Ila No

We started this log off as a challenge to see if we could RP in ten sentences or under. We usually made it in under 15?!?! Totally counts.


Half Moon Bay Weyr - Hearth Nook
This smaller room is separated off the main living cavern. The focal point is a big stone hearth, which always has a couple pots of stew and klah bubbling over it. Thick carpet lines the entire space and the room is has several cushy chairs and sofas spread around. There are no electric lights here, only glow baskets to keep the cosy effect.


ONE. TWO. THREE. FOUR. FIVE. SIX. SEVEN. EIGHT. NINE. ILA'DEN IS HERE.

ILA'DEN. HE THINKS HE'S FUNNY. HE ISN'T THOUGH. HE'S JUST A DICK. A DICK AND A LIAR AND A SONOFABITCH. SO R'HYN? R'HYN IS NOT HERE. WHERE IS HE? NOBODY KNOWS. THIS IS HOW YOU GET ANTS.

CITAYZLEAT IS NOT HERE. Not yet. But Forge is, looking gaunt and weird and really unnerving, perched with his tail wrapped around the pot of klah closest to the fire. It's SAVED. Eyes whirring red, the little brown firelizard looks like he might actually chew the hands off anybody who tries to mess with it. Aconite, well. He's got a more lackadaisical approach. Mostly it involves attaching himself to the only familiar human's head and CHATTERING INCESSANTLY. HELLO ILA. HELLO DO YOU HAVE FOOD. WHERE IS CITA SHE'S SUPPOSED TO BE HERE. What's that noise across the cavern? Loud swearing? Well, she'll be here soon enough.

THINKS? OH, THIS MAN KNOWS - though YEESH ON THE NAMECALLING AND THE ANTS, MAN. SHOTS FIRED. Thankfully Ila'den can't read meta, or if he can, he's happily ignoring the SLANDEROUS INSULTS in much the same manner he ignores the hungry-squawks of his Aconite-hat: with feigned dignity. He's moving around the room to build what is probably a fort, but has yet to take shape, sipping from his own mug of what might be Klah, but is probably alcoholic in nature if we are being honest with ourselves. "Well," he says, to nobody and everybody (everybody being firelizards), "sounds like Cita needs something stronger than that klah." And so he spikes her drink, because red-eye whirling flits can SUCK IT. THAT'S WHY. AND WHERE IS R'HYN ANYWAY? WHO IS GOING TO TEMPER STORM CITA? NOT HE.

R'hyn isn't sorry, not even a little bit; indeed, there's nary a single trace of 'sorry' in the hard lines of his body as he finally, finally appears from the depths of wherever-the-shells he was. Nope, only injured pride and righteous indignance to be found here as he smooths what might once have been a white washcloth over the pure devastation that is his face, covered in great big globs of gobbledigook that may or may not be the innards of a baked dessert. "Why," he half-questions, half-growls, not of Ila specifically either, but perhaps of the entire world, "do people insist on throwing perfectly good bubblies at my face?" The bronzerider pauses just within the doorway, arrested perhaps by the sight of Aconite perched on Ila's head, or the beginnings of an only-too-familiar blanket fort scene, or the sight of Ila'den SPIKING CITA'S KLAH/. Whichever of those it is (all three?), it earns a hard snort as he shifts into motion again. "Gonna die," he mumbles, though whether it's a promise or a threat is anyone's guess. He certainly does his best to move out of the way regardless. You know. Under the pretense of cleaning a broad expanse of bare chest free of bubbly. Yep. Totally.

THERE IS FOOD, Aconite KNOWS THIS TO BE TRUE. Ila might have it, so he keeps yelling about it at the bronzerider — completely ignoring the spiking, while Forge screeches like a creepy little gremlin and flaps his wings — without pause. MAYBE SHE NEEDS THAT BUT ACONITE NEEDS FOOD. WHERE IS HIS — OH THERE IT IS. The other-one that's not-cita brings the food, and the bronze launches himself at R'hyn's chest with a flurry of wings and muttery chattering. "YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN." Citayzleat hurls over her shoulder, flouncing into the little alcove with as much a fury as her poor starving firelizard. "Thank you, Forge." The journeyman greets both men, theoretically, grabbing the pot and taking a gulp straight from the earthenware. To her credit, she only startles a little at the THOUGHTFUL ADDITION, blinking owlishly from behind it to squint at the tableau of bubbly-covered Ryn and Ila in the process of Fort-ing.

Aconite, the cake - or bubbly in this case - is definitely a lie. It's not that Ila'den doesn't know they're in public(ish) spaces, it's more that Ila'den doesn't care; when R'hyn comes in and takes in the Klah-spiking, fort building, maybe-I-never-actually-gave-up-renegading Ila'den, the bronzerider's ONLY GREY EYE does unspeakable things to the lines and planes of hard muscles and a bubbly-delicious face and - ohp! Ila'den does that thing that people do, where they go to lean a shoulder on something that isn't actually there, and almost fall, but then catch themselves, and still somehow manage to exude confidence despite the fact that they've only just stopped themselves from I'm-An-Ass-ery. "Better seasoning?" A beat. "Aconite's got the right of it," and across the room Ila'den goes, until it's bronzerider-pressed-against-bronzerider-and-flit, and Ila'den is licking bubbly off of R'hyn's face and SIDE-EYEING CITA AS SHE COMES IN WHILE HE DOES IT and not even a LITTLE BIT bothering to pretend that he ISN'T licking R'hyn's face. And then Ila'den just leans on the wall there by R'hyn, crowding the younger bronzer with one arm curled and planted on the wall somewhere near his head and that ever-present smile on his face to EMPHASIZE ROGUISHNESS. "Hello, Cita," he says, all upbeat in the face of her FURY. "R'hyn spiked your drink." To which he raises his own, and drinks.

HE SAW THAT, ILA'DEN. Despite lingering ire-woe for his pathetic, sticky fate, R'hyn saw that failed shoulder lean, and the grin it elicits is truly terrible, something even the Grinch would observe as a source of learning material. Oh, he's going to be hearing about that later. As for the pie, it's definitely a lie, because R'hyn's hands fly down to fend off the firelizard in a flash, one part karatayyyy chop, and one part TORO, TORO. Lookit the food-covered washcloth! Do you want it? GO FETCH. AWAY the bronzerider flings the pastry-covered length of cloth, smug and secure in what is definitely a success and could in no way possibly be a failure when— "Mmhilastop," the bronzerider laughs, hands coming back up to press against the older man's chest and stay there, fingers snagging fabric, pulling him closer, head turning, all one fluid motion in an attempt to seize a kiss before— too late. Roguishness hits Ila's features and R'hyn sags with a sigh that is one part 'damnit Ila,' and one part— no, nevermind, it's all 'damnit Ila' as the bronzer blames the klah-spiking on him. Blue-grey eyes track to mark the healer's fury, lips quirking up to one side as hands drop to positions slightly less damning than 'fisted into Ila'den's shirtfront.' "Yes, totally me, did it in all that time I had between two seconds ago and now. Aren't I great?"

Aconite is A GENIUS AMONG FIRELIZARDS, but also he's kind of REALLY NOT. The little bronze FLINGS himself after that rag, taking care to leave some nice claw marks in his wake because RUDE. Cita doesn't have any sort of thing to say, for a minute, but that's mostly because she's doing her best to Spring Break this mug of spiked klah. She means Business, and not Business like what's happening in their pants. The Serious kind that involves murdering somebody possibly if at least half of the klah doesn't go down in a quickness. "Hello, Ila." Cita matches inflection, but her tone is droll, dry as a bone as she finally stops her mad dash into caffeinated buzz. "Did he." She hums, nodding. "Amazing. Damn good bartender." Deadpan. "Thank you, R'hyn. You really understand me." The healer grins, quick — a flash, then it's gone, hid behind her best Healer Neutral and eyes only just a little bright. She's not amused. Noooo. And she's also not sharding moving until this pot is done. "Am I interrupting something?" Gaze slides from blanket fort, to pie-chest, to one-set-and-one-single eye. Cita drinks, a little more leisurely now that the temptation for Murder has worn off. WELL?

"What's that, weyrling? Ila yes?" And Ila'den's only all too aware of what R'hyn was planning on doing with his mouth; it's probably why the bronzerider starts leaning RIGHT BACK IN like he's going to finish the job, only to stop with another smile when Cita says his name. It doesn't stop him from licking R'hyn - again - though it does draw that lone grey eye back to the healer, one brow raised in Ila-esque defiance as he works in DREADFUL SLOW MOTION and ceases somewhere around R'hyn's eyeball. Then the bronzerider's as INTENT ON CITA'S EXISTENCE as he is INTENT ON THE BUSINESS HAPPENING IN THEIR PANTS, all Willy Wonka smiles and knuckles-to-cheekbone as he leans elbow to the wall beside R'hyn once more. "No," he tells Citayzleat, "though my weyrmate is." And just like that, the bronzerider is pushing away from walls to stalk forward half an inch and put his shoulder right in R'hyn's stomach (GENTLY GEEZ). He uses one arm to catch the taller bronzer around his knee, and then rights himself up, hauling R'hyn UP AND SIDEWAYS so that he's in a fireman carry and OH LOOK AT HOW VERY SMUG HE LOOKS EVEN AS SOME OF THAT BUBBLY GOOKS RIGHT ONTO HIS FACE. "My ability to think straight, in case you were wondering. And we all know that if I'm distracted, there's some poor soul out there destined for contact with a wall. I'm doing it for the good of the people." A pause, somber tones, and then a too-bright, "Enjoy your Klah, little bird. Try not to kill anybody; R'hyn might need your help in an hour." AND OFF HE GOES, just TERRIBLE ILA BEING TERRIBLE AND KIDNAPPING R'HYN AND LEAVING POOR CITA TO HER GRUMPS AND HER DRINKS AND HER ABANDONED FORTS.

"You don't have to remind me," cometh words that would have been droll or growled or sarcastic or illicit or really any number of other things other than what they are: gritted out of a face smooshed up with playful disgust, R'hyn's shoulders bunching up around his ears for that slow, slow, deviant lick up the planes of his face. "Ila, no," he adds on for the FIRST AND LAST TIME IN HIS LIFE, but as per usual with their public dynamic, Ryn says one thing and means another. Sure his eyes might say 'HELP ME' but the rest of him is enjoying this, visibly fighting against laughter that slips through in little. tiny quakes. up his spine. And no, there he goes, finally caving when his eyeball is in danger, kept only from doubling over in a fit of manly giggles by Ila'den's presence alone. "Faranth," he invokes, pushing would-be tears from his eyes, head shaking over at Citayzleat for her timely intervention. "You're welcome. Any time. Pern's best bartender. Tell your friends." Blue-grey eyes focus back in on Ila'den for that 'no,' going a particular kind of gentle for the even vaguely-sarcastic use of 'weyrmate,' lips quirking up even as he issues a sigh that borders on longsuffering when it becomes hugely obvious as to what's going to happen next. "What did we talk about vis-a-vis the carrying?," R'hyn protests as he's hefted up onto Ila'den's shoulders, doing absolutely NOTHING to help this situation - no, the work is alllll Ila's. "Sexy carrying, Ila, sexy carrying. This is just undignified." His gaze sliiides its way over to Cita, head shaking as though to say 'he'll never learn' even as he actually says, "Well, I guess this is goodbye. No such thing as autonomy in this weyr. A man can't use two legs of his own. It's really quite funny, you know, I walked in here under my own power just a minute ago I would have sworn I had but I guess now I'm an invalid who is going to need a healer in an hour because my weyrmate is probably going to trip and drop me because he's too busy thinking with his other head and—" On and on he does, voice likely trailing away as Ila'den departs and going still, but to be fair he's punctuating every couple words with fondles and kisses and smacks to Ila's ass, so… C'est la vie Ilaryn, really. Bless Cita and her whole entire face for putting up with it as much as she did, truly.

"If they didn't want to be murdered, why'd they ruin my order of redwort?" Cita asks, rhetorically, because Ila's doing all sort sof inappropriate things and how is she supposed to respond, if not by completely ignoring it? "I will enjoy it, though. Thank you. Please use actual lubrication products this time. Punishing me for your impatience and ineptitude is hardly fair." Or not. Actually ignoring. Honestly the healer can't help herself, and besides, THIS IS HER SERIOUS FACE. SHE'S SERIOUS. And to her credit, she actually does sound thankful for the first, smiling warmly at the bronzer because hey. It's not her being hauled off tuber-style. It's a good day. Or it will be, once she finishes this pot of klah. The smile doesn't even go away, just turns steely and threatening, because SHE KNOWS WHERE THEY LIVE. HAH. The healer wiggles her fingers tauntingly at Ryn as he's carted off, Not At All Smirking over the edge of the klah pot. "We believe you, Heryn! You're strong, mobile." Mumblemumbleusually. "You can walk yourself to your sex shenanigans." She didn't yell that, either, and it didn't make her feel better re: the asshole who's trying to ruin her daynightsometime. "I'll tell them something." Cita tells Forge, burrowing down into what there is of the blanket fort. Might as well settle in. It'll be a while.


Add a New Comment
Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License