Logs:Duty Visit
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| RL Date: 7 December, 2012 |
| Who: H'kon, Leova |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: BYOChair, when it's H'kon's place. Leova also brings questions. |
| Where: Deliciously Shadowed Nooks and Crannies Weyr, HRW |
| When: Day 15, Month 6, Turn 30 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Azaylia/Mentions, Brieli/Mentions, I'kris/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, Lujayn/Mentions, N'thei/Mentions, Satiet/Mentions, Taikrin/Mentions, Teris/Mentions |
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| Dinner's come and gone, and not just for the riders: a sense of satisfaction glints Arekoth's way. Vrianth, out of the blue. « He's not busy, is he, » the green doesn't entirely question. Up there. Don't worry: there's no ichor on her claws, she's taken care of that already. (Vrianth to Arekoth) To Vrianth, Arekoth is slow in his answer, just so slow as to have wheedled at him a little bit already. A great deal of the intensity gone from that brown now things are calmer, there's a wry but potent amusement. « Depends who decides what 'busy' is. » Whatever it is he is doing, the brown stresses that echoed word with enough levity that it is clear Arekoth, at any rate, finds this work... disinteresting. Levity might as well levitate the green, Vrianth swinging onto the breeze and riding it in his ledge's direction, her wingbeats visibly more cautious than usual for all that her equally clear intention is not. Drily, well before she gets there, « Then if there is not room to land, » a pleasing amount of room no less, « I shall leave you to him. » There's a quick sense of scanning: is he well. Arekoth, not him. (Vrianth to Arekoth) « No reason to be cruel, » is a mix of chiding and pouty, neither of which quite overcome the underlying humour to find sincerity. Soon, a hooked snout breaks the air just beyond his ledge. Next, all of Arekoth's head as he cranes to look for the green. It won't be until he's spotted her that he makes room - not luxurious, but ample enough, the brown balancing almost vertical on his hind legs, wings folded neatly to his back. (Arekoth to Vrianth) Energy flares into sparks of pure light, Vrianth visibly entertained for a moment at the very least, and then yet another at his so-convenient pose. Yes, she takes advantage of it. Yes, also to land: she's got a chair upended over her long neck, after all, slipped in between its ridges. Inconvenient. He gets a vision of a chequered board as her rider eases herself and the chair down with proper efficiency, himself as a carved piece. Except, with his wings out, overshadowing half the board, and threatening to tip over the neighbor piece if he bothers to so much as turn to look at the poor Hold. Which doesn't have a face, yet. It could. Her rider's not exactly storming the castle, herself, though there's an, "Evening!" as she approaches the cave mouth by way of greeting. Warning. Close enough. Threatening? Arekoth puts mental force behind a heavy exhalation of dragon-breathy air, tries to set that him-piece teetering, tries to knock over the neighbour, its neighbour, and its after that. Are they so weighty as to overthrow the whole board? Can he make them so? In the weyr, meanwhile, H'kon has got enough out of his dragon's smart remarks to be, bam, right there at the entrance, coming out quickly enough that the stop makes him skid, face twisting. It's not a skid that Leova appears to take note of, instead slowing to give the brownrider a quick, one-cornered smile. "Where should I put this? Not a bad evening for sitting outside," and not even truly dark, as far north as they are. Never mind the dragon who's nosing at her short-cropped hair, staring at him whirling-eyed above it. At least Vrianth does leave off after a little while to inspect her wings and then tuck herself neatly in. There. More room for Arekoth. That piece has been teetering all this time as though on gimbals, nearly making it, nearly... until he gets his way and boom! There goes the neighbor with a crash. Even if it only nudges the one after that. Still, if they piled to one side enough... It coud happen. H'kon was not anticipating interruption, and whatever he was doing in there, it was fine work, and by glowlight. It leaves the man blinking a time or to until focus comes, until his brain has caught up with the visitors. Now, that usual, strained smile. "You've... brought a chair," is not completely devoid of the bemusement he must actually feel. And thereupon, H'kon draws himself up. More composed: "Unless you're concerned by the cold." « Or the crowding. » And what will happen to that board when Arekoth flops down near Vrianth, dramatic, with mental weight again behind him, pushed into a final tilt of the him-piece. That smile deepens. "Very concerned. Freezing, after all. And," Leova breaks off to look back over her shoulder: Arekoth has that more audience for the flopping, that way, for the tumbling of the board that leads to the scattering of pieces, over his rider's head like so much rain. Perhaps Vrianth doesn't share every detail, as when Leova does look back at H'kon, her expression's mostly just rueful. "All right. He's right, you're right, after you." The finest of mental dust floats towards the man's hair like so much dandruff. For what his usual smiles are, when H'kon makes a pained smile, it looks pained. "I was not trying to make any point." But, standing dutifully, even gentlemanly, he gestures toward the inner weyr, only clenching his jaw a little as he makes room for Leova to go first. There is no swipe at his head, no matter Arekoth's look to him before he turns lazily back toward Vrianth, giving just a bit of a wriggle through his wings to encourage one rounded piece to circle again before stilling. Going first means looking first: at whatever H'kon's left out to see, under glowlight or the hearth if that's lit. Certainly Leova doesn't quickly help herself to a seat, for all that she's brought one with her, but rather keeps it tucked under her arm like luggage... or a shield. Her dragon's curled up tightly, and can oblige as her rider's been obliged, but with far better humor: around and around and around, slowly, as though it might eventually stop... and then it doesn't. Now, when she looks at Arekoth, there's a distinctly speculative air. And around, so quickly that maybe it's drawing other pieces into its orbit, circling as if airborne. And that - that is where Arekoth is happy to stop. Maybe all that image play was a strain on the usually solely vocal brown. Maybe, something has flown past and caught his attention. Maybe, « She decided it wasn't a night to be busy? » Because Vrianth is still on his ledge, and he looks over to her, now. Meanwhile, inside, H'kon waits patiently before following after the greenrider. Should she see the strap work he's doing at the desk, fine. Everything else is neat, put away, closed up. And there's only the one chest. Still only the one chest. She does examine the strap work, of course she does, but doesn't take too much time with it. Not unless there are details. When she does leave off, Leova scans just enough to notice where the best light is that isn't the desk itself, and settles in: a simple procedure of setting down the chair, unclipping one of the sacks it had hidden at her belt, and dropping it on the floor. There's no small talk, no chatter, though now she's moving to sit on the sack in lieu of the chair itself. « This isn't busy? » Images float by: high-kicking dancing girls, a poker game, chatter-chatter-chatter, as though any of that could be found in his rider's weyr. But, fine: « I felt like it. » The tip of her tail's flicked over her muzzle. Untouched, the swift-circling piece floats skyward. It might disappear, there. H'kon examines her examination; those straps are not detailed, no, but the stitches are precise, even obsessively so. There may be echoes of his weyrlinghood in his brain, watching her; or, perhaps, just a would-have-been-maybe craftsman watching anyone's inspection. The look Leova gets is nearly quizzical when she's done. He waits for her to choose her seat, then goes to reclaim his chair from the desk, and joins her. Sitting across from her. Even if it's not an interrogation. « If only it were so busy, » comes as answer to those bawdy images. Seated, she tips the chair upside down, its back in her lap. That part is awkward. What isn't, is getting out her own tools and getting to work on what turns out to be a lightly scored pattern, just waiting for her to carve the rest. "It'd be easier to just carve up a new back," she says somewhat wryly, "but the wood wouldn't match." Does any question feel like an interrogation, after what he's been through? She still hasn't looked up. There aren't any bright lights pointing at him. "Do you miss Tillek?" That accent they share, it's stronger in her voice, just saying the place's name. « Perhaps next time, » Vrianth meanwhile remarks. « Except, they would take several trips. » And the poker players are sometimes smelly. H'kon seats himself straight forward, hands on his knees, if not restful. But it keeps him leaning in, when Leova sets to work, when he sets to watching, eyes squinting just a little, an attempt to make out better detail. "Miss it?" is repeated, head jerking upward, as if those other words of hers hadn't happened, as if he was in a trance of some sort. He dips his head just a little. "It's not my home anymore." « Half the fun's the travel. » Arekoth lifts his head a bit higher, looks to the sky. No, no chess pieces there, not really. So far, there are over-under loops, the simplest form of knotwork, wide enough to stand out on their own or else be frames for the still-plain inner ovals. The wood is paler where she's carved it, where she is carving it in thin layers that shape the inward curve. "People talk the way we talk," Leova murmurs to her work. "Hardly anyone's hard to understand, 'less they've lost too many teeth or just mumble." « At least half, » Vrianth must agree that much, though she notes with satisfaction a group of four-footed blurs that smell like runner but remain blurry all the same. "Not," her rider adds punctiliously, "that people poked fun or nothing when I got here. Mostly. Seems like, there are always some." The wariness that's infiltrated H'kon's gaze is probably more for Leova's speech than her handiwork, even if it's only the latter he focuses on. "I've never found understanding other areas so difficult." It's a bit too much of a pause before he explains, "Once you've heard some." The stretch of his lips, up and to the side, is, still, always, awkward. "I received almost nothing. Though I was not around for so long." The nod comes as confirmation, if unnecessary. « Next time. Maybe I'll make a list. Good ones. So we're not missing them. » "No? Lucky." Leova pauses to substitute a light chisel for the knife, admitting afterward, "Normally it's not so bad. Anymore. And you never knew Vrianth as a weyrling... Don't worry, I'll clean up." She's slready started adding wood shavings to a smaller bag, the last larger sack bulky and still at her hip. Anything could be in there. « Do that. » Vrianth, not in the bag. Eventually, "Won't take offense, if you want to get back to your straps, either." And reminded, « Do you care for it, Arekoth? That he takes such care with them, the leather that he puts on you. » "Perhaps a happy consequence of having barely arrived in time for Arekoth," H'kon suggests, an eyebrow pinching upward. That he barely spoke to anyone apart from weyrlingmasters for the early days of weyrlinghood goes quite literally without saying. There's an almost skeptical look out toward the ledge, toward the Vrianth he barely knows even now. "What do you use it for?" is the most he says of those shavings when he's turned back. « It's nice leather, » carries a hint of the defensive, the brown's gaze sharper. And H'kon, after further watching, and unmoving even for her invite in his own home: "Why have you come here?" "Perhaps all out-Weyr types should be Searched so late, lest their tender natures be bruised," Leova supposes dryly. In a more relaxed tone as they turn to wood, "Fire-lighting, mostly. Can piece or glue the larger pieces, at least." Precious wood. Except... then he changes course, and her mouth pulls to the side before those amber eyes lift. "Didn't, before. Figured it was my turn." She studies him, then turns back to her work without a shrug. "Couple things on my mind, too." « It is not a criticism, Arekoth. » Vrianth refuses to be sharp even though he is. Does she always criticize? Does he always take it so? The nod that goes to her explanation is approving, for all his approval has hardly been sought, may not even be fully appropriate. « He hasn't fallen off of me yet, » is not apology or recovery; the humour is not full-depth. Any physical wariness is shielded when he adjusts, puffs up his wings around his shoulders, and turns jewelled gaze from Vrianth out to the bowl beyond. « Has yours? » is almost an afterthought, a bit more taunting. "You're free to speak them, then." And H'kon has leaned forward just a touch. Somehow the puffery returns amusement to the rangy dragon's own, darkly brilliant eyes, and she tucks her head now beneath her wing: not looking, no. Does she fall? Does Vrianth push her? « Only into the lake. Or the ocean, » is her nearly-grave reply, and it could be an advertisement for Nerat, that flash of warm winds and white sand and pillars of stone, that laughter made breathless and then plunging into bubbles. « I recommend it. » The sitting Leova, the working Leova, is nothing like that Leova. This Leova smooths a recalcitrant bit of grain and says not a dry, Good to know, but rather, "Seems as though it's going to be a while before we get back to the way things always worked. Months, if they don't surprise us. Longer than even that, could be, the way things are looking. What do you make of that?" The lean forward is reversed. H'kon sits straight, sits tall for his frame, and tilts his head back, the roving bump beneath his lips a tongue probing at his teeth in thought. It's a while before he answers, time enough for him to consider that Leova carefully, to consider his situation, the Weyr's. Time in which Arekoth, on the ledge, gives, « I prefer... obstacles. » And that low swish of his tail across the ledge serves as demonstration. Finally, inside, "Do you," and the verbal plodding is careful as it is slow, "really believe things will go back to 'working' as they were?" « 'Obstacles'. » It's the succeeding swish, if only the tail-so-to-speak end of it, that invites Vrianth to look, and that only one-eyed: would he care to elaborate? Her rider, meanwhile, has deepened the knotwork so the pale wood shows beneath, but shallowly so: if it isn't just for looks, it'll need another pass. "I don't," she says, measuredly, "believe one way or another. I reckon they will, if Tradition pulls hard enough. Reckon too, though, there could be change. Just as soon have it be good change, though. And without more kids winding up dead." « Short legs. Doesn't fall as far, » is the only elaboration Vrianth will get; his tone doesn't even make it clear whether this makes the move more disappointing, or more prone to usage. H'kon, safely un-tripped in his chair, gets a good furrow to his brow as Leova speaks. "A move backward might be forward," he decides at length. "And I'm certain a second Iolene would be disastrous. Precedent," and he adds grimly, features turning harder than their usual surly suggestion, "has been established now." And on the ledge, Arekoth's posture changes to something more fierce, the visiting Vrianth, their conversation, all left forgotten. There's nothing of commitment in Vrianth's, « Hm. » What she does do is look back towards the cave, as though she might see something he doesn't, and that's well before his and his rider's own shift. Even Leova has looked up once more, studying H'kon all over again. "Do you mean someone who wishes to make alterations," she asks the brownrider quite mildly, "a woman who makes such alterations, or alterations made so provokingly?" H'kon's chest rises with a sharp breath, head tilting to the side so that the regard of Leova is that much more hawkish. "I mean only that a Weyr has a set purpose. And if it should be distanced, well, now there is clear example of how that might be dealt with. And there are a great many on all sides who have no regard to right." The finality of it is announced in his forward lean, once more, in, "Were there other things on your mind?" that is a bit too harshly spoken. If that amber regard alters at that alteration in him, it's not particularly perceptibly so. Instead, "Yes." And later: Not now. "There's a purpose, and then there's how that's gone about: two different things." Knife and chisel, in her knowing hands, both reflect the light. What might have counted toward impatience fades from H'kon when it seems Leova is there to stay, is maybe moving on, maybe not. The younger brownrider settles, takes a slower breath, and lets it out in an almost-wearily sighed, "There is an order to things." It's hard to say for certain if his accent became more pronounced, or if it was simply those words themselves. Arekoth is slower to come down, though he does remember Vrianth, and turn that look on her in time. « What's the chair for? » "For some people, there's an order to how they get dressed. Makes sense, putting the shirt on before the overtunic, can't hardly do it otherwise." Leova's gotten back to work, methodically. "Left sock before right, can't see as it matters." Though, says her one-cornered smile, others might. "Shirt before pants, now, that's a judgment call." Vrianth, because it seems he deserves it: « Sitting on. » Not that Leova is. « I won't use it to pick my teeth after my next meal, then, » is almost deadpan, though that's a difficult thing for Arekoth to truly accomplish. "And there are those who might make light of such things," H'kon says, serious and reproachful, with all the look of a somewhat younger man trying to shame his peers into leaving him be when teased. Probably a look he'd worn more than a time or two when first graduated to full wingriding, really. « Good. It might break your teeth. » Or plunge a splinter into his gums, vividly pictured. After that.. Leova has to look up at H'kon, and though she falls short of actually rubbing her eyes, it's a near thing before she lets herself be surprised the rest of the way into a laugh. "Tease," she accuses him in so many words. "Fine. Yes. But also more as an example, something as can be worked with. How would the world work, if you ran it?" Puzzlement lasts only a moment in his expression before it's chased away by a flat look, complete with lack of imagination. "It isn't to me to run it. I was a fisherman's son before, a brownrider now. There are limitations," is a didactic summary. "And even if it were, then still it would not be wholly to me. I should think I would have as much faith in my father and his. Or those who came before." A hesitation, before he decides to allow, "Stability works." On the ledge, Arekoth's mouth opens, just a little. « You know my teeth are plenty strong, » must be supplemented with H'kon's own memories. Vrianth's tail uncurls, then curls again, flicking at its tip. « Do you, Arekoth? I may have... forgotten. » "What father wouldn't want his son to have such faith." Leova's tone is surpassingly mild there too, if not entirely escaping her dragon's delighted humor: tiny splinters flick-flick-flick free from the tip of her knife. "Many would say it's a wise man who, knowing he'll never have to take charge, doesn't grouch about the decisions of those who do. Make that: a rare man... still, a man can choose from where he finds wisdom. Which of our weyrwomen would you find the wiser?" H'kon shifts, uncomfortable at having that 'father' card played back to him, uncomfortable in the whole conversation as just what it's about truly sinks in. The press of his toes to the floor is largely hidden, visible only in the flex of the sturdy leather of his boots, worn even in his own home. "It's no great revelation that the Weyr is not so set to bloodlines as the Hold. If a fisherman can father a brownrider... And there is no reason, even if chance shouldn't play that way, for every man not to have a sense of right. His duty, his greater community, depend on it." On the ledge, the brown leers. A little. « I could remind you. » Juxtaposed: "Imagine, if everyone should have that." To the question of weyrwomen, he leans back, flicks his fingers. "I know little of either's wisdom. Ability, I think, speaks clear." So he won't. Perhaps it's that flick that makes her smile, catching at her peripheral vision when it does. "Discreet of you," Leova says blandly, once she's lifted her gaze to look him over. Back to her work, though not without glances here and there, "A vintner can father a bronzerider. Don't reckon as K'del was so wise when he got the job, but as you say: duty's important." Vrianth: « You could open your mouth. » She does, if only in a yawn. Leova glances ledge-ward with a tighter version of those one-cornered smiles, then adds as though tangentially, "Heard some talk in the Snowasis, the other day. Glad the weyrlings didn't hear it: something as how it's not just their numbers, that maybe they got other problems too. But then the other one said as how Szadath did fine with the queen he flew, had more eggs than Fort's latest even, and a couple bronzes in the mix. You heard much of that?" The slight darkening of H'kon's features at the mention of K'del might be missed in what light is in the weyr, even if Leova is looking him square on at the time. « You could come closer, » Arekoth counters, the predator's smile behind it expressed only in vocal tones, with no actual widening of his maw from where it was a moment ago. The change of subject is a welcome one for his rider. "I've not heard much, nor had much contact with them. Though I imagine in that pairing, Svissath was the healthier." There's still, despite less than complimentary words, a protective note to the man's voice. And like so much else, he doesn't elaborate. « If I wanted to, » Vrianth supposes. She could, after all, do anything. But why would she? Does Arekoth have such fascinating gums? « That would be too easy. » If Leova's missed his shift in expression, surely she hasn't missed his silence, but then that's nothing new. "No? A pity. For not encountering, at least... and as for Rielsath, I can't say that concerns had risen about her. From a dragonhealer's perspective, you understand, but then I like to think Teonath and Wyaeth a strong lineage." Flick-flick. "Of course, it brings the question: would you support a brownrider, were his dragon to fly the next queen to rise?" Or hers. She's looking at H'kon now, with a two-cornered smile at last. "Call it my last question of the night." « For you or for me? » His wings flick-shiver, and he turns his head, back to watching the air beyond his ledge, the comers and goers, passers by. "I did not mean Rielsath as the second part of the pairing," comes the abrupt correction. That impatient look has returned to him, is wrestled down before he nods, accepting the final question. "I would abide by council's decision on the matter, should matters move in that way. I know my duty to my home. That much does not change between Weyr and Hold." There's no verbal reply, only the ripple of humor, a wavelength of energy that isnt't quite light. And the weight of her gaze, for sight: right there, behind his head, at the very top of his spine. It's a breath before his rider's speech, before her rider's surprise: Oh. The greenrider nods, once. And speculates out loud: "Council, then. That, and not an internal decision." Her gaze surveys H'kon, from his brows right down to those leather boots. Silent. And then she bends to working again, not without the eventual hint of a smile. It's the next time her pile of woodshavings gets too high that she'll take her leave, perhaps a half hour... or sooner if Vrianth gets them both thrown out. |
Comments
Brieli (Brieli) left a comment on Mon, 10 Dec 2012 00:31:00 GMT.
< Iiiinteresting.
And enjoyable!
Azaylia (Dragonshy) left a comment on Mon, 10 Dec 2012 01:14:35 GMT.
< Ya'll talk too smart! Quiddit. ;)
Though as Brieli said, it was a very interesting read. The two play off of each other in very different ways.
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