Logs:Unsettling
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| RL Date: 7 October, 2015 |
| Who: Everett, Ulyana, Qhyluth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Lakes are creepy, or: Everett meets Qhyluth. |
| Where: Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 9, Month 13, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Foggy. Foggier. Foggiest. |
| OOC Notes: Belated posting, boo. |
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>---< Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr(#276RJs) >-------------------------------<
The rest of the bowl may be barren, grass barely surviving at best, but
here by the lake, it's brilliantly green in the warmer months: thickening
and thriving in the silty, boulder-dotted soil just before it transitions
to soft sand and thence to the cool, clear water itself.
A large freshwater lake fed by a low waterfall, it not only provides
warm-weather bathing space for humans and dragons, but has one end fenced
off as a watering hole for the livestock in the feeding grounds. The water
there is often muddier than the rest of the clear lake, whose shallows
drop off abruptly several yards out into deep water, and whose edge
undulates against the coarse-hewn bowl wall: here close enough to just be
bramble-covered rocks, there far enough away that a narrow land bridge
divides the main lake from a smallish pond. Between are several rocky
outcroppings that form excellent makeshift diving points, though only one
-- across the bridge -- has a set of narrow, slippery, quite possibly
tempting stairs.
A blanket of cold, dense fog fills the bowl with its oppressive presence
and obscures vision. It's creeping inexorably closer to evening and, yet, the fog doesn't seem to have any intention of lifting. The thick blanket of condensation shudders from time to time on the lake, but there's naught to see there - even if one were to squint. On the shore, a diminutive young woman stands, dressed in a blue dark enough to be black; a long dress, a long coat, and thick gloves to pair with equally thick boots. Her braids hang down her back - dark and long - but heavy scarves in blue and black cover the rest of her head and her face. She's looking into the fog over the water, unblinking and utterly still. Watchful - and waiting. Fog provides an illusion of privacy, little pockets of it, in what light's left. Everett's little pocket of it is moving, though, a crunch of footsteps along the shore. Oblivious footsteps, accompanied by the occasional sound of liquid sloshing in a flask as he tips it back. Sure, it's early, but some jobs require taking one's leisure at odd times. He's stopped, tucked it away, spent several moments looking out over the lake with his hands in the pockets of his coat, before he really seems to register that the dark figure there isn't only a shadow. "Sorry, I didn't really think anyone would be out here, today." The sound of his approach is noted long before his manifestation - and Ulyana cocks her head just slightly to better listen for it. She maintains her vigil at the water's edge, her expression a dull one; past neutrality and into empty indifference. "There is no need to apologize," is intoned, deadpan - a good handful of seconds after a response might actually be expected. The flat affectation remains as she explains, "He is always out here. I am not." A shoulder rises. Falls. "He prefers the weather when it is like this." A tip of her head and slide of her eyes catches Everett in her peripheral vision. "There are no others to wake him." The hestitation is just long enough to give her the chance to actually answer, but Everett's peering over with more than a bit of puzzlement. Still, polite: "Him?" Picture of propriety, at least now that he's not actively imbibing. Small talk in the mist. "It's hard to imagine anyone preferring this weather. The damp makes it feel like the cold's gotten into everything. But the Snowasis is already more crowded than I like to see, and I thought it would be nice to have some quiet before work." Thus the conversation. Obviously. Or else it's just words to fill the apprehensive space. Something stirs in the water; a ripple washes up onto the shore, licking at boots that are too close to the water. Hers. Maybe his. "Yes," is delayed, as if the young man's words require processing. Ulyana finally moves, but only to face him, to fix him with cool, gray eyes. A slow blink follows. "Him." Another shifting in the water; a brief shredding of fog that mends itself. "Qhyluth." There is no smile. For his explanation, there's a stiff, mechanical nod - up-down-center - and a flatly queried, "What is your purpose?" Which isn't the right word, perhaps, but there is no correction following it - just that steady, unblinking look. Squinting, Everett peers out in the direction of the lake, long after the disturbance has faded back to invisibility. Waiting for another? Trying to figure out what that was? "Mouthful of a name," he says, though not loud enough. Maybe more to himself than to her. "I'm a bartender. Here. There, I mean, not literally here. I don't think I've seen you." The politeness frays around the edges; the last seems almost accusatory, as inappropriate as that is. Silence uncoils again, his words left to hang - untouched - in the fog for a time. The water doesn't ripple again. The fog settles into stillness. And Ulyana, for her part, remains as she is - at least for now. No blink this time. No shift in expression. Eventually, deadpan: "I do not drink." Her head tilts to one side, just a touch. Her gaze sharpens. Clinical. Cool. "I am most often in the living cavern. I do not recall ever seeing you there." It goes both ways, perhaps - the difference being that she seems to have no limit to her seeming indifference, paradoxically mixed as it is with curiosity. She doesn't drink, she just... drives others to it? Everett doesn't seem to see much need to conceal the need for another nip. It's chilly. Perfectly normal reaction. "Work keeps me at odd hours, and I've never seen any reason to linger there too long. Food's not bad, but it's not that good, you know?" A bright smile that dulls quickly. Hard to keep that up. His gaze skims over her unblinking face and out to the fog. "It's a bit of an acquired taste, drink. Maybe you just need to find something you like." Her head straightens and she pivots to face the water again, with a faint and fleeting furrow to her brow. Ulyana intones blandly, "It is sufficient." The food, probably. Her silence is broken with another shivery ripple of water and fog - and, this time, something terrible and dark emerges. It's slow and mostly silent, an undulation of darkness that remains, more or less, unwavering some distance away. "I have something better than alcohol," and if those words are said in a voice that's perilously close to an uncharacteristic purr, so be it. The distant shadow's eyes open, revealing a sickly, will o' wisp green luminescence. "I cannot imagine what you serve could be better." A fact? A challenge? It's hard to tell. "What? Sex?" Look, it's a Weyr, Everett should be able to at least suggest quite sensibly that those two things are reasonably like in the world of pleasures, but doing so seems to render him distinctly uncomfortable once the words are out of his mouth, and he frowns. "I mean, I can't say better, but I can say that it's more than possible to cover up the liquor with something sweet, if that's what you prefer." And he sounds like he cannot possibly picture her preferring that, come to think of it, but he hasn't got any better sounds to coax out of his mouth than the generic ones. "That is... him? In the water, there?" Hopeful. The parsing takes a little longer this time, long enough for the darkling shape to finally push toward shore - angling to step out of the water behind Ulyana, or, rather, to the side of her that's facing away from the bartender. Water spills off of deep blue hide, the sound coupled with a throaty gurgling. "No," Ulyana finally determines, with another mechanical shake of her head. Left, right, center. "Him." A beat. Two. Then: "Sex is acceptable." Flat. The notion of covering the liquor with sweetness elicits a slow blink. "I do not think it will be wise for me to attempt it," she intones, "unless he is asleep." The He in question dips his dripping head over her and she reaches up, the motion slow and dreamlike, to touch his chin - and answer that hopeful question with confirmation: "Yes." He might have done anyway, with all that water, but Everett's couple steps back are significantly less sure than they might otherwise be. "Ah, yes. I... can see that. Of course." Not with any sound of real comprehension in it. Visitor from a different world than that one, certainly. He turns the flask around and then puts it back in his pocket. "He's very..." It takes a moment to search out an appropriate compliment. "Striking." Close enough. Seize about, lay hands--or thoughts--on a notion that is a bit more concrete: "Qhyluth." Or some vague approximation of the name. "You said that was his name? Do you have a name? I'm Everett." The blue presses into that contact, only to crane his neck further, to get a better look at the man in the fog. A thread of yellow flickers across his eyes and Qhyluth withdraws to settle in a posture that's peculiar at best: on his haunches, with forepaws resting on his knees and wings partially furled. His neck curves and his head lowers, eyes leveled in a sickly-luminous stare at Everett. Ulyana's back is to the beast, framed by his form, and she presses a hand to one of his hindlegs. "Qhyluth," is a subtle correction. Oft-made. "You may call me Ulyana. It is our pleasure to meet you, Everett." "Always have this vague feeling that they're judging me, dragons. Probably all in my head." Played off lightly, only not that light at all. Everett raises a hand like he might do likewise, but then he thinks better of this, and puts it into the coat pocket where it can stay warm and safe from whatever it is that fails to feel particularly safe about all of this. Oh, but if his coat could perform the same miracle for the rest of him. "Pleasure, yes. Think... I'd best head back. Going to be dark, soon. Days are so short this time of year." There's a thin smile, strange and stretched and ill-fitted to her face. "He judges." That purr again. "It is not all in your head," is probably meant to be a reassurance - but not in that tone. The blue gurgles, the sound thick and wet. The kind of sound that sticks. Ulyana's smile withers and dies quickly, her tone returning to its usual, hollow quality. "Yes. Perhaps that is wise, Everett. I do not know how long you have been here - but it will be getting cold soon." A beat. "Be well and be safe." She does not move; nor does the blue. "We will watch for you." Accordingly, Everett looks not the least bit reassured. Little bitty girl like that, dragon in a Weyr full of dragons, funny how a foggy day can make such a difference. Or maybe he would have been unsettled in either case. A gambler might put a bet on him telling himself later that it was just that sort of a day. For now: "I'll... do my best to be worth watching, then," is the best he can come up with in the way of a response, and so long as they stay still, he can put distance between them at a healthy pace, back to dryness and warmth and light. |
Comments
Alida (21:30, 11 October 2015 (PDT)) said...
Dar lawdie, I *do* like Ulyana and Qhy! Hehehehe! ;)
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