Logs:Dance Partners
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| RL Date: 30 July, 2016 |
| Who: Olivya, T'zur |
| Involves: Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Two dragonriders meet at a gather; two dragons meet in dark and dangerous minds. |
| Where: Keroon Hold, Benden Area |
| When: Day 8, Month 6, Turn 41 (Interval 10) |
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| It is below the slopes of Keroon's mountainous hold that the gather grounds stretch, curved and hugging an outcropping of rock to one side of the winding road that leads up to the Hold above. But below, as the sun dies at the edge of Keroon's endless plain, the party carries on. Glows are uncovered and the band continues to play, even as most shops start to close for the evening and dragons try to catch the last rays of light on any bit of rock afforded to them. One of these, of course, is Ivraeth; her lush, abundant thoughts seeped with the heat that lingers from the day. Her rider has long since shed her red jacket onto an empty chair next to her, her blonde curls pulled back from her neck in the heat. Whoever she came with has abandoned her, but it doesn't seem like she minds. No, she sits at a table near one of the drink stalls overlooking the dancing, and watches with a small smile. While summer might have taken hold in the northern Weyrs, it's still pleasant to slip away further south and enjoy the warmth and frivolity of a summer gather at a foreign Hold. Tziveth's chosen perch is already in darkness, hiding from the setting sun, the near-black toned bronze still and easily overlooked. T'zur, for his part, is decked out in his gather finest, a pale blue shirt and dark pants enough to hint he has marks enough for decent clothing, his affiliation pointedly not on display. He's one of those dancing in the middle, keeping time to the harper beat, switching partners with abandon. It's to the pretty brunette he ends the dance with that he leans to murmur something, but after a brief exchange, she departs one way, and he the other -- right past Olivya -- on a veritable beeline to the drink stalls. Ivraeth does not overlook anything; a tangled brush of vines reaches out towards Tziveth's mind, a creeping, encroaching thing as she twists to sweep a look over the bronze with a slow study, even if he's nearly impossible to see. Whether by coincidence, drawn by her own dragon's attention towards his, or by some other caught feeling or instinct, as T'zur passes, the Weyrlingmaster speaks up to tell him easily, "Done already? But it seemed like you were having a good time out there." Tziveth is nothing. No, wait, he's not nothing, but he is a dearth of things -- no light, welcoming or warmth in response to that approach, just an utter blackness at first: and then, in the far distance, an occasional sprinkle of star-like glitter, enough to entreat. Physical, he doesn't move, undisturbed by the sudden attention. T'zur slows, and grins as his eyes settle on the admittedly older woman that addresses him, gaze sweeping over her quickly. "I'm afraid my partner had a curfew, sadly. If she's to be home before full dark..." he spreads his hands as if to say, what can you do, though his twist of lips may very well suggest he doesn't believe it. "Is dancing just about the partner, then, not about the act itself?" challenges Olivya lightly back, curving a brow to T'zur and waiting expectantly for an answer much as she'd do to a weyrling. Ivraeth's mind holds a poison, a musky, subtle thing that works under the overabundance of everything else that makes her thoughts. In that blackness, she only blooms further, curious; that she gets rewarded for that curiosity only draws her attention unwavering to Tziveth. "If I'm honest -- it's about both," T'zur admits, wryly. He seems relaxed under that scrutinizing gaze, though there's a slight tip of head like he recognizes it, somehow. "Would you like a drink?" he offers, with a gesture towards the drink stalls. Perhaps rewarded is the wrong interpretation, for whenever Ivraeth nears the starry lights, they seem to drift further away, ever teasing, never caught, and nothing of Tziveth revealed. Olivya's brow only inches briefly higher at his answer, but her lips twitch into a smile briefly as well. And she doesn't refute his answer as valid, instead only moving on to agree in a humored murmur, "I never say no to a handsome man offering to buy me a drink, darling." If she ever had her own, it's nowhere in evidence right now. Ivraeth will remain tangled there, ever blooming and chasing. At least for the foreseeable future, a focus and memory that many greens aren't known for. But she'll question too, as challenging as her rider, « Why? » The single word encompasses more than his retreat or what he hides, those only a starting place of its syllable. "You strike me as a drinker of fine, cold white wine, yes?" T'zur's head tips, waiting for assent, grinning. Amusement flares as a dark red thrum through the blankness of Tziveth's thoughts. Questions are good, but no good questions are answered -- at least not all of the time. Olivya tips her chin in a nod, her own bright eyes lighting with amusement. "I can't even deny it to remain mysterious. I guess I am easier than I thought, aren't I?" she questions musingly, returning grin with a softer, momentary flicker of a smile. For a moment, there's the hint of musk, the brief enticement of promised lushness, of glowing and flights and satisfaction-- But Ivraeth doesn't pursue those promises further for her questions. They draw back, a tight bud that folds up again though the rest of her vines remain. Whether she's merely humoring his guess, or he's on the mark, T'zur doesn't much seem to mind; what matters is she gave him the win. It earns a big grin, and an invisible hat-tip, before the young man strides confidently towards the drink stalls. It might even be difficult to tell that white's not his preference, given he brings back two glasses of the stuff, still cold, setting them on the table before he takes the seat next to Olivya. Even those enticements don't draw the elusive bronze out: no, Tziveth lies in wait, until it is she who has retreated. And then, subtle, measure by measure, dark tendrils creep along the vines, consuming and blackening them as it advances, seeking the source -- the heart of her. "Thank you," Olivya says as he settles back at the table, reaching for her glass with a studying look over the younger man. But when she speaks again, it's only to continue with an easy, "I suppose I owe you at least my name for this. Liv." Her fingertips press to her chest in a gesture as she gives her name, before she lifts the glass for a quick, appreciative sip. Of course, once she's done, red lipstick has already marred the glass. "We could find a new partner for you. Any preferences?" Ivraeth withers as he consumes. There is the hint of started decay ahead of him, only part of a natural process, but one that few likely see except that he has encroached further than most. Whether the decay continues deeper or not, a sudden wall of glass blocks him from delving further. « No, » is another single word. "A pleasure, Liv," T'zur replies, lifting his glass as if in toast, relaxing into the chair as he takes a sip. There's a slight grimace -- perhaps suggesting this isn't his normal fare -- though he keeps drinking like it is. "My friends call me Tz," he says, pronouncing it Teezee. Her offer brightens his gaze, as he half turns. "I have a penchant for blondes," he admits, though it's anyone's guess whether he's just saying that because she's blonde. When the encroaching darkness reaches glass, it presses against it, straining for any weakness -- but only for a moment, before it fades, as formless as it never was, seemingly retreating -- except for that lingering dark that remains as far as he'd breached, wondering, questioning, ever-curious for what might drive such a creature. Olivya will take that preference and shift to consider the young women around them seriously, only sliding a sideways look towards T'zur briefly before she suggests with a tip of her chin towards a young woman with short, blonde hair and soft features and wide eyes: "Her? She certainly has the look of someone to protect. I know some men like that." The last is only teased with a light drawl before she takes another longer sip of her wine. She, at least, seems to be enjoying it, so it likely wasn't her simply humoring him. Poison streaks the glass, a steady threat there as Tziveth lingers so close, as Ivraeth hides behind it. T'zur studies the indicated woman over the rim of his glass, grimacing: "She's taller than me. It would make dancing awkward." Other things, too, though he doesn't say that. Tziveth is undaunted by the threat that poison presents; he lies in wait, passive and unthreatening, for the other to feel at ease. "Long legs are good for dancing," Olivya counters without missing a beat, also not saying what other things they could be good for as she offers the bronzerider a smile. "But, ok. No one taller." Her light gaze sweeps back out to the dance floor once again. The next blonde she points out with her glass in a gesture is petite enough that she likely only comes to T'zur's chest. She is slim, her blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun and her Gather dress a cornflower blue. "Does shorter work?" Ivraeth, captured behind the glass just as easily as it holds Tziveth back, only waits restlessly. She does not try to push him back though, and as they both wait, the decay rots away, only to start a new cycle of tendrils pushing through the previous deadfall. Once more, the bronzerider regards the indicated blonde, with a thoughtful tip of head. "Shorter works," he agrees, easily, "As long as she can dance." He sets aside his glass, as if making to straighten. "If she can't, will you take pity on a poor, rejected man, and offer him a dance?" The new growth makes it out a certain distance, but those nearer to where the dark tendrils of Tziveth's thoughts wait wither the nearer they come -- if nothing else pointing out where he lingers. Olivya's lips tilt into a crooked smile, even as she answers, "Of course, but how do you know that I can dance?" They wither, decay, and then they will shoot up again. Tziveth's presence only forces the cycle into over drive, as it maintains a much slower process away from him, but everywhere it remains relentless. « Out, » finally comes from Ivraeth in command, despite their relative colors and genetic hierarchies. "The same way I knew what sort of drink you'd prefer," T'zur replies, doing his best to sound mysterious and all-knowing at the same time. With a tip of his glass in her direction like a silent salute, he rises, striding almost unerringly for the blonde she pointed out. There's an exchange of conversation, before the young man leads his partner to the dance floor soon after. It looks like Liv's off the hook. There's barely a moment of resistance, as if she were a queen issuing an order; Tziveth doesn't so much retreat as... disperse, darkness lightening, and that heavy presence of his fading as well, into nothing. |
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