Logs:Taking It Out In Blood
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| RL Date: 11 June, 2015 |
| Who: Lilah, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: N'rov is racking up a debt with Lilah. |
| Where: Galleries, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 19, Month 13, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Like it's trying to prove a point about winter bitterness, the weather is horrible today. Starting before daybreak, the wind piles up the clouds, which unleash a fury of driving snow and ice. The day is long and dark, and the night is hardly better as wind and snow combine in a blinding blizzard. |
| Mentions: Dee/Mentions |
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| Lilah hasn't closed the galleries, yet they stand empty, rare as it may be, except for the goldrider who has become accustomed to taking a seat in the upper tiers of the hatching cavern, away from the heat of the sands. Night has long since fallen on the Weyr, bringing with it wind and snow enough to drive most sane people indoors, even if that place isn't here, for once. Eliyaveith is currently rearranging her eggs, yet again, driven by the maternal instinct that only queens can understand in the way they need to be placed so specifically on the sands. The warped one has been separated, slightly, but it is unlikely that it will stay that way. And her rider knits, needles working at soft, buttery-yellow yarn that has started to take the shape of a scarf, despite that some stitches are tighter while others are looser. Perhaps it can be blamed by the open bottle of rum that she has snuck onto the seat next to her in this peaceful moment, though she doesn't seem to be drinking much, focused as she is on her task. A circlet of glowing gold appears at the entrance to the galleries, pausing there as it tilts away from the sands; then it turns and tilts away from the stairs even as it saunters its way up them. It doesn't cast light immediately below itself, somehow, but rather outward and upward. Always it heads upward, towards that other light; perhaps it plans to join it in some alien, amorphous blob. The knitting stops, almost as a matter of course, as Lilah catches sight of another glow, a brow curving slightly upwards as she watches. She doesn't call out to whoever is approaching, no challenge there as she waits for the person to reveal themselves in time; if someone were planning on kidnapping or murdering her, it seems that the goldrider is very ill-prepared unless one counts the knitting needles. Speaking of, drawled in that familiar baritone, "Comfortable?" It's her light rather than his own that makes N'rov's peacefully amused expression visible, his being a band atop the brim of his hat. "Strikingly domestic, I'd say." He puts no emphasis on striking; that's for her to choose. "Or am I just lulling people into a false sense of complacency as to what I am capable of?" counters Lilah, that brow lingering up in a curve as she tips her chin upwards to watch N'rov even as he gets closer. "Make them think of me as soft and domestic and harmless, until--. Well, until." She doesn't invite him to sit, her gaze sliding over him in a quick study before it meets his again with an expectant leveling. "Until." N'rov tastes the word, looking at the needles-wielder, then shakes his head; now that he's reached the row immediately below hers, he reaches forward so as to touch a point and see just how sharp it is. Until now, apparently. Lilah keeps those needles still as he reaches out, but as soon as his finger touches one, she jabs at it lightly. Enough to draw blood though, surely, with how sharp it is. "Don't you owe me an apology?" she points out, after she does so. The bronzerider winces, half in surprise, and turns his finger to look at the upwelling bead of blood; "Apologize? Lilah. You wound me." He has the evidence! N'rov's not afraid to share, though, and if he can wipe it on her dark-clad knee, at least it's not her blouse. "An apology, a fortune--. You are really racking up quite the debt," Lilah replies, shameless about drawing that blood though her gaze does fall to where he's wiped that blood. She only adds, "I guess I could take it all out in blood." Her needles are settled back in her lap with the knitting before she reaches for that injured hand, more of an offer than a grab. He'd started to press it into her kneecap, perhaps to staunch the flow, but after a moment of looking at Lilah N'rov gives his hand over obligingly enough; if she plans to puncture him further, he might have something to say about that, but in the meantime... "The fortune I'll grant you," he says amiably. "You're just lucky it wasn't my artery." On his finger. Lilah's fingers curve gently around his hand, under it as she holds it palm upwards, before her thumb presses against the blood to staunch it for him. "Don't be silly; you don't have an artery there," dismisses the goldrider easily, without hesitating. "If I wanted to puncture an artery, I would have. This was just a warning." "Yes ma'am," N'rov remarks, his voice low and indulgent; he casts two shadows and so does she. Gray eyes, however, glint in only one. "I feel warned. Is it your yarn that's taken pity on me, Lilah, if only lest it be stained?" "Maybe it's because I feel you can still be redeemed," counters Lilah back, dark eyes meeting grey in a point of consideration at her own words. "Is it?" N'rov grins at her. Perhaps it's something about that grin, because Lilah doesn't answer in words. Instead, she only reaches for the open bottle of rum beside her, moving her fingers away to tip it out onto that tiny hole before offering it out to him. Then she says, "No." His nostrils flare; he hisses, but makes it an exaggeration, the sizzle of burning flesh. It doesn't mean N'rov doesn't take the rum, though, with grave thanks and a long swallow. Then, another. "Does it help?" "Rum on a cut? No," Lilah answers, rather than asking what he means. Freed of his hand, her gaze drops to the needle and yarn as she picks back up her knitting project, starting a new row of stitches with sharp movements of her fingers and those needles. N'rov's is a disappointed exhale. For a while, he lets her stitch in peace; then, a drop of rum flies her way, like some sort of baptism or an exceedingly errant raindrop. Lilah loses count of those stitches as he flings rum at her, a curse word expelled under her breath as she starts ripping the stitches back to the beginning. "If you're going to sit there and be annoying, at least do it with a fortune," she tells him dryly. A pause, even, before she's adding, "Do you know that you have that Candidate believing that you can tell the future? Of anyone to listen to--." "You get distracted easily," N'rov tells her helpfully, and makes some of the rum disappear the more traditional way. "Candidate? I would have told you your fortune, you know, if you hadn't run off. All about changes in the wind, and getting to know someone better." He even sits. "That's not so wrong." "Dee, Dahlia. The flower," reminds Lilah to N'rov, though the knitting stops for a moment as she glances to him. And his disappointing fortune. "That isn't a real fortune. Or do you just prefer charming the Candidates with the mysterious, poetic ones?" "The flower. Are we dressing up for Turnover?" N'rov might be easily distracted. "I could have used mysterious and poetic language, but you'd have seen right through me," he drawls, gray eyes far too good-humored. "Wouldn't you? Besides, I don't have those dice with me." "Do you need the dice?" Lilah challenges in a murmur, a brow curving upwards as she levels a look on the bronzerider. N'rov lifts an opposing brow. "Not necessarily." Then, "Give me your foot." "My foot?" Of course she's not just going to give him her foot without challenging that, but there is a hint of amusement in Lilah's question. She can challenge; N'rov will just smirk at her. He's in no hurry; he's got the rum, which he highlights with his next ostentatious swallow. |
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