[LOG] Different
Who: Anvori, Virgil.
What: Another meeting.
Where: Diving Cliff, HRW.
When: 9/29/2008
9/29/2008
07:17 PM
Diving Cliff, High Reaches Weyr
Thrusting out from the shadow of the mountain, this long and narrow clifftop might once have been a ledge, but a pile of bramble-strewn, graffiti-chiseled boulders where a weyr's mouth would have been suggests a reason for its abandonment long ago. Though its views of the eastern bowl are grand, particularly the lake itself and the yawning air entrance to the hatching sands, its location makes the diving cliff unique: jutting some ten or twelve feet above the deepest part of the cool, clear lake.
Especially in summertime, many climb up the narrow stairs to seek the thrill of a swift fall into the water, but those who just want to enjoy the view can take those same stairs back down: carved directly into the bowl wall, worn and crumbling and slick from use, but enough for the careful to get the job done.
The sun's just set, the sliver of red along the horizon's line invisible to those safely ensconced within High Reaches' walls. The haziest shade of pink washing into an inkier night, and in this approaching darkness, Anvori stands alone at the top of the diving cliff, shoulders rolled back and the crisp autumn air tousling his dark curls.
Maybe he'll have some entertainment then, if he's watching the sky, has been or will be. As alone as Anvori stands, Siraqueth twists and undulates in the sky like a writing water snake, too-large wings snapping and throwing him to and fro. It's organized chaos. The dragon can't have been there long, or he long preceded his rider, for Virgil only now finds the last step up to the cliff, appearing both wind-ruffled and starry bright with that pale halo of hair. Upon sighting Anvori she tucks her hands into her pockets and approaches him with careful, quiet steps. "Hi," is the greeting of choice.
Dragon> To Virgil, Siraqueth notes, casually, << Riuth did not win. >>
Dragon> To Siraqueth, Virgil doesn't let relief overcome her. Too bad, she thinks. He would've sired a good clutch. Who was it?
Dragon> To Virgil, Siraqueth projects, << Mikhuth. >>
Dragon> To Siraqueth, Virgil, surprised, wonders, Is it so common that bronzeriders be swapped between Weyrs?
Dragon> To Virgil, Siraqueth doesn't know, as he's never been bronze. But, << It must be good for relations. And images. Ista can see what Fort has to offer. And vice versa. >> And no, he definitely didn't add that last part on for any particular reason.
Dragon> To Siraqueth, Virgil knows what you're up to, oh yes she does. Very clever. Her laughter is just as bright in here as it is out /there/, where everything's all real and physical.
Has been, though it's only midway through Siraqueth's organized chaos that the blue's undulations rivet Anvori's attention away from the changing wash of paint in the sky. So fixated is he on the sky dance that even Virgil's quiet steps go missed and her brief greeting immediately tenses the man's shoulders. Still, with a squinty set to his eyes, he turns to study the arrival, that odd touch of familiarity sparking a quizzical light in his widening hazel gaze. Amiably (and relaxing now that he's ascertained Virgil isn't some boogyman of the night), he returns with an equally brief, "Hi," a quick smile, and a tip of his head to one side. "I've seen you somewhere."
Boogymen probably don't look apologetic when they've startled someone, as that's sort of the name of their game. The Fortian does, though, not missing the way Anvori tenses. That shift in his demeanor, into friendly, is appreciated. This could have gone very badly indeed, had he not expressed such an easy-goingness. Those same steps, proven not kept quiet for the sake of sneaking, remain quiet while carrying her closer. /Her/ smile lasts, the typically warm and hopeful sort. "Brewfest," she reminds him, chin tilted up, eyes half-lidded.
Enlightenment enfuses a subtle sort of warmth over Anvori's features, his shoulders sinking down just a little more and his fingers finding his square jaw to rub idly. Deep lines bracket his growing smile and from his chin, his hand extends, ostensibly to offer a shake, but with the possibility of pulling Virgil up those last steps, even closer. "The views from up here are outstanding." Like she isn't already most of the way up. "Better than the views we got at the brewfest," he notes, with the driest sliver cooling his warm tenor. And then a name, exhaled with the fuzzy haze of recollection about it, "Virgil. I drank your beer I think."
Possibilities are the reason for the hope, really. Though she probably assumed his hand was for shaking, Virgil, once realizing there's another option, allows him his pulling and does her part in making sure she doesn't lose her balance entirely in the process. Closeness, it seems, isn't a cause for concern. A widening curl of that smile, then her amendment, "You drank T'rev's, actually." But, "This /is/ better. If I could do anything artsy like paint I would paint this." Maybe she'll come to stand beside him, if their goals are the same; he /does/ still have her hand until he chooses otherwise, seeing as how she isn't pulling away yet. Meanwhile, Siraqueth flings himself to earth, only to catch himself on a current and lift again.
"I wouldn't even dream of trying," notes Anvori, his gaze drifting from Virgil up to the skies once more, drawn to Siraqueth briefly. But then he's looking beyond the navy backdropped blue dragon to the stars that start to glitter high above. "My fingers," and of note, those self-said fingers flex in the grip he has of Virgil's hand, then releases it carefully to her side, "Hold no such talent, though I hardly miss it, I confess. I prefer looking." There's a crooked grin down for the Fortian rider, a look that glances past pronounced cheeks then swerves back to Siraqueth. "Yours?" he assumes aloud.
A gentleman, then. /And/ he prefers looking. Such unveilings result in a sideways slanted glance up that coincides with her tucking her hand back into its pocket, where it will do its best to forget about being treated with such grace. "I hope you think the same way about flowers. /Not/ picking them, I mean, when you could just as easily," a pause, "look." It isn't until /he/ provides a new focus for her attention, that being the dragon, that she looks away from him. Even then it's as if reluctantly, her narrow-eyed study of his face turned to the sky. She agrees easily and on the back of a sigh, "Mine. Siraqueth. He's practicing." Maybe she'll get to steal another look at Anvori, though, before asking, "What sort of talent /do/ your fingers hold? Other than helping me up steps." Cheeky smile.
Another confession, his head drops and cants sidelong to flash a slow grin, somehow deliberately bashful with the light of mischief in his eyes; "I confess, Virgil. I don't look much at flowers. But you prefer them not picked? Don't most women prefer flowers in vases to flowers in fields?" With his curiosity about that voiced, he takes one step away, arms spreading forward and than swinging back with the crack of his elbows audible in the silence of night. Then, a step closer, a hand reaching to rest in camaraderie about the small woman's shoulders. What his hands are capable of is left unanswered while he looks down to Virgil, waiting.
Waiting-- for what? That comfortableness with his proximity endures this as well, but that doesn't mean she catches onto his meaning any quicker, or that she's any less shifty-eyed about the whole affair. To fill the silence she replies needlessly. "I think you'd think I'm not like most women at all." If in fact the term 'woman' could apply to someone her size and apparent youthfulness. Eventually the matter of his hands and their whereabouts must come back around. Virgil's guess, "You... hug? People?" is coupled with a wry grin turned upward.
And there's the answer he was waiting for, his bracketed grin curving crooked. "Oh, aren't you?" Her cheekiness of moments before is matched now, hazel eyes set twinkling at her answer. That one hand at her shoulders drops about her waist easily and he turns to look to the sky and Siraqueth. "I mix drinks. I make drinks. I give," the silence is filled by the slow draw of her into his side, "Hugs. To people. Not to dragons." Anvori spares the most fleeting smile down at the bluerider, another mild squeeze the semblance of a hug.
"Oh /drinks/." Of course! Surely it's been proven already that she possesses a sense of humor. Her, "Have you been-- /having/ any drinks?" is lacking in the serious department. Besides, she's no good at putting her grin away /or/ keeping her laughter chained. It escapes, bright and giddy, almost a cackle. It continues when he squeezes her, some part of his hand maybe finding a ticklish bit of her anatomy. Slowly, gracefully, she puts /her/ hand to good use to reach for and take his, lift it so she can spin herself underneath. "You're different." It could be an accusation. Maybe. Something in her voice suggests she's trying to pin him for /something/.
Anvori laughs, this pleasant sound that echoes in the night sky. "Fortunately, I haven't had a drink yet tonight. As stone cold sober as any bartender should be." Should be, but isn't. There's a measure of fascination as Virgil spins beneath his lifted arm, and a narrowness about the corners of his eyes that reappraises the girl before him. His sense of humor is less ephemeral, less bright, filled with the sage dryness that-, "Age. That's what makes me different." That age brings about. "What does he practice for? Your blue?"
Age. Yes, it would be brought up. But like with his tendencies towards closeness and quick familiarity, Virgil can't seem to find a reason to be made at all out of sorts. Poised at arm's end, the tip of her boot balanced just so, she watches him solemnly for that comment. It's what he deserves. His answer, then, comes a little slowly, both feet finding solid purchase on the rock of the cliff and her hand falling. "New twists and turns." Her steady smile finds its way again. "For the wing. The dragons his size are meant to be the aerobatic ones. And you are older than me." Like that's relevant to talk of flying and dragons at all. "Does that bother you?" Slight emphasis on 'you' implies it /doesn't/ bother /her/.
Anvori's mouth shapes oddly, somewhere between a smile and rueful amusement. "I'm older than a great many people," is what he decides to say finally, after the slightest caught breath; self-censoring into no answer at all. "I don't know much of dragons," is where his thoughts go next, following her comments in reverse, tending to them and responding in kind. "What little I know is from the last few months I've spent here, studying. Observing. Watching." A beat. "Wondering. What kind of person would accept Search and if- I've somehow lost an opportunity while I wasn't even looking or aware." In the words of regret, there's little actual regret in his inflection, and soon thereafter a warm smile kens back down to the girl at the very end of his arm, fingers trembling come hither. An invitation and departure rolled into one. "You should come by. Sometime. I'm working on something for the Weyrleader in the Snowasis and spend most of my waking hours there."
Such musings and reflection aren't lost on Virgil who, with an expression as open and readably interested and concerned in parts, watches him go through this thought process step by step like she's there with him the entire way. Observant, they have that in common. His invitation works, much like it did in the beginning. Their meeting is like a palindrome in motion: she comes closer, it could be without meaning to. Intrigued is the tilt of her head. "You're working on-- something." How very vague. But there, her smile returns, a flood of warmth. "I will." Behind her, against the glorious backdrop of sky, Siraqueth plummets finally, swooping for a landing down below, where those steps will take her. Not before she leans up, puts her little hand to his arm, seeks to land a kiss to his cheek providing he doesn't move.
Neither moving, neither obliging, but touched nonetheless, for when her lips depart his cheek, there's a fond smile flashed down to the bluerider. "You're different," Anvori says, in repetition of something she's said of him, one hand lifted to drag a curved finger against her forehead, then drops his hand to his pocket. "Safe return to Fort, Virgil."
There's nothing she could say, she's already said it, asked it, and he has nowhere to return to. Instead of saying anything at all she smiles, secretive, and returns to the steps she only just climbed, to descend them and find her partner down below. It might seem a great bit of time later that Siraqueth rises again in a flurry of steady wingbeats, rises rises and blinks away into Between.
What: Another meeting.
Where: Diving Cliff, HRW.
When: 9/29/2008
9/29/2008
07:17 PM
Diving Cliff, High Reaches Weyr
Thrusting out from the shadow of the mountain, this long and narrow clifftop might once have been a ledge, but a pile of bramble-strewn, graffiti-chiseled boulders where a weyr's mouth would have been suggests a reason for its abandonment long ago. Though its views of the eastern bowl are grand, particularly the lake itself and the yawning air entrance to the hatching sands, its location makes the diving cliff unique: jutting some ten or twelve feet above the deepest part of the cool, clear lake.
Especially in summertime, many climb up the narrow stairs to seek the thrill of a swift fall into the water, but those who just want to enjoy the view can take those same stairs back down: carved directly into the bowl wall, worn and crumbling and slick from use, but enough for the careful to get the job done.
The sun's just set, the sliver of red along the horizon's line invisible to those safely ensconced within High Reaches' walls. The haziest shade of pink washing into an inkier night, and in this approaching darkness, Anvori stands alone at the top of the diving cliff, shoulders rolled back and the crisp autumn air tousling his dark curls.
Maybe he'll have some entertainment then, if he's watching the sky, has been or will be. As alone as Anvori stands, Siraqueth twists and undulates in the sky like a writing water snake, too-large wings snapping and throwing him to and fro. It's organized chaos. The dragon can't have been there long, or he long preceded his rider, for Virgil only now finds the last step up to the cliff, appearing both wind-ruffled and starry bright with that pale halo of hair. Upon sighting Anvori she tucks her hands into her pockets and approaches him with careful, quiet steps. "Hi," is the greeting of choice.
Dragon> To Virgil, Siraqueth notes, casually, << Riuth did not win. >>
Dragon> To Siraqueth, Virgil doesn't let relief overcome her. Too bad, she thinks. He would've sired a good clutch. Who was it?
Dragon> To Virgil, Siraqueth projects, << Mikhuth. >>
Dragon> To Siraqueth, Virgil, surprised, wonders, Is it so common that bronzeriders be swapped between Weyrs?
Dragon> To Virgil, Siraqueth doesn't know, as he's never been bronze. But, << It must be good for relations. And images. Ista can see what Fort has to offer. And vice versa. >> And no, he definitely didn't add that last part on for any particular reason.
Dragon> To Siraqueth, Virgil knows what you're up to, oh yes she does. Very clever. Her laughter is just as bright in here as it is out /there/, where everything's all real and physical.
Has been, though it's only midway through Siraqueth's organized chaos that the blue's undulations rivet Anvori's attention away from the changing wash of paint in the sky. So fixated is he on the sky dance that even Virgil's quiet steps go missed and her brief greeting immediately tenses the man's shoulders. Still, with a squinty set to his eyes, he turns to study the arrival, that odd touch of familiarity sparking a quizzical light in his widening hazel gaze. Amiably (and relaxing now that he's ascertained Virgil isn't some boogyman of the night), he returns with an equally brief, "Hi," a quick smile, and a tip of his head to one side. "I've seen you somewhere."
Boogymen probably don't look apologetic when they've startled someone, as that's sort of the name of their game. The Fortian does, though, not missing the way Anvori tenses. That shift in his demeanor, into friendly, is appreciated. This could have gone very badly indeed, had he not expressed such an easy-goingness. Those same steps, proven not kept quiet for the sake of sneaking, remain quiet while carrying her closer. /Her/ smile lasts, the typically warm and hopeful sort. "Brewfest," she reminds him, chin tilted up, eyes half-lidded.
Enlightenment enfuses a subtle sort of warmth over Anvori's features, his shoulders sinking down just a little more and his fingers finding his square jaw to rub idly. Deep lines bracket his growing smile and from his chin, his hand extends, ostensibly to offer a shake, but with the possibility of pulling Virgil up those last steps, even closer. "The views from up here are outstanding." Like she isn't already most of the way up. "Better than the views we got at the brewfest," he notes, with the driest sliver cooling his warm tenor. And then a name, exhaled with the fuzzy haze of recollection about it, "Virgil. I drank your beer I think."
Possibilities are the reason for the hope, really. Though she probably assumed his hand was for shaking, Virgil, once realizing there's another option, allows him his pulling and does her part in making sure she doesn't lose her balance entirely in the process. Closeness, it seems, isn't a cause for concern. A widening curl of that smile, then her amendment, "You drank T'rev's, actually." But, "This /is/ better. If I could do anything artsy like paint I would paint this." Maybe she'll come to stand beside him, if their goals are the same; he /does/ still have her hand until he chooses otherwise, seeing as how she isn't pulling away yet. Meanwhile, Siraqueth flings himself to earth, only to catch himself on a current and lift again.
"I wouldn't even dream of trying," notes Anvori, his gaze drifting from Virgil up to the skies once more, drawn to Siraqueth briefly. But then he's looking beyond the navy backdropped blue dragon to the stars that start to glitter high above. "My fingers," and of note, those self-said fingers flex in the grip he has of Virgil's hand, then releases it carefully to her side, "Hold no such talent, though I hardly miss it, I confess. I prefer looking." There's a crooked grin down for the Fortian rider, a look that glances past pronounced cheeks then swerves back to Siraqueth. "Yours?" he assumes aloud.
A gentleman, then. /And/ he prefers looking. Such unveilings result in a sideways slanted glance up that coincides with her tucking her hand back into its pocket, where it will do its best to forget about being treated with such grace. "I hope you think the same way about flowers. /Not/ picking them, I mean, when you could just as easily," a pause, "look." It isn't until /he/ provides a new focus for her attention, that being the dragon, that she looks away from him. Even then it's as if reluctantly, her narrow-eyed study of his face turned to the sky. She agrees easily and on the back of a sigh, "Mine. Siraqueth. He's practicing." Maybe she'll get to steal another look at Anvori, though, before asking, "What sort of talent /do/ your fingers hold? Other than helping me up steps." Cheeky smile.
Another confession, his head drops and cants sidelong to flash a slow grin, somehow deliberately bashful with the light of mischief in his eyes; "I confess, Virgil. I don't look much at flowers. But you prefer them not picked? Don't most women prefer flowers in vases to flowers in fields?" With his curiosity about that voiced, he takes one step away, arms spreading forward and than swinging back with the crack of his elbows audible in the silence of night. Then, a step closer, a hand reaching to rest in camaraderie about the small woman's shoulders. What his hands are capable of is left unanswered while he looks down to Virgil, waiting.
Waiting-- for what? That comfortableness with his proximity endures this as well, but that doesn't mean she catches onto his meaning any quicker, or that she's any less shifty-eyed about the whole affair. To fill the silence she replies needlessly. "I think you'd think I'm not like most women at all." If in fact the term 'woman' could apply to someone her size and apparent youthfulness. Eventually the matter of his hands and their whereabouts must come back around. Virgil's guess, "You... hug? People?" is coupled with a wry grin turned upward.
And there's the answer he was waiting for, his bracketed grin curving crooked. "Oh, aren't you?" Her cheekiness of moments before is matched now, hazel eyes set twinkling at her answer. That one hand at her shoulders drops about her waist easily and he turns to look to the sky and Siraqueth. "I mix drinks. I make drinks. I give," the silence is filled by the slow draw of her into his side, "Hugs. To people. Not to dragons." Anvori spares the most fleeting smile down at the bluerider, another mild squeeze the semblance of a hug.
"Oh /drinks/." Of course! Surely it's been proven already that she possesses a sense of humor. Her, "Have you been-- /having/ any drinks?" is lacking in the serious department. Besides, she's no good at putting her grin away /or/ keeping her laughter chained. It escapes, bright and giddy, almost a cackle. It continues when he squeezes her, some part of his hand maybe finding a ticklish bit of her anatomy. Slowly, gracefully, she puts /her/ hand to good use to reach for and take his, lift it so she can spin herself underneath. "You're different." It could be an accusation. Maybe. Something in her voice suggests she's trying to pin him for /something/.
Anvori laughs, this pleasant sound that echoes in the night sky. "Fortunately, I haven't had a drink yet tonight. As stone cold sober as any bartender should be." Should be, but isn't. There's a measure of fascination as Virgil spins beneath his lifted arm, and a narrowness about the corners of his eyes that reappraises the girl before him. His sense of humor is less ephemeral, less bright, filled with the sage dryness that-, "Age. That's what makes me different." That age brings about. "What does he practice for? Your blue?"
Age. Yes, it would be brought up. But like with his tendencies towards closeness and quick familiarity, Virgil can't seem to find a reason to be made at all out of sorts. Poised at arm's end, the tip of her boot balanced just so, she watches him solemnly for that comment. It's what he deserves. His answer, then, comes a little slowly, both feet finding solid purchase on the rock of the cliff and her hand falling. "New twists and turns." Her steady smile finds its way again. "For the wing. The dragons his size are meant to be the aerobatic ones. And you are older than me." Like that's relevant to talk of flying and dragons at all. "Does that bother you?" Slight emphasis on 'you' implies it /doesn't/ bother /her/.
Anvori's mouth shapes oddly, somewhere between a smile and rueful amusement. "I'm older than a great many people," is what he decides to say finally, after the slightest caught breath; self-censoring into no answer at all. "I don't know much of dragons," is where his thoughts go next, following her comments in reverse, tending to them and responding in kind. "What little I know is from the last few months I've spent here, studying. Observing. Watching." A beat. "Wondering. What kind of person would accept Search and if- I've somehow lost an opportunity while I wasn't even looking or aware." In the words of regret, there's little actual regret in his inflection, and soon thereafter a warm smile kens back down to the girl at the very end of his arm, fingers trembling come hither. An invitation and departure rolled into one. "You should come by. Sometime. I'm working on something for the Weyrleader in the Snowasis and spend most of my waking hours there."
Such musings and reflection aren't lost on Virgil who, with an expression as open and readably interested and concerned in parts, watches him go through this thought process step by step like she's there with him the entire way. Observant, they have that in common. His invitation works, much like it did in the beginning. Their meeting is like a palindrome in motion: she comes closer, it could be without meaning to. Intrigued is the tilt of her head. "You're working on-- something." How very vague. But there, her smile returns, a flood of warmth. "I will." Behind her, against the glorious backdrop of sky, Siraqueth plummets finally, swooping for a landing down below, where those steps will take her. Not before she leans up, puts her little hand to his arm, seeks to land a kiss to his cheek providing he doesn't move.
Neither moving, neither obliging, but touched nonetheless, for when her lips depart his cheek, there's a fond smile flashed down to the bluerider. "You're different," Anvori says, in repetition of something she's said of him, one hand lifted to drag a curved finger against her forehead, then drops his hand to his pocket. "Safe return to Fort, Virgil."
There's nothing she could say, she's already said it, asked it, and he has nowhere to return to. Instead of saying anything at all she smiles, secretive, and returns to the steps she only just climbed, to descend them and find her partner down below. It might seem a great bit of time later that Siraqueth rises again in a flurry of steady wingbeats, rises rises and blinks away into Between.