NorCon MUSH - User contributions [en]

Logs:Sweeten the Pot

2016-03-11T02:11:06Z

D'vro: Created page with "{{Log |who=D'vro, N'rov |what=Discussing games and stuff. |involves=Fort Weyr |day=20 |month=3 |turn=40 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gamedate=2016.03.08 |quote=Still, the weather's w..."

{{Log
|who=D'vro, N'rov
|what=Discussing games and stuff.
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=20
|month=3
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.03.08
|quote=Still, the weather's warming, the weyrlings haven't killed or been killed, and neither have our Holders.
|mentions=Kh'tyr, Olivya, Mirinda, W'leri,
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon d'vro.jpg, Icon n'rov.png,
|log=It's ''easy'' to drop by that place that doesn't even have a name, and not out of any highfalutin' edginess either; easy to slouch on a couch; easy to toast toes by the fire. N'rov's been here since toward the middle of the evening, but that commandeered pitcher still has some glassfuls in it, never mind the other riders (a couple Onyx, a couple Malachite, a couple others already gone) who're just getting up with a collective groan. Maybe it's not their first. The bronzerider's sprawled back, boots digging their heels into the old rug, gray eyes aglint in the firelight as he toasts them on their way.

For the sort of man who will make up work for himself to do, spending any down time in a public setting can be kind of hit or miss. Tonight Slate's wingleader has wandered in with a couple of his riders, one smiling greenrider with a familiar hand on his arm. It doesn't seem as though she brought him here to hang on herself, though, because she and the other rider break away. No doubt only after D'vro has assured them that he won't simply leave again once they've turned their backs. It leaves him free to notice N'rov, however, and it should come as no surprise that he gravitates toward the other man. "You look comfortable," he notes in greeting.

"I ''am''," is the lazily drawled reply; whatever N'rov's had on his plate, he's left it far behind. N'rov invites, "Pull up a chair," only it's the other side of his particular couch that gets the nod instead. "What did she do to get you free? Bribes? Blackmail? A question for me?"

D'vro glances back toward the greenrider even as he starts for the other side of the couch. He sinks into it with a sigh through his nose, considering the questions before offering, "She threatened to send her proddy friend to my weyr later if I didn't take some time to enjoy myself." The last two words have a certain emphasis, like she clearly doesn't realize just how the bronzerider typically enjoys himself. "I don't entirely trust that she won't do it anyway," he admits with a frown.

N'rov's got a smirk for the other man, one that turns appreciative as his gaze swings the greenrider's way: ''plotting''. He eases forward enough to snag a glass that looks reasonably clean (though the lighting is not the brightest) to fill for the other man. "Nor would I. Here," before he tops off his own. "Still, the weather's warming, the weyrlings haven't killed or been killed, and neither have our Holders." He doesn't knock on wood. "What do you say, up for those games in a month or two?"

A drink isn't always something D'vro will allow himself, but right now it seems to be quite appreciated, given the circumstances. "Thanks." He takes a healthy swallow, then, "I've enjoyed keeping an eye on the weyrlings. Your weyrlingmasters seem plenty competent." High praise! "I'm looking forward to the games. It's always interesting to see where the wings are strongest. And weakest, I suppose. A little healthy competition never hurts, either." Even ''he'' can see the benefit of that.

Praised enough to get an amused, ''pleased'' lift of N'rov's brow; "They haven't killed each other either," he murmurs. For the games, "Good to have you on board. Anything ''you'd'' like to see to sweeten the pot? Make it exciting for would-be winners, instead of just not wanting to lose."

The first earns a proper grin from D'vro before he's taking another drink. "I'm not sure I'm your typical would-be winner. The idea of relaxing expectations isn't exactly a relaxing thought. Though I'm sure there are some in Slate that would enjoy the prospect." Probably more than he's willing to acknowledge, admittedly. "One thing people will always enjoy, however, is a raise. However slight. I've no idea if there's any budget for it, granted."

"Slacking still up to the wingleader," N'rov assures. "It's also worth framing it as a trial run instead of permanent," a short laugh, "at least, 'permanent until the next Weyrleader.' See how it goes, and so forth. Raise," he wets his throat as he leans back, comfortable, "is unlikely; ''bonus'', that depends on what Mirinda makes of our finances. First in the lunch line? Delivery of breakfast to one's weyr for a month? A song commissioned in their honor? We have ''options'', D'vro. Well; 'we' meaning you and me and W'leri and everyone. My thought is to keep Onyx," tiny wing that it is, "out of the prizes. Anything else you'd like to see happen, keep our boys and girls busy out of Fall? How's your family these days, come to that?"

"If games are likely to be an ongoing occurrence, depending on whether you can maintain your position as Weyrleader," it's a little casually challenging, friend to friend, "its prizes would be more meaningful if they're not lasting. Something that can be given to the winners, then taken away and given to the successive winners. A song would work less well than a spot in line or delivered meals, for instance." D'vro lifts his glass to N'rov before another drink. Something for him to think about, anyway. As for family, "They're well enough. I've honestly not had much contact with anyone the last few months." And that must not bother any involved parties overly much.

This laugh is just as short, but sincere; N'rov's grin hides out in his eyes and the slow cadence of his voice. "Everything can be taken away," he exaggerates grandly and yet only a little. "''But'' only after, what, forty Turns or so? Possibly forty-five. In any case, you're right, it just doesn't have the right ring to it. No disclaimers allowed. Breakfast, a none-too-early breakfast, is much better." He considers the other man anew. "They can't," though D'vro's not even three Turns older than he, "be young."

"I'm sure we'll all come to some conclusion that sounds good. Perhaps you should open it up to the riders themselves. Let them suggest what might drive them to want to win." The source is always a good place to get information, after all. D'vro finishes off the rest of his glass, letting his gaze seek out his own riders. Or at least attempt to. They're quite happy with enjoying themselves, like he's supposed to be doing. "''I'm'' not young. It's difficult to come to terms with that sometimes."

"I ''like'' that," and the mere prospect curls N'rov's smile wider. But as D'vro goes on, "How's that? Not as though you're old."

"Not old," D'vro agrees. "But not young. It doesn't always seem like ''so'' long ago that Colsoth and I were weyrlings ourselves. But he's just turned twenty two turns a few months back." Which, obviously, means it ''was'' some time ago. "You never feel your age through Vhaeryth?"

"What's my age?" N'rov says, wry but not facetious. "I mean, look at N'muir; guess that's my baseline even now. He's in his sixties," and retired with his weyrmate after his health gave out, true, "B'doran's almost there. Vhaeryth's twelve, that's all. We have a long way to go." Which doesn't stop him from eyeing D'vro, trying the other man's idea on for size.

"I didn't mean that ''you're'' old." D'vro must think this is what he's supposed to say in this particular situation. "Certainly neither of us are past our primes. That would be depressing, I think." So he won't think about that. "A long way to go," he repeats. "I like that. And I think I might slip out while she's busy," he adds with a gesture toward the greenrider who had a hand in bringing him here. "Don't stay too comfortable, N'rov." Good advice for any man. D'vro is getting up, setting aside his glass.

"Never," is N'rov's natural assurance, and that much more wry for all that. "I'll even distract her for you, should she get wind of it." How subtle can D'vro be in his escape? Regardless, it seems N'rov has his back.
}}

Logs:No Other Options

2016-01-24T23:55:30Z

D'vro: Created page with "{{Log |who=D'vro, Reston |what=Chatting over wine. |where=Glass Fountain, Fort Weyr |day=28 |month=10 |turn=39 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gamedate=2016.01.18 |quote=I'll admit I'm..."

{{Log
|who=D'vro, Reston
|what=Chatting over wine.
|where=Glass Fountain, Fort Weyr
|day=28
|month=10
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.01.18
|quote=I'll admit I'm thankful you survived for somewhat selfish reasons.
|mentions=Riva
|type=Log
|ooc=Backdated.
|icons-new=Icon d'vro.jpg
|log=Relaxing: it's Healer's orders, and apparently that Healer is intending to actually follow up. Reston is much more reliably at breakfast than at any meal that happens after he starts working, though frequently only long enough to grab a pastry, a biscuit, something carb-y, maybe a piece of fruit to take with him. This morning, one other errand--dropping by D'vro's table long enough to offer an invitation to grab a drink that evening? He even manages to deliver the request like a totally normal human being would do. Look at him, being functional and sociable, Riva would be proud. Of course, come that evening, he arrives at the Glass Fountain early, only to settle in at a table with a barely-touched beverage and a book. He may not, after he's gotten into reading, even recall that he's expecting company.

D'vro is neither late nor early when he comes to the Glass Fountain that evening. He's quite punctual, coming first to the table where he finds Reston so he can address the healter, "I'm going to get a bottle for the table. Do you prefer reds or whites? Or something else?" The last is almost an afterthought as he glances at the beverage already on the table, like he's only just remembering that some people don't like wine at all.

"What?" It's real surprise, although maybe it's for the topic of this suddenly-arrived conversation, rather than D'vro being there at all. Or maybe Reston really is just surprised to remember that there are other people alive. He eyes his glass--wistfully?--and frowns. See the gears turn: what's he supposed to do in this situation? "Either. Red. Red would be fine." Perhaps some vague cultural memory. Is red wine supposed to be good for you? Something like that. Then: "I wasn't sure if you might wind up... busy, so I thought I might as well get something to tide me over."

It's fortunate that Reston continues speaking because D'vro looks as though he's about to repeat himself, no doubt word for word. "Red, then. I'll be back in a moment." The bronzerider even offers a brief smile before he's continuing on toward the bar. He returns with an opened bottle and two wine glasses. "Did you really think I'd simply not show up if something else required my attention?" He sets a glass down in front of where he'll be sitting in a moment, sets the other down near Reston and then pours a small amount in each. Then he settles himself in across from the healer.

"I assume you're a busy man. I..." Reston pauses for a moment to regard the glass, sip from it. At least he doesn't make any kind of a displeased face. It must at least be tolerable. "I used to be. Riva gave me a firelizard egg so I could let her know if I was going to be late. I tried to keep it, but eventually it stopped coming back. What I mean to say is, I wouldn't have held it against you. Your work is important." Another sip. "Though I'm never quite sure what a wingleader does, in this day and age?" It could be an insult, but the end is prompting.

"Busy," D'vro repeats that word, considering it even as he starts to nod in agreement. "Yes. But that's no excuse to be inconsiderate." He picks up his glass, swirls it a moment, then takes a small drink. "In this day and age, a wingleader's primary purpose is to find relevance for their wing. We don't all define relevance the same way, of course, and that's probably for the best. You were quite ill, yes?" He already knows the answer to that. "Were you present enough to make that experience useful?"

"What one can do when there are no other options is... remarkable. Though there are swaths of time I remember only from my notes." Reston is now much more solemn, talking about it. "I would be examining patients while dictating correspondence, with a young journeyman who was thankfully able to make me sound properly coherent." A pause. "Until we lost him. Boll was a bad place to be." He turns back to his wine glass, and this time it's a longer drink; maybe he is properly enjoying it, now that he's had the chance. "I'm lucky Riva lets me go anywhere alone, now. She seems to think I might relapse just from too much time spent compiling data."

"It's fascinating." D'vro seems fascinated. At least that's probably his fascinated face, studying Reston with a certain sort of curiosity. "I'll admit I'm thankful you survived for somewhat selfish reasons. I'm not sure what we would have done with Riva had the case been otherwise. She seems to care for you a great deal." It's kind of a question. At the very least, open to being educated otherwise.

When Reston colors, it's mostly his ears going red. "Yes, well." It is a compliment he's being paid, of a kind, isn't it? "Do you have sisters? Brothers? I have one younger sister, in her twenties, but she's off, has a family of her own. I suppose Riva and I mostly have each other." Whose fault is that, Reston? "I did make the attempt," he adds, "but it didn't work out." He talks as though that's all ancient history, of course.

"A handful of half-relations," D'vro offers dismissively. "None of whom I know any better than I know you." That doesn't bother the bronzerider, though. Sentimentality doesn't appear to be one of his vices. He takes an idle drink from his glass, then, "Didn't work out. Is it safe to presume she didn't pass from illness, in that case?"

"Oh, no. No, thank heavens." Whatever might be said of Reston, he doesn't seem inclined to wish that on even an ex-wife. Either he's a saint, or he takes his job very seriously. Probably more the latter, since being on this subject has him through the first glass quicker than he might have intended, and he eyes it reproachfully, and then thoughtfully, but he doesn't actually move to pour another. "She married a Harper. They're very happy. I think. I don't speak to her anymore." Look, over there, an excuse to change the subject! Wait, never mind, there isn't one, so he'll just have to do it anyway. "So, if your job is to find relevance--what kind of relevance are you looking for?" Work. Work is safe.

"By all means, help yourself," he says after he's watched Reston finish off the rest of his wine. D'vro is kind enough not to press for further information about either the wife or the Harper, and in fact probably even prefers the change of subject. "A dragonrider's duty is to protect Pern from the many dangers of Thread. And, as you well know," or at least he assumes he ought to know, "an Interval leaves something to be desired insofar as our usefulness is concerned. Upholding our traditions is important, of course. They need to be carried through the hopefully countless generations until the Red Star's return. But we need other avenues of usefulness to maintain both our livelihood and our relationships with Holders and Crafters." He adds a vague gesture toward the Healer, one such crafter.

Once it's offered, Reston still delays, but only for another thirty seconds or so before he reaches for the bottle to freshen up his glass. Just another half. That's all. His attention is more on the glass than on D'vro as he's talking, but when he does look over--at first, it's appraising. Then, though the smile is a modest thing, approving. "In light of recent events, I can't help but think that swift transit and reliable remote communication are invaluable in emergency situations."

"Swift transit seems to be our primary source of usefulness to those outside of Weyrs, in emergency situations or otherwise. Communication is rather straightforward, depending on the dragon. Unfortunately--" D'vro pauses, internalizes for a moment, then continues more diplomatically, "Well, the Weyr is rather protective of its dragons and putting them or their riders in situations of unnecessary risk, like proximity to a fatal illness, can be somewhat controversial." Judging by his expression, the irony of their primary purpose during a Pass being inherently risky hasn't escaped him. "If you could have avoided being ill by not being in Boll, would you have?"

"Of course not." As though there's no other possible answer Reston could give, but his face doesn't exactly show surprise for having been asked. Perhaps it's come up before. "I might have ended up there in either case. The possibility of infection was always there. We didn't expect it to be so bad, but--what else would I have done? I've certainly been careful, but I've had firehead. I've had one awful gastro infection that we thought was spreading from kitchen contamination but turned out to be in the water. Things happen. If I don't go, who will?"

D'vro finishes off the rest of his glass while Reston speaks, sets it down carefully on the table, but doesn't refill it. "It's admirable, actually. I'm glad a man like you found his way to the Healer craft. There are times when having another mind connected to yours can be somewhat... limiting, I suppose."

"I am an asset to my craft. To Pern." To which Reston makes a face, as though he's been told this before, and doesn't care for it one bit. "They always say that," he explains, "just as they're trying to convince me to leave the work in the field to others, and go back to the Hall to teach. This is the compromise, of course. Four shifts in the infirmary a week, and the rest of the time writing, and I put off the inevitable a few more years. I don't care for teaching. I don't feel qualified to teach. I hardly know anything, at this point. Boll proved it."

"You ''are'' an asset to your craft, Reston. Undeniably." There's no way the Healer could convince D'vro otherwise. "But I can't fault you for wanting to focus on your work. There are certainly people who are more suited to educating others. I think I'd perhaps like to be one of them, but I don't think that I am."

Reston peers over his glass at the bronzerider before he sips from it. Going more moderately, now. "Surely, leading a wing involves an element of... guidance. I have to admit that I'm more a source of consternation for the apprentices than I am any sort of wisdom." There's enough of a smile that it could be a self-deprecating joke. "You seem suited to it. Riva seems to like you. I mean--professionally, of course."

D'vro considers the bottle of wine for a few moments, glancing at Reston across from him before reaching to pour himself another reasonable amount. "There's a rather large difference between educating and leading. I did spend some time as an assistant weyrlingmaster in my youth, but it only convinced me that I'm more suited to the latter than the former in the end." He takes a small drink before touching on, "Thank you. I'm quite fond of her as well. Your sister is a hard-working woman. Very open-minded. It will be useful for Slate, going forward."

The way the Healer beams at all of that, one would think the compliments were for him--or for a daughter, perhaps? Something Reston could more reasonably take some personal responsibility for, anyway, virtues which he had labored for or instilled. "She would be pleased to hear that, I think. We share some of the same faults," though he won't at least aloud try to claim the virtues, "but I suppose she manages to find her own way to keep up the pace. She's much more organized than I am. But you'd get all the advantage of that without having to worry about her having fits over whether you've folded a shirt wrong."

He seems a bit fascinated by the idea. "I don't think anyone's ever been upset over the way I've kept anything in my weyr." Certainly not out loud where he could hear it. Though one might imagine D'vro wouldn't have noticed even if someone ''were'' being critical of something like that.

"You don't have a sister," Reston points out, totally reasonable, also polite enough not to point out whatever other potential visitors D'vro might or might not have. "We're both fussy about our own things. I don't often go up to her weyr, though. She's down to see me... most days, seeing as mine is where I do the bulk of my writing. I might wish for a separate office, but then I'd probably have more people wandering in than just her. The Hall has made it clear that they would prefer I manage to publish something, even if it's preliminary, sometime... well, before the next Pass."

"That seems reasonably manageable. Do you find that Riva's intrusion is productive? Or do you consider it more of a hindrance to your writing? I've considered promoting her. Perhaps giving her more work would make your life easier, hm? But I'm not entirely sure that she'd appreciate the offer." D'vro seems oddly fond of the idea, like the brownrider is some whimsical creature he could never truly understand because she might turn down the option of more responsibilities.

Productive: Reston has to muse on that word. When he finishes the second glass, this time he doesn't seem to even consider refilling it. "I don't know if she would," he admits, finally, after thinking for far longer than one would ordinarily pause mid-conversation. "Appreciate it, I mean. I think it's better to be... seeing more of her. After Boll. Better for both of us. For the moment. Sometimes she seems to be a pest, but there's so much that I don't know how I'd manage without her."

"Good, then," says D'vro like it's been decided, in that case. "Very good. It's fortunate that the two of you have each other." It's probably all the man can think to say for a relationship he can't relate to, but he seems genuine all the same. "This has been quite pleasant, but I suppose there are things I should get back to. Would you care to keep the bottle?" he asks with a glance toward it.

Faced with that prospect, Reston gives the bottle a look like it might actually be a live tunnelsnake, already raising his hands, palm out, to ward it off. "No, I don't--I mean, I've had plenty, I think." Two whole glasses. "I certainly don't need any more than that. But it's a very generous offer, thank you." Fold them back on the table, suddenly looking self-conscious, then busies them with collecting up his book, checking to see that he's marked his place properly. "It was good to get to talk. Catch up. We should..." He clearly isn't very familiar with the script for this sort of thing. "We should do this again sometime."

"We will. Definitely." D'vro reaches for the bottle. He'll just take that with him, in that case. Or give it to someone else along the way. Either way, the bronzerider smiles at the healer, "Until next time. Take care of yourself, Master Reston."
}}

Logs:Nice Southern Gentlemen

2016-01-21T18:09:47Z

D'vro: Created page with "{{Log |who=D'vro, Sully |what=D'vro and Sully talk about the appeal, or lack thereof, in games of chance. |where=Commons Cavern, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=6 |month=11..."

{{Log
|who=D'vro, Sully
|what=D'vro and Sully talk about the appeal, or lack thereof, in games of chance.
|where=Commons Cavern, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=6
|month=11
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.01.20
|quote=I'm not sure targeting nice people to play a game called Liar's Dice sounds entirely fair.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon d'vro.jpg,
|log=As dusk sets in, day jobs have ended, leaving a small bustle in the Commons as residents turn in, go to eat, or hover before nightly duties. At one of the corner tables, an informal game of dice has broken out. Sully hovers on a tall stool nearby, letting its height buoy hers into a better view of the action. Her legs are daintily crossed and, as she leans to look, she's got both hands at one side of her head, fixing some imaginary flaw in her impeccably done hair. The wooden dice clatter. She tries to catch the eye of the most recent winner, her own half-lidded. One hand drops to pull experimentally at the one around her neck. Does it have holes? The pattern fading? Maybe he could afford a new one, now, with all this happening.

Rarely seen playing games of chance, D'vro isn't making a change of that habit now. He's standing nearby, though, arms crossed over his chest while he watches the dice and the people who keep throwing them with a rather serious expression on his long face. His blue-green eyes lift now and again, his attention catching on Sully, then briefly the man she's looking at before returning to her with a slightly arched brow. Surely D'vro wouldn't judge someone in silence!

It isn't until Sully's lost the attention of the gambler-- to go back to his game-- that she seems to feel any sort of non-judgmental prickle at the back of her neck. Hair all coiffed now, her hands fall to her chest, crossing. She finds D'vro after a moment, but passes up the chance to eye him properly up and down. Instead, that arched eyebrow is returned. After a second, she moves her eyes pointedly to the empty stool next to her, and then back to D'vro.

The bronzerider's expression is neutral, bordering on pensive, when she finally looks at him. At that point, he's practically looking through her, lost in thought. It's the motion of her hands, or her head, that draws his attention back to focus. He eyes the empty stool, looks at the gamblers, back at Sully, then starts making his way around toward where she's sitting. "Are you enjoying yourself?" is D'vro's genuinely curious question once he gets near enough to ask it.

"I suppose," supplies Sully honestly, her lips curling into a half-smile before the expression falls away. Now, when the dice fall, she blinks slowly but manages to keep the otherwise full of her attention on D'vro. Her hands slide out to gently wiggle fingers, then return. "Been canning food for days. Nice reason to be busy. And to relax afterward." Talking now, she's quite a bit of an accent to her; unabashedly Monacoan. "And you, sir?" A hand escapes a second time to now pat the seat beside her.

He leans against the stool he's been offered more than he sits in it properly, arms crossing again once he's at rest. Given he's a Southern man, and more or less sounds it, her accent doesn't earn much notice. "I can't say I entirely understand the appeal of these sorts of games." D'vro's gaze turns from her toward the gamblers. If he stares at it long enough, he might be able to figure it out. "Cards are more interesting. There's more to it than throwing down some dice and hoping you get the right numbers."

"Hope is interesting," opines Sully with a light cock of her head, not entirely invested in her initial answer. More so: "Chance is excitin'." Far fingers walk slowly down her leg. They haven't far to go, but she makes the most of it, eventually laying a palm along her thigh. "And," with a bit of mischief at the corner of her mouth, Sully's cheek turns conspiratorially towards D'vro. Her hand closest to him braces on the counter behind his stool, aiding her little lean that tests his space, "It all requires a bit ''less'' hard thinkin'." At least the way these residents are currently playing.

"It doesn't require any thinking at all," D'vro counters, evidently more concerned with understanding why people are excited by chance than the fact that Sully might be encroaching on his personal space. He doesn't seem to have a very sensitive bubble in that regard. "Besides, wouldn't you rather be playing than watching?"

Sully's soft, interrupted, laugh doesn't contradict him, but neither does she follow-up. She lets the noise of the game-- somebody groans, and is patted on the back by his fellow-- fill their conversational silence a small bit while contemplating. Since she's already leaning, she has to tip her head back quite a bit to look him in the eye. "Why, should I rather?"

Her laugh draws his attention back to her with more focus, meeting her gaze with no hesitation in the directness or relative proximity. "Isn't it more exciting to be doing the thing than watching it? Or--" D'vro pauses, eyes narrowing in quick thought before he decides, "No, you prefer watching."

So accused, Sully smiles close-mouthed at him with a bit of affected guilt: ''caught''. Her expression softens when she looks back over the players, most of whom have devolved into jesting and reminiscing more than dedicated rolling. "It interests me," she admits, low. Her hand pushes away from the counter. She leans, now, only over her own legs, fingers lacing below the knee. "Sometimes." A short pause, then. "Other times, I invite nice Southern gentlemen to try Liar's Dice with me."

"''Do'' you." It's still a question, more or less. Maybe some suspicion, too. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with that one. I can't say I'm very familiar with many games beyond poker and darts." D'vro will give her the benefit of the doubt, though. "Can you instruct me on how to play?"

Sully's little shrug is basically a ''yes'', despite the nature of the thing. Yes, she does. Except, "Didn't say ''this'' was one of those times," calls him out with a half-look. What chance she missed before to scope him out, she takes at this time, critically eyeballing him up and down. "Hmm." Just as carefully, "''Are'' y'nice?"

"Oh," is all D'vro has for the first. He doesn't seem surprised, though. There's a good chance he misreads things like this on a regular basis. "I wouldn't claim to be a gentleman, I suppose, but I generally consider myself a pleasant person. Decent, at least." He doesn't return the eyeballing, but he does point out, "I'm not sure targeting nice people to play a game called Liar's Dice sounds entirely fair."

She's nodding contentedly along with his personal assessment, until his point brings out another of those quiet, effortless laughs. Sully smiles easily, like it's what she naturally wants to do in any situation, and dimples strongly. "Well, it's a bit like poker, I suppose. Everyone's got five dice, covered by a cup," she demonstrates with her own hands, one over the other, "And you take turns bidding on how many of a face value you think are represented on the table." Her tiny nose scrunches, not entirely pleased with her explanation.

D'vro listens attentively to her explanation, but he also takes note of her expression. "I'm not sure that sounds very much like poker. But I suppose I can see that there might be some appeal." Perhaps more to other people than to himself, judging by how not excited he sounds as he says it. "There's at least one nice Southern man in the Weyr, though. Shall I send him your way the next time I see him?" This makes him smile, a real smile, for just a moment.

Sully's next smile is tight, attempting to form around an obvious disappointment that borders on apologetic. Until he wins her over with one of his own. "Well, ''obviously''," she grins, leaning over to give his leg a playful push with a few fingertips. Her hand retracts quickly-- no, not for his sake; she worriedly touches to her hair, afraid she's felt a strand fall. "Seems at least ''my'' luck's turning around," she gamely continues afterward, touching at her scarf daintily. As the dice begin to leave the table, the evening's biggest winner glances over only to find that Sully's no longer paying him any mind.

"I'll do that, then. Try not to rob him blind if you can help it. My riders are more useful to me when they can see." D'vro is so very clever. He rises from his lean against the stool, eyeing the hair she seems so concerned with as he says, "I think that's as much fun as I can handle for one evening. It's been a pleasure." He doesn't ask for her name, though. That must not be very important to him.

"What you must think of me," Sully braces her hand against her chest, watching him studiously as he makes arrangements to leave. "Has it?" is as genuinely curious as he, when first approaching her, head slightly cocked and eyes narrowed with concentration and wonder. "Or are you just sayin' that because you're, very secretly, a gentleman?" Green eyes briefly twinkle. She straightens, as if to also stand and her hand unfolds off her chest and extends towards him, testing. Incase he leaves her there, she offers, "Until next time," as promise-- or threat, depending.

"I told you I'm not a gentleman," D'vro reassures her, but it makes him smile as he smooths a hand over his shirt before accepting hers-- to shake gently. "Clear skies," is offered, then, with a slight inclination of his head. He's unconcerned with the differences between promise or threat, or maybe just oblivious. Either way, the bronzerider turns to wend his way back out into the caverns and whatever business he has beyond.

Sully unabashedly watches him leave from behind from where she's been left on her chair before scooting off. Everything about her is meticulously smoothed and straightened before she weasels her way through the dispersing residents to sling onto the dice winner's arm with a gush and a murmur and a little touch of her scarf, isn't it looking positively dreary.
}}

Logs:Exploring Smalltalk

2016-01-11T20:43:11Z

D'vro: Created page with "{{Log |who=D'vro, Ninwayzan, |what=Smalltalk in front of the hearth. |where=Nighthearth, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=17 |month=10 |turn=39 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gamedat..."

{{Log
|who=D'vro, Ninwayzan,
|what=Smalltalk in front of the hearth.
|where=Nighthearth, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=17
|month=10
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.01.11
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon d'vro.jpg,
|log=After being up before the sun, Apprentice Ninwayzan is able to take a break this morning to continue to explore the weyr a bit. The outside fog has kept him indoors so his prowling has led him from the living caverns to a small archway. Curiously he peeks about poking around at the food stocked by the hearth. It's a natural thing for a teen to gravitate towards food.

There's a bronzerider sitting in one of the chairs near the hearth. He seems relaxed, elbows against the arms of the chair and a steaming mug held by both of his hands. D'vro is gazing silently into the stoked fire, perhaps lost in his thoughts or conversing with his lifemate. It's sometimes difficult to tell what dragonriders are doing when they're staring at nothing the way that he is.

Ninwayzan doesn't find any food appealing to him at the moment so as he turns to peer further about the room he stifles a yawn. Bright green eyes spy D'vro whom he missed the first time. Flickering his gaze towards his shoulder to perhaps seek out his knot is the first thing he does. The second is he gives D'vro's chair a slightly wide berth, perhaps avoiding the rider's feet. Passing by the left side of the chair he pauses at the hearth to peer into the flames.

D'vro is wearing his flight jacket, where the knot identifying him as a bronzerider and Wingleader is on display, but the patch identifying his wing is not. Whether it's the continued motion or some sound the boy makes, D'vro is drawn out of his thoughts long enough to look at Ninwayzan and offer a polite, small smile and everything, "Good morning."

Uncertainty flickers in his expression as Ninwayzan glances back over to D'vro at the sound of the greeting. "G'morning. Sir." is said a bit guardedly. Evidently the knot was at least identified partially.

Whether he recognizes the uncertainty or not, D'vro's expression remains much the same, smile fading back into something more pleasantly neutral. "Can I assist you with something?"

Ninwayzan takes a step back with a shake of his head. "Oh..no." "Sorry." he adds. "Baker Journeyman Taylor gave me the rest of the morning to explore a bit so I was just...well exploring."

"Aha," is a sound more than a word. "That sounds pleasant." D'vro nods his head thoughtfully and looks back toward the fire in the hearth. "Are you enjoying your explorations? This," he says, with a glance that must be to encompass their current location, "isn't terribly exciting, of course. Are you a recent arrival to the Weyr?"

Ninwayzan shoves both hands into his pockets. Shrugging he glances back to the fire then to D'vro. "It's interesting." he says slowly of the room they are in. "Guess it would be a good place for quiet though. It gets pretty loud sometimes. At least in the Glass Fountain it was last night." deciding perhaps it better to sit than standing while chatting he slips over to a nearby chair before answering the latter question. "Been here a couple days. Haven't met too many people yet."

"I haven't spent a lot of time in the Fountain, but I suspect I will at some point in the future." D'vro sounds thoughtful about that, but he turns his head to study the boy again when Ninwayzan sits. "I'm a relatively recent transplant myself. Bit longer than a couple of days now. I generally know my way around at this point." He offers a smile with that, his humanizing smalltalk. "May I ask for your name, apprentice?"

Ninwayzan fidgets somewhat in his chair, tucking one leg up under him. "Apprentice Ninwayzan sir." he replies. Again his gaze flickers to the knot upon D'vro's shoulder. "But your a rider. I thought riders always stayed in their homes." he asks with some confusion over D'vro's admission of being a transplant here.

"Well met, Ninwayzan. I'm D'vro." That out of the way, he takes a sip from his mug and then offers, "Faranth, no. Many riders ''do'', of course, but many are also transferred between Weyrs. Sometimes out of their own preferences. Sometimes not. Sometimes temporarily. Sometimes not."

Ninwayzan digests that tidbit of information. Learn something new daily and being in a weyr for the first time he's learning quite a bit it seems. "Really. Interesting." is said musingly. Fingers tap absently on the arm of the chair. "Where'd you transfer from?" he asks curiously, his uncertainty and guarded expression from earlier seems to be fading away to simple curiosity.

"Southern Weyr," D'vro answers easily. "I've lived there nearly my whole life. I've spent time temporarily in a handful of other Weyrs, but Southern was always my home." He hasn't been gone ''that'' long and he's already getting nostalgic. "Where are you here from?"

"Sounds warm. My Grandfather traveled to Souther Hold one time I think." Ninwayzan says thoughtful. "Certainly warmer than here. I'm from Igen Hold. Never had much chance to visit the weyr though. Once I think but I was pretty young. Don't remember much. Are all weyrs pretty much the same? Granddad never really spoke too highly though of anyone up at IGen though."

"I suppose there is a certain similarity of function. But every Weyr has its own... way. Its own culture." D'vro almost certainly enjoys these sorts of discussions, but he starts sitting up, leaning forward into a less relaxed seat. "You don't think all holds are the same, do you? All holders? All crafters?"

"Really?" asks Ninwayzan with interest. "Well...no." he says in reply. "Course not all crafts can be the same. I mean my Baker craft can't be anything like the Healers craft." still tapping his fingers absently agains the arm chair his eyes unfocus in though. "But Holds...well they are are run the same." he counters. Which isn't the same as all holders being the same.

"I didn't ask if all ''Crafts'' were the same," D'vro points out. Attention to detail is clearly important to the man. "How a place is run and how they ''are'' aren't really the same thing, either. It's something you can give some thought to, perhaps, while you continue exploring the Weyr." The bronzerider rises, "I should be getting back. Have a good day, yes?" With that, he starts moving to refill his mug.

Ninwayzan sits back into his chair fully. "Oh." he has something to think over. "A difference, yes." he murmurs. For now he'll keep sitting until it's time to return to duties. Its a quiet place here to think after all.
}}

Logs:Admirable Efficiency

2016-01-09T17:11:04Z

D'vro: Created page with "{{Log |who=D'vro, Reston |what=Reston helps D'vro deal with some of his stress. |where=Infirmary, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=8 |month=10 |turn=39 |IP=Interval |IP2=10..."

{{Log
|who=D'vro, Reston
|what=Reston helps D'vro deal with some of his stress.
|where=Infirmary, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=8
|month=10
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.01.08
|quote=Find a way to relax. Preferably one that doesn't involve dangerous levels of intoxication.
|mentions=Riva
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon d'vro.jpg,
|log=At the end of the day, people finishing up with work means a rush of things for the healers to attend to--complaints or follow-ups not serious enough to miss work for, that kind of thing. But it's a pleasant sort of busy, for a cavern that's seen so much worse. Reston might be still settling in, but it's back to work, and that means standing near the entrance with a woman in her late twenties and a little boy, maybe four years old. "A little of that in some water or juice before bed," he tells her, perhaps more briskly than one would hope. Maybe he's in a hurry to get back to the plate of food sitting on the reception desk. It looks largely untouched.

A polite, well-natured man by default, D'vro hesitates at the entrance to the infirmary rather than walking rudely past the people standing nearby despite the stiff tension in his face. In his person in general, really. Even moreso than usual, the bronzerider is looking like a man who has never relaxed a day in his life. But he waits for the mother to move along with the child before he making his way in the direction of the reception desk. "How long might I be waiting before I can speak with someone about my condition?" he asks of the other man, looking at the food as though he finds it distasteful more than the Healer's face.

There's only a brief exchange before the patient and his mother are off on their way, after which Reston gives the plate a brief and wistful look before turning his attention back to D'vro. "Well, unless the complaint of anyone else waiting is that they've ceased to be visible..." A hand on the small of his back briefly, as he then scans the infirmary. The other healer on duty appears to be otherwise occupied with someone else. "Ah. Well. I suppose..." Another look at his dinner, but then the thought seems to be put aside. "This way, have a seat, tell me what the trouble is?"

D'vro turns his body rather than his neck to look behind him and see that he is, indeed, the only one present. "Right. Thank you." He moves along to follow the Healer, ending up near the seat but not actually sitting down in it just yet. "I've had a headache for the better part of the day, didn't think much of it. I thought it might subside after a cup of tea. I even tried klah. I was hoping to wait until morning, but I can barely look at my reading anymore." He has more reading to be done before morning, presumably. "You've something you can give me and I can be on my way, yes?"

"Admirable efficiency, but you have your job and I have mine, if you'd like to let me do it?" Reston leads the dragonrider over to the cot but doesn't insist he sit. When he fails to do so, in fact, Reston sits, himself. Perhaps not one to stand on tradition, or maybe it's just that he does look... worn. "Do you get headaches often? When did it start, today?"

The Healer sitting makes D'vro look at him more closely, eyes narrowing for a moment as he considers the other man. "On occasion. Today, yes. I woke up with it, fairly common, but I didn't realize it wasn't fading until around midday. I know you, don't I?" The question comes right on the tail of his other comments. "Southern, yes? Master...?"

"Reston." The Healer does not point out the connection to his sister; perhaps he thinks that will be reminder enough to get that far. "You woke up with it. Are you sleeping reasonably well?" He leans forward, peering at D'vro, but not his face--his torso, his posture generally. "Settling in? Finding your new home satisfactory?" It doesn't sound so much like polite questioning as like he's rattling off a list, following a flow chart.

"Master Reston. That's right." If D'vro has more to say on the matter, it's interrupted by a wince when he tries to move his head too quickly one way. He closes his eyes, nods very slightly, and clears his throat. "Sleeping as well as can be expected in a dark cave. It's been stressful, to be honest. Moving here, I mean." He doesn't offer more information than that, but his eyes are open again and he's looking at the seated Healer.

Apparently this is Reston's cue to actually stand, going over to one of the cabinets, extracting a jar, pouring powder into another, smaller one. "Willow will do you some good, but I'm not giving you anything stronger than that. Moving is stressful. Pain feeds on tension." He comes back to hand over the jar. "Find a way to relax. Preferably one that doesn't involve dangerous levels of intoxication."

D'vro stays where he's standing, but his eyes follow Reston toward the cabinet. He doesn't look happy about what the man says, but if he's in pain, that could just be the way his face is going to look for the time being. "Find a way to relax," he repeats it as though it's something unattainable. "Perhaps another glass of wine in the evening won't cause any harm. Thank you." His gratitude is offered as stiffly as his neck is held, but he asks, then, "Have the stresses of moving been more kind to you?"

If Reston slouches to lean against the wall just like that, they're about the same height, look. "It's never easy," he allows, "but I have help. Apprentices. Riva. She brought me supper. After I get done with work, she'll come down and we'll have a drink and she'll help me with my writing. It's not so bad. I'm not looking forward to the winter, but I grew up in Fort--have you ever lived somewhere with snow?"

That seems to remind D'vro that there was food on the desk and he gestures in that general direction. "Don't let me keep you. I was glad that Riva decided to come with us. Perhaps I should be thanking you?" Did she follow him here and not her Wingleader? "Never for an extended period of time," he says of the snow. "I suspect all will be well again as soon as the wings are sorted out and I find a routine, anyway."

"Oh, no," self-deprecating, Reston waving off that suggestion. "I should be thanking you, though perhaps not by mid-winter. I'd have gone south again if she wasn't moving up here. This is closer to the Hall, of course, but with dragons, the distance is no concern." He heads back in the direction of the entrance, and his dinner. "After this summer, I think I will like the cold."

"I may well be regretting my own choices come mid-winter," D'vro will allow with a small grimace. He walks with the Healer toward the desk, seeing himself to the other side. "Thank you, again. If there's anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable, Master Reston, please let me know. Or have Riva let me know." He must feel at least somewhat responsible for the man being in Fort. But then, his words are probably meant to be more polite than actionable.

That actually makes Reston smile, not a thing he's done quite so easily as perhaps he might have on earlier meetings. "I'm sure she will, whether I ask her to or not," he admits, as he finds his chair and settles into it. "If you don't start feeling improved in the next few days, come back. Or if you have any other complaints. I would just as soon not see you anytime soon." This should have a caveat of ''at least not here'', but it doesn't seem to occur to him that anywhere else would be an option.
}}

D'vro

2016-01-07T04:47:02Z

D'vro:

{{ProfileTabs
|picture=D'vro.jpg
|body=
==Description==
D'vro is a man with a face that's rather long, as a whole, more forehead than anyone could truly need, framed by brown hair, but plenty of neck to keep it in proportion. His bone structure is notable, high, sharp cheekbones despite a relatively soft curve of jaw. His upper lip is thin with an exaggerated bow, while the lower is quite full by comparison. He has a straight, strong nose to bridge the space between strikingly blue-green eyes. He's often dressed in well-tailored riding leathers, but when the need is more casual, he can be seen in slacks and a button down shirt.

{{wysk}}

=Background=
{{Family}}
{{FamilyEnd}}

==Background==
Raised in typical Weyr fashion, Davro's adolescence was uneventful. He was a curious, bright child who entertained the prospect of apprenticing to Harper Hall until Colsoth found him instead. His weyrlinghood was more eventful. D'vro asked to be part of the leadership program despite being one of the youngest weyrlings of the clutch, and he excelled. Unfortunately Colsoth and D'vro were injured by a clutchmate during one of their first manned flying lessons, Colsoth's wing was broken, sails torn, and D'vro's leg suffered a similar fate. He healed faster than his dragon, but it was long after the other weyrlings had graduated before the bronze pair could finish their training, the meantime spent helping in what capacity a non-flying rider could; plenty of paperwork.

D'vro joined the weyrlingmaster staff as a junior assistant when the next clutch hatched and continued to assist through two more clutches, once he and Colsoth had completed their own training. When he accepted a knot as wingsecond for another wing, he left the weyrlingmaster team to focus on his new responsibilities. Over the next couple turns, he helped organize a program to allow wingseconds, and interested wingriders, to temporarily transfer to other Weyrs to learn more about how other wings in other Weyrs are managed. He spent time in several Weyrs before taking over for his retiring wingleader in Southern. He still encourages his riders to visit other Weyrs, though not since the plague, and he's developed something of a reputation for mentoring young riders, particularly those with leadership potential.

=People=
==Interpersonal Relations==
* [[Dahlia]] - You're younger than you realize.
* [[N'rov]] - I presume you know what you're doing.
* Zennia - I see you in your daughter.

= RP Logs =
{{NewLogs |name={{BASEPAGENAME}}}}
=Mentions=
{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}

=Icons=
{{Icons}}

}}
{{Character-Categories}}

Logs:Divided Attention

2016-01-03T07:43:59Z

D'vro: Created page with "{{Log |who=D'vro, D'vro{{!}}Colsoth |what=D'vro doesn't let Colsoth chase Taeliyth |where=D'vro's Weyr, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=17 |month=9 |turn=39 |IP=Interval |I..."

{{Log
|who=D'vro, D'vro{{!}}Colsoth
|what=D'vro doesn't let Colsoth chase Taeliyth
|where=D'vro's Weyr, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=17
|month=9
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.01.02
|mentions=Dahlia
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon d'vro.jpg, Icon d'vro colsoth.jpg
|log=''No.''

<< It would be good for us. You've been tense. >>

'''''No.'''''

<< You realize you're proving my point, don't you? >>

D'vro closed his eyes and waited a five-count before he would allow himself a response. Colsoth was right. He was agitated by the intensity of the bronze's lust, but that didn't mean he would allow him to chase the maiden gold.

''We have more important priorities. We can't afford the risk of our attention being divided between responsibilities right now.''

It wasn't that D'vro thought Colsoth was likely to catch the young queen, but it would be detrimental to his plans if the bronze managed. Even as they spoke, the wingless Wingleader was going through his notes on the Wingleaderless wings. He had been, at least, until he joined his lifemate and directed them to Southern Weyr.
}}

File:Icon d'vro colsoth.jpg

2016-01-03T07:43:01Z

D'vro:

Logs:Hot Water

2015-12-28T08:06:46Z

D'vro: Created page with "{{Log |who=D'vro, N'rov |what=N'rov poaches a Wingleader from Southern with promises of baths and experimentation. |where=D'vro's Cottage, Southern Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr, S..."

{{Log
|who=D'vro, N'rov
|what=N'rov poaches a Wingleader from Southern with promises of baths and experimentation.
|where=D'vro's Cottage, Southern Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr, Southern Weyr
|day=13
|month=8
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.12.22
|quote=Your winters are dreadful.
|mentions=R'jare, Olivya, N'muir
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon n'rov.png, Icon d'vro.jpg
|log=Early evening finds D'vro inside, door open to let the breeze flow through despite the fact that there's a fire on in his small hearth. That's mostly for the kettle, though, water heating up for the tea he never fails to offer N'rov. Even though he expects the other man to arrive any time, he's still working through a handful of reports, just enough to be simple to slip away. It's more than likely the last of the evening, so best to get them out of the way. N'rov will have to forgive him if he ends up too focused on that to note an approach.

The Fortian bronzerider's not ''quiet'' about his knock, but he also doesn't wait to enter. "Funny," he drawls, letting that pause be transition, "how your winter can be a whole lot like our summer. How's it going, D'vro? Freezing your tail off?" No sweaters for N'rov, but short-sleeved shirt and loose trous, informal.

D'vro looks up at the other bronzerider's knock and a slightly more than polite smile spreads across his face, his friendly smile, at the Fortian's greeting. "I'll hardly complain about that. Your winters are dreadful." He rises from his seat at the table after slipping those reports away. "I debated taking off my sweater," it's lightly made, the buttons up the middle of it undone so it falls open, "but I thought I might catch a chill before I could get you out of here again." So he's doing about the same as usual, it would seem. "Tea?" he asks, already going to take the kettle off to make up his own cup.

"And then give it to me, and then get me ''quarantined'' even if it's just your cold, lest I have brought the plague back to the northern continent." Dark amusement lingers about N'rov's expression, his voice. "Why not," he says with more appreciation than the words alone might imply, and roams about the cottage, glancing about to see if anything's changed. "How are your wingseconds coming along, these days? Have they figured out who's on top?"

"Don't tell me you're already looking for excuses to shirk your duties, Weyrleader." Getting sick to avoid work, granted, may not be the most pleasant way to take a break. Water into mugs, then a mesh of metal to hold the leaves of tea over the top of it, and D'vro carries them back to the table while N'rov explores. Nothing much has changed. A new chair in the corner, or perhaps only reupholstered. "They're well. Very well, now that your plague seem to have breathed its last." As for who's in which position? "They all get their chance to be on top, in some form or another." But his tone implies that they're all quite aware of his own preference to be on top in this analogy, too. "How are you enjoying your responsibilities?"

N'rov gives a trial, exploratory cough into his inner elbow, and then smirks; he prods the upholstery with his knuckles before sauntering back. "Resisting the temptation to bejewel Vhaeryth's straps as much as Bijedth ever got," only his dry tone suggests that's none too likely. Though, "Resisting the temptation to wear a hat that says, 'No, I didn't fuck my ''new'' weyrlingmaster to give her the job,'" might be more so, given its undernote of a growl.

"I think Vhaeryth would look nice in a few jewels," offers D'vro with a near perfectly feigned seriousness. "Anyway, people will believe what they want to believe. Telling that sort the truth only makes them cling to their delusions that much harder. And so what if you fucked her." It doesn't seem to occur to him, granted, that N'rov would ever choose a weyrlingmaster who wasn't entirely qualified for the job. So of course it wouldn't matter if there were sex involved.

"Don't you even get him started," and N'rov lowers his brows at D'vro mostly-mock-accusingly, a flex of his shoulders forcing out further tension at the rest. He eyes the tea next, but leaves it be. "Yeah. Well. And no new girl on your end, all set to sit here," maybe in that chair N'rov's not sitting in, "and adoringly watch you deal with reports?"

When the tea is properly steeped, D'vro removes the leaves from both mugs, setting the curved meshes aside and out of the way on a small dish. "No new girl to watch me do much of anything adoringly." It's been turns and turns since the last time there was a new girl. "There's a greenrider prone to scowling at me when I have her go over them with me, though." Close enough?

"Close enough," N'rov says in so many words. He gives the mesh a moment's glance, then it's back to the other rider, leaning over the table's edge as he does it. "Listen. Dav. You know where we're at at Fort. You know you've been treading the same water here at Southern. I've already talked to R'jare," and presumably Ali, given their connection. "Let me poach you."

"Poach me?" with the emphasis on the first word. Not exactly what he'd been expecting to hear right then. D'vro studies N'rov's face momentarily, "The water here is warmer, you know. ''All turn''." No matter if he's treading. But, "You're already talked to R'jare? What did he say?" Asked while he picks up his mug to take a slow drink, calmly rote.

"Good man, he hates to let you go, understands the bind, will survive somehow, et cetera." N'rov waves a hand that's soon explained by, "I believe there was something about 'spreading your wings' and the metaphor went on from there." He spares a moment of silence for R'jare and his ways before returning to, "That is, ''if'' you're willing. We do have furs, and I can swing you a weyr with your ''very own bath'', no more mingling water with the masses. ''Hot'' water, I might add."

Despite the complementary nature, D'vro seems unsurprised, and somewhat pensive. "I suppose I should have expected that." Of R'jare, not N'rov. He might be less sure on the latter. The mention of his very own bath probably shouldn't be as convincing as the way his brows pop up briefly suggests it is. "If I agreed, what of my wing? R'jare will surely want to keep my wingseconds. At least one of them. But he could hardly miss a handful of my riders." Does N'rov have want of anymore Southern riders?

"Yeah, he'll promote one, would be my guess," but N'rov can't ''know''; possibly R'jare himself doesn't. "If you have some to take, that want to, I'd be open to that if he is; that's up to you to negotiate." N'rov straightens. "I ''am'' looking for strong skills, a solid work ethic and good character, but it's your wing," said with the implication that N'rov doesn't imagine it would be otherwise. Is it flattery if it's both sincere and true? "Mostly, what I want you to do is keep the wing organized and getting along with the world, get work done, get the old coots to explain what you need to know about ''Fort'' instead of Southern, I'll help with that too... and train up a wingsecond or two. Or three, just not at the same time," N'rov says wryly. "And then there's the future." He doesn't even make it sound ominous.

D'vro takes pride in the skills and characters of his wingriders, so the flattery might be lost in what he presumes is simple truth. He's nodding along to what the other man tells him while he processes the information, perhaps even starts making plans in that head of his. "That won't be a problem." It's all, more or less, business as usual for D'vro, even if it is new business. "The future?" is a question that focuses the Southern bronzerider's attention back on N'rov, away from his thoughts, as though he hadn't expected the future to entail more than what's already been said.

Call it complex truth, perhaps. N'rov lays it out for him: "Faranth willing, we've plenty of Interval ahead. But there's no ''guarantee'' we don't see another Comet Pass, that we won't be surprised by one. It's the same dilemma every Interval Weyr has, except this one's tailored to the situation we have now, so we can't just copy," and wouldn't anyway, says the Weyrleader's sharp grin. "The problem we have is lack of manpower at the helm; the benefit we have is that we can go different directions with, I think, less complaint. There's an opportunity to refocus wings: keep some drilling, keep the sweeping going along, but also see what other skills our men and women have that we can use. It's like what we used to toss around over drinks now and again... only it's ''real'."

This is the stuff D'vro's dreams are made of. At least someone has probably joked about that at some point or another. The Southern man seems even more thoughtful as he studies the Fortian. "I've always wanted to see just how well a group of riders could move from one wing to another to keep their basic skill sets strongly built." Like drilling. "While exploring what else they might be good at." He's probably even brought that up before over those drinks. "But I suppose it's just as important for the wingleaders to be flexible." He waves that off, "We do have a tendency to get comfortable in our roles as riders, don't we. We can't forget our roles as people."

N'rov drops into that chair. "Tell me about moving from one wing to another. How'd you see that working in action?" He adds while he's at it, "I've been thinking about options. But I don't want to color what's in your head."

D'vro gives it a minute of consideration before he speaks anything out loud, and even then doesn't seem sure he has enough to make it sound like an entirely plausible idea. "We have flights of wings. We have wings of riders. I see no reason we couldn't have smaller groups of riders making up wings; ones who work well together, or who need to learn how to work well together. Traditional skills are things every rider should know and know well. A wing focused on those skills could theoretically be made up of groups of riders cycling through from other, more specialized, wings. Instead of focusing time on those tasks for, say, a wing whose primary duties are to foster relationships within our coverage area. Wings as a whole would likely be stronger if they were more modular." That might be pushing the boundaries, granted.

"More or less like tossing a few riders from a specialized wing over to remedial work, without having to have the rest suffer through it?" N'rov supposes with a lift of one brow. "Only with a better spin on it. Small groups that don't drive each other crazy."

"Without having to have the whole wing take their focus away from their specialized duties at the same time." D'vro's amendment amounts to the same thing, really, but it's like him to make sure his ideas are as clear as possible. "It could, I suppose, have consequences where wing-bonding is concerned. And I don't think wingleaders should be exempt, or that there aren't merits for a wing drilling together. But Fort does lend itself somewhat to experimentation right now."

"It does. Stabiity's important too, lest the whole thing fragment, but we have ''room''." For good or ill. N'rov considers the other man. "How ''would'' you foster those coverage area relationships? Without losing bargaining room for later, nor putting our dragons to the plow... though I will say, we sent out a few to tear up the fields, so the holders could get out the crops that failed. They rather enjoyed themselves, I'm told," but his shrug still speaks of discomfort. "Anyway. Off the top of your head," that's distinctly dry for putting the other man on the spot like that, though that doesn't stop him, "and then let's do justice to your tea."

"That's not an easy question to answer, N'rov." No doubt part of the reason it's been asked. D'vro's interpersonal skills have always been somewhat limited by his desire for order. People outside of the Weyr don't fall into the natural hierarchy; they can be uncomfortably unpredictable. "I think it depends on the people. It's our duty to only allow them to be as dependent on us as we are on them. Given the losses in your coverage areas, though..." D'vro lets that thought trail off without stating explicitly that it could naturally lead to more codependency. His thoughtfulness begins to get away from him again, and that might be all that N'rov gets for putting him on the spot.

This time N'rov's shrug is wryer, confirming the other bronzerider's supposition. But when he trails off, after silence has fallen, "Think about it," N'rov says in lieu of quizzing Dav immediately. He raises the cup instead, an informal salute. "To figuring it out, and not ''too'' hot water," his grin suggesting D'vro's welcome to add on.

Think about it. There's no question D'vro will be doing ''that''. He's already struggling to avoid zoning out so he can entertain the rest of N'rov's company. He lifts his tea and adds his own dutiful banter, "To having faith my Weyrleader has any glimmer of an idea what he's getting us into."

N'rov, N'rov will drink to ''that''.
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2015-12-28T08:05:27Z

D'vro:

D'vro

2015-12-22T01:44:25Z

D'vro:

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2015-12-22T01:43:05Z

D'vro: