Difference between revisions of "Logs:A Moment"

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.

The sky is clear today. The air remains cool and damp, but the weather is overall pleasant today.

Dawn breaks over the Weyr at its usual hour, the day both cold and damp. Few people are awake at this unseemly hour - save watchriders and the support staff that need to be - but one weyrling pair is already making themselves seen in the bowl. Zmeyth's dark form is far ahead of V'ros, stretching his wings and running in winding patterns to exercise his legs. His human half is bundled up in a long woolen trench, shoulders huddled against the cold, and standing a ways back to give the brown some running room. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he even looks a little gaunt, definitely not the picture of the elated, newly Impressed man. His mouth is set in a stark line as he stands watch, his hands shoved deep inside the confines of his overcoat.

The thing about working in the kitchens of a Weyr is that there are people doing things at all hours, so there always needs to be offerings available and people to tend to the fires and so on. Lycinea's job skills match the need, so perhaps it's unsurprising to see her in a long coat that looks worn but warm, patched with all manner of color and patterns - not a one matching the others, trekking across the bowl at this hour, hands shoved into pockets, hair looking like it hasn't been touched all shift long, and recently freed of the compression of a kerchief. Her eyes scan the bowl, and she stops when the figure of young dragon and man are spotted. Perhaps there's not recognition because she doesn't move closer or farther away.

Such a one in such a colorful coat draws V'ros's eye, his breath coming out in white puffs in front of his face. His stare is intense, the voice that follows equally so, "You just going to stare all day?" It's loud enough to carry to the blonde's ears, though he makes no moves himself.

Lycinea probably doesn't know V'ros well enough to recognize him by his voice alone, so it's probably a generic pissy retort that is directed at him. "As if you're sooo fascinating." Even if it is generic, it's pretty much par for their first encounter if not their second. She starts moving again, in the man's direction, but only because she was going that way anyway. As she draws closer, there's recognition and she stops short. "Oh, it's you." Then, "You look terrible." So pleasant. She side-eyes the brown.

"It's me." V'ros doesn't look amused, or annoyed for that matter. He just.. is, standing on the cold ground in his overcoat and black boots. "It's not like I'm on a vacation." Some sarcasm bleeds into his words, even as he rolls his shoulders and moves his head side-to-side, returning his gaze to the brown that's still skulking some ways away. "Zmeyth," he mutters with a jerk of his head towards his dragon in a brusque introductory manner.

"Would you rather be on vacation? I thought people who Impress are supposed to be over the moons, or something." Lycinea doesn't look away from Zmeyth as she talks. "I'd say congratulations, but it sounds like you wouldn't much appreciate that. Is he awful?"

"We're.. supposed to be." V'ros speaks plainly, his face still set in that impassive expression. "Let's get something straight. Zmeyth is.. well, he's mine." He gives his head a little shake before continuing. "And I'm.. I'm his. It's not easy. It's not fun. It's hard." Brown eyes flick to the side, to Lycinea, putting their full attention on her. "He's different. He wants different things. He.. he's strong." But any elaboration on those facts isn't forthcoming, the weyrling falling quiet again. Zmeyth is slinking closer to them, moving with purpose and something less than grace.

Lya is quiet a moment after all that, looking now at the rider, not the dragon. "You could've just said 'not awful.'" She points out after that silence. Now she looks to the dragon again and is uncharacteristically quiet, observing his approach.

Zmeyth approaches at a slow, steady pace, watching the pair with observant eyes. "Would you rather I lie?" V'ros asks, all genuine honesty and calmness. "It's not all fair skies on the other side." He shifts where he stands, burrowing deeper into his jacket, trying to hide his neck in the stiff collar.

"I don't much care whether you do or not. That's more a matter of your character, isn't it?" She was the one who lied about her parents when first they met, so... "I'm not some wide-eyed holder who walked onto the sands and ended up with a lifemate. No delusions of perfection where I'm sitting. Life is pretty much shit, why should it be any different just because you have a dragon?" Lycinea has such a positive outlook on life. "Anything else you want to tell me? Since it seems like you need someone to tell."

And here they were having such a moment! V'ros has a bit of a smirk, albeit one that looks sort of sinister. "No, I guess I don't. Maybe you should get back to the kitchens." He draws himself upright, taking a step towards the hulking brown who is watching Lycinea so intently, just a few feet away. "She's no one," he murmurs as he steps to his dragon's side, passing his hand down the well-oiled, dark hide.

Such a moment. One that is definitely over when she quirks a 'did he really just say that?' brow, turning as he steps away to follow him with her eyes. If the moment hadn't already been over, it would be as she flourishes an awkward curtsy, using her long coat as a skirt. Lya affects a tone that implies low status, "Oh, yes, m'lord, right away, m'lord, whatever y'say, m'lord." It's followed up with a crude gesture that needs no translation before she's crossing arms across her chest and huffing as she stalks off toward the craft complex. Not the kitchens.