NorCon MUSH - User contributions [en]

User:Hattie

2015-11-19T17:11:11Z

Hattie:

==Characters==

===Retired===

{| class="wikitable"
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[[File:Icon Hattie.png|frameless|Hattie]]
|| Would-be heiress of Ruatha River Hold, [[Hattie]] Impressed Morning Over Mists Gold Elaruth and held the position of Fort's Weyrwoman for over 14 turns. She stepped down in turn 38, prioritising family over duty, only to have to step up again. Beneath it all, she's got a fierce heart, but believes that being in a position of authority means concealing it, keeping herself separate from others, and ensuring efficiency, even if it means being the bad guy. She and her family transferred to Southern Weyr in turn 39.
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[[File:Icon Ebeny.png|frameless|Ebeny]]
|| [[Ebeny]] Impressed Crazy is Perfect Green Laurienth after impulsively accepting Search near aging out, and eventually became Fort's Weyrlingmaster. She and her green are seemingly polar opposites: while Ben is gentle and laughs easily, Laurienth is aggressive, dark and can be unpredictable. One of their more evident things in common is a devotion to their weyrling charges. Ebeny resigned her knot in turn 39, after falling ill.
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[[File:Icon Nala.png|frameless|Nala]]
|| One of the girls sent to Lord Astivan of Fort as a potential bride, [[Nala]] fled her holder life and Impressed Jaeger Tech Blue Jynth. The adjustment by turn seems to be a seamless and difficult one, and though she and her blue are (too dependently) close, she suffers from an ongoing crisis of identity.
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[[File:Icon Tabitha_Sidelong.png|frameless|Tabitha]]
||[[Tabitha]] spent most of her youth running around Weyrs and Holds with her siblings, until leaving those turns behind meant being parted from them. Quiet and focused, it seems she'd rather spend time with books and records than people, so it's just as well that she's training as a recordskeeper and scribe. She left Fort for Southern Weyr with her family in turn 39.
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[[File:Icon Euphemia Scars.png|frameless|Euphemia]]
|| [[Euphemia]]'s origins are unknown. A weapon formed in exile, gone rogue, she Impressed Summoner's Saviour Green Zezkaith in turn 36 and has ''seemingly'' become a harper stereotype of a greenrider.
|}

Logs:What Matters

2015-11-17T16:57:38Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Ebeny, N'rov, Ebeny{{!}}Laurienth |what=Of names and darker subjects. |where=Weyrleader's Weyr, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=11 |month=4 |turn=39 |IP=Interval..."

{{Log
|who=Ebeny, N'rov, Ebeny{{!}}Laurienth
|what=Of names and darker subjects.
|where=Weyrleader's Weyr, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=11
|month=4
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.11.16
|quote=What ''matters'' is that you and it come out of it safely, and don't get sick.
|mentions=E'dre, Suireh, M'vyn, N'muir
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Ebeny Mirror.png, Icon n'rov look.png, Icon Ebeny Laurienth Strings.png,
|log=Perhaps Laurienth is not a fan of her new, if temporary, home, for though she could be snug and safe and warm inside the Weyrleader's weyr, she's instead outside on the ledge, lounging curled in a crescent moon shape, her hooded gaze cast out across said ledge and down the stairs, rather than out across the bowl. The noise coming from the weyr itself is unmistakably Ebeny - that is, it's unmistakably Ebeny's voice; the one she no longer shares in the living caverns. Inside, what must have so recently come out of boxes is now being put back ''in'', whether a precautionary measure or mere acceptance of the likely need to move ''again'' in the near future.

Over a sevenday since she and E'dre had moved back in together, good news; the racing plague, ''really bad'' news. N'rov's looking gaunt as he heads up the stairs to that ledge that used to be Bijedth's, and the previous day's word from the Weyr Council can't help. He stops short of Laurienth, head cocked; and then he looks at the green. ''Just'' the green, not towards the mouth of that weyr and that singer.

Laurienth observes N'rov's progress, yet, beyond the entryway, her rider's voice keeps on following its own melody, and so maybe any presence beyond her own is not conveyed. The angular green doesn't move beyond the rather obvious drag of the claws of her front paws across the rock beneath, enough to make an unpleasant counterpoint to Ebeny's melody, and perhaps even leave marks behind too. Only on the heels of that sound does she give a low rumble - a warning.

"Claws nice and sharp," N'rov observes, "as they ought." He glances towards the singing, then, and back at Laurienth, followed by a shrug with widened hands that isn't yet a bow. And then he walks past, not fast, nor are his footsteps loud until he fetches up past the entrance: timed between stanzas if he can, but only if they don't wear on. There's not much ''time''.

As Ebeny turns to move a pile of what looks like children's clothes from a nearby table and into a mostly empty crate, she catches N'rov at the periphery of her vision and lets what would have been the next note on her lips catch in her throat and die. She colours, pink flushing across her features, and clutches the clothes more tightly to her, though given a moment or so, she remembers how to move and resumes her approach to the crate. "E'dre's not here," she states.

It might not have been so long ago that he's glimpsed her; longer, perhaps, that he's recognized her; longer than he's ''seen'' her. In answer, N'rov steps back with a crisp nod as though that question's answered; then he just stops, leans heavily against stone, and looks at her: for the changes in her.

There's no hiding it now; that's for sure. Still, there are no voluminous dresses and swathes of concealing fabric for Ebeny - she's dressed as practically as ever, the crisp lines of her shirt now interrupted by the obvious curve of her stomach. She's paying for it in the gauntness of her features, her jaw somehow more angular and cheekbones more evident, though she does not otherwise look particularly unwell. Another step carries her to the crate, where she settles her burden and straightens to lift her gaze to N'rov.

"Why did you stop singing?" is N'rov's question out of nowhere.

Given a second to gather herself to field that question, Ebeny asks, "In general or just now?" in answer.

"Yes." But it boils down to, "In public. Unless you hold," N'rov can only suppose, "your own out-Weyr events."

"There's a Master here now." Ebeny shrugs, like the twitch of her shoulders could convey what she must deem so obvious as to be unnecessary to explain. She glances down at her feet - or what she can see of them now - and gives an audible sigh. "...That and I half lost my mind on M'vyn and told him we were done with ''that'' before..." Muddy-green eyes lift away find something other than N'rov to stare at. "Before that flight," she murmurs.

"An amazing one," N'rov's not shy about saying. "But she's hardly likely to critique you in front of all and sundry." He pushes his hands deep into the pockets of his duster. "Why?" Why before. ''Why.''

"You just supplied your own answer." Ebeny turns away to move back through the weyr and collect up another bundle of clothes. "Why what?" she demands, a few paces into her journey back. "Why don't I want to make an idiot of myself? Why don't I want to be branded a fantasist? Why don't I want some proper Harper laughing at me?" Maybe she'd stop, only she doesn't, her pause just long enough to draw breath. "Why did I lose it? I don't know. You tell me; you've seen that side of me up-close. Why does it ''matter''?"

She paces, there and back; N'rov ''doesn't'', his back against the wall, though there's a moment where he looks for recourse from the ceiling. It doesn't fall. "It shouldn't," is more elliptical than it might sound. "She won't laugh at you." He hadn't met Suireh in her youth. "It's not like everyone who dares to whistle's been rounded up and their mouths sewn shut."

"Whether or not I sing in public doesn't make any difference to you," Ebeny insists, reaching to nestle in one set of clothes next to the other. "It doesn't affect you at all. And I really think it's the least of--" Her expression becomes pinched, an exasperated look directed at N'rov, then down at her stomach. "Stop that," she half-growls, to the one of them who plainly isn't the bronzerider. "Only you could make a baby not even born insufferable," she mutters. ''That's'' for N'rov.

"Not at all. I only ever inquire about things that don't make any difference to me," N'rov says, polite in tone if not in waiting his turn. ''That's'' for ''Ebeny''. But then, "Really?" It's suddenly boyish, and comes with an even more sudden smirk. "Excellent." That's for the unborn. "Dibs on naming."

Ebeny mutters something rather uncharitable under her breath. "When ''you'' carry it, ''you'' get to name it," she wearily declares, moving to awkwardly sit down on the edge of the crate, which may or may not be such a good idea. "You played your part," is only faintly accusatory. If there's a less than classy pun there, she doesn't acknowledge it. "Be content with that, for now."

"You said you don't want it," N'rov counters, if not ''charitably'' and certainly not contentedy, then with some residual cheer; his elbows drop back as he deepens his lean, watching her with her crate. "I'd bet it likes your singing, though."

"That doesn't mean that I'm going to let you name it whatever you like." That's stated flatly, Ebeny entirely unaware of the hand she's lifted to rest against the - if the tension in her features in anything to go by - still jabbing baby. "D'you want me to say it again? That I don't want it?" she presses, half-aggressive and half-fearful. She abruptly drops her gaze from him again and gives an uneasy roll of her shoulders. "It'll stifle the high notes soon, so maybe it'll just have to remember," she murmurs.

N'rov doesn't give her an answer; instead, "Is 'Ebeny' short for anything? Like Ebeneezerinya or something? Because 'Norov' isn't. It's not like I'd want to call it 'Yo' or 'Ebno' or, shells, just plain 'No' or something. And how would it stifle them, anyway?"

"You try breathing properly with a baby occupying all the space that it can find," Ebeny replies in a manner that she manages to keep to a low key complaint, or perhaps she's just too tired to be more matter of fact about it. "But no," she shakes her head, "I'm just 'Ebeny'." In that, she sounds secure, resigned, as if it sums her up completely. "I don't know what you'd want to call it, but if the only thing I ever do is leave it a name, I want it to be something that I can stand."

"Ah, yes." N'rov looks down at the bulge ''he's'' suddenly made of his belly, if only by dint of breath. Which makes it harder to talk properly without losing it thereafter, but he copes; "What ''can'' you stand? I like the n-y part, 'nee' or 'nigh.'"

Ebeny finds an interesting spot on the floor to stare at as she says, "...I don't think an E-name would be fair," rather quietly. "It'd... make it seem we're trying to pretend its father is... who it isn't. And all of my little ones have E-names and I don't... want to confuse them... if..." They end up understanding who the baby is? Another shrug. "Using 'rov' somewhere could do for a boy or a girl."

"No," N'rov agrees, regardless of whether 'fair' would have been the word ''he'd'' have chosen. "Far it be from me to force a child to recognize its brother or sister." Moving on. "'Nyrov' might get confusing if he Impresses. Noryn starts to sound like a girl. Roveny," 'o' as in 'ah,' "isn't so bad; Roveny," as in 'oh,' "better. Roeny. Or switch it around: Voreny, Nyvor," he could go on. But, "Anything you can't stand so far?"

It's the second comment that does it, that has Ebeny rising to her feet and, after a moment's hesitation, delivering a vehement, "Fuck you," that's only all the more heated for that second's worth of an attempt at self-control. She abruptly turns to head deeper into the weyr, in an all too obvious attempt to put more distance between them, though then she struggles to find something to even pretend to put in the crate. And so, while she isn't even sure where to put herself, she snaps, "Roveny," of the second variety. "Just call it Roveny."

It's distance that he doesn't close, but then, neither does N'rov seem particularly ''surprised''. Or shocked. Nor sarcastic, though there's a twitch to his mouth that suggests he ''could''. "'Rovyn' if it's a boy," he calls back. Beat. "Unless that would be too confusing with ''M'vyn''."

"I guess more than one person will have assumed I've been with him too, so it depends whether it'd bother you or not, to have the kid mistaken." As she's evidently just so ''okay'' with it. Ebeny turns, her back to him, and uselessly rummages through a pile of things that have already been sorted before she manages to turn back and actually look at him again. She swallows hard. "Is that it? Do we now meet again after I've spent however many hours losing my dignity and delivering it?"

His low laugh may have something to do with that ''too'', or else the whole shebang; but then, drawn up short, N'rov tells her, "You don't have to lose your dignity in front of me." As though she ''hadn't''. "I'd like to think you at least get congratulations."

"Don't worry. I haven't assumed that you'll want to be there," is supplied just about as evenly as Ebeny can manage. Only now does she begin to move back to the crate, empty though her arms are. "It doesn't matter what I get, does it?" It's rhetorical, plain and simple, accompanied by another twitch of one shoulder. "But I think you'd better go before I embarrass myself."

The very thought make the white show around N'rov's eyes, just for the instant before he swallows. But when he speaks, it's low, intent, forcefulness restrained. "What ''matters'' is that you and it come out of it safely, and don't get sick." Not like the others, not like so many they both know. "Beyond that, you need to ''say''. Everything before that last. I'll go after that."

"What matters is that it lives," Ebeny softly counters, almost unwilling to acknowledge what her words might betray of the child she supposedly does not want, a practicality there that's surrendered to over sentiment. "...And that you don't take it from E'dre if being involved would help him. Promise me."

"That too," N'rov agrees. For the rest, just as deliberately, "Taking it from him requires that he have it in the first place, Ebeny. If he wants a boy to dandle, if he wants to give that child attention while he's with you, that's fine. I don't plan to stop that; I can plan ''not'' to, even if things go south. But I can't promise there'll never be cause."

"I mean if I'm dead, N'rov," Ebeny says slowly, unflinching from that potential reality. "If I'm gone and he needs time... you give it to him." It sounds a lot less like a request now, or even an attempt to extract assurance. She darts a look at him, then away again, and needlessly rearranges some of the contents of the crate. "And you don't give our child," which is better than 'it', "some ridiculous name." With that, and with what may be the last of her strength on the subject, before something weaker or more needy might surface, it would seem he's dismissed.

"Well, fuck." N'rov gives her a dark look, a better-not-die look: possibly, better-not-die-or-else. He doesn't promise; but then, either he'll do it or he won't. What he ''does'' do is push away from that wall and move to seal up some of those crates up for her before he goes. If she dies, or if he does (not sick ''yet''; not proved immune), let those be the very last words.
|Categories=The Plague Logs
}}

Logs:Three or Four

2015-11-17T16:42:08Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Ebeny, E'dre, Ebeny{{!}}Laurienth, E'dre{{!}}Wroth |what=Some arguing, some reasoning, and some not arguing. |where=Ebeny's weyr, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day..."

{{Log
|who=Ebeny, E'dre, Ebeny{{!}}Laurienth, E'dre{{!}}Wroth
|what=Some arguing, some reasoning, and some not arguing.
|where=Ebeny's weyr, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=2
|month=4
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.11.13
|quote=I want you to do what you want to do and not turn to me in another decade and tell me how tolerant and sacrificing you’ve been when I inevitably do something you don’t like.
|mentions=Elayne, Hattie, Dahlia, N'muir
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Ebeny Angry.png, Icon E'dre Annoyed.jpg, Icon Ebeny Laurienth Electric.png, Icon E'dre n Wroth.jpg,
|log=Perhaps it’s a sense of self-preservation – in more ways than one – that keeps Ebeny from lingering too long in the caverns of an evening these days, her retreat one made fairly early and not so long after the first servings of the evening meal. Even Laurienth sticks inside for once, her adopted wallow home to cushions and a tangle of blankets that are clearly more suited to someone rider-sized rather than dragon-sized. Nothing much has been put away in the weyr they’ve moved themselves into, the furniture sparse and almost everything that they own still in crates and piles across the place. Even the bed is only home to a bare mattress. The main indication that the Weyrlingmaster is home is that the weyr is full of sound – full of her voice – the melody nothing sweet and instead full of the other side of the emotion spectrum. Her back is to the entryway as she builds up the fire, Laurienth curled nose to tail and watching her.

Wroth should have asked for permission, or even announced their intent, but does neither as the brown angles into the skies and lands roughly on the empty ledge that is now Laurienth’s to claim. He does extend an apology: more a ‘’feeling’’ than an actual verbalization. He lingers on the ledge with his straps still on, fully prepared for their eventual fleeing. E’dre lingers on the ledge near Wroth’s shoulder as he listens to the sound of his weyrmate’s voice resonating from inside. He takes a few steadying breaths in the moments between his pause and eventual entrance into a space not meant for him. He doesn’t rush in far - knowing his lack of announcement may cause more problems than help - but he unbuckles his jacket as he continues to listen to Ben. Finally, he says, “We should talk, Ebeny.”

Laurienth lifts her head, her low rumble one that weaves below the notes that her rider belts out in a fashion that’s not so kind to her voice, but the behaviour is so typical of the green that she’s ignored, and so it’s E’dre’s voice that abruptly kills the melody and makes Ebeny start, a syllable of sound caught in her throat. Crouched there before the hearth, she watches him, all tension, like a predator might focus on prey, yet soon she slowly rises, even if she does have to grab at the mantle to maintain her balance. She doesn’t move from where she is, and nor does she speak, muddy-green eyes sharp and narrowed.

It is certainly awkward to continue to stand where he does and yet E’dre doesn’t move forward. He clasps his hands in front of him, shifts to folding his arms, then resorts to shoving his fists into his jacket’s pockets. “Thankfully,” he begins, “I’ve already got the girls home. There’s a lot of serious things going on outside of the Weyr,” he continues, whether or not such line of conversation is patronizing to Ebeny, “and I don’t feel comfortable with our fight nor with you moving out. We need you home. ‘’I’’ need you home.” He takes a breath, shakes his head, and looks out towards the ledge where Wroth still has yet to settle. “I don’t know exactly what to say to make anything right between us. But, Ben,” he looks back to her, seriousness and concern fixating his features, “people are going to die. I can’t face all of this with that thought, knowing that we may not--,” he shakes his head and grows quiet. “Whatever I say, I guess it’s manipulative of you. But I don’t want things to end between us.”

The slight twist of her lips and tilt of her head conveys far too much about how she feels about being patronised. “You don’t feel comfortable,” Ebeny echoes, words slow and drawn out. “How awful. I’m sure it’s better than the alternative, which you think is me deliberately hurting you, so what do you want from me? You need me to look after the children ‘’you’ve’’ brought back to somewhere so ridiculously less ‘’safe’’ than where they were?” It only becomes a demand as she reaches the subject of their daughters. “Or are you worried we won’t be friends before one or both of us gets sick? Is it guilt?” Only after she’s said it does she seem to regret it, her gaze suddenly directed down towards the fire sparking to life. “...It’s more likely to be me, anyway,” she murmurs. “The healers said so. The baby, my age... I don’t have a lot going for me.”

“Yes, Ebeny,” E’dre snaps, so easily pushed towards a display temper, “that’s exactly what I came here for. I demand for you to come home and care for our children. Whether you believe they would’ve been safer with ‘’strangers’’,” he emphasizes that point, something he has not gone so far as to say in regards to her family, “watching out for them when mass panic is likely to befall Pern if what they say about this illness is ‘’true’’.” He gestures towards the entrance of the weyr. “I’ve got an entire population here at the Weyr to look out for. I took the time to come and look to ‘’my’’ family. Don’t act like I’m so busy I don’t care about our children!” He doesn’t care if his voice has elevated in the course of his tirade. It lessens to some extent as he tightens his lips and listens to her last words. “It can be ‘’anyone’’. Illness is not kind. Of course I’d feel guilty if you died and we had this,” he gestures between them, “distance between us. I feel guilty every day that is how things ended with my sister and my niece. I’ve ‘’experienced’’ this, Ben.”

“My family aren’t strangers just because they’re not ‘’your’’ family!” Ebeny exclaims, only the moment that she summons the fire to retort so is the same one that it dies. She turns, resting her arms against the mantel and leans there, hanging her head. “If you’ve just come here to shout at me, or so that we can say we forgave each other in-case one or both of us ends up ill, then just... go,” she quietly pleads. “I don’t have the energy for this. I moved out because you said I was making you miserable; there’s no use in us ‘’both’’ being miserable, together. I’m trying to do the right thing.”

“I feel like you want me to be miserable,” E’dre counters, not fully prepared to let go of anger though it is beginning to lessen. “I feel like no matter how I proceed through this pregnancy of yours, I’ll do it wrong, and you’ll throw it at me as a reason. Isn’t that why you moved out? So you could avoid the fact that I’m not as upset about this as you want me to be?” He shakes his head and takes a few more steps further into the weyr. “The right thing is never going to be you leaving me,” he tells her, his tone finally settling into kinder tones. “I need you by my side. Even more now.” He’s slowly closed the distance between them and reaches a tentative hand out to rest on her shoulder. “Please come home.”

“I want you to do what you want to do and not turn to me in another decade and tell me how tolerant and sacrificing you’ve been when I inevitably do something you don’t like,” Ebeny insists, closing her eyes as if she could block him out. “Don’t go telling me that I gave you a ‘’choice’’ just because I wanted you to scream and rage at me. How sick in the head do you think I am?” She presses her eyes shut even tighter. “Or is that how you’ve seen me, since Elayne? Wrong in the head?” When he rests his hand on her shoulder, she starts and abruptly angles a long look back at E’dre before telling him, “...I can’t. They’re converting the barracks into space for the sick, if people get sick. You shouldn’t stay, either.”

“That’s exactly what I’ll do,” E’dre replies blandly, “because as you’ve told me in the past, I’m a child who throws fits. I’ll use this as a strategy to punish you for the fuck-up I’ll inevitably become.” He sucks air through his teeth sharply at her mention of Elayne. “No,” he tells her, eyes sharpening and frown not one out of anger directed towards her. “I saw how deeply ‘’I’’ hurt you and the mistakes ‘’I’’ made with Elayne. It was never your fault or your head that was wrong.” His brows shoot upwards at her mention of their home and he takes a moment to register what she’s saying. “Under whose authority?” he demands.

Though she’s still turned towards the hearth – and soon to have rather toasty ankles, with the way the fire is rising – Ebeny watches her weyrmate closely, her focus turning inward for a moment while she tries to gather words that are ultimately scattered by his enquiry. “...The Weyrwomen?” she says slowly, as if it’s obvious. “If they need the space, they need the space. If what’s happening at Boll happens here, they’ll need ‘’more’’ space. Not living in that weyr’s a small price to pay if it means ‘’not’’ getting sick, or quarantined for being too near anyone who falls ill.”

E’dre still seems defensive about that, “It’s ‘’our’’ home.” He pauses, looking away from her and towards the ledge. “Where will we go? My old weyr, I think some weyrling took it turns ago now-,” he shakes his head and grows silent. “We just got the girls back and now we’ll have to uproot their routine yet again,” he mutters and looks back to her. “If we move out- will we move as a family?”

“...The Weyrleader’s office is large enough; it ‘’is’’ a weyr.” And yet, Ebeny doesn’t sound so sure about that course of action. “The right to it depends on Wroth’s ability to catch a queen,” she says more quietly, as if she could avoid mentioning any uncertainty there at all. “You’re the Weyrleader. You could take any empty weyr that you choose.” There’s guilt there, her discomfort with using the knot for personal gain clear. She looks up and around at the rather rustic state of the small cavern she’s recently adopted as a home, and slowly shifts her weight as she turns to face him more directly. “...This place isn’t big enough for Laurienth and Wroth. Or,” she hesitantly reaches for his hand, intending to rest it against her stomach, which is nearer than she’s let him in the recent past, “three children... or four.” She struggles with that last word, her apprehension still all too plain.

“It’s an office, not a home,” E’dre clarifies of the Weyrleader’s space, “And whether or not I may wish to remain the Weyrleader of Fort for the foreseeable future, with the size of Wroth, I am not entirely sure that’ll ever be a possibility. No matter that his ‘’color’’ is a subject of disdain for some.” She may have discomfort for the knot but E’dre does not as he muses, “We could move into a junior weyr, so we remain on the ground. And it should be big enough for both dragons.” He pauses when she takes his hand and rests it against her stomach. He goes entirely still as he looks to the bump his palm is resting smoothly against. “Four,” he murmurs, stepping closer to her then. “I wouldn’t mind it being four, Ben.” He lifts his other hand out to brush his fingers against her cheek. “I love you,” he tells her, “and we’ll figure the rest out.”

“It’s only not a home because N’muir and the Weyrwoman live together...” Ebeny says quietly, and one thought leading to another brings her to, “...and there’s a empty junior weyr just below their weyr... and another next to the one in use. It was... suggested that we could do that, but I felt... awkward about it.” She shakes her head, dismissing further musing of her own on that subject, too encouraged when E’dre steps closer to her to focus on much else. Her fingers flex as hers brush her cheek, and her own, “I love you,” is near lost in her sudden rush to press her lips to his, one hand winding its way into the fabric of his shirt.

“Then we’ll move into the Weyrleader’s ‘’weyr’’,” E’dre makes a point to emphasize the name change. “If the Weyrwomen feel the need to take over the barracks, I feel the need to have a ‘’home’’.” Whether or not such a decision was a sound one to make, it’s clear from E’dre’s tone he disapproves of the entire venture. And then whatever further rantings and ravings the brownrider may have fallen to on the subject are silenced when Ben’s lips press against his. He moves the hand from her stomach only so that he can rest it against her back to urge her as close as she can comfortably. He returns her kiss with another and however long time may pass beside the fire kissing will be more than welcomed by the brownrider.

Soon, the heat of the fire begins to become too much to ignore, and Ebeny’s forced to begin to take shuffling steps away from it, though she refuses to let go of E’dre unless she absolutely has to. “...Stay?” she asks, her voice almost not there at all. “...I don’t have a bed,” well, she does, but it’s a shell of a thing, “but Laurie could... go outside with Wroth...” Yes, she must have been sleeping in the wallow right alongside her green, so far. Said green gives another low rumble, though at least this one is less warning and more comment.

“Let’s use the wallow,” E’dre’s voice is husky as he steps back as Ben does. He’s loathe to relinquish his hands from her body and finds reason to hug her towards him again. He gives a playful kiss to her nose and smiles, earlier tension and anger gone with the promise of staying there. “I’ll collect the children,” he pauses to kiss at her neck, moving towards the wallow with little focus to anything else, “after.” And how long into ‘after’ that may be is entirely dependent on how engrossed they can become with each other. Wroth doesn’t fuss with the straps still on his body when Laurienth moves out to join him, content with the situation going on inside. << This is better >> the brown shares with the green. << Now we can focus on other things. >>
|Categories=The Plague Logs
}}

User:Hattie

2015-11-12T20:42:11Z

Hattie:

==Characters==

===Current===

{| class="wikitable"
|-
|
[[File:Icon Hattie.png|frameless|Hattie]]
|| Would-be heiress of Ruatha River Hold, [[Hattie]] Impressed Morning Over Mists Gold Elaruth and held the position of Fort's Weyrwoman for over 14 turns. She stepped down in turn 38, prioritising family over duty, only to have to step up again in the wake of Lilah's disappearance. Beneath it all, she's got a fierce heart, but believes that being in a position of authority means concealing it, keeping herself separate from others, and ensuring efficiency, even if it means being the bad guy.
|-
|
[[File:Icon Ebeny.png|frameless|Ebeny]]
|| [[Ebeny]] Impressed Crazy is Perfect Green Laurienth after impulsively accepting Search near aging out, and eventually became Fort's Weyrlingmaster. She and her green are seemingly polar opposites: while Ben is gentle and laughs easily, Laurienth is aggressive, dark and can be unpredictable. One of their more evident things in common is a devotion to their weyrling charges.
|-
|
[[File:Icon Nala.png|frameless|Nala]]
|| One of the girls sent to Lord Astivan of Fort as a potential bride, [[Nala]] fled her holder life and Impressed Jaeger Tech Blue Jynth. The adjustment by turn seems to be a seamless and difficult one, and though she and her blue are (too dependently) close, she suffers from an ongoing crisis of identity.
|-
|
[[File:Icon Tabitha_Sidelong.png|frameless|Tabitha]]
||Hattie's eldest daughter, [[Tabitha]] spent most of her youth running around Weyrs and Holds with her siblings, until leaving those turns behind meant being parted from them. Quiet and focused, it seems she'd rather spend time with books and records than people, so it's just as well that she's training as a recordskeeper and scribe.
|}

===Retired===
{| class="wikitable"
|-
|
[[File:Icon Euphemia Scars.png|frameless|Euphemia]]
|| [[Euphemia]]'s origins are unknown. A weapon formed in exile, gone rogue, she Impressed Summoner's Saviour Green Zezkaith in turn 36 and has ''seemingly'' become a harper stereotype of a greenrider. Available as an NPC by request.
|}

Logs:Mortality

2015-11-12T20:15:44Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Hattie, N'muir, Hattie{{!}}Elaruth, N'muir{{!}}Bijedth |what=Death's reach finds Hattie's son. |where=Weyrwoman's Weyr, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=6 |month=..."

{{Log
|who=Hattie, N'muir, Hattie{{!}}Elaruth, N'muir{{!}}Bijedth
|what=Death's reach finds Hattie's son.
|where=Weyrwoman's Weyr, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=6
|month=4
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.11.12
|quote=Gone.
|mentions=Hasander, P'draig, Gethin, Tabitha, Mimi, Nehmet, Nimarie,
|type=Vignette
|ooc=Death.
|icons-new=Icon Hattie Lost.png, Icon Hattie Elaruth Feather.png,
|log=At first, she didn’t realise that the awful, inhuman sound that mingled with Elaruth’s wavering keen of grief and shock was ‘’her’’. In those moments, she was lost, her wordless reaction one amplified and echoed back at her by her too sensitive queen, and all she knew was that she didn’t know ‘’anything’’.

Gradually, she began to notice that the only reason her body seemed to be remembering to breathe at all was so that she could make more of that ‘’noise’’. Every breath she dragged in only served to become sound, for it felt as if her chest had caved in and all higher thought had abandoned her, reducing her to nothing but basic, ungoverned instinct.

And that was when she felt N’muir’s arms lock tight around her, not to hold her, but to ‘’hold her’’, since he knew all too well what would follow.

She obliged him and kicked out like an animal trapped, struggling to get free and push him away from her as the first of many she would drive off, given the chance. He’d pinned her arms to her sides and just held on as she attempted to fight her way from his grip, for all the good it would do her. It was no use. He was stronger than her, despite the decades between them, no matter how he might sometimes humour her.

He knew what she would do. He knew that she was the one who had wrecked the council room. He knew she wasn’t trying to get to Elaruth. She wouldn’t want sympathy or sorrowful looks; she would want to be ‘’alone’’. Be left alone. Until the grief ebbed just enough for her to need to destroy something. Anything. Even herself.

She was still making that ‘’noise’’.

Elaruth was finally silent, a huddled, grey figure pressed against her mate, safe beneath his wing. Bijedth knew all that she did. Of course N’muir knew all that ‘’he’’ did.

She’d been told that her son was sick. She should have gone to him and ignored the risks to the Weyr and the rest of her family (the risk to ‘’her’’ had never crossed her mind). She should have been there with him. He shouldn’t have been left to wonder where his mother was while he suffered and was afraid and faced the dark. It should have been ‘’her’’, not him.

“Hattie...”

“No!” It was barely a word, just an absolute refusal to accept the reality of what she was facing. If she fought hard enough and focused just enough, she could undo it. If the world accepted one of the many ridiculous promises and bargains running through her head, everything would be okay. It would be fixed. Over. A nightmare merely imagined.

She should have raised him at the Weyr, regardless of how he’d thrived with his father. She’d gone to see him every seven and been met by a happy, kind boy who knew where he belonged. There had never been any question of what was right for him. ...But if... if... Just one change, or little changes here and there, and he wouldn’t be...

Gone.

Hasander was dead. Her boy was dead.

The others. She would have... to tell the others. His brothers and sisters. Her children. She would have to tell them. ‘’How’’ would she tell them?

She needed N’muir to let her go; hadn’t noticed that he’d become all that was holding her up. Silence rang loud in her ears for just a moment before the hoarse sound of her own sobbing rose up to engulf it. She acknowledged the world with split-seconds of awareness as she found herself pressed to Elaruth’s hide and cradled by a tangle of bronze and gold limbs, the arms of her weyrmate now tight around her middle, no longer so restrictive.

Even with three loving presences all but literally trying to keep her grounded, safe and secure, she found that she could wish for nothing but to be away and to leave the world behind.

Her life for his. Please. ‘’Please.’’

The world was not so kind.
|Categories=The Plague Logs
}}

Logs:The Same Risk

2015-11-10T21:14:24Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Hattie, E'dre, Hattie{{!}}Elaruth, E'dre{{!}}Wroth |what=Weyrleaders decide what immediate measures to take against the illness at Boll. |where=Council Room, Fort W..."

{{Log
|who=Hattie, E'dre, Hattie{{!}}Elaruth, E'dre{{!}}Wroth
|what=Weyrleaders decide what immediate measures to take against the illness at Boll.
|where=Council Room, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=27
|month=3
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.11.10
|quote=I won’t have dissent around this issue.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Hattie Worried.png, Icon E'dre Not Pleased.jpg, Icon Hattie Elaruth Watchful.png, Icon E'dre n Wroth.jpg,
|log=It’s midmorning when E’dre begins to get the reports from his sweepriders about the state of Boll. E’dre has cautioned his riders to take care with the accepting of messages, requiring those that have the need of a dragonrider to leave messages at a designated spot and the answer to follow with little contact made between the parties involved. It is Wroth who signals Elaruth for a meeting request, his tone for once subdued even for the cantankerous brown. << It gets worse. He is in the council room. >> E’dre’s got a map spread out over the table and papers scattered at each corner. He’s engrossed in marking the map, leaving his long cold klah to continue to sit untouched.

From somewhere near the grove, Elaruth soars up and into the skies, to land on one of the higher vantage points along the rim of the bowl, not opting to crowd the watch rider and their dragon. << She will be there shortly. >> It might not be soon enough for E’dre, but eventually Hattie arrives bearing an armful of hidework that she hasn’t had time to or bothered to sling into her satchel, and when she aims to set it down on the table, it spill out across another corner of the map, contents all grids and charts and numbers – and half the vocabulary of a Healer’s stores and remedies. “I want anyone who’s left the Weyr in the past sevenday to list where they’ve been and submit it,” she demands without preamble.

E’dre doesn’t look up from his notation, nodding agreement to Hattie’s demand and giving her the vague answer of, “Of course.” He makes a few more marks, heaves a sigh and looks towards that scattered content on the map. “You want it by the end of the day? I’ll have Wroth bespeak all wingleaders right now and demand the information.” He scrubs a hand against his forehead and pushes his fingers up through his hair in thought as he considers all the mess of hidework on the table. “It’s serious, isn’t it?” he asks her, face pinched as he levels a look on her. “We should make sure our Weyr is well equipped to handle whatever may come our way.”

“If you can deal with the wings, I’ll deal with the caverns,” Hattie replies, pacing over the same two or three feet of floor before she drops her satchel to the ground and pulls out a chair. “Of course, getting anything useful from that kind of information depends on honesty, but I hope people would understand that we’re not checking up on what they’re getting up to,” she says as she sits down and twists her fingers together, white-knuckled. “Even if it’s just getting very sick for a while, if ‘’everyone’’ gets sick at the same time, we’re going to be in the same situation as Boll. Worse, if freezing in Between makes it worse.” She gestures towards the hides. “I’ve been going over the infirmary-specific stores; we’re equipped, but... not if everyone...”

“A plague wiped out my family,” E’dre answers all too quietly as he angles himself towards a chair to slide into. “I know very well the cost of not being ‘’prepared’’.” He pinches his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger as he eyes the hides Hattie has gestured towards. “Once we know ‘’where’’ people have gone.. should we, I think perhaps we should,” E’dre hesitates here, looking to Hattie for guidance, “impart restrictions.” He tugs at his lip and then lowers his hands to rest on his lap.

Hattie ducks her head in silent apology, choosing not to take back her terseness on the subject so far by softening her tone. However, she’s quiet for long enough that it’s plainly not merely an effort to appease. “...Boll is the most obvious place to restrict travel to,” she says slowly, “for all that our riders might have brought whatever it is back with them ‘’already’’. The Holds will inevitably suggest that protecting ourselves is selfish and inconvenient for them – not that I believe that’s a reason we shouldn’t.” She lifts a hand to momentarily cover her face. “But assisting Boll and the Hall in getting Healers to them might be the quickest or only way to contain it there.”

“I’m not the leader of the Holds,” E’dre’s instantly on the defensive there, “and will not expose our people to appease ‘’their’’ demands.” He doesn’t slam the hand that he moves to rest on the table out of a force of will to keep himself calm. “We can aid the delivery of Healers, if that is how the Hall wants to proceed, but outside of that I do not think we should do anything else. If people signal for removal, we won’t help them. We have limited supplies ourselves. They’ll have to depend on other Holds to supplement that.” He furrows his brows in thought and then looks to Hattie. “If any of our riders disagree with me on ‘’that’’, I will lock them up. I won’t have dissent around this issue.”

“I’m not suggesting that we should,” Hattie says slowly and clearly, her focus fixed on E’dre. “But things might not turn out to be so simple. We don’t know where else this illness could already be – whether in our territory or elsewhere. ‘’We’’ might end up being the ones who need help. And what would we want them to do then?” She shrugs, though in no manner is the motion nonchalant. “...If we’re to more actively assist with ferrying Healers, we need to consider ‘’who’’. Older riders trying to be ‘’noble’’ could well end up with great honour and a quick death from something someone younger would survive.”

“If we need help, we should be asking other Weyrs for it. The Holds won’t help us,” E’dre seems convinced of this fact, “and even if they could it wouldn’t be the sort of help we may ‘’need’’.” He looks away from Hattie at her mention of ‘who’ would be used as a resource, trying to hide the expression from her. Even then, she might see the flash of disgust that flits across before it’s carefully schooled. “I don’t like any of it,” he admits to her, “I won’t force any rider to perform a task around this illness that they do not want to do.” He pauses then, “What of our residents? They may have family scattered outside of this Weyr and seek to bring them here for safety.”

“We all love to say we’re autonomous. We might be too autonomous to help each other.” Yet Hattie doesn’t seek to dwell for too long on that darker thought, and instead addresses the other matters at hand. “I don’t ‘’like’’ it any more than you do, but it may do us more good in the long run. They could even drop the Healers off a distance from the Hold. No-one too old and no-one too young – whoever wants to assist with getting Healers to Boll would need to be grown and well; they’d stand the best chance.” She ducks her head again when she considers the last, murmuring only, “Haven’t you already decided that? We pick up no-one who signals for removal. No-one in. Anyone.”

“Just because I’ve decided it doesn’t mean that it’s true for the Weyr,” E’dre answers, looking at her a little sharply. “I’m not the only one in charge.” He shakes his head and sighs, tipping his head back against the chair to look at the ceiling. “At least I’ve got my children here,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Hattie, “and can maintain their safety better now than if they were still at Ebeny’s family.” He shakes his head and straightens, moving to grab a blank hide to make marks on. “I think we should require a list from each wingleader on who has volunteered to help Boll. That way, we know exactly who has permission to do so. And we can keep an eye on them.”

“What I mean is that you can’t refuse to house desperate holders and then agree that we’ll accept relatives ‘’because’’ they’re relatives. They all pose the same risk.” She refuses to speak on the subject of ‘’her’’ children, and even of E’dre’s, her jaw tight for a second or so before she manages to fight down whatever might have wanted out. “We need to dictate exactly what people are doing in terms of assistance, volunteers or not. They can’t do as they please. We send them where they need to go, to do what they need to, and we monitor them. Lists are a good place to start, but it’s going to be a whole lot of other hidework too.” Hattie glances down into her lap. “What of the people who’ve already been to Boll? Do we quarantine them?”

“I agree, so then we’ll say no one, not even relatives, can come until we figure out the situation and spread of Boll’s illness,” E’dre seeks to clarify and though he’s firm in the delivery he still looks concerned. “Once we find out who has been where?” E’dre asks, frowning down at the table. “We can restrict them to their weyrs. But the damage may already be done. We can enforce a quarantine on those who seek to offer themselves as volunteers. They return only to their weyrs. And if we need to, we’ll shuffle weyrs around and place them at the highest ones to limit accidental contact.” He rubs at the back of his neck and then reaches for a stylus. “People may think we’re overreacting,” he murmurs, looking to her. “And I know people don't all listen.”

“Let’s hope they’d rather be fit and well than risk disobeying orders just because they’re being a little inconvenienced,” Hattie replies, her voice low. Her dark eyes roam to the map, study falling there for a little while. “...If you’re going to restrict where the wings go, you’re going to need to completely re-write the duty rosters,” she thinks aloud. “And keep them ‘’off’’ duties outside the Weyr until you have. Is there anywhere other than Boll that you want them avoiding for the time being?”

“If I don’t send riders out on sweeps to the other areas we may not know if the illness spreads,” E’dre says aloud, looking to the map he had so carefully been considering. “I was thinking of limiting exactly the size of the coverage area. Reducing it, probably. I’ll need to hold a meeting. Today, I think. To discuss all of this with our wingleaders.” He shakes his head and looks to her. “We may be overreacting. This could be some illness that doesn’t spread outside of Boll.” He sighs, reaching for that klah mug now as he levels his gaze back to Hattie. “But - until we know more..,” he trails off, shrugging for lack of additional words to say.

“It got ‘’to’’ Boll,” Hattie says lowly. “Or burst into being there. If it can draw nearly a whole Hold under its power, then I don’t think we’re overreacting in the slightest.” A glance towards the outside world precedes, “...Do you want me to ask Elaruth to call everyone home for the night? At least until we know where they’ve been and who we may need to quarantine. It might be an idea, you know, to set up the same message system as with Boll. Leaving messages to be collected from designated places.” She flexes her shoulders uneasily. “Then... we announce the rest at dinner tonight?”

“That sounds like a solid start,” E’dre tells her, rubbing again at his neck and then sighing. “The faster we are on controlling our riders, the safer this Weyr may be.” He stands up abruptly, leaning forward over the table to begin to gather hidework into a neater pile. “I’m having Wroth call the wingleaders. Did you want to stay for that meeting?” He looks sideways at her, “I imagine you have more pressing matters to attend to.” He takes a breath and then pauses to reach for her hand, meaning to give it a brief squeeze for reassurance. To him, or her, either way the brownrider seeks the physical contact. “We’ll get through this. If we stand strong and work together.”

Hattie shakes her head a leans across the table a little to collect up what’s been achieved so far of the healing supplies inventory. “I’ll have Elaruth call the others home,” she murmurs. “And then I’ll get the caverns residents logging where they’ve been before I go back over the stores again. I’ll need to meet with Dahlia too.” Once she’s gathered together that work, she leans to finally drop it into her satchel, then gets to her feet, the hand she uses to loop the satchel’s strap over her shoulder the one that she surrenders to E’dre. Her affirmation comes in the form of a decisive nod, then a quiet, “...You might want to note whether your... ex? Weyrmate is in the at risk group... with the baby. And your children.” Another nod, then a squeeze of fingers in return, and she’s off.

E’dre looks momentarily confused on the name Hattie supplies and then clarity must descend because he shakes his head. “Right,” he agrees, “That makes sense that you’d need to meet with her.” Something closer to anger at the reference of ‘ex’ flashes across E’dre’s face. He doesn’t say more than that as he watches her go. It doesn’t take long for the wingleaders to be seen filing into the council room soon after the Weyrwoman’s departure. And then the new mandates begin to trickle to the rest of the Weyr. And then all that can be done is to wait.
|Categories=The Plague Logs
}}

Logs:Snobbery

2015-11-08T18:44:28Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Hattie, Rhiannon |what=A discussion of the employment of talent. |where=Commons Cavern, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=21 |month=3 |turn=39 |IP=Interval |IP2=10..."

{{Log
|who=Hattie, Rhiannon
|what=A discussion of the employment of talent.
|where=Commons Cavern, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=21
|month=3
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.11.08
|quote=However, the unfortunate snobbery towards craft-stamped and produced goods would be one that people need to train themselves out of.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Hattie Hmm.png
|log=Rhiannon is sitting at the end of the large leather sofa, which is empty other than her. The two armchairs nearby are also empty for the moment, though there are some people talking quietly in other parts of the commons. She is bent forward a little, and seems to be looking intently at something in her lap. It's a strange angle for reading, and anybody who gets close will see that she has embroidery she's working on. It's too early a piece to know what the design is, but it looks like the embroidery is being added to a handkerchief.

"I'd appreciate the inventory being completed by evening, but, if not, I still expect to see the accompanying hidework in progress." Those are Hattie's parting words to one of Erinta's assistants, just as she hands off to her a clipboard with a sheaf of mostly blank grids attached to it, all the basic data missing, for now. She immediately begins to rummage in her satchel for something else, only walking and rummaging doesn't turn out to be so easy, leaving her forced to stop at one of the armchairs opposite Rhiannon and prop the satchel on an armrest to get a better look at its contents. "Rhiannon," she acknowledges, under her breath.

Rhiannon looks up from her work with a smile. "Hello Weyrwoman. How are you today?" She carefully sets her work down on her lap. "Did you need anything or did you come here to relax or work too?" She motions to the empty seats around me. "If so, please join me if you'd like. I find that I like the bustle of a busy place for quiet work. Especially when it's light and all around you, it's almost like it's not there, unlike the kitchens, where a bang of a pot is loud and sudden."

"I ''was'' on my way through, but it looks like I've left what I meant to deliver to another of your colleagues back in the council room," Hattie replies in a half-distracted manner, sigh following on the heels of her words. "I'll have to wait until the Weyrleader is finished with his meeting before I retrieve it." And so she flips the satchel shut and moves to sit at the very edge of her chosen chair, as if it's only a temporary arrangement. "Erinta should have some documentation ready for you in a couple of hours, concerning the requisition procedure for higher value items," she tells her. A moment passes before she asks, "What are you stitching there?"

Rhiannon nods when Hattie mentions the documents. "I'll look for them when I get back." She looks down at her lap with a smile. "I think it's going to be a flower." She points towards the little bit of red that she's done so far. "These will be the petals. I haven't decided yet if it'll just be the head of the flower or if there will be leaves coming off of it. When I was with the Traders, besides doing the books I also sold my embroidery. I stopped selling when I left the traders, but I also don't want to lose my skills. I suppose if I ever needed to I could suppliment my earnings, but for now I do it mostly because I enjoy it."

Hattie inclines her head a little. "Good. Thank you. We need to make sure that we're all operating from the same book of rules, as it were." The embroidery in progress is given due study, the Weyrwoman's tilting her upper body forward slightly so that she might get a better look. "No, it's prudent not to let good skills go to waste or lapse from lack of practice," she agrees. More wryly, she admits, "I was expected to embroider as a matter of course, but I've rarely done anything but knit since I left my Hold. I'm not sure whether it was simply that it was ''expected'' that made me take against it."

Rhiannon smiles. "I've been wondering if I left the Traders for that reason, at least at first. They put up such a fuss about it, that it made me want to do it more." She smiles mischievously. "And of course if there was a Hold boy they didn't want me to talk to while we were traveling, I wanted to talk to him more. But I like knowing that I have a room to call home instead of a wagon, so it was the right decision inspite of it feeling even better because of all their talk to get me not to."

"Do you see them much?" Hattie enquiries, tilting her head a touch. "Or have you made... a clean break, so to speak?" She gives a quick twitch of her shoulders. "Either way, you're surely old enough to be your own woman now, regardless of where you wish to be that person." Slowly, she settles back a bit more in her chair, though she doesn't entirely relax. "That said, it can be difficult to go against the expectations of those around you, no matter what your age. Family, I assume?"

Rhiannon nods. "They're all family, though because there are several families as part of the trading group we aren't all related I'm part of the Head family, but there's a lot of us so I didn't have any expectations of leadership" She grins. "I think they just didn't want to lose their bookkeeper. I haven't seen them since I left, but we ended on good enough terms that I'll see them next time they stop at Fort Hold in their circuit."

"If you were to make and stockpile enough pieces, you could ask them to sell your work next time that you see them," Hattie supposes, suggestion made in an idle sort of way. "It wouldn't be as if you'd diverted any of the time you owed ''them'' if all the work has been done before you see them, and they wouldn't have seen you doing it either, whatever their reasons are for their distaste. You might get a better price further afield, too." Though then she sports a moment's grimace. "After whatever cut they might expect."

Rhiannon nods, thinking. "True, it would save me the time if I should ever want to sell them, not to have to do it myself." She smiles. "I guess that's another excuse to keep up the skills. I'm not sure if Weyr made goods would fetch a better price than the same skilled crafters would anywhere else, or I'd say it wouldn't be a bad way to make money for the Weyr." She grins. "But that may be the trader in me, thinking about ways to earn."

"Encouraging those who can to craft to fund themselves and the Weyr would be a more positive course of action than taxing earnings made independently of wing duties," Hattie easily agrees. "However, the unfortunate snobbery towards craft-stamped and produced goods would be one that people need to train themselves out of. A skill is a skill; training under a Master or Journeyman should not be relied upon to add further validity to gifted work." Her glance around the cavern lingers not on any one particular figure. "There are many here who I've heard insist that their talents are nothing more than a hobby or aren't worth bothering with, simply because no Hall has validated them."

Rhiannon nods. "I've seen that too. It's part of human nature to be our worst critic, and sometimes I can be like that too, but there are talented people everywhere. I'm lucky that our Trading family is fairly respected, so we were able to sell well in the Holds in our circuit. Noncrafters have to sell for less than a crafter of the same skill, but what the buyer should consider is they are getting the same quality for less money. They can afford more of it, or save some money for other things."

"Half of the time, it's less people being their own critics and more being told that they cannot expect to be as respected as someone with craft training, who may well be ''worse'' than they are and still fetching a higher price for their work." Hattie doesn't quite manage to keep her tone from being dry, nor more than a little derogatory of that school of thought. "At any rate, with the idea of being ''taxed'' still so fresh in people's minds, working towards such a goal and discussing percentages may well need to be set aside until it's less apt to cause hurt and suspicion."

Rhiannon nods. "Nobody likes to let go of money they hadn't had to before. Sometimes it's just necessary. Though it seems we have been doing better, and I'm glad. I feel a little protective of the Weyr since it's my new home." She smiles. "I might not have been here that long so far, but I intend to be here a long time going forward."

Hattie watches Rhiannon a little more closely than might be comfortable for a moment and more in the wake of her first comment, then gathers herself to get to her feet, collecting up her satchel as she goes. "And sometimes things are not so simple," she answers steadily. "Regardless, I hope you'll continue to do your best." For herself or for the Weyr isn't made clear. "Remember to pick up those documents from Erinta," are her parting words, as she excuses herself without further remark.

Rhiannon nods with a smile, at least not overtly noticing the look. "Thank you, I will. Have a good day, Weyrwoman." She starts to pack up her embroidery, apparently ready to leave the commons herself.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Tense(s)

2015-11-07T18:08:52Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Hattie, E'dre |what=Of professional and personal changes. |where=Council Room, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=14 |month=3 |turn=39 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gamedat..."

{{Log
|who=Hattie, E'dre
|what=Of professional and personal changes.
|where=Council Room, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=14
|month=3
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.11.06
|quote=No, not as much arrogance as some.
|mentions=Harriet, X'vin, Nimarie, N'rov, Ebeny, Elayne
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Hattie Worried.png, Icon E'dre Not Pleased.jpg,
|log=Hematite’s drills must be being run by one of their wingseconds as the Acting Weyrleader and Wroth are nowhere to be seen in the bowl this morning. The council room is quiet this morning, save for the occasional cough from E’dre as he works on documents spread out before him. He’s got his usual mug of klah and a plate of pastries untouched beside him, the tasks set before him deemed of higher importance than his morning meal. He takes a moment to stare at a particular record and then snorts before he sets it aside in the pile he’s begun to form of things to be discussed with Hattie.

From the way of the Weyrwoman’s weyr, Harriet’s indignant howl can be heard echoing along the short corridor, raised voices – one of which is identifiable as Hattie’s – lifting over the baby’s crying, until the sounds of unhappy child retreat and are replaced by footsteps belonging to a harried mother, who attempts to seem not so harried by sheer force of will, expression forced to an uneasy neutrality as she enters the council room. Hattie doesn’t speak when she claims her usual seat; she merely sits down and draws hide and pen from her satchel, to wait expectantly and entirely without remark.

E’dre looks up at the sounds of the baby crying and the raised voices with lifted brows, so he’s got eyes on Hattie as she makes her way in. He rises wordlessly from his seat and moves to the table set in the back that hosts a still warm kettle of water and goes about making the Weyrwoman a cup of tea. He returns to her side and sets it down without any other greeting. He settles back in his chair, grabs the stack he’s set aside for her to look through, and slides it her way. Maybe this will be a silent meeting as E’dre then returns to his own stack and takes the time to sip from his klah.

Hattie doesn’t offer her Weyrleader any thanks for the tea, not until she’s taken the time to settle into a stillness only broken by her reaching for the mug to take slow sips, the tension that’s hiked her shoulders high gradually easing, little by little. Only when she’s not longer visibly clenching her jaw to maintain the blandness of her expression does she sigh out a low, “Thank you,” over the rim of her mug and swing her gaze beyond some distant horizon that only she can see, to focus on E’dre himself, brownrider watched with a steady gaze.

E’dre looks up from his reading, leveling a bland expression on Hattie. “Of course,” is a simple enough answer, but rather than let silence linger between them, he continues, “Those are the ones regarding that tax. I’ve had a few more complaints come in about it from our riders. I don’t do anything more than tell them not to worry about it. There’s also the rumor that I fund Hematite’s drinking and gambling these days.” A sigh for that, a shake of the head, and a roll of the eyes followed. “Other than that, there isn’t too much that I’ve got to report to you.” He pauses to drink some klah as he leans back in his chair.

With some evident reluctance, Hattie draws some of the documentation regarding the first matter towards her, its contents given a cursory once-over before she tries to smother the sound of another, sharper sigh. “All this is doing is creating bad feeling and manipulation of numbers that might not even be accurate in the first place,” she declares. “I’m tired of it. We were never on our knees, no matter what was implied. I think it’s about time this came to an end; there are better ways to make marks if we need them than pulling them from our own riders’ pockets.” She looks back up, only to ask, “Do you?” in so deadpan a manner that it’s difficult to tell if the enquiry is genuine. “You’ve savings, I suppose.”

“Of course,” E’dre replies with absolutely no hesitation. “I wasn’t going to have my top riders not be able to burn off some steam.” He shrugs and takes another glance down at a record before he flips it over and steeples his fingers together on the table. “Let’s end it then. Regardless of marks and budgets, the Weyr is functional. People are fed. Items are had. I’m not in the mood to negotiate with Holders, but if it comes to that I will.” He reaches for a pastry and then slides the plate towards Hattie.

Hattie takes his response in her stride, acknowledged for what it is with a slight bob of her head. “I’ll discuss the matter with Erinta and make sure that the protocols are removed,” she replies, almost at the same time. “It’ll take a little while for documentation and procedure to be altered to reflect the changes, so I’ll need a few days before it’s actively shut down across the Weyr. I imagine word will get out before then, but we all need to be on the same page and prepared to work according to the same rules for things such as requisitions before we move forward.” She twitches one shoulder. “There are worse things than negotiating with holders. Sometimes, some of the smaller holds are actually more obliging than the larger.”

“Thank you,” E’dre makes sure to say in regards to the discussion Hattie has proposed. “I think it’ll reduce a lot of tension amongst residents and riders alike. I’m sure there are more people disgruntled than those who felt confident in approaching me with their grievances.” He shakes his head and takes another sip of his now cold klah. “I’ve found the smaller holders to be more agreeable of late. Especially when I take the time to go and visit their holds, listen to their needs, see what I will accommodate.” He twitches a shoulder. “Not as much arrogance as some, I suppose. Though what they could ultimately ‘’do’’ for the Weyr is limited.”

“A single cothold alone, perhaps,” Hattie allows, “but what a band of smaller holds could do for us is only as limited as what we’re willing to do for them.” She leans back in her chair. “No,” she says, somewhat dryly, “not as much arrogance as some.” At least she doesn’t look ‘’at’’ E’dre when she speaks so, her attention drifting to the blank hide she’s set out for notes, which soon finds itself scribbled upon in an odd shorthand. “I’ve made some appointments with some of the holds towards the north of our coverage, mostly to see if they’re producing anything new this spring.” The Weyrwoman arches a brow. “That, and I promised Nimarie a day out.” What fun for a child.

“A band of them to do what exactly?” E’dre queries, still skeptical and not so transformed that he can go further than thinking ‘’some’’ holders may benefit them. He lifts a brow at her dry reminder of who may be the more arrogant in the room between them. He glances at his own notes and then shifts the pile as an excuse for his hands to move. “I hope you can schedule some time at a hold that has something fun for her to do. When I visited a friend recently, Elayne could not get enough of riding this small, fat, runner.” His features freeze at the mention of his daughter and then he reaches for his klah to finish. He’s up and moving to refill his mug before the conversation can continue further on the subject of children.

“If we were to drop all these silly pretences, we could simply exchange fields sown with what we need for the sort of work that ‘’they’’ need from us,” Hattie says about as levelly as she can manage in the face of scepticism. “But their tithe to us isn’t their first concern, and they all must earn their own living, which is why it’s not so easy a thing.” She keeps from looking at E’dre as she admits, “It was Nimarie’s idea, actually. Apparently, she wants to see what mummy does on her visits elsewhere. Since she’s apt to be disarmingly precocious, her presence might serve better than a true diplomat’s.” It’s then that she allows herself to ask, “Are you going to tell me why the Weyrlingmaster is in another weyr?”

“Maybe we should find an agreeable group and suggest such an arrangement to see where it’d take us. Maybe if we took over the place of a Lord Holder and became their main source of means outside of what they can produce, it’d work,” E’dre replies thoughtfully as he heads back to the table. “It may be along the lines of what X’vin was trying for, though he was aiming ‘’big’’. We could aim small.” He’s mid-sip of his refreshed mug of klah when Hattie asks her question and he sighs once his mouthful is swallowed. “She’s pregnant with N’rov’s baby and intent on ruining our relationship,” he delivers with a harshness of belief. “I cannot appease her in any manner. So she’s moved out. And I’ve scheduled to collect our children tomorrow.” He shakes his head and tips his head back to stare up at the ceiling. “I’ll manage on my own, I imagine. But-, I had thought it’d’ve helped her.”

“Therein lies the problem,” Hattie answers dryly. “No Lord or Lady Holder is going to want us in that kind of role and usurping their prerogatives.” Though it’s not, from her tone, designed to be argument, more incomprehensible notations jotted down on that hide. The looks she levels on E’dre is far more hesitant than her words, yet eventually she takes a deep breath and broaches, “...You... understand that women aren’t always... themselves when they’re pregnant?” rather slowly. “If she’s already struggling, adding three children into the mix...” She shrugs. “But I suppose she’s made her choice, then. And you’ve made yours.”

“She has no weyrlings anymore and no reason why she couldn’t care for her children,” E’dre defends his decision, tensing against the reality Hattie is carefully laying before him. “The girls already ‘’know’’. I can’t take it back.” He looks away from her then and sighs, “I’ll fuck it up just like I did with Elayne. And N’rov will fuck it up, and then Ben will stay fucked up, and it’ll be a mess for a long time.” He shakes his head and reaches for his notes to gather to him. “Is there anything else you needed to discuss?” he queries, “I think I’ve said all I needed to say in this meeting.”

“I think you have the wrong tense there.” Hattie gathers up her own notes and reclaims her satchel from the floor, looping its strap over her shoulder. “If you’re carrying on like this, then I think you ‘’are’’ fucking it up, not ‘’will’’,” she tells him bluntly. “It’s a good job – for me at least – that you’re currently a better Weyrleader than the weyrmate you’re making yourself out to be. I ‘’hope’’ that you’re being too harsh on yourself.” A little clumsily, she reaches for her mug and drains the dregs of her tea. “Stay here,” must be advice, though it sounds like a command. “You might be better ‘’not’’ meeting with anyone else for a little while. I’ll go and seek out Erinta now.” When she moves from the room, she doesn’t look back, though not a half hour passes before she sends a meal more substantial than pastries to the council room.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Isolation

2015-11-05T23:28:09Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Ebeny, E'dre, Ebeny{{!}}Laurienth, E'dre{{!}}Wroth |what=Things go downhill. Fast. |where=Ancient Baths, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=12 |month=3 |turn=39 |IP..."

{{Log
|who=Ebeny, E'dre, Ebeny{{!}}Laurienth, E'dre{{!}}Wroth
|what=Things go downhill. Fast.
|where=Ancient Baths, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=12
|month=3
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.11.05
|quote=...I don’t know how to talk to you right now.
|mentions=N'rov, Casseny, Elayne, Eden, Eryn
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Ebeny Angry.png, Icon E'dre Annoyed.jpg, Icon Ebeny Laurienth.png, Icon E'dre n Wroth.jpg,
|log=It’s mid-morning in the baths and for the moment no one else seems to be in need of a scrub save for one brownrider. E’dre’s in the deepest pool, hunkered to his chin as he tips his head back against a rolled towel that is serving as a pillow. He occasionally rubs at his shoulder, lifting it up and out of the water to try and stretch the taut muscles and nerves. Hematite’s drills are long since over, leaving a handful of dragons to lounge near the bowl and watch with interest as another wing goes through its paces. Wroth is out there, storming and thoughtful, as he reaches towards Laurienth. Just a reach, a check-in, that his rider would never do.

The Ancient baths are closer than the depths of the caverns, or perhaps it’s just that Laurienth can pace alongside her rider for longer than she might before surrendering her again with this option selected or surrendered to, not that the green would admit that she is at all ‘’protective’’ in her nearness to Ebeny. As the entryway to the baths is approached, she tips a look up, less in search of Wroth and more an assumption of his presence being ‘’somewhere’’ closer than she may think, though only once the greenrider has crossed the threshold and left her behind in the outside world does she ask, << Where? >> with only the colouring of her query with her sense of E’dre to make the distinction between brown and rider. For Ebeny, still sleepy from the lie-in she’s insisted on this rest day, it’s too late for that question, for she discovers the brownrider only a moment later.

Wroth’s answer does not come in time as E’dre’s headtips up at the sound of someone approaching and his eyes settle on his weyrmate. The brown snorts, disdainful of these events, as he crackles with static. << She found him. >> Clearly. And then: << Join me? We are laughing at some of these drills going on. >> He’s there, see? With another blue and green. E’dre doesn’t move much more than he has to look at Ebeny, though he allows a tired smile to surface. “You wanted to get warmed up this morning too?” he asks, reaching out with his good arm to send ripples out into the pool. “It’s nice and quiet at this time, though once more drills end I’m sure it’ll become a more popular location.”

Laurienth continues to look towards the gloom of the cavern’s entrance, though then she sighs out a low snort and abruptly turns away, padding only as far as is needed to clear the wall of the bowl when she unfurls her wings and launches herself off to join Wroth. Ebeny has no wings to carry her away, nor any blankets to cocoon herself in, as she’s taken to doing of a night, and nothing to hide behind but a change of clothes and set of towels. For a moment, she stares at E’dre quite as if she doesn’t know him at all, then drops her chin in a wordless nod. And yet: “...I can go if you’d prefer the quiet,” are the words that slip from her mouth.

A flash of something close to annoyance registers on E’dre’s face as Ebeny’s words spill out. “Why do you always do that to me? I want you to join me,” he answers with a sigh he can’t quite hold back. He returns to rubbing his shoulder, easing his neck to the left as he does so to try and continue to work the lingering tension out. “I was speaking to when large groups come splashing in. Or when the looks begin between two people who ‘’you know’’ and you’re sitting there holding them back.” He looks at her then, lifting a brow up as a cocky-grin that fully erases his earlier flash of annoyance pushes forward. “We could make such looks now if we want.”

“I’m not... doing anything,” Ebeny says slowly, struggling to find the answer she wants. “I’m giving you a choice. You’ve already had work to do today; I haven’t.” Unconsciously, she tilts her head in the opposite direction to that which he does, watching him through distant, yet focused eyes, and when she finally allows her attention to square on him, there’s a flash of something that might have started out as an attempt to smile, yet all that surfaces is a twitch of apprehension. Moments pass, then she gives another nod and skirts the edge of the pool until she finds a spot that she likes in which to set her things down. She turns away as she undresses, though has to turn back to slide into the pool, which she does as quickly as she possibly can.

“I’ll have work to do when I’m done,” E’dre adds with a shrug given by his good shoulder. “The pace of my work is always higher than yours when you haven’t the weyrlings to tend.” He watches Ebeny for a moment and then sensing she may want privacy, he turns away from where she’s stationed herself and then begins to soap up his hair and body as a means of a distraction. He takes his time with this act, something he usually rushes, and then busies himself with dunking and rinsing.

She’s up to her chin in water only seconds after she’s entered the pool, even her shoulders tucked as far beneath the surface as she can manage, only the ripples that cross the water threaten to make breathing a rather difficult affair if she sinks any lower, and so she’s forced to lift her head and straighten a little as she leans back against the rock lining the pool. For a short while, Ebeny just keeps her eyes closed, though after a time she wearily blinks them open again and returns to watching her weyrmate without seeming to watch him at all. It takes her even longer, but soon she pushes away from the edge and slowly crosses the water to lay a gentle palm against the blade of his bad shoulder.

Relief resonates within E’dre’s tone as he tells Ebeny, “It’s really been bothering me of late.” That gentle palm on his shoulder loosens what remains of the stored tension in his body as the brownrider reaches a hand back to reach for her fingers. He’s careful not to push physical contact, aware of the space between them that she may wish to maintain. “The healers have told me there isn’t much they can do but give me numbweed. It’s all scar tissue.” He reaches up to finger-comb his hair with a sigh as he allows his eyes to close briefly. “How are you feeling?” he asks tentatively.

“The cold won’t help,” Ebeny says quietly, carefully pressing her thumb in along a line where muscle meets bone. She pauses in her exploration when he reaches for her hand, and allows him to capture her fingers, save for her thumb, which she manipulates to apply more pressure along the same two or three inches of skin. “But the heat should.” There’s a long silence before she answers further, then the water ripples with the motion of what could be a shrug. “...Tired,” she murmurs first. “Stupid,” follows after, more easily. “...Mostly tired.”

E’dre inhales sharply between his teeth as her thumb finds the right places to apply pressure. “That’s why I’m in here,” he tells her through another intake of breath, “that hurts and feels good,” he tells her, encouraging her not to stop as he lowers his hand back into the water and tilts his head down to fully allow her to work at his shoulder. “Stupid? I hadn’t realized that could be a side-effect,” the brownrider tries for a dry tease. “Is N’rov,” he pauses, lifting his head briefly, “treating you right?”

“It’s an unfortunate side-effect of being me.” Ebeny states that matter of fact, despite the quiet of voice. She lapses into silence again, perhaps stubbornly ignoring E’dre’s enquiry, and sets both hands to working at his shoulder, not that she might be perceived to be terribly kind about it, not when she keeps applying enough pressure to get muscles to surrender and relax, to the point of pain and held there until she can manipulate it as she wants without any resistance. “...I haven’t spoken to N’rov since I told him,” she finally admits, even softer than before.

E’dre doesn’t answer either of her comments immediately, too focused on breathing through the various levels of pain induced by her hands against his shoulder. He is a willing patient otherwise, turning his neck in different directions to encourage her manipulation against his stubborn shoulder. He finally has enough and steps forward, pulling away from her hands to fully soak his shoulder again in the warmth offered by the waters. “Thank you,” he tells her as he turns to face her, “I really needed that.” He doesn’t ask anything further of N’rov or the pregnancy, content to simply look at her and let the silence fall between them.

Ebeny presses her lips together in a substitute for a nod, and though she spends a long moment staring at E’dre, there’s only so long that she can blink steadily at him and remain so still, and so she turns to make a retreat back across the pool, where she resumes leaning as she was before, the waves of her hair beginning to fluff up as the steam gets to them. She stares down at the surface of the pool, then sneaks a quick look back up at her weyrmate, biting down on her bottom lip.

“We have the place to ourselves and we’re barely speaking,” E’dre notes with a crooked smile. He lifts his hand out of the water to brush against his forehead and then up into his hair, sending it spiking in all directions. “I don’t like it.” He shifts and begins to move forward, intent on closing the distance between them - at least ‘’physically’’. He doesn’t do more than settle near her, leaning back as she is, and continuing to allow the heat to work against his shoulder. Under the water, he reaches out to find her hand to hold. “Have you told Casseny? I haven’t told the girls yet. I thought you’d want to do that. Have you thought about bri-,” he shakes his head, cutting off that thought he so carelessly begun, “nevermind.”

“...I don’t know how to talk to you right now,” Ebeny confesses, her voice uneven around the edges. “...I don’t really know how to talk to anyone.” She lets him find her hand without flinching away and automatically twines her fingers with his. “She knows,” is sighed out with no great ‘’feeling’’ either way, for all that it is not an admittance of having told her herself. Perhaps it’s mere assumption, given her daughter’s profession or the simple fact of who she ‘’is’’. It’s when he mentions their girls that she does flinch, right down to the involuntary tightening of her fingers. “I can’t go Between anymore,” she says flatly. “I can’t go and see them. The healers say it’s too dangerous, with my age.” Not that she sounds all that fearful about it. “...They might never need to know.” Their daughters, presumably.

E’dre’s fingers are there to take that tightening and he squeezes back more lightly in reassurance. “I’ll go and get them. We can bring them home. You don’t have the weyrlings anymore. But if you can’t handle it, if it’ll be too much for you,” he shakes his head and looks away from Ebeny. “Maybe it would be ‘’good’’ to have them home and serving as a distraction. I don’t want this to be like it was for you with Elayne.” He sighs then, moving as if he’d take his hand back from hers. “I don’t want to do the wrong things that only isolate you further.”

Ebeny bites down on her lip so hard that she draws blood and doesn’t even notice it until she has to sweep the droplets away with the dart of her tongue. “Y-You’re putting this all on me,” she insists, drawing her hand from his at the first sign that E’dre has any intention of moving away, her own space reclaimed by inching a little way along at the pool’s edge. “This already ‘’is’’ like it was with Elayne,” she blurts out, lifting both hands to catch in her hair. “All of us trying to pretend that it’s ‘’fine’’ when it isn’t. I don’t think anyone could possibly do ‘’anything’’ to isolate me further. You’re ‘’not’’ happy. I’m not ‘’stupid’’.” Despite previous declarations. “Either tell me what you ‘’actually think’’ or we’re going to be stuck like this for the rest of our sharding lives!”

“You won’t believe anything I say,” E’dre counters, watching her place that distance between them. “Every time I try and explain things to you, you tell me it isn’t so. I’ve told you and I’ll tell you again, this baby is ‘’ours’’. N’rov can have part of it, I don’t care. He can have ‘’none’’ of it. We’re a family, Ebeny. No matter how complicated we get. I won’t take away from the children because I need to claim parentage to the child. It can be mine no matter what. Who knows? Maybe N’rov will give me a son I wasn’t going to have otherwise.” He’s too angry to stay in the pool and begins to head out in a rush of movement that leaves him cursing when he heaves too much on his shoulder. “I’m getting the girls,” he declares, “I expect you to help me with them when my time doesn’t allow. I’m tired of them not being home. That’s what ‘’I’’ want.”

“...That’s right, run away,” Ebeny mutters bitterly, her focus fixed on the rippling surface of the pool, rather than E’dre. She has to lap at her lip again while her hands curl into fists with nothing to strike out at. “You think that bringing them back to ‘’this’’ is going to be good for them? Is what you ‘’want’’ more important than their happiness?” Her demands are made hoarsely, the water continuing to prove to be an ineffective and unworthy opponent. With no other way of venting her frustration, she just gives in to it, something that Laurienth must be delighting in outside. “About ‘’me’’,” she snaps, voice lifting. “Not the baby. What do you think of ‘’me’’?” she invites. If she could dredge up any more self-loathing, it’d be a miracle.

“How can they be happy living with relatives and not their parents?” E’dre snaps back, turning furious eyes down at Ebeny as he stands there and places his fists on his hips. “I know that can be ‘’miserable’’. I don’t care how much you trust your relatives or how much they seem to be adjusting well. Nothing supplements a parent’s love.” He storms off to grab a towel to wrap around his waist, feeling ridiculous enough arguing with her naked to break his tirade. He levels a furious look on her, cornered enough and tempered to react. “I think you’re being an ass. Consistently. To me. The one person who would support you. Go ahead, Ben,” he’s sounding far too bitter and tantrum-y even to his own ears, “continue to drive me away. I know it’s what you want.” He hesitates for a moment, giving her an opportunity to respond and then he gathers his clothes and stomps out to change just outside the baths.

There’s no response; not now. Ebeny’s response only becomes evident later, when, despite insistences that it’s ‘’her’’ weyr, half of its contents go missing. Half of the wardrobe’s contents, half of the riding gear, all of Laurienth’s things. The far viewer and other items from the shelves. The spare key for the Weyrlingmaster’s office. Gone. All of the children’s things are left behind, their favourite toys brought out of storage and sat on chairs and beds. That night, Laurienth lands on a high ledge... though she allows herself a single glance down and towards the mouth of ‘’home’’.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Ebeny

2015-11-04T23:24:04Z

Hattie:

{{Profile
|picture=Ebeny.png
|mother=Elyanna
|father=Unknown
|siblings=Taessin, Eirlys (brown Aruseth), Eva, Brynna, Fion and Tarran
|children=[[Casseny]], Caleb, Elayne, Eden, Eryn
|friends=[[E'dre]], weyrmate, [[C'sel]], former weyrmate
|livejournal=[http://crazyisperfect.livejournal.com crazyisperfect]
|body=
== Description ==
Standing at just under six foot tall, Ebeny manages not to appear thin and lanky thanks to her elongated hourglass figure. Mostly lean, she's not quite curvy enough to achieve the look entirely and it might be more that her tiny waist becomes wide hips that don't do her many favours. Her facial features are a little more angular, with a thin nose and sharp jaw, her deep green eyes muddied by brown to shade darker in most lights. Black hair falls to below her shoulders in kinked waves, showing no particular pattern or desire to be tamed.

{{wysk}}

== History ==

The first of seven children, Ebeny was born to a High Reaches Weyr lower caverns worker of fifteen turns old, Elyanna. Her mother claims not to know who her father is, whether this is due to circumstances or the number of men she slept with in so short a time, nobody knows. She did raise the girl herself, though paid little attention to her - certainly Ebeny didn't ask or call for much. She never really paid much attention to anything herself, certainly not her lessons. More than capable when it came to reading and writing, she disregarded and daydreamed through the rest of her classes and though she developed quite a vocabulary, she rarely used it or let on that she might be able to do more than she bothered with. Content to think and drift, she became known as a sweet but rather absent girl, known for going blank right in the middle of conversations and not catching on to much. Truth was, even when she did notice things, she never said so. In her early teens, she more fell into working in the stables than chose, but actually enjoyed the work and felt that she was being productive.

She accepted Search in turn 19, the night before the eggs hatched, pretty much just for the heck of it. She didn't think she'd Impress; she was almost too old, she was happy working with the runners and thought she'd be back at the stables right after the hatching. She just drifted over from the residents’ quarters to the candidate quarters and then... wound up with green Laurienth.

Laurienth was and is, to most extents, nothing like her rider. Unbalanced and often ill-tempered, the green made her life a living hell for much of her weyrlinghood, though Ebeny always tried to cover up the fact that Laurienth took her moods out on her and attempted to pretend that everything was fine. Beyond her personality, Laurienth developed a talent for acrobatics and was actually sort of disciplined when at drills and working within a wing (though still her rider kept her tightly reined in). When K'ndro chose Ebeny as one of his wingseconds for senior weyrlinghood, she thought he was crazy and told him so, and though she felt she hadn't been asked because she was any good, she still stepped up and started speaking up, which began to give away that her absence is perhaps more affected than genuine.

Ebeny was weyrmated to brownrider C'sel since the morning after she graduated. Though she was rather impulsive and still tends to think with her heart instead of her head, the pairing seemed to steady her somewhat. Casseny was something of a surprise and though Ebeny rather obviously worried for the duration of her pregnancy, she settled to motherhood well and in later turns gave C'sel a son, Caleb. Her time at the 'Reaches drew to a close when her siblings began more and more to look to her as a mother figure, taking no responsibility for their own actions. She and C'sel moved to Fort to accept posts as assistant weyrlingmasters, and though their relationship lasted several more turns, it eventually reached a quiet end. More quickly than might have been proper, Ben found herself weyrmated to her best friend, E'dre.

She is currently Weyrlingmaster at Fort Weyr and spends time now and then as part of Jasper wing when there are no weyrlings in training. She may never be one to shout loudly about what she wants or make demands, but her devotion to the weyrlings and proper training of assistants is clear, to the extent that she initiated a new training program for weyrlingstaff to try and ensure that potential talent for teaching was recognised early.

==Playlist==

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NBs-BZEP86Q There Was a Time - Laura Michelle Kelly]

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FtaSrXHrSp4 What's it all For? - Laura Michelle Kelly]

[https://youtu.be/X1HNp0sRfQM What You Mean to Me - Laura Michelle Kelly & Matthew Morrison]

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2zI00bj-3c4 She Walks Beautiful - Amy Studt]

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=86uqQrr3dTk Never Expect - The In-Between]

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pg1khElPpgg Why Stay? - Next to Normal]

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=15yENzsRDEE Tell Me Why - Taylor Swift]

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r-HM0fAbYrs Darkest Hour - Rosalie Craig]

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d-kO8bH0QQ8 I Stand - Idina Menzel]

==Personality Type==
[http://www.16personalities.com/enfp-personality ENFP - The Campaigner]

''ENFPs are not great fans of heavy hierarchy and bureaucracy, and this is most evident when they take on the role of manager. As managers, ENFP personalities behave much like they do as colleagues – they establish real friendships, and use their broad popularity to inspire and motivate, taking on the role of leader, working alongside their subordinates, rather than shouting from behind their desks. ENFPs will tend to believe in the concept of intrinsic motivation, the idea that things are worth doing for their own sake, not because of some convoluted system of punishments and rewards.''

''ENFPs will spend a lot of time exploring social relationships, feelings and ideas before they find something that really rings true. But when they finally do find their place in the world, their imagination, empathy and courage are likely to produce incredible results.''

==Misc==

Ebeny has a good singing voice and probably would have been a harper in another reality (and has been a harper in AUs). She initially tried to teach herself to read and understand music, with some success, and this was later reinforced by instruction from M'vyn. If she can spare the time from the weyrlings, she's taken to singing in the caverns with her fellow greenrider, though she never sticks around after doing so. Her voice is modeled after that of her played-by: Laura Michelle Kelly.

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8riiy2f3Q8s Frozen Heart (duet with Ronan Keating) - Goddess OST]

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HKaJJZUI5sU Wonder - LotR OLCR]

== RP Logs ==

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{{Character-Categories}}

[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:Fort_Area]]
[[Category:Fort_Weyr]]
[[Category:Riders]]
[[Category:Greenriders]]

Logs:Music

2015-11-03T20:18:05Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Ebeny, M'vyn, Ebeny{{!}}Laurienth, M'vyn{{!}}Elsyth |what=M'vyn wants what he wants. Ebeny has excuses. They reach a compromise. |where=M'vyn's Cosy For Keeps Weyr,..."

{{Log
|who=Ebeny, M'vyn, Ebeny{{!}}Laurienth, M'vyn{{!}}Elsyth
|what=M'vyn wants what he wants. Ebeny has excuses. They reach a compromise.
|where=M'vyn's Cosy For Keeps Weyr, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=6
|month=3
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.11.03
|mentions=Suireh, E'dre
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Ebeny Mirror.png, Icon M'vyn Main.jpg, Icon Ebeny Laurienth Electric.png,
|log=Spring is not Elsyth's preferred season and her snappish tones are amplified due to the clear skies above the Bowl. << Where is yours? M'yvn wishes to speak with her. >> is a swirl of snow and clinging ice directed at Laurienth. A pause of whiteness tells of her conferring with her rider. As the whiteness dissipates, Elsyth sounds less annoyed. << If she can visit our weyr that would be best. >>. Elsyth is not on her ledge, leaving plenty of room for Laurienth to land.

Laurienth can do snappish. She can also do a lot worse, and it’s only once the edge to Elsyth’s tone eases that the build-up of something sharp and screeching cuts off before she can let it loose on her once-student. << If she returns hurting more, I will hold ‘’you’’ accountable, >> is all the threat she allows herself to deliver, in the few moments before she lands on the younger green’s ledge and snakes a look towards the entryway of the weyr. Ebeny clambers down from her straps in no hurry at all; she doesn’t even step towards that entryway, not after the last time. She waits, haunted, tired gaze fixed on some nearby patch of rock.

Elsyth scoffs at Laurienth’s threat, her swirling snows mixed with sharpening ice. << She hurts others just as much as she gets ‘’hurt’’ >> is a reminder and then in a snap of cold Elsyth pulls away from Laurienth’s mind. M’vyn hears Laurienth’s arrival and as the time stretches without Ebeny coming within, M’vyn steps outside. “I didn’t call you to fight,” he uses in place of a greeting, waving at her to enter. “I’ve got some things I need your opinion on. No one else will serve.” He doesn’t wait for her to follow before he heads back inside the weyr. Inside, the glows are open to brighten the space and there’s scattered papers on multiple surfaces.

In the end, there’s no screeching. There is, however, a low thrum of strings that chases after Elsyth and might ripple annoyingly until it finally fades and joins with silence. Ebeny is in the middle of telling Laurienth to, “Stop it,” when she registers M’vyn’s presence and looks up, muddy-green gaze flitting over him before it drifts away again. When she follows, it’s in silence and too slowly, trailing after him as one who believes they’re being led into a trap might. She’s not so far into the weyr before she halts and gives a single shake of her head. “I don’t have an opinion,” she claims, entirely before noting anything but the presence of those papers.

“Sometimes I wonder how you teach people,” M’vyn’s answer is sharpened with annoyance as he looks over his shoulder at her. “Don’t have an opinion? What sort of an answer is that to someone who is seeking your help?” He strides forward with quick strides to snatch up a stack of the papers. He turns and strides just as quickly to her. He shoves the papers at her and then takes a step back. He gives a glance to her rather quickly with an accompanying frown. Shrugging, he ignores whatever that glance may have given him as information before he goes and settles into a chair. “I haven’t been able to perform quality songs in months and I’m tired of it. I want your opinion on those songs and I want to know if you’ll sing it with me.”

“You have no idea how much of teaching is trying not to have an opinion,” Ebeny says flatly, shoving her hands into the pockets of her too-big jacket. “We both know I can’t help you; we saw how well that went during the turn you were with me.” Such is her assumption of the what or ‘’why’’ she’s there. She only tenses when M’vyn moves more quickly, tipping onto her heels to turn and retreat when he begins to approach her, only to instinctively grab at the papers to try and keep them from falling to the floor, with only partial success – though she lets those that flutter down stay where they are. “...You’re perfectly capable of singing alone,” she answers slowly, clasping the songs without looking at them. “You even have a Harper Master here now. If anything, you ‘’really’’ don’t need me anymore.”

“Don’t start on that again,” M’vyn counters to her argument, “I’m here, aren’t I? I’m a rider and no one can complain about me. You trained me ‘’fine’’.” He watches his papers fall to the ground with that never ending frown of his. “I don’t want to sing with her,” he replies without apology. “If I wanted to sing with Harpers I could go to the Hall and call up some of my old friends. It’s ‘’your’’ voice I like to pair with. I don’t know why you deny me the one thing that’s helped me more than anything else.” He shakes his head and looks away from her towards the entrance. “Do I need to beg? If that’s what it’ll take, I’ll do it.”

“It would be easier with her,” Ebeny replies too quietly to be as matter of fact as she might wish. Idly, she smoothes at one of the papers, then begins to shuffle them together without any care for which goes with which, only that they line up correctly. “I’m not asking you to beg,” she murmurs. “Don’t say that. It’s not fair.” She keeps right on shuffling until she really has no further excuse to be staring down at all the music, yet continues to keep matching up corners and edges for no good reason. “....I-I can’t stand up in front of all those people. Not now. I can’t. ...I won’t even be able to hold the notes how you want in a couple of months.”

M’vyn chooses to lean into that begging tactic, “I’m not feeling particularly fair at the moment. I’m all together selfish and I want to sing those songs with ‘’your’’ voice.” He pauses then and lifts a brow at her, “What do you mean - are you already anticipating getting a spring illness that’ll damage your vocal cords?” He heaves a sigh and shoves up to his feet. He moves forward to collect whatever papers may still be lingering on the floor. “I need to hear all your excuses, Ben. All of them,” he shifts his gaze up to catch hers. “Let them out. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Ebeny just presses her eyes closed when M’vyn looks up at her, as if she could deny the whole world around her. She looks no more peaceful for those closed eyes, tension defining the lines of her features, and though she wearily clings to silence for moment after moment, she eventually sighs out, “I’m pregnant,” and tightens her grip on the papers. “I can’t stand up in-front of all those people,” she says again. “I don’t even want my ‘’weyrmate’’ looking at me. I haven’t done this in months. I can’t do this with a ‘’Master’’ here. I’m selfish, and I’m angry and I’m ‘’mortified’’ and I just-- really, really, ‘’really’’ want sex, but that would involve someone actually looking at me, and y-you’re not setting me up to ‘’sing’’, you’re setting me up to cry in-front of a whole lot of people.” Or just to cry in-front of him, for all her tears are silent.

M’vyn looks startled at Ebeny’s response, her ‘excuses’ drawing his brows up and his eyes wide as he listens to her. Her tears are met with an uncomfortable silence from the greenrider. That silence stretches on as long as her tears, silent or not, continue to trek downwards. When he finally manages to grasp an appropriate response, he tells her lowly, “If you really want sex, I think you can find a way to get it. The Weyr seems quite content to have that option on display at all times.” He pauses, shaking his head and allowing his features to fall back into more neutral planes. “I guess your excuse is enough to keep me from pressing you further on singing.”

The bleat of sound that Ebeny lets loose isn’t quite laughter. “Yes,” she answers, more resigned than weary, “that will do my situation a great amount of good.” She doesn’t quite manage to make it to sarcastic, yet she’s not so far from dry with it. Awkwardly, she lifts an arm to press the knuckles of one hand to try and smudge her tears out of existence while still clutching the music to her. Only then does she seem to remember it again, and she abruptly holds it all out towards M’vyn. “...I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I had-- It was--“ She sighs and lets her shoulders slump. “I loved it,” she allows herself, “while it lasted.”

“I don’t know what your situation is,” M’vyn answers her as he moves forward to take the offered music. “All I know that there are solutions available to you.” He takes the music and holds it against his chest for a moment as he considers her. “Music saved me,” he tells her, as close to a gentle approach as he’ll ever get, “Perhaps it’ll be what you need now too. If you don’t want to sing in public, we could sing alone. I don’t need to stand in front of a crowd to feel the music do what I want it to do.” He shrugs and turns then, leaving the pressure of that statement to hang between them as he goes about shuffling papers together and picking up the general mess of his weyr.

“No,” Ebeny shakes her head, half-hanging it at the same time. “Not for me.” She surrenders the papers without a fight, though then struggles with what to do with her arms, letting her hands find her pockets again for a moment or so before she knots them around her middle, then abruptly unknots them and lets them hang loosely at her sides. It’s M’vyn’s feet that she watches more than anything, then the twitch of his shoulder, and she lets seconds tick by as she just allows her focus to idly follow after him. Eventually, she dares a low, “...Really?”

M’vyn keeps his back to her and so his smile is hidden from view as Ebeny gives that low question. He leaves her hanging there with that dare as he finishes tidying up the main living space from all signs of his composing. When he turns to look at her, that smile might still light his gaze but his face is otherwise unreadable. “If it’s something you’d be willing to commit to, I’d meet you halfway with it. I’ll set aside the time and we can have no audience at all, aside from the dragons and sleeping children.” He shrugs as he ambles over to the table to settle at again. “It’s up to you, though.”

“...You won’t make me sing where the Master might hear?” Ebeny presses, lifting a hand to swipe at what traces of her tears remain. She’s more sure with that stipulation than she was with asking in the first place, her voice a little steadier. Perhaps it’s the only further query that she has, except she abruptly looks away again and down at her feet. “And you won’t make me practice when I’m proddy?” Whatever good that might do either of them, given her seeming unpredictability at present.

“I won’t make you practice when you’re proddy. I don’t want to be ‘’near’’ you when you’re proddy,” M’vyn’s answer is all too dry. “Will you stop hovering there? Come and sit down. Let’s go through some of these songs and pick a few we want to try and master this seven.” He pats the chair nearest to him as he slides that stack of papers closer. “I’ll go get my gitar. There’s a few I thought you’d solo on, but we can build up to that.” He rises and passes her then, pausing to press a hand against her arm for a brief squeeze. He returns shortly with his gitar and seems fully prepared to practice that very moment and from the expectant look he levels on her he assumes she must want the same.

The greenrider closes her eyes again and nods just the once, perhaps too relieved by his answer to realise that he hasn’t addressed the first of her questions. Ebeny ducks her head and steels herself to move and to remember how her feet work, and though she flinches not in the least when M’vyn moves past her, she automatically tenses when his hand finds her arm, the change so instinctive that it cannot be unique to him. She’s apologetic a second later, reaching to tightly curl fingers into the fabric of his sleeve with a strength that belies the tearful wreck of her. While he’s gone, she slowly finds her way to the table and sits down, though she’s even slower to unbutton her jacket and stop hiding in it. And when he returns, she levels a look of her own at him, then the music. And breathes.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Echo, Echo, Echo

2015-11-02T00:37:02Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Ebeny, Eirlys, Ebeny{{!}}Laurienth, Eirlys{{!}}Aruseth |what=Ebeny isolates herself, or tries to. |where=Weyrlingmaster's Office, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day..."

{{Log
|who=Ebeny, Eirlys, Ebeny{{!}}Laurienth, Eirlys{{!}}Aruseth
|what=Ebeny isolates herself, or tries to.
|where=Weyrlingmaster's Office, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=28
|month=2
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.11.01
|quote=<< Shall I tell Vhaeryth? >>
|mentions=N'rov, E'dre, C'sel, M'vyn
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon Ebeny Stressed.png, Icon Ebeny Laurienth.png,
|log=<< Shall I tell Vhaeryth? >>

It was a query half meant in earnest and half just so that Laurienth could see what disruption she could cause. Ebeny knew that. With no weyrlings to watch, her green was already getting bored and more easily aggravated than usual, and that was saying something. Anything she could do that would provide the particular brand of entertainment that she sought, she was now more apt to just get on with without asking her.

But she had asked. Not for Ebeny’s sake, but for the baby’s. ‘’Why’’ the young and defenceless were mostly exempt from Laurienth’s destructive tendencies, she had never quite figured out. She was sure it had to be ‘’more’’ than the fact that Laurienth insisted that they were more interesting and less closed-minded than those already so set in their ways. Perhaps they were simply her ‘’cause’’. Ebeny liked causes. Would it be so strange for her aggressive lifemate to have one of her own?

Still, it took more than a moment’s clash of wills to stop her from reaching out to the bronze. The greenrider dug down for that side of herself that was not so well suppressed these days, to let loose the flash of temper she needed to deliver the proverbial cuff to the head that would get through to Laurienth.

‘’’No.’’’

<< Wroth? >>

She hesitated, yet came back with another stab of intensity that was more her own hurt – and the hurt she perceived she would cause – than anger.

‘’’No.’’’

Ebeny rested her head against the blackboard and just leaned there, eyes closed, and willed the baby to stop with whatever game it had decided to play this afternoon. It felt surreal and wrong and too soon, only it wouldn’t have felt ‘’too soon’’ if she hadn’t been so ‘’stupid’’.

Was it a boy or a girl? She didn’t like to think too long on it.

She wouldn’t ask if N’rov wanted to feel the baby she’d lumbered them both with move. She wouldn’t tell E’dre that this was exactly where she’d been with C’sel, too afraid to talk about it or reference it or ‘’anything’’, no matter that he’d said ‘’together’’.

She imagined that M’vyn would tell her to do something useful and use what she felt for her singing. Except there wasn’t any of that anymore. There really wasn’t much coming back from essentially telling him to go fuck himself, she thought.

The knock at the door startled her into standing up straight. She met it with silence.

“Ben! I know you’re in there. Get out here. I’m not dealing with Aruseth ‘’and’’ Laurienth on my own.”

Eirlys.

<< I resent that, >> came the dry drawl of her sister’s brown, as conveyed by Laurienth. << I’m charming. I’m a total delight. >>

The sound that escaped her was half laugh, half sob, but she opened the door and let Eirlys and their dragons draw her into the light, in more ways than one.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Pride

2015-10-31T14:58:49Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Hattie, Hattie{{!}}Elaruth, Hattie{{!}}Harriet |what=The evening of her encounter with Gethin, Hattie regrets. |where=Weyrwoman's Weyr, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Wey..."

{{Log
|who=Hattie, Hattie{{!}}Elaruth, Hattie{{!}}Harriet
|what=The evening of her encounter with Gethin, Hattie regrets.
|where=Weyrwoman's Weyr, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=22
|month=2
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.31
|quote=<< We are proud of our children. >>
|mentions=Gethin, P'draig, Briallan
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon Hattie Down.png, Icon Hattie Elaruth Feather.png,
|log=Her desk was littered with correspondence, some of which she had already sent responses to, some not. A letter from Briallan lay amongst the pile that she had set aside, knowing she would be more forgiving about a lack of immediate answer, and it would be a while yet before she got to it.

Harriet was a heavy, sleepy weight against her shoulder as she stepped lightly and idly about the room, softly humming a tune of her own devising. She was a good baby, really. She rarely cried. She was beginning to smile more and more. ...She deserved better.

<< You deserve better, >> Elaruth quietly insisted, interrupting that too familiar trail of thought before it could twist further and wring from her the pangs of regret and guilt that were all too familiar these days. << You deserve not to feel this way. >>

Hattie swallowed down the urge to plead with her, as she so often did as her pale queen slept, not to rise and make everything more complicated than it already was in the tangled mess that was her heart and her head. How long had she managed to live by shoving her feelings and needs aside? How many turns had she managed to conceal any distress she felt? Why was it so hard ‘’now’’?

How had it got to the point where her ‘’children’’ noticed?

...Maybe that was it. Maybe they weren’t children anymore. Gethin was nearly a man and her word was no longer the one to be trusted, least of all about herself. He had been taught to question – his craft was teaching him to question further – and in those moments when he argued with her and got angry with her, he was so infuriatingly like his father that it only made her fight harder to deny any accusations of being anything less than ‘’perfectly fine’’. P’draig had near always insisted that her coping mechanisms were not healthy and no way to live, and now here she was repeating the same cycle of keeping him at arms’ length with their son.

She’d pushed him away. She’d pushed her son away.

Hattie ducked her head and pressed her face into Harriet’s hair, like she could hide from her own ineptitude. She’d been so ‘’happy’’ to have him home again. She hadn’t wanted to embarrass him or be clingy, or demand his time, not when he was all grown-up. She hadn’t let herself go running after him and let him ‘’see’’ just how pleased she was. He had a whole life of his own to live. He didn’t need her interfering.

Did he... did any of them... want her to interfere? Was that her word for it and not theirs?

<< We are good mothers, >> her queen told her. << We are proud of our children. >>

Children. ‘’Don’t rise, don’t rise, pleasedon’trise.’’

Harriet stirred and curled closer, entirely trusting. For just a moment, everything span to rights and she couldn’t feel the too rapid beat of her heart, or the sick, sinking feeling that she couldn’t face the rest of her children if they all knew what or felt as Gethin did.

For just a moment.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Responsibility

2015-10-30T20:05:55Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Hattie, Gethin |what=Mother and son do not see eye to eye about certain issues. |where=Kitchen, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=22 |month=2 |turn=39 |IP=Interval..."

{{Log
|who=Hattie, Gethin
|what=Mother and son do not see eye to eye about certain issues.
|where=Kitchen, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=22
|month=2
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.30
|mentions=Tabitha, N'muir, Harriet
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Hattie Close-Up.png,
|log=Gethin, by nature of his craft, is often up late and sleeps late into the following day. It is nearing early afternoon when he heads into the kitchens to beg something to eat from the staff. He’s settled into a back corner with a warm bowl of porridge and a steaming cup of tea set in front of him. He’s still got the exhaustion of someone whose only recently woken up on his features and doesn’t seem inclined to do more than smile occasionally at one of the young women who seems to keep finding a reason to look at Gethin or bring him pastries to eat.

When the Weyrwoman appears, it’s by way of the stores and in animated conversation with one of Erinta’s assistants, who accepts the ledger she’s given and heads across the kitchen to begin going through it with one of the senior cooks. Hattie heads in the opposite direction, seemingly only passing through, though she finds a mug of something pressed into her hands before long and pauses long enough to offer thanks in return, which draws her son into her line of sight. She watches him for a moment or more over the rim of her mug and lets her gaze flit to that girl, then starts towards his table.

Gethin doesn’t immediately notice his mother’s entrance into the kitchens. It takes him a moment to look up from his contemplation of his breakfast and then he spies Hattie heading his way. He’s got a quick grin for his mother. “Good morn--,” he begins and catches himself with a laugh, “I mean, afternoon!” He glances around and then waves towards the seat opposite him. “Can the Weyrwoman spare a moment to share a cup of tea with her son?” he queries, playful in the question and clearly would be content if she were indeed ‘’too’’ busy to stay. “Otherwise,” he continues far more lowly, sliding a sidelong glance towards the now giggling baker’s assistant. “I’ll be forced to gobble my food down and flee.”

Hattie doesn’t look at the girl now that there’s a chance that she’ll see her do so, but she does wordlessly accept the invitation and slide to occupy a seat opposite Gethin. “If you don’t like her, tell her straight,” is her too practical advice on the subject, delivered rather dryly. “Or you might find that she’s gone and scribbled your name all over the walls of her room and there’ll be no escape for you, ever...” She ‘’tries’’ to deliver those teasing words completely deadpan, but in the end she’s forced to surrender a smirk. “Be kind and give me a turn or so before I’m a grandmother, hmm?”

“‘’Mother’’,” Gethin’s tone shows his displeasure more than his face does. “I do not encourage any of it. Am I supposed to go and tell ‘’every’’ girl that giggles at me they have no chance?” He scoffs at this notion, shakes his head, and descends upon his porridge rather than continue that conversation. He chokes on his mouthful at her last and coughs repeatedly into his fist. “Really, mother!” this time the boy doesn’t even try to keep his tone down. “Do you think I’m one of ‘’those’’ types?” He chugs at his mug to clear his throat. “Let’s talk about something else, can’t we? This is almost as bad as letting that girl giggle at me.”

Victory is hers, or so says the smug grin that Hattie tries to swallow down along with a mouthful of tea. “I think that I’m glad that I can finally invoke the mother’s privilege of winding you up about this sort of thing,” she tells him through a ripple of low laughter. “Do try to breathe, or she might come over here and weep over your prone form,” she adds with overplayed nonchalance. Still, after that, she relents and gives her boy a cursory looking over. “You’re settling back in well, I take it?”

Gethin’s smile seems to be gone only temporarily as Hattie continues to tease him. Once she settles on a more enjoyable topic for him, he returns to his casual grin. “Sure, I suppose I am. I at least know where everything is and don’t have to fuss over adjusting here. The way that Journeyman Hal puts it, it took him ‘’forever’’ to get used to dragons constantly flying overhead, the noise, the traffic,” he shakes his head and takes another gulp of tea. “I forget how hard it is on some people when they first arrive here. I told him at least he wasn’t a candidate who had to go and be in the thick of it all. Our work mostly keeps us separate.” He pauses in his enthusiasm over his craft to level a ‘’look’’ at her. “And are ‘’you’’ settling okay? Tabs mentioned, well- she worries. But. Really. Are things working out okay with N’muir and the baby and everything?”

“...I suppose there comes a point where it’s normal and you don’t notice it as much,” Hattie says slowly, giving a shrug of one shoulder. “I can’t remember much of how ‘’I’’ felt about it, but a lot of that is down to Elaruth.” It’s with a mock sternness that she insists, “’’Try’’ not to lecture your Journeyman about weyr life, won’t you?” She lifts her mug again, then asks, “What does he have you doing?” It might simply be to buy time to react in an appropriate way to his question, for she’s silent for a moment while she schools her features into something far less readable than seconds ago. “N’muir and I are fine,” she declares. “Harriet’s healthy, if little. There’s no need for any of you to worry about me.” Yet she adds, “Though you might take a little time to make sure Harriet knows who you are.”

“What? He was going on and on. I don’t like reminding people of my lineage but I felt I had to at least ‘’explain’’ why I didn’t flinch every time a green flew overhead last night!” Gethin defends himself, instantly rushing to prove he did nothing wrong whether or not his mother is teasing him again. Gethin catches Hattie’s shift to the unreadable and hides his own reaction behind his mug of tea. “She’s so little,” he answers, “I don’t know if she’d even grasp I’m her brother. I promised Tabs I’d do my best to be available to the younger ones. She’s better with the babies than me, anyway.” He sighs and sets his mug on the table, looking back up at his mother with another gauging glance. “Are you ‘’sure’’ you’re handling everything okay?”

“He’s still your Journeyman and your future in your craft is in his hands,” Hattie enunciates just a little too clearly. “No matter how ridiculous you believe anything he says to be. ‘’Explaining’’ is one thing; lecturing another. I should know. I’m an expert at the latter.” And quite unrepentant about it she is too. What else she might say is interrupted by the kitchen hand who pauses beside her to offer a sweetroll from the tray he carries. As she begins to pull the roll apart, she utters a wry, “Don’t let Nehmet hear you calling him a baby,” soon followed by, “She doesn’t need to understand the concept of siblings, but they do recognise people, you know?” It’s a decent enough shield for what could be a fraying temper, given how she keeps ripping the roll apart. “What am I supposed to not be ‘’handling’’, Gethin?” she puts to him, point blank.

Gethin restrains himself from showing his exasperation at her words about his journeyman to a minimal tightening of his lips and he catches himself before he rolls his eyes by blinking a few times furiously at his now empty bowl. “Right,” he murmurs to Hattie’s lecture. He looks up at her mention of Harriet with a shrug. “Okay. If you want me to hold her, I will.” He adds as he shifts in his seat. He spares a glance to the door and then looks back to Hattie with a blankness that isn’t his normal reaction. “Nevermind that I asked,” he mutters, pushing up from his chair. “I was just ‘’checking’’. I sometimes feel like Tabs stays here to watch after you. And when I come and can help her out with that and I ask you a ‘’normal’’ question, you seem to just get mad. So forget it.” He gathers his dishes and gives his mother the courtesy of waiting for her response before fleeing.

“I don’t ‘’need’’ any of you to look after me!” Hattie exclaims before she can stop herself. “I’m ‘’your’’ mother. I look after ‘’you’’ and everyone else here. I’ve told you this before.” Turns ago, now. “You all have your own lives. You make your own choices. You’ve no right to get angry with me for standing by mine and not doing whatever I please instead.” When she stands, it’s a sedate affair, meant to appear unhurried to onlookers. “You’re young,” she says lowly. “Do what ‘’you’’ want to do with your life and stop worrying about people whose choices were made turns ago. Do you hear? Put your energy into something that will benefit ‘’you’’.” That she has to look ‘’up’’ at him now seems to deter her not in the slightest; she still fixes him with a stare that invites no argument.

“You’d better tell Tabitha that,” Gethin counters Hattie’s low rebuke, his eyes flashing with a momentary temper. “I do focus on myself far more than the others do. Maybe I feel ‘’guilty’’ my other siblings feel more responsible than I do.” He meets her stare with a scowl and then leaves, dumping his dishes in a haste beside the girl who is no longer giggling. What the rest of the staff may make of their encounter does not bother Gethin in the least.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:She's My Sister

2015-10-29T21:50:47Z

Hattie:

{{Log
|who=Hattie, Tabitha, Hattie{{!}}Elaruth
|what=Tabitha misses her sister, except... she's not her sister. And maybe that's the problem.
|where=Weyrleaders' Weyr, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=4
|month=6
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.08.01
|quote=I don’t know why she went to the Hold. It didn’t make sense then and it still doesn’t.
|mentions=Mimi, N'muir, P'draig
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon Hattie Mother.png, Icon Hattie Elaruth.png, Icon Tabitha Patient.png
|log=When she reached the mouth of the weyr, she began to automatically lift a hand to greet her queen with the brush of her palm over her nose, only glancing down to see what – or rather, who - was tucked against Elaruth’s chest, she discovered that they weren’t alone. It was not uncommon to find any of her children in her lifemate’s company, or in the wallow with her. Hattie had made sure that they knew they were welcome, all having been raised in some measure in that weyr, but she knew that her eldest didn’t like pushing what boundaries they had imposed themselves. N’muir was not their father, and though they had, more or less, developed an easy familiarity with him, that the weyr was his too meant it was not to be invaded at all hours.

Tabitha blinked up at her from the safety of Elaruth’s embrace. Tabitha, who didn’t really remember that she had once believed P’draig to be her father. One of her two girls who didn’t really know or understand what it was to have a father – and in their situation, it was probably for the best. She had never lacked for affection; had never seemed to be too affected by the lies and blackmail that had tainted her early years.

Hattie gathered her skirts and made to step carefully down into the wallow to join them, reluctantly accepting assistance to keep her balance. Settling was more difficult and less elegant, but she eventually found a comfortable enough spot, propped against Elaruth with one of the gold’s forearms curved at her back.

She waited for Tabitha to talk. The girl didn’t do so well when questioned.

She didn’t have long to wait.

“...I miss Mimi,” Tabitha murmured, staring down at her knees. “I don’t know why she went to the Hold. It didn’t make sense then and it still doesn’t.”

“No-one made her go,” she answered gently.

“I know, but no-one stopped her either. She could have apprenticed. We could have.”

Hattie frowned. “...You’re still young enough to apprentice, Tabitha. You’ve got nearly two turns of training in records and archives.”

“It’s not that ‘’I’’ want to,” her daughter calmly argued. “...I just—I would’ve done it if she wanted to. I would’ve gone to a Hall with her.”

“And sacrificed what you wanted for her...?”

“She’s my sister!”

The fact that Mimi wasn’t her sister, nor truly the goldrider’s daughter, hung heavily in the silence between them, yet it also acknowledged that the truth of blood meant nothing to either of them, however foolish their insistences might sound out loud.

“Yes, she is,” Hattie said slowly, “but you making sacrifices for her won’t make her past any easier for her to bear. You can’t make up... for the people who knew they weren’t right for her. Making yourself unhappy won’t ever be the way to make any of it better.”

“You could ask her to come back to help with the baby,” Tabitha proposed, her too casual delivery betraying long thought on the subject.

Hattie couldn’t help but smile. “...Do you really think she has the... patience... to deal with a baby?”

<< It has taken you some time to grow into... patience, >> Elaruth chose to remind her, a soft nudge against her shoulder accompanying her near-whisper.

“I think she went to the Hold to try and prove something, and that I love her, and you love her, and Elaruth loves her...”

The little queen confirmed that thought with a quiet clatter of sound.

“And she should be here,” Tabitha finished, brow furrowed with the effort of trying to keep her argument cool and clear and ‘’grown-up’’.

“...And if she doesn’t want to be?”

“Then maybe I need to go the Hold. I don’t know.”

Hattie made sure her sigh was all but inaudible. It would be no good smothering her and telling her that she wanted her to stay at Fort, or that she wanted Mimi back too. Neither of them were considered children anymore. She had to try to be a voice of reason and not an overbearing mother, no matter how much she wanted to just hold her and tell her everything would be okay – that she’d fix everything.

“Then maybe that’s what you need to do,” she heard herself say.

She couldn’t miss Tabitha pawing at her eyes, attempting to hide her tears. “...I miss her,” she said again, wobble in her voice.

Hattie lifted an arm towards her, hoping to coax Tabitha in against her, and was rewarded when her daughter tucked herself close. “I know, Tabs,” she murmured, determined that tears of her own wouldn’t follow, though the battle was already half-lost. “Me too.”

She might have given in to the urge to comfort her, but she wouldn’t tell her that everything would be fine. Too much uncertainty lay ahead for her to even assure herself of that.

The baby kicked.

Hattie ignored the fact that she’d surrendered to her tears.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Tabitha

2015-10-29T21:47:36Z

Hattie:

{{Profile
|picture=Tabitha.png
|mother=[[Hattie]]
|father=Brayden ('Stepfather': [[N'muir]])
|siblings=[[Gethin]], Mimi, Hasander, Nimarie, Nehmet, Harriet
|children=None
|body={{wysk}}

== Description ==

She's not got much of a figure yet, though the promise of height lies in legs that are a little too long for her frame as she enters the gangly phase of youth. There's not much of her at all, yet she's slim rather than skinny, not quite free of the softness of childhood, and not yet able to boast the curves of womanhood. Large, dark eyes define an oval-shaped face, her cheekbones high and brows subtly arched. Her slim nose could still stand to be a touch smaller, and one might think her lips too generous, but she's the smooth and soft complexion one might wish for, her skin a bronzed shade of butterscotch.

Day to day, she favours blouses paired with long skirts, wide belts used to help create some illusion of a figure more grown-up than that she currently possesses. Sturdy boots sit secure on her feet, made for practical purposes rather than for show. Bangles, earrings and other jewellery change day to day, save for the little silver dragon pendant that lies level with her collarbone.

== History ==

The day after Tabitha was born to Weyrwoman Hattie and then Journeyman Smith Brayden, she acquired a twin sister, who, in-fact, was obviously not her sister, but her cousin. This might have been obvious to anyone ''but'' Tabitha, who grew up believing that the twin so unlike herself in looks and temperament was hers to advise and guide and stay near to, lest she get herself into trouble. She was a placid, quiet child, who, between one familial and political issue and another, found herself raised between Fort Weyr, Ista Weyr, Ruatha River Hold and Southern Telgar. Of the siblings she was of an age with, she was perhaps the most biddable, though of herself, Gethin and Mimi, it was only the last who ever seemed to cause any real ''trouble''.

When the time came for her to decide on an occupation to pay her way, she chose to train as a recordskeeper and scribe, a job that would keep her close to home and to her family. Having already lost Gethin to the Starcraft a turn before, she was quietly upset when Mimi chose to return to Ruatha River and apprentice to the Headwoman, but rather than kick up a fuss, she threw herself into her work. Having haunted the records for turns already, hours and hours spent with the books and scrolls, always absorbing what stories and history she could, the transition was not such a difficult one, though with her closest siblings gone and her others having both mother and father in their lives, she was rather more out on her own than she had been prepared to be. Though she has never felt that she needed a father, the idea that ''hers'' isn't around still rankles somewhat. She has no idea that the dragon pendant she wears is of silver repurposed from the gift her father left her toddling self when he chose his craft over her.

With a gold dragon for a second mother, it cannot be said that she ''doesn't'' indulge in the occasional fantasy of Impressing, even if her dragon is never quite in colour, but, for now, she's content with her lot, and pleased with the quiet and structure that her job affords her. It would only be better if she could just stay and read all day without doing any work at all. Well, and if she could have her siblings back.

== Playlist ==

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pMGfkOaJ6zw Belle - Beauty and the Beast]

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EH5RgXuWjlk She's My Sister - Dianne Pilkington & Cassandra Compton]

== RP Logs ==

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

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

{{Icons}}
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Fort Weyr, Ruatha River Hold
}}

Logs:Independence

2015-10-29T19:01:32Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Tabitha, Gethin |what=Tabitha discovers that Gethin has returned to Fort. |where=Solarium, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=19 |month=2 |turn=39 |IP=Interval |IP2..."

{{Log
|who=Tabitha, Gethin
|what=Tabitha discovers that Gethin has returned to Fort.
|where=Solarium, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=19
|month=2
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.29
|quote=It's fun to learn.
|mentions=Hattie, N'muir, Harriet
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Tabitha Smart.png
|log=Usually, Tabitha opts take her lunch break later than those she works with, if only to have some quiet time and try to sneak a look at anything new that she hasn’t yet had a chance to read over. Today is no different, and it’s mid-afternoon by the time she’s left the records and moved over to the solarium, to settle down with a large mug of tea and a sandwich from the sanctuary, a book she’s smuggled out for her free hour or so open in her lap. She’s sat on one of the larger couches, plate balanced on an armrest, mug kept at an awkward angle from the book, to hopefully minimise the chance of spilling anything on it.

Gethin had arrived early in the morning for his posting and immediately met with his new mentor. The hours trickled by and lunch most likely was forgotten about amongst the business of getting acquainted and plotting out the tasks set ahead for the foreseeable future. He’s been released to wander the Weyr and reacquaint himself for the next couple of hours and Gethin seems intent on doing just that. His trek into the solarium is one of ambling silence as he takes in all the changes from his childhood home. He pauses upon entering, the smile that spreads across his face a slow and content movement as he spies his sister. “Is it a good read?” he asks.

Tabitha is so engrossed in her drink-balancing and book-protecting that footsteps don’t encroach upon whatever world she’s been spirited away to this time, and it’s not until words that aren’t written on the page are spoken that she looks up, eyes wide and staring. She remains frozen that way for a moment or two, unsure of the quickest route to her feet that doesn’t involve spilling anything in her haste, but she soon figures out to set the drink down on the floor and let the book flip itself shut as she twists and stands to quite literally throw herself at Gethin, arms reaching. “You’re ‘’here’’!” Then: “How are you here? Why are you here?”

Gethin’s laughter serves as his response as he catches Tabitha and hugs her close. His arms are strong and sure, his body clearly finishing the path out of awkward teenage turns towards the physique of a man. He sets her back and takes a moment to look at her, his smile a white flash against his dark skin. “I am here. I haven’t found mother yet, don’t let her know I found you first! The Hall posted me here to work underneath Journeyman Hal. Have you ever met him? He’s quite brilliant and has a whole hypothesis that in 10 turns another comet will pass,” he pauses to take a breath and cuts himself off. “You don’t seem to have changed at all. How’ve you been?”

“You know her. She won’t chase after you even if she wants to.” Tabitha angles a glance towards the ceiling in the wake of that dry remark, not entirely disparaging, but not exactly understanding either. “So... you’re here for good? I mean... a long time? Not just a month or anything like that?” She just about manages to stop any other questions spilling out, turning her attention to her appearance as he looks her over. Absently, she smoothes at her skirt and offers a wry smile when she looks back up again. “We can’t all go off and have adventures,” she says a little more quietly. “I like my work. It’s... well, it just is.”

“She likes us to be independent,” Gethin replies in a soothing tone, “and that drives a lot of her motivations I think.” Says the son who rarely tries to ‘’understand’’ his mother. “I don’t know how long I’ll be here,” he tells her with a twitch of a shrug. “It depends how long I’m useful. But without any issues and if Journeyman Hal,” he can’t seem able to drop the older man’s full title, “remains happy with my work I may be able to stay up to a turn or so, I think.” He frowns at her mention of adventures, “Tabs,” he chides gently, “you could easily go and do anything you want to do. You don’t have to ‘’stay’’ here.” He moves away from her then to go and settle on the couch she had abandoned.

“You’re smart,” Tabitha declares without a trace of doubt. “You’ll be useful, I’m sure of it.” Bit by bit, she follows back to the couch, though she doesn’t immediately sit down. “I know I could,” she sounds far less sure about. “But it’s... nice. The records are nice, and--“ she reaches to collect up the book she’s left there on the couch and hugs it to her chest, “--it’s near enough to Harper and Ruatha River, and sometimes Mam wants help with Harriet, though she doesn’t ask, and...” She smiles the tiniest bit. “Someone has to be here to hug you whenever you show up.” Now she turns to sit beside her brother on the couch. “What’s it been like out there, anyway?”

Gethin’s frown descends at Tabitha when she describes reasons to remain at the Weyr. “You are a great help to her, I’m sure. But,” he shakes his head and sighs, giving her a thoughtful look to decide whether or not he should fall into an argument they may have had more than once. “I wish you would just ‘’try’’ to see if something else suits.” He leans back against the couch cushions, tossing one arm up and over the nearest one as he glances towards the door. “It’s busy out there. People who aren’t weyrbred can have some peculiar ideas. There’s this one girl at the Hall who is ‘’convinced’’ that dragonriders still steal away girls to bring them here to be candidates for golds. The outdated thinking is rather daunting to navigate. But most people are nice. And some people are so ‘’smart’’,” he continues, his enthusiasm leaking into his tone as he returns a smile to his sister. “It’s fun to learn.”

“Like what?” isn’t so challenging, and nor is it really a question, not with the way that Tabitha grips that book to her all too protectively. Mindful of where she’s put her tea, she turns and tucks herself into one corner of the couch, retrieving the sandwich as she goes, half of which she offers to Gethin with a wordless nudge of the plate towards him. “Seems to me that it’s girls stealing dragonriders away, more often,” she remarks. “You should hear how some of the girls in the dorms go on about ‘’this’’ bronzerider and ‘’that’’ bluerider. I wonder if they’d even look twice at some of them without their dragons.” She takes the other half of the sandwich for herself, then sets the plate down on the floor beside her mug. “I’m glad you’re happy,” she tells him, with a genuine warmth that lights her face. “See, you were ‘’meant’’ for it.”

Gethin does not need much encouragement to descend on that sandwich. He eats it with a tilted head as he listens to Tabitha. He waits until he’s polished off more than a few bites to reply. “Some girls come here to have that freedom though, Tabs. To y’know,” he waves his hand as a descriptor rather than detail out his thought, “‘’be’’ with men.” He finishes off the rest of the sandwich and eyes the remaining half in her hands. “I forgot to eat,” he admits with a boyish grin, “thank you for sharing with me.” He dismisses her ‘meant for it’ with another wave of his hand and a snort. “I just pursued something and applied myself. It isn’t ‘’hard’’.”

Tabitha wrinkles her nose at the very idea of ‘’being’’ with anyone, then starts in on the sandwich rather than voice any of what she feels about all of that, though her colour has deepened a little. “I guess,” she concludes between bites, giving an awkward shrug. “It’s not like the people in holds ‘’don’t’’ get up to anything. They’re just... more offended when you find out.” There’s an awful lot of certainty there. She smirks. “Maybe ‘’you’ll’’ be a Master in the next decade. Then you’ll be the one girls are throwing themselves at. Or boys.”

It’s Gethin’s turn to color at the turn in conversation. He gives her a sideways look and a quick shake of his head. “I’m not- and boys-,” he can’t quite frame the sentence around that. He looks uncomfortably upwards, focusing on the ceiling. “Some of the girls already- y’know. A Hall isn’t as strict as a Hold and some of the girls when they apprentice,” he pauses, blinks a few times in quick succession, and swings his gaze back towards her. “I’ll be a Master and that’ll be my focus. I don’t ‘’want’’ to have the responsibility of a family.” He takes a breath and tries to steer the conversation elsewhere, “How is the baby doing? How is mom?”

“Not boys,” Tabitha interprets a little too hastily. “Got it.” More sandwich disappears. “Maybe they’re just clever,” she supposes. “I guess your mentors can’t want anyone going and getting into that kind of trouble. Out of sight, out of mind?” With her lunch finished, she leans down and collects her tea back up, though she sets the book down well away from it. His words about family are accepted for what they are and without argument, perhaps even a little too easily. “Harriet’s... growing. She might always be dainty, people keep saying. Not sure how Mam feels about it. ‘’She’s’’ just...” she looks down into her mug, “...I don’t know. I don’t think she’s happy. Maybe you being back will help.”

“Maybe,” Gethin replies cautiously, “but I think her unhappiness may be larger than missing a son.” He shifts uncomfortably on the couch, lowering his hands into his lap to clasp. “It can’t be easy for her with N’muir and all that’s happened here of late.” He puffs out a sigh and shakes his head, turning a look to Tabitha that is too old for his turns. “We can do our best to help her though, right Tabs? That’s all we can do. Our best.” He seems to want to reiterate this by shifting a hand to rest briefly on her thigh. “I’ll make sure to visit with the younger ones and mother tonight,” he assures her, “and I’ll see how much free time I can wrangle. But it may not be a lot. I don’t want reports of my slacking or lack of focus to get back to the Hall.”

“...She won’t tell me. She probably won’t tell any of us.” Tabitha takes a long drink from her tea, then lowers it and gives a single, affirmative nod. “Don’t risk your apprenticeship. I think she’d hate that more than anything. She won’t even let me look after Harriet half the times I ask, and I know she doesn’t want her to be in the nursery as often as she is.” Any guilt she feels is well suppressed when she tells him, “Us all being unhappy or in trouble won’t help anything. Like you said: she wants us to be independent.” She reaches for his hand to clasp for a moment. “So, that’s what we have to be.”

Gethin pats Tabitha’s hand with his other one. “Now that I’m here, hopefully some of the burden will be lifted from you all the same. You worry too much, I think, than you should.” He glances towards the door and then gives her a crooked smile. “I really should go and get some more to eat and return to work. Will you have dinner with us tonight? I’ll make sure to send mother a note, before I forget, that I’m here so she can organize something.” He slaps his hands on his thighs and then shifts forward to stand. “I’ll be around though, Tabs. You can always come and find me, y’know? I can make time for my ‘’favorite’’ sister,” is added with a wink and a wider smile. He shoves his hands in his pockets before he treks back down to the living caverns.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:A Trial

2015-10-28T21:26:49Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Ebeny, E'dre |what=Ebeny decides that her turnday is the day to return home. |where=Weyrleader's Office, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=17 |month=2 |turn=39 |IP..."

{{Log
|who=Ebeny, E'dre
|what=Ebeny decides that her turnday is the day to return home.
|where=Weyrleader's Office, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=17
|month=2
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.28
|quote=I don't know what you want from me.
|mentions=N'rov, C'sel, Elayne, Eden, Eryn
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Ebeny.png, Icon E'dre Annoyed.jpg,
|log=The door to the Weyrleader’s office is wide open and the voices that are conversing inside are raised enough that they carry outward. “I don’t care if they requested it,” E’dre’s voice is sharp and heightened, “They still need to go through the proper procedures. This isn’t a game. We aren’t above helping but they can’t just flag you down for something like ‘’that’’ without a serious cause.” The male voice that follows is just as sharp, “I told them as much. We were already down by then though and what were we supposed to do? Deny them and fly off?” A female voice has more quiet and murmured agreement. “We’ll discuss it later,” E’dre’s voice slams down with little room for argument. The brownrider and greenrider head out of the office in unison. For emphasis and possibly out of spite, the brownrider slams the door after him as he stalks away.

Ebeny presses herself against the inner wall along the stairs up to the ledge to make room for those other riders to pass, her head tilted in such a way as means that she doesn’t have to look directly at either of them, nor does she invite conversation – even passing pleasantries. She waits there, propped against rock, until she can continue on, if slowly and with rising hesitancy, until she reaches the entryway to the weyr and passes beneath it to get to the door that leads to the office proper. The Weyrlingmaster stands there, just staring at the closed door, for more than a minute, until she summons the courage to knock.

E’dre’s response to that knock is gruff, “Might as well come in!” He’s not seated at his desk and so doesn’t even bother to wait for the other party to open the door. He rips it open and freezes, scowl and all, as he stares at Ebeny. “I thought you were someone else,” is close enough to an apology as he steps away from the threshold to allow Ebeny to enter. “It’s been one of those mornings. Come in,” he encourages after a moment’s thought as he turns away from the now open door to head back towards his desk. He settles behind it and steeples his fingers on the desk, looking to her expectantly. “Are there issues you need to report?”

She’s half-turned to go when he opens the door, what she’s gathered of determination fled already, and it leaves Ebeny staring – pale features, dark shadows and all – at E’dre like one caught in the feline’s den when he appears. It takes her nearly as long to cross the threshold as it did for her to knock in the first place, the few steps that she takes after the Weyrleader slow and meandering – and designed to keep her near to the door, even as she closes it behind her. “...I just...” She swallows hard. “I just came to say that I want to sleep in my own bed tonight. Sama’s couch isn’t as comfortable as it looks. If you... If you want to sleep elsewhere, then... I guess you’ve got ‘til tonight to figure something out.”

“I never encouraged you to sleep somewhere else,” E’dre reminds Ebeny, perhaps unkindly, “so if you want to come home I won’t begrudge you that. And I have no desire to sleep here or elsewhere. So you’ll have to be prepared that I want to sleep in my own bed.” He leaves that there and takes one look at her state before he rises from his desk to go and start a kettle of water over the fire to make klah or tea. He allows the task to occupy him and keep his gaze from Ebeny’s figure near the doorway.

“You never encouraged me not to, either.” She’s too tired to deliver that single statement of protest anything but flatly, leeching away much of its argumentative qualities before she’s even begun. “...You don’t have to pretend for my sake, you know? You don’t need to say everything that you think you should or that I want to hear.” Ebeny shoves her hands into her pockets. “You don’t need to ‘’stay with me’’ because I’m a duty or you think I can’t handle it on my own.”

“Should I have sent a message from Wroth to Laurienth?” E’dre asks all too dryly. He’s had too many days to stew on the tension between them and it has done nothing to dampen his temper. He gets the kettle on and situated. He swings around at Ben’s last statement, his scowl fierce. “Why do you act like this whole thing is a reason to end what we’ve had for turns? You’d be content with this,” he gestures towards her abdomen, “this unpreventable ‘’accident’’ as a reason to say good riddance? How could I face our girls? Daddy let you go live somewhere else to be Weyrleader and when you come back daddy will have left your mother for having a fucking child?” Disgusted, he turns away from her and storms back to his desk.

Ebeny rocks back on her feet slightly, as if she tries to literally dig her heels into the stone floor in an effort not to flee. “Like I said,” she says all too calmly, “you don’t have to stay just to make peace with yourself or because of what others might think. If you’re sleeping next to me just so you ‘’can’’ sleep, I’d rather you weren’t there at all.” She directs her gaze towards her feet. “...N’rov wouldn’t agree to going Between any more than you did,” she murmurs. “He suggested he’d see to the baby once it’s here. So... there’s that. Maybe we’ll have weyrlings again by then and-- it kept me busy. After Elayne.” A shrug. “Maybe I won’t be such a trial.”

“If you have your way, I wouldn’t be there to help you through that trial,” E’dre replies far too quietly. He keeps his back to her as he rests a hand on the back of the chair, his stony gaze directed at the wall rather than his weyrmate. “The way I take your assumptions levelled against me, you believe me to be doing something noble in wanting to stay with you. You ‘’want’’ me to leave you. Is it so you can go back to C’sel? Or perhaps you want something to come of this for you and N’rov? I honestly don’t know. I feel like I can argue with you indefinitely on why I want to stay. You’ll just keep pushing me.” Still he doesn’t turn to face Ebeny. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“Because C’sel would be delighted if I came back with ‘’another’’ man’s child again,” Ebeny utters rather bitterly, not that it’s outright denial of what he suggests. “And I think we both know that N’rov isn’t in love with me; if anything, he must think I need a minder.” Two slow steps back carry her towards the door, where she leans back and closes her eyes. “...I want you to do what you ‘’want’’, not what you feel you ‘’ought’’ to do. This isn’t going to make you happy. It sure as shells isn’t making ‘’me’’ happy. If I go like I did after Elayne, then all I’m going to do is make you miserable.”

“I keep telling you,” E’dre counters, turning now to level his tight-lipped expression on Ben, “I want to be there. I don’t ‘’mind’’ that it’s N’rov’s child. These things ‘’happen’’. I apologized for my outrage over the flight, I’ve accepted the two of you slept ‘’outside’’ of it. I keep making amends, I keep saying it doesn’t matter, I keep ‘’trying’’ and your only thought is to tell me I’m making it up!” He tightens a fist on the back of the chair and then slams it down for emphasis. “If N’rov wants the child and you don’t, he can have it. If he doesn’t and you do, you can have it. I’ll love the child whether it’s his or yours or ours! Enough with this!”

The greenrider jumps at the sound of the chair hitting the floor, twitching back against the door, but what rises from that instinctive reaction is cold and fierce, Ebeny’s focus fixing on E’dre with an intensity that that goes some way to imparting that she may dearly like to tear him apart. Only, when she takes a deep breath to lift her voice, nothing comes out, not until her words have dissolved into an inarticulate exclamation of just ‘’noise’’, as she sinks down to the floor and folds her arms over her head to try and smother the sound of her sobs.

E’dre meets that cold and fierce reaction without backing down: his own glare and tensed features are not remotely that of someone intent on making amends. Even Ebeny’s sobs do not bring him running as he watches her fold to the floor. He lets her cry, giving her the space to do so, as he rights the chair he had knocked over and takes a span of time to simply calm his own temper down. It feels longer than it is before E’dre finally makes his way to the greenrider. He kneels down beside her and wraps his arms around her shoulders, prepared to fight for the contact if she is intent on shaking him off. “I love you,” he tells her, loud enough to cut through her sobs, “and nothing can change that.”

Ebeny is never going to be able to make herself ‘’small’’, though she does her very best to, curling in and in like she wants to disappear. She twitches again when she feels the touch of E’dre’s hands, initially too unsure of what she should go to shrug him away, yet increasingly unwilling and too weary to do anything but let him hold her. Little by little, she uncurls and leans into him instead, staying there as her breathing eventually begins to even out again and she stops making those awful sounds quite so often. Once she’s managed silence for a minute or more, she takes an audible breath and tells him, “...I’m sorry,” in a very small voice.

E’dre continues to hold her and shifts only when he moves to lower himself down to the ground. His arms disengage from around Ben as he settles back, folding in front of him as he dips his chin down to consider the ground. “There’s nothing to apologize for,” he decides to answer, looking up to try and catch her eye. “Let’s just try and survive this like we’ve survived everything else that’s come our way that we weren’t expecting.” He takes a breath and then stresses, “Let’s do it ‘’together.’’”

Eventually, Ebeny leans against the door and drops her head back, eyes closed again in the picture of surrender. She spends a while just trying to keep her breathing even and steady, then slowly blinks her eyes open again and sneaks a look across at her weyrmate when he lifts his gaze to her. There’s a moment of stubbornness and of her biting down on the inside of her lip, but she holds back what protest or argument she might wish to provide in response to what he says first, and instead provides a shallow, shaky nod in answer to the second. “...And you won’t let your wing fall apart?” she presses, so quietly that the words are barely there.

“N’rov isn’t a cruel man and he is a solid rider,” E’dre answers honestly, “so I will find peace with him and keep my wing from suffering from the tension. I,” he hesitates then, brushing his fingers back through his hair as he lets loose a sigh, “will have to talk to him now.” He looks to the door and then back to her. “But it doesn’t have to be now.” He reaches for Ebeny’s hand to hold. “Let’s go home. The rest of this can wait.” He jerks his head towards his desk.

“...No,” Ebeny says slowly, letting her eyes fall shut again, “he isn’t.” She remains so as E’dre speaks, and must sense movement more than see it when she surrenders her hand to his and holds on tight – perhaps even too tight. More silence and more deep breaths later, she gives a single nod and murmurs, “Okay,” then begins to get to her feet, using her free hand pressed against the door to support herself.

E’dre’s hand remains tight against Ebeny’s even as her grip gets tightened towards a somewhat unbearable clench. He waits until she’s steadied herself before he draws her closer for a brief hug. He presses his lips against her nose before he pulls back. He keeps her hand and leads the way out of the door and towards home. He won’t bring up the pregnancy or any other issue once they’re settled, choosing to focus on far simpler tasks like what they should do for a meal and later he’ll curl himself firmly around her in their bed.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:As You Are

2015-10-28T11:45:15Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Nala, M'vyn, Nala{{!}}Jynth, M'vyn{{!}}Elsyth |what=When Jynth catches Elsyth, Nala and M'vyn speak for the first time in months. |where=Flight Weyr, Fort Weyr |inv..."

{{Log
|who=Nala, M'vyn, Nala{{!}}Jynth, M'vyn{{!}}Elsyth
|what=When Jynth catches Elsyth, Nala and M'vyn speak for the first time in months.
|where=Flight Weyr, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=13
|month=2
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.27
|quote=...I've missed you.
|mentions=Nalyn, Grace, Cece, Aislara
|type=Log
|ooc=Sex.
|icons-new=Icon Nala Sleep.png, Icon Nala Jynth Drift.png, Icon M'vyn Main.jpg,
|log=Elsyth has never chosen a subtle path when her hide begins to take on a certain glow and her mood twists and turns into a confused mangle of proddy behavior. M’vyn has learned, to a certain extent, how to navigate his own fluctuating moods though of late he seems to spend most of that time in the company of Hematite’s Cece. The morning is bright and clear when Elsyth opens her storming mind to the males of Fort Weyr, calling them to chase and conquer - or ‘’try’’ to. She’s fast and efficient with her kills in the feeding grounds, rending and ripping her claws into flesh in play more than focus for the spilled blood she should otherwise be lapping at. Where M’vyn was before hardly matters when he has to head inside the flight weyr. He’s still dressed in his riding leathers as he moves to settle on the bed and doesn’t seem to care at all that his muddied boots are leaving marks all over the sheets.

In the days since Nala surrendered herself to the infirmary, Jynth has not been seen near the pens to blood, nor near any proddy green, and so when he finally does choose to make a return to chasing, the bluerider is not terribly quick to catch on, not until his true intent and the ''who'' of the one he’s going after bleeds through their bond. She’s late by the time she reaches the flight weyr, one of the last to arrive, and without any commotion at all. He wants and she answers, her features displaying none of the open interest that some of the others present share. Nala finds a free patch of wall to lean against, whilst Jynth drags the first of his kills away from the other males, focused on draining it dry, Elsyth kept in the periphery of his vision.

The crowd that has gathered has fallen to the ones that typically attend Elsyth’s flight, a mix of blues and browns with only one bronze. They all seem prepared to keep to themselves, their focus on blooding and watching Elsyth. The green rends her third beast before she pauses and tilts her head back to let loose a bugle that sends the remaining herd crashing forward in blind panic. She hefts herself upwards, focusing her wingbeats on gaining as much altitude in as little time as she’s able. Who follows her is of little concern to the green. M’vyn’s eyes tighten as he focuses on the bond between his green, doing his best to tune out those milling within the weyr. No one seems inclined to make eye contact or acknowledge the other as the weyr falls into an eerie silence as the dragons all move skyward.

There’s a shuffling sound, the scratch of boots against stone, as Nala twitches and twists to one side, right as Jynth dodges out of the way of any animals that stray in his direction. His quick reaction puts him ahead of some of the other males, some of which scramble to avoid being kicked more than anything, leaving him with a clear path to follow after Elsyth. He doesn't make much of it, and doesn't call out after her, but cuts steadily through the air, leaving the other males to get tangled up in what displays of dominance that they may. It’s only as the chase goes on that Nala finally looks to M’vyn with the distant, glassy stare of one only half aware of what's going on around them.

Jynth’s chosen tactic seems to be a winning one as three other males tangle in a mass of wings and claws in their forcible attempt to gain ground within the air. One of those males happened to be a brown whose descent back to the ground leaves Cece storming out of the weyr with a string of curses. Those remaining in the chase do not seem to be able to keep up with Elsyth or Jynth, leaving the indication of a clear winner as the green’s ascent takes them up into the clouds. She’s not focused on acrobatics or out-maneuvering those below her, likely her joy in the sky outweighing her need to escape. With her focus elsewhere, the opportunity to strike is often left open for any who dare. M’vyn has no eye to those still remaining as he falls back against the bed and pillows his head in his hands.

Jynth could surge forward and snatch Elsyth out of the sky whether she likes it or not, but he waits until it seems she’s at her highest point and most likely to plummet before he means to catch up to her and securely twine around her to slow their descent, his efforts less about catching her than joining her. Nala too waits until she’s sure of her blue’s success before she moves for M’vyn little by little, mindless to the presence of others, and to what she murmurs under her breath as she closes distance. Her, “Mine, mine, always been mine,” might not even be her own thoughts, but it spills out anyway, right as she reaches for the greenrider.

Elsyth does not fight her twining with Jynth - if not him, then who other? It is with utter confidence in him that she loses herself to their fall. M’vyn’s eyes open and focus enough on Nala to know it is ‘’her’’ and not any other that he is reaching for as she closes the distance between them. Their tangle in the sheets may not be as simple or elegant as their dragon’s pairing, M’vyn’s fall to being claimed by Nala more demanding than that of his dragon as her passion overpowers him. He’ll let Nala take the lead but his murmurs for more and seeking hopefully encourage her to let loose in the moment.

Broad blue wings arc wide to keep Jynth and Elsyth aloft for as long as he possibly can, unwilling to surrender her or to gravity before he absolutely must. He catches currents where he can, and in the hours that follow after they’ve made it safely to the ground, it might be discovered what price his wings have paid for it. Not that he cares. Nala soon has few cares of her own, for once she understands that M’vyn is willing and wants her, she’s quick to make sure that he is hers; that she is in control and he can have what he wishes, as long as he lets her pin him down and show him exactly what he wants and has been without, to her flight-lost mind. She’s not violent with it, but she is aggressive, some true need and passion bleeding through her cold facade, and not all of it with Jynth to blame.

That passion between them has always been a driving force, from the moment M’vyn first laid eyes on Nala back in a time before matters got even more complicated and the turns twisted what goodness they may have had between them. He is more than compliant to her wishes, he seems to revel in her decisiveness and need. Afterwards, it is he who will not relinquish a hold on her as he curls himself about her and forcefully tucks her in against him. The arm he wraps around her middle is strong from riding and the breath that lingers against her neck is warm. He doesn’t want to ruin the peace that follows from that release with words and so remains silent with an occasional kiss pressing its way to Nala’s neck or shoulder.

In the moments that follow, Nala follows his lead, letting him do as he pleases with her with no resistance offered. She’s so still when he curls around her that it could seem that she’s drifted off to sleep already, but the occasional hitch to her breath gives her away more than anything. Eventually, she stirs, only meaning to twist in M’vyn’s arms and tuck herself all the more securely against him, her arms reaching to twine about his waist. She says nothing, but ducks her head down to hide her face against his chest, content with, if aware of, silence.

As Elsyth tucks herself against Jynth and noses briefly at his wings, M’vyn shifts against Nala with a contented murmur of sound that ‘’might’’ sound like, “Mine.” though it is unintelligible enough to be nothing more than a sound expressing the rest of what he refuses to say. The silence seems to stretch on and on, perhaps hours go by, or only minutes, as M’vyn holds Nala against him. As she shifts to face him, his lips move to press against her hair. ‘’Eventually’’ they’ll have to untangle themselves and rise. M’vyn seems more and more inclined to do ‘’nothing’’ as the time passes until his stomach’s gurgling announces a need he may have been trying to hide. His tone is infused with a laughter he rarely shares as he breaks that silence with, “I suppose I’m hungry.”

Enough time has passed for strained muscles to begin letting Jynth know that something is up, pain firing along otherwise healthy paths, and though his gaze briefly swirls orange with the first kick provided by those nerves, he does nothing but stretch one of those wings over Elsyth and drape it warmly like a blanket against the chill. The pain can be dealt with later; Elsyth might not remain if he moves, and so he doesn’t. Maybe Nala truly does sleep, somewhere between one moment and the next, since when M’vyn speaks she does little but sleepily try to curve hands in such a way as will keep him near and unmoving, skin against skin. “Five more minutes,” is a near inaudible plea, her voice a little hoarse from what pitch it reached earlier.

Jynth’s assumption of her intent to move is a valid one, though Elsyth allows herself to recline against him as that wing drapes over her. For now, the sharper and colder edges of her are subdued and so she rests with her head briefly laying over his neck. M’yvn’s voice is a rumble in his chest as he replies, “I can give you that.” He might’ve given her longer than that were his stomach not to continue to make its emptiness an audible tell. He sighs and stretches his arms upwards with a yawn before he shifts away from Nala and moves to sit up. He looks down at her briefly and moves to draw a blanket over her. “You can stay and rest, if you need it.”

Nala doesn’t protest when M’vyn moves, and nor does she ask again, though she watches him all too obviously and even more sharply when he lifts the blanket over her. Rather than argue, she draws it up higher, until she can curl there with it grasped beneath her chin, nearly all of her hidden by fabric. Eventually, her gaze falls away from him and finds some distant point across the room to latch onto while she attempts to find her voice again. “...I’ve missed you,” she allows herself, even if she won’t permit herself – or can’t manage - to look at him as she speaks.

M’vyn handles that admission like a fragile piece of glasswork, his lips tightening in thought as he moves his hand up to brush through Nala’s hair. “I always miss you,” he decides on sharing, letting his fingers trail down along her cheek and pause over her lips. He opens his mouth to say more and thinks better of it. Though he remains in silence, he doesn’t move from the bed. He looks at her with a more calculating gaze as he shifts his body to rearrange his feet. “Are things--, how have you been?” he can’t quite make his tone sound as casual as he likes but he at least manages to keep his tone level.

She might not look at him, but there’s nothing Nala can do to hide the fact that she reacts to M’vyn’s touch, even chases after it with the slight tilt of her head to follow after the path of his fingers. “...The healers are helping me,” she replies in a murmur, however reluctantly. “Some days are better than others. If I wish to remain in Hematite, I have to be social. ...I can pretend.” As well he must know. “...I bought the children things for Turn’s End, but I could not--“ Did not give them their gifts. “I forgot my own turnday,” she admits in a faintly lighter, careless manner. Finally, she lifts her focus to him and remarks, “...You look well.”

M’vyn seems willing to comply to that need of Nala’s touch as he returns to finger-combing her hair. He listens to her as she speaks, opting not to say much in return other than nod once or twice to give evidence to his focus on her. In the past he might’ve used the children as a weapon to harm and now he simply shares, “They would like the gifts, I’m sure. If you give them to me I can give them. Nalyn is especially focused on material things at this point,” he adds with a dryness that still shares his fondness for their son. “I’m sorry I didn’t want to bother you on your turnday,” he did not forget - or perhaps he will play that he didn’t, “I assumed you were doing something with ah-,” he shrugs and lets his fingers pause in her hair. “I am well,” he allows, “returning to Harpering without the.. spying.. has healed me.”

Nala shares her agreement on the matter of the gifts by way of a single nod, unable to commit to more than that as concerns the children, though that sharper focus returns when he speaks of Nalyn, the information filed away somewhere to be processed later. “...The mindhealer asked and reminded me about it a few days after,” she says with a twitch of one shoulder. “I cannot expect apologies – or anything – for that which I did not notice.” Another shrug. “What would we have done?” is not truly a question. “Spent the day in bed?” Dry as it is, it sounds like the closest she can get to joking. Sobering, she frees one hand from the blanket to catch at his fingers. “I’m glad. I loved the Harper first.”

“Most likely we would’ve spent the day in bed,” M’vyn agrees despite her joke with it, he moves his thumb and forefinger to clasp her chin gently and lift it up so that he can angle a kiss more easily. “It’s where I like seeing you best,” he continues once his lips have found satisfaction against hers. “We ‘’still’’ could,” he muses, lifting his eyes away from her and towards the door. “I could arrange for my sister to take the children for a few days, we could stay here or go elsewhere…,” he trails off as he keeps his eyes on the door and his fingers begin a lazy trailing down her neck and towards what the sheets are hiding from him. He looks back to her, smug smile in place. “Would you complain?” Her mention of love and the Harper draw a lifted brow, “We both loved someone else at first. Have we found a way to love the second?”

Whether or not she realises that she does so, Nala begins to arch into his kiss, gathering herself like she might reach and pull him down and over her again, and just when it seems she’s managed to control herself and goes still is when his hand starts wandering. She shivers, though does her best to lie there and let M’vyn do as he pleases, even if her affected distance has abandoned her, her attention entirely his. “No.” She wouldn’t complain. There are many answers that she could give, pretty, flowery ones or ones simple and to appease, yet she chooses the painful truth of herself and nothing more. “I can love you healed if you can love me broken.”

It is M’vyn’s intent to pause his wandering hands as he looks closely at Nala. It’s the truth that draws a spark in his gaze that has him leaning forward to kiss her once more. He lets his hands wander some more, and then his lips, as his easing over her begins to signal where his intentions lay. He pauses his trailing kisses up her neck to let the warmth of his breath linger against her ear as he whispers, “I will love you as you are.” He returns his lips to other pursuits than talking, letting this time to be ‘’theirs’’ without any dragon interruptions. His earlier hunger seems to have abated in this pursuit and it isn’t until ‘’much’’ later that he finally exits the flight weyr to whatever the rest of the day may hold for him.
|Categories=Flight Logs, Post-Flight Logs
}}

Logs:Are You Sure?

2015-10-28T00:29:05Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Ebeny, N'rov, Ebeny{{!}}Laurienth, N'rov{{!}}Vhaeryth |what=Ebeny informs N'rov of certain flight consequences. |where=Lake Shore, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |da..."

{{Log
|who=Ebeny, N'rov, Ebeny{{!}}Laurienth, N'rov{{!}}Vhaeryth
|what=Ebeny informs N'rov of certain flight consequences.
|where=Lake Shore, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=3
|month=2
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.27
|quote=Is that even safe?
|mentions=E'dre, Casseny
|type=Log
|ooc=Discussion of termination of pregnancy.
|icons-new=Icon Ebeny Stop.png, Icon n'rov look.png, Icon Ebeny Laurienth Electric.png, Icon n'rov vhaeryth.jpg,
|log=''Vhaeryth'' is breaking the ice, literally: crunching through the snow-piled lake with a couple of older dragons, splashing through the clear sky and the bright sun. N'rov's just staying out of the wind beneath a tree, no doubt relishing his furs as he whistles a tuneful (if not always ''appropriate'') soundtrack.

Ebeny is without Laurienth near, as is so often the case, but the angular green watches the bowl from a high perch that lends itself to shadows, her rare moments of complete stillness allowing her to conceal herself rather effectively. It's not so for the rider, who is not so subtle at the best of times, for when Ben moves through the trees and out towards the shore, twigs snap under booted feet with nearly every step. She doesn't notice N'rov until she's at his shoulder, which is when she stops and sneaks a sidelong look at him.

All that snapping; N'rov half-turns as it comes near, crooking a brow upon identifying her, though that whistling (pied piping?) continues until she stops. "Afternoon." It's part humored, part polite, while Vhaeryth and Bijedth and Casualth play on.

He speaks and Ebeny looks away, to stare down at her feet while colour rises at her cheeks in a far less flattering way than the chill in the air grants. "I need..." she begins without preamble, only for her voice to fail her and require that she start all over again. "I need you to listen to me and answer me and not play around for... five minutes," she tells him. "If you have any kind of regard for me at all, can you do that?"

He's a rider, not a man accustomed to checking timepieces; it's in the angle of the sun, the ''knowing'', the best guess. But N'rov glances at Vhaeryth, checking ''something'', before giving the woman a deliberative nod: studying, even speculative. His voice is low and even when he says, "I can't promise you won't think it so."

A deep breath, then... silence. And more silence, Ebeny's requested time ticking away. She takes a half-step away from N'rov, if only to try and conceal the fact that she's shaking, something that attempting to knot her arms and force herself to be still beneath them does little for. "...The flight," that one, "...when we..." when they, "...I'm pregnant." She even flinches, like she could escape that fact. "I don't have to be."

Not a weyrling. Not a wing. Not, "Are you ''sure''?" the immediate jerk of a question, gray eyes dark as the water underlying that ice. Except it is.

"It's not his." She needn't say who. "Four months. You can think what you like about my thinking that I was past it, but you'll never think anything as bad as I do." Ebeny's shrug is forced and accompanied by another half-step away. "The weyrlings'll be self-sufficient soon. I can Between as many times as it takes. He's trying to be noble. You don't need to be."

He looks her over, of course, but whether he actually ''sees'' her... N'rov draws in a breath, muscle along his jaw flexing as he lifts his chin. The sky's still the same, still that pure clean blue before he looks down, before his low rough laugh. "Well," he says. "That's a surprise. I didn't know," gets cut off, the better to look at her again, this time point-blank. A beat later, "Is that even safe?"

Ebeny flinches again, this time when N'rov laughs, twitching to angle herself so that it's not so easy to see the threat of tears that has surfaced before she even hears any ''words''. "Does it matter?" doesn't sound like a question, uttered a little thickly, if without apprehension. "This isn't something you want," she states. "If no-one wants it, what sort of life is that?"

"''Four months''." N'rov turns on her. "Ebeny. ''Shells''. How could you think it won't matter? Come on." He's reaching for her arm, as though after all the trudging she'd had to do to come out here, she needs assistance back. Or as though she might otherwise run. Vhaeryth isn't playing any longer, but looking on. "If the healers say it's safe, really safe," ''he'' certainly doesn't know, "you can do what makes you," too late for that. "What you want. I'm not going to ''make'' you."

"Because I don--!" Ebeny starts to answer, not with tears, her exclamation blurted out before she can think. "Because it," she amends, "doesn't." She lets him have her arm, the touch one that keeps her from straying another half-step or more, yet it has the effect of rooting her all too firmly to the spot. There's an absolute refusal to look at him when he speaks of ''safe'', and several attempts to speak don't make it past single syllables of sound before she admits defeat. Only then does she finally, actually ask, "...What do you want?"

N'rov's still got that pull to him, that angle towards the caverns; he doesn't move to break her roots, but should she ease up at all... "So it's not safe. Shake your head for not safe." So he knows he's got her right. The rest, mattering and otherwise, must wait.

Ebeny stares stubbornly ahead, green-eyed gaze gone blank either with the determination of denial or the effort not to let any tears slip free. She remains so for so long that it might seem no answer is forthcoming, oblivious to the fact that her behaviour does not suit her decades. Only then she drops her chin the slightest bit and her shoulders slump. She shakes her head. Once.

His exhale's audible. "So, no. No betweening as long as it takes for you," N'rov not just says but ''instructs'', as though he gets to decide. His grip's tightened. He throws a glance over his shoulder, back across the lake; his eyes show white around the irises before he turns back. He speaks as though he'd never looked away at all. "That's not a risk to take, not for either of you. If you can bear to bear it, I'll take it from there."

There's a test of that grip when N'rov looks away, like she would - could - break free and bolt, but ultimately nothing comes of that tug beyond the faintest test of his strength and hers. "You both talk to me like you know what's best," Ebeny comments more than bitterly, and of all the times to, ''now'' those tears fall. "And you're ''both'' going to regret my mistake." She tugs - again. "Go and do what you need to do," must be born of what assumptions she's made of his looking away.

"Is that a surprise?" isn't really a question. Then he swears, low. ''Tears''. This time N'rov goes along with the greenrider's tug, but only so he can immediately attempt to realign her route towards the caverns. "Do we have a deal?"

Ebeny answers his curse and attempted realignment of her path with, "Let me go," those words delivered to him for the second time in so few months, if more miserably on this occasion, for all the quiet steel beyond that misery. She swallows hard and lapses back into silence, that distance back in her gaze when she finally agrees, "...I won't go Between," and just barely gets the whole sentence out. And she's back to looking anywhere but at N'rov.

"I will," N'rov promises. Just not ''now''. "Will you risk yourself in any other way?" he asks, one; and two, to make certain, "Our healers know?"

"As in you think I'm playing at semantics?" The sudden flash of something angrier and sharper and ''more'' is soon tamped down, and Ebeny allows, "No more than having Impressed who I have." It's the second that promptly shuts her up again, this silence more one of dumb realisation than stubbornness. "...No," she sighs out. "...They can."

"I don't ''know''." It's sharper for her sharpness, and definite. "All right," N'rov says later, more moderately. He doesn't change his course. Which, as it happens, is intended (if not directly, as directly as the vagaries of snowfall and the Bowl's terrain allow) for the infirmary.

She's had her five minutes and more, and yet, away from the safety of the trees and the vastness of the shore, Ebeny pleas, "Stop it, N'rov. Please." She keeps her head ducked to try and prevent the state of her from being so obvious; to stop anyone looking their way.

He stops, this time: less a halt than a ''pause''. "Why?" Not even a breath, "I want," N'rov says, "to get you to the infirmary, Ebeny. They can help."

It's her turn to laugh, a single, incredulous note huffed out. "With what?" Ebeny questions. "I'm pregnant, not incapacitated. I've said I'll ''stay'' pregnant. There's not really anything anyone's going to ''help'' with right now. It's down to ''me''." She shakes her head and lifts her free hand to swipe at stray tears. "I've said I'll go; just ''stop''. I was seen at the Hall. If we go in there like this, they're going to think all sorts of ''both'' of us."

"Can't they ''examine'' you, talk to," N'rov's already interrupting by the time she gets to how she's already ''been'' seen, and that shuts him up. It's a wonder that Vhaeryth's restrained himself this long; as the bronzerider rummages with his free hand for a handkerchief to offer Laurienth's, << What do you make of her? >> his dragon asks at last, metal and glass reflecting shadow upon shadow. Whether she accepts or not, "Maybe they will. ''Maybe'' they'll just help. This can't be the first time, Ebeny; I'd take you, but if you don't want that, that's your call." He frees her, if only from his grip. He backs off, by standing there for her to go.

Initially, Laurienth is as stubbornly silent as her rider, at least in terms of ''words''. She lets the feedback from damaged electrics howl through the maze of her mind and at Vhaeryth, until she surrenders one, single thing. << Pain. >> ''A'' pain, ''in'' pain; she doesn't specify. Only once N'rov has relinquished his grip does Ebeny think about accepting the offered handkerchief, though all it does at first is make those silent tears fall faster. "...I'm not going as your hostage," is an uncharitable choice of words, but if he won't ''go'', she begins to trudge along under her own power.

He has mirrors for that, glass over steel, but Vhaeryth can't wholly reflect if he wants to ''hear''; some of that howling gets through and he has to take it, and does. He doesn't reply. "No. Go." She is, and N'rov stands where he is in the trodden snow.

She heads inside the caverns, certainly. Whether she goes to the infirmary? Maybe her daughter will know for sure.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Constant

2015-10-25T23:08:17Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Tabitha |what=In which the safest path is... the safest. |where=Records Room, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=7 |month=2 |turn=39 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gamedate=..."

{{Log
|who=Tabitha
|what=In which the safest path is... the safest.
|where=Records Room, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=7
|month=2
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.25
|quote=Strange. Fantasist. Distant.
|mentions=Hattie, N'muir, Palia, Gethin, Mimi, Nimarie
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon Tabitha Watching.png,
|log=Of an evening, when most others had left to attend the evening meal, the silence in the records felt... lonely. It was better, Tabitha had long ago decided, than being in the living cavern, where people would ask her how her day was and what she had done, when she would have to try and make her work sound more exciting than it was. When she was younger, she had answered such questions by sharing details from the stories she was reading, but the more and more that people had looked at her as if she was quite mad, the less and less she had done so. Now, the silence was preferable, if a reminder that she was alone. If she finished her work early, she would get first pick of some of the new literature, and that wasn’t so bad, really.

Stories were more easy to understand than people. Stories ‘’helped her’’ understand people. She liked to think that she was good and kind and all those other things that they wanted, but she equally knew what they said about her. Strange. Fantasist. Distant.

Some mornings, she would take her work upstairs and sit with her mother, the silence one that she felt content with. Of course, she accrued more work directly by being at the point of origin for requests for copies of one document or another, but the more work she found herself with, the less time she had to think of other things. Their handwriting was not so dissimilar, though hers was apt to be more curvy than the Weyrwoman’s. It was clear, she thought, and that was the aim. To be clear. There was something forced and sharp about Hattie’s mode of print, when it was employed. She wanted to think that it ‘’meant’’ something, yet she most often simply found herself grateful that it was so much easier to read than N’muir’s chicken scratch.

Was this how she would spend her life? Copying down and editing what ‘’other people’’ wrote? Oh, she loved the books and scrolls and the rest. Loved ‘’reading’’ them; letting them take her away to other times and other places, without anyone to interfere or tell her what was and what wasn’t. But... if she had apprenticed to the Harpers, like Palia, would she have found someone else copying down ‘’her’’ great words, some day? If she had gone to the Starsmiths, like Gethin, would she see the world in a whole different way?

...If she had become a Smith, like her father – like ‘’that man’’ – would she have... run into him? Would he have known her? Was that exactly why she hadn’t dared to?

Would she spend her life close to home, too afraid that what she read about the world would turn out to be untrue if she went and looked at all of it?

Would she spend turn after turn with a white knot, watching dragons pass her by and face her mother’s disappointment time after time? If she never set foot on the Sands, it would never be an eventuality. She knew Nimarie wanted to Impress a queen; had heard N’muir tell her that she might, one day. But Nimarie could claim her parents had been ‘’Weyrleaders’’. More people knew who ‘’Nimarie’’ was.

Did anyone know who Tabitha was?

Did Tabitha know?

She was the constant. People left and found their own ways, and she would be waiting for when they needed her. She would be there, sensible as always. Dependable as always.

Someone had to be.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Living With It

2015-10-23T22:28:26Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Hattie, E'dre |what=E'dre shares his news. Hattie tries to be objective. |where=The Glass Fountain, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=28 |month=1 |turn=39 |IP=Inte..."

{{Log
|who=Hattie, E'dre
|what=E'dre shares his news. Hattie tries to be objective.
|where=The Glass Fountain, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=28
|month=1
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.23
|quote=This is the start of what I feared.
|mentions=Ebeny, N'rov, C'sel, N'muir, P'draig, Tabitha, Harriet, Elayne
|type=Log
|ooc=Discussion of termination of pregnancy. Potentially upsetting material.
|icons-new=Icon Hattie Searching.png, Icon E'dre Not Pleased.jpg,
|log=The Glass Fountain is relatively quiet for the evening, the draw of the living caverns having the larger pull with the entertainment provided. The Acting Weyrleader heads into the facility with a glance to the few people within and a look of relief flashes across his features when he doesn’t find a single Hematite rider within. E’dre heads towards the bar to order something stiff to down followed by a mug of ale. He lingers for a moment to chat off-handedly with the barkeep before he takes his drink and moves to settle at a table nearest to the warmth offered by the hearth. He kicks his feet out on the nearest chair and slouches into his chair. The ale is sipped in a methodical manner as he stares into the flickering flames.

In one corner of the bar, in one of the back booths, the Weyrwoman stands to carefully transfer her sleeping youngest daughter into the arms of her eldest, the move one made without a murmur from Harriet, though Tabitha can be heard to offer soothing nonsense to her all the same. After a few murmured words, the two women part ways, recordskeeper departing for the caverns, while Hattie lingers to tidy up hidework and stash it in her satchel before easing out of the booth. She surveys the bar as she slings the satchel’s strap over her shoulder, and though she seems set on heading after Tabitha, when her gaze rests on E’dre, she hesitates, and instead she moves for his table.

“I’m horrible company at the moment,” E’dre drawls out without looking towards Hattie as she nears. “You’d be better off heading home.” He takes a larger gulp of his ale and leans his head back and to the side to give Hattie a glance before he returns to looking at the fire. Anticipating that Hattie may ‘’not’’ leave after such a declaration, E’dre heaves a sigh and shifts his feet off of the chair to allow her to sit. “At least my mood isn’t caused by X’vin or other riders. ‘’They’’ all seem to be behaving lately. Aside from Flint’s tendency to allow their riders to drink first thing in the morning.” He shifts further to straighten in his chair and tosses a glance towards the door Tabitha had exited. “Was that your oldest daughter? She must be visiting. Really, go spend time with them.” He waves a hand.

“No offense,” Hattie says in that dry tone of voice that only makes the utter lack of attempt to avoid causing such all the more obvious, “but rumour has it that you’re not the best company at any moment.” And so she adopts that seat regardless, letting her satchel slip back to the floor. “Stop fixating,” is much the same response he’s earned of late when mentioning said bronzerider, the words delivered a little too as one might speak to a child. “Tabitha works in the records,” she says slowly. “Not that I expect you to know that. Her twin left for Ruatha River several turns ago now.” Informative only, she doesn’t exactly invite enquiry, and so settles in to wait E’dre out.

E’dre has an answering smirk to that dry tone as he assures, “Those rumours are likely true. I’m a real pain in the ass and better off avoided. Only, I think, Hematite puts up with me mostly because they find me enjoyable after hours when we’re drinking.” He hefts his mug up in answer to that. “See? I’m trying here.” Her mention of not fixating earns a disgruntled and murmured, “Fine, fine,” in reply. Her explanation of Tabitha draws him towards a frown. “I should know that. I’m sorry. That’s entirely rude of me. Though, with the rumours, you’d also know I care little to put names and faces together for our staff.” He rubs at his chin for a moment and then grows silent as he looks down at his ale. “You’ll likely hear another rumour soon and I suppose it’d feel better if I told you directly. Ben’s pregnant again.” He hefts his mug again with a bitter-edged smile, “So I’m celebrating.”

“There’s a phrase to play with. ‘Enjoyable after hours’.” Hattie arches a brow and lets herself smirk the tiniest bit, yet she doesn’t openly tease him any more than that, not with the information that follows. She pauses to choose her words more carefully than blurting out the first thought that she has, not that her attempt is necessarily all that successful. “...I thought you had sent your children to live with family? Was it so you could--?” Try for more? Then, all in a rush: “Why aren’t you with ‘’her’’?”

“Let’s make that my title, hm? ‘Acting Weyrleader: Enjoyable after hours’,” E’dre falls to sarcasm with an accompanying smirk before he finishes the last of his ale. Hattie’s mention of his current children draws a pinched brow and a tightening of his lips. “We weren’t trying,” he tells Hattie, lifting his gaze to settle it on hers. He continues, testing perhaps, whether or not someone other than him would be faster on the uptake of the truth behind the pregnancy. “We’ve been so busy that we’ve hardly you-know and then there was the flight with N’rov and the tension there--,” he takes a breath, looking to the bar in a subconscious desire for more alcohol as he delivers the rest, “she’s four months along.”

“It’s a bit late now, if you weren’t trying.” It’s not condemnation, but delivered matter of fact. “Just as well that the weyrlings are soon to be not-weyrlings, I suppose. I wouldn’t say that she’s of an age for it to be easy on her, and you’re both older than I am. Not that--“ Hattie looks away and towards the hearth. “Well, Harriet was difficult for different reasons,” is what she settles for, murmured. Whether pushing at it or just seeking an answer, she presses, “Why aren’t you with her now?” again. “Even if you’re not ecstatic about it, it’s not just ‘’her’’ fault.”

“It isn’t ‘’my’’ fault either,” E’dre delivers deadpan without looking at Hattie. “She didn’t want me around, so I left.” He pushes to his feet and excuses himself with a half-worded be-right-back as he heads towards the bar. He doesn’t linger long this time in his pursuit of more ale and he returns with something that Hattie had been drinking earlier. He sets this down in front of her and then eases back into his chair. He looks down at his refilled mug and then up at Hattie. “Figured it out yet? I didn’t get it at first. I was thrilled with the idea of having another child. And then she announced it was ‘’N’rov’s’’ and even ‘’after’’ I declared I didn’t care she insisted on Betweening it and insisted on leaving. I left first. She was,” he pauses and shakes his head. “She’s not going to handle this well.”

Hattie stares after him, yet opts against throwing any questions at E’dre’s back, and when he returns with the drinks, she eyes the mug of cider without reaching for it, not drinking and not truly refusing it either. Ultimately, she declares, “A flight is a flight,” and, “She could have tried going Between without telling you at all.” Of all the things she could ask, she chooses, “...Why don’t you care that it’s his?”

“I may be Holdbred,” E’dre answers, shifting his gaze to the fire again as he holds and refrains from drinking his ale. “But I’ve been a rider for a good portion of my life. A flight is a flight and perhaps if I hadn’t overreacted when it happened she wouldn’t feel so distraught about it now. It’s not the child’s fault, after all. And she didn’t notice. I didn’t notice when--,” he shakes his head and skews a glance towards Hattie, gauging her reaction. “Would people expect me to care it’s N’rov’s? Am I seen as being that cruel?”

“No, but people generally aren’t so forgiving.” Or so it must be in Hattie’s world. She finally reaches for her mug as she says, “...I thought I didn’t mind about N’muir and C’stian’s mother, not when it was all those ‘’decades’’ ago, and before we’d even crossed paths, besides. The thought that I should be jealous was – ‘’is’’ – ridiculous. It had absolutely nothing to do with me. But...” She sighs and shakes her head a little, struggling to get out the words that might make her seem fallible, or ‘’emotional’’. “I made it not an issue because I love ‘’him’’. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel anything about it, or could reason it all away. And he found that out, in the end.”

E’dre takes a long pull from his mug and then slouches back in his chair. He looks to Hattie as she speaks and keeps his silence as he listens. “She confessed they’d slept together outside of the flight,” he confesses in his own right to Hattie, “and she implied that because this ‘’is’’ N’rov’s baby that perhaps she’d sleep with him again.” He can’t hide the flash of anger that settles over his features. “I thought if I accepted the child and moved past its parentage that we’d be okay. My family wouldn’t suffer, we’d gain from the addition. It’s the idea that,” he takes a shaky breath, “that this is the start of what I feared. I’m C’sel in this now, aren’t I? The weyrmate one step to being forced out of the relationship. I lost more than I thought in that flight, Hattie. It scares me.”

Hattie lifts her brows. “I don’t think it can be proven that being pregnant with someone’s child definitely makes you want to sleep with that person,” she drawls just a little too dryly. “And that person has to be ‘’willing’’, mind.” She watches E’dre over the rim of her mug before she sets it down. “You’d have more to worry about if she desperately wanted to keep it. If she’s so set on getting rid of it and as upset as you say, you’ve not got much to fear of being ‘’left’’. How the two of you deal with whatever happens now, that’s another matter.” For a moment, she bites down on the inside of her lip, but then she tells him, “It’s no good trying to accept it for ‘’her’’. How long will you live a lie?”

“I’m not lying on the fact that I accept it,” E’dre counters as his fingers tighten on the glass, “I was stating that in being so accepting I thought we’d be okay.” He looks to her with a deepening frown. “Hattie, I’m not a woman and not a Healer to know about pregnancy in any detail but I imagine Betweening at this stage would be more than dangerous. She told me she’d have to go multiple times and try to stretch it out. That risk just doesn’t seem ‘’worth’’ it to me.”

Hattie keeps her gaze fixed on the hearth when she stresses, “To ‘’you’’,” in a voice that’s almost not there at all. “Not worth it to ‘’you’’. She’s the one going through it.” She reaches for her mug again and takes a long drink, then cradles it between her palms. “...After—There was a flight. Elaruth and another queen fought.” She still won’t look at him. “...Elaruth obviously couldn’t fly and... time passed. I realised I was pregnant and-- I didn’t know whose it was.” One shoulder twitches in a too forced attempt to make it seem like a careless thing. “P’draig said everything that you’re saying now. He accepted it. He’d love the child, regardless. He’d love ‘’me’’. It didn’t matter. I couldn’t--“ She shakes her head again. “I couldn’t. So, he took me Between. It’s not the same, but... she has to live with what she does.”

E’dre lets silence stretch between them after Hattie’s admission, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the hearth. When it seems like he would continue the silence he finally breaks it with a sigh as he looks to her. “I’m sorry you had to go through that,” his voice is soft and the weariness that’s fallen onto his face is mirrored in his continued tone, “And the choice you had to make was a difficult one.” He takes the time to sip from his ale as he looks back to the fire. “When I asked her to carry Elayne, I did everything wrong, I ‘’treated’’ her wrong, and after it nearly,” he sucks in a breath and lets it out in a whoosh of sound. “I don’t know how C’sel handled that either,” he adds, thought of the man draws an embarrassed flush to his cheeks, “and now perhaps it is my turn to be on the other side of it. As retribution.”

“...I’m not looking for sympathy,” Hattie answers not unkindly, but near enough to clipped to sound colder than she may mean, for whatever her reasons. “...I’m trying to say... that what you say might only have so much of an impact. She shouldn’t be made to feel bad, whatever she chooses. And then there’s ‘’N’rov’’...” She blinks her eyes wide and only now looks back to E’dre. “You need to make your decisions for ‘’you’’, so you don’t throw blame at her or him however many turns down the road. Thinking it’s your turn or due... I’m not sure that’s going to help any of you. You can’t make up for what you did then by bearing with something now.”

“It’s not my choice to make,” E’dre decides after he’s nearly finished his ale. “I’ll have to give her whatever space she needs, or take whatever is thrown my way, and endure.” He looks to Hattie and allows a harshness to enter his tone, “But as I told her, if N’rov proves to be a problem,” he pauses, considering his next words carefully, “I’ll be more strategic with his placements.” He shakes his head and sighs, looking prepared to leave as he shifts in his chair and looks to her.

With E’dre seemingly ready to leave, Hattie reaches down and tugs the strap of her satchel back over her shoulder. “Think better of him,” she states. “You’re a Weyrleader first, as far he’s concerned, and her weyrmate second. Maybe you should ‘’always’’ be a Weyrleader first and weyrmate second.” She rises from her seat, lips twisting in a small, bitter smile. “I’m sure my Harriet would tell you that I’m a Weyrwoman first and a mother second.” Having allowed herself that moment of self-loathing, she swallows hard and says, far more gently, “Be careful, E’dre.”

Before Hattie can leave, E’dre catches her arm and waits until they make eye contact. “I won’t be so selfish as to make exceptions for my family that you aren’t able to make,” he tells her and then he’s letting go of her arm and gathering their mugs into his other hand. “I can talk all I want but the actions won’t come to back it up.” It’s as close to a promise as he’s ever likely given her on minding his behavior. He lets her go then and then drops their dishes off with the barkeep. He hesitates over accepting another shot of whiskey and then he does. It’s not home that E’dre goes next. Instead, there’ll be reports of the Acting Weyrleader having spent a good portion of the night in Dice. How well he does at gambling was never the point and if he returns home to an empty weyr, no one can blame him for the marks that might’ve been lost.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Not Ours

2015-10-22T21:54:14Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Ebeny, E'dre, Ebeny{{!}}Laurienth, E'dre{{!}}Wroth |what=Ebeny has to tell E'dre what she's learned. |where=Autumnal Eventide Weyr, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |d..."

{{Log
|who=Ebeny, E'dre, Ebeny{{!}}Laurienth, E'dre{{!}}Wroth
|what=Ebeny has to tell E'dre what she's learned.
|where=Autumnal Eventide Weyr, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=28
|month=1
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.22
|quote=I don't want it.
|mentions=N'rov, C'sel, Casseny, Elayne, Eden, Eryn, A'ryk
|type=Log
|ooc=Language. Discussion of termination of pregnancy. Potentially upsetting material.
|icons-new=Icon Ebeny Stop.png, Icon E'dre Not Pleased.jpg, Icon Ebeny Laurienth.png, Icon E'dre n Wroth.jpg,
|log=It’s near evening when Ebeny finally returns from having spent her rest day somewhere other than the Weyr for a change, the morning’s departure one that spoke of not going far and to summon her back if the weyrlings need anything, and of time spent with her eldest brother and youngest (if now not so little) sister at the Healer Hall. She’s the only one in the weyr at present, Laurienth out flitting from perch to perch along the rim of the bowl, testing the winter currents every now and then, her eyes a curious swirl of orange and yellow. That amber blend is not so different to what’s in the greenrider’s glass, both of Ebeny’s hands supporting the tumbler that she’s curled up in bed with, her knees drawn to her chest.

Wroth notices Laurienth’s antics with a certain casualness as he lounges on a ledge that does not belong to him. His tail begins to incessantly tap as he watches her flit about and her eye color draws more of his focus than her winter-driven flight. E’dre heads into their weyr shortly after Wroth has ‘tattled’ on Laurienth. The brownrider’s fatigue is clearly marked on his face and demeanor as he shucks off his winter gear to hang and tuck away. He moves about the living space for a time before he makes his way into the bedroom where Ebeny is resting. That tumbler is noted with some surprise as he leans against the doorway. “How was your day?”

Ebeny manages to look thoroughly sick at the sound of footsteps, then even worse as her weyrmate presents himself in her line of sight. She has no immediate answer for him, but she lifts her glass to her lips and takes a long drink, letting her silence drag out for even longer while she waits for the alcohol to burn its way down. “Fantastic,” she rasps, past sarcasm and on to a dull, despairing hysteria. There’s no looking at him when she goes on to state, “I’m pregnant,” without preamble, then tips back the rest of her glass and completely drains its contents, whether it’s her first or... not first.

E’dre watches Ebeny with an increased tenseness at that dragging silence and her demeanor that follows. His shoulders tense as he pushes away from the doorway to begin to stride forward, prepared to handle whatever crisis may be dropped at his feet. The one that ‘’is’’ dropped has him stopping so fast he nearly trips on the ground. “You’re what?” he asks, unable to hide the incredulous tone as his brows hike high, “I thought the healers said-,” he cuts that off with a clearly growing excitement as he closes the distance between them to try and hug her. “This is wonderful! How are you feeling? I wonder if the girls will be excited or frustrated by another sibling,” he continues without waiting for an answer, moving to sit on the bed beside her. He is full of excitement and wonder over this prospective baby as he flashes a growing smile at Ben.

Ebeny only tenses the nearer he gets, and makes no move of her own to embrace him or to encourage E’dre to think that she might welcome any kind of closeness at the moment. “It isn’t wonderful,” she declares, low and verging on angry. “Think about it!” is more animated, if only by way of exclamation. “Four months. Four ‘’sharding’’ months. It isn’t like we were ‘’together’’ much before then, and we weren’t until she last flew--“ She shakes her head. “I would’ve thought of it sooner if the Healers hadn’t ‘’fucking said’’.” Her arm lifts, as if she might throw the glass, yet she exerts some control at the last minute and slams it down on the bedside table instead. “I don’t want it,” she says flatly.

“Four months?” E’dre echos as he reverses his earlier attempt to hug and folds his arms in front of him as he stares at Ebeny in an attempt to process her anger. “We’ve been together,” he counters, finding himself defensive in the face of her anger. “What are you trying to say?” he continues, brows furrowing downward as his frown begins to twist into a scowl. “Why wouldn’t you want our child?” He either is denying the unsaid between them or he simply has yet to grasp ‘’why’’ this would make Ben so upset. “It’s too late to even ‘’say’’ that, isn’t it?” he demands of her, reaching to grip her arm for emphasis. “It wouldn’t even be safe to try!”

Her first instinct is to wrench her arm away and curl in on herself, and so that is exactly what Ebeny does, attempting to avoid being touched at all. “Because it isn’t ‘’our’’ child, is it!” It’s not a question. “I’m too old for this! I was ‘’relieved’’ when they said the chances were slim, after the twins. I’ve not ‘’wanted’’ more children. We don’t even get to keep the ones we have!” She drops her head down to her knees and sits there hunched over, face hidden by the waves of hair that fall forward. “...And it isn’t ours, is it?” she repeats more quietly. “...It’s not... yours.” And that brings forth a more defiant: “I can try. A few long trips Between.”

“Will you stop saying the child isn’t ours!” E’dre finds himself shouting in frustration as he shoves himself off of the bed. He takes three or four paces away from Ebeny to gather himself as hands open and close into fists at his side. “Our age isn’t the best for another young child, but what if it’s a boy?” E’dre’s never spoken of a desire for more children nor a wish for a boy and the sudden urge of such a promise drives him to turn and face her. “Our girls being away from us is a temporary thing. It isn’t for the rest of their lives!” He takes a step back at her quiet admission and all emotion falls from his face as he noticeably pales. “Not mine?” he asks and then repeats, “It’s not mine.” He stares at her unblinkingly. “Then it’s,” he pauses, not bothering to ask as he takes a shuddering breath, “N’rov’s.” He turns and steps out of the room without looking back.

When he turns, Ebeny all but vaults from the bed in a tangle of limbs not helped by her swift ingestion of drink, and no sooner has she almost managed to scramble back to her feet than she has to sit back down, features pale and balance shot. After letting a low moan of sound leave her, her head in her hands, she lifts her voice to call, “It won’t be ‘’anyone’s’’ for much longer. ‘’I’’ don’t want it. ‘’You’’ don’t.” Such is the assumption she’s made in so few seconds. “’’He’’ won’t. It’ll land me in the infirmary for a long while,” if it works; if she lives, “but it’s better than no-one wanting it.” Clearly, she has no idea quite how she sounds.

“I never ‘’once’’ thought about C’sel. Not once. Not when I asked you to keep Elayne and carry her for my own selfish reasons and certainly I failed to think of him after I asked you to be mine,” E’dre’s voice proceeds him as he heads back into the room. He’s got a steady hand on a tumbler of his own and from the redness of his cheeks and eyes the time he spent outside of the room was in the attempt to erase his initial reaction from her view. “This entire thing makes me ‘’disgusted’’ with myself,” he tells her as he takes a gulp of liquid and shudders at the burn. He has one certainty and this he shares with a firmness that dares Ebeny to tell him no, “You will keep it. I don’t care if N’rov doesn’t want it. He’s an idiot and maybe most of that is because he’s young. I’m not so young anymore that I’d take away the value of having another child. I won’t have you risk yourself Between to try and lose it. And if you’ve got a scary road of pregnancy ahead of you, I’ll be right by your side.” He takes a shuddery breath as he looks away from her, staring at the wall as his jaw clenches to hold back emotion. “When I wasn’t before.”

In too miserable a mood to think much about being kind, Ebeny murmurs, “I thought as much,” of E’dre’s first point. She still doesn’t look up, and instead rocks a little to try and regain some sense of equilibrium. Though she must ‘’listen’’, she offers no argument until she insists, in a very small voice, “...But ‘’I’’ don’t want this. You say all of this now, when there’s no baby ‘’right here’’ and I don’t ‘’look’’ pregnant, but I will soon.” She rakes her fingers through her hair. “And what about ‘’him’’? If he thought I was a joke before, he’s going to think Faranth knows what now, and-- You have to work together. You don’t even know what he’s going to say. How’re you going to work together? This is just ‘’wrong’’.”

“He didn’t think you were so much of a joke when he slept with you outside of the flight,” E’dre counters with absolutely no remorse, his anger directed at the man not present more so than his weyrmate. He doesn’t answer her other questions right away, choosing to fill the silence with sips of alcohol before he moves to settle on the end of the bed. He knows better than to seek any physical contact with Ben but his hand drifts towards her anyway. “That’s for he and I to work out. If he throws too much of a stink, which I don’t think he will, I’ll transfer him. To another wing, to another Weyr -- whatever is needed. But it ‘’won’t’’ come to that.” He scrubs a hand down his face and shakes his head. “It won’t even come to that. Vhaeryth’s too agile and strong. N’rov'll be a leader someday. Here or elsewhere.” He looks back up at her then, the first sign of his coming full circle with the news drawing a crooked smile from him. “Aren’t we the ever-so-typical weyr-relationship?”

“It was ‘’me’’, I ‘’told’’ you,” Ebeny grits out. “I wasn’t thinking. It was ‘’me’’, not him.” No matter how much damage that (truth?) might keep doing, it’s something that she sticks to without a trace of doubt. “You can’t transfer someone just because your weyrmate is an idiot.” She doesn’t yet manage to look up and only curls up all the more. “This isn’t right. It isn’t. It’s not going to be as simple as you think. I’m not ready to do all of this again. I was ‘’never’’ going to be ready to do this again. And for the rest of our lives, it’ll just be a reminder of what I did.” And then there’s the other thought. “What if I do it again? What if I end up wanting ‘’him’’?” Vocalising it propels her to her feet. “I can’t do this.”

“What, you threw him down and jumped on top and he struggled?” E’dre demands, unlikely to ever relent on ‘’who’’ was behind that admitted tryst. “And I could if that person was purposefully undermining me and making my leadership get called into question,” E’dre counters and then pauses, his scowl deepening in thought at that admission. “I would never ‘’ever’’ blame a child,” he tells her, “I know what it’s like to have those that raise you not ‘’care’’ for you. I wouldn’t do it to any child. Whether or not I helped bring it into the world, I can certainly help raise it and claim it. A’ryk was fully prepared to do that with Elayne. Why shouldn’t I be equally prepared to do this with this baby? It’s still of ‘’your’’ blood.” Ben’s last vocalization draws a sharp intake of breath from E’dre and he downs the rest of his drink rather than respond. He doesn’t seem inclined to respond to that at all as he stares down at his now empty cup.

Ebeny’s cheeks stain pink, yet she doesn’t provide any further protest concerning what went on between her and N’rov. “...’’You’’ couldn’t blame a child,” she says quietly. “I can’t-- I don’t have any ‘’feelings’’ for it, and I’m the one carrying it. I went three months without realising I was expecting Cassie, but I knew I ‘’wanted’’ her. All I know now is that I ‘’don’t’’ want this.” She hiccups, but manages to contain any tears that want to escape. Scrubbing a hand over her face, she murmurs, “...I’ll find somewhere else to sleep tonight... I can’t tell him now. Tomorrow.” Or the tomorrow after that. “If he wants it, then maybe... I don’t know.”

“If he wants it, then you’ll keep it? But if I said I wanted it, you’d not try?” E’dre asks all too quietly. “I never thought I’d find myself here,” he continues before he’s standing again. “Don’t find anywhere else to sleep. I’m not mad at you. I’m not--,” he shakes his head, “I don’t know what I am.” He gives her one look, knowing what that hiccup means and still he moves towards the door in the next instant. “I’ll be home later.” He doesn’t give any further explanation as he heads back outside and finds solace away from home.

“...Maybe then he can take it away,” Ebeny utters in a near whisper. She turns away as he moves for the door, both not to see him leave and to prevent him from seeing her finally cry, her only acknowledgement that she’s heard anything at all the knot of her arms around her middle. Regardless of E’dre’s assurances, she’s not there when he returns home, and nor is Laurienth, but at least ‘’most’’ of their things remain.
|Categories=General Logs, Angst Logs
}}

Logs:The World Goes Reeling

2015-10-22T21:39:24Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Ebeny, Ebeny{{!}}Laurienth, Ebeny{{!}}Taessin, Ebeny{{!}}Lanna |what=Same place, same news, seventeen turns later. |where=Healer Hall, Fort Area |involves=Fort Weyr..."

{{Log
|who=Ebeny, Ebeny{{!}}Laurienth, Ebeny{{!}}Taessin, Ebeny{{!}}Lanna
|what=Same place, same news, seventeen turns later.
|where=Healer Hall, Fort Area
|involves=Fort Weyr, Healer Hall
|day=28
|month=1
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.22
|quote=Impossible.
|mentions=Casseny, E'dre, N'rov
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon Ebeny Stop.png, Icon Ebeny Laurienth.png,
|log=One moment, she was spinning around and around in the snow and ice, catching an equally spinning Lanna at the periphery of her vision every turn, and the next she was doubled over and retching, absently aware of being glad that she wasn’t throwing up in any of the Healer Hall’s planted beds.

Her hands were nearly numb, half-buried in the muddy slush and snow, by the time that the world beyond a need to breathe whirled back into view, Taessin’s hands at her back and her auburn-haired sister peering worriedly down at her.

Laurienth flew like a maniac. Like one unafraid (she ‘’was’’ unafraid). Mere twirling about was nothing compared to flying with ‘’Laurienth’’.

This once, the green told her to, << Stay down. You will only make a fool of us both if you try and stand. >>

The response Ebeny managed to form was not quite a word, but a strangled, frustrated syllable of mental sound, yet she obeyed. Minutes passed, and eventually she began to understand what Taessin was trying to tell her; that he was offering her his clinical kind of encouragement and not merely babbling ‘’noise’’ at her.

“Ben? Tae says we’ll help you back to the Hall. Ben?”

She nodded dumbly and slowly struggled to answer Lanna by letting Taessin help her to her feet and allowing the two of them to support her on their journey back. She let her Healer brother plant her in a chair and clean her hands; let Lanna run off to call for one of his colleagues to do anything more than that.

How much time passed, she didn’t know, only she soon understood that she had been here seventeen turns before, receiving the same news. Feeling the same stab of fear, only this one didn’t fade and leave any warmth or quiet excitement in its wake. This one struck again and again with each beat of her heart.

Impossible, she told herself. Impossible. Wrong. No.

She didn’t even have proper cy--

And so four months had passed without her notice.

Four months.

Not E’dre’s.

‘’Not’’ E’dre’s.

‘’N’rov’s’’.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Breakfast Is Dangerous

2015-10-19T20:44:55Z

Hattie:

{{Log
|who=E'dre, Parli,
|what=Parli happens upon E'dre over breakfast
|where=Living Caverns, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=14
|month=1
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.18
|weather=Let it snow!
|mentions=N'rov, X'vin
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon E'dre Hah.jpg, Icon Parli Bored.png,
|desc=>---< Living Cavern, Fort Weyr(#513RIJMas$) >--------------------------------<

Fort's enormous Living Cavern is a vast, echoing space, with deep set
windows carved into the outer wall to let in light and fresh air. Large
enough to house the entire human population of the Weyr with plenty of
room to spare, the most common use of the living cavern is as a communal
eating and gathering space. Long tables with benches usually line the main
part of the cavern with a table set aside for the Weyrleaders on a raised
dais, as well as other smaller tables set along the walls for quieter
dining. Tapestries depicting historic moments in the Weyr's history and
scenery from the coverage area decorate the walls and lend the space a
warmer feel than bare stone.

To the east, a large doorway leads out to the Bowl, with a sturdy metal
door that can be closed during inclement weather or Threadfall. The
Nighthearth is tucked away in a little alcove near the door. The large
main hearth is used for cooking and for heat, though chairs are often
pulled up nearby for the Weyr's elderly to enjoy the heat. A swinging door
not far from the hearth leads into the Kitchen that shares the wall behind
the hearth. To the west, a passage opens up into the Weyr's Inner Caverns.
|log=The morning saw the Weyr waking up to those large, soft, snow-flakes of a mild snowstorm that feels more magical and inviting than other storms may. The caverns are busy this morning as groups continue to wake and stream in for the breakfast offerings. E'dre's settled at a table recently vacated by his wingmates, still nursing his nearly cold klah as he browses a hide in front of him.

Oh boy. ''Morning.'' Narrow-eyed and sour-faced, Parli shuffles into the living cavern and heads directly for the klah pots. She's already dusted in a bit of snow, though it melts relatively quickly once she's well inside. Klah is poured, sampled, and "Ugh"ed at. It must pass the test - or, more likely, requesting a fresh pot of klah is too much effort - for she gathers up some manner of breakfast (pastries, mostly) before eventually setting eyes on the table a smattering of her wingmates occupy. A long-suffering sigh follows. She goes that way, which - fortunately or unfortunately - requires passing by the table E'dre is at.

E'dre doesn't generally find reason to be talkative in the living caverns (when he does taek a meal there) and might've let Parli simply grumble past him but there's something that catches his eye and he lifts a hand to stall her. "You didn't seem to like the klah," he comments, amusement clear in the gaze he tips at her and the smirky-smile that settles on his face. "You think they burned it this morning?"

Welp. Parli is successfully stalled, but at the cost of another sigh. She stops and half-turns to obliquely look askance at E'dre, one eyebrow slowly rising as he speaks. "No," is drawn out just a little - the tone is best described as bored sarcasm. "I mean, probably, but it's too weak to tell if it's burned or just trying too hard to be real klah." Her expression is delightfully deadpan throughout, though her raised eyebrow remains securely in place.

E'dre muses over this as he peers into the dregs of his remaining klah. He looks up at Parli and then back to his klah. He sidebars a glance towards the klah kettle that's ''clearly'' in closer reach to Parli than to him. "Huh," he muses, setting his mug on the table and sliding it away from him - and neaerer to the other brownrider. "I'd have to taste this latest batch to really draw any conculsions," he hints and then he picks that hide back up to stare at. Business-like.

"Yeah, you probably should," Parli agrees blandly. "It's kind of gross but, whatever." An indifferent shrug follows - but she's certainly not following the rest of his all-too-obvious hinting. Instead, she sets ''her'' mug down - within range of him to reach, but not really at a comfortable range. "Ugh, no. I don't want ''your'' gross klah. You can have mine." She cuts a look to her wingmates, wrinkles her nose, and adds, "It looks like a whiskey morning ''anyway''." Matter-of-fact, that.

''That'' draws E'dre's attention from his hide and towards Parli's wingmates. "They do that often?" he asks far too calmly. He gestures for her to sit, pushing her klah back in her direction. "I'll brave it when I get up next," he explains as he frowns again towards that table. He's looking back to Parli and then to his hide with a grumbled, "Shards." He slams the hide down and then he's gulping the last of his klah with a grimace.

"Them? Faranth no. I mean, maybe, I don't know." Parli shrugs again, the boneless kind of shrug that only the perpetually bored can manage. "I do, but only because they're idiots and alcohol makes them easier to deal with." The offer to sit is, eventually, taken. She does take her mug of klah back with a sense of weighty disappointment, but settles into picking at her pastry with a distinct lack of interest. A slow swig of klah follows, an eyebrow creeping skyward once more at that grumble and slamming of hide. "Uh... huh." Her gaze flicks to the hide and, if her hands weren't busy, she'd probably be wagging a finger at it. "Bad hide. You're the worst hide ever. Look at what you made the Weyrleader do."

"The hide, the drunks, either would suit for a reason for me to grumble and slam things around," E'dre drawls at Parli. Something of her boredom and sarcasm must be infectious as now ''he's'' sighing like someone who is long suffering. "Just one more thing added to the list of the day," he admits to her with a shrug. He spies an opportunity and lifts his hand, a come-hither wave and point given to his mug. A kitchen staff member bustles over without issue to refill his mug with the newly made klah. "There you are, sir. Nice to see you this morning, sir," the young boy murmurs to E'dre before dashing off to his other tasks. Satsified, E'dre takes his mug up and cradles it against his chest in growing contentment.

"I guess," Parli replies and absently continues picking at the pastry and taking bits and pieces. Her features screw up at something or another - the glazing over of her eyes does plenty to suggest the source - and then she's snorting to herself. She pushes the pastry a bit closer to E'dre. "Go ahead. Point on the pastry where the bad hide touched you." A beat, then: "You have an assistant, right? I mean, just make them deal with it today or whatever. Go do," vague and airy gesticulation ensues, "like, I don't know, whatever else you have to do."

E'dre can't help but chuckle over Parli's pastry and commentary. "No. The pastry wouldn't hold up if I began pointing out all the wrongs of the hide against me." He sips his klah and grimaces against the flavor. "I'll have to talk to them about where we're getting the klah these days. This is ''horrible''." He pats his chest and grimaces again against the burn as it goes down. "An assistant?" E'dre's amusement seems inclined to stay this morning. Parli must've caught him on one of his ''good'' days. "I ''was'' the Weyrsecond. I don't have one trained up as a back-up. Though I let N'rov try for a few days." He eyes her briefly and then gazes back to her wingmates. "You enjoying Flint? Aside from," he gestures in a back-handed way. "That."

A one-shouldered-"whatever floats your boat" shrug resolves in Parli pulling the pastry back. "It would probably be a better fate than it's going to suffer now," she muses. Not that she cares. That thing is going to be destroyed long before it's actually eaten. Both eyebrows raise at his proclamation, her slow smile - a rare thing, indeed - being very much of the unspoken (but obvious) 'I told you so' variety. Aloud: "So why don't you make him do it anyway? Or, I don't know, make some other Wingleader your 'Second of the day or whatever." The question is met with a vague noise, yet another shrug - such powerful shoulders! - and a bored, "I guess. I mean, it's okay. It's not, like, busy all the time any more or anything. Just drills and more drills and, oh boy, even more drills." Go, go, lazy jazz hands. "It's better than talking to Holders like before." ''Ugh.'' - unvoiced, but still there.

E'dre's interest just seems to keep catching as Parli speaks, something sparking in his gaze as he takes more sips from his klah and nods encouragement to her sharing. "I see," he offers, interest turning quickly to calculations. "I never was a fan of talking to Holders. They always seemed to ''want'' something in exchange for our presence," he adds, shifting in his seat. "Which could get annoying. Which Holders did you talk to? I mean, some of them are pretty decent, but others...," he lifts a hand and wriggles it side-to-side as a descriptor. "I guess now that you all don't do that and you've gotta drill," he adds, grinning, "those that don't like the drills are drinking?"

The klah is tried again, to much the same effect as before. Parli sucks her teeth a little, eats some pastry, and slouches a little in her seat. "Well, yeah. I mean. If they came here, wouldn't you want something from them?" Her nose wrinkles. "Ugh. I can't even remember. X'vin has all my reports, so. I guess talk to him or something. I'm sure he still has them somewhere." Another long, deep sigh of the long-suffering, soul-heavy sort is given, coupled with an eyeroll that lasts a second or two too long. "I can't speak for the others, but ''I'' like the drinking. Thank you, alcohol." She raises her klah briefly in a toast to the beverage that is definitely not there. "But, whatever. The drills still get done, so..." She'll just leave that there.

A chance must've been missed for E'dre's not as cheerful and chummy as he was. "Of course X'vin's got your reports," he agrees as he takes a longer pull from his klah. "And if the drinking is really turning into such sport, perhaps I'll have to chat him up a bit about that. Safety. Sanity. Y'know. Can't have all our riders tossing back booze to celebrate the coming of the sun." He shifts in his seat and then stands, pushing the bench out from behind him as he goes. "I'm going to take this offensive hide to throw at N'rov's head," he comments, grabbing the hide. "See if he wants to make sense of it." He's got a smirk for Parli on that, "Thanks for the idea." He tips his head to her and then moves to head out of the caverns. He's got that klah mug but he's left the rest of his dishes behind for someone else to deal with.

There's another rolling of eyes, but Parli doesn't say any more; she's a bit more occupied with her business, such as it is. Her wingmates eventually get up and file out - presumably to get ready for drills - but she doesn't join them. "Sure. Yeah. Just make sure to fold it up or something before you throw it. It doesn't go far otherwise." Spoken from experience, that. There is no getting up to salute, no farewells; there's a vague little wave, though, so there's something? In either case, he leaves and she lingers - and she'll eventually get to her drills. Probably even while it's still morning. Maybe.
}}

Logs:Too Many Chances

2015-10-19T20:40:52Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Nala, E'dre, E'dre{{!}}Wroth |what=E'dre summons Nala to discuss her return to duty. |where=Weyrleader's Office, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=17 |month=1 |tur..."

{{Log
|who=Nala, E'dre, E'dre{{!}}Wroth
|what=E'dre summons Nala to discuss her return to duty.
|where=Weyrleader's Office, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=17
|month=1
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.19
|quote=That will be my expectation of you if you stay.
|mentions=N'muir, N'rov, M'vyn, Ebeny
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Nala Depression.png, Icon E'dre Not Pleased.jpg,
|log=It’s late into the day when Wroth reaches for Jynth, his stormy presence subdued to a tinkling of rain in the distance. Either E’dre has imparted strongly that the brown behave or Wroth is too occupied to bother overly much with the message he delivers to the blue: << Your rider is wanted. He is in the Weyrleader’s office. >> In the office, E’dre has finished reviewing a recent stack of hides and has set to organizing the mess of his desk while he waits for Nala’s entrance. He seems to be in a good enough mood for him and the space within the office seems cheerful with the open glowbaskets and the open door allowing for any to step in without knocking.

Nala doesn’t hurry. She doesn’t seem to do anything quick these days, though nor is she deliberately obstructive. One step after another carries her across the bowl, the hem of her white skirt muddied by the time she reaches the Weyrleaders’ ledges and makes her way up the steps. And still she hesitates, her figure darkening the doorway even with nothing there to block her path, her hands shoved into the pocket of her leather jacket as she waits, her blank stare turned to the room rather than E’dre in particular.

E’dre looks up as he notices the shift in the room and the darkening of that doorway. Nala is given a once over and then he stands from his chair to indicate she come in with a wave of his hand. “Please come in,” he tells her, taking a moment to look beyond her at those passing by. “Close the door if you want the privacy or you may leave it open if you’re more comfortable with that.” He hesitates for a moment, looking to a kettle of klah near to the hearth but decides against offering her some as he re-seats himself. “I wanted to talk to you about coming back to Hematite. Or, if you wish, transferring you to another wing.” He takes a breath and tosses his fingers through his hair, “I’m not N’muir and I may not be doing the best by you with my choices. I want to know where you want to see yourself.”

Nala glances back at the door, considering, then steps away from the entryway and leaves it as it is, without moving to close it. She doesn’t edge far into the cavern beyond, her steps meandering until she finds somewhere to stand that keeps some distance between herself and the Weyrleader, and doesn’t provide anything to lean on or a nearby chair to sit in. “Where would I go?” she asks, somewhat rhetorically. “Jynth is good at what he does. ‘’We’’ were... good. I hamper him, now. I will be the burden, wherever I go. None of your wingleaders are going to want me.” Her answer is delivered without a touch of self-pity, each piece a plain, factual statement.

“Perhaps they won’t,” E’dre answers her honestly, leaning back in his chair as he steeples his fingers together and rests his hands on the desk. “Your behavior and choices don’t make you stand out in a positive light. You have said to me on more than one occasion that you felt that your wingmates were a reason for you to feel unwelcome in Hematite and have caused you problems for their choices. I still don’t quite understand what happened between you and N’rov. I don’t know where you stand,” he reiterates again, “and would like to return you to a more active duty than you and Jynth have been doing. Jynth is a solid blue,” he agrees with Nala on that point, “and he will be an asset to any wing. The question ultimately for you to answer is whether you want to remain in Hematite or move on.”

The bluerider shifts her gaze to watch E’dre for a fraction of a second, before she straightens her shoulders and lifts her focus once more. “Maybe you ‘’could’’ understand it better now that he has been in bed with ‘’your’’ weyrmate,” she answers, slowly and carefully, yet lacking in any weight or emotional investment. “I hear that you were not exactly restrained yourself.” Nala clasps her hands behind her back. “You may ask the healers, if you wish, but they suggest that my behaviour is not always... intentional. I am not sure whether I agree with them or not, but they continue to... help me. It may not be a matter of where I wish to be, but where I should be.”

“I wasn’t aware he was sleeping with your weyrmate,” E’dre counters with a furrowing of brows and a tightening of his lips. Then he shrugs and loosens his facial expression with a quick shake of his head. “I dumped an ale on him and would’ve done more, I think, had I not remembered my station. I did not take his side against you when I made my decision to ground you both. It’s the ‘’location’’ of your argument that tied my hands.” He considers her then for a span of time after her further explanation. “Then you should be in Hematite because it’s where the best riders go,” he tells her, matter-of-fact in that delivery and unashamed to admit that preference. “If you will continue to work with us, we will continue to work with you.”

“I do not have a weyrmate.” It’s an odd distinction to make, having just used the word, though she’s just as clinical about that as the rest. “And you ‘’should’’ have taken his side,” Nala steadily declares. “I tried to make you. I know what I did.” Yet it’s not an apology. What she thinks of his judgement shows only in the slight tilt of her head, for she still doesn’t look straight at E’dre again. “...If I am to remain, then I want a heavy workload. I do not want to be pitied or to go gently. The more I am gone from here, the better, for more than me.”

“The distance and the overworking isn’t what makes a quality rider,” E’dre notes, choosing not to continue to touch on the subject of weyrmates and N’rov. “A quality rider is someone who has your back in a crisis, someone you can trust in the air with decisions, and someone on the ground who can work with others.” He frowns at her, not out of pity but frustration. “You want to be part of a wing but you want to work outside of it. That’s not what I want to hear,” he uses that last sentence with a lifted brow. “Hematite works hard and we work hard ‘’together’’. If you want to be more of an individual, perhaps you should go to a wing that doesn’t seem inclined to mind that. Flint seems to be coming up with their own standards. There’s Malachite.” A shrug. “If you were to stay with Hematite, I want you to find a way to work within the group, not outside of it. That will be my expectation of you if you stay.”

“It is a little odd that you should consider a heavy workload to be ‘’over’’working,” Nala answers without any heat or heart, half-defeated already, given her glance towards the door. “I do not want to be part of a wing,” she seeks to correct. “I have to be, for it is the way of things for Jynth. Working ‘’for’’ a wing hardly requires presence and companionship if the work is still completed as it should be.” She twitches one shoulder. “Why not post me as a watchrider to some nearby hold and have me serve that way?” Whether it’s what she wants or not, she’s no more invested in it. “Am I to have time to decide or must I choose now?”

E’dre continues to look at Nala though his gaze has grown distant. “I don’t know what to say to you,” he finally admits as he refocuses on her and shrugs a shoulder. “I may never know what to say or do with you. I sometimes feel like you actively work against yourself and then come at it in a manner as ‘so be it’. You can be argumentative and then turn into a defeatist.” He sighs and scrubs his hand at the back of his neck as he looks away from her. “You don’t have to choose now. I’ll give you the seven to make up your mind. I won’t post you as a watchrider for longer than a few months, but if that’s what you need now to continue to heal, I’ll grant it.”

“I thought we had established that my being argumentative is not what you wish to hear.” Despite the statement in itself being so. “...Then, I suppose that I believed we were almost friends once, too.” Nala ducks her head and looks towards the door again. “Besides, it is easier to work against myself than have someone else do it, is it not?” If she’s at all wry with that, perhaps it’s a trick of sound. “Saves you the trouble.” When she moves, inch by inch, it’s to turn towards the entryway. “...Thank you,” she murmurs. “You have given me too many chances.”

“I wanted to be your friend,” E’dre agrees and for the first time in the conversation he allows himself to show a hint of sadness, “Whether I screwed that up on my own or it was both of us, I don’t know which. I am not entirely sure we could repair that again.” He watches Nala move towards the door and reaches for a record, any excuse to look down and away from her. “I was given chances I didn’t deserve,” he tells her, “and I only mean to continue to offer that to those who benefit from them.” It’s not a dismissal directly, but he’s giving her an opportunity to leave if she wishes as he flips another record forward to look at.

“No.” It’s agreement, flat though it is. “And perhaps we would both be better off without the effort.” However, it doesn’t stop Nala glancing back at him, even as his latter remark seems to prompt her to flee. Before she can look too long, she ducks her head again and lets her hair fall across her face, effectively concealing her features until she’s well out of sight and away.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Trying to Communicate

2015-10-18T18:18:04Z

Hattie:

{{Log
|who=Ebeny, E'dre, Ebeny{{!}}Laurienth, E'dre{{!}}Wroth
|what=Laurienth rises, but not before Ebeny and E'dre fall to arguing.
|where=Autumnal Eventide Weyr, Flight Weyr, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=3
|month=1
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.18
|quote=You’re the one who chose not to be here. Don’t go telling me that it was for ‘’my’’ benefit.
|mentions=N'rov, Dee
|type=Log
|ooc=Sex. Language.
|icons-new=Icon Ebeny Angry.png, Icon Ebeny Laurienth Electric.png, Icon E'dre Not Pleased.jpg, Icon E'dre n Wroth.jpg,
|log=There’s really only ever one explanation for Laurienth being ‘’sweet’’ to anyone, and it always coincides with her rider being significantly ‘’less’’ so than usual. Up on the rim of the bowl, the shadowy green ‘’glows’’, her muzzle tipped upwards to catch snow and sunlight alike, her watchful interest one which keeps her near to a pair of browns who observe her in turn. Ebeny not strayed far beyond her office today, and even now has retreated back to the safety (for her and others) of her weyr, where she paces as though caged, despite it being of her own volition.

It isn’t all that surprising that one of those browns is Wroth and his animosity to the other who lingers is clearly made with a low-throated growl directed at the other male. At ‘’least’’ it isn’t Vhaeryth up here with them, watching Laurienth with all her tells on the impending flight. Wroth might’ve told E’dre or the brownrider noticed Laurienth himself in passing as he heads home with a resigned expression of one preparing for a battle they don’t want to fight. He’s dressed more formally today, one of his newest and more fashionable shirts and corresponding pants chosen for his time spent outside the Weyr visiting various Holds and Weyrs. He slings his jacket off and sets it on the top of the couch as he passes it. He watches Ebeny for a moment before offering a very cautious, “Hello.” If he had a white flag to wave, now would likely be a good time to offer it up. “Are you hungry?”

“Oh, ‘’now’’ you decide that it’s worth trying to communicate,” Ebeny replies, without actually glancing E’dre’s way at all, or without ceasing her pacing. “Fuck you,” she murmurs, the words a near growl, low and heartfelt. Another width of the room, then she shakes her head and rakes her fingers deep into her hair. “Just go,” the greenrider attempts to insist. “Take whatever it is you want and leave me alone. Get gone before she flies, because I’m not living through another round of your ‘’losing’’ and ‘’sulking’’.”

E’dre rolls his eyes at Ebeny’s response and keeps on walking past her towards that certain cabinet he seems far too inclined to dig into these days. “I won’t ‘get gone’. I have a Weyr to run and this is my home too. I gave you space already and did it serve any purpose? No.” He snorts, snags the bottle he intended to grab and makes his way back to the couch with a cup in hand. “You can go and snarl at someone else. Go pick a fight with N’rov if that’s where your heads at. I’m staying ‘’in’’.” He huffs and drops onto the couch with a grunt. He uncorks the bottle, pours a hearty glassful, and then sets the bottle down beside him. He kicks his feet out in front of him and stares moodily into the glass.

“Actually,” Ebeny says too slowly and too smugly to be at all pleasant, “this is the Weyrlingmaster’s weyr. It’s ‘’my’’ weyr, for the rider who holds my knot. ‘’You’’ have a home across the bowl to claim if you’re so focused on ‘’leading’’.” Whether the influence of her green or just feeling spiteful, she aims a kick at the bottle on her way past the couch. “You’re the one who chose not to be here. Don’t go telling me that it was for ‘’my’’ benefit,” she declares, halfway across the room already regardless of what her kicking has caused. “The only one of us fixating on N’rov is ‘’you’’. If you’re going to bring that up like some kind of trump card every time you’re pissed off, then I don’t know why you’re here at all.”

E’dre takes a breath and a sip of whiskey before he steadies himself enough to answer Ebeny. “We took vows Ebeny. We made this space ‘’ours’’. This is where we are raising our girls. Or were--,” he cuts himself off with a tightening of lips and narrowing of eyes at her. “I’m not using it as a ‘trump card’ as you say. I’ve apologized for my reaction to that flight and you know ‘’damn’’ well I had reason to be upset ‘’outside’’ of that flight!” Each word he emphasizes has him sitting forward and tensing his shoulders. “You are not faultless in your choices. I told you I was sorry how much more are you going to continue to make it an issue? Every time Laurienth rises are you going to taunt me with the fact I lost my head over the loss ‘’that one time’’?” He narrows his eyes and tightens his hands on his glass. “I’m done with this argument. I know you’re proddy and so damn near unreasonable but I’m not going to let it be ‘’this’’ fight that makes us leave each other!”

“And you made a choice – you left,” Ebeny emphasises, with a complete lack of any heated feeling but disdain. “You left for ‘’good’’, for all I knew. And of course you’ve always made ‘’fantastic’’ choices after a flight, haven’t you?” Those last few words are rich with a level of self-loathing that usually well-contained. “If you done with this argument, then just ‘’go’’. There’s nothing for you here. If--“ As she passes the table, she pauses, hands curling around the top of the chair right as Laurienth digs in her claws to scratch against rock and launches herself for the feeding pens. Stalking for the entryway, Ebeny snatches up her jacket and snaps, “Just ‘’go’’; I don’t want you there,” over her shoulder before she vanishes, headed for the flight weyr.

“Don’t you dare act like I had a choice,” E’dre answers harshly, “Hattie had Elaruth ‘’lean’’ on Wroth and it’s not as if you’d have come if I asked!” He scoffs at her accusation of leaving for good, downing the last of his whiskey before he slams the glass down on the table nearest to him. “Like I’d just up and leave you without reason or word? Who do you think I am?” He stands up abruptly as Laurienth launches herself into the sky, Wroth already leaping after and raking his claws out in a threat against the brown that intends to follow. E’dre’s eyes tighten as he attempts to reign in his brown but the choice has already been made and it isn’t E’dre’s that has him following Ebeny to the flight weyr.

“You make a lot of excuses. As always.” Ebeny doesn’t bother with more than that, evidently believing their paths will split, and so she doesn’t look back over her shoulder until she reaches the cavern and finds that she hasn’t been successful in driving E’dre off. She snaps a curse to the nearest rider she finds, who hastily gets out of her way and lets her pass and make her way to the back wall, as much distance as she can manage put between herself, the brownrider and just about any ‘’other’’ rider. Laurienth seems to be much of the same mind, her blooding a quick and messy affair that has her aiming for the skies right when she believes the males are occupied with their own kills.

E’dre stalks into the flight weyr and gives a hard glare to any of the other rider’s present who happen to make eye contact with him. Ebeny chooses her wall and he chooses to stay near the door for a quick retreat when the entire affair is over. His arms fold in front of him and he tips his chin down towards his chest as he opens himself up to Wroth. If he’s here by the brown’s choosing, he’ll focus on the brown’s take on it. Wroth must sense Laurienth’s mood for he doesn’t bother with blooding and barely gives himself time to land and hover while he watches her. He’s quick to follow her upward momentum and doesn’t seem intent on playing any games or focusing on those falling in behind him. He ‘’wants’’ her and he will ‘’have’’ her.

It could all be over in so few minutes, were Laurienth not able to twist her way out of Wroth’s path and gain some height, but ground lost is ground lost, and the fact that she can’t seem to quite put as much space between herself and him is something that only angers her even as she aims higher and higher, her only choice to soar above the Weyr rather than move further and further away from it in terms of radius. She doesn’t have time for acrobatics, only teeth and claws, while Ebeny rakes her hands into her hair and collapses in on herself, sinking down to her knees.

Wroth is persistent in his pursuit, straining himself as he angles himself after her and pushes his wings to the limit with the demands he places upon them. She can use her teeth and claws, he’ll meet them with his own. Violence will beget violence and when he isn’t focusing it on the male competition it stands within his own reason to use it in response to Laurienth. E’dre’s teeth begin to grind as his hands clench at his sides, the anger and need of his dragon sending his adrenaline surging throughout his body. He doesn’t notice Ebeny’s collapse but a bluerider does and she steps forward to try and check on the greenrider out of concern.

Ebeny lashes out, not with fists, but one flailing arm to keep that bluerider from getting any closer to her, the sound of protest that she makes not intelligible as a proper word, only a low, growled warning, her features pale beneath her attempts to burrow into herself and keep herself hidden. Above, there’s only so high that Laurienth can go before she slows and the ground inevitably begins its slow drag to bring her back towards it. She tips nose over tail and kicks out just as she rights herself, intending to see off anyone too close.

The bluerider steps back and out of the way of that flailing arm, a few choice (and not at all polite) epithets used in response. E’dre’s eyes open and he gathers enough focus to check that Ebeny remains untouched before he lurches away from the doorway. Wroth’s right there when she kicks out, his possession of her quick and effective. He bites at her shoulder in warning before he twines fully with her. He’ll guide her the rest of the way towards the ground, exhausted from the speed and intensity of the chase. E’dre continues moving towards Ebeny with resigned steps before Wroth’s passion overtakes him as he reaches to overtake his weyrmate.

Laurienth attempts to twist to deliver an answering bite of her own, but finds herself unable – and near unwilling – to do more than offer up some token scratches of resistance before she surrenders and twines around Wroth in turn. The moment of the catch has Ebeny surging back to her feet, and by the time that her green has given herself over to rising passion, there’s no resistance in her. When she reaches for E’dre, she’s not gentle, yet nor is she all too forceful, the rough edges to her more encouraging than demanding.

There's relief that surfaces as Ebeny does not seem to continue to hold to her demand that E'dre not be present during the flight. The force from E'dre comes by way of torn clothing and firm grabs of Ebeny's hips as he finds reason to use the table, a wall, and finally the bed for purchase. Wroth led them to win with a sign of demanding force and part of E'dre continues that roughness. The path Wroth takes is carefully chosen to leave he and Laurienth to claim a part of the lakeshore. E'dre holds Ebeny long after he's found his release and seems content to keep her in his arms for however long she may tolerate.

As ever, it takes Ebeny a while to surface from the tangle of minds with her green, fingers and teeth both having left marks in their wake, some worse than others. She’s got one hand hooked possessively around E’dre’s hip, curving to smudges of colour that may darken into bruises in the near future, and when she stirs, it’s to roll and pin him beneath her; to kiss him in a commanding fashion that doesn’t yet make any other physical demands of him.

All that earlier aggression has dissipated. E'dre rests his hands on Ben's hips as she pins him, a steadying hand offered as he closes his eyes and murmurs against her lips. He doesn't press her for more, he's admittedly tired after their tousle and ''this'' is almost better than that was. He waits until she's had her kisses before he lifts a hand to move up and through her hair. He takes a moment to search her face and then pulls her down closer for a far slower and more exploratory kiss to share between them.

Ebeny makes a soft, quiet sound as he runs his hand through her hair, her gaze still that little bit distant and not entirely ‘’her’’. Still, she surrenders herself to E’dre’s intentions and lets the edge of aggression diminish until it’s all burnt out and she drops her head down to his shoulder to hide her face in the crook of his neck. “...I’m sorry,” she murmurs. It’s followed by another sound that could be a sob, though she does her best to smother it against skin.

E'dre doesn't say anything or move as Ben presses her face against his skin. He rests a hand calmly at the back of her head and holds her as he stares up at the ceiling. "I love you. More than I ever properly show. I'm sorry. I started all of this." He turns his face to press his lips against her hair. "I'll make it up to you. I promise." He returns to folding his arms about her in a supportive hug and closes his eyes.

“No,” Ebeny quietly insists, slumping down to the bed to lie more at E’dre’s side than hovering over him. “I started it. I don’t know what I was thinking. I ‘’wasn’t’’ thinking. I don’t know why I did it. It was... as if I wasn’t even me.” She still doesn’t lift her head, trying to conceal her expression and tears both. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. And I just didn’t know how to fix it or make it better, and if you were going to leave I should just let you, because it’s all my fault...”

“We’ve both been under a lot of pressure,” E’dre reasons, turning on his side as he continues, “and sometimes being strained makes you make choices you wouldn’t have made otherwise.” He props his head in the palm of his hand as he angles his elbow to support. “I don’t know. It felt good to get mad at N’rov. I don’t know if it was Laurienth’s flight that set me off, or the fact that he’s young, or a bronzerider. When I held this knot in the past it was never for any length of time - not like it is now. And to think that all the hard work I’ve done, all the daily effort, will simply be handed over to someone else at the end simply because my dragon has no chance,” he sighs and lowers his head back to the pillow as he tips back onto his back. “Even if Wroth does manage it. I’m not sure people would be pleased to see it solidified.” He stares at the ceiling and then inches his hand closer to hers to hold. “So I attacked N’rov. And I blamed you for my stress. I am the one to blame, Ben. Not you.”

“...Flights aren’t a good way for any kind of decision to be made,” Ebeny murmurs around a hiccupping noise, finally lifting her head to reveal the tear tracks down her face. “Definitely not leadership. It isn’t fair to anyone involved.” She reaches down to draw the covers up over her shoulders and huddles there. “...Is it because he seems like the most likely one to take the knot?” she asks, carefully and quietly, surrendering her hand to his. “...If it ‘’is’’ him... before... ‘’this’’... you would work well together, if he gave you your old knot back. And unless Taeliyth grows really fast in the next few months... she’s ‘’little’’.” There’s only so long that she can argue logically in her current state, and so she ducks her head down again. “If we’d... taken more notice of each other at the ‘Reaches, we could’ve had turns and turns before things got... difficult,” she says slowly, which only sets her off all over again, for no one discernible reason.

“It’s how it’s done,” E’dre answers with a shrug and a ‘so it is’ twist to his lips as he looks at Ben with a softer expression. “Please don’t cry,” he coaxes, lifting a thumb out to brush at the tears tracking down her face. “I hate seeing you cry.” Further mention of N’rov and the size of Taeliyth has him shaking his head. “I won’t take my old knot back. Not right away, and only if the next Weyrleader is worth giving that much of myself to. I may see if I can’t lead a wing. But, no. It may be time to focus my energies on other things.” He tips forward then to press his lips between her brows and then to the tip of her nose. “You probably hated me when we were at Reaches. I was an insufferable ass. More than I am now,” he teases, “and you needed someone else then.”

Another hiccupping noise precedes, “I didn’t hate anyone, then. I ‘’wasn’t anyone’’, then.” But Ebeny does her best to suppress any further tears, partly by pressing herself against her weyrmate again. “I guess... if you can’t respect the next man to get the knot, then that’s that. I don’t want assistants who I can’t get along with, or who don’t really want their knots. It’s a little the same.” If not exactly completely. “I’m sorry,” she says again. “I must be letting too much of her,” Laurienth, “in. I didn’t think there’d be much harm in it... if it was just going to be her and me.”

“Stop apologizing,” E’dre murmurs, gathering her up in his arms to hold. “I could say the same about Wroth. He’s gone from this apathetic prick of a dragon to one that has aspirations. He ‘’likes’’ the status too much.” He shakes his head and sighs. “But enough of them. Enough of ‘’apologies.’’” He presses his lips into her hair. “Let’s find something else to do. And leave our worries for another day. They’re unlikely to rouse in enough time to leave the Weyr for the day. But when we’re in here… no one will come knocking and bothering.” He shifts, moving to tip her chin up so he can place a gentle kiss against them. “We don’t have to do anything but this,” he tells her, “for a few hours yet.”

“Then maybe you should let Wroth do what he wants to do.” When the time arrives. She’s evidently mostly, or perhaps wilfully, oblivious to the hypocrisy of her comment, in more than the fact that Ebeny leaves it well enough alone and allows herself to be distracted by E’dre’s encouragement the more he argues by way of words and lips. She’s more controlled now in how she reaches for him, mindful to try and avoid what marks she’s already left behind, and conscious of what the wall has done to her back. Rather than drape herself back over him, she lies back and coaxes him over her, intent on forgetting anything but reasons to stay in bed for the foreseeable future.

E’dre is more than willing to follow Ben’s coaxing as he continues to keep a steady stream of kisses up to encourage this shift between them. Her earlier mention of Reaches draws E’dre to remember other times that they were in the flight weyr and he’s careful in his lovemaking, taking the time to relish every inch of her as if this time were fleeting between them. He’s mindful of the marks on him and more so of any that are obvious on her. Careful and slow, he teases her from any further thoughts until both of them find satisfaction. How long they linger after, what they may or may not discuss, seems to be dependent upon Ben’s wishes. E’dre’s contentment radiates from him when they finally do leave, with his hand firmly in hers, as they return to their own weyr.
|Categories=Flight Logs, Post-Flight Logs
}}

Logs:Little Good

2015-10-18T18:17:07Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Hattie, N'rov |what=Discussion of a soon to be posted Harper and the fate of M'kris. |where=Records Room, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=2 |month=1 |turn=39 |IP..."

{{Log
|who=Hattie, N'rov
|what=Discussion of a soon to be posted Harper and the fate of M'kris.
|where=Records Room, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=2
|month=1
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.17
|quote=I'll miss her.
|mentions=Suireh, R'hin, E'dre, M'vyn, Ebeny, N'muir, Kyouri, M'kris
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Hattie Predatory.png, Icon n'rov look.png,
|log=The second day of the Turn finds N'rov in the records room, of all places; it's crowded, so the wingsecond either got up early or displaced someone else to get himself an alcove, even though it means ''no beer''. His sleeves are rolled up, and he's jotting notes in a steady hand.

Between searching along one aisle and another, Hattie has been in the records for a while now, keeping herself to herself as she makes notations on the clipboard that she balances against shelves every now and then. When she reaches the end of one row, her steps take her closer to N'rov's alcove, where she pauses and watches him for a moment before asking, "Reports?"

"Indeed." N'rov finishes the word before putting his pen aside, his smile unhurried but quite present. "Yours? I trust that your recordskeepers did not enjoy the Turn ''too'' much, to have to have it put to rights."

"In all honesty, I think that some of them would be the first to complain if this place suffered at the hands of a celebration," Hattie answers dryly, wandering a step or so to snag a nearby chair and move it a little closer. "Just making note of some volumes that could do with copying and replacing. We've a Harper Master being posted soon and I suppose I don't want her looking down on this place."

"Are you positive? I can see them," and N'rov cups his hand to his eyes as though to do just that, "crawling atop the shelving when they get bored of under the tables, drinks in hand." With the acting Weyrwoman making herself at home, he wipes off his pen and covers the inkwell. "I hope she isn't too much of a despot, waving a cane at every faded page. Makes me wonder what we did to rate her." Amused gray eyes rest on Hattie, as though checking for ''clues''.

"Perhaps the Hall isn't happy that we have a greenrider Weyrharper," Hattie considers, the twitch of her shoulder one that suggests that it's not a particularly serious concern. "Or perhaps they think we need cheering up. Word is that she specialises in performance." Another shrug. "It'll be an interesting experience, I'm sure."

"That must be it. They heard about his immoral and provocative tunes that entice us into iniquity, ''thoroughly'' unlike those of harpers who don't have so much as a second glass of wine." It rolls so glibly off the bronzerider's tongue, accentuating the otherwise subtle contrast to, "Cheering wouldn't be bad. ''Performance'', and a ''master''. Time to break out those high standards." After a brief moment, casually, "What's her name?"

"Suireh." If Hattie knows more of her than that, there's no indication of it, the name offered over like she might any other. "Whatever happens, I hope there won't be conflict between her and M'vyn, or the Weyrlingmaster - not that I've seen ''her'' performing in... months?" With a sigh and the roll of her shoulders, she murmurs, "I've had quite enough of conflict, recently."

"''Suireh''." N'rov's baritone complicates that name; he leans back in his seat, rubbing his palm from scruffy cheekbone to forehead. "Well, well, well. Be careful of what... well." One gray eye peers at her, out from behind his hand. "I don't expect conflict, not from her end. She's good at working the crowd."

She doesn't rush to enquire, yet there's a edge to Hattie's voice that wasn't there a moment and more ago when she questions, "Be careful of what...?" Dark eyes don't so much stare as study in the seconds before she adds, "I'm to understand that you know her then?"

N'rov returns her look in silence, a slow flex of shoulders his solitary shrug. "She ''is'' an accomplished singer," he says finally, "You need have no doubt about that. Just..." His drawl draws out into nothingness, and past. "Take care, should you ask about her father. She ''is''," also, "recently bereaved."

"You can rest assured that I won't be asking about her father, and not only because I can't claim to know her well enough to be so forward about her family." There's something there, some faint measure of chastisement for the very thought. "Though I do wonder at the... timing," Hattie admits. "Not of her being posted to ''us'', but of her being posted anywhere at all in the wake of..."

"I sit reproved," N'rov says easily. "If everyone were so polite, I wonder where we'd be." He doesn't seek to speculate himself, but rather agree, "There is that. I don't pretend to know the ins and outs of postings, nor how the negotiations went: how well we can afford her."

"If there's a reason that we can and should afford her that will do her some good as well as us, I see no cause to question it too deeply." Hattie glances across the records and the low-key milling about of its current visitors. "I imagine there are those other than you that she knows here. If being here will help her... It's that it might not that concerns me. Still, I hardly think that she'll want her emotional state interrogated."

"Who would?" is N'rov's complete agreement, though then he catches his breath just shy of interrupting himself with other names, who would all too well. He does ask, all of a sudden, "What would you do with M'kris if you had him?"

"If he's all that he's made out to be, I'd take no issue with ensuring that he lost either his freedom or his life," Hattie answers bluntly. "However, it's not so simple when there's his dragon to consider too, not that any of us should count on our lifemates to be what prevents anyone from doing what should be done." She shrugs. "But I don't have him. Kyouri does. So, what would you do?"

N'rov meets that last question with a wry look, a hooked-up brow. "Throw myself on Kyouri's mercy, that she might decide for me," he drawls. The sardonic quality subsides for the one brief sentence, "I'll miss her." He doesn't play with his pen, doesn't even look stunningly pensive, just gets to analysis. "I wouldn't kill his dragon, no." Definite. "They're saying it's a scuffle, those who aren't saying M'kris planned it. I'd want to find out. No matter what, it's a tragedy."

"...You don't have to miss her if you don't choose to," Hattie says with a gentleness at odds with the severity of her expression. What she means - or what she doesn't - isn't something that she opts to elaborate about. "Regardless, I've heard little good about the man. Perhaps it should be that his story ends now, one way or another. As I've said, I'm growing rather tired of conflict."

Nor does he ask, or argue. "How to end his story," is N'rov's different question. "The other way?"

"It would be too much, I suppose, to hope that he might end things of his own volition." Hattie gives a slight shake of her head. "Not that that would make the matter of his dragon any less of one." She smoothes her skirts over her knees and stands, returning the chair to where she's moved it from. "Can I do anything for you, N'rov?" she asks, as she pauses at his chair once more.

"I'd like to think," N'rov says carefully, "that if there were an accident and a man and dragon dead, that E'dre or N'muir wouldn't be given up so easily. Or any of us." He, too, stands. With it, his tone lightens. "I'd ''say'', get our stipends back to usual, but I'd wager you're working on that. At least, I'd wager if that wouldn't be the next thing taxed... I do keep getting asked about it, though, so if you ever have an ETA."

"You and N'muir and E'dre don't have the same reputation as the man in question," Hattie says flatly, unrepentant in that insistence. "When I know that adjustments can be made to pay without it causing further issues, I'll let you know," she assures. "Funny that I didn't have marks down at the top of your list..." A shrug, then the Weyrwoman turns and begins to head towards the spiral staircase.

His brows lift in real surprise. "Was it that open an offer?" That real an offer? "Keep in mind, the marks aren't so much ''mine''." N'rov stays standing to see her out.

"What do you think?" She'll let him make his own assumptions, about both the nature and longevity of the offer, that question called over her shoulder as Hattie vanishes from sight.
|Categories=General Logs, The Death of R'hin Logs
}}

Logs:Trying to Communicate

2015-10-18T17:13:07Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Ebeny, E'dre, Ebeny{{!}}Laurienth, E'dre{{!}}Wroth |what=Laurienth rises, but not before Ebeny and E'dre fall to arguing. |where=Autumnal Eventide Weyr, Flight Weyr..."

{{Log
|who=Ebeny, E'dre, Ebeny{{!}}Laurienth, E'dre{{!}}Wroth
|what=Laurienth rises, but not before Ebeny and E'dre fall to arguing.
|where=Autumnal Eventide Weyr, Flight Weyr, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=3
|month=1
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.18
|quote=You’re the one who chose not to be here. Don’t go telling me that it was for ‘’my’’ benefit.
|mentions=N'rov, Dee
|type=Log
|ooc=Sex. Language.
|icons-new=Icon Ebeny Angry.png, Icon Ebeny Laurienth Electric.png, Icon E'dre Not Pleased.jpg, Icon E'dre n Wroth.jpg,
|log=There’s really only ever one explanation for Laurienth being ‘’sweet’’ to anyone, and it always coincides with her rider being significantly ‘’less’’ so than usual. Up on the rim of the bowl, the shadowy green ‘’glows’’, her muzzle tipped upwards to catch snow and sunlight alike, her watchful interest one which keeps her near to a pair of browns who observe her in turn. Ebeny not strayed far beyond her office today, and even now has retreated back to the safety (for her and others) of her weyr, where she paces as though caged, despite it being of her own volition.

It isn’t all that surprising that one of those browns is Wroth and his animosity to the other who lingers is clearly made with a low-throated growl directed at the other male. At ‘’least’’ it isn’t Vhaeryth up here with them, watching Laurienth with all her tells on the impending flight. Wroth might’ve told E’dre or the brownrider noticed Laurienth himself in passing as he heads home with a resigned expression of one preparing for a battle they don’t want to fight. He’s dressed more formally today, one of his newest and more fashionable shirts and corresponding pants chosen for his time spent outside the Weyr visiting various Holds and Weyrs. He slings his jacket off and sets it on the top of the couch as he passes it. He watches Ebeny for a moment before offering a very cautious, “Hello.” If he had a white flag to wave, now would likely be a good time to offer it up. “Are you hungry?”

“Oh, ‘’now’’ you decide that it’s worth trying to communicate,” Ebeny replies, without actually glancing E’dre’s way at all, or without ceasing her pacing. “Fuck you,” she murmurs, the words a near growl, low and heartfelt. Another width of the room, then she shakes her head and rakes her fingers deep into her hair. “Just go,” the greenrider attempts to insist. “Take whatever it is you want and leave me alone. Get gone before she flies, because I’m not living through another round of your ‘’losing’’ and ‘’sulking’’.”

E’dre rolls his eyes at Ebeny’s response and keeps on walking past her towards that certain cabinet he seems far too inclined to dig into these days. “I won’t ‘get gone’. I have a Weyr to run and this is my home too. I gave you space already and did it serve any purpose? No.” He snorts, snags the bottle he intended to grab and makes his way back to the couch with a cup in hand. “You can go and snarl at someone else. Go pick a fight with N’rov if that’s where your heads at. I’m staying ‘’in’’.” He huffs and drops onto the couch with a grunt. He uncorks the bottle, pours a hearty glassful, and then sets the bottle down beside him. He kicks his feet out in front of him and stares moodily into the glass.

“Actually,” Ebeny says too slowly and too smugly to be at all pleasant, “this is the Weyrlingmaster’s weyr. It’s ‘’my’’ weyr, for the rider who holds my knot. ‘’You’’ have a home across the bowl to claim if you’re so focused on ‘’leading’’.” Whether the influence of her green or just feeling spiteful, she aims a kick at the bottle on her way past the couch. “You’re the one who chose not to be here. Don’t go telling me that it was for ‘’my’’ benefit,” she declares, halfway across the room already regardless of what her kicking has caused. “The only one of us fixating on N’rov is ‘’you’’. If you’re going to bring that up like some kind of trump card every time you’re pissed off, then I don’t know why you’re here at all.”

E’dre takes a breath and a sip of whiskey before he steadies himself enough to answer Ebeny. “We took vows Ebeny. We made this space ‘’ours’’. This is where we are raising our girls. Or were--,” he cuts himself off with a tightening of lips and narrowing of eyes at her. “I’m not using it as a ‘trump card’ as you say. I’ve apologized for my reaction to that flight and you know ‘’damn’’ well I had reason to be upset ‘’outside’’ of that flight!” Each word he emphasizes has him sitting forward and tensing his shoulders. “You are not faultless in your choices. I told you I was sorry how much more are you going to continue to make it an issue? Every time Laurienth rises are you going to taunt me with the fact I lost my head over the loss ‘’that one time’’?” He narrows his eyes and tightens his hands on his glass. “I’m done with this argument. I know you’re proddy and so damn near unreasonable but I’m not going to let it be ‘’this’’ fight that makes us leave each other!”

“And you made a choice – you left,” Ebeny emphasises, with a complete lack of any heated feeling but disdain. “You left for ‘’good’’, for all I knew. And of course you’ve always made ‘’fantastic’’ choices after a flight, haven’t you?” Those last few words are rich with a level of self-loathing that usually well-contained. “If you done with this argument, then just ‘’go’’. There’s nothing for you here. If--“ As she passes the table, she pauses, hands curling around the top of the chair right as Laurienth digs in her claws to scratch against rock and launches herself for the feeding pens. Stalking for the entryway, Ebeny snatches up her jacket and snaps, “Just ‘’go’’; I don’t want you there,” over her shoulder before she vanishes, headed for the flight weyr.

“Don’t you dare act like I had a choice,” E’dre answers harshly, “Hattie had Elaruth ‘’lean’’ on Wroth and it’s not as if you’d have come if I asked!” He scoffs at her accusation of leaving for good, downing the last of his whiskey before he slams the glass down on the table nearest to him. “Like I’d just up and leave you without reason or word? Who do you think I am?” He stands up abruptly as Laurienth launches herself into the sky, Wroth already leaping after and raking his claws out in a threat against the brown that intends to follow. E’dre’s eyes tighten as he attempts to reign in his brown but the choice has already been made and it isn’t E’dre’s that has him following Ebeny to the flight weyr.

“You make a lot of excuses. As always.” Ebeny doesn’t bother with more than that, evidently believing their paths will split, and so she doesn’t look back over her shoulder until she reaches the cavern and finds that she hasn’t been successful in driving E’dre off. She snaps a curse to the nearest rider she finds, who hastily gets out of her way and lets her pass and make her way to the back wall, as much distance as she can manage put between herself, the brownrider and just about any ‘’other’’ rider. Laurienth seems to be much of the same mind, her blooding a quick and messy affair that has her aiming for the skies right when she believes the males are occupied with their own kills.

E’dre stalks into the flight weyr and gives a hard glare to any of the other rider’s present who happen to make eye contact with him. Ebeny chooses her wall and he chooses to stay near the door for a quick retreat when the entire affair is over. His arms fold in front of him and he tips his chin down towards his chest as he opens himself up to Wroth. If he’s here by the brown’s choosing, he’ll focus on the brown’s take on it. Wroth must sense Laurienth’s mood for he doesn’t bother with blooding and barely gives himself time to land and hover while he watches her. He’s quick to follow her upward momentum and doesn’t seem intent on playing any games or focusing on those falling in behind him. He ‘’wants’’ her and he will ‘’have’’ her.

It could all be over in so few minutes, were Laurienth not able to twist her way out of Wroth’s path and gain some height, but ground lost is ground lost, and the fact that she can’t seem to quite put as much space between herself and him is something that only angers her even as she aims higher and higher, her only choice to soar above the Weyr rather than move further and further away from it in terms of radius. She doesn’t have time for acrobatics, only teeth and claws, while Ebeny rakes her hands into her hair and collapses in on herself, sinking down to her knees.

Wroth is persistent in his pursuit, straining himself as he angles himself after her and pushes his wings to the limit with the demands he places upon them. She can use her teeth and claws, he’ll meet them with his own. Violence will beget violence and when he isn’t focusing it on the male competition it stands within his own reason to use it in response to Laurienth. E’dre’s teeth begin to grind as his hands clench at his sides, the anger and need of his dragon sending his adrenaline surging throughout his body. He doesn’t notice Ebeny’s collapse but a bluerider does and she steps forward to try and check on the greenrider out of concern.

Ebeny lashes out, not with fists, but one flailing arm to keep that bluerider from getting any closer to her, the sound of protest that she makes not intelligible as a proper word, only a low, growled warning, her features pale beneath her attempts to burrow into herself and keep herself hidden. Above, there’s only so high that Laurienth can go before she slows and the ground inevitably begins its slow drag to bring her back towards it. She tips nose over tail and kicks out just as she rights herself, intending to see off anyone too close.

The bluerider steps back and out of the way of that flailing arm, a few choice (and not at all polite) epithets used in response. E’dre’s eyes open and he gathers enough focus to check that Ebeny remains untouched before he lurches away from the doorway. Wroth’s right there when she kicks out, his possession of her quick and effective. He bites at her shoulder in warning before he twines fully with her. He’ll guide her the rest of the way towards the ground, exhausted from the speed and intensity of the chase. E’dre continues moving towards Ebeny with resigned steps before Wroth’s passion overtakes him as he reaches to overtake his weyrmate.

Laurienth attempts to twist to deliver an answering bite of her own, but finds herself unable – and near unwilling – to do more than offer up some token scratches of resistance before she surrenders and twines around Wroth in turn. The moment of the catch has Ebeny surging back to her feet, and by the time that her green has given herself over to rising passion, there’s no resistance in her. When she reaches for E’dre, she’s not gentle, yet nor is she all too forceful, the rough edges to her more encouraging than demanding.

There's relief that surfaces as Ebeny does not seem to continue to hold to her demand that E'dre not be present during the flight. The force from E'dre comes by way of torn clothing and firm grabs of Ebeny's hips as he finds reason to use the table, a wall, and finally the bed for purchase. Wroth led them to win with a sign of demanding force and part of E'dre continues that roughness. The path Wroth takes is carefully chosen to leave he and Laurienth to claim a part of the lakeshore. E'dre holds Ebeny long after he's found his release and seems content to keep her in his arms for however long she may tolerate.

As ever, it takes Ebeny a while to surface from the tangle of minds with her green, fingers and teeth both having left marks in their wake, some worse than others. She’s got one hand hooked possessively around E’dre’s hip, curving to smudges of colour that may darken into bruises in the near future, and when she stirs, it’s to roll and pin him beneath her; to kiss him in a commanding fashion that doesn’t yet make any other physical demands of him.

All that earlier aggression has dissipated. E'dre rests his hands on Ben's hips as she pins him, a steadying hand offered as he closes his eyes and murmurs against her lips. He doesn't press her for more, he's admittedly tired after their tousle and ''this'' is almost better than that was. He waits until she's had her kisses before he lifts a hand to move up and through her hair. He takes a moment to search her face and then pulls her down closer for a far slower and more exploratory kiss to share between them.

Ebeny makes a soft, quiet sound as he runs his hand through her hair, her gaze still that little bit distant and not entirely ‘’her’’. Still, she surrenders herself to E’dre’s intentions and lets the edge of aggression diminish until it’s all burnt out and she drops her head down to his shoulder to hide her face in the crook of his neck. “...I’m sorry,” she murmurs. It’s followed by another sound that could be a sob, though she does her best to smother it against skin.

E'dre doesn't say anything or move as Ben presses her face against his skin. He rests a hand calmly at the back of her head and holds her as he stares up at the ceiling. "I love you. More than I ever properly show. I'm sorry. I started all of this." He turns his face to press his lips against her hair. "I'll make it up to you. I promise." He returns to folding his arms about her in a supportive hug and closes his eyes.

“No,” Ebeny quietly insists, slumping down to the bed to lie more at E’dre’s side than hovering over him. “I started it. I don’t know what I was thinking. I ‘’wasn’t’’ thinking. I don’t know why I did it. It was... as if I wasn’t even me.” She still doesn’t lift her head, trying to conceal her expression and tears both. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. And I just didn’t know how to fix it or make it better, and if you were going to leave I should just let you, because it’s all my fault...”

“We’ve both been under a lot of pressure,” E’dre reasons, turning on his side as he continues, “and sometimes being strained makes you make choices you wouldn’t have made otherwise.” He props his head in the palm of his hand as he angles his elbow to support. “I don’t know. It felt good to get mad at N’rov. I don’t know if it was Laurienth’s flight that set me off, or the fact that he’s young, or a bronzerider. When I held this knot in the past it was never for any length of time - not like it is now. And to think that all the hard work I’ve done, all the daily effort, will simply be handed over to someone else at the end simply because my dragon has no chance,” he sighs and lowers his head back to the pillow as he tips back onto his back. “Even if Wroth does manage it. I’m not sure people would be pleased to see it solidified.” He stares at the ceiling and then inches his hand closer to hers to hold. “So I attacked N’rov. And I blamed you for my stress. I am the one to blame, Ben. Not you.”

“...Flights aren’t a good way for any kind of decision to be made,” Ebeny murmurs around a hiccupping noise, finally lifting her head to reveal the tear tracks down her face. “Definitely not leadership. It isn’t fair to anyone involved.” She reaches down to draw the covers up over her shoulders and huddles there. “...Is it because he seems like the most likely one to take the knot?” she asks, carefully and quietly, surrendering her hand to his. “...If it ‘’is’’ him... before... ‘’this’’... you would work well together, if he gave you your old knot back. And unless Taeliyth grows really fast in the next few months... she’s ‘’little’’.” There’s only so long that she can argue logically in her current state, and so she ducks her head down again. “If we’d... taken more notice of each other at the ‘Reaches, we could’ve had turns and turns before things got... difficult,” she says slowly, which only sets her off all over again, for no one discernible reason.

“It’s how it’s done,” E’dre answers with a shrug and a ‘so it is’ twist to his lips as he looks at Ben with a softer expression. “Please don’t cry,” he coaxes, lifting a thumb out to brush at the tears tracking down her face. “I hate seeing you cry.” Further mention of N’rov and the size of Taeliyth has him shaking his head. “I won’t take my old knot back. Not right away, and only if the next Weyrleader is worth giving that much of myself to. I may see if I can’t lead a wing. But, no. It may be time to focus my energies on other things.” He tips forward then to press his lips between her brows and then to the tip of her nose. “You probably hated me when we were at Reaches. I was an insufferable ass. More than I am now,” he teases, “and you needed someone else then.”

Another hiccupping noise precedes, “I didn’t hate anyone, then. I ‘’wasn’t anyone’’, then.” But Ebeny does her best to suppress any further tears, partly by pressing herself against her weyrmate again. “I guess... if you can’t respect the next man to get the knot, then that’s that. I don’t want assistants who I can’t get along with, or who don’t really want their knots. It’s a little the same.” If not exactly completely. “I’m sorry,” she says again. “I must be letting too much of her,” Laurienth, “in. I didn’t think there’d be much harm in it... if it was just going to be her and me.”

“Stop apologizing,” E’dre murmurs, gathering her up in his arms to hold. “I could say the same about Wroth. He’s gone from this apathetic prick of a dragon to one that has aspirations. He ‘’likes’’ the status too much.” He shakes his head and sighs. “But enough of them. Enough of ‘’apologies.’’” He presses his lips into her hair. “Let’s find something else to do. And leave our worries for another day. They’re unlikely to rouse in enough time to leave the Weyr for the day. But when we’re in here… no one will come knocking and bothering.” He shifts, moving to tip her chin up so he can place a gentle kiss against them. “We don’t have to do anything but this,” he tells her, “for a few hours yet.”

“Then maybe you should let Wroth do what he wants to do.” When the time arrives. She’s evidently mostly, or perhaps wilfully, oblivious to the hypocrisy of her comment, in more than the fact that Ebeny leaves it well enough alone and allows herself to be distracted by E’dre’s encouragement the more he argues by way of words and lips. She’s more controlled now in how she reaches for him, mindful to try and avoid what marks she’s already left behind, and conscious of what the wall has done to her back. Rather than drape herself back over him, she lies back and coaxes him over her, intent on forgetting anything but reasons to stay in bed for the foreseeable future.

E’dre is more than willing to follow Ben’s coaxing as he continues to keep a steady stream of kisses up to encourage this shift between them. Her earlier mention of Reaches draws E’dre to remember other times that they were in the flight weyr and he’s careful in his lovemaking, taking the time to relish every inch of her as if this time were fleeting between them. He’s mindful of the marks on him and more so of any that are obvious on her. Careful and slow, he teases her from any further thoughts until both of them find satisfaction. How long they linger after, what they may or may not discuss, seems to be dependent upon Ben’s wishes. E’dre’s contentment radiates from him when they finally do leave, with his hand firmly in hers, as they return to their own weyr.
|Categories=Flight Logs, Post-Flight Logs
}}

Logs talk:Green Seventeen

2015-10-18T14:48:13Z

Hattie: Comment provided by Ebeny - via ArticleComments extension

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

==Ebeny (07:48, 18 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Something shiny next turn...? <3

Logs:Politics, Not Scandal

2015-10-13T20:56:33Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Hattie, E'dre, Hattie{{!}}Elaruth, E'dre{{!}}Wroth |what=After the Weyr Council, there are drinks, a morose mood and plans for bronzeriders. |where=Council Room, Fo..."

{{Log
|who=Hattie, E'dre, Hattie{{!}}Elaruth, E'dre{{!}}Wroth
|what=After the Weyr Council, there are drinks, a morose mood and plans for bronzeriders.
|where=Council Room, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=26
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.13
|quote=Try being weyrmated to your Weyrleader and turned-on when he gets angry.
|mentions=N'rov, Ebeny, N'muir, A'ryk, M'kris, Kyouri, R'hin, Ali, Mirinda
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Hattie Power.png, Icon E'dre Not Pleased.jpg, Icon Hattie Elaruth Origami.png, Icon E'dre n Wroth.jpg,
|log=It’s been a long day by the time a return is made to Fort, the light dim enough for a faint glow to be seen emanating from the weyr that Hattie’s family occupies, and yet, when Elaruth makes a careful landing on her ledge, the Weyrwoman appears to be in no hurry to trek inside her weyr and find her weyrmate and child. Instead, she slowly strips her queen’s straps away and lets ‘’her’’ head inside to the comfort of her own mate, while she turns for the council room. She opens glows along the way, the lamp left unlit, until she reaches the sideboard and pours a generous measure into a heavy glass, then tips an empty one towards E’dre in silent query.

E’dre’s a step behind Hattie into the councilroom, Wroth’s straps laid out near the entrance rather than set at home. He nods his head at Hattie in acceptance of that offer before he moves to slide into a chair. He’s too tired to care about the slouch of shoulders and the tilt of his body in the chair. He kicks out his boots and settles them on the chair beside him as he heaves a sigh. “That took everything out of me, I think,” he admits to her as he scrubs a hand down his face and then brushes his hair back from his forehead.

Hattie is a little clumsy in the way that she lets the empty glass thunk to the tabletop, then sloshes the whiskey into it. She slides it across to him with a little shove, leaving a smudge of spilled alcohol in its wake, and for a half-moment it looks like she might lick it from the table. Not today. Collecting up her own glass, she flops down into her usual seat and begins unbuttoning her jacket with one hand. “At least it was Kyouri,” she murmurs. “It’s the best outcome we could hope for. I don’t know ‘’what’’ Ali was thinking with Mirinda.” She smirks over the rim of her glass. “Now you really will have to start training N’rov. Soon, potentially.”

E’dre takes the glass with a murmured, “Thanks.” He takes a hearty swig of it that is followed by a grimace to the burn of it down his throat and the fumes that hit his nostrils. “The best outcome we could’ve hoped for would’ve been the one in which no one decides to take a life,” he grumbles, sipping more cautiously this time at the glass. Mention of N’rov draws a darkening to E’dre’s features. “A brownrider training a bronzerider on how to be a Weyrleader? The blasphemy of that,” he’s too tired to hide his thoughts from Hattie, no matter how petulant and child-like he may seem. “I’ll do what I can. I still haven’t mended much between us since he went and fucked my weyrmate.” He lets that drop into the conversation with little thought as he finishes his glass and sets it on the table.

“Assuming you mean beyond R’hin’s, from what I’ve heard we may well all be better off without M’kris.” She demonstrates no shame in stating so, the tilt of her glass what must serve for a shrug. “Anyway, Kyouri only works out for us if N’rov is any kind of willing to let Vhaeryth chase again. He needn’t be told why you impart anything more than you would to any other wingsecond, not that I believe he’s so oblivious as not to notice.” Hattie tips her head back and drains a long drink from her glass. “He should ‘’notice’’ Kyouri’s new status, at any rate,” she remarks rather raspily. Only then does she pause before braving what she has previously stepped away from. “Do I assume attraction or flight? In terms of his being in bed with your weyrmate.”

“I meant in terms of R’hin’s death,” E’dre explains, shaking his head at Hattie’s mention of M’kris, “And killing M’kris, if he is found to be guilty, will serve us no purpose either.” He’s notably bleak in that delivery, though he taps his glass to indicate he’d like more of that whiskey. “I tapped N’rov to wingsecond with the intention of preparing him for being Weyrleader at ‘’Fort’’,” he continues, shifting in his seat to stretch his arms behind him with a grunt. “Because I needed to start looking to our bronzeriders ‘’of’’ Fort for such a purpose. None outside of X’vin have made it clear that is their intentions.” He waits until he’s had more whiskey before he tackles that latter topic. “It was a flight at first and then Ebeny admitted to more after it ended. I don’t know,” he twitches a shoulder, “I’ve got to proceed carefully with how I choose to continue to react. Ebeny is our Weyrlingmaster and ‘’that’’ along with N’rov as my wingsecond… I never thought politics and my professional life would bleed so heavily into my personal.”

Hattie’s silence on the subject of M’kris’ fate may well be enough to convey her disagreement, anything she might have said swallowed down with the last of her drink. “Try being weyrmated to your Weyrleader and turned-on when he gets angry,” she drawls, not without sympathy, but lacking in any outright humour, the bottle nudged towards E’dre. “I think you’ve already made a rather clear statement, not that that’s probably what you want to hear. She was here and you were somewhere else. And here you are, now.” But then, here she is, now. “If things become too muddied with N’rov, you might not have the chance to train him for anything. ...N’muir and I managed to run a Weyr when hardly speaking. You need not see the Weyrlingmaster at all after the weyrlings have graduated.”

E’dre shakes his head, taking the time to drink rather than fill the silence with his thoughts. He shifts his feet on the chair beside him, crossing them at the ankle. “I guess I didn’t intend that to be as big of a statement as it ended up being,” he admits as he cradles the glass against his chest, intent on nursing this refill rather than chugging it down. “I will see her,” he answers, frowning down at the glass, “if she’ll see me. It was just a fight. People ‘’fight’’.” He shakes his head and tips it back against the chair. “I’m distracting us from the obvious reason why we’re here,” he tells her with a twitch of a smirk at the corner of his lips. “If we push N’rov in the right way, perhaps we can get him installed at Monaco. Then if things go to hell here,” he tries to sound light on this subject but the tension of their conversation makes the joke miss its mark, “we have a place to go to.”

“...People fight,” Hattie agrees, in what’s not a terribly reassuring way. She’s silent for long enough that it might seem she’s able to hold her tongue, yet she adds, more quietly, “If you’re not careful and you snap at and fight with them both, all you might do is drive them together and against you.” There’s very little change to her expression as she listens, neither frown nor smile summoned in answer. “...This is my home. All I’m doing right now is protecting this knot for a Fortian queen and hoping to Faranth that Elaruth doesn’t rise first and make things murky.” It’s more candid than she’s been about the whole thing thus far. “I won’t leave, even when it’s not mine. And I don’t want N’rov to leave, unless of his own volition and he sees the same advantage we do. Or you.”

“You’ve known me long enough to know I’ll probably fuck it up. I did with A’ryk in more than one way, didn’t I?” E’dre says with some asperity, “If N’rov were to take an advantage ‘’here’’, then all the better. At least he’s trained by N’muir and would keep our Weyr functioning as it has been for many turns.” He doesn’t say anything more on the subject of his leaving, unwilling to make a promise of staying. He takes a few thoughtful sips of his whiskey. “If N’rov were to win leadership at Monaco, that’d cause some gossip - wouldn’t it? That’d be two of our own in places of leadership. Such the scandal,” he drawls that last with lifted brows aimed at Hattie.

“You ‘’chose’’ with A’ryk, I’ve assumed,” Hattie replies just about as blandly as she can. “I wonder if you’ll choose again?” What she means, ‘’she’’ chooses not to elaborate, and instead she leaves her glass behind and collects up Elaruth’s straps from where she’s dropped them. “Not scandal,” is her comment on the latter matter at hand. “Politics.” It cannot be said that the wan smile she gives the brownrider is at all a contented one, and in the tall shadows of the room there is something dreadfully unhappy lurking in the depths of her dark gaze. “Goodnight, E’dre.” She doesn’t look back.

E’dre doesn’t have much to say in reply to Hattie, meeting her unhappy gaze with his own answering unhappiness. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he tells her, the only concrete thing he can think to say as he watches her go. He lingers in the council room, having another glass of whiskey before he gathers up his straps and heads towards his weyr. If he’s sleeping on the couch again, he could always claim exhaustion had him fall asleep there, but in reality he just can’t quite muster the resolve to face his weyrmate. He falls into a fitful sleep about murder and politics that seems to continue to be the waking nightmare he carries with him onto the next day.
|Categories=General Logs, The Death of R'hin Logs
}}

Logs:Old Souls

2015-10-11T22:20:18Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Tabitha, Z'kiel, Z'kiel{{!}}Ahtzudaeth |what=Tabitha and Z'kiel cross paths. They discuss death, life and change. |where=Lake Shore, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr,..."

{{Log
|who=Tabitha, Z'kiel, Z'kiel{{!}}Ahtzudaeth
|what=Tabitha and Z'kiel cross paths. They discuss death, life and change.
|where=Lake Shore, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|day=21
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.11
|quote=Be yourself always.
|mentions=R'hin
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Tabitha Sidelong.png, Icon Z'kiel.jpg
|log=Winter has finally taken root at Fort, the floor of the bowl dusted with snow and ice both, while the lake threatens to freeze over entirely, its near solid surface carved with jagged edges where chunks of ice float and clash with each other. The nearness of the lunch hour has drawn many inside, yet at least one figure stands at the edge of the lake, her footprints still visible in the mixture of snow and sand that is the shore. Tabitha stands with a book propped open against her ribcage, her fingers free of gloves and head not covered by hood or hat, yet the biting chill doesn't seem to bother her at all. She reads and the ice flows and the world goes on around her.

They've been at Fort for some time today, though that time is slowly coming to an end. Still. A visit to a foreign Weyr isn't complete without a trek to the lake - or so Ahtzudaeth seems to think, for the angular, strap-wearing bronze is ambling that way without his rider. Snow and ice crunch beneath his paws and he cranes over to peer at the lake and its fragmented ice sheet with a sense of intense curiosity. Z'kiel arrives some minutes later, clad in dark leathers and a thick, knitted skullcap in the colors of the 'Reaches. He grunts at something or another, a pair of empty bags slung crosswise over his person. There's a sidelong look to the girl reading just over there - a look that's unconsciously mirrored by the dragon - but naught else.

The crunch of snow and ice beneath paws makes Tabitha tilt her head the slightest bit to the left, yet ultimately she doesn't look up from her book, the only motion that follows one that has fingers almost numbed into hooks adjusting a little to turn the page. In this manner, silence is maintained with the bronze, whether she's aware of his presence or not, until the grunt from his rider makes her lift her chin and peer steadily in their direction. She watches, dark gaze weighing up one, then the other, before she looks out at the lake and declares in an abstract sort of way, "They say that one of you died." Of the 'Reaches, a rider, a ''bronze''rider, a man; it's not so clear.

The bronze reaches out with a forepaw to push a few sections of ice, nudging them away from the shore. He flicks his digits to rid them of a few lingering beadlets of water before he turns his attention to the girl. There's a curious cocking of his head, a throaty sound not unlike his rider's grunt - but, in the end, it's Z'kiel who answers, his voice low and still accented by the Weyr of his birth. Gritty and Igen, he grates out, "Happens sometimes." A shoulder rises, falls. "Not like that, usually. But." It did. He turns to better face her, though facing her mostly means looking down and leaving his features mostly in shadow, given the angle.

"Not like that." Tabitha processes that by echoing another of Z'kiel's words, this one more heavily than the others. "''Usually''." She adjusts the book the tiniest bit, still letting it bite into her ribs, but angled more sharply now, just as the line of her jaw by the time she's done looking all the way up, though not without a glance to Ahtzudaeth. "Is there a 'usually' when it comes to the end of a rider's life?" It's not a flippant question, her tone respectful despite its edge of curiosity, tempered by manners - and the need for an answer.

''Hnnnh.'' Z'kiel sucks his teeth and studies her from the corner of his eye, his gaze cool and reptilian and strange - but it passes quickly. "Same things that kill everyone," he finally says. "Mostly." Another lopsided shrug follows and he rattles off, "Injury. Infection. Disease. Old age." Grunt. "Sometimes things happen during weyrlinghood. Too eager - or too stressed." Ahtzudaeth eventually moves again, this time to approach his rider and settle on the ground behind him - forepaws crossed, head poised just ''so''. "That's as ''usual'' as it gets. But. 'Reaches seems to get more than its share of odd deaths." Matter-of-fact, that.

"I find it funny," she says slowly, so slowly that she can't mean to find it ''amusing'', "that old age should come so far down the list." Focus flits from one to the other again, from bronze to rider, before Tabitha looks down at her book once more, as if she must remind herself of where she left off. "Yet you stay." At the 'Reaches, presumably. Her lips purse for a half-moment, a deep breath taken on the heels of that twitch of motion, only for silence to follow, breath held as if she's forgotten to exhale. "How would you want to go?" she asks, putting it out there like it's an everyday sort of question, or something one can plan for.

"We live longer." Z'kiel looks away from her and out across the lake, his expression unchanged. "So the Healers say. So I've seen." It just is. There's little else for him to say on it and, at her observation, he issues a slight shake of his head. "His choice at first. To stay. Mine, now." A beat. "We'll die there, unless we're forced to leave." And where others might be a bit uncomfortable at the idea of their mortality, he takes it in stride - unblinking and seemingly indifferent. Ahtzudaeth, for his part, appears to be dozing off - or on his way to, for two sets of lids are shut and the third might not be long after. "We'd go on our own. Before our minds are gone, before his wings fail. When we're no longer useful." One corner of his mouth lurches with dark humor. "But. Wouldn't surprise me if I ended up bleeding out somewhere because of a bad hunt."

"Technically, you'll die Between, if you get your wish." It's an analytical comment, rather than a pedantic one, so says the distance to Tabitha's gaze that suggests she's still working her way through all of the information being offered. "Stories are full of that sort of thing. Dragon and rider going together. I wonder if we're all conditioned to think that's the right thing to do before any of us even think of Standing." She flexes one shoulder in what's not quite a shrug. "I hope you mean hunting beasts and not people. Not that one is really any more dangerous than the other, when it comes down to it."

"It's a pretty way to think about it," Z'kiel replies with a slow roll of shoulders. "He seems to think that's how it'll be for us. One last adventure Between." He sucks his teeth, grunts, and continues, "It's not how we'll all go. Most, maybe. But not all." There's a look askance at her for the hunting comment, and a faint sound escapes him that skirts the edge of what might be laughter - deep and low. "I hunt animals. Humans aren't good for eating and their skins aren't worth tanning." He holds that for a second before adding: "So I've heard." Deadpan.

Something like humour curls at the edge of Tabitha's lips, yet she doesn't quite let herself actually smile. "If you ever find out for certain, make sure you document the evidence. Anonymously, of course. Of all the things to earn a reputation for..." She hugs the book closer, now pressing pages to her rather than allowing the volume to dig in against skin, and looks Z'kiel up and down in a fashion a shade more interested than before. "What's your name?" A moment later, she adds, "And his."

Another soft ''hnnnh'' escapes him, almost a laugh but never quick breaching into full audibility. Z'kiel intones, "There are worse things," presumably to earn a reputation for, but he doesn't elaborate. "Z'kiel," is a knuckle pressed to his chest. "Ahtzudaeth," is a thumb cocked over his shoulder. The bronze wakes up - or, rather, opens his eyes - and pushes to his feet in a fluid movement. The introduction is evidently "bow-worthy" for the beast does just that, dipping down into a draconic approximation of a bow before he settles again. "Alpine Wing," completes the introduction. "Says it's a pleasure to meet you." There's a slight pause, then: "What's your name?"

Tabitha dips into a curtsey to answer Ahtzudaeth's bow, not a matter of play-acting or an awed, over the top example leaning towards the ludicrous, but respect met with the same, her focus his as she rises and lifts her head again. "Tabitha," she tells Z'kiel, gaze swinging back to him. "Just me. No dragon, no-one else. No wing." Matter of fact, rather than mournful, as if she must provide an adequate number of syllables in turn, beyond the simple three of her own name. "I work in the records. For turns now. Maybe forever." Acceptance, there. "Nice to meet you both."

The bronze's satisfaction is reflected in a gape-mawed grin that brings a bit more light to his eyes. Ahtzudaeth is pleased and that, in a way, bleeds into Z'kiel's stance. Just a little. The rider nods once with a low, acknowledging noise, and one corner of his mouth pulls into a half-smile that lives and dies in the span of a second. "Tabitha and the records. Maybe forever," is echoed. Turned around. "Maybe not. Thought I'd be just a hunter forever." The bronze behind him ''chortles''. "He changed that. Change happens." He takes a half-step back, one that allows him to pivot and face her - at least for a little while. "Plenty of turns left. Plenty of time for change."

"I decided when I was very little that I would be a constant." To who or what doesn't appear to be so important to her, beyond that decision. "And then change happened to other people, and I..." Tabitha angles a quick look down at her feet, though makes herself look up again, something rueful edging her features. "Well, they didn't need me anymore," she finishes with a helpless little shrug. "People look at me like I'm so young, but I feel like I've lived a whole life already." Her huff of sound is not truly a laugh. "It sounds ridiculous. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," is the first thing. The most important thing, probably, for the vehemence laid on those words. Z'kiel shakes his head. "Not for saying that. Not for being honest." A breath is drawn, held, and released slowly. "All you can be is ''consistent''," and the word comes slowly, with a slight gloss over his eyes as if he's not ''quite'' speaking on his own behalf. "Not constant. Consistent. Be yourself always. But be flexible. Change ''happens''. So, you might have to change a little. Don't have to change all of you. Don't have to change most. But, some. Sometimes." He's silent for a moment, two, then: "My dance teacher would have said you were born old. Said the same of me. Would say the same of him," with a tip of his head to the dragon nearby. "Old heart. Old eyes. You live with it. You learn."

Tabitha doesn't startle in the slightest at his vehemence, but rather takes it in her stride, though it does ensure that she doesn't retreat any further after her apology. "It doesn't speak very well of me to say that I can't tell you who I am. I know who I'm ''meant'' to be. But... well..." Another one of those sounds passes her lips. "I could be half a dozen different people I've read about and thought had admirable qualities. Perhaps some of them were ''consistent''. Her arms knot more tightly, crushing the book to her, only then she chooses to abruptly close it, like its presence is no longer acceptable, at least not with the chance that words on pages might spill out and over her. "I should get back before they send someone after me," she sighs out. Hesitation precedes, "But... would you come back, one day? One old soul to another?"

"There is no ''can't''," Z'kiel replies with a shrug. "Just a strong ''won't''. Lots of things I said I can't do - and have done. Lots of things I've said I wouldn't - but did. It's all choices, Tabitha. ''Your'' choices." Ahtzudaeth rises shortly after that, though only to offer his nose - and another of those dragon-grins - to her. "You're always just going to be you," is, from the vocal inflection, likely the dragon's contribution to the conversation. "Who you will be - that's you. All you." Another half-smile, wry at the corners. "I was supposed to be an Igenite rider. Wingleader - or Weyrleader. I was ''meant'' to be this. For now." The last is added after a look from the bronze - and a low chuff of chastisement from the beast. The latter elicits a shallow nod of confirmation. "Sure we'll have more work to do that'll bring us here." It's not a promise - but it's close enough.

One cold hand uncurls little by little to reach for and brush at Ahtzudaeth's nose, silently apology for the chill of her fingers in the gentle manner in which her hand skims over hide. "...I wonder that I should trust that you make it sound something much more real than a matter of semantics," Tabitha admits to his rider, the small smile that she finally manages touched by a healthy dose of self-deprecation. "I'm glad-- that..." She hesitates again, only to repeat, "I'm glad." She answers Z'kiel's nod with one of her own, just as she retreats into her own space and turns, to begin to carefully crunch her way back towards firmer ground. "Safe journey, the both of you."

Yet, the bronze seems undaunted by the coolness and he'll press a little into the contact, with a warm exhalation issued just before she withdraws. "Trust - or don't," Z'kiel replies as he turns to match the dragon that's finally starting to make his way toward the bowl proper. "Not my place to demand it. But. Glad you're willing to listen. Entertain the idea." Another nod follows, another scrap of a smile that's there and gone. "May Rukbat light your way," is angled her way in reply and it's not long at all before they're gone as well, off to see to the rest of their duties.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Metamorphosis

2015-10-11T12:27:22Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Ebeny, Ebeny{{!}}Laurienth |what=Maybe it's finally time. |where=Autumnal Eventide Weyr, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=15 |month=13 |turn=38 |IP=Interval |IP2=..."

{{Log
|who=Ebeny, Ebeny{{!}}Laurienth
|what=Maybe it's finally time.
|where=Autumnal Eventide Weyr, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=15
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.11
|mentions=E'dre, C'sel, Eden, Eryn, Elayne
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon Ebeny Mirror.png, Icon Ebeny Laurienth Electric.png,
|log=He was going to leave her.

He had left the Weyr and, she could only assume, gone to see the girls without her. It was the next step, wasn’t it? If they asked after her, he would explain, in some child-friendly way, why she wasn’t there. She was busy or tired or ill. And it would become normal. The more time passed, the more frequently it would happen, and she would explain away E'dre's absences with the same excuses.

‘’Good’’ said that darker part of her that lingered too close to Laurienth’s presence. ‘’You deserve it. You knew none of this would last. You’re ‘’’selfish’’’.’’

Perhaps now she would pay the price for breaking C’sel’s heart. It was her turn. She had done something terrible and she deserved to be punished. Ebeny still carried the guilt, never quite able to leave it behind, no matter what she did. It was her turn to have someone walk away from her and she ‘’deserved’’ it.

A matter of months ago, it had felt like she had everything. Too much. Things she shouldn’t have. Being things she shouldn’t be.

Now...

She was so tired. In theory, she was only doing half the work she had been doing of late, and she felt worse than she had when she had been running around after both classes of weyrlings and looking after the girls too. It was all she could do to drag herself out of bed – her cold, empty bed – first thing in the morning. Her energy was abandoning her as her motivation began to ebb, leaving her less and less interested in anything beyond the hours of her work.

She had sent her youngest children away. Driven her weyrmate away.

It was only a flight.

It had only been a ‘’flight’’.

<< You should hurt him back; find someone stronger, >> Laurienth encouraged, wilfully oblivious to any of the hurt that they had caused between them. << Make him suffer for reducing you to ‘’’this’’’. >>

She was too exhausted to argue and too upset to do anything but let the savage little kernel of anger take root in her heart. How many turns had she fought against becoming like her green? She had attempted to reject her for fear of transforming into her, but...

Maybe now was the time to stop resisting.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

User:Hattie

2015-10-10T08:43:23Z

Hattie:

==Player==

* GMT
* ICA = ICC
* Available for GDoc scenes - please see on-game for email address.
* If any of my characters are in a public room, I'm available for RP.
* I don't use a great deal of meta in my poses. Please don't be offended if I don't answer meta-comments!

==Availability==

If I'm online, I might be working out of hours too, but my availability is generally as follows:

* Mon, Tues, Thurs, Fri: 6pm - Midnight GMT./Weds: 7pm - Midnight GMT.
* Sat-Sun: No set times. Please page or +mail to arrange a scene at a specific time, if needed!
* September-June: See above/July-August: No set times.

==Characters==

===Current===

{| class="wikitable"
|-
|
[[File:Icon Hattie.png|frameless|Hattie]]
|| Would-be heiress of Ruatha River Hold, [[Hattie]] Impressed Morning Over Mists Gold Elaruth and held the position of Fort's Weyrwoman for over 14 turns. She stepped down in turn 38, prioritising family over duty, only to have to step up again in the wake of Lilah's disappearance. Beneath it all, she's got a fierce heart, but believes that being in a position of authority means concealing it, keeping herself separate from others, and ensuring efficiency, even if it means being the bad guy.
|-
|
[[File:Icon Ebeny.png|frameless|Ebeny]]
|| [[Ebeny]] Impressed Crazy is Perfect Green Laurienth after impulsively accepting Search near aging out, and eventually became Fort's Weyrlingmaster. She and her green are seemingly polar opposites: while Ben is gentle and laughs easily, Laurienth is aggressive, dark and can be unpredictable. One of their more evident things in common is a devotion to their weyrling charges.
|-
|
[[File:Icon Nala.png|frameless|Nala]]
|| One of the girls sent to Lord Astivan of Fort as a potential bride, [[Nala]] fled her holder life and Impressed Jaeger Tech Blue Jynth. The adjustment by turn seems to be a seamless and difficult one, and though she and her blue are (too dependently) close, she suffers from an ongoing crisis of identity.
|-
|
[[File:Icon Tabitha_Sidelong.png|frameless|Tabitha]]
||Hattie's eldest daughter, [[Tabitha]] spent most of her youth running around Weyrs and Holds with her siblings, until leaving those turns behind meant being parted from them. Quiet and focused, it seems she'd rather spend time with books and records than people, so it's just as well that she's training as a recordskeeper and scribe.
|}

===Retired===
{| class="wikitable"
|-
|
[[File:Icon Euphemia Scars.png|frameless|Euphemia]]
|| [[Euphemia]]'s origins are unknown. A weapon formed in exile, gone rogue, she Impressed Summoner's Saviour Green Zezkaith in turn 36 and has ''seemingly'' become a harper stereotype of a greenrider. Available as an NPC by request.
|}

Logs:Bottle Owed

2015-10-09T20:11:52Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Hattie, X'vin |what=X'vin brings Hattie the whiskey he promised her. |where=Herb Garden, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=3 |month=13 |turn=38 |IP=Interval |IP2=1..."

{{Log
|who=Hattie, X'vin
|what=X'vin brings Hattie the whiskey he promised her.
|where=Herb Garden, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=3
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.04
|quote=I am told by reliable sources that is the sort of whiskey to sip, not defile by drinking straight from the neck.
|mentions=N'muir, Harriet
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Hattie Drink.png, Icon x'vin.png,
|log=Echoing through to both the shore of the lake and out across the scrubbed earth of the bowl are the cries of a rather unhappy soul, the noise identifiable as belonging to a child mostly thanks to its uncensored, piercing quality. From the herb garden, one of the Weyr's many nannies strides towards the caverns with a squalling bundle, the Weyrwoman left in her wake, standing at the edge of one of the benches and staring after her, jaw set and hands curled into tight fists. Moments pass, and Hattie eventually turns, seemingly to walk on, only to change her mind and sit down.

It's not as if the bowl, or the lake shore, are quiet, especially on clear days with kinder temperatures. And the strident calls of a babe are not often a siren's song for men of any age, so maybe it's just that X'vin was already on his way to the garden for some purpose or another. He's got a package in hand, undeniably a bottle whose label is covered by neat paper wrapping and a length of gold-dyed twine artfully coiled around the length, terminating in a neat bow at the top of the neck, just beneath the tell-tale cork. In counterpoint, he's smiling as he clears the trellis, his gaze over his shoulder on the departing pair. "Ah. Good. You ''are'' here." As if there could be any doubt.

Hattie lifts her head and looks up at X'vin, her attention on him without any immediate acknowledgement or recognition, until she blinks a time or two and actually sees all that's in her line of sight, rather than stare quite blankly. With actual ''focus'' comes adjustment of her posture, slumped shoulders eased back as she sits up straight and folds her hands in her lap instead of knotting her fingers together. "X'vin," she greets, crisp, but not impolite, though it takes her another few seconds to modulate her tone away from being too formal. "What can I do for you?"

If he's affronted by her lack of recognition, he doesn't show it. Anything there is smoothed over with, "Babies ''are'' exhausting, but with lungs like that at least she's irrefutably ''healthy''. And you," this with a tilt of his head as he studies her, closing to a respectable distance from her, "look like she's taking it out of you. Or, maybe, like you could use a drink." He lifts the bottle demonstrably, dangling it between two fingers and wagging it back and forth like a lure.

"She has her father's stubbornness," Hattie claims dryly, a glance about given as though saying so could summon the man. "Of course, he attributes it to me, which I think means we're only proving each other's points to be correct." But at least she's no longer looking longingly after the baby she's allowed to be carted away, dark eyes darting from X'vin, to the bottle and back again. "...She's not solely to blame," must be out of loyalty to the child who cannot defend herself, yet she admits, "though I could do with a drink. Unfortunately, I can't promise I won't just curl up in your lap and sleep." It ''must'' be a joke, for all its deadpan delivery.

"It sounds more like she's just doubled-down on stubbornness and beat the house. I bet she expected to have you all to herself." X'vin doesn't say it unkindly, nor does he hold the bottle hostage for very long after her confession. He does laugh at it, otherwise the balance of the tiny universe between them will be wrong. After all, "When you make a joke, you're supposed to smile, weyrwoman. ''If'' months of sobriety have made you an easy drunk, I swear I'm a perfect gentleman for naps. This is for you anyways. I'm sorry I didn't have the foresight to bring glasses; I didn't imagine a drink might be so pressing, but I always forget that a drink is ''always'' pressing, for parents with new children."

"I'll be sure to remember that when I recall how to do that too." Still, Hattie tries out a smile that doesn't end up looking so theatrical for it being an effort, though there's no denying its weary edges. "Don't worry. I'll be a lady for now and won't let rumours start up about us being uncouth and passing a bottle back and forth on a bench." Said bottle is accepted without any move made to break it open there and then, cradled like she might hold her absent daughter. Her, "Thank you," is delivered without the tinge of wry or dry humour, genuine despite its quiet. "I imagine that Besmernyth has long forgotten the why by now?"

"You're quite welcome. We keep our promises. I am told by reliable sources that is the sort of whiskey to sip, not defile by drinking straight from the neck. To each their own, but for a triumphant return to proper drinks, it seemed nothing less would do. It may knock you down, later, but it won't be into my lap. I imagine plenty of people would be unhappy to hear about our poor judgement if it ''did'', and equally overjoyed to spread the news of it." Of Besmernyth, X'vin has a lowly barked laugh, curtailed and rough around the edges. "He forgets. Then I remember, then he does for a while. You can take that as apology from me, both for his actions and for his lack of contrition."

Hattie regards the bottle for a moment before supposing, "I'd best make sure that I'm nowhere that should require my being picked up off of the floor then," in a matter of fact sort of fashion. "And that I'm near the only lap I should be falling into." She lets that sit while she takes a breath, then cracks something closer to a proper smile. “It might not be ''ladylike'', but I promise I can handle my drink, and I won't disgrace myself, you or the whiskey by managing anything less." The goldrider shrugs one shoulder. "It's all right. They are how they are. I think it's what shocks new weyrlings the most, sometimes. They're not prepared for their dragons to be ''people'' all of their own."

Relieved of the bottle, X'vin's hands slip into the fleece-lined pockets of his jacket. "I feel like the crafters would wake in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, not knowing what drove them there, if someone treated their bottles badly. They are ''so'' sensitive. It seems the sort of bottle for a cold night spent in, from what I can tell. If I had a taste for the stuff, I'd have gotten one to test the theory." His agreement about their lifemates is a little hum, the brightness of his smile dimming while he considers it. "Sometimes. ''He'' is...well. Not sorry, for one thing. I'm just glad he is also not especially social. I'd be buying apology bottles every seven for everybody. I'd be the most popular man here."

"Let me guess..." Hattie says slowly, seemingly about to, rather than use the words as some sarcastic dig. "I'm going to hazard that you prefer wine, probably red. You don't strike me as the sort to be content downing beer after beer of an evening, like some of them." She pushes to her feet, the bottle held snugly against her. Perhaps its weight is reassuring. "Not that I can blame you, if it's true." Her smirk is not quite a smile. "And well... just as well that Elaruth has one very clear preference so far as bronzes go. A seven together and they might drive each other mad. She's more social than most people I know." The Weyrwoman tips the bottle a little. "Thanks." Again. "...I have a whole stack of hidework to get to."

X'vin's tilt of the head concedes to her assessment. "A good guess, or you could have just talked to the bartenders in the Fountain; they know well enough by now. But yes, my palate was spoiled in my youth by my family's expensive tastes." Spoiled, pah. "I'd give them an hour," he says of the dragons after a moment, "Besmernyth is also not as patient as I think Elaruth must be." At any rate, he knows a dismissal when it's given, and, "I've got Flint gathering in an hour. What adventurous lives we lead. Enjoy that," the bottle and all it implies, not the paperwork, "and the rest of your day, Weyrwoman. I hope you find time to enjoy it." He'll be the one to give her a little bow and dismiss himself, so she can leave at her leisure -- or retake that bench for a little while longer, if solitude is what she seeks instead of work.

"Well... I'll be sure to ask the bartenders what they know now." It's offered over one shoulder a little after he steps away, and a little after she turns, words imbued with the last hints of humour that Hattie summons. With distance there, and with no-one watching her, she lets her shoulders slump once more and hugs the bottle closer as she trudges off in the direction of the Weyrleaders' ledges and council room, to surrender herself to her fate.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Refresh

2015-10-09T19:58:26Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Hattie, E'dre, Hattie{{!}}Elaruth, E'dre{{!}}Wroth |what=Hattie forces E'dre to take some time off. |where=Council Room, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=12 |mont..."

{{Log
|who=Hattie, E'dre, Hattie{{!}}Elaruth, E'dre{{!}}Wroth
|what=Hattie forces E'dre to take some time off.
|where=Council Room, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=12
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.08
|quote=You can take the time and the days off gracefully and hopefully return refreshed, or I can have Elaruth run you out and away until I’m prepared for you to return.
|mentions=N'rov, Ebeny, N'muir, X'vin, Edric
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Hattie Always Right.png, Icon Hattie Elaruth Perched.png, Icon E'dre Not Pleased.jpg, Icon E'dre n Wroth.jpg,
|log=There’s snow still stuck to the floor of the bowl; snow currently being investigated and slid across by Elaruth in quite an unqueenly fashion. While she has her fun outside, Hattie is bundled up inside, blanket wrapped firmly around her where she sits at the head of the table in the council room. The hearth burns low, yet not for lack of available fuel, the light low too, as if something brighter could bring with it the chill of the world beyond the ledge. Reports from various caverns staff sit before her, her reading of them a half-distracted thing, her attention split between hidework and knitting in progress.

Wroth, as ever, is uninterested in the snow and those that find pursuit of the white powder as a source of entertainment. Still, he lingers near the bowl and watches Elaruth as she pushes through the snow in her investigation. E’dre heads into the council room with a clipped purpose, pausing near the doorway to strip his flight gear off and hang it. “Aren’t you cold?” he queries, looking to Hattie with surprise before he heads towards that hearth to add fuel to the fire and stoke it higher. “I’m beginning to wonder if this weather will be an issue to the Threadfall competition. Maybe I should’ve slated it for spring.” He shakes his head and sighs as he heads over to slouch into a chair near Hattie. “It sounded like something that’d add a bit more pep to the day-to-day though. And soon we’ll have Turn’s End to celebrate,” he adds, settling his arms on the table.

“I didn’t want to move,” Hattie admits in a muttering-murmur, even her hands only escaping the blanket enough to ensure that needles can be manipulated as they must be. “It’ll be a better test in poorer weather,” she supposes. “It’s not as if Thread will only ever fall on a nice summer’s day.” She uses the end of one of the needles to nudge the topmost hide over to reveal the next one in the pile. “We can’t exactly throw an expensive party when we’re cutting everyone’s pay,” the Weyrwoman remarks with a roll of her eyes. “I’d thought of suggesting to Lady Jenilynn to host something as a gesture of goodwill, but I think that’d be pushing our luck just a little bit.” That, and her eyes go cold the moment she mentions her.

“I agree with you on that and Hematite drills no matter the weather,” E’dre comments with a shrug, “but some of our wings don’t push their rider’s nearly as hard. I’d hate for there to be some accident that could’ve been prevented.” He shakes his head and glances towards the flames, “I’ll encourage the competitiveness of it and perhaps people will ‘’want’’ to win and so will begin practicing in anticipation of it.” He puffs out a snort at the mention of their financial situation. “If those who like to undermine me had their way, we’d be going to the Holds and simply ‘’help’’ them set up for their celebrations and then go home with a few marks in our hands and ‘improved goodwill’ between us.” He looks back to Hattie and lifts a brow, “With the financial issues here and all this tension and ‘’perceived’’ tension regarding tithes, you’d think we’d be fielding more requests for transfers out.”

“If there ‘’is’’ an accident,” Hattie says slowly, “then it’s a lesson.” She must realise just how harsh she sounds, for not so many moments later, she adds, “Not that I wish anyone hurt, but we have the luxury of our ‘Fall being pretend. Too many generations haven’t – and won’t – have the choices we do.” Careful in how she watches E’dre, her focus not resting on him for too long, she holds her breath in an effort to evade commenting on ‘undermining’, more to silence herself than anything. “The financial issues,” she eventually states, “aren’t nearly so large as have been suggested. If you listened to some people talk, we’re on our knees. But then, unless there is a problem, there’s no-one needed to fix it.” She shrugs. “Discrepancies? Difficulties? Yes. Meltdown? No.”

“You know how it works when people talk,” E’dre answers, shrugging his shoulders. “And the more negative people will see the worst case scenario and cry that it’s the truth. I have yet to be thanked for taking the largest cut, have you? And yet, those who I hear complaining about their cuts, are often the ones who have had barely any wages garnished.” He considers the table for a moment and then looks to her, “I’m beginning to wonder if our discrepancies aren’t being used as leverage to force us to give ourselves over to the Holds more and more.” He holds up a hand to stall her from speaking, continuing with, “and I’m not saying that from the standpoint that I disagree with most involvement with them. When Edric made that road suggestion to me, and when I have others telling me we need to ‘show we earn our tithes’ I’m wondering if we don’t have people in our midst who are here for the Holds gains only.”

“I don’t expect thanks.” Hattie is a little too blunt in that reply, turning it into a near reprimand whether she means it to be or not. “And I’m not entirely against expanding the roads somewhat, but it’s a lot to assume that all the Holds and cotholds would want us to do so, let alone the damage we could do for future turns entirely by accident.” She shrugs and lets her needles slow to a stop. “...Holders have a lot more resources to draw from to show their thanks to individuals, by dint of being able to produce those resources. I’m less apt to think that it’s a matter of being on ‘’their side’’, but of personal gain.” Averting her gaze again, she murmurs, “...They’re really getting to you, aren’t they?”

“I wasn’t speaking on expecting it,” E’dre replies to that bluntness with some of his own, “but when people complain to me about it I have a hard time‘’reminding’’ them I’m hardest hit.” He shakes his head and waves a hand towards the door. “It all boils down to personal gain. Maybe what this Weyr truly needs ‘’is’’ Thread to remind them what our real purpose is. I realize that most haven’t had to fight it nor were born to remember even the comet pass,” he sighs, “but we’re riders, not woodcutters and laborers.” He doesn’t notice her gaze aversion as he focuses on the table. “I’m doing better than I have in the past,” he reasons, a smirk surfacing, “considering my track record. But, yes. I’m feeling the strain.” He hesitates, looking briefly to her and then away. “And so is my family.”

“If you say it too many times, you might summon it back,” Hattie answers dryly, though not without an edge of something near to real dread, her attempt at humour falling flat even to her ears. If only to hasten away from it, she tells him, “I can handle everything here for a few days if you need to take some time away. And don’t start in on ‘it’ll look like I’m running away’ or any of that nonsense. I have Erinta and her assistants, and I’m sure N’rov and C’stian can handle anything with the wings between them while you’re gone.” Needles start up again. “Go and see your children.”

It’s the mention of N’rov that darkens E’dre’s features. “No,” he tells her flatly, “I will not leave any of it to N’rov,” he shakes his head at the mention of C’stian, “And C’stian I wouldn’t put in this position as it stands now.” He scrubs at his face and offers her an attempt at a smile. “I’ll keep wishing for Thread to return to show these assholes what it means to face it and silence their disdain for me that way.” He seems intent on changing subjects as he leans forward, “Really, though. Do you and Erinta have anything planned for Turns End? I know we can’t do anything dramatic, but we’ve got M’vyn singing regularly now and the Harper’s I’ve asked to help with the Threadfall are amiable enough I’m sure I could ask them to perform as well.”

Hattie is perhaps annoyingly dismissive when she rushes to assure, “The food is planned, and the drink, and something for the children to give their parents a bit of a break for some of the evening, if they wish.” She purses her lips. “If you’ve Harpers we can ply with food and drink to supplement our own performers, then by all means.” Silence then, until she declares, “You have a choice, E’dre,” all too lightly for what follows. “You can take the time and the days off gracefully and hopefully return refreshed, or I can have Elaruth run you out and away until I’m prepared for you to return.” Whether she ‘’would’’, well. “Choose.”

E’dre lifts a brow at her. “Perhaps I’m supplementing them by giving them what little marks I have to offer out,” is his all-too-dry reply. “You know it’d aid in the festivities if we had ‘’some’’ show of trying to make it special outside of the norm.” He answers her silence by rising and moving to go and fetch a cup of lukewarm klah. He’s mid-stride back towards the table with the cup lifted to his lips when her delivery is made. “No,” he replies firmly, “I won’t choose. I asked the same of you, don’t you remember? After the tithe? I said ‘Go and take a break’ and you damn near accused me of telling you off in the same breath!” He stands there, glaring at his cup rather than at her. “I will not leave this knot for any other until it’s wrested from my hand by the man who wins the next goldflight.”

There’s the faintest sensation of something like ‘’pressure’’ at the edge of Wroth’s mind, the atmosphere thinned to such an extent that its creeping tendrils feel near to ‘’gravity’’. The scent and tang of salt and ash accompanies Elaruth’s wordless presence, the waters beneath that too-thin air a mass of rippling shadows. She does as bid, but she doesn’t have to ‘’like’’ it, even when she provides only a ‘’taste’’ and ‘’suggestion’’. Her rider declares, “I’m sure you know by now that it’s one rule for me and one for everyone else in that respect,” with a cool kind of arrogance. “You need a break. Choose a wingleader or your ‘seconds to watch over things in your absence, but you ‘’are’’ taking a break.”

That pressure is met with a flare of resistance, Wroth’s clouds swirling overhead into the beginnings of a violent storm. They ‘’can’t’’ leave, they ‘’won’t’’ leave. And then just as suddenly as his storm gathered it shifts on and an eerie calm and quiet fills the space. E’dre’s temper flares as easily as Wroth’s does as he slams his fist on the table. “It is only because of you being my Weyrwoman for turns that I’ll go. Out of respect for you and your judgement. If I come back and X’vin or any of the others has so much as stepped out of line, ‘refreshed’,” he uses two fingers of each hand to quote around that word, “or not, I’m grounding them.” He looks away from her then and towards the door, sighing. “I suppose the girls will appreciate seeing me for more than a few hours.” He looks back to her and then pinches his chin with thumb and forefinger. “What do you think of me letting N’rov help?”

Hypocrite that she is, Hattie remarks, "You should do it out of respect for yourself," under her breath, followed by, "Your temper has nothing on N'muir." True or not, it could explain why she sits there so unfazed. "And you need to stop fixating on X'vin, or you'll miss something far more vital than an ambitious bronzerider." As regards N'rov, she shrugs. "I think if you want to train him, then he needs practice. He has a habit of catching queens. You might come back to discover he's renamed the wings, but I don't think he'll do any real harm."

Something softens in E’dre’s gaze as he watches her. “At least you can claim someone is worse than me,” he offers at an attempted joke, “in terms of temper. Ebeny would disagree.” He rubs at the back of his neck for a moment and then releases his hands to dangle at his side. “That habit of N’rov’s was one of the reasons why I tapped him to ‘second,” he tells her and then the ease leaves him in a flash, “he also has a habit of catching greens.” He shakes his head and twitches a shoulder. “It’ll do him good to see how it is to handle the day-to-day here. If there are any real issues, I know you’re more than capable to handle it. I’ll come back and leave X’vin alone, if the man can stop needling me to the point that I want to choke him.” His lips tighten and then he sighs. “Did you need to discuss anything else with me before I go?”

“Yes, well... I’d rather suffer an ill-tempered man than a pushover.” It’s said so quietly that she might be talking to herself more than to E’dre. Hattie seems more intent on ‘’watching’’ him as he speaks than making commentary of her own, and though she narrows her eyes a little, she manages to keep herself from proffering argument or poking at something that might be best left alone. Instead, she tells him, “No,” with a gentleness that doesn’t match the suddenly fierce concentration she directs towards her knitting, then lifts to the hides. “Nothing that can’t wait until you’re back, anyway. I’ll try to keep from provoking Jenilynn or Vaion about who said what and when and why and all sorts of arrangements.” Either a joke or a weak promise. “Go.”

"Political mishaps are more my style aren't they?" E'dre jokes with a shrug and a small smile that disappears as he reminds her, "I needn't stay away as long as you've told me. Just send word if I am needed sooner." He turns and leaves then, heading out to organize what needs to be organized before he can go. There may be more than a small amount of gossip that circulates in his absence, those questioning the choice of his timing, and also that he leaves without Ebeny. At least in the distance between he and the Weyr the brownrider will be oblivious to all that is and isn't said about him.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Looking After

2015-10-08T21:59:45Z

Hattie:

{{Log
|who=Ebeny, Kh'tyr
|what=Ebeny and Kh'tyr's conversation isn't really business, nor is it pleasure, but it sure is ''something''.
|where=Hot Springs, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=6
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.06
|quote="No offense, but I don't need looking after."
|weather=From morning straight through until well into the night, large, soft-looking snow falls steadily.
|mentions=E'dre, Lilah
|type=Log
|icons=Ebeny.png, kh'tyr wall.jpg
|desc=>---< Hot Springs, Fort Weyr >-----------------------------------------------<

The Hot Springs are contained within a high domed cavern, the walls
perpetually glistening with a combination of condensation and mica. Steam
drifts through the cavern from the surface of four different-sized pools.
The largest takes up most of the cavern, big enough to hold three
full-grown dragons and is easily reached through the archway from the
Bowl. Three smaller pools, more suited for human use, are clustered near
the entrance leading toward the Inner Cavern. A set of shelves and benches
line the wall nearest the Inner Cavern, fully stocked with pots of
soapsand and towels for those without the foresight -- or means -- to
bring their own.

While the dragon pool is a natural creation, the human pools are the
result of Ancient ingenuity and have been constructed with hewn steps and
seating. The water in all of the pools is warm to hot, and are a perfect
place to bathe young weyrling dragons or for residents to relax after a
long day of work.
|log=It's a good time of the turn to be an assistant weyrlingmaster. It's proven in the fact that Kh'tyr is here soaking in the hot springs instead of out where the snow is falling. Mograith is here, too, though from the near dejected slump of his sinuous yet angular shoulders, not by his own desire. He's perched precariously on the edge of the largest pool, dripping only here and there which might signify having been splashed rather than surrendering to the need to bathe. The pale brown must be keeping a mental ear toward any weyrlings in need of assistance, but whatever task had occupied Kh'tyr for the morning seems to have been completed to leave him time to lounge, head back on a towel, arms curled along the edge of the pool and toes bobbing just out of the water.

For one with reportedly much more free time than the many months past, Ebeny has been unusually sullen for the past few days, building only on the silence that has so often defined her for more than that. The time she's chosen to brave the springs must be one that she hopes will not mean a crowd, for she inches her way into the cavern at first, then gradually works her way up to striding through upon not discovering a vast audience. There's no sign of Laurienth, her perch one high on the rim of the bowl, rider left to her own devices. And thus left, Ebeny finds Mograith first and Kh'tyr second, not that the presence of either is enough to keep her from just pulling her shirt off over her head.

It must be Mograith who cues his rider when the Weyrlingmaster is close enough for the man doesn't open his eyes to muster the words, "Business or pleasure, ma'am?" As ever, his use of the respectful term has just a tinge of humor infused into the word, enough that one ''might'' think it didn't carry quite the respect it ought, and yet he's generally good about following instruction and order to the letter.

"Neither." There is a half-second's hesitation before that single word, as if Ebeny might manage to play along, but those two syllables are ultimately easier than summoning a smile or humour. She lets one of the towels that she's clutching fall to the floor, while allowing the other to unroll and keep her at least semi-decent while she steps out of and pulls off the rest of her clothes. "You can be safe in the belief that I wouldn't track you down while either of us are disrobed to discuss business," is a poor attempt at a joke, dry though it is, as she slips down into the same pool and leaves her towel at its edge.

"Well, so long as it isn't business," Kh'tyr will look quite shamelessly at the half-decent Weyrlingmaster. It's not a lurid look, but it certainly must take in what of her can be seen before brown eyes settle on her face. "I learned the hard way not to do business without clothes on," is added with an edge of humor to the words that makes his smile softer than a smirk. "Join me?" is invitation that comes with a flick of his fingers to a place along the same wall. "You can tell me what's got you in knots. Or not." Also, it seems, an invitation.

If Ebeny notices that he ''looks'', she does a very good impression of someone who is completely oblivious to it. "I'm almost afraid to ask what kind of business you were broaching with your clothes off," she sighs, and almost up to her shoulders in water is when she stops, in response to invitation (and invitation), to study Kh'tyr for a blank moment or three. "That's how rumours start," the greenrider eventually decides, albeit quietly, her path, once resumed, one that looks set to take her to the opposite side of the pool. "You could tell me what you're going to do, now that we're not running lessons all the time," is her counterproposal.

"Why, what it would take to have me render my services to you, of course," Kh'tyr's smile twitches like it might like to be broader as he answers the first. "Of course, it was framed more in how I might be of service to another woman at the time," that's almost thoughtful, but if it could've become so, it's dismissed too quickly to actually do so. His gaze, settled so intensely on Ebeny's eyes, doesn't falter. "I'm very good with secrets, when there's a need. One of the few things that stuck from my study at the Windbags' Hall. Still, you needn't trust me with yours, even if it seems you ''should'' trust ''someone'' with them, lest they fester." That last word gets an expressive wiggle of his brows. "I'm considering my options. Igen pays better," is offered offhand. "And there's no snow in Igen."

There's something near to a grimace from Ebeny, who murmurs, "That'll teach me to ask questions, I guess." She at least turns away before her expression twists towards pain, sinking lower in the water as she approaches the edge of the pool. "And I don't have any secrets," she insists. "Not that ''someone'' or other doesn't know or has made up, so I'm not dragging around any great burdens. Trust me." She turns her back to the wall and leans there, flattening the line of her shoulders against stone. "It isn't snow out there, you know. It's just cold rain. If you think ''that's'' proper snow, you need educating."

"Technically, you didn't ask. You only wondered aloud, which can be just as hazardous if you have a suggestible imagination." Kh'tyr's answer has his smile tempering to a line. "Mm, I'm not so sure that's something I ought do. You've had a lot to deal with this cycle. Are you?" Dealing with it. It's a probing question whose tone doesn't quite become challenging. ''Probably'', this is pertinent to his decision-making process. "Who on your team do ''you'' trust? Ones that know what snow looks like?" A single brow raises, ''now'' there's challenge, but just for the snow.

Ebeny has nothing but patience in her muddy-green gaze as she regards Kh'tyr, her expression soft and focus just that little bit away from sharp. "No offense, but I don't need looking after," she says all too gently. "I'm not a kid. I'm here to look after ''them'' and to try and do whatever you and the others," her assistants, "need from me. I sent my ''own'' kids away to try and do all of that ''better'', so just... let me get on with it." The plea follows a moment later, near murmured into the water. "Please." When she tips her head back to speak properly above the water level, it's to say, "I trust all of you to do your jobs and your best for the weyrlings. And even when none of you know what real snow is."

"We all need some looking after," Kh'tyr answers that gentility with some of his own. "No man-- ''woman''," he nods toward her, "-is an island, Ebeny. Seems to me the one who's supposed to be looking after you is a bit busy these days, and it ''is'' alright to lean on those who are willing." He watches her, expression thoughtful. "''I'm'' not the one angling to stop you from taking care of anyone. I'm just one of your assistants. It's ''generally'' my job to help you do yours the best you can while doing mine the best I can, as I understand this whole ''arrangement''," his fingers rise to wiggle and indicate the intangible relationships between weyrlingmaster and her staff. "Snow isn't the only thing I don't know very much about." The pointed look at the woman can leave little doubt what else he's talking about just now.

"I'm supposed to look after him," Ebeny immediately attempts to correct, the words out of her mouth before she can stop them. She looks away and at some distant point above Kh'tyr after blurting that out, taking the time to school herself back to silence and composure. When she finds words that are more mannered and less instinctive, it's not so clear whether she's being genuinely obtuse or just evasive, her bland smile so misplaced that it could easily be either. "It's just as well that we don't have little dragons underfoot anymore then, isn't it? I think we can probably both manage our jobs without self-destructing." Hard on the heels of the heels of that declaration, she states, "Snow is the only thing ''worth'' knowing anything about."

This first attempt to correct has Kh'tyr's arms moving from the wall and shifting so he can use his hands. They join, fingers intertwined in front of him, his eyes still on the greenrider. "Each other," are two very clearly enunciated words. "In relationships, you look after ''each other''. It's not so different than you and I, except for the lack of romance, sex or children between us. Our relationship," he offers the clarification of, "our ''professional'' relationship," in case there needed to be that clarity, "is one where we look after ''each other''. If that's not going to happen with us, you should probably tell me so." There's a consequence not stated but ''there'' in the serious set of his expression.

"And here I was thinking you were falling for me," is uncharitably bitter for a woman both assuredly ''okay'' and of Ebeny's usual easy temperament. She tips her head back against the edge of the pool and stares up at the ceiling, low note issuing from the back of her throat. "'Faranth's sake, Kh'tyr, I didn't come here to have our professional standing interrogated," she complains. "Just because I won't cry on your shoulder," and maybe, in another universe, she might try, "it doesn't mean I don't understand that you've got my back when it matters."

"I believe you already warned me off about that," Kh'tyr responds blandly, "To the point of telling me not to let Mograith chase, which is fairly extreme measures to stop me from losing my head and my heart in one fell swoop." The brownrider, whose dragon definitely did chase in Laurienth's last fight, asks with furrowed brow, "Is that the trouble then? Someone's gone and fallen in love with you?" It's definitely out of his realm of what's his business. "If you'd rather, we can table the discussion of our professional standing, but you did ''ask''," as opposed to wondering aloud, "about my plans now that the weyrlings are fixing to join real wings. The discussion is cogent to having an answer for you." The last is delivered dryly as he eases back against the wall again.

"Not that you listened to a word I said." ''That'' is darker, her narrow-eyed gaze fixing on him as she lowers her head and stares steadily across the way, like she could ''make'' him listen now through sheer force of willpower. Try as she might, it's evident which of his words sets her off, for she seems to completely disregard the rest of what Kh'tyr has to say after he asks his not-his-business question. She turns away, as if to haul herself from the pool there and then, only to mutter, "Out of. Maybe. I don't know." Ebeny goes still, hands curved to rock, then turns back again, voice hoarse, but growing better the longer she goes on when she says, "Do you want to learn about snow ''and'' why you shouldn't chase?" more directly than anything else she's said.

"Maybe-" Kh'tyr answers, pushing away from the wall to turn and stare at the greenrider the way she was (and he met with his own even look) moments before, "-I want you." He almost certainly watched her get out of the pool. "Maybe I'm just an asshole from Igen that listens selectively," he offers an alternate explanation for his insubordination. "Maybe I would. There's no saying the lesson would ''stick''." A hand rises to touch his ear. "Selective," he adds. It's a troublesome condition to be sure.

Ebeny offers a single note of laughter in response, something faintly hysterical there. "No-one in their right mind wants me," she informs him, so very matter of fact and somehow fitting of the fact that she's securely covering herself up as she says so, towel neatly wrapped around her. "In the bowl, half an hour, geared up. If you can manage it. Both of you." Him and Mograith, she must mean. And, should they appear at that time, it's to the north and the snowy wastes and the mountains she and Laurienth will take them, the latter given the freedom to fly as pleases. In a word: dangerously.

"Only once in my life have I ever claimed to be sane," Kh'tyr answers with a sort of certainty that makes the words sound almost dangerous. "Mograith took me though, but I can't say as that says much about him." He casts a glance to the brown, "Alright, but next seven, you and Laurienth will come with us." He doesn't say where, but then, she hasn't really either. Call it weyrlingmaster-assistant bonding time. If that deal is made, he'll be in the bowl with a moody brown whose natural grace will help keep things on the line of dangerous rather than deadly.

"Sure," Ebeny calls back, as she moves through the cavern to find somewhere more private to step back into her clothes, her accepting and yet dismissive attitude that of one who believes nothing further will happen after ''today''. "What's the worst that could happen?" What indeed.
}}
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs:Discord

2015-10-08T21:46:48Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Ebeny, E'dre |what=E'dre uses the weyrlings as an excuse to speak with Ebeny. She doesn't respond well. |where=Weyrlingmaster's Office |involves=Fort Weyr |day=5 |m..."

{{Log
|who=Ebeny, E'dre
|what=E'dre uses the weyrlings as an excuse to speak with Ebeny. She doesn't respond well.
|where=Weyrlingmaster's Office
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=5
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.07
|quote=Yes, sir.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Ebeny Stressed.png, Icon E'dre Not Pleased.jpg,
|log=It’s been a quiet day so far, at least for Ebeny. Much of her time has been spent in her office, the door left open for any weyrlings, should they want or need her, and while she’s been steadily working her way through updating their various files, copying across comments from wingleaders and seconds alongside her own remarks, Laurienth has tumbling about in the autumn currents, getting dangerously close to the bowl walls and, on occasion, the ground. Long-practiced in not reacting to the more exuberant of her dragon’s acrobatics, Ebeny is the picture of calm – if a very solemn calm.

With no announcement to requiring a meeting with Ebeny, E’dre saunters into her office with a handful of papers tucked underneath his arm. There is no smile or kiss for his weyrmate as the brownrider slides into the chair opposite hers and passes the papers towards her. “I’ve had a series of complaints about that holdbred boy with the brown,” he begins, straightening in his chair as he settles his arms in front of him. “I can understand not getting along well with Taria, some personalities simply do not mix, but I would think that one of your weyrlings would know better than to blatantly disregard a command. And over a series of days.” He looks up and expectantly at Ebeny. “Have you heard of this issue or did Taria bypass you and come to complain to me first?”

Ebeny doesn’t stop writing until she’s good and ready, and doesn’t even look up at E’dre until he’s finished speaking and she’s completed inking the sentence she’s working on. “If Taria can’t follow the way of things and bring the issue to me first, I’d think she’s not to be trusted as a reliable source to comment on anything,” she says as she sets her pen down. “If she can’t address a complaint to the right person, how is she supposed to be of any use reinforcing the chain of command to those at the bottom of that chain.” She shrugs one shoulder. “I’ll call him in, but I’m not going to throw accusations at him first.”

“If she felt the need to come directly to me perhaps she thought you wouldn’t handle her complaint appropriately,” E’dre replies with a lifted brow. “I will not defend her choice but I also will not go so far as to criticize her choices.” He glances briefly at the papers in front of Ebeny and then back up. “I didn’t dictate how you should handle the issue,” he continues as he mirrors her shrug. “I expect you to handle it and I expect the boy to return to the wing with the proper attitude and listen to his superiors.”

It’s the accusation that sends Ebeny’s gaze sliding to some distant space that doesn’t involve actually seeing E’dre at all, despite the fact that she is most definitely looking ‘’at’’ him, and then the orders – as she interprets them – that follow draw her to reclaim her pen and begin writing again, a glance directed at the note she’s copying from. “Yes, sir,” she says flatly, with no trace of anything that could be discerned as emotion. She continues writing, quite as if he isn’t there, without looking up again.

“I didn’t expect to have to deal with a teenager until Elayne became one,” E’dre counters her flat ‘sir’ with a sour frown. “This continued discord between us isn’t going to help professionally,” he adds with an aggravated sigh as he pushes his fingers back through his hair. “We’ve barely spoken since our fight,” he begins, looking at her papers rather than at her. “And I said some pretty horrible things,” he pauses, having enough restraint to not point out that ‘’she’’ said equally horrible things - which, for E’dre, is a start at holding in his temper. “Maybe I used Taria’s complaint as a reason to see you,” he admits, looking towards the door and then back at her with a helpless shrug. “I didn’t see any other way for us to be forced to begin a conversation civilly.”

"If you could decide whether you're here to discuss professional matters or our personal lives, that would be very helpful." Her tone hasn't changed, her manner still cool and distant. "Knot or otherwise, you've no right to use your feelings as a reason to reprimand me ''here''." Ebeny keeps writing, her focus unwavering. "I'm not going to have this conversation on two different levels, so choose whether you're here as my Weyrleader or not." Silence falls, and she just keeps on with her work, as if she expects him to simply depart.

E’dre stares at her for a long moment, her cool and distant manner pushing him in an entirely different direction. “So this is where we’ve landed,” he murmurs as he rises, shaking his head. She must know him well for he doesn’t say anything else as he gathers his remaining papers back up and heads out of her office. He does encourage Taria to go and speak to Ebeny directly, solving that issue in a proper channel. He doesn’t come home until very late and finds the couch comfortable enough to sleep on before his early morning calls him to work.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:A Choice

2015-10-05T19:56:29Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Ebeny, E'dre, Ebeny{{!}}Laurienth, E'dre{{!}}Wroth |what=The truth, an argument and choices made. |where=Autumnal Eventide Weyr, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=..."

{{Log
|who=Ebeny, E'dre, Ebeny{{!}}Laurienth, E'dre{{!}}Wroth
|what=The truth, an argument and choices made.
|where=Autumnal Eventide Weyr, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=3
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.05
|quote=No-one in their right mind would fall for me as it is, but over ‘’that’’? Really.
|mentions=N'rov, C'sel, X'vin, Eirlys, Taessin
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Ebeny Mirror.png, Icon Ebeny Laurienth Electric.png, Icon E'dre Not Pleased.jpg, Icon E'dre n Wroth.jpg,
|log=It’s late when E’dre and Wroth finally make their way home, having taken a trip outside of the Weyr to seek the dry heat of Igen. Wroth is all tangles and snarls, his usual mental storm a raging whoosh of wind and rumbling thunder as he reaches towards Laurienth. He only touches her awareness, knowing better than to release the full wrath of his still uncooled temper on her. E’dre’s state is no better than his dragon’s as he heads into the weyr. He shucks off his riding gear and hangs it roughly up. A hand is scrubbed back through his hair, sending the still sweat-soaked strands spiking as he moves throughout the weyr. He doesn’t call to Ben nor announce himself as he heads directly towards the cabinet where he stores there liqueur. A glass of whiskey is poured and downed and then refilled before he slams himself down into a chair.

Laurienth has secured herself a perch somewhere up high, balanced precariously as she lets the autumn winds and breezes rush through and beneath her wings, leaving her clinging by her very claws in some moments. She acknowledges Wroth, between one blink and the next, unwilling to get dragged into those snarls, and perhaps it’s this understanding of brown and rider being home that draws Ebeny from the bedroom, the greenrider in the process of pinning her hair up. The dress she’s wearing is only a shade lighter than her lifemate (who cares if green is unlucky?), skirts short in the front and long in the back, ruffled and designed to take advantage of the fact that she’s nearly all legs. Ben regards E’dre for a moment, silent, then simply just slips another pin into her hair.

E’dre’s attention gets turned towards Ben as she exits from the bedroom and the appreciation in his gaze for her dress is there and then gone in a snap of realization. He grips his hand tighter around the glass and then releases it, grips and releases. “You look nice,” he tells her in a tone that seems more accusatory than complimentary. “Are you heading out to sing?” He’s clearly tense from the feathering muscle of his jaw to the rigidness of his posture. Wroth shakes himself before he enters the wallow he shares with Laurienth and considers joining her on that perch. Still, he seems to know better than his rider not to engage his mate when he’s in a foul mood. The brown disconnects from the green, leaving her to her fun and him to his temper. A smarter move than the tense and brawly-tones that E’dre seems intent to use on his own mate.

“I don’t sing anymore.” Ebeny delivers that statement matter of fact and nothing else, no regret or invitation, just an easy, careful blandness. “So, no.” As if it needs further clarification. She reaches for a length of ribbon that she’s temporarily stashed under one of the straps of her dress, then winds it around the next pin she intends on using. “Where have you been?” For Laurienth didn’t think to ask. She does a good job of pretending that the picture she sees before her is fine and nothing out of the ordinary, features schooled to a cautious distance.

“So then who are you dressing up for?” E’dre asks with a furrowed brow, “and why didn’t you tell me you stopped singing? I thought you were enjoying that.” He takes another sip of his whiskey and then sets the glass down, trying to not rush the consumption of it as he did the first glass. “We went to Igen,” he tells her with a twitch of his shoulder. “I needed to clear my head and Wroth wanted to settle in the warm sands.” That seems like enough of an explanation if the tightening of his lips didn’t hint at more to be said.

“I was.” Ebeny lifts the pin to slip it into place, then begins to weave the tail of the ribbon through a small, loose braid. “Maybe a little too much. It wasn’t... practical. I’m not a young girl with time to kill, or who can afford that time for herself. So. That’s that.” The twitch of her shoulder echoes his. “Laurienth is taking me dancing,” is all the explanation that she offers so far as ‘’who’’. “So we’ll be out of your way for the night. I know you’ve got a lot to deal with, and I’ll just be cluttering up the place or waiting on weyrlings if I stay. You can relax.”

‘’That’’ seems to annoy E’dre more than anything else. “Why didn’t you ask me if I’d like to join you?” he asks, frowning at her as he eyes her dress and hair with even more focus. “Do I even want to know who you’re expecting to join you instead?” he asks, sounding more resigned than angry now as he slouches back in his chair and heaves a sigh. “I can’t relax here,” he tells her, waving his arm towards the entrance of the weyr. “I have too many people breathing down my neck blaming all the shortcomings of the Weyr on my leadership.”

“Because I didn’t know where you were and I didn’t want you thinking you had to dance attendance on my whims,” Ebeny replies just a little too evenly for it to be natural, looping the braid back up to secure it with the same pin she’s anchored the ribbon with. With both her hands free, she lets them fall to sit on her hips. “What exactly are you trying to suggest?” she questions. “I didn’t take you for being so petty about my putting on a dress instead of living in my leathers.”

“Ebeny,” E’dre answers with a lifted brow, “do we not have dragons who can ask each other where they are? It’s not as if my absence was long. Laurienth could have asked Wroth and ‘’we’’ could’ve decided whether or not I wanted to go dancing with me being in Igen and you being here. We’re rider’s, aren’t we?” He reaches for and grabs his drink to down in one gulp that leaves him shuddering against the alcohol burn down his throat. He snorts out a sound that might’ve been meant to be a laugh, “I’m trying to suggest that you’re purposefully leaving to go dancing - and your claim you’re going alone seems unlikely to me.” He shouldn’t say it and the pause he takes signals his attempt to withhold the comment, but then he says it anyway: “Is N’rov going to meet you there?”

“I was ‘’trying’’ to,” avoid you, “not put any more pressure on you by making you think you ‘’had’’ to come home or ‘’had’’ to do anything!” She doesn’t raise her voice, but there’s a clear lift in pitch towards the end of Ebeny’s exclamation. The only indication that his comment about N’rov stings at all is the slight narrowing of her eyes before she lets her arms flop back to her sides. “You’re unbelievable, the two of you,” she murmurs. “‘’I’m’’ the one who has to submit and be caught in flight, and ‘’you’re’’ the ones making a ridiculous scene over the whole thing.”

“Perhaps I don’t find spending time with my ‘’weyrmate’’,” E’dre stresses that title with a narrowing of his eyes, “as pressure. We don’t have the children home,” he continues, not bothering to censor a topic he has carefully avoided bringing up since that decision had been made, “so we should be spending our free time with each other if nothing else! It’s a luxury we haven’t had in turns without feeling one niggle of guilt, or need to come home at a certain time, and now that we’ve had it you think it best to spend all our free time apart!” It’s Ben’s lumping of him with N’rov into that ‘two of you’ statement that has E’dre rising from his chair. “What other scenes has he been making?” he demands, “I thought I made myself clear that he was to back-off.”

“Don’t,” Ebeny starts to say, the moment that E’dre brings up the subject of the children. “Just--“ She’s flinching away as she protests and tries to avoid it, hands up with palms out like she could physically shove it away, only when he gets out of his seat she drops them again and folds them behind her back. For a moment and more, all she can do is stare. “...We barely cross paths as it is, and you feel it’s necessary to tell him to back off?” she asks, somewhat incredulously. “’’You’’ spend more time with him than I do! D’you really think he’s going to fall in love with me over a ‘’flight’’? No-one in their right mind would fall for me as it is, but over ‘’that’’? Really.”

“I did!” E’dre’s shouting that out before he can settle his irritation. “I fell in love with you when Wroth caught Laurienth and ‘’kept’’ catching her. Don’t you remember? It matters more than we like to say it does!” The desire to continue to shout causes him to turn and walk away from her, stalking across the room and towards his riding gear as if he’d snatch it off the wall again. He stops short from yanking it down and rests his hand on the wall. He remains there, eyes closed, and waits until slowly he manages to control himself enough to turn and look towards her. The apology is there on his face with the anger gone and replaced with contriteness. “I’m sorry,” he tells her, not moving towards her as he steps back to settle his back against the wall. “I got into it with X’vin and--, I shouldn’t have redirected to you. And I shouldn’t have redirected my anger to ‘’N’rov’’ the other night when I dumped the ale on him. I’m beginning to fray at the edges.” He shakes his head and sighs, hanging his head as he draws a hand up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. “Words aren’t sufficient.”

“I remember that you shouldn’t have,” Ebeny answers, her quiet all the more stark in the wake of volume. “I’ve never suggested that falling for me was your finest hour, nor the best choice you ever could have made.” And she stands by that, so it sounds. “N’rov doesn’t even ‘’like’’ me,” she argues, “and I doubt that seeing me up-close has really done anything for him. I told him to take Vhaeryth away next time. I tell ‘’everyone’’ to stay away, ‘’every’’ next time. He was only there because of ‘’you’’!” She shakes her head in the wake of that last statement, then hastily begins to pin up what’s not yet styled of her hair. “Even C’sel...” But she doesn’t finish, the ache there whenever she says his name more than enough to give her away. “I’m going dancing,” the greenrider declares, aiming for a brightness she doesn’t manage. “You don’t need to apologise. I’ll leave you be.”

Ebeny might as well have slapped him as the color drains from E’dre’s face while he listens to her words. The hurt is readable in the gaze he directs upwards and catches hers with. “I tried making another choice,” he reminds her, his voice strained against the control he’s trying to keep in check, her naming of C’sel makes him catch his breath and hold it. “I never asked you to leave him,” he has to say it to hear that confirmation aloud whether or not it is true. Whatever the fight was supposed to resolve for E’dre he now allows defeat to drag his shoulders down as he looks away from her. “Enjoy your night,” he tells her, arms drifting up to fold in front of him and hug inward.

“No,” Ebeny allows, “you didn’t.” She steps closer to her weyrmate only to collect her coat, before retreating back again. “But he’d have kept me in his bed and marked me black and blue and ‘’his’’ instead of accusing me of sneaking out to see the man who got to have me instead of him.” And is that what she wants? Laurienth must already have her straps, for she doesn’t move for those. “For what it’s worth, I’m going with my brother and sister. I’ll stay at the Hall tonight, with them.” When she finally summons the courage to move for the entryway to the bowl, she pauses just shy of the outside world and glances down at her feet. “...It was twice. With N’rov. I was too caught up and-- It was me. Not him. There.” She sighs. “That’s the whole of it.”

E’dre isn’t looking at her when Ben delivers her news and he refuses to look once it’s hanging between them. “That’s how it starts, isn’t it? We fight because couples ‘’fight’’ and then we’re driven to another’s arms,” he mutters, shaking his head as his jaw tightens. “Enjoy your night,” he tells her, gaze focused on a distant wall. “And be safe.” He turns to her, the glassiness in his eyes and the flush to his cheeks clear even in the dim light of the glows. “It might be easier for me to understand if Wroth chased more. He doesn’t. It’s only been you since A’ryk. I suppose I have a choice you don’t.” He sucks in a breath and shakes his head. “The second time you had your choice and you made it. So did N’rov. I’m not all that surprised.” He smiles without humor, “Because didn’t I often seek the same from you?” He walks away then, letting her go without any further goodbyes. When she returns in the morning, he’ll have already been gone and likely won’t return home the next evening.

She’s only got that (now ridiculous) dress, ribbons, pins and her coat, but Ebeny turns and flees the weyr without looking back, the clatter of heels on the bowl floor a sound that betrays her departure at as much of a dead run as she can manage, as fast as her feet will carry her in those shoes. Whether she goes to meet Eirlys and Taessin won’t be known; not this evening. All that’s for sure is that Laurienth is gone and her rider too, to return, however reluctantly, when duty calls.
|Categories=Angst Logs
}}

Logs:Not a Joke

2015-10-04T01:59:46Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Ebeny, N'rov |what=N'rov apologises to Ebeny. The conversation takes some darker turns. |where=Lakeside Grove, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=25 |month=12 |turn..."

{{Log
|who=Ebeny, N'rov
|what=N'rov apologises to Ebeny. The conversation takes some darker turns.
|where=Lakeside Grove, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=25
|month=12
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.03
|quote=I figure that's the best weapon you're ever going to get.
|mentions=E'dre, Nala, E'ten
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Ebeny Stop.png, Icon n'rov look.png,
|log=With the weyrlings mostly in the care of the fighting wings, time that would have been spent teaching is now spent waiting for one issue or another to surface instead, and what time might have been spent relaxing after classes is now when there are worries to be had about even more roaming weyrlings. So, right when one might assume Ebeny to look more refreshed than over the past few months, she actually seems more on edge than she has in a while. She's stepped away from the open ground of the bowl and into the tree line, to lean there against one of the taller examples, her eyes closed, leaving Laurienth to lurk and watch in her stead.

The latest issue isn't hiding from Laurienth; whether the green warns her rider or not, ''however'' he'd found her, the wingsecond's headed her way with his jacket collar turned up but no hat against the cool, clammy weather. Eventually there will be a more deliberate sound of boots against earth, from several strides away if she still hasn't opened her eyes by then.

Laurienth watches, certainly, and makes a savage little noise in the back of her throat, the sound completely at odds with her otherwise seemingly calm repose, yet evidently she doesn't ''share'', for Ebeny does not move even to open her eyes until footsteps sound nearer. She's unguarded in the moment it takes her to focus, then her features settle into sterner lines, hands that were flat against the tree now curled into fists.

"It's me." Drawled, as ever. N'rov's not going to make her look his way, stopping a couple trees off with not having spotted other people nearby, leaving a tree between his and hers.

"What do you want." It's not a question, it's an assumption, the greenrider's tone flat. He doesn't make her look and Ebeny doesn't, her focus gone almost as soon it arrives, a glassy distance there as she stares across at nothing particularly interesting. There are only more trees ahead, light breaking through here and there.

To report about those weyrlings practicing with Hematite. It's hovering there, nearly said. Only E'dre could pass ''that'' along, and what N'rov has to say is, "The fuss in the Fountain. It shouldn't have gone down there."

Ebeny shrugs. "What does it matter? I'm used to your wing deciding that it's okay to humiliate me in one way or another." Sarcasm isn't her strong suit, which is perhaps why her response doesn't sound so in the least. "I'm sure there're more interesting targets that you could get a better reaction from, but hey. I trained enough of you, though waiting turns to get your own back for whatever you took so badly is a bit much."

"Look. Ebeny." N'rov's schooled his voice; ''not'' sounding sardonic isn't ''his'' strong suit. Not arguing, some days, is worse. "I'm sorry that happened." One. "There was some snickering, yeah, about ''us'' acting like dumbasses. Us men. Not you." Two.

"Maybe that's what's wrong with you." Whether she means ''him'' or the wing in general, Ebeny leaves it unclear for a moment or more. "You think it's funny that people will laugh at you for behaving like silly little boys, and that they'll just dismiss it because it's just boys being boys." Muddy-green eyes narrow slightly as she insists, "Not ''men''. None of you act like men when you're with each other. Everything's a joke." Her hands curl tighter. "I'm not a ''joke''."

"You ''aren't'' a joke." N'rov's patience tightens though his hands don't; he looks skyward rather than let it get into his voice. "Why do you think we think it's funny? Serious question here, Ebeny. I'm not so keen on it. I'd bet E'dre isn't either."

"I'm really beyond caring whether either of you are keen on anything or not." If it had temper behind it, the statement might be snapped, but, as it is, it's delivered with the same apathy as the rest. "And I'm not sure you can ask a serious question, let alone deal with a serious answer." Now she does look at him, though she doesn't ''focus''. "Have you said your piece?"

"You just ''said'' you," N'rov clears his throat, ''hard''. He settles for, "Just tell yourself that they're poking at us, not you. You're fine. It is not your fault. Next seven, something else will come along and that won't be you either. It will be even less you. Even now, you get to hold your head high." He is looking at her by now, focused where she hadn't been. "Flights happen all the time."

"Thank you for the advice. I'll be sure to tell myself all sorts of things." If only Ebeny didn't sound so genuinely earnest about it. There's no chance of her words being cutting, especially not with her looking more through than at N'rov. "You're the ones making a fuss over it all. I've not said anything. I just have the great honour," now that does finally sound like sarcasm, "of being the one you're going on about."

"It was Nala half the time, if that makes you feel better," N'rov points out.

"Oh, fantastic. Another woman the boys can laugh at." Ebeny lifts her gaze away from him and resumes staring at the trees across the way. "What do you want me to say? Sorry that I've made things in the wing awkward? Think it's eliminated your chances of promotion?" She shrugs again. "He didn't have to chase." Leaving it there is an option, but no. "And you didn't have to stick around."

N'rov's reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "Just wanted you to be all right," he says, frustration in his voice. "I can handle myself. The wing's no problem." Not for ''him''. "He ''wanted'' to chase. You think he couldn't want her?"

"I think you've been around for enough turns to know that it would've been better for him and for you for him not to," Ebeny replies all too clearly. "I think you know that it would've been better for ''you'' for you to ''leave'' the minute you knew your own name again." Shaking her head, she sets her jaw and insists, "I'm ''fine''."

"And you've been around enough Turns to realize I ''always'' do what's better for me," N'rov says, far more dryly now. "Just like E'ten. Did he leave too?"

"I left," Ebeny immediately states. "He was worried about the woman he was seeing being angry." Distance isn't really working so well for her any more, and though she keeps watching the trees, her shoulders slump against their support. "Just go," she murmurs. "I don't know what you want from me. Never do. You've got all the ammunition you want to make fun or needle at me now, so you win. Just go."

"Convenient." N'rov doesn't elaborate, doesn't interrupt her further. He also doesn't go. "I told you already. I still don't know why you think I'd make fun of ''you''. Not about this."

"It's an opportunity." And it could be that simple. "I've never been ''quite'' anything that you or your wingmates can respect or understand. Even E--" She doesn't let herself get any further than that, and instead Ebeny looks down at the floor. "Someone marks you up and you get to see them be everything they hate about themselves... I figure that's the best weapon you're ever going to get." She shoves away from the tree.

N'rov's brow is already furrowed, and he's stepping out from his own, reaching for her wrist. Both of them if he can, cross-wise. "Hang on. Ebeny. Hate?"

There's a pull as he captures her wrists, something fierce there before it's checked and Ebeny submits, letting her arms go limp. "You got your answer," she says calmly. "I don't need your pity. Let me go." But she doesn't try to tug herself free. "N'rov."

He doesn't let her go. "''Ebeny''." N'rov lifts her hands up with his and lets all four free-fall drop as one, up and down ''again'', like he'd recapture that fierceness if he could. "Fuck if there's something wrong with wanting. Or ''getting''." Then, if she's still passive, she can go.

"There ''is'' if you're like ''her''." Ebeny tilts her head the slightest bit towards where the still-watching Laurienth lies beyond the trees, though it's the only indication of who she means. But then she summons the courage to admit, "Like ''me''," a breath later. "Because you ''hurt'' people." It's a half-step forward that she takes into N'rov's space, focus suddenly there and too sharp, before she makes to turn away.

He slants a look at her dragon, then to her. "''That'' wasn't," anything N'rov's finishing, not when she's stepping in, his gray eyes sharpening on hers. Not when he can say, altogether differently, "''That's'' more like it." His hands tighten, purposefully, before an equally deliberate release.

"Don't," Ebeny says all too softly, retreating back into her own space. "You have no idea what you're doing." Her warning is low and steady, even as she visibly suppresses what he's already seen up close. "Next time, take him away." A step back. "Next time," a different one, it seems, "get out of bed and go when your mind is your own."

"I'll think about it," N'rov tells her, low and intent. He's already released her. He doesn't take any of that back. "Regards to Laurienth."

"I wasn't asking." For all the good it'll do her, she tries anyway. It's as much of an answer as Ebeny has for N'rov, as she turns and makes her way through the trees to seek out the green who will no doubt be all too pleased with her in one moment, and scorn her for her trembling hands in the next.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Caving In

2015-09-30T21:57:42Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Ebeny, Ebeny{{!}}Laurienth |what=Ebeny tries to blame Laurienth for her behaviour with N'rov, but it doesn't really work. |where=Inner Caverns, Fort Weyr |involves=..."

{{Log
|who=Ebeny, Ebeny{{!}}Laurienth
|what=Ebeny tries to blame Laurienth for her behaviour with N'rov, but it doesn't really work.
|where=Inner Caverns, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=28
|month=10
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.30
|quote=It was Laurienth’s fault.
|mentions=N'rov, E'dre, C'sel
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon Ebeny Stop.png, Icon Ebeny Laurienth Electric.png,
|log=There was nowhere to run.

More accurately, there was no ‘’way’’ to run (far), not with Laurienth half asleep and her smug satisfaction still a tangle of wires and dark paths that seemed to permeate every inch of her mind.

It was Laurienth’s fault.

It was Laurienth’s fault.

It was ‘’Laurienth’s’’ fault.

Ebeny couldn’t remember bathing and nearly doubled back to the hot springs until the rawness of scrubbed skin and the chill of her hair in the cool air of the caverns registered. Dragging a hand through hair that now fell in heavy, uneven waves, she made herself stop walking to just ‘’anywhere’’ and pause and breathe and...

She had no right to be having a crisis about any of it. She wasn’t some young, new rider. She’d trained ‘’him’’, for Faranth’s sake, and--

Down that path led too many other thoughts that she wasn’t yet prepared to face.

It was Laurienth’s fault.

It was Laurienth’s fault.

It was ‘’Laurienth’s fault’’.

<< Not my fault, >> came the low, sleepy thrum of her green’s voice. << But very nice. >>

‘’Nice’’ wasn’t the word for it. She wasn’t ‘’nice’’ when she was like that. Laurienth made her-- No. She had long ago come to terms with the fact that that side of herself wasn’t just her dragon. Impression might have tried to unleash it, and she might spend every day trying to deny and suppress it, but it had always been there. Laurienth had found her and latched onto it, and revelled in dragging it out of her whenever she possibly could.

She didn’t have to like it. Accept it, yes, but very rarely could she embrace it. Behind closed doors, C’sel had encouraged it and loved what he’d found beneath her carefree refusal to see the bad in the world. E’dre had told her more than once that he didn’t mind it; that he loved her and understood, but she had never, ever truly let herself--

What had M’vyn called her? Whiny and insecure. He didn’t understand. It was far better to let people hurt her and let them believe she was oblivious to all that she saw than to let herself get angry and fight back. She couldn’t carry herself with confidence because too much else would surface with that confidence. It was only one of the reasons why she never stayed in the caverns after she’d summoned the courage to sing. She was afraid to be proud of herself.

So, she accepted things. She was calm and composed and just that little bit out of touch with reality, until Laurienth--

...Had she bitten N’rov? She’d bitten N’rov. More than once. She hadn’t dared look at him before she fled, afraid of what she’d done and that he would mock her for any number of reasons she’d now handed to him.

‘’It was Laurienth’s fault’’.

No. The flight might have been the catalyst, but she’d instigated—

She couldn’t tell E’dre.

She ‘’wouldn’t’’ tell E’dre.

...N’rov would probably get there first, anyway.
|Categories=Post-Flight Logs
}}

Logs:A Paranoid Lot

2015-09-27T00:09:59Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Hattie, Edric |what=Edric has proposals. Hattie has counter proposals. |where=The Glass Fountain, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=4 |month=12 |turn=38 |IP=Interv..."

{{Log
|who=Hattie, Edric
|what=Edric has proposals. Hattie has counter proposals.
|where=The Glass Fountain, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=4
|month=12
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.26
|quote=If you're suggesting that you will metaphorically burn everything in your wake when midnight arrives, I can ensure that you are gone well before then.
|mentions=E'dre, Lilah
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Hattie Close-Up.png, Icon edric business.jpg,
|log=It's just past midday - and while many of the Weyr's people are enjoying their lunch in the living cavern, there are those who enjoy slightly richer fare. Edric is seated comfortably in one of the booths, facing the entrance - but it doesn't appear that he's especially interested in the comings and goings. A bottle of fine wine - a Benden red, predictably - is at his table, his glass is half full, and no plate has yet to manifest before him. He's currently flipping through some paperwork, his expression neutral, save for the slight furrowing of his brow at something or another. At the very least, it's relatively quiet and peaceful - and there will be food, eventually, which marks it as a slight improvement over doing this in his quarters.

Hattie might not be known for finding time to eat, but she's been known on more than one occasion to briefly visit the Fountain and spend a few minutes at the bar with a glass of something or other. This afternoon must be one of ''those'' afternoons, since she doesn't look terribly happy as she moves past tables and heads for the bar to claim the glass that's appeared within moments of her arrival, the understanding that passes between Weyrwoman and barman a silent one, comprised of a nod and payment set down on the bar top without comment. She wastes no time today; measure downed, she turns to survey her surroundings and begins to step back the way she came.

A tilt of the head and a flicker of muted light across spectacles marks the first ''real'' movement of Edric's head. He waits until the Weyrwoman's ordered her drink and appears to be studying the space before he lifts a hand in a beckoning motion. "Ah, Weyrwoman. Afternoon." The call is measured and appropriately pitched, paired with one of his familiar - if barely there - smiles. "Please. Sit," is followed by a gesture to the seat opposite. "If only for a few minutes." A beat, then: "I have a slice of redfruit cake on the way - and the portions here are always- ah. ''Generous.''" He is not, however, making much move to get the paperwork out of the way; rather, he's deftly moving through the documents to find just the ones he needs.

Hattie's steps slow as she nears Edric, and though she does reach a halt beside the booth in which he sits, she isn't quick to seat herself, and instead regards him with a narrowing of her eyes that might be the prelude to a refusal. However, after taking a rather audibly deep breath, she sweeps her skirts together and neatly slips along to settle herself across from him, spine rigid and hands folded in her lap. "What is it that I can help you with?" she questions, her expression mostly unreadable - and maybe beginnings of the drink to thank for that.

There's the smile again - but deeper, if subtly so - and Edric dips his chin. "Thank you," is, perhaps, purely for the fact that she ''did'' sit. "In the wake of the tithing incident, I wanted to propose two things before I left. The first is a recommendation to have riders dedicated to escorting tithes from start to finish as a deterrent to those who might try such things again." A beat, just long enough for the words to be processed and not answered - then: "The second, however, might be of greater benefit to the Weyr as a whole. Widening the roads and clearing the forest to either side of them, to be precise." There's more, there's always ''more'', but he lets ''that'' settle properly, while a server finally arrives with that slice of cinnamon-and-redfruit cake, topped with a dollop of spiced - and rum-spiked - cream and with two forks.

"We've had riders watch over tithe trains before and check in with them during sweeps," Hattie replies, less crisp than matter of fact. "If in a less formal capacity than you're suggesting, if I understand correctly. In general..." She has the grace to seem briefly rueful, lips twisting as she glances away, "the wings aren't mine to organise and command, but I can suggest it to the Weyrleader, unless you'd like to discuss the matter with him yourself." Of the second matter, she hesitates before giving a slow shake of her head, not exactly a refusal, but considering. "We might call a significant amount of land our 'territory' or coverage area, but the fact is that that kind of widespread work isn't the Weyr's prerogative to carry out."

"That is my understanding - and Black Cliff has, on occasion, had need for such escorts in the past." Edric purses his lips thoughtfully. "A formal arrangement, however, might help assuage concerns about the safety of the tithe trains - and ensure that the Weyr can intervene far more quickly if there is an issue." The suggestion is met with a slight inclination of his head. "If you would speak with him, it would be appreciated." It's the latter that has him straightening up - impossibly, given that his posture is just as stiff as the Weyrwoman's own. "Handling the road situation will be beneficial. In part, it will show the Holds that the Weyr is truly concerned about the safety of the trains and would like to ensure their safe passage. And, if the trees are felled properly, we may be able to sell them to the Woodcraft for a tidy profit as well. Or," he gestures airily, "to any other craft that might have need of the wood, for that matter. It would take some time to organize and coordinate, of course, but I would be more than happy to take that task on-" a beat "-if the project is one you approve of."

"I don't argue that it might be beneficial to some extent, but not every holder is going to ''want'' that kind of work carried out. It won't solely be about the tithe trains; not to everyone." Hattie shrugs one shoulder, the motion more a gesture to serve as punctuation than dismissive. "Fort's ties with the Woodcraft are positive enough, thanks to N'muir. If the holders were to be asked for their input and the work carried out - and this is before environmental factors and the need for future resources are considered - I don't believe it would take as much as you're suggesting." She waits a moment before posing, "Your contract was to officially expire today. Why is it that you want a reason to stay? Does your hold not pay you enough already?" And, with that, she directs the point of one index finger to the wine.

"I'd be happy to meet with the Holders in the region and discuss the matter with them," Edric responds. "If there are those who do not wish it - then their roads will be left untouched. A deal would, ideally, be brokered in advance with the Woodcraft and they could offer their input and insights into the environmental aspects and future resources. It would still take ''time'' - six months, perhaps, including the work itself. Perhaps a turn, if there are complications." It's the latter that elicits the slow rise of an eyebrow - though the rest of his expression remains schooled and unreadable. "Black Cliff pays me well enough for my time," is true enough. Yet: "But. The Weyr paid for my loyalty until the end of today, Weyrwoman. I intend to serve the Weyr's best interests until then. And if that contract is extended - then you would have my loyalty until the termination of ''that'' contract." His fingers steeple, wrists rested on the table as he leans back slightly. "Of course, if you would ''prefer'' I leave, I will certainly respect that decision."

"If you're suggesting that you will metaphorically burn everything in your wake when midnight arrives, I can ensure that you are gone well before then," Hattie says coolly. "I do hope that's not what you're trying to convey." She leans back in her seat, propping one elbow almost behind her. "I'm not interested in buying loyalty. Lilah may have had other ideas, and the next Weyrwoman to follow me may have different views yet, but I won't bind this Weyr to supposed lengths of trust." A glance towards the bar accompanies a too casual, "If you wish, you may remain full-time and work formally as one of Erinta's assistants, with the expectation that your first priority is Fort. You wouldn't have the same access to our records and files as you have of late, however." She directs a long look back at Edric when she adds, "And we're seeking a new manager for Dice, if you might find it not so beneath you. If neither is worth consideration, you may keep a room here for any visits you wish to make, but that will be that."

"You truly are a paranoid lot, aren't you?" Musing, that, and paired with a chuckle. Edric folds up the neat collection of paperwork and sets it aside, only to resume his earlier posture - this time leaning forward. "Do you truly think that all of the work I've done has been to set this Weyr up for failure? Erinta is ''competent''," confident, that, and note-worthy only for the weight on the word, "and the rest of her assistants and crew are better trained to assist her. Everyone can be loyal to anything - for a ''price''. That price may be tangible. It might not. Mine, fortunately, is purely financial - and I will move Belior and Timor to ensure this Weyr is financially solvent within the next four or five months." But the offers are made and, to his credit, the unreadability remains - even as he starts to rise. "I will have an answer for you at the end of this seven."

"I have a lot of people to protect. If I weren't paranoid, I might let anyone get away with anything and believe every word that anyone says." It's not self-deprecation, and, from Hattie's tone, it's not even necessarily directed at Edric. "I might not have much of a heart, but I still struggle to find genuine meaning in working solely for financial gain or security. You may well state that that is why this Weyr is not geared towards making marks." And yet she is unrepentant. "Loyalty may be bought by one person, then bought out by another." Is that what she's concerned about? At any rate, she too begins to excuse herself, unwilling to be left alone in a booth she hasn't claimed. "But thank you. I would appreciate that." The Weyrwoman straightens her skirts. "For today, I imagine you'll have any borrowed records returned and relinquish your keys, of course." The nod that follows must be her farewell; it's all she offers before she departs, after all.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:A Trail Not Easily Trodden

2015-09-26T19:37:05Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Nala, Aislara |what=Nala entrusts Tippetarius' tiny clutch to Aislara. She also asks her to take her Between. |where=Infirmary, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=4..."

{{Log
|who=Nala, Aislara
|what=Nala entrusts Tippetarius' tiny clutch to Aislara. She also asks her to take her Between.
|where=Infirmary, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=4
|month=12
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.26
|quote=I might feel better for longer stretches at a time, but it might never go away. They have told me that.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Nala Depression.png, Icon Aislara Serious.jpg,
|log=There’s been no word from Nala in what has lapsed into months now, since she did her best to drive Aislara off, though Jynth has not been so incommunicative with Ryerith, checking in every now and then less with words and more with a lick of warmth and the tang of metal. The bluerider hasn’t often roamed far beyond the infirmary, whether of her own volition or at the healers’ orders, and today is no different. It’s Tippetarius who seeks out Aislara, the gold rather evidently ‘’not happy’’ as she delivers her message written on the rectangular scrap of hide she carries. It simply reads: Spy might wish to watch over his eggs in a nicer location than this. Tipp doesn’t stick around to explain; she’s gone, back to wherever she arrived from.

Aislara, moved to inaction in regards to Nala and her infirmary stay, has maintained a nearly constant workflow with the weyrlings. Ryerith has equally not pushed for more from Jynth than he can give. They have all played a portion of this scenario before - it only has the added difficulty of not having a continent to separate them. Tipp's note gives Aislara pause and she does not immediately seek to answer it. It isn't until hours later that she trails into the infirmary with Spy draped across her neck. He flees from her and zips around in pursuit of the gold, leaving Aislara to hover near the entrance. Her hands are shoved into her jackets pockets as she looks for Nala.

Tippetarius is the easier to find of the two, for it’s her disgruntled chirping that is easy to identify as ‘’not’’ belonging to human, but to firelizard. Not exactly being an ‘emergency’ patient, nor one that requires any real physical treatment, Nala has been settled towards the back of the infirmary, near enough to be watched, but not to get in the way of anything or anyone more pressing. She’s sat cross-legged on the edge of her bed, her reflexes not quite quick enough to keep batting Tipp away from the tiny basket and its burden of sand and all of three eggs, one of which already looks like it’s not going to survive. Nala has earned herself bloody hands for the trouble, the matter disregarded as she ‘’insists’’ to the gold, “You cannot keep them here. You are ‘’already’’ being disruptive.”

It is Spy who flits to the pair faster than Aislara's slow walk towards the rear once she's located the bluerider and the gold. The brown dips down to land on the bed and peers at the basket with a comical tilting of his head back and forth as he tries to interpret the scene before him. Aislara pauses just short of the bed and has a small smile for her brown that falls away as she looks to Nala. "Did they really say she couldn't keep them here?" she queries, "that doesn't seem very fair to Tipp."

“I said,” Nala declares, right as Tippetarius lands in the space between her shoulders and digs her claws in, earning a wince from the bluerider, but it seems to be the little queen’s chosen spot from which to watch Spy and eggs. “It is hardly conducive to anyone else’s peace and quiet if she views half of them as threats.” There’s the faintest slur to her words, her pronunciation not as crisp as usual. “They might not hatch at all, but they would be better with you than here, if you can tolerate her presence when the mood strikes her.”

Aislara doesn't answer immediately as she watches the gold, and in doing so, hopefully hides the assessment she makes of Nala's state. Spy is quick to fill the silence as he suddenly leaps forward in a blur of movement to settle on the top of the basket. He worries small forepaws into the sand and noses at each egg in quick movements. He's got an eye on Tippetarius and so prepares himself for a scolding as he persists in his inspection. "Of course she would be welcome. If she wants to be with us and her eggs, I would let her." She pauses, shifting her footing as she hesitates and then moves to sit on the furthest edge of the bed. "And," she adds slowly, careful of her words, "you are welcome as well."

Tippetarius delivers a warning hiss to Spy, but she’s as choosy in about when to play the overprotective mother as she is about everything else, and would apparently much rather keep digging her claws into Nala’s back as she watches the brown closely. “Thank you,” Nala replies, doing nothing to dislodge Tipp now that she’s away from the basket. She hesitates, gaze distant, before addressing the last matter, and winds up silent for a lot longer than she might have planned. “...I am not to go beyond the nearer caverns,” she says slowly. “In two sevens or so, they might be content with my returning to duty. Not that I have any to return to.”

Spy has the audacity to hiss back at the gold. These eggs are ''his'' as well! Aislara reaches forward to pull the brown from the basket and sets him down on the ground with a warning shake of her finger. "Don't treat her that way. She is in charge of those eggs. ''You'' listen." The brown huffs in response to the greenrider as he scuttles under the bed to sulk. Aislara looks back at Nala and gives her a nod. "Okay," she replies, "you do what they tell you and I truly hope it helps.. with everything that is going on with you." A pause as she takes a few seconds to look searchingly at Nala before she averts her gaze.

Now that no-one else is trying to get at those eggs, Tippetarius chooses not to want them either and clumsily launches herself away from her perch to scuttle off and seek out Spy. Nala stuffs her bloodied hands up the sleeves of her too-big sweater and stares down at the basket that presently has only blankets to keep its contents warm, and after taking a deep breath, she asks, “Would you take me Between tomorrow?” The question is barely out there before she adds, “I can make the request of someone else, if not. They have said I may go if I am not in control of the journey.”

Aislara's eyes lift at Nala's request and her hesitation may be misinterpreted. There's that familiar flicker of pain that crosses her face: that stab of a reminder that she would never need have the option of Between to stop something her own body denied her. Her reply when it comes is quiet but no tremor of tone nor hint of tears betray her further. "I will," is simple and sufficient. She holds Nala's gaze for a moment and looks to the door, further questions stilled before she can utter them.

Nala doesn’t look up, though she does make a subtle attempt to catch Aislara in her peripheral vision with the slightest tilt of her head. ‘Thank you’ isn’t exactly an appropriate response, so she finds herself needing to settle for a single nod of her head as she hunches her shoulders further, though whether it’s owing to her request or in response to the scratches inflicted by Tipp isn’t so clear. She doesn’t miss that the greenrider looks to the door, and is quick to offer her an out with a murmured, “The eggs have been away from the hearth for a while.”

"They will be fine for a little while longer," Aislara replies as she shrugs out of her jacket and moves to press her hand against the sand. She clicks her tongue and settles her jacket over the top. Spy has yet to come out from under the bed, either still ill pleased with her or entertained by the gold enough to stay. Aislara doesn't know quite what to say and so in place of words she cautiously slides her hand towards Nala, palm up in invitation for contact. "Has- are they helping?" she asks, ''needing'' enough to risk asking a question she would rather not put between them.

“I hate being in here,” Nala says quietly, though it’s not for the healers’ sakes that she keeps her voice that low. “Being trapped. But I had to do it.” She twitches her shoulders and watches Aislara’s hand like it’s an entirely foreign entity. “They... try. To help. One of them has me chronicling everything that has happened since I was sent to Fort Hold, only the truth still requires omissions.” She turns a tiny bit, not to reach for Aislara’s hand, but to rest her head against her shoulder, provided she isn’t encouraged not to. “And they are trying different mixes of things on the bad days.” Given that her words keep running into each other, today must have been one of those days. “At least they agree I am not ‘’mad’’.”

"Being hurt by our circumstances and suffering from the trauma is far different than being born with the issues," Aislara murmurs, perhaps speaking to her own trauma and struggles so many turns ago. She doesn't move when Nala rests her head against her shoulder, not wanting any action to push the bluerider away. "It will get better," she assures, firm in that belief as her eyes wander towards the opposite wall. "If you trust yourself enough to keep trying to get there."

“And it might get worse,” Nala states, matter of fact, her tone not defeatist, but accepting of that possible eventuality. “I might feel better for longer stretches at a time, but it might never go away. They have told me that.” And so now she tells (warns) Aislara, turning her head into her shoulder to burrow in like a feline might. “...If she,” Ryerith, “rises before I wish to leave, he will still chase her,” she murmurs. “We have agreed on that, as long as you would not mind it. And provided--“ She pauses, uncertain. “...It is not tomorrow.”

"I don't expect the trail to be easily trodden," Aislara replies with a slight shrug of movement. She lifts her arm and shifts against Nala, encouraging her to curl in closer. "If her rising would negatively impact you Nala I will ask to take the flight outside of our Weyr. I think- maybe Benden would let me stay for a time. Maybe even Reaches. Our-Ryerith- we don't have to let that be something that isn't good for your recovery. Even if Jynth and Ryerith wish it." She hugs her arm about Nala. "You matter. Let's do what you need."

“No.” It’s a vehement response, its intensity managing to get through the haze of whatever the healers have given Nala. “I will not be the reason you take her to a Weyr of strangers. ‘’No’’.” She snags a grip low around Aislara’s waist as she curls in closer. “I can prevent him from chasing if you would prefer, but I am not going to let you go through a flight at a strange Weyr because of me.” One of the healers at the main desk glances over, brow furrowed, but ultimately leaves her alone, for now.

"Okay," Aislara soothes, brushing her hand through Nala's hair. "We will stay and he can chase." Because barring Jynth from a flight seems far too wrong than leaving did to her. "She shouldn't rise this seven," she says lightly, "so let's not focus on it now." She risks leaning down to press a kiss to Nala's head and then turns back, catching that healer's glance. "Those eggs may be getting too cold now," she continues, aiming to keep her tone light. "I should probably bring them home. But if you want.. I can visit again. When you want."

Nala nods against Aislara’s shoulder, then slowly eases herself back to sit up straight to address practical matters, after a final, brief tightening of her grip on the greenrider. “Yes,” she agrees, voice steadier now. “They deserve a chance. You should take them home.” And all the better to while Tipp isn’t shrieking protest, the gold having fallen asleep in the shadows beneath the bed. Nala glances down at her hands, then at Aislara’s attire, checking that she hasn’t bloodied up her clothes, then, satisfied that she hasn’t caused damage, she squares her shoulders and gives a nod more to herself than anyone else. “If you want to,” she states, of visiting, attempting to take any obligation out of the whole thing, only she follows it up with, “...You will take me Between in the morning?”

Aislara answers by tipping forward to wrap Nala in a firm hug, "I will be here." She stands then before she changes her mind on leaving and hefts the jacket and blanket covered basket up. "We will have to find some who may want to try and Impress them if they live," she adds in a parting thought before she offers Nala a brief smile. She turns then and hurries out of the infirmary far faster than the steps that carried her in. The next day she will arrive somberly to collect Nala so that Ryerith might take them that short distance Between.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Just Don't Talk

2015-09-25T23:27:20Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Ebeny, N'rov, Ebeny{{!}}Laurienth, N'rov{{!}}Vhaeryth |what=After Vhaeryth catches Laurienth, there is very little talking. |where=Flight Weyr, Fort Weyr |involves=..."

{{Log
|who=Ebeny, N'rov, Ebeny{{!}}Laurienth, N'rov{{!}}Vhaeryth
|what=After Vhaeryth catches Laurienth, there is very little talking.
|where=Flight Weyr, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=28
|month=10
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.25
|quote="You're a fucking idiot."
|mentions=E'dre, C'sel
|type=Log
|ooc=Sex. Language.
|icons-new=Icon Ebeny Angry.png, Icon n'rov look.png, Icon Ebeny Laurienth.png, Icon n'rov vhaeryth.jpg,
|log=Laurienth is not terribly affectionate at the best of times, and given the nature of her flights the same might be said about the hours after, depending on ''who'', but she's yet to move from Vhaeryth's side, her focus not on ''him'' but on anyone who gets too near. She cares not about any hurts she's inflicted, and likewise her rider hasn't had any opportunity to realise or apologise for any as of yet, for though Ebeny is at least hazily awake amongst the rumpled sheets, it's evident that her mind is not entirely quite hers for the moment simply from her stillness.

She is long for a green dragon, but Vhaeryth is all too bronze, and has the privilege accordingly of looking Laurienth over; or, rather, looking ''over her'' for any intruders. Would she like any of them hissed at? Shown smug, sharp teeth? Or is that ''her'' privilege? The looking her over came earlier, cataloguing her hurts rather than his own, grooming here and there even if it did get him nipped at. It's worth it. It's all worth it. His rider isn't arguing with him, drowsy himself, his teeth right there near the back of her neck but closed behind a half-smile; he's got his greenrider, after all, one large hand shaped familiarly to her convex curve, his bent arm sheltering her side like Vhaeryth's wing. Nobody's stormed in yet; nobody's stolen their clothes; nobody's stormed ''out'', but give them (more) time.

If Laurienth should encourage hissing, at least she isn't encouraging it of the littler, younger ones, even if she's not exactly the model of good behaviour at the moment. She snaps her jaws when an older green merely ''looks'' at her (or at Vhaeryth), then twists to deliver another one of those sharp, too-telling nips beneath his bronze jaw before she nudges in closer and drops her head to ''his'' forepaws. Maybe it's that snap of anger that finally rouses Ebeny a little, for she slowly turns in N'rov's embrace and relaxes against him again, eyes closed, too trusting to be completely aware yet. She's pliant even as she moves to tangle her legs with his and softly sighs out something unintelligible.

Beneath that jaw (''his'' jaw) there's a rumble, and within that rumble there's warm indulgence, all amid earlier's residual heat. Vhaeryth bends ''his'' head and nibbles there, behind her headknobs; then he sighs warm breath before settling in. If the older green watches them, ''so be it''. If N'rov's at all aware... perhaps he is and perhaps he isn't; it's instinctive to make room for her and her legs and especially her knees, steadying with a hand at the small of her back, all within the warm cocoon of their blankets. He doesn't ask after what she might be saying, if he even notices more than (after the internment, the frustration of recent days, the ''release'' of this one) her breath on his skin.

While one half of the whole begins to drift, the other begins to surface to find reality, and this time it's Ben who bears her teeth and nips at a spot just beneath N'rov's collarbone, if more gently than the touch her lifemate has favoured his with. It's a moment later that she seems to cease even breathing, tensed, and then she finds herself completely unable to move at all, though she manages to lift her lips from skin and keep herself from biting or ''kissing'' another time or two. She doesn't - can't - look up, nor speak, yet she's still so close that the brush of her eyelashes might be felt, her eyes wide and staring.

It's in the instant of that nip that he reacts, a reflexive tug closer, like he'd pull her in along with the breath he'll exhale into a near-silent rumble of a laugh. "You tickle, woman." Eyelashes or otherwise? His voice is low too, flight-gravelly. He might not even know who she is. Mightn't he? Her head's low; he hasn't looked so far as ''she'' can see. Even now he's looking... up, if anywhere, tipping his head back, exposing that much more throat beneath those lifted lips.

Instinct tugs one way and what has been clawed back of sense tugs in another. His voice only furthers the confirmation that it isn't E'dre or C'sel that she's cuddling close to; that it is, in-fact, the column of N'rov's neck that she nearly begins to explore, only to pull away (and ''away'') in the instant before her lips brush skin. Ebeny doesn't move fast, her co-ordination not yet restored enough for that, and not sharply enough to seem startled, but she moves as if it's a necessity, seeking the edge of the bed, somewhat hampered by blankets as well as the mental fog of being ''too pleased'' to care.

But not by N'rov; or, rather, not by a demanding yank back to him, whether by hand (sliding from her back to round her rump before dropping away) or crook of leg (though his, again, don't exactly ''help''). There's a muted groan that verges on wistful, and he rolls onto his back, crooking one arm behind him as a pillow and lying there quite unashamedly. Only, not only low but teasing, "Are you going to steal the blankets too?"

"Just don't talk." It's not chastisement, or a demand, or a plea, or much of anything, really, the words delivered quietly and flatly. Ebeny manages to find the edge of the bed without taking the blankets with her, though she has to untangle herself as she goes, and swings her feet down to the floor to sit there hunched over and staring blankly for a moment or so, before she gets to her feet and sets about locating her clothes, without any concern about her state of undress. She finds her shirt first, but then has to go hunting for other items that should go on before it.

His muted ''hmm'' may not be a word, precisely, but now he's opened gray eyes to watch her. N'rov doesn't talk when she untangles herself from those blankets. N'rov doesn't talk when she sits there the way she does, though he does shift back to his side once more, expression less contentedly open now. Nor does N'rov talk when Ebeny goes clothes-hunting, though he does bestir himself to help a little, rummaging amidst those blankets for whatever he can find. It's when he comes up short, not very long at all, that N'rov stops. "Why?"

Ebeny doesn't even take a moment to consider a proper, better, more reasonable answer than, "Just don't," delivered in the same (lack of) tone as before, though her voice is far less steady this time. She finds her underwear hanging off the edge of one of the chairs and swipes at it to step into, then flings her shirt on regardless, not that it does much to really conceal or cover anything. At no point does she turn in a way that brings the bed or N'rov into view, though it surely cannot be a matter of modesty at this point.

It's the unsteadiness that does it. There's no 'Fine,' no mutter of acquiescence even; at any moment, whether she's clothing herself in intimates or outside wear, N'rov ''could'' speak. It's just that he doesn't. Yet. And here's Ebeny without even a scythe.

Maybe if she'd not made her request, he could tell her that her shirt is buttoned up all wrong. She straightens out the collar without bothering to check the rest, then picks up the nearest pair of trousers - which just happen to be hers - by the ankle of one leg and has to turn them about, inelegantly done, to step into them. Leaving her jacket where it lies, she goes after socks, finds one, then fails to locate the other. It leaves her with no other choice but to turn back to the bed, standing at its edge, to say, "I think you're lying on one of my socks."

All this, and N'rov ''still'' doesn't say anything: not about her shirt, not when she's balancing on just one foot. Not that his gaze doesn't flick to its buttons and back up. When she turns to him, what he gives Ebeny is a loose shrug, ambiguous as his wry, doubtful smile. Still and all, he can oblige her by standing, slowly, and adopt parade rest right there in the middle of the bed, like he might have done as a weyrling and yet very much ''not''. Then he tilts his chin, the better to suggest: she can look. (Or retreat.)

Truth be told, Ebeny spends more than a few seconds trying ''not'' to look, either at the rumpled sheets or N'rov. She remains still and staring at the far wall until impassive gives way to anger, making no stops on the way, courtesy of her lifemate or lowered inhibitions, and she lunges forward to save her sock and step up onto the bed at the same time as she growls, "You're a fucking idiot." There's no warning of what ''else'' has risen out of that fury - and perhaps what she's been trying to avoid - until she reaches for him with the intention of kissing him, hard.

N'rov, fucking idiot, ''reporting''. Her seconds are long enough that his brows are drawing in slightly, and he's no longer standing quite ''so'' square on the less-certain footing of the mattress when all of a sudden she's literally stepping up to get it done. And him without a scythe! The bronzerider starts to step back to make room, the bed's not ''that'' big when... there's Ebeny oncoming, and that far wall that's suddenly not so far behind him, and Ebeny's mouth on his mouth. Which becomes his mouth on her mouth, ''demanding''.

Well, if he's not going to stop her, she's clearly just about given up on maintaining her self-control any longer. ''Demanding'' doesn't earn a surrender from Ebeny, who just about manages to keep her footing as she reaches to secure her grip on him with nails that seek to dig in not so distant from his shoulder blades; an echo of Laurienth's claws. It would be easier, perhaps, if her balance wasn't so precarious, though she appears to be aware of the risk of tumbling to the floor in her attempted use of both N'rov and the wall to keep the both of them upright.

One more step and she can use him, but not to stay upright; N'rov braces against that wall now, reaching to haul her in and let the wall do the rest. He doesn't move to match her mark for mark, but his grip isn't inclined to relent just as long as she doesn't repent, one hand scouring up her spine towards the back of her neck.

There's no repenting ''now'', but there's something just a little bit vicious about Ebeny's responses, as if she could prove that ''this'' is why he needed to be quiet and to not be ''lying on her sock''. Said sock is already lost amongst the sheets again, abandoned so that she might find better uses for her hands and press close and closer still, and provided that he doesn't stop her, she's not averse to showing him where he might best use his, first on the buttons of her shirt.

How N'rov hadn't found it he may never know and, more likely, never care; nor does he object to her tone as, gray eyes glancing briefly to hers, he moves to address her sartorial asymmetry: first the buttons, and then what lies beneath them, ''comprehensively''.

This time, there's no sleepy affection in the aftermath, and after moment after moment of her head resting against his shoulder while she just tries to ''breathe'', Ebeny looks up and moves to deliver another one of those nips against his neck, sharper now and designed to leave a mark. She doesn't let herself linger any longer than that, and tears herself away from N'rov to pick up her clothes and begin to fumble her way back into them.

This time, it might even be as though there hadn't been an ''other'' time; except, that mark doesn't overwrite the rest, not even when N'rov rubs it, especially not when he regards its giver with a distinctly speculative air. But at least he doesn't say anything; only yawns in a way that the suspicious (or the correct) might find ostentatious and settle back into the covers to watch her go. It's not like he has anywhere better to be; she can thank her weyrmate for that one!

Buttoned up wrong doesn't even begin to describe the way in which Ebeny ends up wearing her shirt, half the buttons not even dealt with before she slings her jacket on over it and tugs her trousers on. One sock, once more, only now she's not brave enough to go and look for the other one, and so she steps into her boots regardless and ties them with shaking hands. She doesn't make the same mistake twice; she doesn't look back at N'rov again, and instead repeats, "Just don't talk," in a far raspier fashion than before, though then she's retreating to the outside world.

He certainly doesn't talk ''now'', but a few days later, there's going to be a grey sock tossed surreptitiously into Laurienth's wallow as N'rov wanders by the ground weyr. (At least he won't get some caverns girl to deliver it to her... during a lesson.)
|Categories=Post-Flight Logs
}}

Logs:The Boll Dilemma

2015-09-24T21:04:48Z

Hattie: Created page with "{{Log |who=Hattie, E'dre |what=Weyrleaders consider the Boll situation, not that either are really in the mood to. |where=Sanctuary, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=11 |mon..."

{{Log
|who=Hattie, E'dre
|what=Weyrleaders consider the Boll situation, not that either are really in the mood to.
|where=Sanctuary, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=11
|month=11
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.24
|quote=I can’t say that I care what happens to them at this point.
|mentions=Jenilynn, Lilah, X'vin, N'muir
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Hattie Down.png, Icon E'dre Not Pleased.jpg,
|log=After Boll and... Boll, the necessary duties have been dispensed and Hattie has fled from family, staff and wingmates all to a quieter corner of the Weyr where she might not immediately be discovered. Elaruth is missing from her ledge, and thus is no indication of whether or not the Weyrwoman is at home, which might buy her enough time to spend alone and compose herself before facing the world again. Up into the bowl wall, she’s gone, through the solarium and into the sanctuary, where she’s not barricaded the door, but dismissed the baker girl and is currently sat at one of the tables furthest from the entryway, mugs of both whiskey and tea sat before her, each half-empty.

It was that dismissed baker girl that discloses Hattie’s location to E’dre when he begins to make his inquiries of staff members to the location of the Weyrwoman. He makes his way into the sanctuary with a clipped pace that only slows when his eyes fall on Hattie. He slides into a chair near to her own and levels a glance at her two mugs before he swings his gaze back up to her. “I’m sure you don’t want to see me,” he begins, shrugging as he slouches back in the chair. “So, I apologize for my coming. But,” he holds up a hand, in an attempt to stall her from either throwing a mug or a glare his way, “I wanted to let you know I’ll handle the rest of the Boll dilemma. I would rather you focus on other things.”

“You mean you think I’m too fragile to handle it,” Hattie says lowly, decision made when she lifts the mug of whiskey and takes a slow drink. “I’ll keep house while you deal with the nasty men who tried to take our tithe?” There’s no hiding the mockery in her voice. “I had my knife at a man’s throat earlier today,” she declares bitterly. “And you think I can’t cope?” More of the drink now, but she sets the mug back down. “Maybe you should be more concerned that Flint was at Boll since Faranth knows when, saying Faranth knows what...” She shrugs, sharp. “I’ve asked for a meeting with Jenilynn, regardless. Both of us.”

“If I thought you were too fragile to handle it,” E’dre replies with sharpness, “I’d have gone to N’muir and had ‘’him’’ tell you.” He shakes his head and tosses his hand through his hair in an aggravated gesture. “All X’vin is doing with his continued involvement with the Holds and his attempts to circumvent my ‘’knowing’’ that he’s doing it is proving a point I’m not interested in. When he does something blatant enough I’ll publically reprimand him. For now it’s best I ‘’wait’’.” He steeples his fingers together and rests them against the flat of his stomach as he returns a sour glance to Hattie. “So she can lie to us about who those people were? Sounds perfect.”

“Because I’m really more likely to do as he tells me?” Hattie questions with misplaced defiance. “Or would you just rather he was in the line of fire?” She shakes her head and mutters, “I’m not bringing this back to him, and if you say ‘’anything’’ to him about today, I will never forgive you.” Not that that might mean much at all, even the way she says it. Her lips curl in a silent snarl as she regards E’dre. “If you’re going to be childish about it and accuse her the moment you set foot in the Hold, I’ll go with someone else.” Try as she might, she can’t quite keep her voice from shaking. “Until the tithe guards either start selling each other out or pointing fingers, we don’t know who is innocent of anything. She’s done better by us than her grandfather ever did.”

“No, because he’d be better equipped to handle the backlash,” E’dre replies, noting her defiance with a smirk. His smirk wavers and then disappears at her next round of words and he heaves a sigh as he lets his gaze wander from Hattie. “Very well,” he tells her, “You could bring X’vin,” he counters, irritation clear as his brows twitch and he swings a glance back to her. “Jenilynn has never treated me poorly and I don’t plan on giving her reason to do so now.” He nods her head at the mention of the guards and then rubs at his jaw briefly. “I’m going to throw them in the cells by tomorrow if they don’t come up with satisfactory answers.”

Hattie favours ‘’that’’ response with an obscene utterance that she doesn’t bother lowering her voice to deliver. “He’s probably in on it,” she declares with not quite enough sarcasm to pass it off as a less than serious thought. “Why else make sure Flint was at the Hold? The last time riders were so eager to be at Boll...” But she can’t finish that and gets to her feet just to put some distance between herself and ‘’anyone’’. “Do what you want with them,” she says roughly. “I can’t say that I care what happens to them at this point. I might manage to care that the Lady gets the innocent back sooner or later, some day near, but not now.”

“He probably ‘’is’’,” E’dre agrees with fervor as he shakes his head and takes both hands to scrub back through his hair. He watches Hattie rise and notices her growing agitation with a slight nod. “Very well,” he tells her, “I’ll do as I see fit. When I see fit to do it. They can wait, innocent or not, the decisions we have to make on the ones we’ve caught don’t involve death. I don’t care to cater to their Holder sensibilities and give them lush accommodations so they feel ‘’comfortable’’ here.” He considers Hattie for a moment more and then asks, “Do you think I should do something more extreme with X’vin? I could ground his entire wing if I wanted. I don’t know which action I should take for fear of taking too extreme of one.”

“I think if you keep letting him do as he pleases, you’re going to have something far worse on your hands sooner or later.” Hattie knots her arms low around her middle and leans against one of the tables near her. “I was willing to give his dragon the benefit of the doubt, but he even managed to piss off Elaruth, and she loves everyone.” She wrinkles her nose. “X’vin owes me a bottle of whiskey, actually,” she says under her breath. “I intend to keep playing dumb to what he’s doing, but he’s soon going to know more about what’s going on in our territory than you do, if you don’t give him ‘’something else’’ to do. He could easily be kept busy enough, without going so far as grounding without evident ‘reason’.”

“I could make ‘’him’’ personally guard these idiots, but I don’t want to give him that access either,” E’dre grinds out, “We could send Flint on the most hunting trips but that still gives them access outside of the Weyr.” He scrubs his hands through his hair in aggravation and lets out a sound near to a growl. “Why Lilah let him transfer here in the first place and give him so much without proving himself to be ‘’of’’ Fort.” He drops his hands to his knees and blows out a breath loudly through his nose. “But now it’s my problem.” He shakes his head and looks to her, “You have enough things to handle. I should let you be,” he adds, looking to her two mugs. “And you should find N’muir. Perhaps you two can go and take a short break for the evening.”

“No,” Hattie agrees. “I think the last things we need right now is giving him the opportunity to collude with them.” For just a moment, it seems like she might be inching her way towards relaxing again, but it’s E’dre’s last suggestion that has her drawing back into herself in more ways than one, spine straightening as she shifts away from the table and unknots her arms. “I’m fine,” she states all too crisply. “I will ‘’not’’ be his burden to bear again.” She lingers a moment more, staring at him like she might add something more, but before she can soften or crack, the Weyrwoman turns away and all but stalks her way from the room.

“I didn’t mean it as if he needed to help you, I meant it so you could have some time to yourself with someone you ‘’love’’,” E’dre throws after the Weyrwoman as she makes her move towards the door. He leans forward, snatching that mug of whiskey and he downs whatever remains before he rises himself. He gathers her other discarded mug in his arms and moves to the counter where a tray is set to place dirty items on. He sets these down carefully and then looks around the room one last time before he heads out to face the rest of his day.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Tabitha

2015-09-23T21:40:45Z

Hattie:

{{Profile
|picture=Tabitha.png
|mother=[[Hattie]]
|father=Brayden ('Stepfather': [[N'muir]])
|siblings=Gethin, Mimi, Hasander, Nimarie, Nehmet, Harriet
|children=None
|body={{wysk}}

== Description ==

She's not got much of a figure yet, though the promise of height lies in legs that are a little too long for her frame as she enters the gangly phase of youth. There's not much of her at all, yet she's slim rather than skinny, not quite free of the softness of childhood, and not yet able to boast the curves of womanhood. Large, dark eyes define an oval-shaped face, her cheekbones high and brows subtly arched. Her slim nose could still stand to be a touch smaller, and one might think her lips too generous, but she's the smooth and soft complexion one might wish for, her skin a bronzed shade of butterscotch.

Day to day, she favours blouses paired with long skirts, wide belts used to help create some illusion of a figure more grown-up than that she currently possesses. Sturdy boots sit secure on her feet, made for practical purposes rather than for show. Bangles, earrings and other jewellery change day to day, save for the little silver dragon pendant that lies level with her collarbone.

== History ==

The day after Tabitha was born to Weyrwoman Hattie and then Journeyman Smith Brayden, she acquired a twin sister, who, in-fact, was obviously not her sister, but her cousin. This might have been obvious to anyone ''but'' Tabitha, who grew up believing that the twin so unlike herself in looks and temperament was hers to advise and guide and stay near to, lest she get herself into trouble. She was a placid, quiet child, who, between one familial and political issue and another, found herself raised between Fort Weyr, Ista Weyr, Ruatha River Hold and Southern Telgar. Of the siblings she was of an age with, she was perhaps the most biddable, though of herself, Gethin and Mimi, it was only the last who ever seemed to cause any real ''trouble''.

When the time came for her to decide on an occupation to pay her way, she chose to train as a recordskeeper and scribe, a job that would keep her close to home and to her family. Having already lost Gethin to the Starcraft a turn before, she was quietly upset when Mimi chose to return to Ruatha River and apprentice to the Headwoman, but rather than kick up a fuss, she threw herself into her work. Having haunted the records for turns already, hours and hours spent with the books and scrolls, always absorbing what stories and history she could, the transition was not such a difficult one, though with her closest siblings gone and her others having both mother and father in their lives, she was rather more out on her own than she had been prepared to be. Though she has never felt that she needed a father, the idea that ''hers'' isn't around still rankles somewhat. She has no idea that the dragon pendant she wears is of silver repurposed from the gift her father left her toddling self when he chose his craft over her.

With a gold dragon for a second mother, it cannot be said that she ''doesn't'' indulge in the occasional fantasy of Impressing, even if her dragon is never quite in colour, but, for now, she's content with her lot, and pleased with the quiet and structure that her job affords her. It would only be better if she could just stay and read all day without doing any work at all. Well, and if she could have her siblings back.

== Playlist ==

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pMGfkOaJ6zw Belle - Beauty and the Beast]

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EH5RgXuWjlk She's My Sister - Dianne Pilkington & Cassandra Compton]

== RP Logs ==

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

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

{{Icons}}
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Fort Weyr, Ruatha River Hold
}}

Tabitha

2015-09-23T18:55:18Z

Hattie:

{{Profile
|picture=Tabitha.png
|mother=[[Hattie]]
|father=Brayden ('Stepfather': [[N'muir]])
|siblings=Gethin, Mimi, Hasander, Nimarie, Nehmet, Harriet
|children=None
|body={{wysk}}

== Description ==

She's not got much of a figure yet, though the promise of height lies in legs that are a little too long for her frame as she enters the gangly phase of youth. There's not much of her at all, yet she's slim rather than skinny, not quite free of the softness of childhood, and not yet able to boast the curves of womanhood. Large, dark eyes define an oval-shaped face, her cheekbones high and brows subtly arched. Her slim nose could still stand to be a touch smaller, and one might think her lips too generous, but she's the smooth and soft complexion one might wish for, her skin a bronzed shade of butterscotch.

Day to day, she favours blouses paired with long skirts, wide belts used to help create some illusion of a figure more grown-up than that she currently possesses. Sturdy boots sit secure on her feet, made for practical purposes rather than for show. Bangles, earrings and other jewellery change day to day, save for the little silver dragon pendant that lies level with her collarbone.

== History ==

The day after Tabitha was born to Weyrwoman Hattie and then Journeyman Smith Brayden, she acquired a twin sister, who, in-fact was obviously not her sister, but her cousin. This might have been obvious to anyone ''but'' Tabitha, who grew up believing that the twin so unlike herself in looks and temperament was hers to advise and guide and stay near to, lest she get herself into trouble. She was a placid, quiet child, who, between one familial and political issue and another, found herself raised between Fort Weyr, Ista Weyr, Ruatha River Hold and Southern Telgar. Of the siblings she was of an age with, she was perhaps the most biddable, though of herself, Gethin and Mimi, it was only the last who ever seemed to cause any real ''trouble''.

When the time came for her to decide on an occupation to pay her way, she chose to train as a recordskeeper and scribe, a job that would keep her close to home and to her family. Having already lost Gethin to the Starcraft a turn before, she was quietly upset when Mimi chose to return to Ruatha River and apprentice to the Headwoman, but rather than kick up a fuss, she threw herself into her work. Having haunted the records for turns already, hours and hours spent with the books and scrolls, always absorbing what stories and history she could, the transition was not such a difficult one, though with her closest siblings gone and her others having both mother and father in their lives, she was rather more out on her own than she had been prepared to be. Though she has never felt that she needed a father, the idea that ''hers'' isn't around still rankles somewhat. She has no idea that the dragon pendant she wears is of silver repurposed from the gift her father left her toddling self when he chose his craft over her.

With a gold dragon for a second mother, it cannot be said that she ''doesn't'' indulge in the occasional fantasy of Impressing, even if her dragon is never quite in colour, but, for now, she's content with her lot, and pleased with the quiet and structure that her job affords her. It would only be better if she could just stay and read all day without doing any work at all. Well, and if she could have her siblings back.

== Playlist ==

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pMGfkOaJ6zw Belle - Beauty and the Beast]

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EH5RgXuWjlk She's My Sister - Dianne Pilkington & Cassandra Compton]

== RP Logs ==

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

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

{{Icons}}
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Fort Weyr, Ruatha River Hold
}}

Tabitha

2015-09-23T18:54:42Z

Hattie:

{{Profile
|picture=Tabitha.png
|mother=[[Hattie]]
|father=Brayden ('Stepfather': [[N'muir]])
|siblings=Gethin, Mimi, Hasander, Nimarie, Nehmet, Harriet
|children=None
|body={{wysk}}

== Description ==

She's not got much of a figure yet, though the promise of height lies in legs that are a little too long for her frame as she enters the gangly phase of youth. There's not much of her at all, yet she's slim rather than skinny, not quite free of the softness of childhood, and not yet able to boast the curves of womanhood. Large, dark eyes define an oval-shaped face, her cheekbones high and brows subtly arched. Her slim nose could still stand to be a touch smaller, and one might think her lips too generous, but she's the smooth and soft complexion one might wish for, her skin a bronzed shade of butterscotch.

Day to day, she favours blouses paired with long skirts, wide belts used to help create some illusion of a figure more grown-up than that she currently possesses. Sturdy boots sit secure on her feet, made for practical purposes rather than for show. Bangles, earrings and other jewellery change day to day, save for the little silver dragon pendant that lies level with her collarbone.

== History ==

The day after Tabitha was born to Weyrwoman Hattie and then Journeyman Smith Brayden, she acquired a twin sister, who, in-fact was obviously not her sister, but her cousin. This might have been obvious to anyone ''but'' Tabitha, who grew up believing that the twin so unlike herself in looks and temperament was hers to advise and guide and stay near to, lest she get herself into trouble. She was a placid, quiet child, who, between one familial and political issue and another, found herself raised between Fort Weyr, Ista Weyr, Ruatha River Hold and Southern Telgar. Of the siblings she was of an age with, she was perhaps the most biddable, though of herself, Gethin and Mimi, it was only the last who ever seemed to cause any real ''trouble''.

When the time came for her to decide on an occupation to pay her way, she chose to train as a recordskeeper and scribe, a job that would keep her close to home and to her family. Having already lost Gethin to the Starcraft a turn before, she was quietly upset when Mimi chose to return to Ruatha River and apprentice to the Headwoman, but rather than kick up a fuss, she threw herself into her work. Having haunted the records for turns already, hours and hours spent with the books and scrolls, always absorbing what stories and history she could, the transition was not such a difficult one, though with her closest siblings gone and her others having both mother and father in their lives, she was rather more out on her own than she had been prepared to be. Though she has never felt that she needed a father, the idea that ''hers'' isn't around still rankles somewhat. She has no idea that the dragon pendant she wears is of silver repurposed from the gift her father left her toddling self when he chose his craft over her.

With a gold dragon for a second mother, it cannot be said that she ''doesn't'' indulge in the occasional fantasy of Impressing, even if her dragon is never quite in colour, but, for now, she's content with her lot, and pleased with the quiet and structure that her job affords her. It would only be better if she could just stay and read all day without doing any work at all. Well, and if she could have her siblings back.

== Playlist ==

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pMGfkOaJ6zw Belle - Beauty and the Beast]
[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EH5RgXuWjlk She's My Sister - Dianne Pilkington & Cassandra Compton]

== RP Logs ==

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

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

{{Icons}}
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Fort Weyr, Ruatha River Hold
}}

Tabitha

2015-09-23T18:53:20Z

Hattie:

{{Profile
|picture=Tabitha.png
|mother=[[Hattie]]
|father=Brayden ('Stepfather': [[N'muir]])
|siblings=Gethin, Mimi, Hasander, Nimarie, Nehmet, Harriet
|children=None
|body={{wysk}}

== Description ==

She's not got much of a figure yet, though the promise of height lies in legs that are a little too long for her frame as she enters the gangly phase of youth. There's not much of her at all, yet she's slim rather than skinny, not quite free of the softness of childhood, and not yet able to boast the curves of womanhood. Large, dark eyes define an oval-shaped face, her cheekbones high and brows subtly arched. Her slim nose could still stand to be a touch smaller, and one might think her lips too generous, but she's the smooth and soft complexion one might wish for, her skin a bronzed shade of butterscotch.

Day to day, she favours blouses paired with long skirts, wide belts used to help create some illusion of a figure more grown-up than that she currently possesses. Sturdy boots sit secure on her feet, made for practical purposes rather than for show. Bangles, earrings and other jewellery change day to day, save for the little silver dragon pendant that lies level with her collarbone.

== History ==

The day after Tabitha was born to Weyrwoman Hattie and then Journeyman Smith Brayden, she acquired a twin sister, who, in-fact was obviously not her sister, but her cousin. This might have been obvious to anyone ''but'' Tabitha, who grew up believing that the twin so unlike herself in looks and temperament was hers to advise and guide and stay near to, lest she get herself into trouble. She was a placid, quiet child, who, between one familial and political issue and another, found herself raised between Fort Weyr, Ista Weyr, Ruatha River Hold and Southern Telgar. Of the siblings she was of an age with, she was perhaps the most biddable, though of herself, Gethin and Mimi, it was only the last who ever seemed to cause any real ''trouble''.

When the time came for her to decide on an occupation to pay her way, she chose to train as a recordskeeper and scribe, a job that would keep her close to home and to her family. Having already lost Gethin to the Starcraft a turn before, she was quietly upset when Mimi chose to return to Ruatha River and apprentice to the Headwoman, but rather than kick up a fuss, she threw herself into her work. Having haunted the records for turns already, hours and hours spent with the books and scrolls, always absorbing what stories and history she could, the transition was not such a difficult one, though with her closest siblings gone and her others having both mother and father in their lives, she was rather more out on her own than she had been prepared to be. Though she has never felt that she needed a father, the idea that ''hers'' isn't around still rankles somewhat. She has no idea that the dragon pendant she wears is of silver repurposed from the gift her father left her toddling self when he chose his craft over her.

With a gold dragon for a second mother, it cannot be said that she ''doesn't'' indulge in the occasional fantasy of Impressing, even if her dragon is never quite in colour, but, for now, she's content with her lot, and pleased with the quiet and structure that her job affords her. It would only be better if she could just stay and read all day without doing any work at all. Well, and if she could have her siblings back.

== Playlist ==

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pMGfkOaJ6zw Belle - Beauty and the Beast]

== RP Logs ==

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

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

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{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Fort Weyr, Ruatha River Hold
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Tabitha

2015-09-23T18:48:31Z

Hattie:

{{Profile
|picture=Tabitha.png
|mother=[[Hattie]]
|father=Brayden ('Stepfather': [[N'muir]])
|siblings=Gethin, Mimi, Hasander, Nimarie, Nehmet, Harriet
|children=None
|body={{wysk}}

== Description ==

She's not got much of a figure yet, though the promise of height lies in legs that are a little too long for her frame as she enters the gangly phase of youth. There's not much of her at all, yet she's slim rather than skinny, not quite free of the softness of childhood, and not yet able to boast the curves of womanhood. Large, dark eyes define an oval-shaped face, her cheekbones high and brows subtly arched. Her slim nose could still stand to be a touch smaller, and one might think her lips too generous, but she's the smooth and soft complexion one might wish for, her skin a bronzed shade of butterscotch.

Day to day, she favours blouses paired with long skirts, wide belts used to help create some illusion of a figure more grown-up than that she currently possesses. Sturdy boots sit secure on her feet, made for practical purposes rather than for show. Bangles, earrings and other jewellery change day to day, save for the little silver dragon pendant that lies level with her collarbone.

== History ==

The day after Tabitha was born to Weyrwoman Hattie and then Journeyman Smith Brayden, she acquired a twin sister, who, in-fact was obviously not her sister, but her cousin. This might have been obvious to anyone ''but'' Tabitha, who grew up believing that the twin so unlike herself in looks and temperament was hers to advise and guide and stay near to, lest she get herself into trouble. She was a placid, quiet child, who, between one familial and political issue and another, found herself raised between Fort Weyr, Ista Weyr, Ruatha River Hold and Southern Telgar. Of the siblings she was of an age with, she was perhaps the most biddable, though of herself, Gethin and Mimi, it was only the last who ever seemed to cause any real ''trouble''.

When the time came for her to decide on an occupation to pay her way, she chose to train as a recordskeeper and scribe, a job that would keep her close to home and to her family. Having already lost Gethin to the Starcraft a turn before, she was quietly upset when Mimi chose to return to Ruatha River and apprentice to the Headwoman, but rather than kick up a fuss, she threw herself into her work. Having haunted the records for turns already, hours and hours spent with the books and scrolls, always absorbing what stories and history she could, the transition was not such a difficult one, though with her closest siblings gone and her others having both mother and father in their lives, she was rather more out on her own than she had been prepared to be. Though she has never felt that she needed a father, the idea that ''hers'' isn't around still rankles somewhat. She has no idea that the dragon pendant she wears is of silver repurposed from the gift her father left her toddling self when he chose his craft over her.

With a gold dragon for a second mother, it cannot be said that she ''doesn't'' indulge in the occasional fantasy of Impressing, even if her dragon is never quite in colour, but, for now, she's content with her lot, and pleased with the quiet and structure that her job affords her. It would only be better if she could just stay and read all day without doing any work at all. Well, and if she could have her siblings back.

{{Family}}
{{FamilyEnd}}

== RP Logs ==

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

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

{{Icons}}
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Fort Weyr, Ruatha River Hold
}}