Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr
With its entrance located between the kitchen and the living cavern, this tiny bubble cavern is cozy, always kept warm and is filled with comfortable chairs and a small round table. At the far end, there's a hearth, outlined in ruddy, aging bricks, where a pot of stew simmers in the evening hours. Generally quiet, the nighthearth is the haunt of insomniacs and those seeking quiet from the bustle of daily Weyr life.
It's late. Maybe not as late as all that, the bartenders haven't even changed shifts over at the Snowasis yet, but late enough that the aunties and uncles have been brought back to their beds. A greenrider's all but nodded off with a mug in the crook of one arm, her unlaced boots abandoned to one side of her seat, her feet pulled up beneath the big coat she's using as a blanket.
Late nights have become something of a habit, especially on those days when H'kon doesn't dine with his wing. Late hours are then supping hours, and that's what has him in the caverns. And also what has his plate rather sparsely populated by leftovers of the main meal. Normally, he would find a quiet corner alone. But tonight, when he's spotted Leova, he goes over. "May I join you?" announces his presence.
It's enough, if after a moment, to lift her gaze with a distinct lack of focus. Until she does focus, and she says, "Have at." The lift of one corner of her mouth, it's more of a welcome than the words by themselves. After a little while, "Hope you're holding up."
H'kon has at, seating himself carefully, bringing his feet up on their toes, heels rested against the base of his chair, to make as flat a platform of his lap as he can, and resting his plate on that. "Well enough," is this time adverbial. A nod, a half-hearted poke at a bit of bun, and in the end he sets his gaze quite squarely on the greenrider. "And you?"
"Haven't spilled my drink yet," supposes that greenrider, though then Leova has to lift her mug to inspect it. Lift it, and then turn it upside down, only a couple drops left to fall upon her palm. Which she eyes, and then licks off before saying wryly, "If only because I drank it first, apparently."
"Prevention," H'kon offers with a shrug, a reference to an adage, the way he trails it off a bit. The brownrider lets his gaze fall to his plate only so long as is required to rip a piece of bread, dip it in the fatty remains of some gravy. He's looking to Leova again even when he puts it in his mouth. "And your wing?" comes only after careful chewing and swallowing.
By now, Leova's been tipping her mug some more, looking into its depths as though it could summon up more of its contents. She says, "Vrianth's thrilled. It's hard to look past that." She exhales, and tips her head back against the top of the seat, so her hazy gaze can look past the mug and at the brownrider if nothing else. Hazy, but increasingly less so. "You'll have heard about our changes in drilling. Some aren't so happy... but it's been good, H'kon, have to say that."
"Indeed," H'kon agrees to the topic of thrilled dragons. There's a pull at the edge of his lips, smile, frown... a pull, anyway, if ambiguous. The next bit of bun is, this time, guided to the gravy stuff purely by virtue of muscle memory. "The whole wing feels this way? Or at least enough to count as whole?" It's probing, not challenging.
"Mm." Her fingertips don't so much tap against the mug as press into it, one finger at a time, repeating. "Won't say there aren't some who'd transfer out, given a good spot elsewhere... but we're doing things. It's nothing like what a body might have feared. Organized, even." And Leova sounds, frankly, relieved. Her gaze doesn't shy from his. "I hope things are settling in on your end, too."
H'kon returns, "Hmm," not sounding troubled, nor particularly jubilant. It's acknowledgement, and left at that. He looks to his bun for the third dip, and lets it sit and soak up so much of the remaining juices as it can. "My end was meant primarily to keep things so settled as they could be." And then he's chewing.
"'Was meant.'" Leova quotes him, then lets that stand.
"Is still," H'kon is quick to assert, his teeth touching together, clenching a moment. "Though to what degree that has been successful." The brownrider shrugs, and shifts awkwardly up to his hip to dig a fork out of his pocket. It must have been cautiously placed; he was sitting without discomfort at least.
"Mm," says Leova, again. "Arekoth's well? 'Thrilled'?" And since she has the luxury of not even pretending to be eating, "Only been to see the eggs the once, and that briefly. Even though it's good and warm there. Seems like a solid pair of clutches, so there's that."
H'kon takes a piece of over-done meat, the end of some roast, on that conjured fork. "Arekoth is quite proud," is said with all the flatness of comedic understatement, though H'kon only goes so far as to chuff. There's no laugh there, not really. "And he enjoys the hunting."
It serves to bring a quick smile to Leova, nevertheless. "Hunting?" Then, "Oh, for Iesaryth? What has he found her?"
"Some small variety." His gaze strays toward the bowl, next. "Though I imagine he will begin branching out soon." Next up, some veg, boiled to the point of being unrecognisable. H'kon doesn't even grimace when he chews on that. "So long as I can continue to keep him from the llamas to which he has no claim..." The shrug is almost affable.
"Not staking claim to all the llamas? I'm surprised. About him, at least." For her part, Leova does not attempt to claim any of the brownrider's repast, at least, but thanks to familiarity, neither does she give it a wary eye.
"Trying, perhaps," H'kon muses, stab-scooping another too-cooked piece. This something was once green. "But I should imagine certain farmers or herders in the area may take offense." But there's no humour behind that, and his face turns stoney as he chews. "I had no intention to try and take your loyalty from your wingleader," is abrupt enough thereafter that there are some bits of once-green at his teeth still. "I asked only to know."
She straightens all at once. "I didn't take it as such. H'kon." Her hand's curled around the mug, not seeking to touch him, and yet, "I have sympathy for the bind you're in, the more so if one is to believe any portion of rumor at all. Believe me."
H'kon eyes Leova up for some time, though it's hardly his habit to question the veracity of that woman's words. Still, there's consideration in the gaze. Finally, his fork is laid on the plate, in the smears remaining of gravy, the crumbs of bread. "Hn," comes with another of those curt nods, at which he's so practiced.
So Leova says, "If you think of anything I might help with. To help the Weyr. I'll count on you to let me know." She settles back against the chair's back, regarding him with hands cupped about the mug as though it had some warmth to give her. And she draws in a quick breath as though to speak, but in the end exhales it more softly, unvoiced.
"I shall," H'kon agrees. His eyes break off, seeking out the hearth. It's a farewell glance, and, gathering up the plate with both hands, he stands. "Good night, Leova," is the only excuse offered for himself.
"Good night." And then, as though it were an entirely different thing, "Sleep well." Leova watches him depart, and once he's gone, the next breath she exhales is more like a sigh.
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