Logs:Words and (Maybe) Smiles
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| RL Date: 27 September, 2015 |
| Who: Faryn, Z'kiel |
| Type: Log |
| What: It's not winter in Southern, family is what you make it, the past is the past and laughter is contagious. |
| Where: Main Beach, Southern Weyr |
| When: Day 5, Month 11, Turn 3 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Warm and beachy, duh. |
| Mentions: Edyis/Mentions, Farideh/Mentions, Irianke/Mentions, Kasdeja/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, T'mic/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Backdated! Life spirited us away in the middle! |
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>---< Southern Beach (TP Room - HRW) >---------------------------------------< Golden stand stretches in both directions for as far as the eye can see, broken only by the occasional encroaching cliff, the ancient stone formed into rockpools and outcroppings. Inland, open sand is gradually taken over by lush greenery: dense forest extending all the way back to distant mountains that might even be days of walking from here. The ocean, too, stretches out unbroken: there's no other land to be seen, nothing but blue and blue and blue until the point at which it hits the horizon, where blue meets another kind of blue, in the endless, cloudless sky. A tent-like structure has been strung up between trees and a few tall posts, providing shelter from the hot sun. There are no tables, and no chairs, beneath it, however: just a few haphazardly slung blankets, providing only the most basic comfort. A few paces beyond the edge of the tent is a bonfire built from driftwood. The water is shallow, here, protected by a sandbar a few lengths out. -----------------------------< Active Players >----------------------------- Faryn F 24 5'4" lean, long brown hair, brown eyes 0s Z'kiel M 21 6'3" lean, black hair, green eyes 12s ----------------------------------< Exits >--------------------------------- Certainly Z'kiel and Ahtzudaeth understood and maybe even appreciated the fact that Faryn had duties to finish before she could accept their invitation to Southern. If it meant that she took advantage of their patience to drop her at a small stop on the way - Big Bay, where she was relieved of several missives and received a notable quantity in return to take back, eventually - then it may have said something to anybody but her how reliable her friendship with the bronzerider was. For her, it was just clearing the afternoon, and a little extra time to smooth away the surprise and tiny bit of suspicion she held for the bronzerider's offer. When they finally finished ferrying the weyrwoman's assistant around, and popped out of between above not Honshu, but the sprawling pale beaches of Southern, her reasons for not acknowledging the change of venue were a deft sidestep of an entirely different set of circumstances. She takes her dismount easily and with a practiced grace once they've landed, immediately stripping off a jacket that's got too much lining for the warm weather, waiting patiently to grab her own bag. They are nothing if not patient. Indeed, if anyone knows the need to finish duties first, it would be Z'kiel and Ahtzudaeth; they'd done their share of duties - and then some - to ensure they could take most of the day off. If it meant taking detours for dropping off - and picking up - letters and other things, then so be it. Of course, there are some peculiarities - or not, perhaps - as the rider insists on all safety measures being employed at all times. He'll insist on assisting her with any bags or the like while the bronze, in his way, seems to be exceptionally accommodating as dragons tend to go. As for the change in venue? It's entirely likely that it will be explained in due course - just not while they're adragonback with the wind streaming around their helmeted heads. Ahtzudaeth descends with every bit of grace that he's put on display thus far and his landing is soft, though hardly surprisingly so at this point. With Faryn proving capable enough in dismounting, Z'kiel waits until she's down before he gets down - and snags her bag along the way with his brand of deftness. Once the helmet's off and his jacket's undone - but not removed as yet - he offers the bag over. "Heard there were a few feline attacks near Honshu," is his offered explanation - made while he offers her bag. "Saw one when we were poking around a seven or two ago. Too risky." True or not, he believes it and the weighty rumble from Ahtzudaeth confirms - maybe - that the bronze believes it, too. Faryn's grimace as she pulls her helmet off is certainly due to the way she's twisted her braid up and under it; it's tricky, that, and makes the small helmet she's snagged a little more snug than necessary. She hooks it automatically to her belt, a habit more suited to dragonriders. How often has she done this now? She can be forgiven adopting their rote behaviors. She wraps her fingers around her bag and holds it without wearing it, tilting her head at him with a quick smile. "They're just felines," she observes, a little too lightly to be seriously dismissive. "Wiggle a string for them, we'd have been fine." But even so, "I hear there's construction, too. Hardly a place to relax while they're building bridges to link themselves up." There's a sidelong glance at Faryn's grimace, the helmet - all of it, really. Z'kiel sucks his teeth, grunts, and intones a flat, "We'll get you a better helmet. Goggles." Her ease of handling things is, no doubt, likewise noted, but it goes without comment. Around dragonriders, that seems to be a fairly normal thing all around. "Just felines," is issued with a peculiar weight. But, it's not pursued; instead: "Ayuh. We'll go there when they're done. See what they've built," it's an idea that includes her, not quite half-questioning - but extended all the same. He reaches for the other bag on Ahtzudaeth's straps and stops abruptly before he even gets his fingers on it. A glance around the beach finally lands back on Faryn with a mild, "Could go somewhere else." Her call, apparently. Faryn says, "It's alright. I should just cut it off, it's more trouble than it's worth, but..." but she's sentimental, if the way Faryn twists the braid around her hand to straighten it, letting it eventually drop back down the length of her back to terminate just above her tailbone. "It's probably easier, short." She's looking at his own head as she says it, her head canted off to the side with a wry smile. "Is that why you aren't growing yours? I heard it was a chore to get you to cut it." Her grin for their next trip -- a next trip, behold! -- is easy, and she finally slips the bag over her shoulder as well. "No, we'll stay. This is fine. It's exactly what I said, isn't it? Warm, and beachy, and away from everyone."" "No." Perhaps the word comes out more vehemently than Z'kiel planned, for he winces and turns to deal with the remaining bag on the bronze's straps. "No," is issued a bit more easily with a slight shake of his head. "Not unless you really want to." Quiet emphasis there, on that really, and there's a vague rumble from Ahtzudaeth. Her question is met with a snort that borders on good-natured. "Easier, yes. But that's not why." The bag is off and he busies himself with the straps; eventually, he'll get his jacket off but, until then? Other things first. "In my family, it was normal. Grow it out long, braid it. Bead it. Cutting was for the dead." A shoulder rises. Falls. It's probably best, then, that he moves on to the next with a mild, "Good. Thought you might approve, but-" the worry was there. Worry. In him. Unarticulated, it's still there. Go figure. Faryn's not so rude that she won't help with the bags, if Z'kiel will let her. A few short strides bring her in range to hold out an expectant hand for any burden he will part with, and so she's right there with those vehement 'nos' and her brow can climb enterprisingly up her forehead. "I don't, not really," she says with a curious expression, her mouth twitching against a smile. "I'll have to, if I Impress. I could head it off at the pass." That's a big if, as it were, and she knows it as she snags up whatever she can and gives him space for the straps, falling silent to listen. "You're not dead," she says lightly when he finishes, soft with understanding of the symbolism there. "Why not grow it again?" She doesn't pander to his concern; it wouldn't do either of them any good, anyways. There isn't much, fortunately, but he hands over one of the bags, while settling the other on the ground. That bag will slowly be joined by straps as they're efficiently disengaged from the patient bronze. "If you don't," Z'kiel replies, "then don't. Wait. See. Then worry about it when the time comes." It's his turn for silence after she speaks - and, in that silence, Ahtzudaeth is finally free of his straps. He lifts a paw to gently tap the tip of a finger on his rider's shoulder, and then he's off, lumbering for the water without hesitation. "No," he finally says. "But they're dead to me. Goes both ways." A beat. Then he's cutting a glance over his shoulder at her, forehead furrowed just a touch. "Should I?" Faryn will take what she can get, so the bag is hers, damn it. "I won't, then. I've grown it since I joined the craft. I was almost thirteen," it's oddly fond, "and I thought, in all my preteen glory, that if I was going to try and work with runners, I should have a runnertail. Because they'd trust me, you see. It was important." And a little foolish; she scoffs at herself, kicking a toe into the sand as she watches Ahtzudaeth lumber into the water. She tilts her head, looking at his shaved head with a mild expression. "If you wanted. You could. You don't have to be their traditions." The moist sand gives way under the toe of her boot while she meanders through her thoughts. "In the Pass, my mum had to keep her hair short so it wouldn't get caught in Thread. But now, you could grow it if you wanted. Mark your new life. Or," a shrug, "you could keep shaving it, which must be just as much upkeep. Does it make you sad, to shave it all the time?" The bronze is in the water in almost no time at all; Z'kiel's slower, if only by virtue of a dramatically different stride length. "Might work on dragons, too," he points out with an oblique look her way. "Had mine when he found me." Foolish? Maybe. He clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth. "Can't hurt," he ultimately decides. "Unless they catch a claw in your hair. But if you aren't looking, then you earned it." Shrug. He grunts at her answer, a sound that's a bit more harsh, maybe, than intended. "Not sure," is honest and followed by a brief, thoughtful sucking of teeth. "S'why I asked you if I should." He'll stop a few yards shy of where the water meets the sand, but he'll continue to carry his chosen burden of baggage for the moment. "Doesn't make me feel much of anything to shave it. Or not. Not now." "Don't be pedantic," scolds the ex-crafter at once for him, and she's slower by virtue of even shorter legs, and because she's not in any particular hurry. Ambling, she is watching the wafer of her bootprints appear in the sand, looking over one shoulder and walking with a deliberate care that ensures they are almost identical in their pressure. "I like you either way," she says, eventually. "I told you that, before, I think. You could always meet in the middle. K'del-length." That being her point of reference maybe won't sell it. "But it did." Not a question, as Faryn stops a few feet behind him and drops to a seat in the sand, with all her burdens beside her, so she can start unlacing her boots. Bags down. Jacket off. Helmet and goggles off. Shirt off. "His fault if I am," is the oh-so-casual way he'll shift blame without looking back at her. Ahtzudaeth is, fortunately, too far to actually hear - but the brief spout of water he issues suggests he's not entirely oblivious. There is, for the suggestion, a lengthy hnnnh that carries no particular weight. In the end, there's a shrug that distorts the tapestry of scars on his back - and a bland, "I'll think about it." Which is probably better than what most others would get for the same. He absently rubs his forearms, the burn scars twisting a little with the motion. "Briefly," says he of that sadness. "And then the blood dried up and it didn't matter." "Hair goes both directions, at least. You cut it off, it grows back. Most people just think it's just an accessory." Not her, though; if she did, she'd do it better than that braid, which she is now unplaiting, carefully, so as not to knot it. She puts her jacket on the pile of bags, her boots alongside, her sweater. She's not fastidious enough for folding, but the pile ends up neat, and she ends up in a small blue bathing top while she digs through her bag and ultimately comes up with pair of linen shorts. "Do what makes you happy," she says, with a little grimace. "In absence of the things you thought would." Twitch, at the corner of her mouth. Unreadable, though, because she's looking at him again, and when the corners of her mouth succumb it is to a frown. "It mattered. Even if it doesn't matter now, it mattered then, and you can't discount that." And she's up again, striding past him for the water. Of course, the bronzerider folds his things. It's an oddity, perhaps, but it's just what he does. Z'kiel grunts just a little for her words and lets them fall where they may. There's not much to say for it; not here, not now, and while she ventures for the water, he remains where he is for a time longer. It isn't until Ahtzudaeth angles for the shallows with a brassy, welcoming bellow for Faryn that he finally strips down. Faryn might carry some modesty with her; he wasn't born with it. Then again, he did wait for her to get to the water first - so that might account for something. In either case, he's not long after her and is quick to find a point that will let him hang, shoulder-deep, in the water. Eventually: "A lot of things mattered then. Different things matter now. I just don't hold onto what mattered in the past." Much. "And to you!" Faryn laughs at the bronze, floating further out towards him, one eye on the shore. Her own modesty is a hangover, but only barely - that top is small, and the linen shorts are barely there once they're soaked and she can roll onto her back, floating with the sun in her eyes and momentum taking her ever closer to Ahtzudaeth. "Fine. Let's say the past is dead, then. What matters now?" There's a gape-maw grin from the bronze as he floats as closely as he can get to the shallows without beaching himself. That's just no fun at all, after all. There's a grunt from Z'kiel at something or another - but it's evidently not at something Faryn's said; the answering grunt from Ahtzudaeth clarifies that much, at least. The bronzerider continues to tread water lazily, eyes narrowed against the glare of sun on water. Her question, at least, is much easier to answer - or, at least, there's very little hesitation between her asking and his answering of: "Him. The Weyr. Alpine. Work." But. There's a gap there where a breath is drawn and released in a slow, steady exhalation. "Waiting until he wants to chase. Might be a turn. Two. Longer." Another breath. "Friends that might as well be blood." And there's a look askance at her, then at the bronze, as if he might have missed something. Which he might have. Rukbat only knows. With a certain respect for Ahtzudaeth's bulk, and the peril of beaching, Faryn floats further and further out, close enough that she might eventually reach a hand out to touch him if he stretches just a tiny bit closer. Exchanges between the pair are largely ignored; she's long since stopped worrying about what might be going on in a frequency she cannot hear, so she is just patient in her floating, dropping her hand like a rudder so she can direct her float in a different direction, with a tiny kick below the water to propel her. "Mmmm," she acknowledges to his answer, sounding a little disappointed in the span of that second breath. "So, what you're saying is, you're a dragonrider." Which is fine, but not as interesting as his last. She rights herself, and as deep as she is must tread to eye him. "Who's on your short list?" He'll be happy to meet her mid-way; Ahtzudaeth stretches his neck out and offers his muzzle up as a perfect point of initial contact, while the rest of him lazily drifts on the water. And if she wants up at all, he'll be most accommodating; in either case, the bronze is comfortable and, clearly, more concerned about her comfort than he probably ought to be. As for Z'kiel, he'll just leave them to whatever they're doing. There's a grunt at her observation and a blandly echoed, "I am a dragonrider. Hunter second. Dancer third." Yes, he still does that; rarely spoken of as it is. And, of course, there's that question and he readily meets her gaze. "No order to it," is a fair warning. "Kasdeja," is probably not much of a surprise. "Edyis," might be more of one, maybe. And then there's "You." Faryn doesn't want up, not really. She's content to scrub at Ahtzudaeth's muzzle for a short while, right up until she has to drop it to tread water again. Okay. So maybe she'll lean on him a little bit, so she doesn't get tired and drown. "Do you dance in Igen? Or is it a secret ritual in your weyr?" Because obviously he's not dancing on tables in the living cavern or Snowasis. It's only logical to conclude. Her smile quirks into place at his answers for his list with a no-harm tilt of the head. No order. "Good list," she concludes eventually. "You could do worse, if you're going for new blood. Though I might get you in trouble." He's good for that. When she starts to lean, Ahtzudaeth crooks a foreleg and adjusts with the spreading of a wing to allow him to offer that limb as support - or a nice place to cozy up into, for that matter. Drowning? Not on his watch. Hnnnh. "I practice in our weyr. Mostly. Haven't gone back to Igen Weyr since the last time. Won't go back." Z'kiel snorts a little - a snort that shades into laughter at her good list. Maybe. "Could. Trying not to." As if it takes effort - which it might. He eventually pushes his way closer, if only to rest in the shadow of a partially unfurled wing. It's only at Faryn's last that he does laugh, a short, sharp bark of a think that ends violently with a shake of his head. "No." The vehemence here is justified. "The other way around." He jerks his head at Ahtzudaeth. "He's the good one here." He hopes. There's a throaty warble from the bronze and a lift and twist of his head that emulates an eyeroll rather nicely. Excellent. Faryn likes cozy, especially in cool sea water and good company, so forgive her for nestling right into that foreleg. "Mostly," she notes the nuance gently, with the same gentleness that twists its way also into, "Sorry," about Igen. "High Reaches is...rougher, than Ista. But the people are still good. I think you'd have to try harder to get the bad folks. They stand out." She watches his movements as he comes closer, twisting in the nook that Ahtzudaeth has created so she can watch without craning her neck, her own laugh brighter in contrast to his sharp one. And her adamancy is counterpoint, too. "You're good, too, though. Even if you don't think you are. He just helps. Isn't that the point?" "Don't apologize," for Igen. Firm, that. Z'kiel spreads a roughened hand across a section of Ahtzudaeth's side and kind of swim-walks his way a little closer for the sake of conversation. There is, for her words, a shake of his head. Also firm. "No," he replies, "the really bad ones never stand out." Matter-of-fact. "They're everywhere. I can usually sniff them out. He's better at it. He's better with people." Clearly. Who has the girl in his arms? That guy with the wings. Still. Her adamant stance will just hit a stone wall with him as he stops his quasi-approach with a definite souring of his expression. "I'm not. But. He wants me to be. He helps," is probably the only point they can agree on. "Not sure how much help he can give." Or if he'll give up, for that matter. Chicks dig wings, though, or maybe Z'kiel was out of the weyr when that particular memo was issued. "You're not my boss," Faryn says pointedly, chin tipped in challenge. "I'm sorry," she reiterates, "that you can't go home. Half the time, I feel bad for telling you that you weren't going to leave. But I'm glad you are here. Good or not, you're...steady." It really is meant to be a compliment. She narrows her eyes at him, then tilts her head back to look up at Ahtzudaeth like she's comparing them. "Well, he does have that smile. If you started small, maybe you could learn." She gives him a demonstration. "I had to. Had to look nicer, to deliver messages for Farideh. Nobody makes the weyrbrats smile when they deliver packages." The indignity of it all is unspeakable. "Nobody changes," is a little more somber. "If you weren't at least a little good, he wouldn't have anything to work with." More likely, Z'kiel threw that memo away. One day, he'll learn. "No, I'm not," he confirms with a slight narrowing of his gaze. "But you shouldn't apologize for things that aren't your fault." A shoulder rises and falls in a lopsided shrug and, finally, he starts to move a little closer. Bit by bit. It's like he's stalking her but in plain sight and for the sake of conversation. The comparison is noted, as is the compliment - such as it is. For that, at least, he says, "We are," and that's the truth. Why, Ahtzudaeth's yet to even jostle her all that much. He's steady as can be. "And we will be until Rukbat stops shining." There's a snort, though, for the smiling jab and he just goes all the more grim - while the bronze goes all grin-mode. "I am working on it," he grates out. "Just different than what you have to do. What you had to do." And there might be more, maybe, but it's that somber utterance that might well kill any lingering trace of his kinda-sorta-decent mood. His jaw tenses. "No. People can change." Spoken with conviction, that - and, maybe, a trace of trying to convince himself. "He found what little there was," he adds. "And took what little heart I had left." "It's not about blame. It's about empathy. It sucks, is all. I...don't want to go back to Igen, or even Telgar or Keroon with the Hall. But not being able to go back...that's harder. I never thought I wouldn't have the option to, and it's bullshit." Any jostling is met with the careful balance of someone used to it, years of runners working to automatically correct even the most minute and inadvertent shifts without missing a beat. "Are you?" she drawls at him, low and dubious. "Is cutting out grunting on your list of things to do, too? It wasn't hard, what I had to do. I barely had to do anything at all. After a while, the smiling just...happens. You forget you're doing it entirely." And for the rest? Empathy kicks in, again, with a soft sigh, her smile a touch morose. "It was still something. You're too hard on yourself." Grunting is not on the list of improvements, evidently, since he just grunts - again - and seems to let most of it just drop. It might even drop with an audible splash into the water; either that, or that's the sound of Ahtzudaeth's tail sliding through the water. Either way, it seems the matter of empathy, of not going home again, is to be resolved with, "The 'Reaches is home now," so, to him, the rest doesn't matter. "Easier that way. Not needing to think about it." For her, it's different and he won't touch on it. And, besides, she's asking about change and that's worthy of a crossing of arms - awkwardly rendered thanks to the water and the fact that he has to rely on his lifemate's side to keep him from sinking. "I'm talking more. Reading more. Learning more." A beat. "Don't make fun of my native language." A joke? Never. Being too hard on himself? Also never. "No," he remarks to the last, "I'm not. Not as hard as I could be. Sometimes, not as hard as I should be." His mouth pulls to a side. "We have to be better. Can't do that if we're soft." "Alright," Faryn has the grace to murmur, relinquishing her own hold on that line of conversation. She does have to think about it, for some time yet, but that's fine; she doesn't have to think about it right now. She lifts a leg up, clearing the surface and letting the water roll off her foot to splash softly back down. Rinse; repeat with the other foot. If grunting is still on the list, then Faryn can be forgiven for laughing at him for it. "Fine, fine. But I'm not fluent, so you have to stick to words and," maybe, "smiles." But for change she has an approving grunt of her own, so maybe she knows a little, even if when she finally speaks again it's not about that. It's to say, "To what end? You. T'mic. Edyis. It's always about being better, and you're all fine. Is this your fault?" The last is for Ahtzudaeth, with a critical frown up at him. He's slow to unfold his arms, but he does - in time. Z'kiel narrows his eyes at her just a touch for the laughter, but it's a good-natured thing - the creasing at the corner of his eyes and the pull of his mouth betray him entirely too much. Ahtzudaeth's gape-mawed grin widens impossibly in reaction and his throaty rumble of amusement is palpable. "Fair enough," says he - and the smile, such as it is, should suffice as confirmation. It fades after a fashion, her next words bringing that familiar, grim quality to his features again. "It's because we're riders," is the Igenite's reply, in the end, a lopsided shrug following after. Faryn's frowning up at the bronze elicits an immediate snapping shut of Ahtzudaeth's jaw and a lowering of his head with a different sound, a warble that might verge on apologetic if he were at all sorry. But, no; it's more of a reassuring sound. "Somewhat," is Z'kiel's translation of dragon-rumble-speak. "He thinks-" a snort corrects him to "-knows what we can be. One day. We just need time. Training." The dragon's confidence hasn't entirely rubbed off on the former hunter, though - and where he might seem utterly unflappable under any other circumstance, something has shifted just enough to allow the betrayal of a worried crease at his forehead. "Yes!" Faryn's praise is immediate and delighted for that expression, insofar as she gets delighted, but it's easy to tell: the way her smile comes quick and easy, the shake of her head in the negative despite her laughter. "Just like that, only more. We'll get you smiling in no time." She's still pedalling her legs in and out of the water without splashing, her smile not fading at the return of the grimness. "And what's that?" she wants to know, conversationally. "Wingsecond? Wingleader?" A tilt of the head, contemplative. "Weyrlingmaster? You might have to fight T'mic and Quinlys for that. Weyrleader?" She doesn't sound incredulous; when her smile twitches down in brightness it's for his own expression. "I thought I worried too much." Grunt. Z'kiel looks up at the bronze; the bronze looks down at both of them - but only because he has no real option otherwise. "He'd be good with young dragons," he says after a moment. "Figure that'd be good for him. Later." They are, technically, still new to the riding thing. Relatively speaking. He drifts close enough to rest a hand at Ahtzudaeth's arm - the one that's crooked into a seat for Faryn, that is. "Wingsecond, we've done. With the weyrlings, anyway. And wingleader, too." Which really does leave only one other option, though he's not going to say it - nor does he have to, when she does. There's a solemn nod to both the title and her latter words, and then there's a flicked look back up to the bronze. "Could be. Maybe. Might be why he didn't want to chase Roszadyth." He can hope that's the reason. "No one expected Niahvth to go as quickly as she did." He sucks his teeth and, after a beat, levels his gaze on Faryn again. "Have to worry a little about it. Not easy work, what the Weyrleader does. So. He wants me to be ready." Snort. "Even if he doesn't want to prepare." Ahtzudaeth disagrees, naturally, with another of those odd gestures of his, eerily humanlike to mimic the rolling of eyes, coupled with a long-suffering sigh. Teasing mockery, it is strong with this one. "T'mic isn't waiting until later to join that team. But, I guess he's been studying to assist Quinlys for a long time. And you've been with Polaris." She nods, a brief gesture, and is careful to stop her pedaling when he's closer, just in case he winds up in the trajectory of her foot. Once he's clear, she's content to continue, mesmerized by the monotony of her own movements. "More prepared than K'del was, at any rate," she ventures eventually. "If she doesn't wait two turns, maybe less time to prepare than you hope for, but still. Some time. Maybe even enough time." Her eyes turn back up to Ahtzudaeth again. "So, you get to do all the training and preparing, and he gets to loaf around?" With, she omits, the girl in his arms. "What a slave driver." A sharp shake of his head follows, and Z'kiel's mood sours. "It wouldn't have mattered if we wanted that or not," he replies. "When I asked about the silver thread program, she told me there were concerns. Worried that I would try to skip off to Igen again. After I'd done everything I could to prove I wouldn't. That we wouldn't." There's a bit more of that thoughtful teeth-sucking before: "Did what they told me to; they didn't put me in the program anyway. So. T'mic's a better fit for her and her team." Here, at least, there's no bitterness; just irritation that fades quickly into ambivalence. Ahtzudaeth is all dragon-grins again for Faryn, leaving Z'kiel to interpret. "Should be fine after. Should be able to do the work. Just need to talk to K'del. Study with him." If he'll let them, though that's unspoken. Then: "He works. This," he taps his own head, demonstratively. "Always was good with everything else. Didn't need to work at it." Matter-of-fact, though there's a snort-bark of laughter for the last bit. It can't be helped. That's just enough to make Faryn's easy-going smile shake away in favore of a frown that has the nerve to look pert. Her head tips to the side, curious, not quite understanding, then, "I thought they wouldn't let you go to Igen anyways. The deal changed, and the bronzes and Roszadyth would stay, regardless." Admittedly, she sounds unsure; she, after all, had been holed up in the stables and hiding in faraway holds to truly keep track of anything but the broadest gossip. Softer, then, "It's hard, you know. I'm not saying she's right, or was right, but you were so eager to leave, I'm sure you can understand her wariness, even if I don't know that program makes any better riders than those who aren't selected. It seems a lot of bullshit." For the rest though, she stops her movement, letting her legs hang weightless in the water while she looks at their distortion beneath the rippling surface. "I see. He's the brains, and your the brawn. It all makes perfect sense now." "Don't begrudge them that. Can't. In their position, I'd worry about the same," Z'kiel notes. "But. We worked as hard as we could to fit in. To prove otherwise. Wasn't enough for them." And it's the past, so there's that; though it seems he does agree with her assessment, with another of those sort-of chuckles coming. "Not sure it does much. Maybe it does for some. Not so much for us. We were doing all the work anyway without that thread." So. He gently thumps Ahtzudaeth's arm. He moves away from the topic, though he remains precisely where he is - though his attention shifts to follow her own. The angle is odd and he's not quite able to see more than her feet, at best, but all the same. "It works. Mostly. He's... difficult to read sometimes," is a grudging admission. Faryn is silent a spell, then leans back against the bronze's leg so she no longer has to balance herself at all, the entire relaxation coming with a sigh as her shoulders sink. "I think it's a way to pick your favorites," Faryn decides when she is fully settled. "I like Quinlys. A lot. But there's no way of avoiding it. You mark your favorites, the ones you see with potential, the ones you want to test. The crafts do it too. It doesn't mean a lick in the end. Just overinflated and entitled egos if they go to the wrong people." The look she tips at Z'kiel is pointed, her eyebrows high and her eyes serious. "You're difficult to read, constantly. Sounds like he knew what he was doing." And her foot flicks out, just enough that she can flip water at him as he looks down. Hnnnh. "Told her it seemed arbitrary. She didn't like that much." Shoulders rise and fall, if in a familiarly lopsided sort of shrug. Z'kiel grunts for the rest of it - agreement, again, long and low and oddly musical in that way of his - while Ahtzudaeth chimes in with his own rumbling that sends ripples through the water. He has nothing to say on the ease or difficulty of reading him, though; not while there's water being flicked at his face. And he's quick - though whether or not he's quick enough to catch Faryn's foot is another matter. He'll make a grab for it all the same, while he barks out a half-laugh and a soberingly serious, "You can just ask. Easier that way. I'll answer." There's a certain, significant weight to his words that he might have difficulty in articulating - but it's clear enough: he'll answer for her. "Probably is," Faryn agrees with her own mimicry of a shrug, albeit not enough of one to distract from water flicking. If you can catch a tunnelsnake you can catch a foot, or so said some Harper, somewhere, sometime in the past, very deep in his cups, so it stands to reason he'd catch her foot even while she laughs, trying to tug it away without enough yank to overbalance either of them. Still, the sound is immediate and irrepressable, the way someone laughs when they're on the brink of being tickled, even though he's not, and she had it coming at any rate. Between laughs, then, "You should have said that a turn ago. It would have saved me all that trouble learning to read you, with what I'd say is...mmmm, ninety percent accuracy." The tickling will commence - but not immediately. Z'kiel's grip is firm, but not hard; enough to underscore the roughness of his hand, at least, since she'll feel it more while moving her foot. "You should have said something earlier," is his counter to that, gruffly issued - but with one of those creeping, lopsided smiles that refuses to be quashed. Then the tickling begins, with fingertips aimed at that treacherous curve at the arch of her foot. "Eighty five percent," is purely to be contrary. That it's laughed has absolutely no bearing on anything at all. That Ahtzudaeth has craned his head in the other direction and is filling his mouth with water also means nothing. Yet. "Nine-TEEE!" Faryn tries to be contrary, but the way she squeals in sudden surprise undermines any sobriety she has left even under that laughter. There just is no way to be stern or dignified when there are tickle fights in progress, especially when you're losing. With nobody there to care, it's probably easier for Faryn to just dissolve into laughter, using her other foot to splash relentlessly at Z'kiel. She's not paying attention to Ahtzudaeth, at any rate, at least not any further than she must to keep her perch on his leg, however it moves while he's craning away from her. "Nobody's going to believe me. They're going to say I'm lying when I tell them you tickled me like a dirty Igen cheater during a civil conversation. Cheater." She means Bitra. Certainly. The laughter is infectious - and, it turns out, Z'kiel's highly susceptible. The laughter is raw and throaty, but it's there, even after Faryn's foot either works free or he releases it under the onslaught of splashing. Soon enough, it's Ahtzudaeth spitting water at the bronzerider - a most valiant defender for Faryn's honor, or some such rot. Luckily, his leg doesn't move much, so she's not in danger of being dragged under or anything; the only one at risk is Z'kiel and he manages not to drown under the doubled attack. He sputters and spits off to a side and replies with a half-laughed, half-coughed: "Didn't cheat. You practically put your foot in my hand." A beat. Then: "Seventy-five percent. You didn't see that coming." When she can get her foot away, at risk of tipping over she's laughing so hard, Faryn jerks it back and plants it firmly alongside the other, knees drawn up to her chest and the soles flat against Ahtzudaeth's leg as the best perch. "Eighty," she laughs grudgingly, breathless from it, and one hand reaches down to splash at him one more time, adding to the aftermath of Ahtzudaeth's wave now that it's clear nobody will drown. "Nobody will see that coming, though. You didn't even know you could do that until it happened, I bet." And she sticks her tongue out at him petulantly, patting the leg holding her up in appreciation as she continues to look with faux moodiness at Zak. "I can't even slander your name." "Eighty," is as grudging for him as it is for her. Z'kiel wipes the water from his face and neck and flicks it right back at her in retaliation for her last bit of splashing. "Figured I'd get one of your feet eventually," he observes with a slightly raised eyebrow. "Didn't figure you'd get it close enough for me to get." Of course, there she goes sticking her tongue out - that'll get him reaching out to try to plant a fingertip briefly on her tongue, if he can manage it. A teasing gesture, one that lingers for the span of a second before he's withdrawing a bit and folding his arms in response to her not-really-moodiness. "Can't slander it more than it is already," he supposes. Not that it is slandered, but maybe that's the point. "I thought you just had a foot fetish." The declaration is on the height of another laugh. The ex-crafter jerks away and shakes her head at him as he reaches for her tongue, letting it disappear behind her grinning teeth with one of her sneers, the kind that is usually much less forgiving than that one. Much less amused, at any rate. "Fool me once, shame on me," she says, putting on a pompous air. "Fool me seven or more times.... And you're not slandered. You're...weird and mysterious, and people are probably more scared of you than anything. And they'll never believe me that you're soft, and that you tickle when people let their guard down." At any rate, she seems to be letting hers down a little more already. "I think I needed this. Since Roszadyth's flight, and the craft and T'mic --" a big handwave that could be all of Pern, really, but she suffices with. "Thanks." More importantly, though, "Did either of us bring food?" "You never know." Ominous? Cryptic? Z'kiel's back to being unreadable and grim again, because those words are utterly deadpan in contrast to her laugh. It's Ahtzudaeth's snort that breaks it all again and he cuffs the bronze firmly. His thwarted tongue-poke is taken in stride; no skin off his hide if he can't get a finger on it. "Good," is grunted for the rest; perhaps for the fear aspect. Or, maybe, just for the notion of others believing it. But soft? He's not even going to touch that. She'll just have to bear the brunt of an expression that's conflicted more than anything. "Been a rough time for you," is noted-slash-observed and he starts to push away from the bronze island and toward the shore. "Be easier now. Should be, anyway. He seems to think so. Got food and towels in my pack. If you ask nicely, Ahtzudaeth might catch some fish." "Like I said. Weird." Faryn's agreement is a brisk and undertoned, "Yeah," for her circumstances, but she doesn't care to linger. Although she lacks the doe eyes of some, or the effortlessly innocent grace of others, she tries nevertheless to look at Ahtzudaeth and bat her lashes with a smile that is supposed to be sweet. Instead, it's cheeky as all getout. "Ahtzudaeth, could you please catch some fish?" She'll even cut a look at Grimface McGee, to see if her silly simpering makes him break character again. Then she's sliding off Ahtzudaeth's forepaw and into the water, with one more splash for good measure as she rolls into a position to swim to shore and an equally cheeky, "Whoops, sorry," before she puts on speed towards the shore. |
Comments
Alida (01:04, 28 September 2015 (PDT)) said...
Fun and interesting to see Zak and Faryn interact. Liked seeing their friendship open up a bit more. :) And Ahtzudaeth...like Jo says, *steals him*. ;D
Jo (11:37, 28 September 2015 (PDT)) said...
This was definitely an interesting scene. What Alida said! Z'kiel seems to be more comfortable around Faryn. Or she's good at bringing that sort of thing out of people that don't trust easy.
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