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11/17/2001
Logfile from G'deon
MOO Time: 2001-11-17 16:36:09
Weyrleader's Weyr (#5312)
The dusty smell of parchment and hide wafts lightly through this large Weyr,
though from time to time there might be found a packet of aromatic herbs or
a vase of flowers set in the few open areas on the many shelves and cabinets.
A wide but shallow fireplace has been carved into one wall, using an old natural
vent to whisk away the smoke. Opposite the fireplace is a wide desk, the top
tilted at an angle so that the maps hanging from the top can easily be seen
from the large table in the middle of the weyr. Several sturdy chairs have been
set around the table, well-padded for those long discussion sections. Finally,
towards the very back of the weyr, a rather long couch has been setup, comfortable
enough for long bouts of reading or the occasionally needed nap.
Obvious exits:
Ledge -- Stairs
G'deon (#19620)
G'deon appears at first glance to be quite calm and collected, though a mischievous
gleam seems to tint his blue eyes from time to time. He has grown into a rather
well built frame and finally stopped growing a few inches over six feet. Many
Turns of hard work have helped his shoulders fill out considerably, along with
his arms, hands and chest. His legs however are still the wiry limbs of his
youth, which he will never lose. His sandy blond hair is kept quite clean, but
it is beginning to grow out a little on top managing to look a bit tousled at
times, a golden frame for a lightly tanned face accented by his calm eyes of
sapphire, clear and blue as the summer sky over High Reaches.
A tunic of dark blue wool, the color of the ocean deep, fits like a glove to
his well-built chest but offers a little peek; it flows out loose at the shoulders,
the collar left open wide, allowing whoever cares to look a glimpse of what
lies inside. Breeches of darkly tanned leather pour down from the narrow waist,
fitting with ne'er a wrinkle, wiry limbs brandy-encased. A softened luster glimmers
from this young rider's hide, but nothing compares to those gleaming boots,
dark like the silence of night.
Unwavering shadows intertwine with the deep dark blue of a glacier, the two
cords forming three glossy loops, mingled throughout with a fine ribbon of shimmering
bronze, and two shinning silver tassels hang from the top of the knot naming
G'deon as the Weyrleader of High Reaches.
He is awake and looks alert.
G'deon is 24 Turns, 7 months, and 13 days old.
Nylanth senses Cadgwith's thoughts lap in an unusually gentle incoming tide. << He is lonely and needs somebody. Chanticoth and his rider will not be back for some time.... Pyrene will make him feel better. >> This much she understands and approves of.
Nylanth reaches out of the rather drowsy state he'd fallen into just now, his mindvoice a muddled mix of hazy blues and greys and mellow tones. << No, it is not good for him to be lonely. And I am too tired to keep him company... Perhaps that would be best. >> Not that he can quite think things through too well as he immediately falls silent again. >>
Pyrene comes in from the ledge, briefly silhouetted.
Pyrene (#11964)
Slight and spindly, her frame is nevertheless held as stubbornly tall as possible,
falling only just shy of average height. Curves have in part softened the sharp
angles of old, leading sharp and scrawny towards thin and trim, while breast
and hip bear slim testament to her motherhood. Still, there's nothing neat about
the shrewish set of her limbs, or about the skimpy plait that struggles to keep
her hair under control. Lank dark brown tendrils escape it to plague her point-nosed,
thin-lipped face, only serving to emphasise the peakiness of her complexion.
Yet if there were any doubts about her vitality, the grey eyes that snap out
from beneath dark brows eliminate them as effectively as twin thunderstorms.
Poldhu is playing with Pyrene's knot. Kernow watches from Pyrene's shoulder
in wide-eyed curiosity.
Black, blue and sea-washed gold tangle their way over the badge worn by all
members of Esprit wing.
She is awake, but has been staring off into space for a minute.
Pyrene is 26 Turns, 10 months, and 6 days old.
Nylanth> Weyrleader's Ledge
Nylanth> This amply large ledge has been worn smooth over hundreds of Turns,
old gouges and new appearing here and there from the countless dragons who have
visited from time to time. A heavy leather flap covers the entrance to the weyr
to keep the heat inside and the cool out, but it can be easily rolled up when
the weather is pleasant.
Nylanth> It is an autumn midmorning. As the sun creeps up in the sky, the
gentle breeze blows through the trees, their leaves green with fringes of brown
and golds as the fall cooler nights prepare them for the winter.
Nylanth> To the north, you see two people.
Nylanth> To the southeast, you see Chanticoth.
Nylanth> Gold Cadgwith is here.
Nylanth> Obvious exits:
Nylanth> Weyr -- Fly
Pyrene slips into the weyr as silently as possible, thanking Faranth that it's dark inside. She pauses a moment, letting her eyes adjust as far as they can. The shadow that is G'deon is picked out as much by the sound of his breathing as anything--her own breath is all but held, as she tries to figure out exactly what she means to do.
Nylanth> Cadgwith
Nylanth> Intrepid she is, this leviathan queen, with no siren's grace to
refine the monstrous length of her serpentine form. Rising like a kraken from
the depths of her inky, night-black claws to the coral-strewn twilight of wings'
erratic spars, a distant song of gold froths the tangled sargassum of that ill-fitting
hide, and ebbs undaunted up untidy curves of neck and head. The salt-encrusted
canvas of her capsizing 'sails, windthrown and weathered to palest sea-glass,
brines a flotsam of shadows across the expanse of her imposing withers, and
brindles the fragmented abalone that pearls her full flanks and awkward, silver-shiny
tail.
Nylanth> Slippery lengths of leather are lashed to the mast of her neck and
hang from ridges' clefts to straggle around her forelimbs. Tossed as flotsam
on the waves of hide, they lie where they have been hurled, fixed, however erratic
their design, by the shell-silver buckles. Spare straps fly free, lifelines
for would-be passengers or cargo, yet they can but provide a hope of riding
out her storm, not defying it.
Nylanth> Cadgwith is 7 Turns, 1 month, and 8 days old.
Nylanth> She is 81 feet (27m) long, with a wingspan of 135 feet (45m).
Nylanth> Cadgwith seems to be listening.
G'deon is sprawled rather haphazardly on the couch far in the back, boots discarded far off to the side along with his riding jacket. On the table there is still a mostly empty skin of wine and an empty glass, but other than that, this weyr at least is rather orderly. And definitely dark. And quiet. A good place to escape perhaps?
Pyrene approaches the couch, chewing on her lip. Her feet are bare, and despite her relative blindness and only slight familiarity with the weyr she manages to feel her way across the room without a sound. It no doubt helps that it's neater than her own.... Reaching G'deon she hesitates for a long moment, before finally stretching out one hand and touching his shoulder.
G'deon lifts the arm that had been thrown across his eyes and peers up, squinting but not quite able to make anything out. He starts to sit up a bit but doesn't quite manage it, offering a weak greeting and smile. "I didn't expect to see you here," he comments while rather numbly running fingers through tousled hair. "Everything was fine with sweeps?" he mumbles, falling back to the couch and taking Pyrene's hand surprisingly gently. But assuming it's Ilare's, of course.
Pyrene closes her eyes, shutting out a world she can't see anyway. When she opens them again, she's resolved. A soft 'ssh' is all she dares to voice, letting her free hand place a finger over his lips while the other clutches his. One leg comes up to rest on the couch, and she kneels over him, her hand moving aside so she can venture a kiss.
G'deon smiles softly, leaning towards Pyrene a little as he shifts over to make more room. One hand lifts as he traces his fingers rather clumsily across her cheek, a definite lack of coordination. No need for resolution really on his side, and no warning that things are not as he believe as Nylanth has fallen into a nicely deep slumber.
Pyrene is wearing a skirt, and her clothing can be easily adjusted. Desire, however shallow it may be, overcomes any other reservations and with Cadgwith setting store by her rider's happiness, Pyrene readily slides next to G'deon and finally permits herself to take him in her arms and place herself in his.
G'deon wraps his arms lazily around Pyrene and laughs softly, more of an amused rumble really as he lifts her just a bit. "I'm afraid, my dear, I've had a bit too much wine for once. You feel light as a feather," he adds, still grinning as he leans up for a leisurely kiss.
Pyrene rather hopes that by 'too much wine' he doesn't mean /too/ much wine. She smiles against his kiss though, taking bliss in the moment and ignoring what may result afterwards. And when it comes down to it, she's no shy innocent. Her previous experience proves enough to overcome any dampener of wine, and suddenly the moment is one that is very easy to get lost in.
[And a little later (no need to inflate his ego)]
G'deon stretches slowly, arms linking rather possessively around Pyrene as he nuzzles gently against her neck, caught in that hazy state close to sleep, though the effects of the wine are quickly wearing off. After a long moment he pauses, sitting up just a little, or trying to at least. Arms are still around Pyrene, but hesitantly he moves a hand to one shoulder, then her hip, and after a long pause asks, "Ilare? Are you asleep?" Is that a hint of nervousness in his voice?
Pyrene wants to linger in the afterglow awhile longer. Certainly she doesn't want to answer to Ilare's name--nor remind him of her own. No sand available, she burrows her head into his neck, still very aware of his skin against her own. However she also knows that the slightness of her body will give her away, voice or not.
G'deon swallows quickly, eyes darting to look out towards the unseen ledge, but as before, no help there. He settles down on the couch again, eyes shut tight as he carefully runs a hand over Pyrene's hair... that is definitely not curly like Ilare's, and he's already begun to catch on to other differences. Finally he tries to peer through the darkness, one hand gently trying to make Pyrene face him.
Pyrene sighs softly, and places one hand over G'deon's, turning her face up towards his. The usual storm in her eyes is quiet now, and she regards him with neither penitence nor defiance. Sorrow, but not regret; wistfulness, but not hope. Even now, she chooses not to speak. Any actions from now on are his call. She owes him that much.
G'deon stays very still for a very long moment, just staring down at Pyrene with a rather blank expression. Even if he can't see clearly, he can see enough. While a tiny, confused frown appears, he turns his hand to simply hold Pyrene's for a moment. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize," he mumbles, just above a whisper. With a soft grimace he begins to sit up, carefully manoeuvring until he succeeds. "Shells, Pyrene, I really didn't mean to. I wasn't thinking," he adds more quickly, that nervous sense more notable in his voice now. "I shouldn't have just assumed.. well, anything really." Of course, the fact that there doesn't seem to be much distress from either the gold rider or her lifemate hasn't reached him yet.
Pyrene kneels again, perhaps a little frightened by the irreversibility of her actions, but unwilling to release him so easily. Pressing herself against his back, her arms rest loosely across his chest and now she speaks, a low murmur. "You don't need to apologise for anything, G'deon..." Hesitant, but unable to resist trying, she adds: "We did nothing wrong."
G'deon allows a look of relief to pass over his face as he turns his head towards Pyrene slowly, giving a tentative smile that perhaps was meant to be reassuring either to Pyrene or himself. "Are you sure?" he ventures quietly, turning just a bit more. "Flight or no, Pyrene, I'd hate to think I took advantage... I really didn't think." He takes a slow, deep breath and tries to take one of her hands in his own before adding, "You're all right?" not quite remembering every detail. Like who started what perhaps.
For her part, Pyrene allows hope to feature in her emotional turmoil again. "Ilare wasn't here and flights are a part of Weyr life. You /didn't/ take advantage of me, I..." She trails off, leaning in for a kiss.
G'deon does wince a little as Ilare's name is mentioned, but he certainly can't argue with Pyrene's first statement. He does, however, pull back as she leans in, just enough to notice. "Pyrene... I can't," he tells her, his voice barely audible and none too steady.
Pyrene's face tightens and turns down. She kisses his shoulder instead, her head bowed over that as she picks up her sentence. "I'd always be there for you, Gid." Hardly fair of her to insinuate that Ilare isn't, but she's gone further than that already.
"You're a good friend, Pyrene," G'deon replies, reaching around to hold her gently, possibly hoping to soften his words. "And you always have been. I hope I can do the same, but I just can't be more than that." He leans back to peer carefully at Pyrene's face, a shadow of worry on his own.
Pyrene starts crying--and is clearly furious with herself for doing so. "I know, I know," she blurts out in the curt way of somebody ignoring their own tears. "I'd better go now... Ilare will be back soon." And Cadge is on the verge of storming into the weyr to soothe her rider. Pulling her clothes about her with rough intensity, she waits until she is decent before she looks at the Weyrleader again. "Will you tell her?"
Looking quite awkward as Pyrene begins to cry, G'deon tries not to look at her, not really knowing what he should be doing. And at her question he freezes. Obviously he hadn't quite gotten this far in the thought process "I guess I'd better," he finally replies in a rather dull tone. "I'm sure she'll be all right with it. Eventually." Or so he hopes. "/You'll/ be all right, won't you?" he asks, grasping for some sort of reassurance that not everything has been botched by this eventful night.
"I'll be fine," Pyrene returns weakly, wiping her eyes. "I won't say anything to Ilare... it's up to you." She feels very tired all of a sudden and is no longer sure whether she should be glad or sorry for the night they've just spent. She turns a wan smile on G'deon, starts to say something else and then changes her mind, walking slowly out of the weyr.
[End of log]