Lysoret, Benden Stablehand

Trips to Southern

Fri, 29 Jun 2007 02:46:11 GMT

Who: Andoran, G'rei, L'dor and Lysoret
Where: Patio and Garden, Benden Weyr
When: 4:28pm on day 4, month 7, turn 449
What: Lys teaches a young girl from the caverns how to work in the herb garden; Andoran keeps picking away at his song for Maddy and L'dor talks at length about Southern. G'rei admits that he's been thinking about taking a trip there; this gives Lysoret pause. Southern's dangerous, right?

Patio Summer. Breezy. 81F / 27C.

A very small plot of land has been reserved for the kitchen garden. It covers no more than 100 feet by 100 feet, tucked along the wall of the bowl near the lake where water is easy to bring and where shade is available for the more tender plants. There are about ten rows of various herbs here, at bloom or dormant during different seasons. Just off to one side, a set of steps carved into the wall of the bowl leads to an adjacent, slightly raised patio.

Situated on a ledge about twenty-five feet off the ground, facing west overlooking the lake, up a short flight of unguarded steps, the patio is a simple place to get some fresh air. The ledge itself is smaller than most of the Weyr's inner rooms, host only to a few weather-sturdy pieces of furniture. A wrought-iron bench, a chair carved out of the stone itself, two wrought-iron tables, and the occasional wooden bench or chair dragged out by an enterprising visitor.

-- Players --
Lysoret........Tall and wiry young woman in her late teens, dark-haired and dark-eyed.
Andoran........Late-twenties, short cap of fuzzy hair, brown skin, hazel eyes, 5'10", gaunt.
L'dor..........24, dark hair, blue eyes, tan. Looks fit; rather gangly

-- Exits --
Bowl.....................[NE]

Lysoret's hard at work in the kitchen garden, tending carefully to the herbs. Her motions are slow, careful; the reasons behind this become obvious as she's showing a younger girl who's kneeling next to her how to work with the tender plants. "Pluck gently, " Lys tells her, gently separating a small sprig or leaf here and there and dropping them into the small bag next to her. "Now you try. Go on." The smaller girl - hardly beyond her eleventh, maybe twelfth turn - gradually gets up the courage to do so, looking over at her older companion every so often; is she doing it right?

G'rei comes up the steps from the bowl.
G'rei has arrived.

Up in what's getting to be a bit of a 'usual' perch on the patio wall, is Andoran, quietly playing his gitar. It's a sweet tune, and some might recgonize it as something he's been working on lately. It sounds just about finished now. The harper peeks over into the garden at the work being done with a slight grin. "That's the way of it," he offers over encouragingly and shifts his playing into something brighter, more spritely.

L'dor approaches from the bowl and trudges up the steps, waving to the harper as he approaches. He's dressed for the heat, and seems quite weary as he drops into the stone chair on the patio. For a while, he's content just to sprawl and listen, but then he starts to take an interest in the gardening operations, and watches Lysoret and her helper, raising a hand in greeting when he thinks he might be noticed. "Hot day for gardening."

"There, see? Not so very hard, " Lys praises, leaning just past the girl to pluck from a different plant. "And just think of how pleased they'll all be in the kitchens to have these to cook with tonight." Although her attention remains on the work at hand, the sometimes-gardener's mouth curls upward into a small smile for Andoran's encouragement. She sits back on her heels after a moment, nudging the young girl's shoulder and pointing at another plant. While she busies herself with murmuring to her protege about the differences between the two, she glances up and offers L'dor a tentative wave in return. "It is." And then she's turning her attention back to the other girl.

Andoran looks up at L'dor's approach and waves. "Hey there L'dor. Actually seems nice out to me," he says with a grin. "Not nearly as hot as it got down South, eh?" He winks over at the bluerider and strums another bright chord. "So there'll be something herby on the menu tonight?" he directs this casually Lysoret's way, apparently keenly interested in the evening meal.

L'dor grins at Lysoret, but doesn't attempt to disrupt her work with further conversation. Instead, he turns his smile on Andoran and says, loudly enough for all present to hear, "And another row of goodness knows what to plant out, I expect - Master Alastor's got a whole load of stuff in a trough down the other end of the bowl, with a sheet of glass over the top to try and keep it moist, or warm, or something. Or both, maybe, seeing as they're from the lagoon. How're you doing?"

In the distance, in the bowl, Eoleth lands and deposits her rider. Moments later he shows up where the little crowd has gathered, stripping off his gloves as he intrudes. "L'dor," he greets, seeing the bluerider first. Next is Andoran, though whether or not he's greeting now in order of appearance is hard to say since he most certainly glanced at the gardening duo once before lifting his hand for the Harper. Now he'll smile at Lysoret, edge closer to her and her protege. "Ladies."

It takes Lysoret a moment to reply to Andoran; she's busy patting dirt more firmly around the base of one of the various shoots. "Perhaps, " she replies evasively, without looking up. Of course, there'll be something herb-flavored tonight. And if not tonight, certainly tomorrow. As she continues down the first row, small girl in tow, her brow crinkles slightly at the mention of more rows to plant. That'll mean more work in the very near future. "There now, we're almost done, " she encourages. "A few more and you should run back in. It /is/ awfully hot out here." And while her attention remains on the task at hand, her lips tug upward into a genuine smile at G'rei's voice.

Andoran finishes up that tune and swings the gitar to the side. "Ah, so the Master's trying to set up like-like conditions huh? Interesting. I finally met him the other day and he looked me over in the Infirmary, gave me a raft of pots and salves and things," he directs this towards L'dor. "Seems very keen on plants." The harper's head swivels G'rei-wards and he waves jauntily towards the greenrider. "Hey there, G'rei! How's things?" Lysoret's evasive reply earns a curious look, but he only shrugs, unfazed.

L'dor shifts in his chair. It may have a nice high back to sprawl against, but stone is hard. "Hi, G'rei." He sits up straight and rubs a hand over whatever of his back he can reach. With a dry laugh, he tells Andoran, "Seems very keen on everything. And shells, does he talk! I learned more about plants in an afternoon than I'd hoped to in an entire lifetime." Grinning up at G'rei, he explains, "I took our new master healer down South, to the lagoon we visited before, and got eaten alive by no-see-ems."

That's as far into Lysoret's for-now world he's going to go. Invasive isn't him. "Things are good," G'rei answers, instead, slanting a glance for Andoran. "And you? How're you healing up?" It's back to watching Lys again until L'dor mentions taking someone South. That sparks his interest and he turns to give his attention to the bluerider. "Yes, the South. I've been meaning on taking a trip there myself. I may have time coming up, once our current class graduates." Which isn't far off at all, really. And somehow, this makes him glance again at the gardener tending her greens.

"Take these back in with you, " Lysoret instructs almost absently, passing the small pouches of herbs to the younger girl, "and get out of the heat. Go on." As the child scampers back into the kitchens, the gardener sits back on her heels, brushing her hands off slowly without really paying attention to the dirt flaking back onto her clothing, focus lying elsewhere. Plants. The South. More plants. And then: Taking a trip. G'rei? Carefully, she peeks up at the greenrider, eyebrows lifting just a trifle. "The South sounds so dangerous, " she says softly, glance shifting briefly toward Andoran before returning to G'rei. But it's not her place to speak, here.

"Suppose that's only fair," notes Andoran to L'dor, "I talked his ear off about the South the other night over dinner. Didn't even finish getting to the glow caves bit." He nods over G'rei's way. "Just about all better, only a few aches left and it won't be long before my hair grows back," responds the harper with undiminished optimism. "You should get over there soon. Before Thread eats it up," the happy-joy-joy edge wears off in Andoran's voice.

L'dor casts a brief, appraising glance at Andoran's shorn head before telling G'rei, "Do! It's worth seeing, while it's all still there. I can give you visuals for where we stayed, or lots of other good places. Weather's not so wonderful right now, though."

And the greenrider isn't peeking, but is looking, back at her. "It is," he tells her plainly, but there's amusement to be read in his expression. That she remains silent isn't much of a surprise; G'rei still won't let it sit for long. Though he does nod when Andoran answers him, his demeanor takes a shift for the sober when the Harper mentions Thread. "Mm." That's all he can say on the matter. Thread is like an old friend, see, the kind he's known for a long while but doesn't actually like. "I'd appreciate that," he adds when L'dor makes that offer. "Weather passes." That comment's made during his careful picking his way through the plants to where Lysoret is. "Have you met Lysoret?" he asks casually, bending to give her a hand.

Lysoret's all ready to stand up and scurry back into the caverns - but no, here comes G'rei's boots and then G'rei's hand and it's terribly obvious that he won't let her do that. Oh, darn. Her shoulders hunch a little fearfully as Andoran mentions Thread and the South eventually being eaten up by it; she grimaces. Not a pleasant sort of thought. Her hands are still a bit gritty from the dirt, even though she's vainly wiping them down a pants leg before reaching up to take the greenrider's offered hand, gaze nervously flickering back to her plants. Oh dear. She doesn't want to be the focus of attention.

Andoran politely does not stare at the pair in the garden. Nosiree, he's suddenly very interested in starting up a new tune on his gitar. "How'd the lagoon trip go anyway, L'dor?"

L'dor nods to the girl, then smiles. "We met a few sevendays ago, by the lake." When Andoran speaks to him, though, he turns towards the harper. "Went all right. The healer was pretty impressed, I think - kept saying the names of all the things he was seeing, and wondering what the ones were that he didn't know. We brought a couple of full sacks back - plants all carefully wrapped up. Oh, and you know we were joking that he might try an experiment with his bug discourager? Well, he didn't - but he had some stuff he wanted to try for protecting against the sun, and he put it on one arm only to see if it worked! Did, too - he came back well fried on one side."

Too bad, Lys. Once G'rei has her hand he gives her a half-amused, half-triumphant smile. There won't be a lot of hiding for her if he's around. And, since the others have indeed met her and everything, he has no introducing to do. He does, however, have duties to attend. And before that a stomach to feed. So he gives the gardener's hand a squeeze before releasing it, gives her another smile and announces his exit. "I'm for a plate of something. I'll see you all later." And with that he's up the stairs to the cavern and disappearing inside.

"Huh, that must be ... amusing," murmurs Andoran, about the fried-on-one side as he continues to play quietly. "Enjoy dinner!" he calls out G'rei's way and then turns towards Lysoret briefly. "Well met, Lysoret, Andoran, harper, but you probably figured that part out at least," he notes with a grin.

Lysoret's relieved after her hand's released and G'rei's heading into the cavern, heading awkwardly toward the entrance herself. There's conversation with the little girl who pokes her head back out again; the younger shakes her head and gestures off-handedly toward the bowl at large and the teen nods, glancing back toward the patio. "Oh." A little abashed, she takes a few steps in that direction, enough to be able to aim a small smile at the harper. "Yes. I mean -- well, yes, people talked about you a lot. After the -- " And here she pauses again, opting instead for a quiet, "Well met."

"Well, apparently those big spiky ones are good for sunburn. Probably just as well!" L'dor's still looking amused at the healer's Southern antics, but levers himself out of his chair. "Well, can't sit here all day. I'd better get both of us cleaned up before dinner, or I'm not going to be pleasant company - been out on a sweep, and I'm cooked, and Banyth wants another dip. See you later, Andy, maybe. Clear skies to you both!" He makes his way towards the bowl, where his blue dragon is waiting.

"The face-tearing?" says Andoran bluntly, brows slightly raised, eyes twinkling a little. "It's all right, you can say it. I'm not keen to have it happen again or spend too much time dwelling on it, but there's no sense in flinching from it." He nods towards the gardener politely once more and then rises, setting his instrument aside to offer one slightly scarred hand for shaking. "The big spiky ones? Well good. That should be a help for those who need it." Andy, not being one of them. "See you later L'dor!"

Yes, that. "It still makes the South dangerous, " Lysoret says delicately, coming near enough to take the offered hand. Her shake is brief, tentative, not at all certain. "It's good to see you -- " Better? Healing? "Alive, " she settles for at last after releasing his hand. "I don't mean to be rude, harper, but I do need to go help feed the animals -- I mean, you know how animals are. They don't take well to their schedules being thrown off." Fidget, fidget. "Enjoy dinner tonight, sir."

"Parts of it are, parts of it aren't," says Andoran simply, shaking Lysoret's hand firmly but briefly. He turns to case up his instrument. "Thank you," he says politely, "and I hope the rest of your night goes smoothly." So saying, the harper moves off, walking only a little slowly still.

Meeting G'rei, Part 4

Thu, 28 Jun 2007 05:59:25 GMT

Meeting G'rei, Part 3

Thu, 28 Jun 2007 05:51:48 GMT

Who: G'rei and Lysoret
Where: Patio/Garden, Bowl, G'rei's weyr
When: 10:00pm on day 7, month 6, turn 449
What: Lysoret discovers that someone's been watching her for a while now since her arrival at Benden. Finally meeting him and finding out his identity turns into an intense encounter; through her first evening of interacting with G'rei, Lys finally gets her first taste of empowerment and the knowledge that for the first time in her life, she can make a choice about something that matters to her.

Part 3: G'rei and Lysoret share an evening that is, without a doubt, far more considerate than what she would have gone through after a marriage at Benden Hold.

(NB: I usually don't fully roleplay sex scenes, but made an exception for this particular situation as it caused a crucial part of the character's development to occur. She realizes while they're sharing this experience together that she doesn't have to settle for the sexist world that's outside of the weyr; despite the fact that she's been content in her station and brought up to be the quiet, humble woman that would make a good holder's wife, she now knows that it doesn't have to end up like that, that she can make her own decisions when it comes to things that are important to her. Through this physical and emotional act, she finally finds empowerment and discovers what it means to be able to go after what she wants and to simply be who she is without being oppressed and downtrodden and forced to conform to their society.)

Lysoret looks patiently back at him, hand curling a bit more about his as he acquiesces. "Oh." Of course, a bed would be far more comfortable, wouldn't it? Somewhat clumsily, she manages to disentangle herself gently from him, regarding the bed almost curiously as she moves over toward it. Even though the bedfurs are going to be rumpled shortly, she still smooths them down unnecessarily, purely out of habit. And maybe a bit out of nerves.

Nerves? She isn't alone. G'rei squeezes her hand to hide the shaking in his and waits with his other hand ready to steady her should she need balance when getting up from the couch. It isn't until she's actually at the bed that he looks at both hands, notes their shaking, and clenches them into quick fists. Within moments he's at the fireplace again, stoking what embers remain and adding more wood from the small pile. The sound of metal on metal scrapes noisily; before long there's a fresh fire burning away and he has it screened off. Now all that's left is, well, joining her. There aren't any small chores he can do before wandering the path she took so he goes directly, with an air of confidence he doesn't really feel. The fire is off to the side now, casting shadows on the wall they stand against. He gives her a little smile and leans to shield that glowbasket. No need for it now. Then, reaching again, he makes to still her hands, to step in behind her, to guide her into his bed.

Lysoret's still busily smoothing the bedfurs as he stokes the fire; the noisy scrape of metal-on-metal causes her to inhale sharply, and it takes a moment for her to calm herself enough to finish making the bed. By the time he makes it over to her, she's nearly finished. It looks all nice and tidy, save for the unplump pillows. See, she's capable. Her own hands begin to tremble slightly as he shields the glowbasket; his touch, however, is welcome and they gradually still. Awkward, because she's not sure if there's a proper way to approach the situation, she perches almost primly on the edge of the bed, removing her boots slowly and carefully. Lub-dub, lub-dub goes her heart - except, she's nervous, so it's more like lub-dub-lub-dub-lub-dub. And then she glances back at him, uncertain as to exactly how to proceed.

He had no boots to begin with, or any shoes for that matter, since when he'd first gone down to the garden he'd done so sans footwear. She sits, he sits, and watches her hands while they work. And then he isn't just watching but reaching again, reaching with both of his hands for the boot she's unlaced so he can pull it, carefully so as not to wrench her foot. The angle isn't right; he fixes that by leaving the bed to kneel in front of her, get his arm under him and there, he drops her boot to the floor and goes for the next one. At one point he glances up at her, shadows cast all across his face, to smile in a way he hopes is encouraging.

Suddenly she has nothing to do with her hands while he helps her to remove her boots except to watch him -- so she does just that, pressing a hand lightly to his cheek when he glances up at her and smiles. She returns it, if still nervously.

That touch will last only a heartbeat for he's turning his face down again, focused on the one remaining boot. At last it's off, pushed aside to sit neatly with its mate, but he doesn't rise, not yet. There's still something of her down here, her legs, which receive some attention from both hands. He slides them up along her calves, unmindful of the clothing she wears-- just to touch her is enough. And when he gets to her knees, that's when he'll lift from his crouch to lean over her, his tense arm supporting his weight. He gives her another little smile and whispers, "Scoot back." There's a lot more bed behind her.

Lysoret watches his progress uncertainly, eyes widening as his hands slide up her legs. It's warm - secure, even, despite the barrier of her pants; a pleasant enough sensation. Wriggling a little, she maneuvers herself back obligingly, gaze still settled on his and his smile.

Both of which remain there for her, far from abandoning. He follows her when she wriggles, except he's crawling, his hands splayed atop the topmost layer of fur. When they reach the pillows, the head of the bed, he stops. Their shadows are thrown into dancing, flickering creatures against the wall, alive and writhing. Again the firelight warms more than the weyr, lights them up in soft glow. He lays there, stretched out alongside her, looking at her. There's a next step here, it's ready for the taking. His hand moves, slowly, until it finds her face. Like before he touches her, soft and tender, there on her cheek, and moves in to claim another kiss from her.

Lysoret leans on her side once they reach the pillows, propping her head up with a hand, gaze still focused on his. Her eyes close at his touch, face willingly lifting toward his to share in another kiss. After a moment, her hand falls from behind her head, letting it rest on the pillow behind her, arms sliding up to curl her hands about his shoulders. It's a gesture that's sweet more than anything else, despite the situation.

Experienced though he may be, but G'rei is made no less nervous by his lack of lacking. This is a situation he's never been in before, even if he knows all the steps from this point on. His partners generally already knew what they were getting themselves into, or at least what to do, where everything goes. And they were all quite a bit older than she is, like /he/ is. He's never had to teach anyone anything, but he is a teacher. This isn't wing formations or drills, and she isn't one of his kids, but he has the ability. Her hands on his shoulders somehow encourage him to bring himself closer, much closer in fact, until they're touching with much more than just their hands. Like before, he takes things slow, but like before, after a few moments of kissing her for kissing's sake, he seeks to deepen.

Allowing him to deepen the kiss, she tentatively does the same, using his motions as a guide of What To Do. And then they're touching with much more than hands; arms, legs, waists meet, and a soft, pleased sound comes from somewhere in her throat. He's considerate. She's appreciative.

Considerate and still nervous, but hopefully she won't notice the shaking, even when it's happening in small tremors all through his body, in his hands, in the shoulders under /her/ hands. He's done this before, but how long since the last time is an undetermined detail. It could have been months and months. Not that it shows in the way he touches her, like such an old professional, like the patient teacher he is and has been. This time, when she makes that sound, he doesn't pull away. He doesn't resist the small urge to do what he does now and slowly shift himself, stretch his arm over her to grab at the fur for a handhold and move, nudge, to get her on her back.

Lysoret absently notes the trembling in his shoulders somewhere in the back of her mind, perhaps; in the meantime, her hands leave them to tentatively run through the longer hair near his ears, fingertips grazing the back of his neck again - inquisitively, this time, with less fumbling. Too preoccupied with the strange swooping that she's suddenly aware of below her abdomen, she rolls easily onto her back, still as pliant in his hands and arms as she can be.

Her fingertips find that spot again, they must. He shudders. That's her reward, her button, the thing she now knows. It's an instant reaction he cannot control and it pulls free a small sound of his own, another near-growl deep, deep in his throat. If it felt anything but good he'd surely let her know. Now that he can he positions himself close, one of his legs aligning itself along the line between hers but not to push or force, just to press. The arm he's using to keep most of his weight from crushing her is shaking; his hand moves to her hip and, a few moments later, he's pulling very, very gently at her shirt, to untuck it.

Lysoret instinctively stretches beneath him, a fluid movement that momentarily makes her seem lithe, perhaps even graceful. His hand plucking at her shirt goes unnoticed for a moment, but only just. One hand drops from his neck, trailing down his shoulder to that trembling arm, curling tenderly about his elbow where upper arm meets lower. Her thumb lightly brushes against the back of it; it's probably meant to be a soothing gesture, but given the present situation, it could be anything but. Her other hand remains at the back of his neck, though the rest of her stills a bit, perhaps to facilitate the untucking of said shirt.

It's right around when she moves her hand that he seperates them again at the mouth so he can tip his chin lower, aim for her jaw, then the underside of it, then the soft line of her neck. His shoulders hunch so he can reach it, leave one kiss, then two, then more. Her attempts on his arm aren't lost on him, even if they aren't very effective; he smiles against her skin. Once she's stilled for him he can indeed make quicker work of untucking her and, when he does, he slides that hand up under the material to the bare skin of her abdomen.

Lysoret's head tilts back to allow him better access to her neck, hands idly returning to playing with his hair again. But that only holds her fascination for so long; moments later, her hands are trailing downward past his shoulders, curiously questing against his strong chest. As he hunches, her arms slide around to perform the same exploration of his back; that's far more comfortable to reach for in their present position. Her hands halt momentarily at that first contact of his warm hand on her bare skin; she inhales sharply, releasing her breath in a sigh.

He shows his appreciation for her tilting by taking advantage of what she's bared, kiss after warm kiss. The muscle beneath her exploring hands is solid, made tense by his using it, and his skin is warm even through the thin fabric of his shirt. Meanwhile, his hand sort of pauses at what it's found, long fingers spreading out across, against her skin. Just then, he's as searching as she is, not looking for anything but wanting to feel /everything/. His touch ascends.

It's not fair that he gets to do all of the exploration. Really. Even though she's being rendered breathless by his searching touch, her own hands manage to find the hem of his tunic; hesitantly, they slide beneath it, adding to the equation of skin-on-skin.

There's only the one layer. He's warm, almost hot to the touch. Her questing hands will find on his back a scar that's big enough to feel, though the span of it without any light to see by is up for estimation. There's a decent amount of hair on his chest, should she come around that way, and a line of it down his stomach to the drawstring of his baggy pants. As a result of her pioneering he makes another of those noises and abandons his attentions on her neck to return his mouth to hers. In the middle of one kiss and another he murmurs against her lips his name for her. "Lyssie."

Heat, heat and more heat. Heat pools somewhere below her midriff; heat is what she finds beneath her hands; heat is the trail that his hands leave on her small, wiry body. And as his mouth descends back onto hers, she makes another soft sound, only this one is more audible as it escapes between one kiss and the next. The almost physical caress of his name for her elicits a shudder and a sigh of, "G'rei."

This is more than possession, more than a forced marriage could ever hope to achieve. This is two people very fully enjoying one another through touch, responding only to what they feel, be it that heat or the swelling strangeness deep in their being. His name on that sigh would be enough to push him to go faster, to take by leaps and bounds what he's trying so hard to share with her. He resists, but also pulls away from her again to search her eyes, like he did before. What it's a search /for/ he might not even know, but there's a definite unspoken question to it. Then he's kissing her chin and where before there was only one hand under her shirt now there's two.

It's indeed much more than she would have had. So much more, in fact, that it's properly overwhelming in the best way possible; this is what such first times ought to be like. So she's fortunate. And when he pulls away to look down at her again, she opens her eyes enough to look back at him; perhaps he finds what he's seeking there. But then he's ably distracting her from thinking any further, breath coming more quickly as the sensation of his touch intensifies with the addition of that second hand.

Which is, of course, his intention. Her first time, her time. This was what he promised her, only maybe not out loud. A patient, understanding tutor, a lover, a friend. It isn't to pay her back, it's to be with her, because suddenly, impossibly, that is so, so important to him. Maybe later the sheer intensity of their meeting will catch up to him. For now, though, he has other things on which to focus himself. Like inching the hem of her shirt up and up and up while keeping eye contact with her. How she reacts to this is also very important.

She still hardly knows him, but there's so much more to this first, singular meeting than that of a girl - a young woman - being 'initiated' into adulthood. As being with her has become suddenly important to him, so has he suddenly become quite dear to her; enchanting, endearing and kind, considerate. Charming, sweet. Perhaps half-thoughts along those lines make it through her hazy mind as he inches her shirt higher; at any rate, this fuller exposure of her skin causes momentary uncertainty. It dies away, after a moment, as she stills herself and attempts to calm her breathing. She trusts him. And mortification, however short-lived, won't win in the end. So she makes no move to stop him.

Momentary uncertainty to her means red lights for him. If he read any of it at all on her he stopped, dead, right there. He might be the one making all the advances, but she's been in control from the first minute. The majority of the light from the fire is being cast straight ahead of it, and that means they're only getting whatever glow the side of the hearth is giving off. It's in that light she's cast, every inch of exposed skin. Before he continues any further he bends close, slips his arm down between her shoulders and the bed and lifts her, just high and long enough to finish, to pull the shirt over her head, free of her arms. They'll have to figure out where that particular article ended up in the morning; he dropped it behind him, oblivious, so he could pull a corner of the top fur down, lay her on the layer directly underneath it, and pull again so they're both covered.

Lysoret clings unnecessarily to him as he removes her shirt, flushed with something akin to embarrassment as he lays her beneath the top fur. Being small and wiry does not afford her well-sized endowments when it comes to her chest; being a virgin does not afford her a high level of comfort with being half-naked in front of a man. Despite all of this, she plucks at the hem of his tunic, a tacit reminder that he now has the advantage of her.

She won't have long to suffer being seen by him so openly. As quickly as he made that bold move he's swooping down on her again to kiss her. He doesn't quite make it there before her plucking; pausing, he glances quickly down at himself, what of him he can see now that he's covered, which is enough to know what she must be implying. His wry smile is meant to tease her, also to ease her discomfort, maybe. If he smiles, he's still him, right? /His/ shirt is a much easier task, it's off as soon as he can get his hands to the bottom of it, tossed aside with much less care than he handled hers. Now the lines and cords of muscle are more easily seen, though he's far from bulky, and he takes her hand in his to put it to his chest, over his heart. The steady, strong rhythm might distract her from his ducking low to her ear to whisper, "Beautiful Lyssie."

She's still abashed, but undeniably interested in what lies beneath that tunic of his, giving him another shy smile as he lifts her hand to his chest, his heart. The steady rhythm is reassuring, calming, but it doesn't stop her face from going pleasantly red at his whisper. "You're not so bad looking, yourself, " she manages thickly, dark eyes traveling quite openly from shoulders to abdomen and back again. Her discomfort's slowly, slowly easing.

Slowly easing is better than not easing at all. His response to her returned compliment? A slow, warm smile, appreciative if a little sly. Clearly receiving feedback of his own wasn't his intention. He turns his face into her neck, leaving a nuzzle there, and pulls back just enough to meet her eyes again, to focus on her face and perhaps put less strain on her modesty. But his hand roams, to her nude shoulder and down; he slides his rough palm down along her arm, dragging gently against her skin, and very carefully allows just a little pressure from his torso down onto hers. It's skin against skin, a first in their meeting of firsts.

Lysoret likes that warm smile, mirroring it with a gentle one of her own. It helps that he's more focused on her face than her torso, although she's still quite bashful about the entire thing. That roaming hand, though, catches at her consciousness; she releases a breath she wasn't aware that she was holding, extending it into a silent sigh at that first contact, chest-to-chest. Instinctively, the hand that isn't being clutched to his chest slides around to his back, holding him close. Somehow, she senses that it's the Thing To Do.

Her sense for these things is a pretty good one, then, for there's a new something in the way G'rei looks at her. It's something like approval, only much more personal and warmer too. She can keep her hand there, pressed to his heartbeat, if she wants, but he's letting it go so he can explore her further. His breath is hot on her skin where his mouth is so close to her cheek, in fact the heat is rising in other places too. It's swelling everywhere, between them, around them, the fire's warmth and their body heat again joining forces. Since she was so shy about her shirt coming off, he's less strong about her bottoms, but his hand has drifted to her hip, his thumb slid under a portion of the waistband.

And she does keep her hand there, for a little while at least. That heartbeat is steadfast, vital, necessary. Gradually, the tension drains from her in larger increments, shoulders relaxing, body suddenly more pliant beneath him. As his hand settles on her hip, she shifts slightly in the opposite direction, enough to allow the corner of said waistband to naturally tug slightly downward, anchored by his thumb.

Oh, she's learning fast. When she moves, or more importantly when she moves /how/ she moves, he gives her another Look, this one more 'oh, really?' than anything else. Maybe impressed, maybe a little proud, but definitely pleased. All of this heat has to be getting to him. It doesn't take a lot of work to get her slacks undone; then he's pushing, careful not to scrape her skin as he goes. Once they're too far down for him to continue as is he straightens up like so, hunched over her again so he can pull them the rest of the way, off her feet, and then let them drop. A rush of less warm air floods the space left exposed but only for an instant, he's covering her with parts blanket, parts himself in the next.

Lysoret's aware on some primal level that she did something /right/; even if she weren't, his look is enough to confirm /that/. And then she blinks a few times; she's fully exposed, laid bare -- except then there's a fur, and then there's /him/. The hand resting atop his heart finally moves to join its partner on his back; her touch settles there with a little more surety as she presses herself to him. This, also, she knows, is right.

And really, he leaves little time for himself to enjoy the sight of her, again keeping his eyes above her wait, above her neck even. If he can, he'll keep eye contact with her for as long as possible. That they're touching, that they're together, that she's here-- it amounts to so much, makes this so much more than it would be under other circumstances. Something this bold, this profound, this /sudden/ hasn't ever happened to him before, not with another human. He won't endeavor to make her uncomfortable by looking, but touching is another matter entirely. The length of her leg is suddenly very interesting to him, his fingertips wandering down as far as they can reach without his having to move. /His/ leg, still clothed, rests again between both of hers; perhaps to his great mortification, a collection of heat, concentrated in one particular, solid spot, is becoming more and more obvious against her hip.

Touching is definitely another matter entirely. While he's focusing on her leg, her hands wander down his back, gently exploring each plane of it, lingering over a muscle here or there as her touch drifts lower. Naturally, her fingertips have to brush the waistline of /his/ pants at some point; she pauses when they do, not quite bold enough to go there yet. So they carefully quest back upward, curving about his waist. All of this warmth prompts her to follow another instinct; her legs press together against his.

Again, instinct doesn't fail her. His hand is on its way back up her thigh to her hip again when she makes that move; he'd been smiling a little wry smile for her hands retreating to his waist, too, that disappears as soon as he feels the pressure she's applying. His breath doesn't hitch or quicken, it stops completely for a second that lingers and he meets her dark gaze. Now isn't the best time to speak. "I--" His voice is a little rough. "I have to--" He glances down, purposefully, at the one article of clothing remaining between the two of them.

His voice strikes some sort of chord within her; she leans up toward him, seeking his lips with hers. In the meantime, her hands leave his waist as he glances down at that last article of clothing, finding a more comfortable spot on his back again. Hopefully she doesn't impede his progress. Much.

Impede? Well, she is a tad distracting, but he can manage. Is he complaining? Oh no, not with her mouth right there and the warmth of her... /everywhere/. It was the right thing to do - she's full of good ideas tonight. Shut him up so he doesn't ruin the moment. And since she's moved her hands so kindly he can move his to the area they vacated. Again, he makes much quicker work of undressing himself than he did undressing her; within seconds he's kicking one of his legs to shake it free of fabric and then he's stretching out again. Now there's nothing between them, not even air.

Now she's very, very aware of him. There's just skin and heat and contact - and that swooping sensation somewhere below her abdomen again. Much like he's been doing, she carefully focuses on not totally looking at him, settling her gaze somewhere between his face and chest. Like near his neck, which is where her hands head next, sliding up to rest at the nape.

There is a pause, here, when her hands move, when he's looking at her. So far he's been able to coast along on that confidence from before, the feigned stuff he doesn't actually feel all that much. At this point it's sort of run out. Afterall, this is it. They're here, no more steps. Before he does anything else he tilts his head, smiles down at her and his eyes crinkle a little at the outside corners. Warm. He kisses her again, deep and gentle, like she's the most important thing right now. And she is. But his hand is moving too, the one that found her hip a moment ago, down to her knee, the inside of her thigh; with tentative insistence he begins nudging her one leg away from the other so he can put himself in between them.

His smile, his expression, his kiss -- they only serve to heighten her emotion; she's valued, appreciated, not being regarded as a possession to be taken for granted. It's a liberating feeling. It's startling and deep, very deep in its intensity. Perhaps some of this is conveyed in the way that she responds to his kiss, equally gentle, close and warm. Fortunately, her eyes are shut, so he won't see the brightness pooling in them until they manifest as tears and spill over. But that'll be a few moments yet. She's more distracted by his nudging. Aware that they've just about reached that point of no return, she gives in gradually, slowly allowing each leg to leave its partner.

Though he's split in two right now, with his hand and her kiss taking up parts of his concentration, he gives equal attention to his tasks. They aren't tasks, they're privileges, things to be fully absorbed in. He is. And though he misses the brightness in her eyes, he seems to know, somewhere, that something's changed. Somewhere, deep, something's changed. So he slows their kiss, somehow manages to make it /mean/ more, puts more of himself into it; his hand doesn't leave her knee, choosing instead to fold around it, mold to the delicate solidity of the bone there and he rubs his thumb in a slow circle atop it while sliding his fingers underneath. His other hand, meanwhile, cups her cheek, a tender gesture. Gentle is suddenly very important.

The brightness behind her eyelids finally manifests into tears; the sudden influx of meaning behind every, tender gesture causes them to leak from the corners of her eyes. In this moment, part of her mind is astonished to find that he suddenly means everything to her - her world has condensed to include nothing and no one else but him. Gentle means everything, brings forth a shudder. It's not one of pleasure, but one of emotion.

Later, when she's asleep, he'll think back on all of this, on what it means. Or, more probably, what it could mean. What it means right now is too much to wrap his head around, even if he wasn't so intently focused on her. It's that focus, that acute and sharp awareness of her, that clues him in. The tiny bit of moisture that slides down her cheek to hit his finger would have gone unnoticed without that awareness. He notices. His lips come apart from hers so he can look down at her, the knit of his eyebrows and the narrow of his eyes manifestations of his concern. She shouldn't be crying, crying isn't good. Using an elbow to prop himself up, he wipes at another of those tears with his thumb, ducks his head to kiss another away, and dotes on her.

She blinks, once, twice as his lips leave hers, opening her eyes enough for the rest of the moisture to seep onto her face. It must be noted that she's smiling, though; no sobs or crestfallen expressions here. She's okay, really. Just very overwhelmed. His concern is quite touching, and she lifts a hand from his neck to place it against his cheek, reassuring, moving her head slightly so that she can capture his lips again. Words will have to come later.

Beneath her hand, under that soft touch, the muscle in his jaw clenches, twitching and bunching once, briefly. But he doesn't fight her, turns his head too that little bit to meet her mouth, give her what she so silently asked for. There is other muscle, mostly in his legs, where his thighs meet his backside, that's tightened since kissing her, straining to keep steady. But even he, with all his patience, can't keep this up for too long. Sometime during their kiss he shifts, adjusts himself, slides a hand down her thigh to fold it in close to his hip. That same hand disappears between them, finds the place where the warmth is the most concentrated. She isn't ready; he apologizes to her in his own head. He has her thigh again. A tilt of his hips and he pushes.

It's a good thing that she has the kiss to distract her from his movements near her thighs. She's startled when his hand comes between them; her breath hitches at that initial push. It's not in pleasure, but pain. It doesn't help that she automatically tenses again, either. This time when moisture leaks from her eyes, she's definitely trembling. Major ow.

There was no avoiding that particular pain, but G'rei is cursing himself for his lack of care. He could have spent more time on her. Those thoughts will only serve to distract him though; he banishes them and reaches a little beyond her for a handful of the furs beneath them, for extra leverage. Even though this is difficult, even though he has to concentrate very hard, he hasn't abandoned her. His other hand is still at her cheek, steady and warm, and he's brushing the new tears away with his thumb. Interrupting their kiss again so he can drop his mouth to her ear, he exhales sharply and pushes the rest of the way. A hot kiss finds her cheek, the corner of her mouth again; he pulls out. What follows is a slow, careful beginning of a very deliberate rhythm.

Lysoret's trembling beneath him slows slightly as he brushes away her tears. His warm hand is reassuring, so it helps her to calm herself a bit. She doesn't expect him to interrupt the kiss; she definitely isn't expecting his sudden movement. Naturally, this one produces more pain than the first, and she gives a sharp gasp that turns into a small cry. Not pleasant at all. She's dimly aware of his kiss on her cheek as she blinks through a haze of hot tears. And as he begins to move again, more deliberately, small whimpers of pain still escape her. But even that, too, eventually eases after a few, long moments. Still, she clings tightly to him, caught between being afraid and anticipatory. Slowly, very slowly, the pain dims to a dull soreness, and then gives way to something that doesn't exactly feel all that bad.

She isn't the only one not exactly enjoying this. He's looking pretty pained too, his face tight and his eyes squeezed closed. He never expected this part to be fun. /His/ discomfort is due in part to her own - when she cries out he cringes even more, kisses her quickly - and in part to just the raw of it. After the first few agonizing seconds, after he's moved within her a fair few times, the pain starts to ease up on him too. It goes from just not being painful anymore to being something else entirely, something he's more used to and, with his mouth close to her ear again he makes a noise. A low, rough noise. The hand at her cheek moves, slips fingers into her hair. Already there's a faint shine of sweat on his forehead, his arms, that reflects the firelight. He's slow still, careful.

Her grip on his shoulders is still pretty tight. And his kiss goes unnoticed through those first moments of agony. Pain gives way to something more akin to pleasure; although this is nothing new to him, it's foreign and novel to /her/. Each slow motion elicits another strange flare of sensation, and the rough sound he produces near her ear causes fresh waves of heat to roil through her. Head curving into his touch, her hands relax, loosening the grip they have on his shoulders. Now aware of a way to get him to make that rough sound, she uses it to her advantage, hands sliding back up to his neck. No longer is this a fumbling exploration; it's a slow, deliberate caress, almost mimicking his movements within her.

There's no denying he's done this before. The act, that is, the basic function. Has he had /this/ experience before, or anything like it? Doubtful. She's about as new as she could possibly ever get, and it's because of that that he's taking such measures with her. Of course, that it's her first time is also an important factor, one he's taking into consideration with every move he makes. Up until her hands move to That Spot again he can't seem to be still or stop touching her-- he's adjusting his grip on the fur, kissing her neck, tucking his forehead in against her shoulder and curling his fingers in her hair. In fact it's that last combination he's doing, and pauses in doing, when he feels her fingers /there/. She gets what she came for, another low noise, a syllable of pleasure.

Lysoret curves her neck away from him, baring more of it to his kisses. What pain there was in the beginning is fast becoming a distant, hazy memory; there's an urge, a need for more sensation, more heat, more contact. A more experienced person would know immediately where to move and what to do; she has nothing but the novel feelings pooling in her gut to go by. But they're usually pretty good guides; they proved their worth earlier. Leaning up into him, she eventually hooks one leg more securely about him, and then the other, fingertips still intent on his neck. His utterance elicits a low, pleased sound from her own throat, and she presses upward again, suddenly desperate for more contact even though it's difficult for them to get any closer than they already are.

Pretty good guides indeed. Her initial movement, the leaning up, has him slowing even more as he's unsure as to what she's doing. Is it a preparation? For shoving him off? His arms stiffen, lift his upper half from her like he's ready for just that and his eyes search her face for signs of displeasure. No, there's her leg. And there's her other leg. And that sound she makes, oh that sound. These are not 'get away from me' things. These things are just the opposite. The second time she's up he curls one of those arms, slick, around her shoulders, kisses her deeply, lays her back down and presses into her from above. The hand at her back moves lower, lower, to her tailbone; with his fingers splayed beneath her he lifts her hips from the bed, angling them for her so she can better receive him when he begins moving again, and he does. He drops his mouth to her ear again. "Feel me." It's rough, like the noises, and whispered hot against her skin.

He slows; she momentarily stills. What did she do wrong? And then he's partially lifting himself off of her and her mind, already fuzzy, is confused. But then he gets it and she gladly responds to his kiss, returning it with equal fervor. This new maneuver, she quickly concludes, is a Good Thing as he resumes movement and another pleased sound escapes her - only, this one's deeper than the last. His words, such simple, rough, impassioned words cause her to arch up to meet him, one arm falling from his neck to curve over his back, fingers alternately splaying and contracting against his heated, moist skin. Unable to provide a coherent, verbal response, she supplies him with an appreciative moan instead, increasing her caresses at his neck to flow down to his shoulders and back up again.

Sounds alone at this point, wordless and emotional, are best. She's heard him, she arches. That's all he needed. /This/ is all he needs. Her fingers won't find much purchase on his skin at this point, the heat is still rising and his body's reacting to it. He has a grip on the furs again, but just because both hands are preoccupied doesn't mean he's left her. He still has his mouth for kissing her and he does, deeply. Experience is on his side when it comes to outlasting her; his patience is back in spades too, and he's encouraging what the initiative she's taken with her limbs so far. Even so, he's grunting with every push, growling and sighing could-be words every once and a while, usually after he's hidden his face against her shoulder, like now.

Inexperience works in her favor and against her, simultaneously. Impatience doesn't help, either; an inarticulate sound escapes into one of their kisses, and she leans up to meet him more quickly, more fervently, legs pressing more tightly to him. With more experience, she'd have sought to draw out the entire experience much longer. As it is, she's only aware of him encompassing her completely and a rising tide of heat and pleasure swelling within her. Its call cannot be ignored; thus, she attempts to convey such an urgent, growing need to him through motion and touch, fingers returning to press more insistently to his neck at That Spot.

That Spot gets his attention and her another rough groan. When it occurs to him that she's done that on purpose and he realizes what she's been doing with her legs and what it all means he focuses more completely on where they're joined and slides that arm out from under her so he can hitch himself up on his elbow and use this new position to sneak his hand between them and find her, touch her. Her wish is his command. The pace quickens and he kisses her again, his shoulders hunching up above her. It's a brief kiss because he needs his mouth to make words. "My Lyssie." It's a softspoken encouragement, her name echoed over and over in her ear.

If she was overwhelmed with sensations a few moments ago, it pales in comparison to this far more acute, intense, immediate contact. Another pleased sound makes its way into their kiss as he quickens his movements, and while several fingers still knead insistently at That Spot, her other hand busies itself with stroking along the rest of his neck, following the natural curve of muscle down to his chest. And then he's touching her and murmuring her name repeatedly and she arches into him again, breath quickening. "G'rei, " she manages to gasp out desperately, pleading for - something. She's not sure what it is, precisely.

But he knows, he understands. And he's gotten her this far, put her through all that pain, he wouldn't dare leave her now. All of the attention he should have spent, would have spent on her before he spends on her now. His hand between them is gentle, persistent, unwavering. He knows what sort of pressure to apply and where, he knows the tricks. Once he wasn't so knowledgeable-- he isn't the only one who gets something from his experience. "Here." She said his name. He's here, here and carefully ignoring urges of his own for her.

Lysoret reels, vaguely aware that she's on the edge of that swelling tide within. "G'rei, " she gasps again, more urgently. His persistence pays off; a third attempt to plead with him turns into a keening cry of pleasure; her head, thrown back as each intense wave floods her senses repeatedly; muscles, previously unknown of, clench and convulse and she holds him fast to her throughout this pinnacle of heat and passion, left utterly breathless.

Silent this time when she gasps his name, G'rei concentrates wholly on giving her this one thing, this one thing after so long. She's so close and he can /feel/ it. There, when her voice breaks, when she arches her neck. That's the first of many of those same clenchings that's going to be the end of him. It's a good thing she's holding him so close, he's a little lost suddenly when he lets himself go, lets her pull him over. In the next few seconds his hand reappears, clenches tighter than before the bedfur; he presses his face to her neck, squeezes his eyes shut and every muscle in his body tenses as he allows himself his own release. It's almost painful, he waited too long, and it leaves him panting and practically dripping sweat from his temples, it's coating his hair and he's sagging some on one arm atop her in the end.

He's not the only one panting for breath. Her hold on him tightens as he thoroughly tenses; somewhere in the back of her mind, there's an odd sense of thrill. She's very aware on some level that she's the reason, the cause. Now that the slew of sensation has started to ebb into an overall feeling of warmth, she's replete, spent and more relaxed than she's probably ever been. As he sags atop her, she presses him closer with what strength remains in her arms; it ends up being more of a soft nudge, really. She wants to hold him close, wants him to hold her close; this is an embrace she doesn't want to end. Ever. Emotion swells within her again, almost painful in its intensity. She shifts the tiniest bit, enough to be able to press her heart to his. She's unable to speak.

It works. He relaxes that arm enough to bend it so he can lower himself, press into her like she wants. They're still joined in every way, closely connected like only two people can be after such an experience. Where she ends and he begins, there is no definite line. His forehead touches to her shoulder while he shifts that arm to curl it under her, beneath her, then he's moving again, lifting his chin up to brush his mouth against her jaw. Again he's hitching himself up on his elbow, using a shaking hand to push hair from her brow; he looks at her, inches away from her face, with eyes warmed from the inside by all those things that, yes, she caused. There's an apology in there somewhere too, in the look he gives her. He was rough, he didn't mean to be.

She trembles as they remain together, as close as two people can get physically. A shaky sigh leaves her as he brushes a few curls away from her brow to tumble haphazardly over his pillow with the rest; she returns his gaze, eyes quickly growing wet for the third time tonight. She doesn't make an effort to hide the tears, this time, unable to find words yet to convey how she feels. Instead, she slides one hand from his back to cradle his cheek; there's something in that gesture, in her look that's about as intense as the experience they just shared.

Again he's tending to her, putting her first. Though that there's hair on /his/ forehead, stuck there with sweat, seems a trivial matter. He's a man in the comfort of his own bed, with a woman that he trusts, still floating in post-coital fuzziness. What does appearance matter? Besides, how could he possibly be aware of anything else in the world when she's looking at him like that, with those wet, warm eyes? His seem to grow darker and she isn't the only one trembling, though physical exertion has a lot to do with why he shakes so. He comes closer, touches their foreheads together, lets his eyes close and breathes.

She's certainly still aware of nothing but him; in this moment, they're one. As he presses his forehead to hers, she moves her hand from his cheek to his hair, quietly nudging it gently out of the way of their skin. It's a soft, tender gesture. And as he breathes, so does she, inhaling and exhaling with him. Hers are more irregular, though; every so often, it hitches with her shuddering and she presses her eyes shut, forcing the moisture away from her vision, down her cheeks. She wants to be able to see him, not see him as he appears through a hazy film of tears.

His are only interrupted occasionally, usually when he swallows or shivers. The air is suddenly cool on the sweat on his back. He's still slowly regaining coordination of bits and pieces of his body that worked just fine before but now, after that, are a little confused. His hand, for instance, still shaking, wanders to her cheek, to touch his fingertips to her tear-moistened skin. It's a painfully sweet gesture, a little clumsy but wellmeaning. His heart thuds, heavy and rapid, against her, quickening with each inward breath. At last he finds his voice-- it's a deep whisper that's just as shaky as he is. "You're crying." It's the first time he's been able to point it out, and it isn't in ignorance that he does so now.

She blinks rapidly, clearing her eyes enough to be able to see his head against her. Where his heart thuds, hers races along with it. She has to swallow a few times before she's able to form a reply, voice quivering. "G'rei." His name is choked out in a half-sob, half-whisper. How can she describe to him how much all of this means to her? How, in this moment with him, she's transcended the boundaries of their society, if only temporarily, to become more, so much more than what she had been, how she can now see, see clearly, where before she was blind? Yes, she's crying. She won't deny that. "It means -- so much, " she manages after a lengthy pause, still shaky. Him, her, them, the realization that she doesn't just have to be a dutiful wife who produces baby after baby, that she doesn't have to be the girl whose marriage ends up arranged, forced, unpleasant. For the first time, she finds empowerment.

During that pause he flattens his palm to her cheek, brushes her temple with his thumb. She's said his name in so many different voices before this one, but somehow the way she says it now is the most new. To him it sounds like praise, something he isn't sure should be. This wasn't meant to be a gift from a worldly, mature man to a simple, inexperienced girl: it was something to share, to show her. But then she goes on with those next few words and all those worries are banished. It does mean so much. "I wanted to show you." That he's with her, that she's with him, that they're together in what could quickly become their bed, warm and safe; that he isn't judging her, that he trusts her with so much more than his physical self. Then, like before but more vehemently this time, he says it again. "I wanted to show you."

Safety, freedom, trust; things that seem so far removed from the current state of things outside of their warm little world. But they're here. He's here. She's here, with him, part of him -- part of all of these Good Things. "You have." It's soft, wondering. And then, more intensely: "You have. More than -- more than you know." Her arms tighten about him; if only she could share her thoughts, her feelings with him so that he'd understand the magnitude of her epiphanies, her revelations.

The way he feels those things he can understand, the ones that he must have some idea about, isn't as profound. But then, she's saved him in different ways. Likely she knows she has, she knew when she first said the word 'lonely', but how very much it means that this girl so far from what she knew gave so much up for him so quickly, so he wouldn't have to be lonely any more, so maybe he would have a friend, someone to come back to-- it's as intense a feeling as his letting her into this new world, the one he's so accustomed to and gifted with, must be for her. It is freedom, it is /good/. "Stay." Such a simple word, so filled with /please/. It's in his eyes, too, but they close with the drooping of his eyelids. "Stay with me."

If she didn't know before, she's starting to understand that their evening means so much more to him, too, than a girl giving herself to a man, becoming a woman and the aforementioned man having company. Perhaps he really does understand the powerful emotion surging through her, if in a vaguely different way. His words, his eyes, his manner all say so. But she must be allowed a moment of insecurity. "I'll stay as long as you want me to, " she replies quietly, keeping 'for how long' unasked, unspoken. In the span of several hours, he's become incredibly dear to her and yet, she still hardly knows G'rei-the-rider or G'rei-the-person, even though she's become very, very familiar with G'rei-the-man. Among her epiphanies for the evening; she simply loves him, without falling being involved. It just /was/. And even if she's new to the certainty of this feeling, she's at least well on her way to it. She's already, unknowingly, handed him her heart.

She's as strange and familiar to him, this person with whom he's had so much already, but still he knows her, in the way two people who can understand one another can know one another. His Lyssie she is, and that's all that matters, tonight at least. Maybe tomorrow he'll worry for her, worry for himself, seriously question his own right mind or lack thereof. Maybe. For now, though, the late hour and the way he's spent himself are catching up to him and feeling so much has stripped him bare. Weary, he shivers again and droops atop her, his arm almost giving out on him. "Mm." Wordlessly he moves, shifting his hips back, and allowing the air from outside their little cocoon to swoop in between them. "I have a bath," he tells her, helpfully. "Just there." Ah, that curtain on the wall.

She exhales as he shifts; whatever disappointment she feels at the loss fades at his helpful suggestion. Despite her reluctance to relinquish their combined warmth, she's gradually becoming aware that they're both sweaty -- and a bath sounds good. Very good, in fact. "Oh." She blinks once, twice. "It must be nice, having a private bath." And she smiles up at him, stretching a little before slowly sitting up. Now, the next question: Will he bathe with her?

There's definitely sweat, along with whatever other-- things. "Mmhm." The purr of his voice is somewhat amused. Again, things he may have started taking for granted over the years are being brought into a new, fresh light. While she's stretching and sitting up and wondering silently that very question, he's swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and reaching for a towel discarded on the floor. He stands, wraps himself around the waist and bends to grab up his shirt. It'll be long enough to reach her knees; he puts one of his own on the bed and leans to hand it to her. He smiles too, steady now that those first few moments are over.

Lysoret stretches more fully once he gets up and starts fishing for clothing, taking the proffered shirt gratefully. "How large is your bath?" she asks, then, managing to keep her tone vaguely half-casual. Folding the shirt neatly upon her arm, she's probably intending to save it for wearing post-bath when she's considerably cleaner. In the meantime, she scoots off of the bed and edges toward the curtain.

Meeting G'rei, Part 2

Thu, 28 Jun 2007 05:37:26 GMT

Who: G'rei and Lysoret
Where: Patio/Garden, Bowl, G'rei's weyr
When: 10:00pm on day 7, month 6, turn 449
What: Lysoret discovers that someone's been watching her for a while now since her arrival at Benden. Finally meeting him and finding out his identity turns into an intense encounter; through her first evening of interacting with G'rei, Lys finally gets her first taste of empowerment and the knowledge that for the first time in her life, she can make a choice about something that matters to her.

Part 2: Lysoret and G'rei's conversation turn toward their respective lives; they contemplate on the differences between them, how he's aware of the world and she isn't; Lys gets nervous being in a dragonrider's weyr, especially as she comes to the conclusion that he's rather nice, kind and attractive; G'rei bestows upon the holdbred girl her first kiss and admits that life as a dragonrider can get lonely. Impulsively deciding to attach herself to him, if only for the evening, Lysoret permits him to take her to his bed that night in the hopes of becoming somewhat less ignorant of the ways of the world.

G'rei's Weyr(#212RIJh) Early Summer. Partly Cloudy. 63F / 17C.
-- Players --
G'rei..........Average height, trim build with long limbs; he wears his hair close to his head and rumpled; his eyes are mostly greyish olive.
Lysoret........Tall and wiry young woman in her late teens, dark-haired and dark-eyed.

"I wish I could take the credit." Giving her another grin, G'rei hitches himself up with both hands and swings his leg around in front so as not to kick her. His dismount is quick and easy, aided much by Eoleth's resumed crouch. The green moves no more though when Lysoret is up there by herself, not wanting to topple her. Her rider stands on the dragon's ledge and lifts his hands to the garden girl, fingers twitching once. "I'll catch you."

Lysoret stills atop Eoleth as G'rei dismounts, suddenly having no one to cling to. However, as the green isn't moving, it's not an immediate need. Still, she eyes the distance between the dragon and the ledge hesitantly, gaze falling to the rider's outstretched hands. As she has no other choice, she takes a deep breath and propels herself lightly off of Eoleth's back, reaching trustingly toward G'rei's arms as she takes the short fall.

Surely she can't be much different than a sack of firestone. Of course, when she lands, G'rei makes a small 'oof', taking the full impact of her momentum without budging an inch. Well, not initially. It's once he has her safely on the ground that he nearly loses his balance, swaying back a step, then automatically correcting himself. He reaches for her shoulders like he might set her to rights, smiles at her and leads the way into his weyr. It's small, large enough for the full bed, the chest at its foot, the couch in front of the little fireplace and then, taking up most of the space, the large bookcase stacked with books and haphazard scrolls, rolled up. A curtain off on one wall implies a separate room. "Here we are."

Lysoret isn't very different from a sack of firestone at all, but sacks of firestone don't cling to the person they're tossed at. She does, hands attempting to steady him as he seems to lose his balance and falling away once it's clear he has it all in hand. Shyly, she follows him into the weyr, gaze moving quickly from one piece of furniture to the last, settling on the bookcase. "It's quaint, " she notes quietly after a moment. "And homey. Quaint and homey."

"It's small and untidy." It is. There are clothes on the floor and books scattered over the messy bed. These details become more clear the further in they go. G'rei at least makes an effort for her, bending to fetch those clothes and toss them into a corner. "I don't get many visitors up here, my apologies." Really. He's sincerely awkward in this moment.

Lysoret automatically leans over the bed to help, carefully picking up the books and stacking them neatly in her arms. "Oh, no, it's fine, " she reassures hastily. "I understand." Tentatively, she offers him the small stack of books, smoothing down a corner of the rumpled bedfurs before she really realizes what she's doing. Quickly, she pulls her hand away, gaze roving about in search of something different to focus on. "You have your own fireplace." Awe.

"I, ah." Oh. It's when he turns around that he sees her and the books. Promptly giving her a little smile, G'rei accepts them from her and pauses to watch her straighten his bed with his mouth pushed out. That's curious. He moves then to the bookcase and deposits the stack somewhere in one of the emptier shelves. "What?" Fireplace? "Oh, yes. Most of the higher weyrs do. The elevation makes things a little chillier in the evenings. Like now. Before doing anything else he walks past her to the aforementioned hearth and crouches in front of it. "Make yourself comfortable, if you like. There may be things on the couch," there are, "but you can just shove them off."

"Must be nice to have one, " Lys murmurs, somewhat enviously. "When it gets cold in the dormitories -- " Here, she breaks off, moving toward the couch and awkwardly shifting whatever's occupying the space aside before taking a seat upon it. "Thanks."

"Does it?" Within moments G'rei has a fire started. It must have taken flint, or else those scraping noises go completely unexplained. After he drags the screen across the flames he turns to her and, backlit by fire, follows up with, "Get cold?"

Lysoret shivers a little, though whether it's due to the heat that's beginning to infiltrate the room or something else entirely isn't quite clear. "Sometimes. Not often, though. They do keep the caverns well-heated. Much better than how it is at home. We just pulled our blankets a little tighter and hoped the wind would pass."

A thoughtful, maybe concerned furrow has formed between G'rei's eyebrows. In the new lighting his eyes have taken on a darker tone, lost all of the murky blueish green they normally possess. "Well." His bare feet scuff the floor until they hit the carpet in front of the couch and he pads closer to sit next to her and recline back against the arm furthest from her side. He can watch her this way. "Tell me about where you grew up. Your family." It's a gentle request and he does watch her, just as open as before.

Lysoret doesn't notice the shift in his eyes, focused instead on her hands clasped awkwardly in her lap. "I -- " She hesitates. "I don't really talk about my family much, " she admits softly. "I grew up just outside of Benden Hold. My father's a stablehand there. He used to take me and my brother up to the Hold proper to show us what he did -- I mean, I tagged along while he taught my brother how to care for the runners and the livestock." She shifts a little. "My mother was training my older sister to be the ideal wife, at the time. She eventually was married, and I became next in line to become a proper holder's wife." For a moment, she looks wistful, almost sad. "There were no more excursions. No more days of going up to the Hold with my father and seeing the runners there. I was allowed to garden at home and carry out the regular hold chores. That was about it. Then my brother was Searched, and I followed him here to watch him Impress." There, she ends her tale with a small shrug.

"Of course. That doesn't make your story any less /unfortunate/." G'rei seems to realize what she's looking at, where his hand is, and everything seems suddenly too obvious, too flourescent. He pulls away from her, uses that hand to further rumple his hair, and sighs.

Lysoret just sort of awkwardly sits there, hands twisting uncomfortably in her lap again. Fidget, fidget. When uncertain of what happened in a situation, apologize. "I'm sorry, " she falters, although it's clear she isn't sure what she's apologizing for, really. She can't very well leave, either, as his weyr isn't exactly close to the ground. Yay, tension.

If anything, G'rei only looks confused. His mouth is pushed out again and the eyebrows? Definitely drawn together over concerned dark eyes. "Sorry?" A twitch in his neck makes his head tilt in a jerk. "For what?"

Now it's Lys' turn to look confused. "I don't know, " and it's an honest reply. Her gaze falls again to where his hand had been just moments before, and her expression is oddly wistful. "I don't know, " she repeats again, half to herself, half to the greenrider.

"You keep looking at your arm," he notifies her calmly. G'rei isn't. He's looking at her face, at her eyelids for her downcast eyes. "I knew why before. But I'm not touching you anymore, you needn't worry." He could almost be amused again, except there's no trace of it on him anywhere.

It's not worry that creases at her brow, just confusion as she lifts her eyes back to his. "I'm not worrying, " she replies quietly, regarding him thoughtfully for a long moment. "You're exactly the type of rider that I've always heard about -- but then, you're not." She pauses. "You're - courteous. Kind, yes, but not overly solicitous. Hands -- Charming. Very charming." And despite the fact that such tales were obviously meant to arm her against such dangerous men as dragonriders, she smiles a very little.

What else can he do while she... describes him? But listen, of course, and G'rei does. Again, though, when she comes to 'hands' he has to squint at her, unsure. It doesn't last long, she's finished and smiling and he can't help but smile back. "Ah. Lysoret. Do I make you uncomfortable?"

Lysoret, unsure of what to say in reply, gets out a tangle of words before her mind can catch up with them. "Yesno." Embarrassed, she tries again. "Yes. And no." There. That's what she meant to say. Sort of.

Since 'yesno' isn't a word he's aware of, G'rei is confused again. But there it is, that little upward pull on his mouth. Confused and amused, oh yes. "Yes. And no," he repeats, almost hesitant about using her words. He puts a hand behind him on the couch and uses it to shift himself into less of a sprawl. "Well I think we should talk about this." It's all very logical, see?

No, it's not very logical. It doesn't even make sense to the girl. But she'll go along with it anyway, hands stilling in her lap. "What - what is there to talk about?"

"My making you uncomfortable. And not. Somehow." His hands have found another clasping position in his lap, similar to the position of hers. "You see, I've brought you up to my weyr. If I make you uncomfortable, perhaps I should take you down again." G'rei pauses. "We could use straps this time."

Yes, she's aware that she's in his weyr. That much is obvious. "I -- I'm ignorant, G'rei. I'm so very ignorant." It's soft, almost despairing. "I know so little, if anything; you said you would teach me." There's nothing lewd about her, just something quite earnest and aware that she's going to need knowledge of various sorts. "Will you?" She still seems unaware of how her words are sounding.

Somehow the word 'ignorant' strikes a negative chord. "You're not ignorant," G'rei contests immediately. "Whoever said you were ignorant? No, I only meant you could do this to pass your time. Instead of spending /all/ of it with plants and dirt. Of course I'll teach you, I-- I'm not really certain what we're talking about anymore. What do /you/ want, Lysoret?"

Lysoret's quiet for a long moment. "I don't know." But she reaches forward, hesitantly, placing a small hand over his delicately, if he'll let her. "But I -- need to know. I want to know." And a second later: "You're not a plant." Whatever that's supposed to mean.

Now it's his turn to glance, to look at a touch like it might help him feel it more. "Well that's true." Which that? He clarifies. "I'm not a plant. And you're not a plant. I checked when we were down in the dirt." Uh. Thoughtfully, with all of his attention paid to this one gesture, G'rei turns his hand over under hers to fold his fingers. She's caught.

"I guess the fact that we didn't have roots sprouting from our boots proved that much, " Lys mumbles awkwardly, suddenly focused far too much on how his hand neatly folds over hers. Glancing down at her trapped fingers and then back up at his face, her cheeks color slightly. This time, however, she doesn't look away, difficult though that may be.

So she isn't looking away. That means he can't. Even if she did, he'd still be looking. And there's no releasing her hand, so they remain like they are for a minute, maybe more. The fire crackles in front of them and casts light and shadow, alive, on the walls, on them. "I'm a lot older than you are." Because he needed something to say, didn't he?

Lysoret's attention remains on his face, free hand lifting, trembling, to hover just inches from it. "You are, " she agrees tentatively, "but you're -- you're not like any of the others." 'Others' could refer to the hold boys, the riders around Benden who have certain reputations, the rest of the men in the world ... "You've been watching me, haven't you?" It's not an accusation, but a simple enough sort of question. Why else would he have approached her at such an hour among the herbs?

'Others'. When she says that his eyes are on her hand, her trembling fingers, so close to the smoothness of his cheek, his jaw, anywhere she wants, really, he's not moving. That he's different than these 'others' doesn't create much of a shock. G'rei should be glad, is glad, of it. It's when she asks that question that he blinks, looks sharply at /her/. His mouth works silently, making vague shapes but never really sound. Then, finally, he sighs again and slumps his shoulders. "I never meant to kidnap you. I only thought you quiet, interesting. In this place, quiet is hard to come by."

Lysoret's eyes widen and her trembling hand stills. "When did you kidnap me?" is the first thing she has to ask. "I thought -- I /did/ come with you of my own free will. I did." That seems to be an important point. And she /is/ quiet, so that much is certainly true. "I don't see what's so interesting about a hold girl, " she says after a moment, gesturing at herself in a self-deprecating way. Seriously, just look at her. She's Plain Jane. And an awkward one at that.

Yes, just look at her. He's been doing little else the whole of the time they've spent together. The way he does so now isn't changed from before with this sudden unveiling of her nothing interesting, stated clear as day. "You might not." G'rei hazards another of those little smiles. "That hardly means I'll be rendered incapable. Or that I'll give up so easily. Because I do think you're interesting. I do."

"Then you must have been watching me, " Lys insists gently. Because, in her mind, there's no other possible way that he would think she was such a fascinating person. It's not like she's done a whole lot of talking to many people since her arrival. Her hand's still scant inches from his face. "I'm at least ten turns your junior. I'm holdbred, not very knowledgable ... but you still find me interesting." It's a strange concept, to be sure. She's having some trouble wrapping her confused mind around this.

Maybe he'd been hoping she wouldn't bring that up again. 'Watching' sounds so-- not good. G'rei's eyes shift to the side, not suspicious, maybe just, well. She isn't the only one having some trouble. "To say I've been watching you...." But he trails off, looks at her properly again with maybe a glance for her hand. "Yes. I've been watching you." There. He said it. "All of those things you said are true, too."

Lysoret's silent for a time, brows quivering together thoughtfully. "Why, though?" she murmurs at last, fingertips finally coming into contact with his cheek, however briefly. There have to be other quiet people around the Weyr, after all. Other people that, like her, haven't quite been pulled into the whirlpool of political upheaval and intrigue yet.

She'll find it warm and smooth, his face, with the faint prickliness associated with men who need to shave frequently to keep up. He doesn't move, not even a twitch. The fire throws strange shadows. There have been only a few times he's looked away from her, now there's one more. His eyes fall to their hands, still clasped in his lap, and he takes a deep breath. "I have duties. My days are-- constant drills and noise and work." But that doesn't really answer her question. "Why does anyone take an interest in someone else? Does anybody know? You see someone and they draw you in somehow." Now G'rei will look at her again, his chin tipped down and making his eyes seem hooded. "You have that."

Lysoret's expression is momentarily surprised as her fingers graze his cheek - and then she blushes, letting her hand fall back to her side. "Do you never get quiet moments in your days?" she has to wonder aloud, unable to comprehend the life of a dragonrider when all she knows of are mornings with lowing animals, growing herbs and the chores that she carried out back home. Her gaze is earnest, sincere as she looks at him. "None of the boys who could have been potential suitors back home ever said anything like that." It's quiet, low. "And if they did, I don't know if they meant it." She's aware again of her hand nested in his. "I want to think that -- that you do."

Now that he can /see/ her blush, G'rei can admire the color in her cheeks. Which he does, discreetly. It's made all the warmer by the lively glow not ten feet from them. Quiet moments? The slow shaking of his head and the thin press of his mouth say no. "Though I suppose quiet is relative. What I could call quiet might be terribly busy. I wouldn't know." Or he would, because he sees things side by side. His life compared to hers, for instance. Meeting such a look as the one she's giving him is almost difficult. Were he untrue, he wouldn't be able to. "There are times in my life when I am dishonest." He has a wicked tongue, it's a fact most know about him. "But this is not one of them. I wouldn't play tricks on you, lady."

"Quiet is like -- like the rustle of a garden in the morning. Like the entreaty of a runner or a young calf that noses at your hand for nourishment, depending on you, trusting you to take care of it." She doesn't know how else to explain it, really, save for the small ways that she begins her mornings. And even she's aware that people aren't always going to be what they seem. But perhaps it's being addressed as 'lady' that most affects her. In a world where she has such little station and must be content with being there, someone's addressing her with some form of respect. It was a rare thing to find back home; at the Weyr, it still amazes her. "Okay." There's so much in those two, whispered syllables: a daring trust, acceptance, confusion and questions. What now?

A new form of kindness shows on G'rei's would-be brooding features when she graces him with that description. If he weren't so interested in watching her he'd close his eyes maybe, to better visualize the pictures she paints. What he does instead is smile. "And you take care of them." As much as he might try, he won't ever be what he puts out for other people to see. Gentle, yes, and painstakingly thoughtful, but never the same every time. Not in this world, where so much depends on the people who speak up, and when those same people are punished for doing so. He's been lucky. Clever creature that he is, he's gotten himself out of things others have fallen victim to. "Okay." There, relief. She could have said anything. Of course, what now? doesn't seem a question he's aware of. After that agreement of sorts he remains as he was, reclined.

Lysoret can only nod, dark eyes far too occupied with watching his expression, his face, his smile. After a moment, she tentatively places her other hand atop his, suddenly tremendously shy. "What - what now?" she voices at last.

G'rei's mouth forms a 'w', like he's about to repeat her question back at her. Then it dawns on him what she might mean. "Oh. Well. I have books." Did he mention that? His free hand gestures a forefinger back over his shoulder at the disarray that is the bookcase. "If you'd like to just read one." But no, that seems like something she could do on her own. "Is there anything you want to know more about?"

"Oh." Hard not to notice that he has books when they were lying everywhere the moment she entered his weyr. And he's only mentioned them several times. After a moment, Lys nods. "There is something, actually." There's that earnest look again. "You haven't told me much about yourself, rider G'rei. All I know is that you're G'rei, you like books and your green's name is Eoleth."

Odd how, after asking so many questions and finding her so interesting, G'rei seems surprised that she should return the sentiment. At first he just stares at her, stunned. "Me." Right. "Well, ah. I was fostered off early." It starts off chipper enough. "My father, my birthfather, is one of those men that treats women like they're playthings. Or he was. I honestly couldn't tell you whether or not he's alive." Which is also told cheerily enough, in tone. "My fosterfather was in the beastcraft," he points out, lifting his eyebrows. Something for her, maybe. His eyes shift again. "I was meant to join him but they searched me too quickly. Eoleth found me and I started looking forward."

Playthings. Lysoret blanches at that word, grimacing as he continues his tale. Her expression does brighten a little when he mentions the beastcraft; being a stablehand can't be all that different from working in the craft, right? "It must be nice, " she says after he finishes, gaze momentarily distant. "To always know that someone's there for you. That will take care of you. And love you. And never judge you." Or at least, that's what she's always heard about Impression. She certainly knows nothing of it, herself.

A real, sudden grin, for her comments on what it must be like. He isn't laughing at her, no, but he can't help but be amused by one particular point. "Never let anyone tell you they don't judge. Dragons know you through and through. Some of them keep quiet about certain things, others don't. Eoleth has her opinions of me, and for the most part they're high. But there are things I do she disagrees with. They just take you anyway, even after you've done something horrible." And on that note he lifts his hand to emphasize with a forefinger. "/Unconditional acceptance/ is what you get. Which translates to love, I think. She is, though. Always there. There were some times I don't think I could have gotten through without her." G'rei is looking off to the side at something only he can see, now.

Lysoret absorbs all of this as best she can, mouth lifting upward into a small smile as he defines it as unconditional acceptance. Now /that/ is something that she yearns for. But now isn't quite the right time for such talk; instead, she watches him as his gaze turns to the side, expression faltering a little. She's not sure if speaking is the right thing to do to pull him from his reverie, so she settles for pressing her small hand atop his a little more firmly, sympathetically. She doesn't know what times he's referring to, but she's still, well, sorry.

It doesn't last long, the strange not-theredness and the vague little smile. Clearly whatever he was doing involved his partner, the one inside his head. Lysoret's hand brings him back around, though gently, and within seconds he blinks and focuses on her again. "Sorry," he says, a little breathless. "I try not to let myself be so exclusive. Plenty of time for that when I don't have company. Which is, ah, often." Which might explain his lack of practice with keeping his interaction with Eoleth to a minimum when in his own home. "So. Now you know some things about me." Pause. "My name was Greidy. There. One more."

"Greidy, " repeats Lys, trying it out for the first time. "It's a nice name, " she offers after a moment, thoughtfully. "I don't have anything to really offer in return, but -- well, some people back home call me Lys, for short. And my brother used to call me Lyssie, but the name didn't fit for long." That is, she clearly grew out of it. How many women on the verge of their second decade would go by such a childish-sounding name?

She tried his out, shouldn't he do the same? Only, instead of 'Lys'-- "Lyssie." When wrapped up in G'rei's deep, smooth voice, that particular name, however childish, couldn't sound more intimate. "I like that. Can I call you that?"

Lysoret's breath catches; hearing that particular name so richly delivered is /quite/ different from a little brother running around screeching it at the top of his lungs. "You may, " she manages, somewhat breathlessly. It's impossible to hide the flush that springs back to her cheeks or the fact that hearing it like that has some sort of effect on her. "It's - different when you say it, " she mutters bashfully, peeking at him through slightly lowered 'lashes.

"Different?" This is no oblivious question, no. G'rei must have some clue what she means, but sometimes when one has some of something figured out they still need that little bit extra to finish everything off. And it helps to hear someone say what you may be thinking.

"It's -- " And here Lys would splay her hands helplessly if they weren't so earnestly clasping his. "Nicer, " she says after a moment, frowning a little. Not quite the right word. "It doesn't sound like something you'd call a child, " she settles for at last. "It's -- " Intimate would be an appropriate word. Endearing would be another. Sweet, alluring, perhaps even seductive. But she can't tell him /that/.

During her moment of pause he waits, patient. Patient even when she frowns, for he has faith that she'll get through it. Understanding what she says next, G'rei nods slowly, pausing only when she leaves another sentence unfinished. "It doesn't bother you, I hope." Because whatever it is, he doesn't want it to be bad. His head tilts and his eyebrows come together. "Mm?"

Lysoret shakes her head slightly. "It doesn't. Not in a bad way." She leans forward a little, suddenly intent, focused. "Why did you -- act as though you were going to - kiss me in the garden?" Out of left field? Maybe. Maybe not.

Again, G'rei is no amateur, nor is he a stranger to these things. Bothered, but not in a bad way, can only mean one thing. Or at least very few things. Her leaning forward cements things together in his head and her question isn't as random as it sounds. Considering the way their conversation has shifted before, he isn't surprised by this turn. Just as intent, and very serious, he looks her in the eye and answers. "I was trying to get your undivided attention. Why did you act like you wanted me to kiss you? In the garden?" This is an adult discussion for adult people, yes.

Lysoret's caught off-guard by this, eyes suddenly all wide and doe-like again. "I - I was expecting you to, " she answers, somewhat lamely. But this is a girl who really /is/ an amateur at such matters; once betrothed but never kissed.

"I see." And because they've gotten close, G'rei has his voice low again. "You were not then, I take it, adverse to the idea." But there's more to this. They've been sitting here on his couch in front of a fire that's slowly dying down, holding hands and talking, for nearly an hour now. "Has anyone ever kissed you before, Lyssie?" There it is again.

"No, " she whispers in answer to both, aware at that moment that the flickering firelight has been reduced to a soft glow that gradually casts the rest of their surroundings into shadow.

Some people don't respond well to low light and shadows, appearance-wise. It makes their faces ugly and perverted or just somewhat sinister. G'rei's face is not one of those faces. Then again, his isn't in any way made better by the lighting, only not worse. Hers, on the other hand, is very different. She was already pretty, but the warm orange cast on her skin and eyes right now is, suffice to say, appealing. He uses the next few moments to lean closer to her, to close the rest of the small space between them much like he did in the gardens. Except this time, instead of stopping just short, he continues on until his eyes close and their lips touch. It's a soft brush, soft and gentle and he doesn't take anything from her she isn't willing to give him.

Lysoret, wide-eyed, watches his approach in almost the exact manner that she did earlier. This time, however, her closed eyes don't go for naught; there's that breathless moment where his lips brush against hers and she's suddenly very much aware of him, hands warming about his as she tentatively returns the kiss, lips moving cautiously against his. It's clear that she isn't sure of what she's doing; it's equally clear that she doesn't want to do anything /wrong/, and so she's careful.

Apparently there's nothing wrong, or he just isn't telling her if there is. She said she'd never been kissed, he was prepared for inexperience and making up for it until she caught up. In the meantime, while he's tilting his head to get that perfect angle and keeping things slow, slow, he lifts his hand to her cheek, continues his fingers further into her hair and very gently presses the rough pad of his thumb to a spot just behind her ear. His hand, caught between both of hers, squeezes, encouraging.

If Lys murmurs something as his fingers work through her hair, it's lost in a silent sigh as she relaxes just a tad, encouraged by that squeeze of his hand. Eventually, she leans slightly into his touch, lifting her hand from atop his to curl it against his upper arm.

The muscle any dragonrider has is coiled under her hand, along with the stuff he's added on in his free time. It's strong, of course, and somewhat tense, though whether or not that's a reflection of his state of mind is a mystery. Several seconds later he makes the motions of pulling away, but that too happens slowly and not without another kiss or two slipped in there so the connection isn't snapped so abruptly. His hand has moved to the back of her head now, cradling the curve of her skull beneath her hair, and he keeps himself close when he looks at her.

Lysoret's eyes open again after the warm contact is lost, gaze soft and filled with something akin to wonder. So /that's/ what that's like. One thing, at least, is living up to her naive expectations. "That was ... nice, " she dares to breathe after a moment, head leaning slightly into the hand cradling it. Since she was already flushed to begin with, there's nothing left for her to do except to, well, smile shyly at him. Not a bad experience for a first kiss - definitely far more courteous than what she might have received on some sort of wedding night.

That she said anything must amuse him, or else he's smiling just to smile. "Mm," he agrees, rubbing his thumb along the curve of her neck. "I hope so, or else I just ruined a first time experience for you and you'd hate me forever and ever." G'rei allows himself a moment to soak in /her/ smile, shy as it is, before moving again, pulling a little further away, just a little. "It isn't all that hard, is it," he drawls next, teasing.

Lysoret's smile widens a little, despite the fact that part of his statement is probably true; she wouldn't exactly hate him forever and ever, but the disillusioned usually shy away from the disillusionists. "Not so very hard, " she agrees softly, hesitantly. At all.

"Good. So you'll be ready for next time." With him? No, G'rei won't go that far. And now, well. There are usually things two people do after they kiss like that and he might not be all that used to the sitting and talking variable. So if he should sit there a little awkwardly and look at her like he's trying to think of something decent to do, it's because he /is/.

"Next time, " Lys murmurs, still smiling. Should he let her, she leans forward enough to press her head to his shoulder. It's part friendly hug, part happy gesture. Okay, maybe more of a content gesture. "Thank you."

Oh, he'll do more than let her. At first he simply lets her be, with her head just there, but after making a decision he moves his to her back, to press his palm in gently and urge her closer. It only takes a little bit, see, for him to scoot that few inches needed to truly stretch him out, and if she's still pliant he'll be situating her very near indeed.

And then the happy gesture turns into a let's-get-real-close gesture, for Lysoret certainly doesn't complain at being urged closer to him. It's all in innocence -- well, it is until he stretches out and she's suddenly pressed much nearer to him than she initially anticipated. This is becoming a bit more than a friendly embrace and she's aware of it as she lifts her head a little to peer up at him.

There's no innocence lost, at least not as far as G'rei is concerned. He'll make no further moves, content to be, just this, with her. Her peering is met with his lifted eyebrows. In that moment he looks at her very intently indeed, as if he's memorizing her every feature. Then, completely deadpan, he murmurs, "I should have brought the fire back up first." Yes, it is dying down to embers. They'll be in near darkness soon, since the only light left will be coming from a single unshielded glowbasket on the farthest wall, nearest the bed.

Lysoret's gaze softens from curiosity to, well, softness as he regards her so very intently. Glancing toward the dying fire, she lifts her shoulders in a slight shrug, resting her head just below his shoulder once more. "You have a bit of light near the wall there, " she notes, chin nodding toward the aforementioned glowbasket.

"Mm." G'rei turns his head to cast a glance at that wall. "It's a bit far is what it is." His voice is a little strained, a little muffled, for the angle of his neck; he resettles, shifting a little beneath her and moving a hand to her hair, to smooth his palm over the back of her head and down her back. Slowly. His chin is somewhere near her forehead now. "Lyssie."

The rumble of his voice brings a small smile to her face; it's cute, really, but while she's all happily nestled against his chest, he probably won't see it. She tilts her head a little at the motion of his palm, closing her eyes briefly. "Hmm?"

It does indeed rumble, his voice, now too when he says, "I like to say it," as an explanation. Distantly he focuses on some point in his weyr, some corner or cushion, and lapses into silence. Below her, the lift and fall of his breathing and around her, his long arm. The combined warmth of the fire collected in their little space and their body heat so concentrated together just now is enough to make his eyelids droop.

It sounds ever-so-nice from him; she probably enjoys hearing it as much as he likes to say it. Lifting her head slightly again to peer at him, Lysoret's faintly surprised to see that the greenrider's eyes are drooping a bit. "Told you I wasn't all that interesting, " she jokes, amused. But she's aware that he probably really is tired -- he himself said that his days were busy. Very busy. "I don't want to keep you from your rest, " she worries aloud. About to add 'I could leave', she closes her mouth again, remembering that Eoleth was her ride up. He'd have to give her a ride down. And he looks too comfortable and she really doesn't want to bother him. Okay, and she's also tempted to be somewhat selfish by staying in his company a bit longer.

Droopy eyes or no, he still curls his mouth for her. "I think you'll find I'm much too stubborn to be thrown off so easily." /He/ thinks she /is/, and that's all that matters. Tired would be a good word for him right now, but still he rouses himself enough to look down at her, tip his chin so he can tilt his head. "I am resting," G'rei points out, very matter of fact. Apparently she isn't the only selfish one in the room, either. "I don't really--" Wait. There's another vague smile and he lifts his eyes to the top of her head. "Nothing I can say is going to sound right in this particular situation, but... I like you here." Right here.

Lysoret can believe that he's resting; he /did/ look awfully comfortable and relaxed a moment ago. And that's generally how people look when they're resting. So she looks relieved at that, even if it's chased out of her expression moments later by her ever-present, timid shyness. "You -- you do?" When flummoxed, repeating the other person's words hopefully will give the confused party a moment or two to stall and think about this. So that's what she does - or tries to, at least. And if her expression's anything to go by, she's not quite sure what to make of it. No one's ever told her /that/ before. Then again, she's never been in this sort of situation, either.

It also gives him a chance to look at her again, since when she's taken aback /he/ can think too. Not to mention sit back and cherish her in her moment of bafflement. There must be a part of him that loves throwing her off, it's happened so frequently tonight. "I do." He wouldn't play tricks on her. "I meant it when I said I don't get a lot of company." And here, in his most private of places, there's a certain kind of company he could be referring to. "My-- schedule," which is a word he puts so very delicately, "doesn't allow me much time to... pursue, ah." Now /he's/ stalling. "Sometimes," he adds lamely after a moment of nothing, "it's nice to have someone here that I can talk to." Dragons make the best friends, but there are some things even they don't understand, can't fill.

Lysoret's cheeks regain their rosy hue, especially when he stalls. "To pursue -- other interests like people, " she fills in for him, quietly, gaze sympathetic. She can't understand a world where you don't have time to talk to other people; she spends time avoiding others, honestly. Usually. "You must -- get lonely, " she adds, equally lamely. And that's something that she can sort of understand, even though she's generally content in her solitude. But solitude and loneliness are two different things entirely.

"I see my kids and the other members of my wing, we talk at meals. Just not much, outside of that." Right. He speaks on it so very carefully, like he doesn't want to paint himself a sad picture. Of course, he has no control over how she perceives things, and when she mentions being lonely he stills suddenly, all intent again in the way he looks at her. To seem brave, G'rei puts on a smile. "My job comes first." Which really doesn't answer anything or do much to banish her intuition. Maybe it's the setting, the low light and the company that makes him so truthful just now. Whatever it is, it has him saying, after a pause, "I do." Get lonely.

Lysoret's heart earnestly goes out to him with that admission and the girl leans just that more against him in a silent attempt to convey that. "Is that why you watch people?" she murmurs after a moment, meeting his intent gaze with one of her own.

The way she's looking at him right now is different, somehow. Instead of watching her for the sake of watching her, right now he's watching her because he can't look away. "In part," he answers solemnly. "I also know everyone has a story. I just don't get to hear many of them." Another admission, spoken very soft. He's long since come to accept this as being what his life is. "You work with what you're given, seek to better yourself when you can. Plod along. It's the way things are."

Lysoret's brows draw together into a gentle little frown. "You managed to get mine out of me, " she reminds him. Even though she imparted it with some hesitation. It's 'plod along' and 'it's the way things are' that makes her sigh. It's a long, drawn-out exhalation. "I did that at home." It's quiet. "Plodding along. Especially after my sister got married. I feel like I'm still doing it now." She seems otherwise content in her station; this is the first time she's spoken of anything that even hints at the contrary.

It's her turn to speak and he's silent while she does so. Getting to listen to her voice isn't a bad bonus. By the time she's reached the end of her last sentence he's got his mouth pushed out again, a frown of his own taken over. A man less knowing, less able to relate, wouldn't know what to say. G'rei can think of a few things, but he takes his hand to her forehead, to stroke upward with his fingertips along her temple, first. "I'd like to make it easier for you." Because he can't make it go away and he can't tell her things will get better, but he can help.

"How?" Lys has to ask, even as she seems comforted by his touch. "I'm not entirely unhappy with my station in life. It's predictable, steady, guaranteed." There's a small, barely-present smile. Being a fairly ignorant holdbred gal, it's likely that she doesn't quite understand the political intrigue that Benden's so rife with. Nor would it be a world that she could currently survive in, which is probably another reason why she makes steadfast attempts to fade into the background and avoid it.

Yes, her seeming ignorance is something of a concern to G'rei. But then, for someone so /aware/, too aware even, of those very things, being with someone who isn't, or chooses not to be, must be a bright spot. So instead of commenting to the contrary as far as all those safe-sounding words goes, he smiles. Just smiles. And opts to focus on the other thing. "I can show you things. Like I said. Besides, if you must plod," and here his eyes squint, amused, "don't plod alone." He pauses, suddenly, and suggests, "You could always go flying. With Eoleth and I."

For all that Lysoret is sweet and innocent and refreshing, she's not the brightest glow in the basket. Either that, or she's purposefully pretending that Those Things aren't happening. As his focus shifts, so does hers. "I could? Really?" And there's genuine excitement, there. "Flying must be better than plodding." It certainly sounds more - adventurous, at the very least.

"Of course. Well. You already have. But," he says quickly, "I mean with straps and all the right, ah, gear." /Not/ bareback. And, probably, not just a short lift a few hundred feet. "We go often, usually--" Alone? "Next time, I'll come find you. We'll go up together." If she's excited, G'rei is excited. It's that simple.

Lysoret's smile grows just a tad. "I'd like that. I really would." And she means it, leaning a bit closer to hesitantly place a shy little kiss to his cheek. "It won't get in the way of your duties, will it?" Always worried about these sorts of things, she is.

A shy little kiss that he very graciously accepts by angling his face a little closer to her mouth. There's a trace of a smell, some product he must use after he shaves. "Oftentimes my duties get in the way of /it/," he teases, shifting his eyes to the side to watch her. His fingertips very gently touch /her/ cheek, reverent.

"Oh." And that's the only response that she provides, really, noticing suddenly how close their faces are again. Funny how that happens. Her cheek automatically tilts into his touch, and she smiles a little again. Whatever it is they have -- it's suddenly comforting, soothing -- new. And she likes it.

Close enough to touch, certainly. Close enough to smell her, and she him. Not that distance, since they arrived in his weyr, has been all that big an obstacle. But this is a new sort of closeness, different from before. That he likes it too, likes her, is undeniable. His smile is genuine when he gives it, warm and suffusing his eyes. His touch descends some, down her jaw, under her chin and to her neck. Now his fingers lay along its side, his thumb there against her pulse. He searches her eyes, his own dark and somewhat unfathomable.

Lysoret's breath catches again -- there's that drifting touch as before. Only this time, it's different. And his gaze even feels different - or maybe that's just her. As what light remains from the embers continues to die away, it's difficult for her to see much of his eyes, but she returns his gaze nonetheless, slowly extending a hand to press it against his chest. It's not a 'what are you doing stop that' gesture; instead it's warm and earnest and caring. Her eyes, dark by nature seem even darker in the growing shadows, but where his are unfathomable, hers are practically as legible as an open book. There's sincerity, sympathy, and something inherently -- tender.

Soon they'll only have the eerie green of glowlight to see by, and even then it'll be difficult. Not that G'rei minds. He's been watching her all night, sometimes only inches away from her, he doesn't need to be able to see her face to /see/ her. Besides, he has his hands and, judging by the way he's been touching her so openly so far, he isn't hesitant about using them. He still has his arm around her, pinned some by the couch and his own body, and his hand curls so he can use his knuckles to trace the line of her spine all the way down to her tailbone, then back up. He's looking at her with hooded eyes now, just before he tilts his chin just enough to press his mouth to the corner of hers.

Lysoret sways forward willingly enough, turning her head slightly in the process so that their lips meet. She's still not quite certain of what she's doing, but her movements are at least more fluid, relaxed - perhaps even sensual. She's learning. Slowly.

She'll have the same patient teacher this time as before. Again G'rei allows his eyes to close fully, lets himself go that little bit, enough to really enjoy the way her mouth moves, how soft her skin is, there on her neck where he continues to touch her. There's only one small change this time: the hand on her back flattens, palm pressing into her gently, and he makes just the softest noise that never gets past his throat. That doesn't mean it won't be audible.

Lysoret's arms slide up to curl about his shoulders, hands straying to drift idly along the back of his neck. The gentle press causes her to move closer, pressing herself to him as she, too, enjoys the sensations he's creating. There's no sound quite attempting to escape her throat just yet, but her deep, shuddering breaths certainly imply that she's enjoying this very much.

It isn't her arms or the way she presses in, nor that he can hear those breaths she's taking - his are even, deep, but almost too deep, like he's concentrating on it - that brings the next reaction from him. It's the back of his neck, when she touches him there, that makes him shudder and squeeze his eyes shut for a second, only a second. Apparently she's gotten to a sensitive spot. The hair back there is very short, but it's all standing to attention, along with the hair along his arms, over the bumps rising there. He sucks a breath in through his nose and seeks her bottom lip with his tongue.

Lysoret's hands still momentarily as he shudders; did she do something wrong? As he seeks to potentially deepen the kiss, a small sound does finally work its way through her throat; she yields easily under his touches, fingers tentatively running up and over the back of his neck again.

'Wrong' would be incorrect. More accurately, she did something. The sound, her sound, only serves to urge him forward, but still slowly, still like at any moment, should she make the slightest indication, he would stop. When he does deepen their kiss he does it like a gentleman should, none of that shoving his tongue down her throat business. Of course then her hands find that spot again and again he shudders. He makes another noise and, suddenly, moves his chin to pull away.

Another pleased sound escapes her as he deepens the kiss. Somewhere, she's appreciative of his consideration despite the fact that it feels as though part of her conscious mind just took a backseat to stirrings of feelings she's yet to truly explore. But then he shudders again; her hands still again; then he moves as though pulling away and she separates her lips from his gently, gaze questioning as she watches him for a moment. "Did I -- did I do something wrong?" she voices at last, small. She's confused.

Again, 'wrong' isn't right. He tells her this with a shake of his head, quick, followed by one more, more subtle, and licks the taste of her from his lips with a quick run of his tongue. First he must swallow, catch his breath, before he smiles. It only takes a matter of seconds. "You-" His voice is rough; he clears his throat, tries again. "You didn't do anything wrong." But what, then? She's still questioning him without saying anything, with her eyes. When he meets them he parts his mouth, perhaps experiencing the memory of hers from only a moment ago. Below her, through her, his heart beats rapidly. "I don't want to-- scare you, or make you go away." Which is a very quiet admission indeed.

Lysoret certainly doesn't look scared, just confused. "Oh. I just had to ask -- I mean, you trembled. And then you pulled away." What was she supposed to think? "I couldn't go away even if I wanted to, " she points out reasonably. "You're my passage back down." And she hasn't exactly indicated that she's ready to leave, even though it's drawing ever closer to midnight. Her cheeks are flushed, hands still curled about his neck; she doesn't look like she's going anywhere. At this point, she's perhaps even afraid of leaving. She might wake up and find that she had a very lengthy, pleasant dream in the garden.

"I wouldn't say no if you asked." Which is as good as her sure getaway. G'rei makes that particular detail stand out with a slightly chagrined smile tilting his mouth. As far as he's concerned, she can stay there all she wants. But. "I trembled because you were touching me. And I pulled away because you--" He isn't looking at her, now. "You aren't scared now, but I don't want--" No, he sighs. There is far too much involved in this for him to explain.

She hasn't asked yet. And probably won't. He hasn't given her any reasons not to trust him, after all. Her eyebrows lift slightly, questioning. "Because I ... ?" she prompts gently, dropping a hand from his neck to seek one of his. "G'rei, I may be thoroughly holdbred and - chaste - but I'm not completely ignorant." The corners of her mouth twitch upward a bit. "My chances of marrying well at home diminish every day that I'm here at the Weyr. I /was/ groomed to be a capable wife; I can be." She pauses. Except that dragonriders don't take wives. So she takes a deep breath and tries again. "Look, I -- I trust you. I have the freedom to choose for the first time. I wouldn't have this choice if you were a suitor who had just negotiated with my father for my hand." Her small hand clasps his earnestly, once she finds it. "I hardly know you, but I'm - willing to be whatever you want me to be." She ducks her head briefly. "You don't have to be lonely." It's quiet, low, not far above a whisper. And she doesn't have to hold so stubbornly to her solitude. But he can help with that as she can help him with his loneliness. It'll all work out somehow in the end, right? In her mind, at least, it can.

His hand hasn't strayed, doesn't move when she seeks to take it. It's warm, rough in hers, long fingers curling very hesitantly against her palm. She has a lot to say and he doesn't interrupt her. There's something in the way he's looking at her while she's speaking that implies he might be a little surprise that so much is coming from her so quickly. At certain points in her dialogue - words like 'marry' and 'freedom', then finally 'lonely' - he reacts subtly with little twitches of his eyebrows or tight pressing of his mouth, clenches of his jaw and narrowing of his eyes. And then, at last, he lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "What do you want to be?" is what he wants to know, first.

"If it will help -- someone you can talk to, someone you'll see everyday, someone who wants to keep you company." It's a soft admission, a tentative venture. "You said that you could help me. Let me -- help you in return." When she lifts her eyes to his again, they're as dark as ever, but honest, sincere, earnest. Everything that she's been since he approached her this evening. "I'll be ... your Lyssie, if you want me to be." Sometimes a simple answer is best; she blushes, but doesn't look away. She can't.

Every day. Again, he reacts to that, like it's a trigger, one of several carefully programmed into his brain. This time he narrows his eyes, though not at all negatively. The expression on his face, a bemused sort of disbelief, wouldn't be capable of including anything not gentle or amicable, not when she's laying so many things out for him. His Lyssie. "My Lyssie." Not a thing to own but a girl to keep close. He's about as incapable of looking at anything else, of seeing anything but those dark, sincere eyes. The fire is all embers now, some of them dying away to lumps of useless coal. They're backlit by the glowlight. "My Lyssie."

She could have been married to someone at the Hold by now, but she would be a possession, a wife expected to churn out heirs and chubby babies galore. Instead, she's here, settled against him in a weyr more shadowy than lit, gaze locked tenderly with his. "Yours, " she agrees, barely above a whisper. "I'm not -- not well-versed in -- " Well, in the various and sundry things that two people attracted to one another generally do after sharing kisses repeatedly in the darkness. "But I'll learn. If you'll teach me?" She's also relieved; it's high time she attached herself to someone in the world, after all. And he's the first kind, trustworthy sort of person to come along. Who is she to pass up an opportunity such as this?

As far as opportunities go, she isn't so bad herself. He's still caught up in 'yours', her whispered voice, her /eyes/, when she goes on. A quick movement, his head to the side, precedes his almost interrupting her. He doesn't end up speaking, though, which means he does indeed get to hear what comes next and there's that strange, concerned pushing out of his mouth again. Because teaching her those things does involve /doing/ them with her. His lips form words before his voice catches up with them and work silently for a second or two. "Are you-- is that--" Deep breath. "You'd want that?"

"I'd learn eventually, " she replies reasonably. "I think -- I know -- I'd rather -- yes." It's a jumble of thoughts, but the sentiment's there, clearly enough. "I would. I trust you." She exhales lightly. "I doubt it will matter much to my family. If I don't marry back home, I won't be producing - legitimate children, as it were." Her smile turns rueful. "They'll already assume that I've - lost my holdbred ways, as it were. I've already stayed here for far too long." She might as well. And with him, why not make the most of it?

Yes, she does make it sound so very-- /logical/. And right, and why shouldn't he? But there's still that little nagging part of his brain that's telling him all the things wrong with it, should he go ahead with it. He's so much older than she is, and they only just met, he's so /busy/, what if he can't give her the time she deserves? Those and many more are at first very loud between his ears, clamoring for his attention while he looks into her eyes. But, as the seconds slip by, they start to grow more and more distant, pushed to the background, shut out behind a heavy door. And even though it's warm where they are, comfortable, he tells her, "We should probably--" And tilts his head vaguely in the direction of the bed and that single glowlight.

Meeting G'rei, Part 1

Thu, 28 Jun 2007 04:42:25 GMT

Meeting L'dor

Tue, 19 Jun 2007 02:47:25 GMT

Who: L'dor and Lysoret
Where: Southern Bowl, Benden Weyr
When: 3:47pm on day 2, month 6, turn 449
What: Lys officially exchanges introductions with L'dor; brief discussion of the feline incident during the Southern Venture occurs.

Southern Bowl(#10RHJM4) Early Summer. Partly Cloudy. 74F / 23C.

The primary feature of this end of the mile-long bowl is the Weyr's lake, which takes up nearly a quarter of the bowl's capacity by itself. About two dragonlengths deep at the deepest part - which is safely nestled along the wall of the bowl, far from the shore - the water is fairly clear for all that it's warm. Even in the winter, the water never really dips below "chilly," heated as it is by the Weyr's internal thermals. Occupying the southwestern corner, the southeastern finger of the lake dips into what would be the feeding grounds if the fence were still standing.
The tunnel to the weyrling barracks opens on the eastern side of the bowl, just north of the patio-like overhang that serves as the Weyr's stables - for all that the Weyr has stables at the moment. Almost directly across from this on the eastern wall is the tunnel leading in to the lower caverns, meeting up with the road out of the Weyr.

-- Players --
Lysoret........Tall and wiry young woman in her late teens, dark-haired and dark-eyed.
L'dor..........24, dark hair, blue eyes, tan. Looks fit; rather gangly.

Lysoret's following a small group of other teenagers away from the patio and garden, stuck in that awkward position of not quite being part of them, but not exactly totally apart, either. She walks in silence; they chatter non-stop cheerfully. They head for the caverns to get something to drink; she angles vaguely toward the lake.

L'dor is by the water's edge, along with Banyth. He's unbuckling the blue's straps. There are several other dragons and riders down here too, all doing much the same thing, though some are already in the water. It's not long before the straps are left in a relatively neat pile on the shore, and Banyth is lumbering into the lack, leaving his rider to perch on a rock and remove his sandals. Looks like he's planning on going in too.

Lysoret draws to a complete stop, gaze flicking somewhat uncertainly from rider to dragon as she glances quickly from pair to pair. She doesn't exactly square her shoulders, but does her best to school her expression into something that isn't timid - more neutral than anything, really. And then she resumes walking, altering her path just slightly so that it appears as though she's circling back toward the garden. She even manages a quiet, "Afternoon, " as she passes L'dor's rock.

L'dor lowers his foot to the ground, still in his unfastened sandal, then draws the other foot up to unbuckle the other side. He looks up as Lysoret greets him. "Afternoon." He looks about to leave it at that, but then frowns curiously. "You work at the feeding grounds, don't you? With the animals?" Banyth, by now, is in the water up to his neck, and seems content just to soak.

"Most of the time, " Lys replies, automatically pausing just beyond the rock as she gets more of a response than she was expecting. "I do work over there, too." 'Over there' is indicated with a vague gesture toward the garden. "Sometimes."

"Mmm." L'dor glances towards the dragon, then turns his attention back to the young woman. "So, how are those calves doing? The ones we brought back from the Southern Continent." That would be the half-dozen young heifers that were airlifted in a few sevendays ago. The second leg is lowered, leaving his feet a couple of inches off the ground. "We were going to bring back a few more, but," he shrugs, "then things went a bit crazy."

Lysoret turns slightly, shifting her attention more fully onto the bluerider. "They're doing just fine. They've calmed down considerably since you first brought them back. My brother works a little more directly with them than I do; you'd have to ask him for more particulars." She offers an apologetic shrug, even though there's nothing to apologize for. It just seems like the right thing to do. Her expression takes on a mantle of subtle curiosity - well, as subtle as she can manage it, anyway. "A bit crazy?"

L'dor gives a rueful grin. "Well, you heard what happened, didn't you? Felines coming for supper, with harper on the menu.... Most people packed up and came back to Benden as soon as they could find room on a dragon. We didn't get the chance to round up any more of the livestock - which is a shame. Could have had a decent dairy herd in a turn or so, if we'd brought back a few more of those young 'uns."

Oh, /that/ upheaval. "Oh, right. The felines attacked that harper ... " Lys' voice trails off, hands splaying in a gesture of 'I-don't-recall-his-name.' She shifts a little, stance relaxing just a trifle. "Did anyone ever find out what provoked them to target him for their meal?" And as for that dairy herd that could have been - well, she frowns in agreement.

L'dor shrugs. "Don't ask me what goes on in a feline's head. But I don't think it was him in particular - he just happened to be the person who was there at the time. One of the cats chased some of us, and the other one jumped on Andoran from the trees at the edge of the path, as he went by. There were some other people hurt, too." He rubs at his right arm, perhaps unaware that he's doing it.

Lysoret grimaces. "How horrible." The rubbing motion catches her attention briefly; her attention shifts to it and then back up to his face again. "Like you?"

"Yeah." L'dor gives another, more diffident, twitch of the shoulders. "Tore my arm, and scratched my chest a bit. Nothing serious. Everyone's fine now, except Andoran, and he's well on the mend. Shame it had to end like that, though. We were doing well down there, and it was almost time to come back anyway." He tilts his head. "Don't think I know your name."

"Arm-tearing sounds pretty serious, " she objects seriously, shaking her head briefly. "As I don't know yours, either, that's pretty likely." She finally takes the few steps over to him, offering him a small if calloused hand. "Lysoret, stablehand and occasional gardener."

L'dor slips to the ground from his rock and holds out a hand to return the greeting. "L'dor." He nods towards the almost-submerged dragon. "The one pretending to be a fish is Banyth. We're in B'net's wing." There's a distinct snort from the dragon. "Well met. Been here long?"

Lysoret's shake is brief and not altogether firm; delicate would be a far better adjective for it. The corners of her mouth tilt briefly upward as she glances at the aforementioned dragon. "Hello, Banyth, " is offered, somewhat cautiously, before she turns back to the rider. "I've been around for a little bit, " she answers vaguely. "My brother stood for the last clutch here." Disappointment etches its way into her expression momentarily and then fades. "He's hopeful for the next one."

L'dor withdraws his hand and hooks his thumb into his belt. He acknowledges her disappointment with a nod. "There'll be other clutches. Certainly hope so: we're going to need all the dragons and riders we can get, once Thread comes. Which one's your brother?"

"I don't doubt that he will, " Lys adds, staunchly loyal for her younger sibling. "Tall, looks roughly my age, " and she proceeds to enumerate his hair and eye color, for good measure. "Hangs around with a group of friends more often than not. Name's Sorend." There's an involuntary shiver at the mention of Thread; fearful thing, that.

"Well, good luck to him next time, then." L'dor stops, apparently listening to something, then grins. "And then he too can have a voice in his head asking to have its neck ridges scrubbed. Still, can't complain - he's worked hard this afternoon, at drill."

Lysoret isn't sure what to say to that, settling for an uncertain little smile. "I'll pass that along to him tonight." Hands twisting awkwardly, she backpedals a step or two, taking the comment as a subtle move-along-now. "I'll er - let you get to that and head back to the garden, see if they need any more help over there this afternoon."

L'dor nods. "Right. I like that garden - it's a good place to think. Good to meet you, then." He waits a few moments, then steps out of his unbuckled sandals and peels off his tunic, so that he's just wearing his shorts. He folds the tunic neatly and leaves it on the rock, then heads for the water and Banyth.

"And you, " Lys says, much more quietly as she resumes her trek garden-ward. Only, it's so low that he may very well miss it as he heads for the water.

Introducing Lys

Mon, 18 Jun 2007 04:27:11 GMT

It's hard to say for certain if Lysoret could be called pretty; eyes and 'brows as dark as her hair are a little too wide for her face, while her arms and legs, lengthy enough for a young woman in her late teens of roughly 5'8", appear more lanky than graceful when paired with her wiry build. Her appearance is otherwise unremarkable with dark brown curls layered atop shoulders that are broad rather than slim and a plain face more easily blended into a crowd than remembered. She could be considered attractive with her vaguely dusky complexion, perhaps, but the fragility of her expression, more often present than not, could negate such an opinion.
Conservative to the core, Lys is generally found in the darker colors that she favors: a long-sleeved, forest-green shirt is neatly tucked into durable slacks of black that seem to blend right into the tops of ebony boots. Her garments, a bit too large for her in some places, have clearly seen better days and are likely under secondary ownership.

Born into the middle of three children of one of Benden Hold's stablehands, Lysoret grew up under circumstances that could perhaps have been called less than favorable. She wasn't the eldest daughter or the young son, so privileges were few and far between amongst her family. However, prior to her sister's marriage, she was permitted to spend some time working in the outdoors, occasionally traveling to the Hold proper with her father and young brother. Enjoying working with all things outdoors - runners, gardening and anything else that involved contact with the soil, she must relished these excursions; she seems cheerful enough working outdoors at the Weyr, after all.

Having witnessed the Impression of multiple women to greens and Geneve's to Pendarith, she stayed on at the Weyr afterwards, insisting that she needed to keep an eye on her 'little brother, ' a lad of sixteen at the time who had failed to Impress but was quite willing to try again in the future. He's a regular chatterbox, she's definitely less talkative. And she's adapting less easily to Weyr life than he, still conservative in keeping with her upbringing. It isn't quite clear what she thinks of the female greenriders - or the dragonriders in general as they aren't quite the men of myth and bedtime stories, but it is clear that the realities of Benden Weyr aren't meeting her naive expectations.