Treat Yo' Self

Monaco Bay Weyr - Amphitrite's Day Spa
A stone walkway leads up to the spa building, which is a two-tiered affair, carefully constructed to withstand all sorts of poor weather. A sign out front declares this area to be the Spa, with large, shutter-framed windows in the lobby to let natural light in. The lobby is sectioned off into two regions: one side is the waiting room, where one signs up to be allowed entrance, while the other side is more of a store, with plenty of self-care items on sale, as well as a smoothie bar for those that want something cool and refreshing to drink.

Visitors to the spa side will be given a robe and slippers to wear through their journey, guided by professionals and caring staff-members to their chosen destination. There are several rooms in the spa section, the building a sprawling one, but efficiently designed. Within, one will find all manner of pampering pleasure: massage tables (heated stones optional), hot springs to lounge in, a sauna to sweat it out, and cold baths and showers to reinvigorate the body once all that hot business is done.

Upstairs, a further assortment of activities can be found, ranging from light exercise lessons to a salon that does hair, makeup, and even manicures and pedicures. Meditation is another option, with a few rooms set aside for those who just desire a quiet space to relax in. Between the two floors, any sort of pampering a person desires can be found. Everything is colored in calming hues and decorated with peaceful art of all sorts, with aromatherapy and soft music lending to a uniquely soothing atmosphere.


It's not the best sort of day outside for beach things — rainy in fits, a little on the breezy side, as the afternoon gets into full swing. Maybe the spa is a little more busy, as such, but it's surprisingly quiet inside of the sanctuary of the place. Lots of soothing herbal smells, candles and glows ambient in the dim light of low clouds outside. There's somebody playing some sort of low woodwind instrument, or possibly that's just a trick of the place. One of the newer archvists? He's living his best life. Some sort of hideous green face mask on, cucumbers over his eyes, he's leaning back in a chair and having his nails done. It looks like the harper's already been through the gamut, all fresh and shiny and wearing a ridiculous robe like it's his Job. This, Ityrziel's posture suggests, is what he was made for. Never mind the book he's got next to him — open, pages already detailing things about the spa — that suggests that he might, to some degree, be working while he's relaxing. Details.

The one place nobody who knows him would ever think to look for him, R'en knows the spa is the ideal place to hide - at least, provided that he isn't being looked for by someone who might be /in/ here. A furitive glance is given through the occupants before he steps inside of the place, making a quite visible nose to the scent the permeates the air that is far too strong for .. well, himself. He curls a finger towards one of the people that're tending to the treatments, and then points directly at Ityrziel and then says, "Whatever he has going on there, I want that and maybe some more blankets or towels or something." He gives the person a look like they'd better hurry, though it's unclear whether or not that they recognize that he's the new Weyrleader or not. Another glance back towards the entrance, it seems that he might be trying to hide from someone. Likely, even.

With one hand buffed, Tyr peels off a cucumber eyepatch to examine it, eyeing his nails curiously. "Wow," The harper beams at the manicurist, wiggling fingers. "Never seen them so shiny. This is spectacular." He preens, a little, leans back to let the other hand be taken care of — the eyepatch doesn't go back on, though, because he's squinting thoughtfully at the newest patron. "You absolutely do." Tyr agrees, brightly, apparently deciding that whatever furtive angle the fellow has going on isn't a Bad Thing. "You'll feel like an entirely new person. Have you been to the mud baths yet? Incredible." The harper rhapsodizes, looking a little misty-eyed in the one eye…visible. "I believe they said the mask has seaweed in it. Isn't that strange?" Way to talk up what's happening to you, bud, but you know. At least with the green crap all over it'd be harder to determine who's who, cough cough cough.

"Why would anyone take a bath in mud? Why is that a thing? Mud is the thing you wash off of yourself in the baths." R'en says, clearly he hasn't got the foggiest clue as to what the purpose might be even as he walks over and drops himself in the spot next to Tyr. A towel is snagged on the way, which he decidedly wraps his hair up in like he's just gotten out of the baths, even if he hasn't. The mention of seaweed in the mask makes him make another face, and then he just sighs and leans back into the seat. "This all seems like a little too much. Don't you think? All this laying back and relaxing is going to make people from Monaco seem soft." He complains, and tries to get a better look at the guy he's sitting beside, blue eyes trying to figure out /something/, but failing. "Who are you? I don't think I've met you before, but then, I've only recently returned to Monaco." He says, and sighs, like that's some kind of bad thing - but he doesn't say outright. "If Reya comes in, just don't tell her I'm here." He says, and beckons over the person with the green goo for his face so they can get started.

Ityrziel, relaxing like he was made to do so, shrugs an elegant shoulder, hums under his breath. "It's a special kind of mud? Something about toxins? I'm afraid that I wasn't listening too closely. It smells better than one might think." The harper waves his done-hand absently, lifts an eyebrow at the towel-wrapping; little flakes of mask crackle, and he evens his expression out. "What's wrong with soft?" The harper asks, after a beat, contemplating the warm-washed ceiling above serenely. "Anyhow, this whole thing is for tourists, generally, is my impression. So, soft tourists." He nods, once, eyes closed. "Tyr. Harper, posted for the archives. I'm a recent arrival, as well. Not a bad welcome, don't you think?" A lazy introduction, but in fairness, it is a spa. Lazy is the word of the day! "Who are you? If you don't mind me saying, you seem like a man who could use a massage. Oh, Reya?" Tyr's head pops up, smile flaking off more green bits, but — no Reya. Both eyebrows rise this time, enough to dislodge the harper's second cucumber. "That's a reaction I've not seen, yet. She seems so friendly, too."

"A "special" kind of mud." R'en says, the inflection on the word special makes it seem as though it could very well have air quotes around it without the actual use of his hands to make them. However, he sinks into the chair and lets the person get to work on putting on the green stuff that'll hopefully make him meld into the other people that look like they're just green faced aliens. Perhaps this is the Area 51 people want to infiltrate? Hard to say. "Yeah, tourists. But, I don't know. It seems like something women'd like a lot more than the average guy." Hence, why he's here - nobody'd think to look for him /here/. "Recent arrival, new to the archives. I see. Tyr is it?" He says, trying to catalogue the name to the face before closing his eyes and letting the person get to work. "She is .. nice." He admits, and then tugs another towel to cover his chest. This concealing thing, it's really working, right? "I'm R'en." Though he doesn't actually /say/ he's the Weyrleader, the flight was pretty recent and maybe people know, maybe Harpers know better. "I just need a break." He mutters, and makes a face as the stuff gets slathered on his face. Raising a hand he rubs at an eyebrow, then smears the green stuff on the towel he'd put on his chest. That's why it's there, of course.

The hum that Ityrziel offers up in reply might be amused — hard to tell, as he's sunk back into his lounging chair, and is doing some good lounging. "Mmm. Yes. Mud and mulled wine. Delightful." The harper makes a happy kind of sound, replacing one of the cucumbers, but leaving the other off so he can squint sidelong at the other man. Or alien, truly, this might be The Place; more pleasant than the middle of the desert, certainly. "Do you think?" Poor Tyr is out of his element, contemplating whether women might like a spa better — he doesn't seem to have considered it, but does so now, on a thoughtful pause. "…no, no, I'm very sure that this has been enjoyable. Perhaps you're right, though. Are Weyr men different?" He wonders, not sounding terribly worried about the answer as the manicurist sets to clipping his already-well-kept nails into a more even sort of thing. "Tyr, yes. Ityrziel is a terrible mouthful. Oh, isn't she?" The harper doesn't seem to care that his smile keeps dislodging bits of the glorious green goop. Or, well, he keeps smiling anyways, for all that it goes rueful for the introduction. "Ah. Yes. I see. Yes, I can see where you might get the idea to…take a break, yes." A huff of not-quite laughter, as Tyr focuses on the window across the room, where rain's pattering again. "My lips are sealed, cousin Ben. So glad you could make it. Perhaps you'd enjoy the sauna: it's very far from the rest of the place. Very secluded." The archivist nods, sagely.

Sinking back in his seat, R'en tries to get comfortable even though it grows increasingly obvious that he's keeping an eye on the doorway as though waiting for someone to walk in that he'd rather not see. Well, that's counter productive, isn't it? He finally gives in with a sigh and relaxes, letting the swathing of green goo on his face be finished and waving off the offer of cucumbers. Second thought. He reaches to snag them before the person wanders off and sets them beside himself. Just in case. "Some, maybe. I guess some Bronzeriders might think this is too soft and not manly enough. I think it's.. well, it's fine. It has a purpose." For him, right now, obfuscation. "Sauna? Oh, no. That's the hot place that's harder to breathe in than the sands, isn't it? Why do people /want/ that kind of treatment? I'd never be on the sands if I had the choice." He mutters, knowing -that's- in the far too soon future. "Ityrziel is a long name. Mine was Airen before I got saddled with Sindrieth, still short enough not to be a pain." There's a scrunch of his nose as he glances towards Tyr. "You like dragons? Like, if you could choose to be a rider, would you?"

It takes Tyr a second to cotton on, but once he opens an eyeball long enough to realize that the poor man is watching the doorway furiously, he tips his head thoughtfully back. A beat, and the harper murmurs something at his robe — or the little blue head poking out of it. The firelizard, half-grown or no, grudgingly goes to perch in an alcove in the hall. "He'll, uh, probably warn me. We've been working on that one." Why? Best not to ask, maybe. Tyr's voice is an undertone, still, expression conveying a kind of rueful concern for the poor fellow. "Oh? That seems rather old-fashioned. I thought that the Weyr population was ahead of the times." He murmurs, at length, contemplating his nice buffed hand with a little smile. Nice, clean nails! The manicurist seems to be done clipping the other hand, and has moved on to buffing, now. "Mm, it's warm, true. But quite far away from other people, if you get my drift." HINT, HINT, like he hasn't already hinted pretty heavy-handedly. Nobody's ever accused Tyr of being somebody who's quick on the uptake, bless him. Much like he doesn't cotton on immediately here, instead tutting softly. "I can't imagine. Well, you've some time yet, at least, and eggs don't incubate forever." A beat, and he tilts his head, squinting around one cucumber and one flaking green-goop-eye. "Airen. Suits you, but I'm sure Sindrieth does, too? Isn't that how it goes? Ah…" Tyr laughs, under his breath, head falling back against the cushion again. "Oh, Faranth, who knows? I'm certain I'd faint dead away on the sands. What a sight."

"Depends on the age of the people, I'd say. But, yeah, things sure have been changing." R'en admits, though he finally does settle down as there's been a lack of people who seem to be looking for anyone at all. Most that wander in do a quick look through, while others stay and get something done without really paying too much mind to the pair with green face masks on. The continued hint is noted, though it would appear some hot place seems less pleasing than simply being run into by the person or people he's trying to avoid - for the time being, anyways. Maybe he has hopes that his face mask will be enough, at this point. "No, not forever, and I don't have to go out nearly as much as a Weyrwoman would. Sindrieth doesn't sit on the sands much, truth be told, he's probably more frightened of eggs than fascinated by them." He says with a shrug and then lifts his arms so he can prop his head up with his hands. Seems someone's starting to get comfortable, shh, don't tell him. "I don't think I've ever seen a candidate faint on the sands before, at least, no.. No, I don't think so." He muses, and then lifts his legs to cross those also. Yep, he's not budging now. "Got work after you're done getting your .. what are you getting done, anyways?" He glances over, trying to figure out the whole nail thing. "That's called a what?"

In fairness, the green face masks are probably pretty terrifying — maybe folks are scared. Or maybe they're too mellowed out by the distant woodwinds to care about two dudes hanging out, relaxing with their seaweed. Bless. "True. True." Tyr hums, quiet, seeming to relax when the poor rider finally settles. At least, his eyes are closed, fresh cucumbers newly-placed by an exasperated looking attendant. Tyr is obediently still, then, only his nose wrinkling up with regret for the poor goldriders. "Plenty of them on the sands, it seems like. Faranth, I can't fathom. It's nice with a cold dip after, but to be there constantly?" Tut tut tut, like an old hen, the harper shakes his head minutely. "Bad enough to have part-time duty. You'll need the services of the spa considerably more, sweating like that." A quirk of a grin, there, expression scrunching up with amusement. The manicurist moves through his fingernails efficiently, smoothing them out into a nice shine as Tyr lounges. He's certainly not telling; he's too busy enjoying himself! "I've been dragged along to a few hatchings, and sure, I haven't, but there's always a first time for everything, isn't there?" The stillness, well, it doesn't last long, as he's peeling off his brand new melon to grin at the rider. "I've three 'riding siblings. They would all never let me live fainting on the sands down. Do you have siblings? Can you imagine?" He laughs, head tilting. "I'm taking the day. It's called a manicure, and you should absolutely try it. It feels incredible, if you've been writing all day."

When cucumbers are placed on Tyr's eyes, the attendant seems to suggest that R'en should do the same - but still, he's not going for it. He needs to see, y'see. "Yes, there are plenty of them on the sands and maybe more if things should go awry at Half Moon." He says quietly, shifting some more on the chair to get more comfortable before with a sigh he's finally calming down and relaxing. He gives a look to the manicured nails, then looks at his own, and back at Tyr's before just making a soft huffing sound and shaking his head when someone looks at him like he's interested in having the same. "I've got siblings, but only one of them other than me Impressed. I actually didn't /want/ to, I was happy being a Healer." He says with a sigh, though, those that know him know that he can usually be found in any free time he has in there doing things he'd be doing if he were a rider or not. There's another longer look towards Tyr, narrowing of his eyes, then scrunching his nose which makes the green goo peel off his face too. "Speaking of dragons, Sindrieth is /insisting/ he get a better look at you. Think you could wipe some of that green stuff off? Maybe you want to go for a walk to have a dragon .. what is this called. A dragon facial. Maybe dragon spit has something good for the skin in it, too." He says, and whether the people in the place like it or not, he's wiping his face clean with the towel he'd had draped on himself. Yep, green face all over it.

The happy serenity that Tyr's got on falters a little bit on mention of Half Moon; he nods, short, glances up at the ceiling again with the eye he's freed from its melon-y prison. "I do hope it doesn't. They've had quite enough trouble, recently, without that." The harprer huffs. He doesn't seem to notice that the rider's passed up on a perfectly good opportunity to have his nails done; which is probably a good thing, given the relish with which he's enjoying the thing. "My sister sent me a dozen letters complaining, after they got her on the sands. You healers have one-track minds, don't you." He makes a noise that's part amusement, at least, on a sideways glance. "Not that that's a bad thing. I do enjoy being a harper. Never wanted to be anything else, either. Do you regret it?" …you don't just ask people if they regret Impressing, Ityrziel. But he does. Look at him go, not even giving any indication that he might know that he's made a faux pas. He's too busy squinting one-eyedly at R'en, eyebrows creeping up again. "Is he! Odd. Certainly: it would hardly be sporting to turn down scientific inquiry, would it? There might be something to that." The harper's expression is dry, but he's willing enough, anwyays, looking amused. "Sure, sure. Thank you, Olli, my nails feel the best they ever have. I'll leave my eye pieces in your care, if you don't mind?" He ventures, standing and taking the towel apparently-offers him at the same time.

The person that was helping R'en gives a huff, snatches the towel away and tells him to cool his jets so that the rest of the green can be taken off properly - so that he doesn't look like he faceplanted in some moss or something. R'en begrudgingly agrees, and his own expression is solemn when he speaks of Half Moon. "I was Weyrsecond there, you know. I hope nothing happens, but I fought with Z'tan about moving people here." He says, and then lifts his eyes to the ceiling and sighs, "Now I'm here, and Weyrleader?" He asks, like he still doesn't believe it himself, even so much that he doesn't even have the knot on at the moment to show that he is. "Ah, yeah. No, I don't regret Impressing. I have moments where I feel frustrated, but I don't think it'd be different if I hadn't. This way, I do have Sindrieth to suffer through life with. Even if he seems to try and keep me on my toes every chance he can get." He says, using a hot towel that's given to him to take off the rest of the green goo and he /sighs/. Now that, that he can get behind - the heated towel to take off the goo. "Scientific inquiry, hah. If only you knew how often Sindrieth takes apart his meals bone by bone." He says with a smile, and then lures the young Harper to go meet the bronze.

Tyr seems to be getting the same treatment — or anyways, he's at a little bowl of hot water and towels before he can be tutted over by the poor staffers. "Were you? Not a bad job, Weyrsecond, from my understanding." The harper hums, voice blub-blubbing a little as he dunks his face and scrubs the mask off. The newly-minted Weyrleader gets a sympathetic look as the harper stands, red-faced and looking a little ridiculous for such a serious look. "If you don't mind me saying: all you can do is try. No one person has the ability to completely fix anything." He says, sincere, then immediately wraps his hair in the towel he's used to dry his face. Great. Serious Talk, sure. "I imagine I'd very much wish to be in the infirmary, instead, were I you." The harper quirks a little smile, snorts under his breath. "I get the feeling that dragons are just like that. Haven't ever met a rider who really minded, though. I bet he's delightful." Tyr beams, and it doesn't fade for the last bit — in fact, the journeyman laughs, head-towel arrangement shaking. "Well, there's only one way to really get to know your food, I suppose?"

R'en pushes himself to his feet, tossing the used towels where he was sitting much to the chagrin of the person who has to clean up after him. But, there are certain things that leadership can get away with if they look like they're in a hurry to do something important. Surely, dragging someone off to be a dragon toothpick is something important, right? "No, can't fix everything no matter how much you want to and will always have critics no matter what you do." He admits, and then rubs at the back of one of his ears where some green goo was left behind, and wipes it right on his pants. Yep, seems appropriate. "He's not bad, actually pretty damn nice if you ask me compared to some of the dragons out there." He admits, and thumbs off in the direction of where the bronze lies in wait. It's in the jungle, of course, lest he go and whack something with his tail that he ought not to in the newly constructed resort. Polite, he is. He's quite a large bronze at that, waiting, head lowered as though he's hoping something will walk right into his maw. "Sin, this is Tyr, Tyr, Sin." The rider introduces, and the dragon tries to shove his nose right up to the young man's chest if he's not backed away from. "He'd like if you stood for the clutch on the sands here. Though he says you smell funny, and he'd like if you did that uh, what's it called? Do his talons for him." He says, looking between the bronze and Tyr before laughing. "Not serious, on that last part."

Ityrziel doesn't…LOOK like he's about to relinquish his robe, any time soon, as he doesn't change as he prepares to leave. Maybe he'll give it back later: maybe he's planning on following up the dragon face mask with more mud baths. Who knows, with this one. "That's the truth of it. I suppose we learn to…deal with it, perhaps, as time goes on. Maybe it'll seem mundane, some day." The harper suggests on a lopsided smile, as he follows along, waving jauntily at the staff. "Oh, I know what you mean. There are some real harsh ones. Can't imagine." Tyr's thoughtful, then, as they approach — quick to smile at Sindrieth, though, waving one hand brightly at the dragon. Eyebrows drift skywards, no longer hindered by flaking masks, and he laughs, not backing away from the dragon; he raises a hand, instead, to pat-pat the closest part if the head isn't moved. "Well met, Sin. You're a handsome fellow, hm? And quiet, too, you've no idea how much I appreciate that." Drily, the harper eyes the dragon, then apparently catches on — seems to rewind the last ten minutes in his head, abruptly. Comes to the same conclusion after a beat of rueful silence, he's been had. Or well, not at all, he's just a little slow on the uptake, bless him. "Sin, I would love to give your talons a buff, they're plenty nice," Beat, and just when it looks like he might be gearing up to flee like a scared little wherry into the forest: "…sure. I don't imagine Master Bierkal would begrudge me a…vacation?"

Sindrieth is a quiet one, not much of a rumble, barely a sound at all other than the rustling required to get him in position to get the best look at Ityrziel as possible. Those jeweled eyes look quite nice as well, if he says so himself, and his hide - it's about what one would expect except for when he shuffles his wings, the undersides of them are practically brilliant with bright bronze and reflecting the light as it his them. "Feel free to try and buff those talons, though I think he keeps them plenty sharp on his own." R'en says with a chuckle, and then reaches in his pocket to dangle a white threaded candidate knot towards the young man after he says that he might be able to talk himself into a 'vacation'. "Not sure I'd call it that, but, it's sure -something-. The barracks are getting pretty full, so you might not find the nicest cot. This is where I Impressed too, and … Sindrieth has a really good track record of candidates he's chosen Impressing." He says, and shakes his head, "But, he also has standards. Hope you don't mind a few extra laps, if he asks nicely." He says with amusement, right about the time that someone /finds/ him. Well, not that it's hard, what with his dragon right here and all. "Ah, yeah. I'll be right there." He mutters, and then asks of Tyr, "Do you know where the barracks are? You have some time before you'll be expected there, to tie up the ends you need to."

If Tyr is contemplating that dragon a little more closely now, well, can you really blame him? He seems not entirely certain of what he's just agreed to — but well, Sindrieth is a handsome fellow, and really, what could possibly go wrong. "Sharp, sure, but where's the style in that?" The harper's voice, maybe an octave too high on some sort of repressed Emotion, is nonetheless drily amused. "The panache? A fellow should look his absolute best." He eyes the white threaded thing for a long beat, but accepts it, finally, stuffing it in one of the robe's pockets for now. One can hardly put a knot on a bathrobe! "Oh, no, do you think? My room is just getting comfortable, too…" The journeyman makes a mournful face, here, head shaking. Still: news of Sindrieth's good track record gets maybe a slightly wide-eyed look, but no, no, he's not thinking about that now! Is he! No! "Laps? As in…running?" Oh, Faranth, he doesn't know. That's one surprise for the poor fellow, nice and tee'd up. While he's standing, confused, though, the poor Weyrleader is spotted — and Tyr doesn't even have time to pull out the No Really He's My Cousin routine, before the poor fellow is being swept up. "Sorry," He offers, sincere, like he thinks he's Actually failed at something. "Oh, yes. Certainly." That's a lie! "I…should go tell Bierkal, take my lumps." Tyr grins, a little. "Maybe a better fate than yours. The archives are always open, though. Quiet, there."


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