Beachfront View [Req/weed(?)]

[mierce]

Iorath glided high in the air, casually following the shadow and its trail of sand in the beach below. A few seabirds cawed around him and he playfully grumbled back at them. The birds couldn't understand, of course, but they were not scared and continued to hover pleasantly around his head. It was a pleasant overcast day and dry, a stark change from the humidity of the jungle and area around the Weyr.

Below him creating the trail was Evrgarde. Barefoot with pantlegs rolled up to the knees and boots tied together and slung over her shoulders, she jogged steadily along the long swath of sandy coast. With no plans to go hunting and no anticipation of encountering trouble, she wore a lighter set of clothes for the occassion and only a pair of armguards for armor. She still had her baton and a pair of daggers strapped to her waist, but those were purely out of habit--maybe even out of comfort.

Huff- clink. Huff- clink. Huff- clink. Huff- clink. Repeat. In the distance was a rocky outcropping that rose up from the sand and stretched out to the sea. She stared at it, but did not actually see it. Instead, she focused on the sound of her breathing, of the sound of baton striking dagger, of the waves breaking to her left, of her footsteps as they landed in the dry, fickle sand.

Iorath swooped to the side, disturbing his entourage of seabirds. Almost directly south was a particularly tall tree rising out from the leafy stretch of wooded area. You just passed the mark.

Without missing a beat, she picked up her pace and broke into a sprint, arms pumping in synchronization with her strides. In her head she counted each footfall up to 150, then returned to a jog and finally a walk until she found herself at the wading pools. Stopping, she turned out towards the sea and started her set of stretches.

From the air, Iorath watched her go through her thrice-a-week routine. As she finished up the stretches, he lowered himself onto the farthest area of the rock where he could comfortably fit.

You have droppings on your head. He looked over to see that His had climbed up onto the rock and was heading towards him.

Iorath peeked down at the clear if ripply water and tried to crane his neck in such a way to see what she was talking about. Unable to see, he leaned over and dunked his head in the salty water. It wasn't pleasant, but he found bird droppings even less so.

With a dramatic spray of water he pulled his head out and shook himself out. Is it still there?

[Requiem]

An amused draconic chuckle sounded in Lorath's head from the nearby rocks, the brown that looked for all the world like dampened, high quality hardwood washed up on shore virtually unnoticeable until the lids slid up and revealed his calm swirls of blues and greens. The sinuous body moved slightly, tail flicking out over the edge of the nearest rock while the tip twitched slowly. His jaws parted in a wide yawn. Uncoiled, he was just slightly larger than Lorath himself, but it would be hard to tell that from his position in the rocks. Each small movement sent his rich-colored hide rippling with the light muscles underneath. Most wouldn't have guessed he was one of Millieth's spawn, as, aside from his slightly smaller size, he was perfection in build, faintly gleaming with health. Of course, that opinion would change soon enough if he noted anything worthy of 'collection.' It was less noticeable these days - he was far more selective - but that didn't mean Ruth was any less neurotic than he had been when trying to collect egg shell fragments at his own Hatching.

I'm afraid it is, the young dragon commented in open amusement. Too bad they can't Between. It would keep my rocks much cleaner, too. His rocks. Yes, His made the run from the Weyr daily, among other things. A time to clear his head, which was most unwelcomely stuffed presently. (Behruth didn't understand what the problem was. He loved clutchbrother Checkoth, so why shouldn't ShortyHis love Checkoth's too?) But he didn't voice the question. His often made little sense that way. His rocks, yes, but they usually came out here sooner. The hatchling of Jingth's was a distraction, it was.

Behruth, who had no issue with talking to other people as well as dragons, though he didn't do it terribly often, addressed both halves of the bluepair quietly. ShortyMine is coming in a moment. Do not be bothered if he is grouchy...he's all talk. Mostly. I have not told him you are here. Because His would almost certainly take another route if that was the case. More sociable than he had been, but...not on these runs. Certainly not.

It was not long thereafter that the second running figure emerged from the trees. Or swung from them, precisely, sliding around one and out toward the pounding waves. The pack that held shirt and throwing daggers - as well as food for a midday meal given the lateness of the morning - hit the ground several feet before his body arced into the crashing spray. The teenager threw back his head, frowning at some thought or other that apparently the dousing hadn't quite served to banish, as he stood against the pounding surf. He idly brushed back the dark curls clinging to his shoulders. The collar had slipped loose, allowing for a brief look at the nasty scar tissue left over from the siege. M'ta was literally one of the only people to survive a slit throat. His fortune held, it seemed...or perhaps misfortune, though he wouldn't call it such these days. Behruth was enough to make life worth living.

Only then did he notice he wasn't alone, his head turning, the flash of the stud in his ear catching light. Ruth. Accusation. It is Lorath. They are Selenitas, and you are grumpy. The Bitran, of significantly less worth to his former owners with the missing nails on one hand and the remnants of a chest wound that just barely fell short of killing him, waded back up onto the beach because the water put him at a disadvantage. He was short, though not truly small, possessing a frame vaguely reminiscent of a canine's build - lean and predatory, with broad shoulders that tapered to a narrow waist and hips. Not so much the pretty boy of his youth, even with the longer hair tied back at the nape of his neck. And this is supposed to put me in a better mood?

[mierce]

Iorath glanced about curiously at the chuckle, his eyes swirling in surprise upon seeing the neatly camouflaged dragon. Iorath barely let out a croon in greeting before the young brown affirmed that the bird droppings were still clinging to him. They are friendly creatures, the seabirds, but it’s like they’re stuck as a perpetual hatchling. Iorath grumbled as he dunked his head in the water again and furiously stirred it about, creating a fury of whorls. While the blue was preoccupied, Evrgarde stepped around her dragon’s form to see the brown more clearly.

He is Behruth, Iorath provided while still underwater. He did not know the brown very well, but had seen the brownpair around the Weyr and noted that Behruth appeared rather sociable.

To the brown’s … precaution that His may be grouchy, Iorath responded with a snicker of his own. Mine is not really much better. He lifted his head out of the water again, somehow sending a larger shower upon Evrgarde. She didn’t seem to mind the spray though, instead directing her attention to the dark figure that came bounding out from the treeline.

M’ta’s arrival was somewhat amusing, appearing almost as if the trees had spat him out from their presence. As the brown had promised, the boy did not look pleased to see them. Evrgarde watched him wade out of the water but made no motion to speak or move until Iorath nudged her in the back with his muzzle.

He hardly looks interested in conversation.

Nor do you, /ever/. But somehow people manage.

Suppressing a sigh, Evrgarde walked away from her blue to the edge of the rock closest to M’ta. “Hello,” she called out over the breaking waves. Her eyes trailed down to the visible scars, curiosity temporarily flitting across her thoughts. “Quite a grand entrance there, boy. A direct dive into the sea. What’s your name?” She said it without intent of malice or arrogance, but it came out as sharp and almost interrogative.

[Requiem]

Behruth's amusement didn't abate. They are not as smart as dragons, Lorath brother. He had gotten into the habit of addressing other dragons as siblings the vast majority of the time, unless they were scary metallics - and there weren't too many scary ones. Of course, his actual siblings got 'clutch' attached to the front, so there was at least some distinction there. But they are fun and pretty, just the same. The brown uncoiled from his rocks, his small size becoming clear as he unfolded. Wings folded neatly against his sides, his neck arched slightly as he edged toward the older blue. A wing dipped, splashing water over the other dragon's neck.

Almost gone, but not quite. If you don't mind? He rubbed up against the other dragon to clear away the last of the bird droppings. Behruth loved company, loved touching, and he hadn't yet attempted to do so with a dragon who didn't, so there was no fear in him, not even a suggestion of unease. He settled back onto his haunches beside Lorath, arching his neck as a spike of something dangerous emanated from His. Oh. Not good... It seemed he should have mentioned these two, after all. At least ShortyHis knew better than to simply attack because of an accent. Yours is from that place.

Her voice produced a narrowing of the eyes and an instinctive move for the blades that were stowed in the pack a small distance away. Fortunately for all involved, even though he found himself unarmed, the reaction itself was to what he thought he heard in those words. There was no fear or true unease involved. The woman wasn't large, and she wasn't acting aggressive, but he didn't like her eyes on him, just the same. That manifested in the hand that drifted to his throat, tightening the collar while still eyeing her narrowly. The neck scar vanished entirely from site.

The others didn't, but he didn't mind them as much anyway. People staring at his neck always made his hair prickle. Yes. Clearly Bitran, now that she'd uttered more than one word, and his mind slipped, settled into a mindset he'd left behind turns ago - or thought he had. A brief, feral flash of teeth. "Boy?" he echoed mildly, scorn touching the word. No boy. He'd probably never really been a boy. His own words held no accent whatsoever, which made them curious, because no one actually spoke like that except for a harper or two. "It's M'ta. Sorry, but the display wasn't for your benefit - my most faithful dragon over there failed to mention you."

A brow lifted. "Probably a shocker to you and all, but most people introduce themselves first before lighting in on the interrogation."

[mierce]

Iorath ducked a bit when the brown rubbed up against him. It wasn’t very often that other dragons physically interacted with him, especially so soon after a somewhat direct introduction, but he found that he didn’t mind Behruth. Lorath? he repeated, playfully nipping in the brown’s direction. It is /I/orath with an ‘I’. Eyyeeeee. His eyes swirled amusedly to indicate that he was not the slightest bit upset or offended by the misnomer. He laughed, lightly flicking water at the already wet dragon. Thank you, friend.

Being used to Evrgarde’s gruff nature, Iorath did not think twice about her manner of greeting M’ta until Behruth reacted. He peered cautiously between the brownpair. Oh no, no, Mine means no harm at all. It was too late however, and the glove was on the verge of being thrown, as it were.

Of course Evrgarde did not realize why M’ta was so worked up over her words. She thought herself cordial enough, asked his name and everything. Was he really that upset she had not give him her name? Not noticing a Northern accent of any sort in the boy’s speech, she simply assumed that he was prejudiced. Whatever.

She planted her left hand on her hip, swaying her weight onto her right leg in the process. “You are a boy no? Hardly a girl.” Clearly she didn’t understand his issue with her means of acknowledging him as a younger male, either. She was, however, glad that he actually gave his name which was more than she could say for No-Name-Bendenite. “You needn’t worry,

Hopping down from the rock, she felt her knee hit the sand just as a wave lapped in. The seawater quickly soaked through the fabric of her pants but she paid it no mind and stood up, resuming the uneven stance she had on the rock. “The name’s Evrgarde.” She tilted her head, glancing at the boy’s somewhat defensive stance. His exact age was a mystery of course, but he was quite clearly quite a few turns younger than herself, plus his young dragon. A frown spread across her features, complete with a slightly furrowed brow. “Oy, where did you get those nasty scars?”

[Requiem]

Oh! Iorath, then, he ammended, amusement still in his mindvoice. He didn't often make such mistakes, and the brown ducked behind a wing almost playfully. Whoopsies. The wing shielded him from some of the water, but that wasn't really the purpose of it.

The brown glanced at the two riders, shaking some of the water off himself in the process. It's not really her intentions that are the problem. You may want to tell her that Mine is from... The name escaped him, and asking ShortHis wasn't likely to get a good reaction. ...the same place she is. I wouldn't worry, though. He's just on edge. Yours is safe enough. Although it probably should have been slightly worrisome that Behruth felt the need to assure Iorath that His would be safe, shouldn't it?

M'ta's shoulders straightened, something flashing behind his eyes. "No, I'm not a girl," he responded flatly. He folded his arms over his chest and tucking his wrists into the crooks of his elbows, the discoloration - chafing scars - vanishing in that motion. He really, really wasn't amused with Behruth at the moment. Not at all. The brown, however, seemed mostly unperturbed, though M'ta felt his mind more keenly than usual. The dragon wasn't a stupid one. The young man almost snorted. Behruth needn't have worried. He wasn't going to do anything to the woman.

Scars? Right. The one on his bicep was fairly clear from this angle, the one on his chest obviously nasty, and if she'd seen the neck scar, as he suspected she had...couldn't really blame her for the curiosity. "Siege," he responded shortly. Everyone in Selenitas knew of the siege, after all. Behruth brushed against his mind. Be nice? But...okay, whatever. His hand drifted up, rubbing lightly against the wound just below his collarbone before the arms fell and disappeared behind his back. He regreted not having gotten back into wearing the braces. Of course, he hadn't actually met another Bitran in the five turns he was here or so, though he'd known there were likely a few others wandering around.

"Was pinned to the outside wall of the weyrling barracks," he admitted softly. All the senior weyrlings had been assigned to go there in the event of attack. Of course...no one had known that would be where the thick of the fighting was. One could argue that getting pinned to the wall was actually fortunate, seeing as how had he not stolen Kale from the Weyrsecond, they likely would have simply killed him when they overpowered him, instead of going to the trouble of not piercing through anything vital. The barest trace of a northern accent slipped in as his guard slipped just a touch, though it was generally northern and nothing specific. He enunciated carefully for a reason most of the time.

Only a flustered but unthreatened M'ta ever sounded Bitran, but then the accent became thick. Not so now. "Where were you, during the siege?" Because Behruth had said Selenitas, which meant originally Selenitas, as far as the brown knew. He was aware that M'ta cared about the distinction, even if he didn't.

[mierce]

Behruth says that His is from the same place as you, Iorath passed onto His. He considered whether to also enlighten her to Behruth’s assurances that the boy meant no harm. M’ta didn’t look dangerous or armed. Then again, he doubted telling Evrgarde would make a difference in how she approached the brownrider; she would make her own evaluations over the boy’s threat.

With this new bit of information from her dragon, Evrgarde’s gaze remained unwavering on M’ta, still looking as if she were cross-examining him and waiting for the boy to give away a clue. She was not, of course, but she tended to have a piercing stare when addressing others, even as she tried to soften it as as M’ta spoke of his injuries. “You were fortunate to have survived the siege,” she stated, a hint of darkness slipping into her already grim voice. It needn’t be said that he was one of the lucky almost-minority to have came out not too handicapped; they both knew what sort of carnage befell Selenitas and nothing needed to be said in regards to that.

“I was also near the weyrling barracks,” she said after a moment’s recollection. Her memory then took her to the head injury that left her bedridden for months on end, and she reflexively brought her left hand up to touch the back of her head. The injury had healed well enough, but it wasn’t very pretty and she could easily feel the bump of slightly disheveled bone underneath her fingertips. Catching her actions, she realized that she had effectively revealed to M’ta her own wounds, something she had not intended to do. Then again, the boy unwittingly showed his so she supposed it was a fair enough exchange of information.

“This head injury, was also received near the barracks, right before I took to the skies to snipe.” She hadn’t brought her archery tackle, and so she loosely mimed a bow as if explicitly stating the weapon name were difficult. She was able to take down a few Benden riders, but it often took several attemps before she scored a hit on her marks while Iorath was constantly on the move. After she recovered, this became the driving reason behind her obsessive desire to practice shooting moving objects while she herself was also moving.

She dropped her left hand to her side and took a step forward, right hand still leisurely resting on the pommel of her baton. “You’re from Bitra.” It was a statement not a question. A question wasn’t necessary anyway, if Behruth was to be trusted.

[Requiem]

M'ta grunted noncommittally, a brief flicker of what might have been sheepishness behind his eyes, though it was gone as quick as it arose. Yes, lucky. Fortunate. His Jabari had suffered but saved his life, just the same, and R'wign's inability to fly on a wing anymore - the breathing condition that very nearly killed him during the plague - also ensured M'ta's continued existance. Maybe the price was worth it. Since he wasn't the one paying it, he couldn't really make an assessment there, and the brownrider wasn't one to feel guilt for the decisions of others. Indebtedness, yes, but not guilt.

A brow rose mildly at the answer to his question, though. "I didn't see you." Which didn't necessarily mean anything. M'ta...would note anyone he recognized, of course, but the bluerider, if he'd seen her, had likely passed out of mind. If not immediately, then during the six or so months he was bedridden due to fever and infection. Apparently severe wounds and rain didn't mix well. From the way she was feeling at her skull, though, and the queer look on her face...it seemed she hadn't quite gotten out unscathed either. Hrm.

"You...could get into the air?" That genuinely intrigued - bothered - M'ta. Benden had done a remarkable job of seeing that the Selenitas dragons couldn't take to wing. A few had tried...and died in the attempt. A concentrated effort might have been successful, but - well, clearly her blue had managed it, somehow. M'ta wouldn't risk Behruth in that fashion. The brown wasn't a fighter anyway, and...yeah. Just too dangerous.

His thoughts broke against her next words, though, hands falling limply to his sides, the relative openness behind his features closing off again. "Behruth told you." Because there was no way she'd be able to tell from his appearance or his voice. He was careful about such things. The brown met his gaze placidly, the arch to his neck just short of playful. Of course he'd told. It would make it less awkward, silly ShortyHis. How would she avoid iffy topics or know how to take his behavior if she didn't know? M'ta sniffed in response to the wordless rejoinder. It made sense, unfortunately.

"Yes. I'm Bitran," he agreed. "As are you." Her being female, however, made the immediate suspicion less - virile. No woman held power in Bitra, therefore they weren't complicit, by and large. "Can't say I miss it." He shrugged eloquently. He wasn't the garrulous youth, the arrogant little streetsmart brat who thought nothing could touch him that was common to the older orphans that ran on the streets. Neither was he the damaged, suicidal thing that kept everyone at arm's length. Both were part of him, in varied amounts, but Selenitas was a place of healing, and Behruth had changed him a lot. He could even resist attacking someone who drew blade on him these days.

The woman was intriguing to him, though he didn't know how long she'd survived Bitra. That she had either meant she was strong...or she'd embraced it and lost herself to it. He'd like to know which, but wasn't certain he wanted to get that close to her, to put in that much effort. He had two close friends - one exceedingly close - and that was enough to make him content. And drive his paranoia and protective streak into overdrive.

[mierce]

It was hardly surprising that M’ta could have missed her at the weyrling barracks so Evrgarde thought nothing of his first comment; likewise for his surprise that she had been able to take to wing. “It was pure luck,” she stated without embellishing on the details. Her memory of the attack was spotty at best anyway. She recalled that she hadn’t been that close to the barracks during the attack —- which would explain why M’ta did not see her. She also had her bow and a ridiculous quantity of arrows with her so she could have been sniping from a ground structure as well. Whether it was her or Iorath’s suggestion to try taking off, she wasn’t so sure anymore. Regardless, she clearly remembered notching arrows and frantically shooting while Iorath went through a series of swift defensive and offensive maneuvers before they were able to get off the ground. It was amazing she didn’t end up sending an arrow piercing a hole through one of Iorath’s wings.

Or was it?

She mentally frowned and began to doubt whether she was recalling her fragmented memories in the correct order.

That matter was quickly dropped however, when M’ta reacted quite suspiciously to her statement about his origins. “Iorath told me,” she corrected. “But yes, Behruth told him.”

A handful of fleeting memories of Bitra crossed her mind, none lingering long enough to elicit any discernable reaction from her. “Bitra.” The name fell stonily from her lips; the place deserved none of her emotions, hate or otherwise. “There is nothing to miss about it unless you enjoy mud and scum.”

Just as M’ta wondered about her time in that hellhole bowel of a town, Evrgarde was marginally curious of his. It wasn’t too difficult to guess what sort of personal hell girls would have been subjected to in a place like Bitra but the possibility for boys were a little more varied. At the moment though, it wasn’t as if she cared about his history, but hardly anyone survived such origins without one or two interesting stories to tell, even if they would rather not have them to begin with. Perhaps she could work in the questions, somehow.

As she idly pondered about the boy before her, she felt Iorath brush her mind with suggestions to try making friendly. With a mental sigh, she motioned to M’ta’s pack with her left hand. “Looks like you packed quite a bit.”

[Requiem]

"True enough."

The idea that Evrgarde - that was her name, wasn't it? Yes. Odd name for a northern born woman, but some men had a sense of humor that tended to lean toward the ironic. At any rate, the idea that she was an archer held some small bit of curiosity for him. M'ta noticed patterns, he did, and was it really all that coincidental that another Bitran would favor ranged weaponry as opposed to getting up close and personal? Not that he couldn't and didn't fight close enough to feel an opponent's breath - and her weaponry indicated much the same for her - but ranged weapons were certainly preffered.

Aside from the fact that he could only take on one person at a time and fought more like a duelist than an actual fighter (something that became a real problem in a crowd, as his injuries attested to) the spray of blood kicked him back into a mindset that was dangerous. A realm where he had to struggle to hold onto control over himself. His inner darkness found the intimate death dances...alluring. Almost like creating art. Because no man was innocent, was he? M'ta didn't have to know what he'd done to know that. His inner voice would whisper that he deserved it, insist M'ta draw it out, toy, paint an image of struggle...Which usually resulted in freaking the young man out so he ended it abruptly and violently.

The inner demons were quieter these days, though, which he was very thankful for.

He blinked at her words. Ah. Yes. "Food, among other things." It seemed like an invitation, there, and he took it. M'ta didn't completely turn his back on the woman - he knew better than that - but his posture was decidedly relaxed just the same. Even when he pulled the stiffer leather vest over the shirt (a leather that would turn claws and blades so long as he wasn't slashed or stabbed directly) and buckled on the twin belts of throwing knives, crossing over the broad chest, his movements were slow, not suggestive of violence. Of unease. He didn't want to spook the bluerider.

M'ta had a thing against fighting women, though he would if he had to. Women and children should be protected, or so his mind kept insisting. "You're welcome to eat something if you're hungry," he added politely. And perhaps out of just a bit of curiosity. "They always pack more than I can eat." They, of course, being the drudges he helped out on a regular basis. Make em happy and they take care of you well, sure enough. Actually, the collar was a gift from one of them. Simple, but efficient. Funny how thoughtful southerners could be at times, though they probably thought him self-conscious out of vanity.

It just made it clear that he was a survivor. Fully clothed, with the collar and longer hair, the only visible scar was the faint one across his cheekbone. Carrying a ton of knives just looked like posturing in one so small, if you didn't pay attention to the dangerous grace of his movements and the missing nails on one hand. He didn't care to be singled out as a 'challenge.' At least, not before a fight even started. Underestimation was a lovely tool.

[mierce]

Was the boy putting on leathers over his wet clothes? Yes. Yes he was. M’ta moved leisurely as he dressed and didn’t appeared to be uneasy of her presence (though she noted that he didn’t fully turn his back to her), but Evrgarde could not imagine soaking wet fabric under leather armor could possibly be comfortable. Were the armor and weapons a source of comfort for him? Regardless, she was decidedly more interested in the tight collection of throwing knives M'ta adorned and held her tongue otherwise. It didn't quite hit her at first as to why, but throwing knives were somewhat of an oddity when most riders she has bet preferred weapons that are meant to remain in their hands. She supposed it was just a personal quirk much in the way that she would choose a baton over daggers barring a massive disadvantage in a given situation. In any event, she neither thought him over-compensating for something, or that the boy was necessarily overly dangerous simply because of his gratuitous display of weapons.

She continued to watch him, shifting her feet every now and then each time the retreating waves dislodged sand from underfoot. At his invitation, she briefly wondered if this was simply a form of courtesy and that he really did not mean to offer any of his food. She wasn’t particularly hungry, but if her staring at him as he donned his armor and weapons wasn’t rude, staring at him while he ate probably would be. At the very least, he’d probably be uncomfortable (was her reasoning).

Empathy? That’s a new one for you.

She tilted her head sideways to cast a sidelong glance at the blue. Alas, Iorath made it a point to keep his attention elsewhere. At the moment, the blue was looking up at the circling sea birds and she could sense an undercurrent of remarks between the two dragons regarding the tiny airborne creatures.

Turning back to the boy, Evrgarde walked towards him, coming to a stop about a meter to his side before kneeling. “What do you have?”

[Requiem]

At first it seemed as if she wasn't going to take him up on his offer, which was more than fine with him. M'ta hadn't planned on company, after all. No, in fact, he'd come here to be alone with his thoughts, for the most part. Because, once again, he was faced with feelings that simply didn't make sense. Loving R'wign was one thing. He'd loved many people - purely platonically. R'wign was his best friend, the man who'd saved his life, in more ways than one. No one but Behruth was closer to M'ta, meant more to him. And yes, Behruth loved Checkoth, with a devotion that nearly rivaled his bond with M'ta. So, in that respect, it didn't seem so odd. But the rest did. He hadn't noticed until R'wign kissed him - in jest - but it must have been there before. How he didn't mind R'wign's touch, didn't mind having the healer behind him, his hands in his hair. Trust...that M'ta had been wholly unable to give anyone else. Not even unwilling, unable.

And now that he realized, other thoughts that he'd never entertained before, other desires that left him watching the healer when he wasn't looking. It disturbed M'ta. He'd never thought he would feel these things for anyone, but especially not a man. Especially not one of the creatures who had hurt him. But...R'wign wasn't one of them, was he? Of course not. Yet that had never mattered before.

So...confusing...

Her words interrupted his thoughts, a welcome interruption, though not much of one, in the end. She was nearly silent enough that he could brood with her...practically right beside him. How had she gotten so close without his noticing? "Um." He covered the surprise by ruffling through the pack, removing things. "Looks like bread, cheese, redfruit...wine? Must be the cheaper kind." Still kind of odd. They must have noticed he was off, but...he and alcohol really didn't mix. "Feel free to take that if you want. Looks like klah and a water flask, too. Probably scented water. Ah." A smile, then. "Greens." He poked inside the dampened cloth for a bit. "Good for fish seasoning, actually. Up for a little fishing?"

After five turns of hanging around the kitchens off and on - when he wasn't out rummaging through the woods or helping on various construction projects - a person could pick up a few basics as far as cooking was concerned. Certainly enough to know what sort of herbs mixed well with smoked fish. No sweets had been packed, but that wasn't surprising. They'd finally figured out he wasn't fond of anything sugary...fruit was about as sweet as he'd go.

Behruth coiled around Iorath's feet, also watching the birds, his tail companionably curled around one of the blue's hind legs. He liked contact, did the brown, and really didn't think anything of it. Do they often let you play with them like that? They seem to be afraid of me. Curiosity laced his words. His was decidedly calm at present, so he was paying very little attention to the man. Or so it would seem. Any change in emotion would capture his notice, but for now...

[mierce]

Evrgarde peered into his bag with mild interest. As she watched the variety of foodstuffs seemingly pop out of the bag and gather around in the sand, she mentally agreed that this was indeed more than what the boy looked like he could consume on his own. None of the food particularly piqued her appetite, but the boy offered so hey. She dropped her boots down in the sand behind her and took a bit of cheese and a redruit. "Well, thank you. Don't mind if I do."

She settled down in her spot, just beyond an arm's length from M'ta. Feet shuffled into the cool, dry sand, toes peeking out from the little molehills. At the suggestion of fishing, though, her ears perked up. But, she normally fished with a spear and that was back at her weyr.

"Fishing sounds..."

Fun

"..Fun." She bit into her piece of cheese as if the word fumble didn't happen. "what do you use to fish? I don't have my fishing spear with me."

Iorath chuckled to himself over Evrgarde's struggle with positive adjectives. At least she had finally softened her usual barks to something more sociable. He tilted his head curiously at Behruth. The unabashed physical contact from the brown was a little surprising from the simple tail curls earlier, but it was nice.

The blue was rarely touchy-feely, perhaps an effect of his rider's aloofness to others. Other dragons he's interacted with have likewise been more inhibited in their exchanges. As such, this was a somewhat new experience and the older dragon decided to go with it. After all, what's down time without some fun and games?

If you consider being used as a litter box as playing, I suppose yes, the blue sighed with mock resignation.Afraid of you? You don't try to /eat/ them, do you? He lightly nudged the brown in the shoulder with his muzzle, eyes whirling a brilliant, teasing green.

[Requiem]

Too many creatures don't have the sense to take care of such things Between, Behruth commented dryly. Of course he knew that birds didn't Between, but why not, really? It would make things so much more convenient fro them, too. Yes, dragons needed riders to Between with accuracy, but firelizards didn't and birds were closer to firelizard size than dragon size.

Crooning at the nuzzle, his hold on the other dragon's leg tightened in a brief squeeze. Ruth always enjoyed making new friends. True, he tended to prefer young dragons because they were the most willing to play and were so eager, but that didn't mean he'd turn down the others. Not at all. No. I don't think they'd be very tasty. All air and feathers. Hard to tell whether he was taking the question seriously or just being facetious. Behruth took after His when it came to his sense of humor.

M'ta's smile was a touch awkward and slight enough to be easily missed. "That's usually what I use, too," he responded quietly. Glancing toward the trees not far away, he tucked his legs beneath him. "They're not hard to make, if you like the idea." Not hard at all. Remove the extra branches, sharpen one end to a point and harden it in a fire. The whole process could take half a candlemark if they were just interested in using them this once.

"Though this is more than enough food right here." Of course, he had absolutely no idea what to actually say. A discussion of the weather hardly seemed appropriate. Nor was he interested into prying into her past, because that invited her to do the same with his. Awkwardness. "So, um, when did you get here, then?" Behruth had said that Iorath was Selenitas. With Ruth that meant hatched at Selenitas...or at least that the brown believed as much.