Difference between revisions of "Logs:New Wingmates"

>---< Riders' Lounge, High Reaches Weyr(#1803RJ) >---------------------------<

  About as high up the bowl wall as it is possible to get before hitting    
  clear sky, right up against the rim, this ledge is tiny, narrow and not   
  terribly inviting. Though angled towards the sun, there's not enough room 
  to properly stretch out, and that same angle ensures it receives the worst
  of bad weather, with no shelter whatsoever. From above, there's not even  
  an obvious passage inside, as if this particular ledge is, in the end,    
  nothing more than a natural outcropping. It's only from atop the ledge    
  itself that the cleverly concealed entrance becomes clear, angled into the
  stone as it is.                                                           
                                                                            
  Inside, there's a cavernous space, more than making up for the stinginess 
  of the ledge. There's one large main room, and a much smaller back room   
  that could probably be used as a bedroom - if this weyr were in           
  traditional usage. Instead, the main cavern is largely filled with a      
  collection of mismatched tables and chairs. Towards the back, there's a   
  bar made out of old, recycled wood, manned during peak hours; there's     
  plenty of alcohol on display behind it, though most of it tends towards   
  the cheaper end of the range. Old, but still impressive, hangings cover   
  the walls, all depicting scenes of High Reaches in glory. The back room   
  has been turned into a storage area, with several cases of whisky and a   
  variety of other spirits ready and waiting.                               
                                                                            
  A strange pipe contraption comes through the ceiling and towards the stone
  floor, where a large bucket sits beneath it. A lever turns on water from  
  the pipe: fresh rain or snow, ready for drinking.                         
                                                                            
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 -----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------

No one can blame the bluerider for buying drinks at the Lounge instead of Snowasis. After all, X'vae's not only just on a wingrider's salary but also, by report, newly back from time off in Monaco where he was without pay while taking care of his sick mother. Upon his return, there was the shuffling from Alpine to Snowdrift, as he came with a letter of recommendation for Mielline to add to the after-hours study time he'd been putting in with willing Snowdrift riders before he returned to Monaco. But it's tradition that New Guy buys the drinks, so he's doing it, returning to the tables occupied by those Snowdrift riders who elected to participate in this after-hours bonding ritual with a tray of drinks to share around. "To Snowdrift!" is the initial toast from one of the older riders before the wing breaks into smaller pockets for proper bonding and conversation. X'vae finds himself at a table with V'ros and a woman from their wing. "Not sure we've actually met," he offers his hand to V'ros, "X'vae, or Xev."

X'vae isn't the only new member of Snowdrift taking advantage of this opportunity to socialize. Izazeth's distinctively colored form is congregating with several of the other Snowdrift dragons, and his ethereal light reaches invitingly toward Zmeyth. Does he care to have a bit of conversation? The blue will readily oblige. (To Zmeyth from Izazeth)

"To Snowdrift!" is a common chant, over drinks, and V'ros willingly lifts his too-full glass in a toast. It's after the initial gathering that he's left with two of his wingmates, and one of those new. He sets his drink down and gives X'vae's hand a customary shake; there's no smile, only frankness. "Uh, no. I'm.. V'ros, Zmeyth's. Welcome to Snowdrift." Upon reclaiming his hand, it gets shoved into the confines of his jacket pocket. "What made you change your mind? From.. Alpine? Heard Y'rel's not so bad, and H'kon's a.. upstanding guy."

Zmeyth's dark form is reposed on his ledge, where he can see everything, instead of lounging around in a sea of multi-colored hides. His smoke flickers in and out, and becomes all the more thick, all the more ominous when Izazeth reaches out. « What's new? » (To Izazeth from Zmeyth)

"Thanks," X'vae has enough smile for both of them, a buoyant bright one. He's obviously pleased to be here, with them. "Oh, they're great," Y'rel and H'kon. "No, nothing to do with Alpine. I just... I wasn't much use in the storm at the start of the turn since I'm not part of the wing that does that. I used to do it in Monaco. Hated not doing it," here, there, anywhere! "Did you pick Snowdrift or it you?" His inquiry comes with companionable curiosity as he sips at his drink.

It takes some moments for Izazeth to respond because something about the smoke prompts a mental sneezing fit, that must be felt at least by his nose for the sense is of dipping his head and rubbing his nose vigorously against his forelimbs. « That is. Do you always do that? » It's curiosity, not judgment, perhaps even a request that maybe Zmeyth could be a little less smoky when speaking to Izazeth - who sneezes again. (To Zmeyth from Izazeth)

"You're from.. Monaco?" the brownrider asks, though it's doubtful he hasn't heard. "Must be, uh. Weird. Coming.. here." V'ros scoots up in his chair and reaches, with his free hand, for his glass. He takes a long drink, and rubs his lips together to disperse the foam. His eyes flick up to X'vae, then. "You'll like it better.. for sure. Can't say how we differ from.. Alpine. Never been in.. that one, but." He spares a smile for his other wingmate at their table. "We're alright."

The smoke roils, thicker, bulbously, on purpose. « Always, » attached to a smoky, sooty, underbelly of a laugh that reverberates. « Don't like it? » But Zmeyth doesn't offer to stop, doesn't even consider stopping his naturally hazy, dark mind presence. (To Izazeth from Zmeyth)

"Probably not much weirder than those that get Searched from somewhere down south, or any of Savannah," though arguably that might be pretty weird for them, given the circumstances. X'vae's pretty upbeat about it. "Colder here. But I'll trade my surf board for a snow board and ice skates since I can always go find a beach somewhere when I really need it." He flashes a smile at V'ros over his glass. "Seems like a good place to be. Glad Mielline accepted my request to transfer when I got back. Does Snowdrift do much outside of drills together?" Well, drills and this, apparently.

To Zmeyth, Izazeth, ever the peacemaker, through his sneezes which worsen in accordance with the thickness of the smoke. « No, it's fine, » ha, « it's just sometimes I can be sensitive to things in the environment and-- » Sneeze. « It makes my nose itch. » Thinking about sneezing, that is. Mentally sneezing. Wouldn't it make Zmeyth's itch if he let himself think about it long enough? Each sneeze has Izazeth's otherworldly light pulsing bright and then diminishing, though never extinguishing, of course.

"Point." V'ros concedes, tipping his head to the bluerider. "I wouldn't.. trade it. Not the snow for the, uh, sand." He drops his gaze to the glass, which he's spinning in circles carelessly, and blows out a breath. "Yeah," eyes lifting, "we hang out.. a lot. Go to gathers together, drinks, and when they want to.." He smirks. "Challenge Savannah to cards or darts. Lots.. to do, if you want to be.. involved. Don't have to, if you don't." He shrugs.

More laughter, more smoke. « Are you? » Zmeyth is curious; he needs to know. From his perch high above the Weyrbowl, his ledge by the hatching ledges, he can undoubtedly see the blue among their comrades. « Tell me more. » (To Izazeth from Zmeyth)

X'vae's eyes narrow slightly, but in the guessing way as he says, "You're from these parts?" The amiable humor in his tone and expression hints at the fact that only someone from here wouldn't trade snow dunes for sand. "Great. I love involved." Of course he does! Just look at that big smile. If you looked at his fist, it probably would scream "BUMP ME!"

To Zmeyth, Izazeth doesn't seem the least put off by the laughter, although now the light is extending in tendrils to start trying to clear the air (literally) between their mental presences. It could almost be a girl fight flail as easily as a creature from the deep ocean's wriggling tentacles, though there's no sense of violence in the intent. Girl fight moves have to be good for something, don't they? « Oh, I donno, it's been ever since I can remember, » which is rather a long time as dragons go. « Just sometimes things make my mind tickle and I-- » Sneeze.

"Me? Yeah. North of Tillek." That's about all of the explanation that V'ros is going to give, burying his mug in the bitter brew in his glass. He would keep up that pretense, of drinking and silence, but X'vae's smile is enough to put him ill at ease; smiles are the worst. "There's usually.. something to do. Someplace.. to go. You won't be.. bored." His eyes do, then, skiff off to another group of their wingmates, arguing about the newest goldrider in the fold.

Zmeyth isn't bothered by the clearing attempt, but where a patch of smoke is dispersed, another comes to life. « Tickled, » the brown notes, rumbling, « Never been that. » His voice starts up again, this time with a crackle, of wood being warped by fire. « Tell me about yourself. » (To Izazeth from Zmeyth)

Well, lucky V'ros, the topic of the newest goldrider has X'vae's smile faltering and failing, his lips settling into a more polite line even as they lose the third from their table and he asks in a quiet voice, "What do you think about all that? The goldrider." And presumably all the gossip-worthy things that come with her.

If Izazeth keeps up his clearing, Zmeyth might just get to know what tickling is like, if unintentionally. « Oh, there's not much to tell, » clearly the blue is a friendly sort. « I was shelled in Monaco almost seven turns ago, with Yizibeth who came with us when we moved here, and others. We had to go back for X'vae's mother - she was sick, » it's added as an afterthought, « but now we're back and excited to get back to work. » (To Zmeyth from Izazeth)

"Huh?" V'ros' eyes follow their wingmate away from the table, almost wistfully. One day it might be easier to converse, but now, it's the typical awkward fare. "Ah. Irianke. I've.. I've met her. She's.. something. Different. Nothing like Aishani," he mutters, hunching down over his glass, elbows splayed on the tabletop. "Met her yet?"

The crackling intensifies, then drops off suddenly, replaced by static silence. « Yizibeth? Why does that sounds familiar. » Familiar, forgotten. « Sounds amazing-ly boring. » Zmeyth's smoke wafts, lifting, as if to depart. « Get back to me when you have something interesting to report. » (To Izazeth from Zmeyth)

"Not yet," X'vae answers, "Only just back from Monaco. Anything I should know about her?" Wingmate-to-wingmate, "In case I do meet her," since likely not everyone will, personally, there being only one of her and so many of them.

« She's a very kind green, » if that helps. Kind is chosen as her quality quite deliberately. One could not say that Yizibeth is smart and Izazeth adores her too much to simply call her pretty. « Report, » the blue considers the choice of word and then it's his turn to laugh. That's hilarious! (To Zmeyth from Izazeth)

"Uh." V'ros squirms in his seat, looking uncomfortable with that particular subject. "She wears a lot of makeup? Around her.." He makes circles around his eyes, for emphasis. "Talks real.. blunt." But someone's waving the brownrider over and he's jumping up in a hurry, looking down at X'vae. "Welcome to the wing. You'll.. you'll do well." His nod is affirmative, and then he's ambling over to a group that includes a short-haired blonde and a tall lanky fellow that slings an arm around V'ros' shoulders when he sidles up to their group.

It could be coincidence, then, that while he's laughing the smoke surges forward, to agitate. « Try not to get in the way, » Zmeyth says to the older blue, markedly unconcerned with his lack-of-tact. And then it's all gone, the smoke, the crackling, like everything's been sucked out through a vacuum. Darkness is left. (To Izazeth from Zmeyth)