S.S. Ilasyn

Fort Weyr - Guest Weyr and Flight Room
The guest weyr at Fort has been given as many conveniences as possible. A large, comfortable-looking bed rests against the back wall, the linens changed on a regular basis to keep them fresh. For temporary storage of personal belongings a sturdy footlocker can be found at its foot, and a table and a quartet of chairs provide a place for visitors to entertain guests if they so wish. The floor has been covered with a large rug and the walls are draped in tapestries depicting various scenes from Pern's grand history, all to help ward off the chill of the stone in the winter months. There's even a small ice chest with an attached cupboard for storage of cool drinks and energizing snacks for the weyr's occupants.

Ila’den knows what happened before he even opens his eyes, because he can feel it; he can feel the tension in his body, the headache beating at his skull that will linger for a day or two before giving way to normalcy again with the vengeance of a hangover. He knows it to be true from the sharp ebb and flow of stinging skin where scratches are too fresh to be healed and teeth found their mark a little too deep; he knows it to be true because the burning protest of muscles as they stretch won’t let him think otherwise, because they confirm what he already knows: that last night was a flight, and Ila’den knows only too well from the slumbering-but-still-somehow-smug bronze in his head that he — they — won. The bronzerider also knows, from the tiny body still tucked in tight against his own much-too-big-but-not-as-big-as-R’hyn-is-tall body, that the guest weyr he carried a green’s lifemate into last night is still occupied by the other flightlust victim, and it gives him pause when glimpses of an eager mouth and blonde hair caught in the forming fist of his fingers and the stubble on his chin, pulled back with near-violence to give him access to a woman’s neck with his teeth, flashes through his memory, forcing his eyes wide-open to greet the encroaching light of day. One, two, three, and Ila’den is removing the heated weight of one calloused hand from the woman-soft abdomen beneath it, refusing to look as he rolls from his side to his back and sits up, enough of a gentleman to leave whoever-she-is with the sheets. The bronzerider’s been in enough flights to know that the morning after, regardless of how great his body assures him the night was before, is never pleasant — if only because sometimes it begs for a not-so-flight-lusty round two, and Ila’den’s far from eager to find out if this is one of those flights. So he moves with silent purpose, surprised to find his eyepatch still in place over his eye as he seeks out the hints of clothing peeking out here and there, lucky enough to find the leathers for his legs first. It’s when he’s leaning down to grab them that he does the normal thing: spare a glance whoever-she-is’s way, pausing mid-reach to do a double take and then stumble when that not-so-great knee threatens to give under his body’s awkward positioning. One, two, three, and it happens. Ila’den straightens, NAKED AS THE DAY HE WAS BORN, and he laughs. It’s probably rude, actually, but Ila’den can’t be bothered to care if it wakes Syn up or not. R’hyn is either going to shit bricks, or shit more bricks. What a small, small world. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he breathes around his own husky burr, grabbing his pants if only to spare Syn a gander at his goodies. “Of all the people, in all of Pern, we caught Sygni.” And he’s laughing. Again.

To be fair, there are worse things to wake up to than butt-naked laughter; you could, for instance, be like poor Ila'den, who has by some horrible, terrible twist of fate found himself situated with the one person as irreverent as he in the face of torrid memories and entirely too much skin. "Mm. You know, if you're gonna laugh at me, you could at least have the decency to bend in the other direction," comes a sleep-roughened but no less mirthful drawl from the direction of the bed. Though her face remains pressed into the pillows, there's no missing mischief coming to life in Syn's bright blue eyes as they slowly slide open, something half-wild cutting through the haze of drowsiness that otherwise defines the bonelessly-sprawled greenrider. "I remember thinking someone had a great ass, and I'd like to know if that thought was about you or me." Horrible, truly, but somebody has to fill the silence while Ila'den delights over just how much this is going to freak R'hyn out (a lot), if only to make it a little less weird that yes, she is totally going to watch him fish for his belongings without a single ounce of shame. Blessfully, her scrutiny is short-lived, expression flying from surprise to amusement at such recognition, such familiarity with her name coming from what is, to her, a complete stranger. "In the flesh," gets said MOST impishly, a sharp twist of her lips implying a certain sense of 'literally' without her having to say it, point emphasized by a slow shift of blankets, pillows, limbs, until she's reclined against the headboard like a goddamned Queen of Sheba, bared to the waist and utterly unrepentant, despite her own visible evidence of a body marked by the savagery of the flight. "Though I think I'd remember you, if we'd met before. You're rather…" A hand gesture, brief and all-encompassing. "Memorable." Twinkle. "Which can only mean my reputation has preceded me." And damn, but if she doesn't look a certain sort of pleased about that. Wee woo, wee woo, crazy lady in aisle one!

It takes an almost-awkward length of time for Ila’den to come down from that R’hyn’s-Face-Is-Going-To-Be-AWESOME high, though even after he’s quieted and that smile has turned into something considerably more muted, the mirth that lingers in that lone grey eye threatens a repeat of the performance at any given time. Worry not, while he may have been laughing at an as-of-yet one-sided joke, his mind focused on somebody completely different than the woman in front of him (despite her being the cause), it doesn’t mean that he was deaf to what Syn said — or blind to the way she moves into a position that would be titillating if not for the fact that Ila’den’s interests lie in… well… R’hyn. It doesn’t stop the man from taking the greenrider in from the waist up like a man appreciating a fine work of art (it’s been a while since he’s seen a woman, okay, give him a break), nor does it stop him from stepping into his leathers and pulling them back up over his hips. “I am not laughing at you,” Ila’den corrects Syn, but only once his gaze finishes that slow path upupup and settles on her face. His tone is hushed with distraction, his burr thick without the bronzerider focusing on his words and their pronunciation while his attention delineates the curvature of her lips and the delicate slope of her nose, finally holding her eyes with that Ila-esque kind of intensity. “And no, Sygni, we have not met, but it is nice to meet you.” Now Ila’den’s on the move again, readjusting his focal point to try and find more of his clothes in the how-is-this-even-possible mess that they’ve made, slowing when he comes upon his shirt — and the evident relief that overcomes him is instantaneous. If Syn had a mind to pay attention, she may have noted the sudden (unmentioned by him) stiffness in the bronzerider at her attention scaling his body for the ‘memorable’ compliment — AND WE ALL KNOW WHY. But here we are, Ila’den pulling that shirt that clings like a second skin over his head, loose enough to hint at a loss of muscle that he will HOPEFULLY regain someday (through more I-Just-Wanted-To-Kiss-You exercise with R’hyn), before he turns to face Syn again, laughing low. “I know you because I saw you in a memory of R’hyn’s — though you probably know him as Heryn — when you were both younger,” a pause, and a wolfish smile, “and a little less experienced, I think.” And if the growl of his voice pitching even lower, a sultry hint of darkness in his words, doesn’t help Syn GRASP HIS MEANING, then there’s no hope for her. "But before you’re of a mind to explore that — you asked a question.” KIND OF. Which is probably why the bronzer is taking long-strides back to Queen Sheba and, without so much as an indication of his intent, is putting one knee on the bed to counter his weight and leaning close enough to bump noses with Syn. That Cheshire smile evolves, the only warning Syn will get before Ila’s catching Syn around the waist and shifting her against his body and around, turning her until she’s rump-up with Ila’den behind her, hands on her hips. There’s an appreciative, “Hmm,” and then Ila’s leaning in with a roguish smile. “It was definitely your ass, little bird.” And up he goes, catching at his jacket to pull it on over his shoulders, making a circle while he collects things before he stops again. One, two, three, and Syn’s clothes are being tossed to rest near the foot of the bed. “I’m going to go drink off the taste of you while Teimyrth rests off his draconic bliss. You’re welcome to join me if you’d like, little bird.” BUT IT’S A TRAP. Teimyrth isn’t asleep at all — not anymore. He’s doing Ila’s dirty work, reaching out to Xermiltoth with some shitty quip about discussing their conquests over a drink in the taverns.

Who says Syn was worried. No, laughter and potential deafness (or, more realistically to her mind, a very male sense of selective hearing) don't seem to damper the greenrider's spirits in the slightest; if anything, the Ila'den's rampant amusement piques her curiosity, the quirks at the corners of her lips digging deeper, drawing out dimples in each cheek. Blue eyes skim over Ila'den's form again, this time more to gather information, assess, piece together whatever clues she may, rather than to actively check the bronzerider's so-called goodies out. Whatever she thinks of the rider’s scarred form, she doesn’t reveal; dimples pervade even when the slow once-over is returned, and though they've hardly shared a handful of words, it's entirely possible that Syn's careful poise and unwavering smile reveals at least one for-sure thing about her: this is a creature that enjoys being looked at, even (perhaps especially) for the simple act of looking. Indeed, though she lifts one hand to rest knuckles artistically against one cheekbone, head tilting to let sleep-mussed hair shift and expose her crescent-bruised neck just so, there comes no invitation, no curled finger, no attempt to lure the bronzer back into the bed. She's content to observe, and be observed, allowing the quality of her smile to shift into something decidedly more like a smirk when Ila'den steps into his pants without breaking his glance. "Commando, eh, Captain?," she drawls instead of responding, though a pleased flicker of light in her gaze clearly reads, 'damn right, you're not,' though she might well be laughing at him when she adds a brow-twitched, "I approve." She would. Good grief. That single brow quirks impossibly higher as Ila'den's attention shifts, gaze particularly intent on the man when he says it's nice to meet her, a playful sort of wariness plainly communicating that it's entirely possible that's the first time someone's ever called the experience nice. She takes some small measure of pity on him, though, if only for the sudden onset of awkwardness in the bronzerider's form, more than willing to let the man break his own silence before she breaks pose again. This time the motion is much less flirtatious and much more earnest, surprise overtaking smugness, body leaning forwards onto her palms in a sudden, youthful gesture. "You know Vicky?" And you know, there is perhaps hope for Syn yet - though Ila'den's accent is rough and rumbling and entirely-too-toe-curlingly-appealing in a way she doesn’t allow herself to analyze all on it's own, that dark and particularly sultry quality it takes on clues her in quick, her own hand shifting to press fingers against parted lips, gaze positively fey as she amends with a breathed, "Oh. Oh, no. You know Vicky." Biblically, and she's delighted by the concept, gaze raking over Ila'den as though seeing him in a whole new light, visibly brimming with questions that will, alas, have to go unasked for the moment. She's far too busy marking the bronzerider's swift approach, lips splitting in a fierce grin that exposes too many teeth, teeth that clack playfully at the minute distance between their two faces, refusing to back down from any implied challenge. This is, perhaps, why his sudden man-handling elicits a wicked whipcrack of laughter rather than a more girlishly-appropriate squeak or squeal. "Beast," she accuses in a throaty tone, hands sliding forwards to tuck under pillows, the better to peer over one coyly curved shoulder to offer a bat-lashed, "View jogs a few memories loose, hmm?" She even bites her lip and winks at him as he finally backs away, entirely willing to play vixen to his rogue before letting the charade fade away in favor of snatching at the clothing he's tossing her way. Cue a sportive eyeroll and a droll, "Stop, stop, stop, just because you go without underwear doesn't mean we all do," and a shooing gesture of her hands before she finally departs the sheets with nary a thought paid to jaybird nakedness. And really, it's no small wonder that Ila'den's things got so lost - the pieces of her costume are clearly numerous and contraptions all, and it was probably an infuriating mess to disassemble the night before - possibly purposefully so, if her shifty smirk can be read right, underthings plucked from amidst the chaos and donned before she flicks a devious grin in Ila'den's direction. "You know, normally I'd've said 'good luck with that' or something equally awful, but you know, I almost believe you'll manage." And that's a lot coming from her, or so her tone implies, the young woman hardly lacking in the confidence department despite her her own physical shortcomings, all clearly on display as she plops onto the edge of the bed to draw black, lacy stockings up over a gnarled spiderweb of scar tissue that winds up one leg, bent rebar struts of knit flesh punctuated by pinprick dots indicative of skin stitched together by healer hands. "Shortened his name to Ryn, did he?" Because she can't see invisible elides you know. "That's funny. I go by Syn, now." Surprising NO ONE. There is a beat, maybe two of consideration as she pulls a dark, oversized shirt over her head, smoothing it down the better to clip tiny hooks of a patterned black corset into place over top of it before she glances up at Ila'den again, gaze sly as bogwater leaks into the corners of her mind. "Depends. Who's the loudmouth shouting about how he can have his rider down at the bar in ten?" CAPSDRAGON STRIKES AGAIN.

“Makes the leathers considerably easier to pull up,” Ila’den responds around husky laughter, as abrupt in its departure as it was in its conception. "And off, if you were wondering — though I’m pretty sure that curiosity was probably put to rest last night.” Or it was a struggle that added to the WHO-WEARS-THAT-MUCH-SHIT mess still, at this point, scattered about. Syn’s approval of Ila’den's life choices earns her another one of those roguish smiles, fingers finding his five o’clock shadow where they remain in halted surprise at the reveal of a nickname like ‘Vicky’. Vicky. Notice that Ila doesn’t comment on it — not yet. Ila’den’s too busy swallowing laughter that manifests into a wicked grin once denied liberation, doing his best to actually listen right up until Syn puts the dots together — and then he laughs. It’s low, sultry, husky laughter that still somehow manages to convey amusement rather than seduction. Yes. One plus one does equal Ilaryn, a fact that the bronzerider doesn’t bother to confirm or deny. “Vicky?” he inquires only then, a soft kind of reverence in the words that is actually just Ila trying really hard not to lose it — again. It might also be what’s behind the sudden distraction in the form of asspreciation (HA), that ends with Ila’den tsking at Syn when she mentions the need of underthings. Speaking of underthings, Ila’den’s brows furrow in the wake of a fleeting look at Syn’s leg, a look that may have been rage, or may have simply been little more than the physical manifestation of curiosity at the mutilation on skin glimpsed when Syn affixes her stockings, but either way goes unmentioned. “I don’t need luck, little bird. And yes, R’hyn. Like R-Apostrophe-H-Y — you know, it’s just occurred to me that I’m illiterate and have no idea why I’m trying to spell this for you.” A LIE. A pause and then, “Syn. Somehow, this doesn’t surprise me.“ And Ila’s on the move again, prompted by the retrieval of Syn’s corset to climb back on the bed and kneel behind her. He’s raised a girl-child on his own, been weyrmated to a woman, and raised a daughter — he knows how to lace this, and so fingers already start the tedious task of pulling laces back to a suitable snugness. “I’m Ila’den by the way. Or Ila. Whichever you prefer.” Finished, INVITATIONS TO GO OUT ARE VERBALLY DISTRIBUTED, GIVING LIFE (AND MEANING) TO QUESTIONS. QUESTION THAT ILA IS POSITIVE HE DOESN’T KNOW THE ANSWER TO. "I am positive that I have no idea what you’re talking about.” SEE? The slow-growing, devious smile that follows the statement is all the warning (and clarification that he’s a LIAR) the greenrider will get before — assuring the woman is decent — Ila’den gains his feet and hauls the tiny woman up and over his shoulders in a fireman carry. YEP. HAPPENING. Isn’t this what’s supposed to happen? Beauty getting captured by THE BEAST. And OFF TO THE TAVERN THEY GO, hopefully before R’hyn gets there so that he can place her (protesting or not, assuming his ass hasn’t been handed to him at some point) into a chair VERY SUSPICIOUSLY CLOSE TO THE DOOR. Then he feigns gentlemanly politeness that carries him to the barkeep for an order of drinks to ’thank the lady'. Tsk, tsk, tsk. RUN WHILE YOU CAN.

“Fair. You never do know when you might need easy access, after all,” Syn chirps, teeth flashing in a sharkish, knowing grin. “I do my best not to wear pants at all, but it doesn't make my superiors too happy. Something about my bits freezing off between and distracting my fellow wingriders?,” she says, phrasing it like a question as though she doesn't quite understand. “I keep telling them that if they were paying attention to their formation instead of my assets, we wouldn't have this problem, but somehow that never seems to work.” DIMPLES. She knows exactly why it doesn't work. “Their loss, I say,” she continues, prattling on because SHE SEES THAT ATTEMPT AT LAUGHTER SUPPRESSION and wants to see JUST HOW LONG ILA CAN KEEP IT AT BAY, mischievous twinkle in her eye lingering even when Ila succeeds for now. Syn's mouth softens, then, despite the rider's wicked grin, expression going gentle in a way that implies that under her damn-the-consequences cheek and outrageous flirtation, there just might be a woman who is a good friend, particularly to those that might not ordinarily have any. "The harder the battle, the sweeter the victory," she explains, eyes keen on Ila’s face to see if he understands, to take measure of the nature of their relationship to one another, evaluate just how much Ila'den really knows of the young man in question. And to one that understands as well as we know Ila'den does, her meaning amply clear: R'hyn is the victory, is the sweet, persevering in spite of, or perhaps due to, the challenges of his early life. The earnesty lasts only a moment - already, eyes have begun to glitter again, lips started to curl - but it's there just the same, for Ila'den to make of what he will. "But 'victory's a bit hard to slur when you're drunk, so we shortened it up a bit. Only short thing about that boy, am I right?" Aaaand, back to our regularly scheduled Syg, dimples flashing in a grin that'd be simply putrid it's so horrible, if only it weren't a bit charming, too, brows bobbing lewdly up and down over at Ila’den before returning to the task of redressing. She does mark the bronzer’s expression when stockings are hiked up over scarification, chicanery fading if only to tilt crooked brows at him, gaze trailing over his clothed person as though to say, 'Kettle.’ “Cave-in,” she explains instead, hiding surprise poorly in her voice when Ila shifts to sit behind her and assist with the lacings of her corset. Small hands fall away from the task, pressing to her chest to keep it perched in place as she continues, “Leg was trapped under debris, and by the time they got us out, it'd gotten infected.” And she's still not entirely sure it was an accident, but while a story is one thing to tell Ila, her suspicions are another, and so she instead flashes an impish smile over one shoulder with a teasing, “Does Vicky wear a corset these days?,” asking where he got his experience with the task without really asking before she hums quietly, accepting his offering of his name before she shakes her head and twists to tap his cheekbone right beneath his eyepatch and drawl a mirthful, “Captain. Why d’you think I made you keep that on all night?” Probably so her player can later execute dramatic and non-canonical renditions of 'O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN,’ but shh. ALAS, rhetorical assholish questions may well go unanswered as, with a squeal of surprise and a clap of laughter, the greenrider is hoisted up onto the bronzer's shoulder. Syn doesn't protest the fireman carry as some certain healers and their put-me-down-I'm-taller-than-you-you-wherfaced-bastard best friends might (ie, with actual vexation); there's the obligatory but ultimately ornamental beating of tiny fists against shoulders that, though perhaps not as muscular as they were previously​, are still enough to prompt a chirp of, "Muscles, nice," from the greenie before she goes back to dramatic renditions of, "Unhand me, foul creature! You can't just make off with me like this! What will people think! Put me down or I'll — that was my butt!" and otherwise make a scene. Emerging into the weyr proper doesn't do a damn lick of good - shrieks may die, but instead they are replaced with croons of, "Oooh, but you're tall. I can see my weyr from here!" and "Is that Ibby? HEY! IBBY! OVER HERE! LOOK! I'M FINALLY BEING KIDNAPPED BY A BIG HANDSOME PIRATE MAN WITH NO SCRUPLES, JUST LIKE MOTHER ALWAYS SAID I WOULD!" Incorrigible. “You could have at least grabbed our boots,” she adds as she's dumped into a chair near enough the door that it is suspicious, but unlike R’hyn, Syn has a sense of self-preservation - she just IGNORES IT in favor of waggling her fingers at his retreating back and draping herself comfortably, nigh on damningly, in her seat with the air of someone settling down to watch a particularly good movie, sans popcorn. THIS GON’ BE GOOD.

“You have bits that can freeze off?” comes that wickedly deviant burr, executed with feigned surprise and an almost overwhelming application of sarcasm that Ila’den probably picked up from R’hyn. “Are you sure? Maybe we should check again.” Which would have been an EXCELLENT segue into more sex, but Ila’den is joking. How is Syn to know, you ask? Why, he doesn’t rip her stockings right back off so that he can re-inspect her lower body with his lower FACE. See what I did there? BADUM TSH. (Or BOTTOM TSH if we want to get technical. Get it? Because her bottom? WHATEVER I’M FUNNY MARTHA. THIS IS WHY WE CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS.) The admittance of R’hyn’s nickname? It doesn’t spare her Ila’den’s answering laughter, but it’s easy to read in the sweeping darkness of liquid grey gone dangerously silver that Ila’den’s understanding of Syn’s words, of the man he’s found solace in, encompasses the knowledge that R'hyn was once — and is probably at times still — indentured to his own indestructible demons. The bronzerider simmers down long enough to offer patient confidence for the woman and her explanation of the state of her leg, and while there’s another rush of muted anger that’s gone nearly as quickly as it’s come, the ‘kettle’ offers little up in return as to what exactly has made him as black as the pot. What he does give an explanation to (around hushed, husky laughter), is her humorous inquisition as to whether or not R’hyn has become a fashionista for corsets. “Were that I was a man pleased by men in women’s clothing; Faranth knows it’s a wonder how he held out so long after being called Vicky half his life — but no. I’ve raised my sister, and was weyrmated to a woman for a time, with whom I managed a daughter. And so, Syn, I have a mostly clinical learning of corsets and how they work. Unfortunate truth.” Which Ila punctuates with an unnecessarily rough pull of tightening-string before he ties her off. BUT THEY’RE OFF. And don’t you dare think for a minute that Ila’den is going to let that bit about his eyepatch go. Eyepatches? He answers her between the onslaught of noise she offers up in between pretending at a damsel in distress. “Why, my lady, I thought you found the eyepatch to be rather enticing.” In a I-Can’t-See-The-Horror-Beneath kind of way. But here we are, back at the tavern, where Ila’den has deposited his dragon’s treasure (after much laughing from him, and much shrieking from her), only to abandon her under the pretense of getting drinks — a pretense that turns into a reality when R’HYN TAKES TOO DAMN LONG TO SHOW (in Ila’s mind, anyway; maybe he’s getting eaten by Ibby-wolves) but is spoiled by the fact that Ila’den has FORGOTTEN THEIR BOOTS. “We were in a rush. Don’t want the best booze to be had before we’ve had a chance to toast to — what is it we’re toasting to again? Ah, yes — reunions. Reunions without boots.” And DAMNIT RYN WALK THROUGH THE DOOR RIGHT NOW SO THAT ILA’DEN’S SHIT-EATING GRIN TOWARDS THE ENTRANCE HAS MEANING. Or don’t, because watching Ila’den sigh at his own failures is almost just as good. EITHER WAY: TO THE DRINK!

Fort Weyr - Shenanigan's Lounge

The natural walls of this cavern haven been completely covered and replaced by straight and sometimes curving walls of brickwork. There's method to the madness of covering stone with stone. It's as simple as the electric buzz in the room. New grade electric lights dot the fancy brick worked walls, with wires cleverly hidden behind, allowing more focus to be centered on the rest of the room rather than the numerous strings of wire needed to operate the lighting. Each bulb roosts in a bronzed metal flowering fixture, giving the room a rich atmosphere. Still, the walls are not the only place which has stone on stone appeal. The floor has been run smooth, the surface now slate rock, creating an imperial cast.
Beyond the actual foundations of the lounge, the luxury continues. High backed wooden chairs with padded white seats have been stationed all around the room. Between the individual chairs are benches fashioned out of the same rich wood with pillows made to flatter the cushions. There are low lying coffee tables or end tables near the individual chairs, while there's larger dinning room sized tables with chairs to match scattered as well, giving much variety to those who find themselves in the room. Decorative hangings and framed artwork has been neatly hung around the room, but to offset the meticulous method of the room, there's some pieces that give a sporty feeling to the room - such as a fishing rod or a snow shoe.
Of course, the final appeal of the room comes in the form of it's purpose; athletic competition. There are several games of darts lining the walls, various decks of dragon poker cards available, a large velvet lined pool table centered to one side of the lounge, a mat area surrounded by ropes, and an area that keeps track of all the runner races around the world via radio signal, giving constant updates on the status of the runners. Lastly, there's a bar here, small and built with brick as well. There's usually a bartender on duty willing to mix drinks during the evening hours.

And would it even be an Ilaryn RP without an obliging, borderline uncanny​ sense of timing?! I THINK NOT. R'hyn chooses that exact moment to enter stage right, pursued by a bear— well. More or less. It certainly LOOKS like he’s been pursued by SOMETHING in recent history - clothing hangs haphazardly on his person in the manner of one hastily dressed, his hair is ten kinds of askance with more ends pointing up than down, and Faranth’s tits, but someone or something has done its level best to chew his neck off. He knows it, too, feels it moreso, palm sliding along magnificent bruising with a wince and a stifled growl before blue-grey eyes lift, seeking a familiar face in the crowd. Stranger stranger stranger, here’s a stranger, there’s a stranger, and another little stranger, fuzzy stranger, funny stranger, stranger, Ila, Syn— Wait, what? And shells, if R’hyn’s face isn’t pretty much everything they’ve been waiting for, the rider not only double- but almost triple-taking, the third glance becoming more of a twitch-blink of pure bafflement, as though not quite believing his eyes. Yes, no, that is definitely Ila’den, and that is definitely Sygni, and he just… stops. Right there in the entry way. And just… stares the indefinite, wide-eyed stare of someone putting way, way too many 1+1’s together to get a whole string of potentially unwanted, definitely unexpected 2’s. Please wait while R’hyn restarts… Do not power down while this reboot is in process… Loading… 28%…

"That's for me to know, and you to find out, I guess," Syn drawls right back without missing a single beat, but perhaps she, too, is joking, for likewise no move is made to tear off any articles clothing - if only because who wants to suffer through those layers again? Not Syn. Instead, she beams a wicked little beam and waggles her eyebrows in a dastardly fashion, all the while clipping stockings to small garter belts and settling her shirt back in over them. Bright laughter meets the explanation Ila'den does allow her, humming contemplatively before saying, "Too bad, he'd probably look great in one," the last couple words coming out with a wheeze that turns into huffed giggles for strings pulled too tight. "Rude. I was only joking. … Mostly." But alas, before revenge may be exacted, they're off to the races!, shrieking and spectacle-making taking precedence over a decent answer in transit, Syn finding far more joy in making the good people of Fort Weyr stop and stare at them in concern (or pointedly ignore them because oh it's that Sygni girl again move along) than in drumming up a real answer. It's only when Ila'den returns to their table, drinks in hand, that Syn flashes the bronzerider a look laden with mischief and purrs a too-pleasant, "I did find it enticing. S'why I let you sail my ship." IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. SHUT UP AMANDA I CAN BE FUNNY TOO. Cue over-dramatic sassy wink, one eye scrunching way up, mouth opening with a click of her tongue before she accepts her drink, settling into that smug, smug sprawl with a vastly amused hum. "Reunions, you say. Reunions without boots. This has potential." And up she lifts her glass for clinking, even as blue eyes stray back towards the entrance — just in time for R'hyn to appear in the doorway with an ever-fortuitous sense of comedic timing. "Oh my," the woman breathes, delighted, gaze skimming over and over the rider's arrested figure, any amusement that might be had his expense lost in utter, perverse enjoyment of the human that once-Vicky has become, enjoyment that expresses itself in a hand that flattens itself on Ila'den's bicep, gaze swiveling up towards the older rider's face with a repeated, "Oh my." And oh, the mental image she's painting; it's positively horrible, really, expression a million different kinds of fey as her hand slides to get a grip on Ila's shirtfront, aiming to pull him down into range of a whisper that probably looks awful from an outside perspective, but what actually consists of, "Please tell me you have lots and lots of rampant sex with that." A beat, a flicker of her eyes back towards R'hyn, the rest of her remaining twisted eagerly towards Ila'den. "And I mean rampant, because shells, I can see why you were in a rush. Good on you, friend. Good on you." She releases him with several brisk pats to the chest, if only to lift one hand, a single finger curling at R'hyn's rebooting form, meaning crystal clear: c'mere.

“To be honest, little bird, I don’t remember much about the sailing, but I do remember that it was a damn fine ship.” He’ll toast to that. And reunions, too. Enter R’hyn, R’hyn whose mere presence gives Ila’den momentary pause around the lip of his bottle. But Ila’den isn’t about possessive gestures, is he? The man reclines in his chair, one arm going over the backing as his single grey eye maps the hidden contour of muscle he knows only too well (with teeth, and lips, and tongue) even though he can’t see them; the bronzerider is delineating haphazard clothing with the carnal intensity of a man who’s tasted the flesh underneath and knows the true meaning of addiction, a man that knows exactly which buckles, zips, and ties give way under the gentle pressure of knowledgeable hands so that his fingers can conquer every inch of flesh again, and again, and again, and —. Ila’den’s gaze loses some of that hyper-sexualized confidence, flagging at the ugly bruising of a battered neck when one brow lifts towards his hairline and amusement replaces ill-suppressed electricity. ‘You look like you had fun,’ he mouths, tapping at his own neck when grey eye finally finds grey-blue and holds. Syn's hand finds Ila’den’s bicep just then, causing the bronzerider to shift his body towards hers, then dip his head towards her lips when she catches the front of his tunic to whisper in his ear. The bronzerider’s attention never wavers from R’hyn once, adding to the outside perspective being awful when he finally shifts his focus to Syn instead and draws back with a feral grin to accompany low, husky, decidedly intimate laughter. Ila doesn’t make to remove her hands either, though the tightly coiled tension in his body might suggest this level of over-familiar allowance is obliged with effort — and possibly because he’s more distracted by R’hyn’s double, triple, just shy a quadruple take to bother. “He likes baskets,” Ila’den rumbles right back to Syn, amusement causing his burr to thicken considerably when he speaks. “And the man can’t get away from tables even here in Fort Weyr, it seems. He’s very clumsy.” See, Ila’den doesn’t brag about the sex or the assured rampancy of it; he doesn’t have to. Instead, the bronzerider leans away from Syn when she looks to R’hyn, reclining once more. He’s all roguish confidence, brows rising to complement Syn’s crooking finger and the wickedly slow smile on his lips in a manner that says, ‘We’re waiting, Vicky.’ What he actually says is, “R’hyn, I believe you already know Syn, Purser and Helmsman of a very fine vessel by the same name. She let me be captain for a night.” And look at Ila’den as he raises his drink like a bastard, the thumb of his hand catching at his eyepatch so that he can snap it in a quasi-salute AND DRINK TO THAT. Just punch him. Again. What could possibly go wrong?

56%… 79%… 91%… aaaaand, we're back, with a twitching squint of blue-grey eyes that catch and seize upon Ila'den's face and do not leave. It's the too aware gaze of someone that knows exactly what the other is thinking and is irrevocably interested, hard and sharp and more intense than a single look has any right to be. R'hyn's big body shifts with the scrutiny, a motion that would be an anxious fidget on anyone else, but on him, right now, while Ila'den nigh-on undresses him, nay, ravishes him with his gaze, it's a feral gesture, the back and forth roll of muscles not unlike a feline set to strike. It's only said rider's amusement that snaps the visible tension inherent in R'hyn's form, another of those head-shaking blinks offered before his answer to mouthed words comes in the form of a single raised digit. His mood doesn't fade, per se, but instead repurposes, intimate heat instead shifting to sullen ire when Syn pulls Ila down to whisper quiet words into his ear, blue-grey gaze intense on the movement of her lips, then the bronzerider's, and when did he start moving? R'hyn sure doesn't know; it might have been when Ila's singular eye fixed on him again, or in visceral reaction to the sudden tension in the older rider's form, but he's close enough to their table by the time Ila'den finishes his reply to catch the tail end of it, mouth flattening when beckoning gestures and raised brows reel him in the rest of the way. "You'll be clumsy by the time I'm done with you," is said in place of proper greeting, dropping himself into the seat across from them with the sort of sigh one issues when they know a whole lot of bullshit is about to come their way, and all they can do is endure. "Syn," gets repeated with a brow flicked towards his hairline, head tilting to finally roll blue-grey eyes back to the greenrider in question, mouth shifting as though trying the name on for size, or perhaps - perhaps - no, definitely fight back laughter. Lips press again, but this time there is a quirk of betrayal at both corners of his mouth, a hairline fracture of amusement that cracks right through his steely visage with a low, strangled noise that eventually resolves itself into an honest-to-Faranth snort. "You would. You would be Syn. And you-" Lest Ila think he was going to get off scott free, though humor warms the vaguely-crazy look of utter disbelief he focuses on the bronzerider. "-You would find the one person who…" A beat. "Vessel jokes. You just made vessel jokes. Please. Faranth, please, don't tell me you chose him because of the eyepatch." Back to Syn his gaze rolls, playful and accusatory and dark and confused and so very, very many things before he growls and rubs his hands over his face, long fingers crackling over stubble before setting hair further askance on another sigh. "I need a drink." Out goes his hand, clenching, intent clear: one of you, gimme.

Is it Syn's turnday? IT MIGHT BE SYN'S TURNDAY, or so her gaze reads, eyes lit up with the unholy sparkle of not one, not two, but at least five children on Christmas Day. She veritably writhes for all of the EYE-FUCKING going on between the boys, teeth pressed hard into her lower lip to try to keep from commenting but alas, she is only a mortal, and a woman at that, and so gives into the temptation with a throaty, "Well, shells, I didn't mean right here." Cue a playful bob-bobbing of eyebrows over a patented sharkish grin as she continues with a breathed, "But if you must, please, go on." She'll just BE OVER HERE, elbows thudding to the table, chin rested in her hands so fingers can curl gently against her cheeks, WATCHING. There's a purred 'oooh' in reaction to R'hyn's incoming threat, but she manages - somehow - to contain another full-bodied wriggle, instead flicking a beatific smile up onto her face when the younger bronzerider speaks her name. "Vicky," she trills right back, not even slightly dampered by what appears to be some sort of anger and frustration at her treatment of poor Ila’den (though she doesn’t do it again), her own brow lifting in response— If only to come crashing back down for a bright, tinkly laugh when finally, R'hyn cracks. "I would, though I can't claim the idea entirely - dragon, you know," she sasses, turning her gaze towards Ila'den along with Heryn's shift in attention, brows set to waggling again as R'hyn accuses him of - no, wait, back to her again - accuses her of choosing Ila for his eyepatch. "What?," the greenrider replies to the younger man's half-plea, half-accusation, hands coming up to almost her ears, a necessary height to properly demonstrate the level of her weakness when she adds, "You know I love a good man in an eyepatch. It's just so - so very…" Unable to find the words, she turns her body towards Ila'den, gesturing at him with claw-like fingers and a rolling, 'PRRRRRR!' "Don't act like you don't know," she adds, lips twisting back up into a half-smirk, saucy attention focused back on R'hyn while he goes all 'why me' over there. Her own drink is picked up, considered, and knocked back in one, liquid held in her mouth beneath a raised eyebrow as though to say, 'come and get it if you want it that bad.' Horrible. Truly horrible.

SINGLE FINGER SALUTES? “Dangerous game, Heryn,” is delivered with punctuated wickedness, eyes raking, pausing on clothed bits of anatomy that are very much Ila’den’s business to emphasize his point. “Besides, I’m pretty sure that promise is how you got us into this whole mess anyway.” TSK. But then Ila’den is largely quiet, looking from Syn to R’hyn, swallowing down laughter around another swig of his drink for Syn’s enthusiasm even if R’hyn’s protective drive gives Ila’den momentary pause. But then it’s fine, because R’hyn is here and laughing, bantering with Syn and talking about his eyepatch. What’s left of Ila’den’s drink is rolled in its glass, considered as Syn knocks back her drink in DEFIANCE and Ila’den //watches with another smile that speak to amusement, that caves and gives way to more husky laughter before he hands over the near-empty drink to his… whatever R’hyn is. “Here,” comes on that rough rasp, that husky burr. “You two have some catching up to do. I’m going to go take a bath.” And he’s giving up his seat, leaning into R’hyn to press a kiss against lips that’s got the burn of alcohol, the grate of stubble, and probably still tastes faintly of him and Syn if he doesn’t still have the smell of her all over him. “Play nice, children.” And he’s clapping a gentle hand on Syn’s shoulder, moving to head for the door where he pauses long enough to offer up, “And thank you, for one hell of a ride.” NOT THAT HE REMEMBERS. He’s just teasing, but he’s gone before either one can keep him smelling like sex and Syn any longer.

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