Really, 'Gorgeous' works just fine for me.
Who: R'vain and Laelle
Where: The lower caverns
What: During the wee hours of post-party clean-up, Laelle is approached by R'vain.
It's been, for the Reaches' Weyrlingmaster, a very bad turn. And all of the badness, stored up in his black little heart, is expressing right now, in this time when reasonable people would be sleeping or partying or-- as the lesser members of the weyr's staff are doing-- working. There are no shortage of people in the lower caverns whose first tasks for the new turn are to clean up the results of a party and a fight, to prepare the breakfast and the klah-- lots of klah-- for the morning. No shortage of those people are women. So R'vain, acting out, goes hunting.
Whether he's had success or is only just beginning the prowl might be hard to guess. His jacket's undone and the black shirt beneath open from the throat to mid-chest, framing brilliant orange curls. He stalks out of a dark passageway that leads out toward stores through the main hub of the lower caverns, sticking near the wall. A little way through he pauses and squints that narrow emerald stare around at the other exits from the cavern, apparently thoughtful; his tongue goes up over his upper teeth, warping his lip into a sneer, and sucks back down, *tschk.* The cavern's quiet enough, at this early hour, that the sound seems sudden and echoes.
The traffic in this cavern, the constant trickle of people eagerly heading back to the party or tiredly heading back to their beds, only manages to highlight the stillness of the tall young woman standing by the passage to the living cavern. Her white and black attire paint her plainly as party-goer, but now she leans gingerly against the wall, her head bowed so that her forehead can press to the cool stone. Her arms are folded in front of her and her eyes are low enough to fan her lashes against her freckled cheeks. That strange sound wakes her up, those lashes flicking open so that her watchful eyes can seek out the source. They find R'vain.
It takes him a moment to feel the pressure of eyes upon him. It takes him a moment longer to change the sweep of his scope to hone in on people rather than exits, on marks rather than the maze. Upon Laelle that narrow gaze grows narrower still, but as wicked as the squint may be, the grin is broad and clean, filled with brilliant clean white teeth, an unlikely testament to the place of wine in a good program for dental hygeine. Something of a growl rumbles around in the back of his throat, but that's hard to hear from a few passageways away. He gets it under control and is silent by the time he prowls toward her, cutting clean across the cavern's center to make his approach. A laundress going by with some of the table linens from the celebration upstairs in a basket in her arms goes well out of her way to stay six feet or better away from the enormous red man's path, but R'vain lends her trouble no notice.
"It's you," he remarks, like he knows her, four feet from Laelle, voice low and rough around the edges. He bends his head a little, chin going down, eyes darker for the shadow of ruddy brows' furrowing. "Whoda thought."
Laelle watches him approach, her features never changing as the large man nears. It's only when he grins that her jaw flexes, as if she slides her own teeth together in reaction to R'vain's sparkling smile. But she lifts a brow for his words, perhaps for the delivery as much as the content. Otherwise, there is no reaction. Her arms stay folded and her eyes are steady on him, aloof and waiting. Definately waiting.
"R'vain. Weyrlingmaster. Y'must be in Caucus. Ain't been too long?" Again with the tongue, but without the sound this time; it just warps his lip for a moment, then vanishes into his mouth where it belongs. He sidesteps, angling toward her, and puts a paw up on the wall about a foot away from her shoulder, higher than that; his elbow bends enough for him to lean, half-closing her in. So arranged he takes the opportunity to look over her dress. His eyes linger at the throat, the breast, the hip, even the feet, as if he's seen the heels of the boots. "Gorgeous," he adds, then, teeth glaring as he gets his eyes back up to, well, eye level. "Have a nice time?"
Laelle's eyes watch him, watch his mouth. Prim as she might appear, with her delicate build and clean, white dress, she doesn't shy away as he looms closer. There is no flinching as his large hand claims the wall so near her or as his gaze rests so blatantly on the shape of her body. Her chin lifts for his assessment and she corrects him, something sly on her lips when she speaks, and something slow about the way her tongue delivers her name. "Laelle. And yes." She leaves that answer without specifying the question it belongs to.
"Laelle." He inflects it not the way she did, but the way he spoke 'Gorgeous' before, only with hunger behind it. "Pity I missed you, then. Can't say th'weyrwoman was right ready t'have too nice a time after th'/scene/ th'men got into. My apologies, on behalf 'the Weyr, on that, anyway." The hand not held up on the wall-- the left, the one that wears the slim and tidy bandage around the palm, fingers left free-- comes up to the back of his head and ruffles up the short-cropped hair there. This has exactly no lasting influence on his hairstyle, or lack of one, and the hand falls back to his hip in a loose curl thereafter. "'Fraid I can't place where y'from. Mind if I ask?"
For the 'pity', Laelle has only a close-lipped hm of response, though it's now her turn to size up the stranger. Her eyes sweep down to his shoes and then, as they drift back up again, track that bandaged hand lifting to his red hair. Curiosity tightens her gaze back to his eyes. "You were involved?" she asks. And for the latter part, her lips twist again. "You can ask."
"In th'fighting? No." His mouth twists. "Had a mind t'haul D'ven out've it but he managed not t'get /in/ so weren't necessary. Oh. Y'mean." He uncurls the hand from his hip and gives it a little shake, fingers wriggling. He does not bother to glance down at it; let /her/ gaze travel him again, if it likes. His shoulders lean back, his spine straight, prepared. "S'from sevens ago. Just a burn. So." R'vain's mouth splits wide and toothy again, his eyes widening from their predatory narrow to something almost flirtatious. "Where y'from?"
"Mmhm." Laelle's noise of 'yes, I'm listening' gets a little longer this time, but she seems to be losing interest in his answers. She may glance at the bandaged hand again, but she seems unimpressed with the story, or the lack of story perhaps. Her eyes drift across the cavern and she leaves off leaning against the wall to stand upright. However, when he smiles again the glaze leaves her eyes. "Nerat," she tells him. She untucks a hand from her side so that she can brush thin fingertip against the smooth line of her jaw, then trace the curve beneath her ear down her neck. "Have you been there?"
He caught, obviously, the moment of distraction, of boredom, of glaze. That must be why he shifts his paw closer to her along the wall. Why he leans in closer to her, smile twisting, teeth shining. Emerald gaze follows the path of her finger, and as they do his tongue makes another appearance between those brilliant teeth, slips up over them, and disappears again. "Near," he allows, somehow attending to the conversation just enough to take part. He speaks fluidly, unthinkingly, nostrils flaring as from her throat his gaze slinks back up by way of her mouth again to her kohl-lined eyes. "Near'n here, anyway. Island coast off Ista. Place I used t'-- "
And then it all sort of falls apart. His jaw sets, unjoints, and sets again, teeth grinding. His eyes cast their own shadows, deepened by the furrowing of ruddy brows-- and R'vain leans back, shoulders tightening, back straightening. "Go," he grunts, not what he'd been about to say.
It's the natural progression of her fingers' path to find the black beads around her neck, toying with it so that the light glints off each shining orb, a shimmering line that disappears down the front of her snug dress. Surely such a thing is not on purpose and has nothing to do with him leaning in closer and then pulling back again. Laelle's eyes watch him, her smile cat-like. "Well, if you're ever down that way," she says, slowly, "You'll have to taste the fruit. Nerat has the best." Let him grunt and furrow his brows, it doesn't damp the twist of her wry lips. "It was nice to meet you, R'vain." She's getting ready to turn away.
And R'vain, his mood spoiled beyond the place where inviting shadows and the disappearance of black beads into them can improve him, is ready to let her. He even yanks down his paw off the wall, a little hurried, as if he's been burnt. But his mouth twists, even as his paws go for pockets that his fine dress coat doesn't have, fail to find them, and fall limp to his sides. He lets off a half-shrug and narrows his eyes on her once more, thoughtful, trying to regain it. He fails, evidently-- but the trying is not wholly without effect. It gives him spirit enough, just, to growl out his reply. "And nice t'meet you, gorgeous."
After that he turns too, and heads off the nearest corridor into darkness, his choice for the rest of his hunt made for him.
Where: The lower caverns
What: During the wee hours of post-party clean-up, Laelle is approached by R'vain.
It's been, for the Reaches' Weyrlingmaster, a very bad turn. And all of the badness, stored up in his black little heart, is expressing right now, in this time when reasonable people would be sleeping or partying or-- as the lesser members of the weyr's staff are doing-- working. There are no shortage of people in the lower caverns whose first tasks for the new turn are to clean up the results of a party and a fight, to prepare the breakfast and the klah-- lots of klah-- for the morning. No shortage of those people are women. So R'vain, acting out, goes hunting.
Whether he's had success or is only just beginning the prowl might be hard to guess. His jacket's undone and the black shirt beneath open from the throat to mid-chest, framing brilliant orange curls. He stalks out of a dark passageway that leads out toward stores through the main hub of the lower caverns, sticking near the wall. A little way through he pauses and squints that narrow emerald stare around at the other exits from the cavern, apparently thoughtful; his tongue goes up over his upper teeth, warping his lip into a sneer, and sucks back down, *tschk.* The cavern's quiet enough, at this early hour, that the sound seems sudden and echoes.
The traffic in this cavern, the constant trickle of people eagerly heading back to the party or tiredly heading back to their beds, only manages to highlight the stillness of the tall young woman standing by the passage to the living cavern. Her white and black attire paint her plainly as party-goer, but now she leans gingerly against the wall, her head bowed so that her forehead can press to the cool stone. Her arms are folded in front of her and her eyes are low enough to fan her lashes against her freckled cheeks. That strange sound wakes her up, those lashes flicking open so that her watchful eyes can seek out the source. They find R'vain.
It takes him a moment to feel the pressure of eyes upon him. It takes him a moment longer to change the sweep of his scope to hone in on people rather than exits, on marks rather than the maze. Upon Laelle that narrow gaze grows narrower still, but as wicked as the squint may be, the grin is broad and clean, filled with brilliant clean white teeth, an unlikely testament to the place of wine in a good program for dental hygeine. Something of a growl rumbles around in the back of his throat, but that's hard to hear from a few passageways away. He gets it under control and is silent by the time he prowls toward her, cutting clean across the cavern's center to make his approach. A laundress going by with some of the table linens from the celebration upstairs in a basket in her arms goes well out of her way to stay six feet or better away from the enormous red man's path, but R'vain lends her trouble no notice.
"It's you," he remarks, like he knows her, four feet from Laelle, voice low and rough around the edges. He bends his head a little, chin going down, eyes darker for the shadow of ruddy brows' furrowing. "Whoda thought."
Laelle watches him approach, her features never changing as the large man nears. It's only when he grins that her jaw flexes, as if she slides her own teeth together in reaction to R'vain's sparkling smile. But she lifts a brow for his words, perhaps for the delivery as much as the content. Otherwise, there is no reaction. Her arms stay folded and her eyes are steady on him, aloof and waiting. Definately waiting.
"R'vain. Weyrlingmaster. Y'must be in Caucus. Ain't been too long?" Again with the tongue, but without the sound this time; it just warps his lip for a moment, then vanishes into his mouth where it belongs. He sidesteps, angling toward her, and puts a paw up on the wall about a foot away from her shoulder, higher than that; his elbow bends enough for him to lean, half-closing her in. So arranged he takes the opportunity to look over her dress. His eyes linger at the throat, the breast, the hip, even the feet, as if he's seen the heels of the boots. "Gorgeous," he adds, then, teeth glaring as he gets his eyes back up to, well, eye level. "Have a nice time?"
Laelle's eyes watch him, watch his mouth. Prim as she might appear, with her delicate build and clean, white dress, she doesn't shy away as he looms closer. There is no flinching as his large hand claims the wall so near her or as his gaze rests so blatantly on the shape of her body. Her chin lifts for his assessment and she corrects him, something sly on her lips when she speaks, and something slow about the way her tongue delivers her name. "Laelle. And yes." She leaves that answer without specifying the question it belongs to.
"Laelle." He inflects it not the way she did, but the way he spoke 'Gorgeous' before, only with hunger behind it. "Pity I missed you, then. Can't say th'weyrwoman was right ready t'have too nice a time after th'/scene/ th'men got into. My apologies, on behalf 'the Weyr, on that, anyway." The hand not held up on the wall-- the left, the one that wears the slim and tidy bandage around the palm, fingers left free-- comes up to the back of his head and ruffles up the short-cropped hair there. This has exactly no lasting influence on his hairstyle, or lack of one, and the hand falls back to his hip in a loose curl thereafter. "'Fraid I can't place where y'from. Mind if I ask?"
For the 'pity', Laelle has only a close-lipped hm of response, though it's now her turn to size up the stranger. Her eyes sweep down to his shoes and then, as they drift back up again, track that bandaged hand lifting to his red hair. Curiosity tightens her gaze back to his eyes. "You were involved?" she asks. And for the latter part, her lips twist again. "You can ask."
"In th'fighting? No." His mouth twists. "Had a mind t'haul D'ven out've it but he managed not t'get /in/ so weren't necessary. Oh. Y'mean." He uncurls the hand from his hip and gives it a little shake, fingers wriggling. He does not bother to glance down at it; let /her/ gaze travel him again, if it likes. His shoulders lean back, his spine straight, prepared. "S'from sevens ago. Just a burn. So." R'vain's mouth splits wide and toothy again, his eyes widening from their predatory narrow to something almost flirtatious. "Where y'from?"
"Mmhm." Laelle's noise of 'yes, I'm listening' gets a little longer this time, but she seems to be losing interest in his answers. She may glance at the bandaged hand again, but she seems unimpressed with the story, or the lack of story perhaps. Her eyes drift across the cavern and she leaves off leaning against the wall to stand upright. However, when he smiles again the glaze leaves her eyes. "Nerat," she tells him. She untucks a hand from her side so that she can brush thin fingertip against the smooth line of her jaw, then trace the curve beneath her ear down her neck. "Have you been there?"
He caught, obviously, the moment of distraction, of boredom, of glaze. That must be why he shifts his paw closer to her along the wall. Why he leans in closer to her, smile twisting, teeth shining. Emerald gaze follows the path of her finger, and as they do his tongue makes another appearance between those brilliant teeth, slips up over them, and disappears again. "Near," he allows, somehow attending to the conversation just enough to take part. He speaks fluidly, unthinkingly, nostrils flaring as from her throat his gaze slinks back up by way of her mouth again to her kohl-lined eyes. "Near'n here, anyway. Island coast off Ista. Place I used t'-- "
And then it all sort of falls apart. His jaw sets, unjoints, and sets again, teeth grinding. His eyes cast their own shadows, deepened by the furrowing of ruddy brows-- and R'vain leans back, shoulders tightening, back straightening. "Go," he grunts, not what he'd been about to say.
It's the natural progression of her fingers' path to find the black beads around her neck, toying with it so that the light glints off each shining orb, a shimmering line that disappears down the front of her snug dress. Surely such a thing is not on purpose and has nothing to do with him leaning in closer and then pulling back again. Laelle's eyes watch him, her smile cat-like. "Well, if you're ever down that way," she says, slowly, "You'll have to taste the fruit. Nerat has the best." Let him grunt and furrow his brows, it doesn't damp the twist of her wry lips. "It was nice to meet you, R'vain." She's getting ready to turn away.
And R'vain, his mood spoiled beyond the place where inviting shadows and the disappearance of black beads into them can improve him, is ready to let her. He even yanks down his paw off the wall, a little hurried, as if he's been burnt. But his mouth twists, even as his paws go for pockets that his fine dress coat doesn't have, fail to find them, and fall limp to his sides. He lets off a half-shrug and narrows his eyes on her once more, thoughtful, trying to regain it. He fails, evidently-- but the trying is not wholly without effect. It gives him spirit enough, just, to growl out his reply. "And nice t'meet you, gorgeous."
After that he turns too, and heads off the nearest corridor into darkness, his choice for the rest of his hunt made for him.