Other Sandy Places

Characters Nassir, S'rorn, R'sner
Synopsis Nassir takes a trip to Half Moon Bay Weyr
Out-of-Character Date April 14, 2018

Living Caverns, Half Moon Bay Weyr
//Here is the center of Weyr life, the living caverns. These two main rooms were man-shaped from smaller caves, and are joined by a carved arch with depictions of dragons in flight and dolphins leaping in swirling waves. One room has many round stone and wooden tables and a stone fire-pit instead of a hearth. Over the round-walled, gas fired pit is a large conical hood made of polished bronze, with reliefs of dragons with their riders flying over ships guided by dolphins. This hood and chimney keeps the room smoke-free. Through the archway is an enormous hall, with long tables and benches, some carved from the rock floor, many crafted of wood. This room is a combination dining and meeting hall, and can seat over 300 comfortably. Above both rooms, angled shafts lined with polished metal bring in sunlight during the day. Electric lights also burn, day and night.//

Normally the living caverns are bustling with early morning activities. Kitchen staff are filling the tables and sideboards for the general populace that flood in with small children in tow. Clattering of dishes, the drag of wood on stone and shouting erupting between conversations and bits of laughter. When the rush passes, the echos in the caverns lower down to a gentle hum and rumble of conversation. The room is nearly empty and the side tables restocked. With the population off to take care of chores and responsibility, it leaves the baths free for those waking up rather late. Especially those waking up in unfamiliar places. S'rorn quietly makes his way into the caverns, freshly groomed and dressed. Even his hair is tied back into a neat braid out of his face while sleepy eyes take in the available fair. He can't leave his old home weyr, yet. Not with his brown Nyzieroth refusing to come back in. He's not done sleeping, yet! Once his tray is laden, the brownrider finds a quiet place and he settles down. Flights are nothing new, not in his near thirty turns as a rider. Yet, sometimes, he can't help the bit of awkwardness that follows.

Flights are certainly nothing new for R'sner. Toith is nothing if not predictable in this regard. With the first sign of proddiness being, not the glow of her hide, but the sudden and persistent desire to collect absolutely anything and everything she can get her talons on. By the time the flight actually comes, the human half of the pair is definitely ready for the clutter of his ledge to be gone. And now that it is over, there is a lull before the inevitable clean-up that must occur of said ledge-clutter. While Toith basks and naps in the sun somewhere, groggily smug in the back of his head, R'sner takes himself to the living caverns to sate the growling of his stomach. And while he's perhaps not /uncomfortable/ after a flight, there is a certain amount of awkwardness that is naturally inherent in waking up beside a stranger. It does not stop him from taking his tray, and glass, and settling right down at the very same quiet table as S'rorn however. "At least you're not thirty turns my junior, like the last one was," he says in a dry tone of voice.

S'rorn looks up from the edge of his mug, blinking through the steam with sleepy light blue eyes, and he offers R'sner a smile in response. "Thirty turns? That would be very uncomfortable, I would imagine." The brownrider has had his uncomfortable share though never as many as any greenrider would be inflicted with. "I'm glad you weren't thirty turns my Senior." Yes, they do exist. It's not a pretty sight. Rorn straightens up in his chair, scooting it closer to the table while the little bells on his belt jingle with the movement. Once the belt rests against the leg of the chair, it stops it's noise. Even when he finally takes that sip from his mug, S'rorn can't help but let his eyes linger a little bit. Normally, after flights, not a word is said and one person leaves before the other departs. He rarely remembers the others at all.

"It is. And it was. And it will be again, no doubt," says R'sner with the sort of resignation borne out of necessity. Does not good to pitch a fit and get emotional after the deed is done, even if some of the younger ones have quite an interesting response upon waking. A soft snort of faint amusement, for not being thirty-turns his senior, and he poke-pokes at the portion of meat on his plate. "What's with the bells?" because while perhaps the norm post-flight is to go separate ways without a word, R'sner seems to take the opposite approach; Why hold back when the situation couldn't possibly get any more awkward?

Very true, why hold back at all. "It's a family thing, I suppose. I grew up in a trader caravan and the belt is just a throw back from that time. My clan just made trinkets and jewelry, this was the only thing I agreed to wear representing us. Just been with me so long, worn in good, serves it's purpose." In otherwords, he can't live without it. S'rorn puts his mug to the side and cleans his mouth with a napkin before glancing down at his own plate. It's mostly greenery, but he does manage to stack some on a piece of meat. At least it's not fish this time! Ista needs a lesson from Half Moon, clearly. Fork is raised to his face and he pauses a moment to add before taking a bite, "Look on the brightside, at least you'll always hear me coming."

"Ah," for it being a family thing. This is something R'sner understands, at least theoretically. The topic of traders and trinkets at least has his interest enough to get a flash of blue eyes up and over his plate on occasion; a sign that he's listening well enough. "The purpose being to remind you of your roots?" he hypothesizes, cutting a bite-sized chunk out of the roast on his plate. It gets popped into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully and thoroughly before being swallowed. A snort, in vague amusement, and he decides, "There is that. I'd imagine it's difficult to sneak up on anyone, with the bells announcing you like a herald."

His roots? "That's it. Our caravan is very old. Doesn't really keep up with the times so they try to make their mark one way or another. Their wealth doesn't aways come from income." At least that's what is preached, their reputation is questionable at best and perhaps that's what makes the Resk lucretive. S'rorn scoots his food into the center of his plate and takes up another forkful with a shrug. His own blue eyes peer up in amusement at the snort, followed by a light smile at his known failure for stealth. "It's a fair enough warning. I… don't generally seek people out to socialize but I can at least take solace in knowing I'm rarely bumped into." Just bells instead of beeeep beeeep beeeep.

Apparently, R'sner is famished, if the quick consumption of his food is any indication. It is at least polite, in that he takes appropriately-sized bites, chews and swallows before adding another. But there's definitely an attention to his plate and the food rapidly disappearing from it, during the course of the conversation. But there is a pause and a glance, another demonstration that despite the ravenous-appetite being sated, he is listening. Which is only polite, considering he's the one that asked the question in the first place. Of the wealth vs income? A lifted brow and a skeptical sort of look, but he doesn't press further (and perhaps uses the opportunity of a full-mouth to allow a bit of silence). And so a rather healthy (or is it unhealthy? Hm) portion of the protein-portion of his meal has vanished before he speaks once again. "I don't, either," he admits. It comes with a rueful sort of amusement, given his decision to join S'rorn's table and spark-up this current discussion. Just blame Toith and the post-flight relief that comes with the lessening of grumpy-green in the back of his head. "What brought you to Half Moon, in the first place?"

Fortunately for R'sner, S'rorn isn't a rapid fire conversationalist. His own meal is widdled down between moments and finally down to his mug. His dishes are neatly stacked on his tray and he slides it off to the side in favor of his mug. Thankfully, it's still rather warm. "Do you mean Candidacy or Yesterday? Yesterday, I was just transporting documents between Ista and here. I was off duty but it was a last minute request and I had no real reason to say no." Nyzieroth is completely responsible for the rest. He won't pass up a flight and when it's over, he isn't one to cuddle afterwards. He's already off looking for the next best bit of trouble the brown dragon can get into! "Anything to get out of the storm season for a little bit. I know Half Moon has it's own but thankfully it doesn't fall in line with Ista's. We're always catching the tail end of the other."

Nassir has been overloaded with work at Igen, the piles of clothing needing mending and the stack of requests for new garments enough to make the tailor want to pull his hair out at the roots. Having waded through the majority of the mending over the past two days, he'd lept at the chance of accompanying one of the riders to Half Moon Bay Weyr. The moment they'd landed, he'd made himself scarce, slipping off to wander about for a while. The overwhelming need for Klah, however, has him striding into the living cavern, one hand raising to rustle his curls back off his face as he takes a moment to survey the people gathered in the room. Clothing, of course, is his meat and bread, and it should come as no surprise that he takes his time in visually measuring up both the riders present. Naturally, S'rorn's collar gains a fair bit of attention, the affectation serving to bring an appreciative smile to Nassir's lips. That he makes a few mental notes about recreating that? Well, such is to be expected. It is as he lets his bangs drop and raises one hand in greeting, that his gaze switches to R'sner, the twitch of his lips transforming into something a bit more brazenly leering. Ah, nothing like a man in well fitted tight leather, now is there. Fortunately, he's wise enough to turn away quickly, mostly keeping the leer to himself as he pours a mug of klah and takes an immediate and grateful swallow. It is in the wake of the swallow, that he refills the mug, grabbing a hunk of bread before turning to head toward the table. "Mind," he asks before slipping onto a bench with a sigh. "You," he notes to S'rorn with a tilt of his chin toward the tassled collar. "Should consider beading that. Bit of flash, always worth it." There is only a momentary pause before he takes a swallow of klah and adds. "Am I interupting?" Of course, he KNOWS he is, but whether or not it's welcome is another matter, entirely.

"Yesterday," R'sner clarifies, unnecessarily as S'rorn has already deigned to explain his reasons for visiting the (other) tropical island. Ista. Half Moon. Similar and yet so different. Escape from tropical storms? Definitely understandable. Even if it landed him in a different sort. Toith? Basking away in the sun, coated in mud (and probably residual blood from those unfortunate herdbeasts) and perfectly happy with the lack of cuddles. "I've yet to experience a bad one here," says R'sner of storms, "but I am told it is only a matter of time. Ierne wasn't terrible, and Fort just gets snow." Copious, copious amounts of snow. He's finally moving on from the protein to the vegetable portion of his meal, spearing a bit of greenery when Nassir makes his appearance. Perhaps thankfully, the greenrider missed the leering of his leather-clad self, though he definitely can't miss the sudden presence and occupation of a chair at their table. But rather than answer, he just finishes the movement intended when he lifted his fork, filling his mouth with food and forgoing an answer. The Igen tailor is considered in silence; R'sner chewing languidly as he seems to consider both the physical presence and the question posed to them.

S'rorn didn't miss the leering, but he says nothing, it's not his place to really say anything on behalf of a man he'd just met, himself. The comment about his collar? Well, he does reach up and slip his finger under the choker for a moment, at least thinking about the man's suggestion but he merely shrugs. "I've thought about it before, but I prefer it to have less things. Especially when it comes to my hair being tangled in it. Not looking forward to a hair cut any time soon, either." He has enough ornamentation as it is. The brownrider doesn't seem to mind the third joining them, he just takes another sip of his mug before looking back over to R'sner. "I remember Fort's snow, I prefer High Reaches blizzards even less." Thankfully, he hasn't had to go there for longer than quick transport trips. So far.

If there is one thing the flamboyant tailor has had time to get accustomed to in his life, it is the reaction of other people to his presence. Granted, it can range from amused welcome to derisive dismissal, but clearly, the thought of either extreme doesn't bother him in the least. But then, Nassir is clear a creature of extremes, himself. Taking another swallow of Klah, he washes down the bit of bread before setting the remaining portion aside. "Fair enough," his response is coupled with a flashing smile at S'rorn at his response, the majority of his attention momentarily focusing on the rider's hair. Of course, he is of the opinion that there are some risks worth taking. "Still with the proper stitches the beads could be secured so that did not happen." Pausing a beat, he takes another sip of his beverage before adding. "Nassir, Tailor from Igen, a pleasure." It is the mention of snow that earns a mild wrinkle of his nose, the grimace there and gone in a flash before he turns his attention to mug cup between his hands.

Beads? Haircuts? It's all flying over R'sner's head by the look of things; though there's a pause and a peering towards the article in question; perhaps a visualization of the proposed alterations? Either way, there's mostly a, blank, almost confused sort of look (clearly, he's out of his element here) before he simply turns his attention back to gathering up the remaining vegetables onto his fork. It allows him time to gather thoughts, or perhaps just remain in anonymity for a moment or two longer, before his gaze is once more lifted and passing between the two at his table (well. Technically it's S'rorn's table). "R'sner. Green Toith's rider and… weyrlingmaster of Half Moon Bay," he contributes. "Never lived in Reaches; Fort was plenty cold enough. I don't fancy getting snowed-in and grounded for a blizzard," though Fort has likely seen its share of that. "Half Moon is suitably warm. Igen is too dry," offered because, well, there's an Igenite in his presence, and he might as well comment on the weather; conversationally at least.

S'rorn listens to Nassir and the look on his face at least proves he considering the possibility. It's something right? The brownrider mainly made jewelry and other charms, beading was more the specialty of some of the other clans in his old caravan. "Ah, I'm S'rorn of Ista. Brown Nyzieroth's. Formerly of Half Moon Bay. I'm a trader and here on transport service." Among other things but the rest need not be said when they're all just relaxing and having casual conversation. "Igen isn't faring too bad weather wise, aside from the heat, is it?" The brownrider leans back in his seat, watching R'sner rise up and move off with his tray but leaving his mug behind. Maybe he's just getting seconds while the caverns are free of people. At least you know things aren't from the bottom of the pot.

"I don't think I could tolerate snow," Nassir states with a mellow laugh. Cold is, in his opinion, the worst. Humidty running a close second if only because it frizzes his hair. "Ah," he adds at the mention of Igen being to dry. "But dry allows for the wearing of stylish clothing without the worry of humidity sweat." Which, from the look on his face, is clearly the most unpleasant of thoughts. So much so that he actually follows the thought with fluffing up the billowing sleeves of white linen girding his arms, a bit of fastidious fussiness exhibited in the minute adjusting of fitted cuffs. When R'sner slips off for more food, he glances after him, his brows rising and falling in an appreciative lift. In the wake of the expression, his smile turns wry, dark eyes twinkling with humor as he looks back at S'rorn and winks. "Really likes his veggies, I take it?" After a moment, he adds. "Well met, S'rorn, rider of brown Nyzieroth." And, glancing over his shoulder, he calls toward R'sner. "Well met, R'sner, rider of green Tioth. Tch, no," he laughs as he looks back at S'rorn and smiles. "Igen is wonderful, as warm and dry as one could possibly hope for. From Half Moon Bay to Ista? You are enjoying the change?"

Humidity is no one's friend! Ain't nobody got time for that. S'rorn watches Nassir adjust his clothing and he takes a moment to peer down at his blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up just above his elbows. There's no spots or stains and that's all the man is concerned with at the moment. Content, he slides his mug back over, tilting it from side to side as the klah is almost gone and he sighs before taking a sip. Next time, he's bringing a kettle back to the table. That's allowed! Veggies? What? As for the change, well. "It's not too much of a change. Both are tropical islands but the culture is what sets it apart. There was a lot of underhanded dealings going on in Ista for a considerable amount of time so the atmosphere is a bit… unwelcoming it feels like? Half Moon just feels a bit more like home. I still come back when I can, it's nice to catch up and see the good kind of change. How are you liking the weyr so far?"

Momentarily confused, Nassir tilts his head, a few stray curls spilling into his eyes as he tries to suss out whether S'rorn is talking about Igen or Half Moon. "Igen? I love it," he admits. "I cannot really imagine living anywhere else. Of course, it's been oddly quiet of late, but we have visitors every now and again. Naturally, I do my best to be welcoming." Particularly, no doubt, if he finds them appealing. There's not even a hint of remorse at the thought, however. He is, and always has been, a horrid flirt. "Why just last week a bronze rider from Xanadu came to visit. Spent a wonderful day being taught to swim and watching him experiment with a harness he'd crafted for being pulled standing on the water." Pausing a beat, his smile warms as he leans back in his chair, settling in a languid repose. "If you mean Half Moon? It's beautiful," he admits. "Definately a pleasant change from home." Still, there is the scent of gossip on the air and it is utterly impossible for the tailor not to at least nip at it's heels. "Underhanded dealings?" Sounds like there are least a few interesting tales in that statement, but he has no intention of pressing beyond that.

R'sner does, indeed, enjoy his veggies, and consumes quite a lot of them. How else would he keep that lean, leer-worthy body of his in tip-top shape? Probably with copious amounts of physical exercise (like chasing weyrlings around; or chasing Toith around). Although on this particular occasion he's turned distinctly carnivorous; returning with a plate of roast wherry, gravy, and several buttery rolls. Clearly, he's hungry. And is that a /kettle of klah/ in his other hand/? Why yes. Yes it is. You're welcome. He slips back into his seat, plate set to the table but it's his mug that he goes for first; refilling his own before settling the kettle on the table for any who'd like it. A slow sip and a raised eyebrow because while humidity is definitely no one's friend, Res can't help but add, "Still sweat in the Igen heat. It's damn hot there; and even those robe-things they're so fond of don't do a darn thing for it. The nights are nice, though." Cold. The nights are cold.

"The weyr's distillery was blown up and there was some loss of life. Things were uneventful before but things are rather too quiet when it happened and after, if you know what I mean. People are genuinely upset when geniune tragedy happens." If you catch his meaning. When R'sner returns, there's a look of longing at the poor greenrider, mainly towards that kettle in his hands. There might even be a look of envy and if his mug could express as such, it'd be looking a bit ravenous itself. The antics of Xanadu aren't surprising in the least. "They really don't, but if you wear tight clothes in Igen, you'll likely die from the heat. The sweat is the only thing that keeps you cool as far as I've experienced. Spent a sevenday there before I impressed. You tend to get creative." Except nude, cause sand and certain places don't mix. The kettle is pulled over and he refills his cup, taking his first fresh sip with a sigh of relief. R'sner is officially S'rorn's hero at the moment.

"Ah," Nassir laughs. "Not that horribly, really. But then I am probably used to that heat. It's all in the clothing," he assures. Of course, Nassir rarely, if ever goes for the robes. His style leans more toward billowing linen shirts and pants. At the mention of cold nights, his smile broadens, his laughter turning a bit more pointedly husky. "Cold nights only provide ample inspiration for finding warm company, eh?" Igen's cold nights are probably one of his most favorite things. Waiting for his turn at the kettle, he dips his chin in a nod of thanks before refilling his mug and taking an immediate swallow. At the mention of tight clothing being unsuitable for Igen, he nods sagely, a long suffering sigh spilling past his lips. "Sadly, so. Of course, I love the billowing pants, but there is something about hard muscle in tight leather, eh?" Setting the mug down, the sound that escapes him is almost comically wistful. "Definately not enough tight leather in Igen," he grouses. It is the mention of the distillery accident, however, that shakes him from his flirting, a serious expression tracing over his features. "I am sorry for that," he admits. "Hopefully they find out what caused it."

Thankfully, that kettle is free for all to partake of, once R'sner has filled his own mug of course. Another sip, and he sets it aside to lay into his second helping. Raised eyebrows and side-eyes for cold nights. A general following of the conversation with little contribution until Nassir is commenting on the hard muscle in tight leathers (and the distinct lack of it in the desert). Then there is a brief coughing fit, and a hasty swallowing if Klah, and a quick enough focus on tragedies because /those are safer/ somehow. "Is it being investigated? It certainly sounds suspicious…"

S'rorn looks over at R'sner as he coughs abit on the klah, he grabs his napkin and slides it over to the greenrider once he's certain the man's alright. Carefully, he pulls his hand back and takes hold of his own mug, taking a long sip before glancing from Nassir to R'sner. "It's not publically expressed if there is an investigation, and it almost feels like the locals are perfectly alright with that. Try bringing it up in conversation and you could tell people are uncomfortable. Perhaps it's one of those things best to let die. Shame about the loss of people, but who knows what else is involved." The brownrider shrugs, running a finger around the rim of his mug idly.

R'sner's reaction inspires another husky laugh to spilling past Nassir's lips, his weight leaning back in his chair as he tilts his head and gives a teasing waggle of dark brow. Clearly, he hasn't a shy bone in his body and does intend to pretend otherwise. He does, however, sober at the question, his weight shifting as he leans forward again and looks to S'rorn for his response. When it comes, his brows furrow, dark hair hissing over his shoulder as he gives a shallow shake of his head. "People died, you /have/ to look into it," he notes in disbelieving tones. Almost immediately, he clears his throat and starts to reach across the table toward the brown rider. "I'm sorry, S'rorn, it isn't fair of me to insist something like that. I'm sure…" He's not actually sure what he's sure of and it shows when drops his hand and reluctantly draws it back toward his mug.

Napkin, gladly accepted; and used more as an excuse to avert his gaze than to mop up any sort of spillage. Thankfully, R'sner didn't go so far as to spit out his Klah or something ridiculously embarrassing as that. If he spends just a bit more time with his eyes on his plate, or his mug, or the table in general (it's a very interesting table) rather than his table /companions/, it's probably a coincidence. But he is definitely listening, a frown deepening the lines of his face as S'rorn speaks of the emotional climate of Ista Weyr in the wake of the accident "That…" but whatever he thinks of the matter goes unsaid, and a harder look lands on Nassir for his insistence that the tragedy be investigated, though it vanishes a few seconds later. "It sounds… like this is a matter for the leadership to look into," he decides, speaking carefully. The 'what' or maybe 'who' that might be involved is not ignored, so much as carefully uncommented upon. R'sner has some self-preservation, and meddling in the affairs of a foreign Weyr is definitely outside the bounds of 'safe and acceptable'.

"No, you're right, Nassir. I'm not close to the weyr's leadership but if they're looking into it, I think discretion is their best way of gathering information as to what happen. The more open questions presented, the more people clam up. It'll be a slight on their reputation as leaders if nothing is done." Unless it's the leaders, themselves… "All I can do as a courier is to report anything I've witnessed to my chain of command." S'rorn picks up his mug, taking a sip, but not without glancing over to R'sner over the rim of his drink. That had to burn, fresh kettle and all.

Nassir has the grace to look sheepish in response to R'sner's hard look, his brows twitching as he lightly clears his throat and sips his klah. Unfortunately, it is pointedly hard for him not to speak his mind and thought of people being harmed and the culprit going free? It rankles the tailor, safe and acceptable being two words that will never be used to describe his person. Still, he keeps silent on the matter, only the not so subtle flairing of his nostrils making his opinion clear. S'rorn's reassurances serve to soothe the tailor's rankled feathers, however, his chin dipping in a slow nod. "I'm sure that it will come out, eventually," he offers in reassuring tones. Unfortunately, he has little experience to draw on in such matters and turns his own attention to his klah.

R'sner may have burnt his tongue, it's true. But oh well. It's better than choking to death. And at least the discussion of dastardly deeds and weyrleaders that may or may not be looking into it (or *gasp* be involved?!) has given him something else to focus on. A frown; the passing of cobalt-blue eyes between the pair, and he just shakes his head and gets back to eating. The concerns of Ista /might/ be concerning, and tug at the greenrider's sense of justice, Res is apparently of the mind that he can do nothing about it and, perhaps, ought not to try either way. He will, however, tell S'rorn, "Your job sounds much more interesting than mine, when I ran transport for Fort." And by 'run' he simply means 'flying in the transport wing'. S'not like he carried a fancy knot or anything. "And now it's just weyrlings," which… might be worse? I mean… crazy baby dragons and crazier baby-dragon-riders.

"I'm sure it will come out, then the rumor mills will be carrying the details on forever. Someone will likely write a horrible romance novel about it and then we'll never be rid of the facination til something else comes up and attracts the attention of a bunch of bored islanders. As horrible as it sounds." Clearly, it's time for a move to a different island. "I thought about doing that, applying as an assistant, but the spots had filled up rather quickly at the time. I had a falling out in the relationship I had while I was here, so I took a transfer as an opportunity to start over. Though, if an opportunity ever arises, I'd probably jump on it. While being a transport rider and a courier has it's noble uses, it's not where I pictured settling after all these turns." S'rorn brings his mug up, taking another sip. His eyes unfocus briefly, and the relaxed look on his face turns to a quick scowl. It's short lived, another sip to swallow down his lifemate's smartass remarks and he settles down once more. Nyzieroth has some choice food to eat!

Nassir says, "What is that like," Nassir asks curiously. Remembering his roll, he tears another chunk off it and pops it in his mouth only to wash it down with another swallow of klah. "I imagine it must be a bit hectic even on the best of days?" Glancing over at S'rorn, he perks slightly then smiles broadly. "Consider Igen? I'm sure they are always in the market for solid…." Trailing off, he glances between R'sner and S'rorn and blinks. "Oh." Oh. "Right," he murmurs awkwardly before ducking his head and making a show of drinking his klah."

"Working with Weyrlings?" clarifies R'sner, glancing at Nassir. "It's…" apparently difficult to describe, and results in a length pause as the greenrider considers his answer. "Challenging, but rewarding. Not for the faint of heart," and there's a glance for S'rorn as he mentions assisting. "I wouldn't say no to the help. Never enough eyes on the weyrlings; somehow they still manage to get into trouble." Kids will be kids? Even if those 'kids' are in their late teens and early twenties. He's only a few bites into his food before he's sighing and setting his fork down. "Speaking of…" and he's pushing himself from the table, reaching for his mug to at least try and down the rest of the contents before he is away. "It was… nice to meet you…" which just sounds awkward when he considers how he met S'rorn, though he follows it up with a nod to Nassir to at least include the Igenite in the sentiment. "Enjoy Half Moon while you can." And then he is gone; hastening a retreat to the bowl and muttering something that sounds distinctly like, "he ate /what/? Why did you let him do that!" as he goes.

Oh? S'rorn is going to raise a brow in confusion, did he miss something? He picks up his mug and clearly the man is a little lost. Oh well. "Take care, R'sner!" he calls after the greenrider as he departs. Maybe he'll run into him later. He still has klah in his cup and there's still some in the kettle. He's not about to let that kettle get cold. He reaches over and refills his mug as his own blue eyes glance up and over to Nassir. "So tell me about Igen. It's been a long time. I've been there in brief moments for work but never long enough to see all there is for the weyr to offer."

"You as well," Nassir calls toward R'sner as he makes his way out of the living cavern. Twisting in the chair to watch the weyrlingmaster leave, his gaze just as appreciative at the sight of him going as coming. "Well," he breaths as he looks back at S'rorn and flashes a merry smile. "Always nice when they look fantastic from every angle, eh?" It's clear from the twinkle in his eyes that there is a good deal more that he could say. Fortunately, he's restraining himself, at least a little. "Igen?" Picking up his mug, Nassir considers a moment, his expression turning wistful. "It's beautiful," he admits. "It's been quiet of late, eerily so, but the weyr itself has a beauty all it's own. The lake is my favorite," he admits as he settles into a languid sprawl in the chair. "There's a lovely tented bar to lounge in for the hottest parts of the day." Still, an odd frown dances on his lips for a moment, the expression banished with a mild shake of his head.

S'rorn looks from Nassir, to the greenrider's direction, then back to Nassir before snorting into his own cup. He hasn't cared to look in a long time, himself, but it's still amusing to see other people's reaction… to people. He sits back and slowly nods. "From what I hear, if you ever want to see the heart of any weyr, it isn't on the hatching sands but in the bar. Though, I'd like to see the weyr at night, sometime. When duties allow." Well, they usually do allow for time but not for rest, preparation and time altogether. "I'm not much of a drinker. Special occasions, sure." Otherwise if he's going to be drunk in public, it better be a funeral.

Nassir flashes an easy smile, a toss of his head sending his curls back off his face. "It's not the alcohol as much as the atmosphere," he admits. Of course, he does drink, sometimes more then others. "At night, the view of the sky reflecting off the water? There is just nothing like it." Taking a swallow of his klah, he slants another glance over his shoulder, a mellow laugh humming in his throat. He cannot imagine there ever being a time when he does not appreciate the human form. That he appreciates one particular half of the human form over the other? Well, it is what it is. "You should come visit," he states frankly. "Well, admittedly, at the moment, it's quiet with not a great deal going on, but still, it's worth the trip." And without missing a beat, he asks pointedly. "What will take for you to transfer here?"

S'rorn grins, taking another sip from his mug. Well, good to know the atmosphere beats the drinks. A lot of people seem to be disconnected from the world around in them in favor of something they could just get anywhere but experiences from distinct places? It's something he considers taking advantage of. He'll leave Nassir to his people watching. "I think I'll consider it. I do have some leave time that I've been saving up, we'll see if I can get it approved. A few days wouldn't hurt. Maybe I'll run into you there and you can show me around?" It's always better to have someone who knows where all the good places are they end up somewhere you're gonna regret! As for the transfer… The brownrider just drinks from his mug, then clears his throat. "Put in an official request to transfer back, though the position of Assistant Weyrlingmaster would be considerably harder to get. It's a competitive position, after all. Still, I think I'd appreciate the challenge it poses over what I do now. I might put in the request, and just make peace with what happens."

"Oh, absolutely," Nassir assures. "If you do come visit I'd be happy to show you around. I'm particularly good friends with the baker, as well. He makes some of the best sweets you've ever put in your mouth." He's good looking to, added bonus in Nassir's book. As for the rest, his smile immediately warms, the expression coupled with a husky laugh. "I'm willing to bet that R'sner will happily speak up in your favor. Besides, why continue on in a place in which you are clearly not entirely comfortable? Seems to me that both you and Nyzieroth would be happier in a place you are comfortable with. But then," he admits. "That's just my opinion. Still, seems pretty important that you both feel content and happy with your companions and surroundings, eh?"

"I'm holding you to it," S'rorn warns with a grin as he takes another sip. The kettle is almost empty but after this mug, he's had his fill. A clatter of noise gets his attention and he glances over to the side board tables where kitchen workers are working to clear the old platters in preparation of lunch. It hasn't been that long, has it? Either that, or the kitchen is out of dishes. Anything's possible. The laugh draws his attention back and manages a nervous smile at that. "You are right though. I've only ever felt like a guest in my own weyr, there. It's just not the same. I miss this place, this weyr. This klah." Nyzieroth misses his old mud pits and that tree he can scratch his butt up against!

"Then it is time for you to come home, S'rorn," Nassir states matter of factly. "Do it," advises. "Never miss a chance to make both you and Nyzieroth happy. Life is just to short to linger in places that make you feel like an outsider." That being said, he finishes off his klah, and lolls his head to crack his neck, his weight shifting as he gets to his feet and smiles. "As for Igen, I'll be looking forward to your visiting. Bring R'sner along with you, as well. Och, he'll likely be up to his eyeballs in weyrlings before to long, a break ahead might be just the thing." Behind him, a rider leans in and whistles, waving a hand in Nassir's direction. "Time for me to head out, though," he sighs as he gathers up his mug and steps away from the chair. "Either way, you'll see me again soon enough," he warns. Half Moon Bay has far to many eye catching men for him to stay away overly long. Winking, he raises his hand in farewell before heading over to turn in his mug and head out after the rider.

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