Logs:For Now
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| RL Date: 15 March, 2013 |
| Who: Anvori, Leova |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: A Tillek sympathizer and a Vijay-put-away-er react to the bombshell. |
| Where: Living Caverns and elsewhere, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 1, Month 4, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Aishani/Mentions, A'son/Mentions, I'daur/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, L'vae/Mentions, Madilla/Mentions, Rajiv/Mentions, Tiriana/Mentions, Via/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: RPed on 20 March, 2013 |
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| I am the daughter of Rajiv Vijay, executed here over twelve turns ago. My name is Aishani, and this is my home. And then the relative silence breaks, as glass breaks. Glasses break. Distantly, A'son swears, but not because it's his that's hit the floor. Leova's gone very, very still from that first Rajiv, but now her eyes slide to her weyrmate, wide and dark. To have heard what Brieli, now Aishani, says, would mean Anvori had been paying attention. But it's only the aftermaths, the shattering glasses, the swearing, the poignant silence before the storm, and the turns of experience allowing him to sense his weyrmate's eyes upon him, that rouse the bartender's attention from picking at the hatching repast on his plate. Then, then, those hazel eyes look up, seeking Leova's, and then turn quickly to find the weyrwoman he had not listened to. Undercurrents of Vijay, Rajiv, execution, hanging, K'del and Tiriana intermingle into some weird gossiping blame game, with just enough pieces for Anvori to catch up. Enjoy the party. This is a hatching. His hand has found Leova's upper arm in the mean time, his arm slid around her back and bringing her in its protective crush. What's there to say? Hazel looks down upon amber in silence, where the only emotion is the lines scoring deep worry on his forehead. Surely there have been other times when Leova has wished Anvori were likewise a rider, that they might speak even through intermediaries mind to mind: when he's been off at Tillek, that time little Via tripped over the drawers she'd pulled out and gashed her knee, all those times Leova wasn't even sick but sleepy-lazy and wanting him to bring home one of those special drinks she likes to think he mixes just for her. There have been other times when Vrianth's demanded or explored of her own initiative, to Madilla most notably, to someone else... well, Leova doesn't officially know about that. Now, though, the greenrider's left with very human words. Her smoky voice is low. Rough. "Don't see how." It's for Anvori's ears alone. If certain Glacier riders depart, if there's been some of that mind-to-mind talk or just some of those same Turns of experience, she doesn't see. Not officially. She presses into his arm. It's a comforting crush, that curve of his arm about her back and the massaging pressure of his hand to her upper arm. He breaks eye contact long enough to squeeze her even tighter and to drop his nose into her hair, the nuzzle to stoke some semblance of relaxation in her frame. Enjoy, the weyrwoman said, seems to be the unspoken implication of his gestures. But his words? They've noted the departure of various riders and weyrfolk alike, those people once so directly affected by the Vijay's official and then unofficial presence at the Weyr. For a non-rider, one who glances at the leftover weyrlings with some measure of pity, he allows, "It's not right." To leave. "We should dance." Ordinarily not one to shy away from difficulties, ordinarily Leova is also not so compliant. Call it trust: "Let's," the woman agrees. She picks at her food a little more, filling the time until standing up doesn't seem like part of that other crowd. Not, officially, noticing. Dancing is doable, so long as it's not so fast or far as to take them beyond arms' reach, and when they're interrupted to be asked what they think, it's usually just their interlocutor's excuse instead to tell. "Don't know what to think," serves well enough, most times, and includes talk of the Tillek heir just as well. Leova speaks. Anvori is silent. And once the various interruptors go off on their merry speculation, the barkeep murmurs: "Thinking is overrated anyway." His tenor is more affable now that they pair are moving, and the party seems to be picking up here and there in spite of the silent protests. The twinkle that must be in his gaze is incredibly audible in his voice. "But," and the twinkle peters out soberly in low words meant just for his weyrmate's ear, "Should we stay?" It's a simple question, spoken in such tones that implies something far greater than whether they should leave this party for other, more unthinking parts of the weyr -- ignoring his hands that have come down to curve along the small of her back. When her breath catches, it's not just because of the splay of his hands, not anywhere near the response she's learned to let herself have with him without thinking first. Mostly without. Most times. "This is home," Leova begins, then ends. It's not the music's fault. "I can't... this is too soon." She looks up at Anvori. "I have to think." Think. Not that other thing. There's a far off look that flickers in Anvori's eyes, and had he been a dragonrider, it'd be easy to pinpoint even that momentary distance. But he's not, so when the hazel eyes alight back onto Leova, they carry in them a little wryness. "Should we stay." It's more a statement than a question now, and for all his hand remains on her lower back, warm and with just that hint of a tease his touches always seem to carry, there's nothing unthinking about his words. There's entreaty in there, almost a beg that doesn't quite have words courageous enough to form. But he then repeats, acknowledging he's heard: "This is home. Is it-," he pauses, then doesn't complete, instead dropping his head down enough to brush his lips against her cheek, cozy-like. Is he? Are they, the three-no-four of them? "Let's stay here," Leova murmurs back to him, "A little longer. At least. And then go. We have to talk. To think." Softer, softer, "Is she watching? Can you see?" Not that, in the whole of the cavern, the acting Weyrwoman should necessarily look at the pair of them. Even so, the dance's sidestep should make it easier. To see. "Which she?" is Anvori's lighthearted, but not very light, response. There's a beat. A very long one the Tillekian takes before he finally asks, "What would L'vae think?" His hand, so warm on the small of her back, and his breath, so gentle against her cheek, all make as if to withdraw -- as if uncertain of what response that question, and that name, might evoke. A laugh is Leova's light, or actually not light at all, response: closer to an I'daur-era grunt. "Any of them," she says finally. And, "You know he'd not take to it." Doesn't he? "Though he," though, don't go. Her hand reaches back to clasp his, to keep it there. She'll lead if she has to, never mind those fine words of waiting, between the people and through the tunnels. "Leova-." There's that beg again, that has nothing to do with their eventual destination. It might even be a protest of where she intends to lead him, though it's a fleeting one that his feet and body don't seem to have any mind to follow. "Leova," there's another attempt, his fingers flexing in her grasp, not breaking free, but testing. "We need to think." He says, unintentionally parroting her words, and making them collective. They're in a tunnel now, with people still around. "Leova. What do you want to do? What does she want to do?" This she can't be mistaken, can it? Perhaps it's his influence, or just their mustn't-look-like-a-hurry, but they don't make it to her. Not dragon, not her ledge, not his rooms. "Breathe," comes with a wide-eyed glance, and then... and then, a swing past a not-unfamiliar door which is, yes, blessedly unlocked, and Leova sees about dragging her weyrmate inside. Because speeches by people with the potential to ruin an entire Weyr, and who now explain their motive, get her hot and bothered? The passing women might think that, especially with how she presses him against the wall just inside, the cup of her hand saving his head from hitting stone. The door shuts. It's dark. She leans her head against his chest. She listens. She breathes. She says a word they'd wash Via's mouth out for. After turns, it's still possible to be surprised. His words might protest, but his body? It's far too eager to be pressed and ducked through that unlocked door into the darkness. It anticipates and- and then. Everything is still, with her against his chest. And the breathing. And the swearing. And whatever hot and botheredness she's evoked out of him in that unhurried and yet still urgent walk falters. His breath is an audible underscoring to her invective. His hand loosens from hers, pulling itself free only to travel it up along one side of her curves; protective and possessive before entangling in her hair. They stand still, his chest (with her head) rising with each, measured breath. Then, an uncertain tenor breaks the rhythm of this particular non-silence. "We'll stay." Except, there's a distinct unspoken for now embedded in his inflection. For now. It's there, in her silence. In how she holds him tight. |
Comments
Aishani (Brieli (talk)) left a comment on Thu, 21 Mar 2013 14:26:23 GMT.
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Really enjoyed this. I like seeing the reactions from people who where there.
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