Logs:Are You Happy Now?
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| RL Date: 27 September, 2011 |
| Who: Iolene, Riorde |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Ysavaeth has had enough with Iolene's moping and with her self-created outs with Riorde. |
| Where: Hot Springs, High Reaches Area |
| When: Day 20, Month 11, Turn 26 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Devaki/Mentions, Raum/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, Seani/Mentions, S'thyn/Mentions |
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| Hot Springs, High Reaches Area(#1636R) It's getting far too cold for Iolene to be bathing Ysavaeth in the lake, though the gold likely doesn't mind. Water is water. Clean is clean. And oiled up matters so much less when there isn't as much sunshine to glisten under, to catch the eyes of would-be male suitors. For yes, even at just shy of half a turn, Ysavaeth has discovered the opposite sex and how they might react in far different ways to her requests (but who are we kidding, commands) than the other golds or greens might. So as the pale queen soaks in her chosen spring, her rider easing her own muscles not far off, she extends a sweet, fog-laden invitation to her sibling, the pair to her rider's once friend. « Have you bathed yet? Enjoyed the springs? If you haven't, you should join us. Bring Riorde. » Everything is a request, except that last line and while on the surface it might seem throwaway, there's a definitive: you must do this for me laden into it. Sforzath exhibits a fine-tuned awareness to his golden sister's mental touch. He is immediately responsive, with a soft, sweet-smelling smoke that curls towards aesthetic appreciation as he answers in the affirmative: « We like the warmth. I will tell her and make her take a break-- » A sense of suspension, rather than finality. He breaks off only to close the distance and then resume. They come: Sforzath blustering through the calmest of snowfalls with enough inner exuberance to make up for the fact that breeze is negligible and flight thus easy. Still. He lands with relative finesse, less than he'll have later but more than when they started flying not so long ago, attempting grace, attempting control. Riorde doesn't bother; her dismount is more of a tumble towards the ground. She's red-cheeked and grinning, in love with flight, though her grin dims a little when she sees who else is there. Evidently, Sforzath decided not to share from whence the invitation came. Dragons are such sneaky creatures; able to convince riders to do things and then not give them the full picture. The sounds and rushing wind of another dragon's arrival rouses Iolene from her semi-somnolent state, reclined in the hot springs, to look up and- recognize. There's recognition in those dark blue eyes and then the inevitable chew of her lower lip, while Ysavaeth sinks further into her own spring. Poise lifts her slender neck while a beckoning curl of her tail, that splashes the sulphur-scented water up in drops, invites Sforzath closer. « You came, » she feigns delighted surprise well, as if the brown had a choice. « I'm glad. Now, we leave them to talk. » Because Ysa has had enough of her serial-moping, screw up of a rider and possibly enough of Llynceth going near Iolene at all. Riders should be ferried by their own dragons. Moments pass, Iolene looking to Riorde silently indecisive. It shows in the flicker of her lashes as she tries to look anywhere but the brownrider, but fails. It shows in the gnawing of her lower lip and the uncertain way in which she pushes hair out of her face, that then falls back into her face again. But ultimately, it shows in the part of her mouth, when the teeth finally let go, as she tries to work herself up to say something and fails. This is Iolene, though, and though the Iolene of one turn ago and the Iolene of now are certainly two very different people, there are still commonalities and while the indecisive moment seems much longer than the thirty seconds it likely was, hot-springs soaked Iolene kicks herself out of the pool and flings herself at Riorde. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm really sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." This litany might just never end. Sforzath minds not a whit that he's divested of choice, as long as he's left the semblance of it. This discretion of Ysavaeth's makes the brown more pliant. There's a funny, paradoxical logic at work: the more she accords him illusions of self-determination and autonomy of decision, the happier he is to concede to her will. Ah, the male ego. « How could I resist? » The feel of warm water is foremost in the sensations that accompany his response, but there's something else there too that suggests an appreciation of Ysavaeth herself. At this point largely contained to an artistic estimation of the gold's sleek physicality, but one that is sure to grow more nuanced and develop. He too is growing up, faster than several of his siblings. He moves to join Ysavaeth but Riorde cuts that short with a reminder: "Hey, let me take off your straps." This gives her something to do too, rather than watch Iolene with her uncertain welcome; Riorde only gets to the point where she starts to turn, however, when Iolene launches herself up. Riorde automatically finds herself in the position of catching Io and supporting her - not that she was ever given a choice. "It's okay, it's okay," she cuts through the other girl's supplications, letting out a relieved exhale of what could be the beginning of laughter. It never crosses her mind to complain that Io's all wet. "It's okay, really." All wet. And naked. Cause well, how else do you bathe? It's K'del and possibly quite a few other males in the Weyr's dream come true and gosh darn, no one here to document it. "Truly?" Io can't bite back that shiver coming now that she's not fueled by the necessary adrenaline to apologize first, think later. "I'm sorry I punched her and got in the middle of all that and- I'm sorry I was mean." Because Io's idea of mean includes avoiding friends. "I'm cold." Which is just so much of a no shit moment that even Io is able to rectify it by giving Riorde one last squeeze before running back and dropping herself into the springs again. « Well, » Ysavaeth, from her lofty perch of instigator, reflects aloud, « That went much quicker than I expected. » With Iolene and Riorde left to their own devices now, the gold retreats back into her own pleasures: the heat of the water against her frame, the churn her turning tail brings to the springs, causing the water to lap entreatingly against her sides as she watches Sforzath down the length of her regal nose. « You grow well, » flatters the young queen, a sweetly oozing honey tempering the queenly (read: aloof) tonal quality of her touch. « You fly well too. We've watched. » And waited. But now she, too, flies along with her smaller siblings. "I don't care that you punched her. I care why -- didn't you think I'd take your side?" Of course, Riorde's feelings on the matter may have changed in the time since the incident. For Io, everyone's little sister, Riorde tries to make her rebuke soft. "I missed you." Now when she turns away to divest Sforzath of his straps, it's with the relieved knowledge that she putting her back to Iolene isn't an evasion. Sforzath is too direct to flatter well, not caring to take the necessary time for subtlety, so his affirmation is simple: « It was a good idea. You did well. » He's impatient to get in the water and can hardly wait, shimmying out of the straps as soon as the buckles are unfastened and leaving Riorde to scramble so that they don't catch about his legs and get dragged into the pool after all. « I want to fly farther, » he confesses, with a ring of determination, annoyance with the limitations still imposed. « See more. » « Iolene does as well. » Of herself, she's tellingly quiet on her views of flying further. High Reaches suits her fine and High Reaches is her own, and laden in those four words lies hints of this; this meaning that Iolene wishes to fly further and stay further away. « It will happen soon. We are already flying further than the day we hatched. Of eggs. » The last added, just in case her brown sibling might not recall those eggs they traipsed out of; not that she's much for the memories herself, but what's Io's is hers. "Cause-, cause you like her." It's really as simple as that as Iolene's still too-thin shoulders sink beneath the water's surface. "I mean, you like me too, I think, but it's not the same. She's your-, she was your-..." Uncertain of where to go with this, whether the gossip chirping about her head has any validity, Iolene falters. Sforzath is not unaware of those shades of meaning, though nothing in his response puts forward his perceptiveness. His echoed « Soon » is almost superficial. Layered intimations save it from simplicity: a chafing against restraint, the anticipated fulfillment of a promise. Careful to leave Ysavaeth her space unless explicitly invited to share it (perhaps he's been warned off in the past), the brown soaks right up to his nose. "Yes, but we're family." Riorde strips once she's saved the straps, no-nonsense and not waiting around to get cold. Into the springs with a splash. "We've always got each other - unless we stop talking. We can't do that." Taikrin is entirely left out of her answer. The mention of family stiffens Iolene, perceptible enough from the typically transparent girl. We can't stop talking. Can't. Guilt-ridden, the low voice climbs unsteadily, "Ri, I have something to tell you." Ysavaeth is perfectly fine with Sforzath paying court from a distance, however close that actual distance might be. Physical, for this queen matters so little, particularly when her mental touch transcends the need to press her tail into his, or to look in shiny-eyed into his eyes. She is, after all, not Iolene. Through her sibling's mind she sends a glittering red butterfly, each successive stroke of its delicate wings casting off a shimmering powder into his mind. It beckons, dancing about the fringes, circling what tempests might await her. Each loop draws her minutely deeper into Sforzath mind unless- Unless, for any reason, she finds resisitence, and then she simply waits. Ysavaeth has patience to spare in her plans. Iolene is so readable. Lifting her hands so tug out the tie that holds her hair back, Riorde adopts a look of patient expectation, her eyebrows raised and her gaze fixed on Iolene; she waits, hands on the back of her head. Sforzath is waiting too, in his own way, sending a little puff of air across the butterfly's path. But not too hard, just enough to make a glimmering eddy, crystalline ash now whorling into arabesques. The shimmering red butterfly reels at even that lightest puff, its circular path broken for an instant as it regains its bearings before resuming again, having lost a little bit of ground to the obstacle. The red dust she throws, cause it is decidedly a feminine, female butterfly, now casts off a powdered gray crystal in her wake, leaving whirling path that spirals deeper into Sforzath's mind. And the words? They begin more like feelings and emotions that can be construed from a din but ultimate culminate to, « Family. » Ysavaeth's plucked that word from the rider's conversation and made it her own. Him. Her. Family. They belong together. He's part of who she is and vice versa, much as their riders' lives are entwined. "Dev's still alive," is a quiet statement in comparison to the dizzying circles Ysavaeth makes in Sforzath's head, and Iolene sinks further into the water so her chin grazes against the water's top. Maybe she can hide a little more. No surprise, no shock. No anger. Instead, still for a moment before she relaxes, Riorde studies Iolene with a strangely calm contemplation. "I know." She releases that knowledge at the same time that she lets her hands fall and her hair with them. The ends of her hair float in the steaming water as Riorde slips down until the water closes above her shoulders. « Family. » Some of the circling, kaleidoscopic twists of glittering dust curl in with beckoning intimacy, now a bright cardinal when caught by the light, now silver and steel. Others curl out, taking up a golden glow in deference to her color and all it symbolises. « Family. » Following after, Riorde: "How long have you known?" The girl's arms tighten about her, the recollection that she's sitting in a pool naked and vulnerable possibly not the only reason she suddenly feels the need to hide behind the protection of her arms. Her eyes are dim, clouded with a memory that wont' go away no matter how many shakes of her head she spares. "Since... since before the hatching." Iolene casts Riorde a sidelong look. "He told me not to tell anyone that he and Raum were going to leave the Weyr during the hatching, while everyone was distracted and wouldn't notice two more people leaving the Weyr." Possibly, the earlier apologies were meant to encompass a lot more than just her recent behavior. "How do- how do you know?" "You've known all this time." A statement. As neutral as Riorde strives to sound, she can't entirely shake the traces of blame from her too-calm tone. In that moment, Riorde doesn't seem to want to look at Iolene; she tilts her head back to stare at the blindingly white, snow-filled clouds. A few miniscule flakes settle on her face before instantly melting away. "He sent me a letter." There's something more terrifying in calm than in yelling and Iolene sinks away, her only defense, "He asked me not to say anything and then-," and then. Iolene just looks tired, and in her tiredness, the posturing melts. "I was afraid he had something to do with Seani's death. It was too much. Too coincidental. I didn't want any one to know he was still alive." It's a lot of excuses that are likely too late, and the awareness of this contorts Io's face and she turns; turns away to look to the two dragons rather than Riorde. "He sent me a letter too. I miss him." Instantly, Riorde retorts, "You could have told /me./" Encapsulated within is an unwillingness to allow the idea of a greater intimacy between Iolene and Devaki than the one she has with either of them. Mention of Seani's death is trickier to answer so she doesn't for a time. Eventually, she tips her chin down again and levels a look at Iolene. "I'm sure what they did-- what they're doing-- is for the best." And just like that, she excuses the death of an innocent, Seani swallowed up by the greater good. Iolene's flinch only manifests in the tense set of her bare back, the one she presents to Riorde and then the sudden tightening of her shoulders. Her face, for only Sforzath and Ysavaeth, is contorted and threatens to become tear-streaked, but doesn't. She's learned a lot in the last few months, and the beginnings of some semblance of self-control stop the liquid at her eyes from just spilling. But she can't stop the sniff and the fierce rub of the back of her hand against her nose. At least the mineral water can wash away and kill her snotty germs. "Why?" That sad, trying not to be sad, face turns over her shoulder and asks. "Why should I have told you if he didn't tell you first? I wanted to. But I- Seani's death isn't nothing. I don't know why the Weyr doesn't seem to care who murdered her. Why they're not even /looking/. No one is. I've decided I will, once we're free of this place." Unvoiced by Io, but sent in a butterfly-lit tendril by Ysavaeth to Sforzath, but perhaps even a wider band than that to include Riorde in the vague sentiment if not a purposeful touch, is an unverbal: will you? "I didn't see him," Riorde answers, trying to make up for its flimsiness through firmness of tone. "If I had, I'm sure he would have." Except, her face expresses the doubt prompted by her own statement that her tone denies. "I didn't say Seani's death was nothing." Just - it's somethingness is called into question; Riorde seems unwilling to address it further. She drifts towards Sforzath with the intention of taking shelter under his muzzle, against his chest, protected in an embrace greater than that of any man or woman. Something makes her look at Ysavaeth, a little uncertain. Sforzath gusts the butterfly back and forth, an immediate yes! anything you like! moderated by a growing conditionality: well, I mean-- "Maybe it's best to let it rest," Riorde voices quietly. Ignoring the falseness that seems loud in her ears, she tries to phrase it in an appealing way. "I think it's what Seani would have wanted. She was always so gentle. Not to be remembered for what happened-- but for how she lived." "With a murderer loose out there?" Iolene tucks a damp lock of hair behind her ear and wades to the other side of the poo, careful to keep her distance from Riorde. A towel waits on the stone surrounding the pools, a little moist for the foggy mist, but nominally dry... enough. Wrapping it around her as she gets out, the blonde teenager considers Riorde. "Tell me why you want me to let it go. You said we should tell each other everything." Which isn't what she said, but in Io's mind, close enough. "Why, Ri?" Sforzath drips water all over Riorde, having roused himself just enough to provide the support she seeks. She looks smaller when overshadowed by this half-grown dragon-- not just smaller, but younger too. Vulnerable. It's her turn to wrap her arms around herself, hugging herself tight. She stares out at Iolene, clearly unwilling to go further. But when pressed, she does. "Because I don't think you'll like the answer you get." "Because you think-," Iolene halts, the doubts that Devaki's letter washed away reemerging. "You think Dev had something to do with it." Ysavaeth's exit of the pool is less graceful than her rider, but it's hard to be poised when you're that big sometimes, and /still/ growing. "Do you want me to say it?" Riorde's voice rings harshly. Her tone is in direct contrast to her posture, for she sinks a little deeper. She'd move back farther, but there's nowhere to go; her back is already against Sforzath's chest. Iolene tightens the towel under her arms by wrapping those arms around her chest. "Yes." Big eyes and curious, and- something else that lingers in that dark eyed gaze. "Fine." When backed into the proverbial corner, Riorde comes out swinging. She lets out a gusty exhale, straightens up, and comes out from underneath Sforzath's neck to face Iolene with both feet planted firm. You can't see it under the water, but it carries up and into her posture: squared shoulders, straight spine. "I think Raum had something to do with it. And Devaki has something to do with Raum. And I told Devaki to get Raum to help him in the first place." She swallows hard. Does her lip tremble? No. Her jaw is clenched, admits no weakness. Riorde never cries. "Are you happy now?" It's quiet while Iolene is silent, taking in what Riorde says, the only bit of which is news now is who brought Raum and Devaki together. Is she happy? It's hard to say as that 'something else,' that indescribable emotion that flattens her gaze remains steadfast. When she finally speaks, it's not as the island's perpetual baby sister, though a mournful note lingers in her voice. "And if I don't find out, maybe K'del will. If I know-," the thin featured face shifts to look up to Ysavaeth, the gold having made her way towards her towel-clad rider in the interim, and in view of her dragon, Io's expression clears, softening for all the fears she struggles to keep so deep inside. "-I can make it better. Whatever it is. You. Dev. Everyone. Belongs with us. Together." An everyone that tellingly does not encompass the entire Weyr. "I'll make it better. I promise, Riorde." Riorde, who has made herself hard in anticipation of a blow, looks bewildered at the lack of censure from Iolene. Her chest drops in a release. In the moment following her confession, the threat of tears is even more real and guilt plainly visible as she looks at her friend -- but with along with the guilt, respect. "Okay." So much does she want to believe what Iolene offers her, she accepts it without argument. "I'll help." Iolene might not be capable of censure. But then again, she's still fairly young. "I have other things to tell you, but-," in spite of the heavy weight of all they've shared in the last few minutes, a smile ventures, hovering about her eyes rather than her lips. It's the hopeful look of a teenage girl who needs someone to confide in. "Later? I-," there's only a flicker of guilt for a heart broken not too long ago, "I have a new boy." Toy. But for later. Ysavaeth looks pressed to depart now and Iolene's hastily donned on clothing for one of the assistants to take them back. "Bye. Ri. I'm- I'm sorry," is her, probably not final, apology. All these emotions and the effort it takes to repress them leaves Riorde looking tired, deflated. She rallies with the promise of, "Later," and even finds it in herself to look intrigued with the mention of Io's new boy(toy). "Bye, Io," she calls. "It's okay." |
Comments
Iolene/Comments (Satiet) left a comment on Wed, 28 Sep 2011 03:02:49 GMT.
Testing 1 2 3.
Also, it's interesting to see how these two have grown since the 'rescue.'
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