Logs:Blinded By Estrogen
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| RL Date: 21 January, 2013 |
| Who: Ainslee, H'vier |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: New transfers feel each other out and attempt a conversation. |
| Where: Living Cavern |
| When: Day 13, Month 11, Turn 30 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: K'del/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Some vulgar language. |
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| Lunchtime has mostly passed, with only the late-running strays still filtering through to claim plates piled high: today this includes an entire half of Hailstorm, having ran specialty drilling under Iona today. Ainslee numbers amongst these riders, trailing the main body of them and looking slightly out-of-place compared to the tremendous amount of back-slapping, name-calling, and general convival spirits that are manifest among her wingmates. She loads her plate with food efficiently, no apparent rhyme or reason to what ends up on said plate. So far H'vier has had a talented way of looking like he's not doing a damned thing most of the time. Right now is one of those times. He's sitting at a table along the edge of the cavern all by his lonesome with an empty plate and a less empty mug, watching as part of Hailstorm makes their entrance. He tracks a person here and a person there with his dark gaze but in the end it's a certain red head that catches his attention and he stares quite shamelessly at her while she puts a plate of food together. Isn't that what most bronzeriders are good for? Greenriders, in contrast, have this whole-- eyes in the back of their head phenomenon. Or maybe that's just Ainslee. After she balances a pair of rolls on top of her plate - where the crap does she put it all? - the woman turns about to find a table, a slight frown still evident about her expression. Hailstorm has filed into tables, and an apologetic bluerider waves at her to offer his own seat, but Ainslee shakes her head and focuses instead, deliberately, on H'vier. A ruddy eyebrow lifts, before she changes direction to step mildly towards where the bronzerider sits. Throat clears, husky alto extended: "Anyone sitting here?" She gestures across from where H'vier sits, an obviously empty seat. He's still staring at her when Ainslee looks over at him and he isn't going to back out of that whole thing now. H'vier grins broadly as she approaches, fancy seeing you here! "Not yet. But if someone's going to, I think it ought to be you." He's full of pick up lines, isn't he? At least this one seems mostly innocent. "Not fitting into your new wing?" he asks with a nodded gesture toward that bluerider. Not the worst she's heard, to be sure. Ainslee seats herself, then shrugs a shoulder at the question sent her-ways. "This is the half that I'm not sure about. I seem to get along better with N'chi's side." Whatever that means - internal Hailstorm politics are dizzying enough for someone who does ride with said wing, much less someone outside of it. "They would have made room for me, I'm sure," easily stated as she starts in on a generous portion of gravy-laden tubers. "But then I would have deprived you of a sensible seatmate, and that would have just been-- absolutely malicious of me, wouldn't you think?" She gestures with a forkful of food, her smile curving into something both ambiguous and just this side of suggestive, all at the once. A beat later, slightly more seriously: "How are you liking it, so far?" Much less someone as new to Reaches' politics in general as either of them. Horrible things, those politics. H'vier watches as Ainslee begins to eat, glancing briefly again over to where the rest of part of her wing is settled before all of his attention comes back to her and his grin grows across his scruffy face. "Absolutely," he agrees. "I guess I should thank you for your sacrifice, then." He has to take a minute or so to consider his answer to her last question but he uses the time to study her face and take a small drink from his mug. "I'm not sure yet. I've never done this before. Transferred to a new Weyr. I think if I do it again, I'll try to make sure no golds are due to rise anytime soon after." Maybe. "I suppose you should," Ainslee agrees with a prim note to voice and expression, pausing long enough to make it obvious that she is expecting that thank-you. A moment later, that selfsame smile breaks through, and she returns to chewing through her grub. A glance filters sideways towards her misplaced wingmates, when one brownrider turns expressively loud and even goes so far to stand on his seat to better demonstrate some aerial move to the next table over. Ainslee shakes her head, amused, and refocuses in on H'vier. "I've never, either," she admits. "Eleven turns at Benden-- poof." A hand gesture accompanies that last, fingers flickering upwards as smokerings disppearing into the dark. She laughs, briefly, at the end. "You don't really want to be weyrleader of a weyr you're not familiar with, do you?" Her voice is amused, eyes bright as she considers her seatmate. The waiting keeps his grin lingering and H'vier will offer up his thanks properly. "Thank you, dear Ainslee, for gracing me with your delightful presence." Just ignore the sarcasm buried in there, okay? Best for everyone. "Eleven, huh?" he repeats, eyeing her like he's estimating her age. "Why wouldn't I? Instant respect, if forced, in a Weyr that, so far, has been nothing but suspicious. And a wonderful 'fuck you' to the people back home. Sounds like a win-win to me." "You are welcome, darling H'vier," Ainslee returns with sicklingly-sweet murmur. "Eleven," in much more normal tone, a challenge underneath: what's it to you? Plants her at anywhere from twenty-five to forty, though she certainly appears to the more youthful side of the scale. His last comment deserves an eyeroll, so Ainslee gives it one. "Spoken like such a man. No time for consideration or consequence, just the surface attractiveness to draw your attention, make you think you'd like to try it out." They are still talking about rank, aren't they? Oh. Yes. Sure they are. Fortunately H'vier focuses on the last things she says rather than worrying about how old she may or may not be or the sound of her tone. "Just like a woman," he returns with a slightly less amiable smile. But that doesn't stick around for long. "Jumping to conclusions, thinking you've got it all figured out. But if K'del could manage it just out of weyrlinghood with a Weyrwoman like Tiriana, I think anyone could. It's not like he left a very high bar to live up to anyway, is it?" Ainslee can't help but snort at that, the noise ambiguous enough to not quite be agreement, but not necessarily rejection of his statement, either. "I think I'm rather content to be a greenrider," she states in an attempt to avoid bringing this down to an argument about the obvious superiority of women over stinky men. "Goldriders here seem to have... bad fates." Her lips curl into a grimace, and she stares at a forkful of green beans with entirely too much contemplation than the legumes deserve. "All the more reason for them to have a decent man beside them." That's apparently what H'vier thinks of himself. He's a decent man. "It must be nice to have no thoughts or prospects of ambition," he adds a little more thoughtfully. He probably doesn't actually mean that as an insult. He might not have even meant to say it out loud. Poor H'vier. He just brings it upon himself, doesn't he? Ainslee turns from mild and accommodating to frigid bitch in .007 seconds. "Oh. Well, much nicer than having... having... surreal illusions of grandeur!" Okay, maybe not frigid bitch - there's a decided amount of heat in her words. "It isn't as if your ambition actually requires -work-, after all; all flight-winners tend to be are lucky bastards. There's no skill to that." She's leaning far back, now, rather looking like she's ready to take her plate and rejoin her wingmates, regardless of how rowdy they may be. At first H'vier just watches Ainslee start her snit, one brow arching just slightly higher than the other. "It's not as though I just Impressed yesterday, woman. If you don't think I've been working for my ambitions, you're a fool." Blinded by estrogen, no doubt! "Just because what I want is decided by an archaic standard doesn't mean I haven't fucking worked for it." Whether or not that's true is an entirely separate matter. But the big bronzerider sounds affected enough by her accusations to seem sincere in his offense. "Oh? Pray tell, how hard have you worked for it in the five minutes you've been here?" Ainslee rearranges herself forwards, now, ignoring her food to drop her chin into one hand, elbow on the table, in what appears to be a very classic listening stance for her. She's all ears, obviously. (Also a bitch, obviously.) She doesn't take this moment to appreciate the masculinity of scruffed cheeks or deep-set eyes, oh no. Of course not. "Short-sighted fucking women," is what H'vier is cursing to himself as he lifts a hand to rub at his eyes like she's giving him a headache. "So you think me getting transferred here is the culmination of my devious, masterful plan, right?" Well, the adjectives might be up for debate but the question remains. "I didn't even want to come here. So you're sharding well right that Reisoth better get his dick wet when that gold rises." For some reason, that's just cause for Ainslee to start - well, a grin is awfully undignified, but that's very close to the expression on her face. Is she /laughing/ at him? (Silently?) Maybe. "If you say so, H'vier." She waves off the conversation with a flick of the hand that her chin was just resting upon. Fickle woman. "Do you have a back-up plan, should Reisoth's dick remain depressingly dry in the aftermath?" Doe-eyes, so incongruous with the words spoken. It's pretty obvious that H'vier is trying to keep what is surely a very manly temper in check. The set of his scruffy jaw betrays his frustration even if he looks mostly unruffled otherwise. "You'll be the first to know it if I need it." In other words, guess where H'vier has decided he's heading if Reisoth loses! "Mmm, so romantic," Ainslee comments. "My bed isn't big enough for you," is her other statement, bald as it may be. "It's hardly big enough for /me/." And obviously there is a certain size differential between the curvy, short greenrider and tall, muscular H'vier. She's about finished her dinner, now, sopping up the last of her gravy with a bit of roll. "I suppose the newcomers never get nice weyrs." Her voice is wry; eleven turns of riding was senior enough to have a decent, if not decadent, place before. The greenrider sighs, now. "While this has been absolutely lovely..." The glitter of teeth isn't quite a smile, but isn't quite /not/, lingering in-between; "... I do believe a bath is calling my name." Notably, H'vier's not tendered an invitation to join her. Poor man. "A bed won't be necessary," is H'vier's response, trying on a new smile. "Enjoy yourself, darling." That might be just a tiny bit condescending but H'vier is a little too agitated to care about that very much just this second. Not so agitated that he won't watch the view as she leaves, though. Ainslee laughs, at that, a throaty little something that is nonetheless completely at him and not with him. Then she reaches across the table, to pat H'vier on the head like the good attack dog he is- at least the reward for allowing such is /such/ a great view, Ainslee leaning at such an angle! -and meander off to dump off her plate and cup and rejoin her wingmates, sauntering off to bathe away any last lingering grime. |
Comments
Comments on "Logs:Blinded By Estrogen"Brieli (Brieli) left a comment on Tue, 22 Jan 2013 03:29:22 GMT.
It isn't as if your ambition actually requires -work-, after all; all flight-winners tend to be are lucky bastards. There's no skill to that.
Oh, preach, Ainslee. Amen.
Azaylia (Dragonshy) left a comment on Tue, 22 Jan 2013 04:06:16 GMT.
Like gasoline and fire, these two. It's beautiful. *_*
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