Logs:Unnecessary Emotion
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| RL Date: 19 September, 2014 |
| Who: V'ros, Azaylia, Zmeyth, Hraedhyth |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Azaylia joins the weyrlings during their morning run. V'ros is nervous, but what else is new? |
| Where: Eastern Bowl, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| Mentions: A'rist/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions |
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| 'Eastern Bowl, High Reaches Weyr Ringed by rough granite walls to all sides but one, this end of the huge bowl narrows from the even broader plain to the west, continuing the ever so slight downward slope toward the blue and green of the Weyr's lake and surrounding foliage. More open to sun and wind than the western bowl, but less frequented when there aren't weyrlings in residence, the bowl's grassy tufts keep the topsoil in place and thicken into a bloodstained meadow within the feeding pens that adjoin the lake. At the base of the surrounding cliffs lie entrances to several caverns, including the dragon infirmary and the weyrling barracks: the former to the northwest near where the spires begin, the latter opposite to the southwest. Both archways are large and dark enough for any dragon to pass through, but it's the infirmary's that is haunted by faint smells of redwort and numbweed, as though over generations they have seeped into the very stone. To the southeast, between the weyrling area and the lake, there are a handful of structures built into the floor of the bowl, standing out amidst otherwise an empty space.
It would be rude to join with no invitation, but even more rude to jog on through and ignore the weyrlings. Azaylia has a tough decision to make, and she makes it, infiltrating their ranks as silently as she can. Hair tightly secured in dual buns atop her head, she's got on a thick tunic and loose leggings, both worn and stained into offering her some anonimyty. What Weyrwoman would dress in rags? The jig is eventually up as she begins to pass people, turns upon turns of conditioning give her a slight advantage, though modesty dictates she hang in the middle. Her dark skin carries its own sheen, and a glance to the side has her giving V'ros an open smile at the familiar face. Hraedhyth watches from on high, 'borrowing' a ledge in order to do so. Mumbles and surprised looks are given someone just behind him from the greenriders up ahead, but V'ros doesn't break from his pace or his forward-facing stare. It's only when the Weyrwoman is alongside him that he spares a look - casual at first, and more severe as he recognizes Azaylia's dark skin and smiling visage. "Ohwhatthe-" as he fairly trips over his own feet and promptly blushes from his roots down. "W-Weyrwoman Azaylia, ma'am," he stutters, regaining some of his earlier balance, and refocuses his gaze straight ahead. Trying not to embarrass himself any more than he already has is going to be a feat. There's a spark of concern in the Weyrwoman's eyes when V'ros stumbles, and she reaches over with a hand to help straighten him up. "V'ros." Is a short and sweet greeting, one that's not meant to bring too much attention to his stumbling. Azaylia greets each weyrling with the same courtesy, though her focus is straight ahead as well. If it's any comfort to the brown weyrling, she goes on ignoring most for the duration of their run. Hraedhyth's drums rumble with amusement, seeking out Zmeyth with a trailing thought of smoke rather than her gaze. « Yours is good at running. » A compliment, if soured with the honest, « Most of the time. » Given his stumble. Feet to the ground, thump thump thump. Focusing on not falling on your face in front of the most important person in the Weyr is hard. V'ros still has that high color in his cheeks, from both his embarrassment and the exertion. He is content to go along in companion - or awkward - silence for a time, sneaking sidelong looks at Azaylia when he thinks she is too absorbed in running. Zmeyth sounds surprised by the admission from his dam. « Good? Have you ever seen him? He looks like a fish in a dry river bed. » the brown rumbles, though his tone is definitely pleased by her taking note of his rider at all. Hraedhyth's drums roll along with her husky laughter, « He does! » She would never have come up with that on her own. « He is as red as the fruit Ours eat. Is he feeling well? » Either V'ros' blush can be seen from space (possible) or Azaylia has noticed for all that she seems to be ignoring him. In a show of solidarity the Weyrwoman stays during their entire run, and it's only once everyone is cooling down that she offers V'ros a brilliant smile. "Nice to see that you're keeping up with the class." At least during physical training. A towel and waterskin are waiting on a nearby rock, rubbing the sweat from her eyes as she approaches and offers the brown weyrling the 'skin. "Small sips." Of course he knows that already. « Again? » Zmeyth does not sound surprised this time, his mindvoice edged with frustration. « Unnecessary emotion. » Disgusting, really. Good thing dragons don't get easily embarrassed or at all! Certainly not a bruiser like Zmeyth. Cool down encompasses V'ros trying to catch his breath and holding back the urge to throw up his breakfast. He gives Azaylia a brief look while he's bent over, but ultimately accepts the waterskin. "Thanks, ma'am," he says, prior to taking a long drink. "I've.. come a long way." At least, he can see that much. He hands the waterskin back and turns to face the Weyrwoman, face less tremulous than before. "How are you doing, ma'am?" Azaylia doesn't offer him her towel because, ew. So she'll wipe at her shoulders and neck while watching the candidate try to recover. "Azaylia." She stresses, breathing heavily as she enunciates, "A-zay-lia. Not ma'am." The goldrider is smiling when he hands her the skin back, clearly not as annoyed as her teasing might suggest. "You have!" Her encouragement might be too exuberant, but it's no less genuine for it. "I'm doing fine, thank you. I was able to visit my family last month, so that was nice." After a few small sips from the skin, she nods toward V'ros, "And you? Enjoy having a weyr of your own?" Hraedhyth's interest is piqued, flames dancing at the edge of Zmeyth's thoughts, a companionable distance. « He does it often? Change colors? » Fascinating. "Azaylia," he sighs, because not using the given formality is hard, "Quinlys would be disappointed." Lest everyone forget the blueriding Weyrlingmaster who doesn't put up with anyone's crap. V'ros seems particularly wary of annoying her - could be that he already messed up a few times in early candidacy. His curious gaze is brought around to rest on the goldrider. "You don't.. get to see them often? I thought.." Chance is he thought as a Weyrwoman, she had more freedom than say, some lowly weyrling like him. Switching the focus of the conversation on him is a relief, and he gradually attempts an awkward smile. "Yes.. it's better than.. living with a bunch of other people.. in the barracks." That's a given. Zmeyth continues on that strand of vague amusement, exasperated at his own rider. « Green, too. » "Would you like me to speak to Quinlys about it? Get her approval?" Azaylia teases even more, eyes bright with adrenaline and amusement. Her smile shrinks some, still there as she explains, "I'm often too busy. While I have a lot of help, there's still some things that only I can do. That, and Hraedhyth gets homesick easily." Except during her pre-proddy excursions. "Well! I should stop by with a weyrwarming gift, sometime. Although it would just be an excuse to get a closer look at Zmeyth." No shame in admitting that. "He's grown into quite the handsome brown." Her lifemate's approval is echoed in Hraedhyth's drums, rhythmic praise for her growing not-a-pup, « Red and green. It is a good thing Ours do not glow. » Or else V'ros would cause more trouble, changing his hide as he does. That small reminder causes his blush to bloom anew. "I yeah." Because what more can he say about his compulsion to please the bluerider. "She does?" V'ros is genuinely inquisitive, watching Azaylia enquiringly as he says, "We haven't.. really, gone anywhere.. but Zmeyth wants to go so I don't.." He pushes up the sleeves of his shirt, mindless of the light snowfall, and frowns. "You want to see.. Zmeyth?" spoken skeptically. New concept, that one. Most people want to stay away from the reptilian-patterned brown and his skulking ways. Ever watching, ever catchy. "We would.. welcome it, ma'am," with an accompanied wince for saying the ma'am. "Sorry.. habit." « I hope not, » Zmeyth says with unhappiness tinging his smoky baritone. "Mmhm." The hum is carried on a soft sigh, trying to calm her breathing as she stands next to the weyrling. "Hraedhyth doesn't like to leave for too long. She misses the dragons, her mate, and feels like she can't protect them while we're away." Azaylia lifts her gaze, searching for the ambitious brown, "Most like to explore. I know my dragon tends to be the exception." In many things. V'ros' question has her gaze slipping back down, confused little smile paired with a laugh, "Of course I do. Why is that so strange?" Easing back onto her heels, her arms reach up to hold the towel that's draped across her broad shoulders. "Now are you just saying that because I'm Weyrwoman?" Her expression softens, "I'd understand if you're uncomfortable. We can give you all the space you'd like." Well, Hraedhyth is making no such promises, her smoke rolling in against Zmeyth's. « He will improve. » They always do. Mate - that word causes another flourish of color, and V'ros is looking down at his feet, shuffling them in the slushy snowy mix that is the ground. "I wish he wouldn't.. want to, explore. I'd rather.. stay." Which is just saying they're the opposite, both dragons and riders. He looks up again with his brows knitted together. "Zmeyth isn't the nicest. I'm not.. the nicest," he says with a dubious expression, but he's genuine, at least, about the invitation to come check out both the dragon and the weyr. "No, you can come, whenever you have time. There isn't.. much. It's small on the inside and I don't really have many.. belongings." Some shame accompanies the words, as if maybe that's not good enough, so he goes back to scuffing his toes in the ground. Smoke and heat, « He will, because he has to. » Zmeyth expects nothing less. Hraedhyth is in agreement with Zmeyth, though there's a curious flicker of her flames for his lifemate, « Why does the thought of Cadejoth make him change? » The rattle of those chains heard beneath her steady drumbeats. Even when arguing, Azaylia is gentle, "I think you're nice. Flighty, but nice." Her honest assessment comes with a bright smile. As for Zmeyth, "They have different priorities, dragons. There are plenty of people who think Hraedhyth is mean or cruel." Not that it seems to bother the Weyrwoman in this instance. "Or he really is not nice." Because V'ros would know him best, wouldn't he? "He's still one of Hraedhyth's, and we'd like to visit." Or alternatively, "You're welcome to stop by anytime you'd like. I have an open weyr policy." To snap him out of his scuffling, the goldrider leans and nudges him with her shoulder with a laugh. "It took me turns to really fill my weyr. Belongings don't matter." « He's afraid of sex. » Zmeyth replies smoothly, completely uninvolved; flight lust hasn't brushed the brown yet and so he's unaffected by that notion. « That redhead of Olveraeth's has been talking about it lately. » Which is just droll, really. Every compliment earns a tentative smile, each of which falls soon after for lack of substance. "Zmeyth is not nice." Just so that's clear. "Zmeyth thinks.. Hraedhyth is nice," he says quietly, though he himself has no real option it seems. Shuffling stops with the shoulder bump, but that just elicits his blush to grow down his neck. Touching and emotions, two things the weyrling doesn't do well. "As long as you don't mind.. you're welcome. Our.. our schedule is open in the evenings." As for belongings, well, there's a grimace and he shrugs. "Yeah. One day.. maybe." So unsure. Those drums stutter and almost fall silent at that bit of information, so alien to the interactions and beliefs which surround her bond. Hraedhyth's rumble is slow, pushing past confusion to state, « Yours is strange. » Blunt, but not meant as an insult. « It is good that he has you. » "That's fine. Lythronath isn't nice, either." And yet Azaylia speaks of the big bronze with obvious affection. The Weyrwoman watches V'ros, brows eventually gathered in a sympathetic pinch as she stifles a soft laugh. "I won't mind, I promise. But I think I've bothered you enough, for today." Her smile is kind, not laughing at V'ros, but... "I'll come by when I have the time." Which could be ages from now. "Take care, V'ros." She's taking a few steps toward the weyrleader's ledge, pausing to lift a finger, "And if you wake up to see Hraedhyth on your ledge, don't panic. She just does that." Poor Zmeyth. « Isn't it? He's lucky I found him. He would be lost at sea still. » Zmeyth, so proud. Back on the ground, V'ros looks at a loss - like he's insulted her and he's unsure how to fix it, because she's going away and it's obviously from something he said. Rather than phrase an actual apology though, he opens his mouth and promptly closes it, giving a stilted nod in its place. His brown eyes follow her path towards the weyrleaders' ledge and he issues a tiny sigh. "I'll.. try not to be. I'll.. warn Zmeyth. Have a good day, Weyrwoman Azaylia," he says quietly with a simple salute like all good weyrlings give. Azaylia gives a little spin on her way, turning to call back in her soft voice, "Try to relax, V'ros!" The advice is lobbed with a breathy laugh, turning back to face where she's going. It's his obvious discomfort that reminds the Weyrwoman she has a day to start, giving the poor brown bunny a bit of breathing room. « He is. » Hraedhyth stretches her wings, falling off of the ledge and into flight, a tendril of smoke offered as invitation to Zmeyth. That is, until he's needed for weyrling drills. Sure enough, she'll be crowding his wallow tonight with some aggressive cuddling. |
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