Warning: Language, Innuendo

Fort Weyr - Guest Weyr and Flight Room

The guest weyr at Fort has been given as many convienences as possible. A large, comfortable-looking bed rests against the back wall, the linens changed on a regular basis to keep them fresh. For temporary storage of personal belongings a sturdy footlocker can be found at its foot, and a table and a quartet of chairs provide a place for visitors to entertain guests if they so wish. The floor has been covered with a large rug and the walls are draped in tapestries depicting various scenes from Pern's grand history, all to help ward off the chill of the stone in the winter months. There's even a small icechest with an attached cupboard for storage of cool drinks and energizing snacks for the weyr's occupants.

Chaos has come and gone in a whirlwind flurry, like a sudden winter storm. Only this storm was not made of clouds and snow and wind, but a golden glowing hide and the many bronze and rare brown ones that pursued. With the skies now their domain, the riders waited below, milling in tension and heightened emotions around one lone rider. And like all flights, the end draws to close in time as one after another a suitor falls back and the chase continues until she falters and they close in. Only one will claim her and some will whisper and gossip that there was no doubt in the bronze that did. Below, nature and instinct take hold as two half move, half stumble into the guest weyrs. And it's there, moments or hours later, which Th'ero will come to his senses. Slowly at first, as if being pulled from some deep sleep that his mind and body is reluctant to wake from. Eyes drift open, rolling a little as he tries to gain his bearings only to close again as he frowns deeply. Wrong weyr. That much he can grasp with his sluggish thoughts. Wrong weyr and curiously unable to shift his weight and with that realization, he finally opens his eyes, blinking a bit as they and his mind finally focus. Flight. There was a flight. Then he's cursing under his breath, well aware now who it is tangled in the sheets with him.

The sudden flight wasn't expected, though, there were plenty of hints that she very well chose to ignore. Her own fault, certainly. Zuvaleyuth went into the air, emotionally draining the already drained young woman in a fight of control until the gold blooded properly. And then, she lost herself in the emotions. She hardly remembered that she had been shoved out of the office by Th'ero in order to get to the guest weyrs. She hardly remembered stumbling over her own feet, all she really remembered was the stretching of wings, the thrill of the flight. And then, she slept. Drained. And even with the stirring of her partner, she does not move, clinging tightly to the man and only tightening her grip on him with the slightest of movements. Her head tucks in more, pressing her nose against the skin that she comes in contact with, and taking a breath. Clearly, the new scent doesn't bother her all that much.

Velokraeth usually warned Th'ero when he was taking a certain fancy to a glowing hide and thinking on chasing. Yet the pale bronze had remained silent and silent still when Zuhth and Wiyaneth had left. So the Weyrleader was left without a clue and with Dtirae showing no signs or hinting at any, he was just as surprised as she. Then the flight began and his mind shatters to pieces then, his recollection left to just shreds of memories here and there and most of it just raw emotion. Then sleep, the usual escape and brief lived peace. Th'ero's frown increases when his stirring only have Dtirae clinging to him tighter and rather then welcoming the closeness, he begins to tense against it. He inhales deeply, catching her scent and their mingled one still lingering and that only upsets him further. Again, he tries to stir, testing her grip with subtle movements that grow only firmer if she insists on keeping her hold. His goal is not to pry her off or push her away, but only to free one arm at least so he can nudge her with an elbow or the back of his hand. And if that doesn't work, Th'ero finds his voice, thick and gruff. "Dtirae." He grunts. "Wake up."

Maybe the dragons conspired against their riders, maybe not. There is really no explanation for the events of the day, however. Tenseness and the stirring only serves to make the woman cling tighter, and tighter, not giving him any room to nudge at her. It's the sound of her name that has her letting out a soft groan, slowly pulling away, or at least, releasing him but not drawing away from him entirely. "What?" A grey eye opens, peeking at him and giving him a rather teasing smile before slowly stretching out. "Oh, hey there, big guy." Emphasis on the big. "Looks like I didn't mangle you, at least."

Who knows and there will likely never be any straight answers. Th'ero has already tried to force some from Velokraeth and only had his attempts met with such biting sarcasm that he quickly abandoned the link. Then he has to focus on the fact that Dtirae only clings to him tighter then before for his efforts and his mood swiftly darkens as he remains tensed against her, not welcoming the closeness at all. She might as well be clinging to a block of ice. Then she's stirring awake and relief floods his features, relief that quickly disappears behind a mask the moment she's peeking at him. Once she stretches, he attempts to make his subtle move in putting more distance between them by sitting up and shuffling the side enough to be away from her reach but not gone entirely from the bed. Th'ero then levels her with a look that edges on disbelief and perhaps just downright appalled for her teasing emphasis. "Not in the mood for your jokes." He growls while he lifts a hand to run it through his still damp hair. Then he closes his eyes, takes a slow, steadying breath and adds in a slightly gentler tone. "And you're alright?" he asks, having to do so because he's pointedly not looking at her. At least, not past meeting her eyes anyways.

Dtirae is uncaring if the man scoots away from her, continuing her stretching just a bit longer before slowly sitting up. There is no sense of modesty from the woman as she pushes herself out of the bed entirely, arms stretching over her head and she gives him a teasing smile. "Don't act like that. I mean, we woke up in bed t'gether." To his luck, however, no kissy face is given and she proceeds to gather their clothing, sorting through her things and his own. And if he's not watching carefully, she switches their pants. "I'm feeling fine, really. Yer not /that/ big." A sort and then she sobers. "Sorry." Not normally one to apologize for her mouth, but there it is. Then, she begins to dress, starting with the pants.

Th'ero's scowl returns for her off hand remark on the fact they woke up together and again he pointedly avoids looking at her, though her movements have him giving quick darting glances just to be sure of her position in the weyr. It's partially out of deeply ingrained modest on his part and the fact that he's trying to give Dtirae some privacy, even if she's not seeking it. "Don't act like what? It's not the fact we woke up together." He points out in a firmer tone, lips drawing into a tight line. It's only half the truth, and the rest he's about to bluntly lay out for her. "Zuvaleyuth /rose/ Dtirae. She was the first. You're Senior now." And he's Weyrleader again. He may not be paying attention to her, but he does notice the pair of pants nearby is not his. So he stays sitting on the bed and grumbles, "You've got my pants, Dtirae." Game is up, though it pales in comparison to her comment. His shoulders tense visibly and he turns slowly from where he sits. Regardless if Dtirae is dressed at this point, he just /stares/ at her. "That was uncalled for." He says in a disturbingly calm voice. Which means he's pissed off and trying to hold his temper. He calms though, a bit from the apology and a bit from surprise that she actually said it. "Accepted." He says in a blunt, clipped tone and glances away as he reaches for his tunic and slips it on.

Dtirae doesn't react to that scowl, remaining at going about gathering her clothes and pulling on the man's pants. They are certainly too big for her, but that doesn't seem to stop her. Her tunic goes on next, along with her socks and then her boots. Her hair is then ruffled a bit more than it already was, clearly intent on leaving that way. It's after his comment is made that the weight of the knot on her shoulder begins to sink in, suddenly, the light weight feels like a ton of bricks, her shoulders sagging just a bit and the confident, playful young woman fades. She even forgets to make a comment about purposely taking his pants. Eyes are widening slowly, that dazed, startled look settles into place once more as every part of her goes rigid. "Shit. Fuck… Shit." More swears follow, including some blatantly thrown at Zuvalyuth, blaming Th'ero and more insults for the whole Weyr. Then, it's as if all restraints are cut as she's suddenly bolting.

Maybe a glare will work? Because Th'ero is glaring now and he forgets all about being polite or any modesty. His eyes will track her movements as she gathers her clothes and dresses herself. "My pants?" he presses again, when it's obvious she's ignored his first remark. Now he's getting out of the bed and grabbing hers, using it both as a shield and to literally /force/ the trade if the has to. There's no way he'll fit hers and he's not about to go strut across Fort without them. Dtirae's change, visible as it is, has him slowing to a halt though, puzzled and confused by her behavior. Her startled look unsettles him just as much as her rude teasing. Because he knows that look and knows it too well on a personal level that has him suddenly reaching for the goldrider in a placating manner. "Dtirae," he says firmly but gently. Anything else he was about to say is lost when she begins to swear again, then throws the blame at him. That has him bristling and firing off some choice words in his defense as his temper flares. "Don't?" he half yells, half calls at her when she's bolting and he follows her. But the Weyrleader will be too slow and his modesty has him skidding to a stop by the door. She'll get her escape, it seems and Th'ero is left with nothing but a few "wounds" to lick and brood over. That… and he'll need to find a pair of pants.

'The World of Pern(tm)' and 'The Dragonriders of Pern(r)' are copyright to Anne McCaffrey (c) l967, 2000. This is a recorded online session, by permission of the author but generated on PernWorld MUSH for the benefit of people unable to attend.