Logs:In Your Blood
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 27 January, 2014 |
| Who: Suireh, R'hin |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Suireh's expecting a ride back to the Harper Hall. Her father shows up instead |
| Where: Bitra Hold / Shipfish Island |
| When: Day 6, Month 12, Turn 33 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Leova/Mentions, Satiet/Mentions, Bristia/Mentions, Riahla/Mentions |
  |
| Cold and damp, but no rain hangs clouds low along the Bitran skyline. For winter, it's positively temporal, but the young woman standing in the courtyard doesn't seem quite happy to be waiting in it. Her arms are crossed over her chest and the fur-trimmed hood of her cape obscures much of her face. Around her, the crowds mill as they get along with their mid-afternoon work, but midst the greys and browns of the every day Pernese, her crimson attire makes her a striking figure. Pennants celebrating the birth of Bitra's newest spare to the heir fly from the masts and flap from windows. It's been some time since the watch rider assured Suireh he'd call for transport from the Weyr. Long enough that that cold wind might become an irritant before the sight of a dark bulk against the gray clouds becomes visible. Whatever greeting is given to the local dragon is done silently, as the arriving dragon touches down. There's familiarity there, for one used to seeing such a dragon: the angular, sharp contours of the bronze's lithe frame; the crimson-streaked wings as they sweep backwards; the unmistakable hook of his nose particularly distinctive. Leiventh has never spoken to Suireh in all the Turns he's been aware of her existence; he doesn't start now. "I hear," his rider says, instead -- bundled up above, all amused even if the expression can't be read behind his rugged-up flight gear, "You need a ride, Harper." Not as slight as the woman who was her mother, she still manages to convey a fragile appearance now. Maybe it's the heaviness of the mantle over her shoulders. Or the bulk of her, otherwise, light frame weighed down by warmth. It's hard for the every day Joe to see the start beneath those layers; but he might see. He, one of the chosen few, might see the difference in her posture, the sudden sharper turn of her shoulders and the subtle lift of her chin that somehow brings her features into view from beneath that cowl. "A ride, yes. A father?" Deliberate lightness imbues the carefully pitched words. "You're too late to hear me sing." While it's likely he does see, that doesn't mean he isn't feeling kindly enough to pretend otherwise. "I've heard you sing many a time. Your aunt Leova and I had a pact to nudge each other awake at your concerts at the harper hall. I've a callous on one side of my ribs to prove it." Plain truth, or truth-mixed-with-lie, one can never tell. "And unless your singing has evolved to generate heat, I suggest we get out of here." R'hin stretches a hand toward her, the movement deliberate. Perhaps it hides the faintest trace of distaste in his voice for here, perhaps not. For a moment, Suireh looks to hold her ground, much like an obstinate child might. But a winter wind whips those pennants again, and runs through to push her cowl back even more. Decision made for her, the harper reaches up to grip her father's hand and make a very well-versed leap up onto Leiventh's back. Her knees tighten and a hand falls to press against the bronze's side. "Hello, Leiventh," are low words. He may never have spoken to her, but she speaks to him, always, with that touch of a child's entreaty in even the simplest greeting. "Take me somewhere warm, R'hin." She dares in low, not so subtly impish, words. The rumble is felt rather than heard through the dragon's hide where she contacts it; a silent acknowledgement of her greeting. R'hin's grip is strong, and he waits until Suireh's firmly settled before he releases her. He's confident enough in her ability that to deal with the straps that he doesn't help, though he does look to make sure she's ready, first. "Somewhere warm?" Those flight goggles reflect a picture of the harper back at herself; there might be a ripple of tension that passes at her address, though he's too skilled to allow it to linger overly long. "Hold on," is all he says, moments before Leiventh's muscles bunch and he soars skywards. Suireh is silent during this, having dropped her bomb and receiving not enough of a reaction. Pale eyes look down at the expanse of Bitra and how tiny it becomes the higher Leiventh goes. Her shoulders tense and one hand slips up R'hin's back and buries her face there; that expectant breath-held wait before between hits. She knows, of course, that R'hin is normally not so cautious as to seek such heights. But today, with her there, they circle higher, Leiventh gradually climbing until they finally hit the cold of between. It's longer than normal, only a beat or two more than she might expect back to Harper Hall. When they emerge, the air is immediately heated, the sun bright on their backs. Stretched out below is an island -- and while not big, it might take a day to circle the each of it. The outer edges are coated in natural, fine near-white sand, while towards the middle trees spring up until they are most dense at the center. Leiventh banks, to give them a good view as they descend: their destination appears to be the fine sand beach to the south. Slender-trunked trees are visible here and there, providing adequate shading along this edge of the island, though Leiventh lands on the beach proper, sending up a fine spray of sand into the air for a moment. From cool, to bone-chilling cold, to sudden heat in the span of a handful of breaths causes Suireh to suck in a sharp breath. "I-," but what she might say is cut off as she takes in the paradise approaching. Straps, slide, down. The first thing afterwards is to shed her winter gear down to the final layer of camisole and pants beneath it all. "It's beautiful. It's-," for once, there's that smile of youth touched to her lips, "Warm." Pleased. Uncertain. He listened to her? Her head tips back soak in all the sun and sea air as she stands in a puddle of crimson. "It's the anti-Bitra." Strangely, where she seems pleased, R'hin seems oddly less so: he follows her to the ground, though his movements are slow and deliberate, no sense of relaxation in his expression as he begins to strip himself of flight gear. Leiventh makes a noise, faintly, earning a thud of his rider's fist, before the dragon settles himself comfortable into the sand, going still. Settling his jacket neatly next to her pile, he murmurs, "Explore if you want. We have time." There's a tone. It's guarded, and she's probably heard it plenty enough in other connotations that it doesn't necessarily ring alarm bells; sometimes it's just old habit. From the puddle of winter clothes and kicked off winter boots, Suireh's bare feet alight across the sand, kicking up less of a cloud than Leiventh's landing did. There's a return of youth to her young woman features, a brightening to the paleness of her near-gray blue eyes. Her shoulders shrug up and inward and then suddenly release with her arms stretching out wide as she spins a few girlish circles. "If only Riahla were-," Suireh's words and movements stop short and those eyes, her heritage from the father behind her, glance back over a spaghetti-strapped shoulder. "You're not exploring? You-," her lips thin, "You've never brought us here before." Never, in all their years. Only a bare moment's hesitation on R'hin's part. "Leiventh thought it appropriate." It's very easy to blame one's dragon, particularly when he isn't inclined to protest. The whirling of said dragons' eyes is even more difficult to read than his rider's. There's a momentary sense of reluctance in his bearing, but after a moment, he moves as if intending to accompany her on her examination. It must be hot, in those leather pants and boots, though he doesn't seem inclined to take them off just yet. "I haven't yet taken you to every place that exists in Pern, no," he acknowledges, with all-too-familiar dark chuckle, landing somewhere between self-deprecation and amusement at her. The young woman Suireh is wars with the young girl she once was, and somehow, on this island, the latter gains ground and a step is taken back to the R'hin. "Daddy?" The quizzical lilt implores for more; anything, a crumb that satisfies questions asked of empty walls. "Do you hate me?" R'hin stops. There's a visible parade of emotions that flickers across his face, running too quickly together to decipher. "No," he finally says, with a weight, his gaze settling on her. Something eases off of Suireh's shoulders at his no, a something that's held waiting as she watches the parade of emotions on his face. Waiting in an equally visible, stomach churning way of hope ready to be crushed. What do you follow something so emo with? Silence, for a little while. Sand divots made by digging toes. And eventually: "Lord Benden's considering retirement." Cause sure, why not throw random political gossip into the fray. "He may like this island." Silence is acceptable, and R'hin doesn't try to fill it with anything, frivolous or otherwise. When she finally speaks, something closer to anger is in her father's expression, this time. With even more emotion, this time: "No." He sucks in a slow breath, then, "This isn't for holders. Or crafters," he adds, with a significant look at Suireh. "Then why bring me here?" She could play wounded gazelle, hurt with big doe eyes, but this is R'hin and she's his daughter. "I could Stand again," she asserts, quiet, and maintaining her distance from this father of hers, "There's a clutch on the sands at Fort Weyr. I could ask. They might let me." Is that what you want? hangs heavy, nonetheless, in her restrained emotions. This bears some careful though before he answers, as if he's aware he might be walking into a minefield. "I don't want you to miss out on anything," R'hin finally answers her first question. The latter, though, makes his hand fist, unconsciously, and there's a heat in his words as he looks away that increases with each sentence. "I want you to do what you damn well please, Suireh. If you want to be a harper, be the best fucking harper. If you want to be a rider, I'll support you. But what I won't support you in is trying to be her." With difficulty, he exhales, finally looking back at her: his pale eyes are flat even though his demeanor is full of tension. "Then why say this place is only for crafters or holders? Why can't you ever once be just my damn father and say something nice to me? Why? Why can I never be good enough? What if this is me? Maybe I like who I am. Maybe this is who I am!" Suireh kicks a storm of sand at R'hin, and Leiventh for good measure, and stomps away. Because that's what this island does to mature harpers: it turns them into daughters seeking love again. R'hin bears the brunt of Suireh's fury, not even attempting to interrupt her speech. He manages to squint just before she starts kicking sand, and when she stomps away, he doesn't follow. Not immediately, anyway: he spends some time brushing the sand from Leiventh (even if the bronze barely flickered an eyelid), before he finally goes to track Suireh's path. Surely it can't be that difficult, if she's still stomping away. She's not kicking sand up anymore, but she's still storming off as far as she can go. It can't be a very big island, for when she hits the water lapping across the sand, she stops just as the water comes up to her knees and stands there, hands to her hips. And then? Then, she just sits, mostly sunk into the water, arms wrapped around her knees. Her dark floating hair cold blend with dark algae coming topside. R'hin's steps are quiet, though he is still wearing boots, so he can't quite conceal his approach. Halted at the water's edge, he regards her back silently for a time, then: "I wanted to share this place with you, not because I expect you to be a rider, or because you're a harper, but because you're my daughter, and... this place meant something to Satiet, and to me." His voice is soft, but pitched to carry, to convey that hint of remembrance and emotion and, just maybe, regret. "You should start with that, with your next daughter." At least she's not giving him the silent treatment, even if her voice might be even more of a painful reminder in its cold rigidness touched with a girl's self-righteousness. She's a wronged daughter here. "You might save yourself from being yelled at." There's a dark chuckle from her father. "I'll take that under advisement. I have to make all the mistakes on you, first, though. You only yell at me; Riahla punches." R'hin's tone is pitched deliberately light and careful, as if trying not to ruin the fact that she's not yelling at him, for the moment. Is that a hiccup from out in the watery part of the shore? Maybe a hysterical giggle, or the start of one. "That, or she kicks. I should do that more often." But wait, she's mad at him. Suireh sniffs, but her hair toss is lack luster when the hair is waterlogged. "I like being a harper. I'm good at being a harper." "Or kicks," R'hin agrees with a warm humor. He's silent a moment, waiting on the water's edge, then, after a beat: "I know. I've heard you sing. I hear talk. Even Bristia sings your praises, and she has high standards." "But I wonder..." Suireh doesn't finish that thought. The unfinished thought is left alone. R'hin intends to let sleeping dogs lie. "Do you want to go for a walk around the island? See if we can find a firelizard clutch to buy yourself some favors with?" It's an invitation for them not to fight any more, for at least a short time. "I need time to dry," is an affirmative answer enough, as she pulls herself out of the lapping waves, her clothes heavy with water. "Grandmother told me, she used to be a harper once. That mother could've been one. That-," she looks at R'hin very briefly, before those gray eyes dart away to look down where her feet trek, "It's in my blood more than the dragons are." R'hin's lips press briefly together, as if maybe he doesn't agree, or doesn't particularly like that summation. Not that he's ever volunteered information on his side of the family, with her paternal grandparents being an unknown. "Yes. I suppose it is," comes his concession, however reluctantly, stretching out a hand to press briefly against the back of her head as he falls into pace with her. "But your mother could've just as easily been a fisherman's wife. You have gutting fish in your blood, just as much." How he manages to say it with such a straight face is anyone's guess. Turns of practice, no doubt. She says nothing, merely lifts a brow at him in complete askance. Satiet a fisherman's wife? As if. Her pace quickens, darting away from even that brief press to her head. "I suppose, story goes, alcohol is in my blood too. And, and- whatever it is your family does that you don't do." She knows this much, at least, that his folk are not of the Weyr. "Ask your grandmother," R'hin says, with a knowing sort of grin, that could just as easily be teasing as truthful. His hand drops easily enough to his side with only a slight flicker of reaction across his features, before he lengthens his pace to keep up with her. "Traders," he supplies after a beat. It's a simple enough answer that it's probably truth. "Traders. Right." Suireh's still daughter enough to roll her eyes, but harper enough not to pursue that particular line further. At least not in regards to his past. "So wanderlust and loose skirts, harper skills, fish guts, and dragons. And what of those is my destiny. Look," her destiny appears to be a small stash of four eggs, abandoned. "Green's." "And out of all those, somehow, you ended up in the least seemly profession." Now he's definitely teasing her. R'hin stops as she draws attention to the sands, with a grimace. "Well, maybe next time." Leiventh's bulk looms further up the beach. Did he move, while they were busy, or did they walk all that way around? Hard to tell -- the dragon's dead still, and apparently still in the same crouched posture. Leaning, she scoops up two of the eggs and some warm sand in cupped hands. "Still worth some capital with my little birds," murmurs Suireh. "I've a friend at Nerat who could use one to train. I'm ready." If not completely dry, but that's secondary at this point. "Take me home, please." R'hin shows little interest in the eggs beyond that of what Suireh does. When they reach Leiventh's side, he finds a small bag inside the bronze's saddlebags that serves as a temporary house for the eggs. Only when she's properly attired again do they leave -- Leiventh circling once, twice over the island before disappearing into between. Does it mean something that he assumes, or at least tacitly acknowledges, that home is at the Harper Hall and not High Reaches? Hard to say. Either way, once there, excuses are made by the bronzerider before any polite offer might on her behalf for him to come in, or bearing the silence where that offer might've been. There's no offer. No politeness. Just silence on the trip back. And where polite company, or at least parents with their children might say goodbyes, Suireh instead gets ready to dismount. But not first, without a (mostly) impulsive hug to her father's back, albeit a hug between layers and layers of winter wear. "Clear skies," is said dutifully enough, but she doesn't even wait to watch Leiventh depart before heading into the hall with her 'find'. |
Leave A Comment