[LOG] Late visits.
Who: An'dren, Virgil; Riuth, Siraqueth.
What: Andy makes good on his visit; talk of old things and loneliness ensues.
Where: Feeding grounds, Virgil's weyr, FTW.
When: 9/21/2008
9/21/2008
Feeding Grounds, Fort Weyr
The feeding grounds are fenced off from the rest of the Weyr with a high, wooden fence and gate, providing plenty of space for the resident herdbeasts -- bovines, in particular -- to ramble about. The vast majority of the animals are for draconic consumption, but some of the more valuable varieties are penned away from those designated to be dragon food. Ovines and porcines are a bit more useful to humans than to the dragons that would happily dine on them and are kept further away from the bovines and closer to the stables as a result. There's plenty of grass to feed them, while herders and stablehands regularly add feed to the troughs along the eastern fence. The soil turns to mud as one gets closer to where the area butts up agains the lake, which doubles as a watering hold for the animals.
The weather within Fort's climate on the sunniest of spring days could be considered temperamental. In autumn, at night? 'Chilly' would be an understatement. Still, for those accustomed to such temperature the cold isn't such a harsh thing to tolerate, and most can and do. Telgar would sneeze at Fort's worst, probably call it a girl's name, then go home to attack its residents with a blizzard for a few weeks. So it shouldn't be too surprising that the girl with Telgar in her blood finds herself standing at an angle against the corral fence wearing the usual jacket and hat while she watches her partner eat his most recent kill. Or, rather, she tries to watch. It's quite dark. Siraqueth makes small dinner noises and makes his meal disappear tidily.
Telgar might sneeze at Fort's worst, but Ista would run crying to the sun until the last touch of wind and winter snow had been burned away. And so it is that while Virgil's just dressed in a jacket and hat, An'dren's bundled up in what looks like half his wardrobe, barely visible beneath it all. Riuth is undisturbed by the weather -- indeed, he seems amused, and keeps eyeing Andy's scarf like he wants to unravel it thread by thread -- and pads alongside his rider, body angled so he's blocking the worst of the chill. "Kinda late," the young man murmurs at him, rubbing his hands together. "Maybe we should just come back later." Y'know, when it's warmer. And there's daylight.
The blanket of quiet laid over the feeding pens and general area allows even An'dren's murmuring through. The beasts have all calmed since last they were terrorized and hunted, and stand milling and snorting at the far end of the corral; the dragon himself makes barely a sound, save for the crunch of bone or the muffled press of his paw deeper into the soft earth. If she couldn't /hear/ Andy from where she leans, at least she'd notice Riuth, hopefully, if perhaps she caught a glint of starlight off his metallic hide or his movement out of the corner of her eye. Virgil does notice these things, but she hears him too, and turns to lean fully up against the railings and set her chill-pinkened cheek to her arm so she might, upon recognition, watch him and hide her smile. Her, "Brave Ista boy," is cheeky, amused. Fond, even.
It's the cold. He's too preoccupied with the Fortian autumn and the biting chill, and that's why he doesn't notice the crunch of bone or the paw pressing deeper, or the girl leaning up against the railing. It's Andy's excuse, anyways, and he jerks up straighter when he hears 'Ista' and 'boy' -- knowing, despite his preoccupation, that it refers to him, because what other Istan boy is stupid enough to be wandering about here at night? "Do I know you?" he asks when he's found the source, and takes a few steps closer to squint. Then: "Virgil? Please tell me that's Virgil."
So this, then, is her chance to play with him. Let her take the confident high road and let him think she wasn't similarly uncertain she had the wrong person, afterall, and maybe she shouldn't have spoken so. His voice, though, is one she's come to know. With the tip of her tongue pressed to her canine she grins and pauses the span of a few heartbeats before she wonders, "What happens if I don't?"
Even in the darkness, Andy's dry smile is evident; there's a wryness to his tone that suggests laughter and 'well, that'd be just my luck, wouldn't it?' "I'd be embarrased, I suppose," he says, pushing his hat back so he can better see into the night. It's a different hat from his usual -- not floppy and worn, but rather a woven affair that keeps heat in far better than straw. "I'd also wonder how you knew it was an Istan boy out here." Another few steps, and he's close enough for Riuth to recoginze Siraqueth, even if An'dren himself still squints. The information is relayed, and Andy says, half laughing and half triumphant, "You /are/ Virgil."
Darn dragons! /Hers/ hasn't done much to hint at Riuth's identity, distracted and preoccupied thing that he is, and really hasn't so much as lifted his head from his meal to give the bronze a welcome. Surely such absence of manners isn't customary from the dramatic fellow, so something else must be at play here. If anything's up, Virgil certainly doesn't give it away. Grinning now, without hiding it, she snaps her fingers, oh drat. "And here I thought I could trick you." And, because she /is/ glad to see him, she adds, "Hi, Andy."
Dragon> To Siraqueth, Riuth is aware that the blue is busy, and so it's only a short, << Good evening, >> that he offers, accompanied by the brief tapping of feet that come and go.
Andy has yet to know Siraqueth well enough to catch onto that lack of manners, and so it is that, oblivious, he continues on like this is a normal conversation. At night. In Fort. Where he's not sure whether or not he's freezing his skin off, on account of no longer being able to feel it. "I'm actually pretty easy to trick," An'dren says cheerfully, grinning in Gil's approximate direction. "You must not've been trying too hard." And then, because she said it first, he returns, "Hey, Virgil."
There aren't many who go to the lengths of using her full name. Her father does because it's proper and he named her and it's important and besides, she's his little princess; her aunt does; some of the members of the older, more matronly staff do. When you live your whole life going by a name that also happens to represent a part of a fish's anatomy, you learn to appreciate those few times you get to feel a little more like a girl. "I wasn't," she tells him earnestly, and turns again to better face him and lean her head against the rail. "What're you doing here? Are you freezing?" Siraqueth stirs, parting himself from his kill to swing his head around for Riuth and shift his wings, slightly embarrassed.
Dragon> To Riuth, Siraqueth is not so busy he can't spare a moment for a friend, especially one whose company he enjoys so much. << Oh, Riuth! >> The door to a special backstage room opens in his mind, where a vague human shape appears, wearing a napkin tucked into his collar that he uses to dab at his imaginary lips. << Forgive me, we've just gotten in, I feel I haven't eaten in days! >> Which is likely very close to the truth.
Andy does because he's not quite comfortable calling her Gil yet, but that's not something she needs to know. "That's good to know," he replies, striding closer until he's nearly leaning up against the fence, too. "I think. Don't reckon I'd want you trying too hard, though, 'cause that /would/ be embarrasing. If I made a mistake, I mean." He frees up a hand to scratch at his nose, then shoves it back into the depths of his pocket, where some little warmth might be had. "Was looking for you, actually," he says, and now he sounds rueful, no longer amused. "S'my day off. I got roped into helping someone clear out their weyr, though, and didn't get away until...well, 'bout a few minutes ago. Wasn't sure whether or not it'd be too late to visit." The question about freezing goes unanswered, partly because he's too busy being apologetic and partly because the answer's fairly obvious anyways.
Dragon> To Siraqueth, Riuth is drawn nearer by that backstage door, and a few pairs of feet pad over to investigate, soft voices murmuring as they attempt to peek into the room. << Don't let me interrupt your meal, >> the bronze says, and his words are nearly lost in the interested whispers of that background army. It takes a moment for him to gather his thoughts, but then there's the impression of absence as his mind retreats, waiting on the edges of the blue's awareness for when he's done with dinner.
She's used to the way he goes on so while he does so she leans and listens, calmly attentive to all the dips and paths of his accent and all those points he touches on without really revisiting. Towards the end, pretty much right around when he mentions looking for her, her eyebrows have come up a very little and her smile has faded. The face she's wearing when he's done is a mild, surprised one. "It isn't," she assures him, perhaps a little quickly. Just as quick to smoothe that over, she continues with, "We just had sweeps, they went a little longer because we had to speak to a few holders. We just got back." Which means Andy has great timing. And, because it /is/ obvious, she also says, "We should get inside somewhere."
Dragon> To Riuth, Siraqueth seems a little startled by those interested parties poking around, but he keeps the door open while, after an appreciative nudge, he goes back to his dinner. In the physical realm he finishes up the few portions he left for last because after a while of doing this you learn which bits get cold and all congealy so you'd better eat them first. Within a few moments he's stepping away from the carcass, the 'fullness' in his attention suggesting that wasn't the first. He returns to the army fully sated. << Ah. That's much better. How are you? Have you eaten? There's plenty. >>
Andy does meander on sometimes, but that hardly means he's unattentive to Virgil while he's in the middle of rambling. That fading smile and too-quick assurance are seen and caught, and he tilts his head, wondering, "Did I say something wrong?" And as good as 'inside somewhere' sounds, he's now more intent on making sure his presence isn't an intrusion, and so he lingers by the railing despite the cold, eyes searching Gil's face as if the answer's written there.
Dragon> To Siraqueth, Riuth waits patiently as Siraqueth eats, that faceless, vague army scattered on logs in the darkness, hands tucked into armpits for warmth. There's the occasional shuffle and fidget of a restless crowd, but he's not trying to hurry the blue; they're merely signs that the bronze is still there, if for the most part silent. << I'm fine, >> he says once Siraqueth is done, and the crowd starts to murmur again. << And I've eaten already at Ista, thank you. I've found that it's easier to eat at home than outside. >>
There's really no one alive Virgil doesn't need to look up at to talk to. She's small, the occasional neck ache from too much tilting is a part of life. Now, though, when she looks up at An'dren, while he's searching her face for an answer to his question, one she might not have ready right away, she grows slightly uncomfortable. Finally she looks down, turns her head, smiles quickly. "No, of course not, c'mon Andy." When she looks back up at him she gives his arm a gentle nudge with her gloved hand. "Let's go. Mount up." She's already turning again to meet Siraqueth when he slithers over the fence to their side.
Dragon> To Riuth, Siraqueth cleans himself up for the audience of many that is one. A quick wardrobe change, a good lighting, some soft orchestral help. << I agree. Though my Virgil and I took our breakfast at Telgar the other morning and though I don't remember it near to at all she tells me I enjoyed myself. >> Nevermind the small grunt and break in his speech for the quick climb over that fence; he's put to rights the next.
Andy's still inquisitive and straddling the border of uncertain, but he'll take her at her word. If she says there's nothing wrong, then he'll believe there's nothing wrong, and it's with a quick flash of a grin that he responds to her nudge. "I guess we'll just follow you," he tells her, because really, he's got no idea where they're headed, and heads back to where Riuth's waiting, glowing eyes moving from Siraqueth to Gil. The bronze lowers his neck for his rider -- those near-frozen fingers aren't going to make mounting up easy -- and after a few fumbles, Andy's up and waiting for the blue to lead the way.
Dragon> To Siraqueth, Riuth doesn't clean up well, and that's why he doesn't often try. He keeps his crowd scattered about those logs, though they seem to sit up straighter with the change in lighting, the first faint strains of music. << I can't remember the last time I fed outside of Ista, nor do I care to, to be honest. Not, >> he adds swiftly, << that Fort's beasts don't have their qualities, merely that they're not what I'm accustomed to. >>
Good thing, too, because Virgil has no explanations for her odd behavior that won't just complicate things further. Once she's reached Siraqueth's foreleg she checks on her Istan friend over her shoulder and has to duck her head once during one of those fumbles to choke back her laughter. Anyway, she's up and mounted and Siraqueth is putting his conversation with Riuth on hold with a low, apologetic grumble so he can concentrate on her keeping her balance and spreading his wings and then just like that, with a strong leap, he's in the air. Their flightpath will lead them up and up and up until there, a ledge. /His/ ledge. The blue lands in the shelter of rock and moves out of the way to make room.
Virgil and Siraqueth's Weyr(#1471Rs$)
The large ledge at the front of this weyr is large enough to make a good home for two or perhaps even three dragons; along its edges are the gouges of generations of talons. The couch just inside the arched doorway is equally spacious and primely located to give a view of both the ledge and the sky outside and the interior of the weyr.
Inside, stone shelves of varying heights and sizes provide good shelving for various trinkets. An old desk to the right of the entranceway boasts a few leftover hides; there's a wobbly stool in front of it. Further back, a large cavern in the right wall, about two feet up from the floor has been made into a sleeping chamber, the bubble-shaped hollow stuffed with a mattress and generous furs. At the very top of this chamber over the head of the bed, a quirk of the rock creates an open space, a short tunnel that shows a generous patch of sky above it, its slight tilt keeping out rain and snow. On past the sleeping quarters is a fireplace, set into the back. Its once-beautiful wood mantle is cracked and warped, its run-down state matching the dustiness of the rest of the weyr.
Riuth follows Siraqueth up, careful, in his launch, not to overshoot the blue for fear of losing him. He's faithful at his heels, and when the Fortian lands, he hovers near the ledge, waiting just long enough for room to be made before he, too, touches down. He seems grateful to be here; it's difficult, flying so that your cold-numbed rider doesn't go plunging stupidly off. He probably wouldn't so much splat on contact as shatter, but it's not a theory that Riuth is inclined to test.
Cool as it might be. Siraqueth's general bustling and circling before he settles is much akin to a canine before finding his resting place; it consists of a lot of rear end work and general tail bobbing and delicate paw placement, with much clicking of talons. Eventually he lowers himself so Virgil can, unbuckled, dismount and make her way inside before her guest does. There's a large curtain over the entrance of the weyr, a new addition if her struggling to push it aside is any indication towards her experience or lack thereof. Her goal is the fireplace and, after a small fight, a fire. The light it casts gives the bluerider's little home a warm glow. He'll likely find her pacing around the place, picking up pieces of clothing off the floor and obsessively straightening. Meanwhile, the dragon arranges himself neatly with his body as compact as he can get it before carrying on with Riuth, possibly before the bronze has had time to get comfortable.
Dragon> To Riuth, Siraqueth projects, << Now, where were we? >> His smooth tenor is polite, unfaltered, like he never did interrupt them. << Ah, Fort versus Ista, the food. Fort's animals are fat in different ways, it's true. Igen's, for instance, are almost stringy, I find. It's alarming. I can only assume it's their diet, poor things. >>
Riuth's not too fussy about things like positioning, though he does make sure he's well away from the edge before he hunkers down, this time to facilitate An'dren's dismount. It's a ledge he's unfamiliar with, and that, combined with the darkness and the cold, means it's not going to be a graceful landing, however much the bronze tries to help. There's some more fumbling and a few false starts, and then finally Andy is safely on the ground, shaking hair out of his eyes and rubbing his hands together for the friction. Virgil's gone by then, of course -- pacing inside while the fire glows. An'dren hesitates for a moment, then finds his own way in, expression brightening at the sight of that welcoming heat. "You have a hearth," he says, and there's definite, surprised approval in the observation.
Dragon> To Siraqueth, Riuth is taken aback by the conversation's fluid continuation, Siraqueth being apparently capable of picking up as if there'd never been a break. He's game enough to try his hand at it, though, and there's only the slightest pause before he replies, << I believe Reaches' beasts aren't much, either. Perhaps not quite stringy, but still lacking something that ours have. It may be the diet, but there's a possibility that other factors play into it -- like how often their dragons feed, as an example, and how often the beasts stampede. >>
She turns to find him, hones in on his voice, and does. Her grin is sudden and warm, very much like the fire. "I don't know what I'd do without it. Cozy in with Q I guess." Her gesture out to the ledge he just came in from is done with the hand currently holding a fistful of what would appear to be, if they were given more than a second's worth of attention, undergarments. 'Embarrassed' wouldn't be the word, for when she finds them; 'hasty' would probably do. 'Apologetic' too. She's lightning quick in getting rid of them: toss! The life of a young, single, workaholic dragonrider isn't so glamorous. "Ha! Um. Sleeping with a dragon is dangerous, I don't know if you and Riuth ever-- I mean, when they get bigger. Are you-- I have klah bark. And tea, I have tea."
Dragon> To Riuth, Siraqueth might be smooth, but his bronze friend is /strong/. And, it would seem, intelligent about their current vein of discussion, something he's quick to admire, and let that admiration shine through in the gentle spotlight put on the army mass. << Ah, that's a factor I never remember. The stampedes would run them out. Ah, aha. Riuth my friend, >> his voice grows bold, and he tips a paw towards the other dragon, << you, are a genius. >>
"Don't have much use for one of these in my weyr," An'dren says, as if that's not something Virgil could've figured out for herself. "Even cold nights aren't that cold, really. S'nothing an extra fur can't take care of." He pads closer to the fire and glances a question at Virgil: can I sit here? It's nice. Of course, the moment he glances is the moment he realizes she's holding a fistful of underwear, and he blinks. Blinks again. And then, as if her embarrasment is keeping his own at bay, he simply laughs quietly and says, with a grin, "I didn't see that, whatever that was. And yeah, we do. Did. Still do sometimes, actually, when it's nice out, 'cause you can see the stars pretty clearly on a good night, yeah?" He hunkers down before the fire and faces it with his hands outstretched, giving her time to gather herself. "Tea would be nice," he tells the flames, and quirks another grin.
Dragon> To Siraqueth, Riuth is...not modest, no, that's not the word. He knows his own faults and his qualifications, and he takes pride in what he does well. This, though? Is more guess work than anything, and he won't take the credit for it. << It may or may not be a factor, >> he says. << I'm merely speculating. >> But he does seem pleased by the compliment, and though his own voice doesn't change, that of the masses does, swelling a little in volume and clarity.
There probably isn't enough time in the world, but she recovers her composure and might even have gotten to the point of 'that never happened' by the time he's there by the fire. Her complete lack of a negative for his unspoken request regarding his placement could probably have served alone as permission enough, but when she comes to join him it should be perfectly clear. The reach up for the little tin on the mantle is a stretch and involves a little hop and it's a wonder why it's even there, considering her height; she unlids it and busies herself with the tea preperation while saying, "I used to, when he was little. In the barracks." Back at Telgar. She falls quiet, gives him a little smile and puts the kettle on.
Dragon> To Riuth, Siraqueth won't have any of that not-modesty stuff here, whatever it's called. His tone takes on a plain, earnest quality. << I have a very strong and compelling notion you're absolutely right in that. It makes perfect sense. >> A small applause rises, pleased by this outcome: the audience agrees. << The next we come to Keroon, I'll ask one of them. >> Logically, he would. << Which reminds me, >> or doesn't, but might lead him to, << next time at Ista, I want to try out some of that ocean. >>
An'dren half-rises from his crouch when he sees her reaching for the tin, but she's already got it in hand before he's quite unbent, so he leaves her to it, returning instead to thaw out before the fire. "Why don't you anymore?" he wonders, craning his neck to look up at Virgil -- a first for him, and probably not something she should get used to. "Your ledge is big enough to be safe, isn't it? Unless it's too cold, but doesn't seem like that's some'in that bothers you much." It bothers him, though, and the mere thought of it sends him a little closer to the hearth, trying to draw in as much of that heat as he can. He misjudges the distance, and there's a second between when he moves and when that misjudgement registers; then he flinches and hastily moves back, shaking out his fingers.
Dragon> To Siraqueth, Riuth is bemused by the diction, but not unwilling to accept the applause, especially since the blue seems to earnest in the giving of it. << Let me know what they say, >> he requests. << I'm curious now, strangely. >> And then, at the mention of the ocean: << You should. I believe I've visited your lake before, but compared to an ocean -- well, it's not much of a comparison. The size difference alone is staggering. >>
"It isn't the ledge, we could scoot in a bit if-- I mean, we do, sometimes. If one of us had a bad dream or we're lonely that night." About to go on, Virgil is stopped by his sudden movement and gives him a quick look. Her face pinches sympathetically. "Ouch, careful there. Here." It's very true, about the exchange in their vantages; she changes it up by dropping into a crouch at his side, her hand reaching for his. "Give us a look."
Andy's staring at his hand like it's somehow betrayed him, and it's reluctantly that he holds it out for Virgil's scrutiny. "Wasn't expecting it to be so hot," he says dryly, and then: "It looks worse than it is. I'm used to burns, so. S'not so bad." And indeed, though the tips of his fingers look horribly red, made all the more so by the flickering fire-light, he doesn't seem too bothered by it, beyond the initial shock. His fingers still bend, and he won't flinch from her touch. "And if it's not the ledge, what is it?"
Whether he's used to it or not, an injury's an injury. If he's looking at his hand like it's just done him wrong, /she's/ looking at the fireplace like she's never seen it before. It's clearly dead to her. Back to his fingers, "Well," and her mouth makes a dubious slant, "if you're fine I guess I won't pack you up in blankets and take you to the infirmary." Which paints a comical picture, and she probably meant for it to. Her fingertips are light while they gently bend each of his digits back so she can see them all one by one. Maybe she's stalling for that question. Darnit. With a little uncertainty she hazards, "I haven't actually-- slept in my bed yet. Here. Since I was a candidate. I used the couch once," that blanket, "but every night it's pretty much me and him." So she fibbed. Oops.
"Taking me back out there," An'dren replies, grinning, "will probably be worse for me than this burn here." He's trying to reassure her, and if she'll paint a comical picture, he'll give her a joke in return. He flexes his fingers as Gil bends them back -- see? they're fine -- and then blinks at her, expression switching from laughter to disbelief to complete bewilderment in quick succession, flash flash flash. "How come?" is all he thinks to ask at last, as he glances from her to Siraqueth. "Some'in wrong with your bed, or...?"
Not so quickly gotten rid of, Virgil's fingers persist in their quiet exploration while she's distracted by his questions. That it's such a strange practice is lost on her. Shifting to sit on the floor, using the couch to lean against, she puts her cheek to her shoulder and shrugs the opposite. "Not that I know of. It's just..." Suddenly his hand loses her gaze, she's lifted it to his. "Being a weyrling's tough, you know that. So we stuck close. And then, I dunno. I stayed with my dad at Telgar, for a while, and then we came here and he stayed there and-- I miss him." And she's little and young and Siraqueth is big and kind and doesn't roll too much in his sleep. The skinny tip of her index finger has taken to tracing circles in An'dren's palm.
An'dren watches Virgil, gaze intent on her and his hand forgotten. She can trace all the circles she likes; it's not like he'll notice, caught up as he is by the concept of being little and young and new in a strange place, and alone. It's not something he's ever dealt with, at least not as far as he's aware, and it's -- "Yeah," he decides. "Being a weyrling's tough. Had friends, though, and afterwards, we popped in and out of each other's weyrs all the time. I guess it's easier if you're still in the same Weyr. If you haven't, y'know. Moved." He scratches the underside of his jaw, still thinking, and admits after a pause, "I slept with Riuth for the first few days -- brought a bunch of furs to his couch and made sure he knew I was there. I guess I got used to the weyr after awhile, though, 'cause it's fine now." And then, perhaps a little bit off on a tangent, he adds, "You have a nice weyr."
Easier. Better. Happier. All of this and the agreement that yes, moving sucks comes through in those calm grey eyes of hers. With eyes like those though, it's hard to hide anything. His compliment, and rambling, earn him a bright smile and she moves those eyes to the side, ducks her head. "Aw, thanks Andy." What might have come next is nipped short by the sudden whistling of the kettle over the fire. Her startled face is pretty unruffled: just a few quick blinks and lifted eyebrows, really. "Oh." Letting his hand free, she rises to go to the fireplace again, slips a thick glove on and reaches to take the handle and get the water. The next few moments are spent readying cups and teabags and carrying on like she didn't just divulge all that information. "I was telling Q the other day some floor pillows might be nice. Couch is good, but a little small. I'd like to start having, you know, people over or something up here."
Maybe he thinks she's just saying that, or maybe he's simply still rambling; Gil's "Aw, thanks," is met with, "It /is/ nice. Your quarters are kinda raised, yeah? Most people just have a curtain to separate the dragon's half from the rider's. And that," and he waves a hand at the short tunnel, trying -- and failing -- to find a name for it. "S'nice view. Kinda like a skylight, yeah? I've one, too, except it's got a shutter to keep out the rain, 'cause it's not angled like yours." And then hey, there's tea! And Andy's now watching Virgil, eyes eager on those cups she's holding. "Floor pillows're good. And maybe a rug underneath that, to cushion it a bit more."
The little look she gives him is modest and appreciative all at once, and for the insight into his own, ah, skylight, kinda, he receives a lot of nods and 'oh?'s too. Mostly, though, she's fixing tea, and that requires some measure of concentration. Bags are in, water's poured, she brings the cups over, hands him one; in there somewhere she managed to tuck cream and sweetener containers, smaller than that the teabags were in, in the crook of her arm, so those are distributed too. "There. I think a rug'd be great. Better than this one, though." She sits on the rug indicated and kicks her boots off, careful not to disturb cups. Her legs fold and she cradles her steaming beverage in both hands.
That stream of chatter finally fades as Virgil hands An'dren his tea, and though he winces a little when he touches the cup, he cradles it between his hands, greedily sucking in the warmth of it. "Smells good," he says with a grateful smile, and yeah, it's only smelling that he dares to do right now. It's one thing to burn his fingers, and another entirely to burn his tongue. He adds a somewhat belated, "Thanks," then looks down at the rug as he waits for the drink to cool, shifting carefully so he's sitting now instead of crouching. "This one looks okay to me," he observes, but there's a slight question mark at the end, like he's asking Gil what he might have missed.
"It's some herbal stuff the headwoman here gave me when I moved in. She said it'd help me sleep or something, so. Lemme know if it works for you, it sure doesn't knock /me/ out. /Oh/." The rug! Teetering over onto her hip and one leg, Virgil makes to budge over so she might see down at the floor, at the design underneath them, like that helps. "It's-- well it's fine, but it's a little--" A glance to his face secures his reaction, good or bad, "Dull?"
An'dren looks down at the tea, eyebrows quirking at this new information. "Not sure I should drink it, then," he says and sniffs it again, this time a little suspiciously. "Don't wanna fall off Riuth on the way back to Ista." There's a rumble from the bronze in agreement, and his rider slants a glance over to where the dragons lie before turning back to Gil. "Dull?" he echoes, and likewise leans off to one side to see the designs he's sitting on. "Well, okay. Maybe a bit. But plain's not always a bad thing, is it?" So says Andy, ever the optimist.
Wait. /He's/ the optimistic one in this piece? A little taken aback, the bluerider is stuck staring at him after that comment for what seems like a very long moment indeed; finally she blinks again, smiles a little haphazardly. "You're right. It isn't /bad/. I just like brighter colors, you know?" As if anyone'd miss that. Now, granting the rug another downward regard, she changes her mind with a one-shouldered shrug. "I like old things anyway. I should keep this one around. Someone's gotta love it."
It seems like a very long moment on Andy's side, too, and he spends it trying not to fidget beneath the weight of Virgil's stare. There's not much for him to do, and he ends up taking a sip of the tea he's just said he's not sure he should drink, then grins at the bluerider when she speaks. "Bright colors suit you," he decides, and adds, "Don't keep it just 'cause I said it's not bad. If you don't like...well, er. More like if it's not to your taste, s'nothing wrong with changing it for something that is, yeah?"
A very logical option. Still, "Well maybe it is to my taste." With her head tilted she lays a fond touch to the rug below them and, her voice wistfully soft, "I can just get a different rug, keep this one. I'd hate to think of it being all alone in the storerooms until someone else gets it, and what if they don't like it either?" Perhaps this is An'dren's first glimpse into what is widely known to be 'Virgil's Imagination'. Her smile returns, sudden and bright. "Thanks for sticking up for it."
"There's bound to be someone weird like me around here who likes plain things," An'dren replies, but he's not going to argue with Gil's decision any further. Instead, with his teacup balanced on his knee and his hands still curled around the warmth of it, he glances down at the rug again and says, "Always glad to stand up for the under-represented." In response to which Riuth makes a noise that somehow brings to mind a human rolling his eyes, and shifts just so in order to turn an amused glance on the riders within.
Weird like him. While the dragons exchange glances, at least on Siraqueth's part, and find amusement in human interaction, as they so often do, Virgil watches An'dren with a new sort of softness on the edges of her expression. Her smile has dimmed, muted to a gentle curve rather than boisterous spread; eventually she shifts a little to bring her cup in for a sip, but not before she says, "I'm gonna give it to you." Sip.
It's a glance exchanged, Riuth catching it just in time to return it, his amusement amplified by Siraqueth's reflection of it. "Give what to me?" Andy asks, bemused. A second later, his brain catches up to his tongue, and he adds, "Oh. The rug." Then: "Oh! No, don't do that. Keep it, if you like it -- or, y'know, don't keep it, if you don't. But you don't need to give it to me. I don't need another rug." The 'another' part of it implies that he has one already, but he doesn't, and it's a fact that the bronze relays to the blue with a half-laughed, << If there's a weyr that could use a rug, it's ours. I think he's forgotten. >>
Siraqueth gives Riuth a sly, slanted glance. << Forgotten, absently left omitted. They so often mean the same thing. >> Not that she needs it, but he gives his girl a little nudge to guide her down the right path and she, in the solitude of their shared link, thanks Riuth for everyone involved. "Need, need, need. Whatever happened to want? I /want/ to give you my rug. You're right. Someone weird like you. Who likes plain things." Again, her head tilts, her eyes wander, fingertips drumming a playful little rhythm on the rug.
"Why would you /want/ to give me your rug, though?" Andy counters. "It'd be harder for me to bring it back to Ista, anyways, than for you to keep it here." It's a half-hearted protest at best, and Riuth, ever helpful, points it out, which earns him a hard stare from his rider. The two look at each other -- one unblinking because he doesn't need to blink, and the other unblinking out of sheer stubbornness. The dragon always wins these contests; An'dren looks away first, with a bit of a twitch, and turns back to Virgil a little helplessly.
Patient, ever patient, the bluerider waits. Waits through all of his excuses and questions and through the final interaction between dragon and rider. She waits because she knows something he doesn't know, maybe, or because she is, really, just that /patient/. When An'dren finally turns back to her she has a smile ready. "I'll bring it to Ista, if it makes it easier." /Stubborn/ maybe, maybe she's that /stubborn/.
It's a good thing Virgil has a dragon, too, because otherwise she might not have so much patience for all those long silences. Or hey, maybe she would anyways; maybe she's just that patient, and maybe that's why she puts up so well with Andy's rambling ways. "You should keep it," he says, just as stubborn as she is. "Or, well. At least until you find another rug, yeah? I'm not gonna deprive you of one, because you really need it more than I do, with this," and a wave of the hand towards the weyr's mouth indicates the weather, the cold. Fort.
Fort. With its damn cold. She could forgive Telgar, because it's natural to forgive something so bone-deep as home. Besides, Telgar couldn't help it. An'dren makes some good points, points Virgil continues to be /patient/ for, and through, and when his gesture encompasses all of that weather stuff out there she sighs. "You wouldn't be depriving me, Andy. I'm giving it to you. But fine." Shoulder shrug, sip of tea. "I'll wait." Smirky smile.
"Just because you're giving it to me doesn't mean I'm not depriving you of it," Andy says, but he's won, more or less, and he's graceful in the winning. "I can come get it when you've found another rug," he adds, and takes another absent sip of the tea. "Or, y'know," and he just as absently licks the corner of his lip, where a drop of tea had been clinging, "you could bring it to Ista, help me find a place to put it. I'm not much of a...what do they call them? Decorator."
"It's all in the wording." He can't have expected to have the last. "/My/ giving it to /you/ is the key. /I'm/ in control there. You can't just take what /I'm/ doing and twist it around so somehow it's your fault." Lifted hand makes finger wag back and forth: tsk on him. The drop of tea catches her though, his efforts at collecting it, so she grins and leans on an arm and shakes her head. Silly bronzerider. "Oh," 'o' goes Virgil's mouth, "/decorator/. Right. Me neither." Clearly.
"But you're still lacking a rug," An'dren says, because okay, so he hasn't quite won yet. "And you'll still be cold -- if you're sitting on the ground, I mean, or walking barefoot or something. So, what? You're depriving yourself of a rug?" He moves to sip again, but the cup's only halfway raised when he finally remembers that this is tea that's meant to help Gil sleep, and therefore tea he shouldn't be drinking, especially when it's already night. Down the cup goes, and he looks at it in vague accusation before adding, "Better'n me, I think. I haven't done much with my weyr beyond clearing out all the rocks and dustin' it out a bit."
"I'm making a glorious and gracious sacrifice for a good friend from Ista whose weyr, if I hear right, is lacking in the rug department. And /you/, if you have to be the one doing something selfish and horrible, are the one keeping me from going through with this most wonderful of acts." But all of that was very very silly, and she didn't mean it because you don't smile like that when you mean things. "I don't have to sit on the ground, there's a couch, and I have slippers." So there. Virgil's eyes follow his cup down; she doesn't comment. "Maybe you haven't done anything else because you don't have anything else to do anything with." Like, a rug.
"I," Andy begins, and then stops, because really, how do you argue with logic like that? His grin is wry, but he can be a graceful loser, too, when the occasion arises. "Can't have me being...what was it? Selfish and horrible, now, can we?" he asks, and shakes his head with a quiet laugh. "I gratefully accept your glorious and gracious sacrifice, and will await the day Siraqueth tells Riuth that you have found another rug," because he's /not/ backing down on that point, "with eager anticipation. And I have a couch, and I strung up a curtain. There's not much else to add to a weyr, is there?" Besides a rug.
"Rug." She'll say it, and grin slowly, because poking at him is a lot of fun and /he/ is just plain fun and gosh, company is nice. While wearing that grin, cheshire it is, Virgil watches him, very much amused and slowly swirls the tea in her little cup. A sip is had, she straightens from her lean to set it down. "Good, I'm so glad that's all set. I think maybe I'll go down tomorrow. To the stores I mean. Which means we might be by the day after, or the day after that. Or next week, who knows!" /Ahaha/.
Andy laughs again and tilts his head towards her in silent acknowledgement -- yes, the rug -- then blinks. "Tomorrow? That's..." What's the word? "Fast. But yeah, sure, whenever you'd like, yeah? Just let Riuth know, and we'll be around." And then another blink, this time down at the cup on his knee, and there's a pause before he says slowly, "Dunno what it is they've put in the tea, but I think it's working on me."
Whatever she'd like? Well that's-- unexpected. At first she ditches the grin because of that notion-- whatever she'd /like/?-- but the fact that the tea is working would have done the job. He blinks at the cup, she blinks at the cup. "Really?" Apparently the same doesn't hold true for her. Or she's better at pretending not to be sleepy. "Well. If you're sleepy you should probably sleep. Maybe." It certainly /sounds/ right.
An'dren's not so good at pretending things; he tends to wear everything right there on his face, plain for the world to see. Sleepiness is no different, and now that the banter's died down some, it's beginning to show, there in the slight droop of his shoulders and the smile that's beginning to slide. "Probably should," he agrees and, carefully holding the cup in his hand, pushes to his feet. "I guess it's about time we headed back to Ista anyways. Sorry for keeping you up so late." Assuming it /is/ late, and assuming he's kept her up.
Which, if she knew, Virgil would be quick to point out. Assuming. He shouldn't. Still, "Don't apologize." All the time. Because it's good manners and because she wants to, she stands too and takes his cup from him. "I'll walk you to the ledge." The cup disappears, she must set it down somewhere, and she wipes both hands on her pantlegs before gesturing with one at the exit. That, coupled with a smile, says 'after you'.
"Sorry," Andy begins to reply, and then the irony of it sets in, and he manages to cut himself off after the firt syllable with only a marginally sheepish grin. He relinquishes the cup and says, "Thanks for the tea." He's already a few steps towards Riuth when he thinks to add, "And the fire," and there's a smile, now, for Gil. The bronze gets to his feet and stretches out his kinks, and as An'dren waits for him to ease back into motion, he turns to Virgil and says, "You should come visit some time. When I'm not drunk and, y'know. So far gone."
It's only when his back is turned that Virgil rolls her eyes and grins fully for the almost-apology. Oh, Andy. She has to bite down on her lip when he turns back to her, her eyebrows gone up so she can look all innocent attentive. "You're welcome!" she chirps, until he turns again. Her smile is warm when he can't see, while she follows him out. Until he makes with the words again. "I am coming," she reminds him. "With a rug." And, because another 'oh, Andy' grin isn't appropriate this time, she leans in and up to hug him, smelling all like clean things and dragons. "Have a safe flight, Andy. I'll see you soon."
"Then after you drop off the rug," Andy replies, "you should stay a bit. To visit." The hug surprises him, but after a breath or two, he returns it, smelling also like dragons but not so much of clean things. Boy things, maybe, or just Ista -- sweat and dirt and the sharp salt of the sea. "I'll see you soon, yeah," he agrees when he steps away, and then he's turning to Riuth and climbing into the straps, fumbling less than he had before because hey, he can feel his fingers again. "Have a good night," he adds for both Virgil and Siraqueth, and a moment later, Riuth falls into the sky, headed for home.
What: Andy makes good on his visit; talk of old things and loneliness ensues.
Where: Feeding grounds, Virgil's weyr, FTW.
When: 9/21/2008
9/21/2008
Feeding Grounds, Fort Weyr
The feeding grounds are fenced off from the rest of the Weyr with a high, wooden fence and gate, providing plenty of space for the resident herdbeasts -- bovines, in particular -- to ramble about. The vast majority of the animals are for draconic consumption, but some of the more valuable varieties are penned away from those designated to be dragon food. Ovines and porcines are a bit more useful to humans than to the dragons that would happily dine on them and are kept further away from the bovines and closer to the stables as a result. There's plenty of grass to feed them, while herders and stablehands regularly add feed to the troughs along the eastern fence. The soil turns to mud as one gets closer to where the area butts up agains the lake, which doubles as a watering hold for the animals.
The weather within Fort's climate on the sunniest of spring days could be considered temperamental. In autumn, at night? 'Chilly' would be an understatement. Still, for those accustomed to such temperature the cold isn't such a harsh thing to tolerate, and most can and do. Telgar would sneeze at Fort's worst, probably call it a girl's name, then go home to attack its residents with a blizzard for a few weeks. So it shouldn't be too surprising that the girl with Telgar in her blood finds herself standing at an angle against the corral fence wearing the usual jacket and hat while she watches her partner eat his most recent kill. Or, rather, she tries to watch. It's quite dark. Siraqueth makes small dinner noises and makes his meal disappear tidily.
Telgar might sneeze at Fort's worst, but Ista would run crying to the sun until the last touch of wind and winter snow had been burned away. And so it is that while Virgil's just dressed in a jacket and hat, An'dren's bundled up in what looks like half his wardrobe, barely visible beneath it all. Riuth is undisturbed by the weather -- indeed, he seems amused, and keeps eyeing Andy's scarf like he wants to unravel it thread by thread -- and pads alongside his rider, body angled so he's blocking the worst of the chill. "Kinda late," the young man murmurs at him, rubbing his hands together. "Maybe we should just come back later." Y'know, when it's warmer. And there's daylight.
The blanket of quiet laid over the feeding pens and general area allows even An'dren's murmuring through. The beasts have all calmed since last they were terrorized and hunted, and stand milling and snorting at the far end of the corral; the dragon himself makes barely a sound, save for the crunch of bone or the muffled press of his paw deeper into the soft earth. If she couldn't /hear/ Andy from where she leans, at least she'd notice Riuth, hopefully, if perhaps she caught a glint of starlight off his metallic hide or his movement out of the corner of her eye. Virgil does notice these things, but she hears him too, and turns to lean fully up against the railings and set her chill-pinkened cheek to her arm so she might, upon recognition, watch him and hide her smile. Her, "Brave Ista boy," is cheeky, amused. Fond, even.
It's the cold. He's too preoccupied with the Fortian autumn and the biting chill, and that's why he doesn't notice the crunch of bone or the paw pressing deeper, or the girl leaning up against the railing. It's Andy's excuse, anyways, and he jerks up straighter when he hears 'Ista' and 'boy' -- knowing, despite his preoccupation, that it refers to him, because what other Istan boy is stupid enough to be wandering about here at night? "Do I know you?" he asks when he's found the source, and takes a few steps closer to squint. Then: "Virgil? Please tell me that's Virgil."
So this, then, is her chance to play with him. Let her take the confident high road and let him think she wasn't similarly uncertain she had the wrong person, afterall, and maybe she shouldn't have spoken so. His voice, though, is one she's come to know. With the tip of her tongue pressed to her canine she grins and pauses the span of a few heartbeats before she wonders, "What happens if I don't?"
Even in the darkness, Andy's dry smile is evident; there's a wryness to his tone that suggests laughter and 'well, that'd be just my luck, wouldn't it?' "I'd be embarrased, I suppose," he says, pushing his hat back so he can better see into the night. It's a different hat from his usual -- not floppy and worn, but rather a woven affair that keeps heat in far better than straw. "I'd also wonder how you knew it was an Istan boy out here." Another few steps, and he's close enough for Riuth to recoginze Siraqueth, even if An'dren himself still squints. The information is relayed, and Andy says, half laughing and half triumphant, "You /are/ Virgil."
Darn dragons! /Hers/ hasn't done much to hint at Riuth's identity, distracted and preoccupied thing that he is, and really hasn't so much as lifted his head from his meal to give the bronze a welcome. Surely such absence of manners isn't customary from the dramatic fellow, so something else must be at play here. If anything's up, Virgil certainly doesn't give it away. Grinning now, without hiding it, she snaps her fingers, oh drat. "And here I thought I could trick you." And, because she /is/ glad to see him, she adds, "Hi, Andy."
Dragon> To Siraqueth, Riuth is aware that the blue is busy, and so it's only a short, << Good evening, >> that he offers, accompanied by the brief tapping of feet that come and go.
Andy has yet to know Siraqueth well enough to catch onto that lack of manners, and so it is that, oblivious, he continues on like this is a normal conversation. At night. In Fort. Where he's not sure whether or not he's freezing his skin off, on account of no longer being able to feel it. "I'm actually pretty easy to trick," An'dren says cheerfully, grinning in Gil's approximate direction. "You must not've been trying too hard." And then, because she said it first, he returns, "Hey, Virgil."
There aren't many who go to the lengths of using her full name. Her father does because it's proper and he named her and it's important and besides, she's his little princess; her aunt does; some of the members of the older, more matronly staff do. When you live your whole life going by a name that also happens to represent a part of a fish's anatomy, you learn to appreciate those few times you get to feel a little more like a girl. "I wasn't," she tells him earnestly, and turns again to better face him and lean her head against the rail. "What're you doing here? Are you freezing?" Siraqueth stirs, parting himself from his kill to swing his head around for Riuth and shift his wings, slightly embarrassed.
Dragon> To Riuth, Siraqueth is not so busy he can't spare a moment for a friend, especially one whose company he enjoys so much. << Oh, Riuth! >> The door to a special backstage room opens in his mind, where a vague human shape appears, wearing a napkin tucked into his collar that he uses to dab at his imaginary lips. << Forgive me, we've just gotten in, I feel I haven't eaten in days! >> Which is likely very close to the truth.
Andy does because he's not quite comfortable calling her Gil yet, but that's not something she needs to know. "That's good to know," he replies, striding closer until he's nearly leaning up against the fence, too. "I think. Don't reckon I'd want you trying too hard, though, 'cause that /would/ be embarrasing. If I made a mistake, I mean." He frees up a hand to scratch at his nose, then shoves it back into the depths of his pocket, where some little warmth might be had. "Was looking for you, actually," he says, and now he sounds rueful, no longer amused. "S'my day off. I got roped into helping someone clear out their weyr, though, and didn't get away until...well, 'bout a few minutes ago. Wasn't sure whether or not it'd be too late to visit." The question about freezing goes unanswered, partly because he's too busy being apologetic and partly because the answer's fairly obvious anyways.
Dragon> To Siraqueth, Riuth is drawn nearer by that backstage door, and a few pairs of feet pad over to investigate, soft voices murmuring as they attempt to peek into the room. << Don't let me interrupt your meal, >> the bronze says, and his words are nearly lost in the interested whispers of that background army. It takes a moment for him to gather his thoughts, but then there's the impression of absence as his mind retreats, waiting on the edges of the blue's awareness for when he's done with dinner.
She's used to the way he goes on so while he does so she leans and listens, calmly attentive to all the dips and paths of his accent and all those points he touches on without really revisiting. Towards the end, pretty much right around when he mentions looking for her, her eyebrows have come up a very little and her smile has faded. The face she's wearing when he's done is a mild, surprised one. "It isn't," she assures him, perhaps a little quickly. Just as quick to smoothe that over, she continues with, "We just had sweeps, they went a little longer because we had to speak to a few holders. We just got back." Which means Andy has great timing. And, because it /is/ obvious, she also says, "We should get inside somewhere."
Dragon> To Riuth, Siraqueth seems a little startled by those interested parties poking around, but he keeps the door open while, after an appreciative nudge, he goes back to his dinner. In the physical realm he finishes up the few portions he left for last because after a while of doing this you learn which bits get cold and all congealy so you'd better eat them first. Within a few moments he's stepping away from the carcass, the 'fullness' in his attention suggesting that wasn't the first. He returns to the army fully sated. << Ah. That's much better. How are you? Have you eaten? There's plenty. >>
Andy does meander on sometimes, but that hardly means he's unattentive to Virgil while he's in the middle of rambling. That fading smile and too-quick assurance are seen and caught, and he tilts his head, wondering, "Did I say something wrong?" And as good as 'inside somewhere' sounds, he's now more intent on making sure his presence isn't an intrusion, and so he lingers by the railing despite the cold, eyes searching Gil's face as if the answer's written there.
Dragon> To Siraqueth, Riuth waits patiently as Siraqueth eats, that faceless, vague army scattered on logs in the darkness, hands tucked into armpits for warmth. There's the occasional shuffle and fidget of a restless crowd, but he's not trying to hurry the blue; they're merely signs that the bronze is still there, if for the most part silent. << I'm fine, >> he says once Siraqueth is done, and the crowd starts to murmur again. << And I've eaten already at Ista, thank you. I've found that it's easier to eat at home than outside. >>
There's really no one alive Virgil doesn't need to look up at to talk to. She's small, the occasional neck ache from too much tilting is a part of life. Now, though, when she looks up at An'dren, while he's searching her face for an answer to his question, one she might not have ready right away, she grows slightly uncomfortable. Finally she looks down, turns her head, smiles quickly. "No, of course not, c'mon Andy." When she looks back up at him she gives his arm a gentle nudge with her gloved hand. "Let's go. Mount up." She's already turning again to meet Siraqueth when he slithers over the fence to their side.
Dragon> To Riuth, Siraqueth cleans himself up for the audience of many that is one. A quick wardrobe change, a good lighting, some soft orchestral help. << I agree. Though my Virgil and I took our breakfast at Telgar the other morning and though I don't remember it near to at all she tells me I enjoyed myself. >> Nevermind the small grunt and break in his speech for the quick climb over that fence; he's put to rights the next.
Andy's still inquisitive and straddling the border of uncertain, but he'll take her at her word. If she says there's nothing wrong, then he'll believe there's nothing wrong, and it's with a quick flash of a grin that he responds to her nudge. "I guess we'll just follow you," he tells her, because really, he's got no idea where they're headed, and heads back to where Riuth's waiting, glowing eyes moving from Siraqueth to Gil. The bronze lowers his neck for his rider -- those near-frozen fingers aren't going to make mounting up easy -- and after a few fumbles, Andy's up and waiting for the blue to lead the way.
Dragon> To Siraqueth, Riuth doesn't clean up well, and that's why he doesn't often try. He keeps his crowd scattered about those logs, though they seem to sit up straighter with the change in lighting, the first faint strains of music. << I can't remember the last time I fed outside of Ista, nor do I care to, to be honest. Not, >> he adds swiftly, << that Fort's beasts don't have their qualities, merely that they're not what I'm accustomed to. >>
Good thing, too, because Virgil has no explanations for her odd behavior that won't just complicate things further. Once she's reached Siraqueth's foreleg she checks on her Istan friend over her shoulder and has to duck her head once during one of those fumbles to choke back her laughter. Anyway, she's up and mounted and Siraqueth is putting his conversation with Riuth on hold with a low, apologetic grumble so he can concentrate on her keeping her balance and spreading his wings and then just like that, with a strong leap, he's in the air. Their flightpath will lead them up and up and up until there, a ledge. /His/ ledge. The blue lands in the shelter of rock and moves out of the way to make room.
Virgil and Siraqueth's Weyr(#1471Rs$)
The large ledge at the front of this weyr is large enough to make a good home for two or perhaps even three dragons; along its edges are the gouges of generations of talons. The couch just inside the arched doorway is equally spacious and primely located to give a view of both the ledge and the sky outside and the interior of the weyr.
Inside, stone shelves of varying heights and sizes provide good shelving for various trinkets. An old desk to the right of the entranceway boasts a few leftover hides; there's a wobbly stool in front of it. Further back, a large cavern in the right wall, about two feet up from the floor has been made into a sleeping chamber, the bubble-shaped hollow stuffed with a mattress and generous furs. At the very top of this chamber over the head of the bed, a quirk of the rock creates an open space, a short tunnel that shows a generous patch of sky above it, its slight tilt keeping out rain and snow. On past the sleeping quarters is a fireplace, set into the back. Its once-beautiful wood mantle is cracked and warped, its run-down state matching the dustiness of the rest of the weyr.
Riuth follows Siraqueth up, careful, in his launch, not to overshoot the blue for fear of losing him. He's faithful at his heels, and when the Fortian lands, he hovers near the ledge, waiting just long enough for room to be made before he, too, touches down. He seems grateful to be here; it's difficult, flying so that your cold-numbed rider doesn't go plunging stupidly off. He probably wouldn't so much splat on contact as shatter, but it's not a theory that Riuth is inclined to test.
Cool as it might be. Siraqueth's general bustling and circling before he settles is much akin to a canine before finding his resting place; it consists of a lot of rear end work and general tail bobbing and delicate paw placement, with much clicking of talons. Eventually he lowers himself so Virgil can, unbuckled, dismount and make her way inside before her guest does. There's a large curtain over the entrance of the weyr, a new addition if her struggling to push it aside is any indication towards her experience or lack thereof. Her goal is the fireplace and, after a small fight, a fire. The light it casts gives the bluerider's little home a warm glow. He'll likely find her pacing around the place, picking up pieces of clothing off the floor and obsessively straightening. Meanwhile, the dragon arranges himself neatly with his body as compact as he can get it before carrying on with Riuth, possibly before the bronze has had time to get comfortable.
Dragon> To Riuth, Siraqueth projects, << Now, where were we? >> His smooth tenor is polite, unfaltered, like he never did interrupt them. << Ah, Fort versus Ista, the food. Fort's animals are fat in different ways, it's true. Igen's, for instance, are almost stringy, I find. It's alarming. I can only assume it's their diet, poor things. >>
Riuth's not too fussy about things like positioning, though he does make sure he's well away from the edge before he hunkers down, this time to facilitate An'dren's dismount. It's a ledge he's unfamiliar with, and that, combined with the darkness and the cold, means it's not going to be a graceful landing, however much the bronze tries to help. There's some more fumbling and a few false starts, and then finally Andy is safely on the ground, shaking hair out of his eyes and rubbing his hands together for the friction. Virgil's gone by then, of course -- pacing inside while the fire glows. An'dren hesitates for a moment, then finds his own way in, expression brightening at the sight of that welcoming heat. "You have a hearth," he says, and there's definite, surprised approval in the observation.
Dragon> To Siraqueth, Riuth is taken aback by the conversation's fluid continuation, Siraqueth being apparently capable of picking up as if there'd never been a break. He's game enough to try his hand at it, though, and there's only the slightest pause before he replies, << I believe Reaches' beasts aren't much, either. Perhaps not quite stringy, but still lacking something that ours have. It may be the diet, but there's a possibility that other factors play into it -- like how often their dragons feed, as an example, and how often the beasts stampede. >>
She turns to find him, hones in on his voice, and does. Her grin is sudden and warm, very much like the fire. "I don't know what I'd do without it. Cozy in with Q I guess." Her gesture out to the ledge he just came in from is done with the hand currently holding a fistful of what would appear to be, if they were given more than a second's worth of attention, undergarments. 'Embarrassed' wouldn't be the word, for when she finds them; 'hasty' would probably do. 'Apologetic' too. She's lightning quick in getting rid of them: toss! The life of a young, single, workaholic dragonrider isn't so glamorous. "Ha! Um. Sleeping with a dragon is dangerous, I don't know if you and Riuth ever-- I mean, when they get bigger. Are you-- I have klah bark. And tea, I have tea."
Dragon> To Riuth, Siraqueth might be smooth, but his bronze friend is /strong/. And, it would seem, intelligent about their current vein of discussion, something he's quick to admire, and let that admiration shine through in the gentle spotlight put on the army mass. << Ah, that's a factor I never remember. The stampedes would run them out. Ah, aha. Riuth my friend, >> his voice grows bold, and he tips a paw towards the other dragon, << you, are a genius. >>
"Don't have much use for one of these in my weyr," An'dren says, as if that's not something Virgil could've figured out for herself. "Even cold nights aren't that cold, really. S'nothing an extra fur can't take care of." He pads closer to the fire and glances a question at Virgil: can I sit here? It's nice. Of course, the moment he glances is the moment he realizes she's holding a fistful of underwear, and he blinks. Blinks again. And then, as if her embarrasment is keeping his own at bay, he simply laughs quietly and says, with a grin, "I didn't see that, whatever that was. And yeah, we do. Did. Still do sometimes, actually, when it's nice out, 'cause you can see the stars pretty clearly on a good night, yeah?" He hunkers down before the fire and faces it with his hands outstretched, giving her time to gather herself. "Tea would be nice," he tells the flames, and quirks another grin.
Dragon> To Siraqueth, Riuth is...not modest, no, that's not the word. He knows his own faults and his qualifications, and he takes pride in what he does well. This, though? Is more guess work than anything, and he won't take the credit for it. << It may or may not be a factor, >> he says. << I'm merely speculating. >> But he does seem pleased by the compliment, and though his own voice doesn't change, that of the masses does, swelling a little in volume and clarity.
There probably isn't enough time in the world, but she recovers her composure and might even have gotten to the point of 'that never happened' by the time he's there by the fire. Her complete lack of a negative for his unspoken request regarding his placement could probably have served alone as permission enough, but when she comes to join him it should be perfectly clear. The reach up for the little tin on the mantle is a stretch and involves a little hop and it's a wonder why it's even there, considering her height; she unlids it and busies herself with the tea preperation while saying, "I used to, when he was little. In the barracks." Back at Telgar. She falls quiet, gives him a little smile and puts the kettle on.
Dragon> To Riuth, Siraqueth won't have any of that not-modesty stuff here, whatever it's called. His tone takes on a plain, earnest quality. << I have a very strong and compelling notion you're absolutely right in that. It makes perfect sense. >> A small applause rises, pleased by this outcome: the audience agrees. << The next we come to Keroon, I'll ask one of them. >> Logically, he would. << Which reminds me, >> or doesn't, but might lead him to, << next time at Ista, I want to try out some of that ocean. >>
An'dren half-rises from his crouch when he sees her reaching for the tin, but she's already got it in hand before he's quite unbent, so he leaves her to it, returning instead to thaw out before the fire. "Why don't you anymore?" he wonders, craning his neck to look up at Virgil -- a first for him, and probably not something she should get used to. "Your ledge is big enough to be safe, isn't it? Unless it's too cold, but doesn't seem like that's some'in that bothers you much." It bothers him, though, and the mere thought of it sends him a little closer to the hearth, trying to draw in as much of that heat as he can. He misjudges the distance, and there's a second between when he moves and when that misjudgement registers; then he flinches and hastily moves back, shaking out his fingers.
Dragon> To Siraqueth, Riuth is bemused by the diction, but not unwilling to accept the applause, especially since the blue seems to earnest in the giving of it. << Let me know what they say, >> he requests. << I'm curious now, strangely. >> And then, at the mention of the ocean: << You should. I believe I've visited your lake before, but compared to an ocean -- well, it's not much of a comparison. The size difference alone is staggering. >>
"It isn't the ledge, we could scoot in a bit if-- I mean, we do, sometimes. If one of us had a bad dream or we're lonely that night." About to go on, Virgil is stopped by his sudden movement and gives him a quick look. Her face pinches sympathetically. "Ouch, careful there. Here." It's very true, about the exchange in their vantages; she changes it up by dropping into a crouch at his side, her hand reaching for his. "Give us a look."
Andy's staring at his hand like it's somehow betrayed him, and it's reluctantly that he holds it out for Virgil's scrutiny. "Wasn't expecting it to be so hot," he says dryly, and then: "It looks worse than it is. I'm used to burns, so. S'not so bad." And indeed, though the tips of his fingers look horribly red, made all the more so by the flickering fire-light, he doesn't seem too bothered by it, beyond the initial shock. His fingers still bend, and he won't flinch from her touch. "And if it's not the ledge, what is it?"
Whether he's used to it or not, an injury's an injury. If he's looking at his hand like it's just done him wrong, /she's/ looking at the fireplace like she's never seen it before. It's clearly dead to her. Back to his fingers, "Well," and her mouth makes a dubious slant, "if you're fine I guess I won't pack you up in blankets and take you to the infirmary." Which paints a comical picture, and she probably meant for it to. Her fingertips are light while they gently bend each of his digits back so she can see them all one by one. Maybe she's stalling for that question. Darnit. With a little uncertainty she hazards, "I haven't actually-- slept in my bed yet. Here. Since I was a candidate. I used the couch once," that blanket, "but every night it's pretty much me and him." So she fibbed. Oops.
"Taking me back out there," An'dren replies, grinning, "will probably be worse for me than this burn here." He's trying to reassure her, and if she'll paint a comical picture, he'll give her a joke in return. He flexes his fingers as Gil bends them back -- see? they're fine -- and then blinks at her, expression switching from laughter to disbelief to complete bewilderment in quick succession, flash flash flash. "How come?" is all he thinks to ask at last, as he glances from her to Siraqueth. "Some'in wrong with your bed, or...?"
Not so quickly gotten rid of, Virgil's fingers persist in their quiet exploration while she's distracted by his questions. That it's such a strange practice is lost on her. Shifting to sit on the floor, using the couch to lean against, she puts her cheek to her shoulder and shrugs the opposite. "Not that I know of. It's just..." Suddenly his hand loses her gaze, she's lifted it to his. "Being a weyrling's tough, you know that. So we stuck close. And then, I dunno. I stayed with my dad at Telgar, for a while, and then we came here and he stayed there and-- I miss him." And she's little and young and Siraqueth is big and kind and doesn't roll too much in his sleep. The skinny tip of her index finger has taken to tracing circles in An'dren's palm.
An'dren watches Virgil, gaze intent on her and his hand forgotten. She can trace all the circles she likes; it's not like he'll notice, caught up as he is by the concept of being little and young and new in a strange place, and alone. It's not something he's ever dealt with, at least not as far as he's aware, and it's -- "Yeah," he decides. "Being a weyrling's tough. Had friends, though, and afterwards, we popped in and out of each other's weyrs all the time. I guess it's easier if you're still in the same Weyr. If you haven't, y'know. Moved." He scratches the underside of his jaw, still thinking, and admits after a pause, "I slept with Riuth for the first few days -- brought a bunch of furs to his couch and made sure he knew I was there. I guess I got used to the weyr after awhile, though, 'cause it's fine now." And then, perhaps a little bit off on a tangent, he adds, "You have a nice weyr."
Easier. Better. Happier. All of this and the agreement that yes, moving sucks comes through in those calm grey eyes of hers. With eyes like those though, it's hard to hide anything. His compliment, and rambling, earn him a bright smile and she moves those eyes to the side, ducks her head. "Aw, thanks Andy." What might have come next is nipped short by the sudden whistling of the kettle over the fire. Her startled face is pretty unruffled: just a few quick blinks and lifted eyebrows, really. "Oh." Letting his hand free, she rises to go to the fireplace again, slips a thick glove on and reaches to take the handle and get the water. The next few moments are spent readying cups and teabags and carrying on like she didn't just divulge all that information. "I was telling Q the other day some floor pillows might be nice. Couch is good, but a little small. I'd like to start having, you know, people over or something up here."
Maybe he thinks she's just saying that, or maybe he's simply still rambling; Gil's "Aw, thanks," is met with, "It /is/ nice. Your quarters are kinda raised, yeah? Most people just have a curtain to separate the dragon's half from the rider's. And that," and he waves a hand at the short tunnel, trying -- and failing -- to find a name for it. "S'nice view. Kinda like a skylight, yeah? I've one, too, except it's got a shutter to keep out the rain, 'cause it's not angled like yours." And then hey, there's tea! And Andy's now watching Virgil, eyes eager on those cups she's holding. "Floor pillows're good. And maybe a rug underneath that, to cushion it a bit more."
The little look she gives him is modest and appreciative all at once, and for the insight into his own, ah, skylight, kinda, he receives a lot of nods and 'oh?'s too. Mostly, though, she's fixing tea, and that requires some measure of concentration. Bags are in, water's poured, she brings the cups over, hands him one; in there somewhere she managed to tuck cream and sweetener containers, smaller than that the teabags were in, in the crook of her arm, so those are distributed too. "There. I think a rug'd be great. Better than this one, though." She sits on the rug indicated and kicks her boots off, careful not to disturb cups. Her legs fold and she cradles her steaming beverage in both hands.
That stream of chatter finally fades as Virgil hands An'dren his tea, and though he winces a little when he touches the cup, he cradles it between his hands, greedily sucking in the warmth of it. "Smells good," he says with a grateful smile, and yeah, it's only smelling that he dares to do right now. It's one thing to burn his fingers, and another entirely to burn his tongue. He adds a somewhat belated, "Thanks," then looks down at the rug as he waits for the drink to cool, shifting carefully so he's sitting now instead of crouching. "This one looks okay to me," he observes, but there's a slight question mark at the end, like he's asking Gil what he might have missed.
"It's some herbal stuff the headwoman here gave me when I moved in. She said it'd help me sleep or something, so. Lemme know if it works for you, it sure doesn't knock /me/ out. /Oh/." The rug! Teetering over onto her hip and one leg, Virgil makes to budge over so she might see down at the floor, at the design underneath them, like that helps. "It's-- well it's fine, but it's a little--" A glance to his face secures his reaction, good or bad, "Dull?"
An'dren looks down at the tea, eyebrows quirking at this new information. "Not sure I should drink it, then," he says and sniffs it again, this time a little suspiciously. "Don't wanna fall off Riuth on the way back to Ista." There's a rumble from the bronze in agreement, and his rider slants a glance over to where the dragons lie before turning back to Gil. "Dull?" he echoes, and likewise leans off to one side to see the designs he's sitting on. "Well, okay. Maybe a bit. But plain's not always a bad thing, is it?" So says Andy, ever the optimist.
Wait. /He's/ the optimistic one in this piece? A little taken aback, the bluerider is stuck staring at him after that comment for what seems like a very long moment indeed; finally she blinks again, smiles a little haphazardly. "You're right. It isn't /bad/. I just like brighter colors, you know?" As if anyone'd miss that. Now, granting the rug another downward regard, she changes her mind with a one-shouldered shrug. "I like old things anyway. I should keep this one around. Someone's gotta love it."
It seems like a very long moment on Andy's side, too, and he spends it trying not to fidget beneath the weight of Virgil's stare. There's not much for him to do, and he ends up taking a sip of the tea he's just said he's not sure he should drink, then grins at the bluerider when she speaks. "Bright colors suit you," he decides, and adds, "Don't keep it just 'cause I said it's not bad. If you don't like...well, er. More like if it's not to your taste, s'nothing wrong with changing it for something that is, yeah?"
A very logical option. Still, "Well maybe it is to my taste." With her head tilted she lays a fond touch to the rug below them and, her voice wistfully soft, "I can just get a different rug, keep this one. I'd hate to think of it being all alone in the storerooms until someone else gets it, and what if they don't like it either?" Perhaps this is An'dren's first glimpse into what is widely known to be 'Virgil's Imagination'. Her smile returns, sudden and bright. "Thanks for sticking up for it."
"There's bound to be someone weird like me around here who likes plain things," An'dren replies, but he's not going to argue with Gil's decision any further. Instead, with his teacup balanced on his knee and his hands still curled around the warmth of it, he glances down at the rug again and says, "Always glad to stand up for the under-represented." In response to which Riuth makes a noise that somehow brings to mind a human rolling his eyes, and shifts just so in order to turn an amused glance on the riders within.
Weird like him. While the dragons exchange glances, at least on Siraqueth's part, and find amusement in human interaction, as they so often do, Virgil watches An'dren with a new sort of softness on the edges of her expression. Her smile has dimmed, muted to a gentle curve rather than boisterous spread; eventually she shifts a little to bring her cup in for a sip, but not before she says, "I'm gonna give it to you." Sip.
It's a glance exchanged, Riuth catching it just in time to return it, his amusement amplified by Siraqueth's reflection of it. "Give what to me?" Andy asks, bemused. A second later, his brain catches up to his tongue, and he adds, "Oh. The rug." Then: "Oh! No, don't do that. Keep it, if you like it -- or, y'know, don't keep it, if you don't. But you don't need to give it to me. I don't need another rug." The 'another' part of it implies that he has one already, but he doesn't, and it's a fact that the bronze relays to the blue with a half-laughed, << If there's a weyr that could use a rug, it's ours. I think he's forgotten. >>
Siraqueth gives Riuth a sly, slanted glance. << Forgotten, absently left omitted. They so often mean the same thing. >> Not that she needs it, but he gives his girl a little nudge to guide her down the right path and she, in the solitude of their shared link, thanks Riuth for everyone involved. "Need, need, need. Whatever happened to want? I /want/ to give you my rug. You're right. Someone weird like you. Who likes plain things." Again, her head tilts, her eyes wander, fingertips drumming a playful little rhythm on the rug.
"Why would you /want/ to give me your rug, though?" Andy counters. "It'd be harder for me to bring it back to Ista, anyways, than for you to keep it here." It's a half-hearted protest at best, and Riuth, ever helpful, points it out, which earns him a hard stare from his rider. The two look at each other -- one unblinking because he doesn't need to blink, and the other unblinking out of sheer stubbornness. The dragon always wins these contests; An'dren looks away first, with a bit of a twitch, and turns back to Virgil a little helplessly.
Patient, ever patient, the bluerider waits. Waits through all of his excuses and questions and through the final interaction between dragon and rider. She waits because she knows something he doesn't know, maybe, or because she is, really, just that /patient/. When An'dren finally turns back to her she has a smile ready. "I'll bring it to Ista, if it makes it easier." /Stubborn/ maybe, maybe she's that /stubborn/.
It's a good thing Virgil has a dragon, too, because otherwise she might not have so much patience for all those long silences. Or hey, maybe she would anyways; maybe she's just that patient, and maybe that's why she puts up so well with Andy's rambling ways. "You should keep it," he says, just as stubborn as she is. "Or, well. At least until you find another rug, yeah? I'm not gonna deprive you of one, because you really need it more than I do, with this," and a wave of the hand towards the weyr's mouth indicates the weather, the cold. Fort.
Fort. With its damn cold. She could forgive Telgar, because it's natural to forgive something so bone-deep as home. Besides, Telgar couldn't help it. An'dren makes some good points, points Virgil continues to be /patient/ for, and through, and when his gesture encompasses all of that weather stuff out there she sighs. "You wouldn't be depriving me, Andy. I'm giving it to you. But fine." Shoulder shrug, sip of tea. "I'll wait." Smirky smile.
"Just because you're giving it to me doesn't mean I'm not depriving you of it," Andy says, but he's won, more or less, and he's graceful in the winning. "I can come get it when you've found another rug," he adds, and takes another absent sip of the tea. "Or, y'know," and he just as absently licks the corner of his lip, where a drop of tea had been clinging, "you could bring it to Ista, help me find a place to put it. I'm not much of a...what do they call them? Decorator."
"It's all in the wording." He can't have expected to have the last. "/My/ giving it to /you/ is the key. /I'm/ in control there. You can't just take what /I'm/ doing and twist it around so somehow it's your fault." Lifted hand makes finger wag back and forth: tsk on him. The drop of tea catches her though, his efforts at collecting it, so she grins and leans on an arm and shakes her head. Silly bronzerider. "Oh," 'o' goes Virgil's mouth, "/decorator/. Right. Me neither." Clearly.
"But you're still lacking a rug," An'dren says, because okay, so he hasn't quite won yet. "And you'll still be cold -- if you're sitting on the ground, I mean, or walking barefoot or something. So, what? You're depriving yourself of a rug?" He moves to sip again, but the cup's only halfway raised when he finally remembers that this is tea that's meant to help Gil sleep, and therefore tea he shouldn't be drinking, especially when it's already night. Down the cup goes, and he looks at it in vague accusation before adding, "Better'n me, I think. I haven't done much with my weyr beyond clearing out all the rocks and dustin' it out a bit."
"I'm making a glorious and gracious sacrifice for a good friend from Ista whose weyr, if I hear right, is lacking in the rug department. And /you/, if you have to be the one doing something selfish and horrible, are the one keeping me from going through with this most wonderful of acts." But all of that was very very silly, and she didn't mean it because you don't smile like that when you mean things. "I don't have to sit on the ground, there's a couch, and I have slippers." So there. Virgil's eyes follow his cup down; she doesn't comment. "Maybe you haven't done anything else because you don't have anything else to do anything with." Like, a rug.
"I," Andy begins, and then stops, because really, how do you argue with logic like that? His grin is wry, but he can be a graceful loser, too, when the occasion arises. "Can't have me being...what was it? Selfish and horrible, now, can we?" he asks, and shakes his head with a quiet laugh. "I gratefully accept your glorious and gracious sacrifice, and will await the day Siraqueth tells Riuth that you have found another rug," because he's /not/ backing down on that point, "with eager anticipation. And I have a couch, and I strung up a curtain. There's not much else to add to a weyr, is there?" Besides a rug.
"Rug." She'll say it, and grin slowly, because poking at him is a lot of fun and /he/ is just plain fun and gosh, company is nice. While wearing that grin, cheshire it is, Virgil watches him, very much amused and slowly swirls the tea in her little cup. A sip is had, she straightens from her lean to set it down. "Good, I'm so glad that's all set. I think maybe I'll go down tomorrow. To the stores I mean. Which means we might be by the day after, or the day after that. Or next week, who knows!" /Ahaha/.
Andy laughs again and tilts his head towards her in silent acknowledgement -- yes, the rug -- then blinks. "Tomorrow? That's..." What's the word? "Fast. But yeah, sure, whenever you'd like, yeah? Just let Riuth know, and we'll be around." And then another blink, this time down at the cup on his knee, and there's a pause before he says slowly, "Dunno what it is they've put in the tea, but I think it's working on me."
Whatever she'd like? Well that's-- unexpected. At first she ditches the grin because of that notion-- whatever she'd /like/?-- but the fact that the tea is working would have done the job. He blinks at the cup, she blinks at the cup. "Really?" Apparently the same doesn't hold true for her. Or she's better at pretending not to be sleepy. "Well. If you're sleepy you should probably sleep. Maybe." It certainly /sounds/ right.
An'dren's not so good at pretending things; he tends to wear everything right there on his face, plain for the world to see. Sleepiness is no different, and now that the banter's died down some, it's beginning to show, there in the slight droop of his shoulders and the smile that's beginning to slide. "Probably should," he agrees and, carefully holding the cup in his hand, pushes to his feet. "I guess it's about time we headed back to Ista anyways. Sorry for keeping you up so late." Assuming it /is/ late, and assuming he's kept her up.
Which, if she knew, Virgil would be quick to point out. Assuming. He shouldn't. Still, "Don't apologize." All the time. Because it's good manners and because she wants to, she stands too and takes his cup from him. "I'll walk you to the ledge." The cup disappears, she must set it down somewhere, and she wipes both hands on her pantlegs before gesturing with one at the exit. That, coupled with a smile, says 'after you'.
"Sorry," Andy begins to reply, and then the irony of it sets in, and he manages to cut himself off after the firt syllable with only a marginally sheepish grin. He relinquishes the cup and says, "Thanks for the tea." He's already a few steps towards Riuth when he thinks to add, "And the fire," and there's a smile, now, for Gil. The bronze gets to his feet and stretches out his kinks, and as An'dren waits for him to ease back into motion, he turns to Virgil and says, "You should come visit some time. When I'm not drunk and, y'know. So far gone."
It's only when his back is turned that Virgil rolls her eyes and grins fully for the almost-apology. Oh, Andy. She has to bite down on her lip when he turns back to her, her eyebrows gone up so she can look all innocent attentive. "You're welcome!" she chirps, until he turns again. Her smile is warm when he can't see, while she follows him out. Until he makes with the words again. "I am coming," she reminds him. "With a rug." And, because another 'oh, Andy' grin isn't appropriate this time, she leans in and up to hug him, smelling all like clean things and dragons. "Have a safe flight, Andy. I'll see you soon."
"Then after you drop off the rug," Andy replies, "you should stay a bit. To visit." The hug surprises him, but after a breath or two, he returns it, smelling also like dragons but not so much of clean things. Boy things, maybe, or just Ista -- sweat and dirt and the sharp salt of the sea. "I'll see you soon, yeah," he agrees when he steps away, and then he's turning to Riuth and climbing into the straps, fumbling less than he had before because hey, he can feel his fingers again. "Have a good night," he adds for both Virgil and Siraqueth, and a moment later, Riuth falls into the sky, headed for home.