[M'try] Nissa's picnic involved parkas and went over better than M'try's did.
RL Date: 8/5/10
IC Date: 5/26/23 --Okay, yes, I did steal this log.
Ice Lake
High above Ruatha in rugged terrain, it's not unusual for the mountains in this area to receive snow, even in summer. Cupped in rocky steep-sided basin, the shores surrounded by both tumbled boulders and gravel shores, this high altitude lake rarely thaws and is ice-cold year round. Fed by glacial runoff from the sharp peaks above, the minerals lending the lake a milky blue color only broken by the occasional white of ice floes that float almost motionless in the still waters here. Desolate, remote and beautiful, the silence here is almost pervasive enough to be haunting.
It's a damp, misty midmorning at Fort Weyr close to lunchtime when Liath contacts Mohraith, her waters deep and hidden today, with just a hint of silvery bubbles that might be laughter << Can you and yours meet mine for awhile? There is no mud at all where I am swimming. Mine says to tell yours to dress very warmly. >> And there's a shared coordinate of mountains above Ruatha with the idea that if he can, not to tell his exactly where he's going, if he can get away with it. When they do arrive it will be to find the green already in the lake, stirring those milky waters while playing with a small iceberg, a blanket-padded flat-topped boulder with a picnic basket set atop that and a dry stack of driftwood arranged to be lit bonfire-style close by. Nissa is standing beside the shore all bundled up, her hands pocketed as she watches the brownpair land with impish teasing in her eyes above the scarf she's wearing wrapped 'round her face because, yes. She's wearing... a parka
The very first thing that M'try thinks it's important to relate, even before he's really down from between Mohraith's neckridges, is, "He can't keep secrets, just for your edification." Though the brown indicated he'd /try/ in response to Liath, he's now sheepish to explain, << I had to tell him OR he said he wouldn't come. >> Having located his winter gear-- a jacket that's probably among the finest thing he owns, scarf and hat rather tattered in their Harper blueness-- he takes a look at Vanissa's garb and, shaking his head; "I suppose that will teach me to be flippant, won't it."
"Well, then it appears surprises are out of the question, sadly for you." She looks SO disappointed (not) when she withdraws a hand and snaps her fingers in an 'oh darn' manner, her eyes crinkling merrily above her scarf. Liath is all cheer and wriggle-happy her friend is here, already forgotten the attempt for secrecy, she flips the chunk of ice so that it flies through the air to land closer towards shore with a plunk, << That's okay. Come play! >> Still amused Nissa drawls, "So ya knew there would be the possibility of freezing to death and yet here ya are anyway. But ah, no, I hear with harpers flippant is incurable. You're terminal, I'm afraid."
Mohraith might climb out of his skin by the time M'try manages to get the straps off him, bright as a Times Square New Years Eve, << OKAY! >> Closing his eyes for a second in a now reflexive response to the headache that is his dragon, the brownrider adds, "Alas, yes, they are," out of the question. Tossing those straps up on a bit of rock that's lost its sheen of snow, he then heads down toward the water to answer, "I should like to be buried at Keroon, then, if I'm given the option. You seem to have been industrious." The one thought has nothing to do with the other, the latter after a glance over the stuff she's got all prepped.
Vanissa waits patiently, hand stuffed back into her pocket, while M'try removes Mohraith's straps. Freezing cold -metal buckles. Not gonna touch those. Besides, she's not wearing gloves at the moment, so. "Ya play it too safe not trusting him now and then," notes the greenrider with a dimple showing on one cheek as her scarf sags, one hand reaches out palm up as he heads her way. Lightly, "Keroon? Why there of all places?" Nothing to do with the other and lets hope not, given the topic being bandied back and forth, because. Casually, with a glance back at that boulder, "Hmm, not so much work, really. The lake and boulders were already here." Maybe flippant is contagious?
"Even if I did give him blanket-trust." Which M'try doesn't. And never ever would. Seriously, it's Mohraith we're talking about. "He would have given you away. He... thinks very loud, in case Liath failed to mention that to you." As for Keroon, he only shrugs, like there's no particular reason, and claps his hands together as if to keep them warm-- he does wear gloves, smart boy. "Were they? You might have taken credit for that and I'd never have known."
"No, no Laith never complains about Mohraith's thinking," this with a look over her shoulder at the half-visible green hide out there in the icy lake. Back to M'try, "She says she can hear him just fine." Said with exactly the inflection and nuances the green gives them, like it's- no-big-deal-why-are-you-even-mentioning-it? "Though I do remember you, uhm, adjusting to it during weyrlinghood." She allows his shrug to pass unquestioned (she's trainable, yay!), whether she believes there's no reason or not. His applause (?) is eyed askance, although there's a smile to go along with, "Sarcasm is far more lethal than flippancy, you know." Meanwhile her offered hand remains there just quietly going numb.
With distracted humor, M'try comments, "Yes. I'm still working on that." Adjusting. But now it's tinged with fondness instead of 'oh my god make it stop,' eyes chasing the big-mouthed brown out to the lake, where he delights in smashing pieces of ice for no reason other than they're there and smashable. "Duly noted. When I get tired of my slow Death By Levity, it's good to know I can end it all that much quicker with satire." He does, presently, realize that he's expected to do something with her hand and-- first removing his gloves so she's not getting a mitt-full of the cold shell of them-- folds both of his around Vanissa's. "I assume we're not expected to swim on this outing?"
Dryly, "Ah, no. You'd be dead before I hit the water, I'm fairly certain." With a teasing twinkle, Nissa adds, "I'm not wearing my bikini today." Cold, being what it is... "Though when you're ready to depart this world via Sudden Death by Greenrider, ya just let me know." While he's taking his gloves off and taking her now very icy hand, her other hand is pulled from her pocket, one finger hooked over her scarf. More seriously, "No swimming." She pulls it down from her face, tucks it beneath her chin, tilts her head boulder-wards. Her accent thickens, "We're goin' to have lunch. T'kyn's been drillin’ us into oblivion and I hadn't seen much of you since I-" She falters, eyes shift towards the lake, as she finishes determinedly, "Since we left your place and I didn't want you to think I'd been avoidin' ya."
M'try presses her cold hand in between his two warm ones, even lifts it for a moment to breathe in between his palms, warming up Vanissa's fingers a little more while his eyes take a look around still. "Are we? That sounds pleasant." As to her latter, he assures, "The thought never crossed my mind, Nissa. I've heard that T'kyn is..." Oh, how to be politic about the matter. "...different in his view on Interval dragonriders."
"Pleasant." The word falls into a sudden silence on her part that follows that. Prompted by that non-response to her teasing, or maybe it's what appears to be his retreat behind that wall of total politeness, Nissa winces, trying to catch his eye, "I'm... I did it again, didn't I? M'try... I'm sorry. I didn't mean that like it sounded. Sometimes I don't know when to stop. I wasn't laughing at ya. I-" How to explain? Suddenly miserable, T'kyn is forgotten, lunch is forgotten while she stands there in the freezing cold trying for words that won't make it past her throat. Finally, "You said no going back, remember? Please apply that to yourself too?"
Really, "You didn't do anything. I'm not--" M'try lifts a 'just a moment' finger, regrouping, explaining, "It does actually sound pleasant." He retains a little lingering mystification to her reaction, her hand re-sandwiched between his like that somehow addresses the 'no going back' part of her comments. "We should eat." Before one of them winds up strangling the other one. (My money would be on Nissa in that event, by the way.)
Just as confused (if his mystification isn't an act, then my they're good at throwing one another into it!), it's an uncertain and unconvinced, "Alright." Nissa throws him a puzzled look and pivots towards the boulder. Headed that way, her lower lip is caught between her teeth, gravel crunching underfoot loud in the silence before she says in a small voice, "Ya just went from all the back and forth stuff to serious and polite in a blink." She doesn't try to remove her hand from his until they're at the boulder, and then it's with a slightly apologetic tug that she does so to indicate it's from necessity rather than pique. With a booted toe, she kicks the lid off of a small iron kettle, draws her hand inside her sleeve to protect it and holds the handle while she tips it, allowing hot coals to roll out into the kindling. "There's stuff in the basket," she notes without enthusiasm between blowing on them to get the flames started.
M'try, watching all the doings with the kettle, reaches into his pockets almost reflexively and withdraws his gloves, holding them bunched up in one hand in a sort of 'do you want these?' suggestion. "Polite is... well, my schtick, for lack of a better term. I did mention the 'twenty years of being well-mannered at Harper Hall,' didn't I?" he adds in a vaguely amused way. Eyeing the blanket, the basket, then his boots, his thoughts are almost transparent for a moment: if ever he wished he was just padding around in his socks... "'Stuff,' she says cryptically. I'm not going to open it and have paper-snakes leap out at me, I hope?"
Turning her head from what little smoke there is to take a deep breath, Nissa notes the gloves, shakes her head with a slight smile, blows again, then leans back. With her eyes critically on the weak flames, she admits candidly, "I've never seen ya impolite, it's just..." With another one of her glances over at him, this one veiled through her lashes, "Schtick to me means contrived. So, yeah, I do wonder at times if I'm seein' the real M'try or a... a mask." Gathering her hair in one hand so she doesn't set it on fire, bends to blow on the tiny flames, her attention on it while speaking, "Nope, I ordered it from the kitchen, dunno what they packed. There is hot cider. I asked for that."
Admittedly, "Sometimes it is." Contrived, he means, presently finding a bit of nearby snow into which he can stamp stamp stamp and get the bits of mud off his feet before stepping onto the blanket. Even then, M'try finds his knees pretty quickly and scoots over, leaving only a little dampness and grit in his wake, heaving the basket to sit before him, to open it with a peek inside first-- just in case the paper-snakes really are there. No? Oh good, he'll search for the cider, then. "You look very warm," he adds almost absently, hiding a grin in his evident focus on the basket.
At least he didn't say hot? And she'll just drop the subject of politely contrived masks since the conversation is going in circles, "That's because I -am- warm," Nissa answers without guile, straightening up and turning around to face him, leaving the flames crackling at the driftwood. See? Pink fire-heated cheeks - yay bonfire! Using both hands to hop up on that boulder, landing on her knees, she crawls over to the basket, reaches inside to help she pushes the mugs his way since he's going for the cider. She, on the other hand lifts a small iron pot, two spoons and a cloth-wrapped loaf of crusty bread, leaving the basket empty. "Oh ha ha, Cook thinks she's funny. No bowls." She shifts to sit, scooting closer to him on her butt with the pot where he can reach, waves the spoons with one brow hiked and a quirked grin, "If ya don't mind sharin' the same pot with a lowly waystation gal?" Stew, apparently.
"But but but," M'try begins, acting a very poor job of pretend-floundering, looking up so-quickly from the act of pouring out cider. "What if you have germs?" He gasps girlishly (which he does all too well) and, contrary to his act, leans over with his weight on one hand, expecting her to lean back the rest of the way to be kissed. Which will theoretically lay to rest any real concern that he's actually terrified of her germs.
Vanissa eyes the brownrider askance during the girly gasping, though a subtle glimmer of amusement will give her away before a slow smile curves her lips and she leans forward to close that gap, murmuring just before their lips meet, "Then you're doomed, Harper Boy. May as well admit it." Her lips part as she leans in and she gives him plenty of germs to gasp about during that kiss. Careful M'try, don't spill that hot cider in your lap!
M'try's smart enough to have put the pot of cider off to the side first, see, because the last thing he needs is to scald his lap. That would just be injury to insult. It's not a long kiss he's aiming for, though there's a second in there when he kinda starts to rethink his intentions and might want a longer one. But. There's stew and cider getting cold, so, with a small laugh, "Woe is me." For his doom and damnation.
Vanissa can do a lot of damage in a short span of time? She draws back with an overdone sigh of regret and a pretended pout, "I'd have preferred to hear you say you'd die happy. Alas." The spoons are stuck in the stew - his where he can reach it and she holds out a hand for her mug, waiting until he's given it to her to wrap both hands around it. Then she just sits there giving him a bright look while the sounds of splashing and smashing out there in the lake echo eerily off distant peaks. Finally, "I don't hear ya do that very often."
Unless she has some sort of fatal communicable disease (presumably not), the damage is at least survivable. M'try, pouring one mug and handing it over, settles a second off to one side for himself, taking the spoon and giving the stew a bit of a poking-- not starving enough to commit to eating, but it's there, so might as well pick at it. "What's that?" he asks in answer to her 'finally,' falling absently back into the habit of fiddling with things: that spoon's awfully reminiscent of a pencil, after all, fiddle fiddle.
Well, if he wasn't hungry that stew could have been left to cool. Sniff! Nissa is observant enough to note he isn't eating, but doesn't remark on it. Instead she answers readily enough, "Laugh. You rarely, if almost never really let go and laugh. Just sayin'. It's kinda sad, that." She is hungry, T'kyn having drilled them hard and there's another scheduled for this afternoon, so she digs in. It's a few bites later and that absent fiddling prods her to say with a faint knitting of brows. "Ya didn't -have- to come if you're bored, ya know." Because he obviously didn't come for the food or the stimulating conversation.
M'try's not starving. That's not to say he's not hungry enough to eat something, especially if it's right there in front of him. And tastes good. He doesn't argue the matter of his lack of laughter, though there's a moment of his head tilting this way and that like he's mulling it over before he nods in a 'point granted' way. After her latter comment, though-- "I'm not bored. One lack of self-confidence to another, though, you need to relax." Or he never will.
Vanissa's spoon, halfway to her mouth, pauses midair when he says that last bit. Slowly she lowers the spoon to the pot, "I'm... sorry? I- do I seem tense? I don't mean to be." She considers, her mind going back over the past hour, much in the way he just did with her point about the laughter, only there's no 'point granted' nod at the end of there. Quietly, "I could just sit here and say nothing if y'd rather, M'try. I don't mean to annoy ya."
To be honest, M'try nods pretty readily at her first question, commenting, "Or perhaps it's more... You don't need to worry about my being entertained, Nissa. I'm not bored. It's really beautiful here, and I'm glad that you thought to invite me." Resolutely putting the fiddly spoon off to the side, he adds, "Perhaps you hadn't noticed, but I generally keep myself occupied in some way or another." Writing, reading, whatever. "You're not annoying me."
Perplexed and maybe a little hurt. This is Nissa's expression, "That how ya see me, huh? I was just bein' me. I fool around. I get silly sometimes." Perhaps thinking he means the whole time they've been here. Shaking her head, she goes on to say, "No, really, I never noticed you have to be messin' with something all the time, no. I took it to be restless boredom." She lifts her head to eye the glaciers on the peaks around them, drawing in deep breaths of the pure air, silently musing while she reconsiders, "I think... you're right in a way. But I ain't so worried about entertainin' ya as kinda nervous because-" her eyes flicker him, meaning to look away, but remain instead. "Ya wanted warmth ya said. Well? So do I." She draws in a breath, then adds in a little rush, "I'm know y're tryin', know you've been hurt, but you're pretty guarded with your feelings. You talk about things, concepts, but rarely..." How to say? She sets down her mug and reaches with her hand to touch lightly at his chest. "seem to let those feeling out, or let them show."
After her first comments, in response to that expression, he leans his head back so his face turns skyward and, in a tone of voice that will have to convey the wryness that can't be seen in his face from that angle, "I occasionally have the feeling that neither of us should be allowed to talk at all, and we should communicate solely by drums, as the messages would be less garbled that way." She wanted laughter; well, there's a dry chuckle for her at that thought. M'try contains himself in time to look back over at her, a glance dropped briefly to the hand at his chest, which he covers lightly with his own. "I've never been a particularly demonstrative person, Nissa, I'm sorry. I could write you love-letters, if you'd like?" With a quick smile that knows exactly how silly that offer sounds, he adds hopefully, "I'm quite good at them."
If he's thinking love letters silly, Nissa is not. Not at all. Sincerely, "If they were your feelings? I would really like that. I really have no idea how you're feelin' about me except frustrated." She nods understanding about undemonstrative, "Alright, so that's how ya are, and I ain't trying to change that. Just let ya know I sometimes read it as 'keep away.' Does that make sense?" His hand covers hers and she draws a breath, turns hers over to curl her fingers around his. Regret colors her next words, "I'm sorry I don't 'read' you very well. I don't always understand spoken words very well. I depend a lot on vocal tone, facial expression and body language. I'm from a demonstrative family, M'try, but I ain't clever with words like ya are."
Really his feelings. Well. "The underlying sentiment would be authentic, of course. Though I tend to embellish on I really get going." Act shocked, the little wordsmith might gild the lily. Although there was time enough for his hand to have gotten cold in the interlude, M'try's fingers re-warm quickly enough, and the eyes that meet Vanissa's are equally warm if ever placid-seeming. "Don't be sorry, Nissa. What you're saying makes perfect sense. I understand it completely. And I realize my shortcomings. Somewhere between my having never had a girlfriend when I wasn't either an apprentice or a candidate of she wasn't someone else's fiancee, and you being someone I very much had relegated to the category of 'friend and never anything else so don't kid yourself,' I suppose I'm just used to..." Here, humor colors his tone again and he looks down at the joined fingers. "...keeping my hands to myself."
"Maybe I can learn to read between the lines?" Said wistfully enough that he might hear the unspoken plaint in those words of Nissa's. If he's not speaking them, embellished words on paper might just do nicely. "Come to think of it, I ain't never gotten anything remotely like a love letter." The warmth in his eyes does much to reassure, placid or no and some of the wariness fades from hers before they flicker down to their hands at his last comment and stay there for a long pause. With a sweet smile, "Maybe that's one of the things I liked about ya the best. Ain't met many like ya." When her eyes lift, hazel to meet green, there's a tender softness before humor dances right atop that, "Ya can get over that, though, as far as I'm concerned."
Like this comes as some surprise, Vanissa's lack of love-letters, M'try utters a quick, almost disbelieving, "Really?" With a stern frown that's got no business on a baby-face, the brownrider adds gravely, "I shall have to remedy that." Add to to-do list: write love-letters, which he will begin promptly upon returning to the Weyr, rather florid ones but well-intentioned. "Oh? Well, then, let me undo the last decade of social conditioning," he adds around another subdued chuckle, squeezing her fingers briefly like they were discussing literal hands-to-self and not the more figurative term.
Tawny brows lift at his surprise. "Yeah, really." Lifting her other hand to note with one index finger pointed his way as though she'd jab it at his chest, but their hands are in the way so doesn't, Nissa stipulates with faked severity, "Don't be makin' up stuff ya don't mean, hmm? Ya can be flowery and funny all ya want, but don't be mockin' me. Ya already know I'm gullible enough to believe what ya write." Social conditioning her says and her fingers twitch within his grasp as she's tilting him a twinkling look, "Yours or mine?" Ohwait. One of those might not be in his favor. Now might be a good time to check on those dragons and see if they've managed to freeze solid.
M'try, with mock-defensiveness, with playful sulkiness, points out, "It's not 'making stuff up.' It's called 'poetic license.'" He sniffs theatrically, again with the woe, reaching with his other hand to hook his fingers around her twitching ones, making leaps-and-bounds on his own social conditioning! "Ah, mine. Though, just to make things truly impossible, we could work on both? Then there's either the chance that we'll meet in the middle, or swing to opposite ends of the spectrum and..." Be right back where they started, yay! Speaking of yay: Mohraith can't freeze solid, the brown's playing, yay~!
Poetic license he says and Nissa, brightly notes, "T'rev says you write great stuff. Although, knowing what you draw, I can make a wild guess it wasn't love letters ya wrote for him. At least I hope not-" Interrupted when her fingers are snagged it's probably for the best she doesn't go there. She tries to come up with something clever in response to his last and can't so with a shake of her head, she gives it up with a laugh, "Okay, yours. I don't need impossible at this point in my life and I'm pretty sure you don't either." Yeah, she'll just hush now and let him enjoy the scenery while Liath and Mohraith freeze their tails off (since they can't freeze solid).
M'try's eyes round beneath raised brows at the first of her comments, his throat cleared after a moment is taken for the sake of his composure. "At the risk of revealing entirely too much. Which brother did, by the way." He shakes his head at the memory, still bemused all this time later. "Let's say that you're correct. It was not love letters I wrote for your brother." Idly, in between toying with her fingers, he notes, "That's what I do at Gathers, by the way. I sell my work to vendors. That's why I'm always going to them. It's not really for the dancing and socializing." Hence why he was so off-kilter for running into Vanissa there?
Unconcerned, "Yeah, I know. T'rev told me he posed for a personal picture. I didn't really get into a discussion or anything with him about who or why." Nissa shrugs, her casual reaction might in fact, help him understand her causal whipping off of her sundress to swim. "I'm glad to hear that it wasn't love letters to T'rev. That'd be sorta uhm. Ew. But you don't have to talk about it. Really." Yes, she's noticed that round-eyed reaction of his back there, seeks to soothe while watching him play with her fingers, she wriggles them playfully. Likewise she seems unsurprised by the gather comment, "Yes? I assumed you sold your work somewhere. I mean, why do you think I was so upset when I found out you drew, ah... people without their knowledge?" This is sort of old news, "Though, I imagine it can't be all that much fun, but you make money and you're doing what you like." Accepting, if not really enthralled.
"Which part can't be fun? The making or the selling?" Becaaaaauuuuse. Yeah, M'try leaves that one alone from there, just a quick twitch of his brows to mull it over before he shakes his head, chasing away the thought almost entirely. So as to leave it entirely, he leans down, lifts her hands, and finds a kiss to her knuckles, leaving chilled lips against them for a moment to point out, "I'm cold, Vanissa."
Vanissa's lips quirk in amusement, as she clarifies, "The gathers. Not socializin' and dancin', all work work work is what I meant. I already said you're doing what ya like, yeah?" Meaning his art. Yea, she thinks of it as such. As for cold, she can't feel his lips on her knuckles, "I'd offer to warm ya up? But I don't think it's possible. I'm numb." Oh yes, he could probably come up with some way to make an innuendo out of that too, so she hastily adds, "And if I'm late for afternoon drills, T'kyn will make me do them all night. So." So gathering pots, mugs and soaking wet, icy dragons to go *Between* home ought to be a real picnic eh? No pun intended.
M'try breathes on her hands another time or two, puff-puff of warm air, then chafes them briefly in between his own palms before he releases them to help gather up the pots and such. "Damn the Weyrleader," he says with a dramatic sigh, tucking things into the basket before he pushes away from the middle of the blanket to the edge of it. Offering a hand once he's on his own feet, to Vanissa or the basket (whichever hits his palm first), he reiterates, "Thank you for inviting me, Nissa. Really."
To that sentiment Nissa can heartily agree with an, "Aye!" As she scoots herself stiffly to the edge of the boulder, dragging the basket behind her. And sadly (because it's too cold here and she would -really- be late - or injure M'try ) she doesn't give in to the temptation of standing up and taking a flying leap off the boulder into his arms, although there's a brief moment whereby the gleam in her eye, she's actually considering it. Instead, she allows him to help her down and brushes a kiss to his cheek, murmurs a socially acceptable, but sincere, "You're welcome. Thanks for coming." How tame of her.
Yeah, M'try would get smashed. Or scream and duck out of the way before she landed. Either way, it would suck for one (or both) of them. Answering the kiss on his cheek with a quick brush of his lips across her temple in return, taking the basket with him in a gentlemanly effort to return it to the kitchen for her. Presumably, the bonfire will burn itself out harmlessly. He, you see, has love-letters to write. And he is, as promised, good at them. In a very purple prose kinda way.
IC Date: 5/26/23 --Okay, yes, I did steal this log.
Ice Lake
High above Ruatha in rugged terrain, it's not unusual for the mountains in this area to receive snow, even in summer. Cupped in rocky steep-sided basin, the shores surrounded by both tumbled boulders and gravel shores, this high altitude lake rarely thaws and is ice-cold year round. Fed by glacial runoff from the sharp peaks above, the minerals lending the lake a milky blue color only broken by the occasional white of ice floes that float almost motionless in the still waters here. Desolate, remote and beautiful, the silence here is almost pervasive enough to be haunting.
It's a damp, misty midmorning at Fort Weyr close to lunchtime when Liath contacts Mohraith, her waters deep and hidden today, with just a hint of silvery bubbles that might be laughter << Can you and yours meet mine for awhile? There is no mud at all where I am swimming. Mine says to tell yours to dress very warmly. >> And there's a shared coordinate of mountains above Ruatha with the idea that if he can, not to tell his exactly where he's going, if he can get away with it. When they do arrive it will be to find the green already in the lake, stirring those milky waters while playing with a small iceberg, a blanket-padded flat-topped boulder with a picnic basket set atop that and a dry stack of driftwood arranged to be lit bonfire-style close by. Nissa is standing beside the shore all bundled up, her hands pocketed as she watches the brownpair land with impish teasing in her eyes above the scarf she's wearing wrapped 'round her face because, yes. She's wearing... a parka
The very first thing that M'try thinks it's important to relate, even before he's really down from between Mohraith's neckridges, is, "He can't keep secrets, just for your edification." Though the brown indicated he'd /try/ in response to Liath, he's now sheepish to explain, << I had to tell him OR he said he wouldn't come. >> Having located his winter gear-- a jacket that's probably among the finest thing he owns, scarf and hat rather tattered in their Harper blueness-- he takes a look at Vanissa's garb and, shaking his head; "I suppose that will teach me to be flippant, won't it."
"Well, then it appears surprises are out of the question, sadly for you." She looks SO disappointed (not) when she withdraws a hand and snaps her fingers in an 'oh darn' manner, her eyes crinkling merrily above her scarf. Liath is all cheer and wriggle-happy her friend is here, already forgotten the attempt for secrecy, she flips the chunk of ice so that it flies through the air to land closer towards shore with a plunk, << That's okay. Come play! >> Still amused Nissa drawls, "So ya knew there would be the possibility of freezing to death and yet here ya are anyway. But ah, no, I hear with harpers flippant is incurable. You're terminal, I'm afraid."
Mohraith might climb out of his skin by the time M'try manages to get the straps off him, bright as a Times Square New Years Eve, << OKAY! >> Closing his eyes for a second in a now reflexive response to the headache that is his dragon, the brownrider adds, "Alas, yes, they are," out of the question. Tossing those straps up on a bit of rock that's lost its sheen of snow, he then heads down toward the water to answer, "I should like to be buried at Keroon, then, if I'm given the option. You seem to have been industrious." The one thought has nothing to do with the other, the latter after a glance over the stuff she's got all prepped.
Vanissa waits patiently, hand stuffed back into her pocket, while M'try removes Mohraith's straps. Freezing cold -metal buckles. Not gonna touch those. Besides, she's not wearing gloves at the moment, so. "Ya play it too safe not trusting him now and then," notes the greenrider with a dimple showing on one cheek as her scarf sags, one hand reaches out palm up as he heads her way. Lightly, "Keroon? Why there of all places?" Nothing to do with the other and lets hope not, given the topic being bandied back and forth, because. Casually, with a glance back at that boulder, "Hmm, not so much work, really. The lake and boulders were already here." Maybe flippant is contagious?
"Even if I did give him blanket-trust." Which M'try doesn't. And never ever would. Seriously, it's Mohraith we're talking about. "He would have given you away. He... thinks very loud, in case Liath failed to mention that to you." As for Keroon, he only shrugs, like there's no particular reason, and claps his hands together as if to keep them warm-- he does wear gloves, smart boy. "Were they? You might have taken credit for that and I'd never have known."
"No, no Laith never complains about Mohraith's thinking," this with a look over her shoulder at the half-visible green hide out there in the icy lake. Back to M'try, "She says she can hear him just fine." Said with exactly the inflection and nuances the green gives them, like it's- no-big-deal-why-are-you-even-mentioning-it? "Though I do remember you, uhm, adjusting to it during weyrlinghood." She allows his shrug to pass unquestioned (she's trainable, yay!), whether she believes there's no reason or not. His applause (?) is eyed askance, although there's a smile to go along with, "Sarcasm is far more lethal than flippancy, you know." Meanwhile her offered hand remains there just quietly going numb.
With distracted humor, M'try comments, "Yes. I'm still working on that." Adjusting. But now it's tinged with fondness instead of 'oh my god make it stop,' eyes chasing the big-mouthed brown out to the lake, where he delights in smashing pieces of ice for no reason other than they're there and smashable. "Duly noted. When I get tired of my slow Death By Levity, it's good to know I can end it all that much quicker with satire." He does, presently, realize that he's expected to do something with her hand and-- first removing his gloves so she's not getting a mitt-full of the cold shell of them-- folds both of his around Vanissa's. "I assume we're not expected to swim on this outing?"
Dryly, "Ah, no. You'd be dead before I hit the water, I'm fairly certain." With a teasing twinkle, Nissa adds, "I'm not wearing my bikini today." Cold, being what it is... "Though when you're ready to depart this world via Sudden Death by Greenrider, ya just let me know." While he's taking his gloves off and taking her now very icy hand, her other hand is pulled from her pocket, one finger hooked over her scarf. More seriously, "No swimming." She pulls it down from her face, tucks it beneath her chin, tilts her head boulder-wards. Her accent thickens, "We're goin' to have lunch. T'kyn's been drillin’ us into oblivion and I hadn't seen much of you since I-" She falters, eyes shift towards the lake, as she finishes determinedly, "Since we left your place and I didn't want you to think I'd been avoidin' ya."
M'try presses her cold hand in between his two warm ones, even lifts it for a moment to breathe in between his palms, warming up Vanissa's fingers a little more while his eyes take a look around still. "Are we? That sounds pleasant." As to her latter, he assures, "The thought never crossed my mind, Nissa. I've heard that T'kyn is..." Oh, how to be politic about the matter. "...different in his view on Interval dragonriders."
"Pleasant." The word falls into a sudden silence on her part that follows that. Prompted by that non-response to her teasing, or maybe it's what appears to be his retreat behind that wall of total politeness, Nissa winces, trying to catch his eye, "I'm... I did it again, didn't I? M'try... I'm sorry. I didn't mean that like it sounded. Sometimes I don't know when to stop. I wasn't laughing at ya. I-" How to explain? Suddenly miserable, T'kyn is forgotten, lunch is forgotten while she stands there in the freezing cold trying for words that won't make it past her throat. Finally, "You said no going back, remember? Please apply that to yourself too?"
Really, "You didn't do anything. I'm not--" M'try lifts a 'just a moment' finger, regrouping, explaining, "It does actually sound pleasant." He retains a little lingering mystification to her reaction, her hand re-sandwiched between his like that somehow addresses the 'no going back' part of her comments. "We should eat." Before one of them winds up strangling the other one. (My money would be on Nissa in that event, by the way.)
Just as confused (if his mystification isn't an act, then my they're good at throwing one another into it!), it's an uncertain and unconvinced, "Alright." Nissa throws him a puzzled look and pivots towards the boulder. Headed that way, her lower lip is caught between her teeth, gravel crunching underfoot loud in the silence before she says in a small voice, "Ya just went from all the back and forth stuff to serious and polite in a blink." She doesn't try to remove her hand from his until they're at the boulder, and then it's with a slightly apologetic tug that she does so to indicate it's from necessity rather than pique. With a booted toe, she kicks the lid off of a small iron kettle, draws her hand inside her sleeve to protect it and holds the handle while she tips it, allowing hot coals to roll out into the kindling. "There's stuff in the basket," she notes without enthusiasm between blowing on them to get the flames started.
M'try, watching all the doings with the kettle, reaches into his pockets almost reflexively and withdraws his gloves, holding them bunched up in one hand in a sort of 'do you want these?' suggestion. "Polite is... well, my schtick, for lack of a better term. I did mention the 'twenty years of being well-mannered at Harper Hall,' didn't I?" he adds in a vaguely amused way. Eyeing the blanket, the basket, then his boots, his thoughts are almost transparent for a moment: if ever he wished he was just padding around in his socks... "'Stuff,' she says cryptically. I'm not going to open it and have paper-snakes leap out at me, I hope?"
Turning her head from what little smoke there is to take a deep breath, Nissa notes the gloves, shakes her head with a slight smile, blows again, then leans back. With her eyes critically on the weak flames, she admits candidly, "I've never seen ya impolite, it's just..." With another one of her glances over at him, this one veiled through her lashes, "Schtick to me means contrived. So, yeah, I do wonder at times if I'm seein' the real M'try or a... a mask." Gathering her hair in one hand so she doesn't set it on fire, bends to blow on the tiny flames, her attention on it while speaking, "Nope, I ordered it from the kitchen, dunno what they packed. There is hot cider. I asked for that."
Admittedly, "Sometimes it is." Contrived, he means, presently finding a bit of nearby snow into which he can stamp stamp stamp and get the bits of mud off his feet before stepping onto the blanket. Even then, M'try finds his knees pretty quickly and scoots over, leaving only a little dampness and grit in his wake, heaving the basket to sit before him, to open it with a peek inside first-- just in case the paper-snakes really are there. No? Oh good, he'll search for the cider, then. "You look very warm," he adds almost absently, hiding a grin in his evident focus on the basket.
At least he didn't say hot? And she'll just drop the subject of politely contrived masks since the conversation is going in circles, "That's because I -am- warm," Nissa answers without guile, straightening up and turning around to face him, leaving the flames crackling at the driftwood. See? Pink fire-heated cheeks - yay bonfire! Using both hands to hop up on that boulder, landing on her knees, she crawls over to the basket, reaches inside to help she pushes the mugs his way since he's going for the cider. She, on the other hand lifts a small iron pot, two spoons and a cloth-wrapped loaf of crusty bread, leaving the basket empty. "Oh ha ha, Cook thinks she's funny. No bowls." She shifts to sit, scooting closer to him on her butt with the pot where he can reach, waves the spoons with one brow hiked and a quirked grin, "If ya don't mind sharin' the same pot with a lowly waystation gal?" Stew, apparently.
"But but but," M'try begins, acting a very poor job of pretend-floundering, looking up so-quickly from the act of pouring out cider. "What if you have germs?" He gasps girlishly (which he does all too well) and, contrary to his act, leans over with his weight on one hand, expecting her to lean back the rest of the way to be kissed. Which will theoretically lay to rest any real concern that he's actually terrified of her germs.
Vanissa eyes the brownrider askance during the girly gasping, though a subtle glimmer of amusement will give her away before a slow smile curves her lips and she leans forward to close that gap, murmuring just before their lips meet, "Then you're doomed, Harper Boy. May as well admit it." Her lips part as she leans in and she gives him plenty of germs to gasp about during that kiss. Careful M'try, don't spill that hot cider in your lap!
M'try's smart enough to have put the pot of cider off to the side first, see, because the last thing he needs is to scald his lap. That would just be injury to insult. It's not a long kiss he's aiming for, though there's a second in there when he kinda starts to rethink his intentions and might want a longer one. But. There's stew and cider getting cold, so, with a small laugh, "Woe is me." For his doom and damnation.
Vanissa can do a lot of damage in a short span of time? She draws back with an overdone sigh of regret and a pretended pout, "I'd have preferred to hear you say you'd die happy. Alas." The spoons are stuck in the stew - his where he can reach it and she holds out a hand for her mug, waiting until he's given it to her to wrap both hands around it. Then she just sits there giving him a bright look while the sounds of splashing and smashing out there in the lake echo eerily off distant peaks. Finally, "I don't hear ya do that very often."
Unless she has some sort of fatal communicable disease (presumably not), the damage is at least survivable. M'try, pouring one mug and handing it over, settles a second off to one side for himself, taking the spoon and giving the stew a bit of a poking-- not starving enough to commit to eating, but it's there, so might as well pick at it. "What's that?" he asks in answer to her 'finally,' falling absently back into the habit of fiddling with things: that spoon's awfully reminiscent of a pencil, after all, fiddle fiddle.
Well, if he wasn't hungry that stew could have been left to cool. Sniff! Nissa is observant enough to note he isn't eating, but doesn't remark on it. Instead she answers readily enough, "Laugh. You rarely, if almost never really let go and laugh. Just sayin'. It's kinda sad, that." She is hungry, T'kyn having drilled them hard and there's another scheduled for this afternoon, so she digs in. It's a few bites later and that absent fiddling prods her to say with a faint knitting of brows. "Ya didn't -have- to come if you're bored, ya know." Because he obviously didn't come for the food or the stimulating conversation.
M'try's not starving. That's not to say he's not hungry enough to eat something, especially if it's right there in front of him. And tastes good. He doesn't argue the matter of his lack of laughter, though there's a moment of his head tilting this way and that like he's mulling it over before he nods in a 'point granted' way. After her latter comment, though-- "I'm not bored. One lack of self-confidence to another, though, you need to relax." Or he never will.
Vanissa's spoon, halfway to her mouth, pauses midair when he says that last bit. Slowly she lowers the spoon to the pot, "I'm... sorry? I- do I seem tense? I don't mean to be." She considers, her mind going back over the past hour, much in the way he just did with her point about the laughter, only there's no 'point granted' nod at the end of there. Quietly, "I could just sit here and say nothing if y'd rather, M'try. I don't mean to annoy ya."
To be honest, M'try nods pretty readily at her first question, commenting, "Or perhaps it's more... You don't need to worry about my being entertained, Nissa. I'm not bored. It's really beautiful here, and I'm glad that you thought to invite me." Resolutely putting the fiddly spoon off to the side, he adds, "Perhaps you hadn't noticed, but I generally keep myself occupied in some way or another." Writing, reading, whatever. "You're not annoying me."
Perplexed and maybe a little hurt. This is Nissa's expression, "That how ya see me, huh? I was just bein' me. I fool around. I get silly sometimes." Perhaps thinking he means the whole time they've been here. Shaking her head, she goes on to say, "No, really, I never noticed you have to be messin' with something all the time, no. I took it to be restless boredom." She lifts her head to eye the glaciers on the peaks around them, drawing in deep breaths of the pure air, silently musing while she reconsiders, "I think... you're right in a way. But I ain't so worried about entertainin' ya as kinda nervous because-" her eyes flicker him, meaning to look away, but remain instead. "Ya wanted warmth ya said. Well? So do I." She draws in a breath, then adds in a little rush, "I'm know y're tryin', know you've been hurt, but you're pretty guarded with your feelings. You talk about things, concepts, but rarely..." How to say? She sets down her mug and reaches with her hand to touch lightly at his chest. "seem to let those feeling out, or let them show."
After her first comments, in response to that expression, he leans his head back so his face turns skyward and, in a tone of voice that will have to convey the wryness that can't be seen in his face from that angle, "I occasionally have the feeling that neither of us should be allowed to talk at all, and we should communicate solely by drums, as the messages would be less garbled that way." She wanted laughter; well, there's a dry chuckle for her at that thought. M'try contains himself in time to look back over at her, a glance dropped briefly to the hand at his chest, which he covers lightly with his own. "I've never been a particularly demonstrative person, Nissa, I'm sorry. I could write you love-letters, if you'd like?" With a quick smile that knows exactly how silly that offer sounds, he adds hopefully, "I'm quite good at them."
If he's thinking love letters silly, Nissa is not. Not at all. Sincerely, "If they were your feelings? I would really like that. I really have no idea how you're feelin' about me except frustrated." She nods understanding about undemonstrative, "Alright, so that's how ya are, and I ain't trying to change that. Just let ya know I sometimes read it as 'keep away.' Does that make sense?" His hand covers hers and she draws a breath, turns hers over to curl her fingers around his. Regret colors her next words, "I'm sorry I don't 'read' you very well. I don't always understand spoken words very well. I depend a lot on vocal tone, facial expression and body language. I'm from a demonstrative family, M'try, but I ain't clever with words like ya are."
Really his feelings. Well. "The underlying sentiment would be authentic, of course. Though I tend to embellish on I really get going." Act shocked, the little wordsmith might gild the lily. Although there was time enough for his hand to have gotten cold in the interlude, M'try's fingers re-warm quickly enough, and the eyes that meet Vanissa's are equally warm if ever placid-seeming. "Don't be sorry, Nissa. What you're saying makes perfect sense. I understand it completely. And I realize my shortcomings. Somewhere between my having never had a girlfriend when I wasn't either an apprentice or a candidate of she wasn't someone else's fiancee, and you being someone I very much had relegated to the category of 'friend and never anything else so don't kid yourself,' I suppose I'm just used to..." Here, humor colors his tone again and he looks down at the joined fingers. "...keeping my hands to myself."
"Maybe I can learn to read between the lines?" Said wistfully enough that he might hear the unspoken plaint in those words of Nissa's. If he's not speaking them, embellished words on paper might just do nicely. "Come to think of it, I ain't never gotten anything remotely like a love letter." The warmth in his eyes does much to reassure, placid or no and some of the wariness fades from hers before they flicker down to their hands at his last comment and stay there for a long pause. With a sweet smile, "Maybe that's one of the things I liked about ya the best. Ain't met many like ya." When her eyes lift, hazel to meet green, there's a tender softness before humor dances right atop that, "Ya can get over that, though, as far as I'm concerned."
Like this comes as some surprise, Vanissa's lack of love-letters, M'try utters a quick, almost disbelieving, "Really?" With a stern frown that's got no business on a baby-face, the brownrider adds gravely, "I shall have to remedy that." Add to to-do list: write love-letters, which he will begin promptly upon returning to the Weyr, rather florid ones but well-intentioned. "Oh? Well, then, let me undo the last decade of social conditioning," he adds around another subdued chuckle, squeezing her fingers briefly like they were discussing literal hands-to-self and not the more figurative term.
Tawny brows lift at his surprise. "Yeah, really." Lifting her other hand to note with one index finger pointed his way as though she'd jab it at his chest, but their hands are in the way so doesn't, Nissa stipulates with faked severity, "Don't be makin' up stuff ya don't mean, hmm? Ya can be flowery and funny all ya want, but don't be mockin' me. Ya already know I'm gullible enough to believe what ya write." Social conditioning her says and her fingers twitch within his grasp as she's tilting him a twinkling look, "Yours or mine?" Ohwait. One of those might not be in his favor. Now might be a good time to check on those dragons and see if they've managed to freeze solid.
M'try, with mock-defensiveness, with playful sulkiness, points out, "It's not 'making stuff up.' It's called 'poetic license.'" He sniffs theatrically, again with the woe, reaching with his other hand to hook his fingers around her twitching ones, making leaps-and-bounds on his own social conditioning! "Ah, mine. Though, just to make things truly impossible, we could work on both? Then there's either the chance that we'll meet in the middle, or swing to opposite ends of the spectrum and..." Be right back where they started, yay! Speaking of yay: Mohraith can't freeze solid, the brown's playing, yay~!
Poetic license he says and Nissa, brightly notes, "T'rev says you write great stuff. Although, knowing what you draw, I can make a wild guess it wasn't love letters ya wrote for him. At least I hope not-" Interrupted when her fingers are snagged it's probably for the best she doesn't go there. She tries to come up with something clever in response to his last and can't so with a shake of her head, she gives it up with a laugh, "Okay, yours. I don't need impossible at this point in my life and I'm pretty sure you don't either." Yeah, she'll just hush now and let him enjoy the scenery while Liath and Mohraith freeze their tails off (since they can't freeze solid).
M'try's eyes round beneath raised brows at the first of her comments, his throat cleared after a moment is taken for the sake of his composure. "At the risk of revealing entirely too much. Which brother did, by the way." He shakes his head at the memory, still bemused all this time later. "Let's say that you're correct. It was not love letters I wrote for your brother." Idly, in between toying with her fingers, he notes, "That's what I do at Gathers, by the way. I sell my work to vendors. That's why I'm always going to them. It's not really for the dancing and socializing." Hence why he was so off-kilter for running into Vanissa there?
Unconcerned, "Yeah, I know. T'rev told me he posed for a personal picture. I didn't really get into a discussion or anything with him about who or why." Nissa shrugs, her casual reaction might in fact, help him understand her causal whipping off of her sundress to swim. "I'm glad to hear that it wasn't love letters to T'rev. That'd be sorta uhm. Ew. But you don't have to talk about it. Really." Yes, she's noticed that round-eyed reaction of his back there, seeks to soothe while watching him play with her fingers, she wriggles them playfully. Likewise she seems unsurprised by the gather comment, "Yes? I assumed you sold your work somewhere. I mean, why do you think I was so upset when I found out you drew, ah... people without their knowledge?" This is sort of old news, "Though, I imagine it can't be all that much fun, but you make money and you're doing what you like." Accepting, if not really enthralled.
"Which part can't be fun? The making or the selling?" Becaaaaauuuuse. Yeah, M'try leaves that one alone from there, just a quick twitch of his brows to mull it over before he shakes his head, chasing away the thought almost entirely. So as to leave it entirely, he leans down, lifts her hands, and finds a kiss to her knuckles, leaving chilled lips against them for a moment to point out, "I'm cold, Vanissa."
Vanissa's lips quirk in amusement, as she clarifies, "The gathers. Not socializin' and dancin', all work work work is what I meant. I already said you're doing what ya like, yeah?" Meaning his art. Yea, she thinks of it as such. As for cold, she can't feel his lips on her knuckles, "I'd offer to warm ya up? But I don't think it's possible. I'm numb." Oh yes, he could probably come up with some way to make an innuendo out of that too, so she hastily adds, "And if I'm late for afternoon drills, T'kyn will make me do them all night. So." So gathering pots, mugs and soaking wet, icy dragons to go *Between* home ought to be a real picnic eh? No pun intended.
M'try breathes on her hands another time or two, puff-puff of warm air, then chafes them briefly in between his own palms before he releases them to help gather up the pots and such. "Damn the Weyrleader," he says with a dramatic sigh, tucking things into the basket before he pushes away from the middle of the blanket to the edge of it. Offering a hand once he's on his own feet, to Vanissa or the basket (whichever hits his palm first), he reiterates, "Thank you for inviting me, Nissa. Really."
To that sentiment Nissa can heartily agree with an, "Aye!" As she scoots herself stiffly to the edge of the boulder, dragging the basket behind her. And sadly (because it's too cold here and she would -really- be late - or injure M'try ) she doesn't give in to the temptation of standing up and taking a flying leap off the boulder into his arms, although there's a brief moment whereby the gleam in her eye, she's actually considering it. Instead, she allows him to help her down and brushes a kiss to his cheek, murmurs a socially acceptable, but sincere, "You're welcome. Thanks for coming." How tame of her.
Yeah, M'try would get smashed. Or scream and duck out of the way before she landed. Either way, it would suck for one (or both) of them. Answering the kiss on his cheek with a quick brush of his lips across her temple in return, taking the basket with him in a gentlemanly effort to return it to the kitchen for her. Presumably, the bonfire will burn itself out harmlessly. He, you see, has love-letters to write. And he is, as promised, good at them. In a very purple prose kinda way.