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Kaleidoscope at 23:54, 28 January 2015

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Roz at 03:13, 4 September 2014

2014-09-04T03:13:20Z

Roz: Created page with "{{Log |who=V'ros, H'vier |what=V'ros and H'vier meet whilst jogging. There's talk of drinks. V'ros stands H'vier up. |where=Western Bowl, High Reaches Weyr |when=Day 5, Month..."

2014-09-04T03:04:27Z

Created page with "{{Log |who=V'ros, H'vier |what=V'ros and H'vier meet whilst jogging. There's talk of drinks. V'ros stands H'vier up. |where=Western Bowl, High Reaches Weyr |when=Day 5, Month..."

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{{Log
|who=V'ros, H'vier
|what=V'ros and H'vier meet whilst jogging. There's talk of drinks. V'ros stands H'vier up.
|where=Western Bowl, High Reaches Weyr
|when=Day 5, Month 8, Turn 35 of the 10 Interval.
|gamedate=2014.09.03
|quote="You run like a fucking girl, kid."
|weather=Clear, sunny.
|mentions=Azaylia
|ooc=Back-dated.
|icons-new=Icon v'ros dirty.png, Icon h'vier amused.jpg,
|icons=
|log=
Western Bowl, High Reaches Weyr

The bowl's vast dirt floor extends in a rough oval from west to east, only sparse clumps of grass surviving between the crisscrossed pathways of daily traffic. To the northwest stand massive gates to the world beyond, allowing people, livestock, and tithes to pass beneath some of the seven jagged spires that stand sentinel over that area of the bowl. In late afternoons, their spindly, fingerlike shadows stretch over that end of the bowl all the way to the living cavern's hulking brass doors in the far north.

Eastward, the bowl sprawls on toward the lake, sloping slightly downward to allow runoff from rain and snowmelt, but to the south it's caged by more cliffs of dark, rough-cut granite. Rocks poke up from the ground here, a few large boulders and many smaller outcroppings worn smooth in spots by time and use. A few ground weyr entrances dot the wall, the most frequented ledge set up like a patio while the largest ledge services the Weyrleaders' complex, directly beside the huge entrance to the hatching sands. A more human-sized entrance, left of that, leads to the galleries.

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.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Greater responsibility relies on greater strength, and for the better part of the month, the weyrlings have been working on honing those muscles dragonriders are known for. They are often seen out the in the bowl, hauling sacks, or running laps. It’s the fatter that a few of them are doing, dressed down in casual running clothes; V’ros is among them. He is on the slower side, making his strides less wide and more bouncy. His face has a certain concentration on it that brooks no interruptions, not even a dragon wandering in his path.

How about a huge, shirtless bronzerider body checking him on his way past? One that's ''laughing'' as he continues on a few paces further before turning to jog backwards and check out the handiwork left in his wake. "You run like a fucking girl, kid. Coulda sworn you were one of the new brownriders, not some bitch ass little greenrider." Clearly he's not convinced right now.

Concentration requires not breaking for the likes of some macho bronzerider, but V’ros isn’t left with much of a choice when H’vier comes back his way. “Wh. what!? Why would you.. what?” He’s frowning, confused as ever, giving the older man a sidelong look. “I ‘am’, a new brownrider. I’m not a greenrider.” His mouth is stubborn, brown eyes unsettled.

"Yeah? Better start looking the part, then. Or you'll have those bitches all over your tight little ass in ways you don't want them." Surely H'vier isn't looking at V'ros' butt. But that won't stop him from talking like that. Nothing ever does! "C'mon, then. Put your shoulders back and pick it up. Prove you're a real man."

V’ros stumbles and nearly falls on his face, but he manages to balance himself, somehow. “Are you fucking serious?” he growls, giving H’vier a heated glare; even then, he starts running faster, putting his fury into the run. “I don’t need to prove ‘anything’, to you most of all, and no one is going to.. to ..be over my ass.” He’s grinding out the words, clenching his jaw in between each one.

"That's more like it," says H'vier as V'ros picks up the pace. The bronzerider falls in nearby, making this whole running thing look entirely too effortless. "Now don't go getting all snippy. Didn't say you had to prove it to ''me'' now, did I? But if you make a habit of running like you were just now, someone's gonna get it in their head that you like being bent over when you're done flopping around the bowl." Friendly advice. That's all this is!

That’s discouraging. Least of all, V’ros wasn’t expecting H’vier to ‘keep’ up with him and continue their dialect. He glares. “I’m not flopping around the bowl.” Other weyrlings are starting to watch the pair and whisper behind hands; their attention makes him nervous. “What.. what do you want? Pick on the little guy? You did it, can you go now.. sir?” He focuses his eyes forward, still frowning, and keeps jogging.

H'vier, as one might imagine, doesn't care about the other weyrlings at all. It's V'ros he's fixated on, for whatever sadistic reason he's conjured up, and that's where his fixation remains. "Just 'cause I'm talking to you doesn't mean I'm ''picking'' on you, kid. And, trust me, you're flopping." He goes silent, then. Maybe he might just leave the poor weyrling alone now!

Frustration slashes across the weyrling’s face. “This is.. just.. great.” V’ros slows to a stop, scrubbing his hands hard down his cheeks. “It’s hard ‘enough’, it’s.. really.. really just.. fucking ‘hard’, without assholes like .. you.” He shoots an accusatory look towards the bronzerider, puffing out a breath. He’s pacing back and forth a little wildly, like a caged animal.

It takes another few moments for H'vier to realize that V'ros actually stopped and didn't just slow down again. The bronzerider stops, too, glancing back at the weyrling like he's confused as to why they've stopped. "For fuck's sake, kid, you need to relax before that vein sticking out of your forehead pops." There may not actually be a vein doing anything of the sort. "How about I make it up to you, yeah? I'm not such a bad guy."

Suddenly self-conscious, the weyrling stops pacing and covers his forehead, glaring his frustration out at H’vier. “You’re going to make it up to me.. how? By sticking my head in the latrines? No thank you.” V’ros continues to eye the bronzerider warily, standing his ground but not really being very courageous about it.

H'vier does not seem at all threatened by the comparably scrawny, short brownrider's frustration. "A drink. A couple, even, if it will help you relax and enjoy yourself for a few minutes. On me." If it helps, the bronzerider ''seems'' quite genuine.

“A drink. You want.. to.. buy me.. a drink?” Doubt rings in his voice, and he’s visibly disturbed by this new changed of events. Distrust still runs rampant - what reason does he even have to trust someone like H’vier? He snorts. “Ok, then, buy me a drink.” V’ros doesn’t believe him, that much is indubitable.

He has the same reason that everyone else has to trust H'vier. Good 'ol reputation. Which isn't, that is to say, good, exactly. But he's been leading or helping to lead a wing for awhile now and no one's died from it so far. Totally trustworthy. "Good. Have you been the lounge yet?" He doesn't seem to expect that V'ros ''has'' but it's worth asking. Also he can assume that's where they're going, either way.

"No. Not yet. I'm not.. a rider, yet." That trustworthiness is such a shifty thing. V'ros gives him the side eye, before nodding reluctantly. He could use a drink about now, even a drink with H'vier is better than no drink at all. "I'll go change and meet you there?"

"How about you meet me back here and we'll give you a ride up," says H'vier. Since it's kind of hard to get there without a dragon and Reisoth is easier than finding an elevator ride. And with those plans in place, the bronzerider continues his run off to probably wherever his shirt is.

“Sure.” V’ros sounds like he’s into it, but as the other man jogs away, he stays where he is. “..when Zmeyth flies Hraedhyth.” His tone is mutinous, laced with a heavy dose of disbelief. He shakes his head as he walks back to the barracks. H’vier will find that when it comes time for them to meet back.. he’s left in the dust. No weyrling arrives nor is there a note delivered. V’ros simply stands him up without so much as a conciliatory excuse.

}}
{{Categories}}

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 {{Log
 |type=Log
 |who=V'ros, H'vier

@@ Line 4: / Line 4: @@
 |where=Western Bowl, High Reaches Weyr
 |when=Day 5, Month 8, Turn 35 of the 10 Interval.
 |gamedate=2014.09.03
 |quote="You run like a fucking girl, kid."

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 The bowl's vast dirt floor extends in a rough oval from west to east, only sparse clumps of grass surviving between the crisscrossed pathways of daily traffic. To the northwest stand massive gates to the world beyond, allowing people, livestock, and tithes to pass beneath some of the seven jagged spires that stand sentinel over that area of the bowl. In late afternoons, their spindly, fingerlike shadows stretch over that end of the bowl all the way to the living cavern's hulking brass doors in the far north.
 Eastward, the bowl sprawls on toward the lake, sloping slightly downward to allow runoff from rain and snowmelt, but to the south it's caged by more cliffs of dark, rough-cut granite. Rocks poke up from the ground here, a few large boulders and many smaller outcroppings worn smooth in spots by time and use. A few ground weyr entrances dot the wall, the most frequented ledge set up like a patio while the largest ledge services the Weyrleaders' complex, directly beside the huge entrance to the hatching sands. A more human-sized entrance, left of that, leads to the galleries.
 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.
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 Greater responsibility relies on greater strength, and for the better part of the month, the weyrlings have been working on honing those muscles dragonriders are known for. They are often seen out the in the bowl, hauling sacks, or running laps. It’s the fatter that a few of them are doing, dressed down in casual running clothes; V’ros is among them. He is on the slower side, making his strides less wide and more bouncy. His face has a certain concentration on it that brooks no interruptions, not even a dragon wandering in his path.
 How about a huge, shirtless bronzerider body checking him on his way past? One that's ''laughing'' as he continues on a few paces further before turning to jog backwards and check out the handiwork left in his wake. "You run like a fucking girl, kid. Coulda sworn you were one of the new brownriders, not some bitch ass little greenrider." Clearly he's not convinced right now.
 Concentration requires not breaking for the likes of some macho bronzerider, but V’ros isn’t left with much of a choice when H’vier comes back his way. “Wh. what!? Why would you.. what?” He’s frowning, confused as ever, giving the older man a sidelong look. “I ‘am’, a new brownrider. I’m not a greenrider.” His mouth is stubborn, brown eyes unsettled.
 "Yeah? Better start looking the part, then. Or you'll have those bitches all over your tight little ass in ways you don't want them." Surely H'vier isn't looking at V'ros' butt. But that won't stop him from talking like that. Nothing ever does! "C'mon, then. Put your shoulders back and pick it up. Prove you're a real man."
 V’ros stumbles and nearly falls on his face, but he manages to balance himself, somehow. “Are you fucking serious?” he growls, giving H’vier a heated glare; even then, he starts running faster, putting his fury into the run. “I don’t need to prove ‘anything’, to you most of all, and no one is going to.. to ..be over my ass.” He’s grinding out the words, clenching his jaw in between each one.
 "That's more like it," says H'vier as V'ros picks up the pace. The bronzerider falls in nearby, making this whole running thing look entirely too effortless. "Now don't go getting all snippy. Didn't say you had to prove it to ''me'' now, did I? But if you make a habit of running like you were just now, someone's gonna get it in their head that you like being bent over when you're done flopping around the bowl." Friendly advice. That's all this is!
 That’s discouraging. Least of all, V’ros wasn’t expecting H’vier to ‘keep’ up with him and continue their dialect. He glares. “I’m not flopping around the bowl.” Other weyrlings are starting to watch the pair and whisper behind hands; their attention makes him nervous. “What.. what do you want? Pick on the little guy? You did it, can you go now.. sir?” He focuses his eyes forward, still frowning, and keeps jogging.
 H'vier, as one might imagine, doesn't care about the other weyrlings at all. It's V'ros he's fixated on, for whatever sadistic reason he's conjured up, and that's where his fixation remains. "Just 'cause I'm talking to you doesn't mean I'm ''picking'' on you, kid. And, trust me, you're flopping." He goes silent, then. Maybe he might just leave the poor weyrling alone now!
 Frustration slashes across the weyrling’s face. “This is.. just.. great.” V’ros slows to a stop, scrubbing his hands hard down his cheeks. “It’s hard ‘enough’, it’s.. really.. really just.. fucking ‘hard’, without assholes like .. you.” He shoots an accusatory look towards the bronzerider, puffing out a breath. He’s pacing back and forth a little wildly, like a caged animal.
 It takes another few moments for H'vier to realize that V'ros actually stopped and didn't just slow down again. The bronzerider stops, too, glancing back at the weyrling like he's confused as to why they've stopped. "For fuck's sake, kid, you need to relax before that vein sticking out of your forehead pops." There may not actually be a vein doing anything of the sort. "How about I make it up to you, yeah? I'm not such a bad guy."
 Suddenly self-conscious, the weyrling stops pacing and covers his forehead, glaring his frustration out at H’vier. “You’re going to make it up to me.. how? By sticking my head in the latrines? No thank you.” V’ros continues to eye the bronzerider warily, standing his ground but not really being very courageous about it.
 H'vier does not seem at all threatened by the comparably scrawny, short brownrider's frustration. "A drink. A couple, even, if it will help you relax and enjoy yourself for a few minutes. On me." If it helps, the bronzerider ''seems'' quite genuine.
 “A drink. You want.. to.. buy me.. a drink?” Doubt rings in his voice, and he’s visibly disturbed by this new changed of events. Distrust still runs rampant - what reason does he even have to trust someone like H’vier? He snorts. “Ok, then, buy me a drink.” V’ros doesn’t believe him, that much is indubitable.
 He has the same reason that everyone else has to trust H'vier. Good 'ol reputation. Which isn't, that is to say, good, exactly. But he's been leading or helping to lead a wing for awhile now and no one's died from it so far. Totally trustworthy. "Good. Have you been the lounge yet?" He doesn't seem to expect that V'ros ''has'' but it's worth asking. Also he can assume that's where they're going, either way.
 "No. Not yet. I'm not.. a rider, yet." That trustworthiness is such a shifty thing. V'ros gives him the side eye, before nodding reluctantly. He could use a drink about now, even a drink with H'vier is better than no drink at all. "I'll go change and meet you there?"
 "How about you meet me back here and we'll give you a ride up," says H'vier. Since it's kind of hard to get there without a dragon and Reisoth is easier than finding an elevator ride. And with those plans in place, the bronzerider continues his run off to probably wherever his shirt is.