Difference between revisions of "Logs:I Hate Both Those Chicks"

Nice day. Nice breeze. Not the nicest guy to be out enjoying it, but even horrible bastards have to see the sunlight every once in a while. With Wyaeth drying, cooking, enjoying the crispy sun, with a pale of oil at his feet, N'thei's occupation is pretty obvious: no more great fancy ledge for oiling, so he's out here with the plebs.

Rumor has it that he can get clean afterward all on his lonesome, at least, just like the good old days. Minus the blue-eyed neighbor. As for the local ledge-oppressor, she isn't so much heading in their direction as the lake's, though it might amount to much the same thing: having to hoof it in her sandals while a shadow sails overhead. Vrianth, aiming for the water. No great big splash, though, that would be too easy an interruption.

Thankfully, for all their many disagreements, Wyaeth offers the head's-up before N'thei can be taken unawares by the arrival of that particular green pair. Rag still dangling from his fingers, he shades his eyes against the sun, confirms that-- yep, that's Vrianth-- and starts collecting the very-little-gear it takes for oiling. Meanwhile, it's a fairly benign, « Howdy. »

It's a dip of her wingtip for her wingmate, just before Vrianth glides lower, lower, not far above a surfacing brown's ridges, lower yet... and then her speed's stalled out in a long white wake that sends froth in a vee behind her. « /Wyaeth/. » This with an undertone of: oiled, or oiling, already? Lucky him. Her apparently slow-on-the-go rider does glance along her shoulder towards the bronze pair, a sidelong look, and then finds herself a rock to settle on. Not up close. Not in his face.

There's a long pause, longer and longer and longer, and a swing of bronze head toward squinting gray eyes. Finally, « Ain't allowed to consort. » He does sound a little small tiny bit apologetic about that.

She resurfaces, water spraying off her swept-back wings in glints of refracted light, the better to look all on her own. Visibly look. Vrianth doesn't ask why, doesn't argue for the moment, just sends a low-lying gravelly rattle of a, « ...Shame. »

The shrug is felt, not so much a physical thing as an enh, what-can-ya-do kind of brush from a mind of dust-and-sun to her gravelly one. « Less'n you'd think. » Wyaeth, apparently, is not as good at not-consorting as he should be. N'thei's aces at it, though; arms folded, pail hanging from one hand, he waits calmly for the bronze to do his thing, rise and stretch and complain that it's too damn fine a day to be busy.

« /Really/, » returns Vrianth, sorting out some of that sun-energy for her own use and letting the dust fly free, this time not actually looking. Or looking like she's looking, just nosing under one of her wings at some itch or other before submerging all over again. « Off anywhere... interesting? » It's a preoccupied reply, unblurred from being underwater the way a vocalization would be, while her rider does some more of that exciting rock-sitting. /She/ looks, if only lakeward, with a slight shake of her sun-rusted head.

Torn, torn, so damn torn. "Don't," comments N'thei, who does not suffer the same pangs as his dragon, does not look even remotely longingly toward the water and Vrianth and why the hell not? A mental mumble, a dirt-in-the-eyes smoke-image of just... away, just leaving the lakeshore behind is the bronze's grudgingly brief response. There's a distinct air of Somebody Else's Problem on the lakeshore today, with Vrianth in the water, with Wyaeth just getting up from his afternoon of sunshine-and-oil, with a greenrider perched on the rocks and a bronzerider collecting his pail and everyone very-- segregated.

/Well/, comes a wordless gleam of energy, when Wyaeth's had enough of someone fencing him in... he knows where to look. Meanwhile, Vrianth will just enjoy the warm day, the hot sun and the cool water and, a girl can hope, maybe even some oiling after. If her rider behaves. Said rider did glance over at that single word, just before she turns it into raking her hands through her hair, lifting it away from a sweaty brow so what breeze there is can get at it, and conveniently shading her eyes in the meantime.

Desegregation is one of Crom's little diplomat's skills; nothing a swirl of blue skirts and a toss of her dark curls can't fix. A low laughter, lighthearted while not quite bubbling up girlishly, precedes her arrival to the lake's shore, and is aimed at the aging farmcrafter her tiny, gentlewoman's hands have laid claim to about his elbow. Low words, gratitude expressed into an ear that isn't likely as dodgy with hearing as the closeness of her lips might imply, then is proceeded by Yuliye departing his side, her path between the bronzerider collecting his pail and the greenrider perched on the rocks (never mind the dragons) marked by the old man's liquid gray eyes. Bafflement in the wake of the intensely devoted attention of an all too pretty woman. He'll eventually rehinge his jaw and go about his business, whatever it is that farmers might have to do at a Weyr, other than as a token presence.

Given his moods of late, we should probably all be grateful that N'thei-- with Leova on one side-- has no idea who Yuliye is on sight. Because he'll watch her walk by with unbiased approval right now, but an exchange of names later is going to paint that expression an entirely different color, more like the would-like-to-choke-you one that passes briefly across Leova. "Miss," all cordial and polite and nodding right before a seemingly out-of-place, "Duck." Gravel, happy gravel, happy to spray gravel all over, Wyaeth's up, aloft, away from the green he's not allowed to consort with. No one else can hear it, but, for everyone's edification, « Stubborn prick, » is his parting remark.

Just how far does that gravel fly? Enough to sting one bare shoulder? At least Leova's eyes are shielded, still going to need those for a few Turns yet, unless she winds up getting choked first. Vrianth, now, /she/ escapes scot-free, disappearing underwater around when Wyaeth lifts off as though she's heading in a completely opposite direction, never mind that hers is going to end pretty soon in mud.

Then perhaps the exchanging of names can wait, just a little while longer. At least until after she, like so many others might, looks to the man who speaks rather than follow his one-worded command, however polite and cordial it might be. There, N'thei is met with the wide-eyed roundedness of Yuliye's pretty face finds gravel flung in all directions from a dragon lifting off and then, only /then/, does the woman from Crom duck. Just desserts graze past her cheek, well, just desserts on behalf of her, as yet, unknown uncle. Despite all this, her own belated reaction to his well-timed advice, there's a smile that suffuses her face in gratitude to pair with her one worded response and a hand held out, fingers curled just so. Lady-like. "Thank you. And-," she glances past her shoulder to where the rest of the gravel might've landed and finds the eye-covered, reposed greenrider. Familiar. Back to N'thei with that brilliant smile, "Thanks."

It's Wyaeth. It could bean half the Weyr in the head all at once for all he cares. /He/ has somewhere to be that does not involve getting mentally stomped on by his rider because he thinks Vrianth's purty. Namely, Star Stones; not his any more, no, but he does strike a dashing figure up there, don't he? Gratitude meets a quick nod, her so-pretty hand gets a brief squeeze at the end of its fingers from a not-so-pretty hand in turn, and N'thei adds, "Quicker next time." Ha ha, Leova got hit with rocks~

There's a scrape across brown skin to crane around for a better look at, but not even any broken skin to get exaggerated by word of mouth into gushing blood, look-they're-at-it-again. So the greenrider just rubs her arms, sharp and fast for friction, and then slides off the rock to bypass bronzerider and... Yuliye? when did she get here? in favor of pacing over to the water's edge, the brunette at least getting a brief nod along the way. Got chased off~

"Oh, if only I were so capable." Is it self-deprecation or an attempt at far-too-subtle mocking? It's hard to tell in that mild acceptance that's paired with a crooked quirk of a half-smile. "You look better than I saw you last," calls out the young woman to the passing greenrider. "We should have drinks again. I promise, this time, I won't abandon you." But there goes Leova, being chased off leaving Yuliye to retrieve her pretty fingers from N'thei's not pretty ones. They fall to smooth down her skirts in what would be a reflexive gesture if not for the lean in to ask, "Is the old man still watching?" She won't look back, not yet at least.

Whether or not the old man is still watching, and N'thei wouldn't know since he never bothers to glance in that direction, the offer remains the same: "Want me to tell him to stop?" He even manages the question-mark inflection, so far has he come! Also, she's pretty and he's male and that'll do wonders. But the let's-have-drinks conversation turns things a little, has the pail rattling while he starts to step around Yuliye like his business is suddenly more pressing.

A pivot, a few backward steps send Leova looking back at the Crom girl partway through her calling out that way, one hand shielding the greenrider's eyes again until it becomes a somewhere-between-acknowledgement-and-agreement wave. Less of a conversation that way, certainly. Particularly when she gets back to keeping an eye on Vrianth, walking further away along the shore to do it, what with her green teaming up with Ishawith to make life that much more interesting for that brown from earlier. There'll be plenty more splashing after that morning of sweeps. And later yet, on their way out to who-knows-where? A loop-de-loop over the Star Stones. Just for fun.

When he won't oblige to look, her hazel slants sideways to look backwards and finding no old, decrepit farmer straightens. "Thanks anyway," she says, again with that appreciation despite all the things he's somehow failed to do. Those slim arms fling up and back in a languid stretch that takes in the good weather and the great view, including that of the lake. He's male, she's likely female even if such a pretty exterior might hide beneath it the harbinger of all great evil at High Reaches, and as a pretty girl, Yuliye has a prettier smile, curved and seemingly constantly on the verge of laughter if given any provocation, that flashes down upon the man now suddenly about pressing business. "You look different close up than I expected. But," she concedes as recognition is all too apaprent, "Fit the description." Perhaps she's in the habit of not caring about whether her head stays perched on her neck, for all their encounter might end up even more abbreviated after she introduces herself. "I'm Yuliye." There's no polite hand paired to that greeting.

Whatever appreciative glance chased that stretch, however briefly it stayed his steps crunching through the gravel, it's gone for the stoic flatness that sits so comfortably on N'thei's features. "Are you." He lost his question-mark, sad. Fingers sealing a little tighter around the handle of the pail, cracked knuckles whitening while he looks her over with what, oddly, ends on a disappointed sigh. "Shame."

"Shaaaame," echoes the Crom woman, except she doesn't sound it in that lingering singsong of her sweet soprano--not with those cracked knuckles so audible and visibly white about the pail's handle, nor with the way he looks her over. "I'm assuming, with you, bygones can't be bygones." There's already a preemptive presumption on her part, beyond that pretty smile of a pretty girl, that recognizes she doesn't need to wait for a response to know she's not wrong. So instead of waiting for the inevitable, the woman, in all her summery layers, a dress with its exposed back and floaty skirt, turns on the heel of one shoe to not look to N'thei but to the lake instead. Her bare arms sink behind her so her clasped hands hide in the ruffles of her skirt. "Not everyone," she says to not-N'thei, "Thinks-," a slow breath is taken, creating a pause before her next words, "Aughan was in the right." But is she one of them? Again, a quick smile rapidly brightens her sometimes solemn features. "You have a good one, jailbait."

See, she could've left that last little remark off and he could've stalked off, proud of his pride. But N'thei gets those first few steps, back turned so he misses all the pretty floatiness and exposed back-- which is also a shame, thinking of shameful things, since he at least at least at least might have gotten some little pleasure out of the encounter. "Either you shut it or I shut it for you." He pauses, head cocked, waits for some quip, some reason.

He might think he's done right. Others might think he's done right. But there's that whole, two sides to every story bit, and Yuliye, however briefly, stands her ground with her own back to him. He might not see that exposed back, the fluttering of her all too expensive, pretty gown, or the climb of one shoulder in a shrug. He won't see the smile that casts up to the emerging afternoon light. But it doesn't matter if he can see or not, it's all there, and for once, today, she values her pretty head on its prettier neck and says nothing further. She doesn't even open her lips again. Yuliye's the first to take a step away after his first few; this first leading to a second and a third, fourth, fifth, sixth, which isn't quite far enough for her the hum from pressed lips not to be heard in snippets. It's only coincidence that it could possibly be a chain gang song.

N'thei leans his head, takes a breath, and-- under cover of boots-over-gravel-- can get away with pretending he doesn't hear the damn humming. But he can hear his own teeth grinding, and he will continue to do so until he gets /away/ from Crom's niece. And her song, and her skirts. And did she have to be pretty? Really, what purpose does that serve, I ask you.

Because it is far too much of a cliche to have the evil harbinger of doom be ugly to match. Then again, stunningly hot is probably just as much of a cliche but more fun to play.

Uh huh.