Logs:Why Tonight

Why Tonight
RL Date: 4 September, 2015
Who: Irianke, N'rov, Roszadyth
Involves: High Reaches Weyr
Type: Log
What: Irianke has something to give to N'rov and the timing of it is questionable.
Where: Irianke's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
When: Day 24, Month 9, Turn 38 (Interval 10)

Mentions: Aishani/Mentions, A'rist/Mentions, Farideh/Mentions




Sometime early evening, the touch of a seeking queen is different than the touch of someone who knows what mind she wants to enter. This one, however bright with her marigold warmth, has a touch of hesitancy as its thoughts flitter through the Fortian dragons, almost as if she's lost until finally finding one that is possibly right. « Vhaeryth? » the dulcet touch asks, curling tendrils of vine shoots hovering just within the periphery of the bronze's mind. Without waiting, likely on a schedule, she continues a half moment later with, « My rider seeks a meeting with yours. Irianke says she has something to return to yours. » Confirmation's the snick of puzzling pieces coming together, that place where tension can become relief; perhaps it's because the warm once-anomaly keeps those tendrils from invading that he's minded to rearrange, a glass-clear extension for them to lean on over the distance if she wills. « 'Something.' » Vhaeryth sounds amused, not particularly preoccupied; « Will he like it? » Only, moments later he shares in a different tone, « He asks only where and when. » The autumn chill of High Reaches with its gusting winds and sporadically heavy rains is shared: an image of the spires as it is now. « He may. If he is of that type, » responds the queen, noncommittal. « She only knows it is not hers. » So it must be his. This makes sense to Niahvth, but she has deliberately (or assumingly) made several jumps in the progression of logic. « Any time this evening will be fine. Perhaps tomorrow morning, but tonight is better. » Abruptly, the gold changes subject with, a still sun-filled, but more grave in tone with gray creeping in on the brighter colors, « I hope Fort is well. » Rain and rain and rain soaks Fort likewise; Vhaeryth spares Niahvth, he lets it be known, all the underlying mud. He spares her too, less perceptibly, details of his rider's reaction; it still can't be accidental, even as though behind rain-wet, condensation-obscured glass, that sense of movement. « Tonight, then. » Clearing the table, clearing the board. « It is... » perhaps 'better,' perhaps just, « further. » Low voices, layered. So is, « What would you like? » « What would I like? » Niahvth is a simple dragon, for all she's a queen, and his last inquiry baffles her, petals curling towards N'rov and that rain he shares and spares. « What would you like? » she asks instead, turning the enigmatic question back onto him. He arches his back, it can be felt, that roll of spine that starts above his shoulders and descends; his neck curves, after-ripple rather than a shock. « To fly. » Amused, « Better, dry. » It won't be much longer before he shares something different: the cold if not the wet, the coldest that makes the next wet warm. They come. They spiral, down and down, to find her: will it be the new ledge, then? « To fly. » The simple queen assesses this simple desire, turning it about her head and missing the arrival of the Fortian dragon into her Weyr (her Weyr, oh the momentary surge of joy that thought brings with it), ultimately deciding, pragmatically, « Then you must fly. Where it does not rain. There are many places in Pern that does not rain this time of turn. » Images of a desert, with the heat rippling the air visibly, are passed on to the younger dragon. But then look, he's there, and her attention kens upwards as the watchrider rises back onto his haunches and greets the foreigner. Reclined under a stone awning over her ledge, Niahvth is a shining, half-damp golden lump below. « Here. » she guides, perhaps unnecessarily. That joy; that amuses, pleases him somehow as he swings wide-winged into 'Reaches airspace; Vhaeryth shares what he can perceive of it, how the natives orient on Niahvth now, hers. Within the younger dragon's return of the watchrider's greeting is the easy assurance of one expected, invited, by one far more senior than the ancient one. And as for the image of her... he slows towards her. Not that he isn't distracted: first by one ledge, the empty one, and then by the other that decidedly is not. His rider's seat is rigid; it doesn't so much relax as adopt ease when the bronzerider touches boot to stone. And that greeting for Niahvth, the human one that precedes the nosing whuffle, is inflected half out of southern. Surely a bronze dragon finding occasion to visit is nothing new, of late especially; this one, though, hadn't visited for her dam. Except that he does, now: gliding down through the falling rain with the easy assurance of invitation. His descent continues, down to the senior queen's ledge... but not without perceptible distraction: the once again empty ledge and then her. Yet still he lands. (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth) Other bronzes and browns are paying the petite queen court, feeding off her charming, sensual energy, and she's basking in the attention, but peripherally, she's aware of his presence. Wide-set eyes follow his descent, but Roszadyth's curious approach is a mere brush of softness and striated sunshine. Hello, there. (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth) Softness meets the slant of glass, metal-backed just to mirror her some of that sunshine back. Not all, though; some he's keeping. And not just a mirroring, but a (signaling?) flash. (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth) A flash? That catches Roszadyth's focus more fully, and settles the weight of her attentions on the foreign bronze. « You are not from here, » is politely inquisitive and warm, and probing for more. (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth) « No. » Not negation but agreement. This time, when the light flashes, it's to illuminate the fall of rain that is like here but not, different. The scent of lowlands, not so very far beyond. A shorter night. For her, he'll even (with some humor) make that rain warm too. (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth) Niahvth holds court, though unladylike her stance may be. It is, after all, her Weyr and her ledge, and he the invited guest into it all. Unaffected by formalities, most of the time, the newly minted senior queen lifts her neck from the ground as Vhaeryth alights and studies N'rov more than the the man's dragon, watching him descend and then pinning those whirling eyes upon him as he greets her in his accented way. After a while, where the pitter of the light rain of the night falls just beyond the recessed area she sits in, she nods and glances back towards the curtained entrance into warmer, dryer hospitalities. « He is fair looking, » appraises Niahvth to Vhaeryth, as if the bronze is not aware of what his rider looks like. « As are you. Come, share my ledge while you wait, unless, » she adds, a little sly for all her simpleness, « You prefer to fly here. » Inside, the weyr is lit by a myriad of glow lamps and candles, as well as a steady fire in the hearth. It is as warm inside as it is cold without, and bright within as it is dark outside. Irianke sits on the chaise, in spite of the warning she must have had, nursing a glass of something brown, while reading a book. She's still dressed for business, slacks and a neat blouse, jewelry, hair coiffed elegantly, and the signs of make up that's either lasted all day or was retouched in the last hour. A second glass, empty, sits on the table in between the chaise and an armchair, whose sole occupant is a neatly folded towel. The man certainly doesn't help himself to the entrance before the risen queen grants safe passage; he stands there, water dripping down his drawstring-knotted hood, gray eyes regarding the queen with relative patience. He does loop the satchel he'd brought with him from cross-body to one shoulder, but other than that, he waits. And then, obediently, walks into this weyr where he hadn't the other, without a look at any other ledge at all. Inside, once N'rov's scraped his boots, he continues on the directed way while Vhaeryth allows, a gleam of borrowed sunlight off metal-backed glass, « I might. » For now, he takes a deep breath of the rain-freshened air, before mantling his wings much as his rider had shrugged free his coat, only the bronze keeps his far closer to hand. It's from a polite distance that the bronzerider greets the woman in the glowlight, "Weyrwoman." Water's beaded here and there within mostly-dry dark hair, and the humidity's softened the otherwise stark line of his collar. You called?" is no real question, but considered invitation. Irianke takes her time to finish the paragraph or page she's on, breathing out an audible sound, her head tipping to one side thoughtful. Then, she marks the page with a metal bookmark, an intricate pattern etched onto its surface, before looking up to the arrived man. A welcoming smile curves and warms, and she gets to her feet. "Ahh," her teeth expel another sound, this one of knowing, and a recollection resurfaces to find recognition, a turn's old recognition. "So you're N'rov. Would you like some tea today?" « You might. » Niahvth's touch lilts, some semblance of girlishness replacing the simple-minded queen, as she manipulates her own touch and presence with little shifts here, then there, then over there, until she feels different even if the petals, sunshine, and marigolds remain the same. « You miiiiiiiiiiiii-ight. » She turns one syllable into multiple and slinks herself from out under that recess and extends her massive wings to catch some drops in a curve of one of them. Such warmth; N'rov lets his half-smile tip wry answer as he closes a few more steps. "Please," he says, and doesn't ask after biscuits. He does lend humor to his baritone, though it can't hurt that Vhaeryth's staring at Niahvth with something like fascination, right before the bronze snakes his head under that wing to aim a snorting chuff towards its underside; "I won't say I'm not surprised at the invitation; imagine High Reaches had quite a few visitors of late." Games, subtleties? Roszadyth hesitates, fascinated by the foreign dragon as she is. « Where? » Scent or scene, she's not that acquainted with the varieties of the different landscapes to pinpoint it. « You are, » rippled, whispering fabric, « just visiting? » Curious. (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth)' By now he's settling, if not settled, in a way that might be construed to be at Niahvth's request; his rider, hooded against the weather, has undergone an inspection by the older queen before being permitted to pass within. The bronze, ruddy-dark in the darkness, blows a puff of hot air beneath one of the latter's wings, and now, turning, his gaze glints briefly in what light there is. « Visiting, » he agrees, but can there be a 'just' about it? « We were called, from Fort, » his voice lowered, whispering intimately, playfully back. (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth) "Not many I've requested specifically." Irianke moves to fetch the tray with its tea kettle on it from her working stone table and brings it to the table between the chairs and pours N'rov a still steaming cup of tea. She sticks with her whisky and sinks into her seat. "Irianke," she finally introduces, a turn and a half later. His southern-lilted accent is met by her rolling, velvet Igen accent. "How fares Fort these days? I am so sorry for your Weyr's loss. Lilah was," the goldrider pauses, her lips pursed and another of those sounds of hers, this one considering, releases. "Very interesting. I only met her a few times." N'rov's laugh is low and wry all over again; he thanks her with a nod for the tea, though at last he moves to employ the towel: on his skin where it needs it, and then to save her upholstery before he takes that seat. "Thank you." Layered. "Fort... copes. Lilah was much the same before she Impressed. She," the bronzerider rubs the back of his neck. Gray eyes lift, frank. "I apologize. It's harder than usual to stay polite." Fort, also, « Fort! » Positive connotations are associated with the ideal of the Weyr south of High Reaches; a whimsical note and the almost imperceptible smell of orchards. « A pleasure, » is saccharine and meaningful at the same time. She doesn't ask about their summoning, but her interest in him is heady and direct. (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth) Heady enough that he responds in kind, that she might feel his responding, and what does that do to her? (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth) "No need to apologize. I prefer frankness in most all situations." Irianke pours out some whisky into the empty glass on the table and nods approvingly as he takes up the towel. "In this rain, even with only a short moment outdoors what with between, I figured you might need a towel. But," her continuation is with a crookedly wry smile, "If I were absolutely honest, I'd rather ask you to use my bath and see where things go from there, but it didn't seem to be the time or place, especially as I did want to see you to pass on this." A this that does not manifest magically when Irianke turns her palm upward. Neither does she seem to expect it to be there, nor does she move to go put it there. He has a towel; there's that whisky there; there's that tea that... yes, he'll sip it, his gaze a little darker now, but not straying from her expression towards that so-neat, still-neat blouse. Even with Roszadyth in the air. "'This'?" N'rov asks, his own smile slower to take hold but rising regardless. He doesn't fight it so much as... guide it. Utterly elated, but Roszadyth is enduringly coy to the last. Warmth seeps towards the bronze, pleased in emotion, and then it's all gone, a veil dropping between them. Her tones are crisp, vibrant; peeks of her sunshine from behind the lace. « Stay. » (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth) « 'Stay.' » Vhaeryth puts it in such wondering tones, reflected above equally tangible masculine amusement: why, he'd never thought of such a thing. Not leave, not just now? He stretches his dark wings in a slow, sleek, smoothly muscular movement as though he'd been considering such a departure; as though he were invisible behind the very lace she peeks from. (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth) « Leave? » Surprise and a touch of disappointment turns everything rosy. « If you must. » Courteous, unfailingly courteous and conscious of everything, even as Roszadyth wants. (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth) Such courtesy, it's charming. Vhaeryth conveys his appreciation without words, but with warmth: warmth and more, that much more, for her wanting. « He had meant to depart, » the bronze explains of his rider. « But since you ask... » since she wishes and wants, « together we might persuade him to stay. » (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth) And the disappointment evaporates underneath the suggestion of warm, unabashed delight. « I do hope your intentions are.. sincere, » Roszadyth replies, sunshine dappling; whether they are or they aren't, it's wonderful, entertaining his warmth and affections. « Shall we? » (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth) That much he can be quite clear in his sharing with her, even as the older queen, the flown queen is his hostess (their hostess?) beside him; he's... intrigued. Which is to say, they shall. That's why he lets Roszadyth be privy to a little of what he perceives: his rider, to be so warmly leant on; the waiting, the having to have patience and not just uneasy anticipation. This is rare, this sharing. Barely a whisper, only half teasing, « Gentle. » (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth) Clarity is appreciated, and those little, rare glimpses from the other side, secreted to her, for her. Silence descends in solidarity, sunshine still-shrouded as she whispers back, in hushed, girlish tones, complete with the provocative weight of a warm, gloved hand. « Comfort? » (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth) Irianke looks at him, those slate blue eyes of hers lingering on the mostly-dry dark hair and down to his gray eyes. "This." Her fingers curl into the emptiness of her palm, and a tiny, turn curls her lip, neither pleased nor displeased. "I debated for a few days whether I should return this to you or not, if it would just bring up memories best forgotten, but it seemed unkind not to at least give you the option to decide for yourself." The Weyrwoman slides her legs off the side of the chaise and places both feet on the floor again, elbows braced into the knees as she leans into them and looks to N'rov a moment, then rises, standing there in a waitful, watchful way. A few days. Startlement momentarily strikes him, his gaze darker yet; that smile's struck too. "Thank you," N'rov says again, only this time it's as though he hasn't more words instead of what could be too many. He stands. But then, with a different vintage of wryness altogether, he exchanges the teacup for the whisky and toasts her with a drink. Both cup and glass, however, he'll leave behind. « Perhaps. » He's solid under that weight, warm even with glove as intermediary. That glove. They aren't touching, this way, except for how they are. « Not yet. She has something for him, » something he... dreads? wants? Not the taste of tea, the sudden burn of whisky, though that's there too. « Did not expect. When was your last surprise, Roszadyth? » (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth) Roszadyth's touch is gentle, but leaves all too soon. « Has yours come to pay compliment to the new Weyrwoman? » she asks, mildly querulous, briefly probing; as languidly as she stretches on her rain-stippled ledge. And it shifts again, her approval once more settling on him, undivided. « Your arrival, » comes with a certain coy amusement, « and beyond, the.. » Sharpness and then soft; Greenfields becomes a blip, gone, in favor of: « Fish. » Delightful, scaly, swimmy, slippery creatures in all sorts of colors, below lapping waters. (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth) Irianke moves to the mantel, the flames unable to lick at her flared pant legs due to the screen in front of it, and reaches up to a jeweled box on its surface. Pulling it down, she jimmies the latch on it gently, and pulls out a small set of folded sheets, tied together with twine. The box shuts with a twitch of a finger and is nestled back onto its perch. It's her kindness that she doesn't explain how she knows it might be his, instead turning to put it onto the table in between the two whisky glasses, near that kettle. "My assistants supervised my move from my old weyr to this one and included this among my things. Quite simply, I know they do not belong to me." N'rov tracks her to the flames; they have no more success with him than with her, just yet, but they lurk and they wait. He ought to avert his eyes from just how she moves the latch, perhaps. He doesn't. He waits, until he doesn't have to. He sees them, and he walks not towards them and not towards her but away. He doesn't say a word. Not one word. He is, he has to be... silent. If he has any hope of staying that way. Roszadyth, Roszadyth. « No, » is ready confirmation, Vhaeryth perhaps the more indulgent for that querulousness, indulgent with her and with her probing that meets, yes, sincerity. « No, she asked that he come. He would have waited... but she is not now one to be said, 'In a few days.' » Humor rolls there, rich and deep as the waters with their lucent, lovely fish, but not elaboration. Nor questioning of that place, that sharp-and-soft, though he must notice. Such fish; it's barely perceptible at all, now, the firelight and the glint of jewels. Not until-- abrupt grief. (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth) Irianke says nothing, topping off his glass once more as she sits, though her feet stay firmly on the ground this time. Her, as like last time, bare feet, for all her continued professional attire, her feet are at least comfortable. The silence is broken by the crackle of the fire and a nervous tap of her fingers, the sound of it cushioned by the pillowy softness of the chair she sits on. The queen is thrilled with his answer; no words are needed to convey the delight she has for the intimate details he shares, without needing to. Surprise then, when grief enters their playful encounter-- and she pulls back. A beat and more, before the softness of her entreaty surfaces, again. « Why? » is gentle, soothing. (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth) He has the wall before him, not even in arm's reach, but there. Tension crawls across his shoulders. His hand flexes, then both do as he turns, pacing now. A fist rises, its back meeting his forehead above the dark ruck of his brows. "We met," he says, "before she Impressed. The night she didn't Impress." He doesn't know, yet. He's focused on his rider, with her retreat, her return registering on some level of consciousness while in the forefront is... something he wouldn't have shared, surely, if they weren't sharing. If it weren't so immediate. He's no longer still on the ledge that has been lent him; his claws curl and the stone sounds a shudder. He shows Roszadyth a glimpse of folded notes, the twine that joins them, the handwriting that not even N'rov sees in this moment but knows as his. « They were hers, » not Niahvth's rider but another's. « He wrote them for her. He wrote, and she wrote, for they could not bespeak; this way they learned each other. » (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth) She hasn't asked for his story, her story, but Irianke, nonetheless, looks understanding behind the flutter of surprise of her darkly tinted lashes. "When she was Brieli," interjects the goldrider, her voice suddenly quieter, more held back. She sits while he paces, watching that fist rise and the way it seems to turn against its owner. "Brieli," he agrees, old longing and distance and darker things, but one could imagine also a would-be smile that just can't be. "Off those sands and into the caverns. That's when it started. It helped, later." He paces. He pivots, abruptly towards those letters and her and the whisky, a flush hectic on his cheeks and his mouth bracketed by pain. Hesitancy marks the gold's lingering presence, an inability to push and the same inability to leave. She's concerned for their upset, but she's-- still a glowing gold, with little other than sex on the brain; and she tries. « I did not know them, but, » brushing those gloved fingers, « they are missed. » (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth) « He has had enough hurting. He hurts and he hurts and I will not have it. » Which is to say, « Come, Roszadyth. » Come, distract. Glow. (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth) Irianke absorbs all this in while Niahvth courts Vhaeryth outdoors, that earlier unfurling of her wings turning into a shallow flight that shows off her generous frame, that will be all the more curved and plush too soon. The light drizzle has stopped, though the air still carries the sickly-sweet damp smell of humidity, a signal that the rains aren't through just yet. She stands, reaching for the drink and walks to the man, still in his pivot with that flush to his cheeks and steps close, too close, and lifts the glass to his pained mouth, resting the rim of it there, not quite touching. "Helped?" She could be urging him to speak more, to elaborate. She could be talking about whether she can help him in any way. The ambiguity seems unintentional, a little pucker of perplexion between her brows as she, too, tries to decipher what she precisely meant. Hurt resonates with Roszadyth, as much as it can, but she's happy to try and distract the bronze from his heavy thoughts; not enough to put herself close to Niahvth. « Vhaeryth. » Sweet, steadying, and touched with gilded sunshine. A rush, an inescapable tug, follows. (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth) He watches, he watches, if with a glint of an eye towards that other ledge. Vhaeryth's eye. N'rov's is dark, untinged by any violet. Gray upon gray. Too close, and then there's glass, cool and ungiving and so very, very takeable. So he takes it. He doesn't wait for her release. He takes it and he drinks it and he says, "More, please." It's what he'd meant, had wanted: come here, and never leave her ledge at all. (Not now. The rest, the rest is for later.) He glints a look at her and breathes her in, lets that flow, headier even than whisky's renewed burn. It will take a little time to reach his rider, subtle, at first not much more than the drink alone. It's, she's, « Good. » (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth) She obliges, wordless, and brings the decanter of liquor, barely moving her feet, merely pivoting her own body and dropping her angled knees just enough to reach for it, and then back up. To where he holds the glass, she lifts the bottle and pours a generous pour, then puts her lips to the top and takes her own swig. Done. He should be grateful, but there are those letters there. He goes nowhere. He gives her something. "She never had to wonder," he says. "If I only wanted her gold." Now he can drink. It's a short swallow this time. "I would have been here a long time ago." Close, but so far. « Vhaeryth, » the gold teases, all 'softness, « tell me what I should know about you. » Suitor that he is, even enamored already, there are things to learn, and Roszadyth wants them, as much as she wants him. (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth) So far. The bronze dragon can't be fully diverted from his rider... so far. (The burn is short this time. It would be easy not to notice.) But Roszadyth asks, and Vhaeryth considers her; the metal of his regard develops into finely interwoven links about the edges, as if playing with the idea of her veil. « You should know, » he rumbles, the grandiloquent intonation situated after one suitably meaningful pause and right before another, « I will not say you should know, Roszadyth. » Isn't the discovery half the fun of it? « Nor that you should wear flowers about your headknobs. » (Though she might. A flower appears in bas relief, fluttering fine metallic petals before disappearing once more.) « Does that bother you? » (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth) Roszadyth's rosy regard is placed on Vhaeryth completely; she doesn't have to say each time she's unexpectedly delighted, but her flow of emotions tells the story. « No, » bothered never, not even from behind that gossamer veil, that pretends to hide away her soft sunshine and the stir of a breeze. « A gentleman. » Contented, giddy for that flower, which is he summons and then discards, for her? « Should I ever endeavor to wear flowers about my headknobs, » is perfectly charmed. « Such a thing is.. » (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth) Vhaeryth doesn't object to the appellation, rather craning to look over his shoulder as though he could see himself the way she sees him; if his talons still shift now and again with something less than ease, there in the darkness, that has nothing to do with her. (Nor kind Niahvth, except by extension.) With Roszadyth so giddy, he can't help but toy with such an imaginary garland when he looks back, testing how it might fit over both pale headknobs at once... or perhaps twin itself so there's one each. It's easy to play with such shared entertainment, a disraction from darker things, and if it does eventually drift towards sleep... in sleep, inescapably, are dreams. (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth) "Do people really wonder that?" wonders Irianke aloud, such a thought so foreign to her that it slips out without intention. Shaking her head, she takes another sip from the decanter and then places it back on the table top, her low bend then taking her to sitting on the ground before her hearth. She starts removing pins from her hair and shaking the short curls loose, fingers digging towards the scalp to rub the tight held hair itchies away. "To Brieli of the caverns. To Aishani of the skies." Bereft of the decanter that's now just slightly out of reach, or a glass, the Igenite lifts her empty hand to N'rov and then looks to the fire. His laugh is as short as that swallow had been. Shorter. "Always. Always someone." Always... other things? N'rov looks down. He doesn't drink, though finally it's time to. He doesn't touch the hand held out to him. His hand's busy; busy sliding down to bury itself in her curls. There are still some pins there, though many are now gone. And untamed by them, the humidity-stricken hair seems to have a life of its own. A reflexively self-conscious motion brings her hand held up in a glass-less toast down into her hair too, slipping through familiar territory to find his hand and then press it there. Endless practice at this has her body turning that slight way, angled up towards him, and her other arm slipping up to rest a firm hand at his hip. "Always," she says, agreeing without fully comprehending. He doesn't drop the glass. N'rov drinks, and he deepens his hold: deeper into the roots of her, her hair, taking her hand with him. His hand tightens and another pin drops, more by accident than anything. He moves into her hand, and it isn't the one that's over his, and it's nothing like an accident at all. Not an accident at all and this, this is something Irianke understands, too well some might say. Sure, she could blame the young gold a few doors down, or the one in the sky, flexing her wings in the night's sky, or just her base, primal nature that makes her who she is that supersedes better intentions, complete with those nimble fingers that navigate the non-accidental bump expertly. The table's not too far. N'rov can drink again, one-handed; can put the glass on it; can dip his fingers into it, and press them to her mouth. This, of all things, she denies, her lips pressed into an impassable line. That light moving hand stops and she reaches in and runs her fingers through it again to release more pins and moves to rise, and if his hand dislodges in the process, so be it. "You're in no state to fly," she decides for him, whether this is true or not, "The Weyrleader's weyr is free," she dares him with her dark blue eyes, "The couch, or," she leans forward to claim his mouth with her liquor lined ones, courtesy of himself, and shows, just beyond her fingers, what her mouth could be capable of. The letters sit on the table, so near the glass he put down. Denying may not sit well, but then she's no longer sitting; denial may be another thing entirely. N'rov doesn't seek to stop her rising, nor does he dispute her declaration by departing, though there's that upward hook of a brow that suggests he could contest it if he chose. Those darkened eyes reveal no avidity for what's the Weyrleader's. An also-dark amusement, though, yes; a heightening intentness on her, even as her mouth meets a sharp grin, the more silent the more she speaks. His grin has teeth. And then he moves to taste her. She feels his teeth and he feels her responsive smile. She tastes like... whisky, and somewhere there's some hint of an herb. Mint, is it? Ginger too. She smells of tropical fruits and ginger too, right there behind her ear. Her hand reaches up to the back of his neck, a fluid continuation of the kiss, fingers curled just so, so the tips of them slide into his hair. Pressure in that hand brings him close and closer, and then her body shifts in no particularly large way, but all over in minute, adaptable, molding adjustments to fit right into him. No more words for now. "Mmm," is the last, conscious sound she makes until later, her voice in his mouth. She makes it so... easy, and the closest thing to simple; simple, too, seemingly, for the bronzerider to reach down and pull her up even as she'd bring him down. He's not elegant about it, somehow unpracticed, even awkward here and there at the very first until he must decide that he's deciding. Then that changes, less persuasive (she's persuasive) than exploratory. Unhurried, despite the heat outside, inside. He's making the most of that mouth, that woman, as long as and as much as he has her. He isn't heading for the metaphorical or even literal couch. Yet. Her, easy. His, non. Her, practiced. His, non. Her, reputation. His, ? Things to think about for later, when Irianke is capable of thinking of more than hedonistic pleasures, or the awkward way she's now pulled upward that causes her mouth to part from his and a low giggle to emerge. That and the fact her blouse is now no longer so neat and the fabric is bunched all funny, but these are small matters in the scheme of this evening so far. She's giggling and he was just kissing and then there are those letters still there, ignored. Saying nothing, Irianke looks up into N'rov's face from the angle she's now at, now that they're not kissing, and a crooked, imperfectly curving smile climbs. Those letters are so near, and yet the glass doesn't sit atop them; it leaves no ring. He doesn't look, and not just because he's looking back down at her, gray eyes re-opened where they'd closed for a moment there, N'rov eyeing her and her smile that needs a kiss planted upon the crookedness of it, not to conceal but because. So he does, one hand warm on the skin from where the fabric's rucked up. His fingers curve, just a little, as though that might help him find another giggle. If only it were that easy to make Irianke giggle, but it does invoke that other mouth corner to lift and match so the smile is less crooked. Or maybe it was the kiss that did that. She stands there, feet unmoving though her body practically vibrates from that yearning to progress, and yet... Yet, she stands there, still, as if the anticipation of what might happen next, what she cannot read of N'rov, makes it all the more delicious to not act. Those kohl-rimmed, deeply gray and blue eyes of hers looks up through that heavy fringe of inky lashes, with a look that's not challenging as much as sultry with a touch of quizzical. What will happen next? Just a little more, then, just a little because her warm skin's seducing his palm, his fingers, his fingertips. Surely it needs (next) a light stroke upward, just a little beneath the blouse, and N'rov's smile is crooked now; it's catching. It comes with a kiss for the other side of her mouth, lightly, the smallest of tastes. Will it change? Unexpected, that kiss, does not mean Irianke does not anticipate why it was done. Though she still does not giggle, not this time, her mouth twitches in response, and the two curves of her smile drop into a flat line, a resting bitch face, that trembles from the onset with a youthful impishness that contrasts with the made up doll features of her face. It doesn't last long, impulsiveness winning out in the end as she spurs herself into action and drapes both arms around N'rov's neck and hooks one leg about his hip, a testing bounce seeing how well it might rest there if joined by her other leg eventually. But not now. N'rov has to laugh at that, a low laugh that can be felt when she's pressed that close; he might try to frown at Irianke in return, his brows are heading that way, but it's not making it to the pleased upturn of his mouth and comes nowhere near close to his eyes. Those eyes slant downward now, towards that leg of hers; surely it's there just so his free hand can drop to caress around the back of her knee. (Perhaps it, too, is scented with tropical fruits and ginger; he's still far too far off to see.) It isn't. But he might find out soon enough, if he remembers to think on it. "Don't," says Irianke, her voice interrupting that silence finally. Her first leg is joined by her second, the sudden weight of her borne predominately upon his hips and her arms bring her face up a little higher than his and she kisses the potential of a frown on his brows, one quick chaste peck for each. So, now what? quirks her own brows above her expressive, again sultry-quizzical eyes. "Which," isn't quite one word, interrupted by that shift. If she means don't laugh, N'rov can't seem to help it, brows tugging together that much more before he nips at her chin. His gaze has lifted to hers, naughty. Possibly he should be a gentleman, slide his arms around her, support her, but doesn't she have that in hand? He has hands for other things. Such as plucking a stray pin that had managed to stay; such as lifting up her pendant, not to look at it, but to duck his head and breathe out where it had been. That. That evokes a muffled laugh that becomes a giggle. Irianke looks down upon the head in between her breasts, tender and fascinated. "You," she starts in wonderment, then abruptly stops. Words ruin the moment right now. Words would bring her to her senses as this being on the wrong side of the moral compass, taking advantage of someone for pleasure's sake. Instead, her legs need to tighten about his hips, as they're unaided otherwise in helping her stay up, her bare feet hook over each other to seal the latch. "Mmm." It's not a word, exactly. More like the method, not even an excuse, of mmm-ing into her skin. N'rov might appreciate the tightening for more than her method of staying in place, given the quality of his next exhale; it's right before he explores the varying layers of her blouse, and how they affect (how he affects) the terrain beneath. That might be more predictable, especially given how her design fits her designs. And yet. Is she in a hurry? He isn't. Yet. Hurry? No. Still fascinated, yes. She has a vantage point from which to observe but the precarious way in which they are upright means all she can do is stay there, hands either around his neck or on his shoulders, making sure she stays up there with him down there exploring the fabric of her blouse, and the translucency inherent in such a thin weave. Hands, mouth, touch, each different sensation elicits a slightly different answer, be it a shiver, a soft sound escaping, or a readjustment in her weight and the telltale impatience for more in the roll of her hips and the way her back arches. The movement of her hands doesn't go unremarked, this isn't one-way; he reacts too, unbidden flex of msucle and lower-voiced sounds and always and ever with focus. It could be dreamlike, if it weren't so earthy. And there aren't words, not real words, not even when after all there is more. And more. He'd dishevel her, not just her hair or that blouse, decide and decide until eventually he decides to set her on the edge of her own bed and divest her of all she doesn't need. And himself, though that isn't very much at all. And give them both what they do. (Except that she's giving him, too.) .Afterwards, he's almost entirely still clothed, leaning into and over her, not quite laughing and a little, boyishly, breathless. It's harder to see from here the slate of her eyes; N'rov has to free a hand to brush a dark curl away, and still there's the matter of light. She's mostly on her bed, her legs splayed a little off, one foot on the ledge of the frame beneath her mattress. One arm over her face, which obscures those slate eyes even more, and the other fluttering about her chest. Her still bloused chest. She may have lost her pants and undergarments when he made his decisions, but the translucent blouse is still there though the pendant is askew, near her cheek rather than settled into that curve between her breasts. The hand to her curls stiffens her body for a bare second, broken by the sudden movement by that hand fluttering about her chest to catch his hand and draw it up to her lips to nibble and kiss along knuckles and tuck it possessively against one breast. She's not laughing, the fast-paced breathing might have something to do with that, but there's a laugh vibrating in her body beneath him, tingling just beneath her skin. "Are you hungry? I'm hungry. I mean, for food." In case it could be taken in another way. .That catches his breath once more, and it's a good place to put his hand should she want him distracted; its back presses to feel her breath race if not her heart. N'rov teases, low, "Not going to eat me right up?" His knuckles wiggle. Then he's straightening, not yet all the way, looking for some handy cloth. It's that or the sheet or his shirt. "Oh," says the goldrider, her voice languid and drawling out that syllable as long as the sudden stretch that claims her body and shifts any of his touching of her, "We have all night for that." Irianke's smile is crooked once more, amused rather than sly, and she too, pushes herself up, curiously watching what he does. "I have some fruit, crackers, no cheese though," alas. Her leg draws up, sliding up along the side of his body in a very deliberate touch. And that brings out his chuckle, at least after the quick flick of gray gaze, and he follows it with the purposeful slide of his thumb where she's had his touch travel; in the end, with Irianke's room that tidy, N'rov settles for just tucking himself away. The belt can't be allowed to just flap around, but as a show of dishabille, he doesn't tuck in his shirt. It's when he's fastening the former that she gets distracting again, and he looks: leg. Irianke-leg. It calls to be lifted up, supported by one hand, so he can set a not-quite-kiss upon its instep. She has a plethora of distraction techniques, little things to keep someone interested or distracted, looking this way rather than that, but here, right now, Irianke isn't doing something else with her other hand while her foot gets attention. Another languid smile, happy and satiated, for now, responds to this new sensation with him and once it's done, she eases up to sit and then slides off the bed. Her blouse barely hangs low enough to cover anything, but a lack of shame has her walking into the main part of her weyr and opening up a bread box to find crackers and three apples, one of which is held by her teeth as she brings her wares back to the bed. "Not tired?" This in and of itself could be something that fascinates her, along with everything earlier. By then he's more put together, sitting (half-crouched, really, given a bed that low) with his forearms resting on his knees, looking out into the distance; it doesn't mean N'rov doesn't look back up, all of a sudden, at what should have been Irianke's second or third audible footstep. When he does, he grins; he reaches, too, for an apple (that apple; the one she'd had with her mouth). "I should be," he admits along the way. "It's like the klah before the crash. Why aren't you?" "Tired?" Who me? Irianke smiles once the apple is taken out of her mouth and into his hand, teeth marks shallow into the fruit's flesh. "I generally find myself unable to sleep after such pleasures. I sit, work, and relive moments and remember touches and how a partner did this and how it made me feel and how if I did something, how my partners react." The goldrider slides herself onto the bed, on her side, head held aloft by a hand and planted elbow. She picks through the choices of crackers and selects one with poppy seeds speckled in it. "All that and work," that's what the bronzerider catches on. N'rov turns the apple around, seeing its marks, and when he bites the crunch is decisive; the palm of his hand's tucked, automatic, to catch what juice there is. There's no rush for the crackers. "I'd have thought," unless it's a different sort of work? "one or the other would be... distracting." His glance to her is sidelong, a smile playing about his mouth. Irianke laughs, but doesn't answer the non-question. "It's been a long time since I've felt this relaxed," admits the goldrider, in lieu of an answer. A small bone thrown that ends up paired with the way her knee bends, drawing that blouse upward and flexes the muscles in her thighs. He chuckles. "Imagine." It's less a reflexive word than responsive, considering her and her flex and once more her eyes. It's easy to turn toward her, then, crooking his own knee onto the bed to make that happen; N'rov's slow grin is a little crooked too, his voice low when he speaks. "Now, how much credit should we give the queens." "The credit is all due Niahvth," replies Irianke, neither arch nor completely neutral, but some status in between. "And the settlement of leadership. It's a difficult thing being in limbo, that uncertainty of whether this is how your life will be forever, or if it will change. Do you move forward with your life and act as you would, or do you reserve your energies and act as you should?" Irianke lounges, one foot sliding u along the length of her nude leg, toes paused at her knees before continuing up as far as her flexibility will go. "Does it have to be," N'rov's is a low laugh, too. His gaze drops to the path of her foot, slide and up and up... and then up to look to her gaze; "Were they so different?" "Was what so different?" Irianke drops onto her back, head cradled by her short curls. That leg slides back down and she looks up at the ceiling in that vague post-coital luxuriating sort of way. There's another crunch, strong teeth meeting the apple's flesh; then N'rov sets it aside, brushing off his hands, rubbing any residual juice away before shifting further down on the bed to seek to borrow her foot and unhurriedly rub that. "The shoulds and the woulds, I suppose." It's just a taste of the apple. He hasn't swallowed its seeds. "Shoulds. Woulds. Coulds?" Irianke shifts when he catches her feet, that twitch of impending ticklishness at the ready to explode, until the pressure of his fingers and the unhurried pace shoos the threat away. "You don't think they're different?" "Sometimes they are," N'rov's easygoing about agreeing. "Sometimes," he's kind to instep and eventually heel and those tendons that radiate across the top of the foot, "They don't have to be. Maybe," humorously, "that's easy for me to say, beyond the whole by-definition thing." Irianke looks thoughtfully from the ceiling down towards where N'rov tends to her foot, creating a double chin that is not normally there. It's so flattering, especially paired with her somewhat sad smile. "In my life, the shoulds and woulds don't normally mean the same thing. In this case, being the caretaker versus the visionary is a hard place to stand. That limbo is," she stretches her foot in his hand and starts to pull the knee towards her chest gently, not to dislodge his hand but to draw him closer, "Stressful." Caretaker gets its own slow stroke, half-repeated under his breath; visionary another; and then she's pulling and N'rov's leaning, not quite tipped, towards Irianke. Leaning. There's a warm crook to his mouth; "Yes?" "Yes," is her own, one-word, hushed response, placing her foot against and then over his shoulder to hook against his neck and draw him even closer. It's a while before they resurface, spent in a graveyard of crumbs and pieces of fruit where they shouldn't be. For while she controlled much of it, the pace, depth, climax, it's his words that goad her to speak to state explicitly and watch and feel them obeyed and then not obeyed when not verbalized prolongs what might have been a much shorter, less intimate affair. It's considerably later when N'rov extricates himself from the sleepy ease of that warm bed and warm woman, and pads through the pre-dawn chill to the outer room. There, it's... not so cold. He stops. He peers around. But whatever minions had freshened the fire and brought the klah, who had stolen away the abandoned towel he'd have wrapped around his hips, either they aren't here now or they're hiding so well that he can pretend they never were. The letters sit there right where they had been. He doesn't look at them either. He walks by the letters to make quick use of her bath's conveniences; walks by them again to pour the klah; walks by them a third time... and exhales, and stashes them in his satchel without looking even a little. It's when he's returning to her inner room, with klah and with his expression wiped clean, that... suddenly it isn't. Because Vhaeryth. Because not just Vhaeryth. "Fuck." Roszadyth's awakening ignites Niahvth, though not in any mate-related territorial way. She has her own impending clutch and a mate far far away. Content? Yes. Still? No. The senior queen rises from her ledge while the beasts blood and lands in the sands, claiming it first. Her talons touched first. She was here first. Irianke, roused more by the movements of her dragon, and whatever internal monologue she's sharing with her rider, walks out, without the grace of the sheet and stands in the door frame, looking to N'rov for a long, blurrily blinking moment before clarity hits and... she looks resigned and waggles her fingers at the man to go already, her day starting off way earlier than planned. First. N'rov isn't first for anything right now, not even a clue; he does give Irianke a look, half-unwittingly comical, and waggle-flaps his free hand's fingers down south. "Pants." They're important! He strides for her and the room and will just... do something with the klah, hand it to her if she'll take it, find those pants and not much more before he's claiming a kiss and then klah and out he goes, he's gone, leaving all the flotsam and jetsam behind. Vhaeryth's already gone. His rider mutters, stalking. Once, he laughs. Chaos of a first flight reigns outside, while order dictates Irianke's direction. She does not look to her junior to guide her through this new and unmagical experience, leaving Farideh to less tense hands, for tense Irianke is. Whether it's keeping Niahvth calm on the sands or her own myriad of thoughts to run through, the tenseness manifests more obviously when an assistant arrives to clean the weyr and the goldrider's bark is sharp, particularly when the girl starts towards N'rov's belongings. "Leave them. In fact, just strip the bed and put new sheets on, and leave. Tell the Headwoman to put the wine and ale out, and tell Isleen to forget about my lunch today. I'll manage." Her knuckles whiten as a new wave of nauseous lust sweeps over her, and likely the young woman. "Take the rest of the day off," she says, more kindly. She, like many, can only pretend to work at this point and the same page is "read" over and over again until the news that Roszadyth is caught and by whom comes through Niahvth, which has the goldrider rising to pace in front of the hearth. "Shit!" Outside, it's not a clear route from the guest weyr to Niahvth's new ledge; there are other riders, lost, and others all too happy to... find them. N'rov doesn't dodge them all, for the most part walks through them despite the enticement of rain-wet skin. His hands are free, without even a 'skin of wine, as he makes for the stairs of the... not that ledge. Not that ledge. The new one. He's hunting, his eyes dark with it as he comes into view. Not for the hearth. Not for the ale. Not for his things. Her. It's not entirely unexpected. In fact, Irianke hasn't changed into actual clothing, a thin robe belted loosely over her body sufficing. There's likely the expectation that the owner of the untouched things over by the hearth will return. However, N'rov's arrival coincides with that shit and rather than reclined on a couch waiting, he finds Irianke's back retreating in a pace that will whirl around... now and find him there, eyes suddenly blank, blinking, and trying to reel in whatever conversation she and Niahvth are spiraling down into. Fucking Lythronath. No, that's not right. Quickly, Irianke gaps the distance, shedding her robe along the way, and presses herself and her fumbling fingers into his wetness. It's a distance that N'rov's cutting off even as she does, there that much sooner, that much faster, lifting her up and there's got to be a wall where that falling robe won't catch on fire. He has to take her, now, none too careful about that or her back, and she can take it out on him in kind. Fucking... not Lythronath. But now. If before was about testing limits and finding pleasures, this is about the now, driven by the same lust sweeping the entirety of the Weyr. Where they go? In the middle of the room, against a chair, somewhere, anywhere, does it really matter? Where they end up? Likely not very far from where they started, on the floor just far enough from the hearth that it's a little cold and very much not good for her back or his knees. Her breathing is ragged, harsh for the intense physical nature of this coupling and she trembles beneath him. She's trembling. N'rov's breath is harsh. "Why tonight," he says down to her, that urgency not gone away but transmuted. His hand is still on her, and lower, heated where the stone is chill. "Why did you call us tonight." "Why not?" is the glib answer, a steadying breath taken afterwards and her hands pressing into his chest. Irianke isn't moving him, she's touching, feeling, and exploring his chest in a way she hadn't before. Ultimately, she lifts her body enough to gap any distance and bring her lips to his ear, "You should be asking why at all." His breath sharpens, abdominals hollowing up. "Tonight," N'rov bites out; he rocks against Irianke, into her, not away even from her words. Not back to glib yet. It's a rare moment, Irianke's slate eyes going distant and looking past N'rov to the ceiling, her hands going still. It's a rare moment, not for her actions or stillness, but for what she says, "Because I thought Roszadyth would rise tonight." Amending. "Last night." It's a rare moment for the simple honesty that is uttered and is in the eyes that now seek his. She's right; now N'rov has to ask, "Why?" His breath is stilled, after, though soon he must resume; his eyes are a different slate, slate-gray, dark and open in more than one way. Irianke's response is immediate, no pause between his why and her, "Why tonight? Why at all?" "Why, when she." Just as immediate, until he stops. "To win." Simple again, Irianke sinks back onto the stone and shifts her hips beneath him, a leg sliding up and then down, stilling once more. "Why?" But it's half on a laugh now. N'rov's hand knows to follow her leg, now. "No." That's enough. It's kind though, with one of Irianke's hands cupping his chin. "I'll answer that some other time. Not now. But I promise to be honest." Which is a funny thing to say, if well, honesty is a problem for her. "Will you." N'rov's looking at Irianke when he says this, and something of his tone deepens that promise of hers; it's not solely in acceptance that he tilts his head a moment later, though, but to nip at the apple of her thumb, and hold. "All right." He has a different suggestion then, different pleasure than just stone, before he'll reclaim his things and go.

Comments

Jo (14:03, 8 October 2015 (PDT)) said...

This was verrrrry interesting. There always seem to be some calculating reason for Irianke's actions. Even in regards to sex. It's something she and Jo have widely in common. Also, Aishani feels!

Roz (14:22, 8 October 2015 (PDT)) said...

I'm so, so, so glad Farideh know, and may never know, this happened. >.>

Roz (14:24, 8 October 2015 (PDT)) said...