[prp] Roses Are Red, So Is Redwort [Zyamel/Nyara + dergs]

[Sweet Symmetry]

Uta

Apologies for this most atrocious starter!

Though Nyara had become a dragonrider, it still didn’t feel quite real, and she often found herself double-checking that Mictecath wasn’t a figment of her imagination; the reality was that it wasn’t all that different to candidacy. She still had chores, and lessons, and regimented physical exercise: only now there were more lessons, with more groups, and more things to remember, as well as a hungry, seemingly ever-growing dragon to feed and bathe, and a world that suddenly became a lot more forceful with its pressure.

She didn’t mind all that, of course. Nobody in their right mind would, knowing the great, infinite depths of love that awaited them upon Impression. Nyara had willingly stepped into candidacy as soon as she was old enough to be allowed into the barracks, and had never looked back since. The five Turns it had taken to meet Mictecath made her arrival all the more sweeter, and the adoration only grew in her heart and mind for the golden queen who called her her own.

Still, she would be happy if there were less chores. The smell of the infirmary permeated her clothes now, and the redwort stains were visible on her dark skin. Nyara scrubbed her hands for what must have been fifteenth time over the basin, tutting in disgust. “Hey, Zyamel, could you pass me that soapsand over there? The one with that floral fragrance? You know Ishmi, the cook? She swears by it for stain removal. Here’s hoping…”

It had been wonderful to Impress alongside the ex-candidate-enthusiast; having grown up as weyrbrats with but two Turns apart, it had been easy to strike up a friendship with Venandith’s rider. “How is Venandith doing, by the way? Looking as handsome as ever?” Nyara glanced over her shoulder, gaze lingering on Mictecath, who seemed to be studying the recovering dragons in the infirmary.

If he isn’t admiring himself in some shiny reflection or other, I would be most surprised. Mic spoke to Nyara alone, her voice a trace critical. Venandith was an interesting sibling- harmless, she deemed, but his self-love was so grandiose that he forgot to share it with others. Well. The love part, anyways. They were all the unwilling victims of his more self-absorbed, self-interested affections.

Quote:

Nyaranau [HR] - 19 - she/her/hers - Weyrling of Gold Mictecath

 

[Uta]

Sweet Symmetry

Life had changed with Venandith as part of her life. On the one hand, like many who Impressed, the girl had absolutely blossomed underneath the magic of Impression. Where she had once been focused on biding her time, waiting to find Her most perfect green, she now found her every minute tied up with the love of Pern's most gorgeous brown. She had always been so sure she would find her match, but Venandith had blown away any and all expectations.

Zyamel had never thought she could love another like she did Venandith. The brown dragon made her laugh with his antics, and she couldn't blame him for his narcissism. He was as perfect a dragon as she'd ever seen, and anyone who couldn't see that was blind. She would be his greatest advocate and defender...but also knew the brown only seemed to love her as much as he loved himself. As far as Zyamel was concerned, nothing else mattered.

"Here you go, beautiful," she spoke amicably, her words harmless. Zyamel was such a flirt that she called just about any girl she met some sort of complimentary name. For once in her life, though, her focus was still so bound to Venandith that any thoughts of truly flirting were completely silenced.
There was no true meaning behind her words; just good nature. Even if she wasn't so enraptured with her brown, Zyamel wouldn't put him (or any other weyrling) at risk by putting on a move.

Until she had her own weyr, she wasn't going to do anything-- her mother hadn't raised a fool, after all.

"If Ishmi's concoction doesn't work, then at least be thankful we've got some riding gloves! The stains have to come out someday," she mused, looking down at her own hands. Thankfully, she didn't much mind or care; though her darker skin meant the stains were also just a bit less visible. "Ven's doing fabulously, thank you. Growing like a weed, but that's no surprise." She mused. "He's going to be disappointed when he discovers he won't always get oiled daily." Not that Zyamel would object--but Venandith was already outpacing some of the smaller bronzes for size, and she knew there was no way a rider could fit in a daily bath and oiling when they were full grown. "What about Mictecath? How's she?"

Venandth, for his part, let his eyes whirl a bright blue-green. The dragon had been curled up in the infirmary, watching and waiting for his to be done. The patients didn't much interest him, and there weren't many reflective surfaces for him to admire himself. It was a bit of a dull experience for the brown--but he also understood some within the infirmary were there due to Thread. The Enemy. The Enemy had planned to destroy once he was large enough to do so.

Still, Mictecath was near, and the brown wasn't completely unaware of her. It won't be long before we fight Thread. He mused, both curious, and a bit thoughtful. He was quite certain that he'd be regaled as a hero, and would save many from the great evil that would rain from the skies. But he was not so unaware to believe that he would not also get injured in the process. Hopefully, of course, his beautiful face would be spared.  

[Sweet Symmetry]

Uta

The rolling lilt to Zyamel’s words brought a grin to Nyara’s face- or perhaps it was the words themselves. Harmless, yes, but they were also quite amusing too. Being cut from the same cloth, Nya could appreciate the woman’s frankness and easy-going, approachable ways. “Ta very much, dear.” Mmm, and the soapsand did smell so wonderful.

She scrubbed her hands, tilting her head slightly as Zyamel continued. “Pff, walking around with riding gloves all day… people are gonna think I’m contagious or something.” Nyara laughed, and then blew out a long, over exaggerated sigh. “Might be my fate though... Shards, even this isn’t working.” She shook her hands, then rubbed them gingerly on a towel. “I’ll be glad when we’re done with these chores and graduate into full-time rider-hood.” It was, perhaps, poor form to complain in the infirmary, but Nyara wasn’t gifted with the best sense of tact- that was still a work in progress, much to the quiet horror of her fellow Weyrwomen.

At the sound of Venandith’s voice, Mic’s attention shifted from the patients to her brown sibling. She tilted her head slightly, surprised he hadn’t started or ended with ‘I’m going to prove to everyone I’m the greatest hero-dragon of all’. Yes… we will protect our home with everything that we have, no matter the cost. Our family depends on us. Her tone grew more passionate as she spoke, finding it easy to concentrate her fury on a single common Enemy. It was better than dwelling on problems she couldn’t solve. I am only sorry I cannot breathe fire and fight alongside you, my dear Venandith.  

[Uta]

”Sweet Symmetry”

Zyamel gave a small laugh and a shrug. “If they’re stained, then they’re stained; you’re likely not the only one with decorative hands, and I’m sure it’ll fade with time. Besides, if someone’s put off simply because you’ve the look of a hard-worker, then I’d say they’re not worth your time, anyway.” She paused a moment before giving another laugh. “Unless being a hard-worker is a reputation you’re trying to avoid!” She joked with a devious grin.

As a weyrling, though, there was no avoiding hard-work. Even the most lazy and uninterested weyrling would find themselves forced into long days. Between feeding, oiling, and bathing ones dragon, playing with them, bonding with them, mucking out the barracks, morning lessons, afternoon lessons, drills, chores, and assignments, time went by swiftly! Even the dragonets were kept busy between napping, tussling, playing, and being guided by older dragons in daily distractions.

“Graduation can’t come soon enough,” Zyamel agreed with a sigh. Impression had been the best thing that had ever happened to her; Venandith was the sweetest, silliest, brown dragon she had ever had the opportunity to meet. Everyday she learned something new about him; he was a vain creature, and his vanity matched her own--but there was more to him than just foolishness. There was passion, and desire, and a drive to fight, a drive to go against the Enemy, and tear it from the sky, and a sharp mind to match her own. Honestly, the two were perfectly matched. She’d always thought a fighting green would be her lifelong companion, but it was Venandith she was waiting for, her little handsome man. “There’s a long way to go, and no guarantee we’ll even get there,” she mused, “but I’m ready to be more than just a Candidate.” More than just Zheria’s daughter, or some heart-breaker with a line of ladies. Oh, she knew it was all but guaranteeing an early death, but Zyamel wasn’t afraid. There was no shame in death by duty, no shame in falling… If she and Ven were able to save even a single life, that would be worth it.

The brown dragon gave a small stretch, uncurling a bit from where he had been resting. He considered Mictecath’s words, before giving a small snort. You may not flame, but you ensure each of us who falls does not fall to their deaths; you may not flame, but your riders sweeps up the strands and patches we fail to catch. You ensure our deaths are not in vain, sweet Mictecath, by guaranteeing there’s a future for generations to come. We were all hatched to serve our duty, and yours is as important as any others. Vendandith was confident in such an assessment; he knew well that each color had its own role to play in the deadly dance against Threadfall. The Enemy surely cannot withstand the fight our clutchmates and family will bring. Especially with such fighters like you and I. And that was the truth.