Who Lhiannon, Orrion, Fjainoith
What Orrion goes out for a wrench, meets a clever girl and returns with a story.
When Winter, 2726
Where Center Bowl, Fort Weyr

 

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Fort Weyr - Center Bowl
The wide center of the bowl is often bustling with activity as riders come and go. Off westward can be seen the entrances for the candidate barracks and the guest weyr, while to the east is a large opening that leads into the dragon infirmary. The bowl stretches off both to the north and to the south, where the sheer stone walls rise steeply to the sky.


That sky is star-spangled, glitter tossed into the wintry blackness with only a drift of cloud to give it dimension. Beneath, a fur-hooded human — a journeyman glasscrafter — focuses on not falling on the snow-dusted ice: more fool he, to have left the caverns after a good dinner and better conversation, but he'd forgotten to grab the right wrench before dinner (and before lunch, and before dinner the day before) and there's a shifty drawer pull that needs attention. So. He has the wrench. All he needs is to get back. Which he's doing. It's just that the path isn't as clear from this angle, so he winds up walking more centrally in the bowl, away from the high cliffs' shadows. He might even have made it two-thirds back when something catches his eye — snow? starshine? — and he looks up and into the cold. That's all it takes.

The snowy landscape has eyes. Rather, the pale expanse of still-growing sixty plus feet of green dragon at least partially cloaked in the cliffs' shadows does, and the comings-and-goings of pedestrian traffic at this after-dinner hour might ordinarily not hold much apparent interest for them given the wholly uninterested way their owner occupies herself with purportedly admiring the contrast of snow against dark talons. This one, however? Surely, the aforementioned journeyman is recognizable in profile to one who knows him well by retroillumination from the moons above; at any rate, there's the smallest cant of that wintry head in his direction, opalescent eyes shining briefly back at him through the dark. One step, then two; that's all it takes for her to suddenly loom into his field of vision, breath visibly curling from her nostrils as she stares down at the hooded man in silent scrutiny. (Is it gradually getting colder outside?)

If he later thinks back — if he lives to think back — the crunch of footsteps will have made the apparition all the more ominous: it's real. It's real, and Orrion is really starfishing on the slippery footing, arms waving, wrench swinging from his belt beneath the coat until he's down… well, not quite on one knee. Which is to say: he might be able to handle a human brawl, at least enough to get out of the bar, but creatures of ice and darkness are a different story. He stares upward (not at the stars this time) and he's breathing hard (his breath fogging, adrenaline heating through the cold) and… "Funny. Really funny." He'll just straighten up now, if he's able.

The tall-for-her-age green is undoubtedly pleased by the reaction that arises as a result of her sudden appearance; do dragons laugh? There's a low noise that's probably meant to convey amusement, a rumbling of vocalization that accompanies the increase in speed of eyes leaning more blue-green than not. Too easy. After a moment's thought, her head lowers until it's easily within arm's length of Orrion, jaw opening to gently puff a warm (meat-scented) breath his way. Perhaps it's meant to be a kind gesture in exchange for having startled him so thoroughly; perhaps it's conveniently a means by which she can display her teeth. Whichever her aim, she studies him again afterward in the wake of another swirl of sparkling cold that's strangely heavier in its press than the winds that pass through the bowl now and again.

Too easy for that dragon. On the way up, Orrion pauses to rub his knees with gloved hands (still there!) and then slaps the fronts of his thighs (likewise!) before addressing his elbows (which probably just need warming). When he finally straightens the rest of the way… that meaty puff is not the also-meaty puff pastry his favorite cook prepares, so then he's coughing, nose wrinkling — and that's even before he gets that glimpse of teeth. And it's cold. And he shudders, pulling his collar higher as he steps back. No, he's not reaching to pet the dragon (nor sticking his arm in its mouth, or tossing a clump of snow in, or even the wrench). Instead, carefully, "Excuse me. I am leaving now. I am walking away from where you are." As he undertakes another backward step, dark eyes intent on the creature, he can't help but shiver again… as though from a draft, creeping through cracks in windows' caulk.

Are you, though, Orrion? The creature of winter makes another low, amused noise and watches him right back through that backwards step and the subsequent shiver, limbs lowering so that she can settle regally onto the ground to better favor him with her swirling regard. Surely he isn't leaving so soon, is he? Almost as an afterthought, a wing extends into a casual curve so that the next (real) gust that blows their way breaks over the top of it and may not impact the human as much as it ordinarily might. Is that an expectant tilt to the green's shapely head? A curious one? Perhaps the faint rustle of wind-nudged branches sounds from above - but that's probably just the sound of air rushing past one's ears, isn't it.

The air rushing past his ears; the rustle of branches; the faint, faint scrape of branch-tips along glass panes… Orrion doesn't stop to puzzle it out, though he must slow to secure his footing, slow by human standards and possibly crawling by anything winged. The dragon's settling — its favor, could he but recognize it — does not forestall him; its protection does not entice him; the tilt of its head is the sort of alien to which he's never been introduced. It's dark (but starshine). It's cold (and getting colder). His heavy boots crunch the snow, and he keeps his knees bent, his body low, without worry about how it might look. The terrain is questionable, especially backwards (especially with a higher bank a few steps off), but this far away is still too close. There are rocks that might be frozen in place; there are rocks that would like to turn underfoot. It's dark. (But those eyes.)

The tail that snakes around the dragon's feet flicks at length, as if attempting to dismiss an irritant or silent intruder. A little snort escapes soon after, particularly after there's more boot-crunching and cautious posturing on the glasscrafter's end. And yet more sounds of boots meeting the ground - except, this second set approaches from behind the glacial green, eliciting what sounds, for all the world, like an almost disappointed sigh from that ice-pale set of jaws. Then, droll: "I knew you were up to something." That's definitely a recognizable voice; Lhiannon ducks past that still extended wing moments later, blue gaze dropping to find whatever - whoever just provided her lifemate the highlight of her evening — and Hana's left briefly speechless in a gobsmacked stare as she takes in the scene of crouching Orrion, not-hidden dragon. When she finds her words again: "What in Faranth's — Ori." There's a look cast over her shoulder for the green who straightens to her full height (and a mutter of, "Playing, really, ") while she hurries forward to offer the other journeyman a gloved hand up, eyes searching his face earnestly. "Are you alright? What - were you doing out here?"

As long as it's around the dragon's feet and not his feet, Orrion (may think he) is good to keep going — his caution isn't the sort of posturing with mirror and comb, but rather an engineer's (albeit a glasscraft engineer's) respect for inertia and gravity. Especially when one of those rocks sneaks up and makes his foot slip before he properly catches himself. It's enough to make a man lose track of voices or even a sigh that doesn't come with fire. His name, though — "Huh?" He squints. But then the newest shadow resolves itself into a human, into, "Hana!" though he waves her hand away. "Fine, fine. Just don't want to fall over. Shards, it's slick."

"So don't fall, " says Hana wryly with an unspoken please somewhere in there, even if she's still openly scanning his features while the waved-away hand gets tucked back into a coat pocket not unlike its mate. There's a measuring sort of look for the distance between his present location and the main thoroughfare that might offer an easier path back to the caverns (although surely it was clearer earlier in the day?) and another glance for the dragon behind her before she adds, "We could walk over to the caverns, if you wanted - if that's where you're going, " never mind that it's a logical destination given the hour and the person in question, "and you're not going to break a leg out here on my watch." It's hard to tell for certain, but she tries to catch a glimpse of his footwear, perhaps in an attempt to assess if his wardrobe's preparation for winter is every bit as thorough as one might expect (or not). "You did find a pair of boots suitable for this environment, I hope?"

"It's my own fault," Orrion says almost cheerfully, and not just because Hana's showed up and transformed an odd and disturbing situation into something perfectly normal. Perfectly normal. Not that he isn't talking… not fast, exactly, but with less pause for breath than normal. "The caverns would be good. Those sticks with the spikes on the end? I've been using them, they make sense, they work, but I figured I'd give it a go without this one time, and look what happened." Said footwear has deep treads for good traction in normal circumstances, but also lacks spikes. "They're supposed to be suitable. The boots, that is. The stores people were very helpful." Surely also not the sort of 'helpful' that would lead a poor crafter into distress on purpose. "It was months ago. I think it was months. Unless that was the other pair that disagreed with my feet. These, someone else broke them in better but their feet aren't quite like my feet but that's the way it goes sometimes, with boots." All this while he's crabwalking, sideways so he doesn't have to crouch quite as much (but also doesn't turn his back on that dragon). "Can I break two legs?" comes with a laugh.

The harper's eyebrows lift just a little - for his speed of speech, the sideways walk, that jest. Somewhere in there, there's a noncommittal noise for spikes, boots and helpful stores people. "I've no doubt that it's possible, " to break two legs instead of one, "but we're not taking any chances, " Hana says at last, casting another look over her shoulder toward the wintry green, who pushes to her feet to gracefully turn until she's at a better angle to obligingly present Orrion with an extended forelimb in silent invitation once she's resituated herself lower to the ground. "Do you think you can make it over to her safely?" She has the proper footwear for these conditions, balanced (if warily) in stance and looking prepared to offer an elbow if it seems wanted (or needed) — as if getting closer to this dragon is indeed as equally normal as his veneer of cheer would have the situation be.

Orrion stops. (Orrion waits until all of him has stopped: no sliding, no flailing.) Orrion looks back at Hana; "Wait, what?" He squints at her. "Are you talking… about the dragon? I just spent all this time getting out of its way." He glances briefly at the huge creature, then back at her before explaining carefully, "If I walk that way, it's away from where I'm going."

"Of course I'm talking about my dragon, " answers Hana with patient emphasis. "The least she, " a little more pointedly with the pronoun, "can do after inconveniencing you tonight is help you get safely, quickly to where you're going if it would save you time and unnecessary difficulty. I daresay her feet are more suited for walking over the ground at the moment than yours - and her stride is longer than both of ours." There's another almost-flick of Fjainoith's tail, but she's otherwise almost as still as glass, save for the spin of those eyes that like to change color as such eyes are wont to do. "Injuries can be costly." It's a dry delivery from the greenrider, given in the manner of one who may have recently been reminded of such first- or second-hand.

"Yours?" Orrion not-quite-repeats unnecessarily, before Hana's much more than gotten started, and cranes his head to look at the dragon with more interest if not yet enthusiasm as such: it's cold, it's been a long day, but this walking (and still sort of looming) forge is Hana's. (At least, that's what she says, and he must take her word for it.) "'S bigger," than the few glimpses he'd gotten in a land with actual color instead of simply starlight. Then, interrupting the next pause, "Wait —" The 'what?!' is silent this time as more of her words sink in: not just the magic words of safely and quickly and saving time and (less pleasantly) injuries, but the significance. He eyes Hana (with a bit of a squint). He eyes the dragon (no squint this time, instead as though assessing how an apprentice's handiwork might hold up to practical use; it takes a while). "You really think this is a good idea," or rather his tone of actually considering the hypothesis, is an eventual testament not only to Hana's word choice but implicit respect for her common sense. Injuries can be costly. "How do we do this?"

"Believe me, she was easier to bathe and oil when she was smaller, " Hana replies with a grin for 'bigger, ' meeting Orrion's squinting regard with a raised eyebrow, letting her amusement curve briefly over her expression while the other journeyman and her dragon size each other up (again). It smooths away by the time the other's rejoinder comes; "I think it's a safe idea, " she answers casually — which is to say, yes, even as Fjainoith shifts just enough to get her right forelimb closer to him. "When you get close enough to touch her leg there, you can lean on her like you would something especially sturdy, " for she is, "and steady yourself enough to climb off of the ground." Away from the ice. "The straps will help you climb higher if you treat them like handholds, and I can be there to give you a pull up if you need it." Blue eyes study him a moment more before she adds thoughtfully, "Although perhaps you'd benefit more from someone steady behind you." More reassuringly, "We won't let you fall."

"Of course it would," Orrion says distractedly, and the wave of his arms — six feet, maybe — could as well be a sign of the dragon's supposed growth as it is a sign of his conceding to her plan and starting to move closer. Only, "Hello, Fjainoith," pronunciation stilted but moderately correct, as though speaking in an unfamiliar dialect. "I understand that no one is to get hurt here. It is awfully cold. I don't know how you stand it with all that square footage," that last almost a parenthetical. "I appreciate the, ah, teamwork." He stomps his boots in the snow a few times more than necessary, and — barring being eaten or the like, though at this point he might enjoy being set on fire for a few seconds — follows directions, taking more care in the process than he would have with a tree. Who goes first doesn't seem to matter; evidently he's taking Hana's assurance at face value.

Fjainoith is quite comfortable with all that square footage, says the soft huff of exhale that escapes as the man comes closer, neck curving slightly so that she can better watch Orrion's approach with a sharp gaze as he steps up off of the ice. Teamwork? This is merely an act of cooperation toward a goal which suits her anyway. "She says that she likes being in the cold, " Hana relays as she scales up the glacial side behind him, sounding almost as if she's trying not to laugh. "She also wants to know if you are usually so talkative when applying yourself to something that apparently requires you to focus." The weyrling steadies herself long enough in place to make sure that he's up and settled before swinging up to her own seat, half-turning to help him get buckled in. "Okay so far?" she prompts while fastening her own seatbelt moments before their mount gets smoothly to her feet, elevating them even farther away from the ground. Safety first!

"Even the wing part? What makes them not freeze?" gets followed by a more distracted, "Haven't done a study lately. Nita would know." If the starlight didn't make it less than easy for Orrion to examine the mechanics of the buckles and gear, they might be here all night, even with Hana's aid; as it is, the glasscrafter makes himself settle for grasping the belt with both hands once everything's in place. But when they get up — there's a very boyish, "Whoa-a." Look left; look right; look at all that's in sight (particularly over the top of Hana's head).

"'Likes' doesn't equate to sleeping in it for hours on end, " Hana says patiently. "You like the heat, but you wouldn't sleep in the sun so long that you'd sunburn if you knew it could be avoided, would you?" There's a grin aimed around at Orrion in those moments after Fjainoith gets to her feet, just before the green serenely takes a long step pausing briefly for effect and settles into her smooth, carefully graceful gait. It's faster than crossing the bowl on a runner, although certainly nowhere as fast if they flew — but fulfills the conditions of the promised walk. In what could seem like almost no time at all, the caverns' entrances are soon in sight, even if they're not yet right upon them (but probably almost). "She could stop just shy of the doorway." The harper doesn't look back at him in the wake of the suggestion offer, apparently too preoccupied with observing the remainder of the very-late-dinner traffic that may be trickling through.

"If," Orrion says wryly. "And if I were attending to it to begin with. Though actually, this better equates to wandering about in the sun, as opposed to sleeping in it; if I were sleeping, I wouldn't be aware of time and wouldn't know if I were sleeping in the sun too long. Plus, there's sleeping in the shade but then when the shade moves, you're left in the sun — actually, are you one of the people who can wake yourself up after a certain amount of time, so you really wouldn't sleep too long, assuming you calculated the allowable time correctly? I can't, yet. But I'd like to." All this may have something to do with the sense of time passing — or, for his friend, possibly prolonging — but also may be what's distracting the glasscrafter himself into not just clutching onto dragon and straps (for that isn't stopping, at all), but actually starting to lean outward, further than what a much lower-massing runner could allow. In the end, "Not all the way in? I'm disappointed."

Even given how accustomed Lhiannon undoubtedly is to the way Orrion ping-pongs from one idea to the next, it takes her a moment to follow while a little vibration rises through Fjainoith's chest, a low rumble that could pass for amusement - or a vocalized equivalent of a dragon rolling her eyes. "Wandering, " the greenrider repeats to show that she is, in fact, listening. "I'm - not, I'm afraid. We wake up early, these days, but that's become a habit." As the green draws to a stately halt mere feet from one of the more obvious entrances into the lower caverns, she lowers herself back down to the ground to ease their descent. Hana unbuckles herself so she can more easily twist around to show the glasscrafter how to release his own restraint. Wryly, "She'd like to suppose that she could go inside, " a feat that undoubtedly would have resulted in consequences during a time when such a thing could have been physically managed. Grasping the straps to carefully hand-over-hand herself down to Fjainoith's arm and hop safely to the ground, she explains her method of dismounting aloud while in motion, tilting a glance back up to her friend at its conclusion. "Safer, " she reiterates with a cautious look for the short distance to the doorway. "I'll walk with you until you get safely inside." She's serious about making sure he doesn't end up with a preventable injury.

Orrion's nod for early is approving, if silent, the glasscrafter busy gawking at how everything changes — in the cliffs' deepened shadow, in the febrile light of electricity — from above. Still, eventually he has more instructions to follow, and (not without clarifications) he does, in fits and starts of stalling to look around followed by being quick to get down. The last one wins. He stomps his boots again. "Fine, fine. If only so you can make sure your dragon doesn't follow us in," as if Fjainoith could fit. Speaking of: "Thanks, dragon." Once they have navigated the short distance, halfway in and halfway out, "Any last words?"

Hana manages to (mostly) suppress the little quirk of smile that twitches at her mouth for those stalls-and-starts, and manages to turn it into a markedly relieved one once Orrion finishes his dismount. "She's hardly illogical enough to try, " the weyrling says drily, aiming an affectionate look over her shoulder for the dragon in question as she walks near enough to have an elbow ready for the other journeyman, should the short enough journey on foot to the doorway prove more perilous than its appearance. Stopping just shy of entering with him, Lhiannon's eyebrows lift for his prompt, to which she delivers an almost-teasing, "You're welcome, " before withdrawing with a wave. It's a quick trek back to where her lifemate waits before they take off to the north, where they're just in time to return to the barracks prior to lights-out.

"Well, that's something," ought to be praise, as Orrion glances back up at the dragon on one side of their walk; on the other, though, "Thank you too-oo-oo!" With that, he walks back inside, possessed of both a wrench (after a triple-checking pat to his hip) and a story.


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