Logs:The Lucky Few
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 19 January, 2014 |
| Who: Ali, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: In which N'rov drags Ali out for a trip, they talk about Elaruth's recent flight, and some truths come out about how Ali views Isyath and her mates. |
| Where: Beach, Nerat |
| When: Day 2, Month 11, Turn 33 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: N'muir/Mentions, E'ten/Mentions, Hattie/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, V'teri/Mentions |
| Morning at Fort Weyr, late afternoon at Nerat; N'rov shows up at Ali's ledge early with a sack thrown over his shoulder, the better to roust her out. "Let's have breakfast," he says. "No, not /here/," he says. "Come on." By the time she's squared away and her daughter is too, though, the tide's started to come in and N'rov's getting edgy. Not only that, but when they arrive at the sandy reach with its tall rock formations out to sea and its jungle inland, there are footprints: someone's /already been here/. Any excuse to fly sits well with Isyath, and though Ali's protests might be audible (and familiar, and /old/), after some exchanges with Elaruth to assure herself everything will be fine, and calling the nanny in, the junior lets herself be rousted. "Are you intending us to catch our own breakfast?" the dark-haired woman calls as she slips down onto the beach. Mere moments later Isyath is pushing skywards, of course - circling out over the ocean to get a sense of the thermals. « Different, » she tells Vhaeryth, intrigued. « It is very... *swirly*... here. » It's less a word and more an impression, a fleeting sensation of being buffered this-way-and-that. Ali's oblivious to footprints, and N'rov's agitation both, though: trustingly trailing in his wake. "Yes," N'rov informs her. "Go check the tidepools, I'll deal with the rest." Given the tide, "Try that way first," and he nods in the direction of those footprints, which strangely enough emerge out of the water, wander along, and then head back into it. Maybe whoever it was had a boat... or drowned. The first thing N'rov has to deal with, though, is getting Vhaeryth's straps situated where they won't get to be a mess, releasing the bronze to fly up with Isyath. Though he's thereby slowed when it comes to rising high enough to get to the good parts, « 'It is better to be the hammer than the anvil,' » he agrees. "If I'd /known/ we were coming to the beach," Ali begins, reproachfully, though folded arms don't really help much when he's not /looking/. With a sigh, she twists her hair back out of the way, and begins to do the same with her skirt, hitching it up and tying it against one elbow to keep the hem dry as she picks her way towards the tidepool. Since she doesn't really have a sense of how isolated this place /should/ be, the junior might well note the footprints as she passes by, but otherwise pays them no mind, concentrating on picking her way in and through some of the tidepools, crouching to inspect a suitable one. « Fly... /there/, » Isyath informs (orders?) Vhaeryth, picturing him to her right, a little higher than her. Granted, he's smaller than her, but he'll have to do as a substitute wind block. "Which is why I didn't tell you," N'rov tells her as he extricates a couple of strapped klah jugs, in enough better humor now that they're /here/ that his smirk might well be audible. He does sneak a glance at her every now and again, and relaxes further once he identifies where she's gotten to. Do tidepools ordinarily have baskets of rolls wedged in the rocks next to them? This one does, and the napkin they're wrapped in is familiar Fort Weyr stock. Her dragon has his acquiescing relatively readily this time (one never knows with Vhaeryth) for once, with a solemn... amused... « Yes, Isyath. Right away, Isyath. What would you like now, Isyath? » There's a huff from Ali's direction that might be disgruntlement... or amusement. "Some poor fool has left baskets /everywhere/. How wasteful of them," the goldrider calls, playing deliberately oblivious. "It's a good thing, though, because-" there's a splash, and laughter, and a somewhat-wet dark-haired woman draws herself out of one of those little tidepools with an attempt at nonchalance, "Breakfast would otherwise be delayed. I /will/ catch one before we start," she adds, determinedly. Isyath likes this new game. The one that Vhaeryth just declared - it's a draconic version of 'Simon says'. « Spread your wings. Now turn /that/ way, into the wind. Now do a roll. No, the /other/ way. That's it! » /She's/ definitely having fun, and it spills out into the air around her like a bubbling sea of stars, all light and wonder. "Yeah? It's a good thing we came along," N'rov calls over, only then there's that splash that gets a sharp look from the bronzerider before she laughs. "Save them from the perilous tide. See what else you can find, and sure, you can catch one before you start." Before /she/ starts. Following along the path would yield other 'treasure,' jars of condiments both savory and sweet as well as fruit to go with it: N'rov's spending quality time with the kitchen staff has paid off, though if he'd mentioned that this was also for Ali, that might explain its being extra nice. Vhaeryth continues to be extra obliging for the nonce, for all that he's taking her directions quite literally (the sort of thing that might, were her rider instructing his to make a nut butter sandwich, get jam smeared all over the table) as long as it doesn't mean he /actually/ crashes into anything; with her happy like that, it's no wonder. There's more splashing, yielding no results. "You could /help/," Ali says, closer to begging than Isyath's by-habit-command. Finally, though, she hooks an arm through the basket, giving N'rov a /look/. She's indulging him at least by following along the path, even if the, "Is this another of your mother's presents?" is thrown over her shoulder at the discovery of the jars along the way. At least Isyath's not asking him to do the impossible like 'fly to the stars' - at least, not /yet/. Of course, the game goes by the wayside the second she catches sight of some of those avians that prefer the ocean skies - she's off, after them like a flash, even though their tiny, quick frames will easily evade any attempt at capture. Left to his own devices, Vhaeryth's 'trapped' in what's becoming a seemingly endless spiral, at least until he mentally clears his throat. « Back here, Mighty Isyath. Am I, » /so/ amused, « free to go? » Like the avians, except not. "I /could/," agrees his rider with emphasis of his own, not that he heads over to actually do that helping. He's got to get down to bare feet first, never mind that this time of Turn, the sand isn't as warm as usual. "No, no. Mother's feet are /much/ smaller than whoever left these," he purposefully misunderstands while he's at it, right before he follows the trail her way. "Don't let her hear you say that, she'd never forgive you... well, she'd never forgive /me/, anyway." The shoes thing - that's a good idea - and Ali deliberately waits for N'rov to catch up, setting the basket by her side, before she reaches her hand up to use his shoulder as makeshift mobile balancing tool while she pulls her shoes off. "Never forgive you for giving away all her lovely jams? Oh, no. I'm saving /that/ bit of information for future bribery," she assures him with a smile, reaching down to collect both basket and shoes. She seems trusting enough of him that she'll lead the way, since that's obviously his intention, now looking at the jungle leaves, and behind rocks for any more 'presents' along the way. « Why aren't you helping me /catch/ these things? » That /other/ game was so five minutes ago, and Isyath's already forgotten about it. « They're so quick, » and there's possibly an envious note in the queen's tone. N'rov /sighs/. The /work/ Ali puts him to. But, fine, he lets her balance without oversetting her or anything. "You realize," he tells her, "That if you do that, and she stops giving me any, I won't have any to share with you." Not unless N'rov's mother likes her better, which is not impossible. As it turns out, there isn't anything behind the rocks, but there /is/ a netted bag with tight-wrapped contents dangling by a piece of leather from a branch, right before the path heads off into the water. « Oh, you wanted to catch them? » Vhaeryth inquires of Isyath around the same time. « I couldn't tell. » But that's implicit permission, and with that, the bronze has had enough of the 'tell me what to do' game and instead beats his wings hard, the better to storm right through the middle of the poor flock that was just starting to settle. "I could tell her that her, truthfully, that jams are wonderful and I'd love to pass down the making of them onto my daughter someday." Ali is just that good- she does give good parent. And it helps being a mother herself, now. She /doesn't/ look back at him but there's a faint, distinct laugh at the sight of the netted bag. "At least whoever did it made it super easy to spot. Can you imagine all this work and me just passing by and not noticing?" Which suggests she might've /considered/ pretending not to notice, but- now she's stretching for the dangling contents. It's not out of her reach, but- "I don't want to squish anything inside. Are you going to give me a hand?" She makes a vague gesture N'rov-wards. « Chase them off, » Isyath replies, sharply, as if that should be obvious. « This is mine, now. Ours, » she concedes at least part ownership since he successfully scatters the group, to the queen's obviously glowing approval. « Our skies. » N'rov pulls a face at her, heavy on the scowl because it's that or grin. "/That's/ not fair. Not fair at all. She'd probably buy it or something, or at the very least pretend. And then she'd make me peel and chop and scrub and everything, like she doesn't have drudges for that." He's still muttering about it all, not to mention how oblivious someone would have to be in order to miss that, and settles for reaching up with one long arm to tug the branch down in lieu of hoisting her up. Now she can reach more easily. "Better? Let's go eat." /Vhaeryth/ would like to eat, all of a sudden, but he'll settle for, « Ours, » even as he soars higher. « We'd better explore it. » So they don't miss anything. "You forget. You're a son. That makes you your mother's drudge for life. Although-" this makes Ali pause in consideration. "Can you imagine N'muir's mother making him scrub floors?" The idea of that seems to tickle the junior considerably, laughing. Or maybe she's just laughing at N'rov, which is just as likely- stretching up to collect the 'present' with a grateful smile towards the bronzerider. "Why? In a rush? We can /make/ time, you know," she says, as casual as you please, adding the offering to the basket before dutifully following the path again, a glance over her shoulder to make sure she's heading the right way. « So we know what to eat later, » Isyath agrees- she hasn't missed that flash of hunger, brief as it may have been. « Whatever we see, I claim the big one. » Because there's /always/ a big one, and it /always/ belongs to her. If N'rov's less sanguine about that kind of /making time/ than she, "When you put it that way," is still accompanied by a grin. "I cannot. I can't say as I've ever talked to N'muir's mother, either. Have you? What I can say is," that look catches him looking to where she's stepping instead of her eyes, "...there's nothing more out there except a whole lot of water, unless you plan to catch fish with your toes. No, but what I was really going to say is, I'm sure glad we got N'muir back. I don't know how much you pick up secondhand," that's a question, "but it was looking close for a while there." It's nothing that Vhaeryth's bothered to remember just now, though, rather teasing (or maybe not so teasing), « If you get the big one, I'll get the next two biggest. » But she can have the big one, which is what she wanted! "What, no hand-crafted raft on which we can float, dangle our toes in the water, and try and attract shipfish with?" Ali does indeed look fairly disappointed, although it doesn't last overly long before she shifts the basket to her other hand, then gestures for N'rov to lead the way. "Shame. I bet Issy would've liked to have tried to catch one." « /Yes/. » "No." Is she answering N'rov or Isyath? Either way it suits. "I heard- Adiulth was-" she goes silent, looking at him, like she senses there's more he wants to say on that score. « Fine, » Isyath concedes, loftily, « I didn't want the next two biggest, anyway. » Her lazy pathing is taking them slowly inland, crossing over more jungle than beach. "You should've saved the wood from their clutch," N'rov says with a quick grin, but as they head back he keeps his long strides less so, more confined to what he must remember hers behind him to be. "She can still try. I won't stop her." Nor will Vhaeryth, who rather smugly flies off with that queen... though if they find shipfish in the jungle they're likely to be /very/ strange shipfish indeed. Or very dead ones. His rider looks back at hers, then veers off the printed path just enough to walk with her instead of in front of her after all. "Yeah, it was almost Adiulth. We almost wound up calling him 'Weyrleader' instead of... well, 'wingsecond' is bad enough." "If they're not right /there/ to earn her attention-" a pause, likely accompanied by a grimace that can't be seen, before Ali continues with a certain level of acknowledgement of her queen's proclivities: "Besides, she'd try and /eat/ them and that'd be horrifying." The junior's looking down at the path, not at him, distracted, and only belatedly glances at him sidelong as he drops back to match her pace. "Are you leading us to some secret garden or something?" A brief pause, but only /brief/, tellingly, "E'ten would've done fine. He and Hattie seem to get along well enough, and N'muir'd be around to help him shoulder the burden. We'd have managed." /She/ doesn't seem phased at the idea of calling E'ten Weyrleader, even if he /is/ younger than her. Perhaps because, as she continues, "Tell the truth, I'd rather Adiulth a near miss than a Telgarian. Or Reachian- Hattie holds enough ill will towards them, but a Reachian-born /Weyrleader/ would be the last straw." "Do you subscribe to the sailors' beliefs, that they're ill luck to hurt?" N'rov only shakes his head to her question of gardens; no, they're simply following the path right back to where they'd begun, and Vhaeryth's straps that still lie there. Not that there aren't also rocks here and there, suitable for sitting if one doesn't mind the salt from sea spray to one side, nor the odd bit of plant life growing atop. "We would manage," he agrees, if still with more reserve. "Hattie could train whomever. Well, if they wanted to be trained. You really think he'd have stuck around, though? N'muir." Ali seems content to walk, back past those rocks, and right up onto the sandy beach, where she sets down the basket. "I'd rather not find out. And," with a rueful smile, "Half my luck, they'd taste terrible and she'd hate them /and/ we'd earn a lifetime of bad luck." Reaching down, she slips off her shoes, sinking toes into the sand for a moment before she settles down cross-legged, squinting up at him as if to silently invite him to join her, right here. Instead of answering his latter question, she returns one of her own, "You think he wouldn't, for /her/?" "You wouldn't make her eat them, would you, if they tasted so bad?" /Could/ she, even? N'rov doesn't immediately remove his own boots, but after a moment of watching her, he does sit with the food kept between them. There, it's easy enough to reach for them both. He doesn't; he's reaching for words, instead. "I think he'd try if she asked him," he says finally. "If she got to him in time; if his pride and self-worth could stomach it; if no one else got to him first. Not that, as High Reaches has proved, even Weyrleaders are always off-limits." Or Fort's weyrwomen. "You say that like /I/ could make her do anything," Ali replies, with a shake of her head, leaning forward to take one of those rolls. "He'd have stayed," she says, simply, to the various scenarios he thinks up: she's certain. "But we would have to have to given him /purpose/. Make him the official Keep-N'rov-Out-Of-Trouble-leader, or something. That'd have been sure to keep him occupied, at least until Elaruth next rose." It isn't even teasing, more distractedly matter-of-fact. The latter makes her shake her head, as much to dismiss the topic as anything. Or at least segue into a slightly-related one, anyway: "Did it seem more- more violent than normal? There were- a lot of injuries when I returned." N'rov glances up to queen and bronze, to the extent they're still visible past the jungle. "You can, Ali." Sometimes. He cuts a look at her for N'muir's possible occupations, specifically the one that deals with him; he chuckles as though it might, possibly, have been a joke after all. And he's still watching her when he says, "More violent than in recent memory... without /Maldoranth/, if that's what you mean." A brief furrow of brow is visible, a little ripple of surprise and dissent that's not voiced aloud; Ali's in too agreeable a mood to dissent where she knows differently, it seems. She sucks in a breath, but the defense of one of Isyath's /other/ children, too, goes unvoiced. And while she notes his look upwards, hers is fixed /downwards/, "You're not going to make me eat all this alone, are you? Because you know I won't have it." Whatever the contents of that mysteriously wrapped package is being undone for him to take first pick at. It's like she doesn't trust him or something. Then, finally, "I sometimes wonder if it's a reflection of the mood of the Weyr." A beat, as she clarifies, quietly, "The violence." Unvoiced, both of them, but not unnoticed. It doesn't mean that he doesn't take from that package the layers of thinly sliced cheese and cured meats to set within the roll he also takes. "You've seen more than I," N'rov says. "How long have you tracked it, you and yours?" Her and her fellow goldriders. "Do you think it really the Weyr, and not the queen?" "It's more of a... feeling, than anything particularly /tracked/. The one just before I arrived- that was different. Two queens-" Ali goes silent, thoughtful. Once he's done with the slices she reaches in for some of the cheese. "Perhaps it's too much interbreeding. I'm going to- Issy's next flight will be open. Maybe it will- help." But she doesn't really think so, that much is obvious in the furrow that lingers even while she eats. The dark-haired woman shakes her head, sharply: even if she's critical of her own queen, she doesn't seem inclined to be so, not of the senior. It's distant for N'rov, despite story; he must have seen Elaruth's scars, but not the other one, nor the healing. "Do you want me to take Vhaeryth away?" he asks frankly, if not with pleasure. "N'muir told me to stay for Elaruth's. /That/ wouldn't have been my choice." Only a moment's hesitation, then: "No. I wouldn't- he should be there." "Why?" N'rov asks. "Because it's right." Ali smiles a little, more to herself. "Cadejoth, and Vhaeryth, and Adiulth. It makes me feel safe. That there are options, even if she never-" a pause, gaze cast downwards, fixed on her food, "-listens." He's a little taken aback; literally, too, back on his heels. He eats. Eating will help. Only, eating only helps so long. "Never chooses Cadejoth, you mean?" N'rov's question doesn't manage to stay as matter-of-fact as her statement had been earlier, her statement about N'muir as his keeper. For the time being, for that moment of surprise-and-recovery, Ali focuses on eating, too, silently. It doesn't mean she can hide the grimace of reaction at his question, though. "Sometimes I wonder if she does it to spite me." A little humor, dry, brief: she's looking now, in the direction of their dragons, even if she can't quite see them anymore. "I'll take that as a 'yes,' then." N'rov's back to eating. "Riuscyth's not among the lucky few, it seems." Ali doesn't confirm; it's too obvious. "I- he sired /some/ half decent dragons," a little smile directed N'rov-wards, now. "But I- I know what Issy is like. I need someone who will be a good sire. Who will help keep her- grounded. /Try/, anyway. I don't blame him for not, not with the relationship Fort and High Reaches had- still has." "What, split Adiulth and Vhaeryth in half, and they'd make one decent dragon and a rotten one?" N'rov gives her a trial smirk. "I blame him, though," he says more sharply. "He should've stuck around. Met us, even. I've tried, well, I've been trying not to get in the way at High Reaches, but I look in on them too sometimes." "Adiulth is clearly the good son," Ali says, as much to evoke a reaction as anything, laughing. It fades somewhat as his sharper tone, shaking her head as if to ease it. "Not all dragons are- like that. Just as- Issy isn't- maternal." Which probably explains why she defends Riuscyth, considering how close to home it must hit for her. "If she'd been a male, she'd have not wanted stick around, either." From the safety of beyond the basket, N'rov sticks out his tongue at her. But with that, with the way she goes on, he frowns; it's a considering frown this time, though. "I suppose not. But he could've still come over, whether his dragon was thrilled or not. I mean... a /clutch/. And with /her/, Ali. /Isyath/." "It was her first. She wasn't exactly- easy to get on with. Still isn't," Ali acknowledges, with a shake of head, knuckles white where they don't imprint on the roll as she finishes it. "I don't blame him," she repeats, with a sharp look as if to say, 'you shouldn't either.' But instead, aloud, she says, "Do you think we have time for a swim, before we go back?" The equally sharp angle of one eyebrow reiterates that N'rov can if he wants, so there; like her, though, he doesn't say it out loud. Instead, he glances at the water. "I think we could make time, Ali." Even if he returns to Fort with that olive skin tanned darker than a brief excursion should have allowed, the next thing he'll have to do is ride sweeps, and if he has to do it with a slight headache... call it a willingly taken penance. |
Leave A Comment