Logs:Deep End of the Pool
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| RL Date: 24 January, 2013 |
| Who: H'vier, Lourna, Ceawlin |
| Type: Log |
| What: Lourna is taking a bath when H'vier interrupts. Ceawlin finds back scrubbing to be work beneath notice. |
| Where: Bathing Pools, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 19, Month 11, Turn 30 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Barnabas/Mentions |
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| It's around that time when people are done with their duties and doing things that need doing before dinner or play or whatever it is that people do with themselves when they aren't working. H'vier is making his way into the bathing cavern looking a little zoned out but the humidity is a welcome wall for the Istan to run into. He finds somewhere to settle down along one wall, sinking down onto a bench and leaning back rather than trying to remove any of his clothes, dark streaks on the side of his thigh, just yet. Just five minutes of rest, ma. The distracted bronzerider misses out on the fact he isn't alone, but his arrival sends a few weyrfolk scurrying out in towels and hastily drawn clothes. He's gaining a reputation, and quickly. It leaves Lourna, lounging in one of the pools in her skin, rather at a loss. She isn't necessarily intimidated by H'vier, but whatever she feels is--complicated. Or is it? Sinking a little lower into the pool, she wars with herself internally over whether or not to excuse herself. Eventually, Lourna lifts her chin and clears her throat. You know, politely. H'vier probably doesn't care so much about being alone, in the end. He's never alone, is he? There's a dragon in his head at any given time. He doesn't open his eyes or move when anyone scurries off. That would require entirely too much energy that he just doesn't have at this particular moment. The clearing throat will make him lift his head back up to glance over toward the more obviously directed at him sound. "Don't let me stop you," he says before tilting his head back against the wall again, stretching his legs out in front of him. Well, when a rider tells you to go on about your business... So, turning her back politely to H'vier, Lourna goes back to her business. Which is, of course, washing the grime and sweat from her skin with liberal use of soapsand and the steaming water of the bathing pool. Fortunately, it's misty enough that a large part of her modesty is preserved when she stands to do this. "People don't normally come here to sit and sleep, you know," she says, sounding puzzled. Truly, she can't appreciate the mental, emotional, and physical weariness that he has experienced these past few days. "Do you need help returning to your weyr?" No doubt Lourna's voice is easily recognizable, though she is distracted by soaping up her skin with a fine lather of foam. "It's warm in here," responds H'vier without a pause for thought. "It feels good." And with his face looking like that, he could probably do with any good feelings he can get at the moment. Not that he sounds very tense or anything right now. Stoned would be more like it, though that's not quite right either. "Are you offering to come to my weyr?" he asks, arms finally moving to start unfastening things that don't take much effort to unfasten. "It's always warm in here, this is where we bathe, bronzerider H'vier," Lourna offers, very matter of factly. "It shouldn't be cold in your weyr. If it isn't comfortable, you need to speak with--" And then he's asking a rather intimate question, and she balks at answering. "Do you want me to?" Being an apprentice of tannercrafting, Lourna is naturally given to details, and she is exceptionally thorough. Once every inch of her is covered in a white foam thick enough to cover her, she's settling back into the heated water of the pool. Practically melting into it, in fact. "You're not looking very well, and I didn't see you last night. Maybe you should go to the infirmary?" She doesn't need to ask if his dragon succeeded; news spreads fast in the weyr. "No shit," is his response to her matter of fact-ness but there's a decided lack of conviction in the way he says it. There's no fight left in H'vier. It must be a miracle. "My weyr is fine. A little drafty. But there's a hearth." Apparently he's easy to side track when he's exhausted on so many levels. "It's probably more private than wherever you sleep," he adds about her coming to his weyr. "I've been already. It was a bad night." His attention finally shifts to look over at her properly and he rises to start removing the clothes he's been unfastening with no hint of his own modesty. Plenty of bruises. But no modesty. Fortunately for Lourna, and less for the rider, the bulk of her more appealing body parts are well submerged under heated, largely opaque water. She rests against the side of the pool, her shoulders pressed against the warm stone wall so that her head can tip again for support. Her dark green eyes slide to half-lidded, though they watch H'vier with poorly concealed curiosity. Peeling down doesn't concern her; it's a communal bathing chamber, and without the tension of the flight gnawing at her, she's considerably less antsy about seeing a man in his skin. His bruised, battered skin. Lourna leaves alone the fact that he is more battered than last she left him, biting her tongue. "Well, of course it is. Apprentices aren't given their own separate rooms. The weyr doesn't have space for that. We sleep in dorms," she offers conversationally. "I know," is the only other response H'vier offers for now, too tired to be charming or anything coming close to it. He finishes with his clothes and soon enough he's moving to sink into the warm water with a contented sigh. He'll just sit there, though, tilting his head back against the edge of the pool much like he'd done the wall before. Maybe it's a good thing someone else is in here so he doesn't fall asleep and drown. "I would not be adverse to it," Lourna says very slowly, wetting her lips. "Are the dragonriders less accessible to you?" Surely, a bronzerider has better tail to go after, and Lourna wouldn't argue it. Those ladies are /capable/, and swoon worthy even to one with a preference for men. She takes care to maintain her modesty, and when he relaxes in a slump against the opposite wall of the pool, she moves. Smoothly slipping through the water with the mostly waterproofed leather bag in hand, the young woman falls still within arm's distance, hovering. "Do you need help washing? I am not trying to come onto you. You do not look... able. Perhaps you should wait until you are healed to fight again. You are beginning to look like something a dragon would eat." "No," says H'vier to the first question. "They just don't tend to care as much that I happened to impress a particular sort of dragon. Well, some still do. But there are generally fewer." The rest of what she offers makes H'vier lift his head to look at her. "I won't say no if you're willing to help. Anyway, it's not as if I've gone looking for fights. They've all come to me." More or less, anyway. Okay, she doesn't buy /that/, and Lourna openly stares at him with an upraised brow that suggests exactly that. But, by this time, H'vier is probably back to relaxing his sore, beaten self against the wall of the pool. "As you say, bronzerider," she intones politely, settling the bag of soapsand on the mostly-dry edge of the pool beside his head. Working with her hands has made Lourna efficient with them, and she uses them to scoop steaming liquid from the pools to pour over his exposed shoulders to wet them. "They are not always the easiest to live with, all dragonriders are proud, but if you must live with them..." She allows her voice to trail away as she stuffs a hand into that bag long enough to draw out a handful to spread across shoulders, and much of his chest, working it to a dense lather. "Shards, when was the last time you washed?" If she's going to help him, H'vier can at least move away from the side of the pool enough to make his back accessible to her, too. Maybe not right away. "They're just the same as anyone else. Just with... a dragon." He's so good at explaining things. As for when he last washed, the bronzerider has to think about it, which can't be a good sign. "The other day, I'm pretty sure. Things are a bit of a blur." Lourna and H'vier are in a pool together, the former helping the latter, who is kind of hideously bruised and battered at the moment, wash himself. There isn't really anyone else in here right now, between people finishing their duties and dinner on the horizon. Soapsand, in no real short supply for the weyr, is reapplied several times until Lourna can be sure that it's a bruise, and not merely grime coating the rider's skin. Being the bathing pools, their states of undress will come as no surprise, but there's nothing illicit occurring unless scrubbing someone's back with vigor is considered foreplay. With H'vier... If he weren't so battered, bruised, and exhausted, it likely would be. But, for the moment, Lourna is unmolested and her modesty somewhat maintained by the water that she lounges in while rubbing fiercely at H'vier's patchy hide to scour it clean. "Dragons do not pick people like 'anyone' else," she asserts, ignoring his argument baldly while trying to dampen his hair without allowing the water to run into his eyes. Like a cold dash of water, Ceawlin's arrival comes with the clip-clip of sharp shoes, carrying a presence that's bigger than his actual physical height. Warm red leather tunic is tailored tight to torso, complemented by the tailored black trousers that were obviously meticulously picked. Nightly bath, however, takes precedence to fashion, and so the boy immediately begins to disrobe take no obvious note of Lourna nor H'vier at first. Until some noise or sound draws the frigid attention of cool blue eyes and sharp features. Hands pause, eyebrows raise. With dry, deadpan humor, he asks, "Should I leave?" Enunciation is almost perfected to stifle any detectable accent, except perhaps a touch of Crom on some of the rounder syllables. The exhausted bronzerider might hear the young man's entrance but he obviously doesn't care enough to look and see who it is. That and he's a little busy wincing here and there when Lourna presses against a particularly sore bruise. H'vier takes it like a man, though, no complaints or flinching otherwise. It's not until Ceawlin speaks that he glances over at the blond. "Do you feel like you should? You could come give this lovely girl a hand." In bathing him, obviously. Lips part, and Lourna prepares ready to remark upon H'vier's offer towards Ceawlin, but whatever she says never passes muster. The words die in her throat, and instead Lourna awards H'vier with a sharp, brief pinch somewhere more tender than his back. "I am sure that he would much prefer to wash himself before having to scrub at your filth," Lourna supplies instead, though returning dutifully to fulfilling that scrub herself. It doesn't keep her from glancing towards the sharper featured young man whose late adolescence closely matches her own; it's even possible that Ceawlin might recognize her in passing. "No, you are welcome. It's communal, and we are bathing." "Baaaaaaaathing," Ceawlin drawls, dry humor lingering in humorless tones, his fingers once more resuming his own act of disrobing. "Is that what it's being called these days." The beast's bruised and scratched back is given a careless look, but he declines the rider's invitation with, "I think not. I'd much rather attend my own bath. I am no drudge to specialize in back..." Dubiously, gaze sweeps back to include Lourna in his slightly disapproving (don't mind the judgmental here, he's a Harper) glance, "... scrubbing." Still, despite his words, the dry humor lingers, though not quite reaching the frigid depths of pale eyes. Lourna's face is familiar enough that earns her a second glance, but it's hard to see (well notice) much more of H'vier than his back. Hey! It's eye-catching. "Ceawlin. Harper Senior Apprentice." His tone? Totally implies the capitalization. "You've never been fucked before if you think this is anything but bathing, kid," says H'vier over at the harper. "I'm not that bad," he rumbles at Lourna. But he's definitely not put off enough to stop her or anything. If Ceawlin thinks his back looks bad, his face is probably kind of scary. One of his eyes is practically swollen shut and he has some pretty gruesome bruises. "H'vier. Bronzerider." He'll let Lourna introduce herself if she wants to. He'll just watch the blond, gaze less intense than usual due to the tiredness. Ceawlin's condescension colors Lourna's cheeks, but she doesn't grow timid. Not too timid, by any account, and those full lips purse with displeasure at his contempt. "I am not embarassed, nor is it below me, to help someone in need," she mutters with conviction, but the effect is likely spoiled by that lovely rosey flush that tinges the lightly tanned skin of her flesh in a blush that colors clear down to her collar. She's too flustered off-handedly to really laugh at H'vier's joke, but her dark green eyes flit towards Ceawlin guardedly as she massages foaming soapsand into H'vier's hair down to the rider's entitled scalp. "Well met," Ceawlin responds to H'vier, not verbally pointing out the rosy flush and off-kilter behavior of his baths companion. Once clothing is folded (neatly), and set aside, the boy grabs a towel and the random bathing accoutrements which is taken to the nearest pool to Lourna and the rider that's not actually /in/ with them. "And you are?" the harper questions of the flustered girl, "If you're not embarrassed." Was that dry statement a joke? Maybe. May/be/. "You must be," gaze flicks to the battered bronzerider, "well acquainted, then." Why else would anyone be scrubbing this man's back? Right? Right! "And here I thought you just wanted to get your hands all over me, darling," H'vier asides to the girl that has those hands currently in his hair. Which feels pretty good considering the rest of him. Not many bruises on his scalp. "I think that's good, though. I ought to try getting something done." Before anyone finds Bones and wonders what the hell happened to him. Back to Ceawlin, "Not yet. But we will be. You could help with that, too. Learn what's what." The bronzerider grins over at the harper before he's rinsing himself off and starting to head out of the water. If Lourna had the strength, she might have, for a moment, considered beating the man to death with the younger one. Her brief period of murderous rage passes, impotent, and it only serves to redden her cheeks further. "Lourna. My name is Lourna," Lourna offers in a more assertive tone than the prior muttering, though she has now slid several inches deeper into the water, even if it leads her to be splattered with droplets pouring in rivulets from H'vier's mostly scrubbed hide. And it affords her a peek, and she can't /not/ look, even while she's trying to avoid looking as if she might leer at the other teenager. It's not too late to drown, is it? There's no way to look at naked people without looking at naked people. "I'm a Tannercrafter." Pause. "Apprentice. I'll see you later, H'vier," she calls after him, 'trapped' in the pool while he searches for a towel. "Will you," Ceawlin murmurs, that dry humor flaring up in the sharply featured, not quite expressive beyond entitled-harper-brat face. Cold blue gaze catches Lourna at her looking, a smirk turned her way at such an angle that H'vier can't see. "I think I'll pass." Beat. "On the helping of you two getting acquainted." When the bronzerider makes his escape from the baths, the boy merely says, "Good evening," as manners are too well ingrained to /not/ be some form of formal polite. "Tannercraft." Now that Ceawlin has inched his way into the hot pool, attention is focused on his fellow crafter. "I would never have thought such a craft for you." "Thanks for the hands," says the bronzerider, meaning the plural, as he gets out of the cool and heads over to deal with his clothes. That will probably take H'vier little longer than usual to work out but he'll be off on his way eventually, looking a little more his usual self. Whatever that is. A grunt is all the recognition that H'vier's remark is given, and Lourna edges back against the warm wall of the pool as the water level readjusts from H'vier's departure. It leaves her mostly covered, and what isn't hidden beneath the steaming water is obscured by the remaining foamy lather from soapsand clinging to her tanned skin. Without H'vier's distraction, and the shift in conversation, the rush of color to her flesh recedes, and the fluster lifts. Politely, she ignores his former quip, and instead focuses on the latter, though Lourna's dark blonde brows furrow in a quizzical expression. "Why would you think that? I'm rather good at it, though I have a few more turns until I'll be considered for journeyman." "You just don't strike me as a tanner," Ceawlin answers with a shrug, not meaning any insult by it. "I'm sure you must be good at it if you are only a few short turns from walking the tables. Myself, I have only a few turns left myself until I earn my rank." The rank he feels he very much has earned already, if posture and tone are any indication. The act of bathing is rather quick and efficient, scrubbing every inch of skin until it fairly gleams. "Are you new to the weyr?" Curiosity might be in his expression, though it's hard to tell with the way he's positioned in the pools. "And what do I strike you as?" Run, Ceawlin, run far away, for that is a loaded question all too casually asked as Lourna resumes scrubbing at herself. Considering she was quite nearly done when H'vier came in, she is quite well soaked by now and is content in rinsing off the lather from her skin. Growing less perturbed by the minute, the young woman rises from the pools and pays little heed to the fact she is as much in her skin as H'vier was in his. It's communal, and she isn't disturbed by skin, per se. Except when people feel the need to point it out. "New?" This draws a laugh as she hunts for a towel at her own pace, stepping over her leather boots and neatly piled clothing. "I was born here." Small smile curves thin lips, a shifty little smile this. Ceawlin is not too afraid of loaded questions, namely because they are easily avoided. "You strike me as someone who's occupation was something other than the tannercraft, is what, but now that I know, I can see it." Her laughter at his question earns a steely, cold glance. "Unless it's writ on your skin, the place of one's birth is not easily seen, /tanner/." Words are sharply said, the heat from the pools flushing skin, along with the curve of too-delicate ears. He's even leaned forward again, and while his eyes are on Lourna, it's truly just a look. Naked skin is just that, naked skin. Slipping a towel loosely about her rather buxom frame and securing it in place, Lourna goes about methodically collecting her belongings and piling them up in her arms in a few careful scoops. Whatever else she needs to do, it would seem, is not to be done here in front of the harper. But, as she is halfway to the entryway, Ceawlin's tone gives her the excuse to pause abruptly and half turn to peer at him intently while dripping all over the floor. She isn't an intimidating sight, but that doesn't seem her intent. Fingers dig lightly into the abundant leather and linen of her clothes, atop which lie her boots. "You would be surprised. You may not look it, but your actions speak loudly. Only Holdbred would wander in thinking we were doing something illicit and try to excuse themselves." After his earlier behavior, Lourna doesn't mind twisting the dagger a little to prompt a response. "Are you alright? You look a little flushed." She remembers that, as well. "Or," Ceawlin's tone opposes hers, "I assumed that a young, virile woman would only want to scrub the back of a virile dragonrider as a prelude to something else." Eyebrows tick up a notch, "It's not a far-fetched notion, Lourna. Just because you associate that with being Holdbred is not my doing." At the mention of his flushed skin, the boy laughs. And it's not an all together pretty sound. "Tanner, the water is hot. Of course I am flushed. Do you expect my blood to not rise to the surface." Dry humor is disposed for a real, raw humor that finally reaches the eyes to warm their blue frost. "Good-night," he finishes, pulling gaze away from the girl to the water that bubbles around him. Formality in politeness is our Ceawlin. And to this, she's dismissed from his attention, as focus is placed on relaxation and whatever thoughts may ruminate in the harper's mind. Maybe he's composing a love song. You never know! |
Comments
Ainslee (Castandcrew) left a comment on Fri, 25 Jan 2013 16:28:53 GMT.
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Ceawlin's totally going to get SHANKED someday soon. XD I love it! Such a funny little scene. :P
Ceawlin (Ceawlin) left a comment on Fri, 25 Jan 2013 19:00:00 GMT.
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I WILL TOTALLY AVOID ANY SHANKING BY MY WILY WAYS!
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