Logs:Ignominious Defeat
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| RL Date: 7 September, 2011 |
| Who: Leova, Taikrin |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Szadath is gloating about Taikrin's ignominious defeat at the hands of Iolene to Vrianth. Leova just has to check that out. |
| When: Day 16, Month 9, Turn 26 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Iolene/Mentions, Riorde/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions, Meara/Mentions |
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| Full of amusement, Szadath swirls in on a cold to share an image of the darkening bruise on Taikrin's jaw. « Guess how big the dude was who laid her out flat in the mud! » (Szadath to Vrianth) Vrianth, bored. So bored. So very, very bored. Little ones prancing and playing and bellowing and complaining like no other dragon has discovered mud ever in all of Pern's history and... /Szadath/. Grownup. Relatively. She all but pounces, a bright pulse of, « How big? Szadath. » She can play along. (Vrianth to Szadath) Soooooo big: Szadath conjures up an image of a hairy giant, six-foot-six if he's an inch, advancing menacingly on his rider... it's got the feel of actual-memory, something recent enough to still be within easy recollection. But then: « Naaaah, » the giant is floored with a knee to the groin and a fist behind the ear. In his place is a tiny scrawny little blonde scrap of a girl (surely he's exaggerating for comic effect, those arms are positively stick-like) standing over his TKO'ed-in-the-mud rider. « TINY! » and he erupts in uproarous draconic laughter. (Szadath to Vrianth) Vrianth's all set for excitement! for grunting and thumping! but then it's over. Just like that. Disappointment! Until then there's the little girl and she's staring and the image is getting blown up, high-def, and... « How did he turn into the girl. » (Vrianth to Szadath) The nice thing about being a dragon is that Szadath can continue his roaring echoing laughter while still able to clarify, « We beat the crap out of him, then the little tiny cute thing came and spread her out flat. » Specific use of 'we' and 'her', there. « We could pick her up with one arm! It was SO FUNNY. » (Szadath to Vrianth) Maybe it's all that laughter booming about that gets Vrianth misunderstanding that /we/: if Szadath helped, not nearly as interesting. Deflating, even. Air positively whooshes. But: « She let her. Yes? » /His/ rider let the girl. « And where is she. My Leova is ... » Bored? Needs to do something that /Vrianth/ thinks is more interesting? /Something/. (Vrianth to Szadath) --- Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr The Snowasis is rarely quiet, and even then, the high-ceilinged former weyr is kept from echoing by the fantastical booths tucked into its convoluted perimeter. The secluded seating spaces have been shaped from the truncated stalagmites that escaped the smoothing of the main floor, and are both softened and separated by colorful hangings that are thick and opaque enough to make each corner its own private nook. Some of the smaller stalactites still roam the ceiling, their jagged teeth tracing a bumpy, inverted spine to the hearth. There, a thick rug with a low klah table and comfortable armchairs and couches sit, their upholstery and cushions changed sporadically to match the season: bright, light colors in the summer, fresh greens and yellows in the spring, warm autumnals in fall, and clear, rich hues for winter. Small tables litter the rest of the cavern, enough to fit up to four people each, while stools stand along the smooth wooden bar behind which is the passthrough window to the kitchen. Glass-paneled cabinetry behind the bar provides a clear view of the available liquors, the many colors reflecting the soft light of glows tucked into strategic niches around the cavern. To Vrianth, Szadath doesn't seem altogether bothered by Vrianth's disappointment; he's still dying of a fit of hilarity. « Yes! She let her. Because she's hopeless. Too many greens to get stuck on one. Even if she is a brown. » It makes sense in Szadath's head-- Riorde is a green to be chased /and/ a brown to pal around with. « Sulking. » In the Snowasis, hunched over something that taints Szadath's mind with boozy fumes. Click. Click. Click, each time with the emptiness of gears not /quite/ ratcheting home. /Something/ is not right, and not just Szadath dissing greens: likely she's used to that. « Explain? Not the sulking part. » Vrianth /understands/ that part. And really, it won't be long before there's a greenrider ambling up those steps, in to see... (Vrianth to Szadath) Leova heads in from the patio ledge. Leova has arrived. True to word, Taikrin really is sulking at the bar over a half-full glass of whiskey. It's really too early to be all-out drunk, but the afternoon crowd of regulars seems to be slowly and steadily sipping their way through their booze. There's a darkening bruise along one side of her jaw, which might draw the eye towards several other bruises of various greens and yellows -- older, by a few days -- along her opposite cheekbones and on her exposed arms. To Vrianth, Szadath pushes pause on the laugh-track long enough to try to figure out what Vrianth is getting at. « What? Chasing greens? » A note of confusion, double and triple echoes. « You know how that works. » And so it's not much longer that the greenrider takes up the stool next to her onetime wingmate. Nothing unusual /there/. But in the next moment, she's reaching over the precious glass for Taikrin's jaw with one cool dry hand, like she's going to tip the latter into the light. "'S just me," she adds offhandedly. « No. » There's a particular twist of amusement that suggests she knows better than /he/ does. « The green that is a brown. Clarify. » Surely Szadath is not so hard up, that he confuses his own masculine kindred? (Vrianth to Szadath) Szadath /probably/ warned her; it's why Taikrin only jumps at the contact, and doesn't flat-out start swinging. Her gaze is dark, sullen, a little off-putting as she raises it from her glass to stare at Leova. "What?" At least she's not fighting whatever Leova's doing to her jaw. Only-- not fully cooperating. Bafflement anew, he shares his own briefest mental impression of Riorde-filtered-through-Sforzath. « Her. Of course. Because she's human. » Implicit: normal, sensible rules don't /apply/ to them. Riorde gets chased by Taikrin, so she's clearly a green. But she also has Sforzath, now, so part of her is a brown. (Szadath to Vrianth) Close enough. Un-put-off Leova says, "Shh," like it's going to help, like /Taikrin's/ going to be soothed, and tilts the other woman's head this way and that. "No loose teeth?" She'll take her hand back then, and lean her elbows on the bar, amber eyes casting down its length for the bartender. Who gets a little curving smile before it's back to the brownrider again. "/Hope/ it's not as bad as all that." « /That/ one. » Close enough. There's a vague sense of approval, underscored by a sense of Sforzath, of /quick/. Fine. (Vrianth to Szadath) "No," Taikrin grounds out, pulling her jaw away to rub it lightly herself. "Looks worse'n it really is. Wasn't a real bad thing or nothing." A gulp of whiskey soothes the pain of a bruised ego, then, "Szadath just keeps goin' on on account of how he thinks it's so shardin' funny I let a kid deck me. The shells else was I supposed to do?" There's definitely some resentment building here. Of Szadath: "Give you three guesses why I'm here. First two don't count. But he's..." cute? Adorable? Too late: Leova's got food to summon, some sort of deep-fried munchies to supplement the whiskey. Then, "Good on you, letting her off easy. Weyrling and all. Meara would be proud." Or something. "You a real rider and all, wouldn't be fair. You know how it's like." But: "Don't remember /your/ class being whiny like that." "Yeah, yeah. You ain't the /first/ he's told." Which might, perhaps, explain some of Taikrin's disgruntlement. "Yeah, I guess. Mostly I just thought maybe she was losin' her mind or somethin'. Are they all that bad?" Morbid curiosity now, from over the top of her nearly-empty glass. "Don't remember /none/ of us whinin' and carryin' on about how hard our life was, boo hoo, poor us an' our flaming /dragons/." "Not his /first/, boo hoo," Leova teases in much the same tone. "At least /our/ dragons flame. But no. Few of 'em, they're all right. Quinlys, she's got a good head on her shoulders, And..." through munching, because the munchies have arrived, and her glass with them, "Well. Keep a secret?" She doesn't even say it loud enough for the rest of the bar to hear.unhappy with "Well Quinlys-- she ain't one of /them/, is she?" And because something in there made her smirk, Taikrin elaborates with, "Iolene went on about that-- us and them. What kind of crap is that, anyways?" Secrets are tempting, though-- tempting enough that she downs the last of her booze, gestures for more, then leans in. "'Course." "Well," Leova starts to copy. Imitate. Demur. Only Taikrin clarifies, and says briefly, "What-we-were is more important than what-we-are, is what that is. Like that one kid." A different one, apparently. Seeing as how the brownrider's leaning in, as how they're waiting for that refill, she says sideways, "Think that Riorde, she might do all right with a silver thread in her knot. Would keep her busy, though. Her friends, they might mind." "You do?" It's not that Taikrin's surprised that Riorde's capable, but more that it might be /acknowledged/; a flicker of pride lights her face, briefly. "She seems quick. And-- she could be one of us. Should be one of us. You know?" She separates, briefly, to take possession of her refill, then returns to conspire. "She /should/ be busy. Keep her out of trouble," And boys. "Let her be... herself. Without them tellin' her who she got to be." If Leova brushes away foam from her lip, the gesture doesn't exactly hide her also-sideways smile. "Don't /know/ about Glacier. Yet. If you're talkin' that kind of /us/. But maybe." She stares at her glass, doesn't bother to keep her tone from flattening. "Don't know that F'rint thinks much of that silver thread anyway. Kids getting big heads they don't deserve." After a moment, "And we'd still be telling her what to do. You know that. Just: more /options/. Can't say as it'll happen. Might take some brownnosing," maybe that's not worth it. Maybe that's too much. "I dunno," Taikrin demurs, suddenly turning wickedly coy as she shares a look with Leova. "Reckon a coupl'a the old guys wouldn't mind watchin' too much." But, more seriously, "I mean /us/. Riders. Don't know how she can't feel like one of us when she /is/ one, you know? But it might make her feel-- wanted. Appreciated, maybe." Possibly speaking from experience, though Taikrin'd never admit to it. She'd rather nurse her new glass of whiskey. "She ain't the brown-nosin' type, you know. And I reckon if she was, you might not want her in that class, eh?" Taikrin, no respect for the suck-ups. "He'd watch maybe, but if you think he's going to be led around by his..." Leova's got a one-shoulder shrug for /that/, but then a nod for what Taikrin has to say next, a simple, "Yeah." And: "Don't know. Lot of things're called brown-nosing that're just... showing you can see things more'n one way." She glances down the bar again, then back. "Anyway, looks like he's on break, I got to get. Give your boy some attention from me, tell 'im you don't need your face messed up to say hello." "I'll-- well. Won't say nothin' to her. But... maybe give her the proper nudge. Been meanin' to anyways, way that lot's been carryin' on like they're the saddest loneliest most beat-up people on Pern, you know? Girl needs to meet reality, seems like." Taikrin leans back on her stool, raising her glass to Leova in a salute. "Yeah, yeah-- next time you get free from baby duty, we'll go do some grownup stuff or somethin'. Reckon you could use it." That surprises a full-bodied laugh out of Leova before she catches herself, and then the greenrider's just nodding with a, "Maybe they had an eye to being the boss of /something/ even if it's some mud, I get that, /but/..." But. Enough rambling-or-maybe-it's-ranting. Grown-up stuff. "Reckon so," she only half-teases back, aims a nudge for the brownrider's shoulder, and makes off with what's left of her drink. But not the munchies. /They're/ still there, what's left of them: littering. |
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