Could It Be More Awkward? Totally.

Xanadu Weyr - Main Clearing
A wide clearing stretches from east to west, the ground packed hard although grass grows across most of it. Trees are strictly forbidden in this space, their danger to the constant draconic traffic reason enough to banish them to the forest that creates a border to the north. Where the ground is less trampled, tiny flowers poke their delicate heads out from their shaded hiding places with upturned petals to wave to whoever may be looking.

The cliff looms imposingly on two sides. Toward the southwest, a spire stretches up to high above where the everpresent watchdragon sits on a lonely peak with Xanadu's Starstones. A massive rocky spur extends to the north, curved slightly to hold the clearing and pocked with doors and windows.

The hatching arena and Dragonhealers' Annex sit to the southeast, built together into a single complex that takes up a large portion of the perimeter beneath its domed roof. To the southwest, wide steps lead up to the caverns, and almost directly south is the entrance to the Infirmary. Nestled between the infirmary and the main caverns there's a human-sized archway with frequent traffic - it leads to the Wanderin' Wherry Tavern.

Tucked near the arch, just off to one side is a tiny wood-frame shop bearing the name 'Wildflower Boutique'. Windows have been cut along the cliff in various places along the cliff. Those of the administrative offices are placed to have the best view of Xanadu's airspace - to the southwest, over the entrance to the caverns and the infirmary. Others mark the dormitories and those of lucky residents, while toward the northern edge of that spur cluster the windows and entrances to the crafters' complex.

The rest of the Weyr lies to the north and east - a broad road that leads through the meadow and the trees of the forest beyond. At the far northern edge of the clearing, just inside the perimeter kept clear of trees, a clocktower sits and proudly displays the hour.

The Main Clearing of Xanadu is rarely devoid of people, and just before dinner time is an hour that sees a lot of comings and goings both draconic and human. Among the many dragons is one tiny EXCESSIVELY HEROIC bronze, standing just so in a pose of VALIANT VIGILANCE on this glorious summer early evening. FEAR NOT, SWEET XANADU, GLORIOTH'S GOT YOUR BACK. Thankfully, he doesn't seem to be of the mind to do more than keep watch (so far). Where might his thusly F'yrless lifemate be, one might wonder? Why, there's the big, muscle-bound blond leaving the infirmary now, rolling his left wrist a little and examining by eye and — oop, yep, by finger bad bronzerider the new bandages on the heels of his hands. There's the distinct smell of numbweed and redwort coming off the man so he's definitely not supposed to be doing that. It's fine, though, no healers are looking, right?

Healers are totally looking. Or at least, one healer is looking. And one would think that because K’zre is Fortian (and very far from home) that he wouldn’t feel the desire — nay, the need — to interject. But one would be wrong. Because while F’yr is headed out, and K’zre is (probably supposed to be) headed in, there’s a frown and a rather stern-sounding, “Don’t pick at your bandage.” Because even if Kez has no idea what he’s done or why he’s bandaged, that seems like sound, healerly-advice regardless. And Yasminath? She is definitely present, looking (blessedly) not glowy this time, head cocked and whirling eyes pinned with some measure of amused confusion upon the glorious Glorioth in all his posing.

The stern-sounding admonishment is enough for F'yr's hand to automatically tuck behind his back and straighten up as if about ten turns had dropped right off his body and he were suddenly the naughty boy caught in the act. At least K'zre doesn't appear to have a wooden spoon on hand to rule the roost, so that might explain why (even blushing) the younger man can relax a little as he looks up at the owner of the voice. "Oh," that's recognition. One might wonder if F'yr is recognizing candy thief or simply a familiar face that is placing itself in his memory even if that memory is many months old at this point. His brows furrow slightly. "We've—" not slept together, so there's that singular silver lining to just how awkward this moment has suddenly become. "-met over candy," F'yr finishes not nearly as smoothly as he'd like. "K'zre, right?"

It’s probably a very close second in terms of awkwardness. Particularly given that K’zre didn’t quite recognize F’yr when he made his opening remark. Habit, no doubt, had him speaking before thinking on that one and now, only in hindsight is Fortian taken aback and looking a little contrite. And then a whole mess of uncomfortable as he places that face to memory and that memory being… well. Awkward moments he wishes he could maybe forget-and-or-takeback because, “I didn’t mean to steal your candy! I’ve never done something like that before. And I would have brought it back except- -” except he kinda ate it all “- -then Yasminath rose and… Oh.” Because yeah, maybe now he’s remember just how that all ended and while he doesn’t look particularly sorry about it all, he has the grace to look somewhat awkward and at least not amused about it. Nope. No wooden spoons and suddenly whatever authority Kez might have mustered with his healerly status (even if it is a distinctly NOT XANADUIAN STATUS) evaporates. But at least he can answer that last bit with an affirmative, “Yes. K’zre. And you’re F’yr.” Totes winning. At least he got that part right. “Sorry. About the candy.”

F'yr, when a greenrider is not proddy as we can all see from the exhibit of Yasminath who has drawn Glorioth's eyes: FOREIGN. POSSIBLY SHIFTY-EYED FOE. WHO CAN SAY YET, can apparently be merciful, for he has an easy smile. "Don't worry about the candy. It's really fine. I really did have plenty of it. It's Katailea who'd be owed the apology since it was for her, but I really don't think she minded either. And the rest… well, at least Risali," JUST THE SENIOR WEYRWOMAN OF XANADU, "was available to come bring me home before I made a fool of myself." More of a fool. "I'm pretty sure Leirith said the whole thing was badass." He can't really remember, but it sounds like something Leirith would say, so he'll roll with it. He glances toward Glorioth, but for REASONS, he doesn't hash through the details of that encounter even in his memory, insofar as he can resist. "It was my first time with— well, no partner, you see." Nevermind that he's blushing or that the healer doesn't really need these additional details. "Sorry if I made things… weirder." By, you know, at least following on to the barred-against-him closet or wherever. Maybe he should stop talking now. Yes?

Katailea — Kate — will probably get a personal apology if K’zre should ever cross paths with her again. And it is likely to be just as well-executed as his present apology (and probably just as awkward). RIP Kate. And while there might be a want to say something (at least, K’zre takes the sort of breath that usually precedes speech and has that ‘expectant’ look about him that says words are on the horizon) nothing actually makes it out. Just a moment of (for the greenrider at least) awkward silence as Kez decides the scenery is a great deal more interesting than the bronzerider. “I— That is… I didn’t… I don’t…” and there he goes away, with the attempt at speaking and the not-quite managing it. A bit of a breath and he tries again. “I’m not sorry.” Probably not what he meant to say. Or at least, not how he meant to say it. And a second after the words leave his mouth they seem to hit his ears, and he winces briefly. “I don’t mean— I just mean that…” Ugh. Once more. “I’m glad Risali was there.” THERE. That sounds appropriately empathetic without apologizing for letting his weyrmate haul him away and put a LITERAL LOCKED DOOR between them. At least F’yr can blush in relative private, because Kez is definitely not looking at him right now. “It does sound like something Leirith would say,” he murmurs after a moment of thought. Even if he might not agree with it. Which is a great segue for his return of, “I don’t really know what that’s like, either. Not having a partner. During a flight. Greenriders don’t… usually have that…” Problem? Who knows. Kez doesn’t finish the sentence, letting it fade away with a half-hearted shrug. “I don’t think you made it awkward,” he decides. “But, I also don’t remember much.” So who knows. Maybe it was hella awkward for everyone.

Oh, well, this awkward just continues to grow in power and magnitude, really. There's a briefly near-horrified look on F'yr's face when K'zre says he's not sorry. "Oh," so many epithets go right here, but none actually get voiced. "You don't— no, don't apologize for that. I— I hate sleeping with strangers." SO LISTEN, K'ZRE, YOU'RE NICE AS CANDY THIEVES GO, AND IN THE MOMENT F'YR PROBABLY WASN'T THRILLED, BUT HE IS JUST AS GLAD THAT F'INN PLAYED THE SWOOPY HERO. Can this get more awkward? It could with a booming « BADASS! » except that's not what comes. What comes is, « WHAT HO. » SO LOUDLY. TO BOTH MEN. AND YASMINATH. « I AM NOT SURPRISED TO SEE SHE COULD NOT STAY AWAY. » F'yr would facepalm if he could. He really, really would. But one facepalm would only lead to another and eventually, he'd need bandages for that, too. "Maybe you should go hunt, Glorioth." The silent suggestion that he take Yasminath with him to the forests and beyond where hunting might be had that won't decimate the Weyr's herds is telegraphed not at all as privately as hoped because the booming, « WHAT A FINE IDEA, MY F'YROCIOUSLY BRIGHT LIFEMATE. YASMINATH, » cue the rise of the epic hero addressing doubtlessly awed audience, « COME, BASK IN THE RADIANCE OF MY VALOR AS I SQUASH SHIFTY-EYED FOE-MEAT INTO JELLY OF HONOR. » And off he goes, whether she follows or not. At least one person is grateful because the tension in F'yr's shoulders eases a little. "Uh, want to go get a drink? I mean— not a drink like—" He is not often smooth, but he's usually a lot less awkward than this. "Just, friendly," he stresses the word as if that makes it better.

It could definitely get more awkward. But either K’zre is unsure how to fix it, or has simply accepted his fate. Awkwardness. It’s his almost his default mode. Almost. And while there is, again, a moment in which he might speak (this time with a literal opening of his mouth, despite the lack of words that spring forth) he snaps his teeth together and simply lets it go. Probably for the best. Yasminath, for all that she’s a little more in touch with empathy and feelings, is pretty darn clueless about a lot of other things. And so Glorioth’s interjection is met with the mental equivalent of rapid-blinking in thorough confusion, ala ‘who, me?’ and a timid almost-giggle in the twinkling of moonlight and the chiming of bells. And while F’yr might facepalm, Kez will just… frown. All of the frowning. All of the confusion. “I don’t—” Oh dear. « WHAT IS SHIFTY-EYED FOE-MEAT?? » comes in bright and bubbly return that is sure to be squished as flat as the herdbeasts when she learns what their plans are. But for now? She’s totally on board. « I WANT TO SQUASH THINGS TOO! » “… Uh…” Welp. Too late. Cause Glorioth is going, and Yasminath is going, and Kez is looking somewhat torn between horrified and insulted because she totally just ditched him. He’s still staring in the wake of his dragon’s disappearance when the offer for drinks comes. And yes, definitely, the immediate response is one of squinty eyes and outright suspicion before F’yr makes his intentions clear, at which point there’s a sigh and a rub of his forehead because, “I’ll probably need one before she comes back.” Because this can only end in tears. “Sure. A drink. A friendly drink,” he adds hastily. And while with anyone else it might have been a tease, from Kez it’s just… repetition and agreement as to the nature of this drink they will have. “Is he always like that?”

"Since the moment he shelled." It's so much easier to talk about dragons than anything else. At least, until the horror of horrors about Glorioth's essential paradigm becomes clear to poor Yasminath. BUT LISTEN, that moment hasn't come yet, so let's EVERYONE just TAKE A MOMENT to ENJOY THE TIME before the world BREAKS. It's fiiine. The inevitable cannot be helped with all parties so unwitting. "He actually told me when he claimed me that my name sounded like how he imagined a dying herdbeast would sound." Clearly he's always had his priorities and manners straight. "There's the Wandering Wherry, or if you like a better view and don't mind the walk and the climb, we could go to the Rustic Treetop Cafe. They've got food, too." This one probably gets F'yr's vote, if only because he likes the cafe, much more than the bar even if the bar is decidedly closer. He does make a gesture because they can start walking to either while they decide. "So," uh, where to go from here? "F'inn seems nice." He probably means from the time he postured against the Fortian bronzerider and got knocked down by him. Less awkward, right? No? Well, neither is, « ALL OF THE FOE-MEAT. SQUASH IF YOU ARE ABLE, SMALL SLAYER. NONE MAY BE TRUSTED AND KILLING EQUALS HONOR! » Good news, at least they got that out BEFORE the murdering commenced. « AHAHAHAHAHAAHA HAHAHHAAH HAHAAHAH! ONWAAAAAaaaaAAAAAAArd!! » The bronze is, at least, doing as F'yr asked and winging out over the forests instead of toward the feeding grounds where the prey would be more plentiful, but where Glorioth might cause a shortage with a MEAL MURDER SPREE.

“That seems… Tiring.” Of all the words K’zre could have chosen, this one felt the safest. But while he spoke it, the look he bestows in the direction of the bronze says ‘horrifying’ would have been his first choice. With Yasmianth currently oblivious to the doom that awaits her poor, fragile mind (RIP blissful ignorance), K’zre simply sighs and starts walking. “Café,” he elects, if just because the healer in him knows he should consume some food to go along with the copious amount of alcohol he’s planning to ingest. And then comes that awkward silence while they walk. And while K’zre might not be the sort who feels the need to fill it with words, he’s definitely not immune to it, either. But maybe, just maybe, his preoccupation with Yasminath saves him from feeling uncomfortable this once. Alas, it is short lived. “F’inn?” Yes. That is what he just said, Kez. “Yes. He’s nice.” Which is probably not the way the bronzerider would have liked to be described by his weyrmate, but alas. Kez. Definitely distracted. “Is he really going to—” but whatever question he might have asked is left unspoken because « NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!! » comes screeching through just about everyone’s mind. Apparently, Yas has just clued in on what Glorioth intends. Or, horror of horrors, he’s started the killing spree. « YOU CAN’T KILL THEM THEY’RE SO CUTE AND INNOCENT AND THEY NEVER DID ANYTHING TO YOU AND I DO NOT CARE IF I AM A DRAGON AND I HAVE TO EAT THEM YOU CAN’T KILL THEM!! K’ZREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!! » Thankfully no one’s eardrums have shattered because at least her voice is in their heads. And maybe F’yr and K’zre are always destined to part ways with the greenrider literally fleeing from him because before Yas has even finished her first ‘no’ he’s turned on his heels and started booking it toward the green.

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