| Characters | Lunasidhe, Oddisa |
| Synopsis | Two sassy lassies meet on a beach; it goes as poorly as one would imagine. |
| Out-of-Character Date | October 10, 2021 |
Igen Weyr - Lake Shore
It is sometimes hard to tell where the bowl ends and the lake shore begins. Fine grains of gold, tan and orange hued sand layer much as the bowl walls in the distance beyond. The sand only gives way to thin patches of grass where the tall fence of the feeding grounds intersects the lake to the south and the smooth curve of the bowl wall rises on the opposite shore. At that intersection one can make out a small building and colorful fabrics where the Weyr's residents go to relax. The shallow lake waters shimmer invitingly, day and night, lapping at the fine grain sands. Engineered pipes are hidden beneath the bowl landscape and feed the lake as well as the grasses of the feeding grounds to keep the water levels from dropping past a certain point which is marked by a waist high obelisk.
Winter takes on a whole new dimension in the desert; cool temperatures exacerbate as Rukbat fades, but the normal extremes are absent. Light winds ripple the lake surface as both Balor and Timor illuminate the bowl and reflect off the water's surface in a ghostly manner. Dragon eyes slowly lid closed as they begin to rest, and eerie quiet envelopes this corner of Igen. Walking along the lakeshore, the tiny blonde figure wrapped in a brown oversized riding jacket. This garment hangs past her backend, giving the impression that she's not wearing anything else beyond laced-up riding boots. Zig-zagging down the beach, she leans down and grabs up a stone skipping it over the water with a satisfied nod as it jumps four times before sinking.
It can be said that not all who wander are lost, and like that small, blonde figure, Lunasidhe seems just as satisfied to be caught up in her own quiet corner of the eerie almost-dark. Well. 'Satisfied' might be a strong word. She looks the part of a spectral vision from harper-song, lament personified with long white sleeves and skirt of her dress billowing in the wind, imitating the pale flickers of moonlight on shallow water. Arms previous left to dangle cross over her chest in classic discomfort as slow steps draw her nearer and nearer the lake, myriad emotions both troubled and resolved causing a pinch to her brow, a hard press to her lips, a dig of gnaw-blunted nails into fabric and— the skip-skip-skip-skip-splosh of that thrown stone might well be lost under the shriek Lunasidhe emits, dramatic fabric flouncing around her as she physically hops in reaction to the sudden, unexpected sound that breaks her less-than-stellar reverie. "Shards," comes with a press of one hand to her chest, body doubling over in a pant that would make the aforementioned harpers proud for its sheer dramatics. Listen. Nobody ever accused her of being reserved, despite her best attempts. "Scared the ever-lovin'-" Well. Nobody needs to know what the little dame in the long jacket about scared out of Luna. We'll leave that to your imagination while she huffs and puffs through an attempted recovery.
Oddisa gives off the distinct air of someone who does not wish to be disturbed, eyes glazed, and step fast with no attention to direction. In many ways, it's as if she's a touch drunk, even if she'd deny this bitterly. Blank faced her mind could be floating high above, chin lifted and tilted the way a child might stare up at a confusing parent. All this is destroyed as all thoughts collide in response to the screaming, twisting on the heel. The immediate jaw-dropped sneer is followed by a deep, loathing sigh. Long sufferingly, she blinks away the after-effects of her own displeasure, arms crossed defensively as her feat stomping might as well be war drums for the aggression placed in each stride. "People 're sleeping." Heavily accented with a drawl that bleeds the feminity out of the pint-sized woman, "Also what are yu wearin'? Shards, that's… Yur not runnin' from a botched weddin' are yu?" Freeing both arms, her fingers spread as if she might grab the young lady, unable to fully comprehend the scene. "Well?" The prompt is rude, hand making a hurrying circle even if the person before her appears to be older than she is.
Whatever accent that might have hit Lunasidhe's tones is gone by the time Oddisa stomps her way over. Though one hand lingers over her heart, fussing anxiously with an obscured pendant hanging from a chain, the other drops to her hip in response to the clear aggression in this tiny woman's words and poise. People are sleeping? "Surely not here," comes with a glancing around that she makes twice as dramatic as it needs to be so as to be seen in the semi-dark. "And if they are, that's their own fault. You scared me," is not accusation - it's just the truth, one for which she would not expect remands even if she weren't interrupted by the questioning of her attire. "Wh— wedding? What? No," drops out of an attempted-polite tone into clear disgust, "it's just a dress." Indeed, as she opens arms to show it off, it is simple if not just-warm-enough to keep the desert-cool from being uncomfortable. "I like white. And black, which is really unfortunate around here, as I'm sure you know. It's also easy to lift up when you—" Her look trails towards the water, a whole different kind of disgust, queasy and sickly-spent, crossing her features before she marshals them under control. "Well, nevermind that. What're you doing out here, murdering fish in the night, then?" Does this lake even have fish? Immaterial. If Oddisa can make bold demands, so can she.
As the young woman dressed like a cheap bride begins to snipe back, there's a wrinkle of her nose in obvious distaste, the flavor of this delinquent bride souring whatever mood she was previously in. "No, not here the word runaway means you'd be far away from where yu were being betrothed." Exhaustion with explaining the truth, even if it's only her truth, coats each word as they drawl out. Gesturing widely to the lake, fingers are flexed and balled in a frustrated show of restraint. She can't strangle anyone else this turn; there was a meeting. "You gettin' scared isn' my fault. Shards, if you were a runner, I'd tie a bag to yur halter." Mumbling as much to herself as to this strange overdressed lake sissy, "Alrigh', where'd is it yu belong?" Bending at the waist with toes pointed and body leaning forward, there's a show made of examining the taller young woman, lips pinched together. "No, I'm confining and questioning anyone who deems to make unnecessary noise past a certain hour. Why move here if yu wanna dress like a lady holder? Shards, I hate winter." The ummmmpph sound behind each growly sigh resembles an extremely unhappy feline.
"I meant people aren't sleeping here. What's it to the sandmites and the moons if I yell when I'm spooked." And there goes her voice as if to prove it, raising to something just-beyond-polite for this time of night, in flagrant defiance of this mite and her heaping helping of assumptions. Unmoved by visible and audible acts of vexation against her person, Luna claps back with a sassed, "And you bein' mad about it isn't my fault, either. I'd love to see you try, though," comes with an upward draw of her posture, the look she aims down (down, down) at Oddisa very much saying the tiny woman couldn't reach her even if she tried to bag her. "I belong in the dormitories, though it's none of your business, ma'am," comes with a thumbing of the knot around one shoulder, previously difficult to separate from the wash of the rest of her outfit. "And if you think I look like a lady holder, you must not have much experience with them." The commentary on winter is such a nonsequitur that it briefly throws Lunasidhe off her groove, face scrooching up comically with a 'what the what?' toss of one hand and a, "Good thing you live here, then," that hints there's more hinterlands in Luna's blood than just the accent that dips in and out with her ire. She says it the way only a person who had to walk to harper lessons uphill both ways with the snow over her head can.
It's easy to miss the hardness in Oddisa, especially dressed as she is in the dark. She might as well be a child running around in dad's clothing. Although if anyone asks, she's dad in that relationship. Each word spoken doesn't touch her, eyes pointed up in a squint suitable for looking at the smallest insects, the wheels behind glazed eyes spinning with precision as the dimple beneath her chin appears as bottom jaw tightens. "I handle creatures twice your size an' attitude for fun." Guffawing with a HA at the end, jaw dropping lips parted in obvious dismay with whoever this is. Whistling in silent dismay, the more said, the larger the grin on her face gets, fingers tapping bare thighs in uncontained excitement as if playing the piano or an animal about to pounce on a meal. "I should help yu out, poor thin' sittin' chewin' on yur foot like a furbeast in a trap." The comment on dormitories brings more mirth to the previously solemn face, "Winter here attracts the worst sorta visitors, bu' I see now you're not here for the weather you're here for." A beat, two, louder and louder a large dragon is suddenly above both of them, having emerged from between a reckless half wing distance over the lake and from both women. Twirling dramatically in the air, there is three heartbeats worth of wing strokes before the dragon lands behind the tiny blonde. Her glowing green eyes illuminate the white dress in a sickly fluorescence. "Yur not here for the weather, yur here for this." Pointing smugly to Oriapeth, who leans far forward and cocks her head over in a tilt that entirely matches Odi's. The level of smug would take turns to wash off, "Have a good walk, candidate." Stepping onto a forelimb, there are no straps present, and the musculature of the leg, shoulder, and neck are used as hand and footholds are the nameless woman mounts the striking golden dragon. For her part, Oriapeth rustles in a shimmy shake, wings rising and falling with humor and a humm of appreciation for the white-clothed candidate. Dazzling stars and a vast universe unfolds forward; depending on the person's reception, she may hear a rich feminine voice full of trouble boom from far out in the darkness of space, «Hello, sweetie. Oh my, my, you seem to be in a pickle hmm.» Laughter and wisdom twist, that forlorn tone of one who has all the answers.
Sorry, was Lunasidhe supposed to be impressed? Alright, fine, fair, of the things she expected, a gold was perhaps not one of them, but it's only the mis-match between supposition and reality that has brows raising. They're only-too-quick to even out in the face of Oddisa's words and infernal smugness, Luna's shoulders executing their own shrug, as though - a different time, a different place, a different winter - she would be hoisting something much heavier than simple linens up tighter around her shoulders for dramatic effect. "And I handle dragons." A beat, and an upwards glance. "Without the benefit of being able to compel their behavior." As though that's cheating. "You have no idea what I'm here for," would be bitter if it weren't brittle as well, but a wide smile matches pale clothing, bathed in Oriapeth's ghostly eyelight, "but thank you, weyrwoman. You honor me." Despite protests against being mistaken for a holder, it's with utmost flourish that simple skirts are swept wide to one side, free hand lifting into the air to her left while she executes a lady's curtsey. "Clear skies and fairest winds," is delivered at her most gracious though the gold's takeoff has likely obscured much of it. A grin that's entirely too devilish to match her words flashes the gold's way for starry-skied words, but if Lunasidhe has opinions on whatever pickle she may or may not be in, she does little more but wave them away with a queenly back-and-forth swoop of a cupped hand. It's only after the Smug Express has traveled beyond sight that Luna drops her posture with an eyeroll, previous heaviness weighing back in on her shoulders as she casts a sideways glance at slow-rippling water that mocks her still. No. No more of that tonight, thank you. She'll live to face her demons another, less disruptive day.
