Logs:Day Off
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| RL Date: 22 May, 2013 |
| Who: Leova, Riorde |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Wingmates get away with their dragons... and drink to (avoid) current events. |
| Where: Some beach down South |
| When: Day 9, Month 11, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Aishani/Mentions, Anvori/Mentions, Azaylia/Mentions, D'nis/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, Taikrin/Mentions, Z'ian/Mentions, Via/Mentions |
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| The sand here is neither white nor black but a mottled brown, fine enough for smoothness and not so fine as to be choking, especially where it's wetted again and again by the rise and the fall of the waves. It's a small cove, an inlet really. Leova's stationed a bright canopy low enough to shade from the Southern sun, high enough to let the breeze flow on by. Now that she's gotten Vrianth's straps off, now that she's gotten into that shade with the bucket of ice and her feet sticking out into the sun, "Right, back to the rules. Where were we, drink if we... mention a wing that's not Glacier? Or should Glacier count too. Maybe not the weyrlings, though." "Count Glacier." Riorde's methodically stripping off all those late fall layers and folding the clothes as she goes to use as a pillow. "Did we mention the golds? Drink for a gold too, I think." She flops down with a sigh, body lean and pale. "The weyrlings can get a pass. I don't know enough about them to find it necessary to talk about them drunk." While they establish the rules for their sojourn, Sforzath basks nearby, the colors of his eyes reflecting his contentment. "And I look in on them in my professional capacity, but it's not like you care about the odd talon injury or 'Yes, that brown is still growing, believe it or not.' At least they're pretty well over thicktail." Leova's got a one-shouldered shrug for that, eyes Vrianth who's begun to splash into the water, the green gleaming with good health all down that rangy frame of hers. "Maybe, hm. What about Tillek. Reckon you've passed on enough congratulations that way. Though really, with the two you-know-whats from before, we've about taken out most of the problems, I figure." Immediately, before Leova's gotten through the you-know-whats, Riorde declares, "Drink." She puts one arm behind her head, brushing her hair to the side and off her neck. Closing her eyes, the woman who grew up an island exile lets herself sigh as she listens to the sound of the waves. For a time, Riorde just lets herself be. Then, wearily: "And drink for Taikrin." "Doesn't count," Leova starts to claim, only then curses and drinks anyway. Though once she's had one sip, and bought into Riorde's latest nomination with a one-sided pull to her mouth, she glances at the brownrider and starts naming names. On purpose. "Taikrin." Unhappily. "Aishani. Azaylia." Three more downed. "Add K'del, Z'ian, D'nis, any of the wingleaders. How are you holding up?" The curse gets a small quirk at the corner of her lips. "Just fine," she says in that dry tone of hers before cracking open an eye. "I'm always just fine. So I can be there to listen to all of her problems -- does that count?" Evidently it does, since Riorde pulls herself up to take the obligatory drink. "Of course you are." Leova's low voice is about that dry herself. She digs her heels into the sand. "Looking forward to that being over?" 'Just fine.' Listening. Maybe both. She doesn't drink, does pop a bit of ice into her mouth and lets it melt there. Riorde picks out a piece of ice as well, though not for her tongue. She puts it to her forehead and the hollow at her throat, sharp and cool as it melts. "Will it be over?" she counters with her own question. "Hope so." Leova bites down on one of the larger pieces, flicks a fragment the brownrider's way. Target practice. "Sometime. Sooner over later. I hope." She works her feet back towards her, letting sand collapse over her toes. "Reckon you can follow Sforzath's example? For a little while. Think I might. Via's off Tillek way, by the by. Again." Still. The brownrider glances over to where her dragon sprawls, half-awake and watching Vrianth, still somehow graceful as he wallows in the sand. "What, go to sleep in the sun?" Before she follows the advice--Sforzath's too, seconded with a vibrating rumble--and lies back down, Riorde notes, "She's looking good. Not that she doesn't normally." More absently, she adds, "That's a drink. What do you mean though?" Leova glowers. Drinks. "That. Yes. 'She's visiting Anvori's family.' Think maybe should be my cousins, though, they're further off. Wouldn't do her harm to know her aunt and uncle better. Cousins." Finally the greenrider sinks back, resting the base of the bottle atop her chest where it can cool her that way. She's got a one-cornered smile, to go with the half an eye she keeps on Vrianth. Vrianth, who's glanced back at Sforzath's rumble, answering it with her own, rough and low if not as low as his. "Shouldn't really be taking her out. But, well." Same shoulder, same shrug. "Ah. Right." Riorde only gets it in theory, island-born as she is, the idea of sending children away from parents even if one of them's a rider. Her voice carries that half comprehension, half not, even short as her response is. "How old is she now anyway?" How long has it been? "Three. She's three. Almost four." Leova adds in a murmur, "You're not drinking enough." So Riorde promptly levers herself up enough so she can fix this, putting the bottle to her lips. "You're right, I'm not." She plays catch-up with several long swallows. "There -- better." Her smile's started to lose its bitter, deprecating edge, started to mellow in their stolen afternoon of banning everything that isn't peaceful. Alcohol doesn't hurt. "Didn't even name names first." Leova laughs, quiet-like. She looks out over the water, out over her Vrianth. There's that hint of electricity going on as there always is, out Vrianth's way, and if just now it's got a keener edge... well, sun and clear cool water can mellow that too. "Taikrin," Riorde replies. "Taikrin, Taikrin, Taikrin." And the drinks to go with it, until she shakes the bottle and pronounces, "Gone." She nestles the bottle into the sand before she flops down again, this time with her forearm over her eyes. "I'm all done with that." True to her word, that name doesn't leave her tongue again. Determined to relax, she in large part succeeds, lulled by the waves and the memories they inevitably bring--and if those are more poignant than restful, at least they're distant. Not another word about Vrianth, whose electric spark eventually draws Sforzath out into the water; Leova's allowed her day off too. |
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