's eyes draw to Ja'son only after T'zur has the good manners to reply to the other rider. His eyes swiftly rake the younger man, "Tightpants," he dubs the other rider with a slightly narrowed gaze (nevermind if his pants aren't especially tight), "Pay attention," as if he'd been with them all along, "We are scoping out the room," he spreads his hands in an unnecessarily large gesture to frame different tables - including, briefly, the one at which the harper and greenrider sits, "in the guise of assessing business. But now that I've explained..." His tone implies it's all ruined. "Where's my drink?" he demands of no one as he turns back to the bar. "Aw, shell," is a half-growl that has him dropping his head toward the bar top, only to straighten before it touches. "Where is my drink," is no longer a question, but a plaintive hope.

There's something bemused about the way that T'zur regards Ja'son, though whatever causes the expression is kept to himself. Instead, he tucks gloves neatly into his jacket, eagerly waiting for his glass when the bartender returns -- at least until he gets that tap on the shoulder. "Mm?" curious, blank expression is turned on Edyis; there might be a flicker of recognition -- but it's gone instantly as gaze goes distant. "Ah," he exhales, mouth twisting. When the bartender sets down the glasses, he snatches the first one (sorry, Kh'tyr!), practically gulping down the contents of the glass, tosses just enough coins onto the bar to make up for it, and pushes straight. "Follow the crowd, I guess?" to his fellow foreigners, trailing in the wake of that female brownrider. Tziveth is, for his part, largely silent -- there's no bellowy challenges or such. Instead, his thoughts creep out, subtly, extending outwards, making his presence felt in the movement at the corner of the eye, and the dark that lurks at the edges.

As Hephaisth makes his move unfolding his bulk like a wind-up toy, Ja'son throws back his head and starts to ''laugh''. "Oh that bastard F'reah is going to get it in his ''eye''. 'Punishment Duty'." A snort for that as he shoves himself up from his seat and winks at the bartender. "You just keep hold of that whiskey for now, aye? If I'm not back in a hour just give it to some poor smuck, coutsey of a lucky, lucky, ''lucky'' man. Shall we men?" And he'll keep in pace with the other two so they can follow the native brownrider. Hephaisth bloods a kill, his mind a maze of machinery, and his voice like the clank of gears turning over one another as if counting down to the ''real'' event.

"Aidavanth?" Quint echoes L'sha with an exhale, fingers tightening momentarily on his glass. "Ah," he adds, in a low whistle, like ''something'' suddenly makes sense. He regards the foreign riders in a new light, eyes narrowing like he's assessing them differently, now. "I'd-- yes, that's a good idea. Mind if I join you? Perhaps you can tell me who the chasers are?" he asks L'sha, starting to rise. "And -- maybe take the bottle? I think we'll need it." He's taking his glass, for certain.

Dragon> Though Kh'tyr might only now be realizing what Mograith must already have known, there's a brief flash of triumph, of victory - not the most important kind, what with ''that'' battle of wills and wants not yet begun, but the chance for that second comes from this first win. There's a dangerous sense of something primal having slipped the leash, and the faint sound of raucous, cruel laughter when his rider's barely breathed words, "Curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal," are hooked into that malevolent glee and shared with the rest. (To local dragons from Mograith)

Aidavanth's focus is singular; swooping low, she makes quick work of not one, but ''two'' ex-members of the High Reaches herd, tearing into both one right after the other. She's frenzied in her hunger, eyes awash in crimson. Jocelyn, who's bolted to the very back of her weyr with an adrenaline-fueled glare for the armoire as if wondering if she'd fit inside of it, clenches her fists and jaw. In the feeding pens, Aidavanth screams in all of a rising queen's usual fury before lowering her muzzle to each beast's neck in turn. If she can't ''eat'', she'll at least drain them dry before going in pursuit of a third, burnished hide gleaming through the rain.

Akluseth has been waiting for this, the fire licked brown already has his muzzle buried in the throat of a wherry, the sticky drip of ichor dripping down his chin as he drinks. Every muscle in his frame wound tight as a spring, his thoughts the shift and swell of a depthless ocean sinking deeper and deeper into the cool dark. The flicker of lights and glowing shapes hinted at through the deep waters. For the others who dare to vie for that golden warmth, Akluseth only has the boundless chill of the ocean depths. The ghosts of ships lost to the deep looming in the gloom. The promise of ruin.

Flight jacket unbuttoned, Edyis's steps bear her to where believes she will find the Jr. Weyrwoman. She smells of spiced rum, and her cheeks and exposed throat are flushed with something other than cold. "Jocelyn." Is soft, but she maintains her distance watching the Goldrider where she stares at the furniture. "Jocelyn." There's an apology in the word.

Hephaisth's hide is like that of the inside of a really well worked fireplace, dark and bronzed with time and the heat of the fire. His awkwardly proportioned body does the job well enough, flicking blood from the herdbeast as he keeps an eye on the gleaming queen. He'll take a moment to size up the competition also, gears whirling in ever more complicated connections to find ''just'' the right one.

Dragon> To Tziveth, Aidavanth's presence ''tilts'' and ''splashes'' dangerously. She's on a one-way course to a precipice she's never directly experienced. Is he just going to ''watch'' the entire time?

The rain makes it near-impossible to see, doubly so when you're in a foreign weyr. And while logic would dictate that T'zur don his helmet to protect his head from the weather, he's clearly got ''other'' things on his mind, such that, by the time he trails Edyis towards the appropriate ledge and follows it into shelter, his hair is plastered to his head. He looks neither left nor right, not as soon as pale gaze settles on Jocelyn; he exhales a breath, smiles, and steps closer. Not ''invasively'' close, but... he's there, hovering just out of sight, and he wants her to know it, too. Tziveth is done watching, done waiting. He's bidden his time, and the threads of his planning have been thrown out; whether they seek their mark or not remains to be seen. Gracefully, the small Benden bronze lifts into the air, unperturbed by the weather, seeking an appropriately sized buck. The kill is swift and bloodied, ivory-white talons sinking into flesh to choke out the life while his jaw snaps to the neck for blooding. The second is just as swift as the first, as is the third; and while his gaze may not be on Aidavanth, his brooding, dark presence hovers there, stretching towards her, seeking all the while.

Ja'son manages to be one of the first of the strange-bronzers here-just-for-the-flight-because-they-are-lucky-like-that and while the brownrider steps into the room directly, Ja'son does his best to slip around T'zur and put himself and his easy smile right into the doorway. "Why don't we give the lady some room, aye? Watch from here?"

Dragon> No, indeed, for Tziveth is ''done'' with watching. The black depths of his thoughts spiral, heating all unintentionally by her nearness, while the tendrils of his shadows strain and stretch, seeking her, seeking the ''core'' of her. He will know her; he will know who she is and what she desires. (To Aidavanth from Tziveth)

The pale brown is a wraith in the storm, diving to collect carcass-to-go before sweeping to the muddy ground. Mograith's blooding is as beautiful as the weather. The heavy rain drives away the gore that would otherwise cling to his maw as he rends the beast enough to get his mouth to the juciest places. He doesn't stop at one, though the second has a little more fight despite his predatory grace in the moment of the catch, trying to take as much as the beast has to offer while the thing's heart still beats - no mercy or gentility to the way he lets it bleed out into his mouth.

Kh'tyr arrives after the other foreigners, having stayed for that damned drink before trailing the crowd. He doesn't take care with his boots here, in point of fact, he tracks as much mud as will readily come with them into Jocelyn's weyr with little care that he's a dripping mess in her personal abode. As much as there's something dangerous to the feel of Mograith's mind, the humor seems to have left Kh'tyr in the waking of flight feelings, and there's something almost hateful in the way his otherwise lusty gaze searches for the redhead (whose fault this is, clearly).

Discarding her third kill with a cry that's both challenge and surety, Aidavanth tosses her head and springs upward, enormous wings pushing her higher and higher still. Altitude seems to be her first objective, and she climbs well until the spindles fall away below her, ''out of her way''. With the quick energy of blood and the flavor of flesh, if not its texture, some of her frenzy abates - enough for her to smooth her course, leveling out after some minutes to carve a wide orbit about the skies above her home. Is she on some sort of trek for the stars, boldly going forth in a blaze of incandescence?

Jocelyn probably ''hears'' Edyis, but gives no sign that she's listening, not until there are more voices, more footsteps, more ''people''. "Get ''out'' of my bedroom!" are the welcoming, rapidly bitten out words the goldrider hurls at the brownrider, at other incoming riders who come into view, arms folding across her chest. "The line must be drawn ''here''! There's another room over ''there'' you can very well stand in."

Fire licked and liquid all at once powerful muscles release all tension and Akluseth launches into the air, gaining altitude with every stroke of the brown's rippled wings. His thoughts now are laced with dancing glowing shapes, alien in their beauty as they drift on the currents. Those thoughts reach for the orange gold queen, inviting, protective even. His wings thrash violently against the air in the driving rain, up, and up and up after the glowing queen. A roar echoing out in a challenge to these invaders. Ink-dark eyes focus on the ones who have followed her and there is something decidedly fierce in the brownrider's gaze, if not downright territorial. "Marching into your bedroom is not what I had in mind ." Is growled low in that soft soprano, but then dark eyes are glaring at the ''poachers''. "If you are going to throw something though, better them than me."

The gears abruptly fall into place, lighting up the seven key icons, and bursting forth with blue light. Hephaisth leaves his blooded kill below and launches himself towards the sky. His mind is quick now that the plan is set in motion, his wings and body working like a perfectly constructed machine for splitting between space (and of course), time. He follows without words - for now - though his flight is straight. Ja'son reaches out to try to put his hands on the chests of the brown and bronze riders not-from here - he is PROBABLY going to get punched in his perfect blond face for this, and continuing to smile, "Why don't we just go wait outside, like the lady said?" There's a bit of an edge to his voice.

The rain serves a secondary purpose, besides concealment: it sluices the blood from Tziveth's messy kills, leaving only his dark, near-black shade. He is satiated, waiting, watching -- and when the moment comes he is ready, with the patience of someone who has planned for this moment. Upwards, he surges, with beats of his wings, his speed on par with that of the larger browns, falling behind the larger bronzes. This early set back doesn't seem to otherwise deter him, however: he knows his strength set amongst the others are akin to giants amongst children; such things he's seen again and again, cycle after cycle. For now, he's thrust in the middle of the pack, always mindful of Aidavanth's location, and ever seeking with the dark tendrils of his thoughts. Eventually, even stars die out and become blackness; what is old can be reaved and made anew, and a new cycle might find a brighter future.

T'zur isn't deterred by the goldrider's words. Small, they are, words -- it is deeds that determine the suitability of survival. He folds arms across his chest, daring to edge into the boundary she's set -- leaning over and eyeing the bed with a twitch of lips. "It will do. The rest are unworthy, however, and will fall as they always do." When Ja'son pushes at him, his teeth bare, his arms unfolding and shoving back. "Really, now. You're a child, you know nothing."

Time for some thrilling heroics. Mograith's coiled muscles loose their tension in an upward shot that has angular frame cutting through wind as he twists into the sky, wings unfurling. He's not the largest chaser, not by far, nor the smallest, but he seeks a course that nimbly swerves through others, narrowly avoiding another brown in the pack to levy a spot in the chase that is above the pack (until she gains more altitude), if a little to the back as cost for the advantages of height and a little more room to maneuver.

"A big damn hero, that's what you are," Kh'tyr growls at Ja'son's well-intended advice. Of course, that's growled as he angles to brush past the lot of them and wedge himself through that door. "What, don't we get an eyeful for the price of admission?" He (wisely) heckles the goldrider within, even if he's not made it to or through the door yet.

Reveling openly in her strength, her power, the way she can put more distance between herself and the dark sets of wings somewhere behind her, Aidavanth pushes on as if guided by some inner force, banking abruptly to the right to dive through the nearest cloud. Between the nebulous formation and the rain, it may well be trickier to track her for a few minutes. She moves with the grace of one who has honed her movements to best take advantage of her size, presence all but vibrating with a low hum. They're not too weak to seek her power, are they, these others who are pledged to pursuing her for the moment? There, another challenging trumpet as she climbs a bit more, levels out with a triumphant lash of her tail.

"You're all acting like children, " snaps Jocelyn, who despite herself, has to unfasten the top button of her collar as her forehead grows damp with perspiration. "We have a ''code'' of acceptable behavior and this is not it. Let me make this simple for you; see the room that's ''not'' dark? That's the side you should be on." And she makes a shooing motion with one hand, even as her words trail off into a half-mumble, eyes squeezing shut.

Hephaisth grinds out a challenge to the others around him - perhaps catching some of his rider's good-ish-natured jibing. (Which is about to turn less good natured, but that's not important, right?) What is IMPORTANT is that he has the ''answer'' to the greatest question Aidavanth could ever ask. She just has to let him get close enough so that he can crunch out the question for her to read back to him.

Ja'son sighs lightly, as if the two have just ''inconvenienced him''. "It's really too bad, but ''I'' asked politely, ''she'' asked not-so-politely, let's just make the after a bit more pleasant, right?" And despite the calm charm in his words he goes from trying to gentle them out to straight up hooking a punch at T'zur which will ''hopefully'' push him into Kh'tyr... and out of the room. Because they wouldn't want to break the nice lady's things, RIGHT?

Observe, note and judge. Only then shall Tziveth interfere. And yet... ''yet'', something makes him snap towards Hephaisth's tail, though he's for all intents and purposes stuck behind the other bronze. He misses Aidavanth's dive into the cloud, and loses sight of her; his frustration can be felt in the twitching tendrils of shadow, seeking, ''searching'' for her. His entire purpose thwarted by an unworthy foe, his frustration is bellowed out into the night sky. She is ''worthy''; she must be raised up and made true.

T'zur's chin lifts, mocking features surfacing as he regards Ja'son, "And you are ''who'' to decide? You are ''unworthy''. Your Weyr is nothing more than petty, barely sentient club-beaters. Your line will not continue, and well for the future of our race." And meanwhile, whilst he's busy speechmaking, Ja'son's busy ''doing''; he doesn't even notice that fist coming towards his face until the last minute; there's a ''crack'' and a cry of pain, and the Bendenite goes stumbling ''backwards'', into whomever might be behind him. "Ffffff," is about the only noise he has.

This is the kind of flying that the rippled orange-brown loves, He may not be as large but what he lacks in size he makes up for with sheer daring, matching her twist for twist, dive for dive and climb for climb, careful to keep himself away from claws and collisions with the others. Even with the scolding provided by Jocelyn, once fists start flying it's clear that the brownrider isn't going anywhere near that mess. She does stay well away from Jocelyn however. "Forgive me, but I really would rather not get sucked into that." Gesturing at the flying fists. But hey it's not a goldflight without a few punches right.

It's probably only the focus of the hunt, the driving need that presses Mograith to continue on and the lure of the gold to begin with that has this brown ignoring the rain. Just because he can ignore the persistent pelting of drops as he flies doesn't mean he can afford to ignore what the storm does to the air currents and that becomes his secondary focus, to use them, only vaguely familiar as they might be, to gain some speed in his pursuit of the gold. As she banks, he loses sight of her, but doesn't dive, as others might. It's a gamble, but it pays off when she climbs again and he makes quick work of maneuvering himself to a place that offers a better advantage in the chase.

Kh'tyr stumbles (and thus out of any turf he'd gained on that doorway) when T'zur rebounds into him, but he's not so ineloquent as T'zur ends up, so perhaps for both of them, he turns in toward Ja'son to take a solid swing at the Istan as he pronounces, "Well, my days of taking you seriously are certainly coming to a middle," as if he'd met the blond more than an hour ago.

At some point as her journey continues, Aidavanth has to assess those still in pursuit, crowing when first one of the smaller out-of-weyr browns, then another drops from the pack after they miscalculated their trajectories. In a battle of wills, however, that momentary slowing to see who's nearby costs her; she turns and pushes her way upward again, seeking to gain just a little more height. She's finally flagging, however, and there's a frustrated cry to reflect her state as her next few beats waver slightly. Whoever has their pinions in the right place at the right time has at least one advantage going for them: They'll be the very best, like no one ever was. All they need to do is carry them both across the Weyr, far and wide. And catch her, of course.

Had Jocelyn recognized the signs before Aidavanth rose, she might have had a chance to protect her weyr from devastation. Uniting everyone into her standards of acceptable behavior, however? Lost cause, as her weyrlinghood lessons will undoubtedly remind her in the morning. As her eyes finally open to take in the tableau, they're less focused on the fighting and more focused on ''them''. Her eyes travel to each in turn, pupils dilated with shared desire and eyes narrowing in calculation with what little wit she has left to her. She can denounce them until the bovines go indoors, but that she'll have to extend a reach toward one or another ''soon'' seems imminent.

Hephaisth is ready - more than ready - for this journey to reach it's terminus. The goal is in sight and he's angling down on it just as clearly as if he was a psychohistorian who had plotted this well in advance. (Never mind the inherent inaccuracy of judging the future by the past.) His gears click into a higher drive as he dives himself after the gold in his pathway, one goal in mind win!

Ja'son waves out his hand from the punch, mission get-the-jerks-out was totally a success. Except for the fact that one of them is closing in on him. He ducks ''just'' enough to avoid a face-punch, but Kh'tyr totally connects to the side of his head. "Dammmmnnnn man, you got a serious hook on that! Ear is totally going to ring for a while now." He rubs at it, stepping back into the doorway proper to keep it covered up until the gold DOES make her choice. Unless someone punches him cold. Which... would be really awkward for the winning couple to deal with. Just sayin'.

Wibbly wobbly timey wimy timing comes down to these last few stretches as Akluseth takes advantage of his position in attempt to twine his tail with hers, wings beating with the very last of his energy as the desire to fall overtakes them. He reaches and reaches for her. As for Edyis, she leans cooly against the wall, the rapid rise and fall of her chest and flush of her face suggesting the anticipation of the flights end. There can be only one.

Tziveth's frustration isn't abated by the expected blood. Instead, that frustration is fuel for him -- spotting the golden Aidavanth again -- seeking to outstrip the other chasers. He's flagging behind the larger bronzes, but he ''won't'' be undone -- his purpose must, ''has always'' been fulfilled, and this flight will be no exception. He will seek the core of the lovely gold, will ''know'' her thoughts and desires. They will be one.

T'zur is oblivious to the fight going on around (over?) him, spitting out blood all over Jocelyn's nice clean floor. This is clearly all the Istan's fault. He manages to rock back onto his knees, blood running from his nose and lips, wiping the back of his hand across it. His face is a tight snarl, pushing with effort to his feet, undaunted by the momentary sway. That ''ass'' of an Istan is in the way. But also, the Fortian. She's back there somewhere, and he wants to be there ''now'', and so he sets about shoving blindly.

Mograith would never tell ''this'' lady that she's his kind of stupid, but he might think it, quietly. There's that glee when her slowing costs her. That's when the predator living in the skin of this pale, angular brown shows to his best advantage. Sleek and agile, he take the route that puts him as close to Aidavanth as he can get, using his smaller-than-bronzes frame to slip past some claws. ''Normally'', if someone tried to kill him, he'd try to kill them right back, but the way a claw scratches across his spine doesn't ''quite'' count as trying to kill and there's a more important goal here. With a twist and a roll, he seeks to ensnare the gold.

Strange, probably, that a man can go from punching a guy to reaching to try to pinch that no doubt still stinging cheek of Ja'son's, to say only, "Your mouth's still talking, you might want to look to that," before he's shoved and jostled by the blindly shoving Benden. His jaw clamps like he might like to say more, his feet move like he might like to get out of the way, but apparently enough of him is still with Mograith that that part of him won't allow him to just ''step aside'' in a moment like this, so jostled and shoved, Kh'tyr doesn't really try to make any room for the younger man. Too bad, T'zur.

Aidavanth struggles only briefly once wings and tails begin fouling with her own. She's able to wrest herself free of the first and the second, but the third attempt truly is a lucky one; here's hoping Akluseth has the stamina to keep them both afloat while at long last, she indulges in the feelings that have had several days to build, enthusiasm bobbing from her watery thoughts to his as she grips the brown tightly to her. She's too sexy for her straps - and for the others as they begin their descent, together.

And Jocelyn? There will be room for mortification later. For now, she's unbuttoning the remainder of her blouse, cheeks high in color as she marches up to Edyis, expression brazenly triumphant. "I bet marching into my bedroom ''is'' on your mind, now." And she tilts her chin to meet the brownrider's with the aim of landing a fierce, thorough kiss. The bloody men might have something to watch if they don't clear out soon.

Hephaisth had totally and completely been focused on the gold body, but when it is TAKEN, his machine-like mine snaps, the gears grinding to a halt and moving backwards. Backwards until he notices - WHAT THE CRAP SOMEONE BIT HIM ON THE TAIL. Obviously, this is why he lost. Can't do the dance if he's got broken equipment. Spiraling away he's totally going to get away from the jerk that attacked him. Jerk. Ja'son can just walk through the rain to find him!

Ja'son really really really was going to hold his ground. But the brownrider is able to shove him out of the way... just in time for the choice to be made - and it is TOTALLY not him. "Woah, nelly, let's go buy a drink man." As the flight fog lifts Ja'son is going to remember the glass waiting for him. "PIck up some chicks. Ain't nothing here for us." He sounds like someone's best-friend.

To the victor go the spoils, and Akluseth's wings do the work they are meant to as necks and tails twine, her watery thoughts attuned with his own. Whatever Edyis had expected, that kiss is met, and returned with an equal fierceness as hands fumble to free her prize from her clothes.

A bellow of frustration marks Tziveth's failure, turning as tightly as he can manage, and woe whoever might be in the way of flexing talons as he ''escapes''. The small bronze begins his descent through the rain, exhaustion lining his features as he seeks the stability of the ground below.

Well, would you look at that. While T'zur was busy trying to get ''in''to the doorway, someone else won. He makes an inarticulate sound, gives Ja'son another shove for good measure. Scowling at the Istan, he turns and stomps out, dripping blood all the way. Maybe he's going to the infirmary, and maybe to drinks with his seconds-ago-arch-enemy; who knows!

Mograith's loss is expressed in a primal half-roar half-shriek that is equal parts rage and disappointment. He reaches a claw to swipe, but the gesture is curtailed before it has any chance of reaching anyone - the lucky winner, the gold or any of the other losers now sharing the sky with him. There's another sound of outrage for that, but perhaps in spite of how things have worked out, Mograith will take comfort in knowing he's still flying and even if that's not much, it's enough.

Kh'tyr's grinning like a fool with the privilege of getting to ''walk away'' from this goldrider's bower. Mograith may be upset, but clearly Kh'tyr is not. It's a damn fine shindig now, and that warrants a drink, which is where his feet will swiftly lead him.
|Categories=Flight Logs
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Logs:A Little Romance

2016-07-10T04:00:58Z

Kaleidoscope: Created page with "{{Log | who = D'vro, Lys, D'vro{{!}}Colsoth, Lys{{!}}Evyth | where = Flight Weyr, High Reaches Weyr | what = Evyth finds romance with Colsoth during her second mating flight...."

{{Log
| who = D'vro, Lys, D'vro{{!}}Colsoth, Lys{{!}}Evyth
| where = Flight Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Evyth finds romance with Colsoth during her second mating flight. After, their riders have an interesting chat.
| involves =Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
| day =15
| month = 12
| turn = 40
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2016.05.30
| quote = "What are the chances?"
| weather =
| mentions =
| ooc = Glossy sex. Back-dated.
| icons = lys amused.jpg, d'vro.jpg, lys evyth.jpg, d'vro colsoth.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| st =
| log =
It was no accident this time that Colsoth was in High Reaches when Evyth's glow became intense enough for her to take to the skies. Where she was unprepared for her first flight, not knowing what to expect, the second isn't so. Over the time between the first and the second, she's cultivated friendships from seed to blossom, not only within her own Weyr but when she's visited elsewhere. Evyth is a friendly dragon by nature, but Colsoth's presence at her first flight earned him her particular attention while it was still in memory, a heartfelt thank you from the green and things led a natural course from there. There are suitors enough this late afternoon to please the green, enough to make thee flight an exciting and also terrible thing, for in the end there can be only one winner. It's a conscious choice on the part of the green to veer just so, to give Colsoth the advantage when it comes to making a catch. Likewise, teasing, carefree Lys is close to D'vro, her hands reaching out to collect fistfulls of his shirt, her smile sultry and amused. "What are the chances?" is certainly rhetorical, since she means to draw D'vro in, to press her lips against his with shameless want, her slender frame in another sundress seeking to be as near to his as the twining of tails above - green with bronze.

Colsoth has been as polite a suitor as a lusty male can be expected to manage given the circumstances. He's quick to take advantage of Evyth's choice, twining himself adeptly around her, his mind a surge of delighted, affectionate relief. He's done this a time or two by his age, and it's not likely to be a brief affair. D'vro, likewise, is rather well practiced with the motions of this dance, though he hasn't been quite so polite, practically brooding while Colsoth chased the green through the sky. Once it's been decided, at least, he doesn't let that keep him from acting on his dragon-influenced impulses. He doesn't answer the words, more interested in lips, and gathering up Lys' sundress toward her hips so he can get his hands under it, pull her up against him and carry her to the bed.

Evyth is sweetly accommodating and in no rush to have things over and done with - this is a love story, of a kind, and the best of those are drawn out. Lys reflects the manner of her dragon, but with a measure of spice all her own, teeth teasing D'vro's lower lip as she aids his efforts by lifting herself up, arms around his neck, and wrapping her legs around his waist at the appropriate moment so that they can, with relative ease, make it to the bed and not have any need to interrupt the heated kiss. Once on the bed, however, Lys' hands are working at removing the older man's clothes, only to interrupt long enough to yield to her dress coming off over her head.

Their position makes for a convenient landing on the bed, but D'vro is not entirely helpful with his own clothes. Given that he really only needs his pants pushed down a bit to make this viable, he can't be thoroughly blamed. He's willing enough to relieve himself of his shirt, though, when her hands start pulling at it. Perhaps fair is fair, shirt for dress, but it'll be harder to get him entirely out of his pants before he's pushing himself between her legs to seek the same relief his dragon basks in.

Lys, playful as she has a tendency to be while Evyth is proddy, must be tempted to create obstacles, to slow things down, to enjoy the ride a little more... But she doesn't give in to that temptation. The overwhelming desire she has for the bronzerider overcomes any other temptation. By the time that her hand has guided him just where he wants to be and the press of him has met the yielding of her, her arms are back around his neck, her hips rolling forward to meet him, a soft sound that is some joining of sigh and moan going to his ear in appreciation of the way their joining scratches that perfect itch. Once he's there, though, she's in no hurry. To Lys, it's as much like love making, as it is to her dragon. There's no shortage of passion, and she doesn't seem to have a strong preference for gentle or rough so long as it's wonderful and fun. Even if his pants haven't come off early on, before the end, she's likely to make a play for them to become so so that by the end they can be as thoroughly entangled as their dragons surely are through the height of their collective passions.

If D'vro knew of the sacrifice of her temptations, he'd probably be thankful. Right now he only knows the way they feel together, and that's all he'll probably be able to fully grasp until the end. He's not gentle, precisely. It's difficult to be gentle with that sort of urgency. But he's not rough. The bronzerider is intensely aware of his catch, not just here for his own benefit. It might not be love making from his perspective, but it could pass well enough from hers. And he's not so attached to his pants that he's going to insist they stay. By the time the fire of lust dims to a more subdued flicker, D'vro will have his arms wrapped possessively around the greenrider, one leg twined between hers, thoroughly exhausted by their passions.

There's a sleepy contentment in the way Lys fits herself against the bronzerider, the way that her fingers caress softly across his chest. Her satisfaction is a lazy thing and it's all too easy to slip into a well-sated sleep, only rousing hours and hours later when the close entanglement makes for a need to shift positions or become more sore. She's too sleepy to be careful with her movements, so they're likely to jostle enough to waken the man even as she's blinking bleary eyes and turning her head toward him as though to check just who she's wrapped up with tonight. "Hi," is offered mundanely once she registers he's awake.

When Lys moves, D'vro does indeed stir. He doesn't seem to intend on speaking to the young woman as he lets himself fully awaken from the fog of unconsciousness, perhaps more than willing to let her drift back off, but he won't let her greeting go unanswered. "Good," he pauses, glancing toward the bowl where no light is shining into the weyr, "evening." He still seems willing to let her drift back off, but he offers, "D'vro," before he's starting to shift into a more wakeful position, sitting up and sliding toward the edge of the bed.

"Lys," the greenrider returns as she begins to mirror his movements, sitting up, reaching up to her mussed hair to test the knots with the comb of her fingers. "Leaving, D'vro?" is curious, her blue-green gaze settled on him, following his movements.

"Unless you've some protest, Lys," is the bronzerider's easy reply to her question, though his tone is one of respect and duty more than desire at this point. "I didn't mean to get you out of bed," he adds with a glance over her way.

"Some," Lys confirms, a small smile tugging at her lips in muted amusement. "You could stay a while," is an offer that might not be connected with her observation of, "You're not from here," which isn't a question. "Unless you'd rather just go?" She inquires, observing in a way that is connected, "Evyth is quite comfortable with Colsoth."

Some. D'vro seems unsure how to deal with that, but the rest is easier to address. "I could stay awhile," is agreed. "Fort," is where he's from. "He seems to have taken a liking to your lovely lifemate," is his excuse for being here. Again.

Lys watches the older man still, and after a moment, she extends him a hand, inviting him back. "If it's no trouble to you, I'd like to be close, while they are." The way she makes the request is fairly matter of fact, but her eyes hold a residual glimmer from the moments that have gone before. "I believe they've been speaking when we're in Fort on business. Evyth is very pleased he caught."

The bronzerider considers it for a moment, then starts to shift so he can recline back onto the bed, reaching for her hand to encourage her toward him. "Are you in Fort often?" he asks, attempting to start some sort of genuine conversation to make this closeness easier. Perhaps more for D'vro himself than for her.

Lys accepts his encouragement and shifts over, drawing the sheet up over their waists once she's arranged herself against him. Perhaps that she leans her cheek against his chest makes it easier to have conversation. "Not often. Perhaps more often than you're here, though. I imagine being a wingleader keeps you busy. Does it?" Her brand of conversation might be direct, but it is, at least, genuine.

D'vro breathes a laugh despite himself. "I've been told that staying busy is one of my strongest skills." Judging by the way he says it, it's not always a complimentary observance. "I try to join my riders when they out to various Weyrs when I can. I encourage them to do it, so I suppose it's my duty to do the same. And it makes Colsoth happy."

His laugh coaxes a smile from Lys, able to be felt against the bare skin of his chest. It's probably instinct, perhaps even residual bleed from the extreme contentment of her lifemate that has the blonde turning her head to press a kiss to the skin there before resettling her cheek. "I like to visit other Weyrs, when there's time. You learn different things by being other places. I guess if you're doing it, it means I'm probably doing something right even if I graduated less than a turn ago," there's amusement for that. "Where do you like best?"

He doesn't seem to mind the contact, his own fingers unconsciously stroking the skin beneath them. "Do you not feel like you're doing the right things otherwise, Lys?" D'vro tilts his head to look at her more directly, curious, but he answers her question, "Southern."

"Southern's nice," Lys allows, "Nice beaches," which is probably what most visitors who never lived there think. She shifts a bit so she can tilt her head to direct her blue-green gaze up to see his expression. "I'm human," is simple (and yet not), "I think it's safe to assume there's any number of things I'm not doing right at any given time, but I do my best, D'vro. I'm still new to all this." She shifts her cheek again so she can look at her hand as she draws little swirls and symbols with no meaning on his chest with her fingertips. "How long have you been a rider?"

"Mm," is his deep, rumbling agreement in regards to Southern's beaches. "That doesn't mean that you're doing anything wrong," he says. There's some sense that D'vro assumes she knows this full well, but perhaps could benefit from hearing someone else say it. "I Impressed Colsoth a little over two decades ago."

That draws a laugh from Lys. She pushes herself up rather abruptly, but only because she's moving to swing a knee over him so she can straddle him, letting the sheet fall away, her smile lighting her face. There's a little edge of mischief to her look as she tosses her head to move her blonde hair over her shoulder. "I'm a little over two decades old. He might be older than I am." D'vro certainly is. "I think it's the prerogative of the young to make mistakes and do things wrong. How else do we learn? Haven't you made mistakes, D'vro?" Her voice has become more animated, a sweet teasing to the way she addresses the question.

He doesn't protest the movement that settles her on top of him. Far be it from D'vro to tell a woman how she ought to behave, though if she expects him to be moved to distraction, she might be disappointed. The bronzerider tucks an arm behind his head, the other bent to rest his hand over his stomach in front of her. "More than I could possibly remember," he assures her with an approving sort of smile. "But they're neither right nor wrong. They only mean that you're ''doing'' something."

Distraction might've been part of the design, but she doesn't seem terribly put out by his lack of compliance. Lys has an amused smile for his approving sort of one, her hands moving to his chest so she can lean down a bit to examine his face a little more closely. "You like mentoring your riders? Teaching the collected wisdom of your youthful missteps?" There's still a playfulness to the blonde's tone, but also something more serious in the way she studies his face from closer.

D'vro studies Lys in turn. He's certainly not a man of obvious insecurities, for all the mistakes he's presumably made. "At the risk of sounding presumptuous, I find satisfaction in helping riders, and their dragons, become the versions of themselves they want to be." More or less what she said.

Lys doesn't seem to have much in the way of insecurity, at least not about being studied up close. She doesn't flinch or squirm. Instead, she folds her arms across his chest and leans there, staying close. "Do you not indulge after a flight?" She wonders on an entirely separate topic.

"Sometimes," he supposes aloud. "It's entirely dependent on my partner. Some of you are rather pushier than others." A brief smile pulls at D'vro's lips, a reflexive attempt to lighten words that he's no doubt been scolded for in the past. "I only mean to say that I'm quite content in either case."

"You don't have wants? Or are you just that accommodating?" Lys arches an inquiring brow, expression showing no trace that she's offended by the words. Still, she can't help herself also asking, "Some of us... women? Some of us... greenriders?" It's only fair to know which generic group she's being lumped into now.

"Of course," says D'vro of his wants. Or maybe of his accommodations. Though he chooses now to move his hand out from underneath her leaning body to rest against her hip instead. "Greenriders. My apologies. I don't indulge often outside of this context."

"Age or demeanor?" is the greenrider's next question even as Lys seems to make some sort of decision and dips her head down to seek his neck with her lips and (gently) her teeth.

"I'm sorry?" D'vro doesn't understand the question. And it doesn't really help that he finds her lips, and her teeth, somewhat more distracting than the simple act of her straddling his body.

Lys is probably pleased by that - his distraction - but there's only her continued attention to indicate that, if anything indicates it at all. She does lift her lips away long enough to clarify (though she makes certain the breath of the words cools the places she's just wetted with tongue and teeth as she speaks), "You ''can't'' or you ''won't'' indulge?" Outside of this context.

"I can," he assures her. Maybe defends himself. "And I will." D'vro draws in a focusing breath, lets it out slowly, and continues, "But it's not a large priority in my day to day life. I'm a busy man, remember." Even if it's, you know, by choice.

"I haven't forgotten," has some dark mirth to it, perhaps for his breath and the fact that Lys seems (as yet) to need no help to focus. "I'm not pushy," Lys murmurs this into the bronzerider's ear before drawing herself up enough that she can smile at him, impishly. So though she's not pushing, the slight rock of her hips would seem to indicate invitation in any case.

"Perhaps you should try." He may not be super awesome when it comes to reading this side of people, but even D'vro can tell that she seems interested in the aforementioned indulgence. "I find pushy women difficult to resist." Literally. Saying no isn't one of his best social skills. But he's certainly not disinterested, both hands firm on her hips to encourage another rock against his own. Quite interested, in fact.

"If that's what you like," Lys has some amusement for the notion, but that doesn't stop her from dipping her head to press a hungry kiss to his lips. At least this way, it would be hard to say anything at all. She obligingly rocks her hips again, reaching a hand to capture one of his and place it upon one of her breasts.

D'vro probably would have managed to say ''something'' were he not otherwise occupied with her lips, but he seems okay with how they end up. When his hand touches her breast, his fingers flex to knead, exploring the way she feels and the way she reacts to his touch.

All the better that Lys has distracted them from words at this point then. She leans her breast into his hand surrendering into his exploration. It's not too long before she's slipped a hand between her legs to slide him to where he'll do most good. If pushy women is what wets D'vro's whistle, then perhaps he will enjoy the way she rides him, though after some time - because she's aiming to make this post-flight indulgence last, she's angling to roll them over and let him take a turn.

Fortunately D'vro isn't going to have a lot of trouble with an extended indulgence, even if the flight itself was some time ago now. He may not be an overly vocal lover, but he's clearly enjoying himself, unguarded and in the moment. When Lys moves, he moves with her, settling between her thighs to do what comes most naturally in that position.

Lys seems to be enjoying herself well enough, certainly she's vocal enough to indicate that at the important moments and she's left breathless and smiling, her hair newly tangled. She leans up to snake a hand behind his neck and draw him down for one last lazily satiated kiss. That done, she falls back on the bed. "Hungry? I have a wingmate who owes me a favor and will bring a tray of food." Even at whatever time it is now.

D'vro kisses her, slow and satisfied, but as soon as their lips part, he's settling to the side of her, eyes closed and breath steadying. "I don't think that's necessary, but thank you. I should probably be taking my leave. Not that I haven't enjoyed your company." He turns his head to look at her, genuine.

"You should give them a little longer and sleep a bit yourself," advises the 'not pushy' greenrider. "If you don't rather take your rest alone, though, I can catch a dragon back to my weyr." It's a genuine offer. This isn't Lys being clingy, though she might have an interest in not parting Colsoth from Evyth so soon, given the way the green is radiating contentment even in sleep. "It ''is'' late," she adds, just in case that helps sway him.

He's probably trying to come up with some logical reason why he shouldn't lay down and rest his eyes awhile. But D'vro must be too far gone to come up with logic right now. "I suppose I can stay until they've had enough of each other, anyway. Were you hungry?" he turns the question back on her even though he has no wingmates who owe him favors.

"Ravenous. I don't tend to think to eat much while she's proddy. It makes my head feel weightless." Not a worry in the world. Lys smiles, "Will I keep you up if I ask my wingmate for a tray?" which is also, conveniently a way of reiterating the question of if he'd like space to sleep.

"No, no. I'm not very tired just yet. You'll be quite fine. I suspect my stomach will complain once I smell food, though, if you ask enough for the both of us." D'vro settles in against the pillow behind his head, shifting to pull the covers at least partially over himself.

Lys has a smile to answer that. She's then sliding out of the bed in order to pluck up her sundress and drag it on. She takes a little time to do some necessary things and twist her hair into a messy knot at the nape of her neck. She even comes back to resettle some of the sheets before heading for the ledge. Evyth must have been roused enough to pass along the request and a short time after she goes she returns with a tray. She slides it onto the coverlet between them and settles in before plucking up a pastry. "So is your life at home only duty? What with not indulging often." It's curiosity that passes for light conversation over the meal.

D'vro manages not to doze off while Lys is occupied. Rather, he seems to be lost in thought by the time the greenrider returns with the tray, As she settles, he sits himself up, leaning back against the wall or headboard or whatever there is to lean against. "Generally, yes. Colsoth encourages me to be more social when he thinks I've been lax. Which is, admittedly, most of the time." Look at him, trying to have humor.

Look at him, getting the small curve of a smile to answer that humor. "So when you get around to being social," whether prompted or spontaneously, "is it something that you generally enjoy or only do out of obligation or both?" The way she sits, she's careful to keep the crumbs as she pulls apart the flaky bits of her pastry to eat the filling first. Lys seems fully comfortable in this act, as if she's done it many times before and never heeded the strangeness of it the first or the seventy-first time.

"A little of both," he answers honestly, looking at her pastry for a moment and then letting his gaze settle more properly on her. "Are you a social creature, Lys?" D'vro is genuinely curious as he reaches to pluck something off of the tray, tear off a smaller piece to eat rather than biting as a whole.

"Yes," could be all there is to that answer, but after another bite Lys expounds, "I wasn't always. I used to be mean and bitter." There's another bite before she adds more, "I was an unlikeable orphan in a Weyr, and the more people pushed me to be something, the more I pushed back. I never really had love until Evyth, and she's so good and kind and generous to a fault with those qualities that she's changed me, a bit." Perhaps she's never really said that aloud before because she lingers looking at the flaky parts resting on her dress before she plucks them up one after another to eat.

D'vro makes a sound that suggests he finds the fact that she was ever mean and bitter interesting, but he's polite enough not to question her about it. "It's fascinating how much they can mold us. I was a shy boy." And he's, presumably, not so shy now, even if he still has introverted tendencies.

"And you're not one now?" Lys inquires with unabashed curiosity, giving him a sidelong glance as she finishes off her little bits and rolls to the outside to rid herself of crumbs on the floor (enjoy that, weyr cleaners~). She then sits up enough to pluck up one of the mugs and put it to her lips.

"Shy? No. I don't think I'd describe myself as shy anymore. That would make my job somewhat more difficult, I imagine." D'vro's eyes are drawn to the woman as she gets rid of her crumbs, and he finishes his own pastry soon enough. "Colsoth seems quite fond of your Evyth. Probably fortunate that they don't live in the same Weyr." It's meant to be lighthearted.

Lys quirks a small smile at his imagining, her blue-green gaze meeting his briefly when it comes before flickering away. It returns though, when he's made that last remark, her lips poised on the edge of her mug drawn up and away as she arches a curious brow at him, "''Is it''? And why's that?" As if she couldn't see it. "Do you worry for the distraction of their mutual fondness or you just don't want to find yourself here," she gestures to the bed they've rumpled and tidied, "with me anytime soon?"

He has to consider her questions somewhat carefully before forming a proper answer. And while he does, D'vro sits up somewhat more properly and starts, once again, shifting his legs off toward the side of the bed. "The distraction, I suppose. For both of us." Him and Colsoth or him and Lys? "I've enjoyed being here. I wouldn't be upset if they managed to put us in a similar situation in the future." He sounds thoughtful, though, not exactly looking forward to the prospect.

"High compliments," Lys replies, but with wry humor and a smile that presses her lips together. She shifts to slide off the bed, picking up the tray and setting it aside. "I won't let us distract you much longer then, D'vro. A little sleep-" snuggle time for the dragons, "-and you can be on your way," it's said as a promise and, indeed, Lys sets about the motions that would lead to her back in bed, curled contentedly, in his arms if he doesn't object, to get a few hours of sleep before they're both on their way.
}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:Post-Flight_Logs]]

Logs:Out Of Sorts

2016-07-10T02:48:11Z

Kaleidoscope: Icon swap!

{{Log
|who=Edyis, Ja'son, Jocelyn, Kh'tyr, L'sha, Quint, Silva, T'zur
|what=Weyrfolk gather shortly before Aidavanth's flight, and everyone seems out of sorts.
|where=Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr, Benden Weyr, Ista Weyr
|day=25
|month=3
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.09
|weather=Heavy rain in the middle of winter only means that the temperature is only a few degrees above freezing; it's more miserable for the soaking torrents.
|mentions=Drex, Farideh
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn.png, Icon quint.jpg, Icon silva.jpg, Icon edyis.jpg, Icon kh'tyr hand.jpg, Icon l'sha.jpg,
|desc=The Snowasis is rarely quiet, and even then, the high-ceilinged former
weyr is kept from echoing by the fantastical booths tucked into its
convoluted perimeter. The secluded seating spaces have been shaped from
the truncated stalagmites that escaped the smoothing of the main floor,
and are both softened and separated by colorful hangings that are thick
and opaque enough to make each corner its own private nook.

Some of the smaller stalactites still roam the ceiling, their jagged teeth
tracing a bumpy, inverted spine to the hearth. There, a thick rug with a
low klah table and comfortable armchairs and couches sit, their upholstery
and cushions changed sporadically to match the season: bright, light
colors in the summer, fresh greens and yellows in the spring, warm
autumnals in fall, and clear, rich hues for winter. Small tables litter
the rest of the cavern, enough to fit up to four people each, while stools
stand along the smooth wooden bar behind which is the passthrough window
to the kitchen. Glass-paneled cabinetry behind the bar provides a clear
view of the available liquors, the many colors reflecting the soft light
of glows tucked into strategic niches around the cavern.
|log=The Snowasis is doing a brisk trade, though its occupants are either sparse enough or not yet drunk enough that the level of volume makes for easy, casual conversation. Quint's taken up one of the booths, and while he has a glass of wine, it's untouched at this point. There's a handful of hides on the table, but he seems to be set on people-watching rather than pretending to work.

Silva's on a mission. A completely coherent and dedicated mission. She's dressed simply enough right now, without the flair of PARTY that has hung over her for the last few weeks. But what she is looking for doesn't seem to be here. There's a hiss of frustration that moves through her teeth and she turns abruptly, like she's going to leave.

Coming in from the patio, nimble fingers are already working at the toggles of the Snowdrift rider's flight jacket. Cheeks flushed with cold, Edyis goes straight for the bar first, ordering a bottle of something with considerable bite, and eyes the rest of the room for familiar faces. Both harper and bluerider are eyed as she gets her glass and bottle, moving in an attempt to hook Silva's arm and drag her over to the table where the harper is sitting. "Come on let's go pick on the harper." A toothy grin flashed across her face. "Journeyman Quintus. Mind if we join you?"

Of course, the harper notices Silva, even if she doesn't notice him. Quint doesn't much seem to mind, though his expression is thoughtful as his gaze lingers on the retreating bluerider. There's momentary surprise in the harper's face when Edyis intercepts Silva, and he straightens, subtly, looking briefly pleased with himself before he schools his expression. "I don't mind at all," he replies to Edyis, waving his hand expansively at the booth in invitation. "Edyis, Silva. How are you both?"

Silva's startled when Edyis is suddenly ''there'', her focus having been on whatever is making her frown. She's a few steps towards the harper before she shakes her head and refocuses, the frown being transferred to the brownrider. Perhaps she would have shaken her off, except now they're here in front of Quint. Words get stuffed back and while she doesn't smile well, there is a tightening of her lips that ''could'' be a smile. "You first Edyis." A gesture not unlike Quint's. Silva will take the outside unless Edyis manhandles her into the seat.

Edyis simply grins at the woman, and if she catches that moment of smugness from the Harper it doesn't show right away. She doesn't seem keen on letting the Bluerider have the outside either. Once everyone is seated the cork on the bottle is popped and she pours a few fingers of the liquid into the glass tossing it down. "Freezing my non-existent balls off, and my dragon is being a pain in the ass but otherwise no complaints." Knocking back the glass before refilling it. "How about you Silva?" The question bearing more weight for all its casualness.

Quint's sharp gaze catches the shifting expressions of Silva's, his head tipped marginally. "Zaisyreth doing well?" he asks, leaning forward once they've both settled in. He doesn't reach for his glass to drink from it, merely to push it to one side. He takes in Edyis' imbibing and the words that follow with an exhale. "Things seem awfully tense today," he observes, tapping fingers on the table's top, gaze drifting across the bar, then back to his companions.

Deeep breaths all around. Nice, calm, deep breaths. Silva tries to wipe the scowl off her face, and replaces it with a slight frown which... is better? At least? She eyes Edyis' drink but makes no comment out of it. Instead she settles her arms across her chest and leans against the back of the booth. "You both want to know if I'm drinking myself senseless and fucking strange men still." Tenseness not commented on.

Edyis shrugs at the Harper's observation, going slower with the second glass now that the warmth from the first is starting to seep in. "Probably a green getting ready to rise. He's usually an ass about that time." The brownrider notes of her lifemate, which might explain the drinking. At Silva's comment, however. Edyis chokes on her drink. "Shit woman. I don't have to ask what you've been up to." The brownrider reminds her mildly irritated. "I just wanted to not be sitting alone while I drink." She mutters something unintelligible, refilling her glass again.

Quint looks momentarily ''aghast'' at the inelegant response. "No, Silva," he says, after a beat, keeping his voice even and low, much in the same way one might speak soothingly to a startled animal. "I asked how your dragon was doing. Will you sit and join us for a bit?" His glance flickers towards Edyis as she mentions a green rising, exhaling briefly. "Mm. I see."

Silva's gaze flips between the two people and some of her irritation fades. She does sit, probably out of guilty conscience, but the reasoning doesn't matter. "Zaisy's fine." The mention of the green even gets a response - "He didn't mention any greens, and he usually does." Not that the blue CHASES often, it's jut one observation of many. "Have either of you ever met the sea-crafter who hangs around here?"

Edyis sniffs. "Then maybe he's just being an ass for no reason then." Edyis shrugs off the blue's two-mark bits. Dark eyes lift and brows knit together. "Seacrafter?"

"I'm glad to hear it," Quint replies with genuine sentiment. He's no rider, to comment on the state of the Weyr's dragons, though he does closely watch the exchange, otherwise silent on that topic. "Seacrafter?" he echoes Edyis, surprised. "Not many seacrafters here, if any. Too far from water, I'd have thought. What does he look like?" he asks, curiosity roused.

"Maybe." If Zaisyreth has shared anything ''else'' the bluerider will just keep it to herself for now. Her stiffness relaxes a little bit, and she reaches up to brush at a piece of hair in irritation. "Black hair, looks like crap, um... darkerish skin. A nose that just begs for someone to hit him." She says the end with a bit of heat.

Edyis squints, as though trying to place whoever Silva's describing. " The only sailor I know of is the one Farideh keeps as a pet during the winters. Kind of - uneducated?" Maybe she's being polite. "Unless we've had some new folk come in from Tillek."

Quint purses his lips briefly, gaze distant as he racks his memory. "Doesn't sound familiar," he says, at least until Edyis speaks. With a tip of head, he says, "Crooked nose?" he asks, after a beat. "I've seen him around, though he doesn't seem to be much for speaking to harpers, I'm afraid."

Silva perks up when Edyis mentions Farideh, "Him. I want to find him." And if she does her tone sounds like it isn't for a happy how-are-you chat. There's a particular icyness to her tone. "I want to... educate him."

Both brows creep skyward. "I think you had better explain what happened," Edyis notes knocking back her drink with a deep sigh.
Quint's expression looks worried, nodding at Edyis' question. "Educate him?" he echoes, like he's absolutely certain that doesn't mean what it sounds like. "Are you uh, sure that's wise?"

Silva, making Edyis and Quint go ???? for the last turn. It's a gift. Tapping a finger along one arm Silva thinks very carefully about her answer. "He is woefully ignorant about a few things regarding dragons. Since no one else is teaching him, I will."

Edyis blinks, squints, and then guffaws. She can't even help it. "Even - if you - could, it wouldn't - be any good." Her words interspersed with laughter. "Pretty sure." Yeah good luck with that Silva.

Clearly, the answer is a lot less alarming than the harper was imagining, with Quint looking thoughtful (and slightly relieved). "It's not always easy for those coming from outside of the Weyr to fully understand how it works. Just, mm, be gentle," he advises. "Sometimes what you want to teach isn't something someone wants to hear." The harper, along with Edyis, are seated in one of the booths, with Silva leaning against the back, deep in conversation.

"Oh, he'll hear it." Silva's tone doesn't bode ANY GOOD AT ALL. It's probably a good thing Drex is bigger than her or she would actually maybe hurt him. "And I don't ''really'' care if he wants to hear it or not." That's a challenge she's just tossed at Edyis.

L'sha walks into the Snowasis and shakes some of the rain from his jacket, then heads to the bar, greeting a few friends as he makes his way through the crowd. He nods to one of the bartenders, who smiles and nods back, then begins to make L'sha's regular drink, an enormous blue fruity cocktail with a tiny paper umbrella stuck in it. As the bartender is mixing, he looks around the room for familiar faces, then grins and waves as he sees Edyis and Silva.

Anyone facing the beautiful (awful, horrible, ugly) weather of High Reaches today has a reason to frown, but non-native Kh'tyr has taken that frown and paired it with the general grumpy disposition of a soaked feline. He must have enough experience in his life to know better than to drip across the floors so he pauses just as he steps in from the Garden Patio Ledge in soaked leathers to wipe his muddy boots. This is a man in need of a stiff drink, a man who, as yet, doesn't seem to make note of much despite the sweep of the room his brown eyes make as he cleans those boots.

Edyis snickers, "Girl ''I'' can throw you over my shoulder like it's nothing. What in the blazes do you think you are going to do to teach him?" Cheeks flushed with more than just cold now as the brownrider further undoes the toggles on her flight jacket. "Though I'd love to see that maybe. What did the oaf go and do?" She catches the wave and returns it a little. Except that now the place is filling up and it is harder to keep track.

The watch dragon bellows a challenge from the star stones, answered with, << T'zur and Tziveth, of Benden, >> and apparently accepted in kind. The bronze that descends doesn't seek to touch the thoughts of the dragons of the Weyr, keeping to himself as he circles down and settling onto the bowl floor. It's some time before T'zur, a now rather drenched Benden rider walks in, tugging off helmet and goggles and pulling a hand through unkempt hair that seems to spring free once released. He's tramping in the wake of Kh'tyr's steps, adding to the wet floor, but trusting that another newly arrived, soaked rider will be seeking the same thing he is: a strong drink. "Recommendations?" he asks the Fortian, not much bothering with cleaning ''his'' boots.

Quint makes a noise, somewhat between a cluck of his tongue and a stifled sigh. "Well, mm. Perhaps have that conversation somewhere public, yes? Or at least have someone like, oh, Edyis, with you while you do it." Because the harper is now in the habit of volunteering the brownrider for things and expecting she'll just do it. He doesn't seem so curious about what the sailor did, though he does lean back to listen.

"I've got a plan." Silva works her way out, stung by Edyis' laughter. Whatever he plan IS she'll keep to herself - along with what Drex has done to earn the small bluerider's ire. "Edyis has done enough already." Cryptic Silva? Yeah, and then she makes her way out. OUT. Drex. Dead. Or something

L'sha takes his drink from the bartender with a warm smile, then sips it and once again fights his way through the crowd. Eventually, he gets to Edyis and Silva's table and waves. "Hi there! How are you two doing?" He nods to Quint, "Evening, Harper, we haven't met, I'm L'sha, green Rillaeth's." He quickly steps aside for the angry, exiting Silva. "Um, see you later!" He shrugs and turns back to the others, smiling cheerily.

Blond as death Ja'son waltzes his way right into the area, blue eyes sparkling and jacket undone. Clearly, he's insane and doesn't care what the weather outside is like. His dragon, bronze Hephaisth, has settled himself outside with a grumble for the gathering snow. The knot shows the pair of Ista, so this is REALLY weird weather. Nevermind that, this is a bar! And bars are for warming up. Plus he's going to assume everyone in this room loves him, his blond hair, and his blue eyes. "Well met High Reaches' finest!"

Kh'tyr's boot taps once more on the floor before his eyes draw to the Benden rider. His shoulders roll in a careless shrug, "I'd take damn near anything just now that would put some feeling back in my fingers." Obviously, the brownrider is a man of refined tastes. "I recommend something from the bar," is dryly delivered with an inviting flick of his fingers for the bronzerider to join him in heading that direction.

Edyis knocks back another glass, which makes it a whole hell of a lot harder to hide the glare at the Harper. GLARE. GLAAAARE. "Um. Good." She mutters squinting after the bluerider as she departs. "Quit volunteering me for things you tunnelsnake you." Is she addressing Quint? Hard to say as she gets to her feet, noticing the other riders and squints again. "Hey... is there like a convention going on?" Dark eyes searching out the foreign knots.

"Sounds like a man after my own heart," the younger Bendenite says, grinning. "T'zur, of Benden," he adds, offering a now-gloveless hand as he falls into step with Kh'tyr, gaze flickering around the Snowasis as they walk. "I'm told brandy is good for just that -- not ordinarily ''my'' choice of drink, however."

"Why does that sound," Quint begins, voice going faint and rueful as Silva departs, "Alarming?" he glances at Edyis, wryly. "Well, it's only because you appear to have done such a good job of it, so far," he says, without a trace of remorse. Exhaling, the harper starts to reach for his glass of wine -- untouched until now -- and takes a generous gulp. "Good eve, rider," he answers pleasantly to L'sha, gesturing towards a seat in apparent invitation. "Journeyman Quintus, of Harper. Pleased to meet you. Join us, won't you? And, mm, don't mind Silva. She seems a little out of sorts, this eve."

"And strangers!" Ja'son cocks his head to look around the bar, his cocky-grin only growing for the diversity on view. There's two choices - the natives, or the strangers. Drumming his fingers along his leg the Ista rider finally chooses the foreigners. "What brings you both to the land of ever-present snow men?" He's wide open with that smile - almost guileless as he settles himself between the two heading for the bar.

L'sha certainly loves Ja'son's blond hair and blue eyes, from the way he's ogling the Istan rider as he sips his cocktail. He turns back to the table and smiles warmly at Quint, taking the offered chair. "Why thank you! Well met, Harper Quintus." He waves a hand. "Oh, I know Silva, she's always like that." He looks around at all the commotion in the bar, then turns and shrugs at Edyis. "Dunno, but it's always nice to see new faces. "

Ink dark eyes narrow, and Edyis is full on staring at the man with the Benden knot, eyes narrowed as if in concentration. "Yeah, yeah you are an ass Quintus." But it isn't entirely meant as she's getting up. "One of those faces - is really familiar." The brownrider is standing up now. "Guard my bottle for me will you?" She eyes L'sha and Quint, as she stands to make her way in the direction of the newcomers.

"Kh'tyr, of Fort when I've been good." The older man returns with ease at odds with the still sour expression that remains after the hand is met and only eases once he's put in a drink order. "Brandy'll do," comes with an extreme lack of care for exactly what fills his cup so long as it's strong enough. He could ask the obvious - make the obvious small talk - instead, he leans his back to the bar and casts his eyes around before inquiring, "What do you reckon, a normal day for them?" as if he were trying to assess the growing numbers in the local watering hole.

Dragon> Aidavanth senses a familiar presence is here, nearby. He is subtle, as always, just a dimming of the mental landscape at first, slowly but surely quashing the noise of other thoughts as his grows more noticeable, dark trendrils seeking her. Tziveth watches, hidden in the rain. (Tziveth)

Quint, if anything, seems to perk up at L'sha's answer. "Oh, you do? Friends?" he inquires, lightly enough, and yet the intent way he watches the greenrider for an answer suggests the question has more weight than it appears. His brows go upwards at Edyis' words, a noise -- like he's stifling a laugh -- concealed by the tip of his glass to his lips. He regards the brownrider bemusedly as she leaves. "Definitely something ''off'' today. Rising green?" he asks L'sha, like he might have some insight.

"Make that two," T'zur tacks onto Kh'tyr's order. He leans against the bar, watching the bartender work for a moment, before the Fortian's question draws his attention to the remainder: "I wouldn't know. First, uh, time here," a little ruefully. If the Bendenite is taken aback by Ja'son, he recovers swiftly enough, turning amiable grin on the Istan rider. "Curiosity," he answers, with a smile, and then -- as an amendment, "It might have been a challenge, too. I'm not sure. But mostly curiosity. Drink?" he half turns to the bartender: "Make that three."

L'sha smiles and nods, "Yes, I knew Silva when she was a weyrling." He slides Edyis's bottle over to himself and guards it like a bulldog. "Something going on, yep. Don't look at me, though, Rillaeth isn't glowing. I don't know of any other proddy greens, although statistically there probably are one or two. Quite a few foreign bronzerider knots about. One of the queens about to rise, maybe?"

Ja'son settles himself at the bar, the stool pulled under his body with the help of a foot. Rather then follow the lead of the others though, the Istan bronzer orders, "Whiskey, actually," and winks at the person behind the bar. Turning halfway he leans an arm on the bar so he can see the other two while resting at his ease. "Well, it's cold. That's pretty much HR," yes, he says the letters, "is famous for. And what about us?" A finger twirls to point at all three, "What are ''we'' doing here?"

Those with dragons in the Snowasis may gradually begin to grow aware of a low, curling tension that's wholly separate from what the weyrfolk are experiencing tonight. Has it been there all day? It's hard to tell, although it increases rapidly into the very palpable sensation of something warm and ''bright'' that telepathically spreads itself over the Weyr. In the living cavern, an increasingly preoccupied Jocelyn stops pushing food around her plate to go very still, expression suddenly startled. Those in the bowl are about to get quite the show; Aidavanth, brilliantly luminous with more than just the frequent oiling of the past several days, awakens and appears on her ledge stretching luxuriously, even provocatively with arching neck and spreading wings. Her rider doesn't have much time to give a panicked look around, to grab the sleeve of the nearest rider and tell them to make sure Irianke and Farideh ''leave'' before she makes a run for the bowl. There will be time later for apologies and 'I told you so's'; for now, the redhead sprints through the rain, barely reaching the stairs up to the weyrleader complex before the queen is suddenly airborne, barreling toward the feeding grounds where several resident males have already begun their hunts.

While Quint doesn't seem particularly interested in acquiring the bottle, neither does he seek to protect it, leaving that up to L'sha. Instead, he takes another sip from glass, and inhales in surprise about when L'sha speculates. "Ah. Oh dear." He clears his throat, gets his breath back, while eyeing said foreigners. "Any idea who it might be?"

Edyis manages to step up near the foreigners catching a snippet of the conversation. "Hey, don't I know you." Stepping up to the outside of the group, reaching to tap the Benden rider on the shoulder. Except that, her eyes go distant and an "Fuck" Escapes. "Fucking brown." Whatever had drawn her attention she's now darting out into the rainy bowl. In the Bowl warm waves dappled with sunlight are shared the taste of the ocean coloring the adventurous brown's thoughts. << You look lovely. >>

There's the characteristic pause and unfocused eyes from L'sha that indicates that he's speaking with his dragon. "Rillaeth says that Aidavanth is about to rise." And sure enough, riders are suddenly scrambling outside. He sees Edyis rush outside and calls to her, "Good luck, Edyis! Hmmm, should I go out and watch from the patio? It's coming down pretty hard out there. Maybe we can get an umbrella or something."

It's always hard to say if being ignored in an increasingly busy drinking establishment is an intentional slight or accident. Kh'tyr's eyes draw to Ja'son only after T'zur has the good manners to reply to the other rider. His eyes swiftly rake the younger man, "Tightpants," he dubs the other rider with a slightly narrowed gaze (nevermind if his pants aren't especially tight), "Pay attention," as if he'd been with them all along, "We are scoping out the room," he spreads his hands in an unnecessarily large gesture to frame different tables - including, briefly, the one at which the harper and greenrider sits, "in the guise of assessing business. But now that I've explained..." His tone implies it's all ruined. "Where's my drink?" he demands of no one as he turns back to the bar. "Aw, shell," is a half-growl that has him dropping his head toward the bar top, only to straighten before it touches. "Where is my drink," is no longer a question, but a plaintive hope.

There's something bemused about the way that T'zur regards Ja'son, though whatever causes the expression is kept to himself. Instead, he tucks gloves neatly into his jacket, eagerly waiting for his glass when the bartender returns -- at least until he gets that tap on the shoulder. "Mm?" curious, blank expression is turned on Edyis; there might be a flicker of recognition -- but it's gone instantly as gaze goes distant. "Ah," he exhales, mouth twisting. When the bartender sets down the glasses, he snatches the first one (sorry, Kh'tyr!), practically gulping down the contents of the glass, tosses just enough coins onto the bar to make up for it, and pushes straight. "Follow the crowd, I guess?" to his fellow foreigners, trailing in the wake of that female brownrider. Tziveth is, for his part, largely silent -- there's no bellowy challenges or such. Instead, his thoughts creep out, subtly, extending outwards, making his presence felt in the movement at the corner of the eye, and the dark that lurks at the edges.

As Hephaisth makes his move unfolding his bulk like a wind-up toy, Ja'son throws back his head and starts to ''laugh''. "Oh that bastard F'reah is going to get it in his ''eye''. 'Punishment Duty'." A snort for that as he shoves himself up from his seat and winks at the bartender. "You just keep hold of that whiskey for now, aye? If I'm not back in a hour just give it to some poor smuck, coutsey of a lucky, lucky, ''lucky'' man. Shall we men?" And he'll keep in pace with the other two so they can follow the native brownrider. Hephaisth bloods a kill, his mind a maze of machinery, and his voice like the clank of gears turning over one another as if counting down to the ''real'' event.

"Aidavanth?" Quint echoes L'sha with an exhale, fingers tightening momentarily on his glass. "Ah," he adds, in a low whistle, like ''something'' suddenly makes sense. He regards the foreign riders in a new light, eyes narrowing like he's assessing them differently, now. "I'd-- yes, that's a good idea. Mind if I join you? Perhaps you can tell me who the chasers are?" he asks L'sha, starting to rise. "And -- maybe take the bottle? I think we'll need it." He's taking his glass, for certain.

L'sha heads to the patio ledge.
L'sha has left.
You head to the patio ledge.
}}

Logs:A Thirty-Second's Thoughts

2016-05-20T05:03:04Z

Kaleidoscope: Created page with "{{Log | who = Lys, T'gar | where = Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr | what = Clutchmates exchange some thoughts over drinks. | involves =High Reaches Weyr | day =12 | month =11 |..."

{{Log
| who = Lys, T'gar
| where = Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Clutchmates exchange some thoughts over drinks.
| involves =High Reaches Weyr
| day =12
| month =11
| turn = 40
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2016.05.19
| quote = "Why share with the world?"
| weather =
| mentions = Farideh, G'chet, Irianke, Jocelyn, N'klas, Quinlys, S'rin, T'zul, V'ret, Y'vir
| ooc =
| icons = t'gar amused.jpg, lys scandal.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| st =
| log =
The Snowasis is busy tonight, full of riders and weyrfolks alike. The dart games are in full swing, the card games are boisterous, and watching it all is none other than T'gar. The Taiga wingrider is in his full leathers and nursing a mug of something dark and amber as he watches one of the rousing dart games being played out. Those that pass him that he recognizes gets a nod and a few words of greeting, but otherwise he stays put on his barstool.

Lys flashes a pretty smile to her tablemates as she collects her winnings from the card game that goes on without her. She minds her manners with cards, at home, so these earnings must have been honestly come by, and only enough to afford her a few drinks tonight. It's only after that she moves down the bar toward her clutchmate and settles on the stool just vacated to one side. "Thirty-second piece for your thoughts," which isn't enough to buy a drink, but hey, it's better than expecting them free?

T'gar has likely spotted Lys coming since he's in scout mode, and so there's a ready-made answer for her when she speaks. Taking a short drink from his mug, "Just unwinding," comes quick and easy from him, along with a ready smile for her. "Had a long stint out in sweeps. Y'vir over there's sporting some nice dart skills," with a gesture towards the dragonrider in question.

"Anything exciting keeping you ''wound''?" Lys wonders, leaning into the bigger man's space to peer into his drink and sniff before sitting back up to sip on her white wine. "It can't be sweeps. There's almost never anything on sweeps worth even a tickle of excitement," she observes; perhaps Lys isn't easily interested by the daily lives of holders at a far distance below. "Did you make a bet on the game?" She nods to the darts.

The drink likely tastes strongly of ale. "Not exciting, exactly," Rat answers with a sniff of amusement. "Just...''long''. Still adjusting to this life of a full rider. Drinks are good at the end of a long day." As for him making bets, he makes a negative sound at the back of this throat and leans back as he answers, "Saving up for new leathers that don't chafe. Did you?"

"Nah, games of skill are unpredictable. Even the skilled can falter and cost you. And I'm saving too. For something similar." Lys, too, hasn't cashed in the token included in the graduation gift chest for new (plain, sigh) flight leathers, as evidenced by the slightly over-large and worn jacket that she's worn since weyrlinghood perched on her shoulders, shrouding her figure with its bulk. "I think we're supposed to be settling in for the next five or so turns," she notes wryly, but asks with more earnest curiosity, "How are you liking Taiga now that you've been there a while?"

"Similar," Rat echoes with a raised brow - as if he's non-verbally adding to that 'Do tell'. "Five turns' a long time to be settling in. Taiga's a good fit, actually. A lot of the riders there, I get along with. The work's harder than in weyrlinghood, but I can handle it," and him raising his mug in a toast to that fact must be one of the ways he's 'handling it'. "What about you? The only one from our class that I see on the regular is N'klas."

"I don't have a chafing problem," Lys' dry explanation of where their desires are dissimilar comes with a smirk before she lifts her glass to her lips again. "Well, if not five turns then you can ignore some of the oldest, with their 'I've been in Equinox since you were in ''nappies'', lassie!' and so on," she affects an appropriately gruff tone probably belonging to one of her much, much older wingmates. Nevermind that ''T'gar'' is unlikely to be addressed as lassie by anyone. "I like Equinox," even so, "G'chet's a good wingleader. Settling and all, still, of course," she shoots him a commiserating look before offering, "Do you want to hear about some of the others?"

"Let me guess. Your older wingmates are busy taking you to task already?" T'gar teases easily as he drinks. "'Nappies' and all. What's Equinox is like?" Lys's last draws a grin and a look from the bronzerider before he nods his head upwards and answers her with, "Sure. You keep up with the others?"

"Oh, they just don't like it when I get uppity, or am some kind of know-it-all," which seems to deeply amuse the blonde. The sense in her tone is one of blooming and comfortable comradery even with the prickliest of Equinox's riders. "Imagine what you gleaned shadowing them and just extend it," the greenrider says of her wing. "I keep up with some of them. S'rin and I don't socialize much, even being in the same wing," then again, they never much did in weyrlinghood either, so that's hardly surprising. "Nik, of course, but you'll know all about his ''sordid business''," Lys dismisses it with nary another thought. "Jocelyn is determined, as she always was, dedicated to what her new role demands of her. T'zul is ''making friends''," read: not, "in his new wing. V'ret's finding Glacier to be a good fit. Sort of strange when I run down the list like that to think that we're not still all seeing each other everyday."

"I bet," Rat says to the first, as equally amused as she is. "I didn't shadow Equinox much, but I can remember the little that I did."He quiets up when Lys runs down the list of their clutchmates, nodding to each one as if he had expected each to be exactly as they are. "Sounds like everyone's fitting in well," he concludes as he lingers on his drink. "That's good. Our esteemed weyrlingmaster should be proud. I imagine, soon, one of the queens'll go up."

Lys' fingernails tap on her glass, making a light tinking sound as she considers. "I imagine some of us would do better with a few more growing pains, but then, we're a bunch who likes to keep our hardships to ourselves." She gives T'gar a knowing look but doesn't linger on the observation. Rather, she ruminates, "Could be any of them. I've heard the dragonhealers say that the longer into the interval we get the longer between flights golds can go and still be considered having 'normal' cycles. Niahvth and Roszadyth rose so closely together this last time that either of them could go up probably any time to a few turns from now, and Aidavanth's never, so there's no saying if she will go up soon or turns from now." She eyes the bronzerider a thoughtful moment before asking with a twist of humor to her lips, "Do you have a ''preference'' for which one? Has Asaroth chased a goldfight yet?"

"Why share with the world?" is Rat's rhetorical take on keeping hardships to themselves. On the golds, there's a light shrug as he drinks. "Sounds like it makes sense. Doesn't really matter to me which one of them that go up, though, I'd rather stay on Drex's good side and keep from a randy Farideh if anything. Asaroth's flown queens before and, he seems the sort to likely do it again with little preference."

"Why indeed. The world doesn't want to know anyway," Lys lifts her glass to toast to that. "Lucky you, then. I hear goldflights are quite the ''thing''," for bronzeriders, anyway." It might be odd or maybe it's only natural that she asks, "What's it like to chase? I mean, really. I mean, I heard the lecture and all that, but." Personal experience. Does it measure up to the lecture? That seems to be what the greenrider is curious to know.

"It's the thing for those looking to get their egos stroked," T'gar counters on goldflights. "I see them as a means to an end if a promotion's involved. As for chasing," and there's a pause, as if he's giving that some thought, "well. Feels much like you're your dragon. You don't have much control over anything. You can feel him in flight when it's really intense. I guess, yeah. ''Intense''." A slight shrug. "Intense and no control. I imagine being chased feels the same?" with a gesture towards Lys.

"And you're in no need of ego stroking?" Lys teases the bronzerider, "I'm sure if I have another drink I could summon up ''something'' helpful." Or now, she reaches out a hand to touch his arm, affecting the ditzy expression of the dumbest blonde, "Oh, ''T'gar'', your muscles are ''so huge''," and just as fast as the demeanor was adopted, it's gone again and she's laughing. Flights is obviously something a little more serious. She finishes her glass and sets it on the counter. "Intense is a good word I think, but... I don't know, for Evyth... it's like a condensed love affair. Flirting, being chased, being wooed, and eventually... consummated, which is fantastic. After all that build up, I'd kill if it ended otherwise, I think."

There's a chuckle at Lys's familiar antics, shaking his head before saying, "Is this how you get men?" It's an obvious tease. Back to flights, "Us chasers, I guess it's not as intense as all that," he considers based on what Lys explains. "Since, like, only one of us ends up with Evyth. So, it makes sense that there's no love affair on our side of the mark. Asaroth doesn't flirt to entice a green or gold. I don't even think he knows how."

"Yeah, that or I just flash 'em my tits," Lys replies with another smirk, not missing a beat. "Well, if you ever want to see them," you know, outside of the context of bathing and hot springs and skinny dipping and so on, "you should make Asaroth try to flirt with Evyth." That's quipped as the greenrider gets up to walk away, only she rocks back on her heel and spins back toward T'gar, "Actually, even if you don't want to see them, you should make him try anyway. Just for laughs." She beams impishly at him and then twirls back around to head for the exit. "Later, Rat."

"I should party with you more," is what Rat says to tit flashing. "Good luck trying to get that dragon of mine to flirt. He might see it taking Evyth to a dirty cave as 'romantic' - equipped with a rotting carcass at the entrance. Probably the ultimate mood killer." He laughs at his own words as she starts to walk away, toasting the last of his ale towards her before he says, "See you around, Lys."

}}

[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs:At Date's End

2016-05-16T05:33:48Z

Kaleidoscope: Created page with "{{Log | who = Lys, V'ret | where = The Women-Watching Weyr, High Reaches Weyr | what = Lys and V'ret relax after their date. | involves =High Reaches Weyr | day =28 | month =..."

{{Log
| who = Lys, V'ret
| where = The Women-Watching Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Lys and V'ret relax after their date.
| involves =High Reaches Weyr
| day =28
| month = 10
| turn = 40
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2016.05.15
| quote = "Whoever heard of infant dragonriders?"
| weather =
| mentions = K'del, Quinlys, Taikrin, Telavi
| ooc =
| icons = lys amused.jpg, V'ret grin.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| st =
| log =
Lys and V'ret have more Normal Couple dates than not; the sort where they go to a place and hang out, sometimes drink or meet with friends and acquaintances or enjoy the local offerings (swimming, hiking, etc.). Sometimes, though, having found kindred spirits (to some degree) in matters of less than wholly moral activities, they go on a special sort of date. Tonight's was cards in a tavern with those who can afford to be fleeced and not starve because of it. As such, Lys was dressed up. That dress is long since abandoned on V'ret's floor, and the blonde draws lazy shapes on the bronzerider's scarred back with her gentle fingertips. "So are we spending our earnings in Ista or Bitra this time?" Her tone is one of casual inquiry, but touched with the enjoyment she always has when planning how to make use of their winnings.

The thing about these nights is that, fun as they are, they are work, and work requires some measure of sobriety. Afterwards, well, afterwards doesn't require any such thing. The thing about lying on your stomach on the bed, though, is that it makes it very difficult to actually drink anything, even if, like V'ret, the bottle is within arm's reach. Lys' hands have so far been very persuasive about keeping him where he is, but he's looking over at the bedside table very thoughtfully. "It's getting cool enough to make Ista seem attractive."

"Ista's always attractive. Disgustingly picturesque," Lys tells him, sardonic humor coloring her tone. "Maybe we can get our schedules to line up long enough for an overnight. Sleep on the beach, but not get sunburned." Her lips twitch into a pressed smile. Her hands make a final pass over the whole of his back, palms brushing the skin before she withdraws them and shifts to lean back on a pair of pillows, reaching (subtly) for that bottle in reach of V'ret. "Still liking Glacier?" It may've been a while since they've spoken more than generally about their wings or exchanged simple anecdotes.

V'ret is just sitting up, there, but perceptive enough to note that Lys is going for the bottle, and he lets her have it. Or maybe he's just distracted by the fact that he can get a better look at her from this angle, but let's be charitable. He sits up himself, settling beside her. "Everything's... straightforward. Just trying to find that line where I'm not 'the kid' anymore, but, you know, the guy who acts like the biggest guy in the room, you know for sure he's not." And V'ret might have gotten a bit broader in the shoulders over the last Turn or two, but there are limits to how far that's going to go.

Lys is not above using a good view to her advantage but her smile changes a little when she realizes she's caught but permitted the bottle anyway. After she takes a small drink, she offers it to the bronzerider. "Straightforward in a helpful way or in a boring way? I always heard Glacier was pretty lively." She quirks an eyebrow in inquiry. "The guy who acts like the biggest guy in the room is always a distraction," she observes. That isn't to say that they shouldn't be noted in case they're either A. useful to one's purpose or B. potentially hazardous, of course.

A laugh, there. "Not boring, no. But maybe it's because of Taikrin--it's all just like the sort of guys I've been around all my life." A beat. "Even the women, a lot of them. Nobody fussing about my personal life, nobody giving me shit." It probably helps that there's not much to give him shit about, of course. V'ret's life, as far as outsiders are concerned, must look quite conventional. For Weyrfolk. He takes the bottle to have his own drink, holds onto it afterwards.

"I'm sure it doesn't hurt," Lys drawls with a smirk and a nudge to his shoulder with her own, "that you used to serve the lot of them drinks. Everyone knows how Glacier likes to drink," and party, though she doesn't ''say'' that. "I think I'm glad I didn't get tapped into Glacier, though I'd thought maybe I'd feel otherwise a bit after graduation," though she surely never mentioned those doubts. She threw herself into Equinox with verve and dedication, to all appearances.

A nudge right back. "I'd still probably sooner be on the other side of the bar--but I'm getting used to it. Some of them aren't the best tippers, anyway, especially later on in the evening." Like now, when you've had a few drinks, and then maybe another out of the bottle, and you're as relaxed as V'ret is on his way towards. "I think you would have done fine anywhere, but I'm glad we're not in the same wing. You'd be sick of me in no time." Smiling with that--it's mostly a jest.

"At least our salaries are steady on this side," Lys finds a silver lining, but her voice is edged with humor because 'steady' doesn't mean 'better.' "I don't suppose Zoth would approve of you spending your days as a bartender?" She glances toward the ledge but certainly makes no move to go inquire directly of the bronze. Instead she shifts so she can slide a knee across his lap and settle herself on his thighs. "I spent a turn in weyrlinghood with you. I don't think I'd manage worse now. And we work so well together," she smiles winsomely down at him. Nevermind that wings don't con or cheat or steal (mostly).

A soft 'mm' is V'ret's answer, so presumably he's thinking the same thing. "Zoth is quite firmly on the side of such work being beneath me." Voice pitched a little louder: "Not that we're ever going to be ''Weyrleader'' at this rate." There's a stirring out there, but not much more than that. Apparently this is an ongoing dispute. It's not like V'ret can really be paying too much attention to it, with Lys positioned such and his hands swiftly taking advantage of that fact. "We work better together when we're having fun."

"Of course," Lys concedes with gravity to Zoth's good sense (with just a hint of her dimples to reveal that she might just be humoring the dragon). "I think ''most'' Weyrleaders don't become Weyrleaders in a short-term way out of weyrlinghood. Faranth knows I wouldn't have wanted to be a rider when K'del was seventeen and took his first turn." Teenage Weyrleaders - yuck. The blonde closes her eyes to enjoy the way he's taking advantage of her new position only to open one to squint at him suspiciously, "So you're saying ''you'd'' tire of ''me'' then?"

"Of course you wouldn't have. Whoever heard of infant dragonriders?" That isn't what she meant, but sometimes it's easier to make the joke than to have the substantive conversation. V'ret's hands settle on her hips while she's giving him that look, all proper and attempting to seem disinterested. "I suppose I might. I mean, it's hard for you to measure up next to all those other girls." The nonexistent ones.

"Infant dragonriders would be more than enough to make Quin and Tela go ''mad''." Of course, this makes Lys' dimples put in another appearance and nevermind that she wouldn't be any better off. The blonde rarely seems unwilling to trade substance for something lighter and V'ret's so very good at that - it earns him a kiss, in spite of his last words, perhaps because of them. "Mm, well, I suppose if you ''do'' get sick of me, I'll have more time to practice my embroidery." It's funny because it's true.

The kiss ends in a sigh of breath--relief? V'ret was already relaxed enough, he could almost melt in it. Her continuing gives him some structure again, as he reaches up to touch her hair. "I think your embroidery hardly needs the help. If I'm above bartending, then surely you must be above needlework by now. Fine way to pass the time, but I can think of better, can't you?"

"Evyth doesn't share Zoth's outlook, though I suppose I should be concerned that Zoth should think it makes me below you in such an occupation," Lys pretends deep distress. "I am ''resolved''," she tosses her hair, choosing a high manner of speech as might've befitted her role from earlier in the evening. "I shan't shame you, V'ret, not with needlework." She'll probably think of something better if there's ever real cause. In the meanwhile, there are certainly better things she can think of doing here, now. It involves kissing, more, and eventually a contented sleep.

}}

[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs:The Definition of Duty

2016-05-15T01:40:47Z

Kaleidoscope: Created page with "{{Log | who = Catling, K'zin, N'rov | where = Southern Bowl, Fort Weyr | what = At the Fort Games feast, weyrling, wingrider and Weyrleader discuss the duty of riders and imag..."

{{Log
| who = Catling, K'zin, N'rov
| where = Southern Bowl, Fort Weyr
| what = At the Fort Games feast, weyrling, wingrider and Weyrleader discuss the duty of riders and imaginary futures.
| involves =Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
| day =27
| month = 10
| turn = 40
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2016.05.14
| quote =
| weather =
| mentions =
| ooc =
| icons = n'rov faceknuckles.jpg, k'zin explaining.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| st =
| log =
It's evening of game day, braziers lit for warmth just outside of the caverns while there's hustle and bustle inside. Between dances, N'rov claims a drink and threads his way out for ''fresh air''. It's evening of game day, and no noses have been broken ''yet''.

Feasts are the sort of thing that draw visitors, particularly he who lends his ear readily to the call of his stomach. Rasavyth is settled on the rim between a green and a blue, his eyes whirling a contented shade of blue-green while K'zin exits the cavern with his own drink in hand, in pursuit of the Fortian Weyrleader. Rather than call out, he begins to whistle, a tuneless thing - the sort of tunelessness that gets him a few dirty looks but might just give N'rov enough pause to glace back and catch the waggle of dark brows that will serve as initial greeting, if he does.

Catling is seated outside near one of the braziers, warming herself. She's taken off her riding leathers, and now is wearing a plain dress with a dark cloak wrapped around her shoulders. She turns her head towards N'rov as he steps out, then looks at the other rider. Then she turns her gaze towards Riyoth. The young brown is draped on a ledge, his wings half-open, draped in sleepy abandon.

N'rov's not on so much of a mission that he can't be forestalled, it seems; his own look is less dirty than a dry check of just ''who's'' doing that, and in the next moment it's a crooked smile. "Of course," he remarks to those brows once he's stopped (near Catling's brazier, so conveniently). Equally dryly, "Enjoying yourself?"

"I always enjoy myself when you're buying," K'zin replies to the other bronzerider with an easy shrug that lifts his custom made (though worn in) riding leathers with their foreign knot and wing patch before he's stopping by N'rov and reaching to clasp the Weyrleader's hand in familiar, friendly greeting. "Nice games." And since Catling is right there and K'zin is the sort to have a (slightly goofy) friendly smile for the weyrling and a polite nod of his head, "Quartz flew well in their drill, weyrling," is offered as particular compliment. "Are you proud?" is directed to both of them, Catling for her role and N'rov for his.

The weyrling looks up, blinking in the fading light, opening her mouth for a startled reply, then ducking her head as she realizes the Weyrleader isn't speaking to her. Her cheeks flush, thoughb it isn't clear whether she's embarrassed or relieved. And then.... people are talking to her, and she rises to her feet, sketching an embarrassed, but proper salute. "Sir. Sirs." She clears her throat. "Thank you. I... erm... it's a bit rather... loud in there...." she murmurs to N'rov. Then to K'zin, she adds, "Proud? Riyoth did well. He was a credit to his training. But...." She frowns slightly. "I'm *glad* he did well. I'm glad I didn't dishonor the Weyr with some ridiculous screw-up. But.... proud? Proud is...." She looks down at her feet. "Hearing ballads about the riders that went before, that fought Thread, that did so much.... I'd feel embarrassed to be proud...."

"What, you didn't just show up for the food?" can't be a real question, not with how warmly amused N'rov's Bollian baritone is; it might be partly for Catling's sake as he turns to listen, looking more and ''more'' amused the longer she goes on. To K'zin with a clap for his shoulder, "This is Catling. She's shy," because clearly the other man can't tell on his own. "Spelled R-i-y-o-t-h. And I'd say it went more how I expected," hoped, "''except'' I don't plan to get stuck between Flint and Jasper riders anytime soon." Not only is it loud in the caverns, it's not-so-gradually getting louder.

K'zin's dark eyes glint with amusement in the light of the brazier at N'rov's not real question before he's blinking them at Catling. It might be apparent in that moment that he didn't expect so deep a response. There's a laugh though, sort of half abashed and he dips his head to meet his cup for a hearty swallow before looking to N'rov, though he doesn't speak until the Weyrleader's made introductions. Rather than return the salute, he offers his hand out to Catling. "High Reaches duties, Shy Catling. You make me feel an arrogant ass for my pride in only moments. A fine example of a female brownrider, wouldn't you say?" He inquires the Weyrleader's opinion, but his tone is light and his smile friendly. "I believe," he lowers his voice to confide in Catling (although obviously so N'rov can 'overhear'), "that without that sort of thing bronzeriders would quickly become intolerable. I'm K'zin, Rasavyth's rider," since N'rov failed in that half of his introduction duties. (For shame!)

Even in the light of the brazier, the flush on Catling's cheeks is apparent, and briefly she hunches her shoulders. "My duties to you and to your dragon, K'zin, Rasavyth's rider," she answers. "And please forgive me to make you feel.... as you do. Though I have been told that all bronzeriders are generally intolerable.... I guess I look at intolerable in different ways. Besides, I'm sure that a certain amount of pride is good for morale. Good to be growing and healthy again after.... last year." She shudders. "Good to uphold a sense of self and... well... to understand one's place in the scheme of things. I suppose I'm perverse. I don't want to see anyone scored or worse but... in some ways I wish I'd been born and Riyoth'd been born early enough to fight Thread. I want to.... to help people...." THen she ducks her head. I... sorry. I... should shut up and let you two catch up."

N'rov, shameless; he contributes only a low chuckle that can be construed as assent for the ''example'' and then an encouraging, possibly too-encouraging, "Keep going." He has, after all, his drink; another sip's shallow, forcing it to last. "Ask her a question, K'zin."

"You're a bronzerider, too, ''N'rov''," and therefore subject to ego reduction just as K'zin is. The comment is an aside with a look askance as if the Weyrleader might have forgotten the color of his dragon. Still, the High Reaches rider doesn't seem to flinch from the challenge(s) laid at his feet. Pop quiz time! "Close your eyes," he encourages the young brownrider. "Imagine a world without Thread. Not just a long Interval like this where we calculate how many turns we might have until it returns, while Thread is still an 'until' and not an 'if.'" He watches the young woman's face, "How would you help people in that world? You and Riyoth. What would you want to do to help?"

Catling's eyes widen at N'rov, but self-discipline keeps her from uttering a protest. Still, there is a flicker in her eyes that does not.... quite.... die. She nods her head, turns to look at Riyoth, then closes her eyes. "Would we even have dragons in such a world?" she asks softly. "Would we live in Weyrs and Holds...." She sighs softly. "In such a world, I might be a different Catling. A different woman, with different needs. But....." She shivers. "I would have taken the ill to medics.... taken food, medicine. I would protect caravans from raiders. I would.... I would speak out against injustices. Make sure that those who are mistreated and have no voice... are given one." She tilts her head. "But that is still thinking of *this* Pern. Pern without Thread.... wouldn't be Pern. It'd be Pern-'like'..... but not the same. And.... as horrible as Thread is....." She shakes her head. "It's made us the people we are today. Mostly good people. Mostly peaceful people. We rely on each other, work together. We all 'need' each other, least to first. How can we be Pern without Thread, even in imagining?"

Said Weyrleader feigns a look of shock, nay, ''horror'' at his dragon's bronzeness; at K'zin's question he watches the pair with open interest but, deliberately, no interruption. ''Not'' that it prevents him from flagging down a passing helper and talking her out of three mugs of mulled cider, one of which he silently extends to Catling just as soon as she's had her say. The second, that's for K'zin whether he's ready for it or not, along with the crooked brow that invites a response. The cider may be potent, but it's also warm.

"The extinction of dragons isn't something I choose to think possible, even in that world." Unless the Queens simply stopped laying. Even then K'zin would probably choose to deny it unto his last breath. He absently accepts the second mug, paying no mind to either mug while he makes his reply to both. "If only Thread made us strong, I might agree with you. There are other hardships and other trials that test our mettle. Just because having an enemy keeps you sharp doesn't mean you don't make the victory strike if you can." His dark gaze is heavy now, "To want Thread, to want that purpose to always, always exist is selfishness and self-importance. How many in the world can rise to fight the menace? How many must sit, helpless and afraid, hoping that the trust they've placed in their champions-" a little gesture indicates the trio of riders and those around them, "-is not misplaced? Would you have hundreds and thousands be weak so you may be seen as strong and heroic?" He lifts his brows in earnest inquiry. His tone is never angry, only firm. N'rov doesn't mind foreign riders trying to school his weyrlings, does he? If he does, K'zin is oblivious since he never looks at the other, bigger knotted bronzerider.

"No! You misunderstand me!" Catling's eyes widen. She takes the mug and drinks from it without even really seeming to know what she is drinking. Without even seeming to know that she 'is' drinking, actually. "If there could be a Pern without Thread, that would be... amazing. If Thread could be ended right here, right now.... oh, I'd give 'most anything for that. But.... what would 'I' do to help in a Pern without Thread, that had never had Thread? I don't know. Because I wouldn't be Catling. And maybe I'd have had an easier life. Maybe I'd have had a life with a mother who wanted me and a father who knew how to love me beyond a puppy. I've already 'been' tested so very much." And now her chin lifts and her eyes flash. And then, losing confidence, her head lowers again. "Everyone deserves a Thread-free Pern. I can't give that to people. Riyoth chose me. I don't know why. But my duty is to serve Pern. I only wish I could do..... more. Not to seem strong.... or heroic. I'm not either. I'm just a stupid girl. But I know my duty.... and Riyoth's. And that.... is an honor I can't betray." She looks between the two men, bowing her head. Then she adds in a thick, mortified voice, "And I still can't say in any decent words what I mean."

As the younger bronzerider takes his turn, N'rov keeps an increasingly careful watch, gray eyes intent. "They don't exist to serve us," he says crisply; he might say more were it not for the weyrling's fire, and he ''gives'' her that chance to reply. In the end, though there's a twist to his mouth at that self-deprecation, his voice is low and steady. "You never know what we might ''between'' into," he says for that so-different universe. "K'zin's worked with weyrlings too, Catling, though I don't expect you to know that," his tone reassuring for all that training's hardly all the same anywhere, anywhen. More: this is someone who's been trusted by ''someone''... for whatever that means. "Don't get too tangled up in the might-have-beens, but when you're busy polishing straps or the like, ''think''. Anything else for tonight, K'zin?"

"Inconsistently," K'zin qualifies of his working with weyrlings with a smile that holds honest humility. Then, with a breath: "Just this:" is all that's left for tonight, and plainly said, "I never said a Pern that had never had Thread. I'm speaking of the future, Catling. Our future. Maybe not in our lifetime, but someday," the bronzerider seems sure of that much. "We're in an Interval. It's the closest we get to being in that future and we're faced with challenges those in a Pass can't dream of. Theirs is to rise, to fight, to do it effectively and with as little injury or loss of life as may be managed through practice and practice and perfecting all that can be." He gives a gesture to indicate the games - their role in that practice. "But we have a duty to our own Weyr," his to High Reaches and hers to Fort, and so on - not presumably to Pern at large in his opinion, "to help our future dragonriders, to sort what needs to be done when there is no Thread so that when the day comes we'll have an answer to the question of why dragons and dragonriders are still relevant when the looming threat is gone." Only now does he look to the Weyrleader, his demeanor shifting to something politely professional as he says, "Forgive me, Weyrleader, if I speak out of turn."

Catling keeps her head down, nodding briefly, her expression absolutely mortified. She clutches the cider in her hands, looking down into the cup without seeming to see it. "Yes... sir. Sirs. I...." She shrugs her shoulders, and then Riyoth blinks, then offers a sleepy, but plaintively worried croon. "I'll learn better."

"Your weyrlingmaster's good for that," N'rov reminds Catling after a brief headshake to K'zin, "and you'll have plenty more to learn from your wingleader, but tonight goes to show you can also get ideas from those you run across." A faint smile flicks at the corners of his mouth, "Even if they ''are'' from another Weyr. So chin up. ''Chew'' on those ideas. See where they fit. Rattle them around in your head," and though he might tug on his fifteen-month daughter's curls, he leaves the short weyrling's be. "See which are worth swallowing whole or otherwise, and which to spit out like an ill-cleaned fish's intestine." He eyes her. "But ''for'' tonight, weyrling, just enjoy the rest of it. Couple months for Turnover, you might as well." Or else! With that, he turns away, and it might not be coincidence that another man's approaching them at the same time. "K'zin, do you remember..."

}}

[[Category:General_Logs]]
[[Category:Party_Logs]]

User:Kaleidoscope

2016-05-14T06:23:11Z

Kaleidoscope:

== I Play ==

{|
|-valign="top"
|[[File:Icon dee.jpg]]
|'''[[Dahlia]]''' (''May 2, 2015 - present'') Dahlia (Dee) began as a Good Person. After her near-death experience, the loss of someone she loved, and watching her Weyr grow sick and some brutally die, she's become aware of the ugliness of life. Seeing things in shades of grey, the world looks very different to her and she responds differently to it, now. [[Dragon:Taeliyth|Tenacity in a Tiny Gold Taeliyth]] is a sassy delight to RP, a gold who cares deeply for her home and protective of those in it. 
|-valign="top"
|[[File:Icon kh'tyr.jpg]]
|'''[[Kh'tyr]]''' (''August 15, 2015 - present'') Kh'tyr is an odd-ball, a weirdo, and a bit of a jerk. He's close to something resembling true neutral. Something along the lines of mad genius. (Perhaps without the genius.) Oh, and [[Dragon:Mograith|Mograith]] is ''an asshole''. 
 
|-valign="top"
|[[File:Icon lys.jpg]]
|'''[[Lys]]''' (''June 27, 2014 - present'') Lycinea was vaguely (''vaguely'') inspired by Daisy on Downton Abbey. 
The cook's assistant made me think about the awesome color that the nameless, faceless help can sometimes add to the world.
 Lya has more mouth than is good for her, not much of her own history, and a lot of curiosity for the histories of others.
 Her trek with traders has brought her a little more in the way of social skills to ply people with.
 She Impressed the ''perfect'' and awesome [[Dragon:Evyth|Effervescent Joys of Spring Green Evyth]].
 
 
|-valign="top"
|[[File:Icon j'sae.jpg]]
|'''[[J'sae]]''' (''December 12, 2015 - present'') Jase is a nerdy workaholic. He's passionate about his craft and the possibilities that craftriding presents. [[Dragon:Zajeth|Scintillating Sapience Blue Zajeth]] is a flashy, attention-grabbing, weirdly wise dragon.
 
 
|-valign="top"
|[[File:Icon k'zin.jpg]]
|'''[[K'zin]]''' (''January 27, 2013 - present'') Wakizian's original search app read that his personality was stoic with bouts of levity and he was apped green-blue. In practice, the character came out from his very first scene as mostly levity with bouts of stoicism. By the end of candidacy, I could see him being fun on anything, and said, "Surprise me!" I couldn't have been more surprised or thrilled by [[Dragon:Rasavyth|Rasavyth]] who is a real character in his own right (with P.O.V. vignettes and everything)!
 
 
|}

== Player Notes ==
* Availability: I aim to play 2-4 scenes a week for 2-4 hours per scene. Though it changes weekly, ''at most'' I will be 2 evenings-or-weekend scenes and at most two daytime-weekday scenes. I'm happy to schedule RP if we're having trouble catching one another spontaneously. Though gdocs is an option when scheduling just doesn't overlap, I'd prefer to keep most of my RP live-time for the time being.

* I can get inadvertently spammy in my poses. If it's a bit much for you, shout! I'll do my utmost to rein it in. No offense taken!

* My characters are touch-ok as long as you're not aiming to maim. Please check with me first if it's something unusual, major or violent.

* I'm a pretty flexible player. I like all kinds of RP from fluff to gritty to dark. I don't love things that are incredibly unrealistic or firelizard-focused RP. If a scene starts to go a direction you're not comfortable, please let me know ASAP so we can rework things.

* I'm all about organic RP. Nothing planned is set in stone. Plans are meant to be deviated from. Also, I like challenging my characters. (Read: making them suffer.)

* Any of my characters could die in a good story. If you have an idea and want to involve one of them (even in non-death things), please feel free to chat with me!

* My take: This is a game. It should be fun. If it's not fun, say something, talk to people, change your experience so that it is fun. Open and honest communication is key.

{{LogCountAll | player=Alts:Kaleidoscope}}

{{Cloud | player=Kaleidoscope | exclude=K'zin;Lycinea;Tayte;G'laer;X'vae;Jaecar "Farsights";U'by;Babetta;Laghnei;Tahvra;Yvalia;Tayre;An Unfortunate Tree;Aseana;B'gherio;Gallania;Leara;Gaelan;Raleri;Baera;Nieri;Gaela;Gheara;Estarra;Mikaelen;Zakari;Zakamor;Nazius;Akazi;Wakina;Kinai;Kinzi;B'ghero;Moriyah;T'lan;J'taryn;Baeli;Riola;Wesera;M'raz;F'tal;Tess;Dee;Kh'tyr;Dahlia;Lys;J'sae;Dee/ST}}

== Recent Scenes I've Played ==

{{NewLogs | name={{Alts:Kaleidoscope}}}}

Logs:Lies, Thievery and Blackmail

2016-05-14T06:09:57Z

Kaleidoscope: Created page with "{{Log | who = Lys, N'klas | where = Diving Cliff, High Reaches Weyr | what = Clutchmates discuss deviant behaviors. | involves =High Reaches Weyr | day =22 | month = 10 | turn..."

{{Log
| who = Lys, N'klas
| where = Diving Cliff, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Clutchmates discuss deviant behaviors.
| involves =High Reaches Weyr
| day =22
| month = 10
| turn = 40
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2016.05.13
| quote = "Yes, but it's more polite to call it ''reappropriation''."
| weather =
| mentions =
| ooc =
| icons = n'klas smirk.png, lys sideeye.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| st =
| log =
The weather is normal enough for autumn, which is not to say ''great'', moisture glistening on the leaves and needles on those trees down below by the lake. Not that Nik's looking at them; no, he's seated not at the once-ledge's edge but at its base, cross-legged on a rock. ''Juggling''. Balled-up ''socks''.

"Weirdo," is affectionate greeting for the blonde and his socks as Lys surmounts the last steps, her flight jacket hanging loosely on her slender frame. It's the hand-me-down from weyrlinghood, which might mean she hasn't had a chance to commission the Weyr-gifted set, or perhaps she's saving for embellishments or some such. It's without any invitation or care for the fact that she might be interrupting his ''process'' or focus by striding over to him and ruffling his shaggy hair before dropping unceremoniously into the same pose next to him, except with her elbows going to her knees and her chin coming to rest on her hands. "Is this wing-sanctioned juggling?" It's inquired deadpan.

So of course he drops one. It bounces off his knee in time to grab it, scraggly used-to-be-blue wool lump that it is, while he somehow sweet-talks-- in a cursing sort of way-- the other two to behave; then Nik grins over at Lys. "Only when they don't go over the edge. Here, catch." It's not firestone, and it's not the ex-blue one, either, but a heathered orange-patched gray. "I know what you're doing. Spying on my Alpine ways."

He's side-eyed at the cursing sort of sweet-talk to (hopefully clean) socks, but Lys doesn't make comment on the direction of his affections. Yet. The heathered orange-patched gray is caught, with a preemptive wrinkle of her nose. She eyes it before smiling faintly and turning so she can face him. They're going to play catch, right? She tosses it back to him whether he's ready or not. "How many did you start with?" How many went over the edge? "I do hear some interesting things about the secret ways of other wings. You can brag if you want. About your Alpine-y secrets." It's clear that she's talking shit. Playfully.

They're clean. Well, they were clean. A couple are dirt-smudged from other falls, but must not have ''too'' many thorns. N'klas catches the ball o' wool easily enough, and loops another back to her along the way. "Three," he says in a smirky, may-or-may-not-be-true sort of way. "Obviously." ''Duh.'' "Yeah, so the other day, we saved this hold that was tumbling down the mountainside. The way holds do. Because we're amazing like that. You?"

"Obviously," Lys returns, her tone sardonic, but not overtly disbelieving. "Wow," is a completely different tone - one of wonder and awe (faked). She looks at N'klas with (feigned) starry eyes. "That's ''sooo'' amazing, N'klas. How could I ever compete with that? I stared at a lot of ground and got windburn because I didn't bother to fix my scarf when it fell down." She turns her face this way and that as she lofts the caught sock-ball back to him; the windburn is healing now, not so obvious as to be new. "Oh, and then I wrote a riveting report about the whole lot of nothing unusual that I saw." At least she's good humored about all that though.

N'klas is just shaking his head. "Lys, Lys...sssss. You've got to turn your head while you fly so at ''least'' you expose different areas to get sandpapered," as he illustrates once he's caught the ball and ''not'' thrown one back, head tilting in loose circles as though mimicking someone primping at a mirror. He's got more freckles than he used to, and less acne, but then he ''is'' '''''seventeen'''''. "See, you should add more in, see if they notice," because that works so well in Alpine. Obviously.

"I did both sides," Lys grumps in response, turning her head the other way so he can see the other side's healing evidence. When there's no ball thrown back, Lys does the only logical thing and leans forward to take one from him. "Are you, N'klas, the Weyrleader's son, admitting to me that you ''fabricate'' your reports to your Wingleader?" She sounds scandalized at the very idea.

N'klas duly looks, and if he's distracted along the way, that just makes it easier to steal from him. "Thief," he accuses before promptly paling-- possibly her tone more than the words-- then going red, then bluffing it out. "I never said that," he says, and if he shifts uncomfortably on the rock, surely it's not because of guilt. "Naw, it's... it's just because of the ''blackmail''," he comes up with in a sudden burst of inspiration.

"Yes, but it's more polite to call it ''reappropriation''," Lys returns to N'klas, apparently not denying the charge. She must mentally tally the points that paling and blushing gives her. "You're being blackmailed?" She asks, lifting her brows in a 'do tell' way that might also impart a farce of concern.

"Obviously," is Nik's go-to word of the afternoon, the teenager too distracted to even snicker at all those syllables. "It's a long story. A ''private'' story. I couldn't tell it without... a drink." Then, because who knows what she has in that big old coat of hers, "a lot of drinks." His gaze gets caught on the coat like there's something about it that he can't figure out, or even figure out if he's supposed to.

Who indeed. Lys begins to search those pockets, the sock-ball abandoned in her lap. "A lot of drinks," she chews on the words as she feels down the outside pockets and then makes a show of searching the inner ones, of which there seem to be rather a lot. "I'm not sure I can stretch my imagination enough to place you doing something worthy of blackmail." She opines casually as she searches for ... what? Something she doesn't find. Perhaps a lot of drinks. "You, me, gather, a lot of drinks and your story." It's probably an invitation and not a command.

N'klas gives her a look like he ''also'' can't quite figure out whether that's supposed to be an insult or compliment; then he blinks, which may be Khajith telling him. "You're buying?"

Lys narrows her eyes at the younger man. "Which one of us is the hot one with boobs?"

So of course Nik ''checks'', and then he's getting smirky. "The other guys, then."

Lys brazenly straightens her back which has a visible effect. She does delight in making Nik uncomfortable when she can manage it. "Fine. But the story's for me, alone. Also a few dances." Just in case he thought he was getting off easy.

N'klas can't look away fast enough: read, can't look away and then ''does'', sort of like ripping off a bandage. "Fine," he says, mimicking her. The sky, it's fascinating. Was that a raindrop? It might have been. "Find a good one, not too fancy, and we'll go. But first," he eyes her, "I want my ball back."

Lys' triumph is worth the smirk that comes when he looks away. She enjoys it a moment before glancing skyward and taking that moment to aim the sock-ball at his face (the side of it that would have it bouncing ''not'' off the cliff, because she's a nice person, clearly). "Done." For all of it. And she's up and strolling toward the stairs with a little wiggle of her fingers off to one side in farewell.

"Bye," N'klas calls to Lys, and-- maybe-rain or no maybe-rain-- sits there a little longer once his sock-balls are safely stowed. All three of them.

}}

[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs:Not Enough Beer... Yet.

2016-05-11T05:37:57Z

Kaleidoscope: Created page with "{{Log | who = Kh'tyr, N'rov | where = Empty Room, Fort Weyr | what = Kh'tyr and N'rov drink beer and ask the important questions in life. | involves =Fort Weyr | day =13 | mon..."

{{Log
| who = Kh'tyr, N'rov
| where = Empty Room, Fort Weyr
| what = Kh'tyr and N'rov drink beer and ask the important questions in life.
| involves =Fort Weyr
| day =13
| month = 10
| turn = 40
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2016.05.10
| quote = "I guess what I'm asking is... am I your type?"
| weather =
| mentions = Olivya
| ooc =
| icons =kh'tyr smirk.jpg, n'rov drink.png
| type = Log
| desc =
| st =
| log =
It's not like there's a sock on the latch, but the carved wher hanging on the door is turned to flash its fangs at the corridor, and might as well read 'CLOSED.' N'rov prowls around his not-an-office deep in the caverns, stifling a yawn before tossing his coat at its hook; it catches, but barely, lopsided. He leaves it. "''Flaming''. Worth extra beer right there, Kh'tyr." If his sack is any indication, they won't run out.

Kh'tyr's lackadaisical sprawl on one of the couches, his upper back propped up by pillows while one ankle rests haphazardly on the armrest at the far end, is practically the antithesis of N'rov's prowling. Only his brown eyes move with the man who here might not be considered the Weyrleader, but by this stage of the game he must understand that complaints of vicarious exhaustion will do him no good so he remains silent on at least that matter. Finally a hand moves to rub across his rippled forehead such is the lift of his brows at the mention of the word. "I'll be lucky to keep my eyebrows the next six days," he returns, tone (predictably) dramatic, but muted. He reaches out that hand that went to his brow and makes a 'gimmie' toward the bag o' beer.

"If I find shredded and slightly ashy brown hairs floating around, I'll save 'em for you," N'rov not-quite-promises. He's only just careful enough with the bottle he retrieves that it won't go foaming all over Kh'tyr when, once he's cracked it open, he hands it over; he takes a second but doesn't open it immediately, instead rotating it around and around with ''his'' brows tweaked like it's hiding some secret he hasn't yet figured out. While he's at it, "Long as they don't make me sneeze." He squints at Kh'tyr, like that could all too easily happen.

"If I find you saving me-- that-- I will ensure that every female worth looking twice at knows that you keep creepy love tokens to give to your Most Favorite People." Kh'tyr returns sternly, as if N'rov might here be the naughty weyrling and as though he hadn't left his knot at the door. Such a remark might make the bronzerider regret his contentiousness, but life near Kh'tyr is often littered with such regrets (and opportunities for delightful comeuppance). "I always suspected you had some odd hobbies. I suppose we can all be grateful for your limited leisure time in light of that." He eyes N'rov in a combination of accusation and contemplation.

N'rov's grin is ''delightfully'' unconcerned; "Do that. Who needs to look twice?" His bottle pops on cue, manipulated by clever hands; he tips hs head back and drinks full-throated before slouching over to Kh'tyr's couch, the far side where the brownrider's feet are; he pauses there, then moves onward. "It could be worse, I'm sure. What token would ''you'' pick for being extra creepy?" as though Kh'tyr here could be the wise if irreverent weyrlingmaster. "Or Mograith, for that matter."

"Forgive me my pickiness," Kh'tyr returns, expression grave though his deep voice carries an undercurrent of good humor. The question does require some thought, but evidently the brownrider can multitask for he opens his own beer while he does. "What creepy thing would I collect or what would creep me out the most?" He inquires. "I have always been grateful that Mograith is too much of a glutton to leave anything juicy on the bones I occasionally find gifted to me under my blankets." It's said absently, and as though it's completely normal, as many things are when it pertains to Mograith.

"One of," N'rov stops. Side-eyes. Sits on the ''other'' couch, with a smirk. "One of each, yes. My dragon has not seen fit to gift me with bones as yet, juicy or stringy or cracked." It's worth a drink; worth eyeing Kh'tyr over the bottle's mouth.

This (or the beer) requires that Kh'tyr (with a manly grunt of protest) wrests himself from his sprawl into something more upright, though one leg remains along the length of the couch (boot hanging over the edge). "Toenail clippings." He identifies after the first swig. "I might have once been known to jot down a woman's favorite-to-use phrases and quote them back to her at inopportune moments. But only if I really liked her." Mograith will take more thought. In the meantime, "Tit for tat. What creeps out the famous N'rov and Vhaeryth?"

N'rov's eyes have narrowed, if not to clipping-thin slits, ''speculative''; after a short laugh for that really-liked woman and a flicked not-quite-eyeroll for fame, his shrug is contrastingly loose, for all that he can't seem to keep his slouch. Too many meetings today, wings and Lords and all; not enough beer. Yet. "Not much I can think of. It's all 'the wrong kind of blank.' Wrong kind of sidling up to attach to my arm like a lamprey which, I'll have you know, tastes remarkably bad in wine."

"Poppycock." Kh'tyr dismisses with a wave of his beer, "Clearly a matter of 'not enough wine.'" Then, he grins. He always ''prefers'' to keep a straight face through these matters of important discourse. "It wasn't that Bollian Lord that fed it to you, was it? If so, I say we withdraw all support from the region in answer to clear insult. You'd think they didn't have the wine to spare. Like we had a plague or something." It might be too soon given that that turns grin to grimace briefly before he swallows more of his beer. Not enough beer,for sure. Yet.

"Can there be enough wine?" is ''almost'' rhetorical; N'rov's grin returns, widening, as Kh'tyr continues until it turns into a groan. "Yeah, it happens." Not enough wine. Referring to plagues. Not enough beer, though surely they do. "Got plans for after," he waves a finger, voice lifted right at the end there: after the weyrlings, after the great circle of life, after the craziness of it all.

"Point," Kh'tyr will award the bronzerider, not even grudgingly because how does one argue with that logic? The brownrider doesn't deign to try. He doesn't address the rest because the business of tanking his current bottle has become important and he's even getting up himself to withdraw a second from N'rov's stash, opening it immediately, and letting it foam over his unconscientious hand. It might also drip a little on the floor, but he licks it from his hand as quick as he can, so he ''tries'' not to make more work for the cleaning staff. "How much do you like me?" might be answering the question. (Also might not.)

N'rov lolls his head back, like he has to ''think'' about it, though his demeanor's got that amused quality to it; "Depends. Are we talking 'have a beer with,'" make that a bunch of beers, "'have for a neighbor,' 'have a bidding war over'? A three-way bidding war, even. It could happen."

"I guess what I'm asking is..." Kh'tyr draws it out (quite purposefully, no doubt), "am I your type?" There's a long pause before he adds, "For Onyx."

Such a long pause might cry out to be filled, but N'rov holds out, ''waiting'' for it; he has a crooked smile behind that bottle of his, one that he goes in for another draught. "Could be," he allows with interest, cataloguing his co-drinker with his gaze. "I don't know how you'd last; how'd you like to take my," it's always and ever a drawl, "direction?"

"I've been dumped before," Kh'tyr replies, but not dismissive now. "The complaints have been varied but not listening would be among them." If N'rov weren't the Weyrleader, he might easily think Kh'tyr was including professional instances, and while that phrase 'doesn't listen well' might have shown up a time or two in early reports from his early life at Igen, once he settled into his preferred roles as wingsecond and then assistant weyrlingmaster, his professional record is rather spotless - recent tumult over the weyrlingmaster position not withstanding. "I think we've developed rapport enough that I imagine I'd know when taking your direction was important," which is not to promise that he always will when it's not...

N'rov inclines his head, a faint curl to his mouth, but ''he'' is listening; "A certain amount of initiative is something I keep an eye out for," the wingleader observes, though certain of his wingmates may be more notorious for it than others. Then, abruptly, "I'd take you on. Like I said, I don't know how that'd last: it might, it might not, but I think we'd come out of it still drinking every month. And no black mark on your reputation," not unless there's cause, not with ''Onyx's'' reputation for going through riders... if most often to those riders' betterment. "What are you interested in, beyond sweeps?" Sweeps. Drills. Wiping the odd Lord's nose.

"If Liv and I continue with our arrangement," Kh'tyr observes, "and you come out the loser in the bidding war, it might be temporary anyway," which is to say that he's not bothered by possible temporary states. The last is addressed after a thoughtful pause. He speaks with the bottle pressed lightly to his lower lip, "I'm exceptionally good at being irritating. Some don't understand the skill involved in being the right sort of irritating at the right time in the right place. You could replace irritating with charming or probably several other useful qualities. I'm interested in putting my talents to use for the Weyr, when the Weyr has a need. If it does. In the meantime, I can help train the riders you want trained in the way you want them trained." He certainly has experience with that.

"Indeed," and N'rov toasts to that before claiming his own second bottle. "Since you don't seem to object to her, ah, ''winning'', it could be beneficial to both of us. All of us. Give you a change, too, something ''different''... which, yes, license to be irritating at the right time." And place. And manner. The bronzerider lounges. "D'vro's had some interesting ideas; I'd be interested in what else we could come up with. Let's talk again when you're free... and either way, give you a breather in beween," a wry not-quite-question: Kh'tyr does want a vacation, yes? In the meantime, lifting his own bottle, "Another?" Or is Kh'tyr ''good''.

"My objections never matter in a bidding war," Kh'tyr replies with flippant, habitual dismissiveness of his say-so over his own life. "I'm nothing if not a creature who appreciates variety. And time off." There's, briefly, a more serious expression - one that might hint that time off would be spent tending to some private, important task, but there's no darkening this lightening mood with specifics. "I'll need you to check on me on the second or third day of my time off, though. See that Liv hasn't tied me to her desk to re-organize the lessons for the next batch that comes through." Arguably, tied anywhere by a beautiful woman wouldn't be a bad way to spend a vacation either, but Kh'tyr seems wholly serious in his concern: bros ensure the freedom of their fellow bros. "Another," is readily agreed in light of all this serious business. (And probably another after.)

}}

[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs:Evyth's Maiden Flight

2016-04-17T03:58:14Z

Kaleidoscope:

{{Log
| who = D'vro, Lys, Jocelyn{{!}}I'gand, Jocelyn, N'klas, T'gar, T'mic, T'gar{{!}}Asaroth, D'vro{{!}}Colsoth, Lys{{!}}Evyth, T'mic{{!}}Jorrth, N'klas{{!}}Khajith, Jocelyn{{!}}Khavoth
| where = Snowasis and Guest Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Evyth rises in her maiden flight and is caught by Jorrth.
| involves =Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
| day =25
| month = 7
| turn = 40
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2016.04.16
| quote = Come hither~
| weather = Warm sunshine and cloudless skies make for a beautiful day and pleasantly warm evening. A breeze tempers the heat with no humidity lingering in the air.
| mentions =
| ooc =
| icons = d'vro.jpg, lys playful.jpg, Jocelyn displeased.png, n'klas more.png, t'gar amused.jpg, t'gar asaroth.jpg, t'mic goofy.png, d'vro colsoth.jpg, lys evyth.jpg, t'mic jorrth motion.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| st =
| log = It's a beautiful summer day in High Reaches Weyr. Still some hours til sunset, the brilliant light Rukbat sheds combined with the breeze that tempers the heat, some might call it ''perfect''. Lys might, given her soft, warm smile, usually so reserved for those intimately acquainted with her, the look now offered to everyone and anyone passing by the couch she's draped herself across, her sundress a flowy, feminine thing of cream, embroidered with tiny flowers of warm yellow and pale powder blue, tiny licks of green vines trailing from them. In one hand she holds a glass of wine, though it seems hardly touched and mostly forgotten. Those close to Evyth might feel the way she sleeps so well in the bowl, those keeping an eye on her might notice that her hide has begun to show the telltale signs of glow.

''Nik'' certainly hasn't kept an eye on her, the teenaged bluerider only just now back from Alpine's drills and with the clean sweat to show for it; even coltishly not-quite-galloping his way to the bar doesn't mean he doesn't have to wind up standing in line, though, and so the greenrider-- in her dress with the spots on-- gets a, "Lys!" Like he hasn't seen her for sevens, whether he has or hasn't.

What little glances Jocelyn has had of Lys in public over the past few days have resulted in watchful looks, lips often pressed into a thin, fine line. Tonight, there's little difference; the goldrider isn't the most frequent Snowasis patron, but she's at a table alone this evening, silently observing Lys as one looking out for another should from where she nurses a beading glass of water. Is that a frown that pulls at her mouth each time the greenrider's intimate smile gets aimed at a new person? After a time, there's an impatient shift in her seat, one hand drumming on the tabletop.

"Yah," says T'mic with a nod as the girl he's with - some unknown, from who-knows-where, pretty though, with freckles and strawberry-blonde hair - moves through that door he's held open, "This is it." Of course, that girl (okay, young woman, whatever) ''would'' brace herself on one of his shoulders and ask her next question whispered into his ear. "Uh. Anywhere." And she says something about 'cozy' and he says something about 'actually Jorrth's waiting' and it starts to go downhill from there.

Not a frequent visitor of High Reaches, let alone the Snowasis, by any definition of the word, D'vro still seems to be at ease when he arrives with a younger man and a woman around his own age in his company. The other two settle at a table while the Fortian wingleader goes to the bar to fetch a few light drinks. His gaze picks out a handful of people on his journey, notably Jocelyn given her rank, but the friendly greenrider earns a brief consideration as well.

"''Nik''," gets that smile from Lys, certainly. There's a laziness in the way she moves, to straighten just a little, to make more room on the couch. "Are you troublesome for your wingleaders?" She asks it with expressively risen brows, as if the question might be a severe judgment, though her lips stay in that soft smile, too much contrary for the question to carry all that much weight when the sums of tone and expression are balanced. She must be oblivious to Jocelyn or she might've sought her out; arguably, she hasn't seemed especially 'with it' today, though she's been more or less a substantially nicer version of herself in the past few days. Her eyes don't travel farther than what's immediately in her attention, which in this case is N'klas. Lucky Nik!

Dragon> To nearby dragons, Evyth has always been a sweet dragon. Her slumbers hold a sweet, glowing edge that speaks of the alluring possibilities that romance brings. As she begins to rouse, those feelings are only stronger and directed (though less than consciously) to the males of the Weyr. She's waking from a dream and stepping into another. Surely somewhere here there must be someone who wishes to accompany her? She shifts in the bowl, starting to blink lids and stretch limbs and wings, the glow on her paisley-touched hide becoming more and more pronounced until it is a deep and flushed thing signaling the time is very near indeed that they should engage in a dance above.

Dragon> To local dragons, Jorrth's sun-warmed musty scent is mixed with the dusty dry of fresh-disturbed dirt, that worn spot near the lake worn a little lower from his most recent wallow. Recent as in, the blue's still on his side, one wing stretched out flat on the ground, one held straight up in the air, mimicking the mental alert brought on by Evyth's touch, here returned.

Lucky Nik hasn't an eye for Jocelyn either, nor T'mic and the girl even, though ''D'vro'' gets a sidelong look as the bluerider hesitates: there's someone behind him now, there's a place in line to lose. Not a long line, but still! A moment's indecision leads to his wandering the few steps over to say conversationally, "You know me," a doubly-inherited dimple showing for a moment. "It was pretty great. Sky's ''amazing''," and though he'd just left it, Khajith's stretching ''right now''.

A bit of time's passed, and that freckle-girl's giggly sweetness is dissipating, while T'mic's started rubbing at the browned back of his neck, and shrugging. Finally, it's a group of wingmates on their way out that provide the necessary catalyst for the awkward moment to break up. The freckle-girl's off to a table. T'mic is heaving a heavy sigh, interrupted only by some external influence that's got him straightening up, and grabbing the door before it can swing fully shut.

Jocelyn's attention gets temporarily diverted as she catches sight of D'vro and his little entourage, pale gaze briefly dedicating an appraising look in their direction. Her lips purse faintly, but she doesn't rise to engage the foreign wingleader, the alertness in her expression going in-and-out long enough for some silent communication before her eyes snap back over to Lys, jaw setting. There's a stiff, uncomfortable set to her shoulders, one that lasts beyond the moments where she drains her water glass, leaving it on the table before starting to head in the direction of the exit. Conveniently, her route takes her - in a roundabout sort of way! - past the couch where Evyth's rider sits, and she slows there for a moment, enough to give her former classmate a meaningful, knowing ''look''. Her mouth opens, but promptly closes again; whatever she was about to say, she's apparently decided against it, and opts instead to resume her course for the door, barely acknowledging the brownrider who says a polite hello to her on his way in - or T'mic, for that matter.

I'gand, for his part, isn't in a particular hurry to get to the bar, but that ''is'' his destination - at least until he catches sight of Lys, until Khavoth gives a shake of his wings and responds to Evyth's shift in awareness with a curl of earthy smoke, a flash of anticipation.

Lys' blue-green gaze strays to D'vro when Nik's does, and D'vro is thusly also a recipient of that warm, soft smile that Lys is sporting so freely today. "I do know you-" she starts to Nik, though her eyes linger on the foreign rider, only to have both gaze and words interrupted by a lift of her brows and an, "Oh." It's with grace that Lys rises from the couch, her hands smoothing down the cream colored sundress. "Evyth is rising," she tells Nik and the foreign rider as one, as if she were telling them there was going to be beef roast for supper. "You'll come?" is nearly a direct invitation, save that it seems to be extended to-- well, all of them. She doesn't linger, in any case, but rather glides her way toward the bowl to head for the guest weyr designated for flights. She pauses only a moment when she sees Jocelyn, casting one of her too intimate smiles her way before she's gone.

Dragon> To local dragons, Evyth's tickled by the attention her meandering mental inquiry has garnered her. It, too, is a sweet thing, the way she seems to flush but own that sensuousness that radiates from her mind. There's a moment of indecision as her eyes glance toward the feeding pens, but with a flare of amusement, that notion is dismissed and her sails unfurl, glowing and gorgeous, lingering out only a moment before muscles bunch and the rotund green is launching herself as a beacon of beauty into the sunshine and blue of the perfect sky on her perfect day for her maiden flight. Come hither~

With drinks in hand, D'vro turns back to join his small group at their chosen table. He pauses in stride to look at Lys curiously, but he only smiles politely to the young woman before he's continue on toward his table. Because he's clearly not paying close enough attention to his bronze's interest in random foreign greens. He'll catch on soon enough, no doubt.

Khajith hasn't been quick to take up the chase, sporadic bouts here and there over the past couple of months, a few and then none for a while when there isn't quite the right treasure in the offing; it hasn't been so infrequently, though, that N'klas doesn't make out Lys' meaning even ''after'' as his mouth is already saying, "Sure." Why the shell not? has him ambling after her on Jocelyn's path, pausing to aim knuckles at T'mic's chest for the still-taller man's ''holding the door''. Besides, Khajith's already up and going. ''Khajith's'' not letting a minor detail such as 'already been on drills'-- or 'haven't had the nap,' or even 'haven't had a snack'-- stop him now. Is she really perfection? The lean dragon's following her path as though drawn on a map, aiming to see up ''close''.

T'gar really wasn't planning on extracurricular activities this day, and it shows in the irritated stiffness in his strong frame as he pushes into the guest weyr. He doesn't seem to be making all that much eye contact with anyone or anything save for the entrance. And Lys. His eyes seem to drag right over towards Lys as Asaroth is already angling from afar towards Evyth like a bee to honey. His silence is a heavy thing - he's a dragon of few words, after all - but there is no mistake in the way he stalks after the green that he aims to enter the chase.

T'mic... holds the door. For everyone. N'klas gets a grin, but by the time people are done leaving the Snowasis - or going into it, because T'mic won't just shut the door on newcomers, either - he's got to run to catch up with the other bluerider. Jorrth is up on his feet, shaking a dust cloud about him, not with his usual shudder through broad head and shoulders, but by the force of his leap and beating of his wings against the air. << Evyth! >> finally gets to hear her name in his baritone, slow-moving even in this moment. And he's committed.

Come hither? Thither? Khavoth's sage-smudged mind ''warms'', an appreciative flame kindling into being as he watches Evyth ascend. So appreciative is he that it takes him a moment to follow suit - but follow he does, surging keenly upward with purpling eyes. I'gand's head twitches into a little shake that looks like a 'no' before it turns into a nod, even if he ends up following Lys's path with less enthusiasm than his dragon pursues hers. There's a spot near the entrance to the guest weyr that seems to suit him fine, so it's there that he ultimately leans, casting a long look at the greenrider before his eyes close, breaths deepening.

"Rat," gets his warm, soft smile from Lys as he enters, just as she settles herself on the edge of the bed. It's really a look more suited to afterglow than these moments that hold so much possibility and promise but also tension for that: no decision has yet been made. If anyone coming in -- like T'mic -- hasn't gotten their very own sunny smile from the greenrider, they'll get one when they come into the weyr that, given the way her hands set behind her and she leans back on them, seems to have become her (however temporary) domain. The sky is Evyth's, that much can be sure. It's not so much that there's ''possessiveness'' so much as a sense that the whole world is hers for the taking-- theirs, whoever ends up being the one to join her in the end. For now, there's delight for all of them, as gentle as the breeze that helps loft her wings higher and higher toward the sun. There's a brief glance back, but then a toss of names, to each of them either their name or an inquiry of. After all, what kind of lady would she be if she didn't know the names of each and every of her suitors and the touch of their minds before she makes any sort of choice between them.

The Southern turned Fortian bronze is doing his absolute best to not pay much attention to the glowing green until she's in the air. If his rider doesn't realize he's interested, he won't try to stop him from chasing until it's too late. And Colsoth ''wants'' to chase. He waits until she's taking over the sky before dropping himself from the heights to join her other suitors. His name comes with a quiet, humble confidence. He's not here to conquer her, but he'll enjoy the chase and make sure she enjoys her body twined with his if she chooses him. D'vro is probably just leaving the Snowasis now. Give him a minute.

<< Khajith, >> is that dragon's-- that ornery dragon's-- slyly cheerful agreement to the name his clutchmate gives him; << Evyth, >> is drawn out, light on the middle vowel, light and lofting as her flight. ''His'' is distinctly more physical, for all that, with less mass than many, he angles to take advantage of the winds and of the distances between other dragons as they widen and narrow; if he can cut one out ''now'', then that will save for ''later''. His rider, though... Nik's wound up leaning against another rider... until his realization that no, that's ''not'' the wall means he's spurred a few steps closer, eyeing Lys and what that pose of hers does for her. To his neighbor, all of a sudden and not so under his breath, "She ''is'' hot."

"Lys," T'gar at least acknowledges that call to his nickname before he finally takes quiet stock of those around him. Asaroth may be a bit behind the other chasers after Evyth, but his gaze remains on the green as he continues his hunt. He's amused, for the most part, at all the other dragons he has to compete against and his arrogance is clear. T'gar notices N'klas and tries to catch his other clutchmate's attention, in the meantime. He doesn't call out though, having chosen somewhere to the side near Lys, against the wall.

T'mic. T'mic was the leaning post and gets to be the neighbour instead. T'mic doesn't seem particularly bothered by any of this. "Well yeah," answers the younger bluerider's observation. The broader one's gaze is easy, if not particularly subtle. He even grins at her. Unbothered. Enjoying himself. But also strong and ready and aware. It's probably Jorrth's influence; Jorrth, who's taking into account all the other chasers gathering in the pursuit, Jorrth, whose two-plus turns of observation before he'd ever chosen to participate, has wired countless patterns and strategies beyond his memory and into his brain. Jorrth, who's musty-dusty presence is kept ready for Evyth to feel even while he begins to weave here, slide there. Delicate touches for the awfully large blue.

"''Nik''," means Lys caught that not so under his breath comment, but she's grinning in spite of the scandalized tone for the younger man's observation, the tone and expression once more incongruous. It's on that teenager, however, that she focuses her eyes while she shifts so she can free a hand from supporting her torso long enough to reach up and flick down one strap of her sundress, a single brow briefly lifting and falling in some kind of playful challenge. It might be a distraction tactic, since the grin is turned on T'mic, too, for agreeing with the younger bluerider. Evyth is taking things a hair more seriously than her playful rider, angling her frame to strike out over the lake while she gains yet more altitude. << Khajith, >> Evyth has a roll of her eyes. Can she really take that clutchmate seriously? Even with him flying well enough? << Jorrth, >> she identifies after a moment's pause, a moment's distraction that costs her distance between herself and the pack. The glance back to identify others who've offered names and those who haven't (no brownie points, guys) costs her a little more. It doesn't look to be the makings of a long flight, but then she's inexperienced so it shouldn't be terribly surprising.

By this point in their lives, both Colsoth and D'vro are rather experienced chasers. The bronze feels the pull of the green, to be sure, but there's no desperation in the way that he follows her through the sky and maneuvers within the competition. When his rider finally arrives, D'vro finds a space for himself that will provide an easy exit, whether that has him standing somewhere between Lys and another chaser's line of sight or not, and crosses his arms over his chest, closing his eyes for the time being while he almost certainly focuses on internally screaming at his lifemate.

"When did that even happen?" Nik rambles, for all that she ''was'' a weyrling with him and therefore-- never mind. "Seriously, Tom-- T'gar, hey," he'll do all the calling for the both of them. "Can you get-- that guy--" he waves out into the direction of one of the other riders whose dragon is near the front, and none too accurately at that, "--out of the way?" quite as though this were a helpful, mutually supportive thing and not at all a ''competition''. Not that he's looking anywhere but Lys and her low-cut bodice for very long, especially with how that strap's going down and... now his eyes linger on the other one, all hopefully. Come on. Come on. Come on, Khajith! Far less-distracted Khajith is busy, seeking to take advantage of ''Evyth's'' distraction, if less with internal-or-otherwise screaming and more with swooping. It does mean there's a scrape of hide against hide in the wrong way as he steals the wind out of a brown's sails, but he eels on undaunted; if he hadn't had his usual energy to begin with, he'll make the most of what he's got.

Asaroth doesn't give his name, but his reached-out scent towards Evyth might suffice for her. ''Might''. It's clear that he's still trying to figure this whole 'chasing' think out, though by the way he's not using the wind currents to his advantage. Still, the young bronze doesn't seem to let that dampen his spirit and eagerness. His aim continues on trying to get passed a floundering brown while far below, T'gar's wandering gaze has now centered and focused only on Lys. With N'klas speaking, one corner of his mouth hitches up before saying back to him, "How should I do that? Punch him in the face?" The question is a valid one, and his fists are formed as if he's about to put question into action.

When the greenrider's attention turns to him, T'mic raises a big mitt of a hand, and wiggles the fingers on it in a rippling wave to Lys. He even laughs a bit dumbly and says, "Hi," while doing it. The grin has time to turn crooked and goofier before he looks over to N'klas. "Huh?" Those fingers are still rippling in Lys's direction, but more slowly. The successes - for any time Evyth seems more catchable is a success - pass by with barely acknowledgement, except in how Jorrth moves to match, or counter, or adapt as required. Closer. Yes. Good.

Khavoth's enthusiasm still burns bright, so bright, but there's a patience to the way he keeps pace with the other suitors, measuring the strokes of his wings in such a way that suggests he isn't using all of his energy just yet, waiting all but silently for the most opportune moment. Oh, there are soft rings of smoke blown in Evyth's direction from time to time, carrying whispers of ''heat'' and ''wanting'' - well, that's until that ill-timed swoop of Khajith's catches enough of the older brown to throw his straight course into a veer ''away'' from the pack. Normally good-natured, frustration temporarily gets the better of him, sending him flapping back toward that young upstart. Cause and effect are a principle of nature, and the latter is headed in the blue's way with limbs and tail that aim to bodily ''push'' rather than do any lasting damage.

Lys does N'klas one better, pushing herself up off the bed to mingle among the riders instead of keep her distance, that single strap still down. Along her way through those suitors present, however, a female brownrider reaches out to help Nik's fantasy out, a single finger hooking the other side and giving Lys a crooked smile as she explains, "Evening you out, pet," to which the blonde only smirks. "Which one, which one," is a quiet sing-song. With D'vro's eyes closed, perhaps he won't notice that Lys has stopped in front of him, expression thoughtful as she looks over his face, until she adds one more, "Which one," while she examines his face from her new vantage. Evyth probably would ''like'' the luxury of meandering among her suitors. She'd probably like the advantage of getting to know them better. She ''knows'' Asaroth. Khajith too. That might put them both at greater disadvantage. She knows Jorrth, too, but in particular roles, none of which really apply here and Colsoth she knows not at all, but his focus draws some of her attention. If she kept her focus on the sky, Evyth might stand a better chance of drawing out the flight, of getting to know the dragons better before she's within range to be snared, only her attention on the individual drags her to just where she wanted to be anyway, if truth be told, in among them, within reach of some, though she's hardly seemed to choose or give up just yet.

"Sure," says Nik for the punching-- all ''sorts'' of things must sound good at this particular time-- "Yeah," might be more for T'mic even if it's not so much ''helpful''. "'''''Yeah'''''," is all for Lys, and the brownrider, and Lys. All of which means, not that he's been particularly helpful to Khajith anyway, he ''really'' is no help when Khavoth goes for the still very young, ''very'' inexperienced if otherwise canny blue. Khajith senses the brown's onrush in time... but only to not make it worse, and when the two Khs collide and he's shoved bodily to the side, ''that's'' very distracting indeed.

"Uh oh," says T'mic, because he's ignoring everything else and watching Lys, and he's caught the fall of that second strap. He starts to move forward too, not so much toward the greenrider as into some space where he's got freer movement. It might work better if others hadn't've had the same idea. Still, he manages to get both arms up, and even to get his fingers prepared into hooks, ready to assist those straps (one way or another) if Lys gets within reach. Jorrth's broad focus, on Evyth and the other chasers, remains unchanged, as fresh and exact as it was when he'd left his dirty wallow. The patience of a weyrlingmaster's dragon is there, but different now, supporting not his trainees, but his own strict precision. It's still mostly a mental game; the brute strength of those shoulders remains in reserve only until Evyth is just... ''there.''

The voice in front of him opens D'vro's blue-green eyes to gaze down at the young woman. She's a stranger, though, so she can't know that the heat there is almost exclusively reserved for these moments, influenced by the lust of his dragon. Even so, he only watches her with no attempt to touch or otherwise interact, arms still crossed loosely over his chest while he waits for someone to claim the green and, in turn, her rider. As Evyth is taken into the group, Colsoth swerves in a reflexive attempt to put himself in her path, mind just as open to her as his increasingly eager limbs.

T'gar watches Lys makes her rounds, his gaze openly traveling all over her body in silence. He doesn't make himself known - much like his young bronze that's on the hunt up in the air. All the same, he seems to take note of those that she does stop in front of, seeming to measure them up much like a dragon would. As for Asaroth, the dragon manages to get passed that brown - and a few blues - to find a place close enough to Evyth. She's there and he's reaching, trying to snag her from the side and pretty much around the same time that others have reached for her, too.

I'gand's eyes, having been shut this whole while, finally, finally snap open once Khavoth ''hits'' and does a funny roll to try to free himself afterward, smoke blown hard from his mind to Khajith's with all the annoyance he can muster. The human half of the pair is halfway to taking three, long steps in Nik's direction before he halts the moment his brown realizes where Evyth's headed - and changes his momentum to try to 'encourage' the young blue further away from the group before tumbling down vaguely in the direction of the lake. Chances were never with him to make it there in time without some teleporting; perhaps with some luck, his efforts will ensure that one of the newest chasers won't succeed this day, either. His rider makes a disgusted sound in ''that'' aftermath, making a prompt and grumbling exit.

Lys' blue-green gaze meets D'vro's and lingers. It isn't until Evyth finds herself jostled by several different attempts to ensnare her now that she's in the thick of things that Lys draws in a breath, sharply. Colsoth misses and some part of her must know that that bronze is tied to this man, in the way of crazy flight Things for she murmurs, "Next time," amused before turning toward others. "Better luck, Rat," she murmurs with a wink as Asaroth's attempt to snare the sweet green misses, too. Then she stops in front of T'mic, an amused quirk to her lips. She's in range, and with Jorrth's use of his shoulder strength, Evyth is caught, leaving Lys with only three words to say to the bluerider, "A little help?" with a single roll of her shoulders to indicate the straps. Everyone else? Get out.

Smoke meets with an icy splash of saltwater, and the 'encouragement' doesn't take hold... until the sickening sense comes that Jorrth is and Evyth can't and there, Khajith's heading away towards the lake even as N'klas, grimacing, stumbles out. ''That'' won't be good for his straps.

The cool calculation is done once Jorrth's limbs are tangled with Evyth's; then it's warm, sun and fur and the safety of togetherness as those wings spread. T'mic lifts those straps back onto Lys' shoulders first. Then they can come down again, and he can bring the greenrider up to his chest, and laugh out a, "Hi," again, and things can carry on as they should.

}}

[[Category:Flight_Logs]]

Logs:What It Is, What It Isn't

2016-04-17T03:57:20Z

Kaleidoscope:

{{Log
| who = Lys, T'mic
| where = Guest Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
| what = After [[Logs:Evyth%27s_Maiden_Flight|Jorrth catches Evyth]], Lys and T'mic share some moments.
| involves =High Reaches Weyr
| day =25
| month = 7
| turn = 40
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2016.04.16
| quote = "It's a pretty decent bed for a ground weyr."
| weather =
| mentions =
| ooc =
| icons = t'mic boynextdoor.jpeg, lys awkward.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| st =
| log = 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.

}}

[[Category:Post-Flight_Logs]]