Who Alexa, D'ax
What Alexa and D'ax discuss the acquisition and forfeiture of manners.
When Winter - Month 11 of Turn 2725
Where Training Complex, Fort Weyr

 

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Fort Weyr - Training Complex
The remnants of a historic collapse are apparent here, as the slope face of the bowl has a predominant downward curvature. It's likely long ago, that a cavern larger than any Fort currently has was where the training complex currently is. A probable cave in triggered a fissure on the bowl wall which lead to a great chunk of it dislodging, thus creating the rounded slope.

Yet, many centuries later, all that remains to give evidence is the pocket made into the bowl wall. It seems that the inhabitants of Fort Weyr have made best of the created space. Rock on the ground proper has long since cleared, but pebbles and loose shale are constantly underfoot. Still, the sprig of some green leafed vegetation isn't too out of the ordinary in these parts, as long as it doesn't get trampled by the comings and goings.

It's clear that this area has been designated for the training of young minds, whether human or dragon. Surrounded by rock on all side, it's like a personal weyr bowl for the youngsters to minimize distraction and danger. The candidate barracks have been built across from the Weyrling barracks, so that one group can educate the next. Finally, placed in the centre of the two entrances of the opposing barracks, near the rock face, is a statue with a memorial plaque.


The crunch of snow beneath boots may herald her arrival, if it has not already been flattened beneath much larger feet. The place between 'weyrbowl' and 'training grounds' may be indistinct, but Alexa knows where she is going. She is just as sure of where she is, as she is unsure that she should be here. Technically speaking, she is allowed on the grounds. She is a weyrwoman, for all that the title doesn't always feel like it fits, and as such she has the authority to go where she pleases. Most of the time. But she is at least wise enough to keep her eyes peeled, to follow the wall as it curves toward the barracks, to keep sharp eyes and ears out for baby dragons that might not yet know their own strength, or the space in which they occupy. Accidentally being trampled is not really part of the plan.

Raaneth is already present, having found herself a ledge overlooking enough of the grounds to feel as though her view is adequate, a little curious but not quite as interested as her human counterpart is. If these were her own children, she might feel differently. But as they are not, Raaneth's interest is surface-deep at best, a wisp of smoke that might idly seek out those little dragons on the ground if just to acknowledge them, and then flit away once again. Bored.

People come and go through here often enough that neither D'ax nor Azirath seem to think much of it that another person is on their peripheral somewhere. There's no lesson happening just now, at least not anything in an official capacity. But there is a large, grown ass man throwing balls of snow at his large, if not yet even close to full grown, lifemate. The bronze, at least, is totally in on the game, attempting to catch each snowy ball with the snap of his toothy jaws and, uh, varying degrees of coordination. So it's really neither of their fault when one of those snowballs hits the ground awfully close to where Alexa is lurking minding her own business.

Alexa will absolutely deny the squeak that comes when that *sploosh* of a snowball hits a little close to home. It is more the cry of a caught creature than the offended shriek of the insulted — startled, rather than offended. The dart of her gaze is distinctly guilty before it settles into something a bit more neutral. A bit more appropriate for lurking, if there is such a thing. When it lands on the offending party she hesitates, gaze narrowed and mouth set in in a slant of near indignation, weighing her options. But what did she come here for, if not to spy on visit the weyrlings? And so, whether invited or not, she takes this opportunity to (carefully) try and close the distance. "Hello!" is offered in a voice meant to carry, even if she's not actually sure she wants to be acknowledged. And really, she's probably not helping matters when her next words are, "You know you almost hit me with a snowball? You should really be more careful" as if she isn't the one invading their space.

D'ax might pause what they were doing to look over at the woman as she works on approaching, but it's Azirath who warbles an earnest apology for his weyrling's behavior. Never mind that it's not like the man was trying to hit Alexa with a snowball. "Respectfully, weyrwoman, if you're going to be sneaking around like that, I don't see how my being more careful would make much difference." At least he's not going to try to pretend that he doesn't know who this is, even with whatever cold-resistant clothing she's come out here with. "Something we can help you with?"

"I wasn't sneaking!" The defense in her tone and the sudden, indignant jut of her chin definitely do nothing to help sell the lie. "I was just walking." Along the wall. In an area she never goes. To spy on people she's never met. Like a creeper. Coming to a stop at a respectable — or at least conversational — distance, Alexa crosses her arms stubbornly as her gaze darts between bronze and weyrling. "It's fine," she decides, probably more for Azirath than D'ax. "No harm done." And, yes, at least she is dressed for the snow; pants tucked into boots, jacket done up near to her chin, scarf tucked in at the top. She's even got a hat, pulled down over her ears, though her blond hair spills out the back of it, having come loose from its knot. The question posed of her seems to bring another pause, another fluster of irritation because maybe she hadn't thought up an alibi yet. "Well… no. I mean. Maybe. I guess." Where is she going with this? She doesn't even know. "What's your name?" That seems a safe question to ask in return, even if she hasn't exactly answered his.

By contrast, D'ax is clothed in outdoor attire at least light enough that he's not going to be getting too uncomfortably warm with the activity of tending to (or playing with) his lifemate. The lifemate who must be scolding D'ax between the two of them, because the former guard says abruptly, "Yes, of course, I'm sorry. Even if it wouldn't have been my fault if I had hit her." But he didn't, so as she says, no harm. He continues with a somewhat forced but not disingenuous smile. "D'ax, ma'am," he offers the name she asks for, even if he makes it sound as though she couldn't possibly not know it already. "And Azirath."

Green eyes narrow at the weyrling, but while Alexa might play at suspicion, she can't quite hold back the amusement, despite the press of lips that seeks to smother the smile threatening. "Mm. Yes. You sound it." Sorry. "But it's fine," she assures, this time directing her words toward the bronze dragon who seems to have prompted the spontaneous apology, the dry sarcasm dropped from her voice because Azirath is clearly not to blame. "Really. I should have expected it." Given she was walking through the weyrlings training grounds. "And it's not the first time someone's thrown something at me." Even if it wasn't intentionally thrown at her. For D'ax there's a little, fleeting grimace — a quick scrunch of her nose and the curl of her lip — before it's morphing back into amusement. "Just Alexa," she decides. "You can drop the ma'am part unless it's a formal event." And this is clearly not that.

The round bronze seems satisfied that D'ax has been sufficiently repentant to the weyrwoman and he croons amiably at Alexa before his curiously whirling eyes are searching up, up, up for the queen to whom she's bonded. Just to look. "As you wish, just Alexa," says the weyrling. "So long as you don't mind an occasional slip up of a hard-earned habit." But, look, he'll try. "I wouldn't terribly mind a 'sir' now and then, I'll admit," he adds with a bold grin. Just so everyone's clear where he stands.

Raaneth is here, the soot-dappled queen lounging on the ledge and paying the pair in the training grounds little mind. She is aware of them, her mind brushing the bronze with the subtle touch of acknowledgement, but she won't make conversation unless he initiates it.

And down below, Alexa just grins at the return, the expression turned wicked and wolfish for a moment or two, a private amusement inspiring mischief in her gaze. It doesn't last, the wild-smile dulled into something a bit more civilized — more appropriate — even if the amusement remains. "Is that right?" she wonders. "Well then, sir," and oh yes, she will be emphasizing that word, the teasing tone just shy of mocking though no malice is really meant. "I'll make you an offer. You try and lose those manners, and I'll try to find mine." She'll call him sir (though she makes no promises about the tone with which she says it) if he'll keep from ma'am-ing her. "Deal?"

Azirath won't disturb the queen's peaceful lounging, but there is a sense of youthful awkwardness when her mind touches his, like bouncing off the edge of a bookshelf as you try to pass by because you aren't paying close enough attention to what you're doing.

"Oh, I do like that," says the man who could be imposing to a woman so much smaller than himself if that woman were not, perhaps, this woman. "Deal, then," adds D'ax, holding out a hand to make it a proper agreement between them, leaving it to her to close any remaining distance if she so chooses.

No doubt, D'ax could be very imposing if he chooses to be. Whether Alexa would yield to that intimidation is another matter entirely. There is something to be said about the safety of dragons, both small and large alike; Raaneth is just as much a presence as Azirath, for all that she's tucked up on a ledge quite high above them. Then again, Alexa was never much of a timid creature even before Impression (as one once-Maizin-now-M'zal would be able to testify… if he wasn't, you know… M'zal) So, who can say if it's the knots — his or hers — or the dragons, or some sense of recklessness pride that has her boldly accepting that offer (that she made. She'd better accept it if she's the one proposing it! And it isn't as though she's signing her life away — how dramatic) with a few quick steps to take her into the weyrling's personal space and reach to take that hand in her own.

"Deal," she agrees, the squeeze of her hand firm without trying to crush (as if Alexa had a hope of crushing anything to begin with). But the touch won't linger by her volition, though her hand is hardly snatched away. There's mischief in her Cheshire grin; an amusement that teases at being rude, but doesn't quite cross that line. Like maybe she's laughing at a private joke.

"Good." D'ax tries to keep a grip on her hand, strong but not forceful, in an attempt to hold her attention just a bit longer on him. "Question, though, gorgeous. How many of my manners am I supposed to be losing?" Just his tendency toward respectful titles? Or can he call her gorgeous, as he's just done? "I've had a lot of training." That sounds an awful lot like flirting, believe it or not. To be fair, he's spent the last few months in the same barracks as M'zal and the man has yet to go mysteriously missing, so that ought to count for some truth in those words, too.

Alexa pauses, her hand in his, head tipped slightly to the side as she considers the weyrling. The question renews that wolfish grin, the one that's perhaps not quite friendly even if it is not hostile. She considers the question a moment before asking, "How many do you want to lose?" which is perhaps not a good question to ask, but why give clear answers? "You should probably keep a few, at least for a little while," comes with a glance at Azirath. But at least for today, it appears that he can get away with such things as calling her gorgeous.

"Fair enough," says D'ax, not commenting on how many, just that he can keep the ones required of a weyrling in the presence of a weyrwoman. For now. His thumb, still, brushes over her hand before releasing her. "If you'll excuse us, Alexa, the beast has decided he's withering away and might, in fact, perish should we not fill his stomach post haste." Clearly he's mocking the young bronze with drama here, but does intend on seeing to the dragon's needs.

"Poor thing," tuts Alexa for Azirath, a sweeter smile spared the dragon. "I'll let you do that, then," she agrees, tucking her now-free hand back into a pocket to protect it from the winter chill, the mischief back the curl of her lips as she regards the weyrling once again. "Have a good day, sir," is offered with a fair bit of sass before Alexa excuses herself with a tip of her head and a turn on her heel, retreating from the training grounds in a much more straight forward fashion than she'd arrived.


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