Logs:Don't Move

Don't Move
RL Date: 20 September, 2014
Who: V'ros, A'rist
Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]]
What: V'ros is the victim of a prank. A'rist plays the hero.
Where: Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr
When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}})
Weather: Clear. Autumn-y.
Mentions: Quinlys/Mentions, Jadzia/Mentions
OOC Notes: Severely backdated.
Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr Stalactites hang high above this enormous cavern like a jagged chandelier or an inversion of the Spires themselves, but shadows cling to them instead of light. Below lie great tables arranged in rows, each large enough to serve a fighting wing, while in the nooks and alcoves around the cavern's edge sit more sensibly-sized tables, from six- and eight-seaters down to intimate spots for just a couple of diners. The only really open space is around the kitchen entrance, smelling of food and rarely quiet, and by the nearby serving tables with their long buffet of the day's offerings. Tapestries on the smooth walls -- some faded and others newly woven -- only slightly mute the sea of sound when a meal is in full swing, but they add cheerfulness augmented by the glowlight from wall sconces and the centerpieces of each table. Still, shadows always creep along the ceiling and into the mouths of the exits -- the myriad small hallways at one end of the cavern and, at the other, the twisting tunnel to the bowl near an array of coathooks and and hatracks -- and late at night, when the glows are allowed to dim, the chamber can seem very dark indeed. Remnants of lunchtime linger in the air: scorched klah, charred beef, and sweat. It's that time of day that weyrfolk start to clear out, wandering back to their duties, but there's a table full of weyrlings remaining, picking over their food. They're having a good time of it, chatting and the like, especially where it concerns stacking random objects on top of V'ros. He's there under all the detritus, arm stretched out, face smooched onto the wooden surface of the table; he's been sleeping for some time, unmoving and hunched over in his seat. Someone places a cup on top of the other junk - napkins, utensils, and bits of food. Still, he's not moving, even as the rest are busy laughing. Being of an age, still, with so many of the new weyrlings, A'rist is a usual enough visitor. To some. Apparently, by the disappointed gaze cast over the current group, none involved in stacking things on - Lythronath's candidate. A'rist's face twists, something between amused and... something older, and far less fun. It's Lythronath who breaks the silence, Lythronath with no introduction and no softness in his voice when he suggests, « Maybe dead! » to Zmeyth. In his usual, unhurried way, Zmeyth notes, « Would I be here if he was? » Dead, that is. Too much giddy laughter floats around the weyrling table, their giggles belying their deeds before they even do them. One of the greenriders starts flinging peas at the back of V'ros's head; the crowd "aww"s when she misses and whoops when she hits her mark. V'ros may stir a bit, he may mumble in his sleep, but his slumbering is ultimately undisturbed. It's the peas that seem to have A'rist making a decision; one to step forward, into the fray as it were, hoping, perhaps, that his presence will stop the peas. The look given to that green weyrling is cryptic, muddled. A'rist doesn't go for food to try and join in, nor does he try, overtly, to make her stop. He does reach for V'ros' wrist, slowly, with quick glances up to those weyrlings surrounding the sleeping brownrider. « Piled, » points out the bronze, far less blatantly gleeful than his first volley. There's more than one way together what you want. Sometimes blunt is better, other times not: « Lythronath, I heard they just imported new herd beasts from Keroon. Fresh, delicious herd beasts. In the pens. » Zmeyth is cajoling, kind even - isn't he just the best, giving Lythronath the newest news, the best kind of news! V'ros jerks his head up at the touch on his wrist, squinting all around. Those weyrlings are half-appalled to be caught by A'rist and half-laughing still. "Huh?" he says, following the stares up, to where A'rist stands nearby. A'rist's plan, whatever it was, had included lifting up V'ros' hand. He stops, though, the moment there are signs of life, left there holding the weyrling's wrist mid-motion. The wide-eyed look lasts only a moment. The situation has been assessed. "Don't move," says A'rist. « Piled, » repeats Lythronath. And, « Left. » There's an impatience, intolerance, in those few words. "Don't.. move..?" Traces of sleep fog his voice as he tries, still, to blink the vestiges of slumber from his eyes. V'ros must sense the weight of consideration in the bronzerider's voice, for he's quick to still and simply frown. His own eyes are focused up on A'rist. Zmeyth sighs, a great, chilling gust mingled with shadows. « You're not making sense. V'ros left a pile somewhere? Is that man-handling bluerider they call Quinlys beating him in the bowl? » Brief pause, weighty pause. « No. So, what? » "It's all going to fall over, otherwise," A'rist warns that brownrider, dark eyes flitting to track what remains of the original weyrling group to be blamed for the stacking. He lets go of V'ros' hand - very slowly, very carefully, and as if trusting it to stay in the place to which it had been raised. « Laughed, » points out Lythronath, grating frustration somehow out of place on that word. Frustration, and intense disapproval. And then the mental touch of primal bronze is gone. V'ros doesn't think any of his is funny. He's gone remarkably still, holding himself in place until A'rist can guide him otherwise. What 'is' going to fall over - he doesn't know, but it doesn't sound good in the slightest. "Okay.." His eyes shift from the bronzerider to his fellow weyrlings, some of which are trying to hide their amusement and are failing. Zmeyth, try as he might, just isn't that concerned; when Lythronath fades, he won't chase. "Carefully, only move your hand," instructs A'rist after a moment to situation assessment. "So that your palm's up." The bronzerider? He reaches for the topmost of the items. The cup is gathered carefully, A'rist's eyes moving from it to V'ros' belly just before he's made contact, watching for breathing. But his fingertips grab true. He holds a second, waits, and when the (presumably) perfect moment has come, lifts, straight up, to have that cup dangling from his own hand. Those instructions are followed implicitly. V'ros rotates the hand, slowly, so it's palm up. His face is still a picture of confusion, but he's starting to get the point - that his peers played sort of prank on him. He doesn't look too happy, but then, he doesn't often anyway. "What's.. what did.. how bad is it?" he says lowly, his lips compressing into a tight line as he tries not to look to the weyrlings. He'll keep his gaze squared on the middle of the table, his body still for the moment as he awaits the next directive. "Ready for weight," advises A'rist, just as he's lowering that cup down, slowly but smoothly, into the opened hand of V'ros. Next up is a fork - not an empty one, but a fork with a dried out bit of gristle on it! Exciting. A'rist lifts this just as carefully. He sends another glance over to the other weyrlings, and, quietly, asks, "Does this mean you don't sleep at night?" Each item A'rist places in the weyrling's hand illicits a deep shade of disgust. "What.. the.." V'ros shoots any lingering weyrlings a glare, but he's careful not to move 'too' much. He returns his attention to the conversation with the bronzerider, sounding somewhat annoyed by.. everything. "Sometimes I don't. Sometimes Zmeyth wants to talk. Sometimes.. I just can't sleep. It's.. There's.. A lot." To A'rist's credit, he does his best to corral any foodbits in the mug. That does mean, of course, that the napkin has to be draped over V'ros' wrist. "Lythronath never talked much," muses the bronzerider. That last half a bun, the half a bun that started it all, A'rist keeps. Apparently firmly on V'ros' side of the situation now, an arched brow goes to the other weyrlings. And the bronzerider scrapes a chair back and seats himself, examining his final... well, it's not really a prize, is it? "Not that I slept well, I guess, but it was never 'cause of too much talking." "He.. doesn't?" V'ros is a good sport, waiting patiently while A'rist finishes cleaning him up, and not even pulling a scowl out. He sounds somewhat amazed though. "Zmeyth is 'always' there, always has something to say, always.." ends on a sigh. With all the last bits cleaned up, he can properly sit up and dust himself off, twisting this way and that to assess himself.. himself. "I don't know how anyone can sleep. My head's always.. spinning. Drills, lessons, dragon anatomy, flying--" He shakes his head and shifts his gaze to the bronzerider. "Everyone.. says.. it gets easier." "Lynner's not about words," A'rist attempts as explanation. "He's more guts than tongue." The bronzerider has started to poke his thumbs into the bun, a slow-motion, destructive kneading. "What they mean is, you adapt. You have to, or you go crazy. Lythronath never changed much." A shrug that doesn't break the rhythm of the bread doom. "I did, I guess. It just gets to be usual. And then I guess usual's easy, because it's what there is." The bread destruction is fascinating, or maybe it's easier to focus on something innocuous versus meeting the guilty stares of the weyrlings left who are now whispering at the other end of the table. "That's what.." V'ros pauses and taps his fingers on the table, "scares me. It being normal, being so different." Not that that makes any sense in general, but it does from him, drawing the small creases from his forehead. "You're still you right?" Which has to be asked given they weren't acquainted prior to Lythronath. "Guess I didn't really give you a heads up on that one, huh. I mean, I guess there's some people don't find it too weird or different, but..." he shrugs. "I can't figure Lythronath would ever search someone who'd wind up with something like that." And/or use them as an excuse to get into Hreadhyth's personal space. Whatever. A'rist is starting to turn the inner bits of bun into doughy things, and soon, starts pulling dough-balls out, leaving an increasingly hollow crust on the table. Those balls, they're set up in a little line as he goes, also on the table. "I dunno. Part of me hopes I'm what I always was. Part of me... really doesn't." Staring at dough-balls. The more dough balls A'rist creates, the greater the concern on the brown weyrling's face. "Yeah, I understand that. I don't want to.. but I hope I do.. but I don't.. but.." A bunch of buts, or butts, whichever. V'ros looks from the army of little bread-dough balls to the bronzerider. "What are.. what are you planning to do.. with those?" With a tip of his head to the line on the table. "You're not planning to--" but he might give himself away with the shifty glance towards the other weyrlings. "It's weird, I guess," A'rist carries on - carries on the conversation, carries on the manufacture of the little dough soldiers - "because on the one side, it's like, there's got to be some reason that he picked you, right? Unless it's really just so random as you getting in the way. I mean, do you think?" It's like remembering the brownriding weyrling is there at all, the suddenness when he looks up. "Planning?" might as well be a different language. Blank. Stare. But it pauses the manufacture. Vague speak just confuses V'ros further, and he has the look of someone who just stepped into something they didn't mean to. "Uh, right. I think.. I mean.. I want to believe they chose us because of.. something, inside, that.. that we have. That makes us.. theirs, not anyone.. else's." But that just sounds lame even to him, so he falls silent as he contemplates the dough balls. "You're.. not.. doing anything, with them?" as he motions to the idle-creation A'rist just made. "Unless.. you, eat.. your bread, like that." Weirdo. All that wandering speech has stopped, and for a moment, A'rist just looks at V'ros, nearly through him, the bread (or what's left of it) idle in his hands. Finally, his eyes fall to the bun corpse. "I... I don't know, I was just..." He shrugs. The remains are put on the table, and the bronzerider folds his hands consciously into his lap. Well, this is super awkward. V'ros opens his mouth as if to say something and then closes it, his own eyes dropping to the table's surface in deference of the bronzerider's confusion. He just.. sits there, and waits. Maybe a hole will open up in the floor and swallow them both. Maybe Quinlys will come cart him away. Down at the end, the other weyrlings stop whispering to stare. A'rist does speak, eventually. Whatever was being sorted out presumably is sorted out, and he's focused now, intent. "What did you do, when you impressed? Like did you move or anything, or did he just come up to you?" The dough-balls, they sit, and dry out, slowly.

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Comments

Azaylia (01:09, 21 September 2014 (EDT)) said...

Eeee! *pushes her troubled little bunnies' heads together* Now kith. :3

Edyis (01:14, 21 September 2014 (EDT)) said...

Jenga! This was an awesome read you two.

Tela (22:56, 21 September 2014 (EDT)) said...

<3 <3

(Don't blink.)

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