Logs:Girlfriends and Boyfriends
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| RL Date: 26 February, 2013 |
| Who: Ceawlin, Wakizian, Mave |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Ceawlin's playing is interrupted by Wakizian finding the one girl who did punch him. Some new things are defined. |
| Where: Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| Weather: Steady, today's snowfall sticks, creating dunes on the bowl floor. |
| Mentions: Alida/Mentions, Hana/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions |
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| 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. Sparse for the last sevenday, Ceawlin's whereabouts have largely been unknown minus the few appearances here and there; the evidence of a reason manifests in reddened nose, glassy eyes and pink cheeks. All of which give the boy a blended cherubic plague victim appearance, albeit a recovering plague victim. No longer contagious! With the healer's not to prove it, even. Today, heat is sought in the gallery steps, causing the flush to deepend and pale, pale hair to stick to the sides of his temples. In his hands, the lute plays a very soft melody of soothing, slow notes. More to keep himself company than for the dragons, weyrwomen, eggs, and clutchdaddies that come and go at any given interval. Beside where he lounges, sits a hot mug of what must be tea blended with pungent spices, and what passes for bland gruel, partially eaten. Hum-de-dum-de-dum. Wakizian's approach into the galleries today is tentative. His head pokes up over the edge of the stairs into the galleries, and retreats. Pokes back up, and then retreats. The third appearance has him rising further up on the stairs and eventually standing at their top. Nervousness is the dominant emotion as he eyes the sands, but finding no raging queen heading his way (yet), his attention is easily, and predictably, captured by the sound of the lute. He remains silent as he approaches, brown gaze following Ceawlin's fingers on the strings, and he stops a few feet away, standing and staring dumbly. Hum-de-dum, catching enough to have infected the girl poised several seats ahead -- luckily, though, not the plague; pure Sands heat warms Mave's cheeks, aside a flare of flustered concentration that's nearly absent by now, having settled in for the long haul, like the set of her thinking eyebrows. She's been in that seat nearer the front through all of Ceawlin's second act, picking at the clothes' mending in her lap. Humming along, occasionally muttering in known words when the melody has them, or plucking new ones out of the air, she uses the lyrics to keep track of her words, and its plodding pace. Though her foot's propped up, heavy boots, on the railing ahead of her, she's dressed like she meant to go right back out into the snow. A hat has her wavy hair bundled up, and her jacket's much too bulky for the galleries' heat. Ceawlin is a juxtaposition of themes: chilled enough for a thicker tunic, warm enough to have the sleeves pushed up to the bend of elbows, and still, despite the beads of damp sweat blooming at his temples, chilled enough for a scarf. Chills, how he loves thee. Wakizian's prey-animal-style entrance earns only one missed note as glassy pale eyes catch sight of the other Candidate's antics, but the rhythm resumes fairly quickly. Only the quirk of one pale brow is given before attention falls once more to the song slowly unfolding from the well-made instrument. Mave's presence has been quietly tolerated in the sense that, she's there, and her own muttered additions to the music has not been protested. At some point in the ditty, Wakizian manages to stop staring and flop down on the bench near, but not too near. Rather than take the traditional seating position, the Smith draws his long legs up onto the bench and crosses them, elbows going to knees and chin resting on fists. "Don't know how you do it." His comment is mumbled and clearly full of admiration for the skill Ceawlin shows. From the look of the long-haired man and the way his eyes have gone back to the instrument, he might not even be aware he's said it. What he does become aware of though, is the little additions to the song, and Mave and her ensemble is spotted from behind, though likely not recognized. A wistful sigh escapes Waki's lips. Missed note, missed thread. Mave's thumb slips, jamming the wayward needle off of the fabric and into that calloused pad. Musical humming turns to a sighing one, a little buzz of pain, not too expressly felt; this isn't her first time. Won't be the last. A couple of choicer, less children friendly, lyrics slip benignly into Ceawlin's innocent sounding playing, before she interrupts herself by sticking her thumb between her teeth, gnawing lightly. With her concentration broken, heat soaks in and, rounding her cheeks, she puffs out a loud breath and claws into her woolen hat. As it falls off, her head's given a swift shake to settle her red-brown hair, all static and excited from being inside the material so long. Setting the mending on her lap more fully, she pushes her left hand through her hair, further helping it along -- and further exciting it -- chin lightly turned, exposing the edge of her profile. "Do what?" Ceawlin's voice is muffled, partially through scarf but also through the bubbling of plague caught at the back of his throat. The lack of entitled sharpness to the tone of his tenor is entirely attributed to the recovery from illness, the energy required unsustainable in such conditions. Mave's presence finally draws attention, those pale brows ticking upwards a little more for the pricked finger and staticy halo of hair, before another cough slips free, dislodged by the act of talking. Digging into the depths of the pockets of his trousers, the harper produces a handkerchief, which is used for the sniffling that follows the cough. This act halts the music all together in a final, note-jarring way. "Play the notes. And remember all of them." Wakizian makes a helpless sort of gesture to the lute. "It's amazing." The Smith's answer comes while the music lasts. His eyes roam from instrument to the voice adding color to the song and back. Once Mave's hat's fallen, though, exposing her rather distinct hair, the candidate does a double-take: his eyes slide from Ceawlin to Mave - everything's fine! - back to Ceawlin and back to the de-hatted woman, "Mave!" It's a startled low comment that's more of a gasp than an explanation. Everything is not fine. The only problem with a nontraditional seating position is that it takes a little longer to disentangle oneself, so he's clumsily doing so in an effort to make a hasty retreat. Thump, Mave's boot hits the railing, propelling her in a swift twist sideways, her fingers clinging onto her own make-shift seat back to stare up the seats at the interrupted player. "No," the command, more practical than sharp, "Why would you stop." Just in time for the flailing beside Ceawlin to register, narrowing her eyes in a half-squint, her rounded cheeks just a hill of distrusting freckles. But they widen again a second later, complementing her falling jaw and the startled uh-uh her voice makes as she stares. Reining in her gape, she -- because Wakizian's particular ungainliness affords her plenty of time -- twists to look over her shoulder at the Sands for a storm, raging bull-gold, flying arrow, firelizard, shoe, kitchen sink-- anything, really, before turning back in calculated disbelief. "Sweet shells, man, are you running away from me?" "Practice," Ceawlin answers simply, side-glancing at Wakizian, "Much like you can create--" Whatever thought the harper was about to say is completely snipped off when Wakizian becomes the incredible-moving-scaping man. Thin lips open, perhaps to offer acerbic commentary when Mave forestalls any such words with her own response. Now, Ceawlin leans back slightly, giving the other two a much easier view of each other (without being in the way, if he was), and looks from one to the other in disbelief. "What," tenor is made thick with residual plague, "is wrong with the both of you?" Tactic one of beast of prey in the face of danger: run away! That didn't work. Tactic two: freeze! And so it is that Wakizian, who has managed to get himself into a standing position at least, goes utterly still. He's got this whole prey thing down pat! He stares, unblinking at Mave for a long awkward moment, in which time Ceawlin's question is posed, and that at least cuts through reaction two. Time to move onto tactic three: act casual! Waki's hands find his hips and he pauses there for a moment, looking just-- weird. Then: "Nothing!" To the Harper, and, "No!" to Mave. His cheeks are all color, though not thanks to plague, and he proceeds to put on a show of raising his arms and twisting his torso, "I was just getting up to stretch." Riiiight. "Nothing." Mave's deadpan does double-duty, answering Ceawlin's justified inquiry and echoing Wakizian's to test how it sounds from out of her own lips. Tastes like lies and man-fright. Fingers drum-drum-drumming on the bench-back, she thoughtfully passes the other hand into her hair, palm against her head, so it all flares out then slips over her shoulders. Then it lands on the bench, pushing. The prey has alerted the predator, who-- wait. Despite that she rises out of her seat, mending matter-of-factly set aside with the needle instinctively looped into the fabric so as not to get lost, there's no stalk to the gait with which Mave approaches the two, little more than a straight-forward notch above amble. She just levels herself against Wakizian with her chin slightly dipped in, a cool and unfathomable neutrality on her face, studying him, testing. When her arms coolly cross below her chest, a flash of red appears at her waist, for the oversized mitten tucked into her belt. "You play really nice," she informs Ceawlin, while eyeballing Wakizian. "Mmmmmmkay," Ceawlin drawls, the clogged sinuses adding a nasally tone to otherwise clear tenor, "Right. Nothing." Since he's paused his playing, now would be the opportune time to partake of the tea and a bit of the gruel. "Thank you," off-hand response to Mave, as the current melodrama unfolding before him takes the majority of his interest. Wakizian's weirdly casual stance earns disbelief on cold-sluggish features. Seated as he is, his pale head is tilted up to look at the pair facing off in what must surely be the impending battle-royale. "I suppose it must be a lover's quarrel," he mock-sighs, blind aim for tender sensibilities. Wakizian shifts a little nearer to Ceawlin - as though there's some hope of implicit comradely between candidates and that protection will be offered by the shorter lad. His confidence is certainly not helped when Mave decides to study him, and perhaps feeling suddenly too tall and awkward, he just sits back down, bringing him to just about the right height to spot the red knit mitten. Without thinking, a hand reaches out with the intention to swipe it, "Hey! You found my mitten!" His hand freezes mid-air at Ceawlin's words, and his head twists abruptly to eye the Harper as though he was the one whose behavior is just plain bizarre. "A lover's quarrel?" 'The very idea!' Waki's baritone holds the disbelief Ceaw's face showed moments before. For who could ever love a beast? Predator or prey. "H-hey! Watch your aim," complains Mave's low squeak, hips curling back from the man's pawing reach, "I'm a lady," snorted not quite like one, "and I found a mitten." Conveniently, his distraction gets his hand out of the way before she has to bat it, leaving her just with awkwardly unfurled arms. Hearing the harper's opinion elicits a second loud snort, not offended, just quick and dismissive. With a fling of the one arm, she gets around Wakizian's totally weird bulk, grabbing onto the bench to scoot right -- carefully! but with irreverent deftness -- past Ceawlin's instrument to land in the seat opposite him. "Naw," she tells him straight, "Wakizian thinks I'm terrible. He always has. But that's his own problem." That, and how she drops into the seat now on his row, pushing her hair behind her, and getting her ankles crossed. "Hey, the minute someone goes all nothing on something that's obviously not nothing, it must be a lover's quarrel," Ceawlin answers, gathering up instrument, mug and gruel. "I'm going to let you folks have your moment alone," not too sick to smirk, "But it might be unwise to try any funny business with so many," chin-nods down to the sands, "watching." Steps are taken slowly away, Mave's words adding only a secretive little smile to thin lips. "Mmmmmmhmmmmmm." Maybe he's doing it just to aggravate the situation more before he leaves; stirring the pot! "Riiiiight. Anyway, don't fall into a dragon's mouth and become dragon snacks." Mr. Sicky departs the stage, left. "I don't!" Wakizian protests, "We're not!" He protests further to the departing Harper. His arms fold across his chest and he huffs petulantly. "I don't." He repeats. His eyes slide towards the woman. "Although, if I did, you holding my mitten hostage wouldn't go very far in reversing that opinion." He fidgets in his seat, glancing down towards the sands, "Do me a favor and don't try to punch me in here. Alida pretended to wind up for it the other day and the clutchmoms got a little -- upset about it." A streak of alarm brushes Mave's face as her casual wall abandons her, leaving just a stone gap between her and Wakizian; one she quickly fills with a skeptical eying. Boots scrape petulantly on the stone as she rolls her head to the left side, scoffing inside a sigh. "Spittin' 'lizard, that was... like, four-- five-- four... turns ago." Eyes flicker over to him, abruptly shy, and irritated to be, while she attempts to shake the wondrous disbelief at his protestation. He doesn't, her ass - or his nose. Self-consciously smoothing her poked thumb over long healed knuckles, she kicks her feet back, energetically switching which ankles tops the other and landing them back. "Though, if I din' know any better... which this 'Alida' clearly didn't," that side eye, the curl of her mouth goes dry for his ask. Suspicious, too, she tenses, "Sounds like you're still up to making friends your old way." The recollection of the incident brings Wakizian's fingers up to his nose to gently rub along side it. "And I've stayed away from you since then. Like you wanted." Whether that's what Mave actually wanted or it was just what Waki took away from the whole painful ordeal, his words of his actions hold truth. He stands, turning to face the seated woman. "And I will go back to doing that just as soon as you return my mitten to me." Not that he's offered any proof that it is his. "As it happens, I was trying to make friends. But Alida doesn't welcome such attempts." He frowns, "I have a six turn probabtion period ahead of me at least." Protest furls Mave's mouth, same as surprise widens her eyes, shocking the suspicion out; all dismissed with a quick licking of her lip and breath for composure. She glances to make sure he didn't see. Then the marvel is all washed out by her huff at the mitten demands. Pulling her arms protectively to her chest, she tucks her hands around her thin arms, looking hardly like a fortress that could keep even a gentle breeze out. "P-probation? What did..." Distant horror flickers by as she briefly entertains really reprehensible possibilities before dismissing them with a lick of her lips. "So, you just wanted to be her friend so hard that she tried to punch you?" Sounds... distantly familiar -- not that Mave's fully aware; only half. And, with a drop of an eyebrow: confused. Wakizian's hand extends into the air between them, an obvious, if silent persistence to the matter of his mitten. "Well, the way she tells it, she only has two friends and it took them three years of just knowing her before they started to become friends and six before they actually became friends. So that gives me six turns from Turnover when I made her choke on her food and sort of kind of met her but not really." As if that weren't a confusing explanation. His hand bounces in the air in a 'gimmie' gesture. "I don't really know what the punching was about--" His eyes, which had wandered as he spoke, turn sharply back to the younger girl, "--this time. The queens got upset and she ran off before I had a chance to ask any questions. Then I was escorted out and -- yeah. Apparently, the galleries is my place for trouble." His look is slightly accusatory. "Which, by the by, is how I lost my mitten. I think. I haven't seen it since then at any rate. And my hand is cold." He twists his hand to hold it up as if to go 'see?' Crossed as they are across her body, Mave's arms loosen with her struggle to listen, eyebrows traveling the familiar caved line of concentration on her forehead, then tighten again, curling with sudden defensiveness to the accusation. But it's not precisely with fight that her fingers dip into her skin. For a flicker, hurt hides in her brown eyes; just the notion, then gone. Instead of licking her lips a third time, as they progressively dry out, she bites down. A long consideration passes, where she mulls, then, overly practical, informs him helpfully, "Well, um. Good luck, then. She must be something, to be worth three or six or nine turns." Arms shift; she pushes up out of her seat, approaching him with a couple of measured steps. Mouth aslant with the notch of her teeth biting the corner of her lower lip, she glances over at the Sands, spotting that garish orange thing idly, then back to him. Fingers fetch at her belt. She tosses the mitten gently at him. "I'm no bully." With a sniff, she tosses her head and struts up the gallery stairs. Confusion is the dominant emotion on Wakizian's face, brows rising and lips pursing. He watches her move, catches the mitten, and takes a few steps after her, one hand reaching out, though not actually to grasp at her, just the air behind her. "Wait, what? I never said you were a bully. You want to talk bullies, then we're really talking about Alida. And I don't know if she's something or not. Sharditall, I don't even know if I like or hate the woman." Exasperation finds its way into his voice, the frustration that's been locked up inside. "You think getting punched or getting nearly punched is an endearing gesture? She just-- seems so-- so cold. And well," He flounders. "It just seems like a friend would help." He sighs and fwomps down onto the stone bench, fingering his mitten, expression a little forlorn. Dramatically walking out on that note-- turns into awkwardly twisting on a heel, the wince captured on her face as she slips down a step, "Annnd, forgot my-- " only to be met right in the face with the pursuing Wakizian. Mave halts, shoulders pulling back, blinking openly at him before the knit of her eyebrows paints them both confused. "Well..." she gets out, importantly, attempting to sound knowledgable as she struggles, skirting around him when he leaves to sit. "She must be-- you know... something," reaching her former seat, she swoops down a hand for the half-mended shirt, fingers kneading into the fabric, thumb finding the needle to make sure it's there, "To decide to spend sixteen turns on her, instead of... oh, I don't know. Acting like she no longer exists." Raising her hand, she throws them both up vaguely in emphasis, then treads a little higher to stand below him. "And I didn't say you said I was a bully, I just said I wasn't. Because I don't like bullies." Pushing her lips together and out, she assesses very solemnly, then perks up on the assist: "Maybe you like to hate her. Or hate to like her. Or you're just trying to be nice, or prove something. I mean, it could be your dick. Is she pretty?" The confusion turns into bewilderment as Mave responds, and Wakizian is quickly back his feet to turn where he stands to follow her movements with his eyes. His expression turns indignant, but he's quick to temper his reaction, a fleeting look going out to the sands. He closes his eyes briefly, fingers moving to pinch the bridge of his nose. He mutters something under his breath before taking a deep breath in and letting it out. "Maybe I stayed away from you so I didn't get punched again. Ever think of that? Besides, what difference does it make now? You're practically all grown up, so am I, neither of us are kids with crushes anymore." Exasperation once again leaks into his tone, though only with that last bit - about crushes. "And I don't like to hate her or hate to like her. She's just another candidate. I almost made her choke on Turnover by wearing a dress to the party, and I'm just trying to be nice. I try to be nice now! It's a new thing. You should try it." His tone at the end comes out angrier than he intended, and he immediately bites his lip, expression going uncertain, like a fluffy feline that's not sure if it pissed off the pooch enough to get bitten, but is evidently going to hang around to find out. She stares; in fact, she's been staring for quite a while, features dancing between the mess of punches, crushes, and dresses -- frankly, it's exhausting, which may be why her face levels out into that plain misunderstanding that got lost on the way to upset. "I... uh..." Wanting to have a response isn't the same as having one. Her jaw works a few times. She swallows. "Wh... it-- " Narrowing eyes tease anger, but soon look more like she's holding something back. "Y-You can't say you don't know how you feel and then retort back with that you do! That's not fair!" Her own form of indignation is nearly as practical as her advice. "I thought you wanted to talk about her, you jerk! And good! Because I punched you so that you wouldn't think I was weak and would stop pulling my hair and throwing things at me. And--and-- I don't know what to say about crushes and dresses, because I don't know what they have to do with anything! But I'm leaving, because I'm not having a fight in the galleries. That's dumb." Wakizian deflates in the face of her-- wrath? annoyance? indignation? "I'm not trying to have a fight with you." The young man sinks back down onto the bench, baritone turning a touch vulnerable. "And I only did those things because I liked you. Didn't your mom ever tell you about how little boys that like little girls do stupid things?" Big boys, too. "And I didn't ever say I did know what I felt, you were the one that made it sound like I liked her. I only know what I don't feel and I don't know how I feel because she's like ice. I don't even know for sure that she's not a snowman in a really convincing disguise." He rubs his hands along the tops of his thighs roughly, a nervous fidget. "You don't have to leave," He offers. "And we don't have to fight." Parle anyone? Suspicion steels Mave's face, but a note of sulking softens it up, and her freckles basically extinguish any chance of looking serious at all. "Yuh wuh huh." Hearing her own nonsense, she shakes her head with a jerk. "Y--ou... " her hand dives into her hair, scratching at her temple then falling, "You liked me? That's-- the stupidest thing I've ever heard. Well, not liking me-- well..." eyes widening in a wince, she tips her head suggestively of what a mistake that would be, "But... no. I guess. At my first home, the sailors told me that gettin' in a first blow proves your... worth." Growing distinctly uncomfortable, she draws her hand to her arm, squeezing its skinniness. "And I'd only been here a few turns, so... I thought..." Shoulders roll forward in a long, high shrug. "Anyway," her boot scuffs, "I was only offering suggestions. Don't you know talking things out makes them clearer." She can't hide the hint of self-deprecating amusement that perks her lip before she bites down on it; truce through humor. It's only now that all the comments have stopped zinging back and forth that Wakizian has time to feel embarrassed for his younger self. His cheeks color. "I was twelve. I didn't know how to get your attention." Though rumor has it that he still hasn't figured that one out - with Mave or any other girl. "You were always singing and-" He hesitates, "-and I liked it. I liked you. I wanted you to pay attention to me. Then I got too much of your attention - a whole fistful." A hand rises to rub his nose again. "Hope you got the acceptance you were looking for from everyone else." Then he rolls his eyes, "But that's just it. There's nothing to talk about or to be made clear, really. So far as I can tell she's as ornery as an auntie thrice widowed, but only a quarter the age. I was trying to be friendly, and it gets me almost punched. Looks like I didn't learn my lesson with you. And then there you go trying to make it some thing that--" He trails off, sighing. "Truthfully, I'd be terrified to have a crush on that woman. If a would-be friend gets an almost punch, I can only imagine what she'd do to a boyfriend." He shudders, though now there's a note of good humor and playfulness to his tone that's much more familiar than all this frustration. Mave licks her lips in an attempt to hide the further creeping smile -- difficult, especially, after the flush blurring her freckles, her kind of distraught self-awareness when he goes on about herself. "Well... I made a lot of girl friends after taking you out," she half-jokes, soon turning into a light thinking scowl, "Except that one..." Shaking her head brings her back to the present. "Aren't you just the one who said that boys do stupid things when it comes to liking? But, okay, I'm sorry for making assumptions. It's just-- that age. And everybody livin' together. Haven't we both seen our fair share of candidates get kicked out for being too squirrelly?" Nevermind that it's only the girls that show. "But if she's really only got two friends, like you say, then she's probably discerning. Or hates people. I don't know that I'd want to be friends with someone who hates people." "Oh. Girlfriends, huh?" Waki's expression and tone are both teasing, deliberately misinterpreting. "No wonder I got punched. I wasn't and never would be your type. Although I did pull a pretty good impression of it at the Turnover masquerade." The rumors of Lady Smith have made the rounds in the lower caverns no doubt. The Smith offers a tentative smile and reaches a hand to pat the stone beside him, encouraging her to join him. "The one who got away? Who is she?" His tone turns more serious as he considers her other point. "I know I'm supposed to be that age, but I really truly don't know what I'd do with a girl if I got one. Well, you know, the mechanics are simple enough, I'm told, but in the bigger picture sense. "And I definitely haven't found any candidate girls worth getting kicked out over." A hand reaches up to pull the runner's tail of leather-bound hair over his shoulder and he plays with the tips thoughtfully. No girl, but maybe for his hair the humiliation of getting bumped would be worth it? "You're probably right, about Alida. But I guess I prefer to keep an open mind and hope for the best. Better than being close-minded and negative all the time, I think." Some joke bubbling up to her lips about girlfriends dies and falls into a flat gasp at his next admission, punctuated by one of her typically rude snorts. "You're Lady Smith? Well, piss in my boots. Arising from nowhere like a Blooded of legend then disappearing again in the morning light. Maybe she was the one that got away..." An evaluating quirk of her eyebrow, tempered somewhat by the last remnants of her deep-seated suspicion -- four or five turns worth, still churning about in the stomach she kneads the fabric over with her hands. "Guess it's... better that way," she decides, rolling onto her heels absently, "If you get a dragon down there," her head unnecessarily indicates the Sands next to them, "That'll be all your time, then." Pressing her lips together, Mave quiets throughout the rest, head bowing till her brown eyes vanish behind a few unruly curls that she pushes impatiently out of the way when it comes time to lift her gaze to pin him. "I..." and she carefully slips forward and takes the offered seat, finally. "Think so, too." A hesitant smile perks half of her mouth. Her arm wiggles up between them, fingers running across the bench to then grasp -- not too harshly -- at his runner's tail. "Also, I get to do this." Wakizian yelps, "Mercy, Mave! Mercy!" She didn't grab hard, but it was a surprise, and as the lad continues, it's clear that he's making more of it than it truly is, "I did it out of looooove!" His wail is melodramatic, and his eyes are bright with amusement. "And if that doesn't dissuade you, I'm told some people like having their hair pulled, so be careful what you start." It's clearly an empty threat, especially since he's already confessed to not knowing the first thing about women and relations with them. "Lady Smith probably was the one that got away. You did always like some weird things - a hairy-legged man dressed as a woman wouldn't surprise me one bit." He reconsiders, "Okay, maybe one bit, but no more than one bit." His eyes go to the eggs on the Sands. "Things will certainly be different if there's a dragon down there that wants me. It'd have to be a pretty crazy dragon, though. What are the odds?" Just as dramatically, Mave pulls her hand back with a start, shaking it off as though liking hair-pulling were a disease he'd spread to her. "Ew," she expresses pointedly, rubbing her palm onto her leg for good measure, "Go back to your Alida for that." A half-laugh wrinkles her nose, somewhat ruining the effect, and bringing on a new one: a blast of surprise across her face, feeling out their sitting together -- in amusement. The second her eyes squint to think on it, she backs off, humming distractedly. Her attention picks back up between 'woman' and 'surprise', Wakizian's voice filtering back in. Directed to the Sands, she picks out a few of them with strict examination, while her hand slowly tugs a strand of hair around her finger, maneuvering it over to her mouth where she begins to idly gnaw on the tip near hypocritically. "Oh, I'd say the odds of a green dragon who likes your collection of pretty dresses are pretty good. I'm counting on it, actually. There's money in this." Wakizian gets a good laugh out of her playful reaction. "You know, you probably missed out on all kinds of good laughs with me over the turns because of that punch." Of course, if she hadn't punched him, there might not have been any laughs. Quite a formative lesson when a ten or so turn old punches you in the nose for liking them. "Well, if it's a green, I suppose she could at least teach me how to deal with you crazy women." He winks, trying to communicate his humor visibly now that he's brought the "c" word into the conversation. "If you make marks on me, you'll have to buy me a drink if I survive weyrlinghood. And you'd better get your tugs in on my hair while you can. If there's a dragon out there with a mind to collect me as his or her own, I hear they'll be taking my hair." The frown that accompanies this is genuine. "I think that's the only thing the holder-types visiting have gotten right so far. Hana says it's terrible. I'd be inclined to agree." He glances to the side and catches sight of her chewing on her hair and adds pointedly, "Though I wouldn't want anyone eating it. It's gross." It's a practiced glare she shoots him, born of turns of being scolded for her habit, and Mave curls the hair disobediently a few more times before letting it go, now with added frizziness and a few broken ends. But it's with an absolutely solid deadpan that she mentions, "Yeah, I'm actually having it arranged that I'll be the one cutting yours. Snip, snip." That aside, she weighs her mouth back and forth, shoulders shifting against the stone. Her gaze continues to assail the Sands, a lazy finger dapping the air, counting, or possibly playing eeny-meeny on which will be Wakizian's. She finds herself hovering over the overly orange shell again and raises her eyebrows for her own thought; it makes her tone slower, almost faraway. "Holders are always extra silly during Hatching season. Who's Hana? Are all your friends strange women? If you're collecting them, I'm leaving again." Wakizian's eyes widen and then almost immediately narrow. The slow way that he turns his head to the side to eye Mave is fairly comedic. One brow is lowered and that same side of his face is pulled together in a squinty glare of his own, far less practiced and far less impressive. "You know what? I take it back. I take it all back. Let's go back to you thinking that I've always thought you're terrible. Threatening to cut my hair." He snorts. Then he leans in, a little closer to her, meaning to nudge her shoulder with his shoulder in a sort of 'just kidding' indication. "Hana is not my friend. And she likes Kaeden anyhow, I think. She's Lady Iss--Iss-- whatever her name is. Anyway, she's that one's companion I guess. Just happened to have some conversation with her. If you must know. All of my friends are boys." If that's the case, then what does he consider the women he talks to on a regular basis? If only the logic of seventeen turn old boys actually functioned as logic! Being nudged by Wakizian causes an instinctual jump, a slight tensing of her arm and mouth that she immediately tries to disguise, but can't quite help. After all, it's also been turns of believing he disliked her in a bad way; conditioning holds. Mave swallows then smiles, playing it off not quite naturally, but with good intention. "Issedi." She fills in under his stammering without missing a beat, nodding to herself -- right, I should've known that. Talk circles her home of the lower caverns so easily, after all. A boot slips on stone and she fixes it with a little shuffle of her whole body. "Ohhh," she muses, gathering in some magnificent revelation, "Boyfriends..." Mouth curling up in an understanding judgment like the best of the gossips, though she maintains a strict stare in front of her at the cooking dragon eggs. "No wonder you won't be getting any candidates pregnant." Wakizian rolls his eyes. Sure, he was born to Crafters in a Hold, but he was raised more or less entirely in the Weyr, so the concept of boys with boyfriends that might make another be repulsed only earns a cheeky grin and the retort: "Well, if you're so sure there's a green on those sands for me that should come as no surprise." Not that all male greenriders are, but the reputation certainly precedes some of them. "And I won't be getting any candidates pregnant for three reasons, none of which are boyfriends." Without being asked, he illustrates, ticking off the points on his fingers: "One: I can't even get a girl to dance with me unless I had a crush on her when I was young, and even then, we have to be in the right place at the right time for it to happen. Two: I've only ever kissed a girl, so going from kissing to knocking someone up would have me moving in leaps and bounds I'm just not prepared to make. And three: because of the girls in the barracks, most would either punch me or stab me for trying and one of my few but definite and non-negotiable goals in this whole crazy thing," He points to the white knot on his shoulder, "-is that I'd like to come out of it alive, still able to one day have children if I want them, and be at least half as sane as I started." "That's a tall order." Commented only after the extensive hemming and hawing she made trying to get him to stop going into detail. Still, when it comes to it, there's no girlish wince of modesty. Mave turns her legs in, watching her toes come together, boot tips knocking with rough noises. "You certainly do have a lot of conditions for your life. It sounds awfully restricting. Like, what if I asked you to dance right now? Would you tell me it was the wrong time?" Clucking softly with her tongue, she bends around a knee to reach for the mending she's let partially fall. An absent check makes sure that needle hasn't moved, and she smoothes out a few wrinkles. "Anyway, I wasn't joking about the money part. I suppose now that we're talkin' like folks, you can know that I've started running bets on Hatchings since a couple turns ago. Wouldn't hurt to have an insider's eye on the whole shebang. Who's dragon-worthy punchy, and who's just-- " she quirks an eyebrow, perhaps at herself, "punchy." "Restricting? You mean, just because I don't want to go from kissing someone to making babies with them?" Wakizian's brows furrow. Then he snorts. "I wouldn't tell you it was the wrong time, or even the wrong place. Obviously if a girl asks me to dance it's the right time and the right place, though in this case, I would wish that Ceawlin hadn't hurried off as some music would be nice." He glances towards the stairs, as though the Harper might hear and magically reappear. "I'm not sure I can give you much insight. Not unless you can tell me why dragons pick people." Then he stops short. "Wait. A few turns?" He gives Mave a dubious look. "You started young, didn't you." It's not really a question. A soft ehhhh noise drawn out for half a second precedes Mave tipping her head side to side, admitting, "So maybe I more like... held the book for another guy-- but this turn I'm getting in for real. Which is..." a more sheepish, needy glance is sent his way, across her shoulder, and hidden half by bushels of red-brown hair, "Why help is great. You know, you've lived here just as long," a wink is in her tone, "as me. Haven't you noticed anything by now?" Nevermind that she's asking for help on the very same thing; she seems to know, turning away from him again, tugging on strands of her hair, almost nervously. "Come to think of it. Is this the first turn you've been asked? Assuming you-- were asked... or," eyes back to him, not judging, just asking, "Did you ask on?" "If you want help, you should ask one of the riders, really." Waki responds, his tone apologetic. "It's not that I don't want to help. I just think I'd give you bad advice." He pauses, "And actually it was sort of a mutual thing, but it didn't involve a dragon. Do you remember N'qui? He impressed -- uh, recently? Relatively anyway. His older sister is Quinlys, one of the Weyrlingmasters. And she and I were talking, and then one thing and another and she was saying I could stand if I wanted to, and I was saying I should stand and I wanted to. So I don't even have myself as a base of comparison for what dragons see in potential lifemates." He pauses, "Will you Stand, someday?" "N'qui..." she murmurs, nodding, in unreadable reminiscence -- seemingly fond enough. At the question, Mave's conflict of emotion is subtle, fleeting; she twirls her hair and gnaws down on an end before letting it fly away. The nail of the finger left in front of her mouth is examined, eyed, then nibbled at, too. "Maybe," she says, without conviction, "I do fine in the caverns." Which is to say: she lives. "Say yes if asked, you know. That's the proper thing to do, but." A one-shouldered shrug seals the deal at that, vague and unlikely. Mulled lips suggest thought, as does her radiating silence, with all that concentrated energy put out in front of her at an imagined horizon, in the cavern's closed off dome. "I could trade you." Beginning as just a per-chance, it hardens as she says it, feeling out the words. A shoulder pushes off of the stone, turning her towards him conspiratorially. "A dance or-- a lesson. Or. Whatever you'd like. About girls," duh, she impresses, after a beat, eyes drifting down to herself, perhaps to indicate that she is one, where her figure fails to do the same, "Just for you t'do the same as what you did just now. Tell me about the candidates an' their acting." Wakizian doesn't answer right away. He gazes down at the eggs for a moment in silence, and then gets to his feet. He turns to face the younger girl and his expression is resolved. "Alright. Deal. You can tell me about how to talk to girls to actually get anywhere with them, and I'll get you dirt on the candidates. Give me a few days and then we'll meet up to exchange information." He pauses and reaches down to reclaim the red mitten that had been in so much contention earlier. "Sound like a plan, friend?" Startled by his sudden rise, Mave clambers up, feet nearly entwining with each other, to meet him; oh, is this what we're doing now. Twice as official feeling now, as she stands, in his shadow, rubbing her hands on her pants. A little toss of her head accompanies the raising of her chin. The better to see a giant by, since the frizziness of her hat-ridden hair only gives her so much added height. An easy-going face dips into the black, affecting the distracted gaze of her thinking, before she poses seriously to him, "Are you calling me a boy?" The candidate steps towards the stairs, bringing him chest-to-face with Mave. He's closer to her than he probably should be, but he lingers. "No." Wakizian's baritone is hushed and the answer is delivered simply, and seriously. He pauses. "I'm calling you my first girl friend." A smile touches his lips, and with that he's stepping out into the aisle and up the stairs. "I'll see you soon!" He calls back over his shoulder. Somehow, the mitten he'd picked up managed to find its way onto Mave's mending and is left behind. Having a face full of a man's chest startles the expression off her face, leaving a blank slate to which that definition is delivered. It's only after Wakizian's steps start echoing down the cavern that Mave's personality returns, eyebrows instantly jumping down to the top of her partially freckled nose. What... her lips mouth, chin startling lightly. Both of her hands fix up into her hair, bundling it in preparation for the hat she swoops over, cuddling all those half-curls up tight and leaving her neck free for her palm to swipe across the back of as she thinks, lazily, considers, shrugs-- then gathers up the mending with a swipe that has the red mitten falling onto her boot. Staring hard at it, she lifts her head for the entrance-- no... long gone. Eyes narrow then, with a shrug that happens with her face, she stuffs it into her belt again. |
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Azaylia (Dragonshy (talk)) left a comment on Wed, 27 Feb 2013 20:35:16 GMT.
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Young people are dorky and confusing. >:l Particularly Wakizians.
But, I like what I've seen of Mave in this log. XD She's interesting.
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