I told you, this would be good. Invenirth’s cool voice feels like the soothing power of mint, a calm on him that could barely be rivaled. Western needed us, needs you.
The shuffle down the hallways is a bit cramped, for with the spring looming on, the weather was starting to heat up. Yet all he wanted was to pop down by the lower caverns. His lunch was missed despite the gentle reminders from his dragon, and the prospect of a snack and a cup of something sounded utterly wonderful. He smiles gently, tucked closer to his chest as he walks. Best to not gain attention that he didn’t want -- though riders having conversations with their partners was nothing odd in a Weyr, he supposed. ’Me?’ L’rua shakes his head gently, stepping around a pair who were stopped in the middle of the hallway to have a conversation. Rude. ’You mean you, beloved. I can’t spit fire, after all.
There’s a mental huff, like he could near feel Invenirth physically sigh. But what am I without you? The words were said quite lovingly, as up on his ledge, Invenirth rolled over to sun his belly.
L’rua’s smile widened a tad, but falls as he sees someone glance his way. Yet he’s finally upon the dining hall, the smells of food and drink enticing him in. ’You’re right, but what would I be without you?’ He doesn’t want to rightly think of it, and for once doesn’t let his mind slip to what he had been before, but luck would never be on his side. He bodily runs into someone a bit on the hard side, making the slight man grunt. Something splashes against him, tepid liquid against his legs. His face runs into a hard chest, and L’rua embarrassingly rubs at his face as he backs up. Ow. Ow…
“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t watching-” His gaze flits up, spying the shoulder knots first, and his heart picks up a touch. A wingleader, shaffit. “I hadn’t been paying attention, I’m sorry, I- I… I-Is...” His voice dwindles into a stammer until it slowly dies out, for he’d finally gotten a good look at the man’s face. Up on his ledge, Invenirth stirs from his sunning, yet it all feels so far away. It.. couldn’t be, could it? Turns gone by hadn’t changed a face that he had been prepared to devote himself to, had spent the better part of a turn slowly tracing every line until he knew it by heart. The same face of a man who had crushed his heart so swiftly, he’d never been able to forget him. Yet he cannot even stammer out the man’s name -- would it even be the same? He was a rider, a wingleader. All he can do is stare.
Uta
