NorCon MUSH - User contributions [en]

Logs:Not Saying Yes

2016-08-07T03:50:49Z

Meg: Created page with "{{Log |who=Alysce, T'zur |what=Alysce is not saying yes to Search. |where=Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=25 |month=6 |turn=41 |IP=Interval |IP2..."

{{Log
|who=Alysce, T'zur
|what=Alysce is not saying yes to Search.
|where=Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=25
|month=6
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.08.06
|quote="If you don't Impress, maybe we can rethink the whole weyr thing."
|weather=Warm sunshine and cloudless skies make for a beautiful day and pleasantly warm evening. A breeze tempers the heat with no humidity lingering in the air.
|mentions=Quint
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon alysce beach.jpg, Icon t'zur.jpg,
|desc=The rest of the bowl may be barren, grass barely surviving at best, but
here by the lake, it's brilliantly green in the warmer months: thickening
and thriving in the silty, boulder-dotted soil just before it transitions
to soft sand and thence to the cool, clear water itself.

A large freshwater lake fed by a low waterfall, it not only provides
warm-weather bathing space for humans and dragons, but has one end fenced
off as a watering hole for the livestock in the feeding grounds. The water
there is often muddier than the rest of the clear lake, whose shallows
drop off abruptly several yards out into deep water, and whose edge
undulates against the coarse-hewn bowl wall: here close enough to just be
bramble-covered rocks, there far enough away that a narrow land bridge
divides the main lake from a smallish pond. Between are several rocky
outcroppings that form excellent makeshift diving points, though only one
-- across the bridge -- has a set of narrow, slippery, quite possibly
tempting stairs.

Warm sunshine and cloudless skies make for a beautiful day and pleasantly
warm evening. A breeze tempers the heat with no humidity lingering in the
air.
|log=It is a perfect day. The sun, the breeze; there's even the sound of laughter carried from further on the shore, where two weyrbrats play in the water. There's the perfect balance between a crowd and busy, enough going on to be ''entertaining'' without feeling like everyone is bumping together. Alysce even has enough of her own beach to spread out a towel without anyone in too close of a range and she lies shamelessly in a red bathing suit, under the tempered heat of the sun, with her discarded clothes bundled up into a pillow under her head. She's watching, currently, a brownrider, needlessly shirtless but who's complaining, washing his dragon in the lake a bit off.

It's sunny indeed, and the brightness gives even Tziveth's near-black shade a bronze glow as he circles above the lake and lands on the shoreline. Perhaps it's coincidence that he lands near Alysce, or perhaps it's just that she's picked a spot where no one else is, and thus perfect for landing. High atop, T'zur's muttering to himself -- or maybe to his dragon -- sliding down and hitting the ground neatly before reaching to undo the straps, still dressed in all his flight gear. He takes a couple of steps back, and the bronze takes off, shedding sand in his wake as he circles up... and up, and ''up''. "Faranth, Tz. I thought you wanted the lake?" there's a furrow of brow creasing T'zur's expression as he tugs off his goggles, head tipped back to watch the bronze rise.

Alysce's gaze pulls away from the lake to follow Tziveth; she's never seen him before and a bronze so dark-- It seems to surprise her, her brows drawing slightly together as she watches the dragon land nearby. She may be even ''more'' surprised when T'zur dismounts, but the emotion is wiped quickly away by annoyance as the bronze's departure spreads sand over her and her blanket. "Oh for fuck's sake," she curses sharply, all of her carefully careless repose ruined as she sits up to start brushing at the sand. "Did he ''have'' to do that?" The last is shot accusingly as her first words to his rider.

T'zur must be sweating up a storm, with flight jacket still buttoned up and sun, relentless as ever. And yet when Alysce's voice turns his attention that way, he forgets all about such mundanities. "Oh," he says, in that same tone one might say, ''it's you'', of an unwelcome visitor. Nevermind that his gaze flickers over her for a moment, it's soon followed by a baffled, "What are you even talking about?" Above, Tziveth is but a speck in the bright sky, all but invisible.

"He got ''sand'' every where," Alysce answers, the hint of annoyance in her words only growing sharper at T'zur's tone, as she swipes some off her blanket pointedly. "That was your dragon, I'm assuming. You know, he's like-- ''barely'' bronze." Her gaze lifts to try to find Tziveth again, briefly, before it returns to T'zur to linger there as he sweats.

"Well, you should know to move back when a dragon takes off," T'zur says, immediately leaping to the conclusion that ''she'' came closer and put her stuff down and lay down in the wrong spot. The thread of defensiveness of his dragon is audible in his voice, and in the way he crosses arms across his chest. "And ''you're'' barely even a girl, let alone a woman, but you don't see ''me'' go around pointing it out." Except for right now, when he uncrosses arms to gesture towards her mid-section, like there's something lacking.

"I was here first," Alysce counters immediately, dryly. Except then she adjusts the strap of her swim suit self-consciously, as he gestures, only shooting him a narrowed glare briefly before she challenges, "Oh, so I'm not your type now, am I? Because I've never had complaints before."

There's a hint of satisfaction in the bronzerider's pale blue eyes, before he shifts helmet and goggles to his left hand and starts pulling open his jacket. The latter earns a roll of T'zur's eyes, this time not rising to the bait, perhaps because he's sweating now, and divesting himself of his jacket has a greater priority.

Alysce's lips twitch briefly into a frown as he fails to rise to the bait, as he disengages. As he remains silent, though, she only huffs a sound that might be like a laugh before she adds, "Whatever. I hope you and your dragon are proud of yourselves." With that, she throws herself back on the blanket, reaching to readjust her pillowed clothes then closing her eyes as if she's no longer paying attention.

Perhaps he's not -- at least, the sudden grimace that passes across T'zur's expression might suggest otherwise. Finally free of his jacket, he hooks a finger into the collar, glancing at Alysce when she falls silent. After a moment, he steps closer, standing so that his shadow falls across most of her, and across her face, casting his expression into shadow, too, almost but not quite obscuring the sharp-eyed look he gives her. "You don't understand, because you're not a rider. It ''can't'' be explained."

One of Alysce's dark eyes peels open to look up at T'zur as he casts that shadow over her, only joined by the other after a second. She studies him for a long moment before speaking, and when she does, it's only a quiet rather than reactionary, "I don't understand what?"

T'zur's silent a moment, regarding her with that sharp expression, before he says, "Pride." His lips twitch; as he does there's another shadow that passes over, far distant, too far to see the near-black hide of the dragon. "Pride comes from ''love'', but you only love ''yourself''." The rider doesn't wait for those words to land, before he lobs more at her: "He thinks you should stand for Aidavanth and Akluseth's clutch. It's very possible he's merely reacting to your reaction, but I suppose you'll never know until after the eggs hatch, either way." ''He'', presumably, being the shadow high above.

"I ''love'' people, other than myself," is Alysce's response, his ''other'' words ignored for a moment as the apprentice moves to sit up, to ease some of the height difference between them perhaps or the way he's able to loom over her. But then she continues, building on, "I love my Journeyman. Most of the time. And if I stand-- Well, that's over then, isn't it?" She pauses, her gaze flicking over his shadowed face and then shifting to sweep over the skies briefly. "Or ''this'' is over and I leave the Weyr. So, you don't understand, either, because you're not a crafter."

It's hard to tell whether the sudden smile of T'zur's is in response to her assertion that she loves other people, or because she sits up. He eases his position slightly, shifting so that he still obscures the sun from her, leaving him framed by it. The bronzerider gives a considerably unhelpful shrug as to her guess whether accepting would mean it was over or not. "I'm not a crafter," he agrees on that much. He's deliberately neither encouraging nor discouraging, just watching her keenly as she muses aloud.

"So, I don't need your dragon ''messing'' with me because I pointed out that he's barely a bronze," Alysce replies to his unhelpfulness, her fingers brushing down bare legs and wiping at invisible sand that clings there. "You know, I didn't even say he was ''ugly''. He's a pretty dragon, just not even bronze. It's weird." Her gaze slides up to T'zur again even as her shoulder shrugs up carelessly.

"Dragons don't take offense to the prattlings of inelegant non riders who can't comprehend," T'zur explains, like this is some well-known fact. And then he grins, abruptly: "And neither do ''they'' hold grudges," with the grin turning into somewhat of a smirk. "No mind to me if you refuse because you're too dumb to see what's offered," he says, as he stretches out a hand towards her.

Alysce exhales a breath that is only partly a laugh, even as she tells him, "Hey fuck you, I am ''very'' elegant. I'm a ''harper''." Dark eyes sweep over the hand briefly, and it takes a moment, but she ''does'' slide her hand into his. "''They'' don't take hold grudges but ''you'' do, is what you mean?"

The upward jerk of T'zur's brows suggests that he's not very convinced on the topic of her elegance. "Take it however you may, ''harper''. Or should I say ''candidate''?" he amends, as she takes his hand. With a slight shift of his weight, he uses the hand to try and pull her to her feet. "We ought to get you a knot and onto the Headwoman's list. I imagine she'll allow you to continue your crafter's duties, if you wish." The grin that follows, this time, is lopsided, but somehow amused all the same.

Alysce is light and easy to pull, and it helps that she doesn't fight against being pulled to her feet. But once there, she ''does'' start to yank her hand away with a quick frown, "Wait, hey. Hold on. I never said ''yes''. I--." A pause, before she is suggesting lightly, "Let's go back to your weyr, instead?"

T'zur doesn't seem set on keeping hold of her, and when she pulls away, he releases his grip. His brows go upwards, "No?" His head tilts as his gaze travels over her body for a moment, with a slight, growing smile. "I would say that I'm not that type of bronzerider, but I am," he snaps his fingers together for a moment. "But, you're not really my ''type'', candidate."

There's a brief narrowing of Alysce's dark eyes, even as she flicks black hair over one shoulder before leaning over to start folding up her blanket and gathering her things. "Now should I go sulk and insist we can't be friends?" counters the apprentice-- candidate back. But when she straightens with her things, her gaze only drags over T'zur without any more fight. She adds: "I'll find my own knot. I have to go tell someone first."

"Your farewell," T'zur allows, with a gesture towards the bowl. He tugs free hand through mostly-sweaty hair, grinning abruptly: "If you don't Impress, maybe we can rethink the whole weyr thing." But, presumably, not the ''friends'' thing.

"''You'' can rethink it; that was a one time offer," will have to do as a 'good bye', as Alysce turns on a heel to start back in the direction of his gesture. She doesn't even stop to drag back on her clothes, in a bit of a hurry.

There's a snort that might be amusement or something else, but T'zur lets her have the last word. Perhaps it's coincidence that a sky-high shadow trails her for most of the way back towards the Weyr, at least while she's outside.
|Categories=Search Logs
}}

Logs:Dance Partners

2016-08-02T01:24:15Z

Meg: Created page with "{{Log |who=Olivya, T'zur |what=Two dragonriders meet at a gather; two dragons meet in dark and dangerous minds. |where=Keroon Hold, Benden Area |involves=Fort Weyr, High Reach..."

{{Log
|who=Olivya, T'zur
|what=Two dragonriders meet at a gather; two dragons meet in dark and dangerous minds.
|where=Keroon Hold, Benden Area
|involves=Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|day=8
|month=6
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.30
|quote="Is dancing just about the partner, then, not about the act itself?"
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon olivya amused.gif, Icon t'zur.jpg,
|log=It is below the slopes of Keroon's mountainous hold that the gather grounds stretch, curved and hugging an outcropping of rock to one side of the winding road that leads up to the Hold above. But below, as the sun dies at the edge of Keroon's endless plain, the party carries on. Glows are uncovered and the band continues to play, even as most shops start to close for the evening and dragons try to catch the last rays of light on any bit of rock afforded to them. One of these, of course, is Ivraeth; her lush, abundant thoughts seeped with the heat that lingers from the day. Her rider has long since shed her red jacket onto an empty chair next to her, her blonde curls pulled back from her neck in the heat. Whoever she came with has abandoned her, but it doesn't seem like she minds. No, she sits at a table near one of the drink stalls overlooking the dancing, and watches with a small smile.

While summer might have taken hold in the northern Weyrs, it's still pleasant to slip away further south and enjoy the warmth and frivolity of a summer gather at a foreign Hold. Tziveth's chosen perch is already in darkness, hiding from the setting sun, the near-black toned bronze still and easily overlooked. T'zur, for his part, is decked out in his gather finest, a pale blue shirt and dark pants enough to hint he has marks enough for decent clothing, his affiliation pointedly not on display. He's one of those dancing in the middle, keeping time to the harper beat, switching partners with abandon. It's to the pretty brunette he ends the dance with that he leans to murmur something, but after a brief exchange, she departs one way, and he the other -- right past Olivya -- on a veritable beeline to the drink stalls.

Ivraeth does not overlook ''anything''; a tangled brush of vines reaches out towards Tziveth's mind, a creeping, encroaching thing as she twists to sweep a look over the bronze with a slow study, even if he's nearly impossible to see. Whether by coincidence, drawn by her own dragon's attention towards his, or by some other caught feeling or instinct, as T'zur passes, the Weyrlingmaster speaks up to tell him easily, "Done already? But it seemed like you were having a good time out there."

Tziveth is nothing. No, wait, he's not ''nothing'', but he is a ''dearth'' of things -- no light, welcoming or warmth in response to that approach, just an utter blackness at first: and then, in the far distance, an occasional sprinkle of star-like glitter, enough to entreat. Physical, he doesn't move, undisturbed by the sudden attention. T'zur slows, and grins as his eyes settle on the admittedly older woman that addresses him, gaze sweeping over her quickly. "I'm afraid my partner had a curfew, sadly. If she's to be home before full dark..." he spreads his hands as if to say, ''what can you do'', though his twist of lips may very well suggest he doesn't believe it.

"Is dancing just about the partner, then, not about the act itself?" challenges Olivya lightly back, curving a brow to T'zur and waiting expectantly for an answer much as she'd do to a weyrling. Ivraeth's mind holds a poison, a musky, subtle thing that works under the overabundance of everything else that makes her thoughts. In that blackness, she only blooms further, curious; that she gets rewarded for that curiosity only draws her attention unwavering to Tziveth.

"If I'm honest -- it's about ''both''," T'zur admits, wryly. He seems relaxed under that scrutinizing gaze, though there's a slight tip of head like he recognizes it, somehow. "Would you like a drink?" he offers, with a gesture towards the drink stalls. Perhaps ''rewarded'' is the wrong interpretation, for whenever Ivraeth nears the starry lights, they seem to drift further away, ever teasing, never caught, and nothing of Tziveth revealed.

Olivya's brow only inches briefly higher at his answer, but her lips twitch into a smile briefly as well. And she doesn't refute his answer as valid, instead only moving on to agree in a humored murmur, "I never say no to a handsome man offering to buy me a drink, darling." If she ever had her own, it's nowhere in evidence right now. Ivraeth will remain tangled there, ever blooming and chasing. At least for the foreseeable future, a focus and memory that many greens aren't known for. But she'll question too, as challenging as her rider, << Why? >> The single word encompasses more than his retreat or what he hides, those only a starting place of its syllable.

"You strike me as a drinker of fine, cold white wine, yes?" T'zur's head tips, waiting for assent, grinning. Amusement flares as a dark red thrum through the blankness of Tziveth's thoughts. Questions are good, but no good questions are answered -- at least not all of the time.

Olivya tips her chin in a nod, her own bright eyes lighting with amusement. "I can't even deny it to remain mysterious. I guess I am easier than I thought, aren't I?" she questions musingly, returning grin with a softer, momentary flicker of a smile. For a moment, there's the hint of musk, the brief enticement of promised lushness, of glowing and flights and satisfaction-- But Ivraeth doesn't pursue those promises further for her questions. They draw back, a tight bud that folds up again though the rest of her vines remain.

Whether she's merely humoring his guess, or he's on the mark, T'zur doesn't much seem to mind; what matters is she gave him the win. It earns a big grin, and an invisible hat-tip, before the young man strides confidently towards the drink stalls. It might even be difficult to tell that white's not ''his'' preference, given he brings back two glasses of the stuff, still cold, setting them on the table before he takes the seat next to Olivya. Even those enticements don't draw the elusive bronze out: no, Tziveth lies in wait, until it is she who has retreated. And then, subtle, measure by measure, dark tendrils creep along the vines, consuming and blackening them as it advances, seeking the source -- the heart of her.

"Thank you," Olivya says as he settles back at the table, reaching for her glass with a studying look over the younger man. But when she speaks again, it's only to continue with an easy, "I suppose I owe you at least my name for this. Liv." Her fingertips press to her chest in a gesture as she gives her name, before she lifts the glass for a quick, appreciative sip. Of course, once she's done, red lipstick has already marred the glass. "We could find a new partner for you. Any preferences?" Ivraeth withers as he consumes. There is the hint of started decay ahead of him, only part of a natural process, but one that few likely see except that he has encroached further than most. Whether the decay continues deeper or not, a sudden wall of glass blocks him from delving further. << No, >> is another single word.

"A pleasure, Liv," T'zur replies, lifting his glass as if in toast, relaxing into the chair as he takes a sip. There's a slight grimace -- perhaps suggesting this isn't his normal fare -- though he keeps drinking like it is. "My friends call me Tz," he says, pronouncing it Teezee. Her offer brightens his gaze, as he half turns. "I have a penchant for blondes," he admits, though it's anyone's guess whether he's just saying that because ''she's'' blonde. When the encroaching darkness reaches glass, it presses against it, straining for any weakness -- but only for a moment, before it fades, as formless as it never was, seemingly retreating -- except for that lingering dark that remains as far as he'd breached, wondering, questioning, ever-curious for what might drive such a creature.

Olivya will take that preference and shift to consider the young women around them seriously, only sliding a sideways look towards T'zur briefly before she suggests with a tip of her chin towards a young woman with short, blonde hair and soft features and wide eyes: "Her? She certainly has the look of someone to protect. I know some men like that." The last is only teased with a light drawl before she takes another longer sip of her wine. ''She'', at least, seems to be enjoying it, so it likely wasn't her simply humoring him. Poison streaks the glass, a steady threat there as Tziveth lingers so close, as Ivraeth hides behind it.

T'zur studies the indicated woman over the rim of his glass, grimacing: "She's taller than me. It would make dancing awkward." Other things, too, though he doesn't say ''that''. Tziveth is undaunted by the threat that poison presents; he lies in wait, passive and unthreatening, for the other to feel at ease.

"Long legs are good for dancing," Olivya counters without missing a beat, also not saying what ''other'' things they could be good for as she offers the bronzerider a smile. "But, ok. No one taller." Her light gaze sweeps back out to the dance floor once again. The next blonde she points out with her glass in a gesture is petite enough that she likely only comes to T'zur's chest. She is slim, her blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun and her Gather dress a cornflower blue. "Does shorter work?" Ivraeth, captured behind the glass just as easily as it holds Tziveth back, only waits restlessly. She does not try to push him back though, and as they both wait, the decay rots away, only to start a new cycle of tendrils pushing through the previous deadfall.

Once more, the bronzerider regards the indicated blonde, with a thoughtful tip of head. "Shorter works," he agrees, easily, "As long as she can dance." He sets aside his glass, as if making to straighten. "If she can't, will you take pity on a poor, rejected man, and offer ''him'' a dance?" The new growth makes it out a certain distance, but those nearer to where the dark tendrils of Tziveth's thoughts wait wither the nearer they come -- if nothing else pointing out where he lingers.

Olivya's lips tilt into a crooked smile, even as she answers, "Of course, but how do you know that ''I'' can dance?" They wither, decay, and then they will shoot up again. Tziveth's presence only forces the cycle into over drive, as it maintains a much slower process away from him, but everywhere it remains relentless. << Out, >> finally comes from Ivraeth in command, despite their relative colors and genetic hierarchies.

"The same way I knew what sort of drink you'd prefer," T'zur replies, doing his best to sound mysterious and all-knowing at the same time. With a tip of his glass in her direction like a silent salute, he rises, striding almost unerringly for the blonde she pointed out. There's an exchange of conversation, before the young man leads his partner to the dance floor soon after. It looks like Liv's off the hook. There's barely a moment of resistance, as if she were a queen issuing an order; Tziveth doesn't so much retreat as... ''disperse'', darkness lightening, and that heavy presence of his fading as well, into nothing.
}}

Logs:Dangers

2016-07-30T03:09:22Z

Meg: Created page with "{{Log |who=Alysce, Jo{{!}}K'hal |what=Alysce wins her bet with Jo? |where=Riders' Lounge, High Reaches Weyr / Southern Continent |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=24 |month=4 |..."

{{Log
|who=Alysce, Jo{{!}}K'hal
|what=Alysce wins her bet with Jo?
|where=Riders' Lounge, High Reaches Weyr / Southern Continent
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=24
|month=4
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.19
|quote="People'll say ''any''thing to a stranger."
|mentions=Jo
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon alysce flirt.jpg,
|log=It’s really late in the Rider’s Lounge, but there’s still a few dragonriders lingering about with their last drinks and card games. The bartender hasn’t done last call yet, but it’s obvious that it’s coming soon. Most tables are unoccupied save for three - and only one is currently home to just one rider drinking by himself. He’s a mountain of a man with dirty blonde hair and a mean look about his features as he is found hunched over his half-filled mug, staring ahead at nothing. None of the occupied tables give him notice, nor do they look his way - If anything, those present seem content to let the brooding beast of a bronzerider brood into his silence.

Getting a lift up to the rider’s lounge for the last couple nights hasn’t been too difficult, a promise made here and an exchanged favor there, but going unnoticed as a harper in a room full of dragonriders? Perhaps more so. It helps that Alysce wears no knot; it also helps that she is clad in a dark leather jacket that mimics dragonrider lines, except that it lacks pockets to keep a trimmer line, with matching boots and beige pants that cling to the shape of her legs. She also keeps mostly to herself, exchanging some few words with those that choose to sit next to her, but otherwise, nursing a drink alone. Tonight, as the night wears on, that jacket has been shed and placed on the chair next to her, revealing a finely woven, white sleeveless tunic underneath. The stuffy weyr and the Spring evening could account for this, except that now--.

In the nearly empty cavern, Alysce’s chair scraping against the floor as she pushes to her feet might even be audible. There’s a slight sway from the lithe apprentice, but then she is winding her way through the maze of tables towards the bar in the back. That is, until ‘’something’’ trips her up right near the bronzerider brooding, her half-empty beer sloshing down her own shirt and plastering the thin knit to her curves. “Oh, shit. Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t get any on you, did I?” is expressed with concern all for him, however, as the harper flushes.

K’hal appears to not notice much beyond his current drink of choice - until Alysce is suddenly there and some of the beer indeed gets on his shoulder. He throws a dark glare her way, and yes, his blue-eyed gaze lands right on her beer-soaked chest. It doesn’t lighten the gruff-sounding ire from him: “Watch where you’re fuckin’ going.” Eyes flick to meet her flushed face, then back to her chest before he shifts back to his drink.

Alysce’s nose wrinkles slightly at his response, a brief gesture that is washed away with a quick smile as she answers, “Sorry, again. I am such a klutz.” Her fingers lift to brush at the beer on his shoulder, bringing her to only lean closer as she tries to ‘’help’’. “I guess I should take it as a sign I shouldn't get another, maybe. It’s late, anyways, right?” Wry amusement plays on the question that she asks rhetorically.

Blue eyes spy on those fingers that his shoulder, her lean drawing his attention more than her words despite him saying back, “Bet you are,” on her being a klutz. His mug lingers around his mouth as she speaks more, seeming to be lost in thought about something before a snort escapes and K’hal says back, “Sounds like, this your way of bumming a free drink off of me by tripping into me and showing off your tits. Which look nice, by the way. You can jiggle them in front of me all you like. You ain’t getting a free drink off of me, though. Not for some ‘’tit-jingling’’.” It seems to be a word to him.

‘’Tit-jingling’’. If anything were to threaten to break Alysce’s act, professional harper that she is, it seems to be that. Her lips flatten for a moment, dark eyes sweeping over K’hal before she again resumes her smile before she offers, “No, I’m not looking for any free drinks. I get enough of ‘’those’’. Something more exciting, though--.” Her words trail off in suggestion, her thumb dragging against leather for one lingering moment before she pulls away and straightens.

“Excitin’,” K’hal echoes that word in his husky voice, eyeing her from where he sits. “You came all this way, just to get fucked by some rider? And not just ‘’any’’ rider, either,” at this, he’s up from his seat, facing her. Crowding into her personal space if she doesn’t back away fast enough from him. He’s there, in her face, his breath the smell of ale. He’ll grab her wrist if she doesn’t get away, towering her over her as he leans and says, “You’d run behind your ma’s skirts if you know what’s good for you,” he warns with a touch of leer in his tone. “I don’t play with delicate food,” he says with pointed meaning.

“No, not just any rider,” Alysce repeats in agreement, tension thrumming through her body as he catches her wrist. “Someone dangerous; someone interesting.” The harper doesn’t flinch, though. Hair gets tossed over one shoulder as she peers up at K’hal, a challenge written in her expression. “Are you going to turn away a rabbit if it steps deliberately into the trap?” The act, surely, has fallen clearly away now. No more smiley, klutzy young woman stands there.

“You know what you’re asking?” K’hal tosses her challenge right back at her, not letting her wrist go. The other riders that casts looks in their direction appear wary, but he doesn’t seem to notice them. If anything, there’s nothing to suggest he’s playing, either. “Rabbits can’t handle me.” Still, with his free hand he reaches for his mug and drains the last of its contents - all while keeping an eye on the harper.

Alysce is shameless in the face of the other riders watching. In fact, she only seems to grow emboldened by it as she leans closer, closer to the man built so much larger and taller than she is while pressing up onto her tiptoes to erase ‘’some’’ of that difference. “I’m asking a dangerous man to take me back to his weyr and fuck me,” she says dryly. There is a hint of a laugh, as she continues to add, “Don’t worry about me; I can handle myself.”

Silence is what meets Alysce’s bold words, the bronzerider staring hard at her as she speaks. K’hal lets her close that distance, watching her like a predator to prey with nothing but a straight face on display. It’s only when she talks about handling herself that he leans over - close to her lips as if he was going to kiss her, and then towards her ear before he drops, “Cute. Who sent you?”

“You’re assuming even if someone ‘’sent’’ me that I’d listen,” Alyse points out with a finely-edged humor to the words and only a bare hitch of her breath in anticipation as he leans closer. If she is disappointed that there is no kiss, it doesn't seem to phase her. “I am just a Harper looking for something exciting and a good story. If you can't ‘’handle’’ that--.” Her shoulder rolls up in a careless gesture, for all that it's obviously been practiced.

“Oh, so you’re not a ‘good girl’, is it?” K’hal counters that, his hold on her wrist tightening a bit more. “That don’t tell me nothing. You could still be working for someone, harper or no.” He could add more, surely. He could say more, indeed, but when he looks over past Alysce and notices that they have drawn attention from those in the bar, he frowns a fraction before growling out to her, “Fuck stories. You can come back with me and Dakketh, but there won’t be much talking.” He steps from her towards the entrance, finally releasing her from his grip with the intentions of heading towards the ledge with his waiting dragon.

Alysce only quirks a crooked smirk for the question, a tinge of pain briefly flickering across her expression as his grip tightens. Still, she answers, “Harpers are always working for ‘’someone’’, but I can guarantee you that none of my fellow crafters sent me here.” It seems she takes ‘Fuck stories’ as a challenge, though, as she only exhales a sound like a laugh and a simple, “We’ll see.” But then he’s moving to leave and she scrambles after him, only stopping to scoop up her jacket and assure those watching, “Just a little lovers’ spat. He just loves me so much that he gets a bit too protective.” Whether they believe her, if they have over heard anything, is dubious. Whether she cares--. She’s out onto the ledge and out of their presence soon enough, anyways.

“Ain’t a crafter that would send you,” mutters K’hal, but it’s not something he’s currently going to contest while they’re in public. He’s already on the ledge when Alysce speaks up to those watching, the riders not looking entirely convinced, but seeming content enough to keep in their seats, too. Outside on the ledge, the bronzerider is already on Dakkath, the pair watching when she emerges in a heavy silence. The dragon doesn’t look friendly nor pretty, either. K’hal will silently reach down to pull the harper apprentice up to climb before him before the dragon launches up, up, up….Between. Not towards his home weyr at all.

Well, Alysce asked for danger and excitement. Still, as she settles on the dragon with a little wiggle that is probably ‘’not’’ required to get comfortable, it is clear that she was only expecting the latter, not where they end up. The apprentice tenses as they go higher, her lips opening to shout ‘’something’’ back at the bronzerider, but Between rips the words from her lips with its oppressive quiet. Her eyes close in Between, tensing and counting, only opening once she feels the rush of wind again.

Wiggles and all, K’hal doesn’t seem to register any of it. Between takes them somewhere warmer than the Reaches, the deep blues of the ocean the only other indication that they’re somewhere south at night. Dakkath swings over towards the beach, seeming to be looking for a particular place to land. When he does, it’s near a grove of trees where a large hammock has been drawn, a dead bonfire has its place and a gathering of crate placed together as if some ship had decided to abandon them. The bronze lands and K’hal’s swinging done to dismount, only offering up his hand to Alysce once his boots hit the sand. There’s even an impatient stiffness in his frame as he holds out his hand to her, all played out with not a word from him.

“You know, it’s considered ‘’polite’’ to give a girl warning if you’re going to whisk her away. Or are you ‘’trying’’ to play into the stereotype of bronzeriders taking girls?” Alysce questions first, her own annoyance playing in a thin edge of the words before she accepts the hand to slide down Dakkath’s side. She doesn’t thank the dragon, or bow, or otherwise acknowledge him like most who live in a Weyr would. Instead, her dark eyes remain on K’hal, a challenge if ever there were one. But eventually, she drags her gaze away to sweep over the beach, taking in what she saw from above but closer now.

K’hal looks like he’s going to answer any of what Alysce says….but the moment her hand is claimed and she’s off the dragon, he has her up against the nearest tree. Up against ‘’him’’. Up against a sharp blade to her neck. It doesn’t draw blood, but it’s indeed there with the potential to. His face close to hers along with his body against the tree, “Aye now,” he breathes, seeming to be barely contained. “Let’s start this over again and proper, now, ya wily little cocktease. Who. Do. You. Work. For. Leedris? The Lady Rola?” Threat and lust war for dominance in his tone, his free hand already working to secure a hold of her waist against him.

It’s the knife that finally breaks through Alysce’s bravado, panic sparking in the dark eyes that lift to K’hal with the knife between them. She barely breathes, pulse racing as she gives up her secret without a second thought, cursing, “Fucking shells, Jo. Jo sent me. Ok? I’m not ‘’working’’ for anyone. Jo and I have a bet.” She doesn’t move, not with a knife against her neck.

K'hal still doesn't speak much, watching Alysce finally freak out with a stony face that betrays nothing. There's only the brief flicker of recognition of Jo's name in his blue eyes that searches hers for any falsehoods, not letting up the knife nor the proximity of his body as he echoes, "A bet. What kind of bet?"

The obvious search gets an obvious question, as Alysce challenges with a sharp edge of fear and frustration on her words, "Why the fuck would I lie to you about that, when you dragonriders could talk to each other in an instant and find out? I'm not ''stupid''." Given that she's in this predicament, well. Finally, she moves, her arm lifting to wrap fingers around the wrist of K'hal's hand holding the blade, but it's a gentle movement that she makes to try to pry away the edge from her throat. It seems fear only fleetingly won over bravado and the belief the young hold that they're invulnerable, since she adds dryly: "I am not going to talk to you while you hold a knife to me. If you want to know about our bet, you can put that away."

The knife seems to stay right at her throat. K'hal doesn't seem to have any intention of moving it away until....the very last second, many moments later. He reverses it, dropping his arm down, but his other hold around her waist remains as he watches her unnervingly. After a considerable amount of time, "People lie in fear," he says steadily, his hold on her firming as his face moves close....close to the side of her neck....and there's an indulgent sniff. It's as if he had detected a feast. "People'll say ''any''thing to a stranger." His nose still close to her skin, he goes quiet and seems to wait for her to say more.

Relief is evident as the knife drops away from her throat, tension melting from Alysce's lithe form with it. "Harpers don't," answers the apprentice as if it's the truth. "Every lie, every word that comes from our lips is purposeful." Yet, her head tips, allowing more access to her neck even as she moves finally into the large frame that pins her. And that hand on his wrist drops away, to curve an arm around his shoulder and bury fingers into blonde hair instead.

"And what's a harper doing with betting with Jo?" K'hal vocalizes now, the knife seeming to have been slipped away somewhere on him in order to free a hand that cups her throat, and then drags lower. "Harpers aren't her ''style''." Words are low, and callused fingers reach the swell of breast when she buries fingers into his loose hair. "And what does it have to do with ''me''?" he now asks aloud, his head angling towards that exposed neck before his teeth graze her right there. It's a sharp nip, but it doesn't break skin.

A small noise escapes from Alysce's throat at the nip, immediately arching into him as her fingers tighten into his hair. Her words, though softened by a sudden flood of want, are still sassy when she answers, "Well, let's see. I came up to you in a bar and asked you to fuck me. What do ''you'' think this mysterious, impossible to guess bet is about?" A pause, before she continues, giving up more without being prompted, "We were discussing being dangerous. But, there's more ways to be dangerous than wielding a knife, aren't there?"

There's a 'huff' of noise in response to Alysce's own, a sort of sharp exhale that has him closing his free hand about her covered breast. In disbelief, he suddenly leans away to look at her face as he drops, "She asked you to fuck me?" There's a snort to follow and her last earns a brief, "There are, but I'm not good at any of those." So the knife it is. But suddenly he's tugging her towards him, and he's going down, down to the sand and landing on his backside. If she falls with him, his arms would guide her to straddle him.

Alysce isn't pulling away, so down she goes. And while he might be the one to guide her to straddle him, it's all her that presses a splayed hand flat against his chest, as if that could possibly pin him. His question is answered by the apprentice leaning closer to capture his lips demandingly with her own.

K'hal is a man of few words, certainly. Alysce really doesn't have to do or say much to convey her intentions, and the bronzerider really doesn't delay what was obvious anyway. Once down and straddled, and her lips on his, his hands nearly rip her top off to get at bare breasts, all the while his kiss is equally demanding. He'll even one-up her with a thrust of his hips against her before really putting to action the sort of danger that the harper apprentice was seeking.

There's not even a second thought spared for clothing that might be ruined; that is a problem for another time. Right now, the problem Alysce faces is shedding the rest of the clothing between them as quickly as possible, and even then, some items are left on in the rush to bare what is ''necessary''. It's only after, sweaty and satisfied, that she stops to appreciate the broad frame underneath her, her hand dragging across the plane of his stomach slowly. "You know, we could have ''started'' with this," she tells him, words twisting wryly. "But I ''think'' you owe me an apology. At least for calling me a cocktease."

One like K'hal seems to appreciate the enthusiasm of one such as Alysce. His aggression bares forth in the way he claims her, and when all is said and done, the bronzerider's skin is sandy and sweaty against the harper's lithe form. "I've had a few run ins with women that nearly stabbed me to death under the pretense of trying to get into my pants," is his excuse, and he doesn't appear sorry for it. "You're not a cocktease," he decides to say then as he looks over at her with half-lidded eyes, "but you're still not good at answering questions, either. I would've fucked you sooner if you had."

"Oh? Tell me about ''those'' women," Alysce suggests lightly, her fingers finding a scar on his chest even as she asks it and brushing over it. "Were they prettier than me?" She stretches slowly, teasingly against him even as she asks it, not seeming to mind at all the sand or sweat. And for not being good at answering questions? Well, she only flashes a crooked, shameless smile.

"They liked knives and my dick," K'hal is not shy in saying. "Pretty. Can't remember much..." Well, Alysce stretches and he wraps an arm about her, his voice trailing before a hand reaches down to slap her backside. "Never been with a harper before," he admits how, eyeing her. "My type isn't their sort. You were ''that'' hard up to take Jo up on her offer? She must've offered you something good in return."

A small squeak escapes as he smacks her, followed by a wrinkle of her nose even as Alysce questions in a challenge, "What ''type'' is a harper?" She curves closer as his arm wraps, but the first order of business seems to be to drop her lips to the curve of his shoulder and bite it, lightly. "A favor. And a bet is a bet. A challenge is-- well, a challenge."

K'hal's lips pinch close to grin at that squeak before he answers her on harpers. "Follows the rules," he answers her with a meaningful look. "Teaching others to follow the rules. Telling stories, and singing stories. I'm holdless-stock. harpers didn't much have anything to do with us." There's a deep rumble for her bite and he seems to be contemplating the bet made. "What would you use the favor for?" he asks her then.

"That's obvious; if you met many harpers, you wouldn't think we're all rule followers," Alysce answers blithely, her own brow only quirking back to the meaningful look, daring. Then she shrugs her shoulder, a practiced, careless roll upwards before she drops her head onto the shoulder that she just abused. "I don't know. I don't know that I really need a favor. But--." A pause, before she allows, "Maybe something. It depends."

"So you risk a knife to the throat for a favor you don't know what to do with?" K'hal seems more amused than anything. "Maybe I do need to study you harpers again." He leans over to bury his face in between her breasts, one hand reaching to cup one before he's sitting up. "Need to get back," he states then, eyeing his dragon waiting nearby. "You can come back with me. Make those little noises again in my bed. I won't slit your throat."

"I don't think it's only harpers that know a favor is always useful." The rest of Alysce's wisdom is saved for another day, though, as he starts to move and she does the same. Sand is shaken out of black hair with a ruffle of fingers as the harper moves to sit as well, and she reaches for her shirt to pull on the clothing regardless of the state while her gaze slides after K'hal's to the bronze dragon. But her only answer is a sarcastic, "Well, I'm not ''walking'' back, so--." Though, ending up in his bed does happen.

Grinning, "Unless you're expecting to ''dance'' your way over..." K'hal has his clothes at least somewhat presentable before he's mounted and offering her a hand up with him. Of course, once back in the Reaches, the rest of the night with little much else until morning. Especially clothing.
}}

Logs:Intro Courses

2016-07-18T02:46:58Z

Meg: Created page with "{{Log |who=Alysce, Jo, M'ron, Kait |what=Alysce and Jo finally, formally meet. This is probably trouble for the future. |where=Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High..."

{{Log
|who=Alysce, Jo, M'ron, Kait
|what=Alysce and Jo finally, formally meet. This is probably trouble for the future.
|where=Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=21
|month=4
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.17
|quote="So a dragon doesn' get ya hot'n bothered, but murderin' does? Shit, harper. Maybe yer in the wrong profession after all."
|weather=The weather today is very pleasant. A few clouds chase each other across the mostly clear skies, and a soft breeze picks up in the afternoon to make for a fine day.
|mentions=Quint, R'hin, K'hal
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon alysce innersmile.jpg, Icon jo bad.jpg,
|desc=Stalactites hang high above this enormous cavern like a jagged chandelier
or an inversion of the Spires themselves, but shadows cling to them
instead of light. Below lie great tables arranged in rows, each large
enough to serve a fighting wing, while in the nooks and alcoves around the
cavern's edge sit more sensibly-sized tables, from six- and eight-seaters
down to intimate spots for just a couple of diners. The only really open
space is around the kitchen entrance, smelling of food and rarely quiet,
and by the nearby serving tables with their long buffet of the day's
offerings.

Tapestries on the smooth walls -- some faded and others newly woven --
only slightly mute the sea of sound when a meal is in full swing, but they
add cheerfulness augmented by the glowlight from wall sconces and the
centerpieces of each table. Still, shadows always creep along the ceiling
and into the mouths of the exits -- the myriad small hallways at one end
of the cavern and, at the other, the twisting tunnel to the bowl near an
array of coathooks and and hatracks -- and late at night, when the glows
are allowed to dim, the chamber can seem very dark indeed.
|log=With the weather as pleasant as it is, as the Weyr transitions into spring proper, there aren't many who linger over lunches indoors. Sure, many people come and go but there are plenty of spaces open at each table. So, perhaps it's not as egregious that Alysce has set herself up at one of the tables with her hides and scrolls spread out in such a way that the spaces next to her are unoccupiable. The harper's apprentice doesn't wear knot or harper blue, but the sheets and sheets of music might be a tip off to her profession, or that she's currently bent over another piece of melody, muttering words under her breath. Words that sound like curses rather than anything lyrical, it must be said.

It's a rare spotting to find Jo in the living caverns. Entering, she's flanked by a riding couple with a sort of rough look about them as they move together to grab some food and drink. The wingsecond is deep in conversation with the pair as their hands take up bowls and plates and cups, and it becomes a balancing act before once they have all that they need and take a look for a place to take up. Alysce's spread gets Jo's attention since she's taking up a good portion of a table, more so than any other table with free seats to be had, so she heads on over to hers. It's not her that speaks, though. It's the blonde woman flanking her to the right. "Bum a few seats here?" she asks, stepping before Jo.

Alysce's dark gaze lifts from her music to sweep over first one rough looking rider to another to the last. Her nose wrinkles, slightly but it does, and then she answers blandly, "I'm busy." If harpers are supposed to be charming, well-- It looks like ''this'' one has no interest in attempting it today as her gaze drops back down to what's in front of her. Of course, that leaves her spread hides defenseless if someone just wanted to push them aside.

She is met with dead silence. With Alysce's head down and back to her work, she has probably missed the imperceptible nod Jo gives to the burly man to her left to proceed - that is, he reaches forward for those poor and defenseless hides. He shifts them to clear off space for 3 people, setting the hides to Alysce's side as he answers her with, "Didn't ask how you were doing." He gestures back to the women and they take up the free space on the opposite-but-adjacent side of the apprentice. He looks at the hides he had vacated once his hands are free of his meal before asking, "What is all that?" - "Music, looks like," comes from Jo, finally breaking her silence once her bowl and cup is down. Sticking a spoon in her stew, "Yer one of Quint's, aren' ya? Think I've seen ya 'bout here."

As soon as the hides start moving, Alysce's attention snaps up again and she watches that burly rider move them with dark, hooded eyes. She only offers a huff of annoyance for his question, snapping a simple, "Not any of your business." It's Quint's name that earns Jo her attention, however, and the apprentice is quick to study her with a lingering look. "Yes, I'm Quint's apprentice. And you're dragonriders," she points out. "I'm sure I've seen you around as well."

The man snorts into the meal he's currently inhaling at Alysce's answer to him and the blonde woman comments dryly, "Another stuffy crafter. Honestly, Jo, I don't even know why you want to bother eating in here." She returns Alysce's ire as Jo returns her scrutiny with one of her own as she slowly eats. "We are," she says on them being riders. "'M sure ya have. Hard to get away with this knot-" she gestures at the wingsecond knot she dons on her black leathers "-in tow. Name's Jo. Blue Tacuseth's. He's M'ron 'n she's Kait. I think Quint told me yer name, but...." it's not coming to her and she's frowning a bit as if trying to remember.

"Did it ever occur to you that I might not be a stuffy fucking crafter but I just hate ''you''?" tosses Alysce back to the woman's comment, matching tone for tone as she curves a brow upwards like the edge of a dagger. It doesn't seem to occur to the apprentice that she might be the least dangerous person at a table full of them, but then, she's young. And being young means she's invulnerable. "It's Alysce," she answers for Jo even as she drags the hides that are closer to M'ron away, tucking them under what she's currently working on.

Alysce's quip earns open laughter from Jo as Kait opens her mouth to speak. The bluerider lays a hand on the blonde's shoulder as she asks, "Oh darlin'. Kait never did anythin' to ya to deserve that. She can be ornery, but hate's a strong word." Jo pauses on her food to regard the apprentice and the name given, nodding. "That's right. Alysce. A harper with a dirty mouth. Quint never told me 'bout ''that''." If anything, she seems both amused and pleased by it.

"Does Quint tell you a lot, then?" Alysce questions in turn, a challenge buried there as she watches Jo in turn under the fan of dark lashes. She doesn't answer what Kait may or may not have done to deserve that word, instead focusing on the last bit.

Returning the study in kind, Jo is slow to shake her head briefly in the pause. "Quint reminds me of the sort of man that holds his cards close to his chest," and she presses both her hands to her own chest in emphasis. "Hands dropping for her cup, "We're not close," she tells her, "but a bond does form when one harper is the investigator of a murder yer involved in." This time, Kait snorts - and hers isn't the friendly sort as she drinks. Dark eyes flick briefly towards the blonde, then lands on the hides Alysce keeps to herself before nodding towards them. "Why music?"

The ease of some held tension in Alysce's shoulder is more visible as it leaves than that it was there in the first place; even then, it's a subtle thing as Jo answers on the part of her relationship with Quint. "Were you the one who murdered them?" she asks blandly, her own gaze sliding briefly to Kait for the snort. "Do you mean why am I working on music, or why am I a harper? Because the first, well. I am a harper."

"I was a mere witness to the act," Jo is brief in relating to her as she digs into her stew. Her tone matches the bland one Alysce uses. "Though, I can understand why ya would assume I was the murderer." Gesturing at herself, "I have that sort of face, I'm told." Looking towards the hides of music now, she clarifies for her, "Why a harper? Why a harper of music? Family business? Ambition?"

"Wow, you ask a lot of questions," Alysce deflects with a roll of her shoulder in a careless shrug, her fingers splaying over that top sheet of music that seems to be in progress, rather than anything already finished and sent from the hall. "Why does anyone do anything? It's something to do, for now." She turns it back, because of course she does, to ask, "Why dragonriders? Why bond to a dragon?"

"That's a big 'something' to do for now," M'ron notes offhandedly as he finishes his meal. From Jo, there's a slight shrug as she says, "I thought harpers ''liked'' questions. It's not as though I'm askin' ya if ya killed anybody before." Her grin is loaded and hard to read, but the bluerider seems to take Alysce's own questions in stride since she answers back, "'Cause it's useful to have one, I've found. 'Cause the pros outweighed the cons, for me. 'Cause I find a girl would fuck a 'rider outright once she finds out. Take yer pick."

"And what would you know about it?" is countered to M'ron's offhanded question, black hair flicked over a shoulder as Alysce twists to pin one look on M'ron before her gaze slides back to Jo. "Oh, yes. Those girls. They are fucking dimwits; I'm not one of them," she offers to the dragonrider. "A dragon between your thighs isn't all ''that'' impressive. The ability to murder-- I mean, maybe more."

"Know a lot more than you," comes from Kait instead of M'ron, coming to his defense. Eyes roll to Jo before she's up and collecting her emptied wares to put them away. Jo watches her leave before she turns back to Alysce with a knowing grin and a, "So a dragon doesn' get ya hot'n bothered, but murderin' does? Shit, harper. Maybe yer in the wrong profession after all."

The mature apprentice only huffs a disbelieving sound in turn for Kait's answer, but she doesn't press the point. Instead, Alysce answers to Jo wryly, "Or maybe I am. I wouldn't want to get any blood underneath my nails." She even lifts her hand to check perfectly manicured fingers as if they might have gotten some since the last time she looked. "Besides, I could only imagine how much Quint would disapprove if I slept with a murderer."

"'Less yer tell Quint 'bout every person ya fuck, then," Jo points out on the last, shaking her head. "I'm sure ya've done plenty of things that he wouldn' disapprove of, 'n he doesn' even know 'bout it." Pause. "So, yer gonna answer why're what?"

A laugh escapes in an exhale but Alysce only shrugs a shoulder upwards in regards to what she's done that would be disapproval worthy. Instead, she questions as if she's already forgotten, "Why what?"

Giving Alysce an amused but pointed look, Jo asks, "Why become a music harper? I doubt it's 'just because'. Too much work for all that, darlin'."

"Mm, not that much work. Born into it, some strings were pulled. I barely did anything," Alysce answers dismissively, as if it all doesn't matter to her, even as she shrugs a shoulder again in one practiced, careless motion.

"So no ambition?" There's a 'tsk' in there somewhere from Jo, and it's playful more than anything. "Well, may not've taken much to get into that, but it's still a lot of work if it's somethin' ya don' seem to care much for." She drains her cup before setting it down. "'Least ya get to travel. Hangin' out here in a Weyr, learnin' shit...better'n bein' stuck in some Hold."

Alysce smiles a smirkey thing, lingering on here lips as she answers, "Well, ''some'' ambition, just not about this." But she makes a soft, noncommittal noise for the rest, picking at the edge of her hide lightly. "The Weyr isn't so bad, if you can get past all the flights and the assholes. There are worse places. I like being Quint's apprentice. I hate teaching the youngsters. The easy travel is nice."

"Kait and I'll meet you in the baths," M'ron tells Jo as he gets up next with his stuff. Jo nods his way as he leaves them before she addresses Alysce with a wry, "Then what ''is'' yer ambition?" she has to ask. "'Less that's too personal a question for ya. 'N the Weyr ain' ''that'' bad. Nothin' wrong with assholes'n flights. Could be worse, I agree. I've been to worse." There's a pause to something said before she nods considerably before she says, "Quint's a good guy. Ain' a whole lotta those out there, darlin'."

Alysce's gaze flicks up as M'ron rises, but it isn't until he leaves that she asks Jo, "What, you aren't going with them? Going to let them out on their own?" The question for her ambition only receives a shrug and a hint of a smile, but no answer. She will agree flatly, "Yeah, Quint's a good guy. I'm not really interested in ''good guys'', though, so."

"Redfruit doesn' fall far from the tree, I see," is Jo's comment to Alysce not answering, and her hands briefly press to her own chest in indication of that before she addresses her friends. She shrugs on M'ron and Kait as she resumes her meal, stating, "The three'o us came here together'n the three'o us'll stick together. Good to have folks that got yer back, no matter. I'd do anythin' for'em, 'n they me. I see the type yer after. Ya like M'ron's type. Dangerous. ''Bad'' boys. Mm. Careful, darlin'," she drawls out, the lopsided grin being one that teases and warn at the same time. "Folks like us lick as well as ''bite''."

"You don't think I can handle it?" Alysce questions, a geniune question as she sweeps a gaze over Jo, tucking black hair behind her ear. "Everyone else seems to think I can handle myself." She pauses, an edged smile catching only the corners of her lips, before she adds, "And, you never know, I might be ''more'' dangerous."

"Don' know ya to answer that one," Jo is easy to counter back with a slight shrug. "Ya don' ''seem'' like trouble, either. Got the cheeky attitude down par, though. I'll give ya that. Doubt yer ''more'' dangerous. Go seduce one of my friends'n we'll see 'bout that." She doesn't seem to be serious, but then, it's hard to tell overall.

Amusement sparks in dark eyes for Jo's answer, and Alysce only offers a quick smirk as she asks as if it were a challenge, "Which one?"
"Kait," Jo raises the challenge, a slight brow lifting. "Or K'hal, if ya don' swing that way."

"K'hal. Not that I don't think I can overcome my first impression with Kait, but--," Alysce says with an edge of humor, tossing her hair over the other shoulder as she says it. "Do I get an introduction? Or should I find him and introduce myself?"

"I'd offer myself," Jo is wry in this, "but I ain' exactly an intro course for the innocent." Chuckling low, "K'hal it is," she seems to continue to play along, nodding once. "No introductions. If ya wanna play the high stakes, ya gotta do the work yerself." Considering something in the pause, the wingsecond adds, "Big guy. Tall. Blonde. Built like he's pushed trees over cliffs all his life. Rides bronze. Dakketh."

Alysce quirks a brow upwards at Jo's assessment, before she offers dryly, "I'm not exactly an innocent. So, you know, fuck you. But not really. I'll stick with K'hal." With that, she gathers up her hides, pushing them together before she stands. "And if I manage it? Are there stakes here?"

Laughing, "Not exactly's not completely, either," Jo banters back as she gathers up her wares from the table. She stands with Alysce, the last getting an amused, "What, road cred ain' 'nough?" She chuckles some more as she steps away, turning back at the last minute to look over her shoulder. "Alright," she says to her then. "Ya'll get a favor. Just one," with a lift of one finger. "So spend it wisely if ya get one from me."

"The cred would have been enough," Alysce calls back teasingly, a smile flashing at her lips. "But, too late now! One favor it is." The hides are gathered to her chest, lip caught between her teeth for one thoughtful moment as she watches Jo. But if there's anything else she has left to ask before she starts her challenge, she doesn't manage to voice it.

We'll see, 'bad girl'," Jo puts slight emphasis on the name, the amused look pointed at Alysce. She notes the pause as she's about to leave, turning to lean over and lower her voice to her as she says, "Ain' no shame in failin'. 'N definitely don' spend more'n what ya got, if ya catch my meanin'." Her gaze lingers long to relay the meaning further before she's heading out.
}}

Logs:Lyrisa's First Turnday

2016-07-17T19:32:32Z

Meg: Created page with "{{Log |who=Quinlys, C'ris |what=In which Quinlys and C'ris discuss possible futures. |where=Starry Dreams Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=1 |month=4 |..."

{{Log
|who=Quinlys, C'ris
|what=In which Quinlys and C'ris discuss possible futures.
|where=Starry Dreams Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=1
|month=4
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.17
|quote="Before we know it, she's going to want to stand for a clutch and Impress and is going to be fumbling through weyrlinghood."
|mentions=Jocelyn, Irianke, Farideh, Drex
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon quinlys casual.jpg, Icon c'ris blue.jpg,
|desc=Past the second heavy curtain, the passage widens into a
small-but-not-tiny cavern. Stone shelves of varying heights and sizes
provide ample storage from trinkets, many of which have been filled by
Quinlys' collections. An old desk to the right of the entranceway shows
definite signs of use, from the stacks of hides to a collection of
abandoned mugs. A punching bag has been hung from the ceiling; it shows
signs of being well used.

Further back, a bubble-shaped hollow has been turned into a semi-private
sleeping chamber, stuffed with a mattress and generous furs. In the
ceiling, over the head of the bed, a quirk of the rock creates an open
space: a short tunnel that shows a generous patch of sky above it, its
slight tilt keeping out rain and snow.

On past the sleeping quarters is a fireplace, set into the furthest wall.
Its once-beautiful wood mantle is cracked and warped, but shows no signs
of disuse.
|log=Lyrisa's turnday has been an intimate family affair; no granparents or aunts or uncles but just Lyrisa and her mother and her father celebrating with a small cake and a few presents. She babbles all the time now, occasionally offering a 'mama' or 'papa', and is picking up new words every day; she is constantly moving, having already taken her first step and trying to take more often. So even on this day, this celebration, it's a nice breath of relief when she eventually wears herself out and is able to be put down to sleep. C'ris has taken that responsibility on, only padding back towards Quinlys and the fireplace beyond the sleeping quarters once the upset little noises that escape from their baby after she's been put down have stopped and faded into blessed silence. "Ok, she's down," he tells her mother with a flash of a grin.

On days like today, it's easy enough for Quinlys to forget-- to temporarily forget-- her ambivalence towards motherhood, still so present in her even after the entirety of this turn (but ameliorated, at least, by a child who ''sleeps through the night'' and doesn't need to be fed from her mother's body). It makes for a long day, though, and it's clear this particular bluerider is relieved by the need for sleep, and further relieved to allow C'ris to take charge of it. She makes use of the time he's gone to uncork one of the bottles kept well above child reach, and pour herself a measure. That's where she's standing when he returns, half-turning to look at him over the rim of her glass. "Too much sugar. Let's remember that for next time."

C'ris only exhales a laugh, that grin crooking more as he crosses the distance to pour himself some of the same. He points out, "The nursery wouldn't approve of keeping her hopped up on sugar all of the time." Once he has secured a drink, then he will pad barefooted closer to Quinlys, throwing a careless arm around her waist to draw her against him with a kiss dropped just as easily in his overflowing affection against the crown of her hair. With lips still buried there, he starts to murmur, "I heard Farideh and Drex are having another, y'know. Ethran will have a little brother or sister to grow up with."

Quinlys softens into C'ris' embrace to begin with, snuggling her body against his as she lifts her glass towards her mouth for a sip. It's as she sips that his murmurs reaches her ear-- she promptly splutters, stiffens, draws away. "We," she says, turning to face the other bluerider face-on, "are not following their example. ''Farideh'' barely has time to look at Ethran, and ''I'' don't-- no."

"I know, I know," C'ris says simply, knowingly, if perhaps a little ''sadly'' for Quinlys' reaction. "Especially with the clutch coming, for you. But after, maybe-- It's a nice thought, isn't it? Lyrisa having a younger sibling to grow up with, someone who will always be ''there'' for her. Family." She's withdrawn, but he reaches to capture her hand lightly, to try to draw her back even as he adds in apology, "Look, sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up. Let's talk about something else."

It's simply not possible for Quinlys to miss that sadness, and it sets her eyes to closing as she draws in a long, deep breath. After a moment more, she allows herself to be drawn back, but some of that ease is gone; she's wooden, and quiet, until abruptly: "Aidavanth will clutch. And at some point in the next few months, Niahvth will be due. Roszadyth. With three producing queens, I'm not likely to get any down time, C'ris," she says, though it's an excuse; she knows it, no doubt he knows it, everyone knows it. She opens her eyes again, considering C'ris. "She has a nursery full of siblings. She has ''cousins''. I'm not built for this."

C'ris is quiet for a long moment, only offering a quiet noise that might be agreement for her excuse even as he tries to wrap his arms around Quinlys again, despite the stiffness of the other bluerider. He doesn't meet her gaze, instead leaning to press a kiss against her temple without ever looking her in the eyes. Eventually, eventually, he murmurs his own, "It's not the same. The kids that she's in the nursery with, her cousins-- It's not the same as having real siblings."

Slowly, Quinlys allows herself to soften against her daughter's father, easing out a low sigh as she does so, one that is eventually followed by words: "I know it's not." Of course she does; she, second eldest of four, so close and also not-close to her siblings. "But I can't be the parent you want me to be, and where does that leave us?"

"The same place where we were when I left a note for you," C'ris answers softly, a small smile playing briefly on his lips if not with a hint of melancholy that may be missed as his lips linger against her temple. "Just figuring this out, one day at a time."

Quinlys' exhale, this time, is short of a laugh - but not ''so'' short. "I can't believe she's a turn old," she admits, then, turning her head so that her words are aimed slightly upwards and to the side, towards the other bluerider's chin.

"Before we know it, she's going to want to stand for a clutch and Impress and is going to be fumbling through weyrlinghood," teases C'ris in turn, only slightly relieved as the conversation slips back to an easier place and he is able to break into a quick smile. "Are you ready for that day?"

"'''''No'''''." Quinlys, horrified. She tilts her head just a little further back, so that she can look at the other bluerider more directly. "That's a terrible thought, take it back. Remind me to be retired by then. I'll be close to fifty; that's not unreasonable. Or we'll send her to Monaco and she can Stand there."

C'ris can't take it back because he's too busy laughing. He laughs brightly at her reaction, caught up into it so much that he's no longer even snuggling so much as trying to keep himself upright using his arm on Quinlys' waist. When he can draw in a breath, he huffs out, "I'll remind you. By then, we can be peacefully riding in a retired wing, watching the youngins and talking about how it was in our day."

Quinlys is ''not'' laughing, though she does pause to take a sip from her glass, her free hand resting lightly upon C'ris' hip-- there, another form of support for the poor man. "If you're really lucky," she tells him, cheerfully, "I'll agree to embarrass our daughter terribly and give her a sibling. And then, one day, maybe she can be weyrlingmaster to her own sibling, the way I was."

Surprise flickers across C'ris' expression for that statement, but the bluerider doesn't linger on it. He doesn't ''press'' it, definitely. Instead, he'll ask, "So, will she be a bluerider, do you think? Her and her sibling, of course. Any kid that we have."

Making no further reference to other potential children, the redhead says, "Blue or green are the only colours ''my'' family tend to attract, and given the pair of us... of course, they could decide to be ''different'', just to screw with expectations." Quinlys is cheerful about this; smug and smiley. "People ''did'' pick me for gold, but if they suggest it for my daughter, I'll tear their hearts out." ''Such'' a smile!

"We'll just have to make sure to raise her properly to be able to handle whoever picks her, whatever responsibility she will have," replies C'ris in response to that, a simple, sincere answer that holds a warmth of belief in their ability to raise Lyrisa properly. Now, he wraps his arms around Quinlys again properly, dropping a soft kiss onto her lips with a smile of his own, though his is much softer.

The dismissive sound Quinlys makes (''after'' responding, briefly, to that kiss) is apparently not out of any doubts, as such, but more: "I don't want that for her. She's going to be a free spirit, flying free. She'll sleep with whomever she wants to, and aspire to anything she wants, and..." She pauses for breath, exhaling against C'ris. "I wish she'd talk properly," she admits, abruptly. "I want her to be a real person."

C'ris exhales something close to a laugh, even before he murmurs assuringly, "She is a real person. You know this. But she'll be talking properly soon enough, and we won't ever get her to stop." His fingers lift to tangle softly into red hair, brushing a thumb over one stray piece as he offers a soft smile to the Weyrlingmaster in his arms. He continues, "We should probably get some-- sleep before she wakes up. If you're tired."

Quinlys huffs, clearly implying that she thinks C'ris knows what she means, thank you very much, and it's not the same. But-- she's smug, too, expression mirthful as she tips her chin up and up and up towards the other bluerider. "'Sleep'. Yes; let's do that. Before she wakes up." The glass gets abandoned, and C'ris' hip? It gets tugged, by the beltloop. Come.

A grin breaks brightly across C'ris' lips at the answer, and the bluerider has already started to strip his worn, blue sweater off quickly before she's even finished her sentence. It is dropped right there as he obediently follows that tug, before he's reaching to catch the hem of her shirt. Hopefully, that sugar really did the trick and Lyrisa will be passed out for a while.

Happy birthday, Lyrisa! Everyone gets lucky. (Which doesn't mean that Quinlys, later, or perhaps tomorrow, won't take a quick-- slightly less quick-- trip between. Just in case.)
}}

Logs:Who's The Biggest Asshole

2016-07-17T05:04:37Z

Meg:

{{Log
|who=Drex, Alysce, Odrick,
|what=Actually, don't answer that because pretty sure it's Alysce in this scene.
|where=Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=18
|month=4
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.16
|quote="Only when uppity girls start acting like they own things they don't."
|weather=The weather today is very pleasant. A few clouds chase each other across the mostly clear skies, and a soft breeze picks up in the afternoon to make for a fine day.
|mentions=Quint
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon drex youknownothing.jpg, Icon alysce distant.jpg, Icon odrick really.png
|log=The weather's starting to turn warmer with spring, and so the crowd in the Snowasis is thinned somewhat, many choosing to take up places in on the patio ledge instead. It's probably how Drex has managed to secure an entire table, to himself. It's late enough that some people are starting to -- in ones or twos -- depart for bed, but the sailor looks set in, a half filled pitcher of ale still on his table, and a glass in hand. There's a game of darts going on between a couple of the wings, and some dicing in the corner, though he looks interested in neither, frowning to himself.

It's a late hour for Alysce to only now be coming to Snowasis, but it's been a busy day. A trip to the Hold, errands, things to do and see. The lemon-yellow color of her skirts and the soft cream of her sweater do nothing to lighten her dark angles or make her look less frustrated as she slides into the bar, yet when her gaze sweeps the cavern and finds Drex-- She starts in that direction rather than away from it, practically throwing herself into a chair across from him as she greets him with, "You are right. Dragonriders are shit-eating idiots."

Odrick is here and has been for an indefinite amount of time. He's sitting at the bar in a position where he can overlook the rest of the Snowasis, his notebook and a tumbler of whiskey at hand. His eyes settle on Alysce when she enters, following her on her path toward Drex, and he watches them, for now, from afar. Like a creeper.

Drex notes neither stalker Alysce nor creeper Odrick, being that he's entirely unobservant and very likely sulking in his own issues, to judge by the ever-present scowl. When the apprentice harper dares to take a seat at his table, he turns the scowl on ''her'' instead. "Aint saving that for you," his chin indicates the chair she's taken, although he does -- after a moment of scowling silence -- acknowledge that ''she'' acknowledged he was right. "Fuck, yeah, of course I was right." Duh. ''Now'' he looks around somewhat, frowning briefly as he spots the older man by the bar, scowling in his general direction too. "The fuck they do to you?" he says, seemingly asking Alysce.

"I didn't ask if you were," Alysce tosses back carelessly, only making herself ''more'' comfortable on the chair as she glances briefly to Drex's drink and then follows his gaze towards the bar and Odrick. She goes one step further in taking over his table, she lifts her voice to call to the other harper, "Hey, get me something to drink and come join us. I ''need'' one." She offers a smile in return, a flirtatious one despite the fact that he outranks her. She adds to Drex, all while her gaze lingers on Odrick to check to see if she's likely to get a drink, "Nothing; what'd they ever do to ''you''?"

The senior Harper doesn't entirely look away when Drex looks his, but he does make some vague attempt to not seem like he's ''staring'' at them. It's not until Alysce calls over at him that he acknowledges the fact that he's been called out at all, but he returns her request with the universal gesture for 'give me a moment' while he gets the bartender's attention. Meanwhile, he puts his notebook away gathers his own drink, and rises. He'll start making his way over once he has a bottle of wine and two glasses to bring with him.

Drex's expression pretty clearly conveys ''the fuck?'' at Alysce's invitation to ''yet another'' harper. "Fish's little titties. You ''harpers''," he says like it's some sort of curseword in and of itself. He broodingly takes another gulp from his glass, narrowing eyes at her. "Nothin'," he tosses back at her in a pretty clear ''so there'', tone. Odrick's approach with a bottle and two glasses in hand earns a narrowing of eyes, radiating something unwelcome -- not that that seems to have put the ''apprentice'' off, at all.

It doesn't; Alysce doesn't seem to even be acknowledging that this wasn't her table to begin with or that Drex might be upset. Instead, she brightens as Odrick actually comes over with a ''glass'' and ''wine''. Her smile only curves firmer on her lips, and she practically purrs, "Oh my shell, did I ever tell you how amazing you are, Odrick? No? Well, you are." She even gestures to an empty seat in invitation with a soft pat of fingers. She finally acknowledges the sailor's displeasure with an added, "Don't mind Drex here. That face is permanent."

Odrick hangs his bag over the back of a chair after he's set down the glasses, but he pours wine into each of them before putting down the bottle and taking a seat. "Hardly. You're giving me an excuse to have another drink before retiring for the evening." So that second glass is for him, not Drex. "Evening," he offers the young man with a sincere smile despite the other's face. "I'd say that I hope I'm not interrupting, but it seems we both are, and I'm afraid we have the numbers."

"Only when uppity girls start acting like they own things they don't," Drex retorts, glowering and pulling the half full pitcher of beer closer to his end of the table, like the two harpers might suddenly decide to snatch it for themselves. It's Odrick's words that crease his face further, scowling and standing. "I was wrong about dragonriders being assholes; harpers are ''bigger'' ones." Even if he's planning to stalk off, he's not going without his beer, grabbing the pitcher and stomping away.

"But sailors are the biggest assholes of them all," Alysce will call across the whole damn bar if she has to to throw that not-so-creative retort back towards Drex. When her gaze slides back to Odrick, it's with a hint of apology and a slight wrinkle of her nose. "Sorry about that. I mean, I guess it's better than the time he threatened to murder me, but--." She shrugs a shoulder lightly, reaching for the glass with a quick smile and a thoughtful study of Odrick with a sudden light of an idea behind dark eyes. "It's still early," it's not. "Are you at least planning to help me finish the bottle?"

While Odrick doesn't seem to take the insult personally, he does watch the sailor rather intently as he gets up with his beer to leave. "Have a good evening, Drex," he calls after Alysce's retort. "Someone's going to think you like him, the way you antagonize the poor man," he tells the younger harper as though she didn't just say the sailor threatened to murder her. Except, "I'll make sure to suspect him if you ever turn up missing." As for the bottle, "I'm not going to let it go to waste, anyway."

Drex is definitely not listening to Alysce's yell, having secured himself a spot near the bar. It's, unfortunately, nearer where a couple of the wings are in the midst of their darts game, but he seems to bear it for as long as it takes to down his ale -- which, all things told -- doesn't take that long, being of long practice. Soon after, he's weaving his way out towards the ledge, and presumably, to a certain goldrider's weyr.

Alysce shakes her head in denial of ''that'', answering, "No, I'm not some little kid who pulls someone's braid if I like them." She is obviously a mature, grown woman at twenty turns, sipping her wine with a curved smile as she drags a look consideringly over Odrick. "Thank you. At least someone will care, then, and maybe notice. Quint didn't even ask who, so--." But she leans forward towards the other harper's chair, her tone dropping suggestively as she adds in a murmur, "Well, you know, if you wanted to retire and also not waste it, we could always bring the bottle to your room?"

"Perhaps Quint knows you wouldn't ever allow someone the chance." It's hard to tell if that's teasing or a compliment or what, really. Maybe Odrick isn't sure himself. "Forward," ''is'' a compliment. "The Weyr life must be agreeing with you. I have to admit there are certain aspects I like myself." Neither of which, granted, are an answer to her question. He takes a drink from his own glass, studying her with his own measure of consideration.

"And what do you know, then?" Alysce challenges in return, an edge of teasing softening the words for all that she watches Odrick for the answer even as she takes a slow sip from her wine glass. Her brow quirks upwards, and it's unlikely that she misses that he didn't answer, but she doesn't press it further.

"I don't pretend I know anything," answers Odrick, lifting one hand peaceably to relinquish any idea that he has a clue. "The only thing I'm going to assume is that Journeyman Quint wouldn't approve of me taking you to my room given the current conditions." It doesn't mean he wouldn't otherwise. "Do you know that boy very well? Drex, I mean," he says with a gesture in the last direction he'd gone.

There's a darker flicker of annoyance in Alysce's gaze at ''that'' answer, and she takes her time before she asks him dryly, "And because Quint wouldn't approve, you're not going to? You're going to take his ''disapproval'' as some kind of law?" She doesn't answer his questions about Drex with anything more than a careless shrug, not even looking in Drex's direction.

"I do have to work with him on occasion." Odrick seems curious more than anything, though. "Is that the reason you're interested? Because you know he'd disapprove, too?" No judgment from him while he takes another drink, trying to understand this woman as best he can before deciding which decisions would be bad to make.

"I don't care about Quint's disapproval or his unwritten rules," is what Alysce answers easily, dismissive as she studies Odrick with a long look. "You have to work with me on occasion as well. Would ''that'' stop you?"

Answering ''that'' question requires a little more thought on Odrick's part. It's evidently not a question he thought he'd have to answer. "No, I suppose that wouldn't stop me. And I suppose it's-- you and Quint don't... do you?" The thought strikes him mid sentence in such a way that he must not be able to help asking.

"So working with Quint matters more than working with me," Alysce presses into that opening that he gives, disapproval obvious even in the sharp twist of her lips into a half-smile. "Is that ''really'' what you want to stand by?" His question gets a lifted brow, her gaze sweeping over him and then away, across the bar, before returning. "No, we don't. He's my Journeyman. But you are just ''a'' Journeyman, so--."

Odrick takes another moment, a breath, and decides, "No. Working with him doesn't matter more than working with you. Or course not. But you're less likely to tell the Hall I didn't take you to my room than he is to make sure the right people hear that I did. But if it means that much to you, by all means, I can take you there."

Alysce looks momentarily victorious that her logic has managed to make a point, but that expression fades quickly as she leans back into her chair, her smile disappearing into a flat line of lips. She shrugs her shoulder upwards, taking a sip of the wine, before she answers dismissively, "No. I'm not blackmailing you into sleeping with me. Whatever; you don't want to, you aren't the only one in this bar."

"It's not--" Odrick pauses, considers, then decides instead, "There are plenty of men here who would be happy to take you to their rooms, I'm sure. You can even share the rest of the wine with them, if you like." The Journeyman starts to rise, taking his glass with him and reaching back for his bag. "I hope you find someone exciting and worthwhile, Alysce. Have a good night."

"Sure, whatever. Thanks for the wine," Alysce replies dryly, her gaze already sweeping away from Odrick and across the bar as she flicks dark hair over her shoulder. She fully intends to nurse the glass that she has now, but whether she ever shares the rest of the bottle with someone else-- Well, she doesn't immediately get up to do so.

Odrick lifts his glass to her, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he turns to make his way to the bar. His glass will be empty by the time he gets there, and then he's continuing on, back to his room where he's sure to not be thinking about the fact that he could be doing things other than going to bed.
}}

Logs:Who's The Biggest Asshole

2016-07-17T05:02:53Z

Meg: Created page with "{{Log |who=Drex, Alysce, Odrick, |what=Actually, don't answer that because pretty sure it's Alysce in this scene. |where=Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Wey..."

{{Log
|who=Drex, Alysce, Odrick,
|what=Actually, don't answer that because pretty sure it's Alysce in this scene.
|where=Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=18
|month=4
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.16
|quote="Only when uppity girls start acting like they own things they don't."
|weather=The weather today is very pleasant. A few clouds chase each other across the mostly clear skies, and a soft breeze picks up in the afternoon to make for a fine day.
|mentions=Quint
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon drex oh no you didn't.gif, Icon alysce distant.jpg, Icon odrick pensive.png,
|log=The weather's starting to turn warmer with spring, and so the crowd in the Snowasis is thinned somewhat, many choosing to take up places in on the patio ledge instead. It's probably how Drex has managed to secure an entire table, to himself. It's late enough that some people are starting to -- in ones or twos -- depart for bed, but the sailor looks set in, a half filled pitcher of ale still on his table, and a glass in hand. There's a game of darts going on between a couple of the wings, and some dicing in the corner, though he looks interested in neither, frowning to himself.

It's a late hour for Alysce to only now be coming to Snowasis, but it's been a busy day. A trip to the Hold, errands, things to do and see. The lemon-yellow color of her skirts and the soft cream of her sweater do nothing to lighten her dark angles or make her look less frustrated as she slides into the bar, yet when her gaze sweeps the cavern and finds Drex-- She starts in that direction rather than away from it, practically throwing herself into a chair across from him as she greets him with, "You are right. Dragonriders are shit-eating idiots."

Odrick is here and has been for an indefinite amount of time. He's sitting at the bar in a position where he can overlook the rest of the Snowasis, his notebook and a tumbler of whiskey at hand. His eyes settle on Alysce when she enters, following her on her path toward Drex, and he watches them, for now, from afar. Like a creeper.

Drex notes neither stalker Alysce nor creeper Odrick, being that he's entirely unobservant and very likely sulking in his own issues, to judge by the ever-present scowl. When the apprentice harper dares to take a seat at his table, he turns the scowl on ''her'' instead. "Aint saving that for you," his chin indicates the chair she's taken, although he does -- after a moment of scowling silence -- acknowledge that ''she'' acknowledged he was right. "Fuck, yeah, of course I was right." Duh. ''Now'' he looks around somewhat, frowning briefly as he spots the older man by the bar, scowling in his general direction too. "The fuck they do to you?" he says, seemingly asking Alysce.

"I didn't ask if you were," Alysce tosses back carelessly, only making herself ''more'' comfortable on the chair as she glances briefly to Drex's drink and then follows his gaze towards the bar and Odrick. She goes one step further in taking over his table, she lifts her voice to call to the other harper, "Hey, get me something to drink and come join us. I ''need'' one." She offers a smile in return, a flirtatious one despite the fact that he outranks her. She adds to Drex, all while her gaze lingers on Odrick to check to see if she's likely to get a drink, "Nothing; what'd they ever do to ''you''?"

The senior Harper doesn't entirely look away when Drex looks his, but he does make some vague attempt to not seem like he's ''staring'' at them. It's not until Alysce calls over at him that he acknowledges the fact that he's been called out at all, but he returns her request with the universal gesture for 'give me a moment' while he gets the bartender's attention. Meanwhile, he puts his notebook away gathers his own drink, and rises. He'll start making his way over once he has a bottle of wine and two glasses to bring with him.

Drex's expression pretty clearly conveys ''the fuck?'' at Alysce's invitation to ''yet another'' harper. "Fish's little titties. You ''harpers''," he says like it's some sort of curseword in and of itself. He broodingly takes another gulp from his glass, narrowing eyes at her. "Nothin'," he tosses back at her in a pretty clear ''so there'', tone. Odrick's approach with a bottle and two glasses in hand earns a narrowing of eyes, radiating something unwelcome -- not that that seems to have put the ''apprentice'' off, at all.

It doesn't; Alysce doesn't seem to even be acknowledging that this wasn't her table to begin with or that Drex might be upset. Instead, she brightens as Odrick actually comes over with a ''glass'' and ''wine''. Her smile only curves firmer on her lips, and she practically purrs, "Oh my shell, did I ever tell you how amazing you are, Odrick? No? Well, you are." She even gestures to an empty seat in invitation with a soft pat of fingers. She finally acknowledges the sailor's displeasure with an added, "Don't mind Drex here. That face is permanent."

Odrick hangs his bag over the back of a chair after he's set down the glasses, but he pours wine into each of them before putting down the bottle and taking a seat. "Hardly. You're giving me an excuse to have another drink before retiring for the evening." So that second glass is for him, not Drex. "Evening," he offers the young man with a sincere smile despite the other's face. "I'd say that I hope I'm not interrupting, but it seems we both are, and I'm afraid we have the numbers."

"Only when uppity girls start acting like they own things they don't," Drex retorts, glowering and pulling the half full pitcher of beer closer to his end of the table, like the two harpers might suddenly decide to snatch it for themselves. It's Odrick's words that crease his face further, scowling and standing. "I was wrong about dragonriders being assholes; harpers are ''bigger'' ones." Even if he's planning to stalk off, he's not going without his beer, grabbing the pitcher and stomping away.

"But sailors are the biggest assholes of them all," Alysce will call across the whole damn bar if she has to to throw that not-so-creative retort back towards Drex. When her gaze slides back to Odrick, it's with a hint of apology and a slight wrinkle of her nose. "Sorry about that. I mean, I guess it's better than the time he threatened to murder me, but--." She shrugs a shoulder lightly, reaching for the glass with a quick smile and a thoughtful study of Odrick with a sudden light of an idea behind dark eyes. "It's still early," it's not. "Are you at least planning to help me finish the bottle?"

While Odrick doesn't seem to take the insult personally, he does watch the sailor rather intently as he gets up with his beer to leave. "Have a good evening, Drex," he calls after Alysce's retort. "Someone's going to think you like him, the way you antagonize the poor man," he tells the younger harper as though she didn't just say the sailor threatened to murder her. Except, "I'll make sure to suspect him if you ever turn up missing." As for the bottle, "I'm not going to let it go to waste, anyway."

Drex is definitely not listening to Alysce's yell, having secured himself a spot near the bar. It's, unfortunately, nearer where a couple of the wings are in the midst of their darts game, but he seems to bear it for as long as it takes to down his ale -- which, all things told -- doesn't take that long, being of long practice. Soon after, he's weaving his way out towards the ledge, and presumably, to a certain goldrider's weyr.

Alysce shakes her head in denial of ''that'', answering, "No, I'm not some little kid who pulls someone's braid if I like them." She is obviously a mature, grown woman at twenty turns, sipping her wine with a curved smile as she drags a look consideringly over Odrick. "Thank you. At least someone will care, then, and maybe notice. Quint didn't even ask who, so--." But she leans forward towards the other harper's chair, her tone dropping suggestively as she adds in a murmur, "Well, you know, if you wanted to retire and also not waste it, we could always bring the bottle to your room?"

"Perhaps Quint knows you wouldn't ever allow someone the chance." It's hard to tell if that's teasing or a compliment or what, really. Maybe Odrick isn't sure himself. "Forward," ''is'' a compliment. "The Weyr life must be agreeing with you. I have to admit there are certain aspects I like myself." Neither of which, granted, are an answer to her question. He takes a drink from his own glass, studying her with his own measure of consideration.

"And what do you know, then?" Alysce challenges in return, an edge of teasing softening the words for all that she watches Odrick for the answer even as she takes a slow sip from her wine glass. Her brow quirks upwards, and it's unlikely that she misses that he didn't answer, but she doesn't press it further.

"I don't pretend I know anything," answers Odrick, lifting one hand peaceably to relinquish any idea that he has a clue. "The only thing I'm going to assume is that Journeyman Quint wouldn't approve of me taking you to my room given the current conditions." It doesn't mean he wouldn't otherwise. "Do you know that boy very well? Drex, I mean," he says with a gesture in the last direction he'd gone.

There's a darker flicker of annoyance in Alysce's gaze at ''that'' answer, and she takes her time before she asks him dryly, "And because Quint wouldn't approve, you're not going to? You're going to take his ''disapproval'' as some kind of law?" She doesn't answer his questions about Drex with anything more than a careless shrug, not even looking in Drex's direction.

"I do have to work with him on occasion." Odrick seems curious more than anything, though. "Is that the reason you're interested? Because you know he'd disapprove, too?" No judgment from him while he takes another drink, trying to understand this woman as best he can before deciding which decisions would be bad to make.

"I don't care about Quint's disapproval or his unwritten rules," is what Alysce answers easily, dismissive as she studies Odrick with a long look. "You have to work with me on occasion as well. Would ''that'' stop you?"

Answering ''that'' question requires a little more thought on Odrick's part. It's evidently not a question he thought he'd have to answer. "No, I suppose that wouldn't stop me. And I suppose it's-- you and Quint don't... do you?" The thought strikes him mid sentence in such a way that he must not be able to help asking.

"So working with Quint matters more than working with me," Alysce presses into that opening that he gives, disapproval obvious even in the sharp twist of her lips into a half-smile. "Is that ''really'' what you want to stand by?" His question gets a lifted brow, her gaze sweeping over him and then away, across the bar, before returning. "No, we don't. He's my Journeyman. But you are just ''a'' Journeyman, so--."

Odrick takes another moment, a breath, and decides, "No. Working with him doesn't matter more than working with you. Or course not. But you're less likely to tell the Hall I didn't take you to my room than he is to make sure the right people hear that I did. But if it means that much to you, by all means, I can take you there."

Alysce looks momentarily victorious that her logic has managed to make a point, but that expression fades quickly as she leans back into her chair, her smile disappearing into a flat line of lips. She shrugs her shoulder upwards, taking a sip of the wine, before she answers dismissively, "No. I'm not blackmailing you into sleeping with me. Whatever; you don't want to, you aren't the only one in this bar."

"It's not--" Odrick pauses, considers, then decides instead, "There are plenty of men here who would be happy to take you to their rooms, I'm sure. You can even share the rest of the wine with them, if you like." The Journeyman starts to rise, taking his glass with him and reaching back for his bag. "I hope you find someone exciting and worthwhile, Alysce. Have a good night."

"Sure, whatever. Thanks for the wine," Alysce replies dryly, her gaze already sweeping away from Odrick and across the bar as she flicks dark hair over her shoulder. She fully intends to nurse the glass that she has now, but whether she ever shares the rest of the bottle with someone else-- Well, she doesn't immediately get up to do so.

Odrick lifts his glass to her, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he turns to make his way to the bar. His glass will be empty by the time he gets there, and then he's continuing on, back to his room where he's sure to not be thinking about the fact that he could be doing things other than going to bed.
}}

Logs:Loyalties

2016-07-17T02:38:55Z

Meg: Created page with "{{Log |who=Quint, Olivya |what=The harper and Weyrlingmaster discuss the loyalties within a Weyr and without. |where=Monaco Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |day=18..."

{{Log
|who=Quint, Olivya
|what=The harper and Weyrlingmaster discuss the loyalties within a Weyr and without.
|where=Monaco Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|day=18
|month=4
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.16
|mentions=Mirinda, Irianke, Jocelyn, N'rov, Dahlia, M'kris, C'lar, Kyouri, Edyis, Devaki
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon quint.jpg, Icon olivya flirt.png,
|log=The weather is pleasantly warm down Monaco way, enough so that Quint has rolled back the sleeves of his shirt with a neatness and precision that's probably taken him some time. He's seated on one of the stools by the bar nearest to the beach -- there's no drink to hand, but the barmaid doesn't seem to mind -- they're chatting easily while locals pass back and forth.

Olivya is either late or Quint is early, and likely some combination of both, because Ivraeth is only now popping into the air above Monaco with a happy trill to the watchdragon in announcement. It is obvious that here, not Fort, is the dragon's true home; there are even male dragons that quickly look up to the sleek, darkly, dangerously pretty dragon in expectation for what her presence here might mean. Indeed, she joins them rather quickly as soon as her rider has dismounted, settling on the beach with one whirled gaze lingering on the man at the bar. But if the green has any intention of rising soon given the hopes of those males that crowd her, she doesn't show it now as Olivya makes her way to the bar.

''She'', at least, is ignoring any attention thrown her way as she shrugs out of her bright, red leather jacket. It is thrown neatly over an empty stool as she slides to claim the one beside Quint, greeting him with a light, "Hopefully I didn't make you wait long. She insisted on a fresh oiling before she'd let us come."

There's laughter over by the bar, before the barmaid grins, and nods in Olivya's direction; Quint turns to watch her approach. He watches, too, the other attention she gets, though his expression is easy enough as he glances back to the barmaid, who is already pouring a glass of something cold to set in front of the now-Fortian greenrider. "Not long," Quint assures her, "The local Journeyman and I had lots to go over, but he got called away to some dispute. And," with a chuckle, "It's far from an ''unpleasant'' wait."

"Thank you, darling," Olivya offers warmly to the barmaid as she picks up her drink, her smile an easy thing on her lips as she takes one long sip. "Good. It's nice to see you with your sleeves rolled up, so to speak, every once in a while." She tugs gently at one of those cuffed sleeves after she's returned her glass to the bar, turning on the stool to transfer her attention fully to Quint. The breeze off the ocean picks up blonde curls, the sun and scent doing enough to soften the edges of the Weyrlingmaster immediately, enough that she is ignoring a man at a far table that has started to tell a story that involves some gestures her way. "I heard about the deal between Monaco and High Reaches. High Reaches isn't short Candidates, is it? For a brown-caught junior flight?"

Quint makes a wry little face in response to that remark, not quite able to hide that he checks that she hasn't undone his oh-so-neat handiwork with that tug. The barmaid doesn't bring ''him'' a drink, but he doesn't seem uncomfortable as he watches the greenrider drink hers, content with the momentary silence. Her latter question earns a shift of posture, tone taking on a harper-like cadence, perhaps inadvertently: "I'm not privy to the minds of goldriders, though I'd imagine it's a step to heal the rift between Weyrs more than any ''need''. It likely helps that Monaco's Weyrleader is Reachian."

"Unless it goes badly, then it's likely to leave one or both of you worse off," Olivya replies quietly, consideringly. As he checks, he only earns a buried smile from the greenrider and another tap of her fingers against his sleeve, but she resists any urge to untidy him that the gesture ''might'' bring. "I imagine there are already riders grumbling about sending more Monacoan Candidates away again by two weyrleaders that are neither Monacoan, even if none of them would ever get the chance to stand here. But those voices never consider the logic of it." Bright, blue eyes slide over him for the posture change, but she only picks up her drink again and leans back against the bar.

"That's always a risk in any exchange," Quint replies, with a smile, "Yet one ''has'' to take the risk to advance a relationship." When she taps his sleeve again, he gives her a muted, wry look that might be warning, or something else. "I hadn't realized how strong the sentiment was about not having a Monacoan leader until I came here." He's silent for a beat or two, thinking about it, perhaps, when he says: "You miss this place, don't you?"

"Like I miss air in my lungs," Olivya answers in a simple murmur, only allowing herself to dwell on that for a moment, two before she drowns it down with another long sip of her cold drink. "And they had their Monacoan leader only for her to be sent north, almost alone, to displace a Fortian leader. And Fort still wants their own, and High Reaches has settled in with their Igen senior and a junior that has Monacoan blood running through her." The play of a dry smile tugs at her lips, and the Weyrlingmaster glances to her knot, away from Quint as she continues, "Why do we hold on to these at all? Is it because it matters to the dragons or because we have to have something to be exclusive on?"

Quint's gaze continues to study the Weyrlingmaster. "Why don't you come back? Your Weyrwoman seems well settled, with her own Fortian Weyrleader -- I haven't heard much unrest about it lately -- and they at least have their own Fortian junior still. I'm sure she wouldn't begrudge you your own wishes." He follows her gaze to her knot, lips twitching. "With your experience, I'm sure you could find something ''here''," he gestures wide, as if to encompass the Weyr itself. The harper shakes his head after a moment. "I'm not rightly sure. I've observed the sentiment all over Pern. Granted -- it occurs in Holds too, with the Blooded. There's ''still'' unrest about Lord Devaki, even though he's proven High Reaches Blood. Maybe... people just want to believe that things would be different, ''better'' if the people they've decided are theirs are in charge."

A laugh is exhaled slowly at the gesture, at his words, even as Olivya shakes her head slowly. She answers, "Oh, Journeyman, you have no idea. There's nothing I can do here that is anything like what I can do at Fort. Without even Rin--." She doesn't continue, only holding an empty hand in a gesture before she reaches for her drink again. "Something better." A pause. "Yeah, that's what we all want to believe in, isn't it?"

"A lot's changed since were last here. The entire leadership -- if I'm to understand it -- the entire ''atmosphere''." One gets the feeling that Quint wasn't just exchanging information on the candidate exchange with the local harper. When Olivya reaches for the glass, the harper reaches out to meet her hand, fingers resting over the back of her hand to stay the gesture. "It could be. You could influence what Monaco could, and ''might'' become. That's ''something''."

"Quint, you don't know anything about it. But you're right, the entire leadership has changed," agrees Olivya, a bitter smile catching at her lips. "And anyone who would ever take me seriously doesn't have any power here." She pauses, falling silent for a moment with a flicked look over to a nearby table of riders before transferring her attention back to Quint, before asking, "Or didn't you know that I was sleeping with M'kris? And Mirinda, too, of course. My wingleader-- ''That'' one is true, but I was stupid and young." She shakes her head, simply. "No. And if Kyouri and C'lar are smart, they wouldn't let me transfer back at all if I asked, given my public allegiance to Fort's Weyrwoman."

"Maybe I don't," Quint allows, with a shift of gaze, "But maybe I know ''people''." He falls silent throughout her litany of names, expression fixed in that harper look that conveys an easy neutrality and little of his reaction. He's silent for a few moments after. "What they ''could'' use is riders with allegiance to ''them'', if you were willing to offer that."

"I can't offer them that. Not over Rin. Not when I'm one of the voices that still hurts that we lost our Weyrwoman to Fort, that they came and broke us," murmurs Olivya in answer, practically dropped to a whisper given where they are. And surrounded by her clutchmates and siblings and blood, Ivraeth stills on the beach, holding for a moment then two before she resumes stretching against a lovely blue.

The harper falls silent, other than the breath of his exhale. He waves towards the barmaid, indicating Olivya's glass -- the woman refills it adroitly before disappearing to serve someone else. "Liv," Quint finally says, "You aren't the same person as when you left here. You aren't without power, without agency." Another beat. "Your Weyrwoman is lucky to have you."

Olivya nods, simply, but it's the last words that have her quirking a quick grin. "You should tell her; I think she's tired of me saying it," she counters lightly, deftly trying to turn the conversation away. Just in case that doesn't do the trick enough, she moves on to tease, "So, how ''far'' do you think you are willing to take this sleeves-rolled-up side? Shoes off? Toes in the sand? Sex on the beach?"

"Introduce me, and perhaps I will." Quint's quick to grin, so it's hard to tell whether he means it or no. He's all too aware she's diverting the conversation away, but he allows it all the same, chin lifting in response: "Shoes off, maybe," he allows, "But no sand in places where it takes sevens to wash out. As a harper, I have ''some'' dignity, and squirming around in front of a group of five-Turn-olds isn't a future I envisage for myself."

"Next time you make it up to Fort," promises Olivya easily enough, lifting her drink for a sip now that the conversation is lighter. "I think she'd like you. You're cut from very similar cloths." A beat before she adds, "Though, I think ''she'' has a little more sense of adventure than you do."

"I'll choose to take ''that'' as a compliment," Quint says, with a smile. While another man might choose to challenge her latter words, the harper chuckles instead. "Oh, I've had my fill of adventures when I was younger. I rather enjoy the plodding, ''known'' nature of life as an adult."

"You're going to have to tell me, one day, about your adventure-filled youth," Olivya tells him, right before she raises her glass to finish off the rest. It is set back on the bar before she slides to her feet, her fingers braced against his shoulder as she leans over to start working off one boot, first. "We can swap stories."

"One day," Quint says with an ease that suggests that day is in the long distant future. When she starts taking off her boot, he sighs. "You'll be the death of me, woman," but he dutifully begins to do the same, rolling up socks with a neat precision and tucking them into his boots.

A laugh tumbles from Olivya's bright lips, and she finishes the one boot before leaning in to murmur an answered, "Darling, it's a walk on a beach not a stake in Thread. You'll be fine." And if he lets her, she'll shamelessly brush her lips against his, lightly, even in the crowded bar, before finishing off the next boot.

"Oh, see, that's where you're wrong. It ''starts'' with a walk on the beach, and ''ends'' with a staking out for Thread. It's a slippery slope, see?" Quint's amused, yet earnest in his defense of his reluctance. Setting his boots neatly one next to the other, he straightens, just as Olivya leans in to kiss him. He seems surprised by the gesture, but doesn't protest -- and even returns the gesture, albeit briefly. Clearing his throat, he stoops to collect his boots in one hand, offering his other arm to her in escort. "Shall we?"

Olivya tucks her arm into Quint's, offering a light, "Well, I am not a harper, so I will have to believe you, won't I?" She seems inordinately pleased with the returned gesture, especially combined with the sun and sea and air that she misses so much. The Weyrlingmaster knows exactly where she wants to go, tracing the curve of the beach towards a distant outcropping of rock even as she asks, "When do you have to be back? Do you have some 'Reachian rider waiting to escort you or did you tell them you'd have a ride?"

"Yes, you will," Quint says with an absolute confidence, well honed over Turns of teaching impressionable youngsters. He seems content to let the rider set the pace and direction of their walk, relaxing as they step away from the crowded bar. "Mm. One's due to come collect me not long after sundown." Something passes quickly across the harper's expression, too quick to determine, then: "You could pass on a message I'll be delayed and have made other arrangements. Blue Zeth, I believe it was."

That it's too quick to figure out doesn't stop Olivya from trying, as she studies Quint with a quiet intensity but for a fleeting moment. Then she answers, "Of course. I'll have Ivraeth relay the message. As long as she doesn't get it into her head to invite him here--." There's an affectionate smile for her dragon, still holding court with a few males down the beach, as she glances in that direction and falls briefly silent.

There's a brief laugh from the harper, before he realizes there might be something not-that-joking in the answer. Quint follows her look towards the beach, frowning in thought. "Ah. Is she--?" A beat. "Maybe I ought to get that ride...?" there's a reluctance in the offer, but he offers all the same.

It takes a moment for Olivya to answer, and when she does it's with a quick shake of her head. "No, she's not tonight. She agreed that I could have you, tonight," the greenrider answers slowly, in what's probably not the ''best'' phrasing. Whether it's purposeful or not, her gaze has returned to watch Quint as she says it, a question in the lift of a brow.

"Did she?" there's a startled flicker in Quint's voice, as much -- it might seem -- for the fact that Olivya discussed him with her dragon as that said dragon agreed. It slows his steps for a moment or two, before he resumes their pace. He doesn't wait for her to reiterate; just smiles and keeps walking with a nod.

"We haven't done anything that both of us haven't agreed on since the day after she shelled," answers Olivya in confirmation to that, rather than simply reiterating, giving that bit of information away with a smile and ''seeming'' ease.
}}

Logs:Let Downs

2016-07-17T02:25:58Z

Meg: Created page with "{{Log |who=J'nason, Alysce, Edyis, Devaki, Alani, |what=J'nason tries to have a nice picnic in High Reaches' orchard despite all the people who drop in. |where=Orchards, High..."

{{Log
|who=J'nason, Alysce, Edyis, Devaki, Alani,
|what=J'nason tries to have a nice picnic in High Reaches' orchard despite all the people who drop in.
|where=Orchards, High Reaches Hold
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, High Reaches Hold
|day=18
|month=4
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.16
|quote="Hey now, I did that with the ''best'' of intentions."
|mentions=T'zur, Jocelyn
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon J'nason Innocent.png, Icon alysce overtheshoulder.jpg, Icon edyis.jpg, Icon devaki.jpg,
|log=With winter having turned a corner and spring well on its way J'nason isn't hating the weather QUITE as much. Except the fact that it should be beautiful and breezy with a hint of salt. BUT NEVER MIND THAT. J'nason is determined to MAKE THE BEST OF IT. Which is why he's spread out a blanket under one of the trees with a picnic basket ready for a date that ended up not happening. Welp, that's fine though, he can just sit here and nibble on a piece of bread like ALL is right in the world. Oh, and carry on a one-sided conversation with his dragon that'll make him look like a crazy person. "I couldn't have //known//. Really, it's up to her to disclose things like that."

Alysce isn't stalking J'nason here, swear to Faranth. An assigned errand to the Hold has brought her here, meeting with one of the posted harpers at High Reaches Hold. And from the hold, it's the glimpse of J'nason and his dragon through the spreading orchards that brings her ''here'', specifically, for all that there's a waiting dragonrider to take her back. (What, like she's walking? Forget that.) "So, not just a dick but also a psycho as well?" is how she greets him as her boots crunch over the spring grass on her approach, the wind picking up a burgundy colored skirt and ruffling it gently.'.

"Still, it's up to her to disclose. How would //I// know she only liked girls?" J'nason keeps up his one sided conversation through Alysce's entrance and only once he's done does he turn his come-hither smile on the apprentice. (He can't help it. Probably.) "Psycho implies violent, and really, I'm a good guy. How's T'zur?" Because J'nason is just going to //assume// the two are bffs now. Gesturing at the blanket the bronzerider then digs into the basket and brings out a cut up red-fruit to offer her.

"Are you really? A ''good'' guy?" challenges Alysce, her brow lifted in disbelief as she sweeps dark eyes over J'nason in a study. But there's the edge of a smile buried in a single corner of her mouth, and she folds herself onto a corner of the blanket easily before reaching for the fruit. "How should I know how T'zur is?"

A green flash shimmers ahead of the petite young woman dressed in fine leathers with a snowdrift wing rider knot affixed to her shoulder. The snippets of conversation draw ink-dark eyes in the direction of the rider and harper apprentice and a sharp nod given in their direction.

J'nason takes a moment to take a big bite of his bread, chew, and swallow it before using the bitten off bread to point in the apprentice's direction. "Do you have any evidence I'm ''not'' a good guy?" Eyebrow upraised for the last, "Aren't you two friends now?" Yes, please be friends? Ah, but then that flash of green and Jason pushes himself up from his recline and waves the bread at her. "Ah, you... you're..." he'll fight for the name before he fingersnaps in rememberance, "Edyis! The brownrider that caught. Good going!"

"Your friend called you a dick," Alysce points out dryly, rolling her shoulder upwards in a dismissive gesture before slowly biting into one of the pieces of red-fruit. It seems to be a practiced movement, one designed to draw attention to her lips. "We're not not friends, but I don't know that he's looking for ''friends''. He seemed pretty disappointed when I told him he wasn't my type." Her gaze draws up to find the woman as J'nason identifies her, narrowing slightly at the answer he comes with but then sweeping away dismissively back to her fruit to pick another piece.

While her brown might be mentally blowing raspberries at the bronzes who lost when no one else can hear, Edyis at least can smile and bow. "That was all ''his'' doing." She pauses a moment, her course changing in the direction of the rider and Harper. "I apologize I don't believe I've ever had the privilege of catching either of your names."

A handwave in Alysce's direction, "Dick and bad guy are two super different things. You don't HAVE to be both." Serious logic at play here. A flash of disappointment crosses J'nason's face, "Did you at least let him down easy? Guy had a hard day." But, Edyis. Yes, that's important to, poor T'zur. J'nason will have to go take him out drinking again. (Sorry Alysce, guys have a bro-code. No going down with the gal you try to set your BFF up with.) "J'nason- Jason, Jay, whatever. This is Alysce - not Lys or... what else?" He cocks an eyebrow at the girl for other not-allowed nicknames.

"I never picked him up; why would I need to let him down easy?" is Alysce's answer to that, the edge of her words sharp as she bites into the next piece of her red-fruit with equal crispness. The apprentice, who doesn't wear her knot or an inch of harper blue anywhere on her at the moment, only nods for the introduction. "Alysce," she repeats, firmly.

"Right, not Alysce." J'nason breaks pose order to be a jackass.

Edyis lifts a brow at the interplay between man and woman. "Pleasure." The green firelizard moves to land on Ed's shoulder then. "Not that it is any of my business but who is getting picked up? Or let down?"

J'nason has the mind to put his bread down ''before'' he brings the palm of his hand to his forehead. "He was ''trying'' to befriend you." More, but J'nason isn't going into that! "He's a good guy, a ''real'' good guy." Which seems to go against J'nason calling himself the same. "T'zur, new bronzer from Benden."

"Oh, so because someone is a so-called ''good'' guy, that puts all the burden on ''me'' all of a sudden? For what?" Alysce challenges dryly, dark eyes narrowing on J'nason for a moment before they flick to Edyis. She might be seeking agreement or sympathy, when she offers a shrug to the other woman. She adds for the brownrider's benefit, "I told him he wasn't my type."

Ed's brow furrows for a moment. "Is he - by chance out of the Beowin Traders?" A thought that she hadn't had a chance to follow up on since the flight surfacing. "Most bronze riders have the habit of behaving like asshats. Weyrleader excepted." A private smile offered to Alysce. "You have the right to refuse whomever you wish to refuse."

"YES." J'nason is really glad that Alysce finally understands until... no, no she doesn't. "What does that even ''mean''?! Ugh." J'nason sighs and shakes his head, reaching out for the bread. "As for the trader - I have no idea."

"It means you're an idiot as well as a dick," Alysce translates for J'nason flatly, popping the last piece of the red-fruit into her mouth and rising in one graceful gesture from the blanket. She wipes her skirt with her hands, flashing a half-smile towards Edyis in gratitude.

Edyis purses her lips at the bronzerider's revelation. "Weren't you the one who started the fistfight during the flight." After Alysce gives her translation.

"Hey now, I did that with the ''best'' of intentions." J'nason is totally getting ganged up on here. "The goldie said for us to stay out, just being ''helpful''." Jason doesn't seem too put out though, as he takes another big bite of his bread.

Alysce huffs a sound of disbelief but that's all she adds to the conversation as she spins on one booted heel, skirts swirling around her legs, and starts in the direction of the Hold proper again without so much as a polite goodbye.

Edyis watches the huffing in the direction of the hold, then fixes her dark gaze on J'nason. "You certainly have a way with women, don't you?"

J'nason finishes his bread and then leans forward to dig in the basket. "Hum, fingeroot?" This gets offered to Edyis in the same vein that he'd offered the red fruit to Alysce. "It would look bad, me trying to pick up the girl I tried to set my bro up with. She was doing that red-fruit in lip thing." IT IS A CLASSIC MOVE ALYSCE.

"You know," J'nason uses a fingeroot of his own to mock-seductively put it in his mouth as if he was a girl. "I've seen it before. Aye, apparently, good intentions don't excuse a fight. So," A hand comes up, here he is. Like magic.

There's a high pitched squeal of giggled laughter, from somewhere southwards. A few moments later, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl of perhaps five or six comes flying out from amongst the trees, braids streaming behind her. She takes in the group of people with wide-eyed surprise.
Edyis shrugs to the man, her attention caught by the peal of laughter, a smile crossing her lips as she sees the young girl, a splay of her fingers in a friendly greeting to the child. "Hello, did we startle you?"

"Wohhhh, Who let the kid out?" J'nason eyes the sudden apparition of child. "Maybe it's good that my date was actually not into guys." Lots of drop ins today, it's so not the right romantic tone.

"Shhhh," the blonde girl implores, glancing over her shoulder. Distantly, a male voice calls, "Alani? Where are you?" The girl -- undoubtedly the aforementioned Alani -- giggles, then sticks her hand in her mouth, eyes darting left and right, before scooting around to crouch down behind J'nason, since he's the largest one there.

Edyis laughs watching the girl dip behind the rider. "You got stood up?" Edyis asks then, grinning wide as she reaches to help herself to the basket contents.

"There's a kid behind me." J'nason says this in a total conversational tone. Reaching up he scratches at his chin in thought. "Does it count if she wasn't ever going to show up?"

Striding out from the same southward direction, Devaki is unmistakably related to the girl, with the same blue eyes and blonde hair as her. He's dressed in well-made clothes, sleeves pushed back, completely self-confident as he takes in the picnic-in-progress with a twitch of lips. Nevermind the giggling girl behind J'nason gives her position away; Devaki's playing the game: "You haven't seen a young girl, have you? About yea high?" he holds up a hand about Alani's height.

Edyis smiles wide, "Afraid I haven't, Sir." Getting to her feet and giving a proper bow to the well dressed man.

J'nason, for his part, is just going to do this SUPER SIMPLE. He's gonna put a fingeroot behind his back for the kid. Ladidah, no child here.
"Hmm. A shame," is the Lord's response to Edyis. "Well, do enjoy your... picnic," Devaki's tone is somewhat amused, as his gaze flickers to shoulders to note their respective knots. Whistling, he strides off northwards. Moments later, Alani peeks her head up, giggling as she munches on the fingerroot J'nason snuck to her. "You're okay. For a ''rider''." Apparently that's a compliment in the girl's eyes. The distant call of Devaki's voice, "Alani...?" makes her turn her head sharply, and she goes bolting away without another word.
}}

Logs:Kicking Puppies

2016-07-15T23:38:54Z

Meg: Created page with "{{Log |who=N'klas, Alysce |what=Alysce tells the hard truths that no one else will tell. Or something, right, N'klas? |where=Nighthearth, HIgh Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reac..."

{{Log
|who=N'klas, Alysce
|what=Alysce tells the hard truths that no one else will tell. Or something, right, N'klas?
|where=Nighthearth, HIgh Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=11
|month=4
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.14
|quote="I ''do'' have an amazing bedside manner."
|weather=The sky is clear today. The air remains cool and damp, but the weather is overall pleasant today.
|mentions=Drex, Jocelyn
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon n'klas gitar.png, Icon alysce challenging.jpg,
|desc=With its entrance located between the kitchen and the living cavern, this
tiny bubble cavern is cozy, always kept warm and is filled with
comfortable chairs and a small round table. At the far end, there's a
hearth, outlined in ruddy, aging bricks, where a pot of stew simmers in
the evening hours. Generally quiet, the nighthearth is the haunt of
insomniacs and those seeking quiet from the bustle of daily Weyr life.
|log=It's the gitar that's audible first, strummed by a ''cheerful'' as well as practiced hand; sure, it's not honed the way a harper's touch would be, but it's got a line to it that supports a tenor edging into baritone and the sort of verse where everyone dies. Nik's lit by the fire, and so is his audience, a dark-haired girl with curls spilling over her shoulder and a smile like sunrise. Over in the corner, an auntie's nodded off, but otherwise the place is deserted but for the bluerider on a stool and the girl seated at his knee.

If N'klas' devoted audience resembles sunrise, Alysce is the storm. Wrapped in a dark leather jacket mirrored on dragonrider styles (but without the functionality of one given the lack of pockets to keep a trimmer line) and dark, heeled boots that strike stone as she strides towards the nighthearth, the parallels certainly can be drawn. Her own dark hair has been swept up into a severe ponytail that only accentuates the black kohl used to heavily line black eyes. It's the sound of the guitar that has her pausing at the entryway of the nighthearth, a brow curving sharply upwards as her gaze sweeps over the scene. Does she recognize N'klas? Who knows, but still she clears her throat as she asks the girl she clearly ''does'' recognize, "Oh, did C'ver get tired of you already, Solia?"

The strumming doesn't so much break rhythm as simplify, not at the footsteps-- people come in and out all the time-- but at the interjection; N'klas flicks a glance at the harper girl's face but it's drawn back to Solia, at her little gasp and rising flush. "It's not like that," she protests of the brownrider, and sidles a little closer to Nik's side of the chair. He's stopped singing, now.

Alysce makes a soft, obviously ''faked'' sympathetic noise as she follows with a questioning, "Oh, it's not? Because that's not what ''he'' said, but I really wouldn't want to repeat all the things he said about you." She'd rather leave it vague, even as she flashes a sharply-edged smile to the other young woman and strolls into the room further. Where Solia sidles, she claims, planting herself with ease in a half-lean, half-sit on the arm of the chair closest to Nik's other side while placing the bluerider between the two of them and stretching out her legs in an obviously showy way.

"Then don't," says N'klas. Which doesn't mean he doesn't look at those legs, in the moment where Solia flutters a grateful look up at him-- which then becomes uneasy again. "Do you ''mind''?" the girl sniffs.

"No, do ''you''?" Alysce snaps back easily, amusement lilting dangerously on those words as she sweeps a dismissive look over Solia. But her gaze slides back to N'klas, lingering on him in a study given his defense of Solia. And then the harper stretches oh-so-carefully to her feet again as if she means to leave, adding casually, "You could do so much better."

The girl blinks a few times, and huddles, a hand reaching for her skirt in the music's absence as though she'd leave... but then Alysce ''looks'' like she's going to beat her to it, and a look of fragile relief passes over Solia's face. Nik pats her shoulder uncomfortably, his voice gruff when he says, "What crawled up your ass and died?"

"Mine? Mine?" Alysce questions with the huff of a laugh, her brows shooting upwards as her dark gaze falls completely on N'klas, ignoring the other girl beside him. "Oh, you have no idea, do you? Like, Drex is right about all of you ''dragonriders'' sometimes. Then, even worse, you have little doe-eyed, dimwitted girls ''literally'' falling all over you because you have a gitar and a dragon." A pause, as she rolls her eyes and briefly looks towards Solia and then back again. "I have a secret for you; she wouldn't care at all about you if you weren't a dragonrider. And you suck with the gitar."

''Dimwitted'': that's when Solia's getting up and murmuring an apology to N'klas as she escapes faster than he can fumble his gitar and follow. That might even be a ''tear''. She pauses for that supposed secret, poised on a slipper-tip, but there's another gasp and she goes faster. Nik's flushed, now, high on his cheekbones; he's looking after the girl before turning a stare on Alysce. "Shells, going to kick a puppy next? Some rider dump ''you''?" He's got a careful hand to his gitar as he starts to rise.

There's only the flush of vindication across Alysce's sharp features, her smug smile tucked into the corners of her mouths as she slides a glance at the retreating girl. Then, she's asking with a wry, "Are you comparing her to a ''puppy'', now? See, even you know that you could do better. Unless you think I just drove off the ''love of your life'' or something." Her ponytail is flicked in one easy gesture over her shoulder, meeting N'klas' stare with a challenge of her own. "No. Harpers just tell the truth."

N'klas is seventeen, and he rolls his eyes, never mind that Khajith is two; "Don't make it about that," he says, and turns another look after Solia. Solia, who's well gone. He checks his gitar's strings by habit before moving to slip the strap over his head. "Seems to me your 'truth' is like looking through goggles smeared with shit. Didn't get promoted, is ''that'' it?' One sea-blue eye peeks out at her from beneath the grown-out-from-weyrlinghood brush of hair.

"If you want a tip about how to make people cry, you have to find a ''weak'' spot first," Alysce advises N'klas dryly, her shoulder rolling upwards with dismissive ease at his question. And now that Solia is long gone, she reclaims her spot on the arm of that chair, ankles hooked together and legs outstretched in front of her as she slides a glance over to that dozing auntie. "What, you don't believe me about your little girlfriend? Go ask C'ver. He said he hooked up with her ''one night'' and he couldn't get rid of her after. She was always asking if he'd take her for a ride, that sort of thing."

Nik gives her another look before, uncomfortably, crouching to retrieve his gitar case from under the chair; he doesn't immediately leap to Solia's defense this time, but if he has any plans to check about C'ver, he isn't saying it now. Instead-- blame it on residual Cadejoth, Nik can be dogged-- he puts his gitar away and then finally looks over it. "You ''look'' pretty old for a 'prentice."

Alysce laughs, a huffed sound that escapes before she says dismissively, "I am; I just don't care. I don't have anything to prove to anyone at the Hall. Actually, soon they might end up kicking me out, I'd guess." The harper rolls her shoulder before reaching to start at the buttons of her jacket. She peels the leather away to reveal a shirt that may as well be see-through, with it's thin, white fabric, half of which hangs off one shoulder to reveal it. "But I don't think you want to play this game. Ten-to-one I can find your weak spots before you can find mine."

''Kicked out'' sends his brows up into his hair, though given everything tonight, it's with a smirky bit of a smile; Nik doesn't dispute the weak spots thing-- she's probably right, he wears his on his sleeve, only part of which tracks what is or isn't going on with hers-- rather, "How come? The kicking out thing." He closes one clasp with a snick.

"You don't walk the tables in so long, they kick you out. It's just what happens to apprentices in the crafts," answers Alysce, one of her own brows quirking upwards that Nik didn't know that. She slides from the chair's arm and into the seat, kicking her legs over that arm easily as she settles into a more comfortable position. "So why'd you pick up the gitar? Wanted something to impress the girls with besides your father's rank?"

"Huh," says the teenager who'd diligently ''avoided'' being commandeered into any craft at all. "Naw, that's why I skinned a Southern feline and glued it to my chest," Nik tells her, patting his-- hardly visible beneath his predictably-blue shirt-- proudly. "Roar."

Alysce's eyebrow remains in a disbelieving curve, though amusement sparkles, buried in dark eyes. She tells him without missing a beat, dry, "I'd stick with the gitar. You may suck at it, but it's more impressive. It ''is'' why us harpers never have to look."

"I ''heard'', you're not supposed to look," N'klas says interrogatively. He rests the now-closed case on the chair's arm. "What're you going to do if they kick you out, anyway? Wear a sign, 'Will dump on people for meals?'"

"Where did you hear ''that''? I'm a senior apprentice, not a weyrling or some fresh new rube from the sticks in the Hall," Alysce tosses back with her own smirkey smile, shaking her head in such a slight gesture. The latter question makes her wrinkle her nose, an answer not coming immediately. Eventually, she adds, "Well, ''some'' people could use it. Or I could always become one of these Weyr hanger-oners and get a job in the laundry room and fawn over dragonriders."

Nik waves a hand, apprentices, whatever-- "Maybe I got you confused with a healer," comes with a small, more private smirk. More seriously, at least unless one looks at that gleam in his eye and then, later, hears the not-quite-laugh in his voice, "You could use some practice. Fawning. A ''lot'' of practice. Unless you're really good with stains?"

"I ''do'' have an amazing bedside manner," Alysce teases suggestively in turn, that mostly-bare shoulder curved briefly forward in an innocent shrug. And as answer to the rest--. Well. "Maybe I'll just ''be'' a dragonrider, then. Let people fawn over me."

Nik has a whole variety of flushes, and that shoulder-action causes one, though he glances again towards the hallway for a moment. Then the auntie. Then Alysce; "There ''was'' a flight," he says reminiscently, slyly even, deliberate with the recollection. "Hope you had half as much fun as I had."

Alysce only exhales a laugh as he looks towards the hallway, rolling her eyes in an exaggerated emoting. "Don't worry. She'll be back; you have a gitar and a dragon. You don't have to chase her." Her smile, however, holds her sharper edges despite her words. "Mine was exciting. But not my first since I've been here."

"Yeah, well, I wasn't worried about ''that''," Nik says, rolling ''his'' eyes back. "She was just--" he rolls his shoulders now, a wriggle almost, uncomfortable until he picks up the case and tests its weight in his hand. "Yeah. Well. You got a gitar, you're halfway there. Unless you get that dragon and have to give it back? Like that beastcraft girl. I'm heading out."

"Tell Solia I send my love," Alysce answers to that retreat, a smirky smile flashing before he leaves.

"Be ''nice''," he says on his way out, half a grunt and all a grump.
}}

Logs:A Day's Grace

2016-07-11T01:13:08Z

Meg: Created page with "{{Log |who=Quint, Alysce |what=The day after Aidavanth's flight, Quint is sympathetic while Alysce sulks. |where=Nighthearth, HIgh Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |da..."

{{Log
|who=Quint, Alysce
|what=The day after Aidavanth's flight, Quint is sympathetic while Alysce sulks.
|where=Nighthearth, HIgh Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=26
|month=3
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.10
|quote="And you look perfectly... un-murdered to me."
|mentions=Jocelyn, Drex, Olivya
|type=Log
|log=Alysce has been missing all morning; she hasn't been at the lessons that were assigned to her or teaching any of the classes she was supposed to. She hasn't shown up to report for duty or sought Quint out to talk as she normally does. Or perhaps she did, early this morning, but well--. She's sulking now. Clad in her harper blue, which consists today of an oversized tunic and tailored pants, she has curled up into one of the comfortable chairs here, arms wrapped around herself as she stares at the fire and does absolutely nothing.

For the day after a flight, there's a certain leeway given to those that might be a bit tardy the next day. Certainly, no one seeks out Alysce when she misses her classes, and lunchtime passes without a reprimand, but... by afternoon, it's her Journeyman himself that seeks out his apprentice. Quint's back to his normal, pristine, everything-in-its-place look of composure as he leans in the entrance for a moment, eyes lighting on Alysce. "I didn't think," he says, as he strolls closer, "You'd give up ''that'' easily. I know the younger class can be a handful at times, but..." he spreads his hands, stepping around where he can see Alysce's expression.

There is a subtle tightening to Alysce's jaw as Quint speaks, her brows twitching only slightly towards each other as she stares with more determination into the fire rather than lifting to look towards her Journeyman. That she's sulking is clear in her expression, one that is easy to read; annoyance and hurt and maybe just a dash of boredom all rolled into one. She doesn't even answer right away, letting his words draw out onto a long, awkward silence before she tells him dismissively, "I don't care. ''They'' probably didn't care, either."

"Of course they care. ''Where's that annoying apprentice?'' they asked, ''We want to pull her hair some more,'' they cajoled." Quint would have to be blind not to see that his apprentice is sulking, yet his tone remains light as he moves over to lean on the arm of the chair she's curled in. Quietly, he regards her a moment. "What happened?"

"You know, a big gold dragon went up in the air to mate? People made jackasses of themselves. Someone threatened to murder me. The usual," Alysce throws back dryly, diverting, before she continues on to accuse, "What happened with ''you''?"

"This isn't the first time we've been at the Weyr when a gold's risen," Quint observes, with a tip of his head. "And you look perfectly... un-murdered to me." He gives her an expectant look, like he's still waiting for an answer. The latter question earns a lift of brows, but no verbal response.

"And this is why you're the journeyman," is the sassy answer that Quint earns from his apprentice, even as her arms tighten over herself. Alysce doesn't look up to see the expectant look, as she continues to stare into the fire as if it's the most interesting thing on Pern.

"No," said Journeyman corrects, "I'm the Journeyman because I ''wanted'' it." Quint gestures towards Alysce, "Now, are you going to sulk all afternoon, or are you going to come and eat a late, ''late'' lunch with me, and bring me up to date on all the Weyr's gossip? I'm sure there's plenty to be had...?" it isn't normally something he ''encourages'', so perhaps he's feeling sorry for her.

Alysce huffs what could be annoyance or a laugh; it's really up in the air as to what the noise is before she offers Quint dryly, "Oh, you haven't heard? Someone threatened to murder me. One of High Reaches' harpers slept with Fort's Weyrlingmaster. And people made jackasses of themselves." Apparently, she's going to be repetitive today, as she finally lifts her gaze up to Quint, flipping her hair at the same time in an accompanying gesture.

Why yes, that is a reaction, in the tightening of expression and thinning of lips. "It's a flight, Alysce. What do you expect?" There's a sharpness to Quint's voice, as he gazes down at his apprentice.

"I don't expect anything," Alysce insists, shaking her head dismissively. "But you could have at least ''cared'' that I was going to get murdered. Even if you didn't know that, you know, I ''am'' your apprentice and it ''was'' a flight. You should have made sure I was ok!" There's a defensive belief that, yes, that's all she cares about. And like the near-teen that she is, she seems ready to die on this hill that she's decided to stand on.

"Alysce." Quint waits. Waits until she looks, hopefully, until he can catch her eye. "I taught you. I ''trained'' you. I know you know how to look after yourself, and you don't need me to babysit you." He pauses. His voice is gentle, knowing. "Coming to you during a flight is the absolute last thing I should have done, and thus, it is why I didn't. Do you understand why?"

He does catch her eyes momentarily, but it's only that before Alysce looks away again with a stubborn jut of her jaw. "If you say so, Quint," she answers, again dismissive. "But you ''know''--." Nothing. She says nothing further, just rolling a shoulder upwards in a shrug before she continues on flatly, "You know, it doesn't even matter."

"Clearly it does, since you felt compelled to say it." The Journeyman gestures with an indication she should continue.

"You know I hate you and your stupid, unwritten rules, right?" is what Alysce counters back, tone unchanging and dry.

"Yes. And yet for some reason you feel obligated to stay," Quint replies with just a twitch of lips hinting at his amusement.

Alysce huffs a disagreeing noise, her brow slicing upwards before she mumbles dismissively back, "Only because they'd make me test for journeyman to get reassigned."

"Maybe," Quint allows, with a lift-and-drop of his shoulder. "So, are you going to keep me company while I eat, or make me perish here waiting for you?" He offers her a hand.

Alysce's dark gaze drops to his hand, seriously considering the invitation for a moment before she draws herself to her feet. But she answers with a shake of her head and a not-even-clever, "Not today. I promised someone I'd meet them soon. I'll see you tomorrow for breakfast, though."

"Okay," Quint seems to take the decline gracefully enough, and, with a nod of his head, turns to go. Near the door, however, he pauses: "Oh. You only get the ''one'' day of grace, mind." There might be a flicker of a smile as he he disappears out the door.
}}

Logs:Figuring It Out

2016-04-21T14:41:25Z

Meg: Created page with "{{Log |who=C'ris, Telavi, Lyrisa |what=C'ris and Telavi catch up. |where=Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=6 |month=8 |turn=40 |IP=Interval |IP2=1..."

{{Log
|who=C'ris, Telavi, Lyrisa
|what=C'ris and Telavi catch up.
|where=Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=6
|month=8
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.04.19
|quote="But, sometimes being unhappy is what's best for you."
|weather=Warm sunshine and cloudless skies make for a beautiful day and pleasantly warm evening. A breeze tempers the heat with no humidity lingering in the air.
|mentions=Quinlys
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon c'ris blue.jpg, Icon telavi listening.jpg,
|desc=The rest of the bowl may be barren, grass barely surviving at best, but
here by the lake, it's brilliantly green in the warmer months: thickening
and thriving in the silty, boulder-dotted soil just before it transitions
to soft sand and thence to the cool, clear water itself.

A large freshwater lake fed by a low waterfall, it not only provides
warm-weather bathing space for humans and dragons, but has one end fenced
off as a watering hole for the livestock in the feeding grounds. The water
there is often muddier than the rest of the clear lake, whose shallows
drop off abruptly several yards out into deep water, and whose edge
undulates against the coarse-hewn bowl wall: here close enough to just be
bramble-covered rocks, there far enough away that a narrow land bridge
divides the main lake from a smallish pond. Between are several rocky
outcroppings that form excellent makeshift diving points, though only one
-- across the bridge -- has a set of narrow, slippery, quite possibly
tempting stairs.
|log=The sun shines bright overhead, marking it near noon. With many dragonriders and residents off on their own duties, it leaves the lake shore peaceful. Peaceful except for the blue that lurks in the lake unhappily, and except for the punctuated fussing of a baby that is unhappy to be laying on her stomach on the blanket that C'ris has laid out. He watches her carefully, and though there are occasional cries, he does nothing to free her from her predicament, not as she pushes at herself and rocks, strengthening muscles she'll later need. Enough toys are near at hand for her, including a beautifully carved rattle and a floppy, soft one, that she doesn't lack for entertainment. It is the bluerider that has nothing to occupy himself other than watching his daughter, instead picking at the grass and shredding it to keep his hands busy.

Light, light footsteps lead into a lightly accusatory, "You are so ''mean'', C'ris." Telavi pauses behind him, but her teasing doesn't; "Unless you're going to feed that to her after you're done? Make her spit up green?"

Broken out of his own thoughts, confusion flits over C'ris' expression first as warm brown eyes are lifted up, up to Telavi. "What?" is followed quickly with a friendly smile, dropping the grass in his hands and brushing it with easy gestures from his lap before offering a gesture for the greenrider to pull up a corner of the blanket. Lyrisa fusses only more as ''things happen'' around her, pushing at the blanket and trying to lift her head to see with noises that never ''quite'' become a true cry.

Telavi obliges, long legs folding with effortless grace-- but there's a hint of wariness to the tilt of her head even now, even after all her visits. ''It's alive.'' "She's not happy with you," Tela tells him. "You're ''thwarting'' her."

"Oh, no. She's not," agrees C'ris on an exhale, his gaze drawn back to his daughter with a softly buried smile. He probably doesn't even realize when he reaches to pluck a handful of blades again from the grass. "But, sometimes being unhappy is what's best for you. It is going to make her stronger."

Telavi wrinkles her nose at ''that'', and quickly leans over, hand darting to try and rescue some grass clippings. "Wait until she's old enough to tell you that," she teases.

C'ris' answer is to toss those blades at her lightly, quirking another smile even as he answers too sincerely, a bit sadly, "Then my heart will be crushed a bit each time, but as long as I am doing what's right for her--." He opens his mouth to add something else, and then closes without it, shaking his head. Instead he asks with genuine interest, "How are you, Tela?"

''Taking'' them is one thing; having them thrown at her is another. Tela makes a face before she says, "I meant, when she's making you unhappy to 'make you stronger.' ''I'm''... fine? Good. Yes, good. It's a lovely summer. No plagues, no renegades, nobody dying who wasn't sup-- expected to. Don't you think?"

"Right, right," C'ris replies simply, his smile fading a bit as he studies Telavi. "I think-- I'm glad you're good. Happy? And without weyrlings, how are you filling your time? What're you doing?"

There's grass for Telavi to pluck, and so ''she'' does, this time, with purpose. "Oh, helping out here and there," she says, and her own smile is bright. It's public enough that Quinlys uses her where she can, but beyond that... "Catching up on mending, there's so much of it! But it ''travels''. So much nicer when you can do it wherever you like, don't you think?" One of the blades is, evidently, intended for tickling the undersides of little baby feet.

A bright giggle is elicited from Lyrisa, and a softer smile on C'ris' part as he watches the greenrider and his daughter. But he doesn't move to join the game, not as Lyri tries to push and roll from the tickling. Instead, he'll answer, "Yes, it is. It's nice to get out once and a while and--. I really should have brought my own mending but I am not all that good at it. And she goes through things so quickly anyways."

More tickling! but with breathers now and again, lest anything get ''too much''. Telavi does encourage the rolls to whichever side seems the most likely, just in case she can persuade Lyrisa to roll over. "Is it the stuff out the mouth or the stuff out the bottom that means cleaning the most often, these days? At least the mending, the more you do of it the better you'll be."

"Both, really. You don't want to see her spit-up some days," teases C'ris with a flash of an easier smile as he watches Telavi with his daughter. "She's-- It's a lot of work, most days. But we're figuring it out."

"I hope so." Tela's tickling pauses as she glances up through her lashes at C'ris. Her lashes fall. "I hope she'll want to come back soon." ''This'' time the tickling is aimed more precisely for the tiny toes, and better, the even tinier nails.

C'ris doesn't answer at first, not as Lyrisa's reaction to that tickling holds his attention. Only after she has kicked away happily does he answer quietly, "Me too. But-- Some days I worry, Tela. I want us to figure this all out; I want this, but--. Do I want it too much?"

"Do you want a real answer?" is as rhetorical as it is soft.

"Yes," replies C'ris, his brown gaze lifted to Telavi and only that.

Telavi's gaze is swept down, still, to those tiny toes she touches with that grass, not with her finger. After a few moments, "You want so hard." She might stop there.

C'ris, for once, provides nothing in the way of conversation to hide behind or distract. Instead, no, he falls silent as he watches Telavi, as he shifts a look to his daughter's toes and back.

"I'm surprised she made it this long," Telavi says without much affect. "She's brave."

"Because of me. Because what I want has made her feel trapped into--," murmurs C'ris thoughtfully, sadly. And this time, as Lyrisa begins fussing again, he leans forward to scoop his daughter up and into his arms. He speaks to ''her'', not Telavi when he says in gentle tones, "Shh, shh, shh. Ok, we're done with that. Such a brave girl, like your mother."

Telavi doesn't deny him, isn't polite-- isn't indifferent. "Or how you want it," is softer in timbre at the very least. "I can't say it's not worth it, C'ris."

"Neither can I though, can I?" C'ris says simply, though he takes a moment to offer the greenrider a reassuring smile as he rocks his daughter gently. "She's gone now. When she comes back, when she's had time-- We'll figure it out then."

"Of course," Telavi says; her smile peeps out in answer, though not far, and there's no dimple. She thumb-flicks a few grass-bits at his toes, letting them fly in a small arc, and now she smiles a bit more. "Say something cheerful. Else she'll fuss and you'll have to go, or ''I'' will. Though," she reconsiders, "I suppose I should anyway. But still, first!"

"Mivength misses Solith. That's kinda sweet and cheerful, isn't it?" is what C'ris offers back, wiggling his booted toes as grass falls over them. His own smile appears in turn, as if he couldn't ''not''. He adds, "And I also-- I really appreciate your honesty with me, Tela. I'm glad we're friends."

Sweet. Cheerful. "Solith does like Mivength, and he may always talk to her," Telavi says in a slightly higher-pitched voice. She glances briefly up to the cliff with its ledges, but not at ''their'' ledge. "I try. Thank you. I hope you have a ''wonderful'' rest of the day, both of you," is quite sincere, green-today gaze focusing on C'ris. She's quick to get up, then, to dust bits of grass off her skin, to head out with her mending, refashioning and general refurbishing. If clothes don't wind up her only focus, though... that's between her and the assigner of those other tasks.
}}

Logs:Sevenday Present

2016-03-13T20:33:29Z

Meg: Created page with "{{Log |who=C'ris, J'sae, Lyrisa |what=C'ris worries over new fatherhood while J'sae has a present for Lyrisa. |where=Nursery, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |da..."

{{Log
|who=C'ris, J'sae, Lyrisa
|what=C'ris worries over new fatherhood while J'sae has a present for Lyrisa.
|where=Nursery, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=7
|month=4
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.03.13
|quote="Dragons are a lifetime commitment."
|weather=A layer of patchy clouds covers the sky. The air feels cool and damp, but there is no rainfall today.
|mentions=Quinlys, Risca
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon c'ris thoughtful.gif, Icon j'sae.jpg,
|log=The nursery is mostly empty on a spring morning, with the nannies taking their more rambunctious and older charges outside to play off excess energy. It leaves only those nannies assigned to infant care and those said infants behind; though, it also seems like it has left ''C'ris'' behind. With Lyrisa only a sevenday old, he hasn't dragged himself back to his wing (or nominally, his, since the dissolution of Frostbite) or his duties. At some point, perhaps, he had good intentions of leaving his daughter in the nursery and letting her adjust to it, but now, he is curled up with the soft, pink baby in his arms in one of the rocking chairs, half-dozing with warm, brown eyes half-slit open as little Lyri lays swaddled against his chest in her own sleep, mouth slightly open.

The nursery is an odd place to find J'sae, though it seems like he knows the nanny on duty at any rate for he pauses to have a quick (unsurprisingly smiling) exchange with her before he heads toward C'ris, a small bundle (fabric wrapped and tied with a bow!) in his hands. As he edges closer to the other bluerider, his pace slows a little, brows drawing down, as if he might be unsure if a 'half-doze' might really be a whole one and unwilling to intrude on the precious rest of a new parent. Still, he does quietly address, "C'ris?" as he draws nearer.

"Hey," is C'ris' half-hoarse whisper that meets J'sae in greeting, his gaze opening barely imperceptibly but the slow, soft smile that tugs at his lips unmistakably aware and awake. His voice gains volume as he continues, adding, "Don't worry about waking her. She can sleep through a ''lot'' of noise, as long as you don't startle her or anything." A pause as unabashed pride floods his expression and he shifts his daughter a bit so that her face isn't ''so'' against his chest. "J'sae, this is Lyri."

"''Babies''," J'sae says with a wide smile, amused, indulgent and certainly the sort of thing that only a person who ''likes'' children would wear. "Congratulations. I heard that she'd been born. She's perfect," he compliments, as all babies are, naturally. "I brought something for her. Well, you and her. You'll be grateful for it possibly more than she'll know to be." He rambles, but manages to stop before too much. "It's just a rattle and some teethers for later." No biggie. Nevermind that they're just about the prettiest carved any baby here is bound to have.

Drowsy and warm and happy, C'ris returns that smile with a slow exhale of laughter that might just be agreement for the single-worded sentiment. But then he's flushing slightly as he accepts awkwardly, "Thanks. She's-- Yeah, she is perfect. I feel like-- such a different person, you know? I already love her so much, it hurts." His smile fades slightly, but he shifts to sit up as he offers, dismissing the other subject to press on, "Do you want to hold her? We can trade." He makes a vague gesture between his daughter and the present.

"My father used to tell me that there are some experiences in life that you have that make you forever changed. Sometimes, you don't notice, but some of them are so important that you can't miss them. He said the first time he held his son," not J'sae in this case, "was one of those times. You have opinions you never even thought to have opinions on before that moment, and you feel certain of things you never thought you could feel certain about, and-- anyway." J'sae gives the new father a lopsided grin. He looks to the baby and then with a shrug and nod, he'll accept the trade, carefully. He must have had some recent practice at this for he doesn't hesitate in how he takes her, careful to support her head and he almost immediately settles into a slow, bouncing rock from the knees.

"This-- Yes, it's exactly like that, really. And like I need to adjust to this new self that I am, that all I want to be is the best man that I can be for ''her''--." There is some soft of relief in C'ris' warm expression for J'sae's understanding, marked because perhaps he wasn't prepared to find it. He watches the other bluerider with his daughter for a long moment, only somewhat of concern about Lyri's reaction to this transition, but she only fusses a little before quieting again without ever truly waking. "You didn't have to get us anything, really, but-- Thanks, you know," he adds after, once he's started unwrapping the gift.

Jase dutifully keeps up the gentle 'mommy rock' to help Lyri's transition from familiar to unfamiliar, to give C'ris some time with both his hands. His attention is even mostly on his little charge until he's sure she's settling back into sleep, only then does he look up to the other bluerider with another little shrug and dissembling smile. "What's the point of having a gift if you don't use it to give gifts to your friends on appropriate occasions? It was just some scrap I had. Consider it a service you've done me. By having a child, you've given me practice with a purpose." How considerate of C'ris! There's humor in Jase's voice, of course.

"I don't know. Having a talent like yours-- I am grateful that you're willing to spend your time making things for me. It means a lot," is what C'ris answers thoughtfully, in juxtaposition to Jase's humor. Not that he isn't without a smile, especially as he draws the baby rattle out of the packaging and inspects the dragon carved into it. "It's beautiful. It-- This will last forever. We can use it for the next, even." But ''that'' has some humor in it as he raises his gaze to the other man with a quick grin. "Thank you, really."

"Oh, I don't know. It's meant to be ''played with''. I can always make another for the next." J'sae returns with a smile, pleased by the reaction from the other bluerider. "I tried to round all the edges so there wouldn't be anything she could do real damage with," he explains. "I learned to make them only a handful of turns back, for my sister's oldest, and haven't had a whole lot of reason to practice them since, so it's good, really." The practice. "I made different shapes for the teethers because my sister said some babies seem to like certain ones and hate others and it's impossible to know which'll be The One. So, some options for her. You know, when she hits the point of having teeth," which is probably a crazy thought at this juncture and J'sae must know that, given his grin.

The thought that not just ''any'' teether will do is probably a crazy thought at this juncture, since C'ris seems surprised by it, brows curving up and eyes finally widening somewhat as he drops his gaze back to the teethers still in the package. "Oh, I-- Yeah. Thank you. I'm sure we'll figure it out; I mean, which one she likes or doesn't like and all," he agrees, exhaling slightly on the words. But he goes on to add, "Or good practice when you have your own, right?" He's only been a dad for a sevenday, and apparently he's ready to encourage others to join him.

"Yeah, of course you will," carries such bolstering, quiet confidence that J'sae's very genuine vote of support for C'ris is clear. "And if you have trouble, you'll ask for help. I'm told this is how it works. In the meantime, you just... enjoy and hang in, I guess." His shoulders have a little roll, "Yeah, I'm sure it'll happen for me sometime. Maybe a flight or something." Even if Zajeth doesn't chase overly often. "I'm sure by the time it happens, at any rate, you'll be able to tell me everything I need to know and sound like an expert about it." He grins at the other man. "How're you finding it all so far?" Dad-ing.

"Yeah. Yeah, my mother's already given us a ton of advice and taught me some of it, a little at a time when I need to know," C'ris answers, sounding more confident in himself in light of J'sae's answer, though not without a touch of self-deprecation. Of course he doesn't know everything, yet. "Don't worry; I will tell you everything I know at that point until you're sick of it." But he's got his own little shrug as he watches the bluerider and his daughter, falling thoughtful again, "It's more overwhelming than I thought it'd be. I've always ''liked'' babies and kids, but it's a ''lot''."

"I hear that's what happens," comes with humor, whether for C'ris' mother or for C'ris telling him until he's sick of it or both, it's hard to say. J'sae's sway continues rhythmically, his smile softening as he looks down at the babe in arms, because... ''babies''. The former woodcrafter draws his eyes back up to his fellow bluerider, nodding slowly. "I remember them telling us when I was a new weyrling that having a hatchling to care for was like having a baby, and I remember thinking that it didn't seem likely. So much to learn in such a short amount of time, sure, but hatchlings can move independently and can tell you in words and feelings what's wrong or what they need. Babies... they're more mysterious, I think. But look at you here, with her. You're a great dad already." J'sae encourages. "It's probably rarer for that in a Weyr than a Hold, though I guess even there most bigger Holds have nannies for-- well." He stops himself from rambling on.

C'ris nods, a simple enough gesture of agreement even as it is obvious that his thoughts are running away from him, until he admits in a low murmur, as if he doesn't want the nannies to hear, "I know. But, I don't want to give her up to the nursery. I don't want someone else raising my child while I get to see her once a day, at most, for how long?" His fingers flex in a helpless gesture, before he dismisses the thought with a shake of his head before adding, "Quinlys doesn't agree, I think; she thinks she belongs in the nursery. But I don't think she'll think raising a hatchling is like a baby anymore." The last is offered as a joke to lighten the mood.

J'sae's brow furrows and some thing about the way C'ris gestures has J'sae stepping toward him to lean to transfer the sleeping infant back to her rightful place in her father's arms. "I think..." He considers a long moment before starting again, "I think, C'ris, that raising any child takes more people than just her parents. You'll be raising her, but so will other good people who'll love her, not as much as you, but plenty enough for her to be safe and well cared for. I don't think it's any less your place to be here because Quinlys thinks it's hers. You're both Lyri's parents, you're both entitled to love her and care for her, and she's so lucky to have that. But having help isn't a bad thing. Having other people who love Lyri isn't a bad thing, particularly when one has responsibilities and a lifemate." And then he's quiet, because perhaps he's concerned that he may've over-stepped. Advice of the non-parent to the newly minted.

It seems that C'ris ''is'' ready to have his daughter back into his arms, quickly settling her into the curve there between the lean muscle of his chest and the protective wrap of his arms. "It's not-- It's not that I mind the help or that I think I could do it all on my own," he says softly, his gaze falling to his daughter's soft features. "It's that I will ''miss'' so much. If I could quit, resign from the wings and focus solely on her--." But that's impossible, so he doesn't pursue that thought any further as he exhales a quiet sigh. But he agrees in the end with a simple, "I know that it's-- I know having other people helping raise her isn't bad. I will get used to the idea, I think. But not yet."

J'sae's lips press briefly together, something sympathetic in the look of his eyes. "Dragons are a lifetime commitment." The harsh truth of it is said gently. "Anyway, I won't distract you anymore today. Enjoy her. I hear they grow fast." He offers that with another smile before he's turning to head back the way he came.

"Thank you again, Jase. I-- I'm sorry," is C'ris' farewell, his own lips twisting into a hint of a frown as he watches J'sae leave. At least, until he's disappeared.
}}

Logs:Post Hatching Feast at Fort

2016-03-13T02:18:09Z

Meg:

{{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 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
}}

C'ris

2016-03-12T15:45:20Z

Meg:

{{ProfileTabs
|picture=C'ris.jpg
|mother=Risca
|children=Lyrisa
|body=C'ris bears himself with a natural boyishness that is almost puppyish in observation; his dark brown eyes are wide and honest below well-groomed but simple brows. His lips are soft, full for a man, while his nose is straight and unassuming. The cut of his jaw is forever shadowed by a soft, short beard. His hair is dark but fluffy, its own volume to it.
----
== WYSK ==
{{wysk}}

= History =
(Have to dig it out or write it again.)

= Relationships =
{{Family}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Mother
{{!}}Risca
{{!}}Kitchen Worker
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=973126800}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Partner
{{!}}[[Quinlys]]
{{!}}Weyrlingmaster
{{!}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Daughter
{{!}}Lyrisa
{{!}}Infant
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1457760856}}
{{!}}}

* '''[[K'zin]]:'''
* '''[[Telavi]]:'''
* '''[[Quinlys]]:'''
* '''[[Farideh]]:'''

= Recent Logs and Vignettes =

{{NewLogs |name=C'ris}}

= Other =

= Icons =
{{Icons}}
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=High Reaches Weyr, Blueriders
}}
}

FTW:Month 1/Dragon Anatomy

2016-03-11T03:40:25Z

Meg: Created page with "There are a bunch of things that need to be remembered when playing a Pernese dragon, and this document is intended just to highlight the main ones. For a more in-depth discus..."

There are a bunch of things that need to be remembered when playing a Pernese dragon, and this document is intended just to highlight the main ones. For a more in-depth discussion of our dragonhealing program, please contact Jenna. Another excellent source for weyrling injuries and when they occur is: [http://www.cibryen.com/dragon_healing.html Dragon*Con Panel of Dragonhealing].

* Dragons have six limbs. Forelimbs for grabbing, hind limbs to take off and landing, and the wings. They have ‘hands’ with five fingers – a trifle different from the firelizards who have only three. Both dragons and lizards rely on a modified ball and socket joint in their legs and hips to keep from dislocating a joint in takeoff and landing.
<br>
*The forelimbs are used primarily for hunting and have sharp, retractable talons for rending their prey. The forelimbs are extremely short compared to the hindlimbs. This is the main reason for an awkward ‘hop-skip’ they have when they’re forced to walk everywhere.
<br>
* Many consider the wing to be the most vital part of a dragon. It consists primarily of the main sail, the leading edge, and the trailing edge. A dragon’s wingspan typically runs 1 and 2/3 the length of the dragon; because the wings functions somewhat like sails, the terms used are quite similar. These membranes are translucent in firelizards and nearly so with dragons, but thicker over the bones and where they attach to the muscles. They are much stronger than they appear; a dragon can still fly even should a full third of the wingsail be damaged.
<br>
* About half the length of a dragonwing is supported by bones that are shaped similar to arms from the shoulder to the finger joint, including an elbow. The strength of the shoulder and upper arm muscles supply the power necessary for a "lift." The elbow has a slightly flexed position, and the leading edge of the wing is a membrane that stretches between the shoulder and the finger joint.
<br>
* The first two wing bones run almost together, as the bones form the outer spar portion of the lub; this is the term in Seacrafting applied to the support for a square sail. The remaining two wing bones fan out from the finger joint. The inner bone is almost perpendicular to the spar bone, and ends about midway between the body and the forestay finger tip. From the dorsal spine and stretching to this inner bone is the primary mainsail I mentioned before, the largest of the three membranes, which supports most of the body’s weight.
<br>
* There are other ‘sails’ as well. The outermost, forestay, tip is able to function almost independently, giving it the term ‘finger sail’, while the secondary mainsail runs from the inner bone to the mid bone, and the spar mainsail runs from the mid bone to the spar bones. They are used in support as well, but also provide maneuverability. These are the sails that are most often strained or torn in the smaller blues and greens, because of their ability to turn on a tailtip. Cartilages provide additional support, extending from arm and finger joint to the leech or trailing edge.
<br>
* Dragon hide is smooth, soft to the touch, strong, and hairless. A healthy hide is glossy with no hint of gray. The female golds and greens often experience a change in tone before mating, the hide brightening; just before a flight they may even appear to glow. The male bronzes, browns, and blues generally do not experience this fluctuation in color, although their hides may gradually deepen with age. You have to oil your dragons, and keep them oiled several times a day. At first, they will seem to outgrow their hide every night, and complain almost constantly of being itchy. As they get closer to their full growth, this will ease quite a bit. The amount of oiling will slow down as the dragons finish their growth, though this will more than be compensated by the block of time it takes to completely oil the bulk of a full-grown dragon, especially the larger bronzes and browns. This task is a lifetime job, and must continue all through you and your ‘mate’s life. If one goes between with a patchy dragon, the skin may slough off, which can then lead to all kinds of complications and infections.
<br>
* Dragons have forked tails; in the fork is their sphincter. Dragons and firelizards will store up excreta for several days in their tails until they are able to go between and get rid of it there. Because you cannot yet fly or go between, you will need to muck out their couch. The genitalia are concealed behind pouchlike flaps of skin under the junction of tail and body, and only revealed during mating.
<br>
* As for the senses, a dragon’s headknobs are more prominent than those of a firelizard and their noses more pointed. Dragonkind have no ears or eyelashes. Their headknobs appear to function as our ears do, for they react to noises that are not related to their sixth sense, that of telepathy. They rarely, if ever, speak to another human, though they can, if it suits them to. Dragons have an excellent spatial sense with reference to other dragons when emerging and going between; this is why dragons don’t collide with others of their kind when arriving into crowded airspace.
<br>
* The eyes are protected by three sets of lids: an inner transparent pair and two increasingly thicker sets of membranes. Because their eyes protrude outwards from their set in the skull, dragons have peripheral vision that extends to what is above them, as well as to their sides and beyond. A dragon’s eyes can see air currents, which is an aid to their skill in Fall. Additionally, dragons can occasionally "look through" their riders’ eyes to see what their rider is seeing, if they are not themselves present. Though it takes considerable patience to hone this particular skill.
<br>
* Dragon eyes are multifaceted and color reflects mood: green/blue signifies contentment, yellow, fear; red/orange, anger; red, hunger; danger, white; pain is gray, and purple signifies the mating urge, lust, and love. The quicker their eyes whirl, the more intense the emotion they feel is; the whirling is, however, supposedly an optical illusion caused by the eyes’ facets. Their sense of smell isn’t that well developed; to them, there is nothing distasteful in the stench of firestone. They can, however, smell well enough to detect "strange" or unfamiliar scents.
<br>
* Draconic memories are proverbially short, their recall of specific events usually lasting between two and three days. They also infrequently offer unsolicited opinions. Often, dragons have difficulty recalling names, and they’ll frequently slur or compress syllables of names they do recall. This is likely the origin of the honorific most male riders take after impression. Dragons often have problems correlating cause and effect–just because they see their rider making new straps, it does not follow that they will identify this as meaning increased safety during Threadfall. Possessing an instinctual drive to battle Thread, dragons are very difficult to dissuade from doing so, even if they aren’t stocked with firestone.

FTW:Month 1

2016-03-11T03:38:54Z

Meg: Created page with "<div class="col-md-6"> <div class="panel panel-ftw panel-cocktail-border" style="margin-bottom:0px"> <div class="panel-heading"><h3 class="panel-title">Exercise & Drago..."

<div class="col-md-6">
<div class="panel panel-ftw panel-cocktail-border" style="margin-bottom:0px">
<div class="panel-heading"><h3 class="panel-title">Exercise & Dragon Anatomy</h3></div>
<div class="panel-body">
As your dragons reach a month old, it may be hard to imagine how little they were only four weeks ago when they first hatched from their eggs. The first month passed by in a rush but there was some structure to it, in small parts. And now you'll find that more structure will start to be introduced into your lives.<br><br>The first hint of it will come during the first half of the month, when the WLM-team will sit you all down, very separately, to test you at varying times in Pernese history, Fortian history, the teaching ballads, math, as well as reading and writing. You will be compared and ranked with the rest of your weyrling class, with exam results posted for everyone to see. These results will determine what harper classes you will be taking for the next turn, including whether you will begin taking remedial classes immediately with the harpers.<br><br>You will also be evaluated for your fitness level in earnest now, and placed in three physical conditioning groups: Basic, Intermediate, or Advanced. Most weyrlings will fall into the intermediate group, while those with extra training, as guards, for example, will fall into the advanced group and those with fairly sedentary pre-weyrling lives will fall into the basic group. By the end of weyrling training, all weyrlings are expected to have reached a competent level of physical ability for their duties.<br><br>During the later half of the month, after evaluations have been complete, you are ''then'' thrown into classroom lessons with your first lessons: dragon anatomy. This will be taught and drilled into you daily for the better part of two weeks, with each lesson building on each other. Weyrlings who have already started remedial classes with the harpers might find this overwhelming.<br><br>Again this month, you are left with little time to yourselves, and a WLM-team member is always available in the barracks. The only little break that you get is near the middle of the month, when your dragons can finally, finally eat their meat without needing you to cut it.<br><br>As a player, we encourage you to bring any problems up with the WLM-team. Feel free to look over the [[FTW:Month_1/Dragon_Anatomy|dragon anatomy lesson]]. This is optional. Make sure to:
* Check out the RP Topics for ideas on what to play for this IC month.
* RP, RP, RP!
</div>
<div class="panel-footer">Dragon Age: 1 month – 2 months</div>
</div>
</div>
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<div class="panel-heading"><h3 class="panel-title">RP/Vignette Topics</h3></div>
<div class="panel-body mw-collapsible-content">
* Practice throwing and catching sandbags or firestone bags.
* Play “blindman’s bluff” and “Simon Says” or similar games in the bowl that require the dragon or rider to provide information to his or her counterpart, strengthening the mental bond.
* First ‘whole beast’ feedings – pre-killed carcasses provided by older dragons instead of chopped meat from a bucket.
* Other class subjects to RP with WLM-team and fellow weyrlings: learning anatomy of dragons, general etiquette, Weyr history, and harper catchup classes for those weyrlings who need remedial assistance with reading, writing and arithmetic.
* RP or vig about your exam results or how you fit in fitness-wise with the rest of your class. </div></div>
<div class="panel panel-ftw panel-cocktail-border mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="margin-bottom:0px">
<div class="panel-heading"><h3 class="panel-title">Milestones</h3></div>
<div class="panel-body mw-collapsible-content">
'''Dragonet'''
* Dragonets start eating from whole carcasses instead of chopped meat.
* Dragonet sensitivity decreases a little.
* Dragonets are about a quarter of their full size
* Dragonets are able to stay awake for most of the day, stretching out feedings and care to 4-8 hours apart.
'''Weyrling'''
* A regular, structured schedule begins to be applied with the weyrling day broken up between morning exercise, morning classes, afternoon classes and free time.
* Morning exercises become more vigorous and in earnest.
* The line between you and your dragon should be more distinct with less dragon/human feeling confusion.
* You may be getting a little more sleep as your dragon stretches out feedings and other needs.
</div></div>
<div class="panel panel-ftw panel-cocktail-border mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="margin-bottom:0px">
<div class="panel-heading"><h3 class="panel-title">Rules & Restrictions</h3></div>
<div class="panel-body mw-collapsible-content">
* There is no uniform required, but weyrlings should wear sturdy work clothes. Those who don’t have anything suitable will be provided with cast-offs from Stores.
* Weyrlings may go anywhere inside the Weyr, including the living cavern, hot springs, stores, inner caverns, etc.
* One glass of ale or wine at mealtimes is allowed.
* No intimate contact. No kissing, no making out, no sex.
* Weyrlings must salute all riders. Be respectful towards or salute ranking Crafters and Holders.
</div></div>
<div class="panel panel-ftw panel-cocktail-border mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="margin-bottom:0px">
<div class="panel-heading"><h3 class="panel-title">Daily Schedule</h3></div>
<div class="panel-body mw-collapsible-content"><table>
<tr><td style="width:15%">'''5:00 AM'''</td><td>Wake up, dawn feeding of dragons</td></tr>
<tr><td style="width:15%">'''6:00 AM'''</td><td>Physical training</td></tr>
<tr><td style="width:15%">'''8:00 AM'''</td><td>Bathing and oiling of dragons</td></tr>
<tr><td style="width:15%">'''8:30 AM'''</td><td>Cleanup and breakfast for weyrlings</td></tr>
<tr><td style="width:15%">'''9:00 AM'''</td><td>Morning lessons with WLM-team</td></tr>
<tr><td style="width:15%">'''12:30 PM'''</td><td>Lunch for weyrlings</td></tr>
<tr><td style="width:15%">'''1:00 PM'''</td><td>Lunch for dragons, plus another oiling</td></tr>
<tr><td style="width:15%">'''2:00 PM'''</td><td>Remedial classes with harpers or free time</td></tr>
<tr><td style="width:15%">'''4:00 PM'''</td><td>Bonding and preliminary visualization practice</td></tr>
<tr><td style="width:15%">'''6:00 PM'''</td><td>Dinner and then remedial exercise or free time</td></tr>
<tr><td style="width:15%">'''9:00 PM'''</td><td>Nighttime feeding and oiling of dragons</td></tr>
<tr><td style="width:15%">'''10:00 PM'''</td><td>Lights out</td></tr>
</table>
<br>(This is a guideline only to give you an idea of how your day might go.)<br><br>
</div>
<div class="panel-footer" style="display:flex;flex-direction:row">[[FTW:Month_0|← Previous Month]]<div style="flex:1"></div>[[FTW:Month_2|Next Month →]]</div></div>
</div>
__NOTOC__
__NOTITLE__

FTW:Sidebar

2016-03-11T03:35:52Z

Meg:

FTW:Sidebar

2016-02-27T23:26:10Z

Meg:

Logs:Understanding Others

2016-02-23T04:53:00Z

Meg:

{{Log
|who=Quint, Olivya,
|what=Quint and Olivya discuss candidates and getting to know each other.
|where=Galleries / Olivya's Weyr, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=25
|month=1
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.02.20
|quote="Let me guess -- the previous owner left it and you thought it seemed pretty, now you use it to play the mysterious woman?"
|mentions=Gisele, Mirinda
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon quint face.jpg, Icon olivya flirt.png,
|log='''Galleries, Fort Weyr'''
The entrance to the Sands and Galleries alike is little more than an
archway and a section of flat stone that curves into a broad pathway in
front of the Galleries that are carved into the right-hand side of the
Hatching Cavern. This pathway is set with three flights of stairs that
lead all the way up to the upper tiers of the Galleries; one set near the
entrance of the cavern, one set at the northernmost end, and one set
between both. Beyond the pathway, that flat stone dissolves into the Sands
proper, a golden expanse that sits before the large, odd engraving that
lines the far wall -- an etching that details the rotation of the Red
Star.

The Galleries themselves are rows of flat seats carved from the stone wall
and stacked backward to allow observers the best view possible of the
golden sands. Those at the bottom are protected from wayward dragonets by
a railing, while dignitaries from outside the Weyr -- Lord Holders, other
Weyrleaders, Craftmasters and their ilk -- have a specially designated
spectator's box at the topmost row.

It's late afternoon, and amongst those taking their time to observe the eggs down below is an older looking blonde woman with a Fortian candidates knot, and a Reachian Journeyman Harper. The former is gesturing towards the sands, while the latter has all his attention on the woman. When another Fortian candidate appears and gestures, the woman leaps up, hissing something under her breath, and walks off at a brisk, unstoppable pace. Quint, in the wake of the departure, rises to his feet, staring after the woman, before exhaling and sinking back down, allowing his gaze to rove amongst the other occupants of the galleries, now.

That the weyrlingmaster must step past the departing candidates is just odd timing, not any specific plan or goal on her part. There's a moment that she stops to pass along something or another, before she is back to her goal towards the stands. Her gaze is searching out for another figure, so it comes to stop on Quint in surprise before flicking briefly back to his departing sister. Whatever she was looking for before, she doesn't seem to find it. So it is Quint that must deal with her approach and the light greeting of, "I hope she told you that she is doing well?"

Long-formed habit means that Quint is rising to his feet even before his gaze has settled on Olivya. "If I told you she said it was enlightening and exhilarating and she loves all of Fort Weyr, would that perchance secure her her own room?" The twist of lips makes it obvious the harper thinks it unlikely, and yet he tries all the same, chuckling as he does so. He gestures towards the seat next to him in mute invitation, as if it were his home, and not hers.

"It may, but you would need to tell it to Rin, since she decides those things," answers Olivya with her soft humor teasing at only the edges of her words. And since he has risen, her fingers settle lightly on his forearm before she leans in to brush a kiss lightly against his cheek, the gesture the kind a Lady Holder might make to a friend. Then, however, she's drawing away to shrug out of her bright jacket and claim the seat he's invited her to. "She got to touch the eggs the other day."

"It's been some time since she shared a room with young teenagers," Quint says, with a sympathetic twist of lips. He gives an easy shake of his head: "Oh, I'm sure she'll adjust. Or suffer through it -- she seems determined," he says with a wryness that might suggest he's attempted to convince her otherwise. There's momentary surprise at her greeting, but he's too well-schooled for it to stay overlong, giving an easy smile in return as he seats himself at the same time as she does. "That must have been something," he says, with tone that suggests rather the opposite of jealousy. "Is there any indication how long it might be until the hatching? I'd like to attend, if possible."

"You would like to? I believe that you owe me a dance, so if you do not--," is what Olivya returns lightly, offering a smile. But her gaze slides out to observe the eggs, tipping her chin thoughtfully. "Less than a month, now. But beyond that-- It's hard to say. Even if we knew the day, we wouldn't know the time. But I will send one of my assistants to get you."

"I'll do my utmost," Quint corrects himself, with an easy grace and spread of hands. He follows Olivya's gaze towards the eggs, looking thoughtful, undoubtedly doing the calculations in his head. "After our weyrling class' graduation, before Tillek's next gather -- so that should be workable." His head tips as his gaze is drawn back to the greenrider, surprise faintly audible in his voice, "Won't they be busy?" and a beat of pause, "I'm sure there will be plenty of High Reachian riders attending, as much as I appreciate the offer."

"It depends on how much warning we have to prepare," answers Olivya, though she nods simply for the point of other 'Reachians. "I have hope that we'll have plenty of warning, even with Taeliyth being a new mother. She is rather observant, after all." But she smiles, the faintest thing that is worn away in only a brief breath.

The harper has no comment on the Fortian queen, though his gaze does go to the sands, naturally. "If," Quint pauses, unusual enough for the normally glib harper; "If she doesn't Impress, would she be allowed to stay?" He doesn't refer to his sister, but of course there's no one else he could be referring to.

Olivya's gaze slides sideways in a moment at the question, marking the harper with a hint of a question. Instead of answering, she asks quietly, "Would she want to? She wouldn't get another chance to stand. What would be here for her that isn't at High Reaches?"

There's barely a pause, before Quint replies: "Distance. Independence." He spreads his hands, casually, his expression largely even.

"Has she said that is what she's seeking?" presses Olivya with the same soft curiosity.

"No," Quint allows, with only the slightest twitch of lips. "But I'm a harper, and her brother."

There is a long pause as Olivya considers the harper, finally offering only the hint of a smile. "Then don't try to make the decision for her, Quint," is a contrast to that smile, though. The words are firm, dismissive, with the weight of her rank. "She will get offered the opportunity to stay after the hatching; the candidates that don't impress always do. But she may surprise you--."

"I won't," Quint replies, adding after a beat, "I won't have to." He gives a nod for that latter, as much acknowledgement of the words as mute thanks. With a twitch of lips: "I prefer to think there is little that would surprise me."

"Little? Not even if you came to the hatching and impressed yourself?" challenges Olivya lightly, her brow curving upwards as she slides a look over the harper in a brief study. "If your Harper Master decided to become a baker? If--." And it is obvious that she'll continue once she thinks of more things that may surprise him.

That definitely earns a chuckle from the harper. "Now that ''would'' surprise me. And everyone, I imagine," Quint says, with a shake of his head. "But thankfully -- for the sanity of everyone involved -- it's impossible. If advanced ages such as mine," or to a lesser degree, his sisters, "Were apt to Impress, surely there'd be less instances of dragons not hatching, and more Impressions from the stands?" He's eyeing the Weyrlingmaster sidelong, looking amused, as he adds: "If your green were to clutch fifty-five eggs on the sands?"

"There are not very many instances, in general, of Impressions from the stands. Perhaps if we allowed more people of your ''such'' advanced age onto the sands, then there'd be more Impressions of people your age," Olivya answers musingly, meeting the harper's blue eyes with her own and holding the gaze. At least, until he looks away. "If I were to run away and live on a secluded beach tomorrow." Though, perhaps, that wouldn't be so surprising to him given that he doesn't know her well enough to judge her level of commitment, as much of just a humored joke.

"I think people of ''our'' advanced age," and Quint's stress is slight but audible, "Are generally well content with their chosen path in life, exceptions here and there aside." The glance over his shoulder in the direction his sister went indicates one such exception. His brows go upwards as his glance turns back to the greenrider. "You'd go crazy after mm, about a day, I predict. You are someone who needs people," the harper observes, easily.

A laugh is exhaled on a breath, though Olivya only answers with a firmer 'tsk', "And now you are insulting a lady's age and independence, I see." But there is a pause as she considers Quint in turn, before she adds in a simpler question, "Is that how you see me, harper? And for yourself? Do you need people?"

"I wouldn't presume," Quint manages to look affronted by the accusation, but it's clearly an act, given he lifts his hands to fend off any further words on that score. His hands drop to his lap soon after, surprise briefly flickering across his expression, before he shakes his head. "One aspect of one's personality does not a whole person make," he says, plainly, and, after a moment, admits: "It is the bread and butter of what I do."

"People are what you do?" Olivya assumes, before continuing, "But do you ''need'' them, Quint?" It is a curious press of the words, determined as she studies the younger man. But she seems to catch herself after a moment, shaking blonde curls out dismissively. "We are all complex puzzles, aren't we?"

Quint doesn't disabuse the assumption, silent for a moment before he says, "Teaching is what I love to do. I can't teach without someone willing to be taught." When she shakes her head, he smiles. "Yes. A fact of which makes us all interesting." He gestures towards a pair of young men seated further down the galleries from them, "You can look at someone, and talk to them, but never really ''know'' them, not unless they let you."

"Even if they do let you-- You'll never really know them. How can we ever ''really'' understand each other?" supposes Olivya in a murmur, though she pairs the words with a light hint of a smile. "Take your sister, for example. You'll never really understand what she wants. You can only try to support her."

"The pleasure is in the trying," counters the harper, swiftly, as if it were a well-practiced response. Although there's a brief tightening of expression, Quint's expression is otherwise light and thoughtful. "I don't think that's true at all. I think that she's been through a trauma, and these things are to a degree predictable. She's reaching out for something -- for stability -- and she's hoping she'll find it here. Whether she does or not is," he spreads his hands, as if to indicate he has no control over that.

That well-practiced response receives the quirk of her brow and a brief smile before Olivya drawls on a timed beat of, "I am sure you say that to all of the women. They likely even fall for it." But she falls more serious for the harper's next words, finally inclining her chin in a point to Quint's. "Perhaps. Or she's looking for independence, for adventure. For a connection that would understand what she's been through. Or all of it. But, you'd know better than I would; you know your sister better."

"But not you," Quint concludes, all serious, even with the Weyrlingmaster's smile. He gives a slight nod for her words on his sister, exhaling a breath. "I don't believe she'll find what she's looking for on the sands. But I think she has to do it, all the same, before she comes to the same conclusion." He exhales, slowly, gaze distant on the sands for a moment. "My ride's not due for a couple more hours; are you working, or can I buy you a drink?"

"I might, if you try," Olivya answers, a curious look once again dragged over Quint. She moves on smoothly to agree, "Hopefully she finds what she's looking for off of the sands, instead, then." But then she's stretching to her feet with a nod, hooking her jacket from the seat beside her as she glances across the galleries one last time, searching before looking back to the harper. "It is my Weyr. I will buy you the drink."

"That's my hope, too," Quint says, of his sister, giving a brief, if genuine, smile at the hope. He rises when she does, shrugging into his thick coat, before offering an arm to the greenrider. "If you insist," he says, with a grin.

Raised as she was, Olivya has no compunction about accepting that arm with the press of her fingers against his forearm, only murmuring a quiet, "I do," before she will let him lead them to the drinks.

'''Olivya and Ivraeth's Weyr, Fort Weyr'''
This first cavern is a large, bubble-shaped cavern occupied almost
entirely by a smooth, oval wallow large enough for two that has been
covered in a dyed fleece of soft black, guaranteed to compliment any
visitors. Copper hooks line the right wall, while on the left-hand wall, a
polished, dark wood door leads to the Weyrlingmaster's office and the
weyrling complex beyond. Another matching door at the back of the cavern,
complete with a lock, leads to the rest of the rider's quarters.

The second cavern behind that second door, also large and bubble-shaped,
is a finely decorated living area. Two matching silver green couches, made
of soft fabric, plush cushions and clean lines, sit opposing each other,
flanking the wide hearth and with a dense, silver rug between. The hearth
itself sits on the right-hand wall, a large square of red brick inserted
into the stone around it and covered with a black screen, with a polished
wood mantle above holding an array of crystal-cut decanters. Centered over
the mantle hangs a piece of art, the piece an impression of sun through
forest and a deep, blue lake hidden there. On the left-hand wall, it has
been lined with polished, dark wood bookcases, filled with books and
knickknacks.

The archway to the bedroom has been left uncovered, the last
bubbled-shaped cavern in the series. It is dominated by the bed which is
made up of black sheets, silken to the touch, and plush pillows in the
same. It is her downy blanket that is different, in a bold red. At the
foot of the bed, furs of silvery-grey have been folded and left. Another
piece of art has been framed above the bed, and this one is simply a pair
of red lips of which the occupant must have modeled.

Olivya's 'buying' seems to only count as the drinks that she already has in her weyr, rather than at the Fountain or otherwise. It means that they must step past Ivraeth where she has curled up on her dyed wools, watching Quint with slowly whirling eyes as the Weyrlingmaster unlocks the door to the weyr beyond. "Make yourself at home," she suggests warmly to the harper as they step through to that second cavern that seems to make up the majority of her living space, however, even as she takes a moment to carefully shut the door; after all, there are weyrlings not so far away who might be tempted to spy. "What do you prefer to drink?"

While Quint isn't as intimately familiar with the Weyr as his companion is, he does at least know the direction of the living cavern and that, after a certain point where they walk in the bowl, that they're not headed towards it. There's no objection from the harper, though perhaps an air of amusement as they move, giving a nod towards Ivraeth as they pass the green. "That seems a dangerous invitation to a relative stranger," the harper says, as he shrugs out of his coat, lying it over the back of a chair as his gaze roams around the weyr. "What if I took that invitation at face value and moved in?" He observes Olivia's move to the door with a curiosity that doesn't move him to question aloud, instead answering: "Red, if you have it. If not -- whatever you're having is fine."

"And abandon your duties to High Reaches and your craft?" challenges Olivya as she crosses the room to the mantle and the decanters there. Each of them speaks to marks, but there is none that seem to be red; instead, she reaches for one filled with amber liquid, pouring two generous glasses. "I think I know you enough to know that, at least, I am safe from." She turns from the mantle to extend the glass out to the harper, though she doesn't move closer.

"Well, it ''is'' bigger than any room I've ever lived in my whole life," Quint says, although there isn't any jealousy audible in his voice. While she gets the drinks, the harper continues to look around, examining some of the contents of the bookshelves, before finally stopping near her in front of the mantle, studying the painting there. He reaches to take the glass with a nod of thanks, before gestures to the painting, asking, "Is this -- it looks good on the wall, or it speaks to you in some way?"

With his drink passed over, Olivya lifts her own to her lips as she shifts to face the painting and study it at his question. "Both, really," she answers lightly. "It goes to our conversation before, doesn't it? There are secrets everywhere. They can be beautiful if you bother to find them."

There's a brief chuckle from Quint, and he takes a small sip of the liquid with a nod, before he says: "Even I don't buy that you planted this here just to make a point." He gestures towards the painting, but his gaze is on Olivia. "Let me guess -- the previous owner left it and you thought it seemed pretty, now you use it to play the mysterious woman?" He glances to the painting again, leans in: "Ought to have a mysterious figure or two painted in there, too."

"Mm," is all Olivya'll give away to that accusation, mysteriously, though the corners of her lips quirk up in a smile even as she takes another sip of her whiskey. But then she'll answer, "No, I've had it for turns. I didn't have it commissioned, though; I found it at a gather after the original commissioner decided it wasn't what he wanted. The one in the bedroom, however-- ''That'' was commissioned."

Despite Quint's earlier expressed desire for a drink, when he lifts his glass to his lips, it's a rote sort of action, with a minimal amount of liquid imbibed. "Oh?" is his answer to that, and he appears to take it as an invitation, since he gestures for Olivya to precede him in that direction.

Olivya considers Quint for a moment at the gesture, before she finally rolls her shoulder up shamelessly, only a hint of humor touching her ice blue eyes. She does lead the way, through the uncovered arch to her bedroom only to gracefully fold herself into a seat at the foot of her bed. "I take it the way this speaks is clear enough?" is a light question.

The harper follows, close on her heels, but remains standing by the bed while she sits. Quint studies the painting for a short time. "No, it doesn't actually," the harper says. "It could be a display of your sensuality, an expression of your sexuality. You could just really like red," he adds with a chuckle, as his gaze flickers to Olivya. "You know you're just asking for some bold weyrling to come in here and nick it one day."

"I'd bet on the weyrlings to focus on the liquor in the other room, not the paintings," counters Olivya with a light dismissal, tipping her head only softly as she looks up to continue watching the harper. "I ''do'' like red. But, it's simply-- both of those, I suppose."

"I don't know," Quint disagrees, thoughtfully. "After a few months of no privacy and sharing barracks, I'd think a teenage boy has other priorities." He gives a wry, somewhat apologetic look to the greenrider, "Spoken as a once-teenager." His head tips. "You suppose?" he queries, curiously.

"I suppose. Though, I admit-- I've always thought of it as an invitation," Olivya answers with only a hint of hesitation, stretching to her feet even as she says it with a glance towards the painting and a slow sip from her glass. But then she laughs, adding in a lighter joke, "I think bringing you here was a mistake. You are learning entirely too much of me compared to what I know of you."

"An invitation," Quint echoes, with surprise and interest both, gaze going back to the painting to re-assess it in light of her words. It's only with Olivya's latter words that the harper looks away, chuckling. "Me?" he presses a hand against his chest. "I'm an open book," he says with the ease of long practice, or plain truth. "''You're'' the mystery."

"Then tell me more about yourself, Quint, before your ride comes," invites Olivya easily, brushing past him with a smile to retreat from the bedroom and apparently expecting him to follow. "How did you become a harper?" She does glance over her shoulder as she asks it, to perhaps make sure he's following. Whether or not she's a mystery-- Well, she seems to find amusement in the statement all the same as it warms blue eyes.

And Quint does -- or at least, he tells her a story about joining the harpercraft after being inspired by seeing a harper pass judgement on someone, and plenty about his time there. To tell it, it's relatively uneventful, punctuated by the normal teenager antics which are described in amusing detail. He doesn't make much headway with that glass, but he does at least finish it by the time he stands to part ways and seek out his ride back to High Reaches.
|Categories=Clutch 137 Logs
}}

Logs:Understanding Others

2016-02-23T04:51:57Z

Meg:

{{Log
|who=Quint, Olivya,
|what=Quint and Olivya discuss candidates and getting to know each other.
|where=Galleries / Olivya's Weyr, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=25
|month=1
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.02.20
|quote="Let me guess -- the previous owner left it and you thought it seemed pretty, now you use it to play the mysterious woman?"
|mentions=Gisele, Mirinda
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon quint face.jpg, Icon olivya flirt.png,
|log=Galleries, Fort Weyr
The entrance to the Sands and Galleries alike is little more than an
archway and a section of flat stone that curves into a broad pathway in
front of the Galleries that are carved into the right-hand side of the
Hatching Cavern. This pathway is set with three flights of stairs that
lead all the way up to the upper tiers of the Galleries; one set near the
entrance of the cavern, one set at the northernmost end, and one set
between both. Beyond the pathway, that flat stone dissolves into the Sands
proper, a golden expanse that sits before the large, odd engraving that
lines the far wall -- an etching that details the rotation of the Red
Star.

The Galleries themselves are rows of flat seats carved from the stone wall
and stacked backward to allow observers the best view possible of the
golden sands. Those at the bottom are protected from wayward dragonets by
a railing, while dignitaries from outside the Weyr -- Lord Holders, other
Weyrleaders, Craftmasters and their ilk -- have a specially designated
spectator's box at the topmost row.

It's late afternoon, and amongst those taking their time to observe the eggs down below is an older looking blonde woman with a Fortian candidates knot, and a Reachian Journeyman Harper. The former is gesturing towards the sands, while the latter has all his attention on the woman. When another Fortian candidate appears and gestures, the woman leaps up, hissing something under her breath, and walks off at a brisk, unstoppable pace. Quint, in the wake of the departure, rises to his feet, staring after the woman, before exhaling and sinking back down, allowing his gaze to rove amongst the other occupants of the galleries, now.

That the weyrlingmaster must step past the departing candidates is just odd timing, not any specific plan or goal on her part. There's a moment that she stops to pass along something or another, before she is back to her goal towards the stands. Her gaze is searching out for another figure, so it comes to stop on Quint in surprise before flicking briefly back to his departing sister. Whatever she was looking for before, she doesn't seem to find it. So it is Quint that must deal with her approach and the light greeting of, "I hope she told you that she is doing well?"

Long-formed habit means that Quint is rising to his feet even before his gaze has settled on Olivya. "If I told you she said it was enlightening and exhilarating and she loves all of Fort Weyr, would that perchance secure her her own room?" The twist of lips makes it obvious the harper thinks it unlikely, and yet he tries all the same, chuckling as he does so. He gestures towards the seat next to him in mute invitation, as if it were his home, and not hers.

"It may, but you would need to tell it to Rin, since she decides those things," answers Olivya with her soft humor teasing at only the edges of her words. And since he has risen, her fingers settle lightly on his forearm before she leans in to brush a kiss lightly against his cheek, the gesture the kind a Lady Holder might make to a friend. Then, however, she's drawing away to shrug out of her bright jacket and claim the seat he's invited her to. "She got to touch the eggs the other day."

"It's been some time since she shared a room with young teenagers," Quint says, with a sympathetic twist of lips. He gives an easy shake of his head: "Oh, I'm sure she'll adjust. Or suffer through it -- she seems determined," he says with a wryness that might suggest he's attempted to convince her otherwise. There's momentary surprise at her greeting, but he's too well-schooled for it to stay overlong, giving an easy smile in return as he seats himself at the same time as she does. "That must have been something," he says, with tone that suggests rather the opposite of jealousy. "Is there any indication how long it might be until the hatching? I'd like to attend, if possible."

"You would like to? I believe that you owe me a dance, so if you do not--," is what Olivya returns lightly, offering a smile. But her gaze slides out to observe the eggs, tipping her chin thoughtfully. "Less than a month, now. But beyond that-- It's hard to say. Even if we knew the day, we wouldn't know the time. But I will send one of my assistants to get you."

"I'll do my utmost," Quint corrects himself, with an easy grace and spread of hands. He follows Olivya's gaze towards the eggs, looking thoughtful, undoubtedly doing the calculations in his head. "After our weyrling class' graduation, before Tillek's next gather -- so that should be workable." His head tips as his gaze is drawn back to the greenrider, surprise faintly audible in his voice, "Won't they be busy?" and a beat of pause, "I'm sure there will be plenty of High Reachian riders attending, as much as I appreciate the offer."

"It depends on how much warning we have to prepare," answers Olivya, though she nods simply for the point of other 'Reachians. "I have hope that we'll have plenty of warning, even with Taeliyth being a new mother. She is rather observant, after all." But she smiles, the faintest thing that is worn away in only a brief breath.

The harper has no comment on the Fortian queen, though his gaze does go to the sands, naturally. "If," Quint pauses, unusual enough for the normally glib harper; "If she doesn't Impress, would she be allowed to stay?" He doesn't refer to his sister, but of course there's no one else he could be referring to.

Olivya's gaze slides sideways in a moment at the question, marking the harper with a hint of a question. Instead of answering, she asks quietly, "Would she want to? She wouldn't get another chance to stand. What would be here for her that isn't at High Reaches?"

There's barely a pause, before Quint replies: "Distance. Independence." He spreads his hands, casually, his expression largely even.

"Has she said that is what she's seeking?" presses Olivya with the same soft curiosity.

"No," Quint allows, with only the slightest twitch of lips. "But I'm a harper, and her brother."

There is a long pause as Olivya considers the harper, finally offering only the hint of a smile. "Then don't try to make the decision for her, Quint," is a contrast to that smile, though. The words are firm, dismissive, with the weight of her rank. "She will get offered the opportunity to stay after the hatching; the candidates that don't impress always do. But she may surprise you--."

"I won't," Quint replies, adding after a beat, "I won't have to." He gives a nod for that latter, as much acknowledgement of the words as mute thanks. With a twitch of lips: "I prefer to think there is little that would surprise me."

"Little? Not even if you came to the hatching and impressed yourself?" challenges Olivya lightly, her brow curving upwards as she slides a look over the harper in a brief study. "If your Harper Master decided to become a baker? If--." And it is obvious that she'll continue once she thinks of more things that may surprise him.

That definitely earns a chuckle from the harper. "Now that ''would'' surprise me. And everyone, I imagine," Quint says, with a shake of his head. "But thankfully -- for the sanity of everyone involved -- it's impossible. If advanced ages such as mine," or to a lesser degree, his sisters, "Were apt to Impress, surely there'd be less instances of dragons not hatching, and more Impressions from the stands?" He's eyeing the Weyrlingmaster sidelong, looking amused, as he adds: "If your green were to clutch fifty-five eggs on the sands?"

"There are not very many instances, in general, of Impressions from the stands. Perhaps if we allowed more people of your ''such'' advanced age onto the sands, then there'd be more Impressions of people your age," Olivya answers musingly, meeting the harper's blue eyes with her own and holding the gaze. At least, until he looks away. "If I were to run away and live on a secluded beach tomorrow." Though, perhaps, that wouldn't be so surprising to him given that he doesn't know her well enough to judge her level of commitment, as much of just a humored joke.

"I think people of ''our'' advanced age," and Quint's stress is slight but audible, "Are generally well content with their chosen path in life, exceptions here and there aside." The glance over his shoulder in the direction his sister went indicates one such exception. His brows go upwards as his glance turns back to the greenrider. "You'd go crazy after mm, about a day, I predict. You are someone who needs people," the harper observes, easily.

A laugh is exhaled on a breath, though Olivya only answers with a firmer 'tsk', "And now you are insulting a lady's age and independence, I see." But there is a pause as she considers Quint in turn, before she adds in a simpler question, "Is that how you see me, harper? And for yourself? Do you need people?"

"I wouldn't presume," Quint manages to look affronted by the accusation, but it's clearly an act, given he lifts his hands to fend off any further words on that score. His hands drop to his lap soon after, surprise briefly flickering across his expression, before he shakes his head. "One aspect of one's personality does not a whole person make," he says, plainly, and, after a moment, admits: "It is the bread and butter of what I do."

"People are what you do?" Olivya assumes, before continuing, "But do you ''need'' them, Quint?" It is a curious press of the words, determined as she studies the younger man. But she seems to catch herself after a moment, shaking blonde curls out dismissively. "We are all complex puzzles, aren't we?"

Quint doesn't disabuse the assumption, silent for a moment before he says, "Teaching is what I love to do. I can't teach without someone willing to be taught." When she shakes her head, he smiles. "Yes. A fact of which makes us all interesting." He gestures towards a pair of young men seated further down the galleries from them, "You can look at someone, and talk to them, but never really ''know'' them, not unless they let you."

"Even if they do let you-- You'll never really know them. How can we ever ''really'' understand each other?" supposes Olivya in a murmur, though she pairs the words with a light hint of a smile. "Take your sister, for example. You'll never really understand what she wants. You can only try to support her."

"The pleasure is in the trying," counters the harper, swiftly, as if it were a well-practiced response. Although there's a brief tightening of expression, Quint's expression is otherwise light and thoughtful. "I don't think that's true at all. I think that she's been through a trauma, and these things are to a degree predictable. She's reaching out for something -- for stability -- and she's hoping she'll find it here. Whether she does or not is," he spreads his hands, as if to indicate he has no control over that.

That well-practiced response receives the quirk of her brow and a brief smile before Olivya drawls on a timed beat of, "I am sure you say that to all of the women. They likely even fall for it." But she falls more serious for the harper's next words, finally inclining her chin in a point to Quint's. "Perhaps. Or she's looking for independence, for adventure. For a connection that would understand what she's been through. Or all of it. But, you'd know better than I would; you know your sister better."

"But not you," Quint concludes, all serious, even with the Weyrlingmaster's smile. He gives a slight nod for her words on his sister, exhaling a breath. "I don't believe she'll find what she's looking for on the sands. But I think she has to do it, all the same, before she comes to the same conclusion." He exhales, slowly, gaze distant on the sands for a moment. "My ride's not due for a couple more hours; are you working, or can I buy you a drink?"

"I might, if you try," Olivya answers, a curious look once again dragged over Quint. She moves on smoothly to agree, "Hopefully she finds what she's looking for off of the sands, instead, then." But then she's stretching to her feet with a nod, hooking her jacket from the seat beside her as she glances across the galleries one last time, searching before looking back to the harper. "It is my Weyr. I will buy you the drink."

"That's my hope, too," Quint says, of his sister, giving a brief, if genuine, smile at the hope. He rises when she does, shrugging into his thick coat, before offering an arm to the greenrider. "If you insist," he says, with a grin.

Raised as she was, Olivya has no compunction about accepting that arm with the press of her fingers against his forearm, only murmuring a quiet, "I do," before she will let him lead them to the drinks.

Olivya and Ivraeth's Weyr, Fort Weyr
This first cavern is a large, bubble-shaped cavern occupied almost
entirely by a smooth, oval wallow large enough for two that has been
covered in a dyed fleece of soft black, guaranteed to compliment any
visitors. Copper hooks line the right wall, while on the left-hand wall, a
polished, dark wood door leads to the Weyrlingmaster's office and the
weyrling complex beyond. Another matching door at the back of the cavern,
complete with a lock, leads to the rest of the rider's quarters.

The second cavern behind that second door, also large and bubble-shaped,
is a finely decorated living area. Two matching silver green couches, made
of soft fabric, plush cushions and clean lines, sit opposing each other,
flanking the wide hearth and with a dense, silver rug between. The hearth
itself sits on the right-hand wall, a large square of red brick inserted
into the stone around it and covered with a black screen, with a polished
wood mantle above holding an array of crystal-cut decanters. Centered over
the mantle hangs a piece of art, the piece an impression of sun through
forest and a deep, blue lake hidden there. On the left-hand wall, it has
been lined with polished, dark wood bookcases, filled with books and
knickknacks.

The archway to the bedroom has been left uncovered, the last
bubbled-shaped cavern in the series. It is dominated by the bed which is
made up of black sheets, silken to the touch, and plush pillows in the
same. It is her downy blanket that is different, in a bold red. At the
foot of the bed, furs of silvery-grey have been folded and left. Another
piece of art has been framed above the bed, and this one is simply a pair
of red lips of which the occupant must have modeled.

Olivya's 'buying' seems to only count as the drinks that she already has in her weyr, rather than at the Fountain or otherwise. It means that they must step past Ivraeth where she has curled up on her dyed wools, watching Quint with slowly whirling eyes as the Weyrlingmaster unlocks the door to the weyr beyond. "Make yourself at home," she suggests warmly to the harper as they step through to that second cavern that seems to make up the majority of her living space, however, even as she takes a moment to carefully shut the door; after all, there are weyrlings not so far away who might be tempted to spy. "What do you prefer to drink?"

While Quint isn't as intimately familiar with the Weyr as his companion is, he does at least know the direction of the living cavern and that, after a certain point where they walk in the bowl, that they're not headed towards it. There's no objection from the harper, though perhaps an air of amusement as they move, giving a nod towards Ivraeth as they pass the green. "That seems a dangerous invitation to a relative stranger," the harper says, as he shrugs out of his coat, lying it over the back of a chair as his gaze roams around the weyr. "What if I took that invitation at face value and moved in?" He observes Olivia's move to the door with a curiosity that doesn't move him to question aloud, instead answering: "Red, if you have it. If not -- whatever you're having is fine."

"And abandon your duties to High Reaches and your craft?" challenges Olivya as she crosses the room to the mantle and the decanters there. Each of them speaks to marks, but there is none that seem to be red; instead, she reaches for one filled with amber liquid, pouring two generous glasses. "I think I know you enough to know that, at least, I am safe from." She turns from the mantle to extend the glass out to the harper, though she doesn't move closer.

"Well, it ''is'' bigger than any room I've ever lived in my whole life," Quint says, although there isn't any jealousy audible in his voice. While she gets the drinks, the harper continues to look around, examining some of the contents of the bookshelves, before finally stopping near her in front of the mantle, studying the painting there. He reaches to take the glass with a nod of thanks, before gestures to the painting, asking, "Is this -- it looks good on the wall, or it speaks to you in some way?"

With his drink passed over, Olivya lifts her own to her lips as she shifts to face the painting and study it at his question. "Both, really," she answers lightly. "It goes to our conversation before, doesn't it? There are secrets everywhere. They can be beautiful if you bother to find them."

There's a brief chuckle from Quint, and he takes a small sip of the liquid with a nod, before he says: "Even I don't buy that you planted this here just to make a point." He gestures towards the painting, but his gaze is on Olivia. "Let me guess -- the previous owner left it and you thought it seemed pretty, now you use it to play the mysterious woman?" He glances to the painting again, leans in: "Ought to have a mysterious figure or two painted in there, too."

"Mm," is all Olivya'll give away to that accusation, mysteriously, though the corners of her lips quirk up in a smile even as she takes another sip of her whiskey. But then she'll answer, "No, I've had it for turns. I didn't have it commissioned, though; I found it at a gather after the original commissioner decided it wasn't what he wanted. The one in the bedroom, however-- ''That'' was commissioned."

Despite Quint's earlier expressed desire for a drink, when he lifts his glass to his lips, it's a rote sort of action, with a minimal amount of liquid imbibed. "Oh?" is his answer to that, and he appears to take it as an invitation, since he gestures for Olivya to precede him in that direction.

Olivya considers Quint for a moment at the gesture, before she finally rolls her shoulder up shamelessly, only a hint of humor touching her ice blue eyes. She does lead the way, through the uncovered arch to her bedroom only to gracefully fold herself into a seat at the foot of her bed. "I take it the way this speaks is clear enough?" is a light question.

The harper follows, close on her heels, but remains standing by the bed while she sits. Quint studies the painting for a short time. "No, it doesn't actually," the harper says. "It could be a display of your sensuality, an expression of your sexuality. You could just really like red," he adds with a chuckle, as his gaze flickers to Olivya. "You know you're just asking for some bold weyrling to come in here and nick it one day."

"I'd bet on the weyrlings to focus on the liquor in the other room, not the paintings," counters Olivya with a light dismissal, tipping her head only softly as she looks up to continue watching the harper. "I ''do'' like red. But, it's simply-- both of those, I suppose."

"I don't know," Quint disagrees, thoughtfully. "After a few months of no privacy and sharing barracks, I'd think a teenage boy has other priorities." He gives a wry, somewhat apologetic look to the greenrider, "Spoken as a once-teenager." His head tips. "You suppose?" he queries, curiously.

"I suppose. Though, I admit-- I've always thought of it as an invitation," Olivya answers with only a hint of hesitation, stretching to her feet even as she says it with a glance towards the painting and a slow sip from her glass. But then she laughs, adding in a lighter joke, "I think bringing you here was a mistake. You are learning entirely too much of me compared to what I know of you."

"An invitation," Quint echoes, with surprise and interest both, gaze going back to the painting to re-assess it in light of her words. It's only with Olivya's latter words that the harper looks away, chuckling. "Me?" he presses a hand against his chest. "I'm an open book," he says with the ease of long practice, or plain truth. "''You're'' the mystery."

"Then tell me more about yourself, Quint, before your ride comes," invites Olivya easily, brushing past him with a smile to retreat from the bedroom and apparently expecting him to follow. "How did you become a harper?" She does glance over her shoulder as she asks it, to perhaps make sure he's following. Whether or not she's a mystery-- Well, she seems to find amusement in the statement all the same as it warms blue eyes.

And Quint does -- or at least, he tells her a story about joining the harpercraft after being inspired by seeing a harper pass judgement on someone, and plenty about his time there. To tell it, it's relatively uneventful, punctuated by the normal teenager antics which are described in amusing detail. He doesn't make much headway with that glass, but he does at least finish it by the time he stands to part ways and seek out his ride back to High Reaches.
|Categories=Clutch 137 Logs
}}

Logs:Understanding Others

2016-02-23T04:48:44Z

Meg:

{{Log
|who=Quint, Olivya,
|what=Quint and Olivya discuss candidates and getting to know each other.
|where=Galleries / Olivya's Weyr, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=25
|month=1
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.02.20
|quote="Let me guess -- the previous owner left it and you thought it seemed pretty, now you use it to play the mysterious woman?"
|mentions=Gisele, Mirinda
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon quint face.jpg, Icon olivya flirt.png,
|log=>---< Galleries, Fort Weyr(#745RIJMas$) >------------------------------------<

The entrance to the Sands and Galleries alike is little more than an
archway and a section of flat stone that curves into a broad pathway in
front of the Galleries that are carved into the right-hand side of the
Hatching Cavern. This pathway is set with three flights of stairs that
lead all the way up to the upper tiers of the Galleries; one set near the
entrance of the cavern, one set at the northernmost end, and one set
between both. Beyond the pathway, that flat stone dissolves into the Sands
proper, a golden expanse that sits before the large, odd engraving that
lines the far wall -- an etching that details the rotation of the Red
Star.

The Galleries themselves are rows of flat seats carved from the stone wall
and stacked backward to allow observers the best view possible of the
golden sands. Those at the bottom are protected from wayward dragonets by
a railing, while dignitaries from outside the Weyr -- Lord Holders, other
Weyrleaders, Craftmasters and their ilk -- have a specially designated
spectator's box at the topmost row.

When there are eggs on the Sands, type +list/eggs to see the whole clutch
or +view/egg <#> to see an individual egg.

----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
Sands Bowl
>------------------------------< 25D 1M 40T I10, winter dusk | Watchable >---<

It's late afternoon, and amongst those taking their time to observe the eggs down below is an older looking blonde woman with a Fortian candidates knot, and a Reachian Journeyman Harper. The former is gesturing towards the sands, while the latter has all his attention on the woman. When another Fortian candidate appears and gestures, the woman leaps up, hissing something under her breath, and walks off at a brisk, unstoppable pace. Quint, in the wake of the departure, rises to his feet, staring after the woman, before exhaling and sinking back down, allowing his gaze to rove amongst the other occupants of the galleries, now.

That the weyrlingmaster must step past the departing candidates is just odd timing, not any specific plan or goal on her part. There's a moment that she stops to pass along something or another, before she is back to her goal towards the stands. Her gaze is searching out for another figure, so it comes to stop on Quint in surprise before flicking briefly back to his departing sister. Whatever she was looking for before, she doesn't seem to find it. So it is Quint that must deal with her approach and the light greeting of, "I hope she told you that she is doing well?"

Long-formed habit means that Quint is rising to his feet even before his gaze has settled on Olivya. "If I told you she said it was enlightening and exhilarating and she loves all of Fort Weyr, would that perchance secure her her own room?" The twist of lips makes it obvious the harper thinks it unlikely, and yet he tries all the same, chuckling as he does so. He gestures towards the seat next to him in mute invitation, as if it were his home, and not hers.

"It may, but you would need to tell it to Rin, since she decides those things," answers Olivya with her soft humor teasing at only the edges of her words. And since he has risen, her fingers settle lightly on his forearm before she leans in to brush a kiss lightly against his cheek, the gesture the kind a Lady Holder might make to a friend. Then, however, she's drawing away to shrug out of her bright jacket and claim the seat he's invited her to. "She got to touch the eggs the other day."

"It's been some time since she shared a room with young teenagers," Quint says, with a sympathetic twist of lips. He gives an easy shake of his head: "Oh, I'm sure she'll adjust. Or suffer through it -- she seems determined," he says with a wryness that might suggest he's attempted to convince her otherwise. There's momentary surprise at her greeting, but he's too well-schooled for it to stay overlong, giving an easy smile in return as he seats himself at the same time as she does. "That must have been something," he says, with tone that suggests rather the opposite of jealousy. "Is there any indication how long it might be until the hatching? I'd like to attend, if possible."

"You would like to? I believe that you owe me a dance, so if you do not--," is what Olivya returns lightly, offering a smile. But her gaze slides out to observe the eggs, tipping her chin thoughtfully. "Less than a month, now. But beyond that-- It's hard to say. Even if we knew the day, we wouldn't know the time. But I will send one of my assistants to get you."

"I'll do my utmost," Quint corrects himself, with an easy grace and spread of hands. He follows Olivya's gaze towards the eggs, looking thoughtful, undoubtedly doing the calculations in his head. "After our weyrling class' graduation, before Tillek's next gather -- so that should be workable." His head tips as his gaze is drawn back to the greenrider, surprise faintly audible in his voice, "Won't they be busy?" and a beat of pause, "I'm sure there will be plenty of High Reachian riders attending, as much as I appreciate the offer."

"It depends on how much warning we have to prepare," answers Olivya, though she nods simply for the point of other 'Reachians. "I have hope that we'll have plenty of warning, even with Taeliyth being a new mother. She is rather observant, after all." But she smiles, the faintest thing that is worn away in only a brief breath.

The harper has no comment on the Fortian queen, though his gaze does go to the sands, naturally. "If," Quint pauses, unusual enough for the normally glib harper; "If she doesn't Impress, would she be allowed to stay?" He doesn't refer to his sister, but of course there's no one else he could be referring to.

Olivya's gaze slides sideways in a moment at the question, marking the harper with a hint of a question. Instead of answering, she asks quietly, "Would she want to? She wouldn't get another chance to stand. What would be here for her that isn't at High Reaches?"

There's barely a pause, before Quint replies: "Distance. Independence." He spreads his hands, casually, his expression largely even.

"Has she said that is what she's seeking?" presses Olivya with the same soft curiosity.

"No," Quint allows, with only the slightest twitch of lips. "But I'm a harper, and her brother."

There is a long pause as Olivya considers the harper, finally offering only the hint of a smile. "Then don't try to make the decision for her, Quint," is a contrast to that smile, though. The words are firm, dismissive, with the weight of her rank. "She will get offered the opportunity to stay after the hatching; the candidates that don't impress always do. But she may surprise you--."

"I won't," Quint replies, adding after a beat, "I won't have to." He gives a nod for that latter, as much acknowledgement of the words as mute thanks. With a twitch of lips: "I prefer to think there is little that would surprise me."

"Little? Not even if you came to the hatching and impressed yourself?" challenges Olivya lightly, her brow curving upwards as she slides a look over the harper in a brief study. "If your Harper Master decided to become a baker? If--." And it is obvious that she'll continue once she thinks of more things that may surprise him.

That definitely earns a chuckle from the harper. "Now that ''would'' surprise me. And everyone, I imagine," Quint says, with a shake of his head. "But thankfully -- for the sanity of everyone involved -- it's impossible. If advanced ages such as mine," or to a lesser degree, his sisters, "Were apt to Impress, surely there'd be less instances of dragons not hatching, and more Impressions from the stands?" He's eyeing the Weyrlingmaster sidelong, looking amused, as he adds: "If your green were to clutch fifty-five eggs on the sands?"

"There are not very many instances, in general, of Impressions from the stands. Perhaps if we allowed more people of your ''such'' advanced age onto the sands, then there'd be more Impressions of people your age," Olivya answers musingly, meeting the harper's blue eyes with her own and holding the gaze. At least, until he looks away. "If I were to run away and live on a secluded beach tomorrow." Though, perhaps, that wouldn't be so surprising to him given that he doesn't know her well enough to judge her level of commitment, as much of just a humored joke.

"I think people of ''our'' advanced age," and Quint's stress is slight but audible, "Are generally well content with their chosen path in life, exceptions here and there aside." The glance over his shoulder in the direction his sister went indicates one such exception. His brows go upwards as his glance turns back to the greenrider. "You'd go crazy after mm, about a day, I predict. You are someone who needs people," the harper observes, easily.

A laugh is exhaled on a breath, though Olivya only answers with a firmer 'tsk', "And now you are insulting a lady's age and independence, I see." But there is a pause as she considers Quint in turn, before she adds in a simpler question, "Is that how you see me, harper? And for yourself? Do you need people?"

"I wouldn't presume," Quint manages to look affronted by the accusation, but it's clearly an act, given he lifts his hands to fend off any further words on that score. His hands drop to his lap soon after, surprise briefly flickering across his expression, before he shakes his head. "One aspect of one's personality does not a whole person make," he says, plainly, and, after a moment, admits: "It is the bread and butter of what I do."

"People are what you do?" Olivya assumes, before continuing, "But do you ''need'' them, Quint?" It is a curious press of the words, determined as she studies the younger man. But she seems to catch herself after a moment, shaking blonde curls out dismissively. "We are all complex puzzles, aren't we?"

Quint doesn't disabuse the assumption, silent for a moment before he says, "Teaching is what I love to do. I can't teach without someone willing to be taught." When she shakes her head, he smiles. "Yes. A fact of which makes us all interesting." He gestures towards a pair of young men seated further down the galleries from them, "You can look at someone, and talk to them, but never really ''know'' them, not unless they let you."

"Even if they do let you-- You'll never really know them. How can we ever ''really'' understand each other?" supposes Olivya in a murmur, though she pairs the words with a light hint of a smile. "Take your sister, for example. You'll never really understand what she wants. You can only try to support her."

"The pleasure is in the trying," counters the harper, swiftly, as if it were a well-practiced response. Although there's a brief tightening of expression, Quint's expression is otherwise light and thoughtful. "I don't think that's true at all. I think that she's been through a trauma, and these things are to a degree predictable. She's reaching out for something -- for stability -- and she's hoping she'll find it here. Whether she does or not is," he spreads his hands, as if to indicate he has no control over that.

That well-practiced response receives the quirk of her brow and a brief smile before Olivya drawls on a timed beat of, "I am sure you say that to all of the women. They likely even fall for it." But she falls more serious for the harper's next words, finally inclining her chin in a point to Quint's. "Perhaps. Or she's looking for independence, for adventure. For a connection that would understand what she's been through. Or all of it. But, you'd know better than I would; you know your sister better."

"But not you," Quint concludes, all serious, even with the Weyrlingmaster's smile. He gives a slight nod for her words on his sister, exhaling a breath. "I don't believe she'll find what she's looking for on the sands. But I think she has to do it, all the same, before she comes to the same conclusion." He exhales, slowly, gaze distant on the sands for a moment. "My ride's not due for a couple more hours; are you working, or can I buy you a drink?"

"I might, if you try," Olivya answers, a curious look once again dragged over Quint. She moves on smoothly to agree, "Hopefully she finds what she's looking for off of the sands, instead, then." But then she's stretching to her feet with a nod, hooking her jacket from the seat beside her as she glances across the galleries one last time, searching before looking back to the harper. "It is my Weyr. I will buy you the drink."

"That's my hope, too," Quint says, of his sister, giving a brief, if genuine, smile at the hope. He rises when she does, shrugging into his thick coat, before offering an arm to the greenrider. "If you insist," he says, with a grin.

Raised as she was, Olivya has no compunction about accepting that arm with the press of her fingers against his forearm, only murmuring a quiet, "I do," before she will let him lead them to the drinks.

>---< Olivya and Ivraeth's Weyr, Fort Weyr(#1341R) >-------------------------<

This first cavern is a large, bubble-shaped cavern occupied almost
entirely by a smooth, oval wallow large enough for two that has been
covered in a dyed fleece of soft black, guaranteed to compliment any
visitors. Copper hooks line the right wall, while on the left-hand wall, a
polished, dark wood door leads to the Weyrlingmaster's office and the
weyrling complex beyond. Another matching door at the back of the cavern,
complete with a lock, leads to the rest of the rider's quarters.

The second cavern behind that second door, also large and bubble-shaped,
is a finely decorated living area. Two matching silver green couches, made
of soft fabric, plush cushions and clean lines, sit opposing each other,
flanking the wide hearth and with a dense, silver rug between. The hearth
itself sits on the right-hand wall, a large square of red brick inserted
into the stone around it and covered with a black screen, with a polished
wood mantle above holding an array of crystal-cut decanters. Centered over
the mantle hangs a piece of art, the piece an impression of sun through
forest and a deep, blue lake hidden there. On the left-hand wall, it has
been lined with polished, dark wood bookcases, filled with books and
knickknacks.

The archway to the bedroom has been left uncovered, the last
bubbled-shaped cavern in the series. It is dominated by the bed which is
made up of black sheets, silken to the touch, and plush pillows in the
same. It is her downy blanket that is different, in a bold red. At the
foot of the bed, furs of silvery-grey have been folded and left. Another
piece of art has been framed above the bed, and this one is simply a pair
of red lips of which the occupant must have modeled.

----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
Weyrlingmaster's Office Ledge
>-----------------------------------------< 25D 1M 40T I10, winter night >---<

Olivya's 'buying' seems to only count as the drinks that she already has in her weyr, rather than at the Fountain or otherwise. It means that they must step past Ivraeth where she has curled up on her dyed wools, watching Quint with slowly whirling eyes as the Weyrlingmaster unlocks the door to the weyr beyond. "Make yourself at home," she suggests warmly to the harper as they step through to that second cavern that seems to make up the majority of her living space, however, even as she takes a moment to carefully shut the door; after all, there are weyrlings not so far away who might be tempted to spy. "What do you prefer to drink?"

While Quint isn't as intimately familiar with the Weyr as his companion is, he does at least know the direction of the living cavern and that, after a certain point where they walk in the bowl, that they're not headed towards it. There's no objection from the harper, though perhaps an air of amusement as they move, giving a nod towards Ivraeth as they pass the green. "That seems a dangerous invitation to a relative stranger," the harper says, as he shrugs out of his coat, lying it over the back of a chair as his gaze roams around the weyr. "What if I took that invitation at face value and moved in?" He observes Olivia's move to the door with a curiosity that doesn't move him to question aloud, instead answering: "Red, if you have it. If not -- whatever you're having is fine."

"And abandon your duties to High Reaches and your craft?" challenges Olivya as she crosses the room to the mantle and the decanters there. Each of them speaks to marks, but there is none that seem to be red; instead, she reaches for one filled with amber liquid, pouring two generous glasses. "I think I know you enough to know that, at least, I am safe from." She turns from the mantle to extend the glass out to the harper, though she doesn't move closer.

"Well, it ''is'' bigger than any room I've ever lived in my whole life," Quint says, although there isn't any jealousy audible in his voice. While she gets the drinks, the harper continues to look around, examining some of the contents of the bookshelves, before finally stopping near her in front of the mantle, studying the painting there. He reaches to take the glass with a nod of thanks, before gestures to the painting, asking, "Is this -- it looks good on the wall, or it speaks to you in some way?"

With his drink passed over, Olivya lifts her own to her lips as she shifts to face the painting and study it at his question. "Both, really," she answers lightly. "It goes to our conversation before, doesn't it? There are secrets everywhere. They can be beautiful if you bother to find them."

There's a brief chuckle from Quint, and he takes a small sip of the liquid with a nod, before he says: "Even I don't buy that you planted this here just to make a point." He gestures towards the painting, but his gaze is on Olivia. "Let me guess -- the previous owner left it and you thought it seemed pretty, now you use it to play the mysterious woman?" He glances to the painting again, leans in: "Ought to have a mysterious figure or two painted in there, too."

"Mm," is all Olivya'll give away to that accusation, mysteriously, though the corners of her lips quirk up in a smile even as she takes another sip of her whiskey. But then she'll answer, "No, I've had it for turns. I didn't have it commissioned, though; I found it at a gather after the original commissioner decided it wasn't what he wanted. The one in the bedroom, however-- ''That'' was commissioned."

Despite Quint's earlier expressed desire for a drink, when he lifts his glass to his lips, it's a rote sort of action, with a minimal amount of liquid imbibed. "Oh?" is his answer to that, and he appears to take it as an invitation, since he gestures for Olivya to precede him in that direction.

Olivya considers Quint for a moment at the gesture, before she finally rolls her shoulder up shamelessly, only a hint of humor touching her ice blue eyes. She does lead the way, through the uncovered arch to her bedroom only to gracefully fold herself into a seat at the foot of her bed. "I take it the way this speaks is clear enough?" is a light question.

The harper follows, close on her heels, but remains standing by the bed while she sits. Quint studies the painting for a short time. "No, it doesn't actually," the harper says. "It could be a display of your sensuality, an expression of your sexuality. You could just really like red," he adds with a chuckle, as his gaze flickers to Olivya. "You know you're just asking for some bold weyrling to come in here and nick it one day."

"I'd bet on the weyrlings to focus on the liquor in the other room, not the paintings," counters Olivya with a light dismissal, tipping her head only softly as she looks up to continue watching the harper. "I ''do'' like red. But, it's simply-- both of those, I suppose."

"I don't know," Quint disagrees, thoughtfully. "After a few months of no privacy and sharing barracks, I'd think a teenage boy has other priorities." He gives a wry, somewhat apologetic look to the greenrider, "Spoken as a once-teenager." His head tips. "You suppose?" he queries, curiously.

"I suppose. Though, I admit-- I've always thought of it as an invitation," Olivya answers with only a hint of hesitation, stretching to her feet even as she says it with a glance towards the painting and a slow sip from her glass. But then she laughs, adding in a lighter joke, "I think bringing you here was a mistake. You are learning entirely too much of me compared to what I know of you."

"An invitation," Quint echoes, with surprise and interest both, gaze going back to the painting to re-assess it in light of her words. It's only with Olivya's latter words that the harper looks away, chuckling. "Me?" he presses a hand against his chest. "I'm an open book," he says with the ease of long practice, or plain truth. "''You're'' the mystery."

"Then tell me more about yourself, Quint, before your ride comes," invites Olivya easily, brushing past him with a smile to retreat from the bedroom and apparently expecting him to follow. "How did you become a harper?" She does glance over her shoulder as she asks it, to perhaps make sure he's following. Whether or not she's a mystery-- Well, she seems to find amusement in the statement all the same as it warms blue eyes.

And Quint does -- or at least, he tells her a story about joining the harpercraft after being inspired by seeing a harper pass judgement on someone, and plenty about his time there. To tell it, it's relatively uneventful, punctuated by the normal teenager antics which are described in amusing detail. He doesn't make much headway with that glass, but he does at least finish it by the time he stands to part ways and seek out his ride back to High Reaches.
|Categories=Clutch 137 Logs
}}

Logs:Planning Murder

2016-02-23T04:46:54Z

Meg: Created page with "{{Log |who=N'rov, Olivya |what=(and other such things) |where=Weyrling Complex, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=25 |month=1 |turn=40 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gamedate=2016.02...."

{{Log
|who=N'rov, Olivya
|what=(and other such things)
|where=Weyrling Complex, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=25
|month=1
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.02.20
|quote="And when was ''your'' first broken heart, Weyrleader?"
|mentions=W'leri, K'se, Dahlia, Kh'tyr, Odren, Roveny, Mirinda
|type=Log
|ooc=The title of this log is not deceptive at all.
|icons-new=Icon n'rov salute.png, Icon olivya lookingup.png,
|log=The blizzard's well gone, but dunes of snow still mound the ground where they haven't been trampled to death. N'rov doesn't hurt any as he passes by, but he ''does'' pause to prise a sword-length icicle from an overhang before entering Olivya's territory: not to observe from the sidelines, as he does most often in respecting the weyrlingmaster's wishes, but evidently one of those periodic check-ins, giving one of those weyrlings he passes a quick grin as he moves to hunt Liv down wherever she might be.

Olivya herself is leaning against the arched entrance of the barracks, her back to N'rov as she watches the activity inside of weyrlings picking up their respective spaces and organizing it amidst chaos. She seems content to just observe, herself, rather than giving orders or directing this activity. Perhaps it is enough to just be present, that ever too bright, signature red and wild, blonde curls enough to catch any eyes that might doubt she's there.

That curl, one of those curls, must be tempting to tug on as though she were sitting ahead of him in class; N'rov settles for his voice, low baritone behind her ear, "Good day, Weyrlingmaster." Polite, so very polite, but that voice is ''smiling''.

Olivya curves a look back at the Weyrleader, over her shoulder. It might seem a distant look itself, but there is something humor filled in her ice blue eyes before she pulls her gaze back to the scene before her with only a tipped nod in invitation. After all, it's a large entrance and plenty of room to stand with her. "Weyrleader, are you planning a murder?" is the woman's greeting in turn.

"Not today," N'rov gives her after a moment's deliberation, and a step forward to her other side, though he stays just behind her shoulder. "Why, is there someone new on your naughty list? Sprouting chest hair when they weren't supposed to?"

"If you are going to go around murdering anyone who annoys me -- not that I would ''object'', darling -- there's going to be a lot more talk," is Olivya's answer, the words working a smile into the corners of her lips as she slide another look to N'rov beside her. As usual, her red lips match the red jacket, perfectly painted. "I've learned to accept that I can't control when my weyrlings sprout hair, or little else. As long as they are safe and learning--."

N'rov's silence implies musing, if also amusement; "It's true," he says, "I've put enough work in finding wingleaders that I'd rather not lose any more." Southern's in his tone, and Southern Boll and Benden, all of it complicated. But, "Still none of them crashed?" It's been a couple days. Matters could have changed.

A laugh finds its way into Olivya's tone, a dry thing, as she questions back to the Weyrleader, "Do you expect them to have? With me as their Weyrlingmaster?" She tsks, softly, shaking her head with a soft flick of curls over her shoulder. "They are doing fine, for the most part. K'se is still moping around with his first broken heart, but otherwise--."

"Weyrlings are talented at such escapades, no matter if their weyrlingmaster is the most talented on the continent," N'rov drawls with an air of reminiscence. "Hard to believe they'll have weyrs soon. He's lucky to have his first episode ''after'' he Impressed."

"And when was ''your'' first broken heart, Weyrleader?" Olivya says it in an easy way, not close enough involved or aware of N'rov's ''last'' relationships to have any influence on what she says. She even smiles, a cocky thing as she tips her head. "I'm sure more of these escapades will happen soon, once they have those weyrs. But I wouldn't underestimate my influence."

"Seven, or thereabouts," N'rov says readily. "She had freckles, a runner, ''and'' a full Turn on me," and his chuckle is low in his throat. "Looking forward to the new set? Any last-minute plans to steal another assistant?" Or not so last-minute, as the case may be.

"And then proceeded to be a heartbreaking bronzerider forever afterwards?" Olivya's question is satirical, however, without any real expectation of a response as she slides her gaze once again away from N'rov to watch the weyrlings. It is a thoughtful watchfulness, since she eventually answers in a mused, "I'd rather they wait until these have moved into their own Weyrs. We may want to consider letting them move a bit early, in any case; it isn't like we are lacking for empty weyrs and it will be better for Taeliyth's weyrlings to settle in without an older group over their shoulder."

"At eight, yes," N'rov has to agree with her regardless. "I was precocious." And undoubtedly smirking. Weyrs are Mirinda's territory, but these are their weyrlings, and the bronzerider listens to the weyrlingmaster with interest and a degree of deference; "Not going to enlist the older ones as your eyes and ears, then? I can see it. Were you the oldest?"

Olivya exhales a soft laugh as she answers dryly, "I have enough eyes and ears-- and ''mouths'' -- that I need between Kh'tyr and the rest of my assistants. At least, those that would do any good." She shakes her head, next; it is a gesture that still holds a hint of long-ago, buried frustrations despite how differently her path has taken her. "I had an older brother. I know ''exactly'' how stifling the proverbial older child can be to the younger."

"'Had'?" N'rov considers her. "That would explain the consideration. I had two, for what that's worth," and past tense though it recently is, he doesn't permit more than an undertone of sorrow, of resignation, of irony.

"Growing up, I had. Now he is a holder, and I am a dragonrider. My family is the Weyr," answers Olivya, the conversation line sobering the woman into something more reserved as she watches N'rov in turn. She adds simply, "My condolences on your loss."

"Ah." N'rov says then, a little gruffly, "And on yours as well." Perhaps it's the reserve, oddly, that leads to him saying, "It wasn't even the plague, not directly. When we were little, my oldest brother was always big and strong like in the stories, and my next oldest ''wasn't''. Nobody expected him to die first, nobody at all." He exhales. "But then his wife did. One of his boys."

Olivya doesn't interrupt, simply transferring the weight of those light, blue eyes from the weyrlings to N'rov. And she watches him as she waits for him to continue, studying.

N'rov's shrug is an abortive gesture, more a flex of his shoulders than anything. "It wasn't even some grand romance where he dueled a suitably old and conniving betrothed for her hand. And the plague was ''gone''." That's all the silence he can fill.

"Does anything need to be a grand romance to hurt? K'se is learning that lesson himself, now," Olivya answers, her words kept simple and lighter in an attempt to lift the conversation. Or perhaps just to change it back to the easier subject of weyrlings. She even straightens and glances out to find the brownrider in the barracks.

"But he won't ''give up'' over it," N'rov says, the irritation in his voice not for weyrlings or weyrlingmaster for all that he's followed her glance to K'se too. As long as he's eyeing them, "Enough children for you?"

"More than enough," agrees Olivya to the question, a smile finally touching her lips as she offers it to N'rov before it's gone again. "And how is your little one?"

"Looking forward to Impressing," N'rov says of the six-month-old, dryly. "So watch out for that. Everything goes in her mouth, which I'm told is usual. I can't claim to understand everything," anything? "she says."

"That one will be trouble for whoever is Weyrlingmaster; it is in her lineage, after all," Olivya agrees easily, eyeing N'rov with a hint of faux-suspicion. "But by then, it may not be me. Not if Rin--." She catches herself on the words, letting them trail off in a clearly dismissive end to the thought. But she'll add, moving on, "I hear the speech skills improve with age. Give it time."

That gray gaze considers her, evaluates her; N'rov, known for pressing, does not. Instead, possibly even with sympathy, "Drowns you in a sea of bliss. I know." While he's at it, "She has at least a sevenday before she's in remedial lessons. Speaking of..." he has their weyrlings to ask after: this one's old problem, another's forecast, nothing ''long'' but, as usual, clearly interested.
|Categories=Clutch 133 Logs, Clutch 137 Logs
}}

Logs:Understanding Others

2016-02-23T04:38:48Z

Meg:

Logs:Understanding Others

2016-02-23T04:36:09Z

Meg: Created page with "{{Log |who=Quint, Olivya, |what=Quint and Olivya discuss candidates and getting to know each other. |where=Galleries / Olivya's Weyr, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=25 |mo..."

{{Log
|who=Quint, Olivya,
|what=Quint and Olivya discuss candidates and getting to know each other.
|where=Galleries / Olivya's Weyr, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=25
|month=1
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.02.20
|quote="Let me guess -- the previous owner left it and you thought it seemed pretty, now you use it to play the mysterious woman?"
|mentions=Gisele, Mirinda
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon quint face.jpg, Icon olivya flirt.png,
|log=>---< Galleries, Fort Weyr(#745RIJMas$) >------------------------------------<

The entrance to the Sands and Galleries alike is little more than an
archway and a section of flat stone that curves into a broad pathway in
front of the Galleries that are carved into the right-hand side of the
Hatching Cavern. This pathway is set with three flights of stairs that
lead all the way up to the upper tiers of the Galleries; one set near the
entrance of the cavern, one set at the northernmost end, and one set
between both. Beyond the pathway, that flat stone dissolves into the Sands
proper, a golden expanse that sits before the large, odd engraving that
lines the far wall -- an etching that details the rotation of the Red
Star.

The Galleries themselves are rows of flat seats carved from the stone wall
and stacked backward to allow observers the best view possible of the
golden sands. Those at the bottom are protected from wayward dragonets by
a railing, while dignitaries from outside the Weyr -- Lord Holders, other
Weyrleaders, Craftmasters and their ilk -- have a specially designated
spectator's box at the topmost row.

When there are eggs on the Sands, type +list/eggs to see the whole clutch
or +view/egg <#> to see an individual egg.

----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
Sands Bowl
>------------------------------< 25D 1M 40T I10, winter dusk | Watchable >---<

It's late afternoon, and amongst those taking their time to observe the eggs down below is an older looking blonde woman with a Fortian candidates knot, and a Reachian Journeyman Harper. The former is gesturing towards the sands, while the latter has all his attention on the woman. When another Fortian candidate appears and gestures, the woman leaps up, hissing something under her breath, and walks off at a brisk, unstoppable pace. Quint, in the wake of the departure, rises to his feet, staring after the woman, before exhaling and sinking back down, allowing his gaze to rove amongst the other occupants of the galleries, now.

That the weyrlingmaster must step past the departing candidates is just odd timing, not any specific plan or goal on her part. There's a moment that she stops to pass along something or another, before she is back to her goal towards the stands. Her gaze is searching out for another figure, so it comes to stop on Quint in surprise before flicking briefly back to his departing sister. Whatever she was looking for before, she doesn't seem to find it. So it is Quint that must deal with her approach and the light greeting of, "I hope she told you that she is doing well?"

Long-formed habit means that Quint is rising to his feet even before his gaze has settled on Olivya. "If I told you she said it was enlightening and exhilarating and she loves all of Fort Weyr, would that perchance secure her her own room?" The twist of lips makes it obvious the harper thinks it unlikely, and yet he tries all the same, chuckling as he does so. He gestures towards the seat next to him in mute invitation, as if it were his home, and not hers.

"It may, but you would need to tell it to Rin, since she decides those things," answers Olivya with her soft humor teasing at only the edges of her words. And since he has risen, her fingers settle lightly on his forearm before she leans in to brush a kiss lightly against his cheek, the gesture the kind a Lady Holder might make to a friend. Then, however, she's drawing away to shrug out of her bright jacket and claim the seat he's invited her to. "She got to touch the eggs the other day."

"It's been some time since she shared a room with young teenagers," Quint says, with a sympathetic twist of lips. He gives an easy shake of his head: "Oh, I'm sure she'll adjust. Or suffer through it -- she seems determined," he says with a wryness that might suggest he's attempted to convince her otherwise. There's momentary surprise at her greeting, but he's too well-schooled for it to stay overlong, giving an easy smile in return as he seats himself at the same time as she does. "That must have been something," he says, with tone that suggests rather the opposite of jealousy. "Is there any indication how long it might be until the hatching? I'd like to attend, if possible."

"You would like to? I believe that you owe me a dance, so if you do not--," is what Olivya returns lightly, offering a smile. But her gaze slides out to observe the eggs, tipping her chin thoughtfully. "Less than a month, now. But beyond that-- It's hard to say. Even if we knew the day, we wouldn't know the time. But I will send one of my assistants to get you."

"I'll do my utmost," Quint corrects himself, with an easy grace and spread of hands. He follows Olivya's gaze towards the eggs, looking thoughtful, undoubtedly doing the calculations in his head. "After our weyrling class' graduation, before Tillek's next gather -- so that should be workable." His head tips as his gaze is drawn back to the greenrider, surprise faintly audible in his voice, "Won't they be busy?" and a beat of pause, "I'm sure there will be plenty of High Reachian riders attending, as much as I appreciate the offer."

"It depends on how much warning we have to prepare," answers Olivya, though she nods simply for the point of other 'Reachians. "I have hope that we'll have plenty of warning, even with Taeliyth being a new mother. She is rather observant, after all." But she smiles, the faintest thing that is worn away in only a brief breath.

The harper has no comment on the Fortian queen, though his gaze does go to the sands, naturally. "If," Quint pauses, unusual enough for the normally glib harper; "If she doesn't Impress, would she be allowed to stay?" He doesn't refer to his sister, but of course there's no one else he could be referring to.

Olivya's gaze slides sideways in a moment at the question, marking the harper with a hint of a question. Instead of answering, she asks quietly, "Would she want to? She wouldn't get another chance to stand. What would be here for her that isn't at High Reaches?"

There's barely a pause, before Quint replies: "Distance. Independence." He spreads his hands, casually, his expression largely even.

"Has she said that is what she's seeking?" presses Olivya with the same soft curiosity.

"No," Quint allows, with only the slightest twitch of lips. "But I'm a harper, and her brother."

There is a long pause as Olivya considers the harper, finally offering only the hint of a smile. "Then don't try to make the decision for her, Quint," is a contrast to that smile, though. The words are firm, dismissive, with the weight of her rank. "She will get offered the opportunity to stay after the hatching; the candidates that don't impress always do. But she may surprise you--."

"I won't," Quint replies, adding after a beat, "I won't have to." He gives a nod for that latter, as much acknowledgement of the words as mute thanks. With a twitch of lips: "I prefer to think there is little that would surprise me."

"Little? Not even if you came to the hatching and impressed yourself?" challenges Olivya lightly, her brow curving upwards as she slides a look over the harper in a brief study. "If your Harper Master decided to become a baker? If--." And it is obvious that she'll continue once she thinks of more things that may surprise him.

That definitely earns a chuckle from the harper. "Now that ''would'' surprise me. And everyone, I imagine," Quint says, with a shake of his head. "But thankfully -- for the sanity of everyone involved -- it's impossible. If advanced ages such as mine," or to a lesser degree, his sisters, "Were apt to Impress, surely there'd be less instances of dragons not hatching, and more Impressions from the stands?" He's eyeing the Weyrlingmaster sidelong, looking amused, as he adds: "If your green were to clutch fifty-five eggs on the sands?"

"There are not very many instances, in general, of Impressions from the stands. Perhaps if we allowed more people of your ''such'' advanced age onto the sands, then there'd be more Impressions of people your age," Olivya answers musingly, meeting the harper's blue eyes with her own and holding the gaze. At least, until he looks away. "If I were to run away and live on a secluded beach tomorrow." Though, perhaps, that wouldn't be so surprising to him given that he doesn't know her well enough to judge her level of commitment, as much of just a humored joke.

"I think people of ''our'' advanced age," and Quint's stress is slight but audible, "Are generally well content with their chosen path in life, exceptions here and there aside." The glance over his shoulder in the direction his sister went indicates one such exception. His brows go upwards as his glance turns back to the greenrider. "You'd go crazy after mm, about a day, I predict. You are someone who needs people," the harper observes, easily.

A laugh is exhaled on a breath, though Olivya only answers with a firmer 'tsk', "And now you are insulting a lady's age and independence, I see." But there is a pause as she considers Quint in turn, before she adds in a simpler question, "Is that how you see me, harper? And for yourself? Do you need people?"

"I wouldn't presume," Quint manages to look affronted by the accusation, but it's clearly an act, given he lifts his hands to fend off any further words on that score. His hands drop to his lap soon after, surprise briefly flickering across his expression, before he shakes his head. "One aspect of one's personality does not a whole person make," he says, plainly, and, after a moment, admits: "It is the bread and butter of what I do."

"People are what you do?" Olivya assumes, before continuing, "But do you ''need'' them, Quint?" It is a curious press of the words, determined as she studies the younger man. But she seems to catch herself after a moment, shaking blonde curls out dismissively. "We are all complex puzzles, aren't we?"

Quint doesn't disabuse the assumption, silent for a moment before he says, "Teaching is what I love to do. I can't teach without someone willing to be taught." When she shakes her head, he smiles. "Yes. A fact of which makes us all interesting." He gestures towards a pair of young men seated further down the galleries from them, "You can look at someone, and talk to them, but never really ''know'' them, not unless they let you."

"Even if they do let you-- You'll never really know them. How can we ever ''really'' understand each other?" supposes Olivya in a murmur, though she pairs the words with a light hint of a smile. "Take your sister, for example. You'll never really understand what she wants. You can only try to support her."

"The pleasure is in the trying," counters the harper, swiftly, as if it were a well-practiced response. Although there's a brief tightening of expression, Quint's expression is otherwise light and thoughtful. "I don't think that's true at all. I think that she's been through a trauma, and these things are to a degree predictable. She's reaching out for something -- for stability -- and she's hoping she'll find it here. Whether she does or not is," he spreads his hands, as if to indicate he has no control over that.

That well-practiced response receives the quirk of her brow and a brief smile before Olivya drawls on a timed beat of, "I am sure you say that to all of the women. They likely even fall for it." But she falls more serious for the harper's next words, finally inclining her chin in a point to Quint's. "Perhaps. Or she's looking for independence, for adventure. For a connection that would understand what she's been through. Or all of it. But, you'd know better than I would; you know your sister better."

"But not you," Quint concludes, all serious, even with the Weyrlingmaster's smile. He gives a slight nod for her words on his sister, exhaling a breath. "I don't believe she'll find what she's looking for on the sands. But I think she has to do it, all the same, before she comes to the same conclusion." He exhales, slowly, gaze distant on the sands for a moment. "My ride's not due for a couple more hours; are you working, or can I buy you a drink?"

"I might, if you try," Olivya answers, a curious look once again dragged over Quint. She moves on smoothly to agree, "Hopefully she finds what she's looking for off of the sands, instead, then." But then she's stretching to her feet with a nod, hooking her jacket from the seat beside her as she glances across the galleries one last time, searching before looking back to the harper. "It is my Weyr. I will buy you the drink."

"That's my hope, too," Quint says, of his sister, giving a brief, if genuine, smile at the hope. He rises when she does, shrugging into his thick coat, before offering an arm to the greenrider. "If you insist," he says, with a grin.

Raised as she was, Olivya has no compunction about accepting that arm with the press of her fingers against his forearm, only murmuring a quiet, "I do," before she will let him lead them to the drinks.

>---< Olivya and Ivraeth's Weyr, Fort Weyr(#1341R) >-------------------------<

This first cavern is a large, bubble-shaped cavern occupied almost
entirely by a smooth, oval wallow large enough for two that has been
covered in a dyed fleece of soft black, guaranteed to compliment any
visitors. Copper hooks line the right wall, while on the left-hand wall, a
polished, dark wood door leads to the Weyrlingmaster's office and the
weyrling complex beyond. Another matching door at the back of the cavern,
complete with a lock, leads to the rest of the rider's quarters.

The second cavern behind that second door, also large and bubble-shaped,
is a finely decorated living area. Two matching silver green couches, made
of soft fabric, plush cushions and clean lines, sit opposing each other,
flanking the wide hearth and with a dense, silver rug between. The hearth
itself sits on the right-hand wall, a large square of red brick inserted
into the stone around it and covered with a black screen, with a polished
wood mantle above holding an array of crystal-cut decanters. Centered over
the mantle hangs a piece of art, the piece an impression of sun through
forest and a deep, blue lake hidden there. On the left-hand wall, it has
been lined with polished, dark wood bookcases, filled with books and
knickknacks.

The archway to the bedroom has been left uncovered, the last
bubbled-shaped cavern in the series. It is dominated by the bed which is
made up of black sheets, silken to the touch, and plush pillows in the
same. It is her downy blanket that is different, in a bold red. At the
foot of the bed, furs of silvery-grey have been folded and left. Another
piece of art has been framed above the bed, and this one is simply a pair
of red lips of which the occupant must have modeled.

----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
Weyrlingmaster's Office Ledge
>-----------------------------------------< 25D 1M 40T I10, winter night >---<

Olivya's 'buying' seems to only count as the drinks that she already has in her weyr, rather than at the Fountain or otherwise. It means that they must step past Ivraeth where she has curled up on her dyed wools, watching Quint with slowly whirling eyes as the Weyrlingmaster unlocks the door to the weyr beyond. "Make yourself at home," she suggests warmly to the harper as they step through to that second cavern that seems to make up the majority of her living space, however, even as she takes a moment to carefully shut the door; after all, there are weyrlings not so far away who might be tempted to spy. "What do you prefer to drink?"

While Quint isn't as intimately familiar with the Weyr as his companion is, he does at least know the direction of the living cavern and that, after a certain point where they walk in the bowl, that they're not headed towards it. There's no objection from the harper, though perhaps an air of amusement as they move, giving a nod towards Ivraeth as they pass the green. "That seems a dangerous invitation to a relative stranger," the harper says, as he shrugs out of his coat, lying it over the back of a chair as his gaze roams around the weyr. "What if I took that invitation at face value and moved in?" He observes Olivia's move to the door with a curiosity that doesn't move him to question aloud, instead answering: "Red, if you have it. If not -- whatever you're having is fine."

"And abandon your duties to High Reaches and your craft?" challenges Olivya as she crosses the room to the mantle and the decanters there. Each of them speaks to marks, but there is none that seem to be red; instead, she reaches for one filled with amber liquid, pouring two generous glasses. "I think I know you enough to know that, at least, I am safe from." She turns from the mantle to extend the glass out to the harper, though she doesn't move closer.

"Well, it ''is'' bigger than any room I've ever lived in my whole life," Quint says, although there isn't any jealousy audible in his voice. While she gets the drinks, the harper continues to look around, examining some of the contents of the bookshelves, before finally stopping near her in front of the mantle, studying the painting there. He reaches to take the glass with a nod of thanks, before gestures to the painting, asking, "Is this -- it looks good on the wall, or it speaks to you in some way?"

With his drink passed over, Olivya lifts her own to her lips as she shifts to face the painting and study it at his question. "Both, really," she answers lightly. "It goes to our conversation before, doesn't it? There are secrets everywhere. They can be beautiful if you bother to find them."

There's a brief chuckle from Quint, and he takes a small sip of the liquid with a nod, before he says: "Even I don't buy that you planted this here just to make a point." He gestures towards the painting, but his gaze is on Olivia. "Let me guess -- the previous owner left it and you thought it seemed pretty, now you use it to play the mysterious woman?" He glances to the painting again, leans in: "Ought to have a mysterious figure or two painted in there, too."

"Mm," is all Olivya'll give away to that accusation, mysteriously, though the corners of her lips quirk up in a smile even as she takes another sip of her whiskey. But then she'll answer, "No, I've had it for turns. I didn't have it commissioned, though; I found it at a gather after the original commissioner decided it wasn't what he wanted. The one in the bedroom, however-- ''That'' was commissioned."

Despite Quint's earlier expressed desire for a drink, when he lifts his glass to his lips, it's a rote sort of action, with a minimal amount of liquid imbibed. "Oh?" is his answer to that, and he appears to take it as an invitation, since he gestures for Olivya to precede him in that direction.

Olivya considers Quint for a moment at the gesture, before she finally rolls her shoulder up shamelessly, only a hint of humor touching her ice blue eyes. She does lead the way, through the uncovered arch to her bedroom only to gracefully fold herself into a seat at the foot of her bed. "I take it the way this speaks is clear enough?" is a light question.

The harper follows, close on her heels, but remains standing by the bed while she sits. Quint studies the painting for a short time. "No, it doesn't actually," the harper says. "It could be a display of your sensuality, an expression of your sexuality. You could just really like red," he adds with a chuckle, as his gaze flickers to Olivya. "You know you're just asking for some bold weyrling to come in here and nick it one day."

"I'd bet on the weyrlings to focus on the liquor in the other room, not the paintings," counters Olivya with a light dismissal, tipping her head only softly as she looks up to continue watching the harper. "I ''do'' like red. But, it's simply-- both of those, I suppose."

"I don't know," Quint disagrees, thoughtfully. "After a few months of no privacy and sharing barracks, I'd think a teenage boy has other priorities." He gives a wry, somewhat apologetic look to the greenrider, "Spoken as a once-teenager." His head tips. "You suppose?" he queries, curiously.

"I suppose. Though, I admit-- I've always thought of it as an invitation," Olivya answers with only a hint of hesitation, stretching to her feet even as she says it with a glance towards the painting and a slow sip from her glass. But then she laughs, adding in a lighter joke, "I think bringing you here was a mistake. You are learning entirely too much of me compared to what I know of you."

"An invitation," Quint echoes, with surprise and interest both, gaze going back to the painting to re-assess it in light of her words. It's only with Olivya's latter words that the harper looks away, chuckling. "Me?" he presses a hand against his chest. "I'm an open book," he says with the ease of long practice, or plain truth. "''You're'' the mystery."

"Then tell me more about yourself, Quint, before your ride comes," invites Olivya easily, brushing past him with a smile to retreat from the bedroom and apparently expecting him to follow. "How did you become a harper?" She does glance over her shoulder as she asks it, to perhaps make sure he's following. Whether or not she's a mystery-- Well, she seems to find amusement in the statement all the same as it warms blue eyes.

And Quint does -- or at least, he tells her a story about joining the harpercraft after being inspired by seeing a harper pass judgement on someone, and plenty about his time there. To tell it, it's relatively uneventful, punctuated by the normal teenager antics which are described in amusing detail. He doesn't make much headway with that glass, but he does at least finish it by the time he stands to part ways and seek out his ride back to High Reaches.
|Categories=Clutch 137 Logs
}}

Alts:Lilah

2016-02-20T00:51:45Z

Meg:

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|alt4=Aira
|alt5=Jayzin
|alt6=C'ris
|alt7=Lilah/ST
|alt8=Olivya
|alt9=
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File:BreirandeMain.jpg

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Br'and

2016-02-20T00:12:41Z

Meg:

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|body={{wysk}}

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File:BreirandeMain.jpg

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Br'and

2016-02-20T00:11:46Z

Meg:

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

{{Family}}
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== RP Logs ==

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File:Breirande.jpg

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Logs:Size Doesn't Matter

2016-02-19T23:46:40Z

Meg: Created page with "{{Log |who=Olivya, Ninwayzan, Daemon, Breirande, Catling, |what=The Weyrlingmaster stalks candidates while they touch eggs. |where=Hatching Sands, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Wey..."

{{Log
|who=Olivya, Ninwayzan, Daemon, Breirande, Catling,
|what=The Weyrlingmaster stalks candidates while they touch eggs.
|where=Hatching Sands, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=19
|month=1
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.02.18
|quote="Do they, uh, talk back?"
|weather=From morning straight through until well into the night, large, soft-looking snow falls steadily.
|mentions=Dahlia, Mirinda
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon olivya amused.gif, Icon daemon.jpg
|desc=The pale, golden-hued sands occupy nearly the entirety of the Hatching
Cavern, with the dam and sire traditionally claiming the north with their
eggs scattered throughout. To the right are the Galleries, which stretch
up nearly the entire length of the wall and provide the only visual break
in what would otherwise be a monotonous tableau. Lighting comes from both
the entrance and through glow baskets spaced throughout, ensuring that the
place is well-lit at all times. The heat here is tolerable, but only
barely, and heat mirages are relatively common. Turns of hatchings have
resulted in the sands being littered with fragmentary bits of shells
despite thorough cleanings, subtle bits of history being left behind.
|log=Taeliyth occupies the sands with a watchful eye, though there is certainly room enough between her and her clutch for candidates to maneuver around those eggs. Dahlia, however, has gotten called away for Weyr business, which leaves this small group in only the hands of that queen and the Weyrlingmaster as the evening begins to set on Fort and the snow makes its way in steady flakes that never make it far into this warmed cavern. Who is more intimidating? Who can say. Olivya is clad still in her bright, red leather jacket to match her bright, red lips, hardly breaking a sweat despite the heat of the sands. Only the slight wilt of wild, blonde curls shows any hint of defeat, certainly not any inch of her proper Lady-like posture. "Ok, children," she calls them all despite relative age, though a subtle smile seems to catch on her lips for Gisele briefly. "Look and touch gently. Spend as much or as little time as you want with each egg before Taeliyth kicks us off the sands. Do not exacerbate that by trying to stare her down or mess with her eggs, please." Then she makes a little gesture to beckon the candidates forward onto the sands.

Wasn't he just here not all that long ago? Well, in the galleries, anyhow. Post food, Breirande was grabbed up by the Weyrlingmaster staff, and now is ushered out onto torrid Sands. He looks more put out than anything else as the tall, late-teen listens quietly to Olivya, takes in everything around him. Finally, with a vaguely helpless shrug and an expression of reticent curiosity, the laborer first offers Taeliyth a small and perfunctory bow, then heads off on a more-or-less direct path towards the Fuzzy Wuzzy egg. Why that one? Why not?

Ninwayzan looks a bit uncertain as he joins the others making their way onto the sands. Crossing the threshold he hesitates long enough that the person behind him has to give him a bit of a nudge. Tearing his gaze away from the queen the hovers nearby he steps in fully. Attention shifts to listen dutifully to Olivya's instructions. Following Breirande's example he sketches a perfect bow before moving towards the eggs. Drifting really between them he winds up near the first egg to catch his attention, Spirit's Silhouette egg. Uncertainty crosses his expression as he squats down to run his finger tips lightly along the shell, clearly worried about touching it too hard.

Daemon lingers in the back, the fingers of his hands tucked into the back pockets of his pants. Rocking on his heels, he considers the eggs, then the other Candidates, and walks in an easy gait towards the eggs (very carefully after giving the dam a somewhat awkward little head bob) and comes to pause at the fire-sculpted egg. At first he hesitates, then lays calloused fingers on the shell, gently testing the texture of the egg's surface.

It is with an easy stride across the sands that Olivya walks, making her own rounds to keep an eye on the candidates despite Taeliyth's attentiveness. Never hurts to have a second set, does it? She is even quite quiet at it, given that the sands absorb the majority of the noise and she seems used to them. So it might come as a shock to Ninwayzan when she speaks from behind his shoulder, "You are betting that it isn't a gold, then? Some of the girls will be disappointed."

The Fuzzy egg is the smallest of the lot, so Breirande is even more careful of how he 'interacts' with the terra-cotta orb, one larger hand tentatively probing a ghost-swish of calloused fingertips against the shell. Feels pretty hard to him...but he's seen hens' eggs crack under duress. So, his further inspection of the 'little squirt' remains cautious, though one of his somewhat roughened palms opens up, to be placed against the shell in full and drifted lightly over it. Smooth, not fuzzy, is it, and the dichotomy between sight and 'feel' makes the young man grin a little. Still, there's other eggs out here, so 'Rand's soon standing slowly, wiping his brow, and moving off sedately towards that rather 'Unbeweavable' egg. Offered to Ninwayzan along the way is a quiet, not unkind grunt of, "Maybe that Fuzzy one's fer you." Wink. They're both a little undersized, after all. Olivya gets a moment's spare look since she's nearby - those red lips of hers do, at any rate - and he's soon nearing, then crouching before his 'goal,' copping a gentle feel off of it, instead of other things his mind might dwell more upon, this moment.

Catling follows behind, having mastered whatever urge to cry she had before. She bows low to the queen, doing her best not to stare, but taking her in in bits and pieces with a glance here and there. For a long moment she stands just looking, tilting her head to look at one and the other. She half-closes her eyes, attentive, as if listening. And then she moves towards one of the eggs. At first she seems like she might go towards the Spirit's Silhouette egg, but since Ninwayzan is already there, she makes her way to the Image Within egg instead. "Hello," she says quietly. "I'm Catling. I don't know what your name is...." She reaches out to touch it, then bites at her lip. "But I wish you very well, all the same. Your shell is looking at me. Well, everyone, but me for the now. Do you already know us?"

Ninwayzan's hand jerks away from the egg as Olivya's voice penetrates his awareness. Bright green eyes sparkle brightly with awe and a bit of amusement towards Olivya as he also briefly peers towards those red lips too. "If I were a betting person, I'd bet on this one being a large brown." clearly he doesn't care too terribly much how disappointed the girls will be. As Breirande passes he wrinkles his nose at the other teen. "Size doesn't matter." he calls after the teen whose now copping a feel of a second egg.

"That is what all the boys insist on," Olivya remarks in a perfectly timed, dry punctuation to Ninwayzan's called words. She makes her own comment loud enough to carry for anyone to appreciate, apparently not above embarrassing either of the two candidates, if they are easily flustered. But then her iced blue gaze is traveling over the egg thoughtful, before she agrees, "It could be a large brown." Her gaze doesn't miss Catling's almost approach, sweeping briefly over her as she looks back over the candidates and where they've settled, only pausing briefly. But then she's turning away from Ninwayzan without another word and traveling on, to sneak up on Daemon this time, it seems. Or at least, that is where her path is taking her.

Daemon isn't going to be talking to an egg, that's for sure, but he does give the shell an awkward little pat. Is this how it's supposed to be done? He chances a look at the others, and then lingers at the fire-glossy egg before moving on to the caged jewel. Something of its caged design holds his attention. With his attention turned away from his fellow Candidates, Olivya is easily able to sneak up on him. Just as he touches his fingertips to the shell, he spies the woman from the corner of his eye and he jumps with an awkward yelp. At least he didn't slap the egg. "Am I doing it wrong?" A brief, panicked moment.

Ninwayzan watches Olivya's departure a moment before returning his gaze to the egg. Her remark of size and how boys insist on that draws a brief flush of his face only. His first egg to visit out here he doesn't want the visit interrupted or cut short. Once more he trails his fingers along the egg eventually growing bolder to lay both hands palm down to touch it softly for several minutes. "I do think you'd be a good, large, brown." he murmurs to the egg. Eventually he does get up so that Catling can meander over if she wishes. He picks an egg seemingly at random next, the Charcoal and Graphite Egg.

Catling straightens a little as she sees Olivya looking at her, and her hand traces a half-salute. She pats the dark egg and moves over to the Spirit egg next, grinning shyly at Nimwayzan and sheepishly at Breirande. "Did you enjoy eating my buns, Rand?" she asks, her voice piping over the eggs. Then she reaches out her hand to touch the Spirit egg, gently stroking it. "Hi there," she murmurs.

Breirande flashes a humored little grin over his shoulder to Ninwayzan at the other's response, Olivya's own riposte making him grin for a moment. No shame, apparently. But now...now there's a mahogany and black-splotched, 'woven' egg to pay attention to, that and Daemon's yelp, which draws 'Rand's slightly surprised and then smirky glance. Oh, and while the laborer touches and even 'listens' to this latest shell and the life inside, this moment of study also gives 'Rand a little time that he needs to get certain, ah, urges back under control. Damn you, Weyrlingmaster with the luscious red lips. And then Catling has to go and say *that*, and the tall teen is jerking his gaze to her, and blushing a bright scarlet before turning his attention right back upon the hapless egg before him. Nope, nothing to see, here.

"Well, you shouldn't be making any sudden movements," is Olivya's answer to that, as if she weren't the one to ''cause'' that jump. "You'll get Taeliyth riled up; she's already likely tense enough by you being near her eggs." But she brushes her hand over the egg where Daemon has drawn away, a confident drag of her fingers across the shell that lingers in as full of contact as her hand can make despite already having a dragon of her own and not needing this egg to bond to her. "The eggs aren't all that delicate, now. Be gentle, but you can be firm." Her gaze lifts subtly as Catling calls to Breirande, watching them both for a silent moment (and taking some mental note to herself) before she draws away from the egg and gestures to Daemon to go ahead again.

Performance anxiety: when Olivya gestures for Daemon to try again, the young man looks more than a little awkward and starts to put a hand out to the shell, before pausing. Drawing back, he thinks better of it before surging forward and boldly laying his hand on the shell. Never-no-mind the tinge to the tips of his ears. "Yes, ma'am." Properness is a shell behind which to hide, though something ''almost'' like humor hides behind his blue eyes. "Are we s'posed to, ah," he gestures with his free hand to the others, who seem way more adept. "Do they, uh, talk back?" Because if so, he's totally doing it wrong. (See exhibit A: he'd probably believe anything anyone told him - almost, at any rate).

Ninwayzan lets the chatter around him fade away to near nothing as he focuses upon the egg he is inspecting currently. Oh he hears it all even the fact that 'Rand evidently had a snack of Catling's buns but he shows no outward reaction to it. Nope, he's tracing the design of the smudges and charcoal line splitting the white shell into half. "Oh hey.." he murmurs. "No gold in here I bet. A green maybe though?" his head tilts as he regards the egg a bit longer before stepping away to find another egg once more.

"What does it mean if we can't decide which egg to touch?" asks Catling, oblivious to why Breirande might be blushing. She sighs, taking in the whole clutch with her gaze. She dips her head to the Spirit egg. "Please don't take that the wrong way, though," she tells it. "I'm sure each one of you is absolutely wonderful. And maybe you're calling to us. I just... well. Can't hear it yet."

"Tell me if they do," is what Olivya advises him, her brow curving upwards slightly. "We'll have to report it to the Weyrwoman." And her fingers now brush against the young man's upper arm, the gesture as much confident as touching the egg was before. But then the Weyrlingmaster is again abandoning a candidate to continue her path around the eggs and her group of charges. This time, it is towards Breirande and his hapless egg. Though this time, he might also have warning since she speaks as she does so, rather than moving silently, answering across the sands to Ninwayzan, "I'd put my money on blue, if I were betting."

It's time for more wanderings, one that will take him farther away from Catling and Olivya, anyway, and so on-edge 'Rand is standing a little quickly, and shifting a bit faster than usual over towards that Puzzle-y egg. At least it might hold his attention longer than others, and soon the tall teen's squatting before the shell, and peering closely, while careful fingertips lightly prod here and there. Are you a puzzle inside there, too, little dragon with the sharp teeth and claws?

Daemon isn't done with awkward just yet, though his eyes come to fall on the caged sense of the egg that rests so still against his fingers. He presses his lips together and clears his throat before stepping back. Perhaps, that cage isn't so much a draw after all. "Right," he murmurs, glancing towards Catling, Ninwayzan, and Breirande before moving away and towards the Windblown Wish Egg. He is drawn, perhaps by something in the pattern. In the essence. A hand is laid upon the delicacy of the shell and for a moment, his expression softens. Maybe the boy does actually fling a wish into the aether.

Ninwayzan says, "Blue hmm?" Ninwayzan's gaze shifts briefly from egg to Olivya. "Interesting." that said now he settles before an egg that has quite the conglomeration of tans, lights browns and some yellow thrown in. "Now you seem to be an interesting egg." he informs the egg as if it didn't know already. Still unsure of exactly what to do his attention is somewhat divided between the egg and peering around the sands to really look around from this point of view. "Looks different down here than from the Stands." murmurs the small lad."

Catling stands a moment more with the Spirit Egg, then gives it one last pat before drifting away. "I suppose they have to know who we are before they would call to us anyway," she murmurs to herself. "Which.... oh. So they're getting to know us right now, aren't they. Aren't you, hello," she almost-squeaks, finding herself abruptly beside the Midas' Puzzle egg. "Aren't you a wonderful thing. Just aren't you." A glance goes to her fellow candidates, and then back to the egg. "And I wonder what you might be.

"Careful. You're not going to get them to react much more than they do now by poking at them, but ''Taeliyth'' will," are Olivya's first words to Breirande, once she's in a comfortable conversation range of him, having followed him even when he moved away from the other egg. She curves a brow at him, her gaze sliding pointedly past him towards Catling and then settling back on him in a study. She murmurs lower where her voice won't carry beyond them, "Is there something I should know before weyrlinghood, candidate? If you do Impress."

Just minding his own business over here. Nothing to see... doo-be-doo-be-doo. Breirande's making a very solid attempt at inspecting the Puzzle-d egg with all of his senses (well, not *taste*. That's just gross, people.), his nose near the slightly garish surface of the shell, when Catling's joining him on the other side of the egg...followed by Olivya. Gheeze-oh PETES, ladies! Looking like he's caught between Scylla and Charibdys, 'Rand gives an internal groan while even more sweat breaks out upon his brow, and finaly winds up jerking his widened gaze over to the Weyrlingmaster when she circumspectly addresses him. "Huh?" is his first reaction to 'luscious lips,' followed by a youthful oggling *of* those red lips again, then another flush of scarlet across cheeks that makes him stare at the egg again. "Uh..yeah..." is then noted flatly about poking at the egg, the second inquiry meeting with another look of 'Huh?' from the teen. He didn't see Liv's look to Catling.

Maybe it is on the encouragement of the Weyrlingmaster to be mindful of the dam or maybe it is the subtle murmur of Candidates voices, but Daemon is drawn a little further away from his fellow Candidates, his eyes upon the Image Within Egg. His hands come to rest there, admiring the surface colors of the egg's shells. "What mysteries are in there..." A soft, whispered murmur captured by the air and taken away. He does not linger overlong, but does get himself used to touching the eggs until it is time to step away and return to life's dream.

Ninwayzan lingers at this last egg much like Daemon did with his. The others are forgotten and the watchful gold is forgotten too. Eventually though he'll visit a couple others before it's time to depart.

"If there ''is'' anything that you remember to tell me before the eggs hatch, about you or your fellow candidates-- Well, my door is always open," Olivya answers dismissively to his confusion, those light eyes sliding over him in a moment's study. Then they lift to mark Catling again as the teenager joins them at the egg. She doesn't move towards the girl, though; instead, when she moves from Breirande her path takes her to Gisele, the older candidate that gossip says is ''her'' handpick. It certainly seems that way in the way the two spend the rest of the time lost in some conversation or another, until eventually the Weyrlingmaster has to escort her charges off the sand.

Tell her? Breirande looks one third flustered, one third confused, and one third aggravated as he stares at 'hot lips' over there again, Olivya's words only serving to make the guy more confused. All he can groan out is a spare, "Yes ma'am..." before mentally trying to meld himself into one with the occupant of the Puzzle egg before himself and Catling...wishing he'd just disappear. Thank Faranth's butt cheeks that the Weyrlingmaster is moving off. After *she* does so, well, 'Rand does, as well, leaving Catlnig to the dark and goldish egg as he ford off towards the Caged one, then the Jumbled orb....contenting himself with their draw before Olivya escorts them all away.
|Categories=Clutch 137 Logs
}}

Logs:Sweet Nothings

2016-02-14T21:03:10Z

Meg: Created page with "{{Log |who=Olivya, W'leri |what=There are definitely a lot of sweet nothings exchanged between Olivya and W'leri on Turnday's eve. |where=Living Cavern, Fort Weyr |involves=Fo..."

{{Log
|who=Olivya, W'leri
|what=There are definitely a lot of sweet nothings exchanged between Olivya and W'leri on Turnday's eve.
|where=Living Cavern, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=28
|month=13
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.02.13
|quote="Thanks, but mine know they won't get slapped on the hand for a bit of harmless ''fun''."
|mentions=Ebeny, N'rov
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon olivya.png, Icon w'leri blue.jpg,
|desc=Fort's enormous Living Cavern is a vast, echoing space, with deep set
windows carved into the outer wall to let in light and fresh air. Large
enough to house the entire human population of the Weyr with plenty of
room to spare, the most common use of the living cavern is as a communal
eating and gathering space. Long tables with benches usually line the main
part of the cavern with a table set aside for the Weyrleaders on a raised
dais, as well as other smaller tables set along the walls for quieter
dining. Tapestries depicting historic moments in the Weyr's history and
scenery from the coverage area decorate the walls and lend the space a
warmer feel than bare stone.

To the east, a large doorway leads out to the Bowl, with a sturdy metal
door that can be closed during inclement weather or Threadfall. The
Nighthearth is tucked away in a little alcove near the door. The large
main hearth is used for cooking and for heat, though chairs are often
pulled up nearby for the Weyr's elderly to enjoy the heat. A swinging door
not far from the hearth leads into the Kitchen that shares the wall behind
the hearth. To the west, a passage opens up into the Weyr's Inner Caverns.
|log=The glows have been set low for the evening's celebration, catching and reflecting the light in the living cavern. Room has been cleared for dancing and the Weyrharper plays. Drink and food are plentiful if not of the best quality. Those seeking ''that'' would be better served at the Fountain. It is where one would expect to find Olivya, perhaps, but instead the Weyrlingmaster is here, dressed in a soft lavender thing that manages to be feminine, wrapped around her and pulled to a knot at her waist to perfectly accent her curves before the flowing skirts sweep to the floor. The reason for her presence is obvious enough in the number of weyrling knots featured in the cavern, and by her own spot strategically near the alcohol. Not that it stops her from having her own glass as she watches, sidelined in observation, nor does it stop her from letting the weyrlings drink as well. Presumably, though, if one were to try to drink too much--.

It's a night for dancing and debauchery, all on the Weyr's dime! Except for people like W'leri, that's every night. He might have been absent suspiciously from the Fountain in recent sevendays, and more so his wing's normal activity in fights, booze binges, and womanizing lightened, but Malachite has made it out for Turnover is full regalia. W'leri has been rubbing elbows with some of the other wingleaders all night, but now, glass empty, mosies on over to the beverage table. "Weyrlingmaster," he drawls, blue eye conspicuously mirthful, though his mouth lies in a flat line. Feet spread, he waits patiently behind other revelers who came before him, and arches a brow at the blonde woman. "Enjoying your Turnover?"

"Wingleader," Olivya tosses back casually in turn, her own lips twitching into what could be a smile before it disappears. "No, not this turn. I've given my assistants the evening off, so it will be my responsibility to herd the children back to the barracks and watch over them while they sleep." Her gaze slides away to run over the rest of the cavern in a quick study, adding as she does so, "At least your new children do not need to be looked after quite as much, do they? Which, I don't think I have congratulated you on yet."

The line moves and so does W'leri, but only a step forward. "Can't let them enjoy themselves at all, huh?" His voice gets drier as he speaks, and his eyes rove around the room, seeking out the faces of the hapless weyrlings she's supposed to be ''herding''. "Thanks," he says, jerking his chin in a stiff nod, "but mine know they won't get slapped on the hand for a bit of harmless ''fun''," taking another swayed-step towards the beverages.

The curve of Olivya's brow upwards is a measured thing, and it's dry amusement that edges her words as she answers the man with, "''Harmless'' fun is never a problem, darling. Anything that would endanger my weyrlings-- Well, I do have a job to do, don't I?" If there is something else that she would like to say, it is hidden well behind the mask of that distant humor and the perfect mimic of a Lady's polite facade. "Though, it is my first Turnover at Fort. Perhaps Ebeny would have done it differently."

The woman in front of W'leri glances back and gives him a disapproving look; she's on Team Olivya, apparently. "How old are they? A turn? What's the harm in a couple drinks? Put some hair on their chest." He thumbs his own with a closed fist for emphasis. "Ebeny would have done shit differently," he agrees, all dry rasp and gritty sarcasm.

"Why don't you go ahead and give them some drinks, wingleader? If it will make you happy," invites Olivya, gesturing with her own glass of wine in a sweeping gesture to the room. "You are, after all, a proper Fortian. You know better than I do." Her words ''sound'' perfectly sincere, not even a touch of anything less in the tone or the way she holds herself. Nor in the study she makes of W'leri at the invitation.

"Why would I go and do that?" W'leri asks, perfectly innocent of all wrong-doings -- look at that ''face''.

"You seemed very concerned over it. I believe you said something about chest hair?" Olivya asks, apparently quite the actor since every note of the question sounds as if she's recalling a distant conversation rather than asking the question obnoxiously. "If you are concerned about the state of our weyrlings, I absolutely want to give you the chance to correct it. After all, they will be yours in another turn."

"Shells, woman. You're foisting your weyrlings on me already." W'leri stares upwards towards the vastness of the heavens.. or, more rightly, the craggy ceiling of the living cavern; maybe he has pointers scrawled up there, maybe.. not. "I haven't seen a one I liked yet." It's, obviously, her fault.

Obviously, and Olivya takes that accusation with all of the grace of a Lady Holder, nothing slipping in her soft features as she tips her chin in a nod. "That is quite the cause for concern, I'm sure. Especially since your Weyrleader isn't going to look kindly on his new, untried, untested wingleader not making the effort to absorb not even ''one'' weyrling into his wing," she murmurs back conversationally, taking a sip from her wine.

Now, they're getting somewhere. W'leri points a finger at her, his big face breaking into a disbelieving grin. "Oh, ho. You know the weyrleader that good? You fucking him, then?" Except, he doesn't look as if he believes that either, since he's snorting and turning his attention back to the line, which moves up another step.

"Darling, are you concerned about who I may or may not be sleeping with?" is Olivya's counter question, not saying ''no''. But then, maybe since W'leri doesn't seem to truly believe it, she doesn't feel the need to.

"Fuck whoever you want to, whenever you want to. I don't give a shit. I'm only worried when it concerns my own neck.. stuck out there. What sweet nothings have you whispered into N'rov's ear? Bunch of Monaco bullshit," W'leri mutters, swaggering forward one more step; any more and he's to the front of the line, hurray!

Olivya suggests in a quiet, suggestive murmur, all soft syllables in counter to W'leri's, "Then don't make your neck such an attractive target, wingleader." Her iced blue eyes slide over the man, falling all the way to his feet and lifting back to meet his slowly. "Though, if I ''did'' want to presumably sabotage you, I can only assume you'll do that work for me soon enough. All I would need to do is wait."

"Olivya," W'leri says, and gets interrupted by the server who hands him a refreshed glass. He turns away from the table, takes a testing sip of his drink, and then finishes up his earlier thought, "You should know better. They don't call me a stubborn ass for nothing." And he winks.

"W'leri," Olivya answers with a lilt over the name, rolling off her lips. "That isn't all they call you." But she lifts her glass in a salute to his, for all that she doesn't move closer to do a proper toast with met glasses and all that comes with it. It isn't midnight, after all. "I guess we'll see one way or another," is her promise for the coming turn, however.

"What can I say? I'm popular." W'leri lifts ''his'' glass to her and walks off, his contribution to the evening complete. ''He'' doesn't seem concerned about the upcoming turn, but he's been known to be unwise, so...
|Categories=Clutch 133 Logs
}}

Logs:An Intimidating Search

2016-02-07T15:40:04Z

Meg:

{{Log
|who=Catling, Olivya, Olivya{{!}}Ivraeth
|what=Ivraeth searches Catling, and is generally less intimidating than her rider.
|where=Northern Bowl, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=11
|month=13
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.02.06
|quote="We share everything, Ivraeth and I. There are never any secrets between us."
|weather=Early in the morning and late in the evening, the cold rain falling turns to almost-pleasant snow, but most of the day is mired in a bleak, gray drizzle.
|mentions=Kh'tyr
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon olivya.png, Icon olivya ivraeth.jpg,
|desc=This section of the Bowl is just as devoid of plant life as the central
portion, the sandy soil having been packed more solidly due to the sheer
amount of foot traffic passing through. While there are weyrs located to
both the east and west, there are very few toward the north.

Toward the northwest leads a set of stairs to two ledges for junior
goldriders. Above and slightly east of those ledges sits the Weyrleaders'
complex, which a second flight of stairs leads to. A little to the
northeast is the entrance to the Hatching Cavern, while an entrance to the
living cavern is located directly to the east. At the opposite and distant
southeastern end of the Bowl would be the lake and feeding grounds, with
the weyrling barracks and infirmary to the southwest and southeast,
respectively.
|log=Work is done for the day, and Catling has already taken the time to go bathe the smell of leatherworking off of her. Her hair is now dried off and wild and curly, and she is having little success taming it into braids as she walks. She is talking softly to herself, stopping every now and again, but then moving on once more. Her feet carry her aimlessly, or at least more in the direction of her subconscious than her conscious mind. Finally she pauses halfway across the bowl, frowning slightly as she looks around herself.

It isn't far off from where a darkly-honeyed green dragon sits, her tail twined around herself and her wings folded along her body as she sits almost like a perfect statue of some long forgotten cat. It is her head that moves, twitching towards Catling at the sound of the her murmuring and tilting, as if she might be better angling to ''hear'' the words that the teenage human is saying. And Ivraeth watches her with an attention that most humans do not get from dragons, in ''most'' situations.

Sometimes she just knows she's being watched. The teen goes very still and silent, though her muscles tense. She then turns her head slowly, warily, trying to see who is watching without giving clue that she knows she is being watched. Her lips turn down into a deeper, puzzled frown, and she starts to move on again, then stops once more. She glances at the dragon, then around the bowl. Another frown, and she pivots and moves slowly towards the dragon. She closes half the distance, then stops. She isn't afraid. It's never really occurred to her to fear the dragons. She dips her head respectfully. "I... erm... hello," she says awkwardly, not really sure how one addresses a dragon, much less speak to one.

The rumble in Ivraeth's throat definitely holds the ''tone'' of a greeting, if it lacks similar words. Her head even dips in a regal, brief movement before she returns to watching Catling with slowly whirling eyes.

"Am I disturbing you? Am I allowed to be talking to you? I don't really know how that all works." Catling forges on, encouraged by the rumble. "Or am I walking too close? I'm not sure why you're watching me, and... well. I hope it's not because I'm doing something wrong or... well, annoying you or something. If so... I ''am'' sorry." She sighs. "I've never talked to a dragon before."

The exhaled breath through Ivraeth's muzzle ''almost'' sounds like a laugh. Or, more accurately, like a dragon imitating a human's laugh. But then she dips her head again in a nod, encouraging, as she appears to ''listen''.

Catling steps closer. Not quite close enough for her to touch, but close. Close enough for the dragon to touch, certainly, though she doesn't stop to consider that. "You're very pretty, you know? Like sunset on leaves. I hope staring's not too rude." She studies the dragon intensely, her gaze shifting from snout-tip to tail-tip and back. "And you..." She breathes in, breathes out. "You smell nice. Much nicer than ovines. Or even canines or felines."

Another rumble even as Ivraeth's jaw bobs up and then down in agreement to both of those statements, her teeth shown briefly in what might be meant as a smile. Her tail flicks even as Catling watches, before she lowers her head against to bump her nose up against the teenager's chest. It's from behind the pair that Olivya's voice comes, an amused greeting of, "I see you have met Ivraeth." Today, she is dressed in her bright, bold red leather jacket again, with dark pants hugging long legs and blonde curls flying free. There's none of the softness of a dress today, but in its place is the feminine touch of bright red lips.

Almost instinctively, Catling brings up her hand to place it on the dragon's nose. If her eyes could whirl they would, but they are very wide and round and shining. Yet at the sound of the voice she snatches her hand away as if she's been caught doing something wrong, and she clasps her hands behind her back. "I... erm... yes ma'am," she squeaks, flushing slightly. She bites her lip, though she doesn't back away. "She... erm... I..."

"Yes, yes. I know what she did," is what Olivya answers dismissively, still walking towards the pair. Ivraeth doesn't move away, butting her nose against Catling's chest lightly once again before she finally draws away. "You didn't do anything wrong. Dragons will certainly ''let you know'' if they don't want to be talked to or touched." The Weyrlingmaster casts a ''look'' at her dragon, with the curve of a brow upwards, and for a second, some unspoken communication passes between the two.

Touching a dragon is one thing, talking to the Weyrlingmaster is another. She inches her hand forwards again, but by the time she lifts it up, the green has already drawn away. "Good to meet you, Ivraeth," she says quietly. Then she draws herself up straighter. "I was walking across the Bowl and she was watching me. I came over here and started talking to her." She clears her throat, then pushes the tangle of unruly hair as much as she can down her back.

Olivya tips her chin in a movement that somehow echoes her dragon; it's the same regal way they hold themselves, mostly, that evokes it. "I know," she answers. "We share everything, Ivraeth and I. There are never any secrets between us." But, apparently, not always agreement given the way she glances at the green once more. "She finds you interesting, which is something given how much she dislikes Searching."

"I'm.... afraid I don't really understand, ma'am," admits Catling. "Whatever interest I could hold...." She frowns. "Not that I mind. She's beautiful. She's... Well. Whatever I think she is, you know more than I do, ma'am. But I'm grateful for her kindness all the same. Even if I don't understand."

"She is beautiful. And in flight, with her wings spread against the sun and going faster than any male dragon, any ''gold'', could hope to go--," replies Olivya with a small smile that disappears before it can settle into her features. Ivraeth doesn't preen, but she certainly basks in the attention. But the Weyrlingmaster doesn't linger over the subject of her dragon, focusing again on Catling with reserved, blue eyes. "Interest as a Candidate. She thinks you have something that is needed for the clutch on the Sands."

"Me?" Catling looks first at the dragon, then at Olivya. It is clear she finds Olivya the more intimidating of the pair. "I... erm... Kh't... the Assistant Weyrlingmaster said that I ought to speak to you about.... about the eggs..." She swallows hard. "I've not been able to talk myself into it yet."

"It isn't something you should talk yourself into. It isn't something anyone will force you into. It is a big decision but if you want the opportunity to Stand, it is yours," Olivya replies in the diplomatic tone of a Lady Holder, leaving the decision to the young woman even as Ivraeth stares.

"It isn't the Standing that...." Catling swallows hard. "I've thought about it a lot, ma'am, since the day that the flight took place. Thought about a lot of things. Not really comfortable things. A lot of thinking the Hatchlings deserve better. But then... then I talked to Kh'tyr. He's...." She tilts her head. "I wouldn't necessarily say 'nice', because he'd maybe hate that. But he showed me I *could* believe in myself. That's not.... easy for me. After I spoke with you earlier I kept losing courage to talk to you. Talking to you is what I had to talk myself into. But... to Stand.... sometimes it's easy to forget who you are, to wall off who you might be. Because sometimes... well. Anyway. I suppose what I am saying is that I would be honored to. That maybe I do have something. I don't know what the dragons want. But if they want me.... I'm more than willing."

Again there's patience in the Weyrlingmaster for Catling's speech, listening just as simply as her dragon does. If there's a moment when a brow curves briefly upwards, it disappears again just as quickly. At the end, she accepts the girl's answer with a tip of a nod before telling her simply, "Then you'll need to find the Headwoman or one of her assistants and tell them you were Searched. They will give you a knot and get you settled into the barracks as a Candidate." A pause, before she adds, "Any questions?"

"Probably too many to count but.... none for right now, ma'am," answers Catling, her voice once more squeaking. "THat is.... no ma'am. Sorry. I do talk too much. I.... thank you, ma'am. I'm grateful." Then she looks at the dragon before offering a half-bow. "And thank you too, Ivraeth."

Ivraeth rumbles, shifting her paw forward and dipping herself into a very elegant half-bow of her own in turn for Catling. But then she's spreading her wings and standing, stepping back to launch herself into the sky without another word. "If you have any questions, come find me or Kh'tyr. If a dragon does choose you, we'll be the ones taking over your training, after all," Olivya replies without missing a beat even as her dragon moves.

"Yes ma'am. I will. I've been following the weyrling calisthetics for weeks, now. Since Kh'tyr suggested I ought." Catling ducks her head. "Thank you. And Ivraeth." The girl's hair blows back in the force of the wind from the wing-beats, and she laughs despite her nervousness.

"We will have some lectures for Candidates specifically to prepare you for the Sands and for immediately after Impression," Olivya tells her, nodding only slightly in approval. "You are welcome to continue to watch their exercises and whatever else you may, without interrupting. I'd suggest spending at least a little time that you have in the dragon infirmary; you might get a head start on weyrling lessons that way if you Impress."

"I... I will, ma'am. I love learning." There's something urgently, if ephemerally fierce in Catling's expression, and then she offers an unguarded smile. "I'll do my best." And then her voice trails off awkwardly, and she bites her lip, looking down again.

There's some softness to the way that Olivya assures Catling, "And that is all any of us ask of you." Then she's all business again, straightening and nodding towards the inner caverns. "Go and find the Headwoman. I have to get back to my weyrlings. I'll see you on the Sands, hopefully; I will be there regardless." She turns back the way she came at that, summoned only by her dragon and now returning towards the weyrling barracks.
|Categories=Clutch 137 Logs
}}

Logs:An Intimidating Search

2016-02-07T15:39:14Z

Meg: Created page with "{{Log |who=Catling, Olivya, Olivya{{!}}Ivraeth |what=Ivraeth searches Catling, and is generally less intimidating than her rider. |where=Northern Bowl, Fort Weyr |involves=For..."

{{Log
|who=Catling, Olivya, Olivya{{!}}Ivraeth
|what=Ivraeth searches Catling, and is generally less intimidating than her rider.
|where=Northern Bowl, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=11
|month=13
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.02.06
|quote="We share everything, Ivraeth and I. There are never any secrets between us."
|weather=Early in the morning and late in the evening, the cold rain falling turns to almost-pleasant snow, but most of the day is mired in a bleak, gray drizzle.
|mentions=Kh'tyr
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon olivya amused.gif, Icon olivya ivraeth laugh.png,
|desc=This section of the Bowl is just as devoid of plant life as the central
portion, the sandy soil having been packed more solidly due to the sheer
amount of foot traffic passing through. While there are weyrs located to
both the east and west, there are very few toward the north.

Toward the northwest leads a set of stairs to two ledges for junior
goldriders. Above and slightly east of those ledges sits the Weyrleaders'
complex, which a second flight of stairs leads to. A little to the
northeast is the entrance to the Hatching Cavern, while an entrance to the
living cavern is located directly to the east. At the opposite and distant
southeastern end of the Bowl would be the lake and feeding grounds, with
the weyrling barracks and infirmary to the southwest and southeast,
respectively.
|log=Work is done for the day, and Catling has already taken the time to go bathe the smell of leatherworking off of her. Her hair is now dried off and wild and curly, and she is having little success taming it into braids as she walks. She is talking softly to herself, stopping every now and again, but then moving on once more. Her feet carry her aimlessly, or at least more in the direction of her subconscious than her conscious mind. Finally she pauses halfway across the bowl, frowning slightly as she looks around herself.

It isn't far off from where a darkly-honeyed green dragon sits, her tail twined around herself and her wings folded along her body as she sits almost like a perfect statue of some long forgotten cat. It is her head that moves, twitching towards Catling at the sound of the her murmuring and tilting, as if she might be better angling to ''hear'' the words that the teenage human is saying. And Ivraeth watches her with an attention that most humans do not get from dragons, in ''most'' situations.

Sometimes she just knows she's being watched. The teen goes very still and silent, though her muscles tense. She then turns her head slowly, warily, trying to see who is watching without giving clue that she knows she is being watched. Her lips turn down into a deeper, puzzled frown, and she starts to move on again, then stops once more. She glances at the dragon, then around the bowl. Another frown, and she pivots and moves slowly towards the dragon. She closes half the distance, then stops. She isn't afraid. It's never really occurred to her to fear the dragons. She dips her head respectfully. "I... erm... hello," she says awkwardly, not really sure how one addresses a dragon, much less speak to one.

The rumble in Ivraeth's throat definitely holds the ''tone'' of a greeting, if it lacks similar words. Her head even dips in a regal, brief movement before she returns to watching Catling with slowly whirling eyes.

"Am I disturbing you? Am I allowed to be talking to you? I don't really know how that all works." Catling forges on, encouraged by the rumble. "Or am I walking too close? I'm not sure why you're watching me, and... well. I hope it's not because I'm doing something wrong or... well, annoying you or something. If so... I ''am'' sorry." She sighs. "I've never talked to a dragon before."

The exhaled breath through Ivraeth's muzzle ''almost'' sounds like a laugh. Or, more accurately, like a dragon imitating a human's laugh. But then she dips her head again in a nod, encouraging, as she appears to ''listen''.

Catling steps closer. Not quite close enough for her to touch, but close. Close enough for the dragon to touch, certainly, though she doesn't stop to consider that. "You're very pretty, you know? Like sunset on leaves. I hope staring's not too rude." She studies the dragon intensely, her gaze shifting from snout-tip to tail-tip and back. "And you..." She breathes in, breathes out. "You smell nice. Much nicer than ovines. Or even canines or felines."

Another rumble even as Ivraeth's jaw bobs up and then down in agreement to both of those statements, her teeth shown briefly in what might be meant as a smile. Her tail flicks even as Catling watches, before she lowers her head against to bump her nose up against the teenager's chest. It's from behind the pair that Olivya's voice comes, an amused greeting of, "I see you have met Ivraeth." Today, she is dressed in her bright, bold red leather jacket again, with dark pants hugging long legs and blonde curls flying free. There's none of the softness of a dress today, but in its place is the feminine touch of bright red lips.

Almost instinctively, Catling brings up her hand to place it on the dragon's nose. If her eyes could whirl they would, but they are very wide and round and shining. Yet at the sound of the voice she snatches her hand away as if she's been caught doing something wrong, and she clasps her hands behind her back. "I... erm... yes ma'am," she squeaks, flushing slightly. She bites her lip, though she doesn't back away. "She... erm... I..."

"Yes, yes. I know what she did," is what Olivya answers dismissively, still walking towards the pair. Ivraeth doesn't move away, butting her nose against Catling's chest lightly once again before she finally draws away. "You didn't do anything wrong. Dragons will certainly ''let you know'' if they don't want to be talked to or touched." The Weyrlingmaster casts a ''look'' at her dragon, with the curve of a brow upwards, and for a second, some unspoken communication passes between the two.

Touching a dragon is one thing, talking to the Weyrlingmaster is another. She inches her hand forwards again, but by the time she lifts it up, the green has already drawn away. "Good to meet you, Ivraeth," she says quietly. Then she draws herself up straighter. "I was walking across the Bowl and she was watching me. I came over here and started talking to her." She clears her throat, then pushes the tangle of unruly hair as much as she can down her back.

Olivya tips her chin in a movement that somehow echoes her dragon; it's the same regal way they hold themselves, mostly, that evokes it. "I know," she answers. "We share everything, Ivraeth and I. There are never any secrets between us." But, apparently, not always agreement given the way she glances at the green once more. "She finds you interesting, which is something given how much she dislikes Searching."

"I'm.... afraid I don't really understand, ma'am," admits Catling. "Whatever interest I could hold...." She frowns. "Not that I mind. She's beautiful. She's... Well. Whatever I think she is, you know more than I do, ma'am. But I'm grateful for her kindness all the same. Even if I don't understand."

"She is beautiful. And in flight, with her wings spread against the sun and going faster than any male dragon, any ''gold'', could hope to go--," replies Olivya with a small smile that disappears before it can settle into her features. Ivraeth doesn't preen, but she certainly basks in the attention. But the Weyrlingmaster doesn't linger over the subject of her dragon, focusing again on Catling with reserved, blue eyes. "Interest as a Candidate. She thinks you have something that is needed for the clutch on the Sands."

"Me?" Catling looks first at the dragon, then at Olivya. It is clear she finds Olivya the more intimidating of the pair. "I... erm... Kh't... the Assistant Weyrlingmaster said that I ought to speak to you about.... about the eggs..." She swallows hard. "I've not been able to talk myself into it yet."

"It isn't something you should talk yourself into. It isn't something anyone will force you into. It is a big decision but if you want the opportunity to Stand, it is yours," Olivya replies in the diplomatic tone of a Lady Holder, leaving the decision to the young woman even as Ivraeth stares.

"It isn't the Standing that...." Catling swallows hard. "I've thought about it a lot, ma'am, since the day that the flight took place. Thought about a lot of things. Not really comfortable things. A lot of thinking the Hatchlings deserve better. But then... then I talked to Kh'tyr. He's...." She tilts her head. "I wouldn't necessarily say 'nice', because he'd maybe hate that. But he showed me I *could* believe in myself. That's not.... easy for me. After I spoke with you earlier I kept losing courage to talk to you. Talking to you is what I had to talk myself into. But... to Stand.... sometimes it's easy to forget who you are, to wall off who you might be. Because sometimes... well. Anyway. I suppose what I am saying is that I would be honored to. That maybe I do have something. I don't know what the dragons want. But if they want me.... I'm more than willing."

Again there's patience in the Weyrlingmaster for Catling's speech, listening just as simply as her dragon does. If there's a moment when a brow curves briefly upwards, it disappears again just as quickly. At the end, she accepts the girl's answer with a tip of a nod before telling her simply, "Then you'll need to find the Headwoman or one of her assistants and tell them you were Searched. They will give you a knot and get you settled into the barracks as a Candidate." A pause, before she adds, "Any questions?"

"Probably too many to count but.... none for right now, ma'am," answers Catling, her voice once more squeaking. "THat is.... no ma'am. Sorry. I do talk too much. I.... thank you, ma'am. I'm grateful." Then she looks at the dragon before offering a half-bow. "And thank you too, Ivraeth."

Ivraeth rumbles, shifting her paw forward and dipping herself into a very elegant half-bow of her own in turn for Catling. But then she's spreading her wings and standing, stepping back to launch herself into the sky without another word. "If you have any questions, come find me or Kh'tyr. If a dragon does choose you, we'll be the ones taking over your training, after all," Olivya replies without missing a beat even as her dragon moves.

"Yes ma'am. I will. I've been following the weyrling calisthetics for weeks, now. Since Kh'tyr suggested I ought." Catling ducks her head. "Thank you. And Ivraeth." The girl's hair blows back in the force of the wind from the wing-beats, and she laughs despite her nervousness.

"We will have some lectures for Candidates specifically to prepare you for the Sands and for immediately after Impression," Olivya tells her, nodding only slightly in approval. "You are welcome to continue to watch their exercises and whatever else you may, without interrupting. I'd suggest spending at least a little time that you have in the dragon infirmary; you might get a head start on weyrling lessons that way if you Impress."

"I... I will, ma'am. I love learning." There's something urgently, if ephemerally fierce in Catling's expression, and then she offers an unguarded smile. "I'll do my best." And then her voice trails off awkwardly, and she bites her lip, looking down again.

There's some softness to the way that Olivya assures Catling, "And that is all any of us ask of you." Then she's all business again, straightening and nodding towards the inner caverns. "Go and find the Headwoman. I have to get back to my weyrlings. I'll see you on the Sands, hopefully; I will be there regardless." She turns back the way she came at that, summoned only by her dragon and now returning towards the weyrling barracks.
|Categories=Clutch 137 Logs
}}

Logs:Monogamy in Dragonriders

2016-02-01T04:12:05Z

Meg: Created page with "{{Log |who=C'ris, Drex |what=C'ris and Drex discuss flights and relationships. |where=Kitchen, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=21 |month=12 |turn=39 |IP=Int..."

{{Log
|who=C'ris, Drex
|what=C'ris and Drex discuss flights and relationships.
|where=Kitchen, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=21
|month=12
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.01.31
|quote="Aint normal for riders not to try and fuck everything they see is all."
|weather=A layer of gray clouds hangs oppressively around the spires. The air is humid and cool, but there is no snowfall today.
|mentions=Quinlys, K'zin, Telavi, Farideh
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon c'ris smile.png, Icon drex.jpg,
|desc=Polished marble and granite surfaces, gleaming metalwork and pale woods
characterize the vaulted fastness of the kitchen. Several large hearths
gape red-mouthed against the outer wall of the cavern, their fires almost
always stoked for the constant cooking the Weyr requires to feed its
denizens. Sinks line the wall to one side of the hearths, providing ample
space to wash large quantities of dishes, while to the other, cabinetry
and a deep pantry provide storage space for items commonly needed on a
day-to-day basis.

The remaining wall space is taken up by passageways and extra seating:
swinging doors that lead variously to the main living cavern, the inner
caverns and the storage rooms, a counter-height pass-through for food
service to the Snowasis, and a series of nooks equipped with tables and
benches for quick, out-of-the-way meals any time of day.
|log=C'ris has been tucked away in a corner of the kitchen, by one of those large hearths and left to keep an eye on a spitted piece of meat, turning it occasionally. For a bluerider complete with riding jacket and knot, this might seem quite odd at first, but no one in the kitchen seems to give it a second look. The woman that he's ostensibly here to see, a woman in her early forties with similarly dark hair and the same stamp of features, has been pulled away to oversee the kneading of tomorrow's bread. Which leaves, again, the bluerider to the spit, though he doesn't seem to mind this small task.

Drex slouches into the kitchen, not exactly looking like he belongs, either. Too old to be a weyrbrat seeking a meal, and too wary to be anyone of particular note, he eyes the occupants as if sizing them up to see who'd be the easiest to approach. Most of the staff run around with that hurried, determined focus that bespeaks the evening dinner hour, and so C'ris is blessed with the sailor's slouching approach, and, "Hey. Can you slice some of that off for me, eh?" He gestures towards the meat. "Looks 'bout done?"

"Oh, maybe," is C'ris' immediate response. Though he quickly goes on to clarify, "Maybe it's done, I mean. I'm not really-- sure, you know? I was just told to watch it. But yeah, I, uh, can cut you off some." He smiles, a friendly thing that has already started to wear lines into his face despite his age, as he retreats only briefly to fetch a plate and knife. When he returns, the plate also holds a fresh-baked roll and some mashed tubers as well. "How much do you want?"

Looking pleased, Drex starts to slouch his way towards a plate, when C'ris steps away for the very same thing. He looks surprised, and then suspicious, and doesn't attempt to hide either expression very much. "Just, y'know, ''enough''." Enough for a young man with a healthy appetite is ''implied'', not ''spoken''. "I aint greedy."

C'ris nods in understanding, and having his own experience with appetite, he carves off three generous slices of the roasted meat onto the plate he holds. But before he offers it over to Drex, he pauses to ask, "Is that good? Do you want more? I can carve you off more, if you want." It is clear that he would, possibly, by the way he worries over the portions with a look.

The furrow of Drex's brow is nothing more than deepening suspicion. "It's fine," he allows, warily, not reaching for the plate yet. "I don't owe you nothin', right? Aint gonna... don't swing ''that'' way."

"What?" C'ris' flush is an immediate thing, quickly shaking his head as he shoves the plate awkwardly towards Drex in offer. "No, no. Why would you-- It's not even my food. I just got you a plate, because you wanted one." He frowns as well, that smile disappearing under the weight of worry and tension for the other man's question and comment.

"Ok," Drex drawls out the syllables, until it's closer to, ''ooookaaay'', still just as wary despite reassurances otherwise. "Just, you know--" he takes the plate, with a hasty grab, backing up a step once he's secured it. "Yer a ''rider''," like that explains everything. It likely does, in Drex's books.

"I'm-- I'm monogamous. My girlfriend's pregnant. I'm not--," explains C'ris, words tumbling over each other slightly even as that flush lingers on his cheeks. Once his hand is free, it lifts to scrub self-consciously at fluffy hair as he casts a look really quickly towards the other side of the cavern and the woman working at bread. Luckily, it seems she hasn't heard.

Drex doesn't bother with niceties such as using cutlery; he rolls up one of those slices of meat, scoops up some of the tuber mash, and shoves it into his mouth. "Aint judging," he mumbles through the mouthful of food, "My best friend's a lesbian. Aint normal for riders not to try and fuck everything they see is all."

C'ris' frown only catches deeper, his words a mumble as well despite not currently eating, "I'm not, uh, not-- I like men, too. But I think being with one person is... Well, it's important, you know? To care about someone enough to only want them, to make your decisions based on their happiness as well as your own." He shakes his head in a slight gesture, watching the younger man for a moment before he adds a quick, self-effacing apology of, "Sorry. I don't mean to like-- I'm just not the type to try to fuck everything I see, is all."

The suspicion of the sailor only deepens; clearly ''monogamy'' and ''rider'' aren't terms Drex's used to hearing in close succession. "You said you had a girlfriend?" he says, like he's not sure he heard that right. But still, he presses on: "How do you keep bronzeriders from trying to fuck her?"

"I, uh, trust her, mostly. I mean, I don't always keep them from--," is answered with a hint of a not-yet-healed edge, while C'ris' teeth tighten together briefly. "But if she seriously wanted to go off and be with someone else, be with a bronzerider or a greenrider or-- whatever, I trust that she'd tell me. Because she knows how ''I'' feel, you know?" He rolls up a shoulder into a shrug, trying to be dismissive despite how obvious it is that he ''cares'' given his tone and thoughtful expression.

"So... you aint her only boy, but she's yer only girl?" Drex's puzzled-and-horrified expression very clearly tells the world what he thinks of that particular set up. "Fuck, man." He shakes his head, like C'ris has failed in some sort of man code.

C'ris is quick to correct, saying quickly with a jumble of words, "No, no. I mean, I am. There was just-- One time, during a flight, she got carried away. I mean, it's not the same thing, right? She could have-- not, but it's not like she was thinking straight, either. With all of the emotions and everything." He exhales, quietly, before he shrugs that shoulder up again.

"''Goldflights''," the lift of another of the rolled-up-slices-of-meat is Drex's sympathetic and understanding note, before he shoves it into his mouth and starts chewing.

"Well, no. This one was-- a greenflight. Her blue was chasing and his bronze, but Mivength caught," explains C'ris so openly, his features wincing up a bit for the last.

"A ''greenflight''?" Drex echoes in a dubious, mouth-still-full mumble.

"Yeah, Solith's." Regardless of whether Drex recognizes the name or not, C'ris goes on to repeat, again rambling, "My girlfriend, she-- She rides blue. Quinlys and blue Olveraeth. They usually chase and usually win for Solith's flights. But that ''is'' different, you know? You can't help who you win. Just as long as after, you're not-- you know."

It's not usual for Drex to recognize a ''rider's'' name, let alone the name of a dragon of a rider he's never heard of. His, "Uh-huh," sounds ''entirely'' unconvinced, and ''exactly'' like he's humoring the crazy, deluded bluerider in between stuffing mouthfuls of food away.

"It's after that matters. It's when you have your own choice and what choices you make," C'ris adds in a mumble, despite catching the tone of the younger man. At that, even, he'll leave it be as he looks back to the hearth thoughtfully.

"Sounds like yer trying to convince yourself," Drex points out, in an answering mumble in between swallowing.

"I'm-- I don't know." That much C'ris admits, though he pairs it with a look back to Drex and the curve of an apologetic smile. He adds, "Sorry, I don't even know your name and I'm, like, spilling shit onto you. I didn't mean to-- It doesn't matter what I think about monogamy and riders, right?"

Drex gives one of those boneless shrugs of his, a half lift and drop of one shoulder that's never fully complete. "You got me food," like that's a fair trade. He doesn't bother (or doesn't think) to offer his name, either. "My girl's a rider, too. Know how it is."

"Yeah, but not for any-- you didn't owe me anything, right?" C'ris tosses back with a hint of lightness, that smile twitching into something more friendly. "I'm sure you've thought about this a lot, then. Flights and not-flights. You guys are monogamous?"

With another twitch of shoulders. "Much as you can be," being that his girl's a rider, presumably. "Aint much of a favor to talk," Drex adds, shortly. He's eaten all the meat, most of the tubers, though doesn't bother eating the bread roll, because well... priorities.

C'ris exhales a laugh, replying with a quick grin, "Most people don't think that after having to put up with me. But, it was nice to meet you. My name's C'ris, blue Mivength's."

"Don't much mind. You aint a bronzerider." As if it might be a different story if that were the case. "Drex," the laconic sailor adds, after a beat. "Anyway. Thanks," with a vague gesture towards the spit, and pushes away from the wall to dump his plate in with the dirty dishes.

"Drex!" The exclamation is one of pleased surprise, with C'ris' friendly smile all brighter as he identifies, "Farideh's weyrmate, yeah. Or boyfriend, sorry. She's-- she's a good person, you know? She cares about you a lot." But as the man is moving away and getting ready to leave, he catches himself from rambling too much more. Only offering another smile and a nod of goodbye.

The sailor in question's eyes widen at the exclamation of his name, not to mention the reaction. Drex is looking wary again, especially when C'ris demonstrates so much knowledge about him. Clearly uncomfortable, the sailor's mouth draws into a line, briefly. "Uh, yeah," he says, now master of the awkward, and being an uncouth pirate, turns and leaves without another word.
}}

Logs:Romantic Notions

2016-02-01T02:05:23Z

Meg: Created page with "{{Log |who=Kh'tyr, Catling, Olivya |what=Kh'tyr and Catling are interrupted by Olivya at the Fountain. |where=The Glass Fountain, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=12 |month=..."

{{Log
|who=Kh'tyr, Catling, Olivya
|what=Kh'tyr and Catling are interrupted by Olivya at the Fountain.
|where=The Glass Fountain, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=12
|month=12
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.01.28
|quote="Whatever Catling turns out to be. It's.... well. Just that all this... everything.... it's like the sun to flowers. Like the sun."
|weather=It's been raining steadily all day with occasional spates of honest downpour, sheets of water just pouring out of the sky.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon kh'tyr brow.jpg, Icon olivya amused.gif,
|desc=Despite its subterranean locale, the creamy wall paint, pale woods, and
frosted glass give the cavern a light, airy feel. Oil lamps reflect softly
in the polished wood of high-backed booths, glimmering through the opaque
glass dividers that help lend intimacy to the seating arrangements;
round-backed booths carved from stone, lined with deep, terra-cotta
colored padding and the addition of strategic, lyric shapes painted in a
subtle red shade. The sweeping, half-circle shaped bar with its top of
smooth stone, backed by cut-glass-fronted cabinetry flows gracefully into
the soft lines and mellow colors that dominate the Glass Fountain.

All the atmosphere aside, the main attractions of the room are clearly the
massive, multi-pronged chandelier that hangs from multiple chains from the
ceiling and the re-worked leak - which no longer resembles a leak at all,
having been channeled through glass to become a beautiful piece of art. A
curving wave and a series of glass bubbles guide the water past a bank of
glows, allowing the light to shine through the water and turn it into a
sparkling fountain. From its dark, dim, shabby history, the Glass Fountain
has become an elegant place with lattice-stands to hold the menus with
their selection ranging from typical 'bar food' to high-end dishes and
fancy desserts.
|log=With the ugly day of rain, rain and more rain outside, the swanky bar and restaurant that is The Glass Fountain is a popular refuge. Kh'tyr's early dinner is finished, the plate set off to one side with only a few sprigs of garnish left to mark it as 'used,' but he's onto his second drink and not looking like he's about to get up from his lonely table anytime soon. His brown gaze wanders across the faces of riders and weyrfolk alike occupying other tables, booths and the bar-stools with the bored interest of one who's too familiar with this scene.

Most days now, Catling works with the tanners. And today she finishes the day by delivering a soft fleece to one of the proprietors. She is recently-bathed, yet the scent of leather hangs vaguely about her. Once the fleece is delivered she finally looks about her, and her eyes go wide at the sight. "Ooooh," she breathes.

Kh'tyr's table happens to be close enough that the young woman's presence doesn't go unnoticed. It's moments, while she's making her delivery, the assistant is sipping on his ale. It's only when her eyes go wide and she's breathing that impressed note that he swears, "Oh, sweet Faranth, isn't there ''anything'' that doesn't impress you?" Nevermind that the namesake of the glass fountain is very impressive. "Sit ''down'' if you're going to gawk," he must move the seat across from him with a boot under the table because it slides out seemingly without help.

The girl blinks, and then she frowns slightly before sinking into the chair. "Well.... if you saw where I grew up, it might make more sense. Everything here is so much.... much more...." She shrugs. "More everything. This is...." She looks around. "Beyond imagining. It's like...." She sighs. "We never had anything much like art. The harper had to explain it to me. I think I was a source of constant frustration to him. And I guess to you. Sorry for that." She rubs the back of her neck.

"Tell me about it, your home." Kh'tyr instructs more than asks, his dark gaze settled on the girl. "Then tell me why you assume that I come from any different?" There's something accusatory and challenging in the last words, his look equally so.

"Wasn't home." Catling shakes her head. "Took me coming here to figure it out." She shakes her head. "Harper said that the hold used to be a herders' shelter. So there was a hearth and a tiny kitchen. There was a main room. There was a cold spring. There were two sleeping-chambers. There was a short tunnel that led to the ovines. And there was a divided hayloft. Part for hay, part for storage. And that was my sleeping-room." She shakes back her hair. "It was.... lacking in domestic charms."

"It usually does take some kind of change," Kh'tyr replies, more than a little dismissive. His eyes are a little narrowed, thoughtfully, as he looks at her across the table bear the bar that they occupy. He sips on his drink as Catling describes the place she grew up, his empty early dinner plate set off to one side along with one other empty cup. If he was out in the rain before, he's been here long enough that any damp evidence has dried. "So you slept with the ovines and now you're here in the Fountain and can't help yourself by making yourself look so naive with all your gawking because you've never seen art before," he sums up, tone judgmental somehow, even if it's hard to say if his judgment is positive or negative.

You know who has seen art before? Olivya. Likely ''Kh'tyr'' knows that given the art that hangs in the personal depths of her weyr that the assistant has seen before. She looks slightly like a work of art herself, wrapped up in the soft, sheer purple layers of a dress that are gathered and knotted elegantly at her hip to fall in a sweep of skirts. The knot is mimicked in the low chignon that she wears her honey-blonde hair in, stray curls escaping from her evening that's preceded right ''now''. (As Kh'tyr knows, she took a ''select'' group of weyrlings to a gather, which explains also why she returns sober.) That she spots Kh'tyr and sweeps towards his table? Well, that is to be expected. "Hello, darling. Buy me a drink?" is her greeting, before her cool blue gaze slides over Catling. She places her just as easily despite only meeting her the once when she arrived, greeting, "Catling, wasn't it?"

"Is gawking problematic?" asks Catling, tilting her head. "I ''am'' naive, and this place ''does'' take my breath away. I don't mean to offend you by it, sir. It's like flowers, you know. They grow a long time in the dark, but oh, how fast they bloom in the sun." Then she turns her head, looking at Olivya. "Catling, yes ma'am," she answers.

"Oh, shell," the swear is half under his breath and accompanied by an exaggerated roll of his eyes. "What are you wearing?" is demanded without real interest from the arriving blonde. Kh'tyr's tone suggests whatever it is, it's ridiculous. "Gawking isn't a problem if you don't mind everyone and their uncle's cousin's brother or boss," his eyes flick to Olivya, "knowing just how naive you are. And flowers die in the dark. It's mushrooms that grow because they're fed shit and kept in the dark. Not a mushroom, are you, Catling?" Kh'tyr lifts his drink to his lips again, adding for Olivya, "I'm not paid enough to buy you drinks."

Whatever Kh'tyr's tone implies, it is ''fabulous''. Swishy and feminine in a way that certainly draws ''other'' eyes as Olivya answers in dry counter, "A dress, I believe it is called." She doesn't press for a drink, not where the conversation veers. Her brow curves upwards, an amused gesture as she adds, "I do not think we should be considering feeding children shit and keeping them in the dark. But you don't want to be a flower, either, Cat. Too delicate, too easily bruised and wilted."

"Weeds have flowers, but most of them aren't delicate," replies Catling. "They grow everywhere, even when you try to get rid of them." She swings her legs, then quirks a brow at Kh'tyr, and her lips twitch into a shy, half-teasing smile. "I don't mind being a weed. Most times, weeds are just what people call things they don't want around because don't know what to do with them." She looks at the dress. "That's.... really pretty."

"Weed seems appropriate," Kh'tyr tells Catling, deadpan. Then he's lifting his glass, eyeing it and moving to stand, pressing it into Olivya's hand. "There, I can owe you half a drink. Or we can call it even and say it's the half I didn't accidentally spill on that thing," the dress. "Ladies," he gives by way of farewell, a mocking half-bow crisply executed before he swaggers off toward the stairs to the exit.

"And now you want to be one of many?" counters Olivya to that statement with her own dry, bemused tone with a silent challenge to that curved brow even as she glances to Kh'tyr for his deadpan addition. Her fingers drop to swish her skirts, though, with a smile, though she doesn't seem surprised at the compliment. She knows it's pretty! "Thank you, darling." With Kh'tyr gone and half of a drink acquired, her attention is all for Catling.

"I just want to be Catling," answers the girl. "Whatever Catling turns out to be. It's.... well. Just that all this... everything.... it's like the sun to flowers. Like the sun." She leans back, sighing.

Olivya's steady gaze makes a study of Catling, giving little away given the Weyrlingmaster's reserve. But it's all the tone of a Lady Holder in which she tells the young woman, "I wouldn't go whispering those romantic fantasies around without a care, Cat. Dragonriders are notorious for thinking little of them, especially given how many we've heard over the years from soft-headed children who want to Impress a dragon without really knowing what dragonriding is about.'

Blink. Blink. "I.... what? Romantic.... me? Him? Ma'am?" The girl's face flushes scarlet, and her mouth drops open. "I... ermm... no. I mean, that's not... this isn't.... I mean, he's handsome in his own way, but he's... ah... he's twice my age and...." She ducks her head, squeaking. "He's a ''friend''! But I was... gawking about.... all this room here. Because it's.... amazing. I...."

"Romantic notions aren't confined between two people," corrects Olivya with a curve of her brow upwards, her glass lifted to her lips without a care for the germs Kh'tyr must have left. She repeats, in clarification, "''Like the sun to flowers''-- ''That'' is a romantic notion. Some silly thing a child who has only heard the stories about a Weyr and dragonriders would say."

"It isn't romance, ma'am. It's just a fair sight better than where I grew up. It's a lot better. And that's what we were talking about. And now, well. Compared to where I was, it ''is'' like pushing up out of the soil and the sun being on flowers. You can't grow right only being in the dark." Catling shrugs. "Dragonriders. They're people. Dragons. Seems to me they're people too. And there are good people and bad people. Mostly just people wanting to be happy. And I don't mean any disrespect, ma'am, but the way I feel about my new life ''isn't'' silly. It isn't all rainbows and pretty pretty prancing runnerbeasts. I still work hard. I still have people that don't like me. Have people who like me though, too. Have choices. Have... lots of things I didn't used to have. The only words I have to describe it, to describe how it feels, is sun on flowers. And I'm not going to try to change how I feel at having a chance at a better life than I had before, even if you do think I'm a silly child, ma'am."

It likely shows more patience than most people assume Olivya has on meeting her that she allows the young girl to lecture at her, only those light eyes marking her attention as she listens. The glass is drained while Catling speaks and continues speaking, then set down lightly, empty. "Then describe it ''that'' way, Cat. You seem to have words enough," she instructs at the end, simply. She even adds an easy, "Have a good evening," before she twists away from the table and continues to find her own drink.
|Categories=Clutch 133 Logs, Clutch 137 Logs
}}

Logs:Not Making Assumptions

2016-02-01T01:58:35Z

Meg: Created page with "{{Log |who=N'dalis, Olivya |what=N'dalis and Olivya meet at the nighthearth. |where=Nighthearth, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=15 |month=12 |turn=39 |IP=Interval |IP2=10..."

{{Log
|who=N'dalis, Olivya
|what=N'dalis and Olivya meet at the nighthearth.
|where=Nighthearth, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=15
|month=12
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.01.29
|quote="Assumptions, as they say-- well. I'm sure you know what they say."
|weather=Although the clouds are patchy with glimpses of sky in the early morning, they turn gray but rainless around the time the sun comes up. The overcast weather, with a hint of humidity, carries throughout the day with early evening winds starting to break up the cloud-layer.
|mentions=Ebeny, Mirinda, W'leri
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon n'dalis.png, Icon olivya.png,
|desc=An irregular archway leads into the alcove that houses the Nighthearth.
This cozy little nook contains a hearth, protected by a grate that can be
used to prop chilled feet to warm on cold days, that is surrounded with a
several leather, upholstered chairs. A small table pushed against the same
wall as the hearth is kept stocked at all times with fresh, hot klah, a
pot of stew, and a basket of baked goods including breads and both savory
and sweet filled rolls. The Weyr's aunties also keep the space supplied
with a stack of perpetually renewed afghans in interesting color choices,
while the Headwoman's staff ensures that some of the older towels are
always on hand on a row of hooks for riders ducking in off of sweeps in
bad weather. Otherwise, the Nighthearth is undecorated but for the motley
collection of mismatched mugs, bowls, and spoons that line the mantel for
general use.
|log=Something about the humidity outside-- even though it's not actually raining at present-- makes the cozy warmth of the nighthearth especially appealing, this late night; there's a warm fire, fresh klah for those not afraid of preventing themselves from sleep, and the lateness of the hour has left it ''quiet''. Dal's not a brooder as such, but he ''is'' a man inclined to solitude, and solitude is what he's found: he sits nestled in one of the chairs with his feet upon the grate, dark-eyed gaze staring into the flickering light of the hearth flames.

Fresh klah, warm fire-- That seems to be exactly what Olivya needs at the moment after a long day of dealing with weyrlings. She is still wrapped in her usual uniform of choice, with her bright red jacket and her knot making her easily identifiable. She invades Dal's solitude carelessly, her iced blue eyes slipping over the man there even as she sets her direction towards the klah. "How old is this?" she even asks, interrupting with a hint of a smile at the corners of her lips.

N'dalis glances up, head turning so that he can consider Olivya more directly, though he takes his time in actually answering. "I believe the attendant replenished it... it's probably at least half an hour old, I'm sorry." He makes a sympathetic face, the tone of his voice suggesting that he, personally, wants to apologize for the state of it, though it can scarcely be ''his'' fault.

Olivya's brow lifts slightly, and then she rolls a shoulder upwards in a shrug that is at odds with the otherwise proper way she carries herself. "I've had worse, I'm sure," she admits dryly, reaching for a mug to pour herself some klah despite the answer. "But if I am going to keep my eyes open another moment, I have about two seconds to get klah inside me." There's that flicker of a smile again, enough to catch if someone were looking for it.

"You wouldn't rather just get some sleep?" Dal's question is light but with some evident curiosity. He's too polite to let his gaze linger too searchingly upon the other greenrider; nonetheless, it's clear he has some interest in her. As if to soften the question he adds, after only a moment's pause, "I do remember how exhausting it can be, not that we stuck in the job for long."

"And let the little brats ruin my night as well?" counters Olivya without missing a beat, her dry humor sparking into an edge as she meets that gaze without seeming to mind it. She is sharp despite the claimed exhaustion, adding in question even as she sips her klah, "You worked with the weyrlings?"

N'dalis doesn't smile, not outright, but there's some sense of amusement in his placid expression nonetheless; mere hints. "''Very'' briefly," is a little embarrassed; a little wry. "We joined Ebeny's training program after our weyrlinghood, but... mine was the clutch wherein the barracks collapsed. Upon us."

Olivya doesn't move to take a seat, instead using the advantage of height to study N'dalis over the mug of klah. She replies simply, "I found records of that in the Weyrlingmaster's notes. The training program and the barracks collapse." A pause, before she adds for his benefit, "I've discontinued the training program. Hopefully that won't affect you?"

A simple shake of the head serves as Dal's answer, though after several moments of silence he adds: "We've no desire to go back into it, no. I'd rather avoid the barracks, where possible." Still, he half-studies Olivya, now, his head tipped back so that he can consider the weyrlingmaster. "How ''are'' they progressing?"

"If that ever changes-- I'm sure I can be persuaded to give you a tour. Though I'm sure you've seen the changes since, but perhaps you could tell ''me'' what is new or not," Olivya offers with a hint of humor. Her fingernails where they curve around the mug of klah tap softly, giving her a moment's thoughtful pause before she answers the question posed. "They are doing well. Some drama, but that's to be expected between teenagers, isn't it? Other than the hormones, they are one of the smartest, all around, groups of weyrlings I've worked with."

Dal's expression is polite, but non-committal; plainly, he has little interest in venturing back into the barracks. What holds ''more'' interest for him is the weyrlings themselves, surprise briefly visible about his expression-- "Are they now. I won't assume that is because they are mostly from ''Fort'', and thus..." Superior? It must be a joke, though there's still no smile to encourage the impression. "In any case, I'm glad to hear it."

Olivya replies without a smile either, though not without that bare curve of a single brow upwards as she counters, "Mmm. And then I won't assume it was because of the influx of Monacoan Candidates and bloodline.

This time, finally, Dal's mouth curves into something akin to a smile. "Indeed," he agrees. "Assumptions, as they say-- well. I'm sure you know what they say."

"I wouldn't want to do that to either you or myself," Olivya confirms that she indeed does know what they say. The mug of klah is tipped towards N'dalis almost like a toast or salute before she takes another long swallow from the precious thing. After, she adds lightly, "It is nice to meet you-- ? I am Olivya, green Ivraeth's."

"Dal," answers the other greenrider, letting the name hang before he corrects it: "N'dalis. Green Suraieth's. We now fly for Malachite. It's nice to meet you too, Olivya. Properly, rather than by reputation. You've settled in by now, I hope."

"For the most part." What parts she hasn't gets left unsaid as Olivya's lips finally hold a smile, if only a polite thing for N'dalis. Her interest sharpens though, as she identifies, "You ride for wingleader W'leri, then? How have you settled in with your new wingleader?"

N'dalis' nod confirms that, yes, he rides for W'leri, though it takes him a few moments longer to pull together an answer. "He's direct," he says. "But he has vision. Ideas. I like that. I understand he's not everyone's cup of klah, but..." A firm nod. "We're pleased to be flying for Malachite."

"Vision and ideas are good traits to be found in a wingleader," Olivya agrees easily, echoing his nod with a tip of her chin. She finishes off her mug, her soft blue eyes dropping to the inner shadows of it to consider it before she sets it aside. "He's certainly not-- everyone's cup of klah, as you said. But who is?"

"No one," is an answer for a question that doesn't require an answer; Dal seems somehow pleased with it, nonetheless. "And how are you finding your weyrlingmaster team?"

Olivya's smile is drier where it reappears, but she answers nevertheless, "We work better together than I imagined. I'd like a more permanent replacement for when I lose Ista's lent help, but now isn't the time." A pause, as she considers Dal with an interested study. She likely ''isn't'' considering him for that position given what he just said, but--. "The real test will be in how we handle the second clutch once they join the barracks."

A slow nod answers Olivya's words, N'dalis' expression more thoughtful and reflective than anything else. "Eighteen is a large number to have on its own, let alone when you have a group that will be-- four months ahead? I wonder how weyrlingmasters during the pass managed. It seems... a situation designed for chaos."

"A lot more practice," suggests Olivya with that seemingly habitual dry humor, though she nods in an agreement for the sentiment. "Four, yes. They just turned 3 months a few days ago. Luckily Kh'tyr is a strong number two; he'll be able to take the focus on either group as necessary."

N'dalis' exhale is something akin to a snort; amused, nonetheless. "Practice makes perfect," he allows. "I'm glad you've got Kh'tyr; I know Ebeny was glad to have her more experienced assistants, too. It makes a difference, when you can trust those around you."

"You have no idea, darling," Olivya practically exhales as well, her amusement bleeding through the words and flashing in the slow curve of her lips. "Well, I will leave you to resume staring into the fireplace. Don't get too close, will you?"

N'dalis fixes a look of serious consideration upon Olivya, but accepts her departure with equanimity. "Don't stay up all night," is his rejoinder. "And I will do what I can."

Olivya's words are warm, the bit of a husky edge as she counters, "No promises." And for a moment, there's a sly hint to that smile. Her fingers lift into a salute for the man, before she retreats without her mug.
|Categories=Clutch 133 Logs, Clutch 137 Logs
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