Difference between revisions of "Logs:Haters Gonna Hate, Slackers Gonna Slack"

Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr

Ringing the southwestern side of the hatching sands are ample tiers of carved stone benches, the lowest of which is some six feet off the ground -- just high enough to separate wayward hatchlings from unwary viewers, and vice versa. A metal railing on the outside helps prevent anyone from falling off; it also extends up the stairs that lead the way higher into the galleries. While most of the area is open seating, ropes section off some of the closer tiers when dignitaries are expected; those areas even feature cushions in the Weyr's blue and black.

The higher one climbs, the more apparent the immense scale of the entire cavern becomes. The dragon-sized entrance on the ground is dwarfed by the expansive golden sands that glitter in the light. Everything on them is easily visible from the galleries, whether that's a clutch of eggs and a broody queen, or simply its emptiness and the handful of darker tunnels that lead to more private areas than the bowl. Wherever one sits or looks, however, one thing is constant: the overwhelming, suffocating heat.

The weather's gotten blustery outside, and with Vhaeryth not having bothered to dislodge himself from his sands (with his queen and his clutch, let's not forget), N'rov's had to traverse the roped path between the caverns and here without a keeper. Now the bronzerider sprawls on the lowest tier in a cluster of cushions borrowed from the dignitaries' section, his feet propped up on the railing, his sleeves rolled up and his attitude sheer laziness. Also, he could stand to shave. "So yeah," he says into thin air, though Vhaeryth is looking his way now and again. "What? No. Shells no. Not even if Faranth," and then he outright guffaws. A couple of trays sit within arm's reach, both covered.

Riding gear is shucked only once into the warm refuge of the galleries. K'zin's face might not be recognizable as belonging to him and him alone, but certainly once the goggles and helmet come off and the scarf is shoved down, the features are more definably human. Initially, he doesn't seem to notice the bronzerider self-made nest, nor the man in it. His eyes go to the sands, to the eggs, expression bland as brown gaze floats across what's visible, including bronze and gold parents. Then he looks to the galleries, perhaps drawn by the one-sided conversation. "Do you always talk to yourself out loud?" His baritone is somewhat critical as it carries the query to N'rov.

By the time the man looks at Vhaeryth, Vhaeryth's long since looked at him: a long look, his eyes a slow-for-him, speculative whirl out of the dimness of the longer-fallen dark. In the shadows, a movement: his claws curling about one of the paler eggs before he sprawls much like his rider in a stretch. That rider says with sardonic good humor, "Always. It makes the mornings difficult, but what's a man to do." He might introduce himself. He doesn't, yet.

It's been over a turn since K'zin's been bothered by any dragon looking at him, and as such it evokes no spectacular reaction from the younger bronzerider. "Yeeah." He draws it out, about that: "Sounds annoying for your girlfriend." It's dry in delivery, but difficult to say if there's humor in it or just boredom. "Do her a favor and tell her that K'zin needs to speak with her about a mutual acquaintance? The need's time sensitive and my dragon's not talking to hers." He shrugs his shoulders in a 'whatcha gonna do' sort of way, and doesn't wait for an answer before he starts donning helmet and goggles and heading back the way he came since Aishani isn't right there for him to accost for a private word.

All that dryness gets a chuckle from the Fortian, one that's more appreciative than illuminative. "'K'zin.'" Like the name's unfamiliar. Southern Boll, it's right there in his voice, his drawl as easy as though those sands abutted upon a southern ocean. "You aren't the one with all the tattoos, are you?" N'rov asks with interest, pitched right at the other man's back. "Have yourself a safe trip, in the weather and all." Like this was just a social call.

"Nope." Not the one with tattoos. "Don't worry your pretty head about it." K'zin returns without hesitation. "This is my home." Because no one's ever gotten hurt in their home before. Especially not in terrible snowy, gross, awful weather. Not once. And he's gone.

And there's laughter, egregiously entertained laughter, in his wake. N'rov rubs his chin, laughs one more time, and delves beneath one of the tray-covers; once he's fished out his dragonpoker deck, he starts shuffling. Eyes tipped to the ceiling, baritone as easygoing as before, "Yeah, Y'ral, I'm back. No, nothing important..." Though he will pass the story along to Aishani, just because.