Logs:An Interesting Time
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| RL Date: 6 April, 2013 |
| Who: Azaylia, R'co, Ilicaeth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Brownrider R'co, a new transfer, is interviewed. Azaylia and Hraedhyth ask some questions, before weyrling-induced chaos calls them away. |
| Where: Council Chambers, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 11, Month 6, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Hana/Mentions |
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| Council Chambers, High Reaches Weyr At the heart of this oblong cavern is its meeting table: a long hardwood oval with a mirror's dark shine, High Reaches' sigil picked out in lapis and onyx at its center. Twenty chairs surround it, each softened by an embroidered cushion that's just a little too stiff for complete comfort -- meetings need to be kept short, after all -- with the chair at the table's head, facing the ledge, being somewhat larger than the rest. Interspersed between glowsconces upon the smooth walls, ancient tapestries depict the territories High Reaches protects in a particularly pastoral fashion, all fluffy clouds and fluffier llamas, or else fishing crafts sailing merrily out to sea. Among them is also a natural alcove, its several wooden shelves primarily stocking fine wines and liquors as well as the glasses to serve them, though the lower shelves also hold whatever hidework requires particularly frequent attention. A narrow wooden door leads to the Records room, while the tunnel that extends to the weyrleaders' ledge is wide enough for three men to walk abreast, with just enough kink in it to block the wind. To Deveriteauxth, Hraedhyth is not overly welcoming to the foreign brown, for all that he may not stay that way. Heat. Power. It is not used on him, and there is no threat of such, but the queen wears them without shame. Diplomatic, if in her own primal way, « Yours is summoned. » Her fire leaps, sharing a clear image of the council chambers within its flames. To Hraedhyth, Deveriteauxth's mind is icy cold in comparison to the heat of the gold's; frozen aniseed scenting sparkling white clouds. « He's coming, darling. » An echo of his rider's common choice of words in his husky, accented purr, the image of R'co and himself preparing for the visit. It's a beautiful day outside, making it even more of a shame to be cooped up in the council chambers, though they are rather nice. It's what tradition dictates, or at least Azaylia's understanding of it, sitting at the head of the table in what is usually the Weyrleader's chair. She has hides and papers strewn in front of her, alternating pattern hinting that it's an order the weyrwoman is able to understand. Rather than klah or tea, there are glasses of juice set on the table, along with a platter of fingerfoods and a basket filled with more of the same. One hand on her cheek, the other holds up a page for her to glance over, a quick and final scan of whatever the document holds. His entrance is with a flourish; an elaborate knock on the door from the Records Room heralds his arrival, and a well-dressed R'co steps through when he's beckoned forth. With his ashy-pale hair neatly groomed, an open-necked shirt and his riding jacket slung over his shoulder, the brownrider closes the distance between himself and Azaylia, pausing a few steps in front of her to salute sharply. "Weyrwoman Azaylia." His voice echoes a little of the purr present in his lifemate's. "It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am - I brought you a little something, if you will?" From a pouch hung by his hip, he produces a small jar, which he holds forth before waiting for permission to pass it forward. "A little gift. A welcome home token." There's something in the way Azaylia stands, startled by both grand entrance and the contrasting, professional salute that follows. "Brownrider R'co." She presumes. His flourish has her smiling, touched only by faint confusion, "You brought me..?" The suspicion isn't fiery, but it certainly isn't all her own when she offers, "I can't accept bribes, you know." But a gift? She reaches for the jar, permission evident enough in her curiosity in what it is the brownrider's brought her. Distracted, "Uhm." More thrown off her game, really, as this isn't how one imagines an interview to start, "I know you've already given you reasons on paper, but I'd appreciate hearing why you've decided to come back?" "Hardly a bribe, miss Azaylia - if I were trying to bribe you, it'd be a far bigger jar." R'co winks boyishly, handing over the gift when she reaches for it. "Think of it as me providing proof of my craft, if you'd like. It's a moisturising balm. You'll have to excuse the generic scent; I assure your next order," because he's so certain it'll win her over, "will be customised to your desire. May I sit?" He rests the back of his hand on a chair, waiting to pull it out. "I've missed home, dar-- weyrwoman." A quick correction of official title over colloquial address. "I've been gone far too long, and snow is far more my thing than Ista's sunshine." His wink is met with a soft laugh, "Alright." Azaylia is willing to believe him, opening the jar as he takes the time to explain its contents. A sniff to satiate curiosity ends up wit a dollop on her nose, reaching up to rub the scented balm into her skin rather than off. "It's lovely. Thank you." And all she will be able to smell, at least for some time. "Please do." The chair he's claimed is gestured to, setting the jar down next to her work as the weyrwoman lowers back into her own seat. "We've got our own bit of sunshine now." She glances towards the exit that leads to the bright, warm, outside world. Her smile remains, though the look she aims his way leans towards the professional, "I... of course you've heard what's been happening here? It's just an interesting time to want to transfer to High Reaches." R'co looks relaxed where he sits, leaning comfortably back in the chair with it pushed far enough back from the table for him to be able to cross his legs. With fingers steepled in front of him, the tips of each slender index digit touched to the end of a nose that shows signs of a break or two, he cosiders the question carefully. "It's hard not to know what's happening here." Happening. Present, rather than the past tense Azaylia chose. Those fingertips touch his lips for a second, before he leans forward towards the weyrwoman, one brow raised beneath the sweep of blonde that covers his forehead. "It's an 'interesting time', ma'am, to use your words, but I've been going through an 'interesting time' of my own. I needed to come home, and perhaps home needs someone who can soothe away its troubles." He holds up his hands, wiggling his fingers. "Nothing better than a massage to ease tension, after all." Tactful phrasing leads her to be corrected, and Azaylia says nothing on R'co's change in tenses. Possibly, it's more telling than if she had. She seems comfortable as well, if properly stiff, guiding the pages all into one pile with unhurried fingertips. "Help yourself." She'll interject with a look towards the glass of juice and the nibbles, not sounding terribly demanding. They're there if he likes. "An interesting time." She echoes, voice far more light and airy than his own, "Something happened? I'm sorry I'm forced to pry." It's genuine enough, "I'm trying to understand what would have you deciding on High Reaches. What with all of its... happenings." Wiggling fingers catch her eye, agreement given in another soft laugh. R'co offers to pour a glass of juice for Azaylia, before he helps himself to one. "I'm a 'Reaches weyrbrat." Said with pride! "Here is home. My mum may not be here any more, but High Reaches is, and always will be, home to me. That's my decision for coming here, rather than Telgar, where I'd have to watch mum getting all cuddly with her man. That's not something I want to see." He shudders, pulling an exaggerated face of disgust. "As for why I want to come home now..." The expression he's worn so far, one of polite interest and gentle warmth, fades to something darker. He tosses his head to flick his fringe from his face and takes a sip from his juice before responding stiffly to the question. "I had a boyfriend. I don't any more." The brownrider is certainly welcome to refresh Azaylia's half-empty glass, "Thank you." For now it seems as though the weyrwoman is happy to have her questions answered, listening with a pleasant smile and hands folded atop the paperwork in front of her. There are sparks of more authentic amusement when at the mention of his mother, fading away as the brownrider's mood takes a turn for the worst. She's left stunned, though not overly, blinking several times in however long it takes R'co to answer. "Oh. Oh." Comprehension brings with it polite sympathy, "It was that bad, then?" Not that she's asking for details with such a rhetoric. "I can understand that." Faint floral notes are carried on Hreadhyth's dark smoke, her rider's sympathies untouched by the queen's own fire. The gold rarely cares for human business, pressuring presence touching the brown's mind to ensure that such compassion is not unearned. « Yours speaks the truth? » Contralto drops to a low growl, a warning. (Hraedhyth to Deveriteauxth) "Eight turns bad." R'co supplies that much detail with a delicate snort, turning his head to look along the length of the table in the opposite direction to where Azaylia is. "Coming home," he says slowly, as if weighing the words before he shares them, "is me looking for a clean slate. I've got my business, and it'll run just as well from here as anywhere. Dev and I have a decent record with our past wing; I'm sure they'll be happy to provide references." Light blue eyes return back to Azaylia, and he smiles poutily for her. "My grandma and my mum both worked in the lower caverns as beauticians. Do you have someone to sweeten up your caverns folk and riders with prettifying treatments? Looking good can be an awfully good boost for morale, you know." While ice-cool, there's nothing emotionally cold about Deveriteauxth's thoughts - they're more along the lines of a refreshingly iced drink on a hot summer's day. « Always. » There's a hint of longing as he shares the image of a green dragon, a dark-haired rider; the warmth of her hide and the tiniest peek into a mind that's vibrant and lusty. « He hurts, darling. We like love. » (Deveriteauxth to Hraedhyth) It's not terribly professional, that faint wince for those past eight turns, "Ah." Azaylia's back to herding her papers, not that they've managed to disorganize themselves in the last few moments. It's something to do with that nervous, akward energy at having her question properly answered. "I have Hana." She supplies without much thought, "My... assistant. I don't know if she's working with anyone else." Surely the weyrwoman can't be the hairdressers only victem? "Well, brownrider R'co..." One last look down to the topmost paper before her brown gaze finds his, "On behalf of High Reaches Weyr, welcome back." She leans some, offering him a hand, "It may not be the same as when you left it, but it is home." To Deveriteauxth, Hraedhyth does not object to being refreshed, but neither does she indulge when discussing High Reaches Weyr. Her tribe. What Deveriteauxth shares is accepted, formally, though they end up being thoroughly inspected, rummaged through by savage hands. And then, the warmth of her heart's hearth, « We cannot » Do not, « Offer love. But we can offer you a place. Here. » Home. R'co leans across to capture Azaylia's hand, giving her a squeeze that borders on flirtatious as it lasts just a few seconds longer than is strictly necessary. "Thank you, darling. It's our pleasure to be back." His lips form a pleased pout, and his smile becomes just a little brighter. "I'm looking forward to settling back into whatever state home is in, weyrwoman Azaylia. And you will come to me for a massage, won't you? Or at least a treatment? I've got this gorgeous mask that will do wonders for your skin - I'm quite sure you'll love it." « You'll love it, » Deveriteauxth echoes shamelessly in his thick, purring voice. R'co squints, perhaps reprimanding his dragon for the interruption, before smiling with apologetic brightness at the weyrwoman. To Hraedhyth, Deveriteauxth accepts that with a flourish of aniseed, the scent softened by louched green and crystal-clear ice. « And we thank you, Hraedhyth. » The raspy growl of his voice is genuinely thankful. « We look forward to getting to know you and Yours better. Mine would like to relax her. » A kneading of hands, a gentle massage, is shared, with the heavy scent of fragranced oil. Azaylia is unbothered by how long her hand is held, not one to shy away from the physical. "You're very welcome." She doesn't sit just yet, reaching across the table, an act that may seem rude to those with the strictest of manners. "Here." The basket is pushed closer to the brownrider, full of sweets, bread, cheeses, and a bottle of reasonably priced wine. "Our Acting Weyrleader would like to place you in Snowdrift. You'll want to get in touch with the Wingle--" The weyrwoman gives a visible start, eyes wide looking to R'co for an answer. "That. That was?" If that apologetic smile leaves any doubt, Hraedhyth will sooth it away. "Well then." A breathless laugh of surprise, "I don't know how much time I have for a... treatment. Though I will admit, I'm curious." She returns that smile, her own going from polite to genuine. Gratitude is met with a taste of Hraedhyth's warmth, an echo of what her rider offers his, « You are welcome. » In all manner of speaking. « For now. » For the queen is not so easily soothed, and it will take some time to wash away stink of Ista in order to replace it with the scent of her tribe. Those hands prompt a primal understanding that comes with having a lifemate such as hers, voice roughened by a snort, « I am sure he would. » (Hraedhyth to Deveriteauxth) "Mmhrm." R'co confirms that that was, indeed, his lifemate. "He's not shy, ma'am. Neither of us are." Perhaps he's emboldened by the way Azaylia didn't reprimand him for those extra few seconds? Either way, R'co takes the basket, looping his arm through the handle with barely a look at the contents. "So kind. Snowdrift will be the perfect fit for us. I'm quite sure Acting Weyrleader Taikrin knows exactly what she's doing." He stands, reaching across to lightly press his fingers to the woman's upper arm. "Do try and make time. You'd be surprised how it boosts productivity... and you've got such a fabulous complexion to work with." To Hraedhyth, Deveriteauxth won't push being accepted into the tribe - that's all like too much effort, when there are more appealing things to devote his time to. A bar or two of a Harper tune flutters through his thoughts towards the gold, his licorice-like scent growing briefly stronger before it fades into a gentle, sugared background note. « In your time, Hraedhyth. » That raspy croon fades, a quiet retreat that leaves the floor open should the queen have more to say. Sudden fear and concern blasts over all the mind in the Weyr, the weyrling blue managing to sound like both an adult and a child as he trumpets loudly, « Get out of the WAY! » (Ilicaeth to all High Reaches dragons) To Ilicaeth, Hraedhyth is there. « WHAT. » Comes the bellow, heard above her viciously loud drums. All that she is, all that she is able to do offered to the pup who has cried out. If only she is able to know what it is that causes Ilicaeth such fear. Charming words put the weyrwoman at ease, though it's his compliment that has Azaylia's smile turning to a grin, "You've already been accepted, brownrider." It's a gentle tease, touch to her upper arm met with a light pat to the back of his hand. "Thank you." It would be hard to wipe that grin off her face, but something manages, a look of grim fear taking over. "O-oh! I'm sorry. The... there are weyrlings and they're..?" She has enough sense to gather her papers up, an apologetic glance breaking through her panic. "I'm sorry, I have to go. If you have any questions..?" Save them! He'll have little choice as the goldrider goes bolting out of the chambers and down the steps into the bowl. Whatever Hraedhyth might have to say is stolen away by a raging inferno, a call to her instincts as dam and gold. She wastes no time with things such as manners, swept away without warning and only thick soot left behind. (Hraedhyth to Deveriteauxth) |
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