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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, Isa, Persephone, Gazali, and Psychotic here. Eriol is here. Obvious exits: Entry Hall Central Hallway North Corridor South Corridor |
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A solidly muscular build cinches Peydra's steady androgyny: broad shoulders support a heavy frame with little fat. At five foot, nine inches, she stands well above average for a woman, her mass imposingly laid out. Thick arms and legs have the bulk of muscle considered appealing on a man, but less attractive without the Y chromosome. Her dirty blond hair is slowly growing, a riot of curls held back and tamed via a visible clutter of hairpins. Still not quite long enough to reach the collar of her shirt in the back, it is sufficient to obscure the brownrider's vision. 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 short blue tank top covers most of Peydra's torso, leaving a few inches of her stomach bare. Well-defined shoulders and biceps are left uncovered by the simple shirt, and a clear tan line marks her biceps halfway down. Her shorts are a light brown in hue, just a few degrees north of tan, and end several inches above her knees, bearing legs that cannot be called shapely, though they do have definite shape. Peydra looks to be in her late teens. |
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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. |
"Yes, I've told you repeatedly, I'm alive." Eriol's voice is flat and faintly amused as he makes another notation in his messy scrawl. An assistant steward hovers cautiously next to him, her face vaguely worried and eyes wide. "Look. Not missing any body parts."
Peydra emerges from the northern corridor, tugging a slightly damp shirt into place and shoving back a handful of wet curls with a rough motion. Her eyes flicker to Eriol, to the assistant steward, and she inquires, her tone somewhat flat: "What, you curious about how it feels to be dead or gelded?"
With a squeak, the hapless assistant flees, her skirt flaring out behind her as she disappears down a corridor. "Really, Peydra-love-" Smirk. "-you shouldn't scare the poor dear like that. She's harmless, really."
Eriol sets the quill pen aside, shaking his head as he pinches the bridge of his nose in mockery of a headache. "All day. From males and females," he replies dryly, "Males want to know how it was -- don't worry, I told them it was none of their business -- and females demanding to know if I've been hurt."
Peydra settles into a seat. "Ah, my reputation," she sighs contentedly, rubbing slightly at her shoulder. "How appropriate, somehow. The men are interested in info on the sex, the women interested in the man's pain. Sounds right to me. And we need to talk." Wuh-oh. /Already/?
Ah." No simple sigh is that single syllable; rather, a world of wary query. "Really? Just let me clear up, Peydra, and then we can talk." Quickly and neatly, he gathers up his hides, rolling them up into a neat bundle and placing them in the carisack at the base of his chair. It's just what it seems to be -- a chance to buy time. "What did you want to talk about?"
"Um." Peydra waits patiently -- well, somewhat patiently. Without pressing him. "Well, this morning. Mostly. And -- well, what you said. And what I said. And -- that."
Eriol quirks an eyebrow, popping briefly back into view over the edge of the table. "'That'?" he asks, evidently deciding the uselessness of prolonging his cleanup and sitting upright. "Peydra..."
"Yes, /that/," Peydra replies, her tone just a smidge irritable. "I'm sorry. All right? That's what I wanted to say. I'm sorry I -- contradicted you or whatever. You probably know what your talking about a sharding lot better than I do. But -- don't rush me, okay? Or -- Faranth, or even expect anything. Because I -- I don't know. About a lot of stuff."
"I wasn't planning to." In this, Eriol's sure. The morning-after was something pretty odd, but he's been out in fresh air since. "Not going to rush you, not going to do anything you don't want me to do. And-" He lifts a hand, index finger pointing upwards. "-I have a certain brown dragon that would chomp me and char me if I did."
Peydra's gaze skews upwards too, tracing an uncannily precise line to her Weyr. "I don't know about that," she says, her voice dry. "He'd probably think it was good for me or something. Like the hair. Or that stupid skirt."
Eriol smothers a chuckle. "A skirt? I think I would've liked to have seen that," he notes, then snaps his mouth shut. "But anyway, I don't expect anything. I can hope for things, but I don't expect them from anyone unless it's a business deal." Moral philosophy comes from the oddest places.
"I didn't buy it," Peydra observes drily. "But... good. Just wanted to make sure that was... said. And. Um. I don't hate you." There we go. Eriol has just received the bulk of her new insight about him for the day.
"I have a feeling that if you hated me, I would've been at the Healers' by now," Eriol comments dryly, though his eyes twinkle slightly. "Missing a couple rather vital body parts." He relaxes his expression, a smile appearing upon his face. "Thank you for telling me, though."
"That's not true," Peydra defends, a bit feebly. "I don't maim people." Really. She just hurts them. And that not always. "I just would have belted you." Don't ask when. She can't count the moments.
Eriol's expression splits into a wide grin. "I'm actually surprised you didn't when we first met. Why /were/ you going to Fort in that storm, anyway? You're unusual, but not /that/ unusual," he asks, cocking his head in query.
Peydra pauses for a moment, her lips twisting into a smile. "I just needed to get up there," she says. "Into the air. Away. Kin -- Kin gets into this... this state when he's flying, and I get swept along with it. It's like I'm part of the air, and -- " She shakes her head slightly. "And it had been a bad day." Obviously.
"Something to do with Weyrwoman Elisa and Jyfer?" Eriol hazards, arching a brow at Peydra. "But it sounds like a wonderful idea, flying with your dragon." Not that he's jealous; he's got his life already.
"Yeah," Peydra says, her tone a bit wry. "That was an unpleasant time." She shrugs once, a vague half-hitch of her shoulder. "But I wanted to get somewhere where I could... move. Breathe. And you were being an ass." She states this fairly bluntly; Peydra is not one to pull punches.
"Telling you that you were being an idiot for going out in an thunderstorm with driving winds and heavy rain makes me an idiot?" Eriol shakes his head, leaning forward and waggling a finger at her. "I don't think so, even if you were about to beat any sense out of me."
"I didn't say that you were being an idiot," Peydra observes. "I said that you were being as ass. And you were. For grabbing me and trying to /physically/ stop me from going out, when I am an adult and can sharding well just my own limitations and my dragon's."
Eriol shrugs, leaning back in his chair. "I suppose you do, at that. But what I said then still applies: I didn't want to mourn a dragonrider. 'specially not you," he replies coolly, then smiles. "You came back all right, thank Faranth, so I didn't have to."
Peydra simply eyes Eriol for a minute, her gaze a bit suspicious. Oh yeah. They're /all/ daisies and sunshine now. "Huh," she says, trying to figure out what proportion of that worked out to conpliment and what part to insult. She decides to let it drop for now. "So. What've you been doing today? Other than fending off the voyeurs?"
Eriol gestures down at his carisack, shrugging. "Hidework, mostly. It's been slower than usual, but I wanted to make sure that we're prepared if there is a problem this Turn with tithe." His voice is casual, but still somewhat tense. "I think we'll be fine, but I can't be entirely sure."
"Oh." Peydra's tone this time is entirely different, and her forehead creases for a minute as she glances down at the carrysack. "You're worried," she notes astutely. "You think it's anything we wouldn't be able to supplement?" They've done it before, they can do it again. A bit absently, she begins fingercombing her drying hair, not doing much more than making sure it's all pointed vaguely downward, rather than straight up.
"You have a point, but I was talking about when we're not supplementing it." Eriol chuckles, eyes twinkling. "I'd prefer that our reputation stay somewhat honest, you see." An assistant -- the same one from earlier -- pads cautiously up, tapping Eriol's shoulder meekly and murmuring something in his ear. "I'm sorry, Peydra. The drudges have gotten themselves into trouble with the laundry again, and the Headwomen are all busy, so I have to go straighten the mess out."
Peydra nods once. "Sure," she says. "Have fun. You're coming up tonight, right?" There are all those stairs... but then, she's got the private room.
"Sounds like a plan to me," Eriol replies before padding off. The steward left behind tosses Peydra a slightly irritated glance -- jealousy is somewhat present in regards to Eriol -- before following closely behind the man.
Eriol has left.