NorCon MUSH - User contributions [en]

Logs:Plenty of Time

2016-07-28T02:25:32Z

Jocelyn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Edyis, Jocelyn |what=Edyis and Jocelyn take time away from the clutching celebration to talk. |where=Sheltered Lakeside Ledge, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reac..."

{{Log
|who=Edyis, Jocelyn
|what=Edyis and Jocelyn take time away from the clutching celebration to talk.
|where=Sheltered Lakeside Ledge, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=21
|month=5
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.27
|quote=They will all survive.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon edyis.jpg, Icon Jocelyn.png,
|log=With the lower caverns having taken the opportunity to let food and drink flow aplenty just after the dinner hour, Jocelyn is difficult to locate immediately following her short appearance at the evening celebration. Does Aidavanth wordlessly share a flash of where the redhead now leans against a tree by the side of the lake farthest from the weyr proper with Akluseth of her volition, or of her rider's? It's unclear. Certainly, the goldrider doesn't look as if she's expecting company; somewhere along the way, she's tugged her hair free of its pins, and unheeding of the dirt and the fabric of her tailored pants from the workday, sits on the ground with her knees drawn to her chest. There's a tightness that's been present in her expression over the past month that isn't tonight, and the look she turns to what's visible of the moons is one that shades more thoughtful than upset or broody.

Edyis takes a bit to excuse herself from the celebration, but she does manage to slip away eventually finding the spot wordlessly. "Awkward missing large portions of your own party you know." The brownrider murmurs settling next to the goldrider quietly. "Not that anyone is going to say anything about it."

Jocelyn starts, but only just when Edyis joins her, and permits herself a small, mirthless laugh. "Not that anyone would expect me to stay longer than I had to, " she replies, still studying the night sky with as much fervor as one might devote to a challenging text. A breath, then: "''Eleven'' children, if they all survive. He must be proud." Blue-gray eyes finally turn to consider the woman next to her, brow knitting faintly. "You left something for me some sevens ago." It's not quite a question, although her expression certainly says that she's seeking confirmation of her hypothesis. "I haven't known how to bring it up, or how to thank you for them, if you're responsible."

"Don't even speak such a thought into existence. They will all survive." Of this Edyis seems certain, as she braces her arms behind her looking up at the same sky. "I didn't leave them because I wanted recognition for it." Edyis notes softly, glancing at the goldrider from the corner of her eye. "It was the only thing I could think to do for you; I'd be an idiot not to notice how reclusive you have become in the last few sevens."

"Their survival is wanted, of course, " Jocelyn's quick to rejoin, "although we both know that it isn't always the result." Still, Edyis's certainty causes the corners of her mouth to curve faintly upward, chin dipping briefly for the offered explanation. "Thank you, " she says at some length, even as a hand drops to hesitantly lie on the ground between them, palm facing upward. "It was - it's been necessary." Her look turns searching; perhaps she'll understand.

"You've had a lot on your plate, and I didn't want to intrude," Edyis comments after some moments in silence. Edyis leans forward then, twisting so she can regard the goldrider. "I've said it before, but it does bear repeating; whatever you need of us, we are here for you."

The fingers of Jocelyn's still-between-them hand flex briefly toward her palm, then flatten again at rest. "Let it not be said that you two aren't dutiful sires, " their owner says lightly, and finally smiles in a genuine expression that meets her eyes. It's likely the first glimpse of the woman who was visible the night that their dragons flew in the two months since. "You asked me to be honest, " she says quietly. "I don't think you need me to tell you that there will be some things I won't be able to discuss. There will be plenty of things I won't ''want'' to discuss. All of this is - rather new to me. Whether it's affected by Aidavanth's attachment or not, I - want you to know that I'm glad you're here."

Edyis reaches over, twining her fingers with the offered palm. "I can live with that, provided they are things you don't ''need'' to discuss." Edyis nods too at the last, dark eyes searching, "I won't press anything, Jocelyn." A small smirk curling on her lips, "Not that I am adverse to sharing more of what we've shared," Running a fingertip over her palm. "But I don't intend on rushing into anything, and I know you need time to sort out what you feel."

"I can live with that, " Jocelyn echoes in response, and tentatively, her fingers curl to meet the other's in a silent, grateful gesture for her support. "I haven't been this ''close'' to Aidavanth since Impression, " she says slowly. "There was very little sense of where I ended and she began in the days leading up to her flight, and even if ''she'' doesn't remember that as clearly as I do, her attachment to your lifemate continues while the eggs harden - a natural enough occurrence, I suppose. I don't know if it's a reflection of her own feelings, or my vulnerability right now, or something else entirely." While it sounds as if she's having to push herself to be this candid, the little exhale that follows suggests that it's a relief to say such - or perhaps that's just a response to the finger on her palm.

Edyis chuckles lightly. "Akluseth was - always separate in my head, unless he felt something intensely. We think so incredibly differently from each other, but when he flies in pursuit, Even if the after effects are awkward there is nothing quite like a flight." Edyis agrees, and there is a nod for the last. "Take your time to figure it out, it is the one thing we have plenty of. Especially now that the eggs are hardening, Akluseth barely leaves the ledges. He might be a bumbling oaf, but he has never been anything other than loyal. Even when I falter."

Jocelyn makes an acknowledging noise. "Thank him for me; I appreciate him keeping her company when I'm working. I had hoped she wouldn't be the sort who required constant entertainment while she's watching over a clutch, but - " There's a shrug to fill in the remainder of her sentence, a look of 'what can you do' materializing with it. "I should go see her before I turn in for the evening and hope that I'll get at least ''some'' work done tomorrow." There's a small squeeze to Edyis's hand before hers makes to withdraw, and the goldrider pushes to her feet, re-securing her hair with quick, crisp tucks. Quietly, "Good night, Edyis."
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:A Challenging Month

2016-07-20T01:23:15Z

Jocelyn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Edyis, Jocelyn, Edyis{{!}}Akluseth, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth |what=Over a meal, Edyis tries to check in with Jocelyn, who's been pretending to cope. |where=Mad Smithcr..."

{{Log
|who=Edyis, Jocelyn, Edyis{{!}}Akluseth, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth
|what=Over a meal, Edyis tries to check in with Jocelyn, who's been pretending to cope.
|where=Mad Smithcrafter's Den Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=27
|month=4
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.19
|quote=I need this to not ''hurt''.
|mentions=Lys,
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon edyis.jpg, Icon Jocelyn headache.png, Icon edyis akluseth.jpg, Icon Jocelyn Aidavanth romance.jpg,
|log=Dragon> Warm shimmering waters glimmer unobtrusively. << Ed would like to know if yours would join her for a meal in her weyr. >> The image of the wide ledge where the brown lounges, tail draping into the bowl is shared, and the implication that draconic cuddling is also part of his invitation should she wish it to be so. (To Aidavanth from Akluseth)

The iron door is flung open to the chilly spring air, patchwork curtains moving with the air. Savory smells drift from further within the weyr itself, and Edyis is already dressed in her after work clothes, which consist of patterned pajama bottoms and a loosely fitted shirt sans sleeves. She's standing at the back of the room near a large wine cabinet, perusing the bottles and boxes stacked on the shelves.

Dragon> To Akluseth, Aidavanth might just, indeed, wish it to be so. She's certainly pleased by the invitation, and takes only a moment to check in with Jocelyn before answering in the affirmative. << We'll be there shortly. >>

'Shortly' turns out to be about fifteen minutes later, with the orange-gold brushing her muzzle to Akluseth's in an affectionate 'hello' once she's landed. Jocelyn bites her lip once she's dismounted, fingers curling into loose fists at her sides. It's a measured stride that brings her to Edyis's door, and skirting the dragons gives her an extra moment or two in which to smooth her expression into a pleasant, if neutral look by the time she makes it into the weyr. "Edyis. Good afternoon." The dark circles from earlier in the month still linger under her eyes, but she at least manages to sound almost interested when she adds, "Something smells - palatable."

Dragon> Nuzzling is met in kind, with the smaller brown making room and a show of moving about the ledge until everything is to the gold's satisfaction and comfort. (To Aidavanth from Akluseth)

Inside, ink-dark eyes take in every detail. Concern knitting together thick brows, "My stepmother's recipe. It's not much but a good stew and a bottle of something to wash the day's worries away usually puts me to rights." Edyis bites her lower lip a moment, waving the woman into the weyr proper where a couch lined with brightly colored quilts is stretched in before the hearth. "Something eating at you?" Her soprano ventures softly, as she moves back finally to select a bottle of something faintly sweet and refreshing.

Dragon> There's a gentle roundness to the queen's abdomen that grows a little more apparent each seven as the days continue on. Aidavanth doesn't quite find getting comfortable to be a complete challenge just ''yet'', but there's a little extra fidgeting before she settles against his side with a sigh. << They're growing, >> she says softly, likely unnecessarily. Their future ''children''. (To Akluseth from Aidavanth)

"There's something to be said for a good, mountain stew, " Jocelyn agrees, attention still on the move so as to better take in the ambience and the decor of Edyis's home. It takes her a moment to recognize the brownrider's gesture, then its destination. Carefully, she makes her way in that direction, settling on the edge of one of the couch's cushions. "I'm - " fine, has been her rote answer for the past few sevens to anyone who's bothered asking. A breath. "It's been a challenging month. First Lys - " She breaks off, lips pressing thin. "The Monaco negotiation is settled, however, and that's what matters."

Dragon> To Aidavanth, Akluseth projects <>

"I am sorry." Is Edyis's response for Lys, chewing the inside of her cheek. "I had hoped she wouldn't behave so predictably." Letting her breath out slowly, she moves to procure bowls and cups, filling each before setting them on the small table before the couch. "I understand the need for candidates, but I wish Monaco could have been left out of it." She swallows slowly, shaking her head. "Personal feelings aside, however. It was a good move to make." Edyis settles deeply into the couch, just far enough away to prevent infringing on her space too much.

Dragon> To Akluseth, Aidavanth shifts again, the better to curl her neck closer to his. << We'll get to find out, together. >> What they're like. As for feeling them move, she hesitates. << No. Sometimes the weight of their growing shells moves one way or the other, but I do not feel ''them''. Jocelyn says, >> thanks to her dragonhealing lessons, << that they have much growing left to do, even after they are laid. >>

Whatever ''Jocelyn'' had hoped for, it's long gone if the hardness that appears in her expression is anything to go by before it waxes faintly suspicious. "Predictably? How's that, exactly?" Eyebrows lift for an explanation, even as she sniffs appreciatively in the direction of the dishes despite herself. Lips pursing faintly for Edyis's opinion, the goldrider elects to pick up the cup nearest her in lieu of making an immediate reply, sipping the contents with a small frown. "I hope that's how history will see it. A beneficial step toward resolving the - relations between the two Weyrs."

Edyis is quiet watching that shift of expression with a flicker of pain. "She approached me a while ago, and from the way she spoke, it seemed like she was giving up on something." Edyis bites at her lip again. Picking up the bowl and stirring the contents with her spoon. "I've always tried to respect the relationships of those who Akluseth catches. It's part of being a rider. Monogamy is a word that had to vanish from my vocabulary. I didn't want a rift to form between you two because someone else flew Aidavanth. Maybe that was inevitable, but I know how much it hurts to have someone you love tell you goodbye." Her gaze rests on the bowl. "Rifts - Monaco and Murder have gone hand in hand for as long as I can remember. Some of those scars will be difficult to heal."

Dragon> Rumbles deeply in his chest. << Lots of shells >> Akluseth seems confident in this much at least. << Ed says I grew lots after I hatched, but I can't remember it. >> (To Aidavanth from Akluseth)

"She approached you." That comes out incredulously, and Jocelyn grimaces, grip tightening momentarily on her cup. Her other hand waves off Edyis's apology, head shaking quickly as if tossing off an irritant. "Akluseth's catch might have been a catalyst for what would have eventually happened, but hardly a ''cause''." Rifts of all sorts can, indeed, be difficult to heal, and the redhead's shoulders stiffen as she silently reaches to trade her cup for the other kind of bowl at hand, putting away one spoonful, then another.

Dragon> To Akluseth, Aidavanth has a mental smile for the concept. << We'll have at least several shells, >> she agrees practically. <> A pause, then, as she searches for the relevant memory and produces it: A view, from a little over five feet above the ground, of hours-old, little Aidavanth looking ''up'' at Akluseth.

Edyis studies the goldrider, as though trying to read the sky for a storm. "In the Galleries," Edyis confirms, setting the bowl aside for her glass. "Seemed to think it prudent to make sure you were well looked after." Softness in her tone that usually is absent when discussing the former scullery maid. She watches Jocelyn again, her lips pursing faintly. "I promised I would be honest with you Jocelyn, and asked that you do the same with me, at least in private. I can see the circles under your eyes, the whitening of your knuckles. I know you are irritable, but I can't understand it unless you talk to me." Edyis points out gently, taking a long drink from her glass.

Dragon> Silvery bubbles dance around the shared vision, fizzing into a crisp image pulled from his own rider's mind, the first flap of light dappled wings as Akluseth learned to glide. << Ed says we won't get to teach them much, that the job falls to the weyrling masters. >> He seems to pout over this fact just a little. (To Aidavanth from Akluseth)

Swearing, Jocelyn carefully sets her bowl down to lean her chin on her fists, eyes closing briefly. "It's easier for me to be honest than it is for me to ''talk'', " she admits at some length, finally lifting pale eyes to the brunette's after some moments pass. "It's - been challenging, " she repeats again, more quietly. And this time, she can't quite disguise the unsteadiness that enters her words, the corresponding quake that trembles through her frame when she inhales, exhales. There's an almost panicked look that flits toward the ledge, back to the stew, anywhere but at her meal companion.

Dragon> To Akluseth, Aidavanth is sure, so sure, that they'll still get to watch them ''learn'' and ''grow''. She's also suddenly sure that her lifemate isn't doing the best job of holding it together, and regretfully disentangles herself from her comfortable nestle with the brown to stick her nose into the entrance of the weyr, however briefly. Privately, to her companion: <>

The hand that starts to reach out in a gesture of comfort which halts midway. The indecision fades quickly, and Edyis reaches out in a gentle attempt to pull the woman closer, though in such a way that the gesture halts immediately if unwanted. "What do you need?" Her voice so soft and gentle, as though afraid Jocelyn might shatter.

Dragon> To Aidavanth, Akluseth projects << She wants to help. >> Akluseth confesses, at last, a gentle current of dancing fish flickering through the waves. << She is afraid. Of pushing too far past the invisible boundaries, people keep around their hearts. >>

The goldrider stiffens, breaths coming quickly, but doesn't push Edyis away. Nor, it must be noted, does she willingly scoot closer, freezing into place. "I need this to not ''hurt'', " she confesses angrily, although the bite behind her words seems more directed at herself than at the other rider. "Especially not here. Not - " That brief glimpse of Aidavanth elicits a long, slower exhale. "You've - been kind, Edyis. I - need to be alone right now." There's an apologetic, wavering look. "I'm sorry. The stew ''is'' very good, " just not good enough to stop her from getting to her feet and starting to stride toward the ledge, expression half-twisting into a silent sob once her face is quite averted.

Edyis lets it go, with a nod of understanding. And the gaze that lingers on Jocelyn is full of things left unsaid. "Whatever you need, Jocelyn. We will be here when you need us. When you are ready." She doesn't press any further; Akluseth will accompany the pair back to their ledge if they allow. A mostly silent presence. Providing comfort in the way that he knows how.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:The Crawler Clause

2016-07-16T01:58:10Z

Jocelyn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Jo, Jocelyn |what=Jo and Jocelyn finally talk past "hello." |where=Southern Rim of the Bowl, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=12 |month=4 |turn=41..."

{{Log
|who=Jo, Jocelyn
|what=Jo and Jocelyn finally talk past "hello."
|where=Southern Rim of the Bowl, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=12
|month=4
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.14
|quote=With that knot comes power.
|mentions=Farideh, Irianke, Jaine
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon jo.jpg, Icon Jocelyn.png,
|log=It's a clear afternoon that finds the Rim bathed in warmth. Save for the watchrider that's far from where she is, Jo - in her black leathers and looking as though she had just arrived at the Weyr - seems to be finishing up a meeting with two dragonriders that are nodding to something she's saying as they both take a step back to depart towards their waiting dragons.

Aidavanth is openly sunning on her ledge this afternoon, implying that Jocelyn is, if not actually at home, certainly ''here'' at High Reaches, unlike on yesterday's restday where neither were seen between dawn and dusk. It's a dark green with silvering muzzle and her equally silver-haired rider who drop the weyrwoman off out of conversational range of Jo and her companions before departing, leaving the older of the junior queenriders to stare distantly off over the bowl. Arms wrapping loosely about herself as she begins a slow walk vaguely in the direction of the ladder leading to the riders' lounge, her expression is one of preoccupation, circles shadowy beneath pale eyes and mouth, pinched. She probably ''sees'' the other riders, but noticing them? That's probably another story.

"We'll let you know, Jo," one of the riders states, the two men vaguely aware that there's a newcomer to the rim. Jo clicks her tongue as she produces a flask from within her open jacket as she says without looking at them, "See that ya do." It's a dismissal, and the two riders do not linger any longer. One of them as they move past Jocelyn seem to recognize her that instant, his step just a single falter that smoothes out with curt nod of greeting towards her as he keeps on.

Brief in acknowledgments on any given day, the redhead only seems to notice the nod when it's almost ''too'' late to reply with a terse, "Afternoon, " as she, too, continues on her way. It's enough to orient her back to her surroundings, enough for her steps to slow slightly as she (finally) catches sight of Jo. Her clipped, "Wingsecond, " is perhaps a touch too formal for the setting, but Jocelyn allows for the older rider's name after, chin dipping briefly with a brief, "Jo, " much as their other, infrequent hellos may have gone in the past.

Jo is lifting that flask for a good drink when the clipped greeting catches her. She cuts a look towards the voice to find Jocelyn there, and her dark eyes flit over her (and just the slightest pause on her chest) before meeting her gaze again as the flask is set down. "Weyrwoman," is her own casual greeting in return, letting a pause hit before she adds, "Jocelyn." Beat. "Congratulations are in order, I take it, darlin'. Risin' 'nall."

There's a dark humor briefly present in Jocelyn's stare, the unsteadiness at the corners of her mouth, and yet her only answer is a short, "Thank you. We did our duty." ''That'' subject is closed, says her tone, much like the way her arms tighten about herself. She doesn't seem overly inclined to ''more'' conversation, turning a sidelong glance toward that ladder again before, almost thoughtfully: "I wonder if I can talk Jaine into scheduling meetings for me up here. One might be less likely to be overheard."

"'Duty'," Jo echoes the exact sentiment Jocelyn uses on the words, one corner of her mouth lifting as she shifts her body to turn more towards the goldrider. "First time I've heard of it spoken of like ''that''." It's a gentle tease at the most, but judging by the other's body language, she doesn't linger on it. She nods on the latter, however, as she neutrally says, "One of the best places for'em, I think. Keeps nosy folks out ya business. Out ya secrets, too. I don' think we've ever met properly." This last is latched on like an afterthought, the bluerider studying the other now.

Jocelyn's lips purse faintly in response to the bluerider's emphasis, posture stiff. "I don't suppose we have, " says she at some length, pale eyes likewise scrutinizing Jo. "Until now, anyway." There, a faint trace of better humor, however short-lived. "Although I've certainly ''seen'' you about. And Tacuseth, of course. Your legends precede you, " drily.

"My....''legends''." There's a slight intonation at the end of that, making it appear as a question, too, from Jo. "I can imagine. I wonder which ones do the weyrwomen like to talk 'bout 'mongst themselves. I can guess by the tone that, whichever it is, ya don' approve."

"Farideh doesn't speak poorly of you, if that's what you're asking, " Jocelyn answers, shoulders lifting in a brief shrug. "My approval - or lack thereof - means nothing in the long run. It won't change anyone's nature." Perhaps she isn't talking about Jo at all, for her gaze swings briefly down toward the upper level of weyrs with a grimace. Does she do well at masking her upset? Maybe the half-turn away helps; in any case, she's almost regained her composure by the time she tacks on, "I should have a ride returning for me shortly. I'm sorry if I've disturbed your solitude."

"'Cuz Farideh naturally sees the good in everyone," Jo says, grinning a bit. "She's a good girl. Yer approval means more in this Weyr than any other, weyrwoman." There's a brief pause before, "Is there someone's nature yer lookin' to change?" But the goldrider turns from her, and perhaps she doesn't see Jocelyn's composure slip. In any case, the last has the bluerider shaking her head just once as she looks out over the horizon as she says, "I'm not disturbed. I make an aim make acquaintance of those that lead this Weyr, darlin'. When I can."

The weight Jo attributes to Jocelyn's approval causes the redhead's shoulders to stiffen in some surprise; the goldrider's gaze is narrowed when she turns back to face the older woman, skepticism offered in lieu of an openly startled expression. "Really. My knot is hardly large enough for ''my'' opinions to hold that much sway, " despite being larger than it once was some turns ago. There's a rueful cast to her after the inquiry on changing natures, eyes shutting briefly. "Would that we could." She still looks as if she's trying to figure more of Jo out by the time the green who brought her comes into view and backwings to a landing.

"With that knot-" Jo nods towards Jocelyn and the surprise she detects, "-comes power. Still. Maybe not as it was long ago, but, I've known weyrwomen who could take that knot with a bit of creativity. Ya can be surprised what yer capable of." That tinge of a smirk is secretive. Knowing. Dark eyes find the newcoming green dragon quick enough before she adds, "A shame yer ride comes so soon. I know who Farideh'n Irianke are. ''You'' are still a mystery."

"And I'm sure each one you've known found a different way to make use of their resources." Jocelyn's tone turns bland, but the slight frown for the brunette's knowing sort of look is anything but. For Jo's last, however, her eyebrows lift and the corners of her mouth curl briefly. "I hear you're smart, wingsecond. If you know Farideh and Irianke, you already know me. The only things we share are our circumstances and the color of our dragons' hides." So saying, she mounts the aging green awaiting her with a hand raised in farewell before the transport departs, spiraling down toward Aidavanth's ledge.

It's only then - once Jocelyn answers her both times - that Jo chuckles and raises that flask to her lips for a healthy drink. Once done, the goldrider is mounted and the bluerider lifts her flask in response to the farewell as the other drops from sight.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Unacceptable

2016-07-15T22:23:54Z

Jocelyn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, Lys{{!}}Evyth |what=Aidavanth and Evyth discuss their riders' breakup, political undertones included. |where=Dragon Brains |involves=High Rea..."

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, Lys{{!}}Evyth
|what=Aidavanth and Evyth discuss their riders' breakup, political undertones included.
|where=Dragon Brains
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=5
|month=4
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.12
|quote=<< '''You''' are always welcome. >>
|mentions=Farideh, Irianke
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn Aidavanth awkward.png, Icon lys evyth smad.gif,
|log=In the immediate aftermath, the dragons are needed, each by their own lifemate, but the next day? Evyth's touch is subdued as she brushes tentatively against Aidavanth's mind; she'd like to talk, if she's welcome. There is doubt, however, that she will be after the way the shell of Jocelyn and Lys' relationship turned to shards without so much as kindly leaving a new dragon in its wake.

Aidavanth's presence ripples in response to that tentative brush, spreading toward her sister's touch as if blown along by a gusty sigh. There isn't much that can be said in the wake of their riders' respective displays, but the gold isn't pulling away from contact with Evyth. << ''You'', >> she says quietly after some moments, << are always welcome. >> And perhaps that sentiment is even partially Jocelyn's, who, it is conveyed, cannot blame Lys's ''dragon'' for the other woman's lies. Silently, she waits for her friend to speak, thoughts still heavy with shared grief.

<< But not her, >> holds a deep sadness. There's some element, not hidden, that reveals Evyth isn't sure how she feels about all of this. There's an echo of Aidavanth's gusty sigh, <> It's not judgmental, that observation, just thoughtful. << Lys has been Lys a long time, longer than she's known Jocelyn, and even if she gave up everything Jocelyn would have hated, would Jocelyn have been able to forgive her if she ever slipped or ''wanted'' to act as Lys, uncensored? >> She doesn't know. She doesn't even know if there's a point to talking about it, and yet, she's trying to settle some things in her own mind. Quieter, << It hurt her, too. It hurt her how quickly Jocelyn assumed she would do something to hurt her Weyr, her home for as long as she's ever know. She never would. ''We'' never would. >> There's a glimmer of personal hurt there.

<< Not her, >> Aidavanth agrees reluctantly, << because neither of them needs to be hurt any more than they already are. I have never felt Jocelyn to be so fragmented, so angry, so ''disappointed''. >> Or at least, her rider, it must be implied, cannot recall a time with feelings that trump these as long as they have been bonded. She listens as Evyth tries to sort out matters for herself, absorbs her observation, grimaces for that last, personal hurt. As much as she is both sister and friend, she must also be ''queen'' to Evyth, and so it's with great care that she says at some length, << I know that you never would, but I can't blame Jocelyn for not knowing what to think - and reacting in the only way she ''could'' in the face of how frightened she felt. In her mind, she has potentially endangered her home and her credibility by - having trusted Lys. >> Sadly, << She's the only one who can decide how she will act going forward, but I don't expect her to be kinder than her duties require. >> Forgiveness will be a long time in coming - if it ever does, goes unspoken.

Now there is anger mixed with sadness. << Jocelyn should know better. She acts as though Lys is some-- >> What? Evyth doesn't even seem to know. The green's voice is rough, the edible scents of her mind turn to something just a little past its prime. << Her first loyalty could not ever have been to ''Jocelyn'', because her first loyalty is to her ''Weyr'', and she will never betray her Weyrwoman. If Jocelyn learned nothing else of Lys in all the time they have spent together, she should have learned that. >> Some of the anger fades, but it's not gone, just overridden by the sadness again. << Jocelyn asked her for the truth. Lys gave it to her. Hated her for it. How will she ever bring herself to give an unpleasant truth to someone she loves again? >> Unspoken and unbidden comes the question of whether or not Lys will let herself love again - if she will let those feelings within her dry up as a plant without enough sun and only tears to water it.

As though Lys is both criminal and traitor solely by having been truthful. The weight of ''that'' knowledge is something silent and heavy, and the flow of Aidavanth's thoughts slows briefly in its wake. << She can't think upon the situation logically, not while she's feeling like ''this'', >> she says carefully. << She knows that Lys is loyal to Niahvth's, as she should be. >> As Jocelyn isn't, has never been, outside of what her duties dictate. For the green's question, she has no answer save for a mirroring query that floats heavily, inevitably to meet Evyth's; how will her own rider ever trust someone else that much, again?

<< Not as she would be, >> is quiet disagreement. << Irianke, >> who has a name not only because Evyth is inclined to use people's names but because the Weyrwoman holds special significance, << is the closest Lys has ever had to a mother. If not for Irianke, I would not have found Lys, Lys would not have been ready to find me. >> There's a sigh, << Lys has never felt understood by the world, but sometimes certain people have made her feel like there's a chance that if she found the right people, she might be. She found me, >> so that's one. Evyth is still troubled, but that's not surprising. << Lys has never betrayed Jocelyn. She never would, unless the Weyr were in the balance. But Jocelyn would never put her in that position. >> And Lys would try not to, but… Well. Evyth sighs.

<> for Aidavanth uses ''names'' only when they hold at least ''some'' personal significance to her rider, << is responsible, by extension, for my finding Jocelyn, >> since she shelled Roszadyth. At best an uncomfortable topic where her rider is concerned, she instead turns her attention to Evyth's next, wholeheartedly agreeing: << Jocelyn's first priority will always be the well-being of our Weyr. >> As for Lys trying ''not'' to put her former lover in such a position, Aidavanth partially withdraws with a sweep of hazel, attention briefly diverted. << She's on her way back. I should - >> A sigh. << Be well, Evyth. >>

The green is dissatisfied, perhaps with the need to depart as much as with just ''everything''. There's nothing to be done, though, so she withdraws with only a brush of her mind to return the gold's last sentiment before she's gone.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Jocelyn

2016-07-13T00:48:35Z

Jocelyn:

{{ProfileTabs
|picture=Jocelyn.jpg
|body=== Description ==

At best, Jocelyn might be called striking rather than pretty. The milky skin of one born and bred in the mountains is rendered cooler still by the paleness of her blue-gray eyes, for which her hair overcompensates; "fiery" would be a kind adjective for the orange-red locks that fall in choppy layers along her shoulders. A generally serious mien lends a firmness to her jaw and brow, complemented by the sharpness of her nose and the not-quite-purse of her lips. Of average height and a build more filled with angles than curves, she carries herself with a straight-backed, purposeful posture and appears to be somewhere in her second decade.

{{wysk}}
=Personality=

==[http://www.16personalities.com/istj-personality ISTJ: The Logistician]==

'''Strengths:''' Honest, direct, strong-willed, dutiful, responsible, practical

'''Weaknesses:''' Stubborn, insensitive, 'by the book', judgmental

''Few personality types are as practical and dedicated as ISTJs. Known for their reliability and hard work, ISTJs are good at creating and maintaining a secure and stable environment for themselves and their loved ones. ISTJs' dedication is invaluable in many areas, including their own personal growth.''

''ISTJs don't make many assumptions, preferring instead to analyze their surroundings, check their facts and arrive at practical courses of action. ISTJ personalities are no-nonsense, and when they've made a decision, they will relay the facts necessary to achieve their goal, expecting others to grasp the situation immediately and take action.''

=Aidavanth=
{{DragonTab}}

=Relationships=

'''Leadership'''
* [[Farideh]]: ''Former roommate, colleague''. You've come a long way since we met, but sometimes I look at you and still see the girl rather than a weyrwoman.
* [[Irianke]]: ''Weyrwoman''. I'm never quite sure if you can be trusted. You and your dragon are still ''Igen''.
* [[Jounine]]: ''Headwoman''. At one time, I thought I'd wear your knot as well as you do.
* [[K'del]]: ''Weyrleader''. Stability is important to maintain, so it's not a bad thing that you're Weyrleader again. You have my respect.

'''Classmates'''

* [[Ellerey]]: ''Dependable''. I'm glad that we can work well together.
* [[Lys]]: ''Liar''. You know too much after what I've mistakenly shared. I'll never trust you again.
* [[Pia]]: ''Naive optimist''. You're not so bad in small doses. Like pepper.
* [[Silva]]: ''Self-destructive''. Your path is difficult to watch.
* [[T'gar]]: ''Slacker''. You weren't a bad weyrling wingleader when you applied yourself.
* [[V'ret]]: ''Intolerable''. I think as little of you as you undoubtedly do of me. You deserve each other.

'''High Reaches Weyr'''

* [[Leova]]: ''Sensible''. You're one of the few I think I can call 'friend' and 'mentor.'
* [[Quint]]: ''Artificial, harper''. What's under your affected demeanor?
* [[Z'kiel]]: ''Taciturn''. I don't know that you can be trusted, but you've played a role in the turn my life has taken. I won't forget that.

'''Fort Weyr'''

* [[Dahlia]]: ''Young''. You're young for the responsibilities we'll both always shoulder - but time will cure ''that''.
* [[Mirinda]]: ''Monaco''. Ironic, that the connection between our lifemates may yet help to bridge our homes.

=Logs & Vignettes=

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=Mentions=

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=Icons=
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{{Character-Categories
|Categories=High Reaches Area, High Reaches Weyr
}}
<headertabs />

[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]
[[Category:Riders]]
[[Category:Goldriders]]

Logs:Liftoff

2016-07-12T23:55:03Z

Jocelyn:

{{Log
|who=Edyis, J'nason, Jocelyn, Kh'tyr, L'sha, Quint, T'zur, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, Edyis{{!}}Akluseth, J'nason{{!}}Hephaisth, Kh'tyr{{!}}Mograith, T'zur{{!}}Tziveth
|what=Aidavanth's maiden flight disrupts the High Reaches dinner hour.
|where=Jocelyn's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr, Benden Weyr, Ista Weyr
|day=25
|month=3
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.09
|quote=What, don't we get an eyeful for the price of admission?
|weather=Heavy rain in the middle of winter only means that the temperature is only a few degrees above freezing; it's more miserable for the soaking torrents.
|mentions=Farideh, F'reah, Irianke
|type=Log
|ooc=Warning: allusions abound. The suggested theme for flight poses was 'sci-fi / fantasy / cult favorite franchises' - and we ran with it with nods to The Abyss, Doctor Who, Firefly, Foundation, Highlander, Hitchhiker's Guide, Mass Effect, Pokemon, The Princess Bride, Stargate, Star Trek and Star Wars. Feel free to add your preferred icons!
|icons-new=Icon edyis.jpg, Icon Jocelyn shocked.png, Icon kh'tyr bodily harm.jpg, Icon l'sha.jpg, Icon quint.jpg, Icon Jocelyn Aidavanth proddy.png, Icon edyis akluseth.jpg, Icon kh'tyr mograith.gif,
|log=Those with dragons in the Snowasis may gradually begin to grow aware of a low, curling tension that's wholly separate from what the weyrfolk are experiencing tonight. Has it been there all day? It's hard to tell, although it increases rapidly into the very palpable sensation of something warm and ''bright'' that telepathically spreads itself over the Weyr. In the living cavern, an increasingly preoccupied Jocelyn stops pushing food around her plate to go very still, expression suddenly startled. Those in the bowl are about to get quite the show; Aidavanth, brilliantly luminous with more than just the frequent oiling of the past several days, awakens and appears on her ledge stretching luxuriously, even provocatively with arching neck and spreading wings. Her rider doesn't have much time to give a panicked look around, to grab the sleeve of the nearest rider and tell them to make sure Irianke and Farideh ''leave'' before she makes a run for the bowl. There will be time later for apologies and 'I told you so's'; for now, the redhead sprints through the rain, barely reaching the stairs up to the weyrleader complex before the queen is suddenly airborne, barreling toward the feeding grounds where several resident males have already begun their hunts.

Dragon> A familiar presence is here, nearby. He is subtle, as always, just a dimming of the mental landscape at first, slowly but surely quashing the noise of other thoughts as his grows more noticeable, dark trendrils seeking her. Tziveth watches, hidden in the rain. (To Aidavanth from Tziveth)

Edyis manages to step up near the foreigners catching a snippet of the conversation. "Hey, don't I know you." Stepping up to the outside of the group, reaching to tap the Benden rider on the shoulder. Except that, her eyes go distant and an "Fuck" Escapes. "Fucking brown." Whatever had drawn her attention she's now darting out into the rainy bowl. In the Bowl warm waves dappled with sunlight are shared the taste of the ocean coloring the adventurous brown's thoughts. << You look lovely. >>

There's the characteristic pause and unfocused eyes from L'sha that indicates that he's speaking with his dragon. "Rillaeth says that Aidavanth is about to rise." And sure enough, riders are suddenly scrambling outside. He sees Edyis rush outside and calls to her, "Good luck, Edyis! Hmmm, should I go out and watch from the patio? It's coming down pretty hard out there. Maybe we can get an umbrella or something."

It's always hard to say if being ignored in an increasingly busy drinking establishment is an intentional slight or accident. Kh'tyr's eyes draw to J'nason only after T'zur has the good manners to reply to the other rider. His eyes swiftly rake the younger man, "Tightpants," he dubs the other rider with a slightly narrowed gaze (nevermind if his pants aren't especially tight), "Pay attention," as if he'd been with them all along, "We are scoping out the room," he spreads his hands in an unnecessarily large gesture to frame different tables - including, briefly, the one at which the harper and greenrider sits, "in the guise of assessing business. But now that I've explained..." His tone implies it's all ruined. "Where's my drink?" he demands of no one as he turns back to the bar. "Aw, shell," is a half-growl that has him dropping his head toward the bar top, only to straighten before it touches. "Where is my drink," is no longer a question, but a plaintive hope.

There's something bemused about the way that T'zur regards J'nason, though whatever causes the expression is kept to himself. Instead, he tucks gloves neatly into his jacket, eagerly waiting for his glass when the bartender returns -- at least until he gets that tap on the shoulder. "Mm?" curious, blank expression is turned on Edyis; there might be a flicker of recognition -- but it's gone instantly as gaze goes distant. "Ah," he exhales, mouth twisting. When the bartender sets down the glasses, he snatches the first one (sorry, Kh'tyr!), practically gulping down the contents of the glass, tosses just enough coins onto the bar to make up for it, and pushes straight. "Follow the crowd, I guess?" to his fellow foreigners, trailing in the wake of that female brownrider. Tziveth is, for his part, largely silent -- there's no bellowy challenges or such. Instead, his thoughts creep out, subtly, extending outwards, making his presence felt in the movement at the corner of the eye, and the dark that lurks at the edges.

As Hephaisth makes his move unfolding his bulk like a wind-up toy, J'nason throws back his head and starts to ''laugh''. "Oh that bastard F'reah is going to get it in his ''eye''. 'Punishment Duty'." A snort for that as he shoves himself up from his seat and winks at the bartender. "You just keep hold of that whiskey for now, aye? If I'm not back in a hour just give it to some poor smuck, coutsey of a lucky, lucky, ''lucky'' man. Shall we men?" And he'll keep in pace with the other two so they can follow the native brownrider. Hephaisth bloods a kill, his mind a maze of machinery, and his voice like the clank of gears turning over one another as if counting down to the ''real'' event.

"Aidavanth?" Quint echoes L'sha with an exhale, fingers tightening momentarily on his glass. "Ah," he adds, in a low whistle, like ''something'' suddenly makes sense. He regards the foreign riders in a new light, eyes narrowing like he's assessing them differently, now. "I'd-- yes, that's a good idea. Mind if I join you? Perhaps you can tell me who the chasers are?" he asks L'sha, starting to rise. "And -- maybe take the bottle? I think we'll need it." He's taking his glass, for certain.

Dragon> Though Kh'tyr might only now be realizing what Mograith must already have known, there's a brief flash of triumph, of victory - not the most important kind, what with ''that'' battle of wills and wants not yet begun, but the chance for that second comes from this first win. There's a dangerous sense of something primal having slipped the leash, and the faint sound of raucous, cruel laughter when his rider's barely breathed words, "Curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal," are hooked into that malevolent glee and shared with the rest. (To local dragons from Mograith)

Aidavanth's focus is singular; swooping low, she makes quick work of not one, but ''two'' ex-members of the High Reaches herd, tearing into both one right after the other. She's frenzied in her hunger, eyes awash in crimson. Jocelyn, who's bolted to the very back of her weyr with an adrenaline-fueled glare for the armoire as if wondering if she'd fit inside of it, clenches her fists and jaw. In the feeding pens, Aidavanth screams in all of a rising queen's usual fury before lowering her muzzle to each beast's neck in turn. If she can't ''eat'', she'll at least drain them dry before going in pursuit of a third, burnished hide gleaming through the rain.

Akluseth has been waiting for this, the fire licked brown already has his muzzle buried in the throat of a wherry, the sticky drip of ichor dripping down his chin as he drinks. Every muscle in his frame wound tight as a spring, his thoughts the shift and swell of a depthless ocean sinking deeper and deeper into the cool dark. The flicker of lights and glowing shapes hinted at through the deep waters. For the others who dare to vie for that golden warmth, Akluseth only has the boundless chill of the ocean depths. The ghosts of ships lost to the deep looming in the gloom. The promise of ruin.

Flight jacket unbuttoned, Edyis's steps bear her to where believes she will find the Jr. Weyrwoman. She smells of spiced rum, and her cheeks and exposed throat are flushed with something other than cold. "Jocelyn." Is soft, but she maintains her distance watching the Goldrider where she stares at the furniture. "Jocelyn." There's an apology in the word.

Hephaisth's hide is like that of the inside of a really well worked fireplace, dark and bronzed with time and the heat of the fire. His awkwardly proportioned body does the job well enough, flicking blood from the herdbeast as he keeps an eye on the gleaming queen. He'll take a moment to size up the competition also, gears whirling in ever more complicated connections to find ''just'' the right one.

Dragon> To Tziveth, Aidavanth's presence ''tilts'' and ''splashes'' dangerously. She's on a one-way course to a precipice she's never directly experienced. Is he just going to ''watch'' the entire time?

The rain makes it near-impossible to see, doubly so when you're in a foreign weyr. And while logic would dictate that T'zur don his helmet to protect his head from the weather, he's clearly got ''other'' things on his mind, such that, by the time he trails Edyis towards the appropriate ledge and follows it into shelter, his hair is plastered to his head. He looks neither left nor right, not as soon as pale gaze settles on Jocelyn; he exhales a breath, smiles, and steps closer. Not ''invasively'' close, but... he's there, hovering just out of sight, and he wants her to know it, too. Tziveth is done watching, done waiting. He's bidden his time, and the threads of his planning have been thrown out; whether they seek their mark or not remains to be seen. Gracefully, the small Benden bronze lifts into the air, unperturbed by the weather, seeking an appropriately sized buck. The kill is swift and bloodied, ivory-white talons sinking into flesh to choke out the life while his jaw snaps to the neck for blooding. The second is just as swift as the first, as is the third; and while his gaze may not be on Aidavanth, his brooding, dark presence hovers there, stretching towards her, seeking all the while.

J'nason manages to be one of the first of the strange-bronzers here-just-for-the-flight-because-they-are-lucky-like-that and while the brownrider steps into the room directly, J'nason does his best to slip around T'zur and put himself and his easy smile right into the doorway. "Why don't we give the lady some room, aye? Watch from here?"

Dragon> No, indeed, for Tziveth is ''done'' with watching. The black depths of his thoughts spiral, heating all unintentionally by her nearness, while the tendrils of his shadows strain and stretch, seeking her, seeking the ''core'' of her. He will know her; he will know who she is and what she desires. (To Aidavanth from Tziveth)

The pale brown is a wraith in the storm, diving to collect carcass-to-go before sweeping to the muddy ground. Mograith's blooding is as beautiful as the weather. The heavy rain drives away the gore that would otherwise cling to his maw as he rends the beast enough to get his mouth to the juciest places. He doesn't stop at one, though the second has a little more fight despite his predatory grace in the moment of the catch, trying to take as much as the beast has to offer while the thing's heart still beats - no mercy or gentility to the way he lets it bleed out into his mouth.

Kh'tyr arrives after the other foreigners, having stayed for that damned drink before trailing the crowd. He doesn't take care with his boots here, in point of fact, he tracks as much mud as will readily come with them into Jocelyn's weyr with little care that he's a dripping mess in her personal abode. As much as there's something dangerous to the feel of Mograith's mind, the humor seems to have left Kh'tyr in the waking of flight feelings, and there's something almost hateful in the way his otherwise lusty gaze searches for the redhead (whose fault this is, clearly).

Discarding her third kill with a cry that's both challenge and surety, Aidavanth tosses her head and springs upward, enormous wings pushing her higher and higher still. Altitude seems to be her first objective, and she climbs well until the spindles fall away below her, ''out of her way''. With the quick energy of blood and the flavor of flesh, if not its texture, some of her frenzy abates - enough for her to smooth her course, leveling out after some minutes to carve a wide orbit about the skies above her home. Is she on some sort of trek for the stars, boldly going forth in a blaze of incandescence?

Jocelyn probably ''hears'' Edyis, but gives no sign that she's listening, not until there are more voices, more footsteps, more ''people''. "Get ''out'' of my bedroom!" are the welcoming, rapidly bitten out words the goldrider hurls at the brownrider, at other incoming riders who come into view, arms folding across her chest. "The line must be drawn ''here''! There's another room over ''there'' you can very well stand in."

Fire licked and liquid all at once powerful muscles release all tension and Akluseth launches into the air, gaining altitude with every stroke of the brown's rippled wings. His thoughts now are laced with dancing glowing shapes, alien in their beauty as they drift on the currents. Those thoughts reach for the orange gold queen, inviting, protective even. His wings thrash violently against the air in the driving rain, up, and up and up after the glowing queen. A roar echoing out in a challenge to these invaders. Ink-dark eyes focus on the ones who have followed her and there is something decidedly fierce in the brownrider's gaze, if not downright territorial. "Marching into your bedroom is not what I had in mind ." Is growled low in that soft soprano, but then dark eyes are glaring at the ''poachers''. "If you are going to throw something though, better them than me."

The gears abruptly fall into place, lighting up the seven key icons, and bursting forth with blue light. Hephaisth leaves his blooded kill below and launches himself towards the sky. His mind is quick now that the plan is set in motion, his wings and body working like a perfectly constructed machine for splitting between space (and of course), time. He follows without words - for now - though his flight is straight. J'nason reaches out to try to put his hands on the chests of the brown and bronze riders not-from here - he is PROBABLY going to get punched in his perfect blond face for this, and continuing to smile, "Why don't we just go wait outside, like the lady said?" There's a bit of an edge to his voice.

The rain serves a secondary purpose, besides concealment: it sluices the blood from Tziveth's messy kills, leaving only his dark, near-black shade. He is satiated, waiting, watching -- and when the moment comes he is ready, with the patience of someone who has planned for this moment. Upwards, he surges, with beats of his wings, his speed on par with that of the larger browns, falling behind the larger bronzes. This early set back doesn't seem to otherwise deter him, however: he knows his strength set amongst the others are akin to giants amongst children; such things he's seen again and again, cycle after cycle. For now, he's thrust in the middle of the pack, always mindful of Aidavanth's location, and ever seeking with the dark tendrils of his thoughts. Eventually, even stars die out and become blackness; what is old can be reaved and made anew, and a new cycle might find a brighter future.

T'zur isn't deterred by the goldrider's words. Small, they are, words -- it is deeds that determine the suitability of survival. He folds arms across his chest, daring to edge into the boundary she's set -- leaning over and eyeing the bed with a twitch of lips. "It will do. The rest are unworthy, however, and will fall as they always do." When J'nason pushes at him, his teeth bare, his arms unfolding and shoving back. "Really, now. You're a child, you know nothing."

Time for some thrilling heroics. Mograith's coiled muscles loose their tension in an upward shot that has angular frame cutting through wind as he twists into the sky, wings unfurling. He's not the largest chaser, not by far, nor the smallest, but he seeks a course that nimbly swerves through others, narrowly avoiding another brown in the pack to levy a spot in the chase that is above the pack (until she gains more altitude), if a little to the back as cost for the advantages of height and a little more room to maneuver.

"A big damn hero, that's what you are," Kh'tyr growls at J'nason's well-intended advice. Of course, that's growled as he angles to brush past the lot of them and wedge himself through that door. "What, don't we get an eyeful for the price of admission?" He (wisely) heckles the goldrider within, even if he's not made it to or through the door yet.

Reveling openly in her strength, her power, the way she can put more distance between herself and the dark sets of wings somewhere behind her, Aidavanth pushes on as if guided by some inner force, banking abruptly to the right to dive through the nearest cloud. Between the nebulous formation and the rain, it may well be trickier to track her for a few minutes. She moves with the grace of one who has honed her movements to best take advantage of her size, presence all but vibrating with a low hum. They're not too weak to seek her power, are they, these others who are pledged to pursuing her for the moment? There, another challenging trumpet as she climbs a bit more, levels out with a triumphant lash of her tail.

"You're all acting like children, " snaps Jocelyn, who despite herself, has to unfasten the top button of her collar as her forehead grows damp with perspiration. "We have a ''code'' of acceptable behavior and this is not it. Let me make this simple for you; see the room that's ''not'' dark? That's the side you should be on." And she makes a shooing motion with one hand, even as her words trail off into a half-mumble, eyes squeezing shut.

Hephaisth grinds out a challenge to the others around him - perhaps catching some of his rider's good-ish-natured jibing. (Which is about to turn less good natured, but that's not important, right?) What is IMPORTANT is that he has the ''answer'' to the greatest question Aidavanth could ever ask. She just has to let him get close enough so that he can crunch out the question for her to read back to him.

J'nason sighs lightly, as if the two have just ''inconvenienced him''. "It's really too bad, but ''I'' asked politely, ''she'' asked not-so-politely, let's just make the after a bit more pleasant, right?" And despite the calm charm in his words he goes from trying to gentle them out to straight up hooking a punch at T'zur which will ''hopefully'' push him into Kh'tyr... and out of the room. Because they wouldn't want to break the nice lady's things, RIGHT?

Observe, note and judge. Only then shall Tziveth interfere. And yet... ''yet'', something makes him snap towards Hephaisth's tail, though he's for all intents and purposes stuck behind the other bronze. He misses Aidavanth's dive into the cloud, and loses sight of her; his frustration can be felt in the twitching tendrils of shadow, seeking, ''searching'' for her. His entire purpose thwarted by an unworthy foe, his frustration is bellowed out into the night sky. She is ''worthy''; she must be raised up and made true.

T'zur's chin lifts, mocking features surfacing as he regards J'nason, "And you are ''who'' to decide? You are ''unworthy''. Your Weyr is nothing more than petty, barely sentient club-beaters. Your line will not continue, and well for the future of our race." And meanwhile, whilst he's busy speechmaking, J'nason's busy ''doing''; he doesn't even notice that fist coming towards his face until the last minute; there's a ''crack'' and a cry of pain, and the Bendenite goes stumbling ''backwards'', into whomever might be behind him. "Ffffff," is about the only noise he has.

This is the kind of flying that the rippled orange-brown loves, He may not be as large but what he lacks in size he makes up for with sheer daring, matching her twist for twist, dive for dive and climb for climb, careful to keep himself away from claws and collisions with the others. Even with the scolding provided by Jocelyn, once fists start flying it's clear that the brownrider isn't going anywhere near that mess. She does stay well away from Jocelyn however. "Forgive me, but I really would rather not get sucked into that." Gesturing at the flying fists. But hey it's not a goldflight without a few punches right.

It's probably only the focus of the hunt, the driving need that presses Mograith to continue on and the lure of the gold to begin with that has this brown ignoring the rain. Just because he can ignore the persistent pelting of drops as he flies doesn't mean he can afford to ignore what the storm does to the air currents and that becomes his secondary focus, to use them, only vaguely familiar as they might be, to gain some speed in his pursuit of the gold. As she banks, he loses sight of her, but doesn't dive, as others might. It's a gamble, but it pays off when she climbs again and he makes quick work of maneuvering himself to a place that offers a better advantage in the chase.

Kh'tyr stumbles (and thus out of any turf he'd gained on that doorway) when T'zur rebounds into him, but he's not so ineloquent as T'zur ends up, so perhaps for both of them, he turns in toward J'nason to take a solid swing at the Istan as he pronounces, "Well, my days of taking you seriously are certainly coming to a middle," as if he'd met the blond more than an hour ago.

At some point as her journey continues, Aidavanth has to assess those still in pursuit, crowing when first one of the smaller out-of-weyr browns, then another drops from the pack after they miscalculated their trajectories. In a battle of wills, however, that momentary slowing to see who's nearby costs her; she turns and pushes her way upward again, seeking to gain just a little more height. She's finally flagging, however, and there's a frustrated cry to reflect her state as her next few beats waver slightly. Whoever has their pinions in the right place at the right time has at least one advantage going for them: They'll be the very best, like no one ever was. All they need to do is carry them both across the Weyr, far and wide. And catch her, of course.

Had Jocelyn recognized the signs before Aidavanth rose, she might have had a chance to protect her weyr from devastation. Uniting everyone into her standards of acceptable behavior, however? Lost cause, as her weyrlinghood lessons will undoubtedly remind her in the morning. As her eyes finally open to take in the tableau, they're less focused on the fighting and more focused on ''them''. Her eyes travel to each in turn, pupils dilated with shared desire and eyes narrowing in calculation with what little wit she has left to her. She can denounce them until the bovines go indoors, but that she'll have to extend a reach toward one or another ''soon'' seems imminent.

Hephaisth is ready - more than ready - for this journey to reach it's terminus. The goal is in sight and he's angling down on it just as clearly as if he was a psychohistorian who had plotted this well in advance. (Never mind the inherent inaccuracy of judging the future by the past.) His gears click into a higher drive as he dives himself after the gold in his pathway, one goal in mind win!

J'nason waves out his hand from the punch, mission get-the-jerks-out was totally a success. Except for the fact that one of them is closing in on him. He ducks ''just'' enough to avoid a face-punch, but Kh'tyr totally connects to the side of his head. "Dammmmnnnn man, you got a serious hook on that! Ear is totally going to ring for a while now." He rubs at it, stepping back into the doorway proper to keep it covered up until the gold DOES make her choice. Unless someone punches him cold. Which... would be really awkward for the winning couple to deal with. Just sayin'.

Wibbly wobbly timey wimy timing comes down to these last few stretches as Akluseth takes advantage of his position in attempt to twine his tail with hers, wings beating with the very last of his energy as the desire to fall overtakes them. He reaches and reaches for her. As for Edyis, she leans cooly against the wall, the rapid rise and fall of her chest and flush of her face suggesting the anticipation of the flights end. There can be only one.

Tziveth's frustration isn't abated by the expected blood. Instead, that frustration is fuel for him -- spotting the golden Aidavanth again -- seeking to outstrip the other chasers. He's flagging behind the larger bronzes, but he ''won't'' be undone -- his purpose must, ''has always'' been fulfilled, and this flight will be no exception. He will seek the core of the lovely gold, will ''know'' her thoughts and desires. They will be one.

T'zur is oblivious to the fight going on around (over?) him, spitting out blood all over Jocelyn's nice clean floor. This is clearly all the Istan's fault. He manages to rock back onto his knees, blood running from his nose and lips, wiping the back of his hand across it. His face is a tight snarl, pushing with effort to his feet, undaunted by the momentary sway. That ''ass'' of an Istan is in the way. But also, the Fortian. She's back there somewhere, and he wants to be there ''now'', and so he sets about shoving blindly.

Mograith would never tell ''this'' lady that she's his kind of stupid, but he might think it, quietly. There's that glee when her slowing costs her. That's when the predator living in the skin of this pale, angular brown shows to his best advantage. Sleek and agile, he take the route that puts him as close to Aidavanth as he can get, using his smaller-than-bronzes frame to slip past some claws. ''Normally'', if someone tried to kill him, he'd try to kill them right back, but the way a claw scratches across his spine doesn't ''quite'' count as trying to kill and there's a more important goal here. With a twist and a roll, he seeks to ensnare the gold.

Strange, probably, that a man can go from punching a guy to reaching to try to pinch that no doubt still stinging cheek of J'nason's, to say only, "Your mouth's still talking, you might want to look to that," before he's shoved and jostled by the blindly shoving Benden. His jaw clamps like he might like to say more, his feet move like he might like to get out of the way, but apparently enough of him is still with Mograith that that part of him won't allow him to just ''step aside'' in a moment like this, so jostled and shoved, Kh'tyr doesn't really try to make any room for the younger man. Too bad, T'zur.

Aidavanth struggles only briefly once wings and tails begin fouling with her own. She's able to wrest herself free of the first and the second, but the third attempt truly is a lucky one; here's hoping Akluseth has the stamina to keep them both afloat while at long last, she indulges in the feelings that have had several days to build, enthusiasm bobbing from her watery thoughts to his as she grips the brown tightly to her. She's too sexy for her straps - and for the others as they begin their descent, together.

And Jocelyn? There will be room for mortification later. For now, she's unbuttoning the remainder of her blouse, cheeks high in color as she marches up to Edyis, expression brazenly triumphant. "I bet marching into my bedroom ''is'' on your mind, now." And she tilts her chin to meet the brownrider's with the aim of landing a fierce, thorough kiss. The bloody men might have something to watch if they don't clear out soon.

Hephaisth had totally and completely been focused on the gold body, but when it is TAKEN, his machine-like mine snaps, the gears grinding to a halt and moving backwards. Backwards until he notices - WHAT THE CRAP SOMEONE BIT HIM ON THE TAIL. Obviously, this is why he lost. Can't do the dance if he's got broken equipment. Spiraling away he's totally going to get away from the jerk that attacked him. Jerk. J'nason can just walk through the rain to find him!

J'nason really really really was going to hold his ground. But the brownrider is able to shove him out of the way... just in time for the choice to be made - and it is TOTALLY not him. "Woah, nelly, let's go buy a drink man." As the flight fog lifts J'nason is going to remember the glass waiting for him. "PIck up some chicks. Ain't nothing here for us." He sounds like someone's best-friend.

To the victor go the spoils, and Akluseth's wings do the work they are meant to as necks and tails twine, her watery thoughts attuned with his own. Whatever Edyis had expected, that kiss is met, and returned with an equal fierceness as hands fumble to free her prize from her clothes.

A bellow of frustration marks Tziveth's failure, turning as tightly as he can manage, and woe whoever might be in the way of flexing talons as he ''escapes''. The small bronze begins his descent through the rain, exhaustion lining his features as he seeks the stability of the ground below.

Well, would you look at that. While T'zur was busy trying to get ''in''to the doorway, someone else won. He makes an inarticulate sound, gives J'nason another shove for good measure. Scowling at the Istan, he turns and stomps out, dripping blood all the way. Maybe he's going to the infirmary, and maybe to drinks with his seconds-ago-arch-enemy; who knows!

Mograith's loss is expressed in a primal half-roar half-shriek that is equal parts rage and disappointment. He reaches a claw to swipe, but the gesture is curtailed before it has any chance of reaching anyone - the lucky winner, the gold or any of the other losers now sharing the sky with him. There's another sound of outrage for that, but perhaps in spite of how things have worked out, Mograith will take comfort in knowing he's still flying and even if that's not much, it's enough.

Kh'tyr's grinning like a fool with the privilege of getting to ''walk away'' from this goldrider's bower. Mograith may be upset, but clearly Kh'tyr is not. It's a damn fine shindig now, and that warrants a drink, which is where his feet will swiftly lead him.
|Categories=Flight Logs
}}

Logs:The Bandage Approach

2016-07-12T04:45:44Z

Jocelyn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Jocelyn, Lys, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, Lys{{!}}Evyth |what=Lys breaks up with Jocelyn. |where=Jocelyn's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=4 |mo..."

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn, Lys, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, Lys{{!}}Evyth
|what=Lys breaks up with Jocelyn.
|where=Jocelyn's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=4
|month=4
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.11
|quote=Staying with you will hurt you more than if I-- than if we stop now.
|mentions=Jaine
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn in winter.png, Icon Jocelyn Aidavanth omg fail.png, Icon lys upset.jpg, Icon lys evyth smad.gif,
|log=There's a nervous flutter that heralds Evyth's touch of Aidavanth's mind. ''Normally'', Evyth wouldn't intrude. ''Normally'', she wouldn't say anything, but events of the past sevenday have been anything ''but'' normal, so it's with no little amount of trepidation that she reaches for Aidavanth in a time when Jocelyn is known to be otherwise engaged in professional matters. << Aidavanth, >> the hesitation shows the green not to be fully committed to the course, but after a moment she dares, << Jocelyn should go home, now. >> That's not too much of a betrayal is it? Not when Lys is in Jocelyn's weyr with an empty bag, heading for the place where Jocelyn lets her keep her things so she doesn't have to rush home for a clean change of clothes or the things she needs to do her hair on nights when she's stayed over. There are brief snippits of that idea along with Evyth's concern for what she worries so intensely will be folly on the part of her beloved rider.

Aidavanth, who happens to be feeding when Evyth reaches her, pauses mid-chew to take in what her sister has risked sharing, straightening to turn her head in the direction of the caverns proper. <> she says at last, heavily. If she could comfort one of her favorite greens with the knowledge that all would ultimately be well, she ''would''. Instead, she wordlessly shares her own concern over the concepts presented, the hint of something resembling dread bobbing faintly in the other's direction. It's perhaps fortunate that Jocelyn is wrapping up a meeting, and after quickly making her excuses, heads for her weyr with a white face, lips pressed thin. Sailing through the tapestry connecting to the weyrleader complex, she throws her stack of folders toward the table (which they miss, cascading down onto the floor) and marches in the direction of her sleeping chamber until she can catch sight of Lys, whom she observes briefly in silence. "Lys." It comes out surprisingly evenly, given the givens. "What are you doing?"

Lys must have been too focused on the task at hand to notice the anxiety that Evyth probably couldn't fully hide from her at her betrayal, for she turns, surprised, by Jocelyn's appearance in her own weyr. She regards the redhead a moment as she regains her composure. "You weren't supposed to be back yet." The blonde states the obvious before turning back to place her hairbrush into her bag. "I was here to pack my things so it wouldn't-- so this would be less--" She shakes her head, looking back over her shoulder to the goldrider. "I love you, Joce, but I can't give you what will make you happy. I can't even be the person who really makes you happy." She's doing this for Jocelyn's own good, plainly.

"No, " Jocelyn agrees carefully, "I wasn't. You have Evyth to thank for that." For Lys's assertion, the other rider has an even stare, an expression that gives away very little of what's behind its neutrality unlike her openness of some days ago. "If this is what you really want, what will make ''you'' happy, I won't stop you. But Lys, at least have the decency to explain yourself. This is the second time you've said that you can't be the kind of person who would truly make me happy." Her arms fold across her chest, more out of self-protection than anything else. "I love what I know of you, which I hope you ''know'' by now. Is there something I ''don't'' know that you think I could never accept? Is it a matter of having experienced too many personal demons that you think I'll never understand? I was under the impression that you trusted me."

Lys' grimace can just be seen before she turns her head back to the drawer, withdrawing items and putting them into her bag with increased speed and decreased care. She pauses as Jocelyn speaks, drawing a slow breath, one that she has to work to make even. She puts a few more things into the bag before she turns toward the goldrider she's come to know well. "I know you do. Love what you know of me. I love you. None of what I love about you will ever go away, so I expect I always will love you." She reaches up to rub her forehead with her palm briefly then goes on, "I trust you to be you, and you will not love all of me, if you come to know all of me. It's been easier to hold myself apart," as the goldrider pointed out. "But what's important-- what explains this is that I can't make you happy, in the end. Staying with you will hurt you more than if I-- than if we stop now. There is no scenario in which we weyrmate, Jocelyn. Not for any lack of love, but because that's not who I am." Among other things, surely.

Silently, Jocelyn listens. And as Lys continues, the color all but drains from her face, leaving only two, bright spots high on her cheeks. "I trusted you, " she says lowly, unable to hide the little tremble in her frame. Painfully, "I ''trusted'' you, " much in the same tone that one would say, 'look at how foolish I was.' Her eyes squeeze shut briefly; they're wet when they open again, slate gray. "I'm sorry that you apparently can't say the same." The goldrider's posture stiffens; her chin lifts, and the willfulness behind that stony look is every inch that used by Jocelyn-the-weyrwoman. "And if what you say is true, whether it's some pretty phrasing used to mask something ''else'' you'd rather not say - or not, then perhaps the bandage approach is the best one to use, after all." She takes a half-step to the side so that she's no longer blocking the doorway. "Was there anything else?"

Lys watches the redhead, seeming to hesitate- considering ''something'' until that last question is asked. She closes her eyes, shutting them tight a moment and taking a breath. "No, I'll be done shortly." She turns back to the bag, continuing to pack for a moment, only then she twists back halfway to say, "If you can't accept me telling you this hard truth, then I'm right and there isn't a whole version of me that you could love, that you would want to weyrmate even if I could-- even if I would." A briefer pause before, "I'm a liar, a cheat and a thief, Jocelyn, but I would never hurt you," she swears softly, before adding, "Other than now, obviously. I just want you to be happy. I can't make you happy and be honest." So it's a choice between the two, it seems. So she turns back to reach with a sweep to draw the other few items into her bag and shut it with a painful finality.

"You already have, " says Jocelyn with a short bark of a laugh immediately after Lys's admission, arms falling to her sides so that her hands can take white-knuckled grips onto her pants' pockets. "In fact, you've managed to hurt me more than anyone else has. You say that you'd never hurt ''me'', but you admit to lying, swindling and stealing from others. You don't need me to tell you how that sort of behavior reflects on the ''Weyr'' for which you ride - and, by extension, on ''me'', Lys, if everyone knew the extent of - " She breaks off there, breathes deeply through her nose. "I won't tell you how to live your life. But know this: If your extracurricular activities are ever connected to an investigation in which I must take part, as someone who is sworn to protect what's right, just and best for her home and Weyr; if there is a connection that can be made between your behavior and criminal activities, I. Will. Do. My. Job. And nothing else, ''nothing'' else, will ever be part of those considerations. I see no need to ask if you understand me. You're not that brand of stupid. Certainly not as foolish as I was, to give you my trust. If there's nothing further, greenrider, I think you had best see to the remainder of your duties for the day." It's flat, icy and at the end, shakily ''angry''.

Lys just looks at the goldrider, her eyes betraying the hurt that is expectations being fulfilled as the redhead goes on. She's quiet while Jocelyn finishes, and there's some subtle satisfaction missed with the silence that ''she'' had not misjudged her partner, "I know that, Joce. Imagine how much worse it would have been, had you found out at the moment you had to do your job." She sighs, a heavy sound as she turns to re-check the space that was her tiny, tangible piece of Jocelyn's world. She looks back to the goldrider. "I never lied to you, Jocelyn. There were just things I didn't tell you because I wanted to be the one to make you happy. It was selfish and I'm sorry." She shoulders the bag and makes movement toward the door. "The real Lys always loved you, even if you could never love her," is quiet parting remark as she moves toward the ledge. She can't cry here, now. She'll do that soon, but not before she's with her lifemate and away.

Lys's apology falls on ears that aren't listening, even if Jocelyn physiologically hears it in the here-and-now. The unfortunate thing about the weyr being ''hers'' is that she doesn't have the luxury of running. So she turns away with a final, "Get ''out'', " frame shaking as Lys makes her exit. The fortunate thing about the weyr being hers; she ''can'' cry here, now. And she does, stumbling toward Aidavanth's couch as the queen lands moments after Lys is gone, pushing her way into their living space with whirling eyes that flash red-yellow. Curled tightly together, they remain there for an hour afterward, then two. At least with it being Jaine's night off, they have the rest of the day in which to try to pick up the pieces.
|Categories=Angst Logs
}}

Logs:Depressive Agents

2016-07-12T02:41:20Z

Jocelyn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Jocelyn, Silva |what=Depressed!Jocelyn and drunk!Silva finally have an honest conversation. |where=Garden Patio Ledge, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr..."

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn, Silva
|what=Depressed!Jocelyn and drunk!Silva finally have an honest conversation.
|where=Garden Patio Ledge, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=3
|month=4
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.11
|quote=I owe you a thanks.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn downcast.png, Icon Silva Sardonic.jpg,
|log=Tonight Silva is alone. She's curled herself into a ball in one of those niches. There's a bottle beside her but she's drinking it not-so-recklessly as she has been, and more like there's a scientific quality to her drinking. Never mind the fine sheet of snow, she's got a blanket tucked around her, and fluffy earmuffs are over her ears. Everything about her outfit is right up Silva's stylish ally but nothing is the white or pale colors she has always favored. Instead these snow clothes are deep black edged with blue and a dark green, Silva's face almost seeming ghostly as it shows above.

Jocelyn seems to have purposefully kept as low of a profile as a public figure can in the days following Aidavanth's flight, taking most of her meals in her weyr and otherwise leaving only to attend meetings and to fulfill the in-person requirements of her job. Accompanied by a stack of paperwork that looks impossible to surmount in one evening, she's chosen a seat on that bench on the ledge, head bent in what appears to be nothing more than total concentration on the sheets in her lap. Astute, nearby observers may notice that she hasn't picked up her pen to write anything in some minutes - and it's probably just as well, since the mostly-empty glass with a tiny amount of golden liquid still left in the bottom suggests she shouldn't be working on reports. Does she notice Silva out here, too? It's anyone's guess, although her lack of response to a passerby's quick, "Evening, weyrwoman, " seems to verify that she's not wholly present.

It's someone calling out to Jocelyn that brings Silva back from her own thoughts. She's skirting the edges of drunk, but she's not completely there yet. It's enough to make her loose but not... fall-over. She pulls herself up from her niche, hooking fingers around the bottle, and drifts over to where Jocelyn sits. Without permission the bluerider fills the goldrider's cup and settles herself across from the other wordlessly.

There's movement in front of her - a bottle, the tell-tale sound of more liquid hitting her glass - and somebody in dark winter clothing settling nearby. Goldrider training can be a helpful thing; certainly, it enables Jocelyn to compose her features quickly and give a neutral glance up and over to find Silva. Pale eyes consider the girl across from her for a long moment, and the redhead's expression wavers just a bit. Perhaps she can't trust herself to speak, for all she manages is a dip of her chin that may be as much thanks as a silent acknowledgment. She will, at least, put aside all pretense of getting some work done, neatly stacking everything together a safe distance from her now-refilled drink so that she can lift the glass for several sips. At some length: "You'll probably have a better chance of finding interesting company if you don't sit near me, you know." There's no bite, however; it's weary, flat and quiet.

Silva's laugh is low and dark without a hint of humor behind it. She doesn't gaze at the goldrider but instead keeps her eyes looking upwards as she leans on her arm. "I'm not looking for a partner tonight. Just testing a theory." One fingernail reaches out to tap against the bottle next to her. "How drunk can I get and still block Zaisyreth from feeling what I do?" There's an almost dream-like quality to her words.

Slowly, Jocelyn sets down her glass to better regard Silva, something resembling a frown tugging at her mouth. "You're worried that he'll worry for you, " she supposes, equally lowly, in lieu of the chastisement she probably would give the younger rider on one of her better days. "That's what beings who love you do. Worry. There's not much that can be done for it, really." Perhaps she's not talking about the same topic anymore, for her gaze swings to what's visible of the bowl below, expression distant.

"It was a mistake I made - to drink ''myself'' to oblivion- not thinking about him." Silva says the words easily enough. Her mind floats just outside of herself the drinking giving her just enough disconnect from reality. "But I won't do that again. Just to the edge. I owe you a thanks." She drops her gaze down to the woman in front of her fixing Jocelyn within her green gaze. Silva's usual fire is dampened, matching closely that of Jocelyn's energy levels.

''That'' pulls Jocelyn's attention back to her former classmate, eyebrows lifting slightly as their eyes meet briefly before her chin tucks inward in a gesture that looks defensive even if her words aren't. "You don't owe me anything, but I'm glad to hear that you're considering his well-being in your decision-making." There's a glance back for her glass, but she folds her arms and turns away from it, jaw setting.

"None the less, I thank you." She doesn't go into specifics but when Jocelyn pulls away Silva leans forward. One hand reaches out as if she would try to touch Jocelyn's face, but she stops short. Her sleeve falls back to show some of the bruises along that arm, spots of darkness against the otherwise pale skin. "You're not usually so quiet." A comment out of nowhere.

"I - fine. You're welcome, if that puts your mind at ease." There, a hint of her usual, sharp brevity. Blue-gray eyes slowly move to that half-extended hand, then up to the bruises that are now visible. "You're not usually so forthcoming, " the redhead says for Silva's last, reaching as if to grasp the other's hand in a tentative show of camaraderie. What she really aims to do, instead, is to ''look'', really look toward those dark spots marring the girl's skin. Finally; "Is this what you're trying to hide from Zaisyreth?"

Silva doesn't pull away, the drink having left her so relaxed that she doesn't try to hide the injuries this time. She turns her arm, looking at the marks, her smile only growing. "No, finally, he's with me - I just have to make sure he doesn't feel it like I do. But we weren't talking about me, were we?" Silva turns her gaze back to the goldrider. She knows nothing other then Jocelyn's quiet, "Why are you so quiet?"

"If he gets too achy in the same places, a dragonhealer would notice." Jocelyn offers that offhandedly, but the gentle squeeze she gives to the bluerider's hand is anything but; it's the sort of gesture one would make to silently tell someone that they care about what happens to them. For her question, there's a startled look. "What? Can't a person ''be'' quiet after they've had a drink?"

"Hum. I'll keep that in mind." Not that's she will STOP, but just keep it in mind. Reaching out Silva pats Jocelyn's hand before pulling away, returning herself to the careless lean on her own seat. "Oh, a ''person'' could, surely." Silva raises an eyebrow, her sardonic smile growing, "But I doubt ''you'' take it naturally. I'm sure I'm the ''last'' person you would confide in but I assure you the chances of me remembering much tomorrow are swiftly fading."

Jocelyn has a short laugh for Silva's assumption, straightening so that by the looks of her body language to people glancing their way, she might well be preparing to tell the bluerider off. It's quite at odds with the way she regards the brunette wryly, eyes dark with some unspoken amusement. "Hard as it may be to believe, you aren't the very last person I'd ever talk with about my - preoccupations." Gaze falling to her hands, which lace together in her lap, she says lowly, "I had a - falling out, if you can call it that, with a - good friend." She doesn't bother to disguise the unhappiness present with those last, two words.

"Really? If I remember this tomorrow perhaps I might have to change my perceptions." Silva rolls her gaze back to Jocelyn, looking the woman over from top to bottom. "A falling out? What happened?" She actually ''does'' sound like she wants to know.

"It's - " Complicated, but when are these sorts of things ever ''not''? Jocelyn inhales, tries again at the genuine display of interest from her companion. "There was a misunderstanding over something I said. At least, I think that's what sent the whole thing ''between''. I still don't really know what happened. I only said that I wanted what was best - not for me, but for ''them''. Somehow, it got translated as, 'this isn't what's best for Jocelyn' - and I don't think I'll have a chance to explain any farther." It's an awkward explanation at best, but certainly enough of one to gather that it's a deeply upsetting matter for the older rider.

Silva keeps her gaze on Jocelyn, never mind the hazyness ''of'' that expression. Silva's in the fog where she hasn't quite lost herself yet, but is ''just'' on the verge. Her head tilts sideways as she listens, and doesn't speak right away when her words stop. "Well." Another few beats. "You could say something. Try to make them understand. Or..." Silva reaches up to twist a lock of hair about her finger, "You could let it go." She doesn't say it, but the words are implied- she could let it go like Silva has.

"People don't generally tend to listen to explanations when they're scared unless they're in the infirmary looking for answers to ailments." It's a terse response, and one that has Jocelyn looking back out toward the ground below. "I - don't want to let go. It would be like - meeting Zaisyreth for the first time, growing to accept and understand one another, and realizing that you ''would'' walk away if he wished for such a thing because his happiness meant more to you than your own." The hand that reaches up to rub at her eye? Surely it's irritation from the breeze.

"Scared?" Silva blinks slowly as she parses her way slowly through that single word. It's hard enough that she almost misses the rest of what Jocelyn is saying. "I wouldn't let him go." Even the prospect is enough fear for ''Silva'' to bring herself back from the fuzzy edge she had been walking along. "Ever."

Jocelyn's resultant smile is an empty one, and she pushes up from her seat soon after. "So I think you'll understand, even in this state, when I say thank you for the suggestion, but it's unthinkable." Leaving her glass, she collects her impressive stack of paperwork and looks down at Silva for a moment. "Go safely, Silva." This time, when the next passerby greets her, she returns it, straightening her posture until she looks more like herself as she heads down to the bowl.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs talk:Confessions

2016-07-11T23:30:13Z

Jocelyn: Comment provided by Jocelyn - via ArticleComments extension

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

==Jocelyn (16:30, 11 July 2016 (PDT)) said... ==

The light at the end of the tunnel is surely a train. :o

*on the edge of seat*

Logs:Family Matters

2016-07-10T06:32:33Z

Jocelyn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Jocelyn, Mirinda |what=Jocelyn asks Mirinda for advice on suggesting a candidate deal with Monaco. |where=Mountain Meadow, High Reaches Area |involves=Fort Weyr, Hi..."

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn, Mirinda
|what=Jocelyn asks Mirinda for advice on suggesting a candidate deal with Monaco.
|where=Mountain Meadow, High Reaches Area
|involves=Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr, Monaco Weyr
|day=28
|month=3
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.08
|quote=I know that being sent to Monaco would not be your wish.
|mentions=Aishani, Cora, Irianke, K'del, Kyouri, Nimae, Oriane
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn in winter.png, Icon mirinda.jpg,
|log=Is it surprising for Mirinda and Zaisavyth that in the days following her first flight, Aidavanth reaches out to the pair with a request for some time in which their riders might visit? It's not quite a formal question, and not exactly ''not''. Likewise, the setting Jocelyn proposes for their meeting is one that's carefully been considered; although very much in the High Reaches region, this particular meadow among the mountains is just far enough removed from the weyr proper that it feels as if it belongs somewhere else entirely. It's a pretty place, and one that grows more appealing every day as the spring days take firmer hold with warmer breezes and the scents of freshly growing things. Checkered blanket at the ready with a selection of small snacks and a chilled skin nestled between two glasses, the younger goldrider sits back on her heels after laying out the little spread, dark trousers pressed uncaringly into the ground as she arranges and rearranges the cloth napkins, expression almost nervous as she glances up toward the afternoon sun from time to time.

Zaisavyth's response to Aidavanth is characteristically cool, most particularly - or so it seems - due to the location of the visit, her disapproval at having to leave what counts as ''hers'' blatantly clear. That it is rapidly tamped down is certainly something to do with her rider, and so a mulish, sulky response follows in time: they'll be there. Soon after the appointed time, Zaisavyth's sunstruck form appears, high above the mountains as if in making her descent, she might be properly admired from below. Mirinda's lips press together as they land, though the tell-tale vacant look in her eyes suggests it may have more to do with her queen than Jocelyn; in any case, the latter abruptly earns a warmer smile as the Weyrwoman turns her gaze that way, lifting one hand in greeting. "Jocelyn," she calls. "You're well, I hope."

Collected in the face of such a response, Aidavanth is surely aware of the other queen's arrival, whirling gaze lifting upward once the current holder of Fort's seniorship emerges. There's calm acknowledgment, a welcome extended while Zaisavyth's descendant, too, certainly looks well. She's a gleaming picture of excellent draconic health, hide bright in the wake of recent events and undoubtedly an oiling before she left her ledge. "Weyrwoman Mirinda, " returns Jocelyn with undisguised relief, pushing to her feet. "I'm as well as one ought to be after all of ''that'', I suppose. I'm glad you were able to make it." Something eases slightly in the set of her shoulders, and a little nod gets tipped toward the blanket in silent invitation. "I hope you don't mind the informality - or the setting. It seemed the least conspicuous of the options at hand." It's not quite an afterthought, but there's a pause before she hastily adds, "And you and Zaisavyth? I hope the turn has been kind to you both." ''Turn'', for it's been a little over so long since they've had an opportunity to ''talk''.

Has it been as much as a turn? It has, and the look on Mirinda's face - briefly horrified, then rather more resigned - acknowledges it. She climbs down, resting one controlling hand upon her queen's forelimb as she rights herself upon the ground: a warning, if ever there was one. Zaisavyth heeds it, at least, and though she swings her neck imperiously, she issues no other challenge. "We're well, thank you," she says by way of answer, as she approaches. "Though the turn has gone both too quickly, and not quickly enough; the way of things, I suppose. The informality is fine-- that is, it's good to get out of things, and always best not to overstay one's welcome at another Weyr." Especially with a queen like Zaisavyth. Her upwards glance towards Aidavanth is silent acknowledgement, further to her earlier query, of that recent flight, but Mirinda evidently elects not to pursue the topic immediately, and instead: "I'm glad to see spring."

Having settled that the informality isn't unappreciated, Jocelyn promptly seats herself cross-legged on the blanket, looking comfortable enough despite still being in her business casual from the morning. "I enjoy winters - less so when they're as frigid as this one was and people get a little restless. But spring isn't half bad. Welcome enough to most after the past few months, I daresay." She doesn't miss that look up at the orange-gold, who offers Mirinda a low-voiced, warm vocalization; all is well, so far as she's concerned. Never one for beating around bushes or getting carried away with small talking pleasantries, the redhead's hands clasp about her knees, expression turning determined. "We spoke once of - descendants and familial connections." It might be a rather abrupt segue. "I don't know how many eggs will come of Aidavanth's flight, or if all of them will hatch, " matter-of-factly, then earnestly: "but I stand by what I said before; I won't turn away Monaco-born candidates for them to stand with our own. I don't know how K'del or Irianke would feel about it, but I think it's - fair, somehow, and right, to propose to offer them the chance to Impress, to train here with us if they do, and to choose where they'd like to fly afterward."

Anything more Mirinda might say about winters - and her own evident distaste for them - goes unspoken, for the Monacoan-turn-Fortian goldrider is more inclined to focus on folding herself into a straight-backed seat across from Jocelyn, one hand pressed to each knee. There's an exhale - not sharp enough to be surprise or shock - to follow the younger goldrider's segue, followed almost immediately by a gentle inclination of her chin. "You might," she supposes, after a few moments, "do well to encourage it as a way of furthering the relationship resumed by Monaco's new-- no longer ''quite'' so new, that is-- Weyrleader. I would only caution not to allow Kyouri any rope with which to suggest you seek to take advantage of her Weyr to fill your sands." The dark-haired goldrider is serious, but that chin nudges forward again, as if to offer some tacit approval that she'll not venture to express in words.

Jocelyn looks very much as if she'd like to toss her head at the very notion of even seeming to take advantage of Monaco's resources, but perhaps it's the paucity of candidates for their last ''two'' clutches that stills that expression, turning it instead into a sharp nod. "We were notably concerned about filling our sands the last time, " the then-headwoman-turned-candidate says with a glance back toward her lifemate. "We'll need a robust group already present in the barracks so that there can be no suspicion on that front. Then again, there's the risk of it appearing as though we don't actually ''want'' them to have a chance of Impressing if they're a minority in the group." It's a testament to the younger weyrwoman's comfort with the other that she muses thusly aloud, lips pursing faintly. "It would be a good opportunity for them, too. With only one producing queen, if, as you've said, Evielth no longer rises, there are fewer chances for Monaco's promising young people to stand at home. She stands to gain some riders, or at worst, to lose some candidates who may age out of the eligible range before Torith is ready to fly again anyway." Pause. "You worked with her for a short time. Do you know enough of her to know which approach would best inspire a favorable reaction?"

Dark eyes consider Jocelyn, withholding comment until the younger woman has finished speaking, though there's genuine interest in her expression as to the contents of those thoughts. "Monaco has never been queen-heavy," Mirinda says, at length, the tone of her words suggesting that she's still working through what she means to say. "As a result, it is a smaller-than-usual Weyr, at least as far as northern Weyrs go. Monaco does not ''need'' more riders. Having said that," and she seems more certain, now, "Kyouri is isolated at Monaco. She arrived at a time of great disharmony; of ill-will towards her people. ''I'' would emphasise the building of bridges, though I warn she may have trade demands of her own. ''Benden''." It's a statement of that northern Weyr's politics, but a self-aware one: Cora's politics are not so terribly different to what Oriane's were, after all.

While listening, Jocelyn leans forward slightly to pour some of the contents of the condensation-beaded skin into one of the glasses, leaving it where it is in silent offer to Mirinda before serving herself in the other. It's a spring-cold water that must have been absorbing flavor from floating citrons and similar fruits, for there's a hint of flavor present without being overwhelming. "Benden, " repeats the High Reaches goldrider after a moment, brow knitting. "A ''good'' result from an accord on swapping candidates - unlike the deal that Nimae had with us when we thought we were only borrowing Irianke - would benefit Kyouri, too. But all of this speculation is for nothing if she isn't amenable to the idea in the first place." Fingers drumming impatiently atop one knee while the other presses the rim of her cup to her lips, the redhead inclines her head briefly after a long swallow. "Thank you for your help. Even if she thinks the idea not worth pursuing on that scale, I'd like to see some Monaco faces on our sands come hatching day, even if there are just one or two of them." A stubborn lift of her chin is given in emphasis, but the corners of her mouth lift, just a little.

Mirinda accepts the glass, though she transfers it from one gloved hand to another idly, rather than immediately lifting it to sip. A solemn nod confirms Jocelyn's words, teeth resting carefully upon her lower lip as she gives thoughtful consideration to the rest. "I do believe it is worth pursuing, Jocelyn," she says, simply. "Else I would not encourage it. I would encourage some of the youngest of my cousins to pursue the idea from Monaco, but… I do not think members of ''my'' family would necessarily send the correct message. It seems, to me, that we might all do well to exchange candidates more frequently. I wish you well with this. Mind…" A pause, and this time, the weyrwoman seems ever so slightly uncertain. "Tread carefully. It isn't that I think Kyouri would likely wish it-- a Monacoan-line queen-- but she is on her own. I know that being sent to Monaco would not be your wish."

There are little, concurring nods up until Mirinda's last. ''That'' gives Jocelyn due pause, and it's with great care that she sets her glass down, expression briefly shuttering. "Irianke mentioned Monaco once, while I was a weyrling. Some might view such an exchange as one that's ironically just. Send the High Reaches native to Monaco for the Vijay-partnered daughter we lost, get candidates in exchange and the two weyrs are left with an equal number of queens." A grimace follows, and the younger weyrwoman stares at the rim of her cup as if it might hold some profound nugget of wisdom before lifting her eyes to find Mirinda's again at some length. "You're right. I don't wish to leave. I'll be careful." Her gaze grows distant for a moment, followed by a renewed set to her jaw. "It doesn't ever get easier, does it, the conflict between the course of your own livelihood and what's best for your weyr." The lines of her features soften, then, arranging themselves into a look best called rueful before the small upturn to her lips is masked by her glass.

Mirinda's lips press together, tight and sharp, until a long breath is exhaled and released again; that's when she nods. "No," she confirms. "It never does. When you Impressed Aidavanth, you became a servant to not just your home, but to Pern itself; the same was true when I Impressed Zaisavyth. It's not an easy thing to reconcile with personal freedoms - I won't begin to imply that I have made my complete peace with it." She sips, then, and as she swallows her mouth turns up into something resembling a smile. "If it helps, I do believe Kyouri was relieved when Torith did not lay a queen in her most recent flight; it is my guess that she hopes, next time, for a Monacoan bronze to catch, so that she might possibly have a junior that is ''both'' Monacoan and ''hers''."

Jocelyn absorbs the older woman's words silently, eyebrows lifting faintly for the tail end of Mirinda's speculation. "If that's indeed what she would most like, I'm hardly a suitable - acquisition for her." Not when she's High Reaches through and through, and defers to her ''own'' superior more out of rank and duty than loyalty. "You've given me a lot to think about." There's an opening for her to say that she has another meeting, that she should depart in the natural ebb and flow of their conversation - but she nurses the beading glass in her hands instead, considering Fort's Weyrwoman over its rim. "I'll certainly keep you updated - and we'd both like to see you and Zaisavyth visit the eggs, before and while they hatch. In some tenuously connected manner, it'd be somewhat like having family present, I imagine." Her tone doesn't exactly waver, but she permits a note of uncertainty to appear just at the end, clearing her throat after.

Acknowledgement for that first remark comes in Mirinda's near-rueful smile, and the hint of amusement; she's well and truly aware of ''that'', and perhaps there is some humour to be found in the idea of Kyouri and Jocelyn, working together in a Weyr foreign to them both. It's as she lifts her glass to her lips for another sip that the latter part of Jocelyn's words reaches her ears, and though there's a gentle dip of her chin in immediate answer, it's that uncertainty afterwards that truly draws her attention. One hand drops to her knee, hesitant, as she says, "I would be honoured to be there. They will be Zaisavyth's descendants, and that makes them part of me, too - as you are." ''That'', that last, is firm, offered with a lift of eyebrows that seems intended as emphasis.

Jocelyn's clearly at least somewhat surprised by Mirinda's expression, and it shows in the way she carefully, awkwardly sets down her cup, lacing her fingers together in her lap. "Thank you, " she manages quietly, eyes ''very'' bright. "It - means a great deal. To both of us." So much so that she takes a few minutes to open up about her history and to ask for accounts of Monaco from the perspective of someone who's lived there nearly her entire life, who loves this other Weyr as much as she loves her own. When she eventually does pack up to depart, it's with sincerely delivered well wishes and a warm clasp of hands.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Comfortable and Honest

2016-07-10T06:22:38Z

Jocelyn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Edyis, Jocelyn, Edyis{{!}}Akluseth, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth |what=Pillow talk and confessions in the aftermath of Aidavanth's flight. |where=Jocelyn's Weyr, High Reac..."

{{Log
|who=Edyis, Jocelyn, Edyis{{!}}Akluseth, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth
|what=Pillow talk and confessions in the aftermath of Aidavanth's flight.
|where=Jocelyn's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=25
|month=3
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.10
|quote=So you and Lys. I would never have guessed.
|mentions=Lys, N'rek
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn wonder.png, Icon Jocelyn Aidavanth romance.jpg, Icon edyis.jpg, Icon edyis akluseth.jpg,
|log=Dark curls pool out in a fan over the pillows, the rise and fall of her chest still rapid as she lays there, the spell of the flight slowly wearing off as Edyis becomes aware of her surroundings. Clothes are strewn about the room like leaves and Edyis realizes awkwardly that the body she has an arm and leg tangled around still protectively belongs to none other than Jocelyn. The brownrider swallows hard. Her lifemate, however, cannot be more pleased with himself, content to curl up with his mate, sharing thoughts of shimmering blue currents and thousands of colorful fish dance along them contentedly. He will stay with her as long as she allows, tail twined over hers. At last, Edyis is brave enough to break the silence. "Are you okay?"

Jocelyn is still floating somewhere between asleep-and-not - at least until Edyis's question starts pulling her back to alertness, even if Aidavanth's ''satisfaction'' is still so very much present. She stiffens a little, under that arm and leg, and turns her head so that she can better stare at the brunette. "You're ... not Lys, " she says, clearly confused, a frown working its way over her visage before it begins to clear and turn to half-panic. "Edyis, oh Faranth." 'Awkward' might be the understatement of the turn to describe her expression as she just lays there, trying to ''process''. "I don't think you hurt me, if that's what you're asking, " she says at some length, shifting experimentally. "Just the - usual sort of soreness - " And even that trails off awkwardly, now that the brownrider probably has a pretty good idea of with whom she tends to experience the usual after-effects. Shaky inhale, shaky exhale; tentatively, "You're alright? Aidavanth's - pleased."

Dragon> To Akluseth, Aidavanth radiates drowsy ''satisfaction'', her warm, flowing presence all but restored to its usual humor. For his dancing fish, she adds little bubbles that float along with them, curled as closely about him as she can manage. He can, so far as she's concerned, stay every bit as long as he likes.

"No, I am not." Her expression becoming a mask, even as her fingers will make small soothing movements wherever they can touch the goldrider's skin. She studies Jocelyn quietly for a moment. "I don't just mean the physical side of it, though I am glad that I wasn't too rough." There's a smile at the question, "I've gotten pretty well accustomed to flights by this point. Akluseth too is pleased, more than even. I doubt you will be able to pry him from her ledge for a long time." She moves to plant a kiss lightly on the woman's forehead if Jocelyn allows it. "So you and Lys. I would never have guessed." Though perhaps it did explain a few things about the greenrider. "I suppose this is the part where we either decide to go a second round or talk very carefully about boundaries and expectations?"

Dragon> Bubbles and fish, lights dancing in the waves, that drowsy sense of contentment is there long after the brown drifts into a comfortable sleep, content at the side of his mate. (To Aidavanth from Akluseth)

It's easier to feel vulnerable in the aftermath of having let passions run their course, and perhaps that's why Jocelyn doesn't move away from the intended kiss, instead letting out a long, shuddering breath. "I don't know. I've never - there truly is no experience to equal it, is there?" And yet, there's something rueful that touches her expression after. "Even ''with'' someone you care about." Slowly, one hand lifts to brush against the other woman's shoulder in an experimental, almost-caress. "Do you want boundaries and expectations, Edyis? Is that what you normally implement with your partners?" They're quiet questions, followed by the search of brown eyes by bluer ones.

"No there is nothing quite like it because it's both halves of you rather than just one." The brownrider agrees gently. "Though that doesn't make those times with someone you care about mean any less." The caress draws a soft smile, though the question fades its edges. She pulls Jocelyn closer reaching to pull a blanket over both of them. She is silent for a while before she answers. "It isn't a question of want, but as far as expectations Akluseth's never sired a clutch before so I will need some guidance there." She pauses, somehow the moment allowing her to admit things she might not otherwise. "I fell in love with a man once, and neither one of us wanted to be the one who asked too much. We were both riders, both had duties to our respective weyrs. We passed it off as just sex but somewhere along the line, I fell in love with him without realizing it. We danced around defining what the rules and boundaries were and in the end I wound up hurting him and myself in the process." Those eyes as dark as ink glisten a little but the glisten does not become tears. "What I want is for you to always tell me if I cross a line Jocelyn. I want you to be comfortable enough to be honest with me. Tell me if you want or need anything of me. I swear to do my best to abide it."

"Aidavanth's never produced a clutch before, " says Jocelyn, mouth twitching faintly, "so we'll both be learning as we go along. I have a general idea of how to proceed, but I don't know yet how ''she'' will be when they arrive." There's a glance off in the direction of the outer portion of her weyr, followed by a little shrug for wherever the dragonpair may have settled. "These things are always - difficult, " she responds slowly after Edyis finishes her account. "I can't say I've done any better. I asked for too much, too soon and no matter how ''much'' I do care, it ultimately hasn't been very fair. To either party." Carefully, the redhead turns onto her side without pushing Edyis's arm and leg away, the better to regard the other rider. "I'm not very good at this sort of thing, but I'd hazard a guess that we're both being - at least somewhat comfortable and rather honest, right here and now." Another look tips over to some of the tattoos within her field of vision, before considering their owner soberly. "''Your'' wants are equally important. What - do you want?"

The response causes Edyis's own mouth to twitch in kind. The dance of flames up her ribcage, The knotted oak on the back of her shoulder, each one tells a story, each one a work of art. Edyis traces a thumb delicately over the pale line of Jocelyn's jaw. Leaning in she attempts to press her own mouth against Jocelyn's for just a moment before; "I am up for exploring all kinds of options, or not exploring them as the case may be, and right now I would very much like the honor of pleasuring you again."

Surprised, it takes Jocelyn a moment to react to that brief meeting of lips, but she manages to faintly return the peck before Edyis resumes speaking. Gently, questing fingertips extend to trace what she can reach of the outline of those flames before the redhead gives an almost-embarrassed exhale, a little smile. "I'm honored that you see it as an honor, " she quips. "I'd - like that, too. Being close again after what we've shared. Exploring. I don't know what time your duty begins tomorrow, but if it's easier to fall asleep here while they're similarly occupied, I won't mind." Poor Jaine already has multiple surprises awaiting her in the morning.

The invitation is all that Edyis needs, content to indulge in that gentle exploration and fall asleep in Jocelyn's bed. Poor Jaine indeed.
|Categories=Post-Flight Logs
}}

Logs:Liftoff

2016-07-10T04:41:48Z

Jocelyn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Edyis, Ja'son, Jocelyn, Kh'tyr, L'sha, Quint, Quint{{!}}T'zur, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, Edyis{{!}}Akluseth, Ja'son{{!}}Hephaisth, Kh'tyr{{!}}Mograith, Quint{{!}}Tzive..."

{{Log
|who=Edyis, Ja'son, Jocelyn, Kh'tyr, L'sha, Quint, Quint{{!}}T'zur, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, Edyis{{!}}Akluseth, Ja'son{{!}}Hephaisth, Kh'tyr{{!}}Mograith, Quint{{!}}Tziveth
|what=Aidavanth's maiden flight disrupts the High Reaches dinner hour.
|where=Jocelyn's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr, Benden Weyr, Ista Weyr
|day=25
|month=3
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.09
|quote=What, don't we get an eyeful for the price of admission?
|weather=Heavy rain in the middle of winter only means that the temperature is only a few degrees above freezing; it's more miserable for the soaking torrents.
|mentions=Farideh, F'reah, Irianke
|type=Log
|ooc=Warning: allusions abound. The suggested theme for flight poses was 'sci-fi / fantasy / cult favorite franchises' - and we ran with it with nods to The Abyss, Doctor Who, Foundation, Highlander, Hitchhiker's Guide, Mass Effect, Pokemon, The Princess Bride, Stargate, Star Trek and Star Wars. Feel free to add your preferred icons!
|icons-new=Icon edyis.jpg, Icon Jocelyn shocked.png, Icon kh'tyr.jpg, Icon l'sha.jpg, Icon quint.jpg, Icon Jocelyn Aidavanth proddy.png, Icon edyis akluseth.jpg, Icon kh'tyr mograith.gif,
|log=Those with dragons in the Snowasis may gradually begin to grow aware of a low, curling tension that's wholly separate from what the weyrfolk are experiencing tonight. Has it been there all day? It's hard to tell, although it increases rapidly into the very palpable sensation of something warm and ''bright'' that telepathically spreads itself over the Weyr. In the living cavern, an increasingly preoccupied Jocelyn stops pushing food around her plate to go very still, expression suddenly startled. Those in the bowl are about to get quite the show; Aidavanth, brilliantly luminous with more than just the frequent oiling of the past several days, awakens and appears on her ledge stretching luxuriously, even provocatively with arching neck and spreading wings. Her rider doesn't have much time to give a panicked look around, to grab the sleeve of the nearest rider and tell them to make sure Irianke and Farideh ''leave'' before she makes a run for the bowl. There will be time later for apologies and 'I told you so's'; for now, the redhead sprints through the rain, barely reaching the stairs up to the weyrleader complex before the queen is suddenly airborne, barreling toward the feeding grounds where several resident males have already begun their hunts.

Dragon> A familiar presence is here, nearby. He is subtle, as always, just a dimming of the mental landscape at first, slowly but surely quashing the noise of other thoughts as his grows more noticeable, dark trendrils seeking her. Tziveth watches, hidden in the rain. (To Aidavanth from Tziveth)

Edyis manages to step up near the foreigners catching a snippet of the conversation. "Hey, don't I know you." Stepping up to the outside of the group, reaching to tap the Benden rider on the shoulder. Except that, her eyes go distant and an "Fuck" Escapes. "Fucking brown." Whatever had drawn her attention she's now darting out into the rainy bowl. In the Bowl warm waves dappled with sunlight are shared the taste of the ocean coloring the adventurous brown's thoughts. << You look lovely. >>

There's the characteristic pause and unfocused eyes from L'sha that indicates that he's speaking with his dragon. "Rillaeth says that Aidavanth is about to rise." And sure enough, riders are suddenly scrambling outside. He sees Edyis rush outside and calls to her, "Good luck, Edyis! Hmmm, should I go out and watch from the patio? It's coming down pretty hard out there. Maybe we can get an umbrella or something."

It's always hard to say if being ignored in an increasingly busy drinking establishment is an intentional slight or accident. Kh'tyr's eyes draw to Ja'son only after T'zur has the good manners to reply to the other rider. His eyes swiftly rake the younger man, "Tightpants," he dubs the other rider with a slightly narrowed gaze (nevermind if his pants aren't especially tight), "Pay attention," as if he'd been with them all along, "We are scoping out the room," he spreads his hands in an unnecessarily large gesture to frame different tables - including, briefly, the one at which the harper and greenrider sits, "in the guise of assessing business. But now that I've explained..." His tone implies it's all ruined. "Where's my drink?" he demands of no one as he turns back to the bar. "Aw, shell," is a half-growl that has him dropping his head toward the bar top, only to straighten before it touches. "Where is my drink," is no longer a question, but a plaintive hope.

There's something bemused about the way that T'zur regards Ja'son, though whatever causes the expression is kept to himself. Instead, he tucks gloves neatly into his jacket, eagerly waiting for his glass when the bartender returns -- at least until he gets that tap on the shoulder. "Mm?" curious, blank expression is turned on Edyis; there might be a flicker of recognition -- but it's gone instantly as gaze goes distant. "Ah," he exhales, mouth twisting. When the bartender sets down the glasses, he snatches the first one (sorry, Kh'tyr!), practically gulping down the contents of the glass, tosses just enough coins onto the bar to make up for it, and pushes straight. "Follow the crowd, I guess?" to his fellow foreigners, trailing in the wake of that female brownrider. Tziveth is, for his part, largely silent -- there's no bellowy challenges or such. Instead, his thoughts creep out, subtly, extending outwards, making his presence felt in the movement at the corner of the eye, and the dark that lurks at the edges.

As Hephaisth makes his move unfolding his bulk like a wind-up toy, Ja'son throws back his head and starts to ''laugh''. "Oh that bastard F'reah is going to get it in his ''eye''. 'Punishment Duty'." A snort for that as he shoves himself up from his seat and winks at the bartender. "You just keep hold of that whiskey for now, aye? If I'm not back in a hour just give it to some poor smuck, coutsey of a lucky, lucky, ''lucky'' man. Shall we men?" And he'll keep in pace with the other two so they can follow the native brownrider. Hephaisth bloods a kill, his mind a maze of machinery, and his voice like the clank of gears turning over one another as if counting down to the ''real'' event.

"Aidavanth?" Quint echoes L'sha with an exhale, fingers tightening momentarily on his glass. "Ah," he adds, in a low whistle, like ''something'' suddenly makes sense. He regards the foreign riders in a new light, eyes narrowing like he's assessing them differently, now. "I'd-- yes, that's a good idea. Mind if I join you? Perhaps you can tell me who the chasers are?" he asks L'sha, starting to rise. "And -- maybe take the bottle? I think we'll need it." He's taking his glass, for certain.

Dragon> Though Kh'tyr might only now be realizing what Mograith must already have known, there's a brief flash of triumph, of victory - not the most important kind, what with ''that'' battle of wills and wants not yet begun, but the chance for that second comes from this first win. There's a dangerous sense of something primal having slipped the leash, and the faint sound of raucous, cruel laughter when his rider's barely breathed words, "Curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal," are hooked into that malevolent glee and shared with the rest. (To local dragons from Mograith)

Aidavanth's focus is singular; swooping low, she makes quick work of not one, but ''two'' ex-members of the High Reaches herd, tearing into both one right after the other. She's frenzied in her hunger, eyes awash in crimson. Jocelyn, who's bolted to the very back of her weyr with an adrenaline-fueled glare for the armoire as if wondering if she'd fit inside of it, clenches her fists and jaw. In the feeding pens, Aidavanth screams in all of a rising queen's usual fury before lowering her muzzle to each beast's neck in turn. If she can't ''eat'', she'll at least drain them dry before going in pursuit of a third, burnished hide gleaming through the rain.

Akluseth has been waiting for this, the fire licked brown already has his muzzle buried in the throat of a wherry, the sticky drip of ichor dripping down his chin as he drinks. Every muscle in his frame wound tight as a spring, his thoughts the shift and swell of a depthless ocean sinking deeper and deeper into the cool dark. The flicker of lights and glowing shapes hinted at through the deep waters. For the others who dare to vie for that golden warmth, Akluseth only has the boundless chill of the ocean depths. The ghosts of ships lost to the deep looming in the gloom. The promise of ruin.

Flight jacket unbuttoned, Edyis's steps bear her to where believes she will find the Jr. Weyrwoman. She smells of spiced rum, and her cheeks and exposed throat are flushed with something other than cold. "Jocelyn." Is soft, but she maintains her distance watching the Goldrider where she stares at the furniture. "Jocelyn." There's an apology in the word.

Hephaisth's hide is like that of the inside of a really well worked fireplace, dark and bronzed with time and the heat of the fire. His awkwardly proportioned body does the job well enough, flicking blood from the herdbeast as he keeps an eye on the gleaming queen. He'll take a moment to size up the competition also, gears whirling in ever more complicated connections to find ''just'' the right one.

Dragon> To Tziveth, Aidavanth's presence ''tilts'' and ''splashes'' dangerously. She's on a one-way course to a precipice she's never directly experienced. Is he just going to ''watch'' the entire time?

The rain makes it near-impossible to see, doubly so when you're in a foreign weyr. And while logic would dictate that T'zur don his helmet to protect his head from the weather, he's clearly got ''other'' things on his mind, such that, by the time he trails Edyis towards the appropriate ledge and follows it into shelter, his hair is plastered to his head. He looks neither left nor right, not as soon as pale gaze settles on Jocelyn; he exhales a breath, smiles, and steps closer. Not ''invasively'' close, but... he's there, hovering just out of sight, and he wants her to know it, too. Tziveth is done watching, done waiting. He's bidden his time, and the threads of his planning have been thrown out; whether they seek their mark or not remains to be seen. Gracefully, the small Benden bronze lifts into the air, unperturbed by the weather, seeking an appropriately sized buck. The kill is swift and bloodied, ivory-white talons sinking into flesh to choke out the life while his jaw snaps to the neck for blooding. The second is just as swift as the first, as is the third; and while his gaze may not be on Aidavanth, his brooding, dark presence hovers there, stretching towards her, seeking all the while.

Ja'son manages to be one of the first of the strange-bronzers here-just-for-the-flight-because-they-are-lucky-like-that and while the brownrider steps into the room directly, Ja'son does his best to slip around T'zur and put himself and his easy smile right into the doorway. "Why don't we give the lady some room, aye? Watch from here?"

Dragon> No, indeed, for Tziveth is ''done'' with watching. The black depths of his thoughts spiral, heating all unintentionally by her nearness, while the tendrils of his shadows strain and stretch, seeking her, seeking the ''core'' of her. He will know her; he will know who she is and what she desires. (To Aidavanth from Tziveth)

The pale brown is a wraith in the storm, diving to collect carcass-to-go before sweeping to the muddy ground. Mograith's blooding is as beautiful as the weather. The heavy rain drives away the gore that would otherwise cling to his maw as he rends the beast enough to get his mouth to the juciest places. He doesn't stop at one, though the second has a little more fight despite his predatory grace in the moment of the catch, trying to take as much as the beast has to offer while the thing's heart still beats - no mercy or gentility to the way he lets it bleed out into his mouth.

Kh'tyr arrives after the other foreigners, having stayed for that damned drink before trailing the crowd. He doesn't take care with his boots here, in point of fact, he tracks as much mud as will readily come with them into Jocelyn's weyr with little care that he's a dripping mess in her personal abode. As much as there's something dangerous to the feel of Mograith's mind, the humor seems to have left Kh'tyr in the waking of flight feelings, and there's something almost hateful in the way his otherwise lusty gaze searches for the redhead (whose fault this is, clearly).

Discarding her third kill with a cry that's both challenge and surety, Aidavanth tosses her head and springs upward, enormous wings pushing her higher and higher still. Altitude seems to be her first objective, and she climbs well until the spindles fall away below her, ''out of her way''. With the quick energy of blood and the flavor of flesh, if not its texture, some of her frenzy abates - enough for her to smooth her course, leveling out after some minutes to carve a wide orbit about the skies above her home. Is she on some sort of trek for the stars, boldly going forth in a blaze of incandescence?

Jocelyn probably ''hears'' Edyis, but gives no sign that she's listening, not until there are more voices, more footsteps, more ''people''. "Get ''out'' of my bedroom!" are the welcoming, rapidly bitten out words the goldrider hurls at the brownrider, at other incoming riders who come into view, arms folding across her chest. "The line must be drawn ''here''! There's another room over ''there'' you can very well stand in."

Fire licked and liquid all at once powerful muscles release all tension and Akluseth launches into the air, gaining altitude with every stroke of the brown's rippled wings. His thoughts now are laced with dancing glowing shapes, alien in their beauty as they drift on the currents. Those thoughts reach for the orange gold queen, inviting, protective even. His wings thrash violently against the air in the driving rain, up, and up and up after the glowing queen. A roar echoing out in a challenge to these invaders. Ink-dark eyes focus on the ones who have followed her and there is something decidedly fierce in the brownrider's gaze, if not downright territorial. "Marching into your bedroom is not what I had in mind ." Is growled low in that soft soprano, but then dark eyes are glaring at the ''poachers''. "If you are going to throw something though, better them than me."

The gears abruptly fall into place, lighting up the seven key icons, and bursting forth with blue light. Hephaisth leaves his blooded kill below and launches himself towards the sky. His mind is quick now that the plan is set in motion, his wings and body working like a perfectly constructed machine for splitting between space (and of course), time. He follows without words - for now - though his flight is straight. Ja'son reaches out to try to put his hands on the chests of the brown and bronze riders not-from here - he is PROBABLY going to get punched in his perfect blond face for this, and continuing to smile, "Why don't we just go wait outside, like the lady said?" There's a bit of an edge to his voice.

The rain serves a secondary purpose, besides concealment: it sluices the blood from Tziveth's messy kills, leaving only his dark, near-black shade. He is satiated, waiting, watching -- and when the moment comes he is ready, with the patience of someone who has planned for this moment. Upwards, he surges, with beats of his wings, his speed on par with that of the larger browns, falling behind the larger bronzes. This early set back doesn't seem to otherwise deter him, however: he knows his strength set amongst the others are akin to giants amongst children; such things he's seen again and again, cycle after cycle. For now, he's thrust in the middle of the pack, always mindful of Aidavanth's location, and ever seeking with the dark tendrils of his thoughts. Eventually, even stars die out and become blackness; what is old can be reaved and made anew, and a new cycle might find a brighter future.

T'zur isn't deterred by the goldrider's words. Small, they are, words -- it is deeds that determine the suitability of survival. He folds arms across his chest, daring to edge into the boundary she's set -- leaning over and eyeing the bed with a twitch of lips. "It will do. The rest are unworthy, however, and will fall as they always do." When Ja'son pushes at him, his teeth bare, his arms unfolding and shoving back. "Really, now. You're a child, you know nothing."

Time for some thrilling heroics. Mograith's coiled muscles loose their tension in an upward shot that has angular frame cutting through wind as he twists into the sky, wings unfurling. He's not the largest chaser, not by far, nor the smallest, but he seeks a course that nimbly swerves through others, narrowly avoiding another brown in the pack to levy a spot in the chase that is above the pack (until she gains more altitude), if a little to the back as cost for the advantages of height and a little more room to maneuver.

"A big damn hero, that's what you are," Kh'tyr growls at Ja'son's well-intended advice. Of course, that's growled as he angles to brush past the lot of them and wedge himself through that door. "What, don't we get an eyeful for the price of admission?" He (wisely) heckles the goldrider within, even if he's not made it to or through the door yet.

Reveling openly in her strength, her power, the way she can put more distance between herself and the dark sets of wings somewhere behind her, Aidavanth pushes on as if guided by some inner force, banking abruptly to the right to dive through the nearest cloud. Between the nebulous formation and the rain, it may well be trickier to track her for a few minutes. She moves with the grace of one who has honed her movements to best take advantage of her size, presence all but vibrating with a low hum. They're not too weak to seek her power, are they, these others who are pledged to pursuing her for the moment? There, another challenging trumpet as she climbs a bit more, levels out with a triumphant lash of her tail.

"You're all acting like children, " snaps Jocelyn, who despite herself, has to unfasten the top button of her collar as her forehead grows damp with perspiration. "We have a ''code'' of acceptable behavior and this is not it. Let me make this simple for you; see the room that's ''not'' dark? That's the side you should be on." And she makes a shooing motion with one hand, even as her words trail off into a half-mumble, eyes squeezing shut.

Hephaisth grinds out a challenge to the others around him - perhaps catching some of his rider's good-ish-natured jibing. (Which is about to turn less good natured, but that's not important, right?) What is IMPORTANT is that he has the ''answer'' to the greatest question Aidavanth could ever ask. She just has to let him get close enough so that he can crunch out the question for her to read back to him.

Ja'son sighs lightly, as if the two have just ''inconvenienced him''. "It's really too bad, but ''I'' asked politely, ''she'' asked not-so-politely, let's just make the after a bit more pleasant, right?" And despite the calm charm in his words he goes from trying to gentle them out to straight up hooking a punch at T'zur which will ''hopefully'' push him into Kh'tyr... and out of the room. Because they wouldn't want to break the nice lady's things, RIGHT?

Observe, note and judge. Only then shall Tziveth interfere. And yet... ''yet'', something makes him snap towards Hephaisth's tail, though he's for all intents and purposes stuck behind the other bronze. He misses Aidavanth's dive into the cloud, and loses sight of her; his frustration can be felt in the twitching tendrils of shadow, seeking, ''searching'' for her. His entire purpose thwarted by an unworthy foe, his frustration is bellowed out into the night sky. She is ''worthy''; she must be raised up and made true.

T'zur's chin lifts, mocking features surfacing as he regards Ja'son, "And you are ''who'' to decide? You are ''unworthy''. Your Weyr is nothing more than petty, barely sentient club-beaters. Your line will not continue, and well for the future of our race." And meanwhile, whilst he's busy speechmaking, Ja'son's busy ''doing''; he doesn't even notice that fist coming towards his face until the last minute; there's a ''crack'' and a cry of pain, and the Bendenite goes stumbling ''backwards'', into whomever might be behind him. "Ffffff," is about the only noise he has.

This is the kind of flying that the rippled orange-brown loves, He may not be as large but what he lacks in size he makes up for with sheer daring, matching her twist for twist, dive for dive and climb for climb, careful to keep himself away from claws and collisions with the others. Even with the scolding provided by Jocelyn, once fists start flying it's clear that the brownrider isn't going anywhere near that mess. She does stay well away from Jocelyn however. "Forgive me, but I really would rather not get sucked into that." Gesturing at the flying fists. But hey it's not a goldflight without a few punches right.

It's probably only the focus of the hunt, the driving need that presses Mograith to continue on and the lure of the gold to begin with that has this brown ignoring the rain. Just because he can ignore the persistent pelting of drops as he flies doesn't mean he can afford to ignore what the storm does to the air currents and that becomes his secondary focus, to use them, only vaguely familiar as they might be, to gain some speed in his pursuit of the gold. As she banks, he loses sight of her, but doesn't dive, as others might. It's a gamble, but it pays off when she climbs again and he makes quick work of maneuvering himself to a place that offers a better advantage in the chase.

Kh'tyr stumbles (and thus out of any turf he'd gained on that doorway) when T'zur rebounds into him, but he's not so ineloquent as T'zur ends up, so perhaps for both of them, he turns in toward Ja'son to take a solid swing at the Istan as he pronounces, "Well, my days of taking you seriously are certainly coming to a middle," as if he'd met the blond more than an hour ago.

At some point as her journey continues, Aidavanth has to assess those still in pursuit, crowing when first one of the smaller out-of-weyr browns, then another drops from the pack after they miscalculated their trajectories. In a battle of wills, however, that momentary slowing to see who's nearby costs her; she turns and pushes her way upward again, seeking to gain just a little more height. She's finally flagging, however, and there's a frustrated cry to reflect her state as her next few beats waver slightly. Whoever has their pinions in the right place at the right time has at least one advantage going for them: They'll be the very best, like no one ever was. All they need to do is carry them both across the Weyr, far and wide. And catch her, of course.

Had Jocelyn recognized the signs before Aidavanth rose, she might have had a chance to protect her weyr from devastation. Uniting everyone into her standards of acceptable behavior, however? Lost cause, as her weyrlinghood lessons will undoubtedly remind her in the morning. As her eyes finally open to take in the tableau, they're less focused on the fighting and more focused on ''them''. Her eyes travel to each in turn, pupils dilated with shared desire and eyes narrowing in calculation with what little wit she has left to her. She can denounce them until the bovines go indoors, but that she'll have to extend a reach toward one or another ''soon'' seems imminent.

Hephaisth is ready - more than ready - for this journey to reach it's terminus. The goal is in sight and he's angling down on it just as clearly as if he was a psychohistorian who had plotted this well in advance. (Never mind the inherent inaccuracy of judging the future by the past.) His gears click into a higher drive as he dives himself after the gold in his pathway, one goal in mind win!

Ja'son waves out his hand from the punch, mission get-the-jerks-out was totally a success. Except for the fact that one of them is closing in on him. He ducks ''just'' enough to avoid a face-punch, but Kh'tyr totally connects to the side of his head. "Dammmmnnnn man, you got a serious hook on that! Ear is totally going to ring for a while now." He rubs at it, stepping back into the doorway proper to keep it covered up until the gold DOES make her choice. Unless someone punches him cold. Which... would be really awkward for the winning couple to deal with. Just sayin'.

Wibbly wobbly timey wimy timing comes down to these last few stretches as Akluseth takes advantage of his position in attempt to twine his tail with hers, wings beating with the very last of his energy as the desire to fall overtakes them. He reaches and reaches for her. As for Edyis, she leans cooly against the wall, the rapid rise and fall of her chest and flush of her face suggesting the anticipation of the flights end. There can be only one.

Tziveth's frustration isn't abated by the expected blood. Instead, that frustration is fuel for him -- spotting the golden Aidavanth again -- seeking to outstrip the other chasers. He's flagging behind the larger bronzes, but he ''won't'' be undone -- his purpose must, ''has always'' been fulfilled, and this flight will be no exception. He will seek the core of the lovely gold, will ''know'' her thoughts and desires. They will be one.

T'zur is oblivious to the fight going on around (over?) him, spitting out blood all over Jocelyn's nice clean floor. This is clearly all the Istan's fault. He manages to rock back onto his knees, blood running from his nose and lips, wiping the back of his hand across it. His face is a tight snarl, pushing with effort to his feet, undaunted by the momentary sway. That ''ass'' of an Istan is in the way. But also, the Fortian. She's back there somewhere, and he wants to be there ''now'', and so he sets about shoving blindly.

Mograith would never tell ''this'' lady that she's his kind of stupid, but he might think it, quietly. There's that glee when her slowing costs her. That's when the predator living in the skin of this pale, angular brown shows to his best advantage. Sleek and agile, he take the route that puts him as close to Aidavanth as he can get, using his smaller-than-bronzes frame to slip past some claws. ''Normally'', if someone tried to kill him, he'd try to kill them right back, but the way a claw scratches across his spine doesn't ''quite'' count as trying to kill and there's a more important goal here. With a twist and a roll, he seeks to ensnare the gold.

Strange, probably, that a man can go from punching a guy to reaching to try to pinch that no doubt still stinging cheek of Ja'son's, to say only, "Your mouth's still talking, you might want to look to that," before he's shoved and jostled by the blindly shoving Benden. His jaw clamps like he might like to say more, his feet move like he might like to get out of the way, but apparently enough of him is still with Mograith that that part of him won't allow him to just ''step aside'' in a moment like this, so jostled and shoved, Kh'tyr doesn't really try to make any room for the younger man. Too bad, T'zur.

Aidavanth struggles only briefly once wings and tails begin fouling with her own. She's able to wrest herself free of the first and the second, but the third attempt truly is a lucky one; here's hoping Akluseth has the stamina to keep them both afloat while at long last, she indulges in the feelings that have had several days to build, enthusiasm bobbing from her watery thoughts to his as she grips the brown tightly to her. She's too sexy for her straps - and for the others as they begin their descent, together.

And Jocelyn? There will be room for mortification later. For now, she's unbuttoning the remainder of her blouse, cheeks high in color as she marches up to Edyis, expression brazenly triumphant. "I bet marching into my bedroom ''is'' on your mind, now." And she tilts her chin to meet the brownrider's with the aim of landing a fierce, thorough kiss. The bloody men might have something to watch if they don't clear out soon.

Hephaisth had totally and completely been focused on the gold body, but when it is TAKEN, his machine-like mine snaps, the gears grinding to a halt and moving backwards. Backwards until he notices - WHAT THE CRAP SOMEONE BIT HIM ON THE TAIL. Obviously, this is why he lost. Can't do the dance if he's got broken equipment. Spiraling away he's totally going to get away from the jerk that attacked him. Jerk. Ja'son can just walk through the rain to find him!

Ja'son really really really was going to hold his ground. But the brownrider is able to shove him out of the way... just in time for the choice to be made - and it is TOTALLY not him. "Woah, nelly, let's go buy a drink man." As the flight fog lifts Ja'son is going to remember the glass waiting for him. "PIck up some chicks. Ain't nothing here for us." He sounds like someone's best-friend.

To the victor go the spoils, and Akluseth's wings do the work they are meant to as necks and tails twine, her watery thoughts attuned with his own. Whatever Edyis had expected, that kiss is met, and returned with an equal fierceness as hands fumble to free her prize from her clothes.

A bellow of frustration marks Tziveth's failure, turning as tightly as he can manage, and woe whoever might be in the way of flexing talons as he ''escapes''. The small bronze begins his descent through the rain, exhaustion lining his features as he seeks the stability of the ground below.

Well, would you look at that. While T'zur was busy trying to get ''in''to the doorway, someone else won. He makes an inarticulate sound, gives Ja'son another shove for good measure. Scowling at the Istan, he turns and stomps out, dripping blood all the way. Maybe he's going to the infirmary, and maybe to drinks with his seconds-ago-arch-enemy; who knows!

Mograith's loss is expressed in a primal half-roar half-shriek that is equal parts rage and disappointment. He reaches a claw to swipe, but the gesture is curtailed before it has any chance of reaching anyone - the lucky winner, the gold or any of the other losers now sharing the sky with him. There's another sound of outrage for that, but perhaps in spite of how things have worked out, Mograith will take comfort in knowing he's still flying and even if that's not much, it's enough.

Kh'tyr's grinning like a fool with the privilege of getting to ''walk away'' from this goldrider's bower. Mograith may be upset, but clearly Kh'tyr is not. It's a damn fine shindig now, and that warrants a drink, which is where his feet will swiftly lead him.
|Categories=Flight Logs
}}

Logs:Dragon Spas

2016-07-09T22:13:19Z

Jocelyn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Jocelyn, Lys, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, Lys{{!}}Evyth |what=Aidavanth is uncomfortable. So is Jocelyn. Lys and Evyth help. |where=Jocelyn's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |in..."

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn, Lys, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, Lys{{!}}Evyth
|what=Aidavanth is uncomfortable. So is Jocelyn. Lys and Evyth help.
|where=Jocelyn's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=22
|month=3
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.08
|quote=<< You should warn Lys. It's been '''that''' kind of day. >>
|mentions=Jaine
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn headache.png, Icon lys playful.jpg,
|log=Afternoon visits are a special occasion. Though no time is verboten for visiting, it's the nature of the lives of dragonriders-- weyrwomen and wingriders alike-- to be occupied with professional matters from the time the klah kicks in in the morning until the evening meal. It is not unusual for Evyth to reach for her golden sister, but the reason for this brush of her cheerful mind with the usual cacophony of delicious smells and good feelings is out of the ordinary. << If Jocelyn has finished with her meeting, Lys has the afternoon tray from the kitchen, >> is a sweetly offered, subtle question of permission for her rider to take up some of her lover's time. There's just the slightest hint of something tart at the edge of Evyth's touch which speaks of a tolerant, private amusement - which probably means whoever Lys got the tray from wasn't wholly willing to surrender it but was "convinced" one way or another.

Aidavanth always welcomes contact with sister-and-friend Evyth, and today is little different; certainly, there's an interested ripple that makes to carry the yummy smells and the concept of a ''treat'' back to her rider. A reply pings back a short time after, vaguely blurry at the edges as if it's something peered at from above the smooth, layered surfaces of water and glass. << She says Lys should go in and leave the tray on the table. >> And a half-second later, to dispel any half-notion that it might be a dismissal: << Jocelyn is going to take a nap and wonders if she'd like to join her. >> It carries with it an echo of a memory from the last seven, a flash of candlelight, a pool of clothing left in the doorway, and a view of two pairs of feet from one's owner, who is clearly happy to see them so entwined. Privately, where her rider can't hear: << You should warn Lys. It's been ''that'' kind of day. >>

<< Alright, >> comes Evyth's easy reply to the first and the last receives an equally private, << Ooh, >> of mingled sympathy and understanding. Surely, that message will be passed along. Lys must've already been near with the tray for it doesn't take long for the soft-stepped blonde to slip into Jocelyn's sleeping chamber, no tray in hand, but a single mug, the lid covering over whatever herbs must be steeping in the metal ball with its fine grates to hold in the herbs but release the flavor. Tea is hardly a herald to a reprise of pools of clothing and candlelight, but it probably brings its own sort of comfort to see her appearing with it. It must be her day off for rather than leathers, Lys wears a slouchy, comfortable sweater that fall to mid-thigh and a pair of dark leggings tucked into her sloppily tied boots.

Robe half-tied and expression best called peevish, Jocelyn's look of annoyance begins to resolve into ''weariness'' once she walks out of the bathing room to see Lys, with tea. "You're wearing too much, " she grumbles while tugging back her sheets to settle underneath them with a grimace, flinging her robe carelessly somewhere off to a corner. "Aidavanth said you were bringing a tray. ''That'' is a cup. But you're here, thank Faranth. The mood swings have been worse than usual this month. I all but fired Jaine twice this morning, but she had the good sense not to take me seriously." Her tone is rather plaintive near the end, followed by a softer: "Can you stay a bit? You look - you didn't have duty today, did you."

Lys' lips tease into a curl of suppressed amusement paired with the affection she never hides in private for the goldrider. It might be that she finds such peevish looks still endearing. "The tray is out there, on the table," which may not be the table intended, but, "I thought you might like to start with tea." Only the necessity of putting down the steeping beverage to free her hands delays the blonde in approaching the redhead, her warmed hands rising to cup her face and kiss her lightly before her fingertips take a meandering route down her neck and shoulders with relaxing strokes and light massaging. "I can stay. Day off. And I promise not to take you seriously should you decide to all but fire me while I'm here," she adds the gentle but bright tease before angling to enfold Jocelyn in her arms for some moments.

Any disagreeable noise Jocelyn may make in the beginnings of another mutter gets swiftly silenced once Lys's warm hands and light kiss find their target, and the redhead's eyes stay shut during the other rider's gentle ministrations. They open again, bluer and softer for her company as she leans into the embrace with a little sigh. "Can't fire you anyway, " she half-mumbles into the greenrider's shoulder, tilting her head after a moment to brush her lips against her lover's neck once, twice. "I'm glad you're here, lovely. I've been feeling so, " fidget, "restless. I tried going for a run before going on duty this morning, but that wasn't quite, " and she concludes her thought with a sheepish shrug, letting her hands wander instead up and down her companion's back to finish her sentence. "I'll be relieved when my courses begin and all of this settles down." Outside on the ledge, Aidavanth shifts in a similar fidget to mirror her lifemate's, hide still gleaming with this morning's oiling as she takes off toward the lake. <> she tells Evyth with all the sensation of a frown to accompany her statement. << I'd ask Jocelyn for more oil, but she's finally starting to relax for the first time today now that Lys is here. I don't want to bother her just now. >> The cool water will have to suffice for the moment.

Evyth's imagination is a powerful thing and when fuelled by Aidavanth's problem, it readily runs wild. << Ooh, you know what Jocelyn should have them do? She should have them take an empty weyr and use the wallow to just fill it with oil so we can soak, like in the hot springs, but with oil. And not hot. >> This is all her usual pell-mell ramble of thought, finished with a bright, sweet something in scent and flavor that likely signifies a mental smile. << Would you like to go to the hot spring? >> It isn't so far that they couldn't go while their riders are busy, after all, and perhaps better than the lake given the temperature difference. "Could," is Lys' protest to Jocelyn's words about firing, but there's no force or pursuit behind the word, letting it slide away with whatever other heavier concerns might face them in the wide world to focus on the world that exists just between them and just between these stone walls (and those of her weyr). "There's only so much a run can do," holds light humor, a sympathetic smile showing her understanding of the rest. "Do you want to eat a little something before we-" she just trails off, arching a suggestive eyebrow at the redhead, smirk playing across her lips. They've been together long enough now that one way or another, Lys knows a thing or two about relieving familiar restlessness, if it is, indeed, familiar restlessness.

<< An oil wallow, >> echoes Aidavanth, and something ''pleased'' uncurls under her bobbing thoughts, stretches and darts after the idea in a flash of orange-gold. << What a good suggestion! That would feel ''so'' good. >> There's a brief hesitation somewhere in there, because surely there are logistics to consider in building ''such'' a luxurious, draconic spa-like environment - but it's gone moments after, particularly once she seizes upon her sister's plan to head for the hot springs. << Why not? >> follows blithely as she changes course. << And if ''that'' doesn't settle the itch, I'll go in the lake afterward. >> The best of both worlds! Nearly mirroring the expressions of her lifemate, Jocelyn seems pleased by Lys's suggestion, making to gather her toward her again without preamble (they have such good ideas, Lys and Evyth!) - but for the sudden gleam of interest that lights up her blue eyes. "I'd take you to Ista right this second and indulge in ''both'' at the same time, " she says shamelessly with a little nuzzle, "but our transports seem to have other ideas." She doesn't laugh outright after flopping down onto her back with a lithe stretch, but the desire to do so is written on her face, where it lingers for a long minute before wavering. A small frown appears, tugging briefly at the corners of her mouth. "And then she'll want to be oiled ''again'' after all of that. There goes what I thought I might have of my evening." Instinctively, she reaches for Lys's hand, tugging to encourage the greenrider into a horizontal position, too. "What does that wingleader of yours have you doing tomorrow?" It's a matter-of-fact enough inquiry, even if what her hands quest to do is anything but.

Brilliant notions for dragon spas are held only a breath longer by the green, a flight of fancy for Evyth to brightly reflect upon rather than the sort of dream she might actually help root, grow and bloom. The hot spring is as pleasing to her, but then, ''she'' doesn't have an itch just now. Lys has a soft laugh that becomes quickly but briefly muffled as she lets herself be pulled down half-atop the goldrider, her face pressing into the blankets by Jocelyn's neck briefly. "Don't be too put out. We have now," is offered as silver lining for the fate of the redhead's night, and dismissively, "It's probably raining in Ista, whereas it's perfectly comfortable here." About to be more than comfortable, judging by the way the blonde shifts to press her lips teasingly to Jocelyn's neck.

"You don't know for sure that it - ''is'', " and Jocelyn's affectionate retort ends on a communicative sigh. Now is apparently good, and more than comfortable, better still, as she holds Lys fast and lets her hands wander where they will. The hot spring is ''nice'', but not quite ''enough''. And yet, Aidavanth is pleased to have her smaller sister's company, seemingly content to while away the next hour or two with chatter and amusement despite occasional bouts of distraction. Certainly, she's all enthusiasm when it's time to go back for another oiling, however short the resultant satiation.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Floor Preservation

2016-07-09T13:31:20Z

Jocelyn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Jocelyn, Quint |what=An unknowingly proddy Jocelyn and Quint have a fireside chat at the end of the day. |where=Resident Common Room, High Reaches Weyr |involves=Hi..."

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn, Quint
|what=An unknowingly proddy Jocelyn and Quint have a fireside chat at the end of the day.
|where=Resident Common Room, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=22
|month=3
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.08
|quote=So you ''have'' learned something in your turns here.
|weather=Wind, rain, and snow combine to make for miserable, sleety weather today.
|mentions=Jaine, Odrick
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn amused.png, Icon quint lolwhat.jpg,
|desc=>---< Resident Common Room, High Reaches Weyr(#378RJs) >---------------------<

Just off of the main passageway lies the small cavern that forms the hub
of the residents' quarters, kept immaculately clean by the headwoman's
staff and warmed in cold weather by a stone hearth to the left and well
back from the entrance. Comfortable chairs and a plush fur arrayed before
the hearth make an inviting spot to curl up with a book or handicraft, or
just to sit and chat. Beyond, additional chairs stand in clusters
throughout the room, some upholstered with age-softened hide, some plain
wood. At the widest point of the cavern, a round table gleams with polish,
though its surface is nicked and scarred from Turns of use. Beyond the
table, the very back of the cavern often lies in shadow unless the
glowbaskets there are unlidded to cast cozy pools of light. The commingled
scents of klah, smoke and polish permeate the air along with the sweetness
of rosemary and lavender.

Tapestries hang across the entrances to dormitories and more private
quarters as well as the exit to the outer hall, colorful protections from
drafts.

-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
Jocelyn F 26 5'5" lean, red hair, blue-gray eyes
Quint M 31 6'3 lean, dark blond hair, blue eyes
----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
Private Rooms Resident Quarters Candidate Quarters Headwoman's Office
Nursery Classroom Inner Caverns
>-----------------------------------------< 22D 3M 41T I10, winter night >---<
|log=The weather is just ''awful'' today -- wind, rain ''and'' snow means that anyone who doesn't have anywhere to be is firmly ensconced somewhere warm. The duties of a harper, however, wait for no good weather, and so it is that a rather wet and bedraggled looking Journeyman is left in the bowl by a rider looking to retreat hastily to the warmth of his weyr. At least Quintus knows exactly where he's heading -- not the living caverns, undoubtedly packed for the dinner hour -- but instead to the warmth of the common room's hearth to dry out first, walking with a determination intended to dissuade anyone from diverting him.

Impatient footsteps from the direction of the headwoman's office bring a thin-lipped Jocelyn out into the common area, arms folded over her button-down-shirt and sensible skirt ensemble; her features, pinched. Gossip may enjoy claiming that this is her usual, resting expression, but the redhead's annoyance, on a second glance, is a weary one. She's not ''too'' tired, however, to pick out Quint's precipitation-soaked profile, mouth curling faintly as she turns her stride in his direction. Dryly, "So you ''have'' learned something in your turns here." Despite the flat words, she actually smiles a little - and it even reaches her eyes. "Take care that they don't run out of dinner before you've finished preserving our floors."

In the process of divesting himself of his soaking coat, Quint pauses and his gaze is drawn to Jocelyn. "A few things, weyrwoman," he allows, with a return of her smile with one of his own, "Here and there." He lies the coat over the arm of a chair close to the hearth, turning so that his back is to the hearth, hands clasped behind there, sharp gaze flicking over the tiny hints in the weyrwoman's expression and taking wordless note. With a tip of his head, he adds, "The kitchens suit me well enough for a late night meal, should I miss ours. My absence would hardly be noted," he adds, with a twitch of lips.

"Surely your fellow harpers would miss you, " says Jocelyn dismissively for his sentiments. "I'd find your absence particularly notable since I ''know'' that you're here." One hand lifts to rub uncomfortably at the back of her neck before resuming its tight grip on her other arm. Clipped steps bring her closer to the hearth; a half-turn leaves her staring into the warmth. "Someone should be feeding the fire more adequately, " pronounces the former headwoman's assistant, shifting her weight slowly from one foot to the other. "These caverns shouldn't be chilly. Don't tell me you're ''still'' on duty, Quintus." No, there's very little (read: next to no) segue from one topic to the next.

The harper's expression shifts minutely, like he's considering responses and discarding them just as quickly. Silence from Quint is all the more notable for its rarity; when she steps closer, the harper turns, now facing the hearth, hands held out in front of him. "The hearth seems sufficient to me," he says, after a moment's consideration. "My clothes are only ''mostly'' damp now," with a brief chuckle, that fades as he eyes the goldrider sidelong. "Not since I stepped foot off that helpful blue, no. Why?"

Dragon> To Jocelyn, Aidavanth happens to be listening in. With an amused flash of hazel: << He should get out of his wet clothing. You always say that'll help someone get dry more quickly and keep them from an infirmary visit. >>

"You should - " Jocelyn begins, before her eyebrows draw decidedly down and she closes her jaw against the rest of ''that'' sentence, clearing her throat. "You should, " she begins again lightly, if more carefully, "enjoy your free time and work on staying dry." She's still studying the fire, posture stiff. "Where did you say that helpful blue went to bring you back here?"

That pause, and the correction of her tone, earns a shift of posture from Quint, turning so that he's sideways to the hearth, but he can fully take in Jocelyn's measure. There's curiosity in the harper's light gaze, and yet he answers only what she addresses: "I shall endeavor to do both to my utmost, weyrwoman," he allows, a twitch of lips perhaps otherwise betraying the formality of the words. "Harper Hall," he answers that last, after a beat, tone neutral. "The dragon was Bresdath, if you wanted to check?"

"What? Why would I need to do such a thing?" Jocelyn waves off the very notion with a sharp gesture, pale eyes finally moving to study the other's with a frown. "Surely you're not admitting that you run around telling falsehoods that are wholly separate from harper-isms." And yet, she seems at least somewhat interested in his journey; "I trust your business was concluded satisfactorily - or, at the very least, that it handled itself more smoothly than my schedule did." She pauses, then. It isn't exactly an expectant silence, but she uses it to take note of ''his'' expressions and stance.

"I'm not sure," Quint answers like he, too, is puzzled. "It was satisfactory," he agrees. "I'd give you more detail, but really -- these things sound about as dull as they actually are. What happened to your schedule, if I might ask?" he queries, with a tilt of head. When she pauses, he does too -- for a short while, and then: "Weyrwoman -- are you feeling all right? I understand many have been sick lately, what with the weather the way it is..."

Do the lines of Jocelyn's expression relax a little when he recounts his business as rather dull? "I do have a name that you can use, you know. It's just been one of ''those'' days, " the goldrider informs him, clarifying, "I'm sure your colleague can elaborate nicely on the matter. He did seem astonishingly knowledgeable about just what ladies should ask for at the infirmary, if my memory serves me. Dark-skinned, young, about yea tall?" Odrick. "I'm just out of sorts, Quint. I'm not ''sick''. A good night's sleep will probably put me more to rights. This wasn't what I'd call an overly productive day. I almost fired my assistant twice, but she had the good grace to know not to take me seriously in my humor."

"Indeed you do," the harper readily agrees with the goldrider, but doesn't use her name, yet. It's when she starts speaking of the infirmary and his fellow that Quint's brows rise. "Indeed. And what exactly was his advice?" As she describes him, there's a slight pause, "Journeyman Odrick," he offers his fellow harper's name. "Mm. It sounds like, indeed, an early night and a good sleep is in your benefit. Whatever did your assistant do to nearly get fired twice?" He asks, intrigued by that.

"How should I remember his exact words from ''two'' turns ago? Something about herbs to make everything feel better. Maybe." Maybe. Jocelyn sniffs at the inquiry on Jaine and her conduct, lips pursing. "She - " Frown. "She - tried to make the day better. It didn't improve. I misheard her while we went over my agenda and I was ''certain'' that she said my lunch meeting was at midday, sharp. What she actually said was, 'a quarter to midday' and I was ''late''." It's spoken as if it's an absolute anathema. More thoughtfully, "I've never been late to a meeting."

"And yet he seems to have stuck in your memory," Quint notes with a twitch of lips. "Do you converse so rarely with the Weyr's harpers, then? If so -- I should count myself lucky, I rather suspect." He listens attentively while she describes her assistant's transgressions. "How abhorrent!" he exclaims, as if aghast. "Making you late for your first ever meeting." A beat passes, the slight glimmer of his eyes suggests he's amused and yet trying not to let it otherwise show outwardly. "What else have you never done?" he asks, as if prompting her for further information.

Jocelyn's mouth opens, then closes. "I don't talk with many of them, " she admits after a moment. "I used to talk often with the harper who taught our lessons when I was a child. I don't have pleasant associations with the ones who spent the most time on my etiquette lessons during weyrlinghood. You're - an interesting one. As I've said, I've - found some enjoyment in our interactions, for which I'm sure Impression gets at least a little credit. We're both performers now, in a manner of speaking, aren't we?" For his last, there's a twitch at her lips. "Why don't you tell me what you're supposing I've never done. It's bound to be at least half as interesting as the truth, if not more so." Stalling 'never have I ever:' surely an acquired skill in lieu of immediately shutting down such an avenue of talk.

And all throughout her recitations of harpers past, the current one watches her sidelong. "So," Quint muses in summation, "I am interesting only in part because of your Impression? Hmm. An interesting theory," one to which he seems to take no offense, only regarding it with a thoughtful moue. As for her suggesiton of a guessing game, the harper laughs: "Oh, I wouldn't dream of it -- undoubtedly it would only offend you, and that certainly isn't my intention."

"That's not - " the goldrider begins, shaking her head quickly after. "Far more accurate to say, instead, that it was easier for me to see afterward, once we had something in common." There's a little eyebrow lift at the end, and for a moment, her usual surety wavers. "Although, perhaps I'm the only one who thinks that we do - in which case, I'd hope you'd forgive me for taking up time you could have better spent elsewhere." Beat. One hand lifts to loosen her collar slightly; suddenly, she looks a little warm. "It's a positively juvenile sort of thing, but I've never mixed up my food on my plate. I've never been someone's weyrmate, even prior to Impression, although I expect there are plenty of people out there who haven't done that, either. And I've certainly never had a harper ask me a question like yours and actually get some sort of answer." There, another amused lift to the corners of her mouth.

"I've never regretted the time I've spent to speak with you," Quint says, definitively. He doesn't say any more on that score, like he considers the matter completely settled and no longer worth the attention; instead, he's watching Jocelyn while she recounts some of her never-experiences. His mouth quirks through the first, nods thoughtfully through the second, and to the third, he laughs, hearty and earnest. "Well, in that case, I feel particularly privileged," with a half bow. "However, I'm afraid now that I'm dry, I ought to find food, and I don't want to delay you -- unless you want to join me?" he asks, brows flickering upwards.

That's definitely a pleased cast to Jocelyn's expression for Quint's lack of regret, and the redhead gestures for him to lead the way in reply to his invitation. "I would. I could use a quick bite. I still need to finish oiling Aidavanth before we retire for the evening, " and almost-forty-two-feet of dragonhide truly takes up most of one's evening, even with some assistance, "so I'm afraid I won't be able to stay long." At least she seems a little less distracted on their trek through the hallways, although she does veer immediately for the desserts once they find sustenance.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Acts of Conscience

2016-06-28T03:05:16Z

Jocelyn: Added mention~

{{Log
|who=Edyis, Silva,
|what=Edyis tracks down Silva and winds up getting way more trouble than she bargained for.
|where=Lucky Seven, Ista Weyr; Mad Smithcrafter's Den, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Ista Area
|custom=14D 2M 41T I10, spring afternoon
|day=14
|month=2
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.06.26
|mentions=Jocelyn, Quint, Z'kiel,
|type=Log
|ooc=Feel free to edit as needed.
|icons-new=Icon edyis Serious.jpg, Icon silva.jpg,
|desc=>---< The Lucky Seven, Ista Weyr(#700RJ) >-----------------------------------<

The main, double doors that lead in to the tavern are, as a rule, left

open, leading into the wide main room of the tavern. Directly across from

the entrance, stretched across the long back wall, stands the focus of the

room, indeed the entire building; the bar is made of a deep, red-brown

wood and polished to a heady shine and behind it shelves stand with rows

of clean glasses and tankards of all sizes and shapes. To the left of the

bar is a staircase that allows access to a mundane upper story, a single

hall lined with modest rooms for rent, and to the right is an arched

doorway leading to a darker gaming room. But most of the action happens

out in the middle, in among the haphazardly arranged tables and their

allotted chairs. Though there are a few feminine touches draped around, a

sage green curtain here or a coral red tablecloth there, when the tall

room is filled with people there is no mistaking the testosterone-driven

atmosphere of the place.

>---< Mad Smithcrafter's Den Weyr, High Reaches Weyr(#649R) >----------------<

There is ample room in both the couch and rider's living areas for

visitors to stretch out comfortably. A massive quilted curtain comprised

of rich greens, blues, golds and oranges hangs on a curved rod. The

curtain can be drawn closed for privacy between the two spaces whenever

desired or tied back out of the way.

Work-areas have been arranged around the room carved into the very cavern

walls themselves, each equipped with it's own curtians to hide the area

from view of visitors. The stations are comprised of exceptionally

spacious stone counter-tops, with stone shelves and tool hooks above.

Nearest the hearth, one of these counters contains a utilitarian sink with

a pump and copper piping attached disappearing up into the ceiling and

along the edge of the wall to the ledge outside where it discretely drops

off for drainage into the Bowl wall. If one follows the pipe through the

ceiling it leads to a large metal cistern tucked into a niche above the

entrance of the weyr.

Of the furnishings the bed is perhaps the most noticeable, Large, and

bolted into the ceiling by sturdy chains it can be raised and lowered via

another pulley system, and piled high with quilts and pillows in the same

rich blues and greens. A large overstuffed couch is settled in front of

the hearth and the rest of the furnishings, desk, table chairs and the

like either fold into the wall or into a niche to make more space when

needed.

From the ceiling dozens of wine and liquor bottles in various colors have

been converted to glow baskets, bathing the room in soft multi colored

light and hang at various lengths. The hearth is a large affair with an

actual oven carved into one of its walls and a metal grill that can be

pulled out over the flame for cooking. An assortment of large pots, dishes

and spices assorted for use. A nearby niche sports three medium sized

barrels tapped and stacked in a vertical rack. They sit next to an over

large wine cabinet that someone has recently painted with maps and scenes

from all over Pern. Perhaps the den of some mad former smithcrafter with

too much time on his or her hands during the interval, or perhaps more

recently an equally mad former scribe, obsessed with good vintages and

color.
|log=Evening has hit firmly, and as has been her MO for the last few sevens Silva is out and about, already tipsy with pre-drinking. Zaisyreth is left behind, a goodly ways away from the bar that Silva makes for. He doesn't follow her - or try to get closer, but the way he shifts in place hints at his discomfort. Silva's dressed to kill, though her last few outfits have had one distinctive characteristic, one long sleeve while the other is barely more than a spaghetti strap. Her low cut-back is cut with straps across that make getting a clear look of the skin below difficult, but it ''almost'' seems like there are some strange shadows there. At the doorway to the tavern, she stops, then reaches up to take off her dragonrider knot. Then bending, she tucks it a light jacket she carries.

Edyis has been subtle in her shadowing of the young bluerider, skills from a different life now serving in this one. Decked out in tightly fitted leather, sans knot there's not much to indicate she's a rider at all. Akluseth lands after the bluerider has already disappeared into the bar. Warm restless currents reaching out to the anxious blue, in ribbons of emerald and cerulean water. << Not to worry little bro. Ed will keep an eye on her. >> The brown offers as his rider slips off his neck and studies the blue a moment before following after.

Subtly is not something that anyone has ever accused Silva of being. She is completely ignorant of the rider following her, and while Zaisyreth loves her to distraction, he doesn't give even the ''slightest'' hint to his rider that she might not be alone. Instead, he'll send a dry breeze of thanks to the brown, and try to calm some of his agitation, limiting it to a small flick of his tail. With her ridership hidden Silva reaches up and pushes open the door. In what those who know her would see as a complete act Silva sways herself over to the bar and drapes herself upon it. Her whole posture is giving welcome to anyone who might slide into that opening.

Edyis hesitates for only a moment, before confident steps bear her to the bar, slipping almost silently into the stool next to Silva, and waving down the bartender. "So how long are you going to keep doing this to yourself?" Her soft soprano barely a whisper, as dark eyes fix on the young bluerider. "Not that I take issue with the whole free-spirited thing, but I think we both know that isn't what this is."

How much air can Silva get? They'll just test that question as the bluerider jerks herself upright and looks wide-eyed at the bluerider. A few blinks before she turns her back on the rest of the bar and hisses, "What are you ''doing''?" Her bare arm comes and settles across the other like she might be able to hide it more than the cloth upon it does.

"Me? I'm having a drink." Edyis answers blithely as her glass arrives. Dark eyes scanning the occupants of the bar in the process. "What are you ''doing''?" The brownrider returns lifting her glass to her lips.

Tipsy Silva isn't up to the task of serious logic puzzles like figuring out there's something more behind Edyis' statement that she's here for a drink. Silva eyes her, as her own drink gets delivered. It's a small but ''very'' strong drink, something that will have the small rider senseless if she's not careful. It'll get ignored, as she'll carefully try, "Drinking?" It worked for Edyis?

Edyis knows strong liquor when she sees it, but if she's concerned about Silva being senseless it doesn't show. "I noticed. Seems like you've been doing a fair bit of it lately, drinking that is." Setting the glass on the table and bracing both elbows there. Despite its bluntness, there's little of accusation in the statement. Rather a note of concern. "I can take guesses as to why, but you don't seem like the kind of girl who likes talking about, or admitting you have problems. Figure the least I can do is see to it you can get back home safely when you are done with whatever this is."

"And?" It's a bit of a belligerent response, too belligerent, and Silva abruptly pulls herself back from that ledge. Being less of a jerk is part of this new thing she's trying. Turning her face away she allows the brown lengths to fall over her face and hide her expression. "Sorry." It sounds sincere enough. "I'm fine. I don't always get back before dawn."

Ink-dark eyes focus on the bluerider brows drawn together. "It's okay, I've been there." Ed intones softly. "Maybe not the exact situation, but I think I can take a pretty good guess at what's going on. If you ''want'' to talk to someone about it that is. Otherwise, I can be bar buddy until you pick a fight with someone three times my size, then you are on your own." Her lips curling at the joke.

Silva is just going to reach up and twitch her hair back into place. She still hasn't taken a drink, but she does slide a look sideways. "So what do you think what is happening?"

"Well could be a couple things," Edyis notes lifting her glass. "Seems like you are trying to change ''something'' about yourself." Her gaze shifts back to the younger woman, "What I'm not entirely sure of, is just who it is you are trying to be."

Silva drags a finger along the edge of her glass, the slight ring it makes not reaching far beyond their ears. "Maybe I'm just being who I always was."

The brownrider considers that for a moment and tilts her head. "If it is who you always were, why does it take liquid courage for you to go on these little excursions? And why is it you always go to places where you think no one will know who you are?" Her soprano softens at the end, not carrying any farther than their seats.

Silva has no answer for that. But she WILL steel her nerves and reach down to that glass. Rather than take her time and maybe chicken out, Silva downs the drink and winces against the burn. "I can't explain it."

Edyis mms quietly, brows lifting slightly at the downing of the drink. "Try me."

Silva traces the edges of her now empty cup again. It'll take some time for that drink to hit, so tipsy is her head still. A stool gets moved over and Silva settles herself on the edge. "It's just... I know I'm not any use. For anything. But the other day," names will just get left, "it hit me that if I did... something different, maybe someone else would get something out of it."

Edyis listens quietly, nodding a little as the bluerider speaks. "What makes you say you aren't any use?"

Silva rolls her eyes. "Because I'm not. I was useless before I was searched. And even now I barely do anything of note. I told.." except Silva catches herself sharing too much and snaps her mouth closed. "And it's not... not fun. When I'm here, when... you know. I don't have to think then."

Edyis studies Silva for a long time. "You know before I stood," She starts taking a moment to find the words, "I was the middle daughter of a minor holder. I had wanted something more out of my life but I had always been too afraid to reach for it." There's a pause, and a frown, "If there's one thing I've learned since leaving home, it is that nobody is useless. Just because you don't have the power to do something big, doesn't mean that what you can do doesn't matter."

"I never thought like that. I was supposed to get married off, have babies, and that was it. I mean, I love Zaisyreth and wouldn't give him up but... there's nothing there but doing wing stuff and making it through the day. I've pretty much made myself completely unlikable." Alas, the alcohol which is making Silva speak too much. "At least my parents don't know."

"If those are the things you want, you can still do them you know. I mean the Weyr woman seems to be all over the spawning bit. Weyrmating isn't exactly marriage but there's a lot of strong couples out there. Have you tried talking to your Wingleader about it? Let him know you want something more?" She doesn't touch the comment on parents. "You think they wouldn't approve?"

"Yes, F'manis would totally be down with that. His most useless rider even //more// useless because she's pregnant." Firm eye roll. The strong drink Silva just downed is taking a hold, and Silva's tongue is only going to get looser. "I talked to someone and they told me how to make sure it doesn't happen. If it does. They don't know I ever impressed. We finally told them, my aunt, a bull shit story about how I'd met someone, but he had to leave, and it was too far to travel in the winter.... whatever. So they don't have to worry or whatever." Suddenly she straightens up, fixing her dress and turning her back on Edyis. "But like, none of it matters. I can get pretty, someone will admire me and if they want more then... whatever. I get something, they do too, win-win."

Ed's eyebrows creep upward a little more with every revelation. She is busy trying to process it all. Mention of pregnancy hardens her expression just a faint touch but mostly she just listens. Unsure of where to start first. "I am pretty sure they'd be more worried about you drinking yourself senseless in strange places than they would about your blue." But there's something, maybe guilt, hidden just at the edges of her expression.

If Silva remembers this the next day she's going to be seriously unhappy. But for right now... she's drunk and talking way too much. "It doesn't matter. Because they're never going to know. I can always switch when things have to happen in Tillek, and Jocelyn said she wouldn't say anything. So like, whatever. They'll never know either way." She's smoothing her dress down and the slits move just enough to show the bruises along her backside. "I want to dance." A swift change of topic.

Whatever Edyis wants to say to that, goes unsaid, but the bruises, those are about the last straw. "When was the last time you went to see a healer for those?"

"What?" Silva turns to look at Edyis, trying to focus on the other rider, but really starting to feel the alcohol. "Do you want to dance?" She holds out a hand to Edyis.

Edyis frowns, but slides off the barstool and accepts the hand, if for no other reason than to make sure the bluerider doesn't fall flat on her face. "You sure you are up to this?"

Silva tugs at Edyis, pulling her towards the middle of the floor. There's no music playing but that's okay, right? Totally normal. "Look, I promise, it feels good. Just... let it go. Okay?"

"That isn't - " she doesn't get the chance to finish as she gets tugged to the middle of the floor. The no music thing, however, that is problematic. She watches Silva's cue, expecting ... who knows what at this point.

For all her other faults, which are many, when Silva wants to she can be drop-dead beautiful. She puts on the show of carefree but not-so-innocent on very well. She'll let go of Edyis when they reach the middle and starts to dance. Hands in the air, swaying to a beat only she can hear, it's designed to do one thing - attract someone else to come. And it doesn't take long before two men break off, and then more, many turning to stare at Silva, and Edyis.

Never let it be said that Edyis is a total stick in the mud, she joins in, humming a melody at first before the humming breaks into singing. Still, she's not so lost to the song that she doesn't notice the men breaking off.

Not too long after the men break off, some shake their heads and go back to their conversations... and two stand up and approach the two women. They have a bit of a swagger as they come close, stopping just a foot away. "Need partners?" At least they're asking? Silva lets out a small giggle and chooses one of the men at random, and pulls him into her dance.

"Thanks but you aren't my type, Sorry," Ed notes with a saccharine smile, all the while keeping an eye on Silva. "And not to ruin the mood, but." She reaches to tug on Silva's wrist aiming to pull her in with a twirl. "I already have a partner." Dark eyes focusing on Silva, assessing how hard that drink has hit her.

Silva's three sheets to the wind and when Edyis pulls her away from her partner she stumbles right into the other rider's arms. The partner she'd been moving towards says a firm, "Hey!" as Silva looks up at Edyis. Edyis' partner takes being turned down in good enough humor and reaches for his buddy. "Leave the whores to themselves if they want."

If she didn't have a drunken bluerider to deal with, those might have been fighting words. Instead, she moves to spin the bluerider in a twirl. "We are leaving ''now''." Comes in a fierce murmur through clenched teeth. And if she tries to protest, well Ed seems prepared to throw Silva over her shoulder and carry her out. << Mine wants you to come home with us. >> Akluseth shares, an image of reaches and their ledge shared crisply.

Drunk as she is Silva hasn't forgotten ''why'' she came here. There's a need she hasn't had filled yet, and there's a longing in her look as she clings to Edyis. "I can't. I ''can't''. Not yet. There's nothing if I go back." Zaisyreth answers Akluseth in the affirmatively, trying, and failing to reach into Silva's mind and sway her, past the iron bars Silva's settled against his quiet and loving persuasion. Finally, he'll break Silva's confidence as only he can do in a moment of crisis, << She wants to hurt. >>

Whatever Akluseth shares of the conversation, whatever Silva's protests are, Ed isn't swayed. If anything her resolve is that much firmer scooping the bluerider over her shoulder unceremoniously and bearing her out of the bar. It isn't until they are halfway back on the path that Ed dares speak, a thin edge of something in her voice. A hardness mixed in. "You lost the right to destroy yourself the day you impressed ''him''."

Silva's going to struggle, she really does. But between being drunk and not being that physically impressive in the first place it probably doesn't do much good. "It's ''my'' choice! Edyis, please, please, just... please..." And slowly she's going to stop struggling and instead start crying.

The pleading falls on deaf ears, or at least it seems to as Akluseth lowers himself enough to help Ed get the bluerider on. She gives the blue a look, and again Akluseth shares the image clearly of home and their ledge. << Our weyr is pretty warm. >> And once they are assured of the blue's ability to follow safely it is a blink between and back into the air above reaches.

This is where training will kick in, and while Silva probably //could// have found a way to run... she doesn't. Instead, she hangs on, burying her face in the brown's back, and continuing to cry all the way back as Zaisyreth follows, silent again.

Landing dismounting and getting through the metal door doesn't take much effort, and Edyis guides if not carries the bluerider to the couch piled in colorful quilts while she starts the fire. Akluseth makes room in the dragon area and invites his buddy blue in closing the metal door once everyone's inside. After the fire's going Ed walks over and digs a pair of turquoise flannel pajamas out, with ovines embroidered on them and tosses them at Silva. "I'll have hot water in the basin shortly, but those should fit. If you want to hit something, the punching bag is over there." Ed thumbs in the direction of the patchwork leather bag hanging from a chain near the back. The green firelizard perched on the elaborate bookcase opens a jeweled eye to inspect the newcomers sleepily.

Silva allows the being taken into the weyr - three sheets to the wind yes, and unstable completely. At least she can follow directions, and at Edyis' Silva slowly begins to peel off her clothing. The purpose of that one long sleeve gets revealed when a cascade of bruises shows itself. They travel along her body, with more cuts and scrapes than a normal rider should have along her back and legs. It's a miracle that her one arm doesn't have bruises also from the way the rest of her looks. It's also clear the //amount// of makeup she's wearing, mostly because it's not dealing with her make-up well.

Ed's eyes go wide when she sees the damage. She goes to one of the shelves and pulls down a jar of salve, and sets it aside as well. "Use that on the bruises, Faranth, I thought I looked awful when I was first learning to fight. You need to see a healer in the morning." Moving back to pull some goods out of a basket. She drops several ingredients into a large soup pot, and sets it on the fire and adds another bucket to heat up for washing. That done Ed changes into a set of green flannel pajamas with fire lizards embroidered on them, but if watched it's likely Silva would get a good look at the tattoo's swirling over her upper body.

Silva slowly pulls on the clothing - no doubt she'll be aghast tomorrow when she wakes up and ''sees'' what she is wearing. (Silva cares about clothing.) The salve doesn't get put on, mostly because she's too busy curling up into a ball and hiding her eyes, as if Edyis can't see her if Silva can't see Edyis. Not before she sees the tattoo, but she doesn't comment ''just'' yet. Her shoulders move with tears that are now silent before, finally, "Why didn't you just leave me?"

"Because there are some ways in which we are very much alike, and because I'm selfish enough not to want to deal with the guilt of knowing what might have happened if I did leave you there." Her voice is soft, lacking the sharpness it bore earlier. A kettle is also hung on a hook over the hearth, and then the former scribe tugs down another of the plethora of quilts covering the weeping bluerider with it.

"It's all happened before." Which those bruises can attest. Surprise has Silva looking up at Edyis, tears still falling down her cheeks. "It's...." But what else can she say in the face of such obvious caring?

"You don't have to explain anything tonight if you don't want to." Edyis declares fetching two bowls and ladling the stew into them. She sets one on the table in front of the couch for Silva, keeping the other for herself. "Normally I'd offer wine but given the givens, I think tea is best."

But there's a clear difference between Quint asking when Silva's sober as she does a walk of shame, and drunk, settled in someone else's clothes, with warm tea, a blanket over her shoulders, and someone showing caring //in the moment//. "I'm a bitch." Just lead off with that. "Mean, self-centered... whatever." She takes the tea with one hand and opens her other in front of her. "But... when it hurts... I don't feel so mean."

Edyis hmms, stoking up the fire, before returning with two mugs of what smells like chamomile tea. "So you are punishing yourself for your bad qualities?" She murmurs, as though to ensure she understands the issue. "Adjusting to a life where your own wants and needs have to come secondary is challenging for anybody. "

Silva curls her hands around the tea, but she doesn't drink. Instead her head sinks lower and she'll just look into the rings on the surface of the liquid. The second has her raising her eyes up again, pure confusion. "What?"

"What you are doing." Edyis comments again slowly, settling herself on the other end of the couch. "getting yourself beat up like that, it isn't just your body or your choice anymore. That can be a hard thing to remember even after you've been impressed for two turns."

Still pure confusion here, and Silva's starting to show a few signs of sobriety. Just flashes. It's in pure question form as she offers forth, "Zaisy?"

Edyis nods. "His life is entirely dependent upon you. When a rider dies, is injured, or sick it has an impact on them." Her chin tilting to the brown who is still making sure the blue's got enough space to be comfortable. "Every choice you make you have to factor in his well being. The beautiful thing about dragons though is no matter how selfish you may have been, they are quick to forgive and don't hold much in the way of grudges."

Finally, life from Silva. "Zaisy ''loves'' me." Passion underwrites her words, no matter the fact that the words also come out slightly slurred. The tea gets carefully set down. "He's always loved me. And he lets me make my choices. Always."

"That has never been the question sweetheart. The question is do you love him enough to learn how to love yourself." The scribe finishes her bowl and gets up dropping it into the sink. "You are welcome to the couch, or the bed's probably big enough to fit four. Think about it, though, promise?"

"No, no. Zaisy loves me. ''Just'' me. Even when I'm a bitch. Or Mean. Or Self-centered. Zaisy loves me." This is a REALLY IMPORTANT POINT. Never mind her slurring the word loved. A tear streaks down her cheek again, but this time, it doesn't have the same frenzied taste to it that her previous tears had. Her head dips down against the couch's arm, and in a very small voice, "I don't want to be alone."

Edyis moves the lever that lowers the bed and pulls back the curtain separating the dragon living space from the human. "Make sure he knows not to cross the chalked line," Zaisy she must mean. "Akluseth got the pully system stuck once and I had to have Z'kiel come over and rescue me from my bed. Talk about embarrassing." Folding back the blankets and throwing a few more of the quilts on top of the chain suspended bed. Assuming that Silva's comment means she intends to use the bed.

Zaisyreth will hear this, and transmit to Edyis in understanding. In fact, he's just going to take up the stream of this conversation for Silva altogether. It's strange and uncomfortable, but he'll talk straight to Edyis. << She wants me to take her somewhere. >> Silva's trying to stand up, but she's managed to get herself tangled in the quilt Edyis has wrapped around her and is just going to end up on the floor. And tea. Tea is just going to go everywhere.

"Oh for Faranth's sake. You indulge her too much." She points accusatorially at the blue, "And she's not in any condition to go anywhere." The tea and the Silva tangle gets eyed. << Yeah, Ed's not budging on this one man. Sorry. >> Silva gets scooped up, and once it is determined that the quilt isn't soaked in tea (even if everything else is) She tucks the bluerider into the bed. "You can cuss me out in the morning."

Zaisyreth knows this, he really does. But it's not like he can reach in there and take his rider. So instead he'll just crouch there - probably awake all night, and wait with the patience of stone. Silva's done fighting. All done. In the bed, she'll cover her head with a blanket and fall into some of the most restless sleep ever. In her make-up. Oh dear.
}}

Logs:Run-Ins

2016-06-25T12:18:51Z

Jocelyn:

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn, Quint{{!}}T'zur, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, Quint{{!}}Tziveth
|what=Two riders collide at the Sandbar. Two dragons try to suss out one another.
|where=The Sandbar, Ista Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Benden Weyr, Ista Weyr
|day=8
|month=2
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.06.24
|quote=I hope your weyrlingmaster had better success than your mother.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn.png, Icon Jocelyn Aidavanth.jpg,
|desc=>---< The Sandbar, Ista Weyr(#447RJ) >---------------------------------------<

Standing on stilts over the water's edge with a broad ramp leading up from
the beach, the thatch-roofed building sits well above the highest tide
line. The walls of the structure are nothing but timber frames, open to
the cooling sea breezes but equipped with hinged panels of woven grass
that can be lowered during inclement weather. Within, supporting pillars
are draped in cast-off nets and shells and myriad tables provide seating
with spectacular panoramic views of the ocean, beach, and the bustling
activity of the docks to the west. A finely polished, sparkling slab of
obsidian serves as the bar and it's smooth surface is etched with
decorative carvings of shipfish and flowers and other emblems of the
tropical location. Shelves behind the bar are lined with bottles and
glasses of various shapes and sizes and hanging in prominent view are
slates listing the menu, beverages both alcoholic and not as well as a
handful of greasy appetizers provided by the kitchen to the rear of the
bar.

----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
Docks Beach
>-----------------------------------------< 8D 2M 41T I10, spring afternoon >---<
|log=It's ''cold'', up north -- not just in High Reaches, but in Benden, also. That's likely why there's a cluster of Benden riders taking up a table at the Sandbar, chatting brightly and earnestly. It doesn't ''quite'' explain why a younger Benden rider is seated at the bar, half a glass of something not-quite-bright-enough for the Sandbar's usual customers in his hand, staring over at the group sidelong now and then. The young man's frowning whenever he turns back towards the bar, exhaling. Out on the beach, dragons -- Istan, foreign and alike -- are enjoying the afternoon sun, though there's a dark bronze that's settled instead in the shade, unmoving.

The number of out-of-weyr visitors increases by one; Aidavanth's burnished orange-gold is difficult to miss as she appears in Istan airspace and circles down toward the beach, presence pleasant and warm as she descends to the dark sands. Although it takes her rider a moment before she dismounts, Jocelyn's quick to shed helmet and jacket, revealing a casually laced blouse atop dark slacks before leaving a trail of boot prints behind her on the way toward the Sandbar's entrance. And Aidavanth? She seeks to join those who are sunning, settling not far from the shade to partially unfold her wings and ''bask'' with a gusty little sigh, content.

The arriving queen receives welcoming greetings from those other dragons, though not ''all'' -- that dark bronze in the shade stirs momentarily, the gleam of his gaze felt more through the momentary touch of his mind: velvety blackness, cold -- especially in comparison to Rukbat's warmth -- with just the hint of movement, edging closer for a moment for study. The rider at the bar, meanwhile, knocks back the rest of that drink, exhales, and pushes upwards, tugging a hand through loose, artfully unkempt hair. There's still that distracted air about him as he heads for the entrance -- perhaps because he's glancing sidelong at that group that occupies a table across the way -- such that he's stepping abruptly into Jocelyn's path as she enters.

Jocelyn's purposeful stride leaves little room for course correction when combined with the Benden rider's unexpected appearance; out go her hands automatically to push quickly toward his arms in a move that could as much seek to push him away as to steady them both - when she collides, expression going from startled to ''annoyed'' in seconds. Her, "Watch yourself!" escapes in a high-pitched, surprised hiss, gray eyes sharp. In graceful contrast, Aidavanth is happy to exchange greetings, to remark upon how very nice the sun feels here when it's been sleeting practically ''all'' day at High Reaches. That chilled, if otherwise silent sense of dark study draws first a polite sense of 'hello?' followed by a small shift in her position so that she might better turn that wedge-shaped head to blink briefly in the direction of that movement in the shade.

The huff of breath from the Benden rider is more startled than anything, reaching out to grip her in turn -- he has a height on her -- pale blue eyes staring down in a mixture of consternation and amusement. "I'm, uh," he clears his throat, turning up a grin that is both full of charm and well-practiced at the same time, "My apologies, m'lady," as he releases his hands, a half-bow sketched. "I wasn't looking where I was going. Perhaps," a darted look is given over his shoulder, as if to assess if they're being watched -- it doesn't seem so, and yet, "Let me buy you a drink in apology. I ''insist''," he says, fixed on that idea now with a gallant gesture towards the bar. The cold of that regard doesn't recede, exactly -- but it does ''still'' at Aidavanth's regard. The bronze doesn't give his name, and yet it is known, in that touch -- Tziveth, he is, of Benden. And ''she''?

The look the goldrider scrutinizes him with is a measuring one, arms crossing after his apology with a huff of her own that loses some of its sharpness as the line of her mouth softens a trifle. Wryly, "That much is clear, unless you make a habit out of crashing into people." The offer of the drink, well - her lips purse, considering, before a short, "Fine, although it's ''quite'' unnecessary, " signals her acquiescence, preceding her movement toward the bar. To Tziveth, Aidavanth's name might well be conveyed in the ripple of thought that floats his way, accompanied by a glimpse of spindled caldera and mountains, but being a dragon of ''words'', she pronounces hers in a warm, clear alto. << Our best, >> hers and Jocelyn's, << to your queens, Tziveth of Benden. >>

The Benden rider squints a bit, pale eyes staring as if determining whether the comment is humor or not; apparently he decides it ''is'', because a grin soon follows. "Try not to, but my mother always said ''she'' could never get me to form good habits, either," as if aware of the change in mood of his new acquaintance, the bronzerider relaxes marginally, falling into step with her. "I'm T'zur, of Benden." There's movement from the shade; not quite ''skittering'', but that thought might come to mind, given the bronze's skeletal, whipcord-lean structure. Tziveth resettles within the shade, to better regard the Reachian queen, ivory talons flexing for a moment in the black of the sand. There's acknowledgement of the exchange, the expected politeness, but it isn't lingered on by the Bendenite. Instead, he wonders: ''why'', the thought floating amongst the shadows of his dark thoughts, honed, shone and finally produced for her regard.

"I hope your weyrlingmaster had better success than your mother. T'zur." It's only once she reaches the bar and can settle an arm on the counter that she turns to add, "Jocelyn, Aidavanth's. High Reaches' duties. And I suppose you came down for the sun, too." It's not quite a question, even if the lift of her eyebrows afterward seems expectant enough. Aidavanth's thoughts are, by contrast, bright and well-lit like the natural light of sun filtered through glass, conveying words and feelings that flow and ripple like water along smooth surfaces. Why be present here, now? Why choose to speak to him? Why sit in the sun? << Why not? >> comes her bemused reply, warm with the pleasure of absorbing the sunlight.

T'zur's squinted expression admits readily what comes a little more reluctantly verbally: "Well. It was a difficult time for us all -- let's put it like that," there's something wry in the grin that follows. "Learnt to run real well. Oh -- and stand dawn watch like a champion, so there's that." He steps closer to the bar, leaning on it to bring them to a more -- but not ''quite'' -- even eye level. "So, Jocelyn. Fruity? Colorful?" he's talking about the drinks, though with no lead in it might be a fairly sharp segue. "Oh, the sun, yes," comes his glib answer -- nevermind the slight turn of head he gives in the direction of the table of Benden riders over there. "Tziveth loves the sun," another glib response, well-practiced aside. The dragon, meantime, is silent throughout the queen's musings, though the shadow of his thoughts follow the flows of water with just as much interest as her eventual response, which -- judging by the slight retreat, disappoints. It does, however, prompt him to speak, his voice bassy of timbre, underscored by a distant sort of sibilant echo. << A life without purpose is wasted. >>

There's an agreeable sort of noise from Jocelyn, whose mouth twitches briefly upward. "Habits we'll probably never lose, to our benefit. Harder to keep up with the running now, but I've never needed a wake-up reminder." She certainly appears to be giving the bottles behind the bar serious consideration while he speaks, but the look she wears afterward belies that impression in short order. "Dry and white, usually. But fruity, on occasion, can be interesting." Her eyes follow that little turn of his head, jaw setting briefly. "Most dragons do." Love the sun. "Unless I misunderstand, however, he isn't actually sunning. Or perhaps, the sun is more for your benefit?" There's the sense of a small smile from Aidavanth; he speaks, and that enables the flow of her mind to slow for a better study of his. << So is a life with unfulfilled purpose, >> is her quick return as the speed of her thoughts resumes. << What is yours? >> Somehow, she manages to infuse that with the gravity of his monosyllabic, earlier inquiry.

"Well, " T'zur leans closer, pseudo whispering: "I've heard they threaten to throw you out if you order something ''plain''. I've never ''actually'' seen them do it, but," he gestures, as if challenging Jocelyn to do just that, since the bartender is finally meandering their way. His hand rubs over his head -- an old habit, neither good or bad -- doubtless from when it was shaved close and not loose and unkempt like it is now, "Tziveth he -- uh, oh. Right," the bartender's querying look saves him from making up an answer: "The lady's drink is on me. And I'll have one of those red ones, the sunset ones?" And it's with a solemnity that he answers in kind: << To learn about others. What they want. >> The shadows advance again, infusing the flow of her thoughts with tiny divergences as it progresses. What does ''she'' want?

>---< ''1. Sunset Punch'' >------------------------------------------------------<

''A deep and mellow red concoction that looks sweet, but tastes quite tart. This blend of currant extract, vodka, citrus liqueur and lime juice is served shaken into a cold cocktail glass and dressed with a cherry.''

''Drink Credit: Ch'val Name Credit: Satiet''

>---------------------------------------------< ''Inspiration: Cosmo Katie'' >---<

"''Plain'' tends to suit me fine." And yet, after T'zur orders, Jocelyn spares the menu an almost dismissive glance, before: "I'll have - a Greenrider." Amused, she permits herself a little snort before her expression smooths afterward. "You were about to say something hopefully more illuminating than 'uh.'" That's a definite prompt for the bronzerider. << There's much we can learn from others, >> the orange-gold says agreeably, a curl of hazel winding its way through shadow and light. What ''does'' she want? There must be an answer, somewhere, but what she offers is instead, << And? What have you learned from others? >>

>---< ''8. Greenrider'' >--------------------------------------------------------<

''A naturally occurring seltzer water is collected from a mineral spring in a secret Istan cavern and is used as an additive in this minty drink. Sprigs of the fresh flavorful herb are crushed and muddied with a mix of sweetening, green citron juice, and ice chips flown in from High Reaches, resulting in a tangy and tart palate pleaser.''

''Drink Credit: Nolee Name Credit: T'mic''

>--------------------------------------------------< ''Inspiration: Mojito'' >---<

"I forget," T'zur says with all the glibness of a bronzerider -- although given he likely hasn't been one for all that long, probably only partly to blame. "So, High Reaches. What's it like?" the way he tilts his head, and watches her avidly suggests he's more than passingly interested or making idle conversation. "I don't get out that way much, myself." Tziveth is distracted, or -- more accurately -- retreating from words as the shadows stretch, seeking out that elusive answer. Words are words, but ''thoughts'' are truisms.

"You forget, " Jocelyn repeats with all the skepticism of one who's already taken his measure - and found something lacking, more than likely. "Apparently, you've also forgotten your geography." Pushing out an exhale, she shifts the set of her shoulders, begins again with knitted brow. "High Reaches is - at least now, cold. Snowy. It's also resilient, remarkably viewed from above, and my home. Not ''too'' different from yours, I would think." While her tone is still as dry as the wine she prefers, it's at least light enough by her conclusion. Tziveth's search draws the queen's attention; the flow of her mind stills briefly, long enough to pass on the firm resolution of duty-honor-homeland-security from which she augments her sense of will. It's all he's getting - for now, but it's concrete and very much a tenet of her identity. If there's a silent, passionate curiosity that's buried beneath it all, it's a hardly discernible thing, a whisper of a feeling that clearly takes a backseat to her surface considerations.

"I know it's in the mountains, I know what it ''looks'' like," the Bendenite replies, momentary exasperation showing, "But that doesn't tell me what it's like to ''live'' there. What the people are like, the leadership, the day to day, the--" T'zur says, getting on a roll -- stopped only by the arrival of their drinks. The brilliant colors of the drink only marginally offset the exhale that follows. "Benden is... very, mm, there are wings who are friendly, and moreover ''friends'', but there are many more wings for whom it is a job, and nothing more, and for whom they wouldn't tell you where the nearest toilet is if it delayed them for more than a minute or two." This time, he's definitely ''not'' looking over his shoulder, pulling his drink towards him and gulping a good half of it in one hit. The shadows of Tziveth's thoughts coil briefly around that tenet of core-Aidavanth, exploring it in depth, drinking it in, before flowing off to toil after that more elusive goal beneath.

Jocelyn takes the smallest of sips from her glass, observing the other rider silently in the wake of his enthusiasm. Drolly, then, to disguise her surprise: "Not visiting somewhere you wonder about is a strange way to assuage your curiosity." There's a glance for the speed of his consumption, and her expression relents a little. "The people are hardy, resilient, much like the mountains in which we live. Some are more trusting of outsiders than others. If I told you that your day-to-day probably isn't all that different from those with whom I went through weyrlinghood, I imagine you would say something along the lines of, 'but it's different because it wouldn't be Benden.'" If he won't look over his shoulder, ''she'' will. She's frowning faintly when she turns back to the bar. "Comparatively speaking, you've considerably more freedom when it comes to where you ride and for whom. Surely you could transfer to a wing where you have friends, if yours isn't - " Pause. " - adequately comfortable." It remains elusive, that curiosity, particularly as Aidavanth allows the enjoyment of sunbathing to come to the fore in silent, pleased satisfaction. Or is that a purposeful echo of a connection back to what's hidden? It's difficult to tell.

"I'm a strange person," T'zur readily admits, without a hint of embarrassment. "You hear a lot of stories over the Turns, you start to wonder." While Jocelyn might drink sparingly, he gulps down another couple of mouthfuls in the completely wrong way to express appreciation for such carefully crafted drinks. He is, however, listening closely, glancing at her sidelong for the most part, but certainly taking it in and filing it away. As to her latter suggestion: "Ah, well," the Bendenite grimaces and runs his hand through his hair. "Politics, you know?" He says it in that blithe way of someone used to those simple words deferring any further conversation on that score. And still, Tziveth persists: where there is sunlight, after all, there is evermore shadow. Certainly the feel of him, as the queen enjoys the sun, fades from attention, becoming far fainter and subtle, but still there, retaining that connection between them.

Jocelyn ''does'' know, and the way she turns her attention to watching condensation bead along her glass might be all too telling of her sentiments on ''that'' topic if her tersely repeated, "Politics, " isn't enough. At some length, she pushes her mostly untouched glass away and straightens to give him a crisp, little nod. "I should be getting back, " although it's just past mid-evening in the northern hemisphere. "Thank you for the unnecessary drink. T'zur." For someone who came to a relaxing place, she holds herself stiffly. "Visit the High Reaches at some point so that you don't expire of curiosity. Our holds ''do'' have gathers from time to time." Aidavanth's focus moves - first to better take in those around her, then to diverge toward her lifemate. And yet, there's a subtle lingering of her brightness to meet that hint of shadow, a balance that remains long after her presence fades further still once she and Jocelyn prepare to depart.

"The drink you didn't even drink?" T'zur replies, blithely, eyeing it for a moment before reaching for it, lifting it up as if toasting her, and taking a deep and appreciative gulp. Clearly he doesn't intend it to go to waste. He's not unaware of her stiff posture, and while it holds his gaze, it's not until she encourages him to visit and satisfy his curiosity that he chuckles. "Perhaps I will. Then again, perhaps not. Clear skies, weyrwoman," he adds. And yes, he's going to watch her walk away, because, he can. Plus those at the table in the corner might be watching. There's no farewell from Tziveth, no sense of departure when they leave -- his presence simply fades away as if it never was, the bronze remaining still within his shaded patch of Ista.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Run-Ins

2016-06-25T05:50:15Z

Jocelyn:

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn, T'zur
|what=Two riders collide at the Sandbar. Two dragons try to suss out one another.
|where=The Sandbar, Ista Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Benden Weyr, Ista Weyr
|day=8
|month=2
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.06.24
|quote=I hope your weyrlingmaster had better success than your mother.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn.png, Icon Jocelyn Aidavanth.jpg,
|desc=>---< The Sandbar, Ista Weyr(#447RJ) >---------------------------------------<

Standing on stilts over the water's edge with a broad ramp leading up from
the beach, the thatch-roofed building sits well above the highest tide
line. The walls of the structure are nothing but timber frames, open to
the cooling sea breezes but equipped with hinged panels of woven grass
that can be lowered during inclement weather. Within, supporting pillars
are draped in cast-off nets and shells and myriad tables provide seating
with spectacular panoramic views of the ocean, beach, and the bustling
activity of the docks to the west. A finely polished, sparkling slab of
obsidian serves as the bar and it's smooth surface is etched with
decorative carvings of shipfish and flowers and other emblems of the
tropical location. Shelves behind the bar are lined with bottles and
glasses of various shapes and sizes and hanging in prominent view are
slates listing the menu, beverages both alcoholic and not as well as a
handful of greasy appetizers provided by the kitchen to the rear of the
bar.

----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
Docks Beach
>-----------------------------------------< 8D 2M 41T I10, spring afternoon >---<
|log=It's ''cold'', up north -- not just in High Reaches, but in Benden, also. That's likely why there's a cluster of Benden riders taking up a table at the Sandbar, chatting brightly and earnestly. It doesn't ''quite'' explain why a younger Benden rider is seated at the bar, half a glass of something not-quite-bright-enough for the Sandbar's usual customers in his hand, staring over at the group sidelong now and then. The young man's frowning whenever he turns back towards the bar, exhaling. Out on the beach, dragons -- Istan, foreign and alike -- are enjoying the afternoon sun, though there's a dark bronze that's settled instead in the shade, unmoving.

The number of out-of-weyr visitors increases by one; Aidavanth's burnished orange-gold is difficult to miss as she appears in Istan airspace and circles down toward the beach, presence pleasant and warm as she descends to the dark sands. Although it takes her rider a moment before she dismounts, Jocelyn's quick to shed helmet and jacket, revealing a casually laced blouse atop dark slacks before leaving a trail of boot prints behind her on the way toward the Sandbar's entrance. And Aidavanth? She seeks to join those who are sunning, settling not far from the shade to partially unfold her wings and ''bask'' with a gusty little sigh, content.

The arriving queen receives welcoming greetings from those other dragons, though not ''all'' -- that dark bronze in the shade stirs momentarily, the gleam of his gaze felt more through the momentary touch of his mind: velvety blackness, cold -- especially in comparison to Rukbat's warmth -- with just the hint of movement, edging closer for a moment for study. The rider at the bar, meanwhile, knocks back the rest of that drink, exhales, and pushes upwards, tugging a hand through loose, artfully unkempt hair. There's still that distracted air about him as he heads for the entrance -- perhaps because he's glancing sidelong at that group that occupies a table across the way -- such that he's stepping abruptly into Jocelyn's path as she enters.

Jocelyn's purposeful stride leaves little room for course correction when combined with the Benden rider's unexpected appearance; out go her hands automatically to push quickly toward his arms in a move that could as much seek to push him away as to steady them both - when she collides, expression going from startled to ''annoyed'' in seconds. Her, "Watch yourself!" escapes in a high-pitched, surprised hiss, gray eyes sharp. In graceful contrast, Aidavanth is happy to exchange greetings, to remark upon how very nice the sun feels here when it's been sleeting practically ''all'' day at High Reaches. That chilled, if otherwise silent sense of dark study draws first a polite sense of 'hello?' followed by a small shift in her position so that she might better turn that wedge-shaped head to blink briefly in the direction of that movement in the shade.

The huff of breath from the Benden rider is more startled than anything, reaching out to grip her in turn -- he has a height on her -- pale blue eyes staring down in a mixture of consternation and amusement. "I'm, uh," he clears his throat, turning up a grin that is both full of charm and well-practiced at the same time, "My apologies, m'lady," as he releases his hands, a half-bow sketched. "I wasn't looking where I was going. Perhaps," a darted look is given over his shoulder, as if to assess if they're being watched -- it doesn't seem so, and yet, "Let me buy you a drink in apology. I ''insist''," he says, fixed on that idea now with a gallant gesture towards the bar. The cold of that regard doesn't recede, exactly -- but it does ''still'' at Aidavanth's regard. The bronze doesn't give his name, and yet it is known, in that touch -- Tziveth, he is, of Benden. And ''she''?

The look the goldrider scrutinizes him with is a measuring one, arms crossing after his apology with a huff of her own that loses some of its sharpness as the line of her mouth softens a trifle. Wryly, "That much is clear, unless you make a habit out of crashing into people." The offer of the drink, well - her lips purse, considering, before a short, "Fine, although it's ''quite'' unnecessary, " signals her acquiescence, preceding her movement toward the bar. To Tziveth, Aidavanth's name might well be conveyed in the ripple of thought that floats his way, accompanied by a glimpse of spindled caldera and mountains, but being a dragon of ''words'', she pronounces hers in a warm, clear alto. << Our best, >> hers and Jocelyn's, << to your queens, Tziveth of Benden. >>

The Benden rider squints a bit, pale eyes staring as if determining whether the comment is humor or not; apparently he decides it ''is'', because a grin soon follows. "Try not to, but my mother always said ''she'' could never get me to form good habits, either," as if aware of the change in mood of his new acquaintance, the bronzerider relaxes marginally, falling into step with her. "I'm T'zur, of Benden." There's movement from the shade; not quite ''skittering'', but that thought might come to mind, given the bronze's skeletal, whipcord-lean structure. Tziveth resettles within the shade, to better regard the Reachian queen, ivory talons flexing for a moment in the black of the sand. There's acknowledgement of the exchange, the expected politeness, but it isn't lingered on by the Bendenite. Instead, he wonders: ''why'', the thought floating amongst the shadows of his dark thoughts, honed, shone and finally produced for her regard.

"I hope your weyrlingmaster had better success than your mother. T'zur." It's only once she reaches the bar and can settle an arm on the counter that she turns to add, "Jocelyn, Aidavanth's. High Reaches' duties. And I suppose you came down for the sun, too." It's not quite a question, even if the lift of her eyebrows afterward seems expectant enough. Aidavanth's thoughts are, by contrast, bright and well-lit like the natural light of sun filtered through glass, conveying words and feelings that flow and ripple like water along smooth surfaces. Why be present here, now? Why choose to speak to him? Why sit in the sun? << Why not? >> comes her bemused reply, warm with the pleasure of absorbing the sunlight.

T'zur's squinted expression admits readily what comes a little more reluctantly verbally: "Well. It was a difficult time for us all -- let's put it like that," there's something wry in the grin that follows. "Learnt to run real well. Oh -- and stand dawn watch like a champion, so there's that." He steps closer to the bar, leaning on it to bring them to a more -- but not ''quite'' -- even eye level. "So, Jocelyn. Fruity? Colorful?" he's talking about the drinks, though with no lead in it might be a fairly sharp segue. "Oh, the sun, yes," comes his glib answer -- nevermind the slight turn of head he gives in the direction of the table of Benden riders over there. "Tziveth loves the sun," another glib response, well-practiced aside. The dragon, meantime, is silent throughout the queen's musings, though the shadow of his thoughts follow the flows of water with just as much interest as her eventual response, which -- judging by the slight retreat, disappoints. It does, however, prompt him to speak, his voice bassy of timbre, underscored by a distant sort of sibilant echo. << A life without purpose is wasted. >>

There's an agreeable sort of noise from Jocelyn, whose mouth twitches briefly upward. "Habits we'll probably never lose, to our benefit. Harder to keep up with the running now, but I've never needed a wake-up reminder." She certainly appears to be giving the bottles behind the bar serious consideration while he speaks, but the look she wears afterward belies that impression in short order. "Dry and white, usually. But fruity, on occasion, can be interesting." Her eyes follow that little turn of his head, jaw setting briefly. "Most dragons do." Love the sun. "Unless I misunderstand, however, he isn't actually sunning. Or perhaps, the sun is more for your benefit?" There's the sense of a small smile from Aidavanth; he speaks, and that enables the flow of her mind to slow for a better study of his. << So is a life with unfulfilled purpose, >> is her quick return as the speed of her thoughts resumes. << What is yours? >> Somehow, she manages to infuse that with the gravity of his monosyllabic, earlier inquiry.

"Well, " T'zur leans closer, pseudo whispering: "I've heard they threaten to throw you out if you order something ''plain''. I've never ''actually'' seen them do it, but," he gestures, as if challenging Jocelyn to do just that, since the bartender is finally meandering their way. His hand rubs over his head -- an old habit, neither good or bad -- doubtless from when it was shaved close and not loose and unkempt like it is now, "Tziveth he -- uh, oh. Right," the bartender's querying look saves him from making up an answer: "The lady's drink is on me. And I'll have one of those red ones, the sunset ones?" And it's with a solemnity that he answers in kind: << To learn about others. What they want. >> The shadows advance again, infusing the flow of her thoughts with tiny divergences as it progresses. What does ''she'' want?

>---< ''1. Sunset Punch'' >------------------------------------------------------<

''A deep and mellow red concoction that looks sweet, but tastes quite tart. This blend of currant extract, vodka, citrus liqueur and lime juice is served shaken into a cold cocktail glass and dressed with a cherry.''

''Drink Credit: Ch'val Name Credit: Satiet''

>---------------------------------------------< ''Inspiration: Cosmo Katie'' >---<

"''Plain'' tends to suit me fine." And yet, after T'zur orders, Jocelyn spares the menu an almost dismissive glance, before: "I'll have - a Greenrider." Amused, she permits herself a little snort before her expression smooths afterward. "You were about to say something hopefully more illuminating than 'uh.'" That's a definite prompt for the bronzerider. << There's much we can learn from others, >> the orange-gold says agreeably, a curl of hazel winding its way through shadow and light. What ''does'' she want? There must be an answer, somewhere, but what she offers is instead, << And? What have you learned from others? >>

>---< ''8. Greenrider'' >--------------------------------------------------------<

''A naturally occurring seltzer water is collected from a mineral spring in a secret Istan cavern and is used as an additive in this minty drink. Sprigs of the fresh flavorful herb are crushed and muddied with a mix of sweetening, green citron juice, and ice chips flown in from High Reaches, resulting in a tangy and tart palate pleaser.''

''Drink Credit: Nolee Name Credit: T'mic''

>--------------------------------------------------< ''Inspiration: Mojito'' >---<

"I forget," T'zur says with all the glibness of a bronzerider -- although given he likely hasn't been one for all that long, probably only partly to blame. "So, High Reaches. What's it like?" the way he tilts his head, and watches her avidly suggests he's more than passingly interested or making idle conversation. "I don't get out that way much, myself." Tziveth is distracted, or -- more accurately -- retreating from words as the shadows stretch, seeking out that elusive answer. Words are words, but ''thoughts'' are truisms.

"You forget, " Jocelyn repeats with all the skepticism of one who's already taken his measure - and found something lacking, more than likely. "Apparently, you've also forgotten your geography." Pushing out an exhale, she shifts the set of her shoulders, begins again with knitted brow. "High Reaches is - at least now, cold. Snowy. It's also resilient, remarkably viewed from above, and my home. Not ''too'' different from yours, I would think." While her tone is still as dry as the wine she prefers, it's at least light enough by her conclusion. Tziveth's search draws the queen's attention; the flow of her mind stills briefly, long enough to pass on the firm resolution of duty-honor-homeland-security from which she augments her sense of will. It's all he's getting - for now, but it's concrete and very much a tenet of her identity. If there's a silent, passionate curiosity that's buried beneath it all, it's a hardly discernible thing, a whisper of a feeling that clearly takes a backseat to her surface considerations.

"I know it's in the mountains, I know what it ''looks'' like," the Bendenite replies, momentary exasperation showing, "But that doesn't tell me what it's like to ''live'' there. What the people are like, the leadership, the day to day, the--" T'zur says, getting on a roll -- stopped only by the arrival of their drinks. The brilliant colors of the drink only marginally offset the exhale that follows. "Benden is... very, mm, there are wings who are friendly, and moreover ''friends'', but there are many more wings for whom it is a job, and nothing more, and for whom they wouldn't tell you where the nearest toilet is if it delayed them for more than a minute or two." This time, he's definitely ''not'' looking over his shoulder, pulling his drink towards him and gulping a good half of it in one hit. The shadows of Tziveth's thoughts coil briefly around that tenet of core-Aidavanth, exploring it in depth, drinking it in, before flowing off to toil after that more elusive goal beneath.

Jocelyn takes the smallest of sips from her glass, observing the other rider silently in the wake of his enthusiasm. Drolly, then, to disguise her surprise: "Not visiting somewhere you wonder about is a strange way to assuage your curiosity." There's a glance for the speed of his consumption, and her expression relents a little. "The people are hardy, resilient, much like the mountains in which we live. Some are more trusting of outsiders than others. If I told you that your day-to-day probably isn't all that different from those with whom I went through weyrlinghood, I imagine you would say something along the lines of, 'but it's different because it wouldn't be Benden.'" If he won't look over his shoulder, ''she'' will. She's frowning faintly when she turns back to the bar. "Comparatively speaking, you've considerably more freedom when it comes to where you ride and for whom. Surely you could transfer to a wing where you have friends, if yours isn't - " Pause. " - adequately comfortable." It remains elusive, that curiosity, particularly as Aidavanth allows the enjoyment of sunbathing to come to the fore in silent, pleased satisfaction. Or is that a purposeful echo of a connection back to what's hidden? It's difficult to tell.

"I'm a strange person," T'zur readily admits, without a hint of embarrassment. "You hear a lot of stories over the Turns, you start to wonder." While Jocelyn might drink sparingly, he gulps down another couple of mouthfuls in the completely wrong way to express appreciation for such carefully crafted drinks. He is, however, listening closely, glancing at her sidelong for the most part, but certainly taking it in and filing it away. As to her latter suggestion: "Ah, well," the Bendenite grimaces and runs his hand through his hair. "Politics, you know?" He says it in that blithe way of someone used to those simple words deferring any further conversation on that score. And still, Tziveth persists: where there is sunlight, after all, there is evermore shadow. Certainly the feel of him, as the queen enjoys the sun, fades from attention, becoming far fainter and subtle, but still there, retaining that connection between them.

Jocelyn ''does'' know, and the way she turns her attention to watching condensation bead along her glass might be all too telling of her sentiments on ''that'' topic if her tersely repeated, "Politics, " isn't enough. At some length, she pushes her mostly untouched glass away and straightens to give him a crisp, little nod. "I should be getting back, " although it's just past mid-evening in the northern hemisphere. "Thank you for the unnecessary drink. T'zur." For someone who came to a relaxing place, she holds herself stiffly. "Visit the High Reaches at some point so that you don't expire of curiosity. Our holds ''do'' have gathers from time to time." Aidavanth's focus moves - first to better take in those around her, then to diverge toward her lifemate. And yet, there's a subtle lingering of her brightness to meet that hint of shadow, a balance that remains long after her presence fades further still once she and Jocelyn prepare to depart.

"The drink you didn't even drink?" T'zur replies, blithely, eyeing it for a moment before reaching for it, lifting it up as if toasting her, and taking a deep and appreciative gulp. Clearly he doesn't intend it to go to waste. He's not unaware of her stiff posture, and while it holds his gaze, it's not until she encourages him to visit and satisfy his curiosity that he chuckles. "Perhaps I will. Then again, perhaps not. Clear skies, weyrwoman," he adds. And yes, he's going to watch her walk away, because, he can. Plus those at the table in the corner might be watching. There's no farewell from Tziveth, no sense of departure when they leave -- his presence simply fades away as if it never was, the bronze remaining still within his shaded patch of Ista.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Run-Ins

2016-06-25T05:49:34Z

Jocelyn:

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn, T'zur, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, Tziveth
|what=Two riders collide at the Sandbar. Two dragons try to suss out one another.
|where=The Sandbar, Ista Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Benden Weyr, Ista Weyr
|day=8
|month=2
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.06.24
|quote=I hope your weyrlingmaster had better success than your mother.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn.png, Icon Jocelyn Aidavanth.jpg,
|desc=>---< The Sandbar, Ista Weyr(#447RJ) >---------------------------------------<

Standing on stilts over the water's edge with a broad ramp leading up from
the beach, the thatch-roofed building sits well above the highest tide
line. The walls of the structure are nothing but timber frames, open to
the cooling sea breezes but equipped with hinged panels of woven grass
that can be lowered during inclement weather. Within, supporting pillars
are draped in cast-off nets and shells and myriad tables provide seating
with spectacular panoramic views of the ocean, beach, and the bustling
activity of the docks to the west. A finely polished, sparkling slab of
obsidian serves as the bar and it's smooth surface is etched with
decorative carvings of shipfish and flowers and other emblems of the
tropical location. Shelves behind the bar are lined with bottles and
glasses of various shapes and sizes and hanging in prominent view are
slates listing the menu, beverages both alcoholic and not as well as a
handful of greasy appetizers provided by the kitchen to the rear of the
bar.

----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
Docks Beach
>-----------------------------------------< 8D 2M 41T I10, spring afternoon >---<
|log=It's ''cold'', up north -- not just in High Reaches, but in Benden, also. That's likely why there's a cluster of Benden riders taking up a table at the Sandbar, chatting brightly and earnestly. It doesn't ''quite'' explain why a younger Benden rider is seated at the bar, half a glass of something not-quite-bright-enough for the Sandbar's usual customers in his hand, staring over at the group sidelong now and then. The young man's frowning whenever he turns back towards the bar, exhaling. Out on the beach, dragons -- Istan, foreign and alike -- are enjoying the afternoon sun, though there's a dark bronze that's settled instead in the shade, unmoving.

The number of out-of-weyr visitors increases by one; Aidavanth's burnished orange-gold is difficult to miss as she appears in Istan airspace and circles down toward the beach, presence pleasant and warm as she descends to the dark sands. Although it takes her rider a moment before she dismounts, Jocelyn's quick to shed helmet and jacket, revealing a casually laced blouse atop dark slacks before leaving a trail of boot prints behind her on the way toward the Sandbar's entrance. And Aidavanth? She seeks to join those who are sunning, settling not far from the shade to partially unfold her wings and ''bask'' with a gusty little sigh, content.

The arriving queen receives welcoming greetings from those other dragons, though not ''all'' -- that dark bronze in the shade stirs momentarily, the gleam of his gaze felt more through the momentary touch of his mind: velvety blackness, cold -- especially in comparison to Rukbat's warmth -- with just the hint of movement, edging closer for a moment for study. The rider at the bar, meanwhile, knocks back the rest of that drink, exhales, and pushes upwards, tugging a hand through loose, artfully unkempt hair. There's still that distracted air about him as he heads for the entrance -- perhaps because he's glancing sidelong at that group that occupies a table across the way -- such that he's stepping abruptly into Jocelyn's path as she enters.

Jocelyn's purposeful stride leaves little room for course correction when combined with the Benden rider's unexpected appearance; out go her hands automatically to push quickly toward his arms in a move that could as much seek to push him away as to steady them both - when she collides, expression going from startled to ''annoyed'' in seconds. Her, "Watch yourself!" escapes in a high-pitched, surprised hiss, gray eyes sharp. In graceful contrast, Aidavanth is happy to exchange greetings, to remark upon how very nice the sun feels here when it's been sleeting practically ''all'' day at High Reaches. That chilled, if otherwise silent sense of dark study draws first a polite sense of 'hello?' followed by a small shift in her position so that she might better turn that wedge-shaped head to blink briefly in the direction of that movement in the shade.

The huff of breath from the Benden rider is more startled than anything, reaching out to grip her in turn -- he has a height on her -- pale blue eyes staring down in a mixture of consternation and amusement. "I'm, uh," he clears his throat, turning up a grin that is both full of charm and well-practiced at the same time, "My apologies, m'lady," as he releases his hands, a half-bow sketched. "I wasn't looking where I was going. Perhaps," a darted look is given over his shoulder, as if to assess if they're being watched -- it doesn't seem so, and yet, "Let me buy you a drink in apology. I ''insist''," he says, fixed on that idea now with a gallant gesture towards the bar. The cold of that regard doesn't recede, exactly -- but it does ''still'' at Aidavanth's regard. The bronze doesn't give his name, and yet it is known, in that touch -- Tziveth, he is, of Benden. And ''she''?

The look the goldrider scrutinizes him with is a measuring one, arms crossing after his apology with a huff of her own that loses some of its sharpness as the line of her mouth softens a trifle. Wryly, "That much is clear, unless you make a habit out of crashing into people." The offer of the drink, well - her lips purse, considering, before a short, "Fine, although it's ''quite'' unnecessary, " signals her acquiescence, preceding her movement toward the bar. To Tziveth, Aidavanth's name might well be conveyed in the ripple of thought that floats his way, accompanied by a glimpse of spindled caldera and mountains, but being a dragon of ''words'', she pronounces hers in a warm, clear alto. << Our best, >> hers and Jocelyn's, << to your queens, Tziveth of Benden. >>

The Benden rider squints a bit, pale eyes staring as if determining whether the comment is humor or not; apparently he decides it ''is'', because a grin soon follows. "Try not to, but my mother always said ''she'' could never get me to form good habits, either," as if aware of the change in mood of his new acquaintance, the bronzerider relaxes marginally, falling into step with her. "I'm T'zur, of Benden." There's movement from the shade; not quite ''skittering'', but that thought might come to mind, given the bronze's skeletal, whipcord-lean structure. Tziveth resettles within the shade, to better regard the Reachian queen, ivory talons flexing for a moment in the black of the sand. There's acknowledgement of the exchange, the expected politeness, but it isn't lingered on by the Bendenite. Instead, he wonders: ''why'', the thought floating amongst the shadows of his dark thoughts, honed, shone and finally produced for her regard.

"I hope your weyrlingmaster had better success than your mother. T'zur." It's only once she reaches the bar and can settle an arm on the counter that she turns to add, "Jocelyn, Aidavanth's. High Reaches' duties. And I suppose you came down for the sun, too." It's not quite a question, even if the lift of her eyebrows afterward seems expectant enough. Aidavanth's thoughts are, by contrast, bright and well-lit like the natural light of sun filtered through glass, conveying words and feelings that flow and ripple like water along smooth surfaces. Why be present here, now? Why choose to speak to him? Why sit in the sun? << Why not? >> comes her bemused reply, warm with the pleasure of absorbing the sunlight.

T'zur's squinted expression admits readily what comes a little more reluctantly verbally: "Well. It was a difficult time for us all -- let's put it like that," there's something wry in the grin that follows. "Learnt to run real well. Oh -- and stand dawn watch like a champion, so there's that." He steps closer to the bar, leaning on it to bring them to a more -- but not ''quite'' -- even eye level. "So, Jocelyn. Fruity? Colorful?" he's talking about the drinks, though with no lead in it might be a fairly sharp segue. "Oh, the sun, yes," comes his glib answer -- nevermind the slight turn of head he gives in the direction of the table of Benden riders over there. "Tziveth loves the sun," another glib response, well-practiced aside. The dragon, meantime, is silent throughout the queen's musings, though the shadow of his thoughts follow the flows of water with just as much interest as her eventual response, which -- judging by the slight retreat, disappoints. It does, however, prompt him to speak, his voice bassy of timbre, underscored by a distant sort of sibilant echo. << A life without purpose is wasted. >>

There's an agreeable sort of noise from Jocelyn, whose mouth twitches briefly upward. "Habits we'll probably never lose, to our benefit. Harder to keep up with the running now, but I've never needed a wake-up reminder." She certainly appears to be giving the bottles behind the bar serious consideration while he speaks, but the look she wears afterward belies that impression in short order. "Dry and white, usually. But fruity, on occasion, can be interesting." Her eyes follow that little turn of his head, jaw setting briefly. "Most dragons do." Love the sun. "Unless I misunderstand, however, he isn't actually sunning. Or perhaps, the sun is more for your benefit?" There's the sense of a small smile from Aidavanth; he speaks, and that enables the flow of her mind to slow for a better study of his. << So is a life with unfulfilled purpose, >> is her quick return as the speed of her thoughts resumes. << What is yours? >> Somehow, she manages to infuse that with the gravity of his monosyllabic, earlier inquiry.

"Well, " T'zur leans closer, pseudo whispering: "I've heard they threaten to throw you out if you order something ''plain''. I've never ''actually'' seen them do it, but," he gestures, as if challenging Jocelyn to do just that, since the bartender is finally meandering their way. His hand rubs over his head -- an old habit, neither good or bad -- doubtless from when it was shaved close and not loose and unkempt like it is now, "Tziveth he -- uh, oh. Right," the bartender's querying look saves him from making up an answer: "The lady's drink is on me. And I'll have one of those red ones, the sunset ones?" And it's with a solemnity that he answers in kind: << To learn about others. What they want. >> The shadows advance again, infusing the flow of her thoughts with tiny divergences as it progresses. What does ''she'' want?

>---< ''1. Sunset Punch'' >------------------------------------------------------<

''A deep and mellow red concoction that looks sweet, but tastes quite tart. This blend of currant extract, vodka, citrus liqueur and lime juice is served shaken into a cold cocktail glass and dressed with a cherry.''

''Drink Credit: Ch'val Name Credit: Satiet''

>---------------------------------------------< ''Inspiration: Cosmo Katie'' >---<

"''Plain'' tends to suit me fine." And yet, after T'zur orders, Jocelyn spares the menu an almost dismissive glance, before: "I'll have - a Greenrider." Amused, she permits herself a little snort before her expression smooths afterward. "You were about to say something hopefully more illuminating than 'uh.'" That's a definite prompt for the bronzerider. << There's much we can learn from others, >> the orange-gold says agreeably, a curl of hazel winding its way through shadow and light. What ''does'' she want? There must be an answer, somewhere, but what she offers is instead, << And? What have you learned from others? >>

>---< ''8. Greenrider'' >--------------------------------------------------------<

''A naturally occurring seltzer water is collected from a mineral spring in a secret Istan cavern and is used as an additive in this minty drink. Sprigs of the fresh flavorful herb are crushed and muddied with a mix of sweetening, green citron juice, and ice chips flown in from High Reaches, resulting in a tangy and tart palate pleaser.''

''Drink Credit: Nolee Name Credit: T'mic''

>--------------------------------------------------< ''Inspiration: Mojito'' >---<

"I forget," T'zur says with all the glibness of a bronzerider -- although given he likely hasn't been one for all that long, probably only partly to blame. "So, High Reaches. What's it like?" the way he tilts his head, and watches her avidly suggests he's more than passingly interested or making idle conversation. "I don't get out that way much, myself." Tziveth is distracted, or -- more accurately -- retreating from words as the shadows stretch, seeking out that elusive answer. Words are words, but ''thoughts'' are truisms.

"You forget, " Jocelyn repeats with all the skepticism of one who's already taken his measure - and found something lacking, more than likely. "Apparently, you've also forgotten your geography." Pushing out an exhale, she shifts the set of her shoulders, begins again with knitted brow. "High Reaches is - at least now, cold. Snowy. It's also resilient, remarkably viewed from above, and my home. Not ''too'' different from yours, I would think." While her tone is still as dry as the wine she prefers, it's at least light enough by her conclusion. Tziveth's search draws the queen's attention; the flow of her mind stills briefly, long enough to pass on the firm resolution of duty-honor-homeland-security from which she augments her sense of will. It's all he's getting - for now, but it's concrete and very much a tenet of her identity. If there's a silent, passionate curiosity that's buried beneath it all, it's a hardly discernible thing, a whisper of a feeling that clearly takes a backseat to her surface considerations.

"I know it's in the mountains, I know what it ''looks'' like," the Bendenite replies, momentary exasperation showing, "But that doesn't tell me what it's like to ''live'' there. What the people are like, the leadership, the day to day, the--" T'zur says, getting on a roll -- stopped only by the arrival of their drinks. The brilliant colors of the drink only marginally offset the exhale that follows. "Benden is... very, mm, there are wings who are friendly, and moreover ''friends'', but there are many more wings for whom it is a job, and nothing more, and for whom they wouldn't tell you where the nearest toilet is if it delayed them for more than a minute or two." This time, he's definitely ''not'' looking over his shoulder, pulling his drink towards him and gulping a good half of it in one hit. The shadows of Tziveth's thoughts coil briefly around that tenet of core-Aidavanth, exploring it in depth, drinking it in, before flowing off to toil after that more elusive goal beneath.

Jocelyn takes the smallest of sips from her glass, observing the other rider silently in the wake of his enthusiasm. Drolly, then, to disguise her surprise: "Not visiting somewhere you wonder about is a strange way to assuage your curiosity." There's a glance for the speed of his consumption, and her expression relents a little. "The people are hardy, resilient, much like the mountains in which we live. Some are more trusting of outsiders than others. If I told you that your day-to-day probably isn't all that different from those with whom I went through weyrlinghood, I imagine you would say something along the lines of, 'but it's different because it wouldn't be Benden.'" If he won't look over his shoulder, ''she'' will. She's frowning faintly when she turns back to the bar. "Comparatively speaking, you've considerably more freedom when it comes to where you ride and for whom. Surely you could transfer to a wing where you have friends, if yours isn't - " Pause. " - adequately comfortable." It remains elusive, that curiosity, particularly as Aidavanth allows the enjoyment of sunbathing to come to the fore in silent, pleased satisfaction. Or is that a purposeful echo of a connection back to what's hidden? It's difficult to tell.

"I'm a strange person," T'zur readily admits, without a hint of embarrassment. "You hear a lot of stories over the Turns, you start to wonder." While Jocelyn might drink sparingly, he gulps down another couple of mouthfuls in the completely wrong way to express appreciation for such carefully crafted drinks. He is, however, listening closely, glancing at her sidelong for the most part, but certainly taking it in and filing it away. As to her latter suggestion: "Ah, well," the Bendenite grimaces and runs his hand through his hair. "Politics, you know?" He says it in that blithe way of someone used to those simple words deferring any further conversation on that score. And still, Tziveth persists: where there is sunlight, after all, there is evermore shadow. Certainly the feel of him, as the queen enjoys the sun, fades from attention, becoming far fainter and subtle, but still there, retaining that connection between them.

Jocelyn ''does'' know, and the way she turns her attention to watching condensation bead along her glass might be all too telling of her sentiments on ''that'' topic if her tersely repeated, "Politics, " isn't enough. At some length, she pushes her mostly untouched glass away and straightens to give him a crisp, little nod. "I should be getting back, " although it's just past mid-evening in the northern hemisphere. "Thank you for the unnecessary drink. T'zur." For someone who came to a relaxing place, she holds herself stiffly. "Visit the High Reaches at some point so that you don't expire of curiosity. Our holds ''do'' have gathers from time to time." Aidavanth's focus moves - first to better take in those around her, then to diverge toward her lifemate. And yet, there's a subtle lingering of her brightness to meet that hint of shadow, a balance that remains long after her presence fades further still once she and Jocelyn prepare to depart.

"The drink you didn't even drink?" T'zur replies, blithely, eyeing it for a moment before reaching for it, lifting it up as if toasting her, and taking a deep and appreciative gulp. Clearly he doesn't intend it to go to waste. He's not unaware of her stiff posture, and while it holds his gaze, it's not until she encourages him to visit and satisfy his curiosity that he chuckles. "Perhaps I will. Then again, perhaps not. Clear skies, weyrwoman," he adds. And yes, he's going to watch her walk away, because, he can. Plus those at the table in the corner might be watching. There's no farewell from Tziveth, no sense of departure when they leave -- his presence simply fades away as if it never was, the bronze remaining still within his shaded patch of Ista.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Run-Ins

2016-06-25T05:48:39Z

Jocelyn:

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn, T'zur, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, Quint{{!}}Tziveth
|what=Two riders collide at the Sandbar. Two dragons try to suss out one another.
|where=The Sandbar, Ista Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Benden Weyr, Ista Weyr
|day=8
|month=2
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.06.24
|quote=I hope your weyrlingmaster had better success than your mother.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn.png, Icon Jocelyn Aidavanth.jpg,
|desc=>---< The Sandbar, Ista Weyr(#447RJ) >---------------------------------------<

Standing on stilts over the water's edge with a broad ramp leading up from
the beach, the thatch-roofed building sits well above the highest tide
line. The walls of the structure are nothing but timber frames, open to
the cooling sea breezes but equipped with hinged panels of woven grass
that can be lowered during inclement weather. Within, supporting pillars
are draped in cast-off nets and shells and myriad tables provide seating
with spectacular panoramic views of the ocean, beach, and the bustling
activity of the docks to the west. A finely polished, sparkling slab of
obsidian serves as the bar and it's smooth surface is etched with
decorative carvings of shipfish and flowers and other emblems of the
tropical location. Shelves behind the bar are lined with bottles and
glasses of various shapes and sizes and hanging in prominent view are
slates listing the menu, beverages both alcoholic and not as well as a
handful of greasy appetizers provided by the kitchen to the rear of the
bar.

----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
Docks Beach
>-----------------------------------------< 8D 2M 41T I10, spring afternoon >---<
|log=It's ''cold'', up north -- not just in High Reaches, but in Benden, also. That's likely why there's a cluster of Benden riders taking up a table at the Sandbar, chatting brightly and earnestly. It doesn't ''quite'' explain why a younger Benden rider is seated at the bar, half a glass of something not-quite-bright-enough for the Sandbar's usual customers in his hand, staring over at the group sidelong now and then. The young man's frowning whenever he turns back towards the bar, exhaling. Out on the beach, dragons -- Istan, foreign and alike -- are enjoying the afternoon sun, though there's a dark bronze that's settled instead in the shade, unmoving.

The number of out-of-weyr visitors increases by one; Aidavanth's burnished orange-gold is difficult to miss as she appears in Istan airspace and circles down toward the beach, presence pleasant and warm as she descends to the dark sands. Although it takes her rider a moment before she dismounts, Jocelyn's quick to shed helmet and jacket, revealing a casually laced blouse atop dark slacks before leaving a trail of boot prints behind her on the way toward the Sandbar's entrance. And Aidavanth? She seeks to join those who are sunning, settling not far from the shade to partially unfold her wings and ''bask'' with a gusty little sigh, content.

The arriving queen receives welcoming greetings from those other dragons, though not ''all'' -- that dark bronze in the shade stirs momentarily, the gleam of his gaze felt more through the momentary touch of his mind: velvety blackness, cold -- especially in comparison to Rukbat's warmth -- with just the hint of movement, edging closer for a moment for study. The rider at the bar, meanwhile, knocks back the rest of that drink, exhales, and pushes upwards, tugging a hand through loose, artfully unkempt hair. There's still that distracted air about him as he heads for the entrance -- perhaps because he's glancing sidelong at that group that occupies a table across the way -- such that he's stepping abruptly into Jocelyn's path as she enters.

Jocelyn's purposeful stride leaves little room for course correction when combined with the Benden rider's unexpected appearance; out go her hands automatically to push quickly toward his arms in a move that could as much seek to push him away as to steady them both - when she collides, expression going from startled to ''annoyed'' in seconds. Her, "Watch yourself!" escapes in a high-pitched, surprised hiss, gray eyes sharp. In graceful contrast, Aidavanth is happy to exchange greetings, to remark upon how very nice the sun feels here when it's been sleeting practically ''all'' day at High Reaches. That chilled, if otherwise silent sense of dark study draws first a polite sense of 'hello?' followed by a small shift in her position so that she might better turn that wedge-shaped head to blink briefly in the direction of that movement in the shade.

The huff of breath from the Benden rider is more startled than anything, reaching out to grip her in turn -- he has a height on her -- pale blue eyes staring down in a mixture of consternation and amusement. "I'm, uh," he clears his throat, turning up a grin that is both full of charm and well-practiced at the same time, "My apologies, m'lady," as he releases his hands, a half-bow sketched. "I wasn't looking where I was going. Perhaps," a darted look is given over his shoulder, as if to assess if they're being watched -- it doesn't seem so, and yet, "Let me buy you a drink in apology. I ''insist''," he says, fixed on that idea now with a gallant gesture towards the bar. The cold of that regard doesn't recede, exactly -- but it does ''still'' at Aidavanth's regard. The bronze doesn't give his name, and yet it is known, in that touch -- Tziveth, he is, of Benden. And ''she''?

The look the goldrider scrutinizes him with is a measuring one, arms crossing after his apology with a huff of her own that loses some of its sharpness as the line of her mouth softens a trifle. Wryly, "That much is clear, unless you make a habit out of crashing into people." The offer of the drink, well - her lips purse, considering, before a short, "Fine, although it's ''quite'' unnecessary, " signals her acquiescence, preceding her movement toward the bar. To Tziveth, Aidavanth's name might well be conveyed in the ripple of thought that floats his way, accompanied by a glimpse of spindled caldera and mountains, but being a dragon of ''words'', she pronounces hers in a warm, clear alto. << Our best, >> hers and Jocelyn's, << to your queens, Tziveth of Benden. >>

The Benden rider squints a bit, pale eyes staring as if determining whether the comment is humor or not; apparently he decides it ''is'', because a grin soon follows. "Try not to, but my mother always said ''she'' could never get me to form good habits, either," as if aware of the change in mood of his new acquaintance, the bronzerider relaxes marginally, falling into step with her. "I'm T'zur, of Benden." There's movement from the shade; not quite ''skittering'', but that thought might come to mind, given the bronze's skeletal, whipcord-lean structure. Tziveth resettles within the shade, to better regard the Reachian queen, ivory talons flexing for a moment in the black of the sand. There's acknowledgement of the exchange, the expected politeness, but it isn't lingered on by the Bendenite. Instead, he wonders: ''why'', the thought floating amongst the shadows of his dark thoughts, honed, shone and finally produced for her regard.

"I hope your weyrlingmaster had better success than your mother. T'zur." It's only once she reaches the bar and can settle an arm on the counter that she turns to add, "Jocelyn, Aidavanth's. High Reaches' duties. And I suppose you came down for the sun, too." It's not quite a question, even if the lift of her eyebrows afterward seems expectant enough. Aidavanth's thoughts are, by contrast, bright and well-lit like the natural light of sun filtered through glass, conveying words and feelings that flow and ripple like water along smooth surfaces. Why be present here, now? Why choose to speak to him? Why sit in the sun? << Why not? >> comes her bemused reply, warm with the pleasure of absorbing the sunlight.

T'zur's squinted expression admits readily what comes a little more reluctantly verbally: "Well. It was a difficult time for us all -- let's put it like that," there's something wry in the grin that follows. "Learnt to run real well. Oh -- and stand dawn watch like a champion, so there's that." He steps closer to the bar, leaning on it to bring them to a more -- but not ''quite'' -- even eye level. "So, Jocelyn. Fruity? Colorful?" he's talking about the drinks, though with no lead in it might be a fairly sharp segue. "Oh, the sun, yes," comes his glib answer -- nevermind the slight turn of head he gives in the direction of the table of Benden riders over there. "Tziveth loves the sun," another glib response, well-practiced aside. The dragon, meantime, is silent throughout the queen's musings, though the shadow of his thoughts follow the flows of water with just as much interest as her eventual response, which -- judging by the slight retreat, disappoints. It does, however, prompt him to speak, his voice bassy of timbre, underscored by a distant sort of sibilant echo. << A life without purpose is wasted. >>

There's an agreeable sort of noise from Jocelyn, whose mouth twitches briefly upward. "Habits we'll probably never lose, to our benefit. Harder to keep up with the running now, but I've never needed a wake-up reminder." She certainly appears to be giving the bottles behind the bar serious consideration while he speaks, but the look she wears afterward belies that impression in short order. "Dry and white, usually. But fruity, on occasion, can be interesting." Her eyes follow that little turn of his head, jaw setting briefly. "Most dragons do." Love the sun. "Unless I misunderstand, however, he isn't actually sunning. Or perhaps, the sun is more for your benefit?" There's the sense of a small smile from Aidavanth; he speaks, and that enables the flow of her mind to slow for a better study of his. << So is a life with unfulfilled purpose, >> is her quick return as the speed of her thoughts resumes. << What is yours? >> Somehow, she manages to infuse that with the gravity of his monosyllabic, earlier inquiry.

"Well, " T'zur leans closer, pseudo whispering: "I've heard they threaten to throw you out if you order something ''plain''. I've never ''actually'' seen them do it, but," he gestures, as if challenging Jocelyn to do just that, since the bartender is finally meandering their way. His hand rubs over his head -- an old habit, neither good or bad -- doubtless from when it was shaved close and not loose and unkempt like it is now, "Tziveth he -- uh, oh. Right," the bartender's querying look saves him from making up an answer: "The lady's drink is on me. And I'll have one of those red ones, the sunset ones?" And it's with a solemnity that he answers in kind: << To learn about others. What they want. >> The shadows advance again, infusing the flow of her thoughts with tiny divergences as it progresses. What does ''she'' want?

>---< ''1. Sunset Punch'' >------------------------------------------------------<

''A deep and mellow red concoction that looks sweet, but tastes quite tart. This blend of currant extract, vodka, citrus liqueur and lime juice is served shaken into a cold cocktail glass and dressed with a cherry.''

''Drink Credit: Ch'val Name Credit: Satiet''

>---------------------------------------------< ''Inspiration: Cosmo Katie'' >---<

"''Plain'' tends to suit me fine." And yet, after T'zur orders, Jocelyn spares the menu an almost dismissive glance, before: "I'll have - a Greenrider." Amused, she permits herself a little snort before her expression smooths afterward. "You were about to say something hopefully more illuminating than 'uh.'" That's a definite prompt for the bronzerider. << There's much we can learn from others, >> the orange-gold says agreeably, a curl of hazel winding its way through shadow and light. What ''does'' she want? There must be an answer, somewhere, but what she offers is instead, << And? What have you learned from others? >>

>---< ''8. Greenrider'' >--------------------------------------------------------<

''A naturally occurring seltzer water is collected from a mineral spring in a secret Istan cavern and is used as an additive in this minty drink. Sprigs of the fresh flavorful herb are crushed and muddied with a mix of sweetening, green citron juice, and ice chips flown in from High Reaches, resulting in a tangy and tart palate pleaser.''

''Drink Credit: Nolee Name Credit: T'mic''

>--------------------------------------------------< ''Inspiration: Mojito'' >---<

"I forget," T'zur says with all the glibness of a bronzerider -- although given he likely hasn't been one for all that long, probably only partly to blame. "So, High Reaches. What's it like?" the way he tilts his head, and watches her avidly suggests he's more than passingly interested or making idle conversation. "I don't get out that way much, myself." Tziveth is distracted, or -- more accurately -- retreating from words as the shadows stretch, seeking out that elusive answer. Words are words, but ''thoughts'' are truisms.

"You forget, " Jocelyn repeats with all the skepticism of one who's already taken his measure - and found something lacking, more than likely. "Apparently, you've also forgotten your geography." Pushing out an exhale, she shifts the set of her shoulders, begins again with knitted brow. "High Reaches is - at least now, cold. Snowy. It's also resilient, remarkably viewed from above, and my home. Not ''too'' different from yours, I would think." While her tone is still as dry as the wine she prefers, it's at least light enough by her conclusion. Tziveth's search draws the queen's attention; the flow of her mind stills briefly, long enough to pass on the firm resolution of duty-honor-homeland-security from which she augments her sense of will. It's all he's getting - for now, but it's concrete and very much a tenet of her identity. If there's a silent, passionate curiosity that's buried beneath it all, it's a hardly discernible thing, a whisper of a feeling that clearly takes a backseat to her surface considerations.

"I know it's in the mountains, I know what it ''looks'' like," the Bendenite replies, momentary exasperation showing, "But that doesn't tell me what it's like to ''live'' there. What the people are like, the leadership, the day to day, the--" T'zur says, getting on a roll -- stopped only by the arrival of their drinks. The brilliant colors of the drink only marginally offset the exhale that follows. "Benden is... very, mm, there are wings who are friendly, and moreover ''friends'', but there are many more wings for whom it is a job, and nothing more, and for whom they wouldn't tell you where the nearest toilet is if it delayed them for more than a minute or two." This time, he's definitely ''not'' looking over his shoulder, pulling his drink towards him and gulping a good half of it in one hit. The shadows of Tziveth's thoughts coil briefly around that tenet of core-Aidavanth, exploring it in depth, drinking it in, before flowing off to toil after that more elusive goal beneath.

Jocelyn takes the smallest of sips from her glass, observing the other rider silently in the wake of his enthusiasm. Drolly, then, to disguise her surprise: "Not visiting somewhere you wonder about is a strange way to assuage your curiosity." There's a glance for the speed of his consumption, and her expression relents a little. "The people are hardy, resilient, much like the mountains in which we live. Some are more trusting of outsiders than others. If I told you that your day-to-day probably isn't all that different from those with whom I went through weyrlinghood, I imagine you would say something along the lines of, 'but it's different because it wouldn't be Benden.'" If he won't look over his shoulder, ''she'' will. She's frowning faintly when she turns back to the bar. "Comparatively speaking, you've considerably more freedom when it comes to where you ride and for whom. Surely you could transfer to a wing where you have friends, if yours isn't - " Pause. " - adequately comfortable." It remains elusive, that curiosity, particularly as Aidavanth allows the enjoyment of sunbathing to come to the fore in silent, pleased satisfaction. Or is that a purposeful echo of a connection back to what's hidden? It's difficult to tell.

"I'm a strange person," T'zur readily admits, without a hint of embarrassment. "You hear a lot of stories over the Turns, you start to wonder." While Jocelyn might drink sparingly, he gulps down another couple of mouthfuls in the completely wrong way to express appreciation for such carefully crafted drinks. He is, however, listening closely, glancing at her sidelong for the most part, but certainly taking it in and filing it away. As to her latter suggestion: "Ah, well," the Bendenite grimaces and runs his hand through his hair. "Politics, you know?" He says it in that blithe way of someone used to those simple words deferring any further conversation on that score. And still, Tziveth persists: where there is sunlight, after all, there is evermore shadow. Certainly the feel of him, as the queen enjoys the sun, fades from attention, becoming far fainter and subtle, but still there, retaining that connection between them.

Jocelyn ''does'' know, and the way she turns her attention to watching condensation bead along her glass might be all too telling of her sentiments on ''that'' topic if her tersely repeated, "Politics, " isn't enough. At some length, she pushes her mostly untouched glass away and straightens to give him a crisp, little nod. "I should be getting back, " although it's just past mid-evening in the northern hemisphere. "Thank you for the unnecessary drink. T'zur." For someone who came to a relaxing place, she holds herself stiffly. "Visit the High Reaches at some point so that you don't expire of curiosity. Our holds ''do'' have gathers from time to time." Aidavanth's focus moves - first to better take in those around her, then to diverge toward her lifemate. And yet, there's a subtle lingering of her brightness to meet that hint of shadow, a balance that remains long after her presence fades further still once she and Jocelyn prepare to depart.

"The drink you didn't even drink?" T'zur replies, blithely, eyeing it for a moment before reaching for it, lifting it up as if toasting her, and taking a deep and appreciative gulp. Clearly he doesn't intend it to go to waste. He's not unaware of her stiff posture, and while it holds his gaze, it's not until she encourages him to visit and satisfy his curiosity that he chuckles. "Perhaps I will. Then again, perhaps not. Clear skies, weyrwoman," he adds. And yes, he's going to watch her walk away, because, he can. Plus those at the table in the corner might be watching. There's no farewell from Tziveth, no sense of departure when they leave -- his presence simply fades away as if it never was, the bronze remaining still within his shaded patch of Ista.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Run-Ins

2016-06-25T05:46:40Z

Jocelyn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Jocelyn, Quint{{!}}T'zur, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, Quint{{!}}Tziveth |what=Two riders collide at the Sandbar. Two dragons try to suss out one another. |where=The Sand..."

Logs talk:Later Plans

2016-06-21T22:54:37Z

Jocelyn: Comment provided by Jocelyn - via ArticleComments extension

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

==Jocelyn (15:54, 21 June 2016 (PDT)) said... ==

Oh no. XD

Logs:Sticky Decisions

2016-06-19T03:17:35Z

Jocelyn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Jocelyn, Silva, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, Silva{{!}}Zaisyreth |what=Neither logic nor sweet rolls can sway Silva's resolve. |where=Meadow, Nabol Hold |involves=High Re..."

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn, Silva, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, Silva{{!}}Zaisyreth
|what=Neither logic nor sweet rolls can sway Silva's resolve.
|where=Meadow, Nabol Hold
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Nabol Hold
|day=28
|month=13
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.06.18
|quote=Do I ''have'' to know their names?
|mentions=Drex, Farideh
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn fancy.jpg, Icon silva too pretty.jpg, Icon Jocelyn Aidavanth.jpg,
|log=The people here know what to do in the event of inclement weather. A thick tent is up, with heated braziers all about to keep the guests warm. A drudge stands at the door taking coats as people enter, as it is too warm for them within the gather tent. Space has been cleared near the middle for dancing, while those of importance mingle here and there. Silva comes late, actually, to be more specific, Silva wasn't invited but she's here and since no one is asking for invitations she's just going to act like she belongs here. Her grace has always been that just-too-pretty-pretty, a kind of fluffyness and prissyness that floats about her on the fluffs of her curly hair. Tonight there is an edge to her look though. She's wearing a tight-bodiced black dress, cut up the side and lacking any pretense of sleeve. Her hair has been firmly controlled, with half of it done up in braids, while the other half is allowed to cascade over her shoulder and one one eye. Even her movements have that sharpness as her eyes wander looking purposefully for something.

Among the public figures doing their mingling duty, Jocelyn gravitates from one equally notable visitor to the next, keeping her greetings short - and if not exactly ''sweet'', at least stiffly polite. Rather than being pulled into her usual, severe twist for formal occasions, her bright hair has been pinned into a neat little bun just at the nape of her neck, with sections left looser near the front to sweep artfully over her temples. Dressed in her best High Reaches blue, and certainly warm enough thanks to the heaviness of the fabric, the sharpness to ''her'' movements have everything to do with impatience, unlike Silva's purposeful ones. Turning away from her latest exchange of Turnover wishes and greetings, she moves to acquire a drink from a passing server, eyebrows lifting faintly as she watches the arrivals and departures - and lifting higher still once she catches sight of Silva. That ''dress''. Pale eyes narrow before the goldrider collects a second beverage and moves to intercept. "Silva, " once she's within conversational range, "you look like a woman on a mission." The cup that's offered to her former classmate? A warm, spicy cider, much like her own.

This particular gather, out of all the turnover gathers has been targeted for a reason, and that reason stands at the far side of the tent. It's a knot of younger sons, the spares the holders breed up just in case something happens to the first born. The kind that get into trouble if they're not watched carefully. Silva had started to pick her way over there, disdaining any other greetings she got along the way, until Jocelyn settles herself in her pathway. Silva's wearing dark eyeliner, only adding to the edge of her image as she stops and looks coolly at the goldrider. "Jocelyn. I am simply meeting some..." her gaze flicks over to the would-be troublemakers, then back to Jocelyn, "Acquaintances. I see you are doing your ''duty'' as a weyrwoman tonight." There's a hint of harshness in the way she says the word duty.

A glance briefly flicks in the direction of the young men; a purse of her lips later: "Acquaintances." Jocelyn repeats the other's word with no small measure of skepticism, considering the brunette over the rim of her steaming cup. "Do you even know their names?" A little crease forms at her brow for the tone Silva throws into the word 'duty, ' but her expression remains even. "Happy Turnover to you, too, " she says wryly after a beat, studying the bluerider carefully. "Have you had a drink yet tonight?"

"Do I ''have'' to know their names?" Silva shoots the words back. She's so stiff in the way she's standing, as if compensating for something serious that's bubbling just under the surface, and only reflected a a shimmer of uncertainty in her eyes that an astute eye might pick up on. A step closer, towards Jocelyn, but also toward those in the back, brings the bluerider close enough for the smell of her breath to reach the golderider. The smell of alcohol hangs there, even though Silva defensively says, "No, I just ''arrived''."

"So you don't actually know them, " replies Jocelyn with a note of satisfaction, pushing the extra mug of cider she's holding toward Silva as she closes some of the distance between them, particularly as the smell of some spirit or another wafts forth with her defense. More quietly, a trifle warily: "I know you hardly consider me to be a friend, but as someone who ''does'' have your best interests in mind - is this a Zaisyreth-approved venture?"

Silva rolls her eyes upwards, but it would look really poorly on her if she didn't take that mug of cider. Her hands wrap around it and another crack shows in her act, her fingers shake minutely. She's not nearly as confident as she would like to pretend she is. At the mention of her dragon Silva's gaze flashes back to Jocelyn. "Zaisyreth." Carefully. "Supports my ability to make my ''own'' choices." Each word is said as if bitten off, and carries a practiced tone.

"You should, of course, make your own choices, " Jocelyn agrees easily enough, with only the slight thinning at her mouth to indicate that she's seen what's slipping through Silva's veneer. "How about a sticky bun to go with the cider before you join your, " dry, "acquaintances? Surely you like these little cinnamon-sugary things." And look, there's a selection just over there, to which she nods expectantly. "Most people seem to. ''I'' do, certainly. They - can be of help, sometimes."

"Of course I should." Defensive tone there, as Silva takes her eyes away from Jocelyn like she can't ''quite'' bring herself to look into the goldrider's eyes for very long. She'll even take a sip of the cider, before she rolls her shoulders in a semi-elegant shrug. "Fine. I don't see how they could ''help'', I mean, they're just a bit of sugar." She'll even lead the way towards the sticky things, eyes latched on those acquaintances over there. Their voice levels are rising, and each holds a cup in their hands. A few have that tell-tale flush of well-on-their-way to drunk on their cheeks.

Jocelyn, surprised when Silva begins heading toward the selection of sweet-smelling buns, is quick to follow in the other's wake, particularly as one of the small-talker-extraordinaires across the way finishes his conversation with a member of Lady Nabol's staff and looks as if he's ready to take a step in her direction. "You can't tell me that you've never found a bit of sugar to be helpful at times. I know I'm not the only one who raids the dessert trays while I'm on my courses." The briefest of glances also gets spared for Silva's would-be companions, and the step she takes up to the bluerider's side once they're in front of the sugary objects in question finds her purposefully turned so that their view of the younger rider might be blocked, however temporarily. "I like the ones all but smothered in glaze, " she confides, "but the ones on that side with the chopped nuts on top have always been tempting, too."

"I don't want to get ''fat''." Someone with Silva's build can manage that pretty easily, and when she reaches out for the sticky bun it's really just to pick at it. None of it travels upwards to her face. Looking up her gaze is filled with Jocelyn instead of the men she had intended to look for, and a flit of anger splashes on her features. "What are you doing Jocelyn." A question, but with the flatness of tone that equals suspicion.

Jocelyn makes a disagreeable noise, selecting one of the plumpest buns that's indeed all but covered in melted sugar. "If we keep running throughout our lives as much as we did when we were weyrlings, that shouldn't happen." She's mid-chew when Silva's suspicious inquiry is voiced, so there's a bit of a lull before her answer comes on the heels of another pull of cider; "Trying to ensure that you're making decisions with a clear head. If you can honestly say that nothing would make you happier than going over there and letting those men paw at you to usher in the new turn, I hope you do enjoy your evening." There's a shift in her expression, a brief softening around the eyes and the set of her mouth. Low, "I thought it'd be easier to just - get it over with, myself. That's what I ultimately chose to do, but it didn't make me feel good - or better - about the whole thing. It didn't help me to forget anything, and it certainly didn't compare to - experiences with someone who cared." At a more normal volume, "Sometimes the sugar helps. These really ''are'' nice." Too nice, her tone implies, to pick at and not actually eat.

There are all sorts of retorts that go onto Silva's tongue regarding the issue of fatness in riders. But there is a more important point which spills from Jocelyn's lips, and it freezes the younger woman into stillness not unlike that of a deer in the gaze of a predator. Her face goes through several colors, first white under her make up, then a flush of bright red. There's no ''way'' she could even attempt to look at Jocelyn, but she does put down that bun careful-careful. This would be a good moment to choose her words carefully, but instead they fall out. "If I'm going to be ''called'' loose, then I might as well ''be'' loose."

The line of Jocelyn's lips thins even further, but her next words are deliberately modulated into an even tone, even as she makes to steer them a step or two away from the sweet buns and potentially curious ears. She's displeased, but that displeasure isn't directed to her former classmate, for whom she gentles her voice. "You are ''not'' loose, and anyone who says so is clearly addled in the head. Who said that to you? Silva."

Silva puts out her own hand, stopping them from steering her way and keeping her stance there by the table. "No." She steps backwards away from Jocelyn, and towards that knot of young men. "I wasn't. But if that's what it is, then that's what I'll be. By ''choice''. If I get drunk and end up in one of their beds, whatever." The words come like she's psyching herself up just by saying it. "That stupid sea-man was right about one thing. I'm not good for much, but I can at ''least'' do that."

"So you're going to make your own decisions, except for the part where someone ''else'' just decided that you're going to be loose." One of Jocelyn's boots taps under her skirts, although the movement barely registers in the heavy material. "Not good for - shells, Silva, you were the first among our class chosen to be weyrling wingleader. Zaisyreth obviously sees great potential in you, or have you forgotten that ''he'' chose you that night?" Discovering the identity of who elected to insult the brunette is still apparently on her list of priorities, as her eyes narrow after that epithet comes to light and she presses with some suspicion, "What stupid sea-man?"

Dragon> To Zaisyreth, Aidavanth is enjoying herself on the fire heights with the other visiting dragons this evening, but she withdraws her attention from them to reach for her brother and friend, a sweep of hazel heralding her presence. << Do you have an image of the - >> A pause. << Stupid sea-man? >>

Dragon> Zaisyreth's mind is stormy today, clouds above swirling to obscure the savannah below as the grasses whip against the bite of the wind. Chimes clang from within the ancient boabab their wooden echos seeming to warn of danger. << He was the mate of Roszadyth's. >> (To Aidavanth from Zaisyreth)

Jocelyn, quietly: "If it doesn't matter one way or the other, why did you try so hard to 'do it right' - or to dress so daringly tonight? Seems to me that if it truly didn't matter, you'd just be here to have fun for ''you'' regardless of what some ill-informed person said." In-and-out goes the focus of her eyes briefly, and the set of her jaw firms afterward before it drops to expel a low breath. Meanwhile, that sticky bun is getting cold ''fast''. "I'm not here to stop you from - finding yourself, or whatever you think this little quest of yours is going to accomplish. But I don't want to see someone with a lot of potential wake up tomorrow morning and find that her respect for the pretty young lady in the mirror who has the capacity to do some good is diminished." Now, ''now'' she'll take another bite of that cinnamon treat, expression unable to be discerned.

Dragon> Do dragons grimace? There's a mental one from the orange-gold, who bobs a comforting feeling in the blue's direction on a ripple of subsequent thought. << She does want what's best for her. >> Jocelyn and Silva, respectively. << You'll make sure she stays safe, Zaisyreth. >> There's no question there, only a matter of fact. (To Zaisyreth from Aidavanth)

"You know what, this isn't useful. Thank you for caring, but I'll make my own decisions." Turning on one heel Silva sets her shoulders - and her cup of cider to one side and fixes her attention on the group of boys. She shakes her hair to be just ''so'', and then strides forward with all the false confidence she can muster. It'll look real enough to the half-drunk young men. They split when she approaches and Silva will just insert herself into their company without a backward glance.

Dragon> Rain could fall from the swirl of clouds above, but this isn't that kind of storm. Instead lightning lashes across them, brightening below for a bit, before it dissipates into malcontent gray again. <> There is a beat though, as the chimes below echo their lonely warning, << She did not wish that until morning today. >> (To Aidavanth from Zaisyreth)

And Jocelyn silently observes Silva's acting skills as she throws herself into the company of the cluster of young fellows, brow creasing into a frown even after she's turned away and stuffed the rest of her baked good into her mouth. What concerns she may carry get smoothed away as someone passing offers duties to High Reaches, and the goldrider hastily goes in search of a napkin before resuming her grip-and-grin rounds.

Dragon> To Zaisyreth, Aidavanth takes those words into consideration, passes them on so that her human half might retain them for her. << Tell us how she is tomorrow, >> she requests before attempting to distract him in pleasant chatter about their respective weeks until Jocelyn decides that it's time to leave.
}}

Logs:Pregnant Pauses

2016-05-28T00:45:36Z

Jocelyn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Jocelyn, Leova |what=Pregnancy and offspring, winged and not, are hot topics in the lunch line. |where=Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr..."

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn, Leova
|what=Pregnancy and offspring, winged and not, are hot topics in the lunch line.
|where=Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=21
|month=11
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.05.22
|quote=At this rate, could find your father before dessert.
|weather=Pleasant, sunny and breezy.
|mentions=Irianke, Quinlys
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn impatient.jpg, Icon leova.jpg,
|log=While it's the sort of day that's good for picnicking, or at least eating out of doors, the line for the midday meal in the living cavern remains about its usual length, if moving a bit more slowly than some of its occupants might prefer. Near the front of the line, someone solicitously permits a ''very'' pregnant woman (who looks as if she should skip lunch and just start heading to the infirmary) behind him to take his place if it means getting her that much closer to obtaining her lunch. Amid the grumbling that this causes for those further back, Jocelyn's waiting ''im''patiently with crossed arms and a tapping foot, visibly rolling her eyes in the direction of those voicing their complaints. Despite the fact that she certainly has the option to leave the queue and order a meal brought to her, she remains where she is - hardly an unpredictable choice for High Reaches' very native goldrider - who, gossip has it, still prefers to use the same grade of linens available to lower caverns staff rather than what her salary could afford to requisition. As the line (slowly) progresses, the redhead pulls a thrice-folded sheet from a pocket, one hand absently patting behind an ear while reading where a pencil ''doesn't'' await her; a little huff gets expelled afterward in annoyance as she leans to the side to try to see around the next few clusters of shoulders.

Some of those shoulders are mountainous. Leova's, not so. The greenrider glances back from her Glacier bookends and then falls back: not a ''step'' back so much as letting the men shuffle forward without her. Her smile tips up at a corner, at Jocelyn. "Second thoughts?"

"There might, on occasion, be merits to skipping lunch, " Jocelyn replies once she realizes that Leova's right ''there'', pale gaze briefly tracking the woman who's waddling off to find a table now that she's put together a tray. "Especially if that one doesn't make it through the meal." That observation gets a lower delivery, expression less than comfortable. "Having a productive morning?" Up until this point, goes unspoken.

"Efficient, no. Productive," comes with Leova's glance slanted towards those now ahead of her. "Well. Day like today, all the more reason to undergo a very ''thorough'' sweep. Most excitement there was, confirming a trader group cutting through a holder's fields, last I saw was them galloping out to intercept." While she's at it, the next glance marks the woman who's managing to ease onto a bench. "Remember the twins," carries empathy.

"There are times, " Jocelyn says wryly, "that I wish sweeps were included in my list of duties. Aidavanth also enjoyed the few we went on as weyrlings before our training ''completely'' diverged." For her part, there's a shudder as she follows the greenrider's glance momentarily, an arm curling defensively across her midsection. "That's one contribution I won't be making to the weyr's wellbeing any time soon." Her throat clears, then: "I'm sure I'll get some semblance of the experience sooner than I wish, anyway. I won't complain if the others' cycles push her timing back, however."

Leova has that one-cornered smile again, fine creases about the amber eyes that now remark on ''other'' others, the Glacier riders before them in line: three former Weyrleaders in their wing, if one counts its leader. Her voice is low, not loud. "I'll wish you well, there, and none complaining about the delay." A step forward later, "Wonder about an extra line. 'The slow line,' if you will."

"It seems to me as if we're already in it." Jocelyn, at least somewhat amused. Would a second, just-as-slow line speed things up? It's possible that the people now at the head of the line for the serving tables are simply taking their time because it's such a nice day, or perhaps it might have more to do with the fact that they're more interested in chatting with each other while putting their plates together than paying attention to the looks being tossed in their direction. "At the rate this is going, I'll be late for my after-lunch meeting - or very early and ready for it to be over before it begins." Hangry.

"Slow, slower, slowest." Leova presses her lips together, but it's still a smile escaping. "Reckon I should warn them. Put you one notch closer, to boot." That parade rest she maintains between steps isn't so much a fidget as its absence. "At this rate, could find your," mother? "father before dessert."

Jocelyn's eyebrows arch. While the line of her posture projects at least some irritation to those who may or may not be looking on behind her, her expression tells a different story, lips twitching visibly at Leova. "And sacrifice your own place in line? Leova, lunchtime hero. Has quite a ring to it, doesn't it." A glance tips down toward her pocket while one hand rummages in there to check (re-check?) for the thrice-folded paper of earlier. It's a lengthier-than-usual pause before she responds: "The dessert should be excellent after such a long, " ''long'', "waiting period."

The dragonhealer gives her a symmetrical smile, as posed as the further squaring of her shoulders: valiant Leova, "'Tis true." Her gaze flicks at that pocket, no more, even with no more steps to take. "That too. Fruitcake might keep, but don't know about ''excellent''. Depends on what brandy it's soaked in, I reckon. And how much."

"''Fruitcake, ''" repeats Jocelyn with the driest of sighs. "If I'm to go on a wild wherry chase, surely there's something more rewarding on offer. Imported Istan delights, perhaps." Her tone lightens by the time she's finished, likely deliberately so, and it's almost gladly that she nods toward the very pregnant lady at the end of communal table three, who has paused midway through her meal with a panicked expression. "I wonder how many marks are being made on that look." The (very soon) mother-to-be, with some difficulty, pushes up from her seat and accepts the arm of a concerned tablemate as she waddles toward the exit post-haste. Whether due to the human need for gawking at others' fortunes or something else entirely, the lunch line noticeably picks up speed afterward.

"Not roasted wherry? Steeped in its own juices?" Leova can't help but chuckle, herself. "Made versus lost. I like it." A few steps later, not long at all, "Vrianth tells me she's ''shared'' that image. Just in case." One more, even closer, "Not that I am. Betting." A glance over her shoulder checks: is there a world in which Jocelyn would?

Jocelyn, who looks very glad to not be the incipient mother, composes her features into something quite unremarkable by the time she's able to reach out and grab a napkin, a plate. "It was easier to occasionally enter a pool for something like that before I Impressed, " she says at some length, nodding a silent 'hello' to the kitchen staff member who replenishes one of the pans of well-seasoned, breadcrumb-crusted meat. "With the prospect of being the ''subject'' of a bet in the future, it no longer holds the same appeal." A grimace is quick to follow, or perhaps it's for the sad-looking clump of green beans left in the next pan awaiting replacement.

Leova holds off for a sweeprider-substantial helping of that meat, her nod rueful. "They'll bet on anything, those greens there," not dragons but the poor beans which, in her forties now, she bypasses. "But I know it's upped and then some." Rolls: one, just one of those, the braided kind for her. ''With'' the seeds.

"Has it." Jocelyn hardly sounds ''interested''; in fact, her tone is almost bored. The glance she gives the greenrider as she takes a modest helping of the meat behind her, however, tells a different tale. "Three-for-one doesn't seem terribly probable, but it isn't ''im''possible, either, I suppose, given everyone's timing." Contemplatively, after also bypassing the beans in favor of a roll (except that ''hers'' is round and crusty in the manner of sourdough): "That's probably one of Quinlys's worst nightmares."

Leova's quick to say, "Upped compared to the greens, Joce. Not 'in the past sevens' or months," or days, "or whatever." Not that it hasn't ticked up ''some''. Not that she doesn't agree, "Probably so. And then lay a new one, each of you." A pat of butter later, that teasing smile's still in her eyes despite her equally dry tone.

"I'd bet that our weyrwoman would like that, " says Irianke's likely-least-favorite junior, but there's an answering, wry curve of a smile that twitches at the corners of the redhead's mouth even as she skips the butter in favor of collecting her silverware. "It's almost too nice of a day to eat indoors." ''Almost'', but not so much so that she doesn't eye a table that isn't quite so in the thick of things across the room, a considering look sweeping the other options.

"Would she," is more amusement than real question. Leova's got her own silverware, then, and bypasses Glacier without a second glance. Plenty of other meals to have with them. Following Jocelyn's gaze, "Steal something, and I'll grab drinks," before someone else does. "Water." Unless it's a juice day.

"Alcove, " Jocelyn's predictably quick to suggest with a little nod toward the one she means; large tables, after all, are usually best left for large parties of diners. And hardly appealing for someone who prefers being inconspicuous - as much as a public figure ''can'' be. Still, she's clearly pleased that Leova intends to join her, given the warmth in her answer of, "Thanks, " while extending her free hand expectantly in a silent offer to go on ahead with the older rider's plate.

Leova hands it over with a quick smile, one-cornered this time: ''teamwork''. They'll get it done.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Klah and Croissants

2016-05-14T23:32:33Z

Jocelyn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Jocelyn, Lys |what=Jocelyn and Lys share breakfast before the morning ''really'' begins. |where=Jocelyn's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=2..."

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn, Lys
|what=Jocelyn and Lys share breakfast before the morning ''really'' begins.
|where=Jocelyn's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=25
|month=10
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.05.14
|quote=You know I only come for the breakfast. And klah.
|mentions=K'del, N'klas
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn amused.png, Icon lys amused.jpg,
|desc=>---< Jocelyn's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr >----------------------------<

Separated from both the weyrleaders' complex and the passage to the
dragon's ledge by heavy tapestries, this weyr is easily spacious enough to
fit at least three, large dragons, an enormity that feels rather empty due
to the minimalistic furnishings. The outermost room of this weyr currently
seems to be designated as a front-facing, public space. Centered between
the two entrances, a large, stone table is surrounded by several sensible,
straight-backed chairs. Nearby, a trap door in the wall covers an old,
elevator-pulley system connected to the kitchens, its mechanism
occasionally finicky despite its polished state. A sizable, glassed-in
bookshelf is built into the wall near the opening that leads into the
inner weyr, containing a handful of books and situated next to a series of
small, empty ceiling hooks which look suitable for hanging plants. Two
cozy-looking armchairs are available for more informal seating, precisely
arranged around a homespun rug in dark blue, but the present paucity of
decor does little to render this outer room as anything but severe.

Curtained off by thick, dark drapery, the entrance immediately beyond
opens to more private chambers, a section of two bubbles in the caldera
wall joined by a short tunnel. The smaller, blue-wash walled room closest
to the outer weyr also connects to a personal bath, largely enclosed off
by a carefully carved strip of rock wall. Heat and cool air mingle in the
space between it and the rider's bedchamber, which is mostly filled by a
large bed kept made up in plain, if soft linens and blankets. At the foot
of the bed is a large, cedar chest bearing the insignia of High Reaches
Weyr and a stylized 'J &A'; against the far wall is a darkly-stained
armoire.

Down the short passage, the larger of the two rooms serves as a private
study. An ornate desk takes up most of the available space with ample
shelves just above it; against the wall is an additional, open bookcase
housing scrolls and folders of varying sizes. There's little yet in the
way of other pieces besides a plainly carved, if sleek chair nudged
against the desk, but the amount of glowbaskets tucked around the room
suggests that this area currently sees more use than perhaps any of the
others.

-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
Jocelyn F 26 5'5" lean, red hair, blue-gray eyes
Lys F 21 5'5" slender, blonde hair, blue-green eyes
----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
Complex Ledge
>------------------------------------< 25D 10M 40T I10, autumn morning >---<
|log=It's true, what they say about old habits; Jocelyn remains, by nature, an early riser even with weyrlinghood nearly a full two turns behind them. Drills may not be on her morning agenda, but she's still awake and moving from the bed to the bathing room to perform her ablutions a couple of hours before dawn. Shrugging into a robe, it's off to her study to fetch the copy of the day's schedule built at the end of yesterday, and it's over that which she pores while ambling out front to settle in a seat at one end of the large table there. There's the tell-tale clatter from her connection to the kitchens of a tray on its way up: Klah, no doubt. And her usual spread of pastries on offer when sharing breakfast; flaky, buttery breads with some selection of preserved fruits to spread atop.

Jocelyn can have her early morning tranquility and solitude through her ablutions; Lys will have the comfortable bed, unconsciously sprawling into Jocelyn's vacated warm spot with all the tumble and grace of a feline mid-snooze. She's not so familiar with staying over and the morning routine here that her eyes didn't briefly open, but she's familiar enough that closing them again and getting more sleep was no trouble. It's not until Jocelyn is settled with her tray and schedule that the soft pad of Lys' bare feet brushes across the stone floor. The greenrider is one of those women who's annoyingly beautiful even when she rolls out of bed: many of her blonde locks escaping her sleeping braid, an old, over-large shirt hanging on her slender, shapely frame, looking bleary eyed as she shambles toward the klah, yawning and stretching only once she's there. It's not that Jocelyn isn't important to her upon waking so much as that Lys doesn't begin to have any higher brain function until she's had her first sip of klah. After that, Jocelyn can be draped in her arms in a snuggly embrace and kissed (briefly) good morning (to spare her the worst of Lys' morning breath - which even beautiful upon waking people have).

Jocelyn's morning expression might best be called annoyed; beautiful, she likely isn't, not with her hair sliding forward to obscure the slant of her eyes in profile while she ''squints'' at that schedule. Perhaps whatever it did to offend her will be somewhat forgotten by the time she's worked her way through half of that first mug; certainly, that distinctly displeased look melts away into something considerably softer once Lys comes into view, arms lifting so that her hands can entangle with the greenrider's for the duration of that kiss good morning. "Lovely Lys, " she murmurs contentedly once it's over, giving an affectionate squeeze of fingers before disengaging in favor of trading her schedule for a flaky croissant. As usual, she adds, "It's good to have you here, " one foot extending to nudge at the leg of one of the chairs next to hers so that it wiggles a little outward in invitation.

"You know I only come for the breakfast. And klah," Lys teases before reclaiming her klah and settling into that chair that's nudged for her, her own legs lifting so that she can settle them across Jocelyn's lap in slouchy repose. "What does the schedule dictate today?" She asks in a tone too serious to be so. It's a few sips later before she reaches for a pastry of her very own.

There's an amused ''hrmph'' around a mouthful of warm bread in response, but Jocelyn's smiling once she chews, swallows, reaches over with her free hand to caress the top of a foot. Dryly, "Is that so? Funny, they're the same sorts of choices one can find down in the kitchens if you know whom to ask." Another glance cuts toward the day's schedule, lips pursing briefly before she dismissively returns her attention to her girlfriend. "The usual. Meetings, mostly. Following up on some of yesterday's unresolved items. Be graciously welcoming to the indented list of notable visitors." It's a light, if flat delivery, softened by the lift of an eyebrow and a warmer, "What are you and Evyth doing today? I hope I didn't wake you for long earlier."

"Would it ''shock'' you, Joce, to learn that even though you might be feared far and wide in the lower caverns, in the ''kitchen'', you can't claim the 'least liked' title by some of those right people?" Lys has made many amends in the kitchen, starting back in her days as Irianke's assistant, but not all wounds can be mended, even with time and effort. "Besides, here I don't have to walk for it." She sparkles an impudent smile at her lover. "Do you want to practice on me? I can act pompous and irritating for you," as Lys apparently supposes most of the notable visitors shall be. "Mostly Holders?" she asks with audible distaste. As for her plans, she finishes a mouthful before responding, "Mostly just the usual, I think. I have to check the gather schedule. I've promised Nik a gather, and I need to cultivate some good will," read: get people who'll pay for drinks, "because he doesn't want to buy either. You'd think K'del would give him an allowance or something, on top of his pay." She sighs, clearly put out by this lack of consideration of her needs as seen to by anything other than her own purse.

"You're hardly the girl you were, " the redhead points out sensibly enough. "They'll have to see that eventually. And if they don't - " Wherry-brains, the lot of them, says the roll of her eyes that finishes that sentence. For the other's offer, there's an arched ''look'', then: "If you're going to be pompous and irritating, you can take a walk for your pastries, sweetheart. Holders, indeed." Still, the corners of her mouth twitch faintly afterward, even as she considers Lys over the top of her mug. "N'klas is grown enough to be earning his own keep. If he can't buy ''one'' drink for himself at the next gather, it begs the question of what he's been doing with his pay."

"No, I'm not. And I wouldn't fancy what I'd do with a wooden spoon nowadays if some misguided person," someone in particular she must be thinking of, "took it into their head to try to set me straight when I'm only seeking a little sustenance." Poor, victim Lys, for all that the victim part seems stressed over the pastry and not the past with the wooden spoon. She smiles at Jocelyn anyway. "Come now," she coaxes then, leaning forward, "''sometimes'' you like it when I'm pompous and irritating." Then she allows, "Irritating," only, with an impishness to her look. She leans forward even more to effect an air of confidence. "He ''says'' he's being blackmailed," in a tone so grave that she must be kidding. She and Nik often do.

"''Sometimes'', " Jocelyn will allow in a similar tone, brushing at the crumbs which managed to escape her plate. "Only when you're bothering me in the way I like to be bothered." That mention of blackmail gets a skeptical expression. "Is he. Some awful person keeps agreeing to an exchange of goods and services so long as he keeps paying them, is that it?" Blue eyes close briefly to enjoy that last, almost still-warm bite of fruit-covered pastry, opening again after to fixate on Lys with fond exasperation.

"Do I ever bother you in a way you don't like to be bothered?" It could be rhetorical from the tone, but the way Lys tilts her head a little as she looks at the goldrider indicates the invitation to answer plainly. Certainly, Lys prefers to only bring Good Things into Jocelyn's life, even if she's not as committed as might be preferred. "I don't know the details yet. I was told they could only, ''only'' be shared over 'a lot' of drinks. We agreed a gather was best for the dirty details," which probably means Lys was bossy and Nik went along with it as stands the usual pattern. "I'm sure I'll have quite a story to tell when the gather is done," whether about the supposed blackmail or the drinking or both. "Would you like to go to a gather together sometime soon?" she offers. Such ventures have been rather far between so as not to be ''so'' obvious, but ''good friends'' can certainly enjoy the spectacles of one or another from time to time without raising too much gossip.

Jocelyn's an attentive enough listener, certainly, mouth curving into half-smiles where appropriate for 'a lot of drinks' and 'dirty details.' Her thoughtful frown fades at Lys's invitation to be replaced by a fuller smile, one that genuinely reaches her eyes. "I always enjoy your brand of bothering, " she's quick to assure her lover. "A gather - yes, of course we should, " much in the same way that a more expressive person would say with enthusiasm that it's been too long. "I'm sure the meet-and-greets will be at least ''slightly'' more endurable with you being there." Finishing off her klah, she pushes to her feet quite on schedule, expression turning apologetic as she makes to ease Lys's feet down to the floor. "I need to get dressed and head over to my first meeting." Even though her brain is likely already thinking ahead to that first item on her list, she makes the time to linger a moment more, cupping the pretty blonde's cheek in the palm of her hand with a gaze both soft and intense that's singularly reserved just for her, allowing the tips of her fingers to slide down the line of her jaw before she finally, finally pushes in her chair, picks up that schedule with a lift of her chin.

"If there are meet-and-greets, then I promise only to behave if you promise to find a secluded beach with me after the dancing, for a swim, in the moonlight," 'without clothes' goes unsaid. Lys must feel confident enough in Jocelyn's acquiescence or later haggling for good behavior that she doesn't press for more response on that point. She only delays the goldrider long enough to rise to kiss her lightly and steal a peek at her schedule so she knows how long she has in the goldrider's weyr before she needs to get gone. "Have a good day," carries the light not of humor hand in hand with her sincere wish.
}}

Logs talk:AU: Dissonance

2016-04-28T11:06:37Z

Jocelyn: Comment provided by Jocelyn - via ArticleComments extension

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

==Alida (23:51, 27 April 2016 (PDT)) said... ==

I enjoyed seeing this AU Jocelyn/dragon! Just imagine: Joce could've been out there on the Sands and Impressed that almost black-green dragon...instead of being her mere clutchmate. ;) But... that's ANOTHER AU story. Hmmm...
==Jocelyn (04:06, 28 April 2016 (PDT)) said... ==

Jocelyn and Virisceth - man. That would have been rough. XD

Logs talk:AU: Consonance

2016-04-28T11:04:52Z

Jocelyn: Comment provided by Jocelyn - via ArticleComments extension

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

==Jocelyn (04:04, 28 April 2016 (PDT)) said... ==

This was fun to read! Thanks for sharing. :D

Logs:AU: Dissonance

2016-04-26T02:03:58Z

Jocelyn:

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn
|what=It's luckier to Impress on one's first try than, say, the fifth, right?
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|custom=Day 8, Month 12, Turn 28 - Turn 39 (Interval 10)
|day=0
|month=0
|turn=0
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.04.25
|quote=<< Charm and disarm. >>
|mentions=Azaylia, Farideh, Irianke, Iolene, K'del, Quinlys
|type=Vignette
|ooc=A product of NyQuil, 'what-if' and a mashup of allusions.
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn downcast.png,
|log=The ''lub-dub'' of Jocelyn's heart almost overpowered the voices and cheers from the galleries as she shuffled out onto the sands, blue-gray eyes wide.

It was one thing entirely to pass by the hatching grounds and wonder what it was like, ''really'' like to fulfill the tradition of standing for the eggs, to see if dragonriding might be a life that would choose her.

It was another thing to be one of several, young and fresh faces in the white-robed group of hopefuls with all of Pern ''watching'' while she took her place among her peers, unable to keep from staring at the trembling eggs, at Ysavaeth and Cadejoth (so ''large''!).

Alone and yet, not alone, fourteen-turn-old Jocelyn felt as if her feet had grown roots that entrenched themselves firmly beneath the sand under them. Impressions, fast and furious, took people from her field of view every few blinks.

Somehow, she found the wherewithal to ''move'' when dragons barreled in her direction, however briefly, squeezing her eyes shut when Ysavaeth's tawny daughter came into contact with - and apparently Impressed! - Azaylia. There was some relief there, too; she hadn't even started to think about what ''that'' Impression could have meant for her.

Maybe, she thought with a sinking little gulp as the number of eggs dwindled, she had agreed to this for all the wrong reasons. Was it worth the chance of a physical injury to find a friend? A best friend? Someone who wouldn't find her hard to get along with, or who wouldn't ''not'' want to include her once in a while?

Hadn't someone walked off of the sands earlier? Maybe it wasn't too late for her to follow suit.

She was halfway into a pivot on one heel when the wind was - quite literally - knocked out of her as something collided with her ankles and caused her to lose her balance.

As she struggled to push herself back onto her feet, she found herself face-to-face with a bright-eyed, chipper green who was all but ''beaming'' at her. (''Did'' dragons beam? How did she know if that was what the little creature intended?) The world went still.

<< Jocelyn! Can I call you Joce? Or maybe you'd just prefer Lyn? Something ''snappy''. Now that we're friends, of course, >> piped up a too-cheerful, brisk soprano. << Sanabeth. I'm really quite hungry. >>

----

Jocelyn wasn't sure how anyone, much less one who began as such a little being, could be both constant critic and staunch supporter all in the same breath. Sanabeth was certainly someone who loved her, who cared about her, who wanted her to reach her idea of Jocelyn's full potential, but they couldn't have been more opposite if they had planned their pairing.

Sanabeth was girly, gregarious and easily set to titters. She tried encouraging her stubborn weyrling, then rider, to let her hair down more often (literally and figuratively), to wear pretty things, to engage her social hours thoroughly so that they could have something to talk about at the end of the day. While the redhead wanted to do nothing but study to pull up her less-than-stellar marks in her exams, her dragon was more interested in gamboling with her siblings and later, making eyes at the bronzes, browns and blues as she grew longer, taller, and sassier.

This wasn't exactly the 'best friend' scenario Jocelyn had hoped for, but she was thankful that her lifemate was at least supportive of her academic attempts. She worked hard in weyrlinghood despite the rough start, eager to make a good impression, even without a silver thread, in the hopes of someday working her way up to - well, something more when this training period was over.

She just didn't know ''what''.

----

Opportunities for advancement never quite came their way. Sure, the weyrbred pair was solid to have in a wing - they flew really well together, even if Jocelyn ''did'' get airsick from time to time. Sanabeth's petiteness allowed her to perform zippy maneuvers; she enjoyed showing off, and certainly had no inhibitions about doing so. Fortunately, her enthusiasm worked well when paired with her rider's focus, but all the physical agility in the world couldn't compensate for the fact that the two were never quite in concert enough together for a display of leadership. The push and pull of two different personalities always managed to get in the way. Even Jocelyn's silent determination couldn't quite ground her castles-in-the-clouds lifemate, not when it was easier to make the safe choices and not attempt to test their limits.

<< Charm and disarm, >> Sanabeth would remind her cheerfully in the days before each flight, somehow managing to never get caught by the same male twice. It was easier to smile, almost prettily, under the influence of that curly, perfumed haze that wafted through her brain during their proddy days. (Sometimes, it was there on their saner days, too.) And if she lost herself enough in her dragon's delight, she didn't have to think too much, if at all, about ''her'' experiences and with whom she shared them. Exile, weyrbred, not-weyrbred; there was no difference, not to her.

Maybe it was better that way. Certainly, the encounters were physically satisfying, but Jocelyn couldn't bring herself to contemplate how they made her ''feel''.

It was easier to drug herself on sensation, one night at a time, and keep them all at an arm's length.

----

Despite their differences, they enjoyed watching hatchings together, even when they were almost back-to-back in timing.

<> Sanabeth said contritely, perched primly on one of the ledges above among other dragons gathering to witness the arrival of High Reaches' newest pairings.

''Quit apologizing for that'', Jocelyn sighed for the umpteenth time, fingers drumming impatiently atop her knee as she leaned forward from her seat high in the galleries to try to make out the faces of the candidates mincing their way onto the sands. Roszadyth and Lythronath's eggs were finally hatching; really, she had no idea how Quinlys would manage with ''twenty-five'' weyrlings now that these thirteen were to join Niahvth and Cadejoth's twelve.

She still wasn't sure what to make of their weyrwomen, even with brief interactions in passing. She didn't know Farideh or Irianke well. They ''seemed'' nice enough, but their appearances always seemed so -

Helpfully, accompanied by a twirl of tulle: << High maintenance is the word you're looking for, Joce. Well, actually, I guess that's ''two'' words. It hasn't hurt ''them'' any, has it? It might be part of the job, come to think of it. >>

''Two words, Sanabeth: Shut. Up. It's starting.''

The young dragons chose nearly as quickly as they did at her own Impression, Jocelyn reflected, reaching up to stifle a yawn between shouts of names despite herself. And that was just as well, given that it was almost midnight.

A flurry of commotion from one of the darker eggs sent a long-limbed, orange-gold out from its shards, resulting in loud exclamations hither and thither as marks swiftly changed hands.

Jocelyn watched as the little queen began making her way through the assembled candidates, peering first into one face, then another. The decision seemed to take an interminable amount of time; at one point, she paused to look up toward the galleries before continuing on, eventually settling at the feet of a brunette just seconds before a dark, almost-black green broke shell.

A funny, little ache arose briefly in Jocelyn's chest, a feeling that she worked to push away through the remainder of the hatching.

<< Jocelyn? You okay? >>

''I'm fine. Just'' tired.

She could skip the feast, the chance for company, and get some sleep, she decided as she disappeared into the crowd flowing toward the exit. That would fix tonight, if not tomorrow. She wouldn't let herself dwell on the tomorrows that would follow.

Every day, after all, would probably be like the one before.
|Categories=AU Logs
}}

Logs:AU: Dissonance

2016-04-26T01:21:07Z

Jocelyn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Jocelyn |what=It's luckier to Impress on one's first try than, say, the fifth, right? |where=High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |custom=Day 8, Month 12,..."

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn
|what=It's luckier to Impress on one's first try than, say, the fifth, right?
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|custom=Day 8, Month 12, Turn 28 - Turn 39 (Interval 10)
|day=0
|month=0
|turn=0
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.04.25
|quote=<< Charm and disarm. >>
|mentions=Azaylia, Farideh, Irianke, Iolene, K'del
|type=Vignette
|ooc=A product of NyQuil, 'what-if' and a mashup of allusions.
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn downcast.png,
|log=The ''lub-dub'' of Jocelyn's heart almost overpowered the voices and cheers from the galleries as she shuffled out onto the sands, blue-gray eyes wide.

It was one thing entirely to pass by the hatching grounds and wonder what it was like, ''really'' like to fulfill the tradition of standing for the eggs, to see if dragonriding might be a life that would choose her.

It was another thing to be one of several, young and fresh faces in the white-robed group of hopefuls with all of Pern ''watching'' while she took her place among her peers, unable to keep from staring at the trembling eggs, at Ysavaeth and Cadejoth (so ''large''!).

Alone and yet, not alone, fourteen-turn-old Jocelyn felt as if her feet had grown roots that entrenched themselves firmly beneath the sand under them. Impressions, fast and furious, took people from her field of view every few blinks.

Somehow, she found the wherewithal to ''move'' when dragons barreled in her direction, however briefly, squeezing her eyes shut when Ysavaeth's tawny daughter came into contact with - and apparently Impressed! - Azaylia. There was some relief there, too; she hadn't even started to think about what ''that'' Impression could have meant for her.

Maybe, she thought with a sinking little gulp as the number of eggs dwindled, she had agreed to this for all the wrong reasons. Was it worth the chance of a physical injury to find a friend? A best friend? Someone who wouldn't find her hard to get along with, or who wouldn't ''not'' want to include her once in a while?

Hadn't someone walked off of the sands earlier? Maybe it wasn't too late for her to follow suit.

She was halfway into a pivot on one heel when the wind was - quite literally - knocked out of her as something collided with her ankles and caused her to lose her balance.

As she struggled to push herself back onto her feet, she found herself face-to-face with a bright-eyed, chipper green who was all but ''beaming'' at her. (''Did'' dragons beam? How did she know if that was what the little creature intended?) The world went still.

<< Jocelyn! Can I call you Joce? Or maybe you'd just prefer Lyn? Something ''snappy''. Now that we're friends, of course, >> piped up a too-cheerful, brisk soprano. << Sanabeth. I'm really quite hungry. >>

----

Jocelyn wasn't sure how anyone, much less one who began as such a little being, could be both constant critic and staunch supporter all in the same breath. Sanabeth was certainly someone who loved her, who cared about her, who wanted her to reach her idea of Jocelyn's full potential, but they couldn't have been more opposite if they had planned their pairing.

Sanabeth was girly, gregarious and easily set to titters. She tried encouraging her stubborn weyrling, then rider, to let her hair down more often (literally and figuratively), to wear pretty things, to engage her social hours thoroughly so that they could have something to talk about at the end of the day. While the redhead wanted to do nothing but study to pull up her less-than-stellar marks in her exams, her dragon was more interested in gamboling with her siblings and later, making eyes at the bronzes, browns and blues as she grew longer, taller, and sassier.

This wasn't exactly the 'best friend' scenario Jocelyn had hoped for, but she was thankful that her lifemate was at least supportive of her academic attempts. She worked hard in weyrlinghood despite the rough start, eager to make a good impression, even without a silver thread, in the hopes of someday working her way up to - well, something more when this training period was over.

She just didn't know ''what''.

----

Opportunities for advancement never quite came their way. Sure, the weyrbred pair was solid to have in a wing - they flew really well together, even if Jocelyn ''did'' get airsick from time to time. Sanabeth's petiteness allowed her to perform zippy maneuvers; she enjoyed showing off, and certainly had no inhibitions about doing so. Fortunately, her enthusiasm worked well when paired with her rider's focus, but all the physical agility in the world couldn't compensate for the fact that the two were never quite in concert enough together for a display of leadership. The push and pull of two different personalities always managed to get in the way. Even Jocelyn's silent determination couldn't quite ground her castles-in-the-clouds lifemate, not when it was easier to make the safe choices and not attempt to test their limits.

<< Charm and disarm, >> Sanabeth would remind her cheerfully in the days before each flight, somehow managing to never get caught by the same male twice. It was easier to smile, almost prettily, under the influence of that curly, perfumed haze that wafted through her brain during their proddy days. (Sometimes, it was there on their saner days, too.) And if she lost herself enough in her dragon's delight, she didn't have to think too much, if at all, about ''her'' experiences and with whom she shared them. Exile, weyrbred, not-weyrbred; there was no difference, not to her.

Maybe it was better that way. Certainly, the encounters were physically satisfying, but Jocelyn couldn't bring herself to contemplate how they made her ''feel''.

It was easier to drug herself on sensation, one night at a time, and keep them all at an arm's length.

----

Despite their differences, they enjoyed watching hatchings together, even when they were almost back-to-back in timing.

<> Sanabeth said contritely, perched primly on one of the ledges above among other dragons gathering to witness the arrival of High Reaches' newest pairings.

''Quit apologizing for that'', Jocelyn sighed for the umpteenth time, fingers drumming impatiently atop her knee as she leaned forward from her seat high in the galleries to try to make out the faces of the candidates mincing their way onto the sands. Roszadyth and Lythronath's eggs were finally hatching; really, she had no idea how Quinlys would manage with ''twenty-five'' weyrlings now that these thirteen were to join Niahvth and Cadejoth's twelve.

She still wasn't sure what to make of their weyrwomen, even with brief interactions in passing. She didn't know Farideh or Irianke well. They ''seemed'' nice enough, but their appearances always seemed so -

Helpfully, accompanied by a twirl of tulle: << High maintenance is the word you're looking for, Joce. Well, actually, I guess that's ''two'' words. It hasn't hurt ''them'' any, has it? It might be part of the job, come to think of it. >>

''Two words, Sanabeth: Shut. Up. It's starting.''

The young dragons chose nearly as quickly as they did at her own Impression, Jocelyn reflected, reaching up to stifle a yawn between shouts of names despite herself. And that was just as well, given that it was almost midnight.

A flurry of commotion from one of the darker eggs sent a long-limbed, orange-gold out from its shards, resulting in loud exclamations hither and thither as marks swiftly changed hands.

Jocelyn watched as the little queen began making her way through the assembled candidates, peering first into one face, then another. The decision seemed to take an interminable amount of time; at one point, she paused to look up toward the galleries before continuing on, eventually settling at the feet of a brunette just seconds before a dark, almost-black green broke shell.

A funny, little ache arose briefly in Jocelyn's chest, a feeling that she worked to push away through the remainder of the hatching.

<< Jocelyn? You okay? >>

''I'm fine. Just'' tired.

She could skip the feast, the chance for company, and get some sleep, she decided as she disappeared into the crowd flowing toward the exit. That would fix tonight, if not tomorrow. She wouldn't let herself dwell on the tomorrows that would follow.

Every day, after all, would probably be like the one before.
|Categories=AU Logs
}}

Logs:Networking

2016-04-24T20:05:43Z

Jocelyn:

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, N'rov{{!}}Vhaeryth
|what=Vhaeryth's visiting and gets to know the newest occupant of a too-familiar ledge.
|where=Bowl, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|day=18
|month=8
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.04.23
|quote=<< What are you good at? >>
|mentions=Ellerey, Irianke, Jaine, Lys, Mirinda
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn Aidavanth in charge.png, Icon n'rov vhaeryth.jpg,
|log=He makes the most of the sun, does Vhaeryth, when he spirals down into High Reaches' airspace proper: from the thin heights with the Weyr but a small broken bubble within the mountain range, all the way past the watch dragon (though there's an inkling of a greeting to Niahvth ''too'') and down, down, the caldera growing about him and those long wings always oriented to the sun. Down past the upper ledges. Over, along, the lake. Down, and down, past a ledge that is Aidavanth's now but wasn't always, as though he might land despite her sunning presence... and then low and lower and ''just'' past, not landing after all, not there. Not there, but there's a breath of too-aware acknowledgement that isn't words.

She isn't unaware of visitors - of this ''particular'' visitor, Aidavanth, while shifting to adjust where the sun hits the space between burnished wings and shoulders. Certainly, there's a moment of surprise when it seems he might - but no, he doesn't land, he passes by, and that too-aware breath is met with a pleasant warmth, a polite not-quite question floating along with her hello as slowly spinning eyes follow Vhaeryth's progress.

So polite. It gains, mirrored back to her with a hint of wry amusement, a not-quite-worded ''hello'' back as he skims past those lowest ledges for a landing space outside the Snowasis. Not close, nothing that won't mean his rider won't have to walk a few Vhaeryth-lengths towards the bar, his fine-gauge cap tucked into a jacket pocket and his arms stretched boyishly to sun and ''freedom''. Off comes the jacket, then, tucked over his elbow; off he walks; Vhaeryth, too, stretches those dark copper-etched wings. In that stretch, words at last for her warmth: << Yes? >> Their warmth has, also, humor.

So polite, indeed. << If it's Jocelyn your rider seeks, I can tell her to head that way. >> Why else, to her knowledge, would he make to land at her proverbial doorstep and then not? Aidavanth, satisfied with her basking, stretches more fully before sitting up, folding her wings neatly. There's a keenness to her awareness, and although it's more curious than sharp, certainly no less intent. << Or is there something I can help you with? >>

There's perceptible ''consideration'' for the young queen's offer, that humor heightened as he gives it its full weight; Vhaeryth hides none of that from her, though he hasn't yet answered when she continues. << Possibly, >> the dragon says then, speculatively, stretching anew on his hindpaws with ''his'' wings swept back. The eye tilted her way is blue, all too blue as it whirls. << What are you good at? >> What is her sphere of influence? It comes with, a breath later, << Aidavanth. >> He's Vhaeryth, by the by.

His humor, her amusement; while they meet, Aidavanth studies what she can sense of him, not unlike the way her rider might regard his were they in the same room. << Words. What are ''you'' good at? >> There's a thoughtfulness that twines about the syllables of his name; certainly, he has her attention now if he didn't before. << Vhaeryth. >>

<< A whole lotta things, >> drawled like a quote, Vhaeryth sprawled out for her study (but there are those layers upon layers, glass upon etched glass). What he decides to share with her has to do with ''connections'', the network of his dragons' minds and more, a long moment of ''movement''. He knows them, moves within them, and they know him in return.

<< Oh? >> Polite, that one word inquiry, but Aidavanth takes in the size of that network with silverfish-quick agility. For a moment, there's a glimpse of her own connections; ''she'' is connected to those who look to her, too, in ripples and warmth and sound. << So we have something in common. >>

<< Something, >> the Fortian agrees, and if obscure wistfulness laps in one ripple and out two more, in its passing he's still quicksilver to her silverfish-quick. <> Vhaeryth remarks, his rider by now lounging on the patio, talking, making himself once more at home. << Would you like that? Do you, >> that humor ''gleams'' as he shares it, << not have enough to do? >> There's the world, displayed before her as from the heights he'd betweened into, High Reaches a wrinkle at one corner.

That wistfulness is observed before it floats on past, on a ripple that isn't at all like salt-crusted tides. It's contained, much like Aidavanth's own humor as she conveys the sense of a smile, a sweep of hazel briefly embracing that image of the world. There's a brief diversion of her consciousness, some internal conference ending with an answer that sort-of isn't: << I'm pleased to be of assistance to High Reaches' visitors. >>

<< Mmm. >> This time, when he stretches, Vhaeryth takes wing: towards her ledge, ''purposefully'', but at the end upending gravity to the heights of the Spindles, there to roost. << What assistance do you generally give, Aidavanth? >> Beat. << Directions? >>

Orange-gold wings unfurl before ''she'' pushes up into an easy glide moments after he passes her ledge again, letting the currents she knows so well carry her up in gradual circles to soar near the tops of the spindles without stopping, effortlessly starting a circuit about the caldera. << Do you need directions, Vhaeryth? To places other than my ledge, perhaps? >> Far below, Aidavanth's rider strides across the western half of the bowl, deep in conversation with Jaine as they head toward the weyrleader complex. There's a glance up to her dragon's empty ledge, then higher still that ends in a shrug before the two women resume their exchange.

Does he? For now, Vhaeryth wraps himself dramatically about the tallest spindle's tip, wings flagrantly silhouetted from the perspective of the bowl if not those who might fly above. << Perhaps, >> the bronze allows. << This one's not bad, >> is palpably ''good'', in effortless contrast to his words, << but do you have better? >> It's ''possible'' that Aidavanth does. Vhaeryth does not rule it out.

<< Looks comfortable, >> says Aidavanth dryly as she continues her circle, curved nose tipping down so she can peer toward the lake as she passes over the eastern half of the bowl. << The water and the lakeshore might feel nicer if the breezes there and the smell of damp soil appeals. >> It's more suggestion than anything else, but her eyes spin a pleasant blue-green-blue as her path brings her back toward the Fortian bronze, the sense that ''she'' certainly enjoys those things floating by.

<< It is, >> assures her all too agreeable guest, though Vhaeryth ''also'' shares the sensation of the way the top is ''just'' pointy enough to poke into his chin when he rests it there that way. Which doesn't stop him. Neither does her approach, his nostrils flaring as he tastes the breeze ''here'' and the smell of talons-sliced lichen and stone. << What do you like when you visit my Weyr? >> His Weyr, and with it, a whiff of his possibly even more dramatic (can it be?) Zaisavyth.

That particular spindle point pokes even more uncomfortably into Aidavanth's chin, so it isn't one that she frequents. No, the lake is preferable on that count, too. << It doesn't feel completely dissimilar to home, >> she answers at some length regarding Fort, << although the places that ''do'' are certainly interesting. Your lake also looks comfortable and refreshing. >> And perhaps some time, she'll get to discover how much it is. That tangle of concepts, which includes Zaisavyth, garners a considering almost-touch, a shift as of late afternoon sunlight. << We enjoyed meeting Zaisavyth and her Mirinda. >> That's a statement that requires no efforts to be diplomatic; it's genuine, matter-of-fact. Layered, too, but no less authentic for it.

<< There's the waterfall, >> Vhaeryth agrees to her 'refreshing,' complete to its splash and plash; this Weyr hasn't ''that''. But then the glimpse of Fort's is underlaid by Ista's vaster tumult, just for a moment. Just before the latter's gone. The bronze leans, curving his neck to facilitate the idle scratch of his jaw against the stone, less pointy than pleasurable. She likes his queen, or the meeting of her; for all that ''Vhaeryth'' likes layers, that authenticity's clearly appreciated. It warms his decision to continue: << We have trees, also. >> Flocks of them. << But they're far too small. >> Too close. The smallest dragons might roam among them, but such as he, and she? Not so much.

<< Waterfalls, >> Aidavanth likewise concurs, as pleased with the glimpse of Fort's as the vaster ones available in Ista while she continues on another lap. << Not too small for my sisters, >> she says of those trees; Evyth and Virisceth would surely make it through those copses more easily than either of them. << But they're not too small to get a good view from the air, are they? >>

For that, he layers ''other'' waterfalls, other Weyrs' but better, the wilder ones: taller, stronger, ''splashier'' in their thunder. But, bemused, << Not if you like viewing trees. >> Does she? There are so many of them, Vhaeryth knows, some with branches that hang and weep, others that reach, still others who keep their leaves even in the not-now of cold; there are ranges and ranges upon ranges of these. << Not if you, >> dare, << fly close. >>

Tall, strong, thundering; these waterfalls, too, appeal. <> Trees. << Do you have favorites? >> Aidavanth takes in those varying types of branches and structures with interest, alighting at a free space on the rim not far from where he clings to his spindle. << We both have mountains, >> she muses almost absently, << but do you have many of these? >> What are 'these?' Llamas. And after a moment, tinged with amusement: an after-llama, or a sweater knitted with a traditional High Reaches pattern.

Where he ''surmounts the stone''. There's a difference! Not so much, however, that Vhaeryth doesn't consider this not-unfamiliar concept of favorites as less-familiarly applied to trees; << At times, >> he allows, though llamas might pique a different sort of interest; << Those that do not splinter when I rub up where I choose; or those that tangle their limbs just so, >> there's a N'rov, climbing into a tree, laughing, << but not those that shed upon my ledge. >> The peril of those ledges who lie low. << And you? When you are not eating your, >> sweaters, << tasty llamas. >> Vhaeryth sees them; he, as a good predator should, knows them for ''food''. Although his humorous image of her, next, has tufts of that patterned wool between her teeth.

Aidavanth doesn't have a similar image of Jocelyn to offer, not when it comes to climbing trees. But there's a moment she can offer in its place of the redhead walking in the snow looking content - from a vantage point ''below'' the goldrider. << Nicer than rubbing against stone, >> she acknowledges, and silently admits to enjoying the ''smell'' of those llamas even if there are more appropriate choices for nourishment while they're producing wool. There, a ripple of amusement for the image of her with patterned wool stuck between her teeth. << Sometimes, >> she confides, <> Not that one ''can'', of course, but - to try? That must be fun. And surely flying as high as one can, as far as one can - that, too, must be fun. A concept for later exploration, perhaps, as she soon launches from her perch again to soar down toward her ledge. <> And relaxing.

The ''smell''. Vhaeryth breathes in an intrigued breath; if he ever goes huffing a poor ruminant, Aidavanth will surely get the credit (or the blame) right before he eats it. Not that he inquires just now, nor of the snow-walker seen from, or ''on the'', down low; << Try, >> he encourages instead. With more of that amusement, << When you aren't landing. >> For whatever reasons she must have. Vhaeryth himself will continue to spindle-dwell, though he might try another as a change of pace, until he or his rider is moved to go.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Networking

2016-04-24T20:02:30Z

Jocelyn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, N'rov{{!}}Vhaeryth |what=Vhaeryth's visiting and gets to know the newest occupant of a too-familiar ledge. |where=Bowl, High Reaches Weyr |in..."

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, N'rov{{!}}Vhaeryth
|what=Vhaeryth's visiting and gets to know the newest occupant of a too-familiar ledge.
|where=Bowl, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|day=18
|month=8
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.04.23
|quote=<< What are you good at? >>
|mentions=Ellerey, Irianke, Jaine, Jocelyn, Lys, Mirinda, N'rov
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn Aidavanth in charge.png, Icon n'rov vhaeryth.jpg,
|log=He makes the most of the sun, does Vhaeryth, when he spirals down into High Reaches' airspace proper: from the thin heights with the Weyr but a small broken bubble within the mountain range, all the way past the watch dragon (though there's an inkling of a greeting to Niahvth ''too'') and down, down, the caldera growing about him and those long wings always oriented to the sun. Down past the upper ledges. Over, along, the lake. Down, and down, past a ledge that is Aidavanth's now but wasn't always, as though he might land despite her sunning presence... and then low and lower and ''just'' past, not landing after all, not there. Not there, but there's a breath of too-aware acknowledgement that isn't words.

She isn't unaware of visitors - of this ''particular'' visitor, Aidavanth, while shifting to adjust where the sun hits the space between burnished wings and shoulders. Certainly, there's a moment of surprise when it seems he might - but no, he doesn't land, he passes by, and that too-aware breath is met with a pleasant warmth, a polite not-quite question floating along with her hello as slowly spinning eyes follow Vhaeryth's progress.

So polite. It gains, mirrored back to her with a hint of wry amusement, a not-quite-worded ''hello'' back as he skims past those lowest ledges for a landing space outside the Snowasis. Not close, nothing that won't mean his rider won't have to walk a few Vhaeryth-lengths towards the bar, his fine-gauge cap tucked into a jacket pocket and his arms stretched boyishly to sun and ''freedom''. Off comes the jacket, then, tucked over his elbow; off he walks; Vhaeryth, too, stretches those dark copper-etched wings. In that stretch, words at last for her warmth: << Yes? >> Their warmth has, also, humor.

So polite, indeed. << If it's Jocelyn your rider seeks, I can tell her to head that way. >> Why else, to her knowledge, would he make to land at her proverbial doorstep and then not? Aidavanth, satisfied with her basking, stretches more fully before sitting up, folding her wings neatly. There's a keenness to her awareness, and although it's more curious than sharp, certainly no less intent. << Or is there something I can help you with? >>

There's perceptible ''consideration'' for the young queen's offer, that humor heightened as he gives it its full weight; Vhaeryth hides none of that from her, though he hasn't yet answered when she continues. << Possibly, >> the dragon says then, speculatively, stretching anew on his hindpaws with ''his'' wings swept back. The eye tilted her way is blue, all too blue as it whirls. << What are you good at? >> What is her sphere of influence? It comes with, a breath later, << Aidavanth. >> He's Vhaeryth, by the by.

His humor, her amusement; while they meet, Aidavanth studies what she can sense of him, not unlike the way her rider might regard his were they in the same room. << Words. What are ''you'' good at? >> There's a thoughtfulness that twines about the syllables of his name; certainly, he has her attention now if he didn't before. << Vhaeryth. >>

<< A whole lotta things, >> drawled like a quote, Vhaeryth sprawled out for her study (but there are those layers upon layers, glass upon etched glass). What he decides to share with her has to do with ''connections'', the network of his dragons' minds and more, a long moment of ''movement''. He knows them, moves within them, and they know him in return.

<< Oh? >> Polite, that one word inquiry, but Aidavanth takes in the size of that network with silverfish-quick agility. For a moment, there's a glimpse of her own connections; ''she'' is connected to those who look to her, too, in ripples and warmth and sound. << So we have something in common. >>

<< Something, >> the Fortian agrees, and if obscure wistfulness laps in one ripple and out two more, in its passing he's still quicksilver to her silverfish-quick. <> Vhaeryth remarks, his rider by now lounging on the patio, talking, making himself once more at home. << Would you like that? Do you, >> that humor ''gleams'' as he shares it, << not have enough to do? >> There's the world, displayed before her as from the heights he'd betweened into, High Reaches a wrinkle at one corner.

That wistfulness is observed before it floats on past, on a ripple that isn't at all like salt-crusted tides. It's contained, much like Aidavanth's own humor as she conveys the sense of a smile, a sweep of hazel briefly embracing that image of the world. There's a brief diversion of her consciousness, some internal conference ending with an answer that sort-of isn't: << I'm pleased to be of assistance to High Reaches' visitors. >>

<< Mmm. >> This time, when he stretches, Vhaeryth takes wing: towards her ledge, ''purposefully'', but at the end upending gravity to the heights of the Spindles, there to roost. << What assistance do you generally give, Aidavanth? >> Beat. << Directions? >>

Orange-gold wings unfurl before ''she'' pushes up into an easy glide moments after he passes her ledge again, letting the currents she knows so well carry her up in gradual circles to soar near the tops of the spindles without stopping, effortlessly starting a circuit about the caldera. << Do you need directions, Vhaeryth? To places other than my ledge, perhaps? >> Far below, Aidavanth's rider strides across the western half of the bowl, deep in conversation with Jaine as they head toward the weyrleader complex. There's a glance up to her dragon's empty ledge, then higher still that ends in a shrug before the two women resume their exchange.

Does he? For now, Vhaeryth wraps himself dramatically about the tallest spindle's tip, wings flagrantly silhouetted from the perspective of the bowl if not those who might fly above. << Perhaps, >> the bronze allows. << This one's not bad, >> is palpably ''good'', in effortless contrast to his words, << but do you have better? >> It's ''possible'' that Aidavanth does. Vhaeryth does not rule it out.

<< Looks comfortable, >> says Aidavanth dryly as she continues her circle, curved nose tipping down so she can peer toward the lake as she passes over the eastern half of the bowl. << The water and the lakeshore might feel nicer if the breezes there and the smell of damp soil appeals. >> It's more suggestion than anything else, but her eyes spin a pleasant blue-green-blue as her path brings her back toward the Fortian bronze, the sense that ''she'' certainly enjoys those things floating by.

<< It is, >> assures her all too agreeable guest, though Vhaeryth ''also'' shares the sensation of the way the top is ''just'' pointy enough to poke into his chin when he rests it there that way. Which doesn't stop him. Neither does her approach, his nostrils flaring as he tastes the breeze ''here'' and the smell of talons-sliced lichen and stone. << What do you like when you visit my Weyr? >> His Weyr, and with it, a whiff of his possibly even more dramatic (can it be?) Zaisavyth.

That particular spindle point pokes even more uncomfortably into Aidavanth's chin, so it isn't one that she frequents. No, the lake is preferable on that count, too. << It doesn't feel completely dissimilar to home, >> she answers at some length regarding Fort, << although the places that ''do'' are certainly interesting. Your lake also looks comfortable and refreshing. >> And perhaps some time, she'll get to discover how much it is. That tangle of concepts, which includes Zaisavyth, garners a considering almost-touch, a shift as of late afternoon sunlight. << We enjoyed meeting Zaisavyth and her Mirinda. >> That's a statement that requires no efforts to be diplomatic; it's genuine, matter-of-fact. Layered, too, but no less authentic for it.

<< There's the waterfall, >> Vhaeryth agrees to her 'refreshing,' complete to its splash and plash; this Weyr hasn't ''that''. But then the glimpse of Fort's is underlaid by Ista's vaster tumult, just for a moment. Just before the latter's gone. The bronze leans, curving his neck to facilitate the idle scratch of his jaw against the stone, less pointy than pleasurable. She likes his queen, or the meeting of her; for all that ''Vhaeryth'' likes layers, that authenticity's clearly appreciated. It warms his decision to continue: << We have trees, also. >> Flocks of them. << But they're far too small. >> Too close. The smallest dragons might roam among them, but such as he, and she? Not so much.

<< Waterfalls, >> Aidavanth likewise concurs, as pleased with the glimpse of Fort's as the vaster ones available in Ista while she continues on another lap. << Not too small for my sisters, >> she says of those trees; Evyth and Virisceth would surely make it through those copses more easily than either of them. << But they're not too small to get a good view from the air, are they? >>

For that, he layers ''other'' waterfalls, other Weyrs' but better, the wilder ones: taller, stronger, ''splashier'' in their thunder. But, bemused, << Not if you like viewing trees. >> Does she? There are so many of them, Vhaeryth knows, some with branches that hang and weep, others that reach, still others who keep their leaves even in the not-now of cold; there are ranges and ranges upon ranges of these. << Not if you, >> dare, << fly close. >>

Tall, strong, thundering; these waterfalls, too, appeal. <> Trees. << Do you have favorites? >> Aidavanth takes in those varying types of branches and structures with interest, alighting at a free space on the rim not far from where he clings to his spindle. << We both have mountains, >> she muses almost absently, << but do you have many of these? >> What are 'these?' Llamas. And after a moment, tinged with amusement: an after-llama, or a sweater knitted with a traditional High Reaches pattern.

Where he ''surmounts the stone''. There's a difference! Not so much, however, that Vhaeryth doesn't consider this not-unfamiliar concept of favorites as less-familiarly applied to trees; << At times, >> he allows, though llamas might pique a different sort of interest; << Those that do not splinter when I rub up where I choose; or those that tangle their limbs just so, >> there's a N'rov, climbing into a tree, laughing, << but not those that shed upon my ledge. >> The peril of those ledges who lie low. << And you? When you are not eating your, >> sweaters, << tasty llamas. >> Vhaeryth sees them; he, as a good predator should, knows them for ''food''. Although his humorous image of her, next, has tufts of that patterned wool between her teeth.

Aidavanth doesn't have a similar image of Jocelyn to offer, not when it comes to climbing trees. But there's a moment she can offer in its place of the redhead walking in the snow looking content - from a vantage point ''below'' the goldrider. << Nicer than rubbing against stone, >> she acknowledges, and silently admits to enjoying the ''smell'' of those llamas even if there are more appropriate choices for nourishment while they're producing wool. There, a ripple of amusement for the image of her with patterned wool stuck between her teeth. << Sometimes, >> she confides, <> Not that one ''can'', of course, but - to try? That must be fun. And surely flying as high as one can, as far as one can - that, too, must be fun. A concept for later exploration, perhaps, as she soon launches from her perch again to soar down toward her ledge. <> And relaxing.

The ''smell''. Vhaeryth breathes in an intrigued breath; if he ever goes huffing a poor ruminant, Aidavanth will surely get the credit (or the blame) right before he eats it. Not that he inquires just now, nor of the snow-walker seen from, or ''on the'', down low; << Try, >> he encourages instead. With more of that amusement, << When you aren't landing. >> For whatever reasons she must have. Vhaeryth himself will continue to spindle-dwell, though he might try another as a change of pace, until he or his rider is moved to go.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Constants

2016-04-10T12:32:05Z

Jocelyn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Jocelyn, Quint |what=Quint calls on Jocelyn to reclaim his coat. |where=Jocelyn's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=4 |month=7 |turn=40 |IP=I..."

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn, Quint
|what=Quint calls on Jocelyn to reclaim his coat.
|where=Jocelyn's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=4
|month=7
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.04.09
|quote=The sun comes up, a harper wears blue, and a weyrwoman is a reflection of the Weyr.
|mentions=Irianke, Silva
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn amused.png, Icon quint.jpg,
|log=Even in the middle of a High Reaches summer, there's a coolness to Jocelyn's fireplace-less weyr; the entry and foremost cavern are warmer with openings to the outdoors, but farther in the back, particularly in her study, the temperature is just cooler enough to be appreciable. With dusk falling, her abode is all but silent - disturbed only by the scratch of the fiery-haired woman's pen as she works at the large table near the entrance for once, hair loosely pulled back and one hand occasionally pulling a glass of ice water toward her between notations. Aidavanth must not yet be home, as no dragon is evident within the weyr or without.

Early in the day, the recently returned harper could be seen out in the bowl, out by a small, covered wagon, chatting with with the two people seated up on the driver's bench. With a cheerful wave, Quint sees the pair off, before striding off see to his duties. It's shortly after dusk that he can be seen making the climb of the ledges, pausing at the lack of the expected queen's presence. "Weyrwoman?" the harper's voice carries from his position outside.

Jocelyn, having just reached for her water again before Quint's voice carries into the outer weyr, gives a start and pushes to her feet. There's a pause before she responds, occupied by gritted teeth and a hasty sweep of her papers out of the range of the spill from her much-emptier glass. "Harper. ''Quint''. Come in, " she calls in a single breath, striding into the inner weyr to fetch a towel. She returns shortly, making quick work of drying the little section of the table that took the brunt of her surprise. "I heard you were back, " she adds unnecessarily once he's within a more comfortable speaking distance, expression inscrutable. "You traveled safely enough, I assume."

Quint steps inside after the invitation, blue eyes flickering around the weyr -- taking in the current state, as well as the spill with a look. "My apologies for disturbing you, weyrwoman." A beat passes as he watches her mop up the spill. "I don't, at least, come empty handed," he holds up the package in his hand, offering it towards her when she steps closer. "It's spiced hardbread -- quite nice with some klah, actually. The gentle lady who made it was indeed telling the truth when she said it would last for some weeks without loss of taste. I forbore to ask what sort of spices -- she had that about her of someone who would take that family secret to the grave, if need be." The latter question earns a nod, definitive and yet unilluminating, likely on purpose.

"After the third page of reviewing what we've used from stores within the past seven, a break is hardly unwanted, " Jocelyn says dismissively, setting the towel aside once the table is relatively dry again. Gray eyes slant a look in his direction at 'not empty-handed, ' eyebrows lifting as she crosses toward him to take the package. "Family secret spice bread, indeed. I'll look forward to trying it." A moment later, drily: "If that's a barter for the return of your coat, it's an excellent one." Twitch, go the corners of her mouth.

"Ah, yes. The exciting life and times of a weyrwoman -- a book of pages that no one, ever, actually wants to believe is the truth." Quint's expression turns wry, and, after she's taken care of the package, spreads his hands. "Well, you've taken good care of it all this time -- I ''assume''?" there's an uplifting of brows.

Jocelyn's eyes make a little roll, but she's clearly amused, judging by the look she shoots at the now out-of-order papers scattered over the other half of the table. "Certainly duller than the life and times of a harper, who can spin stories that people ''do'' want to believe." Her mouth quirks into something more akin to a proper smile at his inquiry. "I didn't store it with our flamethrower supply, no. It wasn't flung anywhere. I hung it. Properly. Any creases left in it are not of my doing." She's marching toward the curtains separating her living quarters from the outer chamber, pushing through the heavy material with a brisk, "Check its state yourself, if you're inclined. It's back here." The sentence might sound different coming from a less proper woman; from this one, its delivery is merely crisp, punctuated belatedly by the way she crosses her arms once she makes it back to her armoire and opens the doors to reveal that yes, his coat is neatly hanging behind the business casual attire she prefers for working hours. "I appreciated the loan. The books stayed dry."

"Perhaps," Quint replies, clearly not willing to give over the award for dullest career ''just'' yet; "You might not say so if I described in articulate detail the last six sevens of a harper's life, complete with running count of 'how many rocks am I presently lying on'." While he follows her, back towards the living quarters, it's not the coat to which his attention strays, but the room itself, blue eyes taking measure. He nods, absent-mindedly, for the report on his coat, but it's clear his thoughts are elsewhere, since he gestures to the room at large and asks: "Is this to your taste, or an inherited one yet to be personalized?"

"Rocks, " Jocelyn repeats with a grimace, shaking her head briefly. No thanks! His next question surprises her, given the way she casts a look toward his gesture. "What? It's personalized, " as hard as that might be to believe. "While Irianke had this weyr before Niahvth rose for the seniorship, I doubt she chose the color for the walls. I'd stake marks that she doesn't prefer the same grade of linens used in residential rooms in the lower caverns, either." There's a shrug. "I prefer simplicity." Truly, the only thing in her bedchamber that's anywhere near ornate is the large, beautifully carved chest at the foot of her bed, to which she nods with an explanatory, "A gift from the weyr. I wouldn't have chosen to put my initial on something like that, but it ''is'' a nice piece."

The harper makes a sound at the back of his throat, one of those annoying uninterpretable sounds that could well mask some sort of judgement. Yet, when he speaks, Quint's voice is light, curious: "You prefer simplicity?" he echoes, "Or it is simply what you've grown up with, been ''used'' to, for most of your life?" He steps towards the chest, since she's drawn attention to it, crouching down to examine it closely. "It is nice. And it suits the room," he concludes, after a moment's regard.

"Don't people generally prefer what they're used to, to some extent?" Jocelyn sniffs, shifting so that she can lean against the wall near the armoire, hands still at her elbows. "I wasn't born into circumstances where what I wore and how I carried myself was more important than what I know and what I can ''do''. I don't need some overly fancy object if a plainer one will work just as well for the situation. Those linens are perfectly fine for sleeping. It isn't like I'll be wearing them to the next gather I'm asked to attend, " she argues.

"By and large," Quint allows, "Though there's some value in adopting change, if it's for the better. Why sleep on rocks," he asks, with a quirk of lips, "When you can sleep on a soft mattress?" His fingers brush over the carving of the chest, lips pursed for a moment, before he pushes to his feet, regarding Jocelyn with an easy expression. "You weren't born into being a weyrwoman, no. Yet now," he spreads his hands wide. "Do you know why I always wear this," his fingers pluck at his harper blue tunic, "Even in my free time, here at the Weyr?"

In the matter of rocks versus a mattress, Jocelyn can only give a wry half-smile. "I daresay sleeping on the mattress is better for your long-term well-being and keeping you out of constant trips to the infirmary. Keeping the nicest things I can afford would only make me more concerned for ''their'' well-being." Pale eyes follow his plucking motion to his tunic, then lift again to meet his. "One could assume it's a favored color of yours or that you never feel you're off-duty. Why, then?"

And now, Quint expresses surprise at that notion: "Would it? Mm," he seems thoughtful, gaze distant for a moment. It's her latter words that earn his attention again, nodding agreeably with her guess: "Some professions allow you to put them away at the end of the day. A woodsmith can put down his wood, and he is no longer a smith. A baker can walk away from the kitchens, and be someone else. A harper--" he gives a wry smile, "Is always a harper. Always listening, absorbing material for the next song, interacting with the world. This is true, too, of a Weyrwoman or a Weyrleader. You may put aside the knot, but the job follows you no matter what." His hand runs down his tunic, smoothing it out. "I believe that it puts people at ease, knowing that the constants will always ''be'' the constants -- the sun comes up, a harper wears blue, and a weyrwoman is a reflection of the Weyr."

"One could also argue that someone heavily immersed into their profession, regardless of what it is, would never fully disengage from it even after putting down the carving knife, the flour, the what-have-you. Watching people walking through the hallways talking about what they most enjoyed or didn't at dinner always made me think automatically of the next headwomen meeting, even before I Impressed." Although that may just be a case of someone who doesn't know when to take off the knot, acknowledges Jocelyn's rueful look afterward before it smooths away. "So you're saying that people should watch what they say around you, lest they end up in your next song or your next report. They certainly watch what they say around me more than they did before, for which I can hardly blame them, " with a glance flicked briefly to the shoulder where her knot usually sits when she's in public.

"I consider the blue plenty forewarning about what they're getting themselves into, weyrwoman," Quint says with a low-throated laugh. "Besides, some people would ''love'' the notoriety." He follows her flickered glance to her shoulder, giving a rueful smile. "I'm saying that part of the job is reassurance that things are as people they expect to be. It's not just about what you ''do'', whether you wish it or not -- it's about how you carry yourself, what you wear, how you're ''perceived'' -- although, admittedly, the last is a hard proposition for anyone to address about themselves. Tell me, if it's not too intrusive -- do you still ''think'' like a headwoman?"

Jocelyn makes a little face, crossing to perch stiffly on the edge of the bed after some minutes. "''Some'' people, " she repeats with different emphasis, permitting herself a thoughtful sort of frown for his (perhaps valid) point. "There's some overlap in the headwoman and weyrwoman ways of thinking, so the easy answer would be yes, I do, particularly when it's necessary." But even that qualification might render her answer not-so-easy. Certainly, she seems pleased to have the chance to turn the question around on him, in turn: "There must have been a time before you thought like a harper, or did you emerge into the world already wrapped in the color of your profession before you cried for the first time?"

Quint's gaze tracks the weyrwoman, giving a slow nod. "Some overlap -- and yet one informs the other." He stills, at her latter questions, silent for long enough that it might seem momentarily awkward. "I did not," he answers, finally, with what seems like -- for him -- a sober seriousness. "And I work hard to put the thoughts of the Quint-before-he-was-harper away, for they can ofttimes be a detriment to the harper." He rubs a hand, briefly, against his chin, before he walks past towards the armoire, reaching in to claim his jacket.

"The harper, " Jocelyn echoes while observing the reclaiming of the jacket with an expression hard to read. "Was not-harper Quint so separate of a person from the one who became 'the harper'? And you may, " after a beat, "find that too intrusive."

"You might say... one informs the other, to a degree," Quint's lips twitch as he repeats that phrasing. "But different still, in many ways, by necessity. And, I imagine, by age -- we all learn as we grow into our adult selves, after all." He folds the coat neatly, over one arm -- it's too warm an evening to put it on, it seems. "Sometimes, it is better to get, mm, ''distance'' from who one used to be." He might be mistaken for speaking of himself, at least until he says, "Thank you for taking such fine care of my clothing, assistant headwoman Jocelyn," with a minute bow, and a flickered smile.

Jocelyn listens silently, eyebrows hiking upward at his address that accompanies his thanks before her mouth likewise twitches at the corners. "It might save you a few syllables if you simply use my name, " she points out while rising. "Thank you for helping, harper Quint. With the books, " all of six sevens ago. "I didn't forget your request, either. I kept an eye on Silva and tried speaking with her." 'It didn't go well' goes unspoken, for the moment.

"It would indeed," Quint allows, turning towards the curtain as she rises, as if she's escorting him out. He reaches out to hold back the curtain, hesitating at her mention of Silva, wry smile appearing. "I appreciate the attempt. I know it isn't easy." Because of her, because of Silva, both? He doesn't clarify. "As a harper, it frustrates me that I can't find the right words... you know?" he half turns to regard Jocelyn. "Some times I wonder if it is because I don't have a dragon... or simply because I'm not a woman."

Jocelyn, with a smile equally wry: "You should have seen us in our first social dancing lesson. She was thrilled to see me struggle with that particular class." It's perhaps telling of the difference some time and growth have made that she can inject some humor into the brief recount, even as her gaze considers him levelly while she follows him to the curtain. "Being a woman hasn't yet helped me to find the right words with anyone, " she admits slowly. "Aidavanth might be better at that than I am, but I'm afraid the better relationship might remain the one she has with Zaisyreth, who I understand is pleasant to talk with."

Quint hesitates for a moment. "Did she enjoy it?" he asks, curiously, his gaze on her even as she speaks of dragons. "Sadly, as talented as I am, I haven't yet discovered the ability to converse with dragons -- so I must make do with mere, human words." He pushes past the curtains into the outer area, half turning to keep Jocelyn the focus of the conversation.

"The lesson, or my embarrassment? Seemed to be both." It's spoken politely enough, but there's a flash of something tight over Jocelyn's features before she arranges them back into something even. Lighter, "You might not be able to converse ''with'' them, but you can certainly talk ''to'' them, you know. You might even get a nonverbal reply every now and then."

It would be hard for Quint to miss that expression, brief as it is, since he's watching her closely, and yet he allows it to pass uncommented on. "Perhaps you can give me lessons in nonverbal dragonese expressions. I really do hate an audience that doesn't provide feedback," comes the harper's lightly amused response. With a pat to his coat, he gives Jocelyn a nod of thanks. "Enjoy your evening, weyrwoman." And then he's striding for the ledge.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Quint's Free Wagon Rides

2016-04-10T12:22:48Z

Jocelyn: Added mention

{{Log
|who=Farideh, Quint
|what=Quint's wagon is broken, but he's giving free rides anyway~
|where=Outside High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=1
|month=7
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.04.08
|quote="The weyrwoman came a'demanding / To the harper who likes grandstanding.."
|mentions=Irianke, Alysce, Tevrane, Jocelyn
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon farideh squint.png, Icon quint airquotes.jpg,
|log=It's a pleasantly warm day, the sort that encourages outdoor activities of all sorts of varieties. Some distance outside of the Weyr, perhaps an hour's walk, the road is home to an odd sight: a wagon, apparently laden with all sorts of goods, but no animal in sight with which to pull it. Lounging on the driver's seat is a figure in harper blue, looking comfortable despite the heated air. Maybe he's taking a rest after the pulling the wagon thusfar?

Unhitched wagons and goldriders taking random strolls away from the Weyr are totally normal; nothing weird to see here. Casually dressed, hair swept back, cheeks pink perhaps from sun, Farideh comes up the same road from the opposite direction, with no dragon in sight. No dragons aside from the usual ones soaring up high in the sky, through the cloud coverage. It's easy to see when she takes note of the oddity there in the road, as her brow dips and her mouth forms an unpleasant frown. "Good afternoon," she greets the harper once she comes to a stop some paces away, hands settling determinedly on her waist. This close up, it might be more evident that she's been out for a run-turned-cool-down.

"Ma'am," comes the indolent response from the harper, as he regards the approaching woman from his not-so-lofty perch on the driver's seat. Straightening slightly, Quint reaches to tug at his tunic. "You aren't a bandit, are you? Raider? Up-to-no-good-er?"

"It depends," Farideh says, eyeing the blue-clad man suspiciously, "what you've got in your wagon and where it's headed. I don't make it a habit of stealing my own Weyr's tithes, but I'm not opposed to skimming off someone else's." Her level tone makes it hard to distinguish if she's joking or.. serious. Expression isn't helping either.

And neither is Quint's demeanor clear on where he lands with his response: "You would take another's possessions? My, my, weyrwoman. Remind me not to leave a plate of sweets unattended around you," there's a hint of amusement to the harper's voice, all the same.

"You're ''surprised'' by that?" Farideh is still giving him the slanted, I'm-not-sure-what-you're-doing-here look, between questions and answers. "I ''do'' hope it's nothing for High Reaches," rings a little less.. unsure.

"I'd have thought you'd want to espouse the epitome of weyrwomanship, by being generous of nature and possessions both. No?" Quint's head tips to one side, lips twitching briefly. His head half turns, as if only just now remembering the wagon which he guards so assiduously. "Well, some -- if people choose to purchase it. Though until marks change by hands it's by rights most definitely not High Reaches'."

"I will happily loan you one of my gather dresses or a pair of slippers if it's what weyrwomen ''do''. Being generous of ''nature and possession''," is the goldrider's helpful suggestion. Kindness personified, one might say! Farideh doesn't even smile, though she's no doubt relishing her own sassy comebacks. "No?" She's curious at his denial, her eyes roving over the wagon in a more thorough inspection. "And, escorted by a harper? Is it a pile of instruments?" and yes, that's dismay in her voice.

"I'm sure my apprentice would appreciate your generosity. I could come up with a song in reward, yes?" The harper lifts the guitar that was resting on the seat beside him, strumming a jaunty tune, as he sings:

"'''The weyrwoman, generous of spirit''' 
'''Gave of her dresses and slippers''' 
'''Truth is her heart wasn't in it''' 
'''Preferring to watch for her ship... ers.'''" 

A beat passes, and the harper grimaces. "Mm, no, needs some work."

Lips part and then purse together, holding back a stream of words until he's finished playing his impromptu ballad to her (lack of) generosity. "That's a terrible song," Farideh asserts, eyes narrowing in re-dawning suspicious. "I don't watch for ships. It's odd that you ''think'' that I do." She's boldly denying what everyone knows to be true, and tossing her ponytail petulantly, too. "None of that answers why you're sitting in a wagon without a runner or burden beast to pull it."

Rather than being offended, the harper chuckles at her assertion. "Isn't it though? Good thing you and I are the only ones to hear it." With a cluck of his tongue, Quint gives another strum of the guitar, though this time it isn't a prelude to any additional ditty. "No? Mm, well. We've already agreed it's a terrible song; may as well not decontruct the contents of something so ''clearly'' false." He leans forward, grinning, at her latter question. "No," he agrees, "No, it doesn't. Would you like to sit?" he offers, waving to the now empty space on the bench next to him. I parked it deliberately in a shady spot."

The whole thing is highly suspect, and the shifting faces of the weyrwoman are proof of her suspicions. "You park a wagon on the road outside of the Weyr. You let your animals run free, or you lost them somehow. You bring your gitar with you to serenade random passerbys with. Are you ''drunk''? This early in the day?" Farideh queries, her gaze sliding from harper to empty seat. "It's quite odd, and I do wonder what our mutual friend Jocelyn would say about your-- habits." But, a seat is a seat, even a seat next to a crazy guy.

"No, indeed, I have not partaken of alcohol since two holdings ago." Quint is serious in that, bemused but also tolerant of Farideh's suspicious nature. "Perception is a strange thing, weyrwoman. As is assumptions. The truth is, honestly, quite innocuous, and will put to rest all your concerns, and yet your energy in defense of your Weyr is engaging and welcome." Does this mean he ''won't'' share? He doesn't elucidate, instead shifting the instrument over to offer a hand to Farideh. "I can't imagine your fellow weyrwoman has much if at all to say about ''my'' habits, weyrwoman."

"I have not yet met a harper quite as annoying," Farideh informs him, whilst taking his hand, whilst taking that proffered seat. "No? Does she still think you should be marooned on an island? Head stuck on a spike out on the star stones? I had quite hoped you two had moved past your tiresome quarrel by now," she sighs, looking further down the road before turning her head to stare at him suspiciously, up close now! "Are you going to tell me why you're here? ''We'', now?"

And now, Quint's looking surprised. "Then, my lady, you must not have met very many harpers. Or I'm feeling especially frisky -- or you especially sensitive," he supposes, thoughtful gaze distant a moment as his hand resettles against his guitar once Farideh's settled herself. "I wouldn't know. Your fellow weyrwoman is taciturn at best, as surely you must know by now, having worked so closely with her." His head tilts, regarding the brunette beside him seriously. "If I do, you must swear to secrecy."

"''Sensitive'', you say. Did no one at the hall ever tell you that's the worst thing you can call a woman? Besides fat." Farideh gives him a disappointed glance askance, but waves her hand dismissively about the matter with Jocelyn. It's much more her speed to lean over, expectantly, one step away from salivating at the promise of the secret he's withholding. "I won't tell a single sole. Roszadyth might listen in, but she's not the chatty sort. ''What'' is it?"

"Yet you seem to have taken it in stride, weyrwoman," Quint points out, easily. "It's good to know you aren't so thin-skinned as to react to mere words." When she leans in, the harper grins, his demeanor changing in small, subtle ways -- a slight straightening of shoulders; a deepening of voice into a storytelling cadence; a glimmer of eyes as he judges the effect of his story on the audience. "I guard wares from Nidren's hold, just north of Keogh. Most of it's nothing big, really -- but it's accompanied by a pretty young woman looking to find herself a husband, and some of the items, mm -- let's say they ''incentivize'' a match. I believe she's going to stay here a couple of days before heading on to High Reaches Hold. In any case, earlier today one of the wagon's wheels broke, so I sent the girl, her overprotective cousin, and my apprentice on ahead to find some assistance." He gives a long sigh. "I fear, one being flighty, one far mistaken about their purpose and the third easily distracted," he doesn't say ''which'' is which, "I may well be spending the night here." His guitar sounds a disconsolate note, responding to the brush of his fingers across the strings.

"Only because I've been called worse," Farideh tells him, matter-of-factly, like it's not an unfortunate thing to be throwing around. She at least seems enthralled when he starts to unravel this mystery she's happened upon, but little by little-- or, more appropriately, at ''find herself a husband'' and ''heading on to High Reaches Hold''-- her shoulders droop and her face lacks interest. "North of Keogh? Here I thought another holder was sending his tithes without paying proper respects to Lady Tevrane. Why do ''you'' have to sit out here all night, caterwauling into the wind? It is ''her'' wares? Not yours."

Quint tilts his head at that, regarding the weyrwoman silently for a moment. "And if it had been, what would you have done? Claimed the wares from the hands of the harper and delivered it triumphantly to Tevrane, for the purposes of goodwill?" He strums another note on the guitar, lighter this time, at her latter words. "Their father allowed Alysce and I to stay at their house; gave up their beds, their food, their company. What is it to give up a pleasant afternoon in the shade in return?"

Farideh draws back to give him another one of her disdainful stares, full on narrowed up and tight lips to go with an aggravated tone of voice. "We had to do what needed to be done. I would, now, seek counsel of the Weyrwoman. It is her decision whether those tithes be turned away or brought up to the Weyr," has an edge to it, however politic. Not all of the tension seeps away at her words, but she drags her eyes away from him to look down the road-- the long, deserted road. "You never mentioned ''that'' part. I suppose it's the only decent thing to do."

"Ahh," Quint gives a wry twitch of lips. "It's handy, isn't it, being able to hand the decision off to someone else to make. To never have to consider the ''people'' involved, only the politics of it." He waits a beat, but persists, curious: "What would ''you'' have done, if you were still acting?" He gives a small, almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders at the latter. "It was inconsequential. Even had her family not given us shelter, I would have done so."

"Quite," comes quickly, and after a petulant sigh, "I would have chased him back to whatever forsaken hovel he came from. I can appreciate their situation, truly, but to shove their problems at ''us'', to solve-- well, there's enough to do without worrying about losing more candidates to a fickle lady or half our tithes." Farideh side glances at Quint. "Why? It's not your problem. You're only a harper. Say some thieves come running down the road to get their fill. What are you going to do? Strike them with your ''gitar''?" Obviously, she's in disbelief.

"It doesn't actually sound to me like you ''do'' appreciate their situation, weyrwoman," the harper says in a bland tone. "That ''hovel'' has nice stock of llamas that supplies wool for your blankets, your coats, your woolens that get the Weyr through every winter." Quint strums some more on his guitar, turning the chords dramatic as if in response to her disbeliving words. "Clearly, I plan to wile them with my charm, invite them to sit beside me, and use a story to infuriate and distract them."

"''Fine'', if it fits more in line with your story that I don't, then I don't." By this point, it's obvious the weyrwoman's frustration level is quickly reaching its peak, but she's at least not throwing items off the wagon, or even lighting it on fire, so let's count it as a win. "Your ''charm'' as yet to appear, all the same, sir," Farideh returns, her smile not even remotely amused. "They may yet run for their lives when you start."

"True," those latter words evince a genuine laugh from the harper, posture at ease as he continues to strum on the guitar. After a beat: "You seem as if you could outpace me, so I wouldn't even attempt to chase." Quint's fingers move across the strings, now sounding a tune that's like as not familiar -- a bawdy sea song. "Now that your interrogation is done with, may I ask -- do you often take a constitutional by yourself far outside the Weyr?"

"They ''say'' riders are strong, don't they? You non-riders." ''That'' elicits amusement in her words, self-deprecating as it is. "I do sometimes. Running ''just'' in the bowl gets a lot of stares, and the scenery is nicer outside. Sometimes, I have a lot of thinking to do, and that leads me farther afield. Roszadyth can always meet me if I don't feel like going back by foot." Farideh's lift to the sky unprovoked, before they return to the man on the wagon seat at her side. "Don't you?"

"Do they?" Quint responds with a lilting query of his own, head tilted. "Mm." He shakes his head, slowly. "That must be... uncomfortable. Being ''watched''. In ''our'' line of work it is what we ''want'', what we ''expect''." After a beat of silence, "Do you get used to it?" More strumming; the harper's gaze doesn't follow the rider's to the sky, instead concentrating on the lilting tune. Without looking over, he asks: "Don't I what, weyrwoman?"

"How am I supposed to know?" Farideh reacts, after a lengthy pause, her countenance once more bearing signs of annoyance. "I haven't ''yet'', but Irianke seems less focused on it. With time, with ''experience''," this last with a grimace. "It's not exactly the ''same'' you know, though I've seen a harper or two get undressed by someone's eyes. Really." Really! She gives him another annoyed flick of her eyes and moves to stand. "Run. Exercise. Do anything ''other'' than sit around in wagons or harass goldriders?"

The weyrwoman's initial reaction is taken in stride by Quint, not even his strumming altering, providing filler for the silence in between the goldrider's words. "Not the same, no. Though one could argue convincingly that -- the dragon aside -- there are similarities. We are recognized wherever we go," he glances down at his harper blue tunic, with a wry smile, "And there are expectations that come along with our profession. It is rare that I get to attend, and enjoy, gather or event without the expectation of performance, much as," he gestures briefly, "I am sure is expected of you, if in more the political side of things. People frequently seek out a harper's ear for advice, for sympathy, or just for someone to listen to. I am sure you have had much of the same demands placed on you." When she stands, the music fades as he does, too. "Of course, weyrwoman. I spent nearly six weeks walking the roads of the region. When I am in the Weyr I enjoy a good run, if that is, indeed, an invitation to harass you on the move...?" the amusement in his expression suggests that he rather thinks it isn't.

Similarities, trivialities, all swept under the rug as she adjusts her tunic prior to setting foot back on the road. "You need not worry yourself in the future. I will assuredly ''not'' seek you out for performance at any event. I'm much too accompanied to the free show," holds just a tiniest bit of dryness, there. "No-- ''no''. I'll have to tell my weyrmate you're following me and then none of us will get any sleep forever more. It was entertaining, but there are still thoughts and ideas to work through. I'm sure you'll find something to keep you busy in my absence?" And finally, the quirk of a smile, thrown over her shoulder before she starts off at a light jog, her ponytail bounces with each step.

"I imagine I'll manage, weyrwoman," the harper reassures her, resuming his seat once the goldrider's stepped down. Quint's way of keeping himself amused is clear as the strumming notes of his guitar start up again. Moments later, as she's starting her jog, his voice drifts out:

"'''The weyrwoman came a'demanding''' 
'''To the harper who likes grandstanding''' 
'''They talked for a while''' 
'''And each other did rile''' 
'''And she left him with naught but her profile!'''"
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Don't Need Pity

2016-04-09T15:36:16Z

Jocelyn:

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn, Silva, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, Silva{{!}}Zaisyreth
|what=Jocelyn tries to check up on Silva and offer her ears. It backfires.
|where=Lofted Dreams Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=1
|month=7
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.04.08
|quote='''Now''' you want to like, go do something with me?
|mentions=Quint
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn impatient.jpg, Icon Silva Sardonic.jpg, Icon Jocelyn Aidavanth.jpg,
|desc=>---< Lofted Dreams Weyr, High Reaches Weyr >--------------------------------<

Inside, the weyr itself is also tall but narrow, the wallow a two-story
affair while the living area's made more spacious by the loft installed
above it. While outside it was plain, inside, it's all about the details:
the stone cleverly worked to shape heat and sound into comfort, the
built-in benches smoothly chiseled into a corner where a table might fit,
and best of all, what seems to have been a ship's mast wedged from the
loft level to the floor - a smoothly polished pole, the better to slide
down in a hurry for a literal or metaphorical fire.

-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
Jocelyn F 26 5'5" lean, red hair, blue-gray eyes
Silva F 18 5'2" sylph, dark black hair, green eyes
----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
Ledge
>--------------------------------------< 1D 7M 40T I10, summer afternoon >---<
|log="I don't know. I think it needs.... something." Silva's busy at work in her weyr, dashing about with more energy than the small woman usually shows to any endeavor. She's got pillows scattered about in different corners. "It's just, it's ''stone'' Zaisy. I don't think anything can soften it just right. It's just... like, it's too ''empty''." There's something about her activity though, like she's trying to burn off something through movement that probably would be better put to just being faced. For his part, Zaisyreth sits on the ledge without watching calmly without the same sense of frantic agitation Silva shows.

A gentle ''knock-knock'' precedes Aidavanth's warm, if brisk inquiry to Zaisyreth; if Silva's home with him, she and Jocelyn would like to call on them both. << We won't be long, >> the queen is quick to reassure of the potential interruption, passing along a sense of Jocelyn being equally frenetic in her movements, a flash of marching down a corridor in the lower caverns; in another, searching for papers, pacing into and out of her study.

Savannah warmth reaches out to wrap around Aidavanth, accepting her within his mind without a single hesitation. << Of course. It is the time for calling. >> The message gets passed on to Silva and she abruptly pulls up from her activity. "WHO wants to come visit?" Clear confusion in Silva's voice. The pause doesn't last for long though, before Silva jumps back into action, picking up pillows as quickly as she can (and dropping some when the armful is too big) so she can toss them at the low sofa she'd gotten.

<< So it is, >> Aidavanth replies in kind. << Thank you. We'll be there soon. >> A short time later, there's the tell-tale sound of large wings beating outside as she carefully deposits her passenger and moves instead to settle upon the rim of the caldera so that she doesn't dwarf what space her brother doesn't take up on his ledge. Tucked into one of her favored, button-down shirts and a crisp, well-tailored pair of dark slacks, Jocelyn's appearance is nevertheless a little wrinkled, something that causes her to smooth at her clothing absently as she gives Zaisyreth a nod in greeting on her way to the entry. "Good afternoon, Silva, " she calls to more obviously announce her arrival, hesitating just inside the entrance to the bluerider's weyr. "I'm afraid I can't stay long, but I - " A pause, as she clears her throat. "May I come in?"

Silva JUST manages to shove the last of her mass of pillows into place when Jocelyn arrives. Whirling there's a hint of color to her cheeks that hadn't been there before, probably the result of runing about faster than she had. "Jocelyn." Beat, wait, hospitality. "Yes, you can..." not have a seat on the couch apparently. A tiny glare for the unhelpful sitting place, so Silva instead points at a chair, "Have a seat? I mean, if you're going to be here and whatever."

"Thank you, " and Jocelyn settles onto the edge of that chair's seat, hands clasping loosely in her lap. Eyes more gray than blue rove briefly to take in the weyr at large, those carved benches, that couch, those ''pillows'' - and resettle on Silva afterward, appraising. It's the same sort of thoughtful, measuring look that the younger rider might have caught directed her way a time or two over the past sevenday. "I wanted to see how you've been, " she says at some length, "and to ask if you might like to go spend an afternoon playing tourist somewhere that's warmer than our mountain summers. You said once that you'd like to get out more, I think." It ends with something akin to a prompt rather than an actual statement, and a small shift in posture as her shoulders tense marginally once the invitation's out there.

Silva may not be the most ''social'' of individuals these days, but she does at least know the basics of hospitality. Offer a chair, and something to drink. So she only catches a hint of that look as she turns around with a glass of water in hand to offer to Jocelyn. It gets a wrinkled brow back, but before she can bluntly comment Jocelyn is asking if she'd like to go somewhere. "Wait. ''Now'' you want to like, go do something with me?" Serious doubt in SIlva's voice, but she's still going to hold out the water. "I thought you didn't like me."

There, a break in Jocelyn's otherwise even expression as she accepts that glass of water; her features tighten into a small wince before easing. "I've watched you mature a lot over the past turn and a half, " she settles for saying after some moments, "and I was rather certain that you didn't like ''me'' for quite some time." Clearing her throat, she raises the cup to her mouth, both to take a sip and to obscure part of her face, however briefly. "I didn't make friends easily when I was your age." This is more hesitant, but no less frank. "I still don't, which probably doesn't surprise you. But as you've said that I needn't worry about you having an agenda behind offering your - acquaintance, friendship, ears, whatever it was you meant - " She breaks off again, lips pursing faintly. "Someone worked to befriend me when I was a little younger than you are now. She had a significant impact on shaping the kind of person I decided I wanted to become. I don't expect to be able to affect anyone similarly, but I never said that I ''wouldn't'' want to learn how to be - a dependable whatever-it-is-you-want-from-me." Awkward articulation is awkward.

"Because I didn't." Like her that is. Hands freed from the cup, Silva can now awkwardly cross them over her chest with her expression settled into a slight frown as she picks her way through the layers of meaning in Jocelyn's words. There's the smallest tapping of her toe before, abruptly, "You're saying you pity me and so you're offering this because you feel sorry because you think something is ''wrong'' with me. Well. You're wrong. I'm ''fine''." That last word has the weight of Silva trying to convince herself of that same fact. "I mean, like, if you need fashion advice or whatever, I can do that. But I don't need your pity."

While Silva speaks, Jocelyn's lips press thinner the longer the girl continues, culminating in her jaw setting by the time she's finished. Impatiently: "For Faranth's - you have ''brains'', Silva. Use them. When have you ever known me to ''pity'' someone? You're right - you don't need pity. I don't think there's a thing wrong with you, either. You've changed considerably since we were candidates, which is a normal, ''expected'' occurrence. If you're enjoying keeping to yourself, then by all means - take comfort in your solitude with Zaisyreth. But if it's because you're uncomfortable with - something, anything, someone - you should talk with someone you trust. Figuring ourselves out won't get any easier, you know. Best not to let it completely consume you inside. You don't want to feel more pain than you should over a child calling you out on your behavior if that's ultimately what you rely on to cope, like I did." It's a surprisingly earnest, ''honest'' speech.

A snort from Silva, who is set just as stubbornly in her own ways. "So you think, like, if I don't start 'reaching out' or whatever, that I'm somehow going to like... what, self implode?" There's a half glance at all those pillows, and there's a slight feeling of guilt which crosses Silva's expression. She does have enough brains (and enough helpful conversations with Quint) to know exactly what she has been doing to herself with the quasi isolation. "I learned my lesson already, okay? I do stupid stuff so like... just whatever." Her eyes are now firmly on the ground, and that last has overtones of self-defeat in it. "Whatever. Do you need fashion advice or whatever? I don't mind being useful, but since I know you don't ''really'' want to do something with me, I'd rather at ''least'' be useful."

"I think, " says Jocelyn quietly, "that you're going to find that your life will start to feel emptier if you don't at least let someone besides Zaisyreth ''in''. It doesn't, for what it's worth, have to be ''me''. It should be someone you're comfortable with. You should be using your full potential. Making mistakes is part of learning. And if someone dares to laugh at you for them, it's probably because they're trying to cover up their own." Disregard people like ''that'', says the dismissive wave of her hand. And as Silva starts to withdraw, the redhead drains what's in the water glass until it's half-full (half-empty?), setting it down on the chair as she gets to her feet. Stiffly, "Believe what you want; I'm clearly the wrong person for this. Go talk to a healer, if you're worried that someone won't keep your unbosomings to themselves." Beat. "Thank you for the water."

At least some of the fight has drained out of Silva, as she stands with her arms across her chest and her head bowed. "Quint said pretty much the same thing." She leaves off that the harper was a ''little'' more nice about it. "I don't deserve to have a second chance, and it's not like I'm going to like, get it anyway." Silva, without a lot of trust in her fellow man. "Look. If you ''want'' shopping advice or like, whatever, I'll go."

Silva's attitude elicits a pinch to the bridge of Jocelyn's nose, and the goldrider straightens her shoulders, chin lifting before: "I have too many people trying to give me ''advice''. Take some time to think it over - I don't want you to humor or pity ''me''." For now? The interaction must be over as far as she's concerned, for she's briskly heading for the ledge with a parting, "I have one more meeting before my day ends." Goodbye? It must be one, as a rush of wings signals her departure not long after.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Don't Need Pity

2016-04-09T05:17:43Z

Jocelyn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Jocelyn, Silva, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, Silva{{!}}Zaisyreth |what=Jocelyn tries to check up on Silva and offer her ears. It backfires. |where=Lofted Dreams Weyr, Hig..."

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn, Silva, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, Silva{{!}}Zaisyreth
|what=Jocelyn tries to check up on Silva and offer her ears. It backfires.
|where=Lofted Dreams Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=1
|month=7
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.04.08
|quote='''Now''' you want to like, go do something with me?
|mentions=Quint
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn impatient.jpg, Icon Silva Sardonic.jpg, Icon Jocelyn Aidavanth.jpg,
|desc=>---< Lofted Dreams Weyr, High Reaches Weyr >--------------------------------<

Inside, the weyr itself is also tall but narrow, the wallow a two-story
affair while the living area's made more spacious by the loft installed
above it. While outside it was plain, inside, it's all about the details:
the stone cleverly worked to shape heat and sound into comfort, the
built-in benches smoothly chiseled into a corner where a table might fit,
and best of all, what seems to have been a ship's mast wedged from the
loft level to the floor - a smoothly polished pole, the better to slide
down in a hurry for a literal or metaphorical fire.

-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
Jocelyn F 26 5'5" lean, red hair, blue-gray eyes
Silva F 18 5'2" sylph, dark black hair, green eyes
----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
Ledge
>--------------------------------------< 1D 7M 40T I10, summer afternoon >---<
|log="I don't know. I think it needs.... something." Silva's busy at work in her weyr, dashing about with more energy than the small woman usually shows to any endeavor. She's got pillows scattered about in different corners. "It's just, it's ''stone'' Zaisy. I don't think anything can soften it just right. It's just... like, it's too ''empty''." There's something about her activity though, like she's trying to burn off something through movement that probably would be better put to just being faced. For his part, Zaisyreth sits on the ledge without watching calmly without the same sense of frantic agitation Silva shows.

A gentle ''knock-knock'' precedes Aidavanth's warm, if brisk inquiry to Zaisyreth; if Silva's home with him, she and Jocelyn would like to call on them both. << We won't be long, >> the queen is quick to reassure of the potential interruption, passing along a sense of Jocelyn being equally frenetic in her movements, a flash of marching down a corridor in the lower caverns; in another, searching for papers, pacing into and out of her study.

Savannah warmth reaches out to wrap around Aidavanth, accepting her within his mind without a single hesitation. << Of course. It is the time for calling. >> The message gets passed on to Silva and she abruptly pulls up from her activity. "WHO wants to come visit?" Clear confusion in Silva's voice. The pause doesn't last for long though, before Silva jumps back into action, picking up pillows as quickly as she can (and dropping some when the armful is too big) so she can toss them at the low sofa she'd gotten.

<< So it is, >> Aidavanth replies in kind. << Thank you. We'll be there soon. >> A short time later, there's the tell-tale sound of large wings beating outside as she carefully deposits her passenger and moves instead to settle upon the rim of the caldera so that she doesn't dwarf what space her brother doesn't take up on his ledge. Tucked into one of her favored, button-down shirts and a crisp, well-tailored pair of dark slacks, Jocelyn's appearance is nevertheless a little wrinkled, something that causes her to smooth at her clothing absently as she gives Zaisyreth a nod in greeting on her way to the entry. "Good afternoon, Silva, " she calls to more obviously announce her arrival, hesitating just inside the entrance to the bluerider's weyr. "I'm afraid I can't stay long, but I - " A pause, as she clears her throat. "May I come in?"

Silva JUST manages to shove the last of her mass of pillows into place when Jocelyn arrives. Whirling there's a hint of color to her cheeks that hadn't been there before, probably the result of runing about faster than she had. "Jocelyn." Beat, wait, hospitality. "Yes, you can..." not have a seat on the couch apparently. A tiny glare for the unhelpful sitting place, so Silva instead points at a chair, "Have a seat? I mean, if you're going to be here and whatever."

"Thank you, " and Jocelyn settles onto the edge of that chair's seat, hands clasping loosely in her lap. Eyes more gray than blue rove briefly to take in the weyr at large, those carved benches, that couch, those ''pillows'' - and resettle on Silva afterward, appraising. It's the same sort of thoughtful, measuring look that the younger rider might have caught directed her way a time or two over the past sevenday. "I wanted to see how you've been, " she says at some length, "and to ask if you might like to go spend an afternoon playing tourist somewhere that's warmer than our mountain summers. You said once that you'd like to get out more, I think." It ends with something akin to a prompt rather than an actual statement, and a small shift in posture as her shoulders tense marginally once the invitation's out there.

Silva may not be the most ''social'' of individuals these days, but she does at least know the basics of hospitality. Offer a chair, and something to drink. So she only catches a hint of that look as she turns around with a glass of water in hand to offer to Jocelyn. It gets a wrinkled brow back, but before she can bluntly comment Jocelyn is asking if she'd like to go somewhere. "Wait. ''Now'' you want to like, go do something with me?" Serious doubt in SIlva's voice, but she's still going to hold out the water. "I thought you didn't like me."

There, a break in Jocelyn's otherwise even expression as she accepts that glass of water; her features tighten into a small wince before easing. "I've watched you mature a lot over the past turn and a half, " she settles for saying after some moments, "and I was rather certain that you didn't like ''me'' for quite some time." Clearing her throat, she raises the cup to her mouth, both to take a sip and to obscure part of her face, however briefly. "I didn't make friends easily when I was your age." This is more hesitant, but no less frank. "I still don't, which probably doesn't surprise you. But as you've said that I needn't worry about you having an agenda behind offering your - acquaintance, friendship, ears, whatever it was you meant - " She breaks off again, lips pursing faintly. "Someone worked to befriend me when I was a little younger than you are now. She had a significant impact on shaping the kind of person I decided I wanted to become. I don't expect to be able to affect anyone similarly, but I never said that I ''wouldn't'' want to learn how to be - a dependable whatever-it-is-you-want-from-me." Awkward articulation is awkward.

"Because I didn't." Like her that is. Hands freed from the cup, Silva can now awkwardly cross them over her chest with her expression settled into a slight frown as she picks her way through the layers of meaning in Jocelyn's words. There's the smallest tapping of her toe before, abruptly, "You're saying you pity me and so you're offering this because you feel sorry because you think something is ''wrong'' with me. Well. You're wrong. I'm ''fine''." That last word has the weight of Silva trying to convince herself of that same fact. "I mean, like, if you need fashion advice or whatever, I can do that. But I don't need your pity."

While Silva speaks, Jocelyn's lips press thinner the longer the girl continues, culminating in her jaw setting by the time she's finished. Impatiently: "For Faranth's - you have ''brains'', Silva. Use them. When have you ever known me to ''pity'' someone? You're right - you don't need pity. I don't think there's a thing wrong with you, either. You've changed considerably since we were candidates, which is a normal, ''expected'' occurrence. If you're enjoying keeping to yourself, then by all means - take comfort in your solitude with Zaisyreth. But if it's because you're uncomfortable with - something, anything, someone - you should talk with someone you trust. Figuring ourselves out won't get any easier, you know. Best not to let it completely consume you inside. You don't want to feel more pain than you should over a child calling you out on your behavior if that's ultimately what you rely on to cope, like I did." It's a surprisingly earnest, ''honest'' speech.

A snort from Silva, who is set just as stubbornly in her own ways. "So you think, like, if I don't start 'reaching out' or whatever, that I'm somehow going to like... what, self implode?" There's a half glance at all those pillows, and there's a slight feeling of guilt which crosses Silva's expression. She does have enough brains (and enough helpful conversations with Quint) to know exactly what she has been doing to herself with the quasi isolation. "I learned my lesson already, okay? I do stupid stuff so like... just whatever." Her eyes are now firmly on the ground, and that last has overtones of self-defeat in it. "Whatever. Do you need fashion advice or whatever? I don't mind being useful, but since I know you don't ''really'' want to do something with me, I'd rather at ''least'' be useful."

"I think, " says Jocelyn quietly, "that you're going to find that your life will start to feel emptier if you don't at least let someone besides Zaisyreth ''in''. It doesn't, for what it's worth, have to be ''me''. It should be someone you're comfortable with. You should be using your full potential. Making mistakes is part of learning. And if someone dares to laugh at you for them, it's probably because they're trying to cover up their own." Disregard people like ''that'', says the dismissive wave of her hand. And as Silva starts to withdraw, the redhead drains what's in the water glass until it's half-full (half-empty?), setting it down on the chair as she gets to her feet. Stiffly, "Believe what you want; I'm clearly the wrong person for this. Go talk to a healer, if you're worried that someone won't keep your unbosomings to themselves." Beat. "Thank you for the water."

At least some of the fight has drained out of Silva, as she stands with her arms across her chest and her head bowed. "Quint said pretty much the same thing." She leaves off that the harper was a ''little'' more nice about it. "I don't deserve to have a second chance, and it's not like I'm going to like, get it anyway." Silva, without a lot of trust in her fellow man. "Look. If you ''want'' shopping advice or like, whatever, I'll go."

Silva's attitude elicits a pinch to the bridge of Jocelyn's nose, and the goldrider straightens her shoulders, chin lifting before: "I have too many people trying to give me ''advice''. Take some time to think it over - I don't want you to humor or pity ''me''." For now? The interaction must be over as far as she's concerned, for she's briskly heading for the ledge with a parting, "I have one more meeting before my day ends." Goodbye? It must be one, as a rush of wings heralds her departure not long after.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Awkward in the Storerooms

2016-04-04T11:27:31Z

Jocelyn:

{{Log
|who=Farideh, Jaine, Jocelyn
|what=An awkward meeting in the storerooms.
|where=Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=14
|month=6
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.04.03
|quote=It's hardly a job for the two of us.
|type=Log
|ooc=Jaine cameo by K'del
|icons-new=Icon farideh bitchface.jpg, Icon Jocelyn.png,
|log=It's a beautiful day, all warm and pleasantly breezy - the sort where those who are working indoors can hardly be blamed for seeking ways to accomplish their tasks outside. Mid-afternoon nonetheless finds the stores not unoccupied; Jocelyn, hair clipped neatly out of her face, finishes her three-hour tour of the storage caverns by assessing the progress of one of Jounine's assistants who is supervising the reorganization of the section assigned to home furnishings. With a pencil tucked behind her ear and her much-marked clipboard clasped beneath an arm, she observes the workers silently from the nearest entrance, hands stuffed into her pants' pockets.

The day ''may'' be pleasant, but there are a surprising number of goldriders still inside on such a day. It's the jangle of Farideh's keys that might give her away-- she's twirling the ones on her ring-- as she walks with purpose down the hall from the kitchen, one of the other assistant headwomen in tow. They don't talk, that junior and that assistant, but they move in sync with each other towards their pre-set destination. And it ''might'' seem as though the young goldrider doesn't notice Jocelyn standing there in the entryway, except she abruptly stops, still staring forward, still rattling those keys. "Jocelyn, good afternoon," she says, before her head swivels towards the other woman.

The headwoman Jocelyn's watching glances briefly toward the entry as she navigates around the half-handful of assistants currently under her purview, eyebrows lifting in silent, polite acknowledgment of the weyrwomen before resuming going down her checklist. The rattle of Farideh's tell-tale heart - sorry, ''keys'' - causes the redhead's chin to lift before she turns to face the younger goldrider, features arranging into an even expression. "Farideh, " she returns politely enough, pale eyes flicking to regard her companion before likewise greeting her former colleague. "You're in this section today, too?" The little purse of her lips all but broadcasts her suspicions; did Irianke intend for them to collide in the course of their duties this particular day? Still, she takes a step aside to give the two enough room for passage, should their destination also involve upholstered furniture and rugs.

The assistant behind Farideh is staring ''very'' intently at her own pile of hides and disheveled papers, instead of between the two weyrwomen; she's not even pretending to acknowledge the tension in the hallway. After hazel eyes flick to and fro, taking in the other woman's companions, they lift to meet pale ones. "No. We're passing through. It seems as though you've got ''this'' handled," except the tone of her voice is a bit ambiguous about what ''handled'' means. "It's hardly a job for the two of us."

Jaine has been in and out of the storerooms a few times this afternoon, the course of her duties setting her up to interrupt Jocelyn on occasion-- but only as is absolutely required. That she arrives now, clutching a clipboard of her own, probably won't help with the tension, and it is a tension that she is ''absolutely and immediately'' aware of. Her steps falter, gaze sliding from Farideh to Jocelyn and then back again.

"You're right; it isn't, " says Jocelyn without sharpness, partially turning back toward the cavern to note that the crew inside is about halfway done with their section. When her attention returns to those just outside of this particular department, the now-weary look on her face turns expectant once she catches sight of Jaine, one hand pulling out of a pocket to beckon the girl over. To the others, "If you're going to dry goods or cold storage, mind the floor. There was a spill there earlier as we were passing through. It ''shouldn't'' pose an issue, " but in case it does, let the record state that she made an attempt to warn her coworker.

Poor, poor Jaine, upon whom Farideh's gaze falls next. "Janise, isn't it?" she asks, blatantly remaining where she is, despite prior statements to be 'walking through'. "How are you liking High Reaches?" It's surprisingly polite given the relative mood.

Jaine, deer in the headlights, pauses. She's caught, now, between Jocelyn's beckoning and Farideh's questioning, and though the latter certainly ''is'' polite, there's evident dismay in the young woman's expression. "Jaine," she corrects, apologetically, that Keroonian lilt audible in her pronounciation of the name. "Very much, ma'am. I'm very happy here." Something in her stiffened posture suggests she's just itching to move again, but she stands still all the same.

The set of Jocelyn's shoulders stiffens a little as Farideh keeps talking. And as Jaine goes still, the redhead, for whom indecision is rarely acceptable, clears her throat and ''looks'' - not at Jaine, no, but Farideh as she crosses to stand next to her assistant. "You were right to tell me early on that there's value in having a good assistant." Courteous though her remark is, it ends on a pointed note: Leave the girl alone and let her do her job, says her stance, before she spares an expectant glance in the direction of Jaine's clipboard.

Innocent, curious questions turn to something else, something equally as indiscernible as she regards the other goldrider's defense of her assistant. Farideh doesn't hit the smile that lifts the corners of her lips. "That's ''very'' interesting," is all she says, and, with a backwards glance at the headwoman still not-looking at any of them, she sets back off on her way to whatever destination she's headed to. "Goodbye, Jocelyn. Jaine," she tosses behind. Let's be honest-- she's probably terrorizing children or the aunties.

Jocelyn's lips press thin and ''don't'' lift into a smile as she dips her chin briefly while Farideh sails off to wherever she's headed. "Goodbye, Farideh, " is more a mutter along the lines of 'good riddance' once the brunette's no longer in sight. There's a slow, careful exhale some moments afterward before the older goldrider finally turns to give Jaine her full attention. "Hopefully that's the last unnecessary interruption of the afternoon, " she says briskly, but blue-gray eyes study dark ones briefly before their owner continues. "You have something for me?"

It's not that Jaine ''holds'' her breath, but the whoosh of breath that she exhales matches Jocelyn's inadvertantly following the younger goldrider's departure. Dark eyes track back to Jocelyn, showing just a hint of apology that she does not echo with her words. Instead, she crosses towards the weyrwoman, largely ignoring the headwoman and those others at work-- she offers, with outstretched hand, the clipboard. "I just need your signature," she explains. "I don't mean to interrupt."

"Hmm." It's a thoughtful noise that Jocelyn makes as she takes the proffered clipboard, scanning the sheet on top quickly with a little frown before using the attached pen to affix her sharp signature into the appropriate blank. Mildly, as she passes the clipboard back, "Jaine. For what I hope is the last time, you can stop apologizing for doing your job. You'll know if you're truly interrupting." There's a wry curve to her mouth, unbidden; an astute assistant would, by now, notice the relative frequency of Lys's visits - and the equally frequent dismissals for the evening that come with most of those.

Holdbred though she is, Jaine does not blush-- though surely she's well aware of what those visits must entail. "I'll try," she promises, for what is probably the umpteenth time, as she accepts the return of the clipboard. "Weyrwoman Faride-- that is, I didn't mean to interrupt ''that'', beyond anything else."

The shake of Jocelyn's head is at once acknowledging and dismissive. "You didn't, " she repeats again, "interrupt. In fact, " and she pulls her pencil from behind her ear to make one last check on her own clipboard before gesturing for Jaine to follow her out of the storerooms, "your timing wasn't half-bad." It's a five-star review from the queenrider, who favors her assistant with a little nod before resuming her purposeful stride down the corridor. "Now. What's next?" Perhaps the inquiry is there to help underscore how much she values Jaine's assistance; it's a rare day when she doesn't know what is, indeed, next.

There's a little upwards twitch of Jaine's mouth, as if she's amused, and even pleased, by this summation of events. What's next? She knows as well as Jocelyn does, and is happy to make quiet comment as she leads the way from the storerooms.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Awkward in the Storerooms

2016-04-04T11:26:03Z

Jocelyn: Added quote.

{{Log
|who=Farideh, K'del{{!}}Jaine, Jocelyn
|what=An awkward meeting in the storerooms.
|where=Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=14
|month=6
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.04.03
|quote=It's hardly a job for the two of us.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon farideh bitchface.jpg, Icon Jocelyn.png,
|log=It's a beautiful day, all warm and pleasantly breezy - the sort where those who are working indoors can hardly be blamed for seeking ways to accomplish their tasks outside. Mid-afternoon nonetheless finds the stores not unoccupied; Jocelyn, hair clipped neatly out of her face, finishes her three-hour tour of the storage caverns by assessing the progress of one of Jounine's assistants who is supervising the reorganization of the section assigned to home furnishings. With a pencil tucked behind her ear and her much-marked clipboard clasped beneath an arm, she observes the workers silently from the nearest entrance, hands stuffed into her pants' pockets.

The day ''may'' be pleasant, but there are a surprising number of goldriders still inside on such a day. It's the jangle of Farideh's keys that might give her away-- she's twirling the ones on her ring-- as she walks with purpose down the hall from the kitchen, one of the other assistant headwomen in tow. They don't talk, that junior and that assistant, but they move in sync with each other towards their pre-set destination. And it ''might'' seem as though the young goldrider doesn't notice Jocelyn standing there in the entryway, except she abruptly stops, still staring forward, still rattling those keys. "Jocelyn, good afternoon," she says, before her head swivels towards the other woman.

The headwoman Jocelyn's watching glances briefly toward the entry as she navigates around the half-handful of assistants currently under her purview, eyebrows lifting in silent, polite acknowledgment of the weyrwomen before resuming going down her checklist. The rattle of Farideh's tell-tale heart - sorry, ''keys'' - causes the redhead's chin to lift before she turns to face the younger goldrider, features arranging into an even expression. "Farideh, " she returns politely enough, pale eyes flicking to regard her companion before likewise greeting her former colleague. "You're in this section today, too?" The little purse of her lips all but broadcasts her suspicions; did Irianke intend for them to collide in the course of their duties this particular day? Still, she takes a step aside to give the two enough room for passage, should their destination also involve upholstered furniture and rugs.

The assistant behind Farideh is staring ''very'' intently at her own pile of hides and disheveled papers, instead of between the two weyrwomen; she's not even pretending to acknowledge the tension in the hallway. After hazel eyes flick to and fro, taking in the other woman's companions, they lift to meet pale ones. "No. We're passing through. It seems as though you've got ''this'' handled," except the tone of her voice is a bit ambiguous about what ''handled'' means. "It's hardly a job for the two of us."

Jaine has been in and out of the storerooms a few times this afternoon, the course of her duties setting her up to interrupt Jocelyn on occasion-- but only as is absolutely required. That she arrives now, clutching a clipboard of her own, probably won't help with the tension, and it is a tension that she is ''absolutely and immediately'' aware of. Her steps falter, gaze sliding from Farideh to Jocelyn and then back again.

"You're right; it isn't, " says Jocelyn without sharpness, partially turning back toward the cavern to note that the crew inside is about halfway done with their section. When her attention returns to those just outside of this particular department, the now-weary look on her face turns expectant once she catches sight of Jaine, one hand pulling out of a pocket to beckon the girl over. To the others, "If you're going to dry goods or cold storage, mind the floor. There was a spill there earlier as we were passing through. It ''shouldn't'' pose an issue, " but in case it does, let the record state that she made an attempt to warn her coworker.

Poor, poor Jaine, upon whom Farideh's gaze falls next. "Janise, isn't it?" she asks, blatantly remaining where she is, despite prior statements to be 'walking through'. "How are you liking High Reaches?" It's surprisingly polite given the relative mood.

Jaine, deer in the headlights, pauses. She's caught, now, between Jocelyn's beckoning and Farideh's questioning, and though the latter certainly ''is'' polite, there's evident dismay in the young woman's expression. "Jaine," she corrects, apologetically, that Keroonian lilt audible in her pronounciation of the name. "Very much, ma'am. I'm very happy here." Something in her stiffened posture suggests she's just itching to move again, but she stands still all the same.

The set of Jocelyn's shoulders stiffens a little as Farideh keeps talking. And as Jaine goes still, the redhead, for whom indecision is rarely acceptable, clears her throat and ''looks'' - not at Jaine, no, but Farideh as she crosses to stand next to her assistant. "You were right to tell me early on that there's value in having a good assistant." Courteous though her remark is, it ends on a pointed note: Leave the girl alone and let her do her job, says her stance, before she spares an expectant glance in the direction of Jaine's clipboard.

Innocent, curious questions turn to something else, something equally as indiscernible as she regards the other goldrider's defense of her assistant. Farideh doesn't hit the smile that lifts the corners of her lips. "That's ''very'' interesting," is all she says, and, with a backwards glance at the headwoman still not-looking at any of them, she sets back off on her way to whatever destination she's headed to. "Goodbye, Jocelyn. Jaine," she tosses behind. Let's be honest-- she's probably terrorizing children or the aunties.

Jocelyn's lips press thin and ''don't'' lift into a smile as she dips her chin briefly while Farideh sails off to wherever she's headed. "Goodbye, Farideh, " is more a mutter along the lines of 'good riddance' once the brunette's no longer in sight. There's a slow, careful exhale some moments afterward before the older goldrider finally turns to give Jaine her full attention. "Hopefully that's the last unnecessary interruption of the afternoon, " she says briskly, but blue-gray eyes study dark ones briefly before their owner continues. "You have something for me?"

It's not that Jaine ''holds'' her breath, but the whoosh of breath that she exhales matches Jocelyn's inadvertantly following the younger goldrider's departure. Dark eyes track back to Jocelyn, showing just a hint of apology that she does not echo with her words. Instead, she crosses towards the weyrwoman, largely ignoring the headwoman and those others at work-- she offers, with outstretched hand, the clipboard. "I just need your signature," she explains. "I don't mean to interrupt."

"Hmm." It's a thoughtful noise that Jocelyn makes as she takes the proffered clipboard, scanning the sheet on top quickly with a little frown before using the attached pen to affix her sharp signature into the appropriate blank. Mildly, as she passes the clipboard back, "Jaine. For what I hope is the last time, you can stop apologizing for doing your job. You'll know if you're truly interrupting." There's a wry curve to her mouth, unbidden; an astute assistant would, by now, notice the relative frequency of Lys's visits - and the equally frequent dismissals for the evening that come with most of those.

Holdbred though she is, Jaine does not blush-- though surely she's well aware of what those visits must entail. "I'll try," she promises, for what is probably the umpteenth time, as she accepts the return of the clipboard. "Weyrwoman Faride-- that is, I didn't mean to interrupt ''that'', beyond anything else."

The shake of Jocelyn's head is at once acknowledging and dismissive. "You didn't, " she repeats again, "interrupt. In fact, " and she pulls her pencil from behind her ear to make one last check on her own clipboard before gesturing for Jaine to follow her out of the storerooms, "your timing wasn't half-bad." It's a five-star review from the queenrider, who favors her assistant with a little nod before resuming her purposeful stride down the corridor. "Now. What's next?" Perhaps the inquiry is there to help underscore how much she values Jaine's assistance; it's a rare day when she doesn't know what is, indeed, next.

There's a little upwards twitch of Jaine's mouth, as if she's amused, and even pleased, by this summation of events. What's next? She knows as well as Jocelyn does, and is happy to make quiet comment as she leads the way from the storerooms.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:The Right Questions

2016-03-27T04:05:51Z

Jocelyn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Jocelyn, Quint |what=Quint prepares to travel (for a time) and asks a favor of Jocelyn. |where=Records Room, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=15 |..."

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn, Quint
|what=Quint prepares to travel (for a time) and asks a favor of Jocelyn.
|where=Records Room, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=15
|month=5
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.03.26
|quote=I'm pleased a ''place'' cares so well about a single harper's well being.
|mentions=Farideh, Jaine, Silva
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn amused.png, Icon quint airquotes.jpg,
|log=The dour, wet weather has driven many indoors for the day, and even within the records room there's a scattering of occupants come evening. Quint's taken over most of one table, covered in maps of the surrounding area around the Weyr. His hair and clothing are quite dry, indicating he's been here for some time; he's half standing, leaning over one or the other map, frowning in concentration before he makes notations on a smaller hide illuminated by a fading glowbasket.

There are advantages to having one's weyr attached to the weyrleader complex, one of which affords the queenriders a little less time out in the elements while traveling to and from the administrative caverns. Despite being a little damp, Jocelyn is certainly no drowned rat upon her entrance; neither is the bound record she's carefully wrapped for transport, which she's quick to return to its proper place. The way she scans the adjacent collections suggests she's in the market for reading material of a similar subject, and the frown that pinches at her expression is hardly unexpected once she's chosen another one - no, two - annals for perusal. There's the most passing of glances for most of the other occupants of the archives as she angles for a table, and a not-so-passing one for Quint and his maps by the time her books lightly ''thud'' down at the table across from his. Her lips purse slightly as she gets settled, pulls the first set of pages to her and to all appearances, promptly immerses herself into the accounts at hand.

The thud of books lands moments before Quint touches tip to hide -- inadvertently avoiding a misstroke. Setting the pen carefully aside, the harper's expression is schooled as his gaze lifts towards the new arrival, taking in Jocelyn's appearance and her apparent immersion with a momentary twitch of expression. "Bad day, weyrwoman?" he asks, voice pitched low, casual. "Or have the books mistreated you so?"

An exasperated huff is all Quint gets in answer for a few minutes, at least until Jocelyn's gray eyes finally move upward to stare back at him. "Harper. These aren't exactly feather-light, " she retorts, nudging the one immediately in front of her slightly to the side so that she can better regard him. "The only mistreatment they're guilty of is not giving me the answers I'm looking for - and they can't be faulted for ''that''. They didn't write themselves." Her grousing may be commonplace enough, but she does have the good sense to try to soften it after the fact with a not-quite smile, lifting her chin toward the man's maps. "I've disturbed your relative solitude." It's not exactly an apology at first blush, but it seems to be a gruff attempt at one. "What are you researching?"

"Perhaps your assistant can help you carry them, in future," the harper replies, easily, unruffled by the silence nor the retort that follows it. "As for the books..." there's a slight twitch of Quint's lips, "Perhaps the issue is that the answers aren't ''in'' the books, but in some person's head, never committed to paper?" Quint's head tilts, as if surprised by the goldrider's latter words, taking a moment for his gaze to drop to his work-in-progress as if to assess it anew. "Relative, making the ''solitude'' not so precise a word," with a wave of his hand in easy dismissal. "Attempting to memorize all the nearby roads and trails. My apprentice is overdue the experience of rough living, and I've an urge to actually ''journey'' for a time."

"I didn't hire Jaine to carry records around for me. And even if I had, she certainly deserves her night off." The redhead's eyebrows lift for Quint's insight, followed by a little wrinkling of her nose that smooths away quickly enough. "I'm hoping that isn't the case. Far easier to search here than in someone's head." Jocelyn's attention shifts from the maps to their handler, lips pressing into a little line for his explanation. "So. You're leaving." It's a flat pronouncement, laced with something difficult to read as she dips her chin back toward her book. "I imagine you've a lengthy character-building exercise planned."

Although there's no verbal response, there might be challenge on the differing definitions of assistant in the way Quint's head tilts, momentarily. Instead of pursuing that subject, he deliberately leads on the second: "On the contrary. A person's head is far easier to search -- with the right questions." The flatness of her next words earn a low chuckle from the harper. "For a time, anyway -- I'm afraid you're not quite rid of me, yet, weyrwoman. A Journeyman ''ought'' to journey, after all." He spreads his hands at the latter, "I've quite found ''life'' to be an excellent teaching tool in and of itself, under the right conditions. One does not grow without some measure of challenge and opportunity, after all."

"You're assuming, of course, that the person is willing to give up their answers, " the goldrider says pointedly, expression a considering one through the remainder of Quint's elaboration on his soon-to-be journey. Nonchalantly: "One does not, indeed. And how long, precisely, is 'for a time?' Not exactly the sort of term that has a, what do they call it, a ''ring'' when written in a chronicle, is it?" Her gaze remains quite fixed upon her book; really, there's only a slight stiffening in the set of her shoulders to indicate that she does have some interest in his answer.

"I think you will find most people are willing to talk, if one is convivial enough," the lightly spoken words could be taken as a criticism, though if they are intended as that, there's no bite to Quint's tone. While her gaze is on the book, the harper's is on her, taking in her demeanor. "I would venture a more precise answer, but I'm afraid that I would be wrong -- given the vagaries of life, the weather, and many other such obstacles -- and I do hate to be wrong," he says, with a low-throated chuckle. "If you're concerned that I might not be back in time for some event of import -- a hatching, a gather, a turnday? -- you have only to advise me and I will do my best to adjust my schedule to accommodate."

If Jocelyn's truly scanning the page in front of her, she's certainly taking it in with an incredibly minimal amount of eye movement. "I think I've found that some answers are unlikely to be given, regardless of one's approach, " she says at some length, finally lifting her eyes again to his. "I'm sure you'll be kept advised of an 'event of import' by the appropriate people." There's a glance for the activities of the cavern's other occupants, perhaps to ensure that they're all well-engaged in their own literary pursuits. Quieter, and with some awkwardness before her attention returns unseeingly to her record, "I - rather think I shall miss our little discourses."

Quint's lips purse, briefly, at her first words. "Perhaps," the harper responds, finally, unwilling to agree, perhaps begging to differ by his quick move onto the next subject. "Are not you an ''appropriate person''?" he asks, with a brief grin, and while it lingers as she continues speaking, it might be a shade more fixed. The silence that follows is filled with his careful inspection of her, as if determining whether there's sarcasm in those words. Then: "Well," is all he says.

After a beat, or more, the harper adds: "I shan't be gone that long."

Finally giving up on any pretense of attempting to read, the redhead closes her book, carefully stacks it on top of the other one before her and clears her throat before making a reply. "I suppose, depending on the event, I would be. I don't expect that we'll have need of songs for hatchings any time particularly soon, but people do seem to keep having turndays." It's brisk enough, as composed as the set of her features. If two, little spots of color appear high on her cheeks in the wake of his addition, there's little help for it. "I'm sure that High Reaches wishes you a safe and efficiently conducted journey, whatever the duration."

"Does it indeed?" the harper replies, blithely, with a little smile, now. "I'm pleased a ''place'' cares so well about a single harper's well being." Quint taps at his map with his finger, an absent gesture while he regards Jocelyn silently again for a moment. "Perhaps, while I'm gone, you could do me a favor?"

There, a wry curve of a smile from Jocelyn. "Aside from bringing the rain indoors with your arrival, have you caused enough disruption for it to have good reason ''not'' to wish you well?" His inquiry elicits a small exhale. "You want me to check up on Silva, " she guesses, sounding more weary than displeased by the idea. "I haven't outright refused her offer of friendship, you know. Someone befriended me at a formative time when I was younger than her, and it shaped a great deal of who I wanted to become. I don't know if ''I'' can be that sort of person for her. She might have more in common with Farideh at the end of the day."

"There were some that thought I had a hand in judging the Weyrleader accused of murdering one of your Wingleaders -- though I did not," Quint adds the last with matter-of-factness. "There are others that feel a harper's only role is to meddle -- a charge I deny, since we don't ''just'' meddle," another trace of rueful smile appears. At her guess, he seems surprised. "Yes," he allows. "Outright refused isn't the same as ''encouraged'' -- and the girl seems easily discouraged." Another of those grins, this time coming easily and naturally. "You need not be her mentor. But as someone who -- ''mm'' -- seems intent at holding people at arm's length, perhaps it can be of benefit to you both."

"Some think and others feel, " Jocelyn repeats drily, eyebrows lifting. "Hardly enough justification for - this place - to hope your traveling party stumbles on every stone along the way." There's a faint purse of her lips as he continues, although it softens, if only just, after that easier, more natural grin. "Maybe it can be, " she allows after some moments. "You're a fine one to talk about holding people at arm's length. I'd be surprised if people don't wonder if you wear all of that harper training when you sleep." It's a light enough statement, and hardly a jibe meant to insult if the amusement that creeps into her tone is anything to go by.

"People can be protective of their home," is all Quint says, with a brief twitch of lips. "But heartening to hear from you that we won't have to look over our shoulder as we leave." His gaze flickers briefly to the map, but doesn't linger -- returning almost immediately to the woman across from him. The harper's chuckling again, undaunted by the words. "Well, I've not caught anyone poking their head in my door yet to check -- my own apprentices aside."

"And why shouldn't we be?" replies Jocelyn smoothly, permitting herself a self-deprecating smile. "We have a history of outsiders rising to some significance and ultimately damaging something that's important to our functioning, whether it was intended or not." Pushing to her feet, she leans over to grab a nearby scrap of paper and a writing utensil to scribble briefly, sticking the piece into the front of the topmost book of her stack once she's finished. "I suppose you wouldn't, " she deadpans. "I don't think many people sleep with their eyes open." With some squinting, it might be a joke.

The harper leans forward, interested in the challenge of the words, and rising to it: "And this place -- like many others -- have a history of just as many ''insiders'' doing the same. Insularity causes more detriment than benefit. Look at how poorly it worked out for the exiles -- they didn't trust outsiders, and because of that distrust, no outsiders trusted them." Quint's finger taps, thoughtfully, against his map. "The irony being that the exiles are -- because of their origin and subsequent interbreeding -- more High Reachian than many present Reachians." To that last, he spreads his hands as if washing himself of the accusation. "Even harpers sleep like everyone else, as much as they put their pants on like everyone else."

Jocelyn's mouth twitches upward. "You're quite correct, of course. There's something to be said for bettering our relations with others, even after some of the more tumultuous accounts that have resulted from actions of turns past." It shades thoughtful, that sentence, even as the rider glances briefly to the harper's attire in the wake of his assertion. "So do weyrwomen, although I'm sure there are those who would find it difficult to believe." Hefting both books up into her arms, she tilts them toward her so that gravity will keep them fairly secured, tilting a look toward the doors. "If the rain has lifted, I should make a - hasty walk for it so that these don't get ''too'' damp between here and my weyr." They're a bit cumbersome, but where another woman might ask for help, she only nods toward Quint and his maps. "I've interrupted you long enough, I'm sure." It's almost an apology.

"It seems to me, weyrwoman, you're in the perfect position now to do just that," Quint says, blithely and unapologetically. While he stands when she collects her books, where she doesn't ask for help, he doesn't offer. Instead, with a press of hand to his middle in a brief bow: "A pleasant interruption," he corrects instead. "Good evening, weyrwoman." And then, he steps towards her, his coat proffered: "For the books," he says, reaching as if to drape them over the books in her arms.

"It seems to me, " Jocelyn replies, "that it would only benefit everyone involved if I made efforts in that direction." There's an equal amount of seriousness for his blitheness, and a small exhalation for his bow. "Good evening, harper." And as he approaches with his coat and offer, she, in turn, looks faintly surprised but allows the books to be safely covered with a mouthed 'thank you' before marching from the cavern.

With a nod for the silent thanks, the harper soon resumes his seat, bending over his map to continue his work.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Not Going Anywhere

2016-03-24T00:20:07Z

Jocelyn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Jocelyn, Lys |what=Lovers discuss recent and impending events on a rainy afternoon. |where=Glitter and Glass Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |da..."

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn, Lys
|what=Lovers discuss recent and impending events on a rainy afternoon.
|where=Glitter and Glass Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=4
|month=4
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.03.12
|quote=Strangely, it feels a little like I've found what I'm supposed to be doing.
|mentions=C'ris, Farideh, G'chet, Irianke, Jounine, Quinlys, S'rin, Telavi
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn.png, Icon lys.jpg,
|log=With even Telgar stretching hopefully into spring, the northern regions are steadily warming as spring-like days turn into sevens, making travel more pleasant if one avoids the mud that inevitably comes with rain in lieu of snow. Jocelyn can no longer put off rounding out her wardrobe with formal attire for the warmer months - but this second trip to Boll is surprisingly pleasant with the prospect of Lys accompanying. Weaver journeyman Kaplin works his magic efficiently enough with the fiery-haired goldrider a second time that he earns a healthy tip, which frees Jocelyn up to enjoy the next few hours shopping with her favorite lady, demeanor appropriately enthused for pretty accessories and fabric colors here and there which she thinks will especially favor Evyth's. While the skies are clear enough at Boll, it's raining by the time they return to High Reaches, and the weyrwoman is quick to dismount and duck into the shelter of Lys's weyr, grumbling good-naturedly while going in search of a towel. Aidavanth, meanwhile, departs for her own wallow, but radiates a warm cheer back to her sibling the entire way. It's been a good day, thus far, hasn't it?

Lys isn't important enough, now, to have clothes made ''especially'' for her, but while Jocelyn spent her time with the Journeyman, Lys came and went to check the progress and offer opinions as wanted, but also spent some time where there are some pre-made items for purchase. In the end, whatever it was she bought must have been tucked away before she re-joined the goldrider for her freed up hours to do more of joint shopping and beach time (one mustn't forget the alluring proximity of the Hall to sandy paradise). Lys' habit is often to wholly ignore the surly goldrider's grumps, or, as now, deposit a kiss on her cheek in passing. By now, surely Jocelyn knows where Lys tends to keep things, relatively organized and relatively predictable as her home tends to be, not that that keeps the occasional bit of dirty laundry from ending up on the floor. Lys has a few things to do to get Evyth settled without her straps and so on, but she's back soon enough to unpack a small box of pastries that will do no part of them (except their mouths) any good, topped with the more tropical fruits which are ripe in Boll now. This might pass for dinner. The blonde is humming something tuneful as she moves through her space to fetch a skin of (cheap) wine to go with the pastries. "I told you you wouldn't hate weaver if you went with me," comes as she's pouring two glasses, her tone teasing, blue-green gaze falling to the redhead and prompting a widening of her smile.

Kisses in passing from Lys go a long way toward mollifying Jocelyn's surliness, so there's a smile in return for her once she can run a towel through her hair, tugged free of its clips to hang damply around her face. "I should have just taken you with me the first time, " comes her serious response, followed by a lift of eyebrows as she peers toward the pastries and wine. As she settles on the greenrider's couch, there's an undeniably pleased, "Those will put our pastries to shame at the moment, " as eyes more blue than gray lift to Lys's again, glittering.

"Live and learn," comes lightness in answer to Jocelyn's seriousness as often it does. "You'll know better in future." The greenrider grins at the gold before comfortably settling in beside and against her and Lys hands over a glass. "You think?" comes, still amused. Less amused, and more wheedling is the last, "And you said you'd tell me the latest about your transition from weyrling to weyrwoman," a topic no doubt avoided previously because of the marked work-y content of it.

"I don't just think, I ''know'' they will, " Jocelyn corrects, amused. The arm closest to Lys tucks itself comfortably about the blonde, leaving her other hand free to take the glass of wine with a murmured thank-you and an endearment. The fondness in her voice warms her expression as she leans her head over to press a kiss to Lys's cheek, mouth settling into a thoughtful line afterward. "I did, didn't I." A pause, then: "I can't remember if I told you, but I asked Jounine for some advice in choosing my first assistant. She had some good suggestions, and several potential candidates. I'm going to talk with them, " much in the way that someone would say, 'I really, ''really'' ought to'; apparently, her reluctance to follow through on the hiring process has prevented those conversations from yet occurring. "That's certainly going to be ''a'' change." Her gaze slides briefly to her more complex shoulderknot, the curve of her mouth lifting a fraction. "I can't say that I'm enjoying working ''for'' Farideh. Working ''with'' her was preferable before she decided I'm too - " There's a one-shouldered shrug to fill in the blank, and she lifts her glass to her lips for a moment. "But things are, overall, much the same as they were the last time you asked me to talk about the transition, not wholly different from our last couple of months as weyrlings. Now that you've been in your new wing for a while, do you still feel the same about it as you did upon learning you were selected to fly with them?"

"You mentioned, I think," about the new assistant, but obviously in less depth than is now being mentioned. "I'm glad Jounine could help you out. Not everyone can be so lucky as Irianke and find a ''me''." There's a lifting lilt of humor there and Lys is leaning in to kiss lightly just below her ear. She doesn't linger overly long. "What will you be looking for with them?" she asks as she straightens and brings her wine to her lips. She speaks of the matter so casually that she's either oblivious to Jocelyn's 'really really ought' or she's so supportive of it that she uses her casualness to indicate that 'really really ought' is a foregone confusion not worth speaking of. There are a few more sips before she addresses Farideh. "I think I could probably name the number of people you enjoy working ''for'' on one hand and even then, I bet it took time to adjust to working for Jounine when she stepped up," Lys observes thoughtfully and reaches for a pastry. "Maybe give it time. Maybe you'll get back to a place with her where you can be working together. It would probably be better for the long-term if you did it before Irianke came back and it wasn't ''because'' Irianke came back and had to play mother." It's not meant to be harsh, but the greenrider is still fairly frank (and a little insensitive, sometimes, even to those she cares deeply for). "Me in a minute," is not an uncommon way for the greenrider to decide to address one topic at a time. It promises answers, but doesn't allow for distraction.

Jocelyn's small smile can likely be felt during that brief kiss; certainly, it's there in her face when Lys pulls away. "Irianke ''was'' fortunate to find you, " she says with a little lift of her chin, "but I like to think that I'm the luckier for having found ''you'', love." That content look sobers in the wake of the greenrider's question, focused despite the way her gaze turns absently to the cup in her hand. "Someone discreet, sharp, perceptive, quick to think and able to act without being told." Drily, "I don't want to be fawned over, and I don't want someone who thinks their job is to do my hair and choose my clothing for me. She can't be afraid of me at every turn, not with that close of a working proximity." The roll of her eyes is audible enough, for all that the physical motion is quick. Of working for Jounine, "It ''was'' an adjustment. I - wanted her job, and she knew it. I was sore over her promotion for longer than I care to admit." There's a considering glance for Lys's advice on improving relations with Farideh, a thoughtful noise made in response. "Some people might thrive best with some mothering, " she says evenly after a few moments. "Faranth knows I don't, nor can I offer that to someone else. I suspect it'll be easier to recapture some of our more collaborative relationship once Irianke returns and we're back on equal footing as much in her eyes as we've been since my Impression in mine." Blue-gray eyes level a look at the greenrider, even as she, too, reaches over to grab a pastry. "You've had your minute. You, now."

"Perhaps," Lys answers the the matter of which goldrider was more fortunate to have found her. As ever, the woman doesn't linger long on things that could quickly turn into something less pleasant - it's probably how she's managed living a double-romantic life. "Maybe you should be looking for someone just like you. Do any of them have a reputation? You can always work on rough edges as you go along, but..." There's some amusement at the idea of a Jocelyn 2.0. "''I'' don't mind Irianke's brand of mothering, but something tells me she'd put the both of you through unpleasant paces in faster than a blink if she felt there was a lesson you needed to learn." It might be an educated guess. "Sometimes it takes a little bit of surrender to end up victorious in the end. It might help to try to... gracefully work ''for'' Farideh for now, if you can." She must know that sort of thing is easier said than done. But now her. "I'm still getting used to everything. I was never very close to S'rin, so I don't know if he's had the same adjustment period. In a way, it's sort of nice to be on my own - sink or swim. I like G'chet well enough. He's nice. Seems the sort to take the time if I ever needed something from him. Evyth's in love, of course." Of course. New friends!

There can be only one. And maybe that's why Jocelyn stares at Lys for a long moment after her suggestion, lips twitching on the tail end of a sniff. "Don't be silly. Someone just like me; the very notion. I doubt that would go swimmingly, regardless of our united efficiency." The prospect of being set to an unpleasant lesson by Irianke elicits a grimace, as does the concept of working gracefully. Still, she'll admit, "You might be right." But hearing about Lys's adjustment seems to hold more appeal, for the transition from grudging acceptance to attentive listening passes swiftly. There's a genuine smile, then, when the other rider's finished speaking. "Evyth's thrilled, and you're not running into hiccups. I'm pleased for you."

Lys can't help her smile for Jocelyn's answer to her idea, so ''deeply'' amused by the thought of it. She doesn't touch back on the matters of goldriders, not just now. Instead she shifts a little. "I'm feeling good, really. Strangely, it feels a little like I've found what I'm supposed to be doing. I mean, I thought maybe it would turn out that way in weyrlinghood, but you never really know until you're in it and doing it." She gives a little shrug. "I think Equinox will turn out well, once Frostbite settles in. It's sort of exciting to be witnessing all the transition, and the little dramas." Notably, watching but not participating in, it seems.

"I think I understand, " says Jocelyn at some length, studying Lys with a softer look during her account. "I don't want to say 'Impression gave me a purpose' because that would imply I lacked any beforehand, but there's a clarity to my sense of duty now that wasn't quite ''there'' previously." Her still-present smile twitches, turns wry for witnessing the little dramas that arise with change. "I imagine it probably is, for you. You'd feel quite differently if you were in the middle of the rumor mill's fodder."

"Impression gave ''me'' a purpose," Lys replies with humor. She can say that, and safely. "I'm sure I'd feel differently if I were in the middle of the rumor mill's fodder, but fortunately I'm just an unnoticeable greenrider, barely out of weyrlinghood. I'm thoroughly uninteresting. From the outside, I'm sure I seem perfectly plain, and improved even, with Evyth's influence and yours and-" well, ''his'', but she stops short, shrugging her shoulders, "In any case, there are far more interesting things to talk about these days than ''me''. Like Quinlys' new baby. Did you hear the name? It could be mine. ''Terrible''," she tells her girlfriend deadpan.

Jocelyn looks as if she'd like to wag a finger, but has to settle instead for wiggling her wine glass for emphasis. "Hardly unnoticeable, and ''quite'' interesting, I'll have you know. And you'll be impossible for a lot of people to ignore when Evyth goes up for the first time, naturally." It's light enough, even if it's tinged with something faintly rueful by the end. "Quinlys's baby, " she repeats then, wrinkling her nose. "I never supposed those two words would end up next to one another in a sentence. Lyssie or something like that, isn't it? At least they didn't name her - I don't know, Quincy."

"To you, maybe," Lys concedes, smiling at the goldrider. "Hm, I suppose that's true of most greenriders when their lifemates are proddy, but only time will tell." Evyth's time hasn't come yet. Perhaps maybe it never will! Lys might be well pleased by that scenario, but she's always seemed accepting of the eventuality. "I didn't really suppose it would either. But I guess things happen. I mean, I guess she must feel something for C'ris? Or maybe she's just a team player, concerned for the population and all that," the greenrider muses before leaning to set her cup aside. "Lyrisa. Given that I used to be called Lya, it's disturbingly too much like for my imagination. I'd rather ''not'' have Mivength catch Evyth, no offense to C'ris. But I'd rather she only be caught by completely impotent riders if I have my way. Nothing to worry about then." Even if, when the time comes, Lys is sure to be extra, very, very, very careful about everything. "Quincy would be rather terrible for a girl, but at least there'd be no mistaking her for mine." Not that there will be anyway, given the way Lys looks, the way Quinlys looks, and the way C'ris looks.

"You'll be the most beautiful woman any of them have ever seen, " Jocelyn says staunchly, "and I'll - " Be sorry that her lifemate isn't male for a few minutes? It's written on her face for a moment, before she finishes, somewhat lamely, " - be there for you afterward, if you need a - a friend." There's a little smile that plays briefly at her mouth. "If you figure out how to be selective about getting impotent riders' dragons to catch, ''do'' share your discovery before Aidavanth takes it into her head to try such a thing." It's an almost awkward hesitation that follows. "Irianke said it was best to borrow someone else's dragon for a slightly longer than usual skip ''between'' the day after Aidavanth flies. Right now, I'd prefer it be you and Evyth to take me when I need it, if you can."

"I think it has very little to do with how beautiful I am and everything to do with every last one of them taking note of Evyth," Lys won't be swayed, but she will laugh about it before polishing off the contents of her glass and setting it back down. "I'm not sure I'll get any say, and even so I've heard that very old riders can still be a problem, so there's no sure fire way, but if I discover one, I'll be sure to tell you." That comes with a little peck on the lips. For the greenrider, this request isn't an odd thing and she only smiles reassuringly. "Of course. We know how to do it. Tela showed me once." And clearly Tela's had good results, to Lys' knowledge. "Not that anything is completely certain, but." Better to try all the ways to prevent than to forego one and be able to blame oneself for an accident. All of this keeps Lys from having to say that she does it regularly these days because at least one of her lovers could, in theory, beget children with her.

"Thank Faranth I have you looking out for me." Jocelyn, with none of the melodrama such a statement ''could'' be infused with after that peck on the lips, but she does permit the wryness to be openly writ in her expression. "I wish I would know how to ''know'', " she confides after a few more sips. "Aidavanth. I don't like the unpredictability of the first time. I have to hope she'll give me enough notice to make sure all the proper precautions are able to be taken." Shifting uncomfortably, she leans forward to deposit her glass on the table, too, all the better to turn herself more toward Lys and reach to cup the other's cheek with a palm.

"You could drink the tea anyway," Lys suggests with a little lift of her brows, tilting her face into her lover's palm. "Will you try to use the flight weyr instead of your own?" The greenrider wonders; it does seem to be done, sometimes. Her brows furrow a little, "I could try to be there. If you wanted. In the weyr, I mean. But people would--" notice. They would definitely notice if Lys shows up to a goldflight in the weyr with the chasers. She's frowning a little. Certainly at least one bronzerider, if he's in attendance, would take particular note.

Jocelyn makes a face; the ''tea''. "''Between'' is easier and lacks the aftertaste, " she dismisses, gaze distancing for a moment while she gives her girlfriend's thoughts due consideration, a thumb absently stroking the cheek in her palm. "I don't want all of those - ''people'' in my home, " she decides, frowning. "That's - a place for us. The flight weyr would be preferable, certainly, if I have enough wits about me to manage it." She just doesn't ''know'' how it's all going to play out just yet, and it's clear that the lack of control over the situation bothers her. "They would notice, wouldn't they." Blue eyes focus back on Lys, soft. "I wish you - I - could win flights, rather than live through them, " she admits, features scrunching into a grimace. "I'd like to think I'd still want to lose myself in ''you'' rather than some random rider whose dragon just happens to be fixated on mine. I don't expect to know how to do this on the first try, but I'm going to have to learn how to - assert a choice, somewhere. I don't even know if she'll listen while she's enthralled by what she's feeling, but the ability to ''choose'' could be - useful. If it even works."

"Better double methods that are chancey either way than skip one because one can't man down a cup daily." Lys replies with an amused look. There's a little shrug of her shoulders for the matter of winning flights. "There's no saying we ''would'' win, even if we could win. This is just the way it is for us," is practical. "There are some circumstances in life that are worth fighting to change, this definitely isn't one of them." She contemplates the rest for a moment before saying, "You might ask Irianke when she comes back, about asserting choice. I hear they train their juniors at Igen to be caught by browns and to have worse flights. I don't know if that was after her time there or not." Then there's a very defined pause as the greenrider considers something and with slightly tightened lips, she adds, "If you speak with her about Igen, be judicious." It doesn't sound, really, as if the woman who was once one of Irianke's assistants and once, before that, Irianke's only assistant, is going to say more.

"I know ''that'', of course, " Jocelyn grouses, hand sliding from Lys's face so that she can pinch the bridge of her nose. "I just - " A pause, then, clipped: "Never mind." Does she look a little embarrassed? If she does, it's overwritten soon enough with an expression that's increasingly inscrutable the farther the greenrider gets into her advice on consulting Irianke. "Probably best if I don't, then, " she says evenly, of speaking about Igen. With her arms withdrawn to her own person, the redhead fluidly gets to her feet, if not to leave, then to cross the room to neatly, so neatly, fold that towel she borrowed.

The change of tone is noted (of course it is) from bad to worse. Lys gives Jocelyn a moment before she rises and crosses to come up behind her and gently place her hands on the redhead's upper arms, a light touch that isn't a hug but holds all the support of one. "What happened just then?" It a quiet question, spoken by one who wants to understand.

Jocelyn treats that towel like a tablecloth that's used for visiting dignitaries, smoothing creases and separating spare bits of lint that are threatening to detach in due time. "You know I don't do - overly sentimental well, " much in the same way that another might have said, 'I was just being silly, don't mind me.' It's not ''really'' an answer, but the set of her shoulders suggests that a better one isn't forthcoming. Practically, even lightly, "You're right, of course. There's no sense in wishing that things were different when there's no means available by which to make them into more ideal circumstances." Once the towel is neatened to within a thread of its remaining life, she turns finally, features creased into something weary. "I'll find someone else to ask, about the assertion idea. Or research it as best I can. I don't need to end up inadvertently throwing wedges between myself and ''both'' of the other queenriders, " rather than the one relationship that's already strained, "one of whom has all the capability of bargaining me away to Monaco when she returns if she wishes." She's uncomfortable, and it shows now in her eyes, in the way she holds herself, in the way she looks slightly past Lys toward the ledge.

Lys is silent and still as the goldrider explains. There's something odd in the set of the blonde's features, neither good nor bad, but a slight spread and press of her lips. She waits until Jocelyn's finished before she reaches her fingers to curl around the redhead's. "I never said you ought to be sentimental. Just judicious. Choose your questions with care and don't linger overly long. You're an intelligent woman, Joce, and you don't give yourself enough credit for being able to use tact when you try." Clearly Lys has this much faith in her. "But enough work talk. You're not going anywhere." Now or to Monaco. Instead, Lys is drawing up first one hand to kiss her knuckles, and then the other, blue-green eyes look over the tops in a way that promises better distractions to come. "I want to show you what I bought." The look she gives her lover goes beyond mischief to pure wickedness for a moment before she moves to do just that.

Something in Lys's response elicits a short laugh from Jocelyn, whose fingers still curl instinctively around the younger woman's in return. "Sweetheart, " she says tiredly, "I wouldn't use sentiment where Irianke is concerned. I was trying to be sentimental to ''you''. Winning with each other is impossible, but I - thought you'd like knowing that I'd - be happy in some other reality if it ''were'' possible for us to do so." But then there are the kisses to her knuckles, the distracting look that follows, and despite herself, the redhead can't help the way her face colors or the little gleam that sparks to life in blue-gray eyes as those pretty purchases see the light of day. "I don't care if you chose that one on top with me in mind or someone else. That's - put that on. Come here." A pause, then: "Please." It's both a plea and a promise.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:All Sorts of Opportunity

2016-03-20T01:38:08Z

Jocelyn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Jocelyn, Leova |what=Jocelyn and Leova share a picnic lunch in Keroon. |where=Keroon Hold |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=23 |month=3 |turn=40 |IP=Interval |IP2=10..."

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn, Leova
|what=Jocelyn and Leova share a picnic lunch in Keroon.
|where=Keroon Hold
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=23
|month=3
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.03.09
|quote=There's never enough time in the day, is there.
|mentions=Jounine, U'sot, Via
|type=Log
|ooc=Backdated.
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn amused.png, Icon leova drinking thirsty watching.jpg,
|log=It's easy to get busy and let things fall between the requirements of the day-to-day, but Jocelyn hasn't, apparently, forgotten about their last in-depth conversation. Halfway through the seven, Aidavanth contacts Vrianth with a warm, pleasantly illuminated invitation for the four of them to enjoy an afternoon lunch somewhere that isn't snowy if their restdays coincide. Keroon is considerably more pleasant, with longer days and a comfortable, breezy warmth that's excellent for picnics. It's enough for Jocelyn to tug uncomfortably at her collar when Aidavanth emerges into the climate change and have her flight jacket halfway undone by the time the orange-gold wings steadily down to a landing at their chosen destination, a grassy knoll that's considerably closer to the Red Butte than the hold proper. With her hair casually pulled back and clothing, looser and seasonally appropriate, she wastes little time in unpacking the basket so carefully secured for their trip ''between'', busying herself with spreading a selection of meat, cheese, bread and small finger foods; her expression, at least for once, relaxed.

Vrianth circles and swoops through that warmer sky, ''between''-hardened snowflakes skittering and melting off her wings before ever they touch ground. Though a flow of electric current assures Aidavanth she'll bring her rider soon enough, Vrianth's nothing like immediate. The ground can wait. The dusk is beginning to fall. Just a little longer... until it isn't, and the green at last leaves Leova off with the sack she'd brought, if only to re-ascend. The greenrider has several greenlengths, long Vrianth-lengths, to walk. She shakes out the blanket as she does, with a one-cornered smile for the delay and for the welcome. "''Good'' to get out."

Between ''between'' and being packed tightly in the way of well-wrapped items that have spent some time in cold storage, the food easily remains chilled while the goldrider finishes setting up, rounding out the spread with a cold skin and two, earthenware cups. Still, Jocelyn straightens to her feet when Leova (finally) comes into view, expression faintly amused. "It rather is, isn't it?" replies the redhead who often does her best hermit-like impression in her off-hours, tilting a glance upward before settling pale eyes again on the greenrider. "I've never really minded the cold, but I have to admit that there's something appealing about being able to go somewhere that isn't for a short time." There's a considering look for her friend as she reseats herself on the ground, then: "I'm glad you came."

Now that the blanket's free of 'Reaches dust-have-you, Leova's folding it back up again, this time into a squatter cushion that she drops to sit upon. Her jacket gets folded and set alongside. "It ''feels'' colder at Tillek. When the sea wind gets you. Good day? Not too many weyr-swappings, I hope." And, with a two-cornered smile this time, "Glad you made it happen." She glances at the food, but then past it, as though there might be more of ''something'' stashed away.

"Mm, " and Jocelyn reaches over to put together a sandwich, more to give her hands something to ''do'' rather than to actually eat it, since it's a slow, almost too-methodical process. "I don't think this would be quite as comfortable on the shore, no." There's a little eyeroll for 'good day, ' although it's followed by a wry curve of the mouth, an almost-grin. Practically, of her day thus far, "Good enough. Productive, even, although there's certainly enough time yet for those things to change." Her lips twitch faintly. "Me too. There's never enough time in the day, is there." Her neck cranes slightly while she tries to follow Leova's line of sight, eyebrows lifting in a silent inquiry after she gives up and returns her attention to neatly arranging what's atop the slice of bread before her.

A low chuckle. A nod. And, with humor, "No work? Really." Leova rubs her hands over her bent knees, then sets about doing the same with her own beginnings of a meal. The breeze ruffles what's long hair for her, just past her jaw rather than rider-short, dark auburn rather than the rust the sun will add later in the Turn. Prosaically, "Not that I don't, at times. No more risk than taking it up to my weyr." ''Up''.

Jocelyn's little smile turns self-deprecating for ''that'', accompanied by a dry, short laugh. "Technically, we're supposed to have a restday. I usually ignore it and try to get more done, " probably not surprising, "but it seems as good of a day as any to work on some administrative matters of a - personal nature." Sandwich composed, she unstops the skin next, pouring a cupful of spring-cold water before nudging the remainder in Leova's direction. There's a careful bite of her creation, a pleased look, then another. "I asked Jounine for advice on selecting an assistant, " she reveals at some length, "despite the fact that I'd prefer not to have one." But as this isn't the Marvel-verse, it just might help her in the long run if she did. "She had some good recommendations, solid enough choices from our lower caverns." Pause. "And her niece, who, as I understand it, lives somewhere thataway, " with a vague wave at some distant point behind them. "She'd be an outsider, " which elicits a wrinkle of her nose, "but that could be an advantage."

Leova's own curious look doesn't press, and when it's answered anyway, fills with interest. After Jocelyn's done, and ''she's'' done chewing, "Could be," she agrees. "Could go either way. Though, can't think Jounine," of all people, "would recommend someone who she couldn't see fitting. Not the sort to apt to squeal, 'ooh, Weyrs,'" said in quite the deadpan tone for all the phrasing. "What do you know you want?"

"No, she wouldn't." Jocelyn, with surety. And, "I trust her judgment. She thinks the girl won't be the sort to squeal, as you put it." While cups make excellent, convenient methods by which one can hide her expression, the redhead is quick to raise and lower hers, brows drawing together thoughtfully. "Someone who won't simper, squeal or sink into the floor because she's afraid of me at every turn, " is delivered matter-of-factly. "I'd prefer someone capable, with a good head on her shoulders who's willing to work. If I need help with looking the part from time to time, " dry, "I can easily get that from someone else who doesn't have to be around me constantly. Someone discreet, who can think on her feet and doesn't need to be told what needs doing every five minutes. I saw enough of ''those'' while I was an assistant headwoman to last me for turns." No, the girl who gets the role won't find a patient superior.

"Or squeal secrets," is Leova's other way of putting it, even as she listens. "Mm. Good luck with that. Those girls you saw... any of 'em seem trainable? Change their ways, that you saw, as Turns went by? Or is it who they were, that's all they'd ever be." She hitches a shoulder. "Like to think the Weyr wouldn't wind up that way, assistants aside."

"Or squeal secrets, " Jocelyn agrees with a wiggle of her sandwich. "For some of them, it might just be that they're ''young''. I still think experience makes for one of the better teachers, and no matter how capable someone is, it can't always compensate for some things that can only come with time." Wryly, "People watching has its uses. Someone observant enough with that should do well here, with Jounine, or elsewhere as she chooses. The weyr, " elicits a careful exhale, "''this'' weyr will always, I think, draw willful people. High Reaches folk are hardy and resilient. Everyone knows that they're expected to pull their weight, native or not, and if they don't - they'll learn how, one way or another, or find somewhere that suits them better if weyrlife doesn't live up to their romantic expectations." It's not truly as simple as all that, but there's an answering shrug to fill in what goes unspoken, gray gaze steady. People can, after all, grow and change as many often do.

''Young'' has Leova's mouth tucking together, an added light in those amber eyes. "It does that. ''Observant'', I like that. Sounds like you'd rather not have to do all too much training, just now? and no reason not to be choosy, beyond ruling 'em all out." She hesitates. "As for moving, though. It isn't... hm. Always achievable, in a practical sense and not 'if only they try hard enough,' to find somewhere that 'suits them.' Negotiating a place as'll take them, even if they can talk a rider to fly transport. References. A place, and a job as doesn't have seven generations of mothers and daughters lined up for the spot. Wonder a little about her family's letting her join a Weyr, come to that... Is she married?"

"Some traits can't be trained, " Jocelyn feels the need to point out, making a face for the remainder of Leova's reply but acknowledging it nonetheless with a simple, "True enough." She shifts a little, sliding previously crossed legs outward to better stretch out and wiggle booted feet. "Jounine says that she's engaged. She'll be married in two turns and settle in another cothold here in Keroon." Yes, she asked, says that subsequent, knowing glance. "She apparently wants to see more of the world before then, and there are certainly worse ways to go about it than working at a weyr. There's always the risk that she'll let something slip to the husband once she's left the job, if she were given it, and that ''he'' could have connections with intentions to act against us - " She clears her throat. With reluctance, "But that's a risk with anyone, and I can't eliminate ''all'' potential assistants based on that alone." Alas.

The tip of Leova's head goes along with that point. The sudden smile, ''that's'' for the face. The sun catches her aslant as she eats with those neat, even bites, casting a long shadow past her blanket-cushion and disappearing into the uneven grass. "Her husband, her best friend. Her new best friend." This smile has sympathy, but not just sympathy, tied up with it. Her words are slow. "Hope'' she'd be loyal, Jocelyn, her aunt and all. Long engagement, seems to me. But. Might be they do that different too, 'round here. Why ''do'' you reckon they're willing, he's willing, to have her come to the Weyr?"

"He's not yet her husband, " Jocelyn replies at some length, after working a bit on her own sandwich. "Jounine says that she wants to see more of the world before she's married and settled down to begin her life in her own cothold. She's eighteen. If she's as smart as her aunt, she'll appreciate an opportunity to learn and observe things she'll likely never get to witness again - and I get the impression that most parents want what's best for their children. I suppose it's a safe enough way to experience more of wider Pern, " curses and plots aside, "and there are far worse ways one could go about it. She wouldn't be entirely cut off from her family, either. Can't speak for elsewhere, but here she'd have the headwoman's protection." And hers, if their meeting went satisfactorily.

"Mm." ''Speculative''. "Hope so. It ''is'' all sorts of opportunity." Leova leans, shaking crumbs off into the grass. Rubs her palms to dislodge any finer particles. Stays leaning, this time to run a green strand between thumb and forefinger before letting it spring back. She still watches it. "Via's settled in, at Harper."

Jocelyn mumbles something that's probably an affirmative, nodding some minutes after in confirmation while she makes the rest of her lunch disappear. Eyes more blue than gray consider the older woman silently while she chews, swallows, finishes off her cup of water. Finally, "Is she transitioning well?" Unspoken: Is ''Leova''?

Finally enough that Leova has... not put the grass out of its misery. Not moved on to the next. Just let it stand, tall, touched, unbruised. But she's eyeing it. "Seems to be." Amber eyes refocus on Jocelyn's, a slow slide with her head still tipped. "As much as they do. Nightmares and such." Via's, at the least. "Not that ''she'' wrote of them," and that wry.

"Time may help, " Jocelyn supposes in a similar tone, fiddling with the now-empty cup in her hands. She won't probe, but she will lift her eyebrows a hair afterward, expression even. "Surely they wouldn't refuse her, " or you, "an hour or two to visit." There's a look tipped upward to dark skies that are now sporting stars, pinpoint bright. "As peaceful as this is, I can't cancel my entire afternoon, " even if the notion is occasionally tempting. Regretfully, she leans forward to begin gathering up their lunch ingredients.

"Timing," Leova provides answer and variation combined, flecked with a little more hope but quiet. She does what's left to help. "Was a good idea, Joce. Going to stay out longer. Got a meeting with U'sot later, want her to burn more energy off." A little tired, that. ''More'' energy. ''Again''. She rises too, though: this energy will be burned off together.

"That man needs to go south ''yesterday'' and let you take over the program, " Jocelyn sniffs while finishing her wrapping, casting a side look with an arched eyebrow at Vrianth's. "I have at least some sympathy for someone who's unwilling to let go of their reins, as I know I wouldn't want to go quietly in his shoes - unless, of course, I were shown that it would result in a better, stronger contribution to the weyr if someone else continued my work."

Amber eyes flick Jocelyn’s way, uncharacteristically wide. Leova sinks back on her heels in the soft ground before bending to scoop up the blanket. “It’s not on him,” the dragonhealer says, low. “Well. Don’t know as he’d want to go South, more’n just a day or five. But. The rest.” The blanket requires ‘’careful’’ folding. “He’d hand over those reins, but I’ve got the wing, and Vrianth… You know she don’t take to sitting.”

There's a little, acknowledging tilt of Jocelyn's chin for Leova's response, but her look is still pointed, lips pursed. "Your approach and his wouldn't have to be the same even if you had his job. Why couldn't you work in enough going and ''doing'' to keep Vrianth happy, too?" It must be a rhetorical query, as she moves afterward to secure her basket and its packages to Aidavanth for the flight home, shrugging back into her flight jacket and helmet with a face for the heat generated by the additional layers.

"True." Reluctant. Leova's slower to rug up, slowest to reply to that last. "She wants her... gang," is the only word she has for the helmet. "Exerting, competing, and sweeps to wear her out. Too much pride for Sleet, and she'd outrun them besides. It's not," a break, "''compatible''."

"There must be a compatible, " to use Leova's term, "wing with a leader that would be flexible enough to allow you to do both, " opines the helmet's owner, whose dragon snakes her head around - so ''large'' in adulthood unlike those measurements of last spring! - to aim aquamarine eyes at the older rider with a soft vocalization. "I imagine it'd be a small enough price to pay in the long run to keep your capabilities in their ranks. Both of you." Up Jocelyn clambers, fiddling with straps, buckles, ''checks'' before Aidavanth even pushes to her feet.

Leova's gaze has lifted to Aidavanth, that head, those eyes, that sound. "Have to be awfully flexible," she says roughly. Vrianth's circling in, ''waiting''. But, "Clear skies," she calls up to the younger woman and steps aside, so the other two have all the room they need. She and Vrianth, they won't get back to the Weyr for quite some time.
}}

Logs:Jocelyn's Assistant

2016-03-16T02:46:49Z

Jocelyn: Added +gossip.

{{Log
|who=Jaine, Jocelyn
|what=Jocelyn interviews herself an assistant.
|where=Headwoman's Office, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=7
|month=4
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.03.13
|quote="I'd like this job very much, weyrwoman."
|mentions=Jounine
|type=Log
|st=K'del
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn.png,
|log=The headwoman's office is rather empty this afternoon, and quiet save for the barely-there sounds that filter in from the hallway outside. At the large table generally used by Jounine's assistants, the water pitcher appears recently refreshed, condensation beading up to roll slowly down the glass as the minutes tick by, moving past the time when Jocelyn is supposed to arrive to meet with Jaine of Keroon. There's a red-haired woman who's been present for the past fifteen minutes, however, discreetly replenishing glowbaskets before settling at the table to scribble at something on a clipboard. Eventually, her blue-gray eyes lift to the cavern's other occupant, expression unreadable. "You look like you're waiting for someone. Can I help?"

Although Jaine entered the office with the confidence of one who has spent time in here before, she seems less sure of herself in the wake of that, offering only a nod of acknowledgement to the red-head as she sits, hands folded in her lap, staring resolutely at the ground. As she's addressed, Jaine lifts dark eyes hesitantly, studying her interlocutor with cautious interest. "I'm to be interviewed by the Junior Weyrwoman," she explains, after moistening her lips with her tongue. "I'm to meet with her here. I'm," she smiles, self-effacing, "a little nervous about it. But I'm sure she'll be along directly."

"Nervous, " the knotless woman at the table repeats, setting down her pen after a moment to better study Jaine. "Interviews do tend to have that effect on people, don't they? I suppose you're going to speak with her about the assistant position. She's been in talks with a few of the other lower caverns girls this seven, but no one can determine if she's partial to any of them just yet. The expectation seems to be that she'll choose from within the weyr, given that she used to be one of our headwoman's assistants - and as she's hardly reputed for her patience, she'll no doubt select one from the bunch soon enough. Which department did you say you were from, again?"

At mention of these other girls, Jaine leans forward slightly, her interest piqued. Still, she doesn't ask about them ''outright'', instead re-folding her hands and saying, "I'm not from the Weyr. I'm visiting from Keroon, which... may mean I have no chance at all, but I shouldn't think you'd interview someone you have no intention of hiring... would you? Hypothetical you, I mean. Though," she allows, then, settling back in her chair, "She could have agreed to interview me as a favour, and ''still'' have no intention... but my Aunt does say she's honorable."

There's an acknowledging sort of sound from the redhead's general direction, even as she returns her attention to her clipboard briefly, making a mark somewhere in a margin. "It's hardly an uncommon thing, interviewing extra people, although I imagine she'd find ''that'' to be a waste of her time. Weyrwomen have full schedules - particularly here, now, with our senior weyrwoman on leave. Take a look, " and the neatly dressed woman pushes to her feet, crossing to show Jaine a lengthy agenda painstakingly marked out on the top sheet of what she's been working on. "The girls who have been rotating through lately to help tidy her weyr when she isn't present have to know when they won't be disturbing her. This is a typical day's outline, start to finish, although there's never a guarantee that things won't change halfway through as priorities shift. And I thought that ''my'' schedule as an assistant was full, " says the supposed assistant.

Either Jaine is a very quick reader, or she gives the page she's shown only a cursory glance (though the quick movements of her eyes suggests she ''is'' looking), because it takes only a few seconds for her to nod and to say, "I can see that. Of course, in cotholds like the one ''I'm'' from we may not have schedules, but the work doesn't stop." She's regained some of her confidence, falling short of boastfulness in her tone and instead suggesting matter-of-fact consideration. "And while ''that'' work is on a smaller scale, it's still the difference between eating and not; it's still important, don't you think? I'll have a cothold of my own, one day. I'm not afraid to work."

"Any actions, any decision-making that affect lives are important, " comes the resolute reply, "and that deserves respect, regardless of one's circumstances. Not everyone sees it that way, I've gathered, but I've never been one for going along with popular opinions." Gray eyes appraise Jaine for a moment before their owner retreats again to the table, reaching to pour a glass of water. "One thing I'd imagine the work at that cothold of yours doesn't include is the ability to maintain confidentiality and exercise discretion with good judgment. This isn't like working with your friends or your family. These women are political figures, whether they wanted their positions or not, and their assistants no doubt become privy to potentially sensitive information that shouldn't be shared with anyone. Nor should their personal lives be exposed to all and sundry - not that ''I'' care to know about who's sleeping with whom, but that's the sort of thing that some people find too easy to talk about."

Jaine lifts her own gaze, those dark eyes tracking this so-called assistant back to the table. "I half begin to think you're pre-interviewing me," is said with a low chuckle; it's not accusatory. "At least I'm not nervous anymore. I think..." She pauses, hesitating over her words as if she's giving serious consideration to which ones she uses. "That's true, those are not things I've needed to deal with at home. Gossip, I've found, is a way of life to many. But... I believe I can be trusted. I've no interest in ''my'' life being discussed by others; why would I let it be so for someone I worked for? They would, by definition, have my loyalty, and be my very first priority."

The redhead permits herself a little smile before walking to offer Jaine the water glass, pulling out a chair nearby so that she can sit within a more conversational distance. "Good, " she says approvingly for the nerves that have been displaced by their exchange, listening to the rest silently. Her look afterward is assessing, but it concludes with a quick nod. "Your aunt speaks well of you, Jaine, " she says at last, despite the lack of initial introduction, "and I see after meeting you that she has very good reason to do so." A hand extends politely for the shaking, pale gaze open, if frank. "I'm Jocelyn. Now. What questions do you have for me?"

Jaine accepts the glass. She accepts it, and has it halfway to her mouth before-- ''before''. She may be well-spoken, a thoughtful, considered girl in many respects, but Jaine is still a teenage girl, and there's no small amount of very teenage pique expressed across her features as this new information seeks in. What may, perhaps, matter more is the way in which she squares her shoulders, and resumes her sip. It's only once she has taken that, and swallowed it, that she offers her hand in reply, shaking unhesitatingly. "It would be unbecoming, I think, for me to ask why you tricked me, weyrwoman. And in any case, I think I can guess the answer. I'd like to know what your priorities are, in an assistant."

"It is fascinating, " Jocelyn says almost nonchalantly, "how people are more willing to speak freely when they perceive that they aren't being weighed as much - or at least, not by the person they were told to expect." Knowingly, "If you were able to guess ''that'', then I think you already know what my priorities are in an assistant. I'd like someone who's sharp-minded, discreet, able to keep up with the minutiae I might be forced to ''de''-prioritize in favor of doing my job to the best of my ability - a little bit of tidying, some errand running, keeping up with my schedule if it changes while I'm in a meeting. It isn't important to me if you can style hair and hang dresses; if the formalities weren't required, I can assure you I'd dispense with them faster than going ''between''. This job comes with some exposure to high-level, political figures and unfortunately, " a wry curve of a smile, "the events that tend to accompany them. I like what I've seen thus far of your values, your presentation, the way you handle yourself. I'm getting the impression that you wouldn't lose your head completely amidst all of that, but do correct me if I'm wrong. About anything." That, too, is apparently important.

There's a glint in Jaine's dark eyes; amusement, yes, but also something more akin to approval and quick-witted consideration. "I can do all of that," is determinedly sure; she nods, first once, and then a second time, more quickly. "I've helped with my little sister's hair for turns, but that's probably not the same as a formal ''hairdresser''... but if it helps, as little as you like it, I can ''do'' it." She straightens again, looking just a little more like her aunt as she does so: she may smile more, but she has some of that determined poise, too. "You know that I'm going to be married in a few turns. That I can only be here until then."

"I usually have an easier time of it if the person working on my hair has a general sense of how little fuss I'd prefer to have made with it, " Jocelyn admits, the set of her shoulders relaxing a fraction. "I know that it's a temporary gig for most people, but especially so in your case, yes. I also know that you've expressed a preference for using that time between now and then to, how did your aunt put it, 'see more of the world.' If you worked for me, you'd certainly see as much of Pern as I can expose you to, both on paper and otherwise." Almost as an afterthought, "You ''can'' read, write, work basic arithmetic?"

Jaine seems satisfied, her stance shifting ever so much. She presses her hands flat in her lap, then lifts one to smooth away an invisible piece of lint upon her impeccably clean and tidy (but far from stylish) holder-style skirt. "I successfully completed all of my harper lessons," has-- no, not ''chiding'' in it, nor ''offense'', but ''something''. Still, she's still pleased. "I'd like this job very much, weyrwoman."

"Not everyone has done so with your success, " Jocelyn says by way of both explanation and not-quite apology, chin dipping in acknowledgment of that last. "You might start by using my name, " she suggests with a pinch to the bridge of her nose, "and I should show you where we'll do much of our work. Aidavanth will take an interest in meeting you, too, as you would be spending considerable time in her home, as well." She rises, then, palms wiping carefully down the sides of her fitted slacks. "After we take our little tour, I want you to take some time to think carefully about accepting the role and allow your family the same. Your aunt is here, which will undoubtedly make an adjustment easier, but you've my word that you would have my protection, too. A weyr is very different from what you're used to."

"Jocelyn," says Jaine, without hesitation-- not quite a ''blurt'', but still quick. Her pleasure is obvious, but her desire to be professional and adult about it even moreso; she rises, acknowledging the rest of what the goldrider has to say with a firm nod of her own. "I will give it serious thought," she promises. "I won't rush into anything." But for now? She's ready-- eager, even!-- to see more of the Weyr, of where she might work, and the queen she might, indirectly, serve.

"Excellent, " and Jocelyn wastes no time in leading Jaine from the headwoman's office, glossing over major parts of the inner caverns the girl's in all likelihood seen, but points out major hallmarks on their way to the bowl. It's a cloudy, overcast sort of day where the breeze promises rain but doesn't quite deliver. There's the entrance to the galleries and the hatching grounds, and then it's up to the weyrleader complex, pointing out the location of the council chambers, the weyrleaders' weyrs, and finally, hers. While the bubbles in the caldera wall that make up her weyr are large enough to hold several of the larger dragons at once, the furnishings are spartan, neat and minimal in the outer area. And Aidavanth, who lands on her ledge moments after their arrival, comes inside to better dip her nose down toward this new visitor with a low vocalization that sounds warm, eyes awash in blue-green-blue. "There's a study back there, which I usually work in, and my actual quarters, but ''this'' space is primarily for guests. And it would be yours to use, as well, if you wanted somewhere more private to write your letters home than a table in the living cavern that isn't Jounine's office."

As they walk, Jaine does have the occasional question, but otherwise seems content to watch and listen with keen and undistracted interest. She's obviously delighted by Aidavanth, dropping to a gracious bob of a curtsey in greeting-- along with a verbal, "It's lovely to meet you, Aidavanth!" The weyr, too, holds considerable interest, for, "I've not been inside one of these before. It's a little different to the rest of the Weyr, but I suppose that makes sense. It's a good space, Jocelyn." Clearly, she'd be delighted to work in here.

Jocelyn and Aidavanth both seem pleased by Jaine's delight, and the former favors the girl from Keroon with a genuine, if small smile. "I'm glad it meets with your approval, and I hope you'll find it a comfortable place in which to work. For now, I've a meeting to prepare for - and I imagine you'll want to tell your aunt before anyone else does that the job is yours if you decide to take it. If you accept, it might be a topic of interest in the hallways for a time, but I expect your competence will be of an appropriate level to dispel ''that'' quickly."

So straight, so tall: Jaine is the very picture of contented, determined competence in the wake of that offer. "I will have to talk it over with my family," she tells Jocelyn. "But I will have an answer for you quickly, I promise. Thank you, Jocelyn. I appreciate your trust in me very much. I ''will'' live up to your expectations." She'll have her answer-- an unconditional affirmative-- within a few days, and be back at the Weyr with her belongings a few days after that; if she has reservations about the Weyr, ''those'' she's unlikely to express, and nor do they seem to impede her efforts.

----

'''Outside Assistance'''

''By day 13, month 4, it's all but confirmed that Jocelyn has (finally) hired an assistant, as a dark-eyed girl just shy of her second decade begins shadowing the goldrider through much of her day-to-day, armed with both a clipboard and a straight-backed, professional demeanor. The rotating schedule of girls helping to keep her weyr tidy has been discontinued, and at least some of the administrative messages from the lower caverns are now to be routed through Jaine. It's an unpredictable selection, choosing an outsider to work so closely with her. While some might grumble about favoritism, it's hard to back up those discontents; Jounine's niece the girl may be, but as both the headwoman and the weyrwoman are known for their fairness, particularly in decision-making, it's far more likely this choice was made in the same spirit.''
}}

Logs:Jocelyn's Assistant

2016-03-14T11:36:03Z

Jocelyn: Icon!

Logs:Post Hatching Feast at Fort

2016-03-13T03:41:04Z

Jocelyn: Icon!

{{Log
|who=Farideh, Quint, Dahlia, Jocelyn, T'gar, Jo, Olivya
|what=A feast after Fort Weyr's hatching.
|where=Living Cavern, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|day=18
|month=2
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.02.27
|mentions=K'del, Drex
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon farideh bitchface.jpg, Icon Jocelyn bun.png, Icon olivya fancy.png,
|log=Quint appears to weather Jocelyn's stare with an equanimity that suggests long practice. "A dance or two with the correct people ought to put your obligations to rest," he tells the gold weyrling, as they make the trek across the snow-covered bowl, short enough that he flings his coat over one shoulder rather than tugging it all the way on. This makes it easy to shake out and hand off when they reach the caverns. "A prop helps, with the obligations," he gestures towards the drinks table.

With the hatching ending, Jo rises along with the others as she nods for M'ron and Kaitlin (and T'gar, presumably) to head out. Of course the wingsecond caught that lingering look from Farideh, but Kait was tugging her out of there before anything could be made from it. It takes the group awhile to make it to the feast - having likely taken the scenic route rather than the shortest one. M'ron and T'gar immediately make a beeline for the drinks table while Jo and Kait closes in on where the food resides.

Once the obligation of the hatching is complete, and everyone has seen her smile and play nice with her weyrleader, it's the drink attendant that Farideh finds herself chatting to at the resulting feast. She's even got an ample glass of wine between her hands and a wine-induced smile on her face, if not a rosiness to her cheeks no doubt caused by the weather outside and not unnaturally fast drink consumption. "Was that candidate your brother? I'm sure you're very proud," she can be heard to say by anyone within their vicinity, while the attendant continues chattering about the hatching and his brother's newfound lifemate.

"A word or two with the correct people, " Jocelyn grouses in turn as she crosses the bowl with Quint, all too happy to relinquish her cloak once they're indoors. Dryly, "''Your'' expertise at least makes the dancing tolerable." Was that a compliment? Her chin lifts in the direction of his gesture, enough so that she can give a dip of a nod in T'gar's direction as she spots him nearing the drinks. "It can, " agreeably enough, and if her shoulders roll back into an even stiffer set as she espies Farideh by the drink attendant, at least she doesn't promptly veto the idea, peering instead around the person in front of her as best she can. "Is your sister here, do you suppose?"

"Then you ought to use that knowledge and try and snag a harper," Quint tells Jocelyn with a brief grin. The visiting harper's attention seems to shift between the local harpers providing music, the crowd in general (perhaps trying to search out someone specifically?), and his companion, though he keeps pace well enough for all that. When their line draws them close enough, he nods towards Farideh. "I haven't seen her," he answers, leaning to peer past T'gar and M'ron and determine the length of the line.

When Jocelyn and Quint draws near, T'gar nods back at the goldrider before he says, "Jocelyn. Enjoyed the Hatching?" M'ron's focused on filling his two glasses before moving off while the weyrling moves aside with his smaller glass to fill it and to give space for others to grab drinks. At the food table, at least Jo and Kaitlin manage to grab small plates themselves before M'ron arrives to Kait's side, and when the wingsecond spots Farideh she heads that way as the other is engaged in talk.

"Pass my congratulations to your brother when you see him." It's an ending to a new beginning, anyway. Farideh turns away from the tall attendant just in time to catch Quint's nod, and Jocelyn's presence beside the harper. Her returned nod is gracious, and in a flicker, there and gone, a slight smile; who it's for is anyone's guess, harper or goldrider. "Jo," is much warmer and amused, when she turns once more, to find the wingsecond bearing down on her. "What brings you all the way out ''here''?" As though they don't both know. "I thought I would be envious and want-- eggs again, but I don't miss them just yet. Not all of," with a hand flourish, "this."

Jocelyn warms slightly to Quint's grin, something that's apparently preferable to those practiced expressions of his. "Perhaps, " she replies, and then there's a brief study of T'gar. "It's different, watching one with a dragon, " she answers the bronzerider noncommittally, permitting herself a small thing of a smile after. "Your friend and her lifemate must be proud."

Quint relinquishes his escorting duties as T'gar and Jocelyn speak. With a wordless nod to the pair, he steps forward to secure a couple of glasses; one of red, and one of white, offering the second to Jocelyn. Just in time to catch the trail end of the conversation: "You had a friend standing?" he says, with a curious glance at T'gar, interested.

"Who would wanna miss a hatchin'?" is Jo's return greeting to Farideh as she casts a look around them. Her gaze lingers on those dressed well - the well-to-do, naturally - before returning to Farideh as she chews on a roll. Brow lifting to something said, "What, don' wanna go through ''all'' that, eh?" There's an underlying tease there, but she doesn't linger on it. "Well, it'll sure come yer way eventually. Maybe not anytime soon, darlin'. Where's that boy o'yers?" On the other side of the cavern, T'gar takes a drink of his glass before answering Jocelyn with a nod and a, "I bet." There's a nod to Quint when he questions next before he says, "No, she means Dee. Her queen's the one that laid those eggs. I thought I'd come around and catch her for a bit," But. As he eyes the crowd, it looks like his search is proving fruitless.

"Who would wanna miss a hatchin'?" is Jo's return greeting to Farideh as she casts a look around them. Her gaze lingers on those dressed well - the well-to-do, naturally - before returning to Farideh as she chews on a roll. Brow lifting to something said, "What, don' wanna go through ''all'' that, eh?" There's an underlying tease there, but she doesn't linger on it. "Well, it'll sure come yer way eventually. Maybe not anytime soon, darlin'. Where's that boy o'yers?" On the other side of the cavern, T'gar takes a drink of his glass before answering Jocelyn with a nod and a, "I bet." There's a nod to Quint when he questions next before he says, "No, she means Dee. Her queen's the one that laid those eggs. I thought I'd come around and catch her for a bit," But. As he eyes the crowd, it looks like his search is proving fruitless.

"Did you have bets out?" It must finally hit Farideh some of the draws to these things for the bluerider, besides the obvious, even if she misses that assessment. "I hope you didn't lose terribly bad, and-no, not just left. If we're lucky, none of them will rise for at least another turn or two." Her eyes slant towards the other Reachian goldrider briefly, and then flick back to Jo with a hike of her brows. "Back at home, I suppose. Drinking up a massive tab at Snowasis. He-- well, you know how he is," prompts both a shrug and a drink from her wine.

"Weyrwoman Dahlia, " Jocelyn rejoins after T'gar's clarification, taking the glass of white from Quint with a murmured thank-you. "I'd hoped to congratulate her in person, myself. But I imagine, " and there's a glance around the cavern at large, "so does the rest of Pern." Her gaze, in the midst of traveling, briefly catches Farideh's look; this time, there's a small nod of her chin for her colleague before she takes a sip of her wine.

"Ah. Well, I imagine she's busy with... the obligations of a goldrider," Quint says, with a glance at Jocelyn and a barely suppressed smile. He lifts the glass to his lips, takes a small sip, and his eyes rove across the crowd, searching still in between conversation.

"No bets," Jo answers, shaking her head. "I'd have to know 'bout the candidates for that." As for Drex, there's a snort easily heard from her before she flicks a studying glance at Farideh before saying, "Not surprised. Perhaps ya can save me a dance sometime tonight then. If ya dare." There's a bold look to go with that. T'gar nods at Jocelyn's clarification before adding to Quint, "Likely right. It's fine if I don't catch her tonight. Quintus, right?" he peers at the harper now.

The Weyrlingmaster hasn't had the opportunity to change, with blood (thankfully not her own) still splattering along her white tunic, though Olivya has managed to shrug back into her usually bold, bright red leather jacket. Her red lipstick hasn't even smeared through the evening, nor has any strain started to show. Instead, she converses with the junior in low, professional murmurs as she matches her long stride to Dahlia's while they enter the cavern, barely seeming to parse the change with her intent focus for the moment on whatever she's relaying.

''Of course'', Dahlia went to check on the weyrlings before putting in her own appearance at the feast. She nods along to Olivya's words as she moves alongside her in her gather best green dress, though a few turns out of style. She wears it well, her chin-length hair tucked prettily. "Drinks?" She inquires of the greenrider as the topic shifts more to the ''here'' than the ''there'', already moving to collect some for the both of them. Even if Liv has a long night ahead of her, a little celebratory drink now shouldn't hurt? Only as she gets a pair of drinks in hand, she spots the knot of High Reaches riders that includes goldriders, familiar bronzerider, and Harper and she angles that way, nodding toward Olivya her intent, greeting the lot with a broad smile and a cheerful, "Fort's duties to High Reaches Weyr. Thank you all so much for coming."

"Not even any dragon-in-eggs guesses?" Farideh needles good-naturedly, and then resumes her fast-paced draining of her wineglass. "A dance? Why wouldn't I? You think he'd stop me from ''dancing'' with you?" sounds incredulous. There's a long pregnant pause to follow and then she laughs outright, only barely covering her mouth with a hand. And then there's Fort's junior and the Weyrlingmaster with her. Summoning up her I'm-a-polite-lady facade, she regards the other brunette for a moment, allowing room for other introductions, before she inclines her head politely. "High Reaches duties. Congratulations to you and yours."

Maybe those props ''do'' come in handy. Jocelyn's glass lingers at her mouth a moment longer before she lowers it again, the better to hide her ''un''suppressed smile. "Undoubtedly." It's a little dark, but there's a keenness to her gaze once Taeliyth's comes into view, expression arranging into something polite. "Dahlia. Congratulations to you both. And to that little candidate of yours. Brown, wasn't it?" But there's a flash of a genuine smile somewhere in there, both for the younger goldrider and Catling's Impression.

"Correct," Quint replies with the habitual answer of a teacher; he chuckles. "Well, as I understand it, weyrling T'gar, you'll soon be graduating, so I imagine finding the time will be a lot easier." He turns at the formal greetings, replying in kind: "And High Reaches -- not to mention Harper's -- to Fort." He gives a nod of his head, gaze briefly on Dahlia, and skipping to Olivya. "Congratulations on a healthy clutch," he lifts his glass in toast, taking a small sip of the contents.

If it's a Lady-off, Olivya has the skills for that; she certainly holds herself like one and meets Farideh's politeness with her own reserved manners when she offers, "Weyrwomen, pleased that you could make it out for our hatching." Having accepted Dahlia's offered drink (just the one), she lifts the wine to her lips now that hides a polite smile behind its clear edge. When her gaze meets Quint's, it lingers as if trying to communicate ''something'' silently. Whatever it isn't, it isn't said now while everyone is offering their congratulations to her own weyrwoman.

"M'ron'n Kait follow all that," Jo answers on bets easily as she watches the crowd while she eats. With Farideh agreeing to a dance though, the wingsecond flicks a wry glance her way before saying, "Why wouldn' ya indeed?" By then Dahlia arrives enough for her to nod and say to her, "Congrats." As for T'gar, there's an open chuckle for Quint and Jocelyn before Dahlia's and Olivya's arrival draws a nod in greeting from him. "Hatching went well," he adds his well-wishes, of course, his gaze lingering longer on the Fort weyrwoman.

"Thank you," Dahlia answers the congratulations as one. "And Fort's duties to Harper, of course, Journeyman," she offers to Quint with a chagrinned smile for having missed that off the bat. "Weyrwoman Farideh," she half questions with a little tilt of her head, "I'm so glad to meet you," and her hand is offered toward the acting Weyrwoman, though she nods with a smile to acknowledge Jocelyn's particular congratulations toward Catling. "I do hope you're all enjoying the feast. I don't think we could've asked for more - a healthy clutch and lifemates for all. And now all in Olivya's capable hands." Lucky Olivya. The junior is ''pleased''. "Rat," she addresses the bronzerider without any apparent shame for their association, "You'll dance with me tonight, won't you?" After all, that's what the music is for, right?

The weyrwoman's eyes flick sidelong to Jo, and her lips part like she means to say something else on the matter, except-- she doesn't. Instead, Farideh grasps the hand offered her way and extends her polite smile to Dahlia, fingers lightly gripping before they loosen. "It's lovely to meet you as well, and under what better circumstances? It's a shame it wasn't sooner, but I'm glad to have been a witness to such a wonderful day for Fort and, you, of course," has the ring of genuineness, at least. "You've met Jocelyn? And--" Her eyes flick to the other weyrling in attendance. "I do believe I spy my weyrleader over ''there'' and I should have a word with him. I'm glad to have met you finally, Dahlia. You shouldn't be a stranger to High Reaches," smooth, purposeful. "Excuse me." And with a last, meaningful look at Jo -- for that dance promise no doubt -- she's slipping off to probably go yell at K'del somewhere.

"Good luck to you, Weyrlingmaster, " in the wake of Olivya's greeting. "I think Quinlys will be glad to have us completely removed from her responsibility soon enough, " says Jocelyn with at least some good humor, lingering through a few more minutes of small talk. Once a round of pleasantries seems all but complete amongst those nearest, she surrenders her barely-touched glass to a passing server, slipping her arm from Quint's elbow with a small grimace. "I should get back before it gets too late. I'd like to talk with your sister sometime, if she comes back with you." Meanwhile, there are excuses to be made - and Farideh's departure is apparently also ''her'' cue to work her way toward the exit leading to the bowl, pausing only to return the occasional greeting and to reclaim her outerwear.

Whatever the Weyrlingmaster might be trying to communicate, Quint's expression is unwavering. He gives an easy nod to Dahlia, apparently unconcerned by the correction. He's silent while further pleasantries are exchanged, lifting his glass to his lips, but taking only a small sip. He gives a nod for Jocelyn -- perhaps lingering a little as she mentions his sister -- and murmurs something acknowledging. While others slip away, he seems inclined to do the same -- but first, he moves towards Olivya's side, murmurs a request for a dance, and leads the Weyrlingmaster off towards the dance floor.
|Categories=General Logs, Party Logs
}}

Logs:Advice and Assistance

2016-03-07T01:36:36Z

Jocelyn:

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn, Jounine
|what=Reluctantly deciding to seek an assistant, Jocelyn asks Jounine for advice.
|where=Jocelyn's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=14
|month=3
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.03.06
|quote=It can be a lonely life, for those of us in our positions.
|mentions=Farideh, Irianke
|type=Log
|st=K'del
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn.png, Jounine.jpg,
|desc=>---< Jocelyn's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr >----------------------------<

Separated from both the weyrleaders' complex and the passage to the
dragon's ledge by heavy tapestries, this weyr is easily spacious enough to
fit at least three, large dragons, an enormity that feels rather empty due
to the minimalistic furnishings. The outermost room of this weyr currently
seems to be designated as a front-facing, public space. Centered between
the two entrances, a large, stone table is surrounded by several sensible,
straight-backed chairs. Nearby, a trap door in the wall covers an old,
elevator-pulley system connected to the kitchens, its mechanism
occasionally finicky despite its polished state. A sizable, glassed-in
bookshelf is built into the wall near the opening that leads into the
inner weyr, containing a handful of books and situated next to a series of
small, empty ceiling hooks which look suitable for hanging plants. Two
cozy-looking armchairs are available for more informal seating, precisely
arranged around a homespun rug in dark blue, but the present paucity of
decor does little to render this outer room as anything but severe.

Curtained off by thick, dark drapery, the entrance immediately beyond
opens to more private chambers, a section of two bubbles in the caldera
wall joined by a short tunnel. The smaller, blue-wash walled room closest
to the outer weyr also connects to a personal bath, largely enclosed off
by a carefully carved strip of rock wall. Heat and cool air mingle in the
space between it and the rider's bedchamber, which is mostly filled by a
large bed kept made up in plain, if soft linens and blankets. At the foot
of the bed is a large, cedar chest bearing the insignia of High Reaches
Weyr and a stylized 'J &A'; against the far wall is a darkly-stained
armoire.

Down the short passage, the larger of the two rooms serves as a private
study. An ornate desk takes up most of the available space with ample
shelves just above it; against the wall is an additional, open bookcase
housing scrolls and folders of varying sizes. There's little yet in the
way of other pieces besides a plainly carved, if sleek chair nudged
against the desk, but the amount of glowbaskets tucked around the room
suggests that this area currently sees more use than perhaps any of the
others.
|log=With the formal part of her training officially concluded, Jocelyn seems to have had an easy enough time making the transition from weyrling to weyrwoman, at least where her duties are concerned. She's notably a little terser, more carefully polite with their acting senior queenrider in meetings with both goldriders and the lower caverns staff, but has otherwise maintained her usual briskness and expectations for her former colleagues. It's nearly a month after she receives her new knot before a note is left for Jounine one morning, inviting the headwoman to visit her and Aidavanth after the work day has more-or-less ended. ''Someone'' must be helping Jocelyn keep her weyr clean, despite the fact that she has no formally assigned assistants; it's presentable when the appointed hour arrives, despite the small stack of hides the redhead's frowning over from her seat at the end of the large table near the entry, where a small tray of edibles is waiting, along with a cold skin at the ready and two glasses.

Jounine is unsurprisingly prompt, the sound of her boots upon the stone steps echoing upwards right on time. Someone has cleared the snow from out there, but the dark-haired Headwoman nonetheless pauses in the entrance to Jocelyn's weyr to stamp out what has accumulated within the tread of those boots. "Jocelyn," she says, drawing back her hood with gloved hands. "I do hope you're prepared to put those away."

Outside, there's the sound of talons on stone as Aidavanth lands on her ledge and makes her way inside to her couch that's layered with rushes and a thick cover to increase its warmth in the winter. Perhaps it's the sound of both arrivals that draws Jocelyn's attention up from her work; whichever the case, the corners of her mouth lift upward, one hand squaring the stack before pushing it carefully aside. "Old habits, " she says self-deprecatingly, rising to greet Jounine with a weary, if genuine smile. "I had a few things brought up. Help yourself. Sit wherever you'd like." She remains standing in the meantime, hands stuffing awkwardly into her pants' pockets. "I appreciate your time. I'm in need of some advice, which I'd prefer not to bother Farideh with."

Jounine's dark eyes seek out Aidavanth, acknowledging the queen with a tip of her chin for all that her attention is not inclined to settle: she hangs her cloak, stepping past the threshold of Jocelyn's weyr on light feet. "I'd wondered if this might be more than a social invitation," she says, without censure or obvious amusement; a statement of fact, then, one that accompanies her as she sinks into one of the armchairs. "And I am happy to oblige, of course, if I can." She studies the younger woman, letting ''that'' be obvious even if her conclusions (if any) are far from clear.

"Slightly more than, " Jocelyn allows, following in the older woman's wake after she chooses one of the more comfortable seats, "although it's hardly ''business''." No, this is perhaps the sort of advice she'd ask of someone whose opinion she trusts, as she permits herself to lean back into the chair across from Jounine, expression thoughtful. Frankly: "It's been recommended that I take on a full-time assistant to work closely with me and attend to tasks I don't always have time for during the day. I'd prefer to ''not'' have one at all, " surprise, surprise, "but I'm starting to think it might be something I should at least try to consider. I'm not as familiar with the girls in every department as I was when I worked for you; is there anyone in particular you'd recommend to me? I think it'd have to be someone who's not overly ''young'' in demeanor, who has a solid head on her shoulders and isn't going to be afraid of me every step of the way."

Another woman would be amused by that; Jounine merely nods, tapping fingertips against her mouth as she considers Jocelyn's request. "I can see why it might be difficult for you," she tells the other woman, "but I think you're making the correct decision, here. I imagine ''your'' requirements will be different to Irianke's, or Farideh's." She drops that hand back to her lap, laying her fingers flat upon her knee. "Not, I imagine, someone who will wish to focus too extensively upon wardrobe. Would you like some names, to interview? Or should I recommend one person, and you give them a trial?"

A finger lifts, points at Jounine. "Exactly. I don't want someone to go into fits of girlish giggles every time I ''have'' to ask for their help to do my hair in a manner that's nicer than sensible for formal events, or to lace up those posture-holding dresses." The very notion makes Jocelyn predictably grimace, hand dropping back to interlace with the other in her lap afterward. "Names might be a good starting point, " certainly one that's commitment-free, "but if you've a particular recommendation, I'd like to hear who it is and speak to her first. Discretion is, of course, a key factor."

Something in Jocelyn's reaction makes Jounine smile, narrow-lipped but still positive-- and ever slightly less serious than she so often is. "It may," she tells Jocelyn, honestly, "take several attempts to find the correct person. You'll do best to give people a trial, rather than a firm position, to begin with." That hand lifts again, this time to allow her to tick off fingers: "There's Margaera, in the laundries, though she may be less well suited to academic tasks. Seriska in the storerooms has caught by attention as a possible assistant headwoman; she might suit. Alternatively..." She pauses, lips pursed in consideration.

Jocelyn listens to the advice, the names and tidbits of introduction, taking them all in with a considering look. "I don't expect to get lucky on the first shot. First tries have nev - ''rarely'' worked out well for me." Something warms her expression there, before it tapers back in favor of studying the headwoman. "Margaera, Seriska, " she repeats, then. "Someone quick and smart would certainly be an asset, but I don't want to hold back someone from a career promotion that might better suit the weyr's needs, " to say nothing of the other party's individual goals. As for Jounine's pause, the goldrider's eyebrows lift expectantly; she waits.

"There ''are'' those who would see a position as a weyrwoman's personal assistant an equally promising stepping stone," is Jounine's answer to ''that''. "Though I cannot speak to the feelings of either of those young women in particular, at least on this subject. The other option... my brother's eldest daughter is eighteen, and wishes to see more of the world before her marriage, in another two turns. She would, of course, be an outsider." The complications related to ''that'' go without saying; clearly, Jounine has no doubt that Jocelyn will be cognizant of them.

"That's something I'd wish to ask them, " Jocelyn decides with a lean forward, blue-gray gaze intent. At some length, "There are plenty of ways to see more of the world, but I suppose this would be one of the safer methods available by which to do so. Tell me about her, your niece. Has she ever been to a weyr?" Almost as an afterthought, she adds, "How long has she been betrothed? To whom?"

Jounine's nod is solemn and approving, acknowledging Jocelyn's decision without further comment on it. For the rest, she's simple and practical in her explanation: "Jaine was born and raised in a Keroon cothold, and will marry into another. They've been betrothed a turn, now, and I believe they will be happy enough. She's not a dreamer; she's too practical for that. She's visited me here and liked it well enough, though of course it is different to what she's used to. I expect she would adapt easily, but not lose her head."

"Suppose it worked out well, " Jocelyn muses aloud, arms shifting so that one hand can drum fingers idly upon the upholstered arm of her seat. "I would be sorry to lose someone both capable and competent after two turns and restart this entire process. Then again, there's no guarantee that anyone else would wish to remain in the position for longer - nor would I expect a sharp person to do so." Her gaze flicks momentarily from the other woman to the bookcase near them, eyes narrowing before they swing back to regard her former supervisor evenly. "I'd like to speak with all three of them, if they'd be interested in working with me." The curve at her mouth turns wry. "Not too eager, of course. Can you arrange for Jaine to visit you again within the next month, if working at a weyr appeals to her?"

Again, Jounine acknowledges what Jocelyn has to say. "I believe both Irianke and Farideh have been through several assistants in the past few turns; it ''isn't'' a position that people seem inclined to stick with long-term, for better or for worse." She presses her hands flat upon her knees once more, and adds, "I will write to my brother directly. I'm sure it can be arranged, though it may be that they wish to interview ''you'', too, should you offer her the position."

Jocelyn makes a little sound of agreement, chin dipping into a short nod. "No, it isn't. Very well. I imagine there'd be less upheaval for them in this matter if she came here to meet with me, although I'd certainly be more than willing to pay them a visit so that we may all appropriately interrogate one another." It's dry, but there's at least some amusement present. "In the meantime, I'll seek out the other two you mentioned since they're more readily accessible and observed."

"Good," says Jounine, putting her approval into words (''a'' word, anyway) this time, to go with that repeated nod. "I hope that, between the three of them, one may be suitable. If not, I'm sure there are other candidates who can be considered." She seems pleased, in that subtle way of hers, though turns her attention back on Jocelyn more thoughtfully as she wonders, "How ''are'' things going? Now that you have finished your training."

"You and I both, " Jocelyn grouses lightly, but seems relieved that the process is finally closer to being underway. Jounine's subsequent query elicits a little purse of her lips, a look that's less pleased and more half-grimace. "In truth, they're about the same as they were during the last couple of months, " she answers, "save for the slightly more elaborate shoulderknot and the fact that no one is addressing me as 'weyrling' anymore." There's a very brief hesitation after, a little pause that she ends with a small shrug. "As with any change, it isn't without its challenges, but that's to be expected."

Jounine's gaze is considering, but appears to lack judgement; by the end of Jocelyn's answer to her question, she has only a simple nod by way of immediate answer. It's after a few moments of silence that she says, "My ascension to my present knot was not without difficulties, as you will remember. The most important thing is to not let others bother you; and to be competent, wherever possible, to a fault. The new balance will settle, in time. No doubt the weyrwoman's return will assist in this, too."

Jocelyn does remember, says that little swallow, that small nod. "I'm glad now that it ''was'' you who was promoted. I don't think we'd be sitting here otherwise." For the rest, there's a brief glance toward the ledge, a lift and drop of eyebrows. "Irianke's return would - help, " she admits reluctantly, "although it's been nearly half of a turn. It's possible that there's been enough changes in all three of us that we'd have to get to know how to work with one another all over again."

Jounine is pleased, clearly, by this; it shows in the thin-but-visible line of her smile, and the acknowledgement of her chin. "I imagine many things would have been different," she says. "And in ways we cannot possibly imagine." She's slower to speak to the rest, though her gaze remains trained upon the younger woman. "Perhaps that will make it simpler, upon her return: you'll ''all'' need to change the ways in which you work, and re-establish relationships. It must be difficult, having... having an external force dictate your working team."

Jocelyn smiles a very little, too, and exhales while the headwoman continues speaking. "Simpler, " she repeats, "and yet, " all the more complicated, goes unspoken. There's a tilt of her head toward the table across the cavern, after a moment; "I don't want to hold you up from your dinner, but if you'd like to have a drink beforehand and unwind some of your day, I'd be glad to lend an ear. I - am learning that one often has fewer people to talk with as one gains loops in their knot." It's a little awkward, this offer, but it's tendered sincerely.

"I would like that," Jounine reassures Jocelyn. "It can be a lonely life, for those of us in our positions. But-- you ''do'' have my friendship." And, reserved though she is, Jounine has plenty to talk about in a more casual way, until it really is time for her to take her leave, and return to the caverns.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Advice and Assistance

2016-03-07T01:35:44Z

Jocelyn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Jocelyn, Jounine |what=Reluctantly deciding to seek an assistant, Jocelyn asks Jounine for some help and advice. |where=Jocelyn's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |involves=..."

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn, Jounine
|what=Reluctantly deciding to seek an assistant, Jocelyn asks Jounine for some help and advice.
|where=Jocelyn's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=14
|month=3
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.03.06
|quote=It can be a lonely life, for those of us in our positions.
|mentions=Farideh, Irianke
|type=Log
|st=K'del
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn.png, Jounine.jpg,
|desc=>---< Jocelyn's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr >----------------------------<

Separated from both the weyrleaders' complex and the passage to the
dragon's ledge by heavy tapestries, this weyr is easily spacious enough to
fit at least three, large dragons, an enormity that feels rather empty due
to the minimalistic furnishings. The outermost room of this weyr currently
seems to be designated as a front-facing, public space. Centered between
the two entrances, a large, stone table is surrounded by several sensible,
straight-backed chairs. Nearby, a trap door in the wall covers an old,
elevator-pulley system connected to the kitchens, its mechanism
occasionally finicky despite its polished state. A sizable, glassed-in
bookshelf is built into the wall near the opening that leads into the
inner weyr, containing a handful of books and situated next to a series of
small, empty ceiling hooks which look suitable for hanging plants. Two
cozy-looking armchairs are available for more informal seating, precisely
arranged around a homespun rug in dark blue, but the present paucity of
decor does little to render this outer room as anything but severe.

Curtained off by thick, dark drapery, the entrance immediately beyond
opens to more private chambers, a section of two bubbles in the caldera
wall joined by a short tunnel. The smaller, blue-wash walled room closest
to the outer weyr also connects to a personal bath, largely enclosed off
by a carefully carved strip of rock wall. Heat and cool air mingle in the
space between it and the rider's bedchamber, which is mostly filled by a
large bed kept made up in plain, if soft linens and blankets. At the foot
of the bed is a large, cedar chest bearing the insignia of High Reaches
Weyr and a stylized 'J &A'; against the far wall is a darkly-stained
armoire.

Down the short passage, the larger of the two rooms serves as a private
study. An ornate desk takes up most of the available space with ample
shelves just above it; against the wall is an additional, open bookcase
housing scrolls and folders of varying sizes. There's little yet in the
way of other pieces besides a plainly carved, if sleek chair nudged
against the desk, but the amount of glowbaskets tucked around the room
suggests that this area currently sees more use than perhaps any of the
others.
|log=With the formal part of her training officially concluded, Jocelyn seems to have had an easy enough time making the transition from weyrling to weyrwoman, at least where her duties are concerned. She's notably a little terser, more carefully polite with their acting senior queenrider in meetings with both goldriders and the lower caverns staff, but has otherwise maintained her usual briskness and expectations for her former colleagues. It's nearly a month after she receives her new knot before a note is left for Jounine one morning, inviting the headwoman to visit her and Aidavanth after the work day has more-or-less ended. ''Someone'' must be helping Jocelyn keep her weyr clean, despite the fact that she has no formally assigned assistants; it's presentable when the appointed hour arrives, despite the small stack of hides the redhead's frowning over from her seat at the end of the large table near the entry, where a small tray of edibles is waiting, along with a cold skin at the ready and two glasses.

Jounine is unsurprisingly prompt, the sound of her boots upon the stone steps echoing upwards right on time. Someone has cleared the snow from out there, but the dark-haired Headwoman nonetheless pauses in the entrance to Jocelyn's weyr to stamp out what has accumulated within the tread of those boots. "Jocelyn," she says, drawing back her hood with gloved hands. "I do hope you're prepared to put those away."

Outside, there's the sound of talons on stone as Aidavanth lands on her ledge and makes her way inside to her couch that's layered with rushes and a thick cover to increase its warmth in the winter. Perhaps it's the sound of both arrivals that draws Jocelyn's attention up from her work; whichever the case, the corners of her mouth lift upward, one hand squaring the stack before pushing it carefully aside. "Old habits, " she says self-deprecatingly, rising to greet Jounine with a weary, if genuine smile. "I had a few things brought up. Help yourself. Sit wherever you'd like." She remains standing in the meantime, hands stuffing awkwardly into her pants' pockets. "I appreciate your time. I'm in need of some advice, which I'd prefer not to bother Farideh with."

Jounine's dark eyes seek out Aidavanth, acknowledging the queen with a tip of her chin for all that her attention is not inclined to settle: she hangs her cloak, stepping past the threshold of Jocelyn's weyr on light feet. "I'd wondered if this might be more than a social invitation," she says, without censure or obvious amusement; a statement of fact, then, one that accompanies her as she sinks into one of the armchairs. "And I am happy to oblige, of course, if I can." She studies the younger woman, letting ''that'' be obvious even if her conclusions (if any) are far from clear.

"Slightly more than, " Jocelyn allows, following in the older woman's wake after she chooses one of the more comfortable seats, "although it's hardly ''business''." No, this is perhaps the sort of advice she'd ask of someone whose opinion she trusts, as she permits herself to lean back into the chair across from Jounine, expression thoughtful. Frankly: "It's been recommended that I take on a full-time assistant to work closely with me and attend to tasks I don't always have time for during the day. I'd prefer to ''not'' have one at all, " surprise, surprise, "but I'm starting to think it might be something I should at least try to consider. I'm not as familiar with the girls in every department as I was when I worked for you; is there anyone in particular you'd recommend to me? I think it'd have to be someone who's not overly ''young'' in demeanor, who has a solid head on her shoulders and isn't going to be afraid of me every step of the way."

Another woman would be amused by that; Jounine merely nods, tapping fingertips against her mouth as she considers Jocelyn's request. "I can see why it might be difficult for you," she tells the other woman, "but I think you're making the correct decision, here. I imagine ''your'' requirements will be different to Irianke's, or Farideh's." She drops that hand back to her lap, laying her fingers flat upon her knee. "Not, I imagine, someone who will wish to focus too extensively upon wardrobe. Would you like some names, to interview? Or should I recommend one person, and you give them a trial?"

A finger lifts, points at Jounine. "Exactly. I don't want someone to go into fits of girlish giggles every time I ''have'' to ask for their help to do my hair in a manner that's nicer than sensible for formal events, or to lace up those posture-holding dresses." The very notion makes Jocelyn predictably grimace, hand dropping back to interlace with the other in her lap afterward. "Names might be a good starting point, " certainly one that's commitment-free, "but if you've a particular recommendation, I'd like to hear who it is and speak to her first. Discretion is, of course, a key factor."

Something in Jocelyn's reaction makes Jounine smile, narrow-lipped but still positive-- and ever slightly less serious than she so often is. "It may," she tells Jocelyn, honestly, "take several attempts to find the correct person. You'll do best to give people a trial, rather than a firm position, to begin with." That hand lifts again, this time to allow her to tick off fingers: "There's Margaera, in the laundries, though she may be less well suited to academic tasks. Seriska in the storerooms has caught by attention as a possible assistant headwoman; she might suit. Alternatively..." She pauses, lips pursed in consideration.

Jocelyn listens to the advice, the names and tidbits of introduction, taking them all in with a considering look. "I don't expect to get lucky on the first shot. First tries have nev - ''rarely'' worked out well for me." Something warms her expression there, before it tapers back in favor of studying the headwoman. "Margaera, Seriska, " she repeats, then. "Someone quick and smart would certainly be an asset, but I don't want to hold back someone from a career promotion that might better suit the weyr's needs, " to say nothing of the other party's individual goals. As for Jounine's pause, the goldrider's eyebrows lift expectantly; she waits.

"There ''are'' those who would see a position as a weyrwoman's personal assistant an equally promising stepping stone," is Jounine's answer to ''that''. "Though I cannot speak to the feelings of either of those young women in particular, at least on this subject. The other option... my brother's eldest daughter is eighteen, and wishes to see more of the world before her marriage, in another two turns. She would, of course, be an outsider." The complications related to ''that'' go without saying; clearly, Jounine has no doubt that Jocelyn will be cognizant of them.

"That's something I'd wish to ask them, " Jocelyn decides with a lean forward, blue-gray gaze intent. At some length, "There are plenty of ways to see more of the world, but I suppose this would be one of the safer methods available by which to do so. Tell me about her, your niece. Has she ever been to a weyr?" Almost as an afterthought, she adds, "How long has she been betrothed? To whom?"

Jounine's nod is solemn and approving, acknowledging Jocelyn's decision without further comment on it. For the rest, she's simple and practical in her explanation: "Jaine was born and raised in a Keroon cothold, and will marry into another. They've been betrothed a turn, now, and I believe they will be happy enough. She's not a dreamer; she's too practical for that. She's visited me here and liked it well enough, though of course it is different to what she's used to. I expect she would adapt easily, but not lose her head."

"Suppose it worked out well, " Jocelyn muses aloud, arms shifting so that one hand can drum fingers idly upon the upholstered arm of her seat. "I would be sorry to lose someone both capable and competent after two turns and restart this entire process. Then again, there's no guarantee that anyone else would wish to remain in the position for longer - nor would I expect a sharp person to do so." Her gaze flicks momentarily from the other woman to the bookcase near them, eyes narrowing before they swing back to regard her former supervisor evenly. "I'd like to speak with all three of them, if they'd be interested in working with me." The curve at her mouth turns wry. "Not too eager, of course. Can you arrange for Jaine to visit you again within the next month, if working at a weyr appeals to her?"

Again, Jounine acknowledges what Jocelyn has to say. "I believe both Irianke and Farideh have been through several assistants in the past few turns; it ''isn't'' a position that people seem inclined to stick with long-term, for better or for worse." She presses her hands flat upon her knees once more, and adds, "I will write to my brother directly. I'm sure it can be arranged, though it may be that they wish to interview ''you'', too, should you offer her the position."

Jocelyn makes a little sound of agreement, chin dipping into a short nod. "No, it isn't. Very well. I imagine there'd be less upheaval for them in this matter if she came here to meet with me, although I'd certainly be more than willing to pay them a visit so that we may all appropriately interrogate one another." It's dry, but there's at least some amusement present. "In the meantime, I'll seek out the other two you mentioned since they're more readily accessible and observed."

"Good," says Jounine, putting her approval into words (''a'' word, anyway) this time, to go with that repeated nod. "I hope that, between the three of them, one may be suitable. If not, I'm sure there are other candidates who can be considered." She seems pleased, in that subtle way of hers, though turns her attention back on Jocelyn more thoughtfully as she wonders, "How ''are'' things going? Now that you have finished your training."

"You and I both, " Jocelyn grouses lightly, but seems relieved that the process is finally closer to being underway. Jounine's subsequent query elicits a little purse of her lips, a look that's less pleased and more half-grimace. "In truth, they're about the same as they were during the last couple of months, " she answers, "save for the slightly more elaborate shoulderknot and the fact that no one is addressing me as 'weyrling' anymore." There's a very brief hesitation after, a little pause that she ends with a small shrug. "As with any change, it isn't without its challenges, but that's to be expected."

Jounine's gaze is considering, but appears to lack judgement; by the end of Jocelyn's answer to her question, she has only a simple nod by way of immediate answer. It's after a few moments of silence that she says, "My ascension to my present knot was not without difficulties, as you will remember. The most important thing is to not let others bother you; and to be competent, wherever possible, to a fault. The new balance will settle, in time. No doubt the weyrwoman's return will assist in this, too."

Jocelyn does remember, says that little swallow, that small nod. "I'm glad now that it ''was'' you who was promoted. I don't think we'd be sitting here otherwise." For the rest, there's a brief glance toward the ledge, a lift and drop of eyebrows. "Irianke's return would - help, " she admits reluctantly, "although it's been nearly half of a turn. It's possible that there's been enough changes in all three of us that we'd have to get to know how to work with one another all over again."

Jounine is pleased, clearly, by this; it shows in the thin-but-visible line of her smile, and the acknowledgement of her chin. "I imagine many things would have been different," she says. "And in ways we cannot possibly imagine." She's slower to speak to the rest, though her gaze remains trained upon the younger woman. "Perhaps that will make it simpler, upon her return: you'll ''all'' need to change the ways in which you work, and re-establish relationships. It must be difficult, having... having an external force dictate your working team."

Jocelyn smiles a very little, too, and exhales while the headwoman continues speaking. "Simpler, " she repeats, "and yet, " all the more complicated, goes unspoken. There's a tilt of her head toward the table across the cavern, after a moment; "I don't want to hold you up from your dinner, but if you'd like to have a drink beforehand and unwind some of your day, I'd be glad to lend an ear. I - am learning that one often has fewer people to talk with as one gains loops in their knot." It's a little awkward, this offer, but it's tendered sincerely.

"I would like that," Jounine reassures Jocelyn. "It can be a lonely life, for those of us in our positions. But-- you ''do'' have my friendship." And, reserved though she is, Jounine has plenty to talk about in a more casual way, until it really is time for her to take her leave, and return to the caverns.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Healed and Done

2016-03-02T22:46:20Z

Jocelyn:

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn, Leova
|what=Jocelyn and Leova check up on Dathath and discuss the current political climate.
|where=Dragon Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=23
|month=2
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.03.02
|quote=Do you think I'm ready?
|mentions=Farideh, Irianke, Jounine, U'sot
|type=Log
|ooc=Slightly backdated.
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn.png, Icon leova.jpg,
|log=While Jocelyn doesn't make a habit of visiting C'thoun and his brown much in the first seven following the pair's injury, Aidavanth checks in every now and then with Dathath to gauge how he's feeling and inquire after his rider, solicitous and cheerful. ''Her'' rider, as hands-on as Leova permitted during the initial exam, has an easier bedside manner with dragons than humans. At the very least, Jocelyn's taken some interest in following the older dragon's case as her schedule permits. Having volunteered to accompany Vrianth's when it's time for Dathath's fourteen-day follow-up, she's a polite enough presence during the examination, asking questions here and there and otherwise keenly observing what's said and done. Once they're back on the ground, to Leova: "I'm thankful that it isn't as big of a production to set one of ''our'' bones." Smaller scales are, at times, helpful.

Hands on had happened, hands on and ''minds'' on. Once Leova had confirmed the fracture closed and the bone aligned, nearly as clean a break as it could possibly have been, there was plenty of leeway to let the neophyte have at it. Which meant... a ''balancing act''. Aidavanth calming Dathath while Jocelyn watches, that's one thing. Observing while ''also'' taking in information from Vrianth via Aidavanth, channeled from Dathath and Leova both, that's another. ''Then'' came Aidavanth's sensing from Dathath directly, while having to keep his emotions separate despite the closer linkage, on top of everything else. Assessing. Cleaning. Tending. If Dathath had become too distressed or the younger dragon too distracting... but they hadn't, and the incipient infection several days later had subsided, and at the moment all seems well. Except the weather, maybe. Leova eyes the sky with its heavy layer of clouds before saying, “Aye. And he wasn’t even misaligned.” The might-have-been gains a weighty moment of silence, though the greenrider’s also moving to haul their gear inside. "Ever broke anything, yourself?"

"Sprained an ankle some turns back, but no breaks yet, " Jocelyn answers, automatically reaching over to help with the gear retrieval. "Sounds painful." There's a glance up to Aidavanth, a subsequent grimace. "If it feels anything like what she's relayed from him, I think I'll pass on the experience." Despite the frown that tugs at her features, her silence afterward seems more thoughtful than broodily discontent. "Did you ever think you'd end up where you are now? Dragonhealing. Vrianth."

"Sprains can drag on longer, long as the bone heals fine. Healed and done, y'know? Hope your sprain didn't lag," though the lift of Leova's brows, more than the lilt in her voice, makes it a question before she heads for the infirmary proper. Vrianth's watched them at work in freeing her, that faceted gaze of hers so intense, and she shifts her haunches and finest wingsails in preparation to be ''gone''. "Vrianth..." can't help but be an endearment in her rider's smoky voice, for all that she's preoccupied too. But, "Can't say as I did. Was Rilsa as got my foot in the door, back when I was a candidate there was this scavenger hunt, excuses to roam around and ask people things. She was senior dragonhealer then. Half liked that we did that, those hunts, though I s'pose there were other things to be doing."

Jocelyn makes a little noise that sounds more or less like agreement, carefully following in Leova's wake. Aidavanth, rather than making to vacate this side of the bowl for the other, springs aloft to settle on the rim above the infirmary, perhaps in the hopes of catching ''some'' sunlight as the clouds continue their ever-present shift overhead. "I'm not sure I see the purpose in a scavenger hunt for preparing a prospective dragonrider for their training, " the redhead muses aloud, "but exposure to a wide range of places, people and roles - ''that'' is a practical application." Pale eyes slant a side-glance toward the older woman, then: "I don't think I've ever reflected this much in my life on where I'm been, where I am, where I'm going." But milestones do that sort of thing, particularly when they involve significant changes in one's circumstances. Perhaps it's more of an admission than she intended, for she clears her throat, busies herself after with making sure that the implements and instrumentation she carries end up back in their rightful places.

Nor does Leova comment to it directly, yet, despite her own thoughtful glance. "Some are inspired by a 'game,'" she says with brief amusement, "and others, ''competition''. Don't remember what the prize was, though there was one. Beyond, well. 'Winning.'" She sets about refilling her satchel, but there's another long look Jocelyn's way.

"Competition. Ambition. Some might say those are very much the same thing, " Jocelyn says lightly enough, hands clasping rigidly behind her back once she's out of objects with which to hide her urge to fidget. What she'd ''like'' to say to Leova is, for at least a moment, written all over her expression as she permits some uncertainty to show, however briefly. What she says, instead? "I'd like to continue studying with you as my schedule permits, even after my knot changes."

"They can be." Quiet. Simple, ''near''-neutral. Warmer: "I'd like to have you." A bottle rests, there in Leova's curled hand. No fidgeting for her, but only stillness. Though, "'U'sot will,' I should say." Should still say.

Something in there makes the corners of Jocelyn's mouth quirk upward, a genuine, if small smile relaxing her countenance. "Good. Thank you." That curl of hands behind her back relaxes a fraction, as does the set of her shoulders into something less rigid. Quieter, then: "Do you think I'm ready?" Those administering her final evaluations get the prompt and precise recitations, essays, physical performances which she consistently demonstrates. Leova gets an honest question, given in much the same way as the 'do you think I can do this?' of nearly a decade ago, hours after a meeting with Giorda.

"Ready to take it on." Still quiet. Serious. "Come," Leova says, and she moves toward the circulating pool. Warmth rises from it, and humidity, so rare in this season. The noises it makes are quiet too, a ceaseless flow that's barely there. One chair, two. Leova sits. "Where do you see yourself, Jocelyn? Right now," no commitment for always.

Jocelyn's hands shift a little in her lap once she's settled, jaw setting. "I - we - aim to do our best by our home. I never could have planned for taking on ''this'' role, but I did once imagine that at some point, I'd be behind Jounine's desk managing parts of the weyr that way. I want to excel, " naturally. "Someone asked once how I'd like to be remembered. I'd like to be remembered as having been fair and involved in making good, solid decisions for the future of this place. Everything else will be all but superficial to the historical records." A pause, then: "I'd like to serve here as long as circumstances will permit."

"Mm." That last. Leova's gaze drifts beyond them and back, steady. "Don't like to think of one having cause to have you leave. Even when, especially when, all 'cause' needs is a wish. But. Like to think you're doing the right thing, to not be ''wanted'' to go, or if you must leave then on the best terms." A brief pause. "Don't know if there's been word on Irianke's return."

Jocelyn doesn't like to think of it either, says her tight nod, even as pale eyes turn briefly to the pool before tracking back to the other rider. "It would change things if she had to stay in Igen, " the High Reaches native says slowly, so carefully. "Farideh's - young, even still, " and she's probably not just referring to her chronological age. "Volatile. I can't say that I'd cope any better than she has, were I in her shoes, but - " Her gaze grows distant, then focuses sharply once more. "We'd give it our all." For all that it's a softly voiced admission, it's a determined one.

"Want to think Farideh tries." Leova's voice is slow. "Appreciated that she did, when she studied here. But. Different approaches. Irianke... know you worked with her, beforetimes. Feel like you had much of a handle on her, the way she was? Even with you a weyrling, ''seems'' like she'd begin like she meant to go on."

For anyone else, even for Lys, Jocelyn would rearrange her expression into something evenly neutral to go with her response. There's a breath released, but her brow puckers into a frown. "Different approaches, " Aidavanth's agrees. "Before, I was another face in the lower caverns, maybe even ''helpful'' a time or two. Most of our interactions after, she seemed set on trying to push any and all of my limits. Sometimes, I met her challenge. Sometimes, I suspect I disappointed her." That last apparently hasn't bothered her much, if at all, for her shoulders roll into a quick up-and-down-again shrug. "She must have chosen her approach on purpose. I would have, I think, if I were in that knot elsewhere, working with a trainee."

"What do you think her purpose is?" is Leova's quiet, simple question. This isn't a quiz. Isn't, in Leova's hands, a test.

Jocelyn can only speculate, really, and the set of pale eyes to amber indicates as much. "Perhaps, " she allows at some length, "getting nothing less than my best efforts. She doesn't miss much, " dryly, "and everyone knows that my loyalty to this weyr is ''such'' a well-kept secret." Almost sheepishly: "I - let her get under my skin, near the beginning, with talk of Monaco, their one queen, and our three."

"''Jocelyn''," is just as quiet, but smoky-warm. ''Sympathetic''. "Sounds like she's keeping you on your toes," Leova says, "the way she's kept."

There's nothing Jocelyn can say in reply to that, expression tightening with ''restraint'' before she pushes to her feet, hands stuffing into her trouser pockets. "It's difficult enough to try to stay one step ahead of what's out ''there''. This shouldn't - " One hand lifts, drops uncomfortably. "I should - thank you, Leova, for your time."

The dragonhealer's standing, now. "Aye." A last look to Jocelyn, a not-quite-smile. "Graduation's soon. Give yourself a chance to breathe, hm? Will see you next time."
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Healed and Done

2016-03-02T22:45:07Z

Jocelyn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Jocelyn, Leova |what=Jocelyn and Leova check up on Dathath and discuss the current political climate. |where=Dragon Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reac..."

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn, Leova
|what=Jocelyn and Leova check up on Dathath and discuss the current political climate.
|where=Dragon Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=23
|month=2
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.03.02
|quote=Do you think I'm ready?
|mentions=Farideh, Irianke, Jounine, U'sot
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn.png, Icon leova.jpg,
|log=While Jocelyn doesn't make a habit of visiting C'thoun and his brown much in the first seven following the pair's injury, Aidavanth checks in every now and then with Dathath to gauge how he's feeling and inquire after his rider, solicitous and cheerful. ''Her'' rider, as hands-on as Leova permitted during the initial exam, has an easier bedside manner with dragons than humans. At the very least, Jocelyn's taken some interest in following the older dragon's case as her schedule permits. Having volunteered to accompany Vrianth's when it's time for Dathath's fourteen-day follow-up, she's a polite enough presence during the examination, asking questions here and there and otherwise keenly observing what's said and done. Once they're back on the ground, to Leova: "I'm thankful that it isn't as big of a production to set one of ''our'' bones." Smaller scales are, at times, helpful.

Hands on had happened, hands on and ''minds'' on. Once Leova had confirmed the fracture closed and the bone aligned, nearly as clean a break as it could possibly have been, there was plenty of leeway to let the neophyte have at it. Which meant... a ''balancing act''. Aidavanth calming Dathath while Jocelyn watches, that's one thing. Observing while ''also'' taking in information from Vrianth via Aidavanth, channeled from Dathath and Leova both, that's another. ''Then'' came Aidavanth's sensing from Dathath directly, while having to keep his emotions separate despite the closer linkage, on top of everything else. Assessing. Cleaning. Tending. If Dathath had become too distressed or the younger dragon too distracting... but they hadn't, and the incipient infection several days later had subsided, and at the moment all seems well. Except the weather, maybe. Leova eyes the sky with its heavy layer of clouds before saying, “Aye. And he wasn’t even misaligned.” The might-have-been gains a weighty moment of silence, though the greenrider’s also moving to haul their gear inside. "Ever broke anything, yourself?"

"Sprained an ankle some turns back, but no breaks yet, " Jocelyn answers, automatically reaching over to help with the gear retrieval. "Sounds painful." There's a glance up to Aidavanth, a subsequent grimace. "If it feels anything like what she's relayed from him, I think I'll pass on the experience." Despite the frown that tugs at her features, her silence afterward seems more thoughtful than broodily discontent. "Did you ever think you'd end up where you are now? Dragonhealing. Vrianth."

"Sprains can drag on longer, long as the bone heals fine. Healed and done, y'know? Hope your sprain didn't lag," though the lift of Leova's brows, more than the lilt in her voice, makes it a question before she heads for the infirmary proper. Vrianth's watched them at work in freeing her, that faceted gaze of hers so intense, and she shifts her haunches and finest wingsails in preparation to be ''gone''. "Vrianth..." can't help but be an endearment in her rider's smoky voice, for all that she's preoccupied too. But, "Can't say as I did. Was Rilsa as got my foot in the door, back when I was a candidate there was this scavenger hunt, excuses to roam around and ask people things. She was senior dragonhealer then. Half liked that we did that, those hunts, though I s'pose there were other things to be doing."

Jocelyn makes a little noise that sounds more or less like agreement, carefully following in Leova's wake. Aidavanth, rather than making to vacate this side of the bowl for the other, springs aloft to settle on the rim above the infirmary, perhaps in the hopes of catching ''some'' sunlight as the clouds continue their ever-present shift overhead. "I'm not sure I see the purpose in a scavenger hunt for preparing a prospective dragonrider for their training, " the redhead muses aloud, "but exposure to a wide range of places, people and roles - ''that'' is a practical application." Pale eyes slant a side-glance toward the older woman, then: "I don't think I've ever reflected this much in my life on where I'm been, where I am, where I'm going." But milestones do that sort of thing, particularly when they involve significant changes in one's circumstances. Perhaps it's more of an admission than she intended, for she clears her throat, busies herself after with making sure that the implements and instrumentation she carries end up back in their rightful places.

Nor does Leova comment to it directly, yet, despite her own thoughtful glance. "Some are inspired by a 'game,'" she says with brief amusement, "and others, ''competition''. Don't remember what the prize was, though there was one. Beyond, well. 'Winning.'" She sets about refilling her satchel, but there's another long look Jocelyn's way.

"Competition. Ambition. Some might say those are very much the same thing, " Jocelyn says lightly enough, hands clasping rigidly behind her back once she's out of objects with which to hide her urge to fidget. What she'd ''like'' to say to Leova is, for at least a moment, written all over her expression as she permits some uncertainty to show, however briefly. What she says, instead? "I'd like to continue studying with you as my schedule permits, even after my knot changes."

"They can be." Quiet. Simple, ''near''-neutral. Warmer: "I'd like to have you." A bottle rests, there in Leova's curled hand. No fidgeting for her, but only stillness. Though, "'U'sot will,' I should say." Should still say.

Something in there makes the corners of Jocelyn's mouth quirk upward, a genuine, if small smile relaxing her countenance. "Good. Thank you." That curl of hands behind her back relaxes a fraction, as does the set of her shoulders into something less rigid. Quieter, then: "Do you think I'm ready?" Those administering her final evaluations get the prompt and precise recitations, essays, physical performances which she consistently demonstrates. Leova gets an honest question, given in much the same way as the 'do you think I can do this?' of nearly a decade ago, hours after a meeting with Giorda.

"Ready to take it on." Still quiet. Serious. "Come," Leova says, and she moves toward the circulating pool. Warmth rises from it, and humidity, so rare in this season. The noises it makes are quiet too, a ceaseless flow that's barely there. One chair, two. Leova sits. "Where do you see yourself, Jocelyn? Right now," no commitment for always.

Jocelyn's hands shift a little in her lap once she's settled, jaw setting. "I - we - aim to do our best by our home. I never could have planned for taking on ''this'' role, but I did once imagine that at some point, I'd be behind Jounine's desk managing parts of the weyr that way. I want to excel, " naturally. "Someone asked once how I'd like to be remembered. I'd like to be remembered as having been fair and involved in making good, solid decisions for the future of this place. Everything else will be all but superficial to the historical records." A pause, then: "I'd like to serve here as long as circumstances will permit."

"Mm." That last. Leova's gaze drifts beyond them and back, steady. "Don't like to think of one having cause to have you leave. Even when, especially when, all 'cause' needs is a wish. But. Like to think you're doing the right thing, to not be ''wanted'' to go, or if you must leave then on the best terms." A brief pause. "Don't know if there's been word on Irianke's return."

Jocelyn doesn't like to think of it either, says her tight nod, even as pale eyes turn briefly to the pool before tracking back to the other rider. "It would change things if she had to stay in Igen, " the High Reaches native says slowly, so carefully. "Farideh's - young, even still, " and she's probably not just referring to her chronological age. "Volatile. I can't say that I'd cope any better than she has, were I in her shoes, but - " Her gaze grows distant, then focuses sharply once more. "We'd give it our all." For all that it's a softly voiced admission, it's a determined one.

"Want to think Farideh tries." Leova's voice is slow. "Appreciated that she did, when she studied here. But. Different approaches. Irianke... know you worked with her, beforetimes. Feel like you had much of a handle on her, the way she was? Even with you a weyrling, ''seems'' like she'd begin like she meant to go on."

For anyone else, even for Lys, Jocelyn would rearrange her expression into something evenly neutral to go with her response. There's a breath released, but her brow puckers into a frown. "Different approaches, " Aidavanth's agrees. "Before, I was another face in the lower caverns, maybe even ''helpful'' a time or two. Most of our interactions after, she seemed set on trying to push any and all of my limits. Sometimes, I met her challenge. Sometimes, I suspect I disappointed her." That last apparently hasn't bothered her much, if at all, for her shoulders roll into a quick up-and-down-again shrug. "She must have chosen her approach on purpose. I would have, I think, if I were in that knot elsewhere, working with a trainee."

"What do you think her purpose is?" is Leova's quiet, simple question. This isn't a quiz. Isn't, in Leova's hands, a test.

Jocelyn can only speculate, really, and the set of pale eyes to amber indicates as much. "Perhaps, " she allows at some length, "getting nothing less than my best efforts. She doesn't miss much, " dryly, "and everyone knows that my loyalty to this weyr is ''such'' a well-kept secret." Almost sheepishly: "I - let her get under my skin, near the beginning, with talk of Monaco, their one queen, and our three."

"''Jocelyn''," is just as quiet, but smoky-warm. ''Sympathetic''. "Sounds like she's keeping you on your toes," Leova says, "the way she's kept."

There's nothing Jocelyn can say in reply to that, expression tightening with ''restraint'' before she pushes to her feet, hands stuffing into her trouser pockets. "It's difficult enough to try to stay one step ahead of what's out ''there''. This shouldn't - " One hand lifts, drops uncomfortably. "I should - thank you, Leova, for your time."

The dragonhealer's standing, now. "Aye." A last look to Jocelyn, a not-quite-smile. "Graduation's soon. Give yourself a chance to breathe, hm? Will see you next time."
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Unequal Footing

2016-02-29T00:07:14Z

Jocelyn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Farideh, Jocelyn |what=The friction continues between High Reaches' goldriders. |where=Council Chambers, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=9 |month..."

{{Log
|who=Farideh, Jocelyn
|what=The friction continues between High Reaches' goldriders.
|where=Council Chambers, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=9
|month=2
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.02.24
|quote=Perhaps you'll understand when I say that I'm looking forward to and dreading the knot in equal measure.
|mentions=Irianke, Leova, Quinlys
|type=Log
|ooc=Backdated.
|icons-new=Icon farideh bitchface.jpg, Icon Jocelyn.png,
|log=Snow has never been at the top of Farideh's ''most loved'' things, and it likely doesn't come as a shock that she's been spending most of her time indoors when allowed. It's in the council chamber that she's been ensconced for half the day, and it's ''there'' that she summons Jocelyn towards the early part of the evening. She's patiently waiting -- signing lines and skimming records -- with a glass and full decanter of wine at the ready.

Although the weyrlings of Roszadyth's first clutch are just a stone's throw away from taking their place among the not-so fighting wings during the interval, Jocelyn's day-to-day is already not entirely unlike what it will be soon enough. Prompt and precise, even in her best humor, she's been almost painfully so in their encounters since the goldriders' trip to Nabol, and this evening hardly seems different. It isn't a long wait for her to march into the chamber, to round the table and settle on the edge of the chair a respectful two places down from Farideh that she's been taking during meetings. "Farideh." Polite, even and - ''weary''. Pale eyes glance dispassionately toward the wine, then lift a look to the younger woman. "You wanted to see me." Never mind if it's a relatively usual occurrence; she waits.

Hazel eyes flick up from their scouring of old records and yellowed pages to note the older woman's entrance, but quickly lower again. "I wanted to hear about your dragonhealing lesson with Leova. I assume it went well?" Farideh asks, head tipping to the side as she scratches something off with a flick of her wrist. She gives the page a lingering stare and then, finally, sets her pen down and relaxes against the chair cushions; ''now'' Jocelyn has her undivided attention.

"It was more of an impromptu assist than a scheduled lesson, " Jocelyn points out, arms folding onto the table before her. "Aidavanth pulled me out of the lower caverns to tell me that someone needed help in the air. She went to work, exercised her will to keep him calm and got him safely down to one of the unoccupied weyrs. I went up with Leova and assisted as much as she permitted me." It's a neutral enough recitation, as neutral as the expression she wears when it's finished. "Dathath will need some time to heal, but he'll be fine." There's a slight, upward lift to the corners of her mouth afterward; she, no doubt, enjoyed this first, major application of her studies with Vrianth's.

"That was kind of Aidavanth. Very kind." It's the intensity of Farideh's study of the other woman that belies her simple words, but then she's pushing on with a flourish of her hand. "Did she find it hard? Did you? I think I had at least five lessons on gold influence before it finally sunk in ''how'' to actually do it," she admits, however embellished that might be. "There may come a day when you'll need it on a broader scale, so it's good to be able to ''actually'' practice beforehand without-- you know, how they say, needlessly force your will on others."

"She might be better at it than I ever would in her proverbial shoes, " Jocelyn replies frankly, staring right back at Farideh - or perhaps she's just giving the section of wall somewhere behind her a solid look-over. "I stayed with her as much as I could during the process so that we were using it together, but the encouragement and the - praise were entirely hers. They were apparently effective." There's a momentary purse of her lips for the weyrwoman's last, a frown that draws her brows downward for its duration. "Right. I imagine the application is much the same, only stretched thinner to cover ''more''. I'd prefer to not have to find out any time soon."

"I am pleased to hear that, somewhat ''relieved'' if I'm being honest. It's better for us now, but there was a time," which she doesn't specify, "when Roszadyth wasn't very good at it. Not good enough to do the task that was set before us. Unfortunately." Farideh's smile is self-serving, and there's no humor in her eyes whatsoever, but at least it seems it's pointed in someone else's direction this time. "No. I'd also prefer it not be needed, either. Are you excited to graduate? I know your duties won't be as different from weyrlinghood as the others-- perks of the dragon. Still, is there anything you look forward to? Dread? Last thoughts before it's ''all over''?"

There's a small, upward turn of Jocelyn's mouth, more wry curve than a true smile of any sort. "As you've said, time and ethical practice seem to be the keys." There's a weightiness to her gaze that transfers to her posture, the careful lift of her chin. "Perhaps you'll understand when I say that I'm looking forward to and dreading the knot in equal measure." And yet, "Despite all of that, I'm ready to put what Aidavanth and I have been studying for the past turn to good use. To ''work''." There's a pause at the prompt for final thoughts, then, measuredly: "I'm looking forward to working with you on equal footing. I trust we'll both do what's best for High Reaches."

It's not so careful, the uplift of Farideh's brow and the shifting of her body, angled ''more'' towards the other woman. "Equal footing? How do you imagine?"

Is Farideh's reaction the one Jocelyn expected? In either case, her neutral enough look arranges itself into a more patient one. "We'll both be weyrwomen since I'll no longer be under Quinlys's jurisdiction, naturally." Pale eyes consider the younger woman afterward. Matter-of-factly, "And if Irianke were here, we'd both be answering to her."

For the first time, Farideh looks amused, though it's a short-lived sentiment. "You're right, if Irianke was here we'd both be answering to her. But she isn't here and she made me her stand-in, acting in her stead, with K'del's guidance. When she returns, we will once again, be on ''equal footing''," but not now, she implies.

Jocelyn almost, ''almost'' looks impressed in the seconds following Farideh's response, but that smooths away into politeness quickly enough. "I'm sure his experience must be helpful. You went through this relatively recently, " more recently than their absent senior queenrider, at any rate. "As I'm to fall under ''your'' jurisdiction soon enough, " her lips quirk briefly for ''that'', "I will assume that your expectations of me will remain largely unchanged - unless, of course, you tell me otherwise in the coming sevens."

And Farideh, by increments, looks less and less impressed. "It does not take a genius, or twenty turns of experience, to realize sometimes we must keep our mouths ''shut''," she says, fluidly. "I do expect you to continue learning. Weyrlinghood isn't the end of it, yet. You might benefit from a little extra tutelage at ''faking it'' and not remonstrating needlessly-- perhaps you should go to a few more gathers, or attend a ball, or ''harper lessons''," sounds practically scintillating, right? "We should utilize your talents beyond the stores. Don't you think?"

"Irianke's training, what parts she was here for, had me interfacing with the healers regularly during and immediately after the plague. I'll attend whatever you deem necessary if you feel it'll benefit us both in the future. Weyrwoman." That last, although a respectful enough address, is flat as the redhead gets to her feet, and Jocelyn's expression shutters. "I don't intend to take up unnecessary minutes from your evening. If there isn't anything else?"

Farideh's mouth forms an easily-seen-through ''o'' of surprise as the other woman rises, but her face quickly creases into a smile. "I think we're quite done here." She gives her hair a pat and Jocelyn a perfunctory, dismissive wave of her hand. "Enjoy your evening, Jocelyn," but she's already refocusing on the paperwork at the ready.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:Reporting for Duty

2016-02-28T10:21:14Z

Jocelyn: Added a missing pose.

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn, Quint, Silva
|what=Reachians gather to depart for Fort's Hatching.
|where=Eastern Bowl, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=18
|month=2
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.02.27
|weather=Steady, today's snowfall sticks, creating dunes on the bowl floor.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn.png, Icon quint.jpg, Icon silva.jpg,
|desc=Ringed by rough granite walls to all sides but one, this end of the huge
bowl narrows from the even broader plain to the west, continuing the ever
so slight downward slope toward the blue and green of the Weyr's lake and
surrounding foliage. More open to sun and wind than the western bowl, but
less frequented when there aren't weyrlings in residence, the bowl's
grassy tufts keep the topsoil in place and thicken into a bloodstained
meadow within the feeding pens that adjoin the lake.

At the base of the surrounding cliffs lie entrances to several caverns,
including the dragon infirmary and the weyrling barracks: the former to
the northwest near where the spires begin, the latter opposite to the
southwest. Both archways are large and dark enough for any dragon to pass
through, but it's the infirmary's that is haunted by faint smells of
redwort and numbweed, as though over generations they have seeped into the
very stone. To the southeast, between the weyrling area and the lake,
there are a handful of structures built into the floor of the bowl,
standing out amidst otherwise an empty space.
|log=In the steady snowfall Zaisyreth is acting as Silva's umbrella. They're waiting for someone they're transporting, and the little rider is pacing a bit in place, making a tiny snow free spot for herself while Zaisyreth provides the relief.

The heavy snow makes movement across the bowl require a fair sort of effort. It's probably by a harper's grace that Quint manages to do it without looking ''completely'' awkward, his coat already dusted in snow as he angles towards Zaisyreth and his rider. While many of High Reaches' residents are settling down to dinner, the news of Fort's impending hatching is already spreading, and the Journeyman Harper looks eager to beat the rush. When he gets close enough to recognize Silva, there's surprise, however brief, in the man's expression, before it smooths away into an easy smile. "Weyrling Silva," he greets, with a nod for Zaisyreth, stopping just outside of the shelter of the blue's wing. "Uh. You're on transport duty?"

"Don't just ''stand'' out there!" Silva reaches out a hand towards the harper, offering up the shelter of her dragon's wing to the man. "Sir," oops, Silva's face is pretty much covered, so if there's a look of chagrin it's hidden, "isn't it ''horrible'' weather? Even Zaisy says he'd rather be elsewhere. I ''really'' hope that Fort isn't so bad." Yep, if Zaisyreth's hide and her height weren't dead give-aways, that voice is. "Like, when," insert name of another weyrling here, "said he wasn't feeling better it like, didn't take any thought to volunteer. I mean, it's not like transport duty is hard." A beat or two, "unless the passenger smells. That can be hard."

Quint opens his mouth, undoubtedly to offer some witticism in return, when Silva's hand reaches to tug him into the shelter, and he coughs instead, giving a nod of his head in gratitude. His free hand brushes through his hair, dislodging the snow that's collected there in his trek across the bowl. "Well, actually," he begins, with a somewhat apologetic grimace, "Fort and High Reaches share very similar weather. But, we will be in the hatching grounds, so that, at least, will be warm." He's glancing at the blue, perhaps momentarily distracted, when gaze darts back to the weyrling with a noise that might be stifled laughter. "Well, I can assure you, I bathed this morning. So I hope I live up to your standards."

"Drat it," Silva scowls slightly, then sighs, her shoulders rising and falling. "I guess like, at least we'll be warm inside. Sorry Zaisy," Silva reaches out a gloved hand to pat her blue gently, Zaisyreth probably one of the ''few'' individuals who Silva will say sorry to with any degree of regularity. "If not, like, at least my nose is all numb!" The prospect of getting out seems to have lifted Silva's spirits from where they've morosely settled lately. It's not impossible to be around her! "Have you ridden before sir?"

"He'll be able to enter the grounds as well, at least?" Quint tries for comforting -- but then he doesn't actually seem certain how a dragon will take such a thing, glancing at what he can see of the blue's profile. He's standing with Silva under Zaisyreth's wing, out of the seemingly ever-falling snowfall. A few other dragons are starting to wing their way in as news of the pending Fortian hatching spreads, although many are caught in the midst of dinner. The harper grins at Silva, nodding, "Many times. You'll find me a well-trained passenger. Can I give you a leg up?" he offers politely, even though most riders are probably well-used to doing without.

Silva's a little too short to scramble up without Zaisyreth's help, so it's not at all any particular change for Zaisyreth to put his leg out. "Want me to help you up?" Which would be slightly comical actually. Sadly, movement ''onto'' Zaisyreth requires the blue to retract his wing and leave the two in the snow. Alas.

Laced into a long-sleeved dress of High Reaches blue and wrapped in a thick, fur-lined cloak in an attempt to keep at least ''some'' of the snow at bay, Jocelyn looks a little too polished to be hurrying out of the dragon infirmary, brow pinched and gaze almost absent as she strides to meet Aidavanth, who crosses the bowl from her ledge and lands with a warm sound of greeting for Zaisyreth. "I ''know'', " says the redhead almost crossly as she pauses at her dragon's side, a glance turning for the blue and his passengers. There's a thoughtful cast to her expression, before she lifts her chin and marches in their direction. For her classmate, there's a surprisingly pleasant, if brief, "Hello, Silva, " before pale eyes settle on the harper. "Quint, " she says in greeting, clearing her throat. "You are welcome to sit with me if you wish when you arrive if it gets you a closer view. We wish your sister well."

"Uh," a brief pause, as Quint watches Silva, before he quickly ducks his head as the makeshift shelter of the blue's wing retreats. "No, no. I'm quite good, just get settled, and I'll--" he's watching Zaisyreth for clues, then back to Silva to await her ascent, not inclined by training or politeness to do so before the rider, it would seem. Jocelyn's arrival earns a pleasant, "Weyrling Jocelyn," and a nod, and if he's surprised by the offer, masks it well with a slight shift of his body and an easy, practiced smile. "Thank you. On both accounts."

Warm thoughts reach out from Zaisyreth towards his clutchsister. Their destination, though Jocelyn has already surmised it, is given over. << Shall we fly together? >> As he speaks to his sister Zaisyreth's leg extends, and Silva scrambles her eway up. This, at very least, is done without thought. It IS possible to get good at some things by simply doing them over and over.

"Good, " says Jocelyn with a little nod, chin jerking back in the direction of her lifemate. "I should - I'll look forward to seeing you there, shall I?" And without further ado, she's hurrying back to Aidavanth's side, gathering her skirts to mount up. << Together, >> the orange-gold agrees, and springs aloft once her rider's settled. Up, up and away.
}}

Dragon:Aidavanth

2016-02-25T00:54:19Z

Jocelyn:

{{NorConDragon
|egg credit=A'rist
|dragon credit=K'del
|puppeteer=K'del
|body=[[File:Aidavanth_headshot.png|center]]
<div style="text-align:center;">''Aidavanth by [http://asthmaadmiral.deviantart.com/art/Gold-Aidavanth-590358568 AsthmaAdmiral@DeviantArt]''</div>

== The Pit(s) Egg ==
Stickily black, the egg glistens and draws and sucks and pulls: what could well be an inescapable and seductive darkness, with unfathomable, irresistible depths promised beneath its surface. It persists over the whole of the shell, greedily gobbling up the light that hits it but in those few places - the pessimistically bubbling tip, the subtle ridges and sinister curves along its sides - whence glints a sickly ocherous brown, as though mockingly playing over the remnants of other struggles against its limits.

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

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

== Temperament ==
In adulthood, Jocelyn, your Aidavanth is (most of the time) a consummate professional, matching you for dedication but also adding a fine sense of public relations and perception. Although she may not build many intimate relationships, with you as the very notable exception, she's a dragon who enjoys people, and has an innate knack for dealing with them in a way you may grow to envy. With Aidavanth at your side, the rocky transition from Assistant Headwoman to Junior Weyrwoman may be eased, somewhat... but nothing is without bumps.

In youth, your Aidavanth is gangly and awkward, a dragon keenly aware of what she sees as her shortcomings, and frustrated with the public persona forced upon her (upon you both) by the circumstances of her color. She covers up her insecurities and irritations with humor; if she can make those around her laugh-- at themselves, at herself, at ''something''-- then she can distract herself from her own fears, and portray herself more confidently. She'll attempt the same with you, Jocelyn, but you know each other so well that it may or may not succeed. Hers is a wickedly dry sense of humor, though not one that tends to be played at the expense of others; it's only in good fun. She also enjoys doing impressions-- her party trick-- and is surprisingly good at physical comedy.

Her passions have a habit of running away with her, and like Zaisyreth she has a keen sense of social justice, one that she is disinclined to ignore. Incisively intelligent, it may take a firm hand to keep her from throwing herself into every disagreement and perceived injustice she can find, arguing until (sometimes) others give up and walk away. Even into adulthood, there will be times when she loses her temper over things, and though she tries to be professional, it doesn't always work. Sometimes, she'll channel that rage back in, Jocelyn, so that you will know and no one else. Other times, she won't. << I. Will. Burn. Tillek. Down. >> she might tell you, Roszadyth, Niahvth… and any other dragon within range. << Get out of my way. >>

She loves to learn, and will throw herself into her classes with an equal passion. You both have a long way to go, and study is the only way she knows to make that road easier. If it means sacrificing sleep, so be it. At the same time, she has a keen desire to be part of things, and will still manage to put down those studies in order to participate. Moreover, she'll encourage you to do the same, Jocelyn, saying, << They're our peers. We need each other. Go and have ''fun''. >> Fun is important. You work hard, and then you ''play'' hard, too; it's how you let off steam. For Aidavanth, that involves others; for you, well, she'll come to understand what works for you, too.

She and her clutchmates are part of a team, and that's important to Aidavanth, who is always a team player… though she may occasionally show quiet (or snarky) frustration with those who cannot keep up, or don't seem to be pulling their weight. Quarinth's sense of adventure is both admirable and a distraction she occasionally finds a little, well, ''much'', while Asaroth's hunter mentality gets old ''fast'' (for that matter, so does Zoth's more subtle endeavours). In the end, she's not maternal, the way Evyth can be, and nor does she necessarily wish to be the leader (she's certainly not ambitious); instead, she's apt to be spokesperson and mentor, both on the field (in drills) and off (in everything else). There's nothing hidebound about Aidavanth.

Little by little, Aidavanth will learn how to present herself, and how to fit herself into the role she was hatched for. Outgoing in a way you aren't, even if she can tend towards awkwardness in more intimate relationships, she's the ideal advisor for you, able to apply subtle pressures to encourage you in certain directions as you learn to fill your role. Not that she's perfect-- indeed, far from it-- but it's a start.

She doesn't take well to being sidelined because of her color or gender-- or for you to be. Consciously, she understands her position in the hierarchy of High Reaches, and that you both need to be safe, but the idea of being ''protected'', as if you can't look after yourselves? That rankles. Flying in Aurora rather than reaching out to the holds directly is a burden, and though she understands what she is to do and be, part of her will always yearn for a more active role: to ''do'' rather than ''talk''. But talking, and organising, and planning? She's good at that. She's methodical and meticulous, wickedly smart, eminently capable.

By the time she's reached her full growth, she's no longer gawky. She's still long and lean, but she carries it off spectacularly; she is comfortable in her own skin, and it shows. Those long limbs can sometimes be a problem upon the ground, but she is a creature born for the skies: she thrills in flight, and in the endorphins that come from physical exertion. She knows she's smart. She knows she's capable. Aidavanth owns her own self, and she'll nudge you to know yours. ''She'' has no doubts, when it comes to you.

Aidavanth owns her sexuality, too. Oh, most of the time is scarcely matters-- between flights, who even cares? But when the time comes, there's no missing her body confidence, her poise, her sheer ''sexiness'', if you like. Some of that may fall to you, too, and while proddy, Aidavanth will take great delight in encouraging it in you, especially if it makes other people uncomfortable. Are you too sexy for your shirt? You should be. When she rises, she will throw herself into the experience with everything she has, and it's rare that, afterwards, she won't feel absolutely satisfied (as should her mate; she gives ''very good flight'', she'll have you know).

She's not, however, especially maternal. She'll love her eggs, when they arrive, but the process itself is an awkward one, and not one she'll enjoy. She doesn't like being slowed down while egg-heavy, and she doesn't like being 'stuck' on the sands after they've been clutched. She'll rely very much upon her mate to keep her entertained... and on you, Jocelyn.

In time, you may find an exquisite balance, as a pair. You're both so smart and capable, and together? It's hard to believe there is much you can't achieve.

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

== Private Impression Message==
In the space of a moment, everything changes. Were you apprehensive? Concerned? Hot? Sweaty? Now there's nothing but cool tranquility, your mind abruptly cleared of all distractions as Aidavanth lifts her whirling blue eyes to meet yours, and you know each other for what you are for the very first time. Her heartbeat syncs to yours, quite as if it had always been so, and in that warm, clear voice that seems so very familiar she says, << Oh, good. I knew you'd be here somewhere. ''Jocelyn''. Let's go and eat now, before I fall ''completely'' flat on my face. >>

== Mindvoice==
Aidavanth's voice is-- well. It's amazing, honestly. A person could listen to it for hours; a person could be swayed to all kinds of things just on the force of it, though it helps that she'll increasingly develop a way with words, and can be passionate in her arguments. Her voice is warm and clear and certain, and it needs no ornamentation. Oh, Aidavanth might share an image as appropriate (especially wicked ones that might cause laughter at inappropriate moments), and she has a habit of dropping little bubbles of thought in, here and there, like floating mental toys, but words are certainly her metier.

== Itchyspots ==
As Aidavanth grows (and grows, and grows), there's going to be a lot by way of oiling, and to be honest, no one place tends to be ''more'' itchy than any other; most of the time, it's just simply ''everywhere''. Although not vain, Aidavanth is a creature well aware of the importance of appearances, and she ''does'' enjoy a little pampering (now and then, at least). In adulthood, she'll come to see oiling as a special time between you both, a time for reflection (and witty wordplay, if she has her way) and a time to regroup; it's ''your time'', and ''nothing'' is so important that you can't enjoy that time together. '''Nothing'''.

== Suggested Adult Desc ==
She's eye-catching, this queen, so long and lean and so very bright in hue. The warm brilliance of her hide is washed about the extremities in a burnished orange-gold, tripping down the low curves of her headknobs, her neckridges, that tail that goes on for miles. It's there in those so-filmy wingsails, too, their broad expanses at once both exquisitely delicate and built for power. She carries her length with confidence, owning every inch in a way that speaks to capability, precision and control. Though wide-spaced, those eyes of hers are keen and incisive rather than innocent, and if her nose narrows and curves to an almost beak-like tip, it serves to make her more striking still: a dragon worth noticing.

==Inspiration==
The life of a political staffer involves more than its fair share of late nights... and bumps along the way. Your Aidavanth, Jocelyn, takes her inspiration from C.J. Cregg: Press Secretary, Chief of Staff, and all-round bad-ass feminist. Her name was somewhat loosely derived from a handful of words: 'kaitsja' (Estonian for defender), 'dastiarak' (Armenian for mentor) and 'podavaina' (Telegu for 'tall'). Her desc, naturally, is one part Flamingo and one part goldfish.

''Egg Inspiration:'' : It's a tar pit. Pretty scary, if you're a wandering dinosaur. Or, you know, anything that steps into it.
|clutch=38
|egg=The Pit(s) Egg
}}

Logs:Theoretical Application

2016-02-24T22:57:20Z

Jocelyn: Created page with "{{Log |who=Jocelyn, Leova, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, Leova{{!}}Dathath, Leova{{!}}Vrianth |what=A dragon injury interrupts an otherwise quiet afternoon. |where=Dragon Infirmary,..."

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn, Leova, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth, Leova{{!}}Dathath, Leova{{!}}Vrianth
|what=A dragon injury interrupts an otherwise quiet afternoon.
|where=Dragon Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=9
|month=2
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.02.24
|quote=At least we won't have to import ''ice''.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn in winter.png, Icon Jocelyn Aidavanth in charge.png,
|log=It was supposed to be a quiet afternoon, the snow falling softly, becoming a slush so easily tracked into aerial and ground caverns by paws and boots alike. Dragons come and dragons go. Now and again the watchdragon bells out a call to a visitor. Then, abruptly, there's a different cry: sharp pain, soon overlaid by... ''confusion''. Dathath. Old Dathath. But for those who sense or see, he's also ''circling'', up there above the Bowl.

Aware, by and large, of most of the presences within High Reaches, Aidavanth both senses and sees before her human counterpart, presence honing in on Dathath with a sweep of hazel-hued concern as she takes flight from her ledge to glide, low, just under the other. << Dathath, >> is purposefully kept gently modulated in her warm, clear alto, both a greeting wrapped in comfort and a careful, testing touch: where does it hurt? Is it him, or his rider? Below, Jocelyn's abruptly extricating herself from a meeting in the lower caverns to hurry outdoors, a hand lifting to shade her eyes as she takes in the circling dragons, lips pressing thin.

Pain and confusion and ''worry'', one of his queens flying under him like that. The burly brown tilts midair and catches himself in the next wingbeat, but that spikes perceptible pain down his left hindleg, the one he's started to hold so awkwardly. From that angle, it's harder to see his rider who's indeed astride his neck, but there's no barrier to the brown's, << Aidavanth! >> It overlies what aren't quite words: he can't land. He's not supposed to land. Is he? It ''hurts''.

<< Easy, >> Aidavanth cautions at that tilt, and presses reassurances through their connection, touch steady. << I'm going to help you down so someone can look at where it hurts, >> which explains why she's careful to keep pace with him as best she can. Falling would certainly make what isn't good ''worse''. << We'll go slowly. You can lean on me once we're close and I'll land us both. >> Her rider, meanwhile, is striking a grim path for the infirmary while the queen takes a moment to apprise Vrianth of what's happening above; if Leova's free and nearby once she gets inside, Jocelyn doesn't waste time on repeating a verbal report, but starts double-checking that there's space and the appropriate resources available for the impending patient, preparation methodical.

Dathath's distress begins to ease indeed, though still it hurts. It hurts. It hurts. The very weight of his leg, as powerfully muscled as it needs to be to launch skyward, makes it harder. His rider is making noises from his neck but he's listening to his queen and descending with her, slowly. Slowly. Slowly. ''Vrianth'', though, Vrianth's swift to wake but still she ''has'' to wake. Her rider's broken into a run, cutting through the human infirmary in her very much off-duty dress, explaining after her dragon whether it's a duplicate or not: they have to ''keep'' him up, to find a broad high ledge he can land on, that they can afterward reach him on. One that's not too covered with snow. << Find one. >> That's not Vrianth's, for all it once belonged to a bronze. "Pick one."

Aidavanth's presence is solidly ''here'' and working to focus the brown away from his pain as best she can; fortunately, their descent is slow enough that it's not yet difficult to change their course. << We'll go no faster than this, >> she says encouragingly. It's good that he's still moving, still able to keep his rider safely aloft. Moments later, still steadily: << There, let's get you and your rider to that ledge. >> Jutting out of the caldera wall and broad enough for two, it features an overhang that, if nothing else, ensures that the ''entire'' surface doesn't end up covered in snow. "One of the unoccupied ones, about big enough for them both, " Jocelyn relays quickly, eyes briefly unfocusing. "I cleaned it once, I think. Not too high up, but not too low, either."

<< No faster, >> Dathath agrees fretfully. Never wordy, his expressive images and sensations have abandoned him. But under Aidavanth's influence, his breathing evens out again every time it's jostled by change in direction or gust of wind. Vrianth's ''watching'', listening in as she descends towards their infirmary, an electric flow of near-subliminal ''awareness''. It's purposely audible, should Aidavanth wish to listen, how she warns other dragons away: stay clear, stay ''well'' clear, with here and there a well-placed zap for the laggards. "Good," her rider says. "Guide them down. She's holding him well, take another turn 'round if you need a straighter landing. I'll get the gear." The pre-packed satchel with implements, several of which they can hope not to need. Extra bandages. The strong, costly metal rods. The ladders. The junior dragonhealer who had been on duty can help with that, at the very least.

There's an undercurrent of approval somewhere beneath the sense of Aidavanth's support; he's doing well, so well. Help is on the way. << Carefully, now, >> and the orange-gold shifts so that she's more directly beneath Dathath, the better to physically support him on his way down or catch him if he should falter. Gently, gently. There's gratitude for Vrianth's traffic control, particularly with her focus set on the injured brown. Jocelyn, educated guesses for best courses of action pushed aside in favor of Leova's expertise, has a tight nod for the other woman, fingers curling at her sides to dig into her palms as the dragons descend.

He's a mature dragon, an experienced dragon, but even such as he responds instinctively to such praise from one of his queens. Dathath can't help looking down at Aidavanth, worried despite himself that she might crash into the very ledge he's taken her guidance to descend toward. Vrianth talks to him too in that rough voice of hers, reminding him to land with ''three'' paws instead of four, warning him that it will not be comfortable but that Aidavanth has him. He ''will'' be well. Or else. Between the dragons and what might have been his rider's nudging, at least he's there, he's getting there... and at last lands, skidding with his awkward focus on his paws, stumbling with a terrible groan of pain that at least relinquishes into solid stone. His rider barely manages to lean over the side of his dragon before he throws up. Leova mutters as she gets her other helper aboard and aloft, Jocelyn too if she chooses, "At least we won't have to import ''ice''."

Once Dathath's securely on the ledge, Aidavanth lands next to him - hopefully on the side where his rider isn't leaving his last meal - presence still warm, still ''clear'' with the gentle, if firm grasp she has on his focus. << You're both going to be fine, >> she assures. << I'll stay here with you until there's some relief for your pain. >> "Better tell the rest of my class that there ''are'' advantages to not living in Ista, " Jocelyn says drily, scrambling aboard in the wake of Leova's assistant. She doesn't quite stumble in her mount, but it's less fluid than executing a similar maneuver with her own lifemate; after growing accustomed to Aidavanth's size, it's easy to almost overreach for handholds and footholds.

"Next time I hear 'em complain," is a promise. Leova sees them all situated and then they're up in a whirlwind while C'thoun hangs from his own straps, affected both by Dathath's residual hurt and by Aidavanth's hold. Along the way, "Talk to them. Keep it up with Aidavanth. Don't want him distressed again, especially when I poke at him, don't want to be ''kicked''. He'll have to feel it, though, enough so's he'll be careful. Remind them not to move around 'less I say so. You got it?" ''Vrianth'' is likewise careful not to land in the mess, though there's not now as much distance as the rangy green might prefer. It's going to be a job: the unloading, the assessing, the bandaging and splinting, the instructions and aftercare and let's not forget getting people up here to make the place habitable. They're going to be here awhile.

----

'''Broken Legs ''Hurt'''

''In the afternoon of day 9, month 2, there was an outburst of ''pain'' from old Dathath, who with Aidavanth's help managed to get his way from the sky to a large vacant ledge before the dragonhealers showed up. Seems the poor brown broke his leg in an icy would-be landing, and his hind leg at that. No, he didn't break it off, and no, there weren't even bones poking out of his leg, and it isn't true that he had to be sedated for three sevens... but he ''did'' have to land on the ledge that used to be Cadejoth's between weyrleaderships, so if you want to see what a then-ex-weyrleader's digs are like, go ahead and visit C'thoun! (Or, you know, just commiserate.)''
|Categories=General Logs
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