Logs:A Nice Man
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| RL Date: 22 May, 2012 |
| Who: Azaylia, M'sar |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Azaylia is no Batman, but she's still manages to help Misar out. Barely. |
| Where: Inner Caverns, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
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| Inner Caverns, High Reaches Weyr Within the labyrinth of interconnected chambers that make up the inner caverns, this large, long cavern serves both as a crossroads and a comfortable place for weyrfolk to sit, talk, and keep a nosy eye out for who's going where. Colorful, seasonal tapestries add warmth to the smooth walls and reduce echoes, while large niches house clusters of chairs, and a waist-high stone shelf along one wall provides a perch for drinks or work for residents on the go. Worn brass hooks often hold jackets or other outerwear with workboots stationed beneath, the transitory nature of the cavern lending itself to being treated as a sort of communal foyer where snowy or muddy gear can be kept outside of living quarters. Smaller, higher niches at regular intervals hold glowbaskets kept fresh during the daytime and allowed to dim somewhat at night. The largest tunnels lead to the main living cavern, to the bowl and to the Weyr entrance, but it's still easy for the uninitiated to get lost within this maze. Most are out enjoying the cloudless afternoon: a reprieve from the twisted paths of the inner caverns that traps heat, and noise-- muffled. No prying eyes to see this niche, where the glows have been discreetly dimmed by a few thick riding jackets. Near the opening of the hall, a scattered array of tray, food mashed by half a footprint and now unidentifiable: something dropped in a hurry. Four against one; rough hands latch onto a collar, hauling that lone cornered wolf up to his feet after he'd crashed with a scrape onto knees. M'sar's hair has gone wild; pale, scattered, as flustered as his eyes aren't. Hard, distinctive-- equally pale-- they glint a strange, detached mocking that is at once unreadable and yet felt, primally, by the lead rider. Without quite knowing why, he gives M'sar's shoulder an extra shove, rubbing the younger man's unremarkable jacket into unyielding stone. "Why don't you fess up already, you creepy little festerwound." Once again, Azaylia is hidden away within the depths of the weyr rather than soaking up what little sun remains before winter takes hold. Hard sole boots carry her with a steady rhythm through the caverns, a mountain of clean laundry piled into the basket she carries. The strain in her arms is a satisfying one at that, young woman in the best of moods as she passes the darkened niche. There's no thought for dimmed glows, but as her boot steps on the edge of the fallen tray there's some concern. Those vicious words have her skittering backwards, ducking against the tunnel and peering into the darkness. She wills her widened eyes to grow accustomed to the lack of light, biting back a squeak of fear. What in the world? One face in four turns at the sound of the kicked tray, squinting viciously into a darkness he created with eyes slightly more adjusted yet missing the quick scatter of movement. Tapping his leader on the shoulder, he's shrugged aside. Too frustrating is the odd silence from his target, whose shoulder he ferociously pushes until the bone squeaks like he wants M'sar to. Another set of hands interferes at M'sar's waist, digging around in low jacket pockets, or at his belt, until one by one, everything the shrimp owns is dropped carelessly to the floor, crushed by heels. "He's just a little worm," one of the less eager participants scoffs, causing a chain reaction of chuckles. "Yeah..." The leader agrees, almost amiably, loosening his grip on M'sar so that he stands by his own power-- just for a second, "Then he should squirm like one-- " before the rider slams his palm into M'sar's pale face, driving, rubbing the vulnerable skin against a wall built of rough-cut stone and no lenience. When he lets go, M'sar's face bounces back, and they share a little laugh as he instinctively stumbles. Appalled, Azaylia's eyes adjust enough to get a good idea of what's going on- not that she can believe it at first. Long legs threaten to give out once the realization truly hits her, fingers clutching the woven basket even tighter against her chest. Leave him alone she wills, silently. Cowardly. Unsteady steps have her ducking further back, prepared to turn and run once the four men relent. They don't. Relaxed resolve leaves her unprepared for more, horrified gasp leaving the candidate with hands slapping over her mouth. The abandoned basket hovers in the air before falling with a rustle, freshly laundered things tumbling out across the floor. Fear has her rooted on the spot, breath held, desperately hoping that their own cruel laughter has drowned her out. "Shh-- " hisses through the laughter, barely noticed, hardly heeded. One among them still eyeballing the visibly empty corridor, his face etched in sharper relief for any peepers amongst the more shadowed, more easily misconstrued looks of the others, their jackets shed and positions unclear-- though by her head, a dimmed glow tells the knotted tale: brownrider, one of them-- right before it slips, jacket wrenched by its precarious position, and the loosened knot falls subtlty into the spilled laundry. Somebody lets a fist out, and M'sar wheezes, nearly suffocated merely by the unrelenting loom of their larger figures. Pushes, trying to rouse him, turn briefly more juvenile than menacing; harsh little come-ons, vicious encouragements. Shooting a disgruntled look at his companions, the scout shoves off from the wall, advancing with questioning eyes on Azaylia's position. Abruptly, M'sar doubles over, cold eyes watering with sudden despair, his mouth moving in a distinct groan. Scout turns on his heels, as the leader dives down to catch M'sar's collar back up, pull him straight. "What's that, squealer, ready to squeal?" Azaylia keeps her eyes clenched shut, hands pressing harshly atop her lips. The candidate is doing her best to try and melt into the wall, away from here. Away from what she's seen. Breath is held without her realizing it, for the best as that jacket comes suddenly sliding down, knees close to buckling from fright. Instead, she's left leaning against the cavern wall, uncovered ears forced to listen to their jeering. Every harsh impact has Azaylia jerking in place, as if she's the one being struck. The sound of his groan is what plucks the final cord within, forcing tall candidate to lurch towards them on unsteady legs. "S-Sto..." She whimpers, breath stolen away by fear. And then, "STOP IT!" Voice is high pitched but carrying an unfamiliar rasp, paired with balled fists on either side and scrunched face- the perfect way to enter a potential fight. Fists, feet, laughter-- screech to a startled stop, just as commanded, though not with the same spirit. The scuffling takes seconds to let up; "Faranth!" the scout turning, rapping his friends' shoulders even as they wisen to the raspy-voice intruder. Several disoriented blinks size Azaylia up; who in the... The leader's grip tightens around M'sar's collar on either side, as soon as to strangle him as the mock-niceties he really performs, straightening that jacket and brushing the younger man off in the facade of having helped him up. Palms fake dust hard enough to shove him back again, putting some defensable distance between predators and prey. Azaylia is not so menacing as to inspire immediate retreat, just the slow backtracking of legs, as each rider callously drags his jacket off the assorted glows till the hall's flooded with an unforgiving new light that suffocates adjusted eyes and casts a new paleness to M'sar, left where he's been pushed. "Come on..." is one mutter. But the leader skates past Azaylia, grinning wickedly down on her as if he meant give her, height and all, a pat on the head: good dog. "Nothing to see here," he remarks pleasantly; too. It can be no less than a warning where they trod off. It's hardly a comforting sight to see one's savior trembling like a leaf in the wind. It's particularly disheartening as Azaylia is visibly battling the urge to turn and run away. The important thing is that she does stay, however glued to that one spot. The bullies are pinned with narrowed eyes that might have more of an impact if they weren't half filled with tears, quivering lower lip taking something away from that scowl as well. The assault of bright lights has brown eyes narrowing into slits for that leader as he grins down at her. "J-just because..." Heroic speech is cut short as her intended audience leaves at that unhurried pace. Once they're completely gone, the candidate mostly /falls/ in the direction of M'sar, managing to catch herself before further slamming him into the wall. "A-are you..? Do you need..?" Hands hover without touching, yanked back only to repeat those actions several times, completely at a loss. Heaving, but unhurried, breaths fill the musty niche as M'sar rocks his good shoulder into the rock, holding no grudges for the smear of broken skin its left over his left cheek and the tip of his nose. Cool pale eyes find Azaylia unerringly aside a little wheeze, judging her up and down with an irreverent lack of embarrassment for his predicament. Unlike the departed, his-- crooked, wrinkled-- jacket is plain, with no distinguishing knot on his resting shoulder. "Oh-- I'm peachy," his voice a slow amble of self-deprecation, as he watches her stop-and-start with a studious sort of detachment. A whimper, "Such a stupid question, I know..." Self deprecation seems to be the theme of this rescue. Hands lack the confidence to touch him, and just like that she's turning away. Clumsy legs tangle and force the girl to stumble as she reaches the walkway, landing hard on her knees but ignoring it. A white cloth is plucked from the fallen laundry pile while her other hand comes in contact with something... corded. Wide eyes stare down at the brownrider's knot hanging limply in her palm. It's stuffed into one of her pockets as she rises to her feet, rushing back over to M'sar and murmuring, "You're bleeding." Personal space will be invaded out of concern, offering the cloth to help take care of that. M'sar's hand strikes across his mouth, wiping a bit of spittle and grit off, with a vigor nearly no less than his assailants while he watches Azaylia's back. Suspicion narrows his eyes as hard as sharp observation, marking her-- uncertain of her-- all conveniently invisible when she comes at him again, and he's a thin, gangly, and wide-eyed victim. "So I-- " a wince interrupts him as the cloth makes, even gentle, contact with his face, "-- am..." Mysticism floats into his voice, tangling up curiosity and confusion. A possible disorientation from going straight from rough contact to helpful. Night and day are the hands that have been on him. Her touch is far too gentle, managing to get some blood off his cheek though his wince has her taking in a sharp inhale. "M'sorry." Azaylia pulls back, cloth still hovering at cheek-level with him as concerned eyes take in the damage. "I-I'm not a healer." The knot says candidate. "Do you need help? Getting to one?" Empty hand is offered, palm out for him to take the strapping young woman's arm. It drops suddenly, "O-Oh. M'names Azaylia." Comes the squeak, before that limb reaches out again, offering assistance with about all the bravery she can muster. "Clearly," the high voice drawls low, spotting the knot amongst her clothes only after he grades her retraction at such a tiny drawback. Drooping, tired body language does more to defuse the possible sarcasm, lending too well to the image that the pale-faced, wild-haired young man is small, careful-- fitting into the glove of Azaylia's, even hesitant, care. He lets the hand hover, staring shyly, then reaching out in that same instant she retreats, causing him to stagger, eyes widening, in the loss of assumed support. "Azaylia," he repeats, sweetly; the name of a beautiful Lady, or a savior. "I'm Misar, I..." his hand darts shyly to his face, touching the tip of his scratched nose, "What you must-- think of me right now..." Azaylia is there to offer oodles of support, strong frame more than capable of steadying Misar. Sarcasm rolls off her shoulders, the young woman oblivious to the bite that his tone might have had. No, she's far too eager to believe in the sweet, shaken baby bird of a man in her arms, "I..." She echoes, voice catching in her throat, "No, no... nothing gives anyone the right to do this. Not even riders." Is that quiet scorn in her voice? It melts away all too soon in a delicate coo, "Come on now, can you walk? I'll help as long as you'll let me," Head ducks some. "Uhm, Misar. Right?" He's welcome to take an experimental step, sure to find that the young woman is being honest. If a little too enthusiastic at the prospect of helping, "D-do you need me to carry you?" Sliding his hand underneath her arm, then the other over it, M'sar greedily accepts what's offered, his legs suffering a slight wobble as he detaches from the wall. His finger sliding away carelessly flicks a speck of his own blood off the surface. A gracious nod tells her she has his name, and he takes that step-- swaying more in his slight overwhelm at the fullness of her help than any physical ailment. "No! No-- that's... really fine," whimpering alarm melts halfway into that blithe attitude before he corrects himself, swinging his face to her with an earnest look fit for his youthful face. He stops their progress with a strong foot contrasting his reliance on her. "I'd actually..." but his face falls, gaze darkening under the shadows, as if he's lost his courage. Azaylia does her best to steady him as he sways, "Careful now." Comes the gentle reminder. Her fears are pushed aside for Misar's sake, voice surprisingly even though it's returned to that breathless whisper. "Alright. Then let's just concentrate on one foot in front of the other." He may as well have lost 18 or so turns with how she's babying him, tone easily meant for a toddler. Or in her case, for a spooked runner. She pauses when he does, head turning with concerned curiosity written plainly on her face. "You'd..? What? Please, d-don't be shy." Kettle, pot, black. "I'll do anything. Get you something?" Possible guilt at letting those ruffians have at him for so long? Hanging head, he sighs-- right until those promising words: anything. M'sar's head buoys up, springing with that earnestness. His hand wraps companionably around Azaylia's more than for support. "I think we should keep this our little secret." So prepared, and so certain, it's akin of a command; a command wrapped in the soft wrapping of a request tied with a sincere bow. But that subtle undertone of pushing nonetheless. "Just between us." Us; it's so personal, so inviting. "It would really hurt me if this got out." Azaylia's brain stalls even as her mouth opens to respond, and it may not all be from the surprise of his request. Gaze drops to his hand on hers before bouncing back up to his face, "O-oh." Tongue flicks over her lower lip, the flesh following all to quickly back into her mouth where she can chew on it a bit. "Uhm, okay." So, so very reluctant. But he has her compliance. "If you think that's best." She did say anything. "And I'd hate to hurt you, Misar." Anymore than she has by not stepping in sooner, but that guilt will gnaw at her later. For now, "Does that mean you don't want to go to the Healers?" Though she'll try to take a step forward, for the sake of progress. "Azaylia," again, her name, in its perfection, "You're so sweet." It almost, to the keenest ears, isn't a compliment-- just a noted truth behind M'sar's bright smile. "I'll be fine, thanks to you-- " kick, kick at Azaylia's guilt, "this time..." But a more rueful expression overtakes him, casting all of his brief happiness into a resigned loss. "Telling someone that a gang of riders dragged me into the hall will sound like a wild story against their word." A light gnaw on his lower lip comes up empty as he stares despondently off to the side of her shoulder, "If only I had something to keep them at bay..." "Nha-not that..." She tries to argue against what must surely be a compliment, one she doesn't think she rightly deserves. Spilled laundry and food tray are ignored for now, though even Misar will be able to deduce that she'll come back for both once he's taken care of. "I could- Oh. But you don't want anyone to know." She deflates, staying solid enough for him to lean on her strength if he needs it. Hoplessness is dashed away as the candidate's gaze follows him- her knot. Oh! Knot! "Oh!" She uses her free hand to fish out the brownrider's cord, brandishing it underneath Misar's nose. "Will this help? It fell off of one of their jackets w-when... uhm." Well it fell off. That's what's important. Oh! M'sar's face alights after a brief spell of not comprehending based mostly on that his eyes have difficulty focusing on an object so close. When he blinks enough and brings the knot into focus, he lets the cords lay across his examining palm without snatching it quite from her grip. "Of course. Azaylia, how can I ever thank you..." Presumably by handing the knot over; she's already mystically healed him; he begins to stand more on his own weight now than before, with only a soft wince for when his mouth spreads his cut cheek. Blink. And the knot is no longer in her hand, but in Misar's. "It's nothing, really." Pleading for him not to make her out to be some grand savior, doe eyes seeming to double in size. If her complexion allowed it, sure enough there would have been a blush on her cheeks this entire time. As he straightens a bit and seems more capable of taking on his own weight she's all too optimistic, "Feeling better?" She's able to smile now, subtle as it is, glad to have done some good for the poor man. "Yes." Evidence in his bolder stance, but with M'sar's hand lingering amongst Azaylia's fingers so that they, momentarily, connected by the knot. "You've really helped me." A larger undertone suggests a purpose larger than his wobbly stature -- or may, in retrospect. For now, he exercises the good shoulder, then drifts his hand cautiously to the other, sliding over what is likely bruising beneath shirt and jacket and giving an inquisitive roll of the blade. "You know," he ventures, "I think it's not as bad as it looked." That smile blossoms fully, so much so that her eyes have to close as that head tilts, relief all too genuine. "Oh, I'm so glad..." She'll let his hand go to inspect his shoulder, her own eyes falling on that particularly abused bodypart. Surprise leaves her in a squeak, eyes wide should he catch her looking, flicking back to his face. "R-Really?" Concern won't be so easily brushed aside, just as Azaylia isn't so easy to shake loose. "At least let me walk with you?" To the Healers, or wherever it is he's headed. "P-Please?" The young woman is forcing her company on him, retreating slightly at the realization. "...just in case." A flutter of actual, brow-darkening surprise washes some of the bright innocence off M'sar-- yet it serves only to make him look even more naive, even younger, in a strange flash that is quickly gone as he turns from wondering at her insistence to calculating it. "Ummm... yeah." In that second where he's uncertain. If he regrets it, nothing shows; his lip on one side slips up higher wryly. "Because you insisted." Nudging that trait into a positive light, as he subtly brushes his hand on her arm in that gentle way, subconsciously associating the two. Taking a couple of warily limping strides, he glances across his shoulder at her, "See, I can even-- " only to veer with a stumble, happening to knock right into the laundry basket, his foot tangling in an abandoned sheet. Blinking widely, he stabilizes and looks between her and the basket, "... Oh... oh, no. We can't just leave this here." Her poor things. Azaylia is already making excuses, "I mean, I won't if you'd rather- I just want to make sure you're safe." That much is true, and isn't just spurned on by her earlier pangs guilt. Hands fly to her mouth the second time that day, but the visit is short lived as she's lurching forward to help steady the stumbling man. "Ohthat'sallmyfault." All carried on a whimpering exhale, both hands making sure that he's steady before pulling away. They still hover nearby, at the ready. "It's fine." Relief has her sounding even more dismissive towards the laundry. "I'll come back after and clean everything up." Not a hint of anything bitter in her tone, explaining rather matter-of-factly. M'sar waves a reassuring hand at the steadying with a tight-lipped smile, avoiding her nearby hands with a little lanky bodied squirm aside, putting a bit of laundry basket smoothly between them. "Noo... no," he says, "I couldn't; I'd feel terrible. You shouldn't have to inconvenience yourself just for little old me. Come on," and he dips, completely ungracefully, down to begin picking up ends of fabrics, "You'd better help me if you want your folds to look anything good." Surprised, Azaylia hesitates in helping only as long as it takes her to realize that Misar is doing it for her. "Oh!" Dropping to her knees, she ignores the familiar sting from earlier. Rather than try to talk him out of it, skilled hands are quick to fold what she can by herself. The larger things, such as sheets she can handle as well, but should Misar offer to help she'll accept without argument. "...Thank you." She'll mumble, clearly feeling undeserving of his aid. It should be the other way around, shouldn't it? "Well, I owe you, don't I?" offers M'sar as explanation around the sheet he snaps to attention in front of his face, only to have Azaylia's much more practiced hands take it off of him, causing him to cast that secretive wry grin at her authoritative expertise. He rocks back on his heels; in the end, he does very little at all, without it quite seeming that way. As the last fold hits the basket, he lifts achingly, but thoroughly, to his feet, rubbing his hand on his thigh. "Good. The laundry's all set, so I shouldn't hold you off from that any longer," it sounds so practical and obvious-- easy to follow. "Mmnnoo.." Azaylia will argue, sounding like the rest of her frightened noises, easy to disregard. Misar's slacking goes unnoticed, or if it is the she prefers that he takes it easy, so nothing is said on the matter. Speed and skill in which she folds gives the illusion of calm, when in reality her thoughts are going a mile a minute. Easily distracted, or confused. Hoisting the basket up, she stands and peers around the pile of linens at him. "O-oh?" Wasn't she..? Hm. "Right. Have a good-" Head ducks behind the laundry, hiding. "Have a better day. Okay Misar?" Steps are careful, giving the man a wide berth so as not to accidetally knock him down in order to continue down the cavern's path. What a nice man! M'sar's smile follows her, his turned gaze leading her out as he limps a few paces towards the opposite path, pleasantly seeing her off and around the corner, whereupon he turns promptly on his heel, walking in a strict, unencumbered gait down the way she'd come, blatantly ignoring the heap of discarded food. With a haughty tug, he fixes the sloping fall of his jacket until it sits precise, and he smoothes at a wrinkle but, more importantly, drives a hand into his pocket there to eye his new prize: the brownrider's lost knot. Focus-- but focus elsewhere-- fades already washed-out eyes, making the distinction nearly invisible for those who don't know the calculation they are capable of holding. Outside, molten bronze muscles bunch and a fire-cracked dragon lifts from the pens to land amongst the shadows of the bowl.
M'sar Lie Count9 |
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