Logs:It's Raining Teeth
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| RL Date: 17 May, 2013 |
| Who: C'wlin, Athimeroth, Telavi, Solith |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Telavi drops by to return what was lost. This time, it doesn't end quite as badly as the last. |
| Where: Lofted Dreams Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 19, Month 10, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Heavy, driving rain makes everything a wet and muddy mess today. |
| Mentions: Alida/Mentions, Canie/Mentions, N'ky/Mentions |
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| Lofted Dreams Weyr, High Reaches Weyr Inside, the weyr itself is also tall but narrow, the wallow a two-story affair while the living area's made more spacious by the loft installed above it. While outside it was plain, inside, it's all about the details: the stone cleverly worked to shape heat and sound into comfort, the built-in benches smoothly chiseled into a corner where a table might fit, and best of all, what seems to have been a ship's mast wedged from the loft level to the floor - a smoothly polished pole, the better to slide down in a hurry for a literal or metaphorical fire. Driving rain makes navigating the skies difficult, but not impossible. Mud and muck run amuck together in the mess that becomes the weyr's bowl, though higher up in the bowl's wall, Athimeroth's ledge and weyr stays relatively muck free. Quite possibly because today's duties have not included going out into the unconventional weather. Nice and dry, C'wlin is like a bug in a rug with his cozy weyr and hearth-fires banked in what passes for a brassy brazier, clearly a new addition. Upon said carved stone benches, C'wlin lounges, relaxed scribbling something down upon expensive (used) parchment. The bronze is home, tucked away in the shallow depression that marks his couch area, watching the ever creeping dribbles of rain that are drawn by gravity's lure towards the bronze. Idly, and every so often, tarnished wings twitch as talons flick at these fingerlets of rainwater. Incoming! Solith's perceptible before she's visible, a gust of wind coming closer without any hint of question as to her welcome, speeding past other ledges before dropping-skidding-stopping on Athimeroth's. That's her warning, and she looks so pleased with herself, too, never mind the still-falling rain or the rider who'd be sodden if it weren't for head-to-toe leather. « Warm? » is Solith's inquiry even before Tela can so much as touch a buckle. Solith's arrival isn't stopped, though Athimeroth isn't particularly friendly -- though that's his way. His penchant for aloofness is greater when he cannot get up to the high skies which soften his mood to something closer to pliability. « Warm. » Heated gusts carry the sentiment with the waving of burnt-orange flags, projected his own brand of welcome. Inside the weyr, it is most definitely warm. Whether or not C'wlin is prepared, well, that remains to be seen! Solith has the bare decency to perch beneath the overhang so that her rider can stop getting quite as wet when she gets down, but then she's spreading her wings and twisting her neck to look at just how the remaining water flows off the delicate tips of her spars. The rain-filtered light softens her hide, makes it closer to a silvery green, though her eyes are bluer with the heat of his gusts as they intersect her unflagging and un-flagged breeze. Telavi has to look back at her, half-unwillingly, but then she shakes her head and bypasses the curtain into the weyr. Athimeroth gets a nod, he's easiest to spot, and as for C'wlin? If the bronze didn't warn him, she doesn't seem to be so concerned about that. Perhaps the quiet of his own weyr (thank Faranth) has been sought after the hubbub of the political drama occurring outside the boundaries of his place. The reaction publically shown to the removal of Quielle and then N'gan from the silver thread learning group was a complement of raised brows and murmured, "Mmm's" that provided the end result of something noncommittal with no apparent strong feelings. Following that, N'gan's personal drama was eclipsed by the revelations that came on the wings of dragon gossip that have left the bronzerider contemplative at worst, downright scheming at best. Again, though, direct thoughts are not easily discerned; C'wlin has learned to perfect his poker face. So he sits, scribbling on a parchment. "Telavi." So Athimeroth has provided some input. "Are you..." he gives her a squint-eyed look (stink-eye), lips pressed together, "...all well?" That's the safest question. "Do I look well? It's wetter than... it's wet outside," and the greenrider tugs off her goggles and helmet, less bug-eyed now even though there are rings and faint traces of stitching pressed into her skin. If only C'wlin had been named Frankenstein, they would almost be set! Once she's stamped her feet in place enough that she shouldn't turn the rest of his weyr into more of a puddle than it already is, and also once she's gotten a better look at said weyr and its furnishings, she strides toward the other weyrling. "'Hold out your hands and shut your eyes, and I will give you a surprise.'" Faint amusement is seen in C'wlin's features as Telavi's behavior must mean that the horror (he's not forgotten) has passed, the parchment put aside along with the stylus. Inkwell is left on the stone next to his thigh. "It better be a good one," he cautions, reluctant to close his eyes even in the relative comfort and safety of his weyr. Hands are gamely held out while bronze weyrling's hands do come up. It's only when he's sitting as such that he comments, "A little bit of rain water's never melted anyone, Lady." The last is a snide tease; if only Pern had the concept of 'Princess'! "No? Remember that when," but Telavi stops herself with a sudden laugh, one that's echoed by a touch of cold fingers followed by pocket-warm and slender metal. "That would be giving it away." She steps back, giving that away, or what turns out to be an awl, anyway, with a number stamped on the side. Not that she's said to open his eyes, but perhaps that's implied, and she's cocked her head as she looks for his reaction. "It is yours? She thought so, but if it's not, you get to find its owner instead of me." Automatically, fingers close around the fading warmth of the metal object. Icy blue eyes open immediately at the touch of metal to flesh, wasting no time in waiting to be told to open them. C'wlin's first response is, "When what?" before focusing upon the object in hand. "It's not mine." He turns it over and looks at the number stamped on the side. "It's good enough quality -- where did she find it?" "When you get dripped on," Tela loftily substitutes for any more specific date. She sits on one of the other benches, no sense in making him feel shorter, but it's a perch on the edge rather than anything more substantial. "Hm. The training cavern. She seemed quite certain," but Telavi shrugs, delivery's made, good enough for now. It frees her to glance at that parchment of his. "I would say the same thing," C'wlin's comment comes with an almost-prissy little sniff, which puts some dubiousness to the words, but he seems confident enough. "I'll double check." Whether or not the awl is his, the object may never find it's former home. Setting it aside, he turns back to Telavi; the parchment is a confusing mash of notes and what might be scribbled lyrics. The song itself -- going by the words -- could be a rousing ballad to violence. It is, very clearly, in its infancy stage. "Like what you see there?" He sees her looking! Will he? He gets an amused glance through her lashes, one that holds not a candle to that which lights her eyes when she's found looking. "What a question," Tela says, lifting those eyes. "I really can't see so well from here. But are you proposing to brutalize our weyrlingmasters? Weyrleaders? The proponents of relay races? Come to think of it, maybe I shouldn't be talking to you, you fly for the wrong team." "Do I?" C'wlin counters her question, tenor as smooth an silk and as warm as winter on the coldest day. "Well then, carry along if you are so sure that I fly for the wrong team." Pale brows lift, pale hair glints a fire-touched platinum in the flickering light provided by flame -- he prefers lanterns to glows -- and expression remains inscrutible. "Perhaps I just enjoy writing violent musicals." Offered as a possible alternative. Tela's shrug is liquid, the sort of warm gesture that might never have known winter at all. "Alida, or perhaps it really is N'ky, did the assigning. Do you think I should... doubt?" After a smiling moment, she reaches for the nearest corner of that parchment, slow and easy enough to stop if he's inclined. "Perhaps you do." She wouldn't know, and doesn't mind admitting it. "Would this be your first time, writing such a thing?" Clearly, the meaning of 'other team' held a different definition for C'wlin than their relay teams assigned by this month's wingleaders. "Oh, yes." Slight frown mars the unfathomable plane of the bronzerider's entitled features. "That. Then true, I do fly for the other team. We're rivals, you and I. Do you feel it?" Not especially competitive when his own skin isn't on the line, the mere fact that the former harper does nothing half-assed has been what's kept himself so highly accomplished in their weyrling duties. "No." Again, the greenrider gets a curtain-brush of emotion out of C'wlin, this time surprise. Easily covered up. "I've had a whole course study in compositions back at the Hall." It's a reaction that brings out the dimples in what otherwise might have been a secretive smile. "Oh, yes," Tela avers. "I want to leap right over there and throttle you, can't you tell? And then take on all of Cirrus, after. Priorities." Except then she leans more into the stone seat, crossing her legs just past the knee so one foot can swing, and actually takes a solid look at the sheet this time. She tilts it sideways, sometimes, to better scrutinize the scribbles, and eventually even turns it over to check out that part too. While she's at it, "What are your thoughts on drum sign, and who should learn it?" "Information should never be lost, I'd say," C'wlin answers easily, smooothly. By all intents and purposes, his demeanor is that of a boy with little care in the world while she handles his sheet of music. "I'm truly frightened," drolly stated, the bronze weyrling looks anything but. "Although, I think you might have a harder time taking Cirrus than to take our own wing. Our own personalities prevent true cohesion." Brow quirks, "What are your thoughts?" "My thoughts," Telavi begins, and if it's any consolation she handles his sheet carefully enough, though not as though it's going to fall apart in her fingers at any moment. She does absently run a thumb along its edge, seeing just how smoothly it was cut. "Well, never mind those. I'll grant you Cirrus. How about I rephrase," and her eyes lift to him again. "What are your thoughts on people who are not harpers learning drum sign?" Her mouth hints at a smile but, in the end, doesn't set it free. Two can play this game. C'wlin's smile is thin as he watches her test the edge of the parchment. It's finely cut; probably expensively made. Hence the use and re-use of available space where he can. "My thoughts," he echoes, "Well. Never mind those." Challenge meets the hint of a smile, the blue of his eyes as icy as ever. Expectation hovers between them, as some sense of 'waiting' emanates off of the once-harper. Used and re-used, it doesn't cut her the way it probably would have right at first, though Tela does let him see her inspecting the pad of her thumb, just in case. She curves the sheet, ever so slightly, in the arc between that thumb and her forefinger to see how much it gives, and then she starts reading. Out loud. His words. Her alto isn't harper-trained, but then it doesn't take that to be able to negotiate the syllables and put stresses where they might belong. He, of course, may differ. At first, C'wlin is content to watch her fiddling with the partchment. It's got enough give that it curls over with little push-back when she manhandles it, though it creaks just slightly. A slight, dusty 'shhh' sound as the much-used bit of precious parchment struggles to maintain a good arc. Amused at first. Challenging at first. When she begins to read the words, stressing it in ways he would never have, the amusement and challenge settles. A different sort of look -- considering -- is given to Telavi. "It's close, but not quite." Not that he's going to go on a limb. It'd give away his most hated secret. At the first hint of a creak, Tela gentles, as though she only needs to know its limits and not to actually break it. Is 'it' close, the way she reads it? The way he's written it? She doesn't ask. "I wonder if you'll be able to play this anywhere out of your weyr." "I suppose I could," C'wlin says slowly, as if he's not considered it before. "It's an assignment long overdue," he states, finally, "though it is meant to be sung in accompanyment to a stringed instruments. The gaps between the words is for the music to define the feel." Her rendition is close enough that notice is taken to explain more. She listens, attentive as any student with rain outside and no sunshine to run to, a whisper of humor reentering her eyes before ever she speaks. "I hope your grade won't be horribly reduced, for its being so late." Not having known anything of him prior to the hatching, perhaps Tela isn't acquainted with C'wlin's lute, or its loss. "What are your intentions for it?" "Likely not," the reply is sardonic, holding a razor's edge for something other than Telavi. "My intentions are to turn it in. Even though I may have Impressed, I do not let past promises nor obligations go." This statement agitates C'wlin enough that he's pushing himself off the stone bench to stir the brazir. "Anyway, I'm almost done and whomever gets it will then need to figure out how to get it played," he shoots her a look, "if they so desire to have it played. It could just as likely get tossed into the fire." If he's going to stir the brazier, she's going to at least loosen her jacket though she keeps it on, a fine leather cord visible at her throat. But Telavi's looking at the jotted notes again, not at him, for that almost done that lifts her brows in open question. Then she looks at C'wlin as though he were that parchment, with the words whose scribbles she can decipher, with the nuances of notation she has to guess at. "Sounds like a waste." Still, she offers the sheet back to him with a flick of her wrist that would have equally served to expand a fan, perhaps on the off chance he'd rather get to the burning now. Leaning over, C'wlin snatches up the parchment from where she offers it. "It's not like it's not all memorized," he shoots her a look while tucking the piece amidst the hidework on his table. By the looks of it, he is perhaps tempted to burn that scrap. "And besides, finishing the work I'd started maintains the good relationship fostered with my craft." Brows raise, "Or do you not foster a continued goodwill with the folks you came from." She had to have come from somewhere. "It's not?" is asked more with interest than actual question, and between that and the snatching, there's a moment where Tela's looking at C'wlin like he's just showed her a third side to that sheet... or possibly just one of the edges, but still. But then she's dropped her gaze, toying instead with the necklet and the tiny green and red beads that appear and disappear beneath her thumb. "If you plan to finish off a whole knot's worth of work, I'd call that ambitious," she says lightly, careful not to look at him, especially if he's overlooking all the 'At Benden...' references from those first couple of sevendays. When she does finally glance back up, "I satisfy myself with writing to family and friends, personally. Anything more formal, and I expect they'd find me disloyal." She had packets of correspondence to show for it, too, back when they were in the barracks. Maybe he's not the only one who likes to burn things now. "Everything I do can be re-done from memory if need be," C'wlin distractedly murmurs, watches her toy with the familar beads. "It just never needs to be..." This is trailed off and left to an incomplete thought, though attention is captured by something else; anything else really. As to her own secrets, the harper-former-harper doesn't pry. Merely states: "I choose to do what I want rather than wait and worry at being called disloyal." He pauses. "It's not like they're going to take my head if they find that I'd prefer to close the gap and maintain a good relationship with the Hall." As if that's the entire story. "I wouldn't have taken you for a family girl," this then is said with unsettling blue eyes once more directed on her. Whatever thoughts he may have are hidden behind the icy color of his irises. Familiar beads, less-familiar setting: either she restrung hers or stole another's, the seal still dipped down out of sight if it's there at all. Of all the thoughts C'wlin hadn't kept Telavi from picking up on, that purported memory among them, in the end she answers in a way that might seem simple enough. "If that's what you think is a 'good relationship,'" followed by the slightest of pauses. "And if that's what you want." More power to him? Perhaps she should be more unsettled than she seems to be when his gaze meets hers again, her lashes indeed briefly widening but her mouth curving, too. "You may tell me what you would have taken me for, if you like." See, she's not prying either. For the first time, long-awakened emotion comes to play: bitterness. "You can't always get what you want." C'wlin mutters this almost before he's realized he's even commented, though the comment is vague enough that he lets it stand. "I suppose," he drawls, "I would have taken you more for someone who's not all that tied down." He shrugs, leans one hip against the table's edge, lazily observing the new set up of the gift given. A smile comes sharp, veiling further revelation of thoughts. And does he have a choice, really, when Telavi's noticed? "At least we're better at not bawling about it the way we did when we were five," the greenrider says with lightness enough to spare both of them. Her hand's lifted to the back of the bench and she starts to shift as though she might rise, but once C'wlin continues like that, for the moment she stays seated after all. For the moment. "You say that," Tela observes, "like being tied up is a bad thing." Her own smile is brilliant, when she wields it like that, no less sharp and sublime in its artlessness. "I suppose in," pause, "rare circumstances, being tied up could have it's ... draws." Queue the flash of bright, white teeth almost obnoxious in how straight they are to combat against the brilliantness of her smile. "When I was five, I was taught the consequences of what would befall me should I dare cry." The statement comes as a joke, though it is anything but. Conversation is directed away from dangerous ground to: "Once I've replaced my instrument, I'll play it for you, should you like." All those flashing teeth! Telavi can't bring herself to step on his conclusion, not when it could release the laughter brimming in her eyes. She just stands in an easy movement and starts to... no, she stops, because C'wlin's continuing and her humor's falling away. Tela nods, and still she's smiling because when someone tells a joke, that's what you do, you smile back. He keeps going, so she keeps going. "Once you've replaced your instrument," which means he had an instrument, it's gone now, he thinks he canand will replace it, "Let me know." She doesn't say to ask. "I think the rain's slowed. Goodbye, C'wlin." On the way out, she brushes her fingers in passing against the pole, perhaps to see just how smooth it really is before she and Solith depart. The rain hasn't slowed at all, but that's what she has a helmet for, and the dragon doesn't even need that. C'wlin silently watches her leave, smile growing a little wider -- so much teeth, they could have outfit half an entire cothold's uncles with replacement teeth -- when she touches on that pole. Verbally, he says nothing to Telavi, but long after she's gone, into the silence he only says. "No, Athimeroth. I will not sing." To business he goes! |
Comments
Aishani (Brieli (talk)) left a comment on Sat, 18 May 2013 21:12:16 GMT.
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It's interesting seeing how long people can play the 'no, YOU answer first' game. Cool scene.
Azaylia (Dragonshy (talk)) left a comment on Sun, 19 May 2013 22:53:52 GMT.
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Well. That made my head spin. Good show, Telavi and C'wlin! XD Surely both of you should be handling the politics of the Weyr~
>_> I liked that Telavi touched the pole. Thoughts~
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