NorCon MUSH - User contributions [en]

Logs:Luck and Sensibility

2015-04-02T22:18:39Z

Dragonshy: Editing for clarity.

{{Log
|who=Azaylia, Faryn
|what=A weyrwoman and a crafter talk luck and some sensible problem solving.
|where=Weyrleader Complex, High Reaches Weyr
|day=5
|month=6
|turn=37
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.04.01
|quote=Water is interesting. Fish have sex in it.
|weather=A sunny afternoon.
|type=Log
|ooc=Worth noting, this plan to take some of the carcasses eventually goes nowhere; no steak for you. Azaylia just wanted Faryn thinking about the solutions, so let her take that line and run with it a bit.
|icons-new=Icon azaylia hm.jpg, Icon faryn distant.png,
|log=It would be a waste to spend such a bright, sunny day in the council chambers, and so Azaylia has moved her meetings and paperwork out to her favorite nook. The alcove is often used as a waiting area when the Weyrwoman hasn't claimed it, like today. There's a small lull in her scheduled meetings to make time for lunch, empty tray tucked into a corner of the round table as Azaylia reviews some of her notes. Her white sundress is simple, possibly out of style, but a flattering cut and contrast to her sun-darkened complexion. Hraedhyth is nowhere near her ledge, which may offer ''some'' comfort to visitors.

A day like this is a welcome one, especially if Faryn considers all the days she was stuck in a deluge. There can be no question of the herder's productivity, at least, and though she's a rare sight in the weyr complex, she appears anyways from the steps, a stack of hides in her hands, though she's probably not being appropriately wary of the weyrwoman's dragon; in that, it's lucky she's not there. At the very least, she spots Azaylia quickly, and announces her arrival with, "Excuse me. Weyrwoman?" Faryn holds up her hides. "I have some reports for you."

Azaylia glances up from her work with a soft smile that widens once she recognizes Faryn. "Afternoon, apprentice." The glass of cold water she's sipping is placed aside, and she takes a quick peek at her schedule-- her next meeting isn't for a bit. Reaching over to accept the hides, the goldrider motions toward the other seat. "I'd like to hear about the state of the pens, if you have time?" Of course she must have heard of the damage by now, and there's another official report somewhere in her pile. Still, "I'd like your take on things."

The usual order of things, so far, has been for her to drop her notes off and high-tail it. The first part's easy - Faryn surrenders her documents without any fight or need to add to what she's written - but the second part doesn't come so fast. She glances at the proffered seat, reluctant to take it on official business, and then takes it anyways. With her parcels taken, she has nothing to do with her hands; they fold, unfold, fold again. Eventually she settles with them folded. "It's in there," she says, gesturing, "but the flights aren't helping. The last one..." She grimaces at that. "At least the tanners got something out of it, but everything else was a mess. I would say I really hope we get more imported soon, but I don't want to be an alarmist."

Azaylia is patient, waiting for either an excuse or for Faryn to comply. When she sits down, the Weyrwoman pours a second glass of water and slides it closer to the herder before looking over the documents. Mention of the last fight has her brows lowering, a soft hum dragging from her throat, not unlike a gentle growl. "We've a Fort dragon injured from that flight. He also seemed to have helped himself." The last holds obvious annoyance, though it's gone with a soft sigh. Looking up at Faryn, "I'm sure it's all in here, but... what would you suggest we do?" There's a light curl of her lips, genuinely curious.

"That's unfortunate," is Faryn's polite and interested reply. One can almost see her making a mental note about it. A frown twists her mouth slightly as she watches Azaylia pore over the hides. "They can stop rising, for starters," she says, unreasonably, then, "But failing that, the dragons could at least start doing some of their hunting outside of the weyr. They can ''between'', and hunt the wild herds. It's less strain on us, and maybe we could spare a beast or two for the kitchen." Which only solves half the problems. "As far as getting beasts here sooner, that's harder. I think we're all fine - discontent, but fine - with our take now. We're not obligate carnivores, and there's always tunnelsnake, which I hear is on the menu already, sometimes."

The unreasonable reply is met with a quiet laugh, startled out of her reading as she looks back at Faryn, "I imagine some greenriders might appreciate that, but we have a ''lot'' of male dragons who wouldn't." As for the other option, the Weyrwoman gives a soft nod, "I'll talk to the Weyrleader about encouraging the dragons to hunt wild game. Though that raises other problems, as far as Weyr territories are concerned." She makes a small note in front of her, before continuing. "I've actually had some deliciously prepared tunnelsnake recently. Though, it doesn't sound like we're in desperate times ''just yet''." She's taking Faryn's caution to heart, at least.

"No, probably not," admits Faryn with a small smile. "Still. Do you know when we'll get the herds in? I know trekking them that far isn't easy, and certainly doesn't happen overnight, but it might be nice to have a timeline." She accepts the water that was pushed to her earlier and takes a sip. "I just worry about the ''frequency''. And all of them ''blooding'' back to back like that. It's fool's waste." She hesitates, looking for some correction that is maybe not insulting, and seems to come up short.

"Ah, I have that somewhere." Azaylia runs her fingers through the paperwork on the table, making a quiet sound of triumph as she finds the letter. "There are plans in motion, and the herds should be moving out soon if they haven't already. It could be up to another month." Not ideal, but nothing that shakes the calm from the goldrider's expression. Her dark gaze flicks back to Faryn, perhaps too quickly, "The frequency ''is'' a problem. Keeping dragons happy ''isn't''." Voice is quiet but firm, "Happy and more importantly, healthy. That being said, I wonder if there's a use for blooded beasts for more than just their hides."

"Yes, ma'am." She's about as contrite as she'll sound about it, when her job is harder for it. Of the carcasses she does not have an immediate response. She's chewing on her lip in consideration, her posture relaxing and her elbows on the table while she thinks, staring into her water glass. "If we got the carcasses early," she ventures, "we ''might'' be able to get meat off them. Though I don't know how happy people would be to hear they were eating it. We blood them anyways, when we slaughter; I just figure most people wouldn't want to go under flying dragons, in case of accidents." Her look to the other woman is seeking approval, or disapproval as the case may be. Then, apropos of nothing, "Do you miss it? Being a herder? Even if right now you're basically solving the same problems."

"I was concerned about the meat going bad, myself." Azaylia considers Faryn's idea, not a new one but still one of the better options for now. "Having tainted food is worse than having a shortage of it." The goldrider descends into her own pensive silence, looking out at the bowl and in the direction of the feeding pens. "As for collecting the meat, a green and her rider could escort people into the pens once the dragons are up." A dragon that is not likely to join the chase. "That's something to ask your journeyman-- about using blooded meat." Another note is made, though Faryn's question catches her by surprise. "I... did, at first. But taking care of a dragon was good, hard work. Satisfying. It's not the same, but you can draw a few similarities." Azaylia's smile is bright, "I imagine if I hadn't impressed a queen, I'd probably still focus on the craft, along with being a rider." The smile shrinks as she thinks to add, "If they would've had me."

"I know," Faryn acknowledges, "but, we blood them ''anyways''. It can't be that much different, can it? Unless they can really make us sick? If we don't let the meat just fester, we could still get decent cuts from it. It could be worth a try, though maybe not right now. I can make a note. We can have someone volunteer. It would be worth knowing either way, yes?" Her question seems abrupt, and so her, "Sorry," is warranted, at least as far as she's concerned. "I've just been thinking." She doesn't seem to have much to volunteer, at first, still looking at her glass. "I guess there maybe isn't much else to do in an Interval, if you're a rider." Not quite a question, but still begging an answer.

"Exactly." Azaylia is in agreement, "If we're quick, I don't see a problem. But I'm no Master Herder." Not quite sheepish, but humble, "I wasn't even a senior apprentice." She'd still like an expert to take a look at things, just to be sure. The apology earns a soft shake of her head, "No need. It's good that you're thinking. You seem to have a good head on your shoulders." The compliment is offered from behind her glass of water, the Weyrwoman taking a few sips. "There's no Thread to fight, no." Her glass is set down gently as she searches for Faryn's gaze, "We still protect Pern and the Holds Respond to emergencies. Search and rescue. Why, we even battle pirates." The last is as dry as Azaylia's gentle voice can manage. "And-- we have riders who still practice their crafts. I'd like to see more of that, myself."

"I'll pass it along, then, and the report will be to you after the next flight." Faryn's quick on that, then; if there's a solution that means she might have a ''steak'', she's on it. Her offer for more reports is perfunctory, though, and it's clear her questions are slightly less rhetorical now. "I hear dragons are jealous as all get-out. Healers are always important, and vintners can practice, but tending beasts. That takes time. Away from a dragon, if you have it."

"Make sure to have copies for Jr. Weyrwoman Irianke as well as the Headwoman." A gentle reminder, although Azaylia seems otherwise pleased. On the subject of dragons, she can't help but grin, "Hraedhyth can be jealous, yes. I don't ride runners very often, but the few times I did she was mostly confused. She ''did'' make comments about its size and speed." It's typical for a rider to sound fond when speaking of their bond, but the Weyrwoman is practically glowing with adoration. "It isn't as if all dragons are the same, either. Where one might be jealous, another might not be."

"Oh, of course," Faryn says absently, "Always. I only missed either of them once, trust me." Her attention is still on other things, though. "And...what about Igen?" That question is a bit heavier. "I'm - don't get me wrong, I ''know'' I could get transferred anyways, but it's always felt like there was some choice in the matter. Trading posts with another of rank or shortening them by switching halfway through. If-" she starts, then stops, rephrases, "That move seems like it wouldn't be anything but permanent."

The Weyrwoman's brows lift when Igen is mentioned, slowly crossing her arms in order to lean onto the table. She still can't find the herder's eyes, "Faryn." Azaylia waits for her head to at least lift before continuing, "Is this because you're thinking about Standing for Niahvth's clutch?" It's obvious by now, but she'd still rather not assume. "I'd like to think that Igen would be looking for enthusiastic riders, first and foremost." Or at least one can hope. "There's no guarantee that you'd be transferred, should you Stand and Impress. But it is a possibility, yes." Calm gaze eases into more of a stare, ''watching'' Faryn. "Though, there ''is'' a gold egg on the sands."

Yes, her eyes do rise slightly, but it's extremely plain that she would rather be looking at her water. Water's interesting. Fish have sex in it. "Quinlys asked me, yes," she says, "but I'm not sure. It's huge, and I'm mostly happy. Stressed, with the herds dwindling, but happy. I don't understand how everyone is willing to just say ''yes'', so quickly, like they're not giving anything up. And Quinlys was asking people not to ''Stand'', right before she asked me." There's a scoff, for that last. "I'm no goldrider," she says. "I ride runners, alright, and that's about it."

Azaylia can't stifle her surprise quickly enough, "Quinlys?" It takes a blink or two before she's able to school her startled expression. "Still, that's good to hear. Searching people rather than-- yes, that." Trying to discourage folk. She leans back in her seat, lips curling into a soft smile as she nods, "You're right. It's a big decision. Life changing, if you Impress." Not very comforting, but it's the truth. "I asked to Stand, myself. It was silly of me. Stupid, actually. I went against my orders as an apprentice, just because I didn't want to leave High Reaches Weyr." Whatever nostalgia is there is squashed by hindsight, "If I hadn't impressed, I could've lost my knot." Azaylia gives a soft shake of her head, "I understand, not wanting to risk being taken from your home."

"Me too," Faryn says. "If she hadn't looked so dour, I might have thought she was kidding. But I think you see what I'm getting at." At least she's not staring into her glass now. She's looking at Azaylia squarely. "Life changing either way," she observes, though it doesn't seem she's at any risk of going against orders. "If they asked me not to, I wouldn't. I don't think they would, though. Either way, there's always...not Impressing, and that might be worse." Her brows furrow in consideration. "How do you ''not'' get your hopes up out there, and if your dragon isn't there, you go back to doing whatever you were doing, with the knowledge that ''maybe'' you could have been a dragonrider?" She waves a dismissive hand. "I don't want to leave Reaches, but didn't want to leave Tillek, either. I don't want to be a ''pawn''. And I really don't want to be disappointed." Defining herself by negatives, opposition, by 'no's. Quietly, she wants to know, "Do you think Hraedhyth would have gone ''between'' if you weren't there to Stand?"

This calls for more water, and Azaylia refills her nearly empty glass as she listens to Faryn's concerns. Gently, "I wish I had an answer. I was lucky, and Impressed my first time." Lucky in several ways, as she's mentioned. "There are plenty of people who Stood multiple times. Some who have never Impressed at all. I'd suggest asking them?" The Weyrwoman can't help herself, reaching over to place a hand on Faryn's shoulder and offer a soft squeeze. "I know the agreement with Igen might seem strange. It's even political, yes. But the riders we send back, I wouldn't think of them as pawns." There's a sudden, quiet inhale for the unexpected thought of that small, angry gold hatchling going between. There's a moment of reassurance on both ends, and once Azaylia's eyes focus, "I don't know. I'd hope not." There's a downward tug of her lips, "Hraedhyth says she would, but..." A dragon's opinion is likely the most biased. "What matters is that she found me." With her talons.

When she examines the weyrwoman, it's not as curious as it is looking for something, anything. What makes a person stand the first time and get their dragon? Where is the guarantee, the clue that says they are deserving? "Maybe I will. Can you think of anyone?" Faryn can't, but - well, it's worth asking. Not one to accept physical comfort well, the crafter finds herself stiffening slightly under Azaylia's hand before relaxing, sighing quietly. "What would you call them, then? They'll barely be old enough to go before they're transferred, whoever they are. That's...even the crafts wait, at least a while." It's Hraedhyth's answer, absent though she is, that sets the herder's jaw. She glances over her shoulder, not entirely certain she won't find the gold dragon there suddenly, but there's nothing yet. She turns a wry smile back. "And lucky she did. For both of you." It's easy, then, to be lucky.

"Not off the top of my head, no. That information would be in the records." It's not exactly permission to go snooping about, but it'll give Faryn an idea where to start. "Oh. Actually I ''think'' Edyis has been a candidate before. ''She'' can be found in the records, sometimes." It all comes full circle. Azaylia doesn't seem bothered by Faryn's scrutiny, simply curious. She doesn't comment on it, or on the subject of those future transfers. Hraedhyth is nowhere in sight, certainly not behind the herder, waiting to pounce. Rather than a gold dragon, there is a figure heading straight for the stairs of the complex, scrolls and books balanced in his arms. With a quick glance at her schedule, "Ah, that'd be my next meeting." With a gentle smile, "I hope talking has helped, some?" As for business, "I'll look forward to seeing what the Herders think."

Abruptly aware that she's overstayed, Faryn follows Azaylia's gaze towards the hide-bound figure and has the good grace to look at least a little chagrined for taking up the other woman's time. "Oh!" is her surprised response, and it doesn't seem to have crossed her mind that her friend would be on that particular shortlist. "Well. She's - I can find her, thanks." She's on her feet quickly, with a courteous nod as she pushes her chair into place. "I'm sorry to have taken up your time. Thank you, though. It helped. And I'll speak to the Journeymen as soon as I'm able." And again, since it probably can't be overstated, "Thanks. Have a good afternoon, ma'am." She's on her way, then, sliding by the man with the hides and making her way out of the complex.
}}
{{Categories
|Categories=Search Logs, Clutch 37 Logs
}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs:In A Tizzy

2015-04-01T06:19:18Z

Dragonshy: Created page with "{{Log | who = Tomic, Schuyler, Alida, Azaylia, Laine, Faryn | where = Living Caverns, High Reaches Weyr | what = When a certain bluerider is sent into a tizzy, the Weyrwoman..."

{{Log
| who = Tomic, Schuyler, Alida, Azaylia, Laine, Faryn
| where = Living Caverns, High Reaches Weyr
| what = When a certain bluerider is sent into a tizzy, the Weyrwoman tries to do damage control. There's also talk of flights, rations, and gift baskets.
| day = 27
| month = 5
| turn = 37
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2015.03.31
| quote = "There's a ''tizzy'' somewhere and I missed it?"
| weather =
| categories = 
| mentions = A'rist, Telavi
| ooc =
| icons = tomic alert.jpg, alida pissed.png, azaylia shiftyeyes.jpg, Laine wat.jpg, faryn.png
| type = Log
| desc = '''Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr'''
''Stalactites hang high above this enormous cavern like a jagged chandelier
or an inversion of the Spires themselves, but shadows cling to them
instead of light. Below lie great tables arranged in rows, each large
enough to serve a fighting wing, while in the nooks and alcoves around the
cavern's edge sit more sensibly-sized tables, from six- and eight-seaters
down to intimate spots for just a couple of diners. The only really open
space is around the kitchen entrance, smelling of food and rarely quiet,
and by the nearby serving tables with their long buffet of the day's
offerings.''

''Tapestries on the smooth walls -- some faded and others newly woven --
only slightly mute the sea of sound when a meal is in full swing, but they
add cheerfulness augmented by the glowlight from wall sconces and the
centerpieces of each table. Still, shadows always creep along the ceiling
and into the mouths of the exits -- the myriad small hallways at one end
of the cavern and, at the other, the twisting tunnel to the bowl near an
array of coathooks and and hatracks -- and late at night, when the glows
are allowed to dim, the chamber can seem very dark indeed. ''
| log = The caverns are always more crowded when the weather is less than hospitable, as is the case today. Tomic's lost in the middle of the flux of people, a plate full of food in hand... and no apparent destination in mind. What he is watching is a gaggle of weyrbrats, keeping track of them though there are nannies with them, a mental tally of which kids are going off with parents for supper, which are staying with the group... Tomic is also having people walking into him and shoulder-bumping him, and getting frustrated at his being a roadblock. All that's happening to him, but he's not much paying attention to it.

The larger crowds mean more food and Sky is on his way to the buffet tables with a large tray of after dinner snacks. His way is blocked by a larger-than-him young man. "Oop, 'scuse me." he says trying to make his way around the iceberg of a man. Thankfully the buffets are just on the other side of him and the tray makes it to the table without much more incident.

Done with her 'required' dinner with Taiga - both presences having had enough of one another - Alida flatly excuses herself from that Wing's long table, getting a mere nod goodbye from one of the many members as she departs. Apparently neither the Glacier bluerider nor her temporary wingmates find much to like in one another. At least the blonde's skated around the requirement to eat all her dinner with Taiga by putting a tiny slice of wherry, one veggie, and a small tuber on her plate. Such small pickins' insure she's done within 5 minutes. And now that she's free, the woman's up into the queue to nab herself a true meal, this time, her plate heaped high with various things and a big mug of tea as she pivots around and sets off...to find not much in the way of table space left. The hell if she'll go back to Taiga's table.

While it's more typical for the Weyrwoman to take her meal in her weyr or the council chambers, the itch to socialize is one Azaylia is happy to scratch. Although she could have picked a much better day, with the light rainfall chasing everyone inside. She's got a plate to rival Tomic's, far more considerate as she moves with the wave of people. She can't help it, when someone bumps her into the large, solid mass. "Oh dear, come here." Fingers curl into the crook of the unfamiliar nanny's arm, tugging him toward the nearest table, where it seems Sky is settling. "You can't be standing in the way like that. It's far too busy." A light scold, but intended to be helpful more than anything.'.

Bumping, he's been ignoring, and continues to do. Being grabbed and moved, that's different. "Hm?" comes out of that mountain of a nanny only once he's already taken a few steps along with the weyrwoman. The others to go past where he'd been standing are luckier than Schuyler, obviously, who only gets noticed now, once Tomic and Azaylia have reached his table. "Oh, hey." The plate is set down, a veggie or two lighter than it had been when the big man was in the middle of the cavern, but not overly emptied. "You're the one called Sky, right?" An afterthought to the weyrwoman, whom he clearly doesn't recognise, is, "Thanks, I guess."

Fresh in from the rain, as evidenced by her slick dark hair and damp shoulders, Laine's among those jostling for a place by the buffet tables. She bides her time, running fingers through her hair and tousling it to a stark, messy cloud, and as the line shuffles forward she scans the living cavern for familiar faces. Finding none, once Laine's fetched her own plate (mostly vegetables), her path takes her on a wandering route, finally claiming a seat somewhere near--oh. Azaylia. And Tomic. "Hi." Hi!

Wading through the active throng, Alida finds herself becoming a little irked at the 'bumper-to-bumper' traffic in the 'cavern, her green eyes rolling heavenward as if to ask for patience. At this point, she'll take pretty much any seat that's not with Taiga or with anyone she doesn't care for, and so, when an empty seat's sighted, the bluerider wriggles between a huge man and a lanky woman holding a conversation to set her tray down beside... oh. "Schuyler..." the blonde notes in her typical, clipped alto. Oh look; there's also an Azaylia, and a Laine, and somebody she doesn't know. They all get a low grunt of acknowledgement, aside from Zay, who gets a polite-in-company, "Weyrwoman."

Schuyler grins as he finds himself at a full table. To Tomic, "That's me!" a pleased smile at being recognized. "Not sure I know you though." he raises an eyebrow in question. Then Laine and Alida, who both get warm smile. "Evening." he greets in general.

"Sky, hello." Azaylia remembers him, after Tomic's greeting, of course. She's wearing a small, ''patient'' smile for the mountainous lad, brows lifting in amusement. "You're welcome, I guess." The last is said far too playfully, as is her mimic of Laine. "Hi." Setting her food down, the goldrider decides that this is as good a place as any, especially with such familiar faces. The most familiar of all being, "Alida, hello. I thought I saw you sitting already?" Still, she's not one to judge (or be able to) when it comes to one's hunger. At least she doesn't take priveledge with more meat than anyone else, keeping to the vegetables and not-wheat starches.

The weyrbrats out of his sight, Tomic is paying more attention. Enough to catch the title Alida throws out. "Thank you, weyrwoman," is sheepish, though he can't keep a bit of a grin from his face as he tests, "I guess," with a shrug of those big shoulders. Laine, the defender of whist, is given that same smile, minus the self-consciousness, when she sits. And the blonde woman, whom he doesn't know, gets a pleasant nod, though for now he'll keep his greetings to himself. In case he misses a rank again.

A lopsided smile does its due rounds. Greetings (at the bare minimum, acknowledgements) complete, the young tanner apprentice wastes no time in tucking into her meal, although she does use the back of her hand to wipe away a lone rain droplet that's running down the tip of her nose. "''Rain''," she grouses, falling back on that old standard of conversation: so how 'bout that weather, huh? But she does lever that smile up at Tomic--must be thinking much the same, because she offers, "Played any whist lately?"

"Nah; just got here..." Alida responds to Azaylia, the blonde trying not to look like a barbarian as she shoves a forkful of asparagus into her yap, chews hungrily. Man, she's hungry, this evening. Some tea washes the greens down, readying her for a large bite of tuber and butter, the bluerider seeming to thoroughly enjoy her chow, though her portion of meat is as spare as anyone else's. Maybe she's enjoying a little *too* much, given how green eyes focus upon her plate of food for extended periods, though they do lurch up on occasion to keep track of who's where, far and near. And then, there's a small start from the bluerider as something ripples through her consciousness - her gaze far away for some moments, her hanf clutching up tightly upon her fork - and then finds her coming back to full consciousness with a low, almost growled, "NOT NOW..." Damn it!

Schuyler doesn't have any food at this point, as he was just bringing things out, but seeing how everyone is here for food (again, or still, or...because it's raining) he sits up for just a moment. "Would you guys keep my seat, I'm going to let the kitchens know we have another rush and bring some more food out." he glances around the table, his eyes landing on Alida and her appetite for a moment. "Anything anyone wants me to snag for them while I'm up?" he asks but is startled by Alida's outburst. "You ok?" his attention on her for a moment.

"Azaylia." The Werywoman suggests to poor Tomic, still clearly amused as she picks at her plate. As for rain, "It must be annoying, as a tanner? Not being able to work outdoors as much?" Laine is the freshest face, which means the busy goldrider actually ''remembers'' her too. She's on a roll! Alida's outburst startles her as well, expression suddenly flat and firm as she stares at the bluerider. It's only after a moment that her gaze refocuses, and she gives a soft, breathless laugh. "It'd probably be best if you didn't fight him, Alida." For those confused at the table, they'll have to wait until she's finished her bite. Casually, "Ilicaeth, that's her blue, intends to chase a green." Another moment, "Solith." No doubt Hraedhyth is watching from the comfort of another dragon's ledge.

Dragon> << Watch. >> Boast. (To Hraedhyth from Lythronath)

Dragon> << Win. >> Encouragement. (To Lythronath from Hraedhyth)

Waving off Schuyler's offer, Tomic says, "No," more in answer to Laine. "But I had a hand of crib. And about seven games of crazy eights, just last night, with the kids." Azaylia gets a thoughtful look when she supplies her name, but he doesn't repeat it. The big man is busy reaching for vegetables, with his hand, because of course he didn't think to bring a fork. He has one right up level with his lips when it stops, and gets slowly lowered back to his plate. "She's going to- oh." And he shifts in his seat.

Laine's chewing placidly on a mouthful of pickled beet when Alida's snarl comes; the candidate scrutinizes the bluerider across the table with narrowed grey eyes. She takes another bite. It's Sky's offer that rouses more of a reaction: she mumbles to that helpful offer from Sky, glancing up at the baker, "Klah, if you've got a spare hand? Black's fine. ''Oh''," and that's turned on Azaylia, as Laine swallows (gracious of her) and replies, "You would ''not'' believe the smell in there." And when that explanation comes from the goldrider, the tanner nods, looking back at Alida. Says, sotto voce, "Isn't she supposed to, like... Go somewhere?"

What?! Someone said something, and the distracted Alida jerks her intense, green gaze up again from the meal she was just staring at to meet Schuyler's. The bluerider appears to be internally struggling with something, a faint hint of sweat quickly breaking out upon her forehead and upper lip, Azaylia's words evincing a grit of teeth from the blonde, and a sudden cuss of, "I WANT to FINISH my FUCKING DINNER." While the noise in the 'cavern is too much for her strangled curse to be overheard beyond present company, those gathered near can certainly make it out. At least it's not directed at the Weyrwoman, nor anyone else at the table. Rebelliously, the 'rider shoves more food into her mouth, chews like a cretan, then splashes some tea into her pie hole. What's her other hand doing? Kneading firmly at one thigh with a rough palm. Seems someone's...worked up. Go somewhere? Huh? Blink, scowl.

Schuyler's eyes light with understanding. "Ah...well, yeah...Klah you said, Laine? I can do that." glad to have an excuse to step away from the food hoarding worked up blue rider he weaves his way across the (ever increasingly agitated) crowd and disappears into the kitchens. A few minutes pass before he returns with another large tray, weaving back to the buffets and finally to the table, this time with two mugs of klah, one handed over to Laine. He eyes Alida. "You gonna be ok?" his question with a hint of concern.

Azaylia watches Alida's struggle with an obvious mix of curiosity and concern, lips pressing into a line. Laine earns a soft nod, even if the goldrider isn't looking at the tanner, "She ''is''." Leaning over, there's a gentle hand on Alida's shoulder that gives a firm squeeze. "Stop fighting him." There's a sweet name on the tip of her tongue, a 'honey' or 'dear', but this is ''Alida'' after all. She may not appreciate it. "It's not good for either of you." There's a glance for the candidates and non-candidates alike, "And you're scaring the babies." With far more command in her soft voice, "Go find Solith's rider."

"SON-of-a-BITCH!" Alida snarls again to herself, her lifemate, her jaw set, eyes blazing, body stiff as she continues to try and fight her lifemate back into somnolescence. And fails. It's been a few months, after all. Azaylia's squeeze of her shoulder sends the woman's distracted gaze instantly to the goldrider, who is looked at with mixed irritation... and growing lust. Blinkie-blink. "Yeah... whatever. Damned dragon..." Around very glottal muttering of hard dicks have no conscience - and yet more cussing - the Glacier rider snags up her tray, its plate and mug still more than half-full, and then heaves to a stand before shoving her chair out of the way so she can stalk off towards the outside, and the guest weyr.

Tomic's eyes flick up and down and up and down, from Alida, to his plate, to Azaylia, to his plate, to the riders together, to his plate. Like a wagon wreck, you don't want to stare, but... Finally, with a force of will, the nanny ''stares'' at his vegetables. And starts to eat them, slowly, and surely. Alida's outburst doesn't even have him look up, once his mind is made up. He just flinches at the shout, and then hunches up his shoulders, tough-like. And chews his tubers.

Faryn's arrival in the caverns is unceremonious, at best. She's got a mug of klah and a plate piled high with vegetables that she's eyeing with a bit of consternation, but otherwise she is easy to overlook. She's grazing the caverns for a place to sit - anywhere, really, will do; she's got ''broccoli'' to eat - and when she spots a familiar group of people she beelines towards them presently. "Can I sit --" she starts, before Alida slams upwards and rushes out of the caverns post-haste. "There," finishes the herder lamely, though the seat in front of her is now clear. She takes it without waiting for an answer from anyone.

Schuyler is glad he's taken his seat already when Alida bulldozes her way out but the arrival of Faryn brings his smile back and with a shake of his head he grins at her. "Hey there Faryn." he offers then glances at the group. "Everyone know everyone else? That's Laine...I think you know her, Azaylia and this is...uh, not sure I caught your name there actually..." he raises a brow to Tomic.

Laine doesn't possess Tomic's strength of will. She's ''staring'' at Alida, mouth agape, not even breaking away her gaze to accept that mug from Schuyler, and those grey eyes follow that bluerider's progress all the way out of the caverns. "You expect ''us'' to..." One finger lifts to draw an idle pattern in the air in Alida's wake. "... That?" Laine sniffs. She takes a long drink from her mug, and greets Faryn with a cordial nod. "That's Tomic," the tanner provides, helpfully, for the staunch, tuber-chewing man.

There's a long exhale from the Weyrwoman that carries any of her annoyance or unease, of which there isn't much. The smile that follows is a small one, careful, as she looks back towards the rest of the table. Her lips part, but before she can begin doing damage control, Faryn is sitting next to her. "Oh, hello." Though she's not wearing her knot, Sky is quick with the introductions. Once again her lips part, only this time it's Laine who interrupts, and Azaylia gives a faint wince, "Ah, no. Not... quite." Her fork has been abandoned for some time, folding her hands atop the table as that smile returns. "Alida is... can be difficult. About certain things. Such as flights." The words are careful, even as she visibly relaxes, "I'm sorry if she startled you." Her gaze passes over the non-riders, "Flights are nothing to be afraid of."

Tomic looks up at his name. Looks up to see Faryn and the weyrwoman returned, and heaves a great big sigh that makes his shoulders drop, tagging, "Hey, Faryn," onto the end, complete with silly little smile. Once his eyes catch up with his brain (or think they have), he corrects Laine with, "He knows me." Height does not help with things going over one's head. All that fades quickly when Laine gets them all ''talking'' about flights again. "I'm not ''afraid'' of them," is mumbled half-defensively, face redder than his normal ruddy tones, still feeling enormously self-conscious. Tomic eats something green off his plate.

Busy as she is stuffing a tuber in her mouth, one that by all rights should have been cut into another, more manageable piece, Faryn acknowledges most greetings with a tip of her head, or a wave of her fork, or both. She chews enterprisingly at her mouthful, her gaze drifting to the side to take in the knotless Azaylia and the wide-eyed expressions of the rest of her peers. She swallows, with a gulping sound, and fixes them each with an expression that is a bit unfathomable, but maybe ''slightly'' judgmental. ''Slightly''. "Are you guys talking about that green putting everyone in a tizzy?" she asks, her thoughts catching up with Alida's actions all at once. "Why was she in here, if her dragon was chasing?"

Schuyler ahs softly. "Right, we did meet...just forgot your name, sorry about that." he grins at Tomic then turns his gaze to the Weyrwoman. "You don't see folks react to flights like that very often though..." he frowns in the direction the bluerider took. "Maybe I'll send some treats to her weyr for after..." his half thought comes out as he thinks but then turns a bright smile back to the group. "Cookies make anyone feel better, right?" he takes a tentative sip of his klah, probably organizing a basket of treats in his head.

That mug goes down, and the fork comes up. Laine's chewing thoughtfully while Azaylia speaks, but meets Faryn's gaze with a perk of her thick, dark eyebrows. When her mouth's empty again, the apprentice tanner sucks air through her teeth then shrugs, echoing Tomic with a mild, "Not ''afraid''--" but then Faryn's speaking and Laine's tracking the beastcrafter and those eyebrows dip with something akin to disappointment. "There's a ''tizzy'' somewhere and I missed it?"

"Like I said," Mostly to Faryn, now, "Alida can be difficult. She shouldn't have been in here, no. I'll have a talk with her." Yes, Alida is strange. No, Azaylia doesn't approve. Unfolding her hands, she picks up her fork and returns to her meal, eating with a surprising fervor given her table manners. A close-lipped smile as she chews, and after, "Good. Wouldn't do to have scared candidates, would it?" Sky's idea earns a soft laugh, "I know she's fond of tea. If you could send anything that pairs well with a hot cup, that'd be best." As for Laine's disappointment, she playfully scolds, "Candidates should be ''avoiding'' tizzies."

"But if..." And whatever question Tomic has, whatever it is that gets him blinking solemnly at Azaylia for a while, gets chewed over, more than swallowed. "Is she going to be upset afterwards, then? If she needs tea and cookies?" The question is asked, and prompts a pause in his veggie chewing while he waits for an answer; or, by the knit in his brow, maybe tries to work out his own.

"Ah," is Faryn's only response for Azaylia. There's a lot of that going around. She stuffs another bite in her mouth, chews, and swallows contemplatively, pointing her fork in the general direction that Alida departed. "That was a tizzy, I'd say. Rare or not. Most of the tizzy is probably indoors now, though." Another bite. Faryn is waving her fork a bit as she talks, adding the afterthought, "''I'm'' in a tizzy. I have to check the herds now. I wonder how many they blooded." She frowns over her fork a spell, then her mouth shifts into a small smirk. "If she loses," is her own plain answer.

Schuyler nods. "Ok, tea and cookies. I can totally make that happen." he doesn't seem nearly as distraught as the others, either having something to think about keeps him calm, or...he's just typically calm. "So...what do you all think of tonight's popcorn treat?" he asks, gesturing to the buffet table, which has cleared back a bit to reveal a large bowl of the puffed treat.

"Oh." Laine shifts her weight, then, leaning back in her seat and tipping the chair so she balances on the back two legs. Balancing so, she plucks at her plate with her fingers. She makes a little feigned moue of disappointment at Azaylia, but it cracks into a crooked smile that sweeps over to encompass Sky. "That's kind of you," the tanner comments, rocking backward. She flicks a look down at her plate, with a grimace. "Greens ''blood''? And we're short on meat? And," this, more annoyed, "leather, now, too." Hmph.

Another soft laugh for Faryn's answer, and Azaylia echoes, "Especially if she loses. But, I approve of gift baskets in general." Her eyes flick to Tomic, smile an attempt to soothe the ruffled nanny, "She'll be fine." The Weyrwoman gives a soft sigh of her nose, otherwise unbothered but certainly ''pensive'' about the subject of blooding. "They don't have to, and if they do they're ''supposed'' to keep to one." With a light frown, "Hraedhyth says that there's been more than one beast a dragon, which ''won't'' do." Dark eyes drift down to her lack of meat, and she spears a tuber with a low hum. "Could you check, after your meal?" For Faryn, sooner rather than later.

"Oh," says Tomic. Then, "''Oh''. You mean it's even like that for g-" stops there, with a look to Laine and Faryn. And Tomic is then interested in his plate again. Laine's comment draws his attention, and around something crunchy and reddish: "Can't you get at least some of the hide from some of the ones that get eaten? Or blooded?" There's less certainty on the last, and he looks to Azaylia for confirmation, their token dragonrider now.

Faryn's eyebrows raise at Tomic, incredulous. "Yes," she confirms soberly, looking him dead in the eye until he looks away, "it's like that for girls, too." At least it's clear she's being unsettling, because Faryn tacks onto Tomic's last, pointing her fork at him. "Yeah, I was going to say that. I can get you the hide, or you can come take it. There'll be punctures, but most of it's usable. Just not the meat. Not that they need to blood. It seems a waste. They're so fast anyways. But," she adds, "I don't know anything about tanning, or flights, so." A shrug. Schuyler's question earns a look, but she disregards it with, "Sorry, Sky. I've got so many good vegetables. And it's still not a steak." She sighs wistfully. Another carrot into the herders mouth, and she gives Azaylia a nod. "It was my intention, but I'll report back to you, if you'd like."

Schuyler sighs and frowns. "You know food would be so much better if we didn't have to ration it. I mean...I get that dragons can't always be controlled but...now we have even less meat." is he ''pouting''? He sighs and sips his klah again, eyes going to the buffet table to be sure it still has enough food.

There's a deepening expression of amusement that curls Laine's lips when she meets Tomic's ''look'', and an appreciative chuckle for Faryn's comment--but then the tanner brightens, visibly, as they offer Solutions. "Oh, shells, of course. I've been an idiot. That's brilliant." Her chair ''thumps'' forward, bringing all four legs back on the ground, and Laine pushes away from the table. When she stands, she collects her mug and plate. Whether she's aiming to head directly out to drag those carcasses off--or, more likely, just bring it to someone's attention--isn't clear, but the tanner apprentice is on a mission. She goes.

Azaylia leaves Faryn to answer Tomic on ''that'', even she tries to fight the impish curl of her lips. Ahem. "There should be some usable hides left," Though there's a light grimace as she's reminded, "''Lythronath'' is chasing. If he's had a beast, you might not be able to salvage much." Hopefully Faryn has a strong stomach. There's a smile for Laine, and her hasty retreat, "Have a good evening, dear." While the goldrider's own plate is now empty, she seems content with lingering for a bit. "Rationing is hard," She sympathizes with Sky, "But it isn't the first time we've had to, and I can't imagine it'll last forever." Her gaze shifts to Faryn, and her smile brightens, "Yes, thank you. I'd appreciate a written report, as well."

Tomic is more interested for a second there - a second that ends, with Faryn staring at him like that, with blushing and looking away and cleaning off his plate (not that there was much left). Laine is a convenient subject change: "She gone to get one now?" It's said with grins to Schuyler and Azaylia first; the herder gets a fleeting one, last, 'cause of reasons. "Sure do miss roast beast," is all he has for the rationing conversation. Even as he grabs his plate and stands. But this time he remembers to excuse himself with, "Weyrwoman."

Faryn watches Tomic go, her small smile unrepentant. He came to the weyr, after all; he can deal with a little bit of silly flirting. ''Do women do that'' indeed! Either she's been eating quickly, or she didn't have as much food as it initially seemed. She's still got some vegetables, but not enough to salvage, and she has a task now, too. "Yes, ma'am," Faryn says, the formality not as smooth as it could be. "I should probably check before anything gets to the blooded beasts, anyways; it can't be a total waste." She scoots her chair out with a nod to excuse herself, dumping her plate and mug both on her way out the door.

Schuyler finishes off his mug of klah. "And ''I'' need to get back to the kitchens so we can refill the table again. Seems like dragons aren't the only ones who are hungry tonight." he smiles a bit. "And I have a care package to attend to." with a wink he's off, weaving his way back to the kitchens.

"Tomic." Azaylia offers as a farewell, having picked up his name from the introductions beforehand. One by one, her company leaves her, all off to tend to their duties. Faryn is given a soft nod, "I hope it's not too bad, out there." And Sky coaxes a soft laugh, "Do let me know how that goes? Alida can be a curious creature." One she's fond of, at least. As a new group of folk arrive to take advantage of the empty seats, the Weyrwoman politely excuses herself in order to collect her dark cloak before she heads out into the rain.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs talk:Quinlys is Outspoken

2015-03-20T07:05:18Z

Dragonshy: Comment provided by Azaylia - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Quinlys is Outspoken]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Edyis (01:09, 20 March 2015 (EDT)) said... ==

Quinlys and her soap box! This was really fun to read, and I loved seeing Keysi's thoughts on the Igen issue.
==Azaylia (03:05, 20 March 2015 (EDT)) said... ==

...okay, I LOVE that Quinlys is being so verbal. So bold! It really makes things interesting, and I've always loved how strong her convictions are. <3 Keysi and Rafevan's discussion on craft vs. dragonriding was fantastic. ^^

Logs:Cider Mooches

2015-03-14T02:36:48Z

Dragonshy: Created page with "{{Log | who = Edyis, Laine, Azaylia | where = Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr | what = Talk of rumors in the Snowasis, and Edyis suffers a little alcoholic karma. | day = 23 | mon..."

{{Log
| who = Edyis, Laine, Azaylia
| where = Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Talk of rumors in the Snowasis, and Edyis suffers a little alcoholic karma.
| day = 23
| month = 3
| turn = 37
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2015.03.11
| quote = "That's an ''awful'' lot of cider for one person."
| weather =
| categories = 
| mentions = A'rist, Farideh, Irianke
| ooc =
| icons = edyis bar.jpg, laine 1.jpg, azaylia smile.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| log = It is that time of night when the Snowasis just starts filling up, despite the abysmal rain. Edyis is seated at one of the high topped tables near the dartboards, a heated competition between a group of Savannah Wingriders already well under way. There's a pitcher of cider compete with glasses waiting to be filled, the dark-eyed former scribe nursing her drink with a grin, laughing as the competition heats up. She seems more relaxed than usual; dark curls left loose from the usual braid though the sharp tunic and leather vest might suggest she just ended a shift up in the Riders' Lounge.

Laine's trim form, somewhat bulkier for her layered winter garb, slouches in from the patio, hood shielding her face. When she shakes off her mittens and crams them in her pockets, her hands are splotched and splattered with dyed patches of deep, rich brown. Pushing back her hood and tousling her thick, short hair, Laine's path--toward the bar--gets diverted when she spots Edyis, seated near the dartboards and the rambunctious group of Scannah wingriders, and she sidles up next to the other girl. "That's an ''awful'' lot of cider for one person," she observes dryly.

Azaylia is not often seen with Savannah as a whole, not during poker or darts, not like Glacier-- but tonight she's on the fringe of that heated competition. It's after she's put work away for the day, her almost-black blue dress far less conservative despite the rain outside. Surely the bodies that are filling the Snowasis will help warm things up. Whatever discussion she was having with one of Savannah's wingriders has finished, and she's walking toward the bar, passing both Edyis and Laine on the way. "Ooh, cider?" The tail end catches her ears, as well as the Weyrwoman's interest, though she isn't wearing her knot tonight. "She's," A glance and friendly smile to Laine, "Right, you know." Hello Edyis, meet your mooches.

Edyis grins to the would be moochers, pulling two of the empty (and more importantly clean) glasses aside and with a well practiced hand filling both in one smooth movement. Pushing a glass each in the direction of both women. "I suppose I ''do'' need someone to save me from the shame of becoming too intoxicated. Laine you are always so very thoughtful when it comes to my alcohol consumption, I don't know what I would do without you." Her lips are curving in a relaxed smile giving the tanner apprentice a wink. "I imagine you have been incredibly busy of late Weyrwoman."

Accepting the glass with an innocent, who-me?, expression, Laine breezily replies, "You ''know'' I just have your best interests at heart. Plus," her laughing grin breaks her guile as she shrugs a lopsided, one-shouldered shrug, "you always have the best booze. ''And'' you're good company." She leans her elbows both on the table, cupping the glass in her laced fingers, and turns that crooked smile on Azaylia. "''That''," the apprentice tanner indicates with a sweep of her heard, "is a great little dress." She'd shake hands, but--y'know. She's busy mooching.

The Weyrwoman may be a tad too eager to sample the cider, but if her known excitement for the Hold's harvest is any evidence... yes. So very ''yes''. She'll drink first, "Mmn, thank you Edyis." No doubt if you give a goldrider a drink, her table isn't likely to ''stay'' thirsty. Lingering, "You're friends, then?" It's a polite if obvious question, tipping her head toward Laine, "Thank you. I'm trying a new weaver, but I think he assumed a bit much..." Not ''too'' risque, but also not the usual soft/flowing fair she wears. "Azaylia, gold Hreadhyth's. And you are?" She takes a long, frothy pull from the glass before nodding, "Very busy, yes."

Edyis smirks, tilting her head so that dark sun-streaked curls fall away from her face. "Since you are good with the flattery I will continue letting you mooch." Edyis teases the tanner and to Azaylia she nods. "I suppose we are at this point." It's only at mention of trying a new weaver that Edyis really gives the dress a second look over, "It is good to try something outside of your comfort zone every once in a while. My sisters tell me that experimenting with different styles can always help a person find something that suits their figure even better. Then again, I think that is just their excuse for using me as a free dress dummy when I visit." As for busy, there is a pause. "Have things finally settled for Irianke? I couldn't help but notice last I spoke with her, the galleries seem to empty out whenever she comes in." There is a definite note of sympathy in her voice as she states the last.

Once an introduction is expected, Laine wastes no time in releasing her cider and wiping her palm off on her trouser's thigh. "Laine," she offers that hand, clammy with condensation as it might be, "apprentice tanner. Pleasure." She smiles a loose, easy smile--one that shifts from the Weyrwoman over to Edyis at the words 'free dress dummy'. "Lucky I've mostly brothers, that's what you're saying?" It's an aside; Laine busies herself with a long draw from her glass and her eyes wander to that nearby game of darts.

Laine's hand is given a firm shake, Azaylia's own not without it's callouses-- she does have a massive lifemate to tend to, still. "Apprentice tanner? And do you enjoy your craft?" More than most, is the implied question. "I had a laundress mention that I should try to find ''one'' weaver and stick with them. I don't know, I don't think I've found anyone who fits me better than any other." No brand loyalty here, even after all these turns. Mention of Irianke has the goldrider's brows lifting in mild surprise before she answers easily, "Do they? Sure it's not because of Lythronath?" Her smile is impish, not at Niahvth's expense, but for one of her favored bronzes. "What about you, Laine? Have you had a chance to speak with my junior?" ''Hers'', which could be seen as a positive endorsement.

Edyis laughs, "Yes be glad you had brothers." The once-scribe snorts at mention of Lythronath with an impish smile, "Had he been on the sands when I witnessed it, it would have been my first assumption. I think it has more to do with the fact that no one knows how much of the clutch is promised to Igen nor has there been any word on how those pairs will be selected." Edyis falls quiet then dark eyes shifting to Laine at the question, curious.

The apprentice tanner buries her nose in her cup once again, delaying her response to Azaylia. When she lifts her head, and it's with something of a chagrined grimace that she confesses, "Enjoy it? No. Not really. But," a wan smile, "it's what I know." She turns grey eyes between Edyis and Azaylia, thoughtfully, but shakes her head, short, for that last question. "Haven't the chance," Laine admits, then tacks on, almost defensively: "Spend a lot of time in the craft complex. Or," shrug, "Here." But she does tip her head toward Edyis. "Heard that too."

Talk of family has Azaylia's mouth quirking a bit oddly, "I have two brothers, although one of my younger ones... I believe he's having grand adventures, somewhere? He went missing turns ago, but we still get mail." The Weyrwoman's brows lower some at Edyis' thoughts, "Ah, that. I can understand people being upset. Perhaps it might have been better to just tell everyone the conditions of Irianke's transfer." It doesn't seem like she's damning those who are outraged, nor is she overly apologetic. For Laine, "Why stay, if you don't enjoy it? Not that it's any of my business, but." She has her curiosity.

"Possibly." Is Edyis, pensive answer. "Seems like people throw the weight of the whole thing on her though, who knows if making the whole affair public knowledge would have helped that." It is at the question posed at Laine that again Edyis falls quiet, studying her friend through thick lashes, listening intently.

"'Least you still get mail," Laine points out, (helpfully?). Then: "Tanning's what I know," Laine echoes lightly, with a sidelong look at Edyis and a soft laugh, "And I'm a bit old to be picking up something new ''now''." She drags one finger in loops through s ring of condensation left by her glass on the table, considering. When she looks up, she says, "Seems to me, either way you do things, ''someone's'' going to be unhappy. But. I've only heard the... rumours. Think that's most what anyone's heard. Rumours."

"Might have helped those who just needed some time, after the shock." Azaylia offers as a counter argument, however gently. "Though, maybe not." What's done is done. As for that lost brother, "Oh yes, the letters help. He was always a bit wild, so it wasn't a terrible surprise to ''me'', but..." Her smile is soft, fond, "I guess it runs in the family." Her empty glass is slid closer to Edyis, at least looking a ''bit'' sheepish at demanding a refill. "Never too old to learn new tricks, you know. But I understand." Why Laine stays. "Mmm. Well while Edyis is keeping me liquored up," From one glass? Hardly. "I'd be happy to answer what questions I can."

Is it coincidence that Edyis coughs into her glass at Laine's statement of being too ''old''? The barkeep manages not to choke on her cider, getting it down without accidentally breathing the stuff. Her glass is set down, lined up with Azaylia's, and if Laine allows hers too, again refilling the glasses with one smooth motion, before returning the noticeably emptier pitcher to its position. She looks to Laine to start the questions.

Nudging her mostly-empty glass forward to be filled with a grateful nod, Laine hooks a nearby stool with her ankle and pulls it close. She hops up onto it, but shrugs with a doubtful knit of her eyebrows. "Like I said. Rumours." She ticks a few off on her fingers: "''All'' the weyrlings are getting sent to Igen. All the ''eggs'' are getting sent to Igen, once they're hard. Irianke is actually a man, her dragon a bronze, there are no eggs, it's all a conspiracy. You know. Typical cavern scuttlebutt." There's a dry smile toying at the corner of her mouth, but Laine shakes her head. "I don't ''do'' politics. I'm an apprentice. I know there's more to it than everyone is saying, but I ''don't'' know enough to ask--" Laine hesitates, glances at Azaylia, then to Edyis for support, "The right questions."

Thank Faranth Azaylia is waiting on a refill, leaving her to choke on nothing with a little throaty croak. "Wh-- a ''man''!?" Spoken with a mix of horror and delight for what those twisted minds can come up with. "Though it's not ''right'' to joke about there being no eggs." Joke isn't the right word, not when gossip is concerned. But for this, the Weyrwoman sounds stern. With a glance for the empty pitcher, she raises her glass and looks to catch a server's attention in order to replace it. "Not ''all'' of the weyrlings, or eggs, are being sent to Igen. And, the amount will depend on the number of eggs Niahvth lays." Satisfied with her answers, the goldrider offers Laine a gentle smile. "So long as you don't ''mean'' harm, I don't think there's such a thing as a wrong question."

Thankfully Edyis ''wasn't'' drinking when the tide of colorful rumors comes spilling out. She manages to regain composure as the weyrwoman answers them. "I had heard it was only the smaller dragons that Igen was interested in, but Irianke also mentioned that she hasn't had much contact with Igen since her arrival." The once-scribe added thoughtfully. "So essentially until the eggs are lain, no one really knows how many, or how they will make the decision on who goes back to Igen?"

Laine chuckles, spreading her palms, face-up. "I ''will'' say that the man I heard spreading that last was ''well'' in his cups at the time." Speaking of: she tips her newly-filled glass to her lips, then nods thoughtfully at Azaylia's responses. On the trail of Edyis' question, Laine echoes slowly, "Will it be voluntary, to go? Appointed? That seems to be another point of contention." It's perhaps for the better that the tanner doesn't provide any more scandalous hearsay to prove this point. She does add, "Wouldn't mind being sent to Igen, myself." Presumably since she went to school at the tanner crafthall. Or maybe it's: "Warmer."

"That was the agreement. Igen's interested in the chromatics." Azaylia confirms, and manages not to sound confused as many others seem to be about that fact. Edyis' question earns a soft nod as she brings the cider to her lips, "It's all up to Niahvth, for now." No pressure, of course. "I'd prefer those who would want to go or not mind the transfer being first choice, but... hard to say. I'd rather not send people away against their will, but..." Dragonriders go where they're assigned. Her glass is tipped toward Laine, "Let's hope that enough of the weyrlings feel that way." With a soft chuckle, "I'm more fond of Ista, myself."

"If riders are transferred away against their will. . . is there no recourse to seek transfer back? Don't get me wrong I am all for a warmer climate, but I lived in a foreign Weyr once, it isn't an easy thing to do or adjust to indefinitely." Edyis murmurs softly, weighing the thought after she speaks it. "Will Igen provide candidates as well then?"

Laine murmurs a reflective "hmm" into her cider, lacing her fingers around the glass and propping herself on elbows. She smiles wanly across her cup at Azaylia, commenting, "Easier to send away the willing." Tilting her head toward Edyis, Laine chuckles a low laugh: "It's not ''that'' hard. Is it? You're well-adjusted," that pale smile blossoms into a loose grin. "Plus they'd probably be so shell-shocked anyway..." But she trails off.

Azaylia considers Edyis' words, "Honestly, that'd be up to Igen's Weyrleader--" There's a hitch in her voice, the reality of Igen dawning on her as she corrects herself. "Up to the Igen's Weyrleaders." Nimae. "Whatever happens, I'll do my best to make it as easy a transition for them." While the agreement may seem cruel to some, it's obviously not int he Weyrwoman's nature to be ''unkind'' about it. "High Reaches Weyr has been my home since I... for ages." She tries not to wince at the turns and turns that have passed. "Maybe it would be better to Search outside the Weyr, this time? For candidates who aren't terribly attached to High Reaches."

Edyis laughs, "Yes well there are people to thank for how well adjusted I am." Her gaze shifting unintentionally to the Savannah riders still playing with those words. It is Azaylia's statement and self-correction which draws dark eyes back to the blue clad Weyrwoman thoughtfully. "There will be dissent no matter which direction things go, I confess I had been considering standing this time around myself, since there aren't many turns left for me to do so, but now? I don't know. Monaco... it was hard after ..." Savannah left, goes unspoken. "At least the weyrlings would have Irianke with them but still. With what I've heard recently about the political climate there... seems like Igen has too much interest in High Reaches."

Drawing a mouthful of cider, Laine listens without comment, although she does nod once, twice. She repeats her earlier statement, agreeably tilting her head toward Edyis, "Won't be able to please everyone." But. She falls into an attentive silence, finishes her cider while the other two speak and stands, tucking her stool away under the table. She chuckles, quirks an eyebrow and says, "See? We're getting ''old'', Edyis." The tanner collects her empty glass and says amiably: "I've some work to finish before tomorrow--so. Well met, Weyrwoman. Thanks for," (ahem) "Clearing up those rumours. And Edyis--I'll see you, yeah?" And Laine begins to weave her way over to the bar to deposit her empty glass and slouch back out into the whipping winter wind.

"Have a good night, Laine." Azaylia sends the tanner off with a warm fairwell. "She seems like a nice girl." That's for Edyis, who remains. "She has a point. It's impossible to please everyone." She offers a soft nod, "If you're that concerned about being sent away, I'd suggest waiting for the next clutch. Hraedhyth will rise whenever she decides she's ready." There's obvious pride, maternal or otherwise as she offers, "I'd like to think that she makes the best babies. Very strong personalities." As if that surprises anyone.

Edyis waves as the tanner goes, and nods in agreement with Azaylia's assessment of her. She studies Azaylia thoughtfully at the suggestion, picking out her words very carefully. "It isn't that I wouldn't be honored if one of Hraedhyth's children decided to pick me." But big... scary gold. "I just don't know that I could handle one of those big personalities." She might completely be forgetting that Lythronath was Iesaryth's progeny.

If Azaylia takes offense on Hraedhyth's behalf, it's difficult to read from the smile and soft tilt of her head. "''Ah''. Yes, I can see how Niahvth's eggs would be more... appealing." That careful drawl could be caused by anything, from diplomacy to stifled insult. Edyis can enjoy trying to read between those lines, as she continues to smile. "Other than the possibility of being transferred." Bringing the cider to her lips, the Weyrwoman continues after a drink, "Sounds like you know what choices work best for you."

"Not so much more appealing, just . . . " Less likely to get her mauled? It is quite possible that she has had nightmares to that effect. Still how to recover from insulting the weyrwoman's dragon? However unintentionally it might be. "Less intimidating. With my luck I'd trip over a hatchling on accident hurting it and then " chomp.

Azaylia gives a faint hum behind her glass, ''sounding'' as if she understands. The cider is drained as she seems to recognize someone joining the dart's game. The new pitcher arrives, and she gives Edyis a soft smile, "Well if you do decide to stand, I hope that your lifemate is out there. If you'll excuse me, I have to see a man about... a thing." Not the most clever way to excuse herself, but certainly not a lie as she makes a beeline for a brownrider.

Edyis waves the woman off, potentially relieved, of course that leaves her to stare at the almost empty pitcher with a sigh. Oh well.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs talk:A Drunken Revolution

2015-02-28T06:54:23Z

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==Edyis (01:49, 28 February 2015 (EST)) said... ==

Lythronath... claiming the babies. Yeah that's one way to do it.

I loved this scene so much.
==Azaylia (01:54, 28 February 2015 (EST)) said... ==

Yesssssss. Quinlys, planting (drunken) seeds... I love it! I'm very curious to see how this particular whiskey-fueled wildfire might spread, ICly. ^^

Logs talk:Bros Reunited

2015-02-27T01:36:39Z

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==Azaylia (20:36, 26 February 2015 (EST)) said... ==

I missed reading these bro logs so damn much. <3

Logs talk:Interference and Unwelcome Revelations

2015-02-24T22:30:36Z

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==Edyis (05:03, 24 February 2015 (EST)) said... ==

Well that escalated quickly. Ahem.
==Roz (09:58, 24 February 2015 (EST)) said... ==

Oh, man. Mind /blown/. Irianke, what. D:

I loved this scene. Irianke's interest, and Quinlys and Telavi's talk afterwards.

Just.. /man/. So good.
==Azaylia (17:30, 24 February 2015 (EST)) said... ==

Irianke's interest was surprising, but also totally makes sense-- especially given her own experiences. Of course I ''love'' Quinlys and Telavi's talk at the end, it's so very 'them', with Quinlys' outrage and Telavi's loyalty. Oh captain my captain~ <3

Logs talk:And it was such a nice lunch...

2015-02-24T22:26:07Z

Dragonshy: Comment provided by Azaylia - via ArticleComments extension

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==Edyis (06:21, 24 February 2015 (EST)) said... ==

Teenagers.... oh wait. >.>

This was rather fun to read you guys.
==Azaylia (17:26, 24 February 2015 (EST)) said... ==

o.o Goodness! That got a little cut throat in the best way. <3

Logs:Drunk on Lythronath

2015-02-23T08:52:24Z

Dragonshy:

{{Log
| who = Azaylia, Azaylia{{!}}Hraedhyth, A'rist, A'rist{{!}}Lythronath
| where = Ista/Keroon Hold
| what = During Niahvth's flight, Lythronath convinces Hraedhyth to visit and vents his frustrations out on her. Their riders follow suit.
| day = 27
| month = 1
| turn = 37
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2015.02.21
| quote = "He's got wild. Being away so long."
| weather =
| categories = 
| mentions = Alida, Irianke, K'del
| ooc = NSFWish
| icons = azaylia dreamy.jpg, azaylia hraefire.jpg, a'rist shadow.jpg, a'rist lynner mischief.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| log = Dragon> Forced to relinquish ''her'' Weyr, ''her'' dragons, ''her'' skies, and with Cadejoth visiting K'del's pack in Southern, Hraedhyth's heat is a frustrated simmer. It's too sudden, too rough the way she is suddenly ''there'', reaching out to Lythronath with a hot iron grip. It's what she wants, not what she commands, not a hint of the gold's power in her words, << You are not Home. >> Home, even while Niahvth claims the skies. (To Lythronath from Hraedhyth)

Dragon> The dragon who isn't there, who hasn't been, between watchriding with Unehrbrath, and then being suddenly gone, as if disappeared, for reasons shared with Cadejoth and Isplonath and no others, except by those two - that dragon greets the mental hit from home with a heavy push back, with a red hot frustration slamming his mind up against Hraedhyth's in response. << Some home, >> is part annoyance, part distaste, part boredom, part... liberation? (To Hraedhyth from Lythronath)

Dragon> Hraedhyth soaks up that frustration, flame tongues lapping at Lythronath's mind, as if only just realizing that she has missed him. There have been fleeting moments of contact up until now, checking up on him as he ventures well beyond her territory. There's a harsh push against his thoughts, playful and rough, << We are here. >> Her touch grows hotter with the Istan sun, a handful of black sand tossed into her fire where it crackles and pops. << It is not Home, but it is nice. >> And ''boring''. At least for the queen. (To Lythronath from Hraedhyth)

Dragon> To Hraedhyth, Lythronath answers the push with a shove of << Not us, >> all force, the play still buried somewhere, still locked away. Secret.

Dragon> << You. >> Hraedhyth insists, tendrils of black smoke curling at the very edge of his thoughts-- dangling his half of the tug-a-rope. As if Lythronath would come without A'rist. Another shove, still playful and promising ''more'', << Ilicaeth made a new scar. >> She might not remember ''when'' but it's recent enough for her to lob at him. It's far too ''forcefull'' to be clever, the queen hardly master manipulator. (To Lythronath from Hraedhyth)

Dragon> To Hraedhyth, Lythronath projects << '''''Blues.''''' >>

Dragon> Hraedhyth's dancing drums echo ''that'' word: blues, blues blues! << Have you fought well? >> Or at all? ''She'' has. She ''would'', except that she's ''alone''. (To Lythronath from Hraedhyth)

Dragon> To Hraedhyth, Lythronath's answer is sharp, piercing, a hard bite of a mental slam.

Dragon> It catches her by surprise, when it really shouldn't have. Once shock has worn off, Hraedhyth pushes back-- a far too calm nudge compared to his sudden bite. Smug. You wanna go, bro-nze? (To Lythronath from Hraedhyth)

Dragon> << Not done. >> It might even be a sulk, low and grumbly. (To Hraedhyth from Lythronath)

Dragon> Despite all of her prodding, when it comes to matters of duty of a mysterious nature, Hraedhyth sulks alongside him. Grunt. << Done soon? >> Her fire gives a hopeful flicker, and despite her boredom even she knows they won't be returning Home until maybe the next day. (To Lythronath from Hraedhyth)

Dragon> To Hraedhyth, Lythronath's groan might almost be audible, all the way across that long distance that separates them. There's silence, waiting, deliberation, before, << Should come. >> It's invitation. And mischief.

Dragon> Hraedhyth is so much easier to tempt, or so it would seem, as the weight of their options hangs in their mental link. << Mine has drinks. >> Not ''has'' had, but is still currently having. There's a tickle of floral incense as her rider is now made aware of the invitation, << We ''could'' come. >> Reluctant, or possibly cautious. (To Lythronath from Hraedhyth)

Dragon> <<''Should'' come. >> He doesn't try, maybe can't, hide what he's up to. << Here. >> A flash of image, beasts (and their ''smells'' and presumed ''flavours'') and fields, an empty gather grounds... (To Hraedhyth from Lythronath)

Hraedhyth doesn't retreat from the warm conversation she's carved at the borders of Lythronath's mind, lingering until her drums and fire are suddenly cut off. It might be startling, bordering on concerning on that second 'cough' before the tawny gold appears above the empty gather grounds. Just like that, she comes rushing back to fill the bronze with her heat again, << This is home. >> But not ''Home''. There are packs attatched to her straps, a heavy quilt rolled up and likely still carrying traces of Ista's black sand. There's no saying that Azaylia and she can't head ''back'', after a quick little visit. The 'Reachian queen looks to land as close to Lythronath as possible, drums thundering the song of their joyous reuinon. She ''did'' miss him!

That moment of silence is broken by, << A'rist. >> And then, only once the gold has appeared in the skies of Keroon, << Hraedhyth! >>, explanation as well as greeting, emotions lashing wild. And though the majority is reunion and relief, there is also something... vicious. Lythronath takes to the wing, talons leaving a fresh set of scars in among the others that show his comings and goings. He is solo, without straps, and aiming straight for the gold in his initial trajectory. The gold, and << Azaylia! >>

Raspy contralto harmonizes with sweet soprano, << Lythronath! >> Hraedhyth lands heavily on the ground, but doesn't settle. Instead she bounds in place, an anxious dance as she is barely restrained by her rider's need to dismount. And not puke. Azaylia is jostled about, her helmeted head bobbling before she manages to calm her lifemate. There'll be time to play, ''after''.

The ground covered is short before he's back on it, landing, gouging again, and headbutting Hraedhyth hard. Bonk. << Some home, >> is reiterated, an echo almost precise to those same words, earlier. His tail lashes. His wings twitch. One big eye gets brought up ridiculously close to the gold's rider. << That way, >> carries a hint of triumph.

Hraedhyth returns that headbutt in full, which isn't anymore easy on her poor, jostled rider. Bonk! That big eye will be able to see Azaylia's smile, tilting her head back with a laugh that's easily stolen by the breeze from on high. Her gloved hands reach and give Lythronath a hearty smack on the top of his eyeridge before she yanks it back, closing her half-open riding jacket and shivering. << That way. >> The queen husks, a sense of urgency born from her own impatience and Azaylia's chill. Hraedhyth takes off ahead, as if she already knows the way, 'letting' Lythronath gain in order to show the way to some-home.

It isn't far, not on the wing. A small cottage off the grounds, near the hold, nearer, still, the hold's livestock. Lythronath shoots the latter a half-mournful, half-threatening look when he lands, in a place that, again, bears the marks of regular landings. A'rist, by this point, is waiting outside the door, his jacket the only thing (other than that big bronze dragon) to show his affiliation with the Weyr, left open, as he's only just come out into the cold. The young man wears a closed look, cautious. Even when Lythronath declares, << Here, >> well after the fact of everyone setting down.

Azaylia coaxes a bit of cooperation from her excited lifemate, Hraedhyth angling her body at the cottage while keeping her eyes on ''her'' prey. Lythronath. The Weyrwoman manages to dismount and unload her dragon, straps falling to the ground as Hraedhyth tears off toward her bronze playmate. The full-body impact is ''audible'' and has her rider wincing, "Oof." Then she's rounding on A'rist, looking to tug him into a forceful embrace. "So ''this'' is where you've been hiding." It's an affectionate squeeze with nefarious purpose in mind as she shamelessly leeches warmth from the bronzerider. It's her own fault, having thrown on only a riding jacket before leaving Ista's warmth. "I won't upset the missus, will I?" She teases.

Lythronath's roar is play and challenge and slightly unhinged as he scrambles back from the impact, flitting his wings up and shoving off the footholds he's just created in the ground to rocket back at Hraedhyth with a full-bodied slam. A'rist, meanwhile, gets all the cold of Keroon air and between pressed into his chest, which, thanks to that open jacket, is only covered by the one shirt. But he hugs Azaylia back nonetheless, even going so far as to rest his chin on her shoulder for a second before withdrawing, and trying on an awkward half-smirk that doesn't quite work. "Don't have one of those left in there. You're good."

Azaylia pays little mind to the familiar chaos behind her, pulling back enough to gently tap her temple against his. "Good. I'm not dressed for ''holders''." Not from Keroon, at least. The sturdier cargo is left outside, guarded by the two dragons who are trying to break themselves on each other. The goldrider slips past, giving a little shiver as she seeks out the hearth-- stoking the fire if it's not to her liking. "I expected you to be at the Hold, or..." Looking around, it's obvious she can't see a reason why he couldn't come to ''Ista''.

A'rist winds up following Azaylia into that little cottage of a place, lifting his hand to rub fingers idly at the hair just behind his ear while dragons thwack and roar and rumble. The drawing of ichor can't be that far away. And Lythronath is at least partially aiming to mess up this idyllic little scene as much as to roughhouse with Hraedhyth, so. Maybe some fence crashing too. "The hall, a little. And some stuff in the hold. Just around here. Igen's been feeding us when Lythronath needs." He shrugs, and leaves Azaylia to her fire tending, swinging rather subtly around to stand in front of the door to the bedroom, where an assortment of things have been laid out on the bed and simple dresser. Nothing to see here.

"Whose house is this, though?" Azaylia asks, still looking all around even as she blindly prods at the fire. A log crackles and splits, the fire growing enough that she can comfortably shed her jacket. It's a wonder she's chilled with so much skin on display, strings of jewel-bright turquoise hinting at ''some'' modesty, even from behind. She keeps her pants on, still crouched in front of the hearth and rubbing at her upper arms. With a soft sigh, "''Much'' better." Turning back to A'rist, her gaze flicks over his shoulder and back down to his face. There's a familiar flicker of concern, "You aren't... you're ''welcome'' here, aren't you?" Did A'rist ''steal'' a cottage?!

A shrug answers the question, and a drawled, "Guess it's really beastcraft's, once it's cleared out." All by himself on the plains of Keroon, is it any wonder that his eyes land, and stay, on that exposed skin when Azaylia loses the jacket? Even with the crack of splintering wood outside. << Hahahaha! >> Wreck up the place! "Was asked here. Don't worry." He tilts his head, finally turning away, toward the main door. "Ista, huh?" There is more heat, and it has him sliding his arms free of his own jacket. "You want a drink or something?" is an afterthought, the offer a bit halting, mostly earnest.

"I would ''love'' a drink." Azaylia sounds far too desperate to be completely sober as she begins to inspect the decor. Or lack thereof. The sound of splintering wood draws her eyes to the closed door, the destroyed fence not even slowing Hraedhyth down. It's not like any''one'' got hurt. Talk of Ista has her giving a longing sigh, "Mmhm. Niahvth is ''finally'' rising today." There's a confused glance for A'rist, for his being ''here''. "Though I get the feeling I'll have to visit my family, since I'm in Keroon." And Faranth help her if word gets back to her mother, if they don't stop to say hello. She'll look for a couch or a cushiony chair, something comfortable that she can lounge in.

Lythronath hasn't set any beasties free, even though every now and again he'll try shove their 'play' towards them. The ones from which he's been forbidden for so long now. "''Drink'' drink," A'rist is able to infer from that tone. The news from back home has him grimacing, even as the little cupboard near the table is opened for a half-emptied bottle of... something. Something that will prove fierce and strong and far too much like Lythronath in the form of alcohol. "Guess we won't be chasing, then." The next blow to Hreadhyth comes harder, an attempt to give himself enough room that Lythronath can get airborne. The bottle is held to Azaylia with a slosh of its contents against its walls. "Pillows on the rug are nicest." For sitting. "Warmest." The look then goes to her midriff.

As far as the beasts are concerned, Hraedhyth is much to soft for Lythronath's liking, refusing to add to the trauma of ''two'' dragons being so near. When the bronze takes to the skies, there's a frustrated huff as the tawny gold gives chase, the opposite of what is likely going on at 'Reaches. "It's probably for the best," Azaylia tries to comfort the hermit-bronzerider, even as she goes hunting for pillows. "Hraedhyth can handle Lythronath chasing. We don't need him really hurting Niahvth. She's... soft." It's accurate as well as kind. The Weyrwoman is far too involved in making a nest in front of the fire to notice the offered bottle, at first. When she does, one hand moves to accept it as the other catches A'rist's wrist, trying to yank him down into the pillows. She's rough, spurned on by Hraedhyth as she yanks him into a one-armed hug against her side as she inspects the liquor. "What's this?"

Lythronath pushes hard for altitude, up, up, all his strength shoved to his wings, talons clawing at the sky as if they could find purchase and assist his climb. "Maybe he'd catch her easy. Quick." He still hasn't stopped watching the goldrider's midriff, even with Azaylia rooting around for pillows. "Maybe this was the one that would've been best for all the other chasers." Azaylia catches him no problem; but he doesn't drop without establishing a firm grip back on her arm. At least it brings his eyes up to her. And then, to the bottle. "It's... effective. I dunno, it came with the place."

Hraedhyth has no experience at chasing, only ''being'' chased, but she does her best to keep up with the slightly smaller dragon. She's earnest but not as crazed as Lythronath, falling a bit behind. "Maybe." Azaylia doesn't sound convinced, casual in her forceful cuddling. She pops open the bottle and gives a sniff, the sharp bite coaxing goosebumps to her flesh, "Oooh. Mean." No need for a glass, the goldrider sufficiently lubed up by earlier mixed drinks. After a mouthful, she offers it to him, "You two could always try to get there before she goes up? I could hold down the... this place."

Lythronath is high up, at the height of his climb, as it happens. Because wings and tail shift and brake, and then fold. Being chased is boring. He couldn't say why all those females do it. But he roars as he plummets back towards Hraedhyth, talons outstretched. << Hahaha! >> "Lynner in a bottle," A'rist offers, the edge in his voice and his smile surely not far off from that in the liquor. He takes the bottle, jaw setting for that suggestion, fingers digging into glass and goldrider's arm, each hand in unison. His consideration of the offer is signalled by a grunt, the slide of fabric against fabric as one leg shifts until its foot is flat on the floor, knee bent, but ready.

Betrayl! ''Tease''! Hraedhyth roars her outrage as Lythronath suddenly dives, rolling underneath him just in time to try and catch those talons with her own. They might miss, and both are likely to get scratched bellies-- but it's better than torn ''wings''. "It ''is''." Azaylia is far too pleased by the description, "I want more of that. You know I love Lythronath." There's a sudden tension in her shoulders as she aims a look up past the roof. "...Even when he tries to cripple my dragon." It's somewhat tense, her concern all her own as Hraedhyth continues to enjoy herself. A'rist's grip on her arm draws her back, and she leans in to lightly thump her brow against his. "She won't be ''happy'', but we won't keep you." If that's what he wants.

Who's moving fastest? Who can hold strongest, when talons grip at limbs and bellies and manage even to grab hold of each other? Who will survive that spin, or foil it? A'rist pivots, twists to get both feet up under him, and adjusts his grip quickly, as if tossing Azaylia's arm to try catch it again, higher up while getting himself freed to face her. "Have more." Heads thump. The bronzerider closes his eyes. "He's got wild. Being away so long." It's said through gritted teeth.

Azaylia doesn't need much convincing, wrapping her lips around the bottle again and taking a deeper pull of 'Lythronath'. She doesn't try to keep A'rist, slow to realize that he isn't pulling ''away'' until her arm is sliding back around him. Her eyes flick down to those gritted teeth, concerned brows pinching together as she draws him in tighter. "Just him?" Her quiet murmur fills the small space between, her forehead still pressed to his. "It's alright. He'll get it all out with Hraedhyth." A husky promise as she pushes the drink against his chest. The warrior queen is more grounded of the two dragons, and while she participates whole-heartedly, she doesn't try to cause any ''serious'' damage-- or allow Lythronath to do so. As they plummet toward the ground it's Hraedhyth who breaks away first, straightening out in time to land with a heavy thump-skid. The result is less fence and more fence-splinters.

"Not just him." A'rist, too, takes a deep breath and deep pull of Lythronath -- the real Lythronath, the beast playing chicken with the ground so much as the gold whose talons he clenches. He doesn't keep her from pulling away, but there will be scratches left overtop those he'd caused as a dragonet. He barely cushions his own thud into the ground, strong hind legs flexing, forelegs helping in pushing himself back up, wings open for the follow-up spring, right back at the queen. "I don't think," the bronzerider grunts, "it's something you can get out of him." And the bronzerider leans forward, leans hard, pressing with his shoulders, with the leverage from those legs drawn up under him.

There's a quiet hum for A'rist's words, thoughtful rather than smug. It's familiar to Azaylia, losing herself in Hraedhyth, though she does so willingly. Closing her eyes, she focuses on those massive, straining muscles. The pinpricks of pain left by Lythronath's talons. While Hraedhyth plays, for it is a ''game'' to her still, it's the rider who assesses for damage. Nothing severe, nothing that would keep her from A'rist as he pushes. There's a noise of surprise that leaves her throat, a squeak that can't pass through closed lips as she instinctively pushes back. "Maybe not." Azaylia's head rolls off to the side, pushing chest and shoulders against his own. Another game. "It might help. Until you come back home." She's certain, just as Hraedhyth is certain her skull can survive the incoming slam.

It's a wonder the livestock haven't all had heart attacks and died, though now Lythronath's attack vector pushes away from them, slamming with his head, shoving, rolling. A'rist answers that idea of coming back home only with another grunt - no, more a growl - and this time, his hands get behind that shove, grabbing for her upper arms. This time, it's meant to topple. Here's hoping 'Lythronath' doesn't get spilled all over the rug.

The impact can be felt throughout Hraedhyth's more than sturdy frame, aftershocks causing Azaylia to give a start. She isn't given time to check, the queen's roar echoing in her ears as A'rist shoves again. Even as she falls back, "Is he alright?" The waves of pain are already starting to lessen for the gold, enough reassurance that their concern shifts to the bronze pair. 'Lythronath' spills, a splash staining the pillow it lands on, tilted just enough to save what's left. << No more. >> Hraedhyth drops to her belly, blinking all her eyelids to banish the speckles of worried yellow. It's not a surrender, just... a time out.

That young bronze out there shows no signs of tiring - not now, not while he's in full swing. Fatigue waits. A'rist comes down on top, braced, excited. The question makes his face twist, barely understood. "What?" All but a demand. Poor 'Lythronath' goes unmourned by the young rider. And ''Lythronath'', he gnashes his teeth and bobs his head and digs his talons into the ground, swaying on his hind legs just before letting out a loud roar, all feet finding the ground again.

Hraedhyth watches Lythronath from where she settles in the talon-ruined dirt, unbothered by his displays. << Lythronath. >> A low growl, patient and yet not, << ''Ouch''. >> Not for sympathy, not from this bronze. << Come here. >> So she can see ''his'' ouches, even if he doesn't feel it. Even if excited A'rist doesn't care, right now. Azaylia's soft gaze searches that twisted face, "Lythronath. I was worried..." The only one here, it would seem. She's cautious, hesitant, hand lifting to run fingers through his hair, soaking him up through touch. Assessing. "Not just him." A whispered echo from before.

<< ''Lythronath.'' >> It's a reminder, pointed, still pounding with adrenaline and pride, rhythm unchecked. He doesn't move toward the gold. But he does ease his swaying, and gives only a few clicks in his throat, the motion that's stopped on the outside transferred to that point. Her fingers in his hair make A'rist's upper lip jump, quick, fleeting. He tests his arms, leaning more of his weight forward (still pressing the goldrider), then easing back slightly. That motion repeats again, but this time, in that forward lean, he manages to find, "You always worry."

Azaylia's eyes narrow at that upper lip, only proving A'rist right. She'll relax, slowly, muscles giving way to those heavy palms, "I don't like hurting people." Nothing deep. Nothing that ''lingers''-- just like Hraedhyth. This time her fingers curl in his hair, just beyond tight enough to test, much like his leaning. She's subtle in the way she shifts beneath him, maddening when her fingers don't press where they're ''supposed'' to. With a little smile, "I like to ''help''." If he leans again, he'll find her pressing back, sudden and ard. Hraedhyth huffs her annoyance as he disobeys, at his being ''Lythronath''. Even then, there's a fondness in the warmth of her flames, << Lythronath. >> Yes, she hears him.

"We don't hurt easy." It has some of that same pride that radiates off his dragon. Some of that same disregard that's been colouring all that dragon's done today, these last days. He does press again, fingers splaying this time on the hand left to bear his weight, no longer a guarded grip, while the other jumps to some of that exposed skin - whatever he can reach, the way they are, and grabs. A'rist watches her, hard. Lythronath doesn't hurt. But he still waits.

"That's good..." The words are carried on a heated sigh, lingering between them. What little doubt remains is soothed by dragon-tainted pride, nails raking down to his neck where she squeezes, holding him there as she presses up even harder. She won't give, and certainly won't break, not with muscles coiling beneath bronze skin, eager to match the ferocity to come. Azaylia leaves the watching to A'rist, having had her fill. Now she wants to ''feel'', rough hands taking in what dragonriding has forged in the bronzerider. When she reaches for his pants it isn't urgent, but it's with a purposeful ''yank''. And Lythronath will continue to wai, Hraedhyth still recovering, pleasantly distracted by the crackling heat that thrums through her bond.

There's plenty to be felt, as more of that wiry strength gets behind A'rist's answers to those nails, and from there, more of the fierce recklessness that his dragon urges, that A'rist grows in turn. Lythronath's is not distraction, waiting outside that little cottage that he's been tied to for so long now. He moves, slow stalking around the queen, and it's quite like that he'll have his teeth on her, between growls and clicks and shoulder to shoulder presses, gnawing at that heat, so much as he's allowed. She is still his queen. And there's at least some release he can share in. Even if the flock survives.

It's the dragon's turn to be lost in her rider, occasionally interrupted by Lythronath's jaws, in the way he presses at her. The bronze is welcome to sample the shared bliss as Hraedhyth savors it, turns it over her flames as one would swirl brandy. Azaylia is generous at first, wanting to ''help'', until she's caught up in her own selfish need. By the end she's given just as much as she's taken, now overly warmed by the fire, the drink, and A'rist. There'll be time to lick her wounds later, her hold on the bronzerider still rough despite her sweaty discomfort. Her breath hasn't even slowed before, "You ''are'' planning on coming back?" No disgust, no fleeing, no regrets. "Aren't you?"

A'rist, as it turns out, might be near as difficult to help as he claims to be to hurt. It's not helping he wanted, nor took. That moment of mental quiet, and thudding heart, and calming blood, and possibility of peace, that's not fully realised when he tries to focus in on the question. With it comes an attempt to sit up, even in Azaylia's grasp, with only a frown when the pillow that'd soaked most of the bottled 'Lythronath' when it was well and truly spilled comes up against one of the new scratches he now boasts. "Yeah, this time." Said plainly.

Azaylia's sigh of relief is twofold with his answer and the familiar aches that envelope her. She'll let him sit up, arms stretching as she voices a groan of protest that's felt, lilting into satisfaction at the end, "Good." The goldrider rolls onto her stomach, hugging one of the pillows under her chin as she lounges. "I won't stay?" Unless he wants her to. She'll have to wait out the tell-tale flush and languid limbs before visiting her family, anyway. Azaylia only had to make that mistake ''once''.

Upright, A'rist scratches at the back of his head, prods idly at a muscle in his arm, and then, at last, thinks to look back to that goldrider, his eyes narrowing. "Did you want to? For a bit. There's nowhere good to sleep here, other than..." a vague gesture to his dead dad's pillows, that they've come to know so well. "But a bit." Now that his dragon is finally settling, stretching for a nice, talon-churned spot of earth. "You don't have to."

"This is ''nice''." Azaylia wriggles her belly against his ''dead dad's pillows'', oblivious as she truly gets good and comfortable. The roll onto her side is slow, hand beckoning him back down, with her. Her demand is a sweet, "Come here." Now that she knows she won't be chased from the mystery cottage, she's confident in her right to snuggle. Sweaty, too-warm snuggles, but it'll give her a chance to inspect the damage done up close. Her lips brush over the worst of those marks as Hraedhyth leans heavily against Lythronath, outside. When they leave it's after Hraedhyth's scratches have been tended to, a quick scrub and with Azaylia wearing a pretty if modest dress beneath her riding jacket. << ''Soon''. >> Hraedhyth insists on their return before blinking between, reappearing over home, but not ''Home''.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs:Drunk on Lythronath

2015-02-23T08:05:08Z

Dragonshy: Created page with "{{Log | who = Azaylia, Azaylia{{!}}Hraedhyth, A'rist, A'rist{{!}}Lythronath | where = Ista/Keroon Hold | what = During Niahvth's flight, Lythronath convinces Hraedhyth to visi..."

{{Log
| who = Azaylia, Azaylia{{!}}Hraedhyth, A'rist, A'rist{{!}}Lythronath
| where = Ista/Keroon Hold
| what = During Niahvth's flight, Lythronath convinces Hraedhyth to visit and vents his frustrations out on her. Their riders follow suit.
| day = 27
| month = 1
| turn = 37
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2015.02.21
| quote = "He's got wild. Being away so long."
| weather =
| categories = 
| mentions = Irianke, K'del
| ooc = NSFWish
| icons = azaylia dreamy.jpg, azaylia hraefire.jpg, a'rist shadow.jpg, a'rist lynner mischief.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| log = Dragon> Forced to relinquish ''her'' Weyr, ''her'' dragons, ''her'' skies, and with Cadejoth visiting K'del's pack in Southern, Hraedhyth's heat is a frustrated simmer. It's too sudden, too rough the way she is suddenly ''there'', reaching out to Lythronath with a hot iron grip. It's what she wants, not what she commands, not a hint of the gold's power in her words, << You are not Home. >> Home, even while Niahvth claims the skies. (To Lythronath from Hraedhyth)

Dragon> The dragon who isn't there, who hasn't been, between watchriding with Unehrbrath, and then being suddenly gone, as if disappeared, for reasons shared with Cadejoth and Isplonath and no others, except by those two - that dragon greets the mental hit from home with a heavy push back, with a red hot frustration slamming his mind up against Hraedhyth's in response. << Some home, >> is part annoyance, part distaste, part boredom, part... liberation? (To Hraedhyth from Lythronath)

Dragon> Hraedhyth soaks up that frustration, flame tongues lapping at Lythronath's mind, as if only just realizing that she has missed him. There have been fleeting moments of contact up until now, checking up on him as he ventures well beyond her territory. There's a harsh push against his thoughts, playful and rough, << We are here. >> Her touch grows hotter with the Istan sun, a handful of black sand tossed into her fire where it crackles and pops. << It is not Home, but it is nice. >> And ''boring''. At least for the queen. (To Lythronath from Hraedhyth)

Dragon> To Hraedhyth, Lythronath answers the push with a shove of << Not us, >> all force, the play still buried somewhere, still locked away. Secret.

Dragon> << You. >> Hraedhyth insists, tendrils of black smoke curling at the very edge of his thoughts-- dangling his half of the tug-a-rope. As if Lythronath would come without A'rist. Another shove, still playful and promising ''more'', << Ilicaeth made a new scar. >> She might not remember ''when'' but it's recent enough for her to lob at him. It's far too ''forcefull'' to be clever, the queen hardly master manipulator. (To Lythronath from Hraedhyth)

Dragon> To Hraedhyth, Lythronath projects << '''''Blues.''''' >>

Dragon> Hraedhyth's dancing drums echo ''that'' word: blues, blues blues! << Have you fought well? >> Or at all? ''She'' has. She ''would'', except that she's ''alone''. (To Lythronath from Hraedhyth)

Dragon> To Hraedhyth, Lythronath's answer is sharp, piercing, a hard bite of a mental slam.

Dragon> It catches her by surprise, when it really shouldn't have. Once shock has worn off, Hraedhyth pushes back-- a far too calm nudge compared to his sudden bite. Smug. You wanna go, bro-nze? (To Lythronath from Hraedhyth)

Dragon> << Not done. >> It might even be a sulk, low and grumbly. (To Hraedhyth from Lythronath)

Dragon> Despite all of her prodding, when it comes to matters of duty of a mysterious nature, Hraedhyth sulks alongside him. Grunt. << Done soon? >> Her fire gives a hopeful flicker, and despite her boredom even she knows they won't be returning Home until maybe the next day. (To Lythronath from Hraedhyth)

Dragon> To Hraedhyth, Lythronath's groan might almost be audible, all the way across that long distance that separates them. There's silence, waiting, deliberation, before, << Should come. >> It's invitation. And mischief.

Dragon> Hraedhyth is so much easier to tempt, or so it would seem, as the weight of their options hangs in their mental link. << Mine has drinks. >> Not ''has'' had, but is still currently having. There's a tickle of floral incense as her rider is now made aware of the invitation, << We ''could'' come. >> Reluctant, or possibly cautious. (To Lythronath from Hraedhyth)

Dragon> <<''Should'' come. >> He doesn't try, maybe can't, hide what he's up to. << Here. >> A flash of image, beasts (and their ''smells'' and presumed ''flavours'') and fields, an empty gather grounds... (To Hraedhyth from Lythronath)

Hraedhyth doesn't retreat from the warm conversation she's carved at the borders of Lythronath's mind, lingering until her drums and fire are suddenly cut off. It might be startling, bordering on concerning on that second 'cough' before the tawny gold appears above the empty gather grounds. Just like that, she comes rushing back to fill the bronze with her heat again, << This is home. >> But not ''Home''. There are packs attatched to her straps, a heavy quilt rolled up and likely still carrying traces of Ista's black sand. There's no saying that Azaylia and she can't head ''back'', after a quick little visit. The 'Reachian queen looks to land as close to Lythronath as possible, drums thundering the song of their joyous reuinon. She ''did'' miss him!

That moment of silence is broken by, << A'rist. >> And then, only once the gold has appeared in the skies of Keroon, << Hraedhyth! >>, explanation as well as greeting, emotions lashing wild. And though the majority is reunion and relief, there is also something... vicious. Lythronath takes to the wing, talons leaving a fresh set of scars in among the others that show his comings and goings. He is solo, without straps, and aiming straight for the gold in his initial trajectory. The gold, and << Azaylia! >>

Raspy contralto harmonizes with sweet soprano, << Lythronath! >> Hraedhyth lands heavily on the ground, but doesn't settle. Instead she bounds in place, an anxious dance as she is barely restrained by her rider's need to dismount. And not puke. Azaylia is jostled about, her helmeted head bobbling before she manages to calm her lifemate. There'll be time to play, ''after''.

The ground covered is short before he's back on it, landing, gouging again, and headbutting Hraedhyth hard. Bonk. << Some home, >> is reiterated, an echo almost precise to those same words, earlier. His tail lashes. His wings twitch. One big eye gets brought up ridiculously close to the gold's rider. << That way, >> carries a hint of triumph.

Hraedhyth returns that headbutt in full, which isn't anymore easy on her poor, jostled rider. Bonk! That big eye will be able to see Azaylia's smile, tilting her head back with a laugh that's easily stolen by the breeze from on high. Her gloved hands reach and give Lythronath a hearty smack on the top of his eyeridge before she yanks it back, closing her half-open riding jacket and shivering. << That way. >> The queen husks, a sense of urgency born from her own impatience and Azaylia's chill. Hraedhyth takes off ahead, as if she already knows the way, 'letting' Lythronath gain in order to show the way to some-home.

It isn't far, not on the wing. A small cottage off the grounds, near the hold, nearer, still, the hold's livestock. Lythronath shoots the latter a half-mournful, half-threatening look when he lands, in a place that, again, bears the marks of regular landings. A'rist, by this point, is waiting outside the door, his jacket the only thing (other than that big bronze dragon) to show his affiliation with the Weyr, left open, as he's only just come out into the cold. The young man wears a closed look, cautious. Even when Lythronath declares, << Here, >> well after the fact of everyone setting down.

Azaylia coaxes a bit of cooperation from her excited lifemate, Hraedhyth angling her body at the cottage while keeping her eyes on ''her'' prey. Lythronath. The Weyrwoman manages to dismount and unload her dragon, straps falling to the ground as Hraedhyth tears off toward her bronze playmate. The full-body impact is ''audible'' and has her rider wincing, "Oof." Then she's rounding on A'rist, looking to tug him into a forceful embrace. "So ''this'' is where you've been hiding." It's an affectionate squeeze with nefarious purpose in mind as she shamelessly leeches warmth from the bronzerider. It's her own fault, having thrown on only a riding jacket before leaving Ista's warmth. "I won't upset the missus, will I?" She teases.

Lythronath's roar is play and challenge and slightly unhinged as he scrambles back from the impact, flitting his wings up and shoving off the footholds he's just created in the ground to rocket back at Hraedhyth with a full-bodied slam. A'rist, meanwhile, gets all the cold of Keroon air and between pressed into his chest, which, thanks to that open jacket, is only covered by the one shirt. But he hugs Azaylia back nonetheless, even going so far as to rest his chin on her shoulder for a second before withdrawing, and trying on an awkward half-smirk that doesn't quite work. "Don't have one of those left in there. You're good."

Azaylia pays little mind to the familiar chaos behind her, pulling back enough to gently tap her temple against his. "Good. I'm not dressed for ''holders''." Not from Keroon, at least. The sturdier cargo is left outside, guarded by the two dragons who are trying to break themselves on each other. The goldrider slips past, giving a little shiver as she seeks out the hearth-- stoking the fire if it's not to her liking. "I expected you to be at the Hold, or..." Looking around, it's obvious she can't see a reason why he couldn't come to ''Ista''.

A'rist winds up following Azaylia into that little cottage of a place, lifting his hand to rub fingers idly at the hair just behind his ear while dragons thwack and roar and rumble. The drawing of ichor can't be that far away. And Lythronath is at least partially aiming to mess up this idyllic little scene as much as to roughhouse with Hraedhyth, so. Maybe some fence crashing too. "The hall, a little. And some stuff in the hold. Just around here. Igen's been feeding us when Lythronath needs." He shrugs, and leaves Azaylia to her fire tending, swinging rather subtly around to stand in front of the door to the bedroom, where an assortment of things have been laid out on the bed and simple dresser. Nothing to see here.

"Whose house is this, though?" Azaylia asks, still looking all around even as she blindly prods at the fire. A log crackles and splits, the fire growing enough that she can comfortably shed her jacket. It's a wonder she's chilled with so much skin on display, strings of jewel-bright turquoise hinting at ''some'' modesty, even from behind. She keeps her pants on, still crouched in front of the hearth and rubbing at her upper arms. With a soft sigh, "''Much'' better." Turning back to A'rist, her gaze flicks over his shoulder and back down to his face. There's a familiar flicker of concern, "You aren't... you're ''welcome'' here, aren't you?" Did A'rist ''steal'' a cottage?!

A shrug answers the question, and a drawled, "Guess it's really beastcraft's, once it's cleared out." All by himself on the plains of Keroon, is it any wonder that his eyes land, and stay, on that exposed skin when Azaylia loses the jacket? Even with the crack of splintering wood outside. << Hahahaha! >> Wreck up the place! "Was asked here. Don't worry." He tilts his head, finally turning away, toward the main door. "Ista, huh?" There is more heat, and it has him sliding his arms free of his own jacket. "You want a drink or something?" is an afterthought, the offer a bit halting, mostly earnest.

"I would ''love'' a drink." Azaylia sounds far too desperate to be completely sober as she begins to inspect the decor. Or lack thereof. The sound of splintering wood draws her eyes to the closed door, the destroyed fence not even slowing Hraedhyth down. It's not like any''one'' got hurt. Talk of Ista has her giving a longing sigh, "Mmhm. Niahvth is ''finally'' rising today." There's a confused glance for A'rist, for his being ''here''. "Though I get the feeling I'll have to visit my family, since I'm in Keroon." And Faranth help her if word gets back to her mother, if they don't stop to say hello. She'll look for a couch or a cushiony chair, something comfortable that she can lounge in.

Lythronath hasn't set any beasties free, even though every now and again he'll try shove their 'play' towards them. The ones from which he's been forbidden for so long now. "''Drink'' drink," A'rist is able to infer from that tone. The news from back home has him grimacing, even as the little cupboard near the table is opened for a half-emptied bottle of... something. Something that will prove fierce and strong and far too much like Lythronath in the form of alcohol. "Guess we won't be chasing, then." The next blow to Hreadhyth comes harder, an attempt to give himself enough room that Lythronath can get airborne. The bottle is held to Azaylia with a slosh of its contents against its walls. "Pillows on the rug are nicest." For sitting. "Warmest." The look then goes to her midriff.

As far as the beasts are concerned, Hraedhyth is much to soft for Lythronath's liking, refusing to add to the trauma of ''two'' dragons being so near. When the bronze takes to the skies, there's a frustrated huff as the tawny gold gives chase, the opposite of what is likely going on at 'Reaches. "It's probably for the best," Azaylia tries to comfort the hermit-bronzerider, even as she goes hunting for pillows. "Hraedhyth can handle Lythronath chasing. We don't need him really hurting Niahvth. She's... soft." It's accurate as well as kind. The Weyrwoman is far too involved in making a nest in front of the fire to notice the offered bottle, at first. When she does, one hand moves to accept it as the other catches A'rist's wrist, trying to yank him down into the pillows. She's rough, spurned on by Hraedhyth as she yanks him into a one-armed hug against her side as she inspects the liquor. "What's this?"

Lythronath pushes hard for altitude, up, up, all his strength shoved to his wings, talons clawing at the sky as if they could find purchase and assist his climb. "Maybe he'd catch her easy. Quick." He still hasn't stopped watching the goldrider's midriff, even with Azaylia rooting around for pillows. "Maybe this was the one that would've been best for all the other chasers." Azaylia catches him no problem; but he doesn't drop without establishing a firm grip back on her arm. At least it brings his eyes up to her. And then, to the bottle. "It's... effective. I dunno, it came with the place."

Hraedhyth has no experience at chasing, only ''being'' chased, but she does her best to keep up with the slightly smaller dragon. She's earnest but not as crazed as Lythronath, falling a bit behind. "Maybe." Azaylia doesn't sound convinced, casual in her forceful cuddling. She pops open the bottle and gives a sniff, the sharp bite coaxing goosebumps to her flesh, "Oooh. Mean." No need for a glass, the goldrider sufficiently lubed up by earlier mixed drinks. After a mouthful, she offers it to him, "You two could always try to get there before she goes up? I could hold down the... this place."

Lythronath is high up, at the height of his climb, as it happens. Because wings and tail shift and brake, and then fold. Being chased is boring. He couldn't say why all those females do it. But he roars as he plummets back towards Hraedhyth, talons outstretched. << Hahaha! >> "Lynner in a bottle," A'rist offers, the edge in his voice and his smile surely not far off from that in the liquor. He takes the bottle, jaw setting for that suggestion, fingers digging into glass and goldrider's arm, each hand in unison. His consideration of the offer is signalled by a grunt, the slide of fabric against fabric as one leg shifts until its foot is flat on the floor, knee bent, but ready.

Betrayl! ''Tease''! Hraedhyth roars her outrage as Lythronath suddenly dives, rolling underneath him just in time to try and catch those talons with her own. They might miss, and both are likely to get scratched bellies-- but it's better than torn ''wings''. "It ''is''." Azaylia is far too pleased by the description, "I want more of that. You know I love Lythronath." There's a sudden tension in her shoulders as she aims a look up past the roof. "...Even when he tries to cripple my dragon." It's somewhat tense, her concern all her own as Hraedhyth continues to enjoy herself. A'rist's grip on her arm draws her back, and she leans in to lightly thump her brow against his. "She won't be ''happy'', but we won't keep you." If that's what he wants.

Who's moving fastest? Who can hold strongest, when talons grip at limbs and bellies and manage even to grab hold of each other? Who will survive that spin, or foil it? A'rist pivots, twists to get both feet up under him, and adjusts his grip quickly, as if tossing Azaylia's arm to try catch it again, higher up while getting himself freed to face her. "Have more." Heads thump. The bronzerider closes his eyes. "He's got wild. Being away so long." It's said through gritted teeth.

Azaylia doesn't need much convincing, wrapping her lips around the bottle again and taking a deeper pull of 'Lythronath'. She doesn't try to keep A'rist, slow to realize that he isn't pulling ''away'' until her arm is sliding back around him. Her eyes flick down to those gritted teeth, concerned brows pinching together as she draws him in tighter. "Just him?" Her quiet murmur fills the small space between, her forehead still pressed to his. "It's alright. He'll get it all out with Hraedhyth." A husky promise as she pushes the drink against his chest. The warrior queen is more grounded of the two dragons, and while she participates whole-heartedly, she doesn't try to cause any ''serious'' damage-- or allow Lythronath to do so. As they plummet toward the ground it's Hraedhyth who breaks away first, straightening out in time to land with a heavy thump-skid. The result is less fence and more fence-splinters.

"Not just him." A'rist, too, takes a deep breath and deep pull of Lythronath -- the real Lythronath, the beast playing chicken with the ground so much as the gold whose talons he clenches. He doesn't keep her from pulling away, but there will be scratches left overtop those he'd caused as a dragonet. He barely cushions his own thud into the ground, strong hind legs flexing, forelegs helping in pushing himself back up, wings open for the follow-up spring, right back at the queen. "I don't think," the bronzerider grunts, "it's something you can get out of him." And the bronzerider leans forward, leans hard, pressing with his shoulders, with the leverage from those legs drawn up under him.

There's a quiet hum for A'rist's words, thoughtful rather than smug. It's familiar to Azaylia, losing herself in Hraedhyth, though she does so willingly. Closing her eyes, she focuses on those massive, straining muscles. The pinpricks of pain left by Lythronath's talons. While Hraedhyth plays, for it is a ''game'' to her still, it's the rider who assesses for damage. Nothing severe, nothing that would keep her from A'rist as he pushes. There's a noise of surprise that leaves her throat, a squeak that can't pass through closed lips as she instinctively pushes back. "Maybe not." Azaylia's head rolls off to the side, pushing chest and shoulders against his own. Another game. "It might help. Until you come back home." She's certain, just as Hraedhyth is certain her skull can survive the incoming slam.

It's a wonder the livestock haven't all had heart attacks and died, though now Lythronath's attack vector pushes away from them, slamming with his head, shoving, rolling. A'rist answers that idea of coming back home only with another grunt - no, more a growl - and this time, his hands get behind that shove, grabbing for her upper arms. This time, it's meant to topple. Here's hoping 'Lythronath' doesn't get spilled all over the rug.

The impact can be felt throughout Hraedhyth's more than sturdy frame, aftershocks causing Azaylia to give a start. She isn't given time to check, the queen's roar echoing in her ears as A'rist shoves again. Even as she falls back, "Is he alright?" The waves of pain are already starting to lessen for the gold, enough reassurance that their concern shifts to the bronze pair. 'Lythronath' spills, a splash staining the pillow it lands on, tilted just enough to save what's left. << No more. >> Hraedhyth drops to her belly, blinking all her eyelids to banish the speckles of worried yellow. It's not a surrender, just... a time out.

That young bronze out there shows no signs of tiring - not now, not while he's in full swing. Fatigue waits. A'rist comes down on top, braced, excited. The question makes his face twist, barely understood. "What?" All but a demand. Poor 'Lythronath' goes unmourned by the young rider. And ''Lythronath'', he gnashes his teeth and bobs his head and digs his talons into the ground, swaying on his hind legs just before letting out a loud roar, all feet finding the ground again.

Hraedhyth watches Lythronath from where she settles in the talon-ruined dirt, unbothered by his displays. << Lythronath. >> A low growl, patient and yet not, << ''Ouch''. >> Not for sympathy, not from this bronze. << Come here. >> So she can see ''his'' ouches, even if he doesn't feel it. Even if excited A'rist doesn't care, right now. Azaylia's soft gaze searches that twisted face, "Lythronath. I was worried..." The only one here, it would seem. She's cautious, hesitant, hand lifting to run fingers through his hair, soaking him up through touch. Assessing. "Not just him." A whispered echo from before.

<< ''Lythronath.'' >> It's a reminder, pointed, still pounding with adrenaline and pride, rhythm unchecked. He doesn't move toward the gold. But he does ease his swaying, and gives only a few clicks in his throat, the motion that's stopped on the outside transferred to that point. Her fingers in his hair make A'rist's upper lip jump, quick, fleeting. He tests his arms, leaning more of his weight forward (still pressing the goldrider), then easing back slightly. That motion repeats again, but this time, in that forward lean, he manages to find, "You always worry."

Azaylia's eyes narrow at that upper lip, only proving A'rist right. She'll relax, slowly, muscles giving way to those heavy palms, "I don't like hurting people." Nothing deep. Nothing that ''lingers''-- just like Hraedhyth. This time her fingers curl in his hair, just beyond tight enough to test, much like his leaning. She's subtle in the way she shifts beneath him, maddening when her fingers don't press where they're ''supposed'' to. With a little smile, "I like to ''help''." If he leans again, he'll find her pressing back, sudden and ard. Hraedhyth huffs her annoyance as he disobeys, at his being ''Lythronath''. Even then, there's a fondness in the warmth of her flames, << Lythronath. >> Yes, she hears him.

"We don't hurt easy." It has some of that same pride that radiates off his dragon. Some of that same disregard that's been colouring all that dragon's done today, these last days. He does press again, fingers splaying this time on the hand left to bear his weight, no longer a guarded grip, while the other jumps to some of that exposed skin - whatever he can reach, the way they are, and grabs. A'rist watches her, hard. Lythronath doesn't hurt. But he still waits.

"That's good..." The words are carried on a heated sigh, lingering between them. What little doubt remains is soothed by dragon-tainted pride, nails raking down to his neck where she squeezes, holding him there as she presses up even harder. She won't give, and certainly won't break, not with muscles coiling beneath bronze skin, eager to match the ferocity to come. Azaylia leaves the watching to A'rist, having had her fill. Now she wants to ''feel'', rough hands taking in what dragonriding has forged in the bronzerider. When she reaches for his pants it isn't urgent, but it's with a purposeful ''yank''. And Lythronath will continue to wai, Hraedhyth still recovering, pleasantly distracted by the crackling heat that thrums through her bond.

There's plenty to be felt, as more of that wiry strength gets behind A'rist's answers to those nails, and from there, more of the fierce recklessness that his dragon urges, that A'rist grows in turn. Lythronath's is not distraction, waiting outside that little cottage that he's been tied to for so long now. He moves, slow stalking around the queen, and it's quite like that he'll have his teeth on her, between growls and clicks and shoulder to shoulder presses, gnawing at that heat, so much as he's allowed. She is still his queen. And there's at least some release he can share in. Even if the flock survives.

It's the dragon's turn to be lost in her rider, occasionally interrupted by Lythronath's jaws, in the way he presses at her. The bronze is welcome to sample the shared bliss as Hraedhyth savors it, turns it over her flames as one would swirl brandy. Azaylia is generous at first, wanting to ''help'', until she's caught up in her own selfish need. By the end she's given just as much as she's taken, now overly warmed by the fire, the drink, and A'rist. There'll be time to lick her wounds later, her hold on the bronzerider still rough despite her sweaty discomfort. Her breath hasn't even slowed before, "You ''are'' planning on coming back?" No disgust, no fleeing, no regrets. "Aren't you?"

A'rist, as it turns out, might be near as difficult to help as he claims to be to hurt. It's not helping he wanted, nor took. That moment of mental quiet, and thudding heart, and calming blood, and possibility of peace, that's not fully realised when he tries to focus in on the question. With it comes an attempt to sit up, even in Azaylia's grasp, with only a frown when the pillow that'd soaked most of the bottled 'Lythronath' when it was well and truly spilled comes up against one of the new scratches he now boasts. "Yeah, this time." Said plainly.

Azaylia's sigh of relief is twofold with his answer and the familiar aches that envelope her. She'll let him sit up, arms stretching as she voices a groan of protest that's felt, lilting into satisfaction at the end, "Good." The goldrider rolls onto her stomach, hugging one of the pillows under her chin as she lounges. "I won't stay?" Unless he wants her to. She'll have to wait out the tell-tale flush and languid limbs before visiting her family, anyway. Azaylia only had to make that mistake ''once''.

Upright, A'rist scratches at the back of his head, prods idly at a muscle in his arm, and then, at last, thinks to look back to that goldrider, his eyes narrowing. "Did you want to? For a bit. There's nowhere good to sleep here, other than..." a vague gesture to his dead dad's pillows, that they've come to know so well. "But a bit." Now that his dragon is finally settling, stretching for a nice, talon-churned spot of earth. "You don't have to."

"This is ''nice''." Azaylia wriggles her belly against his ''dead dad's pillows'', oblivious as she truly gets good and comfortable. The roll onto her side is slow, hand beckoning him back down, with her. Her demand is a sweet, "Come here." Now that she knows she won't be chased from the mystery cottage, she's confident in her right to snuggle. Sweaty, too-warm snuggles, but it'll give her a chance to inspect the damage done up close. Her lips brush over the worst of those marks as Hraedhyth leans heavily against Lythronath, outside. When they leave it's after Hraedhyth's scratches have been tended to, a quick scrub and with Azaylia wearing a pretty if modest dress beneath her riding jacket. << ''Soon''. >> Hraedhyth insists on their return before blinking between, reappearing over home, but not ''Home''.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs talk:The Goldflight Blues

2015-02-23T05:11:20Z

Dragonshy: Comment provided by Azaylia - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:The Goldflight Blues]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Edyis (23:44, 22 February 2015 (EST)) said... ==

#Girlproblems

Poor Farideh, Poor Lya. <3 It's good that they can confide in each other about these things.
==Azaylia (00:11, 23 February 2015 (EST)) said... ==

Awhaw. <3 What a nice 'let's regret and fret over things we did tonight' slumber party.

Logs talk:Hesitation

2015-02-23T04:37:12Z

Dragonshy: Comment provided by Azaylia - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Hesitation]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Azaylia (23:37, 22 February 2015 (EST)) said... ==

Aw! I really like that Lycinea is going to help Irianke out. <3 Maybe the goldrider will help her out, without realizing it? (Unless she already has~)

Logs:A Little Nutty

2015-02-22T10:18:18Z

Dragonshy: Created page with "{{Log | who = Schuyler, Edyis, Azaylia | where = Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr | what = Azaylia and Edyis taste test some of Schuyler's cookies and discuss their potential. | da..."

{{Log
| who = Schuyler, Edyis, Azaylia
| where = Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Azaylia and Edyis taste test some of Schuyler's cookies and discuss their potential.
| day = 28
| month = 1
| turn = 37
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2015.02.22
| quote = "Ha. Friends, more like free test subjects!"
| weather =
| categories = 
| mentions = Farideh, Irianke, Nimae
| ooc =
| icons = edyis explaining.png, azaylia smile.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| log = '''Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr'''

''The Snowasis is rarely quiet, and even then, the high-ceilinged former weyr is kept from echoing by the fantastical booths tucked into its convoluted perimeter. The secluded seating spaces have been shaped from the truncated stalagmites that escaped the smoothing of the main floor, and are both softened and separated by colorful hangings that are thick and opaque enough to make each corner its own private nook.''

''Some of the smaller stalactites still roam the ceiling, their jagged teeth tracing a bumpy, inverted spine to the hearth. There, a thick rug with a low klah table and comfortable armchairs and couches sit, their upholstery and cushions changed sporadically to match the season: bright, light colors in the summer, fresh greens and yellows in the spring, warm autumnals in fall, and clear, rich hues for winter. Small tables litter the rest of the cavern, enough to fit up to four people each, while stools stand along the smooth wooden bar behind which is the passthrough window to the kitchen. Glass-paneled cabinetry behind the bar provides a clear view of the available liquors, the many colors reflecting the soft light of glows tucked into strategic niches around the cavern.''

The day after the flight has brought a number of people out to drown their sorrows. Schuyler seems no worse for the wear as he lounges in one of the nooks. He is at a table by himself with a mug of beer and a large platter of cookies sitting in front of him. He watches folks as they walk by with curious eyes and smiles at those he knows. Perhaps looking for just the right person to invite to join him at the table?

Bearing the subtle traces of a day spent lounging on a beach, you could say Edyis has no sorrows to drown. She does, however, want to catch the gossip, which must be why she is in the Snowasis. Dark eyes spot the cookies, and being a shameless opportunist, she greets the baker. "Sky, please tell me those are for sharing?"

No sorrows here, either. It's as if a giant, buttery weight has been lifted off Azaylia's shoulders. Whatever aches, pains, or hangovers might try to cling to the Weyrwoman, she's in a ''good'' mood. Determined to be, even. Not that it's terribly hard with a mug of something chocolatey and alcoholic in her hands. Some might consider her consolations patronizing, as genuine as they are as she stops by a familiar face or two. Her rounds bring her close to the table, Edyis, and the cookies. Also, Schuyler. "Who made these? Edyis?" The stranger will get a warm smile, though her focus is clearly on the baked goods.

Schuyler grins up at Edyis. "Edyis!" he greets and smirks a bit. "Well...for the right person." he winks, gesturing for her to sit and join him. Sky looks up when the Weyrwoman aproaches. "Nope, those are mine ma'am." he grins, pushing the plate in her direction. "Flourless, my own recipe, go ahead and try one." to Edyis. "This one is slightly different from the one I had the other night. A bit lighter texture." he nods leaning back with a smile.

Edyis grinning even as Sky ''claims'' his cookies, simultaneously swiping one and begging to gobble, staking out a seat near the plate. "They actually aren't bad. Strange, but not bad." She offers to the weyrwoman. "How did the flight go?" She asks finally of the young man.

"I was about to ask, what with the shortage." Azaylia sounds surprised, but eager, reaching for a cookie as soon as the plate is offered. The delicate nibbling can't last for long before she's devouring the sweet, "The texture is... it's not ''bad''." She's trying to be polite, but it isn't all that spurns the critique. "I like the idea behind it, certainly." She's already picking up another one, if Schuyler is worried about what she really thinks. Edyis' question has her brows lifting, "You weren't here?"

Schuyler smiles. "What's the most strange part for you? I'm trying a few different things so that people can't tell the difference..." he seems eager to get feedback. He shrugs about the flight. "I was in the kitchens...well...for most of it anyways..." he smirks a bit at that. He hmms at the weyrwoman's comment. "I can't seem to find anything that give the same texture as flour...so I think no matter what I try the texture isn't going to match up...though I have been trying to find something for that...mostly I'm going for taste. Most people don't seem to mind if they're ugly or...more textured...so long as the taste profile is right." he chews his lip as he thinks.

Edyis snorts. "And deal with hormonal people all jammed together in itty bitty living space? I experienced one gold rising in Monaco; I've learned to take cover since then." She offers Azaylia. She squints at the cookie. "What about oats? Forget flour all together and try a different binding method?" Nomming away. Hunger may be the best spice.

Azaylia aims an amused look at Edyis from over her cookie, the one that's being devoured just as quickly as the first. "''I'' think it sounds fun. But the only gold flight I'll be able to experience is my own." Which is even better. Dusting her lips of crumbs, she smiles at Schuyler, "Glad you enjoyed yourself." There's a pensive sip from her drink as she considers, "They're certainly edible. They tasted a little... nutty? Not quite sweet enough? It's interesting, but not bad."

Schuyler nods to Edyis. "I have made some with oats these...yes ma'am exactly! I used an almond flour. Which is denser and doesn't seem to spread the sweetener as smoothly...so they're either too sweet or not sweet enough. I'm thinking of trying maybe combining things too, some almond flour with some oats...or maybe making an oat flour...there's also potato starch...but that's mostly tasteless so maybe just to bind some more flavorful things together..." he lifts a hand and twitches a few fingers as he calculates something in his mind. He smirks at Azaylia. "Aye, I did. Reckon she did too." he winks then glances over at Edyis. "Of course...could have been more enjoyable..." he smirks a bit.

Edyis sighs. "Yes, I'm a prude. I lived most of my life a certain way, and some things take getting used to." At least she is grinning around a cookie. The smirk gets an arch of dark brows, and she may cough a touch, cheeks flushing.

"Almond flour? Clever." Azaylia sounds impressed, mumbling around her third cookie. Thankfully she'll slow down after it's gone, fingertips brushed against the dark navy of her warm skirt. "Is this something the craft is working on? Or your own little project?" Edyis' sigh has those lips quirking, stifling her smile with a long sip of her drink. No, it's still there as she gives a soft laugh, "Nothing wrong with being a prude." Even if she doesn't understand it.

Schuyler grins at the praise. "At the moment it's my own little project. Though I think if I find a decent substitute I could bring it up to my masters. I've dabbled in some rolls and breads too, but cookies seem to attract more people. I have also made some doughs for dumplings and things like that. A few of the other folks in the kitchens help occasionally...but it's mostly just my own pet project now. Seems to do well in making me friends." he winks and chuckles at Edyis's blush. He is also clearly not a prude.

"You should tell that to Farideh sometime." She murmurs grumpily, but cookies! Nibbling at a third. "Ha. Friends, more like free test subjects!" She murmurs, but the smile might indicate that she teases. "Is Hraedhyth less... growly? You mentioned she was rather territorial."

Azaylia considers the baker's words, clearly intrigued. "If there's something particular you need, you're welcome to put in requests to the storerooms. Or," it's Edyis' murmur that has her smile growing, "If you'd like to hold larger taste tests, to get better feedback. I want to see what you come up with." Who knows how long the shortage will last, after all? Always good to have alternatives to feed ones Weyr. Mention of the laundress draws the Weyrwoman's gaze, "Farideh?" Though the curiosity is quickly cast aside in favor of speaking of Hraedhyth, "She is. I suppose my anxiety wasn't helping, never quite knowing when we had to be ''gone''." Or else.

Schuyler grins at the Weyrwoman. "I'll keep that in mind...hmmm...maybe we can make it a challenge. I know the folks in the kitchen have been stressed with the shortage...maybe we can arrange a bake-off event...invite the weyr to come join, and vote, and it will give us a few new recipes." his eyes light up at the idea his mind racing with ideas on what kinds of things he can do.

Edyis grins, but mention of Farideh has her sighing. "Eh, she was just... not herself this morning. Most folks weren't though. You know. Hormones." She twirls a finger in the air, but dark eyes light on the woman curiously. "I think I could understand being anxious, and I can't blame you. Nimae's reputation... but." She pauses, before shaking her head dismissing the thought in favor of cookies. "Count me in for testing too."

"Nimae?" Azaylia sounds confused, although gentle as she reminds, "I was more concerned with Hraedhyth ki-- well. There are reasons golds leave when another rises." She doesn't dare speak it. Schuyler earns a gentle nod, "That's an idea, isn't it? So long as there's a rule about using wheat." She stresses that point, otherwise obviously supporting the idea of a weyr-wide bake off. "Maybe if there's a good enough recipe, we might use it for the hatching feast." Counting ones eggs before they're laid.

Schuyler lets them discuss dragon things. He is happy to just talk about baking and his cookies, which seems to be getting a warm reception. "Maybe even make it more narrow...like...a set list of ingredients can be used? Then we can make recipes with more readily available ingredients that we know we have enough of rather than quickly running into another shortage due to starting to use another ingredient..."

Edyis quirks her mouth to the side considering. "Can't say I was terribly concerned over that. You are the Weyrwoman after all. Unless you are going to tell me that knot is just for show." She smiles and doesn't sound like she buys that at all. "Even if she's strong willed, Hraedhyth listens to you doesn't she?" Curious, nibbling at the edges, falling silent at talk of baked goods.

Azaylia tilts her cup toward Schuyler, "I'll leave the details up to you." Oh he has her support, and surely she and the staff will help with supplies, but it's ''his'' idea. "I can also help spread the word by dragon, although... you might have more mouths than baked goods if I did." It's an amusing thought. Who doesn't enjoy free eats? Edyis' question amuses the goldrider far more than it should, "We listen to each other." Probably not the most comforting answer, the fact that she doesn't keep the 'ferocious' queen on a short leash.

Schuyler nods. "I'll ask around and see which other bakers want to participate...hmm...if we're thinking too many mouths maybe we can do some kind of fundraiser as part of it...buy a ticket in...or each baker can get a certain number of tickets and each participant can invite a few tasters...and whatever is left after can be put out on the buffet?" he thinks the details out as he listens to the talk of dragons.

"Oh." Could that soft soprano voice sound any smaller, or for that matter could Edyis's eyes be any larger? Cookies, cookies will help.

"If you'd like to write up what details you ''do'' come up with and send them my approval, you're more than welcome." Azaylia smiles at Schuyler, for all of his brain storming out loud. Edyis' reaction has her giving a soft laugh, "Don't worry." Though she makes no attempt to further explain her draconic bond, or imply that she hadn't described it accurately. Cookie number four is plucked up even as her head turns, watching a rider as he passes by. "If you'll excuse me, I still have a few chasers to cheer up." Or annoy terribly, even if she ''means'' well. "Edyis. Schuyler, it was nice meeting you." Making short work of the nutty, textured experiment, she turns to join the crowd.

Schuyler nods. "Will do. And thanks!" he grins after her snagging one of the cookies for himself as he glances over at Edyis. "So...weyrlife still not quite your thing?" he asks.

Edyis watches the Weyrwoman depart, with furrow of her brows. Sky's question, she answers with a shrug. "Parts of it aren't. I'm not the have a wild fling because I think a guy is hot type." She explains ordering a drink from one of the passing waiters. "I also am not particularly fond of supremely large and ... incredibly violent dragons."

Schuyler smiles at her. "More of a one on one long term kind of girl then?" he smirks at her then Ahhhs softly. "Yes scary dragons...there's a reason I hang out in the kitchen...well a couple reasons." he chuckles and orders another ale as the waiter passes.

Edyis tilts her head considering the question with a smirk. "No, can't say I'm that either. If you need a label, I suppose you could say I'm the responsible type who - at least on most occasions, attempts to think about the consequences of her actions."

Schuyler laughs. "You mean like you are thinking about cookie number five there?" he asks playfully, raising an eyebrow at her. He takes the ale that has been brought back to him. "I mean, by all means have one...but more than just kissing can have consequenses." he observes.

"Cookies, are not diseases or kids." She points out with a smirk. "Can't say I have particularly found myself enjoying kissing either... too easy to loose yourself in it."

"Well, they don't start out as diseases. But too many of them...well..." Schuyler chuckles. "There's a reason I work out when I'm not in the kitchens." he eyes her for a moment. "You must not be kissing the right people...shame..." he smirks.

Edyis smirks, "Are you by chance suggesting that my figure is ''less'' than flawless." That fifth cookie is ''hers.'' "You assume that kissing, that sex is all there is to the world. I can't say I agree. I would rather know what lies underneath the hormones. Maybe that makes me an oddball."

Schuyler laughs "There is certainly nothing wrong with your figure, Edyis." he says with a low rumble watching her for a long moment. "It's not always about hormones either...and I make no such assumptions. Cookies are certainly just as important." he teases.

"You've learned bribery by pastry and when to provide proper compliments." She lifts a shoulder in a shrug downing her drink. "You could be dangerous." Grinning as she stands. "I'll eat your cookies, anything else... " She leaves him to imagine as she makes her way out of the bar.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs talk:Weyrfolk and Flights

2015-02-22T08:29:39Z

Dragonshy: Comment provided by Azaylia - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Weyrfolk and Flights]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Azaylia (03:29, 22 February 2015 (EST)) said... ==

I hope there's a non-bronze/brown rider scene every goldflight. <3 It's really cool to get a peek at how the flight affects those ''not'' chasing-- especially with such different personalities. ^^

Logs:Paranoia

2015-02-21T09:20:37Z

Dragonshy: Created page with "{{Log | who = Azaylia, R'hin | where = Weyrwoman's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr | what = Azaylia is paranoid, and Hraedhyth isn't helping. R'hin does. | day = 23 | month = 1 | turn..."

{{Log
| who = Azaylia, R'hin
| where = Weyrwoman's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Azaylia is paranoid, and Hraedhyth isn't helping. R'hin does.
| day = 23
| month = 1
| turn = 37
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2015.02.20
| quote = "Irianke. Isn't. Aishani."
| weather =
| categories = 
| mentions = Aishani, Barnabas, Farideh, I'kris, Iolene, Irianke, K'del, Kyouri, Teris
| ooc =
| icons = r'hin.jpg, azaylia shiftyeyes.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| log = Dragon> Hraedhyth's heat isn't urgent, even if there is subtle aggitation in the quickness of her drums, << Mine wants Yours. >> A request that the warrior queen passes along with ease. << When he is free. >> She expects acknowledgement, but even the golden pair know better than to expect instant results to a summons. (To Leiventh from Hraedhyth)

Dragon> There is, as always, a sense of cold, a sense of distance, neither of which are unusual. The bronze does not, however, occupy his usual spot on the rim, a good sign the pair are further afield tonight. Guarded, thoughtful shades color the cold winds that tease the heat of the queen's thoughts. << We will come. >> He doesn't say ''when'', but that's hardly unusual, either. (To Hraedhyth from Leiventh)

Hraedhyth is satisfied with Leiventh's reply, though her flames linger long enough to dance against cold winds. It's a curious flicker that eventually retreats fully, leaving Leiventh and his to their busieness. Though the ''when'' is unknown, Azaylia still has a roaring fire going by the time the bronze pair ''do'' arrive. She might be dozing, curled up in a corner of the couch that's angled at the hearth. The visible wallow is empty save for the bones and skulls that litter its edges-- Hraedhyth drawn to Cadejoth's side the more Niahvth glows. The platter of sandwiches has already been nibbled at, and standing next to her cup of long cooled tea is a half drunk bottle of rich, smokey whiskey.

As is their way, it's darker, and ''later'' before Leiventh appears in the skies above the Weyr. The bronze wings directly towards the Weyrleader's ledge, landing near the base of the ramp, before lifting off to resume his usual position on the rim. R'hin's familiar enough with this weyr -- and the fact that Azaylia's finally made it her own -- that he strides in confidently. Perhaps unsurprisingly, after a jaunty grin in the dozing goldrider's direction, he starts moving around, examining what she's put in ''that'' cupboard, or on ''that'' shelf, or on ''that'' wall. He even disappears, off into the bedroom for a time, before he paces back out. The inspection concludes as he leans over the back of the couch, while he down at her amusedly, "You seem to have settled in well."

For the most part, there seems to be too much space for all of what made her previous weyr cozy. R'hin is certainly expected, given that she has banished Bones (and by extension, Warg) from the couch and to her bedroom. Luckily for the snooping bronzerider, they're heavy sleepers. And snore-ers. Azaylia gives a start at R'hin's voice, brown eyes squinting up at the man with echoes of that old annoyance. It eases into something warm, palm rubbing at her eye, "Mmhm. I love the bath, even if it is small." She blinks at the fire, then at the weyr at large, until looking back at R'hin. "I swear you come back this late just to see me in my robe." Even if the warm, fluffy housecoat is far from risque. Not during winter. "Help yourself to a drink, if you haven't already." There might be a curious sniff as she unravels from her drowsy ball.

"Yes, life is so ''tough'' for you goldriders, with your own private bath, being so ''small''," he's clearly mocking her, but R'hin gives a wry laugh afterwards. "You ''could'' bathe in the big, ample bathing pools with the rest of us?" There's, likely, something suggestive in that, judging by the way his eyebrows go up and his mouth quirks. Or maybe that's just his reaction to her suggestion he comes back just to see her in a robe. He straightens as she starts to stretch out, circling around the couch and stooping to stoke the hearth. If he's curious about why he's been asked here, he doesn't prompt as such, content to make himself at home instead.

Azaylia's smile doesn't stay innocent, "I almost did, back when I got my first weyr." Turns and turns ago. "But then I worried that people would consider me ungrateful, letting my private bath go to waste." She reaches for her cup, testing the heat and finding it completely gone. The whisky is far more appealing, then. Popping it open, she pours it into the splash of tea left before knocking it back. There's a low sigh, husky from the liquor and echoing those draconic drums, "I wish she would just ''go up'' already." Though she certainly has something on her mind, it's interrupted as she glances at R'hin's back. As if the thought just occurred to her, "Are you going to chase?" Simply curious.

"You worry ''far'' to much about what people think about you. They're probably always thinking the worst, anyway, so you might as well enjoy yourself while you're at it." Done with the hearth, R'hin straightens after setting the poker back onto its stand. He moves towards her, studying the Weyrwoman -- or maybe just watching her take a splash of that whiskey with a low-throated chuckle, waiting for her to set the bottle down before he reaches for it himself, taking a brief inhale, and after an approving noise, a sip. He moves towards the couch, and the touch of his fingers towards her feet are a bid for space, settling at the other end, though angled a little so that he can still see her face. "You goldriders ''do'' make life difficult. Why do you think I've been spending so much time out of the Weyr? I think Leiventh finds Niahvth too... ''happy''." He's chuckling and shaking his head at the same time, as if to say, ''dragons''. He glances towards the ledge, then back to Azaylia, "That's up to Leiventh." A beat. "I'd say it's more than likely." Pale gaze remains on her as he answers, as if taking in her reaction.

"Actually, a ''laundress'' told me that I'm not talked about. ...much." Azaylia argues with some pride, as if all her fretting isn't just goldrider paranoia. "Imagine what they ''would'' say if I did start," Completely proving his point as she wonders, "Not even the ''baths'' are safe from the prowling Weyrwoman." She's very menacing, with her wiggling fingers. Making room for him without a fuss, Leiventh's opinion has her giving a fond smile for the chilly bronze, "He would." R'hin's answer doesn't seem to surprise her, brows lifting as she gives a faint, "Hm." There's little more to it than that, and while she considers the possibility she's hardly displeased. It's only after she's looking back at him that there's a hint of tension, "What do ''you'' think about Irianke?" Her face falls into something far more stern. Suspicious. "What do you ''know''?"

"Mm. Then she's either lying to you to curry favor, or she's not listening." R'hin's chuckling, resting the bottle on the arm of the couch. "Bet it'd get tongues wagging, certainly. You should try it out as a... social experiment. I ''hear''," and there's just a hint of emphasis to suggest maybe it's more than hearsay, "That the healers are doing that sort of thing these days." As for Leiventh, there's an unrepentant grin. "Given he doesn't chase greens much, I'd say it's only to be expected." His gaze continues to rest on her, and her question isn't much of a surprise, though it does make him take a gulp from that bottle first. "She's... she'll be good for the Weyr. A breath of fresh air. What do I ''know''? That she's Nimae's and also ''not'', and while I am sure you will struggle to trust her, you should take ''advantage'' of her while she's here." He leans towards her to emphasize that -- and also uses the opportunity to refill that tea cup of hers, or top it up at least, with the bottle. "Learn from her, learn how ''she's'' been taught to do things, take what you like and discard what you don't. Nimae runs a tight ship, and she's been doing this for a while."

"I might." Distracted as she sounds, there's no telling if Azaylia actually ''will''. No doubt he'll hear about it, if she ''does'' decide to visit the public baths. As R'hin considers the real reason she's called him, her lips purse and pull downward. Her impromptu shot glass is eyed as he fills it, arms crossing over her chest in defiance of the drink-- or his advice. "Kyouri mentored me just fine." Defensive? Possessive? There's a heat behind her words and in that stare aimed at him, trying to release some of that shared agitation with a huff from her nose. "She ''isn't'' perfect, R'hin." It's then that her face softens, if only slightly. "She can't be." Can she?

"And Kyouri's a wonderful and smart woman," R'hin replies with barely a pause, "But none of us should be complacent enough to stop growing and changing. Different Weyrs do different things, for different reasons. What Benden taught you will be different to what you might learn from Igen." Even under her ''look'' there's an unrepentant chuckle, and he sets that bottle down on the table, stretching his arm along the back of the couch. "Oh, come now. I never said that, and if you're thinking that, then you're already setting yourself up to fail. Talk to the girl. I don't know, do ''girl'' things. Braid each other's hair. Lend her that assistant of yours. Use her while you can."

Azaylia eyes that arm as it crosses into her claimed territory. That tension persists for a moment longer before she lets out another long exhale, almost desperate in the way she reaches for that once rejected cup. She'll sip for the familiar sting to ground her before she drains the rest in a quick gulp. When she settles back down it's tucked beneath that arm, snuggling into the bronzerider whether he likes it or not. "I can't help it. She could be just another..." Exhausted by her suspicion, the goldrider leans her head back with a gentle groan. "I ''want'' to like her. I understand that the transfer is completely normal but..." Another wary thought that doesn't get finished, at least not out loud. It's a long time, with even more 'what ifs' left unsaid before she finally murmurs, "I know you're right. It doesn't make it any easier."

"She ''could'', but her reasons for being here are obvious, and you agreed to them. You can bunker down in this big, empty weyr of yours, or you can take the... whatever by the horns. The latter's bound to be a better outcome for you, and for the Weyr. And," R'hin taps his fingers against his chin, "You could throw in a pillow fight or two to help break the ice. I'd volunteer to be the umpire."

Azaylia angles her head with a roll, a much less severe ''look'' being aimed up at him at that last. "I'm sure you would." Neither surprised or offended, she just gives a soft laugh. The smile lingers, if faintly as she asks, "If you ''do'' find anything..? You'll let me know?" A blink. "Unless it's the details, should Leiventh catch. That's ''girl'' talk." To be saved for Irianke to share, if she so desires.

R'hin's brows go ''up'', as if she's surprised him all of a sudden. A beat passes before he asks, "Anything, like...?" With a twist of lips, "Like she's secretly a daughter of a person murdered by High Reaches?" He shakes his head. "Irianke's well known. I've seen her, maybe, a half dozen times over the last ten Turns or so. Unless she's putting on a really, ''really'' long con -- she's exactly what she appears to be, at least as far as ''any'' of us are. That doesn't mean Nimae hasn't asked her to nosy about -- that's probably a given." It's the latter that makes him laugh, lips pursing briefly. "I didn't think you'd be that interested in how Irianke performed in bed, but I'm sure there's plenty of others you can ask, ''now''."

It's a joke, it must be, and yet Azaylia isn't laughing. "Yes." She means ''exactly'' like that. "We've had fake identities, a brownrider murdering a goldrider, another maybe-murdered and a gold that never came back from between." And that's only what she's experienced, first hand. "I'm not going to put it past anyone to pull a ''long con''." Albeit much, much longer than even Aishani managed. The ferocity doesn't last long, far too self aware to stick by such neuroses. With her face in her hands, her exasperation is muffled, "Faranth, I sound like a ''mad woman''." Thankfully there are no sigh of tears as she parts her fingers to peek over at him. "When goldriders talk about flights, it's not about how ''they'' preformed."

R'hin leans forward, reaching for her hand -- the one not holding her cup. "Irianke. Isn't. Aishani." He says it slowly, deliberately. "She's trying. Let her ''try''. The worst that can happen is you transfer her back to Igen. Trust me, Irianke isn't interested in murdering anyone." It's her latter comment that makes his lower lip stick out, as if in thought. "How many dragons their queen injured? How many riders left with bruises and split lips and broken noses?"

It bears repeating, "Irianke ''isn't'' Aishani." The soft murmur is paired with a squeeze to his hand, as if determined. It will sink in. It ''will''. With the empty little cup placed back on the coffee table, she keeps his hand captive for as long as he allows. She's a physical creature even on good days, and right now even light contact is helping. She'll reach for the bottle now, although for a modest sip as he 'wonders' out loud. "Or how disappointing the dragon's rider was." Her words are innocently lobbed at R'hin from the bottle's neck before it's offered back.

There's an encouraging nod from R'hin, silent as she repeats that, and while she gets her drink. The Savannah rider snorts. "Not possible. Even someone terrible in bed will be ''good'', during a flight. It's the only hope those Ierne born riders have for a good sex life. Honestly, I don't know ''how'' they'd procreate otherwise." He reaches for the bottle, shaking his head as if marvelling.

"Well, there's the ''after''." Azaylia argues, although she recognizes that he has a point about the actual flight. "Plenty of time to be a disappointment, then." Not that she would ever suspect it of R'hin, or so that feather soft tone implies. Innocently curious, "What do you have against riders from Ierne" Hraedhyth's drums suddenly spike in warning, audible to Leiventh and carried in the Weyrwoman's frustrated sound. Is that a growl? "Go to ''sleep''." A command that hopefully isn't meant for R'hin.

"After?" R'hin's chuckling. "Not ''every'' gold or greenrider wants a second go. Some have... weyrmates, or other commitments, or just feel weird about it, if they're a stranger, or moreso if they're not." He gives her a blandly surprised look. "You mean you hadn't heard all the males are impotent outside flights? Hm. I was sure that's common knowledge even in the north, not just in Monaco." He could be pulling her leg, but he sounds so ''earnest''.

It's not that Azaylia doesn't believe him about those hypothetical riders with ''scruples'' or ''weyrmates'', nose wrinkling at the idea. The exaggerated expression doesn't last, unable to pretend to be so judgemental of what others choose to do. R'hin offers the perfect distraction from the restless queen, her rider easing back to eye him dubiously. "They can't ''all'' be impotent." It'd be such a waste!

"Try and seduce one," R'hin challenges her, "You'll see I'm right."

"Oh, now I have to." Azaylia accepts the challenge, as if she needs an excuse. "I'm sure I already have, but..." Sometimes there isn't room for chit chat. "You're going to confuse a lot of men, R'hin." Yes, because if her escapades start with 'Are you from Ierne?' after this, it'll be all ''his'' fault.

"You're going to be ''very'' disappointed," R'hin warns her, with a low throated chuckle. There's a fond sort of pat to her leg, as he stands.

Azaylia aims a gentle kick at him as he straightens up, "You'll never hear the end of it, if you're wrong." Yes, ''if''. She watches him with a tired smile, making no move to stop or follow him. A soft murmur instead of a proper goodbye, "Thank you."

"I'm always right, and ''you'll'' never hear the end of that," R'hin counters. He takes the kick, as gentle as it is, with an exaggerated stagger, straightening up and wincing as he rubs where her foot contacted. The act fades as he grins, "Anytime. Well, maybe not ''any'' time. I do like my sleep." With a jaunty wave, he's heading out towards the ledge, the dark shadow of Leiventh's glide zooming down from the rim to meet him.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs talk:A Blonde, A Brunette, And A Redhead

2015-02-21T07:00:06Z

Dragonshy: Comment provided by Azaylia - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:A Blonde, A Brunette, And A Redhead]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Azaylia (02:00, 21 February 2015 (EST)) said... ==

No... one... POUTS like Gaston no one sulks like Gaston! Except for maybe Farideh. <3 May her lower lip never be pulled back in. xD Also I love that Lya gets dragon-sick. Like, as an extra layer to the character.

Logs talk:Performance Review

2015-02-21T04:40:01Z

Dragonshy: Comment provided by Azaylia - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Performance Review]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Azaylia (23:40, 20 February 2015 (EST)) said... ==

It was fun getting to see K'del handle Weyrleader business, especially with ''H'vier''. I think both made good points-- and I always ''love'' seeing K'del bare his fangs. Small but potent scene. :D

Logs:Urgent

2015-02-19T08:48:41Z

Dragonshy:

{{Log
|who=Alida{{!}}Ilicaeth, Azaylia{{!}}Hraedhyth
|what=Fight. 'Nuff said.
|where=Eastern Bowl, High Reaches Weyr
|day=19
|month=1
|turn=37
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.02.18
|quote=<>
|weather=Snow
|mentions=K'del, Alida
|type=Log
|ooc=Warrior dragons doing what they do!
|icons-new=Icon alida ilicaeth reddustdevil.jpg, Icon azaylia hraefire.jpg
|log=Dragon> The scouring of furnace-hot, ocher sands seeps at his dam's mental front door. There are no words from Ilicaeth, but the blue's (frustrated) sense of action can no longer bear up under the pressure of so much darkness and twisted emotion from his rider. He must have an outlet...and who better to provide that (while also not going completely overboard, like, say, Lythronath would) than the tawny gold? A heavy rustle of eye-marked wings presages his rough, almost snarled sending, <> (To Hraedhyth from Ilicaeth)

Dragon> Hraedhyth is already fierce, already displeased. While Niahvth has been welcome into the fold with little issue, now the rival gold is ''glowing''. It's not much, but it's a reminder of an unspoken, primal challenge that has not yet been issued-- and she's ''right next door''. Ilicaeth provides a sudden and unwanted distraction, heat meeting with heat as her flames wrap around him, cradling the blue. While she does not yet lend her ''power'', his dam lends her ''strength'' in order to keep him steady as she finds out << What. >> (To Ilicaeth from Hraedhyth)

Dragon> Perhaps his own growing ferocity has also been influenced by that intoxicating boquet of Niahvth's extended state of proddiness, but the blue only *truly* understands his own just as primal urge to challenge, to engage in 'the dance.' Not mating, this time, but still it is the meeting of bodies, teeth, claws in the ages-old spewing of a physical clash. Thoughts - searing and urgent - of Lythronath/Hraedhyth having it out merge with others of Tacuseth/Hraedhyth, then culminating with Ilicaeth/Hraedhyth 'scuffling' out in the Bowl as they have done before...the sounds of draconic battle loud on the air. But not for 'keeps.' Keeps is death. What Ilicaeth wants/needs now is a sound and honest 'fight'...his urgency for that needed venting allowed in a single, rather Lynner-like 'click.' (To Hraedhyth from Ilicaeth)

Dragon> Hraedhyth is already on the move, roused from Cadejoth's side in order to meet Ilicaeth in a less occupied part of the bowl. She is always up for a fight, to test the strength of those in her pack, no matter what size or hue. That Ilicaeth ''needs'' it has dark smoke giving a curious curl, floral incense carried by the inky tendrils. << Why. >> (To Ilicaeth from Hraedhyth)

Dragon> He didn't dare hope she would want this, too, but as soon as the gold acknowledges her offspring's need, Ilicaeth is a-wing from his own ledge - eyes whirling a speedy orange flecked with blue - and descending into the snow upon the rock of the Bowl with a hissing agitation...tail lashing impatiently as he awaits Hraedhyth. No words are sent to his Queen, just the urge for explosive action mixed with the sounds - yet again - of draconic combat. But, at the fringes of the warrior-blue's mind, are so many roiling and conflicting emotions that surely they must be generated by a human. His own human, likely. Those emotions have been dealt with over the weeks/months/years...but *now* they threaten to break Ilicaeth's granite self-control, so fierce are they. Outlet. He NEEDS an outlet. (To Hraedhyth from Ilicaeth)

Dragon> And so his matriarch will offer that outlet. Hraedhyth doesn't bother with her usual territorial display as she lands, other than a roar of challenge. She screams the agitation that is felt from Ilicaeth, her own upset carried in the bright specks of orange that interrupt her blue gaze. She isn't ''happy'' he is in such need, and that floral perfume turns bitter as her flames consume it. She charges, sending up snow as she barrels toward the blue, stopping just short of impact in order to allow him to throw himself against her. Even in battle she knows not to harm those of her tribe, not grievously. She will be the warrior queen that Ilicaeth needs tonight, even if that means exhausting the blue against her tawny hide. (To Ilicaeth from Hraedhyth)

Dragon> Oh yes! YesyesYesYES! She can feel the burly blue radiating his fierce joy in combat promised, Ilicaeth bellowing back at his dam with every ounce of his being as he too lopes in ungainly, draconic fashion directly at Hraedhyth. Flee their fierceness, unworthy ones! Dare them not! With an impact that would perhaps injure enough smaller dragons, the bulky blue's granite-like form finally collides with his larger Queen's with 99% of what he has to give. If he gave it his very *all*, he (and even possibly she) might be mortally wounded. Colliding with Hraedhyth's even bulkier form finds the blue almost bouncing off her tawny self, but not before his long tail has lashed about - whip-scorpion-like - seeking to deliver a brutally harsh smack upside her muzzle. Whatever comes next is certain to draw ichor, elicit more savage sounds, and evoke quite sore bodies...and will paradoxically wind up with the blue - exhausted but sated - curled up with his momma-'bear.' (To Hraedhyth from Ilicaeth)
}}
{{Categories
|Categories=General Logs
}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]
[[Category:Dragon_Logs]]

Logs:Storeroom Donations

2015-02-18T06:11:59Z

Dragonshy: Created page with "{{Log | who = Azaylia, Farideh | where = Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr | what = Azaylia thinks she has too many clothes, and Farideh helps her sort through them. | day = 13 |..."

{{Log
| who = Azaylia, Farideh
| where = Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Azaylia thinks she has too many clothes, and Farideh helps her sort through them.
| day = 13
| month = 1
| turn = 37
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2015.02.17
| quote = "They don't talk about you-- often."
| weather =
| categories = 
| mentions = Devaki, Hana, Issedi
| ooc =
| icons = azaylia happy.jpg, farideh genuine.png
| type = Log
| desc =
| log = '''Storerooms'''

''Massive in scale, the Weyr's main storage passage connects to the kitchen on one end and the outbound tunnel on the other. Large enough to admit a wagon laden with goods, the tunnel easily permits the unloading and organization of supplies into the various storerooms.''

''Branching off from this corridor are multiple caverns, the nearer two being 'open' stores from which residents can readily help themselves, while the deeper stores are kept locked up tight with a posted sign and inventory hung on a hook outside of each. An alcove next to the public stores serves as a catch-all area for reshelving items whose destination is uncertain; two sets of stone shelving and several bins hold these items neatly until a stores assistant has a moment to deal with them.''

''Though the storage caverns vary in size, shape, and the smoothness of their walls, all belong to the same system: whitewashed walls, swept floors, and most importantly, neatly labeled and inventoried shelves providing ample space to stow all the supplies a busy Weyr needs. Though there's no direct internal lighting, a glowbasket may be brought in from the niche outside each cavern, the better to ward off pests and the inky dark of deep caves.''

Well after Turnover and the tragedy before it, Azaylia is hefting several large boxes down into the storerooms. Her expression is pensive, brows set in determination as her arms flex beneath the fabric of her longsleeves, dress bunched up and tied off to the side to reveal her thick, warm leggings. The third crate is placed down, and the Weyrwoman straightens with a soft huff, brushing fly-aways from her face. There are no lids on the piles of fabric, mostly dark blues and blacks with some brighter, sunnier hues mingled within. No doubt everything will be sorted in time, but for now she's busy with unfastening her skirts and letting it float back down over her legs.

A basket piled high with folded linens and various other fabrics obscures most of Farideh's face as she maneuvers the alleyways of the stores. She walks with a purpose, peering from behind her burden, and politely side-steps anyone that happens into her path, with a tight smile. It's towards one section of shelving that she wanders, and eventually arrives at, setting her basket down with a heavy exhale. Her hands are brushed against her pants, her hair pushed back; then, her hands fall to her hips as she surveys her literal ''pile'' of work. With a dubious quality, her eyes flick from the laundry to the Weyrwoman. Visibly she hesitates, and then takes a few tentative steps forward. "Did you-- did you need any help?" she asks uncertainly, staring at the crates Azaylia has just set down.

"Hm?" Azaylia sounds surprised, but not unpleasantly so as she regards Farideh. There might be a flicker of recognition in her gaze, but nothing that inspires her to even ''attempt'' a name. "Not really. ...maybe?" Less uncertain and more simply changing her mind, "Maybe you can help me decide what other people might like, and what should just be thrown out?" There's a small smile as she adds, "Or used for patches." She motions toward the boxes, welcoming Farideh to inspect the old dresses, linens and various shawls that the Weyrwoman has collected over the years. "I moved weyrs and found that... well. I had a lot of outfits that I don't really wear." Her hands move to her hips, expression playfully stern, "I ''think'' my assistant has been sneaking them into my wardrobe." Given that Azaylia is not one to overly indulge in clothing.

While the goldrider is sorting out what she wants, Farideh keeps stepping closer, wearing a baffled expression. "Thrown out?" she asks skeptically. "None of it should be ''thrown out''. There's always other uses, if not as they were intentionally meant. Patches, rags, aprons--" She catches herself and stops, offering a pleasant smile before squatting down next to the closest crate. "It's only a matter of sorting them according to their most appealing, renewed purpose." Her fingers brush the topmost selection of cloth and she lifts her curious eyes to Azaylia. "I'm sure she meant well. It can always come to the Weyr's usage, right? If not your own."

"See, that's what I was thinking." Azaylia agrees with growing warmth to her smile, "But with the way ''some'' people talk, you'd think I was wearing rags." She's still playful in her accusation, crouching down as Farideh does and plucking up a dress that is out of style, but still in fine shape. The majority of what's in the boxes are still wear-able, if waiting for alterations to be made if one were looking to be ''fashionable''. There's a glance at the abandoned basket of linens before she decides, "Who better to help me than a laundress?" She gives a soft nod at the mention of her assistant, "I'm sure she did. It's not like I really mind, it's just that she's very mindful of clothing trends and I am... very not." Admitted with a soft laugh. "What about you?"

"''Some'' people wouldn't know a cothold tailor from Lady Miule's weaver," is the laundresses annoyed reply, though ''not'', it would seem, towards Azaylia. "You could ask one of the seamstresses, but they're prone to go on and on--" Farideh sucks in a breath and lets it out slow, shaking her head while she lifts the top dress and presses the fabric between her fingers. "You don't see the need to be dressed in the current styles? Have you found the ''right'' weaver to attend your needs? You know, I knew this girl, and she hired this weaver from out of ''Nerat''. Yes, ''Nerat'', and he got her measurements all wrong and it was a ''mess'', and then he tried putting her in ''wool'', saying it was the ''in thing''." Her eyes roll skywards - weavers, amiright?! Still, "I don't have a ''need'' to look nice. I'm just a laundress. It's fun to look at illustrations and ''dream'' though."

"I... can see a need, I suppose." Her lips pull into a faint frown, "I'm sure there's talk about Weyrs who 'can't afford' to keep their Werywomen in the best gowns." Azaylia's bland tone makes it obvious what she thinks about ''that''. Farideh's tale draws her attention, as well as her amusement, that smile returning as she sorts. "Wool?" Even she's incredulous there, brows pinched in obvious pity for the aformentioned girl. "I do tend to bounce from weaver to weaver, I admit. It isn't that they don't tend to my needs, I just... I guess that part of farmlife has stuck with me, even after all these years. I think strangers spend more time thinking about what I am, and what I ''should'' be wearing, than I do." She motions to the boxes in front of them, "If you see anything in particular you like, you're free to have first pick. I'm sure with a high-quality base, you can get a seamstress friend to breathe new life into it."

"Is there? It's not the ''clothing'' of Weyrwoman that many talk about these days," Farideh says, flipping over the next two items in the crate. "''Wool'', in ''Igen'' heat." It's a woe-betide tone that carries along the laundress' sentiments, accompanied by a mild pout. "I'm not sure what he was ''thinking''. Needless to say, she got a new weaver and was much happier after that." Her verdigris eyes lift from the dresses in the box, her eyebrows drawn together in confusion. "You should really commit to the one. A good one. That knows how to flatter your body type. It's amazing what the correct silhouettes and complimentary colors will do," she says sunnily, going back to the castoffs; she's digging around in the bottom, looking over the side. "A well-dressed woman is a remembered woman. And, oh--" Her cheeks flush and she ducks her head, smiling apologetically. "I shouldn't."

Azaylia seems curious, "I've never been good on keeping up on gossip. What ''do'' they talk about, these days?" Since it certainly seems as though Farideh is a fount of fashionable knoweledge. The added detail brings her close to gaping, "In ''Igen heat''? Are you sure he didn't have a vendetta against her?" When the laundress declines, the goldrider ducks her head to peek at Farideh's flushed cheeks. "No?" She does press, if gently, "I understand if you'd rather not wear someone's hand-me-downs," Or perhaps she's ''trying'' to understand, "But if it's because you don't think you should... have pretty things? That's silly." She straightens up, inspecting a gauzy sundress before placing it in the growing 'good' pile, "Once we've got these sorted, it'll be first come first serve."

"No? You could sit in the kitchens or the laundry, and not even say a word, to get an ear full. They don't talk about you-- often." Amusement lights up the girl's face, laughing at the obvious frivolousness of the laundress and their counterparts, the kitchen aids. "Everyone is talked about Benden's ''issues'', and that gold with the-the memory problems. Of course, no one has stopped talking about the debacle at High Reaches Hold." Farideh stops sorting through the clothing to look up at Azaylia, expression frustrated. "Poor Lady Issedi and poor Lord Devaki too. I think his decision was just." She flourishes a hand, waving around a white shirt, and resumes dissecting the things in the crate. "That's not it. I just ''shouldn't''. Other people might need it ''more'', you know," with a wrinkling of her nose. "But maybe just one, if I find anything. It would be ''nice'' to have a ''warm'' dress." But not wool, obviously.

"That's certainly a relief." If Azaylia is even capable of sarcasm, those words come close. Mention of the Hold has her stifling a grimace, though the flinch is obvious as her hands slow to a stop. She doesn't open her eyes until after a few breaths, blinking until they're no longer glassy, "I... Of course I support Lord Devaki in his decision." And ''yet''. "Issedi and I were friends. We didn't visit often, but we... I wish I had taken more time to see her." Trembling fingers find their strength once again, returning to the task with obvious ferver. "If anyone in this Weyr is in such a need that ''you'' can't indulge in one dress... Then maybe I ''should'' be talked about in the kitchens." An attempt at humor, however dry.

The Weyrwoman's flinch doesn't appear to register like it should to the laundress. There's still a thin smile on her face, her eyes watching Azaylia while she moves a couple things out of the crate and into a separate pile on the floor. "I'm sorry. She seemed like a lovely woman. ''I'' never met her, but they talked of her in a positive manner. They had a ''romance'', you know," Farideh provides, like Azaylia ''wouldn't'' know, even though she just confessed to being the deceased woman's friend. "It's tragic, but most good love stories are, aren't they?" It's a question, posed to the older woman who should ''surely'' know, but her attention is easily stolen again by the garments she's separating. "I ''have'' two dresses, but not ''cold weather'' dresses. I don't know that I'll ever get used to this weather."

"Not just lovely, but ''kind''. She was Holdbred through and through but... she never thought less of me. Of where I come from." Of the Weyr, which she now oversees. As for romance, "I never doubted how Devaki felt about her. Or how she felt about him." There's some embarrassment as Azaylia confides, "I don't much care for the tragic love stories. My books are the kind where the lovers ride off into the sunset together. Or, fly." If it's a book about dragonriders. Her own escapades are left unsaid, which may hint at inexperience when it comes to ''romance''. Running her fingers over a thin, summertime shawl, "I know there are plenty of warm dresses in there." Similar to the one she's wearing now, no doubt. "Mostly in blue-- but I think there's a white one? I was feeling adventurous the day I had it comissioned."

Surprisingly, there's no remarks of the Weyrwoman's commentary on Issedi's personality, but Farideh does chew on her lower lip while she sorts. "I can't decide what's ''worse''. Having a great, adventurous romance, only to get married and have kids, and live a mundane lifestyle with no hope for soaring higher, or having that romance stolen from you too soon. Neither sounds like something I'd ''wish'' for." Basically, there's no middle road, to her. "A few-" Her eyebrows lift, her gaze too before it drops to the crate. "What does it look like?" is her question, pushing aside layers of fabric in her search for ''that'' particular piece.

Azaylia considers the options, pointing out, "You don't ''have'' to have children, even if you were to get married? Could always strive to keep the adventure going." There's a soft shrug as she adds with a breathless laugh, "I don't suspect I'll ever fall in love, myself. I'm happy with what choices the Weyr offers." Her lips gain a mischevious quirk, "Though I believe most people search for that special some''one''." She drops a silky piece of fabric in order to help Farideh look for the one dress in particular, "It's a little tight-- or it's meant to be warn that way." Given Azaylia's height and athletic physique, it would need to be altered to fit the laundress. "White, long sleeved, and sort of fuzzy? If it's wool, it's ''very'' soft."

"It's not like, if you get married, you have the choice to go ''between'' all the time like riders do. It's ''bound'' to happen, if you're--" Farideh tucks an errant curl behind her ear and keeps shifting fabric in search of ''the dress''. "I haven't ever. I don't know that I ''want'' to. What if he just ''dies''? This Weyr sees its share of tragic deaths, anyway. I wouldn't want to get my hopes ''up''," she explains gently, her fingers wrapping around a swath of white that she eagerly pulls out of the crate. Standing, she holds it up to her front, for the goldrider's inspection. "This one?"

"Good point. I forget, sometimes." The priveledges that come with having a dragon, regardless of hue. "It sounds... messy." Romance. "What if he dies. Or, what if he gets bored? They do that, you know." Speaking from experience, while also not. "I had my share of angry weyrmates coming to find me, before I thought to have Hraedhyth ''check''." The dress Farideh holds is certainly too long her, and it has plenty of extra fuzzy fabric to work with. Pristine white, the dress ''could'' be a sweater if it weren't so long, a mix of provocative and conservative. "That's the one! It's pretty, but I find I enjoy darker colors for winter. I hardly wore it." A hand flutters, and she smiles up at the girl from where she's still crouched, "You're welcome to it."

"Gets ''bored''?" That brings a frown to her face, wearing down the pleasantness of before. "They do, don't they. I hadn't thought of ''that'', but if you ''love'' someone, how in all of Pern can you get ''bored''?" Farideh isn't comprehending that one, and gives the dress a little shake to smooth out the folds. She looks down, to where the dress puddles at her feet. "White is refreshing. Dark can be--" Her nose scrunches up and she folds the dress gingerly over her arm. "Thank you, though."

"As I hear it, some people fall out of love? I honestly have no idea." Azaylia gives a little shake of her head, not likely to give it much more thought than that. The dress gets one last fond look before she's back to digging into the first box, "I like white and gold for when it's warm." With a bright smile, "You're very welcome, ah... I didn't catch your name." Or if she did, it's been forgotten.

"Falling out of love," is repeated whimsically, her eyes finding the corrugated ceiling, as if someone could have scrawled the answers to all of life's miseries there. "White isn't as favored for winter, because you might be mistaken for a pile of snow." Which is obviously not attractive on any front. "Farideh," she supplies with a smile. "You won't have to worry about this. I can sort it for you. I'm stuck down here for the rest of the day, stocking linens. I'm sure you have other things to do." It's a ''helpful'' offer, guileless.

With another soft laugh, "I can't imagine anyone mistaking ''you'' for a pile of snow." It's said as a compliment. Azaylia gives a soft nod, "Farideh, right." The Weyrwoman doesn't look to abandon the task just yet, "I made some time for myself to handle this today. If I get called away, then I'll leave you to it." She half accepts the offer, otherwise continuing to sort through the boxes. They'll manage to finish one of three before Azaylia's bulky brown firelizard appears with a written request for her. Her farewell is a pleasant one, however quickly she gathers herself in order to tend to other duties.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs talk:Grief and Fear

2015-02-09T09:41:28Z

Dragonshy: Comment provided by Azaylia - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Grief and Fear]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Azaylia (04:41, 9 February 2015 (EST)) said... ==

;^; Aww, little Dee... Awwww, big D! So sad. DX

Logs:Turnday Tragedy

2015-02-08T13:54:13Z

Dragonshy: Feel free to add anything I missed, or edit icons and the like. This was a biggun. ;D

{{Log
| who = Devaki, Devaki{{!}}Issedi, Devaki{{!}}Daroda, Suireh, Azaylia, N'rov, Farideh, Rilka, Quinlys, Raum, Edyis, Alida, Quinlys{{!}}Olveraeth, Azaylia{{!}}Hraedhyth, Alida{{!}}Ilicaeth, N'rov{{!}}Vhaeryth, K'del{{!}}Cadejoth
| where = High Reaches Hold,
| what = Lady Issedi's Turnday celebration turns to tragedy.
| day = 11
| month = 13
| turn = 36
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2015.02.07
| quote = "'''DEATH TO THE EXILE!'''"
| weather =
| categories = 
| mentions = Irianke, K'del, Taikrin
| ooc =
| icons = devaki.jpg, issedi.jpg, suireh.jpg, azaylia thinking.jpg, n'rov.png, farideh emotional.png, rilka.jpg, quinlys very serious.jpg, raum.png, edyis wtf.jpg, alida determined.jpg, quinlys olveraeth stars.jpeg, azaylia hraedhyth.jpg, alida ilicaeth sandstorm.jpg, n'rov vhaeryth.jpg, k'del cadejoth.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| log = '''High Reaches Hold'''

''Isolated on its westward-jutting peninsula, from the landward side High Reaches Hold appears burrowed deep into the mountain, with only a few shuttered windows overlooking the rows of cotholds that line the river road. Its double courtyards appear designed more for transportation or defense than for welcoming visitors. From the seaward side, the slant of the windows overlooking the fine deep bay attempts to ward off the sea winds, the higher stories evading the less pleasant odors prevalent at low tide.''

''However cold and bleak the Hold's setting may be, inside, its colors of dark blue and tan act as neutrals for the warmer, brighter hues of its llama-wool tapestries and rugs. Below the Hold, oval caverns house lengths of seasoned wood for its shipbuilders, and to its outskirts are several minor Crafthalls including a glass-smith's shop.''

''Though the Hold's main access is by sea, the river road leads to its Weyr and the rest of Pern, while minor roads lead to a few outlying Holds and the distant lighthouse. Brilliant light plays off of the dunes of snow as a cloudless winter brings with it extreme cold.''
----

The afternoon's been full of the gossip doing the rounds, and games of spot-the-ex-Lord-Holder, Wulfan mostly apparently scarce by the time evening draws around. The cold day turns into frigid towards evening, driving everyone away from those outdoor activities, but there's plenty more to be had indoors -- the harpers have already
started up, and dancing is in full swing within the main hall, while banquet tables line both sides providing food and refreshment for those in conversation or content
to watch the more active participants.

The guest of honor is seated near to the hearth, surrounded by others -- Lady Daroda, several of her assistants, and others. Devaki, for his part, stands near the
drinks table, talking in low tones with some of the seacrafters.

It's a party for the ages, and Suireh's just finishing up a song on the dais, her rich throaty voice and the 'character' she dons for this a sultry flirt with come
hither fingers here and there and then a backwards look for the dancers and few watchers. She's replaced by pure instrumentals, the players' fingers flying over
keys and strings and drums in several fast paced dance songs. "Water," is requested of an apprentice who has it waiting for the singer.

The cold has left what flush it can on Azaylia's cheeks as she seeks shelter indoors, shedding her heavy cloak to reveal a lovely gown of proud blue and black
fur trim. The knot on her shoulder may bespeak of rank, but that wide grin and dancing eyes sabotage any illusion of haughtiness one might expect. She's quite
obviously on her way to the guest of honor, package beneath her arm, before she's distracted by the drinks. With hot cider to banish the rest of the chill, the
goldrider can't help but murmur, "To sing like ''that''..." Short of awe, her attention is on Suireh even as she drifts closer to Lord Devaki-- not that she's noticed yet.

There's a smattering of polite clapping for the harper vocalist, and some on the dance floor use the opportunity to take a break; others are drawn onto the floor by
the fast-paced song. Devaki, for his part, perhaps used to harpers, has his attention drawn to Suireh only through Azaylia's comment, joining the applause --
though that doesn't last long, with his attention fairly soon shifting to the goldrider with a little quirk of a smile. "How fortuitous. Your Weyrleader and I were just speaking of you earlier this afternoon."

With water quenching her thirst, the young woman rolls her shoulders back in quick succession and shakes her limbs loose a little. "Time to mingle," is said with just
a note of pretend dread that makes the apprentices smile nervously. Low words are spared the trio and then she waves them off into the wilds of the party. One later
makes an appearance, albeit looking somewhat different, as a server with drinks. The other two, well, let's play Where's Waldo, harper addition. Suireh smooths out her
crimson skirts and makes her way to a floating tray of bubbly and procures herself one.

Azaylia is careful in her clapping, polite yet enthused while careful not to drop her paper-wrapped parcel or her cider. Dark eyes flick over to the Lord Holder, startled expression easing into pleasant surprise, "Lord Devaki, hello. I'm hoping to congratulate Issedi myself, but I'm happy to extend it to you..." It's almost melodic, "What with ''another'' baby the way." She's not glowing nearly as much as the birthday girl, but there's a genuine delight offered. It's only now that his words seem to sink in, and her face tightens with obvious curiosity, "Good things, I hope?" She doesn't seem to expect anything else.

Speaking of mingling, a Fortian rider (dressed to suit the locals) has poked his nose onto a ship or two, played at making cider, and let himself be 'impaled' by a
few particularly fiendish pirates who don't come up to his waist; it's all in a day's work. Now N'rov escorts a well-clad dame off that dance floor and delivers her
to her equally white-haired husband, closing with a bow and a little more small talk before sauntering around the edge of the dance floor for... something. Might be he'll know it when he sees it, might be he's just taking his time.

"Why, of ''course'' Weyrwoman." Devaki's expression is completely guileless and believable -- he's had plenty of practice, after all. The smile that follows brightens at her words: "Ah, well. My lady wife is doing all the work, so--" he gestures towards the guest of honor, Issedi not yet having noticed the Reachian arrival. He does look like he might fall into step with her, if she moves, though, a pause given before he answers the latter: "But of course." He manages to sound convincing despite the known animosity between himself and the Weyrleader -- gaze flickers towards the harper as speaks, but with her attention on her apprentices, doesn't linger.

Bubbly in hand, Suireh starts to walk the party, keeping close to the walls and squaring around the edges of that dance floor. In between there and here, she may
have managed to pluck a few appetizers off the banquet tables and now has two little toothpicks twirling idly in one hand. That she comes to stand by the Fortian visitor
at the edge is a coincidence. Or not? But she stands there, silent, going up and down on from the soles of her feet up onto tiptoes and back down. Again and again. She might even be humming along with the music.

The visitor whose attention ''had'' been wandering towards Lord and Weyrwoman, to the extent they might be visible at this angle (or maybe it's the table with all those drinks?). Now N'rov drawls with a glance down at the dark harper-head, "The smiths would ''love'' you." He can do it too, that up and down, if only once to illustrate.

Even in her optimism, Azaylia is relieved by Devaki's answer, "Good, I'm glad." His gesture earns a soft nod, resuming those purposeful strides toward Issedi and her
entourage. "I managed to catch a tour of the ship-- Maddy? I haven't been on many, but it seemed well crafted." A compliment that is meant well, even if she's far from
an expert on boats. Her attention is stolen from the Holder as she nears Issedi, dissolving into ''girl'' sounds, however lady-like and far more appropriate, given the company. "Happy turnday, Lady Issedi." Respectful, there's also a playful note at the formality as she offers the delicate gold parcel. Whenever Issedi decides to
bask in her gifts, the contents are revealed as a set of glass hair pins, an intricate hair brush, and rolls of fabric in the Lady's favorite colors. She won't be pregnant forever, which will call for new dresses.

"Hmmm?" Suireh's response is all sound and nothing understood as words. She looks towards the Lord Holder and Weyrwoman, pale eyes fixated onto them. If she were
closer it'd be considered staring and rude, but since she's so far, they might not even notice. And then that gaze is drifting, sidelong for just a half second before seeking out faces in the crowd.

"She is quite an achievement." The ship, presumably, Devaki's voice lilting briefly with amusement and pride both. "The seacrafters are very proud. Apparently there's
some new material on the mainsail they're trying out -- it's all very complex." And he doesn't intend to bore her with it, especially since he slows as they arrive at where his wife is seated. "Oh! Weyrwoman Azaylia, it's so kind of you to come!" Issedi is both effusive and delighted at the sight of the Reachian goldrider, rising to take the offered parcel before daring an embrace. "You -- know the Lady Daroda?" Of Igen, though that's unvoiced. "She's been so good to me." Daroda murmurs a greeting, while Devaki, it seems, uses the opportunity to ease away and seek a replacement drink for himself.

"Attached to a piston," N'rov continues charitably, without even waving his hand in front of that harper's nose. But, as long as she's looking off into the distance, he'll reach casually for her glass.

"What do you think they talk about? Lord Holders and Ladies? Weyrwoman and Weyrleaders?" Suireh ventures, holding on a second too long and tightly for the
glass to be just easily plucked away. And then it's not the crowd she's looking at, but again up at the dais and Daroda. Those pale eyes gleam and suddenly her lips aren't so chatty anymore. Her drink is also far more easily taken away. "Hmm."

Though Azaylia actually does seem interested in what went into making such a fine ship, her Lady-friend has all of her attention in an instant. "Wouldn't miss it for the world. Especially not when your husband has put together such a fine celebration." Her embrace is warm, if careful, pulling away to get a better look at Issedi. "And I have to check up on you-- make sure you're looking as lovely as ever." And pregnant. Goodness. "Lady Daroda," There's no shift in expression, dipping her brow, "A pleasure. I'm so glad Issedi has you. I don't get to visit as much as I'd like. Have you been enjoying yourself?" The question is for both, bringing the cider to her lips.

A decidedly loud and talkative group of teenage girls moves through the throng of party-goers, clinging to their herd-status like breaking loose would be the worst thing to do. More than a few have tiny banners bearing High Reaches Hold's color, though whether they're homemade remains to be seen. They're dressed for practicality rather than style - even ''if'' there's that one girl who wears a floor-length dress under her winter coat (what a loser) - and seem completely content to babble their way through the festivities. Near the back of the all-girl pack, Farideh's speaking amiably, laughing, with another woman, their arms linked in friendly fashion. She's got a knit cap on, her usual over-sized coat, and some fuzzy gloves; she's ''prepared'' for all that snow. Rather suddenly, a tall man standing in a collection of three steals her attention, and she begs leave of her ''friend'', waving with the hand not holding her cider. Except, when the other girls have moved on, she speed-walks behind the men, to peer warily towards Lady Issedi and her attendants, particularly at a certain former Lady of Igen.

Daroda cants her head to one side, glancing up at the Lady seated near her, and then back to the Weyrwoman. Carefully, her voice tempered and controlled, the former Igen Lady says, "Well enough, Weyrwoman. High Reaches Hold's hospitality is incomparable." Her smile is thin, though decidedly warmer when she looks up at the pregnant Issedi.

"If they're mine, they talk about their little ones," N'rov supposes. "Or, so I hear," his easy, subtly confidential tone suggesting that it might be otherwise elsewhere, might even be otherwise ''there''. He'll take the glass, patient as he's been, and sample from it. Musingly, "So many Ladies."

Issedi's beaming, her hand deliberately smoothing down over her stomach, the bump there not pronounced but certainly visible. While Azaylia greets the ex Lady of Igen, she opens the parcel, and gasps in delight, examining the contents and gushing, "This is too much, really...!" but she seems more than pleased with the present. She opens her mouth, and with a slight flush, glances at Daroda to let her answer. "Oh, it's the least we can do for you. You've been an amazing help," the Lady Reaches replies, beaming.

Amidst the crowds, Rilka is an obviously odd one out; no coat, no 'proper' shoes, her hair left free to tangle and twist in the wind. She seems to float rather than walk, paying attention to nothing-- and yet staring through ''everything''. More than one person moves hastily aside as she passes; it's creepy. ''She's'' creepy.

"They breed like rabbits," opines the harper, reaching for her glass back now that he's had a sip. "Are you here as someone's guest, or just heard of the celebration?" Suireh resumes her up down movements, nervous agitation or just the inability to see over certain heads as they pass by, it could be either. What she ''wants'' to say and what she ''chooses'' to say are two entirely different things, the former causing her to catch sight of a pair of green eyes from across the room and a curt little nod that apparently means something for the music changes after the next two to something slow. The latter is what N'rov gets to hear in a mild confession, "My feet are killing me after standing up there most of the night, but what holders pay for, Holders get, no?"

Daroda reaches to place a hand on Issedi's knee, patting it gently with all the maternal affection of one bereft of such gestures otherwise. "It was my pleasure, love."

Devaki, glass now in hand, steps over to talk in low tones with an older man, the pair in conversation for a few minutes. His gaze does flicker, as if drawn, towards Rilka whenever she catches his eye. His red-headed guard Captain is never that far away, though well practiced at being mostly unobtrusive at events like this, though his smirking, sometimes ''leering'' looks at some of the women as they pass him is perhaps unsettling. That girl, Farideh, keeps his leering gaze for moments, too.

Quinlys is not much of a 'lady' (let alone 'Lady'), but that's no cause not to enjoy the celebrations; she's dressed for the weather, a woolly hat just barely restraining her curls, and given the pinkness of her cheeks? She's been enjoying herself. Now, striding out of one of the tents, she seems intent on enjoying herself some more, preferably in the form of another beverage; "Cheers!" she calls, as she approaches, delightedly merry.

"I wouldn't expect anything less, with Issedi as Lady." From a more savvy person, rider or holder, the excess in praise would seem saccharine. It still might to some, even if Azaylia means every word of it. "You are also welcome to visit High Reaches Weyr, should you have any desire to." An easy invitation, Holder sensibilities kept in mind. "We're expecting a clutch, soon." When the turnday gift is so well received, "I have a few Weavers to recommend, when you decide what you'd like to do with the fabric. Though I admit, over the years I've spent most of my marks into the Smithcraft." Hence the pins and brush.

"Third-hand guest, and I got abandoned for a redhead," glass-less N'rov says with amused, even cheerful resignation; his glance lingers on ''a'' redhead as the man walks some distance away, but surely ''Raum'' can't be the one. "Did they pay for your entire night?" he asks of Suireh, and then waits a well-timed beat before adding, "Or are you allowed to sit down. Would they be so cruel?"

Issedi's beaming smile for Daroda is sweetly genuine and affectionate, at the same time. Carefully wrapping the present back up, she hands it off to one of her attendants to spirit it away to safety. "Oh!" Issedi's eyes go wide at the invitation from Azaylia to attend the Weyr. "Yes, Dev did mention you've a new junior... Irianke? He seemed impressed with her." She chews her lower lip, hand again pressing her stomach. "I-- it ''would'' be nice to see the Weyr again, spend time with you. Perhaps once I reach my third trimester, things will settle down. You'd come, wouldn't you?" her beseeching eyes rest on Daroda.

Stealth-walking, which really resembles an uncanny duck waddle, Farideh wends her way along the edge of the crowd, trying to circumvent the area that the ladies are
sitting in. It's in this endeavor that her eyes swinging wide, taking in the people closest, and her startled eyes meet Raum's. Her brow lowers, displeased, before her eyes move away and she hurries towards the next group that she can hide behind. Unfortunately - fortunately? - she bumps into a different redhead, one that she ''knows''. "Oh. Oh-- sorry."

Quinlys, the ''superior'' redhead, lets out an ungraceful squealing sound as she's bumped into; luckily, she's not yet taken ownership of another drink! A few steps backward are required to regain her steadiness - which just goes to show how much she's had to drink - and then she's peering at Farideh, first with confusion, and then, enlightenment. "Careful!" It's a trilling sound; she's amused, more than anything.

Suireh takes a sip and generously offers it back to N'rov. They can be nauseatingly friendly and share a glass, right? "I'm allowed. Will have to go back in a short while. I'm sure the Hold Steward is counting the minutes I'm not up there singing my heart out for all their guests. Maybe that one there too," she says of ''that'' red-head, the one her conversational partner is glancing at. "He looks like he should belong to Lord Cendon more than Lord Devaki."

At this rate, there might need to be a walk-off. Raum's ''looking'' over at Quinlys, attracted perhaps by Farideh's glare and following the girl's path, ''this'' red-head smirks at the ''other''. Of course, it distracts him from his Lord, who is setting an easy path around the edge of the dance floor, now.

Rilka's head lifts so that she can catch Devaki's gaze through the crowd, just for a moment. She frowns; she adjust her path, too, wending her way through the guests and closer, closer, ''closer'' to the group of dignitaries, her peculiar garb and appearance all the more obvious by comparison.

Brows lift in mild surprise at mention of her new junior, "Irianke, yes. She's a new transfer from Igen. I'm glad she left such a good impression on the Lord Holder." Azaylia does seem pleased, if thoughtful, "I wouldn't expect anything less from her, honestly." Her eyes slide over to Daroda, expression gentle and curious as to her answer. "If you'd like to ride dragonback," Now she seems to tease a bit, "I can promise to have only the most graceful pair send for you." A soft wave of her hand, "Whatever you decide." No pressure.

As long as neither of them have a cold to share, to make that nauseating literal. N'rov duly sips, and then again; "I don't doubt it," he says of both, the undertones of his voice more somber than before. "Do you know... that one?" The inclination of the glass, just before he returns it, denotes she whose garb is not like the others. The spooky one.

"Sorry. I wasn't watching where I was going. I didn't mean to. Honest." Farideh's cheeks are flushed, and she looks genuinely concerned that she's bumped into the bluerider. She reaches up, as if to grab hold of a scarf, but frowns when her fingers fumble at the air. "Have you-- been here--" Her words come to an abrupt stop, verdigris eyes slanting towards the ''other'' redhead. "Who-- is that?" she asks quietly, frowning at Raum.

Edyis slipped in between dances, sticking near the drinks where it's safe, or at least moderately safe, making her way in the direction of familiar faces.

Issedi's gasping, briefly, at Azaylia's suggestion she go dragonback, hands fluttering up to her mouth. "Oh, no! We'd go by carriage, as long as the snow stops long enough. I couldn't," she pats her stomach. "Even if they say it's ''safe'', I could never take the risk." She leans forward, gaze somewhat apologetic, begging for understanding from the Weyrwoman. "But I would so ''love'' to come again. I'm sure Dev wouldn't mind."

Unaware, perhaps, of Rilka's path, Devaki circles back towards the group of ladies, parting with the older man. "Mind what?" comes his easy question, slipping in next to Issedi, a hand sliding comfortably around her waist and looking curiously at Azaylia.

"He's a rescue." Suireh chooses her words carefully, deferring from using the more popular term of ''exile''. "Don't catch his eye, he'll steal your soul with them." There is a thread of seriousness in that tease of hers. "It's an eclectic gathering." All these Bloods. All these people. Everyone from small to big. "I always wondered why high born folk thought their birthday was worth the expense of... all this." Not taken by the society she entertains, the young harper's words are nonetheless low, for N'rov only. No need to insult the hand that feeds you so loudly.

"It's fine," Quinlys is quick to reassure Farideh, her smiles for the girl (and not - very much ''not'' - for Raum). Indeed, it's not until the other redhead is pointed out to her that she turns to glance in his direction, her smirk answering his... and dismissing him, all at once. "Devaki's faithful goon," she announces, brightly. "And bad news, I'm told. I've seen him around. Stay away. Or stick with me, if you'd like."

Speaking of bad news, Raum is definitely heading towards Quinlys and Farideh, because... well, her ''smirk'' is far too similar to his to ignore, really. "Ladies," he says, with a leering look up and down both of them that is... both assessive, interested, and ''creepy'' all at once.

Rilka's approach to her Lord - and her Lady - is briefly interrupted by people less inclined to move out of her way; to an outsider, she certainly doesn't look like anyone who ''ought'' to be here. A few people glare at her; she's apparently undaunted, sidling up alongside Devaki a few moments later.

"Faithful goon," Farideh repeats quietly. It's like she called him into being by repeating that statement, because the next moment he's ''there'' and giving them that leer. She looks vaguely perturbed, taking a safety step to the side, putting Quinlys between herself and Raum. "Hello," but it sounds ''dismayed'' and ''unsure'' all at the same time, with a bit of ''politeness''. Her gaze flicks to Quinlys, obviously expecting the older woman to have words to make the man be on his way.

"'Rescue.'" N'rov tastes it in lieu of the bubbly, his baritone rasping at the sibilant. He may track Raum as he heads for that pair of women (another redhead!). "The folk seems to like it; as a boy," could that have been so very long ago? "I never thought twice about whose name was on it. Perhaps others don't either; excluding our hosts and their guests, of course. And that one? The woman." Rilka.

"I'm mostly teasing." Azaylia admits, eyes crinkling closed at her wide smile, "As lovely as I think you'd look on a handsome blue, a fine carriage suits you best." There are no hard feelings, of course, hoping to reassure the Lady before her husband's arrival. Devaki's return has her still hiding behind her drink, unable to school that impish mile, "Visiting High Reaches Weyr, once Issedi is able to travel." As if it might sweeten the offer, "It's Irianke's Niavhth we're expecting to take to the Sands, next."

"We're not interesting," is Quinlys' answer to Raum, resolute and more than a little protective of her younger companion; as Farideh steps to the side, the bluerider steps up, all the more determined in her barrier. "Wait. ''Interested''. That one. We're not. You should move on-- go back to your master. Good day."

Unfortunately she doesn't beat Raum to where Farideh and Quinlys are, but she does give him the fullest measure of a disapproving look from over the rim of her glass. Presumably as Quinlys sends him off. "Farideh, Quinlys!" she greets cheerily keeping Raum just... licks his lips, presumably by way of answer to Quinlys. Then he ''grins'', as if challenging her.

Devaki seems to take Rilka's presence in stride, with a fond smile for his fellow islander, blue eyes lingering on her for a moment before he's drawn back into the conversation. Issedi's, perhaps, ''less'' fond, giving the barefoot woman an uncomfortable look that falters across her expression for a moment, before she says:
"Yes, and we do so love to attend those clothes." The Lord gives a little ''mm'', perhaps of agreement. "If you're feeling better, I don't see how we could possibly pass up the Weyrwoman's offer. Perhaps the Lady Daroda and her husband would come, as well?" his gaze goes to the former lady Igen.

It happens almost too quickly to notice. A non-descript dark-haired man saunters up to the group of Lord Devaki, Ladies Issedi and Daroda, and Weyrwoman Azaylia. He
looks, for a moment, like he's going to walk past, then pauses, stops abruptly, and moves towards them with suddenly hurried steps.

His, "'''DEATH TO THE EXILE!'''" carries in the space between harper beats, as a knife gleams briefly in the light.

"I remember family and my father on our birthdays. My turnday," Suireh amends quickly. "I don't remember the entire Weyr coming out to celebrate the fact I turned ten." Hold up, look there. Raum licking his lips is likely visible from space for sheer creep factor alone. "Hmmm?" The blue eyes tear from the show down between redheads to where Rilka is, and she's just about to answer when, "'''''SHIT'''''." It's an expletive that's expelled with an immense amount of force, and the harper is moving, a hand on N'rov's to pull him along with her. Away? Or to? To, it would seem.

It's as though it's what Rilka has been waiting for; as though that's why she was here, all creepy eyes and vagaries. In the instant that knife is bared, she throws herself into the mix, not to push Devaki away - though surely she could have done? - but, instead, to push Issedi into the path of that knife's sure arc.

Issedi seems more surprised by the movement than anything -- uncomfortable with the exile, but not ''startled'' by the movement -- but now she freezes, a sharp gasp preceding a sudden flush of color to her normal pale pallor. It is color that very quickly drains away, her hand at her stomach moving, moving, ''lifting'', ''bloodied'', from here that knife has slid in. "D-ev," she gasps out, collapsing seconds later.

Devaki stops -- stares -- ''frozen'' for a bit, then launches himself towards Issedi, practically pushing Rilka out of the way as if she were forgotten.

Everything Quinlys says, Farideh nods her head along to - preach it, sister! "Oh, oh no," the laundress squeaks, pressing tightly-clenched fingers against her mouth. In the same instant, there's a commotion amongst the ladies and assembled Blood. Her eyes pull, almost unwantedly, towards the cause of the stir in the crowd, but she's too short and people are moving far too much to get any kind of ''good'' view. "What's-- what's happening?" she asks Quinlys, leaning forward, fingers latching onto the bluerider's arm.

Daroda is instantly at Issedi's side, the confusion apparent in the woman's face when the realization that Rilka somehow got in between the pair. "Issie? Issie? ''What did you '''do'''?!''" Accusative eyes find Rilka instead of the knife bearer.

"I'd love for ''all'' of you to attend," Azaylia's train of thought is interrupted by Rilka-- startled by the lack of dress, unnerved by the islander herself. "Hello." Polite and sweet, it's drowned out by ''the'' man. She can't recall when he's appeared, and it's the ''sound'' of his bellow that sends her hear straight up into her throat. The Weyrwoman is frozen, drink falling to her feet only after crimson stains Issedi's hands. "Issedi!" The cry is echoed from outside, Hraedhyth's roar heard well over the clamor as Azaylia suddenly reaches for the man's wrist. It isn't smart, it's far from ladylike, but the goldrider intends to twist the knife-arm behind his back. Trembling, hands uncertain, she has to ''try''.

The knife might not have hit its intended mark, but the man doesn't stick around to try again -- he's quick to dart out of the way of the Weyrwoman's grab -- and he's off pushing through the crowd, ducking and weaving for the exit, trying to keep his head down and move with speed through a crowd that's suddenly full of screaming, as people seem to notice what's just happened.

There's certainly a lot more Quinlys might have to say to Raum - none of it good - but the commotion from ''over there'' forestalls it all. "What?" she says, turning away from Raum to look, barely registering Edyis' arrival, though it's with an arm for both of the younger woman that she says, "Let's go find out. Stay close. Keep out of the way if you can. ''Fuck.''"

Dragon> To local dragons, Olveraeth projects << What's going on? >> It's more active than his wont; he pushes into the space between, urgency captured within each star. << What can we do? >>

Why is it that either she draws conflict, or it draws her enough times? Alida is moving through the crowds thronging the Hold - a cup of some kind of gather wine in her grasp, being sipped at - when that shout is heard. Whether for good or ill, her training snaps into the fore without rational thought, the cup in her hand dropped even as her tough body is jostling, darting through the crowd towards the sound of that dangerous call. It's not a few seconds later that her wide-eyed, chilly self is
shoving through the last barrier, and breaking into the small gathering of Ladies, goldrider, Lord... looking all around for the assailant as she pauses on the edge of
action. Assessing for the one who...has stabbed Issedi. Blood tells, as do actions. The moving one...the running one. Like a gazelle, the pale-blonde's on his ass like a fly on shit, darting after the man while bellowing, "OUT OF THE WAY!"

The music has abruptly stopped and the three apprentices who were scattered to the winds converge only to be sharply sent to the exits by sharp words from the journeyman on the dais. "Go. Have them shut the gates."

Rilka falls. Indeed, she goes entirely boneless, her slender, fragile form gone from standing to a puddle of limbs in the space of a moment, quite as if her single action has left her, now, with nothing. Nothing, except-- "The sea. The ''sea''. The '''''sea'''''."

Dragon> Those festive dancing drums are replaced by a violent roar, a declaration of ''war''. << FIND HIM. >> Hraedhyth commands, already launching herself into the air to sweep over the Hold. << YOURS. HUNT. >> Even if her words are far from eloquent, the meaning will be ''felt'' throughout: Catch him. Bring him to justice. By air or on land. (To local dragons from Hraedhyth)

Disbelief, pure and simple. It's a moment, as Edyis notices the person moving -away- from the commotion, purposefully moving in attempt to cut off his exit, rolling up the sleeves to her dress as she does so. Alida seems to have gotten the right idea, and the brunette is fair close on the former guard's heels. "Shit."

Raum's '''SHIT''', is about the most heartfelt he's ever been. He bolts, not for the knife-wielder, but for his Lord.

'To' it is. N'rov swears in his own right as he moves forward, aiming to clear a path for the both of them (not, it must be said, to push ''Suireh'' onto that knife or another). But it isn't easy; there is that crowd, and there's all that screaming, even as the play's enacted atop that dais. (Is some harper, somewhere, already taking notes?) ''Onward.'' Then there's that blonde cutting past, the other way.

Dragon> Fired to instant action as is his lifemate, Ilicaeth growls from the Heights as he launches into the air above the Hold, << We HUNT! >> Snarl! (To local dragons from Ilicaeth)

"Oh, someone throw that fucking lunatic in the sea," says Daroda, her eyes daggers as she tries to keep her hands back from cradling Devaki's lady.

Issedi's on the ground, the crowd pressing in around her to see, the curious and concerned both. There's a wailing noise rising from that direction, while one of the other ladies is screaming, "'''WHERE ARE THE HEALERS?!'''"

High Reaches Hold must not have as good of healers as the Weyr. Someone even makes some sort of jab about the Lord Holder's proclivities and why ''his'' Master Healer mistress is not around. Someone might lose their head later.

There's no dissent from Farideh, only a single nod to convey that she's ''heard'' and ''understood''. She's not the bravest girl on all of Pern, but she'll follow in the bluerider's footsteps, the other redhead and his leers forgotten in face of the chaos. "What's-- can it be ''that'' bad?" she asks, breathlessly; even as she says it, snippets of conversation are flowing around her and she can't help but pale.

It's not quite a shriek of fury, a savage sound of frustration leaving Azaylia as he ''gets away''. Hands curling, she reaches up into her hair, clearly panicked as her eyes slide from Issedi and Devaki, to Daroda, and then-- ''Rilka''. She moves to the collapsed islander, fingers rough as she grasps those clothes, looking up to find a guard-- any guard. When Raum approaches, "She pushed her." Breathless, trembling, "I saw her. ''We'' saw her." Oh, ''Issedi''.

There's a darted look over his shoulders, the knife-wielder's face a set of determination. The doors he was bolting for slam shut ahead of him, and he has to change tact, quickly, nearly bowling over a group of women as he seeks to push past them. He doesn't see that his path is going to intersect with Alida and Edyis' charging one, though.

Quinlys, having decided to draw in closer, seems abruptly to change her mind; "I think the Lady's been attacked," she reports, coming to another halt. "Fuck. No, we need to stay out of the way. They're looking for the--" She glances around, registering only belatedly the frantic chase going on. "We're going to stay out of he way. It'll be okay, Farideh. Don't worry. Let's... stay over here."

Dragon> Vhaeryth's rumble is low, equivocal, from the distance; long wingbeats take him closer to Hold and rider, that if nothing else for certain. (To local dragons from Vhaeryth)

Raum arrives, the crowd around the dais parting way for him. All is fine. Nevermind his Lady has been stabbed. His pale eyes rest on Azaylia for a moment, mouth tightening, before it flickers across Issedi, and his Lord. "C'mon," he reaches a hand for Rilka's arm with the intent of helping her up -- ''hoisting'' her, if he has to. It's not really the gesture of someone treating a dangerous criminal, though.

Grateful for the assistance, Suireh stumbles through the crowd to get to the center of it all. And then what does she do there? Pale of face, she looks at the scene and the bleeding out woman. "You go get the healer," she immediately orders the screamer, "Or you, or you. One of you must know where the healers live. Go, now." For all she's not shouting, her trained voice is dangerous and low. The hand in N'rov's tightens, knuckles whitening as if she needs that touch to keep standing. Someone runs off, for the healer presumably. "Lady Daroda, step back, this is not your place. Go find your husband and stay in your rooms until I speak with you next." Bossy Suireh. "Lord Devaki," for the Lord, she has nothing but silence. "N'rov," she opts for instead, drawing back a step to release that hand, "Could you go to Fort and inform the Masterhealer her presence may be required? Without," she adds a hand reaching up, "Letting it be known what has happened her yet?"

"Attacked?" is high-pitched, nigh hysterical. "No. No no." Farideh takes a couple of steps backwards, staring unseeingly where the ladies ''should'' be, but instead there's a swelling crowd of onlookers. "''Is'' it, safe? What if-- what if she's--" Shaky fingers come up to cover half her face, eyes widened and glistening with unshed tears. Now would ''not'' be the time to fall apart Farideh, kthnx.

Not only is Ilicaeth (and his shadow) swirling just above the gather area, being eyes and ears and nose for Alida's quarry, but also a tiny golden firelizard, who's much faster and more maneuverable than anyone here. Pyrite blips into the air above her mistress and soon whizzes off - her eyes roiling yellow and orange - trying to find a running male human with a knife. Not terribly difficult, really, even in a crowd of humans. Only one is trying to actively escape, isn't worried looking or screaming in fear.

Rilka is largely oblivious to everything else going around her; oblivious to Daroda, to Issedi's pains, to ''everything''-- until, at least, Raum's hand is there to help her up again. She's shaking, those thin shoulders wracked with not-actually-sobs; and for a moment it may look as though she's like to throw herself into the dubious comfort of his arms. She does not (phew). Instead, hoisted up, back on her own feet, she begins to wander away, humming under her breath as she goes.

Edyis catches up with Alida, matching her pace stride for stride, dark eyes fixed on their mutual target. "With you." She calls to Alida, letting the blonde know she has
friendly backup. Pulling out a last burst of speed she reaches after the man, aiming to trip him up or at least halt his progress. "You aren't getting away asshole." She hisses through her teeth.

Issedi is... panting, eyes glassy, unaware perhaps of the clasp of Devaki's hand over hers, or the way he cradles her, head bent towards her. The Lord notices neither Raum, nor Bossy Suireh, nor the healers, when they ''finally'' arrive at a dead run, seeking to -- firmly and insistently -- part the Lord from his Lady so they can get to work.

Quinlys stops, turning to grab Farideh by the shoulders and hold her there, gaze firm. "Deep breaths," she advises. "It's fine. They'll have the best possible healers, and everything will be ''fine''. Come on, let's get you a drink." Shock has clearly done a lot to remove the impact of the alcohol she's consumed until this point; she's quite calm. "There's nothing we can do to help but stay out of the way. Okay? Let's let them have some space. The healers will fix it. ''Breathe''."

A last minute switch of paths lets the knife-wielder avoid a collision with a bulky pair of riders, but unfortunately for him, Edyis' well-placed foot stumbles him, sprawling to the ground for a moment. He glances over, sees her, and Alida beyond her, and hastily scrambles to his feet in an attempt to evade them.

Raum mutters something to Rilka. It sounds suspiciously like, ''Good job'', but his voice is too low to carry that far, as he escorts her a few steps away. One of his guards follows a pace behind the exile after a nod from the red head, before he returns to the dais, watching the crowd nearby, and further on -- eyes drawn by the movement near Edyis and Alida.

Suireh's approach is met with an uncharacteristically sharp glare, Azaylia far from welcoming until the dark haired harper is recognized. Turning back to Issedi, the Weyrwoman, perhaps foolishly, leaves Rilka in Raum's care. She's there by Devaki's side when he's forced to give the healer's room, hand finding his shoulder, "They'll
help her." Quiet, but firm, she truly believes it. "We've got dragons and riders looking for... looking. If he gets out." She tries to read the man, not intending to smother but unable to help the need to comfort the inconsolable.

The harper apprentices have secured the exits they know of. Are there ones they don't know of? The other harpers begin to fan through the crowds, their watchful
eyes noting and cataloguing everything they see. Some of them are better than others and Suireh, at the top of the dais, takes her own notes from up there.

Devaki is visibly in shock, arms hanging slackly by his side, and it's hard to tell whether Azaylia's hand, or even her words penetrate, staring at his wife as the healers surround her. The noises they are making are not hopeful.

If Rilka hears Raum, she gives him no acknowledgement. Crowds part for her, aware of the blood staining her skirt, and the wild look in her eyes. She makes her way away from the hold and off towards the shoreline; the sea calls to her, plainly.

The knife-wielder isn't the only one trying to escape. A group of anxious, panicky holders are pounding at the main exit, ''demanding'' to be let out ''now''.

N'rov's nod is quick, sharp, and gray eyes glitter as he ''memorizes'' the scene as he's been trained; then he's leaping off the platform and headed through the crowd.
With the main gates closed, he changes course, hunting out a side portal if he can find it; if it's guarded by a harper apprentice, so much the better for getting by. If one isn't readily apparent, though, the gates it will have to be. Or, no: Rilka has a path. He can seek to follow it, bloody or not.

Quinlys grip on her shoulders snaps Farideh's eyes to hers, and it's ''somewhat'' calming, if not completely. "I don't think I should be-- drinking. What if-- what if--" There she goes again, but this time, she takes control, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath that only goes so far as to keep her from shedding those burgeoning tears. "We shouldn't help? We should--" Her eyes lift to the nearest drink stall, and her forehead furrows with great thought. "Okay."

While her 'companion' isn't Guard/professional, at least Edyis has a decent set of training from being under her sensei's tutelage. There's a hard, quick glance at the
not-Scribe, then an incisive little nod, the 'student perhaps seeing the bluerider truly in her home element for the first time. And then they're face to face, near-literally, with the quarry, and - with Ed's foot having done the 'slowing move,' Alida charges in as the second lioness to perform the coup-de-grace: not a crushed throat, but a flying tackle that puts all her momentum, weight, and training behind it to overbear the man trying to rise again. Is that a flash of steel, as well, somewhere upon the bluerider? Above the little knot of violence, Ilicaeth roars - red-eyed and circling - while Pyrite shrieks and hovers near the culprit and her own mistress...talons unsheathed, teeth clicking the air menacingly.

"Weyrwoman," Suireh watches N'rov go, only now remember the bubbly glass that's probably shattered somewhere out there. Tearing her eyes away from the departing
dragonrider, she turns to seek out Azaylia. "If I might have a word, a favor. Would your Weyrleader and you leave a wing here to watch and transport as needed for the next few days? Unless," pale eyes slide to take in Devaki and the state he's in, "The Lord orders you to leave." Eventually. When he's in a thinking state.

Devaki mutters something. It sounds a lot like a toneless, "It's my fault," though it probably doesn't carry much beyond Azaylia and Suireh.

It doesn't seem like the Lord's giving orders right now.

More gently, "What can we do, Farideh? We'd only get in the way." Quinlys looks, for a moment, like she's about to throw her arms around the younger woman... but she stops herself, and instead, draws the girl with her as she heads for the stall. The cider's not super alcoholic, but it's warm; as she hands Farideh a mug, the bluerider says, "It'll be fine. If there's anything we can do to help anyone, we'll do it. Until then, we just need to stay out of the way. I'll get you home as soon as we can leave, okay? Everything's ''fine''."

Edyis isn't resting anytime soon, moving after Alida's tackle, though also being careful to stay the hell out of the blonde's way, ready to attempt to slow the man down again if he manages to escape it.

There's always a path to the water-- particularly when it's an isolated stretch of beach and not an obvious means of ''escape''. Rilka doesn't notice N'rov; at least it means there's no one to stop him.

Daroda, having departed with baleful eyes, still leaves her fingerprints all over the scene as one of her ladies approaches Devaki with a fur coat and a glass of something or other. When shock wears off, rooms suddenly get colder. "Sir," the young girl says hesitantly, "I ah..." But what do you say in situations like this to a man who outranks you five times over. Go to your room? Go sit? Go lie down?

While the knife-wielder is quick, slowed as he is getting back to his feet, there's no way for him to avoid Alida's charge, and he goes down with a grunt of surprise and paint under the weight of the bluerider. He apparently has no second weapon to reach for, but he's squirming, ''fighting'' her for control, trying to strike with a sharp elbow.

At least when the bronze dragon descends, dark-winged, it's not to give the sea-woman the slightly less obvious means of escape. Vhaeryth's only here for his rider, and thence to Healer Hall.

That guard that follows Rilka gives N'rov a narrow-eyed look, but his orders are clear: follow the girl.

Azaylia stands with Devaki, although her watery gaze is on his face rather than watching the healers. "Yes..?" It's a slow drift from the Lord to Suireh, before she snaps back to ''now''. "Yes?" She turns, reluctant to leave the numb man alone. The favor in question is met with a sharp nod, "I was thinking the same." Or she would've, eventually. Suireh has a much clearer head, right now. "Of course." Devaki's murmur has her spinning, snapping, "It is ''not''." As the lady approaches with that coat, she's quiet once more, until the woman falters, "At least sit down, Devaki." Please.

Rilka walks straight into the sea. Not to drown herself; just to stand there, waist-deep, her eyes closed and arms held out. It's... an offering. A ritual? ''Something''.

"We can-- we can--" But words won't ''come'', and she's too out of sorts to force them into being. It's a tremulous smile that she offers to Quinlys, accepting the mug of cider with those still-shaky hands. "It feels-- wrong. We are standing here with-- with drinks, and she might be--" Farideh's lower lips wobbles and she hurriedly looks down into her cup. "How can we ''just'' stand here?" she asks quietly, raising her watery gaze to the bluerider.

Dragon> To Cadejoth, Hraedhyth reaches out, her drums beyond aggitated-- ''angry''. Outraged. << The Lady is wounded. >> Her dark smoke carries the message faster than her words could, second-hand images snatched from her rider. Issedi being pushed, the blade, the culprit. Blood. << Mine wishes to have ours here to help protect The Lady's tribe. >> Yet it is K'del who would know which Wing would be best, should he agree.

The Lord shakes off the offer of a coat, though the wine, he ''does'' take, after a blank moment of staring at the girl. Devaki takes a gulp, two, and, as bid by the Weyrwoman, sinks into a seat, head bowed.

Sadly for the knife-wielder...Alida knows all the tricks - has practiced them herself often enough, too - and when the assailant squirms, tries to use his body as a weapon, there's a bob of her upper torso to the side to dodge that elbow, then a knee that's planted brutally in the center of his back if her training serves her right. A knife-pommel - almost as brutal - hopefully finds the small nerve cluster at the base of his skull, and punches down in a move designed to render him near-instantly unconscious without killing him, while that knee seeks to arch him backwards toward her. The bluerider looks a bit like a barely-restrained lunatic, at this point, her eyes hot and intense, her motions predatory, her mouth twisted into a faint and strange little grimace-grin. So low that perhaps only Edyis might hear her, "C'mon muthafucker... keep squirmin'."

The crowd of healers around the Lady Reaches eases back. It's subtle, but noticed immediately by those near. A murmur rises from the dais.

"''The Lady is dead.''" It's repeated, and rises in a noise throughout the great hall.

The adept movements of the bluerider renders the man quickly unconscious. Maybe he'd have a come back, otherwise. Moments later, several of the Hold's guards appear, circling the group of assailant, rider and resident.

Well, now, ''murderer'', rider and resident.

Dragon> In a rush, those flames consume her earlier words. Not wounded. Not ''wounded''. There's an echo of a keen that is not her own, the scent of funeral flowers carried by those smokey plumes, << Dead. >> The Lady is dead. (To Cadejoth from Hraedhyth)

Dragon> No. No, no, no, ''no''. Cadejoth and his rider were there, earlier today; they're home again, now, and though the news has surely already begun to spread-- ''no''. Not the lady; not this. No. << We will send them, >> he promises, bones rattling and shaking. << Szadath's wing. They come. >> (To Hraedhyth from Cadejoth)

Quinlys', "I know," comes ''before'' that new murmur; before Olveraeth picks up the news from those closer; ''before''. "Oh-- oh ''fuck''," is what she says, then, eyes flickering open again and focusing immediately upon Farideh. "Fuck, no. Fuck, ''fuck''. Don't fall apart on me; we're-- we're fine. ''Fuck''." Maybe not so fine.

Edyis eyes the guards puffing a breath to clear the hair that has escaped. As the murmurs reach her ears fists clench, but mostly events are starting to sink in. "I need a drink." is murmured with frustration.

She's among the first to hear it, up there. Suireh's cheeks blanch and her eyes shut. "Damnit," is muttered low under her breath. It's when her eyes open again that
she's looking coolly at Azaylia. "Weyrwoman, I trust that you will make that happen." The end. "You," Suireh is suddenly turning looking, looking, ''looking'', and then finding Raum. "Take your Lord to his quarters. Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid." Not mincing words. "Watch him. A harper will be by when he's ready to ask for his statement." Assuming Raum will follow her orders, she then turns back to the healers and approaches them. Her words become far more quiet -- perhaps bringing them up to speed on what she's already set into motion with Tevara's eventual arrival.

Raum stares at Suireh, then at his Lord. He stays where he is, a step away from Devaki.

Another squeeze to the Lord's shoulder, grateful that he's at least sat down, Azaylia keeps to his side. Her eyes flick to those healers as they pull back, suddenly struck numb as the words reach her ears. "Issedi, no." It's a whimper, hand leaving Devaki to cover her lips as she suddenly steps back. Suireh's words are heard, and it's only after those eyes squeeze shut that the Weyrwoman can answer, "They're already on their way." Hraedhyth's drums are quicker than any Hold's, reaching for those dragon's nearby, echoing the murmurs of the crowd within: Dead dead dead. Her touch is forceful, a startled dam scruffing up those nearby to make certain that they are all ''there''. All ''safe''.

The other harpers, untrained in legal as most of them are, still have taken the required basics and have already started taking statements starting with the people closest to the dais and radiating out.

There's a noise from Devaki, but it's quiet. Kind of like a stifled, sharp breath in and out, so quick it could be missed. His head drops into his hands.

The healers disperse, all but one, carefully laying a blanket over the Lady Issedi and standing nearby, keeping anyone else from coming near.

The 'static' of Lady Issedi's death reaches her ears, mind, but not her gut...Alida too high on adrenaline to feel anything but the satisfaction that comes with an enemy's 'fall.' She remains kneeling on the man until she's certain he's out (achieved by brutally pinch-twisting the skin of one of his wrists, and achieving no reaction), then moves aside to roll him over...and study him head to toe...followed by the same skull-fucking given to those Hold guards ready to accept him into their 'embrace.' Standing slowly, though smoothly - only a hint of a tremble of hands seen for aforementioned adrenaline - the bluie's alto grunts flatly to Edyis, "Get one. *Don't* get drunk." Still circling overhead, Ilicaeth gives off a low sound - perhaps a little melancholy, maybe a bit satisfied - while Pyrite finally settles upon her human's shoulder, flexing her talons into padded riding jacket.

With a respectful nod towards the blueriding former guard, one of Raum's guards says, "We'll take him." And, grudgingly, perhaps, "Thanks," towards the pair of
them, before he reaches for the arms of the unconscious man. If his actions are a little bit rough, well... the man's unconscious, and doesn't react.

The "what if she's--" is correct, evidentially. "This--" a slurred word, when the murmur reaches them, when Farideh's eyes widen in shock and her body stiffens. Her
fingers release the mug and it falls to the ground, splattering its content all over both their feet; it would be the ''second'' time she's done that this turn at High Reaches Hold. "It can't--" She's shaking her head, slowly, from side-to-side, her face ''denying'' the truth, ''unaccepting'' what's been done. And her feet carry her backwards, one step, and then two. "I need to ''leave''. I need to-- Lady Daroda," in the moment, forgetting that that lady is no longer a ''Lady''.

Later, Quinlys will probably be dismayed at the state of her boots; now, no, she simply sets aside her own mug, hurrying to take a few steps closer to Farideh, who
is clearly not allowed to get away, now. "Let me take you home," she says, quickly, and for once, she's not talking about hanky-panky. "Come on. There's nothing we can do here, and... please."

Amongst the crowd, the Hold's guards are visible, but also too, the Hold's staff, stirred into movement by the adept steward, Kiatin. Wine is being circulated freely,
along with the indication that those who are asked by the guards or harpers to stay will be housed for the evening.

It's professional courtesy from both Hold guard and former, blueriding one that has Alida responding to the 'Reaches contingent, "Aye..." a bob of her braided, pale
head given as they haul off the murderer... or at least the hand that enacted such. Coming down from her high, the 'rider finds herself giving a small, slightly shuddering intake and exhale of breath, then shaking her head a couple of times. Transitioning back to 'civilian' mode is rather difficult, at times like these. Above them all, Ilicaeth rumbles reassurance back to his dam, letting Hraedhyth and other dragons feel the triumph that comes from his lifemate's successful capture.

Edyis notices the grudging part, actually she takes a moment to notice a lot of things. "Catching him after the fact, doesn't do any good." She comments perhaps a
bit sharply, but otherwise seems determined to make her way back to where the drinks are, and Farideh and Quinlys. "Can I catch a ride with you two back to the Weyr."
Edyis murmurs knocking back a glass of something that likely isn't meant to be downed in one go.

"Devaki..." Azaylia has nothing to say. Not until news rushes back to her through that draconic bond, "We, they, have him. The man." It's all offered weakly, a paltry comfort in the wake of his tragedy. "I'm... I'm so sorry." She doesn't expect her words to be heard, not really. "We're here, if you--" The Weyrwoman can't finish, not at first. With a fortifying swallow, "The Weyr offers it's support." It's then that she leaves him to his guard's care, Raum earning a curious stare as she moves to do damage control.

The healers have nothing more enlightening for Suireh, nothing more than what seems the obvious. "Where's the knife," is what she ends up saying sharply, loud enough
for Raum to hear, though she's pointedly ''not'' looking at him ''not'' listening to her orders.

One by one -- as people are questioned briefly by either harper or guard to determine what, if anything they saw, people are allowed to leave, though the exits
are still watched carefully. Some, like the Weyrwoman, those near the dais, and others, are asked to stay or come back the next day to speak to the harpers and the Hold's guards.

It's a strange sight, a personal tragedy made public. Devaki, up on the dais, staring at the covered body of his wife, oblivious to the comforting words nor the crowd that stares in their direction. Eventually, an older man -- Cason, recognized perhaps by riders who know the exile elders -- arrives, and under his guiding hand, the Lord leaves the dais, Raum close on his heels.

It's a fluttery inhale and exhale that follows the bluerider's offer, and an almost imperceptible nod of the laundress' head in answer. "Please," earnestly, Farideh's eyes weakly lifting to Edyis, watching blankly.

Quinlys' gaze leaves Farideh for only a moment as Edyis approaches, but her nod is quick enough. "Come on, then," she says to both of them. "Let's get out of here." ''Their'' part in the questioning that follows is brief enough; after that, it's not so difficult to escape, to find Olveraeth, and to go ''home''... cold comfort though that likely is.

Some time later, with fewer -- but still ''enough'' people to witness -- the Lady Issedi's body is removed from the dais.

Unwilling to bark out such things in a crowd of civvies, Alida finds herself stepping smartly over towards the Healers who uttered the call for the knife, and
murmuyring low to them, "It wasn't on 'im. He either dropped it right after the deed, 'r during his run." Still, she shows little emotion...even after remaining and watching the Lady's body removed.

The Weyrwoman stays long enough to give an in depth testimony, as shaken as she is. Despite the tears, she is adamant about being one of the last to leave-- no doubt to
the displeasure of the Wing now on guard and those waiting back at the Weyr. It's late enough to be early when Hraedhyth ''finally'' takes to the skies, returning home safe and sound.

Glacier takes care of its own...and Alida leaves with her Weyrwoman, the blonde woman finally looking much more 'human' after some hours of giving her own testimony...and backing Azaylia.

Eventually, later when night turns into morning, the Masterhealear arrives and conferences with her healers. Apparently Fortian bronzeriders can only sweet talk so much.

Taking Alida's comments in stride, some of the harpers who were on interrogation duty: where are you from? What did you see? Nothing? Ok, we'll find you if we need more, detour to investigate the room. They find the weapon and reach for it wrapping it up in a towel.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]
[[Category:Turnday_Logs]]

Logs talk:Nice and Polite

2015-02-08T04:24:25Z

Dragonshy: Comment provided by Azaylia - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Nice and Polite]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Roz (21:51, 7 February 2015 (EST)) said... ==

Wow. How old are you two again? Putting the /teenagers/ to shame. <3
==Edyis (22:41, 7 February 2015 (EST)) said... ==

And you two were being so well behaved...
==Azaylia (23:24, 7 February 2015 (EST)) said... ==

''Goodness''! Lord and Weyrleader got ''claws'', ya'll! <3 Some things never change.

Logs talk:Interro-tasting

2015-02-06T23:25:58Z

Dragonshy: Comment provided by Azaylia - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Interro-tasting]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Azaylia (18:25, 6 February 2015 (EST)) said... ==

I have never felt so bad for an NPC before. XD Poor frickin' Rosney.

Logs talk:Fisticuffs

2015-02-04T08:37:06Z

Dragonshy: Comment provided by Azaylia - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Fisticuffs]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Azaylia (03:37, 4 February 2015 (EST)) said... ==

...boy, that escalated quickly. o.q Was fun to read, though! >:D

Logs:Welcoming Irianke

2015-02-04T08:33:56Z

Dragonshy:

{{ Log
| who = Azaylia, Irianke, Azaylia{{!}}Hraedhyth, Irianke{{!}}Niahvth, K'del{{!}}Cadejoth, R'hin{{!}}Leiventh, Telavi{{!}}Solith, Alida{{!}}Ilicaeth, H'vier{{!}}Reisoth
| where = Weyrleader Complex/Ground weyrs, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Igen transfers Irianke and Niahvth arrive at High Reaches Weyr.
| day = 27
| month = 12
| turn = 36
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2015.02.03
| quote = "I think we'll get along marvelously, ma'am."
| weather =
| categories = 
| mentions = Aishani, A'rist, Iolene, Nimae, Teris
| ooc =
| icons = azaylia smile.jpg, azaylia hraedhyth.jpg, k'del cadejoth.jpg, r'hin leiventh.jpg, telavi solith filter.jpg, alida ilicaeth sentry.jpg, h'vier reisoth observe.png
| desc =
| log = '''Weyrleader's Complex'''

''Only about a man's height from the ground, this low ledge is wide and flat, reached by a set of timeworn steps that hug the cliff face. As the ledge stretches back away from the head of the stairs, it simultaneously broadens out over the bowl and tunnels into the mountain to become a sort of antechamber, from which a passageway winds back to the Weyrwoman's weyr, the council room, the records room and the hatching sands. A small round table is set in a shallow alcove here, surrounded by four chair that provide a waiting area for those seeking one of the weyrleaders.''

''Another short flight of stairs leads upward from the tapering end of the ledge to the Weyrleader's quarters, while others lead to the further recessed junior queens' weyrs. While it's hard to get a good look at the lake from here, the view does encompass the majority of the bowl and the comings and goings across its span.''
----

This sunny afternoon, High Reaches Weyr is covered in a blanket of snow. It's a lovely day, cloudless and bright, and yet an extreme chill hangs in the air. Puffs of white escape the Weyrwoman's lips as she stands outside, midnight cloak drawn over a brighter dress, blue fabric and thick black leggings helping to combat the cold. Azaylia's gaze is aimed up at the sky, as is the tawny gold's perched on her ledge, mirrored in their stony vigil.

Dragon> What is normally a steady and relaxed rhythm has become more, Hraedhyth's drums rising to be heard. The rumble could be mistaken for a low growl in the minds of ''her'' tribe. ''Her'' pack. ''Her'' family. The warrior queen is not angry, no, but protective. Expectant. (To High Reaches dragons from Hraedhyth)

Dragon> It's Cadejoth's pack, too, but he's relaxed; he reclines above the Weyr, looking down from the rim, and adds a clattering rattle to his mate's din, though it's nothing more than affection. << All is well, >> he assures-- her? The Weyr? Everyone? (To High Reaches dragons from Cadejoth)

Dragon> To High Reaches dragons, Leiventh, too, inhabits the rim, as is his habit -- not that far from Cadejoth: there's no noise from his direction, no reassurances. He watches, the chill of of wind occasionally drifting about the Weyr, here and there, in subtle, almost unnoticed touches.

Summer in the form of Niahvth's buttery cushioned body emerges from between. As courtesy, maintains her height in the air in lazy spirals as she sends a greeting first to the watchrider on the Stones and then to Hraedhyth herself. The summer warmth of her mind reaches out with a bright, << Hello! >> as she sweeps downward into the bowl. Irianke dislodges her helmet, first, with an up turn of one shoulder and catches it neatly in her other hand, before sliding down her dragon to the ground. "Ooof, there really is just no elegant way to handle that." The responding rumble is giving the sharpest dubious look. "I don't believe you," is Iri's rejoinder, complete with a head toss. A large canvas bag is untucked from one of the ring things along the dragon's straps, and she turns to survey her new beginning and pick a path. "Well, then. That way, I think." The steps leading up to the ground weyrs it is.

Dragon> To Hraedhyth, Niahvth's greeting lingers in warm stretches of a spring to summer sun that pays court to the Reachian senior's domain. It remains, respectfully, on the peripheral and then recedes, but with the "air" that it would return, whenever beckoned to do so. She waits.

Hreadhyth is quick to answer, her rich contralto a low rumble, << Niahvth. >> It's a greeting, of sorts. Her flames, though they crackle with what could be seen as agitation, are warm in their welcome. Her eyes are for the ''other'' gold only, locked as those muscles ripple and tense beneath golden hide. Azaylia has a small smile that manages to blossom into something larger at Irianke's descent, boots crunching in the snow as she approaches the new arrival. "High Reaches' duties to Igen," Her lips twist in some amusement, "I wonder how that works, now?" Given the transfer. "How're you, Irianke?" Still testing the name, becoming familiar now.

Dragon> To local dragons, Cadejoth extends his thoughts further, reaching past his pack alone to include the newcomer; the buttery queen, so newly arrived. << Welcome! >> he enthuses, sharing the greeting to all those alert to it. He's puppyishly enthusiastic, eager to engage with the rattle of chain and bone.

Dragon> There's a mere hint of sunlight, different sunlight, filtered through cool green: ''curiosity'', from well behind the rattle and rumble. (To local dragons from Solith)

Dragon> He's the near-perpetual guard on duty, ''his'' home Weyr falling under Ilicaeth's jurisdiction. With the arrival of a stranger comes the burly blue's more tangible presence, his furnace-hot golden sands whipping in many eddies around the other dragons'. Watching... assessing. (To High Reaches dragons from Ilicaeth)

Dragon> Though she is far from quiet, there is a predatory tension to be felt in Hraedhyth's thoughts. It's interrupted by a moment of sharp, metallic harmony, bone clubs wrapped up in Cadejoth's chains, striking drums in an echo of her mate's greeting, if not his ''excitement''. (To High Reaches dragons from Hraedhyth)

In the bowl, Niahvth sprawls herself with the grace of an elephant, if Pern had such things. But she seems cozy and content to just sit in the bowl in an unladylike heap to await what happens next. "Mine and my Niahvth's duties to you and Hraedhyth," is Irianke's simple response, the smile that's initially only heard sharpening as the seconds pass. "I'm quite well in spite of this chill. And it's a pleasure to finally meet you." Two hands reach out with palms up, the straps of the canvas bag threatening to fall off her shoulder with this gesture. The smile softens, and with it the stone blue eyes melt, "I'd like to express my deepest sympathies for the tragedies your Weyr has endured this past turn. I hope you'll accept my presence at ''your'' Weyr." The emphasis, however subtle, is distinct nonetheless.

Dragon> Physically, Niahvth is a sprawled, unladylike heap in the bowl. Relaxing, for sure, after such a tryingly long journey. Mentally, however, a burst of Igen humidity and the innate summer warmth of her touch stretch forth to dance between all the welcomes and curious sparks here and there. << Hello. >> Oh, and << Hello, >> to you too. Is that another dragon who needs a hello? << Hello. >> (To local dragons from Niahvth)

Dragon> To local dragons, Reisoth is a silently distant presence but a presence nonetheless, observing the unfamiliar queen as an as of yet not boring novelty.

Dragon> To High Reaches dragons, Ilicaeth takes his cue more from his dam than grandsire, Hraedhyth's caution echoed by the blue in the measured scour of his rasping sands that unconsciously echo and compliment the new gold's Igenite heat. Though his bedrock-firm mental presence might be more ponderous than usual right now, but his rasping baritone is nothing if not genial in the return welcome of << Hello... Igen. >> Peer. Niahvth.

Dragon> To local dragons, Cadejoth won't let his enthusiasm be diminished by his mate's disquiet; he lets out another clattering rattle in answer to Niahvth, and adds, brightly, to everyone else: << She's going to stay with us and be one of ours. >> Maybe. Hopefully. That's the plan! Right, Hraedhyth? RIGHT?

Dragon> She doesn't sparkle back, yet, the little curious one. She ''notices'', though, and brightens; if there's a moment's shivery chill, it's not like it's ''hers''. (To local dragons from Solith)

Azaylia is quick to meet those hands, palms rough from more than paperwork and fingers chilled. Clumsy manners give way to something far more sincere, "Thank you. You and Niahvth are more than welcome." A press of her hands atop Irianke's, "Truly." And yet, just as those words leave her lips Hraedhyth is on the move, leaping from her ledge with a heavy 'whump' and a scattering of snow. Her dark wings are spread as she lumbers over to where the ''foreign'' queen has flumped, edging in on Niahvth's personal space. That pale head bobs once. Twice. "Oh Faranth," A soft oath, somewhat embarrassed, "Of course you'd pick ''that'' up from ''him''." Her scold is ignored, but other than ''noticing'' the Weyrwoman doesn't seemed alarmed, "We've a few empty weyrs for you two to choose from. I can show them to you, if you'd like?"

It would take a lot of effort for a mass of Niahvths's size to skitter away. And yet... Hraedhyth's approach is watched, curious up until the moment she realizes it's to ''her'' the younger gold is lumbering. The new arrival's forelimbs back up against her back limbs and she suddenly straightens. At attention or just attentive? "Oh, lovely. Back at home, I mean Igen," is the quickest of corrections, "Nimae threatened the lowest on the totems to share a weyr. I grew up sharing a tiny caravan with my siblings, but I, and Niahvth, have had our own spaces for so long it seems unfathomable. I'm sure anything you have here will be absolutely lovely." Irianke presses at a nonexistent wrinkle in her riding pants with a flutter of her fingers. "How has this winter been treating you so far? Once you've assigned me a place to live, I can ask for the rest of my belongings to come. Nimae has a few select packages for you expressly. Some bolts of fabric she thought you might like."

Dragon> From the bowl, Hraedhyth is lumbering toward the other gold. Not quite ''stalking'', but certainly intense. While her head moves, the rest of her is stone still, tense, though there is no change in either drums or fire. There's a rumble of agreement for Cadejoth's words, the queen otherwise too focused to add her own. (To local dragons from Hraedhyth)

The Weyrwoman's eyes flick back to the golds, and where one might worry she is only amused. Suddenly, "Niahvyth is lovely." Azaylia is quick to shake off the draconic distraction, brown eyes flicking back to Irianke's blue. Turning, she invites the older woman to follow her up the steps, "No? Honestly, I would've loved to have shared a weyr when I was newly graduated. I missed sleeping in the barracks." There's no shame in admitting it, only wistful amusement for the past. "It's been an easy winter, I think? It depends on who you ask, I imagine." Once up the steps, she waits. Out in the boll, Hraedhyth straightens as Niahvyth does, muscles bulging and wings half-cocked as she assesses the other dragon. Hm.

"Thirteen turns ago, I'd have agreed," says Irianke affably. The wrinkle she was fixated on isn't going away to her standards and a hand drops to conceal it. "But thirteen turns later, I love the quiet it can afford. Did you grow up with a big family as well? I'm sorry to assume. Missing sharing is something I've found people with siblings do occasionally. Or a lot. Except when there's the last piece of watermelon and everyone wants it." The canvas bag hitches up the shoulder with a shrug, and long easy steps follow after Azaylia with the slightest shimmy in them. Niahvth cocks her head to one side for a few of Hraedhyth's drumbeats, and then to the other for a few more. Then back and forth. "She finds your dragon's thrum drumming fascinating and is telling me I'd find it fascinating as well by the way."

Dragon> Finally, << So.>> So. So. So. << Niahvth. >> Ni-ah-vth. Her thoughts are echoed by those drums. There's a pensive crackle and pop within her heart's hearth, not allowing for there to be an awkward silence, not with a mind so intense. << You wish to join my, >> Chain rattles against bone, << ''Our'' tribe. >> A question that fails to sound like one, and yet she's expecting an answer. (To Niahvth from Hraedhyth)

Dragon> A hint of his dry focus is divided, just enough to add a bit of rocky underpinning to his green sister's warm brightness - backing Solith subconsciously - while Ilicaeth observes the new queen, acknowledges both Cadejoth's and Hraedhyth's input on this new 'situation.' While the senior gold 'stalks' out to look over Niahvth, *he* moves out to his ledge, standing there like a sentry and focusing rapidly-whirling blue eyes upon the pair of queens down there in the Bowl. Hopefully all will go well; but if not, he's there for backup. Never hurts to watch things go down with one's own eyes. (To local dragons from Ilicaeth)

Dragon> To Hraedhyth, Niahvth's warmth stills in the way a humid afternoon suddenly seems void of sound or motion. << Yours. Ours. >> She considers those pronouns each with a magnitude that speaks of turns working past her seeming flighty brightness. << Ours, >> she agrees, movement felt once again as a breeze cuts through and breaks apart the humidity, bringing with it a beautiful summer afternoon. << If you will agree to my presence here to aid you in what ways I and my Irianke can. >>

"My family was small, or so our neighbors would say. But I grew up sharing a room with my older sister and the babies." Azaylia is happy to answer, even as they make their way to the first ground weyr. "It was more that Hraedhyth and I missed being so near the others." Poking her head in, "Oh, this is the one with only one chamber. Still, it's nice." She gives Irianke plenty of room to look around, "We could even stop by my own weyr, if you'd like? I, ah..." There's a soft clearing of her throat and an embarrassed curl to her lips, "I think I'll take your moving in as an oppertunity to finally claim the Senior's weyr. Since there'll be so much hustle and bustle already." Now, Hraedhyth has begun to mimic Niahvth's heat tilts. One side, then the other, even as those drums never miss a beat. Azaylia gives a soft laugh, "I'm glad. Fascinated is much better than... well, frightened." A legitimate concern.

Dragon> To Niahvth, Hraedhyth's drums settle into a deep rumble, a savage sort of pleasure carried in the rasp. << Mine. >> A fond claim of Azaylia, and as her flames are stoked they begin to envelope more: the Weyr. The dragons. ''Cadejoth'' burns especially hot, affectionate and posessive of the ''best'' bronze-- for he is the one who caught her. Slowly, those flames reach out to the Igen born queen, intending to drawn her in. And now, Niahvth?

"You haven't moved in yet? That's refreshing." Irianke looks to Azaylia in mild surprise on her way in to the main part of the weyr. "So many people seem driven to clam status and stature. I'd be more than happy to offer Igen's riders in helping you move in to your weyr. They'll be here anyway and many of them owe me a favor or three." The weyr receives more than a cursory inspection. Irianke moves in, her hand sweeping across the table and coming up with dust that is rubbed between her fingers. The walls and the way they quarter the cavern garner a step back and a dubious look rising up to their unfinished heights. It's the ''bath'' that gets the most praise-filled look. "You have ''baths'' inside your weyrs with," the hand that reaches into the pool is followed quickly by lit eyes, "Heated water? Amazing. The luxuries of living in one of the earliest built Weyrs, I'm told."

Dragon> When the flames reach for her sunlight, Niahvth pauses, one iota of uncertainty flickering in a tendril of Igen heat. Slowly, it's subsumed by Hraedhyth's tribal possession, relinquished as an offering to the Reachian queen. Hers. (To Hraedhyth from Niahvth)

Azaylia blinks at Irianke's surprise, smile quick to bloom at the offer. "We were comfortable, I didn't really see a need." Until now. "Any of your friends would be handsomely rewarded with warm drinks and food. And we've the Rider's Lounge or Snowasis for drinks. Hraedhyth can handle an Igen invasion for at least one day." Oh the drums that will be heard ''then''. The goldrider can't help but beam, "We do! It's wonderful, especially during winter. A warm bath, a big fire... very cozy." As if Irianke isn't already sold on staying. There's a glance aimed outside, although it's with some hesitence that she mentions, "We have another empty weyr... if you're curious?" But by all means, inspect away. In fact, stay in this one, where it's safe. She does her best to shake off that discomfort, "And if there's anything you need, you're welcome to peek at our storeroom."

Dragon> Hraedhyth has a hunter's patience, fire brushing against the very edges of Niahvth's thoughts. Waiting. When the other queen accepts, there is no violent rush or all-consuming inferno. Instead, the flames trickle along that beam of sunlight, wrapping Niahvth up in a welcoming warmth and the brush of coarse fur. Acceptance comes in a low growl, << Niahvth. >>

For the first time since meeting, Irianke's age shows and the inability to hold back the approval of such reasoning is all too transparent. "It would be wise for you to move into the Weyrwoman's weyr," she says with mild kindness, bringing the pink wherry in the room into the light, "Otherwise, your people might wonder and it'd give them confidence to see their Weyrwoman protecting their home. I am here by duty and it's my pleasure to be here for both you and Nimae, Azaylia," the dark haired woman inclines her head, "But I would be most pleased to consider you ''my'' Weyrwoman and will assist as you see fit. And yes, I'd love to see the other weyr in order to make a decision. It's kind of you to allow me to decide rather than just assigning one." Wait what? Safe? ''Safe???''

Dragon> For a moment, the senior's fire envelopes that foreign Igen warmth, turning it above her flames. Considering. It's sudden, when Hraedhyth adds her intensity to Niahvth, amplifying summer's heat rather than stifling it. << Welcome, Niahvth. >> And while she still can't compete with Cadejoth's exhuberance, she is ''pleased''. (To local dragons from Hraedhyth)

Dragon> To Hraedhyth, Niahvth stills for the warmth and acceptance. It's as if a breath was held she wasn't even aware of. It wouldn't be too impolite to show relief, would it? << Thank you. >> With the catalyst of the senior queen's touch, her own buttery warmth pulses in a cheerful radiant beat that, in its light show, matches Hraedhyth's drums. << My queen. >>

Dragon> Well, if Hraedhyth winds up being 'pleased...' then Ilicaeth can slowly settle down from yellow alert, and move back inside his wallow, where it's warmer. He'll pick his own time and place to meet this new gold, and in his own manner. But for now, with the formal greeting squad in motion, the blue settles for a laconic, though still congenial, << Welcome ta 'Reaches... >> before he dips into various draconic conversations to get the lay of the land in regards to Niahvth. (To local dragons from Ilicaeth)

Dragon> To local dragons, Cadejoth, too, is pleased. His pack - now slightly enlarged - can rest at ease. All is well.

It's the first hint of edge in Azaylia's expression, puzzled, smoothing at the advice-- or is it support? Both? "Ah... yes. That, too." In agreement, she folds her hands in front of her and gives her own gentle nod. "Thank you, Irianke." Just as sincere as the last, as well as surprised. Inexperience is subtle but there in her slight discomfort at such a pledge, "You and Niahvth are of High Reaches Weyr, for now." Another soft laugh, "Hraedhyth said so." And what the warrior queen says, goes. She slips outside, confident strides faltering when faced with Brie-- Aishan-- ''the'' weyr. "There's plenty of room." Morbid but true. "I want you to be comfortable in your stay. This... is the other one." It could be manners that allow Irianke to enter, first.

"So Niahvth tells me. She is pleased and still hopes that I may hear those drumbeats myself, though she did try to mimic and share." If Irianke notices that she's allowed in first, she doesn't say much. She might still even be stuck on the word ''safe'' of all things. "This is beautiful." It's the glass beads she kens to first, traveling through the weyr to inspect them most closely, a delighted sound escaping unbidden. "And there are separate rooms, a bath," is noted. "And a tiny room." Somewhere there. The Igen, now Reachian, goldrider's face struggles with composure as she eyes that smaller room, set up as an office. "You mentioned safe?" Her fingers trail the table in this one too to pick up what dust is there.

"Did I?" Azaylia squeaks her uncertainty from the entrance, not quite inside. She may have been ''thinking'' the word. Very loudly, in fact. "It's honestly a wonderful weyr." And from Irianke's sounds, she agrees. There's a slow inhale, the Weyrwoman straightening as she finally follows her new junior inside. It's not like her to withhold the truth. "This was Aishani's old weyr." Beat. "And Iolene's." The last is uttered much more quickly, "And I also believe Teris lived here, before she was transferred." She leaves it at that, sliding a curious glance over at the older woman. Outside, Hreadhyth's wings are neatly tucked up against her back, pale head lowered toward Niahvth. Waiting.

The mental tick down of names and their ultimate fate's dawns quickly on Irianke's face. An audible, "Oh." Then a louder, "''Oh!''" The weyr in question gains another much longer, much more lingering look. The former Igen rider spins in place and considers everything about the weyr. She ultimately decides, "I'll take this one," in a firm voice. "If there's any bad karma related to this weyr, I'll make sure to stamp it out. Something's got to change right? And it's too nice of a home to stay empty. Besides," Irianke adds, a devil-may-care grin lighting her face, "Might as well the foreigner get the weyr rather than any future golden child of yours."

There's a subtle grimace once it dawns on the other weyrwoman, though Azaylia eventually manages a thin quirk of her lips. "It didn't feel right not to saaa- what?" Squeak. It has to be shock that sparks that sudden, breathless laugh, "Really?" There are no attempts to talk Irianke out of it, palms lifting in pleasant surprise, "Your reason is as good as any. Better, even." The grin is infectious, and Azaylia brings her hands together in a final clap. "Alright. I'll let the Headwoman know, and you can start moving in as soon as you'd like!" Hraedhyth is no longer patient, finally bringing her head to Niahvth's in an affectionate headbutt. Bonk.

Niahvth is bonked, and shakes her head much like a puppy splashed with sudden water. The lazy, if upright, vision she makes in the bowl suddenly animates as a home is decided on and she takes a few massive steps away from Hraedhyth, and then snaps her wings wide. << Home! >> she declares in practically a crow to the senior queen. "I'll need piles of sage to help cleanse the weyr," the once trader says. "And the wing bringing my things should be here soon." The grin turns into a more professional smile, though there's a twinkle in her eyes. "I think we'll get along marvelously, ma'am. Do you have any requirements of me tomorrow after I settle in today?" Meetings? Agendas? Work? It'd be hard to miss those fingers flexing for work to do.

"Sage? Interesting." Azaylia, once farmgirl and herder, knows not of these trader traditions. "You'll have it, certainly. And I'll inform the kitchens." Those big Igen riders will likely work up an appetite. If a dragon happens to linger on Hraedhyth's ledge, well. That's just 'Reachian gratitude for you. For now, Azaylia's smile is optimistic, "I think so, too." Think or hope, it's tentative. Still, "You can call me Azaylia, if you'd like. Whatever you're comfortable with." As for requirements, the Weyrwoman is relaxed as she deligates certain tasks that Irianke can get to right away. Niahvth's sudden declaration earns a startled snort from Hraedhyth, followed by an amused chuff, << Yes. Home. >>

Home. The sentiment her dragon expresses relaxes Irianke. "Home," she echoes aloud, looking around again. "Thank you, Azaylia. I'll get right on it after I settle in." Home.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs:Welcoming Irianke

2015-02-04T08:32:53Z

Dragonshy: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Azaylia, Irianke, Azaylia{{!}}Hraedhyth, Irianke{{!}}Niahvth, K'del{{!}}Cadejoth, R'hin{{!}}Leiventh, Telavi{{!}}Solith, Alida{{!}}Ilicaeth, H'vier{{!}}Reisoth..."

{{ Log
| who = Azaylia, Irianke, Azaylia{{!}}Hraedhyth, Irianke{{!}}Niahvth, K'del{{!}}Cadejoth, R'hin{{!}}Leiventh, Telavi{{!}}Solith, Alida{{!}}Ilicaeth, H'vier{{!}}Reisoth
| where = Weyrleader Complex/Ground weyrs, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Igen transfers Irianke and Niahvth arrive at High Reaches Weyr.
| day = 27
| month = 12
| turn = 36
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2015.02.03
| quote = "I think we'll get along marvelously, ma'am."
| weather =
| categories = 
| mentions = A'rist, Nimae
| ooc =
| icons = azaylia smile.jpg, azaylia hraedhyth.jpg, k'del cadejoth.jpg, r'hin leiventh.jpg, telavi solith filter.jpg, alida ilicaeth sentry.jpg, h'vier reisoth observe.png
| desc =
| log = '''Weyrleader's Complex'''

''Only about a man's height from the ground, this low ledge is wide and flat, reached by a set of timeworn steps that hug the cliff face. As the ledge stretches back away from the head of the stairs, it simultaneously broadens out over the bowl and tunnels into the mountain to become a sort of antechamber, from which a passageway winds back to the Weyrwoman's weyr, the council room, the records room and the hatching sands. A small round table is set in a shallow alcove here, surrounded by four chair that provide a waiting area for those seeking one of the weyrleaders.''

''Another short flight of stairs leads upward from the tapering end of the ledge to the Weyrleader's quarters, while others lead to the further recessed junior queens' weyrs. While it's hard to get a good look at the lake from here, the view does encompass the majority of the bowl and the comings and goings across its span.''
----

This sunny afternoon, High Reaches Weyr is covered in a blanket of snow. It's a lovely day, cloudless and bright, and yet an extreme chill hangs in the air. Puffs of white escape the Weyrwoman's lips as she stands outside, midnight cloak drawn over a brighter dress, blue fabric and thick black leggings helping to combat the cold. Azaylia's gaze is aimed up at the sky, as is the tawny gold's perched on her ledge, mirrored in their stony vigil.

Dragon> What is normally a steady and relaxed rhythm has become more, Hraedhyth's drums rising to be heard. The rumble could be mistaken for a low growl in the minds of ''her'' tribe. ''Her'' pack. ''Her'' family. The warrior queen is not angry, no, but protective. Expectant. (To High Reaches dragons from Hraedhyth)

Dragon> It's Cadejoth's pack, too, but he's relaxed; he reclines above the Weyr, looking down from the rim, and adds a clattering rattle to his mate's din, though it's nothing more than affection. << All is well, >> he assures-- her? The Weyr? Everyone? (To High Reaches dragons from Cadejoth)

Dragon> To High Reaches dragons, Leiventh, too, inhabits the rim, as is his habit -- not that far from Cadejoth: there's no noise from his direction, no reassurances. He watches, the chill of of wind occasionally drifting about the Weyr, here and there, in subtle, almost unnoticed touches.

Summer in the form of Niahvth's buttery cushioned body emerges from between. As courtesy, maintains her height in the air in lazy spirals as she sends a greeting first to the watchrider on the Stones and then to Hraedhyth herself. The summer warmth of her mind reaches out with a bright, << Hello! >> as she sweeps downward into the bowl. Irianke dislodges her helmet, first, with an up turn of one shoulder and catches it neatly in her other hand, before sliding down her dragon to the ground. "Ooof, there really is just no elegant way to handle that." The responding rumble is giving the sharpest dubious look. "I don't believe you," is Iri's rejoinder, complete with a head toss. A large canvas bag is untucked from one of the ring things along the dragon's straps, and she turns to survey her new beginning and pick a path. "Well, then. That way, I think." The steps leading up to the ground weyrs it is.

Dragon> To Hraedhyth, Niahvth's greeting lingers in warm stretches of a spring to summer sun that pays court to the Reachian senior's domain. It remains, respectfully, on the peripheral and then recedes, but with the "air" that it would return, whenever beckoned to do so. She waits.

Hreadhyth is quick to answer, her rich contralto a low rumble, << Niahvth. >> It's a greeting, of sorts. Her flames, though they crackle with what could be seen as agitation, are warm in their welcome. Her eyes are for the ''other'' gold only, locked as those muscles ripple and tense beneath golden hide. Azaylia has a small smile that manages to blossom into something larger at Irianke's descent, boots crunching in the snow as she approaches the new arrival. "High Reaches' duties to Igen," Her lips twist in some amusement, "I wonder how that works, now?" Given the transfer. "How're you, Irianke?" Still testing the name, becoming familiar now.

Dragon> To local dragons, Cadejoth extends his thoughts further, reaching past his pack alone to include the newcomer; the buttery queen, so newly arrived. << Welcome! >> he enthuses, sharing the greeting to all those alert to it. He's puppyishly enthusiastic, eager to engage with the rattle of chain and bone.

Dragon> There's a mere hint of sunlight, different sunlight, filtered through cool green: ''curiosity'', from well behind the rattle and rumble. (To local dragons from Solith)

Dragon> He's the near-perpetual guard on duty, ''his'' home Weyr falling under Ilicaeth's jurisdiction. With the arrival of a stranger comes the burly blue's more tangible presence, his furnace-hot golden sands whipping in many eddies around the other dragons'. Watching... assessing. (To High Reaches dragons from Ilicaeth)

Dragon> Though she is far from quiet, there is a predatory tension to be felt in Hraedhyth's thoughts. It's interrupted by a moment of sharp, metallic harmony, bone clubs wrapped up in Cadejoth's chains, striking drums in an echo of her mate's greeting, if not his ''excitement''. (To High Reaches dragons from Hraedhyth)

In the bowl, Niahvth sprawls herself with the grace of an elephant, if Pern had such things. But she seems cozy and content to just sit in the bowl in an unladylike heap to await what happens next. "Mine and my Niahvth's duties to you and Hraedhyth," is Irianke's simple response, the smile that's initially only heard sharpening as the seconds pass. "I'm quite well in spite of this chill. And it's a pleasure to finally meet you." Two hands reach out with palms up, the straps of the canvas bag threatening to fall off her shoulder with this gesture. The smile softens, and with it the stone blue eyes melt, "I'd like to express my deepest sympathies for the tragedies your Weyr has endured this past turn. I hope you'll accept my presence at ''your'' Weyr." The emphasis, however subtle, is distinct nonetheless.

Dragon> Physically, Niahvth is a sprawled, unladylike heap in the bowl. Relaxing, for sure, after such a tryingly long journey. Mentally, however, a burst of Igen humidity and the innate summer warmth of her touch stretch forth to dance between all the welcomes and curious sparks here and there. << Hello. >> Oh, and << Hello, >> to you too. Is that another dragon who needs a hello? << Hello. >> (To local dragons from Niahvth)

Dragon> To local dragons, Reisoth is a silently distant presence but a presence nonetheless, observing the unfamiliar queen as an as of yet not boring novelty.

Dragon> To High Reaches dragons, Ilicaeth takes his cue more from his dam than grandsire, Hraedhyth's caution echoed by the blue in the measured scour of his rasping sands that unconsciously echo and compliment the new gold's Igenite heat. Though his bedrock-firm mental presence might be more ponderous than usual right now, but his rasping baritone is nothing if not genial in the return welcome of << Hello... Igen. >> Peer. Niahvth.

Dragon> To local dragons, Cadejoth won't let his enthusiasm be diminished by his mate's disquiet; he lets out another clattering rattle in answer to Niahvth, and adds, brightly, to everyone else: << She's going to stay with us and be one of ours. >> Maybe. Hopefully. That's the plan! Right, Hraedhyth? RIGHT?

Dragon> She doesn't sparkle back, yet, the little curious one. She ''notices'', though, and brightens; if there's a moment's shivery chill, it's not like it's ''hers''. (To local dragons from Solith)

Azaylia is quick to meet those hands, palms rough from more than paperwork and fingers chilled. Clumsy manners give way to something far more sincere, "Thank you. You and Niahvth are more than welcome." A press of her hands atop Irianke's, "Truly." And yet, just as those words leave her lips Hraedhyth is on the move, leaping from her ledge with a heavy 'whump' and a scattering of snow. Her dark wings are spread as she lumbers over to where the ''foreign'' queen has flumped, edging in on Niahvth's personal space. That pale head bobs once. Twice. "Oh Faranth," A soft oath, somewhat embarrassed, "Of course you'd pick ''that'' up from ''him''." Her scold is ignored, but other than ''noticing'' the Weyrwoman doesn't seemed alarmed, "We've a few empty weyrs for you two to choose from. I can show them to you, if you'd like?"

It would take a lot of effort for a mass of Niahvths's size to skitter away. And yet... Hraedhyth's approach is watched, curious up until the moment she realizes it's to ''her'' the younger gold is lumbering. The new arrival's forelimbs back up against her back limbs and she suddenly straightens. At attention or just attentive? "Oh, lovely. Back at home, I mean Igen," is the quickest of corrections, "Nimae threatened the lowest on the totems to share a weyr. I grew up sharing a tiny caravan with my siblings, but I, and Niahvth, have had our own spaces for so long it seems unfathomable. I'm sure anything you have here will be absolutely lovely." Irianke presses at a nonexistent wrinkle in her riding pants with a flutter of her fingers. "How has this winter been treating you so far? Once you've assigned me a place to live, I can ask for the rest of my belongings to come. Nimae has a few select packages for you expressly. Some bolts of fabric she thought you might like."

Dragon> From the bowl, Hraedhyth is lumbering toward the other gold. Not quite ''stalking'', but certainly intense. While her head moves, the rest of her is stone still, tense, though there is no change in either drums or fire. There's a rumble of agreement for Cadejoth's words, the queen otherwise too focused to add her own. (To local dragons from Hraedhyth)

The Weyrwoman's eyes flick back to the golds, and where one might worry she is only amused. Suddenly, "Niahvyth is lovely." Azaylia is quick to shake off the draconic distraction, brown eyes flicking back to Irianke's blue. Turning, she invites the older woman to follow her up the steps, "No? Honestly, I would've loved to have shared a weyr when I was newly graduated. I missed sleeping in the barracks." There's no shame in admitting it, only wistful amusement for the past. "It's been an easy winter, I think? It depends on who you ask, I imagine." Once up the steps, she waits. Out in the boll, Hraedhyth straightens as Niahvyth does, muscles bulging and wings half-cocked as she assesses the other dragon. Hm.

"Thirteen turns ago, I'd have agreed," says Irianke affably. The wrinkle she was fixated on isn't going away to her standards and a hand drops to conceal it. "But thirteen turns later, I love the quiet it can afford. Did you grow up with a big family as well? I'm sorry to assume. Missing sharing is something I've found people with siblings do occasionally. Or a lot. Except when there's the last piece of watermelon and everyone wants it." The canvas bag hitches up the shoulder with a shrug, and long easy steps follow after Azaylia with the slightest shimmy in them. Niahvth cocks her head to one side for a few of Hraedhyth's drumbeats, and then to the other for a few more. Then back and forth. "She finds your dragon's thrum drumming fascinating and is telling me I'd find it fascinating as well by the way."

Dragon> Finally, << So.>> So. So. So. << Niahvth. >> Ni-ah-vth. Her thoughts are echoed by those drums. There's a pensive crackle and pop within her heart's hearth, not allowing for there to be an awkward silence, not with a mind so intense. << You wish to join my, >> Chain rattles against bone, << ''Our'' tribe. >> A question that fails to sound like one, and yet she's expecting an answer. (To Niahvth from Hraedhyth)

Dragon> A hint of his dry focus is divided, just enough to add a bit of rocky underpinning to his green sister's warm brightness - backing Solith subconsciously - while Ilicaeth observes the new queen, acknowledges both Cadejoth's and Hraedhyth's input on this new 'situation.' While the senior gold 'stalks' out to look over Niahvth, *he* moves out to his ledge, standing there like a sentry and focusing rapidly-whirling blue eyes upon the pair of queens down there in the Bowl. Hopefully all will go well; but if not, he's there for backup. Never hurts to watch things go down with one's own eyes. (To local dragons from Ilicaeth)

Dragon> To Hraedhyth, Niahvth's warmth stills in the way a humid afternoon suddenly seems void of sound or motion. << Yours. Ours. >> She considers those pronouns each with a magnitude that speaks of turns working past her seeming flighty brightness. << Ours, >> she agrees, movement felt once again as a breeze cuts through and breaks apart the humidity, bringing with it a beautiful summer afternoon. << If you will agree to my presence here to aid you in what ways I and my Irianke can. >>

"My family was small, or so our neighbors would say. But I grew up sharing a room with my older sister and the babies." Azaylia is happy to answer, even as they make their way to the first ground weyr. "It was more that Hraedhyth and I missed being so near the others." Poking her head in, "Oh, this is the one with only one chamber. Still, it's nice." She gives Irianke plenty of room to look around, "We could even stop by my own weyr, if you'd like? I, ah..." There's a soft clearing of her throat and an embarrassed curl to her lips, "I think I'll take your moving in as an oppertunity to finally claim the Senior's weyr. Since there'll be so much hustle and bustle already." Now, Hraedhyth has begun to mimic Niahvth's heat tilts. One side, then the other, even as those drums never miss a beat. Azaylia gives a soft laugh, "I'm glad. Fascinated is much better than... well, frightened." A legitimate concern.

Dragon> To Niahvth, Hraedhyth's drums settle into a deep rumble, a savage sort of pleasure carried in the rasp. << Mine. >> A fond claim of Azaylia, and as her flames are stoked they begin to envelope more: the Weyr. The dragons. ''Cadejoth'' burns especially hot, affectionate and posessive of the ''best'' bronze-- for he is the one who caught her. Slowly, those flames reach out to the Igen born queen, intending to drawn her in. And now, Niahvth?

"You haven't moved in yet? That's refreshing." Irianke looks to Azaylia in mild surprise on her way in to the main part of the weyr. "So many people seem driven to clam status and stature. I'd be more than happy to offer Igen's riders in helping you move in to your weyr. They'll be here anyway and many of them owe me a favor or three." The weyr receives more than a cursory inspection. Irianke moves in, her hand sweeping across the table and coming up with dust that is rubbed between her fingers. The walls and the way they quarter the cavern garner a step back and a dubious look rising up to their unfinished heights. It's the ''bath'' that gets the most praise-filled look. "You have ''baths'' inside your weyrs with," the hand that reaches into the pool is followed quickly by lit eyes, "Heated water? Amazing. The luxuries of living in one of the earliest built Weyrs, I'm told."

Dragon> When the flames reach for her sunlight, Niahvth pauses, one iota of uncertainty flickering in a tendril of Igen heat. Slowly, it's subsumed by Hraedhyth's tribal possession, relinquished as an offering to the Reachian queen. Hers. (To Hraedhyth from Niahvth)

Azaylia blinks at Irianke's surprise, smile quick to bloom at the offer. "We were comfortable, I didn't really see a need." Until now. "Any of your friends would be handsomely rewarded with warm drinks and food. And we've the Rider's Lounge or Snowasis for drinks. Hraedhyth can handle an Igen invasion for at least one day." Oh the drums that will be heard ''then''. The goldrider can't help but beam, "We do! It's wonderful, especially during winter. A warm bath, a big fire... very cozy." As if Irianke isn't already sold on staying. There's a glance aimed outside, although it's with some hesitence that she mentions, "We have another empty weyr... if you're curious?" But by all means, inspect away. In fact, stay in this one, where it's safe. She does her best to shake off that discomfort, "And if there's anything you need, you're welcome to peek at our storeroom."

Dragon> Hraedhyth has a hunter's patience, fire brushing against the very edges of Niahvth's thoughts. Waiting. When the other queen accepts, there is no violent rush or all-consuming inferno. Instead, the flames trickle along that beam of sunlight, wrapping Niahvth up in a welcoming warmth and the brush of coarse fur. Acceptance comes in a low growl, << Niahvth. >>

For the first time since meeting, Irianke's age shows and the inability to hold back the approval of such reasoning is all too transparent. "It would be wise for you to move into the Weyrwoman's weyr," she says with mild kindness, bringing the pink wherry in the room into the light, "Otherwise, your people might wonder and it'd give them confidence to see their Weyrwoman protecting their home. I am here by duty and it's my pleasure to be here for both you and Nimae, Azaylia," the dark haired woman inclines her head, "But I would be most pleased to consider you ''my'' Weyrwoman and will assist as you see fit. And yes, I'd love to see the other weyr in order to make a decision. It's kind of you to allow me to decide rather than just assigning one." Wait what? Safe? ''Safe???''

Dragon> For a moment, the senior's fire envelopes that foreign Igen warmth, turning it above her flames. Considering. It's sudden, when Hraedhyth adds her intensity to Niahvth, amplifying summer's heat rather than stifling it. << Welcome, Niahvth. >> And while she still can't compete with Cadejoth's exhuberance, she is ''pleased''. (To local dragons from Hraedhyth)

Dragon> To Hraedhyth, Niahvth stills for the warmth and acceptance. It's as if a breath was held she wasn't even aware of. It wouldn't be too impolite to show relief, would it? << Thank you. >> With the catalyst of the senior queen's touch, her own buttery warmth pulses in a cheerful radiant beat that, in its light show, matches Hraedhyth's drums. << My queen. >>

Dragon> Well, if Hraedhyth winds up being 'pleased...' then Ilicaeth can slowly settle down from yellow alert, and move back inside his wallow, where it's warmer. He'll pick his own time and place to meet this new gold, and in his own manner. But for now, with the formal greeting squad in motion, the blue settles for a laconic, though still congenial, << Welcome ta 'Reaches... >> before he dips into various draconic conversations to get the lay of the land in regards to Niahvth. (To local dragons from Ilicaeth)

Dragon> To local dragons, Cadejoth, too, is pleased. His pack - now slightly enlarged - can rest at ease. All is well.

It's the first hint of edge in Azaylia's expression, puzzled, smoothing at the advice-- or is it support? Both? "Ah... yes. That, too." In agreement, she folds her hands in front of her and gives her own gentle nod. "Thank you, Irianke." Just as sincere as the last, as well as surprised. Inexperience is subtle but there in her slight discomfort at such a pledge, "You and Niahvth are of High Reaches Weyr, for now." Another soft laugh, "Hraedhyth said so." And what the warrior queen says, goes. She slips outside, confident strides faltering when faced with Brie-- Aishan-- ''the'' weyr. "There's plenty of room." Morbid but true. "I want you to be comfortable in your stay. This... is the other one." It could be manners that allow Irianke to enter, first.

"So Niahvth tells me. She is pleased and still hopes that I may hear those drumbeats myself, though she did try to mimic and share." If Irianke notices that she's allowed in first, she doesn't say much. She might still even be stuck on the word ''safe'' of all things. "This is beautiful." It's the glass beads she kens to first, traveling through the weyr to inspect them most closely, a delighted sound escaping unbidden. "And there are separate rooms, a bath," is noted. "And a tiny room." Somewhere there. The Igen, now Reachian, goldrider's face struggles with composure as she eyes that smaller room, set up as an office. "You mentioned safe?" Her fingers trail the table in this one too to pick up what dust is there.

"Did I?" Azaylia squeaks her uncertainty from the entrance, not quite inside. She may have been ''thinking'' the word. Very loudly, in fact. "It's honestly a wonderful weyr." And from Irianke's sounds, she agrees. There's a slow inhale, the Weyrwoman straightening as she finally follows her new junior inside. It's not like her to withhold the truth. "This was Aishani's old weyr." Beat. "And Iolene's." The last is uttered much more quickly, "And I also believe Teris lived here, before she was transferred." She leaves it at that, sliding a curious glance over at the older woman. Outside, Hreadhyth's wings are neatly tucked up against her back, pale head lowered toward Niahvth. Waiting.

The mental tick down of names and their ultimate fate's dawns quickly on Irianke's face. An audible, "Oh." Then a louder, "''Oh!''" The weyr in question gains another much longer, much more lingering look. The former Igen rider spins in place and considers everything about the weyr. She ultimately decides, "I'll take this one," in a firm voice. "If there's any bad karma related to this weyr, I'll make sure to stamp it out. Something's got to change right? And it's too nice of a home to stay empty. Besides," Irianke adds, a devil-may-care grin lighting her face, "Might as well the foreigner get the weyr rather than any future golden child of yours."

There's a subtle grimace once it dawns on the other weyrwoman, though Azaylia eventually manages a thin quirk of her lips. "It didn't feel right not to saaa- what?" Squeak. It has to be shock that sparks that sudden, breathless laugh, "Really?" There are no attempts to talk Irianke out of it, palms lifting in pleasant surprise, "Your reason is as good as any. Better, even." The grin is infectious, and Azaylia brings her hands together in a final clap. "Alright. I'll let the Headwoman know, and you can start moving in as soon as you'd like!" Hraedhyth is no longer patient, finally bringing her head to Niahvth's in an affectionate headbutt. Bonk.

Niahvth is bonked, and shakes her head much like a puppy splashed with sudden water. The lazy, if upright, vision she makes in the bowl suddenly animates as a home is decided on and she takes a few massive steps away from Hraedhyth, and then snaps her wings wide. << Home! >> she declares in practically a crow to the senior queen. "I'll need piles of sage to help cleanse the weyr," the once trader says. "And the wing bringing my things should be here soon." The grin turns into a more professional smile, though there's a twinkle in her eyes. "I think we'll get along marvelously, ma'am. Do you have any requirements of me tomorrow after I settle in today?" Meetings? Agendas? Work? It'd be hard to miss those fingers flexing for work to do.

"Sage? Interesting." Azaylia, once farmgirl and herder, knows not of these trader traditions. "You'll have it, certainly. And I'll inform the kitchens." Those big Igen riders will likely work up an appetite. If a dragon happens to linger on Hraedhyth's ledge, well. That's just 'Reachian gratitude for you. For now, Azaylia's smile is optimistic, "I think so, too." Think or hope, it's tentative. Still, "You can call me Azaylia, if you'd like. Whatever you're comfortable with." As for requirements, the Weyrwoman is relaxed as she deligates certain tasks that Irianke can get to right away. Niahvth's sudden declaration earns a startled snort from Hraedhyth, followed by an amused chuff, << Yes. Home. >>

Home. The sentiment her dragon expresses relaxes Irianke. "Home," she echoes aloud, looking around again. "Thank you, Azaylia. I'll get right on it after I settle in." Home.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs talk:Paying Your Debts

2015-01-26T07:27:18Z

Dragonshy: Comment provided by Azaylia - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Paying Your Debts]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Roz (01:25, 26 January 2015 (EST)) said... ==

You guise. YOU GUISE. I thoroughly enjoyed this and I think the word that stood out to me the most was "exposed". They really did, and I'm glad they did! It's fun to see the internal thoughts sometimes. Anyway, good job! :D
==Azaylia (02:27, 26 January 2015 (EST)) said... ==

This was hilarious, fascinating... sad and amazing and just... guh. GUH. I want every character (or pair of characters) to do this now. Just... the questions are ''so'' good and the answers were better.

Going to be "GUH-ING" all night at random. All your fault.

Logs:Useful Over Fun

2015-01-24T08:57:05Z

Dragonshy: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Drex, Azaylia | where = Resident Common Room, High Reaches Weyr | what = Azaylia considers picking up a new skill. That is, if she can convince Drex to share hi..."

{{ Log
| who = Drex, Azaylia
| where = Resident Common Room, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Azaylia considers picking up a new skill. That is, if she can convince Drex to share his wisdom.
| day = 22
| month = 11
| turn = 36
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2015.01.24
| quote = "Never know when it might come in handy, y'know?"
| weather =
| categories = 
| mentions = Farideh, Itsy
| ooc =
| icons = azaylia oh you.jpg, drex.jpg
| desc = '''Resident Common Room, High Reaches Weyr'''

''Just off of the main passageway lies the small cavern that forms the hub of the residents' quarters, kept immaculately clean by the headwoman's staff and warmed in cold weather by a stone hearth to the left and well back from the entrance. Comfortable chairs and a plush fur arrayed before the hearth make an inviting spot to curl up with a book or handicraft, or just to sit and chat. Beyond, additional chairs stand in clusters throughout the room, some upholstered with age-softened hide, some plain wood. At the widest point of the cavern, a round table gleams with polish, though its surface is nicked and scarred from Turns of use. Beyond the table, the very back of the cavern often lies in shadow unless the glowbaskets there are unlidded to cast cozy pools of light. The commingled scents of klah, smoke and polish permeate the air along with the sweetnessof rosemary and lavender.''
| log = It's well after dinner, and most residents -- especially those with early morning jobs to do -- have long since retired to their beds. Drex is not amongst them, having chosen the largest couch in the common room to stretch out in, feet hanging over the arm, what looks like a long, thin piece of rope in hand. He's concentrating, carefully twisting the rope into complex knots. The far end of the rope dangles on the ground, and seems to be entertaining a young kitten. It's unclear whether he's aware of the creature, or not.

There's a faint click-clack before rounded claws are silenced by the edges of the soft rug in the common room. The canine is much larger than a kitten, but still caught at the awkward stages of puppyhood. Squash-nose pressed to the ground, he snuffles his way closer, lifting his head only to freeze at what's at the end of Drex's rope. There's a tense moment of staring, a quiver, before the brown and white loaf is taking off after the feline. Warg warg warg warg! So much for those with early morning jobs, though one of those barks sounds like a feminine call of, "Warg? Where did you get off to?" As if she can't follow the commotion.

The kitten reacts as kittens do: hissing and puffing up, and when that isn't sufficient deterrent, crawling into the space between couch and wall, a sharp-clawed paw striking out and no doubt serving to discourage the canine, should it get near enough to land. Drex doesn't seem overly disturbed on behalf of the kitten, giving the pair -- feline and canine -- a furrow-browed look, and a snort. "Good luck," to the dog, like he thinks it'd need it. Back to the rope, the call of a woman seeking her lost canine not enough to stir him from his comfortable recline.

Ha ha! He has the puffy sharp thing now! There's a yip when the flash of white claws comes too close, but it only offers a few seconds of respite at Warg sneezes and shakes his head. It's enough time for Azaylia to peek into the room, pinched worry melting into relief. "There you are! What're you..?" A gasp when she sees that little paw, scooping the canine up with a soft grunt. "You leave that little kitty alone! I'm so very, very..." Now that she has time to ''look'' at Drex, his unbothered position has her confused. "...sorry?" Wrangling her armful of wrinkles, the goldrider tries to get a peek between the couch and wall. "He didn't hurt it, did he?"

The hissing continues, and it only abates when the canine is scooped up, the gleam of kitten eyes visible from the safety of behind the couch. "Eh?" Drex squints up at the woman, one finger marking his place, the other holding the end of the rope. The shrug he gives is hard to interpret, given he's lying down, but the dismissive answer makes it clearer: "They take care of themselves. S'why they're ''useful''." He squints at her for a moment more, before looking back to his rope.

Confusion is flecked with disapproval, and Azaylia can't help but murmur, "Should take better care of the poor thing." There's a moment to coddle the canine, checking his nose and adjusting her grip before her gaze slides back over to Drex. "And dogs can be useful, too." It's inevitable that she glance at the rope, but when the answer isn't immediate she can't help but wonder, "What're you doing with that?"

"S'not even mine. It follows me around. It's that girl that's touched in the head, it's ''her'' kitten," Drex says, unconcerned by the disapproval. The concept of ''dogs'' being useful earns a snort of disagreement, though it otherwise remains unvoiced. "Keepin' my hand in," is the sailor's response to her query about the rope, glancing briefly up at her with a sudden grin, as he pulls the rope tight. "Never know when it might come in handy, y'know?"

"A girl who's..? Are you just being rude, or is there really a girl like that?" ''Now'' he's gone and concerned the woman, her gaze shifting between the poor 'abandoned' kitten and the resident quarters. It's his snort that drops her gaze back onto the lad, lips twitching until she decides to let it go. The grin surprises her, but not as much as the tightening of the rope, giving a little start as she blinks. And blinks again. The wheels are very obviously turning before she clears her throat, and obvious attempt to hide both smile and laugh, "Could you teach me? Ah, it's rope tying, yes? Does it only work with a little bit, or...?" Suddenly very interested.

"Of course there is. She's always wandering around all," Drex puts the back of his hand to his forehead, like he might faint, and then scrunches up his nose and claws his hands, making ''grrr'' sounds. "She just kind of goes all funny like ''that''," he snaps his fingers. "Poor thing." It's the latter comment that actually makes the sailor sit up, staring at her in surprise. "You ever been on a ship?" dubiously, like he suspects the answer.

Does Azaylia clutch Warg a little tighter at Drex's display? Possibly. He's just that convincing. ''Very'' 'touched in the head'. "She sounds... young. And ''sensitive''." But not the way that she initially assumed. His question catches her by surprise, answer sudden, "No." Until her brows lift, eyes following suit, "Well, yes. But it wasn't... it was docked." Which amuses her to no end, because she's smiling that earlier smile. "Probably not in the way you mean. Why? Can't learn how to tie knots unless you're a sailor?"

The sailor's face scrunches up again, as if to disagree, though he merely gives a one-shouldered shrug. As for the latter: "Not much point, the sort of knots I could teach. Unless you really, ''really'' don't want something to get away." Drex snorts, as if dismissing that idea, but, still, ''this'' gets voiced: "One of your dragons, maybe."

The goldrider's expression brightens, all aimed to agree until his last, which prompts another purse of her lips. "You had it right the first time. I don't need, or would I ever ''want'' to tie up a dragon. Mine or anyone else's." The canine in her arm squirms, and Azaylia faces him away from the couch, using her dark blue skirt as a barrier between him and the kitten's hiding spot. Warg seems uninterested after an attempt or two to get past, turning to snort at another corner of the room. Back to Drex, with a patient smile, "You could always say no, you know."

There's a glimmer of whiskers at the back of the couch, ''just'' in range of the canine sight before he's turned away. It's not like the kitten's baiting him or anything. Surely not. Another of those one-shouldered shrugs comes from Drex as he squints up at her. "Can't see the point." A beat. "Not unless there's something in it for ''me''."

"It sounds... fun." Azaylia honestly believes that, arms moving innocently behind her back as she considers it. Whether 'it' is the actual process of tying knots, she doesn't say. Her quiet "Ohh," is followed by an even quieter laugh, "Right. Well, you're..." No. Stop. Recover. "I don't know if I have anything you'd be interested in. You clearly don't like dogs." Not that she's offering Warg up, anyway.

The kitten creeps out, and when she's sure the canine's attention is elsewhere, claws her way up onto the arm of the couch and sits there, licking her paw, casually. Drex barely glances at the kitten before his attention goes back to Azaylia. Her mention of ''fun'' gets another of his expressive scrunches of features, shaking his head as if to say, ''weyrfolk''. "Well, what can you do?"

Azaylia almost sabotages the kitten's escape, her sudden coo catching the canine's attention. He eyes the ball of sharp, before chuffing and deciding it's too high and not worth the scolding. "Oh she's so ''cute''." Bending over, she doesn't reach for the feline, afraid of startling it all over again. "Hm? Well, lots of things. Need any paperwork done?" An obvious tease. "I can knit, though I might be a touch out of practice. Need any foals delivered? Though, goodness, I'm probably even ''more'' out of practice with ''that''." She gives up with a laugh, offering empty palms and a shrug.

The kitten doesn't seem to mind the attention -- especially since the canine's lost interest, continuing to groom obliviously. Drex's expressive, ''the fuck''? at her mention of paperwork is pretty clear, or maybe it's her talk of knitting that earns it. "Paperwork. Knitting. And giving birth to foals. None of that is any use on the sea," he says, as if that should be an obvious trait for what ''interests'' him. "Well," he swings feet back up onto the couch. "Come find me when you find ''something'' to trade with."

"I don't suppose you have any interest in painted skulls?" Now she's just having fun with the very serious young man. Those are obviously not any use at sea, either. "I'm a bit too busy to offer any rides, but-- well, you could ask any rider to visit the ocean, I suppose." Not something special ''she'' can offer. She gives up for real, turning to track down her pet, "Maybe I will." If she can think of anything.

And ''now'' Drex is looking at her like ''she's'' touched in the head. "Can't say I... have. Is that the sort of thing that interests you weyrfolk?" The kitten seems bolder, stepping off the arm of the couch and casually onto, and across Drex's chest like he was some sort of walkway.

Azaylia might miss that look, turning in place to catch Warg in a completely different place than when she last checked on him. "I think it's just a 'me' thing. Actually, a 'Hraedhyth' thing. My dragon. She likes to collect the bones of her prey." All too casual, she picks up on the kitten's movements and stifles a giggle. "You know, you're a little far from that sea you're so interested in. Why a Weyr?"

Another of those careless shrugs. "A'int got a ship to go back to. Not ''yet''." The kitten settling on his chest makes it difficult to continue with knot-practice, and the sailor appears to relent, fingers smoothing over the fur of the tiny amimal for a moment.

"You couldn't find work on a ship? Have you tried?" Rather than be stuck inside the stone walls with ''weyrfolk''. It's a slow walk from one end to the other, hefting Warg up once more before aiming a smile at Drex. "Well could I at least have your name, just in case I can come up with something worth trading?"

He gives her a look that conveys ''duh'' rather clearly. "Wouldn't be ''our'' ship. No point." The shrug that follows is enough movement to make the kitten on his chest make a noise of protest. He gives her a frown, before answering Azaylia: "Drex."

Oh. The mouthmotion is there, even if there's no sound. "''Your'' ship." It makes sense, even if she finds it rather amusing. His name prompts a blink, "Oh! Right. I thought you looked familiar, but, it's a big Weyr. You're from the storm? With... the girl." Names, and no dragons to help out-- Azaylia's nightmare. Clearing her throat, "Alright, Drex. I think it's time Warg and I got home and left you to your rope." And kitten.

"Itsy," Drex confirms. He gives a nod, and that seems to serve as farewell, gaze flickering after the woman and her canine briefly.

It's just when she's out the door when the goldrider peeks back in, "Oh! And if you need to find me, I'm Azaylia." A name he may have heard before, "Just in case you didn't know." Quite possible, which is fact that has her grin widening as she finally leaves for real.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs talk:Girls Kissing Girls

2015-01-22T05:00:14Z

Dragonshy: Comment provided by Azaylia - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Girls Kissing Girls]]
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==Edyis (07:24, 21 January 2015 (EST)) said... ==

Hahhahahahaha! Gotta love Farideh. She just makes EVERYONE feel awkward. In a good way. Poor Tomic.
==Azaylia (00:00, 22 January 2015 (EST)) said... ==

Aw haw haw! This was hilarious and awesome. I want to pass around the 'poors' (Poor Tomic, Poor Farideh) but just... more! Soooo funny!

Logs:Sweeps and Tea

2015-01-22T04:12:43Z

Dragonshy: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Azaylia, Edyis | where = Western Bowl, High Reaches Weyr | what = Edyis catches Azaylia in the transformation from 'pretend sweeprider' to goldrider. | day = 1..."

{{ Log
| who = Azaylia, Edyis
| where = Western Bowl, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Edyis catches Azaylia in the transformation from 'pretend sweeprider' to goldrider.
| day = 16
| month = 11
| turn = 36
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2015.01.21
| quote = "Everyone leads differently."
| weather =
| categories = 
| mentions = H'vier, K'del
| ooc =
| icons = azaylia smile.jpg, edyis.jpg
| desc = '''Western Bowl, High Reaches Weyr'''

''The bowl's vast dirt floor extends in a rough oval from west to east, only sparse clumps of grass surviving between the crisscrossed pathways of daily traffic. To the northwest stand massive gates to the world beyond, allowing people, livestock, and tithes to pass beneath some of the seven jagged spires that stand sentinel over that area of the bowl. In late afternoons, their spindly, fingerlike shadows stretch over that end of the bowl all the way to the living cavern's hulking brass doors in the far north.''

''Eastward, the bowl sprawls on toward the lake, sloping slightly downward to allow runoff from rain and snowmelt, but to the south it's caged by more cliffs of dark, rough-cut granite. Rocks poke up from the ground here, a few large boulders and many smaller outcroppings worn smooth in spots by time and use. A few ground weyr entrances dot the wall, the most frequented ledge set up like a patio while the largest ledge services the Weyrleaders' complex, directly beside the huge entrance to the hatching sands. A more human-sized entrance, left of that, leads to the galleries.''
| log = It's a good day for flying, and the fair weather may have been what ultimately convinces Azaylia to join Iceberg's sweeps. Upon their return, Hraedhyth's flames envelope the Weyr, a territorial reminder as much as it is a loving embrace. In the bowl, Azaylia is nimble in her dismount, helmet tugged off to reveal a distracted smile as well as the dual buns that somehow contains her long locks. Her own discomfort, however mild due to the cool breeze, is ignored in order to free the tawny gold of her straps. There are passing farewells to the other riders, but nothing that speaks of a terribly deep camaraderie.

While some can enjoy the fine weather for flying, one former scribe is taking advantage of a nice spot to observe the comings and goings of the bowl. While she does avoid the majority of the Iceburg riders, there's a few she at least offers a smile of greeting to. The familiar sight of the browny gold, and her rider has her pausing on her intended trajectory. "Good afternoon Weyrwoman."

Azaylia's prompt, "Afternoon." is offered somewhat distractedly, still busy with the straps until the last of the fitted leather begins to slacken. Hraedhyth stretches her stocky neck, giving a full-body shake that makes the decorative bones clatter and clack. Finally freed, the queen is quick to bound forward, ignorant of the dust and wind kicked up by the sudden motion. Shielding her eyes, the Weyrwoman finally turns toward Edyis, "Have any paperwork for me?" Or what ''is'' it that makes the girl vaguely familiar?

That statement turns the smile into a wide and toothy grin. "Not unless you want to dictate a report on Iceberg's sweeps. Were they over Nabol again?" Dark eyes drifting to the other riders milling about, thoughtfully.

Dark brows lift in surprise, "Ah, no. I'm sure the riders will write up their reports for H'vier." And ultimately, the Weyrleader. Faint confusion lingers as she begins to pop open the front of her tawny riding leathers, still watching Edyis. "We didn't fly over Nabol, though I'm sure another pair were ordered to. Better to be safe than sorry."

To that the girl nods thoughtfully smiling. "It was a joke." She replies, biting her lower lip at mention of Nabol. "Mm, makes sense. It's Edyis by the way, though I work in the rider's lounge now, more frequently than the records room." She answers with all the confidence of someone not entirely certain the information would be remembered or even important for that matter. "If you do need reports brought though I can run by the records room on my way to lunch?"

"Oh." A blink, and then a smile as Azaylia 'gets' it, tucking her helmet into the crook of her arm. The name rings a bell, at least, "Edyis. Right. Ah..." Just as the confusion lifts, it descends upon her face in a squint that she aims up at a familiar ledge. High, high on up, in fact. "Work? I can't imagine there's much to do, with how the bar is set up." Or was set up, before. It's something to puzzle, something that causes her to take a second to absorb that last question. "Mm? Oh! No no no, that's not your job is it? I can't go bossing around people who don't actually work for me." It's all said with a soft laugh.

"Sort of bartending I guess you would call it? Mostly I just keep the place clean and pour drinks. Not exactly the most thrilling job, but it's fun." She amends, though the last has her laughing. "Technically the entire Weyr is under your employ, or Giorda's. Really though it's no trouble, I still help out there when I have free time."

Azaylia doesn't seemed wholly convinced on Edyis' current occupation, but the rest has her giving a slow shake of her head. "If I ever start to ''act'' like the entire Weyr is mine to do with what I want..." That hypothetical, however unlikely, clearly doesn't sit well with the goldrider. Clearing her throat, "If you insist. I may have a plate of... darn. No pastries, no. Well, I can at least offer you a cup of tea, for your trouble?"

"Everyone leads differently. I respect that about you. It's also why I don't mind helping a little extra in my downtime." She adds with a smile. "A cup of tea will be lovely, I will have the reports by your weyr in a candle mark?" Preparing to depart?

Azaylia looks to have been struck, eyes widening slightly on an otherwise relaxed face. There's a shy smile as she turns away suddenly, "Yes, thank you. That gives me enough time to tidy myself up." Hraedhyth is already splashing about in the lake, convincing dragon and firelizard alike to help 'scrub' her-- a thinly disguised game. "See you then." A soft smile is offered, not quite a farewell, as the Weyrwoman heads toward the steps and her weyr.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs talk:Not Fitting

2015-01-22T03:37:53Z

Dragonshy: Comment provided by Azaylia - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Not Fitting]]
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==Azaylia (22:37, 21 January 2015 (EST)) said... ==

The people-parts are great, but what I really love is seeing Cadejoth interact with Lythronath. I love love loooove Cadejoth and I love love looove Lynner, and the fact that they're opposites-- and that the young bronze can actually get on sweet ol' Cadejoth's nerves, is like... the best thing ever. XD

Logs talk:Drowning

2015-01-10T22:18:46Z

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==Azaylia (17:18, 10 January 2015 (EST)) said... ==

Yeaaah, A'rist isn't the best to go for advice unless it's 'how not to damage your partner/make them cry'. XD Still, I love these bro scenes. <3 Poor, poor V'ros. He'd make such a good, stuffy holder and Zmeyth had to go and ruin it. xD

Logs:Ichor Over Tea

2015-01-10T21:33:37Z

Dragonshy: Created page with "{{ Log | who = A'rist, A'rist{{!}}Lythronath, Azaylia, Azaylia{{!}}Hraedhyth | where = Feeding Pens/Azaylia and Hraedhyth's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr | what = Dragons fight, and..."

{{ Log
| who = A'rist, A'rist{{!}}Lythronath, Azaylia, Azaylia{{!}}Hraedhyth
| where = Feeding Pens/Azaylia and Hraedhyth's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Dragons fight, and riders talk over tea.
| when = Day 8, Month 10, Turn 36
| gamedate = 2015.01.09
| quote = << Mine! >>
| weather =
| categories = 
| mentions = Barnabas
| ooc =
| icons = a'rist.jpg, a'rist lynner gorey.jpg, azaylia smile.jpg, azaylia hraedhyth.jpg
| desc =
| log = '''Feeding Pens, High Reaches Weyr'''

''Wedged between the lake and the rest of the vast bowl are the dustyfeeding grounds. Here, the well-trampled ground is contained by a sturdy wooden fence, cutting right through one end of the lake to section it off into a muddy watering hole for the animals. Several gates allow people in and out, while at the back, large overhangs of rock provide the herd -- a mixed bag of herdbeasts, wing-clipped wherries, and fat porcines -- shelter from storms or the hot sun. What grass survives is usually bloodstained, but feeding troughs are stationed around the edges of the pen.''
----

Lythronath has been thinking about this place for hours. It's hunger now, real hunger, not just hunger for blood, that drives his flight, with his instincts at their peak, advertised in the roar as he takes wing. Meat. Blood. Kill. Any can read them off him, can smell and feel and taste the anticipation of all these things. The bronze lands in the feeding pens as a blue hurriedly finishes. He scents at the air. He doesn't wait, but he calculates in that simple, instinctual way of a hunter. No. No. Yes. There. That one.

Lythronath's roar echoes in the bowl, his hunger washing over Hraedhyth and pushing her own savage needs over the edge. She accepts the invitation, bulky gold dropping from a 'shared' ledge from on high to descend on a particularly tempting 'beast. Hraedhyth doesn't mean to land on ''Lythronath's'' choice, but the coincidence happens anyway and the queen looks to gorge on her severly sudden kill. It urges Azaylia to reach for another sandwich, in the warmth of her weyr, a generous spread of snacks and tea set in front of her and her guest. "I can't imagine all of the bandits have been caught..." The Weyrwoman's smile shifts to something far more guilty, "Or maybe I'm looking for excuses to still join riders for sweeps."

Squish?! Lythronath roars again, roars at Hraedhyth, roars with a lunge that brings that open maw so very near the queen. << Mine! >> A'rist is holding his tea, between both hands, and letting the steam warm his face. These humid days, they can go between. That might dry them out. "Don't blame you." Says the bronzerider who's been quite cautious with flying sweeps over Nabol, ever since he caught and beat the snot out of some farmer's boy, whose identity he'd mistaken.

Less 'squish' and more 'snap crackle pop'. Hraedhyth is the unending empathy to Lythronath's ruthless violence, killing swiftly so as to avoid unecessary suffering. It's only after the crimson subsides from her gaze that she ''hears'' the bronze, bloodied maw swinging to face him. << Mine. >> Very obviously hers, and the queen backs her claim with a vicious bellow. With her own oversized jaws on display, she looks to push Lythronath away. With her mouth. "I think I might keep at it, you know?" Azaylia makes quick work of the sandwich, dusting her fingers of crumbs before reaching down to shoo Warg. The canine is on the quest for crumbs, and since there are none around the goldrider, he snorts his way over to A'rist's boots. When that proves fruitless, the wrinkly pup will do his best to try and leap onto his lap.

NO. It was HIS. Teeth meet teeth. Clunk. Frustration piles into Hraedhyth with more force, pounding away for the challenge, for the betrayal. For the snapping. "Flying sweeps," repeats A'rist, a bit of a frown trying to get at his lips. He twitches at it. "I heard you were Glacier, once. But that was when there was more than one gold." He reaches to scoop at Warg, his hand still warm from the tea, but he's only halfway paying attention to the canine. If even half.

Hraedhyth was startled at first, but it quickly fell away to reveal her own bubbling fury at being challenged. She shoves back, mentally ''and'' physically, looking to muscle a shoulder against Lythronath and shove him ''out''. No, you don't get to eat today! Azaylia gives a start, turning to aim pursed lips at a wall-- rather, what's going on behind it. With a dismissive sigh, she turns back to A'rist, "I was. And not just more than one, back when I was a junior and there was no hope that I'd become anything else." Airy tone suggests she knows how silly that must sound, now. Warg is grateful for the assist, considering his chubby legs and non-existant vertical leap. He huffs, claiming A'rist's lap in the name of wrinkles and folds. "It was good for Hraedhyth. She's been enjoying them, when we can manage the time."

It's subtle, but as Lythronath digs his talons into the ground and shoves back, the reason for this fight soon becoming lost while he pushes against the bigger dragon, snapping his teeth (at air very near golden hide) and roaring and growling, A'rist stiffens just a little, in the shoulders, through the core. He pets Warg. He forces a quick smile as reply for Azyalia's look. He tries, "I can't imagine what Lynner'd be like without sweeps. Even those don't really do it for him, you know, but... it's ''something''." The hand holding the teacup lifts to bring it to his lips. A'rist doesn't mean to have his pinky out, it's just the handle is so small... And a talon risks grazing Hraedhyth's foot.

Another sandwich is plucked up, and Azaylia bites a little harder than necessary, teeth clicking from the force. Hraedhyth snaps at the air, close enough for Lythronath to feel a rush of hot breath near his wings, the queen nearly thrashing against his body. Talon sinks into hide and tugs, leaving a trail of ichor behind as Hraedhyth bellows her pain. Open maw is smashed toward Lythronath's shoulder, not quite a bite even if some teeth are likely to drag. Bare foot is tugged up onto the couch with Azaylia, idly scratching the top of it, "He seems like he'd be good at fighting Thread?" Certainly not a wish for it to come back, no. "It makes sense, to have dragons like that crop up every now and again. It'd be awful if the... instincts were bred out of them, somehow."

Lythronath clicks and chomps and, finally, swings that big tail around and ''thwacks''. He's hungry. He's riled. Teeth leave scratch marks - not deep - on his shoulder, and it brings a deep, throaty rumble. "He would be," A'rist confirms, certainty in that. "I've thought about it, actually." Lythronath ducks his head low, slaps it upward at the gold's. A'rist leans forward to put his tea on a table, and picks Warg up, moving him back down toward the floor.

Hunger burns hot in the queen's belly, the heat felt in her mind's fire, carried in crimson eyes. The impact of his tail sends a stinging ripple throughout that tawny hide, and Hraedhyth pushes harder against him, either to shove him ''out'' of the pen or onto his side. The entire time, those beasts cower at the furthest edge of the fence, trembling and frothing. It's finally with a gusty sigh that Azaylia's legs unfold from beneath her, touching the ground but not yet committing. "We should break them up, shouldn't we?" Because things are only escalating. Still, curiosity prompts her to ask, "Have you? Thought about it?"

Lythronath scrabbles at the ground, leaning, leaning hard, suddenly low to not be pushed over, with all his weight against Hraedyth. And her legs. He emits a few determined clicks. A'rist... reaches for a sandwich, and holds it neatly in his lap. "Probably, yeah." There's a wary nod, after, to Thread, a distracted, "If we had to," but he's not really focusing on the conversation just now. His expression is obvious to anyone who knows dragonriders...

Now there's a danger of the gold toppling, but if she has to go down it'll be ''on top'' of Lythronath. Hraedhyth stumbles, one foreleg crumpling as the other presses forward, claws biting into his meaty haunch as she attempts to push him away. The blazing heat of her primal fury is suddenly invaded by floral incense, thick and dizzying enough to pull her attention away from Lythronath. That's all that's needed for Hraedhyth to stumble back, stubbornly snarling at the bronze before settling down with a low rumble. Only then does Azaylia's eyes focus, looking at A'rist with a casual murmur, "I think about it, too." As if there was no interruption. "A flame thrower doesn't sound nearly as satisfying as riding a fighting dragon. But," She shakes her head, reaching for the cooled cup of tea in front of her, "It's not ever going to be a threat, not now."

"No," agrees A'rist, his eyes still unfocused. Lythronath roars in the moment of reprieve; roars and lunges for Hraedhyth's kill. Not to eat it, just to step in it on his way to that huddling, terrified group of herdbeasts in the corner of the pens. A'rist looks down. At his sandwich. "Not now."

A flare of renewed anger before it's smothered beneath a blanket of false calm. Hraedhyth turns, and if she makes Lythronath's hunting that much more difficult... well, ''good''. But accidents won't repeat themselves, and both will end up with their own kills. Azaylia lets out another sigh, gusty and tolerant, "I'll get the numbweed ready." For when after their lifemates are sated.

"It's good," decides A'rist, the words an abrupt eruption, "that they do ''this''," heated when Lythronath goes for a good, swift kill, mostly because he's hungry and nothing to do with mercy. "That they can at least get an outlet. Or, he can... Maybe Hraedhyth doesn't need one."

"I don't know if ''she'' does." Azaylia answers after a pensive minute, comparing the savage exchange to her much gentler play with the smaller dragons. "But if so, it's because Lythronath needs it more." In order to maintain balance, whether the gold realizes it or not. "It ''is'' good," She agrees with a soft smile, at least somewhat reassuring that there's no ill will, despite the new scars bound to form on her dragon's hide.

"Hm." Says A'rist. He leans carefully forward to secure his tea, sandwich still just waiting. He sips. Lythronath gorges on blood, and guts, and probably some bone as well. And is enjoying it thoroughly.

Hraedhyth has dragged her new, un-flattened kill closer to Lythronath, and it's with an almost insistant pressure that she leans against him as she feasts. Warg noisily licks his chops at A'rist's still untouched sandwich, and Azaylia stands to collect the batch of numbweed. On her way, she stops to press her lips to the top of his head, "Eat your sandwich." A reminder, rather than a command. As hunger is sated, so are the violent urges that fueled her moments earlier, until Hraedhyth's drums have eased into a companionable rhythm. << Lythronath. >> A fond rumble.

Right. Sandwich. The tea goes to rest on his knee, and A'rist picks up that sandiwch. And checks over his shoulder to see where Azaylia's at. And eyeballs Warg. << Hraedhyth, >> answers Lythronath, in blood and satisfaction. Which may have as much to do with the scrapes on his hide as the first beast that he's finishing.

Azaylia goes up the steps and turns the corner, keeping the salve with many other care items-- the majority of which are luxuries rather than necessities. Warg watches his owner go, turning back to stare at A'rist as the bronzerider does the same. He knows that look, and fidgets accordingly, chuffing his want. Scraps now please! << Ouch. >> A statement ''and'' a question, feeling for the extent of his injuries.

<< Haha! >> Not a care in response. It might be trust, that Hreadhyth is still there, and therefore, fine. He might not even be considering the queen just now. But the bronze ''is'' looking over to those herdbeasts once more; hungry still. Just like Warg. Warg, for whom A'rist carefully rips off a corner of crust (holding the sandwich down with his elbow), Warg, to whom he tosses it, sloshing his tea. "Scorch it."

Grunt. Shove! But nothing nearly as vicious as their previous battle, and almost encouraging Lythronath toward the beasts. Hraedhyth will try to make due with the squished carcass from before, refusing to let its death be a waste. Snortgobblegobble and A'rist's oath are enough for Azaylia to peek her head from around the corner, "A'rist!" Whether for the scraps or the tea, that's a scoldin'. "You're just as bad as Bones, I swear." It's said with a laugh as she carries the large, sealed bucket out to the main cavern.

"I knew him when he was still Squish," A'rist says by way of his defense, though it sounds fairly sheepish. The topic of Bones makes him look up, though, even as he leans to put his tea, mostly lukewarm now, back on the table, and brushes at the droplets on his pants. "Where is he, anyway?" Called after her. Fairly loudly. Lythronath clicks a few warnings, stalks just enough to panic everyone, and then leaps. Blood.

"He was ''never'' Squish, A'rist!" Another laugh as she passes through, on her way to the ledge just to have it close for when their beasts return. Her soft voice manages to be heard as she calls back, "Garden, of course." Walking back in, she dusts her hands, "Something about some new flowers being particularly delicate and needing a lot of his attention. He'll be home late." It's a guess, one that doesn't seem to bother her in the least.

"He'll always be Squish, Azaylia," answers A'rist. The rest of that tea is downed, less ceremoniously (though his pinky finger still sticks out). "So... should Lythronath come back here, when he's done?" The bronze, of course, is crunching away, finishing this second kill. This not-squished kill. << Haha! Squish. >>

"He will be if he gets fat from you and Bones overfeeding him." Hands on her hips, Azaylia takes a moment to ''loom'' over the seated bronzerider. Mention of his dragon is a good way to deflate the puffed up Weyrwoman. "Absolutely. I can't have him running around with those scratches. They might get infected." Never mind that he has his own rider to tend to him. A rider who's getting more sandwiches pushed onto him, at least until injured dragons arrive to steal their attention away from the tea party.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs talk:AU - Severed

2015-01-06T21:29:03Z

Dragonshy: Comment provided by Azaylia - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:AU: Severed]]
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==Azaylia (16:29, 6 January 2015 (EST)) said... ==

I'm glad I could help, but really I can't take any credit for this. The way you wove everything together is AMAZING. I read it like 3 times, over and over again. <3 So good, and so worth the wait!

Uuuugh! Lynner. <3 A'rist. <3 So much love for the little psychos. AND IT'S ALL LYNNER'S FAULT.

Logs talk:Familial Pressures and Priorities

2015-01-04T08:09:47Z

Dragonshy: Comment provided by Azaylia - via ArticleComments extension

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==Azaylia (03:09, 4 January 2015 (EST)) said... ==

Well that's what you get, waving your spores all around Pern! Honetly though, I feel really bad for K'del. The feeling of being torn by responsibilities-- ones you love and ones that ''need'' to be handled is like, the worst thing. I found his choice to stay surprising and yet not. Good stuff.

Logs:Tug o' Warg

2015-01-03T10:41:14Z

Dragonshy: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Azaylia, Alida | where = Western Bowl, High Reaches Weyr | what = Alida meets the newest addition to Azaylia's pack and the two riders catch up. | when = Day 1..."

{{ Log
| who = Azaylia, Alida
| where = Western Bowl, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Alida meets the newest addition to Azaylia's pack and the two riders catch up.
| when = Day 18, Month 9, Turn 36
| gamedate = 2015.01.02
| quote = "Bet'cher a real pain..."
| weather =
| categories = 
| mentions = A'rist, Barnabas
| ooc =
| icons = azaylia smile.jpg, alida.jpg
| desc =
| log = '''Western Bowl, High Reaches Weyr'''

''The bowl's vast dirt floor extends in a rough oval from west to east, only sparse clumps of grass surviving between the crisscrossed pathways of daily traffic. To the northwest stand massive gates to the world beyond, allowing people, livestock, and tithes to pass beneath some of the seven jagged spires that stand sentinel over that area of the bowl. In late afternoons, their spindly, fingerlike shadows stretch over that end of the bowl all the way to the living cavern's hulking brass doors in the far north.''

''Eastward, the bowl sprawls on toward the lake, sloping slightly downward
to allow runoff from rain and snowmelt, but to the south it's caged by more cliffs of dark, rough-cut granite. Rocks poke up from the ground here, a few large boulders and many smaller outcroppings worn smooth in spots by time and use. A few ground weyr entrances dot the wall, the most frequented ledge set up like a patio while the largest ledge services the Weyrleaders' complex, directly beside the huge entrance to the hatching sands. A more human-sized entrance, left of that, leads to the galleries.''
----

Rukbat is beginning to sink past the horizon by the time Azaylia decides to pull away from her paperwork and stretch her legs. The wrinkled, lumbering beast at her ankles can be identified as a canine with a severe underbite and the very beginnings of a barrel chest. He's snorting and clumsily hopping around the Weyrwoman near their ground ledge where Hraedhyth watches from on 'high', drums a steady and uninterested rumble. The reason for the canine's excitement is made obvious when Azaylia shakes her hand, a stuffed wherry flopping it's already mangled limbs about. It's pitched in the air, which sends the stocky beast snorting and galloping the best that it can.

Alida's post-bath on this rather lovely, early autum day, the only vaguely-damp bluerider striding unhurriedly from the main Cavern entrance into the main Bowl. Not very far from Hraedhyth, a slightly drowsy Ilicaeth sucks up those final rays from Rukbat from the Rim, the gritty blue managing to unlid only the outermost of one of his triple 'lids to try and focus on his rider...waaaay down there. And just as his rider looks about to toss a bit of a grump that her bestest buddy isn't already on his way down to pick her up and take her to their home...there's a snorting something grabbing her attention instead, green eyes following her pivoting form to bring 'Bully McSnortsAlot' and Azaylia into her line of sight. What might've been irritation quickly transitions into curiosity and a bit of smirky humor, the blonde slowly moving towards the other pair with a small smile, while her lifemate puffs dust, sand, and quartz towards his matriarch. << Saved by th' bell. >> Or dog, really.

Hraedhyth doesn't ''dislike'' the creature, although she does share the confusion with people who have side-eye their Weyrwoman's decision at keeping it. << So it does have its uses. >> Allowing Ilicaeth to be lazy, for one. The canine finds that wherry plush and gives it a good shake before running back over to the laughing goldrider. In a warm autum dress, Azaylia crouches down to take the toy, allowing her pet to give a good thrash of his head before he relents. "Alida!" It's a happy greeting, still carrying a hint of laughter. The canine bounds over to the blonde, desperately interested in sniffing her boots and wagging his nubbed tail.

<< Mhm... >> Ilicaeth languidly 'reassures' his dam, the blue's dry baritone touched with knowledge and vague humor. Images are shared with Hraedhyth, easy and unhurried, of a much younger Alida teaching various kinds of canines the skills their owners or handlers want...of the even paler-haired girl-child even playing with her charges when nobody is looking. Pups, adults, herders and guard dogs...all are handled by the then Apprentice Beasthandler Alida, a middle-aged man with brown hair and a goatee steadily and quietly guiding her in the background. A good enough time. As for the blonde in her present 'incarnation,' well, she quirks a rather indulgent little smile for the sight of Zay and pup playing, then slows to a halt while allowing the bulldog to investigate her without any interference. Her manner is all calm self-assurance even as she answers the goldrider, "Zay. I finally get ta' see yer bundle..." Tsk-tsk on the Weyrwomen for not bringing the pup over to visit sooner. Smirk.

"It's a little tricky, prying him away from Bones." No, not really. There's a good chance that the canine just follows the man around whether the gardener likes it or not-- but he's still Azaylia's. "His name is Warg." She cooes, and the sound of his name has the canine's ears perked as he looks toward his owner. Once he realizes that he isn't being called, the canine goes back to snort-snuffling around Alida and chuffing to get her attention. "It has been a while, hasn't it? How're you?" Her dark eyes scan the rim, knowingly, "And Ilicaeth?" Hraedhyth accepts the images, turning them over in her flames as she considers the past with a dragon's curiosity. It's not ''now'', but it's still ''good''.

"Good with dogs, then?" the blonde inquires of Azaylia of Bones, Alida soon slowly crouching down for the pup to investigate more closely. She doesn't look directly at Warg, and her body doesn't directly face him, but a hand is slowly settled to the ground for him to snuffle, if he so wishes. While observing the pup's reactions, the bluie's alto reaches out to the other woman to note, "Yeah... lots happening, these days." That observation is less clipped and casual than is usual for her, but there's little in Alida's person to suggest anything more than memories of recent, difficult times. Shrug. "I'm busy. And apparently, *he's* lazy." Snerk. A quick look is spared up to the goldrider to assess her state as the Glacier rider inquires back, "You?" Ilicaeth, finally having to conceed that he needs to wake up, mentally peers over Hraedhyth's shoulder while she peruses those memories he offered her...of times before either of them was shelled. Nestled quietly within them is the blue's solid vein of pride in his lifemate.

"In a sort of 'he ''is'' a dog' kind of way..." Which is a yes and a no. "They get along well. I think he secretly spoils Warg, though." Azaylia has a patient sigh for that, shifting the damp plush from one hand to the other. Warg ''is'' interested in sniffing Alida's hand, pawing at it and trying to nose under for the affection he's so used to. "I'm... yes. A lot has happened." Her smile is gentle, tentative, "Things seem to have settled for now. But it's hard to let your guard down after so much." Her gaze falls down to the wrinkled pup, and she adds in a murmur, "I've flown over with Iceberg over Nabol, recently. Think I might do that from time to time." Even if it only offers the illusion of a solution.

There's a short little bark of laughter from Alida at Zay's word of Bones' 'dogginess,' the outburst quieted quickly so as not to potentially freak out investigating Warg. With the bulldog's apparent acceptance of the blonde comes her steady and honest bit of a smile - still rarer, Turns after her introduction to the Weyr - those fingers reaching out to pet, scritch, and rub wherever Warg will accept them. Spoken in gently indulgent tones to the pup: "Bet'cher a real pain..." Smirk. The expression fades slowly at the other woman's next words, Alida allowing herself the shift of focus from one important 'task' to another, green eyes flicking from Warg to Azaylia again as she bobs her head deeply. Agreed. "First High Reaches, then Tillek, now Nabol..." is murmured quietly while she allows both hands to lightly play with the bulldog puppy. Sigh. "Ever think uv' takin' a short bit uv' a turn at sweeprides, now and again?"

Warg gives a start at Alida's laugh, but once it subsides he's back to coaxing a belly rub out of the bluerider. Snort. He's no stranger to pets, and she'll have the loaf of a canine on his side and perhaps his back, tongue hanging as he snorts his happiness. "A little chew-y, but I believe all puppies are." Azaylia's smile gains some strength as she watches the two, offering an honest answer to Alida's question. "Yes, actually. It was good for Hraedhyth, and... and I think it might be good for Holds to ''see'' a queen in their skies every once in a while." A firm nod follows, even if her expression is somewhat hesitant.

When she works, Alida's often a hard-ass. But at play, as she sort-of is right now, the woman allows parts of her less-often seen to emerge - even if just a bit - her quick grin touched with affection for the grunting little squirt she's now more-or-less playing with while squatted on her haunches. Indirectly to Azaylia, "Yep. Just protect yer furniture an' toes until he's a Turn old." Smirk. To Warg: "You little shit." Grin. Another, and this time longer look upward is given to the Weyrwoman - assessing, curious, observant - the bluerider then slowly nodding back her agreement. "Glacier remembers its own... You feel like it, pair up with me sometime, an' we can raze their fields." She sounds so serious...yet so dry...green eyes dancing a little into browns.

"Mm. I didn't think about what it'd be like, having a canine with so many bones lying around." Hraedhyth's trophies, not the gardner. "It's about the only time she pays him much mind- when he's touching something that's ''hers''." Little shit is right. Azaylia looks startled by Alida's invitation, hands (and stuffed wherry) going to her hips, "Don't even ''joke'' about that. All it takes is for one Holder to overhear..." It just dawns on her, then, that they're in the middle of a ''Weyr''. With a strained sigh, "I'm sorry. I suppose I am wound a little tight, with everything that's happened." Warg, bless his heart, is blissfully ignorant of people-problems.

"Oh maaan..." Alida offers in snickering comment to the scene she's immediately envisioning at Azaylia's words: Warg gnawing on Hrae's 'prizes' while the gold stares and fusses and complains. Commented in falsely-chirpy fashion to tease the goldrider: "Thanks fer the primer, fer when *I* get my canine." Still mock-tussling with hands and fingers with 'Little Shit,' Alida remains mostly unfazed when Zay rounds on her, the bluie only looking up silently into brown eyes, then nodding once as she comments casually, "Good thing we've no dragonets, right now..." Cue greens flicking to that ragged mini-wherry at one hip, then back to the other woman's gaze. And then the seriousness of the Weyr's current situation seeps back into place, and her mouth, expression tightens some. Sigh.

It takes some effort for Azaylia to find calm, to remind herself that the heart of her Weyr should be a ''sanctuary'' from what's going on. She's somewhat successful, walking over and offering the stuffed wherry to Alida as some raggedy peace offering. "If you're in no rush, I was told Warg comes from great stock. I'll be breeding him, when he gets old enough." Which isn't a long time yet, but a long-off project for the once herder to look forward to. The proximity of his toy has Warg's eyes snapping open and he wriggles to try and get on his feet. Azaylia's curious now, "Why is it a good thing?"

There's only slight hesitation at the odd 'peace offering,' Alida soon enough accepting the raggedey, slobbered-on toy, and shaking it in prey-like fashion along the ground to tease Warg into pouncing the thing. "No rush..." the bluie quietly assures Azaylia, looking back and forth between pup and woman, nodding to those words of the canine. "No hurry. Give 'im a few extra Turn ta mature fully in temperament, and..." Shrug. Whatever she was about to say is clipped off in favor of a thoughtful, "Think I'm gonna look fer a herding-type, some day..." Waggle-wiggle goes the spitty-wherry toy as the bluerider answers, "'Cause one uv them might mistake that toy once in yer hand fer a quick snack, an' pounce you 'r Warg fer possession uv' it." Eyeroll.

Alida suddenly becomes the most ''interesting'' person in the ''world'' as far as Warg is concerned. Well, her hand, that is. He scrambles onto paws that are still too big for him and clumsily face-plants at the wherry in an attempt to sink his underbite into it. "Herding-type? Interesting. Although... Having a dog on an ''actual'' ledge sounds a little dangerous." Unlike Azaylia's ground weyr. The scenerio painted by Alida only has Azaylia's smile growing, a heavy breath leaving her as she glances at her very not-glowing gold. "I suppose your right." Judging from the way she says it, it wouldn't be the ''worst'' thing in the world.

"It's all a ply so I c'n get a ground-level weyr..." Alida replies blandly, again rolling her eyes at Azaylia, then smirking a little as she factors in, "I'll either commission a door, 'r... well, have ta apply fer that ground weyr." Snert-shrug. "Guess I tend ta personally prefer a dog that c'n play many roles, if needed." Herd, track, companion...and - given Alida's proclivities - guard and fight, quite possibly. To Zay's laden sigh, the squatting bluie notes, "It's an Interval, Zay. She's young, strong, adaptable." Hraedhyth. More shaking of the wherry-toy and some continued and indulgent looks at wobbly-Warg presage a thoughtful though cautious, "Ever think uv' askin' for some new Blood...a transfer?"

"It isn't as if they're being used..." Azaylia manages to stifle a grimace at the harsh truth of it, having to walk by the empty homes on a daily basis. "A door sounds like the best, if strange, solution." Hraedhyth turns to stare at the riders when it becomes obvious she's being talked about-- felt through her bond, no doubt. "Oh I know..." But ''still''. Warg tries to yank Alida into some tug-of-war, snorting and grunting from the effort of holding onto the poor wherry's wing. "I thought about it." Honest, if a little curt, "It's not like a transfer is ''needed''. As you said, it's an Interval." Posessive? Guarded? Whatever it is, the Weyrwoman is obviously against the idea.

There's - at first - only a spare nod from Alida, the bluie knowing full well how Azaylia truly means her comment of the ground weyrs, though she's certainly not selfless enough to pass up a flat, "I'm not turnin' it down, though, if the offer's ever still on the table." Nose-wrinkle. She knows how 'higher ups' would react to a mere wingrider being offered a ground-weyr before them...but the hard flash in green eyes might make one think Alida would tell all of them to piss off. And then there's Warg (not Maude), his yanking inspiring her to a tight little smile, and a bent-around offering of the plucky little wherry's butt to his undershot jaw. "Yer gonna rip off 'is poor wing. What'll 'e fly with?" Snork. To the other woman's curtness, the blonde merely nods in apparently semi-distracted fashion, looking up only after a few moments have passed, whether she's successfully gotten Warg to take some wherry butt or not. Quietly, "I heard..." Like who *didn't*?! "...that Igen's eggs hatched out without incident." Unlike the problems 'Reaches, Fort have had, not to mention the paranoia at Telgar.

Azaylia doesn't look to be the one making such an offer, just shaking her head with a soft smile for Alida's tenacity. Warg doesn't seem terribly keen on answering the bluerider, far too busy trying to rip that wherry wing off. "Mm. I said my congratulations at the hatching. Maybe whatever effected Fort is passing?" And not High Reaches, because that was ''all Lythronath's fault''. With a glance up at the sky, "It's getting dark. Do you have time for a cup of tea?"

She figured there'd not be any real weyr offering... but a 'girl' has to try. As for Warg, Alida's just rolling her eyes at his bulldog tenacity, and playfully 'spanking' his pushed in head with that useless wherry butt while he tries to de-wing it. "Hard-head..." is her again-indulgent comment to the canine, greens flicking from dog to woman to observe the Weyrwoman as she again speaks. "Maybe..." is commented without judgement, the bluie then giving her contemporary a half-smile. "Yeah...nothin' ta do t'night." A squint up and over at Ilicaeth's position on the Rim inspires her to a low addition of, "Ilicaeth ain't gonna move 'is ass any time soon, either." Hraedhyth is a party to the blue's snarky baritone comment of, << Not with *that* crappy attitude... >> Snort! "If you've got it, I might go fer cinnamon 'n some honey..." She sounds at least a little hopeful as she slowly stands...lets Warg have his toy.

Hraedhyth's dark smoke curls, curious, << Is that not always her attitude? >> It could be Alida's 'bullying' of her canine, or her gold's comment that has Azaylia stifling a soft laugh behind her hand. Warg is triumphant! He gives the wherry a good thrashing in victory before turning to follow Azaylia as they head for home. "I have the cinnamon, at least." Along with a variety of other spiced and not-spiced flavors. No doubt the visit will end with Warg sleeping on somepart of Alida.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Azaylia

2015-01-03T08:56:36Z

Dragonshy: /* Relationships */

{{HrwProfile
|Has rank=
|picture=Shamili.jpg
|position=Senior Weyrwoman
|craft=Former Beastcrafter
|birthplace=Keroon
|mother=Lilhee
|father=Aziz
|siblings=Daizi (+7 Sister), Wheatley (-5 Brother), Bryar (-16 Brother)
|children=N/A
|friends=
|playedby=Baby Shamili
|livejournal=http://ncdragonshy.livejournal.com/
|Has rank=Weyrwoman
|face=blank.jpg
|name=Azaylia
|dragon=[http://hrweyr.net/hatch/clutch33/hraedhyth/ Gold Hraedhyth]
}}
== Born in a minor Hold in Keroon... ==

[[...to Beastcrafter Aziz and his wife Lihlee, Azaylia was what some may consider a typical farmgirl.]]

== Description ==

Strapping. At a height of 5'9", Azaylia is a balance of feminine curves and solid muscle. Bronze complexion is rounded throughout, toned physique proving that she's robust rather than overfed. Black, waist-length hair is typically worn in dual buns or a side braid, and often times the wavy locks escape to frame her face. Beneath thick brows, her warm gaze reveals a notably gentle nature, though experience has inspired a calm vigilance in those brown eyes. Rosy lips are shadowed beneath a long nose, straight bridge ending in a wide point. Active physique grants her with a what would be a predator's grace, if not for the sweet manner in which she carries herself.

== WYSK ==

*Originally from Keroon. Arrived on the same day as the Exiles, but as a Beastcraft Apprentice on Day 12, Month 12, Turn 25.

*Azaylia is soft spoken, her voice a whispery soprano. She also squeaks when startled.

*Asked to Stand for Cadejoth's and Ysavaeth's clutch, during which she was injured by and then Impressed to Gold Hraedhyth on Day 8, Month 12, Turn 28.

*Once rode in Glacier Wing (a goldrider!?!) and can be seen having a drink or playing poker with them from time to time.

*Has taken rather naturally to Weyrlife, and her casual promiscuity is well known by now.

*For ''whatever'' reason Azaylia allows Bones, an ex-convict, to sleep on her couch. Rumors abound.

== Relationships ==
*'''[[A'rist]]''': Lythronath's. ''A good boy riding a heap of bronze trouble. They're ''fun''.''
*'''[[Barnabas]]''': My Stray. ''Forever strange. The only person I trust.''
*'''[[Hana]]''': Assistant. ''I don't know how you have me looking so nice, but you manage it all with a smile.''
*'''[[K'del]]''': My Weyrleader. ''We make a good team. What we have now is enough-- better than before.''
*'''[[R'hin]]''': Rapscallion. ''Fun, obnoxious, helpful ''and'' infuriating… usually all at once. Still… ''still''.''
*'''[[Taikrin]]''': Glaciar Wingleader. ''I don't think I'll ever stop feeling guilty... I'm sorry.''
*'''[[K'zin]]''': Scarred. ''You've changed. I wish it had come without so much pain, but... it's not a bad thing.''
*'''[[Alida]]''': Odd. ''I know you have a temper, even if I don't see much of it. I hope you find balance.''
*'''[[V'ros]]''': Poor Thing. ''It can't be healthy, to be wound up so tight. I hope Zmeyth helps. I certainly can't.''

'''ELSE-WEYR'''
*'''[http://beyourownguide.livejournal.com/ Hattie]''': Friend. ''Our Weyrs have had their differences, but I'm glad we can be there for each other. We can be more than ''just'' Weyrwomen.''
*'''[http://elise-ftw.livejournal.com/ Elise]''': Transferred. ''You'll earn your junior's knot, I know it. I hope Southern is a better fit.''
*'''[[Lujayn]]''': Honshu Weyrwoman. ''I'm glad you finally found a Weyr of your own.''
*'''[[D'kan]]''': Transferred. ''I'll try and visit when I can. I miss our talks.''
*'''M'kris''': Bastard. ''If there's any justice in the world, this will be your ''last'' time as Weyrleader.''
*'''[http://vhaeryth.livejournal.com/ N'rov]''': Aishani's. ''I wonder what you really where to each other.''
*'''[[Tiriana]]''': Phantom. ''I am ''not'' you, and I never will be.''
*'''[[Z'ian]]''': Once Weyrleader. ''We had to move on, for the good of the Weyr but... we still miss you.''

'''HOLDERS'''
*'''[[Devaki]]''': Exile Lord. ''Devoted to your people and your duties. We have that in common.''
*'''[[Issedi]]''': Lady-Friend. ''I'm happy that you have a Lord who cares and... so many (many) babies on the way. Just like you wanted.''

'''DECEASED'''
*'''[[Aishani]]''': Gone. ''Sometimes, your death feels like another one of your lies. Another game. I don't feel as guilty, then.''
*'''[[I'kris]]''': The Fallen. ''I am so very, very sorry.''
*'''[[Iolene]]''': Exile Queen. ''Liar. I was surprised, once. Now I'm not. Still, I don't think it deserved death.''

== Azaylia & Hraedhyth's Soundtrack ==

{|style="width: 100%;"
|-valign="top"
|style="width: 50%;"|

* [http://youtu.be/Hva5KS8TFEQ Halestorm – Mz. Hyde]

:''Welcome to the nightmare in my head (OH GOD!)
:''Say hello to something scary
:''The monster in your bed (MY GOD!)
:''Just give in and you won't be sorry
:''Welcome to my other side,
:''Hello it's Mz. Hyde.

* [http://youtu.be/MeO1OJGFTlg Sara Bareilles – Uncharted]

:''Now I have too much to hold
:''Everybody has to get their hands on gold
:''And I want uncharted.

:''I'm already out
:''Of foolproof ideas
:''So don't ask me how to get started
:''It's all uncharted.

* [http://youtu.be/O8imRMXHAxc Sara Bareillis - Let the Rain]

:''I wish I were pretty
:''I wish I were brave.
:''If I owned this city
:''I'd make it behave.

:''I want to darken in the skies
:''Open the floodgates up
:''I want to change my mind
:''I want to ''be enough''
:''I want the water in my eyes
:''I want to cry until the end of time.

:''Let the rain come down
:''Make a brand new ground
:''Let the rain come down
:''Tonight.

|
* [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kg2AdF76Z60 Florence And The Machine - Drumming Song]

:''There's a drumming noise inside my head''
:''That throws me to the ground''
:''I swear that you should hear it''
:''It makes such an almighty sound.''

:''Louder than sirens''
:''Louder than bells''
:''Sweeter than heaven''
:''And hotter than hell.''

:''It fills up my head and gets louder and louder.''

* [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vn8gMoRoORI Sara Bareillis - Lie To Me]

:''Tell the truth, no lies''
:''I can take it''
:''Bend your breath, just this once.''

:''Run your mouth''
:''I bet I can catch it''
:''You sound just like a Judas.''

:''And if there's anything I learned''
:''That will keep me standing''
:''If I take you at your word''
:''Then I'm empty handed''
:''A tongue like yours should be burned and branded''
:''So I can see you lie to me.''

|}

== RP Logs ==
The full list is available [[Azaylia/Logs|here.]] See also: [[Azaylia/Mentions| logs Azaylia is mentioned in.]]

{{PrettyLogsAll | name = Azaylia}}

== TV Tropes ==
(Shamelessly stolen from [[Brieli]]. ~<3)

* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/ShrinkingViolet Shrinking Violet]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/ApologisesALot Apologises A Lot]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/LightFeminineAndDarkFeminine Light Feminine]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/NotSoWeak Not So Weak]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/BewareTheNiceOnes Beware The Nice Ones]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/PeekABangs Peek A Bangs]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/Adorkable Adorkable]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/FluffyTamer Fluffy Tamer]
* [http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/CutenessProximity Cuteness Proximity]

=== D&D Character ===

As per [http://www.easydamus.com/character.html this]:

'''Lawful Good Human Paladin'''

''Alignment:''
Lawful Good: A lawful good character acts as a good person is expected or required to act. He combines a commitment to oppose evil with the discipline to fight relentlessly. He tells the truth, keeps his word, helps those in need, and speaks out against injustice. A lawful good character hates to see the guilty go unpunished. Lawful good is the best alignment you can be because it combines honor and compassion. However, lawful good can be a dangerous alignment when it restricts freedom and criminalizes self-interest.

''Race:''
Humans are the most adaptable of the common races. Short generations and a penchant for migration and conquest have made them physically diverse as well. Humans are often unorthodox in their dress, sporting unusual hairstyles, fanciful clothes, tattoos, and the like.

''Class:''
Paladin: Paladins take their adventures seriously, and even a mundane mission is, in the heart of the paladin, a personal test an opportunity to demonstrate bravery, to learn tactics, and to find ways to do good. Divine power protects these warriors of virtue, warding off harm, protecting from disease, healing, and guarding against fear. The paladin can also direct this power to help others, healing wounds or curing diseases, and also use it to destroy evil. Experienced paladins can smite evil foes and turn away undead. A paladin's Wisdom score should be high, as this determines the maximum spell level that they can cast. Many of the paladin's special abilities also benefit from a high Charisma score.

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]
[[Category:Crafters]]
[[Category:Beastcrafters]]
[[Category:Leadership]]
[[Category:Riders]]
[[Category:Goldriders]]
[[Category:Aurora_Wing]]
[[Category:Keroon_Hold]]
{{Character-Categories}}

Logs:A Flame Extinguished

2014-11-29T08:41:14Z

Dragonshy:

{{ Log
| who = Azaylia, K'del{{!}}Cadejoth, Azaylia{{!}}Hraedhyth, Alida{{!}}Ilicaeth, Teris{{!}}Iskiveth, K'zin, Minara, Miska, Quinlys, K'zin{{!}}Rasavyth, Teris, Leova{{!}}Vrianth, V'ros{{!}}Zmeyth
| where = Snowasis, Garden Patio Ledge and Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Teris of Telgar (once of 'Reaches) visits home. Iskiveth is lost. Teris lingers. There's aftermath.
| when = Day 9, month 6, turn 36
| gamedate = 2014.12.03
| quote = Iskiveth never reappears above High Reaches. Iskiveth never appears ''anywhere''. Her flame has been extinguished in the unforgiving cold of between.
| weather =
| categories = 
| mentions = T'volt, Telavi
| ooc = Played on 11/28/14, forward dated.
| icons = azaylia thinking.jpg, k'del cadejoth.jpg, azaylia hraedhyth.jpg, alida ilicaeth sentry.jpg, k'zin lookaway.jpg, minara main.jpg, miska tightlipped.png, quinlys.jpg, k'zin rasavyth.jpg, teris.jpg, leova vrianth the-light-blinds.jpg, v'ros zmeyth rich.jpg
| desc =
| log = Dragon> There's no ceremony in the way that the fiery, formerly Reachian queen arrives in her Weyr of hatching. Iskiveth circles the bowl lazily to make her presence known because she enjoys the attention. It's a particular ledge that she angles toward, Rasavyth's, before veering away to land in the bowl near the Snowasis' patio instead. (To local dragons from Iskiveth)

Dragon> There's no ceremony in the way that the fiery, formerly Reachian queen arrives in her Weyr of hatching. Iskiveth circles the bowl lazily to make her presence known because she enjoys the attention. Her fire, though, is burning a steady trail toward Rasavyth. So he ought to ''know'' she's here before she says, << We've come to visit. Teris would like to know where yours is. >> Not, evidently, whether she's welcome or not. (To Rasavyth from Iskiveth)

Dragon> Fire collides with shimmer and it ignites in a reflection of her heat. He's ''so different'' now from when he first arrived in Telgar. Can she remember back so far? Not so different from the end. ''Amusement'' is the first thing to ooze her way after the heat, his mind roused from a nap as if her presence were only enough to intrude upon his exquisite somnolence once she began to speak. << Welcome Iskiveth, >> if it's a false feeling, there's no trace beyond that usual aftertaste of 'wrong' that is just part of the bronze's signature touch. << How pleasant it is to have you here. >> Is that not answering her question about K'zin? Surely he's just forgotten as he stretches expansively on his wide ledge. (To Iskiveth from Rasavyth)

Dragon> Ignoring his niceties, feigned or otherwise, Iskiveth demands, << Is he in his weyr? >> She even angles toward the ledge where the bronze lounges. Perhaps she'll just allow Teris to look for herself. And if he's not there, maybe whatever Teris wants will be there instead. Iskiveth is probably not incredibly clear on what it is that her rider wants with the bronzerider. (To Rasavyth from Iskiveth)

Dragon> Hm? What? << ''Oh'', >> Rasavyth shifts on the ledge to occupy ''as much space as possible'', though he cannot really take up enough room to keep her from landing if that's her desire, though it doesn't seem like that's his ''intention'', just the happenstance effect of his stretching. << No, my K'zin isn't in our weyr. >> For a moment it might seem that that's all. But lest she really think to drop Teris off on his ledge where he might accidentally squish her or something equally awful and totally accidental and regrettable, he volunteers, as if he hadn't already been asked, << He's having a drink. >> (To Iskiveth from Rasavyth)

Dragon> It ''does'' look as though Iskiveth might land on his ledge anyway. But his last comment has her veering away and down toward the bowl with a backdraft of annoyed heat that is definitely not gratitude. (To Rasavyth from Iskiveth)

Dragon> To local dragons, Cadejoth, lingering up at the rim as he is wont to do, draws back on his haunches as the Telgari queen arrives, greeting her with a low rumble. It's clearly not ''his'' memory that identifies her as semi-belonging; still, it's there in the way he reaches out for the queen, knowing wrapped about each of those jangling, merry chains. << Iskiveth. >> Daughter. Not forgotten. << Welcome. >>

Late spring sees more temperate weather as the days creep closer and closer to summer. It makes the Garden Patio Ledge more inviting and the Snowasis proper less so, especially as it's still a bit before twilight so the evening chill has yet to set in. There are faces enough though, and one of them happens to be K'zin, settled at a booth, its table taken up by wide pages that are used for designs or other things that need a large than average writeable area. He's pouring over them as if smithing were still his job, despite the very obvious wingrider knot on the shoulder of the jacket hung at the end of the booth. He has a beer, mostly untouched, but ''something'' to patronize the establishment while he occupies a table. If it were rush time, surely there'd be pressure for him to share the space, but not yet!

He didn't say ''where'' K'zin was having a drink, but apparently Teris is willing to look for him in the most obvious of places before coming back to the bronze to demand more information. Iskiveth drops her rider off near the patio ledge, mantling her wings in a deliberate display to let people gawk at the now foreign gold while Teris ascends the stairs. When she doesn't find the particular face she's looking for on the patio, she moves inside. It doesn't take her long to find K'zin after that and she shows up to stand at the end of his booth's table. "I need help." She probably meant 'hello.'

Dragon> But look, Rasavyth can make it better; he knows her weakness. << Should you like to go flaming while you visit? >> He doesn't mean ''her'' flaming, of course, but him, ''for her''. (To Iskiveth from Rasavyth)

The fact that K'zin looks genuinely surprised when Teris shows up at the end of his booth means that Rasavyth did not, apparently, deign to tell his rider that the Telgari goldrider was looking for him. "Teris?" almost as if his eyes were playing tricks on him, as if the goldrider couldn't possibly be ''here'', in 'Reaches, where Iskiveth was shelled. "Hi." He meant 'hi.' His brows crinkle in confusion, but a moment later, there's some kind of manners kicking in and he gestures to invite her to join him, hurriedly moving to roll up the pages and tie them with the leather cords there for that purpose.

Dragon> To Rasavyth, Iskiveth wants to be angry with Rasavyth because she vastly prefers minions who answer her questions when she asks them over ones who talk in circles and press her buttons. But... ''fire''. She doesn't hide her enthusiasm very well when she says, <> It means she'll have to leave her audience, but fire is more fun, so Iskiveth is back in the air with a terrible bugle.

Dragon> To local dragons, Rasavyth's amusement is obvious enough as the queen angles toward his ledge and he stretches upon it. His tenor purr of welcome is audible though the rest kept from the interested minds of the Weyr. Shortly, the aristocratic bronze is taking flight from his ledge and circling high in the sky before blinking between, riderless, to appear -- well, who knows. ''Elsewhere'', anyway.

Sitting isn't what Teris wants, but since he's clearing space for her, she'll perch on the edge of the booth's seat on the other side of the table. She looks anxious and tired, somewhat gaunt, even. "You know I wouldn't come if it wasn't important, K'zin. But I can't get it ''anywhere'' right now and I really need it." She expects him to know precisely what she's talking about. "Do you have any?"

Dragon> To K'zin, Rasavyth isn't surprised. How could he be? What other reason would ''Teris'' have for finding him. << No. >> Flat.

Dragon> It's not difficult for Rasavyth to take up the small satchel of firestone kept with his things for practice. Not difficult in the least to launch from his ledge with it between his claws and to give the gold an image of a plateau just outside the Weyr or to blink there himself and land. It's not ''neat'', but it's not difficult to slice open the sack and chew the stone and think of his ''other'' stomach. They've only done it a hundred thousand times in their five turns together. So Rasavyth shall pass the time delighting Iskiveth with his flame, directed at the unsuspecting budding greenery. (To Iskiveth from Rasavyth)

Dragon> To High Reaches dragons, Iskiveth is enjoying making a display of mantled wings and snapping jaws for the people enjoying their time on the patio where she drops off her rider. It won't distract her from returning her sire's greeting with a smoky, << Cadejoth. >> What ''does'' distract her is Rasavyth's flight. The small, pointy queen is back in the air as soon as the bronze disappears. << We flame! >> is her excuse for abandoning the Weyr again before she's following him between.

"I'm surprised to see you." K'zin will confirm, because she ''wouldn't'' come if... He's quiet a moment and then reaches for his mostly untouched beer, sipping it. "I don't." Then, of course, "But I can get it." Can't he always? If he ''wants'' to?

Dragon> How ''dare'' he. <> The purr this time is harder, ''dangerous''. (Rasavyth to K'zin)

Dragon> << This isn't your choice. >> Simple. Direct. ''Defiant''. (K'zin to Rasavyth)

Dragon> Low-lying static from Vrianth. Vrianth, who does ''not'' get to flame, not just now. (To High Reaches dragons from Vrianth)

Dragon> To High Reaches dragons, Cadejoth's cautious in his observation of Iskiveth - her snapping jaws, seen from above, and that abrupt return to flight. Perhaps he's relieved to see her go again; perhaps not. Still; there's a rattle and a clank, and some hint of pride. ''Daughter''. Still part of his whole; his pack. Peripherally.

Dragon> To Rasavyth, Iskiveth has ''tried'' to flame before. But it wasn't pleasant. No doubt Teris reminds her of it often enough that she can never forget how awful it was. But that just means she has to enjoy the displays that she gets. And she is ''very much'' enjoying Rasavyth's private show just for her. Especially when she decides to try ripping some younger foliage out of the ground so she can drop it and for him to try flaming midair.

Dragon> A dark tail hanging from a small ledge high up above the hatching caverns twitches, and Zmeyth, not bothering to interrogate the gold himself, reaches out to his sire with smoky fingers. << Ours? >> (To High Reaches dragons from Zmeyth)

Of course Teris interprets this 'can' as ''will''. She seems ''relieved'' in only the way a strung out addict can seem relieved. "I knew I could count on you, K'zin. What do you want for it? I could share, if you wanted. It would be nice."

Dragon> To Iskiveth, Rasavyth excels in some dragonly areas more than others. Betweening, for example, is what he's ''best'' at, but flaming wasn't one of his best things... until he had hours and ''hours'' of practice for Iskiveth's entertainment back at Telgar, complete with her particular brand of constant ''constructive criticism''. So ''now'' when she drops the saplings, he gets it more often than he misses. ''Improvement'', but not perfection.

Dragon> A pause, from the weyrleader dragon. << Part of us, >> he suggests, instead. << Part of our greater whole. >> Philosophy is not his strong point, but there's an illustration, nonetheless: a web mesh, with tendrils extending far out over the planet. Iskiveth belongs; so does Honshu's Rielsath. Even - and perhaps with some reluctance - Ierne's Iovniath. (To High Reaches dragons from Cadejoth)

Only 'can' isn't 'will,' judging by the way that K'zin is sitting back and giving her a considering look. "For old time's sake," he intones as if it's not nice at all. "Are you sure it's a good idea, Teris?" Because it's totally the bronzerider's place to question what's good for the foreign goldrider. "Maybe getting off it would be better." He suggests quietly.

Dragon> << Great. >> Zmeyth gets the picture - misses the picture? << You can introduce us. >> (To High Reaches dragons from Zmeyth)

Dragon> To Rasavyth, Iskiveth is not exactly the sort of dragon anyone would want in charge of anything. For all Rasavyth gets most of them, it's the ones he ''doesn't'' manage that the gold seems to notice more. Which isn't to say that she's not enjoying herself. She just doesn't seem to care if the bronze is doing the same. But that's pretty much business as usual for Iskiveth.

Dragon> Intruder? Not intruder? Though Iskiveth's Cadejoth's daughter, she certain hasn't been part of 'Reaches in long enough to satisfy the security-aware blue. Ms. 'Snappy' out there gets a thorough eyeballing while the dragon's genial baritone rumbles an apparently blithe greeting. (To High Reaches dragons from Ilicaeth)

Teris is confused by K'zin's words since she was pretty set on the ''will''. She frowns, eyeing him like she's not sure what's going on. "I'll decide what's a good idea for me, bronzerider. And I'll decide when I think it's time to get off of it." Probably never, admittedly. "I'll give you whatever money you need for it."

"I don't need money." That should come as no surprise to Teris. K'zin has never needed money. "And I'm not going to get you any." It's simple enough. The bronzerider even drains his beer and shifts toward the edge of the booth.

Teris ''stares'' at the bronzerider for a long few moments, brows furrowed deeply. He was just telling her he could get it and now he's telling her he won't? "What do you mean you're not going to? That's not acceptable, K'zin. I ''need'' it. You know how it feels. You have to help me."

K'zin stops at the end of the booth, standing now, leaning in to reach for his papers with a long-suffering sigh. "I know ''exactly'' how it feels. How it felt then, how it feels now." Then a snap to temper, "Don't you think I ''want'' to?" Won't he ''always'' want to? "But I ''can't'', Teris. I just can't." He straightens. "I'm sorry," because that helps right?

Dragon> << ''Good''. >> Rasavyth is approving of K'zin's choice, even if it still chafes that ''his'' K'zin defied him, however momentary. The thought is fleeting: Solith's Telavi would be proud. (Rasavyth to K'zin)

Dragon> Introduce them? The thought seems to amuse Cadejoth, who doesn't stir from his post; who doesn't reply. (To High Reaches dragons from Cadejoth)

Dragon> To High Reaches dragons, Iskiveth is busy with ''fire'' now. Please leave a message with Cadejoth, comes the sentiment to all who care to hear it. He can tell her all the unimportant things she's not missing when she's done watching the world burn.

"''No''. You are ''going'' to help me." Teris is shifting out of the booth so she can look down at him with narrowed eyes, which is a feat considering she's considerably shorter than he is. "I got your boyfriend his knot. And I ''will'' have it taken from him." If he doesn't help her, presumably.

That arrests K'zin in his tracks away from the table. He turns back toward the Telgari goldrider. His look isn't quite a glare but it's not really all that friendly either. His consideration isn't short.

Dragon> << Don't! >> Rasavyth's anger hisses to life as K'zin wavers in his resolve. << You ''won't''. >> He tries. (Rasavyth to K'zin)

Dragon> << Can I not? >> ''T'volt''. K'zin's heart aches. (K'zin to Rasavyth)

Dragon> << He doesn't matter. >> This cold, cruel judgment borders on painful as it bores into the bronzerider, then seeps back and way when Rasavyth feels his K'zin give in. Then that cold, cruel judgment and that hissing anger is turned on another target, though she may never know it. She'll ''always'' be a threat. (Rasavyth to K'zin)

Then, finally. "Fine. I should never have asked to begin with. He'd've gotten it on his own in time." And now K'zin's fucked it all up, hasn't he? But that's still a no for Teris and her thirst.

Dragon> Frustration that borders on anger hisses to life from an unlikely source. Rasavyth just missed that sapling that Iskiveth dropped for him to flame. He shouldn't be so angry, but he is, and the whole Weyr can know it, however briefly, before the wall goes up. (To High Reaches dragons from Rasavyth)

Dragon> Hraedhyth's drums thunder even louder now, impossible to miss and obviously a territorial display-- as much as her bulk sitting on the rim of the Weyr is. But ''fire'', especially in fun, is something the gold can and does find joy in. Her own flame burns hot, crackling with encouragement and fiendish laughter from her ominous ranks as she encourages the dragons as they leave. Go on, you crazy pups! (To High Reaches dragons from Hraedhyth)

Teris' anger is palpable. She's so angry she doesn't even know what to do for a few moments. But this isn't the anger of a rational person. This is the desperation of an unwell woman who doesn't think she has anywhere else to turn. "He'll never have ''anything'' again," she doesn't quite scream at the bronzerider before she's turning to storm her way out toward the patio.

Dragon> Static. The rangy green prowls, silent. (To High Reaches dragons from Vrianth)

Dragon> Lack of spoken answer from Cadejoth is sufficient enough for the brown. Zmeyth'll wait his turn. He returns to quietly observing from his niche in the Weyr wall, unobtrusive. (To High Reaches dragons from Zmeyth)
----

'''Garden Patio Ledge, High Reaches Weyr

''Partly sheltered by the curving stone overhang, partly exposed to the weather, the wide stone patio serves as a balcony for socializing or just plain drinking on a sizable scale. The repurposed ledge might once have let two large dragons land, but now there's too much furniture for that: two rustic tables with attendant chairs, plus a couple more in particularly good weather, and a wrought iron bench situated to make the most of the view of the western bowl and the lake beyond.

''Other changes include rough little niches carved out of the stone walls to hold glows in colored bottles at night, the climbing plant that's being trained to grow up along the overhang, and the blue ceramic pots of flowers that dot the edge of the ledge as a colorful reminder not to fall off.

''An archway leads to the Snowasis itself, housed in the ledge's former weyr, while a few wide steps descend along the wall to the bowl.
----

K'zin probably can't help himself. What can he say that would make any of this better? "Teris," it's pleading, like a scorned lover. He doesn't seem to know what ''else'' to say beyond that as he trails the obviously ''pissed'' Telgari goldrider. "You need help, Teris." That'll make it better, right?

Out on the patio, Quinlys has her feet up on the seat, a glass on the table in front of her. She's off-duty, plainly, and probably out here to avoid inconvenient weyrlings-and-others; lost in her thoughts she may be, but raised and pleading voices ''do'' rather draw her attention, blue eyes narrowing in upon the gold- and bronzerider pair.

Dragon> To High Reaches dragons, Iskiveth isn't angry, exactly. Not like the brief glimpse into Rasavyth. But she's ''frustrated''. With the bronze, with her rider, with ''his'' rider. << If yours is going to ''fight'', make him do it properly. >> Whatever that means. << Teris needs me. >> The rush of air fans her temperamental fire as she rises higher into the sky, preparing to return to High Reaches for her rider.

Talk of Teris' arrival moves slower than dragon gossip, the only kind Azaylia is vaguely aware of. By the time Azaylia arrives to the Snowasis, however, the visiting goldrider and K'zin are heading out to the patio. High Reaches' Weyrwoman wears a faint look of concern when she catches a few plaintive notes from the bronzerider. Oh dear. Rather than interrupt right away, she slows her steps, not to be sly, but waiting for an appropriate time to introduce herself.

Teris storms a path toward the bowl with K'zin on her heels. His words, though, make her stop and round back on him with her hands lifted up to shove at his chest. Her voice breaks as she yells back at him, "I was asking ''you'' to help me. But you won't!"

Dragon> As Iskiveth makes the choice to return, Hraedhyth draws back up onto her haunches from where she was laying. She would do nothing to keep a dragon from her rider, but it's obvious her drums pick up with faint agitation at the thought. Though born of 'Reaches the senior queen 'knows' she's from Telgar. Beneath her drums there are hushed growls and murmurs, smoke curling with curiosity. A fight? (To High Reaches dragons from Hraedhyth)

Dragon> << Of course, >> the 'Reaches bronze is ever obliging of the foreign queen. Whatever anger there was seem to have fled away from Rasavyth with the falling of the unscorched sapling. His wings lift, he flies higher. If she is not here on this plateau, there's no reason he ought to stay either. Home, they'll go. ''His'' home. Once hers. His oozy charm is all that meets his Weyrleader's bronze. They're just coming home. Teris needs her! (To High Reaches dragons from Rasavyth)

Dragon> To High Reaches dragons, Cadejoth waits, then. Settles back, the pair of dragons yet to arrive, but bound to be within his sight any moment.

That eyes are on them can't be unknown to K'zin, but he's busy being shoved, albeit by Teris, so he doesn't do more than obligingly rock back on his heels when it happens. "''Teris''," because saying her name pleadingly is going to work the second time even if it had no effect on her the first time. "I can't." He's said it before and he'll say it again. "Come to the infirmary," he tries, "Maybe someone there can help you."

Quinlys' attention is caught by Teris and K'zin, yes, but she's eyes - draconic eyes - in the bowl, and Azaylia's presence does not go unnoticed. The bluerider rises, feet drawn back to the ground as her glass is set down. "K'zin?" she ventures. And, "Teris? Is everything--?" It's twilight, but the glows are out; she can see well enough.

The shove prompts Azaylia to cross the distance between her and the pair, but it's 'infirmary' that has her eyes flicking to Teris. Manners and duties are forgone as she frowns, "You're not hurt, are you? Did something happen?" Though she glances at K'zin when she asks, there's no accusation in her gaze. Just concern.

Minara comes out to the patio from the direction of the Snowasis, drink in hand. Her footsteps slow to a stop as she takes in the scene, questioning looks given the riders. Min moves again, but slowly, heading toward one of the tables at the edge, though not sitting just yet.

Dragon> Everything is fine. Except for the parts that aren't. The only response from Iskiveth to her sire, to the Weyr at large, though, is a blast of searing, agitated heat. Her rider is upset, ''she's'' upset. It's time to go home. The small queen's heat subsides when she blinks between. But it doesn't come back. Iskiveth never reappears above High Reaches. Iskiveth never appears ''anywhere''. Her flame has been extinguished in the unforgiving cold of between. (To High Reaches dragons from Iskiveth)

Dragon> To High Reaches dragons, Cadejoth is one of the first to react; to note, first, the way that heat subsides, and then, so quickly, the abrupt realisation... she's ''gone''. << '''''ISKIVETH!''''' >> No. Nonononono''no''.

Dragon> It's only the usual number heartbeats before Rasavyth appears in the familiar sky above the bowl. When he does, she isn't ''anywhere''. There's a flash of confusion before he's burying it, along with everything else save for the keening. The keening that comes for Iskiveth. The keening that must be happening ''right now'', at Telgar. The keening for the gold that was once, ''of Reaches''. (To High Reaches dragons from Rasavyth)

Dragon> Hraedhyth may not have been pleased by Iskiveth's presence, but it's nothing compared to the sudden longing for that agitation once those rival flames are snuffed out. << Iskiveth. >> Her fire roars, the queen launching into the air where the older gold should have arrived. Searching. She narrowly misses Rasavyth, spinning in the air to avoid a collision, << Iskiveth! >> An order. A demand. And then, as she falls to find Cadejoth, a savage keen is ripped from her throat. (To High Reaches dragons from Hraedhyth)

Dragon> Vrianth may not ''be'' flaming, but she very much ''can''... and some flames should never be put out. She keens, clear and cold between every ragged reach for breath. (To High Reaches dragons from Vrianth)

"I don't want to go the infirmary. I want to go ''home''," says the goldrider from Telgar, distracted only briefly by her name coming from Quinlys, by Azaylia's presence. And then by something else. Teris goes still. She even stops breathing. It takes a few moments for it to sink in before she's sucking in a breath and whispering, "Iskiveth." But it doesn't stay a whisper for very long. "ISKIVETH," screams Teris as she fights with legs that are trying to give out so she can run toward the stairs, toward the bowl. "ISKIVETH!" Screaming at the sky will surely bring her back.

Dragon> Zmeyth has been quiet - perhaps mulling over that impending, or lack of, introduction - but the disappearance of Iskiveth rips a keen from the brown like he would mourn any other dragon he knows, like he mourned Iesaryth months before. He does stay on his ledge, preferring to wallow in his own sadness than join the open-air search of the gold. (To High Reaches dragons from Zmeyth)

Does K'zin react faster than he should? It must just be good reflexes as he reaches for Teris and her not quite wholly buckling knees. Strong arms catch her up even as his wide eyes move fleetingly across Azaylia to Quinlys. The keening says before he can that everything is far from alright. His look at Quinlys begs without words, ''what should he do''? A ragged breath later all he can manage is a half-choked, "She's gone, Teris. Teris, she's ''gone''."

Quinlys' own knees threaten to buckle as that keen rises up through the Weyr; is there anything worse that a rider could possibly imagine? She struggles to stay on her feet, though, and to hurry forward, to reach the group of riders she'd been, thus far, staying back from. "Infirmary," she suggests, though it's dubious; her gaze is already sliding to her own dragon, and ''surely'' she can't imagine-- "They'll know what to do," is an attempt at certainty.

Dragon> To High Reaches dragons, Cadejoth, high up on the rim, waits for Hraedhyth to join him. He mourns; his keen is long and deep and heartwrenching. His ''daughter'' is gone. (''Another'' of his daughters.)

Azaylia's breath catches in her throat, but not before a strangled sound can leave, one that has her hands slapping over her mouth. She looks to the skies, reassured by her own gold's bulky physique as it barrels toward the rim. "I..." Quinlys has the right of it, and the goldrider nods, trying to escort the now dragonless woman. "They'll have fellis. And just..." What can she possibly say? Nothing. But she's there, as hands on as her own strength needs to be should K'zin's muscles falter.

Minara jumps as everything in the riders' area goes haywire. Min's face goes blank one moment, then shocked the next. Cue an exit back into the Snowasis, drink left somewhere along the way to do whatever it is non-riders do in a situation like this.

"No!" Teris doesn't want to accept what's happened. What dragonrider ''would''? "''No''," she says again, this time more pleading, more like a sob. "She can't be ''gone''. You have to find her. Somebody has to ''find'' her! Please!" But it won't be Teris with the way she's sinking against the bronzerider, body giving up at being self sufficient in any way as far as standing goes. She's so outside of herself that she doesn't even hear what Azaylia says.

"No!" K'zin's own blurt is a practical echo of Teris, but it's ''to'' Azaylia when she makes the suggestion of fellis, his cheeks darkening in a dusky flush. But whatever he means by that will have to wait because he has to focus on the goldrider collapsing into him. He shifts so he can sweep her into the cradle of his arms, keeping her gently against his chest. "You'll come?" He asks pleadingly of Quinlys though he almost certainly means Azaylia too. It sounds much like a plea that he should not have to be alone with this. He looks a little numb, but each step toward the infirmary is steady enough and taken in grim silence.

Quinlys will leave the actual physical moving to the two taller riders, but K'zin's desperate plea prompts an immediate nod. She'll even lead the way, clearing the path of the confused and the gawking.

Teris' cry is expected, but it's K'zin's that has Azaylia's steps faltering. She recovers quickly enough, although there's a stern set in her brow, "If she needs it, yes." He might catch her hushed whimper of, "Better than a knife." But she's there at the bronzerider's side, a hand on the back of his upper arm as Quinlys clears the way. Her gaze flicks between watching where they're going and the once goldrider in K'zin's arms.
----

'''Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr

''Two sets of double doors, one from the the inner caverns and a recently built set from the dragon infirmary, lead into the unnaturally hushed human infirmary. Despite fastidious cleaning, the scent of redwort and numbweed has long since soaked into every smooth-carved surface, along with other, subtler medicinal smells. Pristinely made cots are lined up against the walls; most of them are left open to view, but some in the back are surrounded by curtains for delicate procedures or critical patients.

''About halfway between the two entrances is the counter for the healers on duty; it guards the entrance to the storage rooms just beyond, their shelves and cabinets lined with meticulously labeled bottles, boxes, jars, and even vats of supplies. The Weyrhealer's office is also here, along with another side room for mixing up medicines and the like.
----

They can't be unexpected. Twilight is settling on the Weyr still, and the keens no longer echo, but it would only take one rider in the vicinity to know what spreads through the Weyr like wildfire: Iskiveth ''gone'', and Teris ''lingering''. Quinlys leads the way, followed by K'zin carrying the Telgari goldrider and Azaylia spotting him lest his own knees give out, and by the time they get to the infirmary, despite the former smith's strength, they seem like they just might. He must ''wish'' to go to his own dragon in the bowl, but instead, he's here.

To say they are expecting the Telgari goldrider is an understatement. High Reaches' interim infirmary leader is standing near the entrance, thumbing through paperwork with a calm-and-collected look him. Another Journeyman stands at his elbow, clearly fretting, and worse off is the apprentice standing on his other side, wiping her sweaty palms over and over again on the front of her apron. Miska looks up when the dragonriders appear and gestures for them to follow, past the seats for those waiting to be seen, past the curtained off cots for the regular patients, and directly to the hallway with its private rooms that the blonde healer much prefers to wide-open care. He doesn't ''appear'' to have any sympathy for the beleaguered bronzerider or any of his followers, though both Weyrlingmaster and Weyrwoman get deep nods of appreciation for their part in things.

Quinlys may be the first to arrive, but she's also the first to step back out of the way; "Look after her," she instructs Miska, gaze flicking from him to the other healers, then towards Azaylia and K'zin. "I need to check on the weyrlings." And perhaps there's such a thing as too many cooks. "Look-- after her. Just--- just that." That's when she backs away; that's when she hurries off before she can say anything else. She might even be crying.

In K'zin's arms, Teris is conscious, presumably, but silent. She's pale and unresponsive, looking very much like she's in shock even though nothing, physically, has happened to her. Probably just her brain's way of coping right now. Enjoy the calm while it lasts, healers.

It's best to stand back and let the healers do what they can, and to demand otherwise would be an insult to the staff. As Quinlys turns to leave, "Have Olveraeth let Hraedhyth know, if... if we're needed." If it's too much for the weyrlings. Miska is given a rushed nod of return, and it's now that the Weyrwoman begins to fidget. She can't ''do'' anything. "Teris..." She may not know the woman that well, but she plans on staying through it all.

K'zin follows where he is led, despite an almost desperate look back at Quinlys. Otherwise his expression largely blank, if occasionally betraying worry and pain. He follows her and he's careful when he deposits Teris on the bed in the private room, taking a knee beside it as though, perhaps, he needs a moment to gather himself before he can safely find his own feet. In that moment his deep brown eyes find Azaylia, and there is ''guilt''. Then he's putting his forehead down against the edge of the mattress and he waits. He probably couldn't say for what, but he waits.

Once they're shuffled into the room and the Weyrlingmaster takes her leave, someone closes the door with a silent 'snick' sound. Miska's apprentice immediately goes to the sideboards and starts moving things around, a touch loudly. That leaves the two journeymen to stare, unmoving, at the bronzerider's antics at the bedside and the Weyrwoman's anxious fidgeting. They don't appear to be amused, but neither do they seem to have much patience for sentiment. It's Miska who breaks the silence first. "We appreciate your resolve," he pauses for emphasis, "but she needs to ''rest''." And that's where he leaves it, looking to each of the two remaining dragonriders in turn.

Teris doesn't protest being put down. It's hard to tell if she even notices until she starts to wrap her arms around herself. If she could curl into a proper ball, though, she probably would. She tries what she can, back to K'zin. "Fellis," is the only word she finally says. If ''ever'' there was a time for it, it's right now.

Azaylia holds K'zin's gaze, confusion visible behind the sheen of unshed tears. She's there, placing a hand on his shoulder and giving a tight squeeze, looking toward Teris' prone figure. She remains silent until Miska speaks, recovering from her surprise to utter quietly, "How are we disturbing her rest?" There's a glance for that noisy apprentice, broad shoulders tense as she makes no move to leave. Teris snaps her out of her protective lean, her demand rather expected from the goldrider. There's an expectant look toward Miska, though silent. She won't be disruptive, but the Weyrwoman isn't going anywhere.

If ever there ''were'' a time... K'zin looks torn as he looks up again. He takes a breath and says-- ''nothing''. He leans his forehead back on the bed. Apparently, he's not leaving just yet either.

A lid to a jar rattles in the silence following the Weyrwoman's question, and the second journeyman shifts uncomfortably, folding his arms. Miska's mouth tightens ''just slightly'', a change that is likely to go unnoticed. He lifts his gaze from the kneeling dragonrider and the goldrider squeezing his shoulder, in favor of setting the weight of his unfazed green eyes on Teris. "By all means, if you feel the need to ''spend'' time with her, you are welcome." The apprentice's hands still, wide blue eyes flying to the blonde healer. Something of import seems to pass between the three of them - the healers - just before Miska grants the Weyrwoman a small smile. "But we cannot do our jobs until you leave." Just seems to be an admission that they cannot - will not? - help ease any of the goldrider's pain until the room of cleared of unnecessary personnel.

The healer can stare at Teris all he likes. She's not looking at him. She's not looking at anyone. She's staring at nothing, and it's difficult to tell whether she's actually aware of the conversation going on around her. "Fellis," she repeats. "Please." It's quiet, oddly polite. ''Very'' different from the screaming of not so very long ago.

"Why can't you?" Now Azaylia leaves K'zin, pulling away to approach the healers with a confused gaze that is swiftly hardening at the sight of Miska's smile. To make her point she shifts, doing what she can to make plenty of room for the journeymen. "Can't you hear her? Do you even care?" Now her hands are curling into fists, stare leveled at Miska.

"Teris," K'zin's word is quiet, looking at the foreign goldrider a long moment and then to the healers. "If she needs anything..." Get him. "I'll be outside." He tells the woman, apparently surrendering to the push of those who will help her, his jaw set as he looks at Miska one more considering moment before pushing to his feet and leaving the room.

Both healers take the necessary steps to make way for the exiting bronzerider. Miska speaks again, leaving his companion to his silence. "It ''is'' hard to see beyond our limited scope, Weyrwoman. I would ask that for the young woman's sake, and that of our political entanglements with Telgar, you let us do what we have to without interruption. There are things of a nature that could," he drops his eyes to Teris, "ruin an already broken woman. I hope you understand." His piece spoken, he stands back and awaits the goldrider's response.

Azaylia's fists relax, hackles lowering as she leans back and looks down at Teris with a torn expression. She ''needs'' to be here, to protect-- "Right." Her inner heat subdued, she blinks back the threat of tears, "I... yes. Of course. I'm sorry. Just..." She's already lingering, lifting a hand to silence herself. "I want to kept up to date on everything. It doesn't matter what time of day." She backs out of the room, eyes lingering on Teris before she is forced to turn and leave, shutting the door behind her.

Three sighs of relief echo in the small space when the Weyrwoman leaves, and three sets of eyes come to rest on the newly dragonless Teris. "It's going to be a long night," Miska murmurs, his earlier indifferent demeanor dissolving. He does not heed the woman's plea for the pain-absolving fellis, but fluffs a pillow that he sets under her head. His apprentice comes forth with a blanket that she tucks around Teris, a worried frown making her looks turns older than she truly is. Both journeyman are watching the former goldrider with tense expression, heedless of the stretching silence until Miska wipes the back of his hand against his mouth. "Keep the first watch. No one comes in this door. I don't care if Telgar's Weyrwoman herself. No one comes in here." Then, he leaves Teris to the calm ministrations of his fellow journeyman and the apprentice girl. Whatever they can do to make her comfortable they will, just short of drugging her - she ''will'' detox, one way or another.
}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:Plot_Logs]]

Logs talk:Squish

2014-11-27T03:00:11Z

Dragonshy: Comment provided by Azaylia - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Squish]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Roz (21:51, 26 November 2014 (EST)) said... ==

I thought, for a minute, that you named him Homewrecker.

"That Homewrecker chewed the legs off my table!"
==Azaylia (22:00, 26 November 2014 (EST)) said... ==

What kind of name would that be for a cute widdle puppy? Honestly! <3

Logs:Cut Short

2014-11-27T01:54:35Z

Dragonshy:

{{ Log
| who = Azaylia, Hattie
| where = The Glass Fountain, Fort Weyr
| what = Azaylia visits Hattie. Fortian's Weyrwoman is frazzled and they don't get to talk for long.
| when = Day 10, Month 5, Turn 36
| gamedate = 2014.11.24
| quote = "It's a cycle. Forget, remember, forget, remember..."
| weather =
| categories = 
| mentions = K'del, Lilah, Vidar
| ooc =
| icons = azaylia pensive.jpg
| desc =
| log = '''The Glass Fountain, Fort Weyr'''

Despite its subterranean locale, the creamy wall paint, pale woods, and frosted glass give the cavern a light, airy feel. Oil lamps reflect softly in the polished wood of high-backed booths, glimmering through the opaque glass dividers that help lend intimacy to the seating arrangements; round-backed seats with deep, terra-cotta colored padding and the addition of strategic, lyric shapes painted in a subtle red shade at regular intervals around the walls add a little depth to the color palette. The sweeping, half-circle shaped bar with its top of smooth stone, backed by cut-glass-fronted cabinetry flows gracefully into the soft lines and mellow colors that dominate the Glass Fountain.

All the atmosphere aside, the main attractions of the room are clearly the massive, multi-pronged chandelier that hangs from multiple chains from the ceiling and the re-worked leak - which no longer resembles a leak at all, having been channeled through glass to become a beautiful piece of art. A curving wave and a series of glass bubbles guide the water past a bank of glows, allowing the light to shine through the water and turn it into a sparkling fountain. From its dark, dim, shabby history, the Glass Fountain has become - frankly - a swanky place with lattice-stands to hold the menus with their selection ranging from typical 'bar food' to high-end dishes and fancy desserts.
----

It's as tentative as Hraedhyth can manage, drums giving a distant rumble of warning before she reaches out to the Fortian Matriarch. << We would like to visit you and Yours. >> Her fires consume all in a friendly heat: Elaruth's rider, as well as her newest brood. Other than her boisterous greeting to the watch dragon from on high, Hraedhyth doesn't look to disturb the Weyr any further. She has a deep curiosity for the new dragonets, one that she satisfies from afar once Azaylia has dismounted and is heading toward the bar. There's a small basket in the crook of her arm, warm dress and cloak swishing in what lingering fog remains despite the afternoon sun. Her preference for a booth has her gravitating toward one, her woven basket set down, the bumpy contents hidden by a fine red cloth. Azaylia doesn't order unless suggested to do so as she waits for Fort's Weyrwoman to tear herself away from the work she knows all too well.

A protectiveness more akin to that which she projects when on the Sands seems to define Elaruth today, her reaction instinctive and not unique to Hraedhyth when she advises, << Careful, >> with a quiet firmness, from her post in the south of the bowl, close to where the entrance to the weyrling complex lies. << They are... >> But she can't find an acceptable term - or decide whether she's speaking of her children or her rider, or /both/ - and so she abandons that line of thought. << You are welcome, >> brushes against fires, mist lingering there for as long as it can without risking being consumed. Soon, a figure emerges from the arched entryway that leads to both Weyrleaders' weyr and council room, and tracks its way across the bowl, to disappear again into one of the tunnels to the maze of inner caverns. And, not quite as soon, Hattie appears at the bar of the Fountain, glancing way this and that until she locates Azaylia and begins to head towards her chosen booth.

Hraedhyth allows the protective pressure to wash over her, smothering her fire down to manageable flames while she is in the other queen's territory. <> She reassures, and though it itself is not a lie there is a spark that prompts her to clarify, << With the young ones. They are delicate. >> No claim that Elaruth's are particularly dainty, as it is how she treats all new life. The foreign queen moves to join Fort's in the south of the bowl, not forcing contact and making a comical sight as the brutish gold picks her landing, overly careful in even closing her wings. While Azaylia waits, she has to place a hand against her mouth, hiding a smile that Hattie may catch once she's spotted. "Hattie!" Pleased, but still gently said, she moves to stand and offer a soft embrace to the other Weyrwoman. "'Reaches' duties." Formality aside, "How are you?"

It's not a desire to keep any other queen away from her offspring that prompts Elaruth to relocate herself closer to Hraedhyth, to sit side by side if she may, but something more social, the younger queen's potential as a rival dismissed, for she has a flock of her own and no need of hers. Maybe if they wait long enough, they'll eventually catch a weyrling lesson, or see the babies adventuring on their own. Hattie tries for a smile that doesn't really reach her eyes, but the effort is made, and she moves to return Azaylia's embrace, though she might hang onto her for a moment longer than might be expected. "Fort's," she offers, in her own, brief addressing of manners, then she moves to claim a seat opposite, smoothing her skirts out into their proper lines. "I'm not sure our knots permit me to say half of it," is quiet and apologetic, "so I'll settle for 'been better'." She quirks a odd, self-deprecating smile. "You?"

Hraedhyth is a notoriously social dragon, even if she reigns in most of her impulses when visiting the small, older queen. Sitting side by side suits her just fine, the tawny gold occasionally brushing her well oiled hide against Elaruth. Should they be so lucky as to catch a dragonet's wandering, Hraedhyth will have ''plenty'' to say-- all good things, naturally. Azaylia is an extension of her own dragon as well as Hattie, physical contact needed and held until they both sit down. She pushes the basket over with her fingertips, light enough to do so with only a slight drag against the table. "Right," There's a nod for the weight of there knots, although her gaze is soft with concern. "'Reaches is doing... well." Well enough to share the variety of liquor in the basket, the bottles half-size samples of wines and harder spirits with exotic notes. "But those are our ''Weyrs''." Azaylia catches herself with a little shake of her head, "I'm doing fine enough, although I meant to visit sooner. I thought it would be better if I waited for Hraedhyth to... be completely calm, first." To forget. "But, you? Elaruth?" The weyrlings, by association.

Hattie tilts a curious look over at Azaylia before she sets about investigating the basket, the contents of which draws another funny little smile from her. "Are you needed home? Or can I get some glasses and work through some of these with you? If we end up dancing on tables, well, maybe we won't remember the looks we get in the morning." And on the theme of remembering, she can't help but sober and glance down at the tabletop. "...She's okay when she forgets that Sidrinth has died, and that Yueth is sick, but then either I remind her accidentally, or something else reminds her, and... It's a cycle. Forget, remember, forget, remember..." She gives a weary shrug of her shoulders; a more helpless than dismissive gesture. "She'll forget for good. Eventually. It'll just... take time."

"I've made a bit of time for myself today. To visit, and to dance on tables." Azaylia says with a bright, pleased smile. It shrinks as she adds with a grind of annoyance, "Though not so much that ''I'' can't fly home, after." It's with a slow exhale that she recovers her grin, reaching to turn the bottles around in order to read them. "I admit, I had to buy a bottle of this spiced one myself. Not like rum, it's a bit more rich. Like molasses." She falls quiet at the mention of those dragonets, shoulders slumping with her sympathy. "Some say their memories are a blessing, but..." Not when caught in such a vicious loop. "Hopefully Hraedhyth can help. Hers have all graduated by now, and she loves watching the babies." And praising them, though her pride is for Elaruth rather than her own bloodlines. Sick? No. Just fighting stronger than the others, with the confidence that Yueth will be fine.

"Well, if you're going to fly, hopefully you can give me a shove towards my own weyr before you go," Hattie drawls, smirk curving one corner of her lips. It's difficult to tell whether she's joking or not, particularly as she doesn't stay still after uttering those words, and first rounds the table with the intention of giving Azaylia a one-armed hug in thanks, before she heads across to the bar and wanders on through like she owns it, to retrieve two glasses and cart them back to the table, where she sets them down with a careful, dull thunk of heavy glass against wood. "Your choice," she invites, rearranging the glasses in-front of them. "Do you think... with..." what she might have said is clearly swallowed back down, the flare of something close to upset repressed, "her being the only queen, she might rise again soon?"

Azaylia leans into the hug with a soft laugh, "A shove? Really? I'll lovingly tuck you into your bed at ''least''." A joke and yet not, given the 'Reachian goldrider's habits. Her choice is that darkly brown spirit, opening it with a soft grunt, allowing the sweet spiced scent to escape. She's generous in pouring, filling the glasses half-way and draining the bottle rather than just a splash to taste. With a glance for Hattie's pause, she pushes the first glass toward her, "I... don't know. Not soon, soon. She hasn't gotten restless yet." Or wanted to travel, beyond visiting Fort. "There have been rumors and... suggestions that maybe we should have a junior transferred in. I'm embarrassed to say that the workload hasn't changed ''too'' much." Embarrassed because it sounds as if she didn't have a handle on her previous junior, but it is what it is. "Speaking of which, I wanted to ask..? I'm sure you would have mentioned something if this was the case but... Are you planning on offering Lilah as a transfer?" Her head tilts with genuine curiosity, pausing with her own glass hovering in front of her lips.

Fingers that were reaching to curl around the offered glass hesitate and curl back, hand retreating to the edge of the table as Hattie regards her fellow Weyrwoman with a shuttered guardedness that she's never directed towards /her/ before. "Why?" she asks, just a little too sharply for any distance from or disinterest in the subject matter to be claimed. "Eliyaveith is Elaruth's daughter." Not that that's stopped her before. "Is she the one you'd want, if you were to follow their," the great, nebulous 'they', "advice?" And then, still not reaching for the glass: "Or has she approached you about wanting to transfer?"

The glass Azaylia has is promptly set back down, her own eyes open and honest in contrast to Hattie's gaze. "I know she is..." Delicate and careful, but the 'Reachian goldrider is not known for her secret agendas. "What? No! Oh no, no no." It's almost relief that has her lobbing those words at the other Weyrwoman, "I would never... Honestly, I haven't spoken with Lilah much and she's never mentioned wanting to transfer to ''me''." Although that might imply there have been others, whether she realizes her own suspicions or not. "She and Eliyaveith... I just see them around. They, ah... They seem to like 'Reaches and I was wondering if perhaps you had suggested she get... comfortable?" She chooses now to take a generous sip of the dark liquor, savoring it as well as the silence as she decides what to say next. "I'm not planning on transferring anyone. It would just be easier for me and Hraedhyth if we understood ''why'' a foreign queen was on her mate's ledge all night." Now there's a protective note, for her own dragon's feelings.

Hattie looks down into the glass she's yet to touch, listening, until that last comment settles the myriad of emotions she's been trying to conceal on something that can't quite be defined as anger or upset, but some unsettling mix of the two. "...I'm sorry that she's troubled you both," she murmurs tightly, suddenly sitting almost painfully straight, though her regret seems no less genuine for the manner of its delivery. "I have never once told her to visit. I can make it an order /not/ to, if it would prevent causing offense." She spares another look for her drink, but she can't settle to the idea of it. "Lilah's reasons are her own, and I would say her manners too, but I'm to answer to for some of them, I imagine." Beneath the table, her feet tap, and the moment she notices that is the moment she stands and edges her way out from her seat. "...But I think it might be only fair, at this point, to suggest to your Weyrleader that he stop seducing a string of my juniors," she sighs out, smoothing at her skirts again. Hattie swallows hard and tries to smooth her features back to something less readable, but her agitation won't be contained. "...I'm sorry, Azaylia. I don't think I'm going to be very good company." She is, at least, truly apologetic, and tries to soften her poor reaction with the offer of another, quick, embrace, but then... she has to depart.

"It's not... Hraedhyth just gets..." Whatever anger or annoyance Azaylia may have felt has passed in the last several days, especially when faced with Hattie struggling with her composure. "Visiting is... It's ''fine'' if it's not overly long. Hraedhyth and I try not to, even if you've made it clear that we're welcome." She begins to smile, only to have a look of surprise wash it away as Hattie edges to stand. "Oh Hattie, I didn't mean to..!" She's cut off by mention of her Weyrleader, the tight line of her lips not meant for Fort's Weyrwoman but for the implication... the very possible, very true implication. "I'll talk to him. I can at least reassure you that... that that's probably not..." But she doesn't want to further that agitation, or it could be that she can't speak with confidence on that matter. This embrace is returned, "No, it's perfectly alright. I'm sorry if I've made things worse." Her squeeze might just be overly tight, "We'll leave soon. Call us for ''anything''." And though the 'Reachian pair will depart, it's only after Azaylia has finished those two glasses and requests that the basket be delivered to the Weyrwoman's weyr.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs:Handling Igen

2014-11-25T05:52:15Z

Dragonshy: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Azaylia, K'del | where = Council Chambers, High Reaches Weyr | what = The Weyrleaders decide what to do about Igen, and the conversation that follows is a tense..."

{{ Log
| who = Azaylia, K'del
| where = Council Chambers, High Reaches Weyr
| what = The Weyrleaders decide what to do about Igen, and the conversation that follows is a tense one.
| when = Day 10, Month 5, Turn 36
| gamedate = 2014.11.24
| quote = "We apologise, we accept our wrongdoing, and leave it at that."
| weather =
| categories = 
| mentions = Hattie, Lilah, Nimae, R'hin
| ooc =
| icons = azaylia hm.jpg, k'del serious.jpg
| desc =
| log = '''Council Chambers, High Reaches Weyr'''

''At the heart of this oblong cavern is its meeting table: a long hardwood oval with a mirror's dark shine, High Reaches' sigil picked out in lapis and onyx at its center. Twenty chairs surround it, each softened by an embroidered cushion that's just a little too stiff for complete comfort -- meetings need to be kept short, after all -- with the chair at the table's head, facing the ledge, being somewhat larger than the rest.''

''Interspersed between glowsconces upon the smooth walls, ancient tapestries depict the territories High Reaches protects in a particularly pastoral fashion, all fluffy clouds and fluffier llamas, or else fishing crafts sailing merrily out to sea. Among them is also a natural alcove, its several wooden shelves primarily stocking fine wines and liquors as well as the glasses to serve them, though the lower shelves also hold whatever hidework requires particularly frequent attention.''

''A narrow wooden door leads to the Records room, while the tunnel that extends to the weyrleaders' ledge is wide enough for three men to walk abreast, with just enough kink in it to block the wind.''
----

It's been several hours since Azaylia and Hraedhyth returned from their visit to Fort, the Weyrwoman quickly falling back into the daily grind. With the weather so nice, the remaining weyrling class is out in full force, a fact that does not escape Hraedhyth's notice. Though they're far from newly hatched the queen is particularly protective of them today, the differences in bloodlines blurred until they may as well be her own. Rather than watch them train with her dragon, Azaylia is tucked into the Weyrleader's chair-- K'del's-- until it's needed. She's particularly industrious today, pouring over the paperwork and making quick, concise notes on her copy. There's hot water for tea and cooling klah, expecting company of a sort, be it her Weyrleader or someone in need of their Weyrwoman.

Now that he's without wingsecond duties, K'del has been doing the rounds of the wings, observing their practices and generally making notes, here and there; so far, he's not interfering, which seems to please his riders. Those weyrlings are flying ''with'' the wings, these days, as close as they are to graduation; that, too, requires observation. Now, with that particular duty taken care of, he makes his way towards the council chambers. "Azay-- oh, there you are." In ''his chair'', though that only seems to draw a quirk of his mouth, a shake of his head, before he seeks another one.

"Afternoon!" Azaylia greets, pleasant if distracted. She finishes writing her thought and gathers up her papers, "Oh don't," It's a soft scold, either meant for his seeking out another chair or for her claiming his for so long. She's up and about, having literally kept K'del's seat warm as she scoots over one. "Were you looking for me?" She sounds mildly surprised, but even more curious. "Hraedhyth didn't say." For now, she reaches for a mug and pours herself some warm water, "Klah?" She'll have her tea, of course.

K'del's shrug is easy enough; he alters his path, dropping into his chair in an idle enough way, though that's belied by the seriousness of his expression. "Igen," he says. "We need to answer their letter; give them something. Promise that it was not a sanctioned act, and that those involved are being disciplined." He's got the letter with him, laid out upon the table, now, though he doesn't move to reread the contents. "Or you could visit, if you liked. Might be better you, than me."

Azaylia gives a long sigh through her nose at the mention of Igen. "I wonder if sending something like nice wine with the letter would be too..." She doesn't have the word for it, waving a hand as she sits and pulls her steeping cup closer. "I don't know ''what'' R'hin was trying to pull." Reminded of the incident, the Weyrwoman's gentle smile fades, face a pensive mask as she considers the situation. "A visit is probably better-- wait, no. It would be disrespectful to ignore their ban. Goldrider or not, I'm still from High Reaches. A letter would be best." There's a tilt of her head, brows lifting as she peers from beneath them, "What do you even suggest we do with 'your' man?" A tease that falls somewhat flat.

K'del looks visibly, deeply ''horrified'' at the idea of the wine; "No," he says, quickly. "That would make matters significantly worse, I think. He was trying to get us influence at Igen, by putting a High Reaches rider in as Weyrleader." Whether or not he believes Azaylia actually needs that explanation, he gives it, aiming his gaze towards the ceiling rather than the goldrider. "As far as I can tell." And plainly, he's not in a teasing mood; ''that'' gets removed. "I'll talk to him. We'll work something out. Can't believe he's not sorry about putting a young bronzerider like that in the hot seat. No, we'll have to accept Igen's ban and hope Nimae relents in time. We apologise, we accept our wrongdoing, and leave it at that."

There's a flail of her hand at his horrified expression, "Okay, no wine then." Unfortunately, not ''everything'' can be solved with booze, despite what 'Reachian riders might think. R'hin's motivation draws a long breath from her, lips thinning. "I was ''hoping'' you heard a different reason..." Not hard to believe, with the oniony layers that make up the mind of Leiventh's rider. "That... High Reaches is doing well. It's not... it's not ''perfect'' but much better than it has been, and he goes and does this." There's obvious disgust, though not surprise, "You probably should. He'll likely go on about how I'm a 'silly little weyrwoman' if I try. How I don't grasp the grand scheme of his..." Another fluttering hand, "Schemes." Azaylia gives a curt nod, "Sounds like it's all we can do. I hope the ban doesn't last long." For political, as well as personal reasons. Igen carries the best of what Azaylia spends her marks on.

This time, now, K'del turns his gaze on Azaylia, regarding her speculatively, and with some surprise. "R'hin has done an awful lot of good for this Weyr," he says. "This screwed up, but if it'd gone right... I can see the appeal. Just a reminder, for everyone, that he's human." He doesn't address the rest, but rises, picking up the letter as he does. "I'll draft something, send it by for approval?" Beat. "Unless you'd like to do it."

"Of course he has." Azaylia agrees easily, "But it doesn't make him easier to deal with, at times." As for the appeal, she gives a little shake of her head. "We have High Reaches, and that's all I could want. We should let other Weyrs belong to themselves." There's no heat behind the argument, likely thinking out loud given her pensive expression. When K'del stands, she seems surprised, "O-oh. Sure. You seem eager to be done with this issue." There's a soft smile and a nod. "Busy day?" In particular, as he seems eager to get back to it.

"Don't want to control other Weyrs," says the Weyrleader, with a shrug. "Wouldn't mind more friendly faces, though; no Weyr can do without them, whatever we say." The letter gets folded in a methodical fashion, one fold after another, before he tucks it back into his pocket. "Mm? Oh, no more than usual. Didn't want to interrupt your day, though. Know you were out this morning."

"Not as long as I'd like, I'm afraid. I went to see Hattie, but our visit was cut short." Speaking of friendly faces. "She's... well. Seems as though there's trouble at Fort, though I've no idea what they are." And with her own gentle shrug, Azaylia knows it's not any of her business. Her gaze flicks up to K'del, words gentle, "She thinks you're seducing one of her juniors. Eliyaveith's." Then again, "Of course there are awful rumors," When is there not? "It doesn't ''look'' good, but..." The Weyrwoman holds up her palms, casual and harmless, "I'd believe you if you said otherwise." There's a strained smile, "They must not see how you are with your family."

K'del's fingers tighten on the back of the chair, where they'd moved before Azaylia had really gotten into the swing of her words. Now, he turns his attention to her, mouth tightened to sharpness. "Hattie invariably thinks the worst of me," he says. "So what's new?"

"She does." Azaylia admits with something like a wince, "It makes things... tense, sometimes." There's no defending either way, so she simply moves on with a sip of her tea. Though K'del is likely to leave, she intends to stay inside and catch up with what she has missed this afternoon. "Like you said, friendly faces are good for us. For the Weyr. If Lilah's your friend, then she is." She places her cup back down and crosses her arms, leaning on the table as she looks to the Weyrleader. "I'd hate to do anything to upset you and Cadejoth. And Hraedhyth ''tolerates'' other queens, but not when they spend the night. She's still rather attached to Cadejoth, he's her mate." There's nothing accusatory in the Weyrwoman's tone, simply informative. "I'm asking if you wouldn't have her spend the night again. It's... I feel like you're disrespecting Hraedhyth." She may not stand up for herself, but like any rider her dragon is the sensitive spot.

"Azyalia," says K'del, after a moment's pause, his voice very calm. "In all the turns that I have been with Ali, has she ever stayed the night here?" The answer is no. "Do you honestly think I would disrespect Hraedhyth unless I had ''very good reason'' to? I chose not to send someone who was drunk home, ''between''. She slept on my couch. I'm sorry that it upset Hraedhyth, but I would prefer that to my actions resulting in the loss of a queen, because her rider was not able to visualise correctly." Now, without waiting, he turns to go.

There's a soft sound in Azaylia's throat, either of surprise or understanding at K'del's explanation. Her lips part, but he's already turned around and she leans back into her chair with a little frown. It's something to think on, something that distracts her from her work for a moment or two. It's with a soft sigh that she finally turns back to her work, taking time to regain the speedy confidence from earlier.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs:Cut Short

2014-11-25T05:24:02Z

Dragonshy: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Azaylia, Hattie | where = The Glass Fountain, Fort Weyr | what = Azaylia visits Hattie. Fortian's Weyrwoman is frazzled and they don't get to talk for long. | w..."

{{ Log
| who = Azaylia, Hattie
| where = The Glass Fountain, Fort Weyr
| what = Azaylia visits Hattie. Fortian's Weyrwoman is frazzled and they don't get to talk for long.
| when = Day 10, Month 5, Turn 36
| gamedate = 201411.24
| quote = "It's a cycle. Forget, remember, forget, remember..."
| weather =
| categories = 
| mentions = K'del, Lilah, Vidar
| ooc =
| icons = azaylia pensive.jpg
| desc =
| log = '''The Glass Fountain, Fort Weyr'''

Despite its subterranean locale, the creamy wall paint, pale woods, and frosted glass give the cavern a light, airy feel. Oil lamps reflect softly in the polished wood of high-backed booths, glimmering through the opaque glass dividers that help lend intimacy to the seating arrangements; round-backed seats with deep, terra-cotta colored padding and the addition of strategic, lyric shapes painted in a subtle red shade at regular intervals around the walls add a little depth to the color palette. The sweeping, half-circle shaped bar with its top of smooth stone, backed by cut-glass-fronted cabinetry flows gracefully into the soft lines and mellow colors that dominate the Glass Fountain.

All the atmosphere aside, the main attractions of the room are clearly the massive, multi-pronged chandelier that hangs from multiple chains from the ceiling and the re-worked leak - which no longer resembles a leak at all, having been channeled through glass to become a beautiful piece of art. A curving wave and a series of glass bubbles guide the water past a bank of glows, allowing the light to shine through the water and turn it into a sparkling fountain. From its dark, dim, shabby history, the Glass Fountain has become - frankly - a swanky place with lattice-stands to hold the menus with their selection ranging from typical 'bar food' to high-end dishes and fancy desserts.
----

It's as tentative as Hraedhyth can manage, drums giving a distant rumble of warning before she reaches out to the Fortian Matriarch. << We would like to visit you and Yours. >> Her fires consume all in a friendly heat: Elaruth's rider, as well as her newest brood. Other than her boisterous greeting to the watch dragon from on high, Hraedhyth doesn't look to disturb the Weyr any further. She has a deep curiosity for the new dragonets, one that she satisfies from afar once Azaylia has dismounted and is heading toward the bar. There's a small basket in the crook of her arm, warm dress and cloak swishing in what lingering fog remains despite the afternoon sun. Her preference for a booth has her gravitating toward one, her woven basket set down, the bumpy contents hidden by a fine red cloth. Azaylia doesn't order unless suggested to do so as she waits for Fort's Weyrwoman to tear herself away from the work she knows all too well.

A protectiveness more akin to that which she projects when on the Sands seems to define Elaruth today, her reaction instinctive and not unique to Hraedhyth when she advises, << Careful, >> with a quiet firmness, from her post in the south of the bowl, close to where the entrance to the weyrling complex lies. << They are... >> But she can't find an acceptable term - or decide whether she's speaking of her children or her rider, or /both/ - and so she abandons that line of thought. << You are welcome, >> brushes against fires, mist lingering there for as long as it can without risking being consumed. Soon, a figure emerges from the arched entryway that leads to both Weyrleaders' weyr and council room, and tracks its way across the bowl, to disappear again into one of the tunnels to the maze of inner caverns. And, not quite as soon, Hattie appears at the bar of the Fountain, glancing way this and that until she locates Azaylia and begins to head towards her chosen booth.

Hraedhyth allows the protective pressure to wash over her, smothering her fire down to manageable flames while she is in the other queen's territory. <> She reassures, and though it itself is not a lie there is a spark that prompts her to clarify, << With the young ones. They are delicate. >> No claim that Elaruth's are particularly dainty, as it is how she treats all new life. The foreign queen moves to join Fort's in the south of the bowl, not forcing contact and making a comical sight as the brutish gold picks her landing, overly careful in even closing her wings. While Azaylia waits, she has to place a hand against her mouth, hiding a smile that Hattie may catch once she's spotted. "Hattie!" Pleased, but still gently said, she moves to stand and offer a soft embrace to the other Weyrwoman. "'Reaches' duties." Formality aside, "How are you?"

It's not a desire to keep any other queen away from her offspring that prompts Elaruth to relocate herself closer to Hraedhyth, to sit side by side if she may, but something more social, the younger queen's potential as a rival dismissed, for she has a flock of her own and no need of hers. Maybe if they wait long enough, they'll eventually catch a weyrling lesson, or see the babies adventuring on their own. Hattie tries for a smile that doesn't really reach her eyes, but the effort is made, and she moves to return Azaylia's embrace, though she might hang onto her for a moment longer than might be expected. "Fort's," she offers, in her own, brief addressing of manners, then she moves to claim a seat opposite, smoothing her skirts out into their proper lines. "I'm not sure our knots permit me to say half of it," is quiet and apologetic, "so I'll settle for 'been better'." She quirks a odd, self-deprecating smile. "You?"

Hraedhyth is a notoriously social dragon, even if she reigns in most of her impulses when visiting the small, older queen. Sitting side by side suits her just fine, the tawny gold occasionally brushing her well oiled hide against Elaruth. Should they be so lucky as to catch a dragonet's wandering, Hraedhyth will have ''plenty'' to say-- all good things, naturally. Azaylia is an extension of her own dragon as well as Hattie, physical contact needed and held until they both sit down. She pushes the basket over with her fingertips, light enough to do so with only a slight drag against the table. "Right," There's a nod for the weight of there knots, although her gaze is soft with concern. "'Reaches is doing... well." Well enough to share the variety of liquor in the basket, the bottles half-size samples of wines and harder spirits with exotic notes. "But those are our ''Weyrs''." Azaylia catches herself with a little shake of her head, "I'm doing fine enough, although I meant to visit sooner. I thought it would be better if I waited for Hraedhyth to... be completely calm, first." To forget. "But, you? Elaruth?" The weyrlings, by association.

Hattie tilts a curious look over at Azaylia before she sets about investigating the basket, the contents of which draws another funny little smile from her. "Are you needed home? Or can I get some glasses and work through some of these with you? If we end up dancing on tables, well, maybe we won't remember the looks we get in the morning." And on the theme of remembering, she can't help but sober and glance down at the tabletop. "...She's okay when she forgets that Sidrinth has died, and that Yueth is sick, but then either I remind her accidentally, or something else reminds her, and... It's a cycle. Forget, remember, forget, remember..." She gives a weary shrug of her shoulders; a more helpless than dismissive gesture. "She'll forget for good. Eventually. It'll just... take time."

"I've made a bit of time for myself today. To visit, and to dance on tables." Azaylia says with a bright, pleased smile. It shrinks as she adds with a grind of annoyance, "Though not so much that ''I'' can't fly home, after." It's with a slow exhale that she recovers her grin, reaching to turn the bottles around in order to read them. "I admit, I had to buy a bottle of this spiced one myself. Not like rum, it's a bit more rich. Like molasses." She falls quiet at the mention of those dragonets, shoulders slumping with her sympathy. "Some say their memories are a blessing, but..." Not when caught in such a vicious loop. "Hopefully Hraedhyth can help. Hers have all graduated by now, and she loves watching the babies." And praising them, though her pride is for Elaruth rather than her own bloodlines. Sick? No. Just fighting stronger than the others, with the confidence that Yueth will be fine.

"Well, if you're going to fly, hopefully you can give me a shove towards my own weyr before you go," Hattie drawls, smirk curving one corner of her lips. It's difficult to tell whether she's joking or not, particularly as she doesn't stay still after uttering those words, and first rounds the table with the intention of giving Azaylia a one-armed hug in thanks, before she heads across to the bar and wanders on through like she owns it, to retrieve two glasses and cart them back to the table, where she sets them down with a careful, dull thunk of heavy glass against wood. "Your choice," she invites, rearranging the glasses in-front of them. "Do you think... with..." what she might have said is clearly swallowed back down, the flare of something close to upset repressed, "her being the only queen, she might rise again soon?"

Azaylia leans into the hug with a soft laugh, "A shove? Really? I'll lovingly tuck you into your bed at ''least''." A joke and yet not, given the 'Reachian goldrider's habits. Her choice is that darkly brown spirit, opening it with a soft grunt, allowing the sweet spiced scent to escape. She's generous in pouring, filling the glasses half-way and draining the bottle rather than just a splash to taste. With a glance for Hattie's pause, she pushes the first glass toward her, "I... don't know. Not soon, soon. She hasn't gotten restless yet." Or wanted to travel, beyond visiting Fort. "There have been rumors and... suggestions that maybe we should have a junior transferred in. I'm embarrassed to say that the workload hasn't changed ''too'' much." Embarrassed because it sounds as if she didn't have a handle on her previous junior, but it is what it is. "Speaking of which, I wanted to ask..? I'm sure you would have mentioned something if this was the case but... Are you planning on offering Lilah as a transfer?" Her head tilts with genuine curiosity, pausing with her own glass hovering in front of her lips.

Fingers that were reaching to curl around the offered glass hesitate and curl back, hand retreating to the edge of the table as Hattie regards her fellow Weyrwoman with a shuttered guardedness that she's never directed towards /her/ before. "Why?" she asks, just a little too sharply for any distance from or disinterest in the subject matter to be claimed. "Eliyaveith is Elaruth's daughter." Not that that's stopped her before. "Is she the one you'd want, if you were to follow their," the great, nebulous 'they', "advice?" And then, still not reaching for the glass: "Or has she approached you about wanting to transfer?"

The glass Azaylia has is promptly set back down, her own eyes open and honest in contrast to Hattie's gaze. "I know she is..." Delicate and careful, but the 'Reachian goldrider is not known for her secret agendas. "What? No! Oh no, no no." It's almost relief that has her lobbing those words at the other Weyrwoman, "I would never... Honestly, I haven't spoken with Lilah much and she's never mentioned wanting to transfer to ''me''." Although that might imply there have been others, whether she realizes her own suspicions or not. "She and Eliyaveith... I just see them around. They, ah... They seem to like 'Reaches and I was wondering if perhaps you had suggested she get... comfortable?" She chooses now to take a generous sip of the dark liquor, savoring it as well as the silence as she decides what to say next. "I'm not planning on transferring anyone. It would just be easier for me and Hraedhyth if we understood ''why'' a foreign queen was on her mate's ledge all night." Now there's a protective note, for her own dragon's feelings.

Hattie looks down into the glass she's yet to touch, listening, until that last comment settles the myriad of emotions she's been trying to conceal on something that can't quite be defined as anger or upset, but some unsettling mix of the two. "...I'm sorry that she's troubled you both," she murmurs tightly, suddenly sitting almost painfully straight, though her regret seems no less genuine for the manner of its delivery. "I have never once told her to visit. I can make it an order /not/ to, if it would prevent causing offense." She spares another look for her drink, but she can't settle to the idea of it. "Lilah's reasons are her own, and I would say her manners too, but I'm to answer to for some of them, I imagine." Beneath the table, her feet tap, and the moment she notices that is the moment she stands and edges her way out from her seat. "...But I think it might be only fair, at this point, to suggest to your Weyrleader that he stop seducing a string of my juniors," she sighs out, smoothing at her skirts again. Hattie swallows hard and tries to smooth her features back to something less readable, but her agitation won't be contained. "...I'm sorry, Azaylia. I don't think I'm going to be very good company." She is, at least, truly apologetic, and tries to soften her poor reaction with the offer of another, quick, embrace, but then... she has to depart.

"It's not... Hraedhyth just gets..." Whatever anger or annoyance Azaylia may have felt has passed in the last several days, especially when faced with Hattie struggling with her composure. "Visiting is... It's ''fine'' if it's not overly long. Hraedhyth and I try not to, even if you've made it clear that we're welcome." She begins to smile, only to have a look of surprise wash it away as Hattie edges to stand. "Oh Hattie, I didn't mean to..!" She's cut off by mention of her Weyrleader, the tight line of her lips not meant for Fort's Weyrwoman but for the implication... the very possible, very true implication. "I'll talk to him. I can at least reassure you that... that that's probably not..." But she doesn't want to further that agitation, or it could be that she can't speak with confidence on that matter. This embrace is returned, "No, it's perfectly alright. I'm sorry if I've made things worse." Her squeeze might just be overly tight, "We'll leave soon. Call us for ''anything''." And though the 'Reachian pair will depart, it's only after Azaylia has finished those two glasses and requests that the basket be delivered to the Weyrwoman's weyr.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs talk:Whiskey and Truth

2014-11-23T05:40:33Z

Dragonshy: Comment provided by Azaylia - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Whiskey and Truth]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Azaylia (00:40, 23 November 2014 (EST)) said... ==

And Hraedhyth glared at Cadejoth's ledge the entire night. The end. XD

Logs talk:Big Kid's Table

2014-11-13T04:20:06Z

Dragonshy: Comment provided by Azaylia - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Big Kid's Table]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Azaylia (23:20, 12 November 2014 (EST)) said... ==

Aw yissss. Gettin' in some of that bronzerider mentoring time. ...Mostly I'm excited to see in which ways Lynner manages to get on Cadejoth's nerves. xD

Logs talk:The Great Transition

2014-11-04T01:21:45Z

Dragonshy: Comment provided by Azaylia - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:The Great Transition]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Edyis (19:21, 3 November 2014 (EST)) said... ==

Poor Wey! Still it's good to see he has his head about him. I especially enjoyed seeing how his siblings are dealing with the changes!
==Azaylia (20:21, 3 November 2014 (EST)) said... ==

Oh ho! Wey's pretty damn clever, even if he likes the wine a little too much. Then again, who could blame him? Super excited to see how they fair at 'Reaches. :D

Logs talk:The Murder Rug

2014-10-29T01:17:46Z

Dragonshy: Comment provided by Azaylia - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:The Murder Rug]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Azaylia (21:17, 28 October 2014 (EDT)) said... ==

The bromance continues! <3 I love how the boys make utter asses out of themselves. No, honestly you two-- tell us how you REALLY feel. xD! Faaaantastic.

Logs:Spillage

2014-10-28T03:03:08Z

Dragonshy: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Azaylia, Farideh | where = Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr | what = Azaylia shouldn't be allowed out without a full night's sleep. Farideh is an unfortunate casu..."

{{ Log
| who = Azaylia, Farideh
| where = Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Azaylia shouldn't be allowed out without a full night's sleep. Farideh is an unfortunate casualty.
| when = Day 10, Month 2, Turn 36
| gamedate = 2014.10.27
| quote = "You can afford a ''new'' blue dress, I can imagine."
| weather =
| categories = 
| mentions =
| ooc =
| icons = azaylia uhmm.jpg, farideh annoyed.png
| log = '''Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr'''

''With its entrance located between the kitchen and the living cavern, this tiny bubble cavern is cozy, always kept warm and is filled with comfortable chairs and a small round table. At the far end, there's a hearth, outlined in ruddy, aging bricks, where a pot of stew simmers in the evening hours. Generally quiet, the nighthearth is the haunt of insomniacs and those seeking quiet from the bustle of daily Weyr life.''
----

As lovely and bright the day is, it's still ''cold''. The Weyrwoman doesn't make her entrance obvious as she slips into the nighthearth, cloak hung at the door as she looks to unthaw with a rare mug of klah. Mug in lap, curled up in one of the cushier seats in front of the fire, it's the perfect recipe for a nap. The grip on her drink manages to stay, if just barely, as Azaylia's brow awkwardly rests against the back of the chair. Given that there's no horrible keening, she's just dozing rather than dead. An easy enough mistake, should one happen upon her.

Cold is ''precisely'' the reason Farideh avoids going outside at all costs; it is her good fortune that she works in such a warm cavern. She wanders into the nighthearth's bubble with just a light jacket over her normal assortment of clothing, and her hands wrapped around a ceramic mug. Her eyes scan the tables when she enters, assessing her options, and fall swiftly on the sleeping woman curled up in a chair. Footsteps lead her towards the brick hearth, but she pauses, craning her head around to get ''another'' good look at Azaylia. Someone smart would go about their day and let sleeping dogs lie, and yet.. Farideh is not smart. It's with soft foot falls that she creeps up to the woman's table, looking this way and that, as if someone would catch her.

Azaylia thankfully doesn't snore, though that's the only dainty thing about her slack jaw and crooked neck. Her breath is even but not terribly deep yet, but with every exhale her muscles relax even more which is not good as far as that mug is concerned. Her dark blue dress is of high quality, if the style is one or two cycles old, hair done up in immaculate twin buns. It's after a dozen or so breaths that her own ceramic mug slips, startling the Weyrwoman awake as she desperately tightens her grip. She catches her klah, though a good bit of it goes splashing into her lap, "Ahshards." A near whisper of disappointment.

Farideh is absorbed in checking out the goldrider on display before her. She's ogling that blue dress, eyeing the hair style, and manages not to notice the hand slipping until-"Oh, no," is her yelp of surprise as she jumps back, and she, too, spills warm liquid down the front of her shirt and over her boots. Now that makes two of them. Disapproval twists her lips as she flicks her other hand, trying to rid herself of the unwanted moisture. "That was unexpected." But rather than look at the Weyrwoman, she's busy looking at her boots, lifting one and then the other, clicking her tongue in distaste.

Overcompensating with over-wide, alert eyes, Azaylia is startled as Farideh suddenly ''appears''. Not overly aware upon waking up, this one. "O-oh!" A squeak. "Oh no." Not a squeak, but she sounds far more dismayed at the sight of Farideh's spill than the one she swipes at in her own lap. "I'm sorry-- I didn't see you there." She didn't see much through her eyelids, no. Long legs untuck from beneath her, standing and shaking out her skirt before giving up on what might be a stain, later. It's awkward, when guilty eyes can't seem to find a rag or towel in the immediate vicinity and she simply stands there. "I'll... I'm sure the laundry will be able to get that out?" She tries.

When Azaylia stands and shakes out her skirts, making those apology sounds, the laundress can't help but look up, with mild irritation. "I ''am'' the laundry." Farideh sighs, flinging her hand again. "It will have to do," she mumbles, looking around for a towel or other drying agent. It's a rag, most likely used for dusting, which she finds stuffed between bricks by the hearth. Rather than take it for herself, she offers it to the goldrider with a sardonic purse of her lips. "Here. You'll have a harder time getting ''that'' out of your dress than I will out of mine."

With a faint wince of embarrassment for Farideh's occupation, "Oh." Azaylia chooses to swallow a mouthful of klah, reducing the threat of another spill by a significant amount. When the rag is offered, she gives a light shake of her head, "Oh no, please. You probably care more than I do." is said with a laugh for her own habits. She doesn't accept the rag, aiming for a lopsided smile and an encouraging flutter of her fingers. "Nothing my assistant can't handle." Because she can afford to have miracles preformed on her clothes.

Standoff - with the rag. Hazel eyes narrow as her thin brows knit together. "Suit yourself," she mumbles, and strives to wipe off as much of the brownish liquid as she can; it's unfortunately soaked into certain spots. "You can afford a ''new'' blue dress, I can imagine." Her reply is tart, but her nod is, slightly, respective as her eyes flick back up to the Weyrwoman. "I'm Farideh." They've already established where she works and it is quite needless to say where Azaylia works - they live in it.

There's a soft exhale of relief when the rag is finally put to use, Azaylia choosing to do what she can with the side of her hand. "It's a dark dress, anyway." Excuses won't make the dark puddle any more obvious, but thankfully it's mostly over one thigh instead of a more embarrassing spot. "Oh, probably." She mumbles, distracted. Perhaps Farideh's tone sinks in, prompting a gentle, "Not that I would. It's hardly ruined, even if the stain is noticeable." Her smile is still a touch awkward, not that it takes away from the intended warmth, "Well met, Farideh. Azaylia." A short introduction given, "We've probably walked past each other in the lower caverns. What do you think? Can it be saved?" A consultation rather than a demand for the laundress to snap to it.

"No," Farideh admits glumly, eyeing Azaylia's dress, "It's not ruined. I think it just needs to soak." Her fingers grip the rag, which isn't moving to clean her own garb anymore. "You should get it to the laundry as soon as possible. The longer you leave the stain.." She lowers his eyes to the coffee-stain again, and shrugs, turning to place the rag back where she found it, never mind it now smells strongly of klah. "Or, you can buy a new dress." Guilelessly, she gives the other woman a humorless smile, and tucks hair behind her ear in a self-conscious gesture. "Ma'am, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go-" with a wave to her own stained clothing.

"Oh, of course." Azaylia shouldn't seem startled, given the laundress' advice, "I should take care of mine." And though the dress does eventually come through the laundry, it's only after a good deal of work has been done to subdue the stain. Drowsy and off tilt, she manages to keep her smile, "Have a good day, Farideh." She'll finish the rest of her cooled klah before heading out herself.

A slow finger wave serves as her goodbye with a less-than-pleased smile. Farideh turns on her heel, exiting through the way she came, without another word or a look back.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs:Unexpected Fascination

2014-10-26T08:42:02Z

Dragonshy: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Azaylia, Ashe | where = Weyrleader Complex, High Reaches Weyr | what = Ashe takes up an interest in Hraedhyth's 'trophies', and updates Azaylia about future pro..."

{{ Log
| who = Azaylia, Ashe
| where = Weyrleader Complex, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Ashe takes up an interest in Hraedhyth's 'trophies', and updates Azaylia about future projects.
| when = Day 4, Month 2, Turn 36
| gamedate = 2014.10.25
| quote = "Is that ''real''?"
| weather =
| categories = 
| mentions = Barnabas, K'del
| ooc =
| icons = azaylia smile.jpg, ashe.jpg
| log = '''Weyrleader Complex, High Reaches Weyr'''

''Only about a man's height from the ground, this low ledge is wide and flat, reached by a set of timeworn steps that hug the cliff face. As the ledge stretches back away from the head of the stairs, it simultaneously broadens out over the bowl and tunnels into the mountain to become a sort of antechamber, from which a passageway winds back to the Weyrwoman's weyr, the council room, the records room and the hatching sands. A small round table is set in a shallow alcove here, surrounded by four chairs that provide a waiting area for those seeking one of the weyrleaders.''

''Another short flight of stairs leads upward from the tapering end of the ledge to the Weyrleader's quarters, while others lead to the further recessed junior queens' weyrs. While it's hard to get a good look at the lake from here, the view does encompass the majority of the bowl and the comings and goings across its span.''
----

It's late afternoon when Azaylia decides to take her paperwork from Hraedhyth's ledge to her favored nook outside. The senior queen shifts accordingly, angled so that she can keep an eye on her rider from where she lay, purposefully visible to the dragons of her Weyr. It's a compromise made for the sake of those weyrfolk who would rather not invade the Weyrwoman's home in order to reach her. Azaylia is curled in her chair, thick dress and leggings keeping her warm against the steady snow's chill-- along with a ''horrifying'' hodgepodge of furs that make up a gruesome, grizzly cloak three sizes far too large. At least she looks... cozy? She's already emptied the mug next to her, busily writing on a piece of paper that's been chosen from the stack next to her, painted wherry skull acting as a paperweight.

Ashe's path takes her out of the council chambers, rather than up the stairs from the bowl, and she carries in her hands a tray with a pitcher of something steaming along with a small plate of nibbles. With puckered brow marring her pretty face, the apprentice is a little hesitant, as first her head and then the rest of her body peek from the council chambers exit, finding more confidence in posture and stride when she espies Azaylia and her mass of furs. Unlucky for the apprentice, she's less cold resistant. "Ma'am?" The low alto interrupts as unobtrusively as an interruption can be. "The kitchens thought you might like a refill and a snack. And I was heading this way anyway and thought I'd save some poor girl..." Ashe loses track of what she might have said when she sees the skull paperweight and nearly chokes over her tongue. "Ah.. um.. I mean, the trouble of bringing it." A pause. "Is that ''real''?"

Azaylia is slowly pulled from her thoughts, although she manages to finish it on the page. There's a smile of satisfaction and a faint nod before she looks up, finding Ashe with that same soft curl of her lips. "Hello." She shifts, glancing back toward the council chambers before a breathless laugh leaves her, "Sorry. I'm usually on the ledge." The one with a large dragon's head staring directly at the two, though there's no sign Hraedhyth is bothered by Ashe's presence. "Thank you, though. I... the starsmith girl?" She's trying, but without a dragon most weyrfolk must rely on her faulty memory alone. Azaylia makes room for the tray, not hesitating to pluck up the skull and replace it in one swift motion. "Mm? Yes. One of Hraedhyth's trophies. They started to clutter up our weyr, so I thought I'd put them to use." And paint them, apparently, 'Reachian blue and black.

"It's... so ''clean''." Utterly and absolutely baffled at how a skull could be so clean, the apprentice's gaze swings to find Azaylia and then back again. "I..." There's a tray in her hand which stops her from being able to reach for the skull, which then promptly reminds her that she's ''not'' here to stare, and moves to put the tray down on any spot of free nook table available. "I'm sorry. My mother would box my ears for my lack of manners. But I've never actually seen anything like that so closely before."

There's no shortage of amusement at Ashe's fascination, eyes bright as she explains, "We bury her favorites and let the bugs take care of most of it. Then it's just a matter of boiling, scrubbing, and drying out in the sun." Azaylia gives a little shake of her head, reaching for a small biscuit and taking a bite. "Your mother sounds strict," A light tease, as it seems the Weyrwoman is much more easy going. Reaching over, fingers hook the wherries eyeholes as she casually offers the painted skull to the younger woman. "Have a look, we've got a whole weyr full." The papers are pinned down by an elbow as she devours the nibbly in her other hand.

"My mother," Ashe begins, a pained flicker in her eyes eventually released into the world with a sigh, "Had grand hopes for me and I used to be more willing to acquiesce to them. My parents think this whole apprenticeship is a lark. A fleeting interest I'll get bored of eventually." Blurred over eyes, lost in the reflection instigated by Azaylia's tease, drift over the skull suddenly in her hand, her fingers working over it with a blindness that speaks of how little she is aware until... yep, there's a yelp and a sudden flying of the skull like a hot potato that's suddenly clutched in her two hands. "I didn't break it. I promise, it's not broken. I didn't drop it."

Before Azaylia can comment on parents and their expectations, the wherry skull is trying to take flight! Or, Ashe is juggling it hard enough for the goldrider to gasp, and for Hraedhyth to lift her head with a low growl. After the dust settles, "No, no! It's okay. She didn't break it." An echo of the apprentice's words, hands smoothing the air in a slow rhythm, one that has the warrior queen's head inching back down. After a sigh of relief, "It's alright. Like I said, we have plenty." The plate of snacks is brought up and placed on the papers as the skull's replacement, still allowing Ashe a chance to get a closer look. "But I understand. My father thought the same thing when I was a Beastcraft apprentice." Another exhale to banish the lasting tension, "I'm sorry, I completely forgot your name." Now that she's sure they ''have'' spoken, at least once.

"Ashe," answers the apprentice, now that SkullGate scare is over and the head is held fast in her hands. She stares intently into the empty sockets where eyes once were and slowly turns it about to observe all the niches and crevices. "And yes, I'm the starcraft apprentice and I'd hoped to have a moment of your time but this... this is just fascinating. You were a herder before Impressing?"

"''Ashe''." Spoken like a promise that Azaylia will get it right next time, though that might not be the case. "It's almost sundown, and my meetings are done for the day." The scheduled ones, at least. "I have moments to spare." The mug of hot water is brought closer, used teabag plucked up from the empty cup to be used a second time. And though the Weyr may still feel off tilt with recent events, the Weyrwoman is in a good enough mood despite this. "I was. But then I Impressed..." And the rest is history. "Is it? Fascinating, I mean."

"This once was alive. It had skin, blood, veins, and the other trappings of life," Ashe says. "But now it's just a skeleton, literally." By stating all the things the skull once was seems to remind Ashe of what she's holding and with the ginger movements of one not sure if she's entirely comfortable now, she returns the skull to the table. The curiosity bright in the apprentice's eyes lingers, though her words don't necessarily correlate, "I don't expect you remembered much of our initial conversation, ma'am, but I wanted to let you know of some progress I've made on behalf of my craft and wanted to get your permission before pursuing things further."

Azaylia considers the skull Ashe holds, expression thoughtful if a little sad. "It helps to think that it's getting a use, even after all that." A harsh reality that she's come to accept, bonded to a dragon and all. The skull is placed back on the papers, easily swapped with the finger foods that she offers to the apprentice. Whether she accepts or not, the plate will find its way back to the tray. "I remember something about the mountains in our territory? But please, tell me how it's going?" There's another chair, if Ashe is so inclined.

Now that the skull isn't in her hands and the adrenaline thereof no longer courses her body, the chill of the outdoors invades. Ashe takes the seat, a shiver drawing in a sharp gust of air, and folds her arms about her chest. "Actually, three stations, I believe will service our craft the best, but only one of them is in the Weyr's specific territory, though the other two are in Reachian territory and we may want to commission a wing or two of riders to assist." But that secondary matter is set aside while Ashe focuses on the primary. "I hoped to go up there with a rider friend once the spring thaw comes, and ascertain in person whether it's feasible or not before attempting to present something more formal to the Weyrleaders. I mean, to you, ma'am. But I also didn't want to go silent all winter long and spring it on you then." The young woman takes in a long breath that exhales quite slowly, measured beats keeping her from shivering, "It seemed silly to start formal negotiations if it's not even a feasible project. You know?"

The Weyrwoman listens with an open interest, easing back in her seat as she gives Ashe her full attention. By the end, she's smiling, "No, I appreciate you keeping us up to date." For she intends to share all of this with the Weyrleader, of course. "Makes sense, wanting to wait. It's all very interesting. ''And'' it would be good to give the more restless riders something to do. Something productive." Still not a decision, but certainly something that might inspire optimism. There's a brow furrow of gentle concern, "Are you cold? I mean, is it bad? You could borrow this old thing." Not so much a favor as a threat, given the monstrously ugly cloak. "I'm sure Bones wouldn't mind." Question is, can Ashe survive under its hideous weight?

Ashe's fashion sense would shrivel and die with that, and that emotion is written all over her face. ''All over it.'' "Ahh....," she strives for polite at least, "I think I might have taken as much of your time as I should." Her fingers might also be turning blue, but what of it? "I just wanted to update you and," her gaze slips to that skull, "Do you think Hraedhyth," and that name does not trip off the apprentice's tongue easily, for sure, "Would mind if you ever had an extra one you didn't need or want, if I could have it for my room?" Pretty please? It's not said, per se, but Ashe's eyes have a silent plea in them as they look to Azaylia.

At the sight of Ashe's face, Azaylia can't help but laugh, an airy giggle that she tries to hide behind her hand. Her smile isn't as bright as it once was, but it's still warm as she listens to the apprentice's request. "Really?" She sounds pleasantly surprised, "Do you have a preference? We have caprines, herdbeasts, wherries, tunnelsnakes-- those are from Don, my firelizard." By the sound of it, they have skulls to spare. "I'll see if Hraedhyth is willing to part with any. Ones she's forgotten." There's a rumble from the ledge that implies it'll be a bit before her rider can pull something like ''that''.

"While I think I'd prefer a herdbeast head, I imagine it's too large for my small space. An ovine possibly?" Even if it's not on the list, Ashe looks at Azaylia hopeful. "If you do, I would love having one to guard my room. The dark shadows of it always seem like they're out to get me and it would be," she pauses to consider the right word to use, "A conversation piece for those who visit."

Azaylia takes a moment to consider the request, "I'm sure we do. She's fond of the bigger beasts, but I know I've handled an ovine head before." With a soft nod, "I'll look, later." When the gold dragon isn't as wise to such dastardly plans to steal from her morbid hoard. For now, she adds sweetener to her darkly brewed tea, smiling over at the apprentice. "It was nice speaking with you, Ashe. Keep in touch about the project, even if you think it's a small detail." Communication is always good.

"Yes, ma'am." Ashe inclines her head and takes Azaylia's final words as a dismissal. "And thank you, for even entertaining my requests." Both of them. But it's so cold and her fingers are probably quite blue now if they weren't before, so off Ashe skitters back inwards through the council chambers to the records room she's vowed never to linger in, and beyond.

}}

[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs talk:The Obvious Thing

2014-10-26T08:04:09Z

Dragonshy: Comment provided by Azaylia - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:The Obvious Thing]]
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==Azaylia (04:04, 26 October 2014 (EDT)) said... ==

The most awkward "our goldriders are dead" party I've seen. ...Okay it may be the ''only'' one. On a more serious note, the pain from both bronzeriders is so damn tangible. Poor babies. :( N'rov's is fresher, and the last paragraph is ''so'' sad.

Logs talk:Piecing Things Together

2014-10-22T23:54:40Z

Dragonshy: Comment provided by Azaylia - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Piecing Things Together]]
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==Azaylia (19:54, 22 October 2014 (EDT)) said... ==

I'm impressed with how quickly Weylaughn 'recovered'. Still, putting your head down and working is one way to cope, but I imagine it only works for so long... Let's hope there's no emotional aftermath. (Or, let's secretly hope because MOAR VIGS!)