Logs:Nuts
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| RL Date: 9 November, 2008 |
| Who: L'vae, Leova |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Leova entertains L'vae. Bremuth entertains Vrianth. Gifts get eaten. Nuts get crushed. |
| Where: Vrianth's Dimly Lit Weyr |
| When: Day 28, Month 2, Turn 18 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: C'mryn/Mentions, Cori/Mentions, Edeline/Mentions, Eila/Mentions, Hayda/Mentions, I'daur/Mentions, Jaeni/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, Potipher/Mentions, Ralli/Mentions, Rhonda/Mentions, R'lolli/Mentions, T'rev/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: <3 L'vae. |
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| It's dark, but for the starlight, and the faint green glow of a basket set within the alcove to welcome the arrivals. The ledge is slick in the ruts that lead off its edge, too, and small icicles hang from the leafless branches of the plum and apple trees, the larger icicles having been broken off so they won't break fragile, still-young limbs. Now and again a darker green muzzle pokes past the hangings to sniff the chilly air and look about before she withdraws again to wait. Careful for the dark and ice, Bremuth glides quietly out of the winter night to alight upon the rut-tracked ledge. While his rider slides from his shoulder, the brown's pale snout stretches towards where that green muzzle has been showing itself. The icy trees get a glance from L'vae as he makes his way in, a small tied-off bag idly tossing between his gloved hands. It makes a soft rattle like a beanbag. "Hello," he calls generally upon entering, eye crinkled in a smile above the wrap of his hand-made scarf. Out Vrianth looks again, right on cue, the better to share a white-clouded breath by way of hello, and the suggestion of warmth within: Bremuth might join them too, follow his rider into the weyr if not into the littler room. There's room. And welcome. Which reminds her to actually let his rider slip past, towards her rider, who's exiting that littler room in her warm red overrobe and fleece-lined slippers, a fresh steaming mug held in her cupped hands. "Evening," she greets him back. "Come get warm, hm?" "Oo, have another of those?" A longing glance is fixed on the steaming mug as L'vae unwinds the striped blue scarf and starts unbuttoning his flight jacket. The bag dangles from one hand, neck strangled between two fingers. "You look comfy," he adds with a smile as he follows her invitation in. Bremuth is equally accepting of Vrianth's invitation, his broad wings neatly folding before the brown steps out of the chill night. There's a warm wash of thanks as he finds his way in to the edge of the large wallow. "I do. Good thing: this one's for you," Leova points out with a sideways smile, offering it over as he catches up, even as Vrianth waits on the periphery to see just how her larger companion will arrange himself. And though the greenrider's eyes do light briefly on his buttons and then on the poor bag before returning to read his expression, "How are sweeps? With that rain and then the freeze... but hopefully our people are staying indoors, no animals getting out neither." There's a cloth on the table, and atop it a platter with flatbread and cured pepper-sausage and Southern fruit for the slicing. "Splendid," L'vae sighs out thankfully as he accepts the mug. In return, the bag is offered out towards Leova. More in the desire to keep a hand free for the last of those buttons, really, than any grand gesture. "Rather miserable. I don't know if the mountains have been worse, or the weather coming off the coast down by Greenfields." His smile quirks ruefully as he lifts the mug to take a deep inhale of steam, eyes tracking to take in the spread on the table. "But it has at least seemed to keep everyone in doors. Just a few healer request signals, mainly." As he settles into a low crouch, snout tipping to his green hostess, Bremuth shares an impression of heavy grey skies and courtyards where dirty-slush stories of footprints have been frozen in place. Vrianth receives that vision, and promptly adds a mental clawprint to one of the courtyards, no, two sets with one smaller but deeper. Even if it is dirty. She glances after Bremuth's rider to check his boots, but it seems unlikely Leova will go sniff. Increasingly unlikely, in fact, with her Leova settling into one of the chairs with bag in hand, seeing how his rider does with the apple wine mulled with its light spices. "Flying in weather sounds really good, got to admit. Can't seem to beat down that cabin fever for long... Nothing of great urgency? The healers." Very unlikely indeed, and so Vrianth flows back into her couch with an aim to settle against Bremuth's side and yawn. Such work they have been doing today. A ripple of warmth breathes over the additionally-printed courtyard, the dull grey light shifting to something more brilliantly silver. Bremuth shifts one wing to make his side a better resting spot, head tilting to keep a faceted eye upon Vrianth and her yawn. The ice puddle in the smaller print gleams as if caught by an inquisitive sunbeam. And as for boots, it doesn't seem that L'vae's have made any of those prints. Not the slip-on mukluks he's currently crossing the room with, anyway - they seem to have seen more carpets than snow-drifts. He flops one glove against his thigh as he takes a sip of the spiced wine, working it loose and tossing it over to one of the chairs. "Mmm," that's for the drink, before he sets the mug on the table and continues with a shake of his head. "A few cracked bones, some requests for medicine." A shrug turns into a larger roll that slides his jacket from his shoulders. It and the other glove join the first on the chair. The brownrider claims the seat next to his friend. "You've not gotten out at all recently?" he asks with a sympathetic peak of brows. "Have the weyrlings been bouncing off the walls?" Unshelled pecans spill onto the table like so many glossy brown crumbs, and once she's set the bag down by the little pile, Leova idly thumbs a smooth shell rather than start eating right away. "Gotten out some," she says at last. "Daily, at least for a little while. And rest days, of course: visited the odd Crafthall, went out over the ocean a couple times. Few trips with... Mecaith," and she tilts her friend a wry look from under her lashes. "And some drilling when we can. Playing with the weyrlings some, they go out in all kinds of weather, but some of them just don't know when to stop. Yet. Anyhow, glad there hasn't been anything major. You heard about Hayda?" Vrianth, meanwhile, has partially lidded her eyes, and now tracks the shift in light and what it does to the ice, what else might change. And she shifts a breath after him, too, just enough that her neckridges won't dig into the brown shoulder. Toys with her tail-tip about his nearest paw. And breathes again, more deeply. Settling into his seat, L'vae adjusts his scarf so that it loops loosely over his shoulders instead of tight across the back of his neck. His sweater is also pulled away from his throat before he reaches for the mug again - and a slice of that southern fruit. He grins around a bite at Leova's pause and wry look. "Crafthalls?" There's the slightest of pauses, to set the question on the edge of being rhetorical. "That doesn't sound too bad." An upward twist lingers at one corner of his mouth until it is smoothed away by a sip from his mug. "What about Hayda?" In the front section of the weyr, Bremuth hardly twitches. Even as that tail brushes before his claws, even as ridges slide against his hide. He sits with quiet contentment, each breath as deep as the last as his slender ribs rise and fall against Vrianth. The light broadens, spilling glinting sparkles into the large and small prints. Then flashes of color, a question, his own dappled brown in one and olive green in the other. "Depends on if you run into an inquisition," Leova says with a slight curl to her lip, one that has Vrianth's tail twitch. Seeing him start on the fruit, the greenrider dusts off her hands and starts slicing some of the cured sausage for herself. "Speaking of which. Your mother still in Nerat? And Hayda... well. Just that she stepped down, nothing since. Tillek and all. And the wedding that still hasn't happened." Or had its date set, even. And meanwhile, Vrianth spikes the flashes of color with enough energy in her assent to make them really bright, gold and neon green for just that instant until they're back to their sparkles again. And then she adds a few more such images: tracking across her weyr, around and around, some even going up the walls the way Kelerith does, or the way she likes to stretch even now. "She is," L'vae confirms his mum's residence with a nod. Why there's more color in his complexion than otherwise may be expected under the wind-chap of winter, probably. Not that Bremuth's thoughts are holding any memories of more tropical locations - though Vrianth's flash does set a warm ripple to his thoughts. And while she envisions tracking about her weyr like that energetic young blue, the brown leaves the populated places behind in favor of shadows undulating over the sparkling silence of the snow-blanketed countryside. The brown's rider doesn't apparently have such tranquility in mind, what with the way his lips twist at the reminder of Tillek and the wedding. "I've not heard more, and only that by hearsay," is what he has to say of the Headwoman. He reaches for another slice of fruit, mug lowering from where he'd been holding. Because he has to inquire: "Inquisition?" And he gets a solemn nod back, a moment passing before Leova glances over her shoulder, towards the weyr. "So patient," she murmurs, even as imaginary paw prints follow the shadows wherever they go. Even over the ice. Great bounding steps they must be, to keep up with shadows' flight, so perhaps they're gliding in their turn. Weyrling pawprints, green and brown, perhaps? The green's rider scans the room then, shrugs, and draws one of her knives: its pommel does well enough for a nutcracker, with the folded-over cloth to soften the blow to the table. She does three in quick succession before concentrating on picking out the nutmeats for them both. "Questions. Nosy questions. Don't know why people think they have a right to do that, and then complain about the answers... Ralli, she's well? Less to do this time of Turn?" L'vae cocks his head at the murmur and finishes off his fruit slice. There's a soft curve to his lips. "Some people probably feel they're just trying to help," he notes idly. "Other..." One shoulder edges upwards. "Less to do," the brownrider agrees about his sister as he moves on. "But there's still plenty to keep her busy. And I suspect she's kept in touch with R'lolli after I introduced them at Turnover." There's a bit of a rueful grin for that. "She sent these with me." He reaches a palm out, now that Leova's done all the hard work of cracking the pecan's shell. "I would have brought some pie back, but didn't think it'd survive a day of flying." Especially not if it included bounding as Vrianth's trail of prints would suggest. Smaller, than the pale adult paw that slowly stretches as if only now responding to the earlier taunts of the tail-tip. Taunts. Is that really supported by the gleam in Vrianth's eyes, the tilt of her head on that long, long neck, the way her even longer tail's seemingly at rest? Because Bremuth's surely just stretching in that bronze-sized wallow of theirs. Isn't he? Her rider glances up from picking out the nutty bits, rolls her eyes for the others, and gathers a few larger chunks before depositing them safely in L'vae's palm. "Two whole months! Well. He can be charming, I'll give him that. And there are their names to consider... Let's go together, next time? For pie. Which reminds me." She slides her knife pommel-first along the table towards him and then stands, heading for a small wooden box left upon the settee. It is a stretch, for claws that have been out in those biting winds over Crom. And yet, the paw remains extended, settled just a little bit closer to green hide. L'vae closes his palm over the pecans, bringing them up to nibble on. The names - that has his eyes rolling upward. "Did either of us complain to you, about how they were going on about that after they were in their cups?" he says as an aside, fondness undeniably mixed in with exasperation. "She'll try to feed you a whole tin," he warns with a grin, nodding to the idea of going together. Reaching for the knife, he turns the briefest of curious glances after Leova as she goes for the box. "You have a pie?" he wonders while grabbing a small handful of pecans. Copying her idea of folding cloth, the brownrider starts in on cracking the shells open with short strikes of the pommel. "It was either the complaining or my," deep breath, very grand-sounding, "Woman's intuition," Leova teases. "And besides. With you there? Only half a tin." She settles the box on the table by him: citron squares, except only three neatly-cut triangles remain among a smattering of crumbs. "Sorry. Had Rhonda and company over yesterday and this is all that's left..." She hesitates, then just gives him a brief shrug, even as Vrianth flexes her own shoulders and sends a ripple all down her wings. Paw? Should she run from a paw? Surely not. Unless it's a dangerous paw. In disguise. And that's when Leova finally asks, "L'vae? Remember it bothered you too. People in your wing. Getting together. For all those reasons." "Mysterious power, that," L'vae teases back with feigned solemnity. He sets down the knife to start pulling apart the mashed shells. "I don't know. Ralli has pecans coming out of her ears - may try to give us a pie each." He's grinning again, leaning to look in at the squares in the box. They have him giving up on the pecans for the moment, going for the easier treat of one of the triangles. "Ah." The bright sound is for their clutchmate. "No apologies. I probably shouldn't have more than one, anyway," he murmurs cheerfully, even while edging a look across at her for that hesitation. What she asks has his brow dipping down briefly, eyes dropping to the citron bar. "It did," he starts. A shoulder lifts upwards again, his eyes lifting back to Leova. "It is a bit different now, that Thread doesn't give to opportunity for unwise heroics," he opinions. His smile twists to the side. "There're still issues to consider. Distraction; favoritism, I suppose; dealing with the discord if a relationship went bad." He tilts her a curious look and takes a bite of the dessert. Out in the wallow, Bremuth's paw may be disguised danger. But it isn't going anywhere. Not even when that ripple passes through Vrianth, though that does cause a drooped eyelid to lift. And she catches him looking, Vrianth does. Flick goes her tail: a little closer, a little further. Closer, further. It's enough to have Leova push her chair back from the table some, the better to lean forward and pound at more pecans, though at least she spaces the nut-cracking so it won't interfere with their talking. "Pie each. Bet Jaeni could down half of mine. If I let her. And... go ahead, L'vae, really. Had more than I should, hm?" Though she's still looking down to where leather-wrapped hilt meets nut, cracks nut, crunches nut, as he continues her own mouth tugs to one side, as though it can't decide whether to rise or fall. "Different." Next nut. "Discord," her tone agreeing with the sentiment if not exactly the word itself. There's a pause, then she dares a glance up at him. Closer, further. The movement of the green tail marks the pattern of the ripples that propagate across the otherwise tranquil presence of Bremuth's mind, betraying his focus. L'vae lets out a chuckle at the thought of Jaeni and the pie, head bobbing forward in a nod. He finishes off the citron and gives a wave of his hand. "Didn't mean that, not a slight on that girlish figure you like to hide." The brownrider grins and favors his spiced wine again for a long sip. His expression has frozen a touch by the time Leova glances up. "Mm." He agrees over the mug's rim. Hazel eyes set on her at an angle. "What are you getting at, Leova? What's on your mind?" Pattern, pattern, who's got the pattern? With his ripples melting into her even pace, Vrianth keeps the rhythm slow and regular, quite possibly even lulling. After a while her first set of inner lids lower, and then the second, though not entirely: she can still look back at Bremuth, now and again. When she wants to. Which, just now, she does. Leova's looking at L'vae as steadily, but not for as long, wrinkling her nose with something like humor. "Not quite what I meant." And then she's eyeing her mug, but doesn't touch it. Instead, the broken nutshells are the recipient of her deliberate attention. Carefully, cautiously, she starts back into teasing every fragment of shell she can find away from the nuts themselves. Without looking up, or at least not more than a not-quite-furtive glance at his expression every once in a while, "L'vae. Promise me we won't use names. Because knowing is one thing, but actually saying it..." Her tone is all rueful this-must-be-hilarious, but one hand shapes the warding against a jinx anyway: don't say it? Must not be real. L'vae chuckles again, though the sound is short lived. He sips some more, patiently quiet as he watches her picking through the pecan shells. Not quite as still as Bremuth of course, who is quite amenable to the calm his hostess promotes. When their red-cloaked hostess speaks again, the brown's rider's mug lowers. Not quiet all the way to the table, but enough so that it's not obstructing his sincerity. "I promise," he agrees with a soft smile. Pick pick pick. That's what Leova's doing. Flick... flick, that's what Vrianth's doing, and under her influence, the fits and starts of shell-removal lose a little of their skittery quality. See? the green shares with her companion. Better. At least a little. And when L'vae promises, Leova looks up long enough to see him, finding a smile for the brownrider that's tilted but there. "Said, awhile back, that I might tell you a story," she says. And looks back down to the shells, could keep looking at them, her hair fanning over her features in a sun-rusted veil if only it were still long and loose. It's shaggy and unkempt, though. Its ends cut at her cheekbones. So she looks up to meet his gaze again. "It seems I haven't entirely outgrown my... taste. For men I really shouldn't have." Yes, yes she did. A slow nod remembers, even if it was awhile back. L'vae lets the mug down the rest of the way, until it rests on the table. He sinks his shoulders against the back of his chair, hands coming up to wrap loosely around the ends of the scarf resting over his torso. Gaze fixed on those amber eyes that can't find shelter under the short cut. The curve of his smile deepens an empathetic fraction. "I see." The brownrider lapses into a short silence as implications settle. "A wingmate." The words are set out gently. He follows them with a deep breath, the weight of his hands sliding the scarf tight against the back of his neck, and then gives space for Leova to continue if she will. Reassured, perhaps, Leova can look away from her friend now. But she picks up the knife only to set it down again, and shifts again in her seat, picking at the pile of nutshells. "Part of why I hadn't wanted to agree. Not because wingmates shouldn't. For being too close to begin with. If it hadn't been Glacier..." Her mouth curves, resigned. "If he hadn't asked," and then she's looking at L'vae again: do you see? "Hadn't admitted he wanted me. To help, anyway." No more. There's another brief furrow of L'vae's brow, as he pieces together her phrases. Fast enough, so that he does see by the time she's looking at him again. Another deep breath ends as more of a sigh, puffing out through his cheeks. One of his hands has shifted, fingers slipping beneath wool to knead at the back of his neck. "Have you talked to him? What are you going to do about it?" And with his rider's questions, Bremuth's eye brightens as lids slide back again. Serenity still infuses his thoughts, but there is a pause while the quality changes. A ruddy hue and heat, at first as if reflected in metal before gaining more of the essence of the furnace. "You don't," Leova observes while breaking the pieces of shell into smaller and smaller bits, "Seem particularly shocked." But it's with a sideways sort of look, up at an angle, that doesn't miss what he's doing to his neck and the tension that must lie there. Her Vrianth's quiet and settled, but even so, not missing that other change either. Furnace. Energy. Her electric current deepens. Her rider adds a, "No. No, no, no." And after that, more steadily, with less of that temporary heat, "Was going to... ignore it. Try, anyway. Want someone to want me and not..." A quick swallow. "And. It's good right now. He is. Drinking or no drinking. But when the weyrlings are gone again..." The hand still on the scarf tips over, turning palm up. "I'm not exactly in a position to throw stones," L'vae notes with a deeper curl of his smile. "Even if I were inclined to. Might have thought, most of the weyrlings are pretty young. But..." The hand rolls a gesture, and then reaches again for his mug. "Focus on getting the job done, first?" the brownrider muses. He takes another long breath, this one let out slowly while his lips roll. Hazel eyes cut sideways as they watch Leova. "Doesn't do much good, being wanted, if you don't want them back. It has to start somewhere. But. If it's good, now?" His shoulder rolls up, displacing the hand at his neck, and he sips his drink. Calm despite the currents running, electric and heat. The snap of flame fades away again from Bremuth's thoughts, submerged but not extinguished. She acknowledges that first comment with a tip of her head, but then those amber eyes narrow in the glowlight, uncertain: "What does their being young have to do with their graduating? But yes. Am getting the job done. Have been focused, L'vae, focusing hard as I can!" Deep breath. Slower voice. Easy now. "Easier now. They got more control. I get more sleep. Don't have to worry as much about coming across new and needing my hand held and, and girly. About being something other than... reliable and steady and everything I was hired on to be." And her mouth twists, and she has no words for anything more. Just a pained nod. Another. And a third that, at least, doesn't argue. Vrianth? Also not arguing, if only because part of her is seeking deeper beneath the surface. He has flame. She might... find it. "Oh, no," L'vae almost sputters. He slides the mug back to the table with a little shake of his head. "I meant, I first thought you meant one of the weyrlings, who are all younger?" Leaning forward in his chair, he starts to pluck up some of the smaller shards if pecan meat. "I don't doubt you've been reliable," he notes with a smile. "Though I'm glad it's gotten easier. Just... focusing on work. I feel I know a little about that. As something to do, to avoid something you might feel." There's a loft of his brows to go with the words as his gaze lifts again to seek hers out. "It makes for a convenient excuse, doesn't it?" And the flame, perhaps, is more easily found behind eyes of hazel than those with facets. A hint of it filters more accessibly into Bremuth's thoughts, as if refracted through water or reflected off of silver. A nod to Vrianth's seeking, even as he placidly asks: « Why? » Leova's turn to, if not sputter, try to bite off laughter that's just gone up an octave and a half. "No. No. No. No. No. Weyrlings." She puts her palms up to heated cheeks. "All this time you..." But he's going on. Her robe's collar rises, falls with her deepened breath. "Yes." And she nods, not shying from the light of his gaze. Again, leaning forward so slightly, her hands starting to fall: "Yes." Vrianth isn't so voluble, but no less beset: she opens up to Bremuth how it is for her, such a beacon, that glows and attracts because it is what it is, within the silver, never alone. Charged. Changed. "Well, until you mentioned him asking," L'vae says with a grin. The expression is fleeting, shifting back to a subtler curve rooted in deeper emotion. Yes. He nods once. Maneuvers a few pecan slivers out of his palm to between thumb and forefinger where they're more easily nibbled. "Do you think it's possible," the brownrider wonders more abstractly, "for two people to want each other equally?" Wondered, despite his other half resonating with Vrianth's sentiment - it is what it is. Changed. But the same - he and his as Bremuth has always known it. Now Leova narrows her eyes at him, still flushed, but with an unwilling smile tugging at her. Doesn't eat. Doesn't... well, she can drink, but from an old silver hip flask, though that just a sip. And then her wine, sitting back, turning it in her hands. "Equally. What's that? Not like a mirror. No. But. Maybe each in some ways more than others." Her voice has cooled, and to the extent there's emotion there, it's wistful. Vrianth's quieter too, tracing the silver ripples without touching, watching how they expand, how they give way to one another. L'vae's gaze drifts as he considers what she says. Almost as if he's lost within that malleable sea that stretches peacefully under Vrianth's observation. "Some ways," he repeats quietly after a time. A quiet sigh, a shake of his head, brings him back to focus on his friend. "How do you judge, if they're balanced enough? The ways?" His wrists come to rest at the table's edge. Under his lip, his tongue runs along his teeth. Stalling, before he asks the nosier question. "What does taste..." but the brownrider changes his mind as he speaks. "Why do you think - someone - wouldn't want you?" So peaceful, so tempting: to allow herself to rock with the rise and fall of the waves? Or to augment those currents beneath their surface, or draw them like the moons, call up the tides... possibilities, possibilities. Vrianth's in no hurry. It's comfortable there, after all, the two of them curled up in the rushes with the stone walls to keep their warmth close. Leova sighs, very softly. "Don't know that I judge," she says, unfocused in her turn. "Not that far. If it were that calculated, I'd... have been able to get rid of it before now." Take it between. Extra long. Vrianth would do it. Unless she wouldn't. His dragon. But L'vae's further question brings her out, her eyes narrowing back: what? But then, baldly: "Don't think he'd kick me out of bed, if that's what you mean. But reckon he's had enough random greenriders showing up there, don't want to be another. Beyond that?" She hesitates. Tries to find a more modest way of putting it. But: "Think I'd know." There's a twitch of L'vae's lips, a shadow of discomfort at the bluntness even after all this time. Still foreign, as would be calculation in such matters even though he proposed it. But beyond that, that the brownrider can get behind. His head tips to the side as he jostles the pieces of pecan still in his palm. "Would you?" He's not so sure. "He seems well practiced in living with his misery. Someone like that, might have forgotten how to reach for something positive." The hazel gaze holds a weighted moment before breaking as Lou tips the pecans into his mouth. On the other side of the curtain, Bremuth breaths - a rhythmic cadence more even than any ocean. Certainly unhurried, as it shifts his thoughts from the vague sift of memory to the sensations of relaxed muscle and solid stone, and outward to the warm murmur of their rider's voices and the chill whisper of the wind outside. Even that much of a rise out of her friend lights a spark in the greenrider's eyes, although then she slumps further in her seat, hugging herself, careful not to spill that wine. "Not misery," she says, her voice softer, a little rougher, a little lower. Their dragons. Vrianth. Bremuth, through her. She pulls their warmth, their touch over her like a blanket. "If, when you don't got those weyrlings, you drink so you don't feel it. Don't reckon he's miserable like that. More... unfussed. But. Did you ever see him? Working on the wall with me," and now her voice is just soft until she clears her throat, abashed. L'vae reaches for his own wine, not so warm now, to chase the pecans. He tilts his head a little, still skeptical but willing to listen. "Dispassionate?" the brownrider tries another word. But the wall, that draws a shake of his head and sets a bemused tip to the line of his smile. "I didn't." He pauses, fingertips rolling against the mug's ceramic. "Doesn't seem like something a man would do, for someone who doesn't mean something to him." "Unbothered," Leova tosses into the pot with a questioning look. And if the greenrider eyes the remaining pecans as well, she also keeps herself contained the way she is. "It was a real big help. He did a lot. And we got on all right through about all of it." She hesitates. "And you're right. Wouldn't have picked me to assist if he hadn't thought something of me, either, way I figure it. But then, he picked C'mryn too, hm? Even though Cam did ask. So it means something. Maybe not all I want... but it's a lot, so I aim to be satisfied with that." "Not even by being set up," L'vae adds with a single wry chuckle. His shoulder rolls up, relenting under the look. The brownrider quiets again, to listen, and he can agree - up until that last phrase, anyway. It brings an unhappy twist to his mouth. Still, "it's probably for the best," he says with attempted optimism. It's not even difficult to summon his smile back. "For now, at the least. And you're getting to know him better, on more even footing, in the mean time?" "Set up?" Leova questions in a different way this time, though that shift in his expression lowers her own eyes for a moment. "Probably," she does agree. And: "Sort of. Mostly it's about the weyrlings. Try to learn, stay quiet, not make things worse, see?" She pulls a face, rocks her chair back, messing with its balance. "Stupid. Plenty of other men around. Attractive men. Tell me I'm not wrong. Men I'm attracted to, even. Who don't drown themselves in liquor. Never did believe in that whole," and she pitches it higher, verging on bitter for the quote, "Affections of a good woman can rescue a man, anyway." Another glance at L'vae, "Did you?" "Crom," is given in simple answer; followed by a swig of the apple wine before L'vae returns his mug to the table. He nods, slowly. Maybe seeing. Mostly. Definitely seeing the attractive men. He'll grin instead of telling his friend she's wrong on that count. The expression only crinkles higher around his eyes at the last question. "Maybe I did." And it may be a joke, but it's quite clearly undermined by a deeper current. "Not enough to be satisfied with something that didn't feel right." A hand lifts, edging under the left side of the scarf to tap a finger over his chest. His smile melts into a fainter line. "Crom." Realization hits her hard in the eyes, shutting, lashes slow to rise again. She nods. Once. Slow to catch that grin and meet it, and slower yet the shift of his expression, his tone. And then Leova unfolds her arms. Plucks a bit of pecan from the abandoned, broken shells. Doesn't yet eat it. "Suspect," she says, refusing to let her eyes focus for more than a flicker on where he's tapping, "Yours felt a lot less right. So. Can the affections of a good man rescue a man, hm? Or a woman, I suppose." "Perhaps," L'vae says with another careless shrug for her suspicion. He lets his hand twist lightly in the scarf, hanging in it. He watches his other thumbnail start running over his knee along the whale of his trousers. "A person has to want to be saved, before they can be rescued," he answers more to the point. So. "No." Hazel eyes lift back to Leova as his smile quirks. "But I've still sometimes wanted wanting enough to work." One edge of his mouth pushes up further. "And you're still thinking about it. Him. Even though you think you know better." So Leova watches L'vae watch himself fidget, finally eats that bit of pecan while he talks. After, "Pity. Could make life so much easier." And wanting gets a wry, acknowledging nod. But then that smile of his deepens. And her mouth compresses in reaction, eyes getting narrower, before the brownrider even says another word... only to have him compound it, to the point where the greenrider covers her face with her hands. "Trying not to," she points out. "Do too know better." And, teasing to some degree or another, "Do you want to get invited back? Remember. You're sworn to secrecy." Even if they hadn't gotten that far. "I'm very good at keeping secrets," L'vae avows solemnly. As solemnly as he can, since that smirk refuses to go away. Both his hands curl around his scarf now, one set of knuckles above the other as he holds the ends together. And even if it's a small degree, her teasing only encourages him to return in kind. With the utmost affection, of course. "Say, that I'm rather partial to older men. Older, mind. I think," a wrinkle of his nose, "I might draw the line somewhere around twice my age." Maybe he doesn't want to get invited back. Leova eyes him. Eyes him messing with that scarf. "Keep it up," she tells her friend. Except when he does keep on, well. She wings an empty nutshell at him with a dismayed, "L'vae." And a laugh. And then another nutshell, for good measure. "I know, I know, I know it's a lot. Embarrassing. I know." Long pause. "How much older have... your men... been, anyway? So far." "Sorry." More laughter joins hers as L'vae ducks away behind lifted hands under the shelling. "Sorry, couldn't help it." He reigns in his chuckles, pushing them away with a deep breath. A hand reaches out to scoop up more of the nutmeats, before she's tempted to use them as ammunition as well. It takes longer for his wide grin to subside, though Leova's question helps subdue it into a simple lopsided curve. "Like there've been many," amused. She'll have to wait for a better answer, because he's going to leisurely eat a pecan before recalling. "Cori was about fourteen turns older than me." "Of course you couldn't," Leova remarks, a smile gradually reappearing at the corners of her mouth, deepening as he laughs and laughs like that. Which doesn't mean that, when she spots him going for the nutmeats, she doesn't make a grab too. Except. Too slow. So she leaves her hand on the table, meant-to-do-that. Keeps eyeing him. And as he makes her wait, her fingertips begin to tap-tap-tap against the wood. "Could talk with your mouth full," she points out. "Won't tell your mother... Which one was Cori?" and her eyes have already narrowed, trying to remember. "The... no. The painter?" L'vae gives a shake of his head, bright eyes couched in the crinkles of a smile. "Slippery slope, that. Maybe talking with food in my mouth today, but soon I'll be kicking puppies." His palm opens up, extending out to Leova. Just in case she did actually want those pecans. "Yes, that was him." The painter. "Honestly, it's not so embarrassing." Does it help any, when he says it like that? "It's not like he's some doddering old uncle. I can understand the attraction, I suppose." A shoulder lifts up as he reaches to pluck one of the nutmeats from his outstretched palm. He pops it into his smile. Crunch. He must really want her to get more ammo. So there's just a flashed look for puppies, and Leova's picking pecans out of L'vae's hopefully-clean-enough palm, three or four of them before she tosses an imaginary one at him and his not-helping. "Can you." While it doesn't rule out elaboration, it doesn't invite it either, given her tone. "Did he ever paint you? Your painter." Evidently Cori doesn't need to be named either. There might be a little sticky-sugar from that citron square, but there's certainly no dirt under those neatly trimmed nails. L'vae ducks his head again, just a little, to avoid that feigned toss. "Hey," laughingly protested through a grin as he draws his hand back once more. And then, if she's not inviting elaboration, the brownrider will just lift that shoulder into another shrug. His eyes fall away towards the hearth, lashes brushing low over his gaze. "Yes." The line of his smile warps. Distant. A little wicked. A little bitter. "You asked for it," more lightly, teased right into that grin before L'vae's mood begins to change. And if the brownrider will do all that? The greenrider will ease back in her chair, lean an elbow on the table. And idly munch on those pecans. But not before she says a soft, "Tell me," half-lidded in her own right. "It was what he did, painting. He loved it. Was," and that's immediately amended with a tick of L'vae's smile, "is good at it, too." And then, because he's dodging and knows it and it's her, he adds softly: "Those were some of the best times." A deep breath lifts in his chest, and the brownrider turns a renewed smile back to his friend. "History," he says dismissively. "Looking for lurid details to distract you from your pining, are you?" Teasing again. "Here, give me a foot," he scoots his chair a little closer, beckoning towards one of those fleecy slippers. "Tell me more about the weyrlings? Any I should start keeping an eye out for?" While his one hand is stretched out invitingly, the pecan slivers in the opposite palm get poured into his mouth. What he says, that short story he tells, at once sweetens and warms the curve of Leova's smile. Especially the last of it, because he was dodging and then didn't, for that little bit before dismissing it all. It takes her a moment to play along, to tease him back with a, "Lurid pictures," fanning her face with her free hand in a way that just doesn't block her view of his expression. And then hers changes, focused in a way that amplifies Vrianth's own attention for an instant. An instant, before she relents, leaning back a little more so she can settle her heel in his palm. "No tickling," she warns L'vae. And: "For Avalanche? Not yet, though the first silver threads should be decided soon," and here there's a glint in her eyes. "But. You and Bremuth Searched K'del, hm? Could look in on him. I'd like to see what he tells you. Then there's the weyrling that hardly talks at all, the weyrling dragon that gets into everything, the green pairs that are practically inseparable..." The list could go on. And on. As long as there's no tickling involved. L'vae is decidedly smirking, blood hot in his ears. Barely able to meet that more intent gaze, though he does. For that instant. And then he's shaking his head to agree - no, no tickling. Just guiding her heel to rest on his knees, and once it's there his thumbs can knead along the sole of that poor cabin-fevered foot. He nods, he tilts curious looks. He recalls a weyrling who hardly talked at all and who was part of an inseparable green pair. But she's talking now, and so he listens. |
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