Logs:In Passing
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| RL Date: 9 February, 2015 |
| Who: Irianke, R'hin |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: How R'hin and Irianke (kind of) know each other. |
| Where: Igen Weyr, Monaco Weyr, Igen Hold |
| When: Turn 29 - Turn 36. |
| Mentions: Oriane/Mentions, Nimae/Mentions, F'rain/Mentions, M'lach/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Backscene. |
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| It's her third flight. Niahvth's seven turns old and the room is full of sweaty people, mostly Igenites but there are some interlopers here and there, distinguishable mostly due to their attire. Irianke's sitting on the bed, her bent knees held by arms clasped tight, the tension of keeping control of her dragon and herself wrought in every visibly taut held muscle of her being. In the skies, the flight goes well enough, the broad queen racing with a speed lit by passion and an instinctive love of being chased. This is their first meeting, where her stone-blue eyes, dark in spite of the well lit weyr, find his and latch on. It's the only sign of waver in her concentration, as one quizzical brow lifts, appraises in a once over, and lingers. He's not been idle, here in this, her weyr -- it's not his way. Despite his status as an interloper, R'hin seems at home, at ease, that meeting of gazes earning a knowing sort of grin in return, and several steps in her direction -- that are blocked by a slightly older Igenite. "Keep yer distance, kid." It's not the hand that's held up towards the Monacoan rider that seems to bother him, as much as the kid, gaze narrowing, while a dark chuckle rips from his throat. Above the dragons battle, but here, fuelled by agendas made more complex than just pure lust by dint of human fraility and memory, the sudden swing of his fist incites something more violent. His may be the first, but it is not the last punch, not by far. And it devolves: half the competitors being taken down by this Monacoan rider, or the series of actions and consequences that come of it. The superficiality on Irianke's face shines with distraught, but it's a thin veneer over the baser emotions a flight susses out, that desperate need and desire to see the extremes of emotions, and violence as an outlet, until the moment where her dragon finds her mate and she finds arms that aren't his to wrap about her. There are words later, but none from her, stern words passed from her Weyrwoman to his, but nothing more of it. Until... ... she shows up at his home, on his proverbial doorstep, a bottle of wine in her hands and a frank curiosity brightening the blue in her eyes. Oriane is used to such talks, and she has the answer, and the assurances of his better behavior next time well down pat. If there's punishment, it comes in ways other than a stern talking to, with as little effect as this has on the once-Reachian bronzerider. His home, is better described as a tent -- an open-sided structure with loose material for walls. It does have the luxuries of bed, table, chairs and the all-important liquor cabinet, at least. R'hin doesn't seem inclined to wallowing in the loss, though he does bear the marks of the previous days fisticuffs in bruised jaw, and bruised ribs -- visible, through his open shirt as pale blue eyes regard her with amusement, rather than surprise at her presence here. That he lifts the material that serves as door seems to be invitation for her to enter. "A sight for sore eyes," is Irianke's opinion, her slim arms holding out that wine without entering the tent. She'll stand right here for now. "You made this a far more memorable flight than my first." R'hin takes the bottle, of course, discerning eye falling over it, surprise briefly flickering in his gaze as he notes the label, before eyes flicker back to her. "I'm glad to have helped." He seems to think that's what he did, after all. "Nimae had words with Oriane. Your doing?" He doesn't urge her to enter; maybe he's waiting on the answer. "Do I look like someone that rats out a potential... friend?" The bottle is now in the possession of its new owner, leaving Irianke's hands bereft. She slides them into the pockets of her riding pants and rocks back and forth on her booted feet. A casual smile rolls in smoothly across her lips, starting at one corner in a crooked hook that is matched slowly on the other side. She dimples. "How have I never met you before? How have you never chased me?" Surely, she must mean Niahvth and Leiventh. "With such a... gift... it's hard to tell." The bottle, he must mean, and yet the bronzerider's gaze doesn't leave hers. A beat, two beats, three, and R'hin turns back, walking inside, tacit invitation in the way he leaves the material pushed aside. That or he wants insects inside, today. "It would almost be a shame to drink such a bottle," he adds, placing it, after some thought, on top of his cabinet. With a charming sort of grin, he looks back towards her, hands spread: "Luck?" Bad, or good, he doesn't specify. "Did you enjoy it?" "Your eyes were in my thoughts the whole time K'ter bore into me." It's the blithest of lies, the culmination of most flights not allowing for that kind of deliberate thinking. "So," Irianke's smile shifts, crooked once more for the deliberate miscomprehension of his question, "Yes. I enjoyed it. You enjoy your bottle, R'hin. I just wanted to see you again and drink you in outside of a flight so I might better appreciate the next time you chase." That earns a genuine bark of laughter. And, after a moment of consideration: "I'll think about it." Think about chasing. "Talk about it with Leiventh," is added, with a grin. And that's that. She really was there to just look at him, turning back to the path away from that hut towards where she parked her dragon. He's looking, not at her, or her queen, but at the bottle. He doesn't open it. Not this time. It's three turns later, Iolene having died, I'kris having died, two golds rising, and then one finally claiming official leadership. It's shortly after the High Reaches leadership flight of turn 32 that finds Irianke standing in the galleries at a hatching at Benden, cheering for the Impression of a friend to green. There's a party later, where she mingles with the best of them, dancing and flirting her way through the dignitaries. And there he is, on the arm of another goldrider -- Kyouri of Benden. He spots her, or she spots him -- hard to say which, first. Later, he claims a dance -- a single, fast-paced one, leaving them breathless after, and not a single word is exchanged, just his grin, a half-bow, and R'hin disappears into the crowd. Two turns later sees them at Igen Hold -- R'hin having exchanged his Monaco knot for a High Reaches one -- though neither is present on the bronzerider as he lounges in one of the tents, left open for guests to doze out the heat of the hottest part of the Igen day. It's months before the leprosy outbreak at Igen. A bright teal clad woman passes by, her laughter familiar by now, if not her distinctive fashion choices when not on duty; it's a statement for sure, particularly at a Hold gather in all its sheer gauzy layers that manages to just obscure everything. The companion she laughs for departs her side and she finds refuge in the tent for a second. It's long enough to find him, seek his gaze, to smile, and to duck back out with a louder, "There's nothing interesting in there," that's not for her date's benefit. Perhaps it's not quite loud enough for him, either, since he doesn't emerge. Later, again, she may well spot him -- selling apples with a young woman, their stall placed in a shady part of gather, where people linger to queue for the cold drinks being served the next stall over. She steps up. "A sack please." He draws himself up, looks down at her, up and down, with a raise of brows. "It's heavy, y'sure you want that? Little thing like you?" Despite the words, there's a gleam of amusement in pale eyes. She lets her eyes do the talking for her. Try me, they dare. Then, there's that smile, that kind of smile girls toss over their shoulders, careless, bright, filled with a layered joy. One hand holds her marks, the other reaches out for a sack. The woman takes the marks, while R'hin steps back and picks up one of the sacks of apple. Casually, he tosses it -- in the way riders toss firestone sacks, habit of angle and positioning and speed. There's one misstep, her foot sliding backwards to brace the weight, but she catches it and the joy-filled smile turns into one of triumph. "Enjoy your earnings," she says, cradling the sack to her like a very large and heavy infant. It's not a graceful walk, but she's still walking away. His low-throated laughter follows her, even if he doesn't. Turn thirty-six sees that fateful rise of Nimae's Breileth, the open flight that many expected her Southern weyrmate to win, but instead the young Bendenite F'rain claims the title of Igen Weyrleader. After the dust is settled, many fall to drinking -- rumors about that group of High Reaches riders doing the rounds. Said group has secured a table for themselves in Igen's cavern, no few small looks being given their way. One by one, they slip off -- to find a rider, to find a corner, or to wing their way home when their dragons are recovered. R'hin's the stalwart, staying until the rest are gone, rising only then, hours after the flight has finished. The dragons have been caught, the riders together, and the Igen goldriders slowly return. Neither are slated to rise soon, Dosanyth having just, and Niahvth will, eventually. Irianke enters, taking stock of the situation, who remains, who needs more to drink, who needs to be cut off, and who... is leaving. "Hello." She's heard and knows. "Was it what you expected?" His eyes are... not focused, not intent as they usually are, but they settle on her after a moment as he sways to a stop. Unthinking, for once, the usual glib response is missing: "What?" Recognition comes, after he's spoken, after his gaze has settled on her. "You shouldn't be here," Irianke says, genuine regret vibrating in her throat. A hand, fond for the turns of chance encounters, exchanges of few words, and a friendship that's somehow deeper (or is it just respect?) than the times they've met would imply; that hand finds his cheek to caress. A sigh exhales. "Go. Even I can't shield you from the shit storm you've started." She says go, but it's really a come. Her hand slips down to his and holds it firmly, all callouses and hard work in its strength. The hand and the woman it's attached to leads him out to the bowl, where her dragon waits. "We can take you home the long way. Leiventh can follow." Her brow cocks, Is that acceptable? Her first words earn a throaty, knowing laugh, far more familiar, from R'hin. She says go, but he doesn't move until that hand catches his, and he follows, silently, his limp barely noticeable behind the sway of alcohol. He smiles, suddenly, at her latter words; that hand, their hands, are lifted as he brings hers to his lips, pressing briefly on the back of her hand. "I don't leave without Leiventh." But there's gratitude for the offer, all the same. "We'll fly alongside. Don't go between. Not like this now." Irianke, kindly, ignores the kiss to her hand by not referring to it, but dignifies it by retracting her hand to her dragon. "We should go now." She'll feign a little laugh that's not humored at all. "You won't be welcome company here by the time Nimae wakes up. I'm surprised M'lach didn't... Let's go. Up. Up." "I know my limits." It's a mix of indignant drunk, and overconfident dragonrider, though the fact that R'hin concedes, obeys the Igen goldrider, suggests that he does, indeed know his limits. Even drunk, he makes climbing up look easy, Leiventh -- until now still, to all eyes asleep -- stirs to movement, reluctantly. The sense of the bronze is held tightly, the chill winds of his thoughts barely stirring even as he launches skyward. Niahvth reaches out the inebriated rider's dragon, Leiventh, the warmth of her mental touch acting as a catalyst. Surprised would be an understatement, that R'hin acquiesces, her own mounting of her dragon slower than his. The Igen queen stretches her wings out and lifts up to follow at a leisurely pace, watchful and in a constant wordless contact until they're out of the Weyr range. Leiventh banks once they pass the invisible line that denotes the Weyr's immediate purview, heading over the desert. It's not clear where they're headed until a bright light becomes visible, a bonfire in the midst of the desert drawing them like a beacon to flame, the sounds of music and laughter drifting up from the trader's camp, drawing the bronze downwards. Exhausted, the presence of Reachian dragon fades almost immediately, though the shadow of his rider is, perhaps, visible to sharp dragon eyes, head lifted to watch the departure of the Igen pair. |
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