[M'try] No good deed goes unpunished.
RL Date: 7/15/10
IC Date: 3/8/23 --Back-scened to the day of the mudslide. Also more log thievery. Woo~!
Green Gardens Skylight Weyr, Fort Weyr
The sloping entryway into the wallow is a bit on the narrow side and only big enough for the smaller dragons. A small brown could fit through, but mid-sized browns and larger will need to hang out on the ledge if they come to visit. Lined with butter-soft wherhide, the wallow is a comfortable space for a smaller dragon as well, but there's little in the way of space to share. Along the wall behind the wallow, a faded mural starts with a few green vines that curl around the corner into the rider's habitation. Pushing through dual layers of both weatherproofed oilcloth and an incongruously gauzy bit of white netting, the weyr itself is almost perfectly round with a small hearth set in the wall to the left of the entryway and several chests lining the walls for storage. The bed is unique: its stone shelf cuts across one curve of the wall, lending it an alcove-like feeling without actually being an alcove. Its hard surface is well padded with a new mattress and neatly folded linens. The mural is much brighter in here, starting to the right of the door and growing more and more elaborate as it progresses around the walls to encircle the hearth. Hidden amongst the vines and greenery are tropical birds, vtols and the bright blossoms of flowers illuminated from above by three odd, circular skylights covered over with translucent mica.
The weyrbowl has crumbled not one hour hence, awakening pretty much everyone with the the rumble and the resultant tremble as the mud tumbled into the feeding pens and lake. Some folks have gathered to assess the damage while a few circle overhead, some with riders taking in a bird's-eye view, but for the most part startled dragons have returned to their ledges. The now-muddy waters of the lake appears higher, in fact some of the very lowest ledges are, or were underwater. Nissa's and Liath's, while not submerged is but a few inches rather than several feet above the waterline and by the looks of it did not escape the initial wave of displaced water. Liath is presently crouched on her ledge peering inside while sounds of scraping and grunting float out through the entrance.
M'try and Mohraith, being up high enough to miss out on getting so much as a splash, must have been alerted by the sound, the commotion, the fuss. A fair bit of back-and-forth-- "What was that?" << A big BOOM. >> "Yes, I know. What was it?" << LOUD. >> And so on.-- finally has the brownrider padding out to the edge of his own ledge, peering down, and then hurriedly skittering back inside to dress himself (socks-and-underwear is not the sexiest garb ever) so the brown can drop down on the very edge of Liath's ledge with a bright, << Looks DAMP IN HERE, doll. >> Promptly, heading in with his head ducked, "Nissa? You're not drowned in here, I trust?"
Actually, without the socks... Through the missing door curtain, "No-" more grunting, some panting "-come on in." Quick breath taken. "Watch your step." Another breath, "Slippery." He's wanted to see her hot and bothered? Yay! He finally gets the chance to do so. Liath's reply is a bright bubbling, << I had a bed bath, Nissa says! >> Indeed her wallow is now a shallow pool. There's a slick layer of mud coating the floor, the lower walls are splattered with it, but at least the mural looks, for the most part unharmed although there might be a spot or two lower down that got soaked. Nissa's over by the bed, easily enough to track by the trunk-width swath she's plowed across the muddied floor towards her bed, which has already been stripped of both mattress and linens, leaving the bare rock shelf. There's a rather muddied Nissa tugging on one handle, or she has been. Right now, she needs to breathe. And wipe the sweat from her eyes.
<< I would like to have one! >> Mohraith agrees pleasantly, padding over to check out the puddle-wallow while M'try, with a hand to the wall to steady his steps while he treks through that slippery mud, makes his way inside. "This is unfortunate for you, isn't it," he reports with a blend of sympathy and humor, not so much turned on by this version of hot and bothered. Though he does head Vanissa's way, which at least means he's not totally turned off? "I came to offer assistance with... whatever I can? Cleaning up, I suppose."
Oh he's not? So sad, it's the best she can offer him at the moment though. Sometime after the wave she's taken the time to dress, although it's clear the shirt and trous she has tucked in boots are going to need a wash badly. Liath, considers sharing. He might be able to squeeze in there and give it a try? Her neck cranes to see that the pair inside are busy, << Quick, while they're not looking! >> That wipe with the back of her arm continues upwards, taking the damp strands of hair out of her face so Nissa can award M'try the Understatement of the Year Award, which is invisible but tangible in the look he's given. "Maybe just a little seein’ I won't be able to stay here for awhile?" She does smile afterwards though, pats the trunk. The one they were sitting on a few days ago. "Can ya help me get this up?" Her head tilt indicates what was once her bed.
M'try may not be looking, but one of the benefits of having a very loud dragon (perhaps the only benefit) is that he still tends to have an idea what Mohraith is doing anyway, snippets of talk and thoughts spilling over. "Liath seems quite happy with it," he comments blithely, even while Mohraith is trying to crowd his way into her wallow, totally oblivious to a certain inalienable law of physics. << Tight squeeze! >> "Absolutely," the brownrider is quick to answer, reaching toward the bed presently. With that convenient distraction, he's bolstered to offer, "You're welcome to stay with us. Until things dry out."
"She's always happy." And indeed, Laith is over there, scooting as far away as she can to give Mohraith as much room as possible. The green is a-wriggle with the idea of sharing her 'waterbed' with the brown. << Maybe if you pull that left wingjoint in tighter, and exhale? A LOT. >> Apparently she's not considered how he'd get back out, or maybe she just intends to keep him prisoner and fly his dinner to him when he needs it? "Thanks!" Nissa's chattery enough explaining, "Dunno if the level will keep rising, so I need these where they won't get soaked. The water sorta rolled in and right back out, but next time..." She's mid-roll of her eyes at the dragon pair, reaching for the other handle to help hoist that trunk when M'try says that, blinks, stalls by tugging the handle, lifting if he does the same, otherwise it's just an uncoordinated jerk. "Wouldn't we be in the way of your, um... work?"
"I noticed," M'try says with a backward glance to the green and brown, who is now trying to bend his wings at unlikely angles before one flops over Liath gracelessly, and there! He's kinda-sorta halfway in, looking as ungainly as a hatchling but ever so proud of himself. << NICE! >> Exactly opposite of his rider's comment, "What a mess for you," while he shakes his head. He's a little late on the lifting, so there's a brief jerk before he follows up, trying to catch the gesture before it rips her arm off or anything. "I don't see how? It all generally fits neatly into a few notebooks, and I'm hardly painting enough right now to matter. Though--" Back-pedal back-pedal back-pedal. "--you've seen our weyr, it's note exactly the nicest place to hang one's hat, so I certainly won't be offended if you've got better digs, so to speak."
Laith's happiness in a nutshell: "It's wa-" Nissa's eyes lift in time to see Mohraith, "-ter." That last part finished a tad weakly while lifting that trunk with M'try in an absent sort of way. While she's gaping, Laith's nearly dancing out there on the ledge, << It's WONDERFUL. What are you waiting for? Go all the way in so I can join you! We can cuddle and be all wet together. >> She's all a-quiver with the idea and hopefully the brown isn't passing on the innocently-meant comments verbatim to his rider. "Is that so?" As for not being in the way. Back-pedaling which has her ducking her head suddenly, turning a quick heel-pivot towards those other trunks. A move meant to hide a sudden amused grin, executed all the faster thanks to the slickness underfoot which has Nissa wavering for balance while assuring him (mind not the quaver of merriment in her tone - it's just the effort keeping upright), "I haven't had any offers, but it might be fun to see how a pariah lives? My last visit was fairly brief, if you'll recall."
Shaking his head, only getting things from one side-- and that's Mohraith's side, happy to be sharing with Liath-- M'try rains all over Liath's parade, if that stern frown of his is any indicator. With a great sigh, the poor brown heaves himself on out, dripping and sloshing and explaining to the green, << M'try says I LOOK STUPID. >> Where dignity is important to the brown, perhaps not as much for the rider, who almost eats it with a misplaced step on that mud. Bobbling, righting himself, he answers quickly, hopefully finding humor to cover his lack of grace, "You'll have to sleep on a pile of dirty socks, of course. We pariah have so little proper furniture."
Mohraith's retreat back ledge-ward finds Liath seated primly, tail curled round her paws, head cocked and eyes bright, her waters bubble reassurance, << I don't think you do. But hey! We can cuddle out here? The ledge is wet but the sun has come out. >> Nissa's so busy skating over to those other trunks she nearly misses M'try's slip, peeks over her shoulder with dancing eyes and a smirk. "A pile of dirty socks. How ever can I turn that gallant offer down?" Ohwait. Afterthought: "They don't allow pariah a proper bed?" Just curious there and maybe even a little sympathetic. It's the black leather-bound trunk that stops her slide, fingers curling 'round it to stop herself.
<< PERFECT. >> Mohraith is all happy to drip dry on Liath's ledge, sitting near the edge of it as much to get the sun as to take in the view of the totally wrecked bowl below, his wings folded neatly to make sure there's room for the green to snuggle up close. Oh, if only it were so easy for their counterparts. Though he puts out a hand like he'd help stop the slide, M'try Scooby-Doo runs in place for a few seconds, so he's really too far to be of much help, and the trunk beats him to it. So skidding to a halt next to her, smirking; "Oh, I have a bed, quite a nice one actually, but you're a guest. So you have to sleep on the dirty clothes." There's a beat, a glance down at the trunk, a quick clear of his throat, and he adds, "The only other alternative..." Is presumably something he'll let her figure out on her own, ahem.
Liath patters happily to take up residence beside Mohraith, easily leaning against him, stretches her neck out to eye the mess with a kind of speculative gleam at all that mud. << Later, we must go check it out. >> "Do ya now?" Nissa's relieved on his account. "It would seem that Fort Weyr treats their pariah a tad above the rest?" It could be an advertisement slogan to attract more of them, even! Clearly amused, she braces feet that, yes alas, leave a muddy smudge on the base of that wall mural (she'll be forever in his debt it seems, for that restoration job is growing by leaps and bounds). Her hands curl 'round the far edge of the trunk and her legs push and she's got her focus kept carefully on the floor watching for the base to leave go of its muddy hold. As for the alternative, she doesn't really even go there. Instead she says lightly, "I can't say I've ever slept on someone's laundry pile before." Musingly, "It might be a novel experience?"
"One would hope it's not something you do habitually, yes." Distracted, briefly, but the damage being done to that mural, M'try turns a frown on it, crouching to test the paint itself with a quick press of his thumb. His mutter is low but honest when he says, "What a shame. But." Righting himself, hands walking up the wall carefully, he comes around to help with this new trunk, saying, "I might be able to scrounge up a pillow, at the least, so you wouldn't be stuck with nothing but old socks and dirty tunics. It at least must be more comfortable than being water-logged over night. The bed, though, was a relic of a former occupant, I think, and in no way intended specifically for my benefit." As if someone would leave behind so nice a thing for such a one as him, says the sigh.
"At least they didn't haul it away when they found out ya were the one claimin’ the weyr?" See, Nissa can help him see a different side! Sobered momentarily by that mutter, She inhales, winces while watching him check the wall. No, she didn't mean to do that. But! She has faith in his ability to repair it, for all that she has never seen any evidence of his painting save for soiled shirts and thumbnails. Brightly pleased, "You're both gallant and generous. A pillow! Who would have thought?" She almost claps her hands in glee. Is she getting on his nerves yet? Across the floor in the wake of that other trunk they travel. "You know, you will keep making these irresistible offers- first a bench, now a pile of laundry. You're most persistent." A grin over her arm as they push the last bit to the shelf-bed.
M'try, to her wince, assures, "I'm reasonably certain it wasn't your doing, Nissa, so don't look so guilty. Once it's dried out in here, we'll fix it." Dragging along the trunk, he adds, "At least the offers keep getting better, right? Soon enough, I may even have a suitcase for you. It's only a stone's throw from that to a--" The thought goes unfinished, as it takes just one wrong step, one unplanned placement for his feet to slip out from under him, for him to almost prop-fall backward on his rear-end, his legs kicked out, and his side of the trunk clattering with a loud, wet slap to the muddy floor. Almost immediately, there's a pitiful, "Oooowwwhooow. No good deed..."
Sufficiently reassured about the wall, Nissa's mind is free to consider the options, "They do." She nods happy agreement, but points out, "I have several trunks already? So a suitcase, while better than a pile of laundry might not get you where you want to go?" She's helping him, really! Cough. Her quiet laughter stops with that smack and moan from him, though. Contrite, worried, "Are ya alright?" She winces all sympathetic, "Y'know, I did that on the ice this past winter and Isandre, well. Let's just say her exam was almost as painful as the fall." She's crawled over to his side while saying all that. "Maybe ya should lie down?"
M'try starts to lift his hand to his back, but there's a great deal of mud on his palm, so he winds up just hanging it off his knee and pushing himself up to a sitting position with a checked groan. "I'm all right," he answers certainly, exhaling properly once he's off the floor, now at least as muddy as Vanissa, so there's that. With a laugh, bordering on self-deprecating he answers, "Oh, Nissa. Oh, sweet, lovely Nissa. Of all the times I've imagined you suggesting that very thing to me, never in my imagination have I been caked in mud with only threadbare dignity. You couldn't make the offer before I landed on my ass, then?"
Well she's leaning over him on all fours, so when he sits up there's this sort of awkward scrabble to be out of his space, which isn't helped by the fact that she can get little purchase on the mud-slick floor. Still not convinced he's 'okay' with that checked groan, she's at least paused in her retreat to eye him more critically, watching just how he takes those breaths until he laughs, then the concerned frown turns to a slow, impish smile. "Apparently timing ain’t my thing, but if ya were awaiting it so fervently, you've missed your golden opportunity for when I did, ya sat up." Jiella would never forgive him! She however, must follow that up with slightly sharp-toned suspicion. "Ya -are- hurt!" Because yeah. It goes without saying.
There's a war going on here, between the fact that M'try has muddy palms, that Vanissa's right there in reach, and that his behind is smarting like you would not believe. Ultimately, competitor number two gets a slight edge, and he reaches-- dirty hands or not-- toward her arm, trying to keep her from retreating /too/ far, anyway. "You could come back," he points out with what's meant to be a winning, convincing smile. Never mind the slight twinge. "I don't want care to discuss my bruised butt at the moment. I'm trying to reclaim a golden opportunity here, not a black-and-blue one."
Will it get him to lie down? Nissa's answer while creeping closer is a sweetly questioning, "Ya got hurt in my weyr while helping me, can I do anything less?" Her palms have been muddy all morning but there's not a second of hesitation as she lifts a hand to place it on his chest and apply gentle pressure. Mindful of his stipulation for conversation, she doesn't discuss his possible injury. Instead it's his landing, "I fell on ice, which I assume has a -little- more give than stone." Out on the ledge, Liath perks, turning her head towards the inner weyr... Silent communication taking place.
M'try assures, and it sounds truthful, "I'm fine, Nissa. Honestly, were it not for the fact that there's a very attractive woman here with me?" At which point he traipses out that winning smile again, eyes briefly dropping to the hand on his chest with blatant 'yay' written in his expression. "I would spring right back up, I promise. I just lack motivation. But I didn't know that you'd fallen?" He only half-leans back, weight braced on his elbows, trying to keep an eye on her-- and also not lay down in the mud.
Vanissa can be the annoyingly hovering type when she wants to be and the mud isn't of concern to her. Her hand continues to press, but it's not like he can't resist her effort. He's 3/4 muddy already and her weyr now has a bath, courtesy of Liath. "Slipped on the ice, landed like ya did. Some bruiser carried me to our lovely healer. She gave me ice and some lovely- ah! I may even still have it here somewhere- salve, which I'll loan, but not apply for ya." Woe! Meanwhile, Liath's questioning Mohraith, << Nissa wants to know if he's REALLY as fine as he says he is. >> As in feeling, not- yeah, the obvious.
M'try and Mohraith aren't always all up in each other's business, so the brown does have to swing his head around rather tellingly to contemplate his rider's condition, finally answering, << Dunno if he's really fine, >> with a mental frown. << I don't think he busted his butt, if that's what you mean, but he's not exactly-- >> Whatever he might've said gets a kibosh put on it pretty quick, leaving the brownrider to make a face at Vanissa instead. "Having Liath check with Mohraith to check on me, Nissa? You ought to offer to apply the salve just to atone for such a sin. Either way, I'm not going to Isandre and having her examine my backside, thank you."
Taking him far too literally, Nissa sweetly offers, "I could call her here? Then ya wouldn't have to go. Though I hear through the grapevine that housecalls make her grouchy." And Nissa's hand lifts from his chest so she can go make good on her promise, but she's rather fascinated by this stern-faced M'try, so doesn't leap up right away to do so. Instead she continues to watch him with a little grin. Finally she drawls, "Ya know, I couldn't sit on Liath for like, two days after I fell. It's really too bad my weyr's such a mess. I'd totally let ya have my bed for the night." So generous with the hypothetical situations, isn't she?
She could call her here? "I would run away." Or try to stop her, what with the whole chasing down her hand with his; whether it's to keep Vanissa from summoning Isandre or just keep her around in general is open to debate. Either way. "That's sweet, really it is, but unless that's 'and stay with you to make sure you were really okay,' I think I can hobble my way back to my own bed for the night. Though, I have to say, I'm starting to get comfortable here." He scoots down on his rump, even, managing to look cozy. Managing not to hiss.
One can almost hear the ah ah ah that's coming when Nissa lifts a forefinger in mocking admonishment. "I already know your aversion to running as you've mentioned it to me several times already." Her head tilts and he is the recipient of a brightly keen look as she amends, "Unless it's runnin’ for your life. She's that frightening is she?" Stayed by his hand- (can't help but notice what a mess they've become when she glances down at it) -Nissa watches him get 'cozy'. She barely swallows a laugh as she give in to the moment and simply flops down to face him lying on one side in the mud with her head propped up in her other hand to regard him with mock sobriety (fail). "Of course I would, you're injured." Pout.
"I'm just not keen on dropping trou for her," M'try answers frankly, partially wiping his hand on the front of his shirt, thankfully not such a dandy dresser that this causes him any pain. "Oh, well," he continues brightly, drawing his only slightly clean hand over so he can lay his arm around her, that hand just at the small of her back. "In that case, I'm definitely injured. And, while I'm fairly sure I could manage the ride to my own weyr, I probably shouldn't be left alone."
It takes all of Nissa's self control to bite her tongue on the quick reply that springs to mind when M'try says that. And see? No laughing because she's caught that frank tone. "Most people ain't so keen for the healers," she murmurs in a kindly way dropping the needling altogether. "It's the least I can do, not abandon an injured man to his misery." Wriggling muddy fingers at him, "I'm fit to sleep in your dirty socks, but ya really should go soak before ruining your bed. They might decide a pariah doesn't deserve one, ya know." There's a moment's pause while something is recalled that has her hazel eyes dancing with mischief once more, "When ya said you were going to take me somewhere warm and I didn't have to dress up? I never for one moment thought ya meant to your laundry."
"The least you can do?" M'try repeats with a playful scoff, drawing away somewhat to put her at arm's length, his eyes widening as if shocked at her words. "The least you could do, dear girl, would be to offer to kiss it and make it better, but seeing as we're talking about..." He peers over his shoulder as best he can, making a show of trying to see his bootie. Impossible. "You could at least offer to kiss me and make me better?" Looking back to her hopefully, though it ends with a sudden burst of laughter at her latter quip. "Well, this should teach you to be sure you specify the kinds of places you'd prefer to go, Nissa. Otherwise, you could be looking at a long future of napping among my unwashed garb."
But what's this? What now? Nissa wrinkles her nose at him. "Are ya -tryin’- to get me to change my mind about runnin’ for a healer? There are several others to choose from, ya know. I offered ya salve too," she reminds him with a little sniff of pretended offence and a toss of her head that she executes as best she can with her hand propping her head up. She makes to roll away from him, "Ya never gave me time to specify, as I recall. Ya kissed me and then ran." And then she cranes her neck to see the ledge, "Mohraith! Heya, buddy, did ya know anythin’ about this? Cos Liath didn't tell me like she was going to." She mock glares at M'try. "And I wouldn't be so sure about future in a pile of laundry. I was promised a palace and a poisoned Lord if my memory serves."
Mohraith lifts his head, swivels around to peer vaguely in Vanissa's direction, and then snuffs helplessly at her in response, his response to M'try spilling over so Liath can get the gist of it; he really thinks his rider's so not-smooth. Withdrawing his arms while she moves away, the Harper-kid pushes himself up to a seat, drawing his legs up to sit tailor-style on the floor in the mud, shifting with only a touch of discomfort for his butt. "Shall I make a tasteless joke and suggest that perhaps I was the one behind Astivan's illness all along? That I was trying to take him out of the way in order to make good on that promise? You're quite lovely when you're mad." A bright, appreciative smile tips her way, apropos of nothing.
Vanissa looks quite muddy is what she looks like, leaning on her elbows there on her be-slimed floor with her head turned to stare at M'try after she stops mid-roll. All the teasing light fades from her face and likely the fact that there's mud on her palms is the only thing that prevents her from smacking one on her forehead and drawing it down her face at that very tasteless joke and her unintentional reference to Lord Astivan. It doesn't keep her from running both hands somewhat distractedly through her hair, leaving it, yes, mud-streaked. She carried things too far, didn't she? After a long look, she pushes up on her hands and knees, gathers her feet under her in preparation to rise. "I'm sorry, M'try." Her voice is nothing but tired.
"I could have pretended not to make the connection," M'try points out casually, his scoot toward her braced on his palms behind him, his feet slipping just a touch though they don't slide out from under him entirely. Instead, trying to cross the little distance between them before she can get fully to her feet, he clarifies, "I won't tell him we very nearly made a joke at his expense if you won't, and then neither of us has to feel particularly assy for it?" There's a brief 'erf' at his own turn-of-phrase, and he adds, "I take that back. I am feeling assy. Should we, perhaps, leave the rest of this cleaning for a bit and pack a few things for you to get by on? All joking aside, I promise to be a gentleman, and you're welcome to stay as long as you need to." So, if Vanissa did take it too far, M'try seems not to be holding it against her much.
Vanissa's balanced there by her fingertips so she won't topple over, from her crouched position her hazel eyes are level with his green ones and choose to meet them without wavering. "The joke was made long before any of that, but I'm rather glad ya did. If I had said that in public. In front of Ella or something..." Her lips press together suddenly and she blinks back a sudden glitter, manages to succeed in not crying - yay! But really, they're back to why she carried the joking too far in the first place. Because she knows he's been kidding about the dirty sock pile, although she's not doubting his promise to be a gentleman. "I wouldn't expect anything less of ya, M'try. But I don't want to make things hard for ya." Cough. No pun intended.
M'try doesn't /say/ anything, and it's possible that, in her oft-innocence to such things, Vanissa won't be able to figure out why he gives her a particularly humorous look in response to her last, why it takes him an extra second or two to respond. Yes. Cough. "It really won't be much of an imposition, perhaps less trouble than me feeling guilty that your out of house and home, so consider it doing me a favor? I tend to fall asleep on my couch as often as not--" No way to tell if that's a lie. "--so I doubt I'll notice much difference. Besides, I already went to the trouble of tidying up." Briefly, he reaches one hand toward the mud streaks drying in her hair, and he adds, "Though I think, perhaps, you may have had the right of it about cleaning up first. You really should see yourself, Nissa." He says nothing more to Astivan's unfortunate interlude, only leaves his hand there to help draw her to her feet while he does the same.
If he's sure... Nissa seems reassured by the (VERY belated, thanks, M'try!) mention of a couch and simply accepts this at face value, "Since ya went to such trouble to prepare for a guest in the aftermath of the avalanche? I can hardly turn ya down, can I?" Hard to tell if that's facetious or not the way she says it with clear-eyed sincerity and all. A few muddied strands of hair are pulled forward and peered at, the effort leaving her slightly cross-eyed for a moment before she blinks back to him in silent agreement. "The baths will be crawling with muddied folk. I think I'll see if I can sneak in to borrow T'rev's." This as she accepts his hand up. "I'll just..." Yeah, collect a few things. Which really doesn't take all that long. And Laith has been strapped since they fled their weyr right after the wave.
Look, in M'try's mind, that sofa just went without saying. Despite teasing her about it, the casual dropping of the sofa's existence should be an indicator that he thought it was a given? Once they're both on their feet, looking ridiculously filthy, each of them, he holds Vanissa's hands in his for a second longer, turning it over on his palm to compare muddy notes on their palms. Then, stepping back, he folds those hands behind him and watches her collect things, only starting forward once or twice when he watches her feet hit a pocket of mud. "I'm really sorry about your weyr," he adds while she's returning, his attention having wandered back to the little bit of splash the mural got.
Color Nissa gullible then. When he said he hadn't much in the way of proper furniture, she took him at his word. Because a couch? It's proper furniture. Not gullible enough to believe the sock pile bit, but anyway! She has to giggle a little about the mud, shake her head and tease him just a bit how Nerat has plenty of it and if he thinks she looks bad now, he should have been there during planting season at Hardin's cothold and they had mudfights right after plowing. And since the lake level is so high, she does take a moment to rinse her hands before collecting her stuff, wandering the weyr with her mind on other things beside the fact that her muddied clothing is clinging to her. Incidentally, she's wearing white - old stuff she oils Liath in. Sad, that the mud made it all brown, hmm? And it's not raining.
Nice. Way to throw that in there and ruin it all at the same time-- wearing white, clinging clothes, except (haha) all muddy; story of M'try's life. Out on the ledge, he offers to collect Vanissa's stuff for her, to cart it along to his weyr and see it settled so she can go and have a bath without the luggage, presumably. Depending on her response, to that, he's either apt to try for a quick see-you-later kinda kiss or an 'all right, follow us, we'll get you settled' type response. Either way, he'll have to quip, "Do you want to know what entirely inappropriate thing I have not been able to stop thinking the whole time?"
He could throw her in the lake and hope the mud didn't stain it too badly? But no, she'll follow him on up, though with all this mud, she's not expecting him to even want to touch her. Grabbing her straps, ready to climb aboard Laith, she pauses, curious. Eyes narrow just a tiny bit as she thinks. Does she? "What might that be?" It's M'try, she should be sorta able to guess by now.
M'try, with an innocent lift of his eyebrows, "That mud is supposed to be extremely good for your skin." Which, on the surface, is hardly something at which to bat a lash, but the way his eyes rest for a moment on Vanissa's neck, then shoulders, then arms, then hurriedly shift away while he clamor on up to Mohraith's neck? Yeah, that certainly paints it in an 'entirely inappropriate' light. Before he can get in trouble for it, though, he's got the brown leading the way on up, on in, and he'd probably like to kill himself about the time he realizes that he never painted over his pink-letter proclamation.
Nicked and Scratched High-Up Weyr(#1780Rs$)
Set high up in the bowl, this ledge is far from any neighbors. Not all that large and with a chunk missing, it looks like it a bite was taken from it; while the edges around the broken portion are a little sharp, the rest of the ledge is smooth and reasonably flat.
First impressions provided by the ledge also speak of the state of the weyr. Medium-sized, it's shaped in a neat, narrow rectangle, the walls rough with scattered grazing gouges. The dragon wallow sits in a precise strip along the far wall, with a view out to the ledge. The space is bright in the daylight, but, when lit by glows or the small hearth, the room hangs heavy with shadows that drip from slices and protrusions in the walls. Furniture is sparse, consistent of a bed that must have come with the weyr-- canopied with red curtains, tucked into the far corner-- a broad table mostly covered over with pages and pencils and ink, a deep-cushioned sofa with patches to the brown corduroy, chairs that don't match each other, a rug in front of the hearth with a bare spots, three easels standing in the recesses. Throughout are the trappings of an artist-- pots of paint, jars with brushes in them, canvases leaned against the walls, stacks of paper-- and of a young man-- discarded socks, a razor and shaving soap next to a basin of water, a comb cast wherever it landed, and often a coat that seems rather nice and new by comparison to the rest.
While Nissa's following his gaze with a huh-what? sort of expression that goes back to M'try with a blink of incomprehension and a half-muttered (that yes he probably hears), "But I didn't get any mud-" Oh. Doi. Eyeroll. He probably gets the whole 'ah-ha' look of chagrin on her face and rosy flush to go with when she gets it. Though why she'd even bat an eyelash is something she doesn't think too hard about. M'try might though. And when they've arrived at his place, there's a curious look 'round, because it's been a long time and she really wasn't paying all that much attention last time she was here. Hazel eyes take in the furniture - chairs, couch AND table? - wow (/sarcasm) pause on the red-curtained canopied bed and yet? No comments about fanciness for pariah, no because there's a pink lettering on the wall that draws her eyes like it was a lit neon sign in the desert with no town to be seen for miles.
Yeah. There's no way to play this off, so M'try has two options: he can walk straight off his ledge and die, or he can not totally freak out. While the latter might be immediately attractive, he manages to hook his thumbs in his very muddy back-pockets and he elects to walk up behind Vanissa with his eyes turned upward to his very awesome pink sign. "Originally," he begins as casually as he can manage, which is credibly mild; props to his nineteen years of Harper living, "it was going to be a proper banner. I didn't have the paper for it, alas. So this was the best I could do under the circumstances. I left your things over on the foot of the bed." Added in as a 'please let's move on' FYI.
Vanissa hasn't had harper training. But she has seen enough of M'try's- Uhm.... she knows M'try well enough by now to have made the look she gave that pink-lettered wall fleeting, the glance might have almost appeared that she didn't even notice it. There's almost a yawn in her tone as she turns her head from apparently looking at something else, turns 'round to face M'try with a bored-sounding (faked), "What was?" Her eyes move on to rest at the foot of the bed where her stuff is (but you KNOW her mind is over there on those letters, M'try!) before they're back to him (looking FAR too bright) whereupon she awards him a meltingly sweet smile and a sincere, "Thanks, M'try. I'll be back. Here." And she reaches for a hand, takes it and places that jar of salve in it. "Gonna go take a bath, check in with my wing." And she'll pause if he wants that quick kiss before skipping out to mount Liath and head for T'rev's weyr, waiting until she's glided far enough from M'try's that he won't hear her rather hysterical snickering. And if T'rev sees tear-streaks on her muddy cheeks, she'll whimper about her mural and ruined rugs and not breathing a word about pink. Not one.
It's only a peck, really, because M'try's head is so in the question of how quickly he can paint the wall again. Thankfully, instead of just a big blob of gray, by the time Vanissa makes it back, he's dressed it up into a quick, simple bit of spring decoration, a little spray of bright flowers a la cherry and plum blossoms that do a nice job of covering over the pink. The explanation is a fairly simple, "I was thinking it might be a nice place for a little seasonal decoration, change it to something tropical in the summer, some leaves in the autumn..." She can figure it out. Beyond that, he seems an unsurprisingly quiet person, spends most of his day out and about, comes home to read quietly in the evening, and sacks out on the couch without a complaint, though perhaps a little light conversation before bed.
And when Nissa does come back (sometime after dinner so she won't be, like, totally taking over his place) her admiration of his artwork is sincere, no mention made of the transformation, just a simple comment about it being the first painting of his she's ever seen. He'll believe her, right? And he is such a gentleman, she's comfortable enough with him, though apologetic for taking his bed. If she lies there and her eyes wander back to study that wall painting unseen by him while he's reading later, perhaps he'll think the slight smile that's there on her lips when she falls asleep is nothing more than the fact that she's drifted off thinking how she's joined pariah-dom for a few days.
IC Date: 3/8/23 --Back-scened to the day of the mudslide. Also more log thievery. Woo~!
Green Gardens Skylight Weyr, Fort Weyr
The sloping entryway into the wallow is a bit on the narrow side and only big enough for the smaller dragons. A small brown could fit through, but mid-sized browns and larger will need to hang out on the ledge if they come to visit. Lined with butter-soft wherhide, the wallow is a comfortable space for a smaller dragon as well, but there's little in the way of space to share. Along the wall behind the wallow, a faded mural starts with a few green vines that curl around the corner into the rider's habitation. Pushing through dual layers of both weatherproofed oilcloth and an incongruously gauzy bit of white netting, the weyr itself is almost perfectly round with a small hearth set in the wall to the left of the entryway and several chests lining the walls for storage. The bed is unique: its stone shelf cuts across one curve of the wall, lending it an alcove-like feeling without actually being an alcove. Its hard surface is well padded with a new mattress and neatly folded linens. The mural is much brighter in here, starting to the right of the door and growing more and more elaborate as it progresses around the walls to encircle the hearth. Hidden amongst the vines and greenery are tropical birds, vtols and the bright blossoms of flowers illuminated from above by three odd, circular skylights covered over with translucent mica.
The weyrbowl has crumbled not one hour hence, awakening pretty much everyone with the the rumble and the resultant tremble as the mud tumbled into the feeding pens and lake. Some folks have gathered to assess the damage while a few circle overhead, some with riders taking in a bird's-eye view, but for the most part startled dragons have returned to their ledges. The now-muddy waters of the lake appears higher, in fact some of the very lowest ledges are, or were underwater. Nissa's and Liath's, while not submerged is but a few inches rather than several feet above the waterline and by the looks of it did not escape the initial wave of displaced water. Liath is presently crouched on her ledge peering inside while sounds of scraping and grunting float out through the entrance.
M'try and Mohraith, being up high enough to miss out on getting so much as a splash, must have been alerted by the sound, the commotion, the fuss. A fair bit of back-and-forth-- "What was that?" << A big BOOM. >> "Yes, I know. What was it?" << LOUD. >> And so on.-- finally has the brownrider padding out to the edge of his own ledge, peering down, and then hurriedly skittering back inside to dress himself (socks-and-underwear is not the sexiest garb ever) so the brown can drop down on the very edge of Liath's ledge with a bright, << Looks DAMP IN HERE, doll. >> Promptly, heading in with his head ducked, "Nissa? You're not drowned in here, I trust?"
Actually, without the socks... Through the missing door curtain, "No-" more grunting, some panting "-come on in." Quick breath taken. "Watch your step." Another breath, "Slippery." He's wanted to see her hot and bothered? Yay! He finally gets the chance to do so. Liath's reply is a bright bubbling, << I had a bed bath, Nissa says! >> Indeed her wallow is now a shallow pool. There's a slick layer of mud coating the floor, the lower walls are splattered with it, but at least the mural looks, for the most part unharmed although there might be a spot or two lower down that got soaked. Nissa's over by the bed, easily enough to track by the trunk-width swath she's plowed across the muddied floor towards her bed, which has already been stripped of both mattress and linens, leaving the bare rock shelf. There's a rather muddied Nissa tugging on one handle, or she has been. Right now, she needs to breathe. And wipe the sweat from her eyes.
<< I would like to have one! >> Mohraith agrees pleasantly, padding over to check out the puddle-wallow while M'try, with a hand to the wall to steady his steps while he treks through that slippery mud, makes his way inside. "This is unfortunate for you, isn't it," he reports with a blend of sympathy and humor, not so much turned on by this version of hot and bothered. Though he does head Vanissa's way, which at least means he's not totally turned off? "I came to offer assistance with... whatever I can? Cleaning up, I suppose."
Oh he's not? So sad, it's the best she can offer him at the moment though. Sometime after the wave she's taken the time to dress, although it's clear the shirt and trous she has tucked in boots are going to need a wash badly. Liath, considers sharing. He might be able to squeeze in there and give it a try? Her neck cranes to see that the pair inside are busy, << Quick, while they're not looking! >> That wipe with the back of her arm continues upwards, taking the damp strands of hair out of her face so Nissa can award M'try the Understatement of the Year Award, which is invisible but tangible in the look he's given. "Maybe just a little seein’ I won't be able to stay here for awhile?" She does smile afterwards though, pats the trunk. The one they were sitting on a few days ago. "Can ya help me get this up?" Her head tilt indicates what was once her bed.
M'try may not be looking, but one of the benefits of having a very loud dragon (perhaps the only benefit) is that he still tends to have an idea what Mohraith is doing anyway, snippets of talk and thoughts spilling over. "Liath seems quite happy with it," he comments blithely, even while Mohraith is trying to crowd his way into her wallow, totally oblivious to a certain inalienable law of physics. << Tight squeeze! >> "Absolutely," the brownrider is quick to answer, reaching toward the bed presently. With that convenient distraction, he's bolstered to offer, "You're welcome to stay with us. Until things dry out."
"She's always happy." And indeed, Laith is over there, scooting as far away as she can to give Mohraith as much room as possible. The green is a-wriggle with the idea of sharing her 'waterbed' with the brown. << Maybe if you pull that left wingjoint in tighter, and exhale? A LOT. >> Apparently she's not considered how he'd get back out, or maybe she just intends to keep him prisoner and fly his dinner to him when he needs it? "Thanks!" Nissa's chattery enough explaining, "Dunno if the level will keep rising, so I need these where they won't get soaked. The water sorta rolled in and right back out, but next time..." She's mid-roll of her eyes at the dragon pair, reaching for the other handle to help hoist that trunk when M'try says that, blinks, stalls by tugging the handle, lifting if he does the same, otherwise it's just an uncoordinated jerk. "Wouldn't we be in the way of your, um... work?"
"I noticed," M'try says with a backward glance to the green and brown, who is now trying to bend his wings at unlikely angles before one flops over Liath gracelessly, and there! He's kinda-sorta halfway in, looking as ungainly as a hatchling but ever so proud of himself. << NICE! >> Exactly opposite of his rider's comment, "What a mess for you," while he shakes his head. He's a little late on the lifting, so there's a brief jerk before he follows up, trying to catch the gesture before it rips her arm off or anything. "I don't see how? It all generally fits neatly into a few notebooks, and I'm hardly painting enough right now to matter. Though--" Back-pedal back-pedal back-pedal. "--you've seen our weyr, it's note exactly the nicest place to hang one's hat, so I certainly won't be offended if you've got better digs, so to speak."
Laith's happiness in a nutshell: "It's wa-" Nissa's eyes lift in time to see Mohraith, "-ter." That last part finished a tad weakly while lifting that trunk with M'try in an absent sort of way. While she's gaping, Laith's nearly dancing out there on the ledge, << It's WONDERFUL. What are you waiting for? Go all the way in so I can join you! We can cuddle and be all wet together. >> She's all a-quiver with the idea and hopefully the brown isn't passing on the innocently-meant comments verbatim to his rider. "Is that so?" As for not being in the way. Back-pedaling which has her ducking her head suddenly, turning a quick heel-pivot towards those other trunks. A move meant to hide a sudden amused grin, executed all the faster thanks to the slickness underfoot which has Nissa wavering for balance while assuring him (mind not the quaver of merriment in her tone - it's just the effort keeping upright), "I haven't had any offers, but it might be fun to see how a pariah lives? My last visit was fairly brief, if you'll recall."
Shaking his head, only getting things from one side-- and that's Mohraith's side, happy to be sharing with Liath-- M'try rains all over Liath's parade, if that stern frown of his is any indicator. With a great sigh, the poor brown heaves himself on out, dripping and sloshing and explaining to the green, << M'try says I LOOK STUPID. >> Where dignity is important to the brown, perhaps not as much for the rider, who almost eats it with a misplaced step on that mud. Bobbling, righting himself, he answers quickly, hopefully finding humor to cover his lack of grace, "You'll have to sleep on a pile of dirty socks, of course. We pariah have so little proper furniture."
Mohraith's retreat back ledge-ward finds Liath seated primly, tail curled round her paws, head cocked and eyes bright, her waters bubble reassurance, << I don't think you do. But hey! We can cuddle out here? The ledge is wet but the sun has come out. >> Nissa's so busy skating over to those other trunks she nearly misses M'try's slip, peeks over her shoulder with dancing eyes and a smirk. "A pile of dirty socks. How ever can I turn that gallant offer down?" Ohwait. Afterthought: "They don't allow pariah a proper bed?" Just curious there and maybe even a little sympathetic. It's the black leather-bound trunk that stops her slide, fingers curling 'round it to stop herself.
<< PERFECT. >> Mohraith is all happy to drip dry on Liath's ledge, sitting near the edge of it as much to get the sun as to take in the view of the totally wrecked bowl below, his wings folded neatly to make sure there's room for the green to snuggle up close. Oh, if only it were so easy for their counterparts. Though he puts out a hand like he'd help stop the slide, M'try Scooby-Doo runs in place for a few seconds, so he's really too far to be of much help, and the trunk beats him to it. So skidding to a halt next to her, smirking; "Oh, I have a bed, quite a nice one actually, but you're a guest. So you have to sleep on the dirty clothes." There's a beat, a glance down at the trunk, a quick clear of his throat, and he adds, "The only other alternative..." Is presumably something he'll let her figure out on her own, ahem.
Liath patters happily to take up residence beside Mohraith, easily leaning against him, stretches her neck out to eye the mess with a kind of speculative gleam at all that mud. << Later, we must go check it out. >> "Do ya now?" Nissa's relieved on his account. "It would seem that Fort Weyr treats their pariah a tad above the rest?" It could be an advertisement slogan to attract more of them, even! Clearly amused, she braces feet that, yes alas, leave a muddy smudge on the base of that wall mural (she'll be forever in his debt it seems, for that restoration job is growing by leaps and bounds). Her hands curl 'round the far edge of the trunk and her legs push and she's got her focus kept carefully on the floor watching for the base to leave go of its muddy hold. As for the alternative, she doesn't really even go there. Instead she says lightly, "I can't say I've ever slept on someone's laundry pile before." Musingly, "It might be a novel experience?"
"One would hope it's not something you do habitually, yes." Distracted, briefly, but the damage being done to that mural, M'try turns a frown on it, crouching to test the paint itself with a quick press of his thumb. His mutter is low but honest when he says, "What a shame. But." Righting himself, hands walking up the wall carefully, he comes around to help with this new trunk, saying, "I might be able to scrounge up a pillow, at the least, so you wouldn't be stuck with nothing but old socks and dirty tunics. It at least must be more comfortable than being water-logged over night. The bed, though, was a relic of a former occupant, I think, and in no way intended specifically for my benefit." As if someone would leave behind so nice a thing for such a one as him, says the sigh.
"At least they didn't haul it away when they found out ya were the one claimin’ the weyr?" See, Nissa can help him see a different side! Sobered momentarily by that mutter, She inhales, winces while watching him check the wall. No, she didn't mean to do that. But! She has faith in his ability to repair it, for all that she has never seen any evidence of his painting save for soiled shirts and thumbnails. Brightly pleased, "You're both gallant and generous. A pillow! Who would have thought?" She almost claps her hands in glee. Is she getting on his nerves yet? Across the floor in the wake of that other trunk they travel. "You know, you will keep making these irresistible offers- first a bench, now a pile of laundry. You're most persistent." A grin over her arm as they push the last bit to the shelf-bed.
M'try, to her wince, assures, "I'm reasonably certain it wasn't your doing, Nissa, so don't look so guilty. Once it's dried out in here, we'll fix it." Dragging along the trunk, he adds, "At least the offers keep getting better, right? Soon enough, I may even have a suitcase for you. It's only a stone's throw from that to a--" The thought goes unfinished, as it takes just one wrong step, one unplanned placement for his feet to slip out from under him, for him to almost prop-fall backward on his rear-end, his legs kicked out, and his side of the trunk clattering with a loud, wet slap to the muddy floor. Almost immediately, there's a pitiful, "Oooowwwhooow. No good deed..."
Sufficiently reassured about the wall, Nissa's mind is free to consider the options, "They do." She nods happy agreement, but points out, "I have several trunks already? So a suitcase, while better than a pile of laundry might not get you where you want to go?" She's helping him, really! Cough. Her quiet laughter stops with that smack and moan from him, though. Contrite, worried, "Are ya alright?" She winces all sympathetic, "Y'know, I did that on the ice this past winter and Isandre, well. Let's just say her exam was almost as painful as the fall." She's crawled over to his side while saying all that. "Maybe ya should lie down?"
M'try starts to lift his hand to his back, but there's a great deal of mud on his palm, so he winds up just hanging it off his knee and pushing himself up to a sitting position with a checked groan. "I'm all right," he answers certainly, exhaling properly once he's off the floor, now at least as muddy as Vanissa, so there's that. With a laugh, bordering on self-deprecating he answers, "Oh, Nissa. Oh, sweet, lovely Nissa. Of all the times I've imagined you suggesting that very thing to me, never in my imagination have I been caked in mud with only threadbare dignity. You couldn't make the offer before I landed on my ass, then?"
Well she's leaning over him on all fours, so when he sits up there's this sort of awkward scrabble to be out of his space, which isn't helped by the fact that she can get little purchase on the mud-slick floor. Still not convinced he's 'okay' with that checked groan, she's at least paused in her retreat to eye him more critically, watching just how he takes those breaths until he laughs, then the concerned frown turns to a slow, impish smile. "Apparently timing ain’t my thing, but if ya were awaiting it so fervently, you've missed your golden opportunity for when I did, ya sat up." Jiella would never forgive him! She however, must follow that up with slightly sharp-toned suspicion. "Ya -are- hurt!" Because yeah. It goes without saying.
There's a war going on here, between the fact that M'try has muddy palms, that Vanissa's right there in reach, and that his behind is smarting like you would not believe. Ultimately, competitor number two gets a slight edge, and he reaches-- dirty hands or not-- toward her arm, trying to keep her from retreating /too/ far, anyway. "You could come back," he points out with what's meant to be a winning, convincing smile. Never mind the slight twinge. "I don't want care to discuss my bruised butt at the moment. I'm trying to reclaim a golden opportunity here, not a black-and-blue one."
Will it get him to lie down? Nissa's answer while creeping closer is a sweetly questioning, "Ya got hurt in my weyr while helping me, can I do anything less?" Her palms have been muddy all morning but there's not a second of hesitation as she lifts a hand to place it on his chest and apply gentle pressure. Mindful of his stipulation for conversation, she doesn't discuss his possible injury. Instead it's his landing, "I fell on ice, which I assume has a -little- more give than stone." Out on the ledge, Liath perks, turning her head towards the inner weyr... Silent communication taking place.
M'try assures, and it sounds truthful, "I'm fine, Nissa. Honestly, were it not for the fact that there's a very attractive woman here with me?" At which point he traipses out that winning smile again, eyes briefly dropping to the hand on his chest with blatant 'yay' written in his expression. "I would spring right back up, I promise. I just lack motivation. But I didn't know that you'd fallen?" He only half-leans back, weight braced on his elbows, trying to keep an eye on her-- and also not lay down in the mud.
Vanissa can be the annoyingly hovering type when she wants to be and the mud isn't of concern to her. Her hand continues to press, but it's not like he can't resist her effort. He's 3/4 muddy already and her weyr now has a bath, courtesy of Liath. "Slipped on the ice, landed like ya did. Some bruiser carried me to our lovely healer. She gave me ice and some lovely- ah! I may even still have it here somewhere- salve, which I'll loan, but not apply for ya." Woe! Meanwhile, Liath's questioning Mohraith, << Nissa wants to know if he's REALLY as fine as he says he is. >> As in feeling, not- yeah, the obvious.
M'try and Mohraith aren't always all up in each other's business, so the brown does have to swing his head around rather tellingly to contemplate his rider's condition, finally answering, << Dunno if he's really fine, >> with a mental frown. << I don't think he busted his butt, if that's what you mean, but he's not exactly-- >> Whatever he might've said gets a kibosh put on it pretty quick, leaving the brownrider to make a face at Vanissa instead. "Having Liath check with Mohraith to check on me, Nissa? You ought to offer to apply the salve just to atone for such a sin. Either way, I'm not going to Isandre and having her examine my backside, thank you."
Taking him far too literally, Nissa sweetly offers, "I could call her here? Then ya wouldn't have to go. Though I hear through the grapevine that housecalls make her grouchy." And Nissa's hand lifts from his chest so she can go make good on her promise, but she's rather fascinated by this stern-faced M'try, so doesn't leap up right away to do so. Instead she continues to watch him with a little grin. Finally she drawls, "Ya know, I couldn't sit on Liath for like, two days after I fell. It's really too bad my weyr's such a mess. I'd totally let ya have my bed for the night." So generous with the hypothetical situations, isn't she?
She could call her here? "I would run away." Or try to stop her, what with the whole chasing down her hand with his; whether it's to keep Vanissa from summoning Isandre or just keep her around in general is open to debate. Either way. "That's sweet, really it is, but unless that's 'and stay with you to make sure you were really okay,' I think I can hobble my way back to my own bed for the night. Though, I have to say, I'm starting to get comfortable here." He scoots down on his rump, even, managing to look cozy. Managing not to hiss.
One can almost hear the ah ah ah that's coming when Nissa lifts a forefinger in mocking admonishment. "I already know your aversion to running as you've mentioned it to me several times already." Her head tilts and he is the recipient of a brightly keen look as she amends, "Unless it's runnin’ for your life. She's that frightening is she?" Stayed by his hand- (can't help but notice what a mess they've become when she glances down at it) -Nissa watches him get 'cozy'. She barely swallows a laugh as she give in to the moment and simply flops down to face him lying on one side in the mud with her head propped up in her other hand to regard him with mock sobriety (fail). "Of course I would, you're injured." Pout.
"I'm just not keen on dropping trou for her," M'try answers frankly, partially wiping his hand on the front of his shirt, thankfully not such a dandy dresser that this causes him any pain. "Oh, well," he continues brightly, drawing his only slightly clean hand over so he can lay his arm around her, that hand just at the small of her back. "In that case, I'm definitely injured. And, while I'm fairly sure I could manage the ride to my own weyr, I probably shouldn't be left alone."
It takes all of Nissa's self control to bite her tongue on the quick reply that springs to mind when M'try says that. And see? No laughing because she's caught that frank tone. "Most people ain't so keen for the healers," she murmurs in a kindly way dropping the needling altogether. "It's the least I can do, not abandon an injured man to his misery." Wriggling muddy fingers at him, "I'm fit to sleep in your dirty socks, but ya really should go soak before ruining your bed. They might decide a pariah doesn't deserve one, ya know." There's a moment's pause while something is recalled that has her hazel eyes dancing with mischief once more, "When ya said you were going to take me somewhere warm and I didn't have to dress up? I never for one moment thought ya meant to your laundry."
"The least you can do?" M'try repeats with a playful scoff, drawing away somewhat to put her at arm's length, his eyes widening as if shocked at her words. "The least you could do, dear girl, would be to offer to kiss it and make it better, but seeing as we're talking about..." He peers over his shoulder as best he can, making a show of trying to see his bootie. Impossible. "You could at least offer to kiss me and make me better?" Looking back to her hopefully, though it ends with a sudden burst of laughter at her latter quip. "Well, this should teach you to be sure you specify the kinds of places you'd prefer to go, Nissa. Otherwise, you could be looking at a long future of napping among my unwashed garb."
But what's this? What now? Nissa wrinkles her nose at him. "Are ya -tryin’- to get me to change my mind about runnin’ for a healer? There are several others to choose from, ya know. I offered ya salve too," she reminds him with a little sniff of pretended offence and a toss of her head that she executes as best she can with her hand propping her head up. She makes to roll away from him, "Ya never gave me time to specify, as I recall. Ya kissed me and then ran." And then she cranes her neck to see the ledge, "Mohraith! Heya, buddy, did ya know anythin’ about this? Cos Liath didn't tell me like she was going to." She mock glares at M'try. "And I wouldn't be so sure about future in a pile of laundry. I was promised a palace and a poisoned Lord if my memory serves."
Mohraith lifts his head, swivels around to peer vaguely in Vanissa's direction, and then snuffs helplessly at her in response, his response to M'try spilling over so Liath can get the gist of it; he really thinks his rider's so not-smooth. Withdrawing his arms while she moves away, the Harper-kid pushes himself up to a seat, drawing his legs up to sit tailor-style on the floor in the mud, shifting with only a touch of discomfort for his butt. "Shall I make a tasteless joke and suggest that perhaps I was the one behind Astivan's illness all along? That I was trying to take him out of the way in order to make good on that promise? You're quite lovely when you're mad." A bright, appreciative smile tips her way, apropos of nothing.
Vanissa looks quite muddy is what she looks like, leaning on her elbows there on her be-slimed floor with her head turned to stare at M'try after she stops mid-roll. All the teasing light fades from her face and likely the fact that there's mud on her palms is the only thing that prevents her from smacking one on her forehead and drawing it down her face at that very tasteless joke and her unintentional reference to Lord Astivan. It doesn't keep her from running both hands somewhat distractedly through her hair, leaving it, yes, mud-streaked. She carried things too far, didn't she? After a long look, she pushes up on her hands and knees, gathers her feet under her in preparation to rise. "I'm sorry, M'try." Her voice is nothing but tired.
"I could have pretended not to make the connection," M'try points out casually, his scoot toward her braced on his palms behind him, his feet slipping just a touch though they don't slide out from under him entirely. Instead, trying to cross the little distance between them before she can get fully to her feet, he clarifies, "I won't tell him we very nearly made a joke at his expense if you won't, and then neither of us has to feel particularly assy for it?" There's a brief 'erf' at his own turn-of-phrase, and he adds, "I take that back. I am feeling assy. Should we, perhaps, leave the rest of this cleaning for a bit and pack a few things for you to get by on? All joking aside, I promise to be a gentleman, and you're welcome to stay as long as you need to." So, if Vanissa did take it too far, M'try seems not to be holding it against her much.
Vanissa's balanced there by her fingertips so she won't topple over, from her crouched position her hazel eyes are level with his green ones and choose to meet them without wavering. "The joke was made long before any of that, but I'm rather glad ya did. If I had said that in public. In front of Ella or something..." Her lips press together suddenly and she blinks back a sudden glitter, manages to succeed in not crying - yay! But really, they're back to why she carried the joking too far in the first place. Because she knows he's been kidding about the dirty sock pile, although she's not doubting his promise to be a gentleman. "I wouldn't expect anything less of ya, M'try. But I don't want to make things hard for ya." Cough. No pun intended.
M'try doesn't /say/ anything, and it's possible that, in her oft-innocence to such things, Vanissa won't be able to figure out why he gives her a particularly humorous look in response to her last, why it takes him an extra second or two to respond. Yes. Cough. "It really won't be much of an imposition, perhaps less trouble than me feeling guilty that your out of house and home, so consider it doing me a favor? I tend to fall asleep on my couch as often as not--" No way to tell if that's a lie. "--so I doubt I'll notice much difference. Besides, I already went to the trouble of tidying up." Briefly, he reaches one hand toward the mud streaks drying in her hair, and he adds, "Though I think, perhaps, you may have had the right of it about cleaning up first. You really should see yourself, Nissa." He says nothing more to Astivan's unfortunate interlude, only leaves his hand there to help draw her to her feet while he does the same.
If he's sure... Nissa seems reassured by the (VERY belated, thanks, M'try!) mention of a couch and simply accepts this at face value, "Since ya went to such trouble to prepare for a guest in the aftermath of the avalanche? I can hardly turn ya down, can I?" Hard to tell if that's facetious or not the way she says it with clear-eyed sincerity and all. A few muddied strands of hair are pulled forward and peered at, the effort leaving her slightly cross-eyed for a moment before she blinks back to him in silent agreement. "The baths will be crawling with muddied folk. I think I'll see if I can sneak in to borrow T'rev's." This as she accepts his hand up. "I'll just..." Yeah, collect a few things. Which really doesn't take all that long. And Laith has been strapped since they fled their weyr right after the wave.
Look, in M'try's mind, that sofa just went without saying. Despite teasing her about it, the casual dropping of the sofa's existence should be an indicator that he thought it was a given? Once they're both on their feet, looking ridiculously filthy, each of them, he holds Vanissa's hands in his for a second longer, turning it over on his palm to compare muddy notes on their palms. Then, stepping back, he folds those hands behind him and watches her collect things, only starting forward once or twice when he watches her feet hit a pocket of mud. "I'm really sorry about your weyr," he adds while she's returning, his attention having wandered back to the little bit of splash the mural got.
Color Nissa gullible then. When he said he hadn't much in the way of proper furniture, she took him at his word. Because a couch? It's proper furniture. Not gullible enough to believe the sock pile bit, but anyway! She has to giggle a little about the mud, shake her head and tease him just a bit how Nerat has plenty of it and if he thinks she looks bad now, he should have been there during planting season at Hardin's cothold and they had mudfights right after plowing. And since the lake level is so high, she does take a moment to rinse her hands before collecting her stuff, wandering the weyr with her mind on other things beside the fact that her muddied clothing is clinging to her. Incidentally, she's wearing white - old stuff she oils Liath in. Sad, that the mud made it all brown, hmm? And it's not raining.
Nice. Way to throw that in there and ruin it all at the same time-- wearing white, clinging clothes, except (haha) all muddy; story of M'try's life. Out on the ledge, he offers to collect Vanissa's stuff for her, to cart it along to his weyr and see it settled so she can go and have a bath without the luggage, presumably. Depending on her response, to that, he's either apt to try for a quick see-you-later kinda kiss or an 'all right, follow us, we'll get you settled' type response. Either way, he'll have to quip, "Do you want to know what entirely inappropriate thing I have not been able to stop thinking the whole time?"
He could throw her in the lake and hope the mud didn't stain it too badly? But no, she'll follow him on up, though with all this mud, she's not expecting him to even want to touch her. Grabbing her straps, ready to climb aboard Laith, she pauses, curious. Eyes narrow just a tiny bit as she thinks. Does she? "What might that be?" It's M'try, she should be sorta able to guess by now.
M'try, with an innocent lift of his eyebrows, "That mud is supposed to be extremely good for your skin." Which, on the surface, is hardly something at which to bat a lash, but the way his eyes rest for a moment on Vanissa's neck, then shoulders, then arms, then hurriedly shift away while he clamor on up to Mohraith's neck? Yeah, that certainly paints it in an 'entirely inappropriate' light. Before he can get in trouble for it, though, he's got the brown leading the way on up, on in, and he'd probably like to kill himself about the time he realizes that he never painted over his pink-letter proclamation.
Nicked and Scratched High-Up Weyr(#1780Rs$)
Set high up in the bowl, this ledge is far from any neighbors. Not all that large and with a chunk missing, it looks like it a bite was taken from it; while the edges around the broken portion are a little sharp, the rest of the ledge is smooth and reasonably flat.
First impressions provided by the ledge also speak of the state of the weyr. Medium-sized, it's shaped in a neat, narrow rectangle, the walls rough with scattered grazing gouges. The dragon wallow sits in a precise strip along the far wall, with a view out to the ledge. The space is bright in the daylight, but, when lit by glows or the small hearth, the room hangs heavy with shadows that drip from slices and protrusions in the walls. Furniture is sparse, consistent of a bed that must have come with the weyr-- canopied with red curtains, tucked into the far corner-- a broad table mostly covered over with pages and pencils and ink, a deep-cushioned sofa with patches to the brown corduroy, chairs that don't match each other, a rug in front of the hearth with a bare spots, three easels standing in the recesses. Throughout are the trappings of an artist-- pots of paint, jars with brushes in them, canvases leaned against the walls, stacks of paper-- and of a young man-- discarded socks, a razor and shaving soap next to a basin of water, a comb cast wherever it landed, and often a coat that seems rather nice and new by comparison to the rest.
While Nissa's following his gaze with a huh-what? sort of expression that goes back to M'try with a blink of incomprehension and a half-muttered (that yes he probably hears), "But I didn't get any mud-" Oh. Doi. Eyeroll. He probably gets the whole 'ah-ha' look of chagrin on her face and rosy flush to go with when she gets it. Though why she'd even bat an eyelash is something she doesn't think too hard about. M'try might though. And when they've arrived at his place, there's a curious look 'round, because it's been a long time and she really wasn't paying all that much attention last time she was here. Hazel eyes take in the furniture - chairs, couch AND table? - wow (/sarcasm) pause on the red-curtained canopied bed and yet? No comments about fanciness for pariah, no because there's a pink lettering on the wall that draws her eyes like it was a lit neon sign in the desert with no town to be seen for miles.
Yeah. There's no way to play this off, so M'try has two options: he can walk straight off his ledge and die, or he can not totally freak out. While the latter might be immediately attractive, he manages to hook his thumbs in his very muddy back-pockets and he elects to walk up behind Vanissa with his eyes turned upward to his very awesome pink sign. "Originally," he begins as casually as he can manage, which is credibly mild; props to his nineteen years of Harper living, "it was going to be a proper banner. I didn't have the paper for it, alas. So this was the best I could do under the circumstances. I left your things over on the foot of the bed." Added in as a 'please let's move on' FYI.
Vanissa hasn't had harper training. But she has seen enough of M'try's- Uhm.... she knows M'try well enough by now to have made the look she gave that pink-lettered wall fleeting, the glance might have almost appeared that she didn't even notice it. There's almost a yawn in her tone as she turns her head from apparently looking at something else, turns 'round to face M'try with a bored-sounding (faked), "What was?" Her eyes move on to rest at the foot of the bed where her stuff is (but you KNOW her mind is over there on those letters, M'try!) before they're back to him (looking FAR too bright) whereupon she awards him a meltingly sweet smile and a sincere, "Thanks, M'try. I'll be back. Here." And she reaches for a hand, takes it and places that jar of salve in it. "Gonna go take a bath, check in with my wing." And she'll pause if he wants that quick kiss before skipping out to mount Liath and head for T'rev's weyr, waiting until she's glided far enough from M'try's that he won't hear her rather hysterical snickering. And if T'rev sees tear-streaks on her muddy cheeks, she'll whimper about her mural and ruined rugs and not breathing a word about pink. Not one.
It's only a peck, really, because M'try's head is so in the question of how quickly he can paint the wall again. Thankfully, instead of just a big blob of gray, by the time Vanissa makes it back, he's dressed it up into a quick, simple bit of spring decoration, a little spray of bright flowers a la cherry and plum blossoms that do a nice job of covering over the pink. The explanation is a fairly simple, "I was thinking it might be a nice place for a little seasonal decoration, change it to something tropical in the summer, some leaves in the autumn..." She can figure it out. Beyond that, he seems an unsurprisingly quiet person, spends most of his day out and about, comes home to read quietly in the evening, and sacks out on the couch without a complaint, though perhaps a little light conversation before bed.
And when Nissa does come back (sometime after dinner so she won't be, like, totally taking over his place) her admiration of his artwork is sincere, no mention made of the transformation, just a simple comment about it being the first painting of his she's ever seen. He'll believe her, right? And he is such a gentleman, she's comfortable enough with him, though apologetic for taking his bed. If she lies there and her eyes wander back to study that wall painting unseen by him while he's reading later, perhaps he'll think the slight smile that's there on her lips when she falls asleep is nothing more than the fact that she's drifted off thinking how she's joined pariah-dom for a few days.