NorCon MUSH - User contributions [en]

Logs:Foxy

2016-04-29T13:38:54Z

H'kon: Created page with "{{Log |who=H'kon, Madilla, Raija |what=H'kon lost a bet to his budding cardshark daughter. There is foxy fallout. |where=H'kon and Madilla's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |involves=..."

{{Log
|who=H'kon, Madilla, Raija
|what=H'kon lost a bet to his budding cardshark daughter. There is foxy fallout.
|where=H'kon and Madilla's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=27
|month=8
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.04.23
|quote=It's a pity your hair isn't long enough to braid.
|type=Log
|ooc=I was supposed to post this thing days ago, and didn't. My bad.
|icons-new=Icon madilla smile.jpeg, Icon h'kon father.png,
|log="Beautiful," she says. "Gorgeous," she says. "Foxy," she says. "Foxy?" asks H'kon. But he is, at least, two of the three, in a stunning shawl and what was once, surely, a full and flattering feather boa. However it is that Raija's slowly been adding these to her collection is uncertain. Most of it probably came through legitimate channels. The actually rather nice bit of jewellery sparkling from where it hangs around H'kon's neck, probably not through such channels. Raija, meanwhile, has one of her father's shirts on. He, however, cannot bring himself to provide her adjectives. "Foxy," she repeats. And so it is. This would be why Arekoth's wings keep twitching. And this is why H'kon should never have consented to play cards with his daughter two days before.

It's probably a good thing that Dilan's not here, because at thirteen he'd probably be horrified and dismayed at seeing H'kon so poorly treated; such is the way of teenage boys. It's probably also a good thing that Lilabet's not here, either: she'd find the whole thing irresistible, of course. Madilla, however, is doing a much better job of keeping her composure, glancing up at the pair from the couch where she's once again at her sewing only on occasion-- though 'foxy' is almost certainly the prompt that draws this latest lift. "Foxy," she repeats. "Where ''did'' you hear that, Raija?"

Raija looks back to Madilla, but, of course, clams up, teeth clicking as she's suddenly quite distracted by standing on tiptoe, one hand on H'kon's shoulder for balance, the other re-arranging those feathers. "Arekoth says it's an accurate description," H'kon relates in the tone of one who has given up a fight. Many fights. "Your assistance," he says to Madilla, "is appreciated." But Raija gives him a look, and he tries to smile.

Madilla may not have actually expected an answer to that question; certainly, she makes no effort to chase it, now. Instead, tucking her needle securely into her sewing, she gives father and daughter a considering glance. "Not appreciated by our daughter, I think," she tells H'kon. "Besides, fair is fair. You lost, after all. It's a pity your hair isn't long enough to braid. Something's missing."

Hair. ''Hair.'' Why did Raija not think of this? Two hands press firmly on H'kon's shoulders, and, still resigned and fairly malleable, he drops to a sit. And presses his lips together as she the girl starts to tug. No, not enough hair to braid, but she's seen the beginnings of curls before, and she now tries to encourage them, even if H'kon's hair is not quite long enough to go there on its own. "A finishing touch? This," his hands go from his shoulders down his torso, "is not enough? I should be hurt, by that remark." Except Raija's saying, "Mom's right." Arekoth snorts. Audibly. Good job dragons have such poor memories, or Dilan might well hear of this.

Madilla's not laughing at H'kon, promise. Oh, certainly, the corners of her mouth are going up, but there's no ''actual'' laughter coming out. "Ribbons?" she suggests. "It might be better than nothing." For H'kon, her smile is warmer, perhaps intended to be encouraging. "It's all very striking on you, I promise. You'd make a very pretty girl. Even Arekoth agrees, I'm sure." Liar.

Arekoth vocalises something, and H'kon reaches up - careful not to move his head overmuch - to rub at his stubble. Defensively. "Ribbons," agrees Raija, and the look she pins on Madilla is expectant. Surely she knows where they are. And Raija has her hands - fingers - full. But her delight is contagious enough that H'kon smiles, for real even, a little bit. And asks Madilla, "You find me pretty?"

"How could I not?" is Madilla's answer, made as she sets aside that sewing and moves towards her feet, Raija's non-verbal request plainly received. She pauses, watching, those green eyes meeting H'kon's in turn before abruptly her smile widens and she turns away, all the better to rummage through a box to come up with a lengthy piece of amber-hued ribbon, with which she returns to the pair. "Here," she says to Raija. "Will this suit?"

"Hm," is the best Raija gives in return, furrowing up her brow as she reaches with one hand, and starts trying to work the ribbon into the curls she's already started. H'kon is trying to keep smiling at his weyrmate, really he is, but the hair-pulling makes it difficult to avoid grimacing. "I should dress up for you more often," is said instead, with one hand reaching her way, as best he can without moving.

Again, Madilla bites back laughter, the twitch of her mouth the only true indication-- aside from the obvious mirth in her expression. Having relinquished the ribbon, she uses that free hand to take H'kon's, though she also steps closer still, sidling in alongside him. "You should," she agrees, sparing only half a glance towards their daughter, not really apologetic as she adds, "The feathers really work for me." Sorry, Raija.

Raija is focused, but not so focused that when she looks over to make sure her mother isn't ruining anything she's set up, and catches sight of fingers holding fingers, she says, "That's gross." And also, "He's not ready yet." H'kon is not yet dissuaded, though his hair is still being pulled as the ribbon is worked further and further into his non-curls. "I will keep this in mind. Maybe Arekoth needs to develop a taste for wherry?" The brown, at least, thinks it's funny.

Once upon a time, Madilla would have been embarrassed at semi-public displays of affection in front of her children (or anyone); clearly, the past decade has been good for something. "I'm patient," she promises Raija. "Continue with your masterpiece." For H'kon, as she lets her attention be drawn back to the brownrider: "Yes. He'll need to do his part, of course."

"He is nothing, if not interested in the well-being of the whole family." There may not even be an irony in this. Because just look at the last ten turns. "No kissing," says Raija, sternly, and keeps on with her work, those amber-hued eyes ''intensely'' focused. She's dextrous, this one, no doubt part of how she acquired that jewellery that makes H'kon so very pretty.

"It's a good thing neither of the others has Impressed," decides Madilla, abruptly, though she doesn't draw that thought out to explain her thought process in getting there; no doubt Arekoth appears in it somewhere. With her free hand, the healer subtly adjusts the old boa, straightening the edge. "You're good at this, Raija. Are you considering a career in hairdressing? Or fashion, perhaps. A weaver."

It's a process H'kon doesn't seem to follow, and he turns his head a little bit toward Madilla before catching himself. And being little-girl-grunted-at by Raija. "No," is an off-handed answer to Madilla as that girl finishes her last few knots, and withdraws her hands all at once. H'kon, crowned. "But I think he's done." That brownrider, father, weyrmate, doesn't dare move now. He's awaiting judgement. From more than just Arekoth, whose judgement has been ongoing and is now, surely, instantaneous.

Madilla gives that hand one final squeeze before withdrawing her features, but only so that she can take a turn around the brownrider: a full circle. "Perfect," she decides. If she's noticed, now, for the first time, that necklace and its uncertain provenance, it gets no comment.

"At least it should be well done," says H'kon, from amidst all the pretty. Freed hand, and the one that had remained his own all this time, both prepare to help stand him up. "All night, even once you're asleep," is a repeated promise to Raija, who is fluffing a feather, but looking generally satisfied. He'll save the lift of an eyebrow for Madilla till he's sure the girl's not looking.

Madilla's teeth come to rest upon her lower lip in answer to that life of the eyebrow, and her shoulders shift, just minutely, but she manages, otherwise to maintain her expression. "I'll keep him honest for you," she promises their daughter. "Time to brush your teeth, mmm?"

"And I'll be more careful with my gambling in future," is H'kon's final word on the topic. He pushes up to his feet, and shifts his own shoulders, though this is an attempt to settle the boa. A hand to Raija's shoulder serves as much as guide as a sort of goodnight caress. "Do you expect I'll have that shirt," the one of his, the one Raija's wearing, "back at any point?"

"A good lesson to learn," agrees Madilla, more amused than serious. And of the shirt? Her answer is decisive: "No. It'll join the collection, no doubt. I doubt she'll let ''you'' keep the shawl, though."

"A compromise I will be willing to make," says H'kon, all the while glancing down to examine the frilly edge of that shawl. "If only because she is my daughter, and I love her." His dragon is still present in his tone, though Arekoth has settled somewhat, since Raija's exit. How much of his display was for her, anyway? "At least you will have the memory, if not the model before you at any given point."

"It's one memory I will keep always," Madilla promises, her fingers seeking H'kon's again, wrapping around them and giving them a gentle squeeze. "She's such a contrast to the others. Completely her own person." The healer, for one, approves.

To this H'kon nods, his own fingers squeezing in return. "Hm," is agreement. "Though I would not think it fair to say the others are ''not''. But influence is perhaps more easily seen in them." His free hand reaches to the bauble about his neck. "It does not... concern you, at all? That... independence?"

"No, no," allows Madilla. "They are. But Raija..." she trails off, perhaps unable to put into words what she's thinking, and perhaps, too, also thinking about H'kon's question. "Of all of them, she's the one I worry about," is quieter. "Lilabet has always been driven and sensible, for the most part. Dilan's a fairly normal boy. Raija..." She turns her head, glancing at H'kon. "I admire it, but I'm also frightened by it."

He may have led them down this path, but so relaxed, in the bosom of family and fun tonight, H'kon doesn't keep a flicker of protectiveness from his features. It's brief, though. And he squeezes at those fingers again, unconsciously. "We wonder sometimes," and it's the 'we' that sounds of his conversations with his dragon, "if she missed some step..." But he's listening, too, lest the girl return, and speaking lowly.

"Mm," agrees Madilla, just very quietly. "I wonder if it would have been different, had she been with us from the start. But there's no point wondering, is there? She's our wonderful, independent, creative daughter."

From the start. It has H'kon tightening his grip, not too hard, but ''closer''. Madilla's next words, however, get a nod. "I hope, then," is barely more than a whisper, "that she is whole, also."

Madilla sucks in a breath, plainly uncomfortable with this thought-- but also not inclined to shy away from it. "Yes," she agrees. "''Yes''." The look she gives H'kon this time is a little wide-eyed, a little uncertain and unhappy. But the moment passes, and she exhales lengthily, more easily. "I wish there were a way to easily save the image of you right now for posterity."

H'kon is not wholly comfortable in holding on, returning Madilla's look with one of his own when such a deep worry has been shared so plainly. Even to her. Even if the subject matter is not novel. It might be gratitude that pulls a crooked smile onto his face when she eases them from that moment. More than that, too. "You'll do better at it at least than Arekoth. If only we could make me a between point." He holds out his arms a little from his sides, though not so much as to release Madilla's hand. "The work of our daughter," is a summary. And when he steps in for the kiss that follows, it's gentle as those feathers.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Tapping... On Ice

2016-04-25T21:26:29Z

H'kon: Created page with "{{Log |who=H'kon, N'klas |what=N'klas is going to join Alpine. He just doesn't know it yet. |where=Lake, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=26 |month=2 |turn=4..."

{{Log
|who=H'kon, N'klas
|what=N'klas is going to join Alpine. He just doesn't know it yet.
|where=Lake, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=26
|month=2
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.04.23
|quote=You've graduated. You'll need a wing.
|weather=Cold and clear.
|type=Log
|ooc=Backdated.
|icons-new=Icon n'klas gitar.png, Icon h'kon disapproving.jpeg,
|log=A couple days-- ''nights''-- after graduation, the air is frigid... but that doesn't mean there isn't a bonfire, or rather a brazier-fire, not just next to but ''on top of'' the solidly frozen lake. Three braziers surround a cluster of youth, several of them ex-weyrlings, about a fourth; one young bluerider is less strumming than plucking a gitar with the specifically altered tips to his gloves, the singers' breath white in the fire-caught darkness. This song's all uproarious humor, but as it ends, he segues into the first measures of a minor-keyed murder ballad from the Tillek hillsides, pitched to dramatic-- melodramatic?-- effect.

Walking on ice is always a short-stepping affair; more so when your steps are short to begin with. H'kon is not in any hurry, either, which makes his progress slow. Overhead, airborne, Arekoth circles, silhouette suggested only by how he blocks out the stars - the moon's aren't high enough. Snow squeaks against ice beneath the ballad. H'kon draws near, his own breath allowed to cloud. No stealth here.

He gets a few passing glances, some automatic straightening up-- an adult! a responsibly-ranked adult!-- followed by self-conscious slouches: they're ''grown up'', dammit. Nik looks over after the first rustlings, yet it's none too bright even with those braziers, and there's playing to do for all that his fingers must have memorized the poor cold-tortured strings. Khajith's out there, somewhere, nosing about someone else's weyr. After another couple measures, there's more rustling across the sort-of-circle. There's something like room.

H'kon draws nearer, and stops short of that not-bit of room, the disapproving look given those conscious slouchers turned into more of a glower by the light of the fire. "You've lost your tuning," comes out the lips of the next-Harper's son, the Harper's brother, the Harper's step... H'kon. At least he waits until the song is finished. But if anything, brows draw closer together, and that furrow gets worse.

Oh, sure, let the ''harper-relation'' come by. Nik slews a look at him, a pained look, because yes, the tuning's slipped since they first started but who in the circle had really noticed? Especially with that drink being passed around. "Yessir," he says even so, for the older man's rank-- and the truth of it. So he raises his voice into a cheerful, "What's next? Tuila, your go?" and lets the others descend into song-picking argument while he starts to tweak.

H'kon is not placated, even by that 'sir'. “Hm," grunts the brownrider. One eyebrow raises to some of the 'discussion' going on. A moment, and then H'kon steps forward, nearer to N'klas. "Give your instrument to someone. I'd have a word." A skeptical look around that group of friends, though no comment to suggest whom ''he'd'' pick.

N'klas barely has to look, and then he's shaking his head, swinging his gitar back as he stands to his still-growing six feet and change; he has an interested eye for the brownrider, the ''wingsecondly'' brownrider, but he doesn't give his instrument up, calling instead for someone else to get out that little thing he calls a drum. "Last time it didn't end well," the teenager explains, humor-- and that same interest-- easy in his voice.

"Bringing it away from the heat," mused the brownrider. “Not that it's an even heat." H'kon shrugs, and steps back, away, into the dark, into the cold. Arekoth still circles, and for a moment, he and his rider cover the same ground. But even then H'kon doesn't look up. He's watching N'klas, and he's waiting, his hands clasping loudly behind his back, gloved hands muffled in their quiet contact.

More, automatic tweaking ensues; N'klas can, it seems, do that at the same time as he walks, can enfold it in a furry wrap while he's at it. "If it were picky," he says, "I wouldn't have brought it." ''He'' looks overhead, just a glance on the heels of his smile, then pauses there in the snow-reflected starlight a questioning pace or two short of the other man.

H'kon watches the bluerider's dealings with the instrument, in no rush, still, not now anymore than before. He lets N'klas question a moment, and then nods, one sharp motion. “You've graduated. You'll need a wing. Alpine drills tomorrow morning." No comment on the short notice, or on much of anything else.

A breath escapes N'klas, surprised or ''something'', certainly not hidden; "Yeah? All right," might as well be all ''riiight''. He makes a decent attempt at looking all sober and restrained. "The usual?" is more a guess from shadowing than a real question, but gets that lift anyway.

"Hm," is affirmative this time. It's not the nod, but something about the intonation. That very brief intonation. “I'll hold your knot until after tomorrow's drills." To look back to the group requires that the wingsecond shift to one side; there's no looking over the teen before him. “Unless you've questions, I've no reason to keep you from your... Songs."

"I can hold them," those questions, though N'klas' mouth has a quirky quality that might suggest other thoughts. "Sir." Unless that ''isn't'' all, he'll get back to playing-- after the back-slapping congratulations or possibly commiserations of his peers-- and show up all too cheerfully ''before'' time.
|Categories=Clutch 129 Logs, Wing Logs, Alpine Wing Logs
}}

Logs:Fast

2016-02-18T15:36:27Z

H'kon: Created page with "{{Log |who=N'klas{{!}}Khajith, A'rist{{!}}Lythronath |what=Shortly after the hatching, Lythronath is playing dad. Khajith is just playing. |where=Bowl and Weyrling Barracks, H..."

{{Log
|who=N'klas{{!}}Khajith, A'rist{{!}}Lythronath
|what=Shortly after the hatching, Lythronath is playing dad. Khajith is just playing.
|where=Bowl and Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr
|day=11
|month=2
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.02.17
|quote=Click.
|type=Log
|ooc=So very backdated.
|icons-new=Icon a'rist lynner hatch.png,
|log=It's night. ''N'klas'', because he's that now, is trying to sleep. But there's also a rustling in the almost-dark, a rummaging, because a sevenday old means sleeping in the daytime, not at ''night''.

The rustling from outside is bigger. Deeper. Large fiery wings that don't quite glow in the light of the moons, strong talons disappearing in the darkness, but still smothering the dirt. The glint of teeth when the pointed bronze muzzle is raised, the change in air when Lythronath sniffs. And the mental brush, surprisingly gentle and proud, for such a monster.

Tiny talons curl. Tiny talons shine, not their dusty tips but the arc of them, beneath the balancing blueness of the dragonet himself. Yes, ''blue''. Yes, turning; curious; ''inquisitive'', a splash of transparent color as he turns not inward but out. Those wings may not glow, but Khajith will still ''go'', go and look and ''find''.

Babies don't have colours. Silly baby. Daddy-Lythronath is not hard to find. He is outside. ''Right'' outside. '''Immediately''' outside. Waiting, as he has well nearly every night since the hatching. Somehow, he manages to raise the pitch of those clicks. The muzzle lowers to just above ground level. The eyes are green. And whorled with ''blue''.

His eyes are so big, they could be Timor and Belior come down to nearly-earth, the moons' disparate sizes explained by the angle: how is a tiny baby dragon supposed to see them equally at the same time? Khajith goes right up, not straight on but from the side he's coming from, up on his hind legs with his wings back and his nose up. Click clack... clack clack click?

Those clicks speed up, almost a trill, but losing support and disappearing into quiet. Because his brothers and sisters - some of them, anyway - are still sleeping. Shhhh. Shhh, and so, << Khajith, >> all warm and deep and comforting and happy, is only for that little baby dragon. Just like the puff of air that exits Lythronath's nostrils, aimed for little wings.

Thrilled, the baby's ''thrilled'' by that near-trill, and: ''click!'' Except the big dragon, his sire, is slowing and stopping and ''Khajith'' might not stop except his name catches him up, said like that, just for him. Khajith turns a little, so that that warm air might better get his right wing and ''then'' his left... right before his muzzle reaches higher to try and poke the big-bigger dragon's jaw.'' 'Lythronath' ''is less word than saltwater-splash upon rock, and shine.

During that push of air, inspection; Lythronath watches those wings, first right, then left, the colours of each eye moving as he adjusts focus. His big jaw opens a little, the lower part of it brought nearer Khajith. For poking. And those comet-blazed wings stretch out, slowly, but moving for full expansion. Showing. Prompting.

Khajith can do this. It doesn't take thinking twice, this st''rrr''etch. The poke's a poke-- a bump, really, it's just that his muzzle is pointy and that's what happens-- and the stretch ''stretches''. His eyes whirl swiftly, sparking with brightness. Now, what now?

Good. Khajith is awarded a click. Next, Lythronath stretches his front talons forward - and folds his wings back down, simultaneously. When the motions are completed, a tap to the little one with his jaw issues the challenge.

Khajith gets a click! This next thing, though... he could do it, he's pretty sure he could, but why? Why would he ever fold his wings when he doesn't have to? His eyes on his sire, Khajith extends his forelegs and his talons with them, curling, curling, while his wings only gradually start to fold and even then it's with little twitches. It's not like his talons. Seizing something, even air, is good and natural and ''Khajith''.

A little nudge to the little blue's head again, with the bottom of that terrible jaw. Lythronath again extends his wings. And folds them. Smoothly.

The little blue sighs, a small sigh that can't ''wait'' to be ferocious, and out! go his wings. Another breath later, in they go again, s-l-o-w-l-y.

Better. Enough so that Lythronath's wings stay down, flat. His hind legs stretch upward, while he settles forward on the front ones, crouched, head lowered as much as it can be. Can little Khajith see his tail swing, back and forth, the tip moving so fast, the base, slow and steady, while little clicks accent the apex of each swing?

Oh yes! Yes, Khajith's seeing it, is-- after the first dart of his head tracking the movement-- ''scampering'' around to try and ''catch'' that tail-tip, never mind if it's far too high.

He is ''careful'', so very careful, a kind of careful that would shock those who haven't watched him with his little dragonets. Lythronath lowers that tail, just a little, and slides his feet in a slow, slow turn. To make Khajith do laps. To see. Maybe both.

Khajith ''will'' do laps, yes he will. And then, after a few... when Lythronath is getting far enough... crouch and ''race'' in the other direction, the better to try and catch in time.

Lythronath tries to move the tail to add to the speed, but those wicked feet of his, those stay well under control. Little dragons are little. Soon enough, << Khajith! >> bubbles into words, well pleased. << Fast. >>

That leads to a surprised hop! the words aglow with pleasure: ''treasure''. << So fast, >> Khajith agrees, such ''incentive'', his bright eyes up to his sire's once more, his tongue lolling as he pants.

On this last turn, Lythronath stretches out that powerful neck, and goes to push the little blue, to stop him or guide him toward those barracks again, with that angular, hunter's head. Three clicks, for Khajith now, and a low noise that follows, something of a hum.

Wiry little Khajith's denser than he might initially appear, but that doesn't mean much against a bronze's snout; he goes skittering sideways and then sliding and then it's claws out scritching stone and... then, all right, he does follow momentum into the barracks but it's with a glance over his shoulder, a flicker of ''his'' tail that teases a catch-me-if-you-can. ''Click.''
|Categories=Clutch hrw20 Logs
}}

T'mic

2015-11-12T21:27:23Z

H'kon:

{{Profile
|picture=Tomic.jpg
|mother=Misca
|father=Torin
|siblings=Toras (Parma) +5, Marcis and Tirsa (Erl), +3, Mirna, -1, Stina, - 4, Romin, -8
|body=== Description ==
Broad-faced, broad-shouldered, just markedly big all around, this wavy-haired youth is as difficult to miss as he would be to get around in a crowd. He stands taller than most men, thick with muscle through his limbs and trunk, and undeniably strong, even with that bit of padding on his belly. Hulking, yes, but not a menace: far-set eyes are amicable for the most part, framed by wavy black hair that falls to his jaw, and the broad smile that breaks across his ruddy-tan face is as easy-going as the shuffle that most often moves him along.

== WYSK ==
*T'mic is a gentle giant, easy-going and gregarious. He's more likely to be noticed for his size than his personality, at least initially.
* He impressed the tiniest little blue Jorrth in turn 37.

== History ==
Tomic is the third son and fourth child of Torin and Misca, gardener and kitchens worker at Benden Hold. He was brought up in a family of seven, always busy, but never rushed. He spent his youth being cared for and lovingly tormented by his older siblings, and caring for and lovingly tormenting his younger siblings. He received only the basic education provided by the Hold's harpers, and admittedly missed several of the lectures to help out with the family. Being the biggest of his family, it often fell to him to take on the grunt work. This skill for carrying things is what saw him eventually move to High Reaches Weyr, to help his uncle, baker journeyman Klous, move in when he received a new posting, where he has since blossomed into High Reaches' very own Mr. Nanny.

Tomic agreed to stand for Niahvth and Reisoth's clutch when asked by Leova, and decided to stay when Faryn pointed out that a baby dragon might ''die'' if he didn't. He went on to impress Jorrth (who thus did not die) on day 25, month 7, turn 37, becoming T'mic.

== Relationships ==
* [[Dragon:Praxis_of_Blue_Jorrth|Jorrth]]: I'm better because of you. I sure hope you're better because of me, too.
* [[Edyis]]: It's so strange to see you not knowing what to do. I wonder if I can help.
* [[Farideh]]: We're sort of family now. I'll protect you just the same as if you were my sister. Jorrth will, too.
* [[Faryn]]: I don't have to need you to love you and miss you.
* [[Lycinea]]: I hope our kitten knows we both love her very much, even if we can't always both be there.
*[[Keysi]]: Some people are just strong.
*[[Quinlys]]: You make me better and I don't even know how. I want to be able to do that for other people.
* [[R'van]]: I don't know if you're trying to prove something, or really you only see things the one way.
* [[Yesia]]: I'm still not going to treat you how everyone else does. Even if you've decided I'm just like them.
* [[Z'kiel]]: I think we'd be a good team, if we ever really got the chance.

== RP Logs ==

{{NewLogs |name=T'mic}}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}

== Personality Profile: ESFJ ==
Few personality types are as practical and caring as [http://www.16personalities.com/esfj-personality ESFJ]s. Known for their social and administrative skills, ESFJs are good at creating and maintaining a secure, stable and friendly environment for themselves and their loved ones. ESFJs' dedication is invaluable in many areas, including their own personal growth.

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments}} | }}

{{Icons}}
|birthplace=Benden Hold
|playedby=Nathaniel Arcand
|status=Active
|face=blank.jpg
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Greater Pern, Benden Hold, High Reaches Weyr
}}

[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]

Logs talk:Left in the Cold

2015-10-27T22:18:28Z

H'kon: Comment provided by T'mic - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Left in the Cold]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Edyis (23:01, 25 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

D: Is it the pink lama patterned ones? it is I know it.

This was heartbreaking to read, but also so good. So good.
==Alida (01:55, 26 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

I think it's time we had Caitlyn and Fadra interact on camera again...and having Faryn return to Ista would be a good place to start. :)
==Jo (03:17, 26 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Yes, heartbreaking. ;_; And I want to meet Fadra more and more.
==T'mic (15:18, 27 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Heart: broken.

Logs talk:Deviled Eggs

2015-10-18T03:03:48Z

H'kon: Comment provided by A'rist - via ArticleComments extension

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

==Faryn (18:06, 17 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Lynner, you asshole.
==Squishy (18:49, 17 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Ahhh I missed the best part.
==A'rist (20:03, 17 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Look, if the candidates would've just ripped bloody pieces off and smeared them all over his eggs as an offering, like they were ''supposed'' to, a lot of song and dance could've been avoided. That's all I'm sayin'.

Logs:Seven

2015-10-07T22:21:07Z

H'kon: Created page with "{{Log |who=H'kon |what=H'kon feels (melodramatically) inadequate. |where=H'kon and Madilla's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=9 |month=13 |turn=38 |IP=..."

{{Log
|who=H'kon
|what=H'kon feels (melodramatically) inadequate.
|where=H'kon and Madilla's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=9
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.07
|mentions=Madilla
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon h'kon pleading.jpeg,
|log=H'kon lay on his side in the dark, next to Madilla, one arm bridging the gap, but space still between them. His hand rested on her abdomen, and he could feel her breaths beneath his thumb; steady, sleeping breaths. He half-counted them, repeating numbers, starting over, losing himself to the loops and patterns.

Seven, he would always reach. Seven, he would often repeat. Seven times, now, that their attempts had proved fruitless. One, two, three, they hadn't bothered her so much. Not as these last few months, when he could feel the sadness of her, straight through his chest. But he'd known, hadn't he, been counting from the first.

It had been a convenience before. The women he'd chosen were generally not those he'd have wanted any alliance with, and he'd known not all of them were conscientious about their trips between. It had worked in his favour, then. Now...

H'kon withdrew his hand as the nth seven devolved again to one. The space between them was greater still.

Perhaps it had been the wine, the atmosphere, the sense of pride and important at being there, his love on his arm, both of them in all their finery and before so many others. That night, it had not been an invasion; that night, he'd allowed it to be a boast. Perhaps it had gone to his head.

Perhaps, again, it was only a sliver of honesty. Madilla must have known his heart on the matter, these past turns; only Arekoth knew him better. Perhaps he'd simply not been able to bring himself to divert her with what was too close to a lie.

But that was self-serving. That decision was no kindness, but another sort of lie, and a crueler one, for what it promised and what it would not deliver.

''I want another baby. I want ''your'' baby.''

He'd let it get to the baser part of him, where it soothed that bit of jealousy he'd never been fully rid of, jealousy born early on, before her children had come to be his family also. Another failing from him, leading only to more still.

H'kon turned over, to his other side, right up to the edge of the bed, a chasm between them now, the distance of planets, where all he'd not been able to give her was left to solidify in the cold.

He forced his breathing to slow, counting each breath to seven, and he wondering how high a number he might reach before they could tolerate it no longer, and would put an end to it.
|Categories=General Logs, Angst Logs
}}

Logs:Blizzard Number 38754...

2015-10-04T22:57:56Z

H'kon: Created page with "{{Log |who=Silva, T'mic |what=It's blizzarding outside. Silva and T'mic are pretty close to inside for a bit. |where=Weyr Entrance, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches We..."

{{Log
|who=Silva, T'mic
|what=It's blizzarding outside. Silva and T'mic are pretty close to inside for a bit.
|where=Weyr Entrance, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=25
|month=12
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.03
|quote=I wish it wasn't so snowy.
|weather=Blizzarding. Low visibility.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon t'mic jorrth snow.jpg, Icon t'mic boynextdoor.jpeg,
|log=''Weyr Entrance, High Reaches Weyr'' 
''Cutting through the Weyr's massive outer flank, the tunnel from the outside spills out into a smooth-cut space where wagons often pull in to unload supplies or take shelter during bad weather. Crates and dollies line one wall, ready to be pressed into service for carting stuff around.'' 
''Five other passageways, dimly lit by well-spaced glows, lead deeper into the Weyr; a draft from the centermost hints at the bowl beyond.''

"A ''blizzard''." Silva's wail can be heard from all the way down the corridor as she looks outside, petulant. "I mean, seriously, couldn't someone ''else'' go?" She's arguing with an older woman who is taking exactly zero guff from the teenager. A firm shake of her head has Silva's shoulders slouch, and only once the woman is walking away does she mutter under her breath, "sadist."

T'mic was outside the Weyr to begin with; his scarf is covered in snow, his head too. It's melted where it hit the bit of exposed flesh on his face, once he's able to duck back into the shelter of the tunnel. Big mitts wipe at the bit of scarf covering his mouth. One mitt is doffed so that he has the dexterity to pinch water away from his eyes, along the bridge of his nose. "Faranth," is to no one in particular, when his back hits the wall and the broad bluerider ''leans''.

SAVE HER FROM THE ICE MONSTER! That man covered in snow gets a startled yelp from Silva, who hops back away from him as if he might jump forward and grab her with his cold-ness. "You ''scared'' me!" Her tone takes on an accusatory tone when she regains her even footing, arms crossing on her chest to scold him for coming out of the snow like he did it ''just'' to scare her. "''That'' is what my aunt wants me to go out in. No. I won't do it. Nope. No. SHE can totally get the frostbite. I mean, seriously." Because the man is totally interested in Silva's nails, she holds them out towards him, "can you imagine me maybe losing one of these in the snow? I ''just'' had them done!"

It's the yelp that startles T'mic, in turn, jumping from the rest he'd only just found, on the balls of his feet, eyes wide, and both mittened and non-mittened hand suddenly fumbling when the empty mitt is dropped. "Faranth," says T'mic, and then also, "Sorry." Once the initial jolt of it's done, though, he's smiling. Even when he has to drop down to retrieve that errant hand-covering. He's on one knee when there are nails presented. "You really be out there long enough that they'd freeze off?" There's a wary glance over his shoulder, then, toward the outside. "Why are you going out there?"

Hands up Silva is just going to ward off T'mic from coming any closer with his dripping and snowy body. No coming closer kthanks! But she glances at her fingers when she assures him that they're in little danger. "She," a finger twirls to the departing form of the woman who issued her the older, "has told me to go gather //wood//. I mean, seriously. Aren't there those ''better'' suited for it? Look at me!" With her hands already wide it doesn't take much effort for the girl to spin slightly, "''Clearly'' one of those big burly men would be better... I mean, like ''you''!" It.. sounds cheerful?

T'mic purses his lips, and that broad brow of his knits. "Where... where are you gonna go get wood when it's like this outside? Won't it all be wet anyway?" The words are plodding, thoughtful. "They run out in the kitchens or something?" And then, a grin, as the bluerider gets back up to his full height, and shakes his head. "Me and Jorrth got other things than gathering wood. Just waiting on Hoth."

Shoulders droop again as that mullish set descends upon Silva. FAILURE at passing off her job to someone else. "They're getting close. I guess it has to dry or something ''before'' they can use it." Half heartedly Silva bends to pick up winter gear from the floor, allowing the unattractive boot to hang in her hand. "Still stupid seriously."

T'mic taps the empty mitten idly against his leg a few times, and looks just about ready to say something more on the subject of wood, but stops. Not just stops, but stops with a nod, and a conscious closing of his mouth. He puts that mitten back on, and leans against the wall a bit more, and peeks toward the snow and white outside. "So there's got to be like a box or something, then, right? I never really had to do that," which strikes him as strange enough that his nose wrinkles. "Busy with the kids." In the breaks of snowflakes gusting to zero visibility, a mountainous silhouette might be seen. The blue out there has hunkered right down. Waiting.

Oblivious Silva misses that stopping and closing of the bluerider's mouth. Or at least, the reason. She glances up with an upraised eyebrow, but gives it a shrug when he goes on. "Oh, are you the father of that annoying little pipsqueak that was trying to steal shoes the other night?" Because of COURSE T'mic has to be the father of all small boys if he mentiones children? She pulls the boot on finally with a sigh, and reaches for the otherone. "I wish it wasn't so snowy."

"Hah, what?" It's a chortle that carries those words, and T'mic mitt-slaps the wall a little. "I don't have any kids, not like that. Used to nanny them, though." With a thumb jutting toward his chest, and his chin raised, proud of that fact. Again, he's distracted, peering out toward the waiting dragon, and the storm. "It might clear up soon enough. These come and go sometimes, you know? Like waves, sort of?"

Hope springs eternal from a soul that ''really'' wants to avoid doing a particular piece of physical work. Silva brightens as he suggests the storm will pass. "Maybe If I just //wait//.... So wait. What kids are you busy with though? I mean, huh?" Confusion from Silva. There's a sense of deliberateness to her question though, like she's not ''really'' interested, but if he keeps talking maybe she can avoid her chore a little longer.

T'mic is seemingly unaware of being used as an excuse. At least, for the time being. "No, I used to nanny them. Before Jorrth and all this other stuff. I just mean that, yeah, I lugged stuff around for a while, but then I was mostly just for the kids. Never had to get wood." No, he doesn't hear it. He does look back out again, though. "Faranth, you can't see anything out there. It's no wonder they're late."

Cue confusion on Silva's face, and she scoots a half inch away from T'mic, like he is aybe just a TINY bit insane and she could catch it. There. Space taken, Silva returns to slllowwwlllyy pulling on her other boot. "So... how long do you have to wait before you just," a upraised hand gestures like a dragon taking off into the air, "zoom?

"Well, we don't want to crash into anyone. It wasn't so bad when we first started out." T'mic goes like to scratch the back of his head, but he's still got a mitten on. Also a hat. It all gets unorganised, and he tries to re-arrange the lot without removing anything. No doubt his hair will be epic later. "Might just have to head and wait it out." Outside, Jorrth's snort is lost to the winds and whirling snow. But that doesn't mean it's not there.

Abruptly Silva brightens, her attempts to pull on her boots stopping. There's a clunk as they fall back to the ground, and Silva arranges herself primly. "Waiting it out sounds like an ''excellent idea. I'm so glad you thought of it." She looks all sugar sweet and nice now, though surely that whine is hidden just under the surface if the man looks closely enough.

"Oh. Umm..." T'mic looks a bit troubled, here, and glances back down the tunnel, as if there might be some sort of guidance there. "Look, just don't get in trouble. Maybe you should ask her if she means somewhere specific, or what the deal is. I mean, if the whole Weyr's depending on the wood..."

"Oh no, no, you're so kind to be worried!" Silva's tone is bright and chipper. She could totally be the daughter of a prominent master that she is, with all her poise and slinkly talk. "If ''you'', a strong ''rider'' are worried about going out, I am ''sure'' my aunt would understand if I waited a little bit. I'm ''sure'' she doesn't mean for me to get ''hurt'' going out." BEAMING smile.

"I'm not worried for me," says T'mic. And as if to prove it, he gives his hat (and head) a two-handed smack, and squares up his shoulders, and turns to the outside. "We'll get out of your way, so you don't have to worry about dragons. Then the way's clear. Even get Jorrth clear you a path. He's pretty good at that." It's a farewell, that. Or maybe, he's afraid he'll lose his gumption. 'Cause he nods, and heads out right after it's all said.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Forcing Tradition

2015-09-16T23:18:32Z

H'kon: Created page with "{{Log |who=H'kon, Keysi |what=Hypotheticals, purpose, and tradition. |where=Star Stones, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=2 |month=11 |turn=38 |IP=Interval |..."

{{Log
|who=H'kon, Keysi
|what=Hypotheticals, purpose, and tradition.
|where=Star Stones, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=2
|month=11
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.16
|weather=The sky is clear today. The air remains cool and damp, but the weather is overall pleasant today.
|mentions=Farideh, Irianke
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Keysi.jpg, Icon Keysi Neianth ReflectionPool.jpg, Icon h'kon justhisface.jpg, Icon h'kon kothcalcified.jpg,
|log=''Star Stones, High Reaches Weyr'' 
''High on the southeastern edge of the Weyr, the Star Stones cast their long shadows over the sheared stone plateau that holds them. Here, a watchrider stands guard day and night, Pass or Interval, keeping an eye out for incoming visitors and inclement weather. The stocky, rectangular shape of the Eye Rock stands firm against the tests of time, the circular aperture that punches through it from side to side providing a frame for the view beyond, waiting for the Red Star's approach. Two dragonlengths south, the silent column of the Finger Rock awaits the balancing of the sun on its tip at the solstice to warn of the imminence of Thread. Between the two and set out slightly to the side is the squat shape of the actual Star Stone, inscribed with an arrow pointing to each of the other two stones.'' 
''The view from the Star Stones is unparalleled, its closest match that from the southern rim. A full circle around the Weyr can be seen from the Snowy Wastes to the north, to Keogh in the east, the peaks of the Western Range and Tillek Bay to the south, Pars and River Bend to the west. The only way up or down from the Star Stones is a-dragonback.''

It's barely dawn, but H'kon and Arekoth have been here longer. The watchrider knows them, and while having not yielded her post, has at least given them some space for their observation. Of what? The sky is clear, which makes it cold as well, humidity doing nothing to help take the edge off of that chill. H'kon is looking to the rebuilt Eye Rock now, his brow furrowed, of course, but lacking that same strictness. It's something more thoughtful, now. And something a bit sad. Arekoth looms behind him, fierce gaze following his riders, though his is, if a bit ironically, harder to read. His eyes are a bit dimmed, not distressed, but not that fast and happy whirl of blues or greens that are their norm. They wait, and their breath clouds in the air, and none of the signs that these great Stones have been built to gauge appear.

It's with a blue's agility that the small brown dragon speeds upwards along the sharp curve of the bowl's wall. It's without doubt that it's done for the sheer challenge of it- with the barest margin given to evade the protuberances of ledges, he nearly clips the ledge of the level-off that he arches for the Star Stones themselves. He's clipped it before, much to the chargrin of the dragonhealers. But that hasn't stopped him from doing it again, nor has his rider. Stark white talons catch stone, biting it hard enough to create a groove or two as the elevation threatens to take him backwards with gravity before he can land. Neianth pulls himself up the rest of the way, one flap of black-hewn wings given to steady himself. He almost turns to leap from the height when one or both of the pair notice the familiar brown and, subsequently, the wingsecond before him. Keysi doesn't yet dismount, but the from the draconic summed conciousness, ripples reach, disturbing the surface of a reflection pool of no reflection but glinted light. << Are you both well? >>

Ledge grooving makes noises, and Arekoth and H'kon ''look'' that way, as one, a sharp turn of the head, a narrowing of eyes, a mutual intense stare. H'kon's head draws back a bit, as Neianth seems to avoid certain doom - or at least, certain embarrassment. Arekoth's cranes farther forward. << Are ''you''? >> asks the older, larger brown, teasing, certainly, with that bit of a glow at the back of those words. The man, meanwhile, is looking to the rider on Neianth's neck. He must know her before he's even seen her; he certainly knows her dragon. Still, it takes a moment before his chin raises in some sort of greeting.

There is ''certainty'' and a vast sense of ''rightness'' that accompany the imagery in Neianth's reflections- mountains, mists, breezes disrupting pink-tinged cliff-dwelling trees. All is still disrupted by those ripples that bring with them his mindvoice, << Yes. >> is so simple in comparison to the confirmatory sensations behind it. The brown's chest heaves in his breaths, noting that the pair must've been up for some time already despite the oh-so-early hour. But he settles, lowering slightly as Keysi unbuckles herself and swings herself down by the straps. "G'day, sir." There's a pitch to her tone, her control lopsided by the adrenaline of moments before, but there's no loss of a salute with it. Stormy eyes shift from him to the stones though in unspoken question.

<< Looked for a bit like it wasn't a sure thing, is all, >> Arekoth points out, the tilt of his head coming quickly, almost more a twitch than a movement. That sharp gaze is the same as it ever was, except for the angle. "Wingrider," H'kon answers, the salute returned crisply. That might even have been some bit of pride in the title., even if all of the weyrlings are wingriders now, even if it's old news. H'kon glances to Arekoth, from him to Neianth, before returning his focus to Keysi. "Early calisthenics?"

<< But it was. >> Neianth's baritone is amused and confident, but not smug. << There is no satisfaction in aiming low enough to reach a goal every time. >> Meaning, he's missed before. Blue eyes whirl swiftly with laces of green, still exhilerated and not ''done'' with whatever bar he'd set for himself today. He observes Arekoth in a similiar manner, but much more canid like than hawk-like, a slight tilt of his crescent-touch face given in mirror of him. "Always." The word serves as a bridge, as the smile that had been in place slowly dissolves into her more typical, more controlled, more stern self. She allows a quiet after, as she removes her helmet to tuck beneath her arm. Studious gaze watches H'kon in a long moment of characteristic intensity before shifting to the view beyond the stones. "Enjoying the morning view, sir?"

<< Barely, >> answers Arekoth, though there's something amused in that tone. His head tilts the other way. "It remains relatively unchanged," H'kon answers Keysi, his hands coming to clasp formally behind his back, "apart from differences in the weather and the usual changing stars that come with the seasons." Though he doesn't purse his lips, the lines in his forehead, nose and mouth all pull toward that same central point, if faintly. "Did you know, that this wasn't the original Eye Rock?"

<< More than barely would be easy. >> The smaller brown keeps his head tilt steady despite Arekoth's change, though despite his stillness, it's interrupted by a brief chuffing sound. "It takes times to move mountains." Not that it can't be done, notes Keysi likely by periphery of her Neianth. She decides against carting the helmet, setting it into a saddlebag before crossing some distance- slowly, for her- to come up nearer H'kon. "Most are content with the weather changing." Grey eyes are eventually back on Alpine's wingsecond before being redirected at the stone. Contemplative silence soon givens to, "No sir. It was destroyed?"

Arekoth answers that chuff with a flick-flick of his wingtips, resettling against each other with minimal movement, but some audible sound. "For mountains to move," H'kon more muses than corrects, though there's a sharper something in his gaze for a moment. Her assessment of 'everyone' has him turning to look to that Eye Rock once more. "Meteors," is confirmation. "High Reaches' skyview was changed. A dragon even lost for it. This was reconstructed, but never allowed had a chance to be tested for its accuracy." A tilt of his head. "Not," he allows, in almost a sigh, "that it should be blamed for the constancy of the skies."

Neianth continues to regard Arekoth with an adjusted view, one focused faceted eye. But he turns slightly to hook talons over the edge of the Weyr to watch beyond as the riders had been. It's difficult to assess if Keysi isn't surprised because of her nature or she had known something about it, but she listens regardless of which, content apparently in the telling of it. "And you believe it will miss its purpose?"

This time, it's a real sigh. H'kon shifts a half-step back, and turns his face back to Keysi. "No." A beat, brow still furrowed. "I do not expect much of anything to change. But two queens to rise early can make one at least wish to see the thing once more. Even if they are only in this Weyr. Even if the Starcrafters have said nothing." Those eyebrows lift, then, the furrow easing somewhat. Two steps are taken, the first turning him, the second one bringing him nearer his lifemate.

"Thread." Is both a question and a statement, unreadable grey eyes turning to focus on H'kon, to watch him as he turns to his Arekoth. "In all the focus that's been done towards the time of interval, it would be..." Keysi trails off, no hint of whether it 'would be' good, or 'would be' so grave as it could be. "You've given this much thought?"

Keysi's saying it aloud has Arekoth's head lifting, turning with that lightning-quick motion to her. H'kon simply, slowly lifts his head to consider his dragon's snout. His lips press into one another. A sidelong glance to join Arekoth on his point of focus. "I don't imagine there ''is'' much thought that can be given it. There have been aberrations in the past, but I do not believe the dragons have sensed that. Not as they do a proper Pass. Not only two in the same Weyr. More it was ''a'' thought. Or," and he lets his head tilt to the side, permissive, "a recollection of purpose."

Keysi doesn't lift her watch of him, turning herself in a step, two steps to face him even if it's to his back. "Purpose." She echoes, this time in a sort of agreement though even without the inflection she should provide to it. "There is more purpose to hold- to find- than that." Is quiet but steady. A sigh allows her to look to Neianth who considers her just as closely. "A united purpose, I suppose. A battle," And there's a faint grin that last word turns her expression slightly, if a touch darkly. "Would remind many. I wish to see traditions remain, but that doesn't seem to be much of a popular opinion."

"Hm," is not much in the way of return, though H'kon keeps on watching her, considering. Arekoth, too, of course, those wingtips flick-flicking again. "Many," comes after, with some hint of humour tugging the corner of his mouth sideways, "and not only here." It's pointed, then, the step to adjust his angle. The Eye Rock earns his attention once more, though for all he can view it, the angle adjusted, it isn't ''right'' now, it isn't on. It doesn't, as it seems, need to be.

"But even then." Her length of thoughts collect eventually into words, "Knowing it's not a real Pass, would they not just return to the thoughts of these times as soon as it's over? They may be reminded after every Pass, but choose to forget at every interval." Forget seems like too strong a word, but Keysi leaves it at simply that.

"Should knowing it to not be a real Pass," asks the wingsecond, tilting his head, more in Neianth's style than that of his own dragon, "not make them question the duration or recurrence of such an event? Although," and he nods, and this time, it's a heavy gesture, "that is perhaps not what is at issue, not truly." There's something disappointed in that, spoken in that faintly Tillekian accent that has still persisted, after all these turns at the Weyr.

"Perhaps so. But so too would be the skill of Starcrafters, the stones," Keysi's hand lifts in an idle motion as she steps back to Neianth, within reach of his lighter nose which reaches her palm with a huff of a breath, "the safety of traders and their routes. There still may be push for change, and nontraditional thoughts of our purpose." But H'kon's following thought leads her to the most expected curiosity, "What is at issue?"

"There may be," he is willing to agree, though there is little in H'kon's tone to suggest approval or disapproval of that. It is stated as if a fact, for all his choice of words speaks only of possibility. Arekoth has been remembered, and the older brownrider takes another step toward his dragon. "Tradition is subject always to convenience, when there is no present reminder. It has little force on its own."

"Unfortunate." Is Keysi's heavier answer, but an agreement to some degree. "Traditions do have strength, though. If not in what's been found to be reliable, then in lessons of the things that weren't." She takes her helmet back from where she'd placed it, "Especially in the inconveniences." She drops her intense gaze as she replaces the helmet.

"Hm," says H'kon. The last few steps bring him to Arekoth's side. The brown turns to face his rider, and then crouches, that foreleg balanced carefully, but at this point in his life, instinctively. "Clear skies," offers the compact wingsecond as he takes hold of his dragon's straps, "Keysi," a nod, and then, "Neianth," another. There is either thought or conversation that prevents Arekoth from calling back to Neianth, << Try it with only one leg to land on, next time, >> until he and H'kon have already left the Star Stones.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Roszadyth's Lythronath Babies

2015-09-16T02:58:39Z

H'kon: I suck for not posting this yesterday. Oops.

{{Log
|who=A'rist{{!}}Lythronath, Farideh{{!}}Roszadyth, G'laer{{!}}Teisyth
|what=Teisyth's in town. Lythronath tells her he's expecting.
|where=Weyrleaders' Ledge, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=24
|month=10
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.14
|mentions=Makita, Rh'mis
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon_a'rist_lynner_hatch.png, Icon_g'laer_teisyth.jpg
|log=Since Teisyth's transfer to warmer climes, she's seldom been seen in the home of her shelling, but today there must be some absolutely unavoidable family obligation that even a faked death couldn't get G'laer out of. It affords Teisyth the opportunity to flit (in her galumphing way) from ledge to ledge, ''visiting''. << Howdee do, Lynner! >> comes the cheery greeting from the green. He must be next on the list.

Lythronath's not on his ledge. Since he's big triumphant victory, he's been frequenting the leader ledge, staying there, staying near Roszadyth sure, but also staying as a presence, for anyone who comes by, Niahvth, Cadejoth, or the Weyr's other dragons. Or, you know. << Teisyth! >> She is remembered in her arrival only, but it's enough to have him up from his indolent lounging, to his hind feeth, wings out and tail swinging while he sniffs at the air. Excited. Daww.

Fortunately, given Teisyth's relative size to Lythronath, it's unlikely that she'll be able to bowl him over in her enthusiastic arrival onto the leaders ledge (is this the leaders ledge? She might notice when a gold happens by). Still, the arrival is meant to tumble her into the bronze, enthusiasm feeding off of his excitement and on and on. Somewhere, G'laer almost certainly has a headache.

Somewhere, A'rist might actually ''smile''. Lythronath's remembering is limited, so Teisyth does get a hearty tail-thwap whilehe jumps and dances and circles her and bobs his head up and down. << Back! >> is exclaimed. In case she hadn't known it. << ''Home,'' >> is more significant.

<< Good! >> Teisyth is pleased for him. << My home ain't new anymore, but I like it. >> She relates as if it were important. << Y'all can come visitin' if'n you like. >> It's added in off-handed babble as she starts to settle down, thumping her head briefly into his shoulder. << So what all's been happenin'? What've I missed? I dun heard already about how Kharyth found all them nice rocks and hid the treasure where ain't nobody's gonna find it, >> is related in case he was going to tell her, though she adds in quiet, << Don't tell Rosvelth, but I know just where she hid 'em, >> with a pleased guffaw.

<< Haha! Hidden. >> The interest piqued brings a mental heaviness. It's information he'll share with Rosvelth. In bits. Excruciating bits. Later. Teeth graze green hide at the apex of one of his headbobs, one where his mouth opens. Those fire-blazed wings twitch a few times before they're willing to settle along his back. << Babies, >> he declares, then. With a pride that can probably be felt all the way to Ierne, he adds, << Mine. >>

<< '''''WHAT?''''' >> That's Teisyth's extreme excitement. In this moment, she can't sit still, needs to rear back, flab her wings, hoot, holler and stomp. << Hoo-ee! Lynner, that's great! Yer gonna be a pappy! >> She's so thrilled for him. ''So thrilled''. (G'laer might be blind from the pain of her glee.) Then, the revelation: << Wait a darn tootin' second, Lynner... ''I'm gonna be a ''auntie''!!! >>

<< ''Mine,'' >> Lythronath repeats, but this time, it doesn't mean prohibitive exclusion. <> He answers her excitement by swinging his head at her and whipping his tail out behind him. << Roszadyth's Lythronath babies. >>

<< Hot dang! >> Teisyth throws herself against Lythronath in the biggest, proudest weird dragon hug she can manage. << ''Presents''! >> It's another sudden revelation. << Aunties give presents. I'munnna have ter get started. What kind of presents do Roszadyth's Lythronath babies need? Blankets? Treasure? >> There's that fleeting thought to what Kharyth might not miss, << ''Pillows''? >>

Dragon> << Presents for babies, >> Lythronath relays, some of Teisyth's scent, if not the twang of her voice, working in behind those words. << What presents? >> Would she like, presumably. His list so far includes, << Blood... >> (To Roszadyth from Lythronath)

Dragon> Shimmering, soft, light expands beneath Lythronath's words. << Presents? >> She doesn't seem to recognize the dragon, but acknowledges the offer, though her sighed, << They are not yet laid. I would feel ill at ease accepting them. >> is gentle. (To Lythronath from Roszadyth)

Dragon> << Will be, >> Lythronath is certain, unquestioning confidence all through his tones. << Then? >> (To Roszadyth from Lythronath)

Dragon> Roszadyth hesitates, but responds, eventually, demurely, << Anything that they would be willing to provide. Anything convenient. I ''do'' like pillows. >> ''Pillows'', soft, silky, pretty pillows. (To Lythronath from Roszadyth)

Dragon> To Roszadyth, Lythronath confirms, << Pillows. >> Good.

<< Roszadyth, >> Lythronath explains, pausing to turn his head toward the weyr that the queen and her rider share. A few beats, where the bronze is distracted, discussing. << Pillows, >> would be more grudging, had it not come from the gold. << Blood, too. >>

Teisyth is bobbing her boxy head along in agreement until suddenly, ''confusion'', << T'gether? >>

Lythronath knows enough of the gold to provide, << No. >> Something in it strikes him as funny, though, and that bronze is twitching his wings and tossing his head.

The green seems relieved, sharing without words her concern over G'laer not letting her bring pillows to the feeding grounds. Not after the ''last time''. << I-- >> is distracted. << Dang. G'laer says we have t'go home now. He's got a headache, bad, and his ma says he can leave now. He's real happy, >> she seems perplexed, << even if'n his head is killin' him. >> She thinks on this another moment and comes up with no putting of 2 and 2 together to resemble anything like 4. (2+2=MAGENTA! in Teisyth's world.) << I'm right proud of you, Lynner. I'll come see yer babies, I promise! >> She might even remember that promise. She leans to bump his shoulder affectionately before moving to get enough distance to safely launch into the waiting sky.

<< Babies, >> agrees Lynner. And he bites at her tail as she leaves. And everything is as it should be.
|Categories=Dragon Logs
}}

Logs:Last

2015-09-14T19:31:23Z

H'kon: Created page with "{{Log |who=Leova, T'mic |what=T'mic asks Leova questions about dragon sex and timing. |where=Dragon Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=15 |month=10..."

{{Log
|who=Leova, T'mic
|what=T'mic asks Leova questions about dragon sex and timing.
|where=Dragon Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=15
|month=10
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.11
|quote=Somebody has to be last.
|mentions=Farideh
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon leova.jpg, Icon t'mic.jpg,
|log=''Dragon Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr'' 
''The vast cavern has much the same odor of redwort and numbweed as the human infirmary, though here it's seasoned with coppery ichor rather than the iron of blood. It's also laid out similarly though on a much more massive scale, its walls lined with a number of places for patients, in this case large dragon couches recessed into the floor for ease of access; nearby cots provide space for riders. Tucked into the western curve is a huge circulating pool of warm water, by which are kept vats of oil.'' 
''The healers' duty station is a counter on the north side of the room, a checkpoint before the storage rooms behind it that are now shared with the human infirmary, hosting supplies that are as neatly labeled and carefully scrubbed as the rest of the infirmary. The senior dragonhealer has an office there as well, and human-sized double doors have recently been built as a direct route to the human infirmary, while opposite a wide winding tunnel leads to the east bowl.''

There was some waiting, and the air's humid from the heated pool and from outside, but at least it's warm enough within and there's klah for those as want it. Leova does, or did. After she shows the previous pair out, the dragon a grizzled brown who isn't keen on doing his stretches, she takes a moment to top hers up before moving toward the broad young man and his Jorrth. "What's up?" follows a first glance and precedes a professional look-over. Vrianth, who's been lightly perceptible all along as a subtle sense of ''presence'': << She might want to see your wings. >>

That bulk of blue Jorrth is waiting, and watches Leova intently, through that first glance, and into the look-over. Which means he'll be turning his head and maybe even shifting those little feet, trying to glean from her gaze what it is she's checking out. "Nothing really," T'mic says with a shrug. Shortly thereafter, a bit of a curling of his lip, more some revelation than actual humour. "I mean, he's not hurt or anything. I just... wanted to ask about sex." To Vrianth: << Does she? >>

Static. However, Leova ''does'' look at those craggy wings along the way. Also his paws: had he stepped on something? << Of course. >> Vrianth does not take it back, either, when T'mic clarifies and Leova can't very well not repeat, "'Sex.'" She lifts her mug like she's going to drink, only she doesn't. Calmly, so very calmly, "What appears to be the problem?" And then she goes and looks at his wings again.

Jorrth stretches the main and relaxes the rest of that wing; pliable and ready for inspection. If she wants. Otherwise, just on display. Those little feet lift and drop, tap. At least no strange smells waft up there. And he never stops watching. T'mic finds that cot to lean against. "He doesn't want it?" It's not long at all before a lean turns into a sit, those big hands clasping before him.

<< Better. >> There's the barest spark to it, a hoarded glint. Leova holds up her hand to T'mic, and progresses all around his broad-beamed blue. The dragonhealer does not put her own feet in a place to be stepped on. When she's coming around the other side again, before she gets anywhere near that cot, "Refusing? Or not ''caring''." If it matters, nobody else seems immediately around, just that older man in the far back cataloguing inventory. She doesn't speak in a hush.

T'mic waits patiently, while Jorrth tries so hard to watch. It's tougher she she's around his hindquarters. He's not that bendy. There are little shuffly steps from his back legs, but he doesn't ''really'' move. The other wing is extended in that same way as she comes around, the first folding back. He seems the more satisfied, when those eyes can settle on the dragonhealer again. "Well... it's not like I tell him he ''has'' to, so he can't refuse. And he watches them. He just doesn't," an almost apologetic look to his lifemate, in the pause before, "''feel'' it, you know?"

Leova acknowledges what T'mic's said with a nod, and a clearing of her throat that's at least a decade shy of being a harrumph. She looks at Jorrth then, right at his nearest eye, and waits.

That eye whirls into focus on that up close dragonrider, contentedly blue, just like Jorrth himself. "I know some take longer, but ''everyone'' else in his clutch is ready enough that they're either flying or chasing or at least leaving during flights. He can just sit and watch. With nothing going on. Down there." T'mic's face twitches. "I just want to make sure it's not weird?"

"Even Roszadyth," Leova says absently, still looking upward. She nods at Jorrth now, then steps back enough to address T'mic but still glance at Jorrth and Jorrth's gaze at times. "You'll have heard, 'Somebody has to be last.'" Her calm, ever-smoky voice doesn't expect it to be consolation. "Does he watch more than he used to? Or is that about the same as ever."

"Yeah," T'mic confirms for the gold. Jorrth blinks, as she steps away. "I don't know if it's changed much. It depends what he's doing. Who's flying. Where. He watches it because it's interesting and part of what happens in his Weyr, I think. He used to watch me and- I mean he used to be curious about-" the bluerider is looking concerned, here. "You're not going to tell anyone this right?" Because somehow, saying it out loud makes it stranger.

"What needs to be set down, will. Want to keep track of when you brought it up, so we can check for later. Baseline." Leova keeps all that matter-of-fact. ''Normal.'' "But if you mean, will I tell Glacier over drinks, the answer is," a very firm, "no."

T'mic nods a little, then looks toward that guy with the inventory. He, at least, does lower his voice some, to say, "''I'' couldn't even do anything like ''that'', for a longer time than the others. And then he watched that for a bit, but then kind of stopped? Mostly. But just... nothing. He's just curious about it like he was about trundlebugs when he was little." A beat. "Are there any dragons who just don't fly? Don't even ever want to?"

Well then. "Ah," Leova says, as though it might be significant. Or not. She checks on Jorrth's eyes again, a brief but open glance. She has more klah. "Not not ever, not in my recollection. After ''injury'' is one thing. Some of those. More of those that, after injury, want to but can't. It's rough." She exhales. "Does he worry, that you worry?"

T'mic considers this, looks over to Jorrth, who is then looking back at him. The blue's tail swats at something that's maybe not even there. "I don't think he ''worries''. I don't think he's bothered by everyone else chasing and him not, either... It's not like it's getting in the way of anything, it's just. Late."

"Better that way," Leova says. "Would say, think to yourself... Roszadyth, she's ''early''. Not like she stole it from him, just, early. He isn't out-of-bounds early, T'mic." More klah. "I'd say, if he's not interested in another half-Turn, let me know. If he ''is'', earlier, let me know. I'll add it to the chart either way. If it's another full Turn and he's not even eyeing them ''that way'', I've got some ideas. But... the main thing is, he's not hurting. Maybe you are, but he's not feeling clogged or nothing, he's just fine."

That makes T'mic's face go red. "I'm not... I'm not hurting like that. Not for him to go chase." The bluerider shakes his head, quickly, and shifts, all awkward now. "Anyway. Okay. I just wanted to make sure is all." Which prompts him to his feet, with a glance sent to Jorrth again. Jorrth, who shakes those wings out, although only minimally, lest he break something or smack someone, and snorts. "But thanks."

"Easy now." Leova waits. It isn't a step forward, not a hand to his arm. It's that plain firm tone, the earth-rooted posture. ''Wait.''

T'mic has been trained up from young to listen to ''tones''. He stops where he is. Jorrth does, too, unconsciously. Slowly, T'mic's eyes trace toward Leova. His head moves too, eventually.

Leova holds him there for that long, and a breath or two longer. "Reckon he's fine, T'mic." Not that he will be, but that he ''is''. "Anything to add, Jorrth?"

T'mic waits. The ruddiness of his face lessens a little, but only does so slowly. "Okay," T'mic nods. And then shifts his stance, and tucks his hands into his pocket, and looks over toward his blue. << Is there anything she wants to know? >> to Vrianth.

The answer is ''yes'', but, << Is there anything you would share? >> Which is to say: what she might want to know might not be anything he could tell her. Or his rider. Or have to do with their pairing at all. "He seems to be in fine fettle. Otherwise healthy, then?" Leova.

Jorrth's tongue goes all the way up to his nose. <> Which he might mean any number of ways, as he tilts his head, eyes still on T'mic. "Oh, yeah," agrees the latter. "We've been doing lots of sweeps, flame training, everything... oiling him a bit more now that it's getting colder, but I think he's doing really well." Only at the end does he look away from his dragon, and back to Leova.

The greenrider cracks a smile at that, that ''tongue''. <> says her dragon, a flick of electricity laying down that comma into a period. "All right." Now Leova's looking back at T'mic. "You got yourself a steady wing. See you both in that half-Turn, then. Or before."

"Yeah," says T'mic, "we like it pretty good." And he nods. "Okay. Thanks." Jorrth is the first to move, brushing past Leova on his way, with a refined awareness of just exactly where the edge of his shoulder starts and ends. T'mic follows, turning back just before exiting to give a smile and little wave, final shows of gratitude. And a mind at ease.
|Categories=HRW Clutch 37 Logs, General Logs, Dragonhealing Logs
}}

Logs talk:Grandma Medicine

2015-09-10T15:08:02Z

H'kon:

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

==Squishy (07:32, 10 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

"If you were a girl," said his grandmother, "they'd have told you to be careful. Not to let people take advantage of you. They all forget that men have hearts, too."

I cannot express how much I love this line. This whole Vignette.
==Faryn (07:40, 10 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

"The good ones, anyway." 

Grandma knows. Grandma always knows. Faryn will not be visiting grandma.
==T'mic (08:07, 10 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

But if Faryn doesn't visit Grandma, how can Grandma sniff her decide if she likes her or not?

(She does that. I couldn't fit it into this vignette, but she does.)

Logs talk:Grandma Medicine

2015-09-10T15:07:24Z

H'kon: Comment provided by T'mic - via ArticleComments extension

Logs:Grandma Medicine

2015-09-10T13:41:10Z

H'kon:

{{Log
|who=T'mic{{!}}Dorina, T'mic
|what=T'mic feels awful, and deals with it the way any adult would: going and sitting in his grandmother's kitchen.
|where=Dorina's Cottage, Benden Hold
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Benden Hold
|day=1
|month=10
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.10
|mentions=Edyis, Faryn
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon t'mic spiritanimal.jpeg,
|log="Tomic." It wasn't the warm, welcoming greeting he'd wanted. She'd opened the door, and was scowling at him.

T'mic had a hand braced on the door frame. His head was pounding and spinning. His tongue felt all dry and gross. And the ache that had been chased away for a while the night before was right back again in his chest and guts, and then he thought of the drinks that had chased it, and it was worse.

His grandmother took a sniff, and scowled deeper. "It's coming out of your ''skin.''" It wasn't warm or welcoming. It was disappointed. A little disgusted. And Jorrth wasn't there, and Faryn had been with someone else, and he thought he was going to throw up, and he was going to cry, so he hung his head and closed his mouth and his eyes tight.

She didn't invite him in. She poked him in the shoulder, and when he looked up at her, all blurry, she said, "You remember your grandfather?"

T'mic closed his eyes more and nodded, and when he tried to get a breath he made a choked sobbing sound like one of the weyrbrats instead.

That's when he felt her hands, strong and bony, on his shoulders, and then her shoulder digging into his ribs as she slipped under his arm, taking the place of the doorframe and bringing him inside.

-----

T'mic sat at her table, his elbows propped on it, and his head clasped between his hands. He counted each pound, not them all together, but every time. He counted them to Jorrth, and wished the blue weren't so far away.

"This," said his grandmother, opening a jar and tapping a little bit of powder into the tea pot, "is for your head."

"Thank Faranth," said T'mic, and closed his eyes.

His grandmother made a sucking sound against her cheek at him, and turned back to her shelves. "This one," he cracked an eyelid, and she stood facing him with a green sprig of something in between her thumb and finger, "is for the nausea."

T'mic nodded, and closed his eyes again. Pound, pound, pound.

''Are you okay still?''

<< I'm on Akluseth's ledge. I think I like ours better, but this one is nice. >>

He smiled and again wished Jorrth was here instead.

When T'mic opened both eyes, his grandmother was putting away a vial. "To balance you out," she said, and he nodded a little, although he didn't really understand. She went to the pot that had been warming, and poured boiling water into the tea pot.

She pulled out a chair for herself, then stopped, and returned to her shelves. He closed his eye again and listened to her shaking the jars and bottles around, until she found what she was wanting.

"And this," she said, firmly enough that T'mic opened his eyes again, "is for being stupid." She dropped it in the top, put the teapot's lid on, and looked very satisfied when she sat down and crossed her arms in front of her. "So are you going to tell me what happened?"

T'mic nodded glumly. "The Weyr isn't like the Hold, though, Grandma..."

"Don't speak to me like I'm your father, Tomic."

So he started off telling her about that night. Everything. And she poured the tea, and it was so bitter he almost gagged, and she smiled at him like a wher. But he finished it all, while answering her questions, and telling her about everything before it, too, about a home with children and a wife, and about playing poker in the stables, and about Jorrth - so much about Jorrth, which made him miss the blue even more. Mostly, she just listened.

But she did say, "Tomic, a rooted tree won't go wherever the wind blows."

He nodded a little, and didn't understand.

And then, also,"You love easily, Tomic."

"That's what Mirna says," said T'mic.

"She's a smart one, that one. She's lived longer than anyone thinks."

T'mic squinted.

"If you were a girl," said his grandmother, "they'd have told you to be careful. Not to let people take advantage of you. They all forget that men have hearts, too."

T'mic looked at his mug.

"The good ones, anyway," she said, and filled it again. "Drink it all."

It was even more bitter than before, but his head had quietened down, and he was already starting to feel a bit better.

----

After, when all those plants she'd put in the teapot were really doing their job and he could open his eyes normally, they played a few hands of whist, and his grandmother would ask him a question here and there, and then would suck at her cheek or click her teeth or just say, "Hm." He cleared up the mugs (she'd never used hers) and teapot before he got ready to go find Edyis.

When he was getting ready to go, she took his jacket and held it hostage.

"Grandma."

"It's hard to hear the whispers of the wind when your head is under the water, Tomic."

He nodded, but didn't understand this one, either.

"You need a bath," she told him.

"Yeah," he agreed.

He started to reach for his jacket, and then dropped his hand when she looked at him in that way of hers.

"If you drink like this again, you aren't coming into my house."

T'mic hung his head. "Okay."

She gave him his jacket. He put it on, then hugged her, and left.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Grandma Medicine

2015-09-10T13:39:59Z

H'kon:

{{Log
|who=T'mic{{!}}Dorina, T'mic
|what=T'mic feels awful, and deals with it the way any adult would: going and sitting in his grandmother's kitchen.
|where=Dorina's Cottage, Benden Hold
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Benden Hold
|day=1
|month=10
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.10
|mentions=Edyis, Faryn
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon t'mic spiritanimal.jpeg,
|log="Tomic." It wasn't the warm, welcoming greeting he'd wanted. She'd opened the door, and was scowling at him.

T'mic had a hand braced on the door frame. His head was pounding and spinning. His tongue felt all dry and gross. And the ache that had been chased away for a while the night before was right back again in his chest and guts, and then he thought of the drinks that had chased it, and it was worse.

His grandmother took a sniff, and scowled deeper. "It's coming out of your ''skin.''" It wasn't warm or welcoming. It was disappointed. A little disgusted. And Jorrth wasn't there, and Faryn had been with someone else, and he thought he was going to throw up, and he was going to cry, so he hung his head and closed his mouth and his eyes tight.

She didn't invite him in. She poked him in the shoulder, and when he looked up at her, all blurry, she said, "You remember your grandfather?"

T'mic closed his eyes more and nodded, and when he tried to get a breath he made a choked sobbing sound like one of the weyrbrats instead.

That's when he felt her hands, strong and bony, on his shoulders, and then her shoulder digging into his ribs as she slipped under his arm, taking the place of the doorframe and bringing him inside.

-----

T'mic sat at her table, his elbows propped on it, and his head clasped between his hands. He counted each pound, not them all together, but every time. He counted them to Jorrth, and wished the blue weren't so far away.

"This," said his grandmother, opening a jar and tapping a little bit of powder into the tea pot, "is for your head."

"Thank Faranth," said T'mic, and closed his eyes.

His grandmother made a sucking sound against her cheek at him, and turned back to her shelves. "This one," he cracked an eyelid, and she stood facing him with a green sprig of something in between her thumb and finger, "is for the nausea."

T'mic nodded, and closed his eyes again. Pound, pound, pound.

''Are you okay still?''

<< I'm on Akluseth's ledge. I think I like ours better, but this one is nice. >>

He smiled and again wished Jorrth was here instead.

When T'mic opened both eyes, his grandmother was putting away a vial. "To balance you out," she said, and he nodded a little, although he didn't really understand. She went to the pot that had been warming, and poured boiling water into the tea pot.

She pulled out a chair for herself, then stopped, and returned to her shelves. He closed his eye again and listened to her shaking the jars and bottles around, until she found what she was wanting.

"And this," she said, firmly enough that T'mic opened his eyes again, "is for being stupid." She dropped it in the top, put the teapot's lid on, and looked very satisfied when she sat down and crossed her arms in front of her. "So are you going to tell me what happened?"

T'mic nodded glumly. "The Weyr isn't like the Hold, though, Grandma..."

"Don't speak to me like I'm your father, Tomic."

So he started off telling her about that night. Everything. And she poured the tea, and it was so bitter he almost gagged, and she smiled at him like a wher. But he finished it all, while answering her questions, and telling her about everything before it, too, about a home with children and a wife, and about playing poker in the stables, and about Jorrth - so much about Jorrth, which made him miss the blue even more. Mostly, she just listened.

But she did say, "Tomic, a rooted tree won't go wherever the wind blows."

He nodded a little, and didn't understand.

And then, also,"You love easily, Tomic."

"That's what Mirna says," said T'mic.

"She's a smart one, that one. She's lived longer than anyone thinks."

T'mic squinted.

"If you were a girl," said his grandmother, "they'd have told you to be careful. Not to let people take advantage of you. They all forget that men have hearts, too."

T'mic looked at his mug.

"The good ones, anyway," she said, and filled it again. "Drink it all."

It was even more bitter than before, but his head had quietened down, and he was already starting to feel a bit better.

----

After, when all those plants she'd put in the teapot were really doing their job and he could open his eyes normally, they played a few hands of whist, and his grandmother would ask him a question here and there, and then would suck at her cheek or click her teeth or just say, "Hm." He cleared up the mugs (she'd never used hers) and teapot before he got ready to go find Edyis.

When he was getting ready to go, she took his jacket held it hostage.

"Grandma."

"It's hard to hear the whispers of the wind when your head is under the water, Tomic."

He nodded, but didn't understand this one, either.

"You need a bath," she told him.

"Yeah," he agreed.

He started to reach for his jacket, and then dropped his hand when she looked at him in that way of hers.

"If you drink like this again, you aren't coming into my house."

T'mic hung his head. "Okay."

She gave him his jacket. He put it on, then hugged her, and left.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Grandma Medicine

2015-09-10T13:38:58Z

H'kon: Created page with "{{Log |who=T'mic{{!}}Dorina, T'mic |what=T'mic feels awful, and deals with it the way any adult would: going and sitting in his grandmother's kitchen. |where=Dorina's Cottage,..."

{{Log
|who=T'mic{{!}}Dorina, T'mic
|what=T'mic feels awful, and deals with it the way any adult would: going and sitting in his grandmother's kitchen.
|where=Dorina's Cottage, Benden Hold
|involves=Benden Hold
|day=1
|month=10
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.10
|mentions=Edyis, Faryn
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon t'mic spirit
|log="Tomic." It wasn't the warm, welcoming greeting he'd wanted. She'd opened the door, and was scowling at him.

T'mic had a hand braced on the door frame. His head was pounding and spinning. His tongue felt all dry and gross. And the ache that had been chased away for a while the night before was right back again in his chest and guts, and then he thought of the drinks that had chased it, and it was worse.

His grandmother took a sniff, and scowled deeper. "It's coming out of your ''skin.''" It wasn't warm or welcoming. It was disappointed. A little disgusted. And Jorrth wasn't there, and Faryn had been with someone else, and he thought he was going to throw up, and he was going to cry, so he hung his head and closed his mouth and his eyes tight.

She didn't invite him in. She poked him in the shoulder, and when he looked up at her, all blurry, she said, "You remember your grandfather?"

T'mic closed his eyes more and nodded, and when he tried to get a breath he made a choked sobbing sound like one of the weyrbrats instead.

That's when he felt her hands, strong and bony, on his shoulders, and then her shoulder digging into his ribs as she slipped under his arm, taking the place of the doorframe and bringing him inside.

-----

T'mic sat at her table, his elbows propped on it, and his head clasped between his hands. He counted each pound, not them all together, but every time. He counted them to Jorrth, and wished the blue weren't so far away.

"This," said his grandmother, opening a jar and tapping a little bit of powder into the tea pot, "is for your head."

"Thank Faranth," said T'mic, and closed his eyes.

His grandmother made a sucking sound against her cheek at him, and turned back to her shelves. "This one," he cracked an eyelid, and she stood facing him with a green sprig of something in between her thumb and finger, "is for the nausea."

T'mic nodded, and closed his eyes again. Pound, pound, pound.

''Are you okay still?''

<< I'm on Akluseth's ledge. I think I like ours better, but this one is nice. >>

He smiled and again wished Jorrth was here instead.

When T'mic opened both eyes, his grandmother was putting away a vial. "To balance you out," she said, and he nodded a little, although he didn't really understand. She went to the pot that had been warming, and poured boiling water into the tea pot.

She pulled out a chair for herself, then stopped, and returned to her shelves. He closed his eye again and listened to her shaking the jars and bottles around, until she found what she was wanting.

"And this," she said, firmly enough that T'mic opened his eyes again, "is for being stupid." She dropped it in the top, put the teapot's lid on, and looked very satisfied when she sat down and crossed her arms in front of her. "So are you going to tell me what happened?"

T'mic nodded glumly. "The Weyr isn't like the Hold, though, Grandma..."

"Don't speak to me like I'm your father, Tomic."

So he started off telling her about that night. Everything. And she poured the tea, and it was so bitter he almost gagged, and she smiled at him like a wher. But he finished it all, while answering her questions, and telling her about everything before it, too, about a home with children and a wife, and about playing poker in the stables, and about Jorrth - so much about Jorrth, which made him miss the blue even more. Mostly, she just listened.

But she did say, "Tomic, a rooted tree won't go wherever the wind blows."

He nodded a little, and didn't understand.

And then, also,"You love easily, Tomic."

"That's what Mirna says," said T'mic.

"She's a smart one, that one. She's lived longer than anyone thinks."

T'mic squinted.

"If you were a girl," said his grandmother, "they'd have told you to be careful. Not to let people take advantage of you. They all forget that men have hearts, too."

T'mic looked at his mug.

"The good ones, anyway," she said, and filled it again. "Drink it all."

It was even more bitter than before, but his head had quietened down, and he was already starting to feel a bit better.

----

After, when all those plants she'd put in the teapot were really doing their job and he could open his eyes normally, they played a few hands of whist, and his grandmother would ask him a question here and there, and then would suck at her cheek or click her teeth or just say, "Hm." He cleared up the mugs (she'd never used hers) and teapot before he got ready to go find Edyis.

When he was getting ready to go, she took his jacket held it hostage.

"Grandma."

"It's hard to hear the whispers of the wind when your head is under the water, Tomic."

He nodded, but didn't understand this one, either.

"You need a bath," she told him.

"Yeah," he agreed.

He started to reach for his jacket, and then dropped his hand when she looked at him in that way of hers.

"If you drink like this again, you aren't coming into my house."

T'mic hung his head. "Okay."

She gave him his jacket. He put it on, then hugged her, and left.
}}

Logs talk:Bite Marks

2015-09-08T13:34:00Z

H'kon: Comment provided by A'rist - via ArticleComments extension

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

==Squishy (19:18, 7 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

This was really interesting but also a little heart breaking too.
==Alida (02:44, 8 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Poor 'Rist. :/
==A'rist (06:34, 8 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

I like how no one's like, 'Poor Farideh, she wound up with him.'

T'mic

2015-09-08T13:21:56Z

H'kon:

{{Profile
|picture=Tomic.jpg
|mother=Misca
|father=Torin
|siblings=Toras (Parma) +5, Marcis and Tirsa (Erl), +3, Mirna, -1, Stina, - 4, Romin, -8
|body=== Description ==
Broad-faced, broad-shouldered, just markedly big all around, this wavy-haired youth is as difficult to miss as he would be to get around in a crowd. He stands taller than most men, thick with muscle through his limbs and trunk, and undeniably strong, even with that bit of padding on his belly. Hulking, yes, but not a menace: far-set eyes are amicable for the most part, framed by wavy black hair that falls to his jaw, and the broad smile that breaks across his ruddy-tan face is as easy-going as the shuffle that most often moves him along.

== WYSK ==
*T'mic is a gentle giant, easy-going and gregarious. He's more likely to be noticed for his size than his personality, at least initially.
* He impressed the tiniest little blue Jorrth in turn 37.

== History ==
Tomic is the third son and fourth child of Torin and Misca, gardener and kitchens worker at Benden Hold. He was brought up in a family of seven, always busy, but never rushed. He spent his youth being cared for and lovingly tormented by his older siblings, and caring for and lovingly tormenting his younger siblings. He received only the basic education provided by the Hold's harpers, and admittedly missed several of the lectures to help out with the family. Being the biggest of his family, it often fell to him to take on the grunt work. This skill for carrying things is what saw him eventually move to High Reaches Weyr, to help his uncle, baker journeyman Klous, move in when he received a new posting, where he has since blossomed into High Reaches' very own Mr. Nanny.

Tomic agreed to stand for Niahvth and Reisoth's clutch when asked by Leova, and decided to stay when Faryn pointed out that a baby dragon might ''die'' if he didn't. He went on to impress Jorrth (who thus did not die) on day 25, month 7, turn 37, becoming T'mic.

== Relationships ==
* [[Dragon:Praxis_of_Blue_Jorrth|Jorrth]]: I'm better because of you. I sure hope you're better because of me, too.
* [[Edyis]]: It's so strange to see you not knowing what to do. I wonder if I can help.
* [[Farideh]]: We're sort of family now. I'll protect you just the same as if you were my sister. Jorrth will, too.
* [[Faryn]]: You didn't even say sorry.
* [[Lycinea]]: I hope our kitten knows we both love her very much, even if we can't always both be there.
*[[Keysi]]: Some people are just strong.
*[[Quinlys]]: You make me better and I don't even know how. I want to be able to do that for other people.
* [[R'van]]: I don't know if you're trying to prove something, or really you only see things the one way.
* [[Yesia]]: I'm still not going to treat you how everyone else does. Even if you've decided I'm just like them.
* [[Z'kiel]]: I think we'd be a good team, if we ever really got the chance.

== RP Logs ==

{{NewLogs |name=T'mic}}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}

== Personality Profile: ESFJ ==
Few personality types are as practical and caring as [http://www.16personalities.com/esfj-personality ESFJ]s. Known for their social and administrative skills, ESFJs are good at creating and maintaining a secure, stable and friendly environment for themselves and their loved ones. ESFJs' dedication is invaluable in many areas, including their own personal growth.

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments}} | }}

{{Icons}}
|birthplace=Benden Hold
|playedby=Nathaniel Arcand
|status=Active
|face=blank.jpg
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Greater Pern, Benden Hold, High Reaches Weyr
}}
[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]

T'mic

2015-09-08T12:51:26Z

H'kon:

{{Profile
|picture=Tomic.jpg
|mother=Misca
|father=Torin
|siblings=Toras (Parma) +5, Marcis and Tirsa (Erl), +3, Mirna, -1, Stina, - 4, Romin, -8
|body=== Description ==
Broad-faced, broad-shouldered, just markedly big all around, this wavy-haired youth is as difficult to miss as he would be to get around in a crowd. He stands taller than most men, thick with muscle through his limbs and trunk, and undeniably strong, even with that bit of padding on his belly. Hulking, yes, but not a menace: far-set eyes are amicable for the most part, framed by wavy black hair that falls to his jaw, and the broad smile that breaks across his ruddy-tan face is as easy-going as the shuffle that most often moves him along.

== WYSK ==
*T'mic is a gentle giant, easy-going and gregarious. He's more likely to be noticed for his size than his personality, at least initially.
* He impressed the tiniest little blue Jorrth in turn 37.

== History ==
Tomic is the third son and fourth child of Torin and Misca, gardener and kitchens worker at Benden Hold. He was brought up in a family of seven, always busy, but never rushed. He spent his youth being cared for and lovingly tormented by his older siblings, and caring for and lovingly tormenting his younger siblings. He received only the basic education provided by the Hold's harpers, and admittedly missed several of the lectures to help out with the family. Being the biggest of his family, it often fell to him to take on the grunt work. This skill for carrying things is what saw him eventually move to High Reaches Weyr, to help his uncle, baker journeyman Klous, move in when he received a new posting, where he has since blossomed into High Reaches' very own Mr. Nanny.

Tomic agreed to stand for Niahvth and Reisoth's clutch when asked by Leova, and decided to stay when Faryn pointed out that a baby dragon might ''die'' if he didn't. He went on to impress Jorrth (who thus did not die) on day 25, month 7, turn 37, becoming T'mic.

== Relationships ==
* [[Dragon:Praxis_of_Blue_Jorrth|Jorrth]]: I'm better because of you. I sure hope you're better because of me, too.
* [[Edyis]]: It's so strange to see you not knowing what to do. I wonder if I can help.
* [[Farideh]]: We're sort of family now. I'll protect you just the same as if you were my sister. Jorrth will, too.
* [[Faryn]]: All my insides hurt. And it's not even mostly what you did.
* [[Lycinea]]: I hope our kitten knows we both love her very much, even if we can't always both be there.
*[[Keysi]]: Some people are just strong.
*[[Quinlys]]: You make me better and I don't even know how. I want to be able to do that for other people.
* [[R'van]]: I don't know if you're trying to prove something, or really you only see things the one way.
* [[Yesia]]: I'm still not going to treat you how everyone else does. Even if you've decided I'm just like them.
* [[Z'kiel]]: I think we'd be a good team, if we ever really got the chance.

== RP Logs ==

{{NewLogs |name=T'mic}}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}

== Personality Profile: ESFJ ==
Few personality types are as practical and caring as [http://www.16personalities.com/esfj-personality ESFJ]s. Known for their social and administrative skills, ESFJs are good at creating and maintaining a secure, stable and friendly environment for themselves and their loved ones. ESFJs' dedication is invaluable in many areas, including their own personal growth.

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments}} | }}

{{Icons}}
|birthplace=Benden Hold
|playedby=Nathaniel Arcand
|status=Active
|face=blank.jpg
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Greater Pern, Benden Hold, High Reaches Weyr
}}
[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]

T'mic

2015-09-08T12:48:20Z

H'kon:

{{Profile
|picture=Tomic.jpg
|mother=Misca
|father=Torin
|siblings=Toras (Parma) +5, Marcis and Tirsa (Erl), +3, Mirna, -1, Stina, - 4, Romin, -8
|body=== Description ==
Broad-faced, broad-shouldered, just markedly big all around, this wavy-haired youth is as difficult to miss as he would be to get around in a crowd. He stands taller than most men, thick with muscle through his limbs and trunk, and undeniably strong, even with that bit of padding on his belly. Hulking, yes, but not a menace: far-set eyes are amicable for the most part, framed by wavy black hair that falls to his jaw, and the broad smile that breaks across his ruddy-tan face is as easy-going as the shuffle that most often moves him along.

== WYSK ==
*T'mic is a gentle giant, easy-going and gregarious. He's more likely to be noticed for his size than his personality, at least initially.
* He impressed the tiniest little blue Jorrth in turn 37.

== History ==
Tomic is the third son and fourth child of Torin and Misca, gardener and kitchens worker at Benden Hold. He was brought up in a family of seven, always busy, but never rushed. He spent his youth being cared for and lovingly tormented by his older siblings, and caring for and lovingly tormenting his younger siblings. He received only the basic education provided by the Hold's harpers, and admittedly missed several of the lectures to help out with the family. Being the biggest of his family, it often fell to him to take on the grunt work. This skill for carrying things is what saw him eventually move to High Reaches Weyr, to help his uncle, baker journeyman Klous, move in when he received a new posting, where he has since blossomed into High Reaches' very own Mr. Nanny.

Tomic agreed to stand for Niahvth and Reisoth's clutch when asked by Leova, and decided to stay when Faryn pointed out that a baby dragon might ''die'' if he didn't. He went on to impress Jorrth (who thus did not die) on day 25, month 7, turn 37, becoming T'mic.

== Relationships ==
* [[Dragon:Praxis_of_Blue_Jorrth|Jorrth]]: I'm better because of you. I sure hope you're better because of me, too.
* [[Edyis]]: It's so strange to see you not knowing what to do. I wonder if I can help.
* [[Farideh]]: We're sort of family now. I'll protect you just the same as if you were my sister. Jorrth will, too.
* [[Faryn]]: All my insides hurt.
* [[Lycinea]]: I hope our kitten knows we both love her very much, even if we can't always both be there.
*[[Keysi]]: Some people are just strong.
*[[Quinlys]]: You make me better and I don't even know how. I want to be able to do that for other people.
* [[R'van]]: I don't know if you're trying to prove something, or really you only see things the one way.
* [[Yesia]]: I'm still not going to treat you how everyone else does. Even if you've decided I'm just like them.
* [[Z'kiel]]: I think we'd be a good team, if we ever really got the chance.

== RP Logs ==

{{NewLogs |name=T'mic}}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}

== Personality Profile: ESFJ ==
Few personality types are as practical and caring as [http://www.16personalities.com/esfj-personality ESFJ]s. Known for their social and administrative skills, ESFJs are good at creating and maintaining a secure, stable and friendly environment for themselves and their loved ones. ESFJs' dedication is invaluable in many areas, including their own personal growth.

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments}} | }}

{{Icons}}
|birthplace=Benden Hold
|playedby=Nathaniel Arcand
|status=Active
|face=blank.jpg
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Greater Pern, Benden Hold, High Reaches Weyr
}}
[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]

T'mic

2015-09-08T12:46:55Z

H'kon:

{{Profile
|picture=Tomic.jpg
|mother=Misca
|father=Torin
|siblings=Toras (Parma) +5, Marcis and Tirsa (Erl), +3, Mirna, -1, Stina, - 4, Romin, -8
|body=== Description ==
Broad-faced, broad-shouldered, just markedly big all around, this wavy-haired youth is as difficult to miss as he would be to get around in a crowd. He stands taller than most men, thick with muscle through his limbs and trunk, and undeniably strong, even with that bit of padding on his belly. Hulking, yes, but not a menace: far-set eyes are amicable for the most part, framed by wavy black hair that falls to his jaw, and the broad smile that breaks across his ruddy-tan face is as easy-going as the shuffle that most often moves him along.

== WYSK ==
*T'mic is a gentle giant, easy-going and gregarious. He's more likely to be noticed for his size than his personality, at least initially.
* He impressed the tiniest little blue Jorrth in turn 37.

== History ==
Tomic is the third son and fourth child of Torin and Misca, gardener and kitchens worker at Benden Hold. He was brought up in a family of seven, always busy, but never rushed. He spent his youth being cared for and lovingly tormented by his older siblings, and caring for and lovingly tormenting his younger siblings. He received only the basic education provided by the Hold's harpers, and admittedly missed several of the lectures to help out with the family. Being the biggest of his family, it often fell to him to take on the grunt work. This skill for carrying things is what saw him eventually move to High Reaches Weyr, to help his uncle, baker journeyman Klous, move in when he received a new posting, where he has since blossomed into High Reaches' very own Mr. Nanny.

Tomic agreed to stand for Niahvth and Reisoth's clutch when asked by Leova, and decided to stay when Faryn pointed out that a baby dragon might ''die'' if he didn't. He went on to impress Jorrth (who thus did not die) on day 25, month 7, turn 37, becoming T'mic.

== Relationships ==
* [[Dragon:Praxis_of_Blue_Jorrth|Jorrth]]: I'm better because of you. I sure hope you're better because of me, too.
* [[Edyis]]: It's so strange to see you not knowing what to do. I wonder if I can help.
* [[Farideh]]: We're sort of family now. I'll protect you just the same as if you were my sister. Jorrth will, too.
* [[Faryn]]: I don't understand why even you held on for so long.
* [[Lycinea]]: I hope our kitten knows we both love her very much, even if we can't always both be there.
*[[Keysi]]: Some people are just strong.
*[[Quinlys]]: You make me better and I don't even know how. I want to be able to do that for other people.
* [[R'van]]: I don't know if you're trying to prove something, or really you only see things the one way.
* [[Yesia]]: I'm still not going to treat you how everyone else does. Even if you've decided I'm just like them.
* [[Z'kiel]]: I think we'd be a good team, if we ever really got the chance.

== RP Logs ==

{{NewLogs |name=T'mic}}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}

== Personality Profile: ESFJ ==
Few personality types are as practical and caring as [http://www.16personalities.com/esfj-personality ESFJ]s. Known for their social and administrative skills, ESFJs are good at creating and maintaining a secure, stable and friendly environment for themselves and their loved ones. ESFJs' dedication is invaluable in many areas, including their own personal growth.

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments}} | }}

{{Icons}}
|birthplace=Benden Hold
|playedby=Nathaniel Arcand
|status=Active
|face=blank.jpg
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Greater Pern, Benden Hold, High Reaches Weyr
}}
[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]

Logs:Peace Offerings

2015-09-04T01:49:20Z

H'kon:

{{Log
|who=A'rist, Ulyana
|what=Lakes make Lythronath sleepy, and two monstrous dragons share for a while.
|where=Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=28
|month=8
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.01
|quote=<< Home. >>
|type=Log
|ooc=Backdated, 'cause I didn't post it until now.
|icons-new=Icon Ulyana.jpg, Icon a'rist.jpg, Icon a'rist lynner.jpg, Icon Qhyluth.jpg,
|log=''Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr'' 
''The rest of the bowl may be barren, grass barely surviving at best, but here by the lake, it's brilliantly green in the warmer months: thickening and thriving in the silty, boulder-dotted soil just before it transitions to soft sand and thence to the cool, clear water itself.'' 
''A large freshwater lake fed by a low waterfall, it not only provides warm-weather bathing space for humans and dragons, but has one end fenced off as a watering hole for the livestock in the feeding grounds. The water there is often muddier than the rest of the clear lake, whose shallows drop off abruptly several yards out into deep water, and whose edge undulates against the coarse-hewn bowl wall: here close enough to just be bramble-covered rocks, there far enough away that a narrow land bridge divides the main lake from a smallish pond. Between are several rocky outcroppings that form excellent makeshift diving points, though only one -- across the bridge -- has a set of narrow, slippery, quite possibly tempting stairs.''

His initial arrival was excitement, energy, unstoppable as he reclaimed his ledge and his Weyr. But the days to follow? Much calmer. Much quieter. There's a comfort in home, and even a beast like Lythronath managed to define his home in his formative years (however much they otherwise allowed to form...). He's there now. Home. And he's sleepy. Not fully asleep in the lake, not yet, but the area's quiet enough just now, and there's wind enough to make little waves that lap at his shoulders and, when his head dips low enough as he slowly sways back and forth, his muzzle, too, and... A'rist, on the shore, keeps shaking his head to wake himself, as he examines their straps for any fresh signs of wear, the sunlight his aid, even if his dragon fights against any sort of helping. Slow-blink.

Since their return, Qhyluth's mind has been distant - save for that one stroke of greeting, short-lived though it was. The blue has, since, remained far and away, though for what and why will remain a mystery. His rider, too, has kept her distance, but for other - and understandable - reasons: intruding on the newly returned just seems ''wrong''. She picks her way along the lake's shore while Qhyluth lumbers along in her figurative shadow. His narrow head swings toward the water and he gurgles low in his throat. Mental tendrils of fog and unseeable colors reach out, as if to test the borders of Lythronath's awareness and slumber. And of the girl in her blouse and skirts, she seems to be lost in her thoughts - at least until something catches and she blinks but once and slowly at that. Let the blue sort out the conundrum of the Other in his water; she'll diverge to approach A'rist in silence, arms folded around her middle.

Maybe the fog doesn't register. Maybe Lythronath is just too tired to track it back to its source. Or maybe it's just those gently lapping waves. Either way, no strong borders or fierce protection are offered against its encroachment; rather, the bronze just offers a sleepily-contented, << Mine. >> Mmmm. Inner lids are closed. A'rist might be caught smiling, just a little bit, a strange smile when he's taken to being all quiet and broody since his return. Since before his departure. He does look up though, with forced wide eyes. It's an assessment that takes place there, first of the blue, never mind if Ulyana is nearer, and then tracking back to her. He stops his gentle probing of the leather with two fists closing about the straps. He blinks hard, but doesn't shake his head, not now. Maybe stealth matters. He watches.

The fog insinuates itself with phophorescent luminosity into that place between minds, between waking and sleeping. They congeal into near tangibility and threaten to hook in. Not with any sense of malice, but, rather, with an exploratory sense. Denial is a single tolling of a great, bronze bell across ancestral water; Qhyluth approaches the physical water without hesitation and, with another gurgled sound, places first one, then the other, forepaw into the shallows. Ulyana's mouth pulls to a side at something or another. No glance back at the beast; no narrowing of her eyes at what's before her. Another step, then two, every bit as slow and deliberate as those made by the nightmare blue. "I am sorry if I am interrupting your work," is unorthodox as greetings go - but, there it is, pitched low and flat as it is.

Lythronath is all in that one in-between place. It's from that place that he feels so... content? Still, those inner lids remain closed. Still, the little wind-waves lap at his shoulders. And then his muzzle. When he sighs, there's a bubble. "Could've stayed in the weyr," A'rist answers her after barely a moment, "if I really wanted to keep away from those." The bit of leather between each grip point slowly, slowly bows upward as his hands drift together. Gravity.

The appendages remain in that liminal space; the blue continues on. Qhyluth sinks into the water with barely a ripple and, almost immediately, makes for the deepest of places to wallow in. He leaves the bronze to the surface and to his dozing; he'll remain toward the bottom, lurking in his own thoughts - ''his'' domain. Ulyana shifts the hang of her skirts and, once she's close enough for quiet conversation to comfortably continue, she sits. "Regardless," is her reply with a slight dip of her chin. A glance is finally spared for the creatures in the water, one visible, one not. Then, to A'rist again. The bending of leather is noted in that look and she reaches out with one, long-fingered hand, to press down on it. "''We'' are glad you are back," is noted in hushed tones, lest the words be heard by the wrong ears.

Barely a ripple, and yet... Those lids still don't open, but Lythronath does draw his bubble-making muzzle from the water. His swaying stills, for a moment. The in-between space ripples a little, but it isn't left. It's not the finger on that loop of leather that makes A'rist lean forward; that comes after, when she speaks, even though he's too late in his (minimal) closing of distance to actually affect his ability to hear her more closely. "We-" he starts, and then closes his mouth a moment. "We found it," is different than what that first sentence might have been.

The coils retreat after a fashion and the primordial water of Qhyluth's mind becomes indistinguishable from the water that now contains both bronze and blue. The blue looms - and all is as it should be. Ulyana keeps her finger there, the rest of her digits fanning out. There's a momentary creasing of her forehead at his aborted first sentence, but the other sentence seems to smooth things out. A shallow, singular nod follows - a mechanical up-down-center, as is her custom. "I am glad for that. I did not know how best to give it to you, but Qhyluth suggested doing it that way." It's a troubling thought, even for her, but she pushes past it. She lapses into silence, her gaze lingering on him for another beat, two, before being drawn down to the leather and his hands.

"You were in our weyr," muses A'rist, while slowly, consciously stretching that leather out again, hands drawing apart from each other. He isn't staring at her hand, but he's aware of it, watching for it. That musing doesn't hold accusation; it doesn't come out sounding either pleased or invaded. It's just toyed with. Like those straps. << home, >> drifts into the waters from Lythronath, barely a strong enough thought to make it to vocalisation.

"Briefly," is the clarification, issued purely as a fact. Ulyana remains otherwise frozen in place, still as a statue - save for the fact that her fingers, all of them, eventually end up on the leather. Fingertips just barely there. Body bent forward just so. Impassive mask in place. "He wanted to leave more. I did not feel it would be appropriate to clutter your weyr unnecessarily. It will not happen again." The wording is deliberate; the tone matter-of-fact. And in the water, Qhyluth takes that barely breathed word - and echoes it, fractured voices brought into a strange union, shaping themselves into a bell-toned, << Home. >> Confirmation. Agreement. Contemplation. Yes.

That was a ''word.'' Was it his? It's enough, it makes Lythronath shake some of the sleepiness from himself. Those lids lift. He looks for the blue, for where the blue ''should'' be. He looks and he tries to remember, but there is nothing to be remembered in his brain. A'rist frowns a little at the matter-of-fact... promise? He looks out toward the water, in concert with his bronze. "What else would he have left?" has to be all his own query, though.

A word. One. No more follow from the blue beast that glides aimlessly at the bottom of the lake. Still, that sense of being watched is enough to pull his attention sharply toward the bronze. Blue-green eyes shine with a tinge of sickly yellow at the edges - cautious, yes, but still content in his element. Ulyana catches that frown. "Would you prefer that I leave things in your weyr when you are not present?" It's an earnest question - and, oddly, laced with a distant thread of concern. A beat. Two. Then: "Bones. Skulls, primarily, but he managed to salvage a few spines that he was fascinated by." Another beat, longer than the first. "He thought Lythronath might appreciate them."

A'rist shakes his head; shakes his head, but says, "Lots of work, that little book," in a way that values it, a way that's almost possessive. Lythronian. "He'd probably be right." No mention made of those skulls that were hidden away in a corner of the weyr while they were gone; that have not yet resurfaced on the ledge; that Ulyana and Qhyluth might only have seen had they truly ''looked''. There's a considering glance over Ulyana, and then back out to the water. He starts to bow the leather once more, with enough control to shift it down, this time. "How much of him is you and how much of you is him?"

"I started it when you left." Ulyana's eyes hold on A'rist for a moment longer, then drop and slide away to the water. "I was not sure if it would be finished when you came back." A shoulder rises and falls; the end result is precisely as it should be and that's all that matters. "We can bring the skulls later." And surely they must have seen; perhaps that's where the notion struck the blue. Perhaps not. The leather bends downward and her fingertips follow, as if they're stuck in place against that strap. The question, however, is enough to jerk her attention sharply back to the bronzerider. "I am still myself. He is himself. He-" and, here, she pauses, words lurching into her throat and dying back. "I am the tower on a cliff, and he is the ocean, eating away at the stone."

Simply, "Oh," for the start date, and almost nothing but a flick of his eyes to acknowledge the mention of the skulls. Hiss grip on those straps tightens, the knuckles of both hands showing white. "What happens," is quiet, A'rist's eyes set only on Ulyana now, "when he breaks through the stone?"

Her mouth presses into a flat line and her fingers lift from the leather. Ulyana is silent in the wake of that question, silent for far longer than might be expected. Finally: "There is always the ice. The chains." Her mouth flattens further, into bloodless invisibility. "And then there is the tower ''he'' built." A shudder crawls down her spine and forces her to swallow. Hard. None of that seems to answer the question, not directly, and she exhales sharply and forces herself to meet A'rist's gaze. "I cannot be sure of what will happen when the stone and ice give way. He wants everything I have, all for himself, because he is a jealous and hungry monster. I can only resist with what resources I have."

A'rist listens, but says nothing. He drops those straps now, into that rocky dirt of the shore. And then, once he's had time to think, not because his curiosity has abated (if anything, he looks more intensely at Ulyana through all this), but because his thoughts shift, he looks out to Lythronath. Lythronath, whose head dips purposefully, this time, beneath the water, searching. "Was his part in all of it... insidious? The book, the skulls?" Perhaps he's been reading lots, his time away.

Eyebrows knit. Ulyana straightens, her hands folded neatly in her lap. In the water, the nightmare stirs and shifts toward the surface. Slowly. Qhyluth's muzzle lifts, neck stretched, to bring him eye to eye with the bronze that peers down. On the shore: "He had no part in the making of that book, beyond his desire to include some small ''thing'' for you." There is no name for the mass of tentacles and stalks. No name could possibly be given for it. "I do not think his desire to placate Lythronath is insidious." And if she can catch and hold A'rist's eyes now, she will. "I think he wants to appease Lythronath because he is aware that I like you. He cannot change that." A breath - taken and released. "He is trying to make his peace, I think." Doubt will sit there, all the same, coiled and lurking. "Are you worried?" Breathed, more than said.

"Mmm. That part." But A'rist is careful with it, with that idea. His face is guarded, and his dragon does not react in the least. Shielded, the mighty Lythronath? Who stares beneath the water, and whose voice becomes strange and garbled and bubbles, when he sees Qhyluth. "For you?" A'rist asks, looking back only now, but holding once he has. "With him?" has more weight to it, but is certainly a follow-up.

"It was the least of the horrors he offered to me," says she, with a grim set to her jaw. Ulyana does not look to see what the dragons are up to; the nightmare will do as he will for now, though the chains are ''there'', felt more than seen. Qhyluth's eyes slide to a hue of yellowed ochre that sits unpleasantly against the darkness of his hide and in the murky water. A throaty gurgle sounds and the blue turns fluidly, in search of a surfacing point that is not blocked by bronze. Ulyana does not blink once her gaze is caught and held. "He knows ''his'' place," is noted in flat, cool tones. "But. Yes. It seems that way - that he wants to make peace with Lythronath." Odd, that thought. Truly. "He does not want to ''share''," is the addendum, carefully constructed, "but he is willing to yield ground if that will make me more accessible to him."

Lythronath watches, but he doesn't move to block Qhyluth. Here, now, that thought may not even occur to him. And when the blue rises, still, the bronze will watch. "And it makes you more accessible?" asks A'rist. "Out of gratitude? Or is does it make you different? Harder to guard?" Although there's no leather in them, those fists form up again, although this time, loosely.

There's a slight shake of her head and Ulyana reaches, this time to take the leather for herself. "What he thinks will happen and the reality of what will happen are different." Deadpan. "Nothing will change - but he does not know that. He does not need to. He will perceive things as different - and that might be enough." Her nose wrinkles just a touch. "Perhaps he imagines it will bring me nearer to him. Perhaps he imagines he will someday be able to trap me in ''his'' tower. I cannot be sure of what is happening in his head; it is as if he is perpetually dreaming and some dreams are not meant to be witnessed." The blue rises from the water and stands for a time, allowing the fluid to sluice down his limbs. When he's mostly dry, he begins to move again, slow and inexorable as the tide of his mind - his stride set to carry him to ''Her''.

"You're very sure of that," A'rist observes. All those phantasmic images she's telling him about give him pause, though. His fists stay as they are, where they are, no move made to reclaim leather that might, on some other occasions, be identified by one or more as 'mine'. Lythronath watches Qhyluth's progress, and there's a moment where his mind wavers. But in the end, he picks up his swaying once more, the rhythm of those waves still there, and the home still his, if not, at the moment, in a way that excludes it being others' as well. "There's nothing," says A'rist, then, "that stands between me and him." The slightest lift of his chin toward the lake.

"For now, yes." A shoulder rises, falls. Ulyana tests the leather carefully, fingers sliding along with well-trained knowledge. "But I cannot say that tomorrow will be different. Or, that, five turns from now, I will be the same as I am. That the tower will yet stand or that the water will remain calm and steady in its consumption of rock and ice. Perhaps there is a crack I am not aware of; perhaps the chains will break. I do not know." A slow blink, a sidelong look to track the lift of A'rist's chin. "There are days when I would envy that," she muses, her voice barely a whisper. "And then I remember." Qhyluth doesn't look back. The blue's progress is slow and steady and finally brings him within a few yards of where ''She'' and A'rist sit. He circles loosely around to stand some distance behind her, his posture guarded and his eyes tinged in yellow.

"If there weren't anything between you two," and it's offered tentatively, A'rist's gaze tracking Qhyluth's movements as he approaches, tracking the way he circles, what the path says, "it would be very, very different from what it's like for me and him. Lythronath's horror doesn't look monstrous, or like much of anything. It sounds like laughing, just at all the wrong times." His fists slowly move toward each other, until they bump.

"I would drown." And that's the reality of it. Ulyana continues to work the leather along, cunning fingers doing what they do best - touch. "He does not sound like a horror at all," says she after the description is given. Behind her, Qhyluth coils up in his usual posture - on his haunches, forelimbs laid along his thighs and claws curving over knees. Wings flared, just so, for balance and head down to hold both riders within his gaze. Ulyana seems oblivious - or, at least, not willing to acknowledge. She tracks the progress of A'rist's hands in a peripheral sense and, only when they meet, does she finally remove a hand from the leather and extend it to touch both of those fists. Fingertips only. Light. "Are you scared of him?" Lythronath? Qhyluth? Or perhaps it doesn't matter.

A'rist's head shakes, his fists staying where they are. Under fingertips. "Used to be scared of me. What I'd be." Another, minimal headshake, a bit of a scowl, almost distasteful. "But there's not much point to it, now." He looks down to her hand long after it's touched his. "You're not. You've been in my weyr. I've been in your bed."

"Good." For all of it. Ulyana offers a thin ghost of a smile, one that fits poorly as all her smiles do - but there it is. Her fingers start to play over knuckles, light and smooth and fleeting. "I stopped fearing him when I learned I could control him." Mostly. That word can hang, unspoken, in the ether. "You are safe from ''him''," Qhyluth being implied with a lift of her head, "unless you cause me harm." The corner of her mouth abruptly pulls into a half-smile, one that fits only slightly better. "''Real'' harm, I mean."

"I'm not worried about him." It's dismissive, and A'rist's eyes flick to Qhyluth, not quite in apology, but certainly with a look that shows some element of his sensing an impropriety. Still, he has to add, "Even if I do. Real harm." There's something unsettled in the pull of his own mouth, in the shift that doesn't pull his hands away, but moves them back, forth. "I don't think I'd mean to, but there's some stuff that's just what we are. Or what we're not." That is to Ulyana, directly.

The ''pressure'' is there. The ''distress''. But it sits only on Ulyana's head, making her wince just a touch. Barely perceptible - but it's there. Fingers hold their position, with knuckles rolling along them on their back and forth journey. "Yes," she agrees in muted tones. "You cannot hurt me," she reassures with a slow blink. "No matter what you do - or what you ''are''. You and him," a tip of the head, Lythronath drawn into it, "I know enough of what you both are to accept you as you are." And of herself? She knows. Or thinks she knows. And, in either case, there is ''that'' blue, bristling in his distant way at ''something''.

"Hope you do," says A'rist, but it's warning rather than optimism. Then, a noise of snorted water, a roar that turns into a cough, and droplets ''everywhere'' as that fierce bronze launches himself from the lake which betrayed him. Which lulled him into a false sense of security. Which then launched an attack on his nose. He claws the ground where he lands, and snaps his teeth, and sneezes, and flares those fire-blazed wings.

Her answer is a dead stare, confident - and, yet, still cool. Aloof. Perhaps she might have said something - but the moment is split apart when Lythronath rages and sneezes. She releases the leather fully and pushes to her feet, while Qhyluth, in that very instant, surges forward with unfurled wings to protect her. The water of his mind begins to churn, sickly luminous foam forming at the shore. "Is he well?" Ulyana queries around the wing that's been so quickly dropped in front of her.

A'rist, of course, is on his feet, while his dragon rubs at his muzzle and snorts and coughs and makes odd noises, even on land. Qhyluth is ignored, except for a frustrated mental 'thud', perhaps purely for his association with the Murderous Water that Lythronath has just experienced. A'rist snorts soon enough, but it's a laugh. "He's fine. He's been exhausted. Makes him... susceptible." He tilts his head to the side. And then reaches for those straps, looking to Ulyana for... not permission. Perhaps acknowledgement. "I should let him home. To rest."

And, perhaps, there is some deep, dark amusement at the not-quite-drowning on the blue's part. The water gurgles and the beast makes a sound that might be a chuckle. Maybe. Then Ulyana's pushing at that wing and forcing it away which, in turn, finds Qhyluth moving away a few steps to grant her space. "Of course," is intoned - acknowledgement readily given without implications of permission. She'll help with gathering the straps if desired, of course, but she'll offer only, "I hope he rests well. Both of you." A duck of her chin, then: "Let me know when you would like us to bring the skulls and spines."

A'rist accepts the help, nods his head. "You'll probably know, if it's a good time or not," would be easy, if not for that element of a challenge to it, that has the beginnings of a smirk curling his lips. "Just give him time to recover, now." A nod, and the straps are fully taken as he makes his way to his bronze. That, then, must be farewell.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Peace Offerings

2015-09-04T01:48:50Z

H'kon: Created page with "{{Log |who=A'rist, Ulyana |what=Lakes make Lythronath sleepy, and two monstrous dragons share for a while. |where=Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |da..."

{{Log
|who=A'rist, Ulyana
|what=Lakes make Lythronath sleepy, and two monstrous dragons share for a while.
|where=Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=28
|month=8
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.01
|quote=<< Home. >>
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Ulyana.jpg, Icon a'rist.jpg, Icon a'rist lynner.jpg, Icon Qhyluth.jpg,
|log=''Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr'' 
''The rest of the bowl may be barren, grass barely surviving at best, but here by the lake, it's brilliantly green in the warmer months: thickening and thriving in the silty, boulder-dotted soil just before it transitions to soft sand and thence to the cool, clear water itself.'' 
''A large freshwater lake fed by a low waterfall, it not only provides warm-weather bathing space for humans and dragons, but has one end fenced off as a watering hole for the livestock in the feeding grounds. The water there is often muddier than the rest of the clear lake, whose shallows drop off abruptly several yards out into deep water, and whose edge undulates against the coarse-hewn bowl wall: here close enough to just be bramble-covered rocks, there far enough away that a narrow land bridge divides the main lake from a smallish pond. Between are several rocky outcroppings that form excellent makeshift diving points, though only one -- across the bridge -- has a set of narrow, slippery, quite possibly tempting stairs.''

His initial arrival was excitement, energy, unstoppable as he reclaimed his ledge and his Weyr. But the days to follow? Much calmer. Much quieter. There's a comfort in home, and even a beast like Lythronath managed to define his home in his formative years (however much they otherwise allowed to form...). He's there now. Home. And he's sleepy. Not fully asleep in the lake, not yet, but the area's quiet enough just now, and there's wind enough to make little waves that lap at his shoulders and, when his head dips low enough as he slowly sways back and forth, his muzzle, too, and... A'rist, on the shore, keeps shaking his head to wake himself, as he examines their straps for any fresh signs of wear, the sunlight his aid, even if his dragon fights against any sort of helping. Slow-blink.

Since their return, Qhyluth's mind has been distant - save for that one stroke of greeting, short-lived though it was. The blue has, since, remained far and away, though for what and why will remain a mystery. His rider, too, has kept her distance, but for other - and understandable - reasons: intruding on the newly returned just seems ''wrong''. She picks her way along the lake's shore while Qhyluth lumbers along in her figurative shadow. His narrow head swings toward the water and he gurgles low in his throat. Mental tendrils of fog and unseeable colors reach out, as if to test the borders of Lythronath's awareness and slumber. And of the girl in her blouse and skirts, she seems to be lost in her thoughts - at least until something catches and she blinks but once and slowly at that. Let the blue sort out the conundrum of the Other in his water; she'll diverge to approach A'rist in silence, arms folded around her middle.

Maybe the fog doesn't register. Maybe Lythronath is just too tired to track it back to its source. Or maybe it's just those gently lapping waves. Either way, no strong borders or fierce protection are offered against its encroachment; rather, the bronze just offers a sleepily-contented, << Mine. >> Mmmm. Inner lids are closed. A'rist might be caught smiling, just a little bit, a strange smile when he's taken to being all quiet and broody since his return. Since before his departure. He does look up though, with forced wide eyes. It's an assessment that takes place there, first of the blue, never mind if Ulyana is nearer, and then tracking back to her. He stops his gentle probing of the leather with two fists closing about the straps. He blinks hard, but doesn't shake his head, not now. Maybe stealth matters. He watches.

The fog insinuates itself with phophorescent luminosity into that place between minds, between waking and sleeping. They congeal into near tangibility and threaten to hook in. Not with any sense of malice, but, rather, with an exploratory sense. Denial is a single tolling of a great, bronze bell across ancestral water; Qhyluth approaches the physical water without hesitation and, with another gurgled sound, places first one, then the other, forepaw into the shallows. Ulyana's mouth pulls to a side at something or another. No glance back at the beast; no narrowing of her eyes at what's before her. Another step, then two, every bit as slow and deliberate as those made by the nightmare blue. "I am sorry if I am interrupting your work," is unorthodox as greetings go - but, there it is, pitched low and flat as it is.

Lythronath is all in that one in-between place. It's from that place that he feels so... content? Still, those inner lids remain closed. Still, the little wind-waves lap at his shoulders. And then his muzzle. When he sighs, there's a bubble. "Could've stayed in the weyr," A'rist answers her after barely a moment, "if I really wanted to keep away from those." The bit of leather between each grip point slowly, slowly bows upward as his hands drift together. Gravity.

The appendages remain in that liminal space; the blue continues on. Qhyluth sinks into the water with barely a ripple and, almost immediately, makes for the deepest of places to wallow in. He leaves the bronze to the surface and to his dozing; he'll remain toward the bottom, lurking in his own thoughts - ''his'' domain. Ulyana shifts the hang of her skirts and, once she's close enough for quiet conversation to comfortably continue, she sits. "Regardless," is her reply with a slight dip of her chin. A glance is finally spared for the creatures in the water, one visible, one not. Then, to A'rist again. The bending of leather is noted in that look and she reaches out with one, long-fingered hand, to press down on it. "''We'' are glad you are back," is noted in hushed tones, lest the words be heard by the wrong ears.

Barely a ripple, and yet... Those lids still don't open, but Lythronath does draw his bubble-making muzzle from the water. His swaying stills, for a moment. The in-between space ripples a little, but it isn't left. It's not the finger on that loop of leather that makes A'rist lean forward; that comes after, when she speaks, even though he's too late in his (minimal) closing of distance to actually affect his ability to hear her more closely. "We-" he starts, and then closes his mouth a moment. "We found it," is different than what that first sentence might have been.

The coils retreat after a fashion and the primordial water of Qhyluth's mind becomes indistinguishable from the water that now contains both bronze and blue. The blue looms - and all is as it should be. Ulyana keeps her finger there, the rest of her digits fanning out. There's a momentary creasing of her forehead at his aborted first sentence, but the other sentence seems to smooth things out. A shallow, singular nod follows - a mechanical up-down-center, as is her custom. "I am glad for that. I did not know how best to give it to you, but Qhyluth suggested doing it that way." It's a troubling thought, even for her, but she pushes past it. She lapses into silence, her gaze lingering on him for another beat, two, before being drawn down to the leather and his hands.

"You were in our weyr," muses A'rist, while slowly, consciously stretching that leather out again, hands drawing apart from each other. He isn't staring at her hand, but he's aware of it, watching for it. That musing doesn't hold accusation; it doesn't come out sounding either pleased or invaded. It's just toyed with. Like those straps. << home, >> drifts into the waters from Lythronath, barely a strong enough thought to make it to vocalisation.

"Briefly," is the clarification, issued purely as a fact. Ulyana remains otherwise frozen in place, still as a statue - save for the fact that her fingers, all of them, eventually end up on the leather. Fingertips just barely there. Body bent forward just so. Impassive mask in place. "He wanted to leave more. I did not feel it would be appropriate to clutter your weyr unnecessarily. It will not happen again." The wording is deliberate; the tone matter-of-fact. And in the water, Qhyluth takes that barely breathed word - and echoes it, fractured voices brought into a strange union, shaping themselves into a bell-toned, << Home. >> Confirmation. Agreement. Contemplation. Yes.

That was a ''word.'' Was it his? It's enough, it makes Lythronath shake some of the sleepiness from himself. Those lids lift. He looks for the blue, for where the blue ''should'' be. He looks and he tries to remember, but there is nothing to be remembered in his brain. A'rist frowns a little at the matter-of-fact... promise? He looks out toward the water, in concert with his bronze. "What else would he have left?" has to be all his own query, though.

A word. One. No more follow from the blue beast that glides aimlessly at the bottom of the lake. Still, that sense of being watched is enough to pull his attention sharply toward the bronze. Blue-green eyes shine with a tinge of sickly yellow at the edges - cautious, yes, but still content in his element. Ulyana catches that frown. "Would you prefer that I leave things in your weyr when you are not present?" It's an earnest question - and, oddly, laced with a distant thread of concern. A beat. Two. Then: "Bones. Skulls, primarily, but he managed to salvage a few spines that he was fascinated by." Another beat, longer than the first. "He thought Lythronath might appreciate them."

A'rist shakes his head; shakes his head, but says, "Lots of work, that little book," in a way that values it, a way that's almost possessive. Lythronian. "He'd probably be right." No mention made of those skulls that were hidden away in a corner of the weyr while they were gone; that have not yet resurfaced on the ledge; that Ulyana and Qhyluth might only have seen had they truly ''looked''. There's a considering glance over Ulyana, and then back out to the water. He starts to bow the leather once more, with enough control to shift it down, this time. "How much of him is you and how much of you is him?"

"I started it when you left." Ulyana's eyes hold on A'rist for a moment longer, then drop and slide away to the water. "I was not sure if it would be finished when you came back." A shoulder rises and falls; the end result is precisely as it should be and that's all that matters. "We can bring the skulls later." And surely they must have seen; perhaps that's where the notion struck the blue. Perhaps not. The leather bends downward and her fingertips follow, as if they're stuck in place against that strap. The question, however, is enough to jerk her attention sharply back to the bronzerider. "I am still myself. He is himself. He-" and, here, she pauses, words lurching into her throat and dying back. "I am the tower on a cliff, and he is the ocean, eating away at the stone."

Simply, "Oh," for the start date, and almost nothing but a flick of his eyes to acknowledge the mention of the skulls. Hiss grip on those straps tightens, the knuckles of both hands showing white. "What happens," is quiet, A'rist's eyes set only on Ulyana now, "when he breaks through the stone?"

Her mouth presses into a flat line and her fingers lift from the leather. Ulyana is silent in the wake of that question, silent for far longer than might be expected. Finally: "There is always the ice. The chains." Her mouth flattens further, into bloodless invisibility. "And then there is the tower ''he'' built." A shudder crawls down her spine and forces her to swallow. Hard. None of that seems to answer the question, not directly, and she exhales sharply and forces herself to meet A'rist's gaze. "I cannot be sure of what will happen when the stone and ice give way. He wants everything I have, all for himself, because he is a jealous and hungry monster. I can only resist with what resources I have."

A'rist listens, but says nothing. He drops those straps now, into that rocky dirt of the shore. And then, once he's had time to think, not because his curiosity has abated (if anything, he looks more intensely at Ulyana through all this), but because his thoughts shift, he looks out to Lythronath. Lythronath, whose head dips purposefully, this time, beneath the water, searching. "Was his part in all of it... insidious? The book, the skulls?" Perhaps he's been reading lots, his time away.

Eyebrows knit. Ulyana straightens, her hands folded neatly in her lap. In the water, the nightmare stirs and shifts toward the surface. Slowly. Qhyluth's muzzle lifts, neck stretched, to bring him eye to eye with the bronze that peers down. On the shore: "He had no part in the making of that book, beyond his desire to include some small ''thing'' for you." There is no name for the mass of tentacles and stalks. No name could possibly be given for it. "I do not think his desire to placate Lythronath is insidious." And if she can catch and hold A'rist's eyes now, she will. "I think he wants to appease Lythronath because he is aware that I like you. He cannot change that." A breath - taken and released. "He is trying to make his peace, I think." Doubt will sit there, all the same, coiled and lurking. "Are you worried?" Breathed, more than said.

"Mmm. That part." But A'rist is careful with it, with that idea. His face is guarded, and his dragon does not react in the least. Shielded, the mighty Lythronath? Who stares beneath the water, and whose voice becomes strange and garbled and bubbles, when he sees Qhyluth. "For you?" A'rist asks, looking back only now, but holding once he has. "With him?" has more weight to it, but is certainly a follow-up.

"It was the least of the horrors he offered to me," says she, with a grim set to her jaw. Ulyana does not look to see what the dragons are up to; the nightmare will do as he will for now, though the chains are ''there'', felt more than seen. Qhyluth's eyes slide to a hue of yellowed ochre that sits unpleasantly against the darkness of his hide and in the murky water. A throaty gurgle sounds and the blue turns fluidly, in search of a surfacing point that is not blocked by bronze. Ulyana does not blink once her gaze is caught and held. "He knows ''his'' place," is noted in flat, cool tones. "But. Yes. It seems that way - that he wants to make peace with Lythronath." Odd, that thought. Truly. "He does not want to ''share''," is the addendum, carefully constructed, "but he is willing to yield ground if that will make me more accessible to him."

Lythronath watches, but he doesn't move to block Qhyluth. Here, now, that thought may not even occur to him. And when the blue rises, still, the bronze will watch. "And it makes you more accessible?" asks A'rist. "Out of gratitude? Or is does it make you different? Harder to guard?" Although there's no leather in them, those fists form up again, although this time, loosely.

There's a slight shake of her head and Ulyana reaches, this time to take the leather for herself. "What he thinks will happen and the reality of what will happen are different." Deadpan. "Nothing will change - but he does not know that. He does not need to. He will perceive things as different - and that might be enough." Her nose wrinkles just a touch. "Perhaps he imagines it will bring me nearer to him. Perhaps he imagines he will someday be able to trap me in ''his'' tower. I cannot be sure of what is happening in his head; it is as if he is perpetually dreaming and some dreams are not meant to be witnessed." The blue rises from the water and stands for a time, allowing the fluid to sluice down his limbs. When he's mostly dry, he begins to move again, slow and inexorable as the tide of his mind - his stride set to carry him to ''Her''.

"You're very sure of that," A'rist observes. All those phantasmic images she's telling him about give him pause, though. His fists stay as they are, where they are, no move made to reclaim leather that might, on some other occasions, be identified by one or more as 'mine'. Lythronath watches Qhyluth's progress, and there's a moment where his mind wavers. But in the end, he picks up his swaying once more, the rhythm of those waves still there, and the home still his, if not, at the moment, in a way that excludes it being others' as well. "There's nothing," says A'rist, then, "that stands between me and him." The slightest lift of his chin toward the lake.

"For now, yes." A shoulder rises, falls. Ulyana tests the leather carefully, fingers sliding along with well-trained knowledge. "But I cannot say that tomorrow will be different. Or, that, five turns from now, I will be the same as I am. That the tower will yet stand or that the water will remain calm and steady in its consumption of rock and ice. Perhaps there is a crack I am not aware of; perhaps the chains will break. I do not know." A slow blink, a sidelong look to track the lift of A'rist's chin. "There are days when I would envy that," she muses, her voice barely a whisper. "And then I remember." Qhyluth doesn't look back. The blue's progress is slow and steady and finally brings him within a few yards of where ''She'' and A'rist sit. He circles loosely around to stand some distance behind her, his posture guarded and his eyes tinged in yellow.

"If there weren't anything between you two," and it's offered tentatively, A'rist's gaze tracking Qhyluth's movements as he approaches, tracking the way he circles, what the path says, "it would be very, very different from what it's like for me and him. Lythronath's horror doesn't look monstrous, or like much of anything. It sounds like laughing, just at all the wrong times." His fists slowly move toward each other, until they bump.

"I would drown." And that's the reality of it. Ulyana continues to work the leather along, cunning fingers doing what they do best - touch. "He does not sound like a horror at all," says she after the description is given. Behind her, Qhyluth coils up in his usual posture - on his haunches, forelimbs laid along his thighs and claws curving over knees. Wings flared, just so, for balance and head down to hold both riders within his gaze. Ulyana seems oblivious - or, at least, not willing to acknowledge. She tracks the progress of A'rist's hands in a peripheral sense and, only when they meet, does she finally remove a hand from the leather and extend it to touch both of those fists. Fingertips only. Light. "Are you scared of him?" Lythronath? Qhyluth? Or perhaps it doesn't matter.

A'rist's head shakes, his fists staying where they are. Under fingertips. "Used to be scared of me. What I'd be." Another, minimal headshake, a bit of a scowl, almost distasteful. "But there's not much point to it, now." He looks down to her hand long after it's touched his. "You're not. You've been in my weyr. I've been in your bed."

"Good." For all of it. Ulyana offers a thin ghost of a smile, one that fits poorly as all her smiles do - but there it is. Her fingers start to play over knuckles, light and smooth and fleeting. "I stopped fearing him when I learned I could control him." Mostly. That word can hang, unspoken, in the ether. "You are safe from ''him''," Qhyluth being implied with a lift of her head, "unless you cause me harm." The corner of her mouth abruptly pulls into a half-smile, one that fits only slightly better. "''Real'' harm, I mean."

"I'm not worried about him." It's dismissive, and A'rist's eyes flick to Qhyluth, not quite in apology, but certainly with a look that shows some element of his sensing an impropriety. Still, he has to add, "Even if I do. Real harm." There's something unsettled in the pull of his own mouth, in the shift that doesn't pull his hands away, but moves them back, forth. "I don't think I'd mean to, but there's some stuff that's just what we are. Or what we're not." That is to Ulyana, directly.

The ''pressure'' is there. The ''distress''. But it sits only on Ulyana's head, making her wince just a touch. Barely perceptible - but it's there. Fingers hold their position, with knuckles rolling along them on their back and forth journey. "Yes," she agrees in muted tones. "You cannot hurt me," she reassures with a slow blink. "No matter what you do - or what you ''are''. You and him," a tip of the head, Lythronath drawn into it, "I know enough of what you both are to accept you as you are." And of herself? She knows. Or thinks she knows. And, in either case, there is ''that'' blue, bristling in his distant way at ''something''.

"Hope you do," says A'rist, but it's warning rather than optimism. Then, a noise of snorted water, a roar that turns into a cough, and droplets ''everywhere'' as that fierce bronze launches himself from the lake which betrayed him. Which lulled him into a false sense of security. Which then launched an attack on his nose. He claws the ground where he lands, and snaps his teeth, and sneezes, and flares those fire-blazed wings.

Her answer is a dead stare, confident - and, yet, still cool. Aloof. Perhaps she might have said something - but the moment is split apart when Lythronath rages and sneezes. She releases the leather fully and pushes to her feet, while Qhyluth, in that very instant, surges forward with unfurled wings to protect her. The water of his mind begins to churn, sickly luminous foam forming at the shore. "Is he well?" Ulyana queries around the wing that's been so quickly dropped in front of her.

A'rist, of course, is on his feet, while his dragon rubs at his muzzle and snorts and coughs and makes odd noises, even on land. Qhyluth is ignored, except for a frustrated mental 'thud', perhaps purely for his association with the Murderous Water that Lythronath has just experienced. A'rist snorts soon enough, but it's a laugh. "He's fine. He's been exhausted. Makes him... susceptible." He tilts his head to the side. And then reaches for those straps, looking to Ulyana for... not permission. Perhaps acknowledgement. "I should let him home. To rest."

And, perhaps, there is some deep, dark amusement at the not-quite-drowning on the blue's part. The water gurgles and the beast makes a sound that might be a chuckle. Maybe. Then Ulyana's pushing at that wing and forcing it away which, in turn, finds Qhyluth moving away a few steps to grant her space. "Of course," is intoned - acknowledgement readily given without implications of permission. She'll help with gathering the straps if desired, of course, but she'll offer only, "I hope he rests well. Both of you." A duck of her chin, then: "Let me know when you would like us to bring the skulls and spines."

A'rist accepts the help, nods his head. "You'll probably know, if it's a good time or not," would be easy, if not for that element of a challenge to it, that has the beginnings of a smirk curling his lips. "Just give him time to recover, now." A nod, and the straps are fully taken as he makes his way to his bronze. That, then, must be farewell.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs talk:Shove!

2015-09-03T23:43:37Z

H'kon: Comment provided by T'mic - via ArticleComments extension

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

==Squishy (15:54, 3 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

I'm trying to figure out how to perfectly verbalize just how much I loved reading this, and I cannot formulate the words.

-slow clap- You two rock!
==Jo (16:35, 3 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

This was pure fucking gold. T'mic was so brave in this scene to go up against Havi. Defending his lady~ XD
==T'mic (16:43, 3 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Don't call her that, it makes her run away!

Logs:Shove!

2015-09-03T20:01:13Z

H'kon: Created page with "{{Log |who=H'vier, T'mic |what=H'vier is broody. T'mic has a moment that almost looks like temper, but it's short. |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=21 |month=8 |turn=38 |IP=In..."

{{Log
|who=H'vier, T'mic
|what=H'vier is broody. T'mic has a moment that almost looks like temper, but it's short.
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=21
|month=8
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.03
|mentions=Faryn, K'zin
|type=Log
|ooc=Backdated.
|icons-new=Icon h'vier unthrilled.jpg, Icon t'mic squint.jpeg,
|log=''Inner Caverns, High Reaches Weyr 
''Within the labyrinth of interconnected chambers that make up the inner caverns, this large, long cavern serves both as a crossroads and a comfortable place for weyrfolk to sit, talk, and keep a nosy eye out for who's going where. Colorful, seasonal tapestries add warmth to the smooth walls and reduce echoes, while large niches house clusters of chairs, and a waist-high stone shelf along one wall provides a perch for drinks or work for residents on the go. Worn brass hooks often hold jackets or other outerwear with workboots stationed beneath, the transitory nature of the cavern lending itself to being treated as a sort of communal foyer where snowy or muddy gear can be kept outside of living quarters. Smaller, higher niches at regular intervals hold glowbaskets kept fresh during the daytime and allowed to dim somewhat at night.''

Summer evenings at High Reaches, especially warm, if muggy, ones like this, find many people spending their time outside, though of course, the caverns are always busy with the comings and goings and daily routines of residents. And even some who are outside of routine, like Jorrth's rider. At the nighthearth, T'mic is clearing up the table he'd only just finished occupying. The hide he was reading is tucked away in an old bag hanging from those broad shoulders of his by a worn strap. The chair he was sitting on is pushed back in to its table; the chair he was using as a footrest, likewise. A final check, the bluerider bending sideways at the waist to see if anything's been dropped that's thus far evaded him, and, when reassured, he turns and steps out into the maze of the lower caverns.

Drinking alcohol tends to make a person have to use the latrines a little more often than they might otherwise. That's where H'vier is coming from just now, not the steadiest he's ever been on his feet, but obviously not currently in need of assistance. Unfortunately alcohol doesn't lend itself well to quick reactions and H'vier runs straight into the solid bluerider that appears in front of him even if he ''tries'' to swerve around him. "Shard it! Watch where the fuck you're going!" Ever the charmer, this H'vier.

T'mic is the guy you'll bump into, and he says, 'Sorry'. Except it only gets so far as "Sor-" and a slight shift of his weight on his feet to accommodate the bump, and by then he's turned to the one who bumped him. His heart's on his sleeve. And face. There's recognition. There's memory. And then there's a frown and a good, hard, two-handed ''shove''.

When H'vier bumps into people, or people bump into H'vier, it doesn't often end up in ''him'' being the one who's shoved. It takes his booze-slowed mind a second to realize what's happening, stance shifting awkwardly as one foot steps back in an attempt to keep himself from losing his balance. He even gropes a hand out to the side as though to catch the wall that he doesn't immediately find. His expression darkens when he looks at the bluerider's face. He looks like he wants to keep swearing, but nothing actually comes out.

"Shit," says T'mic no sooner than the shove is executed. That tell-all face: realisation, now. And he's grabbing for the bronzerider now, but in a steadying way. Grabbing, and saying, "Shit," again, and also, "Sorry," and if he manages to lay hands on H'vier without getting punched or anything, chances are good he might even try dust the other man's shoulders off a bit - even though the apology that soon followed up realisation is fading into something more serious.

Perhaps surprisingly, H'vier doesn't swing any fists at the younger man, but he does kind of pull away from the more helpful grabbing. "The fuck is wrong with you," is more accusation than question, and probably for the previous shoving more than what T'mic is attempting now.

So T'mic, he withdraws his hands, watching H'vier's posture a moment before crossing them - loosely - over his chest. It makes his chest and shoulders look all the bigger. And then he tilts his head a down a bit, so he can look disapproving. "Shouldn't have pushed you," he says first. Next, with a bit of a twitch of his head, "You can't just go around grabbing girls. No excuse."

"No," H'vier says, firm and annoyed. "You shouldn't've." The rest of what T'mic says to him doesn't help much, but perhaps only because it's confusing to his intoxicated mind. "''What'' girls? I haven't even seen any girls worth grabbing." Since he left Snowasis, presumably.

The cant of his head, the flattening of his lips, the raising of his eyebrows, it all says that T'mic doesn't believe H'vier even a little. "Any girls." His eyes are narrowing again, and the bluerider straightens up, his feet shifting a bit, testing his weight. "Faryn or any of them." A nod, now that he's settled on a response.

He has to think about that for a second, still looking as though T'mic might very well be speaking another language. Then it must click. "The skinny brunette that tried to ''stab'' me, you mean?" H'vier might be exaggerating about that supposed attempt, but maybe it's actually how he remembers it. "Lots of girls like being grabbed. Should try it sometime." He doesn't try to say that Faryn enjoyed it, anyway.

"Not when they don't want it, they don't," says T'mic, evenly. His arms stay in that loosely crossed position. He neatly ignores anything about stabbing, or his thoughts on the matter. "And you can't just go around doing it."

The large bronzerider heaves a sigh. "Fine, whatever," says H'vier, lurching into movement toward the nighthearth's cavern rather than continuing along his way back to the Snowasis. There will be klah fetched before he finds a seat to droop into should T'mic stay out of his way.

T'mic does. He's made his point, after all. Surely he should go celebrate, or at least carry on. He shifts that shoulder bag like he's going to. But somehow, the bluerider winds up by H'vier's chair. “Are things... Okay?"

"Okay?" H'vier repeats the word like it's some foreign concept that he's having a hard time relating to. "No," he finally says, glancing up at T'mic and then down at his klah. "But it's not so bad that I need a nanny." It's a not so subtle hint to move.

That tell-all face? Yeah, it's telling concern right then and there. T'mic doesn't ''move'', but to shrug. “Well, sure." He nods, and shifts his weight onto one leg, at rest. “But I'm not a nanny." Anymore.

"I'll be fine." Probably. H'vier might not say if he thought he'd be otherwise, granted. "You need something else from me, kid? Said I wouldn't go grabbing anyone. Even if they piss me off again." He looks at the bluerider. "She was being a bitch, you know. Both of them were." It's some minor justification for his actions.

“Still not a reason," isn't really argumentative now. “She can be..." that big forehead gets a wrinkle in it, “difficult sometimes. Both of them?" Which is a new request, rather than extended assumption on personalities. And whatever T'mic apparently still needs won't even be touched on.

"K'zin." H'vier says the name with little feeling now, too... whatever he is to be anything but neutral. "They were being dicks about me--" He pauses, brows furrowing at the bluerider before he looks down at his klah. "About me being like this, I suppose. So I stopped." And almost got stabbed by a fork. How is that fair!

"Oh." T'mic knows that bronzerider, of course, if not personally. He considers this bronzerider before him now, leaning his weight onto his opposite foot, and then looking off toward the table, the ground, something that isn't just him staring at H'vier. "What'd they say?"

H'vier ''sighs'' at the last question and something in his expression starts to shut down. "Don't you have anything better to do?" Like this girl of his, maybe. "Let a man drink his klah in peace."

T'mic shrugs, but centres his weight on his feet, and adjusts the strap of that bag over his shoulder. "Enjoy your klah, then." And he goes.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs talk:Relief

2015-09-02T15:45:33Z

H'kon: Comment provided by T'mic - via ArticleComments extension

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

==Irianke (22:49, 1 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Oh, poor Farideh. D: It is amazing how training kicks in and how she sticks to it in spite of herself.
==Alida (03:01, 2 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Like Irianke said... That's what Alida was (not gently) trying to pound into Farideh's head while she was teaching her self-defense: practice often and intensively enough, and your proper reaction will just happen on its own. ;)
==T'mic (08:45, 2 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Good!

Logs talk:Children and Healers

2015-09-02T15:31:36Z

H'kon: Comment provided by H'kon - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Children and Healers]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==H'kon (08:31, 2 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

If only there were taxes, then you could give them tax breaks.

(I could easily make a Canadian politics joke about 'or taxable incentives' here, but I'll just leave it as this parenthetical statement.)

A'rist

2015-08-28T14:28:45Z

H'kon:

{{Profile
|picture=A'rist.jpg
|body=
== Description ==
Standing four of five inches shy of six feet, not overly good-looking nor remarkably ugly, and a study in browns, A'rist is a good one for getting lost in a crowd. Hooded light-brown eyes give him an air of calm, if only on account of their shape. Klah-brown hair brushes his ears and grows longer down the back of his neck. His tan face still has some of the roundness of boyhood, and his frame still lacks some of the muscle of a fully grown man. But he's just impressed a bronze and hit puberty; it's only a matter of time.

{{wysk}}

== History ==
Aoristen came to the Weyr at age ten with his father, then a posted a beastcrafter. After four turns, the father was re-assigned, but the son declared he wanted to stay. Aoristen made himself useful in the stables and with the feed herds. The next gold flight was Iesaryth's, who was caught by Fort Weyr's Vhaeryth. Aoristen asked to stand for the clutch almost immediately after the first egg hit the sands.
A group of four eggs hatched simultaneously, the first four of the clutch, and from one of them came bronze Lythronath. Aoristen was become A'rist. Lythronath was 'not like other dragons', and the young bronzerider spent most of their weyrlinghood trying to find a balance between what dragonriders should be, and what he and Lythronath were. In weyrlinghood, Lythronath destroyed countless cots and pillows (there are still feathers occasionally floating through the barracks, tore open A'rist's leg with a talon, and then later, injured a Fort Weyr bronze in a green flight (Lythronath's first ever). Though A'rist learned more control (and prevention) as they grew, Lythronath was still able to break Cadejoth's wing in the younger bronze's first attempt at a leadership flight, where he only narrowly missed catching Hraedhyth.
Although they have shown their usefulness (for example, managing to track down pirate ships on open water), their slips into primal destruction have not yet fully stopped (for example, destroying one such pirate ship on a primal bender). A'rist keeps trying to find a place for himself and Lythronath at the Weyr, and to salvage a bit of his own humanity amidst Lythronath's savagery, but it remains a rocky road.

== Relationships ==
*[[Dragon:King_of_Gore_Bronze_Lythronath|Lythronath]]: We're bound by blood, and I'm starting to understand just what we're capable of. I ''should'' be scared, but deep down, I'm not.
*[[Azaylia]]: Without you, how are we supposed to fit? We have to, if we can't leave.
*[[Edyis]]: I probably don't know who you are anymore. I keep wanting to find out, but it might not be a good idea.
*[[H'vier]]: You never got what it was like. But I don't think either of us owes the other one anything.
*[[K'del]]: We'll try. We have no other choice.
*[[R'hin]]: If you have something to say to me, just say it. To me.
*[[Rh'mis]]: Lythronath wouldn't pick on you if you'd stop pretending to be what you aren't anymore. Half of me thinks you deserve it.
*[[Telavi]]: You seem nice, but I wish you wouldn't act like I'm stupid sometimes. I'm not.
*[[Quinlys]]: If I'd tried harder at what you'd said, would this be different? Did I try? I can't even remember.
* [[Ulyana]]: Have I seen what made him choose you? Or have I seen what he's made you? I can't answer those questions about me, either.
*[[V'ros]]: This is what brothers feel like.

== Soundtrack ==
[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i2PsXT88UeU AWOLNATION - Hollow Moon (Bad Wolf)]

== RP Logs ==

{{NewLogs |name={{BASEPAGENAME}}}}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments}} | }}

{{Icons}}

}}

{{Character-Categories}}

[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]
[[Category:Riders]]
[[Category:Bronzeriders]]

Logs talk:Elements of Trust

2015-08-28T14:16:55Z

H'kon: Comment provided by H'kon - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Elements of Trust]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Alida (23:48, 27 August 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Oh, the damnable PRIDE thing. I feel like a line in a B movie: "If ya know how ta ask (her) right, she'd do anything for ya."
==Squishy (23:57, 27 August 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

It's too late on impressionable weyrlings.

Still this was interesting to read!!
==Faryn (00:20, 28 August 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Get it together Alida.
==H'kon (07:16, 28 August 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

All Leovas are in Glacier.

Leova --> Glacier

Not Glacier --> Not Leova

*brain breaks*

Logs:Welcome to Alpine. Population: One More

2015-08-27T03:31:40Z

H'kon:

{{Log
|who=H'kon, Z'kiel
|what=Wing tapping.
|where=Feeding Grounds, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=4
|month=8
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.08.25
|quote=We will make your best better.
|mentions=Y'rel
|type=Log
|ooc=No, I couldn't think of a good log title.
|icons-new=Icon Z'kiel.jpg, Icon h'kon dutiful.jpeg, Icon h'kon kothstare.jpg,
|desc=Feeding Grounds, High Reaches Weyr

Wedged between the lake and the rest of the vast bowl are the dusty
feeding 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.

The weather today is very pleasant. A few clouds chase each other across
the mostly clear skies, and a soft breeze picks up in the afternoon to
make for a fine day.
|log=The graduation came. The graduation went. Z'kiel's role in it all was stoic, grim-faced - and obligatory. Leave it to Ahtzudaeth to be puffed up with pride - and not just for himself and his, but for ''all'' of them. His glory was radiant; his satisfaction a scintillating array of lights scattered on the mirrors of his mind. Indeed, the ceremony was so terribly important to the bronze that he endured a great and terrible hunger for some time before, at long last - and long after the partying was over - he finally declared for his rider's benefit, <> The answering grunt was enough. And, so, that's where they are ''now'': Ahtzudaeth stalking from the skies, while Z'kiel, dressed down in casual clothing - a plain, unlaced leather vest, loose-fitting trousers, a sash (notably in 'Reachian hues), and boots - perches on the fence. He hunkers forward and passes a palm over his shaved scalp, his expression unreadable while his skybound beast finally arrows down to make a swift, efficient kill. If conversation is had, it's had in grunts; from man and beast alike.

H'kon, it goes without saying, is not a casually social man. But this was a large event, an event of some importance, which might explain his appearing along the walls, offering congratulations to many of the newly-graduated. Notably absent from his list would have been Z'kiel, though eye contact may at one point have been made with the bronzerider before H'kon left. Arekoth was notably absent from the bowl as well, for a time. H'kon's changed his clothes, however, and is as presentable as he can be, when they take flight from their low-lying family weyr. When Arekoth lands near the pens, and the rider dismounts, his cowlick is more cowlicked than its usual, but that may could just be the wind. << Ahtzudaeth, >> greets Arekoth, while his rider tugs at the bottom of his jacket, and squares his shoulders, and focuses those cool green eyes of his. Preparing.

Pride lingers in Ahtzudaeth's voice, bright and warm and redolent of pipe smoke. << Ah! Arekoth! It is a pleasure to see you. Would you care to join me for a late dinner? It appears there are a few good ones left. >> Z'kiel's mouth pulls slightly to one side at something or another; a moment later and he's sliding a look askance to catch sight of both brown and rider. A faint ''hnnnh'' escapes him and he swings around to dismount the fence, which puts him in a prime position to properly salute the man. Habit, that; of the weyrlings, he might be one of - if not the - most formal of the lot. Green eyes will inexorably seek green, the Igenite's jaw set at its usual, hard angle. And he waits.

<< I've eaten today already, >> answers Arekoth. << I'll watch your hunt, though. >> And the older dragon settles, his wings flicking a few times before finding a restful position on his back, and that intense stare that he does so well settling firmly on the young bronze. << No pressure. >> Naturally. H'kon is accustomed to salutes, and returns Z'kiel's with a crisp efficiency. Z'kiel goes on to be his target, those short legs moving with a purpose toward the no-longer-weyrling. And as he draws within speaking distance: "I did not extend my congratulations to you at the graudation party." A statement of fact, not an apology.

<< Ah, a pity, >> yet, good-natured as Ahtuzdaeth is, it doesn't bear the weight of pity. << All the same, >> he continues while digging neatly into the viscera of his chosen herdbeast, <> Pressure? It doesn't seem to exist as a concept for him. He is, if nothing else, very clean about his kills and his eating. When he's done with that portion of his meal, he takes to the sky again to suss out a second. Z'kiel starts to fold his arms, then stops; a canted look to the skyward bronze suggests more than enough. He settles on folding his hands behind his back, his posture stiff - and, unfortunately, highlighting the height disparity that all but requires him to look down at the ranking rider in the situation. A duck of the chin is a mute acknowledgement of the statement, a faint grunt follows in case that wasn't sufficient, but there is nothing further to say.

H'kon is used to it. It changes nothing. "I wished to do so when I would next have a change to speak with you privately." His eyebrows lift, only slightly, and he glances quickly, still efficient, but also telling, to their surroundings. The time is now. But it's not congratulations he offers. It's a shift of his stance, making it wider, a lift of his chin as he looks up and down the bronzerider, a slight clasp of his hands behind his back. A firm nod to wrap it all off. "Alpine will take you." << Both. >> Arekoth assumes, of course, that Ahtzudaeth is listening.

"Understood," Z'kiel grates out. Still. H'kon's survey of the area is noted with only a faint pull at one corner of the weyrling's mouth. Like as not, he's already checked and is aware, but still. It's only when the other man mirrors his stance that one eyebrow tweaks upward. In that same motion, Ahtzudaeth is descending, swift and neat, to cleanly dispatch another herdbeast. His maw gapes in a tremendous smile, with a bright bugle following after; pride, again. It's all there, in every facet of that bronze's being. His rider, for his part, remains grim-faced and solid. A nod to echo H'kon's own. Then: "Thank you, sir. We will do our best." << No, >> comes the luminous correction and, with it, the distinct sense of a figure leaning forward and peering over the top rims of spectacles, << we will do ''the'' best for Alpine. For you, Arekoth, and yours, and all the rest. >>

H'kon nods, a gruff, short thing, to Z'kiel. "We will make your best better," has nothing of uncertainty in it, nor, for that matter, pride. It's a simple confidence. H'kon knows his wing. << Good, >> says Arekoth. << 'Cause otherwise, you're out. >> It's jovial, and yet. "Y'rel will hand you your knot properly. Still, we'll expect to see you at Alpine's table for common meals. Which tend to precede or follow drills, you may remember. We've a rest day tomorrow, but I would suggest you meet with me nonetheless, and we can go over your place in the sweep schedule. Drills are the day after."

"Good." Satisfaction might be perceived. Z'kiel nods to each point that's made, with a grunt or ''hnnnh'' following each. "Of course, sir. We look forward to it." All of it, probably; for all of his earlier - if natural - tension, something seems to have been released to lend him some sense of relief. Faint, but it's there. "Where and when would you like to meet tomorrow?" And of the bronze? Ahtzudaeth lapses into uncharacteristic silence while he listens in - and eats, of course. Hunger waits for no man - or dragon, for that matter. Arekoth's words don't go without acknowledgement, though; it's wordless, but the weight of ''reassurance'' sits there, like a hand on the proverbial shoulder. They will not disappoint, or so says that gesture.

A word is ready on his lips, but dies unspoken. H'kon's mouth presses closed, and for a moment, that furrow in his brow deepens. Then, normalises. "Best it be two hours before the afternoon meal. You can meet me in the council chambers, provided they are not suddenly required. Arekoth will reach out to Ahtzudaeth if anything should change, of course." His head tilts, just a little. Any more questions?

A nod and an intoned, "We'll be there," seals the deal. And, in truth, he'll be there a half hour earlier, if not more. Z'kiel meets that unspoken query with an equally unspoken answer; a slight shake of his head and a straightening of his posture. Whatever passed across H'kon's features is either unnoticed - or, more likely, left alone without comment. In the feeding area, Ahtzudaeth's consumption is slowing; his interest in the whole thing remains there, faint but perceptible - retreating only when things seem to be settled or nearly so.

Nearly. H'kon's nod, this time, is final. His hands unclasp from behind his back, and tug once more at the base of his jacket. "Congratulations on your graduation, Z'kiel." And, with a nod and glance to the bronze, "Ahtzudaeth." Taking a slight step back: "You were not sought out so soon by accident." It's like a goodbye. At any rate, H'kon turns to go. Arekoth seems ready to stay, but then. That is one of the perks of weyrs with ground access.

"Thank you, again, sir." Another nod - this time, one from each of them. Z'kiel's posture remains stiff, but his hands unwind from behind him and, while H'kon moves to leave, he's doing likewise. A sidelong look to Ahtzudaeth yields but a low rumble from the beast. As soon as his last kill is finished, the bronze moves to make that short hop over the fence. << Be well, Arekoth. You and yours, both. >> The warmth lingers, amiable without being oppressive, until they're gone.
|Categories=Alpine Wing Logs
}}

Logs:Welcome to Alpine. Population: One More

2015-08-27T03:30:16Z

H'kon: Created page with "{{Log |who=H'kon, Z'kiel |what=Wing tapping. |where=Feeding Grounds, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=4 |month=8 |turn=38 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gamedate=2015..."

{{Log
|who=H'kon, Z'kiel
|what=Wing tapping.
|where=Feeding Grounds, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=4
|month=8
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.08.25
|quote=We will make your best better.
|mentions=Y'rel
|type=Log
|ooc=No, I couldn't think of a good log title.
|icons-new=Icon Z'kiel.jpg, Icon h'kon dutiful.jpeg, Icon h'kon kothstare
|desc=Feeding Grounds, High Reaches Weyr

Wedged between the lake and the rest of the vast bowl are the dusty
feeding 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.

The weather today is very pleasant. A few clouds chase each other across
the mostly clear skies, and a soft breeze picks up in the afternoon to
make for a fine day.
|log=The graduation came. The graduation went. Z'kiel's role in it all was stoic, grim-faced - and obligatory. Leave it to Ahtzudaeth to be puffed up with pride - and not just for himself and his, but for ''all'' of them. His glory was radiant; his satisfaction a scintillating array of lights scattered on the mirrors of his mind. Indeed, the ceremony was so terribly important to the bronze that he endured a great and terrible hunger for some time before, at long last - and long after the partying was over - he finally declared for his rider's benefit, <> The answering grunt was enough. And, so, that's where they are ''now'': Ahtzudaeth stalking from the skies, while Z'kiel, dressed down in casual clothing - a plain, unlaced leather vest, loose-fitting trousers, a sash (notably in 'Reachian hues), and boots - perches on the fence. He hunkers forward and passes a palm over his shaved scalp, his expression unreadable while his skybound beast finally arrows down to make a swift, efficient kill. If conversation is had, it's had in grunts; from man and beast alike.

H'kon, it goes without saying, is not a casually social man. But this was a large event, an event of some importance, which might explain his appearing along the walls, offering congratulations to many of the newly-graduated. Notably absent from his list would have been Z'kiel, though eye contact may at one point have been made with the bronzerider before H'kon left. Arekoth was notably absent from the bowl as well, for a time. H'kon's changed his clothes, however, and is as presentable as he can be, when they take flight from their low-lying family weyr. When Arekoth lands near the pens, and the rider dismounts, his cowlick is more cowlicked than its usual, but that may could just be the wind. << Ahtzudaeth, >> greets Arekoth, while his rider tugs at the bottom of his jacket, and squares his shoulders, and focuses those cool green eyes of his. Preparing.

Pride lingers in Ahtzudaeth's voice, bright and warm and redolent of pipe smoke. << Ah! Arekoth! It is a pleasure to see you. Would you care to join me for a late dinner? It appears there are a few good ones left. >> Z'kiel's mouth pulls slightly to one side at something or another; a moment later and he's sliding a look askance to catch sight of both brown and rider. A faint ''hnnnh'' escapes him and he swings around to dismount the fence, which puts him in a prime position to properly salute the man. Habit, that; of the weyrlings, he might be one of - if not the - most formal of the lot. Green eyes will inexorably seek green, the Igenite's jaw set at its usual, hard angle. And he waits.

<< I've eaten today already, >> answers Arekoth. << I'll watch your hunt, though. >> And the older dragon settles, his wings flicking a few times before finding a restful position on his back, and that intense stare that he does so well settling firmly on the young bronze. << No pressure. >> Naturally. H'kon is accustomed to salutes, and returns Z'kiel's with a crisp efficiency. Z'kiel goes on to be his target, those short legs moving with a purpose toward the no-longer-weyrling. And as he draws within speaking distance: "I did not extend my congratulations to you at the graudation party." A statement of fact, not an apology.

<< Ah, a pity, >> yet, good-natured as Ahtuzdaeth is, it doesn't bear the weight of pity. << All the same, >> he continues while digging neatly into the viscera of his chosen herdbeast, <> Pressure? It doesn't seem to exist as a concept for him. He is, if nothing else, very clean about his kills and his eating. When he's done with that portion of his meal, he takes to the sky again to suss out a second. Z'kiel starts to fold his arms, then stops; a canted look to the skyward bronze suggests more than enough. He settles on folding his hands behind his back, his posture stiff - and, unfortunately, highlighting the height disparity that all but requires him to look down at the ranking rider in the situation. A duck of the chin is a mute acknowledgement of the statement, a faint grunt follows in case that wasn't sufficient, but there is nothing further to say.

H'kon is used to it. It changes nothing. "I wished to do so when I would next have a change to speak with you privately." His eyebrows lift, only slightly, and he glances quickly, still efficient, but also telling, to their surroundings. The time is now. But it's not congratulations he offers. It's a shift of his stance, making it wider, a lift of his chin as he looks up and down the bronzerider, a slight clasp of his hands behind his back. A firm nod to wrap it all off. "Alpine will take you." << Both. >> Arekoth assumes, of course, that Ahtzudaeth is listening.

"Understood," Z'kiel grates out. Still. H'kon's survey of the area is noted with only a faint pull at one corner of the weyrling's mouth. Like as not, he's already checked and is aware, but still. It's only when the other man mirrors his stance that one eyebrow tweaks upward. In that same motion, Ahtzudaeth is descending, swift and neat, to cleanly dispatch another herdbeast. His maw gapes in a tremendous smile, with a bright bugle following after; pride, again. It's all there, in every facet of that bronze's being. His rider, for his part, remains grim-faced and solid. A nod to echo H'kon's own. Then: "Thank you, sir. We will do our best." << No, >> comes the luminous correction and, with it, the distinct sense of a figure leaning forward and peering over the top rims of spectacles, << we will do ''the'' best for Alpine. For you, Arekoth, and yours, and all the rest. >>

H'kon nods, a gruff, short thing, to Z'kiel. "We will make your best better," has nothing of uncertainty in it, nor, for that matter, pride. It's a simple confidence. H'kon knows his wing. << Good, >> says Arekoth. << 'Cause otherwise, you're out. >> It's jovial, and yet. "Y'rel will hand you your knot properly. Still, we'll expect to see you at Alpine's table for common meals. Which tend to precede or follow drills, you may remember. We've a rest day tomorrow, but I would suggest you meet with me nonetheless, and we can go over your place in the sweep schedule. Drills are the day after."

"Good." Satisfaction might be perceived. Z'kiel nods to each point that's made, with a grunt or ''hnnnh'' following each. "Of course, sir. We look forward to it." All of it, probably; for all of his earlier - if natural - tension, something seems to have been released to lend him some sense of relief. Faint, but it's there. "Where and when would you like to meet tomorrow?" And of the bronze? Ahtzudaeth lapses into uncharacteristic silence while he listens in - and eats, of course. Hunger waits for no man - or dragon, for that matter. Arekoth's words don't go without acknowledgement, though; it's wordless, but the weight of ''reassurance'' sits there, like a hand on the proverbial shoulder. They will not disappoint, or so says that gesture.

A word is ready on his lips, but dies unspoken. H'kon's mouth presses closed, and for a moment, that furrow in his brow deepens. Then, normalises. "Best it be two hours before the afternoon meal. You can meet me in the council chambers, provided they are not suddenly required. Arekoth will reach out to Ahtzudaeth if anything should change, of course." His head tilts, just a little. Any more questions?

A nod and an intoned, "We'll be there," seals the deal. And, in truth, he'll be there a half hour earlier, if not more. Z'kiel meets that unspoken query with an equally unspoken answer; a slight shake of his head and a straightening of his posture. Whatever passed across H'kon's features is either unnoticed - or, more likely, left alone without comment. In the feeding area, Ahtzudaeth's consumption is slowing; his interest in the whole thing remains there, faint but perceptible - retreating only when things seem to be settled or nearly so.

Nearly. H'kon's nod, this time, is final. His hands unclasp from behind his back, and tug once more at the base of his jacket. "Congratulations on your graduation, Z'kiel." And, with a nod and glance to the bronze, "Ahtzudaeth." Taking a slight step back: "You were not sought out so soon by accident." It's like a goodbye. At any rate, H'kon turns to go. Arekoth seems ready to stay, but then. That is one of the perks of weyrs with ground access.

"Thank you, again, sir." Another nod - this time, one from each of them. Z'kiel's posture remains stiff, but his hands unwind from behind him and, while H'kon moves to leave, he's doing likewise. A sidelong look to Ahtzudaeth yields but a low rumble from the beast. As soon as his last kill is finished, the bronze moves to make that short hop over the fence. << Be well, Arekoth. You and yours, both. >> The warmth lingers, amiable without being oppressive, until they're gone.
}}

Logs:Lythronath vs. the Rainbow

2015-08-14T19:46:08Z

H'kon: Created page with "{{Log |who=A'rist, A'rist{{!}}Lythronath |what=Flying in the rain at Ierne. |where=Ierne Area |involves=High Reaches Weyr, Ierne Area |day=3 |month=7 |turn=38 |IP=Interval |IP..."

{{Log
|who=A'rist, A'rist{{!}}Lythronath
|what=Flying in the rain at Ierne.
|where=Ierne Area
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Ierne Area
|day=3
|month=7
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.08.13
|quote=Lythronath always wins.
|weather=Rain!
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon a'rist lynner.jpg,
|log=Lythronath flies fast enough that every raindrop pricks and stings A'rist's face, little shots of pain on his skin that go numb, then thaw out just in time to get hit again. Not all at once, but one after the other, all in different places. But the rain makes everything ''alive'' too. The terrain isn't strange anymore, even if it's still not what they expect, deep in their guts. It's not craggy, and it's not stark. It's bumpy, and full of trees and green, even against the rainy grey sky. It's breathing, growing, and rotting. And hearing the rain hitting all the leaves beneath them, and smelling all that living smell it stirs up, A'rist doesn't have to fight to keep his eyes open against the biting droplets. He closes them, tight. He watches through Lythronath, with both their heartbeats thudding in his chest.

Lythronath's talon hits a tree, and the flock of wherries startles up, screaming at each other and the dragon and the rain. Lythronath roars and chases them for a while. But they're dumb, and it gets boring. So he hits one, hard, drops it into the ground. The thud is wetter than it would've been. Hahahaha!

Now they hit most of the branches, making them fall down, making them snap like bones with thick, wet flesh over them. They scratch like prey does. But ichor washes off with rain. Then it's boring again.

They fly high. High. Higher. The clouds tremble. Scared. The clouds run away, get out of the way, and then there's the sun. It shoots down at them, shoots red and orange and yellow. Shoots green and blue and purple. Shoots and misses, too far! Haha.

They dive beside it. They beat the rain. They fall faster. Better. Then they veer. Hard! They reach their talons and roar and the colours run away. They win. They always win.

They turn back toward the trees. They are there again! Red, orange, yellow, behind them. Green, blue, purple, behind them. Turning hard. In front of them, now.

They roar again. This time, right up, talons and teeth too, open it up, straight up, right in half. No flesh. But colours run away again. Got them, this time! Always win

But they are there again. Red orange yellow beside them. Green blue purple ''beside them''. They roar! They dive in. Again. Again. Tear nothing but colours. Send colours running. And then always coming back.

Wingbeats pound. Heartbeats pound. Talons are water-wet only. Up and through. Down and through. Turn and through. Over and over. The colours move and disappear and move. Sneaky colours.

Higher, then. They fly up, up, and roar at the clouds. The clouds are scared still. The clouds tremble, still, and huddle together. Scared like beasts. They should be scared. Lythronath is coming. A'rist and Lythronath are coming.

The sun hides behind them, too. The colours, too.

Lythronath roars. Lythronath always wins. Always.

The rain slows down. The sounds change, like the trees below them are getting sleepy. The smells will be around for a while, but they seem slower, too.

Lythronath and A'rist fly on.

Then, A'rist opens his eyes and looks back. And only in the absence of that rainbow does he realise how it was beautiful.
|Categories=Dragon Logs
}}

Logs:Prude

2015-08-14T19:04:34Z

H'kon: Created page with "{{Log |who=Yesia{{!}}Aeaeth, T'mic{{!}}Jorrth, T'mic, Yesia |what=Jorrth is clueless. Aeaeth is not. T'mic is somewhere in between. And Yesia is Yesia, only proddier. |where=D..."

{{Log
|who=Yesia{{!}}Aeaeth, T'mic{{!}}Jorrth, T'mic, Yesia
|what=Jorrth is clueless. Aeaeth is not. T'mic is somewhere in between. And Yesia is Yesia, only proddier.
|where=Diving Cliff, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=9
|month=7
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.08.12
|quote=Are you gay?
|weather=Warm sunshine and cloudless skies make for a beautiful day and pleasantly warm evening. A breeze tempers the heat with no humidity lingering in the air.
|mentions=Jorey
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon yesia aeaeth siren.png, Icon yesia pissy.png, Icon t'mic jorrth what.jpg, Icon t'mic boynextdoor.jpeg,
|log=''Diving Cliff, High Reaches Weyr 
''Thrusting out from the shadow of the mountain, this long and narrow clifftop might once have been a ledge, but a pile of bramble-strewn, graffiti-chiseled boulders where a weyr's mouth would have been suggests a reason for its abandonment long ago. Though its views of the eastern bowl are grand, particularly the lake itself and the yawning air entrance to the hatching sands, its location makes the diving cliff unique: jutting some ten or twelve feet above the deepest part of the cool, clear lake. 
''Especially in summertime, many climb up the narrow stairs to seek the thrill of a swift fall into the water, but those who just want to enjoy the view can take those same stairs back down: carved directly into the bowl wall, worn and crumbling and slick from use, but enough for the careful to get the job done.''

There's still plenty of work to do even though it's summer, but the need to be outside beneath the clear skies and sun mean there are plenty of people willing to shirk, or simply to bring their work with them to the lake if they can. Kids are ''everywhere'', it seems, splashing through the water, and in the middle of the lake is Aeaeth. She's not doing anything special - sleeping, it seems, and glowing, on that special little jut of rock that she has claimed as her own. Her tail flicks occasionally in her dreams. And above, Yesia, who has dutifully claimed the end of the diving rock and is frowning down below, the jut of her chin stubborn and at odds with her bathing top and the sarong she's wrapped into a short skirt. People who approach to leap off find their laughter stunted by the immovable greenrider, who simply expects them to work around her, and will be rewarded with pebbles to the head for their efforts.

Since shadowing with Polaris this morning, Jorrth has been out in the sun, chatting with other dragons, wallowing on the shore, and most recently, being 'washed' by the unskilled efforts of many a weyrbrat, young and old. (His shins? Very wet.) T'mic has only just come back from whatever it was he was doing that's left his fingers black-smudged. Somehow, between Jorrth's encouragement and those of the older kids, he's now on his way up to the cliff, dared perhaps because of the gargo- uh, greenrider - who sits on the top, whose mood a few of those older boys have already encountered today. So he comes up behind Yesia with that broad chest bared, and big feet moving almost delicately, Jorrth-learned, on the stone, and his undershorts serving as swim gear. Here's hoping the tie holds when he dives. "Hey, Yesia," he greets, coming to a (brief?) stop under the expectant gazes of those onlookers below.

Yesia's movements have been very deliberate lately, even down to when she's plucking up rocks, but when she turns her head...that might be a little ''too'' deliberate, enough to be a little unsettling when her hazel eyes drop on him and take him in for several long beats. On her island, Aeaeth opens her eyes, regards Jorrth like she's only just remembered he's a dragon, and then puts her head back down. "You," Yesia says to suffice, flicking a stone at him, and he's not even off the cliff yet. "You're not here to talk, so go on. But I'm not moving."

T'mic looks back down toward Jorrth and his entourage, including the one girl who has taken advantage of the rider's absence (not that T'mic would mind but who's to tell her that) to press her cheek against the blue's shoulder, an arm straight up, though if he were shorter, it would surely be draped over that dragon. Jorrth, thus adored, looks back to Aeaeth when he notices her attention. << They're not bad, for washing. I could send some to you if you want. Jorey's particularly skilled. >> The one who's got his hands on his hips, annoyed that T'mic is still not moving. T'mic, who tilts his head to Yesia, and asks, "You doing okay, though?"

Streeeeetch. Jorrth's first mistake is actually acknowledging her back, and his second is talking, because Aeaeth slides off her rock and into the water to disappear beneath it, with minimal rippling. She's...drippy, when she moves. << You can send Jorey, >> she says, << but none of those grubby, dirty little boys. They'll just mess it up. >> She'll surface, eventually. Maybe. "''Why'' do people keep asking that? I'm ''fine''. I could always be better," and now she is glancing at him sidelong with a small, secret smile, "but I don't expect ''you'' to help."

"I always try make sure you're okay," says T'mic with a shrug, his smile easy, though he's watching her fairly intently. Well. Until he gets around to understanding her implication, after a brief wrinkling of his nose, and then widening of his eyes. "Oh. Yeah." Those big arms come to wrap around his belly, and he turns a little, sideways. 'Cause he's in his underpants, and aware of it now. "Anyway, it's just been a while since I've checked in, other than drills, so. Thought I'd see if you're good. Excited for the grown-up wings. You know." Still blushing, but he's brave. Jorrth gives a look to each of the 'grubby, dirty little boy's in his entourage, some of whom (along with the girls) are getting bored of watching T'mic not jump. << Not all of them. Some of them are very attentive. >> Said to the spot in the water where he expects Aeaeth to be.

Yesia scoffs at him, and then laughs outright at his embarrassment, tossing her head back and making those big red ringlets sway. "Don't be such a prude." She's not quite sneering, and indeed sounds almost like she's making fun of someone, mimicking. She relents quickly though, rolling her eyes and turning her gaze back down towards the water. "They're not that much more impressive than Cirrus," is her estimation, "but yes, to get away from being treated like a child all the time. By other children." It's a toothless barb, and nevertheless, "But I'm ''fine''," she repeats. "Are ''you''?" Aeaeth will, ultimately, surface a fair distance away from where he's looking, evaluating the children with a critical eye. << No. Boys are too rough. She can come. And maybe that little blonde one there. >>

What T'mic hears is an underhanded compliment, before the toothless barb. It makes him turn some to face Yesia, more so than does being called a prude. "We aren't children," the weyrling wingleader decides, now thinking to peer back down to the losing-interest crowd below. "When I say grown-up wings, I'm just joking, you know?" A little chuff of laugh goes with it. T'mic's arms come down from around him, and he scratches idly at his shoulder. "We're fine." << Sometimes it's nice, when you've got a spot that you really want scratched. Are you sure? >> But already Jorrth has started to lean his head into a few of his helpers, and nudge them toward the newly surfaced green, oddly gentle considering his size and bulk. Here's hoping they get the message.

"You're not very funny, T'mic," Yesia says, by all estimations trying to be helpful. She leans back, both arms out behind her and her palms planted flat, fingers splayed. It does...interesting things to her chest, all accentuated by that apparently ultra-tiny bathing top. "You should talk less, I think. Make fewer jokes. Just do that thing, where you smile and look a little lost. That's cute." Aeaeth is very particular now, and very very ''possessive,''. Once the girls she's requested are within reach, if they get within reach, she'll curl around them and put her head and wings in just the right position for attentions, settling down into the water and glaring at anyone ''else'' who comes by. << I'm sure it is, but I don't itch just now, >> the green decides, then, for no apparent reason, << You haven't said anything about how pretty I am today, Jorrth. >>

It's a good thing T'mic is very soon making a real point of looking only toward the lake below, then. "I'll think about it," he puts back toward Yesia, eyes wandering, and then schooled right back to the kids below. Jorrth waits for some other weyrbrat to come tend to him. Inevitably, a few do, although this that attention tends more toward splashing than washing. Jorrth might even get to enjoying it, except that he is called upon once more. << Well you are very bright. >> T'mic has, apparently, had time to think it over. "How do you think it's gonna be different? When we graduate?"

Like she said. Prude. She makes a dismissive sound at him, tilting her head back to see if he's paying attention, and when he isn't she sighs, straightening, staring at him with her arms crossed. "Are you gay?" Because, ''yes'', that is the ''only explanation'' for why he's being so diligent about avoiding her. The girls are being very careful, guided as they are by Aeaeth's low croons and warning grumbles in turn, and one of them is rubbing at her eyeridges in such a way that is melting her like ice. <> For his question, Yesia shrugs. "It depends where we end up, doesn't it? It could change any way."

"What?" asks T'mic, and now he's looking at her. "No." Not blurted and not defensive, but certainly, well. Certain. But, that said, he's willing to step down some and consider more important things. Arms go to cross over his chest again, but mostly 'cause now he's waiting, and has no pockets. "I guess. You want any one in particular?" The splashing fight continues around Jorrth, without his direct involvement. It's warm, after all. And it's the lake. And it's kids. << Sure. When were you thinking? >> And from there, << Where? What kind of race? >>

When he looks she's doing nothing particularly interesting, certainly nothing with the arch of her back, so that's his loss. At his answer, Yesia snorts, saying with ominous gravitas, "I think you might be. We'll see." She leans forward over the edge of the ledge again, looking down at the kids fawning over their dragons. "Iceberg," she says at once of wings. "Maybe Icicle. Aeaeth likes the acrobatics." Aeaeth is splashed in the face once, incidentaly, and growls her displeasure enough for the girl at her head to stop; insistent nudging gets her going again. << Good, >> she sighs happily, counterpoint to her threats. <> As for what kind of race? That she ''doesn't'' answer. He'll figure it out.

<< The stars, >> muses Jorrth, looking up. It confuses some of the weyrbrats, who all look to T'mic. T'mic, who's still, for the moment, just standing there. Well, and (not that the kids should easily be able to see this) getting a grin on his face that's not gonna go away. "Nope. Definitely not." << We've tried that. The air gets thin. And cold. And between would ruin a perfectly good race. >> It's all matter-of-fact, all planning, all practical. << Which one will mark the end? >>

<> the green says wistfully. << We could just race, until we got tired, and then come back. Don't forget. Not today. Not tomorrow. Soon. >> Yesia glances over at him, lifts her chin to gesture. "What are making that face for?" That stupid grin of his.

"I'm not making a face," T'mic manages to get out past that grin. <> says Jorrth, << that you need to put more planning into this. But I won't forget. >> And with that, T'mic shakes his head, and backs up a couple steps, and frees his arms, and runs, and jumps. And doesn't even kick Yesia in the head or anything.

"Bye," grouses the greenrider, thoroughly miffed. When he surfaces, he'll probably get a pebble or seventeen to the head while Aeaeth says, <> Then she's being splashed, and that is ''not'' fun. The green rumbles and backs away, leaving her girls, all the better to swim back to her island and orient herself just so once again, as put out as Yesia.
|Categories=HRW Clutch 37 Logs
}}

File:Icon t'mic jorrth what.jpg

2015-08-14T19:02:44Z

H'kon:

Logs:Shhhh

2015-08-14T18:52:08Z

H'kon: Created page with "{{Log |who=H'kon, Ulyana |what=Not a lot of talking. |where=Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=9 |month=7 |turn=38 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gamedat..."

{{Log
|who=H'kon, Ulyana
|what=Not a lot of talking.
|where=Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=9
|month=7
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.08.12
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon h'kon justhisface.jpg, Icon Ulyana.jpg,
|log=''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.''

It's a fairly warm, late afternoon, nice and sunny and perfect for a day out at the lake for those with the time off. Ulyana neither has the time nor the inclination for it. Instead, she's opted to go to the living cavern in search of an early meal that can be easily transported, as is her tendency on most days. A satchel is slung cross-wise over her person, heavy with what must be a book - or several. She's clad in her riding gear, helmet and goggles carefully rigged to the satchel, while her gloves are tucked into her belt and her jacket is opened just enough to allow her to cool down. To the tables, then, to see what the cooks have laid out early. The verdict: not much.

Not much is a discovery that H'kon has already made. It's the same that doesn't really crowd his plate. But there's a bit of bread, and the scrapings of a porridge left over from the morning. The stern look on his face is, at least, not one of disappointment. In fact, it's likely just his face. When he turns to find Ulyana off his shoulder, he doesn't seem in the least bit concerned with trying to change his expression. He looks the younger rider over. Looks back to the table. Looks to his plate. And he shrugs. All with those eyebrows well in place.

Her expression is a bland one, the very image of indifference. Ulyana surveys the possibilities and, with nary a twitch to her features, settles on a fairly dull arrangement of meats on a plate. Dry bits, mostly, likely leftover from lunch and reheated to less-than-stellar results. A few pieces of fruit are examined and ultimately taken, some pocketed and one left to sit precariously alongside the meat on her plate. Her eyes haze, draconic communion yielding the first shift in expression; a wrinkle of her nose in mild distaste that transitions into a study of the cavern in an obvious search for seating. H'kon is, briefly, caught within that look; if her gaze lingers, it might be purely to examine those eyebrows.

H'kon watches Ulyana's gathering of food, not in the way of one truly interested, despite the faintly studious look his face gets if only by virtue of the angle to which his head moves as it turns to track, but of one mostly distracted, his eyes left to their own devices, to follow what movement they will. He own motions for a seat don't quite mirror hers, offset enough to be independent. More so when he spots a table that seems suitable, and moves that way, with his meagre assemblage of foodstuffs.

Like as not, H'kon's selection is noted; everything else seems to be. Ulyana's judgment, however, remains her own - much like her quest for somewhere to sit. There is no difficulty in finding a place to sit, however; there are plenty of seats open, given the odd hour and paltry food offerings. Yet. There's a momentary distraction, a draconic intervention - inadvertent though it may be - and her steps wind up following after H'kon's own. Though she sits at a different table, it's still within a roll's throw of of the brownrider's own. As soon as she's seated, she picks at the meat, shredding it into smaller bits.

H'kon sits when he arrives, though not before producing a spoon he'd pocketed when he'd picked up his plate. The leftover porridge has reached a semi-solid state; it can be sliced into - should be sliced into, rather than scooped. H'kon does this, and puts it in his mouth, and worst yet, seems to enjoy it, the furrow in his brow becoming less deep, if only momentarily. Another slice is made, though this time, he looks about the caverns before lifting it to his mouth. Out to the other spaces, apart from Ulyana. But eventually, his eyes are back on her again, at the end of their track. Knowing where she'd gone. He opens his mouth, and lifts his spoon.

He exists only in the most peripheral of senses. The scoop that should be a slice. The apparent pleasure in the congealed mass. Ulyana, for her part, maintains that ambivalent facade while she picks and eats the shredded, dried bits of mystery meat on her plate. Her attention might seem to remain fixed - but, between slow, seemingly calculated blinks, her gaze roams from here to there in a measured manner. H'kon and his porridge are, once again, a point of fixation - curiously, at about the same time that his attention levels on her again. He eats his porridge; she eats her shredded whatever-it-may-be.

There wasn't a great deal of it, that porridge. A few more slices and it's gone. H'kon doesn't look at the girl the whole time, though he never makes a roaming gaze of the cavern again. But his plate and food are deserving of his attention as he cuts each mouthful, and that place just beyond his table in the air somewhere also earns some contemplation. There isn't a lot of porridge left, and what was was in the shape of the bowl that had held it since morning. Soon he's on to the roll, which has lost some of its weight to evaporation. Chewy. While chewing, of course, he's turned to the bluerider's table again. Not to her, not this time. To her assortment of food once more.

There isn't much for her to process, for all that it takes her a while to do so. Lots of chewing. More than is perhaps necessary. Ulyana finishes up the last few scraps without relish, her attention sliding inexorably inward all the while. Dragon-inspired or otherwise, it's hard to tell. The fruit is next and this is handled with a certain, clinical precision. A knife is removed from her bag, cleaned with a cloth from the same, and the process of cutting the fruit into thin slivers begins. This, at least, looks like a decent offering. Gray eyes momentarily cut askance to the brownrider, if only to mark his position - and, perhaps, confirm the state of his own plate out of abstract curiosity.

In that time, he's finished most of that roll. Enough that it's the last bite that enters his mouth when Ulyana looks back to him. He's chewing purposefully now, willing saliva to flow where dry bread would seem to see it removed from his mouth entirely. As he chews, he cleans, ensuring any bits of crumbs or whatnot that may have escaped his plate are gathered up and brushed back down to it. From there, it's a matter of ensuring his fingers are cleared of any visible food bits. It's careful. It's calculated. It's more conscious than most of this has been thu sfar.

Some measure of consideration is given to the fruit. The slices are precise; exactly the same size, save for the last, which is a little large owing to a slight miscalculation. Ulyana eats a few pieces - slow, methodical chewing for every crisp slice - while the brownrider proceeds through the ritual of cleaning. Still. Chalk it up to either her understanding of his meal or a fundamental misunderstanding of the depth of her hunger: the remaining pieces of fruit are offered, her arm extended and body twisted just so to allow that oblique presentation. Never mind that he's been cleaning; it's not as if the fruit is oozing fluid everywhere and making a mess.

H'kon finishes his process, and gets to his feet. The spoon is set on top of the plate, and the plate is taken in a careful, balanced grip. But for one little clink, there is no noise, no shaking of the dishes. H'kon moves out and past Ulyana's table, the initial response to the offer a shake of his head. Perhaps it's the consideration of his would-be noisy cutlery that takes him so long to stop, to take a few steps back, and reach down for one of those pieces. And nod, once, with a blink in time. And then he's off again, toward the main table to deposit his dishes before making his way out.

Observation is made, if from a slight angle. She watches, Ulyana does, but she does not move - neither limbs nor expression. Not until a slice is taken. Not a moment before. And, once taken - and he's on his way - she bundles the remainder of the fruit slices up in a kerchief she brought. Her departure will be some time after his, following his steps - but only to the point where she, eventually, makes her way to her weyr.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs talk:Constellations

2015-08-12T13:19:41Z

H'kon: Comment provided by H'kon - via ArticleComments extension

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

==H'kon (06:19, 12 August 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Qhyluth remains fascinating.

Logs talk:The Talk About Sex (After the Fact)

2015-07-31T06:26:40Z

H'kon: Comment provided by T'mic - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:The Talk About Sex (After the Fact)]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Faryn (16:02, 30 July 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

*loud sighing*
==Roz (16:51, 30 July 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Jorrth is such a creeper.
==T'mic (23:26, 30 July 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

I think the word you're looking for is 'observer'. He's curious and learning. It's innocent. No really.

Logs talk:Date Night

2015-07-31T06:25:32Z

H'kon: Comment provided by H'kon - via ArticleComments extension

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

==Roz (07:56, 30 July 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

FINALLY. :D
==Alida (23:16, 30 July 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

I wonder what little H'kons (of any gender) look like... *chinscritches* ;)
==H'kon (23:25, 30 July 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

This.

http://www.learnsomething.tips/wp-content/uploads/2014/05/5e2.jpg
==H'kon (23:25, 30 July 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Oh gawds it linked the whole picture and it's massive. But still. That.

Logs talk:Date Night

2015-07-31T06:25:03Z

H'kon: Comment provided by H'kon - via ArticleComments extension

Logs:The Talk About Sex (After the Fact)

2015-07-30T22:54:55Z

H'kon: Created page with "{{Log |who=T'mic{{!}}Jorrth, T'mic |what=Jorrth watched everything in the meadow, and has questions once it's over. |where=Foothills, Telgar Area |involves=High Reaches Weyr,..."

{{Log
|who=T'mic{{!}}Jorrth, T'mic
|what=Jorrth watched everything in the meadow, and has questions once it's over.
|where=Foothills, Telgar Area
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Telgar Hold
|day=23
|month=5
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.07.30
|mentions=Faryn
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon t'mic jorrth.jpg
|log=<< It didn't take very long. >>

''What?''

<< If that's how long it takes, >> and Jorrth remembered, and thought, << then when the brownrider was with the greenrider next ledge over, they must have done it almost fifty times. >>

''Jorrth.''

<< Do you think you could do it fifty times? You feel tired. >>

''You gotta rest in between.''

Jorrth thought about that. << So forty? >>

''Faranth.''

<< Does it help to go fast and then slow and then fast again? >>

''This was the first time, Jorrth.''

<< Does making those noises help? >>

''What noises?''

<< So no? And I thought ''you'' were supposed to be on top. Does that change it? >>

''I don't know, Jorrth. This worked fine.''

<< That's how it's supposed to go, then. >>

''Sure. Sometimes? Don't know. Doesn't matter. It was good.''

<>

''Geeze.''

<< It looked like it should have hurt. >>

''It didn't.''

<< You fit just fine? >>

''Better than.''

<< And she likes that too? >>

''I hope so.''

Jorrth thought about it for a moment, and felt all the warm and fuzzy in T'mic. <>

''Maybe we should show you again.'' T'mic was grinning, but not at Jorrth.

Jorrth considered that. << Okay. I'll watch more carefully. >>
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Makeshift Tart Meadow

2015-07-30T22:27:43Z

H'kon: Created page with "{{Log |who=Faryn, T'mic |what=Berries are picked, and two types of romping occur. |where=Foothills, Telgar Area |involves=High Reaches Weyr, Telgar Hold |day=23 |month=5 |turn..."

{{Log
|who=Faryn, T'mic
|what=Berries are picked, and two types of romping occur.
|where=Foothills, Telgar Area
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Telgar Hold
|day=23
|month=5
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.07.29
|quote=It only gets better. You'll see.
|mentions=Farideh, Yesia
|type=Log
|ooc=Sex, but nothing graphic.
|icons-new=Icon faryn happy.png, Icon t'mic goofy.png, Icon t'mic jorrth.jpg
|log="Just trust me," T'mic had said, somewhere in the process of not really describing to Faryn where they were going, or why he really wanted her to please hold on to that adorable little basket that he found somewhere in the bowels of the Weyr, probably through some sort of weyrbrat connection. (At least it's not all sticky.) On the other side of between is that surprise place he was so excited about. It's mountains to the north and east, foothills below, a river to the west. As Jorrth circles down, with some small dramatic flare or aesthetic appreciation, the bit of ground he's aiming for comes into better focus: an expanse of grasses, a bit of water that's more creek than anything, with some bushes growing along it. There's a wind that ripples the grasses and makes it not quite comfortable to be without a jacket, even though, here, the sun shines, interrupted only by the occasional cloud. It's a good day to be here. Probably why T'mic's face has cracked with such a broad grin. Close enough to perfect for him.

There's a brow arch and a bemused expression, but when isn't there with Faryn? T'mic, at least, gets cooperation along with it; she takes the not-sticky basket -- doesn't even peek, that's how good she is! -- and she gives Jorrth only a minimally suspicious look as she climbs up, apparently content that T'mic has earned her trust after all this time. What she has for him, then, is just, "It'd better be warm," before they are up and away, and she is not entirely disappointed on the other side of between, though she doesn't seem to ''get'' it. Even so, his grin is contagious, so he gets one in kind, with mock-disappointment as she observes, "This is not a tart forest."

Jorrth drops and drops, and lands rather gently, rather purposefully, in the grasses, near the creek and those bushes, but with plenty of space for his wings and everything. That huge blue takes a breath so deep that those riding up between his 'ridges should be able to feel it. "Well- no," says T'mic, hands coming down onto his dragon's hide as Jorrth hits the 'exhale' part. "I guess it's not even ''really'' a forest." Though there seem to be some trees nearby, north and east. "But trust me." Then he's unbuckling straps, leading the way, hopping down, and holding up a hand. To help Faryn, to hold the basket, whatever. He's there.

Faryn's moods with Jorrth still border on fickle, but today her spirits seem good enough so she takes a deep breath as he does, sighs it out in tandem, mocking him playfully. She's automatic in passing the basket down, freeing her hands so she dismount and reach for it again. "It's my charge," she explains as she tries to pluck it from his fingers. "I'm starting to think your tart forest is a fiction. Woe." Despite her complaints, she doesn't act terribly put out, swinging the basket like a pendulum at her side, incongruous with her general demeanor. She looks like a child, doing that.

Jorrth leans a little in as Faryn gets down, just enough to help her along. Nudge her along. And then that great big head is swinging around. T'mic doesn't seem worried. And he takes very good care of the basket while he has it, and then offers it right back, a strong up-and-down-once nod of approval. Yup. Her charge. With contents that shift a bit, back and forth, but with no audible breaking or crunching sounds as it goes. "I think I'd call it more like... a hope?" A hand gestures up and over his shoulder, and he turns, and starts toward that little creek. "Come on." But he's started grinning all over again. Jorrth, at the very least, will wait until everyone is well cleared before he flips over and wallows himself a big flat patch of grass. Straps and all.

"Fiction," Faryn confirms, falling into step behind him, still swinging that basket like she's weighing its contents and trying to decipher them from the movements they make. "It's a good one, though, hope or fiction." That's the end of that particular concern, though, and she's quicker to move on to the meat of their circumstances. "Why here? And," as a follow-up, "''where''? We have a place like this outside of Reaches." Her assessment is barely fair, given that the meadow outside of the weyr is still recovering from winter, likely, and not green or temperate. "

"Hope could always turn out true," says T'mic, glancing sidelong at her, still grinning. He can't help it, okay. "Come on," is said again. "Down there." And he points to where those bushes begin, not all growing in a massive clump right away, but here, there. "It's like this, but it's not like this. And besides, we've ''been'' there before." Jorrth has started making snorting noises, because this grass, is awesome. Almost as good as hay. Almost. "And they've got these." Both arms are held out in a 'taadaa' sort of way. At a bush. Yup. Not much to look at, from afar, but the bluerider remains super proud.

"Probably not about fancy things you tell weyrbrats to keep their imaginations going." Faryn's arm stops swinging, the basket coming to a stop with a couple bumps against her hip. That she's attempting to be impressed is clear; that she's not doing a great job is also probably pretty clear. Her eyes narrow at T'mic, at the bush, but she ultimately decides, "There are definitely bushes," even as she steps forward, keen on finding whatever is making him ''grin''.

"Yup," says T'mic, unwavering. And then he leans down, and pinches an adorable little something in between one great big thumb, and one great big finger, and presents it to Faryn with his own dramatic flare. "With these growing on 'em." A moment to puff his chest, and then, "Taste it." And, again, "Trust me." Jorrth has stopped rolling and snorting, and is watching, half-reclined in the flat he's made for himself.

There's that suspicion again, Faryn reaching for his gift and pinching it between her fingers to squint at it. "Berries?" sounds surprised, but it wipes the suspicion out full-stop and she puts it in her mouth, even though the sour-puss must still point out, "T'mic, these could have been poison. You really shouldn't eat wild berries, even when they're really good, like this one is." It's perfunctory responsibility at its finest.

"Berries," confirms T'mic, releasing that little thing to her, uh, custody, and bringing his arms to cross, satisfied, over his chest. The chiding just earns a renewal of that grin. "Yeah, but they didn't get any weird taste to them when I held 'em in my mouth. And I'm not dead yet." Which makes him think to uncross his arms, and twist around, and grab himself a little berry, all the while waving back with his free hand. "Open the basket." Which promises to contain little triangles of pastry, not layered or folded around anything; just scraps that were cut into bite sizes and baked along with the rest.

Faryn sounds the littlest bit appreciative when she says, "Look at you, sticking possible poison in your mouth." A curious expression crosses her face, her eyes squinting down for a moment while she studies him. "Just like a rider." Down goes her voice a half-octave, not mocking anyone in particular, but definitely an affect of someone male, "I'm not afraid of no poison, garr." And yes, that might sound more like a pirate, but she's not belaboring the point. Instead, she's still following orders so well, looking into the basket and saying, "Almost enough for a pie," she decrees, but she's taking one of those pastries out now, popping it in her mouth, and making a sound of appreciation before she takes another, this one offered out to him. "Makeshift tart meadow. It will do."

Just like a rider. It makes T'mic tilt his head, that grin turning more into a simple smile, faintly thoughtful, though his good mood isn't shaken into gloom. "We definitely talk just like that," is even playful a bit. "And I think you mean 'wingleader'." The first berry is popped into his mouth. "I'm glad you like it," goes to Faryn with a nod. And then he starts to gather those little berries, one hand cupped, the other, picking. Jorrth's interest is renewed. He's back on his feet, and making one big bound over, springing surprisingly high on those silly little feet of his, ever enthusiastic.

"'s how my mum talks," Faryn exaggerates, her brows up, daring him to challenge that. Jorrth's bounding is still alarming; certainly T'mic's grown used to it, but maybe Faryn has a more vivid recollection of when the big blue didn't have complete control of all those limbs, and so his rediscovered interest has her stepping closer to the bush to warn the dragon, "You don't have the delicacy for berry picking, don't stomp it." It does at least sound like she is being playful. Mostly. As for T'mic, and his rank? A snort. "You're not ''my'' wingleader, ''sir''." She brings the basket closer now, though, setting it beside him and saying, "There's room in there," as she starts picking too. She's slower. Because she's eating every second or third with relish. "Do you like it? Wingleading?"

"Making her voice all low?" The smile turns more crooked, more playful. Jorrth snorts at her (some might call it affectionate), and makes a point of obviously tip-toeing toward one of those bushes, of extending that hulk of a neck of his, of making like to nibble at the berries. Even if he gets a whole branch. T'mic dumps his first collection of berries into the basket, and presses a shoulder into his dragon as he swings around, a bit more toward the creek, toward more bushes. "Yeah. I mean, it's not what I want to do when we grow up," him and Jorrth, the thumb jut indicates, "but... We're doing our best at it, and I ''want'' to do it right, and Jorrth's really, really good at it... and I think I might kind of like when you call me 'sir', so."

"Yes. She sounds like a man, most days." Faryn's eyes are on Jorrth, warning, but when he manages to pull a branch she lays off in favor of a laugh; silly dragon. As he moves off, Faryn makes haste to pull off more berries, quickly, and keep them in her palm, popping them into her mouth before she follows. "You were good with the kids, it makes sense that you'd be good at monitoring everyone else." In goes a berry as she tilts her head, one brow arching high before there's her slow, cheshire smile. "You never struck me as that sort."

The branch is never ripped off; what leaves the dragon's mouth is chewed leaves, and notably few berries. Or dropped berries. Or crushed berries that are stuck on twigs. But he seems well pleased, anyway, and tiptoes on to the next one, as only a bulky blue dragon can. T'mic tries really hard to look macho for a moment, making a scowly face that suggests he has no idea how to look macho, and puffing his chest, and trying to put his hands on his hips, but one's got some new berries in it so it's hard. It lasts a good couple seconds before he puffs out a laugh, and shakes his head. "Okay. That might've been a... fiction. Anyway, it's mostly Jorrth who does the real monitoring. I help people more I think. But it's good. It works, you know? And I made sure to get the stricter ones for wingseconds. Besides, that Quinlys asked ''us''?" Now there's some real, T'mic-style pride, to rival the makeshift tart meadow.

That tiptoing is cartoonish, engaging Faryn's attention until she ends up snorting a laugh -- at both of them, as it happens, because T'mic is being absurd too, and she's surrounded by it. It's too silly even for her to completely stifle her laughter on. It comes out as a puffed scoff. "We need to work on your intimidating face. We could hire someone. I know Jorrth is blue -- and that's ''fine''," is an aside for the dragon in question, "but you should really be able to have a mean face to go behind all that new muscle." She bumps him with her hip as she passes him to the new bush and again her help is minimal. She's busy munching, and she has a thoughtful sound for the mention of Quinlys. "She's good. And you are too. She's got good taste, good judgment. From what I can tell."

That she laughs - scoffs - makes T'mic laugh for real, and properly. He gives some sort of little shove after her, directed at the hip that's just brushed him. Nothing is said on intimidation. Because he's dumping his latest gathering of berries, filling that basket on his own. Jorrth just looks up, the tip of a branch in his mouth. Why wouldn't blue be fine? "I think so, too. Some of the weyrlings didn't like her at first, but... she puts a lot of thought into things. Senses stuff. Keeps it simple." T'mic is licking at one of his fingertips when he comes back, to settle in alongside Faryn, and wait until there's anything in her hand. Which he proceeds to try and steal, albeit not very sneakily.

No reason, blue is ''fine''. "I like her. I imagine, maybe, if she was my boss, I wouldn't? Or, would like her less? But when your point is to break people down and build them into something else, something ''better'', well." A shrug, and then she's batting at T'mic's hands as her hand reflexively close around the berries she's got. Which, of course, crushes them. "You tried to steal them," she says, dismayed, opening a purple-stained palm. "And now they're dead."

"But everyone's lives had just changed. There wasn't any breaking down. Not by her, anyway." The look T'mic gives to Jorrth is one of relief. T'mic, clearly, hasn't changed at all through weyrlinghood. T'mic, who goes on to give Faryn a little 'tsk' the way he might to comfort a weyrbrat. Just as he goes to swipe at some of that berry goo in her hand with his index finger. Fast, this time, lest she try block him, a swoop from hand to mouth (as it were). "They're still good," comes in time with this.

"Well, yeah, but you've all changed." Schwing. "You had to, because everything else did. So I take it back. Maybe she just rebuilt you, but that's hard too. What if you just don't want to be what she's trying to build? You're different," that's established without room for argument, "and you're easy, and good natured and kind. It was probably easier for you." She pulls a disgusted face at T'mic when he moves, and it deepens when he licks his finger. "Gross," established evenly, "I'm not licking my hands. I know where they've been."

"It's what suits your dragon, though." But any softening of T'mic's expression for her saying such ''nice'' things about him will have to wait. There are more important things at hand. Such as, "Tastes good to me," which answers back, and then makes a grab for her hand, and dips his head in after it with tongue extended, laughing again. Jorrth happy-hops over to the next bush, leaving one dishevelled in his wake.

Faryn defers with a shallow shrug, her mouth opening and ready to explain some outside perspective he'll never have the opportunity for again, when he grabs her hand (a thing she allows rather easily, these days) and starts aiming to lick it. This is the closest she becomes to a panicky girl, ever. "Ew! No, ew gross!" is ''not'' established evenly, but if he were to describe it as a shriek, she would probably do him bodily harm (however accurate that is. She pushes him with her other hand, yanks with the first, "There's a stream, I'll wash it, ewwww!"

It's that near-panic that makes T'mic lose it. Any purpose in licking her hand, in even having his tongue out, disappears. For now he's just trying to keep hold of that one hand, and grab the other one that's pushing him, and giving 'hoo hoo hoo' and 'ha ha ha' kind of noises, literally, and grinning so big his cheeks threaten to hide his squinty-closed eyes. "You're being a ''girl!''" manages its way out finally. The shriek has Jorrth's attention, but he's not coming to anybody's rescue.

"I ''am'' a girl, you idiot," Faryn says, still tugging away, but she's laughing too, as she tries to pull her arms into her chest so she can protect her hands from him. It successfully reels her in, because she's curling down on herself too, protectively. "I'm just not a Girl--" emphasis on the capital letter, followed by a grunt of exertion as she really tries to yank herself away -- "Farideh, or --" another, accompanying a sharp twist of her body -- "Yesia."

Maybe, T'mic is afraid that all that afore-mentioned muscle might actually inflict some sort of injury; he keeps hanging on for the first jerk, letting his arms be pulled out from himself, but not loosening his grip. On the second, though, he releases, even if he's still got aftershock chuckles going through him. Even if he then turns those big hands up, fingers outstretched, reaching, but not grabbing this time. "I did notice that, you know," as it fades back into a smile, this one, a bit lopsided and less toothy, and affectionate too. "Both those things."

Faryn staggers, of course; that's what happens when you're fighting being licked and someone just ''stops'', but she at least doesn't quite fall. At once she begins rubbing that palm on her thigh to get rid of the berry juice and in doing remove any temptation, even though she's still puffing laughs too. "Yeah, well. You sounded surprised. I had to make sure." She studies his hand, then the stain on her own, raising an eyebrow. "Bleh," is decided eventually. "You are ''terrible''."

"Notice it lots," says the bluerider, suddenly all honest and innocent all over again, even if there's a quick relived quirk of the previous silliness over his face. His fingers aren't without stain of their own, though it's not the mash that was hers. "Thought I was nice and kind and good-natured and stuff," almost-remembers T'mic, just before that hand is brought up to his mouth. Lick. Then, it's wiped on his hip. Then, held out to her, fresh and clean. Ish.

"You were. But like I said, you've changed. Now it's sham," Faryn declares. "More the fool me. I should have known." She's still smiling though, rubbing her palm more fervently against her thigh for good measure, even though the creek isn't far off. She's softened overall, everything about her easy even when she recoils dramaticlly from that sort-of clean hand. "Gross," again, as the word of the day, and she bypasses his offering entirely, the better to step right up to him, take his shirt and tug him down all that way for a kiss, as she tip-toes up to meet him. That's a lot less gross, by any estimation.

"Really should've," agrees T'mic, ironically enough that it shows even on his face, in a bit of an arched eyebrow. That all drops off when he's hauled down, no resistance, answering readily first with lips, and then, with (gross?) hands moving for her hips. Less gross, except by Jorrth's estimation. He's at least used to it now, though. Forget the watching he'd been doing. ''He's'' got more berries to pick on tip-toe, hops subsided with the end of the clowning. T'mic, he's not like to let go, even when that kiss ends. "I'm glad," he says then, "that this didn't change."

For Faryn, it's all less gross now; she can be drawn in easily, and there's no batting or protest anymore than she seems terribly concerned that any lingering purple might stain the shirt she's wrapped her hand around. A girl who puts on a show when it suits her, then, maybe more a Girl than she likes to admit in that particular regard. "Tricky," she calls him, with a chaste kiss for punctuation, not withdrawing so long as he's holding her there. She's gotten terribly good at ignoring Jorrth in these moments, and now is no different; the logic seems to be that if she doesn't acknowledge him, ''maybe'' he'll just stop being upset by it, like when people let their children cry themselves to sleep. It seems to be working, unfortunately for those bushes. "Ah, I wouldn't say ''that''. I'd just say it's for the better, in the long run."

Or at least get used to it enough that it's not such a big, terrifying curiosity. Which does, yes, seem to be working. T'mic flexes his fingers thoughtfully in answer to that little peck, shifts his shoulders back, and if it gets her right close, well. Berries everywhere. It makes his nose wrinkle, to try and track change, in himself, in them. After a moment he blinks, and then drops his head forward, a Jorrth move of pressing forehead to forehead, but it's one that's got to be second-nature to the rider now. "Well I'm glad for that, then," precedes the third kiss. This one, he doesn't mean to have be quite so chaste.

Closer she is, then, as he shifts back. "Bonk," she says with a laugh as they bump foreheads, but she's definitely present with the same appreciative sound she had for the berries when he kisses her a third time. Ignore Jorrth it is, as she presses closer - if that's even possible - and glides both hands up, her touch feather light as she considers, and a preface for wrapping her arms around his neck; she can't get higher, and thus must keep him lower to kiss him with zeal, and her eyes close with another low humm. Yes, good.

Ignore Jorrth, so long as Jorrth is ignoring them. That kiss goes on, or maybe breaks into another - who even keeps track of these things in the moment, really? He might be more familiar with her curves now then he was, but it's not looking to stop T'mic's exploring them all over again. This goes on. And at some point he needs air, and Jorrth, too, has taken a break. At this same point, the bluerider's eyes close. Hands aren't stopping, though. "Hey, Faryn."

Not Faryn, who doesn't doesn't need air, if the sound she makes is any indication: frustrated and wordless grumbles when they break, even though she does wind up taking a few deep breaths once she curtails her attempt to chase him to resume. She moves her mouth down instead, to set upon anything she can and kiss there instead. Pliable and the least bit wiggly, Faryn exhales warmly when his fingers trail somewhere that tickles the slightest bit, and luckily can't actually move any closer now. "Mmmmm? Yes?"

What's there? A jaw. A neck. A... shirt. Oh well. T'mic opens his eyes again, but turns his head toward his dragon as best he can. If it has the added effect, hunched as he is, of a chin or cheek finding the top of Faryn's head, he's fine with that. "What would you, um." A blink to Jorrth, who lowers his head to chew another branch, but still ''watches'' his rider right back. "Think of here." The probing is replaced by a nervous grasp, arms tensing from shoulders down. He straightens up his gaze, back to her.

Faryn doesn't kiss shirts, at least. She lingers above the collar of them, her kisses slow and considering, until he turns and makes it that much harder for her to reach, stretched already as she is. His question at least has her opening her eyes again, to pin him with an intent look, half expecting him to be grinning at her. Gotcha, etc. Luckily, that isn't what meets her gaze, and her cheshire smile curls slowly, starting at the corners of her mouth. "I think here is nice," she says, faux-dismissive in the face of his uncertainty. "Lots of grass - and berries - and the stream - and ''privacy''."

"Yeah," nods T'mic. "All that stuff." That smile shows nerves all over again, as do wide eyes. But he traces his hand up and along her side, and takes a breath, and leans at her a bit, leans on the physical side, which is far less concerned with all the what-ifs just now. "Didn't think about a blanket or anything," is a bit rushed. "Less to do with berries."

Once, carefully, Faryn will look past him at the staring Jorrth, as expressionless as she can. No warnings, no worries, just a look to make sure he hasn't up and abandoned them, which would make things easier. T'mic gets her full attention after that. She unwraps her arms, draws her hand down again. Her hands slide under his collar, rubbing the fabric between a thumb and forefinger before she lets her fingertips trip over buttons. "Grass is fine," she says confidently. "It's better than sand. Or snow. Or -- " Her lips purse and she tilts her head, laying off. "If you're sure. We could always go ''back'', but..." Again, no conclusion. Just a quick adjustment, so she can kiss him again, quickly, with an encouraging smile to try and temper his nervousness.

Jorrth is looking right back, as keen-eyed as ever, with a bush leaning toward him, pulled by the branch that he's still chewing on. Slowly. T'mic takes another breath, tracing that same path with the one hand, the other content to settle at her waist, ready, but unmoving in this moment. "No," has a bit more decision in it. "No, it feels ''good'' here. Now." Significant. He pushes into that kiss, maybe a bit sloppily, but with a similar purpose. And Jorrth watches. And chews.

Faryn only nods her agreement, and then she disengages from the kiss eventually, just enough to cast around before deciding without context, "Whatever." Finding his hand, she twines their fingers and sits, abruptly, tugging him still further down in the movement with the order, "Sit, c'mon," with a modicum of urgency. That she sits in a way that puts her back to Jorrth is neither here nor there. When he ''does'' join her? She finds him quickly, leaning in for another kiss - gentle, slower than the others, less urgent than her words.

"Okay." T'mic follows, and sits, obedient, facing his dragon. But whatever's going on between them, it's almost certainly put on hold with the next kiss. T'mic closes his eyes, kisses her right back, looks for his hands to find places to rest, ready... as much to follow her lead as to go forward. His inexperience will just have to be made up for in instinct and willingness, especially once those nerves have a chance to subside. And Jorrth? At least his tiptoeing a bit closer and watching doesn't seem to derail his rider any.

Out, out damn Jorrth. Leave him alone a minute! Or several. Faryn is not shy - as they all well know by now - and she says, perhaps as some comfort, "Just let me...." She stays close as she moves nimbly, up and over, setting into his lap to push him down. She'll guide him, of course, making up in the areas he lacks, for now; her fingers don't trip over buttons or belts, or fabrics when it becomes necessary to work through them. And with Jorrth at her back, there's no distraction for her, either. T'mic was right about at least one thing: it's good here and now.

T'mic is not so nimble, of course, though once they're past those first few kisses, even with any awkward fumbling on his part, there's no shyness to him. Even with Jorrth (practically) over Faryn's shoulder, T'mic is present in the moment, emotionally as much as physically. It's what he has to offer in return, really; it's what keeps those big arms holding her when they're done, what, after a moment of regaining his breath and no doubt answering many questions from Jorrth, brings that dumb smile to his face and urges him to crane his neck to try and butt foreheads once more. Even if he also has to bring one hand away to swat at that blue snout in a request for space, when Jorrth leans in a little. "Worth waiting," comes on a bit of a laugh, relieved, in so many ways.

In the wake of it, Faryn fits quite well against him, curled up with her eyes closed, soaking in the sun, or what little she can get with Jorrth looming overhead. There's the bliss she's soaking up, too -- that's clear in the little sighs, evident now that her breathing is even. With her eyes closed, his craning jostles her, and the contact of their foreheads comes as a not unpleasant surprise that makes her crack one eye open and smile at him -- and take in Jorrth at the same time, her smile steady for him, too. She's swatted at him plenty so far, whether T'mic noticed or not. When his curious proximity got too close, Faryn still maintained the presence of mind to make sure the nosy blue knew it. That he keeps coming back would be cause for annoyance if she had the energy to be, but alas, she does not. There's another sigh and a small and content wiggle for his words. "It's the build-up," she murmurs, sounding sleepy. "It only gets better. You'll see. Now you see why I was so ''annoyed''."

Jorrth snorts in answer to that smile, and swishes his tail. What. But T'mic's got a well-pleased grin to aim at his dragon, next, and that, at least, seems to put a lid on the intrusion. For now. "Build-up," is repeated, the grin staying put, the arm jostling her a bit, playful, but not so energetic as the earlier battle of the smashed berries. "Yeah," is agreed, next. "Yeah, I'll see. You know," and his head's still so close, so he's talking softly without even thinking to, "we could even go home, and maybe," only the slightest pause, "you could show me again."

"Mmmmm," sounds agreeable enough, even though Faryn doesn't move at first. Their clothes are there, probably even within reach if she feels willing to disengage her limbs and just pat around in the grass, but she doesn't. This brand of Faryn is chill. "You think you can even manage that?" she says, sounding dubious. "You might hurt yourself, all this learning in one day." There's a long pause, and then Faryn stretches like a cat, lengthening her spine and finally rolling slightly so she can grab the first garment that she touches. Success! It is her shirt. "I've created a monster. I can live with that." The next thing she finds is his, and she dumps it on his chest with a grin.

T'mic, rather than trying to pull her in closer after that comment, makes like to give her a little push. Except it's not much of one, not to help her on her way in the gathering of things. Both hands go to his - oh, look, pants - and he sits up, shaking them out, righting a pantleg gone wrong. "Good," comes next, with some mock authority behind it. "'Cause this? It's all your fault." Jorrth has turned, those little feet moving off, a last little nibble going to a branch. "Oh, right," his rider is reminded. "Gotta make sure we bring the basket and berries."

"I take full responsibility, both for your predicament and the education that we now have to undertake because of it," Faryn says solemnly, dismissing the importance of her pants just long enough to raise a hand in oath. Then they're on, and she is not as solemn about, "I'll get them. We can eat them in bed. After. Or before. Or in the middle bits. There's a lot to teach you," she adds by way of explanation. As quick to dress as she was to undress, and the basket ''still'' her charge, she all-but skips to the discarded thing and plucks a couple berries to pop in her mouth before taking it in hand and rocking back and forth. "''So many things''."

T'mic and Jorrth, they both just watch her as she skips. Jorrth flicks his wings and tail. And T'mic, he gets up and follows after, and has all of, "Heheheh, okay," to say to that.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Date Night

2015-07-30T04:17:04Z

H'kon:

{{Log
|who=H'kon, Madilla
|what=H'kon and Madilla are somehow invited to a fancy journeyman project wine tasting. They get all pretty, and talk about very important things.
|where=Vintner Hall
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Vintner Hall, Igen Weyr
|day=23
|month=5
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.07.29
|mentions=Aishani, Azaylia, Dilan, Farideh, Irianke, Keysi, Lilabet, Raija,Treinan, Z'kiel
|type=Log
|ooc=H'kon's icon, of course, is just how he's feeling on the inside.
|icons-new=Icon madilla smile.jpeg, Icon h'kon lookfeelings.jpg,
|log=''Vintner Hall 
''In an area situated a short runner ride from Benden Hold is a chateau-style building with sprawling acres of grape trees and vines. While this is the main building, there are many vintner sub-fields and buildings situated throughout the area. 
''The main hall is made up of separate wings for the masters, journeymen, and apprentices on the second and third floors. Several lecture halls and workrooms make up the first floor, while a large tasting room claims the entryway to the Hall.''

The tasting room has been set up with a simple elegance: different wines at different tables, complete with appropriate pairings of food (just small amounts, mind), and candles, for ambiance. There's a sitting area also, tables and chairs and centerpieces done up in Vintner colours. Apprentices are on hand to pour, to supervise, to make sure nothing runs too low. The nervous young man trying to pull this whole thing off circulates freely, but with a careful regularity, amongst his guests, aware also of the masters and journeymen watching. It's warm. There's wine. And so far, it's going pretty well, too.

H'kon is pretty for the occasion, showing a fresh shave, and a pressed shirt in High Reaches' blue that suits him. His shoulder bears his knot. His arm bears Madilla. Tonight, it's just for them, Raija being seen to at the Weyr, and no drills or sudden departures hanging over their heads in the morning. No wonder that the brownrider is at attention, as careful as that poor vintner in his manners and graces. But at least the smiles come more easily, for Madilla. Smiles like this one. "They've put some effort into this."

It's not often that there's an opportunity to get away like this: to get dressed up, to have an evening out, to... do something ''different''. Madilla's clearly pleased by it, although there's also a sense of discomfort, too, being amidst well-dressed people at what is really a fancy event. Still, she turns her head towards H'kon and smiles, squeezing his arm gently. "They have, haven't they? It's lovely. I should see if Tayte is about..." but that would interrupt the ''date'' part of date night, and no; that's not going to happen. "Next time, perhaps."

That preservation of their time is pleasing; it's there, at the corners of his eyes, and in the slight shift in his arm and shoulder, to bring her in that little bit closer - even if it's more a state of mind than of physical space. Another passing pair earn a nod, as he directs them towards one of those little tables. "Red?" is checked in only once the route is clear, a quick glance sent to the healer.

"Red," confirms Madilla, with another squeeze to H'kon's arm. There will be ''no'' interruptions tonight (unless via Arekoth, and that's pretty much impossible to avoid). "We'll have to compare it to Tillek wine and-- there are fancy ways to taste wine, but I'm afraid I never especially learned them." This doesn't seem to bother the healer. At all. "I'm so glad we could get away."

If that Benden wingleader's green can keep him busy, there's a thin possibility of no interruptions, period. Well, until the ride home. "There ''is'' no comparison to Tillek wine," says H'kon, leaning in and up a bit, voice low but proud. "I'm quite certain I learned that as a boy." Another smile, and then, they're at the table, with just one Vintner master in front of them for the pouring. H'kon keeps a respectful distance, of course. "A rarity," is far more emotive than it might seem, and indeed, not even dissatisfied. Rare, for him to be in the moment, but it is known to happen.

Madilla's attention focuses on H'kon rather more than on the Vintner, though she glances back and smiles at an appropriate moment all the same. "I'm just glad to not be flying around the globe attending to healer business for once," she says, with a half-sigh that isn't ''really'' dissatisfied. "But at least I've been able to see more of Lilabet than I might otherwise, even if it ''is'' just to hear her gab on and on about that drummer boy she's interested in."

H'kon has never rightly filled a 'father' role with Lilabet, and still, mention of a ''boy'' and ''interest'' will consistently make him frown. "Kairek had mentioned something of that." The brothers have been talking more, of late. "Not some joke of his, then." Arekoth's as good as any shotgun, really. But then the master goes on her way, and they're next. H'kon lets his arm relax its formal posture, and quiets, for a talk about the wine, about the notes to pay attention to, about the very special cheese.

"Sadly not," says Madilla, with an expression that-- well. Lilabet is her little girl, and as easy-going a parent as she is... "Lilabet assures me he's going far, but his ''hair'' and-- they seem to have a very interesting idea of music." Which is all she'll say on the subject, really, except for the press of her lips together, and then, yes, the wine. And the cheese. Very important. "I'm not sure about mouldy cheese," she admits, beneath her breath.

Despite having relaxed his arm, H'kon is the more formal, the more on parade, for this talk about cheese. Well, the talk from the apprentice. Madilla's comment brings a look around to her, and something delighted in his eyes for the impropriety of it. The look is short, before he's back to accepting the wine, and yes, the cheese. The wine is nosed first. A taste is taken. And he waits for Madilla's cue, cheese in hand, and partly raised, as if in a toast to her.

Madilla can, at least, follow directions; she's quite good at that. And so she gives her own wine a sniff, then a taste, letting it linger upon her tongue for long seconds before swallowing. Then, of course, there's the cheese, and her own is raised in a similar way to H'kon's; a toast to them both. She eats... and while her expression suggests she's not ''wholly'' sure, she's at least giving it a good, game try, just the way she would with convincing Raija to try something new.

Raija's resolve is so much firmer. But then, she wouldn't get to have the cheese. H'kon? He likes it. Eyebrows lift. More of his wine. More of his cheese. And a very polite, "Thank you," to the apprentice, whose title he just barely manages to not add to the address. "That was strange," to Madilla. But good, says the tone, say everything, even the tip of his tongue that traces his lips.

"Yes," agrees Madilla. "Thank you." And yes, too, to H'kon, her expression saying more than her words do, though it's only with the faintest lift of eyebrows, and then, that bright, warm smile. "It was," she adds, only belatedly. "But-- perhaps I can see why people eat such things, now, even if it wouldn't suit me on a ''regular'' basis." She takes, now, another sip of her wine, this one more focused on the ''drinking'' than the tasting.

"Perhaps," suggests H'kon, "it's something to do with the dress." The delivery is deadpan, and he turns back to examine the remnants in his glass, before raising them to finish. Thank Faranth this isn't one of those where you have to spit the wine back out.

Mouth quirking in restrained but still obvious amusement, Madilla gives H'kon a ''look'', but not a long one. Her own glass finished, she nudges the brownrider at her side and adds, "I wonder if Lord and Lady Benden are here. Or their heir, perhaps..." She breaks off. Gossip isn't really her strong point, but perhaps it's just that it feels wrong to be ''here'' and not talking about ''something'' inane.

H'kon deploys that arm for Madilla again, and might even be seen to raise his chin up a little as some well-dressed holder (but not ''the'' holder) passes and looks. "I'd imagine at least they'd have been invited, as a courtesy." He goes so far as to glance to those nearby.

"Yes, I'm sure," agrees Madilla, her mouth twisting again, this time in a way to suggest that perhaps she's not wholly comfortable with moving in even remotely the same circles, no matter how well the pair of them scrub up. She accepts that arm, holding on to it as much, perhaps, for comfort as for anything else, as her eyes scan the room, lingering only briefly upon the exit, and then focusing, instead, upon the wine and food on offer. "How is the wing going? Are there any promising riders within the weyrlings you might be interested in taking on, do you think?"

"We've been watching them," says H'kon, of the weyrlings. "There are a few. A bronzerider, one of the Igen candidates. A green who might fit, also. Primarily. I'm not certain if it Alpine would benefit Keysi or hinder her." He follows her gaze, offering a parenthetical sort of, "Whichever you'd like, next." After another couple has passed: "There was a strange moment, with Farideh, some time back now, while the dragons were hunting."

Madilla's repetition of, "Igen," is thoughtful, and so is her expression in response to that mention of Keysi, but she's already leading the way towards a server who has cheese and sausage in pastry, and a white wine to match. "Strange?" she adds, then, waiting for their wine to be poured. "Strange how? She's--" She's already mentioned her conversation with Farideh, of course. She worries. Of course she worries.

H'kon is focused on this whole Weyr business, primarily, but that doesn't mean the pastry things aren't given a good look, too. Nods of thanks to the one doling out wine and food, each, arm once again loose, ready to be used for holding stuff. "She seemed all right," is for Madilla only, and a reassurance, earnest. "Exhausted, but... she is a weyrling goldrider." He'd tried to explain some of it, hadn't he, as much as a brownrider could? "She asked me about a brown in leadership. The second goldrider to do so, recently." He seems to have forgotten there's wine in his hand.

Teeth dropping to rest, hard, upon her lip, Madilla seems to largely forget her own food and drink for long moments as she considers H'kon. At length, her nose wrinkles. "I'm glad she's doing better," is what she says, with a slow nod. "I ''do'' understand, just... even Azaylia didn't seem quite so exhausted as a weyrling, but I suppose there were two of them, then." As these things go. Carefully, then, "Do you think they're... plotting?" Beat. "You won't chase, regardless." Not really a question.

"I've little idea what they're after." He's taken a step or two away from the apprentice with the pastry bits, and not purely to clear the way as would be polite. His thoughts on the food, if he ever remembers it, will either not be shared, or have to be brought back. "I'm not even certain it's ''us'' they have in mind at all." And then, a shake of his head. "No. Not for leadership. And even for the other - if there were a gold egg on the sands, before the next one were to rise... then perhaps."

Madilla eats now, and even drinks, too, but... it's a side issue, inconsequential in the face of this more serious conversation that has pressed her expression so tight. "Perhaps it's simply a... way of showing power. To ''imply'' that they have control in this, that it won't be up to chance. If they convince enough people, it could sway a flight." Perhaps; Madilla seems less than sure on that. "Given... everything, it seems it would be preferable to have three queens, and that relies on Irianke staying forever."

"You're speaking hypothetically, rather than specifically," H'kon... hopes? The wine is raised first, almost to his lips when he thinks to stop, to sniff at it, to stare at it too, for whatever good might come of it. The pastry follows with a flat, "Hm," as he chews. "My thoughts exactly. I'm not certain how long it is she means to stay. I've a mind to speak with K'del, if he'll answer my questions. Arekoth has been a father once now. There are more important matters than that." Which is, in itself, thoughtful. He waits on Madilla, watching for her response(s), and eats more.

Madilla's low, serious nod confirms the hypothetical nature of her thoughts, though there's a hesitation to it, as if she's not wholly sure. Not to mention, "I hope so. I wouldn't presume to speak of their actual intentions." She swirls the wine in her glass, sips, and then adds, "I should think he'd be willing to say ''something''. He's... vulnerable." But those green eyes are studying H'kon and then she says, "Which?" The important matters.

"We speak well enough. Most times," says H'kon of his weyrleader. There's something not troubled, but ''close'', in his face. And then he shakes his head, and raises his glass again. This time, the sip is given proper focus. Initially. His eyes do track to Madilla toward the end of the experience. "All those future considerations. It's more than just us. Has always been." He's watching her still, when he lifts the glass for the last. That pastry is long gone.

On an exhaled breath, "Yes," agrees Madilla. If there's more to say on it, perhaps her expression, so serious and intense, goes some way to express it all. Her own wine is turned in her hand, stem caught between two fingers.

H'kon remains almost perfectly still, even his fingertips. What motion there is is subtle: a slight lift of his chest, a pull at the corners of his eyes that dares to shift his expression into something... else.

Madilla makes no effort to hide the troubled nature of her thoughts, sucking a breath in through her teeth before she turns to the apprentice and extends her glass for a refill, gesturing, this time, to suggest she'd like more than simply the taster. It's once that has been achieved that she reaches to draw H'kon after her, and away from the crowds to a quieter corner. She's silent.

It's because the apprentice looks to H'kon, once Madilla's glass has been filled, because the bottle is extended, that H'kon offers his glass as well. He takes the onus of nodding thanks upon himself, and allows Madilla to direct him. Now, passing others aren't acknowledged.

Quite calm, despite those actions immediate prior to her words, Madilla says, "I would prefer not to discuss the intricacies of High Reaches politics in the middle of a crowd." And, "What are you thinking?"

"Hm," says H'kon, a shade of agreement in it. "That I know too little of our goldriders," is quite to the point. "That we've had a foreign goldrider before." His fingertips press a bit harder against that glass in hand, flattening somewhat. "Have you spoken with her at all?" Farideh, he knows about, at least most recently.

Madilla shakes her head, gaze dropping towards her glass rather than her weyrmate, at least temporarily. "Not in any detail," she says. "Were I still Weyrhealer..." But she's not. She sucks in a breath, holds it, and then exhales. "She seems competent."

"Ambitious, also," says H'kon, too soon. Then, his teeth click as they set together. He reconsiders, "Perhaps that was misspoken. I'm uncertain how hypothetical her considerations were, when we spoke." When he was spoken to. "An inexperienced bronzerider, that would be a concern. Could be."

This time, Madilla does turn her gaze back towards H'kon, more thoughtful than as intensely worried as before, though her nod is nothing but uncertain. "Yes," she agrees. "Or a foreign one. I don't imagine anyone would be pleased to have an Igenite Weyrwoman and... another outsider as Weyrleader."

"No," comes, agreement again. "For that matter, should Roszadyth mature quickly enough... we are left with inexperience. And who has there been to guide her, as a weyrwoman?" H'kon raises his glass, more, it seems, to hide behind it than for a drink. "Drifting again."

Madilla sucks a breath in through her teeth, nodding. "It was difficult enough last time." Inexperienced weyrwomen; an endless cycle. "I would-- rather the Weyr maintain steady leadership. At least K'del has been a stable presence, since Irianke stepped up."

"Since before," says H'kon with a light lift of his eyebrows. As it's there, still, he'll tilt that wine to his lips. There's an element of absurdity in, "I prefer reds, generally."

Another nod: yes, since before. And then Madilla manages a smile. "Me, too. But I liked the look of those pastries, and they seemed intent on putting the white with them... if the goldriders are actively canvassing for new Weyrleader potentials, perhaps Alpine ought to be strong about reminding the Weyr of the ''present'' Weyrleader."

"Perhaps," agrees H'kon. "If the bronzerider at its helm can be so convinced." But it's said with a tick of something in his face; a notion put aside, for later. "Arekoth wants to chase," is added in, after that.

Madilla presses her lip against the rim of her glass, exhales, then draws it back again. "Of course he does," she says, the left corner of her mouth turning up.

It's a report that comes, seemingly, without any input from the brown, still otherwise occupied. H'kon smiles a little easier for a moment, and takes another sip of wine. There's a glance back to the crowd, to the other stations, thus far untested. Instead, fingers reach for Madilla's arm. "Are you content? In being away so much. Not Weyrhealer." Surely, it's related somehow.

Though tired, Madilla's smile is warm, at least. "On the whole," she says, simply. "I miss being Weyrhealer. I miss having that connection to ''people''. I miss being ''home''. But..." She gives her well-dressed shoulders a gentle shrug. "I'm also aware of how important my new work is. And it isn't as though I ''don't'' like it." It's just not the same.

"You'd not give it up?" H'kon probes, albeit gently. One finger taps at the glass in his hand, which lowers, toward his abdomen. "Or?"

Madilla's breath catches, slightly. It gets held a few moments, then released. "I don't know that they'd let me."

"The same concerns, then," murmurs the brownrider, "as ever." It's not satisfied, the look he puts on her, and there's some element of concern in it, as well. "I liked it," he admits, more on account of the comfort and trust between them than what little wine he's had thus far, "when it was more... rounded?"

Madilla's swallow is hard. She looks... sad? Regretful? Apologetic? Her teeth drop to rest upon her lower lip, biting in to it as she inhales through those teeth, then exhales again. "Now that Treinan has made Journeyman," she says, slowly. "I expect he'll be assigned to work with my project."

Oh no. It's not what he'd wanted. H'kon even raises a finger to brush towards her cheek. "Then it will be good for him to have your guidance," is a change of everything: posture, intonation, approach. He follows it with a nod. "And we will do our best to maintain stability and support at home. Whatever it is that should mean for us."

Her eyes close, as that finger brushes her cheek, but Madilla's not actually done. "Guidance," she agrees. "To begin with. But--" Those eyes open, focusing, intent, upon the brownrider. "In a few months, it could be that... he can do more of the travel. Especially if there were a situation in which." A pause. "It were more difficult for me to do it." Her brows may have raised, just ever so slightly.

H'kon's eyebrows are sympathetic eyebrows, this time around. They follow Madilla's, mirror them. A deep inhalation. A, "Hm," to buy him time, to study her. To shift his stance a bit, the glass in his hand all but forgotten. "I've not... not thought on it."

Madilla's cheeks are, by now, faintly pink. "I want to be home more," she says, quietly. "Before Dilan leaves," an inevitability, "And while Raija's still little." That it would allow her to be around more while all of this uncertainty goes on must go without saying; for the moment, the personal ''seems'' to have outweighed the political.

H'kon's voice has dropped to something even below a whisper. As if anyone else might be here for this conversation. As if he might fully realise the conversation they're having himself. "But more than that, Madilla..." It's almost a question. And one that shelves the political neatly, at least for the time being.

Wry, now, and ever so faintly embarrassed, Madilla drops her gaze... and her voice, too. "I'm not that far off thirty-six," she says. "I want another baby. I want... ''your'' baby. I don't even know if it's possible," she adds, more quickly now, "I know we've tried to avoid it, and... but everyone knows that's not a foolproof method. But I... I would ''like'' to try. If you're willing." The look on her face? It suggests she didn't even mean this to come up, perhaps ''ever''. But here it is.

And H'kon swallows hard, and for a moment channels his weyrling self, that same twitter of wings in his stomach and eager uncertainty before that first trip between with his dragon. But that face is tempered with more lines. He does his best to school the expression and feeling with a solemn nod. "I'm not certain it will be. You may be," oh, there's the weyrling again, "disappointed." Speaks the man whose brown flies regularly, catches often enough, the man who has been weyrmated for turns, and has no offspring whatsoever to show for any of it.

"And you?" Madilla's voice is not far off trembling. "Would ''you'' be disappointed?"

"I have considered for some time that, even if we were to come to this point, it may not be a possibility." H'kon's voice has found those slow and measured tones of his. And he speaks quietly, so quietly. But eyes have fallen somewhere in the vicinity of the very top of his wine glass. Yes.

Madilla, as adept as she is at reading H'kon, watches him, now. And nods, just once. "I want to try," she says, simply. "It won't be the end of the world, if it doesn't work out. Raija is still ''our'' daughter. But whether or not it... takes, I will work with Treinan, and reduce ''my'' travel accordingly. I want to be home." She's more sure, now, in tone and in stance. Her chin has lifted, her shoulders drawn themselves back.

"That would be... good," mouths H'kon. There's a little breath behind it. Tiny bit. But the shelf under those politics must have creaked, and he, too, straightens, and dips his head in acknowledgement of its contents. "There are many things that are better, when you're there." A cough almost sounds like an escaped laugh, nerves releasing. "We should have more wine."

"Good," is what Madilla says, in answer, likely answering more than what lays upon the surface of their conversation; all that is unsaid. "I will... reach out to the acting weyrwoman. And to Farideh, again. And--" But he's right: wine. This conversation has become too heavy, and her smile is a little too tentative as a result. "We should. It would be a waste, not to make the most of this." She offers, now, her arm.

"Good," says H'kon, of Irianke. "''Good,''" more emphatic, for Farideh. H'kon holds out his arm for hers, nods, and straightens his back, daring to step into his dragon's territory of bravado with a Sidelong smiles to his weyrmate. "And of the empty weyr, when we've finished here." More presently: "Red again?"

Madilla's blush confirms the implications of that empty weyr, her smile rather brighter, now. "Red," she agrees. "And something cheesy to go with it." Her eyes linger upon her weyrmate for a few moments before she tugs him after her; the wine awaits. So does the cheese.
}}

Logs:Date Night

2015-07-30T04:16:21Z

H'kon: OMG H'kon more than two edits is playing with it.

{{Log
|who=H'kon, Madilla
|what=H'kon and Madilla are somehow invited to a fancy journeyman project wine tasting. They get all pretty, and talk about very important things.
|where=Vintner Hall
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Vintner Hall, Igen Weyr
|day=23
|month=5
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.07.29
|mentions=Azaylia, Dilan, Farideh, Irianke, Keysi, Lilabet, Raija,Treinan, Z'kiel
|type=Log
|ooc=H'kon's icon, of course, is just how he's feeling on the inside.
|icons-new=Icon madilla smile.jpeg, Icon h'kon lookfeelings.jpg,
|log=''Vintner Hall 
''In an area situated a short runner ride from Benden Hold is a chateau-style building with sprawling acres of grape trees and vines. While this is the main building, there are many vintner sub-fields and buildings situated throughout the area. 
''The main hall is made up of separate wings for the masters, journeymen, and apprentices on the second and third floors. Several lecture halls and workrooms make up the first floor, while a large tasting room claims the entryway to the Hall.''

The tasting room has been set up with a simple elegance: different wines at different tables, complete with appropriate pairings of food (just small amounts, mind), and candles, for ambiance. There's a sitting area also, tables and chairs and centerpieces done up in Vintner colours. Apprentices are on hand to pour, to supervise, to make sure nothing runs too low. The nervous young man trying to pull this whole thing off circulates freely, but with a careful regularity, amongst his guests, aware also of the masters and journeymen watching. It's warm. There's wine. And so far, it's going pretty well, too.

H'kon is pretty for the occasion, showing a fresh shave, and a pressed shirt in High Reaches' blue that suits him. His shoulder bears his knot. His arm bears Madilla. Tonight, it's just for them, Raija being seen to at the Weyr, and no drills or sudden departures hanging over their heads in the morning. No wonder that the brownrider is at attention, as careful as that poor vintner in his manners and graces. But at least the smiles come more easily, for Madilla. Smiles like this one. "They've put some effort into this."

It's not often that there's an opportunity to get away like this: to get dressed up, to have an evening out, to... do something ''different''. Madilla's clearly pleased by it, although there's also a sense of discomfort, too, being amidst well-dressed people at what is really a fancy event. Still, she turns her head towards H'kon and smiles, squeezing his arm gently. "They have, haven't they? It's lovely. I should see if Tayte is about..." but that would interrupt the ''date'' part of date night, and no; that's not going to happen. "Next time, perhaps."

That preservation of their time is pleasing; it's there, at the corners of his eyes, and in the slight shift in his arm and shoulder, to bring her in that little bit closer - even if it's more a state of mind than of physical space. Another passing pair earn a nod, as he directs them towards one of those little tables. "Red?" is checked in only once the route is clear, a quick glance sent to the healer.

"Red," confirms Madilla, with another squeeze to H'kon's arm. There will be ''no'' interruptions tonight (unless via Arekoth, and that's pretty much impossible to avoid). "We'll have to compare it to Tillek wine and-- there are fancy ways to taste wine, but I'm afraid I never especially learned them." This doesn't seem to bother the healer. At all. "I'm so glad we could get away."

If that Benden wingleader's green can keep him busy, there's a thin possibility of no interruptions, period. Well, until the ride home. "There ''is'' no comparison to Tillek wine," says H'kon, leaning in and up a bit, voice low but proud. "I'm quite certain I learned that as a boy." Another smile, and then, they're at the table, with just one Vintner master in front of them for the pouring. H'kon keeps a respectful distance, of course. "A rarity," is far more emotive than it might seem, and indeed, not even dissatisfied. Rare, for him to be in the moment, but it is known to happen.

Madilla's attention focuses on H'kon rather more than on the Vintner, though she glances back and smiles at an appropriate moment all the same. "I'm just glad to not be flying around the globe attending to healer business for once," she says, with a half-sigh that isn't ''really'' dissatisfied. "But at least I've been able to see more of Lilabet than I might otherwise, even if it ''is'' just to hear her gab on and on about that drummer boy she's interested in."

H'kon has never rightly filled a 'father' role with Lilabet, and still, mention of a ''boy'' and ''interest'' will consistently make him frown. "Kairek had mentioned something of that." The brothers have been talking more, of late. "Not some joke of his, then." Arekoth's as good as any shotgun, really. But then the master goes on her way, and they're next. H'kon lets his arm relax its formal posture, and quiets, for a talk about the wine, about the notes to pay attention to, about the very special cheese.

"Sadly not," says Madilla, with an expression that-- well. Lilabet is her little girl, and as easy-going a parent as she is... "Lilabet assures me he's going far, but his ''hair'' and-- they seem to have a very interesting idea of music." Which is all she'll say on the subject, really, except for the press of her lips together, and then, yes, the wine. And the cheese. Very important. "I'm not sure about mouldy cheese," she admits, beneath her breath.

Despite having relaxed his arm, H'kon is the more formal, the more on parade, for this talk about cheese. Well, the talk from the apprentice. Madilla's comment brings a look around to her, and something delighted in his eyes for the impropriety of it. The look is short, before he's back to accepting the wine, and yes, the cheese. The wine is nosed first. A taste is taken. And he waits for Madilla's cue, cheese in hand, and partly raised, as if in a toast to her.

Madilla can, at least, follow directions; she's quite good at that. And so she gives her own wine a sniff, then a taste, letting it linger upon her tongue for long seconds before swallowing. Then, of course, there's the cheese, and her own is raised in a similar way to H'kon's; a toast to them both. She eats... and while her expression suggests she's not ''wholly'' sure, she's at least giving it a good, game try, just the way she would with convincing Raija to try something new.

Raija's resolve is so much firmer. But then, she wouldn't get to have the cheese. H'kon? He likes it. Eyebrows lift. More of his wine. More of his cheese. And a very polite, "Thank you," to the apprentice, whose title he just barely manages to not add to the address. "That was strange," to Madilla. But good, says the tone, say everything, even the tip of his tongue that traces his lips.

"Yes," agrees Madilla. "Thank you." And yes, too, to H'kon, her expression saying more than her words do, though it's only with the faintest lift of eyebrows, and then, that bright, warm smile. "It was," she adds, only belatedly. "But-- perhaps I can see why people eat such things, now, even if it wouldn't suit me on a ''regular'' basis." She takes, now, another sip of her wine, this one more focused on the ''drinking'' than the tasting.

"Perhaps," suggests H'kon, "it's something to do with the dress." The delivery is deadpan, and he turns back to examine the remnants in his glass, before raising them to finish. Thank Faranth this isn't one of those where you have to spit the wine back out.

Mouth quirking in restrained but still obvious amusement, Madilla gives H'kon a ''look'', but not a long one. Her own glass finished, she nudges the brownrider at her side and adds, "I wonder if Lord and Lady Benden are here. Or their heir, perhaps..." She breaks off. Gossip isn't really her strong point, but perhaps it's just that it feels wrong to be ''here'' and not talking about ''something'' inane.

H'kon deploys that arm for Madilla again, and might even be seen to raise his chin up a little as some well-dressed holder (but not ''the'' holder) passes and looks. "I'd imagine at least they'd have been invited, as a courtesy." He goes so far as to glance to those nearby.

"Yes, I'm sure," agrees Madilla, her mouth twisting again, this time in a way to suggest that perhaps she's not wholly comfortable with moving in even remotely the same circles, no matter how well the pair of them scrub up. She accepts that arm, holding on to it as much, perhaps, for comfort as for anything else, as her eyes scan the room, lingering only briefly upon the exit, and then focusing, instead, upon the wine and food on offer. "How is the wing going? Are there any promising riders within the weyrlings you might be interested in taking on, do you think?"

"We've been watching them," says H'kon, of the weyrlings. "There are a few. A bronzerider, one of the Igen candidates. A green who might fit, also. Primarily. I'm not certain if it Alpine would benefit Keysi or hinder her." He follows her gaze, offering a parenthetical sort of, "Whichever you'd like, next." After another couple has passed: "There was a strange moment, with Farideh, some time back now, while the dragons were hunting."

Madilla's repetition of, "Igen," is thoughtful, and so is her expression in response to that mention of Keysi, but she's already leading the way towards a server who has cheese and sausage in pastry, and a white wine to match. "Strange?" she adds, then, waiting for their wine to be poured. "Strange how? She's--" She's already mentioned her conversation with Farideh, of course. She worries. Of course she worries.

H'kon is focused on this whole Weyr business, primarily, but that doesn't mean the pastry things aren't given a good look, too. Nods of thanks to the one doling out wine and food, each, arm once again loose, ready to be used for holding stuff. "She seemed all right," is for Madilla only, and a reassurance, earnest. "Exhausted, but... she is a weyrling goldrider." He'd tried to explain some of it, hadn't he, as much as a brownrider could? "She asked me about a brown in leadership. The second goldrider to do so, recently." He seems to have forgotten there's wine in his hand.

Teeth dropping to rest, hard, upon her lip, Madilla seems to largely forget her own food and drink for long moments as she considers H'kon. At length, her nose wrinkles. "I'm glad she's doing better," is what she says, with a slow nod. "I ''do'' understand, just... even Azaylia didn't seem quite so exhausted as a weyrling, but I suppose there were two of them, then." As these things go. Carefully, then, "Do you think they're... plotting?" Beat. "You won't chase, regardless." Not really a question.

"I've little idea what they're after." He's taken a step or two away from the apprentice with the pastry bits, and not purely to clear the way as would be polite. His thoughts on the food, if he ever remembers it, will either not be shared, or have to be brought back. "I'm not even certain it's ''us'' they have in mind at all." And then, a shake of his head. "No. Not for leadership. And even for the other - if there were a gold egg on the sands, before the next one were to rise... then perhaps."

Madilla eats now, and even drinks, too, but... it's a side issue, inconsequential in the face of this more serious conversation that has pressed her expression so tight. "Perhaps it's simply a... way of showing power. To ''imply'' that they have control in this, that it won't be up to chance. If they convince enough people, it could sway a flight." Perhaps; Madilla seems less than sure on that. "Given... everything, it seems it would be preferable to have three queens, and that relies on Irianke staying forever."

"You're speaking hypothetically, rather than specifically," H'kon... hopes? The wine is raised first, almost to his lips when he thinks to stop, to sniff at it, to stare at it too, for whatever good might come of it. The pastry follows with a flat, "Hm," as he chews. "My thoughts exactly. I'm not certain how long it is she means to stay. I've a mind to speak with K'del, if he'll answer my questions. Arekoth has been a father once now. There are more important matters than that." Which is, in itself, thoughtful. He waits on Madilla, watching for her response(s), and eats more.

Madilla's low, serious nod confirms the hypothetical nature of her thoughts, though there's a hesitation to it, as if she's not wholly sure. Not to mention, "I hope so. I wouldn't presume to speak of their actual intentions." She swirls the wine in her glass, sips, and then adds, "I should think he'd be willing to say ''something''. He's... vulnerable." But those green eyes are studying H'kon and then she says, "Which?" The important matters.

"We speak well enough. Most times," says H'kon of his weyrleader. There's something not troubled, but ''close'', in his face. And then he shakes his head, and raises his glass again. This time, the sip is given proper focus. Initially. His eyes do track to Madilla toward the end of the experience. "All those future considerations. It's more than just us. Has always been." He's watching her still, when he lifts the glass for the last. That pastry is long gone.

On an exhaled breath, "Yes," agrees Madilla. If there's more to say on it, perhaps her expression, so serious and intense, goes some way to express it all. Her own wine is turned in her hand, stem caught between two fingers.

H'kon remains almost perfectly still, even his fingertips. What motion there is is subtle: a slight lift of his chest, a pull at the corners of his eyes that dares to shift his expression into something... else.

Madilla makes no effort to hide the troubled nature of her thoughts, sucking a breath in through her teeth before she turns to the apprentice and extends her glass for a refill, gesturing, this time, to suggest she'd like more than simply the taster. It's once that has been achieved that she reaches to draw H'kon after her, and away from the crowds to a quieter corner. She's silent.

It's because the apprentice looks to H'kon, once Madilla's glass has been filled, because the bottle is extended, that H'kon offers his glass as well. He takes the onus of nodding thanks upon himself, and allows Madilla to direct him. Now, passing others aren't acknowledged.

Quite calm, despite those actions immediate prior to her words, Madilla says, "I would prefer not to discuss the intricacies of High Reaches politics in the middle of a crowd." And, "What are you thinking?"

"Hm," says H'kon, a shade of agreement in it. "That I know too little of our goldriders," is quite to the point. "That we've had a foreign goldrider before." His fingertips press a bit harder against that glass in hand, flattening somewhat. "Have you spoken with her at all?" Farideh, he knows about, at least most recently.

Madilla shakes her head, gaze dropping towards her glass rather than her weyrmate, at least temporarily. "Not in any detail," she says. "Were I still Weyrhealer..." But she's not. She sucks in a breath, holds it, and then exhales. "She seems competent."

"Ambitious, also," says H'kon, too soon. Then, his teeth click as they set together. He reconsiders, "Perhaps that was misspoken. I'm uncertain how hypothetical her considerations were, when we spoke." When he was spoken to. "An inexperienced bronzerider, that would be a concern. Could be."

This time, Madilla does turn her gaze back towards H'kon, more thoughtful than as intensely worried as before, though her nod is nothing but uncertain. "Yes," she agrees. "Or a foreign one. I don't imagine anyone would be pleased to have an Igenite Weyrwoman and... another outsider as Weyrleader."

"No," comes, agreement again. "For that matter, should Roszadyth mature quickly enough... we are left with inexperience. And who has there been to guide her, as a weyrwoman?" H'kon raises his glass, more, it seems, to hide behind it than for a drink. "Drifting again."

Madilla sucks a breath in through her teeth, nodding. "It was difficult enough last time." Inexperienced weyrwomen; an endless cycle. "I would-- rather the Weyr maintain steady leadership. At least K'del has been a stable presence, since Irianke stepped up."

"Since before," says H'kon with a light lift of his eyebrows. As it's there, still, he'll tilt that wine to his lips. There's an element of absurdity in, "I prefer reds, generally."

Another nod: yes, since before. And then Madilla manages a smile. "Me, too. But I liked the look of those pastries, and they seemed intent on putting the white with them... if the goldriders are actively canvassing for new Weyrleader potentials, perhaps Alpine ought to be strong about reminding the Weyr of the ''present'' Weyrleader."

"Perhaps," agrees H'kon. "If the bronzerider at its helm can be so convinced." But it's said with a tick of something in his face; a notion put aside, for later. "Arekoth wants to chase," is added in, after that.

Madilla presses her lip against the rim of her glass, exhales, then draws it back again. "Of course he does," she says, the left corner of her mouth turning up.

It's a report that comes, seemingly, without any input from the brown, still otherwise occupied. H'kon smiles a little easier for a moment, and takes another sip of wine. There's a glance back to the crowd, to the other stations, thus far untested. Instead, fingers reach for Madilla's arm. "Are you content? In being away so much. Not Weyrhealer." Surely, it's related somehow.

Though tired, Madilla's smile is warm, at least. "On the whole," she says, simply. "I miss being Weyrhealer. I miss having that connection to ''people''. I miss being ''home''. But..." She gives her well-dressed shoulders a gentle shrug. "I'm also aware of how important my new work is. And it isn't as though I ''don't'' like it." It's just not the same.

"You'd not give it up?" H'kon probes, albeit gently. One finger taps at the glass in his hand, which lowers, toward his abdomen. "Or?"

Madilla's breath catches, slightly. It gets held a few moments, then released. "I don't know that they'd let me."

"The same concerns, then," murmurs the brownrider, "as ever." It's not satisfied, the look he puts on her, and there's some element of concern in it, as well. "I liked it," he admits, more on account of the comfort and trust between them than what little wine he's had thus far, "when it was more... rounded?"

Madilla's swallow is hard. She looks... sad? Regretful? Apologetic? Her teeth drop to rest upon her lower lip, biting in to it as she inhales through those teeth, then exhales again. "Now that Treinan has made Journeyman," she says, slowly. "I expect he'll be assigned to work with my project."

Oh no. It's not what he'd wanted. H'kon even raises a finger to brush towards her cheek. "Then it will be good for him to have your guidance," is a change of everything: posture, intonation, approach. He follows it with a nod. "And we will do our best to maintain stability and support at home. Whatever it is that should mean for us."

Her eyes close, as that finger brushes her cheek, but Madilla's not actually done. "Guidance," she agrees. "To begin with. But--" Those eyes open, focusing, intent, upon the brownrider. "In a few months, it could be that... he can do more of the travel. Especially if there were a situation in which." A pause. "It were more difficult for me to do it." Her brows may have raised, just ever so slightly.

H'kon's eyebrows are sympathetic eyebrows, this time around. They follow Madilla's, mirror them. A deep inhalation. A, "Hm," to buy him time, to study her. To shift his stance a bit, the glass in his hand all but forgotten. "I've not... not thought on it."

Madilla's cheeks are, by now, faintly pink. "I want to be home more," she says, quietly. "Before Dilan leaves," an inevitability, "And while Raija's still little." That it would allow her to be around more while all of this uncertainty goes on must go without saying; for the moment, the personal ''seems'' to have outweighed the political.

H'kon's voice has dropped to something even below a whisper. As if anyone else might be here for this conversation. As if he might fully realise the conversation they're having himself. "But more than that, Madilla..." It's almost a question. And one that shelves the political neatly, at least for the time being.

Wry, now, and ever so faintly embarrassed, Madilla drops her gaze... and her voice, too. "I'm not that far off thirty-six," she says. "I want another baby. I want... ''your'' baby. I don't even know if it's possible," she adds, more quickly now, "I know we've tried to avoid it, and... but everyone knows that's not a foolproof method. But I... I would ''like'' to try. If you're willing." The look on her face? It suggests she didn't even mean this to come up, perhaps ''ever''. But here it is.

And H'kon swallows hard, and for a moment channels his weyrling self, that same twitter of wings in his stomach and eager uncertainty before that first trip between with his dragon. But that face is tempered with more lines. He does his best to school the expression and feeling with a solemn nod. "I'm not certain it will be. You may be," oh, there's the weyrling again, "disappointed." Speaks the man whose brown flies regularly, catches often enough, the man who has been weyrmated for turns, and has no offspring whatsoever to show for any of it.

"And you?" Madilla's voice is not far off trembling. "Would ''you'' be disappointed?"

"I have considered for some time that, even if we were to come to this point, it may not be a possibility." H'kon's voice has found those slow and measured tones of his. And he speaks quietly, so quietly. But eyes have fallen somewhere in the vicinity of the very top of his wine glass. Yes.

Madilla, as adept as she is at reading H'kon, watches him, now. And nods, just once. "I want to try," she says, simply. "It won't be the end of the world, if it doesn't work out. Raija is still ''our'' daughter. But whether or not it... takes, I will work with Treinan, and reduce ''my'' travel accordingly. I want to be home." She's more sure, now, in tone and in stance. Her chin has lifted, her shoulders drawn themselves back.

"That would be... good," mouths H'kon. There's a little breath behind it. Tiny bit. But the shelf under those politics must have creaked, and he, too, straightens, and dips his head in acknowledgement of its contents. "There are many things that are better, when you're there." A cough almost sounds like an escaped laugh, nerves releasing. "We should have more wine."

"Good," is what Madilla says, in answer, likely answering more than what lays upon the surface of their conversation; all that is unsaid. "I will... reach out to the acting weyrwoman. And to Farideh, again. And--" But he's right: wine. This conversation has become too heavy, and her smile is a little too tentative as a result. "We should. It would be a waste, not to make the most of this." She offers, now, her arm.

"Good," says H'kon, of Irianke. "''Good,''" more emphatic, for Farideh. H'kon holds out his arm for hers, nods, and straightens his back, daring to step into his dragon's territory of bravado with a Sidelong smiles to his weyrmate. "And of the empty weyr, when we've finished here." More presently: "Red again?"

Madilla's blush confirms the implications of that empty weyr, her smile rather brighter, now. "Red," she agrees. "And something cheesy to go with it." Her eyes linger upon her weyrmate for a few moments before she tugs him after her; the wine awaits. So does the cheese.
}}

Logs:Date Night

2015-07-30T04:15:49Z

H'kon:

{{Log
|who=H'kon, Madilla
|what=H'kon and Madilla are somehow invited to a fancy journeyman project wine tasting. They get all pretty, and talk about very important things.
|where=Vintner Hall
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Vintner Hall, Igen Weyr
|day=23
|month=5
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.07.29
|mentions=Azaylia, Dilan, Farideh, Irianke, Keysi, Lilabet, Raija,Teinan, Z'kiel
|type=Log
|ooc=H'kon's icon, of course, is just how he's feeling on the inside.
|icons-new=Icon madilla smile.jpeg, Icon h'kon lookfeelings.jpg,
|log=''Vintner Hall 
''In an area situated a short runner ride from Benden Hold is a chateau-style building with sprawling acres of grape trees and vines. While this is the main building, there are many vintner sub-fields and buildings situated throughout the area. 
''The main hall is made up of separate wings for the masters, journeymen, and apprentices on the second and third floors. Several lecture halls and workrooms make up the first floor, while a large tasting room claims the entryway to the Hall.''

The tasting room has been set up with a simple elegance: different wines at different tables, complete with appropriate pairings of food (just small amounts, mind), and candles, for ambiance. There's a sitting area also, tables and chairs and centerpieces done up in Vintner colours. Apprentices are on hand to pour, to supervise, to make sure nothing runs too low. The nervous young man trying to pull this whole thing off circulates freely, but with a careful regularity, amongst his guests, aware also of the masters and journeymen watching. It's warm. There's wine. And so far, it's going pretty well, too.

H'kon is pretty for the occasion, showing a fresh shave, and a pressed shirt in High Reaches' blue that suits him. His shoulder bears his knot. His arm bears Madilla. Tonight, it's just for them, Raija being seen to at the Weyr, and no drills or sudden departures hanging over their heads in the morning. No wonder that the brownrider is at attention, as careful as that poor vintner in his manners and graces. But at least the smiles come more easily, for Madilla. Smiles like this one. "They've put some effort into this."

It's not often that there's an opportunity to get away like this: to get dressed up, to have an evening out, to... do something ''different''. Madilla's clearly pleased by it, although there's also a sense of discomfort, too, being amidst well-dressed people at what is really a fancy event. Still, she turns her head towards H'kon and smiles, squeezing his arm gently. "They have, haven't they? It's lovely. I should see if Tayte is about..." but that would interrupt the ''date'' part of date night, and no; that's not going to happen. "Next time, perhaps."

That preservation of their time is pleasing; it's there, at the corners of his eyes, and in the slight shift in his arm and shoulder, to bring her in that little bit closer - even if it's more a state of mind than of physical space. Another passing pair earn a nod, as he directs them towards one of those little tables. "Red?" is checked in only once the route is clear, a quick glance sent to the healer.

"Red," confirms Madilla, with another squeeze to H'kon's arm. There will be ''no'' interruptions tonight (unless via Arekoth, and that's pretty much impossible to avoid). "We'll have to compare it to Tillek wine and-- there are fancy ways to taste wine, but I'm afraid I never especially learned them." This doesn't seem to bother the healer. At all. "I'm so glad we could get away."

If that Benden wingleader's green can keep him busy, there's a thin possibility of no interruptions, period. Well, until the ride home. "There ''is'' no comparison to Tillek wine," says H'kon, leaning in and up a bit, voice low but proud. "I'm quite certain I learned that as a boy." Another smile, and then, they're at the table, with just one Vintner master in front of them for the pouring. H'kon keeps a respectful distance, of course. "A rarity," is far more emotive than it might seem, and indeed, not even dissatisfied. Rare, for him to be in the moment, but it is known to happen.

Madilla's attention focuses on H'kon rather more than on the Vintner, though she glances back and smiles at an appropriate moment all the same. "I'm just glad to not be flying around the globe attending to healer business for once," she says, with a half-sigh that isn't ''really'' dissatisfied. "But at least I've been able to see more of Lilabet than I might otherwise, even if it ''is'' just to hear her gab on and on about that drummer boy she's interested in."

H'kon has never rightly filled a 'father' role with Lilabet, and still, mention of a ''boy'' and ''interest'' will consistently make him frown. "Kairek had mentioned something of that." The brothers have been talking more, of late. "Not some joke of his, then." Arekoth's as good as any shotgun, really. But then the master goes on her way, and they're next. H'kon lets his arm relax its formal posture, and quiets, for a talk about the wine, about the notes to pay attention to, about the very special cheese.

"Sadly not," says Madilla, with an expression that-- well. Lilabet is her little girl, and as easy-going a parent as she is... "Lilabet assures me he's going far, but his ''hair'' and-- they seem to have a very interesting idea of music." Which is all she'll say on the subject, really, except for the press of her lips together, and then, yes, the wine. And the cheese. Very important. "I'm not sure about mouldy cheese," she admits, beneath her breath.

Despite having relaxed his arm, H'kon is the more formal, the more on parade, for this talk about cheese. Well, the talk from the apprentice. Madilla's comment brings a look around to her, and something delighted in his eyes for the impropriety of it. The look is short, before he's back to accepting the wine, and yes, the cheese. The wine is nosed first. A taste is taken. And he waits for Madilla's cue, cheese in hand, and partly raised, as if in a toast to her.

Madilla can, at least, follow directions; she's quite good at that. And so she gives her own wine a sniff, then a taste, letting it linger upon her tongue for long seconds before swallowing. Then, of course, there's the cheese, and her own is raised in a similar way to H'kon's; a toast to them both. She eats... and while her expression suggests she's not ''wholly'' sure, she's at least giving it a good, game try, just the way she would with convincing Raija to try something new.

Raija's resolve is so much firmer. But then, she wouldn't get to have the cheese. H'kon? He likes it. Eyebrows lift. More of his wine. More of his cheese. And a very polite, "Thank you," to the apprentice, whose title he just barely manages to not add to the address. "That was strange," to Madilla. But good, says the tone, say everything, even the tip of his tongue that traces his lips.

"Yes," agrees Madilla. "Thank you." And yes, too, to H'kon, her expression saying more than her words do, though it's only with the faintest lift of eyebrows, and then, that bright, warm smile. "It was," she adds, only belatedly. "But-- perhaps I can see why people eat such things, now, even if it wouldn't suit me on a ''regular'' basis." She takes, now, another sip of her wine, this one more focused on the ''drinking'' than the tasting.

"Perhaps," suggests H'kon, "it's something to do with the dress." The delivery is deadpan, and he turns back to examine the remnants in his glass, before raising them to finish. Thank Faranth this isn't one of those where you have to spit the wine back out.

Mouth quirking in restrained but still obvious amusement, Madilla gives H'kon a ''look'', but not a long one. Her own glass finished, she nudges the brownrider at her side and adds, "I wonder if Lord and Lady Benden are here. Or their heir, perhaps..." She breaks off. Gossip isn't really her strong point, but perhaps it's just that it feels wrong to be ''here'' and not talking about ''something'' inane.

H'kon deploys that arm for Madilla again, and might even be seen to raise his chin up a little as some well-dressed holder (but not ''the'' holder) passes and looks. "I'd imagine at least they'd have been invited, as a courtesy." He goes so far as to glance to those nearby.

"Yes, I'm sure," agrees Madilla, her mouth twisting again, this time in a way to suggest that perhaps she's not wholly comfortable with moving in even remotely the same circles, no matter how well the pair of them scrub up. She accepts that arm, holding on to it as much, perhaps, for comfort as for anything else, as her eyes scan the room, lingering only briefly upon the exit, and then focusing, instead, upon the wine and food on offer. "How is the wing going? Are there any promising riders within the weyrlings you might be interested in taking on, do you think?"

"We've been watching them," says H'kon, of the weyrlings. "There are a few. A bronzerider, one of the Igen candidates. A green who might fit, also. Primarily. I'm not certain if it Alpine would benefit Keysi or hinder her." He follows her gaze, offering a parenthetical sort of, "Whichever you'd like, next." After another couple has passed: "There was a strange moment, with Farideh, some time back now, while the dragons were hunting."

Madilla's repetition of, "Igen," is thoughtful, and so is her expression in response to that mention of Keysi, but she's already leading the way towards a server who has cheese and sausage in pastry, and a white wine to match. "Strange?" she adds, then, waiting for their wine to be poured. "Strange how? She's--" She's already mentioned her conversation with Farideh, of course. She worries. Of course she worries.

H'kon is focused on this whole Weyr business, primarily, but that doesn't mean the pastry things aren't given a good look, too. Nods of thanks to the one doling out wine and food, each, arm once again loose, ready to be used for holding stuff. "She seemed all right," is for Madilla only, and a reassurance, earnest. "Exhausted, but... she is a weyrling goldrider." He'd tried to explain some of it, hadn't he, as much as a brownrider could? "She asked me about a brown in leadership. The second goldrider to do so, recently." He seems to have forgotten there's wine in his hand.

Teeth dropping to rest, hard, upon her lip, Madilla seems to largely forget her own food and drink for long moments as she considers H'kon. At length, her nose wrinkles. "I'm glad she's doing better," is what she says, with a slow nod. "I ''do'' understand, just... even Azaylia didn't seem quite so exhausted as a weyrling, but I suppose there were two of them, then." As these things go. Carefully, then, "Do you think they're... plotting?" Beat. "You won't chase, regardless." Not really a question.

"I've little idea what they're after." He's taken a step or two away from the apprentice with the pastry bits, and not purely to clear the way as would be polite. His thoughts on the food, if he ever remembers it, will either not be shared, or have to be brought back. "I'm not even certain it's ''us'' they have in mind at all." And then, a shake of his head. "No. Not for leadership. And even for the other - if there were a gold egg on the sands, before the next one were to rise... then perhaps."

Madilla eats now, and even drinks, too, but... it's a side issue, inconsequential in the face of this more serious conversation that has pressed her expression so tight. "Perhaps it's simply a... way of showing power. To ''imply'' that they have control in this, that it won't be up to chance. If they convince enough people, it could sway a flight." Perhaps; Madilla seems less than sure on that. "Given... everything, it seems it would be preferable to have three queens, and that relies on Irianke staying forever."

"You're speaking hypothetically, rather than specifically," H'kon... hopes? The wine is raised first, almost to his lips when he thinks to stop, to sniff at it, to stare at it too, for whatever good might come of it. The pastry follows with a flat, "Hm," as he chews. "My thoughts exactly. I'm not certain how long it is she means to stay. I've a mind to speak with K'del, if he'll answer my questions. Arekoth has been a father once now. There are more important matters than that." Which is, in itself, thoughtful. He waits on Madilla, watching for her response(s), and eats more.

Madilla's low, serious nod confirms the hypothetical nature of her thoughts, though there's a hesitation to it, as if she's not wholly sure. Not to mention, "I hope so. I wouldn't presume to speak of their actual intentions." She swirls the wine in her glass, sips, and then adds, "I should think he'd be willing to say ''something''. He's... vulnerable." But those green eyes are studying H'kon and then she says, "Which?" The important matters.

"We speak well enough. Most times," says H'kon of his weyrleader. There's something not troubled, but ''close'', in his face. And then he shakes his head, and raises his glass again. This time, the sip is given proper focus. Initially. His eyes do track to Madilla toward the end of the experience. "All those future considerations. It's more than just us. Has always been." He's watching her still, when he lifts the glass for the last. That pastry is long gone.

On an exhaled breath, "Yes," agrees Madilla. If there's more to say on it, perhaps her expression, so serious and intense, goes some way to express it all. Her own wine is turned in her hand, stem caught between two fingers.

H'kon remains almost perfectly still, even his fingertips. What motion there is is subtle: a slight lift of his chest, a pull at the corners of his eyes that dares to shift his expression into something... else.

Madilla makes no effort to hide the troubled nature of her thoughts, sucking a breath in through her teeth before she turns to the apprentice and extends her glass for a refill, gesturing, this time, to suggest she'd like more than simply the taster. It's once that has been achieved that she reaches to draw H'kon after her, and away from the crowds to a quieter corner. She's silent.

It's because the apprentice looks to H'kon, once Madilla's glass has been filled, because the bottle is extended, that H'kon offers his glass as well. He takes the onus of nodding thanks upon himself, and allows Madilla to direct him. Now, passing others aren't acknowledged.

Quite calm, despite those actions immediate prior to her words, Madilla says, "I would prefer not to discuss the intricacies of High Reaches politics in the middle of a crowd." And, "What are you thinking?"

"Hm," says H'kon, a shade of agreement in it. "That I know too little of our goldriders," is quite to the point. "That we've had a foreign goldrider before." His fingertips press a bit harder against that glass in hand, flattening somewhat. "Have you spoken with her at all?" Farideh, he knows about, at least most recently.

Madilla shakes her head, gaze dropping towards her glass rather than her weyrmate, at least temporarily. "Not in any detail," she says. "Were I still Weyrhealer..." But she's not. She sucks in a breath, holds it, and then exhales. "She seems competent."

"Ambitious, also," says H'kon, too soon. Then, his teeth click as they set together. He reconsiders, "Perhaps that was misspoken. I'm uncertain how hypothetical her considerations were, when we spoke." When he was spoken to. "An inexperienced bronzerider, that would be a concern. Could be."

This time, Madilla does turn her gaze back towards H'kon, more thoughtful than as intensely worried as before, though her nod is nothing but uncertain. "Yes," she agrees. "Or a foreign one. I don't imagine anyone would be pleased to have an Igenite Weyrwoman and... another outsider as Weyrleader."

"No," comes, agreement again. "For that matter, should Roszadyth mature quickly enough... we are left with inexperience. And who has there been to guide her, as a weyrwoman?" H'kon raises his glass, more, it seems, to hide behind it than for a drink. "Drifting again."

Madilla sucks a breath in through her teeth, nodding. "It was difficult enough last time." Inexperienced weyrwomen; an endless cycle. "I would-- rather the Weyr maintain steady leadership. At least K'del has been a stable presence, since Irianke stepped up."

"Since before," says H'kon with a light lift of his eyebrows. As it's there, still, he'll tilt that wine to his lips. There's an element of absurdity in, "I prefer reds, generally."

Another nod: yes, since before. And then Madilla manages a smile. "Me, too. But I liked the look of those pastries, and they seemed intent on putting the white with them... if the goldriders are actively canvassing for new Weyrleader potentials, perhaps Alpine ought to be strong about reminding the Weyr of the ''present'' Weyrleader."

"Perhaps," agrees H'kon. "If the bronzerider at its helm can be so convinced." But it's said with a tick of something in his face; a notion put aside, for later. "Arekoth wants to chase," is added in, after that.

Madilla presses her lip against the rim of her glass, exhales, then draws it back again. "Of course he does," she says, the left corner of her mouth turning up.

It's a report that comes, seemingly, without any input from the brown, still otherwise occupied. H'kon smiles a little easier for a moment, and takes another sip of wine. There's a glance back to the crowd, to the other stations, thus far untested. Instead, fingers reach for Madilla's arm. "Are you content? In being away so much. Not Weyrhealer." Surely, it's related somehow.

Though tired, Madilla's smile is warm, at least. "On the whole," she says, simply. "I miss being Weyrhealer. I miss having that connection to ''people''. I miss being ''home''. But..." She gives her well-dressed shoulders a gentle shrug. "I'm also aware of how important my new work is. And it isn't as though I ''don't'' like it." It's just not the same.

"You'd not give it up?" H'kon probes, albeit gently. One finger taps at the glass in his hand, which lowers, toward his abdomen. "Or?"

Madilla's breath catches, slightly. It gets held a few moments, then released. "I don't know that they'd let me."

"The same concerns, then," murmurs the brownrider, "as ever." It's not satisfied, the look he puts on her, and there's some element of concern in it, as well. "I liked it," he admits, more on account of the comfort and trust between them than what little wine he's had thus far, "when it was more... rounded?"

Madilla's swallow is hard. She looks... sad? Regretful? Apologetic? Her teeth drop to rest upon her lower lip, biting in to it as she inhales through those teeth, then exhales again. "Now that Treinan has made Journeyman," she says, slowly. "I expect he'll be assigned to work with my project."

Oh no. It's not what he'd wanted. H'kon even raises a finger to brush towards her cheek. "Then it will be good for him to have your guidance," is a change of everything: posture, intonation, approach. He follows it with a nod. "And we will do our best to maintain stability and support at home. Whatever it is that should mean for us."

Her eyes close, as that finger brushes her cheek, but Madilla's not actually done. "Guidance," she agrees. "To begin with. But--" Those eyes open, focusing, intent, upon the brownrider. "In a few months, it could be that... he can do more of the travel. Especially if there were a situation in which." A pause. "It were more difficult for me to do it." Her brows may have raised, just ever so slightly.

H'kon's eyebrows are sympathetic eyebrows, this time around. They follow Madilla's, mirror them. A deep inhalation. A, "Hm," to buy him time, to study her. To shift his stance a bit, the glass in his hand all but forgotten. "I've not... not thought on it."

Madilla's cheeks are, by now, faintly pink. "I want to be home more," she says, quietly. "Before Dilan leaves," an inevitability, "And while Raija's still little." That it would allow her to be around more while all of this uncertainty goes on must go without saying; for the moment, the personal ''seems'' to have outweighed the political.

H'kon's voice has dropped to something even below a whisper. As if anyone else might be here for this conversation. As if he might fully realise the conversation they're having himself. "But more than that, Madilla..." It's almost a question. And one that shelves the political neatly, at least for the time being.

Wry, now, and ever so faintly embarrassed, Madilla drops her gaze... and her voice, too. "I'm not that far off thirty-six," she says. "I want another baby. I want... ''your'' baby. I don't even know if it's possible," she adds, more quickly now, "I know we've tried to avoid it, and... but everyone knows that's not a foolproof method. But I... I would ''like'' to try. If you're willing." The look on her face? It suggests she didn't even mean this to come up, perhaps ''ever''. But here it is.

And H'kon swallows hard, and for a moment channels his weyrling self, that same twitter of wings in his stomach and eager uncertainty before that first trip between with his dragon. But that face is tempered with more lines. He does his best to school the expression and feeling with a solemn nod. "I'm not certain it will be. You may be," oh, there's the weyrling again, "disappointed." Speaks the man whose brown flies regularly, catches often enough, the man who has been weyrmated for turns, and has no offspring whatsoever to show for any of it.

"And you?" Madilla's voice is not far off trembling. "Would ''you'' be disappointed?"

"I have considered for some time that, even if we were to come to this point, it may not be a possibility." H'kon's voice has found those slow and measured tones of his. And he speaks quietly, so quietly. But eyes have fallen somewhere in the vicinity of the very top of his wine glass. Yes.

Madilla, as adept as she is at reading H'kon, watches him, now. And nods, just once. "I want to try," she says, simply. "It won't be the end of the world, if it doesn't work out. Raija is still ''our'' daughter. But whether or not it... takes, I will work with Treinan, and reduce ''my'' travel accordingly. I want to be home." She's more sure, now, in tone and in stance. Her chin has lifted, her shoulders drawn themselves back.

"That would be... good," mouths H'kon. There's a little breath behind it. Tiny bit. But the shelf under those politics must have creaked, and he, too, straightens, and dips his head in acknowledgement of its contents. "There are many things that are better, when you're there." A cough almost sounds like an escaped laugh, nerves releasing. "We should have more wine."

"Good," is what Madilla says, in answer, likely answering more than what lays upon the surface of their conversation; all that is unsaid. "I will... reach out to the acting weyrwoman. And to Farideh, again. And--" But he's right: wine. This conversation has become too heavy, and her smile is a little too tentative as a result. "We should. It would be a waste, not to make the most of this." She offers, now, her arm.

"Good," says H'kon, of Irianke. "''Good,''" more emphatic, for Farideh. H'kon holds out his arm for hers, nods, and straightens his back, daring to step into his dragon's territory of bravado with a Sidelong smiles to his weyrmate. "And of the empty weyr, when we've finished here." More presently: "Red again?"

Madilla's blush confirms the implications of that empty weyr, her smile rather brighter, now. "Red," she agrees. "And something cheesy to go with it." Her eyes linger upon her weyrmate for a few moments before she tugs him after her; the wine awaits. So does the cheese.
}}

Logs:Date Night

2015-07-30T04:14:47Z

H'kon: Too many mentions.

{{Log
|who=H'kon, Madilla
|what=H'kon and Madilla are somehow invited to a fancy journeyman project wine tasting. They get all pretty, and talk about very important things.
|where=Vintner Hall
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Vintner Hall, Igen Weyr
|day=23
|month=5
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.07.29
|mentions=Azaylia, Dilan, Farideh, Irianke, Keysi, Lilabet, Raija, Z'kiel
|type=Log
|ooc=H'kon's icon, of course, is just how he's feeling on the inside.
|icons-new=Icon madilla smile.jpeg, Icon h'kon lookfeelings.jpg,
|log=''Vintner Hall 
''In an area situated a short runner ride from Benden Hold is a chateau-style building with sprawling acres of grape trees and vines. While this is the main building, there are many vintner sub-fields and buildings situated throughout the area. 
''The main hall is made up of separate wings for the masters, journeymen, and apprentices on the second and third floors. Several lecture halls and workrooms make up the first floor, while a large tasting room claims the entryway to the Hall.''

The tasting room has been set up with a simple elegance: different wines at different tables, complete with appropriate pairings of food (just small amounts, mind), and candles, for ambiance. There's a sitting area also, tables and chairs and centerpieces done up in Vintner colours. Apprentices are on hand to pour, to supervise, to make sure nothing runs too low. The nervous young man trying to pull this whole thing off circulates freely, but with a careful regularity, amongst his guests, aware also of the masters and journeymen watching. It's warm. There's wine. And so far, it's going pretty well, too.

H'kon is pretty for the occasion, showing a fresh shave, and a pressed shirt in High Reaches' blue that suits him. His shoulder bears his knot. His arm bears Madilla. Tonight, it's just for them, Raija being seen to at the Weyr, and no drills or sudden departures hanging over their heads in the morning. No wonder that the brownrider is at attention, as careful as that poor vintner in his manners and graces. But at least the smiles come more easily, for Madilla. Smiles like this one. "They've put some effort into this."

It's not often that there's an opportunity to get away like this: to get dressed up, to have an evening out, to... do something ''different''. Madilla's clearly pleased by it, although there's also a sense of discomfort, too, being amidst well-dressed people at what is really a fancy event. Still, she turns her head towards H'kon and smiles, squeezing his arm gently. "They have, haven't they? It's lovely. I should see if Tayte is about..." but that would interrupt the ''date'' part of date night, and no; that's not going to happen. "Next time, perhaps."

That preservation of their time is pleasing; it's there, at the corners of his eyes, and in the slight shift in his arm and shoulder, to bring her in that little bit closer - even if it's more a state of mind than of physical space. Another passing pair earn a nod, as he directs them towards one of those little tables. "Red?" is checked in only once the route is clear, a quick glance sent to the healer.

"Red," confirms Madilla, with another squeeze to H'kon's arm. There will be ''no'' interruptions tonight (unless via Arekoth, and that's pretty much impossible to avoid). "We'll have to compare it to Tillek wine and-- there are fancy ways to taste wine, but I'm afraid I never especially learned them." This doesn't seem to bother the healer. At all. "I'm so glad we could get away."

If that Benden wingleader's green can keep him busy, there's a thin possibility of no interruptions, period. Well, until the ride home. "There ''is'' no comparison to Tillek wine," says H'kon, leaning in and up a bit, voice low but proud. "I'm quite certain I learned that as a boy." Another smile, and then, they're at the table, with just one Vintner master in front of them for the pouring. H'kon keeps a respectful distance, of course. "A rarity," is far more emotive than it might seem, and indeed, not even dissatisfied. Rare, for him to be in the moment, but it is known to happen.

Madilla's attention focuses on H'kon rather more than on the Vintner, though she glances back and smiles at an appropriate moment all the same. "I'm just glad to not be flying around the globe attending to healer business for once," she says, with a half-sigh that isn't ''really'' dissatisfied. "But at least I've been able to see more of Lilabet than I might otherwise, even if it ''is'' just to hear her gab on and on about that drummer boy she's interested in."

H'kon has never rightly filled a 'father' role with Lilabet, and still, mention of a ''boy'' and ''interest'' will consistently make him frown. "Kairek had mentioned something of that." The brothers have been talking more, of late. "Not some joke of his, then." Arekoth's as good as any shotgun, really. But then the master goes on her way, and they're next. H'kon lets his arm relax its formal posture, and quiets, for a talk about the wine, about the notes to pay attention to, about the very special cheese.

"Sadly not," says Madilla, with an expression that-- well. Lilabet is her little girl, and as easy-going a parent as she is... "Lilabet assures me he's going far, but his ''hair'' and-- they seem to have a very interesting idea of music." Which is all she'll say on the subject, really, except for the press of her lips together, and then, yes, the wine. And the cheese. Very important. "I'm not sure about mouldy cheese," she admits, beneath her breath.

Despite having relaxed his arm, H'kon is the more formal, the more on parade, for this talk about cheese. Well, the talk from the apprentice. Madilla's comment brings a look around to her, and something delighted in his eyes for the impropriety of it. The look is short, before he's back to accepting the wine, and yes, the cheese. The wine is nosed first. A taste is taken. And he waits for Madilla's cue, cheese in hand, and partly raised, as if in a toast to her.

Madilla can, at least, follow directions; she's quite good at that. And so she gives her own wine a sniff, then a taste, letting it linger upon her tongue for long seconds before swallowing. Then, of course, there's the cheese, and her own is raised in a similar way to H'kon's; a toast to them both. She eats... and while her expression suggests she's not ''wholly'' sure, she's at least giving it a good, game try, just the way she would with convincing Raija to try something new.

Raija's resolve is so much firmer. But then, she wouldn't get to have the cheese. H'kon? He likes it. Eyebrows lift. More of his wine. More of his cheese. And a very polite, "Thank you," to the apprentice, whose title he just barely manages to not add to the address. "That was strange," to Madilla. But good, says the tone, say everything, even the tip of his tongue that traces his lips.

"Yes," agrees Madilla. "Thank you." And yes, too, to H'kon, her expression saying more than her words do, though it's only with the faintest lift of eyebrows, and then, that bright, warm smile. "It was," she adds, only belatedly. "But-- perhaps I can see why people eat such things, now, even if it wouldn't suit me on a ''regular'' basis." She takes, now, another sip of her wine, this one more focused on the ''drinking'' than the tasting.

"Perhaps," suggests H'kon, "it's something to do with the dress." The delivery is deadpan, and he turns back to examine the remnants in his glass, before raising them to finish. Thank Faranth this isn't one of those where you have to spit the wine back out.

Mouth quirking in restrained but still obvious amusement, Madilla gives H'kon a ''look'', but not a long one. Her own glass finished, she nudges the brownrider at her side and adds, "I wonder if Lord and Lady Benden are here. Or their heir, perhaps..." She breaks off. Gossip isn't really her strong point, but perhaps it's just that it feels wrong to be ''here'' and not talking about ''something'' inane.

H'kon deploys that arm for Madilla again, and might even be seen to raise his chin up a little as some well-dressed holder (but not ''the'' holder) passes and looks. "I'd imagine at least they'd have been invited, as a courtesy." He goes so far as to glance to those nearby.

"Yes, I'm sure," agrees Madilla, her mouth twisting again, this time in a way to suggest that perhaps she's not wholly comfortable with moving in even remotely the same circles, no matter how well the pair of them scrub up. She accepts that arm, holding on to it as much, perhaps, for comfort as for anything else, as her eyes scan the room, lingering only briefly upon the exit, and then focusing, instead, upon the wine and food on offer. "How is the wing going? Are there any promising riders within the weyrlings you might be interested in taking on, do you think?"

"We've been watching them," says H'kon, of the weyrlings. "There are a few. A bronzerider, one of the Igen candidates. A green who might fit, also. Primarily. I'm not certain if it Alpine would benefit Keysi or hinder her." He follows her gaze, offering a parenthetical sort of, "Whichever you'd like, next." After another couple has passed: "There was a strange moment, with Farideh, some time back now, while the dragons were hunting."

Madilla's repetition of, "Igen," is thoughtful, and so is her expression in response to that mention of Keysi, but she's already leading the way towards a server who has cheese and sausage in pastry, and a white wine to match. "Strange?" she adds, then, waiting for their wine to be poured. "Strange how? She's--" She's already mentioned her conversation with Farideh, of course. She worries. Of course she worries.

H'kon is focused on this whole Weyr business, primarily, but that doesn't mean the pastry things aren't given a good look, too. Nods of thanks to the one doling out wine and food, each, arm once again loose, ready to be used for holding stuff. "She seemed all right," is for Madilla only, and a reassurance, earnest. "Exhausted, but... she is a weyrling goldrider." He'd tried to explain some of it, hadn't he, as much as a brownrider could? "She asked me about a brown in leadership. The second goldrider to do so, recently." He seems to have forgotten there's wine in his hand.

Teeth dropping to rest, hard, upon her lip, Madilla seems to largely forget her own food and drink for long moments as she considers H'kon. At length, her nose wrinkles. "I'm glad she's doing better," is what she says, with a slow nod. "I ''do'' understand, just... even Azaylia didn't seem quite so exhausted as a weyrling, but I suppose there were two of them, then." As these things go. Carefully, then, "Do you think they're... plotting?" Beat. "You won't chase, regardless." Not really a question.

"I've little idea what they're after." He's taken a step or two away from the apprentice with the pastry bits, and not purely to clear the way as would be polite. His thoughts on the food, if he ever remembers it, will either not be shared, or have to be brought back. "I'm not even certain it's ''us'' they have in mind at all." And then, a shake of his head. "No. Not for leadership. And even for the other - if there were a gold egg on the sands, before the next one were to rise... then perhaps."

Madilla eats now, and even drinks, too, but... it's a side issue, inconsequential in the face of this more serious conversation that has pressed her expression so tight. "Perhaps it's simply a... way of showing power. To ''imply'' that they have control in this, that it won't be up to chance. If they convince enough people, it could sway a flight." Perhaps; Madilla seems less than sure on that. "Given... everything, it seems it would be preferable to have three queens, and that relies on Irianke staying forever."

"You're speaking hypothetically, rather than specifically," H'kon... hopes? The wine is raised first, almost to his lips when he thinks to stop, to sniff at it, to stare at it too, for whatever good might come of it. The pastry follows with a flat, "Hm," as he chews. "My thoughts exactly. I'm not certain how long it is she means to stay. I've a mind to speak with K'del, if he'll answer my questions. Arekoth has been a father once now. There are more important matters than that." Which is, in itself, thoughtful. He waits on Madilla, watching for her response(s), and eats more.

Madilla's low, serious nod confirms the hypothetical nature of her thoughts, though there's a hesitation to it, as if she's not wholly sure. Not to mention, "I hope so. I wouldn't presume to speak of their actual intentions." She swirls the wine in her glass, sips, and then adds, "I should think he'd be willing to say ''something''. He's... vulnerable." But those green eyes are studying H'kon and then she says, "Which?" The important matters.

"We speak well enough. Most times," says H'kon of his weyrleader. There's something not troubled, but ''close'', in his face. And then he shakes his head, and raises his glass again. This time, the sip is given proper focus. Initially. His eyes do track to Madilla toward the end of the experience. "All those future considerations. It's more than just us. Has always been." He's watching her still, when he lifts the glass for the last. That pastry is long gone.

On an exhaled breath, "Yes," agrees Madilla. If there's more to say on it, perhaps her expression, so serious and intense, goes some way to express it all. Her own wine is turned in her hand, stem caught between two fingers.

H'kon remains almost perfectly still, even his fingertips. What motion there is is subtle: a slight lift of his chest, a pull at the corners of his eyes that dares to shift his expression into something... else.

Madilla makes no effort to hide the troubled nature of her thoughts, sucking a breath in through her teeth before she turns to the apprentice and extends her glass for a refill, gesturing, this time, to suggest she'd like more than simply the taster. It's once that has been achieved that she reaches to draw H'kon after her, and away from the crowds to a quieter corner. She's silent.

It's because the apprentice looks to H'kon, once Madilla's glass has been filled, because the bottle is extended, that H'kon offers his glass as well. He takes the onus of nodding thanks upon himself, and allows Madilla to direct him. Now, passing others aren't acknowledged.

Quite calm, despite those actions immediate prior to her words, Madilla says, "I would prefer not to discuss the intricacies of High Reaches politics in the middle of a crowd." And, "What are you thinking?"

"Hm," says H'kon, a shade of agreement in it. "That I know too little of our goldriders," is quite to the point. "That we've had a foreign goldrider before." His fingertips press a bit harder against that glass in hand, flattening somewhat. "Have you spoken with her at all?" Farideh, he knows about, at least most recently.

Madilla shakes her head, gaze dropping towards her glass rather than her weyrmate, at least temporarily. "Not in any detail," she says. "Were I still Weyrhealer..." But she's not. She sucks in a breath, holds it, and then exhales. "She seems competent."

"Ambitious, also," says H'kon, too soon. Then, his teeth click as they set together. He reconsiders, "Perhaps that was misspoken. I'm uncertain how hypothetical her considerations were, when we spoke." When he was spoken to. "An inexperienced bronzerider, that would be a concern. Could be."

This time, Madilla does turn her gaze back towards H'kon, more thoughtful than as intensely worried as before, though her nod is nothing but uncertain. "Yes," she agrees. "Or a foreign one. I don't imagine anyone would be pleased to have an Igenite Weyrwoman and... another outsider as Weyrleader."

"No," comes, agreement again. "For that matter, should Roszadyth mature quickly enough... we are left with inexperience. And who has there been to guide her, as a weyrwoman?" H'kon raises his glass, more, it seems, to hide behind it than for a drink. "Drifting again."

Madilla sucks a breath in through her teeth, nodding. "It was difficult enough last time." Inexperienced weyrwomen; an endless cycle. "I would-- rather the Weyr maintain steady leadership. At least K'del has been a stable presence, since Irianke stepped up."

"Since before," says H'kon with a light lift of his eyebrows. As it's there, still, he'll tilt that wine to his lips. There's an element of absurdity in, "I prefer reds, generally."

Another nod: yes, since before. And then Madilla manages a smile. "Me, too. But I liked the look of those pastries, and they seemed intent on putting the white with them... if the goldriders are actively canvassing for new Weyrleader potentials, perhaps Alpine ought to be strong about reminding the Weyr of the ''present'' Weyrleader."

"Perhaps," agrees H'kon. "If the bronzerider at its helm can be so convinced." But it's said with a tick of something in his face; a notion put aside, for later. "Arekoth wants to chase," is added in, after that.

Madilla presses her lip against the rim of her glass, exhales, then draws it back again. "Of course he does," she says, the left corner of her mouth turning up.

It's a report that comes, seemingly, without any input from the brown, still otherwise occupied. H'kon smiles a little easier for a moment, and takes another sip of wine. There's a glance back to the crowd, to the other stations, thus far untested. Instead, fingers reach for Madilla's arm. "Are you content? In being away so much. Not Weyrhealer." Surely, it's related somehow.

Though tired, Madilla's smile is warm, at least. "On the whole," she says, simply. "I miss being Weyrhealer. I miss having that connection to ''people''. I miss being ''home''. But..." She gives her well-dressed shoulders a gentle shrug. "I'm also aware of how important my new work is. And it isn't as though I ''don't'' like it." It's just not the same.

"You'd not give it up?" H'kon probes, albeit gently. One finger taps at the glass in his hand, which lowers, toward his abdomen. "Or?"

Madilla's breath catches, slightly. It gets held a few moments, then released. "I don't know that they'd let me."

"The same concerns, then," murmurs the brownrider, "as ever." It's not satisfied, the look he puts on her, and there's some element of concern in it, as well. "I liked it," he admits, more on account of the comfort and trust between them than what little wine he's had thus far, "when it was more... rounded?"

Madilla's swallow is hard. She looks... sad? Regretful? Apologetic? Her teeth drop to rest upon her lower lip, biting in to it as she inhales through those teeth, then exhales again. "Now that Treinan has made Journeyman," she says, slowly. "I expect he'll be assigned to work with my project."

Oh no. It's not what he'd wanted. H'kon even raises a finger to brush towards her cheek. "Then it will be good for him to have your guidance," is a change of everything: posture, intonation, approach. He follows it with a nod. "And we will do our best to maintain stability and support at home. Whatever it is that should mean for us."

Her eyes close, as that finger brushes her cheek, but Madilla's not actually done. "Guidance," she agrees. "To begin with. But--" Those eyes open, focusing, intent, upon the brownrider. "In a few months, it could be that... he can do more of the travel. Especially if there were a situation in which." A pause. "It were more difficult for me to do it." Her brows may have raised, just ever so slightly.

H'kon's eyebrows are sympathetic eyebrows, this time around. They follow Madilla's, mirror them. A deep inhalation. A, "Hm," to buy him time, to study her. To shift his stance a bit, the glass in his hand all but forgotten. "I've not... not thought on it."

Madilla's cheeks are, by now, faintly pink. "I want to be home more," she says, quietly. "Before Dilan leaves," an inevitability, "And while Raija's still little." That it would allow her to be around more while all of this uncertainty goes on must go without saying; for the moment, the personal ''seems'' to have outweighed the political.

H'kon's voice has dropped to something even below a whisper. As if anyone else might be here for this conversation. As if he might fully realise the conversation they're having himself. "But more than that, Madilla..." It's almost a question. And one that shelves the political neatly, at least for the time being.

Wry, now, and ever so faintly embarrassed, Madilla drops her gaze... and her voice, too. "I'm not that far off thirty-six," she says. "I want another baby. I want... ''your'' baby. I don't even know if it's possible," she adds, more quickly now, "I know we've tried to avoid it, and... but everyone knows that's not a foolproof method. But I... I would ''like'' to try. If you're willing." The look on her face? It suggests she didn't even mean this to come up, perhaps ''ever''. But here it is.

And H'kon swallows hard, and for a moment channels his weyrling self, that same twitter of wings in his stomach and eager uncertainty before that first trip between with his dragon. But that face is tempered with more lines. He does his best to school the expression and feeling with a solemn nod. "I'm not certain it will be. You may be," oh, there's the weyrling again, "disappointed." Speaks the man whose brown flies regularly, catches often enough, the man who has been weyrmated for turns, and has no offspring whatsoever to show for any of it.

"And you?" Madilla's voice is not far off trembling. "Would ''you'' be disappointed?"

"I have considered for some time that, even if we were to come to this point, it may not be a possibility." H'kon's voice has found those slow and measured tones of his. And he speaks quietly, so quietly. But eyes have fallen somewhere in the vicinity of the very top of his wine glass. Yes.

Madilla, as adept as she is at reading H'kon, watches him, now. And nods, just once. "I want to try," she says, simply. "It won't be the end of the world, if it doesn't work out. Raija is still ''our'' daughter. But whether or not it... takes, I will work with Treinan, and reduce ''my'' travel accordingly. I want to be home." She's more sure, now, in tone and in stance. Her chin has lifted, her shoulders drawn themselves back.

"That would be... good," mouths H'kon. There's a little breath behind it. Tiny bit. But the shelf under those politics must have creaked, and he, too, straightens, and dips his head in acknowledgement of its contents. "There are many things that are better, when you're there." A cough almost sounds like an escaped laugh, nerves releasing. "We should have more wine."

"Good," is what Madilla says, in answer, likely answering more than what lays upon the surface of their conversation; all that is unsaid. "I will... reach out to the acting weyrwoman. And to Farideh, again. And--" But he's right: wine. This conversation has become too heavy, and her smile is a little too tentative as a result. "We should. It would be a waste, not to make the most of this." She offers, now, her arm.

"Good," says H'kon, of Irianke. "''Good,''" more emphatic, for Farideh. H'kon holds out his arm for hers, nods, and straightens his back, daring to step into his dragon's territory of bravado with a Sidelong smiles to his weyrmate. "And of the empty weyr, when we've finished here." More presently: "Red again?"

Madilla's blush confirms the implications of that empty weyr, her smile rather brighter, now. "Red," she agrees. "And something cheesy to go with it." Her eyes linger upon her weyrmate for a few moments before she tugs him after her; the wine awaits. So does the cheese.
}}

Logs:Date Night

2015-07-30T04:11:35Z

H'kon:

{{Log
|who=H'kon, Madilla
|what=H'kon and Madilla are somehow invited to a fancy journeyman project wine tasting. They get all pretty, and talk about very important things.
|where=Vintner Hall
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Vintner Hall, Igen Weyr
|day=23
|month=5
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.07.29
|mentions=Azaylia, Dilan, Farideh, Irianke, Keysi, Lilabet, Raija
|type=Log
|ooc=H'kon's icon, of course, is just how he's feeling on the inside.
|icons-new=Icon madilla smile.jpeg, Icon h'kon lookfeelings.jpg,
|log=''Vintner Hall 
''In an area situated a short runner ride from Benden Hold is a chateau-style building with sprawling acres of grape trees and vines. While this is the main building, there are many vintner sub-fields and buildings situated throughout the area. 
''The main hall is made up of separate wings for the masters, journeymen, and apprentices on the second and third floors. Several lecture halls and workrooms make up the first floor, while a large tasting room claims the entryway to the Hall.''

The tasting room has been set up with a simple elegance: different wines at different tables, complete with appropriate pairings of food (just small amounts, mind), and candles, for ambiance. There's a sitting area also, tables and chairs and centerpieces done up in Vintner colours. Apprentices are on hand to pour, to supervise, to make sure nothing runs too low. The nervous young man trying to pull this whole thing off circulates freely, but with a careful regularity, amongst his guests, aware also of the masters and journeymen watching. It's warm. There's wine. And so far, it's going pretty well, too.

H'kon is pretty for the occasion, showing a fresh shave, and a pressed shirt in High Reaches' blue that suits him. His shoulder bears his knot. His arm bears Madilla. Tonight, it's just for them, Raija being seen to at the Weyr, and no drills or sudden departures hanging over their heads in the morning. No wonder that the brownrider is at attention, as careful as that poor vintner in his manners and graces. But at least the smiles come more easily, for Madilla. Smiles like this one. "They've put some effort into this."

It's not often that there's an opportunity to get away like this: to get dressed up, to have an evening out, to... do something ''different''. Madilla's clearly pleased by it, although there's also a sense of discomfort, too, being amidst well-dressed people at what is really a fancy event. Still, she turns her head towards H'kon and smiles, squeezing his arm gently. "They have, haven't they? It's lovely. I should see if Tayte is about..." but that would interrupt the ''date'' part of date night, and no; that's not going to happen. "Next time, perhaps."

That preservation of their time is pleasing; it's there, at the corners of his eyes, and in the slight shift in his arm and shoulder, to bring her in that little bit closer - even if it's more a state of mind than of physical space. Another passing pair earn a nod, as he directs them towards one of those little tables. "Red?" is checked in only once the route is clear, a quick glance sent to the healer.

"Red," confirms Madilla, with another squeeze to H'kon's arm. There will be ''no'' interruptions tonight (unless via Arekoth, and that's pretty much impossible to avoid). "We'll have to compare it to Tillek wine and-- there are fancy ways to taste wine, but I'm afraid I never especially learned them." This doesn't seem to bother the healer. At all. "I'm so glad we could get away."

If that Benden wingleader's green can keep him busy, there's a thin possibility of no interruptions, period. Well, until the ride home. "There ''is'' no comparison to Tillek wine," says H'kon, leaning in and up a bit, voice low but proud. "I'm quite certain I learned that as a boy." Another smile, and then, they're at the table, with just one Vintner master in front of them for the pouring. H'kon keeps a respectful distance, of course. "A rarity," is far more emotive than it might seem, and indeed, not even dissatisfied. Rare, for him to be in the moment, but it is known to happen.

Madilla's attention focuses on H'kon rather more than on the Vintner, though she glances back and smiles at an appropriate moment all the same. "I'm just glad to not be flying around the globe attending to healer business for once," she says, with a half-sigh that isn't ''really'' dissatisfied. "But at least I've been able to see more of Lilabet than I might otherwise, even if it ''is'' just to hear her gab on and on about that drummer boy she's interested in."

H'kon has never rightly filled a 'father' role with Lilabet, and still, mention of a ''boy'' and ''interest'' will consistently make him frown. "Kairek had mentioned something of that." The brothers have been talking more, of late. "Not some joke of his, then." Arekoth's as good as any shotgun, really. But then the master goes on her way, and they're next. H'kon lets his arm relax its formal posture, and quiets, for a talk about the wine, about the notes to pay attention to, about the very special cheese.

"Sadly not," says Madilla, with an expression that-- well. Lilabet is her little girl, and as easy-going a parent as she is... "Lilabet assures me he's going far, but his ''hair'' and-- they seem to have a very interesting idea of music." Which is all she'll say on the subject, really, except for the press of her lips together, and then, yes, the wine. And the cheese. Very important. "I'm not sure about mouldy cheese," she admits, beneath her breath.

Despite having relaxed his arm, H'kon is the more formal, the more on parade, for this talk about cheese. Well, the talk from the apprentice. Madilla's comment brings a look around to her, and something delighted in his eyes for the impropriety of it. The look is short, before he's back to accepting the wine, and yes, the cheese. The wine is nosed first. A taste is taken. And he waits for Madilla's cue, cheese in hand, and partly raised, as if in a toast to her.

Madilla can, at least, follow directions; she's quite good at that. And so she gives her own wine a sniff, then a taste, letting it linger upon her tongue for long seconds before swallowing. Then, of course, there's the cheese, and her own is raised in a similar way to H'kon's; a toast to them both. She eats... and while her expression suggests she's not ''wholly'' sure, she's at least giving it a good, game try, just the way she would with convincing Raija to try something new.

Raija's resolve is so much firmer. But then, she wouldn't get to have the cheese. H'kon? He likes it. Eyebrows lift. More of his wine. More of his cheese. And a very polite, "Thank you," to the apprentice, whose title he just barely manages to not add to the address. "That was strange," to Madilla. But good, says the tone, say everything, even the tip of his tongue that traces his lips.

"Yes," agrees Madilla. "Thank you." And yes, too, to H'kon, her expression saying more than her words do, though it's only with the faintest lift of eyebrows, and then, that bright, warm smile. "It was," she adds, only belatedly. "But-- perhaps I can see why people eat such things, now, even if it wouldn't suit me on a ''regular'' basis." She takes, now, another sip of her wine, this one more focused on the ''drinking'' than the tasting.

"Perhaps," suggests H'kon, "it's something to do with the dress." The delivery is deadpan, and he turns back to examine the remnants in his glass, before raising them to finish. Thank Faranth this isn't one of those where you have to spit the wine back out.

Mouth quirking in restrained but still obvious amusement, Madilla gives H'kon a ''look'', but not a long one. Her own glass finished, she nudges the brownrider at her side and adds, "I wonder if Lord and Lady Benden are here. Or their heir, perhaps..." She breaks off. Gossip isn't really her strong point, but perhaps it's just that it feels wrong to be ''here'' and not talking about ''something'' inane.

H'kon deploys that arm for Madilla again, and might even be seen to raise his chin up a little as some well-dressed holder (but not ''the'' holder) passes and looks. "I'd imagine at least they'd have been invited, as a courtesy." He goes so far as to glance to those nearby.

"Yes, I'm sure," agrees Madilla, her mouth twisting again, this time in a way to suggest that perhaps she's not wholly comfortable with moving in even remotely the same circles, no matter how well the pair of them scrub up. She accepts that arm, holding on to it as much, perhaps, for comfort as for anything else, as her eyes scan the room, lingering only briefly upon the exit, and then focusing, instead, upon the wine and food on offer. "How is the wing going? Are there any promising riders within the weyrlings you might be interested in taking on, do you think?"

"We've been watching them," says H'kon, of the weyrlings. "There are a few. A bronzerider, one of the Igen candidates. A green who might fit, also. Primarily. I'm not certain if it Alpine would benefit Keysi or hinder her." He follows her gaze, offering a parenthetical sort of, "Whichever you'd like, next." After another couple has passed: "There was a strange moment, with Farideh, some time back now, while the dragons were hunting."

Madilla's repetition of, "Igen," is thoughtful, and so is her expression in response to that mention of Keysi, but she's already leading the way towards a server who has cheese and sausage in pastry, and a white wine to match. "Strange?" she adds, then, waiting for their wine to be poured. "Strange how? She's--" She's already mentioned her conversation with Farideh, of course. She worries. Of course she worries.

H'kon is focused on this whole Weyr business, primarily, but that doesn't mean the pastry things aren't given a good look, too. Nods of thanks to the one doling out wine and food, each, arm once again loose, ready to be used for holding stuff. "She seemed all right," is for Madilla only, and a reassurance, earnest. "Exhausted, but... she is a weyrling goldrider." He'd tried to explain some of it, hadn't he, as much as a brownrider could? "She asked me about a brown in leadership. The second goldrider to do so, recently." He seems to have forgotten there's wine in his hand.

Teeth dropping to rest, hard, upon her lip, Madilla seems to largely forget her own food and drink for long moments as she considers H'kon. At length, her nose wrinkles. "I'm glad she's doing better," is what she says, with a slow nod. "I ''do'' understand, just... even Azaylia didn't seem quite so exhausted as a weyrling, but I suppose there were two of them, then." As these things go. Carefully, then, "Do you think they're... plotting?" Beat. "You won't chase, regardless." Not really a question.

"I've little idea what they're after." He's taken a step or two away from the apprentice with the pastry bits, and not purely to clear the way as would be polite. His thoughts on the food, if he ever remembers it, will either not be shared, or have to be brought back. "I'm not even certain it's ''us'' they have in mind at all." And then, a shake of his head. "No. Not for leadership. And even for the other - if there were a gold egg on the sands, before the next one were to rise... then perhaps."

Madilla eats now, and even drinks, too, but... it's a side issue, inconsequential in the face of this more serious conversation that has pressed her expression so tight. "Perhaps it's simply a... way of showing power. To ''imply'' that they have control in this, that it won't be up to chance. If they convince enough people, it could sway a flight." Perhaps; Madilla seems less than sure on that. "Given... everything, it seems it would be preferable to have three queens, and that relies on Irianke staying forever."

"You're speaking hypothetically, rather than specifically," H'kon... hopes? The wine is raised first, almost to his lips when he thinks to stop, to sniff at it, to stare at it too, for whatever good might come of it. The pastry follows with a flat, "Hm," as he chews. "My thoughts exactly. I'm not certain how long it is she means to stay. I've a mind to speak with K'del, if he'll answer my questions. Arekoth has been a father once now. There are more important matters than that." Which is, in itself, thoughtful. He waits on Madilla, watching for her response(s), and eats more.

Madilla's low, serious nod confirms the hypothetical nature of her thoughts, though there's a hesitation to it, as if she's not wholly sure. Not to mention, "I hope so. I wouldn't presume to speak of their actual intentions." She swirls the wine in her glass, sips, and then adds, "I should think he'd be willing to say ''something''. He's... vulnerable." But those green eyes are studying H'kon and then she says, "Which?" The important matters.

"We speak well enough. Most times," says H'kon of his weyrleader. There's something not troubled, but ''close'', in his face. And then he shakes his head, and raises his glass again. This time, the sip is given proper focus. Initially. His eyes do track to Madilla toward the end of the experience. "All those future considerations. It's more than just us. Has always been." He's watching her still, when he lifts the glass for the last. That pastry is long gone.

On an exhaled breath, "Yes," agrees Madilla. If there's more to say on it, perhaps her expression, so serious and intense, goes some way to express it all. Her own wine is turned in her hand, stem caught between two fingers.

H'kon remains almost perfectly still, even his fingertips. What motion there is is subtle: a slight lift of his chest, a pull at the corners of his eyes that dares to shift his expression into something... else.

Madilla makes no effort to hide the troubled nature of her thoughts, sucking a breath in through her teeth before she turns to the apprentice and extends her glass for a refill, gesturing, this time, to suggest she'd like more than simply the taster. It's once that has been achieved that she reaches to draw H'kon after her, and away from the crowds to a quieter corner. She's silent.

It's because the apprentice looks to H'kon, once Madilla's glass has been filled, because the bottle is extended, that H'kon offers his glass as well. He takes the onus of nodding thanks upon himself, and allows Madilla to direct him. Now, passing others aren't acknowledged.

Quite calm, despite those actions immediate prior to her words, Madilla says, "I would prefer not to discuss the intricacies of High Reaches politics in the middle of a crowd." And, "What are you thinking?"

"Hm," says H'kon, a shade of agreement in it. "That I know too little of our goldriders," is quite to the point. "That we've had a foreign goldrider before." His fingertips press a bit harder against that glass in hand, flattening somewhat. "Have you spoken with her at all?" Farideh, he knows about, at least most recently.

Madilla shakes her head, gaze dropping towards her glass rather than her weyrmate, at least temporarily. "Not in any detail," she says. "Were I still Weyrhealer..." But she's not. She sucks in a breath, holds it, and then exhales. "She seems competent."

"Ambitious, also," says H'kon, too soon. Then, his teeth click as they set together. He reconsiders, "Perhaps that was misspoken. I'm uncertain how hypothetical her considerations were, when we spoke." When he was spoken to. "An inexperienced bronzerider, that would be a concern. Could be."

This time, Madilla does turn her gaze back towards H'kon, more thoughtful than as intensely worried as before, though her nod is nothing but uncertain. "Yes," she agrees. "Or a foreign one. I don't imagine anyone would be pleased to have an Igenite Weyrwoman and... another outsider as Weyrleader."

"No," comes, agreement again. "For that matter, should Roszadyth mature quickly enough... we are left with inexperience. And who has there been to guide her, as a weyrwoman?" H'kon raises his glass, more, it seems, to hide behind it than for a drink. "Drifting again."

Madilla sucks a breath in through her teeth, nodding. "It was difficult enough last time." Inexperienced weyrwomen; an endless cycle. "I would-- rather the Weyr maintain steady leadership. At least K'del has been a stable presence, since Irianke stepped up."

"Since before," says H'kon with a light lift of his eyebrows. As it's there, still, he'll tilt that wine to his lips. There's an element of absurdity in, "I prefer reds, generally."

Another nod: yes, since before. And then Madilla manages a smile. "Me, too. But I liked the look of those pastries, and they seemed intent on putting the white with them... if the goldriders are actively canvassing for new Weyrleader potentials, perhaps Alpine ought to be strong about reminding the Weyr of the ''present'' Weyrleader."

"Perhaps," agrees H'kon. "If the bronzerider at its helm can be so convinced." But it's said with a tick of something in his face; a notion put aside, for later. "Arekoth wants to chase," is added in, after that.

Madilla presses her lip against the rim of her glass, exhales, then draws it back again. "Of course he does," she says, the left corner of her mouth turning up.

It's a report that comes, seemingly, without any input from the brown, still otherwise occupied. H'kon smiles a little easier for a moment, and takes another sip of wine. There's a glance back to the crowd, to the other stations, thus far untested. Instead, fingers reach for Madilla's arm. "Are you content? In being away so much. Not Weyrhealer." Surely, it's related somehow.

Though tired, Madilla's smile is warm, at least. "On the whole," she says, simply. "I miss being Weyrhealer. I miss having that connection to ''people''. I miss being ''home''. But..." She gives her well-dressed shoulders a gentle shrug. "I'm also aware of how important my new work is. And it isn't as though I ''don't'' like it." It's just not the same.

"You'd not give it up?" H'kon probes, albeit gently. One finger taps at the glass in his hand, which lowers, toward his abdomen. "Or?"

Madilla's breath catches, slightly. It gets held a few moments, then released. "I don't know that they'd let me."

"The same concerns, then," murmurs the brownrider, "as ever." It's not satisfied, the look he puts on her, and there's some element of concern in it, as well. "I liked it," he admits, more on account of the comfort and trust between them than what little wine he's had thus far, "when it was more... rounded?"

Madilla's swallow is hard. She looks... sad? Regretful? Apologetic? Her teeth drop to rest upon her lower lip, biting in to it as she inhales through those teeth, then exhales again. "Now that Treinan has made Journeyman," she says, slowly. "I expect he'll be assigned to work with my project."

Oh no. It's not what he'd wanted. H'kon even raises a finger to brush towards her cheek. "Then it will be good for him to have your guidance," is a change of everything: posture, intonation, approach. He follows it with a nod. "And we will do our best to maintain stability and support at home. Whatever it is that should mean for us."

Her eyes close, as that finger brushes her cheek, but Madilla's not actually done. "Guidance," she agrees. "To begin with. But--" Those eyes open, focusing, intent, upon the brownrider. "In a few months, it could be that... he can do more of the travel. Especially if there were a situation in which." A pause. "It were more difficult for me to do it." Her brows may have raised, just ever so slightly.

H'kon's eyebrows are sympathetic eyebrows, this time around. They follow Madilla's, mirror them. A deep inhalation. A, "Hm," to buy him time, to study her. To shift his stance a bit, the glass in his hand all but forgotten. "I've not... not thought on it."

Madilla's cheeks are, by now, faintly pink. "I want to be home more," she says, quietly. "Before Dilan leaves," an inevitability, "And while Raija's still little." That it would allow her to be around more while all of this uncertainty goes on must go without saying; for the moment, the personal ''seems'' to have outweighed the political.

H'kon's voice has dropped to something even below a whisper. As if anyone else might be here for this conversation. As if he might fully realise the conversation they're having himself. "But more than that, Madilla..." It's almost a question. And one that shelves the political neatly, at least for the time being.

Wry, now, and ever so faintly embarrassed, Madilla drops her gaze... and her voice, too. "I'm not that far off thirty-six," she says. "I want another baby. I want... ''your'' baby. I don't even know if it's possible," she adds, more quickly now, "I know we've tried to avoid it, and... but everyone knows that's not a foolproof method. But I... I would ''like'' to try. If you're willing." The look on her face? It suggests she didn't even mean this to come up, perhaps ''ever''. But here it is.

And H'kon swallows hard, and for a moment channels his weyrling self, that same twitter of wings in his stomach and eager uncertainty before that first trip between with his dragon. But that face is tempered with more lines. He does his best to school the expression and feeling with a solemn nod. "I'm not certain it will be. You may be," oh, there's the weyrling again, "disappointed." Speaks the man whose brown flies regularly, catches often enough, the man who has been weyrmated for turns, and has no offspring whatsoever to show for any of it.

"And you?" Madilla's voice is not far off trembling. "Would ''you'' be disappointed?"

"I have considered for some time that, even if we were to come to this point, it may not be a possibility." H'kon's voice has found those slow and measured tones of his. And he speaks quietly, so quietly. But eyes have fallen somewhere in the vicinity of the very top of his wine glass. Yes.

Madilla, as adept as she is at reading H'kon, watches him, now. And nods, just once. "I want to try," she says, simply. "It won't be the end of the world, if it doesn't work out. Raija is still ''our'' daughter. But whether or not it... takes, I will work with Treinan, and reduce ''my'' travel accordingly. I want to be home." She's more sure, now, in tone and in stance. Her chin has lifted, her shoulders drawn themselves back.

"That would be... good," mouths H'kon. There's a little breath behind it. Tiny bit. But the shelf under those politics must have creaked, and he, too, straightens, and dips his head in acknowledgement of its contents. "There are many things that are better, when you're there." A cough almost sounds like an escaped laugh, nerves releasing. "We should have more wine."

"Good," is what Madilla says, in answer, likely answering more than what lays upon the surface of their conversation; all that is unsaid. "I will... reach out to the acting weyrwoman. And to Farideh, again. And--" But he's right: wine. This conversation has become too heavy, and her smile is a little too tentative as a result. "We should. It would be a waste, not to make the most of this." She offers, now, her arm.

"Good," says H'kon, of Irianke. "''Good,''" more emphatic, for Farideh. H'kon holds out his arm for hers, nods, and straightens his back, daring to step into his dragon's territory of bravado with a Sidelong smiles to his weyrmate. "And of the empty weyr, when we've finished here." More presently: "Red again?"

Madilla's blush confirms the implications of that empty weyr, her smile rather brighter, now. "Red," she agrees. "And something cheesy to go with it." Her eyes linger upon her weyrmate for a few moments before she tugs him after her; the wine awaits. So does the cheese.
}}

Logs:Date Night

2015-07-30T04:11:10Z

H'kon: Created page with "{{Log |who=H'kon, Madilla |what=H'kon and Madilla are somehow invited to a fancy journeyman project wine tasting. They get all pretty, and talk about very important things. |w..."

{{Log
|who=H'kon, Madilla
|what=H'kon and Madilla are somehow invited to a fancy journeyman project wine tasting. They get all pretty, and talk about very important things.
|where=Vintner Hall
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Vintner Hall, Igen Weyr
|day=23
|month=5
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.07.29
|mentions=Dilan, Farideh, Irianke, Keysi, Lilabet, Raija
|type=Log
|ooc=H'kon's icon, of course, is just how he's feeling on the inside.
|icons-new=Icon madilla smile.jpeg, Icon h'kon lookfeelings.jpg,
|log=''Vintner Hall 
''In an area situated a short runner ride from Benden Hold is a chateau-style building with sprawling acres of grape trees and vines. While this is the main building, there are many vintner sub-fields and buildings situated throughout the area. 
''The main hall is made up of separate wings for the masters, journeymen, and apprentices on the second and third floors. Several lecture halls and workrooms make up the first floor, while a large tasting room claims the entryway to the Hall.''

The tasting room has been set up with a simple elegance: different wines at different tables, complete with appropriate pairings of food (just small amounts, mind), and candles, for ambiance. There's a sitting area also, tables and chairs and centerpieces done up in Vintner colours. Apprentices are on hand to pour, to supervise, to make sure nothing runs too low. The nervous young man trying to pull this whole thing off circulates freely, but with a careful regularity, amongst his guests, aware also of the masters and journeymen watching. It's warm. There's wine. And so far, it's going pretty well, too.

H'kon is pretty for the occasion, showing a fresh shave, and a pressed shirt in High Reaches' blue that suits him. His shoulder bears his knot. His arm bears Madilla. Tonight, it's just for them, Raija being seen to at the Weyr, and no drills or sudden departures hanging over their heads in the morning. No wonder that the brownrider is at attention, as careful as that poor vintner in his manners and graces. But at least the smiles come more easily, for Madilla. Smiles like this one. "They've put some effort into this."

It's not often that there's an opportunity to get away like this: to get dressed up, to have an evening out, to... do something ''different''. Madilla's clearly pleased by it, although there's also a sense of discomfort, too, being amidst well-dressed people at what is really a fancy event. Still, she turns her head towards H'kon and smiles, squeezing his arm gently. "They have, haven't they? It's lovely. I should see if Tayte is about..." but that would interrupt the ''date'' part of date night, and no; that's not going to happen. "Next time, perhaps."

That preservation of their time is pleasing; it's there, at the corners of his eyes, and in the slight shift in his arm and shoulder, to bring her in that little bit closer - even if it's more a state of mind than of physical space. Another passing pair earn a nod, as he directs them towards one of those little tables. "Red?" is checked in only once the route is clear, a quick glance sent to the healer.

"Red," confirms Madilla, with another squeeze to H'kon's arm. There will be ''no'' interruptions tonight (unless via Arekoth, and that's pretty much impossible to avoid). "We'll have to compare it to Tillek wine and-- there are fancy ways to taste wine, but I'm afraid I never especially learned them." This doesn't seem to bother the healer. At all. "I'm so glad we could get away."

If that Benden wingleader's green can keep him busy, there's a thin possibility of no interruptions, period. Well, until the ride home. "There ''is'' no comparison to Tillek wine," says H'kon, leaning in and up a bit, voice low but proud. "I'm quite certain I learned that as a boy." Another smile, and then, they're at the table, with just one Vintner master in front of them for the pouring. H'kon keeps a respectful distance, of course. "A rarity," is far more emotive than it might seem, and indeed, not even dissatisfied. Rare, for him to be in the moment, but it is known to happen.

Madilla's attention focuses on H'kon rather more than on the Vintner, though she glances back and smiles at an appropriate moment all the same. "I'm just glad to not be flying around the globe attending to healer business for once," she says, with a half-sigh that isn't ''really'' dissatisfied. "But at least I've been able to see more of Lilabet than I might otherwise, even if it ''is'' just to hear her gab on and on about that drummer boy she's interested in."

H'kon has never rightly filled a 'father' role with Lilabet, and still, mention of a ''boy'' and ''interest'' will consistently make him frown. "Kairek had mentioned something of that." The brothers have been talking more, of late. "Not some joke of his, then." Arekoth's as good as any shotgun, really. But then the master goes on her way, and they're next. H'kon lets his arm relax its formal posture, and quiets, for a talk about the wine, about the notes to pay attention to, about the very special cheese.

"Sadly not," says Madilla, with an expression that-- well. Lilabet is her little girl, and as easy-going a parent as she is... "Lilabet assures me he's going far, but his ''hair'' and-- they seem to have a very interesting idea of music." Which is all she'll say on the subject, really, except for the press of her lips together, and then, yes, the wine. And the cheese. Very important. "I'm not sure about mouldy cheese," she admits, beneath her breath.

Despite having relaxed his arm, H'kon is the more formal, the more on parade, for this talk about cheese. Well, the talk from the apprentice. Madilla's comment brings a look around to her, and something delighted in his eyes for the impropriety of it. The look is short, before he's back to accepting the wine, and yes, the cheese. The wine is nosed first. A taste is taken. And he waits for Madilla's cue, cheese in hand, and partly raised, as if in a toast to her.

Madilla can, at least, follow directions; she's quite good at that. And so she gives her own wine a sniff, then a taste, letting it linger upon her tongue for long seconds before swallowing. Then, of course, there's the cheese, and her own is raised in a similar way to H'kon's; a toast to them both. She eats... and while her expression suggests she's not ''wholly'' sure, she's at least giving it a good, game try, just the way she would with convincing Raija to try something new.

Raija's resolve is so much firmer. But then, she wouldn't get to have the cheese. H'kon? He likes it. Eyebrows lift. More of his wine. More of his cheese. And a very polite, "Thank you," to the apprentice, whose title he just barely manages to not add to the address. "That was strange," to Madilla. But good, says the tone, say everything, even the tip of his tongue that traces his lips.

"Yes," agrees Madilla. "Thank you." And yes, too, to H'kon, her expression saying more than her words do, though it's only with the faintest lift of eyebrows, and then, that bright, warm smile. "It was," she adds, only belatedly. "But-- perhaps I can see why people eat such things, now, even if it wouldn't suit me on a ''regular'' basis." She takes, now, another sip of her wine, this one more focused on the ''drinking'' than the tasting.

"Perhaps," suggests H'kon, "it's something to do with the dress." The delivery is deadpan, and he turns back to examine the remnants in his glass, before raising them to finish. Thank Faranth this isn't one of those where you have to spit the wine back out.

Mouth quirking in restrained but still obvious amusement, Madilla gives H'kon a ''look'', but not a long one. Her own glass finished, she nudges the brownrider at her side and adds, "I wonder if Lord and Lady Benden are here. Or their heir, perhaps..." She breaks off. Gossip isn't really her strong point, but perhaps it's just that it feels wrong to be ''here'' and not talking about ''something'' inane.

H'kon deploys that arm for Madilla again, and might even be seen to raise his chin up a little as some well-dressed holder (but not ''the'' holder) passes and looks. "I'd imagine at least they'd have been invited, as a courtesy." He goes so far as to glance to those nearby.

"Yes, I'm sure," agrees Madilla, her mouth twisting again, this time in a way to suggest that perhaps she's not wholly comfortable with moving in even remotely the same circles, no matter how well the pair of them scrub up. She accepts that arm, holding on to it as much, perhaps, for comfort as for anything else, as her eyes scan the room, lingering only briefly upon the exit, and then focusing, instead, upon the wine and food on offer. "How is the wing going? Are there any promising riders within the weyrlings you might be interested in taking on, do you think?"

"We've been watching them," says H'kon, of the weyrlings. "There are a few. A bronzerider, one of the Igen candidates. A green who might fit, also. Primarily. I'm not certain if it Alpine would benefit Keysi or hinder her." He follows her gaze, offering a parenthetical sort of, "Whichever you'd like, next." After another couple has passed: "There was a strange moment, with Farideh, some time back now, while the dragons were hunting."

Madilla's repetition of, "Igen," is thoughtful, and so is her expression in response to that mention of Keysi, but she's already leading the way towards a server who has cheese and sausage in pastry, and a white wine to match. "Strange?" she adds, then, waiting for their wine to be poured. "Strange how? She's--" She's already mentioned her conversation with Farideh, of course. She worries. Of course she worries.

H'kon is focused on this whole Weyr business, primarily, but that doesn't mean the pastry things aren't given a good look, too. Nods of thanks to the one doling out wine and food, each, arm once again loose, ready to be used for holding stuff. "She seemed all right," is for Madilla only, and a reassurance, earnest. "Exhausted, but... she is a weyrling goldrider." He'd tried to explain some of it, hadn't he, as much as a brownrider could? "She asked me about a brown in leadership. The second goldrider to do so, recently." He seems to have forgotten there's wine in his hand.

Teeth dropping to rest, hard, upon her lip, Madilla seems to largely forget her own food and drink for long moments as she considers H'kon. At length, her nose wrinkles. "I'm glad she's doing better," is what she says, with a slow nod. "I ''do'' understand, just... even Azaylia didn't seem quite so exhausted as a weyrling, but I suppose there were two of them, then." As these things go. Carefully, then, "Do you think they're... plotting?" Beat. "You won't chase, regardless." Not really a question.

"I've little idea what they're after." He's taken a step or two away from the apprentice with the pastry bits, and not purely to clear the way as would be polite. His thoughts on the food, if he ever remembers it, will either not be shared, or have to be brought back. "I'm not even certain it's ''us'' they have in mind at all." And then, a shake of his head. "No. Not for leadership. And even for the other - if there were a gold egg on the sands, before the next one were to rise... then perhaps."

Madilla eats now, and even drinks, too, but... it's a side issue, inconsequential in the face of this more serious conversation that has pressed her expression so tight. "Perhaps it's simply a... way of showing power. To ''imply'' that they have control in this, that it won't be up to chance. If they convince enough people, it could sway a flight." Perhaps; Madilla seems less than sure on that. "Given... everything, it seems it would be preferable to have three queens, and that relies on Irianke staying forever."

"You're speaking hypothetically, rather than specifically," H'kon... hopes? The wine is raised first, almost to his lips when he thinks to stop, to sniff at it, to stare at it too, for whatever good might come of it. The pastry follows with a flat, "Hm," as he chews. "My thoughts exactly. I'm not certain how long it is she means to stay. I've a mind to speak with K'del, if he'll answer my questions. Arekoth has been a father once now. There are more important matters than that." Which is, in itself, thoughtful. He waits on Madilla, watching for her response(s), and eats more.

Madilla's low, serious nod confirms the hypothetical nature of her thoughts, though there's a hesitation to it, as if she's not wholly sure. Not to mention, "I hope so. I wouldn't presume to speak of their actual intentions." She swirls the wine in her glass, sips, and then adds, "I should think he'd be willing to say ''something''. He's... vulnerable." But those green eyes are studying H'kon and then she says, "Which?" The important matters.

"We speak well enough. Most times," says H'kon of his weyrleader. There's something not troubled, but ''close'', in his face. And then he shakes his head, and raises his glass again. This time, the sip is given proper focus. Initially. His eyes do track to Madilla toward the end of the experience. "All those future considerations. It's more than just us. Has always been." He's watching her still, when he lifts the glass for the last. That pastry is long gone.

On an exhaled breath, "Yes," agrees Madilla. If there's more to say on it, perhaps her expression, so serious and intense, goes some way to express it all. Her own wine is turned in her hand, stem caught between two fingers.

H'kon remains almost perfectly still, even his fingertips. What motion there is is subtle: a slight lift of his chest, a pull at the corners of his eyes that dares to shift his expression into something... else.

Madilla makes no effort to hide the troubled nature of her thoughts, sucking a breath in through her teeth before she turns to the apprentice and extends her glass for a refill, gesturing, this time, to suggest she'd like more than simply the taster. It's once that has been achieved that she reaches to draw H'kon after her, and away from the crowds to a quieter corner. She's silent.

It's because the apprentice looks to H'kon, once Madilla's glass has been filled, because the bottle is extended, that H'kon offers his glass as well. He takes the onus of nodding thanks upon himself, and allows Madilla to direct him. Now, passing others aren't acknowledged.

Quite calm, despite those actions immediate prior to her words, Madilla says, "I would prefer not to discuss the intricacies of High Reaches politics in the middle of a crowd." And, "What are you thinking?"

"Hm," says H'kon, a shade of agreement in it. "That I know too little of our goldriders," is quite to the point. "That we've had a foreign goldrider before." His fingertips press a bit harder against that glass in hand, flattening somewhat. "Have you spoken with her at all?" Farideh, he knows about, at least most recently.

Madilla shakes her head, gaze dropping towards her glass rather than her weyrmate, at least temporarily. "Not in any detail," she says. "Were I still Weyrhealer..." But she's not. She sucks in a breath, holds it, and then exhales. "She seems competent."

"Ambitious, also," says H'kon, too soon. Then, his teeth click as they set together. He reconsiders, "Perhaps that was misspoken. I'm uncertain how hypothetical her considerations were, when we spoke." When he was spoken to. "An inexperienced bronzerider, that would be a concern. Could be."

This time, Madilla does turn her gaze back towards H'kon, more thoughtful than as intensely worried as before, though her nod is nothing but uncertain. "Yes," she agrees. "Or a foreign one. I don't imagine anyone would be pleased to have an Igenite Weyrwoman and... another outsider as Weyrleader."

"No," comes, agreement again. "For that matter, should Roszadyth mature quickly enough... we are left with inexperience. And who has there been to guide her, as a weyrwoman?" H'kon raises his glass, more, it seems, to hide behind it than for a drink. "Drifting again."

Madilla sucks a breath in through her teeth, nodding. "It was difficult enough last time." Inexperienced weyrwomen; an endless cycle. "I would-- rather the Weyr maintain steady leadership. At least K'del has been a stable presence, since Irianke stepped up."

"Since before," says H'kon with a light lift of his eyebrows. As it's there, still, he'll tilt that wine to his lips. There's an element of absurdity in, "I prefer reds, generally."

Another nod: yes, since before. And then Madilla manages a smile. "Me, too. But I liked the look of those pastries, and they seemed intent on putting the white with them... if the goldriders are actively canvassing for new Weyrleader potentials, perhaps Alpine ought to be strong about reminding the Weyr of the ''present'' Weyrleader."

"Perhaps," agrees H'kon. "If the bronzerider at its helm can be so convinced." But it's said with a tick of something in his face; a notion put aside, for later. "Arekoth wants to chase," is added in, after that.

Madilla presses her lip against the rim of her glass, exhales, then draws it back again. "Of course he does," she says, the left corner of her mouth turning up.

It's a report that comes, seemingly, without any input from the brown, still otherwise occupied. H'kon smiles a little easier for a moment, and takes another sip of wine. There's a glance back to the crowd, to the other stations, thus far untested. Instead, fingers reach for Madilla's arm. "Are you content? In being away so much. Not Weyrhealer." Surely, it's related somehow.

Though tired, Madilla's smile is warm, at least. "On the whole," she says, simply. "I miss being Weyrhealer. I miss having that connection to ''people''. I miss being ''home''. But..." She gives her well-dressed shoulders a gentle shrug. "I'm also aware of how important my new work is. And it isn't as though I ''don't'' like it." It's just not the same.

"You'd not give it up?" H'kon probes, albeit gently. One finger taps at the glass in his hand, which lowers, toward his abdomen. "Or?"

Madilla's breath catches, slightly. It gets held a few moments, then released. "I don't know that they'd let me."

"The same concerns, then," murmurs the brownrider, "as ever." It's not satisfied, the look he puts on her, and there's some element of concern in it, as well. "I liked it," he admits, more on account of the comfort and trust between them than what little wine he's had thus far, "when it was more... rounded?"

Madilla's swallow is hard. She looks... sad? Regretful? Apologetic? Her teeth drop to rest upon her lower lip, biting in to it as she inhales through those teeth, then exhales again. "Now that Treinan has made Journeyman," she says, slowly. "I expect he'll be assigned to work with my project."

Oh no. It's not what he'd wanted. H'kon even raises a finger to brush towards her cheek. "Then it will be good for him to have your guidance," is a change of everything: posture, intonation, approach. He follows it with a nod. "And we will do our best to maintain stability and support at home. Whatever it is that should mean for us."

Her eyes close, as that finger brushes her cheek, but Madilla's not actually done. "Guidance," she agrees. "To begin with. But--" Those eyes open, focusing, intent, upon the brownrider. "In a few months, it could be that... he can do more of the travel. Especially if there were a situation in which." A pause. "It were more difficult for me to do it." Her brows may have raised, just ever so slightly.

H'kon's eyebrows are sympathetic eyebrows, this time around. They follow Madilla's, mirror them. A deep inhalation. A, "Hm," to buy him time, to study her. To shift his stance a bit, the glass in his hand all but forgotten. "I've not... not thought on it."

Madilla's cheeks are, by now, faintly pink. "I want to be home more," she says, quietly. "Before Dilan leaves," an inevitability, "And while Raija's still little." That it would allow her to be around more while all of this uncertainty goes on must go without saying; for the moment, the personal ''seems'' to have outweighed the political.

H'kon's voice has dropped to something even below a whisper. As if anyone else might be here for this conversation. As if he might fully realise the conversation they're having himself. "But more than that, Madilla..." It's almost a question. And one that shelves the political neatly, at least for the time being.

Wry, now, and ever so faintly embarrassed, Madilla drops her gaze... and her voice, too. "I'm not that far off thirty-six," she says. "I want another baby. I want... ''your'' baby. I don't even know if it's possible," she adds, more quickly now, "I know we've tried to avoid it, and... but everyone knows that's not a foolproof method. But I... I would ''like'' to try. If you're willing." The look on her face? It suggests she didn't even mean this to come up, perhaps ''ever''. But here it is.

And H'kon swallows hard, and for a moment channels his weyrling self, that same twitter of wings in his stomach and eager uncertainty before that first trip between with his dragon. But that face is tempered with more lines. He does his best to school the expression and feeling with a solemn nod. "I'm not certain it will be. You may be," oh, there's the weyrling again, "disappointed." Speaks the man whose brown flies regularly, catches often enough, the man who has been weyrmated for turns, and has no offspring whatsoever to show for any of it.

"And you?" Madilla's voice is not far off trembling. "Would ''you'' be disappointed?"

"I have considered for some time that, even if we were to come to this point, it may not be a possibility." H'kon's voice has found those slow and measured tones of his. And he speaks quietly, so quietly. But eyes have fallen somewhere in the vicinity of the very top of his wine glass. Yes.

Madilla, as adept as she is at reading H'kon, watches him, now. And nods, just once. "I want to try," she says, simply. "It won't be the end of the world, if it doesn't work out. Raija is still ''our'' daughter. But whether or not it... takes, I will work with Treinan, and reduce ''my'' travel accordingly. I want to be home." She's more sure, now, in tone and in stance. Her chin has lifted, her shoulders drawn themselves back.

"That would be... good," mouths H'kon. There's a little breath behind it. Tiny bit. But the shelf under those politics must have creaked, and he, too, straightens, and dips his head in acknowledgement of its contents. "There are many things that are better, when you're there." A cough almost sounds like an escaped laugh, nerves releasing. "We should have more wine."

"Good," is what Madilla says, in answer, likely answering more than what lays upon the surface of their conversation; all that is unsaid. "I will... reach out to the acting weyrwoman. And to Farideh, again. And--" But he's right: wine. This conversation has become too heavy, and her smile is a little too tentative as a result. "We should. It would be a waste, not to make the most of this." She offers, now, her arm.

"Good," says H'kon, of Irianke. "''Good,''" more emphatic, for Farideh. H'kon holds out his arm for hers, nods, and straightens his back, daring to step into his dragon's territory of bravado with a Sidelong smiles to his weyrmate. "And of the empty weyr, when we've finished here." More presently: "Red again?"

Madilla's blush confirms the implications of that empty weyr, her smile rather brighter, now. "Red," she agrees. "And something cheesy to go with it." Her eyes linger upon her weyrmate for a few moments before she tugs him after her; the wine awaits. So does the cheese.
}}

Logs:Second 'Second

2015-07-26T11:57:53Z

H'kon: Created page with "{{Log |who=T'mic, Z'kiel |what=T'mic has one of two wingsecond knots left. Z'kiel comes over, and then he's cleaned out. |where=Bosom Buddies Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |involves..."

{{Log
|who=T'mic, Z'kiel
|what=T'mic has one of two wingsecond knots left. Z'kiel comes over, and then he's cleaned out.
|where=Bosom Buddies Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=5
|month=5
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.07.25
|mentions=Keysi
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon t'mic.jpg, Icon Z'kiel.jpg,
|log=''Bosom Buddies Weyr, High Reaches Weyr 
''The narrowest point of the weyr is just past that, and it features a series of hooks across it, bisecting the weyr and allowing a curtain to be hung there to separate rider and dragon quarters. Further in, along the outside curve of the wall, a storage closet has been hollowed out, its door hung with a curtain. Past that, the back lobe of the weyr has a rounded fireplace decorated with carvings that seem grown out of the rock as they support the broad mantle. On it rests a single multi-colored rock, shimmering with indigo, violet, and olive. Like many weyrs, this one also features a stone shelf for a bed, laid out with furs already.''

The invitation comes via Jorrth, fresh from a soak in the cold - but not ''as'' cold - lake. In the shelter of their shared weyr, the blue has grown sleepy, and so it's slower tones that bring, << We would like to speak with you. And, >> hint of energy, << you could see our weyr, >> to Ahtzudaeth. Inside, T'mic has at least changed out of the sweaty clothes that he wore for drills, and washed up so much as he can at a corner basin. There's a little table sort of thing, with a chair on one side, and a trunk dragged over to serve as secondary seating on the other. It's near the fireplace, where the floor is (mostly) hay-free. The pitcher holds water, only, but he's managed to liberate (which probably means, has asked nicely for) some finger food from somewhere. T'mic, dorm room host.

And the bronze accepts the offer with his usual grace: << Ah! Wonderful! It will be our pleasure to visit. We will be there shortly. >> Incandescent smoke shimmers around the words, scintillating and merry. Ahtzudaeth is also quite right; they are there shortly - in about ten minutes, give or take. Z'kiel's cleaned up a little and changed - though changing out of sweat-soaked drill clothing and into riding leathers isn't that much of an improvement. The bronze lands lightly on the ledge and announces his presence through a mental << We have arrived, brother-mine, >> and a low ''chortle'' that's physically articulated. A muted thump follows as his rider dismounts and makes his way toward the weyr proper without a need for further words.

Jorrth knows; Jorrth has poked his head out by the time Z'kiel has dismounted, flicking his tail, and adjusting his wings on his back. << Good! This is our ledge. >> It's not said without a bit of amusement to it. Of course it's their ledge. But now, it's been introduced. Inside, T'mic hops up off his trunk, raising his chin to the bronzerider as Z'kiel enters. "Thanks for coming," from the bluerider. "Chair?" An appropriately inviting gesture goes with it.

<< And it is a ''fine'' ledge, >> Ahtzudaeth responds, giving the stone a solid thump with a forepaw. He seems perfectly comfortable outside and will settle there for the duration unless he's invited inside. Z'kiel's helmet and goggles are removed and held against one hip, freeing his other hand to lift in a quick salute to T'mic. "You called, we answered," is a fairly straightforward thing - and probably one of ''his'' things, for that matter. Or his and Ahtzu's. Hard to tell. The offer of a seat is met with a slight shake of his head, though he does go to stand near it and put his helmet and goggles on it. "So. What have you called us for?"

That salute is returned, with some hint of a smile. This is still one of the novelties of that wingleader's knot, even a few weeks later, which tickles him. T'mic is preparing to sit back on his trunk - and then doesn't. He clears his throat, though, and nods. Business. "Wingsecond. I've got two wingsecond knots. Keysi's accepted one already. After drills, earlier." A sideways nod of his head, as if he could indicate just when on some invisible timeline. "Other's yours if you want it."

"Ah." For a second, a curious play of emotion skitters across his features; there and gone in the blink of an eye. A furrow of brow, a sucking of teeth; thoughtful things, all of them, capped off with a momentary glazing of eyes to hint at draconic communion. Z'kiel's expression settles into the usual grim neutrality that typically occupies his face and, after a beat, he nods - just once. "We do. We will." Settled. Outside, a low rumble of ''satisfaction'' can be heard, practically palpable for all of that. " "

Jorrth still waits, attentive, still doesn't offer more on his ledge nor on his weyr. T'mic nods. "I was thinking I'd put Keysi a bit more toward the dragon side of things," Neianth is intense, after all, "and have go a bit more to the physical training side. In formations, you and Ahtzudaeth might also take point sometimes. There are things that just work better with a big dragon at the front, and Jorrth's a big blue, but." But. There's a bronze out there with him, there with ''them'', now. "But I wanted to meet with Keysi and you tomorrow. Before drills. And we can sort of see where things fall naturally throughout the week, too. Might get you both in on some of the paperwork, too..."

To which there's a grunt and another nod from Z'kiel. "Good. Works well for us," there's a slight lift of his chin and he clarifies, "for ''all'' of us." All things in their place; all things in their perfect element. "We'll be there early. Don't have much else to do, except for drills and the rest of our duties." And the weyr-cleaning, but any visitors would note that he's been making excellent headway on that nightmare. Even the mention of paperwork does little to dampen that mood of secure knowledge. "Shouldn't be too hard, unless they changed the requirements for the paperwork."

"It's not really hard," T'mic shakes his head. "But I figured maybe it'd be good to see it, you know? Keysi and I, we kind of did some of it, with silver thread..." He shrugs. "Like to have an hour before we start drills tomorrow. That early." He's nodding. "Oh." And then he does bend toward that trunk, to lift its corner (it's unlatched) and draw out a little box. "Here. New knot."

"I was wingleader before." Z'kiel's shoulders rise and fall in a shallow shrug. "I know. Wasn't sure if they changed things or not. Wouldn't be surprised if they did." But, there's tomorrow to sort that out and he'll leave it at that. Instead: "We'll be there." And probably a half an hour earlier, but he's not especially known for being the 'sleeping' type. The offered knot-in-the-box is studied for a heartbeat, then two, before he reaches to take it. "Thank you, wingleader." The knots are swapped, his old one pocketed and the new pinned in place. "We'll do our best."

"I know," says T'mic, simply. << Make sure to look inside before you go, >> says Jorrth.

Messages are relayed and Z'kiel cocks an eyebrow slightly. The box is thusly opened, without a word.

<< The weyr. >> Jorrth's is a laughing tone, sun-warmed. T'mic grins a little, too, and gestures around him. "He's proud. And then, the nod. "You don't have to see it now."

A sidelong look is angled to Ahtzudaeth, who is now chortling - mentally and physically. Z'kiel narrows his eyes, snorts once, and snaps the box shut (again) and hands it off to T'mic. "We're here," he finally says. "It just seems to make more sense to do it now." There's a beat. Then: "Unless you want us to visit another time. Ahtzudaeth enjoys visiting others." And, speaking of the bronze, he's craning around to peer inside with a gaping of his maw.

"Nah," says the bluerider, gesturing to the full expanse of his weyr, not that it's a big one. "You can hang out as long as you want, too. We've got nowhere to be. Just some sweeps to set up. Could even show you that, if you want."

They do that.
|Categories=HRW Clutch 37 Logs, Cirrus Wing Logs
}}

Logs:A Real Wing

2015-07-24T03:54:54Z

H'kon:

{{Log
|who=Farideh, T'mic
|what=A random stores run-in results in wing chatter.
|where=Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=2
|month=5
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.07.22
|quote="We're not doing anything dumb yet, right?"
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon farideh stare.png, Icon t'mic boynextdoor.jpeg,
|log=The open stores look freshly stocked and gleam with organization, both aspects that Farideh is presently assessing, standing in front of the shelving, jangling her stores keys at her hip. She's dressed simply, in a soft, white sweaters and russet wherhide pants, and her bright-eyed expression doesn't speak to the hours previous, of shadowing wings and weyrwoman meetings. It's a slow day, between the rain and the chill in the air, but the stores are mostly quiet.

At least, until there's a crash, and a flustered, "Faranth," from a short ways down one of those aisles of shelves. It sounds like T'mic. Probably because it is. T'mic, who's managed to save one of the boxes that was caught on a loose nail of the other, and is balancing another between the shelf and his shoulder, though it's precarious, and who's frozen in that pose, eyes darting around to assess the situation. It's fine. Everything's fine.

Farideh's eyes shift first, in the direction of that crash, and it takes at least a minute before her body follows, her footsteps tentative as she seeks out the source of the noise. She pauses when her gaze finally lands on Tomic, one hand arrested on the nearest shelving, as her eyebrows lift from relaxed to strained. "T'mic," she draws out, a question ''clearly'' in both voice and expression; her eyes even flick, briefly, to the box he's shouldering.

"Oh," says T'mic. "Hey." The shoulder shifts backwards a little, but, again, precarious. "You want to grab that one?" The box in question is indicated, with eye movement. He's afraid to move much else just now. Though slowly, the first box is being shifted more onto the palm of his hand, supported awkwardly, but still better supported than it was. Fine.

"Hello," is similarly spoken slowly, while Farideh tries to adjust to the scene she's witnessing. "I ''can'', but why--" Frowning, she moves forward and reaches up to grab the box he specifies, pulling it towards her and away from the bluerider. "''What'' were you trying to accomplish, exactly?" It's not wholly admonishing, but slightly bemused on the end.

"That," says T'mic, who points to the spilled, and now broken, crate. (It had a loose nail already, this is not entirely his fault.) "It snagged. They were packed in tight. No harm done, though, right?" Except for odd bits of leather being strewn about the stores. He ducks out from under the box, and if this weren't T'mic, there'd be some simile about Atlas right now, right here. Oh well. The other box is much more easily squared back up on the shelf, now.

After setting the second box on the ground, where it's out of harm's way, Farideh dusts off her hands and then settles them on her waist, as she watches T'mic. "No harm done-- I don't ''see'' you bleeding, but that box--" She purses her lips, her focus shifting to the broken crate and its contents strewn here-and-there. "What were you looking for? You should have asked one of the assistants," and speaking of, she turns, leaning, to look for one of the aforementioned minions; when she doesn't immediately spot one, she sighs, and turns back to the bluerider. "Nevermind. We can clean up, ourselves."

"Just leather scraps," says T'mic. The box is given another glance. "I just was going to run down here quick. Had a bit of a break, but we've got a bunch more stuff to get set up for tomorrow. Well, you know how it is, huh? Sort of." And he steps over the fallen box, for the other one that Farideh's set down, and grabs that up. Never mind out of harm's way. It's going back on the shelf.

"Sort of-- I suppose. I don't have the distinction of rounding up a bunch of smart-mouthed weyrlings every morning, and yet. How's that going? Being wingleader of Cirrus? I know you enjoyed it, before, but-- now?" Farideh watches, still standing with her hands on her waist, while the other weyrling sees about getting that box onto the shelf as well. "Is it any easier? Harder?"

"But you're pretty busy," T'mic presumes. "I mean, I've been figuring you are. Weyrwomaning and stuff." Once the box is set back where it was, he's on to the broken one, squatting down and grabbing a piece of it. This is examined. And then dropped, while he squints at what might be a sliver. So yes, his words are a bit distracted. "It's different, I guess. I mean, we were doing flaming, when we led. Now it's more practice. But we get to do more, 'cause it's not new anymore?" And then, "I need a wingsecond though."

"I've been pretty busy," Farideh confirms, and lapses into silence after, listening to T'mic. "It's more like a wing, now. We're not-- living with each other, getting one each other's nerves, not living and breathing weyrlinghood anymore. We're all going to go to our own wings soon and--" She lifts her shoulders in a shrug. "You're right. It's not ''new''." His last earns a contemplative glance, her head slightly tilting to the side. "Have you been thinking about anyone in particular? R'van is ''particular'' but hard working, Keysi is too, and Z'kiel--"

"Exactly. We're like a wing just for preparing, but still a wing." And then, the laugh. "Those three, exactly. I keep going back and forth on R'van. He got so distant... but with me and Jorrth, maybe it wouldn't matter? And Z'kiel would definitely be good. Keysi, too. I can take as many as two. I'm not gonna ask you, 'cause of goldriding," is added. And on that note, T'mic stops pinching at his finger, and looks up. "We're not doing anything dumb yet, right? Other than the wingsecond thing, I mean."

Finally, a smile emerges from the serious expression, and Farideh looks at T'mic almost ''affectionately''. "You're not doing anything dumb. You're doing a proper job of it, more than I think anyone else would. You care a lot-- that's obvious, and Quinlys wouldn't have made you ''the'' wingleader if not for ''some'' qualities." She taps the end of her nose with a finger, scrunching up her face. "You'll figure it out. Follow your gut. Follow what-- ''do'' what you think is the best. It's only for a couple more months and then-- and then, we're done."

"Except not done at all, really, are we?" asks T'mic with a bit of a sideways smile. "Then we're really ''starting''." Now, he can start to gather up those bits again. Now, there's a task at ahnd, which prompts, "Think we could get another box? That's not falling apart?"
|Categories=General Logs, Cirrus Wing Logs
}}

[[Category:Cirrus_Wing_Logs]]

Logs:Square Pegs...

2015-07-24T03:54:32Z

H'kon:

{{Log
|who=Edyis, T'mic
|what=After some one-on-one flaming drills, Edyis buys T'mic a drink.
|where=Seaside Hold Tavern, Southern Continent
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=2
|month=5
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.07.22
|quote=Don't see that we ''fit'' anywhere. Not anymore at least.
|mentions=Keysi
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon edyis wary.png, Icon t'mic listening.jpeg,
|log=''Seaside Hold Tavern, Southern Continent 
''On the tip of the Southern Peninsula sits a tiny fishing hold. While the population isn't exactly large, their dockside activity is bustling. There are a number of small taverns that sit along it, catering to sailors and traders. Some of the more run down establishments tend to a rougher crowd. This particular building isn't great but it's not the worst of the lot. The floor is dirty and the lights are dim, but only one out of every 3rd person looks as if they might steal all our marks. Poker is played nightly, drinks are freely flowing and the women- well. You know.''

It's after drills, shadowing the wings, and finishing up with the extra rounds of private flame drills that a soot faced Edyis suggests drinks in the south to celebrate progress well made. The bar chosen one that's a little rougher perhaps than usual but the drinks are decent and Edyis is grinning as she leads the way in, grabbing a table and ordering a round of drinks, "What's your poision?" She asks of T'mic before ordering and paying. Akluseth takes advantage of the nearness of the ocean to manage impromptu swimming some ways away from the hold, inviting his blue brother to join.

T'mic has been a senior weyrling long enough to at least look a little more at home in Pern's various watering holes, though when Edyis asks him, still he shrugs and suggests simply, "Just like a pale beer I guess." Jorrth is happy to explore the waters - happier still to do so in the presence of Akluseth, whose take on them is so much different from his own. T'mic leans an elbow on the table, unthinking of manners, and scratches a bit at a part of his hair flattened earlier by riding gear. A deep breath, and then he can do that easy grin that's so much his style.

Edyis grins to his answer and while the pitcher and glasses are being brought. "Hard to believe it's almost over isn't it?" She asks her smile half crooked as she pours the first glasses once the pitcher arrives sliding one over in a practiced motion. "Thank you, again for the extra help. I know you two have a lot on your plate with Wingleading, so I appreciate the time you've spent working with us." As for Akluseth, he's diving down and resurfacing with a greenish tangle in his teeth, flinging it in his brother's direction << Catch! >>

"I think," says T'mic, earnestly, even though his brow is furrowed because he's concentrating on the glass that he's reaching for, "it's 'cause of that sort of thing that Quinlys picked us. We'll always do it," comes with one of those big-shouldered shrugs, while he raises his glass, in semblance of a toast, though to what he doesn't seem to know, and then sips. Jorrth is still only so deep that he can touch. He leans forward to look at that greenish thing when it arrives... and, moving closer, gets it into his mouth. To taste. Hmm.

Edyis grins, "Probably. I don't claim to know her mind on things; nor do I have to really." She joins that toast, and then there's a long pull from her mug as she then sets it between her hands studying the bluerider thoughtfully. "Something on your mind or just don't want to spill?" Glancing at his mug.

"Don't want to spill," T'mic confirms with a nod, once his glass is safely resettled on the table. "Been doing some straps work. Finishing touches, you know, now Jorrth's got muscle to go with the rest. And then some extra work for something in the weyr, and then all this," a vague wave toward where the dragons are, more or less. "Forearms are tired is all."

The twist of her lips and the smirk that follows his last bit might be hard to miss. "Straps, sure." But the friendly tease relaxes some into something more natural. "Hard to believe they have grown so much, he's pretty solid for a blue isn't he?" She tilts her head, "Remodeling? I don't think I've seen anyone else's weyr other than Keysi's."

"Oh? No, it just... it came with this rock," says T'mic, "on the fireplace, and I want to put it into this hoop, but with leather sort of woven through it? You ever seen those things. Traders have them lots," which sort of makes him make a strange face. "We used to do them when we were kids. Only I think this one is gonna be bigger than that." As to his weyr: "You should come see it, then. Jorrth likes visitors." More than the taste of seaweed, as it happens.

Edyis furrows her brow thinking, "You mean like the nets with feathers on them, supposed to catch bad dreams or something?" She tilts her head, "Or do you mean a mobile, those things they put above nursery cradles sometimes with shapes or animals spinning around gently?" She tilts her head then, "Did you come from a trader family, or just travel alot, before you were everyone's favorite nanny that is." <>

T'mic nods, reaching for his beer again, though he doesn't yet lift it. "They're not just ''supposed'' to. They work." The nod to follow is one of certainty, earned by personal experience. "No. We were just in Benden, but traders came through there, of course. Picked up some of the not-vintner wine and stuff, sold some stuff, traded, moved on. Mostly we'd just look, but it was fun anyway. Seeing everything from all over, right at home." << But they're little bones. What if you just swallowed them whole? >> Jorrth has experienced fish, in part via T'mic, now they can travel around.

<< It tickles if you don't crunch them first. They like to wiggle on the way down. >> The brown offers, coming back into the shore to sprawl on the beach to dry for a bit. "Never got to try one, though, if you know how to make them maybe we can trade skills sometime, I can paint. I've got some hides drying that are almost ready to be worked on."

"Yeah, I guess." Now, he does lift the beer. Now, he drinks. "My family's been doing them since forever, we all grew up with it... Or I guess you could get one from a trader, too." He closes his eyes for a moment, though still seems to be ''looking''. Just... not at anything here. "I don't know if there's anything in the weyr I'd even paint. We were thinking about getting some things. Maybe to hang on these hooks. They were probably for like a curtain or something before, but we don't need that, really." << Tickles, >> repeats Jorrth. Hmm, again.

Edyis laughs, "It isn't just about the things you ''need'' some things are just about making the place feel yours. Like, I have some wine and liquor bottles I collected over the course of a few turns filled with glows and hanging from the ceiling. I don't need them, but they are pretty to look at and make the place sorta interesting to me I guess." She lifts a shoulder, "Friend of mine has maps hung all over hers."

"Well yeah, but that's the thing. I mean... it's got Jorrth." He shrugs, the rest seeming, to him, self-explanatory. There's one of those honeymoon's-still-not-over smiles on his face, when he leans back in his chair, and raises that glass again, for a longer drink. The dreamcatcher of his goes unmentioned, even if it's adornment. Maybe the fact that the stone was already there makes it different. Or maybe, T'mic's just too busy being content with things.

Edyis laughs, "So he hasn't managed to make your life incredibly awkward yet I take it? Lucky." She almost singsongs, but it's relaxed laughter. "You decided which two wings you want to shadow yet?"

T'mic returns a bit from his reverie, to consider that. "Well, not saying that. But just 'cause sometimes it's awkward doesn't mean that he's not still home." Then, a shake of his head. "Really, any of them. Mostly I've been worried about you guys." A sip brings a bit more thought, and he muses, "Snowdrift could be okay. Or Avalanche, maybe. How about you guys?"

"True enough." She answers with a knowing twist of her mouth. The concern draws a slight lift of her brow. "I don't think we will be anyone's first pick, but someone will end up taking us on." She thinks on it some and frowns, "Probably Glacier and still making up my mind on the second."

Edyis' take on it makes T'mic frown a little bit. "But," is careful, thoughtful, "have you thought of where you think Akluseth would fit in best?"

The former scribe frowns faintly. "I don't know where we would fit in best. I've thought about it; I just don't have an answer for that." And it's what isn't said here that says more perhaps, but she's lifting her mug and taking another pull. "I figure the wingleaders know what they want, know what will work with their set up. I don't have any say in it so what's the point in worrying?"

"I don't think it's about worrying," says T'mic, "so much as about really thinking about what you both have to offer. Your strengths and weaknesses, you know? Like," and here he leans forward again, "Snowdrift, for me and Jorrth, 'cause they do search and rescue and that sort of thing. You need a team, you need a good eye, and Jorrth, he's good with both of those. And Avalanche, I've heard they do lots of all-around drills. Practice like the old days. That's good to know."

Looking to her glass instead of the blue rider. "We don't have anything to offer," And from the quietness with which she says it, this is probably the first time she's admitted it out loud. "He's good at the physical side of things but lacks focus. Me, I've got a good memory and a knack for book work, but terrible people skills. We can do drills sure, but it isn't something we can really put our hearts into, not the way Keysi does. I mean you've seen her it just lights up everything she is..." She seems ready to say more but stops opting to drink instead. "Don't see that we ''fit'' anywhere. Not anymore at least."

T'mic stays leaned forward, propping his head on his hand. He's good at listening, is T'mic. So good he forgets his beer, at least for the time being. "So then what ''are'' you guys good at, that you put your hearts into?"

"We aren't good at anything yet." She frowns, "Other than getting into trouble. That we are very good at," poor patient T'mic, his questions just draw more frustration. "We like to travel, to explore, to see new things, to meet new people, just learn different things. That sort of shit doesn't translate into a wing."

"We aren't good at anything ''yet.''" She frowns, "Other than getting into trouble. That we are very good at," poor patient T'mic, his questions just draw more frustration. "We like to travel, to explore, to see new things, to meet new people, just learn different things. That sort of shit doesn't translate into a wing." She runs a hand over her scalp, with a frustrated sigh. "It's part of why we shadow right? To figure out where we fit, or have someone figure it out for us."

"So look into some of the less traditional wings. Savannah does... I don't know what they do, but I know they don't do what others do in the same way. Or any of the ones that do more interval-type duties. Maybe even talk to some wingleaders about doing a little more shadowing. With lots of different ones, right?" Now, the beer is remembered, and sipped, though not with any great enthusiasm. "Don't fight it by just saying you're bad at everything, though."

"Savannah doesn't want us." She answers, all too quickly. "But that's the idea, we aren't even halfway through shadowing the wings yet. I'm sure one of them will click; I just have no idea which one yet. If they don't, we get assigned to one, and we work on fitting. That's all there is to it." And it's with more muted frustration that she finally just asks, "Why is it when I do have an answer I am a conceited insufferable know it all. When I don't; it's I'm fighting the system? I know we are bad at everything, fuck if I didn't care or wasn't trying would I bother with the extra flame drills?" She shakes a hand through her hair roughly.

T'mic wasn't really expecting it, that last part. He has his glass held up in front of him, and it stays there, hovering ahead of his chest, like as if it could serve as a shield. "I didn't say you were either of those things," is soft, careful. "And it's not the ''system'', it's you guys, if it's anything." So careful. But those brown eyes are deeply serious, if also concerned.

It's the defensive gesture perhaps that has her draining her mug and refilling it, taking a deep breath in and out. "Sorry, I know you are just trying to help it's just...Gah." She takes a swig from her mug before setting it down. "No you've never said either of those things. It's just..." Someone else did perhaps. She exhales more slowly again. "I don't know where to go or what we are going to do, that is true. I'm just not afraid of that fact anymore, Wherever we end up; we will be ok. Because it will be me and him together, we don't have to know everything, we can't plan out the future on some chart and make sure to make all the right answers. I know that things will be terrible sometimes, but I also know that things will be ok in the end. I've got him, and no matter how lost or scared I feel, he will make sure I face it down. And when you face it down, things don't seem as bad." She picks up her mug and takes a long sip. "I don't even know if that makes sense or not."

T'mic waits a fairly long while, mulling it all over, before he's willing to nod. "Okay." And that, seemingly, is that, so far as the bluerider is concerned. He leans back in his chair, and raises his beer, to finish it.
|Categories=HRW Clutch 37 Logs
}}

[[Category:Cirrus_Wing_Logs]]