Logs:A Clutching Affair
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| RL Date: 10 May, 2012 |
| Who: Azaylia, Braeden, Brieli, Damaris, Iolene, Issedi, K'del, Riorde, Shimana, Toren |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, High Reaches Hold |
| Type: Log |
| What: The feast for Ysavaeth and Cadejoth's clutch. |
| Where: Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 26, Month 9, Turn 28 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Aughan/Mentions, Giorda/Mentions, Rynien/Mentions, Tiriana/Mentions |
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| It's a feast! Sort of. Even though the eggs were expected a clutching feast is never quite the same magnitude as a hatching one. Still, there are people, there's food and drinks floating around on trays and a buffet at two opposite sides of the cavern. There's even dignitaries, mostly local ones, but a few Weyrleader pairs from distance lands might be recognizable scattered through the crowd. Of course, with recent events at High Reaches, this clutch would garner some curiosity, and the gossip that churns across the floor is the number of eggs and the existence of that one, not quite white one; (un)lucky number thirteen, indeed. Noticeably absent is the striking figure Tiriana usually makes and if dragons are to be believed, Iovniath is not on her ledge either. Whether this has any bearing, the Headwoman and her staff seem to move around with more ease and there's more levity than there might have been in the caverns in the time since the flight. Giorda, dressed for the occasion in a flattering maroon dress, chats up High Reaches Hold's new lord. Present, however, is K'del: he's pulled out some of his nicer clothes and has clearly had someone help him into them (his slinged arm can certainly have been no use). Despite that set-back, and perhaps partially because of Tiriana's absence, he's a lively figure this evening, beaming at everyone he passes. It's hard for him to carry a drink and shake hands, and to that end, he's currently hanging around near the drinks table draining his glass before he heads back out into the crowd. It's no surprise that Damaris has managed to wiggle and talk her way out of work. Because there is a party, or a sort of party, or...well, it's a really good reason to not work. She is instead perched on the edge of a table with a group of people her own age around, generally hamming it up and being as entertaining as she can be, telling some story that involves making faces, lots of hand gestures, and laughter. Brieli has apparently gotten the memo about this being a dress-up occasion, so she's found herself a decent dress to wear in a flattering shade of red, short enough to show off long legs. She's not quite attached to any group, content to edge around the party with a fluted glass in hand, pausing here and again to chat with this person; perhaps listen near this group. Damaris' lot have some of the kitchen girls she knows in the group - she starts to wend her way in that direction, dark gaze restless. Work clothes have no place at such a celebration, and the gown that has served Azaylia as gather finery years ago has been aged just right. If there's such a thing formal-casual, the Herder's cultivating that look with her blue and gold ensemble, freshly knitted scarf pinned smartly to the side. Evidence of a growth spurt is forgiven by a pair of tall (borrowed) boots that hide calves which would otherwise be visible. Thankfully, her moldy old fur coat is nowhere to be seen. Smiles come easily to the Apprentice this night, managing steady snippets of conversation when she's pulled in. Otherwise the young woman is most comfortable skirting on the edges of it all, plate piled high with nibblies. From which she nibbles. Looking just a touch apprehensive, Iolene slip into the living cavern from the inner caverns and pauses to watch first. Her teeth find her lower lip as she casts her gaze from side to side, eyes lighting up at K'del, until he's headed back into and lost in that crowd. Sweaty fingers clench at and wrinkle the dress she wears as she plucks a drink off a passing tray and downs it in one go. /People/. /People who are talking about her or her dragon./ Nervous? Nah, those strained lines on her face disappear slowly, with that shot of liquid courage and a deep breath later, Io walks further in, pausing at the fringe of Damaris's laughing group and ending up standing near the moving Brieli. "Hi," says the blonde girl, with a mangled attempt at a smile. K'del seems a little lost without a glass in his hand, and drinking that whisky so quickly has already turned his cheeks faintly flushed. Still, he's got another bright smile to extend towards young Lord Braeden and his sister Issedi -- and a more serious clap to the shoulder that no doubt speaks to condolences over their recent loss. Lady Issedi is in bright spirits despite that, her gleeful excitement as audible as it is visible. Turning again, he ends up wandering in Azaylia's direction, his smile for the herder only a little hesitant. "Azaylia, hey." Oh, look. Damaris sends that smile of hers first towards Brieli and then towards Iolene when the crowd grows, though she doesn't immediately stop the storytelling. No, the little story is finished first, not that the ending is terribly funny without the context of the beginning. When she does finish, she picks up her glass to take a big long drink from it, and then she's refocusing on Brieli and Io, lifting her glass in toast to the latter. "Evening," she greets. She's not really dressed any different than she is the rest of the time in quality, though her clothing is clean enough that it's likely she changed after working and before coming out. There's a Look sent towards a few of those who, upon realizing that Iolene is within their midst, make themselves scarce, but she just turns her attention back. "Nicely done." Wink. Warm, friendly. Azaylia catches sight of Iolene. Well, snippets of who she thinks is Iolene, though at the time her attention split between people watching and what the delicious paste she's eating is made of. Distracted steps bring her closer to the gaggle of girls whether she realizes it or not- stopping only at a familiar voice that tears her eyes away from her plate. Where there might be a smidge of hesitation in his greeting, there's none to be found in the smile she offers the Weyrleader. "Hello." A glance to make sure no one's listening, "Uhm, am I... supposed to congratulate you and Cadejoth, too? If I am..." Her voice falters, not wanting to sound redundant. "Hi," Brieli merely responds to Iolene - with an actual smile. She lifts her glass in a silent salute rather than offer any congratulations or formalities, even given the occasion, Ysavaeth, etc. Perhaps she saw the goldrider down that drink in one go? After a long drink of her own, she asks, "Who's more relieved now? You or her? I'd guess she is; you might be later." Her cultured tones are sympathetic, especially when some of Damaris' friends start making themselves scarce. For Damaris herself, she has a grin, a little wave of a near-empty glass. "You work in the kitchens, yes? I think I've seen you." The bronze from Southern Weyr sends curt greetings, along with the slightest twitch at the absence of a Weyrwoman's dragon to greet. Is there admonishment in the typical formality of respect and greetings? Riorde pretties herself up when she feels like it, with hair swept up and wearing that chic, simple black number she pulls out for special occasions; some day she'll get herself another dress. Riorde's on a mission, slipping by clusters of riders and other celebrants, purloining a glass of something pale and sparkling, and arrowing in on the lady of the hour. "Iolene," she hails, as bright and bubbly as her champagne, and tries to insinuate herself next to the goldrider in order to slip am arm around her waist for a light, friendly squeeze. For the occasion, she uses her clutchmate's full name. "Congratulations are in order, aren't they?" K'del's grin, for Azaylia's remark, is cheerful enough. "If you want to," he says, with a shrug of his good shoulder. "Pretty sure Ysavaeth did all the work, though. Cadejoth just got the fun part." It's possible he regrets making that last remark, because his expression falters for a moment and then he's hurrying on, "Anyway, it seems like a good clutch. Nice to have something to celebrate, right?" Lady Issedi's wandered to find herself a cachet of male riders to speak with, her brilliant smile belying the sorrow her family must have faced, or the troubling news of her imminent broken betrothal. No, Issedi's here to enjoy and revel in her first visit to the Weyr, and as pretty as she is, there's no lacking in possible companions as the Weyr males (and some females) pay court to High Reaches' (as rumor would have it) soon-to-be eligible heir-apparent. Her brother, on the other hand, watches indulgently from afar and scans the crowd. In reply, Cadejoth's enthusiasm is effusive: such a lovely clutch we have! Ysavaeth and I are proud. Iovniath-- there is only, there, a faint rattle of his chains, a sad, isn't-it-a-pity-about-her that explains nothing. Eyebrows lift, at Iolene's mouthed words. "Don't," she's quick to say, voice firm. Damaris sits forward and leans, reaching to try and pat Iolene's shoulder reassuringly. "I never stay out of trouble, but that's..." and she's seeing Riorde and pausing briefly before she sends a smile up that way, too. "That's pretty much how I like it. H'lo, Riorde." Another drink from her glass. "And I'm doing well, thank you." Her eyes catch briefly on K'del but don't linger, a moment given over to a scan of the crowd. Faces are noted, placed, and then she's looking back to the little circle around _her_ table. Preen. To Brieli she says, "I do, sometimes." Pause. "Most of the time. You've probably seen me, or at least heard someone cursing me. I'm Damaris." Yes, she's in rare form tonight. Wisely, the Southern bronze says little, and the ensuing silence feels more as of a communication placed on 'hold' rather than completed, for shortly, he returns with a show of how disappointed he is, that carries with it the golden notes of his mate. Disappointed. That's how they'll play this, this southern pair. Some people's voices seem naturally designed to carry. Off past Braeden, a trio of older riders are talking in voices that might have been intended to be muted: they are not. "Exile queen," dismisses one of them. "No doubt she'll make sure they all Impress exile friends. No more good, solid riders for this Weyr. No wonder Tiriana's gone off the deep end." And in reply? Cadejoth, too, is disappointed. Such a pity: such a sad thing. If only Iovniath and hers were here to celebrate with them. If only they were able to. It's more subtle than might normally be expected from the bronze-- and his chains buzz with sandy heat. "I want to." Azaylia gives a delicate nod, surely thinking she's coming off as decisive and firm in that moment. Nobody tell her otherwise. "So, congratulations." Now she does stop suddenly, tense for as long as it takes for the awkward moment to pass. "Well..." And yet she seems intent on prolonging the tension. "As long as Cadejoth is happy." Clearing her throat, she's eager for another topic, "It is. I really hope you and Iolene have a good night..." Concern for both perhaps misplaced, the Apprentice stiffens and turns her head. It's visible now, that concern from earlier, but all too soon her face smooths and she's offering the Weyrleader something from her plate. With a grimace, "I'm glad you don't need to share that with her either. I can't even... it's be like having one baby after another. Well, maybe not precisely, but the poor thing." Brieli shudders a touch and finishes off her drink for good measure, catching a fresh one off the tray right after Iolene does. If she does it, it can't be that bad to follow suit. As Riorde arrives, she edges over to allow the brownrider to give Io a hug, noting to Damaris, "I'm Brieli. Sometimes, I help out. You lot seem to know the best gossip, so..." She trails off, that too-loud voice drawing her brows together in a frown. Those voices that carry paint rose on Iolene's cheeks, where once they were lined in nerves. "Oh," says the blonde girl, the single syllable catching in her throat until she takes another, unladylike gulp of her bubbly drink. "/Riorde/." Sudden relief floods Io's voice and she takes a step back to admit another into this little circle of girls. "This is Riorde. That's Brieli. That's Damaris. And I seem to have scared all of Damaris's friends away. I think-," aiming at humor, but falling just shy, she opines, "-The sweat from watching Ysavaeth didn't all get washed out with my bath." K'del waves away the offer of Azaylia's plate, explaining, "I need to keep my hand free. And clean, if I can. Everyone wants to shake hands, and it's just--" Frustrating, if his expression is anything to go by. "Thank you, anyway. He's happy. I--" His head turns, seeking out Iolene in the crowd in a way that turns his own expression wary and concerned. "There are a lot of rumblings. About Tiriana not being here. It's going to make things hard for her." For Iolene, presumably. "Hope she's okay, too. Seems it, for now." Braeden also kens to those voices that carry, a meticulously groomed brow lifting high up as he seeks out faces to attach to these words. As a casual aside to the woman standing by his side, he notes, "Can't ride if they're Holders again, can they?" The capital lettering audibly drips from his affable voice. "Damaris," Riorde recognizes, pleasant enough with a smile to match. It freezes, caught in place as she overhears what she -- or Iolene, more likely -- was meant to overhear. She leans into Iolene for a moment, and before she lets her arm drop away, addresses the others from a position of solidarity. "Nice to meet you. Exciting, isn't it? Io and I grew up together -- we're all so proud of her." The expression admits more than just esteem, pitched with a prideful sort of defiance. "If you know who they are," she murmurs far more quietly to Iolene, "tell me later, and I'll see if we can't have a talk." Benden's queen extends a greeting in Ysavaeth's direction, quietly apologetic. « You must be tired, of course. I don't like to intrude. You don't need anything? » There's an undercurrent of regret in her tone, as though there ought to be another ensuring the well-being of a first-time mother, one who has failed in this duty as she sees it. Azaylia takes it in stride, not too obvious in her growing smile though she manages to joke, "More for me." Though even as she partakes, her head is turning in the opposite direction of the Weyrleader's. When she looks back up, the Herder intends to catch his gaze, curiosity evident. "Maybe Tiriana just needed a quick break?" Optimism isn't too rediculous to the young woman. She bites her lip and motions with a hand in Iolene's general direction, "Do you want..? I mean, I haven't gotten a chance to say hello, either." Smile shrinks, small and understanding. "Ought not let them Search at all," is someone's conclusion. "Holders. That's what they ought to be, the whole lot of them." He must have heard something of Braeden's remark - or perhaps it's just spreading, a quiet suggestion that infiltrates conversation around the room. Toren comes out of the inner cavern and he's dressed in his gather best. He keeps along the edges as the party just seems to be starting. He moves over towards getting something to eat and he frowns as he hears the statements being made by the riders. He piles on the food onto a little plate and he finds a spot along the wall to lean against to just listen and see what's going on. "Yes, we're great for gossip," Damaris agrees blithely with Brieli, sliding off of the table and down to her feet. What's left in her glass is drained, and it's set down. "Hearing it, spreading it," and she's sliding a few steps off to the side, blue eyes settling on the owners of those carrying voices. They're marked, and then she's turning back to the little group she's with. "It's very exciting," she agrees, once she's refocused on those nearby. "You didn't scare them off," she tells Io. "Pretty sure that lot was just shy, knew you'd be surrounded by adoring crowds soon, didn't want to compete." All so casually spoken, like of course that's why they fled. Brieli gives a little wave as Iolene introduces her, only slightly distracted in her effort to sort out where aspersions were being cast from. At the goldrider's shot at humor, she forces herself to focus. Lightly, "Perhaps they were intimidated." Io's not exactly intimidating right now, but who knows? With an easy smile for Riorde, "Exciting that Io doesn't have to watch Ysavaeth pace anymore, as I understand, as well. But yes, I'd never seen eggs before. I - I didn't very much like the idea of watching the clutching itself. It seemed too... personal. Something. I suppose that's strange." She glances Damaris' way as she steps off, then helpfully provides an explanation; "Ah, right. They're not much out of the kitchens, yes?" Ysavaeth is placid, graciously accepting as a queen should be, of these regards from afar. The excuse of being wearied that reverberates in her tremulous mental touch allows her the latitude of a lack of tangible words, in lieu of which is a wash of emotions: pride, adoration, gratitude. Thank you for caring. Thank you for mothering. Thank you for supporting us, where 'us' flares the muted image of Cadejoth and her soon-to-be brood. K'del's laugh is not really genuine, and more tinged with awkward bitterness than anything else. "If that were the case," he tells Azaylia, after heaving a deep sigh, "We'd all be much happier for it. I'm afraid I don't-- her absence is being noted." He doesn't specify by who, or how, but it's obvious in the lines on his expression that he's not entirely sure whether this is good or not. Probably not. "Should we join them? Don't want to crowd her. Probably ought to go and pay my respects to more people, too." And doesn't he sound thrilled about that. To Brieli; "I'm sure it's the smell." The rest of the bubbly getting gulped back brings some semblance of Iolene's gaiety, particularly as her smile strengthens. "You lot are either foolish or too nice to stick around me." One hand reaches out to squeeze Riorde's elbows and the blonde head ducks for a brief moment to murmur a few words, that, if she were sober wouldn't be audible, but as she's fast not being sober is quite over-hearable: "If by talk, you mean broken arms or noses, Ysavaeth would rather you didn't. I mean, I would rather you didn't. We don't need another reminder of Tiriana here. Let's just have fun, Ri, ok? Please?" And she concludes the 'whisper' with a kiss to the brownrider's cheek. Elleth knows those emotions well, and in return, she provides a wash of motherly warmth and encouragement - even pride. « All will be well, » she promises. « Rest. You have a beautiful clutch. » Braeden's smile lasts only until he spots an elderly figure seated by the hearth, distant and yet somehow still involved in the goings on. She's distinct by the cluster of folk who, with many an aquiline nose and Reaches blue eyes stand out as Weyrfolk who aren't of the Weyr. Slow steps pick him off that wall and towards this cluster of folk, his target the old woman, and with more respect than generally granted just the elderly, he bends at the waist and proffers a bow. "Might we speak, Shimana?" And from there, the world might just end. Azaylia's lips purse ever so faintly, not attempting to shoe-horn actual mirth into the conversation by joining in with K'del's tarnished laugh. She glances over at Iolene and her mismatched entourage, "I don't want to crowd her either." She admits, perhaps a touch too quiet. Her words fail to gain in volume, "It might help, what with the..." Gaze roams the crowd, still unable to find the source of those undeserved remarks. She's already inching closer to the gaggle, "I'll bet just seeing you will help? I mean..." Azaylia's gaze drops and she clears her throat. "Just in case she's uncomfortable? I know I would be." "That too," the brownrider agrees easily, grinning at Brieli before she sips her drink. "Lots of opportunities to see the eggs now. Just don't accidentally fall onto the sands or anthing." She states it blandly, but there's a glance sideways at Iolene that leads into listening to the goldrider's not-so-quiet whispers. "Just talk," Riorde answers, but Iolene knows her better than that. But in any case she smiles again and settles for returning the one-armed hug. "For you, Io," she says fondly, "Anything." Another glass is snagged, and Damaris slides down along the table a little further in the direction of those voices, taking up a lean against the table's edge. She takes a good drink from her glass and actually falls to quiet for once, aside from her, "No, not much," commented to Brieli. New vantage point acquired, she drinks and watches, alternating between the group she's standing with (not as much attention) and those that just might be stirring the pot. She's definitely attentive, even if her expression is all smiles and friendly warmth. "With the--" K'del doesn't finish his thought, even though he's nodding idly along with it. His attention's been caught by something across the room: by Braeden, by Shimana, by a confluence of events that only turns his expression more confused and uncertain than ever. "What the shell is he playing it?" he wants to know, under his breath - a comment that is almost certainly not directed in the herder's direction. "Uh-- you should go and say hello. And tell Riorde to watch herself, because I won't tolerate any trouble." Because he just can't seem to tear his attention away from the young Lord, now. Toren breaks open a bread roll and puts some mashed tubers inside. He sees Braedon moving over and he slowly follows after him as Braedon seems to be up to something. He continues to eat and lean against the wall just listening. Dryly, "Yes, it's a terrible burden. Both your smell and presence, weyrwoman. Someone's paying us, actually." Brieli gives one of her eyerolls, looking at Iolene and the others like seriously, come on. As the goldrider goes to 'whisper', the seamstress has the grace to pretend she can't hear it - but instead, looks in the direction of the hearths like so many seem to be, thoughtfully. That is, until: "Accidentally fall onto the sands?" She arches brows at Riorde, assuring her, "I'll try not to." Though she looks as if she's expecting there's a story in there. Damaris' reply gets a nod, and she doesn't distract the other girl - she's splitting her attention a little herself. Issedi's laughter rings just a little louder in the wake of the muttered disgruntlement in regards to the exiles, and though it doesn't seem like she has eyes for anyone but the man who's claimed her arm for the evening, roguish brownrider flying in Snowdrift, the observant will catch those drop of her lashes as her head 'shies' away in a coquettish fashion, and in that drop, spy a glance spared for this brother of hers. The smile, when it lifts again to the brownrider, is pleased. "Come," says the lord's sister, "Let's dance, so you can show me just how easily your feet move." Other nights, she might be Issedi, daughter of Rynien, betrothed to Crom. But tonight, she'll be carefree. The hand at Riorde's elbow tightens and then slips further into a half-hug around the brownrider's waist. "Goldrider," is Iolene's quick correction. "It's... complicated. But Tiriana doesn't allow us to fly in the queens' wing. And she said we're not ready to train to be a weyrwoman. So I'm just me. No rank really. So we fly in a fighting wing." Here, those dark eyes light up. "It's actually pretty interesting. I can see why it might be more interesting with something to fight, not that Ysavaeth can really flame but-... Didn't you-," a glance catches Issedi heading to dance with a brownrider, and turns confused back to Brieli, "Weren't you from Crom? Wasn't your Lord to be married to her?" Nibble. Headtilt. Azaylia continues to graze even as K'del's attention is stolen away, following his line of sight rather than trying to coax it back on her. His suggestion has her surprised, "O-Oh. Alright." All too quickly she's moving on, brows innocently furrowed as she mouths to herself. Who's Riorde? The Apprentice has finally picked her plate clean, abandoning it in its proper place before she reaches Iolene's group. There she'll hover, arms behind her back and watching their conversation with too-obvious interest. For those who might question who the tall tan shadow is, their curiosity will be met with a friendly, if oddly apologetic smile. The already small gesture is straining just a touch at Iolene's words, however. With all eyes on him, not that he makes any show of noticing or caring, but likely most aware of it, Braeden takes the seat Shimana offers. The cluster of once exiles depart for places not far, though not within earshot. Shimana can be scary, and the two converse in what appears to be casual at first, short niceties sparred back and forth until the young Lord speaks in quiet, firm tones. And shortly, more rumors spread across the living cavern floor: ranging from such things as Braeden offering the exiles a home at the Hold to offering Issedi and himself in marriage to exiles of Shimana's choosing as a sign of good faith. Even more ludicrous is the talk of reinstatement. It's only after Azaylia has begun to head towards Iolene's group that K'del manages to turn his attention from Braeden and his companion long enough to give her another glance. He looks apologetic, too, and for a few seconds afterwards Iolene gets another lingering glance. But he has fish to fry, and a room to track across, which carries him ultimately in Toren's direction. Falling alongside the Harper, the Weyrleader notes, quietly: "It's rude to try and eavesdrop like that. Even for a Harper. Besides," his voice is low, but he sounds almost amused, "they're being far too quiet for anyone to hear." "It happens." Riorde keeps her tone light as she smiles across at Brieli. "More fun in a fighting wing," she then states on the heels of Iolene's explanation, determined about it. "You do far more than Tiriana does." Occasionally, the exile brownrider's attention drifts, picking out Shimana and her company, and at a certain point, she looks thoughtful through her sips of her diminishing drink. Blink. Damaris's attention comes back, at Iolene's words, and she blinks a few times. Disbelief touches her expression, and then she's just rolling her eyes. No comment is made; she drinks her drinks, she watches and she listens. It's not just the spot by the hearth that she's watching, but the overly loud voices from earlier and those people over there, K'del. Really, she's being generally attentive. She does offer a smile of recognition up towards Azaylia when she steps up, lifting her glass in greeting. "Hey," she offers, gesturing with her chin to an open spot close to stand. Come, be welcome. Right there, not on the edge. Toren does his best to look more interested in his food than what's going on around him. He is trying to listen and not look like he's listening. He does look up as he sees the bride to be dancing with a brownrider. He takes note of it as he takes a sip of his klah. Brieli looks as if she's trying to puzzle out Iolene's explanation, dark eyes narrowing a little before, "It sounds complicated. As far as I knew, if you impressed a gold dragon, you were a junior weyrwoman. Not The Weyrwoman, but... Anyway. What do I know." She's about to ask Io and Riorde something - presumably about fighting wings - but the goldrider's question has her looking over at Issedi and her rider escort. "I didn't really see her often, but when I left - that was the case. That's... Well. Interesting." As Damaris greets Azaylia, she notes the herder as well, lifting a glass in greeting. "Good evening." And Issedi dances and dances, attracting more gazes with her muted delight and the way her partners seem to keep changing every few steps. A bright floral spot of color in the middle of High Reaches' hyper-charged environment of everything Tiriana stands for and then... the others, it's not hard for people to gravitate to, or even smile at the High Reaches lady's joie de vivre. What little tension remains, in spite of Tiriana's absence, is slowly melting as more couples join in a high energy dance. "You're supposed to say that." Iolene's words combine with her rolling eyes at Riorde's defense. "If you didn't, you wouldn't be my friend." The arm releases the brownrider and not one but two wistful glances steal to Issedi and her partners. "If you don't mind...?" Her voice trails off as she doesn't quite wait for a response from her companions, though there is a look of apology to Brieli that shifts to warmth at the sight of Azaylia, but that's pretty much it as the young woman casts off the gossip around her by losing herself into a dance with a random person she links arms with and drags out. There's dancing! And Iolene's never been one to be good at not dancing when there's dancing going on. Toren finishes his sip of klah and he looks up at K'del with a polite smile. He sets the klah on a nearby table and he gives a salute, as an apprentice should give a Weyrleader, "Greetings Weyrleader. Quite a celebration. 13 eggs is an amazing feat, congratulations to you and Iolene and to both of your dragons." He drops his voice, "Perhaps for anyone else, but for trained harper ears, you never know what you'll pick up. Besides I'm just a kid and no one tends to notice kids." He goes to get his klah and takes another sip of it in between bites of food, "Very good food my compliments to your cooks." Like the awkward specter she seems to be, Azaylia floats ever so closer to Damaris, smile revived by her hospitality. "Thank you. Oh- and hello. You look very nice tonight." Offered to all the other women, however she's addressing their shoes at the time, head bowed bashfully. Though she makes it a point to lift it and hopefully catch Iolene's attention before she's whisking some soul away to dance. "Congr- oh. Hoofmuck." As close to a curse as she can muster, she doesn't seem too disappointed. "At least she looks to be having fun?" Pensive murmur is for those that remain, though Riorde and Brieli are offered a belated introduction. "I'm Azaylia." Braeden eases back into the chair, his fingers steepling as he listens to Shimana, her volume a lot less controlled. But as the predictor of storms on the island, and the voice of the sea, perhaps it's understandable she's not used to muting herself. And so it goes, back and forth and back and forth, the two chat, Braeden to Shimana, Shimana to Braeden, until ultimately the young man stands and offers his hand to the exile elder. "Thank you." This gratitude is made clear, meant to be overheard. Shimana? Does not express such things, but there is interest piqued in those eyes of hers that track the Lord Reaches' path away. Her horde returns, with questions that don't get immediate answers. K'del's nose wrinkles slightly at that salute, but his smile is cheerful enough. "Thank you," he tells Toren. "We're pleased with it. It's a decent enough number." He doesn't seem completely sold on the young harper's explanation, and indeed, seems very deliberately keeping his gaze away from the Lord and his conversational partner, even as they part. "Keep your ears open for anything else you hear. Seems like there's plenty going on, tonight, in one way or another." "I am," Riorde agrees, grinning quickly before taking a step to the side to allow Iolene by. "Go on then." She still has an ear for the gossip, staying with the other girls as Azaylia comes up to replace the departing, dancing goldrider. "Riorde. Hoofmuck?" Ri echoes, something skeptical in the repetition. Her eyebrows remain arched as she glances away again to get another glance of the elder that she formerly deferred to -- in name, anyway. "So do you," Damaris replies to Azaylia, and then with a warm smile for the little group she's turning to follow along after Io, though it takes her just a moment to spot the person that she pounces on to drag out to dance, clearly a friend of hers given the laughter and the mock protest, the 'help me' he throws back to his friends. Dancing! She may even enjoy herself. Giorda drifts past the circle of women: Damaris, Brieli, Riorde, and Azaylia. At her side is her assistant and low words are spared, "Make sure to count all the silver afterwards and get an inventory of what decorations we've used. I've never trusted these parties much since those thieves used them to pickpocket their livelihood." Toren smiles brightly at K'del and he gives a very slight nod, "You are very welcome." He continues to eat and lowers his voice again, "I shall do my best." He raises his voice again, "If you will excuse me Weyrleader, it has been wonderful talking to you, but I'm sure that there are many others that require your attention." He waits for K'del to dismiss him before he goes to put his empty plate in the right spot and mug of klah in his hand he starts to slowly make his way through the crowd. Brieli is not accepting the look of apology from Io; nothing to apologize for - the tall brunette waves her off good-naturedly. Who could really deny her, especially with Issedi spinning the room into dance. Watching the couples with a slight, fond smile, she blinks back to Riorde and Azaylia. "Oh, I'm Brieli. Nice to meet you. Is hoofmuck worse than regular muck?" Her tone is definitely interested, even if she's stealing a peek at the same elder the brownrider is, the horde that surrounds her in search of information. As Giorda passes, her low words cause the girl's expression to sober; instead of answering, she merely nods twice, politely, lips pursed. K'del tosses Toren a lazy, sloppy salute with his good hand - made sloppier by the fact that it's clearly not his dominant hand - and, after a moment more, twists his mouth into an expression more formal, and turns back to the crowd. He does have people to see: like the Weyrleaders of Benden, who chat to him in low, concerned tones off to one side. K'del just keeps shaking his head, back and forth, and looking worried. Azaylia is suddenly worried on Riorde's behalf, as the brownrider echoes her improvised swear. A hand flies up to give her lips a light tap. Bad mouth! "That was terribly rude, wasn't it? Sorry." And then, "Oh! You're Riorde." As if a longtime question has finally been answered. She doesn't expand on that, though Damaris is stolen away by the music before she can answer. Thankfully, Brieli remains, if only to remind the Herder of her embarrassing oath. "Ah... it, like..." She hesitates to expand on it with such finery surrounding them, "Stuff. That's cleaned out of a runner's hoof. Uhmhm." She reaches out to a passing serving dish, plucking something bubbly to distract her mouth with. In mid-sip she chokes at Giorda's passing, delicate coughs thankfully dry. The dancing eases from high energy to slower, more intimate, and Issedi goes from delighted to eyes-wide and taking a step back. Drunk riders, sometimes, have problems with boundaries, or recall the fact they're dancing with one of Pern's elite. The brownrider is left on the floor with a woman's handprint to his cheek, and Issedi's made a beeline for her brother's side. The siblings share a small smile; but for an instant, the younger one looks tired -- that frayed about the edges look where too much color and too much forced joy have only just masked the sorrow beneath it all. It's only now, as Braeden and Issedi stand together as representatives of High Reaches Hold that the conspicuous absences of Tillek and Crom start to be noticed. Surely, even fashionably late can't mean this late? Slow dancing isn't as interesting for Iolene as the fast ones, particularly not with the stablehand she ended up with in the end; a young over eager young man who well- you know the type. She's sweet though, patting the fifteen turn old's cheek and leaning into press a chaste kiss where her fingers were once before turning back to the crowds. He'll talk about it all night, surely, Iolene being an 'older woman' and all. Oh, there's food; little niblets of asparagus drenched in cheese set in a pastry shell. Why yes, Mr. Drudge sir, she'll have four, or as many that can fit into the cup of her hand. In one corner, an enthusiastic young Apprentice Weaver kisses her boyfriend, a weyrboy, with desperate passion: there are tears streaming down her cheeks. "I don't want to leave," she says into the skin of his neck, as he wraps his arms tightly around her. "I just don't want to go, and I don't think it's fair that he can just decide I shouldn't be here." "I'm Riorde," the brownrider confirms to Azaylia with a faint smile at her lips. Amused, yes, but there's something thoughtful and assessing underneath. She watches the teenager for several moments as she goes on to explain her expletive, then casually turns aside to exchange her empty glass for a full one. Food, thus far, she bypasses. K'del's conversation with Cora and B'doran of Benden only lasts a few minutes; when he leaves the pair, his expression is suddenly unreadable, but not nearly as tight and thin as it was only a few minutes ago. His gaze catches on Iolene at the food table, but even if he catches her eye, the most he'll do is give her a grave nod before he turns back to the crowds and gets lost in them once more. There are people to see. Toren passes by as he continues to just wander through the crowd. He turns away from the show of passion and he nearly bumps into Azaylia. He comes up short, "Hello there Azaylia." He gives a nod to Brieli as well, "Hello Brieli, I hope you both are enjoying the party." He gives a polite not to Riorde, "Hello Riorde." K'del senses "Iolene does more than catch his gaze. She'll coincide to pass by him and brush fingers. Delicious little cheese-stained fingers against places that shouldn't be mentioned." A High Reaches bluerider takes one look at K'del as the Weyrleader passes, and bursts into giggles: there's a grease-stain in an unfortunate location on his trousers, and he doesn't seem to have noticed. She points it out to the man next to her, nudging him in the side - the two laugh. Downing her glass and immediately looking for another, Brieli nods to Azaylia. "I figured that it might be that. Is it that awful a thing to say?" She doesn't seem to think so, but she doesn't seem to be as entirely self-possessed as she was a moment ago; something's got her rattled. Watching Riorde watch the apprentice gives her some time to settle, as does the next glass in hand. Blinking in bemusement as Toren almost walks into Azaylia, she nods to the harper. "I am. I hope you are too - do mind where you're going, though - people have food and drink." Iolene's demeanor visibly lightens in a more genuine way than wrought by dancing alone as K'del catches her gaze, even nods at her, and then passes by. She might even lean in to speak some words, but he's walking by so quickly. Sad. As her hand isn't quite good enough for the amount of food that would drown her sorrows, Io grabs a plate and starts stacking little appetizers onto it before stealing out back into the lower caverns. Azaylia's attention is snared by the drama that is unsuccessfully contained by a corner of the room. The scene weighs heavily on her lips, frowning without realizing it in a show of too-genuine empathy. "No," She still manages to answer Brieli, though it takes her longer to tear her eyes away from something that's really none of her business. "I mean, it's probably still rude. I used to say it instead of, uhm, actual curses. Back at the..." Voice falters, swallow. "...'Hall." And then, a squeak! Though Toren's familiar and not to scary, "Hello Toren. Yes, I am." Not a lie now that she's once again distracted by the festivities. Riorde will get a few glances stolen her way, the Apprentice curious and observing the so-called troublemaker. Toren bows his head, "I apologize for my clumsiness, I didn't mean to run into any one, it's just it's not polite to stare." He gives a smile to Azaylia, "I'm glad you are having a good time. Well I am hoping that I will get to play later." He takes a drink of his klah, "Have either of you had a chance to do any dancing yet?" "Hello." Riorde studies Toren for an uncomfortably long moment, smile notwithstanding. The smile never reaches her eyes, and the assessment she'd turned on Azaylia now switches to the harper. "Have we met?" She's too pretty and poised to be a troublemaker, really -- far too elegant. K'del must have been mistaken. Dance, dance. Damaris stays out on the floor even through the slow dancing, though she's certainly not switching partners. Current partner, safe. She waits a good while after Iolene's disappeared to finally abandon the dance, dragging her friend with her over to the drinks and talking quietly. Time to catch her breath. And also drink. K'del, still blithely aware of that unfortunately located stain on his pants, continues to weave his way through the crowds, ending up in low conversation with Southern's Weyrleader, a man who very carefully keeps his gaze on K'del's face. They're not far from the drinks tables, although at the moment neither are paying anyone else any attention. "Unfortunate," the other Weyrleader says, low and full of meaning. Brieli is so not interested in whatever drama is going on with I-don't-want-to-go, etc. The squeaking is interesting, however - she arches brows at Azaylia, surprised by it. Toren's explanation gets a nod and she notes, "It's Azaylia that needs the apology, I believe. And I imagine there'll be a chance to play. I haven't gotten to dancing, but I don't do much of it myself." Looking into her glass, "Not tonight, anyway." "Well, I want some dancing. I wore my dress," Riorde issues as a complaint. "Here." She drains her second flute at quite an impressive rate, given that it was at least half-full, and holds the empty glass out to Toren with the expectation that he will oblige her and hold it while she, in turn, goes off in search a dance partner. Another glass of something is fetched, and Damaris turns to ghost away both from the table and her friend, but then she's catching sight of the two Weyrleaders and decides instead to linger. There is nearby leaning (though out of immediate earshot), and she puts her superficial attention out on the dancing people. Sip, watch, pay attention. She may have to force the unfamiliar sting of alcohol down, but Azaylia empties her glass with a sigh. Toren's question has her giggling softly, shaking her head, "No no, I don't dance. Though it's lovely to watch." Brieli's insistance has her scrunching her face, drink aiding her in finding too much amusement. "It's fine, honest." Empty glass stem is twirled between her fingers, clearly a distracted action as a line of gossip involving Iolene and K'del reaches her ears. The delicately spun glass suddenly snaps between thumb and pointer finger, though her face remains innocently unaware for a moment longer. There's another squeak to pique Brieli's interest, staring down at the two halves she's cradling in each hand. "..." No damage done to herself, just weyr property. Toren gives a smile to Riorde, "I think that we have met before, probably at the local tavern. I play there a once or twice a sevenday." He thought that he had apologized, but as he has come to find out once just isn't enough. He turns to Azaylia, "I'm sorry that I almost bumped into you. It was rude of me." He says in a sincere tone of voice as he gets offered the glass. He looks at it and he sighs softly as he plays the good apprentice and takes it. He'll hold it for Riorde, "And you look lovely in that dress." He smiles, "Well you should it's good fun. I'm sure someone will be along to ask you." He offers Azaylia the glass that he now has, "Here I'll trade you." Nor does this conversation last very long, but again, K'del seems satisfied by the outcome. Southern's R'jare takes his leave completely, collecting his Weyrwoman and then heading with her towards the door. K'del watches after the pair of them, considering, before he turns about to head for another drink. Whisky cures all. Riorde's complaint brings something of a smile to Brieli's lips, as does the presumptive way she holds out her glass to the harper. The second squeak from Azaylia does, in fact, draw the seamstress' interest, and she looks over and sighs softly. "You won't be the only one to break a glass or four - put it aside?" As Toren offers his in trade, she gestures with her own glass - problem solved. "Honestly, you can likely give it to one of the people cleaning up. It's a party, glasses get broken." Which is maybe why she gets rid of hers - she downs the rest of the bubbly in her flute and sets it aside on a nearby table. "I drink there once or twice a day," Riorde responds dryly, still smiling as she deposits the glass with Toren and takes herself off. She moves purposefully, cutting a straight line for Damaris without any hesitation. Her smile's back, present as she comes to a halt just a little close for comfort, fingers reaching lightly for the other woman's elbow. "Having a nice time? Have you danced? You should dance with me." "Going well, tonight," Damaris observes as soon as K'del is in earshot, offering up a little impish smile his way. She does step out of the Weyrleader's way, so that he can collect his so very necessary glass of whisky. And oh, then there's Riorde, and she's right there, and the kitchen girl goes a little wide eyed, lifting her chin to look at Riorde squarely. "Oh," she says. "I am, I did, but. Oh, of course." Of course...she's looking a little flustered. Blushing, if faintly. Still, she downs what's in her glass, sends a look K'del's way, and then straightens from her lean. "I'll try not to step on your toes." Azaylia tries not to show just how mortified she is, though she's all to eager to trade Toren. "That's so sweet of you." Said with a sigh of relief, face still heavy in the same way a canine puppy's is when it's done something wrong. "I- I know. I just... didn't want to be one of them. The people." Fingers flick casually to the more rowdy riders, not realizing how badly that can be taken. That same hand reaches up, the Apprentice fanning at her face at a sudden heat hits her- certainly one glass can't go so quickly to her head? "Excuse me," She murmurs towards Brieli and Toren, "I think I need a breath of fresh air." Smile is genuine, making no excuses for some other agenda- and indeed Azaylia will look for the closest exit to stand next to. Actually go out into the autumn night? No thank you! For Damaris, and her remark, K'del has a smile that's almost-bright; his nod is long enough that there might well be extra meaning in it. His mouth opens at Riorde's offer, rather as though he's about to object, and there's warning there. But he says nothing: he even smiles. Toren takes the broken glass and he moves to throw it away. He comes back to see Azaylia is about to leave and he waves to her, "See you later Azaylia." He gives a nod to Brieli, "If you'll excuse me I'm going to wander more. Enjoy the party." He starts to mingle again. Riorde looks pleased, with her smile briefly widening. The smile remains as she glances over at K'del long enough to meet, and hold, his gaze. "My toes have had worse," she says to Damaris, holding out her hand with her palm up. "They can take it." The smile that is given K'del-wards just before she takes Riorde's hand is reassuring. Damaris lifts her chin at him, and then she's turning to place her hand in the offered one, putting on a warm smile. Any awkwardness is shoved down, pushed out of sight, and she moves to follow the other woman out to the floor. "We'll see," she says, all innocence. "I broke someone's foot once. It was terribly not pretty." Something about Riorde's holding of his gaze unnerves K'del; his narrows, and even Damaris' lifted chin doesn't seem to soothe him. "Riorde," he says, carefully. "Don't-- " Don't what? He doesn't seem to be able to specify. "Be smart." Don't be smart? No - it seems to be a separate statement. As both the harper and herder apprentices wander off into the night and the crowds, Brieli's mood is now somewhat somber and muted. She gives a little wave Toren's way as he makes his way off to mingle, and melts into the darker edges of the cavern to watch and listen for as long as she can stand it. Eventually, she'll slip back down into the caverns, taking a page from Io and a plate or two of food with her. "Weyrleader," Riorde says, mocking. Faintly, faintly. "You have so little faith in your riders." More lightly, to Damaris: "Shall we?" She spins Damaris out, out, and away from K'del. "So," she says for a conversational starter, "how are the kitchens? Any dropped pans? Is that how you break people's feet?" To Cadejoth, Sforzath ghosts in, faint at first and then strengthening, a presence paired with the spicy-sweet scent that feels like an unarticulated complaint, an appeal. To Sforzath, Cadejoth is distracted, tonight, his thoughts filled with eggs, and a now-sleeping queen. Still; « Sforzath? » Oh. There's briefly reluctance to the edges her expression, at something that goes between K'del and Riorde, but Damaris doesn't back down at this point, just smoothing her smile and being spun out and away from the Weyrleader. Contrary to her commentary about breaking feet, she's a fine dancer. "The kitchens are the kitchens," she says dryly, rolling her eyes and offering up a smile. "Full of gossip and tasty food. I have not dropped anything lately, alas. The weather hasn't been terribly cooperative. You're well, I hope?" He may not have won the battle, if, indeed, he was intending to, but K'del does not leave the battlefield, either: his good arm crosses over his bad arm, that latest glass of whiskey long since abandoned. He watches the dance, brownrider and kitchen worker, leaning up against a table and looking, by now, a little tired. The crowds are beginning to thin out - many of the dignitaries have already departed. He's got time. « Cadejoth. » The recognition, first, and then for a long moment thereafter, nothing. Would Sforzath even bring his uneasiness to the bronze, were it not that the queen -- his queen, too -- is sleeping? Finally: « She hears what they say. » (Sforzath to Cadejoth) His queen. Their queen. Cadejoth is silent for long moments after that last remark, his chains clicking into silence. « Is it true? » (Cadejoth to Sforzath) Toren continues to mingle with those that are still around. He doesn't do much talking and he just listens to the conversations going on. He keeps to sipping his klah as he does his best to keep his eyes and ears open. "Alas," Riorde parrots, playing. For all that she knows how to dance, she's less adept at leading; a few fumbled footsteps show that quickly enough. "We're as well as can be." She subjects Damaris to a casual sort of examination, head tilted just so. "You're not bored with the kitchens? I would be, same thing day in and day out." "It's an open secret that I am," Damaris laughs as the words are spoken, and for all that there are fumbled footsteps, she deigns to ignore them, letting Riorde work out this leading thing while doing her best to minimize the obviousness of said difficulty. It's habit. Oh look, that fumble was _totally_ on purpose, see. "But not so bored that I'm unhappy. They let me go do other things, when it gets to be too much. I spent quite a bit of time in the stables this summer. It's not a bad place to be, though." One hand comes away from Riorde so she can wave it around vaguely. "They could put me in the laundry. Could you imagine that?" Mock horror. "How is Taikrin?" Not even any awkwardness in the asking, though she's maybe being a little bit over-attentive to Riorde when the words are spoken. Someone else wants some of K'del's time? Of course. He's attentive, though, and full of smiles: yes, it's been a lovely evening, yes, it's a good clutch, yes, it's a pity that Tiriana couldn't make it. Yes, yes, yes. To Cadejoth, Sforzath may be holding in his temper, but the pressure mounts, pressing, building. The resentment in his answer adds further weight, dropping into place with a clink. « We're better than they think we are. » At the best of times, Cadejoth is not the most observant, the most careful with his words. And tonight is-- different. « So you claim, » he allows. « What do you want, Sforzath? To prove yourselves? To claim my queen? » A rattle of bones could - almost - be described as territorial. (Cadejoth to Sforzath) "Laundry was always my least favorite," Riorde says, remembering. Her lip curls slightly before she eases her expression back into that agreeable smile. "She's fine. Glacier's throwing a party of our own for the clutch, but I wanted to show up for Iolene. I'll head over in a bit, though." She concentrates, ostensibly on the dancing while her gaze remains fixed on Damaris. Eventually, she puts out in an offhand manner, "You could get out of the kitchens. If you wanted. You could stand." "Well, tell her I said hello," Damaris requests, relaxing a little at the reaction the question gets. Whew! "We should all get drinks again sometime. On purpose. Without anything blowing. What?" It's about then that the suggestion sinks in, and to her credit, she does not actually stumble or trip. She loses the beat for a moment and sort of falters gracelessly, but she's picking it back up swiftly. "I suppose I could," she says, giving Riorde a look that's more typical of her-to-the-brownrider: a little bewildered. "Isn't that a lot of work, though?" It's the important question. To Cadejoth, Sforzath has little patience for games. Smoke leaks out of containment, at first in a trickle and then threatening to billow, gusts of it. « What's ours. » He does not name the claims themselves. Cadejoth should know. They all should. Sforzath has nothing more to say. To Sforzath, Cadejoth is dismissive, somehow. « If you say so, » he says, before drifting back towards his eggs, his queen, his weyr. It's doubtful whether K'del actually caught the question being asked, given he's only vaguely glancing at the dancing women in between carefully chosen remarks to his current companion. It's more likely, however, that he's caught the way Damaris falters, and even if she does pick it back up again, it's got his eyes narrowed. "Excuse me," he says, vaguely, stepping away from his companion and towards the dance floor. Toren can see the party is dying down and it is getting a bit late. He goes to head out. "I suppose there's work involved," Riorde allows, pausing to allow Damaris the chance to collect herself. "But it's interesting. It changes. It's-- freeing." She spies K'del over the other woman's shoulder and looks at him as he approaches, expression pulled into one that's pleasantly questioning. There's a half-step back taken when Riorde pauses, and Damaris does take a moment to gather herself back together. The glance over her shoulder is caught, and so she looks, too. Oh, K'del. Relief ghosts every so briefly through her gaze, but she soon turns her eyes back up to Riorde. "It would...be not so boring," she grants slowly, her tone heavy with thought. The wheels in her head are spinning so fast. No smoke out her ears yet, though. "What would I have to do?" Pause. "I mean right now, not. In general." Even now, K'del doesn't seem entirely certain on what is being discussed - but that isn't going to stop him from sidestepping in alongside the pair, arms still crossed, brows still raised. "Everything all right here?" he wants to know, expression questioning to Damaris, particularly in light of that relief, and suspicious to Riorde. Poor Riorde. "Oh, tell the headwoman, I suspect." Riorde is rather loose on the details. "Or K'del. There he is now." The brownrider brings them both to a halt so she can turn towards the Weyrleader. She's smiling when she says, "Sforzath thinks Damaris should be a candidate for Ysavaeth's clutch, and I agree." Has Damaris even met her brown? Not the point. The point is this: the very public declaration of the offer extended to Damaris by this exile rider. She's not looking to see if the riders from earlier are still present, keeping her eyes fixed on K'del in anticipation of a response not just from Damaris, but from him as well. Starting to reply, Damaris closes her mouth when Riorde speaks. Oh. Gears in her head, almost audibly grinding, and she tugs herself insistently out of Riorde's grip so that she can step to K'del's side. He's looked at sidelong for two heartbeats -- there is absolutely no mistaking the questioning-for-approval look she gives him, plain for the whole cavern to see -- and then it's from his side that she looks back to Riorde and nods her head. "I will," she finally agrees. "Thank you, Riorde, and thank you to Sforzath, as well. I'm honored." No attempt to keep her voice quiet. Whatever K'del was expecting, it's not this: this, that leaves him hesitating for a moment, watching Riorde rather as though he expects her to throw something else into it any mix. But he must be aware of what was said earlier, and perhaps that's why he raises his voice when saying, eyes turning now towards Damaris in an approving way, "Excellent! We need all the good people we can get; speak for both of us when I say Iolene and I are pleased." No doubt it attracts some attention - for a number of reasons - from those remaining; he doesn't seem to notice, or care. "The Headwoman, yes. She'll sort you out. Uh-- congratulations, Damaris." "Excellent," Riorde repeats, pleased in her own way. It's a darker sort of satisfaction. "I hope it suits you." She's pointedly keeping her full attention on the other two, chin lifted. "If you don't mind, I think I'll excuse myself; I should be off to find my wing." "Thanks, Riorde," Damaris repeats more quietly, expression only uncertain for an instant before she's putting back on her cheerful smile. "I'll see you around sometime soon." A few more moments of watching before she's turning her eyes up to K'del and totally putting on her surprise face. "I think I need a drink -- maybe two -- before I go talk to the Headwoman," she tells him. "Maybe I should do that in the morning. And. Thanks." K'del's got eyes on Riorde even now, even as she's departing - something he doesn't remark on. To Damaris: "Good. Excellent. Come on-- let's get a drink, then. Celebrate." Which he'll do before it's time to head back home. Riorde has another smile for both of them, inclusive, before she heads out with her head still high to eat and drink and be merry with the wing that took her in. Something so just sailed over her head, and the worst part is that she knows it. Damaris isn't poking at that ant's nest though, instead just happily going off to drink, 'celebrate', and try to regain her balance. It's been an interesting night. Morning...yes. Morning, she will talk to the Headwoman. Properly hungover. That's normal, right? |
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