Logs:No More
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| RL Date: 25 June, 2014 |
| Who: Azaylia, R'hin |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Azaylia is (still) upset. R'hin is R'hin. It doesn't go so well. |
| Where: Nighthearth/Azaylia and Hraedhyth's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 2, Month 2, Turn 35 (Interval 10) |
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| 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.
The party has been going for a while now, and while some are starting to wind down, others haven't even started yet. Notably absent from the clutching party, R'hin now makes his way almost deliberately in Azaylia's direction -- as if he was looking for her. A coat of snow rests on the Wingleader's riding leathers -- the fact that it's become near-frozen suggests the snow made the trip between with him. The boots means he's not entirely silent, though he doesn't announce himself either -- not until he's leaning over the back of Azaylia's chair, examining the tablet with a disapproving (yet amused): "Tea, and work. Have I taught you nothing?" Azaylia doesn't look up, even to the sound of boots. There have been many coming and going, though less so as night approaches and the liquor begins to flow. The papers beneath her stylus are a tree, bloodlines all interwoven with fresh names written at the bottom. R'hin's voice gives her a start, head snapping up to stare at him with surprise. It only takes a moment for that gaze to narrow, voice flat as she turns back to the records, "What do you want, R'hin?" As her change of expression, R'hin mimics her, in a much more exaggerated fashion: eyes scrunching and lower lip protruding as he leans forward. "Surely," he says, when he releases the expression, straightening: "You're not going to let someone like me ruin your good mood?" He seems in a rather cheerful sort of mood, for his part, unbuttoning his jacket and shrugging out of it, resting it on a nearby chair. "Want? Why, I want to join the queue in congratulating dear Hraedhyth. Of course, given she's as likely to snap my head off as anything, you'll have to pass on the regards for me." While he speaks, he oh-so-casually settles onto the other armrest of her chair, the one not already holding the tablet, his hand resting across the back of the chair for balance. Casual, if it didn't sound so practiced, "Thank you for your congratulations." The draconic bloodlines are lifted and tucked under several pieces of paper, safe from the words she now begins to scrawl. Some message to the Headwoman about candidate quarters and the like. R'hin's persistant presence is tolerated, the Weyrwoman not terribly bothered by lack of her personal space. It's clear R'hin recognizes the rote nature of the response, given the wry look he offers in turn. Once he sees her settling down to return to work, he leans closer, murmuring with low amusement: "Oh, you can't still be mad at me, kitten." It's the last, the infamous petname, that has Azaylia smacking her stylus down and turning to stare at the bronzerider. There may be words on the tip of her tongue, but they don't make it past her tight lips. Finally, "Go away." Quiet, so much so as to shield any emotion, "Find someone else to be your idiot. I'm done." A beat, then: "Want me to beg?" He's, possibly, being serious, but it's hard to tell, because R'hin. It hurts to say as much, finding some volume to stress her point, "I don't care what you do." Azaylia drops her head once more, picking the stylus back up, though she's unable to continue her train of thought. "You laughed when I needed--" No, too much. She's learned, since last time. With a measured inhale, "No more, R'hin." His head tilts, like she's done something surprising. It makes R'hin pause, notably. Wordlessly, he slips from the arm of her chair and, moving in front of her, drops to one knee, hand extended, like he's proposing to her. Azaylia slowly, subtly recoils. She tries to sink further into the old cushions as R'hin moves infront of her. "Don't." A murmured plea, having lost that earlier strength. "You'll just do it again." Shutting out another person, even out of anger, is hard for the Weyrwoman. R'hin's eyes are steady on Azaylia's, and he doesn't relent as she retreats, his voice pitched low and meant for her alone. "What you needed I couldn't provide. You need to trust someone; I am never, not ever that person, Azaylia." He is blandly, openly honest about that. Has always been. "Do you punish a dragon for being a dragon? A feline for behaving like a feline?" "I know that." Now. "Knew that." When they first met. "I was stupid." Azaylia keeps his gaze, accepting her part in it all with a blank expression. "No." She answers while tugging the tablet further onto her lap, a barrier of sorts. "I'm treating you how I treat people I can't trust. You can't have it both ways." The cluck of tongue suggests R'hin disagrees; abruptly, he's standing, stretching out a hand towards her. Gathering up her work, it could be that Azaylia is planning on leaving anyway. There are a myriad of possibilities as to why she finally accepts his hand, eyes locked on his as the Weyrwoman rises. Wary, her gaze carries a silent warning and a flicker of familiar heat. It's the heat as much as the warning that undoubtedly makes R'hin chuckle under his breath. Moving only far enough to grab his jacket, he seems intent on leading her out into the caverns. The party's still in swing, and there's still bottles of drink to be had -- it's one of these that R'hin collects in passing. But this doesn't seem to be the final destination: he's leading her towards the bowl. "I'm humoring you." Azaylia says out loud, awkward and pointed as she takes a moment to slip her boots back on. "I have to return these to the records room, anyway." To those who happen to catch sight of the pair, it looks as though the Weyrwoman is being kidnapped. She may have to reassure one or two concerned passerbys, but for R'hin, she makes her reluctance known. "A fact of which I'm taking shameless advantage of," R'hin notes with his usual low-throated chuckle. If anything, the goldrider's reassurance to others seems to make the bronzerider more amused: certainly he's not dissuading the notion that he's kidnapping the Weyrwoman for nefarious purposes, given the knowing sort of grin he gives every concerned passerby. He leads them out into the bowl; it's cold, and he doesn't stop to pull his jacket on. In fact, with a tug of the hand that links them, he urges Azaylia to run. "I mean it, R'hin..." Distrust thick in her airy soprano, Azaylia is tense and hunched against the man's hold. There's no effort made to save her reputation, already comfortably sullied by men worse than he. One tug deserves another, and the goldrider refuses to run at first-- if only because it's R'hin. Another stare is aimed right at his face before she finally picks up her feet, following the bronzerider's lead. R'hin, of course, probably claims credit for convincing Azaylia to run with his puppy-dog expression and exhorting manner. The run across a snow-swept bowl, as short as it is, is enough to get the adrenaline going. R'hin's breathing hard, and moreover, grinning by the time they make it to, and up, the ledge to Azaylia's weyr. His grip on Azaylia's hand is unrelenting, as is the way he enters her weyr like it's as much his as hers. Azaylia and Hraedhyth's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr Accessed via a narrow staircase from the Weyrleader's Complex, or from the broad, sunny ledge beyond, this weyr was clearly designed to be for one of the weyr's junior queens. Spacious, but not extravagant, it boasts a well-sized outer room, narrowing in front the well-sized dragon couch and ledge beyond. Much of this main room has been turned over to a couch and several chairs, which circle the hearth and the blue rug set down in front of it. There's a low table here, too, set in the middle of that rug. A tack-cupboard stands tidily behind the couch, keeping out of sight a rider's paraphernalia. Three low steps lead up onto a peculiar little landing, just large enough for the brand new desk and set of shelves that have been placed there. Here, too, there are definite pointers to the lived-in state of the weyr: the desk could in no way be described as tidy. Behind the desk, a narrow passage leads in an inner set of chambers, made up of a sleeping cavern and a private bathing area. A decent-sized bed fills much of the space, the mattress piled high with overstuffed down pillows and comforter. There's a nightstand on either side, and against one of the other walls, a tall, heavy wardrobe made from a dark wood that matches the bed. The bathing area is part of the same cavern, a folding screen shielding the toilet and slightly raised, double-sized bathtub built into the stone, and a small shelf to hold toiletries. Unusually, the walls, ceiling and floor of this weyr have all been whitewashed thickly, covering the natural stone. The hearth is brand new, too, as are most of the built-in fittings, as though they have recently needed to be replaced.
Whether Hraedhyth presses on Leiventh or not seems to have entirely no bearing on R'hin's behavior -- the bronze, after all, has been paired with his rider long enough to know when attempts to dissuade him are of little value. The bronze does, however, seem to be at ease, seeking to reassure the queen, and remind her of her clutch. When Azaylia pulls her hand free, R'hin doesn't seek to hold onto her; instead, he throws his jacket carelessly over the back of the couch and, bottle of wine still in hand, strolls into her inner weyr, and past that towards the bathing area. Whistling echoes out from there, as well as the sounds of water splashing into the bath. Whatever bath salts or oddiments he finds nearby go in as well, and he sets the bottle on the edge of the bath with a certain relish. Pushing his sleeve up, he puts his hand in to test the temperature of the water now and then until he's satisfied. Hraedhyth's clutch is new, too new for her to be anything but furiously protective-- and that means for her rider as well. Azaylia is upset, therefore the gold is. Thankfully, neither have seen a reason to lash out. Yet. "R'hin." Not quite a snap, but voicing her annoyance, "What are you doing?" The paperwork is set down onto her desk, cloak draped over the back of the nearest chair. While the goldrider's wardrobe is notably lacking, it's obvious where she does pour her marks. There are several containers of salts, many perfumes and other luxurious bath items that circle the tub. Azaylia follows after him, fingers to her temple as she attempts to keep her composure. Baffled and bordering on anger, "I don't know-- I don't care. You're not going to just... fix it all with a bath." Or a bottle of wine. There's a look from R'hin, as if what he's doing should be obvious enough. The why might be a little harder to tell, given he's busy opening various vials until he finds one that bubbles up nicely enough. Only now does his gaze flicker back to Azaylia, patting the edge of the bath. "You're not going to let this wonderful bath go to waste now, are you?" He's watching her, expectantly, with a gleam of anticipation in pale, amused eyes. "Yes, I am." Azaylia crosses her arms, standing her ground at the edge of the bathing chamber. "If you're worried about waste, wash yourself." An offer made out of frustration rather than generosity. A pained reminder, "I'm not playing your games anymore." "I'm not playing games. I drew you a bath. I can't very well use it myself; I don't want to smell of lavender. It suits you, though," R'hin says, speculatively. With a tip of head, "Do you want me to... I'll close my eyes. Promise I won't peek." The boyish grin suggests that's probably not one of those promises he'll keep, but he does at least pretend by standing and moving to the doorway, turning his back. Azaylia stares at the bronzerider, narrowing her eyes just enough to focus, to try and figure out if he's serious. Dumbfounded, her lips barely move in a murmur, "You don't even care." She abandons the bath as well as the bronzerider, walking back into the main room while muttering in heated disbelief. The words gain momentum, until the Weyrwoman has turned to lob at the inner weyr, "I'll get Hraedhyth if I have to." R'hin doesn't follow, standing in the doorway, watching her move away. "Do you want me to join you?" He... sounds serious, tone light enough, eyes following her path. "I want you to go away!" Voice lifts in a plea as well as a demand. "You think you can say the things you say, and do whatever you like and I'll just..." There might be tears. If there are, she's fighting them, reaching up to yank her hair free from it's immaculate bun. The dark locks are something to grab as she turns her back to him, "You don't care. Stop pretending and leave." Hraedhyth echoes the command, though there's no trace of her influence within the roaring inferno aimed at Leiventh's mind. "You're casting your thoughts, what you think, onto me." R'hin takes a step towards Azaylia, then goes deadly still, expression tight as something darker creeps into his voice. "She's hurting Leiventh." The bronze endures the brunt of Hraedhyth's rage, helpless to fight against it, and helpless to do anything but bear it, his chill winds quickly burnt away by the heat of the queen's inferno. Azaylia ignores R'hin, only until he mentions Leiventh. Her arms drop to her sides, hands balled into fists in effort as Hraedhyth's fury is pulled away from Leiventh. It's that draconic bond that drops her voice into a heated rasp, "Didn't mean to." The Weyrwoman's muscles are visibly tense, hills and valleys pressing against the dark fabric of her dress. There's a stillness in R'hin's posture that is eerily reminiscent of Leiventh. His gaze is distant, focused elsewhere, and after a low exhale, he seems to come to life again. His movements, however, are stiff, as he turns away, striding wordlessly towards the exit. When R'hin begins to move again is when Azaylia lifts her head, more of herself carried in the gaze that follows his retreat. Slowly, she dares to relax, shaky legs walking her tentatively toward her desk. She'll wait until the bronzerider is completely out of sight before reaching for the chair. Leiventh's presence is a bare whisper, retreated; it's to said dragon that R'hin heads unerringly. Later, maybe, he'll remember that he left his jacket, tossed carelessly over the chair. But not tonight. |
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