Difference between revisions of "Logs:Yummy Blueriders"

Midst other, more appropriately dressed patrons, sits a spring flower, bedecked in a tropical print that suits Ista more than the Reaches, with its spaghetti straps and fluffy sundress skirts. Surprisignly, but surely this is just cause it's /so/ early, Yuliye sits alone, curled with a mug of something in front of the hearth. The turn of her head smushes that perfectly coiffed 'I just got out of bed' hair against the arm chair's side head rests. It must be aloneness by choice, rather than a deliberate ostracism, for what red-blooded man in his right mind wouldn't be simpering up to her on a day like this. Right? Right?

T'is early, indeed, but that doesn't stop Z'yi from entering into the hearth area with a bundle of hides and a tall mug begging to be refilled. The blueriding weyrling moves to the klah pot, and pours himself a generous amount. During this whole process-- perhaps it isn't a surprise that the brightness of Yuliye's attire attracts his gaze. The tall young man arches a brow, but doesn't say anything -- at least, not out loud. Fortified by his klah, he picks a seat not too far away from the Holder girl, settling his klah down and untying the bundle of hides in his lap.

Over the rim of the mug that seems in a permanent hover about her lips, Yuliye considers Z'yi for one long moment, appraising, but not in that 'fresh meat' sort of way. Thoughtful and perhaps, just a little confused, for vague, unsatisfied, familiarity strikes a light in those hazel eyes. The mug drifts away to settle on the top of a knee and those pinkened lips purse, then part, as if to speak, but ultimately refraining. Instead, the Crom girl, in all her non-gamefaceness, merely flashes a quick, inviting smile that climbs up to crease lines about her eyes.

Distracting comments in the back of his mind cause Z'yi to look up, his expression abstracted, obviously still focused on whatever it is he's sorting. Yuliye's smile is noted, blinked at, and replied with a brief, not-quite-forced smile in return. It's probably not forced due to what Yuliye would think: the introverted bluerider isn't really one to put himself out there to a pretty, obviously-very-above-his-own-station young woman. A frown girdles his brow as he returns to his hides. Now. Where was he at? Right. Right there, and avoiding looking at the shining-like-an-Istan-beach holder. Check and check.

It's when he looks up that her smile deepens, that feeling being privy to a moment of unintended boyish charm in Z'yi's abstraction, turning the corners of her mouth up, curled just so as if to contain that secret vision within. She's certainly not laughing at him. Surely not! And then she's blinked at, and that not-quite-forced, but seemingly not quite natural smile emerges and compels her to shift forward. First it's her toes that wiggle out from beneath the floofy folds of a skirts and petticoats - wiggling, perhaps, to further distract the avoidant creature near her, and then she's leaning forward, dropping her knees into a cross-legged fashion and placing her hands just beyond the X of her ankles. "We've met before. I'm sure of it. I wouldn't forget-," well, who wouldn't forget Z'yi's physique, if not his face. "Yuliye. Just in case you might've forgotten as well."

Some people are just naturally good at solitude and concentration-- that would be Z'yi, for sure. However, when confronted by a situation where propriety demands a reply, the bluerider does have the decently to straighten from his task and focus dark eyes on Yuliye. "Ma'am," he replies, his native accent carried along the deep tones of his bass voice. "Miss Yuliye," he corrects himself a moment later. A bare pause, and then he continues, "One does not forget those closest to weyrwomen. The Snowasis, I believe it was." He does offer the bare glimmer of a smile. "I am Z'yi, of blue Isforaith," he comments, leaning back in his chair to appraise the Holder with a neutral expression, hides currently forgotten.

The mug she holds rests atop the hem of her skirt and and tips to rest against her crossed ankles. Enough has been drunk of the steaming concoction for it to not only /not/ spill, but so Yuliye doesn't seem particularly bothered about making sure it doesn't further spill, the freedom of her hands apparently far more important than the eventual, potential state of her dress. Her, "Oh, that bitch," is said with such fondness that as derogatory as it is, it must not be really an insult. Nor is the next tease, with a heavy hint of withheld laughter laced throughout her alto, really insulting. /Really/. "Tell me, how the Weyr puts up with such an insufferable, childish little girl as their leader, Z'yi, blue Isforaith's rider?"

Z'yi focuses on Yuliye with a slightly suspicious regard as she brings up 'that bitch', though his expression is mostly bland-- paranoia touches only faintly here and there, tightening the corners of his eyes and twisting the otherwise even slant of his lips. At that last question, something seems to hit Z'yi is ironic-- thinking over a past conversation, perhaps. Oh, irony, how we love you. "Tiriana has her flaws, of course, but she guides the weyr well, madam." His lips tighten at the end, sealing shut rather than telling what he, er, truly feels.

If she notes the suspicion, and how could she not with her intent hazel eyes upon Z'yi, Yuliye makes no mention of it in either voice nor awareness of it in her expression as it fails to shift from anything other than good-natured, if blurred around the edges due to the earliness. "Of course," says the Crom lady to the Reachian weyrling, all nonchalance and no hidden agenda whatsoever, "You're supposed to say that. Just like everyone at Crom is supposed to love my uncle." And there's nothing there that Yuliye, his most favorite niece, feels otherwise. "Can you just call me Yuliye? Yu? Yul or Yuli even? I haven't been called madam since my husband passed and it feels-," she purses her lips, considers her word choices and decides on, "Awkward. May I call you Z?" Lopping off his already short name to one, very terse syllable.

"Mmm. If you cannot be proud of your home, what can you be proud of?" Z'yi offers in a rather philosophical tone of voice, though tension still can be spied in the terseness of his bare movements. "I am sorry for your loss," is then almost automatically replied, at the mention of a husband passing-- "Miss Yuli." He inclines his head into a nod infused with a greater deal of respect than before. Apparently widows rank higher than hoydens. A slight, bare smile, another one of those Z specials-- "Of course," regarding the last bit.

There's a moment where her pursed lips might turn into a sorrowful little moue - it hints in the corners and how her eyes seem about to fall demurely to her lap and holds in that 'almost, but not quite' expression for three significant breaths. Instead, it shifts back into her own trademark smile: a little warm, a little coy, perhaps just a little sober for the subject at hand, arced on high by a fan of thick lashes that just barely obscure her hazel eyes. Instead of accepting such diplomatic words, she allows a thoughtful, "Unfortunately, it wasn't much of a loss. I am, Z, a merry widower and happy with the freedoms it's granted me." Not a love match amongst the Blooded? Horrors! She reaches down for her cooled klah mug and wraps delicate fingers about its curved sides. It pauses just below her lower lip as the steady slant of hazel regards the bluerider a moment longer. "You aren't anything like how I'd envision a bluerider to be," says holdbred-stereotype to not-stereotype. "Is High Reaches your home then? Not just a transplant brought in from the holds?"

Z'yi watches the subtle transformations of Yuli's facial expression and body language. No, he's not quietly eyeballing the graceful lines of lithe arms and the graceful tousel of her hair. Not at all. What would give one that impression? "Merry widow miss Yuli," her title eventually will eclipse 'madam', just wait, "I am surprised to even find myself with a lifemate." A rueful line overtakes the width of his lips, tugging upwards, oh-so- irrascibly at the corners. "I was born and raised here." He doesn't comment about being stereotypical, as blueriders go. Z'yi is... Z'yi.

"A native!" says the intrepid explorer of the wilds of Reachian territory, eyes lighting up in a deliberate comical parody. It dissolves into a small giggle that suffuses her dusky cheeks in color. With her mug rescued to hover just below her lip, her crossed legs unfold and drop so her bare toes might skim the ground leaving her rather short, fluffy sun dress wrinkled all over. Mug held between both hands, she leans forward, using her elbows to brace against her knees and bringing her several, graceful lengths lower than the bluerider. All so she can smile upwards in this fashion, with lashes lifting towards groomed brows and what can only be Yuliye's version of quizzical academic thinking. "Does it ever strike you as odd that the Weyr's leadership is people not of the Weyr? Chosen by random selection?" Still thoughtful. Still smiling. She adds an apologetic, "The Holds, clearly, don't work in such fashions and I am constantly... a little in awe that such random selection is accepted, adhered to, and honored."

"In the flesh," Z'yi replies to the calling-him-out-as-a-native. The bluerider stretches his own feet, sprawling long, muscled legs akimbo out in front of him. He may just eye the wrinkles in her sundress - discreetly - but it's only a moment. "Tradition is tradition. Whether it be a Heir coronated after the death of the Lord or a Weyrleader crowned with the sweat of the afterglow.. we respect it." He doesn't spew political barbs, though a few roll around in his mouth before being discarded as tactless. "I, myself, have always been fascinated by the idea of a son needing to carry after the business of the father. It seems... redundant, to me, if that makes sense." His voice is low, and his hides? Completely forgotten, now.

The shine of respect lights her eyes, though not in an entirely serious way, and shortly after, laughter that bubbles ethereal floats from her parted lips and causes the shoulder shakes and extension of her hands into her hands clasped about a trembling mug that claim Yuliye's slender frame. "Crowned with the sweat of the afterglow. How clever." Secreting her amusement, only too late, and not quite diminishing the glow of amusement that reflects in her warm eyes, Crom's niece needs those moments where she's fidgeting about in her seat and taking shallow breaths, to reclaim her composure long enough to continue the conversation. "But things in a Hold can change. Look at Tillek with Lady Edeline." Never mind Edeline had to marry a man to make it happen. "And Lord Crom has no sons or children of his own, but perhaps...?" It's the arch look where her profile presents itself sidelong to Z'yi and her brows climb up, that implies the tease of: what do you think of /me/ as Lady Holder in my own right?

"Whoever's fit to lead," Z'yi comments, seemingly not aware of his words' effect upon the delicate Yuli. "If that be a woman or man, I see no difference. Leadership is not decided by the gender you are born with, after all," he states, gazing upwards to the mantle, contemplatively. "Alas, I did not mean to take your time, merry widow miss Yuli," he comments, his tone grave even though his words may not be. "And I fear I have work to do." He gestures abortedly with his hides. "If you would excuse me."

Yuliye only looks a little sad when Z'yi means to leave, and gathers up her legs again to tuck beneath her. If he'll rob her of an exit, all the better to look at her back side with, then she'll just sit here and do whatever it is emissaries to the Weyr do. Which isn't much it seems. "You look better today," is followed a few breaths later with a, only /slightly/ passive-aggressive and self-pitying, "Thanks for talking to me, even if I am from Crom."