Logs:Graduation Aftermath
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| RL Date: 28 September, 2012 |
| Who: K'del, Brieli, Azaylia, H'kon, N'rov |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: After Rielsath is caught, it's safe for the goldriders and Weyrleader to return. Well, depends on what one considers 'safe'. At least all that alcohol won't go to waste! |
| Where: Living Caverns, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 1, Month 12, Turn 29 (Interval 10) |
| Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr Stalactites hang high above this enormous cavern like a jagged chandelier or an inversion of the Spires themselves, but shadows cling to them instead of light. Below lie great tables arranged in rows, each large enough to serve a fighting wing, while in the nooks and alcoves around the cavern's edge sit more sensibly-sized tables, from six- and eight-seaters down to intimate spots for just a couple of diners. The only really open space is around the kitchen entrance, smelling of food and rarely quiet, and by the nearby serving tables with their long buffet of the day's offerings. Tapestries on the smooth walls -- some faded and others newly woven -- only slightly mute the sea of sound when a meal is in full swing, but they add cheerfulness augmented by the glowlight from wall sconces and the centerpieces of each table. Still, shadows always creep along the ceiling and into the mouths of the exits -- the myriad small hallways at one end of the cavern and, at the other, the twisting tunnel to the bowl near an array of coathooks and and hatracks -- and late at night, when the glows are allowed to dim, the chamber can seem very dark indeed. In the end, it wasn't a long flight. No sooner had the last of the queens departed, the snow began to fall, leading Rielsath's flight up into the storm. Lack of visibility and gusty winds proved treacherous for all involved - and thus, it was purely by accident that the queen was caught by still-weyrling brown Svissath of Monaco. It's safe for the exiles to return, now - to a party of orgy-ish proportions (though anyone actually engaging in sex appears to have taken their leave) in the living caverns, drunken riders and residents all 'round. Outside, the snow keeps falling, but at least it's /safe/. Whether snow is safe is debatable in some people's opinion; Brieli is one of those. Though Iesaryth doesn't seem to mind the weather as long as she gets home, and gets there quickly - she's only concerned with getting to her ledge and getting apprised of the situation. A wash of seawater and salt air tries to pull away the last of the tension - but it's a reminder of the youngest queen's presence as well. She's still displeased. And that's certainly affecting her rider as she picks her way back into the party through the slush, expression dark. It doesn't improve much as she takes everything in, but she has to get her shawl. It's a good enough excuse, despite the fact that she seems apprehensive about even being there in the first place. Hraedhyth's fire has since been doused with alcohol. Lots, and lots, of alcohol. Upon her return, her drums pound louder than they ever have before in order to block out every other dragon. Greetings, concerns, all of it is ignored by the queen who most certainly did NOT retreat, thankyouverymuch. The gold lands only long enough for Azaylia to slipstumble off her back before leaping for her ledge and lumbering inside to her wallow. Any (sore) losers looking to find relief in queenly cuddles will be sent hurtling from her weyr. Azaylia watches with unfocused eyes as it happens to a bronze, giving a high squeaksnort of a laugh at how quickly he realizes his mistake. Stumbling through the snow, she forgets where she's going for a moment. What? Oh yeah, party. With more drinkies. She's totally there. Wherever Ysavaeth and Cadejoth went, it was not in the vicinity of any other retreaters (they so did retreat); now that they've returned, Ysavaeth is back to sitting very obviously on her ledge, reminding the weyr as a whole of her presence - and her status. Iolene stays to comfort her, but K'del ventures back towards the living caverns, pausing only briefly to glance at Rielsath and her mate, brow furrowed with intensity. So... that went well. That most certainly did not go well. Arekoth has started pestering green after green after green, and not particularly quietly (though even he knows to keep his distance from Hraedhyth). H'kon's demonstrating the brown's sulk only in slightly deeper lines around his mouth, and slightly sharper looks for the women he passes on his way to the table. That table. With the good liquor. The usually-restrained brownrider can at least loosen up for that much, stride extra-quick to try and stay in front of any not-so-short fellow losers. Let's face it. That's what they are. Amid the throng of bronzes and browns left in the lurch, Vhaeryth's disinclined to be located, what with licking his wounds quite literally... though there's a rough sense of him /there/, somewhere, amidst the weyrs and the falling snow. His rider? He'd doggedly fell in behind H'kon some time ago, back in that dark time nobody wants to think about, and if he's not-so-short... well, that just means he can try and reach over the other man's shoulder when at last they /do/ get there. Once Brieli winds her way around drinkers and dancers, warding more people off with a glare, and finds her shawl, now on the floor rather than draped on the chair that seems to have disappeared, she's out of her excuses and left with her actual reasons for being in the raucous crowd. That doesn't have her expression lightening any, or make her movements any less reticent as she moves back into the crowd. Gaze sharp and narrowed, she takes her time in making her way around to the bar, as it were - but when she does, she betrays more than a little relief to see a certain bronzerider drinking, and nothing worse. Well, worse for her. Azaylia leaps into the party with the same exuberance seen only at that weyrwarming ages ago. Whisper quiet 'yaying' might be heard as she allows herself to be snatched up in what could be called dancing. Then there's the brownrider who attempts to trap her with a strategically placed hand against a wall. All of these distractions are certainly welcome, though the slippery junior manages to escape before making any carnal commitments. It's still too early, and there's a table of drinks for her to hover by! "Oh, N'rov-" But then her fellow junior is spotted. "Brieli!" Gentle coo of a greeting, "N'rov didn't win. See? That's good." Ooh, what is this? It's fruity. K'del is slower than the goldriders to make his way into the caverns, and only part of that is because he's waylaid a few times. The caverns have certainly seen tidier days, but that seems to be less on his mind than other things: he, at least, seems entirely sober, now, and utterly unimpacted by the fight that took place. It really does seem to prove that Cadejoth would never chase Rielsath. Inside, he pauses, glancing around with expression that turns tighter - especially when he catches sight of Azaylia. To Vhaeryth, Iesaryth doesn't so much reach out as wash out across the weyr and in his direction, in another wave of reminder that she's here, that she /belongs/. But this time, there's some little focus on the bronze as the tide withdraws; a certain gloom cast over the waters. She's /sad/ now. Despite some little voice of reason she's ignoring. The taller, bronzer rider can certainly reach, but H'kon is quicker than he looks. Fingers lock around a bottle, and hold - even if N'rov's managed to get hold to. H'kon turns his head only enough to look at the other man out of the corner of his eye. And then he, too, is distracted by Azaylia, the look to her kept much more brief than those he'd given to the others on his way in. And then to those failed chasers in her environs. And then back to N'rov, and he tries to sidestep with the bottle. Mine. N'rov half-turns at Azaylia's greeting, grimacing (and he's a far cry from the well-kempt rider who'd wanted a night off to visit his girl, his collar rumpled and dark shadows already under his eyes), and it's enough that it loosens his grip on the bottle. He turns back abruptly. Tugs, swearing. Harder, instinctively, at the sidestep. Then he lets go, but sidesteps along H'kon's path like a spiderclaw. "Fine." The brownrider's got first crack. "But then give it here." He'd gotten into the rawer stuff, earlier, and if drinking even the better stuff after another man is closer to sloppy seconds, well. Flights. She belongs here. He doesn't, except that he's a male among males, part of the brotherhood that chased /her/ and fell, the sense of his presence less a smooth sheet of metal than one that's gotten itself scraped into burrs. It's not against her so much, it's just that they're there, rough and prickly, and he can't seem to find out how to take them down. (Vhaeryth to Iesaryth) The other junior's cheery drunken greeting has Brieli stopping in mid-step, expression somewhere between mildly pained and a touch horrified. "Thanks, Azaylia," she says, with a smile that's so fake it can't be missed... except maybe by Azaylia. "Got that figured out." She gives her friend the most sarcastic thumbs-up ever, then turns an apologetic look N'rov's way. H'kon? Whatever. That guy doesn't talk at the best of times. She's not all that certain about what to do, but drinking seems like a reasonable idea, and the flush to her cheeks suggests that might have been happening already. As she moves to pick through what's there now, she offers, low and sidelong, to the bronzerider, "Hey." He can't seem to take them down, she can't seem to find the light that usually sets waves sparkly-bright; she knows what and why this is, and is still unfamiliar with it, as unfamiliar as she is with the sense of disappointment that weighs her down. She withdraws despite being so near, settles into the depths, deep under the water, soundless. (Iesaryth to Vhaeryth) Azaylia smiles brightly, returning Brieli's sarcasm with genuine happiness. What's not to be happy about? Except H'kon. His glance, or the fact that it's so brief, has her giving a heaving exhale. Siiiiigh. "What?" If one didn't know better, they'd think she sounded impatient. "What did I do now? Or are you going to blame me for your brown not catching, too?" The very notion is so funny she can't cling to that tether of annoyance, falling into a gigglefit. It's through these laughing tears that she squints and can find K'del, standing on her tiptoes (as if that's necessary) and fluttering an energetic wave his way. Hi tense face! Tense face - that is to say, K'del - hesitates when Azaylia waves at him; in the end, he dips his head in a nod towards her, but doesn't let his gaze linger. Instead, it follows around those nearby: Brieli, N'rov, H'kon. Is that relief? It's so hard to tell - especially when, a moment later, he's turning to slip out again. Maybe he'll leave this kind of thing to the... young people. Other people. People that aren't him. H'kon, victorious in this at least, pulls the bottle to his chest, nods once in time to a curt, "Fine," and takes one more sidestep to acquire a clean glass. The amount of liquor poured in is at the fuller end of the 'reasonable' spectrum, but still there. "I don't blame you for anything," seems almost absurdly calm, held off until once he's done pouring. And when that bottle gets handed off to N'rov - and it does - it's with the short instructions of, "Do not let this get lost. N'rov watches the pouring with far more intensity than the job really requires, his hand tightened as though he'd /snatch/, though somehow he manages to wait until the other man's handed him the bottle. This time. Unlike before, but then everyone got their own, then. "Right," he says, and if he'd missed looks bent his way before, he /doesn't/ miss Brieli's voice when she actually speaks. "Hey," just as monosyllabic. He takes a swig straight from the bottle's mouth, just to tide him over, and reaches for her with his free hand, staring at the goldrider with a different sort of intentness: is pity there? Would it matter? Azaylia visibly droops when K'del just turns and leaves, clearly confused and slow to lower her arm because of it. The puppy metaphorically kicked, she turns back to H'kon with a weak whimper, "Do so." At least Brieli understands her, as does whatever's in her glass. Sober, she would turn away from the awkward, heartwarming scene taking place a few feet away. Drunk, this is good entertainment. Aw. N'rov's interest in the bottle piques her own, leaning with a forearm rudely supported by H'kon's shoulder. "What's that?" Is it tasty? Eyeing the other goldrider with a flicker of concern, Brieli just glances between Azaylia and H'kon, and says nothing. She's found herself a bottle and a glass, and is in the middle of pouring it out when her friend begins looking like a kicked puppy - that's the only time she gets a look at K'del, and it's his disappearing back. So not a concern. When she's turned around, her dark gaze is on N'rov, and there's no pity there - just that same relief, a little apprehension. That starts to disappear when he reaches for her - she moves in against him, arm around his waist. "Fabulous party, right?" That's said generally, wryly. H'kon, short all his life, and all his life surrounded by those not afflicted by the same, adjusts his stance automatically to keep from being set off-balance by Azaylia's lean. "I do not," is insisted, with no argument or added explanation to back it up. He's just lifted the glass to his lips when the question comes. The groan is suppressed only as an exhalation that ripples the surface of the alcohol in his glass. He looks to N'rov first to see if he, who holds the bottle, might answer. Brieli just gets some sort of a clamped-mouth nod when she's spotted in the Fortian rider's quasi-embrace. N'rov's no help, not now, not for H'kon and maybe not for anyone else. Maybe especially not for Brieli, though his hand's tightened on her hip, the better to try and drag her closer yet. Whatever he sees... "Let's go," he says, and that's two syllables actually next to each other. And he doesn't have the answers, but he does have a destination in mind. Even if it's none too specific: a closet would do, as long as the bottle can come too. "It's picked up a bit." Azaylia answers her friend from over H'kon's graying hair, still leaning on him as comfortable as can be. "And- Oh." That hint of annoyance returns at N'rov's closing in, at his words. Words that will surely steal her friend away leaving her with H'kon. With her glass empty and unaware of when that happened, she goes for the nearest drink- which happens to be the brownriders. Surely if he doesn't hate her now, he will! Even now, in this situation, Brieli can give H'kon a haughty arch of brows that roughly translates into 'what?'. Go ahead, say something. She doesn't quite look down her nose at the brownrider, but it's a near thing. Only shifting her gaze away to find her glass with her free hand, that motion stills at the way N'rov starts to pull her closer, at those words. It catches her breath, maybe something easily missed, but the color in her cheeks is harder to hide. "Yes," she agrees, quick and quiet, and she'll forget about that glass of whatever-she-found in favor of getting out of there. At least she remembers give Azaylia a little wave on the way - but it's not like she notices that annoyance. She's distracted. This time, the exhale is audible, though still not a groan. But the glass is yielded to Azaylia with only a gritting of his teeth and a sidelong look - a look that threatens to dally where (H'kon thinks) it ought not to, and so is schooled to N'rov- or, N'rov and Brieli's departure. It's well after the topic - or maybe topics - seem to have moved on that H'kon gives a tight-sounding, "It's a special whiskey." That she's taken. That he hasn't had yet. That he no longer has the bottle of. His shoulders are tense. And he doesn't make a move any way. There's a subtle crinkling to Azaylia's expression as N'rov and Brieli make their getaway. Or it could be that she's made the mistake of sniffing the whiskey, instead of just drinking it. The glass is returned to the table in front of the brownrider, unsullied by her lips. "What makes it special?" She asks, distracted and sounding small. Her arm even leaves his shoulder, instead wrapping them around herself as she looks over at H'kon with alcohol blurred vision. H'kon is not so calm, after a failed flight and, so far, no edge taken off, as to hesitate or await permission in picking up that glass. He takes a drink right away, as well, though it's hardly the sort of drink that might be expected from one who needs that edge off. Green eyes rove to those nearby failed chasers, and then the conversation with Azaylia is entertained. "The aging process. The sort of barrel it's put in. The quality of the ingredients." Azaylia isn't so impressed by his answer, having it in her to give a quiet "Oh." A half full glass, probably abandoned by some swept-away rider, is pushed at with her fingers. She's considering it, but it's hardly fun drinking now. "I thought it was... I don't know. Made by someone important to you." Or some romanticized notion like that. The mystery liquid is brought to her lips and downed, not caring who had their mouth on it before. "Or your weyrmate gave it to you..?" Probing with about as much subtly as a bronze does a gold. A wince pulls at H'kon's face, and he holds out his free hand toward Azaylia in time with a, "Don't-" that is certainly too little, too late to stop her downing that foreign drink. The brownrider's lips press into a flat line, and he shifts slightly, casting a glance again about the room. "If you've need of a drink, I will find you a proper one. Best not to take something at random, weyrwoman." The slightest stress on her title, and a careful reach for her elbow. The first attempt at steering her clear of such actions. "I have no weyrmate. Nor anyone close to me who makes liquors." As if it's pried out of him: "My family are fisher folk." Distraction tactic. Azaylia gives a delicate sigh, not so heavy and forceful this time. Clearly whatever was in that glass is working. "Why? I don't want it going to waste." Spoken with much innocence, a glance given to his hand on her elbow. "...Thank you, though." Confused, since he clearly dislikes her. Hasn't he gotten the memo? As for his not having a weyrmate, "Okay." That's good, because, "If you don't hate me, want to come up to my weyr?" For coffee, or possibly knitting, from the casual way she asks, hands politely folded in front of her. Distraction avoided. Each time he would groan, it seems, H'kon is getting just a little louder. This time, it's a tortured sort of not-quite-whimpering, "Hmm," with another glance that he forces not to cling to any specific part of the goldrider. Eyes closed, he takes a few short breaths in, the first, schooling, the second, bracing. "I'll go with you," isn't quite the same as full acceptance of the invitation. H'kon does allow himself one final sip of his special whiskey, then sets it down with only a parting look of regret, and nods to Azaylia. Rather than jump on the brownrider at his accepting her offer, Azaylia stares at him with her big brown eyes. Her expression is hard to read, and her head tilts during the long, awkard moment. Finally, she swallows and delicately pulls her elbow away. "Never mind." A murmur, embarrassed and possibly hurt. "Sorry I asked." It's a genuine apology, despite the youthful sulk in her voice. "I- sorry." Eyes drop, unable to look at him only to be reminded of the tear in her dress. The last straw this evening, her hands ball helplessly at her sides as she brushes by, "Enjoyyourwhiskey." Hraedhyth isn't going to be the only one in too dour a mood to 'entertain'. The smile H'kon gives is tight-lipped. "You have no need to apologise," isn't exactly relaxed either. But the short little brownrider draws himself up, reaches again to touch Azaylia's elbow - this time simply a one-time bit of contact to try get her attention off the floor - and then crooks that arm in an offer. He can't quite manage the dashing smile that his brown, had he human features, would surely have down to an art. It's just another strained facial expression. But, "Let me walk you," is at least almost kind, even over the underlying frustrations. Azaylia is caught, physically as well as by surprise. This time she's the one giving a whimper, though hers has more to do with trying to keep her composure and her face dry. "...thank you." Mouthed more than spoken, she will accept what surely must be an act of gentlemanly pity. The smile doesn't have her quite wincing, but she's doing her best to keep her damp face straight. Don't hurt yourself. At least being on H'kon's arm will save her from having to reject flight frenzied folk, despite the touch on his arm being quite proper. And H'kon... will manage to maintain that discipline so long as it takes to get Azaylia safely settled in her own weyr. He might even try again to distract her with tales of Tillekian fisher folk on the way, who knows. But only once he's safely and honourably out of the goldrider's weyr might he might let himself relax, find more alcohol, and maybe even take Arekoth up on his incessant offers to find him one of those greenriders from past, and more successful, flights. |
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