During Shadhavarth's Flight

Western Weyr - Center of the Bowl
This is the center of the huge oval crater of the Weyr. Standing here you can see how immense it is. The cliff sides rise up all around you, dotted with the caves of the dragon rider's weyrs. To the west you can see the arch open to the sea. North is the hatching grounds, south you see the cave entrance to the living caverns, and to the south east the entrance to the infirmary, raised a little from the weyr wall.

It's a balmy evening and, if one ignores the omnipresent heaviness of impending gold flight, really quite lovely out. Rhysanna is plainly doing her best to ignore all of that, and heads out of the caverns with a wrap trailing over one shoulder, attention wholly focused - it seems - on the western end of the bowl, and the ocean beyond it. She's clearly not looking where she's going, and for the most part, people seem to be doing a decent job of stepping out of her way… though there are a few scowling glances in her direction all the same.

Quite a lovely evening indeed! The warm weather, the gentle breezes, the light on the clouds - really, it's wonderful, except for the weight in the air that's more than just humidity. The expectant weight of… well, never mind that. Life goes on! And Takapola goes on too. He's coming across the bowl from the oceanside, but not directly from there. Oh no. If he were, he might be easier to see! But he's trying to stay out of the way. Why, you might ask? Because he's carrying a stack of sloshing buckets filled with brine and shellfish. They make it a little hard to see where he's going, and so while he sees enough to dodge one of the people dodging Rhysanna, he doesn't actually see her. Thus, he doesn't dodge. This may be bad.

May be bad? No, this is definitely going to be bad. Rhysanna strides onwards (though 'strides' is probably the wrong word - she's graceful, even in this distracted state of hers), oblivious, right until the point of impact: the force of her (admittedly slender) body into his, followed by the inevitable squeal of horror and pain. Bang.

Might be awful, terrible, horrible, hideous - all sorts of things! Bad's just a starting point. And oh, does it start. It's not that Rhysanna's heavy (nor would Takapola dream of calling her that, of course!) but it's that Takapola isn't exactly expecting it, and he was maybe (definitely) carrying more buckets than he should have in an attempt to get done with this quickly. He stumbles backward, feeling the buckets shift. "Yeep!" He tries to catch - welp, not that one, it's falling forward and splashing its contents toward Rhysanna's front. Seawater and little shrimplike things. And… not the one that tumbles over his shoulder and sends a clatter of clams down his back. But… well. At least he's carrying fewer buckets, now?

That squeal turns into something higher pitched and horrible as Rhysanna realizes, properly, that not only has she been hit, she's also been hit with wet, smelly, awful things. She's also wearing white, though at least the fabric is sturdy enough that it doesn't immediately turn see-through. "Ahh," she squeals, flailing backwards, her hands in the air and waving around dramatically. "Get it off, get it off, get it off! That's so gross."

…and has also caused an incident! "Oh, well, it's not so bad!" Takapola says as he attempts to angle things such that he can actually see what it is that he's claiming is not so bad. "It'll be fine!" Sure it will. He sets down the buckets in a series of thumps (another of them falls sideways) and heads after Rhysanna. "Hey now, I'm sure they don't want to be on you any more than you want them." He's got a reassuring grin, tone cheerful. "I'll just pick them off, no harm done!"

"Pick them off," repeats Rhysanna, raising carefully sculpted eyebrows so that she can stare at Takapola. A pink flush is beginning to creep across her cheeks, and there's a shiver in her shoulders that has nothing to do with the not-very-cold salt water she's covered in. "I was born and raised in this Weyr," she says, abruptly calmer in a still-carrying-the-edge-of-hysteria kind of way. "And there is a queen—" she flings a hand up. "And I should let you touch me?"

Takapola nods. That is, in fact, what he suggested! He doesn't come closer, though the way he's looking at her… well, it might just be him paying attention to her. Polite and respectful! Then again, the intensity of it might have something to do with that queen who's… "Well. It's that," he says in a practical tone, voice still sounding cheerful despite both that pressure in the air and the tone she's taken, "Or you have to touch them." Takapola or crawly shrimp things, which is worse? …you can take your time in answering.

Rhysanna's gaze drops down to her dress and the mess that's been made of it. She looks utterly torn— and the color in her cheeks has darkened further. Chewing carefully on her lower lip, in a gesture that she's probably not even aware of, she considers. "Get them off," she declares, abruptly, between gritted teeth. "Be quick. Don't… linger." It's really not her fault that Shadhavarth is making that 'lingering' sound better than it might otherwise. Shh.

Takapola waits. He even tries to keep his eyes up. But it's harder when Rhysanna's not looking at him to remind him that her eyes are up there. He's just… uh… assessing the damage. And… the… poor clothing that's gone and gotten wet. Not that… Takapola cares about fashion. It's more… "Uh." His gaze jerks back up as she speaks again. What him? He wasn't doing anything. Certainly not anything that might be influenced or encouraged by a golden dragon who… "Yes indeed. Fast as-" a dragon rising? There's a faint flush to his eartips as he cuts himself off, stepping closer. "Barely even touch! Like ships and icebergs. Which don't touch at all… unless they ram into each other." Not that he can actually avoid touching, but while his mouth may run on, his fingers are light, aiming for the shrimp instead of Rhysanna herself. If they do end up brushing her occasionally - and if he has to look in order to pick off the shrimp - well, he can't exactly help that, now can he?

Dryly, "Well, we've already done that." Rhysanna's brow quirks as she says that, clearly referring to the iceberg analogy. Now, though, she's going to stand very still, and try, it seems, to even avoid breathing while there are hands in her vicinity. And no, it's really not her fault that she has goosebumps all up her arms, now. It's really not. It's still probably a good thing that she's not looking at him to see where his eyes are. A little breath escapes, slightly uneven. "You are never, ever going to tell anyone about this," she instructs him.

"So we have!" Takapola agrees. He doesn't look up, but that's because he's being quick and effective about getting those shrimp off. "So there'll be no touching." At least not on purpose. Or, well, of a lingering sort. Not that… there's not a little voice in the back of his head saying that wouldn't that be a fine idea. Because really, it would, but… nope. Picking shrimp, that's him. Shrimp that grow on Rhysanna-trees. "What's to tell?" he answers. "Icebergs don't make for good stories. Too cold." He glances up, then back down. Aaand… there. He thinks that's the last one?

Maybe cold is good. Like… cold showers. Cold showers would be good, right? Rhysanna very carefully keeps her gaze averted right until those hands retreat; only then can she give Takapola a glance again. "Thank you," she says, with enormous care in her tone, as though she's doing her very best to keep any unwanted emotions (or worse) out of it. She's only partially successful: gold dragons are loud. "No icebergs," she says, quickly and abruptly. "And no stories. None. Nothing happened. The weather is lovely today."

Yeah, Takapola isn't exactly thinking about cold showers. More like hot, uh… he grins. "No need to thank me. Or grab the buckets and throw them over my head. Which is probably what you'd rather do." …or, well, do the things that a goldflight wants to suggest, and his gaze darts away, out across the bowl. "No?" he says to those icebergs. "What about…" And no stories, either. "Huh. Guess it is. Lovely… white… clouds."

Lovely white clouds? No, gold and fire burned together in a melded mix of color. That's what's in the sky. Or at least Loxiath, as the brown flies low over the bowl to come to a landing. Best not to fly too high with /that/ sort of flight going on. Especially not with V'ric riding. That could get..awkward. Very quickly. The dragon's muzzle turns towards where many of the other dragons have flown as his rider dismounts, and the man offers a faint snort. "You were fine not joining in before, don't bother now." And at least the dragon doesn't seem too eager to do so, settling down to rest on the ground a bit lazily.

The warm, Western air has not yet managed to dry Rhysanna's clothes: her white dress is not transparent, but it's not that far off. And, once again, she shivers. The way she wraps her arms about herself? That's rather more, it seems, for self-preservation. Especially since she's sort of, kind of, well, staring at Takapola now. Stupid Shadhavarth. "I—" she begins. And then, thankfully, V'ric and Loxiath interrupt her, and her gaze peels away so that she can glance at him instead.

But it's such a warm evening. So very warm. Gold and fire and… Takapola should probably be picking up his burden, at least what's left of it, and be scuttling away elsewhere to put it away. He should at least stop running his mouth - though he manages that when Rhysanna starts talking, listening to her ever-so-attentively for that entire word. Syllable. But that's all there is, because there's a brown dragon descending to the bowl and a rider descending from his back. Takapola's gaze stays on them as he takes a step, crab-scuttle sideways, that… ends up putting him closer to Rhysanna.

V'ric does seem to notice that there are people. Really, he's not so lacking in all social graces that he isn't at least polite enough to acknowledge people. Though there's a bit of a pause…then a stare. An..odd sight, they do make. One brow lifts just slightly though, before the brownrider's head simply tilts. "You're wet." Quiet, obvious, and a bit gruff, really, but the brownrider's attention has in fact zeroed in on Rhysanna's..overabundance of dampness. His gaze flicks to Tak then, and his buckets, before simply sighing. "Do I want to know?"

It's entirely possible that Rhysanna had completely forgotten about the 'wet' part of the accident, now that the 'squirmy disgusting creatures' component has been resolved. V'ric's words remind her; she flushes, dark pink behind the bronze tan of her skin. Also, Takapola is standing closer to her, and as if her body can sense that - betrayed as it is by the flight hormones in the air - she shivers again. "There was an accident," she says, hastily, still pink. "It's fine. I'll dry. I should—" Go inside and get changed? But she doesn't.

Takapola slips hands behind his back. It's practically instinct, after all his turns as an apprentice. Look innocent. He's gotta look innocent. He's gotta… look to Rhysanna? Ohwait. No. That's not what he's gotta do, and he once more drags his eyes again, though not before noting that shiver and taking a somewhat more pronounced than usual breath in response. Nothing going on here. Nope. Just, well… that's right, an accident. He nods. "Still warm out," he confirms. "It's just water."

One says accident, another says…accident! "Apparently." V'ric simply shakes his head a little bit though, still seeming to size the pair up calmly enough. Whatever hormones are filtering in around them, the brownrider seems quite unaffected. Loxiath even rumbles faintly as he peers over his rider at the two jittery things. "Fine, so long as you aren't slinging buckets." Can't be throwing water /purposefully/, after all.

"Oh no, no," says Rhysanna, hastily. At least she has one of those innocent faces: the kind that blush prettily, instead of awkwardly, though the awkward is still tending to slip in at the moment. "No, it was entirely an accident." Her gaze flutters away from V'ric, and back towards Takapola, rather as though she can't help herself. Her arms, still clasped around her wet dress, tighten. This is just getting awful, and no doubt made worse by the draconic tango of love. "We just tripped into each other." Destiny.

"So that's what they call it these days," mutters a creepy little stranger as he rights his tipped over wheel barrow and begins to put the small wooden crates back into it. They don't say fragile or anything so it has to be alright, right? Carrick clears his throat, puts his hips into it and process to inch the thing down the road. Thankfully he didn't lose his paperwork giving him permission to travel within the weyr on his stop.

There is nothing awkward about this situation. Nope! Takapola's hands are tucked behind him, which… really, is probably for the best. If they weren't, they might be tempted to reach for Rhysanna, but she's safely in front of him, not near his hands. "No flinging anything." Eeexcept all that water that's got them wet. And the assorted sealife strewn around them that hasn't been picked up yet. But besides that, there's nothing at all flung anywhere. Just… uh… he glances to Rhysanna, and of course it's at the same moment that she's looking at him. Because eyes meeting, that won't make things worse at… "All. That's all!" He shoves a grin on his face as he tugs his eyes away to, oh, he doesn't know, how about… Carrick? Or… actually, how about not. "All my fault, anyhow," he adds as he looks back to V'ric. All his fault. That they tripped into each other. Yep.

What's that in the distance?! It's… it's getting closer! It's a bird, it's a dragon, it's… Western's Weyrsecond! The bronzerider looks, for all the world, as if he's out on a mission and something within that mission's context needs killing. Where the rider is usually smiles, and laughter, and charismatic charm, he's been reduced to a five o'clock shadow, labored breathing, and one hand jammed tightly into his side as he does a kind of… walk-hobble towards the group of gagglers in the bowl. His tunic has been haphazardly pulled over his head - and not all the way down - so there's a fair-share of well-toned abdomen littered with scars showing. Even his hair is a tousled mess to complement the… state… of his being. He doesn't seem to notice anybody else standing out and about, however; no, the bronzerider seems focused on one person and one person only, whose name comes out on a husky growl. "V'ric…" Grey eyes shift only then, to take in Taka, Rhys, and Carrick… but there's absolutely no acknowledgement at all, at least not until his focus is back on his best friend. "Interrupting something…?"

The wheelbarrow and crates get V'ric's attention momentarily. He even opens his mouth must a tad to speak up at this..unfamiliar person, but the descending cloud of Ila'den is one that he grants his attention to, taking in the man's appearance with a faint tilt of his head. He winces a moment later though, nodding to his friend quietly even as he takes a glance down the bronzerider's side. "Only nothing." Of course his friend isn't interrupting! "You've got numbweed on it, at least?" It's expectant, really, and he gives another glance down to where Ila'den's hand is at his side before his gaze lifts again, eyeing the other man suspiciously.

Rhysanna just… looks at Takapola. And then lets out a muttered, huffing sound of dismay, the kind that is almost a whine. She's probably lucky (for a given definition of lucky) that Ila'den's arrival works as a distraction: he may not pay her any attention, but at least he pulls his gaze away. It's enough to make the wheels of her mind start turning, and this time, when she glances back at Takapola, it's to tell him: "You should clean up that mess. it should… we shouldn't just be standing here."

Carrick stops for a moment and peers at the people with his one eye, tilting his head just right to get them all without having to move his head. He takes in a deep breath and peers down at the sea critters, then back at the wet girl. "Don't make the lady bend over to get those, would be very un 'gentleman' like." With a shrug, blinky goes back to maneuvering his wagon around a rock. Stubborn rocks. Stubborn riders. Stubborn weyr.

More distractions! Really, that's how this whole mess started. With distractions. It's just that there keep being good reasons to be distracted, and so Takapola… keeps darting his eyes at Rhysanna? No, wait. That's different. He's sure it is, it's just… "Uh, yeah." He should clean it up! So he… stands there, for another few moments. "You… I'll do that." His gaze flicks to Carrick, and he frowns. "I can take care of the clams on my own." Sothere. …but at least it gets him moving, picking things up and tossing them into buckets.

"Does it matter?" Ila'den manages the words on a husky growl, only then removing his hand from his side. "Feels wrong either sharding way, doesn't it? I either can't feel it, or I feel it too much." And then he's jerking his head towards the skies, where a gold has just been caught and a bronze that is not his own has been announced victor. "I am /not/ spending the night alone." He catches the younger rider by his tunic, jerking him forward before those grey eyes jump back to all surrounding parties. There's definitely a hint of… something animal in that look, and then his attention is swinging back to Carrick. "Oi," the weyrsecond growls, appraising the… kid? with an unfriendly look, "you break anything, you pay for it." And then he's pulling his best friend towards… somewhere that is not here! Onward!

V'ric sighs just a little at the complaint about Ila'den's injury. Really, the man can't just relax and /heal/, can he? He's forever pulling stitches, or causing quite a bit of pain by doing too much with a /stab wound/. Still, the brownrider doesn't look entirely surprised to be informed of the Weyrsecond's 'intentions'. Maybe the quietly rumbling Loxiath has already informed him of the fact that Ila'den's own bronze didn't catch his weyrmate. Or the simple fact that Ila'den is /here/ instead of off somewhere else. And hey, at least he doesn't look unhappy about the fact! Granted, the brownrider's expression remains fairly neutral as always about it, but he goes along with the pull. "Alright, alright.."

Rhysanna is weyrbred, of course, and not unused to both goldflights and people going off to presumably have sex. But there's still a lingering stare in the gaze that follows V'ric and Ila'den, her lower jaw opened just slightly: she's exhaling breathily again. Turning, Carrick and Takapola both re-enter her field of vision, and while the former is immediately dismissed, the latter… she's staring again. "I wish," she announces. "You didn't smell like fish."

Carrick looks at the weyrsecond, then back to his wheel barrow. "If I break anything, Plastic Craft can thank me. I don't know what they got in these boxes but they've been vibrating all the way across the ocean, the beach, the docks and the paths here. I see it as quality control testing." Blinky peers back to the boxes humming in the barrow and sighs heavily. These crazy weyr peoples and the things they do. Before he takes another step, he peers at the riders and then at his cart. "I can lend you the wheel barrow when I'm done to carry him around if you want. I just have to take these to the assistant head woman, first." Rhysanna is given a sympathetic look with the traders one good eye before Carrick sheds his heavy coat and wanders to Takapola. It's held out in offering. "I can get another one," he whispers, motioning to the girl with his head. Give the lady a jacket. Wet garment contest is over, right?

Takapola isn't. Weyrbred, that is. Smelling like fish, he definitely is. But! He's been around this place for a while, and he's up on the sort of things that happen. He knows what flights mean. And how people pair off and… nope. Not looking at Rhysanna. Except… he does, for her announcement. "I don't." Yes he does. "…not always. But." His gaze flicks after Ila'den and V'ric. "Might be for the best." Then he looks down entirely, checking for seafood he missed. Because cleaning up. It's very important. Yep. Not that this part of the bowl (and Takapola himself) won't be smelling of fish for a while yet. He looks up at Carrick, and that coat. Huh? It seems to take him a moment for it to sink in, but then he ohs. He doesn't reach for it, though. "She can have one that doesn't smell like fish."

Rhysanna's gaze slides between Carrick and Takapola, and she lets out a frustrated sound from the back of her throat. "I don't need a coat," she says, now beginning to sound irritated. "I need… I'm going to go take a swim." She's not dressed for it, but at this point? There is no time to go back and change. "Excuse me." She turns, dark hair sent cascading artfully over her bare shoulders.

The trader stands there perplexed for a minute, then slowly nods as he opens the coat and holds it in offering to Rhysanna. The scullery women in the ship gave him many a lesson, some with a wooden spoon, so he knows better than to touch her without her permission. Unfortunately he doesn't move fast enough so he shrugs and tosses the coat back on his wheel barrow. "Ya know, you could go in the baths and use soap or something. If you go back where the fish are, you're just going to smell like fish again." Carrick? Tact? Eh?

Takapola is the one who smells like fish! Not Rhysanna. Nope. Never mind that they fell on her, too. Anyway, he's done picking them up now, so… oh, look. His hands are going to behind his back again, even though there's nobody here with the stare of authority telling him he should be doing something else. There's just… a tumble of hair and a swim… "In that? Or are you going to take -" He at least shuts his mouth on the rest of that sentence. Barely.

"The ocean doesn't smell like fish," says Rhysanna, over her shoulder. "Not usually. Not always." Her smile is… okay, a little on the 'come hither' side when she glances at Takapola, answering his words with a shrug: who knows! She'll just have to see… once she's at the ocean. Which means walking - sashaying, now - across the bowl. All the way. Stupid gold flights.

Carrick is too afraid of wooden spoons and scullery women that look like men so he just turns on heel and does an exagerated sashay back to his cart. He nudges it in motion with his hip and shoves it down the path, whistling a little tune to himself as he goes on his way. "Don't keep her waiting, women can be scary if you don't make 'em happy," the trader calls back as he offers a big wave. Stupid gold flights.

Takapola could go swim in the ocean too, and then he wouldn't smell like fish. Of course, he should be bringing these buckets to the caverns like he's assigned. But he could swim in the ocean and then he'd see Rhysanna… er. Then he wouldn't smell like fish. That's why he'd do something like that. Not because… she…. He steals another glance at her as she sashays along, then looks back to Carrick. A shake of his head. "She's not waiting for me." …but what if she is? The thought's hard to resist, and so Takapola leaves those buckets behind - because surely they're already ruined - and follows Rhysanna toward the waves. He'll get in trouble for abandoning his duty later. And… well… … Stupid gold flights.

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