Time to Think

This scene follows Tastes Like Humans


Xanadu Weyr - Observation Level

Dark blue seats form a semi-circle around the sands below, the lowest row separating from the sands themselves by merely a railing. The seats climb upwards, each row a bit higher then the previous, and they are broken up into sections by 3 sets of staircases. Lights are evenly spaced along the outer wall, lighting the seats and the sands easily, though they tend to be dimmed unless a major event is taking place. A large balcony looms overhead, darkening some of the seats, providing a place for observers of the draconic kind to watch without obstructing the view for others.
When one looks over the railing, the oddly hued sand below can be seen easily, the circle-shaped area of the sands spread out to the far walls, the sand itself a unique mixture of red and white grains.

Matrin offers a little sketched salute. Irony? Or maybe practicing just in case. Mishkia's uncertainty makes him smirk and he slips his arm down around her waist. "Well clearly this is the best place for me to ravish you. It's not like anyone else walks through here ever or anything." He wiggles his eyebrows, aiming for humor to take a bit of the weight out of this totally surreal experience. Her laugh draws a chuckle out of him as well and he shakes his head with wide eyes. "I guess so. I… I suppose I should contact the Hall and talk to them. I never thought of this as a possibility and had things sort of… well… planned out I guess."

Leaning into him just a bit as his arm shifts, the fathomless, out-of-her-depth expression leaves miah's eyes and they warm with laughter. "Clearly," she agrees with a drawl and to her credit does not eyeroll after the Weyrleader. "I imagine clutching dragons must get quite an… eyefull in here while brooding over their eggs." Her lips open, grey eyes twinkle impishly but her next comment dies unsaid. Instead, his mention of the Hall and his future plans, draws a thoughtful look. "Did you?" Something they haven't really spoken of and she's quite curious now. Though lightly spoken, the questions that follow are accompanied by a careful attention, "We're you aiming for Masterharper one day?"

Like a mirror, when she relaxes he reflects her growing ease and his smile comes without a struggle, paired with a sparkle in his vivid blue eyes. "Well, we have to keep Seryth entertained somehow right? It's got to be awfully dull in here all day and night for weeks." When she goes somber instead of impish he straightens a bit and shrugs, heaving a little sigh and dropping his eyes. "Probably not Masterharper like the guy in charge of everything. I would like to have a life outside of the knot, you know?" The question brings his gaze back to hers, marred by a lock of finger-ruffled hair that dangles across his brow. "But Master rank? Yeah, I was hoping for it someday. It's not like there aren't Journeyman Harper riders though. And it /is/ an honor to be asked."

Mishkia remains silent for a few beats after that shrug and sigh, allowing him the space his dropped gaze seems to seek. She is the last person to give advice craftwise or on the subject of being a rider and all the ramifications that might hold; both are foreign to her. She does, however, know a few things about living life and thus, leans toward him when he lifts his gaze to give him a very direct look from a clear-eyed earnestness. Her accent, stronger than it has been of late colors her comment, "You leave no stone unturned. You never know which path leads to the place you seek but when the turns have come and gone and you look back, be sure you have no regrets that you took the one you did." A wistful smile touches her lips as she reaches with light fingers to restore that wayward bit of hair to it's place with a small sigh.

Though Matrin has never had a hard time meeting Mishkia's eyes, there is definitely a shadow of doubt in the depths of his, and the hand at the tuck of her waist tightens. He listens to her words and nods slowly, thoughtfully. "You are a very wise woman, my sweet." He dips his head to allow her to take the liberty of arranging his hair and his eyes narrow with deeper thought. "No regrets," he murmurs, and starts to lean toward her, but then he becomes very aware of the big whirling Romth-eyes on them and clears his throat as he straightens back up with a sheepish smirk. "It's a lot to think about, anyway," is his very lame cover.

Mishkia has no such awareness of Romth; his head no longer looms over her and thus, she's forgotten the bronze. She's left floundering momentarily when Matrin sits up as she was meeting that lean without forethought. She's quick to recover, however, the corners of her grey eyes crinkle with her smile, then one flutters in a wink. "Poor Seryth." Her answering smirk says the gold is destined to remain without the entertainment he'd afore-mentioned. As for a lot to think about, she nods, "I'm sure it is. Will you be going to Harper Hall to speak with them directly or writing? Because if you go…" She's taking firm control of her destiny - at least where trying to ride a dragon is concerned. “I could accompany you? I've never seen the archives that I hear are there."

Matrin's chagrin only grows when Mishkia flounders, and he reaches up to gently rub a lock of her auburn hair between his fingers. "Poor Seryth? Poor me," he counters with an echoing wink. "Maybe I'd think better out in the woods somewhere, hmm?" There's a hint of the rogue peeking out through his eyes, and they are all for her as though the rest of the cavern has become unimportant. He's focused enough to consider her words though, teeth touching his lower lip. "I hadn't really considered that. But if you would like to come along, I will go in person. We could even take a few days if you'd like."

"If you go," Mishkia shrugs casually. If not, she'll be content to try a ride to nowhere. Her hand is still lifted, hovering beside his head, fingers tickling as they try unsuccessfully to tuck that errant bit of hair back where he usually keeps it, but it's stiff and keeps springing back to his forehead. She finally gives it up with a grin, dropping her eyes from his hair to meet his laughing eyes. Rubbing her fingertips together, she notes, "Dragon spit isn't such a great thing for hair, if you ask me." She drops her hand to wipe her fingers on her skirt, tips her head to send him a rakish look at his mention of the woods. "Think so? I always do."

There's an effort to see exactly what she's doing with that hair, leaving him comically nearly cross-eyed, and in the end Matrin just laughs. "See what I have to deal with?" The quip is said with a chuckle, because his hair is less stubborn without Romth's help, generally speaking. He offers his handkerchief, which started out pristinely white, perfectly folded and pressed and is now damp with dragon slobber, but it might be better than her skirt. Her rakish look changes the quality of his smile and he lets his palm slide across her lower back. "It will either make it easier to think or much much harder depending on whether or not you're with me. But either way I think it's getting a little hot sitting this close to the sands."

"You couldn't possibly have a bad hair day," disagrees Mishkia with a flash of approval for the disarray he and the bronze have left it in. "I like it like that, but it is a little stiff." Her fingers are more sticky than slimy and she rubs the tips together rather absently shaking her head to decline the offer of his poor handkerchief. At the touch of his palm a tiny shiver runs down her spine and rather than argue about the heat in this place she rises with a silky, "I'd do you a terrible injustice to keep you from it when you have such a lot to think about." She's actually half serious, though tempted to interfere anyway says the look he receives before offering him an alternative in her playful, "I could lead you out into the swamp and leave you to wander for a few days of thoughtful solitude if you'd like?"

Mishkia's compliment earns her a roll of Matrin's eyes - he doesn't agree but he does leave his hair just as it is. "Maybe the riders should market dragon saliva as a new styling product," he muses, but wrinkles his nose at the crunchy texture when he gently pats the edge of the hair that Romth licked. When she stands he follows, quick to snag her hand and keep her from running off. "Faranth save me from solitude in the swamps. I'd like to be allowed to make a decision, you know." He is back to grinning and heads toward the stairs with her in tow. "How about we take a walk together and then I'll seek some alone time to think?"

"Ew, no!" is Mishkia's vote on dragon spit for hair. She's not even brave enough to feel what Romth has left hers like. As she curls her fingers 'round his hand and follows him down the stairs, she clarifies about the swamps, "You're sure? They're beautiful now that the snow has gone and there's a warm spring with a fine green clay mud that does wonders for your skin." Is she serious? Probably yes and no both says the impish dare ya in her eyes. "A walk then," she agrees with a smile only for him, mindful of the important decision he must yet make.

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