Difference between revisions of "Logs:Losing It"

Steady snowfall and treacherous roads laced with ice didn't deter the gather-goers at Lemos' latest event. They came in droves, most by dragon back, dressed in wool, fur, and other insulating fabrics that kept the cold out. Lemos' mountains were the perfect backdrop to carefully-erected tents, booths occupied by colorful vendors, and rolling-wagons laden down with all sorts of paraphernalia. Pernese filled the gather grounds from early on in the morning, enjoying the staple of ales, hot foods, and entertainment, in the form of performing harpers.

Even some Reachians had turned up. They made themselves known by their boisterous behavior and cheerful miens. Whispers about Telgar ran rampant throughout the gather - everyone, even the staunchly opposed, was gossiping about the recent senior gold flight. That didn't stop anyone from merry-making; rather, it fueled their desire to relax and enjoy themselves while they could.

V'ros was amongst those from High Reaches, having descended upon the Hold by the generosity of another brownrider. Zmeyth was Weyr-bound for the day. Instead of passing up the opportunity, his rider had chosen to arrive without his dragon, which had consequences in and of itself.

« Don't embarrass me, kid. »

It was a constant reminder, lurking on the peripheries of his mind, as he traversed the gather grounds with his fellows. They procured drinks and food, and more drinks, as the day wore on.

Before too long, afternoon had shifted into early evening, and the sun was hidden behind a bank of clouds. Any warmth Rukbat provided was swept away and replaced by snapping, cold winds. Glows baskets were passed around, strung up on poles, and set on booths to give illumination where needed.

V'ros found himself, without understanding how (definitely the drinks), nestled up next to a Benden greenrider. They were in a group of about seven other dragonriders, laughing and throwing out bawdy jokes.

« You're not that cold. » Zmeyth interjectedwith all the rumblings of humor, his smoky tones brushing up against the stronghold V'ros had kept up all day.

He ignored the quip, allowing the familiar, comforting feeling of inebriation wash over him. It helped that the greenrider was drawing lazy circles on the back of his neck with her fingertips.

"..he's gonna ruin it, I tell you."

The weyrling only vaguely registered the angered tones of the bluerider. Cognizant thoughts eluded him. Just as suddenly, he was being tugged towards the aisle between two booths. A dark aisle, where glowlight didn't reach. Truthfully, he didn't argue, and, he didn't want to argue.

"Kiss me," she told him, but before he could respond, she pulled his face to hers, between frigid hands, and placed her lips on his lips.

« What's her name? »

Zmeyth chose then to interrupt, prodding into the muddled depths of V'ros' mind. He didn't find a name. He only found her image: fiery hair, dark eyes, short and slim, with an aggressive personality and lopsided smile.

« What are you going to do? Run? Hide? Don't half ass this. »

Remotely, he wondered why Zmeyth was encouraging him. Arguing and cajoling was much more the brown's style. Why didn't they have a bigger weyr? Why didn't V'ros make nice-nice with Leiventh's rider? Couldn't he see about getting more, better, faster?

His thoughts became less steady. "Wh-what's.." he spoke against her mouth, but she put a finger to his lips to silence him. "Come on." And she was pulling him, dragging him along in her wake, again, and all he could focus on was the swing of her red hair against her back and his boots crunching in the snow.

Unnamed Aggressive Redhead shoved him in an empty booth, half-shaded by an oilcloth blocking the front, despite his quiet protests. She kissed him again, in a fevered way, and soon they were both fumbling to get their pants off as fast as their cold fingers would allow.

And then it was done.

« That is what you were scared of? » Mirth limned the brown's words, rubbing salt into the open wounds of V'ros' pride.

He knew something wasn't right. It was too.. fast. Too.. uncomfortable. Had he done something wrong? Was that really all it was?

"Shit," the greenrider mumbled, shimmying up her pants and bending a sour stare on the weyrling. She waited for him to button his own pants, and then they both walked back to their group, who were still discussing Y'stin and his takeover.

"Bastard probably wants to ren-- damn, done already?" Seven pairs of eyes turned to them. One red-faced weyrling and one dour-faced greenrider refused to look at the other assembled dragonriders. But everyone knew.

"Ah, come on, it gets better, m'boy," the brownrider V'ros rode with assured him, slinging an arm around his shoulders. "This calls for some drinks. G'tul you get the next round. Zuri, you look like you need two," which just caused the whole group - minus V'ros and (now named) Zuri - to devolve into guffaws as they wended their way towards the nearest beer booth.