Half Moon Bay Weyr - THE LUV NEST
Do you hear that sound? THE LAUGHTER AND JOY OF CHILDREN RUNNING fUll throttle with messy things in their hands, and then the SCREAMING? You have entered a den of eternal childhood, lights and nose and things to attract the attention of the ungodly number of children living in this weyr sit strewn everywhere along with a LIME green piano well loved and used from the look of the keys. The rough stone walls covered in crayon and paint where someone managed to sit quietly for a few minutes while the parents were distracted. THE LUV Nest has become a wild playground for the scores of little hands and feet constantly running amok. Welcome to Chuck- ok Pern does not have Chucky Cheese's believe it or not this is actually the weyr of the weyrleader, weyrwoman and their weyrmate. Someone should talk to them about the lime green paint.

"ILA, R'HYN, I'M HOME," That's Cita, bellowing as she slumps into the weyr, kissing Xermi on the nose in thanks for the lift up. It's kind of a gross kiss, though, as the Weyrwoman of Half Moon Bay Weyr is in. A State. Wearing only the smallest of shirts, and scantest of shorts, she is nonetheless completely drenched in sweat. The towel slung over one shoulder is similarly gross, but Citayla doesn't seem to notice or care, making a bee-line for the cold box and the biggest glass in the weyr. "It's your turn to entertain her! I need to shower." She further bellows, pouring the fresh juice and immediately chugging like it's her JOB. Her is probably Ilyscaeth, who is happily piling glitter around eggs even as she speaks, waiting for Cita to return from her respite. Or possibly Yzaelia or the girls. Although, why would the babies be somewhere that would cause Cita to be SO SWEATY. WHO KNOWS.

Does Xermiltoth care? He does not. He croons lovingly for the kiss to his snoot, eyes reeling through happy colors as he carefully bunts back into Cita's face. SEE. He can TOTALLY manage that without giving anyone a broken nose or a black eye! Onto the ledge he settles with a pleased sound, content to soak up sun whilst waiting for one of the riders attached to said bellowed names to appear, that he might drag them back to the sands to assist with rolling beglittered eggs. Namely: R'hyn, who appears from the staircase above, eager as ever to greet one of his weyrmates with a— "Daaaamn." Oh boy, someone's in a mood, raising hands as though fending something off. "You didn't warn me it was hot in here." Just end him now. Spare us all this misery. "Wooh. Girl, stop, put something on or I'm gonna need to be the one to shower. A girl is making me sweat." The bronzerider fans himself delicately, but can no longer repress hysterics, laughter cracking through visage and voice alike, bending over in a fit of manly giggles before resuming his earlier spirited trot, unbothered by dampness as he gathers the weyrwoman in with a hand to the back of her head in order to press a kiss to the least-wet-looking part of her temple. "Little toasty down there, hmm?" He shoos at hands and will totally pour her another glass if she'll let him.

Glug, glug, glug, glug — "Faranth." Exasperation, a little wobbly around a laugh not quite concealed, and an accusatory finger pointed in R'hyn's direction. Not Xermi's, because you cool, Xermi, you cool. Ryn, though? "I'd wear less, but there are areas that I'd rather the sands not scald." PUT THAT PICTURE IN YOUR MIND, PAL. HOW DOES THAT TREAT YOU. GOOD, RIGHT. When he breaks, though, she breaks too, arch expression falling into a tired kind of grin. "Gross." She points out, for the temple-kiss, and doesn't wipe sweat all over the bronzerider because she loves him, and she's not aways Rude. "My feet are never going to be the same. Do you think the eggs are ready to hatch?" The goldrider wonders, plaintive, absently toweling off again now that she's out of the heat of the sands. She will let him pour another glass, too, letting the first settle for a moment. "Tell me they're ready to hatch." TELL HER, HERYN.

"I need Faranth," Ryn ripostes with an 'unf' and a flexing of hips and muscles in an uncouth gesture. "Where's Ila when you need him? He'd agree with me. Threaten to saddle you with more cute babies," brows waggle up and down ridiculously, "threaten to play healer to make all the scalded bits better." TELL HIM HE'S WRONG. GO AHEAD AND TELL HIM. Luckily amusement prevails before he can spread more LIES AND SLANDER on his husbando's good name, chuckling quietly for the gross, replying with a droll, "I've seen worse. I've kissed worse." Mental image for mental image. Your scarification is complete. He doesn't try to reassure or insult her though, out of equal expression of adoration, sliding that glass of juice back towards her before leaning on the counter, eyeing Cita with faint amusement, as though debating on revealing terrible truths or offering kind lies. "Definitely," he settles on fake-chipper, perking visibly with an enthusiastic bounce of fringe, "Next week. Maybe even tomorrow. And then you'll be free." It'd almost be believable if not for Xermiltoth's bright, golden guffawing. Traitor.

A slow, vaguely awful kind of grin creeps over Citayla's face, and she contemplates this, eyes batting slow and almost sultry if not for the tell-tale twitching at the corners of her mouth. "It is his turn." She murmurs, thoughtful — and then remembers that she's talking to R'hyn, who is every bit as Into their Baby Making Train as she is, and laughs. At herself, probably, or possibly R'hyn's horrible mental images, because she'll never be able to scrub it out of her mind but also well. You know. She's seen worse, too. Still giggling, the goldrider takes the glass and sips, now, slow and careful so she doesn't barf up all her work on re-hydrating. And R'hyn lies! He tells her what she wants to hear, and Cita hums, happy, closing her eyes and doing a kind of shoulder-waggle of pure joy. "Good. Good. I can make it that long." She mutters, sipping, scrunching her nose at the bronzerider ruefully. It won't be tomorrow, but neither of them have to SAY IT. And neither does Xermi, fixed with a slightly wide-eyed IXNAY kind of look. "Whatcha laughing at, Xermi?"

YEP. Wrong bronzerider to threaten with a good, baby-making time, right here. "You know, I think you're right," he says with a certain 'by jove' quality, chintapping with playful thoughtfulness. "Though I worry he's starting to adopt the same sort of mentality about that as he is with the cats, which is to say, 'NO MORE unlessyou'retheonebringingthemhome,'" he breathes out in a great, badly-accented rush, smirking a wicked little smirk at their combined expenses and leaning to knock one of her shoulders with his. "I'm just teasing. I'm sorry it's so inhumanly hot down there. I'll trade out with you so you can have a turn at being a real person for a while. Got a nice, healthy stack of paperwork built up, don't we, Xerm?" HE TRIES MAN. He tries to save his dragon SO HARD, but alas, Hamil-Xerm ain't got time for playing nice. « NOTHING, MY DEAR, SWEET CITAYZLEAT. MERELY THAT YOU SO HUMANS SO OFTEN POINT OUT THE FOIBLES OF DRAGON MEMORY ONLY TO BLISSFULLY FORGET THE MANY MONTHS YOU SPENT AS CANDIDATES WHILST YOUR OWN DRAGON'S EGG HARDENED. IT'S ADORABLE. » Quick, brain him with a shoe before he can take off as he means to, wings rustling as he parts them to his sides.

Cackling under her breath, Cita nods vague agreement, glancing out over the collection of cats and toys that litters their weyr with proprietary kind of happiness. "I know I am." Smug, smug, the goldrider waggles her head, then pfffffts an amused noise — that accent. "Well, you can't always have everything that you want, can you. He'll adapt, I'm sure." Flipping the towel over her shoulder in a very final kind of way and setting down the once-more empty glass (bad sipping, Cita), the healer shifts on her feet a little. Shower time, shower time, it's shower time~. Or well, time to make another rueful, amused face in R'hyn's direction, nodding slowly. "They do what they can, but Faranth, even so. I swear, I've drank my weight in water today," If you couldn't tell from the fact that it's exuding from her every pore. "And it's not helping any. Thank you." She's serious, for a moment at least, before — oh, don't worry, she's got a head start. "Funny, Xermiltoth. You're a funny dragon." She's out of range for a towel-snap, but not for chucking the heavy wooden plate formerly housing a few refruits, frisbee-style, at the bronze. PULL.

R'hyn's eyes trail along with, scrunched, amused, lips pressed in that sort of 'I will have to clean this later but for right now it's ours' manner before flicking Citayla a sideways glance. His mouth jerks up on both sides in a sunny grin for her infernal smugness and her pffting, replying with a mirthful, "You know, I think there's even a song that goes a little something like that." But before he can break out into a serenade of the Pernese equivalent of 'You can't always get what you waaant~,' she's flipping her towel over her shoulder, and the bronzer is taking it for the cue that it is. He steps away, placing glass in sink and putting juice away, shooting Cita a sympathetic and vaguely thankful glance. "Good point. I'll grab a few 'skins before I head there." BUT FIRST, quick blue-grey eyes catch and seize on the bowl the weyrwoman is unceremoniously dumping, lighting up with a fey gleam as he turns tail and sprints for his dragon, hands flipping hard, like a man attempting to herd a flock of geese. "Go Xermi, go Xermi, go—" BLONK. That is the sound of a heavy wooden plate connecting with the side of a bronze dragon's head, by the way, laughter booming into Cita's mind (and likely everyone else's nearby) in a wave of golden sparks and heated diamonds. « YOU SAID IT, NOT ME. I LOVE YOU, CITAYZLEAT. » MWAH! That's from him and R'hyn both, but up to the bronzerider to deliver, and he does so with alacrity, turning from where he's seated himself on the dragon's shoulders to blow her a wide-flung kiss before the harlequinned beast tilts sideways and makes a dive for the bowl before she can find something else to throw.

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