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The Great Hall
Elaborate paintings and elegant tapestries hang on the walls of the vaulted hall, scenes of Weyr life both old and new depicted on them. Sturdy chairs, benches and well built tables are set all over the huge room, for the comfort and enjoyment of the spectacular view. Large window with ornately carved lintels are carved into the walls, protective shutters flanking each one, able to be close to protect from the chill of the night or the blustering of storms. When open, they allow any breeze, however slight, to blow into the Hall, cooling it off during the heat of the mid day.
Centered along each wall, sets of double doors are inset into the walls, each ornately carved and polished to a deep shine, usually propped open to allow for better air circulation. The hall is always busy, no matter the time or heat of day, as weyrfolk and riders alike come and go to partake of refreshments and meals or simply to gather and talk on any number of topics.
You see Shiny Brass Watermelon Trophy, Wineskin, Bebe, and Persephone here.
Obvious exits:
Entry Hall Central Hallway North Corridor South Corridor
Eriol
Black contrasts sharply with oh-so-pale skin, silken strands of ebon determinedly tumbling over dark grey eyes limned with eyelashes surely too long for decency. The softness of those eyes is belied by the rangy, lean body: Turns of work have shaped too-slender frame into some semblance of masculinity, adding sharp edges to shoulders and trim waist, yet bringing no bulk of muscle to defy that delicate appearance. Clearly-defined, however, are his features, sharp chin and straight nose adding a canny, worldly air to add the final complexity to his definition.
Black, again, coarse and well-worn, hangs loosely from Eriol's shoulders -- a loose shirt, comfortable and light. Around the cuffs, simple embroidery appears, a light pattern of white-edged flower blossoms. Pants, too, are loose and comfortable, matching the shirt in both embroidery and color.
Eriol looks to be in his late teens.
Peydra
Peydra can hardly be accused of delicacy; at five feet nine inches, her form has filled out with the solid bulk of muscle. Broad shoulders sport the well-defined muscles considered far more attractive on men, and her arms and legs continue the pattern, built for sturdy functionality more than grace or charm. The slight flare of chest and hips confirms her femininity, but do not come close to dominating her appearance. Dirty blond hair has been close-cropped for comfort and simplicity; its natural curl is subdued by the short length. A few freckles spatter her nose, and vivid blue eyes reflect light and moods with equal ease.
Silver and purple twine on Peydra's shoulder; the mating of threads into a declaration of position: Wingrider of Xanadu Weyr. The strand of brown that laces through the ensemble marks her lifemate's color.
A light tunic of tan cotton has been loosely belted around Peydra's waist, just tight enough to avoid obstruction without granting her much shape or cutting off the brush of air against the skin underneath. Her pants are long but loose and thin. Her thick boots are the only rebellion she makes against the heat; supremely practical in their durability. Paegalia perches on Peydra's shoulder.
Peydra looks to be in her late teens.
Carrying:
Paegalia (#1204)
Peydra sits in a seat by the hearth -- not a favored position, in Xanadian climates, though winter forbids it less than the steambath summers. Her eyes are on the dancing flames, and one hand curls around the stem of a wineglass filled -- incongruously -- with milk.
Certainly it's a less-soaked Eriol who runs a hand through his hair, but he's still rather damp. Making a beeline for the sideboard, he swipes up a makeshift sandwich of fresh bread and a thick slice of roast. Hooking a chair from the table, he sets it -- without noticing the other occupant of the table -- by a convenient table. "Morning," he mumbles around a mouthful.
Peydra half-turns her head at the greeting, presenting only a profile and catching only enough of Eriol's face for recognition. She has the grace to turn away again before making a face, but not much more. She does reply, however, with a caustic: "I see your lady of the night didn't kill you last night. Congratulations."
That ever-present grin fades in the face of Peydra's comment, and Eriol narrows his eyes. "Ah, dear lady, I see you didn't kill /yourself/ last night. Good for you." No acid touches his tone; he simply uses that level tone that is halfway between insulting and simpering.
"No," Peydra replies, her own voice slipping into the same cadence. "You see, my dragon prefers me alive, which means I'm at least one step ahead of you; /someone/ doesn't want me dead. I am sorry, though; I know how much it must gall you to be in the presence of your obvious betters."
Brightly, Eriol smirks at the rider. "Those bronzeriders over there, you mean?" he asks, waving a hand at another table. "And I can't think of anyone who would really want me dead, per se... unless you do. And that, Peydra-/love/, would be a waste."
"Of what?" Peydra replies, innocent curiousity blossoming in her tone. "Emotion better spent on others? Very, very true. But that is, of course, one of my failings. Or perhaps you meant the fertilizer that goes spewing out of your mouth every time you speak."
"Ah-" Eriol's tone is all amused condescention. "-but it annoys you, doesn't it, Peydra-love?" Batting his lashes, the man continues. "Therefore, it isn't a waste at all, m'dear. It's a pleasure to watch you react." Suavely, he lets that sentence drop, taking another bite of his sandwich.
"Ah, yes," Peydra responds. "I keep forgetting how much you delight in taking pleasure from the unwilling." She offers Eriol a smile which does not reach her lips. "Just so long as you restrict yourself to this -- I have no problems with voyeurism, but if you ever try to touch me again, I will geld you."
Eriol twitches at that -- a hit, a palpable hit! -- and frowns. "Unwilling? I think not," he replies calmly enough. "You simply have no sense of humor at all, Peydra-love."
"And you," the brownrider responds cheerfully enough -- oh, good good, something got through -- "have no sense of restraint. I know which I'd consider the greater failing." She doesn't mention decorum; they're both lacking enough in that one.
"I can't say that you have much sense of restraint, either," Eriol replies, shoving the mouthful into his cheek and looking for all the world like a lopsided squirrel. "Threatening to geld me and going out flying in the middle of a storm."
"Ah, but," Peydra replies, moving her glass to rest on the table beside her, "I was provoked." She returns her attention to the fireplace, adding: "I grow weary of this. You may leave now."
"It's a free room," Eriol notes, having quickly chewed and swallowed the piece of sandwich. "You could always move, Peydra-love. I'm sure those bronzeriders would love to, ah, /talk/ to you. Or Weyrwoman Elisa, perhaps." Add in a bright grin and you get pure insolence.
Peydra's smile flashes briefly. "Sorry, Eriol-/love/," she responds, her voice astringent. "I don't share your taste for bronzeriders."
"That's such a pity; they're quite lovely when you get to know them," Eriol replies without missing a beat. "I really do enjoy their company, but they're far too interested in women to pay more than a moment's notice to me." Absently, he buffs his nails upon his shirt, breathing upon them and then examining their tips.
"Shame," Peydra responds, an unvoiced sigh lingering theatrically in her voice. "One would hope they wouldn't notice the difference. I certainly can't." She interlaces her fingers and rests her hands on her stomach casually.
"I'll take that as a compliment." Though a mite piqued, Eriol continues to buff his fingernails. "And I can return it right back to you, actually." Let that barb sink in and await results. Ought to be interesting.
Peydra laughs aloud, albeit briefly. "Eriol, Eriol, Eriol," she says, condescension heavy in her voice. "You really must learn to save your insults for people who will be affected by them." Peydra cherishes her androgyny, see. She pushes to her feet and crosses over towards the beverage selection.
Like water off a firelizard's back, Eriol smirks at Peydra. He'll cherish his androgyny too. "Oh, Peydra-love, I'm sure that the men find your muscles a turn-on," he says, tossing off the words casually before taking yet another large bite of sandwich. This battle of wits is far too interesting to stop quite yet.
Peydra selects a pitcher of mediocre ale and sloshes a portion into a mug, turning to grin ferally at Eriol. "Only the type that couldn't handle me," she replies, running a vaguely carnivorous glance up and down Eriol's form. "I should have known you'd be the type to go in for punishment." A dismissive tone slicks over her words.
"Where do you hide your whips?" Eriol asks, blinking innocently. Though the puffed-out cheek ruins the image, he manages to look remarkably chaste while asking such a question. "I'd never have pegged you as the type."
"Ah, well, no one ever said you were ominscient," Peydra replies airily. Embarrassed? Her? She grew up in a guard barracks. Very little will embarrass this one. And be careful -- she might be starting to enjoy herself.
"/Really/, Peydra-love, I never made claims to being all-knowing," Eriol demurs, waving a hand through the air. He's perhaps equally hard to embarrass; living in a Weyr where men dress in women's clothing and insane females run the whole show... it tends to dull one's sensitivities. "And you, Peydra-dearest, are?"
"Me?" Peydra repeats. "Oh, certainly not. I could never be that insufferable." Unlike others. She takes a long sip from her mug, then tilts the vessel to look at the liquid inside it.
"No, all you can do is boost your own sense of self by insulting others." That assessment is delivered in Eriol's patent-pending Cheerful Voice and through half a mouthful of sandwich. Quite versatile, he is, playing mindhealer and Steward at the same time as Annoying Teenager.
Peydra lifts one hand and taps its heel lightly against her forehead. "Oh, of /course/," she says. "How could I have missed that, o wise and knowing mindhealer? Funny, for a while there, I almost mistook you for an arrogant little steward rather than a learned guru. I'll be sure not to duplicate the mistake."
"Ah, finally you realize my potential!" Amusement is oozing from Eriol's voice. "I studied on my own, you know. Always observing and watching people... I must say, I'm a brilliant mindhealer as well as the best Search potential around." Smirk.
And finally, after the entire back and forth of the conversation, that statement wrenches a genuine laugh out of Peydra, a real, startled, natural admission of amusement. "All right, brain-boy," she grants. "You win this round. But if you call me love or dear again, I will empty this mug on your head."
"Aww, don't spoil my fun, Peydra-l... better not say it." Sinking back into his chair, he grins at Peydra. "I win, huh? What do I get as a prize? A kiss?" Shameless. Truly shameless.
"If you're not careful, a broken arm," Peydra replies. "Or, better yet, a love letter in your name sent to T'on." She quirks a cheerful grin, then takes another sip from her mug. Not too much longer until the threat is empty.
Eriol pauses. "You would have to invoke the most frightening punishment in the Weyr, wouldn't you?" he replies sourly, staring at the wreckage of his sandwich. "Well, actually, come to think of it... that might be pretty interesting." He smirks happily. "Being chased instead of chasing..."
Peydra beams sweetly. "Well, then," she says, "by all means, suggest a kiss again, and I'll see that you get the experience to file away."
With all the innocence he can muster, Eriol asks one simple question: "Does that threat work for women?" Pausing only a heartbeat, he continues on boldly, "Because I'm certain that it would be amusing to see you being pursued by one of those bronzeriders there... or even one of the blueriders. Or, if I could wrangle it, T'on..."
Peydra's lips twitch upwards. "See," she explains carefully, "women have a faint advantage in this game. They can hit men, and men look back when they hit back." Even if the woman is Peydra. Rather unfair, don't you think?
/Most/ unfair, indeed. Sinking lower in his chair, Eriol grumbles a bit under his breath. "Ah, but... since I don't mind having T'on chasing me, pucker up, Peydra-l... Peydra!" he says, beaming. He's quick to rebound, too.
Peydra raises an eyebrow. "Didn't say I'd kiss you," she reminds. "Just said you could ask again. And I will answer: no. So. If you'll pardon me, I have a letter to forge." And she tosses back the rest of her ale, thumping the mug back onto the table.
Eriol simply pouts, sticking his lower lip out and fluttering his eyelashes shamelessly. "Mean. Very, very mean." If she can drop the pronouns, so can he. "Don't care, anyway."
Peydra pauses at that for long enough to say: "Oh, Eriol. For a famed mindhealer, you are remarkably poor at turning your attention on yourself. You must pull out of this denial and accept your deep and unrequited love for me. Really, it's the only way to get over me."
Eyes widen and cheeks go faintly pink -- as Eriol scored on Peydra earlier, she's scored on him. That doesn't mean, however, that he can't get her back. "Oh, Peydra-love, why do you think I've been talking with you? I /adore/ you, you're the light of my life... you're Rukbat while I'm Pern..."
Peydra stares incredulously at Eriol for a minute, then stalks over to where he is sitting and grabs his arm, jerking him up via it. Whoops. Well, it's not broken, or dislocated. Good start. For a frozen second, she just stares at him, then she releases the arm and claims his head, pressing her lips against his for a brief instant in a tight, dry kiss. Then she releases him and steps back again, an unvoiced challenge sparking in her eyes.
Eriol's eyes almost bulge from his head as he's wrenched out of his chair and promptly kissed. Rubbing at his shoulder, he stares blankly at Peydra. "You win this round," he concedes, snapping out of his fugue. A mischievous smile appears next, boding ill for the rider. "You can do better, though, I'm sure."
Peydra blinks once, then swings her arm up and into a backhanded slap across Eriol's face -- not bone-breaking or bruising, but enough to sting. "Go drown," she retorts a bit feebly.
Eriol turns with the blow, taking it with barely even a wince. "I deserved that, I really did," he mutters, lifting a hand to his cheek to cool it down. "And I apologize, Peydra."
Peydra just swallows once, her face a mask of proud imperviability, then turns away from Eriol and moves back over towards the beverages without responding.
Eriol bites his lip, leaving the plate with his sandwich sitting upon the table as he chases after the woman. "No smart retort?" he asks softly, tilting his head at her back. "Or would you prefer to actually punch me?"
"Frankly, Eriol," Peydra says, her voice carefully controlled, "you aren't worth the effort. Did you need something?"
"Yes. Yes, I do. I need you to actually be rude to me. Try to insult me, or something," Eriol replies quickly, half reaching a hand towards her. "Why did an apology make you turn away?"
"Fine," Peydra says simply, reaching with a steady hand for a pitcher of wine -- slightly more elegant than the ale she downed earlier. "You're scum. You're slime. Rot." Her voice doesn't change inflections at all. "Happy?
Eriol frowns a bit, hand dropping to his side. "I don't think I am. But why do you think I am? And that certainly wasn't a very good insult. You're... well, never mind that." His foot taps once, twice, and then stops. "Hmm. You didn't answer my question."
"There wasn't much heart in it," Peydra responds, lifting her wineglass and turning to face Eriol. "Maybe I was just reminded that I don't actually like you and that you were getting too much enjoyment out of that. Who knows." Her gaze is steady on Eriol.
"I'd rather irritate you than make you ignore me." Calmly said, Eriol accompanies his words with a shrug. "Not many people can deal with me and not blush, so it was nice to spar verbally with you."
"Well, you'll have to live without it," Peydra says. "Find someone else to abuse. I'm really not all that fun when it comes right down to it." The words there have a bit of an edge; for all of her protestations to the contrary, the brownrider does have a woundable ego.
Eriol frowns at the woman, a furrow forming between his eyebrows. "I disagree. I think you are lots of fun to talk with." Just prickly. "And I'm sorry I asked you for a kiss. I didn't actually think you'd do it." A peculiar mix of emotions -- shock, sadness and a bit of embarrassment (oddly enough!) -- flicker in rapid succession across his face. He doesn't have quite as good control over his expression as Peydra does.
Peydra's eyes rest on Eriol for a moment, and she relents finally enough to say, "There are boundaries you do not cross with a person. That was one. Back off."
Eriol continues to stare at Peydra consideringly for a moment before nodding. "Believe me when I say I'm sorry," he says contritely, grey eyes meeting blue. "If it's any comfort, you definitely won that round."
A ghost of a smile crosses Peydra's lips, and she shakes her head. "No," she says. "No, I didn't. I don't think either of us did." Her eyes are quiet, contemplative. "Although I came closer than you."
Eriol sticks his tongue out immaturely. So much for all the solemn reputation of the Head Steward (if there ever was such a thing in the first place). "I say you won it. Technically." Impish mirth reappears and lightens his eyes to near-blue. "I hope that that's not the final round, though."
Peydra snorts at that, the thick mood in the room lightening with the sound as much as Eriol's debonair tongue-sticking. "Oh, is this to be our next round, then? Who won the last round? Kind of stupid for us both to be arguing the other's side."
"So true!" Eriol replies, beaming. "And it's far too much fun arguing for ourselves, isn't it?" Oh-so-innocent (and oh-so-smug), the steward, gestures to the chairs. "Care to sit, or do you have somewhere to be? That /doesn't/ require flying."
"Careful, Eriol," Peydra warns. "Wine stains more than ale does." That said, she lifts her glass to sip, her eyes not leaving the steward. She sits, though, yielding that point.
Eriol flops bonelessly into his seat, pouting at Peydra. "You're cruel. And, might I note, wine stains don't show on black material." Smirk. "But I don't want to /tempt/ you into anything, oh no."
"No?" Peydra dips a finger into the glass and flicks a droplet of red liquid in the steward's direction, a gesture that could be more graceful than it is in her execution. "Mmm."
Eriol sticks his tongue out once again as the wine splatters upon his cheek. "Missed the clothes!" he teases. A young lad wearing the knot of an assistant steward makes his way over to the chairs, casting a wary glance towards Peydra. "Eriol, one of the bags of grain has been gotten into by tunnelsnakes and we need your help to check on the rest of them." Heaving a weary sigh, Eriol tosses a bit of a dramatic eye-roll towards Peydra, then nods at his assistant. "Be right there."
Peydra simply smiles, a brief, faintly mischievous expression. "Ta," she shoos him on his way.
Eriol has left.