Hello loves! While I haven't been writing, I have been working on updating some issues that have been hanging around on the layout! The Character change box is now at the bottom of the page, beside the up/down arrows! Green and Gold dragon flight dates have been shifted to the bottom of the page, where the (useless!) discord widget was located. Where the dragon flights were in the header, is now replaced by a Monthly Event box! This will be updated at the start of each month, with a fun mini-event you can take part in, if you want to! Thistle!
03.Jan.20, 04:22 AM
N’mor wasn’t much of a fan of surprises. He didn’t mind them too much if he knew they were coming his way, but as a rule he wasn’t a fan. Which was why he wasn’t thrilled when T’ryn came waltzing into the gathering looking so utterly fuckable that N’mor was worried someone would call him out on it. Thankfully, his shirt was long, and his pants weren’t nearly that tight and he was able to sort of slink along on the outskirts feigning conversation with various people as he slowly slunk closer. The woman he had expected – T’ryn had mentioned the ‘date’ in passing previously, he’d even mentioned in passing that he was getting some new clothing made. Nothing – nothing – he had said had in any capacity indicated that THAT was what he was going to look like.
Of course, it would be Casa that threw herself onto his friend, clearly embarrassing all three of them, and N’mor scowled at her, before choking in response o her comment, outraged at her saying such things in a Hold when everyone knew she was on the brink of being made a Weyrwoman. Was she really so lacking in class? Self-respect? Faranth! Managing to breathe again, N’mor lifted his glass of wine to his lips and took a sip, watching Casa laugh before wandering off with someone else. N’mor turned to watch T’ryn and his lady friend walk towards the drinks, and took another sip from his own glass, before following. He was rather proud of the fact that he wasn’t leering at T’ryn’s arse, but the look Mylorah shot him was far too knowing. N’mor lifted an eyebrow at her pointedly before turning away and catching up to his best friend.
“He’s quite good,” N’mor agreed with Cazan, speaking lowly as he joined them, and giving her a half bow of greeting, lifting his glass partly in a toast and partly to indicate his single hand was full and so explain why he didn’t take up her own to place a kiss on it. He’d spent far too much time around his own Aunt, T’ryn’s Aunt, and Lady Amarilla. Plus, he had his own goals of the future, and unlike Casa, N’mor had every desire to be a respectable person of authority. He would certainly not allow someone like her to be Weyrwoman when he claimed his own Weyr!
A crooked little smirk tilted up one corner of N’mor’s lips, “And you won’t escape Aunt Eridella,” he promised, pale eyes sparkling in amusement. “Especially as you’re a fresh face.” Turning to smirk at T’ryn, N’mor’s expression was wickedly playful. “You made quite the entrance, T.” Unable to let anyone – and especially not T’ryn – know how much he was lusting after his friend (especially since he’d worked so hard for the past couple years to squish that desire. Squish it into the depths of between and focus on Z’rin… who wasn’t at the party.) N’mor opted for teasing him, because that was normal. “I must say,” he added, flashing a wicked smirk, “It’s absolutely tragic that I’ll never be able to wear them.” Even if he did manage to steal the pants off T’ryn, and squeeze his slightly shorter, slightly broader frame into them, there was no way he’d be able to manipulate them with just one hand.
Turning back to Cazan, N’mor’s expression gentled into a warm smile, though his eyes still sparkled mischievously. “Your brother does fine work. Do you think he’d be interested in taking a look at some things for me? Most items, I’ve found, don’t cater to a missing limb.” And he lifted the stump of his right arm in a silly little shrug. The shirt he was wearing had been carefully cut at about elbow length, and then pinned back to neatly fold around the stump, which was only about a hand’s-width of limb past the shoulder. While in Katila, he’d managed to re-work his own clothes himself, albeit messily, but since the move North he’d yet to find someone who did good work, and while his Aunt had loaned him her tailor, N’mor found the idea of a Crafter of such fine work, who lived in his own Weyr (at least for now) to be far too tempting to let escape without a query.
Of course, it would be Casa that threw herself onto his friend, clearly embarrassing all three of them, and N’mor scowled at her, before choking in response o her comment, outraged at her saying such things in a Hold when everyone knew she was on the brink of being made a Weyrwoman. Was she really so lacking in class? Self-respect? Faranth! Managing to breathe again, N’mor lifted his glass of wine to his lips and took a sip, watching Casa laugh before wandering off with someone else. N’mor turned to watch T’ryn and his lady friend walk towards the drinks, and took another sip from his own glass, before following. He was rather proud of the fact that he wasn’t leering at T’ryn’s arse, but the look Mylorah shot him was far too knowing. N’mor lifted an eyebrow at her pointedly before turning away and catching up to his best friend.
“He’s quite good,” N’mor agreed with Cazan, speaking lowly as he joined them, and giving her a half bow of greeting, lifting his glass partly in a toast and partly to indicate his single hand was full and so explain why he didn’t take up her own to place a kiss on it. He’d spent far too much time around his own Aunt, T’ryn’s Aunt, and Lady Amarilla. Plus, he had his own goals of the future, and unlike Casa, N’mor had every desire to be a respectable person of authority. He would certainly not allow someone like her to be Weyrwoman when he claimed his own Weyr!
A crooked little smirk tilted up one corner of N’mor’s lips, “And you won’t escape Aunt Eridella,” he promised, pale eyes sparkling in amusement. “Especially as you’re a fresh face.” Turning to smirk at T’ryn, N’mor’s expression was wickedly playful. “You made quite the entrance, T.” Unable to let anyone – and especially not T’ryn – know how much he was lusting after his friend (especially since he’d worked so hard for the past couple years to squish that desire. Squish it into the depths of between and focus on Z’rin… who wasn’t at the party.) N’mor opted for teasing him, because that was normal. “I must say,” he added, flashing a wicked smirk, “It’s absolutely tragic that I’ll never be able to wear them.” Even if he did manage to steal the pants off T’ryn, and squeeze his slightly shorter, slightly broader frame into them, there was no way he’d be able to manipulate them with just one hand.
Turning back to Cazan, N’mor’s expression gentled into a warm smile, though his eyes still sparkled mischievously. “Your brother does fine work. Do you think he’d be interested in taking a look at some things for me? Most items, I’ve found, don’t cater to a missing limb.” And he lifted the stump of his right arm in a silly little shrug. The shirt he was wearing had been carefully cut at about elbow length, and then pinned back to neatly fold around the stump, which was only about a hand’s-width of limb past the shoulder. While in Katila, he’d managed to re-work his own clothes himself, albeit messily, but since the move North he’d yet to find someone who did good work, and while his Aunt had loaned him her tailor, N’mor found the idea of a Crafter of such fine work, who lived in his own Weyr (at least for now) to be far too tempting to let escape without a query.
