Logs:Love Confession
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| RL Date: 12 December, 2015 |
| Who: A'sran, Olivya |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: A'sran and Olivya meet in the weyrbowl. She wants to help with his love confession, but they end up knocking boots instead. |
| Where: Weyrbowl, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 11, Month 7, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Mirinda/Mentions, N'rov/Mentions, Daviola/Mentions |
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| The day has long gone and the sun has set, leaving a twilight gloom over the Weyr after the downpour. It does not mean an end to the commotion in the bowl or the comings and goings of weyrfolk who do not stop just because darkness descends. Out in the bowl, Lueczuth, with his strange markings and large eyes, is staring up at the sky eerily. What or whom he is waiting for has yet to be seen, but his rider is nearby, helmet hanging from his waist belt and riding gloves on. A'sran, reddish-blonde hair ruffled by the wind, slouches where he stands, boots planted in the muddy earth, touching with the buttons on his jacket cuffs. He seems to be waiting for someone too; just a little less ardently than the sky-watching bronze. Ivraeth, in all her dark lushness, has found a spot on the heights of the bowl wall to share with a light brown, curled up there with the Fortian dragon with very little differentiating her from those who were born here. It is from the Weyrwoman's weyr and onto the ledge of that complex that her rider steps out, her bright, red jacket untouched by the twilight. Olivya doesn't move from her vantage spot over the bowl immediately, her gaze sweeping over it and taking it in. Though, unlike A'sran and Lueczuth who get a moment's study, she does not seem to be looking or waiting for anyone in specific. Now, she seems intent to wait longer to see who they are waiting on. Stoic, calm, unmoving -- Leczuth is patient, intent. A'sran, on the other hand, starts to talk to himself, which carries a little ways on the wind. "If you would but consider my request to.." strutting a few feet forward as he speaks, but then stops short, turns around, and starts over. "I hate to be a bother, ma'am, but should you consider my request, you will not be.." His voice pitches lower when he notices the looks he is getting, but he keeps up the same routine: turn, walk, mumble, turn, walk, mumble. It could well be that he is expecting an important liaison. Olivya straightens and ties up her bright jacket, fingers running through blonde curls only to shake them out as she pays a half-mind towards A'sran. And then the greenrider is moving from the ledge, except that her path takes her to the bronzerider there, or at least to the edges of his track. She offers in both greeting and unsolicited advice, "Don't talk yourself down before you even give your pitch. Start strong and end strong." "You should definitely.." Gurgleblurble. Undignified as that sound is, it speaks of the end of A'sran private monologue as he turns about-face to stare at Olivya with intense blue eyes and a half-thought lingering on his lips. "Ma'am?" He will not concede that she could have heard his ramblings, initially, but grudgingly with a foolish smile that does nothing to alleviate the chagrin from his expression. "You heard," he says. "The beginning," agrees Olivya, her own softer blue eyes holding a hint of humor in them, "And I'm afraid it's not very good. Try it again, without the apology and with a firmer introduction?" That last is coached, but given her lack of knot or rank she still might not warrant that 'ma'am'-- except for the turns she has on him and the way she carries herself, every inch a Lady Holder or Weyrwoman. A brown pops into the air over Fort Weyr from between and Leczuth's tawny wings rustle against each other. "I should not apologize? I was told the best practice is to apologize preemptively for your future sins," the bronzerider explains, back to a stance that is more a slouch than a stand. "Too weak? We could always.. roleplay." This pitch comes with a boyish grin. A breath that could be a laugh escapes from Olivya's very bright, very red lips even as they curve into a moment's smile. "Of course. And who am I roleplaying as, then?" she asks of the bronzerider, her gaze not even lifting as the brown appears though it is Ivraeth who pays sharp attention for her rider to appear careless. It takes A'sran an inordinate amount of time to answer that simple question, but when he does, he spreads his hands in a plaintive manner, fingertips pointed out. "The madam Daviola at the Blushing Boudoir." He says it like he is talking about some Holder's daughter, with a reverence that one might not associate with a sex worker; however high-caliber said woman might be. "I plan to pledge my undying devotion," he says, with a straight face. Perhaps he's daft. "And how is that a request?" counters Olivya, a challenge written in the fine curve of her brow, without a moment's hesitation even over the mention of the place. Or perhaps the Southerner is just not familiar with the name enough to be embarrassed by talking about it. "You should just start with pledging it, then." "The lady is harder to get an audience with than Lord Fort," which is saying a lot, since the man is dead. "I thought begging her forgiveness in advance.." A'sran stands up straight, out of his slouch, and clears his throat, hands riffling through his already-tousled hair. "Ah! Your sweet, golden hair is the color of a ripening fruit, and your eyes are like two pools of.. dew. How do I love thee? More than.. more than.." His eyes flick to Leczuth, who is too busy still staring at the sky like a giant, cooked chicken might fall out of it for him to gobble up; dreams come true, keep wishing, Leczuth! "Drills. More than drills! More than.. the Weyrwoman. More than.. N'rov." Olivya's brow starts to curve upwards, those two pools of dew of her own sliding over A'sran in an unerring study even as he speaks. And when he finishes? She says dryly, "Mmm, yes, women love to be compared to other women when you're declaring your love. And they especially love being compared to your love for a man." A pause, before she suggests, "Try again. And do not bring up anything but her." A'sran tries valiantly to school his features into some semblance of propriety, some semblance of a well-groomed gentleman, but he cannot stop the smile that starts at one corner and spreads, lifting his mouth. "No?" He sighs. He clears his throat again. He shuffles his feet. He cracks his knuckles. He.. "You are more radiant than the sun. You walk in the room and you shine. I cannot look away. I am blinded by your light, and yet.. I do not care that I can see no other. What woman could hold a candle to your grace? Your charms? What a weak man am I that I cannot see beyond your blue eyes and your smile? Weak. Weak in want of love for you. Yours alone. You.. madam, Daviola," and all that in one breathe, one hand pressed to his chest over his burgundy doublet. And then he smiles, goofily. "What did you think? Was it too much?" "Perfect, except that end. I told you, strong start and strong end," Olivya coaches with a half-smile of her own, considering A'sran for a moment. And then she repeats back to him, a soft murmur made firm as she says, "Weak in want of love for you. I need you, Daviola." She steps forward, closing the space between them and catching her fingers on his chin before she claims his lips with as fierce a kiss. In the time it takes her to close the space, A'sran is muttering to himself again in a low voice, saying words that sound suspiciously like a repetition of her suggestion, but her chin grab and subsequent kiss takes him off guard and silences him, for now. His eyebrows shoot up and his eyes widen, and then he leans forward, right into that lip-lock; apparently, Daviola isn't really the light of his life. The green on the heights above stirs restlessly, her wings lifting as if she might take to the air before she settles herself down again. And below, Olivya exhibits almost perfect skill in her kiss even as he leans into it, her lips playing subtly against A'sran's as her fingers trail against his chin and then slide into reddish-blonde hair just to drag him closer. Then, as suddenly, she tears away in time to (hopefully?) leave him wanting more. "You have to make her want you, too," she offers to him, her lips curving into what is really more of a smirk than a smile. "And now, you're ready." Ready?! Several blinks and a blank look later, A'sran is still out of sorts from the kiss, and looking mildly disappointed. He leans back, wiping a hand over his mouth, and gazes at Olivya with fast-growing appreciation. "Do you think I am ready? I might need another instruction. I do not think.. one more time?" is his suggestion, but he smiles again in that boyish way with the dimples, hair all disarrayed. Leczuth deigns to drop his massive head then and impassively watch the pair; peons. "Don't you feel ready?" Soft, blue eyes dance with humor, but it seems that those dimples and suggestions seems to get somewhere with the tall blonde because Olivya agrees, instructing, "Try again, then." The mere idea! A'sran affects the countenance of someone severely apologetic. "No. I was not paying close enough attention, but if we.." He licks his lips lightly -- the weather makes his lips dry, okay!? -- in anticipation, and given the cue, steps forward capture Olivya's hand and pull her forward with propelling force. "I promise.." What he promises, exactly, they'll never know, because his pretty speech ends and his lips descend, to seize the greenrider's mouth in another kiss. Olivya responds easily, that firm body stretched against him as her free hand wraps around A'sran's shoulder, digging into leather to pin herself close. Those lips move against his expertly, each touch practiced as she opens just so under his. This time, Ivraeth's whirled gaze only drops to watch them as well, though she only seems to be encouraging this rather than judging like the bronze might. And when she pulls away to take a breath, the greenrider murmurs, "She's going to want to know what you promise. That wasn't a very strong start." Fucking greens, man. A'sran is more than happy, despite his pledges to his lady-love-who-loves-many back at the Blushing Boudoir, to keep up the kissing, but when she pulls away he stays close, not yet relinquishing her hand. "Should I try again?" he murmurs through a wide grin. Third time's the charm? No? [Fort Weyr] A'sran: Oh. Well. That explains things! Ivraeth's mind is a subtle, slithering thing where it touches Leczuth's, only playing at the edges of his thoughts. "Ok. Try one more time. Remember, strong start and strong end. And don't bring up the Weyrleader," Olivya tells him, her gaze flicking briefly to that ledge before it settles back on A'sran with a weight of expectation. She doesn't try to take her hand back, yet. Inky, black, and wet, with sharp shards of refracted light that would bear some likeness to the night sky if it were not so.. twisted, meet the green's reach. Leczuth lets his impassiveness be known, more an impression than a surety. "You do not think a woman would want to be regaled by Nrov's accomplishments?" he quips, chuckling lowly after. At this point, he is just taking advantage of the situation, his mouth swooping in to claim hers, again, with gentle insistence, while his hand lets go of hers to cup the back of her neck. There is something wet and growing and green in Ivraeth's thoughts, a lush jungle of thoughts in contrast to inky and black (if they share a wetness). She seems only amused at that impassiveness even as her own mind blooms under a delightful heat as Olivya's lips meet A'sran's again. And this time, she doesn't pull away even as she runs out of breath. Instead, she seems to forget for a moment where she is and why she's doing this as her fingers bury into red-blonde hair again. « Younglings, » Ivraeth says, half amused and half interested. Young seems to equate to more; energy and passion, at least. Warm? Leczuth is as cold as he is dark, and his impassiveness works its way into the whisper of leaves rustling in a nighttime wind. Living with his bronze as long as he has, being used to that uninterested flavor, A'sran does not let it put a damper on his evening. How often do unfamiliar women kiss him in the weyrbowl? Not enough, but his accounting. He breaks away, his head lifting only so much as to stare into her face and decide, once more kiss is enough.. no, another and.. yes, ok, one more, before he exhales. "We should.." Stop? Take it to his weyr? Still having a problem with that whole strong end part. When A'sran stops, so does Olivya for all that her fingers trail against his hair in a lingering appreciation for a moment. But then she pulls away, all business except for the hint of a smile as she finishes, "We should get to the Blushing Boudoir, shouldn't we? You have a declaration of love to deliver." Ivraeth is suddenly launching herself into the air, winging down towards the bowl as her rider reaches for her own gloves to slide on with a look to the bronzerider. The slide of her soft blue gaze is almost a challenge, with the hint of a curve to her brow. Another exhale, this one paired with a charming smile that sees his dimples returning. "Go? Who said I was going anywhere? I should practice more. I can feel I am right.. on.. the.. cusp, of something amazing," A'sran returns, equally as challenging, if with a playful undertone. Leczuth watches the green's descent, his head cocked to the side at somewhat of an uncomfortable angle; impassiveness set aside momentarily for appreciation, because duh, he's a bronze. "You're ready. You have to believe in that," Olivya counters, even as Ivraeth lands so precisely, her wings spread just so and then folded as she hunches only slightly reluctantly as her rider strides over towards her. "Now, are you going to give us the visual?" If not, the green is ready to brush the question against Leczuth's mind, the creeping crawl of vines curling there, because regardless of A'sran's answer, the blonde is mounting her waiting dragon. The answer is not one that A'sran wanted, if his eye roll and matching roll of his head back over his shoulders is any indication. "Wait!" He wastes too much time staring at the greenrider as she walks away, and makes it to the green's side while Olivya is mounting up; he even tries to snag her boot if his fingers can catch before she's secure. "Come back down," is half laugh, half laugh. "We are not going to the Blushing Boudoir." Leczuth? Still does not care, but at least his wings tuck and his head rights itself. "You can't not, now, after all my hard work. Don't you want Daviola to know how you feel?" challenges Olivya, her boot caught and her mount stumbled over (a thing that must not happen very often, with all her precise and graceful movements). She doesn't quite make it to the top of the green, sliding back down her forearm and back towards A'sran's level with a half laugh of her own. Ivraeth's unperturbed by this turn of events, those vines still twining slowly against Leczuth's mind even as she turns her head to slowly, carefully clean red claws with lavish attention. "I am certain," pulling that boot to help in her descent, "that Daviola knows exactly how I feel." A'sran looks amused by his own statement, and the change in plans, his arms winding around the greenrider's waist to keep her anchored for now. "I can remind her any time, and it is getting pretty late." One glance is spared the deepening sky. "I have a bottle of rum in my weyr. I would love if you joined me for a night cap," the bronzerider says, getting right to the point. Leczuth's stillness is broken by cracking sounds and a low hoot hoot. Hai. Her arms fall lazily over A'sran's shoulders, fingers twining together as Olivya arches onto her toes between her dragon and the bronzerider. "I could be persuaded to join you," she agrees slowly, hips pressing against his as she leans into him. "But if I were Daviola, I would have gotten a whole speech. I expect you to make up for that." She doesn't seem to mind, though, as she brushes her mouth over the exposed skin of his neck before she draws away to mount again without looking back. « Which one is yours? » Ivraeth asks with all their combined warmth, whirling gaze lifted from her claws to the bronze. A'sran could make more pretty promises, using those big words, but what is the point when he could just show her? His mouth spreads in another grin as he watches her mount -- a perfect vantage point, to be honest -- before he turns to Leczuth, nudging the fluffy bronze into action. "We have a date," he informs him, and then hauls himself up into those straps. « Follow me, » his rough, gnarled voice proclaims, as he takes off from the ground, wings spread to carry them up and over, to a wide ledge with plenty of scars and warmth waiting within. Ivraeth does follow, a perfectly agile line traced as she rises from the bowl to the ledge, but once settled and dislodged of her rider, the lush green is more than content to curl up with the bronze whether he wants to or not. (That he wouldn't want to doesn't seem to cross her thoughts.) And as Olivya dismounts for that nightcap, she at least doesn't bring the waiting woman at the Blushing Boudoir up again. |
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