Fall Cleaning

Day 1 of Month 9 of Turn 2714

Half Moon Bay Weyr - Winter's Asylum
Never has the phrase 'it's not what you have, but how you use it' been more apropos. This weyr is not a large one by any means, but it takes the space it has and makes it count. A wide ledge opens into a open-layout living room area, the space stretching back the length of the weyr to include a small island and a relatively modern kitchen space. Ceilings have been vaulted high, rough walls layered with flagstone to give it a rustic, regimented air. Into one wall has been carved a dragon couch, hung with icy blue blankets and padded with pillows in varying shades of tan and grey to make the space comfortable.
The entire space seems to follow the same color scheme, human-sized couches a soft, squashy beige and littered liberally with pillows and the occasional pale blue throw. A low-slung coffee table plays host to a gnarled piece of driftwood and the occasional book or toy, but seems to be used much more often as a hiding place for felines or a resting place for feet rather than any kind of storage. Floors are layered with utilitarian carpets, not always of the same material, but always in a basic tan, never quite managing to clash with the decor no matter the room. Windowless, the weyr is predominantly lit by dangling electric chandeliers, though the occasional lamp or recessed ceiling light is needed for particularly poorly-lit areas.
The wall opposite the dragon couch has been split horizontally to create two living spaces, the bottom space hollowed out into a dining area suitable for a small family or an intimate party, while the upper loft has been modified into a study-playroom hybrid by necessity. Hallways stretch back beyond both rooms, the lower floor branching off into a small bathroom, a master bedroom, and a set of switchback stone stairs that lead upwards, while the upper hall branches into a series of smaller bedrooms just off the study.

It's a miserable day in the neighborhood, dark and rainy, and not of the sort that bids one enjoy it in a little blanket nest, no - this is the sort of storm and thunder that means you're gonna stay inside or maybe you'll fry a wing off. It… doesn't stop Xermiltoth from taking wind, racing the lightning, but R'hyn has forsaken the bronze to partake in a little spring cleaning. Fall cleaning? Whatever. Close enough. The point is, while Cita's doing her thing, R'hyn is doing his, tearing maybe-Iris, maybe-Risali clothes out of the second bedroom's closet with a distinct lack of sentimentality. "Faranth. Who owns this much stuff.

It doesn't stop Ilyscaeth, either, but it sure does stop Citayla. She's not leaving the weyr, she's not even approaching the ledge to fret over her planters, she doesn't care. No, she's been sorting through her old press, wrinkling her nose at long-abandoned gear from her first candidacy. "What happened to this shirt?" The rider wonders, holding up a top that's more giant rip then anything. Sigh. It's tossed into the 'throw away' pile, and she's going on. "I don't know. Not me." That's a bald-faced lie. She's still got an entire room's worth of books hiding in her room in the lower caverns. "You think we can make curtains out of any of this…?" Isn't that what you do with old clothing? Can any of them sew? No?

"Grem," R'hyn replies without missing a beat, shoulders-deep in ruffles with no end in sight. "Or Gobby. Or Gary. Take your pick, frankly. They… missed you." Riiiiiight. A snort. "Woman with her own personal library says what?" Yeah, he knows about your home away from home away from home. "You strike me as the person that still has a room full'a shit back at your folks' place, too." He withdraws from the deeps to peg her with an accusing look, brows lofted, expectant, even as he tosses one shoe over his shoulder, then another without looking. Totally judging you. "I would pay good marks to see you cobble curtains out of your old shirt, one of these Risa-skirts, and… Faranth." A very, very outdated shirt clearly intended for a man in everything but its pattern, eyed at arms length before he sends Cita a look, a very 'can you even see Ila wearing this?!??!' look. Bamboozled.

Cita doesn't look like she pities the rider his nascent burial in ruffles, staring thoughtfully at a slightly tatty shirt. "Faranth. Did they. Sharding cats." The healer glares at the cat or four that's curled up in her bed-pile, rolling her eyes crabbily as she tosses the shirt to join them. She has nothing to say about the library, either, sticking her nose up in the air and sniffing; then, laughing. "You two come home with me next time I go and you can see that and my mother faint of scandal." She suggests, eyes bright with mischief. Sure, he can see if she still has every one of her dumb kids books (she does). She might have furthered the challenge, too, if not for that. Cita's eyes widen comically. "Where is Ila." She demands, serious. "He'd wear it to make you happy. I'm sure of it."

"Well. Might'a been more like they were pissed you left them, but." Six of one, half-dozen of the other. They're clearly making up for lost time, only one of the sinners in question busy making with the mush-feet on her (his) pillow. "Now they can shut up and quit pestering me." Unlikely, but how he wishes. There's quiet laughter for the idea of scandal, shooting a darkly amused look the goldrider's way along with a waggling of brows. "What, wouldn't she approve of your weyr lifestyle? Ila and I'd be on our very best behavior, honest." Whatever you do, don't trust that tone! He's distracted from rampant horribleness by the sheer travesty that is The Shirt, considering it (still at arm's length) with a low, "There are things a man would do for love, Cita, and donning this is not one of them…" But damn if he isn't going to try. His head goes out the door, bellowing for the older rider (who hopefully recognizes that tone of voice and chooses wisely to stay away). "It's almost as good as my robe."

Cita makes a waggling motion with her hand that suggests she agrees; six of one, indeed. The goldrider doesn't even have the wherewithal to really glare at ol' mushfeet, instead pressing her lips together to avoid a smile up at the kitty. Huff. Assholes. "Sure, I bet they will." Cita agrees, smirking; the cats will definitely behave now. She makes a few undignified sounds that might be giggles, then — returns the 'brow waggle jauntily. "Of course you would. You wouldn't sneak off to the sharding kitchen and neck like apprentices, either." She suggests, dry as a desert, tossing another ratty shirt onto her bed and pausing to glare at Ryn. "It is though." She insists, leaning forward a little to watch The Shirt go by, then resuming her rifling with a laugh at the tone. No, he's totally smart enough to avoid it, right? But. Wait. Hold the fuck on. "…it would go so well with this." The rider breathes, dragging out a neatly folded, horrendously bedazzled coat from the depths of the press and presenting it, expression growing steadily brighter. Eureka!

The cat just purrs and mushes harder, blinking innocent winky eyes up at the once-healer before his big dumb head drops, body contorting to roll over and offer up his belly. IT'S A TRAP. R'hyn, meanwhile, is cheeky as cheek can be, grin wide and gaze faintly distant as though imagining said kitchen-necking. "Yeah we would." Not even going to fight it. "It'd be our very best necking though." And if that isn't even more terrifying… R'hyn pulls away from the door, perhaps a small bit disappointed that Ila'den doesn't show despite— "Cita." He's staring, expression dead if only because he's feeling so many things, most of them some shade of terrible, that his face literally cannot decide which to express first. Welp. There goes R'hyn's clothes, or at the very least, his shirt, flung into the nethersphere of whothefuckcaresia as he scoops up The Shirt and tugs it over his head, hands already making 'gimme' motions at the Jacket of Limerick Yore. "Bets on how long it'll take him to notice." Because he's totally going to go sprawl out on the couch and wait for Ila'den to finally emerge and notice, catching at her hands to drag her along.

"Of course. You wouldn't traumatize my littlest sister for life, either." Cita drawls, amused, but she too is distracted by the coat. Look at it. Look at the coat. It's — it's magnificent. She's clearly forgotten just how magnificent, staring openmouthed at it for a long moment. And then it's gone, and she's laughing again, this time full-on belly laughter of sheer mirth at his new look. It's stunning. Amazing. Fantastic. "Notices immediately, doesn't comment until you make him." Is her bet, as she follows him out into the weyr. They're for sure going to find out, aren't they?

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