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17-09-01: True love
Lymera and R'yn -- lovers true. And Llysereth, who hates shoes.

You walk out to Bowl.

Seran looks up from oiling his young firelizards, where he sits near the entrance to the barracks. "Good day W'yn." He gives him a salute. "I'm alright, how are you?" He asks.

Ysmalath comes down the ramp from Ysmalath's ledge.

Lydiere's boot is the first thing visible, flying through the air from the entrance to the hatching grounds, black sand following in a rather pretty trellis. The rider herself appears, hopping on one foot as she attempts to retrieve the boot--"Fardles, Llysereth!" There's a rumble from within; the boot, evidently, is an offending object. "Oh, er, hi." She manages, even, to smile. Woefully.

W'yn is stood near Seran, only just meeting the candidate, returning the salute but his broad smile ending it as if he was bashful about it. "Im well thankyou, just going to try and move the bronze lump to go and eat something.." ahh but he is in no rush. Other sounds of motions catch his ear and, stopping his eyes from going slightly wide and chuckling, he bows lightly to Lymera and Lydiere, moving to retrieve the boot.

Lymera wanders in, hands in pockets, followed by a large -- well, large compared to humans, if not compared to other golds -- lump... uh... dragon. Face is grim, as a finger extends to prod towards a corner of the bowl. "Sit. Stay." Smugly, the dragon moves with serpentile smoothness -- just to annoy her rider even more, methinks -- to the corner of the bowl and curls up, dropping a large hat from her mouth between the watchful length of her arms. That done, Lymera turns to approach the occupants of the bowl -- and begins to try to smother her chuckles as at the flying boot. (I wonder if we could try impressing someone to it.) "You okay there, Lydiere?" Still, there's that grin. It's nice to see someone else's lifemate torturing their rider. "Hi, W'yn -- Seran, isn't it?"

Seran smiles. "Good to hear, I'm doing alright." He blinks, and raises a brow at the boot that comes flying in the bowl, and tries not to laugh as Lydiere comes hopping in after it. He gives both weyrwoman a salute as they enter. "Good day." He greets toward them, and nods to Lymere. "Yes, I'm Seran." He replies.

The boot strikes a rather dejected pose, in a beautiful pile of gleaming black sand that makes it rather an odd sight -- misplaced egg, perhaps? Lydiere, still hopping, gives a rueful grimace--"Llysereth takes offense to my boots. I think she thinks that they have suicidal tendancies, and want to take her eggs. I swear," she glances briefly towards Ysmalath, "she takes after Ysmalath more than I thought. She's odd, at the moment. No," she concludes rapidly, "offense. I swear. -- Oh, shards, thanks, W'yn. Toss it to me, will you?" There is a nod towards Seran in there, as balancing takes on a new level of necessity.

"What do you mean by that?" Lymera asks, mock-threateningly, grin touching her lips as she glances over her shoulder towards Ysma, who simply continues to look smug. Very smug. "Oh dear. Uh..." There's another glance towards Ysma, and she shuffles closer, voice lowering. "By the way. Uh. Ysmalath. If she, uh, took a likening for a certain egg, and, uh, borrowed it -- that'd be suicidal, too, right?" I wonder if they have dragon-sized handcuffs anywhere. "Pleased to meet you Seran! Have you had any really nasty chores yet?"

R'yn heads down ramp to the bowl.

Lydiere raises her right eyebrow towards her hairline, her own gaze moving back to the smug-looking dragon; "Mm-hmm," is her only comment, head shaking ever so slightly. "I think that would deem her quite suicidal, too, yes. Quite, quite suicidal." And how long have you been experiencing these suicidal tendancies, Ysmalath? Still wobbling, Lydiere gathers the runaway boot into her hands, hopping about as she attempts to shove her foot back in. "Remind me to wear sandals, next time. Maybe she'll take less offense." Maybe.

That hat egg must be a plot to do away with Ysmalath. A look is sent from rider-to-dragon. A rather firm look, which isn't unusual, and Ysmalath doesn't /seem/ to be taking the least notice. Which also isn't unusual. But at least she's not trying to sidle her way onto the sands. At the moment. "But sandles /hurt/. I tried them last time -- the heat just shoots straight through them." Nose wrinkles, before Lymera bites her bottom lip. "Or maybe if you added a fur lining or something? Maybe the weavers have one of their special fabrics, or something, that'd be a good insulator? You never know. Weavers have /all/ sorts of stuff. The other day, one of them showed me this set of underwear that you just wouldn't believe." Ahem. Anyway. Coughcough.

Seran blinks as he listens to the gold riders talk, one gold would actually take another golds egg?? Whoa.

And R'yn arrives just in time to hear Lymera's declaration. An arm slides around her waist, and he peers over her shoulder - yes, he's aware he's risking life and limb, but sometimes one needs to live a little, hmmm? "I'd believe it, if you showed it to me," he offers hopefully, winking a greeting to both Lydiere and Seran.

Lydiere groans good naturedly as she sets her foot back down, laces flopping about beneath, untied, "Maybe that'd work. Or maybe I could just stand in a bucket of water -- hey, a *pool* of water! -- and not wear shoes at all." This bears further thought, her hair twisted between two fingers as she considers. "I'll see what they can do. Anything has got to be better than projectile boots. Filled with sand. -- underwear? *Now* I'm interested." She winks, leaning down to shake at her foot, sand flying off--although this time, the boot remains in place. "In a daring mood, I see, R'yn," she offers, by way of greeting.

"Mind if I borrow that boot, Lydiere, dear? Since it's already had some flight experience?" Lymera's tone is very sweet, accompanied by a fluttering of lashes. She's a darling, really. A homicidal darling. Although, R'yn's not shrugged off, perhaps because she's completely distracted by the underwear topic. "Can you believe those frippancies? And what's the point in wearing something that has more lace than fabric, and not much of that?" When a mummy and a daddy like eachother verrry much... "It's not even very comfortable!" Seran is glanced at, head tilting to the side. "What do you think? They'd be better spent making /real/ outfits, if you ask me." Of course, this is the rider who rarely wears a skirt.

"Oh, and a pool sounds /fun/." Sniffle. "Why didn't I ever think of that?"

R'yn, finding that his arm is still attached to his body, ventures to wrap the other around his weyrwoman's waist, tone flippant as he replies - well aware that any minute now the weyrwomen will be constructing a pool for the sole purpose of drowning him in it. "I'm not sure comfort is the most important issue, with that sort of thing. I suspect the idea is that one doesn't wear it for very long, so comfort's less important than appearance. You're irresistable whatever you wear, Ly. Even those awful blue trousers."

Lydiere, equally sweetly, agrees, "Oh, be my guest, a good battering does a boot a good turn, I do believe." She winks charmingly -- at least, it *might* be defined as charming; in reality, it's probably just a good old fashioned wink -- as she pushes lips into a clucking sound, quite endearing, really. "And *lace* is uncomfortable in any form. Then again, so is much fabric." She brushes dark sand from her hole-ridden breeches, glancing back at Seran: "Yes. What do you think? You're likely to be more realistic than R'yn, right?" She pauses, turning back to note, "I don't think it's fair that *men* don't have to dress in those things." Firm nod. So there.

Seran shrugs. "I think the boots would be better made for sands, I mean, most of the time, they're thicker soled then sandles."

"My blue trousers are nice, thank you very much." Lymera looks up at R'yn, looking her sweetest, before -- boots with very high heels come crashing down on one of his too-close feet. Honestly, she likes R'yn. It's just she likes him so much more when he's jumping down and in pain. "Do you still think that I'm irresistable, daaarrrliiiing?" Lymera attempts to pull away. One arm is one thing. Two is going over /that/ line. Seran is eyed, then, with a wrinkled nose. "Nooo, not about the feet -- about the underwear! I think men should be made to wear the lace. Hey, R'yn? Do you think that we could talk you into that?" Even though Lymera just tried to lame him?

R'yn winces, releasing his hold on Lymera and hopping backwards, foot clutched in both hands. "I adore you, Ly. I know the feeling's mutual, but I wish you'd phrase your self-denial a little more gently..." Seran's retreating form is eyed with a wince-grin, and he shakes his head, gingerly setting his foot down. "Poor lad. The sands will hold no fear, after a little longer here."

"Nothing to fear at Ista, surely?" announces Lydiere, blithely. "Especially not from the sands, as long as he goes barefooted." She's amused, at the foot-crushing, although manages to have the decency to wince -- "Traumatized. You're right, he must be. Poor kid, seeing that kind of relationship between his weyrleaders."

Lymera smiles at R'yn, voice literally dripping honey. "Would you like me to try the boot?" Worth a try. Hands go back into her pockets as Lymera coughs slightly. "He's seen the mother and grandmother. I'm sure he's feeling /perfectly/ calm." Considering that the mother takes dislikes to boots, and the grandmother stole a visiting Lord's hat. Although, Lymera's not going to mention the last. "What? He should be feeling comforted, knowing with sureness that his Weyrwoman is a woman with sense, unlike many of the riders here." R'yn is peered at, examined theatrically. "I just don't understand where you get your energy from."

R'yn grins, stepping more firmly onto his foot - injuries are for mere mortals! - and sketching a florid bow. "I am inspired by your beauty every waking moment, my weyrwoman." Quicksilver eyes are dancing as he looks up to the two women - something has him more amused than this situation warrants, but he doesn't seem about to indicate what that might be. "For now, though, I'll have to take my inspiration and begone. I have to see the Master Printer before the day's out."

Lydiere mock-sighs, noting through mirth-restraining lips, "Such a loss to our conversation, indeed. Be well, R'yn." See, *she* can be polite -- but she doesn't have a running love-hate relationship with the man. Surely that's got to make a difference. "Er. Maybe you're right, Lymera. Calm I would not be."

"Ooooh, I'm sure. I can see you sparkling with inspiration, right now. I'd better go and rest my eyes, it's so bright." Lydiere is grinned at. "Or, at the very least, discuss wine supplies with Valesa." Very interesting topic, that both WW and HW take /great/ interest in.

R'yn wrinkles his nose at the Weyrwoman, the very model of a hardworking 'leader, and then with a wink for Lydiere, he's gone, striding over to where Zippith's winging down into the bowl - and rumbling a deep greeting to Ysmalath. At least those two get on.

"Fine!" calls Lydiere, shifting back towards the sands, shaking out boots full of sand--"I'll go and brave the shoe-monster again." Such is life. Awful, really.