Logs:What's In Your Head
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| RL Date: 15 February, 2015 |
| Who: Irianke, R'hin |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: R'hin and Irianke chat over a few drinks. They share their opinions on the Weyrleaders. |
| Where: Snowasis and Irianke's Weyr |
| When: Day 7, Month 1, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Thundersnow! |
| Mentions: Azaylia/Mentions, K'del/Mentions, Devaki/Mentions, Issedi/Mentions, Nimae/Mentions, M'lach/Mentions, F'rain/Mentions |
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>---< Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr(#555RJ) >----------------------------------<
The Snowasis is rarely quiet, and even then, the high-ceilinged former
weyr is kept from echoing by the fantastical booths tucked into its
convoluted perimeter. The secluded seating spaces have been shaped from
the truncated stalagmites that escaped the smoothing of the main floor,
and are both softened and separated by colorful hangings that are thick
and opaque enough to make each corner its own private nook.
Some of the smaller stalactites still roam the ceiling, their jagged teeth
tracing a bumpy, inverted spine to the hearth. There, a thick rug with a
low klah table and comfortable armchairs and couches sit, their upholstery
and cushions changed sporadically to match the season: bright, light
colors in the summer, fresh greens and yellows in the spring, warm
autumnals in fall, and clear, rich hues for winter. Small tables litter
the rest of the cavern, enough to fit up to four people each, while stools
stand along the smooth wooden bar behind which is the passthrough window
to the kitchen. Glass-paneled cabinetry behind the bar provides a clear
view of the available liquors, the many colors reflecting the soft light
of glows tucked into strategic niches around the cavern.
-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
Irianke F 36 5'7" slender, dark curly hair, stone blue eyes 0s
R'hin M 52 6'1 lean, sandy hair, pale blue eyes 34s
----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
Hallway Patio Ledge
>------------------------------------------< 7D 1M 37T I10, winter night >---< The weather's likely to have kept all but the most determined, or those on ther business, indoors today. R'hin is likely one of the latter, with Leiventh appearing high over the Weyr and circling down, depositing his rider at the bowl just near the entrance to the Snowasis. Moments later, as the bronze alights to find a place to perch, the Savannah Wingleader strides in, stripping his gloves as he goes, muttering: "Fuck. Someone give me something warm, and a drink, and not necessarily in that order," as he makes directly for the bar. It's timely that Irianke's sitting at the bar, making idle conversation with the bartender on duty when R'hin, his expletive, and the inclement weather he's tracking in come in. The familiar voice lights up her face, the bar stool swiveling and someone warm and a drink suddenly find themselves walking right up to and into the wingleader. There's a teasingly sultry note in her greeting, "As you ordered, sir," her half-finished whiskey is lifted to his nose, her free arm reaching to force his arm about her waist. Snow coats a light dusting on R'hin's hair and his jacket, melting quickly the further into the bar he strides. Judging by the widening of pale eyes, it's clear he's surprised by Irianke's approach, brazen as it is, but that doesn't mean he doesn't go along with it, a low throated chuckle accompanying his words as he murmurs into her ear, "A woman after my own heart." He'll let her tug that arm her, but first things first: he reaches for that glass and takes a long, deep, appreciative gulp of that whiskey. Priorities. "Cold out there?" says the woman who doesn't have to leave warmth and comfort to roam the lower caverns or do her work. Irianke is all sunshine smiles and smugness. "It's been too long, troublemaker and don't finish it all unless you plan on buying me another." The goldrider unravels herself from that contrived embrace and gestures to her stool, immediately negating her words or assuming that he'll acquiesce. "Another," she calls with a finger trill. With one of those throaty laughs, R'hin deliberately tips the glass back, draining all the rest of the contents. "Mm. Suppose this means I have to buy you one, now." He doesn't seem bothered that she extricates herself, following a little slower as he unzips his flight jacket halfway, setting the empty glass onto the bar. "Two," he adds, on the heels of the goldrider, turning his attention towards her with a sudden grin. "So. Irianke, at High Reaches. And here I thought you'd never leave Nimae's ample..." a flicker of his gaze downwards, briefly, "...dominion." He leans in, voice lowering to murmur into her ear: "You should hear the things they say about you, Irianke-of-Igen." A delighted smile lights up her face once more, a direct result of the lean in and the whisper. Irianke's head turns immediately so her lips almost, but not quite, graze his. "Sit and tell me all about it. And I'll see what I can tell you of my departure from Nimae's protective bosom." Still looking intently at R'hin, she backs up onto the stool and swivels back around. "Hard to turn down such a pleasant offer, especially from a lady," R'hin's chuckling and, dutifully, he sinks onto the stool next to hers -- after he's shrugged out of his flight jacket. The shirt underneath is marked up, a little dirty and worn-in. "Mm, well, there was something about your army of movers. That they were really fireflies bound to serve you and only you. And," he taps his lips, as if trying to recall, "That you've been bedding every bronzerider in preparation -- a rumor I might add," with a sidelong look, "That I find quite upsetting since I'm not amongst them," is followed by a cluck of his tongue, "And, yes yesterday," even though he wasn't in the Weyr yesterday, "I heard you lost all your clothes in a game of strip poker with the Weyrleader, and ended up in his bath. Don't worry too much about the bath thing, though -- we've all been there." She plays along, nodding at each piece as if it were true, until the last, whereupon she bursts into laughter. "All that delicious gossip and you still call me a lady." Irianke wraps her hand around a refreshed glass and lifts it. "Cheers, Reaches, for old friends who still believe the worst in all of us and some day, you may also play against me in poker and try to figure out if I am actually losing or just feeling a little hot and bothered." When his glass arrives, R'hin gives a thankful nod, lifting it up in silent toast. "To poker," is his chosen toast, chuckling before he takes a generous gulp. Setting it down, he half turns on the stool, so he's facing Irianke more than the bar itself. "Ladies incite the best gossip. Though not," he amends, with a sudden sobering of expression, though gaze is no less intent for all that, "If you're a Lady Holder, it seems. I take it you heard what happened yesterday?" Good cheer turns somber, Irianke's breath exhaling in the slowest, audible way. Liquid fortification is needed before she can speak, the glass tipping up and drained so slowly of most of its contents. Which then results in flinching expression and another audible, good pain, breath. Whooosh. She holds the glass, looking into the amber liquid. "Yes. Oh Faranth, yes." Her head shakes, her eyes lid, and she's slanting R'hin a sidelong look from beneath slits. One might almost suspect the shift of moods were deliberate, if the curiosity in pale gaze is any indication, sidelong look met openly. R'hin turns the glass in his hands, but doesn't take another sip, not yet. "What do you make of it? A wise move? Or a stupid one?" A beat, "High Reaches had that same choice themselves, not so long ago. I hear you've been in the records." Not so long ago means only one incident, but Irianke, solemn though she might be, has the cheeky temerity to lift a brow, tip her glass to R'hin and ask, "Which one?" Because there are ever so many situations that could fit, if not perfectly. It makes him laugh, strangely, acknowledging the counter with a tip of his glass, and another long, thoughtful sip of the whiskey. "Pick the one that Nimae decried the loudest," is his response, after a measured moment of study. He did tell her the latest gossip about herself. He is keeping her plied with alcohol. Irianke's lifted brow emphasizes even more strongly with a cant of her head. Her smile is a pressed down mouth with curled corners and in spite of the sobriety of the conversation, her grey-blue eyes twinkle. "That one that ended in death," is her very bland response, followed immediately by a hnnnnnh sound and, "He won't last the month unless the Lord has seen fit to send a guard detachment with him to both protect and restrict him. Wise." That's her final, unexplained, judgment. There's a cluck of the Savannah Wingleader's tongue as if in warning, or approval, or possibly both. "She taught you well, I see. I--" with a grimace that is only partially feigned, "--have learned the hard way that Nimae doesn't much like flattery. Or charm. Do you follow this, as well, or am I allowed to praise your... assets, freely?" With a tip of his head, as if a great deal rides on the response. An agreeable noise is made to her latter comment: "Perhaps that's the idea. We'll see," he says, with a slight emphasis as if to suggest perhaps he will, at any rate. Irianke pulls her eyes away from the bronzerider, looking back into the depths of her half-full glass and begins to sip again. They're slower, measured sips now; likewise, her spoken words are slower, measured, though lacking a noticeably distinct caution. The Igen goldrider eventually looks back at R'hin, her hand reaching out to cup his chin, to force his face to look upon hers and all its absolute openness. "Flatter me. Charm me. Chase me. But don't patronize me. I'm not Nimae." Said face twists into wry amusement as her hand cups his chin. "Then, your astute observations are well taken," is what R'hin goes with, though it's followed soon after with a low chuckle and the addition of, "A fact I'm very grateful for. She didn't gift me with a bottle of very fine wine after I lost her flight." His free hand lifts, to brush those fingers placed under his chin. "I still have it, you know." Her fingers tighten on his chin and release to boop his nose with her index finger. "Whatever are you waiting for, R'hin? To be wooed, dined, and seduced in some romantic fantasy to find that perfect woman to share such a bottle with? And you didn't gain it for losing my flight. You gained it by losing a flight in such spectacular fashion that you knocked out half the competitors." Irianke tsks, shaking her head, and bringing her glass back up. "I hope you've stored it well. To waste it would be a pity. It's certainly a much better vintage than what the Weyrleader gifted me with on my arrival." That bottle's long long gone. A laugh breaks free from the Savannah bronzerider almost before she's finished her description of R'hin being wooed. "Oh, no. Certain wines only get better with age. I'll know when it's right to be drunk. Until then, it's being stored safely -- and not in my weyr, since I've had some issues with missing bottles here and there of late." If R'hin's concerned about that it doesn't seem to even cause a ripple in his expression. There's a chuckle for her mention of the Weyrleader, and naturally, he can't pass up that opportunity: "How have you been faring with K'del? Azaylia? Tell the truth, I'm almost disappointed I've not heard of any cat fights, with or without pillows, as yet. Though," a tap of his finger against his glass, "If I had, I'd imagine I'd have been checking in much sooner." "R'hin." The jokes, flirting, seriousness aside, Irianke's not done quite yet with High Reaches Hold. "Do you think that man deserves a clean death or what fate might await him on that island?" She puts the glass down and puts both hands on his arm to stay continued conversation temporarily. He's not looking at her, now, despite her attention, despite the hands there on his arm. Instead, R'hin stares at his drink, expression deliberately even, even if there's a slight tension to his jaw before he draws a breath to answer: "I think," he pauses, not for dramatic effect, but for a genuine need to pick his words with deliberateness, "A man that chooses to murder another implicitly acknowledges the consequences, but decides they are worth whatever cause made him do it in the first place, or that they have no other choice in the matter. If he felt the exiles were that great a threat, and that he had no choice -- he had to know what would happen. In a room full of people, he had to know there was no escape. Yet despite all that he chose to flip the coin. Chose desperation. That the house won was -- inevitable." "He'll die either way." Her assumption he's dead man walking is unshakeable. Irianke doesn't push the subject further, shaking her head and retracting her hands. She doesn't pick up the other conversation thread and instead invites, "Come with me." "Yes," R'hin says, like that's a given. Her invitation receives a look, a moment of consideration. He's curious, indeed, enough that, after a moment, he stands. Marks are left, even if he was supposed to buy her the drinks, her drink drained. Irianke leads, through the lower caverns through the records room, the council chamber, the complex, and then her weyr. Then, and only then, does the Igen goldrider speak. "I'm not so stupid as to discuss sitting Weyrleaders in public when sometimes, I feel like I'm the most watched, most distrusted, most curious spectacle of a person in this Weyr." Her chide comes as she goes to her personal liquor cabinet and pours out two drinks, and when she turns, her slender body leans against the cabinet. "Make yourself at home." >---< Irianke and Niahvth's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr(#1207R) >----------------<
"If you're looking for my undergarments, they're not in that chest. Besides," adds Irianke, a quirky little smile surfacing, "I thought your mission would be to get me out of my undergarments so you too could join the illustrious rank of those bronzeriders I've bedded since I arrived." She pushes off the cabinet and steps over to the Reachian bronzerider with the glasses, pressing the extra into his hand. "No, you aren't. No, you won't. But the others I can wave off with pretty answers for their pretty heads. You." She doesn't finish that thought as she slides down into a chaise to lounge with one leg on one leg off. "Stoke the fire, please. The drudge never does it properly." R'hin's entirely unrepentant, and completely at ease about rifling through her things. He selects one of the dresses -- something bright and sunny, holding it out and squinting towards her, with an approving noise, before putting it back. "I'm much more interested in what's in your head, right now. I can find out whether you're pink silk or black lace after the flight," the confidence with which he states it comes naturally, accompanied by an easy smile as he steps to meet her in the middle and take the glass from her. He gives the contents of the glass considerable examination, and a small sip, and appreciative sound made. Her, you, earns a knowing grin and, after another sip from the glass, sets it safely down before making his way to the hearth, locating the poker and crouching in front of it. Irianke relaxes, tucking herself into the corner of that chaise, the lounge chair molding itself to her body with the familiarity of turns. "They both are earnest," is a pro. "But I sense that the Weyrwoman is so afraid of making a misstep in her role that she ends up not acting as she should. Which is understandable given High Reaches Weyr's infamous history of missteps. The stories I could tell her of Nimae's aspiration towards and inability to actually be perfection and perfect would probably get me killed before the seven is out. You'd never hear from me again and my body never found." R'hin's expression can't be seen as Irianke talks, bent as he is, leaning to stoke the fire to life again. He, perhaps, lingers longer than necessary at the task, at least until she's finished speaking, and when he stands, it's to look at her from the hearthside. "She might well appreciate that. From the outside, Weyrwoman often seem invincible. Perhaps she'd take comfort in the notion, and perhaps, too, it might help cement a good relationship between you both. Aishani was... a difficult junior for her, given their history." He sets the poker back in its stand, and walks back over to collect his glass. "I'd make some laudable statement about rescuing and protecting you from the wrath of Nimae -- but to be honest, I'm more afraid of her," comes his laughing response, not altogether untrue. "Is that how you felt when Weyrleader?" Irianke's question is all innocence, that doesn't match the daring smile that plays on her lips. "In-vince-i-ble?" "Not once," R'hin replies, swiftly and sharply enough that it's likely truth, however well he hides the grimace that follows behind the gulp from that glass, moving towards her, sitting on the edge of the chaise where her feet rest, one hand leaning on the other side of her legs for balance as he regards her with pale eyes. "Unsettled. Uneven. Undone. Not," with a sudden smile of his own, "Unlike how F'rain feels, I imagine." "F'rain's story is not mine to tell," deflects Irianke, but her mouth twitches with the untold. "You were young when you were Weyrleader. Do you think you'd feel as unsettled and uneven now? Undone? If Nimae were no longer Weyrwoman, I don't know how I'd feel." The share is naturally followed by a sip of her drink, a spiced, earthy whiskey that lingers long on the tongue. "What do you think of the Weyrleader?" His lips, too, twitch that that deflection, recognizing it and letting it pass unchallenged. "Young, but older than F'rain. Older too, than most of those I Impressed with. Now?" A beat, for dramatic tempo, rather than a need to consider it: "More so. There's this saying, about the more you know yourself, the more you come to understand your foibles and failings. I like to think of myself as a very learned man," he's chuckling darkly, subsiding only to sip from that glass. Her latter question evokes a genuine smile, "He's a good man. Good for High Reaches." It's spoken plainly, like a fact, with no embellishment to try and win her. "You endorse him?" Irianke's question is genuine curiousity mixed with something else that's less obvious. "Does anyone else in all of Pern have R'hin's stamp of approval for the job?" "You say that as if my endorsement holds weight. It does not," he corrects her, adroitly, though there's a glimmer to pale eyes all of a sudden. "And M'lach?" asks Irianke, suddenly less curious and far too quiet. "I have met him but twice," R'hin waves that off, the air of dismissiveness perhaps as much for the man as the question. "What else would you like to know of me, R'hin?" Irianke sinks herself down further into that chaise, so her feet press into the bronzerider's side. R'hin drains the remainder of that glass in one, two, three gulps. Surely it's sign that he doesn't savor the spiced liquid as he's normally apt to do. "There will be time for that. I've heard," with a smile, "You'll be here for some time, and I'm overdue for a spot in the baths." He stands, walking over to set the glass down near the bottle. With a half bow in her direction: "Thank you for the drink, the conversation, and most of all, the company." Her parting shot, one filled with tease and come hither invitation is, "Running scared?" Other than that, Irianke doesn't stay his presence in her weyr and sips her drink at a far more leisurely pace. His, "Always," is accompanied by a low throated laugh as he departs her weyr. |
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