NorCon MUSH - User contributions [en]

Logs:Breaking

2015-10-31T18:46:17Z

H'vier:

{{Log
|who=Farideh, H'vier
|what=The truth comes out.
|where=Bathing Pools, High Reaches Weyr
|day=26
|month=13
|turn=36
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.02.12
|quote="At this rate, you'll break her long before I ever get a chance to."
|weather=Snowy.
|mentions=Lycinea
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon farideh mad.png, Icon h'vier.png,
|desc=Omnipresent clouds of steam slink across the tops of three naturally warm
pools, set into the floor of this kidney-shaped cavern. Near the entrance
the ceiling is high and polished, gleaming with little mineral specks as
it sweeps downward into increasingly ragged, uneven steps. The foremost of
the pools is squared off with wide steps leading down into the water and
has faucets for bringing in cooler water from a rain-catching cistern.
Primarily used for laundry, there's an almost constant film of suds along
its surface until the circulating current clears it at the end of the day.
Four sinks line the nearest wall and various tubs stored beneath allow for
the washing of delicates. Laundry bags can be dropped off in the bins near
the door and clean, folded laundry is stacked in rows of tall cubbies for
easy pickup.

The bend in the cavern leads to a rougher-hewn part of the chamber where
the two circular bathing pools welcome those in need of a wash. Towels and
washcloths are kept in neat stacks on shelves along the wall, along with
sacks of sweetsand and a few bars of precious soap. Stone benches provide
a place for sitting to remove shoes and clothing, while a row of gleaming
brass hooks stand above, ready to hold clothes and robes.
|log=Baths in the dead of a winter night might not be appealing to people that have the sense to be wrapped within cozy sheets, but it is how a certain laundress has chosen to end her day. Only a handful of other weyrfolk occupy the steamy cavern, stationed at intervals along the two pools, and that leaves Farideh with a generous portion of one pool all to herself. Her hair is piled up on top her head with wisps curling away from her face, and her cheeks are reddened from the heat. She's squishing a loofa between her hands, watching the bubbles it emits with girlish fascination, and quite ''not'' minding who or what's going on around her. ''Me'' time.

And then there's H'vier, who also doesn't mind what's going on around him. Which means he ends up sliding into the water near Farideh ''totally'' on accident. "Hey, gorgeous," he says as he settles on the ledge around the perimeter of the pool. Totally on accident. "What's got you all hot and wet out here so late?" He has to be trying to be gross, right?

The loofa continues to go ''squish'' between her hands, hazel eyes flicking to the side to assess Farideh's new bath mate. "H'vier," she says patiently, because it's ''H'vier''. "It's hard to take a bath without someone ''interrupting''," totally meaning him, "and this tends to be a ''quiet'' time." Except tonight it's obviously not. "Shouldn't you be--" Her mouth curves into a mocking smile, "''In'' bed?"

"I just thought it would be nice to say hello. I never see you anymore." It's clearly a shame. "That's why I like it anyway. Quieter." H'vier smiles back. It's pleasant, though, not taking her mocking to heart. "I'll be in bed soon enough, don't you worry about that." He knows she's not, of course. "I even got a new mattress. It's pretty great."

"You never ''see'' me anymore?" That amuses the brunette, who glances aside at him with uplifted brows and a pursed smile. "You know exactly why you don't ''see'' me anymore." There's that bone of contention between them - a blonde one. "I can't remember what a great mattress feels like. Relaxation? Rest? The ones they give us in the dorms--" Farideh wrinkles her nose and sighs theatrically, dunking the sponge under the water to watch it expand. "Have you ''seen'' Lya lately?" is asked, completely innocently.

There's a small snort from the bronzerider, who doesn't seem to agree on why he doesn't see her anymore. But he must not care enough about it to argue. "I think I'll get a new mattress every few turns now that I remember what a nice one is like. I'd invite you to come try it out, but." He's not. "Lya can tell you about it instead." Because apparently he ''has'' seen her lately.

"I would tastefully decline, if you did," and there's lot of teeth in that wide smile of hers. It ebbs, all that fire and humor, at his last comment. "What," Farideh says, turning to face the bronzerider, "have you been ''doing'' with her?" From her tone and outraged expression, it's likely that she has a few ''ideas'' about what they've been up to, right or wrong. "I told you the last time to leave her alone. It wasn't enough that you knocked up some bartender and your Wingleader?"

"Relax, cupcake. I'm not doing anything with her that she doesn't want to be doing. We're friends not and all. I care about what happens to her." There's a brief smile for Farideh's benefit. Then H'vier's attention turns to actual bath things, like dunking his head under the water and scrubbing soapsand into it once he's resurfaced.

"''Right''. You care," Farideh mimics, lips curled in distaste. "We'll see how much you care. I'm going to be the one to pick up the pieces when you ''break'' her." She makes a face and turns, giving him one semi-wet shoulder. Immediately going back to smooshing her loofa ''peacefully''; bubbles, and soap, and bubbles, and ''squish''.

"At this rate, you'll break her long before I ever get a chance to, even if I were going to." Which he's ''not''. "I made a deal with her. I'd offer you the same, but Lya at least wants to be my friend for some unfathomable reason." Even H'vier can admit being his friend is stupid. "And I don't think you're any better of one than I am."

"''Me''? Break her?" A disbelieving laugh follows her sentiments, widened eyes falling on H'vier. "How am ''I'' breaking her? I provide her with support and a shoulder to cry on. You're just bound to get her feelings hurt and pregnant. Those are two far, far apart things." Farideh closes her eyes and shakes her head, obviously annoyed with the whole situation. "Fuck off, H'vier," she says at last, managing an unkind grin, before she turns away, again.

"I'm sure that's exactly what you give her, Farideh," says H'vier calmly and with one of those smiles that isn't entirely genuine. But he's not red in the face and freaking out, so that's probably a good thing. "I can't promise I won't hurt her feelings," he says even after she's turned away. "But getting her pregnant would be pretty difficult. I don't want anymore children, anyway. Certainly not with Lya. She can barely take care of herself. Tayte ''wanted'' children."

"I can't even have an ''enjoyable'' bath. I can't even have ''one'' thing to myself. I don't ''care'' what you think, H'vier." ''One'' of them is red-cheeked and slightly freaking out. "You're-- you're just--" Farideh can't even finish the sentence, instead she tosses her sponge at him and proceeds to the steps, to exit the baths in a ladylike kind of stomp. "Everything that ''ever'' comes out of your mouth is ''crap''." She makes an indigant growling sound and tip-toes to a bench, where she's stashed a towel that she promptly wraps around her dripping torso. "Try ''not'' to say hello from now on," she says hostilely.

If her reaction isn't what he'd been expecting, one would be hard-pressed to find a sign of it in the bronzerider's expression. H'vier's attention settles neutrally on Farideh as she stomps out of the pool to get her towel. After a moment, he offers, "As you wish," and sets the sponge she'd thrown at him on the edge of the pool where she can fetch it if she wants it back. Then he turns back to his own bathing without another word.

''Quiet'' leave takings aren't Farideh's thing, and so it's with more immature stomping and mumbling caustically that she gathers her things in anticipation for exiting the cavern. She makes a face at his turned back, glares, and finally, leaves, ''without'' her sponge.
|Involves=High Reaches Weyr
}}
{{Categories
|Categories=Angst Logs
}}

H'vier

2015-10-31T18:22:41Z

H'vier:

{{Profile
|picture=Havi.jpg
|position=Iceberg Wingleader
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|Has rank=Wingleader
|birthplace=Somewhere in Ista
|children=Tahvra (D1 M1 T34) Mayrin (D3 M10 T35) Tayre (D26 M12 T35)
|playedby=Joe Manganiello
|status=Active
|face=blank.jpg
|body=
== Description ==

A large man in his early forties, H'vier is an impressive six foot five of broad-shouldered muscle and attitude. His hair, dark and unruly, is kept just a touch longer than proper for a dragonrider, slicked back just out of his face. A short beard, peppered with silver, frames the hard lines of his square jaw more often than not with a mustache filling in over his upper lip. His crooked nose looks as though it's seen the wrong end of a fist or two but it manages to add character rather than detract from an overall attractive gathering of features.

When not in his leathers, his choice in clothing is deliberate in a way that might contradict his general manner. A well-tailored, not-cheap wardrobe brings him through all seasons in the Reaches in style.

== WYSK ==

* H'vier is from Ista Weyr. Now he's in High Reaches. For reasons.

== Relationships ==

* Mostly bad.

== History ==

* M10 T30: Transfers from Ista.
* M6, T32: Becomes Iceberg's Wingsecond.
** While temporarily banished from the Weyr for beating up a brownrider.
* M1 T34: [[Tayte]] gives birth to daughter Tahvra.
* M12 T34: Unintentionally knocks up then Wingleader Fayla after Hraedhyth's third flight.
* M3 T35: Reisoth catches [[Aishani|Aishani's]] gold Iesaryth.
* M10 T35: Fayla gives birth to daughter Mayrin.
* M12 T35: [[Tayte]] gives birth to son Tayre.
* M13 T35: Becomes Iceberg's Wingleader.
** Fayla and [[G'laer]] become his Wingseconds.
* M11 T36: Fires [[G'laer]] as Wingsecond after Reisoth catches Teisyth a second time.
* M1 T37: Reisoth catches [[Irianke|Irianke's]] gold Niahvth.
* M4 T37: Grounded for assaulting [[K'zin]] during clutching feast.
* M7 T38: Becomes withdrawn after [[Lilah|the woman he claimed to love]] disappears.
* M9 T38: Stops visiting the daughter and son he had with [[Tayte]].
* M2 T39: Dies.

== RP Logs ==

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

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

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

{{Icons}}

}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Ista Area, Ista Weyr
}}

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

Logs:Careless

2015-10-31T07:56:51Z

H'vier: Created page with "{{Log |who=H'vier, H'vier{{!}}Reisoth |what=Alcohol. |where=Spinner's Haunt Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=25 |month=2 |turn=39 |IP=Interval |IP2=10..."

{{Log
|who=H'vier, H'vier{{!}}Reisoth
|what=Alcohol.
|where=Spinner's Haunt Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=25
|month=2
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.31
|quote=We'll visit them. Tomorrow.
|mentions=Oiana, Tayte, Lilah, Fayla, Tayre, Tahvra, Mayrin
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon h'vier lookingup.jpg, Icon h'vier reisoth fall.png,
|log="Oia." H'vier rolled over, stirred from his dozing, to look at the greenrider as she moved toward the edge of his bed. He reached out for her, searching for some purchase to pull her back against him, but she slid away, out of his grasp. "Don't go, baby. You can stay here with me tonight."

"We've talked about this, Havi," sighed Oiana as she wiggled into her leather pants the way the bronzerider usually liked to watch. He wasn't watching the way she wiggled now. "We could've done this. But you chose that red-headed bitch. Remember?"

"You won't let me forget." He'd been trying.

"You're lucky I fuck you at all, anymore. After ''that''. Stop expecting more than that."

"She's ''dead'', Oia. What does it matter now?"

She paused in the middle of sorting out her shirt to look at him incredulously. She was angry now. "No one but you, you know that? Fuck you, H'vier." Oiana pulled her shirt on, shoved her feet into her boots, and snatched her jacket on the way to the ledge where her dragon was already waiting to take her home.

H'vier sunk back against his mattress, rubbing a hand wearily over his face. His head hurt. His heart hurt. The latter was more telling, and he didn't like it.

<< You should visit your progeny. While they're still young enough to enjoy your company. It's been too long. You shouldn't avoid them forever. >>

"They aren't ''mine'' anymore," H'vier said out loud to the empty weyr. Reisoth's typical silence followed, as it often did when his rider said something especially foolish.

The bronzerider rose, annoyed and naked, to fetch a bottle of whiskey from his assortment of liquor. He drank, pacing from one end of the weyr to the other until he felt buzzed enough to finally say, "''Fine''. We'll visit them. Tomorrow. Okay?"

H'vier didn't enjoy the heavy sense of Reisoth's satisfaction, but he cared less as he drank. He cared less that the bronze was right, and that he'd given in so easily. He cared less that Oiana had left, that ''Lilah'' had left, that he'd let Tayte find someone better than him to take care of herself and their children. He cared less that he'd never met Fayla's daughter. He cared less that all he had to show for his ambition was a wing with divided loyalties.

He'd lost track of how much he'd had to drink by the time he relaxed back into the cushions of his couch. It didn't matter. He couldn't feel anything anymore when he fell into blissful unconsciousness.

Reisoth was abruptly present when it started some time later. << H'vier. >> It didn't wake him. The bronzerider was choking, but ''that'' didn't wake him. << '''H'vier'''! >> Reisoth's sudden, piercing fear blasted through the dragons closest to him before groping ever further in an uncharacteristic panic. He bellowed audibly into the weyr, clawing as frantically as his bulk would allow at the inner entrance.

And then it was over.

Reisoth's keen was incredulous before it was mournful. Who else would mourn the man but his lifemate? But the dark bronze could only bear it for so long before he threw himself from his ledge with an enraged shriek cutting through his grief to disappear between one last time.

----

'''Gossip'''

Reisoth's uncharacteristically hysterical presence surged through High Reaches Weyr in the early predawn hours of day 25, month 2. It wasn't long before his panic turned audible. His bellows turned to keening, then to rage before the bronze dropped from his ledge and disappeared between. Within the hour, H'vier's body was taken between by one of Iceberg's wingriders and Fayla relieved the wing of their duties for the remainder of the day to grieve or celebrate as they saw fit.
}}

Logs:Lythronath and Roszadyth's Clutch Hatches

2015-10-25T04:30:13Z

H'vier:

{{Log
|who=Aiden, Drex, Ellerey, Faryn, Farideh, H'vier, Irianke, Jo, Jocelyn, K'del, L'sha, Lys, N'klas, Quinlys, Quint, S'rin, T'gar, Torlynna, V'ret
|what=Hatching!
|where=Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=4
|month=2
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.24
|type=Log
|log=Dragon> The night is black and still -- if you ignore the onslaught of snow and wind that batters the Weyr -- but suddenly, ''just like that'', it's not anymore. Roszadyth's hum rises loud and clear, and is soon joined by Lythronath's, signaling the ''beginning'' of something simply wondrous, despite the hour and the weather. Her happiness and pride rings through, cloaking the Weyr in effervescent ''sunshine'' and maternal warmth. << They come. >> (To all dragons from Roszadyth)

The night is black and still -- if you ignore the onslaught of snow and wind that batters the Weyr -- but suddenly, ''just like that'', it's not anymore. Other dragon voices rise alongside the clutch dame's, reverberating through the Weyr.

From the sands, The humming gets the strongest in the hatching cavern, where dragons sit up high on the ledges and both the dame and the sire are on the sands, awaiting the hatchlings. It didn't take Farideh long to get to the hatching sands -- one might say she was already dressed and ''waiting'', if they got suspicious -- with her nice, High Reaches' blue dress on, and her bright eyes. She stands at Roszadyth's side, one hand resting on the pale hide of her dragon's forearm, wearing a proud smile, to match rosy cheeks, as she observes the fast-filling galleries.

Dragon> To High Reaches dragons, Luishaeth's still little, but oh-- even ''she'' can raise a hum to join that of the others. Not that she's excited. That would be ''silly''.

Dragon> To High Reaches dragons, Vrianth raises a hum, a thrum, an electrical crackle. ''Coming.''

Dragon> Sea winds bear the restless energy, as the brown joins the humming. (To High Reaches dragons from Akluseth)

Dragon> To High Reaches dragons, Ruiyath is not quite as little as Luishaeth, but his brassy voice thrums cheerfully, in spite of his interrupted sleep. Go go, little babies!

Dragon> To High Reaches dragons, Ilicaeth is a rockfall tumbling downwards, Weyr-wards. He's not at home, right now, but he *will* be, and soon!

From the sands, The problem with clutches that like to ''tease'' all day and then not put out is that sometimes dignitaries are left wearing sleeping robes and stepping out onto the sands. At least it's a very nice, belted robe. Irianke's hair is tousled, and there's a blurry look on her face, her footsteps just seconds behind Farideh's. At the very least, she had the forethought to put on a pair of boots never mind actually changing into real clothing.

From the sands, K'del arrives a few steps behind Irianke, his hair a little toussled though he's otherwise fully dressed (go team!). "They ''would'' pick now," he says, but it's not a proper grumble; he's cheerful, if rubbing his eyes with the back of one hand.

From the sands, Irianke glances down at her crimson robe and folds her arms over her chest a little more tightly. The grimace she wears isn't entirely genuine, the amusement flickering in her eyes a betrayal of the true emotion beneath. In a low voice, just for K'del, "Given their dam rose at the ass crack of dawn, I am unsurprised, if well," she looks from K'del's clothing to her own with a wry smirk, "Completely caught unawares."

From the sands, A shivering rattle sounds from the Pasty Screaming egg, as the hatchling within shifts and moves. It teeters, rolling over until the 'mouth' faces upwards... and then it goes still again. By contrast, the Down Once More egg has been biding its time in an ominous manner. Now it rocks in a slow but subtle side-to-side movement that barely registers next to the more frantic maneuvers of the eggs closest to it.

From the sands, "Point," agrees K'del, in a voice that's just as low as Irianke's, his own gaze giving her garb a brief glance before it returns to her face. "Well-- 'least it'll be over soon. Oh, there are the candidates." He turns, glancing at the group as they arrive, his smile cheerful if more than a little tired. "Just in time, looks like."

From the sands, Makeup-less and in a long crimson sleeping robe matched with working boots, Irianke turns to watch the incoming candidates, and moves closer to where Roszadyth is, and her rider. "Holding up?" she asks of the young weyrwoman.

From the sands, Quinlys leads the candidates onto the sands, immediately drawing herself off and to the side to wait with several others from her team, arms crossed in front of her. The candidates? They're on their own now.

From the sands, Farideh ''might'' be ogling her senior's garb and the weyrleader in general, from her station next to Roszadyth, but it's a short-lived stare as the candidates amble onto the sands. "Yes. It's almost over, I just keep telling myself," she says through a much-too-wide smile, her eyes returning to Irianke; upwards to her face this time.

From the sands, Lycinea, also among those not in the barracks when the humming began, arrived by the time it was time to join the queue to the sands. Her entrance isn't notable, much like many of the rest, a polite if quick bow to the clutchparents and a settling into part of the forming loose semicircle.

From the sands, Jocelyn's drowsy scowl is still firmly in place as she emerges onto the sands. She's quick to put distance between herself and the younger candidates after bowing briefly to Roszadyth and Lythronath, hands clenching into fists at her sides as she takes a place near the end of the forming semicircle.

From the sands, The End (Is Near...) the Beginning Egg fairly erupts, mere seconds after the candidates arrive, spilling out a dark brown who takes a long moment to recover. Deep-set red eyes then fixate almost immediately on one young man, and the hatchling rushes his way with disturbing speed. His talons sink into the youth's robe possessively and the young dragon utters a sharp bray of a rumble, soon answered by his chosen's muffled mutter.

From the sands, Rategar follows behind most of the candidates shuffling out, the former stablehand seeming to be lingering near Everett the most. He gives his bow to the dragons, of course, and then he finds his place a little apart from the younger ones as the eggs start to hatch.

From the sands, Aiden walks onto the sands quickly, only slowing down when he realizes if he keeps going that fast he'll bump into the candidate in front of him. When it's his turn he bows stiffly to the dam and sire and their riders, and moves to his place in the semi circle around the eggs. He stands there with hands clenched, still standing stiffly. He's startled at how quick the first impression was, which seems to make him even more nervous.

From the sands, It starts in the middle of that 'mouth' when a talon thrusts itself through it, less with violent force and more with... well, there's not a lot of ''room'' in there, and accidents happen. It does the job, though, shattering the shell about it and leaving a tiny, angular blue left in the shards. He takes his time in getting up, eyeing the world with keen interest. Then, with a hungry creel, he takes off; the world is great and all, but his needs, right now, are rather more important.

From the sands,

==Shallows and Light Blue==

So pale a blue as to hint at translucency, his hide is reminiscent of watered silk or the sun-dappled shallows that gently roll against a sandy shore, stretched out as it is over a frame that is long and lanky and lean-- if often youthfully awkward. Here and there, the colors shift: here, a stretch of cyan, muscles limned in near-white; there, slightly darker, as if the sun has been lost behind a cloud, a haze hanging over the horizon. The sharpness of his angles is echoed in the dangerous points of ivory talons, set to contrast against the moody depths of indigo pinions, and the fine lustre of azure sails.

----

From the sands, She might not have thought to change her clothes in her haste, but Irianke has something tucked into one of her robe pockets and hands the flask to Farideh in her pretty blue dress. "Water. It gets hot down here and you," she looks down at the goldrider's burgeoning abdomen, "Need it."

Drex seems wide awake and relatively relaxed, at least as far as hatchings go. He's learned his lesson from a past hatching, and doesn't bother to head to the front of the galleries, even if he pauses to scowl briefly in that direction. Instead, he chooses a seat somewhat in the middle, slumping down, leaning forward to pick out Farideh as the goldrider arrives on the sands.

From the sands, Faryn's calming breath before stepping out on the sands lasts her all of a second. By the time she's bowed respectfully and briefly to Roszadyth and Lythronath, her posture is already starting to show it, and she stops near Jocelyn with a wordless, grumpy grunt of greeting.

From the sands, Everett emerges and it's all much the same as it would have been for Niahvth's eggs, save for the new haircut. Tall, straight shoulders, nondescribt robe, bowing for the queen, finding a place among the semi-circle. Rategar is as good a company as one can hope for under the circumstances, right? "Once more into the breach, isn't that what they say?"

From the sands, Silva looks good. She's got her makeup DONE (okay, so it's been done for a while) and her hair even. So she's good. There's no crouching next to others, but she does hook her arm through another girl's with a reassuring - kinda pat.

From the sands, Nikalas glances toward his dad-- he's right there, after all, not like his mother out there somewhere-- but then he's also got to act like he's not; he starts to get into that polite ritual but then what falls out of his mouth is a four-letter word followed by a pitch-cracked, "''Already?!''"

From the sands, Thin cracks start to appear at the top of the Down Once More Egg, as its sides heave and its dark shell pulses from the great strength of the occupant within. As the cracks widen, the top goes concave and a hole forms, through which first one forepaw, talons gleaming darkly, and then another materializes in order to leverage the rust-tinged bronze beast from his lair.

Jo arrives with M'ron and Kaitlin, sticking to the back and keeping their eyes rapt on what's going on out on the sands.

From the sands,
==Wrought in Secrets Bronze==

Long and angular, with overlarge wings and redly scabrous ridges, this
bronze will never be a handsome creature; he may yet grow into his frame
with time, but nothing can erase the perpetual sneer caused by shadowed
eyeridges and a narrow, heavily fanged mouth. His hide is beaten, rusted
bronze, with the heaviest concentration of titian corrosion stripping down
his flanks and underbelly, bleeding down his limbs like running oil. Veins
of carmine interlace in the delicate parts of his wingsails, while muddier
colors daub his spars; dark as his winghooks are his claws, a red-tinged
ebon that's starkly, sharply unsettling against his other distorted
proportions.

----

From the sands, K'del's glance in Farideh's direction may be intended to be encouraging, though given long-standing relations between the two of them... perhaps not. Still, hands drawn behind his back, he turns his gaze back from the goldrider and out towards the eggs, noting-- fairly obviously-- the arrivals thus far.

Quint's seated with a cluster of harpers, the apprentices with writing implements, while the Journeymen are talking quietly amongst themselves. When the eggs start to crack, the group goes mostly quiet, fixed on the sands.

From the sands, Serin sneaks around, looking for a good spot to stand near perhaps Silva, or perhaps Everett, either way, he does seem quite like he's interested in seeing the dragons pop out of their shells. "Ooo, look at that bronze."

From the sands, Torlynna gives a less than stately bow to Roszadyth and Lythronath before moving down the sands to find a place amoung the other candidates, not wanting to get too close to the main throng of youngers who are clustered together. She is all cool and collected until the eggs start to break and dragonettes come out. That's the dangerous part. Right?

From the sands, Lycinea might have noticed Jocelyn near her, might have even given her some sort of meaningful look, but there's no time once the first shell breaks. Eyes flick to brown, tracking, her breath hitching at the first Impression. Her jaw sets, expression grim as she looks to blue and then bronze.

From the sands, Silva's companion gets pulled away by someone who needs the comfort of a BFF way more, and so Silva steps backwards. It brings her next to Serin and she laughs. "No, look at the ''blue''. Shells, that is just ''pretty''."

From the sands, Shallows and Light Blue's needs send him looking, listening, smelling: not his world for its own sake, but for a ''purpose''. He focuses first on the nearest candidates, those who are silent and those who are anything but. Then the sand, as though what he wants might be somewhere beneath. Then the dark ceiling... only, in that moment its vastness is too much even for him, so he turns away and keeps ''moving'' away, not graceful but quick as a dream.

From the sands, Farideh's gaze lowers from the weyrwoman's face to the flask, and her cheeks get a little rosier. "I didn't even think about that," she sighs, accepting the flask with a timid smile, which is at odds with her earlier, less genuine one. "Thank you. You were-- your first, right?"

From the sands, Quinlys is, so plainly, pleased by that blue (and by the others, too, of course... but it's different). One of her assistants fetches the newest brownrider, while the weyrlingmaster herself rocks back and forth upon her heels, exhaling deeply.

From the sands, Rat looks to Everett as he idly plucks at his billowing robe, briefly glancing to the stands as he says to him, "Fire's more like it." Watching the bronze emerge, "Perhaps luck's on our side, this time, cousin." The last is murmured for only his ears.

From the sands, Death by Pink Egg twitches, just once, as if to flick away a buzzing vtol; such a sharp, pointed movement, so shortly lived. It goes quiet again, after that: nap time?

A wintry-green hatchling lets out a raucous squawk while tugging a wing from the half shell that's left from the Out of Order egg, only to face-dive into the sand when she's suddenly released. Temporarily blinded, she furiously flaps herself free of this new obstacle, tumbling away until at last she falls into a growling, trumpeting heap... until a candidate seems called to aid her. "Oh -- I --" The big woodcrafter girl looks around and then her shoulders stiffen. "Of course I'll help you, Violith." Torlynna glowers this way and that, as though ''daring'' anyone to stop her, as she stomps across to the tangle of hatchling to help clear her green's bejeweled eyes.

L'sha quietly shifts through the galleries, pardoning himself as he finds an open seat as close to the sands as he can. He leans forward on the bench, eyes focused on one particular candidate. He clasps his hands in front of him anxiously. On a ledge above the sands, Rillaeth also focuses her attention on the sands below, rumbling a hum to the hatching eggs.

H'vier is sitting mid-front of the galleries. He doesn't seem to be here with anyone, holding an opened flask in one hand with his other arm tucked across his chest. The picture of unapproachability. Basically business as usual.

From the sands, Jocelyn might return Faryn's grunt of greeting, or maybe that's just a ''noise'' as hatchlings begin to rapidly break shell. Pale eyes flick from one to the other, warily trying to keep track of their positions. Whether or not she catches Lya's look, she sends a glance in the blonde's direction, how briefly.

From the sands, Irianke's nod suffices as an answer, because she's riveted to the first Impression and then the successive eggs hatching, then another Impression. "Look!" she says, "It's different on this side. You and Roszadyth will never have a first hatching again." She cuts a look side ways to where K'del is and beckons the Weyrleader over with a curl of her hand.

From the sands, Aiden watches the blue and speaks mostly to himself when he says "He's quick." He's trying to see every impression, so his eyes are darting from the blue to the bronze and to the new green impression. Those close by would see from his expression that he is a little overwhelmed. "At least we won't be held in suspense for long."

From the sands, Nik doesn't ''wave'' at the hatchlings, but his hands twitch at his sides as he looks this way and that, openly ''wishing'': every hatchling tracked as best he can until they Impress and even a moment or two after, heart worn on his non-existent sleeve.
From the sands, K'del, though distracted by the dragons, does manage to catch that glance and beckoning from the weyrwoman, and slides closer, one arm running through his curls as if to tidy them. "Good hatchlings so far, Farideh," he offers.

Amongst the dignitaries that are seated at the front, the Lord Holder of High Reaches, Devaki, is there with his children, even the younger girls. He's seated next to the younger sister of Lady Tevrane, herself widowed, the pair talking easily as their respective children wiggle about with excitement, variously gaping at the sands, and squealing with delight. Vinien, being a whole, ''mature'', age of nine Turns old, is doing his best to emulate his dad, though he's struggling to suppress the delight his younger sisters are openly demonstrating.

From the sands, After extricating himself from what remains of his murky-looking egg, Wrought In Secrets Bronze does not stand idly by, but immediately tries to gain control of his long, goo-covered appendages.. which is going to take some time. He plots an inelegant course towards a group of female candidates, making up for what he lacks in finesse with speed and spectacular hideousness, lifting his overlarge wings and flashing his terrible teeth when they back away from him.

From the sands, Lycinea's eyes slip briefly away from the hatchlings, only half paying attention to the bronze - enough to be ''aware'' of his relative nearness in case dodging should become necessary. Her eyes go to the leaders, eyes lingering uncertainly on first Farideh then Irianke. It's a conscious effort, but one made to push her attention back to the eggs.

From the sands, Everett has to keep his eyes on the prize--prizes? There are multiple eggs, multiple dragons, attention has to be split and scattered. But it's the bronze, of course, he settles on, because what ambitious young man wouldn't, although maybe there's horror mixed with the fascination. "Luck. It's like playing poker on the surface of the sun and seeing if you can win before it burns you up."

From the sands, Silva keeps tabs on the movement of the dragons across the sands, and even manages to smile as that green meets her lifemate. It's not even a half sarcastic look, Silva is ''honestly'' happy for the other girl. But then she catches sight of the blue again, and giggles slightly. "He's a little silly..." which gets stilled by the bronze, the smile fading. "But, uh, he's... well." A little scary maybe?

From the sands, Serin peers at the eggs on the sands, and wonders, "Was that a green? Shards, it's happening so fast again I swear I'm going to miss something if I stop looking." He muses, and grins at Silva. "The blue -is- pretty nice."

From the sands, Aiden smiles a little when the bronze dragon goes towards the female candidates. "I wonder if that is a sign of things to come?" He is dividing his attention as evenly as possible on what the eggs and the hatchlings are doing, but the smile that sight gives him lets him relax a little."

From the sands, Shallows and Light Blue isn't ''impatient'', exactly. He isn't frenzied, creeling, flapping. Not yet. But there's increasing urgency to his movements, and he's looking at the candidates themselves less and less, as though somehow he'll just ''know''.
From the sands, Faryn murmurs, "Look at him," for that pretty blue, but is quiet otherwise, save soft sounds of appreciation for each dragon. The bronze, even gets his own second look and close examination. If her mouth seems close to twitching into a smile despite the stress of standing there, tired and uncomfortable.

From the sands, Farideh visibly exhales and her focus shifts to where Irianke indicates-- the brown, a blue, a green, a bronze-- really, it's hard to keep up. She pins that polite smile back in place as K'del joins them, dipping her chin in a soliticious nod. "I think so. Roszadyth would be proud if they were all greens, even," she notes, slowly unscrewing the flask.

From the sands, Lycinea's attention is earned by the bronze more fully as he goes to bully those girls. Her expression sets in a firm scowl and an accusatory look briefly flashes to Lythronath before returning to the hatchling.

From the sands, Silva flashes a grin sideways at Serin, and playfully hits his shoulder with an open hand. More of a go-on-you gesture than anything else. "There's like, too much for anyone to see."

From the sands, Irianke buffers the younger woman and the older man with all the confidence anyone can have in a silken bathrobe and work boots. "Would ''you'' be proud if your daughter," that little amusement surfaces, "Was born green?" Defying gravity and all.
From the sands, The veneer of ruffles and frills start to crack, exposing a dark shadow within. Successive shakes deepen those cracks quickly, until an explosion sends a shower of pink shell confetti to rain onto those nearest to the egg -- and reveals a pleasantly rounded little green.

From the sands,

==Effervescent Joys of Spring Green==

Pleasantly rotund with adorably large paws, this young green is,
nonetheless, sprightly and light on her short limbs. She's colored a
dew-touched spring green from the top of her head to the tip of her tail,
even down to her wiggly toes with their ivory-gold talons; a subtle
mottled patterning, slightly darker and reminiscent of paisley, winds in
and around the softly curved ridges of her spine. That same patterning is
found in the delicate lace-like sails of her wings, flowing from stalwart
spars that stretch wider when unfurled than her length would imply, and
repeats on the underside of her gently sloped neck. Her face is cherubic
with its dished profile and rounded cheeks that convey a perpetually
cheerful visage, but it's in her expressive, so often exuberantly whirling
eyes that true emotions can be found.

----

From the sands, Wrought In Secrets Bronze seems to understand ''these'' candidates are not the ones for ''him'', and grudgingly tucks his wings and stops baring his teeth, to walk away with his head bent low. His steps lead him directly to another group of candidates that breaks apart at his approach, but he's less interested in them as he spies and dashes towards a short, sandy-haired boy beyond. He swings his head about as he dismisses ''this one'' too, continuing on his ungainly route through the candidates.

From the sands, Rat grins quickly towards Everett for his answer as he comments, "Not much a gambler yourself?" Some of his Bitran accent slips to something more from Crom, and he doesn't seem to notice. He watches the bronze like the others. And the blue. "Sometimes there's reward in risk, or so my father tells it."

From the sands, Jocelyn is looking, all right; "That bronze, though, " she returns, low, with a grimace. Mouth pressing into a thin line, the redhead still raises eyebrows for the newest green to hatch. "Pretty, " to Faryn.

From the sands, A little boy wails and the bottom half of his robe looks super soaked.
From the sands, Shallows and Light Blue trips his way past another group of white-robed candidates, ignoring them all in his quest for... well, ''whatever'' it is that he's so intent upon. His wings flail about him as those too-long limbs refuse to work perfectly in sync; it's a disaster! But not, it seems, a disaster without remedy, for though he might end up falling tail over nose, it lands him in front of a dark-haired girl for whom his circle is complete. ''You''.

From the sands, Quinlys does ''not'' go to help that poor boy with the wet robe. No she does not.

From the sands, Lycinea's low hiss is for the bronze, even if she's not ''near'' him. Her arms do rise now, from inattention more than anything, to cross across her chest. Movement on the sand distracts and the arms only come ''most'' of the way before stuttering in their movement, finally completing and settling in a way that is more a motion of self-comfort than the one of disapproval it was ''meant'' to be.

From the sands, Faryn says, "Sometimes they look so...," but doesn't find a way to finish before her eyes are drawn back to the green at Jocelyn's remark and return with, "Bet she's quick.""

From the sands, Time to make an escape! The swirling hues of the Doomed in Darkness egg give the illusion of pulsing when it wobbles. After a small pause, it rocks just once more, and then stops, as though waiting for ''something''. As it does so, The Pit(s) Egg rolls under the force of a determined thrust from within, its stickily black surface roiling in answer to repeated counter-attacks. It tips, ocherous patches lost to view as, once again, it half-buries itself within the sands.

From the sands, Serin wasn't expecting his fellow to be torn away so quickly, thought he does grin as Silva has a blue nearly causing a disaster near him.

From the sands, K'del, firmly: "There's absolutely nothing wrong with greens. Once upon a time, Cadejoth'd've loved if all of them were." But then he tasted gold? "He still likes them. So do I. But-- all of them."

From the sands, Farideh's smile stretches wider at Irianke's words, but then it falters and she's abruptly ''frowning'', glancing from the weyrwoman to the weyrleader with wariness in her eyes. ''Trick question?''

From the sands, Silva is totally about to say something else when OMG. (Or whatever Pern says. OMS?) The pretty little blue is standing before her in a pile of dragon. Green eyes widen and she loses all of that affected dignity and overt brightness she's drawn about her. She's just a girl. Staring downwards into whirling eyes. "Shell... I. like. Oh," she's at a loss, but the prodding within will finally get through her shock. "Zaisyreth! Oh my gosh, uh, like, oh, yes. Okay, um, like. Yes." And then heedless of her hair, make-up, and awful dress will help her blue Zaisyreth up and help they'll head out.

From the sands, Quinlys, instead of helping poor candidates, steps right up towards Silva, acknowledging the girl and her blue with a cheerful enough smile. "Congratulations," she says. "Come on, let me show you towards the barracks; you can find food, there."

From the sands, "Oh, that poor child," says Irianke under her breath. "His mother did think he was a little too young." There's a note of regret in the Weyrwoman's voice and her gaze moves to seek the galleries, and, presumably, the mother of that poor child, and in doing so, catches sight of Lycinea's head of blonde midst the candidates and pauses. "Hmm what?" Confused, after the distraction of peeing candidates, she looks at Farideh blankly.

From the sands, Everett shrugs, there: "Depends on if the mood strikes me. I would prefer to avoid games of chance where they impact the course of the rest of my life." But he's keeping his back straight, head high, watching the bronze, noticing at least the blue and Silva, but he seems keen to avoid paying overmuch attention. In a fight-or-flight sort of mode, here, all eyes and ears and awareness.

From the sands, Effervescent Joys of Spring Green shakes one back leg free of shell and goo and then the other in such a way the shimmy starts to rise along her haunches, up her back, and results in a tiny little twitch about her head as she gains her prescence of mind. Then, with a tiny little sigh so far beyond her turns, she turns to finally take it all in; the people in the galleries, the larger dragons on the sands with her, and finally, the white-robed candidates. She starts moving, her gait delicately feminine in spite of shorter limbs that don't quite match her young bulk yet.

From the sands, Aiden smiles at the newest impression. "Congratulations Silva." As impressions are made he moves to spread out appropriately, make sure to keep an eye out for hatchlings getting too close too quick. His hands are still clenched as he tries to look everywhere at once.

From the sands, Lycinea shifts, stepping slightly closer to Jocelyn, her brow glistening from the sweat that might no longer be the work of only the sands. Instead of looking at the little green directly, she casts unnerved sort of sidelong glances toward the creature before looking to other eggs. The rocking step that took her toward Jocelyn takes her just as quickly back the other way.

From the sands, K'del says (perhaps wisely?) nothing more. Actually, that might be because he's looking in askance after Silva and her new blue; that could certainly be the reason.
From the sands, Wrought in Secrets Bronze keeps up his helter-skelter path, weaving in and out of the white-robed candidates with increasing ferocity; he shows no remorse for anyone or anything caught in his way, nor any harm caused as a result of his determined search. His frustration grows the longer his hunt continues, until at long last, with a singular, piercing stare and a ferocious screech, he locks eyes with a brawny, dark-haired young man.
From the sands, Jocelyn gives a sharp, if distracted nod in reply to Faryn. Is it surprise, dismay, a combination of the two that twist at her visage when Silva Impresses? Whichever the case, it soon dissolves into a thin smile, one that shades genuine when she glances quickly toward movement near her as Lycinea approaches and promptly shifts away again. "Lya." Low. It might be easy enough to miss in the shuffle.

From the sands, Serin has his fellow candidate get impressed, to which he gives Silva a quick pat on the back before she slips off with her newfound partner. "Well, that was unexpected." He says with a grin, wondering what the future is going to be like with that pair.

From the sands, The Under the Bed Egg has been working on escape for a while now: a crack here, a fracture there, a fallen gray fragment following. It's still almost whole when its greyed blue hatchling skulks out from the cavern he'd created in its base -- and abruptly startles, because ''light''. And beings. And... N'klas, once Nik, who leaves his sulky brother behind in unabashed delight. Even as they're ushered off the sands, he's talking a mile a minute already, about Khajith and to Khajith while the still-little dragon appears to get every word and, better, get ''him''.

From the sands, Faryn says, "A blue?" Faryn does little to hide her surprise at Silva's Impression. Her follow-up comment is a dry, "Silva, ''blue''?" Then with a sigh to Jocelyn, that does not omit Lya's presence, "Poor thing has no idea what he's gotten into." But the bronze? The bronze has found someone. Faryn touches up on her tip-toes and peers down the row. "Who?""

From the sands, Lycinea casts a glance toward Jocelyn at the sound of her name. Her eyes are a little wider than usual, and her mask of grimness breaks just long enough for her to look vulnerable, to look fearful, before she looks away again. "I'm not sure what I thought I was doing," is not really the sort of confession one is ''supposed'' to make to whomever can hear her when she's already on the sands facing the hatchlings.

From the sands, Aiden smiles when he overhears Faryn. "That blue was quick though, right out of the shell. Maybe he can keep up with her." He almost misses N'klas' impression and calls a congratulation to the new weyrling.

From the sands, Rat shakes his head, the heat starting to get to him as he turns slightly to Everett to explain--- Well. The bronze is there. Something seems to pierce his gut since his arm goes right there as he stares at the bronze hard. "Uh...huh. Asaroth. Yeah." He stumbles back a little, and his Bitran accent is gone as he steps away from the other candidates.

From the sands, Quinlys sweeps in; and if she doesn't look super happy, well. These things happen. "Congratulations," she tells Rategar-- or whatever his name is now. "Come on, we'll get you some meat for him."

From the sands, Farideh continues to frown as her gaze slips from the weyrleaders and their misleading questions, to the dragons and the recent Impressions made. She takes a generous swallow from the flask-- maybe it really is liquor! no, not liquor, sad-- before murmuring, "It's going fast. I don't think I even recognize--" Except, right then, she does. "Yours?" as she glances to K'del.

From the sands, With a final, shuddering jolt, The Pit(s) Egg tears itself in twain, blackened edges dissolving into the sands as the long-limbed dragon within thrusts herself free. She rises, uneasy on her long-cramped limbs, and extends her neck to see. There's a whole world out here!

From the sands,

==Got Wit? Gold ==

She's eye-catching, this young queen, so exaggeratedly long and lean and
so very bright in hue. The warm brilliance of her hide is washed about the
extremities in a burnished orange-gold, tripping down the low curves of
her headknobs, her neckridges, that tail that goes on for miles. It's
there in those so-filmy wingsails, too, their broad expanses at once both
exquisitely delicate and built for power. She's gawkily awkward now, too
short in the body and too long everywhere else, but something in the way
she moves owns it, and promises capability to come. Though wide-spaced,
those eyes of hers are keen and incisive rather than innocent, and if her
nose narrows and curves to an almost beak-like tip, it serves to make her
more striking still: a dragon worth noticing.

----

From the sands, Irianke looks at K'del sharply as the euphoria of watching yet another Impression fades. "Are you a proud father?"

From the sands, K'del's eyes go wide; Farideh has pointed it out and ''there''. "That's my boy!"

From the sands, Jocelyn replies drily, "Apparently so. I never would have - " But whatever she was going to say next stays in her throat, because there's Roszadyth's daughter. After a moment, she gets out a swear, then two.

From the sands, Lycinea's emphatic "''Shit''," comes in the wake of the gold's hatching. If she looked like she was about to try to make a break for the exit with her unnerved confusion in the moments before, her feet are actually taking her back some steps in that direction now, a panicked look flicking toward Irianke. Would she disown her if she ''ran'' now?

From the sands, Effervescent Joys of Spring Green has made her way across the sands twice, traipsing in that delicately joyful way she has, spring from limb to limb in a prance that crosses distance a lot faster than her size might suggest. She's considered the candidates before her once, twice, now thrice, and then comes to stand by a ruddy-haired boy from Crom and looks at up with eyes now starting to swirl with the crimson of hunger. With seeming regret, the tiny green shakes her head and starts walking slowly, then quickening her pace as she ''realizes'' something.

From the sands, K'del's son? Totally more important than the hatching of a queen... though no doubt the Weyrleader will pay more attention ''later''.

From the sands, "Okay there, Lycinea?" Faryn's distracted, yes, now flat on the soles of her boot and leaning forward to see down the row. There's a certainly a second moment of shock that follows and the name--"Rat"--spat like a curse. But then, "Is that...gold? My betting ledger is ''fucked''."

From the sands, Shaking out her wings, the Got Wit? Gold attempts a cautious step forward. After all that time in the egg, her muscles are cramped, and those too long limbs? They aren't helping matters. Still, she launches herself forward, stepping straight towards her so-large parents out of curiosity. Who're they?

From the sands, Serin tries to keep up with everything, people getting Impressed, dragons cracking out of their eggs, but in the end it's just hopeless to assume that he can keep up with everything. The gold gets a look, and he decides, "That one's mine." Yep, totally.
From the sands, Everett does his own cursing, though thankfully not loud enough to carry, as Rategar--as T'gar heads off the sands, bronze in tow. His interest, of course, is not particularly in the queen. A scan of the rest of the eggs, a wary look at the green wandering around, like if he looks at her too long that alone could be unlucky. "I don't think the hair will confuse her that much," he says, seizing on Serin for a distraction. Not literally, of course. Quite.

From the sands, It starts as a shiver, an eerie scratching from within the What Burns Beneath egg, barely audible amidst the excitement of the sands. The scratching climaxes with a small crack in one of the shell's hitherto illusionary fissures, followed by the tips of dark talons -- before all is still again.

From the sands, Aiden smiles at Serin. "That I'd like to see." He looks curiously at the gold hatchling, but doesn't neglect his careful watch on any other hatchlings that come too close. "Careful," he mutterse to himself.

From the sands, Irianke, after noticing the gold hatching, shifts her focus immediately from ribbing K'del to the candidates and frowns noticeably. Then there's Lycinea and a subtle shake of her head and upward turn of a very small crooked smile, encourages that particular candidate to ''not'' run away.

L'sha gasps as the gold hatches, taking his attention off of Serin for the first time. "Wow, she's beautiful." He somehow catches Serin's jibe over the noise of the crowd and starts giggling.

From the sands, Lycinea's head shake is quick to Faryn, "No. I am ''not'' okay. I think-- I'm-- have you ever seen anyone run off the sands before? It's sounding ''really'', '''''really''''' good right now." She gulps. She might run, only her feet don't seem to be responding to less than polite requests to get a ''move on'' toward the exit.

From the sands, Farideh's drinking from her flask again, and almost chokes when the gold hatches. Her eyes fly up to Roszadyth and Lythronath, back down, back up!, back down, and settle on the gold hatchling, while a little scrunched 'v' forms between her eyebrows.

From the sands, All at once, the Doomed in Darkness egg violently dislodges itself from its wallow, rolling over the sand for several feet before the shell suddenly cracks into three distinct pieces. The startled dragonet within tumbles out onto the sands in a heap before an equally-as-startled tangle of candidates, some of whom retreat backwards, while others surge forwards. A little wobbly, he pushes to his feet and immediately shakes off much of the egg goop covering him, splattering some of those closest in the process. Oops.

From the sands,

==Dashing Daredevil Blue ==

A little rugged, a little gawky, more than a little handsome, he's vital
from the intelligent cant of eyes and rakishly-cast headknobs to the
lengthy, whiplike tail: a young dragon in uniform, a snazzy blue only just
darker than royal. His wings are tapered yet broad, if currently big for
him; if they're also streaked with flagstone blue, just like the tips of
his neckridges and the crevices of his joints, it's a worldly dustiness
that promises plenty of exploring in distant lands. When it clings to
short, strong claws, it's less a matter of color than it is simply matte:
grit that accentuates an otherwise near-black shine.

----

From the sands, Serin shrugs a little, grinning at Everett as he seizes onto his arm, "Hey, there's a first time for everything.. right?" He seems like that is totally feasible, and keeps an eye on the gold while smirking. "First Weyrman."

From the sands, Jocelyn's knuckles whiten at her sides, even as she's raising an eyebrow for Faryn's spitting of 'Rat.' "I doubt your ledger's the only one, " she says after a moment, looking as though she'd like to follow Lycinea's suggestion. What she says instead, as she straightens is a brisk, "Stay, " for the blonde.

From the sands, A squawk emits faintly from the False Sense of Security egg, mere seconds before it begins to crack. The fissures widen quickly as pale green talons pierce and yank to finally rend the inhabitant's prison. The green that stumbles awkwardly forth is so dark as to be nearly black, and staggers awkwardly toward the line of candidates, her too-large wings dragging upon the sands. A young woman finally steps forward and motions at the green, which seems to do the trick; the hatchling utters a final cry, and the brunette steps forward to help her. Impression is a certainty.

From the sands, Faryn's voice is firmer when she turns to look fully at Lycinea. "Hey. ''Don't''." Her hand raises just enough to suggest she might snag Lycinea's elbow by reaching just behind Jocelyn. She can't offer comfort, just that. The same thing Jocelyn offered.

From the sands, Sadly, Roszadyth and Lythronath are not going to help the Got Wit? Gold going forward-- not in the immediate sense, anyway. Instead, she turns her attention towards the candidates, stepping her way through a cluster of them with interest. No, no-- ''definitely'' no-- no again. Still; she perseveres. What she's looking for can't be too far away.

From the sands, K'del, finally, tears his attention of the blue and his son, the ones who've already well and truly disappeared off the sands. Of course, there's his ''other'' son, for whom he has a quick thumbs up gesture... and then there are the hatchlings, the ones his eyes finally take in, one after another. "Didn't think we... needed another queen," is quietly even, if a little tense.

From the sands, Lycinea doesn't look particularly bolstered by Irianke's head shake, by Jocelyn's 'stay', nor Faryn's 'don't', but a weyrbrat turned kitchenhand turned weyrwoman's assistant turned trader-tagalong turned weyrwoman's assistant is well-practiced at taking orders she doesn't especially like. The straightening of her own back has less to do with bravery and far more to do with the impulse to buck the directives in one fell sw-- run.

From the sands, Effervescent Joys of Spring Green is a last-minute flurry of movement and emotions, her joy at having found ''the one'' radiating in a loud broadcast towards dragonkind as well as ''her'', that lovely blonde with the blue-green eyes. When, at ''last'', she is standing before the woman, she just looks up, her expressively lit and brightly whirling eyes looking adoringly at her chosen.

From the sands, Irianke's gaze tears from Lycinea when it's clear the young woman ''isn't'' about to bolt, and misses the Impression while replying to K'del. "No." Her gaze is dark, lit only by the bright sheen of the queen. "We did not need another queen," is something she says very lowly, so lowly, with an even lower, "But other Weyrs might."

From the sands, Dashing Daredevil Blue finishes his shaking, and staggers as he gets his feet more firmly beneath him. Wings unfurl partially to help balance him as the suave fellow swivels his neck and head all about, fast-whirling, red eyes taking note of the white-robed figures beyond. A sudden lashing of his whip-like tail slaps its tips to sands, and he's off in a small cloud of granules, questing for the 'right one.'

From the sands, Jocelyn sees Faryn reach for Lya's elbow, promptly reaching over to tug briefly at the brunette's other hand as that pretty green comes to a stop in front of the younger of the trio. "There, she's fine." She's quick to relinquish her hold on the other candidate, fidgeting unhappily despite determinedly holding her ground.

From the sands, Perseverance has taken the Got Wit? Gold this far, but it's simply not going to be enough. Long-cramped limbs carry her uneasily, sending her teetering this way and that as she struggles to remain her balance. It's not that she's daunted, not ''this'' dragon, but-- '''there'''. She stops, nearly tripping over herself in the process, and she turns. A moment later, head held high, she carries herself on overly-careful feet to the one she's been looking for. You, Jocelyn. She needs you.

From the sands, Farideh pulls her eyes away from the gold hatchling long enough to stare unhappily at K'del. "It's not like--" But she bites down on her tongue and falls silent, just in time for Irianke's words to sober her expression.

From the sands, K'del, too, goes silent. An intake of breath; an exhale. And; "Well. We'll--" But the newest queen is Impressing, and he goes silent once more.

From the sands, What Burns Beneath Egg shivers again. In the next moment, the map-like surface succumbs to the pressure within, fracturing dramatically into large chunks of shell -- which start to slide free like so many tectonic plates before they crash to the sands, revealing a coiled bronze hatchling. He rises, drawing himself up in a surprisingly fluid movement, and turns his head; he ''looks''.

From the sands,

==Feast for the Psyche Bronze==

Even in unpolished youth, this two-toned bronze has the promise of
presence. He might have been merely a pale specimen, were it not for the
heavy shadows that drip, as though wetly oozing, from the tenebrous ridges
of his spine. That pattern, if it can truly be called such with its
extreme irregularity, is unbalanced from one side to the other: absolute
boundaries of dark swallowing light in some places, grisly smears to unite
them in others. Though bright against their dark spars, his wingsails also
bear the erratic splatters of arterial spray. He's a solid, strong
creature, but age will whet his angles into ever sharper, ever harder
lines, from his hooked muzzle down to his honed talons.

----

From the sands, Serin frowns as the gold decides on a girl. "Pfft." He rolls his eyes a little but then grins at Jocelyn as the dragon ends up at her feet. "No gold for me, so sad." He draws a long sigh, almost sounding like he actually -is- disappointed.
From the sands, Faryn's reach lands just in time for her to notice the green there for Lya, and then -- that sharding gold too. The ex-crafter abruptly steps back, back -- hands up. All yours, ladies. She backs closer to the shrinking group of candidates.

From the sands, Jocelyn is all at once very, very still. Perhaps those near her notice; perhaps they don't. Her focus pulled to the dragon approaching her, there's a tremble that shivers through her angular frame, even as pale eyes widen and her lips part to silently mouth the syllables that make up Aidavanth's name. She takes a step forward, then another, a fierce joy sweeping over her visage while a hand extends, shaking, to brush incredulously over that wedge-shaped head. "I've always been here, " she chokes out at last, tearful.

From the sands, Lys's frozen legs become something more than her own stillness. Panic grips her briefly before tears are streaming down her face and she's staring, unblinking at the little, joyful green. For too long, there are no words, then suddenly, with a shuddered breath and gulp. "It's real." Her hand trembles as she reaches ''her'' dragon.

From the sands, With a shudder, Do Not Approach the Dog Park Egg finally cracks open, allowing a ruddy brown muzzle to thrust out of it. He stumbles a bit over his too-large paws and utters a dismayed sound when he ends up, chest first, in the sand. Once he gains his feet again, though, he doesn't take much longer to find his chosen -- a teenager from the caverns. The brown butts his head into his new lifemate's middle, which earns him a solid rubbing behind the headknobs and a laugh.

From the sands, Aiden moves as the number of candidates thins, so that he isn't so far away from some of them. Though he keeps a little distance for the others, apparently for safety's sake. "Congratulations Jocelyn and Lycinea."

From the sands, Feast for the Psyche Bronze slowly blinks his second eyelid as red begins to whirl behind the facets of his eyes. His limbs engage experimentally, talons flexing into the remains of his shell, and then he's mobile. It's careful at first, gaining some measure of control over his legs and his wings, ramping up into more confident steps as he starts in the direction of the candidates.

From the sands, One weyrlingmaster and then another head out across the sands to gather up the newest weyrlings, directing them off towards the sides where, they are assured, meat is waiting.

L'sha grins and applauds as the gold Impresses to Jocelyn. His gaze quickly returns to Serin, glancing occasionally at the dashing blue on the sands.

From the sands, It's one of the last eggs upon the sands, and still The Unsea Egg breaks open without fanfare, leaving a lean and luridly green hatchling in its wake. She points her pointed muzzle right at the nearest candidates and unhesitatingly darts that way, tripping and tumbling in her haste. Although she crashes past one or two candidates in the process, in the end a young man steps forward to help her set her limbs to rights.

From the sands, Dashing Daredevil Blue is direct in his pursuit, the snazzy little hatchling wasting no time in sizing up and then dismissing a pair of Weyrbred twins. As he continues to search farther along the knots of candidates, the rejections grow, and his tail lashes with increasing frequency. It takes a good handful of minutes for him to traverse the Sands, yet - by the time he's finally examined more of the white-robes - none of them really quite measure up to his standards. His reserves are starting to peter out, and with his loss of energy comes a creel of frustration.

From the sands, K'del's gaze seeks across the sands, glancing back to Kasey, that remaining son of his. He looks-- wistful, torn between jubilation and dismay.

From the sands, Serin watches as there's hardly any eggs left, though the whipping tail of the blue is glanced at as it draws closer. "Hope he doesn't hit anyone with that thing. It'd hurt, I'm sure." He says, and gives a nudge to Everett. "No gold for me, but hey, there's a bronze. Maybe he'll suffice."

From the sands, Feast for the Psyche Bronze eyes the galleries, perhaps gauging whether there's anything worthwhile there, before his attention returns to the remaining group of candidates. He doesn't seem pleased with his choices, in so much as a hatchling can seem displeased, but it won't stop him from analyzing them for their suitability to his design.

From the sands, Everett watches most of the rest of what's happening with a sort of detached interest. At some point, arms cross, a fist clenches and relaxes. What do you do about stress, out here, deprived of everything else? Nothing. You do nothing but stand there and wait and watch the rest of the eggs and then just keep standing there and... apparently make a little more small talk. "If it doesn't happen, it doesn't happen."

From the sands, Surging through yet another knot of unsuitable candidates, the Dashing Daredevil Blue finds himself tiring, finally thumping his rear to the sands in exhaustion and frustration. As he recovers, however, some rogue perception has him jerking his head up and around, sending him lurching into motion to trot off across the sands to his chosen. It's only after whirling red eyes lock with cerulean blue ones from a spare foot away that he utters a tiny, excited warble, crashing tiredly forward into the former starsmith's legs. What an adventure!

From the sands, Aiden watches the bronze with amusement. "I guess he really doesn't like anybody, does he?" With fewer eggs on the sands he can pay more attention to each one, and now he seems curious about who the bronze will decide on.

From the sands, Feast for the Psyche Bronze will not be rushed in this most important of decisions. There's a dispassionate glance for one boy. He ignores another entirely, instead eyeing a girl as if he might be able to sate his hunger before he finds his lifemate. But then-- There. When whirling red eyes finally fixate unmistakably on a young, blue-eyed man with high cheekbones, it's not ''simply'' hunger. He's excited.

From the sands, Ellerey is still last: last of her trading clan left behind, last candidate Searched, last to wake up this morning, last for meals. And now, as the last of the hatchlings stalks the sands, she's the last to be chosen. The dark green that explodes from the last of the eggs -- The Oppressive Vessel Egg -- jerks her head up and around, and applies a burst of gawky speed to close in to the small group Ellerey is part of. Even as they scatter, the trader is assailed by the silent green, knocked over and crawled on top of as the green asserts their new-forged bond. Red eyes turn blue, as the sands beneath them are darkened with a smattering of blood.

L'sha gasps again and leans ''way'' forward in his seat as the blue heads for Serin. He grips the railing in front of him, knuckles whitening as he stares out at the sands, holding his breath.

From the sands, K'del opens his mouth-- and then closes it again. The last hatchling has Impressed (though plainly not without incident) and now... he turns to glance, side-long, at the two goldriders, expression now somewhat tight. Deep breath.

From the sands, S'rin wasn't prepared to be crashed into, but that doesn't mean that he's not going to bend down and help the tired little blue. "Hey hey. You should be more careful." He chastises, before adding, "I -am- looking at you." He grins broadly, trying to encourage the blue to find his feet again so they can go find the food. "I think there's food, well, somewhere." He really wasn't expecting this ending.

From the sands, With the whole thing over so fast, Farideh merely frowns in the direction that all the new baby dragons have gone. ''She'' doesn't look as relieved as she has previously stated, when the whole shebang would be finished; Roszadyth, however, looks elated.

From the sands, V'ret has been prepared for disappointment. Prepared for success? Maybe not so much, standing there staring at the bronze for a moment so long it could grow uncomfortable. For somebody. Not him. When he finally bothers to blink again, the world has changed, and yet it's the easiest transition. Just like that: "His name is Zoth." Calm, centered. He probably should have said it more loudly, but the galleries are utterly outside his sphere of interest. "I think we can find you something worth eating," as he shifts to move off the sands.

From the sands, K'del, reluctantly, steps forward. For a moment, he meets the gaze of his son, poor Kasey left behind. Then, he lets it shift and turn about the other remaining candidates, both apologetic and sympathetic. "I'm sorry that your dragons weren't here today," he says, quietly. "But know that we appreciate you putting your lives on hold for this. It may be that your dragon will be here-- or on another set of sands-- at some point in the future. It may not. For now, we hope you'll consider your options. If there's anything the Weyr can do, please do ask. Thanks, you, again."

L'sha suddenly springs to his feet with a loud whoop as S'rin Impresses. Then he suddenly realizes what he just did and sits back down just as quickly, apologizing to the people near him in the gallery. He keeps his celebration to himself, silently, but he can barely contain himself.

From the sands, Faryn's on the edge now, watching the last two dragons barrel for their pairs and leave -- well, that same smattering of people, but different too and Faryn's eyes cut to the ledges, trying to pick out something specific. Whether she finds it or not is unclear, but eventually her eyes drop back down to focus in on K'del then, when he's done, on the closest person: Aiden, who gets a quick smile. Almost peaceful, compared to the cut of most of them. "You bakers are bad luck," she says, and it's hard to tell if she's joking as she turns back into the barracks.

From the sands, Aiden nods at K'del's words and waits his turn to leave the now dwindled semi circle around the shards left behind. His hands have been clenched most of the hatching, and he starts working the stiff fingers a little as he waits for the nearest candidates to the exit to go first, then he starts walking towards the exit from the sands.

From the sands, The candidates are gone leaving the leadership and Farideh with A'rist on the sands. "Shall we?" Irianke asks of K'del, holding out her arm to the Weyrleader. "I'll need to change but I'm sure Jounine has the kegs and casks out and those bottles of bubbles we've had chilled for the last two days."

From the sands, K'del looks, even now, as if he'd like to rush after his departing son-- but does not. Irianke's words have him turning, and he nods, taking her arm to escort her away. "Mm," he agrees. "Come on. I'm sure she's got it all well in control until we get there."
|Categories=HRW Clutch 38 Logs, Hatching Logs
}}
__NOTOC__

H'vier

2015-09-17T20:20:58Z

H'vier:

{{Profile
|picture=Havi.jpg
|position=Iceberg Wingleader
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|Has rank=Wingleader
|birthplace=Somewhere in Ista
|children=Tahvra (D1 M1 T34) Mayrin (D3 M10 T35) Tayre (D26 M12 T35)
|playedby=Joe Manganiello
|status=Active
|face=blank.jpg
|body=
== Description ==

A large man in his early forties, H'vier is an impressive six foot five of broad-shouldered muscle and attitude. His hair, dark and unruly, is kept just a touch longer than proper for a dragonrider, slicked back just out of his face. A short beard, peppered with silver, frames the hard lines of his square jaw more often than not with a mustache filling in over his upper lip. His crooked nose looks as though it's seen the wrong end of a fist or two but it manages to add character rather than detract from an overall attractive gathering of features.

When not in his leathers, his choice in clothing is deliberate in a way that might contradict his general manner. A well-tailored, not-cheap wardrobe brings him through all seasons in the Reaches in style.

== WYSK ==

* H'vier is from Ista Weyr. Now he's in High Reaches. For reasons.

== Relationships ==

* Mostly bad.

== History ==

* M10 T30: Transfers from Ista.
* M6, T32: Becomes Iceberg's Wingsecond.
** While temporarily banished from the Weyr for beating up a brownrider.
* M1 T34: [[Tayte]] gives birth to daughter Tahvra.
* M12 T34: Unintentionally knocks up then Wingleader Fayla after Hraedhyth's third flight.
* M3 T35: Reisoth catches [[Aishani|Aishani's]] gold Iesaryth.
* M10 T35: Fayla gives birth to daughter Mayrin.
* M12 T35: [[Tayte]] gives birth to son Tayre.
* M13 T35: Becomes Iceberg's Wingleader.
** Fayla and [[G'laer]] become his Wingseconds.
* M11 T36: Fires [[G'laer]] as Wingsecond after Reisoth catches Teisyth a second time.
* M1 T37: Reisoth catches [[Irianke|Irianke's]] gold Niahvth.
* M4 T37: Grounded for assaulting [[K'zin]] during clutching feast.
* M7 T38: Becomes withdrawn after [[Lilah|the woman he claimed to love]] disappears.
* M9 T38: Stops visiting the daughter and son he had with [[Tayte]].

== RP Logs ==

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

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

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

{{Icons}}

}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Ista Area, Ista Weyr
}}

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

Logs:Under Contract

2015-09-14T03:44:43Z

H'vier: Created page with "{{Log |who=Edric, Z'riah |what=A deal for useful services is struck. |where=Hot Springs & Edric's Room, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=20 |month=10 |turn=38 |IP=Interval |..."

{{Log
|who=Edric, Z'riah
|what=A deal for useful services is struck.
|where=Hot Springs & Edric's Room, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=20
|month=10
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.13
|quote=Do not underestimate me - or my creativity - greenrider.
|mentions=X'vin
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon edric excellent.gif, Icon z'riah neckrub.gif,
|log=It's later in the morning, well after the morning work has been completed - and, yet, some time before the mid-day meal is to be served. There is plenty of work to be done, but the Weyr's consultant seems to be done with his duties for the time being. There's a scant handful of other people here, which makes it easy enough for Edric to claim one of the smaller pools for his own. One basket containing his neatly folded clothes is a safe distance from the water; a smaller basket, filled with meticulously organized items and a couple of wash cloths, is closer at hand. The man himself is seated so he can keep an eye on arrivals and departures, though it might ''appear'' for all the world as if he's dozing. His eyes are shut - or mostly so, it's hard to tell with his spectacles still in place - and he's sunk to his shoulders in the water.

Z'riah is one such arrival, looking only somewhat recently awake and ruffled in a way that suggests he didn't bother pushing his hands through his hair when he got out of whoever's bed to make his way here. He's paying little attention to his surroundings when he strips down, shoves his clothes into a pile on a bench and turns to find a pool without bothering to grab a towel. He pauses when he recognizes Edric in a pool by himself, and his path shifts toward it with an oddly cautious confidence. "Morning," he offers as he comes closer. It works well to see if the man is awake, if nothing else.

There's just the slightest tilt of Edric's head, enough to catch light on lenses and hide his eyes behind the glare. His expression is comfortably and naturally neutral. "Morning," is echoed with a politely thin-lipped smile. He gestures with a hand to a place vaguely opposite himself in the pool, with the subtle upward quirk of an eyebrow. "You never did tell me if you needed anything for your weyr or not," is mostly mused - if in deadpan fashion. "I will trust that it was cleaner than those that were reserved for the weyrlings."

It's not going to take a second invitation for Z'riah to settle himself into the pool across from Edric. Like so many weyrbred dragonriders, he has no sense of polite modesty. "I guess I'm used to scrounging for myself," he offers, almost apologetically, quick to add, "It's nice, though. Just needed a quick sweep. Small, but the only other proper weyr I've lived in was oversized for a few people. Not sure I need anything... not unless you'd like to come by yourself sometime." It has to be tried.

"Mm." With the greenrider's acceptance, the Steward shifts in the water to sit more upright. Edric hooks a hand back to deftly collect the small basket with its assortment of things - all specialty items, properly labeled, from soapsands to oils and the like - and offer it over without a word and with plenty of implications. "I see," he says after a moment and with a brief, but thoughtful, pursing of lips. "Of course. I can't recall that we properly took inventory of what was left in there," if anything was left, of course, "or if anything required repairs. I have a full schedule today, but-" his free hand gestures dismissively "-I can arrange a visit whenever would be convenient."

The greenrider doesn't move immediately to take the basket, tentative enough of the implications to hesitate momentarily, but when he does, he shifts around somewhat closer to Edric, roughly halfway closer from where he'd been sitting opposite the Steward. Z'riah glances up from smelling a particular soapsand at the last and he doesn't even try not to grin. "I'm pretty sure any time you wanted to come to my weyr would be convenient for me." He'd make sure of it, presumably. He sets the basket to the side now that he's picked out a soapsand, but he balances that along the edge of the pool, too, so he can dip his head under the water to fully soak his wayward hair.

The shift is noted, surely, but there is no comment made of it. If anything, one corner of Edric's mouth twitches with wry amusement. It's a fleeting thing and his mien settles into ambivalence again. "Excellent," is uttered, deadpan. "I did have a business proposal to make," he continues, though he waits until Z'riah's soaked his hair before he elaborates further. "One that would be a touch more lucrative than handling my ironing. ''That'' offer still stands, of course." Yet, there's the rise of a lone eyebrow - if no corresponding curve at the corner of his mouth. "But this one would require- ah. A certain measure of discretion."

With his hair wet and pushed back out of his face, Z'riah reaches for the chosen soapsand to lather up a small handful. His attention is entirely Edric's, however. The greenrider watches the Steward, studying his expression in a way that's more nuanced than the man has really made himself seem. There's likely no doubt about where Z'riah's mind goes, what with the way he clears his throat and looks at the taller man before his gaze shifts away. "I can be discrete, sir," he assures before he's scrubbing the lather into his dark hair.

"That is reassuring." Edric leans, just a little, to pluck out a small parcel of soapsand for himself, along with a cloth. "I have need of a personal rider," he elaborates blandly. "Though, I suspect I won't have much need of one before my contract here expires." There's a slight shake of his head, a vaguely scoffing noise, and then: "If you do not know where Black Cliff Hold is, you can get the coordinates from X'vin." ''His'' attention appears to be entirely on scrubbing his upper body, but the periodic, if sidelong, look to Z'riah is enough to give away that he ''is'' watching the other man. "I might only require your services once or twice a seven, but it may be more - or less - often depending on what I am required to do. Since L'land transferred out some time ago," and he makes no effort at masking his displeasure on that front, "I've been left a bit... wanting for transportation."

Z'riah is making some attempt at not simply staring at Edric's scrubbing, but it's pretty obviously difficult for the greenrider to manage. Subtlety is really not one of his stronger skillsets. At least not in matters of attraction. He's listening, anyway. Edric certainly has a hold on his attention. He even glances up at the Steward's face. "Yes, sir. We'd be happy to take you wherever you need to go." Generic response it may be, Z'riah sounds sincerely interested. "Yizibeth... she's discrete, too. Doesn't remember things for long anyway. X'vin won't mind?" He's assuming that's the case, since Edric mentioned him. "Or will some of that discretion count for him, too?"

And, to be fair, it's not as if Edric is the typical sort one would associate with a man who works with numbers all day; he's fairly athletic, tall, and ''confident''. If he notices that attention, it goes without comment; nor does his scrubbing falter in the slightest, as if he might be self-conscious. His gaze will meet Z'riah's when the greenrider looks at him and a thin smile, just a hair wider than the one from before, is ofered. "You will be well-compensated for your service, Z'riah." There's that name and just a touch of weight with it. A shallow nod might be enough to cement the deal, but he pauses in his scrubbing to rinse his hand off and extend it to Z'riah. "I'll write up a contract tonight with the details. Ah. And, no. I don't think X'vin will mind at all," indeed, the idea is perplexing. "He and I have known each other for turns. If he ''does'' say anything about my use of your services, inform me. I will speak with him directly."

The sound of his name distracts his focus just enough for his eyes to shift the small distance from Edric's eyes to his mouth, and then down to his hand. Z'riah rinses his own off in turn and reaches to accept the other, his hand closing with an oddly yielding firmness. "Yes, sir." Only he seems curious about, "What purpose will a contract serve? How can it be enforced if it's discretion that you're looking for?" The greenrider seems less contrary than genuinely interested, and quite confident that Edric knows perfectly well what he's doing.

"There are records," Edric replies evenly, "and then there are ''my'' records." The handshake is firm and appropriately brief. He'll finish up the rest of his scrubbing while he explains, "Where I ask you to take me - when and for what purpose - is where the discretion will be important." An eyebrow raises. "It's impossible to keep some things secret in a place like this, especially when it comes to who is riding with whom. The ''contract'' is to keep us both honest. It will detail your rate of pay when working with me, the expectations I have, the terms of termination and any punishments for breaching the contract-" and, here, he'll level his unblinking gaze on Z'riah "-but I will trust that you will not disappoint me in ''that'' regard."

His own scrubbing is distracted, but he works his way slowly through it, hair still slightly lathered but for now forgotten. Z'riah nods his head for most of what Edric says, it all seems reasonable, but it's the last of what he says that makes the greenrider go somewhat still, a handful of shallow breaths leading into a deeper one to clear out whatever thoughts are making his neck and ears flush the way they do. His voice wavers just noticeably when he says, "Disappointing you is the last thing I want to do, sir, I promise you."

This time, Edric's smile is slow and creeping, curled just a touch more on one side in a smirk. The Steward leans in, a hand aimed to rest on one of Z'riah's shoulders - not for support, but to pull the greenrider just a touch closer. "Good," is practically purred in the other man's ear, his tone low - perhaps ominously so, "because I do not tolerate disappointment well." His breath is warm and sweet-smelling - like mint, perhaps. The proximity serves its purpose - he's able, with his other hand, to get something else out of the basket. He lingers in that position just long enough to add, "Finish washing up. We will have work to do."

The touch of Edric's hand to his shoulder, the slight pull closer, they have Z'riah drawing in a breath that's trying very hard to be restrained, but not exactly succeeding. The greenrider swallows, hard, and nods his head in a quick, short motion. It's not until Edric withdraws again that Z'riah lets that shallowly held breath out again, slowly, blue eyes following the Steward. "Yes, sir. Right. Work." Right, that thing he does most days. He remembers that! He glances at Edric one last time before he puts the man's soapsand back in the basket and starts to shift toward the other side of the pool again. He can finish with the ''Weyr's'' soapsand. And he'll take a little more time with it than he necessarily needs because he might lack modesty, but there's at least one thing he doesn't want to draw any attention to at the moment.

And the Steward needs but a quick rinse before he's done with his cursory scrubbing. He's long since been done with ''actual'' bathing, but who can blame him for enjoying a good bit of basking? Edric pulls himself out of the water when Z'riah moves away, his expression unreadable - and made worse for the reflections on his spectacles. Does he know? Does he suspect? Does it matter, really? "My quarters when you're done here." He'll trust the man can find out just where those are; it won't take much, after all. Then he's up and drying off with meticulous care - and, soon enough, getting dressed with that same measure of care. Appearances and all that.

Z'riah watches Edric get out of the pool, and he doesn't try to hide it. It's that comment, though, that draws his eyes up. It's not going to help him be ready to get out of the pool any sooner, but it might make him care less about who sees him do it. He still lingers for a few minutes, making sure to scrub and rinse before he's getting out with much less care for appearances, and putting the clothes he arrived in back on haphazardly so he can go find Edric's quarters. With possibly all the wrong ideas in mind.

Edric has a considerable head start - or, at least, enough of one to ensure that he's able to set up the table in the main part of the room with paper and pens. The door to his room is shut and, presumably, locked, leaving the space less small and slightly more on the "claustrophic" end of the spectrum. Of course, the door is shut. And, of course, Edric is sitting in the chair that faces the door, fingers steepled and resting just at his upper lip while he waits.

Z'riah is not a shy man, so he won't leave Edric waiting terribly long for his arrival. His haste, granted, no doubt comes with all sorts of imagined scenarios, and not one of them is likely to match what he finds once he knocks on the Steward's door and turns the handle. There's a brief glance around the small room, noting the other door, and then his eyes are settling on Edric as the greenrider closes it behind him. "I hope your bed is bigger than this," he says, with a flash of a grin like he thinks he's amusing.

"Enter," is called at the knock; not that there's much need. He watches as the greenrider assesses the space and raises an eyebrow slightly at the question. "It isn't." Flat, that. Edric lowers his hands, but just enough to indicate the chair opposite him with a tip of his chin. "But, to be fair," he'll add, "this is what the Weyr provided for the duration of my contract. My quarters at Black Cliff are more comfortable." To him, probably, but that goes without saying. "Sit. Please. Would you care for water? Tea? Wine?" He has those things, they're just tucked away in their spaces. Now. Is there anything ''you'' would like to discuss regarding the contract?" The pages before him are blank, save for a fairly standard heading to describe the generalities of the agreement. Dull, boiler plate stuff, really.

The answer makes Z'riah glance at the other door again, but then he's moving to sit in the chair as directed, smoothing a hand over his wrinkled shirt. "Wine, please. Thanks." He looks from Edric to the mostly blank pages, skimming what's there before looking up at the other man again. "What sort of pay are we talking about here?" He'll start there, anyway, but there's the impression that it's not the only thing on his mind. And the other things aren't even all necessarily related to the Steward's various beds.

"Excellent." With another nod, Edric rises from his seat to a cabinet tucked in next to the sofa and proceeds to pour a couple of glasses of wine. "I will be paying you a monthly salary," he begins with a sidelong glance to Z'riah, "and it will be sufficient to make up for the ten percent difference. If they follow my recommendations for six to eight months, they should be able to restore wages to their regular level - and you'll find yourself with a tidy increase." The first glass is offered to Z'riah; the other remains in his hand while he stands behind his own chair. "Is that agreeable?" There is no urgency to his tone, however; it would seem that the negotiations are something he might well ''enjoy''.

"You said the ironing alone would make up for the ten percent reduction. It seems like this should make up for more than that, at least, sir." Z'riah takes the glass that's offered to him, but he watches Edric rather than taking a drink just yet. "I can't imagine even exceptional creases are worth the same as discrete, on call, ''hot'' transportation." Not unless Edric is really that into ironing, anyway. But, hey, everyone has their thing.

There's a faint quirk at the corner of Edric's mouth and he leans forward slightly. "You clearly underestimate my priorities." Is it a joke? Maybe? Hard to tell, considering the deadpan delivery and the fact that he moves right along to: "In either case, you would most likely be providing services twice a seven - sometimes more, often less." His wine, likewise, remains untouched while he studies Z'riah. "What do ''you'' think would be suitable compensation?" His voice drops just a touch, the tone edging into predatory territory - that his eyes are slightly narrowed may not help. There is no ''threat'' there, but there's certainly ''something'' lurking just beneath.

Z'riah tries to maintain eye contact, but it doesn't last for long and he looks down at the pages instead, only glancing up at Edric when he says, "Ten percent for the ironing, on condition of your quality assurance. Twenty percent for the transportation and whatever other personal services you might desire of me." He's almost certainly suggesting things that generally involve nudity and sweating. Z'riah, stereotypical greenrider that he is, has no shame. Possibly also no good sense, considering Edric's demeanor.

Ah, and there's the snort as Edric straightens. "No," is not uttered with flat finality. He puts his glass down on the table and folds his arms on the back of his chair, putting him in a position that's marginally more relaxed than his earlier looming. "The ironing is off the table," he continues. "It's either ten percent for ironing and ten percent for transportation, or twenty percent for transportation with discretion." The line of his mouth flattens, the corners contorting just a touch. The smile is small, but unpleasant - and blissfully short-lived. "Those are the ''only'' services I would be paying you for, Z'riah."

There's a moment where Z'riah's jaw tightens, but then it relaxes and he nods his head once. "Fine. Twenty percent for discrete transportation. And no extras." He lifts his glass to take a drink, then, hiding some of his rejection in the motion. Then, looking at the pages, "If I somehow manage to breach our contract, how do you intend on punishing me? X'vin? Pay? I can't imagine you have enough pull to get me transferred elsewhere." He glances up at the end. It's not an insult, but he does seem to be both confident and thankful of the idea.

The tightening of Z'riah's jaw elicits a barely perceptible lift of Edric's brows. He straightens again, with both hands resting on the back of his chair with a firm grip. The paper is disregarded for now; the weight of his bespectacled regard rests heavily on the greenrider. "''If'' there is a need for additional services," comes out clipped and bitingly clear, "I will handle the compensation for that separately. There are, of course, some services that I see no need to pay for." Elaboration does not follow. "As for punishment," seems like an odd - if fitting - segue, "Pay is the obvious answer - and a given. Removing your compensation and charging for owed monies is all standard," and easily managed, given givens. He leans forward just a touch and his voice pitches low and terrible to match the set of his features. "Do not underestimate me - or my creativity - greenrider."

Z'riah shifts in his seat, like he's not quite comfortable sitting up but also not quite comfortable being more at ease. And the fact that he's not comfortable with either might be bothering him more than he'd like to let on. The greenrider swallows under the weight of both eyes and words, but he manages to have enough in him to offer with a hint of challenge, "Are you gonna put your creativity into the contract, too, sir?"

"No," is much lighter, relatively speaking. "Because I trust you will not breach the contract." And there's Edric's smile - polite and far from sunny, but it's a ''smile'' despite its short life. "If you ever want out of the contract, you're free to request as much at any time." He relinquishes his hold on the chair and steps around to, finally, take his seat and start drafting. His writing is crisp and clean for cursive, legible and efficient by nature. "Pay will be the only punishment noted," he confirms. In the end, it's a fairly short thing; little more than what was discussed, and that extra serving only to make things sound stuffy and formal. He slides the first over to Z'riah to review and sign, while he starts on the second. "Do you have any further questions?" is asked, though he doesn't look up from his writing to do so. That verbal door is opened just a touch wider with: "Related to this or otherwise?"

"I won't," Z'riah confirms the fact that he has no intention of breaching the contract. Maybe it also means he won't want ''out'' of the contract, but that would be difficult for him to mean at this point in time. While Edric is writing, Z'riah finishes off the rest of his wine, watching the Steward's hands as though they're doing something interesting. He leans forward when one copy is presented to him to look over, but glances at the other man to consider just how wide that question is. "Do you ever enjoy the company of other men? Or am I wasting my time fantasizing about blowing you?" Is the verbal door open that wide?

The pen stops abruptly. To Edric's credit, there is no splatter of ink; he lifts it just slightly before he stops, preserving the purity of the writing. The pen is placed, wordlessly, into one of the ink wells at the table and he rises, slowly, inexorably, from his seat. He motions for the greenrider to stay where he is, while he all but glides around to stand behind the other man, seated as he is. He must ''trust'' the greenrider isn't about to get up, because he turns, ''so'' to lower his hands and rest them directly on Z'riah's shoulders. The ''pressure'' is there, subtle as it is, and his presence is palpable in more than that direct contact. He bends his head, his breath no doubt aimed to be felt as he intones practically in the other man's ear, "'Enjoy' is such a ''subjective'' word, Z'riah. I make ''use'' of those that are useful to me." Deliberate. Cool. ''Measured.'' "Be ''useful'' - and you might not be wasting your time."

He starts to move slightly when Edric first rises, but Z'riah stops with the motion for him to stay where he is. There's a tension under the hands that settle on his shoulders, but it's exactly the sort of tension one might expect from a man like him. "Yes, sir," he breathes out just this side of ragged, hands held slightly clenched until he realizes he's doing it and forces himself to relax. "I'll be useful." It's the predictable response, but Z'riah, for his part, seems to realize that it will take more time than this. "I don't have anymore questions, sir."

There's a slight digging in of fingers - but not out of malice or warning. It's not ''precisely'' a massage, but it does seem to be a wordless suggestion to relax. "Excellent." That word is all but drizzled, slowly uttered as it is. "I am certain that you will be ''quite'' useful." It's only when Z'riah confirms that he has no more questions that Edric releases him and moves around to reclaim his seat. The last bit of writing takes mere seconds to complete and the second contract is handed over to be reviewed and signed - one copy for each of them, of course. "Edric," is added only after that's done and he's leaned forward, elbows on table and fingers steepled just below his chin. "In public and in mixed company, 'sir' is appropriate. But, here, my first name will be sufficient - unless I dictate otherwise."

The sound he makes isn't exactly a complaint under the pressure of the Steward's fingers. Z'riah relaxes, ''submits'', and soon he's watching Edric as he finishes writing out the other contract, leaning forward and breathing deeply to regain some measure of his chipped away composure. He reaches for a pen to sign both papers after a quick, probably not very thorough, skimming, his signature quick and messy in a way that almost certainly suits him. "Yes, sir-- Edric. Sorry. Habit." He swallows again, then ventures, "I should probably... I have duties. If we're done here."

And Edric's signature, by contrast, is distinctive - but still unnervingly precise in its execution. "Of course. Go," is mildly dismissive, coupled with flex of fingers. "Although, if X'vin does give you trouble," it's a mild reiteration of what he'd said before, "let me know. Take care, Z'riah. We will be in touch."

"I will," he assures without even thinking about it. A more paranoid person might wonder if Edric will tell X'vin if Z'riah says anything about him, but not this greenrider, evidently. "Thank you." He says it as he gets to his feet, taking the first page with him in his sudden hurry to be on the other side of the door. If anyone is listening, it's a few long moments before Z'riah's boots can be heard actually making their way down the hall and off to whatever duties or cold baths he needs to get on with.
}}

Logs:Not obvious

2015-09-13T17:58:55Z

H'vier:

{{Log
|who=Edyis, H'vier
|what=A random encounter turned curious.
|where=Kitchen, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|custom=18D 10M 38T I10, autumn night
|day=18
|month=10
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.05
|mentions=Yesia,
|type=Log
|ooc=Feel free to edit, correct, and alter away!
|icons-new=Icon edyis considering.jpg, Icon h'vier.png,
|desc=>---< Kitchen, High Reaches Weyr(#267RJs) >----------------------------------<

Polished marble and granite surfaces, gleaming metalwork and pale woods
characterize the vaulted fastness of the kitchen. Several large hearths
gape red-mouthed against the outer wall of the cavern, their fires almost
always stoked for the constant cooking the Weyr requires to feed its
denizens. Sinks line the wall to one side of the hearths, providing ample
space to wash large quantities of dishes, while to the other, cabinetry
and a deep pantry provide storage space for items commonly needed on a
day-to-day basis.

The remaining wall space is taken up by passageways and extra seating:
swinging doors that lead variously to the main living cavern, the inner
caverns and the storage rooms, a counter-height pass-through for food
service to the Snowasis, and a series of nooks equipped with tables and
benches for quick, out-of-the-way meals any time of day.

-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
Edyis F 21 5'4" athletic, brown hair, brown eyes 0s
----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
Living Cavern Inner Caverns Storerooms
>----------------------------------------< 18D 10M 38T I10, autumn night >---<
|log=It's late, and the kitchens are all but empty, a few stragglers lingering to get the prep work for tomorrow done. Edyis is perched on one of the tables, an open notebook nearby covered in notes taken in shorthand. At hand is a plate of sandwiches, and a half empty mug of klah. She stares off, as though lost in thought.

H'vier arrives alone, looking both weary and agitated. Maybe he's tired of being himself. His path takes him straight to the hearth to pour himself a mug of klah. But once that's done, the bronzerider turns and his attention focuses right on Edyis perched there on her table. "Evening, brownrider," he says without approaching just yet.

It takes a moment for ink-dark eyes to focus, following the greeting back to its source. Her brows knit together lightly, but the greeting she offers seems warm enough. "Evening, Wingleader." She watches him, perhaps taking in his general mood. It's with a curious bravery that she finally asks, "Something got your knickers in a twist?"

"Nothing you couldn't help by taking yours off," he assures her with a brief smile before his gaze tracks toward the living caverns as though he can't decide whether to linger here or move along. In the end, H'vier starts making his way toward Edyis' table, glancing down at her notebook even as he reaches for one of her sandwiches.

Edyis snorts, "You assume I wear them at all." The deadpan delivery may make it difficult to tell whether or not she is joking or serious. Her hands go to the mug, but the notebook is all but indecipherable to any who don't know the code. The sketches, however, seem obvious, various faces and locations. If she's bothered by his attempt to grab her food, she at least grants him the courtesy of not biting or swatting his hand away, taking a long sip from her mug as she studies him. "You seem... more subdued these days." A question that somehow isn't one.

"Girls who say that usually want a man to find out for himself," H'vier points out with a gesture to her in general with the hand holding the sandwich before he takes a bite out of it. He doesn't seem overtly interested in her notebook, anyway. "Do I? It's nice to know you pay that much attention to me, darling." He's being sarcastic, but it's not biting. H'vier is perfectly well aware that he's not Edyis' favorite person, and he's clearly okay with that. "

The way her mouth opens, there might have been a biting retort, or perhaps some witty retort. She closes it again without uttering a word, seeming then to consider him. "Probably, though I can't say I feel that way about present company." It's another of those quiet understandings, neither is the other's favorite person, nor preferred type. She too, seems perfectly at ease with this. The smile that she offers is actually sweet, "Don't flatter yourself too much Bronzerider, I pay attention to everyone, to one degree or another." But, still. "Call it morbid curiosity if you must, but what has you looking worn and grouchy?"

"Always so defensive. It really doesn't suit you." H'vier takes another bite of his sandwich, moving to sit down on the opposite side of the table. Once he's washed that mouthful away with a drink of his klah, he tells her with fake cheer, "None of your sharding business. Don't you think it's rude to tell someone they look tired?" He certainly does, even if his offense is being obviously feigned.

"Mm, and what ideas do you have about what might suit me?" She wonders in counterpoint, reaching for another of the sandwiches and biting into it quietly. "I suppose I could lie if you like, and say something entirely out of character and far less honest. Would you prefer the idea that I might consider how good you might look naked or some similar complement?" She wonders with a mirthy laugh, and an easy smile that lingers.

"I thought you might find someone to pull that stick out of your ass, at least. Carefree would suit you better. You're a dragonrider now. And that stick must get awfully uncomfortable when you're sitting astride Akluseth." H'vier has fake sympathy to go along with all of his other fake emotions. He doesn't reach to steal anymore of her food, just sips at his klah. Then he smiles. It's more sincere now. "I look sharding fantastic naked." He's also very humble.

Edyis laughs, "You are welcome to more if you are hungry." A peace offering of sorts perhaps? Since she addresses that observation first. "What makes you believe I haven't?" She wonders genuinely amused and genuinely curious about that stick. "Just because I'm a little bit particular about who I share my bed with?"

H'vier glances at the sandwiches with a slight shake of his head. "I'm good." He takes another drink of his klah, then sets the mug down against the table with his hands still loosely cradling the heat. "Do you really think it's always been about you not wanting to fuck me? Sweetheart, plenty of women don't want to fuck me. And, I know you might find it hard to believe, but it's not very difficult to find ones that do. But you already knew that, didn't you. Being all observant." He waits a moment, drawing in a breath, then, "I'm not trying to sleep with you, Edyis. I'm just talking to another dragonrider. So what's with the notebook?"

"If that's all I thought it was, would I have asked?" Those dark eyes intent, but still amused, still curious. "So am I." She agrees with him in the last, before her attention shifts back to her notes. "an honest answer for an honest answer?" She suggests, before "Old habit from my days working in the records room with master Jeroman. My memory is pretty good, but sorting out thoughts is easy on paper. Places I've seen, people I've met, ideas that might be fleshed out further to produce something worthwhile." She purses her lips thoughtfully then, "A journal of sorts. I suppose."

He murmurs an acknowledgement of her answer as he eyes the journal, but his gaze doesn't linger there for very long. Finally, "Interesting." But it's difficult to tell whether he's being sincere or not. "What sorts of worthwhile ideas do you have, brownrider?"

Edyis mms. "What had you agitated when you came in?" She counters at his second question, studying his face, then with the slightest lift of a brow. "Not sure if anything in there is worthwhile yet." She answers candidly after a while, hiding a frown behind her mug.

"Pass," says H'vier without a second thought when she questions his mood. "Try something else." He's not going to answer that one, but she can try to ask him other things. He's not entirely against this game.

Edyis pouts. "Surely it can't be that bad, or that personal." But, since he isn't entirely against playing, "Ok, Why didn't Iceberg take any of the weyrlings at graduation?" Her interest piqued for the moment.

That question makes H'vier laugh. "Better," he tells her. "It wasn't by choice. I wanted several of you. One of you quite a lot, admittedly. But," he pauses for several moments, "these things happen. It was out of my control." H'vier offers a single shrug.

"Yesia." She assumes, behind her mug. "She's more than just a pair of legs you know... Smart. Despite the mean girl act." It sounds dangerously like a compliment and oddly protective. Both hands wrapped around her mug, "I admit despite shadowing, I didn't really get much of a feel for what Iceberg does, other than flirting and sparring." She smiles.

"I'm well aware of what she is. If all I cared about were her legs, I wouldn't have wanted her in my wing." H'vier dismisses that line of thought absently, continuing right into, "And here I thought you were supposed to be observant. Maybe you should work on that, hm?"

Edyis makes another contemplative sound, "I'm only human after all." Watching him curiously then. "Care to fill me in on what I might have missed?"

"Not particularly," says H'vier after a few moments of consideration. And then he's shifting to rise out of his seat, away from the table, with his mug in hand. "Have a good night, brownrider," he says before he's turning back to the hearth to fill his mug back up. And then he'll be on his way.
}}

File:Icon z'riah drink.png

2015-09-10T06:50:22Z

H'vier:

File:Icon z'riah awkward.gif

2015-09-10T06:49:43Z

H'vier:

File:Icon z'riah yizibeth bigeyes.png

2015-09-10T06:49:08Z

H'vier:

File:Icon z'riah.jpg

2015-09-10T06:47:38Z

H'vier: H'vier uploaded a new version of File:Icon z'riah.jpg

Logs:On the House

2015-09-10T06:20:12Z

H'vier:

{{Log
|who=Edric, X'vin, Z'riah
|what=Edric and X'vin invite Z'riah for dinner, and are polite company indeed.
|where=The Glass Fountain, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=9
|month=10
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.09
|quote="They didn't tell me I'd be getting paid less for coming."
|mentions=E'dre, Erinta, Farideh, Hattie
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon edric default.jpg, Icon x'vin attentive.png, Icon z'riah quirk.jpg,
|desc=>---< The Glass Fountain, Fort Weyr(#533RJs$) >------------------------------<

Despite its subterranean locale, the creamy wall paint, pale woods, and
frosted glass give the cavern a light, airy feel. Oil lamps reflect softly
in the polished wood of high-backed booths, glimmering through the opaque
glass dividers that help lend intimacy to the seating arrangements;
round-backed booths carved from stone, lined with deep, terra-cotta
colored padding and the addition of strategic, lyric shapes painted in a
subtle red shade. The sweeping, half-circle shaped bar with its top of
smooth stone, backed by cut-glass-fronted cabinetry flows gracefully into
the soft lines and mellow colors that dominate the Glass Fountain.

All the atmosphere aside, the main attractions of the room are clearly the
massive, multi-pronged chandelier that hangs from multiple chains from the
ceiling and the re-worked leak - which no longer resembles a leak at all,
having been channeled through glass to become a beautiful piece of art. A
curving wave and a series of glass bubbles guide the water past a bank of
glows, allowing the light to shine through the water and turn it into a
sparkling fountain. From its dark, dim, shabby history, the Glass Fountain
has become an elegant place with lattice-stands to hold the menus with
their selection ranging from typical 'bar food' to high-end dishes and
fancy desserts.

-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
Edric M 35 6'2" average, brown hair, light blue eyes 0s
X'vin M 32 6'3" muscular, black hair, dk brown eyes 8s
Z'riah M 28 5'9 muscular, dark hair, blue eyes 6m
----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
Inner Caverns
>-------------------------------------< 9D 10M 38T I10, autumn afternoon >---<
|log=It's evening - and just the right time for a fine, if early, dinner. Edric's work for the day is - mostly - done and he's now settled into a booth with a stack of light reading to one side. A glass of red wine is placed, just so and within easy reach of his right hand; the bottle is likewise positioned within ready reach of his left. Dinner appears to be a steak - blue rare, from the look of it - roasted tubers, a salad, and a basket of rolls. Dessert has yet to make an appearance but, from the looks of things, it ''will'' make one for the sake of rounding things out appropriately. Thus can the Steward-turned-consultant be found.

Fort's newest greenrider was bound to show up at the Fountain eventually. But, really, it hasn't taken him that long to find it. He's still wearing the leathers he arrived in, jacket open informally, and Z'riah pauses just inside the entrance to linger, taking in the place as a whole. It's uncharacteristically hesitant but, fortunately, no one here knows that yet. When he starts moving again, he's heading toward the bar, glancing at unfamiliar faces as he passes.

Did Edric invite anyone to join him for supper? There's no plate nor glass of wine for company, and yet X'vin appears like magic at the edge of Edric's booth, wearing his knot and patch and that disarming smile, still more-or-less done up from the day's work. The top button of his jacket might be undone; hard to tell in all that good leather. He bears with him a glass for wine but no food. If he thinks he's unwelcome, it doesn't show in the ease with which he slips into the other side of the booth, movements controlled, the glass gently clinking against the table when he sets it down by the stem. "Benden?" asks X'vin of the wine, even as he reaches for it like he might pour a glass, carefully eyeing the mercurial man just in case his mood is off.

And, of course, the Steward doesn't look up from the missive he's reading - but rest assured that the tip of Edric's head is calculated. The arrival of the greenrider is thusly noted, though no gesture or greeting is made. A calculating assessment is conducted and it's just a blink that signifies the completion of that analysis. How convenient, then, that X'vin should arrive. Only then does he straighten up while a thin smile touches the corners of his lips. "If it's anything else," he muses, "then I trust you'll commit me to the MindHealers." He's only barely touched his meal - and the reason is: "They should be bringing yours-" a gesture to his own plate "-out shortly. I didn't want it to get cold." Of course, there are plenty of rolls and plenty of wine - and no effort made to stop the bronzerider from taking a share.

It's the Wingleader more than the Steward who draws Z'riah's attention for the few extra seconds it takes him to decide to pause. The fact that the men might be doing something important, or romantic, doesn't keep him from showing up beside their table. "X'vin, sir," he says, glancing at Edric then focusing on the bronzerider. "Z'riah," he reminds of himself before going straight into, "Can I buy you a drink? I can have it sent over." He gestures to the bar, where he was headed, so as not to suggest he'll completely impose on the moment uninvited.

X'vin fills his glass, sets the bottle very precisely back where it was before, and laughs. "You're always thinking --" is not meant to be a full-stop, however true the curtailed sentence is, but X'vin's dark eyes rise from his glass and his steward at the sound of his name, his head tilting off to the side, almost birdlike. His brows knit, and a sidelong look is given to Edric. "Z'riah," the wingleader remembers after a few moments of rummaging thought. "No need to buy me a drink, I've very expensive tastes. I wouldn't inflict them on anyone, least of all my wingriders." Then, romantic or business, he says, "Pull up a chair. Tell me how you're settling in. Back in? Have you eaten?" He tugs the basket of rolls closer, so Z'riah might take one if he wishes.

"Mm." It's enough of a reply to that half-articulated thought. Agreement, perhaps. Acknowledgement. A promise to pick his mind later. Immaterial, ultimately; Edric's attention cuts askance to Z'riah with nary a shift in his expression. There's a slight nod, an even more slight lifting of eyebrows, and he lifts a hand to motion at the barkeep. The wordless gesture is significant; more so when he offers, "Order what you'd like, greenrider. Food. Drink. It's on the Weyr." Another glance is angled to X'vin. "Expensive tastes that will be even more difficult to indulge, courtesy of your illustrious Weyrwoman and her Acting Weyrleader," he observes blandly to X'vin. "I suggested a ten percent cut across the board, but..." he trails there with a curt gesture. Dismissive.

Z'riah has half of a smirk for X'vin's answer, which he takes in stride, helping himself to a seat on the side of the table between the two men. "Thanks," comes easily. "I'm settling in fine. Just in, though. First time I've been to Fort. I mean, been here before, but never lived here." Important distinction, evidently. "Thanks," he says again, grinning at Edric like they're old friends before telling the barkeep exactly what he wants. Fortunately Z'riah does not have expensive taste, just a big appetite. "Probably could've timed this transfer better, right? They didn't tell me I'd be getting paid less for coming." He's trying to sound good-humored. ''Trying''.

"Thirty percent," X'vin groans, but somehow manages what Z'riah struggles for, and ultimately sounds good natured. "I've put my marks in good places, as it were. I have a very astute financial advisor, and a back-log of ancient wine. I do wish I hadn't spent so much on that dress for High Reaches' newly minted junior weyrwoman. Should have taken it back when she gave me the chance. She tugs my heartstrings, every time." He sighs, sounding wistful. The seriousness of it all is probably undermined by the way he keeps smiling while he takes one of those rolls for himself, breaking it open. "The good weyrwoman has her reasons for this, I'm sure. It will get better. Flint has plenty of places where you can earn some money on the side. I might even have some, if you've got any skills worth selling." It sounds pat, and a little cruel, but he is still being generous and there's no aggression to his posture.

"It could have been worse," so sayeth the deadpan Steward. That grin of the greenrider's goes without reaction beyond a shallow, singular dip of his chin. Edric settles in his seat just as a server comes out with both X'vin's plate and Z'riah's. Another bottle of wine - and another glass - are also brought out. He purses his lips thoughtfully and spares a glance to Z'riah before his attention returns in earnest to X'vin. "If it's worthwhile investment," says he of the dress, "then perhaps it's best you left it to incur interest." Oh, accounting humor. Could it get much dryer? Maybe that's why the extra wine was brought out. "Otherwise, I'll be happy to call you the fool you are, throwing good marks after a junior." While the riders converse, he lapses into silence and proceeds to cut his steak up in a way that's leagues beyond merely methodical.

Z'riah glances between both men and their talk about money. One might get the sense that he can't relate to it very well. But then he's always been on a wingrider's stipend and it's never been large. "I have some skills," notes the greenrider, looking from X'vin to his own plate when it arrives. "Are you talking about Farideh?" he asks more bluntly, more curiously. They must be, of course, but he asks all the same. Wine seems like a good idea, right about now, so he'll just hide behind his glass for a bit.

X'vin 's thank you's for the food are perfunctory, and he takes the time out for unfolding of his napkin and proper placement of his cutlery, something clearly ingrained with the automated way he moves. He looks the greenrider up and down, curious, like it might reveal to him exact talents. "I ran into some Monaco riders recently," more or less, much less than ''some'' at least, "they were...burlier. I was starting to worry it was something in the water that way. It can't be healthy, having that short of a neck. The respiratory problems." But even so, he turns his focus on his food with an absent, "What kind of skills?" as he begins cutting into his steak. "Farideh, yes," and up goes an eyebrow for another not-quite-pointed look at Z'riah. "I would have married her, in another life, I think." One where she didn't get a choice, that is. "You know her?

Edric's napkin has long since been laid out in his lap and his use of the utensils is precise - textbook, in fact. As the conversation flows, he listens - and makes no effort to hide that fact, considering they're at the same table. Eyes flick behind the spectacles to follow Z'riah and his motions, then back to X'vin without hesitation. There's a slight lifting of an eyebrow and corresponding corner of his mouth at the mention of Monocoans, a throaty sound that might be a chuckle following after. A shake of the head, amused, and then he's settling in to eat properly. Some measure of dark humor might claim the set of his mouth - but that's hard to pick out when it's so terribly occupied.

"They can't all be as hot as me. It wouldn't be fair. I mean, it's not really fair that a lot of them are big ''and'' stupid, but." What're you gonna do. Z'riah shrugs, putting his glass back down, considering both food and conversation as he starts into the former with fork and knife in a manner that's polite, but not quite so as his company. He's unabashedly weyrbred and it shows. "Well," he starts about his skills, at least managing not to talk with food in his mouth, "I could ''show'' you. But I'm still trying to make a good impression and I don't want to piss you off by implying that you're into men." He's honest, anyway? The greenrider's attention shifts toward Edric, though, and he adds, "He's the sort I'd usually try. Uptight. Proper. Seriously looks like he could use a good time." As for Farideh, "I was in High Reaches for two turns. Not sure ''know'' is the right word. She never really warmed up to me."

X'vin's issues a little sneer for Edric without malice, testing the meat with a sound of appreciation. When he swallows, still all manners, "I'll miss this, if we're going to cut back on things, please tell Erinta not to make it this. It's too unfair to have to eat in the caverns all the time. Cold fishrolls and stale bread." There's a genuinely amused laugh for Z'riah's declaration, with another measuring look -- that turns, eventually to Edric with barely suppressed mirth. "I'm not interested," he says, nonchalant, and then lifts an eyebrow at Edric. "''He'' is having a good time. If you iron his clothes with perfect creases, you make the rest of his day bright." His fingers touch the stem of his glass, without taking it up. "I wouldn't take it personally. She doesn't like me right now, either."

"I assure you," the Steward replies in a smooth-as-silk voice that's just ''this'' side of a purr, "that you would not enjoy my idea of a 'good time'." A thin-lipped smile is offered to Z'riah, along with a slight motion of his chin to the plate before the greenrider. His spectacles catch the light in that gesture, briefly rendering them like mirrors. "I hope the food is to your liking. They do decent work here. Remarkable, but not exceptional." A pity, that. But, he will make due, as he has. "While I'm here, none of ''this'' will suffer, but I can't speak to what will happen when my contract is up." Not that he seems to have any feeling on the matter, either which way. "Although," and this is angled obliquely back at Z'riah, even if something of it seems meant for X'vin, "he is correct. If you do have a fair hand with ironing, I might well hire you to come out to Black Cliff to do that for me. Twice a seven. The laundresses there never seem to get it quite right." Nor do the ones at the Weyr, for that matter, but there's little he can do about ''those''.

"Yes, sir," says Z'riah for X'vin's lack of interest, and he lets it go, simple as that. "I can't really blame her for not liking me." But he doesn't explain himself. In part because he's coughing just slightly around his food like it might've tried to go down the wrong way, and he's looking at the Steward more than a little attentively. Distracted, even, by whatever he's deciding is Edric's idea of a good time. "Uh," he says lamely before looking down at his food. "Oh. Yeah. It's good. Really good." The greenrider is looking up at Edric again in the next moment, perhaps not sure if he's being serious or not. "I could do that. I mean... if you-- I'd like-- I know how to iron creases?" It's not a question so much as he's not sure if they're messing with him.

X'vin says, "Faranth, Edric, you could at least ''try''," X'vin scolds without precision for what he means. Sex, maybe, but he's laughing at the tuber on his fork and not clarifying. "There has to be something better he can do. Where do you come from, greenrider? Not ''Monaco''," he waves his fork to cut that off at the pass, "but before that. Craft? Trade? Do you fight?" That's with a scoff, like he doesn't believe it for a second. "Or are you just pretty? It's an Interval; you must have hobbies.""

"Mm." And that's for Z'riah's assessment of the food, though that soft sound betrays nothing of Edric's thoughts. He's focused on ''his'' meal, though the greenrider's stuttering response is worthy of note. Though the Steward does not look at him, his words are pointed: "You don't sound especially confident, greenrider. A pity." He takes his time with the next bite of steak, masticating it meticulously. That time allows him to level a look at X'vin, eyebrows raised in an expression that manages to be wholly - if subtly - incredulous. "It ''is'' a necessary skill. And it would make up for the ten percent reduction in his salary." One corner of his mouth twitches in a treacherous betrayal as he adds, "Of course, if ''you'' could be bothered to learn, I'd make up for your thirty percent."

He looks between Edric and X'vin, but most of Z'riah's attention seems to be focused on the former. There must be something about the man that intrigues him. But he's clearly answering the bronzerider when he says, "I was a candidate for seven turns. Mostly did chores. Whatever was thrown at me. Ran messages, too. Paid attention to things people said. Be surprised what a man will say when he has his dick in your mouth." It comes out natural as can be. It's not till after he says it that he glances at Edric again, like he's not sure he should be talking like that in front of him. It might be more noteworthy that Z'riah ''cares'' that he might not like it, granted. "I can throw a punch. I can ''take'' a punch. And I ''know'' how to iron, sir." He's evidently confident about ''that'' part when he says the last to Edric.

X'vin tsks gently at Edric's assessment, his sound much less ambiguous than that low mm from a moment ago. He doesn't counter the assessment of Z'riah, just spears another piece of meat and chews it while he considers the pair, reclined on his side of the booth. In the face of Edric's incredulity, he shrugs innocently, like a boy who has been asked a complex math question. Something in his smile flickers, though, at the final suggestion, and his smile pastes firmly back into place even as he rejoins, sharply, "Take Erinta with you. She needs to settle down before her looks go," and it carries no heat but an authority that thus far has fallen to the wayside. As for Z'riah, looking bored and unimpressed quite suddenly. "You'd be better off using your wiles in the Holds, I think. And ''listening'', particularly at...we'll call it Ruatha River, Gar and Fort Sea, twice a seven each seven." He glances to Edric as if he might be looking for confirmation, correction, suggestions. "You can iron for Edric if he ''really'' wants you."

And if Edric clears his throat just a little at the word "dick", well. So be it. Perhaps it's just a bit of something that caught curiously. "''Proper'' creases," the Steward finally says when he's done with a bit of tuber. "'''Proper'''." And though his tone is even, there is a subtle ''vehemence'' to the word. The moment passes after he's taken up his wine. A swirl, a study, a sip. Blithely, "I'm sure some other Hold would be better served by her assets before they diminish." Another sip is taken and he listens, head tipped back just a touch and gaze tilted toward the ceiling. "Hm," has some shape to it and, in the end, he nods his confirmation. "If you require writing implements, let me know. I'll see to it that they're sent to your weyr." A beat. Then: "I suppose that ''might'' be a better use of your, ah- talents for now."

Between the two of them, Z'riah's gaze is fixed firmly on his food now, even if he's not eating with quite the same appetite he'd started out with. "Yes, sir," is offered to both of them, though his gaze briefly flickers up toward Edric. He's not leaving until he's done eating, obviously, but he seems uncertain about being here now. So much for impressions, but at least he can avoid saying anything else he might regret later.

X'vin sighs like he's suffering the worst torture, rolling his eyes at Edric. "See if I take an interest in your love life and future. You'll never have tiny, suited babies at this rate." He's doing his best impression of a silly old auntie in the caverns. "Back to the drawing board. Z'riah," to draw the greenrider's attention, even as he looks away expectantly for someone with the inevitable desserts, "Ruatha River. ''That'' is Hattie's home. Be careful there, be courteous. Be ''subtle'', if you have it in you. I'd rather she didn't have cause for concern." Which suggests, in its own subtle way, there ''is'' cause for concern.

"Still good?" That's for Z'riah. Edric does look at him - if only to catch that brief glance his way. It had better be is the implication; desserts ''are'' coming, indeed, on a small tray in the hands of the server from before. There is some necessary shifting of plates and bottles and glasses - which Edric handles ever-so-deftly - and the tray is settled just ''there'' as it ought to be. All manner of pastries and sweets are there, small portions meant to be sampled. "X'vin," bears just a trace of warning - or might, to anyone that doesn't know the Steward well. There's naught else to be said of his love life nor of the tiny, suited spawn that clearly exist only in the bronzerider's imagination. He's silent again, listening - and done with his meal, gauging from the way he's seated, with his elbows on the table and fingers steepled and resting at his upper lip.

"I can be subtle when I need to be." Probably. Z'riah seems to think so, anyway, and one might hope the greenrider is self aware enough to know these things. "And Gar? Fort Sea?" He asks it simply, in case there's anything he should be aware of in either of those places as well. Z'riah has a single, simple nod for Edric, and his blue eyes stay purposefully averted from the Steward now.

X'vin says, "Gar is close to my home. Edric can fill you in." That's with a sly, mean little smile for the steward, but at least he's not talking about children. He hovers his hand over the pastries, slowly circling before dipping his fingers for a cream puff. "Fort Sea," he rolls the words over his tongue, licks a bit of the cream off his chosen treat, "that's a treat. I hear there's nothing like a sailor, not that I would know. ''Farideh'' seems to think so," and someone may be pining a tiny bit over a silly foreign junior. "But their trade is important, anything that might shift the tithes.""

That little smile is met with a barely perceptible flattening of Edric's mouth and a slightly more perceptible roll of the eyes. "Certainly," might indicate ''agreement'', but there's clearly no ''desire'' there. That he ''will'' is not a point in question. And then it's sailor talk and the Steward purses his lips just a little. There's ''something'' to the look angled to X'vin, but it's difficult to read. Eventually, though, he drops his elbows from the table and takes up some morsel or another to eat. Slowly. Deliberately. And always, ''always'' with an eye to Z'riah.

The name makes Z'riah glance at Edric again, but he looks away just as quickly, over at X'vin, then down at the tray. If he has comments on sailors, which would more than likely be crude if he did, the greenrider keeps them very nicely to himself. He waits for both men to take a dessert from the tray before he reaches for something, taking basically whatever's closest to him without much care for what it is. "Is there anything else, sir?" He's clearly fishing for a dismissal.

"Nothing else," X'vin decides at length, after a time during which he ends up eating most of his pastry in careful bites to preserve the rest of the filling, biting around it for last. He does it with an eye on Edric, like he thinks it might bother him. "Welcome to Fort, Z'riah. And welcome to Flint. I'm happy to have you." That's a dismissal, then, he can take if he wants it -- even if X'vin's method of leadership never does lend itself towards anything more formal, despite his apparent primness.

Of course, if Edric is bothered by it, he shows nothing of the sort. Either he's well-accustomed to the bronzerider's antics, or he's simply not bothered by that sort of thing. Following the dismissal, however - and before the greenrider can give a thought to getting up - he interjects, "Z'riah." The name, the weight applied, is ''purposeful''. "Do let me know if you have need of anything in your weyr and I'll personally see to it that it's tended to." Matter-of-fact. Cool. And then there's a slight break in his demeanor, a thin smile - polite, perhaps a shade more than polite - and an echoed, "Welcome to Fort."

"Thank--" Z'riah starts but looks, more directly now, at Edric. Probably something about the way he says his name. And the way the greenrider has been having difficulty not focusing on him in general. It keeps him in his seat a while longer, those words with that smile. A few moments too long, perhaps, before Z'riah clears his throat. "Yes, sir. Thank you. And thanks for the..." His voice trails off as he glances at the food, rising up out of his seat. "Thank you." Right. Z'riah looks between them again, awkward, then turns to see himself off.
}}

Z'riah

2015-09-09T22:25:31Z

H'vier:

{{Profile
|picture=Z'riah.jpg
|body=== Description ==
Dark, disheveled hair and stunning blue eyes lend to Z'riah a mien of a mysterious nature. More mischief than danger, the greenrider often wears a shadow of stubble across his strong jaw. He's of a middling height at five foot nine but he's comfortable in every last inch of it. His civilian wear is practical, nice enough to suggest a certain vanity, but not so nice as to keep him from getting dirty when getting dirty has its merits.

== WYSK ==
* Transferred from Monaco Weyr with [[X'vae]], blue Izazeth's rider, in month 12, turn 35.
* Kind of mercurial, sometimes blames his dragon.
* But knows how to have a good time.
* Transferred back to Monaco Weyr with [[X'vae]] in month 9, turn 37.
* Transferred to Fort Weyr from Monaco in month 10, turn 38.

== RP Logs ==

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

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

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

{{Icons}}
|position=Greenrider
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|Has rank=Dragonrider
|birthplace=Monaco Weyr
|playedby=Ian Somerhalder
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Greater Pern, Fort Area, Fort Weyr, Riders, Greenriders, Flint Wing
}}
[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]
[[Category:Monaco_Weyr]]

Logs talk:Plenty of Fish

2015-09-06T23:01:37Z

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

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Plenty of Fish]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Squishy (12:43, 6 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Ugh heartstrings tugged. And a little concerned. This was a really interesting insight into Everett.
==H'vier (16:01, 6 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

You'll be better off once you stop having feelings, yo.

Logs:Pretty Women

2015-09-05T04:17:25Z

H'vier: Created page with "{{Log |who=Everett, H'vier |what=Two guys talk about pretty women. And other things. |where=Kitchen, HRW |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=22 |month=9 |turn=38 |IP=Interval |IP..."

{{Log
|who=Everett, H'vier
|what=Two guys talk about pretty women. And other things.
|where=Kitchen, HRW
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=22
|month=9
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.04
|quote=Do you have any fish of your own?
|mentions=Lilah, Oiana, Yesia
|type=Log
|ooc=Language.
|icons-new=Everett-portrait.jpg, Icon h'vier.png,
|desc=Polished marble and granite surfaces, gleaming metalwork and pale woods
characterize the vaulted fastness of the kitchen. Several large hearths
gape red-mouthed against the outer wall of the cavern, their fires almost
always stoked for the constant cooking the Weyr requires to feed its
denizens. Sinks line the wall to one side of the hearths, providing ample
space to wash large quantities of dishes, while to the other, cabinetry
and a deep pantry provide storage space for items commonly needed on a
day-to-day basis.

The remaining wall space is taken up by passageways and extra seating:
swinging doors that lead variously to the main living cavern, the inner
caverns and the storage rooms, a counter-height pass-through for food
service to the Snowasis, and a series of nooks equipped with tables and
benches for quick, out-of-the-way meals any time of day.
|log=It's an awkward time between lunch and dinner where the living caverns aren't paid as close attention as they would be otherwise. Granted, H'vier might still choose to eat in the kitchen instead, not one often seen in the bustle of the main cavern. But he's here this afternoon, sitting on one side of a bench with a pretty greenrider on the other. Their relatively civil discussion suddenly turns louder, more her than him, and then the woman is standing up and storming off, leaving H'vier to look after her like he has no idea how women function.

Bartenders' hours are not legendarily compatible with organized meal schedules, and Everett is therefore left to scrounge something up. He's having more luck with the scrounging in the kitchen where he manages to get pity taken on him by several parties, ending up with quite a plate going. He could take it out to the living cavern, but if there's a closer table, why not? And a familiar face, even. And a pretty girl to watch, or maybe more like actively check out, while she's doing the storming-off thing. It's not a bad vantage point. "What did you say, so I can know what not to say in future?" Plate still in hand, he eyes the vacated chair, gives H'vier a questioning brow-lift.

A glance toward Everett means H'vier sees the boy checking her out and he's looking at him when Everett asks that question. "I asked her to give me a hand job before she went out for sweeps." He says it in such a way that it might be difficult to tell whether or not he's being serious. He's more clear with the vague gesture toward the empty areas to sit. "Suppose I'll have to give her earlier sweeps for the rest of the week," he adds, looking at the younger man with a small grin.

It at least doesn't seem that Everett's taking him seriously, as he sits down, stabs something on his plate with his fork. The latter part makes his brow furrow, though, and he gives H'vier a longer, appraising look before he actually takes a bite and then chews. Only after swallowing: "So, she's in your wing, then. And you get to make those sorts of decisions? About daily schedules. I'm curious. Not from a Weyr. Does seem like you have a pretty sweet deal, there." Another stab. "Might be sweeter if she were more obliging."

"Mm," H'vier agrees, glancing off the way the woman had left before returning his attention to the boy and his own klah. "I lead Iceberg. She's one of my riders. We--" He pauses, takes a drink, then reconsiders, "I upset her awhile back, picking another woman over her. She's still a bit prickly about it, I guess." Silly women with their feelings. "She'll come around soon enough."

"The other one's prettier than that?" Obviously this is the only reason Everett can see that somebody would have made such a choice. He waves his fork off in the direction of the departed greenrider. "If you've got someone hotter than her, why go back?" It's not a judgmental question. Like he's really curious. And hungry, of course. The lack of beverage doesn't seem to slow him down, at least not at this stage.

H'vier has to think about it for a moment, which would probably not make either woman very happy. "She was fucking gorgeous. And so... willing." The bronzerider has a moment of wistfulness. "But she's dead. And I'm into a lot of things, but that's not one of them." Just to make sure that's clear. "Anyway, I don't want to go back. We weren't ever anything. I just stopped fucking her because of the other woman. And now she's uppity about putting out again. I know she doesn't have anyone better to pay attention to. She's just being a bitch." Women, right? What're you gonna do.

Everett stares. Not entirely an offended look, just--thrown off? Something like that. Maybe it's just the casual nature of how it's laid out. He's able to divert his eyes only by focusing on his lunch, dinner, whatever meal this actually counts as. Breakfast, maybe. "Yeah, well." Stall, regain composure. "Plenty of fish in the sea," more lightly. "Or so they say. I know even less about the sea than I do about the Weyr. Are you from here, originally? I mean, weyrbred."

"Ista, originally. But not the Weyr. I was told my father was probably a bronzerider, but my mother was kind of a whore, so it's hard to know for sure." H'vier seems amused by his own words, like he's made some sort of joke. "Do you have any fish of your own? Young man like you. Seems like you oughta have some of your own fish." The bronzerider takes another drink from his klah, his plate already empty.

Not quite staring, but the commentary continues to raise Everett's eyebrows. "Usually guys wait for someone else to call their mothers whores instead of doing it themselves," he observes, blandly, lest it be taken as some kind of insult. Anyway, the next topic is more worth a smile, a relaxing of his shoulders. "Yeah, well, I do okay. Mostly the one girl, right now, but you work at a bar, you get hit on by drunk people, it's enough to do a little extra shoring up of the ego. Wasn't sure if it was going to be an ongoing thing, but she came and found me when Niahvth rose, I guess that's good enough, right? For right now."

Since Everett relaxes, H'vier doesn't talk about his mother anymore. "Riight. That's where I know you from," says the bronzerider as though he'd known he recognizes the younger man but couldn't quite place him. To be fair, he's been drunk a lot in the Snowasis lately. "Take my advice and don't settle with just one. If they just want you to fuck them and no one else, it's not really worth it." Advice given, he continues, "Tell me about her. Finding you when she's horny sounds promising."

A little more progress on his food, and Everett seems to have noticed his lack of drink. "Everett," he reminds, as he stands. "Just a sec," and it really is only a moment before he's back with his own mug. Caffeine. Perfect for waking up at the crack of mid-afternoon. "Greenrider," he says, as he returns and sinks back into his chosen seat before it has a chance to cool. "Young. The right kind of curvy. Takes care of herself, you know. My mother always said it was impolite to kiss and tell, but, ah, I'm used to these shy little holdbred girls, and she isn't that. Enthusiastic. Clever. So sharp she nearly drew blood, the first time." Yeah, it's bragging, though also spare on the identifying details.

H'vier seems to appreciate what details he's offered, considering them with a sound of approval. "I like the feisty ones. Clever can be hit or miss, honestly, but enthusiastic might make up for it." He nods his head in a slow, thoughtful way before offering, "There's this little redhead I'm pretty fond of. Greenrider out of this last clutch. She's a feisty one. Said it was her first time the first time I had her, but I'm not sure I believe it. Haven't seen her for awhile, though." If that bothers him, granted, he doesn't show it. "H'vier, by the way." He offers with a slight tilt of his mug. "Bronze Reisoth's."

There's no overt sign of recognition, there, just a grin from Everett. "Met the sort of girl who'd lie about that kind of thing, but that kind of crazy, you don't want your dick in. Guess it wouldn't be the first time a virgin was in a hurry to become otherwise--not a lot of them back where I'm from, but here nobody's worried about their wedding night. Otherwise, maybe you're better off." He finally polishes off the last of his lunch-breakfast-whatever, and then he sits back more with his cup in both hands.

"It was ''hot'', whatever the case. But it's not uncommon for the weyrlings to want to get it out of the way. Practically required for the greenriders, if any of 'em are still virgins by then. Remember that, yeah? There'll be another clutch on the sands soon enough." They must be nice thoughts that H'vier is having because it takes him a moment to refocus on the younger man enough to ask, "And where is it that you're from?"

Musing, distantly: "So I've been told." Everett has a mug, after all, and he works on that until H'vier asks about his provenance. "Crom," he answers, with a shoulder lifted in half a shrug. "Wasn't in a hurry to waste my life digging up rocks with a wife getting uglier by the year. I have my daydreams, guess most every kid grows up with that, but even if I didn't Impress, would rather be here than there. Intend to try, though--been told you can just up and ask. Can't hurt, right? No more Thread."

"Not too far, then," says H'vier with a generic sort of nod. "There's a few riders from out that way, so maybe you've got it in your blood. And that you can." Just ask, presumably. "It ''can'' hurt, of course. Weyrlinghood isn't easy. But you're less likely to die now than during a Pass, it's true." H'vier grins at the younger man. "And the girls are a lot more willing than you'll find in any Hold." All the more reason in his opinion, no doubt.

The concern about Weyrlinghood is waved off. Everett, of course, is nineteen, and therefore scientifically proven to be both invincible and an idiot. "In the blood, yeah. Could be, you know? My father was a rider, but never met him." He's not lingering on that one, of course. Except: "Does suggest that if you play your cards right, even the Holder girls get more willing. Don't get a lot of girls in the bars in Crom who don't want to charge for it, though. Here, well, either way, I think I'm golden. Speaking of which--" He has a long drink, though it's not enough to finish the mug. "I'd best go get presentable before my shift, if I want some hope of making time with anybody."

There's a look from H'vier, an acknowledging lift of his brows for the first, but no particularly sincere interest. He also doesn't comment on Holder girls, just lets his grin fall back into place. "Probably a good idea." And H'vier starts to shift toward standing himself. A wingleader must have things to do, after all, that aren't sitting around hitting on women or chatting with teenagers.

"Hope your wingrider comes around," Everett offers, grin in return, and then he takes his plate and mug and goes to deal with them before heading into the caverns to start his day, as most of the rest of the Weyr is winding up theirs.
}}

Logs:Apology Not Accepted

2015-09-04T03:47:20Z

H'vier:

{{Log
|who=Faryn, H'vier
|what=H'vier is really bad at apologizing. Or maybe Faryn's bad at accepting them.
|where=Bathing Pools, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=19
|month=9
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.03
|quote="Actions speak louder than words, and yours are yelling."
|mentions=K'del, K'zin, T'mic
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon faryn stop talking.gif, Icon h'vier seriously.jpg,
|log=It's midday and quiet, steamy, warm in the caverns but mostly empty due to the time. Faryn, opportunist that she is, is taking advantage of it, grabbing a huge fluffy towel and a jar of soapsand before climbing into one of the pools alone, unbraiding her hair, disrobing and then sinking low into the warm waters with a satisfied sigh, all that dark hair floating on the surface in a semicircle about her head, her blinks slow as she relaxes into it.

In all likelihood, H'vier probably isn't here to corner Faryn. The fact that she's here when he arrives shortly after she sinks into her pool, is almost certainly a coincidence. He doesn't even seem to notice her on his way to a bench where he makes short, purposeful work of his clothes. It's not until he's nude and turned to the pools that he notices the young woman and, much less coincidentally, chooses to approach ''that'' one. "It's Faryn, isn't it?" he asks without, you know, getting in yet. Because standing there naked isn't awkward at all. At least he doesn't seem to think so.

It's not that it would be especially hard for Faryn to believe that he ''did'' try to descend upon her here, but rather that she would find it hard to believe he found it necessary to descend upon her at all. Similarly, he's the last thing on her mind, her ears underwater and sound muffled, when she cracks an eye open at the distorted sound of her name, spots him and immediately screws her eyes closed in a much less relaxed fashion, lifting her head out of the water a bit. "Shit, it's a bathing cavern, not an exhibition. Go put on a towel or get in the pools, nobody wants to ''see'' --"

It must be her reaction that makes the bronzerider smile, but modesty isn't really an issue he's ever had and he's not going to start now. "If you don't want to see, you probably shouldn't look." But he ''did'' come here to bathe, so H'vier shifts into Faryn's pool and settles down on the outer ledge. Once he's comfortable, notably not rushing into bathing rituals, he watches the dark-haired woman with a thoughtful intensity that some might find uncomfortable.

"Then ''bathe''," Faryn says irritably, not so relaxed anymore, though she attempts to act like she might be able to. A deep breath settles her back against the wall for several minutes, unmoving, completely zen, until the unsettling feeling of being stared at makes her skin crawl and both her eyes open again. She looks ready to get out, even reaches for her towel, and thinks the better of it, likely because it would mean that stare would fall on her naked. "''What''?" she asks instead, clipping the word with her teeth.

The smile that had faded while he watched her comes back in a smirk that pulls at one side of his mouth more than the other. "Do you remember that time you threatened to stab me?" H'ver asks like he's recalling some fond memory from their shared past. Except he doesn't give her a chance to answer before he continues, "I wouldn't recommend doing that again. I've ''been'' stabbed. I don't enjoy it. And I can't promise to keep my temper in check if you do."

She hasn't forgotten. Faryn's eyebrow raises, particularly in the face of that smile she doesn't like much. And yet, it's one she matches with a saccharine sweet one of her own, one that doesn't touch her eyes and sits plastic on her face. "We have very different memories. I remember you assaulting me, and me giving you a token warning you didn't deserve, not for a second. And now, here we are, with you threatening me. You're terribly charming." She's straightened in the water considerably now, narrow shoulders tense. "I should have turned you in."

"You ''could'' have," H'vier allows, continuing despite her insults. "But you didn't. And I'm certain even K'del," as though K'del generally has poor judgment, "would have cut me some slack. Unlike yourself and K'zin, who thought it appropriate to dick around with a man in mourning." He remains calm where she becomes tense, lounging against the side of the pool. "I regret my actions, however, and I'd like to apologize for upsetting you." It ''sounds'' sincere and there's nothing deceptive in his body language. It'd probably be better if he left it at that without asking, "Why didn't you turn me in? Was it because some part of you enjoyed it?" His eyes drop slightly, toward the parts of her that the water is hiding.

Faryn opens her mouth and it's clear she's filled with plenty more insults where that came from, but what little grace she has bids her to wait for him to finish. He gets his apology in, and then the question that gets her jaw tightening again, eyes lighting. "Actions speak louder than words, and yours are yelling. I don't accept your apology." Moreso when his eyes drop. "I didn't think you were worth the time; I won't make the same mistake this time. You almost could have been decent company, when your sensitive little feelings were in the way." She reaches for her towel. "Hear that? That's me mocking you. Not what you thought was happening. But any reason to make a woman feel embarrassed or uncomfortable, right?"

Fortunately for both of them, really, H'vier's sensitive little feelings are back where they belong; buried away where no one can find them. He stays where he is, watching her as she reaches for her towel. "It's a shame that boy has to put up with a cunt like you, isn't it? He seems like a decent sort." His eyes roll, which gives him a moment to see just who else is around. "I actually enjoy making women feel ''good''. But I'll admit it's kind of fun when they play hard to get."

"What boy?" Faryn wants to know, her hand on the towel but not yanking it close just yet; she just drips viciously on it instead. It doesn't take too many connections to conclude someone, and say, "He doesn't have to put up with anything. I'm not chaining him to his ledge." Tug for the towel, better to get out while he's looking away and wrap it around her while she studies him. Her scoff is little more than a breathless whuff. "Nobody's playing anything, H'vier."

H'vier shrugs for T'mic's sake, but he's definitely looking at Faryn again while she wraps her towel around herself. "Don't worry, sunshine. I wasn't talking about you. Not really my type. Surprised you're his, honestly." The bronzerider smiles at the woman, and seems to expect her to move along now that she's out of the pool. Except that he keeps watching her, because why wouldn't he watch a practically naked woman who is evidently not his type.

"I meant it literally. ''Nobody'' is playing hard to get. When they say no, they mean it. You're just the sort that won't hear it." She is leaving, though, and as quickly as she can, hyper-aware of the way his words do not match his actions. It's a record-time change, her clothes damp in most places and her hair loose and wet down her back, the discomfort of H'vier's eyes on her driving her out without much regard for those minimal ones.

He watches her go, but not to the extent that he has to move to do so. Once she's out of sight, his expression falls into something more agitated than neutral. And then H'vier bathes like he came here to do in the first place.
}}

Logs:Time to Move On

2015-09-02T23:10:49Z

H'vier: Created page with "{{Log |who=H'vier, H'vier{{!}}Reisoth |what=Reisoth kidnaps his rider for his own good. |where=A beach on the Southern Continent |involves=High Reaches Weyr |custom=M9 D14-15..."

{{Log
|who=H'vier, H'vier{{!}}Reisoth
|what=Reisoth kidnaps his rider for his own good.
|where=A beach on the Southern Continent
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|custom=M9 D14-15 T38
|day=9
|month=14
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.01
|quote=You should have been there.
|mentions=Irianke, K'del, Lilah, Tayte
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon h'vier human.jpg, Icon h'vier reisoth fall.png,
|log=On his ledge, Reisoth watched. He was distracted and restless, focused on Niahvth like every other bronze and brown in the Weyr. It was a chore to be so common, to feel the pull of such base instincts so strongly, to want scorching blood in his throat and to catch his shining prey out of the sky. To feel like H'vier.

He'd caught her once before. He remembered it. Reisoth wanted to claim his mate again. More importantly, he wanted to be Weyrleader.

His fore talons scraped against stone as his mind touched his rider's. H'vier was passed out, drunk, on his sofa. That wasn't what concerned the bronze, though. The man felt different since Eliyaveith and her rider disappeared. It was uncharacteristic for H'vier to be depressed. He'd been ''upset'' when Tayte left the Weyr and took his offspring with her, certainly, but Reisoth couldn't remember him ever being this despondent. He made plans while H'vier slept.

When the man woke, he was met with an insistent, <> The flash of beaches and heat made it clear he didn't mean to leave the bronzerider here to feel sorry for himself.

They appeared over crystal clear water and soft, white beaches. Reisoth deposited H'vier on the sand, allowing his straps to be removed and for his rider to make himself comfortable with the supplies he brought for a day in the sun before he took to the skies again. He needed to exhaust his restless desires.

It was nearly dark before H'vier finished his second skin of wine and the remaining half of a bottle of whiskey. Reisoth returned, but only long enough to drop a bundle of supplies and make sure H'vier knew what was happening.

<< There's everything you could need to survive the next few days here. Perhaps longer, if that proves to be necessary. I would suggest you pitch the tent so you don't freeze, but that's your business. It's time to move on, H'vier. >>

He was too drunk to put up much of a fight. Reisoth could tell that his rider was struggling to understand the implications, but he knew it would come to him in the morning. There was no more booze in his supplies, after all, and the bronze had no intention of rectifying that.

When Reisoth left, he didn't really ''leave''. He swept the area for felines, then settled on another beach nearby to ignore H'vier's drunken protests and sleep when the man finally gave up.

--

Reisoth could feel the thrum of H'vier's hangover the next morning, but he was being ignored as much as he'd been ignoring the previous day. << There's water. Drink it. It won't do either of us any good if you let yourself die from dehydration. >>

It took awhile, but H'vier drank. Water. It wasn't what he wanted, but his head hurt too much to argue with the bronze.

<< She rises, >> came later that day. Reisoth was tense with restrained desire, but he didn't leave H'vier alone on the beach to chase Niahvth. << Cadejoth, >> he offered, agitated but unsurprised, when it was over.

"You should have been there." H'vier sounded more weary than angry, even if the latter flickered there under the surface.

<>

H'vier didn't argue.
}}

Logs:Drinking Without Assistance

2015-08-26T04:29:10Z

H'vier: Created page with "{{Log |who=Everett, H'vier |what=H'vier is drinking, Everett helps him. |where=Snowasis |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=20 |month=8 |turn=38 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gamedate=20..."

{{Log
|who=Everett, H'vier
|what=H'vier is drinking, Everett helps him.
|where=Snowasis
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=20
|month=8
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.08.25
|quote=Need anything, there? Peanuts? Invasive questions from strangers?
|type=Log
|icons-new=Everett-portrait.jpg, Icon h'vier buzzed.jpg
|desc=The Snowasis is rarely quiet, and even then, the high-ceilinged former
weyr is kept from echoing by the fantastical booths tucked into its
convoluted perimeter. The secluded seating spaces have been shaped from
the truncated stalagmites that escaped the smoothing of the main floor,
and are both softened and separated by colorful hangings that are thick
and opaque enough to make each corner its own private nook.

Some of the smaller stalactites still roam the ceiling, their jagged teeth
tracing a bumpy, inverted spine to the hearth. There, a thick rug with a
low klah table and comfortable armchairs and couches sit, their upholstery
and cushions changed sporadically to match the season: bright, light
colors in the summer, fresh greens and yellows in the spring, warm
autumnals in fall, and clear, rich hues for winter. Small tables litter
the rest of the cavern, enough to fit up to four people each, while stools
stand along the smooth wooden bar behind which is the passthrough window
to the kitchen. Glass-paneled cabinetry behind the bar provides a clear
view of the available liquors, the many colors reflecting the soft light
of glows tucked into strategic niches around the cavern.
|log=H'vier has been a pretty steady presence in the Snowasis for the last seven or so, now that he's graduated from generally drinking away his sorrows in the privacy of his own weyr. He's been sitting at the bar for over an hour now, nursing one drink after another in relative silence. There've been a few Iceberg riders who have come by just long enough for him to send them along again, but every time it's in a subdued sort of manner. He probably won't start any fights tonight.

In the meantime, there have, of course, been other orders to fill, but Everett's managed to be very good at arriving just in time to top the wingleader up, only to vanish off again to make some middle-aged lady has her chardonnay, or whatever. When a lull does it, after all those refills, H'vier must seem positively familiar, so maybe that's why the bartender drifts back in his direction. "Need anything, there? Peanuts? Invasive questions from strangers?"

"None of the above?" H'vier responds without looking up from the glass that the young man has been so good at keeping full of booze. Then, he changes his mind, "How about a shot of the strong shit." You know, the stuff that isn't at all palatable until you're already shit-faced and even then is pretty unpleasant.

"You aiming to have somebody carry you home? I'd have to do a lot of push-ups before I could manage that, probably." There's a gentle sort of chiding in it. Notably, however, Everett says this while turning to pick a bottle off the shelf. The high-proof paint-stripper. He doesn't pour it particularly generously, but he does pour it. But then he puts the bottle back. At least it's not going to remain as a reminder. Everett, however, is apparently going to remain, at least until someone else needs enabling.

"My riders can prop me up outside if necessary," says the bronzerider without missing a beat. Or making sure said riders agree to this claim. Once the glass is poured, H'vier reaches to pick it up without complaining about any lack of generosity. "Thanks," might even suggest that just the fact that it was poured is generous enough by his standards. He doesn't waste any time throwing it back, either. He gives the requisite hiss from the burn of the swallow, but seems otherwise quite pleased with it.

Raised eyebrows, there. "Don't know exactly how many you've got, but looks to me like you've had almost a full wing's worth by here and you've managed to send them all on their way," Everett observes. He doesn't rush to provide another, certainly not unbidden, just leans against the bar and watches the bronzerider.

"Reisoth will tell them if their assistance is required." For a drunk guy, at least, H'vier talks pretty well, even if he has to think about a word for a second or two before he says it on occasion. "But I think I know how much I can manage to drink without needing assistance." He's old, right? He's had a lot of experience.

Evidently, Everett just really enjoys being contrary. It can't be good for his tips. "The thing about drinking is that it isn't very good for your judgment. Good for other things, sometimes. Relaxing. But not that. I just want to make sure you're all right. Wouldn't do to let something happen to our more illustrious patrons, you know? For the good of the Weyr, all that."

"You either want me to keep giving you my money or you want me to leave and keep drinking in the comfort of my own weyr, kid." Those are the only options, according to an intoxicated H'vier. Granted, at least he could pass out in his weyr without anyone having to worry about moving him around if he went home. "How about you get me some klah, hm?" He really doesn't want to go home yet.

A straightening of the shoulders. "When you put it that way," Everett responds, "I will admit that I prefer the marks. Anyway, they say that just being out in the world can sometimes... help. Human beings weren't meant to shut ourselves away." He's an extrovert, of course; introverts' opinions might differ on this score. "Klah, I can manage. I'm sure by now somebody's got to have a pot on. Faranth forbid anybody stop drinking and go to bed, right?" A smile for that, but it's a bit sheepish, then he sets about filling this order.

H'vier offers a brief, tired smile to the younger man. "There're probably only a handful of people on all of Pern who'd admit that I might be human." It's uncharacteristically self-deprecating. But Everett doesn't know him well enough to realize that, does he? So it's all good. The bronzerider leans heavily against one hand when the bartender goes to fetch him klah, eyes closing and everything.

"You don't look like a watchwher or anything," says Everett when he returns with the mug. No cream or sugar, either a guess or just because they weren't explicitly requested. "Unless everybody's suddenly gone mad or blind, I think the statistics have to be at least a little better than that." The smile isn't too pushy or anything. Mildly encouraging, at best. "Anyway, you haven't met everybody in the world yet."

"You're kind of annoying," H'vier tells Everett, in case no one else has told him that recently. He pulls his klah closer to him, lifts it up to take a drink, then must only notice that the boy is still near when he sets his mug back down. "Go. Annoy someone else." He says it as his hand moves down, fishing for marks that he ends up setting on the counter just beyond his mug. It's a generous tip. Plenty of reasons to leave H'vier to his own devices until he ultimately, eventually, staggers himself out to the bowl.
}}

Logs:Stabable Bronzeriders

2015-08-25T22:27:48Z

H'vier:

{{Log
| who = Faryn, H'vier, K'zin
| where = Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Faryn doesn't eat with one bronzerider she might need to stab with her fork and one that she probably doesn't (right now anyway).
| involves =High Reaches Weyr
| day =17
| month = 8
| turn = 38
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2015.08.24
| quote = "I just have a little sleaze on my shirt, is all."
| weather =
| mentions = Farideh, Mielline, Telavi
| ooc =
| icons = faryn angry2.png, h'vier rar.jpg, k'zin uncomfortable.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =>---< Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr(#350RIJMas) >-------------------------<

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.
| st =
| log =
The lunch hour has dwindled from rush to steady trickles of people weaving in and out of the large caverns, and the low and steady noise from so many voices has rendered each individual conversation into a steady din of sound between the clatter of plates and cutlery. It is, daresay, a pleasant atmosphere of general, if partitioned, camaraderie, and Faryn's amongst it with a plate that holds a sandwich and some tubers, all mostly untouched, while she wears a beleaguered expression thanks to her tablemate: an apprentice beastcrafter, as it were, who talks more with his hands and doesn't stop chewing for words. Her nose twitches in distaste, and relief floods her features when he says, "I'll be right back. I need more ''food''," and swipes his plate up to trek to the serving tables. Her shoulders lose some of their rigidity, and she finally spears a tuber.

For the last several sevens, H'vier's presence in the living caverns has been rare, if anyone were to pay attention to that sort of thing. When he's been here, it's been a short in and out to get food, maybe stop by any gathering of his wing, then off to somewhere more quiet. Today, he lingers, but it's not with his wing that he sits when he finally does. It's near Faryn, if not ''with'' her. Because he's probably not looking for that much interaction. Never mind that he definitely looks at her the way anyone would expect H'vier to look at any reasonably attractive female.

What are bronzeriders for if not for coming to the aid of damsels clearly in conversational distress? Perhaps nothing, not even that. K'zin ''does'' however slide into the recently vacated seat with a flash of a smile as he sets his own plate down. "Faryn, hey." He arrives just after H'vier, though apparently he hadn't paid attention to the other bronzerider taking the seat as he seems a little more surprised to offer, "H'vier, hey," next, thusly ensuring a triangle of talk has begun. K'zin is dressed down, no leathers, just comfortable clothes for being out and about on this late summer day. "How goes?" is a question more directed toward Faryn, but certainly extended to H'vier by grace of proximity and K'zin's impeccable manners (that include chewing with his mouth closed, as he proves in the coming moments).

A body sliding into the seat across from her pulls Faryn rigid again, just for a minute, only until she registers K'zin's face and voice, at which point she replaces all that undue stress with a quick smile and quick chewing so she can say, "K'zin!" with what seems to be genuine enthusiasm. A little less, then, for H'vier, who she doesn't quite like having on her blind side and warrants an adjustment of her chair. Better triangle for conversation. "You can join us," she offers, his plan to not be engaged thwarted. "It goes," Faryn says evenly, with a little shrug. "It always keeps going, doesn't it? How does it feel to just be a rider again, not a weyrlingmaster?"

The older bronzerider's first response is a grunt, which is probably meant to be some sort of acknowledgement of the greeting rather than one of his own. He seems, at first, like he might not engage despite their secondary efforts, but then H'vier sighs, sliding his plate closer, but not uncomfortably close. Faryn can thank him later. While they work on the beginnings of small talk, the wingleader eats his food and looks more at the girl than the other bronzerider when he isn't looking at his plate.

"It does at that," K'zin agrees with Faryn before casting his dark gaze back toward the wordless wingleader. "Something eating you?" He asks, a curious lift of brows directed to H'vier before he answers Faryn between bites, "Strange after having them for so long. Strange to be on vacation."

Faryn watches H'vier move his plate, her hand at the edge of her own like she's prepared to scoot down a ways, but that doesn't become necessary when he finally settles, even if he acts like they're pulling teeth. "You don't ''have'' to," she tells him on the tail of that heavy sigh. Another tuber, this one cut in half as she grins. "Strange but good, I hope," for the weyrlings, then she pops the tuber in her mouth to give H'vier a once-over. Twice over. A slender brow goes up at K'zin's question, and she's all ears for whatever answer might come, even if she focuses her eyes on her sandwich, eventually.

The younger man's question earns a briefly dangerous look from H'vier before he can smooth it back into neutrality. Instead of answering K'zin, though, which would surely be made up entirely of unkind words, his jaw tenses, releases, and he says calmly to Faryn, "I know. But I'm here now." And he's apparently not inclined to move again.

The lift of K'zin's brows indicate genuine confusion on the younger bronzerider's part at the look H'vier gives him. He meets the man's gaze only a moment before his eyes drop back to his plate. Rather than address the older man again, he clears his throat and bobs his head in a nod to Faryn, "Yeah, so far. Took Tela down to Healer Hall for a few days of post-weyrling pampering. Going camping later this seven. Mielline wanted to give the weyrlings a chance to settle into the wing before I joined up for the off-season." He glances toward the young woman, "What's keeping you busy these days?"

"Oh, good," Faryn says with a sigh at H'vier, a roll of the eyes landing her gaze steadily on him however much it's sidelong. She seems to lack the self-preservation that K'zin has, saying, "Now you can sit there and...what are you, ''brooding''?" As for what's keeping her busy, Faryn makes a sound in the back of her throat. "Farideh, mostly."

H'vier seems... appreciative? of K'zin's willingness to leave him be. But Faryn has to go and ruin the moment. His attention turns fully on her again, brows furrowed as though he's not quite sure what to make of her. Or if his temper will hold. "You're not a very bright one are you." It's not a question. "Very well." The bronzerider starts to move, sliding closer to the girl with every intention of reaching out to rest his arm around her shoulders in order to inhibit her ability to move away. And, you know, invade her personal space. "Is this better, sweetheart? You can get in my lap, if you'd like."

"H'vier!" It's an instinctive reaction that draws K'zin out of his chair, jaw tight and eyes narrowed at the larger man. There's warning in the wingleader's name, and though the younger man's fists have clenched at his sides, he's not ''yet'' trying to fight Faryn's battle for her - though surely if she gives him any sign he ''should'', he ''will''.

Faryn's laugh and, "I'm smart enough, I just figure this is what we get for inviting--" is clipped off when H'vier moves. Remember that rigidity from earlier? It's back in full force, winding Faryn so tight her jaw clenches and begins ticking at the joint. Her fork slides through her fingers until she's gripping it much differently than it's intended. "You'll wanna move that arm," she bites through teeth that barely move, that touch of Tillek accent leaking in; she's probably not as cool in her head as she sounds when she speaks. "I figure I don't even have to aim to ruin your day."

It's difficult to ignore K'zin barking his name like that, but H'vier's gaze doesn't shift away from Faryn. Especially not since she's trying to arm herself. He's been stabbed often enough to know he doesn't like it very much. "She's a feisty one, isn't she. I like that in a woman." And since that, somehow, seemed to be directed at K'zin more than her, his next words aim to change that. "My day was ruined when I woke up this morning." H'vier releases her, though, shifting to rise in the next moment, picking up his plate and looking at the other bronzerider. "I could use your services sometime soon, K'zin." And then the wingleader is turning to leave the pair to their small talk.

The way K'zin looks at H'vier goes from glare to some implication that H'vier may have completely lost his marbles. He doesn't move though, not with Faryn taking care of herself, even if he doesn't necessarily feel like he can sit back down until the wingleader is turning to leave, and even then he remains standing until H'vier has departed, asking as he watches the wingleader, "Are you okay, Faryn?"

Faryn is stiff all until H'vier grabs his things, motionless for the most part save watching the big man get his plate and turn away. Her brows are knit tightly, but her grip relaxes on the fork enough for her to put it down with fingers that are not so steady when they're not white-knuckling her fork. Nothing like a little assault to ruin your composure, after all. "Asshole," she growls, shoving her plate away in disgust, like it's personally affronted her. "Fucking ''asshole''..." she starts a blue streak swearing tirade under her breath, doing her best not to glare in H'vier's wake until K'zin's question breaks in. For him, she musters a smile, humourless. "I just have a little sleaze on my shirt, is all. That'll teach me."

Perhaps wisely, K'zin doesn't make any move to offer physical comfort, but he does take his seat again, glancing in the direction of the departed bronzerider. "Asshole is right." He agrees it with feeling. "Do you want to report him? I'll go with you." The fact that he's offering moral support and not to track the bigger man down and pick a fight with him is an obvious sign of maturity.

"If we're lucky, maybe he will have a better day tomorrow by not waking up at all," Faryn says with a sigh and a shake of the head. "That wouldn't do any good. I imagine he collects the reports and keeps them in a photobook in his weyr for posterity. If he hasn't stopped now, that'll just be proving he won."

"Maybe," K'zin reaches a hand to rub the back of his neck. He sounds less than convinced and then sighs. "Alright." He concedes to her wishes, but uneasily. His fork picks at his plate for some moments before he's setting the fork down and shifting the plate away. "Do you think you could be spared from your duties tomorrow?"

Faryn watches him poke his food, not giving her own a second look and eventually paling slightly as her stomach rejects the very idea of food. "I'll think about reporting it," she says in the wake of his discomfort, which is maybe just a little better. "Maybe. Depends what for."

"You should do whatever's right for you," K'zin tells her earnestly. "In the meantime, you look like you could use a day off. Why don't you go with Tela to healer tomorrow? I'd scheduled another massage just in case they were too addictive to stay away after a few days. I can get ready for my camping trip and you ladies can enjoy yourselves. They might even be able to fit in some girlier things. Like... nails. And hair." He squints a little as if unsure of these are acceptably girly options. "My treat." It's possible he's feeling bronzerider guilt on behalf of bronzerider-kind.

Faryn makes a small sound of appreciation for the offer, but she lifts a hand to wave it off nonetheless. "I don't know I've been subjected to Farideh's tyranny enough for a day off, already. And I don't...do....girly," she adds, slow and careful, like she's weighing the words for truthfulness. A nod confirms they are. "I appreciate it though, truly. You're a friendly reminder that not every bronzerider makes me want to stab him with my fork." Even though she's reaching for hers now, and her plate too.

K'zin's eyes close briefly, but he manages not to wince. "Yeah, sorry." Not, probably, that he doesn't make her want to stab him, but rather that there ''are'' those who ''do''. "If you get a day off and want to go somewhere just to be away and need just a ride, let me know." He offers in lieu of what she won't let him gift her.

"I will," she assures, with a glance around the room to make sure she won't summarily run into H'vier, whose departure she's lost track of. "It's not your job to apologize for him. Or anyone else. Don't worry about it, please." With no sign of H'vier, Faryn pushes her chair out to stand. "I'd probably better get back anyways. Have a safe camping trip, K'zin. Don't fall down a hill or anything stupid."

Instead of answering with some appropriately polite small-talk or another, K'zin finds himself on his feet again to say hurriedly, "Faryn-- if there's been a flight, avoid me after, okay?" It might seem a weird thing to say, but there's K'zin being that weird bronzerider that doesn't make women want to stab him with a fork (most of the time).

The suddenness of the request elicits a bemused laugh, one that you give to kids who ask silly questions. ''Indulgent'', is the word. "Sure thing," Faryn agrees, taking the request with a grain of salt. "Might be hard, all those greens, but sure. Later, K'zin." She turns then, lifting her plate in lieu of a wave so she can go dump her things, and disappear into the caverns beyond.

''Faryn'' might be taking this lightly, but the way K'zin looks after her with a distinctly worried countenance says that he's taking it as anything but. He looks uneasy as he collects his plate and moves to place it (even with so much food left on it) in the collection bin before moving toward the bowl.
}}

[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs talk:Remembering Lilah

2015-08-23T06:48:17Z

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

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

==Alida (22:55, 21 August 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

I still have a difficult time wrapping my head around H'vier actually loving someone. :)
==Edyis (23:24, 21 August 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

WSS^^ At the same time though, its those little snapshots of him that humanize him. Loved this.
==Jolie (09:16, 22 August 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

LOL. You know, in a strange way Jo can relate. I think this is one of those situations where H'vier and Jo are pretty similar since, because of their perceived reputations, no one really believes they could fall in love. And yet... ;) Insight scene!~
==H'vier (23:48, 22 August 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Why is everyone so surprised! Havi was in love with Tayte for turns. XD

Logs talk:One Little Big Lie

2015-08-23T06:47:12Z

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

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:One Little Big Lie]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Edyis (22:10, 22 August 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

So disappointed in you Farideh. Shaaame.

It's interesting to see her deviousness in play here.
==Drex (22:15, 22 August 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

You are gonna be in so much trouble. Thankfully Drex has a list to see to first to keep him distracted for a bit. >.>
==Faryn (22:21, 22 August 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

http://i.imgur.com/eBEStLN.gif
==H'vier (23:47, 22 August 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

I can help make this the truth.

Logs:Better Than Rumors

2015-07-06T06:41:24Z

H'vier:

{{Log
|who=H'vier, Yesia
|what=H'vier takes Yesia on a date.
|where=Secluded Beach, Ista Island
|day=1
|month=3
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.07.04
|quote="Tell me what you know and I'll do what I can to fill in the blanks."
|mentions=Edyis, Farideh, Fayla, Laine, Lilah, Tayte
|type=Log
|ooc=Summer heat. NSFW.
|icons-new=Icon h'vier really.jpg, Icon yesia flight.png,
|desc=>---< Secluded Beach, Ista Weyr(#733RJ) >------------------------------------<

Surrounded by dense jungle is an empty beach that provides just enough
space for two or three dragons to land. Velvety black sands are swept
relentlessly by waves, stark white foam sliding seaward after the receding
waters. Ista's main beach lies somewhere to the north, but it's impossible
to see from such a secluded cranny on the coastline. The jutting fingers
of the Weyr are still visible beyond the dense jungle canopy, but there is
the illusion that here and now there is no one else on all of Pern.
|log=True to his word, H'vier takes Yesia where she's asked to go. Well, not ''exactly'' where she's asked to go. This isn't Ista Weyr. Or even Ista Hold. But it's on Ista Island (probably), so it still counts. Reisoth drops the pair of them off on the beach and stands patiently while H'vier helps Yesia down and proceeds to remove anything that was brought along from the bronze's straps. "Do you know how to build a fire?" The sun hasn't set yet, but it presumably will before H'vier plans on taking the weyrling back to the Weyr. Fortunately there's already a pit built out where there's been a fire in the past.

In H'vier's defense, Yesia could have provided more specificity. A response of, "Ista?" when asked where she'd like to go, clearly an uncertain query, allowed plenty of room for interpretation. It's not that Yesia is perturbed for long, though. On Reisoth's neck, she seems content to be looking down at ''beaches'', to have the warmth of the sun though it's fading, to see the ocean beneath skies that aren't crowded oppressive grey clouds. She lets H'vier help her down and wanders a few steps away, smiling to herself, considering the water until his question reaches her. "What? Oh. Uh. Yes, I think so?" Promising, that is. She leans over the fire pit to see what might be inside, which isn't much flammable, as it turns out. "I can get firewood," is more confident. Finding that's easy.

"Good. Just find anything dry and it will work fine." H'vier pulls off his jacket and his shirt, because it's warmer here than it is at Reaches, before he continues with removing the rest of the bronze's straps. Once that's done and he has things where they should be, he can even help Yesia with the whole gathering flammable things and getting a fire going. "I brought some wine. And a bit to snack on, if you get hungry." But the wine is perhaps all the bronzerider thinks they'll need. "Did you bring a suit?" he asks with a nod of his head toward the water as if this is all completely normal and not at all awkward. Possibly because it's not at all for him.

Yesia's obligingly obedient, or maybe she's only belligerent when she's cold and unhappy. She hums her agreement and saunters off towards the treeline, plucking up larger sticks and pieces of log as she goes, speaking only when he comes to help her bring it back. "It's pretty here. We're doing visualizations, and Aeaeth asked someone about water, and she got an image of this. Or something like it." And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why she's not allowed to between yet. "I thought the beach sounded nice. The one at Tillek...isn't." She doesn't even cozy up to the fire when it's started, just gives him a coy smile for the wine, which she didn't bring. "Oh. Shards!" She looks a little stricken. The ''one thing'' she was supposed to bring, not here.

"The beach ''is'' nice. It's been turns since I lived here, but I still like coming sometimes. To relax. And think." And other things that she can probably imagine but that H'vier doesn't explicitly point out. He considers Yesia for a few moments, then glances out over the water, where Reisoth has since made himself comfortable. "I suppose I could not wear mine, too, if you'll have to swim naked. To make you more comfortable." Of course. Never mind that he's assuming that she ''would'' swim naked. "Or I can sit here and you can enjoy yourself." See? Totally nice guy.

"You lived here?" she asks, eyes wide. "Why would you ''leave''? For High Reaches, of all places. It's so different." Yesia's little nose wrinkles up. She finally gets around to shedding her own jacket - the blouse beneath is for the weather, light-weight and clingy, light blue and hanging off one shoulder. She sits down to work on her boots, unlacing them and kicking them away, then losing her socks too before she stands again to dig her toes into the sand. "If Irianke was from Ista, I would have transferred for sure when they told us they were taking volunteers," she declares, padding her way towards the surf. "Maybe," she says. "Half the point of coming was for the water. It's not the same, going to the hot springs."

"It wasn't by choice. I never would have chosen to transfer to Reaches of my own accord. It's just something that happens sometimes." H'vier doesn't offer more than that about it. "I did consider, very briefly, the idea of volunteering ''myself'' for Igen. But I don't think I was quite what they were looking for." And he has quite a lot he'd have to give up at High Reaches. He follows slowly after Yesia, perhaps not wanting to crowd her. At least until he bothers to crouch down to unlace his boots and take them off. He doesn't seem in a hurry to take off his pants, anyway. "You could still ask to transfer here if you really wanted."

"Oh," Yesia's mouth purses down into a frown. "That's terrible. I don't ''love'' Reaches," she admits, and now she's at the edge of the water, putting her toes in carefully and then withdrawing when she finds the water still cold enough to brace for. "But it's familiar now. And Igen only wanted greens and blues, didn't they? I thought I might grow to like it more." A shrug that says she hasn't. "Do you think they'd let me transfer here? Aeaeth would love this." She bends down to roll up her pant legs, just below the knee, and wade further in. A test, if you will.

"They wanted green and blue weyrlings, yeah. I doubt they would have taken me even if I'd seriously wanted to leave." That's less interesting to H'vier than Yesia is right now, though. As soon as he's back on his feet and heading closer to the water, he points out, "You don't have to be shy, by the way. I can't promise I won't look." Because he's probably done that already, "But I won't touch you. Not unless you want me to." Or he gets carried away. But same thing, really. Then, "I think K'del is nice enough to try to give people what they want." The way he says it isn't a compliment, exactly.

"K'del ''is'' nice," she agrees, too into wading into the water to really catch the subtle nuances he's dropping. "Maybe I'll ask," sounds dubious, but she considers him. He ''has'' been terribly nice so far, a gentleman by all regards. And the water does feel very nice, and the sun is still up, and there is ''nobody'' else.... "You're nicer than everyone says you are," needs to be said, whether or not it's true, as she takes the steps back to the shore. She's messing at the button on her pants as she comes, not at ease, exactly, but apparently deciding the odds are worth it. "You don't have a girlfriend, do you?"

"I'm nice to people who are nice to me," allows the bronzerider with some measure of sincerity. "I'm sure at least some of my reputation has been well-earned. But people talk. Especially women." Yes, some of H'vier reputation ''has'' been well-earned where women are concerned especially. But he's not leering at the weyrling right now, while she thinks about taking her clothes off. "Not as such, no. Not anymore. Are you thinking about applying for the position?" It's amused teasing.

She looks at him suspiciously, like he's goading her. "That's what I am, too. And it's made me miserable. Don't you care when people hate you?" She's interested in the answer, studying his face, as if she has the skills to detect him lying. He mocked her for flushing before, but it happens again when he teases. Yesia ducks her head more, shaking her head and focusing on her fastens. Her shrug is awkward. "I just - people have rules, and it's not like Holds. You can't tell when someone's got someone else, or how serious it is from looking. No big rings or anything. I don't want some...angry greenrider to find me because I'm on a date with you."

"Not usually, no. I can't control how other people feel. And the only people who matter are the people who are close to me." H'vier is unapologetic about that. "Would you like me to list off all of the people I've fucked recently? Or just the ones that I might be fucking again soon? Anyway, the only greenrider who would have any right to jealousy isn't the jealous sort. It's part of why I like her. She does her thing, I do mine. And sometimes we do our things together." So romantic! "Weyrwoman Lilah has been enjoying my company. But that's just sex. There hasn't been anyone else with any regularity."

"What about when the people you’re close to aren't close? Is that why you...sleep around?" It's delicately asked. "I don't want a list, ''no''. I just - made a mistake recently, and I don't want to do it again. I promised I would be more careful, is all." His explanations - and the mention of Fort's weyrwoman - give her brief pause. "Could you turn around really quick?" she asks, her thumbs hooked in the waist of her pants. She's a little shy, then.

"I 'sleep around' because I enjoy getting off," says H'vier, turning around as she's asked him to, but using the time to work at the fastenings to his own pants. It doesn't take him long to get naked. He's probably had a lot of practice at it. "I suppose I didn't sleep around so much when I was with Tayte. But I haven't been in a really serious relationship other than her." And it didn't really work out, since he's presumably not with her anymore. "Is that what you're looking for? A relationship with someone?"

Yesia's mouth makes a little 'o' for that explanation that he probably misses in turning away, She disrobes quickly, to beat out his turning back around, and goes into the water with less trepidation because it offers some security for being so naked. "Not exactly," she says. "I mean. I don't really ''like'' anyone enough for that. I wouldn't mind...people to talk to. People that aren't weyrlings and don't treat me like --" A shrug. "I was looking for, well. The weyrlingmasters all said I should find someone who is experienced. ''And'' trustworthy. To learn from."

H'vier, by contrast, has no modesty to speak of. But he's fortunately not making this more awkward for her by being, uh, overtly interested. He doesn't just stand around hanging out and proud, though. He'll make his way into the water until he's covered around the waist when he sits down, settling there comfortably while he watches Yesia without staring. "I imagine that's good advice. But I'm not sure it's necessary. When the time comes, you'll want it as much as she does. And you might be sore after whether you've prepared or not, depending on who has you. At least when you're lost in a flight, you don't care so much if it hurts a bit. Or who you're with."

Yesia makes it out into the water until she's covered to mid-chest, careful. She turns back to look at H'vier, is ''surprised'' by what she sees, and turns her eyes to the horizon with measured care. She waits to hear water behind her, chances a glance and finds him seated. Maybe she was holding her breath, with the sigh she exhales. She doesn't sit, but lets her arms float in the water in front of her, her hands skimming the surface in gradual movements. She swallows. "I didn't think of that," she admits. "But...they said losing your virginity in a flight." She doesn't know, apparently. Just what she heard. "That's why I was in the lounge, even. But it's ''weird'', because who just sleeps with strangers?" Present company excluded. "Isn't it -- hard?"

"Flights can be intense. You don't have much control over what happens. Some people are more comfortable having more control over those first experiences. Does the idea of having no choice about who you're with or what you're doing your first time bother you?" H'vier doesn't sound suggestive about the way he's asking it, rather he seems genuinely curious and his point is probably leading somewhere. "To be honest, it ''is'' difficult when you're young and insecure. It gets easier as you get older, more sure of what you do and don't enjoy. It just takes experience. Realizing how ''good'' it can be." The bronzerider seems thoughtful, leaning back on a palm while the other lifts to scratch his well-groomed beard.

"I ''know'' all that," Yesia says, sounding for the first time impatient with him. "K'zin told me, and then ''Quinlys'', and...yes, I am. It's important. I spent my whole life telling boys I couldn't because...I was saving that for a husband. And now I don't get to do that. I should at least get to pick ''something'', since I haven't been able to pick anything else since Aeaeth found me." Her words have a heat behind them. "I can't wait until I'm old and secure. I don't even know when Aeaeth is going to rise."

It probably won't help that H'vier grins at her. He'll refrain from laughing, at least. "I know you can't wait, gorgeous." He knows all too well that dragons have their own agendas. He moves on, asking more pointedly, "So what are you going to pick? Surely there are other weyrlings who would fall all over themselves for the chance to get between your very nice legs."

Yesia's expression sours, her lips pursing in displeasure. "That's what I thought," betrays her arrogance, her vanity. "I tried that. They said no." She's equal parts annoyed and embarrassed. "And I'd rather just ...fumble, than sleep with any of the girls in my class. Than any girl," she corrects quickly. "But I can't help that, anymore." She's looking at him very closely.

"I can't really speak from experience, but I can only guess that ending up with a girl is the least of your concerns. They can only do so much without a dick. I'm not really sure how either of you end up satisfied as it is." And H'vier has probably spent a lot of time thinking about it throughout his life. "You've at least... explored yourself, right?" After another moment, he adds, "Your clutchmates must be out of their minds. I would take the chance to have you in a heartbeat."

"It's the principle of it, sleeping with a girl. And, that," she dips her head in agreement about satisfaction, like she has any right or understanding of it. "It's just weird." The bluntness of his question takes her off guard. "Yes. Kind of. It's...I don't get very far." A damp lock falls forward, and she blows it away sideways in annoyance. "I think they're not very smart," is of her clutchmates, "and T'mic said he was ''waiting'' for someone, or something." But his last has her eyes settling on him again, unsurprised. This thought has crossed her mind, it seems. "I thought you were having me on, about taking me out. You're..." her brow furrows. "Not as bad as I thought you were going to be. To me."

H'vier studies the girl from where he sits in the surf. He probably has more questions about her experiences, but he doesn't ask them. "Are you disappointed? I could be bad." In the unlikely event that she'd prefer him that way. "I'll admit I've had an abundance of inappropriate thoughts since you took your clothes off." But since he doesn't expect the weyrling to come jump into ''his'' lap or anything, he adds, "I know some younger men that would probably be thrilled to give you a hand with your problem."

"Just surprised. You could be a little bad," Yesia lifts a hand to hold her fingers apart, an inch or so. "Not ''terrible'', just..." Dangerous? "I'd just have to go through this all again, then," she says. "Talking to them, and finding out how they are, and making them take me on a date and seeing how long they can keep their hands to themselves when I ask them to, just to see if they're actually ''nice''." Her smile is a secret one, like she's found dirt on him, if telling everyone he was nice to her could be blackmail material. "You could give me a hand, too. And you're here. And you...want to, you just said so." And she's quick to add, "I can learn fast," in case that's a concern.

That she might be interested in letting ''him'' have anything to do with any of that seems to surprise the bronzerider. H'vier is far from disappointed with the idea, though. "Have you been thinking about that this whole time?" That idea must be at least a little hot, judging by the way he's looking at her now. It's not completely different from what it was, but there ''is'' some deeper interest, something heated, now. "Come here," he says, not moving from where he's sitting, but lifting a hand to beckon her closer.

For all Yesia has no experience with the main event that her behaviors cause, she's got the flirting parts down. She knows how to draw her lower lip into her mouth to worry it; how to blink big eyes at him, watching his reactions. The surprise, at least, makes her laugh. "Not the whole time, exactly. Just. Well, I told you in the lounge, I couldn't just sleep with you if I didn't know I could trust you, didn't I?" So maybe, yes. "If you'd been...like people say...when we got here, I wouldn't have. But I'm learning their judgment sucks." She does hesitate for just a moment, but is ultimately willing to follow that summons, leaving her briefly exposed as the water moves lower. She eventually stops in front of him, head tilted, expectant.

His reactions are all red-blooded male. Enough so that H'vier makes no move to try standing up. It might make her uncomfortable or something. "What do people say about me? It must not be too bad, or you wouldn't have agreed to come here with me in the first place." Even if, you know, she probably didn't expect him to bring her to a lonely beach where it would only be the two of them. "And you'd probably have made sure to remember your suit." His eyes wander when they can. He doesn't try to hide the fact that they are.

"I forget things," Yesia says plainly, because it's true. Ask any of the weyrlings. She's the one who goes ''back'' for things from line. "It's - ah." She trails off, and of course she's ''looking'', because what else is she to do? And blushing, but not retreating, even managing to stop the lift of her arms to cover herself when they start, though that's a challenge. "That you get angry. That you fight with people. You hit K'zin at the clutching party. People just...don't like you, not really. They don't like that you sleep with...lots of people. But they don't like me," she qualifies, "and I'm not ''bad'' either." They have sooo much in common!

"I do get angry sometimes. But I've been working on that. He deserved it. And I haven't hit anyone ''since'' then." The last is pointed out as though it should mean something. "Not outside of sparring, anyway. But that's different." H'vier's dark eyes return to Yesia's face. "Why don't people like you?" Then, "Come here. Sit with me." He doesn't really make it clear whether he's referring to his lap or the water beside him, but she's clearly too far away from him still.

"Everyone does. People are infuriating." So young, so jaded. She does move closer still, her boldness spent in having not covered herself under his scrutiny, and her choice of seat is beside him; the other option doesn't seem to cross her mind. "I don't know," is not entirely truthful. "When I got here, they - the girls in the barracks, Farideh and Laine and Edyis, they ''hated'' me. So it was just me and Paz, and now Paz is going to Igen. Edyis says that I'm a bitch and I deserve to be treated like one, and Farideh thinks I'm stupid and promiscuous," a derisive snort, "and Laine - Laine's just. It doesn't matter. It'll get better, when I graduate."

"Well, Yesia, ''I'' like you. You're fucking gorgeous," because that's important, "and you aren't stupid. I can only imagine some of them deserved bitchiness, and there's no shame in giving people what they deserve." H'vier moves a hand to touch the weyrling's thigh under the water, probably comforting as much as testing how she handles it. "If you need somewhere to go once you've graduated, you'll have a place in Iceberg. If you want it. Fayla would love having the chance to turn a woman I'm attracted to against me." It makes him smile. So maybe he's joking?

Yesia's "thank you" is quiet, and genuine. Where her mouth has pressed into a somber line, it finally twitches up at the corners into a tentative smile. Her eyes flick down to the water as he moves, her brows raising, but she stays - more or less. If she ''slides'' closer to him, well. "I'd like that, I think," she says of Iceberg. "I don't think anyone can turn me against you, unless they tell me you've...you've killed an entire Hold and it's true." Her wide eyes meet his. Has he killed an entire hold? "This is why I needed to get to know you. Because what I heard was wrong, and I'm sick of people telling me what to think just because they think they can." She's pressed to his side when she finishes sliding closer. "Does this mean you're going to help me?"

"I promise that I've ''never'' killed an entire Hold. And I never will. That would make me stupid. And a stupid man doesn't deserve to touch you. Not unless you tell him to." Because, hey, even H'vier can admit that some stupid people are really hot. He might even prefer them over smarter people sometimes. But not right now. "Darling, I'll help you as many times as you want me to help you." ''Now'' he sounds suggestive, arousal pitching his voice deeper. And with her all close to him now, it's easy for him to move with every intention of pulling her into his lap. Don't mind what's already there. "Tell me what you know and I'll do what I can to fill in the blanks."

"Good," is all she has for the outlandish suggestion, and the threat, and all of it. "That would be really disappointing." She laughs when he pulls her, but goes willingly enough, helping as best she can and at least keeping elbows and knees from any unpleasant knocking. Her hands end up on his shoulders, fingers flexing experimentally at the contact. "Oh," suggests it’s her turn to be surprised, her eyes cutting down briefly, then back up to his eyes. She swallows visibly. "Um. I know - " she starts, but she doesn't tell him; she shows him, leaning forward to kiss him, almost chastely.

Once there's the option of lips, H'vier doesn't seem very interested in using his mouth for talking anymore. He lets her kiss him however she likes for now. They have all night. Maybe not all night with the water that's bound to cool some with the setting sun, but the bronzerider has warmer things to think about. His hands move to Yesia's hips, trying to pull her more firmly against him while his own hips lift up eagerly despite his restraint to do more. "You should stay on top," he tells her, ''looking'' at her. Does that make sense?

Yesia is slow to boldness, but her body seems to know even if nothing else does. When she deepens the kisses it is in careful, deliberate increments, encouraged by his movements, even restrained. She's pliable, soft curves that she can fit against him just so, and she's willing to do just that. "Okay," she says to his suggestion, pulling back to nod. When his hands find her hips, her own find the desire to roam - down from his shoulders, to trace the planes of his chest, flatten against his abdomen. They hesitate to go lower, though; her fingertips are gentle, maybe light enough to tickle in their uncertainty. Her eyebrows go up, questioning.

If H'vier is ticklish, he doesn't seem to show it except in maybe the flex of his muscles under her fingertips. But that could just be that he has a beautiful, more importantly ''naked'', young woman sitting in his likewise bare lap. "You can touch whatever you want to touch, gorgeous," he assures her. "I'm all yours right now. What do you want me to do?" Surely ''some'' women must like having some measure of control, imagined or otherwise, over a man like H'vier.

A woman like Yesia, who's spent her trip lamenting her lack of control, thrills in this freedom, and her hand dips below the water to seek. "You're supposed to ''teach me''," she laughs. But some things are informed by instinct and suggestion, are ''obvious''. Yesia comes from jeweler stock, and her hands are nimble and clever, if testing. "Tell me what you like. What other people you've been with like?" She takes it as a safe bet that he probably likes the way she undulates into him, her mouth close to his, lips brushing his. "I just want it to be fun, the first time. And good."

"All I can really teach you is how to please ''me''," H'vier points out, his voice betraying some distraction while her hands are touching things he very much enjoys having touched. "And I guarantee you that I'll enjoy myself." One way or another. He's enjoying himself right this moment, in fact. But he's putting effort into focusing. "Have you ever actually gotten off, Yesia?" The way he says it suggests that it's an important question and not ''just'' him trying to imagine her face when it happens. There also might be a hint of hope that her answer is affirmative.

Yesia draws back a bit, her hand slowing, stopping. "Mmmm. That's good though, right? People sometimes...go again. You don't care when you're chasing, or flying away, but afterwards. It's - courteous." That's absolutely the right word, but she's rocked back now, to look at him. "Maybe?" is not a yes, but not everything can be easy, and perfect. Her admission is abashed, and awkward, and some of that pliability goes with it, "My hand got tired." The suggestion being she hasn't tried it that much.

The sound he makes is nearly a groan, but it's not the happiest of sounds. There's protest in it, because ''that'' answer wasn't quite what he'd wanted to hear. "It's good to know how to please other people, sure. But you need to know how to please yourself. Or how to tell someone else how to please you. It's not hard to make a ''man'' happy." Compared to women, presumably. "Most of us will just be excited that you're willing, yeah?" The smart ones who don't turn her down, anyway. H'vier gives her a serious look. "This is about ''you'' right now, Yesia. Not me. Now kiss me." Because his hand is sliding between her legs to explore what makes her go and he probably doesn't trust her to relax on command.

A victory is a victory, it seems. The sightless raven that persists with Nasmaeth spreads wings as if summoned and takes flight, back from whence it came; it was deceptively cold for such a small intrusion, leaving frost behind where it had perched. <> X'vin has something to say on the point of weyrlinghood though, his smile back, chasing the end of a laugh. "Yes, true enough. But I don't know it ever got ''that'' easy for me." He grunts as he pulls one of Besmernyth's straps tighter; Besmernyth grunts too. "It's hard, being the oldest. I was twenty-four. It feels like babysitting, depending on the people your with and," a pointed look at Nasmaeth, "the demeanor of your lifemate."

Yesia looks dismayed, and pouty for his protest, withdrawing her hand from the water. "I've ''tried''," is irritated,, but she isn't mad enough to leave. He is, after all, still making his point: it's about her, he's trying to help, and the particular nature of this encounter notwithstanding, he's being civil. She is likely comforted by the fact that he continues, even though he could stop with someone so green, an so she's willing to press close again. Her mouth is good at the kissing, the distraction - possessive even, though he's the one who told her to - and what gets her going isn't hard to figure. She's sensitive and responsive. When he touches her just right there are hiccups in her pacing: inhales sharply, breathing his exhalations, kissing forgotten; her arms will go weak from where she's leveraged against him, and she'll bury her face in his neck. "There," she says, "there, don't." Which is, do, and if he listens, she'll forget all about kissing to tremble, twitch, make a delightful sound into him that ends breathlessly, her fingers relaxing from where they've dug into him.

Even if it's only fingers for him, H'vier obviously enjoys the way she reacts to them. His free hand holds her steady at the small of her back and by the time she's trembling against him, the bronzerider's breathing is heavier, needier. Restraining oneself is hard, man. "Fuck, you're beautiful when you come," he murmurs as if it's an honest to goodness compliment. He probably thinks that it is. "And once you figure out how to do it for yourself, you won't even need me." It's deep, aroused teasing. But he's definitely not ready for her not to need him ''yet'', even if that hand he was using for her is working slowly at himself now.

Yesia laughs, sounding tired, not bothering to parse out if it really is a compliment or not. She's light in his lap as she adjusts, running a hand through her curls and looking at him with kiss-swollen lips and flush to her cheeks. "I doubt it's more fun alone," she says at length, but points out, helpfully, "I'm still a virgin," technically, "but we're making progress. You're being very thorough." And she can help, encourage, with her hands free now and her breath caught, her eyes bright with lust. "Nobody is going to do any of that, during flights. I read it." All hail the healer tomes.

''H'vier'' isn't even a little bit tired, so when Yesia starts to get more encouraging, the bronzerider will let her hands, however less experienced they are, take over from his so his can do more exploring. "Nobody will do any of that during a flight, no. That's why it's important to do it now. So you know it can be good. Not that flights aren't good. They're great." He's distracted, but his mouth keeps running until he finally asks, "Can I fuck you now?"

No preamble, then, for this. The nod of her head is unmistakable, but for good measure, she manages, "That was the point." Not that the rest hasn't been well worthwhile. But this is his part; she's hobbled at this part of the learning curve.

He laughs at that, but he doesn't bother with ''more'' talking, instead busying his mouth with her skin. H'vier is careful about how it starts, letting her set that pace. Once she's comfortable, he's not ''aggressive'', but he's not exactly worried about breaking her, either. At some point he'll carry her further up the beach, back toward the fire where it's warmer, if sandier. And later he'll take her to Ista Weyr for a proper meal, if she's still up for it, because he can be an asshole, sure, but he's not above spoiling the women who are willing to have sex with him.
|Categories=NSFW Logs
}}

Logs:Love is a Weakness

2015-07-04T19:50:32Z

H'vier: Created page with "{{Log |who=H'vier, Lilah |what=Lilah invites H'vier to Lemos' gather, but they don't stay there for long. |where=Gather Grounds, Lemos Hold |involves=Fort Weyr, High Reaches W..."

{{Log
|who=H'vier, Lilah
|what=Lilah invites H'vier to Lemos' gather, but they don't stay there for long.
|where=Gather Grounds, Lemos Hold
|involves=Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr, Lemos Hold
|day=18
|month=2
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.06.29
|quote=Don’t want me to fall helplessly in love with you, H’vier?
|mentions=K'del, Tayte
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon h'vier youknowyouwantto.jpg, Icon lilah flirty.jpeg
|log=Lemos’ hills and forests are beautiful in winter, covered in snow and reflecting the lights of the gather. Even in all of this beauty, in the overwhelming energy of the gather as people laugh and dance and drink while the sun casts dying light, Fort’s new Acting Weyrwoman stands at the sidelines. Without her knot, she is still wrapped up in a wine-red dress, baring shoulders and a hint of cleavage, and that distinctive red-gold hair has been pulled up so as not to compete with the color of the dress, pinned up into a stylish knot at the nape of her neck. And perhaps it is that she hasn’t found what she came for here in this crowd, but Eliyaveith reaches out for the unfamiliar mind, questioning << Reisoth? >> Her single word comes paired with invitation and image, enough to guide them both to the gather, if they’d like.

Reisoth's mind is cool and distant when Eliyaveith first reaches out for him, but as his attention turns on her, so does the weight of his focus. << Eliyaveith. >> His greeting is polite and little more, so unlike his rider. << Congratulations. >> The word is genuine despite its simple nature. Then, << H'vier is getting dressed. >> And as soon as his rider is ready, they're on their way to Lemos. H'vier, in his dress leathers, might need help finding the Weyrwoman, but as soon as he does, it's clear that her dress has made a good impression. He's trying, with limited success, not to stare at her cleavage when he greets her with a smile, "You look... distracting, Weyrwoman." It's a ''compliment''. Really.

The flicker of Eliyaveith’s mind is all flames, heat versus cool, but she answers him with a steady, << We only do what is best for the Weyr, >> for his congratulations. She is patient in waiting for his rider, polite enough to offer some guidance to him through dragon for where exactly he can find hers. So it is likely no surprise at all to Lilah when H’vier appears, meeting the smile with the lift of her brows upwards. “I hope not ‘’too’’ distracting, wingleader. You and I have a lot to discuss.”

<< Don't we all? >> It's a rhetorical question, but Reisoth, once he's settled himself some distance from the gather grounds, maintains some level of interest in observing the Fortian queen. "We do?" H'vier's is an actual question. "You aren't pregnant, are you?" One might imagine that he's asked a few women this question in the past.

A wry smile touches Lilah’s lips at the question, her fingers smoothing self-consciously over her stomach even as she counters, “And you think that I would know already, if it were yours?” A pause, before she clarifies, “No, I am not pregnant. And since I am not, I would love a glass of wine.” At least Reisoth has earned agreement from the queen, a warm thing that only brushes silently against the dragon’s mind even from where she has settled to cuddle with a Benden blue dragon.

"It's been a seven," counters H'vier as though he can't imagine how he would be expected to know whether that's long enough for a woman to know that sort of thing. "A ''busy'' seven, at that. I suppose I'm to offer my congratulations." He hesitates, eyeing the goldrider neutrally, then turns to fetch her a glass of wine without asking for her preferences. He'll return with one for each them, so at least it's something he's willing to drink himself.

Only a soft noise accepts his congratulations paired with the hint of a smile. And as he turns away to fetch that wine, Lilah’s dark gaze follows him and lingers there to watch his progress. (Maybe she is watching to see if he gets distracted by another woman before returning.) “It has been a busy seven. Between new duties and visitors--,” she continues when he returns, reaching to take one of the glasses from him. “K’del, for example.”

H'vier ''had'' been in a decent mood, but mention of the Reachian Weyrleader darkens his expression somewhat. "That's hardly surprising. It's his job to kiss as much foreign ass as possible, isn't it? The real question is whether or not it was only your, admittedly very nice, ass he got ahold of."

“What else do you suspect he got a hold of?” Lilah questions in a murmur, seemingly not surprised by the bronzerider’s reaction to the mention of K’del. That may be what brings her closer as she speaks, stepping into H’vier’s space easily as she lifts dark eyes up to him under the fan of soft lashes.

He doesn't seem concerned with having Lilah in his space. In fact, he probably likes her being so close. H'vier doesn't take advantage of the proximity by trying to touch her, however. "You know perfectly well. Did you let him under your dress, too? You know how he is with Fortian goldriders."

Lilah has no such restraint with touching the bronzerider, her free hand lifting to curve fingers lightly against his chest as she answers lowly, “I am sure the rumors and gossips are already sure that I do. He ‘’does’’ have a reputation, doesn’t he?” But the way she looks at up at him turns to a study as she adds, “But so do you."

Being compared to K'del is not H'vier's most favorite thing in the world. Not even close. He smiles at Lilah, though. It's not particularly friendly, but it's restrained. "I'm aware of my reputation. I've spent a lot of time cultivating it." Maybe not always on purpose, granted. "Are you trying to tell me that you'd like for me to continue cultivating it with you?" Because of course that's what he'd assume. It's predictable.

Before they can draw any attention for it, Lilah’s fingers fall away from where they rest against muscle, though not without trailing down that broad chest. “No,” she answers flatly, though. “I want you to tell me about the woman that you hit.” Why it is her business-- Well.

H'vier frowns outright now, eyes narrowing. That's probably more for K'del than for Lilah, but it's the woman who bears the brunt of it right now. "There's nothing to tell."

The goldrider holds herself well under narrowed eyes and frowns, only the curve of one eyebrow upwards in silent response for his answer. “Nothing? Then all I know is what K’del has told me,” Lilah says simply, her wine lifted to her lips finally. “And that doesn’t inspire me to let you take me back to my weyr tonight.”

"I have no idea what K'del told you. Or ''why''. But I can assure you that he's ultimately happy it happened. She's moved on. With my children." Definitely not with H'vier anymore. "She's one of the reasons I started seeing your mindhealer." Or the mindhealer that had been Fort's when he started seeing her.

“What happened?” presses Lilah on that point, a low question even as her gaze slides slowly over him in a study.

"I lost my temper. I hit her face with the back of my hand." H'vier says it while meeting Lilah's gaze in such a way that he's very unlikely to be lying. "And I promise you that I've regretted it every day since." Or near enough. He keeps his dark eyes on the redhead. Is that what she wanted?

It seems to be, since Lilah draws close again to the bronzerider, brushing against him as she pushes to her toes to murmur into his ear as lowly as the gather allows, as she tells him, “If you ever touch me in a way that I don’t ‘’like’’, I will make sure you lose your hands.” But the words hold an invitation to them, as does her soft curves where they brush against him.

H'vier says nothing, looking down at the goldrider as though judging whether or not she has the conviction to follow through on her threats. Whatever he decides, his free hand moves to settle against her waist, around toward her back to pull her against him more firmly. "I trust that means you're going be clear about what you do and don't like, Weyrwoman."

“Lilah,” she corrects for the title, a small smile playing at her lips for once. And for all of the hardness in the Weyrwoman’s personality, there’s a softness as she melds against him in that familiar way. Despite the gather going on around them and the publicity of their location, she follows through to a brush of a kiss against his lips as an answer.

"Lilah," he repeats, voice a little quieter, a little deeper. H'vier seems entirely unconcerned about the goings on around them when the woman touches his lips. He doesn't respond right away, other than a pleased rumble, but if she doesn't pull her head away after a moment, he tilts his own in an attempt to get more than just a brush of lips. It needs her cooperation, though, because he still has a glass of wine in the hand he might otherwise have behind her neck.

He certainly receives that cooperation, Lilah meeting that deeper kiss with an encouraging noise catching on her lips as she responds with a ‘’need’’ of her own. She only draws back eventually to murmur against his lips in a request, not a command, “Take me home, wingleader. Take ‘’me’’.” No requests for dancing, not to peruse the stalls.

"But I just got here," says H'vier like he might fully intend on enjoying the gather for awhile before taking Lilah anywhere. He doesn't let her go entirely, though, content to keep their contact. "I'll admit your argument is very persuasive, though."

Lilah’s brow draws upwards at H’vier’s answer, clearly not expecting ‘’that’’ as darker emotions flicker across the goldrider’s gaze for it. Annoyance, frustration. “Then stay here. ‘’I’’ am going,” she counters, moving to draw away further. Or at least, test whether he will let her.

It might not help his case very much that H'vier laughs when she seems upset by his answer. He tries to keep her close to him, though, stepping toward her when she tries to move away, arm firm at her waist. "I'll take you home. Let me finish my wine, at least?" It won't take ''long'', in any case. And he can drink as they walk.

“Only if I don’t find someone else before you’re done,” murmurs Lilah in challenge to that question, that laugh doing little good for the redhead’s temper as she levels a look over H’vier. But with the arm at her waist, at least she can’t get far to actually follow through on that threat. Nor is anyone likely to approach her to try to take her from the large bronzerider.

"I'll take my chances," says the bronzerider as he starts leading them slowly through the gather, presumably toward Reisoth's direction. "Are you sure you want to risk someone seeing us go into your weyr?" He seems curious more than worried. Hardly surprising considering rumors would benefit him more than her.

Lilah leans in to the curve of his arm as he guides her to question lowly, “Rather than sneak a quickie in the woods this time? In the middle of winter?” But she dismisses the implied rumors with a shake of her head, adding simply, “They will talk whether it’s you in my weyr or K’del or even Hattie’s assistant, bringing me hides.”

"Even ''I'' would prefer your bed." He says it as though he expects there are people who assume he'd rather have sex against a tree than in a soft, comfortable bed. "And getting you entirely out of your dress this time." H'vier even enjoys imagining that. "He should be just up here," he adds of Reisoth even as the bronze attempts to get as close to them as possible as soon as they break past the gather grounds.

"Then both of those can be arranged," agrees Lilah with a bare breath of a laugh, only shifting away from H'vier's arms almost teasingly to start the process of climbing the large bronze. Despite his size, she doesn't seem to need all that much help, but then, Eliyaveith is bigger. The queen in question doesn't seem to have any objections to her lifemate riding with Reisoth and his.

If H'vier's hands end up on Lilah's butt, it's probably... not actually only to help her with her mounting. But he follows her up in short order and once they're strapped in, the bronze is taking them to Fort. Reisoth deposits the pair on Eliyaveith's ledge, but he won't linger there without her invitation, just as content to settle on the heights by himself. H'vier has no intention of giving Lilah the same space, though, pulling her in against him to kiss her as soon as they're past the ledge.

When Eliyaveith returns to Fort alone, she does not settle on her ledge, but nor does she take to the heights with the bronze. Instead, it’s the empty junior ledge nearby that she settles on, the one that overlooks the weyrling barracks for all that they are all tucked in for the night. There is a fire banked in the rider’s quarters in the back of Lilah’s weyr, the only hint of warmth here. Especially where they stumble into that front room, with little furniture and white-washed walls. It is a stark contrast to the responsive woman in his arms, with her bright hair and flushed skin as she draws away from that kiss only to reach teasingly for the laces of her red dress. “Tell me something about yourself,” she bargains, with the promise of more bared skin hanging in her gesture.

H'vier doesn't waste a lot of time only staring at Lilah, though he does that, too, when she draws away. He shrugs out of his jacket, pulling his shirt out from where it's tucked into his pants in a way that guarantees he's distracted by her. "I've been fantasizing about tearing that dress off of you since I found you." He doesn't, however, approach to do any of said tearing. Does that count as something about himself?

“No,” replies Lilah dismissively of his answer, dark gaze resting on the bronzerider as she pulls one knot slowly free and starts working on the next as the dress loosens slightly to show a bit more cleavage. “Tell me something personal. Something about ‘’you’’.” Her lips curve into a wry smile before she adds, “Has a man with your reputation ever been in love?”

H'vier's dark eyes unsurprisingly focus a little lower than her face, eager for the cleavage, eager for ''more'' than cleavage. But they glance back up when she asks the last question. "Sure, I've been in love. Have ''you''?" This seems, maybe not more interesting than her breasts, but interesting to some extent.

“No,” replies Lilah again in a murmur, still pulling that lace free slowly. It is enough to loosen the dress so that it falls to her hips, catching there. “Tell me something else.” This time, she reaches for the low knot of red-gold hair instead of moving to pull the dress down any further.

"No?" Whether he expected another answer from her or not, H'vier doesn't seem surprised, necessarily. But then he's still distracted by the skin her dress is baring. "I wouldn't recommend it." He pulls his belt's clasp loose, then he's stepping toward the goldrider as he pulls his shirt off over his head and tosses it aside. "There isn't much to tell. And I don't know what you already know about me." It's probably more than he'd like her to as it is.

Those soft curls are freed even as he steps forward, falling around Lilah’s bare shoulders as her gaze slides over his bare chest appreciatively. And where he draws near, she is shameless in lifting a hand to splay against his abdomen, questioning challenging, “You don’t? Don’t want me to fall helplessly in love with you, H’vier?” Her fingers trail down towards that loosened belt slowly, taking her time before catching on the stays there and tugging on them.

He doesn't mind her touch. Far from it. H'vier is a physical person. He wouldn't have the reputation that he does if he weren't. "No," he tells her. But as her fingers trail down to his waist, he amends, "Maybe." Even though he continues with, "It wouldn't be good for you. For either of us."

Nimble fingers make short work of loosening the stays of his pants so that her hand can slide inside, pressing closer as Lilah asks a soft, simple, “Why?”

Do ''all'' women know these tricks? Springing serious questions on men when they're made so vulnerable by their arousal? It's not fair. And H'vier isn't thinking well enough to point that out. He's barely thinking well enough to answer, "Love is a weakness. But that's not what you want from me anyway, Lilah. We both know that."

“And what do I want, then?” Lilah counters in a murmur, her fingers curving possessively around the length of his hardness, though dark eyes never leave the bronzerider’s. “What do ‘’you’’ want from ‘’me’’?” That is perhaps the more important question in the way she weights it, though it isn’t without a hint of suggestion, seeking something.

H'vier opens his mouth to answer the first, but her fingers make him sigh out the breath he was going to use even as he wraps his own around her wrist to still further progress. He ignores the first question to answer the more important one. That or he's forgotten there was another question already. "I want you." That's what he wants from Lilah. "Are you done asking questions now?"

“That depends, wingleader. Are you going to try to take what you want?” is another challenge, but this one doesn’t come without an invitation. With her wrist trapped from further movements, she only watches him now, half-naked, with a hint of a smile to her lips.

It's the sort of invitation H'vier can get behind. Or on top of? Well, right ''now'' he'll pull her closer with that wrist he has, and pick Lilah up, lifting her over his shoulder so he can carry her to bed. That's where he'll drop her, but he doesn't follow, instead standing next to the bed and looking for some grip on her dress so he can pull it down past her hips and off of her. "Since my hands are at stake, why don't you come up with some word for me to stop in case I get close to losing them, hm?" H'vier is fond of his hands.

There is a moment of tension in Lilah’s frame as he lifts her over his shoulder, a moment where it seems as if the goldrider will fight against it on instinct, but she does not. She is much more helpful when it comes to the removal of her dress, however, as her hips lift to allow him to drag the dress off, unconcerned where it ends up as she watches ‘’him’’ with dark eyes. Red curls have spread over the white bedspread, this room as colorless as the reception of her weyr, except that a fire warms in the hearth. “How about stop? Or no?” she questions teasingly.

"Only if you're certain you'll always want me to ''stop'' when you say stop," says the bronzerider, pushing his pants off of his hips so he can step out of them now that Lilah has been properly disrobed. H'vier still doesn't join her, but he ''is'' looking at her heatedly while he uses one of his precious hands in one of his most favorite, if slow and deliberate, ways.

A breath hitches in Lilah’s throat, a low, encouraging noise slipping past her lips. The weight of her gaze on him is dark with desire, burning, and the train of her thoughts and conversation is lost into a simple, “Please. ‘’Please’’.”

H'vier likes ''that'' word. It's the opposite of stop and that's exactly what he wants to do. He's on the bed and on top of Lilah in the next moments, pressing himself firmly between her legs as he leans down to kiss her with a possessive urgency and a groan low in his throat.

Lilah is ready and willing, legs wrapping with her own possessiveness around the bronzerider as he settles between them. There’s a fierce need driving the goldrider, wanting ‘’more’’ and ‘’more’’ until finally she finds the peak of her own pleasure. And after, she starts to shift away as a habit, to put some distance between herself and H’vier.

It doesn't take H'vier much longer to find his own release, hers no doubt a catalyst for his, but he's less keen on the idea of Lilah putting distance between them once he's shifted to the side with a contented groan. "Don't," he rumbles, trying to pull her back against him so he can wrap an arm around her waist.

There’s a soft hint of surprise to be pulled back, but Lilah doesn’t fight against it. She even curves against him as that arm wraps over her waist, burying her face against the crook where his arm meets his neck even as she murmurs simply, “You don’t have to stay.”

H'vier relaxes once she's curved against him and not trying to get away. "Do you want me to leave?" It's not the same as not having to stay but it's a genuine, if drowsy, question. He's certainly giving no indication that he'd like to do anything but doze off right here.

“Less people would likely notice than if you left in the morning,” is Lilah’s answer, not a ‘’yes’’, yet--. But, her fingers curve against his ribs, tracing muscle there in soft exploration as she fits her curves against him, adjusting soft to hard until she fits just right.

"If you cared about people noticing, you wouldn't have let me bring you here in the first place." And, presumably, H'vier doesn't care, because he brought her here. No, he's not going to be moving anytime soon. Not until he needs to anyway, whether that's when Lilah wakes up in the middle of the night and realizes the horrible mistake she's made (again) or in the morning when he needs to return to High Reaches and his duties.

A breath that might be a laugh is exhaled against H’vier’s skin, though with her face buried against him, it’s hard to say. But Lilah does not argue that point further, instead continuing the slow trace of light fingertips over his muscles, at least until she falls asleep as well, remaining secured against him.
}}

Logs:No Harm in Trying

2015-07-01T16:08:48Z

H'vier: Created page with "{{Log |who=H'vier, Lilah |what=H'vier wants to be friends with Lilah. Or something. |where=Dice, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |day=20 |month=9 |turn=37 |IP..."

{{Log
|who=H'vier, Lilah
|what=H'vier wants to be friends with Lilah. Or something.
|where=Dice, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|day=20
|month=9
|turn=37
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.05.06
|quote=You can just say no, you know.
|mentions=K'del, Tess
|type=Log
|ooc=Whoops. This fell through the cracks.
|icons-new=Icon h'vier real.jpg, Icon lilah drinking.gif,
|log=It is clear that Dice is Lilah's element; her own little kingdom up in the sky that has, thankfully, been little affected by the storm that's rocked Fort, except that their hours have shortened to lend hands elsewhere when needed. Here, the goldrider is certainly comfortable enough to wear a sage green dress of light cotton, a thing that flatters her figure and coloring, reigning from the corner of one of those rooms that has been dedicated to a limited bar, only two stools there of which she occupies one. A glass of wine is at hand, as is a respectable amount of hidework spread over that bar top, but she watches the entrance for the moment instead.

Once he knows where to go, it doesn't take H'vier long to get there. A blue drops him off on the ledge, while Reisoth situates himself on the rim to observe the Weyr with keen interest. The bronzerider, though, moves inside, toward the bar, and greets the woman there with a smile that's been used to charm many a woman. "Weyrwoman. High Reaches' duties to you and Eliyaveith. May I?" he asks with a gesture to the remaining stool.

"Wingleader," holds a question to the greeting, though Lilah doesn't press it. Instead, it seems, she will do the polite thing of allowing him to take that stool with a quick tip of her chin, though she only moves to rise even as he does. She steps to the line of glasses behind the bar, drawing one down easily and setting it in front of that stool before pouring from the open bottle of wine. She adds, easily, "The first one is on the house."

H'vier sits, dressed in most of his duty leathers minus his jacket, watching as Lilah rises with a curious intensity in his dark eyes. "You're probably wondering why I wanted to see you," he states the obvious, smiling a brief thanks for the glass of wine. "It's not to get drunk, I assure you. Though I suppose that isn't completely off the table just yet. I like to keep my options open."

"I think that it will likely come out, or your visit might be fruitless," is Lilah's challenge to that, only the barest curve at the corner of her lips as dark eyes lift under the fan of equally dark lashes to H'vier to meet that intensity as she finishes pouring that glass with an expert twist and setting aside the bottle. Yet, she doesn't move to sit, not where standing gives her the advantage of height where the bronzerider does sit. She falls silent then, however, to wait for the answer she must be curious for.

"Truthfully, I could not tell you why I'm here and the outcome would likely be the same." And H'vier might do exactly that, judging by the way he reaches for the glass once it's poured to take an experimental drink. "You can sit. I promise I'm not here to reinforce my reputation. Not unless you'd like me to." He's pretty flexible in that regard.

There ''is'' a thoughtful look that flickers across Lilah's expression at H'vier's so-casual offer, almost tempted by it as she considers the bronzerider, but she only answers, "Then why are you here, H'vier?" She still does not move to sit, but she does reach to pick up her own empty glass.

"It was suggested to me, by someone I can only assume you know, that I ought to make your acquaintance. To be your ''friend''. And I thought, well, what's the harm in trying, hm?" H'vier has another smile for her before he's taking one more drink of his wine. Then, "Would you like to by my friend, Lilah?" It would probably come off better if the bronzerider could manage to sound innocent.

It is fortuitous that Lilah isn't drinking as H'vier asks that question, her brows lifting in surprise for it and not a small amount of ''suspicion'' of the bronzerider's motives. (Is it a wonder that she doesn't have very many friends herself?) "Are you even ''able'' to be friends with someone?" is the challenge that the goldrider delivers instead, without any hint of hypocrisy to it.

"No," says H'vier with a sincerity that ''might'' be feigned. But it might not, too. "I've never managed very well with the concept. The few friendships I've had have been... tense." He'll leave that at that. But after a thoughtful moment, he asks curiously, "Can you keep a secret?"

Amusement meets that question, dancing briefly in dark eyes before Lilah answers, "I think I can manage to keep a secret." She finally moves from behind the bar with her glass, returning to that stool besides his and sliding onto it easily despite skirts and how close to H'vier that it brings her.

"Journeyman Tess is to blame." In case Lilah needs someone to blame. Preferably someone who isn't the bronzerider himself. "I've been seeing her." There's a beat before H'vier adds, "Professionally. ''Privately''. She suggested you specifically as someone I ought to get to know better because she preferred it to the idea of letting people think she and I were doing anything untoward." That makes him smile. Silly, prude crafters.

It takes Lilah a moment to respond, most of her focus drawn in a study of the bronzerider as this new information forms some sort of thought about him. When she does answer, it is with only a breathed out, "Of course," before she lifts her wine to her lips for a quick sip. To H'vier himself, she adds dryly, "Haven't you heard? She has been transferred back to the Hall. You do not need a pretext here."

"Does that mean you don't want to be my friend, weyrwoman?" asks H'vier after a brief sip of wine without any indication of surprise. Either he already knows or it's irrelevant. Or he's just that good at hiding those sorts of things. "You can just say no, you know. You don't have to make up excuses. I promise that you won't hurt my feelings."

"No, I am refusing to be ''used''," is Lilah's firm answer to that, the hint of a challenge there-- before it starts to fade into a frown and annoyance, her gaze slipping past the bronzerider for a moment. When dark eyes return to him, she adds more carefully, "It isn't a no; I suspect that Tess sent you to ''me'' for a reason, not at all to do with you."

"If my only intention was to use you, I wouldn't have told you why I was here. I would have simply used you." It seems perfectly reasonable to H'vier. And obvious that he means well. Or at least would like to seem to mean well. "I'd prefer that people not know why I'm seeing her. And I intend on continuing to see her once she returns to the Weyr."

"Why ''are'' you seeing her?" Lilah questions, but the challenge and defensiveness of the goldrider has been blunted some as she consider H'vier.

That questions isn't one that H'vier particularly ''wants'' to answer, but after another drink and a sighed breath, he says, "She's attempting to help me address some difficulties I've been having with my temper." It's a very nice way of putting it, really.

It is entirely unlikely that Lilah misses H'vier's reluctance, but she doesn't offer a reprieve to the way she watches the bronzerider expectantly. Once he answers, however, she tips a simple nod that may be agreement before she offers in turn, "I am not any better at 'friends'. K'del is really the only one who has never pushed me away."

The look H'vier offers in response to that is decidedly less friendly. But he doesn't speak right away. One might expect this will make him less impulsive when he does. But once he's finished off the rest of his wine, the bronzerider says, "Perhaps it's best that I go for now. Give you time to consider before I've had a chance to ruin the moment, hm?" That's probably better than anything that might come of talking about High Reaches' Weyrleader.

The curve of Lilah's brow upwards is held there even as she commands, a hint of authority there that is surely to sit as well with H'vier as her previous words, "No. I would like you to stay, at least until I figure out if we ''can'' be friends before I decide if we ''should''." She even lifts her glass of wine in a toast to that, throwing back the rest of the alcohol before setting it carefully onto the bar and reaching for the bottle with the intent to refill both. "Tell me about yourself, wingleader."

She can fill both glasses, but that will only mean she'll have to drink them both herself. H'vier rises from his stool. "I have no doubt you already know everything about me that you need to know, weyrwoman. A short-tempered bronzerider with an insatiable appetite for beautiful women?" The more obvious of his reputations, anyway. "Have a good evening, Lilah, and thank you for the wine." Then he's turning to make his way back out toward the ledge where his ride will be waiting for him.
}}

File:Icon yarovai blank.jpg

2015-05-05T19:00:06Z

H'vier:

File:Icon yarovai wat.png

2015-05-05T18:59:38Z

H'vier:

File:Icon yarovai puppyeyes.jpg

2015-05-05T18:58:24Z

H'vier:

File:Icon yarovai.png

2015-05-05T18:56:18Z

H'vier:

Z'riah

2015-05-05T02:53:57Z

H'vier:

{{Profile
|picture=Z'riah.jpg
|position=Greenrider
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|Has rank=Dragonrider
|birthplace=Monaco Weyr
|playedby=Ian Somerhalder
|body=
== Description ==
Dark, disheveled hair and stunning blue eyes lend to Z'riah a mien of a mysterious nature. More mischief than danger, the greenrider often wears a shadow of stubble across his strong jaw. He's of a middling height at five foot nine but he's comfortable in every last inch of it. His civilian wear is practical, nice enough to suggest a certain vanity, but not so nice as to keep him from getting dirty when getting dirty has its merits.

== WYSK ==
* Transferred from Monaco Weyr with [[X'vae]], blue Izazeth's rider, in month 12, turn 35.
* Kind of mercurial, sometimes blames his dragon.
* But knows how to have a good time.
* Transferred back to Monaco Weyr with [[X'vae]] in month 9, turn 37.

== RP Logs ==

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

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

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

{{Icons}}

}}

{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Greater Pern, High Reaches Area, High Reaches Weyr, Riders, Greenriders
}}

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

Z'riah

2015-05-05T02:53:21Z

H'vier:

{{Profile
|picture=Z'riah.jpg
|position=Greenrider
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|Has rank=Dragonrider
|birthplace=Monaco Weyr
|playedby=Ian Somerhalder
|body=
== Description ==
Dark, disheveled hair and stunning blue eyes lend to Z'riah a mien of a mysterious nature. More mischief than danger, the greenrider often wears a shadow of stubble across his strong jaw. He's of a middling height at five foot nine but he's comfortable in every last inch of it. His civilian wear is practical, nice enough to suggest a certain vanity, but not so nice as to keep him from getting dirty when getting dirty has its merits.

== WYSK ==
* Transferred from Monaco Weyr with [[X'vae]], blue Izazeth's rider, in month 12, turn 35.
* Kind of mercurial, sometimes blames his dragon.
* But knows how to have a good time.
* Transferred back to Monaco Weyr with [{X'vae]] in month 9, turn 37.

== RP Logs ==

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

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

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

{{Icons}}

}}

{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Greater Pern, High Reaches Area, High Reaches Weyr, Riders, Greenriders
}}

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

Logs:Poor Poor Weyrlings

2015-05-04T21:00:39Z

H'vier: Created page with "{{Log |who=K'zin, K'zin{{!}}Rasavyth, Laine, Laine{{!}}Lifreyth, O'nahi, O'nahi{{!}}Kuviath, Telavi, Telavi{{!}}Solith |what=AWLMs take advantage of evening downtime. |where=W..."

{{Log
|who=K'zin, K'zin{{!}}Rasavyth, Laine, Laine{{!}}Lifreyth, O'nahi, O'nahi{{!}}Kuviath, Telavi, Telavi{{!}}Solith
|what=AWLMs take advantage of evening downtime.
|where=Weyrling Training Cavern
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=15
|month=8
|turn=37
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.04.25
|quote=<< It's less ''telling'' them as thinking about things in a way that makes them want what you want them to want. >>
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon k'zin.jpg, Icon k'zin rasavyth.jpg, Icon Laine grin.jpg, Icon o'nahi.jpg, Icon o'nahi kuviath.jpg, Icon telavi.jpg, Icon telavi solith.png,
|log=It's not bedtime ''yet''; a bit of a breeze-- not just Solith-- brings a bit of the warm still-dusk air within; Telavi, on the couch, shoos a younger weyrling off now that they have exchanged appropriate hair-care tips, and yawns before blinking out at who's still up.

Laine and Lifreyth's sleep schedule, though matching up remarkably well to ''each other'', has been growing increasingly erratic: staying up later, the pair has grown reliant on an afternoon nap. So dusk's their prime time: the pair have scoped out an overstuffed chair dragged up next to a stone bench. Dragon gets the chair; human gets the bench. Laine's intermittent breathy gasp or low chuckle belies their silent conversation.

O'nahi and Kuviath aren't actually taking advantage of the various pieces of furniture, but the pair are laying on the ground in front of a couch. The weyrling has his head resting against the little blue's shoulder, eyes closed, while Kuviath makes quiet, but audible sounds that make the boy laugh in a similarly quiet way now and then.

Rasavyth's charm oozes pleasantly anywhere it can get a foothold. He's generally so very pleased to be here with all the weyrlings, but keeps careful distance for those less inclined to deal with his nearly invisible shimmering presence. It's only just arrived physically close, the aristocratic bronze settled just outside the cavern now as his 'fresh' rider arrives for the nightshift. He brings a tray with him with a couple of steaming mugs and an assortment of fresh offerings from the living cavern to supplement the supply maintained in the training caverns for weyrlings too tired (or too Always Needed by their dragons) to make the trek themselves. His brown gaze sweeps the cavern and he angles toward Telavi, predictably. She always gets first choice of the goods (except when Quinlys is around).

That's a ''couple'' of mugs, thank you; Tela's gaze has been drifting drowsily from pair to pair-- ''she'' didn't get that afternoon nap-- and the greenrider's just starting to stretch out her legs as though to see whether O'nahi might make a good footrest, except ''K'zin''. And mugs. And munchies, for which the bronzerider gets a grateful smile. Reaching out to help herself, she murmurs, "Look at them, aren't they sweet? You'd never know they were terrorizing the place just hours ago."

Stretched as she is, prone and belly-down on the bench with her head propped in her hands, Laine somehow manages to look pretty comfortable, for all that her brown is lounging in a big plush armchair. Lifreyth lifts his head at K'zin's arrival, and Rasavyth--well, okay, all the nearby dragons--get a wafting swirl of dust and leather and ''old book smell'' in good-natured acknowledgement. Only after Lifreyth settles his chin again on the chair's cushioned arm does Laine lift her own head to track that tray. "Did you get any meatrolls? Or sweetrolls?" Rolls of any kind, really.

The blue weyrling is lost enough in whatever is actually happening behind Kuviath's rumbles and chirps and grunts that he barely notices that he almost became a footrest. But he ''does'' notice that K'zin ends up nearby and that he has food. And being a young, growing... ''man'', O'nahi starts to sit up, though not stand, to make noises about having dibs once Telavi has made her choices. "We weren't terrorizing, we were trying to tire them out." And Kuviath is just laying there, albeit also eyeing the tray, so it must have worked!

"The kind with that weird rice wrapper," K'zin tells Laine of the meatrolls, but once Telavi has taken what she wanted, he moves to set the tray where it becomes fair game. There's plentiful offerings, so dibs probably only needs to be called for the really good stuff. "Pretty sure that's the same thing, O'nahi," the bronzerider answers the younger man with a grin. With his own mug in hand (that was the other mug), K'zin looks to Telavi, "Anything exciting planned for tonight? Laine doesn't look tired enough," he says it with a straight face and everything.

Dragon> To nearby dragons, Rasavyth's mind shimmers just at the edges of the thoughts of the other dragons, a sparkle here and there in the nothingness (or somethingness?) of the space between minds. << By chance, >> his tenor purr comes, to the young ones, though not secreted from Solith, << have you tried ''suggesting'' things to your rider? Like... what to eat? >> Innocent enough, isn't it? Almost like a game.

"Keep your voice down," is Telavi's quick recommendation to Laine, "if you don't want the rest of the barracks to hear. ''Does'' she want the rest of the barracks to hear? Her fingers just happen to linger briefly with K'zin's, with her murmured thanks, before she settles back with her food and her further reply. "I do not in the ''least''-- What he said! Or close, anyway." Now she too has to peer at Laine. "''Calisthenics''," she considers; around here, there are always those. "Or-- no, you don't need that--" does she glance briefly away? "It seems like your dragons talk to you a lot."

The noise O'nahi makes when K'zin ''takes the tray away'' is a little desperate and more pathetic. He watches the bronzerider set it down ''out of reach'' and looks very sad, betrayed even, for several whole moments. Instead of getting up to help himself, though, the blue weyrling lays back against Kuviath again to mope openly while the blue noses at his wayward mop of hair.

''Ugh''. ''Rice wrappers''. The back-of-the-throat noise and the way Laine drags herself up and off the stone bench makes it seem like rice wrappers the ''worst thing in the world'', but she saunters over to the tray to stand over it, considering. There's even a defensive look over her shoulder at the cavernous barracks towards the back that makes it clear she does ''not'' want everyone else traipsing in here and helping themselves. O'nahi, though, he'll get a nudge of her toe into his ribs. "Sweet or savory?"

Dragon> To nearby dragons, Kuviath is sleepy, but not enough to actually sleep. Not yet. It gives his youthful voice a heavy quality, like too many furs piled on. <> People, right?

Dragon> To nearby dragons, Lifreyth is the creak of a wooden chair, a slowly-turning model of the solar system spinning around and around with a clickwork ''tickticktick''-ing. He's alert and very present. << ''Suggesting'' how? >> He's intrigued. He also adds as a sidenote, with the tone of one speaking from experience: << Don't eat the grass. >>

Dragon> Solith, drowsy, << They eat the grass. Then we eat them. >> (To nearby dragons from Solith)

"You poor, poor helpless weyrling, you," K'zin says very dryly to O'nahi and his noise and looks before ignoring him in favor of studying Laine, ostensibly giving thought to Telavi's suggestions. "Maybe something more mentally exhausting?" He hms, they must know something that would be; clearly, he's not much considering the weyrling's wants in his conversation with the other assistant.

Telavi relishes her delicacies, even if she doesn't tear into them as fast as she might have done in weyrlinghood; she leans back into the couch, its blotchy leather too old to squeak. "Oh, I know. Not about ''exhausting'', but the mental part-- O'nahi? Is it easier for Kuviath to understand words in your head, and send words to other dragons, or more pictures? Or smells or whatever, I guess, but mostly we don't want the smells. What about you and Lifreyth, Laine?"

Dragon> To nearby dragons, Rasavyth might be a smidge disappointed with Kuviath's very surface take on 'suggesting,' but Lifreyth redeems the weyrlings on the whole. <> which is just ridiculous, obviously, << but you can... ''press''- >> there's a pressure against their minds lightly. << It's less ''telling'' them as thinking about things in a way that makes them want what you want them to want. >> Does that make sense?

The nudge of toe gets a defensive look at first, but the question makes it disappear a moment later. ''Food''. The shortcut to O'nahi's (entirely platonic) heart. "Whatever you don't want," is his answer, totally willing to play clean up duty in that regard. He lifts a hand to make it easier for Laine to hand him food. He's gracious like that. "Uh," is his answer for Telavi. "Words, I guess? He talks a lot." A ''lot'', judging by the tired way O'nahi says it.

Dragon> ''He's'' assured; Solith is more... reticent, the fresh breeze of her thoughts less perceptible now. (To nearby dragons from Solith)

Dragon> To nearby dragons, Lifreyth flexes under that ''pressure'', considering it, letting it roll over him and then echo back and back and back into endless rows of dim, dusty shelves. He accepts the ''idea'', though maybe not at face value. That orrery of planets and moons whirls faster. << Okay, but... Why? >>

There's a moment where Laine's hand swings over the plate, hovering over those rice-wrapped meatrolls, but her nose wrinkles and she goes for a flattened pastry stuffed with jam instead. She passes off the meatroll to O'nahi, then settles the weight of her hips against the table. She considers the question with her mouth full. Manages, around crumbs, "Words. No, pictures. Uh." She swallows. "Both. Depends."

Dragon> No. That doesn't make sense to Kuviath. But his sleepy attention is very much focused on Rasavyth now, what with that pressure and all. << Like when he kind of smells and I think that he should take a bath and then he has once I wake up again? >> Same thing, right? << If you want them to eat something, why don't you just tell them to eat something? >> (To nearby dragons from Kuviath)

Dragon> << Well, >> Rasavyth draws out in a purr. << They spend ''endless hours'' in this training, or will, in your lifemates' cases, learning how to ''control'' us. To cajole us. To get ''us'' to do as they would like. It seems only natural to me that we should hone the ability in reverse, should the occasion ever arise. It ''can'' be helpful if there's a queen you should like to fly, though it shall be months and maybe even turns yet before that will interest you in any way beyond the intellectual consideration, >> and he's dubious that even the intellectual will hold much weight with the brown at this early stage. For the blue, his shimmers twinkle like stars, indulgent stars, << A bit like that. It's not necessarily that you want them to eat something, it's just an innocent way to practice. >> Innocent enough, he thinks, anyway. (To nearby dragons from Rasavyth)

"How are you two at drawing?" K'zin inquires of both weyrlings, with a glance toward Telavi. Is she thinking what he's thinking?

"It's hard sometimes," Tela is busy sympathizing, "when they... chatter." ''Empathizes'', because, "At least Solith would keep it down for a little while when I asked," told, "her. But words... let's--" She glances at K'zin, and suddenly she smiles. "Yes, drawing. We can do that instead. O'nahi? I think there might be a couple slates that crept under the chair there, would you grab them?"

Dragon> While Lifreyth may object on the ''premise'' of the whole thing (he is she and she is he, after all), he can't properly resist the temptation to at least try it. Once. Okay, maybe twice. Alright, maybe three times, depending on how it goes. But first: he'll try it out on Rasavyth, that ''pressure'', that ''leaning'' into the bronze with the weight of many stacked books on a creaking, bowing shelf. Is he doing it right? (Maybe: although ''what'' it is Lifreyth expects to come of it isn't very clear.) (To nearby dragons from Lifreyth)

Meatroll! O'nahi is still stuffing that in his mouth when Telavi is asking for slates. So he holds onto the roll with his lips while he starts searching with a blind hand for the slates in question. "Here, these?" is attempted around his mouthful. He lifts them up to hand over to the greenrider since obviously ''he'' won't be needing any of them.

Drawing? Laine's face might say everything that K'zin needs to know about the brown-riding weyrling's art skills (that is: she don't got none). But she seems game enough, especially since she's right next to the food tray and once that jam-filled pastry is gone, she's already skimming the tray for something else.

K'zin was just leaning to murmur some no doubt nefarious suggestion about this game (or whisper a sweet nothing?) to Telavi when a shriek from within the barracks draws his eyes. "I've got it," his hand goes briefly to Telavi's shoulder in a way that's probably meant to be either reassuring or 'so long'. "Have fun," he tells the weyrlings. Surely he will, with whomever had ''whatever'' within.

Dragon> To nearby dragons, Rasavyth is a willing test subject and patient teacher (so perhaps he won't get fired after all). He has suggestions for the brown, and gets to make only ''some'' of them before there's an amused flash. << ''My K'zin'' says I ought not teach you such things. >> Which doesn't mean he won't, just that the lesson must be curtailed while the bronzerider is paying attention, and only because it will be less of a headache if K'zin doesn't feel plagued by enough guilt to go ''report him'' to Quinlys and Olveraeth. Still, trial and error goes a long way. The thought is really just saying. It goes for all things in weyrlinghood, doesn't it?

"Yes, try not to let them get sticky--" too late? Either way, Telavi's distracted, giving K'zin a relieved glance as ''she'' gets to stay ''put''; she reaches to take the slates, but then stares at O'nahi. "''You'' look ''exhausted''. Go to bed before you sleep on the floor, all right?" To Laine, "Catch!"

O'nahi finishes off the rest of his roll. He only seems mildly curious about the shriek in the barracks. It's Telavi's suggestion that he go to bed that makes the blue weyrling groan in protest. It's not so much that he doesn't ''want'' to go to bed, though, it's that he has to get up and walk all the way back into the barracks to do it. "Fiiine," he says as he starts to push himself up to his feet, nudging the practically dozing Kuviath so he can get his arms under him and pick him up. Hopefully that will keep him from perking up too much on the way to his couch. "Night, Laine," he offers his peer as he goes.
}}

Logs:Some People Like Torture

2015-05-04T20:37:59Z

H'vier: Created page with "{{Log |who=Edyis, Keysi, O'nahi, Telavi, Edyis{{!}}Akluseth, Keysi{{!}}Neianth, O'nahi{{!}}Kuviath, Telavi{{!}}Solith |what=Weyrlings aren't doing things. |where=Western Bowl,..."

{{Log
|who=Edyis, Keysi, O'nahi, Telavi, Edyis{{!}}Akluseth, Keysi{{!}}Neianth, O'nahi{{!}}Kuviath, Telavi{{!}}Solith
|what=Weyrlings aren't doing things.
|where=Western Bowl, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=3
|month=8
|turn=37
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.04.21
|quote=Because if you fail your harper evaluation, we take your dragon back and send you home.
|type=Log
|ooc=Log ends when I left. If you have more, please add!
|icons-new=Icon edyis.jpg, Icon edyis akluseth.jpg, Icon Keysi.jpg, Icon o'nahi.jpg, Icon o'nahi kuviath.jpg, Icon telavi.jpg, Icon telavi solith.png,
|log=A blissfully pretty afternoon day, complete with warm weather, bleating hatchlings, and the evocative smell of hatchling poop... means that the insufficiently-slept Telavi's avoiding the latter, at least, by sitting on the steps of the garden patio ledge, watching-- more or less-- a cluster of weyrling dragons play. She even has a sunhat to shade her tired eyes. Solith's in the vicinity, letting herself be an island to play around.

Kuviath is playing the hell out of this day, all gangly limbs and awkward steps. Fortunately he's still just a little thing because otherwise shirtless O'nahi might be in trouble with the way the blue keeps bumping and body-checking his legs between charging his clutchmates and running back to his weyrling. "I'm gonna be ''bruised'' if you keep that up," O'nahi tells the hatchling, crouching down to grab his face and say something more private before Kuviath is galloping off in the other direction and O'nahi falls back, spread-eagle, with a relieved sigh.

He gets a few moments of peaceable silence before Telavi murmurs, amused, "How long until he comes back? I mean, ''really''."

The weyrling tilts his head to look back at the voice upside-down. He sighs ''again'', this time less relieved, more resigned. "Few minutes, at least. But if I just lay here, he'll get bored and run off again, right?" O'nahi, an ideas guy.

"Right, right," Telavi humors the skinny weyrling with that much more cheer. "He definitely won't stick his muzzle in your armpit and snuffle." She yawns. And since it's of theoretical interest pertaining to dragons, "Are you ticklish? Is ''he''?"

"That's not information I'm willing to divulge." No one should ever admit to being ticklish. O'nahi is smarter than that! The blue weyrling is near the steps up to the patio, but not directly in the path of anyone trying to go down or up. It's good, because he does not look very willing to move right now. Kuviath is galloping around with the other dragons, making all sorts of audible noises because it's ''fun''. "''He's'' kind of ticklish. But he barely sits still long enough for it to matter."

"So you ''are''," says Tela knowingly, her smile curving but her drowsy green-today eyes staying on the dragonets. "That's all right. It happens. Do you want him to sit still? Or are you just as happy that he's--" She waves a hand, languid, much like a Lady drifting a wave to a crowd.

"What do you think." It's not ''really'' asked like a question. O'nahi is tired and must think the answer to it is obvious enough that he doesn't need to hear it. He relaxes, closes his eyes. "Are they always so... everywhere?" He doesn't open his eyes to ask it.

Edyis is a shameless opportunist, because she is taking full advantage of Solith's playing with the weyrlings to get in some studying, books tucked under arm as she sneaks, or well tries to sneak into a spot on the ledge. "Oh, Hi Telavi, Hi O'nahi."

Dragon> Bubbles, Bubbles! All kinds of silvery fluttery bubbles, burbling through blue-green waters. Such is the impression of draconic laughter as the flame-licked brown races his clutch siblings around the ''mountain'' that is Solith. << Too slow. >> (To Solith and Kuviath from Akluseth)

She just laughs, and tucks a braid back behind her shoulder, her hair contained away from weyrling... ''leavings''. "Most of them," Telavi admits. "And-- oh, ''Edyis''. Look at ''you''. What is it today?" To O'nahi, "She can't possibly rest like us. It isn't allowed." Solith's tail flicks. She doesn't actually move to trip any dragonets, though; perhaps she's too ''nice'' a dragon to be tempted.

"Hey," says O'nahi, tilting his head back to look for an upside-down face but giving up before he finds one. "Some people ''like'' to torture themselves. You one of those people, Ed?" No judgment from ''him'', just trying to understand why anyone would ''do'' something when they can do nothing. For maybe the first time in a while! And maybe the ''last'' time in a while!

Edyis says, "Whaa?" Is her rather dazed reply. "I'm sorry, I was just... trying to get in some studying." And possibly sneak a mug of klah and food while her lifemate is distracted. "It isn't torture, it's called being prepared." She sighs, without judgement, ordering food and sweet, sweet klah as she settles into a seat. "If he's bothering her though, I can..." She trails off distractedly."

Dragon> Tail flick? No problem. There's a rush of emerald green waves, like the slow build of energy before he's leaping, leaping! Over that tail. So it probably looks cooler in his head than in actuality. (To Solith, Kuviath, and Neianth from Akluseth)

"Bothering whom? O'nahi isn't bothering me at all," Telavi assures brightly, ''right'' as Solith curves a look over her shoulder to see whether the next dragonet will copy Akluseth or not. "You know, though," with more seriousness now, "if you don't get enough sleep, ''everything'' goes to pot." ''Everything.''

"Prepared for ''what''?" This argument makes no sense to the blue weyrling. He doesn't sound disgusted, though, just baffled. Shirtless O'nahi still seems to have no intention of getting up for where he's laying spread-eagle on the ground near the stairs to the patio's ledge. Definitely not while Kuviath is distracted by... well, who cares, really? He's ''distracted''.

Steps are slow but determined in and of themselves as Keysi and her shadow arrive from farther across the bowl. Neianth is first to move past His with his rapid stalking, a low hiss of impatience at just how ''long'' it takes him to get ''anywhere.'' Blue eyes are hinted at with the faintest touch of red as he approaches Solith and his brothers. His steps are direct, meaningful. Bold. His awkwardly large wings mantled as if to make him ''big.'' Bigger than Solith. A tiny creel from the three foot long brown is perhaps supposed to be intimidating. Keys herself moves with quiet intention to join the others at the stairs.

Dragon> To his brothers, there's an invading ripple in a still reflecting pool that's utterly dark until the aggitation brings about light and variances of depth- a greeting. To Solith, his heavy mind presses curiously, the ripples quickening and completely obscuring reflection. Playfully challenging? (To Solith, Kuviath, and Akluseth from Neianth)

"Harper Evaluations will be next month for one." Edyis offers to O'nahi, before wrinkling her nose at Telavi. "I meant Seaweed brain over there." The leaping dragonet gets indicated with a vague gesture as the mug and food arrive. "I ''do'' sleep." Comes almost petulantly but then again the Savannah rider probably knows better. Akluseth is already lapping around the green for a second, (more graceful) leap. Keysi? She gets a smile and a wave from Edyis's seat on the patio.

Dragon> Ripples become waves, waves dappled and gilt by sunshine. Waves meant to overwhelm his little brown brother. << Come on Neianth, bet you can't jump over Solith's tail. >> He challenges. (To Solith, Kuviath, and Neianth from Akluseth)

"Because if you fail your harper evaluation, we take your dragon back and send you home," Telavi says brightly, and not while keeping a straight face, either. Her feet swing in her pretty sandals; her braided hair's long and lush enough to have never ever seen a weyrling crop. Solith, meanwhile, peeks over at that ''nudge'' rather than the creel, looking higher than the second brown's actual height before dropping her gaze and even her muzzle down. She sniffs, her interest a curious zephyr that all but dances along the pool's surface; while any attempt to intimidate might have gone right over her head, she might be disposed to ''pretend''.

Kuviath skids to a halt, almost ending up sitting before he's twisting to galumph his way back toward where O'nahi is ''already'' groaning because he knows what's coming. He turns, curls up on his side like that will protect him from the little blue. Kuviath creels, though, stepping on O'nahi's hip before ''laying'' on him and making terribly pitiful sounds. He's ''so weak'', practically starving. "''Fine''," says the weyrling, and just like that Kuviath is up and taking off in the direction of food. Or whatever it is they've agreed on. O'nahi picks himself up off the ground, looks at Telavi specifically like he might say something, then just turns to go deal with the dragonet.
}}

Oliwer

2015-05-02T02:51:50Z

H'vier:

{{Profile
|picture=Oliwer.png
|position=Journeyman
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|Has rank=Journeyman
|craft=Healer
|birthplace=Fort Hold
|mother=Journeyman Owana
|father=Master Reniler
|body=
== Description ==

An unassuming man of somewhat short stature, Oliwer stands approximately five foot six and has a kind face with the character of age wrinkling the most susceptible areas. His hair is light brown or maybe dark blond, his eyes a muted shade of blue gray that kind of looks like brown in certain lights. His manner of dress is conservative and practical more than anything else.

== History ==

Oli was born at Fort Hall to two journeyman healers. His father eventually became a master but his mother has remained content as a journeyman and both continue to work in some fashion outside of the Healer Hall at Fort Hold. Oliwer apprenticed young and, much like his mother, has preferred the freedom of a journeyman over becoming a master despite pressure from his father. Still. He's over 40. Never married. No kids. He does have a fat little firelizard that he treats kind of like a child, though.

After ending a long term but private relationship with greenrider [[G'laer]], Oliwer transferred back to Healer Hall to become the master his father has wanted him to be for turns in late month 8 of Turn 37.

== RP Logs ==

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

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

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

{{Icons}}

}}

{{Character-Categories}}

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

H'vier

2015-04-24T22:46:58Z

H'vier: :(

{{Profile
|picture=Havi.jpg
|position=Iceberg Wingleader
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|Has rank=Wingleader
|birthplace=Somewhere in Ista
|children=Tahvra (D1 M1 T34) Mayrin (D3 M10 T35) Tayre (D26 M12 T35)
|playedby=Joe Manganiello
|status=Active
|face=blank.jpg
|body=
== Description ==

A large man in his early forties, H'vier is an impressive six foot five of broad-shouldered muscle and attitude. His hair, dark and unruly, is kept just a touch longer than proper for a dragonrider, slicked back just out of his face. A short beard, peppered with silver, frames the hard lines of his square jaw more often than not with a mustache filling in over his upper lip. His crooked nose looks as though it's seen the wrong end of a fist or two but it manages to add character rather than detract from an overall attractive gathering of features.

When not in his leathers, his choice in clothing is deliberate in a way that might contradict his general manner. A well-tailored, not-cheap wardrobe brings him through all seasons in the Reaches in style.

== WYSK ==

* H'vier is from Ista Weyr. Now he's in High Reaches. For reasons.

== Relationships ==

* Mostly bad.

== History ==

* M10 T30: Transfers from Ista.
* M6, T32: Becomes Iceberg's Wingsecond.
** While temporarily banished from the Weyr for beating up a brownrider.
* M1 T34: [[Tayte]] gives birth to daughter Tahvra.
* M12 T34: Unintentionally knocks up then Wingleader Fayla after Hraedhyth's third flight.
* M3 T35: Reisoth catches [[Aishani|Aishani's]] gold Iesaryth.
* M10 T35: Fayla gives birth to daughter Mayrin.
* M12 T35: [[Tayte]] gives birth to son Tayre.
* M13 T35: Becomes Iceberg's Wingleader.
** Fayla and [[G'laer]] become his Wingseconds.
* M11 T36: Fires [[G'laer]] as Wingsecond after Reisoth catches Teisyth a second time.
* M1 T37: Reisoth catches [[Irianke|Irianke's]] gold Niahvth.
* M4 T37: Grounded for assaulting [[K'zin]] during clutching feast.
* M6 T37: Begins covertly meeting with a mindhealer to address his Issues.

== RP Logs ==

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

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

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

{{Icons}}

}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Ista Area, Ista Weyr
}}

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

File:Icon o'nahi kuviath whee.jpg

2015-04-24T22:34:58Z

H'vier:

File:Icon o'nahi kuviath.jpg

2015-04-24T22:34:27Z

H'vier:

File:Icon o'nahi.jpg

2015-04-24T22:34:00Z

H'vier:

O'nahi

2015-04-24T22:33:15Z

H'vier:

{{Profile
|picture=Onahi.jpg
|body={{wysk}}

== RP Logs ==

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

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

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

{{Icons}}
}}
{{Character-Categories}}

File:Onahi.jpg

2015-04-24T22:31:21Z

H'vier:

Logs:Making Waves

2015-04-22T15:03:21Z

H'vier:

{{Log
|who=Farideh, O'nahi, Rook, T'mic
|what=Baby dragons play in the water. Or, watch demurely from the sidelines, as suits.
|where=Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr
|day=6
|month=8
|turn=37
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.04.21
|weather=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.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Rook harhar.JPG, Icon farideh roszadyth young.png, Icon farideh.png, Icon o'nahi.jpg, Icon Rook.png, Icon t'mic quiet.jpg,
|desc=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.
|log=T'mic and Jorrth were up early, T'mic alternating between trying to shush an enthusiastically hungry little blue and laughing. They've eaten now, and gotten themselves out of the barracks. Jorrth is powered by the meat and the sun and the breeze and the ground and ''everything'', having leapt and bounded and hopped and stumbled his way all the way to the lakeshore without T'mic having to carry him even once. There's still energy left as those little feet dig into the sand at the edge of the lake, and then test at the water. << It's cold! >> Sheer delight. He jumps high, jumps in, splashes. He jumps all the way back out. He goes back in, and spins and sends water everywhere. << It's wonderful! >> To any and all nearby.

Rhiviyth and Rook were here yesterday, on Rhiv's imperious degree, and today shows signs that it is no different. Rook's a wee slip of a thing, but she hardly looks laden-down in carting around her similarly wee lifemate. Endurance building exercises are supposed to be for both partners, right? Rhiv raises a ruckus at the sight of Jorrth, and struggles down to the ground to take off in a rompy rollicky run towards Jorrth. Rook's finally resigned herself to her fate, or maybe she's just exhausted her sense of propriety; she hangs back, looking awkward, as Rhiviyth romps in great awkward trippy splashy circles around her clutchmate. << Brother! >> her alto growl trumpets as fiercely as a wolf sighting prey - or play, in this case; words cannot suffice for her blast of LITTERMATE ROMP WATER SPLASH -- was that tug-of-war? Did someone mention ''tug-of-war''?! "You can't play that, you don't have anything to play it with." The words come all unwilling from Rook, her arms folded uncomfortably over her chest.

Jorrth had only just started to notice the ripples, had only just started to (try) to stomp and step and splash in particular ways, when Rhiviyth arrives. << Sister Rhiviyth! >> He knows her, he welcomes her, the musky-musty-grassy scent behind every word. Jorrth jumps and spins and splashes, getting his head down into the water when he goes in a bit deeper and using it as much as his feet to send water here and there and everywhere. T'mic has gone from lightly wet to starting to drip, but he's laughing when he backs up, laughing and almost stumbling and falling down, while his dragon makes a diving headbutt (that will prove surprisingly gentle from that little guy) at the green. His eyes are still down when he asks, eager, << Do you see the little waves? >>

The first seven of being a brand-spanking new dragonrider has been rough on O'nahi, to say the least. He's been exhausted; mentally, emotionally, physically. But now he's starting to find his stride. Or he's just enforcing a stride. When the weyrling becomes visible, it's with Kuviath draped over his shoulders like a, frankly super awkward, sack of tubers. But there are reasons! "Hey, guys!" he greets the other weyrlings as he walks right into the shallows to dump his dragon into the cool water before turning to leave him there. Fortunately Kuviath is immediately distracted by ''fun'' and he has all that energy saved from being carried here. Hurray! << Guys! Guys! >> He splashes through the water toward his clutchmates, but apparently has nothing more than that to say to them. The rest is just bright enthusiasm to be here.

Rhiviyth has an eager heart, and it shows in how she cavorts around the blue's head-swinging wave-making. Grass-green and bold, she frolicks with a puppy's abandonment of anything coming ''close'' to dignity, dropping her fore and wagging her haunches with so much power she about trips herself over, then pouncing forwards to crash through a Jorrth-inspired wave. Then she's headbutted and she crashes over with more theatrics than really are deserved. << I'm going to get you for that! >> she declares in her bones-of-the-earth voice, bounding forwards to harry at his flanks, angling her head down to nip at his knees. Dragons have knees, right? << Little waves, big waves, blue waves, white waves! >> she enthuses at him, a blast of pup-ferocious ''claiming'' puffing out from her like a mushroom cloud. << Brother! >> she includes Kuviath in her claiming, clamoring towards him in splashy frenzy. Rook sidles a look over at the vastly too-big, too-tall T'mic. It's timid. Maybe a bit daunted, but whether by his size or his affable cheer isn't immediately obvious. She can't help but smile at the two babies, though, her attention returning to them and her expression softening. "Hi," she shyly returns to O'nahi, hugging her arms a little closer to herself as she returns her attention to the dragonets.

There's still glimmers of interest from Jorrth in those waves, but they become secondary to the play and excitement of his clutchmates. He spins and races around Rhiviyth where she's fallen, and then ''jumps'', higher than a dragon of his diminutive stature ought to be able, when she goes for his knees. Those little shaggy wings spread out, and accomplish relatively little, other than making him look shaggy, so much as they can. T'mic gives an easy smile to Rook, and an answered, "Hi," to O'nahi, drawing in nearer the other riders and then stopping. And promptly tugging off his shirt, with only an apparent desire to wring it out in front of him. << Brother Kuviath! >> is greeted too, and Jorrth is racing in toward and around him, and leaping more, and at one point falling and splashing flat on his side in the shallows.

Kuviath has an audible croon-growl for his siblings to go along with his awkward jump-splash when Jorrth races toward him. The dark blue tosses his head, wings mantled, and takes off past his brother to lumber at a respectable pace toward their sister. << What are we doing! >> Not ''just'' playing. What ''sort'' of playing! O'nahi is going a very find job of ignoring the dragonets now that they're distracted by each other. Okay, a mostly okay job. He's not looking at them, but he's distracted anyway. "What's up? How're you guys doing?" It's asked to both, but he looks at T'mic when the big guy's shirt comes off, then briefly at Rook as though he expects her to react to it somehow.

Rhiviyth goes down again, but this time she stays down, writhing in the glorious ecstacy of the very young. MUDBATH she projects, more the feeling of it than the actual word, and when she leaps back to her feet she is covered. Rook makes a sound of dismay and moves forwards, finally, wading into the water. "Rhiviyth," she scolds. She doesn't notice T'mic's shirt-removal, and definitely doesn't notice that look from O'nahi. "Anything could be on the bottom of this lake," the green's lifemate natters, her voice a fishwife's harranguing. Rhiv lifts her nose to touch her muzzle to her soul-sister's hand and then she's off like a rocket towards her blue brethren. Rook emits an exasperated noise and takes a step away from O'nahi apparently just on the principle of the thing. "Um. Good, I guess. You?" She's belatedly found her answer, and maybe a hint of manners. Or maybe not.

T'mic shrugs those broad shoulders of his, and looks a little dismayed when he shakes his shirt back out to find that it's now loaded with wrinkles. And wet on both sides, instead of just the front. This was not well planned. "We're good," he answers O'nahi, though he answers around a yawn, while he's trying to open up that shirt without it clinging to itself. It doesn't look particularly comfortable, either, when he pulls it over his head and down and around his chest. Jorrth, Jorrth has an answer for Kuviath, those waves remembered. He stamps his little feet for show. << See the waves? >> the smaller blue encourages in his high, squeaky little voice. And then, << T'mic, see the waves? >> still out there for everyone to hear. It's not that he hasn't gotten better at talking privately, but just that he's so ''excited'' right now.

O'nahi, if he notices Rook stepping away, and he probably does since he's looking at her, doesn't comment on it. Maybe this isn't an unusual occurrence. "I'm great," he lies, blatantly. "Tired. I'm okay. I think I'm getting a little more sleep, but he's just-- he never stops." So not that great. Except Kuviath seems pretty great! << Wow, that's awesome! >> And he rears up to splash down on dark paws to make ''more'', ''bigger'' waves, so he can snap at them ineffectually.

Maybe O'nahi's face is just offensive. Or maybe it's so suspiciously pretty that women have to try to not stand close to him. Competition and all that. Rook doesn't seem to notice, though; her eyes flick from the skinny blueling to the stout one, and if she takes in T'mic, it's more to see the destruction he's wrought on his shirt. Rhiviyth, now, decides to step all in between the splashing blues and collapse down, panting happily as the water wages over her half-mantled wings. YAY SPLASH SIBLING LOVE. Give her all the attention. Or just let her sit here and get the Works Wash. << ''This'' is pack, >> she declares to everyone. No really, everyone: hi T'mic, hi O'nahi. That growling alto voice, that's not all in your head. (Well...) Does anyone have any manners these days? Rook shakes her head, but she's grinning suddenly, as if Rhiv had another comment just for her.

T'mic was called, and sort of forgets about O'nahi and Rook and even his clingy, damp shirt. He's gone up on his tiptoes, and is tiptoeing on closer to get a good look at those waves. << Brother Kuviath! >> That little tail swishes, and Jorrth calms for a moment, walking around to face Kuviath again, without Rhiviyth in the middle. It is, by no means, a graceful walk. Lurching, more. << Let's jump at the same time! Let's see what they do then! >>

O'nahi's face is super offensive. To people who hate ''fun''. He opens his mouth, stops, gets distracted by ''voices'' and glances over at the little dragons like maybe Kuviath has grown a second head. He hasn't, but that's not he point. << Yes! >> Synchronized splashing! Well, synchronized-ish splashing, anyway. Kuviath, granted, turns to face Rhiviyth, splashing her with a flick of his muzzle before the Great Splash is attempted between the two blues.

Rook does hate fun. This is a documented truth. See, she's stepping back, awkwardly hugging her arms around her again as she sits down in the damp turf of the weedy lake-reeds and watching the antics of the babies. Rhiviyth is worn-out for the moment, but her head is up and alert as she watches her bison brother ponderously move to face Kuviath. Her head tilts in an undeniably canine manner, her constant color turning to a questing evergreen: what is THIS magic they attempt? If she notices she's bothered O'nahi, that teeny greenling, she doesn't broadcast it. Rook, to O'nahi, shaded in all hues of apology: "I'm sorry. She's... loud." And Rook is very quiet, in case either of the others missed that somehow.

T'mic is laughing again, laughing, and watching, and still relatively unaware of any of his surroundings. Except for Rhiviyth, who gets a fond sort of look. He's also, still on tiptoe, with his toes starting to get wet, where he's balanced at the edge of the lake. << Ready? >> squeaks Jorrth to all and sundry. << Okay... >> The rise in his anticipation surely should work better than any countdown. He looks at his feet, he wriggles, he spreads those shaggy little wings, and, << Now! >> he jumps! Higher than any tiniest blue in the clutch should be able to.

Another pair ambles their way, perhaps as yet unaware of their soon-to-be company, as they're obviously in some sort of internal conversation, from the way the girl turns her head every so often to look at the petite gold, or her expression flickers. They've come from the direction of the barracks, though Farideh is her jogging wear: simple, loose pants and an equally loose shoulder-baring top with sturdy shoes and her short hair pushed back by a cloth headband. Roszadyth notices her siblings first, her gentle mind touch reaching out to brush along each, in turn. << What fun. >> She, while her lifemate stops on the sandy bank, keeps going to the very edge of the water, where she comes to a standstill, eyes whirling contentedly.

Kuviath is all spring-loaded tension, wings fanned out as he starts to crouch down, watching Jorrth so maybe, just maybe, he can manage to do this at the same time. << Ready! >> And he's so close! His jump is a few seconds after the smaller blue's, and he practically squeals - there's not really another word for the sound he makes - with excitement all the way down until his splayed feet his the water again. "It's... fine?" It's not like O'nahi can say much with his lifemate out there making embarrassing noises that everyone can hear just as well. And he probably wouldn't want to, anyway. His notice of Farideh is belated, but grasped at awkwardly as he half-lifts a hand to wave at her, then decides not to, but it's already up so he sort of waves anyway, "Hey!"

Rhiviyth turns a happy draconic grin upwards at T'mic, keenly aware of that look in some instinctual level. Otherwise, she stays flopped and sprawled, her back legs frogging out behind her in a way that looks almost physiologically impossible, and watches this Summoning Of The Biggest Wave. She turns her head at the noise that emits out of Kuviath, first this way then that, curious and curiouser. << Make that noise again! >> she demands, her snout snuffling towards the larger of the two blues even water-soaked as she is. Rook's duty of manners to O'nahi is now complete, and she ignores the arrival of Farideh and her lifemate just like she ignores the two blueriders, focused instead on the romping trio. It's not deliberate. She's just Rook.

Jorrth jumped up pretty high, but even that doesn't make him and Kuviath land quite at the same time, no. << Okay, we have to try again! >> Snorting water out of his nose is nothing more than that, the sound of it mixing over that little voice, that earthy smell. He gives his head a shake, and blinks this big eyes. << Sister Roszadyth! >> But there is business to be attended to, and he flicks his shaggy wings and gets his feet stable. << Okay, ready? NOW! >> T'mic knows about Farideh's arrival because of Jorrth, and manages to become himself long enough to step back, to the dry, and look over to Farideh. "Oh, hey." Cheerful enough.

Roszadyth is content enough to stand just back of the water, to be the audience for her clutchmates' play, her big eyes following their frolicking. "Hi," Farideh directs to O'nahi, not as much unfriendly as disconnected. She folds her arms across her chest and lets her gaze stray to the smaller dragons splashing around in the lake. Her expression is shuttered, save the furrowing of her brow, but even that doesn't give the impression of disdain; she's ''thoughtful'', as her dragon is, in quietly watching. There's a lukewarm smile, wearily, for T'mic, and a slip of her eyes to Rook. "Just-- enjoying the weather while you can?" It's definitely awkward.

<< What noise? >> You mean the one Kuviath makes ''again'' as soon as Jorrth gives the signal for more jumping and he's launching himself upwards? This time when he hits the water again, though, he jumps right back up into the air. And again and ''again'', squealing happily the whole, embarrassing time. O'nahi? He's starting to look like he would rather be anywhere else. A hand lifts to rub the back of his neck awkwardly and he looks... over there across the lake where absolutely nothing of interest (or embarrassment) is currently happening. "Uhh."

Oh look, a person! Rook's eyes leap over to Farideh when she puts that question out, and the shy greenling offers a smile proportionate to that: "It is very nice out, isn't it?" It sounds almost painful how she tries to enunciate her words, the burr of her northern hillsfolk accent nonetheless turning her vowels strangely and clipping her consonants. Rhiviyth larks in that noise, prowling up to her feet (and wobbling over on those broad paws of hers almost immediately in the wake of that second wave); then she scampers around her bigger blue brethren, blasting out ELATION FUN PLAY more-or-less at Jorrth as she goes. << He sounds so ''funny''! >> (Sorry Kuviath.) << Do it again! >> like the kid who wants to see it a THOUSAND TIMES. (Sorry O'nahi.) Rook, meanwhile, cringes softly. "Sorry," she echoes herself. She's going to have a lot of apologizing to do at this rate.

Jorrth wanted to watch the ripples, but they're all changing every time Kuviath hits the water. There's a little grunt of dismay. He tries to get involved in the other blue's game, and then tries to answer Rhiviyth's invitations, he ''really'' does... but suddenly, there is fatigue. It's a fatigue that everyone ought to be able to feel as he tries to jump and tries to run and finally starts stumbling his way back toward the shore. Toward Roszadyth. Toward T'mic. << Fun, >> says Jorrth, even if he's leaving. Even if he can hardly walk straight. Even if it is looking very likely that he's going to walk right into Roszadyth, and, if she lets him, probably just lean with his head against her shoulder for a while. T'mic nods a little over to Farideh, though his eyes have stated darting back toward his blue. "The water was wonderful," he offers as explanation. And tugs at the damp shirt that's making his belly stand out.

"It is, for ''now'', until the cold settles in and the snow comes." Farideh looks grim when she's recounting those words; winter being a horrible time in life ''apparently''. "It will be nice when we can fly farther," implies ''elsewhere''. She shifts to watch Jorrth come closer to Roszadyth, and seems unaware of T'mic's clinging-shirt issues or O'nahi's awkward-looking-elsewhere. Those wide, innocent eyes of the gold's follow the blue's movements, but she's quietly composed, and kind enough to take to the leaning, providing a soft landing spot-- or leaning spot, as it is. << Have you considered a lie down? >> is the quintessential question, brushing finger-tip soft against all those around.

She's the girl next door, Rook, with sunkissed skin and russet hair falling shaggy past her shoulders. Possessed of a visible innocence and light hazel eyes, she falls short of true beauty, though her features are symmetrical and bear a sense of pretty femininity. Maybe it's because she's short: she barely tops five feet on a good day -- and in good boots. There's a whisper of curves to her, but not so much that it distracts from the lean length of her lines: despite her height-challenged status, she was even shorter recently, and seems to be just now getting caught up.

Kuviath ''keeps'' making the noise even after Jorrth starts to wander off. There's a moment where the larger blue looks after him, but then he's quite fully distracted by Rhiviyth's goading. He stops jumping, but he keeps running around, ''trying'' to run around her specifically now that it's just the two of them. O'nahi, at a loss, since he's not supposed to leave the blue unattended, just stands here. Probably trying to will the blue into exhaustion internally.

Jorrth's contentedness in this newfound space, in not moving, in being in contact with one of his clutchsiblings, comes out as that usual smell of his, sunwarmed and sleepy. T'mic's face says it: little dragons are adorable. "Okay," he decides after a moment of watching, decides to no one in particular, and he sets forward, to Roszadyth's side as well, where he drops down to scoop up that little dragon. It's something they both love, it seems, T'mic carrying Jorrth. Chances are, the littlest blue will be asleep before they've gotten to the weyrling area. "See ya," T'mic thinks to bid the rest of the weyrlings farewell. A little weak smile for Farideh in particular, perhaps 'cause he's so near her dragon, and then off he goes.

Rhiviyth stands like the regalest alpha bitch that has ever wolfed as a dragon, well-pleased at Kuviath's attentions. Maybe she wriggles around in a little counter-circle to his romping outer-circle. Look! Syncronization! Or something. She's starting to look a little grey, though; apparently, BOUNDLESS ENERGY!! is not quite so boundless. Rook doesn't reply to Farideh, apparently daunted by the other's grim statements -- or wait, no, just taken aback. "Snow? Why would you be worried about snow? It's just... snow." Her wide eyes blink at the other young woman, then watch as T'mic carries Jorrth away, her expression inscrutiable for a moment.

Neither is bothered by Jorrth's nearness, and it's almost an afterthought for Farideh to lift a hand in a farewell type of wave to the bluerider. It's in turning back to the lake that she gazes passively at Rook, her arms returning to cross over her chest. "I hate the cold. It's-- cold," is so elegant, or rather, disinterested, with a scrunch of her nose. "I much prefer to summer months. When we ''can'' fly, it will be nice to visit places like Ista, or Southern, or--" slightly wistful, "Igen."

Kuviath slows down, though his own energy doesn't quite seem to be flagging just yet. He brushes against Rhiviyth and high-tails it for the beach to creel at Roszadyth as he gallops a circle around her and then heads toward Farideh to do the same. O'nahi is starting to look red, but he can't bring himself to speak out at the little blue about it, even when Kuviath is heading toward ''him'' to butt his head against the skinny blond's shins. "Cold isn't ''so'' bad," he says, wincing once the blue makes thumping contact. "You get to get all wrapped up in blankets and coats and sit by fires and have fun." Maybe not all those things at the same time. He glances at Rook as though, for ''some'' reason, he expects her to back him up.

"Igen... that's the island one, right?" Rook's voice holds all the uncertainty of the uneducated. "I'd like to see an island one day," comes the wistful statement from the once very-landlocked child. "I like the cold," she quietly agrees with O'nahi. "Snow's fun." On that quiet note, she farm-girl tromps towards Rhiviyth, who has just sat down in the shallows, a plaintive motion. Rook-the-quiet doesn't bother to explain her lifemate's tired, just picks up the little green and starts carting her back towards the barracks, a quietly-voiced, "Bye," her only departing statement to the gold and blue weyrlings she leaves behind. Rhiv rouses herself just long enough to send out a self-satisfied burst of PACKMATE to Kuviath, and a more-general, << Until later, my siblings. >> to both of the dragons she leaves behind. Trailing as they leave: << Food! >> HUNT HUNT CHASE PREY GORY GLOR -- and then right in the middle of that, Rhiv falls quite (and quiet) asleep.

"You-- you don't know ''where'' your dragon is from?" That's all Farideh can manage at first, with a strangled sound and wide eyes on Rook. She slowly rouses from her surprise to look at O'hani. "I suppose if you ''like'' those sort of things," is her quiet concession. Both skinny brunette and chubby gold watch the departure of the green pair in silence, and ''once'' they've fled for the barracks, with Roszadyth's soft << Sleep well. >> following them, their attention comes fully on O'hani and Kuviath.

"Our dragons are from... here?" O'nahi sounds not entirely certain but also confused. Because he ''is'' pretty certain they Impressed right over there in that huge, hot cavern. He watches Rook's leaving for a few moments, not frowning but looking less than thrilled by the abandonment. Especially once the attention of both gold and weyrling turn on him. O'nahi looks down at his feet. Or rather at the blue who's trying his damnedest to sit on them. "Yeah, they're okay." Neutral, now. He doesn't have to like them if she doesn't!

Rook peers over her shoulder at Farideh, uncertainly: "High Reaches," is what she responds. She lives as the wolf does: in the moment, here. A dragon clutched at High Reaches is a dragon of High Reaches. There's no past, no future to that statement, just a simple present truth. (And her CURRENT present truth is that Rhiv is getting heavier. Ugh.)

"Lineage," frustrated. "We are High Reaches' but Niahvth is Igen stock and Reisoth is Ista stock. You'll probably have to know that for--" Farideh stops, her lips drawing thin. "Exams." She takes a step closer to Roszadyth, which prompts the gold to take one into the water. "I much prefer beaches and sun and sand to drippy cold and mountains of snow," is sighed, as she moves in tandem to her dragon, who is now fully in the water, enjoying the ripples her tail is making as it skims the surface.

"Why would ''I'' need to know about lineage?" O'nahi, still utterly baffled. Maybe even ''more'' baffled now. "I think ''everyone'' prefers beaches and sun," but not sand, "over 'drippy cold.'" But he's just taking a wild guess there. Kuviath is rolling onto his back now, so there will definitely be sand and beach crap stuck to his hide and wings when he gets up.

"Exams," Farideh repeats, devoid of emotion. "Placements are-- ''soon'', I think. Next month? Or the next? History and-- records." Her slim shoulders lift and she stops just when the toes of her boots touch the water. "Why ''wouldn't'' you want to know where your dragon hails from? Shouldn't you take ''pride'' in that sort of thing?" But as for her, she's still shuttered and distracted, now, by Roszadyth's pale gold hide bobbing in the water.

"No?" O'nahi doesn't sound like he thinks this is the right answer to give her, but he says it anyway. Live dangerously, yo. "Why would I take pride in where his ''parents'' are from? They're here now. ''He's'' from here. If you take pride in anything, it should be that." Shouldn't it? He's not actually sure how this all works. O'nahi watches Farideh and Roszadyth for a few moments before he's shoving at Kuviath with his foot. "We should go, I think he's hungry." <> The blue seems surprised, but not disappointed, by this information, flipping around back up onto his feet. Maybe he ''is'' hungry, after all!

"Then ''don't'', and ''fail''," is Farideh's dismissive comment to O'nahi. That he's announced his intentions to leave must be why she doesn't speak further, moving instead into the water, though she stops momentarily to roll her pants leg up to her knees. But after, she's following Roszadyth, sloshing into the lake until the water skims the bottom of her rolled cuff. Dragon turns to rider, lovingly nuzzling her snout into the girl's stomach.

"I ''will''," O'nahi tries to sound the same as Farideh, but mostly just sounds kind of ridiculous. And not just because of the implication. Kuviath lumbers along with his weyrling as they turn to go back to the barracks, but at some point O'nahi will probably have to pick him up again because the blue has learned really quickly how to be very dramatically pathetic.
}}
{{Categories}}

H'vier

2015-04-19T00:09:48Z

H'vier: /* History */

{{HrwProfile
|picture=Havi.jpg
|position=Iceberg Wingleader
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|Has rank=Wingleader
|birthplace=Somewhere in Ista
|children=Tahvra (D1 M1 T34) Mayrin (D3 M10 T35) Tayre (D26 M12 T35)
|playedby=Joe Manganiello
|status=Active
|face=blank.jpg
}}
== Description ==

A large man in his late thirties, H'vier is an impressive six foot five of broad-shouldered muscle and attitude. His hair, dark and unruly, is kept just a touch longer than proper for a dragonrider, slicked back just out of his face. A short beard, peppered with silver, frames the hard lines of his square jaw more often than not with a mustache filling in over his upper lip. His crooked nose looks as though it's seen the wrong end of a fist or two but it manages to add character rather than detract from an overall attractive gathering of features.

When not in his leathers, his choice in clothing is deliberate in a way that might contradict his general manner. A well-tailored, not-cheap wardrobe brings him through all seasons in the Reaches in style.

== WYSK ==

* H'vier is from Ista Weyr. Now he's in High Reaches. For reasons.

== Relationships ==

* Mostly bad.

== History ==

* M10 T30: Transfers from Ista.
* M6, T32: Becomes Iceberg's Wingsecond.
** While temporarily banished from the Weyr for beating up a brownrider.
* M1 T34: [[Tayte]] gives birth to daughter Tahvra.
* M12 T34: Unintentionally knocks up then Wingleader Fayla after Hraedhyth's third flight.
* M3 T35: Reisoth catches [[Aishani|Aishani's]] gold Iesaryth.
* M10 T35: Fayla gives birth to daughter Mayrin.
* M12 T35: [[Tayte]] gives birth to son Tayre.
* M13 T35: Becomes Iceberg's Wingleader.
** Fayla and [[G'laer]] become his Wingseconds.
* M11 T36: Fires [[G'laer]] as Wingsecond after Reisoth catches Teisyth a second time.
* M1 T37: Reisoth catches [[Irianke|Irianke's]] gold Niahvth.
* M4 T37: Grounded for assaulting [[K'zin]] during clutching feast.
* M6 T37: Begins covertly meeting with a mindhealer to address his Issues.

== RP Logs ==

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

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

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

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]
[[Category:Riders]]
[[Category:Bronzeriders]]
[[Category:Iceberg_Wing]]
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Ista Area, Ista Weyr
}}

Logs:Egg Groping

2015-04-18T07:14:51Z

H'vier: Created page with "{{Log | who = Faryn, H'vier, Keysi, Laine, Tomic | where = Hatching Sands, High Reaches Weyr | what = A handful of candidates touch some eggs and start an impromptu Q&A. | day..."

{{Log
| who = Faryn, H'vier, Keysi, Laine, Tomic
| where = Hatching Sands, High Reaches Weyr
| what = A handful of candidates touch some eggs and start an impromptu Q&A.
| day = 19
| month = 7
| turn = 37
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2015.04.17
| quote = What do they sound like?
| weather =
| categories = 
| mentions = Paz
| ooc =
| icons = faryn.png, h'vier unhappy.jpg, h'vier reisoth observe.png, Keysi.jpg, Laine awe.jpg, tomic.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| log = H'vier hasn't been his usual chipper self-- wait, no. He's never very chipper. But he's seemed even less so since Azaylia's unfortunate death, especially in regards to Irianke. So his, "Eggs?" as he passed a handful of candidates from where he was sitting on the far side of the galleries to start heading toward the Sands is probably not incredibly clear. The invitation has been given, though, and maybe the way he gestures to be followed helps even more. Woo, unenthusiastic impromptu egg touchings.

Tomic doesn't know H'vier any more than to recognise him as the rider of the siring bronze. There's no way he can read the man's behaviour. But he can read a gesture, and so he's up from his seat alongside Laine, jogging down the few rows to reach the bronzerider with far less grace than a smaller, more agile young man might have been able to demonstrate. "Are they okay, sir?" Not panicked, but he's alert. For a Tomic.

Laine, plunked on a bench with legs swinging and feet just skimming the floor, ''isn't'' one of the quick ones to catch onto H'vier's offer. But when crop-haired little Paz hops up and brushes herself off with a squeak of excitement, Laine's grey-eyed gaze follows that dispassionate bronzerider. Once Paz scampers after him, the tanner--thumbs hooked in the pockets of her shorts--is among those trailing in his wake down to the Sands, with a glance for Tomic, eyebrows raised.

Keysi is amidst leaving the gallaries when the bronzerider speaks. She watches him for a long moment as if the time is necessary to decipher his invitation, or perhaps more likely it's the concept that pauses her steps. The expression she displays is the same indifference as always, though her critical eyes watch those who collect and move. The healer waits until the other candidates and, in particular, Laine passes by before she places herself in stride with the others wordlessly.

Sire and dam have given the eggs enough space for the candidates to be able to move amongst them without being overly intimidated or whatever it is that some candidates have issues with when there are huge dragons looming nearby. "The eggs are fine. And they'll stay that way if you aren't an idiot." H'vier probably doesn't realize this might be a thing. "Just be careful. No fucking around. It'll piss everyone off. Have at it, kids." The bronzerider doesn't settle anywhere and instead begins walking slowly around the perimeter of the eggs.

"Oh," says Tomic. And then, "''Oh,''" once the rest of the bronzeriders words have had time to sink in. The 'o' is made with his lips once more as he looks to Laine, as his recent companion. The other candidates are, for the time being, spared. The big guy doesn't get moving right away, though. He has to take it all in; the closeness of those dragons, and the heat of the sands, and the idea that he - his fingers twitch - gets to touch the babies-in-shells. Give him a moment.

Paz, bless her heart, clasps her hands to her chest and chirps something about not being able to ''pick one'' since they're all ''so pretty'', so her path is an irregular fluttering from egg to egg. Laine hesitates: in part, not willing to subject herself to Paz's twittering, and in part, those ''huge looming dragons''. But when Tomic lurches to a halt, Laine steps around him with a companionable touch to his arm and a smile, falling closer to Keysi with a quiet, "Hey."

Keysi's intense stare drifts upwards to the gold and bronze of the sands, before releasing her focus to bend her head as she takes that first step onto the sweltering sands. The respectful bow turns into an assessment of the makeup of the sand that shifts beneath her booted feet; the flecks of old shells from however many hatchings before this. Fortunately her deviated train of thought re-rails itself and she moves past Tomic, almost close enough to brush the tall young man's arm, but not quite. "Are you going to be alright?" Even tone speaks quietly, but she doesn't give him all that long to respond, returning Laine's greeting with what might be the crooked edge of a grin betraying her stone-face. Her momentum would only slow, though, before the water wins out egg, her pale, scar-riddled hand falling gently on its surface.

H'vier is supervising as much - okay, maybe not ''as'' much - as the dragons are, as is his duty while there are candidates on the sands. "If you aren't going to make use of the opportunity to touch them, feel free to see yourselves out," is said with a pointed look toward where they just came from. No patiences with this one, seriously.

Tomic says, "Uhuh," to Keysi without much looking at her. The others on the sand will have had time to start towards wherever it is they're going before he finds the one he wants. The patchwork one. The big one. Even getting near it puts a stupid grin on his face. Honey, Pull the Car Over! Tomic has to stop and put his big fat fingertips all over this one's shell. But just as his hand is mere centimetres away, he looks up to whoever's nearby, and whispers, "There's baby dragons in these!" Okay, now touching.

Once Paz has flitted away, to coo over that large marbled amber egg--from a distance, with a look of naked reverence up at Niahvth--Laine's drifting path takes her on much the same aimless journey as the other girl's: passing in close orbit ''around'' the eggs without ever pausing fully at any. H'vier's interjection, however, prompts the tanner to crouch at the nearest (Vallum Hadriani Egg) and flatten a hand against it. She's immobile like that for a long moment, breath taken in and held, before Tomic's whispered comment has her expel all that air in a husky chuckle. "I ''hope'' so," she whispers back.

Keysi follows the stark lines of color on the water egg, lost in the effort and paying H'vier's last comment no notable attention. Her touch is that of her healer training; gentle as if the 'patient' presented is delicate, overtly breakable. Tomic's relevation receives more of a brief glance as she moves on, as if spending ''too much'' time with a single one may affect ''something.'' The visage of a hand reaching upwards upon the next egg has her hand following its fingers along the warmed shell. "Do they know?" Very nonspecific question, assumably inquiring if the unhatched dragons know that they're here.

Tomic doesn't seem nearly so concerned with staying too long. He started at fingertips; now he's going to full hand, and then, he lets his palm drift down the shell. And then brings it back, flexing and flicking those fingers. "They're warm," isn't said to much of anyone. "I don't know if babies know they're babies, at first," goes offered back to Keysi, in a sort of stage whisper that's trying to be respectful, and also heard. A final look for that patchwork shell, and then he's pulling himself away, wiping some sweat on his forehead, and moving toward the rough-looking one. If Carve Away the Mountain won't come to Tomic...

While the candidates touch the eggs, both H'vier and Reisoth are watching them. H'vier, having a more expressive face, doesn't seem terribly impressed, and Reisoth is just difficult to read at the best of times. "Not right now," he answers Keysi's question. "They don't speak to other dragons until they hatch. If they were conscious, I don't see any reason why they wouldn't. But tradition suggests touching them will help them find their lifemates more easily." He doesn't sound as though he puts much weight behind that.

Running her flattened palms in parellel down the curve of the shell until they rest nearly in the hot sands, Laine lingers longer at the mottled, brown-and-green egg before she pulls away and straightens. Her roving footfalls carry her next to the little Restless Volcano Egg, where she seeks out those swirling, smokey greys with her fingertips. She looks up, over at Keysi first, then H'vier, thick brows pulling together over curious eyes. "Do they," ''they'', and Laine indicates with her chin Reisoth and Niahvth, gaze pausing on each before dropping back to the egg, "Remember?"

"Do they say anything, prior to Impression?" The intense girl steps back from the futility egg, delayed in retrieving her hand as her fingers linger. A large egg is within her path next now that she's found herself more within the middle of the room; the serenity midst egg, with swirls of color that earn a little longer of a visit. Palm is placed flat on its warmed surface and is held there, as if waiting to feel movement beneath. Keysi is held there without any sort of rush to listen to Laine's question as well.

These questions, these are all questions about things Tomic doesn't know, has no insight into. He seems to forget his fingertips where he's put them, resting on the shell of that mountain egg, and is quiet, curious, and listening.

H'vier pauses in his slow pacing around the eggs, arms crossing over his chest. "No. I can't speak for Niahvth but Reisoth has an exceptional memory for a dragon," H'vier is also totally biased, "And even he can't remember that far back." Not even close. "If you Impress, you could ask your dragon, since they'll be closer to it. But I wouldn't count on an answer." It's not as though it probably hasn't been tried at some point already. To Keysi, he says similarly, "Not usually, no. Perhaps to their sire or dam. But their instinct is to find someone to bond to, not to chat."

Tracing one last curlicue with one finger, Laine allows her hands to fall away from the squat volcano egg. She listens, her eyes roaming the clutch while she marks each egg in turn (as well as Paz, who still hasn't moved very far from her sentinel position by that dulled gold Wisdom in Words Egg), her lower lip caught in her teeth. The rich blue Vibrant Reef Egg captures her attention next, and Laine again moves to stoop, though this time her hands pause just centimeters away from the pebbley shell. There's no more questions from the tanner. (For now.)

"But wait," Tomic pipes up, not immediately after H'vier has spoken, but once he's had time to consider all these things. He starts moving away from that mountain egg, but mostly, it's so that he can get a more or less clear path betweehin himself and the bronzerider. Not that he takes it, but he talks along it. "Wouldn't talking ''help'' them bond?"

The bronzerider eyes Paz for some moments before his attention turns on the large candidate. "Dragons don't often speak to people other than their rider. Sometimes to people very close to their rider, depending on the dragon." H'vier's gaze wanders to Reisoth briefly. "I don't know why that's the case. Life would be simpler if they would talk to anyone. But I imagine it's why they don't before they're bonded."

The tanner's crop of spiky hair resurfaces from behind the eddies of the reef egg when Laine hears Tomic's question. She absorbs H'vier's answer while sweeping Reisoth's length, looks ''about'' to ask a question, then closes her mouth. Reconsiders, then: "But they talk to each other?" That scrutinizing gaze (tinged with trepidation) skips over to Niahvth. Paz, meanwhile, shuffles her feet under the bronzerider's ''look'', but staunchly doesn't move away. She even takes a step ''forward'' (so brave!), but still remains well out of hand's reach from the gold egg, with a quick look stolen up at the clutch's mother.

"Oh," says Tomic, not for the first time. "You guys meant while they were in the eggs." The flush on his face, however, has been there for a while now, and probably isn't due to that confusion. He starts moving again, this time moving... well, toward Laine. He stops, though, watching her, his head tilting a little. And then, glancing back to H'vier so as to (hopefully) not miss his answer.

"Aye, they speak to each other." Reisoth even rumbles a low but quite audible sound, perhaps a reminder that he can also hear and he's sitting right there. H'vier considers Tomic again, but says nothing more to the large young man.

"What do they sound like?" Hey, H'vier, you ''totally'' wanted to do a Q&A with the candidates, right? Laine leans closer to the smallish reef egg, almost as though to press her ear against the shell, but again--not ''quite'' touching. The candidate frowns in contemplation. Is she talking about the dragonets-in-eggs, or the dragons themselves? It's hard to tell.

"Even in the eggs?" Tomic asks one Laine has moved on, asks without shame or self-consciousness, even. Now here, he even has an answer. He takes a step in the general direction of that gold egg, looking to each of the dragons, and making a point of clasping his hands behind his back. For now. He leans in a little. He looks. It's absently that he thinks to say, "Quinlys said her blue has stars. When he talks."

"Dragons?" H'vier probably means to clarify Laine's question. But that's just what he'll go with. "They all sound different. I've not heard many but Reisoth, but he assures me this is the case." Mention of the still quite in ovo hatchlings makes the bronzerider frown at Tomic before shaking his head. "They're quiet. You might be able to hear them move. I was quite sure I heard a heartbeat when I was a candidate." Which was basically a gabillion years ago now.

It's likely unclear when Faryn's internal debate about whether to join her friends was concluded, but her stunted progression from the upper rows of the galleries lower and lower has marked that laborious process. Eventually, she's looking at the sands from just beyond the railing, frowning thoughtfully, before tacking herself onto the other candidates invitation and slipping onto the sands, her bearing equal parts caution and respect. She's not quick, though; she hovers behind them thoughtfully, not quite near the eggs, apparently listening to the conversation and considering the unhatched dragons at closer range. "What does Reisoth have?" the herder questions, announcing herself, but still not quite in range to touch anything.

Laine has a funny, unsatisfied sort of expression and a tight-lipped ''hmm'' for H'vier's response, but she doesn't press. Luckily, Faryn does, and the tanner swivels with a grateful nod. When her attention returns to "her" teal-and-cerulean reef egg, it's to tentatively cup one hand on the shell and push her ear into it. She can't hear the ocean, alas, but she repeats: "... stars?"

"I guess so." Tomic shrugs, and dares to put just one finger toward that gold shell, turning his eyes to the gold on the sands the whole time. "That's what she said." He's quick to move off, after that attempt, en route to the Perfect Lines egg. This one, he touches with much more certainty, much more bravery, even. Even as his head's turning, recognising Faryn's voice, and grinning at her across the eggs.

H'vier looks at the latecomer, dark eyes moving down and then back up before settling on her face. "No," must be an answer about the stars in as much as Reisoth is concerned. "He's..." It will take H'vier a moment to put it into words. "Cold. Like winter. Like an infirmary." He's less concerned about whether that makes any sense to anyone else.

Faryn's thoughtful, and her progress is still stop-go towards the eggs. She takes a few cautious steps then halts like a spotlighted rabbit, as if she half expects one of them to pop out and maul her to death. Better to talk, then, "Not drafty, just...not comfortable?" is her addition, trying for clarification. Eventually, she makes it to the Key egg and hitches a pantleg, all the better to squat down in front of it and rock gently back and forth, her elbows resting on her thighs, hands loose between her knees.

Paz looks ''downright appalled'' that Tomic actually ''touched'' the egg she's been supervising so diligently, and whirls ('cause it's hard to ''stomp'' on the sands) to claim her ''own'' egg to touch. Hmph. There's a chuckle from Laine that might be at Paz's expense, but the tanner masks it as a cough as she stands and moves on: the craggy academic magic egg is her next stop. "Or, like, sterile?"

Tomic likes these girls, he really does. But they're starting to throw around words that mean the same as other words, and that's a game he's not particularly good at. So he wanders on to the next egg, and listens, and smiles, and keeps quiet until it's time to go.

To both Faryn and Laine, his answer is, "It depends on his mood." More or less yes in both cases. Poor Tomic. "He can be aloof compared to other dragons, from what I gather. Our bond isn't based so firmly on... affection as it is mutual respect." H'vier, not ''entirely'' comfortable talking about things that are close to feelings.

"Mmm," is Faryn's quiet response, and she turns from the key egg to turn a bemused little quirk of the mouth to the supervising bronze. "Neat," she decides, before turning back to the key egg and finally reaching out, ever gently despite the eggs being hardened, to place her palm flush against the shingles and draw her hand different directions, feeling for the texture she can see but is certainly not there. "They're so..." she starts, hesitates looking for the right word and ends in a question instead, "Did you know which egg he was in, before he hatched? I mean, did you ''feel'' it, or sense it, or just feel a ''draw''?"

Laine, behind the brownish academic egg, leans out to cast another guarded look at Reisoth, gently steepling her fingers against the curvature of the shell. Disappearing again behind the egg, she nods, more or less to herself, once Faryn's posed her question. And though she's all ears, the tanner doesn't pose any more questions herself--just touching, listening, with covert little glances up at the clutchparents, until they're ushered off the sand.

"No. Nothing like that," H'vier answers Faryn while he watches her hand against her chosen egg. "Do you think you feel something?" Think being the key word there. If she does, ''he'' must think it's just her imagination.

Her shake of the head is without hesitation. "No," she says, definitively. "Not anymore than I feel a particular runner might race well while he's still in the womb." She sounds a bit disappointed, though. "It would be nice, if we did, though." A soft pat for the egg in front of her, but, since she feels nothing, it's a little easier for her to stand up and move beyond it to something else. She seems picky enough, though, weaving but not stopping right away.

"It would be nice," H'vier will allow easily enough. Reisoth watches the candidates will they weave their ways around the eggs, but before long he's moving, taking his leave of the sands to tend to eating or drinking or whatever business dragons tend to have. H'vier seems unconcerned by the leave taking. "You know much about racing?"

"I'm not bad at it," Faryn allows modestly, and yes, she is a girl, so she is drawn into orbit around the golden egg, though it seems she's not really willing to butt into the group to touch it. Just a closer look, it seems; something more modest and natural catches her eye: green and stone-grey, Faryn leans closer to the large egg. Then again, her hand goes out, fingers flexing against the shell as if testing integrity. "I used to race, a lot. Small enough. Nobody here does it, though." Curiously, peeking around the egg at H'vier, and maybe a bit hopeful, "You?"

"''You'' raced." It's not a question, just H'vier saying the part of that that's most interesting to him. "I've owned a runner or two, in my time." He's obviously never raced them himself. He's quite a large man. "I enjoy watching. Betting. I haven't been as often as I'd like these last few months. Turns, really, I suppose."

Not entirely sure what she detects in his emphasis, Faryn's first reaction is offense. Her frown is challenging. "''Yes''," she replies in fair imitation, "and I am very good." It's her turn to look him up and down before ducking back behind the egg to press her ear against it, listening. If she hears anything, she doesn't say. She only withdraws, and says, "Did you? There are some good runners here. Very fast." Thoughtful, "I keep thinking I might go to Bitra or something to race, if I could find someone needs a jockey. Maybe Ista. Beach races."

H'vier smiles, amused by her reaction. Because he apparently finds enjoyment out of annoying women? Whatever the case, "My runners were Istan. Mostly. Keroon blooded." But instead of commenting further on her racing, H'vier takes his cue from Niahvth and raises his voice to the candidates as a whole, "Time's up. Let's go. Move your asses."

"Good stock," Faryn murmurs, drowned out by H'vier's yell to get the candidates gathered. She gives the big, green egg one more gentle pat and allows herself to join the group as they're ushered out.

}}

[[Category:Clutch_37_Logs]]

Logs:And It Started Out So Well

2015-04-05T06:58:57Z

H'vier:

{{Log
|who=Irianke, K'zin
|what=K'zin comes to talk about apologies. It goes well for a hot minute and then it doesn't at all.
|where=Irianke's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|day=11
|month=6
|turn=37
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.04.04
|mentions=Azaylia, H'vier, K'del, Quinlys, Zadkiel
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon irianke bw.jpg, Icon k'zin brooding.jpg,
|log=As dusk falls across the bowl, just toward the end of the usual dinner hour, a sharply dressed, freshly bathed bronzerider in deep blue gather best approaches Irianke and Niahvth's weyr. K'zin might easily set tongues wagging given that he's carrying a sizeable bouquet of blue, yellow and orange wildflowers, accented with a red but here and there throughout, the stems tied with a braided wrap of long, long green grasses, and a small square box in one hand. Then again, after what happened at the clutching feast, perhaps the young man is hoping that this much will buy just a bit of the goldrider's time (and hopefully her patience, as well). "Weyrwoman Irianke?" is called respectfully but loudly enough to carry from without. "May I come in?" Not that he risks injury to his cause by offering his name just now.

Irianke might laugh if she could see him in his attire and with his gifts, but as yet, she's still staring down at some hidework, a frenetic energy resonating off her for the speed with which she scans and discards, scans and discards. The open bottle of wine and the half-finished glass is doing absolutely nothing to calm her nerves it would seem. So when she's interrupted, a flustered look lifts from those hides to the entrance and then a deep breath. A deep ''calming'' breath. "Come in," is finally said in even tones. She'll look back up when he approaches, but she takes the moment to look back down and discard this one too.

Though K'zin doesn't stride in with the seasoned confidence of a bronzerider who feels entitled to be here, neither does he come with an abundance of nervousness as one might were one approaching a first date. He comes simply, his steps even and his shoulders straight. When he gets to the mouth of the outer-most room and can see her, he stops, waiting to be acknowledged after his polite, "Ma'am."

There, she finds what she was looking for and ''there'', Irianke marks something down and sets the page in a different stack. "Ye..." her voice trails off when she finds K'zin and the look she has is visibly strained. She might not have even noticed what he's wearing or what he's brought, so focused on his face she is. Fighting against nature, the goldrider gestures to a seat and puts on a tepid smile. "What can I do for you, K'zin? Do you..." she finally takes a good look at the man and stops speaking and just stares.

The trailing off gives K'zin an opportunity to speak himself. Stepping forward, he extends the flowers and box toward her. "I was hoping you could help me with a problem I have. I think, ma'am, that you're the only one who can." Then he waits, perhaps to see if he's still invited to that seat.

"What... ''What'' are you wearing? What are you doing?" Irianke's virtual jaw has finally been reeled in and the goldrider, perhaps it's from having had some long nights and days recently, has no sense no composure or filter. The invitation isn't remade but at this point, it certainly isn't retracted either.

Since Irianke doesn't move to receive the things he's brought, K'zin takes them with him as he sits in the chair, box resting on one knee and flowers held upright in a crooked arm. "I heard that you might have been having-- that your assistant is one of the ones stuck," he decides as the wiser course than repeating what he might've heard about Irianke's state of mind. "So I know my timing is shoddy for making this request, so I thought... I've always had better luck asking for help if I bring nice things. I went riding with Faryn today-- runner riding, and there was a field full of wildflowers and--" that explains the bouquet, "and I'd already made this," whatever's in the box, "for you, to thank you for your help, or maybe to apologize or both, so since I had it and I had the flowers fresh, I figured I'd better come tonight." It might be a ridiculous explanation for everything but his manner of dress, but ''there it is''. And really, if you're a bronzerider bringing a goldrider flowers and a gift ''and'' asking for a favor, ''shouldn't'' you wear your gather best?

"What?" Along with her composure, Irianke's lost any verbal skills as she continues to just stare at poor K'zin. Somewhere at riding, and the clarification of runners riding as opposed to other kinds of riding, a snort escapes and then by the end, she's in full on ridiculous tear-worthy laughter. So much so that her hands are up hiding the tears streaming from her face. "Oh. Oh. Oh. I didn't realize I needed this today. But who really ever thinks they need ''this'' on any day?" Somehow, she manages to get those words out in between laughing and then not laughing and then laughing again. A few fingers are over her mouth and she shakes her head, possibly at herself and maybe a little at him. "What can I help you with?"

If there's one thing K'zin is practically made for, it's to take laughter (at him? near him? because of him?) with exceptional grace and poise. His lips pull, wanting to smile, but only turn upward just at the edges as he waits it out. He doesn't even draw attention to the tears. He just quietly supports her having this moment that she ''needed''. "I'm supposed to write you a letter of apology, ma'am," he begins after drawing a deep breath. "Only, I'm not entirely certain ''what'' I'm apologizing for, and you seemed, to me, from that time, in the records room, like the kind of person who would appreciate a real apology and not something empty. So, I was hoping you could... clarify for me." He looks serious now, and genuine. He's trying here! See the flowers? The box? The doublet?

Oh, serious topics. Serious topics need serious Irianke. Serious is so hard when she's finally given an emotional outlet to not be serious, but she tries, first by schooling her expression and then by taking a quick succession of deep breaths. "H'vier mentioned that the Weyrleader directed the both of you to do so. He apologized for losing his temper and ruining the clutch celebration. Perhaps," she looks to K'zin, the remnant damp stains on her cheeks wiped away, "That is where you could start."

K'zin's hand shifts just slightly on the box. His expression is uncertain, but ''not'' looking like it's aiming to antagonize the goldrider. "So this isn't about Searching Zadkiel? And what Rasavyth said to the dragons?"

That sobers Irianke up quickly. The goldrider is silent for a long while, looking quietly at K'zin until she finally says, "It is. Can you tell me why you did so? Have you ever Searched outside of High Reaches' coverage area?"

"Now and again. Crafthalls, mostly." K'zin answer calmly in the face of these questions. He must have known it was a possibility he'd be asked. "I wasn't at your Weyr on Search." Clearly, that would have been wrong. Rasavyth noticed Zadkiel while we were in the bowl. Given that Igen is said to be getting some portion of the riders from this clutch, it seemed reasonable to me at the time," before they were told explicitly not to, "that to have an Igenite Impress and return home at the end of weyrlinghood wouldn't be a bad thing, so I Searched him." The words are almost certainly chosen carefully, but it's logical that they would be if the bronzerider anticipated having to account for his actions after everything. None of them seem to be a lie and K'zin's demeanor thus far does not paint him as the sort of person who'd be a ''good'' liar, so there's that.

"And if he should Impress bronze?" asks Irianke quietly. "Or shall we make sure he's only on the sands when there are green and blues hatched?"

K'zin's brow wrinkles deeply. He's silent, lips pressed tightly together as he considers his next words. They come quietly, "This deal the Weyrleader made," he starts the words being laid out gently, "it's trading the lives of people for the lives of dragons. Treating both like chattel. Arguably, perhaps a Weyr can be said to 'own' it's dragons, because the likelihood of a sole rider being able to care for their dragon without the support of its Weyr is unlikely, and the dragons are therefore indebted. But the candidates... Does the Weyr own them once they Impress?" It's a wondering question, one that clearly makes him ''sad'' to even have to think about. "Are our Weyrleaders trading in living currency?" So, ''so'' sad to think of it. Heartbreakingly sad, even.

Irianke's response starts with a finger up. "One, the Weyrwoman. The Weyrleader had nothing to do with brokering this deal."

"Two," Irianke's second finger climbs, "You used to be an apprentice. Yes," she feigns a brief smile, "I do study and read what is at my disposal as I find it makes me a better administrator. When, if ever, do you get a choice as to where you are posted and for how long?" Should he start trying to speak, she'll waggle her finger and cluck a negation.

For the third point, her finger comes up and then the three fingers set down on the edge of her table. "Finally, dragonriders go where they are needed. ''I'' have gone where I was needed. It was not inconceivable during Passes to redistribute entire wings to new Weyrs who might need them more if casualties were that high. Just because this is not something you or I can understand does not mean the decision was not made with any less consideration and thought for the greater good."

Irianke releases her three fingers and looks at K'zin. "If you mean to apologize, I accept. You don't have to write me a letter because I don't think it would hold the weight of the quality of hide or paper you wrote it on." Her voice isn't cruel, merely tired and accepting of the situation. "But I would much prefer if you owned up to the fact that you went to Igen, deliberately, to Search so you could be promoted. And because you believed people were being wrong. So you rejected turns of tradition and unspoken and implied directives from your superiors for your beliefs. I commend you, but it does not mean I trust or believe you."

K'zin's face is tight, his dark eyes intense on her face. "When I apprenticed," he begins with quiet intensity, "I chose to take my allegiance to my family and give it to my craft. When I chose to Stand, I offered it to my Weyr. If Igen is under strength and needs riders of a particular color to fill their ranks, it could be ''any'' riders of the correct color. ''Willing'' riders. But the deal wasn't made for ''riders'', it was made for ''weyrlings''." His frown is deep now and he sighs. "I'm not sorry for bringing Zadkiel to Stand. If he finds his lifemate, then I will feel bringing him was the right thing. If he Impresses bronze, then his lifemate was meant to find him here, and you won't have lost a bronze in Niahvth's clutch for lack of the right lifemate on the Sands." He sighs; he looks tired.

"Thank you for being as close to honest as I feel I have seen tonight," says Irianke simply. "My allegiance is to my dragon and my Weyr. Currently, that is High Reaches." Other than that, the goldrider has nothing more to say and looks directly at the assistant weyrlingmaster.

"If I was going to bother to be dishonest with you, I would've written you the sharding letter and have done." K'zin is frustrated, rising from his seat. His grip on the flowers and the box are both too tight. At least he seems to have better command on his temper than H'vier. He looks at her, lips pressed into a line, holding in something else he might be thinking of saying. "Permission to to be excused, ma'am?" is all he manages after a moment.

"Granted." The formalities of such words brings a crooked smile to her mouth. The self-effacing, sad, how ironic kind. Irianke doesn't look pleased, in spite of that curl, and her eyes cast down tiredly.

He turns, he starts to go, then he turns back, laying both flowers and box on the chair he vacated. K'zin doesn't look at her as he says, quietly, "We met when I was studying in the record. Studying to prove I should be an assistant weyrlingmaster. I pulled double duties when the last clutch shelled just so I could help out and learn something. I can't explain Quinlys' motivations for giving it to me, but I damned well earned it." So there's that, and he turns with the intention to see himself out.
}}
{{Categories
|Categories=General Logs, The Igen Exchange Logs, Clutch 37 Logs
}}

Logs:Fuck You, I'm a Dragonrider

2015-03-21T04:00:32Z

H'vier:

{{Log
| who = Drex, H'vier
| where = Stables, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Drex is offered the chance to stand.
| day =22
| month = 4
| turn = 37
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2015.03.20
| quote = Do you want to or not, kid? I have shit to do.
| weather =
| categories = 
| mentions = Farideh
| ooc =
| icons = drex.jpg, h'vier unhappy.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| log = The runners are restless in their stables, stamping and shifting impatiently. Most of the stablehands are off at dinner, and so other than the equine occupants, there's not much noise. Except for the sounds of someone singing a dirty sea shanty from the loft above the stables, anyway. "Noooooow... I once had a gal, her hair was red, 'twas curly all over except on her head... her eyes was blue, her dress the same, but she always fell asleep before I came!"

If H'vier was worried he might not be able to pick out the man he's looking for, those worries are probably put to rest as he makes his way through the stable. He's not here often, but he's been here enough to know his way around well enough. "Not sure that's the sort of thing you want to go admitting to, letting your women fall asleep like that," he calls out in a carrying voice.

"Now a dollar goes from hand to hand, my gal goes from man to man." The song fades, undoubtedly in response to the criticism, and so too, is there a snorted response, and the sound of liquid sloshing in a bottle, but the owner's voice doesn't seem to rise to the bait. Nor, it seems, is he curious enough about the visitor to peer over the side. Clearly someone's far too comfortable up there. Or maybe the sailor just wants to continue his song: "I tied my gal in a gunny sack, she'll be true to me 'til I get back!"

There's mostly silence from H'vier for several minutes. But then there's the sound of him coming up, slow and steady. Can footsteps sound annoyed? His probably do. Once he gets up there, he's dusting off the thighs of his trousers and turning to get a look at the singer.

Drex has gotten quite comfortable amongst the bales of hay, adjusting them into a chair sort of formation, one leg thrown carelessly over the 'arm', while he takes a gulp out of the bottle he's got. It's about half full, and he takes a breath to continue -- or it looks like he will, at least until he gets a load of the rider, with something of a wary inspection. "Aint nice to interrupt someone's singing. Don't they teach you landlubbers any manners?"

The bronzerider is not entirely comfortable up here. And he's kind of annoyed he had to come up to begin with. "No," says H'vier, unapologetically. No manners here. "Drex?" is a question that he seems to think he already has the answer to.

The snort, this time, seems amused, Drex acknowledging that response with a tip of his bottle before he takes another gulp. It's when the rider mentions his name that he actually seems to pay attention, frowning. Even if he doesn't acknowledge it verbally, his now-suspicious look suggests H'vier's guess was correct.

H'vier gives the boy a long, considering, not particularly impressed sort of look. It's not personal, probably, just that, "I don't see the appeal." Not that he would, even if Drex were Handsome McDreamy, granted. "You're Farideh's... friend?"

''That'' makes Drex grimace. "Sorry, I aint your type. Why do you landlubbers always assume all sailors like men?" with a shake of his head. It's the latter that makes Drex swing his leg to the ground and straighten, warily. "What of it?"

"First of all, fuck you." H'vier's cursing is mild. He's not angry, just annoyed. "I'm a dragonrider. You know, flying in the sky? If anything, I'm an airhead. Or a ''cloud''fucker. Have some fucking imagination, for Faranth's sake." As for Farideh, he might be reconsidering what he came here to do. But, now. He takes a breath and continues, "There are eggs on the sands. I'm extending an offer for you to stand for them."

"Don't see you flapping your wings," Drex counters, brow furrowing. "You look pretty tied to the ground right now. Seems like the dragons are cloudfuckers, not you. You're just living in the shadows, tied to the ground." A situation he's clearly not envious of, to judge by his expression -- and the one that follows -- of incredulity. "Why the fuck would you do ''that'' for?"

"Right," says H'vier, not particularly affected by the younger man's baiting right now. He's here for a reason and he knew he wouldn't like it to begin with. It makes the unpleasantness easier to handle. "Because, for some ''completely unfathomable'' reason, Farideh doesn't hate you. Do you want to or not, kid? I have shit to do."

"What does Farideh have to do with-- why the fuck would I want a ''dragon''?" Drex asks, with a shake of head and a wary look, like H'vier is possibly unstable.

The sailor is studied for a moment, then H'vier nods his head like he ''finally'' approves of something about the boy. "Good," is all he says before he's turning to take his leave. He did what he came to do. Drex has given an answer, more or less. All's right with the world.

"Riders. Fucking ''crazy''," Drex mutters to himself as H'vier takes his leave, taking another gulp of whatever's in his bottle.

If H'vier overhears, and he probably doesn't, there's no response. But on his way down and out, he's not very private about the way he says, "Fucking sailors."

}}

[[Category:Clutch_37_Logs]]

Logs:Fuck You, I'm a Dragonrider

2015-03-21T03:51:28Z

H'vier: Created page with "{{Log | who = Drex, H'vier | where = Stables, High Reaches Weyr | what = Drex is offered the chance to stand. | day =22 | month = 4 | turn = 37 | IP = Interval | IP2 = 10 | c..."

{{Log
| who = Drex, H'vier
| where = Stables, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Drex is offered the chance to stand.
| day =22
| month = 4
| turn = 37
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2015.03.20
| quote = Do you want to or not, kid? I have shit to do.
| weather =
| categories = 
| mentions =
| ooc =
| icons = drex.jpg, h'vier unhappy.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| log = The runners are restless in their stables, stamping and shifting impatiently. Most of the stablehands are off at dinner, and so other than the equine occupants, there's not much noise. Except for the sounds of someone singing a dirty sea shanty from the loft above the stables, anyway. "Noooooow... I once had a gal, her hair was red, 'twas curly all over except on her head... her eyes was blue, her dress the same, but she always fell asleep before I came!"

If H'vier was worried he might not be able to pick out the man he's looking for, those worries are probably put to rest as he makes his way through the stable. He's not here often, but he's been here enough to know his way around well enough. "Not sure that's the sort of thing you want to go admitting to, letting your women fall asleep like that," he calls out in a carrying voice.

"Now a dollar goes from hand to hand, my gal goes from man to man." The song fades, undoubtedly in response to the criticism, and so too, is there a snorted response, and the sound of liquid sloshing in a bottle, but the owner's voice doesn't seem to rise to the bait. Nor, it seems, is he curious enough about the visitor to peer over the side. Clearly someone's far too comfortable up there. Or maybe the sailor just wants to continue his song: "I tied my gal in a gunny sack, she'll be true to me 'til I get back!"

There's mostly silence from H'vier for several minutes. But then there's the sound of him coming up, slow and steady. Can footsteps sound annoyed? His probably do. Once he gets up there, he's dusting off the thighs of his trousers and turning to get a look at the singer.

Drex has gotten quite comfortable amongst the bales of hay, adjusting them into a chair sort of formation, one leg thrown carelessly over the 'arm', while he takes a gulp out of the bottle he's got. It's about half full, and he takes a breath to continue -- or it looks like he will, at least until he gets a load of the rider, with something of a wary inspection. "Aint nice to interrupt someone's singing. Don't they teach you landlubbers any manners?"

The bronzerider is not entirely comfortable up here. And he's kind of annoyed he had to come up to begin with. "No," says H'vier, unapologetically. No manners here. "Drex?" is a question that he seems to think he already has the answer to.

The snort, this time, seems amused, Drex acknowledging that response with a tip of his bottle before he takes another gulp. It's when the rider mentions his name that he actually seems to pay attention, frowning. Even if he doesn't acknowledge it verbally, his now-suspicious look suggests H'vier's guess was correct.

H'vier gives the boy a long, considering, not particularly impressed sort of look. It's not personal, probably, just that, "I don't see the appeal." Not that he would, even if Drex were Handsome McDreamy, granted. "You're Farideh's... friend?"

''That'' makes Drex grimace. "Sorry, I aint your type. Why do you landlubbers always assume all sailors like men?" with a shake of his head. It's the latter that makes Drex swing his leg to the ground and straighten, warily. "What of it?"

"First of all, fuck you." H'vier's cursing is mild. He's not angry, just annoyed. "I'm a dragonrider. You know, flying in the sky? If anything, I'm an airhead. Or a ''cloud''fucker. Have some fucking imagination, for Faranth's sake." As for Farideh, he might be reconsidering what he came here to do. But, now. He takes a breath and continues, "There are eggs on the sands. I'm extending an offer for you to stand for them."

"Don't see you flapping your wings," Drex counters, brow furrowing. "You look pretty tied to the ground right now. Seems like the dragons are cloudfuckers, not you. You're just living in the shadows, tied to the ground." A situation he's clearly not envious of, to judge by his expression -- and the one that follows -- of incredulity. "Why the fuck would you do ''that'' for?"

"Right," says H'vier, not particularly affected by the younger man's baiting right now. He's here for a reason and he knew he wouldn't like it to begin with. It makes the unpleasantness easier to handle. "Because, for some ''completely unfathomable'' reason, Farideh doesn't hate you. Do you want to or not, kid? I have shit to do."

"What does Farideh have to do with-- why the fuck would I want a ''dragon''?" Drex asks, with a shake of head and a wary look, like H'vier is possibly unstable.

The sailor is studied for a moment, then H'vier nods his head like he ''finally'' approves of something about the boy. "Good," is all he says before he's turning to take his leave. He did what he came to do. Drex has given an answer, more or less. All's right with the world.

"Riders. Fucking ''crazy''," Drex mutters to himself as H'vier takes his leave, taking another gulp of whatever's in his bottle.

If H'vier overhears, and he probably doesn't, there's no response. But on his way down and out, he's not very private about the way he says, "Fucking sailors."

}}

[[Category:Clutch_37_Logs]]

Logs:Tweedledumb and Tweedlewee, Strippers Extraordinaire

2015-03-21T03:40:07Z

H'vier:

{{Log
| who = Laine, K'zin, Z'riah
| where = Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Laine tells K'zin why he and H'vier got in a fight. Z'riah pimps K'zin's Not-As-Secret-As-He'd-Like erotic art business.
| day = 19
| month = 4
| turn = 37
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2015.03.19
| quote = "You should ''hear'' the rumours."
| weather =
| categories = 
| mentions = H'vier, Telavi
| ooc = Adult themes. Hat tip to Suireh and appreciation for everyone who helped brainstorm stripper names for H'vier and K'zin. <3
| icons = Laine grin.jpg, k'zin casual.jpg, z'riah furrow.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =>---< Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr >-----------------------------------------<

Two sets of double doors, one from the the inner caverns and a recently
built set from the dragon infirmary, lead into the unnaturally hushed
human infirmary. Despite fastidious cleaning, the scent of redwort and
numbweed has long since soaked into every smooth-carved surface, along
with other, subtler medicinal smells. Pristinely made cots are lined up
against the walls; most of them are left open to view, but some in the
back are surrounded by curtains for delicate procedures or critical
patients.

About halfway between the two entrances is the counter for the healers on
duty; it guards the entrance to the storage rooms just beyond, their
shelves and cabinets lined with meticulously labeled bottles, boxes, jars,
and even vats of supplies. The Weyrhealer's office is also here, along
with another side room for mixing up medicines and the like.
| log =
Evening is often a slower time for the infirmary, with many weyrfolk engaged in other activities. Most who are here are either working or have a reason. K'zin's is already in the gossip mill. After the violence at the clutching feast, he was kept in the infirmary a pair of days before being released. With a head trauma, though, and an ugly bruise that spreads across his nose and has blackened both eyes, he's almost certainly here for either a follow up or numbweed, or both. He's in the waiting area though, arms folded across his chest, slouched in his chair and legs extended out in front of him.

Laine pushes through the double-doors with her shoulder, as her arms are tight around an awkwardly large stack of hidework, notes, and books. That lazy saunter does not bear the urgency of someone seeking medical attention, and when grey eyes scan the (presently unattended) healer desk, the apprentice takes a seat. She settles herself across from K'zin, and although she makes the pretense of busying herself with balancing her armload of paperwork in her lap, she does steal one or two peeks at the bronzerider. Okay, it's more like a not-so-subtle ogle--well, okay, she's pretty much just staring at him. She says, earnestly: "You should ''hear'' the rumours."

K'zin is ''trying'' to ignore the looks. He's probably gotten plenty enough to practice with in the past few days. When the peeks become a stare, he takes a deep breath and stares back. It's the logical thing to do, after all. His lower lip juts out at her words, a dismal expression on his face. "I'm not sure I want to hear more than I have already." There's a wistful sigh, if only his hearing could be more selective. "Going to tell me?" His arms slide away from his chest, so at least he puts himself less in a 'closed' position.

Z'riah's arrival is with a certain purpose, but whatever that purpose was supposed to be, he pauses when he realizes there's no one at the counter. Disappointing! He seems well and healthy, though, so it must not be any sort of emergency, despite the way he sighs dramatically and bounces his palm off of the surface of the counter. Still nothing. So he's turning to actually consider the agonizing prospect of ''waiting''. Ugh. He sees K'zin immediately, because how can you miss that? "Wow, man. You look like shit."

Laine rocks her knees back and forth so that bundle of hidework in her lap wobbles precariously. Her furrowing, thick brows ''almost'' make it look, for a moment, that's she's sympathetic; then she grins, and it's a bright and crooked thing as she props her elbows on the topmost book and laces her fingers. "Yes. Sorry." (Not sorry.) "My favourite so far is that that ''one'' of you is a stripper or something and the other found out. Then there's a bunch of boring ones, like, that other guy," what's-his-name, "has a wife and you seduced her." Laine's tone indicates that, as far as she cares, the actual, factual truth is of no real interest to her.

"Turns out H'vier isn't at his meanest after losing a flight after all," K'zin tells Z'riah dryly, not moving from where he's at. One hand rises to self-consciously brush fingers across his nose, and wince. "Erotic artist, not stripper," the bronzerider directs to Laine, deadpan. "But I haven't even ''left'' the sketch of him for him yet, so that can't be it." He considers, "If H'vier were the kind of man to ''have'' a wife, she'd be old, and I'd rather not." He looks at Laine for a moment and then down to her chest, and then back to her face. It could mean anything (possibly just that it helps him place the face in this particular case, or just that he's a man). "Laine, Z'riah, Z'riah, Laine." One hand waves between the two.

The greenrider winces in sympathy. And he seems to be having a hard time looking away from K'zin's bruising for one reason or another. "You were supposed to leave that for him ''ages'' ago," notes Z'riah, finally peeling his gaze away from the bronzerider to glance at Laine. "Oh, we've met," he says a little dismissively, with a hand waved at her direction and everything. She called him old once; it's to be expected. "How are your criminal friends doing?" He adds as a a very judgmental aside to K'zin, "He actually has it pretty bad for a girl who's like ''sixteen''." So the opposite problem of old.

The apprentice squinches up her grey eyes in her best (read: not very good) impression of a haughty, suspicious glower. "I get the sense you are, as they say, pulling my leg. If you are not, may I please ''commission'' one of your sketches, please." It's not deadpan, and there's a spark in her eyes and a smile tugging at her lips, but Laine manages, at least, not to ''laugh''. There's not much of her chest to see, both owing to that obscuring stack of books and a frankly modest bosom, but Laine either doesn't care or doesn't notice: she's tipped her head up to Z'riah, lips pursed. "My criminal friends are ''fine'', thank you," she says, not quite managing to look as casual, maybe, as she'd like.

A single shouldered shrug answers the timing of the delivery that was to be as indicated by Z'riah. K'zin then takes a moment to look between the two, one then the other, and back. "Someone want to fill me in?" On whatever it is he's missing. To Laine, he says, "How strict is your Journeyman about that kind of thing? As you might imagine, I ''am'' in some trouble already, and I don't need to add corrupting the youth, even if it's the youth who uses her breasts to get drinks at the bar, to my record."

"No, he definitely draws hot pictures. I haven't asked my roommate if he'd be okay with a nude mural." The first is for Laine. He can vouch for the bronzerider! The last is offered to K'zin, along with, "She has dumb friends in Nabol." Z'riah must think this makes everything perfectly clear because he doesn't explain further. Or maybe that's just all he knows. He glances back toward the counter, seems annoyed when there's still no one there. At least not the one he wants. But mention of breasts has his gaze, you know, settling on Laine's.

Laine's grimaced ''ugh'' is distinctly vexed, but she doesn't correct Z'riah, so he must've been close to being right. But she'd much rather talk about ''dirty pictures''. So she asks, with a wary tilt of her head, "I still can't tell if you guys are joking or not. Do you ''really'' draw smut?" As for her Journeyman? ''He'' gets a breezy handwave. "I'm drunk, like, all the time." Which doesn't really answer K'zin's question. And, with a sniff and a guarded glance at Z'riah: "And it's not usually because of the boobs. I just wanted ''service''. I'm not getting free drinks out of 'em." Beat. "Not literally." Ew.

Z'riah gets a look that says something a lot like 'shut up, Z'riah', but K'zin schools his expression as he looks over at Laine. "Since you're inclined to call it smut, I'm going to go with 'maybe'. It ''is'' true that my weyr was covered in smutty murals when I got it, but I didn't paint those." It's probably most telling of the truthfulness of their comments that he asks, "Would you want a sketch of yourself or someone else?" His eyes only briefly revisit the other topic, "Telavi had some things to say about that particular method of procurement. I think she thought there were better ways, but she was tired, so you'd probably have to ask her if you wanted specific suggestions.

A puzzled spread of Laine's hands is quickly interrupted when that heap of books in her lap teeters. Firmly steadying them with one hand, the apprentices asks, "What? What do ''you'' call it? I didn't mean 'smut' in a ''bad'' way." Those grey eyes fix on K'zin in a moment of sincere rumination at his question. She decides, "Myself." She doesn't explain, but muses, "If you draw them for money, doesn't that make it ''porn''? I think the word 'erotica' is reserved for writing."

"Shardit, Yizi," Z'riah grumbles abruptly before he's starting to turn away from his waiting room peers. He pauses, though, because just leaving is rude, right? So he says, "She's having a meltdown. Good luck with your face, K'zin. And... your boobs, I guess, Laine." He's out.

K'zin looks at Laine with lips pinched, considering, opening his mouth just as Z'riah speaks, so the bronzerider shuts his again. His nod is understanding to the greenrider, and then his 'look' returns as he looks at Laine and says the two words the tone implies should be obvious: "Erotic art." He did claim either he or H'vier was an erotic artist after all. "If I draw them for money, it makes it a lucrative side-income." K'zin adds, amusement in both voice and curl of his lips. "Since I'm already in trouble, don't go repeating that around. Stripper is a better story anyway. But I'm sure we can come to some kind of agreement for whatever art you want."

"I'm just gonna keep spreading the stripper rumour. I ''love'' that one," Laine says brightly as a healer makes their way to the desk. Once he's settled and looks up expectantly, Laine's the first to spring up and scamper over (even though K'zin was ''definitely'' there first). "I'm here to see Tonas," she says, hefting her armload of books. "Brought his homework." When the healer motions to a cot behind a drawn curtain, Laine turns and wiggles her fingers to the two riders left behind, then disappears behind that swaying drapery.

"Goo-hey!" K'zin goes from approving to ''not'' in no time when Laine cuts the figurative queue. There's nothing to be done, of course, so fidgeting, the bronzerider waits his turn.
}}

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

Logs:On One Condition

2015-03-21T03:38:37Z

H'vier: Created page with "{{Log | who = Laine, Z'riah | where = Greenhouse, High Reaches Weyr | what = Laine kisses Z'riah in exchange for being Searched. | day = 22 | month = 4 | turn = 37 | IP = Inte..."

{{Log
| who = Laine, Z'riah
| where = Greenhouse, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Laine kisses Z'riah in exchange for being Searched.
| day = 22
| month = 4
| turn = 37
| IP = Interval
| IP2 = 10
| custom =
| gamedate = 2015.03.20
| quote = You can be a nerd about ''anything''.
| weather = Raaaain
| categories = 
| mentions =
| ooc =
| icons = Laine lippy.jpg, z'riah chinrub.jpg
| type = Log
| desc =
| log = That heavy, battering rain beating down on the glass greenhouse panes drums out a loud tattoo; usually so peaceful, the greenhouse rattles under the spring storm. No wonder it's so empty with all that ruckus: there's only Laine, who has claimed a wooden bench for herself and her typical pile of hidework. Also typical: she's sleeping, or at least resting her eyes, the book in her hand threatening to slide out of her lap.

Z'riah was no doubt ''counting'' on the greenhouse being empty with all the noise of the rain against glass. Both him and the guy his arms are wrapped around, the guy who's kissing him right up until ''he'' notices they aren't alone and panics. "Hey, wait!" All of a sudden there's no making out because the younger man, an apprentice who probably even recognized the sleepy tanner, is fleeing the scene, leaving the greenrider to make a frustrated sound as he turns to see just who scared off his toy.

Laine starts awake with a snort and a "Whaa-?" sometime ''after'' the kissing but ''before'' the younger man has made his dash for freedom--probably somewhere around the ''hey, wait!''. That book tumbles onto a puddle on the flagstone floor and Laine scrabbles for it (before it soaks up too much water) while Z'riah turns around. She's busily dabbing at damp pages with her sleeve when she glances up and her eyes settle on Z'riah. "Oh. It's ''you''. That wasn't Brendyn, was it?"

"Brendyn?" Z'riah repeats the name like he definitely doesn't recognize it. But then, "I never asked what his name was." Why would he do something like that? He glances off in the direction that the apprenticed flew the scene and sighs. Then his bright blue eyes are on Laine and he needs to know, "And what do you mean, 'Oh, it's ''me''?' What's wrong with ''me''?" He's coming closer now, sorry Laine.

The apprentices chuckles, closing the book and pressing it between her splayed hands. "Definitely Brendyn." Probably. She really only saw the back of his head. Laine tosses that book aside (not so casually that it falls off the bench, mind) and grins. "Nothing's wrong with you! It was, like, oh. It's you! Not a, ''oh'', it's ''you''." The latter has a tone of animosity, while the former is more or less amicable. "Sorry I ruined your make-out session. But you can do better than Brendyn." If it even ''was'' Brendyn.

He's unconvinced, but Z'riah isn't exactly the sort to hold a grudge, so he doesn't linger on it. Life's too short for that shit. "No worries. Anyway, it's not really about doing better or worse. Just doing... someone." He pauses. He ''might'' not have meant it the way it came out. Or maybe he did. "You don't want to make you, do you?" Is Laine better then Brendyn?

Laine sucks her teeth with a funny expression, visibly considering Z'riah's offer with an up-and-down sweep of his body, but ultimately wags her head. Nope. "You can do better than me, probably." At least she doesn't call him ''old'' again. "Want me to go try to find someone for you to make out with? I can clear out. Didn't realize this was Ultimate Make-Out Central."

"But you're ''here''." Which clearly counts for ''something''. But Z'riah doesn't seem terribly put off so he must not have been holding much hope out on her being agreeable anyway. "I can find my own people to make out with, thanks." No problems in that department. "Rain is boring. At least it was warmer rain back home. I'd probably freeze to death if I had to do anything in it today." Never mind that it's almost fifty degrees still.

"Sure," Laine shrugs with a self-deprecating quasi-grin, "But I'm studying by myself in Ultimate Make-Out Central, which makes me a big nerdy loser." And no one makes out with big nerdy losers. Laine scratches her chin as she glances up at that pummelling rain. "It's better than snow. And it's got, I dunno, ambiance." Still tipping her head back, she asks, "Where's home?"

The greenrider moves to settle into a space on the bench, evidently planning on staying for a little while longer. "Well, I guess we can be big nerdy losers together now. Never crafted, though, so I don't know if I can count as a nerd." Just a loser. "Monaco," is home. "And I sharding miss it on days like this." Because Z'riah can't just, you know, pop between and visit. His gaze turns to the glass, out toward the bowl. "You're from Nabol, right? You don't just have bad friends there?"

When Z'riah looks like he's about to sit, Laine makes a token effort at clearing up her messy stack of notes and books. It leaves enough space, at least, that he doesn't need to sit on anything ''important''. She grins, sidelong, at the man. She offers: "You can be a nerd about ''anything''. You can be a--a knitting nerd or a reading nerd or a make-out nerd." 'Cause that's totally a thing. For ''home'', Laine purses her lips. "Yeah. Cothold outside Esvay Hold. Orchards."

"A ''make-out'' nerd. I like it. We'll go with that. Except it's pretty hard studying making out by yourself." He won't, however, point out what else he could be a nerd about that would be a lot easier to do alone. Z'riah must want to actually talk to the apprentice for more than a few more minutes. "You like it there? I've never lived in a hold. Was it weird to come here? Are you completely corrupted yet?"

There's a glint in Laine's eye when she looks over at Z'riah that suggests she might have some ''ideas'' on luring unsuspecting victims into being unwitting, ahem, study partner. But she leaves that for another time. Instead, she answers, first with a thoughtful grunt. Then, using her words: "Guess so. Been at the crafthall, mostly, since I was thirteen. Here for a year, now." She studies her hands. "I feel... the same, mostly." Which isn't to say she wasn't corrupted when she ''got'' here.

"I've been here about that," says Z'riah, looking, for just a moment, like he's not sure how he feels about it. "Even I didn't feel the same when I got here." Here being 'away from home', most likely. "Anyway," blahblahblah, enough about feelings, "Yizi has been going on and ''on'' about asking you to stand for the damned eggs. It's getting kind of annoying. So, do you want to? Or is this..." he gestures at all her stuff, "more your speed?"

It's like a... Same-but-different. I'm still me." Laine clarifies (maybe), but she doesn't look very certain as she says it, and her cheeks flush. Embarrassment? Laine would rather latch onto this next subject, but, but this next thing Z'riah says is ''scary'' and ''big'' and Laine just ''stares'' at him. Once she collects her open jaw, she manages: "This stuff ''sucks''." It's... almost a yes!

"Why are you even... whatever you are, if you think it ''sucks''? You shouldn't be throwing your life away on something you don't love." Z'riah is an expert on this subject, wanton hedonist that he is. He throws away his life on ''awesome'' stuff. "Does that mean you're in? I don't have any knots on me, but we can get you all squared away." Pushy bastard, isn't he? "On one condition." He gives Laine a very serious look.

"Lots of people are doing things they don't love," Laine says, and it's with a distracted flick of her fingers that seems to indicate that she's come to terms with it. "I get to do what I want in my free time. I have ''hobbies''," and she almost sound defensive, but that cloudy expression clears into a crooked smile. She nods, listening. Go on.

Still serious, he tilts his head just so and taps the cheek closest to her with one finger. "I need a kiss. Right here. Just one." Z'riah is easy to please. Also completely taking advantage of the situation. He waits, but moves his finger out of the way.

There's not even a hesitation: Laine sits forward and plants a kiss on Z'riah's cheek. It's not even sloppy or wet or ''anything''. She sits back, running a hand over the back of her neck, and laughs, "I bet you make ''all'' the candidates do that. Total abuse of power."

It has Z'riah grinning, quite pleased that he's gotten something pleasant out of said abuse. "It sounds kind of hot when you say it like that," he points out. "But I suppose I should hold up my end of the bargain. You don't have to do it right away or anything," given all her crafter stuff laying around. "In case you need to talk to a journeyman or something? But the Headwoman will be expecting you to pick up your knot if you don't change your mind."

"Ugh, gross." But Laine's laughing as she says it, leaning back now and supporting her neck with her hands, elbows splayed wide. She's in no rush to go ''anywhere''. "I probably will. Have to talk to ''someone''. And if I do? Change my mind? Just... don't pick up the knot?" She considers. "Though. I went to all that trouble." With the kiss and all. Hard work.

"It's no big deal if you change your mind. No one wants to force you to stand or anything. But if you make it through without a dragon, you basically just go back to your life as usual with the experience under your belt." Z'riah doesn't make this sound like a bad thing. Just a thing. "But you definitely should do it to make having to kiss me worth it. Just wait until you ''want'' to kiss me and then I won't let you."

Laine wrinkles her nose in thought. "Okay." She says it confidently; Z'riah's convinced her. Graciously, she even offers: "I didn't ''have'' to kiss you. I did it by choice." As for ever ''wanting'' to kiss him, willingly? Laine just eyes him, sidelong. Chuckles. "Thanks."

"And I ''appreciate'' it. Do you know how hard it is for guys my age to get cute young women to kiss them?" Not that hard, actually, but he won't say that out loud. Z'riah starts to shift back up to his feet, though, saying, "Anytime. If you ever need a pep talk, let me know." This is apparently his parting commentary, since he's already turning toward the way he came in. It's probably time to go find Brendyn!

}}

[[Category:Clutch_37_Logs]]

Teris

2015-03-20T07:20:38Z

H'vier:

{{HrwProfile
|picture=Teris.jpg
|position=Junior Weyrwoman
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|Has rank=Deceased
|dragon=[http://writhwrath.livejournal.com/80409.html gold Iskiveth]
|birthplace=High Reaches Weyr
|mother=Tamaris, greenrider of Ranwith
|father=B'mel, brownrider of Ulriyth
|siblings=[[B'tal]], brother
|children=n/a
|friends=[[Tiriana]], former assistant to
|playedby=[http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0993242/ Clemence Poesy]
|livejournal=[http://writhwrath.livejournal.com/ writhwrath]
|status=Dead
|face=blank.jpg
|name=Teris
}}
== Description ==
Thin, blonde and leggy, Teris is perfectly willing to let other people enjoy these attributes. From a distance. She's attractive enough by most standards, face still holding a certain youthful roundness in the cheeks, nose perhaps a little angular by comparison. Her long blonde hair is often kept either down or pulled up haphazzardly to keep it out of the way. Pale blue gray eyes tend toward a focused intensity, distant but intelligent and slightly emphasized by a line of kohl.

Overall her clothes are practical. Her pants are fitted, an undershirt usually worn under a looser shirt that buttons up the front, sleeves rolled up to the elbows depending on the weather. The only thing resembling jewelry that she wears is a cord of leather wrapped several times around one wrist that tends to hold keys or other small things with convenient holes in them.

== WYSK ==

* Before being Searched by [[Z'yi|Z'yi's]] Isforaith late in turn 21, Teris was a personal assistant to senior Weyrwoman [[Tiriana]] after working for turns as a storeroom attendant. She impressed to gold Iskiveth on day 13 of month 4, turn 22, the third anniversary of the late Weyrwoman [[Satiet|Satiet's]] death.

* Teris is smart, focused and has a bit of a reputation for being a cold bitch. She has workaholic tendencies but mostly when it comes to paper pushing. She tries, really she does, but physical labor and Teris don't get along very well at all.

* Daughter of brownrider B'mel and greenrider Tamaris of High Reaches Weyr. She's the only full-blooded sibling of the late greenrider [[B'tal]].

* Turnday: D25, M3

== History ==
Teris was born at High Reaches Weyr but her father, B'mel, had her sent to foster at Crom Hold, where he's originally from, not long after she was born. She was raised there until she was old enough to demand loudly enough that she be returned to the Weyr. She was Searched for the first eggs that were clutched after she came of age but left on the sands and with an angry father, she didn't Stand again after that. Ambition never served her very well at a younger age but at this point there's not really anywhere else she'd rather be than where she is now.

== Relationships ==

* Teris has very few people she would consider herself friends with. Her relationship with [[Tiriana]] is more professional than personal. At one point [[K'del]] might have possibly been the closest thing she had to a real friend but now she doesn't even pretend that things will ever be more than a show. [[Taikrin]] is someone she cares for in an odd way but evidently still feels the need to keep her distance.

* She was always close to her brother [[B'tal]] and his unexpected death on her turnday in turn 26 hit her incredibly hard.

== Rumors ==

* She's been intimately, if not romantically, involved with Weyrleader [[K'del]] and has threatened violence against the former Headwoman [[Milani]] in some relation to this.

== RP Logs ==

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

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

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

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

{{Character-Categories}}

[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:Crom_Hold]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]
[[Category:Telgar_Area]]
[[Category:Telgar_Weyr]]
[[Category:Riders]]
[[Category:Goldriders]]

Teris

2015-03-20T07:19:21Z

H'vier:

{{HrwProfile
|picture=Teris.jpg
|position=Junior Weyrwoman
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|Has rank=Deceased
|dragon=[http://writhwrath.livejournal.com/80409.html gold Iskiveth]
|birthplace=High Reaches Weyr
|mother=Tamaris, greenrider of Ranwith
|father=B'mel, brownrider of Ulriyth
|siblings=[[B'tal]], brother
|children=n/a
|friends=[[Tiriana]], former assistant to
|playedby=[http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0993242/ Clemence Poesy]
|livejournal=[http://writhwrath.livejournal.com/ writhwrath]
|status=Dead
|face=blank.jpg
|name=Teris
}}
== Description ==
Thin, blonde and leggy, Teris is perfectly willing to let other people enjoy these attributes. From a distance. She's attractive enough by most standards, face still holding a certain youthful roundness in the cheeks, nose perhaps a little angular by comparison. Her long blonde hair is often kept either down or pulled up haphazzardly to keep it out of the way. Pale blue gray eyes tend toward a focused intensity, distant but intelligent and slightly emphasized by a line of kohl.

Overall her clothes are practical. Her pants are fitted, an undershirt usually worn under a looser shirt that buttons up the front, sleeves rolled up to the elbows depending on the weather. The only thing resembling jewelry that she wears is a cord of leather wrapped several times around one wrist that tends to hold keys or other small things with convenient holes in them.

== WYSK ==

* Before being Searched by [[Z'yi|Z'yi's]] Isforaith late in turn 21, Teris was a personal assistant to senior Weyrwoman [[Tiriana]] after working for turns as a storeroom attendant. She impressed to gold Iskiveth on day 13 of month 4, turn 22, the third anniversary of the late Weyrwoman [[Satiet|Satiet's]] death.

* Teris is smart, focused and has a bit of a reputation for being a cold bitch. She has workaholic tendencies but mostly when it comes to paper pushing. She tries, really she does, but physical labor and Teris don't get along very well at all.

* Daughter of brownrider B'mel and greenrider Tamaris of High Reaches Weyr. She's the only full-blooded sibling of the late greenrider [[B'tal]].

* Turnday: D25, M3

== History ==
Teris was born at High Reaches Weyr but her father, B'mel, had her sent to foster at Crom Hold, where he's originally from, not long after she was born. She was raised there until she was old enough to demand loudly enough that she be returned to the Weyr. She was Searched for the first eggs that were clutched after she came of age but left on the sands and with an angry father, she didn't Stand again after that. Ambition never served her very well at a younger age but at this point there's not really anywhere else she'd rather be than where she is now.

== Relationships ==

* Teris has very few people she would consider herself friends with. Her relationship with [[Tiriana]] is more professional than personal. At one point [[K'del]] might have possibly been the closest thing she had to a real friend but now she doesn't even pretend that things will ever be more than a show. [[Taikrin]] is someone she cares for in an odd way but evidently still feels the need to keep her distance.

* She was always close to her brother [[B'tal]] and his unexpected death on her turnday in turn 26 hit her incredibly hard.

== Rumors ==

* She's been intimately, if not romantically, involved with Weyrleader [[K'del]] and has threatened violence against the former Headwoman [[Milani]] in some relation to this.

== RP Logs ==

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

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

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

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

{{Character-Categories}}

[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:Crom]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]
[[Category:Telgar_Area]]
[[Category:Telgar_Weyr]]
[[Category:Riders]]
[[Category:Goldriders]]

Z'riah

2015-03-20T07:17:11Z

H'vier:

{{HrwProfile
|picture=Z'riah.jpg
|position=Greenrider
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|Has rank=Dragonrider
|birthplace=Monaco Weyr
|playedby=Ian Somerhalder
|status=Active
|face=blank.jpg
}}
== Description ==
Dark, disheveled hair and stunning blue eyes lend to Z'riah a mien of a mysterious nature. More mischief than danger, the greenrider often wears a shadow of stubble across his strong jaw. He's of a middling height at five foot nine but he's comfortable in every last inch of it. His civilian wear is practical, nice enough to suggest a certain vanity, but not so nice as to keep him from getting dirty when getting dirty has its merits.

== WYSK ==
* Transferred from Monaco Weyr with [[X'vae]], blue Izazeth's rider, in month 12, turn 35.
* Kind of mercurial, sometimes blames his dragon.
* But knows how to have a good time.

== History ==

== RP Logs ==

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

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

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

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Greater Pern, High Reaches Area, High Reaches Weyr, Riders, Snowdrift Wing
}}

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