24.Aug.13, 12:08 AM
Z'jan shrugged all of S'cer unsaid commentary. He could tell the fellow weyrling was holding back, but no idea to what extent, or if it was even relevant to Z'jan. Maybe he was thinking about someone else entirely. How was Z'jan to know?
"You know, I'm probably not right, to be honest," he said with a smile, rinsing soap from his torso. "I don't worry to much with right. Doing right, being right... who really cares? As long as I'm happy, and Ghalath's happy, well,--" he hesitated, finding himself in an awkward vocabunundrum "then everything's alright."He recovered quickly, however. And by recovered, he simply forgot he'd been awkwardly stuck a moment before. As was his style.
"And man, what're you apologizing for? Do whatever you want. Think whatever you want. You're probably right either way. And if you're not? Fuck it. Fuck em." he shrugged and grinned. He held S'cer's gaze willingly, but had no knowledge of its significance. Z'jan made eye contact all the time. Technically, it was the best way to look at people.
At S'cer's appraisal, Z'jan peered down at himself. He was waist deep in water, but he seemed clean enough. At first he thought S'cer was referring to the small scratches that marked his chest and arms. "Oh, yeah, fucking thorn trees--" he'd already started to answer, when instead S'cer shifted, pointed. Oh. His back. Z'jan twisted, gazing quizzically at place that was obviously not gazeable. At S'cer's offer, Z'jan was more than willing.
"Knock yourself out!" He turned his back to S'cer with full trust and absolute comfort in his skin. "When Ghalath was growing insanely fast, her hide cracking like dried wherry, I swear my arms were so tired I dreamt of someone taking me out and washing and oiling me for a change!" He concluded with a laugh... and utter obliviousness to how suggestive he'd just sounded.
"You know, I'm probably not right, to be honest," he said with a smile, rinsing soap from his torso. "I don't worry to much with right. Doing right, being right... who really cares? As long as I'm happy, and Ghalath's happy, well,--" he hesitated, finding himself in an awkward vocabunundrum "then everything's alright."He recovered quickly, however. And by recovered, he simply forgot he'd been awkwardly stuck a moment before. As was his style.
"And man, what're you apologizing for? Do whatever you want. Think whatever you want. You're probably right either way. And if you're not? Fuck it. Fuck em." he shrugged and grinned. He held S'cer's gaze willingly, but had no knowledge of its significance. Z'jan made eye contact all the time. Technically, it was the best way to look at people.
At S'cer's appraisal, Z'jan peered down at himself. He was waist deep in water, but he seemed clean enough. At first he thought S'cer was referring to the small scratches that marked his chest and arms. "Oh, yeah, fucking thorn trees--" he'd already started to answer, when instead S'cer shifted, pointed. Oh. His back. Z'jan twisted, gazing quizzically at place that was obviously not gazeable. At S'cer's offer, Z'jan was more than willing.
"Knock yourself out!" He turned his back to S'cer with full trust and absolute comfort in his skin. "When Ghalath was growing insanely fast, her hide cracking like dried wherry, I swear my arms were so tired I dreamt of someone taking me out and washing and oiling me for a change!" He concluded with a laugh... and utter obliviousness to how suggestive he'd just sounded.