In Exile
Location: Various points on Exile Island
Time: Late afternoon/evening on Day 13, Month 1, Turn 2
Players: J'lor, Lorma, and Laemont
Scene: Three, three, three exiles at once!
On a Western Island, Deep in the Forest
Once uninhabited, this large island, part of the many that make up the Western Isles, is now home to the Instigators. Their numbers swelled in the past decade by births and exiles picked up from other islands in the nearby chain, the tropical island is now home to nearly one hundred and fifty people, including the 31 dragonpairs exiled after the rebellion.
It's a pleasant island, made moreso by the work of many hands. Stone cliffs on the leeward side make a home for dragons, a large cavern at the base home to the rest in all but the worst rain season. Tropical forest covers most of the island, though there is a small plot of land near the cliffs for cultivated crops and beasts, and the exiles have even added a small dock for the small fishing boats made from the wood of the native trees.
The smoke of fires for cooking, heating water from the freshwater stream that bubbles through the center of the camp, and even the occasional resmithing of old metal traces a hazy line above the island.
Lorna
Small stature and youthful face contribute to make this girl look several turns younger than her age of 15 turns, 5 months, and 20 days. She hasn't developed the longer, awkward limbs that signify adolescence in others her age, but the hint of curves about her person suggest that this is merely because she will never be very much taller. Once-coppery hair bleached by the sun to an almost white-blonde is left to fall loose about her shoulders, and brushed back away from her face, pale and often touched pink with sunburn. Her eyes, a clear hazel, are the only feature of her face that declare her true age -- in fact, her eyes seem somewhat older even than that, a sign of a childhood gone very quickly. Despite this, her face is a lighthearted one, with rosy lips that smile often and cheeks given to dimpling.
Her clothes are coarse, simple, but deftness with a needle has turned the typical loose shirt and trousers worn by her peers into something more attractive: a few tucks along the waistline of the shirt and the hemming of the trousers to just above her ankles make the clothing seem to fit her a little better and actually show off her small form.
Laemont
Wavy strawberry blonde hair, golden locks edged with burgundy strands, are cut somewhat short, falling low over his forehead and reaching to just below the tops of his ears. Those ears are multiply pierced, decorated with bits of metal and shined wood, undoubtedly scrap that's gone unneeded. His eyes are somewhat sharply shaped, with a heavy expanse of eyelashes that often give them a somnolent look, the hazel color sometimes shifting between a strength of blue and green, always wreathed with a pale highlight of gold in their depths. His eyebrows are thick and arching, and his mouth is rather softly shaped, expressive by all means and perhaps more feminine than he would prefer. His jawline is strong, sharp, and curving, leading into a strong neck that is suggestive of his overall physique. Though leaner than most with his muscular build, he is strong in form with a minorly impressive height that places him at just above average.
A long, heavy scarf made of threadbare cloth is wrapped around his neck and, sometimes, over his head to conceal that crop of light hair, concealing the neckline of an equally rugged shirt that's been dyed a dingy red color; the shirt has long sleeves in spite of the tropical surrounding, meant to be worn both during the hot days and the cold ones. A pair of pants made of a dark, partially stained brown hide fit tightly to his long legs, accentuating the musculature there and disappearing into a pair of tall workboots that he has pulled up to just below his knees, laced up tightly so that they don't slide down when he walks.
For accessories and decoration, he has a few bits of cord around his neck and wrists, but the one thing he seems to never be without is an old, hard-hide pack with a drawstring that he carries on his back.
J’lor
Dark brown hair has been gathered back into a queue that falls from the nape of this man's neck to the base of his shoulders. His face is angular, a widow's peak adding to the edges of his features. His eyes are almond-shaped and wideset, an unremarkable carob-brown beneath dark slashes of brows. A spinner's web of tiny lines have begun to fan out from the corners of his eyes. Nose is small but sharp and his mouth is thin. While clean-shaven seems to be the general intent, the man's jawline is often darkened by forgotten-about stubble. Perhaps the most endearing and unexpected feature, a deep dimple flashes in his left cheek when he smiles. Weather and time have deepened his skin into a warm tan.
Tall and lean at 6'4", the man is clothed in a shirt of rough linen dyed a deep wine red. Stitches along the shoulder are too large and the right side sports a patch of cloth that unsuccessfully attempts to mimic the same shade as the rest of the shirt. Sleeves have been rolled up to the elbows and long arms are chorded not with bulk but with wiry strength. Legs have been tucked into brown trousers, more properly made and of wherry hide, and shoes are formed from the same material though colored a little darker.
The man looks to be somewhere between forty and fifty turns.
Hides are fewer and harder to come by here on Exile island, and they can't be used for just anything. So when hashing out new ideas, J'lor does not use hides. He uses sand. The man sits cross-legged on the beach, his blue Vellath settled behind him so he can easily peer over his rider's shoulder. There's a look of consternation on the ex-leader's face as he marks 'X's 'O's and squiggles in the sand with a thin, sharpened stick. There's a great deal of erasing and re-'writing' going on. The afternoon sun shines down, oblivious of the man's frustration.
Lorna emerges from the jungle at a cheerful sort of run, taking advantage of the sunny weather. Her feet are bare, as usual, despite the twigs and rocks, and exertion has deepened the sun-touched pinkness of her cheeks. She cuts a charming little figure, not skilled in running and certainly not running from anything, merely skipping along out of, quite possibly, sheer boredom. She skids to a halt as she reaches the beach, not wishing to dash headlong into the water. Breathing hard, she casts a sweet smile over at J'lor, lifting a hand to wave at him. She certainly doesn't look bored.
Seconds before Lorna's arrival, three young men leave a large knot of rocks on the far end of the beach, laughing richly as they wander off into the jungle and back towards the main camps. They appear to be more of the criminal persuasion, though one is notably one of the island-raised children.
It isn't too long after Lorna's made the scene, though, that another man leaves this knot. Fixing his messed clothing in silence, Laemont makes his way along the beach, partially heading towards the surf. His hair is wildly mussed, his lower lip bleeding and one of his cheeks sporting a mild bruise. He winces faintly as he bends forward to cup water in his hands, moving to clean his face and then put water back through his hair. Admittedly, the salt makes it sting, but he just deals with it, expression long-suffering. This wasn't too odd, after all. A fairly normal happening for Laemont. Only when he's bent over does he actually see J'lor and Lorna, though, blinking in surprise and straightening to offer a wave in greeting as well as a light smile.
The bluerider remains, for a moment, oblivious. He's in his own little sand-doodle world. But thank goodness for dragons, for as Lorna and then Laemont arrive, Vellath lowers his muzzle and nudges it quasi-gently against the back of J'lor's head. He has to do it twice before the exile looks up, blinking dazedly. But then...there is a vision of sheer joy and loveliness streaming from the jungle. A smile tips J'lor's lips upwards and that unexpected dimple appears. "She runs with painful happiness/Her eyes were on the sea/I wish with such joy in her eyes/That she would run to me," he quotes from who-knows-what song or poem. But then Laemont is noticed, mussed and bloodied again. The jovial expression dims and a heavy sigh billows from his chest out into the air.
Lorna half-trips over a piece of driftwood, catching herself with a laugh and hopping slightly to favor a stubbed toe. She catches the tail end of J'lor's little recitation and flashes him a laughing grin, ever the light-hearted presence on the island. She doesn't miss that dimming of his smile, too observant to let it slip by unnoticed -- following his line of sight, she turns and spies Laemont approaching. She hesitates. After a few seconds she goes to him and turns to fall into step beside him, reaching out to secure his hand in both of hers. She knows better than to make much of his injuries. "Come sit with me," she urges him, smiling.
Laemont returns Lorna's grip gently as she clasps his hand, offering her the same faint smile of greeting, warm but tired, "Sure." His soft baritone is low and calm, as usual, but he raises it enough to extend a politely vocal greeting to J'lor as well. Blowing a strand of auburn hair from his eyes before speaking, he soon says, "Hello, J'lor, sir." Ex-leader or not, Laemont couldn't help but refer to the man with some modicum of respect; he just wasn't as casual as he should be sometimes. All the same, he'll follow wherever Lorna leads him for a few feet, but then he stops and says, "Oh, right. Just a moment." The lengthy, lean youth takes off at a light jog down the beach, stepping into a small group of trees and shrubs, from which he extricates his beloved bag. Once he has that on his shoulder, he submits himself entirely to Lorna's will, offering her his hand once more and wandering alongside her.
J'lor lifts his pointy stick, gesturing with it that Lorna should, of course, lead herself and Laemont towards him and Vellath. The blue seated behind him warbles, low and welcoming, and then sneezes a bit of inadvertently snorted sand. "No 'sir' necessary," J'lor reminds Laemont for what is likely not the first or the last time. "My name is honor enough."
Lorna waits patiently as Laemont goes off to get his bag, smoothing down her shirt a little from where it got rumpled up as she was running about. She takes his hand again when he returns, leads him over to the edge of J'lor's little sand doodle. She sits down on the sand, obedient to J'lor's gesture with that stick, and smiles up at him. "Hallo, J'lor," she says in her light voice. "New formations?"
Laemont drops down fluidly into place beside Lorna, his legs folding rather automatically; also automatic, he shifts his pack from his back and goes about taking out his gitar and laying it across his thighs. He strums his fingers over the strings, striking a few quiet chords while lifting his attention to J'lor, smiling at him good-naturedly, "As you say, sir." He rolls his shoulders, then gazes down at the sand, just waiting to see if Lorna's query is in the right.
J'lor ahhhs softly. "Hello, my dear," he says to Lorna, "That was the goal, but it's been a struggle today to get what's in here," and a long finger taps against his temple, "down here," the same finger plunges downwards to brush the sand. Both hands lift, stick dropping, to be held outward, palms towards the sky. "All my thoughts seem to be getting stuck around here somewhere. So," Those hands turn downward and brush the sand smooth, "now is clearly not the time for new formations. Laemont, since you were so thoughtful as to bring out your gitar, perhaps you'd gift us with a little music?"
"He always does," Lorna replies with a smile, glancing fondly over at Laemont as he plays over the strings. Her eyes turn back toward the sand as J'lor brushes it smooth, her expression intent and curious; but she doesn't object when the formations are wiped clean. "You need a break," advises Lorna, leaning over to lie on her stomach on the sand, not minding the dirt and grime. "Think too long on one subject and your mind will always stick."
Laemont bows his head obligingly to J'lor at the request, smiling mildly once more before his long, deft fingers dance over the gitar, coaxing a sort of playful, dancing tune from the instrument. He doesn't say much of anything, really, but the song itself grows in strength and elaboration, the chords smoothing into a low, resonating tune that floats with the pull and rush of the ocean. Its tone sparks, lifting every so often, a touch of sparkle on a dark wind, wrapping itself around the three with mingled, alternated chords of high and low. This is where Laemont's focus lies when he goes quiet all the time, so it makes sense that he'd be intent on it now.
J'lor leans back against the girth of his lifemate who has settled down in the sand, neck and tail curved in such a way as to make a loose semi-circle around the trio of people sitting near the sea. When Lorna speaks, brown eyes are turned on her with another smile. "Wise words from a wise girl," he notes, reaching over to carefully untangle a bit of jungle vine from Lorna's hair. It's more a parental gesture than anything else. And then as Laemont begins to play he first stares up at the sky and then closes his eyes as the melody crescendos and builds in complexity.
Lorna's expression smooths out as the song begins in earnest, eyes turning out towards the sea almost dreamily. Legs bent at the knee, her bare feet stick up in the air and swish lazily, not to the music but rather to some rhythm in herself, while the breeze tugs idly at her pale hair, wisps flying about into her eyes. She grins at J'lor as he plucks that bit of vine from her hair, unabashed and unashamed, palest freckles standing out against her almost constant sunburn. "Not so wise," she murmurs in a sigh, lowering her chin onto her crossed hands as she listens.
Laemont's grin grows mildly before he says, voice low and husky thanks to his focus being on his instrument, the tune changing styles mildly to become something most Terrans would recognize as having a slightly Spanish dance flavor, "Lor? Dance." He glances aside to her, his hazel eyes glinting faintly beneath those heavy eyelashes only for him to give a short, stifled sort of laugh over J'lor's comment on wise. Lorna's so forward, Laemont obviously seems to think he can coax her into dancing for the gitar. He soon loses total attention on the others, however, inevitably drawn back to what he's doing, deftly drumming a couple fingers on the gitar's wooden body without losing the song itself.
J'lor cracks one eye open when Laemont speaks and his placid features spread out into a grin at the younger harper's suggestion. "An excellent idea. Pure brilliance." Because, really, what is ever half-way with this rider. He does sit up, and lean forward to extend a hand towards the reclining girl. To help her up, perhaps, or simply to encourage her to rise.
Lorna's eyes flick from J'lor to Laemont at the sound of her name; and at the request, her cheeks darken beneath her light sunburn. "Lae!" she protests, eyes moving back toward J'lor. Apparently her romps are not quite as lighthearted and thoughtless around certain esteemed company. But she ends up smiling and sitting up, brushing sand from herself and reaching out to take that hand as J'lor offers it. She does not relinquish it though when she stands, giving it a quiet little tug. "Only if you do, too," she tells him, earnestly.
Laemont laughs faintly once more as Lorna attempts to bring J'lor in on this, turning his attention to their formal leader and shrugging his shoulders helplessly. Shifting to his feet, even, he pulls the gitar's strap around his neck and pours more energy into the already complex stylings of his music. It's wholly believable that Laemont's managed to learn the gitar well just by spirit alone mingled with the few lessons he had before coming to the island, if only for how he plays in moments like this.
J'lor laughs. "But my dear," he protests, "your grace will far outshine my own. And besides, your toes are bare and mine are clumsy." But even has he protests, the bluerider is pushing himself up from his seat, sand trickling from the back of his legs. He walks a few steps away from Laemont and turns to Lorna. The bow he offers is more suited to a ballroom crushed with people than an empty beach and tattered clothes. But that makes no difference. Hand is extended for his young partner.
"The sand is soft," Lorna says, cheerfully. "You can't hurt me." She speaks with utter confidence shining in her expression. She turns her head toward Laemont, flashing him a glowing smile for a few seconds before turning back to the rider and attempting a grave curtsey in response to his bow. It comes out very poorly indeed, at least by Pernese standards of society, but she seems quite proud of it. That seems to be all the patience she has for stodgy customs, and with a light little laugh, she steps closer and takes his hand before ducking under his arm and spinning and leading him off into a merry sort of dance unlike anything found on the mainland, made up on the spot and lacking any self-consciousness whatsoever. The ladies of Pernese society would be horribly affronted.
Affronted as they might be, they'd also probably long for the freedom involved. The children raised on the island really did belong there. Laemont claps his hand on the wood once more, tapping out the beat even as he continues to play, walking calmly around the diagram in the sand to stand beside the blue. He glances aside at the dragon, sparing him a faint smile as well only to watch the others dance. It seems to make him happy, particularly with his best friend involved, and so as his own hips sway lightly with the tempo, he continues to play, the song taking on a decidely light-toned edge.
Vellath's tail tip rises and falls to the beat of the music and as Laemont stands closer, he's 'gifted' with a gentle nudge. Draconic forehead to the small of harper's back. As for J'lor, he follows after Lorna with a laugh, spinning, kicking up sand and inventing dance steps to compliment the girl's. He was a man of traditional Pern once, in the sense that he lived there. But belong there? That might be another story entirely. As the dancing continues, long arms snake out to grab Lorna by the waist as she's facing away from him, and lift her. If he's successful, he'll hug her back to his chest and begin to twirl, sending them both into a dizzy, spinning 'dance step' that has sand flying and laughter coming from the bluerider.
The dance is all about laughing, and Lorna's leading the way with giggles and bouts that should leave her stumbling and tripping, but simply manage to boost her natural grace enough to keep it going. She gives a delighted, little-girl shriek of laughter as J'lor catches her about the waist, limbs flailing. Best not drop her, she'll go flying.
Laemont leans back into the nudge lightly when he feels the blue's forehead to his back, only laughing goodnaturedly and glancing back at the blue, not losing his balance or his place in the song. He queries, voice low but knowing the dragon will hear it, "Would you like to dance, Vellath? The air's clear..." When he was happy, Laemont's voice tended to take on that husky tone, sweet and soothing to hear. He takes a couple steps forward, shaking his head amusedly as Lorna gets picked up only to glance down at his gitar, eyelashes lowering as his attention intensifies there.
J'lor doesn't drop her. No no. But a misstep has him spilling backwards and thudding into the sand, Lorna cushioned by J'lor as the collapse happens. Laughter only intensifies as the bluerider releases his poor dance partner. "Are...my dear...are you hurt?" But he's grinning and chuckling even as Vellath, perhaps prompted by Laemont is galloping over, wings slightly lifted, to pace in a circle around the dancing duo. Joining, it seems, means trying one's paws out on the ground instead of the air.
"Eeeooof!" Lorna goes kathunk into J'lor's solid self, sprawling on top of him in a bit of a daze as the dance comes to an abrupt halt. She's slow to sit up, pushing herself up with her hands against his chest. "Wha... yes, fine!" Her smile is quick to return, looking down at him in the sand for a moment before the indignity of sitting on top of this man of all men suddenly strikes her and she goes scrambling sideways, crab-like, and lurches to her feet. "Are -you- all right?" she asks in concern, eyes wide as she reaches down for his hand as if to pull him up, with her small stature. But Vellath's prancing catches her eye and she grins; if he's carrying on like that, J'lor must not have been utterly crushed by her landing on him.
The music has stopped for a minute. Why? Because Laemont is laughing to a degree that is just unkind! The young man is bent forward slightly, laughing hard enough that his cheeks are blushing. This causes his new bruises to yelp, of course, but he ignores them, trying not to fall over. His amusement is, of course, added to thanks to how well he knows Lorna, so when he straightens up and brushes water from his eyes, he can only flash a grin in his friend's direction. He shakes his head and walks over to offer J'lor a hand up as well, being something of heavier stuff than their female companion.
J'lor is simply lying on the ground, looking upward at his two willing offers. So, of course, both arms are extended so that he might be hefted upwards, long lean form if not bulky, then still very tall. And grinning. "It seems our dancing has come to a sudden and unanticipated halt." Vellath warbles, crouching low with his posterior in the air as the three humans muddle about. There was going to be dancing. He wants to dance!
It's a rare thing for a scowl to darken Lorna's brow, but darken it it does now; her assistance offered and accepted but not really needed, she then flops backwards into the sand and tosses a handful at Laemont's leg, careful even now to avoid the gitar. "Ingrate," she accuses him. "See if I ever dance for you again." She casts a somewhat shame-faced look at J'lor, not voicing any apologies but professing them quite obviously in her eyes.
Laemont laughs faintly at that, though he crouches down and offers a faint smile to Lorna after that, nudging her shoulder with his knee gently, "I'm sorry. I couldn't help it." He schools his expression into an appropriately apologetic one, dark hair falling low over his brow before he tilts his gitar to very lightly bump her shoulder as well. It is the crouching that reminds him of the strike to the stomach, however, so he has to straighten soon after, his hand falling to pressing against his stomach as well as his ribs. He shakes his head mildly before he smiles once more and says, "I should probably go get some rest. Chores were fairly tough today."
J'lor's lazy grin slips again as Laemont presses a hand to his stomach. "Dinner will be starting soon," he says down to the girl sulking in the sands. "Could you run ahead and see if we have enough flat leaves to smoke the catch Tellor brought in today?" One of those arms drapes carefully over Laemont's shoulders, or tries to at any rate. "I'll walk with you, lad. I'm headed that way myself."
"I'll come with you," Lorna says instantly, looking up at her friend with a smile. Indeed, she can go and make sure none of his wounds are too serious, and minister to those that are. Or rather, that is her plan, until J'lor speaks; she looks up at him for a moment, expression mild. Then she smiles, and nods, rising smoothly to her feet. "Of course," she says, nodding again to him and then to Laemont. "I'll see you at home." And with that, she disappears back into the jungle, a flash of bare feet and blond hair as she traipses off, humming a little counterpoint to the dance tune.
Laemont glances aside at J'lor when the man puts an arm over his shoulders, his eyebrows arching before he nods acceptingly. He watches Lorna as she runs off, feeling a pang of melancholy before he moves to pack his gitar back into its cushioned bag. Setting it properly on his back, he nods to J'lor and moves to walk along side him, once the man is prepared for walking as well. He is silent for a little while before he asks, curiously, "What did you want to talk to me about, J'lor?" Obviously, an assumption he's made based on their walking together, though he doesn't seem to be overly concerned as to the correctness of it.
J'lor's arm slides off Laemont's shoulder and swings around so that it can meet the other, both hands clasping at the small of his back. Vellath, denied dancing, settles for the next best thing and stretches out in the sun and the sand as the pair make their way. "First," begins the ex-leader, seemingly not at all perturbed by Laemont's forwardness, "Now that you've no one to act fine for, I'd like you to have a healer take look at you. Second, I was wondering if you might explain to me why it seems you’re always find youself on the business end of someone else's fist?" Moreso as of late, it almost seems. Or perhaps that was simply J'lor being absorbed in other worries before.
Laemont rests a hand calmly on his stomach, gazing at J'lor in silence for a while before he says, simply, "I wasn't acting fine for Lorna, sir. She knows me. They just hit me in the stomach; bruises, a couple scratches. I'll be fine." He considers the rest of what J'lor says, though, pushing his hair out of his eyes and huffs a soft sigh, adding, his eyes lowered as heat flows through him, "I'm sorry, sir... but that's my business." Normally not quite so secretive, at least around J'lor and Lorna, it seems the question has made him extremely uncomfortable. He is still too polite to walk off, since he and J'lor are walking together, but he stands there, body tense and focus on the ground.
J'lor simply...watches the lad for a long moment and then gives a sharp nod. "Well," the bluerider begins again as if everything were peachy-fine, "A man's business is no one's but his own, though I will insist on having the healer see you." He walks a few more steps before he says, almost idly, "You know, since T'gil's back started to ache I haven't had a sparring partner." And then he's quiet again, with only a single sidelong glance towards Laemont.
Laemont lifts his head once more, looking aside at J'lor and falling in step with him once more, he folds his arms loosely around his stomach. He concedes to the other man's comment on a healer with a small nod, "Aye, sir." He licks his lower lip, the idle comment causing him to pause in step before he continues. His expression becomes intent and thoughtful, his arms sliding up so that he's hugging himself as he walks, though his body has relaxed. He moves a hand to again push the dark auburn hair out of his face, tucking it carefully behind his ears, "I didn't know you and T'gil used to spar... ah. I could probably spar with you every so often, if you'd like, sir. Though," at this, he extends his hands in front of him, curling and flexing them absently, "I don't fight because I can't risk my hands. If they got broken, or..." His mouth tightens and he informs J'lor, in a moment of self-exposure, "Gitar-playing is the only thing I have, sir."
J'lor's brows lift at Laemont's offer and a smile broad enough to summon that dimple appears. "Would you?" the rider asks with enough cheer and surprise that one might suppose Laemont's suggestion caught him entirely off guard. "It's an excellent way to keep in shape and I *have* missed the opportunity." At the self-made harper's final words, there's a slow and solemn nod from the rider. "We shall have to be careful of those hands, then. But I wouldn't worry. It's just in fun, after all." Of course.
Laemont watches J'lor in silence for a moment or two, his head canted to the side before he bows it quietly and continues to walk forward, a faint nod and smile preceding his words, "Aye, I will. And... I know, sir. But..." He is mildly uncomfortable once more, but he seems to be intent on getting out what he wants to say. Licking his lower lip, he sighs and straightens his back, looking aside at J'lor from beneath bangs and lashes, "I know how to fight. I just don't. To protect my hands." He was obviously referring to the event earlier, but he lets it go soon enough, tilting his head back just in time to have a large tropical leaf drop a splotch of rainwater on his cheek, "Nnf." His momentarily surprised look is comical and childish, but he shakes his head and smiles somnolently once more, "It'll be fun."
J'lor's laugh is easy and flowing, spurned on by the *splat* the water makes on Laemont's cheek. He leans in to whisper, almost conspiritorially, "Never underestimate elbows and knees, my boy." And then he's leaning back and walking again. "Our land is one of invention and creation." Arms stretch wide to encompass the whole of the island. Perhaps the whole of Pern. "We'll devise something that suits, never you fear about that."
Laemont seems somewhat cheered by that prospect, a rather more relaxed smile touching his lips before he jogs a couple steps to catch up with J'lor, resting a hand on the strap of his pack, "Aye, that it is, sir." He certainly does seem more pleased, and he strolls alongside J'lor in silence for a time before he queries, "Lorna and I were thinking, J'lor... What will happen if Pern ever asks us to return?" He looks sideways at the other man, continuing with explanation of precisely why he asks, "She and I were raised here. Others were, as well. Then there's some who only have power here, like Derek. Then there are people like you. People who remember the mainland better..."
J'lor mms faintly, nodding as he walks. "Yes, I do," he agrees easily. "And you and Lorna left too young to have much memory, that's true as well." He turns to regard his walking partner. "What is it that's got you worrying, precisely?"
"Not worrying, really, just... wondering," the younger man responds, lifting his hazel eyes to fix politely on J'lor's gaze, his eyebrows lifting mildly, "Would we have a place in Pern? Would it really be worth going back there? We could open a trade route and leave it as that... Derek and the others would be sent away, and maybe you could open a Weyr here and act as Weyrleader." Notably, he does not remember enough about Weyrs to remember what they look like or what is required to run them; he only knows these phrases and the general idea of what the things are. Apparently, J'lor being both a bluerider and a Weyrleader seems sensible to him.
J'lor's smile is actually a rather pleased one. "We would make our place there," is all the bluerider really says about it. "And where would Derek and his men go? Shall we send them to another island unprotected by dragons? Shall we drop them in the middle of Telgar weyr? No," a heavy sigh. "I am afraid that Derek and his men are tied in with us now. But things will turn around."
Laemont says, his voice low and distant, a bit airy, "I don't like them." It was a simple way to put it, but he made it sound as though the dislike was somehow personal. He plucks a leaf from one of the trees they pass, twisting it between his fingers absently only to sigh softly, shaking his head, "How can you be sure they will, sir? I've seen very little of anything turning around since I came here with my mother." He turns his attention from the nonchalant surveyance of the leaf back to J'lor, his brow knit.
"Well now," the bluerider begins slowly, his hands again clasping behind his back. "I can't say as I like their manner of dealing with people, but Derek's offerings are poison, and you can only eat poison so long before you sicken. When they start to see what his guilded words truly mean, his followers will drop away and join with us instead." J'lor pauses to look up at the sky again, squinting at the setting sun. "Do you know," he begins again, "That there are two hundred turns between bouts of threadfall? They call them 'Intervals' on the mainland. It must be hard, don't you think, to believe in something that feels so far away?"
Laemont listens to these words in silence for some time, not saying anything even after this query as well as the mention of Intervals. Finally, he murmurs, "I don't know if it will work out that way..." He puffs his bangs away from his eyes, obviously something that happens a lot, and he licks his lips thoughtfully. When he does speak again, he tilts his head back - not so far as to let water fall into his face, though, "I try not to believe in events... just in people. The Interval will come, but probably not while I'm alive. So I'll believe that riders won't let Pern fall while Thread does."
J'lor turns a little to watch Laemont. "I believe that people shape events. That changes come and we must mold them or be molded by them as we so choose. But you're right, Laemont. We can *be* change just as much as we can endure it. And that is why we will have a place on the mainland, and it's why we must one day return to it. What we know here, the rest of the world deserves to know too."
Laemont folds his arms around his middle, now, pausing on the edge of the largest camp, gazing through all the people and small houses, his expression difficult to read. He sighs and looks across to J'lor, smiling vaguely, "The rest of the world has shunned us, J'lor. I'm not sure anyone believes they deserve to know anything."
The bluerider's expression becomes a little pained, but then it's hard to see because he turns to look out over the ocean, his back to Laemont. "We went about it the wrong way," J'lor says softly. "I always had Pern's best interest in mind. Always. But...things sometimes get lost along the road when you're only looking ahead." But when J'lor turns back, it's with another smile. "Sometimes, people don't know what they believe, or they can't truly see their choices. But once they do..." What? "Then the real changes will begin."
Laemont frowns mildly at that moment of pain, his own expression becoming automatically apologetic as he takes a small step forward, "I..." He silences when J'lor speaks again, not impressing the apology on him as the man does not really require it. He brushes his hair back yet again, now a nervous habit as much as anyone else, "J'lor... you're a good man. We all know that. Even Derek must know that. Almost anyone here will follow you, not just the ideals behind the reason people came here. I don't know if people will understand, if Pern really will ask for us back... and it's hard to believe they'll ever see the light. Especially for me. But... if this is what you honestly believe, then I'll attempt faith." He sighs, shrugging his shoulders, expression far more tired than someone his age should be.
J'lor swings his arm out to wrap it companionably around the boy's shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze. "I'm only a man," the so-called leader says. "Men age, they die. Follow me if you will, but hear my words and follow them more. Men fade, Laemont, but ideas and words are timeless. You, as a harper, must understand that. I chose to lead because I believe in a way of life that others seem to see when I explain it. That is my great gift. If you believe in it too, and acknowledge your own gift...that is all the faith I ask."
Laemont allows the companionable arm as he would rarely for others, one of those who is twitchy when people stand close and often jerking away from personal contact. He listens to what J'lor says before he smiles faintly and says, "As a harper, then, J'lor, you should understand... for harpers, men live forever. I will accept ideals as my own, follow them because of who I am, but the only leader I will ever accept is you." He pauses, then adds, with a faint smile showing just barely thanks to the way he bows his head, "Sir." Ahaha.
J'lor laughs. "Cheeky lad," is the once-Telgari's fond admonishment and his hand moves up to ruffle and muss that hair that's been giving the young man so much trouble. "Come on, let's get you patched up before dinner's really underway. Dancing works up a mighty appetite, you know."
Laemont grins brightly at this admonishment, shrugging helplessly before he nods at the mention of getting patched up. He licks his lower lip and notes, softly, "Please don't tell the healer the truth. I... please, J'lor." He beseeches earnestly with those multicolored eyes, fidgeting with the strap of his back as he looks up at the bluerider, shifting one foot to the other. He does add, after a time, and with the same faint grin, "Aye. I should put it more lyrically, being a harper and all... something about how you're tired due to romping about with a fifteen turn old lass." Ahahahaha.
J'lor regards Laemont with that same intense concentration he gave to the sand drawings. "A man's business is his own," is all he says again. "But be careful the secrets you keep. They have a way of striking back when you least want them to do so. And if you've told no one, then no one can help you."
If J'lor didn't have his arm around Laemont's shoulders, he probably would've missed the young man's shudder entirely. The harper's face becomes pale, and he mutely shakes his head, brushing hair from his eyes and smiling faintly as he says, "And some secrets are never meant to see the light of day." That said, he only moves to walk into the camp, heading in the general direction of the healer's building.
J'lor lets his arm fall away soon after that shudder and merely pads along companionably. As they near the infirmary building, the bluerider begins to idly whistle one of main melodies in the dancing song Laemont had been playing.
Laemont laughs softly as J'lor begins to whistle that particular bit, casting a glance aside to him and noting, amusedly, "Good memory." He pauses before the infirmary's door, his lips pressing together before he steps inside, holding the door open for J'lor helpfully enough while looking about for an available healer, though he does note, "I could probably just put some bruise salve on it and go to bed, you know..." Fidget.
J'lor slips in after him. "Well, you may be right," the man says easily, letting the curtain close behind him, "but let's have a healer diagnose that, hmm? If you're right, well, I'll take you with me on Vellath the next time we're doing sweeps. How's that?"
Over in the corner, puttering with some sort of plant, is a tall young woman. There was only one trained healer that was exiled to the island, but this is one of her apprentices. She looks over, blinking. "What's the matter?" she asks, but then she sees Laemont's bloodied face. "Oh."
Laemont seems pleased by this offer, nodding his head slightly only to pause as the tall woman comes forward. He blinks right back before he says, "Ah, got into a bit of an accident. I'm pretty sure I just need some salve, but J'lor thought I should come see the healer." His lip has mostly stopped bleeding by now, but it remains puffed and reddened. The bruise on his face is a bit more noticable, and he taps his stomach as well, suggesting another strike there.
The healer slides a hand out, settling it carefully on Laemont's chin to turn his face this way and that. With a small nod she says, "Would you take your shirt off please, so's I can see the damage there?" A questioning glance is turned towards J'lor. Clearly it's asking 'what the heck'? J'lor only offers the healer a placid smile and a shrug, leaning back against one of the walls and just waiting.
Laemont hesitates at this request, glancing to J'lor as well before, a faint flush in his cheeks, he carefully undoes his scarf, then peels his ragged shirt off over his head. This reveals a pale but athletic torso that would probably be attractive if it were not for the multiple bruises that mar the skin. There is a large one on his stomach, true, but he has others that spread the breadth of his back and chest. One on his shoulder, another on his lower back near his ribs, a third between his shoulderblades, one on his rib, and another around one of his forearms. These are the noticable ones, the bad ones; he also has any number of lesser, ignorable bruises, and any number of scrapes on his arms that look like they could be from rocks. He probably has some on his knees, too.
The healer just sorta...looks over Laemont with one brow arching high. "What, you been causin' trouble or something? These look like--"
"Never mind what they look like," J'lor is having one of his few stern moments and that stiff and steely expression is squared right on the healer-girl. "Please, If you could just see to what needs to be treated and how?" Beyond being disapproving of the girl's bedside manner, the rest of his expression is unreadable.
There's a bit of grumbling, but healer-girl is appropriately cowed. Noting that a few of the bruises seem to be only partway apaprant she says, "Better drop the pants too, then."
Laemont seems as though he's about to step back when the healer begins those words, his back tensing only for J'lor's words to come as a relief. He relaxes somewhat, then, glancing back at the man with a weak smile. He seems intent on otherwise looking at the ground, but that comment on his pants causes his head to lift and a distinct blush to flood his cheeks. For most, communal bathing and walking around naked weren't a big deal, old Weyr values often adopted even by the Hold exiles, if only due to the island's surroundings. Laemont, however, wasn't particularly normal. All the same, he breathes a sigh and undoes the drawstring of his pants, sliding out of his boots as he does so. He has a pair of underwear on, at least, underneath, so he does preserve some amount of modesty. His legs fared better, but thanks to the low cut of his underwear, it's easy to see a bruise on his left hip. Naturally, his knees are scraped, and he has a dark bruise on one of his thighs.
"Anythin' else hurtin' you think you should mention?" is healer-girl's dry rebuke. Even before Laemont can answer, hands are sliding along the bruises, carefully poking and prodding the bones underneath. It's a practiced and knowledgeable touch, but not exactly gentle. She's trying to figure it out, not make it feel nice along the way.
J'lor, well, his expression is shuttered completely. Arms have crossed over his chest and as promised he says nothing. He only watches.
"Well, I think I bit my tongue a few days ago," is Laemont's equally dry reply only for him to hiss softly as she slides her hands over his body like that. He twitches every so often when she strikes the bruises a bit too hard, but otherwise, puts up without complaint. His ribs are bruised down to the bone, but otherwise, they're all just bruises, some a little deep, others superficial. The one on his forearm is actually vaguely handshaped, something that he prays will go unnoticed and, if not, he'll merely shrug at the coincidence.
Healer-girl steps back and fetches a jar of cream and another of some sort of herb. "Here," these are plunked down. "Rub the cream on the bruises and they'll fade faster. Mix the herbs in hot water and drink it once a day and it'll keep the swelling down. Don't get 'em mixed up." She turns away and seems about to go back to her plant before she calls, "You can put your clothes back on too, if you want." If he wants.
J'lor has sat down in the sand floor and, as he waits for Laemont to be ready, begins putting down some of those 'X' and 'O's in sand, using his finger to 'write'.
Laemont accepts the cream and the herbs, examining both of them curiously before he bends to pick up his pants, tying them on and tucking the jar and herbs into his pocket, "Thank you, miss. I appreciate the help." He puts on his shirt, scarf, and pack as well, but just lifts his boots, wandering over to stand next to J'lor, peering curiously at this new diagram, voice soft but curious, "Another formation?"
J'lor mms faintly. "Just thoughts for one," he says, dusting the scribbles back into obscurity. "Hungry?" Even as he asks, the bluerider stands, and now it's his turn to hold the door for Laemont.
Laemont nods his head in understanding, stepping back so that J'lor can stand up, skating through the door quickly. He thinks the question over, simple as it is, before he shrugs his shoulders and nods, "Aye. You? Dinner should be ready, ne?" Dinner usually meant fish and vegetation of some kind, and he didn't mind at all. While many had lost any real taste for fish since moving to the island, especially those that came as children, Laemont remained enamored with it. He liked fish. Yes.
J'lor inhales a deep breath, sniffing the aromas wafting from the cooking pits. "Certainly smells ready," the bluerider agrees. He begins to make his way there. Well, really he only goes a few steps before stopping. "Laemont?" There is hesitation in his tone, but the man presses on anyhow. "Are you...absolutely certain there's nothing you'd like to speak with me about?"
Laemont doesn't say a thing at first, his breath catching as hesitation settles in. He is silent, at first, his expression pensive and somewhat pinched, but then he breathes a sigh and says, smiling vaguely, "After dinner, if you still want to hear it." That's all he says before he moves towards the pits. As he walks, there are a few young men who snicker over him, but he seems fully able to ignore them. This is a part of the camp that he rather hates, just because of how everyone sort of comes together.
The bluerider doesn't do much to acknowledge Laemont's words, but only walks after him in silence. What he does do, however, is get some nice, discreet looks at those boys who snicker as they pass. Faces he'll want to attach to names a little later. When it's not dinner time.
Time: Late afternoon/evening on Day 13, Month 1, Turn 2
Players: J'lor, Lorma, and Laemont
Scene: Three, three, three exiles at once!
On a Western Island, Deep in the Forest
Once uninhabited, this large island, part of the many that make up the Western Isles, is now home to the Instigators. Their numbers swelled in the past decade by births and exiles picked up from other islands in the nearby chain, the tropical island is now home to nearly one hundred and fifty people, including the 31 dragonpairs exiled after the rebellion.
It's a pleasant island, made moreso by the work of many hands. Stone cliffs on the leeward side make a home for dragons, a large cavern at the base home to the rest in all but the worst rain season. Tropical forest covers most of the island, though there is a small plot of land near the cliffs for cultivated crops and beasts, and the exiles have even added a small dock for the small fishing boats made from the wood of the native trees.
The smoke of fires for cooking, heating water from the freshwater stream that bubbles through the center of the camp, and even the occasional resmithing of old metal traces a hazy line above the island.
Lorna
Small stature and youthful face contribute to make this girl look several turns younger than her age of 15 turns, 5 months, and 20 days. She hasn't developed the longer, awkward limbs that signify adolescence in others her age, but the hint of curves about her person suggest that this is merely because she will never be very much taller. Once-coppery hair bleached by the sun to an almost white-blonde is left to fall loose about her shoulders, and brushed back away from her face, pale and often touched pink with sunburn. Her eyes, a clear hazel, are the only feature of her face that declare her true age -- in fact, her eyes seem somewhat older even than that, a sign of a childhood gone very quickly. Despite this, her face is a lighthearted one, with rosy lips that smile often and cheeks given to dimpling.
Her clothes are coarse, simple, but deftness with a needle has turned the typical loose shirt and trousers worn by her peers into something more attractive: a few tucks along the waistline of the shirt and the hemming of the trousers to just above her ankles make the clothing seem to fit her a little better and actually show off her small form.
Laemont
Wavy strawberry blonde hair, golden locks edged with burgundy strands, are cut somewhat short, falling low over his forehead and reaching to just below the tops of his ears. Those ears are multiply pierced, decorated with bits of metal and shined wood, undoubtedly scrap that's gone unneeded. His eyes are somewhat sharply shaped, with a heavy expanse of eyelashes that often give them a somnolent look, the hazel color sometimes shifting between a strength of blue and green, always wreathed with a pale highlight of gold in their depths. His eyebrows are thick and arching, and his mouth is rather softly shaped, expressive by all means and perhaps more feminine than he would prefer. His jawline is strong, sharp, and curving, leading into a strong neck that is suggestive of his overall physique. Though leaner than most with his muscular build, he is strong in form with a minorly impressive height that places him at just above average.
A long, heavy scarf made of threadbare cloth is wrapped around his neck and, sometimes, over his head to conceal that crop of light hair, concealing the neckline of an equally rugged shirt that's been dyed a dingy red color; the shirt has long sleeves in spite of the tropical surrounding, meant to be worn both during the hot days and the cold ones. A pair of pants made of a dark, partially stained brown hide fit tightly to his long legs, accentuating the musculature there and disappearing into a pair of tall workboots that he has pulled up to just below his knees, laced up tightly so that they don't slide down when he walks.
For accessories and decoration, he has a few bits of cord around his neck and wrists, but the one thing he seems to never be without is an old, hard-hide pack with a drawstring that he carries on his back.
J’lor
Dark brown hair has been gathered back into a queue that falls from the nape of this man's neck to the base of his shoulders. His face is angular, a widow's peak adding to the edges of his features. His eyes are almond-shaped and wideset, an unremarkable carob-brown beneath dark slashes of brows. A spinner's web of tiny lines have begun to fan out from the corners of his eyes. Nose is small but sharp and his mouth is thin. While clean-shaven seems to be the general intent, the man's jawline is often darkened by forgotten-about stubble. Perhaps the most endearing and unexpected feature, a deep dimple flashes in his left cheek when he smiles. Weather and time have deepened his skin into a warm tan.
Tall and lean at 6'4", the man is clothed in a shirt of rough linen dyed a deep wine red. Stitches along the shoulder are too large and the right side sports a patch of cloth that unsuccessfully attempts to mimic the same shade as the rest of the shirt. Sleeves have been rolled up to the elbows and long arms are chorded not with bulk but with wiry strength. Legs have been tucked into brown trousers, more properly made and of wherry hide, and shoes are formed from the same material though colored a little darker.
The man looks to be somewhere between forty and fifty turns.
Hides are fewer and harder to come by here on Exile island, and they can't be used for just anything. So when hashing out new ideas, J'lor does not use hides. He uses sand. The man sits cross-legged on the beach, his blue Vellath settled behind him so he can easily peer over his rider's shoulder. There's a look of consternation on the ex-leader's face as he marks 'X's 'O's and squiggles in the sand with a thin, sharpened stick. There's a great deal of erasing and re-'writing' going on. The afternoon sun shines down, oblivious of the man's frustration.
Lorna emerges from the jungle at a cheerful sort of run, taking advantage of the sunny weather. Her feet are bare, as usual, despite the twigs and rocks, and exertion has deepened the sun-touched pinkness of her cheeks. She cuts a charming little figure, not skilled in running and certainly not running from anything, merely skipping along out of, quite possibly, sheer boredom. She skids to a halt as she reaches the beach, not wishing to dash headlong into the water. Breathing hard, she casts a sweet smile over at J'lor, lifting a hand to wave at him. She certainly doesn't look bored.
Seconds before Lorna's arrival, three young men leave a large knot of rocks on the far end of the beach, laughing richly as they wander off into the jungle and back towards the main camps. They appear to be more of the criminal persuasion, though one is notably one of the island-raised children.
It isn't too long after Lorna's made the scene, though, that another man leaves this knot. Fixing his messed clothing in silence, Laemont makes his way along the beach, partially heading towards the surf. His hair is wildly mussed, his lower lip bleeding and one of his cheeks sporting a mild bruise. He winces faintly as he bends forward to cup water in his hands, moving to clean his face and then put water back through his hair. Admittedly, the salt makes it sting, but he just deals with it, expression long-suffering. This wasn't too odd, after all. A fairly normal happening for Laemont. Only when he's bent over does he actually see J'lor and Lorna, though, blinking in surprise and straightening to offer a wave in greeting as well as a light smile.
The bluerider remains, for a moment, oblivious. He's in his own little sand-doodle world. But thank goodness for dragons, for as Lorna and then Laemont arrive, Vellath lowers his muzzle and nudges it quasi-gently against the back of J'lor's head. He has to do it twice before the exile looks up, blinking dazedly. But then...there is a vision of sheer joy and loveliness streaming from the jungle. A smile tips J'lor's lips upwards and that unexpected dimple appears. "She runs with painful happiness/Her eyes were on the sea/I wish with such joy in her eyes/That she would run to me," he quotes from who-knows-what song or poem. But then Laemont is noticed, mussed and bloodied again. The jovial expression dims and a heavy sigh billows from his chest out into the air.
Lorna half-trips over a piece of driftwood, catching herself with a laugh and hopping slightly to favor a stubbed toe. She catches the tail end of J'lor's little recitation and flashes him a laughing grin, ever the light-hearted presence on the island. She doesn't miss that dimming of his smile, too observant to let it slip by unnoticed -- following his line of sight, she turns and spies Laemont approaching. She hesitates. After a few seconds she goes to him and turns to fall into step beside him, reaching out to secure his hand in both of hers. She knows better than to make much of his injuries. "Come sit with me," she urges him, smiling.
Laemont returns Lorna's grip gently as she clasps his hand, offering her the same faint smile of greeting, warm but tired, "Sure." His soft baritone is low and calm, as usual, but he raises it enough to extend a politely vocal greeting to J'lor as well. Blowing a strand of auburn hair from his eyes before speaking, he soon says, "Hello, J'lor, sir." Ex-leader or not, Laemont couldn't help but refer to the man with some modicum of respect; he just wasn't as casual as he should be sometimes. All the same, he'll follow wherever Lorna leads him for a few feet, but then he stops and says, "Oh, right. Just a moment." The lengthy, lean youth takes off at a light jog down the beach, stepping into a small group of trees and shrubs, from which he extricates his beloved bag. Once he has that on his shoulder, he submits himself entirely to Lorna's will, offering her his hand once more and wandering alongside her.
J'lor lifts his pointy stick, gesturing with it that Lorna should, of course, lead herself and Laemont towards him and Vellath. The blue seated behind him warbles, low and welcoming, and then sneezes a bit of inadvertently snorted sand. "No 'sir' necessary," J'lor reminds Laemont for what is likely not the first or the last time. "My name is honor enough."
Lorna waits patiently as Laemont goes off to get his bag, smoothing down her shirt a little from where it got rumpled up as she was running about. She takes his hand again when he returns, leads him over to the edge of J'lor's little sand doodle. She sits down on the sand, obedient to J'lor's gesture with that stick, and smiles up at him. "Hallo, J'lor," she says in her light voice. "New formations?"
Laemont drops down fluidly into place beside Lorna, his legs folding rather automatically; also automatic, he shifts his pack from his back and goes about taking out his gitar and laying it across his thighs. He strums his fingers over the strings, striking a few quiet chords while lifting his attention to J'lor, smiling at him good-naturedly, "As you say, sir." He rolls his shoulders, then gazes down at the sand, just waiting to see if Lorna's query is in the right.
J'lor ahhhs softly. "Hello, my dear," he says to Lorna, "That was the goal, but it's been a struggle today to get what's in here," and a long finger taps against his temple, "down here," the same finger plunges downwards to brush the sand. Both hands lift, stick dropping, to be held outward, palms towards the sky. "All my thoughts seem to be getting stuck around here somewhere. So," Those hands turn downward and brush the sand smooth, "now is clearly not the time for new formations. Laemont, since you were so thoughtful as to bring out your gitar, perhaps you'd gift us with a little music?"
"He always does," Lorna replies with a smile, glancing fondly over at Laemont as he plays over the strings. Her eyes turn back toward the sand as J'lor brushes it smooth, her expression intent and curious; but she doesn't object when the formations are wiped clean. "You need a break," advises Lorna, leaning over to lie on her stomach on the sand, not minding the dirt and grime. "Think too long on one subject and your mind will always stick."
Laemont bows his head obligingly to J'lor at the request, smiling mildly once more before his long, deft fingers dance over the gitar, coaxing a sort of playful, dancing tune from the instrument. He doesn't say much of anything, really, but the song itself grows in strength and elaboration, the chords smoothing into a low, resonating tune that floats with the pull and rush of the ocean. Its tone sparks, lifting every so often, a touch of sparkle on a dark wind, wrapping itself around the three with mingled, alternated chords of high and low. This is where Laemont's focus lies when he goes quiet all the time, so it makes sense that he'd be intent on it now.
J'lor leans back against the girth of his lifemate who has settled down in the sand, neck and tail curved in such a way as to make a loose semi-circle around the trio of people sitting near the sea. When Lorna speaks, brown eyes are turned on her with another smile. "Wise words from a wise girl," he notes, reaching over to carefully untangle a bit of jungle vine from Lorna's hair. It's more a parental gesture than anything else. And then as Laemont begins to play he first stares up at the sky and then closes his eyes as the melody crescendos and builds in complexity.
Lorna's expression smooths out as the song begins in earnest, eyes turning out towards the sea almost dreamily. Legs bent at the knee, her bare feet stick up in the air and swish lazily, not to the music but rather to some rhythm in herself, while the breeze tugs idly at her pale hair, wisps flying about into her eyes. She grins at J'lor as he plucks that bit of vine from her hair, unabashed and unashamed, palest freckles standing out against her almost constant sunburn. "Not so wise," she murmurs in a sigh, lowering her chin onto her crossed hands as she listens.
Laemont's grin grows mildly before he says, voice low and husky thanks to his focus being on his instrument, the tune changing styles mildly to become something most Terrans would recognize as having a slightly Spanish dance flavor, "Lor? Dance." He glances aside to her, his hazel eyes glinting faintly beneath those heavy eyelashes only for him to give a short, stifled sort of laugh over J'lor's comment on wise. Lorna's so forward, Laemont obviously seems to think he can coax her into dancing for the gitar. He soon loses total attention on the others, however, inevitably drawn back to what he's doing, deftly drumming a couple fingers on the gitar's wooden body without losing the song itself.
J'lor cracks one eye open when Laemont speaks and his placid features spread out into a grin at the younger harper's suggestion. "An excellent idea. Pure brilliance." Because, really, what is ever half-way with this rider. He does sit up, and lean forward to extend a hand towards the reclining girl. To help her up, perhaps, or simply to encourage her to rise.
Lorna's eyes flick from J'lor to Laemont at the sound of her name; and at the request, her cheeks darken beneath her light sunburn. "Lae!" she protests, eyes moving back toward J'lor. Apparently her romps are not quite as lighthearted and thoughtless around certain esteemed company. But she ends up smiling and sitting up, brushing sand from herself and reaching out to take that hand as J'lor offers it. She does not relinquish it though when she stands, giving it a quiet little tug. "Only if you do, too," she tells him, earnestly.
Laemont laughs faintly once more as Lorna attempts to bring J'lor in on this, turning his attention to their formal leader and shrugging his shoulders helplessly. Shifting to his feet, even, he pulls the gitar's strap around his neck and pours more energy into the already complex stylings of his music. It's wholly believable that Laemont's managed to learn the gitar well just by spirit alone mingled with the few lessons he had before coming to the island, if only for how he plays in moments like this.
J'lor laughs. "But my dear," he protests, "your grace will far outshine my own. And besides, your toes are bare and mine are clumsy." But even has he protests, the bluerider is pushing himself up from his seat, sand trickling from the back of his legs. He walks a few steps away from Laemont and turns to Lorna. The bow he offers is more suited to a ballroom crushed with people than an empty beach and tattered clothes. But that makes no difference. Hand is extended for his young partner.
"The sand is soft," Lorna says, cheerfully. "You can't hurt me." She speaks with utter confidence shining in her expression. She turns her head toward Laemont, flashing him a glowing smile for a few seconds before turning back to the rider and attempting a grave curtsey in response to his bow. It comes out very poorly indeed, at least by Pernese standards of society, but she seems quite proud of it. That seems to be all the patience she has for stodgy customs, and with a light little laugh, she steps closer and takes his hand before ducking under his arm and spinning and leading him off into a merry sort of dance unlike anything found on the mainland, made up on the spot and lacking any self-consciousness whatsoever. The ladies of Pernese society would be horribly affronted.
Affronted as they might be, they'd also probably long for the freedom involved. The children raised on the island really did belong there. Laemont claps his hand on the wood once more, tapping out the beat even as he continues to play, walking calmly around the diagram in the sand to stand beside the blue. He glances aside at the dragon, sparing him a faint smile as well only to watch the others dance. It seems to make him happy, particularly with his best friend involved, and so as his own hips sway lightly with the tempo, he continues to play, the song taking on a decidely light-toned edge.
Vellath's tail tip rises and falls to the beat of the music and as Laemont stands closer, he's 'gifted' with a gentle nudge. Draconic forehead to the small of harper's back. As for J'lor, he follows after Lorna with a laugh, spinning, kicking up sand and inventing dance steps to compliment the girl's. He was a man of traditional Pern once, in the sense that he lived there. But belong there? That might be another story entirely. As the dancing continues, long arms snake out to grab Lorna by the waist as she's facing away from him, and lift her. If he's successful, he'll hug her back to his chest and begin to twirl, sending them both into a dizzy, spinning 'dance step' that has sand flying and laughter coming from the bluerider.
The dance is all about laughing, and Lorna's leading the way with giggles and bouts that should leave her stumbling and tripping, but simply manage to boost her natural grace enough to keep it going. She gives a delighted, little-girl shriek of laughter as J'lor catches her about the waist, limbs flailing. Best not drop her, she'll go flying.
Laemont leans back into the nudge lightly when he feels the blue's forehead to his back, only laughing goodnaturedly and glancing back at the blue, not losing his balance or his place in the song. He queries, voice low but knowing the dragon will hear it, "Would you like to dance, Vellath? The air's clear..." When he was happy, Laemont's voice tended to take on that husky tone, sweet and soothing to hear. He takes a couple steps forward, shaking his head amusedly as Lorna gets picked up only to glance down at his gitar, eyelashes lowering as his attention intensifies there.
J'lor doesn't drop her. No no. But a misstep has him spilling backwards and thudding into the sand, Lorna cushioned by J'lor as the collapse happens. Laughter only intensifies as the bluerider releases his poor dance partner. "Are...my dear...are you hurt?" But he's grinning and chuckling even as Vellath, perhaps prompted by Laemont is galloping over, wings slightly lifted, to pace in a circle around the dancing duo. Joining, it seems, means trying one's paws out on the ground instead of the air.
"Eeeooof!" Lorna goes kathunk into J'lor's solid self, sprawling on top of him in a bit of a daze as the dance comes to an abrupt halt. She's slow to sit up, pushing herself up with her hands against his chest. "Wha... yes, fine!" Her smile is quick to return, looking down at him in the sand for a moment before the indignity of sitting on top of this man of all men suddenly strikes her and she goes scrambling sideways, crab-like, and lurches to her feet. "Are -you- all right?" she asks in concern, eyes wide as she reaches down for his hand as if to pull him up, with her small stature. But Vellath's prancing catches her eye and she grins; if he's carrying on like that, J'lor must not have been utterly crushed by her landing on him.
The music has stopped for a minute. Why? Because Laemont is laughing to a degree that is just unkind! The young man is bent forward slightly, laughing hard enough that his cheeks are blushing. This causes his new bruises to yelp, of course, but he ignores them, trying not to fall over. His amusement is, of course, added to thanks to how well he knows Lorna, so when he straightens up and brushes water from his eyes, he can only flash a grin in his friend's direction. He shakes his head and walks over to offer J'lor a hand up as well, being something of heavier stuff than their female companion.
J'lor is simply lying on the ground, looking upward at his two willing offers. So, of course, both arms are extended so that he might be hefted upwards, long lean form if not bulky, then still very tall. And grinning. "It seems our dancing has come to a sudden and unanticipated halt." Vellath warbles, crouching low with his posterior in the air as the three humans muddle about. There was going to be dancing. He wants to dance!
It's a rare thing for a scowl to darken Lorna's brow, but darken it it does now; her assistance offered and accepted but not really needed, she then flops backwards into the sand and tosses a handful at Laemont's leg, careful even now to avoid the gitar. "Ingrate," she accuses him. "See if I ever dance for you again." She casts a somewhat shame-faced look at J'lor, not voicing any apologies but professing them quite obviously in her eyes.
Laemont laughs faintly at that, though he crouches down and offers a faint smile to Lorna after that, nudging her shoulder with his knee gently, "I'm sorry. I couldn't help it." He schools his expression into an appropriately apologetic one, dark hair falling low over his brow before he tilts his gitar to very lightly bump her shoulder as well. It is the crouching that reminds him of the strike to the stomach, however, so he has to straighten soon after, his hand falling to pressing against his stomach as well as his ribs. He shakes his head mildly before he smiles once more and says, "I should probably go get some rest. Chores were fairly tough today."
J'lor's lazy grin slips again as Laemont presses a hand to his stomach. "Dinner will be starting soon," he says down to the girl sulking in the sands. "Could you run ahead and see if we have enough flat leaves to smoke the catch Tellor brought in today?" One of those arms drapes carefully over Laemont's shoulders, or tries to at any rate. "I'll walk with you, lad. I'm headed that way myself."
"I'll come with you," Lorna says instantly, looking up at her friend with a smile. Indeed, she can go and make sure none of his wounds are too serious, and minister to those that are. Or rather, that is her plan, until J'lor speaks; she looks up at him for a moment, expression mild. Then she smiles, and nods, rising smoothly to her feet. "Of course," she says, nodding again to him and then to Laemont. "I'll see you at home." And with that, she disappears back into the jungle, a flash of bare feet and blond hair as she traipses off, humming a little counterpoint to the dance tune.
Laemont glances aside at J'lor when the man puts an arm over his shoulders, his eyebrows arching before he nods acceptingly. He watches Lorna as she runs off, feeling a pang of melancholy before he moves to pack his gitar back into its cushioned bag. Setting it properly on his back, he nods to J'lor and moves to walk along side him, once the man is prepared for walking as well. He is silent for a little while before he asks, curiously, "What did you want to talk to me about, J'lor?" Obviously, an assumption he's made based on their walking together, though he doesn't seem to be overly concerned as to the correctness of it.
J'lor's arm slides off Laemont's shoulder and swings around so that it can meet the other, both hands clasping at the small of his back. Vellath, denied dancing, settles for the next best thing and stretches out in the sun and the sand as the pair make their way. "First," begins the ex-leader, seemingly not at all perturbed by Laemont's forwardness, "Now that you've no one to act fine for, I'd like you to have a healer take look at you. Second, I was wondering if you might explain to me why it seems you’re always find youself on the business end of someone else's fist?" Moreso as of late, it almost seems. Or perhaps that was simply J'lor being absorbed in other worries before.
Laemont rests a hand calmly on his stomach, gazing at J'lor in silence for a while before he says, simply, "I wasn't acting fine for Lorna, sir. She knows me. They just hit me in the stomach; bruises, a couple scratches. I'll be fine." He considers the rest of what J'lor says, though, pushing his hair out of his eyes and huffs a soft sigh, adding, his eyes lowered as heat flows through him, "I'm sorry, sir... but that's my business." Normally not quite so secretive, at least around J'lor and Lorna, it seems the question has made him extremely uncomfortable. He is still too polite to walk off, since he and J'lor are walking together, but he stands there, body tense and focus on the ground.
J'lor simply...watches the lad for a long moment and then gives a sharp nod. "Well," the bluerider begins again as if everything were peachy-fine, "A man's business is no one's but his own, though I will insist on having the healer see you." He walks a few more steps before he says, almost idly, "You know, since T'gil's back started to ache I haven't had a sparring partner." And then he's quiet again, with only a single sidelong glance towards Laemont.
Laemont lifts his head once more, looking aside at J'lor and falling in step with him once more, he folds his arms loosely around his stomach. He concedes to the other man's comment on a healer with a small nod, "Aye, sir." He licks his lower lip, the idle comment causing him to pause in step before he continues. His expression becomes intent and thoughtful, his arms sliding up so that he's hugging himself as he walks, though his body has relaxed. He moves a hand to again push the dark auburn hair out of his face, tucking it carefully behind his ears, "I didn't know you and T'gil used to spar... ah. I could probably spar with you every so often, if you'd like, sir. Though," at this, he extends his hands in front of him, curling and flexing them absently, "I don't fight because I can't risk my hands. If they got broken, or..." His mouth tightens and he informs J'lor, in a moment of self-exposure, "Gitar-playing is the only thing I have, sir."
J'lor's brows lift at Laemont's offer and a smile broad enough to summon that dimple appears. "Would you?" the rider asks with enough cheer and surprise that one might suppose Laemont's suggestion caught him entirely off guard. "It's an excellent way to keep in shape and I *have* missed the opportunity." At the self-made harper's final words, there's a slow and solemn nod from the rider. "We shall have to be careful of those hands, then. But I wouldn't worry. It's just in fun, after all." Of course.
Laemont watches J'lor in silence for a moment or two, his head canted to the side before he bows it quietly and continues to walk forward, a faint nod and smile preceding his words, "Aye, I will. And... I know, sir. But..." He is mildly uncomfortable once more, but he seems to be intent on getting out what he wants to say. Licking his lower lip, he sighs and straightens his back, looking aside at J'lor from beneath bangs and lashes, "I know how to fight. I just don't. To protect my hands." He was obviously referring to the event earlier, but he lets it go soon enough, tilting his head back just in time to have a large tropical leaf drop a splotch of rainwater on his cheek, "Nnf." His momentarily surprised look is comical and childish, but he shakes his head and smiles somnolently once more, "It'll be fun."
J'lor's laugh is easy and flowing, spurned on by the *splat* the water makes on Laemont's cheek. He leans in to whisper, almost conspiritorially, "Never underestimate elbows and knees, my boy." And then he's leaning back and walking again. "Our land is one of invention and creation." Arms stretch wide to encompass the whole of the island. Perhaps the whole of Pern. "We'll devise something that suits, never you fear about that."
Laemont seems somewhat cheered by that prospect, a rather more relaxed smile touching his lips before he jogs a couple steps to catch up with J'lor, resting a hand on the strap of his pack, "Aye, that it is, sir." He certainly does seem more pleased, and he strolls alongside J'lor in silence for a time before he queries, "Lorna and I were thinking, J'lor... What will happen if Pern ever asks us to return?" He looks sideways at the other man, continuing with explanation of precisely why he asks, "She and I were raised here. Others were, as well. Then there's some who only have power here, like Derek. Then there are people like you. People who remember the mainland better..."
J'lor mms faintly, nodding as he walks. "Yes, I do," he agrees easily. "And you and Lorna left too young to have much memory, that's true as well." He turns to regard his walking partner. "What is it that's got you worrying, precisely?"
"Not worrying, really, just... wondering," the younger man responds, lifting his hazel eyes to fix politely on J'lor's gaze, his eyebrows lifting mildly, "Would we have a place in Pern? Would it really be worth going back there? We could open a trade route and leave it as that... Derek and the others would be sent away, and maybe you could open a Weyr here and act as Weyrleader." Notably, he does not remember enough about Weyrs to remember what they look like or what is required to run them; he only knows these phrases and the general idea of what the things are. Apparently, J'lor being both a bluerider and a Weyrleader seems sensible to him.
J'lor's smile is actually a rather pleased one. "We would make our place there," is all the bluerider really says about it. "And where would Derek and his men go? Shall we send them to another island unprotected by dragons? Shall we drop them in the middle of Telgar weyr? No," a heavy sigh. "I am afraid that Derek and his men are tied in with us now. But things will turn around."
Laemont says, his voice low and distant, a bit airy, "I don't like them." It was a simple way to put it, but he made it sound as though the dislike was somehow personal. He plucks a leaf from one of the trees they pass, twisting it between his fingers absently only to sigh softly, shaking his head, "How can you be sure they will, sir? I've seen very little of anything turning around since I came here with my mother." He turns his attention from the nonchalant surveyance of the leaf back to J'lor, his brow knit.
"Well now," the bluerider begins slowly, his hands again clasping behind his back. "I can't say as I like their manner of dealing with people, but Derek's offerings are poison, and you can only eat poison so long before you sicken. When they start to see what his guilded words truly mean, his followers will drop away and join with us instead." J'lor pauses to look up at the sky again, squinting at the setting sun. "Do you know," he begins again, "That there are two hundred turns between bouts of threadfall? They call them 'Intervals' on the mainland. It must be hard, don't you think, to believe in something that feels so far away?"
Laemont listens to these words in silence for some time, not saying anything even after this query as well as the mention of Intervals. Finally, he murmurs, "I don't know if it will work out that way..." He puffs his bangs away from his eyes, obviously something that happens a lot, and he licks his lips thoughtfully. When he does speak again, he tilts his head back - not so far as to let water fall into his face, though, "I try not to believe in events... just in people. The Interval will come, but probably not while I'm alive. So I'll believe that riders won't let Pern fall while Thread does."
J'lor turns a little to watch Laemont. "I believe that people shape events. That changes come and we must mold them or be molded by them as we so choose. But you're right, Laemont. We can *be* change just as much as we can endure it. And that is why we will have a place on the mainland, and it's why we must one day return to it. What we know here, the rest of the world deserves to know too."
Laemont folds his arms around his middle, now, pausing on the edge of the largest camp, gazing through all the people and small houses, his expression difficult to read. He sighs and looks across to J'lor, smiling vaguely, "The rest of the world has shunned us, J'lor. I'm not sure anyone believes they deserve to know anything."
The bluerider's expression becomes a little pained, but then it's hard to see because he turns to look out over the ocean, his back to Laemont. "We went about it the wrong way," J'lor says softly. "I always had Pern's best interest in mind. Always. But...things sometimes get lost along the road when you're only looking ahead." But when J'lor turns back, it's with another smile. "Sometimes, people don't know what they believe, or they can't truly see their choices. But once they do..." What? "Then the real changes will begin."
Laemont frowns mildly at that moment of pain, his own expression becoming automatically apologetic as he takes a small step forward, "I..." He silences when J'lor speaks again, not impressing the apology on him as the man does not really require it. He brushes his hair back yet again, now a nervous habit as much as anyone else, "J'lor... you're a good man. We all know that. Even Derek must know that. Almost anyone here will follow you, not just the ideals behind the reason people came here. I don't know if people will understand, if Pern really will ask for us back... and it's hard to believe they'll ever see the light. Especially for me. But... if this is what you honestly believe, then I'll attempt faith." He sighs, shrugging his shoulders, expression far more tired than someone his age should be.
J'lor swings his arm out to wrap it companionably around the boy's shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze. "I'm only a man," the so-called leader says. "Men age, they die. Follow me if you will, but hear my words and follow them more. Men fade, Laemont, but ideas and words are timeless. You, as a harper, must understand that. I chose to lead because I believe in a way of life that others seem to see when I explain it. That is my great gift. If you believe in it too, and acknowledge your own gift...that is all the faith I ask."
Laemont allows the companionable arm as he would rarely for others, one of those who is twitchy when people stand close and often jerking away from personal contact. He listens to what J'lor says before he smiles faintly and says, "As a harper, then, J'lor, you should understand... for harpers, men live forever. I will accept ideals as my own, follow them because of who I am, but the only leader I will ever accept is you." He pauses, then adds, with a faint smile showing just barely thanks to the way he bows his head, "Sir." Ahaha.
J'lor laughs. "Cheeky lad," is the once-Telgari's fond admonishment and his hand moves up to ruffle and muss that hair that's been giving the young man so much trouble. "Come on, let's get you patched up before dinner's really underway. Dancing works up a mighty appetite, you know."
Laemont grins brightly at this admonishment, shrugging helplessly before he nods at the mention of getting patched up. He licks his lower lip and notes, softly, "Please don't tell the healer the truth. I... please, J'lor." He beseeches earnestly with those multicolored eyes, fidgeting with the strap of his back as he looks up at the bluerider, shifting one foot to the other. He does add, after a time, and with the same faint grin, "Aye. I should put it more lyrically, being a harper and all... something about how you're tired due to romping about with a fifteen turn old lass." Ahahahaha.
J'lor regards Laemont with that same intense concentration he gave to the sand drawings. "A man's business is his own," is all he says again. "But be careful the secrets you keep. They have a way of striking back when you least want them to do so. And if you've told no one, then no one can help you."
If J'lor didn't have his arm around Laemont's shoulders, he probably would've missed the young man's shudder entirely. The harper's face becomes pale, and he mutely shakes his head, brushing hair from his eyes and smiling faintly as he says, "And some secrets are never meant to see the light of day." That said, he only moves to walk into the camp, heading in the general direction of the healer's building.
J'lor lets his arm fall away soon after that shudder and merely pads along companionably. As they near the infirmary building, the bluerider begins to idly whistle one of main melodies in the dancing song Laemont had been playing.
Laemont laughs softly as J'lor begins to whistle that particular bit, casting a glance aside to him and noting, amusedly, "Good memory." He pauses before the infirmary's door, his lips pressing together before he steps inside, holding the door open for J'lor helpfully enough while looking about for an available healer, though he does note, "I could probably just put some bruise salve on it and go to bed, you know..." Fidget.
J'lor slips in after him. "Well, you may be right," the man says easily, letting the curtain close behind him, "but let's have a healer diagnose that, hmm? If you're right, well, I'll take you with me on Vellath the next time we're doing sweeps. How's that?"
Over in the corner, puttering with some sort of plant, is a tall young woman. There was only one trained healer that was exiled to the island, but this is one of her apprentices. She looks over, blinking. "What's the matter?" she asks, but then she sees Laemont's bloodied face. "Oh."
Laemont seems pleased by this offer, nodding his head slightly only to pause as the tall woman comes forward. He blinks right back before he says, "Ah, got into a bit of an accident. I'm pretty sure I just need some salve, but J'lor thought I should come see the healer." His lip has mostly stopped bleeding by now, but it remains puffed and reddened. The bruise on his face is a bit more noticable, and he taps his stomach as well, suggesting another strike there.
The healer slides a hand out, settling it carefully on Laemont's chin to turn his face this way and that. With a small nod she says, "Would you take your shirt off please, so's I can see the damage there?" A questioning glance is turned towards J'lor. Clearly it's asking 'what the heck'? J'lor only offers the healer a placid smile and a shrug, leaning back against one of the walls and just waiting.
Laemont hesitates at this request, glancing to J'lor as well before, a faint flush in his cheeks, he carefully undoes his scarf, then peels his ragged shirt off over his head. This reveals a pale but athletic torso that would probably be attractive if it were not for the multiple bruises that mar the skin. There is a large one on his stomach, true, but he has others that spread the breadth of his back and chest. One on his shoulder, another on his lower back near his ribs, a third between his shoulderblades, one on his rib, and another around one of his forearms. These are the noticable ones, the bad ones; he also has any number of lesser, ignorable bruises, and any number of scrapes on his arms that look like they could be from rocks. He probably has some on his knees, too.
The healer just sorta...looks over Laemont with one brow arching high. "What, you been causin' trouble or something? These look like--"
"Never mind what they look like," J'lor is having one of his few stern moments and that stiff and steely expression is squared right on the healer-girl. "Please, If you could just see to what needs to be treated and how?" Beyond being disapproving of the girl's bedside manner, the rest of his expression is unreadable.
There's a bit of grumbling, but healer-girl is appropriately cowed. Noting that a few of the bruises seem to be only partway apaprant she says, "Better drop the pants too, then."
Laemont seems as though he's about to step back when the healer begins those words, his back tensing only for J'lor's words to come as a relief. He relaxes somewhat, then, glancing back at the man with a weak smile. He seems intent on otherwise looking at the ground, but that comment on his pants causes his head to lift and a distinct blush to flood his cheeks. For most, communal bathing and walking around naked weren't a big deal, old Weyr values often adopted even by the Hold exiles, if only due to the island's surroundings. Laemont, however, wasn't particularly normal. All the same, he breathes a sigh and undoes the drawstring of his pants, sliding out of his boots as he does so. He has a pair of underwear on, at least, underneath, so he does preserve some amount of modesty. His legs fared better, but thanks to the low cut of his underwear, it's easy to see a bruise on his left hip. Naturally, his knees are scraped, and he has a dark bruise on one of his thighs.
"Anythin' else hurtin' you think you should mention?" is healer-girl's dry rebuke. Even before Laemont can answer, hands are sliding along the bruises, carefully poking and prodding the bones underneath. It's a practiced and knowledgeable touch, but not exactly gentle. She's trying to figure it out, not make it feel nice along the way.
J'lor, well, his expression is shuttered completely. Arms have crossed over his chest and as promised he says nothing. He only watches.
"Well, I think I bit my tongue a few days ago," is Laemont's equally dry reply only for him to hiss softly as she slides her hands over his body like that. He twitches every so often when she strikes the bruises a bit too hard, but otherwise, puts up without complaint. His ribs are bruised down to the bone, but otherwise, they're all just bruises, some a little deep, others superficial. The one on his forearm is actually vaguely handshaped, something that he prays will go unnoticed and, if not, he'll merely shrug at the coincidence.
Healer-girl steps back and fetches a jar of cream and another of some sort of herb. "Here," these are plunked down. "Rub the cream on the bruises and they'll fade faster. Mix the herbs in hot water and drink it once a day and it'll keep the swelling down. Don't get 'em mixed up." She turns away and seems about to go back to her plant before she calls, "You can put your clothes back on too, if you want." If he wants.
J'lor has sat down in the sand floor and, as he waits for Laemont to be ready, begins putting down some of those 'X' and 'O's in sand, using his finger to 'write'.
Laemont accepts the cream and the herbs, examining both of them curiously before he bends to pick up his pants, tying them on and tucking the jar and herbs into his pocket, "Thank you, miss. I appreciate the help." He puts on his shirt, scarf, and pack as well, but just lifts his boots, wandering over to stand next to J'lor, peering curiously at this new diagram, voice soft but curious, "Another formation?"
J'lor mms faintly. "Just thoughts for one," he says, dusting the scribbles back into obscurity. "Hungry?" Even as he asks, the bluerider stands, and now it's his turn to hold the door for Laemont.
Laemont nods his head in understanding, stepping back so that J'lor can stand up, skating through the door quickly. He thinks the question over, simple as it is, before he shrugs his shoulders and nods, "Aye. You? Dinner should be ready, ne?" Dinner usually meant fish and vegetation of some kind, and he didn't mind at all. While many had lost any real taste for fish since moving to the island, especially those that came as children, Laemont remained enamored with it. He liked fish. Yes.
J'lor inhales a deep breath, sniffing the aromas wafting from the cooking pits. "Certainly smells ready," the bluerider agrees. He begins to make his way there. Well, really he only goes a few steps before stopping. "Laemont?" There is hesitation in his tone, but the man presses on anyhow. "Are you...absolutely certain there's nothing you'd like to speak with me about?"
Laemont doesn't say a thing at first, his breath catching as hesitation settles in. He is silent, at first, his expression pensive and somewhat pinched, but then he breathes a sigh and says, smiling vaguely, "After dinner, if you still want to hear it." That's all he says before he moves towards the pits. As he walks, there are a few young men who snicker over him, but he seems fully able to ignore them. This is a part of the camp that he rather hates, just because of how everyone sort of comes together.
The bluerider doesn't do much to acknowledge Laemont's words, but only walks after him in silence. What he does do, however, is get some nice, discreet looks at those boys who snicker as they pass. Faces he'll want to attach to names a little later. When it's not dinner time.