Logs:In Hot Water
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| RL Date: 23 June, 2015 |
| Who: T'mic, Yesia, Jorrth, Aeaeth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Yesia catches T'mic in the hot springs and has a proposition for him. (Spoiler: It's sex.) |
| Where: Hot Springs, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 27, Month 1, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Cold. But not cold enough to put a damper on things. |
| Mentions: C'ris/Mentions, Faryn/Mentions, J'vain/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, K'zin/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions |
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Even further north than the Weyr itself, a short flight between crags and over crevasses that even a wing-scarred veteran of Fall might undertake, a cluster of clearings lies low in the shelter of hardy trees and ancient stone. The outer two clearings might have been lost to more stubbly trees Turns ago, if it weren't for the centre-most: a natural pool of warm, softly bubbling water several dragonlengths across, with enough space for perhaps a half-dozen people and their lifemates. Though the air is cold all Turn round, and snowdrifts frequently whiten the ground, the geothermal activity heats the mineral-scented water to such a consistently comfortable heat that it becomes a refuge for those who don't wish to travel further afield to wash their dragons. Of the clearings that abut the spring, the nearest is only a few steps away, though it's small enough that only a few dragons can lounge at once. A steep trail descends to its substantially larger neighbor, a gravel-strewn crescent with enough space to spread out and enjoy the crisp air and the mountain range's admittedly spectacular views. They've swept; they've checked in; they've not even gotten home yet. This was a plan all along, ever since Jorrth's disastrously dirty hunt this morning. In the nearby clearing, those swiss army straps that still sort of fit Jorrth are laid out on the ground, along with a pile of riding gear, and basic clothes. In the pool are the blue and his rider, scrubbing and occasionally splashing at each other and swimming around and, by all accounts, having a grand time in the swimming hole, thoroughly enjoying a moment's relaxation amidst the steam that rises into the chilly winter air. Aeaeth is a fastidious little thing about her hide, a thing that doesn't just happen. That she always looks so clean, freshly scrubbed, is not accident but regimen, one that includes a daily trip to this exact spot, at this exact time, when the pools are usually empty, at least for a time. T'mic probably can't see how Yesia's face contorts with dismay, just a little, when she notices that is not the case today, but Aeaeth doesn't catch on fast enough, and her announcement of, « Jorrth! » is for Yesia and the world to hear as she lands, folding her wings and wiggling impatiently for her straps to come off. Yesia's obliging in that, and quick; they're off soon enough, and Aeaeth is slipping into the pools to leave Yesia behind. The red-head takes cautious steps around the edge of the pool, until she's come up beside and behind where T'mic and Jorrth are, at which point she starts unbuckling and unzipping her jacket. "Hello, T'mic," is saccharine sweet. « Aeaeth! » answers Jorrth, only to her and T'mic, but sounding pleased nonetheless. He likes this green, and openly - perhaps it's made easier by the fact that T'mic doesn't despise her rider as so many of the others do. T'mic is holding on to his dragon's shoulder about the time that the other weyrling pair arrive, and draws himself in closer, until his side bumps up against Jorrth's. Which takes some time, because Jorrth is moving to watch his clutchsibling enter the pool, wings lifting just a little in the water. « This is nice. I see why you come here all the time. I don't know why we don't more, except T'mic is so busy. » Presumably, Jorrth is too, but that's just details. And T'mic, still holding firm to his dragon, manages to twist his head around, and offer Yesia a smile, only slightly stunted by that tone. "Hey." A big hand gestures to the pool, plenty of room. Fully submerged, Aeaeth enthuses, « It's the best. It's even better than my rock in the lake. I think I'm too big for that now, so I'm glad this is here. » She hasn't come from under the water yet, and seems content to do little curlicue figures while Yesia removes the rest of her riding gear, leaving her water decent. Which, well. It's winter, at least? In she goes, and over Aeaeth comes so Yesia can begin to scrub sand between a pair of neck ridges. Yesia graces T'mic with a smile, the most radiant thing she's mustered all week. "You don't come here often," she says, mirroring her dragon's conversation without realizing. "How were your sweeps?" T'mic shakes his head, pushing off of Jorrth once Yesia's started to work on Aeaeth, and half-paddling his way to his dragon's midsection. "We like it, there's just... there's so much else. And he doesn't seem to need lots of baths, in winter. Usually." The bluerider squints through the water, toward that bit of hide that sits beneath one of the many, many buckles on their straps, reaching his hands - not wrinkled, yet - down to run over it. Which inevitably pushes him more backwards, and makes him have to approach all over again. "Good. Like sweeps. There's so much we see, you know?" And then, a longer look, a bit of a tilt of his head. "You guys weren't flying today, were you?" Beat. "Girls." « There are lots of wonderful places around our home, » enthuses Jorrth, while waiting patiently on his rider. « Have you seen the meadows? When the snow piles there, you can almost make drawings just by walking in them. » "Aeaeth cracks," Yesia confides, pointing at the spot she's scrubbing. "Maybe it's because they're Igen dragons, maybe they were bred for warmer weather? Her skin gets tight and cracks the colder it is, even though it always feels wet." She rolls her eyes a little and lays flat along Aeaeth's neck, to really put some elbow grease into that spot. The green rumbles with pleasure and lists off to one side happily. "No," she says. "I ...had to get something. For my weyr." It's not a good reason to leave off duties, but who stopped her? Nobody, that's who. Aeaeth sounds affronted. « No! » She turns a big eye on Yesia, betrayed, then remembers, « Sometimes, we go to the lake at night, and build snowmen. We haven't figured out snowdragons, even though I don't ...think...they're that hard. » T'mic looks over toward Aeaeth's hide obligingly, but doesn't look entirely convinced. Or even all that judgemental. "I don't know that they're any more Igen dragons than they are High Reaches dragons. Or Istan dragons. Jorrth likes the snow well enough, and he loves sliding on ice... Besides, even the people who've grown up here get dry skin in winter. Of course the dragons do too." There's a smile, aimed at Aeaeth, this time. He likes her, too. "Oh." And his hands are up and away from that bit of hide, satisfied for the time being. "What'd you get?" Jorrth is intrigued. « I've never made snow dragons either. Or snow men. But I bet the meadow would be good for it. » When Yesia says, "Maybe we'll agree to disagree, then," he should probably take his things and just go, for his own safety. The time that Yesia doesn't defend her own opinion, however banal, is a dire time indeed. She's made quick progress down Aeaeth's back, and pats the dragon gently to indicate she should dip. Like a sinking ship, Aeaeth goes down, bubbling in the last and leaving her rider to push off and flip onto her back to float in the warm water. Her hair ans out around her head and her eyes drift closed, but her trajectory has her angled towards T'mic. "Who told you about mating flights?" is an abrupt direction change for the conversation. « Well, » sounds suddenly a little coy, « maybe yours could take mine and we could make snowthings. Together. » T'mic doesn't press. Nope. He does idly wave water over Jorrth's mostly-submerged hindquarters, though, while his blue happily watches Aeaeth, an amused snort hitting as much air as it does water for her bubbles. A sidelong look as Yesia draws near. And then a flat, "Uh." And just when he's ready to answer, he actually thinks on it, and comes out with, "I guess the weyrwoman, first. The one who's- Azaylia. That was before Jorrth, though. And then J'vain." Now, the obvious question, a dumb, "Why?" « I guess he could. We're getting more time now, you now. Now that we get to be like actual an actual dragon and rider, not just weyrlings. And he has mittens. » Then, the obvious question, a keen, « Are you good at making snow things? » « I am very good at rolling the balls and stacking them up, if I'm careful, » preens Aeaeth, doing barrel rolls in the water even though she's not soapy. She just likes it. Yesia's drifted close now, close enough that a minute turn of the head means she can open one eye and get a bead on T'mic perfectly, green and bright and devious. Her smile is lazy. "Just curious. They're doing them all seperatly, it's hard to keep track. Did they tell you...anything special?" "Oh," says T'mic, and he puts a hand on Jorrth's hip. And then lets his forearm come into contact with his dragon's hide as well. "I don't know. Just... I guess the etiquette for it? Like, where to go, and making sure you're... available..." T'mic's face is starting to turn red. Must be the extra heat from having his arm submerged. "Are you keeping track because you're doing leadership?" From anyone else, it might have been sass. From T'mic, it's curiosity. « I would like to see that! » He would. « We'll see, » sing-songs Aeaeth, watching not Jorrth but T'mic. With the same, odd intensity Yesia's got. The girl rights herself, wringing her hair as she treads a little closer to T'mic. "Not exactly," she says. "I just, was wondering. Can I ask you a personal question?" Gosh, she's close, isn't she? If Jorrth notices nothing else, it's that everyone is noticing T'mic. He turns to look over one of his big shoulders as best he can as well, though it's not super effective. With all those eyes on him, T'mic leans a little harder into Jorrth's hip. And starts to push away a bit. Does that bring him closer? "Uh," says the bluerider. "Yeah, sure?" There's a flicker of a smile, but it's not that warm, easy one he's so accustomed to. Even if it's what he's trying for. Yesia is plain and direct, upright and blinking coquettishly at him. « Would you be ever so nice and stay still? » asks Aeaeth of Jorrth, sweetly, as T'mic tries to retreat. It's the most casual request, and seems to have a purpose as she swims up out of the water to add, « I think you have something right there, I want to check. » All this while Yesia presses a little closer, to make up that lost little bit of proximity. "Do you think I'm pretty?" « I thought I squashed him with my chest, » says Jorrth, though the only bit more movement he does is to try and see to wherever Aeaeth is looking. It works about as well as looking over his shoulder. T'mic presses his full side up against his dragon, and gives Yesia a quick look up and- wait, no, not down, no. Just up. Only up. And T'mic, he's got sisters enough to know the answer to this question: "You look nice. Shouldn't let anyone ever tell you otherwise." He tries that smile again. It still tries to run away. Yesia 's laugh is clear and so amused. "Oh, no," Yesia says, shaking her head. "Nobody tells me I'm not, except nasty people like...oh, I don't even care. You've always been terribly nice to me." Aeaeth is moving laboriously, like being out of the water is extremely taxing, but her long neck stretches so she can look at absolutely nothing just out of the range of Jorrth's view. « Did you always have a yellow-ish spot here? » she asks, concernedly, and her voice has become so discordantly strange, so bright and odd and fluctuating that it might be a little confusing. Yesia seems to take T'mic's answer as good enough, while her dragon is busy playing distraction, and says, "Are you a virgin?" "Well... don't know if you deserve everyone always treating you so bad..." And then Jorrth starts to turn, to try and see. It pushes T'mic a little bit. And T'mic clings harder to his dragon. And turns redder with that question. Or maybe it's 'cause the water suddenly got hotter? "Uh... Y- yeah?" Presumably he's more sure than that. The water didn't get hotter, because Yesia's still only got the light flush that comes from steam, and not that strange color T'mic is turning. They're not boiling to death, is the point. « You didn't, I think I would have remembered, » Aeaeth accuses, so distracting. When T'mic is bumped forward, Yesia stands fast, and his reply seems to delight her. "Oh, good! And you think I'm pretty, obviously." She tilts her head. "Would you like to, ah... practice?" Oop. There she goes cutting through the water, and she's now officially too close. « What kind of yellow is it? » asks Jorrth. He tries to move a little more, and bumps T'mic again. « I don't think herdbeasts squish yellow. » "Good?" stutters T'mic, and then there they are. "I, uh." And he's trying to use his purchase on his dragon to push himself back a bit, with a quick, "Sorry, he's looking for-" a glance toward Aeaeth, and he acts like he's craning his neck to see, too. "I don't think you need practice to not be a- to not have sex, do you?" Odd yellow? It's like, um, » Aeaeth's mind, which is always color and always sound, falls silent so she can flick rapidly through her repertoire of yellows: amber, mustard, goldenrod, maize, apricot, aureolin, buff, gold, citrine, ecru, chartreuse, jonquil. « Oh, darn, » sound comes back. « I passed it. One second. » The loop starts again. "Oh, aren't you cute?" she asks in that way people do, and water sloshes between the short gap between them. "Not to be virgins together. We could try not being virgins together." Her eyebrows go up meaningfully. "Oh," says T'mic again, who's suddenly got his back up against Jorrth's hip, with another helpful twist from the blue, waiting breathlessly for Aeaeth to find a description. "Uh," comes next, and after a few near-glances down her body, T'mic closes his eyes. "Oh." Deep breath. "You know, Yesia," and he opens an eye, and then two, to look at her, "it really... means a lot, that you'd think of me, but..." And he presses his back even harder against Jorrth, 'cause there isn't much room, between them, and really. Jorrth, help him. And Jorrth does. Jorrth focuses in on the riders and says, « Oh, they'd fit together, » as if it were a revelation. Aeaeth lands on chartreuse, which is the most unforgiving color in her mind and head-hurty when she leaves it up. Which she does for a really long time. « It's that? But maybe I can get it off, » she says. See how helpful she is? Meanwhile, Yesia's head has canted off to the side a little, an unimpressed look slowly creeping in to set up camp. "Quinlys suggested it," she says. "She said to find someone I could trust and that would make it easier. And you are the most trustworthy person I can think of." The chartreuse snaps out at Jorrth's realization, and Aeaeth says, « Wouldn't they just? Mine has thought so for days. » "Oh, Faranth," says T'mic, and it's all sorts of sympathetic. Which is not good, considering everything else about this situation. « T'mic's thinking about it right now, » Jorrth provides, though it's now a curios sort of tone, observant. He does think to examine the chartreuse, as held in his memory. It's an afterthought, and his, « I don't know what that could be from, » comes with a glimmer of the remembered colour. "J'vain said that. That it would be worse for girls, if..." « It's probably nothing, really. Yesia tells me I am an alarmist, » Aeaeth's suddenly unconcerned with the imaginary color and the tale she's spun, more keen on the riders nearby. "It's just," Yesia says, sounding a little plaintive, "I don't want to. Well. I don't really know most of the people out of our class, except for, like, J'vain --" gross, says her face, "and K'del," more gross, "and C'ris and K'zin, but Quinlys told me I couldn't ask them because it's fraternizing. And I could go to the rider's loungue, but the rest of our class already thinks I'm a -- they are not very kind, and I'd hate for them to hear I had to go ask some strange rider to...." Her eyes are big and worried. "Do you see my worry?" T'mic is trying to keep track of that whole list - and really it's good, it gives him something else to focus on other than images that his dragon keeps dissecting, and therefore, maintaining in their shared mindspace. "Oh. Yeah. I never believed you were bad as all that," comes next, encouraging. And he starts to slide, for lack of an ability to go backwards, sideways, toward Jorrth's tail. "Yeah, I see your worry," is low, not quite whispered. "But I... I don't know if maybe I'm the one, you know?" As gentle as he can make it. Jorrth, stop picturing. "I do," Yesia says, like that should be the definitive reason for his affirmation. "I'm not asking you to - to come by my weyr every night for eternity. I'm just saying, once, maybe, someone in this group could try to help me, instead of --" Are those tears? Are her eyes glistening? Maybe, but if nothing else is certain, her pout is. "Instead of being terrible." "Oh, Yesia." A wet hand goes to wipe over his face, and T'mic shifts a bit, to not be pointed right at her, and to be a little farther away. "Faranth," sympathetic, "you know I'd try help you most ways... just..." and then, apologetic, "I can't do this." All the expressions that have been hovering around the edge of her face move in sequence. Her face falls with disappointment, then shifts to bewilderment, then disbelief, and then something akin to anger. "What?" she asks lowly. "Why? It's not like -- you're just going to sleep with someone when he chases, anyways," she points at Jorrth, irritably. Those tears are gone, probably just a means to an end. "I- yeah, maybe." T'mic frowns, the only hint that he's noticed her changed over into anger in the way he tries to square up his shoulders, somewhere in the vicinity of Jorrth's butt. "But there's someone." Aww man, he's blushing again. "And I don't think I'm supposed to choose to just... It's not because of you, Yesia." Apology for her anger, now. Or for what he sure hopes is hurt underlying it. "But I can't do that. It's not... honest." And he taps his chest, 'cause surely that will appeal to her sensibilities. Jorrth is just confused again. It bleeds over to Aeaeth, a little. Aeaeth had one job through this, and it was to keep Jorrth occupied and confused. So when Jorrth's confusion bleeds to her, Aeaeth looks slightly startled, flaring her wings and sluicing water off them onto her clutchsibling and, maybe, onto T'mic and Yesia. « Oh no, I'm sorry, » she frets to Yesia, rather publicly. Yesia scoffs, rolls her eyes at him. "Who?" she demands, because this is the second guy to tell her no in a seven and damned if she thinks it's for any good reason. "You've been stuck a weyrling for months, I haven't seen anyone." T'mic flinches a little bit, from unexpected water. Jorrth finally has to look, and starts to coil as best his bulk will allow, to try and find that yellow spot, not particularly bothered by the droplets. "She didn't become a weyrling; that's how come you haven't seen her. I wouldn't lie to you," is interpretation. But it's also super sincere, and very T'mic altogether. "Especially about something important." When Yesia huffs at him, it's definitely angry. "Oh, I'm sure," she says. It seems like she's parsing through the people she knows, through his wording, to find who it might be. "I bet she's done nothing but wait for you, too," she sneers at him, reaching for Aeaeth, who is obliging enough to stick her head very close for Yesia's touch. The redhead finally moves away from T'mic, giving him room to breathe air she didn't just exhale. "This makes you just as bad as everyone else," she tells him as she perches on Aeaeth's forepaw. "I hope you know that. It makes you worse when you can help, and you don't." T'mic leans back and into Jorrth again, into Jorrth's butt, when Aeaeth's head gets so close. It's not a cower exactly, but he certainly clears the way. "I'm sorry," he tells the greenrider. "But you're wrong, too. I can't." Jorrth still hasn't found that yellow mark, but he's let it go (for now); he watches Aeaeth and Yesia's progress. « This keeps getting more complicated, » is sighed to his clutchsibling, who surely must be in the same boat as he is. Surely. "Won't," spits Yesia. It's harder to climb up on Aeaeth's back while she's wet, but the dragon is helpful enough to get the girl most of the way there, if only to make their departure to the far side of the pool. "They're completely different. Sex doesn't even mean anything here, that's what I learned about mating flights." Aeaeth is apologetic bells. « I -- think? » she queries, but it's an unclear process and it's evn more unclear what she means. « She's very upset. I'm sorry Jorrth, I don't know either. I thought they would fit, for certain. » The green turns then, to swim carefully away, much less graceful while she's trying not to drown Yesia. « So much made it seem like they should have, » answers Jorrth, intensely thoughtful, puzzling it over. « He doesn't want her to be unhappy, though. We'll go. » And they do, awkwardly, and trying not to freeze as T'mic dresses and Jorrth dries. Poor Jorrth will have to wait until they're safe in their own weyr, with a fire lit, to have T'mic try explain this. Again. |
Comments
Edyis (02:04, 24 June 2015 (MDT)) said...
This was so wonderful. Poor T'mic. I also feel the teensiest bit sorry for Yesia.
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