https://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/api.php?action=feedcontributions&feedformat=atom&user=IriankeNorCon MUSH - User contributions [en]2026-06-30T14:04:34ZUser contributionsMediaWiki 1.24.2https://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs_talk:Out_Of_Control&diff=81007Logs talk:Out Of Control2015-12-19T05:26:36Z<p>Irianke: Comment provided by Irianke - via ArticleComments extension</p>
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<div><noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Out Of Control]]<br />
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==Irianke (21:26, 18 December 2015 (PST)) said... ==<br />
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Oh dear. Oh dear.<br />
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I also think it is funny Farideh outright tells Jocelyn to make sure her first time isn't a flight since Irianke assumes a woman of Jocelyn's age and breeding in a Weyr would have already had sex many times over.</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs_talk:Mortality&diff=79411Logs talk:Mortality2015-11-14T06:05:34Z<p>Irianke: Comment provided by Irianke - via ArticleComments extension</p>
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<div><noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Mortality]]<br />
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==Irianke (22:05, 13 November 2015 (PST)) said... ==<br />
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This is heartbreaking. D:</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs:Lacking_Empathy&diff=78607Logs:Lacking Empathy2015-10-27T05:29:24Z<p>Irianke: Created page with "{{Log |who=H'vier, Irianke |what=H'vier happens across Irianke in the galleries. He states some uncomfortable truths and Irianke gives him a gift. |where=Hatching Galleries, H..."</p>
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<div>{{Log<br />
|who=H'vier, Irianke<br />
|what=H'vier happens across Irianke in the galleries. He states some uncomfortable truths and Irianke gives him a gift.<br />
|where=Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr<br />
|involves=High Reaches Weyr<br />
|day=1<br />
|month=2<br />
|turn=39<br />
|IP=Interval<br />
|IP2=10<br />
|gamedate=2015.10.23<br />
|mentions=Lilah, Farideh<br />
|type=Log<br />
|icons-new=Icon h'vier serious.jpg, Icon irianke.jpg,<br />
|log=Niahvth is on a ledge up high, overseeing the eggs that are ''not'' hers. It's nearly midnight, the winter air outside bone-chillingly cold with snow and dunes all over. In hear though, it's warm enough to shed several layers and wear lighter clothing. Irianke is seated in the galleries in the seating area reserved for dignitaries, with a cushion beneath her criss-crossed legs. A billowing skirt circles her hips, her body, and drapes over the bench. In her hands are a large sketchpad and a stick of dark charcoal and on the hide is the sketched outline of a dragon.<br />
<br />
H'vier appears from the bowl shortly before Reisoth appears from above. The bronze settles on a ledge of his own to look down at the small array of eggs, only greeting the senior queen with a brush of his presence. The bronzerider pauses near the stairs leading further up into the galleries, shrugging out of his jacket and folding it over his arm. Then his gaze settles on Irianke and he draws in a deep breath, lets it out, and begins making his way, casually, in her general direction.<br />
<br />
Niahvth responds pleasantly, sunlit marigold and warmth emanating from her as her own mind brushes against Reisoth's in greeting. Though it's likely she's given her rider a warning, Irianke remains unattentive, or so focused in on her work she doesn't look up to H'vier's approach. She sits back a little and puts the drawing before her, then flicks a glance to Roszadyth, then back down. A pucker claims her nose, displeasure bringing that charcoal back down to smudge some lines here and add others elsewhere.<br />
<br />
Reisoth's attention turns from the eggs, to the queen, and then to the galleries, great faceted eyes blinking slowly as he gets comfortable in the heat of the cavern. When H'vier gets close enough to speak without having to do so loudly, he says, "Late night, Weyrwoman. I wasn't expecting to find you here." Which might lead one to question who he ''was'' expecting to find here. He ends up settling onto a bench behind the dignitary box, setting his jacket down beside him only after he's pulled his flask out from inside of it.<br />
<br />
"Do you come here later to avoid people or to meet someone specific?" Irianke asks the question, not looking up from her drawing until after she speaks. The pad is balanced on her crossed legs and the charcoal stick continues to dirty her left hand. She pivots to catch sight of H'vier behind her. "Aren't you supposed to be angry with me?" is her next question, the humor in her intonation egg shell fragile as she slants the wingleader a ''look''.<br />
<br />
"I came because I came," answers H'vier, eyeing the woman more than the clutch of eggs beyond her even when she glances back at him. "I thought the idea is that I wasn't supposed to be angry with you, but I was anyway." At least it's the past tense that he uses, and not the present. "I'm angry with a lot of things, Irianke. You aren't very high on that list these days."<br />
<br />
"Tell me," Irianke starts, the sketchpad slid onto the bench and her legs shifting to straddle rather than criss-cross. "What are you angry with, H'vier? We never did get around to the talking part of a relationship, and," the goldrider is quick to lift a hand, that ''look'' that remains steadfast on H'vier turning into a quick, crooked smile, "I don't mean the cozy, cuddle, love you forever relationship. I just meant you know, interaction."<br />
<br />
The bronzerider doesn't roll his eyes, but he does glance away from her and seems more neutral when he looks back. "I don't think we're at the talking part of a relationship now anymore than we were then." H'vier must not expect her to argue that, because he continues, "Did you ever draw Reisoth when they were on the Sands?"<br />
<br />
"I thought we weren't at the talking part of a relationship even now?" Irianke returns tartly, though not in anger. There's a twinge at the corners of her eyes, a sorrow-filled tiredness she's just keeping at bay. The Weyrwoman turns back to look at the sands, even though her legs remain straddled, and exhales. "They'll hatch soon. Part of me hopes all of them will, another part of me hopes some don't make it. It's a wretched feeling feeling caught between two very opposing emotions."<br />
<br />
H'vier snorts at the first, but doesn't press. His gaze is on the eggs out there now, too. "You could always choose a couple of them, take them between. If you could get the dragons away long enough." The tone of his voice makes it difficult to tell whether he's being serious or cruel. "Or you could try cracking one open. They might not go between before they're fully developed. The dragonhealers might appreciate the ability to dissect one of them."<br />
<br />
A sound, a cross between an amused snort and a cry of indignation escapes Irianke. She's silent, looking down at the sands and breathing evenly, until she finally says, in a quieter, more solemn voice, "I'm sorry for your loss."<br />
<br />
"Are you?" It comes out before H'vier can stop it, with an edge of bitter sharpness. "You'll forgive me if I have a hard time believing you have any empathy for ''my'' loss. Fort's loss, perhaps. Pern's. But mine?"<br />
<br />
Irianke says nothing, just looks at H'vier with a self-awareness that recognizes what he says as true and has nothing to say in response. But she doesn't flinch or look away, just continues to meet his gaze.<br />
<br />
He holds her gaze for some moments, intense, on edge. But then he nods knowingly and looks down at the flask in his hand. H'vier looks like he might say something when he looks back up, but instead he starts to rise. "I'm angry with myself," is what he offers her as he's grabbing his jacket and turning away.<br />
<br />
Irianke doesn't stop looking at H'vier even after he looks away and even after he starts moving. Rendered mute, the goldrider merely sighs at the end of the conversation and looks down at the sketchpad on the bench by her. "Wait," she finally says, before he can move away too far. Quick hands flip through the pad and pulls out a rough sketch of a dragon that is distinctively Reisoth. She holds it out. "I draw everything."<br />
<br />
H'vier pauses when she speaks, glancing back as though he's unconvinced she has anything worth waiting for. But he's wrong, evidently. Steps draw him back, this time closer, so he can take the sketch. He looks down at it, face unreadable, but finally says, "It's very good." It's a few more moments before he's offering her work back to her.<br />
<br />
Irianke shakes her head and flutters her fingers. "Keep it. I remember what Reisoth looks like by now. I used to watercolor, but then," the goldrider glances at the sands where her gold does not reside now, "Well, I Impressed and ran out of time. Keep it. And I'm sorry for not having empathy for your loss before."<br />
<br />
"Thank you." H'vier certainly isn't going to demand that she take it back. He clearly has a soft spot for his dragon, like every other rider in the history of ever. "I appreciate it." As for his loss, "I don't expect your empathy, Weyrwoman. But thank you." Hopefully she wasn't hoping for a return apology. "Enjoy the rest of your night." And then he's turning away again, more than likely to find somewhere more alone to drink.<br />
<br />
And Irianke stays right where she is, returning to finish her sketch of Roszadyth.<br />
}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs:Politics_And_Loss&diff=78229Logs:Politics And Loss2015-10-23T05:14:34Z<p>Irianke: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log<br />
|who=K'del, Irianke<br />
|what=K'del and Irianke are back at the Weyr during Crom's gather.<br />
|where=Weyrwoman's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr<br />
|involves=High Reaches Weyr<br />
|day=18<br />
|month=13<br />
|turn=38<br />
|IP=Interval<br />
|IP2=10<br />
|gamedate=2015.10.10<br />
|mentions=M'kris, Mirinda, I'kris, Iolene, Oriane, R'hin<br />
|type=Log<br />
|icons-new=Icon irianke ugly crying.jpg, Icon k'del ohno.jpg,<br />
|log=It's afternoon, and a good chunk of High Reaches is out at Crom, enjoying Aughan's largesse on a clear-but-cold winter's day. That something is up reaches all the way back to the Weyr; a certain amount of agitation and uncertainty, dragons aware but not ''sure''. Any peace left is shattered, however, as Leiventh's scream is caught up and carried-- and in the aftermath, its message made clear: R'hin and Leiventh are dead, an accusation of murder, has been made against M'kris of Monaco, Oriane is at the scene, Lord Aughan is subtly ''furious''. <br />
<br />
It's as this news continues to come in that K'del, heedless of what Irianke might otherwise be doing with her afternoon, storms his way into her Weyr. He's wide-eyed, fearful and yet also composed, his shaking hands clasped together as if in doing so he might hide something, relax something, ''something''. "R'hin--" he begins. But she'll know that. "They say Oriane has demanded custody of M'kris, and that she's publicly resigned her knot." <br />
<br />
Lucky it's afternoon else... well, who are we kidding? It's Irianke, after all. But K'del ''is'' lucky today, and there's no afternoon delights. Just a Weyrwoman, who looks like she was in the middle of dictating ''something'' to an assistant. An assistant who has now let her quill go slack and is gaping at an Irianke who is standing, mouth ajar and a flood of tears suddenly spilling from her eyes. Outside, the dragons keen, Niahvth's high-pitched cry mourning the death of one of ''hers''. "K'del," is wrenched from her throat, in the same instant the assistant, hearing what K'del says lets out a squeak of terror.<br />
<br />
Cadejoth's own mourning sounds, too, filling the hatching caverns with a sound they ought never to hear. K'del's expression half-crumples, except if ''Oriane'' is out there, taking charge, then so too can he be-- here, safely at home. It's too much information, too much at once, and he hesitates, now, as if he's not sure what to do next. Except, to the assistant: "You should go. We need to talk." Agitated fingers and all, he steps closer to the weyrwoman, swallowing thickly. <br />
<br />
Technically, though he outranks her, he's not her boss. The hesitation of this reads clearly on the young woman's face, but looking at Irianke who seems mute other than that one word she said to K'del and the tears still streaming down the Weyrwoman's face, lights a fire in her feet and she's skittering out of there with a tale for ''ears''. It's only after the assistant leaves that the goldrider sinks back into her chair and heaves wretched sobs into her hands.<br />
<br />
Tears... tears, K'del can deal with. He drops to his knees on the floor in front of Irianke, reaching to try and take her hand and to squeeze it (and if not, to rest a hand upon her knee and squeeze ''that'', instead). He murmurs low words that probably don't really equate into sentences; but at least the tone is reassuring. He has tears of his own, too, tears he's still trying to push back, but without much success. "He was a good man. The best of men. He was--" He's ''gone''. <br />
<br />
"He was an ass," blurts out Irianke, in between sobs, and the sheer outrageousness of calling a dead man names makes the sobs turn into a hysterical laughter. "Such an ass. ''Murdered''?" It doesn't compute, and in this confusion, the hysteria subsides and brighter, near blue slate eyes look down upon the Weyrleader.<br />
<br />
"Yes," agrees K'del, without skipping a beat, except that after that he's laughing, too, and that brings ''more'' tears, but at least they're not the kind that might lead to sobbing. As hers subsides, so does his, slowly, his lips drawing together into something more serious, more uncertain. "That's what they say. That accusations-- it's hard to know, just what the dragons now, but... ''Murdered''. I don't know that I believe it. ''R'hin''." Of all people. <br />
<br />
They've discussed Monaco. She's up to speed on some things, including why Savannah was transferred. But understanding through story and living it are two different things and Irianke looks at K'del, a quietness on her features that's stark in comparison to the hysteria just moments before. "His son murdered your lover, supposedly to win his father's approval. The apple doesn't have to fall far from the tree, does it?"<br />
<br />
K'del winces, that summation of the history somehow more difficult to digest than everything else. His hands press to his own knees as he allows, carefully, "Perhaps. But-- M'kris. He's a bully, not a murderer. He denied his son, in the end. He hated R'hin, and R'hin hated him back, but... ''but''." He exhales, hard and long. "But Oriane must believe it." Beat. "Believe it enough." <br />
<br />
"Or," Irianke's hand reaches out to cup K'del's cheek, head tipping to press forehead to forehead as tears start to stream again, though these go, generally, unnoticed by herself. "Or, whether she believes or not, her hands are tied and she's forced to do what she is doing. It's what I would do." Even as she confesses this, the surprise of what ''she'' would do in Oriane's situation colors her words. She releases K'del's cheek and uses that hand to ineffectually wipe away the seemingly endless tears. "Just because she resigns her knot doesn't mean M'kris has to resign his. What happens next? Mirinda? His," scoffingly, "''Daughter''?"<br />
<br />
K'del's eyes close, at that gesture, his breath slow and careful and yet still uneven. He nods, whether or not he wants to; an acknowledgement of her words. He has his own tears to wipe, however unmanly that is, and a voice to steady before he can speak again. "She's taking him in to custody, it--" But ''Mirinda''. "The Weyr Council will meet. Whatever Mirinda is, whoever her father is... she's not stupid. ''Shells'', never ever let any of my daughters Impress gold in my Weyr."<br />
<br />
"Wasn't ''his'' Weyr when she Impressed," says Irianke automatically. Rote memorization of facts works well sometimes. Both hands come up to wipe away her tears again, and yet they still run, as if they have a life separate from the calm Irianke is trying to aim for. The thinking calm. The strategic calm. The damn tears keep getting in the way. She swallows, and gives in for a few moments, a shuddering exhale and closed eyes giving her a moment's privacy even with K'del right in front of her. Her eyes only open after she's started speaking again, the tears slowing down by then. "She should not be in charge, his daughter. Regardless of how capable she is. IF she can't recognize that, we need to do it for her." the goldrider reaches for K'del, her hand again seeking his face, his cheek, reaching to try and curl into his hair. "I'm sorry." The hand flies away back to her face and slide about her body to try and channel her grief inward rather than out in an ineffectual desire for comfort.<br />
<br />
It's true, and K'del has nothing to say to it; nor does he acknowledge it even with as much as a nod. There's too much else going on, too much need for ''her'' moment of privacy, and for his own, continued grief. His hand reaches to rest as if intending to rest atop Irianke's, then drops back again as hers moves on. Carefully, "No, she shouldn't be. Oriane must know that-- or not. We'd better--" A thick swallow. "We'll give her a day. Or two? And then we call a meeting of the council." <br />
<br />
Her hands clench into balls into her sides beneath her upper arms, sheer force of will stopping them from going where her instincts would take her. At least the concentration inherent in ''not'' flinging herself at K'del has her not crying anymore, though there are a series of swallows. "Tomorrow. We'll request a Weyr Council meeting tomorrow. He i.. was. ''Was'' our rider." Irianke chokes back another sob, shoulders trembling. "Stay with me. Please? Just, don't leave me alone."<br />
<br />
"Tomorrow," promises K'del, without missing a beat. But it is Irianke's fragility that has him drawing himself up, reaching to put both arms around her and to pull her close, whether or not she wants to give in to that. "I'll stay," he promises. "It's okay. It's going to be okay. I promise." <br />
<br />
To her credit, she's held up admirably well for a few minutes, after the initial hysteria and up until the moment K'del has his arms around her and then it all shatters and a hand comes up to cover her mouth and choke back another sob, completely unsuccessful. Given his tacit agreement, she falls into the comfort he offers and weeps ugly, ugly tears.<br />
<br />
"Oh, ''Irianke''," is K'del's murmured comment, as he holds her close, his own tears beginning to fall again and drip upon her shoulder. "I'm so sorry. So, so sorry."<br />
|Categories=Angst Logs, The Death of R'hin Logs<br />
}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs:Goodbye,_Lee&diff=78226Logs:Goodbye, Lee2015-10-23T05:07:38Z<p>Irianke: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log<br />
|who=Irianke, Jo<br />
|what=Irianke seeks answers of a Jo who is unwilling to give them. It ends poorly but without bloodshed.<br />
|where=Jo's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr<br />
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Monaco Weyr<br />
|day=23<br />
|month=13<br />
|turn=38<br />
|IP=Interval<br />
|IP2=10<br />
|gamedate=2015.10.22<br />
|mentions=R'hin, M'kris<br />
|type=Log<br />
|icons-new=Icon irianke ugly crying.jpg, Icon jo pensive.jpg,<br />
|log=It's well into dinner time at the Weyr. Jo is on her couch in a white tank and loose grey pants, surrounded by stacks of hides that have the content of one wing. She's looking over one stack right now before a table of half-eaten food and a sturdy glass mug of something amber-colored while Tacuseth keeps guard outside on his ledge.<br />
<br />
The bronze arrives without warning, landing without invitation, and of the two riders atop, the smaller of the pair descends. "You can go. I'll have Niahvth bespeak you if I need a ride back down," says Irianke to Hailstorm's wingleader, who looks a little baffled: using one paramour to visit another. "Go," she urges, shooing the man off with a flicker of her fingers and turns to push past the tapestry and stride into the weyr. "Are you grieving?" asks the Weyrwoman forthrightly, instantly focusing on the woman in the tank on the couch.<br />
<br />
When Tacuseth finds the bronze suddenly on his ledge, perhaps he sends warning. He's silent either way as Irianke enters the weyr, finding Jo already staring at her once she's there. The hide sheets are in pause in one hand as she looks the Weyrwoman over, not answering right away. Her face drawn and guarded despite not looking like a mess like she was many days before, she carefully lays the hides down and answers, "I am," she answers simply, looking up at her. Head tilting at an angle, "Who was that?" she asks, glancing towards the ledge in indication of the bronzepair that left.<br />
<br />
"Kamornth," but that's beside the point, Irianke stands just across from the couch, a hand to her hip, planted ''there''. "Talk to me." That's all she says, she doesn't even move or flinch, or anything really, but stand there looking at Jo with the most neutral set to her face.<br />
<br />
Jo eyes that hand on Irianke's hip with a slight frown, leaning back on the couch before meeting her gaze head on. "Wha'dya wanna know?" is her question now, reaching over to remove the stack of hides from resting beside her on the couch towards the table.<br />
<br />
"I want to hear it from you. From your mouth. Without the practiced words you're telling everyone else. I want to know what happened and how." Irianke responds, her voice quiet.<br />
<br />
"Practiced," Jo echoes that one, brows furrowing at her as she stares her down. "I know what I've told," she says quietly, arms coming to a fold across her chest. "Ya seem to know what I've told, too. From that harper?" She doesn't exactly remember his name, it seems.<br />
<br />
"From the harper." Irianke confirms and finally relaxes, a shuddering breath exhaled. "I've read the report over and over again. No, wait, I lied. From Crom. Crom passed the report over to us. He was one of ours." With the floodgates of rambling open, the goldrider seems unable to stop. "I want to know, without I don't know. Tell me, please, Jo." The plea balls her fists at her side.<br />
<br />
Looking away as she looks over the cold meal before her, "Then ya know of it," Jo answers on reports, barely shaking her head. Her jaw is tightened when she looks at Irianke again, the last getting a brief, "I was there when he died. I touched his face'n he wasn' alone. I lost someone dear to me. He was a man that understood loyalty. Do ya know how rare that really is?" The words are quietly spoken, as if the bluerider was reminiscing on past memories.<br />
<br />
Irianke's manicness pauses and she looks at Jo a little oddly, frowning. "Was he?"<br />
<br />
"When it was needed," Jo answers with a single nod. "When it came to somethin' important. I've had lil' loyalty in my life," she admits now, staring ahead. "A whole lot of judgement. He was a breath of air. A good man. I close my eyes'n I can't get his face outta my head. That last look." Her gaze sharpens on Irianke now. "His blood is still on my yellow top," she tells her, perhaps indicating that the bluerider kept it somewhere in the weyr. "They should've let Keysi see him."<br />
<br />
The manicness is completely gone now, that ''desperate'' need to know faded and in its place, Irianke is cold and standing still once more. Some of what Jo said must penetrate, but a lot probably does not. "I've known him since I was twenty-nine. He chased in Niahvth's third flight and he caught my eye even if he didn't win. We saw each other sporadically over the turns. He was interesting and, for a while, I imagined I intrigued him." Once desperation is filled with a dead apathy. "It's good you think he's loyal. But loyal men don't set out to deliberately ignore someone who's exiled from their home when they're the only friendly face she knows. He was loyal when it suited him and I'm such a fool for thinking otherwise. Good night, Jo." Moving rigidly, Irianke turns and steps towards the ledge.<br />
<br />
Jo listens, something revealed getting her eyes to narrow a fraction at the Weyrwoman. "Exiled." That's a word she picks out, watching Irianke intently as she turns to leave. "Aren' we all loyal until it serves our purpose? I knew who he was, Iri," she says, her voice a bit hollow. "Folks're loyal as long as they can use ya. I'm not a fool." Reaching for her mug, "But he could fuck'n he was the only one here for turns that didn' go out his way to fuck me over when he had plenty of sources to do so. I've known him for many turns, too. Back before Taikrin was Weyrleader." Beat. "Did'ja really come here to shake a grievin' woman down?"<br />
<br />
Irianke is pretty much at the tapestry and Kamornth has landed on the ledge when she pauses and looks at Jo. "No, I came so I could hear from you exactly what happened before I go vote in the Weyr Council as to what to do with Monaco. I wanted to hear from you what happened and not a sanitized report. But," the tears Irianke does not shed in public and not in front of anyone since that first night glisten in her dark blue eyes, "I'm afraid anything you say isn't something I could trust as fact. You love him too much to do anything but overlook what you profess to know he was. Goodbye, Lee." There's a finality to it when Irianke walks past the curtain and catches the Kamornth and B'ren train back down to the ground.<br />
|Categories=The Death of R'hin Logs<br />
}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs:Goodbye,_Lee&diff=78221Logs:Goodbye, Lee2015-10-23T04:55:42Z<p>Irianke: Irianke moved page Logs:Goodbye, Jo to Logs:Goodbye, Lee</p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log<br />
|who=Irianke, Jo<br />
|what=Irianke seeks answers of a Jo who is unwilling to give them. It ends poorly but without bloodshed.<br />
|where=Jo's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr<br />
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Monaco Weyr<br />
|day=23<br />
|month=13<br />
|turn=38<br />
|IP=Interval<br />
|IP2=10<br />
|gamedate=2015.10.22<br />
|mentions=R'hin, M'kris<br />
|type=Log<br />
|icons-new=Icon irianke ugly crying.jpg, Icon jo pensive.jpg,<br />
|log=It's well into dinner time at the Weyr. Jo is on her couch in a white tank and loose grey pants, surrounded by stacks of hides that have the content of one wing. She's looking over one stack right now before a table of half-eaten food and a sturdy glass mug of something amber-colored while Tacuseth keeps guard outside on his ledge.<br />
<br />
The bronze arrives without warning, landing without invitation, and of the two riders atop, the smaller of the pair descends. "You can go. I'll have Niahvth bespeak you if I need a ride back down," says Irianke to Hailstorm's wingleader, who looks a little baffled: using one paramour to visit another. "Go," she urges, shooing the man off with a flicker of her fingers and turns to push past the tapestry and stride into the weyr. "Are you grieving?" asks the Weyrwoman forthrightly, instantly focusing on the woman in the tank on the couch.<br />
<br />
When Tacuseth finds the bronze suddenly on his ledge, perhaps he sends warning. He's silent either way as Irianke enters the weyr, finding Jo already staring at her once she's there. The hide sheets are in pause in one hand as she looks the Weyrwoman over, not answering right away. Her face drawn and guarded despite not looking like a mess like she was many days before, she carefully lays the hides down and answers, "I am," she answers simply, looking up at her. Head tilting at an angle, "Who was that?" she asks, glancing towards the ledge in indication of the bronzepair that left.<br />
<br />
"Kamornth," but that's beside the point, Irianke stands just across from the couch, a hand to her hip, planted ''there''. "Talk to me." That's all she says, she doesn't even move or flinch, or anything really, but stand there looking at Jo with the most neutral set to her face.<br />
Jo eyes that hand on Irianke's hip with a slight frown, leaning back on the couch before meeting her gaze head on. "Wha'dya wanna know?" is her question now, reaching over to remove the stack of hides from resting beside her on the couch towards the table.<br />
<br />
"I want to hear it from you. From your mouth. Without the practiced words you're telling everyone else. I want to know what happened and how." Irianke responds, her voice quiet.<br />
<br />
"Practiced," Jo echoes that one, brows furrowing at her as she stares her down. "I know what I've told," she says quietly, arms coming to a fold across her chest. "Ya seem to know what I've told, too. From that harper?" She doesn't exactly remember his name, it seems.<br />
<br />
"From the harper." Irianke confirms and finally relaxes, a shuddering breath exhaled. "I've read the report over and over again. No, wait, I lied. From Crom. Crom passed the report over to us. He was one of ours." With the floodgates of rambling open, the goldrider seems unable to stop. "I want to know, without I don't know. Tell me, please, Jo." The plea balls her fists at her side.<br />
<br />
Looking away as she looks over the cold meal before her, "Then ya know of it," Jo answers on reports, barely shaking her head. Her jaw is tightened when she looks at Irianke again, the last getting a brief, "I was there when he died. I touched his face'n he wasn' alone. I lost someone dear to me. He was a man that understood loyalty. Do ya know how rare that really is?" The words are quietly spoken, as if the bluerider was reminiscing on past memories.<br />
Irianke's manicness pauses and she looks at Jo a little oddly, frowning. "Was he?"<br />
<br />
"When it was needed," Jo answers with a single nod. "When it came to somethin' important. I've had lil' loyalty in my life," she admits now, staring ahead. "A whole lot of judgement. He was a breath of air. A good man. I close my eyes'n I can't get his face outta my head. That last look." Her gaze sharpens on Irianke now. "His blood is still on my yellow top," she tells her, perhaps indicating that the bluerider kept it somewhere in the weyr. "They should've let Keysi see him."<br />
<br />
The manicness is completely gone now, that ''desperate'' need to know faded and in its place, Irianke is cold and standing still once more. Some of what Jo said must penetrate, but a lot probably does not. "I've known him since I was twenty-nine. He chased in Niahvth's third flight and he caught my eye even if he didn't win. We saw each other sporadically over the turns. He was interesting and, for a while, I imagined I intrigued him." Once desperation is filled with a dead apathy. "It's good you think he's loyal. But loyal men don't set out to deliberately ignore someone who's exiled from their home when they're the only friendly face she knows. He was loyal when it suited him and I'm such a fool for thinking otherwise. Good night, Jo." Moving rigidly, Irianke turns and steps towards the ledge.<br />
<br />
Jo listens, something revealed getting her eyes to narrow a fraction at the Weyrwoman. "Exiled." That's a word she picks out, watching Irianke intently as she turns to leave. "Aren' we all loyal until it serves our purpose? I knew who he was, Iri," she says, her voice a bit hollow. "Folks're loyal as long as they can use ya. I'm not a fool." Reaching for her mug, "But he could fuck'n he was the only one here for turns that didn' go out his way to fuck me over when he had plenty of sources to do so. I've known him for many turns, too. Back before Taikrin was Weyrleader." Beat. "Did'ja really come here to shake a grievin' woman down?"<br />
<br />
Irianke is pretty much at the tapestry and Kamornth has landed on the ledge when she pauses and looks at Jo. "No, I came so I could hear from you exactly what happened before I go vote in the Weyr Council as to what to do with Monaco. I wanted to hear from you what happened and not a sanitized report. But," the tears Irianke does not shed in public and not in front of anyone since that first night glisten in her dark blue eyes, "I'm afraid anything you say isn't something I could trust as fact. You love him too much to do anything but overlook what you profess to know he was. Goodbye, Lee." There's a finality to it when Irianke walks past the curtain and catches the Kamornth and B'ren train back down to the ground.<br />
|Categories=The Death of R'hin Logs<br />
}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs:Goodbye,_Jo&diff=78222Logs:Goodbye, Jo2015-10-23T04:55:42Z<p>Irianke: Irianke moved page Logs:Goodbye, Jo to Logs:Goodbye, Lee</p>
<hr />
<div>#REDIRECT [[Logs:Goodbye, Lee]]</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs:Goodbye,_Lee&diff=78220Logs:Goodbye, Lee2015-10-23T04:55:17Z<p>Irianke: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log<br />
|who=Irianke, Jo<br />
|what=Irianke seeks answers of a Jo who is unwilling to give them. It ends poorly but without bloodshed.<br />
|where=Jo's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr<br />
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Monaco Weyr<br />
|day=23<br />
|month=13<br />
|turn=38<br />
|IP=Interval<br />
|IP2=10<br />
|gamedate=2015.10.22<br />
|mentions=R'hin, M'kris<br />
|type=Log<br />
|icons-new=Icon irianke ugly crying.jpg, Icon jo pensive.jpg,<br />
|log=It's well into dinner time at the Weyr. Jo is on her couch in a white tank and loose grey pants, surrounded by stacks of hides that have the content of one wing. She's looking over one stack right now before a table of half-eaten food and a sturdy glass mug of something amber-colored while Tacuseth keeps guard outside on his ledge.<br />
<br />
The bronze arrives without warning, landing without invitation, and of the two riders atop, the smaller of the pair descends. "You can go. I'll have Niahvth bespeak you if I need a ride back down," says Irianke to Hailstorm's wingleader, who looks a little baffled: using one paramour to visit another. "Go," she urges, shooing the man off with a flicker of her fingers and turns to push past the tapestry and stride into the weyr. "Are you grieving?" asks the Weyrwoman forthrightly, instantly focusing on the woman in the tank on the couch.<br />
<br />
When Tacuseth finds the bronze suddenly on his ledge, perhaps he sends warning. He's silent either way as Irianke enters the weyr, finding Jo already staring at her once she's there. The hide sheets are in pause in one hand as she looks the Weyrwoman over, not answering right away. Her face drawn and guarded despite not looking like a mess like she was many days before, she carefully lays the hides down and answers, "I am," she answers simply, looking up at her. Head tilting at an angle, "Who was that?" she asks, glancing towards the ledge in indication of the bronzepair that left.<br />
<br />
"Kamornth," but that's beside the point, Irianke stands just across from the couch, a hand to her hip, planted ''there''. "Talk to me." That's all she says, she doesn't even move or flinch, or anything really, but stand there looking at Jo with the most neutral set to her face.<br />
Jo eyes that hand on Irianke's hip with a slight frown, leaning back on the couch before meeting her gaze head on. "Wha'dya wanna know?" is her question now, reaching over to remove the stack of hides from resting beside her on the couch towards the table.<br />
<br />
"I want to hear it from you. From your mouth. Without the practiced words you're telling everyone else. I want to know what happened and how." Irianke responds, her voice quiet.<br />
<br />
"Practiced," Jo echoes that one, brows furrowing at her as she stares her down. "I know what I've told," she says quietly, arms coming to a fold across her chest. "Ya seem to know what I've told, too. From that harper?" She doesn't exactly remember his name, it seems.<br />
<br />
"From the harper." Irianke confirms and finally relaxes, a shuddering breath exhaled. "I've read the report over and over again. No, wait, I lied. From Crom. Crom passed the report over to us. He was one of ours." With the floodgates of rambling open, the goldrider seems unable to stop. "I want to know, without I don't know. Tell me, please, Jo." The plea balls her fists at her side.<br />
<br />
Looking away as she looks over the cold meal before her, "Then ya know of it," Jo answers on reports, barely shaking her head. Her jaw is tightened when she looks at Irianke again, the last getting a brief, "I was there when he died. I touched his face'n he wasn' alone. I lost someone dear to me. He was a man that understood loyalty. Do ya know how rare that really is?" The words are quietly spoken, as if the bluerider was reminiscing on past memories.<br />
Irianke's manicness pauses and she looks at Jo a little oddly, frowning. "Was he?"<br />
<br />
"When it was needed," Jo answers with a single nod. "When it came to somethin' important. I've had lil' loyalty in my life," she admits now, staring ahead. "A whole lot of judgement. He was a breath of air. A good man. I close my eyes'n I can't get his face outta my head. That last look." Her gaze sharpens on Irianke now. "His blood is still on my yellow top," she tells her, perhaps indicating that the bluerider kept it somewhere in the weyr. "They should've let Keysi see him."<br />
<br />
The manicness is completely gone now, that ''desperate'' need to know faded and in its place, Irianke is cold and standing still once more. Some of what Jo said must penetrate, but a lot probably does not. "I've known him since I was twenty-nine. He chased in Niahvth's third flight and he caught my eye even if he didn't win. We saw each other sporadically over the turns. He was interesting and, for a while, I imagined I intrigued him." Once desperation is filled with a dead apathy. "It's good you think he's loyal. But loyal men don't set out to deliberately ignore someone who's exiled from their home when they're the only friendly face she knows. He was loyal when it suited him and I'm such a fool for thinking otherwise. Good night, Jo." Moving rigidly, Irianke turns and steps towards the ledge.<br />
<br />
Jo listens, something revealed getting her eyes to narrow a fraction at the Weyrwoman. "Exiled." That's a word she picks out, watching Irianke intently as she turns to leave. "Aren' we all loyal until it serves our purpose? I knew who he was, Iri," she says, her voice a bit hollow. "Folks're loyal as long as they can use ya. I'm not a fool." Reaching for her mug, "But he could fuck'n he was the only one here for turns that didn' go out his way to fuck me over when he had plenty of sources to do so. I've known him for many turns, too. Back before Taikrin was Weyrleader." Beat. "Did'ja really come here to shake a grievin' woman down?"<br />
<br />
Irianke is pretty much at the tapestry and Kamornth has landed on the ledge when she pauses and looks at Jo. "No, I came so I could hear from you exactly what happened before I go vote in the Weyr Council as to what to do with Monaco. I wanted to hear from you what happened and not a sanitized report. But," the tears Irianke does not shed in public and not in front of anyone since that first night glisten in her dark blue eyes, "I'm afraid anything you say isn't something I could trust as fact. You love him too much to do anything but overlook what you profess to know he was. Goodbye, Lee." There's a finality to it when Irianke walks past the curtain and catches the Kamornth and B'ren train back down to the ground.<br />
|Categories=The Death of R'hin Logs<br />
}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs:Goodbye,_Lee&diff=78219Logs:Goodbye, Lee2015-10-23T04:51:10Z<p>Irianke: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log<br />
|who=Irianke, Jo<br />
|what=Irianke seeks answers of a Jo who is unwilling to give them. It ends poorly but without bloodshed.<br />
|where=Jo's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr<br />
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Monaco Weyr<br />
|day=23<br />
|month=13<br />
|turn=38<br />
|IP=Interval<br />
|IP2=10<br />
|gamedate=2015.10.22<br />
|mentions=R'hin, M'kris<br />
|type=Log<br />
|icons-new=Icon irianke ugly crying.jpg, Icon jo pensive.jpg,<br />
|log=It's well into dinner time at the Weyr. Jo is on her couch in a white tank and loose grey pants, surrounded by stacks of hides that have the content of one wing. She's looking over one stack right now before a table of half-eaten food and a sturdy glass mug of something amber-colored while Tacuseth keeps guard outside on his ledge.<br />
<br />
The bronze arrives without warning, landing without invitation, and of the two riders atop, the smaller of the pair descends. "You can go. I'll have Niahvth bespeak you if I need a ride back down," says Irianke to Hailstorm's wingleader, who looks a little baffled: using one paramour to visit another. "Go," she urges, shooing the man off with a flicker of her fingers and turns to push past the tapestry and stride into the weyr. "Are you grieving?" asks the Weyrwoman forthrightly, instantly focusing on the woman in the tank on the couch.<br />
<br />
When Tacuseth finds the bronze suddenly on his ledge, perhaps he sends warning. He's silent either way as Irianke enters the weyr, finding Jo already staring at her once she's there. The hide sheets are in pause in one hand as she looks the Weyrwoman over, not answering right away. Her face drawn and guarded despite not looking like a mess like she was many days before, she carefully lays the hides down and answers, "I am," she answers simply, looking up at her. Head tilting at an angle, "Who was that?" she asks, glancing towards the ledge in indication of the bronzepair that left.<br />
<br />
"Kamornth," but that's beside the point, Irianke stands just across from the couch, a hand to her hip, planted ''there''. "Talk to me." That's all she says, she doesn't even move or flinch, or anything really, but stand there looking at Jo with the most neutral set to her face.<br />
Jo eyes that hand on Irianke's hip with a slight frown, leaning back on the couch before meeting her gaze head on. "Wha'dya wanna know?" is her question now, reaching over to remove the stack of hides from resting beside her on the couch towards the table.<br />
<br />
"I want to hear it from you. From your mouth. Without the practiced words you're telling everyone else. I want to know what happened and how." Irianke responds, her voice quiet.<br />
<br />
"Practiced," Jo echoes that one, brows furrowing at her as she stares her down. "I know what I've told," she says quietly, arms coming to a fold across her chest. "Ya seem to know what I've told, too. From that harper?" She doesn't exactly remember his name, it seems.<br />
<br />
"From the harper." Irianke confirms and finally relaxes, a shuddering breath exhaled. "I've read the report over and over again. No, wait, I lied. From Crom. Crom passed the report over to us. He was one of ours." With the floodgates of rambling open, the goldrider seems unable to stop. "I want to know, without I don't know. Tell me, please, Jo." The plea balls her fists at her side.<br />
<br />
Looking away as she looks over the cold meal before her, "Then ya know of it," Jo answers on reports, barely shaking her head. Her jaw is tightened when she looks at Irianke again, the last getting a brief, "I was there when he died. I touched his face'n he wasn' alone. I lost someone dear to me. He was a man that understood loyalty. Do ya know how rare that really is?" The words are quietly spoken, as if the bluerider was reminiscing on past memories.<br />
Irianke's manicness pauses and she looks at Jo a little oddly, frowning. "Was he?"<br />
<br />
"When it was needed," Jo answers with a single nod. "When it came to somethin' important. I've had lil' loyalty in my life," she admits now, staring ahead. "A whole lot of judgement. He was a breath of air. A good man. I close my eyes'n I can't get his face outta my head. That last look." Her gaze sharpens on Irianke now. "His blood is still on my yellow top," she tells her, perhaps indicating that the bluerider kept it somewhere in the weyr. "They should've let Keysi see him."<br />
<br />
The manicness is completely gone now, that ''desperate'' need to know faded and in its place, Irianke is cold and standing still once more. Some of what Jo said must penetrate, but a lot probably does not. "I've known him since I was twenty-nine. He chased in Niahvth's third flight and he caught my eye even if he didn't win. We saw each other sporadically over the turns. He was interesting and, for a while, I imagined I intrigued him." Once desperation is filled with a dead apathy. "It's good you think he's loyal. But loyal men don't set out to deliberately ignore someone who's exiled from their home when they're the only friendly face she knows. He was loyal when it suited him and I'm such a fool for thinking otherwise. Good night, Jo." Moving rigidly, Irianke turns and steps towards the ledge.<br />
<br />
Jo listens, something revealed getting her eyes to narrow a fraction at the Weyrwoman. "Exiled." That's a word she picks out, watching Irianke intently as she turns to leave. "Aren' we all loyal until it serves our purpose? I knew who he was, Iri," she says, her voice a bit hollow. "Folks're loyal as long as they can use ya. I'm not a fool." Reaching for her mug, "But he could fuck'n he was the only one here for turns that didn' go out his way to fuck me over when he had plenty of sources to do so. I've known him for many turns, too. Back before Taikrin was Weyrleader." Beat. "Did'ja really come here to shake a grievin' woman down?"<br />
<br />
Irianke is pretty much at the tapestry and Kamornth has landed on the ledge when she pauses and looks at Jo. "No, I came so I could hear from you exactly what happened before I go vote in the Weyr Council as to what to do with Monaco. I wanted to hear from you what happened and not a sanitized report. But," the tears Irianke does not shed in public and not in front of anyone since that first night glisten in her dark blue eyes, "I'm afraid anything you say isn't something I could trust as fact. You love him too much to do anything but overlook what you profess to know he was. Goodbye, Jo." There's a finality to it when Irianke walks past the curtain and catches the Kamornth and B'ren train back down to the ground.<br />
|Categories=The Death of R'hin Logs<br />
}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs:Goodbye,_Lee&diff=78218Logs:Goodbye, Lee2015-10-23T04:50:13Z<p>Irianke: Created page with "{{Log |who=Irianke, Jo |what=Irianke seeks answers of a Jo who is unwilling to give them. It ends poorly but without bloodshed. |where=Jo's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |involves=H..."</p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log<br />
|who=Irianke, Jo<br />
|what=Irianke seeks answers of a Jo who is unwilling to give them. It ends poorly but without bloodshed.<br />
|where=Jo's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr<br />
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Monaco Weyr<br />
|day=23<br />
|month=13<br />
|turn=38<br />
|IP=Interval<br />
|IP2=10<br />
|gamedate=2015.10.22<br />
|type=Log<br />
|icons-new=Icon irianke ugly crying.jpg, Icon jo pensive.jpg,<br />
|log=It's well into dinner time at the Weyr. Jo is on her couch in a white tank and loose grey pants, surrounded by stacks of hides that have the content of one wing. She's looking over one stack right now before a table of half-eaten food and a sturdy glass mug of something amber-colored while Tacuseth keeps guard outside on his ledge.<br />
<br />
The bronze arrives without warning, landing without invitation, and of the two riders atop, the smaller of the pair descends. "You can go. I'll have Niahvth bespeak you if I need a ride back down," says Irianke to Hailstorm's wingleader, who looks a little baffled: using one paramour to visit another. "Go," she urges, shooing the man off with a flicker of her fingers and turns to push past the tapestry and stride into the weyr. "Are you grieving?" asks the Weyrwoman forthrightly, instantly focusing on the woman in the tank on the couch.<br />
<br />
When Tacuseth finds the bronze suddenly on his ledge, perhaps he sends warning. He's silent either way as Irianke enters the weyr, finding Jo already staring at her once she's there. The hide sheets are in pause in one hand as she looks the Weyrwoman over, not answering right away. Her face drawn and guarded despite not looking like a mess like she was many days before, she carefully lays the hides down and answers, "I am," she answers simply, looking up at her. Head tilting at an angle, "Who was that?" she asks, glancing towards the ledge in indication of the bronzepair that left.<br />
<br />
"Kamornth," but that's beside the point, Irianke stands just across from the couch, a hand to her hip, planted ''there''. "Talk to me." That's all she says, she doesn't even move or flinch, or anything really, but stand there looking at Jo with the most neutral set to her face.<br />
Jo eyes that hand on Irianke's hip with a slight frown, leaning back on the couch before meeting her gaze head on. "Wha'dya wanna know?" is her question now, reaching over to remove the stack of hides from resting beside her on the couch towards the table.<br />
<br />
"I want to hear it from you. From your mouth. Without the practiced words you're telling everyone else. I want to know what happened and how." Irianke responds, her voice quiet.<br />
<br />
"Practiced," Jo echoes that one, brows furrowing at her as she stares her down. "I know what I've told," she says quietly, arms coming to a fold across her chest. "Ya seem to know what I've told, too. From that harper?" She doesn't exactly remember his name, it seems.<br />
<br />
"From the harper." Irianke confirms and finally relaxes, a shuddering breath exhaled. "I've read the report over and over again. No, wait, I lied. From Crom. Crom passed the report over to us. He was one of ours." With the floodgates of rambling open, the goldrider seems unable to stop. "I want to know, without I don't know. Tell me, please, Jo." The plea balls her fists at her side.<br />
<br />
Looking away as she looks over the cold meal before her, "Then ya know of it," Jo answers on reports, barely shaking her head. Her jaw is tightened when she looks at Irianke again, the last getting a brief, "I was there when he died. I touched his face'n he wasn' alone. I lost someone dear to me. He was a man that understood loyalty. Do ya know how rare that really is?" The words are quietly spoken, as if the bluerider was reminiscing on past memories.<br />
Irianke's manicness pauses and she looks at Jo a little oddly, frowning. "Was he?"<br />
<br />
"When it was needed," Jo answers with a single nod. "When it came to somethin' important. I've had lil' loyalty in my life," she admits now, staring ahead. "A whole lot of judgement. He was a breath of air. A good man. I close my eyes'n I can't get his face outta my head. That last look." Her gaze sharpens on Irianke now. "His blood is still on my yellow top," she tells her, perhaps indicating that the bluerider kept it somewhere in the weyr. "They should've let Keysi see him."<br />
<br />
The manicness is completely gone now, that ''desperate'' need to know faded and in its place, Irianke is cold and standing still once more. Some of what Jo said must penetrate, but a lot probably does not. "I've known him since I was twenty-nine. He chased in Niahvth's third flight and he caught my eye even if he didn't win. We saw each other sporadically over the turns. He was interesting and, for a while, I imagined I intrigued him." Once desperation is filled with a dead apathy. "It's good you think he's loyal. But loyal men don't set out to deliberately ignore someone who's exiled from their home when they're the only friendly face she knows. He was loyal when it suited him and I'm such a fool for thinking otherwise. Good night, Jo." Moving rigidly, Irianke turns and steps towards the ledge.<br />
<br />
Jo listens, something revealed getting her eyes to narrow a fraction at the Weyrwoman. "Exiled." That's a word she picks out, watching Irianke intently as she turns to leave. "Aren' we all loyal until it serves our purpose? I knew who he was, Iri," she says, her voice a bit hollow. "Folks're loyal as long as they can use ya. I'm not a fool." Reaching for her mug, "But he could fuck'n he was the only one here for turns that didn' go out his way to fuck me over when he had plenty of sources to do so. I've known him for many turns, too. Back before Taikrin was Weyrleader." Beat. "Did'ja really come here to shake a grievin' woman down?"<br />
<br />
Irianke is pretty much at the tapestry and Kamornth has landed on the ledge when she pauses and looks at Jo. "No, I came so I could hear from you exactly what happened before I go vote in the Weyr Council as to what to do with Monaco. I wanted to hear from you what happened and not a sanitized report. But," the tears Irianke does not shed in public and not in front of anyone since that first night glisten in her dark blue eyes, "I'm afraid anything you say isn't something I could trust as fact. You love him too much to do anything but overlook what you profess to know he was. Goodbye, Jo." There's a finality to it when Irianke walks past the curtain and catches the Kamornth and B'ren train back down to the ground.<br />
|Categories=The Death of R'hin Logs<br />
}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs:Grumpy,_Frazzled,_Enchanting_and_Overwhelmed&diff=78149Logs:Grumpy, Frazzled, Enchanting and Overwhelmed2015-10-19T06:19:16Z<p>Irianke: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log<br />
|who=L'ton, Pia<br />
|what=Two brand new weyrlings. Two brand new dragons.<br />
|where=Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr<br />
|involves=High Reaches Weyr<br />
|day=14<br />
|month=1<br />
|turn=39<br />
|IP=Interval<br />
|IP2=10<br />
|gamedate=2015.10.18<br />
|quote="Lai and Pia. You spell it P-I-A? I spell mine L-A-I. And our dragons sound similar too. ''Lui''shaeth and ''Rui''yath."<br />
|mentions=Quinlys<br />
|type=Log<br />
|icons-new=Icon pia omg so exciting.jpg, Icon l'ton.png,<br />
|log=Out in the caverns, the hatching feast is still in full swing; despite those three sad eggs, the mood is celebratory. Pia ''had'' been out there, though her family-- here for the hatching, at least-- are long since gone. Now, however, she skips back through the snow and into the barracks, leaving footprints on the floor as she calls in that lilting, cheery voice: "Lu-- Luishaeth? I'm back." Are others sleeping? Is ''Luishaeth'' sleeping? Not anymore. <br />
<br />
Despite not having family present, though he made some noise about them being ''somewhere'', but nothing concrete, L'ton made his rounds, flashing his smile at several someones and wearing that euphoric tiredness characteristic of many weyrlings. But he's returned long before Pia did, changed into his pajamas, brushed his teeth, the full nine yards, and has ''finally'' settled down by Ruiyath right about the time the new greenrider wakes everyone else up, including his sleeping bronze. "''You''!" he accuses, without rancor.<br />
<br />
"Oops!" is, to be fair, actually apologetic. Pia even flushes, bringing one hand up to her mouth in dismay. She forgot. "Sorry!" ''That'' isn't quite as loud as the first, but nor is it a whisper-- and nor has she stopped talking altogether, as she skips back to her cot (so conveniently located near L'ton's) to sit, and gather Luishaeth up into her lap. The green is only half away herself, even now, and the tendrils of salt-washed thought she extends outwards are distinctly grumpy. <br />
<br />
Ruiyath wriggles his newly egg-free body, shimming up from his fine-wrought tail tip to his glowy, overly large head. He then groans and slumps in his couch, and even though L'ton isn't angry, his whirling eyes are ''baleful'' on Pia. << She is ''interesting'', >> he says to Luishaeth and every other dragon in the room. Interesting could be a synonym for ''loud'', ''annoying'', ''please tell her to shut up'', but Ruiyath is being exceedingly polite. "You're not really sorry. If you were, you would stop doing what you have to be sorry for, but it's ok. I'm fine with that." L'ton runs a hand down his dragon's back, rubbing fingers up and down the ridges until he calms. "Elaiton... I mean, L'ton, or Lai. I'm not really sure how this works now."<br />
<br />
<< Go on, say what you really mean, >> encourages Luishaeth tartly, more amused than bothered by the assessment (or its overly politic overtones). << She's annoying as all get out, but she's ''my'' annoying, so it's fine. >> Pia rubs at her dragon's headknobs, long fingers stretching to capture their entire width beneath her palm. "I guess," she agrees. "It's all just a bit much, and... it's nice to meet you, Lai. I'll go with that. I'm Pia. This is Luishaeth. I don't think I saw you before all of this, so that means you must be even newer than I am, and ''probably'' even more overwhelmed." <br />
<br />
"Lai and Pia. You spell it P-I-A? I spell mine L-A-I. And our dragons sound similar too. ''Lui''shaeth and ''Rui''yath" Coincidences abound, and that causes L'ton to grin toothily at the other weyrling, in spite of the overwhelmedness he ''must'' be feeling. "Oh, yeah. I mean... I came in last night, Impressed this morning, and I don't think anything's ''quite'' sunk in yet. It really is something new, like Quinlys suggested. Something new, something not so bad, maybe even good." He looks at Ruiyath who is struggling to go back to sleep in the dragon equivalent of tossing and turning. He ends up on his back, limbs in the air and wiggles some more.<br />
<br />
Pia's eyes light for these coincidences; "How perfect!" she tells Lai, though at least now she's moderating her voice to a slightly lower decibel count. "But: ''maybe'' even good? Shells, no. It's ''amazing''. We'll never, ever be alone again. We haven't really talked about my plans, yet, but Luishaeth seems sensible, so I think I'm well on my way. I'm," she explains, as something of an after-thought, "going to make maps from the air. That's what I do; I'm a starcrafter." Pause. "''Was'' a starcrafter, anyway." Luishaeth, too, has curled up, and if she's half shifted away from Pia's hand, well. Not everyone craves physical touch. <br />
<br />
<< Is she going to talk like this ''all'' the time? >> Ruiyath is ''frazzled''. He's tired. He was JUST born today for Faranth's sake. Giving up on sleep, the bronze rolls himself off L'ton's cot and ''moves'' away from Pia to the other side of the room as if that will make anything of this situation better. "I... sorry," says L'ton, a sheepish hand in his hair, ruffling his front locks. "He's not in a good mood right now, but when it happened, he was in the best mood. I... was too. I almost forgot how it felt to be happy."<br />
<br />
"Wasn't it amazing? That-- moment." Pia, it seems, is without words to effectively describe. She does, however, add: "I ''am'' sorry. Do you want me to stop talking? I think I could talk to Luishaeth inside my head the way I think most riders do. I ''will'' try to be less loud." << 'fraid so, >> Luishaeth answers, promptly. << And ''you'' don't have her yapping in your head, so count your blessings. She means well, though. >> Deep beneath those winter-dark waves is a hint of censure; only ''Luishaeth'' gets to insult Pia, thank you very much!<br />
<br />
L'ton shakes his head, in a negation he will surely regret later, and waves off Pia's apology and offer. "He's just grouchy right now. ''I'' think you're enchanting, except," there is that but, "I'm coming. I'm coming." He looks apologetically at Pia and gathers his bedding up with one sweeping arm, but leaves his press over here. "See you tomorrow morning. Hope I won't be a weepy mess when it all finally hits me." Ruiyath radiates less grumpiness now that his rider is coming to his beckon. << It was your choice, >> is said much like ''it's your funeral''.<br />
<br />
"Oh," says Pia, the syllable ending on a hovering pause. "No, no, of course. Sleep well, Lai!" ''Enchanting''. What a delight! She's effervescent to the end, and if Luishaeth crawls away, now, and back towards her couch... well. It ''is'' time for sleep. But first: << She's ''mine'', >> a possessive note, very ''nearly'' warm.<br />
}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=L%27ton&diff=78148L'ton2015-10-19T06:17:02Z<p>Irianke: </p>
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{{Character-Categories}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=File:Icon_l%27ton_smirk.png&diff=78145File:Icon l'ton smirk.png2015-10-19T06:13:42Z<p>Irianke: </p>
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<div></div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=File:Icon_l%27ton_smile.gif&diff=78144File:Icon l'ton smile.gif2015-10-19T06:13:17Z<p>Irianke: </p>
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<div></div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=File:Icon_l%27ton_serious.jpg&diff=78143File:Icon l'ton serious.jpg2015-10-19T06:12:56Z<p>Irianke: </p>
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<div></div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=File:Icon_l%27ton_mmhmm.jpg&diff=78142File:Icon l'ton mmhmm.jpg2015-10-19T06:12:42Z<p>Irianke: </p>
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<div></div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=File:Icon_l%27ton_angry.jpg&diff=78141File:Icon l'ton angry.jpg2015-10-19T06:12:26Z<p>Irianke: </p>
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<div></div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=File:Icon_l%27ton.png&diff=78140File:Icon l'ton.png2015-10-19T06:10:51Z<p>Irianke: </p>
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<div></div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=L%27ton&diff=78139L'ton2015-10-19T05:58:18Z<p>Irianke: </p>
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{{Character-Categories}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=File:L%27ton.png&diff=78138File:L'ton.png2015-10-19T05:57:49Z<p>Irianke: </p>
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<div></div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs:Niahvth%27s_Fail_Eggs&diff=77932Logs:Niahvth's Fail Eggs2015-10-13T05:34:30Z<p>Irianke: Created page with "{{Log |who=Edyis, Irianke |what=Edyis and Irianke discuss the Weyr and the future. |where=Galleries, High Reaches Weyr |day=12 |month=13 |turn=38 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gamedat..."</p>
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<div>{{Log<br />
|who=Edyis, Irianke<br />
|what=Edyis and Irianke discuss the Weyr and the future.<br />
|where=Galleries, High Reaches Weyr<br />
|day=12<br />
|month=13<br />
|turn=38<br />
|IP=Interval<br />
|IP2=10<br />
|gamedate=2015.10.07<br />
|type=Log<br />
|icons-new=Icon Edyis stoic.jpg, Icon irianke.jpg,<br />
|log=It's early in the evening, but the draw of eggs on the sands as much as a respite from the formidable Reachian weather has drawn at least one of the weyr's residents. Edyis sits quietly, pencil scratching away at one of the more comfortable sections of seating. Occasionally glancing up to look at the eggs or those tending them, or even those who come and go from the galleries. There's a set of tallies on one section of the page, with several marks in various columns.<br />
<br />
Niahvth shares her sands quite placably with her daughter, though less her daughter's choice in mate. Thankfully, Lythronath is not present at the moment, which means the senior queen of High Reaches is the epitome of chill. Irianke is found more often than not in the galleries, working on work and keeping an eye on the sands, but given how she's dressed for Igen weather more than Reachian weather as she walks in, it could be merely a question of enjoying the heat here versus what's out there. She stands at the entrance and glances down at the sands before looking up into the seating and climbs towards where the dignitaries usually sit, those comfortably cushioned seats, and seats herself next to the Snowdrift rider wordlessly.<br />
<br />
"So very polite of both of them to clutch during one of the few times of the year this place isn't sweltering." Edyis states as she hears someone settle into the seat next to her. She finishes the line she was working on before dark eyes lift, and with a muted surprise note the formerly Igenite woman. "Weyrwoman." Something of a more proper salute snapped off after a moment.<br />
<br />
"Hello, Edyis. Making numbers?" asks Irianke, her own salute less sharp, but such is the way rank works sometimes. "How does it look so far? What do the books add up to? Which clutch does what when and how?" She doesn't sound like she knows much about egg gambling at all with the way she's rattling of nonsensical questions. She knows it too, a lopsided smile curved at first Edyis and then the eggs on the sands. "I'm surprised Ros went up so early."<br />
<br />
Edyis laughs, "Tallying gossip actually. I'm afraid to bet on this bunch. Twenty-eight. Roszadayth's are closer to what counts have been in the past, but Niahvth's Fifteen, and after that flight." The brownrider's pencil taps against the page, "No telling what's inside those shells."<br />
<br />
Irianke's head lifts herself tall, a chin jerk and a funny, eye scrunched look passed onto the top of Edyis's head, something in between disbelief and what the eff. "I'm sure the gossip would be enlightening," says the goldrider, far more evenly than her fleeting look, which is now gone in favor of a brief smile.<br />
<br />
Edyis scrunches her nose with a shoulder lift, "Not particularly." She says of the gossip, "Few comments about how Roszadaeth's might be a little... well given which bronze caught." It is almost appologetic that grimace, "Mutterings about their not being enough candidates this time, or worse." She shivers then. "Its a good thing, that she had such a strong clutch this time right? A sign of her vitality?" And not of possible impending doom.<br />
<br />
"Why," asks Irianke, "Do people think there aren't enough candidates?" The goldrider steeples her fingers together and glances down at the sands again, her chin bobbling as if counting, then looks back sidelong at the brownrider. "Niahvth is Niahvth. I don't even pretend to understand the dragonhealing aspects of it. Leova likely knows more than I do." Her mouth and nose tip twitches at that.<br />
<br />
Edyis shrugs, "Possibly because of Tillek's," a pause, "Is it polite to accuse Ladies of hissy fits?" Edyis wonders, and at the sidelong look, Edyis just seems uncertain, as though trying to calculate possible outcomes perhaps. "She's a marvel," Edyis smiles, " I suppose if we understood everything about them it would take out some of the mystery and appeal of riding wouldn't it?"<br />
<br />
"There are other Holds, people in the Weyr. And High Reaches Hold, Crom, and Nabol don't seem inclined to take Tillek's decision to heart." Irianke remarks, and then adds, "Yet. And that's an eventuality that K'del and I are working to prepare the Weyr for, whether it happens in our lifetime or our children's. Nine Intervals before ours and every last one of them shows that people will forget."<br />
<br />
"Nabol remembers," And there's a strange sort of pride in the words, or perhaps more akin to admiration. It fades rapidly enough, "Still feels like it's a decade too soon to see that kind of response, but then I'm no diplomat, and only an amateur historian. It's probably flawed perception on my part." Another easy shrug, "Farideh mentioned..." She stops and seems to think better of something, "Internal search as being the preference."<br />
<br />
"Internal Search is not the preference. It is what we may be left with unless we decide to steal children, which," Irianke slants Edyis a dry look, "I am sure would ingratiate the Weyrs to the Holds even more."<br />
<br />
"Plenty of cotholds that wind up with daughters when they wanted strapping young sons." Edyis suggests with a slant of her mouth that may or may not suggest humor. "Doesn't the weyr foster out?" She asks then curiously. "The holds are probably harder than the Halls, if only because of the culture shock involved." But this too seems like an unfinished thought.<br />
<br />
"Why would the Weyr foster out?" asks Irianke, her brow suddenly puckered in confusion.<br />
<br />
"Plenty of cotholds that wind up with daughters when they wanted strapping young sons." Edyis suggests with a slant of her mouth that may or may not suggest humor. "Problems above my paygrade." She says with a shrug, closing the notebook.<br />
<br />
"It would still be kidnapping if they were taken when their ''fathers''," the not so subtle emphasis is hard to miss, "Prefer them not to be." Irianke looks at Edyis. "You're holdbred, are you not? Have you cleaved to Weyr life so much you've forgotten Holds do not think like Weyrs and Weyrs are not generally welcome in many of the more hidebound areas of Pern. The further we get from Thread, the less people remember and you, yourself, was born after the Pass and even after the Comet Pass, no? Gratitude is not something most people remember for decades to come."<br />
<br />
"Ah yes, because the life of a broodmare is what every good holder girl should aspire to." Maybe it's that emphasis on fathers that adds the faintest roughness to the thought. "I haven't forgotten." She says after some silence. "I am just hopeful that there is some way to combat it on all sides." Her eyes close briefly and then open again. "It's up to people like you and K'del to actually change things, folks like me can only dream of possibilities."<br />
<br />
"People will think how they will and kidnapping their daughters ''or'' their effeminate sons won't change their views." Irianke studies Edyis again and shakes her head. "You have such untraditional ideas for someone who grew up in what I can only imagine was a traditional environment and seem to think just because you believe so the world should fall in line. If only." The last carries some measure of regret as well as a sigh that has the Weyrwoman looking at the sands again. "So people are betting that Niahvth's eggs will fail, eh?"<br />
<br />
"It was a joke." Edyis says with a quiet breath out. And as Irianke continues, she remains quiet, and there seems some internal debate. It's Irianke's question that manages to draw something else out "I'm sure some do, can't say I count myself amongst them though. For all I know it could be fifteen bronzes or five queens out there. Too broad a number to start betting on." And with that it seems the brownrider is getting to her feet, albeit there's a tiredness to the movements.<br />
<br />
"I'm told, during a Pass, a queen could lay fifty eggs, sometimes more, sometimes." Irianke looks at her fingers, only looking back up when Edyis moves to stand. "Twenty-eight eggs isn't ideal right now, and I wouldn't be heartbroken if some didn't make it, even if..." The Weyrwoman's voice trails off as she looks down upon her now sleeping soulmate. "Fifteen is a lot for the length of her flight and the Interval we're in now," she admits now that Edyis seems about to leave. "Have a good rest of your evening."<br />
<br />
Edyis freezes a little at the confession, dark eyes moving to the gold in question. For a moment it looks as though she might speak, or try to say something remotely comforting. Instead, she shakes her head, "Dragons know what the weyr needs." Which serves as her farewell along with a sharp salute.<br />
}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs:Your_Lady_Wife&diff=77796Logs:Your Lady Wife2015-10-11T07:41:34Z<p>Irianke: </p>
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<div>{{Log<br />
|who=Aughan, Irianke<br />
|what=Irianke visits Crom shortly after K'del's near murder.<br />
|where=Crom Hold<br />
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Crom Hold<br />
|day=18<br />
|month=9<br />
|turn=38<br />
|IP=Interval<br />
|IP2=10<br />
|gamedate=2015.09.09<br />
|mentions=Ienavi, K'del,<br />
|type=Log<br />
|icons-new=Face-Aughan.jpg, Icon irianke.jpg,<br />
|log=With Greenfields behind them and K'del injured, but safely ensconced at Southern, it is finally time for Irianke to visit Crom, having sought a meeting with the Lord. She stands, waiting in the drawing room, studying a portrait of some long deceased ancestor, her gaze drifting eventually to take in the masculine finery that has suffered a woman's touch, a small smile twitches, catching sight of a more delicate vase with fresh flowers that looks woefully out of place.<br />
<br />
From behind Irianke-- ''just'' behind-- comes Aughan's voice, so mirthful and pleased. "Do my lady wife's touches not please you, Weyrwoman?" It's as if he's arrived out of nowhere, entering without escort and on quiet feet. "Crom's duties to your queen."<br />
<br />
"Does anything your lady wife does please me?" asks Irianke in return, her smile sudden and brilliant though she doesn't turn to favor Aughan with it. It'll have to suffice she's smiling and he can ''hear'' it in her words.<br />
<br />
"There's always a first time," is ''his'' reply, so dark and sardonically amused. "I'm sure she would be quite, quite hurt, naturally, were she to know." His own smile may be less brilliant, but the pleasure sounds in his voice nonetheless.<br />
<br />
Irianke's response is arch, still not turning to greet the Lord, as is proper and polite, "Were she to know?" As if she doesn't know herself. "Have your men learned anything more of the Greenfields fires? Of," the goldrider pauses, the smile fading just as she turns to look at Lord Crom, "The assassination attempt?"<br />
<br />
Aughan elects to ignore that first question, that archness, though it does not diminish his smile... that is, not until that pause, that turn, that faded smile. ''That question''. Far more professional, then, is his, "Rumours. Suggestions. 'I saw a man with a cart' and 'The heir had a thing against someone.'" That use of 'thing' must be a deliberate retelling, word-for-word accurate; it's surely not Aughan's choice. "Your Weyrleader, I trust, continues to recover."<br />
<br />
The mistress, not the wife, does not straighten an uneven collar, nor does she smooth back hair. Instead, she stands there, looking past Aughan to that vase once more and shakes her head. "He will return soon, is what I'm told. I had hoped to have Greenfields packaged up nicely for him upon his return, but..." she shrugs, her mouth set grim. "Aughan," she dares the name, and looks up at him, reaching with the hand invisible to the door to catch his upper arm.<br />
<br />
He waits; he lets her touch him and does nothing at all for long, long seconds. And then? "Irianke." The mere repetition of her name is a smug smile in and of itself; the way, a moment later, he reaches forward, close enough to breath into her ear, is perhaps far more dangerous. "I could move," he suggests, so rich with mirth. "I could turn, and my lady wife could enter, and you could be seen." It's not a warning; if anything, he seems to be inclined to egg her on.<br />
<br />
She knows better. That ''his'' lady wife does not come here, not after the vase incident and those damnable flowers. "Then move," she dares him.<br />
<br />
It's a false thrill, but a thrill nonetheless. Besides, would Ienavi even care? Aughan moves... but only to back them both up, back towards the so-conveniently-located couch. He's the Lord Holder; open doors be damned.<br />
<br />
Open doors be damned indeed. Oh, if K'del knew.<br />
|Categories=Circumventing the Inevitable Logs<br />
}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs:Mutual_Displeasure&diff=77795Logs:Mutual Displeasure2015-10-11T07:37:19Z<p>Irianke: </p>
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<div>{{Log<br />
|who=Aughan, Irianke<br />
|what=There is a lot to be displeased about.<br />
|where=Weyrwoman's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr<br />
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Crom Hold<br />
|day=19<br />
|month=13<br />
|turn=38<br />
|IP=Interval<br />
|IP2=10<br />
|gamedate=2015.10.10<br />
|quote="I will take your words under advisement."<br />
|mentions=Ienavi, Jo, Keysi, M'kris, R'hin<br />
|type=Log<br />
|st=K'del<br />
|icons-new=Face-Aughan.jpg, Icon irianke.jpg,<br />
|log=The only warning given is from Crom's watchrider, a wordless report that she bears Crom's Lord to visit, a quiver of wary anticipation and discomfort carried with it... she does not like this man. It's not a lot of time, but it's better than none at all: Niahvth will know, certainly, when the little green arrives at the Weyr, and no doubt anticipate the sound of footfalls outside her weyr as the Lord Holder makes his way to her sanctum. He's not soft-footed, but if he's angry, he's not showing that either, not yet. <br />
<br />
This is not a wholly unexpected visit, especially as she cannot visit him, but the timing is less than ideal. Irianke is not in her weyr when he arrives. She does not arrive for moments later, allowing him full, unfettered access to her weyr, her belongings, the pretty, fragile and not so fragile knick knacks that decorate her surfaces of the public chamber, and that single, decorative wooden sword hung along her wall as people enter, sheathed currently. Her weyr is spotless, with shaded lanterns and half-spent candles everywhere in any recess that will hold them. The hearth is lit low. There is a thicker curtain hung between the living area and the sleeping area, a tapestry woven in the colors of an Igen desert sunrise. It is quiet.<br />
<br />
Crom's Lord enters the Weyr without hesitating at the entrance-- and without calling out in greeting. That the place is quiet, and so obviously unoccupied at this particular moment does not, naturally, escape his notice. He's not a curious man, however, not evidently inclined to take this opportunity to paw his way through her knick knacks (or her underwear drawer). Instead, he crosses to the bar, examining the bottles on hand before selecting one (wine; unopened), opening it, and pouring himself a measure. Indeed, he seems quite at home. <br />
<br />
Irianke takes her time in returning; whether she's actually busy or not is a secondary matter to the primary objective of keeping him waiting. "Your lady wife," she says, as she enters, before she sees him, and fully assuming he is ''there'' among her things, "Just turned thirty-nine turns a few days ago. I forgot to send a gift." The goldrider's face is pristine through the wonders of make up, and the dark kohl about her eyes is shaped in a particularly striking way today. Riding leathers, sleek against her form, are in a soft-dyed maroon with ebony accents. She does not seek him, does not look at him, and does not move towards wherever he's ended up, but instead, seems to be on her way into her bedroom.<br />
<br />
"It's no matter. We'll forego ''your'' gift, this next turn, if we can even keep up with when High Reaches' Weyrwoman's turnday actually is." Aughan doesn't turn to face the goldrider until he's made that remark in full-- and taken a lengthy, careful sip from his glass as well. If that means seeing only her back, as she continues towards the bedroom, that's no issue; he follows, at an easy pace. "Besides, if your Weyr's representation at my wife's turnday celebrations is anything to go by, I don't know that I ''like'' your Weyr's gifts." His tone is harder, as he says that; sharper. <br />
<br />
"Take your issue with Monaco," says Irianke curtly, shedding her riding leathers without a care and stands there, with underwear and chunky gold jewelry decorating her neck and wrists. Finger flicks dance through the garments hung in her wardrobe, pausing to pull one out slightly, only to release it and continue looking. "It wasn't ''our'' gift from what I understand." He may not show her anger, but Irianke's emotions, at least anything but sorrow, are written clear in the tense set of her body and the uncharacteristic cold of her voice.<br />
<br />
"Oh, I will," says Aughan, without skipping a beat, not even in the face of Irianke's coldness. "But I must tell you, I find some peculiar... inconsistencies in the matter. It's well known, for example, that your Wingleader and Monaco's Weyrleader were less than friendly, and I have testimony that suggests it was not ''M'kris'' who sought R'hin out. Where is the motive?" He lets that hang, watching the weyrwoman as she changes, but without any suggestion of interest. "It leaves a perplexing picture, does it not? Not quite so cut-and-dry as some might suggest." <br />
<br />
Irianke finally stops on a light, airy Igen affair, the folds of fabric draped over the hanger in a misshapen way. It's pulled out, the bra is shed, and the breathable fabric is looped around and over her body in seemingly endless twists until it's finally a long skirt that ties about her neck and exposes the entirety of her back, held in place without pins. Only then does she pull the golden torque off her neck, though keeps the bracelets on her wrists. "Dispense with the intrigue and tell me what you think, Aughan." Much as she's dispensed with the formalities of their respective rank. "I don't have the time for this today, unless you mean to make it worth my time to banter."<br />
<br />
Aughan doesn't seem ill-pleased with this turn of the conversation, one hand clasped behind his back as the other lifts his wine glass towards his mouth. Those cool eyes consider Irianke as she dresses, but only in an idle kind of way. "I think everything is more complicated than it seems. I think people are lying to my investigators. And above all, I think I have a furious wife who would seek vengeance for the mockery made of my Hold's good-will, and that's even ''before'' we consider the behaviour of your riders, yesterday, ignoring orders and fighting my guard. Do not think for a moment, Irianke, that Crom tolerates this easily. We are ''not'' a stage for your petty squabbles." His voice is lower, now; just this side of dangerous. <br />
<br />
"What are you threatening me with, Aughan?" Irianke cuts through the political doublespeak and stands there in that sheer, except not anymore because of layers, gown, and ''looks'' at the Crom Lord. "Our riders will be dealt with. Such is the autonomy of Holds, Halls, and Weyrs. They do not answer to you, however you think they, or I, should. As for your dear wife. Maybe if you could abase yourself to fuck her like you fuck me, she might be in a better mood." A breath that doesn't even count as a pause. "Well?"<br />
<br />
"If I were threatening you, my dear woman, you would have no questions," Aughan's not fazed by Irianke's words; if anything, it may even be possible that he's faintly amused, somewhere deep beneath his unrattled expression. "I merely... highlight, shall we say, that whatever losses your Weyr are grieving for, ''we'' are not amused. Tread carefully, mm? I wouldn't like to show my cards. Life is so much less interesting, that way. There's something so... tawdry about Weyrs and Holds that cannot get along." <br />
<br />
"I will take your words under advisement." Irianke's response is, again, curt, but her hands? Her physical, always moving hands are now reaching up to claim his lips against hers, damn the glass he holds.<br />
<br />
Aughan's glass he lets fall; at least he's drunk enough of the wine within it that it's unlikely to leave too much of a stain. ''Her'' hands claim his face; ''his'' claim the gown she's only just put on, and not gently. ''This'' part of their engagement, their political exchange, requires no words.<br />
}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs:Your_Lady_Wife&diff=77794Logs:Your Lady Wife2015-10-11T07:26:32Z<p>Irianke: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log<br />
|who=Aughan, Irianke<br />
|what=Irianke visits Crom shortly after K'del's near murder.<br />
|where=Crom Hold<br />
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Crom Hold<br />
|day=16<br />
|month=9<br />
|turn=38<br />
|IP=Interval<br />
|IP2=10<br />
|gamedate=2015.09.09<br />
|mentions=Ienavi, K'del,<br />
|type=Log<br />
|icons-new=Face-Aughan.jpg, Icon irianke.jpg,<br />
|log=With Greenfields behind them and K'del injured, but safely ensconced at Southern, it is finally time for Irianke to visit Crom, having sought a meeting with the Lord. She stands, waiting in the drawing room, studying a portrait of some long deceased ancestor, her gaze drifting eventually to take in the masculine finery that has suffered a woman's touch, a small smile twitches, catching sight of a more delicate vase with fresh flowers that looks woefully out of place.<br />
<br />
From behind Irianke-- ''just'' behind-- comes Aughan's voice, so mirthful and pleased. "Do my lady wife's touches not please you, Weyrwoman?" It's as if he's arrived out of nowhere, entering without escort and on quiet feet. "Crom's duties to your queen."<br />
<br />
"Does anything your lady wife does please me?" asks Irianke in return, her smile sudden and brilliant though she doesn't turn to favor Aughan with it. It'll have to suffice she's smiling and he can ''hear'' it in her words.<br />
<br />
"There's always a first time," is ''his'' reply, so dark and sardonically amused. "I'm sure she would be quite, quite hurt, naturally, were she to know." His own smile may be less brilliant, but the pleasure sounds in his voice nonetheless.<br />
<br />
Irianke's response is arch, still not turning to greet the Lord, as is proper and polite, "Were she to know?" As if she doesn't know herself. "Have your men learned anything more of the Greenfields fires? Of," the goldrider pauses, the smile fading just as she turns to look at Lord Crom, "The assassination attempt?"<br />
<br />
Aughan elects to ignore that first question, that archness, though it does not diminish his smile... that is, not until that pause, that turn, that faded smile. ''That question''. Far more professional, then, is his, "Rumours. Suggestions. 'I saw a man with a cart' and 'The heir had a thing against someone.'" That use of 'thing' must be a deliberate retelling, word-for-word accurate; it's surely not Aughan's choice. "Your Weyrleader, I trust, continues to recover."<br />
<br />
The mistress, not the wife, does not straighten an uneven collar, nor does she smooth back hair. Instead, she stands there, looking past Aughan to that vase once more and shakes her head. "He will return soon, is what I'm told. I had hoped to have Greenfields packaged up nicely for him upon his return, but..." she shrugs, her mouth set grim. "Aughan," she dares the name, and looks up at him, reaching with the hand invisible to the door to catch his upper arm.<br />
<br />
He waits; he lets her touch him and does nothing at all for long, long seconds. And then? "Irianke." The mere repetition of her name is a smug smile in and of itself; the way, a moment later, he reaches forward, close enough to breath into her ear, is perhaps far more dangerous. "I could move," he suggests, so rich with mirth. "I could turn, and my lady wife could enter, and you could be seen." It's not a warning; if anything, he seems to be inclined to egg her on.<br />
<br />
She knows better. That ''his'' lady wife does not come here, not after the vase incident and those damnable flowers. "Then move," she dares him.<br />
<br />
It's a false thrill, but a thrill nonetheless. Besides, would Ienavi even care? Aughan moves... but only to back them both up, back towards the so-conveniently-located couch. He's the Lord Holder; open doors be damned.<br />
<br />
Open doors be damned indeed. Oh, if K'del knew.<br />
|Categories=Circumventing the Inevitable Logs<br />
}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs:Your_Lady_Wife&diff=77793Logs:Your Lady Wife2015-10-11T07:25:36Z<p>Irianke: Created page with "{{Log |who=Aughan, Irianke |what=Irianke visits Crom shortly after K'del's near murder. |where=Crom Hold |involves=High Reaches Weyr, Crom Hold |day=16 |month=9 |turn=38 |IP=I..."</p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log<br />
|who=Aughan, Irianke<br />
|what=Irianke visits Crom shortly after K'del's near murder.<br />
|where=Crom Hold<br />
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Crom Hold<br />
|day=16<br />
|month=9<br />
|turn=38<br />
|IP=Interval<br />
|IP2=10<br />
|gamedate=2015.09.09<br />
|mentions=Ienavi, K'del,<br />
|type=Log<br />
|icons-new=Face-Aughan.jpg, Icon irianke.jpg,<br />
|log=With Greenfields behind them and K'del injured, but safely ensconced at Southern, it is finally time for Irianke to visit Crom, having sought a meeting with the Lord. She stands, waiting in the drawing room, studying a portrait of some long deceased ancestor, her gaze drifting eventually to take in the masculine finery that has suffered a woman's touch, a small smile twitches, catching sight of a more delicate vase with fresh flowers that looks woefully out of place.<br />
<br />
From behind Irianke-- ''just'' behind-- comes Aughan's voice, so mirthful and pleased. "Do my lady wife's touches not please you, Weyrwoman?" It's as if he's arrived out of nowhere, entering without escort and on quiet feet. "Crom's duties to your queen."<br />
"Does anything your lady wife does please me?" asks Irianke in return, her smile sudden and brilliant though she doesn't turn to favor Aughan with it. It'll have to suffice she's smiling and he can ''hear'' it in her words.<br />
<br />
"There's always a first time," is ''his'' reply, so dark and sardonically amused. "I'm sure she would be quite, quite hurt, naturally, were she to know." His own smile may be less brilliant, but the pleasure sounds in his voice nonetheless.<br />
<br />
Irianke's response is arch, still not turning to greet the Lord, as is proper and polite, "Were she to know?" As if she doesn't know herself. "Have your men learned anything more of the Greenfields fires? Of," the goldrider pauses, the smile fading just as she turns to look at Lord Crom, "The assassination attempt?"<br />
<br />
Aughan elects to ignore that first question, that archness, though it does not diminish his smile... that is, not until that pause, that turn, that faded smile. ''That question''. Far more professional, then, is his, "Rumours. Suggestions. 'I saw a man with a cart' and 'The heir had a thing against someone.'" That use of 'thing' must be a deliberate retelling, word-for-word accurate; it's surely not Aughan's choice. "Your Weyrleader, I trust, continues to recover."<br />
<br />
The mistress, not the wife, does not straighten an uneven collar, nor does she smooth back hair. Instead, she stands there, looking past Aughan to that vase once more and shakes her head. "He will return soon, is what I'm told. I had hoped to have Greenfields packaged up nicely for him upon his return, but..." she shrugs, her mouth set grim. "Aughan," she dares the name, and looks up at him, reaching with the hand invisible to the door to catch his upper arm.<br />
<br />
He waits; he lets her touch him and does nothing at all for long, long seconds. And then? "Irianke." The mere repetition of her name is a smug smile in and of itself; the way, a moment later, he reaches forward, close enough to breath into her ear, is perhaps far more dangerous. "I could move," he suggests, so rich with mirth. "I could turn, and my lady wife could enter, and you could be seen." It's not a warning; if anything, he seems to be inclined to egg her on.<br />
<br />
She knows better. That ''his'' lady wife does not come here, not after the vase incident and those damnable flowers. "Then move," she dares him.<br />
<br />
It's a false thrill, but a thrill nonetheless. Besides, would Ienavi even care? Aughan moves... but only to back them both up, back towards the so-conveniently-located couch. He's the Lord Holder; open doors be damned.<br />
<br />
Open doors be damned indeed. Oh, if K'del knew.<br />
|Categories=Circumventing the Inevitable Logs<br />
}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs:Why_Tonight&diff=77612Logs:Why Tonight2015-10-08T20:13:13Z<p>Irianke: Created page with "{{Log |who=Irianke, N'rov, Farideh{{!}}Roszadyth |what=Irianke has something to give to N'rov and the timing of it is questionable. |where=Irianke's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |i..."</p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log<br />
|who=Irianke, N'rov, Farideh{{!}}Roszadyth<br />
|what=Irianke has something to give to N'rov and the timing of it is questionable.<br />
|where=Irianke's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr<br />
|involves=High Reaches Weyr<br />
|day=24<br />
|month=9<br />
|turn=38<br />
|IP=Interval<br />
|IP2=10<br />
|gamedate=2015.09.04<br />
|mentions=Aishani, A'rist, Farideh<br />
|type=Log<br />
|icons-new=Icon irianke chaise.jpg, Icon n'rov apple.png,<br />
|log=Sometime early evening, the touch of a ''seeking'' queen is different than the touch of someone who ''knows'' what mind she wants to enter. This one, however bright with her marigold warmth, has a touch of hesitancy as its thoughts flitter through the Fortian dragons, almost as if she's ''lost'' until finally finding one that is possibly right. << Vhaeryth? >> the dulcet touch asks, curling tendrils of vine shoots hovering just within the periphery of the bronze's mind. Without waiting, likely on a schedule, she continues a half moment later with, << My rider seeks a meeting with yours. Irianke says she has something to return to yours. >><br />
<br />
Confirmation's the ''snick'' of puzzling pieces coming together, that place where tension can become relief; perhaps it's because the warm once-anomaly keeps those tendrils from invading that he's minded to ''rearrange'', a glass-clear extension for them to lean on over the distance if she wills. << 'Something.' >> Vhaeryth sounds amused, not particularly preoccupied; << Will he like it? >> Only, moments later he shares in a different tone, << ''He'' asks only where and when. >><br />
<br />
The autumn chill of High Reaches with its gusting winds and sporadically heavy rains is shared: an image of the spires as it is ''now''. << He may. If he is of that type, >> responds the queen, noncommittal. << She only knows it is not hers. >> So it must be his. This makes sense to Niahvth, but she has deliberately (or assumingly) made several jumps in the progression of logic. << Any time this evening will be fine. Perhaps tomorrow morning, but tonight is better. >> Abruptly, the gold changes subject with, a still sun-filled, but more grave in tone with gray creeping in on the brighter colors, << I hope Fort is well. >><br />
<br />
Rain and rain and rain soaks Fort likewise; Vhaeryth spares Niahvth, he lets it be known, all the underlying mud. He spares her too, less perceptibly, details of his rider's reaction; it still can't be accidental, even as though behind rain-wet, condensation-obscured glass, that sense of ''movement''. << Tonight, then. >> Clearing the table, clearing the board. << It is... >> perhaps 'better,' perhaps just, << further. >> Low voices, layered. So is, << What would you like? >><br />
<br />
<< What would I like? >> Niahvth is a simple dragon, for all she's a queen, and his last inquiry baffles her, petals curling towards N'rov and that rain he shares and spares. << What would you like? >> she asks instead, turning the enigmatic question back onto him.<br />
<br />
He arches his back, it can be felt, that roll of spine that starts above his shoulders and descends; his neck curves, after-ripple rather than a shock. << To fly. >> Amused, << Better, dry. >> It won't be much longer before he shares something different: the cold if not the wet, the ''coldest'' that makes the next wet warm. They come. They spiral, down and down, to find her: will it be the new ledge, then?<br />
<br />
<< To fly. >> The simple queen assesses this simple desire, turning it about her head and missing the arrival of the Fortian dragon into her Weyr (''her'' Weyr, oh the momentary surge of joy ''that'' thought brings with it), ultimately deciding, pragmatically, << Then you must fly. Where it does not rain. There are many places in Pern that does not rain this time of turn. >> Images of a desert, with the heat rippling the air visibly, are passed on to the younger dragon. But then look, he's there, and her attention kens upwards as the watchrider rises back onto his haunches and greets the foreigner. Reclined under a stone awning over her ledge, Niahvth is a shining, half-damp golden lump below. << Here. >> she guides, perhaps unnecessarily.<br />
<br />
That joy; that amuses, ''pleases'' him somehow as he swings wide-winged into 'Reaches airspace; Vhaeryth shares what he can perceive of it, how the natives orient on Niahvth now, hers. Within the younger dragon's return of the watchrider's greeting is the easy assurance of one expected, invited, by one far more senior than the ancient one. And as for the image of her... he slows towards her. Not that he isn't distracted: first by one ledge, the empty one, and then by the other that decidedly is ''not''. His rider's seat is rigid; it doesn't so much relax as adopt ease when the bronzerider touches boot to stone. And that greeting for Niahvth, the human one that precedes the nosing whuffle, is inflected half out of southern.<br />
<br />
Dragon> Surely a bronze dragon finding occasion to visit is nothing new, of late especially; this one, though, hadn't visited for her dam. Except that he does, now: gliding down through the falling rain with the easy assurance of invitation. His descent continues, down to the senior queen's ledge... but not without perceptible distraction: the once again empty ledge and then ''her''. Yet still he lands. (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth)<br />
<br />
Dragon> ''Other'' bronzes and browns are paying the petite queen court, feeding off her charming, sensual energy, and she's basking in the attention, but peripherally, she's ''aware'' of ''his'' presence. Wide-set eyes follow his descent, but Roszadyth's curious approach is a mere ''brush'' of softness and striated sunshine. ''Hello'', there. (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth)<br />
<br />
Dragon> Softness meets the slant of glass, metal-backed ''just'' to mirror her some of that sunshine back. Not all, though; some he's ''keeping''. And not just a mirroring, but a (signaling?) flash. (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth)<br />
<br />
Dragon> A flash? ''That'' catches Roszadyth's focus more fully, and settles the weight of her attentions on the foreign bronze. << You are not ''from'' here, >> is politely inquisitive and warm, and probing for ''more''. (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth)<br />
<br />
Dragon> << No. >> Not negation but agreement. This time, when the light flashes, it's to illuminate the fall of rain that is like here but not, ''different''. The scent of lowlands, not so very far beyond. A shorter night. For her, he'll even (with some humor) make that rain warm too. (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth)<br />
<br />
Niahvth holds court, though unladylike her stance may be. It is, after all, her Weyr and her ledge, and he the invited guest into it all. Unaffected by formalities, most of the time, the newly minted senior queen lifts her neck from the ground as Vhaeryth alights and studies N'rov more than the the man's dragon, watching him descend and then pinning those whirling eyes upon him as he greets her in his accented way. After a while, where the pitter of the light rain of the night falls just beyond the recessed area she sits in, she nods and glances back towards the curtained entrance into warmer, dryer hospitalities. << He is fair looking, >> appraises Niahvth to Vhaeryth, as if the bronze is not aware of what his rider looks like. << As are you. Come, share my ledge while you wait, unless, >> she adds, a little sly for all her simpleness, << You prefer to fly ''here''. >><br />
Inside, the weyr is lit by a myriad of glow lamps and candles, as well as a steady fire in the hearth. It is as warm inside as it is cold without, and bright within as it is dark outside. Irianke sits on the chaise, in spite of the warning she must have had, nursing a glass of something brown, while reading a book. She's still dressed for business, slacks and a neat blouse, jewelry, hair coiffed elegantly, and the signs of make up that's either lasted all day or was retouched in the last hour. A second glass, empty, sits on the table in between the chaise and an armchair, whose sole occupant is a neatly folded towel.<br />
<br />
The man certainly doesn't help himself to the entrance before the risen queen grants safe passage; he stands there, water dripping down his drawstring-knotted hood, gray eyes regarding the queen with relative patience. He ''does'' loop the satchel he'd brought with him from cross-body to one shoulder, but other than that, he waits. And then, obediently, walks into this weyr where he hadn't the other, without a look at any other ledge at all.<br />
<br />
Inside, once N'rov's scraped his boots, he continues on the directed way while Vhaeryth allows, a gleam of borrowed sunlight off metal-backed glass, << I might. >> For now, he takes a deep breath of the rain-freshened air, before mantling his wings much as his rider had shrugged free his coat, only the bronze keeps ''his'' far closer to hand. It's from a polite distance that the bronzerider greets the woman in the glowlight, "Weyrwoman." Water's beaded here and there within mostly-dry dark hair, and the humidity's softened the otherwise stark line of his collar. You called?" is no real question, but considered invitation.<br />
<br />
Irianke takes her time to finish the paragraph or page she's on, breathing out an audible sound, her head tipping to one side thoughtful. Then, she marks the page with a metal bookmark, an intricate pattern etched onto its surface, before looking up to the arrived man. A welcoming smile curves and warms, and she gets to her feet. "Ahh," her teeth expel another sound, this one of knowing, and a recollection resurfaces to find recognition, a turn's old recognition. "So you're N'rov. Would you like some tea today?"<br />
<br />
<< You might. >> Niahvth's touch lilts, some semblance of girlishness replacing the simple-minded queen, as she manipulates her own touch and presence with little shifts here, then there, then over there, until she ''feels'' different even if the petals, sunshine, and marigolds remain the same. << You ''miiiiiiiiiiiii-ight''. >> She turns one syllable into multiple and slinks herself from out under that recess and extends her massive wings to catch some drops in a curve of one of them.<br />
<br />
Such warmth; N'rov lets his half-smile tip wry answer as he closes a few more steps. "Please," he says, and doesn't ask after biscuits. He ''does'' lend humor to his baritone, though it can't hurt that Vhaeryth's staring at Niahvth with something like fascination, right before the bronze snakes his head under that wing to aim a snorting chuff towards its underside; "I won't say I'm not surprised at the invitation; imagine High Reaches had quite a few visitors of late."<br />
<br />
Dragon> ''Games'', subtleties? Roszadyth hesitates, fascinated by the foreign dragon as she is. << Where? >> Scent or scene, she's not ''that'' acquainted with the varieties of the different landscapes to pinpoint it. << You are, >> rippled, whispering fabric, << ''just'' visiting? >> Curious. (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth)'<br />
<br />
Dragon> By now he's settling, if not ''settled'', in a way that might be construed to be at Niahvth's request; his rider, hooded against the weather, has undergone an inspection by the older queen before being permitted to pass within. The bronze, ruddy-dark in the darkness, blows a puff of hot air beneath one of the latter's wings, and now, turning, his gaze glints briefly in what light there is. << Visiting, >> he agrees, but can there be a 'just' about it? << We were called, from Fort, >> his voice lowered, whispering intimately, playfully back. (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth)<br />
<br />
"Not many I've requested specifically." Irianke moves to fetch the tray with its tea kettle on it from her working stone table and brings it to the table between the chairs and pours N'rov a still steaming cup of tea. She sticks with her whisky and sinks into her seat. "Irianke," she finally introduces, a turn and a half later. His southern-lilted accent is met by her rolling, velvet Igen accent. "How fares Fort these days? I am so sorry for your Weyr's loss. Lilah was," the goldrider pauses, her lips pursed and another of those sounds of hers, this one considering, releases. "Very interesting. I only met her a few times."<br />
<br />
N'rov's laugh is low and wry all over again; he thanks her with a nod for the tea, though at last he moves to employ the towel: on his skin where it needs it, and then to save her upholstery before he takes that seat. "Thank you." Layered. "Fort... copes. Lilah was much the same before she Impressed. She," the bronzerider rubs the back of his neck. Gray eyes lift, frank. "I apologize. It's harder than usual to stay ''polite''."<br />
<br />
Dragon> ''Fort'', also, << Fort! >> Positive connotations are associated with the ideal of the Weyr south of High Reaches; a whimsical note and the almost imperceptible smell of orchards. << A pleasure, >> is saccharine and ''meaningful'' at the same time. She doesn't ask about their summoning, but her interest in ''him'' is ''heady'' and direct. (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth)<br />
<br />
Dragon> ''Heady'' enough that he responds in kind, that she might ''feel'' his responding, and what does that do to her? (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth)<br />
<br />
"No need to apologize. I prefer frankness in most all situations." Irianke pours out some whisky into the empty glass on the table and nods approvingly as he takes up the towel. "In this rain, even with only a short moment outdoors what with between, I figured you might need a towel. But," her continuation is with a crookedly wry smile, "If I were absolutely honest, I'd rather ask you to use my bath and see where things go from there, but it didn't seem to be the time or place, especially as I did want to see you to pass on this." A this that does not manifest magically when Irianke turns her palm upward. Neither does she seem to expect it to be there, nor does she move to go put it there.<br />
<br />
He has a towel; there's that whisky there; there's that tea that... yes, he'll sip it, his gaze a little darker now, but not straying from her expression towards that so-neat, still-neat blouse. Even with Roszadyth in the air. "'This'?" N'rov asks, his own smile slower to take hold but rising regardless. He doesn't fight it so much as... ''guide'' it.<br />
<br />
Dragon> Utterly ''elated'', but Roszadyth is enduringly coy to the last. Warmth seeps towards the bronze, ''pleased'' in emotion, and then it's all gone, a veil dropping between them. Her tones are crisp, vibrant; peeks of her sunshine from behind the lace. << Stay. >> (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth)<br />
<br />
Dragon> << 'Stay.' >> Vhaeryth puts it in such wondering tones, reflected above equally tangible masculine amusement: why, he'd never thought of such a thing. Not leave, not just now? He stretches his dark wings in a slow, sleek, smoothly muscular movement as though he'd been considering such a departure; as though he were invisible behind the very lace she peeks from. (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth)<br />
<br />
Dragon> << Leave? >> Surprise and a touch of disappointment turns everything rosy. << If you must. >> Courteous, unfailingly courteous and conscious of ''everything'', even as Roszadyth ''wants''. (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth)<br />
<br />
Dragon> Such courtesy, it's ''charming''. Vhaeryth conveys his appreciation without words, but with warmth: warmth and more, that much more, for her ''wanting''. << He had meant to depart, >> the bronze explains of his rider. << But since you ask... >> since she wishes and wants, << together we might persuade him to stay. >> (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth)<br />
<br />
Dragon> And the disappointment evaporates underneath the suggestion of warm, unabashed delight. << I ''do'' hope your intentions are.. sincere, >> Roszadyth replies, sunshine dappling; whether they are or they aren't, it's wonderful, entertaining his warmth and affections. << Shall we? >> (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth)<br />
<br />
Dragon> ''That'' much he can be quite clear in his sharing with her, even as the older queen, the flown queen is his hostess (their hostess?) beside him; he's... ''intrigued''. Which is to say, they shall. That's why he lets Roszadyth be privy to a little of what he perceives: his rider, to be so warmly leant on; the ''waiting'', the having to have ''patience'' and not just uneasy anticipation. This is rare, this sharing. Barely a whisper, only half teasing, << Gentle. >> (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth)<br />
<br />
Dragon> ''Clarity'' is appreciated, and those little, rare glimpses from the other side, secreted to ''her'', for ''her''. Silence descends in solidarity, sunshine still-shrouded as she whispers back, in hushed, girlish tones, complete with the provocative weight of a warm, gloved hand. << Comfort? >> (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth)<br />
<br />
Irianke looks at him, those slate blue eyes of hers lingering on the mostly-dry dark hair and down to his gray eyes. "This." Her fingers curl into the emptiness of her palm, and a tiny, turn curls her lip, neither pleased nor displeased. "I debated for a few days whether I should return this to you or not, if it would just bring up memories best forgotten, but it seemed unkind not to at least give you the option to decide for yourself." The Weyrwoman slides her legs off the side of the chaise and places both feet on the floor again, elbows braced into the knees as she leans into them and looks to N'rov a moment, then rises, standing there in a waitful, watchful way.<br />
<br />
''A few days.'' Startlement momentarily strikes him, his gaze darker yet; that smile's struck too. "Thank you," N'rov says again, only this time it's as though he hasn't more words instead of what could be too many. He stands. But then, with a different vintage of wryness altogether, he exchanges the teacup for the whisky and toasts her with a drink. Both cup and glass, however, he'll leave behind.<br />
<br />
Dragon> << Perhaps. >> He's solid under that weight, warm even with glove as intermediary. That glove. They aren't ''touching'', this way, except for how they are. << Not yet. She has something for him, >> something he... dreads? wants? Not the taste of tea, the sudden burn of whisky, though that's there too. << Did not expect. When was your last surprise, Roszadyth? >> (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth)<br />
<br />
Dragon> Roszadyth's touch is gentle, but leaves all too soon. << Has yours come to pay compliment to the new Weyrwoman? >> she asks, mildly querulous, briefly probing; as languidly as she stretches on her rain-stippled ledge. And it shifts again, her approval once more settling on ''him'', undivided. << Your arrival, >> comes with a certain coy amusement, << and beyond, the.. >> Sharpness and then ''soft''; ''Greenfields'' becomes a blip, gone, in favor of: << ''Fish''. >> Delightful, scaly, swimmy, slippery creatures in all sorts of colors, ''below'' lapping waters. (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth)<br />
<br />
Irianke moves to the mantel, the flames unable to lick at her flared pant legs due to the screen in front of it, and reaches up to a jeweled box on its surface. Pulling it down, she jimmies the latch on it gently, and pulls out a small set of folded sheets, tied together with twine. The box shuts with a twitch of a finger and is nestled back onto its perch. It's her kindness that she doesn't explain how she knows it might be his, instead turning to put it onto the table in between the two whisky glasses, near that kettle. "My assistants supervised my move from my old weyr to this one and included this among my things. Quite simply, I know they do not belong to me."<br />
<br />
N'rov tracks her to the flames; they have no more success with him than with her, just yet, but they lurk and they wait. He ought to avert his eyes from just how she moves the latch, perhaps. He doesn't. ''He'' waits, until he doesn't have to. He sees them, and he walks not towards them and not towards her but away. He doesn't say a word. Not one word. He is, he has to be... silent. If he has any hope of staying that way.<br />
<br />
Dragon> Roszadyth, Roszadyth. << No, >> is ready confirmation, Vhaeryth perhaps the more indulgent for that querulousness, indulgent with her and with her probing that meets, yes, sincerity. << No, she asked that he come. ''He'' would have waited... but she is not now one to be said, 'In a few days.' >> Humor rolls there, rich and deep as the waters with their lucent, lovely fish, but not elaboration. Nor questioning of that place, that sharp-and-soft, though he must notice. Such fish; it's barely perceptible at all, now, the firelight and the glint of jewels. Not until-- abrupt ''grief''. (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth)<br />
<br />
Irianke says nothing, topping off his glass once more as she sits, though her feet stay firmly on the ground this time. Her, as like last time, bare feet, for all her continued professional attire, her feet are at least comfortable. The silence is broken by the crackle of the fire and a nervous tap of her fingers, the sound of it cushioned by the pillowy softness of the chair she sits on.<br />
<br />
Dragon> The queen is thrilled with his answer; no words are needed to convey the delight she has for the intimate details he shares, without needing to. ''Surprise'' then, when ''grief'' enters their playful encounter-- and she ''pulls back''. A beat and more, before the softness of her entreaty surfaces, again. << ''Why''? >> is gentle, ''soothing''. (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth)<br />
<br />
He has the wall before him, not even in arm's reach, but there. Tension crawls across his shoulders. His hand flexes, then both do as he turns, pacing now. A fist rises, its back meeting his forehead above the dark ruck of his brows. "We met," he says, "before she Impressed. The night she ''didn't'' Impress."<br />
<br />
Dragon> He doesn't ''know'', yet. He's focused on his rider, with her retreat, her return registering on some level of consciousness while in the forefront is... something he wouldn't have shared, surely, if they weren't shar''ing''. If it weren't so immediate. He's no longer still on the ledge that has been lent him; his claws curl and the stone sounds a shudder. He shows Roszadyth a glimpse of folded notes, the twine that joins them, the handwriting that not even N'rov sees in this moment but ''knows'' as his. << They were hers, >> not Niahvth's rider but another's. << He wrote them for her. He wrote, and she wrote, for they could not bespeak; this way they learned each other. >> (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth)<br />
<br />
She hasn't asked for his story, ''her'' story, but Irianke, nonetheless, looks understanding behind the flutter of surprise of her darkly tinted lashes. "When she was Brieli," interjects the goldrider, her voice suddenly quieter, more held back. She sits while he paces, watching that fist rise and the way it seems to turn against its owner.<br />
<br />
"Brieli," he agrees, old longing and distance and darker things, but one could imagine also a would-be smile that just can't be. "Off those sands and into the caverns. That's when it started. It helped, later." He paces. He pivots, abruptly towards those letters and her and the whisky, a flush hectic on his cheeks and his mouth bracketed by pain.<br />
<br />
Dragon> Hesitancy marks the gold's lingering presence, an inability to ''push'' and the same inability to ''leave''. She's concerned for their upset, but she's-- still a glowing gold, with little other than sex on the brain; and she ''tries''. << I did not know them, but, >> brushing those gloved fingers, << they are missed. >> (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth)<br />
<br />
Dragon> << He has had enough hurting. He hurts and he hurts and I will not have it. >> Which is to say, << Come, Roszadyth. >> Come, distract. Glow. (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth)<br />
<br />
Irianke absorbs all this in while Niahvth courts Vhaeryth outdoors, that earlier unfurling of her wings turning into a shallow flight that shows off her generous frame, that will be all the more curved and plush too soon. The light drizzle has stopped, though the air still carries the sickly-sweet damp smell of humidity, a signal that the rains aren't through just yet. She stands, reaching for the drink and walks to the man, still in his pivot with that flush to his cheeks and steps close, too close, and lifts the glass to his pained mouth, resting the rim of it there, not quite touching. "Helped?" She could be urging him to speak more, to elaborate. She could be talking about whether she can help him in any way. The ambiguity seems unintentional, a little pucker of perplexion between her brows as she, too, tries to decipher what she precisely meant.<br />
<br />
Dragon> ''Hurt'' resonates with Roszadyth, as much as it can, but she's happy to try and distract the bronze from his heavy thoughts; not enough to put herself close to Niahvth. << Vhaeryth. >> Sweet, steadying, and touched with gilded sunshine. A ''rush'', an inescapable tug, follows. (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth)<br />
<br />
He watches, ''he'' watches, if with a glint of an eye towards that ''other'' ledge. Vhaeryth's eye. N'rov's is dark, untinged by any violet. Gray upon gray. Too close, and then there's glass, cool and ungiving and so very, very takeable. So he takes it. He doesn't wait for her release. He takes it and he drinks it and he says, "More, please."<br />
<br />
Dragon> It's what he'd meant, had ''wanted'': come ''here'', and never leave her ledge at all. (Not now. The rest, the rest is for later.) He glints a look at her and breathes her in, lets that flow, headier even than whisky's renewed burn. It will take a little time to reach his rider, subtle, at first not much more than the drink alone. It's, she's, << ''Good.'' >> (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth)<br />
<br />
She obliges, wordless, and brings the decanter of liquor, barely moving her feet, merely pivoting her own body and dropping her angled knees just enough to reach for it, and then back up. To where he holds the glass, she lifts the bottle and pours a generous pour, then puts her lips to the top and takes her own swig.<br />
<br />
Done. He should be grateful, but there are those letters there. He goes nowhere. He gives her something. "She never had to wonder," he says. "If I only wanted her gold." Now he can drink. It's a short swallow this time. "I would have been here a long time ago."<br />
<br />
Dragon> ''Close'', but ''so far''. << Vhaeryth, >> the gold teases, all 'softness'', << tell me what I should know about you. >> Suitor that he is, even enamored already, there are things to ''learn'', and Roszadyth wants them, as much as she ''wants'' him. (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth)<br />
<br />
Dragon> So ''far''. The bronze dragon can't be fully diverted from his rider... so far. (The burn is short this time. It would be easy not to notice.) But Roszadyth asks, and Vhaeryth considers her; the metal of his regard develops into finely interwoven links about the edges, as if playing with the idea of her veil. << You should know, >> he rumbles, the grandiloquent intonation situated after one suitably meaningful pause and right before another, << I will not say you ''should'' know, Roszadyth. >> Isn't the discovery half the fun of it? << Nor that you ''should'' wear flowers about your headknobs. >> (Though she might. A flower appears in bas relief, fluttering fine metallic petals before disappearing once more.) << Does that bother you? >> (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth)<br />
<br />
Dragon> Roszadyth's rosy regard is placed on Vhaeryth completely; she doesn't have to ''say'' each time she's unexpectedly delighted, but her flow of emotions tells the story. << No, >> bothered never, not even from behind that gossamer veil, that ''pretends'' to hide away her soft sunshine and the stir of a breeze. << A gentleman. >> ''Contented'', giddy for that flower, which is he summons and then discards, ''for her''? << Should I ever endeavor to wear flowers about my headknobs, >> is perfectly charmed. << Such a thing is.. >> (To Vhaeryth from Roszadyth)<br />
<br />
Dragon> Vhaeryth doesn't object to the appellation, rather craning to look over his shoulder as though he could see himself the way she sees him; if his talons still shift now and again with something less than ease, there in the darkness, that has nothing to do with her. (Nor kind Niahvth, except by extension.) With Roszadyth so giddy, he can't help but toy with such an imaginary garland when he looks back, testing how it might fit over both pale headknobs at once... or perhaps twin itself so there's one ''each''. It's easy to play with such shared entertainment, a disraction from darker things, and if it does eventually drift towards sleep... in sleep, inescapably, are dreams. (To Roszadyth from Vhaeryth)<br />
<br />
"Do people really wonder that?" wonders Irianke aloud, such a thought so foreign to ''her'' that it slips out without intention. Shaking her head, she takes another sip from the decanter and then places it back on the table top, her low bend then taking her to sitting on the ground before her hearth. She starts removing pins from her hair and shaking the short curls loose, fingers digging towards the scalp to rub the tight held hair itchies away. "To Brieli of the caverns. To Aishani of the skies." Bereft of the decanter that's now just slightly out of reach, or a glass, the Igenite lifts her empty hand to N'rov and then looks to the fire.<br />
<br />
His laugh is as short as that swallow had been. Shorter. "Always. Always someone." Always... other things? N'rov looks down. He doesn't drink, though finally it's time to. He doesn't touch the hand held out to him. His hand's busy; busy sliding down to bury itself in her curls.<br />
<br />
There are still some pins there, though many are now gone. And untamed by them, the humidity-stricken hair seems to have a life of its own. A reflexively self-conscious motion brings her hand held up in a glass-less toast down into her hair too, slipping through familiar territory to find his hand and then press it there. Endless practice at this has her body turning that slight way, angled up towards him, and her other arm slipping up to rest a firm hand at his hip. "Always," she says, agreeing without fully comprehending.<br />
<br />
He doesn't drop the glass. N'rov drinks, and he deepens his hold: deeper into the roots of her, her hair, taking her hand with him. His hand tightens and another pin drops, more by accident than anything. He moves into her hand, and it isn't the one that's over his, and it's nothing like an accident at all.<br />
<br />
Not an accident at all and this, this is something Irianke understands, too well some might say. Sure, she could blame the young gold a few doors down, or the one in the sky, flexing her wings in the night's sky, or just her base, primal nature that makes her who she is that supersedes better intentions, complete with those nimble fingers that navigate the non-accidental bump expertly.<br />
<br />
The table's not too far. N'rov can drink again, one-handed; can put the glass on it; can dip his fingers into it, and press them to her mouth.<br />
<br />
This, of all things, she denies, her lips pressed into an impassable line. That light moving hand stops and she reaches in and runs her fingers through it again to release more pins and moves to rise, and if his hand dislodges in the process, so be it. "You're in no state to fly," she decides for him, whether this is true or not, "The Weyrleader's weyr is free," she dares him with her dark blue eyes, "The couch, or," she leans forward to claim his mouth with her liquor lined ones, courtesy of himself, and shows, just beyond her fingers, what her mouth could be capable of. The letters sit on the table, so near the glass he put down.<br />
<br />
Denying may not sit well, but then she's no longer sitting; denial may be another thing entirely. N'rov doesn't seek to stop ''her'' rising, nor does he dispute her declaration by departing, though there's that upward hook of a brow that suggests he could contest it if he chose. Those darkened eyes reveal no avidity for what's the Weyrleader's. An also-dark amusement, though, yes; a heightening intentness on her, even as her mouth meets a sharp grin, the more silent the more she speaks. His grin has teeth. And then he moves to taste her.<br />
<br />
She feels his teeth and he feels her responsive smile. She tastes like... whisky, and somewhere there's some hint of an herb. Mint, is it? Ginger too. She smells of tropical fruits and ginger too, right there behind her ear. Her hand reaches up to the back of his neck, a fluid continuation of the kiss, fingers curled just so, so the tips of them slide into his hair. Pressure in that hand brings him close and closer, and then her body shifts in no particularly large way, but all over in minute, adaptable, molding adjustments to fit right into him. No more words for now. "Mmm," is the last, conscious sound she makes until later, her voice in his mouth.<br />
<br />
She makes it so... easy, and the closest thing to simple; simple, too, seemingly, for the bronzerider to reach down and pull her up even as she'd bring him down. He's not elegant about it, somehow unpracticed, even awkward here and there at the very first until he must decide that he's ''deciding''. Then that changes, less persuasive (''she's'' persuasive) than exploratory. Unhurried, despite the heat outside, inside. He's making the most of that mouth, that woman, as long as and as much as he has her. He ''isn't'' heading for the metaphorical or even literal couch. Yet.<br />
<br />
Her, easy. His, non. Her, practiced. His, non. Her, reputation. His, ? Things to think about for later, when Irianke is capable of thinking of more than hedonistic pleasures, or the awkward way she's now pulled upward that causes her mouth to part from his and a low giggle to emerge. That and the fact her blouse is now no longer so neat and the fabric is bunched all funny, but these are small matters in the scheme of this evening so far. She's ''giggling'' and he was just kissing and then there are those letters still there, ignored. Saying nothing, Irianke looks up into N'rov's face from the angle she's now at, now that they're not kissing, and a crooked, imperfectly curving smile climbs.<br />
<br />
Those letters are so near, and yet the glass doesn't sit atop them; it leaves no ring. He doesn't look, and not just because he's looking back down at her, gray eyes re-opened where they'd closed for a moment there, N'rov eyeing her and her smile that needs a kiss planted upon the crookedness of it, not to conceal but ''because''. So he does, one hand warm on the skin from where the fabric's rucked up. His fingers curve, just a little, as though that might help him find another giggle.<br />
<br />
If only it were that easy to make Irianke giggle, but it does invoke that other mouth corner to lift and match so the smile is less crooked. Or maybe it was the kiss that did that. She stands there, feet unmoving though her body practically vibrates from that yearning to progress, and yet... Yet, she stands there, still, as if the anticipation of what might happen next, what she cannot ''read'' of N'rov, makes it all the more delicious to not act. Those kohl-rimmed, deeply gray and blue eyes of hers looks up through that heavy fringe of inky lashes, with a ''look'' that's not challenging as much as sultry with a touch of quizzical. What will happen next?<br />
<br />
Just a little ''more'', then, just a little because her warm skin's seducing his palm, his fingers, his fingertips. Surely it needs (next) a light stroke upward, just a little beneath the blouse, and N'rov's smile is crooked now; it's catching. It comes with a kiss for the other side of her mouth, lightly, the smallest of tastes. Will it change?<br />
<br />
Unexpected, that kiss, does not mean Irianke does not anticipate ''why'' it was done. Though she still does not giggle, not this time, her mouth twitches in response, and the two curves of her smile drop into a flat line, a resting bitch face, that trembles from the onset with a youthful impishness that contrasts with the made up doll features of her face. It doesn't last long, impulsiveness winning out in the end as she spurs herself into action and drapes both arms around N'rov's neck and hooks one leg about his hip, a testing bounce seeing how well it might rest there if joined by her other leg eventually. But not now.<br />
<br />
N'rov has to laugh at that, a low laugh that can be ''felt'' when she's pressed that close; he might try to frown at Irianke in return, his brows are heading that way, but it's not making it to the pleased upturn of his mouth and comes nowhere near close to his eyes. Those eyes slant downward now, towards that leg of hers; surely it's there just so his free hand can drop to caress around the back of her knee. (Perhaps it, too, is scented with tropical fruits and ginger; he's still far too far off to see.)<br />
<br />
It isn't. But he might find out soon enough, if he remembers to think on it. "Don't," says Irianke, her voice interrupting that silence finally. Her first leg is joined by her second, the sudden weight of her borne predominately upon his hips and her arms bring her face up a little higher than his and she kisses the potential of a frown on his brows, one quick chaste peck for each. ''So, now what?'' quirks her own brows above her expressive, again sultry-quizzical eyes.<br />
<br />
"Which," isn't quite one word, ''interrupted'' by that shift. If she means don't laugh, N'rov can't seem to help it, brows tugging together that much more before he nips at her chin. His gaze has lifted to hers, naughty. Possibly he should be a gentleman, slide his arms around her, support her, but doesn't she have that in hand? He has hands for other things. Such as plucking a stray pin that had managed to stay; such as lifting up her pendant, not to look at it, but to duck his head and breathe out where it had been.<br />
<br />
That. ''That'' evokes a muffled laugh that becomes a giggle. Irianke looks down upon the head in between her breasts, tender and fascinated. "You," she starts in wonderment, then abruptly stops. Words ruin the moment right now. Words would bring her to her senses as this being on the wrong side of the moral compass, taking advantage of someone for pleasure's sake. Instead, her legs need to tighten about his hips, as they're unaided otherwise in helping her stay up, her bare feet hook over each other to seal the latch.<br />
<br />
"Mmm." It's not a word, exactly. More like the method, not even an excuse, of ''mmm''-ing into her skin. N'rov might appreciate the tightening for more than ''her'' method of staying in place, given the quality of his next exhale; it's right before he explores the varying layers of her blouse, and how they affect (how ''he'' affects) the terrain beneath. That might be more predictable, especially given how her design fits her designs. And yet. Is she in a hurry? He isn't. Yet.<br />
<br />
Hurry? No. Still fascinated, yes. She has a vantage point from which to observe but the precarious way in which they are upright means all she can do is stay there, hands either around his neck or on his shoulders, making sure she stays up there with him down there exploring the fabric of her blouse, and the translucency inherent in such a thin weave. Hands, mouth, touch, each different sensation elicits a slightly different answer, be it a shiver, a soft sound escaping, or a readjustment in her weight and the telltale impatience for ''more'' in the roll of her hips and the way her back arches.<br />
<br />
The movement of her hands doesn't go unremarked, this isn't one-way; he reacts too, unbidden flex of msucle and lower-voiced sounds and always and ever with ''focus''. It could be dreamlike, if it weren't so earthy. And there aren't words, not real words, not even when after all there ''is'' more. And more. He'd dishevel her, not just her hair or that blouse, decide and decide until eventually he ''decides'' to set her on the edge of her own bed and divest her of all she doesn't need. And himself, though that isn't very much at all. And give them both what they ''do''. (Except that she's giving him, too.)<br />
<br />
.Afterwards, he's almost entirely still clothed, leaning into and over her, not quite laughing and a little, boyishly, breathless. It's harder to see from here the slate of her eyes; N'rov has to free a hand to brush a dark curl away, and still there's the matter of light. <br />
<br />
She's mostly on her bed, her legs splayed a little off, one foot on the ledge of the frame beneath her mattress. One arm over her face, which obscures those slate eyes even more, and the other fluttering about her chest. Her still bloused chest. She may have lost her pants and undergarments when he made his decisions, but the translucent blouse is still there though the pendant is askew, near her cheek rather than settled into that curve between her breasts. The hand to her curls stiffens her body for a bare second, broken by the sudden movement by that hand fluttering about her chest to catch his hand and draw it up to her lips to nibble and kiss along knuckles and tuck it possessively against one breast. She's not laughing, the fast-paced breathing might have something to do with that, but there's a laugh ''vibrating'' in her body beneath him, tingling just beneath her skin. "Are you hungry? I'm hungry. I mean, for food." In case it could be taken in another way.<br />
<br />
.''That'' catches his breath once more, and it's a good place to put his hand should she want him distracted; its back presses to feel ''her'' breath race if not her heart. N'rov teases, low, "Not going to eat me right up?" His knuckles wiggle. Then he's straightening, not yet all the way, looking for some handy cloth. It's that or the sheet or his shirt.<br />
<br />
"Oh," says the goldrider, her voice languid and drawling out that syllable as long as the sudden stretch that claims her body and shifts any of his touching of her, "We have all night for ''that''." Irianke's smile is crooked once more, amused rather than sly, and she too, pushes herself up, curiously watching what he does. "I have some fruit, crackers, no cheese though," alas. Her leg draws up, sliding up along the side of his body in a very deliberate touch.<br />
<br />
And ''that'' brings out his chuckle, at least after the quick flick of gray gaze, and he follows it with the purposeful slide of his thumb where she's had his touch travel; in the end, with Irianke's room that tidy, N'rov settles for just tucking himself away. The belt can't be allowed to just flap around, but as a show of dishabille, he ''doesn't tuck in his shirt''. It's when he's fastening the former that she gets distracting again, and he looks: leg. Irianke-leg. It calls to be lifted up, supported by one hand, so he can set a not-quite-kiss upon its instep.<br />
<br />
She has a plethora of distraction techniques, little things to keep someone interested or distracted, looking this way rather than that, but here, right now, Irianke isn't doing something else with her other hand while her foot gets attention. Another languid smile, happy and satiated, for now, responds to this new sensation with him and once it's done, she eases up to sit and then slides off the bed. Her blouse barely hangs low enough to cover anything, but a lack of shame has her walking into the main part of her weyr and opening up a bread box to find crackers and three apples, one of which is held by her teeth as she brings her wares back to the bed. "Not tired?" This in and of itself could be something that fascinates her, along with everything earlier.<br />
<br />
By then he's more put together, sitting (half-crouched, really, given a bed that low) with his forearms resting on his knees, looking out into the distance; it doesn't mean N'rov doesn't look back up, all of a sudden, at what should have been Irianke's second or third audible footstep. When he does, he grins; he reaches, too, for an apple (that apple; the one she'd had with her mouth). "I should be," he admits along the way. "It's like the klah before the crash. Why aren't you?"<br />
<br />
"Tired?" Who me? Irianke smiles once the apple is taken out of her mouth and into his hand, teeth marks shallow into the fruit's flesh. "I generally find myself unable to sleep after such pleasures. I sit, work, and relive moments and remember touches and how a partner did this and how it made me feel and how if I did something, how my partners react." The goldrider slides herself onto the bed, on her side, head held aloft by a hand and planted elbow. She picks through the choices of crackers and selects one with poppy seeds speckled in it.<br />
<br />
"All that and ''work''," that's what the bronzerider catches on. N'rov turns the apple around, seeing its marks, and when he bites the crunch is decisive; the palm of his hand's tucked, automatic, to catch what juice there is. There's no rush for the crackers. "I'd have thought," unless it's a different sort of work? "one or the other would be... distracting." His glance to her is sidelong, a smile playing about his mouth.<br />
<br />
Irianke laughs, but doesn't answer the non-question. "It's been a long time since I've felt this relaxed," admits the goldrider, in lieu of an answer. A small bone thrown that ends up paired with the way her knee bends, drawing that blouse upward and flexes the muscles in her thighs.<br />
<br />
He chuckles. "Imagine." It's less a reflexive word than responsive, considering her and her flex and once more her eyes. It's easy to turn toward her, then, crooking his own knee onto the bed to make that happen; N'rov's slow grin is a little crooked too, his voice low when he speaks. "Now, how much credit should we give the queens."<br />
<br />
"The credit is all due Niahvth," replies Irianke, neither arch nor completely neutral, but some status in between. "And the settlement of leadership. It's a difficult thing being in limbo, that uncertainty of whether this is how your life will be forever, or if it will change. Do you move forward with your life and act as you would, or do you reserve your energies and act as you should?" Irianke lounges, one foot sliding u along the length of her nude leg, toes paused at her knees before continuing up as far as her flexibility will go.<br />
<br />
"Does it have to be," N'rov's is a low laugh, too. His gaze drops to the path of her foot, slide and up and ''up''... and then up to look to her gaze; "Were they so different?"<br />
<br />
"Was what so different?" Irianke drops onto her back, head cradled by her short curls. That leg slides back down and she looks up at the ceiling in that vague post-coital luxuriating sort of way.<br />
<br />
There's another crunch, strong teeth meeting the apple's flesh; then N'rov sets it aside, brushing off his hands, ''rubbing'' any residual juice away before shifting further down on the bed to seek to borrow her foot and unhurriedly rub that. "The shoulds and the woulds, I suppose." It's just a taste of the apple. He hasn't swallowed its seeds.<br />
<br />
"Shoulds. Woulds. Coulds?" Irianke shifts when he catches her feet, that twitch of impending ticklishness at the ready to explode, until the pressure of his fingers and the unhurried pace shoos the threat away. "You don't think they're different?"<br />
<br />
"Sometimes they are," N'rov's easygoing about agreeing. "Sometimes," he's kind to instep and eventually heel and those tendons that radiate across the top of the foot, "They don't have to be. Maybe," humorously, "that's easy for me to say, beyond the whole by-definition thing."<br />
<br />
Irianke looks thoughtfully from the ceiling down towards where N'rov tends to her foot, creating a double chin that is not normally there. It's so flattering, especially paired with her somewhat sad smile. "In my life, the shoulds and woulds don't normally mean the same thing. In this case, being the caretaker versus the visionary is a hard place to stand. That limbo is," she stretches her foot in his hand and starts to pull the knee towards her chest gently, not to dislodge his hand but to draw him closer, "Stressful."<br />
<br />
''Caretaker'' gets its own slow stroke, half-repeated under his breath; ''visionary'' another; and then she's pulling and N'rov's leaning, not quite tipped, towards Irianke. ''Leaning.'' There's a warm crook to his mouth; "Yes?"<br />
<br />
"Yes," is her own, one-word, hushed response, placing her foot against and then over his shoulder to hook against his neck and draw him even closer. It's a while before they resurface, spent in a graveyard of crumbs and pieces of fruit where they shouldn't be. For while she controlled much of it, the pace, depth, climax, it's his words that goad her to speak to state explicitly and watch ''and'' feel them obeyed and then not obeyed when not verbalized prolongs what might have been a much shorter, less intimate affair.<br />
<br />
It's considerably later when N'rov extricates himself from the sleepy ease of that warm bed and warm woman, and pads through the pre-dawn chill to the outer room. There, it's... not so cold. He stops. He peers around. But whatever minions had freshened the fire and brought the klah, who had stolen away the abandoned towel he'd have wrapped around his hips, either they aren't here now or they're hiding ''so well'' that he can pretend they never were. The letters sit there right where they had been. He doesn't look at them either. He walks by the letters to make quick use of her bath's conveniences; walks by them again to pour the klah; walks by them a third time... and exhales, and stashes them in his satchel without looking even a little. It's when he's returning to her inner room, with klah and with his expression wiped clean, that... suddenly it isn't. Because Vhaeryth. Because not just Vhaeryth. "''Fuck.''" <br />
<br />
Roszadyth's awakening ignites Niahvth, though not in any mate-related territorial way. She has her own impending clutch and a mate far far away. Content? Yes. Still? No. The senior queen rises from her ledge while the beasts blood and lands in the sands, claiming it first. Her talons touched first. She was here ''first''. Irianke, roused more by the movements of her dragon, and whatever internal monologue she's sharing with her rider, walks out, without the grace of the sheet and stands in the door frame, looking to N'rov for a long, blurrily blinking moment before clarity hits and... she looks resigned and waggles her fingers at the man to go already, her day starting off way earlier than planned.<br />
<br />
First. ''N'rov'' isn't first for anything right now, not even a clue; he does give Irianke a ''look'', half-unwittingly comical, and waggle-flaps ''his'' free hand's fingers down south. "Pants." They're important! He strides for her and the room and will just... do ''something'' with the klah, hand it to her if she'll take it, find those pants and not much more before he's claiming a kiss and then klah and out he goes, he's gone, leaving all the flotsam and jetsam behind. Vhaeryth's ''already'' gone. His rider mutters, stalking. Once, he laughs.<br />
<br />
----<br />
<br />
Chaos of a first flight reigns outside, while order dictates Irianke's direction. She does not look to her junior to guide her through this new and unmagical experience, leaving Farideh to less tense hands, for tense Irianke is. Whether it's keeping Niahvth calm on the sands or her own myriad of thoughts to run through, the tenseness manifests more obviously when an assistant arrives to clean the weyr and the goldrider's bark is sharp, particularly when the girl starts towards N'rov's belongings. "Leave them. In fact, just strip the bed and put new sheets on, and leave. Tell the Headwoman to put the wine and ale out, and tell Isleen to forget about my lunch today. I'll manage." Her knuckles whiten as a new wave of nauseous lust sweeps over her, and likely the young woman. "Take the rest of the day off," she says, more kindly. She, like many, can only pretend to work at this point and the same page is "read" over and over again until the news that Roszadyth is caught and by whom comes through Niahvth, which has the goldrider rising to pace in front of the hearth. "''Shit''!"<br />
<br />
Outside, it's not a clear route from the guest weyr to Niahvth's new ledge; there are other riders, lost, and others all too happy to... find them. N'rov doesn't dodge them all, for the most part walks ''through'' them despite the enticement of rain-wet skin. His hands are free, without even a 'skin of wine, as he makes for the stairs of the... not that ledge. ''Not'' that ledge. The new one. He's hunting, his eyes dark with it as he comes into view. Not for the hearth. Not for the ale. Not for his things. ''Her.''<br />
<br />
It's not entirely unexpected. In fact, Irianke hasn't changed into actual clothing, a thin robe belted loosely over her body sufficing. There's likely the expectation that the owner of the untouched things over by the hearth will return. However, N'rov's arrival coincides with that ''shit'' and rather than reclined on a couch ''waiting'', he finds Irianke's back retreating in a pace that will whirl around... ''now'' and find him there, eyes suddenly blank, blinking, and trying to reel in whatever conversation she and Niahvth are spiraling down into. Fucking Lythronath. No, that's not right. Quickly, Irianke gaps the distance, shedding her robe along the way, and presses herself and her fumbling fingers into his wetness.<br />
<br />
It's a distance that N'rov's cutting off even as she does, there that much sooner, that much faster, lifting her up and there's got to be a wall where that falling robe won't catch on fire. He has to take her, now, none too careful about that or her back, and she can take it out on him in kind. Fucking... ''not'' Lythronath. But ''now''.<br />
<br />
If before was about testing limits and finding pleasures, this is about the ''now'', driven by the same lust sweeping the entirety of the Weyr. Where they go? In the middle of the room, against a chair, somewhere, anywhere, does it really matter? Where they end up? Likely not very far from where they started, on the floor just far enough from the hearth that it's a little cold and very much not good for her back or his knees. Her breathing is ragged, harsh for the intense physical nature of this coupling and she trembles beneath him.<br />
<br />
She's ''trembling''. N'rov's breath is harsh. "Why tonight," he says down to her, that urgency not gone away but transmuted. His hand is still on her, and lower, heated where the stone is chill. "Why did you call us tonight."<br />
<br />
"Why not?" is the glib answer, a steadying breath taken afterwards and her hands pressing into his chest. Irianke isn't moving him, she's ''touching'', feeling, and exploring his chest in a way she hadn't before. Ultimately, she lifts her body enough to gap any distance and bring her lips to his ear, "You should be asking why at all."<br />
<br />
His breath sharpens, abdominals hollowing up. "Tonight," N'rov bites out; he rocks against Irianke, into her, not away even from her words. Not back to glib yet.<br />
<br />
It's a rare moment, Irianke's slate eyes going distant and looking past N'rov to the ceiling, her hands going still. It's a rare moment, not for her actions or stillness, but for what she says, "Because I thought Roszadyth would rise tonight." Amending. "Last night." It's a rare moment for the simple honesty that is uttered and is in the eyes that now seek his.<br />
<br />
She's right; now N'rov has to ask, "Why?" ''His'' breath is stilled, after, though soon he must resume; ''his'' eyes are a different slate, slate-gray, dark and open in more than one way.<br />
<br />
Irianke's response is immediate, no pause between his why and her, "Why tonight? Why at all?"<br />
<br />
"Why, when she." Just as immediate, until he stops.<br />
<br />
"To win." Simple again, Irianke sinks back onto the stone and shifts her hips beneath him, a leg sliding up and then down, stilling once more.<br />
<br />
"''Why''?" But it's half on a laugh now. N'rov's hand knows to follow her leg, now.<br />
<br />
"No." That's enough. It's kind though, with one of Irianke's hands cupping his chin. "I'll answer that some other time. Not now. But I promise to be honest." Which is a funny thing to say, if well, honesty is a problem for her.<br />
<br />
"''Will'' you." N'rov's ''looking'' at Irianke when he says this, and something of his tone deepens that promise of hers; it's not solely in acceptance that he tilts his head a moment later, though, but to nip at the apple of her thumb, and hold. "All right." He has a different suggestion then, different pleasure than just stone, before he'll reclaim his things and go.<br />
|Categories=NSFW Logs<br />
}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs:Future-Proof&diff=77552Logs:Future-Proof2015-10-06T07:38:47Z<p>Irianke: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log<br />
|who=Irianke, K'del<br />
|what=A conversation about candidates, crafts, and clutches.<br />
|where=K'del's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr<br />
|involves=High Reaches Weyr<br />
|day=3<br />
|month=13<br />
|turn=38<br />
|IP=Interval<br />
|IP2=10<br />
|gamedate=2015.10.05<br />
|quote="They won't like it."<br />
|mentions=Edyis, Mielline, Pia, R'vel, Jocelyn,<br />
|type=Log<br />
|icons-new=Icon irianke.jpg, Icon k'del serious.jpg,<br />
|log=It's late, on a miserable, rainy night in the early High Reaches winter, but at least the fire in K'del's hearth is roaring comfortably, and there's a bottle set out on the table in front of it. The bronzerider himself is wearing sheepskin slippers, comfortably ensconsed in his chair with a glass in one hand, and a stack of papers spread out on his lap. They've already covered the most basic of updates, and now, flicking a page, he asks, "How ''are'' we going on candidate numbers?"<br />
<br />
"Holding. Even without Tillek's numbers, Nabol, High Reaches Hold, and delightfully, Crom Hold, have been more than obliging." Irianke glances down at her own hides, a little askew in her lap as she's not seated very properly in that armchair. Sideways. Legs curled up, a fur throw over her lap to keep it ''somewhat'' decent. "Pour me a bit more? Niahvth clutching so many has driven some fear into some holders," though, not all it would seem, "There's talk of Thread returning early. One hundred sixty odd turns early." Her dryness indicates where she falls on that line of thinking.<br />
<br />
In order to do so, K'del needs to set aside his own hides, but that's easily done: both glasses receive a refill as he says, laughing, "Can't hurt for them to worry about it, though. Something that works in our favour for once, right? Guess they all still remember the Comet Pass at that." As he reclaims his seat, he hesitates. Then, glancing at the goldrider he says, casually, "Mielline came to me with something interesting, the other day."<br />
<br />
"Snowdrift?" It's not a question of clarification. She ''knows'' who Mielline is and what wing she runs. It's a placeholder inquiry while Irianke reaches for the glass and brings it to her lips. It's a passive way of asking for more information.<br />
<br />
"Snowdrift," confirms K'del, unnecessarily. "Apparently one of her wingriders can into a starcrafter. A cartographer, to be specific. It sparked some ideas: the woman was frustrated by lack of ready transport, and there was a suggestion that the Weyr would be useful with that. And a further suggestion that... well, ''that's'' an occupation that could be benefitted by craftriding. If we could build that bridge."<br />
<br />
Irianke considers this, her chin resting on the edge of her cup and a deep breath taking in the scent of their drink of choice tonight. "Hmmmm." The goldrider looks down at her candidate roster sheets that hold no information for what she ''wants'' to know. "How is that any different than what we offer the Holds now? Ahhh." The Weyrwoman suddenly smiles. "Something formalized. Contracts. Something more than what sweepriders can do and what watchriders request. Monetize our services for transport? Will we anger or spark appreciation in our beholden areas?"<br />
<br />
"I suppose it depends on if they can see the benefits to them. If we can ''sell'' the idea. But contracts, yes. Formal agreements." K'del straightens, tapping his fingers upon the edge of his glass, then lifting it up for a sip. After he's swallowed, "If we can do things more efficiently than they are done in other ways, that's the key. Maps are an obvious example: if we can do it, it saves sending our a surveying party, one that might need supplies and more manpower."<br />
<br />
Irianke predicts in a low, unamused, sing-song, "They won't like it." Her dulcet voice rasps against the words. "It will be hard to back track against turns of doing this for free when our primary function was to fight Thread." But it's not a no.<br />
<br />
K'del's sigh is a melancholy one. "They won't like anything we do," is his reply. "Anything that might result in change. The key is to make sure we're offering ''more'' than what we used to. But whatever we do, formalising things-- with both Holds and Crafts-- is probably important. If we have contracts, we know exactly what to expect, and so do they."<br />
<br />
"Wise. Will you take point on this, or shall we trust Mielline to do so?" Irianke asks, opting herself out by omission. "Perhaps her crafters can suss out likely crafts who might want such contracts within High Reaches Weyr. I hesitate to offer services to crafters not posted here, unless it's a Weyr versus Weyr battle you'd like to see." She's amused, in that way any ludicrous suggestion evokes humor. "Which, it'd help us see if the idea churning deliciously in the gossip mill about a craft-centric wing has any merit."<br />
<br />
K'del has a low chuckle for the possibility of a Weyr versus Weyr battle, though that's all the dimissal it gets; perhaps it's all the dismissal it ''needs''. "Mielline suggested R'vel as an asset, seeing as he has a craft background," is what he says, instead, that blue-eyed gaze lingering on the weyrwoman for a moment. "I prefer the craft-centric wing gossip to the insistence of that one about my closing Glacier. Still-- I'm not opposed to the craft-centric wing, if there's enough riders who would ''like'' to continue practicing their old craft."<br />
<br />
"It might be useful in the Interval, should our grand schemes to make Hold and Hall dependent on the Weyrs backfire on us." Irianke cozies into the armchair, allowing the papers in her lap to go even more askew when she readjusts. Candidate numbers ad nauseum, who really cares? "It'd be nice to have a wing that allows our crafters to practice and offer their skills to us in the Interval. I have an assistant headwoman looking into current and old contracts and will likely task her to repurposing them to fit this situation, while the healer craft seems open to the idea." Plagiarize and pillage for a good cause. "We could," she suggests, "Blend the two together. If the Halls are willing to train those riders who would like to continue in their crafts, we'd reciprocate with services. Formally, of course."<br />
<br />
K'del worries at his lip with his front teeth, listening intently to what Irianke has to say. ''She'' cozies; he straightens, his shoulders drawing back as he considers the possibilities. "And in turn, they'd need to provide us fewer posted crafters?" he suppose, at the end. "There's merit to that. Their reach would be improved, their ''convenience''. If the healers are amenable, that's a good start. We can ''manage'' without some of the crafts, if we have to, but healers are pretty vital." <br />
<br />
"Do gooders, the lot of them," is said fondly. "Life would be infinitely more difficult without healers in our life." Curled up Irianke nuzzles the fur blanket now up at her chin better. "Are you worried? About the numbers? I fully expected Niahvth to clutch maybe four... at the most eight. Is it a testament to Cadejoth's prowess?" The tease is light; the worry real.<br />
<br />
The hesitance in K'del's expression is echoed in his stance; there's a stiffness about his shoulders, now, and a thin line upon his lips. "When Cadejoth caught Hraedhyth," he says, finally, "it was also an abbreviated flight. Lythronath injured him, badly, and they scarcely stayed up at all after the clutch. But that was significantly longer still than--" He pauses, licking his lips. "It was a surprise. It's still a surprise. It's... shells, I don't know, Irianke. The dragons are supposed to know, but if that's so... what is it they know, this time?" <br />
<br />
"What ifs won't help plan for the future." Irianke says from beneath those furs, her voice muffled before she unearths herself. Pragmatic to the core, and yet. The goldrider pulls herself out of the coziness of that chair to get to her feet. "Maybe Cadejoth is Weyrleader for a reason." Oh, Irianke. "Let's not worry about things until we have to worry about them," continues the person planning for the future at every moment. "We have enough on our plate to worry about without the thought that Thread is actually returning." Is her nose twitching? Growing longer? No?<br />
<br />
K'del's head lifts, as Irianke rises, gaze watching her again. "Mm," is what he says, finally, evidently taking her words without real query. "That's true, of course. Doesn't mean I'm not interested in continuing to think ahead, just in case. ''Don't'' ever want to be caught unprepared if there were signs, that's all. Not what ifs, just... emergency preparedness." A bob of the head follows, his way of dismissing the topic. "Sleep well, Irianke. I'll talk to Mielline and R'vel in the morning." <br />
<br />
No one will know the internal struggle going through Irianke's head as much as Niahvth in this moment and some of it leaks in a physical manifestation where the gold reclines against Cadejoth on the sands. It even vibrates in her touch, currently always in contact with her mate before subsiding. "K'del," Irianke begins, a step taking her to the Weyrleader, but then is taken back. "I wouldn't worry. Niahvth knows nothing of signs, and if not the queen who clutched than who, right?" None of those internal struggles show in Irianke's expression, and other than that one step, or misstep, her own worries fail to surface visibly. "One of these days," says the goldrider, jumping off into another late night tangental tease, even while walking away, "I'll get you drunk enough to get that sex you owe me." The joke is getting old.<br />
<br />
Cadejoth's aware of it; K'del's aware of it as a result, though it's his bronze who shows it: the stutter of electricity in his chains, and then the soothing (intended-to-be-soothing) rattle of bones. "Irianke?" The uncertainty in K'del's voice seems to suggest pretty clearly that he's not convinced by what she says, nor distracted by that tease-- or, at least, not ''fully''. His lips press together, he hesitates, and then? "Better start stockpiling the good stuff." In the end, that's easier than pushing, though it doesn't stop him from studying her retreating back.<br />
|Categories=HRW Clutch 37a Logs, HRW Clutch 38 Logs<br />
}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Irianke&diff=77367Irianke2015-10-01T05:29:45Z<p>Irianke: </p>
<hr />
<div>=Home=<br />
<br />
{{ProfileTabs<br />
|picture=Irianke.jpg<br />
|body=== Description ==<br />
Dark, curly hair, that would fall to just below her shoulders, complements a tanned complexion and is pinned away from Irianke's face and pulled up into a neat ponytail of the no nonsense variety. A smudgy line of kohl outlines her stone blue eyes, which also helps highlight the blue over the grey. Those eyes are set, luminous and large within an ovular face and is paired with a straight nose, full lips, and sharp chin. Within the worn lines that crease her face lies both the passage of time and a joyful vibrance, the latter of which also manifests in the way her slender body moves, with an athletic dancer's grace.<br />
<br />
A slate blouse, the fabric decorated in tiny white polka-dots, cuts a v down her collar and fits loosely over her torso. The sleeves are rolled to her elbows and kept in place with decorative gold flower clips. Well loved riding pants in a supple, buttery black suede hug the curves of her legs to her hips. The shirt is untucked. Around her neck is about five discernible gold chains, each slightly different than the other in length, style, and metalwork. A pair of buttoned black boots come up to mid-calf. On her shoulder is the knot of an Igen Weyr rider.<br />
<br />
{{wysk}}<br />
<br />
= Family =<br />
* Laastianke: Born son. Bred stranger.<br />
<br />
= History =<br />
Born to the Bethari traders of the Igen desert, Irianke's lot in life was set when the midwife announced her sex to the waiting father: a pawn, a hopefully pretty chattel to barter with.<br />
<br />
In Irianke, her father got a lot more than just pretty. He got witty, charming, as well as a healthy dose of too smart for her own good, though her formal education was far less than even bare bones. By the time she was fifteen, she could do all sorts of math in her head but did not know how to read or write a single letter. Her lack of education was a standard many traders in her family's vicinity felt was the right thing for women.<br />
<br />
She was adept at selling almost anything. Her father did not care how, just that she did, and it became apparent that he was putting off marriage for her due to this talent. It was both his worst and best decision. When she was twenty-one, after a few sevens outside of Igen Weyr, she was Searched, and appallingly, accepted.<br />
<br />
Her family left without her, expecting to either pick her up on their return (who knows when), or that she'd slink back, shamed and unImpressed. But just two days later, when they weren't so very far from the Weyr itself, Irianke Impressed gold Niahvth and left the trader life for good.<br />
<br />
Or so she thought.<br />
<br />
During three turns of weyrlinghood, Irianke labored, studied, and labored some more under the harshest taskmasters she had known. Igen Weyr did not suffer fools and Irianke, for all her pretty ways and ability to ''generally'' get what she wanted (out of men in particular), was foolish. Uneducated in both academics and in the ways of the world outside her bubble, Nimae crushed her to the bare bones and then rebuilt her into something the Weyrwoman could work with. In a twisted combination of absolute abandonment by her family and a strict, overly disciplined training program, Nimae got a future second in command she knew she could trust explicitly.<br />
<br />
( tbc... )<br />
<br />
<br />
= Logs and Vignettes =<br />
<br />
{{NewLogs |name=Irianke}}<br />
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{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}<br />
<br />
{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments}} | }}<br />
<br />
= Icons =<br />
{{Icons}}<br />
<br />
= Miscellaneous =<br />
<br />
== Personality Profile: ESFJ ==<br />
<br />
People who share the [http://www.16personalities.com/esfj-personality ESFJ] personality type are, for lack of a better word, popular - which makes sense, given that it is also a very common personality type, making up twelve percent of the population. In high school, ESFJs are the cheerleaders and the quarterbacks, setting the tone, taking the spotlight and leading their teams forward to victory and fame. Later in life, ESFJs continue to enjoy supporting their friends and loved ones, organizing social gatherings and doing their best to make sure everyone is happy.<br />
<br />
== Nohari/Johari ==<br />
<br />
* [http://kevan.org/jh/irianke Johari Window]<br />
* [http://kevan.org/nohari?name=irianke Nohari Window]<br />
<br />
== Enneagram ==<br />
<br />
* [http://www.9types.com/descr/?type=7 The Adventurer, Enthusiast] (7): Adventurers are energetic, lively, and optimistic. They want to contribute to the world. <br />
* [http://www.9types.com/descr/?type=8 The Asserter, Leader] (7): Asserters are direct, self-reliant, self-confident, and protective. <br />
* [http://www.9types.com/descr/?type=3 The Achiever, Motivator] (5): Achievers are energetic, optimistic, self-assured, and goal oriented. <br />
* [http://www.9types.com/descr/?type=5 The Observer, Thinker] (5): Observers have a need for knowledge and are introverted, curious, analytical, and insightful.<br />
<br />
}}<br />
{{Character-Categories<br />
|Categories=High Reaches Weyr, Igen Area, Igen Weyr, Goldriders<br />
}}<br />
<br />
[[Category:Characters]]<br />
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]<br />
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]<br />
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Irianke&diff=77359Irianke2015-10-01T05:16:00Z<p>Irianke: </p>
<hr />
<div>=Home=<br />
<br />
{{ProfileTabs<br />
|picture=Irianke.jpg<br />
|body=== Description ==<br />
Dark, curly hair, that would fall to just below her shoulders, complements a tanned complexion and is pinned away from Irianke's face and pulled up into a neat ponytail of the no nonsense variety. A smudgy line of kohl outlines her stone blue eyes, which also helps highlight the blue over the grey. Those eyes are set, luminous and large within an ovular face and is paired with a straight nose, full lips, and sharp chin. Within the worn lines that crease her face lies both the passage of time and a joyful vibrance, the latter of which also manifests in the way her slender body moves, with an athletic dancer's grace.<br />
<br />
A slate blouse, the fabric decorated in tiny white polka-dots, cuts a v down her collar and fits loosely over her torso. The sleeves are rolled to her elbows and kept in place with decorative gold flower clips. Well loved riding pants in a supple, buttery black suede hug the curves of her legs to her hips. The shirt is untucked. Around her neck is about five discernible gold chains, each slightly different than the other in length, style, and metalwork. A pair of buttoned black boots come up to mid-calf. On her shoulder is the knot of an Igen Weyr rider.<br />
<br />
{{wysk}}<br />
<br />
= Relationships =<br />
* Laastianke: Born son. Bred stranger.<br />
<br />
= Logs and Vignettes =<br />
<br />
{{NewLogs |name=Irianke}}<br />
<br />
{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}<br />
<br />
{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments}} | }}<br />
<br />
= Icons =<br />
{{Icons}}<br />
<br />
= Miscellaneous =<br />
<br />
== Personality Profile: ESFJ ==<br />
<br />
People who share the [http://www.16personalities.com/esfj-personality ESFJ] personality type are, for lack of a better word, popular - which makes sense, given that it is also a very common personality type, making up twelve percent of the population. In high school, ESFJs are the cheerleaders and the quarterbacks, setting the tone, taking the spotlight and leading their teams forward to victory and fame. Later in life, ESFJs continue to enjoy supporting their friends and loved ones, organizing social gatherings and doing their best to make sure everyone is happy.<br />
<br />
== Nohari/Johari ==<br />
<br />
* [http://kevan.org/jh/irianke Johari Window]<br />
* [http://kevan.org/nohari?name=irianke Nohari Window]<br />
<br />
== Enneagram ==<br />
<br />
* [http://www.9types.com/descr/?type=7 The Adventurer, Enthusiast] (7): Adventurers are energetic, lively, and optimistic. They want to contribute to the world. <br />
* [http://www.9types.com/descr/?type=8 The Asserter, Leader] (7): Asserters are direct, self-reliant, self-confident, and protective. <br />
* [http://www.9types.com/descr/?type=3 The Achiever, Motivator] (5): Achievers are energetic, optimistic, self-assured, and goal oriented. <br />
* [http://www.9types.com/descr/?type=5 The Observer, Thinker] (5): Observers have a need for knowledge and are introverted, curious, analytical, and insightful.<br />
<br />
}}<br />
{{Character-Categories<br />
|Categories=High Reaches Weyr, Igen Area, Igen Weyr, Goldriders<br />
}}<br />
<br />
[[Category:Characters]]<br />
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]<br />
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]<br />
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Irianke&diff=77358Irianke2015-10-01T05:13:58Z<p>Irianke: </p>
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<div>=Home=<br />
<br />
{{ProfileTabs<br />
|picture=Irianke.jpg<br />
|body=== Description ==<br />
Dark, curly hair, that would fall to just below her shoulders, complements a tanned complexion and is pinned away from Irianke's face and pulled up into a neat ponytail of the no nonsense variety. A smudgy line of kohl outlines her stone blue eyes, which also helps highlight the blue over the grey. Those eyes are set, luminous and large within an ovular face and is paired with a straight nose, full lips, and sharp chin. Within the worn lines that crease her face lies both the passage of time and a joyful vibrance, the latter of which also manifests in the way her slender body moves, with an athletic dancer's grace.<br />
<br />
A slate blouse, the fabric decorated in tiny white polka-dots, cuts a v down her collar and fits loosely over her torso. The sleeves are rolled to her elbows and kept in place with decorative gold flower clips. Well loved riding pants in a supple, buttery black suede hug the curves of her legs to her hips. The shirt is untucked. Around her neck is about five discernible gold chains, each slightly different than the other in length, style, and metalwork. A pair of buttoned black boots come up to mid-calf. On her shoulder is the knot of an Igen Weyr rider.<br />
<br />
{{wysk}}<br />
<br />
= Relationships =<br />
* Laastianke: Born son. Bred stranger.<br />
<br />
= Other Stuff =<br />
<br />
== Personality Profile: ESFJ ==<br />
<br />
People who share the [http://www.16personalities.com/esfj-personality ESFJ] personality type are, for lack of a better word, popular - which makes sense, given that it is also a very common personality type, making up twelve percent of the population. In high school, ESFJs are the cheerleaders and the quarterbacks, setting the tone, taking the spotlight and leading their teams forward to victory and fame. Later in life, ESFJs continue to enjoy supporting their friends and loved ones, organizing social gatherings and doing their best to make sure everyone is happy.<br />
<br />
== Nohari/Johari ==<br />
<br />
* [http://kevan.org/jh/irianke Johari Window]<br />
* [http://kevan.org/nohari?name=irianke Nohari Window]<br />
<br />
== Enneagram ==<br />
<br />
* [http://www.9types.com/descr/?type=7 The Adventurer, Enthusiast] (7): Adventurers are energetic, lively, and optimistic. They want to contribute to the world. <br />
* [http://www.9types.com/descr/?type=8 The Asserter, Leader] (7): Asserters are direct, self-reliant, self-confident, and protective. <br />
* [http://www.9types.com/descr/?type=3 The Achiever, Motivator] (5): Achievers are energetic, optimistic, self-assured, and goal oriented. <br />
* [http://www.9types.com/descr/?type=5 The Observer, Thinker] (5): Observers have a need for knowledge and are introverted, curious, analytical, and insightful.<br />
<br />
= RP Logs =<br />
<br />
{{NewLogs |name=Irianke}}<br />
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{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}<br />
<br />
{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Comments}} | }}<br />
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{{Icons}}<br />
}}<br />
{{Character-Categories<br />
|Categories=High Reaches Weyr, Igen Area, Igen Weyr, Goldriders<br />
}}<br />
<br />
[[Category:Characters]]<br />
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]<br />
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]<br />
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs:The_Black_Book:_Random_Snippets&diff=76888Logs:The Black Book: Random Snippets2015-09-19T03:42:37Z<p>Irianke: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log<br />
|who=Irianke<br />
|what=If there were a little black book...<br />
|day=8<br />
|month=11<br />
|turn=38<br />
|IP=Interval<br />
|IP2=10<br />
|gamedate=2015.09.18<br />
|type=Vignette<br />
|icons-new=Icon irianke.jpg,<br />
|log=... tender, too sweet really ... ??<br />
<br />
... likes it when I call out his name ... ???<br />
<br />
... the seventh month lover ... O<br />
<br />
... does not need a sweater in the winter ... O?X?O? O<br />
<br />
... N thinks he smells ... X<br />
<br />
... overstays his welcome ... XXXXO? X<br />
<br />
... vanilla, very vanilla, remember not to fall for that smile again ... XXXXX<br />
<br />
... fun to toy with ... whatever happened to him? ... X<br />
<br />
... trouble, and not in a good way ... OOOO<br />
<br />
... intriguing, if not for the sex, but the pillow talk ... O<br />
<br />
... gathers and flirtations ... O<br />
<br />
... must get my blue dress repaired ... wild night, good results ... O<br />
<br />
... that saying about small just needs to know how to use it? So not true. X<br />
}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs:The_Black_Book:_Random_Snippets&diff=76887Logs:The Black Book: Random Snippets2015-09-19T03:40:54Z<p>Irianke: Created page with "{{Log |who=Irianke |what=If there were a little black book... |day=8 |month=11 |turn=38 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gamedate=2015.09.18 |type=Vignette |icons-new=Icon irianke.jpg, |..."</p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log<br />
|who=Irianke<br />
|what=If there were a little black book...<br />
|day=8<br />
|month=11<br />
|turn=38<br />
|IP=Interval<br />
|IP2=10<br />
|gamedate=2015.09.18<br />
|type=Vignette<br />
|icons-new=Icon irianke.jpg,<br />
|log=... tender, too sweet really ... ??<br />
<br />
... likes it when I call out his name ... ???<br />
<br />
... the seventh month lover ... O<br />
<br />
... does not need a sweater in the winter ... O?X?O? O<br />
<br />
... N thinks he smells ... X<br />
<br />
... overstays his welcome ... XXXXO? X<br />
<br />
... vanilla, very vanilla, remember not to fall for that smile again ... XXXXX<br />
<br />
... fun to toy with ... whatever happened to him? ... X<br />
<br />
... trouble, and not in a good way ... OOOO<br />
<br />
... intriguing, if not for the sex, but the pillow talk ... O<br />
<br />
... gathers and flirtations ... O<br />
<br />
... must get my blue dress repaired ... wild night, good results ... O<br />
<br />
... that saying about small just needs to know how to use it? So no true. X<br />
}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs_talk:Escape_Offers&diff=76677Logs talk:Escape Offers2015-09-15T04:39:09Z<p>Irianke: Comment provided by Irianke - via ArticleComments extension</p>
<hr />
<div><noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Escape Offers]]<br />
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude><br />
<br />
==Edyis (21:27, 14 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==<br />
<br />
I think... I may actually be terrified of Mielline. Just a bit.<br />
==Irianke (21:39, 14 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==<br />
<br />
http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uojFap50VKg/VN5x8QJxgXI/AAAAAAAA5bE/pJeoaMdFp9w/s1600/LagerthaShade.jpg</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs:Predatory_Domination&diff=76301Logs:Predatory Domination2015-09-03T07:24:00Z<p>Irianke: Created page with "{{Log |who=Irianke, Jo |what=Irianke shows Jo just how angry she is at K'del's near death. |where=Weyrwoman's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=16 |mont..."</p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log<br />
|who=Irianke, Jo<br />
|what=Irianke shows Jo just how angry she is at K'del's near death.<br />
|where=Weyrwoman's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr<br />
|involves=High Reaches Weyr<br />
|day=16<br />
|month=9<br />
|turn=38<br />
|IP=Interval<br />
|IP2=10<br />
|gamedate=2015.09.02<br />
|mentions=K'del<br />
|type=Log<br />
|ooc=NSFW<br />
|icons-new=Icon irianke posed.jpg, Icon jo bedside.jpg,<br />
|log=Irianke's first day as Weyrwoman was spent seeing her Weyrleader safely esconced at Southern Weyr. She's back before dinner, showing her face publicly in the living cavern on Mielline's arm. The Weyr staff is efficient, having unpacked and transferred many of her things from the smaller junior goldrider's weyr to the massive Weyrwoman's one: her clothes are in the wardrobe, her sheets are now on the bed tucked into that recessed alcove, and the furniture has been rearranged to her liking, or what the staff perceives will be her liking. Everything is spotless and dust free finally. The Weyrwoman is in, standing in the middle of it all, deciding on where to hang her decorative swords it would seem. Unless she's suddenly taken to holding a sword in the middle of the night for no reason while looking at the empty wall spaces in the cavern.<br />
<br />
That's probably the perfect time for Jo to walk on into the Senior Weyrwoman's weyr - with one holding a sword. There's just the touch of warning that she's coming from Tacuseth, the blue's swirl of desert shadows a brief presence in Niahvth's mind before she pauses on the threshold between weyr and ledge. And then she sees the sword and stops.<br />
<br />
Warning given doesn't change Irianke's hold of the sword, nor does it change her posture, to the point it's questionable Niahvth even passed it on. Maybe she heard the footsteps, or she was actually warned, for shortly after Jo appears and stops, the new Weyrwoman inquires of her visitor, "This wall or that one? I was thinking that one because it's a little less prominent, but would it be so bad to have it on display for anyone who visits to see?" At the last, she finally turns to flash the bluerider an enigmatic smile.<br />
<br />
Eyeing the sword more than the Weyrwoman, Jo takes haltin steps into the weyr as she answers her with, "I'd put it where most folks would see it'n get the message," she states, her dark gaze now transferring over to the walls in question. "Showin' a lil' intimidation won' hurt. 'Least that's ''my'' opinion," but now it's Irianke that gets her attention, now close enough to her to study her face with just a glimmer of concern showing.<br />
<br />
Turning away from Jo, Irianke looks back at the more prominent wall and nods, agreeable. "I'll have someone put it up tomorrow then." The wooden sword is hefted gently in between two hands before being set onto the chaise that's moved from ''there'' to ''here''. She looks over her shoulder at the bluerider and slowly straightens herself, a hand to her hip. "Congratulate me," says the goldrider simply.<br />
<br />
Watching her heft that sword with open curiosity, "Where did'ja get it from?" Jo asks now, straightening up her black leather jacket. "Don' think I've seen one like that before." As for that last, the bluerider can't help the rake of her gaze down those hips before meeting her eyes and those challenging words. With the silence settling between them, she slowly closes the distance between them, almost hip to hip before a long finger lifts to curl over the top of her clothing where any cleavage can be seen. "Congrats, Weyrwoman," she says it low, a touch amused - a touch suggestive. "I have a bottle of Benden if that'll suit," she says it lightly, playing with her shirt with a little tug.<br />
<br />
"My pa traded for it. It was one of his prized possessions." How it got into ''her'' possession, Irianke does not explain, filling in that space with a shrug. But then Jo is ''there'' and she's so close the smell of her intoxicating and the goldrider takes in a deep, visible and audible breath, that chest of hers heaving up and then lowering slowly. "No. No drinking. No playing," though her hand curves to slide into Jo's hair to hold there, still. "He almost died." It's barely above a whisper.<br />
<br />
That Jo is interested in the sword's origins is plain, but with Irianke close, further questioning has gone out the window. Instead, her lips draw close and brush into her hair as she says, "No playin'." She lets her hold her there, meeting her eyes on that whisper before she whispers back, "He didn'. Man's tough. How is he?" An arm moves to circle her waist.<br />
<br />
"Were you counting on that when your man decided to almost kill him?" Irianke's body is pliable, responsive, but only ''just''. There's a part of her that holds back, that doesn't quite fall into that arm about her waist or the lips in her own hair. What does strengthen is the grip in Jo's hair, keeping the bluerider ''there'', just there. "Were you counting on K'del being tough? Another inch and..."<br />
<br />
"Wasn' aimin' on fatal," comes from Jo, watching Irianke still. "I trust he knew what he was doin'. What the plan was. Killin' him wasn' in it. He ''will'' recover, darlin'." Perhaps she can feel that tension, that tightening of that hand in her black mass of hair. Her dark eyes bore into Irianke's not backing away. Not backing down. "Another inch," she agrees low, "but it wasn'. We did as ya asked. He ''will'' live." There's emphasis, her voice staying low as if such words shouldn't go beyond the weyr walls. Or intimate.<br />
<br />
Slate blue eyes pin to brown ones. "Letter of the law, Lee. Letter of the fucking law." Agreement and warning in a cool, reserved voice, the hand in Jo's hair pulls, bringing the bluerider's face to hers. "Tell your men to not fuck with me again. Not to toe that line between what I say and what I mean again." Irianke makes no addition to her threats, punctuating it with a forceful kiss lip to lip, her free hand coming up to match the other, fingers all entangled in the bluerider's hair.<br />
<br />
Jo, versed in the subtleties of tones, takes that tone with a dark study in her eyes as her hair is pulled and her face is close to hers. With the barest lift of her brow, it looks like she wants to say something, but her lips press together with that curious line in her gaze that's shows a mark of defiance. However, "Understood," is pronunciated in clipped tones before her mouth is taken forcefully. She doesn't pull away or fight. Rather, with Irianke's hands in her hair, the convict rider returns that kiss with defiant aggression, the growl heard deep within her throat as she roughly tightens her hold on her waist against her wiry body.<br />
<br />
Even if she didn't see that look of defiance, she certainly feels it from that growl and the way Jo's own hold turns rough. It evokes something base, flawed, and dangerous in the once trader girl, that person buried beneath turns and turns of a refinement Eliza Doolittle would be wary of. Irianke's own voice turns throaty and guttural, her hands going beyond just rough into demanding, controlling, and possessive, ultimately ending with the two of them on the cold stone floor of her new weyr, her curves pressing their weight into Jo's wire frame. Her hands are finally free of the bluerider's hair, instead pinning her wrists to the ground. Her knees are in between Jo's legs, spreading them just so. "He's off limits now. You, me, your people. He's off limits to us all. Understand?"<br />
<br />
Perhaps it's something in Irianke that draws out the primal side of Jo, something that is usually caged and in control within Weyr limits. Those demanding hands - ''possessive'' - she fights back with that heady demand of predatory dominance. Once on the floor, the bluerider on her back with her wrists taken so, thrusting against those knees while her eyes hold a promise of retaliation. It's a dark, a sexual one - and she arches her back with a press of strength against the hold on her wrists without deliberately breaking. It's as though she shows that she ''could'', and she chooses not to despite the fact that she says with a soft hiss, "Careful, love." It's the only hint of warning, her hips taking on a sensual lean against Irianke rather than a dangerous one despite those two words. Then, at the end, "He's off limits. We don' want a dead Weyrleader."<br />
<br />
When Jo arches and those legs of hers retaliates, Irianke's body moves with it, showing that her weight isn't immovable, as much by choice as Jo's lack of taking control. Choices. Like how she can choose to drop a wrist so her hand is at Jo's hip, fingers predatorily working at the bluerider's pants, and then shifting quickly to unbutton her own shirt aiming to control the events and the pace of the rest of the night now that the subject of K'del is decided. Her aim tonight? Take Jo to the edge and then pull back and then rinse repeat. Hopefully no one decides to drop in on the new Weyrwoman tonight!<br />
<br />
Jo keeps a demanding pace, worked up between anger and lust. That she doesn't take control tonight from Irianke seems to be calculating one, for each possessive move the other makes, she puts up a deliberately brief fight. Her own hands once release shows her own control from the bottom, pulling at her clothes as she bruises her lips with her own. Yeah, she lets herself get taken to that edge and back, her voice raw and her frustrations released more than once when it continues hot and heavy on the floor. One better believe the convict rider will exact her revenge sometime later when the tables get turned.<br />
<br />
Irianke is kind enough not to leave it as an unfulfilled night, ultimately giving in and taking Jo all the way with deft flicks of her tongue and an expert knowledge of just how to use her fingers. She rides her own high of power and control, of being dominating. It would be a lie if the idea of tables being turned wasn't its own high, if it even would occur to the goldrider at this point as she sinks back, a hand remaining on the other woman, still against her belly.<br />
<br />
When Jo is satisfied and spent, any challenges and disagreements seem to fall by the wayside. Those tables turning showed a no-holds-barred woman where being that aggressive lover was her true nature. It was pure dominance in retaliation, wrists held above her head and all while she ravaged Irianke's body with a mixture of pleasure and pain. She wouldn't have let up until the other woman was spent, was done, and she could hardly move there on the floor with the Weyrwoman against her. After a long moment, that she could speak at all, "I'm usually a lot gentler with women than ''that''," she murmurs as she works to settle her breath. There might be bite marks.<br />
<br />
"Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. I'm still riding it out. Shut up." It's barely above a whisper, wracked with trembles and tremors in her body until....... ''There'', just ''there'', her body continues to ride out the storm that's long ended until finally there's that exquisite, drawn out release. Sweaty. Exhausted. Spent. Satisfied. And yes, pain. Irianke lies there, prone on the cold floor, breathing heavily towards the ceiling, her fingers flutter to find Jo, some part of Jo's body to touch.<br />
<br />
There's a snort, a snicker, but Jo quiets to ride out the rest of her own with her eyes half-shut. She has released Irianke's wrists through those tremors, one good peripheral study of the Weyrwoman in the throes of her release. She has no shame in watching, really. Once prone, the convict rider draws her head head to the other's while her own fingers draw across breasts towards hips to rest there.<br />
<br />
If they were in bed, it'd be an easy thing to just fall asleep. But now it's awkward, on this floor. Irianke's fingers reach and then pull back, retreating to her own breast and then hip, chasing after Jo's fingers and when they catch up, she draws them into her hand and slowly, with a twitch as she hurts something more than it was already hurt, slowly, gets to her feet and brings Jo up with her to lead her, silently, to the bed. Whereas the last hour (two? How long was it?) was about dominance, the next is about gentle touches, running hands over those pains across skin, reaquainting herself with all of Jo in a different way, in the cushion of pillows and mattresses with furs and blankets until sleep claims Irianke at least.<br />
<br />
Sated in different ways, Irianke will find Jo more pliant in taking to bed. Where before it was focused on power and control, this time her touch is gentler and her tongue and mouth is far less punishing. It's the rare sliver of femininity that comes to the fore before the bluerider settles against the Weyrwoman, watching her sleep for moments after before she allows herself to finally follow suit.<br />
|Categories=General Logs, NSFW Logs, Circumventing the Inevitable Logs<br />
}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs_talk:Relief&diff=76256Logs talk:Relief2015-09-02T05:49:31Z<p>Irianke: Comment provided by Irianke - via ArticleComments extension</p>
<hr />
<div><noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Relief]]<br />
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude><br />
<br />
==Irianke (22:49, 1 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==<br />
<br />
Oh, poor Farideh. D: It is amazing how training kicks in and how she sticks to it in spite of herself.</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs_talk:Horny_Nightlight_Reignites&diff=76255Logs talk:Horny Nightlight Reignites2015-09-02T05:43:16Z<p>Irianke: Comment provided by Irianke - via ArticleComments extension</p>
<hr />
<div><noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Horny Nightlight Reignites]]<br />
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude><br />
<br />
==Alida (18:03, 1 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==<br />
<br />
Hehehehehe. SUFFER AS ALIDA SUFFERS when often-chasing Ilicaeth decides that particular green in his view is just the one he wants, this time! ;) :D<br />
==Irianke (22:43, 1 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==<br />
<br />
Poor Edyis! At least it was not forever this time. :D</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs:Being_Weyrwoman&diff=76247Logs:Being Weyrwoman2015-09-02T03:24:44Z<p>Irianke: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log<br />
|who=Irianke<br />
|what=In post-flight haze, Irianke learns of K'del's state. Niahvth takes control.<br />
|where=Empty Weyrwoman's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr<br />
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Crom Hold<br />
|day=15<br />
|month=9<br />
|turn=38<br />
|IP=Interval<br />
|IP2=10<br />
|gamedate=2015.09.01<br />
|mentions=B'ren, K'del, Lilah<br />
|type=Vignette<br />
|icons-new=Icon irianke.jpg,<br />
|log=Waking up next to B'ren was unsurprising. The black hole of her memory after Niahvth was caught by...<br />
<br />
Irianke's heart skipped a beat and a slow exhale released to the ceiling. ''Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.''<br />
<br />
B'ren stirred and Irianke moved in that automatic way of hers to calm him, soothe him, and pet him back to sleep so she could have a few more moments of quiet thought to herself. It was late evening now. She could smell the evening stew and mulled wine waiting in the main entry of ''her'' new weyr. It surprised her just how possessive she was of it. Surprised and frightened her. She had not thought she had wanted it so much prior to the flight; before the jumps that bought her more time. But in deciphering Lilah's message and realizing, only after her first attempt, what ''might'' have happened to the Fortian goldrider, something had changed in her desires, unbeknownst to herself.<br />
<br />
Her blood still ran cold imagining what had happened to Lilah and how no one could know of Eliyaveith's rider's fate or what her mission had been. Even now, the dragonhealers and K'del would have questions as to how Niahvth rose so far off her schedule, even if most would be relieved the Weyr would not be in young, untried hands.<br />
<br />
Irianke's eyes closed, her thoughts savoring this victory. This accomplishment.<br />
<br />
She felt B'ren stir again and rolled to her side, her hands working a particular kind of magic she was well versed in. Her eyes lidded heavily, feigning sleepiness, and her mouth fashioned into a drowsy, half-pleased, half-sorrowful smile.<br />
<br />
He, however, was not happy, and a dark shadow claimed his brown eyes. "Again?"<br />
<br />
"Again," she confirmed that unfinished question of just ''who'' had caught Niahvth.<br />
<br />
<< You are awake, >> said the new senior queen of High Reaches Weyr. << Good. Get dressed. We must go to Greenfields, it was all I could do to keep Cadejoth from jumping back immediately afterwards. >><br />
<br />
This new authoritative tone in Niahvth's voice was interesting. Irianke wasn't sure if she liked it particularly, especially since she had other ideas of how to spend her last evening, relatively free of the burden of rank. Too lazy to actually ''speak'' to her dragon, the emotions she felt were nonetheless conveyed and recoiled at the instant cold fury in the gold's touch.<br />
<br />
<< Get. Dressed. Now. Be the Weyrwoman you are. Your Weyrleader is injured. >><br />
<br />
The floor fell beneath Irianke and her magic hands stilled along B'ren's body, a fact he protested in low mumbles as he tried to bury himself into her body again. "Go. I ... go, B'ren. I have some things I need to do." She pulled away, pulling the dusty sheet around her body, and walked from the Weyrwoman's weyr to her own, only to stop short in the entry cavern to find her trunks already moved. If she weren't cold with fear racing through her body, she'd make a note to keep this assistant, but she was cold. She was scared. And the assistant was the last thing on her mind now.<br />
<br />
The first set of riding leathers in her trunk was lifted out and donned. << Present yourself decently, Irianke. Lord Crom may be there, >> which she took as a sign that she should make more efforts to her appearance with make up and matching accessories. It took just a little while longer, whoever had packed her things having organized things entirely too well. << No, not that necklace. It's too bright, as if you weren't aware that your Weyrleader may be on his death bed. >><br />
<br />
Irianke's eyes closed, and she wished, for one brief moment that this memory might go into some black void too, before she lept atop Niahvth. ''Share your image with Cadejoth. We will go together.''<br />
|Categories=Circumventing the Inevitable Logs<br />
}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs:Being_Weyrwoman&diff=76240Logs:Being Weyrwoman2015-09-02T03:02:46Z<p>Irianke: Created page with "{{Log |who=Irianke |what=In post-flight haze, Irianke learns of K'del's state. Niahvth takes control. |where=Empty Weyrwoman's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches W..."</p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log<br />
|who=Irianke<br />
|what=In post-flight haze, Irianke learns of K'del's state. Niahvth takes control.<br />
|where=Empty Weyrwoman's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr<br />
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Crom Hold<br />
|day=15<br />
|month=9<br />
|turn=38<br />
|IP=Interval<br />
|IP2=10<br />
|gamedate=2015.09.01<br />
|mentions=B'ren, K'del<br />
|type=Vignette<br />
|icons-new=Icon irianke.jpg,<br />
|log=Waking up next to B'ren was unsurprising. The black hole of her memory after Niahvth was caught by...<br />
<br />
Irianke's heart skipped a beat and a slow exhale released to the ceiling. ''Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.''<br />
<br />
B'ren stirred and Irianke moved in that automatic way of hers to calm him, soothe him, and pet him back to sleep so she could have a few more moments of quiet thought to herself. It was late evening now. She could smell the evening stew and mulled wine waiting in the main entry of ''her'' new weyr. It surprised her just how possessive she was of it. Surprised and frightened her. She had not thought she had wanted it so much prior to the flight; before the jumps that bought her more time. But in deciphering Lilah's message and realizing, only after her first attempt, what ''might'' have happened to the Fortian goldrider, something had changed in her desires, unbeknownst to herself.<br />
<br />
Her blood still ran cold imagining what had happened to Lilah and how no one could know of Eliyaveith's rider's fate or what her mission had been. Even now, the dragonhealers and K'del would have questions as to how Niahvth rose so far off her schedule, even if most would be relieved the Weyr would not be in young, untried hands.<br />
<br />
Irianke's eyes closed, her thoughts savoring this victory. This accomplishment.<br />
<br />
She felt B'ren stir again and rolled to her side, her hands working a particular kind of magic she was well versed in. Her eyes lidded heavily, feigning sleepiness, and her mouth fashioned into a drowsy, half-pleased, half-sorrowful smile.<br />
<br />
He, however, was not happy, and a dark shadow claimed his brown eyes. "Again?"<br />
<br />
"Again," she confirmed that unfinished question of just ''who'' had caught Niahvth.<br />
<br />
<< You are awake, >> said the new senior queen of High Reaches Weyr. << Good. Get dressed. We must go to Greenfields, it was all I could do to keep Cadejoth from jumping back immediately afterwards. >><br />
<br />
This new authoritative tone in Niahvth's voice was interesting. Irianke wasn't sure if she liked it particularly, especially since she had other ideas of how to spend her last evening, relatively free of the burden of rank. Too lazy to actually ''speak'' to her dragon, the emotions she felt were nonetheless conveyed and recoiled at the instant cold fury in the gold's touch.<br />
<br />
<< Get. Dressed. Now. Be the Weyrwoman you are. Your Weyrleader is injured. >><br />
<br />
The floor fell beneath Irianke and her magic hands stilled along B'ren's body, a fact he protested in low mumbles as he tried to bury himself into her body again. "Go. I ... go, B'ren. I have some things I need to do." She pulled away, pulling the dusty sheet around her body, and walked from the Weyrwoman's weyr to her own, only to stop short in the entry cavern to find her trunks already moved. If she weren't cold with fear racing through her body, she'd make a note to keep this assistant, but she was cold. She was scared. And the assistant was the last thing on her mind now.<br />
<br />
The first set of riding leathers in her trunk was lifted out and donned. << Present yourself decently, Irianke. Lord Crom may be there, >> which she took as a sign that she should make more efforts to her appearance with make up and matching accessories. It took just a little while longer, whoever had packed her things having organized things entirely too well. << No, not that necklace. It's too bright, as if you weren't aware that your Weyrleader may be on his death bed. >><br />
<br />
Irianke's eyes closed, and she wished, for one brief moment that this memory might go into some black void too, before she lept atop Niahvth. ''Share your image with Cadejoth. We will go together.''<br />
|Categories=Circumventing the Inevitable Logs<br />
}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs_talk:Crossroads&diff=76212Logs talk:Crossroads2015-09-01T15:57:17Z<p>Irianke: Comment provided by Irianke - via ArticleComments extension</p>
<hr />
<div><noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Crossroads]]<br />
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude><br />
<br />
==Irianke (08:57, 1 September 2015 (PDT)) said... ==<br />
<br />
The only correction I have to make is that Niahvth doesn't start glowing until the 14th. :D Not the 10th.</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs:Time&diff=76080Logs:Time2015-08-29T06:59:23Z<p>Irianke: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log<br />
|who=Irianke<br />
|what=While reading, Irianke puts the pieces to a puzzle together.<br />
|where=Irianke's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr<br />
|involves=Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr<br />
|day=24<br />
|month=8<br />
|turn=38<br />
|IP=Interval<br />
|IP2=10<br />
|gamedate=2015.08.28<br />
|mentions=Lilah,<br />
|type=Vignette<br />
|icons-new=Icon irianke.jpg,<br />
|log=It had been weeks since Lilah had disappeared. Two months actually and Irianke had not noticed the time passing until she sat on her chaise at the end of another long day with a book, a glass of wine, and the fire already necessary to keep her massive weyr warm.<br />
<br />
She sat, enjoying this brief moment of ''just her'' time that she always took before a night out, sipping, reading, and savoring both the wine and the words on the page. Her hair was done, her make up just needed touch ups, and the dress she'd planned to wear tonight to a masquerade at Benden Hold hanging, freshly pressed by her latest in the long series of summer assistants.<br />
<br />
And though she, and many before her, had read and heard this story many a time, in this reading something twinged and she reread that same page over and over again. Again. And again. Like a bolt, she got to her feet, her hurried steps carrying that restraint borne from turns of self-control, and stood at her table to rifle through the stacks of correspondances and papers there that had already been read and responded to.<br />
<br />
All except one. That final, cryptic message, one that made sense now and made sense as to ''who'' had sent it.<br />
<br />
''The one thing sure to cause a dragon to rise is time.''<br />
<br />
Irianke sunk into her chair, rereading that one line over and over again and exhaling. A small smile formed on her mouth and she got up to change out of her robe and into her riding leathers.<br />
<br />
There would be no dancing tonight. There were ''things'' to be done, and most of all, above everything else, Irianke needed the guarantee of more ''time''.<br />
|Categories=General Logs<br />
}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs:Time&diff=76048Logs:Time2015-08-28T20:33:36Z<p>Irianke: Created page with "{{Log |who=Irianke |what=While reading, Irianke puts the pieces to a puzzle together. |where=Irianke's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |day=1 |m..."</p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log<br />
|who=Irianke<br />
|what=While reading, Irianke puts the pieces to a puzzle together.<br />
|where=Irianke's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr<br />
|involves=Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr<br />
|day=1<br />
|month=9<br />
|turn=38<br />
|IP=Interval<br />
|IP2=10<br />
|gamedate=2015.08.28<br />
|mentions=Lilah,<br />
|type=Vignette<br />
|icons-new=Icon irianke.jpg,<br />
|log=It had been weeks since Lilah had disappeared. Two months actually and Irianke had not noticed the time passing until she sat on her chaise at the end of another long day with a book, a glass of wine, and the fire already necessary to keep her massive weyr warm.<br />
<br />
She sat, enjoying this brief moment of ''just her'' time that she always took before a night out, sipping, reading, and savoring both the wine and the words on the page. Her hair was done, her make up just needed touch ups, and the dress she'd planned to wear tonight to a masquerade at Benden Hold hanging, freshly pressed by her latest in the long series of summer assistants.<br />
<br />
And though she, and many before her, had read and heard this story many a time, in this reading something twinged and she reread that same page over and over again. Again. And again. Like a bolt, she got to her feet, her hurried steps carrying that restraint borne from turns of self-control, and stood at her table to rifle through the stacks of correspondances and papers there that had already been read and responded to.<br />
<br />
All except one. That final, cryptic message, one that made sense now and made sense as to ''who'' had sent it.<br />
<br />
''The one thing sure to cause a dragon to rise is time.''<br />
<br />
Irianke sunk into her chair, rereading that one line over and over again and exhaling. A small smile formed on her mouth and she got up to change out of her robe and into her riding leathers.<br />
<br />
There would be no dancing tonight. There were ''things'' to be done, and most of all, above everything else, Irianke needed the guarantee of more ''time''.<br />
|Categories=General Logs<br />
}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs:Distractingly_Hot&diff=75192Logs:Distractingly Hot2015-07-14T05:44:19Z<p>Irianke: Created page with "{{Log |who=Irianke, Jo |what=Irianke happens across Jo at the hot springs and seduces her. Really! |where=Hot Springs, High Reaches Area |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=28 |m..."</p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log<br />
|who=Irianke, Jo<br />
|what=Irianke happens across Jo at the hot springs and seduces her. Really!<br />
|where=Hot Springs, High Reaches Area<br />
|involves=High Reaches Weyr<br />
|day=28<br />
|month=3<br />
|turn=38<br />
|IP=Interval<br />
|IP2=10<br />
|gamedate=2015.07.12<br />
|type=Log<br />
|icons-new=Icon irianke sultry.jpg, Icon jo flirty.jpg,<br />
|desc=>---< Hot Springs, High Reaches Area (TP Room - HRW) >-----------------------<<br />
<br />
Even further north than the Weyr itself, a short flight between crags and<br />
over crevasses that even a wing-scarred veteran of Fall might undertake, a<br />
cluster of clearings lies low in the shelter of hardy trees and ancient <br />
stone. The outer two clearings might have been lost to more stubbly trees <br />
Turns ago, if it weren't for the centre-most: a natural pool of warm, <br />
softly bubbling water several dragonlengths across, with enough space for <br />
perhaps a half-dozen people and their lifemates. Though the air is cold <br />
all Turn round, and snowdrifts frequently whiten the ground, the <br />
geothermal activity heats the mineral-scented water to such a consistently<br />
comfortable heat that it becomes a refuge for those who don't wish to <br />
travel further afield to wash their dragons. <br />
Of the clearings that abut the spring, the nearest is only a few steps <br />
away, though it's small enough that only a few dragons can lounge at once.<br />
A steep trail descends to its substantially larger neighbor, a <br />
gravel-strewn crescent with enough space to spread out and enjoy the crisp<br />
air and the mountain range's admittedly spectacular views. <br />
Available Commands: +tp/help<br />
<br />
-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------<br />
Irianke F 38 5'7" slender, dark curly hair, stone blue eyes 0s <br />
Jo F 33 5'8" wiry, black hair, brown eyes 24s<br />
----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------<br />
Out <br />
>-----------------------------------------< 28D 3M 38T I10, winter night >---<<br />
|log=It's a late night at the springs that finds Jo occupying the most shadowy corner of the hot springs alone. She has her pile of clothes out of reach but her bottle is not, her hair damp and piled on top of her head as she stays above water with both elbows planted on the springs' edge. Her eyes are half-closed as she looks to be resting and soaking. Drinking, too. It's a low key night.<br />
<br />
A turn and change after arriving at High Reaches finally finds Irianke seeking out the hot springs, winter's cold driving her towards something a lot more warm and medicinal than the baths in her own weyr. Niahvth is hard to hide in her descent to that small clearing, though with Jo in the most shadowed corner, neither dragon nor rider discern the rider's presence though the blue is familar and is accorded a low rumbled greeting. Irianke dismounts expertly, a towel slung over her shoulder, and strides quickly towards the pool even as she sheds her clothing along the way. No neat piles for her and shortly, she's at the far edge of the pool, standing there in the cold, nude with that towel slung around her neck now, and pretending so valiantly that she's not shivering.<br />
<br />
Tacuseth rumbles his greeting to Niahvth's arrival easily enough. One can probably expect that after that moment, Irianke's arrival is expected, but Jo is silent as the Weyrwoman undresses and drops her clothes in her wake. Her dark gaze openly drinks her in, watching any open expressions that could be seen from her advantage before she breaks her silence with a simple, "Weyrwoman." Likely a greeting or to announce that she is indeed not alone.<br />
<br />
A slow smile draws across Irianke's mouth and she tests one toe in and then the rest of that foot. Then, the entirety of her body slips in, the towel relinquished to the side of the crater as she does so. Bliss sweeps the smile off her facfe and she sighs audibly, leaning backwards into the wall she just slid own and looking up at the sky. "I've been missing out," she says, a slight turn of her head finding Jo and flashing a lovely smile towards the bluerider. "You've been holding out," as if it were ''Jo's'' responsibility to bring Irianke here.<br />
<br />
Watching her, and not hiding the fact that she is, "Ya have," Jo agrees with her with a roll of her shoulders, though by the suggestive tone, she's not talking about the hot springs. "Ya should get out more. Rather, get out more with ''me''. The invitation was a given." The last is likely in response to her holding out, her rakish smile growing. Head leaning back a bit without removing her study, "A drink?" she offers now, lifting the bottle she holds.<br />
<br />
"Or," suggests Irianke in the blithest of tones, "You could stay in with me." But while Jo watches overtly, Irianke pretends to not notice and further, feigns not looking at Jo directly, staking her claim on that breadth of wall behind her firmly. "No. No thank you," is said for the drink, the deep smile stretching up to twinkle her eyes. "Tell me about your day first," says the goldrider, the singsong lilt of her voice clearly not expecting a real answer.<br />
<br />
"Was that on the table?" Jo counters on the suggestion, her front teeth playing with her bottom lip. "Is that an invitation?" While Irianke doesn't look at her, Jo is keeping her gaze right on her. To the decline of her bottle, she takes a drink from it herself before answering on her day. "Drills, sweeps, visitin' old friends'n gettin' in a late meal. Some bondin' time with the blue man in my life. No nightcap. Yet." Which, considering she's drinking, her 'nightcap' must mean something else. "What 'bout ''you'', darlin'," she turns it back, setting her bottle on the surface. "What's yer day like today?"<br />
<br />
"Oh, the usual in the life of a single Weyrwoman. Lounged on a chaise while aids fed me frozen grapes and rubbed my feet until I was driven from the Weyr due to sheer boredom here." Irianke has perfected straight man humor and delivers this without allowing her voice to waver in the least, in spite of her smile. "Or did you mean the realities to the fantasies?" Finally, the Igen woman looks back to Jo, finding her in those shadows and begins a slow wade across to her.<br />
<br />
Snorting loudly, "Only to end up in the arms of yer pirate husband," Jo adds onto that story, straightening up. "The very one I fucked for a trip overseas. I'll admit it. The frozen grapes have me jealous." Just as straight-faced, the convict rider watches her close the distance before she adds, "Spendin' yer time findin' out about folks?" she asks on fantasies and realities. "Though, if ya ''really'' wanna go the fantasy route, I have a few we can talk 'bout, darlin'. They're not exactly for dragon ears, either."<br />
<br />
"Mine has heard worse." Irianke's curiosity, however, is piqued enough so that when she reaches Jo, her hand reaches up to curl the backs of her fingers against the other woman's cheek. "Spending my time," she says in the quietest of tones, "Finding a new Weyrleader."<br />
<br />
''That'' gets her interest. "There ain' nothin' like me," Jo notes, the boldness of her statement laced with the sort of arrogance one hears from a bronzerider. Irianke's touch gets her to part her lips, and her gaze goes towards her lips. When the last is revealed, her dark gaze cuts to hers, her smile slipping just a bit to something else. That her overly-sexualized persona actually slips in that brief moment before the goldrider to show the myriad of emotions from surprise to calculated interest. And delight. It's there and gone, and the convict rider simply states a lightly piqued, "Oh?"<br />
<br />
"Oh?" mimics Irianke, having caught some flashes of those emotions. In that distraction, the goldrider leans in to claim the soft flesh of Jo's neck for her lips, trailing it up slowly to her ear and then draws back, leaving her hand right there, ''there'' in place of her lips. "Tell me your thoughts, Lee."<br />
<br />
Jo lets her neck be claimed, her chin lifting just a bit before she regards that hand at her lips. Instead of answering right away, her head dips as she tries to nip one of those fingers, giving just a bit of bite as one arm comes to claim Irianke at the small of her back. It's possessive, the move, and the dangerous woman draws her lips from that hand to her ear to say low, "Show me yers, then I'll show ya mine." It's obvious laced with more that thoughts, that low purr deliberately sensuous. Testing.<br />
<br />
"You've already seen mine," says Irianke, deliberately misunderstanding whatever Jo might mean. Niahvth stirs when Irianke pushes, tests the limits of Jo's hold of her back, then quiets when the Igen woman stills. "I am serious. This," she gestures to Jo, the hot springs, and then back to tuck a finger under the bluerider's chin, "Is all lovely, but I need you, your connections, and your thoughts." A breath, leads to one that releases faster, and then faster and then, "And you. Come back to my weyr with me. Fuck this cold."<br />
<br />
Eyes narrow slightly, and when Irianke pushes, Jo slips her arm from her, both hands lifting up in unison with the barest of smirks. "If it's information ya want," she notes with a touch of wry, "ya don' need to seduce me. I'll take what ya offer regardless. If there's anythin' in it for ''me''." The smile blooms, and then she looks around the springs before returns to Irianke with a simple, "Lead the way." A hand even gestures for the other woman to proceed her out the springs with careful study.<br />
<br />
It's a pity her visit to the springs was so short, but shivering, she exits, slower than she entered and pieces together her outfit the reverse of how she shed it. "I don't seduce people for information. The information is the extra bonus to what I plan to do with you tonight," says Irianke, the frankness of her voice pushing past any velvet flirtation though her hand lingers at Jo's waist, when they reach the dragons. "We can talk more tomorrow morning," is both promise and threat of just how long she plans to claim the other woman.<br />
<br />
Jo is out behind her, her own clothes a mere pile as she goes to retrieve them. It's quick the way she slips her own clothes on and collects her bottle, the rumble in her throat one of amusement as she states, "Hope ya don' have plans tomorrow mornin', then," is all she says to that, if the woman plans on keeping her the whole night. The bluerider doesn't look concerned in the least, as she follows her out with a blunt, "Ya should cancel yer meetins' as well."<br />
<br />
'''''Later on... the morning after in Irianke's weyr'''''<br />
<br />
It was an eventful night of many different kinds of hijinks, with sleep only coming in the early morning and when Irianke's assistant shows up with breakfast, the scents of fresh baked bread, morning meats, and a cinnamon-citrus tea waft in to the bed chamber where Irianke, legs entangled with Jo's, snores lightly into the other woman's chest. Outside, the hearth is lit and this assistant, being far more aware than her last, discretely cleans, folding clothes and placing them on the lounge, and makes sure to get an extra mug out of the goldrider's personal pantry before departing.<br />
<br />
It's the food that rouses Jo from deep sleep, the pleasureable aches from her wiry frame drawing a husk of a sound from her lips as she stirs. Irianke's warmth and scent draws her to dip her head close to hers, her dark hair sticking out at odd ends as she claims the other woman by her waist. If she's noticing any activity by the assistant, it's not showing in her face. Rather, coming fully awake, she lies there with the tips of her fingers idly tracing down the woman's bare back in a caress. Then, in a low voice, "Ya should eat." It might not be heard at all.<br />
<br />
It's heard. Irianke's long since learned to stir at the scents and sounds of somebody outside putting things to order and bringing her breakfast. And they've learned to not tread past the beaded curtain that separates the sleeping area from the main cavern; some having needed some eye-opening lessons on why this is bad. "You?" Irianke finally murmurs, answering in a voice filled with sleep; a flirtatious sleep but sleepy nonetheless. An absent hand reaches out for something, anything and traces the curve of Jo's chest while simultaneously shivering away from but then pressing into the finger down her back. It's complicated. "Stay. Took too long to get you here."<br />
<br />
Jo can't help the lazy smile that stretches - Her body stretches against Irianke like a feline's, arching her chest into that touch as she continues to caress her back. It's the last where her laughter is felt in her body more than heard before she says, teasingly, "Y'had only but to ask." The tease only lasts for that long, though, for the convict rider then gives more sincere, "Ain' goin' nowhere, darlin'. Not many can claim they've worn me out in one night."<br />
<br />
"Lie," says Irianke, waking up a little more at that, enough so that she's arching her back up and pushing herself off the bed to study Jo next to her. "Such lies, but I'll let This." Kiss. "One." Another kiss. "Pass." Kiss. "This." Kiss. "Time." Each word, punctuated by a kiss in a different, deliciously wicked spot as she works her way down the length of the bluerider's body, until she's sliding off the bed with that last and rising to saunter out those beads towards the outdoors. "Wait here," means Irianke is back shortly, carrying the tray with its food, tea pot, and mugs back into the bed chamber.<br />
<br />
Murmuring close to those lips, "Oh Iri," the purr comes from Jo, self-satisfied tone. "Such lil' faith in my words." She could add more to bolster her claim, really, but those kisses has her inhaling, reveling in each spot her lips touch on her body. The cool air hitting her then when Irianke withdraws has her trying to draw her back into bed, but her fingers slip easily and her head drops back down to that pillow with a "Mmm-hmm," for waiting. She only sits up when she returns, the smell of food getting some of her attention. Mostly she's studying the sway of hips and the gentle bounce of breasts.<br />
<br />
Irianke walks with the confidence of someone who knows she looks stunning, even with the gentle curves of maternity long ago along her otherwise flat tummy. She stands there, the tray in hand at the foot of the bed and looks down on Jo, her lips relaxing into a desirous smile. The tray finds the bed, nudging at Jo's toe as it gets pushed deeper and the goldrider stays standing, her fingers brushing against and playing idle patterns onto the sole of the other woman's feet. "You promised me ears to listen and lips to speak last night. Or was it lips to kiss?" Innocently quizzical that last, Irianke's mouth does nothing innocent to a very un-PG-13 set of lips, but only teasingly. Briefly. "Do you like your morning rolls buttered or jammed? Or both?" is asked momentarily.<br />
<br />
It's a moment of Jo just staring at her, not saying anything until she states, unbidden, "Aren' ya beautiful, baby." She sits up more once the tray is placed, her toes playfully stretches at those teasing fingers before she leans forward to take up the tray to her lap. "I believe I had promised to make ya come 'nough times that yer forget yer name," she corrects in her crass way. "But I ''am'' curious, 'bout what ya want for a mere 'rider like me besides a great fuck." Beat. "I go both ways in everythin'," comes last, presumably on those rolls.<br />
And those lips, of course.<br />
<br />
"Mere rider?" Irianke is amused at that, slipping along the bed so her elbow rests somewhere near Jo's hip and her face is on level with that tray held in the other woman's lap. "Well then," she swings her legs to sit and breaks one of those fluffy fresh baked rolls in half, slathers butter on one side and jam on the other, presses the halves back together and divides it in half and holds out one to the bluerider. "Anything but ''mere'', unless you meant mare? Fucking hot. Wild. Fun." A moment later, adds, "Smart."<br />
<br />
The predatory look on Jo's eyes as the Weyrwoman moves can't be hidden this close, but there's also a deeper study there as well. "I have no rank," she begins lightly, watching her movements - watching ''her'' - her words slow. "I ride a blue dragon. Beyond the rumors, the only stir I cause this Weyr is breakin' the hearts of those that think to collar me. 'Less ya mean my ''other'' talents." She doesn't given explanation on what sort of talents, taking the roll with a nod of thanks. Dark gaze studying her face, "What do ya want to know?" finally, she asks, her tone curious as she takes a healthy bite.<br />
<br />
"I had," Irianke begins, ignoring her bread and opting to dip a finger into the jam and reaching out to swipe at Jo's nose with it, a grin causing her to stop talking for a few moments. "Sorry. You're incredibly distracting and I haven't..." She might not have forgotten her own name last night, but she certainly remembered Jo's quite well. "In any case, I had an interesting conversation a while ago with someone who said that a brownrider, particularly a female brownrider would not be taken seriously as Weyrleader. I find that way of thinking a fucking travesty." Pern's womens' movement, patient zero.<br />
<br />
Snorting at the swipe of jam, "Now yer gonna have to lick it off," Jo tells her, showing her mock-sterness before that smile breaks through. "And I am. Distractin'. Ya can miss whatever meetin' ya have with K'del today." Cocky, her free hand tracing one finger from Irianke's neck to her collarbone as she listens to the latter. "Taikrin," she states the name of her Wingleader. "For awhile, she was Weyrleader. I backed her'n Aishani every step of the way. There were many that had the view of Weyr instability bein' caused by a female brownrider makin' Weyrleader." Her tone suggests what she thinks of that.<br />
<br />
''That'' was clearly the idea; Irianke's wicked little smile deepening as some more jam finds itself along some of Jo's scars. The bread is set aside and she leans in to lick the little bit off Jo's nose and then claims her mouth with a lingering, bread-filled kiss. "Distracting. So fucking distracting, and I can't. I wish I could, but..." she is Nimae's little minion deep into her bones, in at least habits and shirking duties... "Just think about it for me. You're a strong, intelligent woman and I'd like you to come back next week so we can talk." Among other things. "On who you think would make a great Weyrleader, and whether you have," she pauses in her licking of jam to smile sunnily at Jo, "Other ambitions than ''mere'' bluerider. Now shut up." As if Jo's the one that keeps talking.<br />
<br />
Muscles comes alive under scarred skin to each jam-ladened touch, and Jo's return kiss is heated and aggressive. Her own wiry frame is tight with it, as if she was barely holding herself back. Fueled by hunger, "Rather eat ''you'' than this bread," is huskily noted to distractions, likely making it worse on purpose. But, she'll pause long enough to consider the rest Irianke says, that intense study back in her dark gaze before she briefly inclines her head in a nod. "Ya'll see me again," she agrees, her tone pleased. "I'll make time for ya. I'll think 'bout Weyrleader prospects'n my ambitions, too. After." After what, she only says with her mouth possessing the other's.<br />
<br />
It's only the desire not to burn themselves with the tea that has Irianke pausing to put the tray on the floor before utilizing her last moments of freetime that day in a very mutually possessive way, where her goal, this time, is to make sure ''Jo'' either forgets her own name or knows Irianke's all too well.<br />
|Categories=NSFW Logs<br />
}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=B%27ren&diff=74253B'ren2015-06-27T18:00:55Z<p>Irianke: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{Profile<br />
|picture=B'ren.jpg<br />
|body={{wysk}}<br />
== RP Logs ==<br />
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{{Character-Categories}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=File:B%27ren.jpg&diff=74252File:B'ren.jpg2015-06-27T18:00:12Z<p>Irianke: </p>
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<div></div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs:Fitting_In&diff=73709Logs:Fitting In2015-06-14T03:05:03Z<p>Irianke: Created page with "{{Log |who=Irianke, Z'kiel |what=Z'kiel seeks Irianke to learn how to fit in at High Reaches as a follow up to why he was passed over for the leadership program. |where=Counci..."</p>
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<div>{{Log<br />
|who=Irianke, Z'kiel<br />
|what=Z'kiel seeks Irianke to learn how to fit in at High Reaches as a follow up to why he was passed over for the leadership program.<br />
|where=Council Chambers, High Reaches Weyr<br />
|involves=High Reaches Weyr<br />
|day=7<br />
|month=13<br />
|turn=37<br />
|IP=Interval<br />
|IP2=10<br />
|gamedate=2015.06.07<br />
|mentions=Quinlys, Nimae<br />
|type=Log<br />
|icons-new=Icon irianke.jpg, Icon Z'kiel.jpg,<br />
|desc=>---< Council Chambers, High Reaches Weyr(#364RIJs) >------------------------<<br />
<br />
At the heart of this oblong cavern is its meeting table: a long hardwood <br />
oval with a mirror's dark shine, High Reaches' sigil picked out in lapis <br />
and onyx at its center. Twenty chairs surround it, each softened by an <br />
embroidered cushion that's just a little too stiff for complete comfort --<br />
meetings need to be kept short, after all -- with the chair at the table's<br />
head, facing the ledge, being somewhat larger than the rest. <br />
<br />
Interspersed between glowsconces upon the smooth walls, ancient tapestries<br />
depict the territories High Reaches protects in a particularly pastoral <br />
fashion, all fluffy clouds and fluffier llamas, or else fishing crafts <br />
sailing merrily out to sea. Among them is also a natural alcove, its <br />
several wooden shelves primarily stocking fine wines and liquors as well <br />
as the glasses to serve them, though the lower shelves also hold whatever <br />
hidework requires particularly frequent attention. <br />
<br />
A narrow wooden door leads to the Records room, while the tunnel that <br />
extends to the weyrleaders' ledge is wide enough for three men to walk <br />
abreast, with just enough kink in it to block the wind. <br />
+views available <br />
<br />
<br />
-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------<br />
Irianke F 37 5'7" slender, dark curly hair, stone blue eyes 0s <br />
Z'kiel M 20 6'3" lean, black hair, green eyes 1m<br />
----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------<br />
Records Room Weyrleader Complex <br />
>-----------------------------------------< 7D 13M 37T I10, winter night >---<<br />
|log=It starts as such things often do, with Ahtzudaeth's thoughts uncurling like pipe smoke. It's a gentle probe, a peripheral swirling at the fringes of Niahvth's thought that congeals in a good-natured, << I hope this day finds you and yours well, my queen. Z'kiel is on his way to speak with yours. >> And, sure enough, the riding leather-clad weyrling arrives in short order. He removes the helmet when he's just inside, exposing his freshly re-shaved scalp. For now, he just seeks one thing - and announces himself, after a fashion, with an intoned, "Weyrwoman," that serves as greeting.<br />
<br />
Given forewarning, if not by much, Irianke has not set her pen down. Nor has she looked up, though she must be aware of his arrival, particularly after his greeting. She finishes writing out her thoughts, whatever they might be, considers them with level gray-blue eyes, then breathes audibly. It'll have to do. Then, and only then does she look up with a smile and a wry, "Did I miss your salute while writing?"<br />
<br />
That salute? It does follow - but only when she looks up. "No," is a statement of fact. "But it seems-" and, here, there's a moment of glossy-eyed draconic communion that resolves quickly into: "-inefficient to hold a salute when you're occupied, Weyrwoman." Z'kiel holds the salute for a solid three-beat before lowering his hand. "I was asked to speak with you." His chin lifts slightly to indicate the paperwork. "If you are busy, I can return another time."<br />
<br />
Irianke's facade warms up visibly at his response, and she even laughs a little gesturing to a seat and putting her paperwork away. "I am always busy, Z'kiel. It seems I have bitten off quite more than what I can easily chew. But sit, I need to nibble on my lunch a little bit else the cooks will yell that I'm not taking care of myself again. Sandwich?" Cause that's apparently what's on the untouched tray by her elbow: sandwiches and cold tea.<br />
<br />
The offer of a sandwich is met with a slight shake of his head. "No, thank you. I've had my fill of sandwiches for the day." The utterance is deadpan, Z'kiel's expression seemingly locked into a state of neutrality. That mask twists just a little at the request to sit; which he does do, but with just enough hesitation to register as reluctance. His helmet resides in his lap for now, gloved hands resting on it to either side. "I was asked to talk to you about fitting in here. At this Weyr." His mouth distorts slightly, twisting to one side. "Becoming a part of it," is clarification that follows another flicker into the bond of rider and dragon.<br />
<br />
Irianke stares at Z'kiel for a moment too long, then bursts into laughter. A hand climbs to press into the side of her temple and she ducks her head down to look at her lap, if her eyes were open. "Oh, oh, I'm not laughing at you, I promise," says the goldrider through a laugh that subsides. "I... I mean. If you find out the secret, I'd love to know as well. Who advised you to do so?"<br />
<br />
He weathers the storm of that laughter with mute stoicism and a slow blink. It's only once the worst has past and she's spoken that Z'kiel intones, "Even if you were, Weyrwoman, I would have no choice but to listen to it." A beat. Then: "Odds are, I deserve it." He sucks his teeth thoughtfully at the rest of the response and then the question - and his answer, at first, is just a flat grunt. He follows it with, "Weyrlingmaster Quinlys. I asked her about the requirements for the silver thread program. She told me there were concerns about loyalty. She told me to talk to you. Similar situations." Because Igenites.<br />
<br />
"Because we're both from Igen Weyr." Irianke concludes, aloud. "I see. In your case, however, your loyalties were brought into question due to your continued desire to return to your home. Can you see how that would be a conflicting desire with showing that you've accepted High Reaches Weyr as a place you call home and would live and die for if Thread were falling?"<br />
<br />
"No one asked why I did it," Z'kiel replies evenly. "And I should have explained." There's a slight shift in his posture, one that finds him leaning forward just a little. "I needed something to send back to Igen. Something official. My family would not take my word for what it was," which rankles him somewhat; bitterness twists into those words before he snorts them away. "They expected that I would return. I had to give proof that I could not - and would not." There's a slight pause. Then: "I can see now that I made a mistake in not saying anything. I was frustrated by the situation. Desperate - but not in the way that they were."<br />
<br />
"Your failure is not realizing no one would ask and not understanding that people would expect this of you given the drama with regards to your Searching. Your family had official words. They don't need to take your word for it. Nimae would have let her Weyr know of the arrangements as well. How much more official could you get than a Weyrwoman's word that only those who Impressed to blue and greens would be asked to transfer? Do they similarly disregard rank and leadership?" Irianke's words are clear, paced, and warm, even if the content of them is not. Kindly, she even puts the sandwich she was nibbling on down for this, "Z'kiel, if you wish to integrate yourself at the Weyr, all you have left is time. Time for others to forget your origin story here, or that you spoke of going back to Igen should you Impress, or that you asked to go back to Igen should you Impress. Time. I'm sorry the Weyrlingmaster asked you to come here for that kind of advice. Time is all I have." And not much of it given the odds of who will rise next.<br />
<br />
"They tend to hear what they want to hear, Weyrwoman. And two sources was not enough." Z'kiel pushes to his feet and shifts the helmet to rest at his hip. "It doesn't matter now. I've no blood left at Igen and no desire to return. My fellow weyrlings seem to have long-forgotten the words I said before Ahtzudaeth found me. They've seen what I've done since. They know." And that's probably all that matters most, now. Matter-of-fact, all of it, while his gaze remains level on Irianke. There's a dull click of tongue against teeth, followed by a salute and: "Thank you, Weyrwoman. With your permission, I'll leave you with the rest of your time."<br />
<br />
"Good luck, Z'kiel. And if you do discover the secret to win friends and integrate quicker, please let me know. I could use a healthy dose of that myself," says the woman who runs it all for the moment. Irianke reaches up to pinch the bridge of her nose and just manages a smile. "I do have one question for you if...," the goldrider hesitates, closes her eyes, and then just presses forward, "If you have the time."<br />
<br />
A low, oddly musical hum-grunt follows. Z'kiel offers a shallow nod and a reassuring, "If the secret is one to be shared, I will, Weyrwoman." There might be more, but it's there and gone with the fleeting crease that claims his brow. He's in mid-pivot when the question comes; it's enough to stall him and angle a look back. Fortunately, he's either oblivious to the phrasing - or has the good sense to not react to it. A shoulder rises and falls in a lopsided shrug. "Ask."<br />
<br />
"Did you work in the stables at Igen? Did you," Irianke sets her lips down firm, considers her words, and then asks, "Know my son well?"<br />
<br />
''Hnnnh.'' "Lars, ayuh? Spoke to him a time or three in passing." Z'kiel sucks his teeth thoughtfully, features tightening just a little with the recollection. "Couldn't say I know him well, but I know him. Good kid. Friendly. Saw to Dervish when I couldn't. Seemed to do a good job." Shoulders rise and fall. "Didn't spend too much time in the stables, though." Apologetic.<br />
<br />
"Of course." Irianke can't quite mask the disappointment in her professional voice, but tries nonetheless. "He is quite a bit younger than you. Thank you, for indulging my curiosity. Have a good day, Z'kiel."<br />
<br />
A salute is given, along with a shallow nod. "Of course, Weyrwoman. I may speak to him again if I go back to Igen. Have to figure out what to do with the beast. Clear skies." And, with that, he turns and takes his leave.<br />
|Categories=General Logs, The Igen Exchange Logs<br />
}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs:Delegate&diff=73017Logs:Delegate2015-06-06T14:17:29Z<p>Irianke: </p>
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<div>{{Log<br />
|who=Farideh, Irianke<br />
|what=Two goldriders enjoy drinks after a long day. There are surprises ''and'' prizes!<br />
|where=Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr<br />
|involves=High Reaches Weyr<br />
|day=26<br />
|month=12<br />
|turn=37<br />
|IP=Interval<br />
|IP2=10<br />
|gamedate=2015.06.04<br />
|quote="All that would make this better is if there were bacon piled on top."<br />
|weather=Snowing.<br />
|mentions=K'del, Nimae, Alieva, Jounine, Drex<br />
|type=Log<br />
|icons-new=Icon farideh thoughtful.png, Icon irianke side smile.jpg,<br />
|log=Outside the weather might be grim -- all gray and snowy -- but the Snowasis is, as usual, a pleasant hub of activity and voices. At the bar, chatting amiably with one of the bartenders, Farideh is waiting on an order, and when it comes, she excuses herself with a gay smile and what might be considered a flirtatious cant of her head. "There," she says merrily, setting down Irianke's drink on the table first, and then her own, before sliding into her side of the booth. It's a change from the usual straight-backed meetings in the council chamber, or the rounds of the lower caverns. "I don't ''know'' what this is, but he made it ''sound'' nice," as she takes a delicate sip, wide eyes on the woman across the table.<br />
<br />
Undoubtedly. Irianke's dubious eyes do not agree with the agreeable nod she grants Farideh's drink choice. She, herself, nurses her whisky like the woman she is. "It's been a long day, I know, but hopefully some of how the Weyr lower caverns works makes sense now." A server brings by a plate of deep fried potato sticks, french fries, with bubbling, molten lava cheese melted on top.<br />
<br />
"It's ''starting'' to." Farideh doesn't have the same uncertainty about her drink choice that Irianke does, and happily sips between sentences. "It's-- ''a lot'' to learn, and it's ''different'', but I see the similarities to--" She wrinkles her nose at the comparison she's making, with a wry roll of her eyes ceiling-ward. "Running a Hold. Some. Not as fun-- a lot more work." Those potato sticks come by at about the same time the weyrling's stomach gives off a noisy growl.<br />
<br />
Irianke reaches for one and immediately drops it, her fingers coming to her mouth to suck/cool off. "They're hot," she says in unnecessary warning. Good thing she has a drink. "No, probably not unlike running a Hold. Does it bother you you've run from that life only to find yourself with that life again? However different?"<br />
<br />
"Hot," is half a sigh, paired with a longing expression for those ''fries''. It's less clear what her feelings are following Irianke's questioning, though the apples of her cheek go rosy. "In the beginning, it did. I love Roszadyth and I wouldn't ever trade her for the world, but-- it's not what I ''wanted''." Farideh seems to understand the futileness of that statement, and blushes a little redder for her naivete. "I've been running from something that-- I guess, I was supposed to do, regardless of what ''I'' wanted. One way or the other. At least, I don't have to be married to some old, wrinkly holder too."<br />
<br />
"There's immense responsibility, but also immense freedom," remarks Irianke, finally reaching again for a fry, and though it's ''still'' hot, she gingerly wiggles it out from beneath the mass of melted cheese. "All that would make this better is if there were bacon piled on top." French fries are a happy place no matter the planet. "It took me a while to correlate the two and figure out how best to exercise my freedoms while still performing. Luckily," the goldrider says between breathy bites of that hot fry, "You'll have a turn and change to figure it out before one of us becomes Weyrwoman."<br />
<br />
"I don't think I've gotten to the ''freedom'' part yet," Farideh says, picking a piece of the melted cheese off the top of the fry pile. "The worst part is being stuck, here, in the barracks, in the-- lower caverns. We can fly now, but not far, not until we can ''between'', but even then-- " Her eyebrows pull together, her mouth forming a moue as she pulls out one of the still-hot potato sticks. "''You''," is a correction, with a level gaze, "when ''you'' become Weyrwoman." No doubt, no hesitation -- her mind is set.<br />
<br />
Irianke shakes her head at the correction, rejecting the absoluteness of Farideh's tone with a sharp shake of her head. But then, she doesn't address it further than that, moving on with, "You'll have weyrs soon and some more freedom and then you'll graduate and we'll work together. Have you thought of what you'd like to do as a weyrwoman when you graduate?" The drink continues to be nursed, while the fries are munched on at an alarming rate, the older woman favoring the potatoes more than the cheese itself.<br />
<br />
"What I'd like to-- do? I-- do I have a ''choice''?" Farideh looks genuinely bemused by the turn in conversation, though she, also, doesn't have any more remarks on the subject of the impending Weyrwomanhood one of them will face. "It wouldn't be an option to just dance my days away? Drink champagne all day? No?"<br />
<br />
The huskiness of Irianke's voice finds outlet in the laugh that bubbles at Farideh's words. "Oh, if that were the case, I'd be the first to sign up for it. No. You can do what I did as a junior, have strict working hours and then drink champagne and dance all night for all I care, as long as you are awwake in time for work the next morning." Her mellifluous voice continues, the accent of Igen's deserts minutely heavier now that she's halfway done with her drink, "No, I meant, would you rather work within the Weyr itself, or in outreach with the Holds or even crafts. Do you want to work with the Headwoman predominately or running interference with the wings and riders therein? While K'del," here, there's a subtle look that steals to find Farideh's face, "Manages the fighting and training aspects of the wing, I happen to believe the people of the wings are our responsibility."<br />
<br />
Farideh doesn't look surprised by the reminder of her duties, even if there's a certain disappointment that flashes in her hazel eyes. "You don't have a preference?" She looks to Irianke for instruction, and manages ''not'' to make a face at K'del's name, even with she's quick to shake her head at the suggestion. "I still--" Brief hesitation stops her. "I'm still learning. I'm the most comfortable with Headwoman's work, and I haven't-- though I can't imagine I wouldn't-- the Holds. It's the other side, but it's ''familiar''." Still, she waits for the other goldrider's opinion, for her input on what she's revealed so far.<br />
<br />
"We'll play it by ear for a while, until you figure out where you feel most comfortable." The demeanor Irianke adopts with this is far more relaxed than her patronage by Nimae would suggest. "In the mean time, I would appreciate it if you could take over parts of organizing our Turnover party. Whether it's a party or a more intimate affair, I'll leave it to you. Excuse me," a server passes by and the goldrider lifts her glass and gestures to Farideh, "We'll have one more each and some napkins? Thank you."<br />
<br />
An acquiescing nod answers Irianke's words, a seriousness to her expression not there before, but it transforms quickly into the beginnings of excitement. "Turnover? You'd-- you want me to--" Farideh can barely control the enthusiasm in her voice; it shows in the smile that nearly splits her face with its fervor. "I can do that. It will be-- oh, yes. Please." She sits back, slanting a blank glance to the passing server, and only when they've left, does she return her gaze to Irianke. "Do you have any requirements?"<br />
<br />
"Just don't bleed our coffers or our stores dry. The Headwoman already knows to go to you with discussions on the matter and I believe she's assigned Alieva to be your lower caverns point person to delegate to. And," Irianke starts, humor in her voice though her eyes carry seriousness, "Let's try to keep this shindig drama," and murder, "Free." Beat. "Excited?" The tonal quality of Irianke's voice shifts from semi-business to hopeful and a little bit delighted at the younger woman's reaction.<br />
<br />
"No. ''No''. We'll need a budget and--" Farideh hasn't got her hands up, to tick things off on her fingers, but it's obvious she's doing some type of calculation in her head. "Only a ''month''," sounds a little dismayed, but she's back with the excitement in the next breath, laughing even as she speaks. "Last year's turnover was-- nothing exciting. I think one of the laundresses sprained her ankle and there was a masquerade." She sets on elbows on the table, features going dreamy. "It will be ''better'', it will be-- Roszadyth's first Turnover, your first Turnover ''here''. It will be memorable." Needless to ''say'', excited.<br />
<br />
While Farideh calculates, Irianke watches, that, in spite of her outward delight at the younger woman's excitedness, is a calculating look. The smile remains ever present, slightly inebriated, though not overly so since well, she is a ranking member of the Weyr here. "I'm glad you're taking to this. It'll be nice to have something to celebrate at Fort's hatching and the last turn here. I did think of one caveat. Try to make sure I don't clash with anything in this silver confection I've commissioned of the weavers." She could be teasing.<br />
<br />
"Oh," Farideh replies, looking fleetingly distressed. "That was-- horrible. We talked about that when we were candidates, whether or not dragons went ''between'' if they didn't find-- someone, but we thought that they-- always would, find someone, ''anyone'', who worked, if not ''the one''. It--" She spreads her hands, then tucks her in her lap, her mouth pinched. "I'll ''try''. It's High Reaches blue, anyway, and silver ''always'' goes with blue," so says Farideh, the fashion police.<br />
<br />
Noting the distress and seeing it's shortlivedness, Irianke glosses over the tragedy with another sip of her refreshed drink. "I still have to ask K'del to escort me to the other Turnover events. We will be in and out for the evening. It would be a good time to show our face at other Weyrs and at our Holds so they know the situation at High Reaches is stable. I promise," the goldrider adds, a smile hovering about her mouth, "We'll be here for a large majority of the evening."<br />
<br />
"Ah-- ah." Farideh hardly masks her disappointment, but is placated by the assurances. "You're right. You'll want to put in appearances and-- say your hellos." She traces the sweat droplets on the base of her glass, otherwise seemingly uninterested in drinking her second round. "Isn't it ''odd'' that this turn we'll be spending Turnover, here, and not Igen? I've done it, but now we're ''both'' here and it's-- everything's different, now. And not that different." She gives her head a little shake. ""'Sometimes'' I wake up and it feels like a dream, still. That everything was. Roszadyth was, High Reaches, you, here."<br />
<br />
"Everything...," Irianke starts, her voice trailing off and then breathes audibly. "Everything is different this turn and different does not mean bad. I daresay, even Quinlys might like having me around by Turnover next turn. Do you think that's more likely than pig's flying?" Her tease is light and with that, she finishes off her refresher. "Farideh, don't forget to delegate. I'd like you to enjoy the evening with any ''special'' friends you may have."<br />
<br />
"Are you two getting on better?" is Farideh's amused answer. "I know she can be ''forward'' and ''opinionated'', but--" She leaves it there, picking, instead, at the leftover fries that are surely going cold by now. "Delegate? I--" Her blush returns, her eyes averting. "Why? I'm sure he can wait. It's not ''every'' day that I get to plan Turnover for the whole Weyr, or that anyone even ''trusts'' me to do something the monumental. He'll understand."<br />
<br />
"It's not every day you'll get to enjoy something of extravagance you've planned as well. Promise to delegate parts of the evening and utilize Alieva as best as you can." Irianke advises, though the glint in her eye is too knowing of just what might happen in a month. "Happy Turnday, Farideh. Enjoy your weyr." She doesn't even say goodbye when she rises, except to wrap her knuckles against the table. This is her parting, all with a sparkle in her blue-gray eyes.<br />
<br />
"I promise to utilize Alieva," Farideh repeats, dutifully, intoned like a mantra. "Th-- what?" She lifts a hand into the air, where it stays in mid-gesture, and her mouth hangs open, just before she abruptly snaps it shut. "''Weyr''?" She certainly was expecting it, but perhaps not this soon, not on her turnday, not-- "Oh, shells," her fingers pressing into her lips. Silently, she watches the other goldrider rise, too caught up in her own shock to offer any words of farewell of her own.<br />
|Categories=General Logs<br />
}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs:Possibilities&diff=73016Logs:Possibilities2015-06-06T14:15:21Z<p>Irianke: Created page with "{{Log |who=Irianke, Keysi |what=After a Silver Thread dance class, Irianke makes Keysi stay and chat frankly. |where=Weyrling Training Cavern, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High..."</p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log<br />
|who=Irianke, Keysi<br />
|what=After a Silver Thread dance class, Irianke makes Keysi stay and chat frankly.<br />
|where=Weyrling Training Cavern, High Reaches Weyr<br />
|involves=High Reaches Weyr<br />
|day=1<br />
|month=13<br />
|turn=37<br />
|IP=Interval<br />
|IP2=10<br />
|gamedate=2015.06.05<br />
|mentions=Azaylia, Nimae<br />
|type=Log<br />
|icons-new=Icon irianke.jpg, Icon Keysi.jpg,<br />
|desc=>---< Weyrling Training Cavern, High Reaches Weyr(#392RJLs) >----------------<<br />
<br />
All the furniture here has been pushed to one side of the room to allow a <br />
large pathway opposite: room enough to let weyrling dragons pass from the <br />
bowl's archway to the cavernous barracks at the back. None of the <br />
furniture matches, either: it varies from big cushioned, claw-footed <br />
chairs to those of plain wood, while the most seating is at the two stone <br />
tables ringed by low and equally hard stone benches. Without the <br />
tapestries that decorate many of the Weyr's other interior spaces, the <br />
room always echoes with noise, no matter how few are there. <br />
<br />
What it does have, however, are several colorful murals: on one wall, a <br />
detailed diagram of a dragon's anatomy; opposite, next to a creaky wooden <br />
door, a number of painted and labeled wing formations. Near the entrance <br />
is a large-scale version of the Weyr's badge, while the back wall, by the <br />
barracks, features a detailed map of the continent. The latter area's also<br />
home to one big, beat-up couch, black or maybe blue -- the thing's so old <br />
and filthy it's hard to tell, though it's certainly comfortable. <br />
<br />
+views available <br />
<br />
-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------<br />
Irianke F 37 5'7" slender, dark curly hair, stone blue eyes 0s<br />
Keysi F 17 5'7" athletic, brown hair, grey eyes 4m<br />
----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------<br />
Barracks Office Bowl <br />
>-----------------------------------------< 1D 13M 37T I10, winter night >---<<br />
|log=This week's dance class is about to wind down, except the instructor, Irianke, who is paired with Keysi this week, calls for one more round of some sort of Nabolese square dance. She played the male to the brownrider's female up until now, but quickly uttered low words of, "Your turn to lead, darling," has her also shifting sides and positioning her hands and arms differently.<br />
<br />
Keysi is one who puts nothing but the most effort in every class, though she also isn't one to speak up frequently, to ask out-of-the-box questions or argue with those opinions she always seems to have. That comes after class, usually as a one-on-one. But lately, she's not even done that. Not since Fort's Hatching. She's quieter, less apt to answer questions or come up with plans. Especially in dance class. The one class that entirely doesn't suit her, the one where none of her skills really give her any bonus and she's left with stepping on her partner's feet a few too many times. The weyrling brownrider has a very controlled expression, a very focused expression. She'd really rather not step on the foot of the weyrwoman that she so long ago helped her heal. Talk about going back to square one. "I don't think I.." She says, impatiently with herself more than anything. "I don't think I'll ever get this." Stubborn, frustrated, but controlled.<br />
<br />
"You don't have to get it perfectly," says Irianke, cajoling turn to her accented voice. "Just know the basics to be able to represent the Weyr passably should you attain rank. Here, relax." But given the number of weeks they've been at this thus far, it's just something nice to say. At the very least, the goldrider is an experienced enough dancer to lead without actually being the lead and is light enough of step to dodge any misstep. The harper who has been hired to play music throughout this class starts the mid-tempo song again and the pairs whirl through the square dance.<br />
<br />
Perhaps not exactly in time, and clunky at best, the steps at least ''happen.'' Keysi can't rightly say no, especially given the reason they have to do this in the first place. Oh what she wouldn't give for more drill maps to copy in place of this! Her grey eyes are turned down, staring at their feet and not her goldriding partner. "Do you actually enjoy this?" Is asked, muffled because of her downturned face, weak because of her flustered ineptitude.<br />
<br />
Irianke releases Keysi and claps about the, hopefully, still brownrider when the question is asked, so she doesnt answer until her hands have reached for and caught the other woman's once more. "I do. This is, as you young folk call it, in my particular wheel house. This, I can do in my sleep. Anything else I have to stay up all night studying for to try and comprehend even a little." The confession of what she ''can't'' do is said with an gentle wryness. And then it is over, four minutes long, for some too short, for others, just too damn long.<br />
<br />
Keysi takes a step back when the the tune ends, the release of ''finally'' being evident in those intense eyes that have a relief about them. A glance strays towards the harper to make sure he's putting down his instrument instead of preparing to strike up another tune. "You don't make it seem that way." It's a compliment, in her own way given her dry, nonfluctuating tones. "I guess I.." She pauses, thinking better of it, "Don't really see you that much outside of class." The admittence is thoughtful. "I find everything else easier. The maps, the drills. It makes sense." A shrug, barely noticable, tilts one shoulder and she hesitates as if she wants to say something. But her reservation stops her and she shakes her head. Neianth is present in the training cavern well out of the way of the dancing, watchful, edgy as he has been for the past sevendays or so since she'd gone.<br />
<br />
Niahvth is not physically present, but her mental touch passes by each of her progeny occasionally and when the dance class ends, she is there with Neianth, ''sitting'' patiently in the periphery of his watchful, edgy mind and waits in silence. No images. No words. She is just there. "I don't make it seem that way after turns of training and practice," says Irianke, a note of chiding in her tone. Her smile is warm upon Keysi and she moves just a few steps away to say some ending class notes and watches each of the weyrlings depart. A few sidesteps brings her right back to Keysi's side to resume their conversation. "Some day, you will find that one dance whose steps you can remember at the drop of a hat and dazzle some holder and whisk them off to the Weyr to be your candidate." Surely, she must be teasing.<br />
<br />
Neianth is aware of his dam's presence, but it's not wholly an abnormal thing. He's been aware of her checking in on all her clutch at night, often because he himself is up quite late and rises too early. Eventually, his ripples- that quiet reflective pool of his mind- reaches out to actively touch hers. Gentle waves unstilled by a single droplet, present and not entirely serene. Impatient for the class to end, sure, that's nothing new. But his protective nature perhaps is far more prominent than it was prior to Keysi being part of the Fort event. Keysi waits to hear the end of class mini-lecture, then turns as if ready to depart quickly enough. There are always so many things to do. But as the weyrwoman catches her again, her words stop her exit with a hint of surprise forced in her expression, "I uh.." She raises a hand to cough into a fist, "I don't think I'll be dazzling anyone with those steps, but I at least don't intend to embarrass the Weyr at the next Gather." Is all she can give.<br />
<br />
The hand that reaches out to stay Keysi's presence is not quite the same as the way Irianke held the brownrider's shoulder, waist, or hand throughout the dancing. This is a firmer grip, an unyielding one, even if it is gentle and allows for movement. It reaches for the brownrider's elbow and gray-blue eyes that suddenly look more fluidly liquid than stone, turn up to catch the younger woman's eyes. "How ''are'' you today, Keysi?"<br />
<br />
Grey eyes slip over to Neianth and then back to Irianke as she's caught from leaving with a hand. "I am fine, of course, weyrwoman." Formality, her natural safety rope. She says it carefully, but fluidly. Believably. "Is there something the matter? Are you well?" A beat, a considering look with her intense gaze, "I've been out of practice in healing for a few months, but if you needed something..."<br />
<br />
The frank nature Irianke is known for breaks past her concern in a warm, if curt, request, "Shall we dispense with the formalities, weyrling?" The switch from ''Keysi'' to ''weyrling'' when asking to be at ease is likely a deliberately irony.<br />
<br />
Keysi's intensity narrows her eyes, thin lines furrowing her brow as she considers exactly why she's being caught up. She wasn't that bad a dancer. Nor had she failed her duties thus far. "..Excuse me, ma'am?" It's certainly hard for her to drop formalities, but she's squared up with Irianke at this point, her glance sliding away briefly to see if any of her fellow weyrlings linger to eavesdrop on them.<br />
<br />
"There's fine and then there's ''fine'', neither of which you qualify for." Irianke's hand remains at that elbow, looser now, though her fingers still rest there. She has, at the very least, waited until everyone including that bronze who always lingers during silver thread classes, have departed before shedding the superficiality. "A mark of a good leader is not only those who can memorize maps and understand drills well. It's when they realize they need help and ask for it from those who might be able to offer answers or at the very least, a stronger shoulder to lean on. And while my shoulder doesn't ''appear'' that strong, I can assure you, it's another skill I've cultivated over the turns." The goldrider pauses just a fraction of a second and reaches forward to envelop the brownrider in a hug, real, big, encompassing hug.<br />
<br />
Keysi remains very still, rigid almost as she waits. She hears the words spoken, and for once listens. So rarely is it that she of all the weyrlings gets taken aside. And that stillness, as she somewhat struggles to take in the fact that Irianke is trying to be thoughtful, kind, supportive to ''her'', is suddenly wrapped up in a hug. A hug! Keysi doesn't get or give those, and she becomes defensive, perhaps even a tad fearful to be swept up in in. Enveloped as she is, her hands hesitate and then sort of return the affection. Sort of. Affectionate is not one of her personal adjectives. "I didn't think I needed help." The words are quiet, defeated by the contact more than the goldrider's words themselves. "But I question myself." Admitting such is a struggle, but the effort to continue to fight this interaction would be wasted, "If I'd been in charge here and made the same decisions as Fort did. They lost one. It could have been my fault." It takes awhile for her to spit it out, but confident that none others linger, it's allowed.<br />
<br />
Irianke does not relinquish the hug, even after Keysi speaks. She just hugs. That's another of her skills. But finally, she does ask, "And what decision would that have been?" Only then does she release the weyrling and look at her, with her hands braced about the woman's upper arms.<br />
<br />
Keysi never fully dissolves into the hug. The tension lingers with the unfamiliar gesture. It's certainly not in spite of Irianke herself, just.. She hesitates- did she say too much? "I know I'm not in any position to make any decisions." She clarifies, as if that will be the end of her divulging secrets. But, as Irianke continues to hold her arms, continuing an embrace, she's kept off her guard. "During the agreement with Igen," There's potentially guilt there, considering who she's talking to, but she works at keeping the neutrality of her expression a solid one, "I thought it would have been better to only Search from High Reaches. I thought it would be better, even if that meant they'd be sent away. And that's what Fort did, and their consequence.... wasn't small."<br />
<br />
"There's a difference between Searching within High Reaches' coverage area and what Fort Weyr did. And as yet, I do not comprehend why Fort did not Search Boll or Ruatha, though have inklings as to why Fort Hold was left alone." Irianke's hands flex in little hand hugs, reassuring little squeezes as she paces out her thoughts and words, debating what she wants to say with what she ''should''. "Weyrs only Search within their coverage area anyway, except in rare outlying circumstances. What was put explicitly in writing was due to the delicate nature of the deal made between Azaylia and Nimae, that there would be the assumption that Igen, due to transferring an Igen gold, would be obligated to offer candidates as well. Does this make sense?"<br />
<br />
"It makes sense. I spoke with K'del about it sometime after hearing bits and pieces of it. But-" Keysi had never spoken to the transferred weyrwoman on the topic, and probably should have. Her grey gaze narrows, and falls away, considering. "Our candidate class was still so small. Weren't you worried about one of ours not finding someone? We spoke about it- a group of us in the barracks- days before the Hatching."<br />
<br />
"Our candidate class was small because the Weyrlingmaster took it upon herself to convince people not to ride Search and convince people not to accept Search," says Irianke simply. Though there's no blame in her tone, its inevitable with the subject that, in her mind at least, cause and effect was with Quinlys. "And yes, it is always a concern." The hands finally drop from Keysi's arms to fall to her side. A low exhale draws Irianke's gaze to the ceilings and then around the room to the archway that leads to the barracks. "It is always a concern whether there are just enough candidates or five times as many. There are no guarantees even based on sheer numbers."<br />
<br />
"I was under the belief that it couldn't happen after I brought it up and the other's so quickly dismissed it. Surely there'd be ''someone''." And an inflection hints at her tone as she stresses the word, gives away that she actually has stronger feelings for this than she even to this point had given into. "Surely if not on the sands, then in the galleries. I'd not lived at a Weyr before this. I thought I was mistaken, I thought the stories I'd heard from Harpers were wrong. And then this. Neianth and I.. we won't lose anyone." The comment is made with a laden degree of responsibility set upon herself, "But that.. I feel like it's unpreventable. There was nothing they could-" She trails off, hinting at all the efforts Lilah had made to usher people onto the sands at the time.<br />
<br />
Irianke's chin drops, a silent ''moment'' for Fort in her silence. Then, "People think the more candidates, the more likely it will be the dragons will find their partner. And it could just be a numbers game," concedes the weyrwoman. "The likelihood of getting enough different personalities and ways of thinking onto the sands makes it unlikely any one dragon is left. People tend to favor optimism." The way she says it implies she is not one of them, though, the resignation in her voice also negates the direct opposite, that she is a Negative Nancy. "If you're interested in these matters, I would suggest speaking to Leova about extra dragonhealing lessons and possibly shifting your focus from people healing towards understanding dragonkind better so we might understand how to prevent this with more guarantee in the future."<br />
<br />
"It makes sense, that. I mean, it's not as though anyone could have enough insight to pick out the right person to each egg. Nobody knows what that personality will be like." The idealist that she is does not exactly correlate with optimism all the time, and she hedges that part of the weyrwoman's words with a beat of silence and then carrying on with the concept of dragonhealing. There's the slightest of flicker of confusion before Keysi steadies her resolve, "I intend to learn some, but I can't see myself focusing so heavily on theories and thoughts. Neianth's acrobatics are already showing- I feel we would be better to use them to protect people, help people. We could be more useful in other places," Her hand raises slightly as if to indicate around the Weyr. "But if there's anything I can do.."<br />
<br />
"It was but a suggestion. A possibility for you to follow since you seem driven to make sure it never happens again." Irianke steps back, further from the weyrling and fashions a rueful not quite smile. "Keysi, one of the larger joys of my job is taking care of the Weyr's inhabitants. It certainly far outpaces my love of counting spoons in the storerooms." That is quite dry. "I am lucky to have a dragon that takes this part of our job as seriously as I do and it's through her forethought that I knew." She knew to come here. To talk to Keysi. To broach the subject somehow. "Next time, please consider coming to me directly if you have concerns or are confused."<br />
<br />
"I don't wish to bother you with.." Keysi starts, but thinks better of it. That was the whole point of this interaction. "I understand what you mean about being a leader, needing to know when to ask for help. But there's also the whole other aspect of being strong for others. Everyone was so outwardly upset," And she doesn't say it as if to knock down the importance of it, but as acknowledgement of the feelings, "I couldn't be." The steeled girl looks away, back at her dragon whose patience is a thin thing, but whose remained uninvasive as if learning something for himself. Wise he may be, but he's still a young one. There's still much to learn. "There's a lot of room for mistakes. You have that weight on you everyday. K'del does too. The stress of your decisions, I imagine give you many sleepless nights?" For some reason, this seems to be more of her real concern than the residual effects of the inciting events.<br />
<br />
"I have good people surrounding me now," replies Irianke to Keysi's concern, amusement bright in her warm eyes. "My sleepless nights are due to other reasons." The smile deepens and she glances at the barracks and then the exit on the other side. "I have people to go to when being strong in front of others is fraying my public persona. I promise. Get some rest, weyrling." It seems ''at ease'' is over now.<br />
<br />
Keysi sighs, scratching the back of her neck. "I'll keep that in mind." What part of that which she intends to keep goes unsaid, but it's not said lightly. There's enough to think about, especially after such an unexpected moment of support. She starts to turn, but hesitates with her shoulder partially turned, "Thank you, Irianke." It's a hard thing to get out, if for no other reason than trying to stray from formality to be more personable, and grateful.<br />
<br />
Irianke gives Keysi a small salute and turns to exit, even her walking gait floaty and dance-like. Some people were just born to dance.<br />
|Categories=General Logs, A Green Betweened<br />
}}</div>Iriankehttps://norconwiki.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Logs:Elaruth_and_Bijedth%27s_Sixth_Hatching&diff=72968Logs:Elaruth and Bijedth's Sixth Hatching2015-06-04T06:43:35Z<p>Irianke: </p>
<hr />
<div>{{Log<br />
|who=Hattie, Kaelige, Quinlys, Lilah, R'hin, Keysi, N'rov, C'stian, Lilah{{!}}Hasendar, Dee, Farideh, Paislie<br />
|what=Elaruth and Bijedth's sixth clutch hatches at Fort Weyr.<br />
|where=Hatching Cavern, Fort Weyr<br />
|involves=Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr<br />
|day=11<br />
|month=12<br />
|turn=37<br />
|IP=Interval<br />
|IP2=10<br />
|gamedate=2015.05.31<br />
|quote="Just think of all the new pairs until then. Yes there's loss, but many new pairs, alive."<br />
|type=Log<br />
|ooc=If I missed anything, feel free to add!<br />
|icons-new=Icon Hattie Worried.png, Icon Hattie Elaruth Origami.png, Icon Kaelige hood shadow.jpg, Icon quinlys serious.jpg, Icon lilah darkness.png, Icon r'hin.jpg, Icon Keysi.jpg, Icon n'rov.png, Icon dee feelz.jpg, Icon farideh horrified.png, Icon farideh roszadyth.png, Icon paislie.png,<br />
|desc=>---< Galleries, Fort Weyr(#745RIJMas$) >------------------------------------<<br />
<br />
The entrance to the Sands and Galleries alike is little more than an <br />
archway and a section of flat stone that curves into a broad pathway in <br />
front of the Galleries that are carved into the right-hand side of the <br />
Hatching Cavern. This pathway is set with three flights of stairs that <br />
lead all the way up to the upper tiers of the Galleries; one set near the <br />
entrance of the cavern, one set at the northernmost end, and one set <br />
between both. Beyond the pathway, that flat stone dissolves into the Sands<br />
proper, a golden expanse that sits before the large, odd engraving that <br />
lines the far wall -- an etching that details the rotation of the Red <br />
Star. <br />
<br />
The Galleries themselves are rows of flat seats carved from the stone wall<br />
and stacked backward to allow observers the best view possible of the <br />
golden sands. Those at the bottom are protected from wayward dragonets by <br />
a railing, while dignitaries from outside the Weyr -- Lord Holders, other <br />
Weyrleaders, Craftmasters and their ilk -- have a specially designated <br />
spectator's box at the topmost row. <br />
<br />
>------------------------< 11D 12M 37T I10, autumn afternoon<br />
|log=From the sands, It's a beautiful, clear autumn morning when the humming begins to emanate from the hatching cavern, started by dam and sire and picked up by others in the dragon population as the sound weaves its way from individual to individual until the very stones of the Weyr seem to reverberate with it. On the Sands, Elaruth is settled only a short way from her clutch, as far as she's willing to go for the moment, her blue-eyed focus flitting from egg to egg as they each show signs of movement. At her shoulder, the Weyrwoman stands tucked close, the autumnal shades of her dress reflecting the clutch and deeper shades found in her lifemate's hide. Those in the galleries are only acknowledged with the barest of glances, her attention all for queen and eggs.<br />
<br />
From the sands, White robe, tuber sack, the lack of detail somehow extremely comforting to Kaelige. Though, not quite his color. He'd be happier if he was soot-covered. But, all the same, more important things are occurring. Somewhere in the middle of the line of candidates, the young man dissolves himself in the group. Unspecial, undetailed, as a candidate should be at being presented before rocking eggs and their golden mother. Without fail, he tips his head as his sandeled foot hits the Sands proper. His black-haired head, spikey and messy as always, a bed-head no matter the time of day feels naked without his hood. Although to on-lookers it must be nerves that has him constantly touching his head, scratching behind his neck and the like, it's more that he entirely misses his hood.<br />
<br />
From the sands, The Candidates are escorted onto the Sands by the Weyrlingmaster's staff, most of them looking nowhere near as scared as most groups: they have (mostly) been through this before, and have been raised around dragons (mostly). They each bow, in turn, to Bijedth and Elaruth, before making their way to their chosen spots on the Sands. They are grouped, as always, into little cliques of friends; rowdier than usual with a nudge here and a shove there and certain Candidates getting nearer to the eggs than would be advised.<br />
<br />
High Reaches' weyrlings aren't old enough to visit Fort on their own steam, but they're evidently old enough to travel with others; Quinlys leads a small group of of them, one of whom can't seem to keep from wiggling in excitement. The bluerider gives her wiggling charge a warning glance, then directs them on to find seats. Their prompt arrival suggests this was all planned; Quinlys, blue eyes focused more upon her weyrlings than the eggs on the sands, gives a short, sharp approving nod.<br />
<br />
From the sands, As the first of the clutch move closer to breaking shell, Elaruth lifts her attention from eggs and Candidates to seek out her mate, a low, pleased croon interrupting the thrum of her humming. She looks back to the eggs just in time, as larger cracks in shells threaten to reveal the colours of the dragonets contained within.<br />
<br />
The junior weyrwoman is still dressed in leathers, as if she's just come from drills, though even as she moves for one of those first rows, she is slipping from her riding jacket to reveal a rather femininely pink sleeveless tunic, soft enough to be some sort of form of 'dressed up' despite pants and boots. Eliyaveith, beginning to show a roundness to her belly, has settled on one of the lower ledges to hum a welcome to her new brothers and sisters, cuddled up next to her own mate.<br />
<br />
From the sands, From the middle of the clutch, a white-topped egg shatters and spills its bronze occupant onto the Sands. He falls nose over tail and has to scrabble to right himself, sand clinging to near every inch of him, which makes it difficult to gauge what shade he might be, but it does little to conceal that he's a lithe, lanky creature. Not so many moments after his shells cracks, another, smaller egg breaks down the middle and releases a dark, inky blue, who arches his neck back to look up at dam and sire before he heads off, still staring at them, and blunders into the legs of the one he chooses. With the 'example' set, the sandy bronze makes his way to find the boy he wants - a boy tinier than most of the girls.<br />
<br />
Another pair of riders with High Reaches colors arrives in the galleries -- or more accurately, rider-and-weyrling, R'hin casting a glance over his shoulder to make sure Keysi's not far behind, as he angles for a seat behind Quinlys. "Ahh, babysitting," he's commenting to the Reachian Weyrlingmaster with a grin as he settles in. "Remind me to bring a bottle of something over to your office later, mm?" There's a couple of seats left next to him, gaze darting to the sands, then back to Keysi.<br />
<br />
From the sands, Kaelige has no particular clique, though he isn't about to stand off and be singled out. He's close to that little boy for which the first hatched bronze Impresses, and his green-blue eyes- as shadey in character as they are light in color- study the pair carefully. His choice was poor, he's already lost the first of his selected shield-er, buddies. Quick observations, tallies, of what candidates are closer rather than farther are made. Where was Dee? Surely he could pick out that familiar face.<br />
<br />
It's a hatching; it could take a while, or hardly any time at all. Regardless, with Vhaeryth comfortable on a ledge (and eyeing the little dragons landing, lest they choose his tail for a landing place), N'rov's prepared: lounging on the edge of a raucous group of his friends, with beer on ice ''and'' a bowl of salty fried popped tasty treats that he refills now and again from a sack by his feet. He even shares, occasionally, as friend or stranger catches his eye. Only, "What, two, already?"<br />
<br />
C'stian is already seated in one of the first rows, an empty seat beside him. The bronzerider is clad in what probably passes for 'dressy' for him: a shirt of a slightly nicer material (and more presentable shade) than usual for work around the weyr, pants that look freshly pressed, and his good pair of boots. The Hematite wingsecond's attention is clearly on the sands, as he leans forward to watch the eggs with all due gravity. Still, Lilah's arrival can't go unnoticed, as he turns to offer her a nod in greeting.<br />
<br />
From the sands, From eggs at opposite ends of the clutch, two petite greens break their way free, then set off ''through'' the minefield of eggs and egg shards, to briefly meet in the middle and exchange a nose-bump of greeting before they move on. The darker, more robust of the two finds her girl near to the shards of her sister's egg, while the paler mewls upon finding none of those at the opposite end of the clutch suitable. And after all that walking, too! Needs must, and so on she goes.<br />
<br />
Quinlys, who is now delivering a warning glance to her wiggling, greenriding charge, huffs out a laugh beneath her breath in reply to R'hin. Turning to look at him, she rolls her eyes: "''Babysitting''. Mind you, maybe I should be the one providing the drinks, since you're helping ''me''." It's wiggle-girl who answers N'rov, straining taller to see: "''Two''. And one was a bronze, and I think that's good luck, isn't it? ''I'' always rather green, but--"<br />
<br />
Lilah's dark eyes meet C'stian's, it can be said, in the galleries. And it doesn't go unnoticed by a few riders where the goldrider doesn't move to join him, a sharp turn on a heel leading her further back before she slips into an empty seat without care for ''who'' she sits next to.<br />
<br />
Keysi is not far behind R'hin, something comforting about being on this side of the railing rather than standing on the Sands themselves has her lost in thought. And thus wordless at her entrance, she comes to seat herself blank-faced, level, regarding of the goings-on and little more. It's when Quinlys speaks that she realizes who R'hin was talking to at first. "Babysitting?" She remarks, grey eyes turning to the weyrlingmaster, "Surely I'm not so much trouble as to barter with who owes who drinks." It's rather in good humor it's stated at least, though hard to tell as always with her nonfluctuating voice.<br />
<br />
From the sands, "Didn't think he'd Impress," one Fortian weyrbrat remarks of the now ''bronzerider'' that is being escorted off the Sands, something dry in his tone as he speaks to Kaelige. Hasendar is much like any other weyrbred Candidate; he doesn't seem at all bothered by the chaos around them and the hatching eggs, his attention even turning from the greens to grin at Kaelige. (Who wants to be a greenrider, anyways.)<br />
<br />
"A bottle a piece should be just about sufficient," R'hin concludes at Quinlys' reply, laughing. At Keysi's words, he gives her a not-very scolding cluck of his tongue. "Life lesson, kid," he murmurs towards her, sotto voce, "Never look a good bottle of alcohol in the mouth. Even if ''you'' don't drink. It's valuable beyond measure."<br />
<br />
C'stian watches Lilah shift direction, shaking his head with an almost palpable air of exasperation. But that's a matter for another day, apparently; leaning forward, Hematite's wingsecond turns his focus back to the eggs below them.<br />
<br />
"Let me guess, you're a greenrider?" N'rov asks, quite as though the weyrling's knot weren't visible ''right there'', amused in an avuncular fashion; "Is this your group's first hatching as riders?" At least... weyrling riders. The byplay doesn't stop him from flicking a bit of popped rivergrain Lilah's direction, though the verbal comment from a couple seats down.<br />
<br />
From the sands, While that green is still snuffling along at the feet of a short row of Candidates, two more eggs crack and send their occupants unceremoniously to the sand. They're quick, the both of them, to pick themselves up and go and investigate the young folk waiting patiently (or not) for them. It's not so long before the sky-pale blue finds the boy he wants, closely followed by the slim brown, who chooses a girl from the kitchens as his own. And still their sister searches.<br />
<br />
From the sands, Given the spread of candidates offered up and being (mostly) from the Weyr, there are those who are full grown, and it's with these that Dee has blended. It's only when the small spread begins to shift wider to even out spaces left by those now bonded. She looks uneasy. Her hazel gaze shifts from one egg to the next, and then about the circle. Most of her attention is given over to the hatchlings as they shell: there lies the danger, only one part physical.<br />
<br />
"''That'' might about do it," answers Quinlys, wide smile broadening for R'hin and yes, even Keysi too. "Never get between a weyrlingmaster and her booze," she adds, sunnily, to the weyrling. "Mmm," answers the greenriding weyrling, giving N'rov a quick appraising glance, the kind that means she'd really rather ''not'' look away from the sands. "We've only just started flying together, so it's the first time we're ''allowed''. Oh-- another one!"<br />
<br />
Lilah twists in her seat to aim a look back towards the direction of thrown ''food''. Her gaze lights first on Quinlys, then R'hin-- and never quite gets around to actually spying the true cause before the goldrider is twisting back to watch the eggs there with pretend interest.<br />
<br />
From the sands, Elaruth watches the progress of that little green and shifts her weight like she'd gather herself and move towards her, yet her rider presses a firm hand to her shoulder and tells her to, "Give her time. Just a little more." The queen dips her head to deliver a gentle nudge to Hattie's shoulder: agreement, for the moment.<br />
<br />
From the sands, "I'm not one to bet." Kaelige chuckles darkly, his hand straying to his unfortunately unhooded head again to mess awkwardly with his messy hair. "Just bound for a bunch of disappointment." His smirk is broader than usual, perhaps betraying the actual nervousness of being out here, in the line of fire of freshly hatched teeth and claws. And betraying his lack of weyrbred nature. He watches the brown before he gives Hasendar any further consideration, and even then he's not fully distracted. "Dee." Without his black-grey garb, surely he looks different- maybe even normal, but he'd spotted the once-farmcrafter in her uneasy spot in the white robed crowd.<br />
<br />
"Congratulations," N'rov says easily, and kicks back without further comment; he even spares Lilah as well, for now. There's that wandering green, of course, to eye.<br />
<br />
From the sands, "What are you hoping to Impress, then?" toss Hasendar back to Kaelige, his own gaze going to that brown thoughtfully too, before he chooses someone else. "Wouldn't mind a brown." He starts to move forward, a little, towards the eggs. As if that will give him an advantage.<br />
<br />
From the sands, As that green continues to Search, Lilah's dark gaze from the galleries draws to it. A murmured word of excuse is offered to the person next to her, before the junior weyrwoman slips out of the row of seats and towards the back of the galleries. What she is doing becomes clear as she stops at any person of appropriate age to be Searched, entreating them politely, if somewhat sharply, to make their way down near the Sands. Some ignore her, though some do start moving closer.<br />
<br />
Keysi is one crack in her stiff facade away from rolling her eyes, but fortunately she controls herself just fine. "As long as I'm not paying." Is her eventual resolution on the subject, and a shake of her head to the point. She folds her arms over her lap, leaning forwards with her characteristic intensity, though it moves from the sands to Fort's junior weyrwoman. Curious, she follows Lilah's movements more so than the still-searching green hatchling.<br />
<br />
R'hin gives a firm nod of agreement at Quinlys' statement. "Truer words," he sing-songs, briefly, before pale gaze flickers to the sands, taking note of impressions, though none of the candidates are in any way familiar to him. Because he's glancing in that direction, he notes the flash of red hair, eyes flickering towards Lilah briefly as she's turning back, expression tightening a moment. "Not for ''now''," he assures Keysi. He, too, is watching the junior's movements with a tightening of jaw.<br />
<br />
From the sands, Dee's wasting anxiety on the younger candidate as she startles at the sound of her name the strong roundness of the starting consonant carrying, where the softer end might be lost and she jerks her gaze away from the searching green to find Kaelige. She shifts closer to the younger man; it is also, as it happens, ''closer'' to the searching green, but by no means ''close''. "Look," is what she says to the normally hooded candidate and gestures toward the galleries (which is also not the way she should be looking just now), meaning to draw his attention to the gradual movement of young bodies to the fore of the Stands.<br />
<br />
"Don't--" Quinlys stops herself from whatever it was she was about to say; given where she's looking-- towards R'hin and Keysi-- it's probably not difficult to assume it was in their direction. She falls silent, however, turning back to catch up: the movement of all those eyes, and those being gathered up by Lilah, is difficult to miss. Even the wiggling green weyrling beside her falls quiet and still, eyes going wider still. "Isn't she going to find someone?" Her words are plaintive.<br />
<br />
From the sands, One after the other, a trio of shells shatter, wings and tails and noses breaking through to reveal two greens and a blue, who eventually wriggle their way onto the Sands and go forth to seek out their riders. One of the greens is first, her girl found clinging to another, while the blue shortly follows and decides he wants the girl having the air hugged out of her. The Candidates blink first at their new lifemates, then at each other, and, in their delight and confusion, they're oblivious to the other new green choosing the gardener boy a few feet behind them.<br />
<br />
From the sands, Elaruth's hum has transformed to a low, uneven sound of discontent, and though she observes the choices that her other offspring make, she continues to keep her little daughter in the realm of her attention. At her side, Hattie is murmuring something under her breath, the rhythm and cadence of it repetitive and cyclical enough to be a mantra of some kind. Maybe she's not even aware of what she's saying.<br />
<br />
From the sands, Kaelige rolls a shoulder in what must be intended to be a shrug. Lanky, his limbs don't quite do what he thinks they do. "Just dump me in the boat with all the stereotypes." He says oddly, a chuckle to mark his words. Though that's not really an answer, he seems to think it is. "I mean to Impress whatever Impresses me. And you, a brown all ya want?" The question is off-handedly made, as if the answer does not really intrigue him in the least. When Dee comes closer and shifts his attention to the galleries, he's quick to notice exactly what she's pointing out. "They're worried." He says unnecessarily, his voice darker, more hushed than what he had been with Has.<br />
<br />
On the ledge, even Vhaeryth doesn't entirely track the sands; his rider's eyeing the wandering green, the weyrwoman who ushers, the kids who go or do not (there is no try?), those who watch them all. Slowly N'rov caps his beer, in case, though only after another pull.<br />
<br />
From the sands, "Brown or bronze," Hasengar replies, the worry of the Weyrwoman and her queen, of others, only drawing into his notice when someone else points it out. "What are they doing, they're not Candidates," is what he chooses to address, with a nod to the ones who've been sent down without robes on.<br />
<br />
From the sands, She must have investigated all of the Candidates twice now, yet still Elaruth and Bijedth's daughter has chosen none of them. Skirting the edges of the Sands, she begins to look up, eyes whirling faster in her desperation, into the galleries, and such blatant searching has some of the holdbred, particularly the boys, in the nearer rows of seating looking everywhere but ''at her'', just in-case. Hattie's lips curl and she forms a snarl, repulsed by their rejection, and she lifts her voice loud enough to be heard by most when she shouts, "Let her look!" Steady, for now. Newly-hatched, one of the green's brothers croons at her on his way past, and finds his chosen in plain sight of his anxious sibling, though both blue and Candidate-now-weyrling continue to watch her.<br />
<br />
High Reaches' newest goldrider has been here all along, if quietly so, looking at once weary and excited. Farideh is wedged between another weyrling and a slim brownrider, though she pays neither any mind, sitting as she is with her hands on her knees, leaning just a tad forward in anticipation. It's the green's wandering, the rejections by stand-bound Holdbred, that causes her mouth to pull into a frown and a series of lines to form between her eyebrows; next, she leans forward, to pass a questioning look to Quinlys.<br />
<br />
From the sands, "Don't you see her?" Dee's question comes out sharp to Hasengar, making a gesture toward the still searching green. There is concern in her brow that wasn't there before Elaruth's noise shifted, before the people in the Stands began to move. It's instinctive that she searches the crowd for Jemizen's face, and instinctive, too, that she, without looking, reaches for Kaelige's hand as she draws close enough to do so. It's easy to see a new kind of fear coming to her face. Whether she finds Jemizen or not, her eyes go to follow the green.<br />
<br />
From the sands, "You'd rather lose the green?" Kaelige raises a brow at Hasengar, unnervingly calm in his question yet surprising himself with that resolution. It must be the anxiety building around them, else he normally wouldn't care. As Dee reaches for his hand, his own instinct is to withdraw. But as if to make up for it in reconsideration, he steps behind her and reaches to place a hand on her shoulder. "Calm down. They're trying." Are the only words he can offer, in regards to all the riders pressing any potential candidates forward.<br />
<br />
Dragon> To High Reaches dragons, Olveraeth reaches for his charges, and for those who've accompanied their riders; his stars are twinkling, a little, but there's a sense of warning there, too. << Everything is fine, >> he promises. << Your riders are safe. >><br />
<br />
From the sands, Hasengar surely looks appropriately shamed by Dee's sharp question and then Kaelige's, he certainly does hang his head slightly. But he mumbles a defensive, "What, she'll Impress. They always do. ''I'' don't want to ride green."<br />
<br />
From the sands, With the concerned focus of many beginning to swing to the green who has yet to make Impression, the burly brown who wrests himself free of his egg finds his Candidate right when they're not watching. Claws rip into sandals as he settles himself on his new rider's feet, blood spilled, but he's easily and quickly forgiven. One of the Infirmary's aides offers assistance and starts to tear at her robe to bind her fellow Candidate's feet, yet she soon finds herself distracted by the well-proportioned green hatched from one of the last eggs of the clutch, when she decides that she's for her.<br />
<br />
Quinlys' front teeth rest upon her lower lip, biting down hard. That she's concerned is plain; that she attempts to smile when glancing back around at her charges is equally so... and the fact that her smile is not the true, sunny one it was before. "I don't--" she pauses. "''Fuck''. Just... find someone." ''That'', clearly, is for the still-wandering green.<br />
<br />
There are only so many appropriately aged, appropriately single and able people strewn among the galleries. It is Hattie's shout that draws Lilah from her now-fruitless search of her own, instead descending back towards the lowest tiers of the galleries, ignoring the visiting dignitaries that she stands in front of to grip the railing dividing the galleries from the sands.<br />
<br />
C'stian is leaning just a little further forward as he watches the little green searching. He's doing his best to look calm, perhaps for the sake of the weyrlings, but his hands are clenched where they rest in his lap. Hattie's shout, however, breaks his composure; the bronzerider, too, moves to stand at the railing now. As if by drawing closer, he can urge the little green to find someone. ''Anyone''.<br />
<br />
Leaning forward briefly, R'hin stretches fingers to briefly touch Quinlys' shoulder, a wordless reminder that he's there, perhaps a gesture of support. His gaze is not fixed on the wandering green, though it passes over her; instead his attention shifts from the sands, to the junior moving down to to the railing, to the nearby weyrlings. "They didn't search outside the Weyr," he says, in low voice.<br />
<br />
Dragon> Behind the stars, there's the faint sense of cold winds, familiar of High Reaches, the bronze's thoughts wordless and yet present in the starscape for a moment. (To High Reaches dragons from Leiventh)<br />
<br />
Dragon> The rippling of Neianth's freshwater pool is clearly not calm nor serene, though he's not ''upset,'' or at least that's not what he portrays. The choppy waves churn beneath Olveraeth's stars, not invasive but also not lacking in weighty command, << She is displeased. This was intended to be a pleasant occassion, was it not? >> (To High Reaches dragons from Neianth)<br />
<br />
Paislie is just another face in the stands, watching the hatching below, and the reactions of people seated before her, with an uncomfortable uncertainty making worried lines in her brow. Her hands are together, but not clasped, fidgeting with unconscious anxiety.<br />
<br />
Dragon> Roszadyth's presence comes into focus with a lack of brilliance, a subtle confusion, though her words are as sweetly and gently spoken as usual. << I cannot think of anyone they would be safer with, >> the little gold replies, bending to Olveraeth's superior reasonableness. << Perhaps there has been a misunderstanding. >> (To High Reaches dragons from Roszadyth)<br />
<br />
N'rov's not looking grim, yet, though there's something about the set of his jaw; as others rise, he dumps the bowl into the bag and fastens it up, movements brisk but designed not to add even an iota to the less-pleasant excitement. He sorts his jacket while he's at it, though it's hardly cold in here, and then he's as discreetly gauging the exit.<br />
<br />
From the sands, Dee's shoulders are tense and the one that Kaelige's hand lands on does not become less so with his touch. She doesn't seem bothered to not have caught his hand, though; with the way she's staring at the one green. She seems unaware of the brown and green that Impress next. If looks mattered, there are certainly enough sets of willing eyes on her to invite Impression. If. "Kael," is quiet, heavy.<br />
<br />
"But there's still all those in the galleries." Keysi responds to R'hin, even if the comment isn't to her. "They have Impressed from the galleries before. Surely there could be someone." But there's little actual pleasantry behind her words, as if she doesn't believe it herself. An old concern, this. One from their own Hatching. Grey eyes show no emotion as she looks on, from desperate hatchling to the goldrider and riders who try to find any possibility, any hope, she can have. Yet intermittently, she focuses beyond them in a rider's characteristic glaze.<br />
<br />
From the sands, A bronze from one of the larger eggs Impresses almost straight out of the shell, the green now not so far from the remnants of his egg. She crawls to a halt, too weary to continue, and now Hattie does nothing to hold Elaruth back. The pale queen moves for her daughter and lowers her nose to her to nuzzle at the creeling hatchling, her eyes a wash of nothing but the yellows and oranges of worry and agitation. She settles there, her forepaws to either side of the bereft green, whose cries begin to pitch higher and higher despite the attempted reassurance of her dam. It's no use. The voices of both Weyrwoman and senior queen ring out as the little green vanishes Between, Elaruth's heartbroken keen striking a clear, awful note that all but drowns out Hattie's, "No!"<br />
<br />
From the sands, "Always is a strong word." Kaelige returns, still unnmoved, though his smirk and all that smugness he carries has dissolved into a seriousness too old for his still-boyish face. If he hears Dee say his name, he doesn't show it. He can do little else but watch as the golden mother nuzzles the hatchling, who then departs them all without hardly a start at life. It's the awful sound of Elaruth's keening that makes him shut his eyes and dip his head. Beyond that, however, he has nothing else to share. Silence, shadows, he'd certainly prefer them to being part of this.<br />
<br />
From the sands, A moment, two passes by. There is little emotion on Lilah's face as the junior weyrwoman moves from the galleries and onto the Sands, boots providing protection against their heat. And as the Weyrleader is busy with his Weyrwoman, she addresses the Candidates left standing. "Thank you for Standing; we appreciate your willingness. You are welcome to stay and Stand for Eliyaveith's eggs as well, if you so wish," she addresses cleanly, making herself loud enough to be heard in the galleries. "For now, we have wine and food in the living cavern. Please join us if you wish." She offers no words about celebration, her hand lifted in dismissal for the remaining Candidates.<br />
<br />
"But not the one ''she'' wants..." R'hin's response to Keysi ends in a hiss, as the green stops moving, his eyes closing for a moment. His, "Fuck," is heartfelt and sharp. Above, on the ledges, Leiventh's thrum of welcome transmutes into the high pitched keen, joining the voices of Fort's denizens.<br />
<br />
Quinlys' shoulder is tense beneath R'hin's fingers, but there's a subtle shift in her, too; acknowledgement, perhaps. There would be more, but then, there-- the green is gone. Wordless for a moment, the bluerider's voice breaks when she does speak, as quiet as it is. "It could have been us. Fuck. No." As quiet as those words are, the self-castigation is audible. And then, more loudly: "We should go."<br />
<br />
Dragon> A pleasant occasion? Yes. Yes it ''was''. Now, Olveraeth lifts his physical voice to keen for the lost green, but cuts it short in order to focus upon his charges. << We'll come home. All will be well. >> Calm. ''Calm'', damn it. (To High Reaches dragons from Olveraeth)<br />
<br />
C'stian closes his eyes for a moment, perhaps giving a silent farewell to the departed little green. But then the bronzerider straightens, turning to those around him. There's nothing else to be done here, but he can at least begin to usher the visiting dignitaries from the galleries in reinforcement of Lilah's invitation, and try to make it easier for queen and Weyrwoman to be alone with their grief.<br />
<br />
Dragon> Agitation, disturbance, anger. There is no reflection left in his waters, no imagry of mountains or mists. No, darkness and demands, urgency and protectiveness over this intense ''loss''. Neianth is settled enough by Olveraeth that he focuses his feelings to no direct words, but the sense that he paces the bowl, impatient and aggressive is unmistaken. (To High Reaches dragons from Neianth)<br />
<br />
Keysi rises almost immediately after R'hin speaks, unable or unwilling to demonstrate her own reaction to the loss the young green. Quinlys instruction is not argued with, not this time, as she nods once, intended for them both.<br />
<br />
It's that sound, that rising sound. N'rov turns at the last minute as though struck, not flinching but swinging into the strike, and witnesses the green's going. That muscle tics in his jaw; Vhaeryth's keen is less audible than ''felt''. Whatever he might like, he doesn't force his way out, though neither does he himself linger to help dignitaries or otherwise; waiting for the once-wiggling weyrling instead of pushing past, that's the closest.<br />
<br />
Farideh wears the expression of one thoroughly confused, by the green's wanderings and the murmurs of concern-- the possibility of ''betweening'' was just an unpleasant story that had been bantered around during ''their'' candidacy. And yet, in the next instant, the green ''does'' end her search and vanishes, to the keen of many dragon voices. Her fingers dig into her knees, her complexion going pale, and her eyes look impossibly round and bright in her face; where she lip would tremble, she presses knuckles firmly into her mouth. Others around her are not so quiet, not so reserved, but the goldrider's eyes have yet to leave the sands; she's as one transfixed with ''horror''.<br />
<br />
The once-wiggling weyrling turns her face up towards N'rov, tears tracking their way down her face. "She ''died''. What if--" What if it had been ''her'' green who did that? What if? ''What if''?<br />
<br />
It takes moments before R'hin stirs to movement, focusing on Quinlys as he leans forward, expression tight as he murmurs to her. "Perhaps a steadying drink before you go?" The Wingleader could very well mean, ''for the weyrlings'', although it's obvious this is ''not'' what he means. "Niahvth will look to them."<br />
<br />
From the sands, Hattie's world has narrowed to Elaruth and their respective mates, no mind paid for the audience that will undoubtedly see her pressing her forehead in against gold hide as she tries to comfort her queen and keep her attention captured away from anything else she might hear around them. She doesn't notice the remaining Candidates, nor what Lilah says in her Weyrleader's stead, though surely at some point she'll gather what appreciation she can muster for the lifting of that burden. Elaruth, N'muir and Bijedth command her attention now, and though her tears flow freely, she doesn't hide them.<br />
<br />
From the sands, In the wake of tragedy, there is horror on Dee's expression. For a moment, she's frozen, not unlike others who can't quite believe their eyes. She stares at Elaruth, at where the green no longer is, and already there are tears sliding down her cheeks. Lilah's voice seems to snap the cord that ties Dee to this horrible moment. She's in motion even as the junior speaks, whirling to try to cling to the boy who avoided her hand, to sob (quietly) on Kaelige's shoulder.<br />
<br />
From the sands, There is only so much that Lilah can take without breaking herself; her queen's keening and the crying Candidates and Hattie, there--. The goldrider doesn't linger here to breakdown in public, instead she is all sharp movements as she strides from the sands and hatching cavern with only one last glance cast up to the galleries, searching.<br />
<br />
"Yours didn't." He could let her cry, but then N'rov's mouth twists; he works one-handed to get the handkerchief out of his coat and get it to to the weyrling. He doesn't have enough handkerchiefs for everyone, not candidates nor queenrider on the sands, but letting her make his all grotty is something he can do. "Yeah, it's awful. It's worse than. This is what we ''lose''."<br />
<br />
"No," says Quinlys, sounding sure, now, in a way she didn't before. She turns her head to look towards R'hin, and shakes his head. "I need to go home. We all do. We shouldn't complicate Fort's grief." She's already risen, moving towards Farideh: it's her turn to place a hand upon someone's shoulder, and to squeeze it, gently.<br />
<br />
From the sands, Kaelige turns his attention briefly to the junior weyrwoman as she speaks to them, hearing her fine but not caring to- or needing to- respond verbally. The sudden turn of Dee to sob into his shoulder forces him back in shock a step, and in that awkward-boy sort of moment, he has not a clue what to do with his hands. Nor what to do with someone this close in his personal bubble. Eventually, after an increasingly weird pause, he pets the back of her head something like one would a canine. It should be soothing in theory. "We'll speak of it in the barracks." He says, with a tone to his voice that's dim, almost scarily dark. "Just think of all the new pairs until then. Yes there's loss," He almost whispers, eerily, "But many new pairs, alive." He would step back then, intending to guide her if she wouldn't fall with the motion and whomever else near him off the sands as ushered.<br />
<br />
"I don't want ''anyone'' to die," sobs the little green weyrling, taking N'rov's handkerchief and attempting to blot out her cascade of tears. "No one ''should''. There were so many people and they would have loved her; it's not ''fair''!"<br />
<br />
"If you want to stay, I can ask another for an escort back," Keysi says to R'hin, her calmness surface-deep, and mind distracted though now almost in its entirity. For her, it's notably important to leave sooner than later. There's irritation and impatience painting her expression that's not entirely her own. Her gaze, though distanced, would fall on Farideh but she's few words. She was the one who put that idea in the new goldrider's head what seems like so long ago now. As she moves past her fellow weyrling, she'd reach to touch her arm at least.<br />
<br />
The Savannah Wingleader concedes easily enough with a nod, though there's a tightening of R'hin's expression at the use of ''complicate''; he's rising shortly after the Weyrlingmaster. His gaze drops to Keysi, taking in her demeanor silently for a beat. "No," he replies to her, quickly enough. "The Weyrlingmaster's correct," as he moves.<br />
<br />
From the sands, Any other moment, Dee would likely be aware enough of the boy-awkward to react (somehow), only just now she's busy wetting the shoulder of his robe. The sound of his voice startles her for a second time, as if she hadn't been expecting it. She pulls her head up, away from the petting hand. There's lip-wobble and snot (it's all very attractive, especially with the sweat of time on the Sands), but she nods to his words, letting him lead her, her hand reaching to wrap around his arm, lest she lose him, or herself.<br />
<br />
Dragon> Even levelheaded Roszadyth has her moments of uncertainty and upset, though it's hard to distinguish when she remains as equally gentle and sensible. She doesn't simply keen, but she passes on her sincere sadness for the green ''betweened'', for the predictably pleasant occurrence that turned tragic; behind it all, she radiates that ''calm'' Olveraeth so strives for. (To High Reaches dragons from Roszadyth)<br />
<br />
All that sobbing has N'rov shifting uncomfortably before he stills his stance once moree. "It isn't. Sometimes eggs are dead." Does she know that? Either way, he says it, his tone particularly flat. "This ''is'' different. Our Weyr didn't Search outside, sure, but other places have before." He looks past her. "Better get back." Maybe she can forget about it there.<br />
<br />
Quinlys' hand on her shoulder brings Farideh out of her reverie, her troubled eyes lifting from the scene on the sands to the bluerider. She stands, wordlessly, and in Keysi's passing, in the offered touch, she looks ''relieved'' and thankful-- possibly for the contact; she falls in line behind everyone else, keeping her head low and her lips pressed together. There's nothing ''to'' say, nothing that ''she'' could say, anyway.<br />
<br />
The green weyrling is dubious, but nods, most of her face lost beneath that handkerchief. As directed, she falls into line; Quinlys, having withdrawn her hand from Farideh after a gentle squeeze, leads the way: back to the dragons, and back to home. Where, ''yes'', there will definitely be drinking.<br />
|Categories=FTW Clutch 32a Logs, Hatching Logs, A Green Betweened<br />
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