Winter - Month 2 of Turn 2717
Half Moon Bay Weyr - Tidal Pools
Up a path from the lagoon sits a plateau of tidal pools. The shallowness of the pools combined with the dark stone they're made up of means that Rukbat beating on the pools in the daytime keeps them warm. The rock has been hewn gently on most of the pools to allow for ledges to sit on while still in the water. The pools allow for a more private, relaxed atmosphere than the beach below. When they are occupied, it is not uncommon to see a waitress or waiter come up from the Tiki Lounge to serve drinks to the occupants.

The sky is thick with oppressive clouds, threatening rain. Not a drop has fallen, however, which is perhaps why R'sner feels confident hanging out by the water. Toith has settled herself in the sand (after thoroughly rolling in it), but the human half of the pair has opted for the quieter tidal pools. With the candidate barracks filled to bursting, and the Hatching imminent, the late afternoon would be a prime opportunity to take some time for himself; to rest and relax and mentally prepare. Or… because maybe R'sner doesn't know the meaning of the words /down time/, he could just bring all his work WITH him as he pretends to be relaxing. So while he's dressed comfortable, and has even gone so far as to roll up his pants to the knee so that he can let his legs dangle into one of the warm tidal pools without risk of ruining the garment, he's got a small satchel settled behind him, a small stack of papers in one hand and a pencil in the other. Now and then a note is made, as he reviews whatever it is that was too important to wait.

Nassir had made a point to get up well before first light and get straight to work on the days mending. While it would be nice to think he could spend his days liesurely sewing tapestries? There are clothes and linens to mend, leathers to clean and inventories to manage. Despite being low on sleep, Nassir is energerized, his mood high and the day exceedingly productive. By the time T'sul had come to tell him he was getting ready to head out, Nassir was finished, the last of his materials tucked away in his room to be dealt with later. Adding a warm hooded cloak to his outfit, they'd headed out to Half Moon Bay with alacrity. Upon landing, Rider and passenger had parted ways, Nassir heading to the living cavern, first, in search of R'sner. It'd taken a while to find the Weyrlingmaster, many of the 'He was heading that way, or this ways' ending with wry laughter and the tailor zipping off in another direction.

It is on the third trip through the living cavern that Nassir paused, filling a satchel with bread, cheese, roasted fowl, some fruit and snagging a skin of wine. Almost before the tailor's raid is completed, he's off again, following the most recent lead toward the tidal pools. Climbing the path, he pulls his cloak more tightly about himself, a smile tracing over his lips at the sight of R'sner perched on the edge of one of the pools working away. "I figured I should bring you something to eat," he calls as he picks his way over the dark stone and sets the satchel down near by. The skin of wine, he extends outward, dark eyes crinkling at the corners.

R'sner is rather deep in thought, and so despite the growing familiarity of that voice, it takes in a few seconds before he seems to realize that the words are meant for him. A glance up, expression bemused and somewhat surprised to find Nassir. "What are you doing here?" asked first, not intentionally rude though the nature of the words themselves might come across that way. But perhaps the ghost of a smile that flits across his face softens it. A drop of his gaze to the satchel and then the proffered skin and, tucking the pencil behind an ear and the papers beneath his arm, he accepts it easily enough. "Thank you," for the wine, of which he will happily partake in. "Watch your step," warned with a nod to the dark rock beneath them. "It can be slick."

Nassir exhales a quiet laugh, his brows twitching as he nudges the satchel closer to the rider. "Looking for the sexiest man in all the weyrs," he answers with a wink. Stepping a bit more gingerly over the rocks, he sinks down to sit next R'sner, his head tilting to one side. "You haven't seen him, have you," he teases. In the wake of the tease, he pulls the satchel open, tearing off a hunk of bread and pulling out a slender dagger to cut a wedge of cheese. "I'm going to bet you haven't eaten," he states as he hands the food over.

Second swallow of wine taken, R'sner caps the skin and sets it aside, recollecting papers and pencil as though to /resume/ that work of his. Which means his gaze is averted when his answer comes. Aside from a somewhat involuntary snort of dry dismissal, there is no answer; though a witty retort may have come to mind. A few hasty words jotted in the margins, and he finally deigns to put away the lesson plans, twisting at the waist to stuff the papers and pencil back into the bag he is careful to keep away from the tidal pools. While he does not argue with the assessment of his eating habits (because he ate! Somewhere around dawn…), there is still a pause before he accepts the second offering to come at him. There is a longer look at Nassir before he actually /eats/ the food bestowed upon him, gaze sliding to the water as he bites into the bread. For a moment, he seems at a loss for words; as if such a simple thing as two people sitting together and sharing a meal is somehow foreign and challenging. Though perhaps it is the 'who', rather than the 'what' that has him at a loss for words. In the end, he settles for a somewhat inadequate, "How is Igen?" as a means of breaking the silence.

The easy smile remains on Nassir's lips as he watches the Weyrlingmaster's face. Oh, one day- /one day/, he knows those witty retorts will come bursting to the surface. For now? For now he's perfectly content with the silence. It is only once he's certain that R'sner is eating that he tears off a chunk of bread for himself, setting the roasted fowl within easy reach of his companion. "Sandstorms," he answers before popping a piece of bread into his mouth. "We got out before they got to bad, though. T'sul says we might be staying here for the evening, depending on how that goes." Tearing off a bit of cheese, he nibbles at it as he cranes his neck, watching the papers being stuffed away. "You can keep working," he assures. "I'm perfectly content watching you."

"How unfortunate," for having to stay the evening, though R'sner's tone is dry enough to suggest that he suspects the prospect of being stuck in Half Moon Bay is not so disagreeable. And notably, he does not look terribly upset at the idea, either. Another bite is taken, allowing the necessity of chewing and swallowing to be an excuse for silence as he squints toward the horizon. A shallow shake of his head for continuing to work, words coming a few moments later. "It's just lesson plans. I can work on it later," he decides, though there's a glance toward the bag that holds the all-important documents. "I'd rather hear you speak," and he follows it with glance that lands on Nassir and remains there. "How are you?"

Tossing his head back, Nassir exhales a pleased laugh, the sound couple with low cough as he momentarily chokes on a piece of bread. "Oi," he gasps in the wake of snagging the wine skin and washing it down. "First time I can remember being asked to prattle on." Winking, he squiggles closer on the rocks, his legs drawing in to tuck under the folds of his cloak. "I'm good, excited to see the eggs hatch. Excited to see your charges blossom under your guidance. T'sul's promised to make sure I'm here in time to witness it. I suspect," he notes in a stage whisper. "He has his own reasons for wanting to be down here, as well. Oh," he states as he perks up even more and pushes his hood back off his hair. "I am working on something for your Weyrlings. Sitting pillows. I have the bases already made and covers sewn in the five colors. Once they've impressed, I'll embroider their names and the names of their lifemates on the covers. I figure you can give them to them when you think it's a good time?"

"I like listening to you," is the simple and honest answer. And a moment later, R'sner is doing just that; listening to Nassir talk while slowly working his way through the first hunk of bread and slice of cheese, and casually helping himself to a bit of that roasted fowl to round it out. Polite curiosity for T'sul, though he really isn't that interested in the comings and goings of an Igen rider; unless he happens to be bringing a certain tailor with him. The mention of pillows for his weyrlings certainly has his attention, however, and there's a pause in the consumption of his meal. "You're—" but he's already made them, or at least is far enough into the process that R'sner seems to decide that telling him /not/ to finish would be rude. But there's a bit of a frown nonetheless; mild concern and some discomfort that manifests in a shift of his position. "What made you decide to do this?" is asked in a carefully inquisitive tone.

"It is," Nassir answers in the midst of nibbling cheese. "Going to be the most important moment of their lives." He knows this because R'sner, himself, has made that very clear. Even without using more then a word or two at time. "Perhaps a pillow is foolish," he admits. "They will, after all, have their lifemates to remind them forever of that moment. But it is my way of acknowledging the significance of that bond and honoring it. And," he adds with a wink. "I am going to be here anyway, I love to sew, and embroidering the pillows with their names and the names of their lifemates will give me something to do while you are up to your eyebrows in newly joined pairs." All in all, it seemed very practical to him and that shows in the relaxed smile that traces over his lips. "I suppose," he adds as he pops a grape in his mouth. "Part of it, at least, is that they are your charges. That means something to me, as well." Silly, perhaps, but he's not about to be dishonest regarding his feelings.

"It is," agrees R'sner, the tone of his voice sounding very much like there is a 'however' about to be tacked onto that sentence. But it doesn't come, silence stretching out instead as he seems to consider how best to address his concerns. But rather than voice them, he finds himself murmuring a defense of "It is not foolish," and following it up with, "And a pillow is rather practical…" that fades away as Nassir continues to explain his reasons behind the gifting of items to Half Moon Bay weyrlings. That they are /his/ weyrlings. He lets the quiet span between them for a moment before hesitantly inquiring, "And how does Igen feel about you spending your time making gifts for Half Moon Bay's citizens?" because that is, really, the heart of R'sner's concern; that Nassir is setting aside Igen-work for Half Moon Bay projects.

Nassir tilts his head as he listens to what R'sner has to say, another bite of cheese finding it's way past his lips. "My work for Igen has never lacked, R'sner," Nassir assures. "And the gifts are being made from my own store of materials." His plans for a whole new wardrobe have been put on hold for a few turns, but that was his decision. "I really don't need any more outfits," he laughs. "As it stands, I get more then a few arched brows over what I do have." Shifting on the rock, he stretches one leg out, his smile wry as he smooshes a piece of cheese flat and carefully wraps it around a grape before popping it in his mouth. "You mean something to me," he states frankly. "By extension, your Weyrlings mean something to me. It is really that simple."

A quick, shallow shake of his head accompanies R'sner's firm, "I wasn't questioning your skill. I wasn't questioning you at all," not really. Well, maybe a little. But it was not his quality of work that R'sner was concerned with. But it seems clear enough that no argument made by the weyrlingmaster will be heeded. It is that final 'mean something' that has him diverting his gaze and staring out over the lagoon's waters once again; jaw briefly tense as teeth clench. Whatever thoughts he's thinking, they are kept to himself. When the pause extends long enough to get awkward, he tears another hunk from the bread in his hand, using it as an excuse for continued silence. In the end, he lets go of whatever it is that has preoccupied him and asks instead, "Have you decided what to wear?" for the Hatching.

Nassir tilts his head as he watches R'sner's profile, dark eyes softening as he shifts his weight and reaches for the Weyrlingmaster's hand. He does not force the contact, but he does make the attempt. "Whether you succomb to my vast and boundless charm or whether we simply end up as friends, you mean something to me, R'sner. There is no condition on that caring." In the wake of the words, he starts to draw his hand back, the last stirring a mellow laugh to spilling past his lips. "I have not," he admits. "I have about twelve different choices scattered around my room. I am leaning toward a pair of gold embossed, brown leather pants and a blousey aqua shirt, but it's changed four or five times," in the past six hours, actually.

The touch of his hand is briefly startling, if just because R'sner was so deep in his head for a while there that the contact is unexpected. But once it's made, there's an almost unconscious twist of his wrist and a slide of fingers that seeks to take hold of him. A firm squeeze, not painfully so, and then a relaxing of his grasp. Nassir is welcome to maintain the contact, though R'sner will not attempt to restrain him if he seeks to withdraw. It's the comment that gets a bit of a laugh and a sardonic sort of smile; dry and somewhat self-deprecating in nature. "Nassir," and there's a glance his direction, that somewhat-wry, sort-of-but-not-quite smile lingering for a moment as he says, "one day, you will realize that I am not as remarkable as you think I am." It is not said in a begrudging or morose way, but rather as a comfortable statement of face. It is accompanied by a lean of his body in the Igen tailor's direction as R'sner moves to plant a quick kiss to his forehead. He considers the clothing option described, curious enough but offering zero input if just because he has /zero/ fashion sense. Really. His closet is terribly boring. "I am sure that whatever you pick to wear will be perfect; though you may want to decide quickly. When the Hatching starts, you will have no time to second-guess." And his second piece of advice would be to, "Dress comfortably."

Nassir exhales a snort at the initial response, although it's coupled with the tailor's easy smile and a twinkle of humor shining in his eyes. "We'll see," is his only response to the thought of him ever finding the Weyrlingmaster less them remarkable. With the hand still in his own and the quick kiss to his brow, his expression softens, a grape snagged and popped into his mouth. "I'll figure it out soon," he assures with a light scrap of his thumb nail over R'sner's knuckles. "I'm planning on bringing options with me, just in case. Whatever happens, I'm not about to miss this moment even if it provides an opportunity for a fashion mishap." Which, really? Given everything about him? That's saying a lot. "How are your Candidates doing? I imagine they have to be bundle of nerves?"

They will simply have to agree to disagree, on the remarkableness (or lack of it) of the Weyrlingmaster. R'sner finishes the last bite of cheese and opts not to acquire any more of it, letting his free hand settle back to the rock beneath him. There is an air of relaxation about him, an ease of posture and release of tension and general… contentedness that is atypical for the greenrider. And it even leads him to another quiet, amused laugh at the mention of clothing options. It is short lived, but genuine. "You won't have time to change," he cautions him. "Once they begin to Hatch, it happens rather quickly. Do not be surprised if you are suddenly yanked out of bed and thrown onto a dragon," he warns, half serious. "They are… getting antsy. Tempers are high, and they are prone to arguments over petty things," he admits, looking less than thrilled about it. "They are ready for things to be… over." And so is he, probably.

Nassir relishes the sound of that quiet laugh, the fact that the usually tense Weyrlingmaster is relaxed stirring the smile on his lips to blossoming as he listens. "No doubt why T'sul had me give him a pair of my pants and a shirt to hold on to. No turning up half dressed for me," he notes with his own mellow laugh. Brushing his thumb over the back of R'sner's knuckles, he lets his gaze sweep over the tidal pools, a contented sigh spilling past his lips. "I'd imagine so. Excitement does that, though, all that emotion has to go somewhere. And new life? What could possibly be more exciting then that."

R'sner is watching the clouds roll in and the waves turn choppy; the beginnings of a storm that will likely hit later that night. But it is not out of avoidance, and now and again there is a subtle glance given to the tailor at his side; a slide of blue eyes that roam over the contours of Nassir's face as he studies him. For now, at least, he is peaceful; willing to remain in the moment and simply /enjoy/ it rather than allow himself to think too deeply on what it might mean. A hushed, "Mm," for the excitement of new life, but while he agrees, it might be clear enough in the distraction of that simple syllable that his thoughts have gone elsewhere; no longer considering the candidates in the barracks, or the eggs on the sand, or the life changing event that will take place within weeks if not days. Rather, it is the simple things that are occupying his attention, and are obvious enough in the gentle contraction of his fingers around Nassir's; in the way his gaze lingers longer than it typically does.

Closing his eyes, Nassir takes a moment to focus on the almost electric feeling of the approaching storm. It is not a sensation he is accustomed to and something about it makes him feel even more alive. So much so that his smile softens, his nostrils flairing as he draws in a deep breath and holds it for a moment. "Shells," he murmurs in husky tones. "It's beautiful." What exactly he finds beautiful is made more clear when he opens his eyes and tilts his chin toward the clouds rolling over head. In the wake of that nod, dark curls spill over his shoulders as he lolls his head to the side, his expression softening as he watches R'sner watching him. For the moment, he opts to remain silent, just enjoying the view, the company and the comfort it all brings with it.

Acknowledgement comes in the flicker of his gaze upwards, a brief glance for the clouds before R'sner is back to watching Nassir instead. But it is a moment longer before he breaks the silence, though his voice remains a low murmur as if in deference to the moment. "I have a fondness for tropical storms," he admits, gaze drifting to the horizon briefly. "They can be excessively violent. Destructive. It can feel like the world is crashing down around you but…" and there's a shallow shrug of his shoulders, as if he's unsure how to explain the rest of it. A brief wash of gloom, grief or pain or something akin to it, darkens his expression. But it passes quickly; there and gone and he's moving on and speaking again. "If the sandstorm keeps you in Half Moon till the evening, the storm might strand you here overnight," he warns.

"I'd like to see that," Nassir's response is hushed, an unconcious whisper offered at the promise of an oncoming storm. Falling silent, he watches the momentary darkening of R'sner's visage, his own eyes shining with concern that goes unspoken. Somethings you just cannot pry into. Somethings you simply have to allow to come up in their own time. It is the last, however that stirs him to glancing back up at the sky, another mild nod bringing his curls down in a halo around his face. "I think it's pretty clear we'll be sheltering here tonight," he admits.

R'sner's laugh is short lived but light, and he flashes a quick, fleeting smile at Nassir. "You will see it, if you are staying for the evening," he notes. "It will be upon us sooner than you'd expect," which has him shifting in his spot, drawing his legs from the tidal pool as he reaches for his discarded bag with his free hand. A brief squeeze of fingers before he releases his grasp, employing both to the acquisition of a towel that he, thoughtfully, brought with him to dry off legs and feet. "I'll make sure you have comfortable accommodations," assures R'sner, moving on from his momentary lapse into darkness. "And a private room," because no one wants to sleep in the dorms, right? A shove of the towel into his bag, and he's pushing himself up to stand. A glance for the incoming storm before he's offering his hand out to Nassir. "We can watch it from the ledge," he offers. "I enjoy storms, but that does not mean I wish to be caught out in one."

"Sounds perfect," Nassir states as he follows R'sner's leave and rolls into a crouch to pack away the food. Slinging the satchel over his shoulder, he stretches as he straightens, drawing the hood of the cloak up over his hair. There is something about the promise of the storm that has him oddly excited, his gaze flicking up to the sky as he steps carefully over the dark rock underfoot. "How long do they last," he asks curiously. "Sandstorms can range from an hour or so to days when the conditions are right."

"Several hours, typically. If it is a hurricane, it may last for days," he notes, glancing briefly toward the water before R'sner is devoting his attention to where he is placing his feet. Apparently, he either came out here barefoot or has decided not to bother with putting shoes on for the return trip. Island life. But even as the ground goes from rocky to soft, as the path leads them to the beach, there is a hand hovering at Nassir's back; to steady or assist, or simply to graze his fingertips against him on occasion. The walk is not terribly far; not if you're a Half Moon native (or resident) and know where the shadows actually hide tunnel entrances, and it is to one of these that Res will guide Nassir with a gentle touch and inclination. So that by the time the thunder begins to rumble ominously and the scent of rain hangs heavy in the air, they are within the safety of stone walls.

Nassir has taken R'sner's warning of the rocks being slippery seriously and is very cautiously picking his way along the path. With the hand at his back, he's a bit steadier then he might have been and the gratitude in his eyes is unmistakable. Stepping into the tunnel entrance earns an immediate sigh of relief. That sound, however, is transformed into a startled yelp at the roll of thunder. Even as the sound escapes his lips, the tailor is jumping closer, both hands curling tightly in the fabric of R'sner's shirt. "Did you hear that?" As he asks the question, he cranes his neck, his eyes just a little bit wide as he attempts to peer around the Weyrlingmaster's shoulder toward the mouth of the tunnel. Hurricanes? Oh, one can just imagine what he's picturing in his mind at the moment.

"I did," agrees R'sner with a faint touch of amusement. "It will get louder," he assures him, sounding more anticipatory than concerned. It is not a warning, but a promise. The storm will come, and just as he described, it will grow violent and dark and loud, but rather than worry about it, the weyrlingmaster welcomes it. "Come here," which might seem a bit… odd of a thing to say considering Nassir is currently about as close as one person can get, what with the grip on his shirt. But he tugs him a little further into the tunnel, turning so that R'sner's back can rest against the rock. "Stand in front of me, but face the bowl," and, should it be achieved, Nassir will be rewarded with the wrap of strong arms around him, and the resting of R'sner's chin on his shoulder as he peers out towards the growing darkness. "We are perfectly safe," even if it may not /feel/ like it, with the thunder steadily increasing in volume, and the violence with which the rain will fall; the flashing of lightening that briefly illuminates the weyrbowl.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Nassir focuses his attention on the fact that R'sner is absolutely calm— even a little anticipatory about the building storm. Rather then resist, he moves as bidden, a shallow exhale spilling past his lips as he finds himself wrapped in the Weyrlingmaster's arms. Almost immediately, he relaxes. Leaning into the embrace and tilting his head to let his temple rest against R'sner's. It is the flash of lightning illuminating the bowl that completely steals his breath, the momentary fear transformed into wonder. Still, the cracking boom of thunder inspires little jumping twitches, the involuntary reaction coupled with a breathy laugh. Safe. There is no way, under the circumstances, that he could feel anything but safe, his arms folding atop the rider's as he settles in to watch the storm.

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