Merits of Anatomy

Igen Weyr - Moonshine Gardens
A large sandstone archway provides a dramatic entrance from the soft fine sands of the lake shore. The room within defined by sandstone brick walls which vary in height, but none low enough to be seen over. Colorful awnings stretch overhead, connected by a series of poles and wires so that they float effortlessly above. They provide shelter from the sun during the day, and a warm comforting feel at night lit by electric lights. Plank flooring is stained a medium cherry hue, giving an odd effect to the open space.
A solid wall at the back leads to a smaller building where the kitchen is located. Colored glass shelves line the wall in irregular intervals, stocked with all fashion of liquor and wine. A massive bar rests in front of the wall, an exquisite piece of skybroom polished and stained to a flawless black finish, accented with two inlaid meandering stripes of pearl and silver. Matching black and silver stools line along the front of the bar. Round tables for four-somes to six-somes are spread about haphazardly with comfortable but also easily replaceable wicker chairs.


It is early evening, and by early we mean that there is still light in the sky and the heat of the day has barely waned. Thus the gardens are just waking up with people, as if they're coming out of their midday hibernation from the heat of Igen. Shetaia is one of those people, idly siting at one of the tables near the bar, having a cool glass of juice. There's a text in front of her, something on dragon anatomy if one happens to look closer, quite the dry read honestly. Every now and then she'll glance up and scan the area, as if taking note of who comes and goes.

You know who else is one of those people? ILA'DEN. THAT'S WHO. The foreign bronzerider hasn't been present in Igen Weyr for too long, but he has been here long enough to locate the bar, and he's certainly been here long enough to forfeit his (always worn, never forgotten) leather jacket in favor of a light-fabric, long-sleeved shirt and a desert poncho with a hood. Despite being mostly hidden, there's still hints of unruly black hair defying gravity at odd angles, a complement to the patch over his right eye that serves only to make the man look less dragonrider, more renegade. It doesn't help that he's wrapped a scarf around the lower half of his face to boot, as if meaning to cover up his identity altogether. Despite the leathers still on his legs, there's nothing to denote who he is or where he's come from either; there's no knot to depict status, or weyr, or craft, nor lifemate-bond. Just an uncivilized looking man, here in Igen Weyr, looking uncivilized. So is it ANY SURPRISE that the heathen orders whiskey from the bar first, downs that, and then orders another before he turns to regard patrons and spattered occupants with one grey eye that observes too keenly. AND MAYBE THEY LOCK EYES, maybe FATE is cruel with a twistedly wicked sense of humor, or maybe Shetaia is just extremely unlucky. The former renegade, once-upon-a-time-ago Weyrleader, now glorified secretary's attention falls on the dragonhealer. A pause, as he takes her in, takes in her book, and then leans to gather another harshly alcoholic drink before he moves over towards her with a predatory stalk in his gait - and a notable limp. "You look like you could use this," comes gruff on husky tones, the glass deposited as he takes in text and - "That looks… riveting." The dry nature of sarcasm thrives here, and Ila'den owns it. "You probably need this more than I do." Annnnd he's setting that second glass down for Shetaia as well. BOTTOMS UP, DRAGON-LADY!

Shetaia is unfortunately unaware of what twist fate has thrown in her direction or maybe it's a fortunate thing that she knows not what has been thrown in her path. Did she notice the strangely renegade looking man as he crosses the gardens to the bar? Indeed she had, head tilting to the side for a moment as she considers his garments and lack of easily identifiable look. Shaking her head to herself she goes back to her book as he orders his first whiskey, perhaps just writing him off as another wanderer in for his daily drunk. That is, until a drink is placed in front of her, alas the predatory gait wasn't noticed this time around. A squint is offered in his direction, the husky voice earning a hmm. "You might want to see a healer about that, been out it too many sandstorms lately? It'll damage the vocal chords if I remember right from that course I took." the mention of her text has her glancing to it and she grins rather slyly "It is isn't it? With the recent flight I'm brushing up, I've a message in with Zeraeth's rider to see if I might track her growth through clutching." she taps the text idly "Is anatomy an interest of yours?" oh poor Shetaia, sometimes things like sarcasm just go right over her head.

Faranth. The suggestion to see a healer has that grey eye crinkling in what's definitely humor, low rumbling, husky laughter escaping him for too-short a period of time. The smile probably remains, hidden though it is beneath fabric, because it's there in that lone eye. "I don't think a healer can fix me, little bird," comes gruff again, no less amused, perhaps a touch more husky for the laughter that remains in fragmented hints upon each syllable. "I was born with this particular… defect." Meaning that's just his voice; he talks like that everyday, to everybody (woe be unto them), and has ever since adolescence hit and paved the harrowing path to adulthood. Still, Shetaia is on to her dragon-healing, how riveting it is, and Ila'den is polite enough to provide his full attention to the woman despite the fact that he has no idea what that means, brow rising for the information given, a hint of perhaps more laughter to be found in his gaze for how she just keeps going. And then she - WEE WOO, WEE WOO, ABORT, ABORT - asks that question. Oh, Shetaia. You sweet, innocent duck of a human being. Is anatomy an interest of his? You can't see his mouth, but the sharp-edge is there in that grey eye, a hint of mischief, a change in his posture that hints at the wolfish quality of his smile without having to bare canines or too many teeth. "I find anatomy particularly fascinating," comes on another rumble of sound, implicating too much and inappropriately. "Unfortunately, my favorite subject to study is in another Weyr." OR SO HE THINKS. "Still, it sounds more like you're in need of more drink. Shall I go raid the bar for you?" He's already hooking a thumb in that direction, as if he means it. And this is Ila'den, so he probably does. "I hear that tequila is particularly good for the assimilation of knowledge." Sigh.

Shetaia plucks the whiskey up from the table, she sniffs it and then takes a sip. She swirls the alcohol around in her mouth a moment before swallowing and makes the slightest of faces. "They left that batch a little too long in the barrel I believe, it's not quite as smooth as it ought to be." not that she seems a great connoisseur of whiskey. Does she notice the wolfish quality, perhaps, as the 'traveling drunk' she has so dubbed him in her mind at this particular moment earns another squint. "Truly? I don't often meet many that find it so fascinations as I do. Those at Irene and Xanadu but only a few. " she gestures at a particular page of her text "You see here? The need of mating seems to slow, and I'm of a hope that it doesn't completely die out in our Weyrs. It would be a tragedy."

The entirely-too-timely arrival of the favored object of study in question is either a particularly good or particularly bad joke. Somewhere the universe is having its laughs, even as R'hyn is having his. Haltingly, and from afar, because he can't seem to make it more than a few steps without having to stop and choke back amusement every time blue-grey eyes land on Ila'den. At least one of them knows how to dress for the climate, tall, tattooed figure clad in a sleeveless tunic and shorts, fist raised against his lips as he finally manages to close the distance between them and himself, politely holding his silence until Shetaia finishes speaking before he can utter a droll, "It's slowing down because of bronzeriders wearing get-ups like that. Goldriders take one look at all of that-" Yes, he just gestured to all of Ila'den. "-and they run for the hills. Faranth, is that a poncho?" He says it like he can't quite believe his eyes, eyes that rove over and over Ila'den's form with an appreciation that belies his words before flicking a smile down at Shetaia. "Sorry to interrupt. Please, continue. Matings, tragedies?" He's all ears.
Shetaia is looking at you.

That grey eye goes to the empty glass, Ila'den raising his brow and laughing again for the words that follow, though he makes no comment. Instead, he lapses into a silence that might have traipsed the realms of 'too long' and 'uncomfortable' if not for the interjection of one wit-ready, amicably abled weyrmate appearing at his side. Ila'den's attention shifts — everything about the man shifts, turns feral, speaks to something dark and hungry and patently wanting despite R'hyn's words and Shetaia's ABSOLUTELY ADORABLE mark-missing. "That," Ila'den retorts, pulling down whatever that is wrapped around his neck, pushing back his cowl, callused digits already working at buttons to undo his OWN PERSONAL PONCHO, "is asking for a burn, baby." And despite the humor, the amusement, the clear challenge in Ila'den's tone, the bronzerider is shedding his poncho, forfeiting it for the protection of his long-sleeved tunic so that Half Moon's Weyrleader can be the one looking ridiculous(LY COOL) in that desert poncho. IT DOESN'T MATTER THAT RUKBAT IS HEADING TOWARDS THE HORIZON. SHUT UP. And then Ila'den's attention is back on Shetaia, losing heat, waning on desire, strikingly cold in the face of what it was when his attention was on R'hyn mere seconds ago. That wolfish smile doesn't help. "I have a feeling that you are speaking of draconic anatomy, and I am speaking of more carnal pursuits." On people. Like the one beside him. If that wasn't clear. "But do continue. I'm particularly fond of matings and tragedies." ILA'DEN. He's rude.

Shetaia honestly might not have noticed the too-timely arrival of the favored object, save for the reaction of Ila'den himself. Tapping the text again she gives Ila'den a perplexed look and then there is R'hyn and his comments of goldriders is at least on track with her idea of what anatomy she's speaking of. "Truly? I'd never thought of it that way, if the rider is not influenced in the least it might inhibit the rising of a gold. That is an interesting theory, I'll have to check with weyrwoman Maisy to see if there was anyone of interest that caught her attention before Zeraeth rose." a pencil is drawn from it's place behind her ear and she jots a few notes down. There are /always/ notes folks, always. Oh wait, Ila'den is still here, and lacking in things that make him look like random drunk #5. "Oh! You were speaking of human anatomy?" a frown, you'd think there would be embarrassment but there is not. "If his" she gestures at R'hyn "theory is correct the human anatomy might very well influence the dragon." she pauses, for breath, for thought it doesn't matter. The word bronzerider finally trickles into her brain and she stares at Ila'den "Bronzerider?" she glances around him as if he's hiding a dragon "Your lifemate, would he be interested in joining my current study on dragon breeding? It would be ever so helpful."

"The only burns I see here are the ones I'm about to inflict on you," R'hyn retorts, hands already lifting to ward Ila'den off as the bronzerider makes to lower the layer about his face. "What old lady did you have to romance to get that thing? Burn. How many drinks will it take to get you out of it? Burn. If you're wondering if it makes you look like a forty-year-old virgin, the answer is yes. Burn." All of this spoken as he backs slowly away from Ila's approach, side-stepping to put Shetaia between Ila and himself, ducking down to lean over the dragonhealer's notes as though feigning intense interest in them. "I don't know how much that actually comes into play, honestly," he admits of humans affecting flight desires. "I can't remember ever once noticing what a person looked like enough to care if it mattered if Xermiltoth won. He rather… dominates the space," said with a tap of one long finger against his temple. "Though it might be different from the female perspective. I wouldn't know." ALAS, that one-sided experience. He flicks a look towards the incognito bronzer at his side, impish to the nth degree before finally heaving a sigh and standing straight again, arms slightly outspread as though to accept the donning of the ridiculous(LY HEINOUS) garment. "The weyrwoman said I'm allowed to drag you home if you were making yourself heatsick," drawled with a fond smile and a brush of one thumb over Ila'den's cheek, lingering momentarily before focusing back on Shetaia. "So. Dragonhealer, or just a particularly curious citizen?" Asked of her book and notes, because inquiring minds want to know!

GIVE HIM A MOMENT, SHETAIA. Ila'den moves with the slow, easy stalk of every villain in every horror film ever: confident in his ability to bring down his prey, harboring a secret knowledge that panic only equates to easier domination - and that smile. Ila'den answers those SICK BURNS with a smile that only grows, showing canines, then too many teeth, humorless despite the humor inherent to this unruly 'rider. "Ouch," comes on a rasp of sound, feral, and dangerous and not at all offended, merely warning in the subtext. THANK FARANTH FOR SHETAIA (or woe be her) as Ila'den shifts his attention back to her even while he dresses his weyrmate up without really looking. Probably on purpose, because buttons, and hair, and plausible deniability about how the clothing constricted enough to STRANGLE HIM. Juuuust kidding. Ila'den's pulling it over R'hyn's head with the deft efficiency of a father dressing a rather rambunctious toddler. "My first weyrmate told me that her dragon didn't regard her wants in a flight. My daughter is also a goldrider, if you'd like me to send her this way. I believe she has a friend here, somewhere." A beat, and then that grey eye is flickering back to R'hyn, smoothing down poncho, lips lilting into a half-smile for talk of the Weyrwoman as he breathes out, "She just misses putting her cold feet on me." And then there's a pause, a look for his weyrmate, and then something of a smile for Shetaia despite how quickly it falters and dissipates. "He may not have a choice, given he caught Zeraeth and we are stuck here for a while. He is not the most… friendly in disposition, though." It's not a no at least. "And I was speaking about human anatomy, little bird. I was being sarcastic."

Shetaia's eyes bounce back and forth between R'hyn and his burning and Ila'den and his well let's call it smoldering. "It might not matter overly much, I've not looked in to it yet." a shrug as she eyes her notes again "Worth looking at though, just about anything is when it might hold answers to questions we have." the fact that there's poncho's being passed around and the sun still isn't quite down has her eying the pair again. And then Ila'den offers her a smorgasbord of samples of different dragon riders than her usuals "You'd have them drop in? That would be great! I'll have to set up the infirmary for some measurements and get some more notebooks but it will be a great undertaking." oh my Ila'den you now have a fan. A fan who doesn't notice you're sarcasm. A slow blink "You're /that/ bronzerider? I've been looking all over for you, I've so many questions. And not friendly is okay, I have time to attempt to build a rapport if he'll be hanging about as it seems." a wrinkle of her nose at the mention of human anatomy "Oh. Well, I'm not as familiar with the human anatomy, but I do have a healer friend if you've questions."

R'hyn isn't nearly as terrified as he should be, teeth flashing in a wide grin for rasped warnings, eyes squishing shut to allow for the passage of fabric over his head before flicking open to fix his weyrmate with a wry, chiding look. "Don't be ridiculous, that's why I miss you. She misses you waking up first to make the klah." Hands lift to smooth over the poncho, arms lifting to make it spread ridiculously before he closes them again with an amused, "I stand corrected. This isn't that bad. Looks better on you though, don't you think?," asked of Shetaia. "Suits his whole…" Another full-bodied gesture, and then it's his turn to listen with avid flicks of his eyes, bouncing from Ila to dragonhealer and back with a slow-growing smile. "If you don't mind being bespoken, I can encourage my dragon to pay a visit as well. It might be interesting, to see what you can learn from the data you collect." And then the woman wrinkles her nose and offers Ila the expertise of a healer and R'hyn can't help but chuckle, honest and amused, eyes scrunching up around the edges as he says, "I don't think that will be necessary. Our weyrmate is a healer, and isn't afraid to give us very detailed lectures about what can possibly go wrong with our everything. Besides, self-study is very elucidating, isn't that right, Ila?" Alas, poor gruff bronzerider, R'hyn doesn't give him the chance to answer, barrelling right on past what would surely have been a husky intimation filled with feral implications in order to say, "But thank you. If you don't mind, though, we do actually have business to be attending to. Promises to be dreadful dull, but that's life. I'm sure we'll meet again…?" A pause for her name, but only that, as he's already making to back away, pulling Ila'den along with him. "Take care, yeah?" And then, woosh, they are one with the evening crowd, gone with a flick of desert-grade fabric and a rasp of low laughter, off into the sunset.

Shetaia doesn't seem as if she quite got some of what R'hyn was saying about another weyrmate and healers and such. Maybe she was out too long in the heat today, or her mind is on something that has little to do with human bonding rituals. "Hmm oh, Shetaia, Dragonhealer level 3." is offered just as the pair disappears into the crowd.


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