Fresh Starts

Participants:

D'lan.jpg P'sec.jpg

Date: 2011.05.23
Location: Igen Weyr
Synopsis: Character Intro Log: D'lan packed and ready to go drops by P'sec's place and the two renegade wingmates leave for Eastern Weyr together.
Rating: PG13
Logger: D'lan

The afternoon in Igen is relatively quiet as afternoons go, with several of the wings drilling in the airspace outside the Weyr. Including P'sec's wing - former wing. The tall man carries two heavy bags out to the ledge, and one by one hefts them into place on his waiting bronze, securing the ties that will keep them in place in the air. "Not too much for you, eh?" P'sec slaps the bronze's hide, then brings his hand up to scrub his short, greying hair as he stares into the haze. Only a few dragons flitting from their ledges to the bowl cross his path of vision; there is nothing much to see but he stares for several moments anyway, Abydoth crouching quietly beside him, still as a gargoyle.

D’lan’s late. Again. There were a lot of goodbyes to be said. Lower caverns girls cried. Greenriders swore their green would never go up in a flight again without Wyncrath to catch, even blueriders looked miserable. Okay, so that’s perhaps a bit of an exaggeration. Or maybe not. Either way, any hope P’sec had had of a peaceful and fond farewell to the place that had been his home for so many turns is about to get rudely interrupted by one Reachian brown pair suddenly dropping onto their ledge. No ‘Hey we’re on our way’ or ‘Mind if we drop by?’ Just BLAM! There they are, the brownrider unbuckling straps and sliding down the mottled side of his dragon all smiles and white teeth against a tan that a northerner really shouldn’t have. As to Wyncrath? His forepaws have barely touched rock and he flops down onto his belly, loaded with bags and all.

Meanwhile, P'sec's doing his best to slip quietly away, no goodbyes. Successfully so far, until Wyncrath drops out of nowhere, although the Reachian pair don't really count in terms of farewells. The older rider turns slightly, enough to face D'lan, his eyebrows lifting a touch but otherwise without indication of surprise. "There's a trunk left you can help me move," he says by way of greeting. On Abydoth's part, there is a continuing silence, though in unconscious echo of his rider, the dragon turns his head to look at Wyncrath with an unblinking gaze.

“P’sec, you old desert rodent. How’s it hang - ing…er no thanks.” That’s to moving the trunk mentioned though D’lan does at least bother to swing a look in the direction of the inner weyr as he takes to an idle lean against the rocky surface of the archway. The usually ebullient brownrider drops silent for a moment and then pushing away from the wall heads into the weyr to get the trunk after all. Plonking it down on the ground (hopefully there’s no breakables in there) between the bronze and brown, hands set to hips, “Yours or mine?” Though considering the way Wyncrath is bedecked with luggage one has to wonder if D’lan doesn’t possibly have a woman or two hidden away somewhere amongst it. Abydoth’s unblinking gaze is met with the twitch of a tail and the cracking of an eyelid, an energetic greeting some might say from the unfailingly lazy brown.

"Wasn't asking," P'sec replies, amused. He passes close enough to D'lan to give the other rider a clap on the shoulder, then proceeds him into the weyr, casting a last look around. The personal items all seem to have been packed and removed, leaving only furniture behind. Nothing that can't be replaced, though he stands beside a chair and runs his hand along the back of it, caught in some old memory, before abruptly turning away and going to retrieve the final sack. "Mine," he grunts, heading for Abydoth and hoisting the rough canvas sack into position. Then he turns to give D'lan a hand with the trunk, as wrestling it into place could easily take two. He gives the laden Wyncrath a glance. "I know Eastern ain't got supplies, but really, D'lan?"

"Right," D'lan returns with a flash of a smile. Following P'sec into his weyr, the brownrider casts an interested look about, "Sure you want to leave this stuff behind?" He's not totally self-absorbed and had noticed the way the bronzerider had considered that chair a few moments ago. "We can take that for you," the chair. Once the trunk is in place a grin casts out, "Better safe than sorry I always say. Besides, what would those Easterners know about Benden white or red, yeah? Or being civilised and having glasses instead of clay mugs to drink it out of? It's up to us to educate them." Yeah, he likes the little luxuries in life. Or more precisely, they come in very handy when wooing women.
"Nah, better leave it," P'sec replies as he heads from weyr to ledge, trying to sound cavalier. "Fresh start, right?" He trades a look with the other rider, expecting a comment on age, and beats him to the punchline. "Who says an old dog can't learn new tricks." D'lan's remark about Eastern's uncivilised ways gains a smirk as he tests the straps and ties all around to make sure nothing's going to go flying off mid-air and brain someone down below.

Piercing blue eyes track P’sec’s back and then the brownrider gives an unseen nod, having heard snatches of gossip about the bronzerider’s past. “Yeah, guess so,” he concedes and then easygoing laughter spills, “Beating me to the punch again, eh? You pack your walking stick, old man?” Because he has to add one of his own. Wyncrath is still blobbing about, not even bothering to rouse himself when his rider ambles over to him and doesn’t so much check his straps as give them an eyeballing. A long look is turned over his shoulder to his ‘comrade in arms’, “Ready to leave this place? No caverns girl you need to kiss one last time? Maybe a weyrwoman that’s going to sob into her hankie?” He’s teasing, trying to make light of an awkward situation because that’s what he does best.

"You mean so I can beat you with it?" P'sec angles a look at D'lan that is soon matched by a grin. "Just try me. Still got plenty of life left to kick your sorry ass." He gives one final tug while Abydoth patiently waits, exactly where he's been this whole time but starting to flicker into life with the rustling shift of his wings, sails against hide. "Ready when you are."

D’lan snorts, “Got to catch me first.” And then a wicked light enters blue eyes, “You never know, I might enjoy having my ass kicked,” grin. “Come on you lazy lump, rise and shine,” that goes to Wyncrath as he gives the brown a small nudge of boot. With an exaggerated sigh, the brown haaaauls himself up to his feet gives himself a shake, which sets baggage to knocking about and assumes the dutiful pose so that his rider may mount. How kind of him. Mounted and strapped in place, D’lan pulls his flight helmet on, gives a slap on top of for good measure and pausing in settling his goggles grins, “I’d say race you, but I think our illustrious leader,” Randi, “might be pissed if you got there all out of breath and in need of an afternoon nap.” Cue the cheeky grin and then its up, up and away with Wyncrath expending as little energy as possible, unusually large wings spreading and then catching the thermals to ride instead.

"You would," comes the bronzerider's dry remark as he swiftly swings into place aboard Abydoth. "Faster than you any day." P'sec ignores the ribbing but replies to the challenge, pulling his own helmet over his close-cropped hair. The dragon beneath him remains in his crouch while his rider readies for flight, but the buckles are hardly fastened before Abydoth pushes forward and drops off his ledge. The whoosh of wind echoes in his mind as he extends it to Wyncrath, the swirling pull and buffet laced with the insinuation of a dare, and then he blinks between and all goes black.

“Ah, you know me so well,” D’lan gives with no apology in his grin and then snorts to the next. While Wyncrath is as lazy as the day is long down on the ground, he knows how to work those thermals and takes up Abydoth’s challenge without second thought. « What moves faster than a rock rolling down a hill? » he broadcasts in a cynical drawl to the bronze and then without waiting on a reply answers, « Abydoth falling off his ledge. » The dry clang of amusement swallowed up by the black of Between.



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