NorCon MUSH - User contributions [en]

Logs:Second-Fiddle Father

2016-08-14T04:03:06Z

R'hin: Created page with "{{Log |who=Alida, C'ris, Edyis, T'zur |what=Talk of candidates, unfortunate trips down South, old emnities, and asshat wingmates. |where=Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr..."

{{Log
|who=Alida, C'ris, Edyis, T'zur
|what=Talk of candidates, unfortunate trips down South, old emnities, and asshat wingmates.
|where=Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=18
|month=7
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.08.13
|quote="Enjoyin' playin' second-fiddle pappa?"
|mentions=Jocelyn, Farideh, Quinlys, Alysce
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon AlidaMission.JPG, Icon c'ris thoughtful.gif, Icon edyis polite wtf.jpg, Icon t'zur woah.jpg,
|desc=Ringing the southwestern side of the hatching sands are ample tiers of
carved stone benches, the lowest of which is some six feet off the ground
-- just high enough to separate wayward hatchlings from unwary viewers,
and vice versa. A metal railing on the outside helps prevent anyone from
falling off; it also extends up the stairs that lead the way higher into
the galleries. While most of the area is open seating, ropes section off
some of the closer tiers when dignitaries are expected; those areas even
feature cushions in the Weyr's blue and black.

The higher one climbs, the more apparent the immense scale of the entire
cavern becomes. The dragon-sized entrance on the ground is dwarfed by the
expansive golden sands that glitter in the light. Everything on them is
easily visible from the galleries, whether that's a clutch of eggs and a
broody queen, or simply its emptiness and the handful of darker tunnels
that lead to more private areas than the bowl. Wherever one sits or looks,
however, one thing is constant: the overwhelming, suffocating heat.
|log=The warm weather means T'zur's in short sleeves today with the top buttons already undone. Going to the hatching sands when it's already hot isn't usually his ''thing'', but today the bronzerider's sitting with one of the candidates, gesturing towards the sands now and then and waving elegantly. He could be miming anything from, ''that's where you'll be soon'', to ''Akulseth caught a fish this big'', by the way he's gesturing.

Edyis is reclined in the nicer section of bleachers, blouse unbuttoned a few buttons with a stack of reports in her lap as she looks on over her lifemate who is dutifuly at Aidavanth's side. His nose turns, eyeing the candidates with a modicum of curiosity.

Spending two weeks at Ierne healing up enough to come back home wasn't the worst thing at all to happen to Alida and Ilicaeth. There were things to discover, investigate, experience. Until the beginning of the second week... then the inability to exercise as she was wont to do, the inability to go to her Harper lessons, the inability to go and do as she pleased kicked in. *Then* the more rotten side of the blonde's personality snuck forth. By the time she was allowed to return to 'Reaches (a half seven earlier than the Healers had wanted, but the Weyrwoman had INSISTED on), she was ready to explode.

But *now* back in home territory, and with a bubbly pie in one hand, where does the often reticent bluerider choose to show her face for the second time (aside from the Kitchens)? Yup. Here in the Galleries, after Ilciaeth tells her that Akluseth and Edyis are in attendence of the eggs. As she confidently mounts the stairs, it's rather easy to see the way her left arm is wrapped close to her body (to preserve the stabbed, still-healing musculature in its pectoral and shoulder area), though it doesn't hinder the woman much at all. She's making a beeline to her best bud, and scoping out the relative unknown of T'zur and those candidates, right now. Oh, how lucky for all of them.

C'ris is hardly ever sans something; duty or Lyrisa or some other thing that keeps the bluerider busier than most. Today, however, he is. There's no baby to wrangle and no dragon to deal with and no sweeps to ride. Honestly, without any of these, he seems sort of lost and a bit confused as he wanders aimlessly into the hatching cavern. It doesn't stop him from taking the steps up to the galleries two at a time, as if he has places to be, but once there he kind of falters. His gaze slides over the groups of people in the stands, fingers dragging through his own fluffy hair, before he leans awkwardly instead at the railing to look towards the eggs.

Apparently a look by a dragon is enough to make the pretty looking candidate skittish; she edges back closer to T'zur, muttering something under her breath. Not long after that, T'zur's companion goes fleeing up the stairs, almost knocking into Alida in her haste to leave. "Sorry, I uh, sorry!" and she's gone like a flash, dodging past C'ris, with the bronzerider glancing after her with a rueful look. Catching sight of his wingmate, the Glacier rider frowns momentarily, watching her path towards Edyis as he pushes to his feet. C'ris' approach to the railing stops any movement, however, as he nods towards the bluerider. "Afternoon. Ris, is it?" he hazards a guess.

"And here I thought they'd have given you a dressing down and stuck you on sweeps." Or something, Edyis teases Alida warmly as she spots her blueriding buddy, gaze going distant as Akluseth informs her of the influx of guests. Ink-dark eyes peer over checking out the girl's exit, a small smirk working its way over her mouth. "Well skittish bunch this lot seem to be aren't they?" C'ris and T'zur get a nod of greeting. Sorry T'zur, except that Akluseth is not sorry about scaring off the arm candy. Moving to coil around a patch of mottled eggs with a chuff before his eyes close again.

"Hey! Watch the fuck out.." a slightly irascable Alida clips off low, intently to the near-knocking down, the blonde ruefully shaking her head at the rapidly-departing female, then staring at T'zur like perhaps it might be *his* fault. She sees him rise, but there's Edyis to head towards, so T'zur gets a quick nod of Wingmate to wingmate. As for C'ris, well, mister tentative is noticed only as he leans over the railing to oggle the eggs, mister pretty getting a small shake of her pale head before 'lida settles down companionably beside Ed. "Oh, shells no. I had all the evidence totally in our favor. Dumb mutherfuckers didn' know they were messin' with a rider-Guard." Snert. A quick wave of her pastry-holding hand to snorting (now resting) Akluseth presages the bluie's low, "Enjoyin' playin' second-fiddle pappa?" Smirkie.

C'ris startles only slightly at being addressed, but it is quickly overwhelmed with a bright smile that breaks across his lips. He answers T'zur easily, openly, "Oh, yeah, sure. Ris works, though only Quinlys really calls me that, to be honest. C'ris is already short enough, you know?" He rolls up a shoulder in a gesture that manages to be self-deprecating even in its simplicity, as if it's ''his'' fault for not having a long enough name. "Sorry, I uh-- Don't know yours. I've been so busy for the past turn or so, and Mivength is not helpful at all, ever really. So it's not like I can be all smooth and ask him to get yours from your dragon."

T'zur doesn't even suspect a dragon's motives; he doesn't even look at the brown, only insofar as he's near the eggs, anyway. The two women are given a nod -- it could be termed wary, but hard to tell, given the bronzerider turns away quickly to lean on the railing near C'ris. "Oh, C'ris, sorry. Thought I overheard someone call you that before. I, uh, think I'll elect not to call you the same thing as your... uh, weyrmate?" he hazards another guess. "T'zur," he supplies, readily enough, with a grin. "Bronze Tziveth." Lower, now: "Think they're talking about us?" he doesn't point -- he's not that obvious, but there's a slight movement of his head to indicate the pair of riders seated behind them.

Edyis smirks, gaze settling briefly on T'zur and C'ris before returning to the report. "You haven't missed much, other than Jocelyn's negotiation with Monaco. I still don't know how I feel about it, but it could go worse I expect." She scratches at the back of her neck absently, "To be honest I could do with a discrete bit of trouble myself, all this egg sitting has me on edge, with very little in the way of stress relief." Stupid moony brown. Does Akluseth look Smug in his sleep? Why yes, yes he does.

"Heard a few things off the grapevince about that after I returned..." Alida murmurs of the Monaco agreement with Jocelyn, the blonde's small shrug of her good arm showing such doesn't matter too much to *her*. As for Edyis' mood while her smug brown sticks to the Sands like glue, there's a light snert, and an offer of half her bubbly pie (boysenberry!), the thing still pretty warm. "'fraid this is all I c'n offer, right now." WHispered so only Ed can hear, "Next time Lydia's on business down South, you c'n sit in for 'er, find yer own marauders." Eyeroll. As for C'ris and T'zur, well, there's only the occasional quick look for them, clear green eyes more curious than truly, deeply interested. Both are quite easy on the eyes, so why not scope the out a tad, now and again? Oh, yeah, and there's the built-in guard thing, too. Always be aware.

"Oh, uh, no. Not weyrmates. We have our own weyrs, but, you know, with Lyrisa and everything, well--." C'ris winces and stops attempting to explain the relationship, an apology written in his expression as he casts a look towards T'zur. "You're a transfer, right? You must be, because I've been involved in the last few clutches and you're young, aren't you? Not that-- You know. Welcome to High Reaches, bronzerider!" But his gaze will follow the other rider's gesture, not as skilled at subtlety as he looks over the two. Then, of course, he's flashing a smile and lifting his fingers in a wave before he answers his new friend: "No, I don't think so. I mean, Edyis really isn't the gossip type, I swear. She's a good kid. And I don't think Alida'd ever find me interesting enough to talk about. Every time we talk, I think she thinks I'm an idiot, probably." A pause, and the chatty bluerider is straightening with another flash of an apologetic smile as he adds, "Actually, I've been meaning to give my congratulations to Edyis. If you want to--?" He tips his chin up to their seats.

T'zur does his best to look interested, given he's trying to make friends, though his brow starts to furrow as C'ris mentions other people he doesn't know. "Ah, well," he says, awkwardly, for a moment. "Transfer, yes," he agrees, a slight stiffening of posture at the indication he's young, voice a shade defensive: "We've been riding just under four Turns, now." When C'ris waves towards the pair he was subtly indicating, there's a decided wince. "Ahh, yes. Well, Alida seems... mmm." If you can't say anything ''nice''... just switch topics: "So you help out with the weyrlings? What's that like?" When C'ris gestures towards the other pair of riders, he gives an easy, agreeable shrug, and gestures for the bluerider to precede him.

"Do you miss your Weyr? High Reaches is a good place; you'll like it here," C'ris takes the time to assure T'zur, holding up his fingers in another gesture of apology for the defensiveness before he continues on. "Even Alida is a good egg. She just-- I don't know. I think she's more comfortable with not having anyone." He again shrugs a helpless shoulder, turning to make his way up the steps. In the short journey from here to there, he manages to carry on with explaining: "Oh, I used to. Now it's not really professional, you know? Since I had a kid with the Weyrlingmaster and all that. But I did like it; I don't think I'm what anyone expects or looks for in a weyrlingmaster and I hated the discipline aspect of it, but I liked ''being there'' for them, you know? When they were in such a difficult place in life." Faranth, it doesn't even seem like he takes a breath. But then they're there and he has to stop to address Edyis with another bright smile: "Hey, congratulations, Edyis! The eggs look great."

Edyis tilts her head with a huff, "Aye, never thought I would actually miss having to flit off to bootleg liquor." Raking a hand through her hair before accepting the pie. "This is plenty trust me." Ed grins, glancing over at the blue and bronzeriders again. "I swear there was a time maybe when I wasn't socially awkward, but I think Akluseth's been in my head too long. " And as C'ris gets close enough the brownrider grins. "Thank you, you'll have to look after them once they hatch, I'm fairly sure Quinlys won't trust us with them." A sad tone with that. "I haven seen much in the way of the candidates yet though, have you. Hello T'zur." Her greeting warm.

It doesn't take long for T'zur to consider the answer to C'ris' question. "Not excessively, no. Jocelyn told me this was a good place, and I don't think she was wrong." He's certainly interested in the bluerider's assessment of the Glacier bluerider, pursing lips thoughtfully as he shortens his stride to match. He's listening closely to C'ris' talk of his time with the weyrlings, tugging a hand through his hair. Even if he was going to respond, it seems like there's no sufficient pause in which to do so, and so he remains silent on that score. While C'ris congratulates Edyis, he edges in, leaning against the back of a chair the next row down, "Hey Edyis," he greets, casually, before he observes to Alida: "Haven't seen you in drills for a couple of sevens. Rumor in the wing was you caught some disease down south," a brief twitch of lips, clearly aware of the double entendre of the words, before his gaze settles on her arm. "But I guess the rumors were off base."

"It ain't worth it..." Alida announces with a small roll of her eyes, then looking down at her heavily bandaged shoulder..where a couple of points of blood are beginning to show up. "Fuck it..." is muttered sourly, said blood ignored for more interaction with the brownrider. As for sociability and Akluseth, there's a knowing bit of a secret smirk-smile. "Don't tell anybody, but even Ilicaeth's finally getting to me in that respect a little, too. He says I only snarl or ignore people now half the time instead uv' 99 percent." Her pale, braided head nods for the acceptance of the half of the bubbly pie, the arriving C'ris getting a polite bob of that head once again, while T'zur's offered a more concrete, "'mate." Wingmate. Hey, she's at least accepted him as such, showing he's earned his Glacier stripes in her watchful eyes. Aside to Ed is murmured, "Think Ak would allow both uv' us down to oggle his orbs?" Snicker. Good thing she didn't overhear those words of Quinlys.

"Oh, were you-- Did something happen, Alida? You ok?" questions C'ris in immediate concern at T'zur's words, his gaze sliding from the younger bronzerider who is obviously more in the know to the other bluerider. "If you're sick-- I'm meant to pick up Lyrisa later." The words hold the hint of apology as he steps back closer to T'zur. But it doesn't stop him from nodding at Edyis, continuing, "No, no. Quinlys isn't-- I'm sure she'd be happy for any of your help, if you have the time. She never turned me away, after all, and well, look at me. But I'll check in on them for you, definitely." He shakes his head. "Haven't seen any of the candidates, really. Mivength doesn't really search, so--."

Edyis laughs, "I don't know that he could focus enough to manage it, but I can ask him next time he wakes up." The double Entendre gets a look from Edyis, but if Alida's heckles aren't up, she's not going to get bent out of shape about it, this time at least. Edyis does smile at C'ris, "C'ris you are the sweetest and most patient person ever, I don't think anybody could turn you down. In fact I think most of the girls in our classes had a crush on you if I recall correctly." Probably some of the guys too, but Ed never asked. "Akluseth rarely does either."

At the talk of candidates, T'zur straightens and admits: "Tziveth's found one candidate so far -- a crafter girl -- though I don't think there's all that much to her. Not sure if she'll find anything out on the sands, but then," with a snort, and a shake of his head, "Dragons are weird, right? The fuck knows how they decide." There's no mistaking; somewhat of a pleased grin on the Glacier bronzerider's face at Alida's greeting of him. "Ought to have someone look at that," with a jerk of head towards her shoulder, frowning.

Sighing - as if deeply tired of telling her tale over and over again - Alida murmurs levelly to concerned C'ris and inquiring T'zur, "Couple 'r so sevens ago, I got ambushed by bandits while I was down South. They got the worst uv' it..." though obviously *she* got her own lumps. At least Ilicaeth's currently reminding her to be decent, likely for the blonde mutters, "Thanks fer askin', C'ris, T'zur." Ah, then there's the 'Q' name, and it brings a wrinkle to the bluie's nose for a long moment, wiped clean when she nods to Edyis. "Just lemme know when an' if he does. Like ta be down there again and *not* a candidate." Listening to the bronzerider's words of Searching makes her nod briskly, green eyes crossing for a moment. "Ilicaeth ain't a Searcy-type, but once in awhile, he picks one or two. Usually they Impress." Is that a faint swell of her chest in pride? "Already did..." is riposted back to T;zur of her slightly seeping wound. "Likely just 'cause I sorta-waved at Akluseth." Stupid of her, but oh, well.

C'ris laughs, an easy exhale of the sound and followed by a light grin towards Edyis as if she's made a great joke. "Right, can you just imagine like, Farideh's face? If she heard you say that?" But he's quick to move on, nodding acceptance for Alida's story even if his brows drag slightly together. And he will be the one to defend the nameless, mysterious crafter girl, offering, "If your dragon searched her, there must be ''something'' to her. The dragons aren't wrong, even if they don't always impress." He glances towards the eggs, briefly, before he turns his attention back to the other riders to add, "But yeah, who knows how they decide. I've never had anyone say they got a good answer from their dragon after a search."

Edyis says, "Suppose we will see." Edyis notes of the sands. Edyis grins a little, "Never tell Pia, but I'm fairly sure it's because she guessed his secret itchy spot." The brownrider grinning, wryly. "He's right, though, if the scab is popped, or worse you have stitches, and those are popped." Edyis trails off with a sigh then. "And I'm afraid I forgot about a somewhat important meeting elsewhere, so I must take my leave." Getting to her feet, "We should catch up though Alida, more than just chatting over pies, when things settle down." C'ris gets a warm smile, at mention of Farideh's name, and a laugh. And for T'zur there's even a muted smile. "See you round.""

"Bandits?" T'zur echoes, not precisely disbelievingly, but: "What bandit'd attack a ''rider''?" He says, shaking his head. Of Alida's request of Edyis, he can't help but say: "Ought to volunteer as an assistant weyrlingmaster, then. C'ris was just talking about it," with a tip of head towards the other bluerider. "Then you get to be right on the sands, without all the angst of wondering if you're going to Impress." He gives his fellow Glacier rider a look at her latter comment, but doesn't seem inclined to press. "None of Tziveth's candidates have ever Impressed. But then, he does pick strange ones, I guess." It doesn't seem a criticism on his dragon so much as a thoughtful observation. "Maybe this one'll be an exception," except he doesn't seem that convinced. "See you, Edyis," he says, lifting a hand by way of farewell.

"Will do, Ed," Alida notes almost blithely of the departing brownrider, the blonde looking to shrug off her friend's concern with an eyeroll. "I'll live, believe me." Smirk. For T'zur, there's a knowing shake of her plaited head. "I wasn't in rider gear, and Ilicaeth wasn't around. I was just probably some poor holder 'r trader schmuck, ta them." The small, but wicked grin on her face shows the two men just what a huge mistake they made in messing with the bluerider. And then there's a small gawp of the bronzerider's suggestion, followed by a peal of laughter that's quickly cut off so that Akluseth doesn't get irked. Clipped off briskly is, "Oh, that's outta' the question. Believe me, Quinlys wouldn't let me within twenty feet uv her precious littles." Snort. That one word - the name of the Weyrlingmaster - is touched with a nearly-blithe hint of bitterness, disgust, and old anger. To C'ris is noted with better aplomb, "Don't look so concerned."

C'ris does look concerned; his smile has disappeared into a frown, for all that it was there a moment ago in wishing Edyis goodbye. His brows are drawn together, and defensiveness flicks across his features for the way that Alida speaks of Quinlys. He answers flatly, "Quinlys is fair about those she lets work with the weyrlings. If she wouldn't let you, you should stop and consider why, probably." He shakes his head, dismissive, before he straightens. He still adds to Alida nicely, "See you around, Alida. And T'zur. It was good to meet you. Good luck with your candidate and with settling into High Reaches and all that--." He nods towards T'zur, not able to help the quirk of a smile he offers, before he turns to retreat too and leave T'zur alone with his wingmate.

"Ought to travel with a trader's colors and name. That way they know retribution'll come, more likely than not stay away," T'zur suggests, with a tip of head. "That, or... don't look so innocent and vulnerable and alone," he adds with a rueful laugh. The latter comments earn a slight frown; clearly, T'zur has walked into the midst of old animosities he has little clue about. Alida gets a thoughtful, measured look from her wingmate, as does C'ris. "What...?" he starts, as C'ris makes to leave. "Uh, sure. See you around, C'ris." And now Alida is the sole beneficiary of the bronzerider's curious regard.

Quietly, though firmly to C'ris is riposted, "There's likely things about Quinlys y'll never know. It's only typical...a lover defendin' the other." Alida can't help the rough shrug that pulls across both her shoulders by accidental habit, a small hiss breaking through her teeth as anothoer stitch pops, and a little more blood wells up into her bandage. Fuck. "I don' have ta consider..." is noted to the other bluerider as she slowly rises, makes to leave. "I'm too tough for most uv 'er human weyrlings. I expect too much." Perhaps which is why the woman deals mostly with dragons. With T'zur's word of 'innocent and vulnerable' comes another bit of choked-off laughter, this bout more honest, touched with a ringing quality. It hurts, though, and again, the woman's face twists a tad with her pain. "Toodles..." is noted to departing C'ris, while the remaining bronzer is offered a shake of head. "Think I'd better go take my licks from the Healers, before Ilicaeth tells on me." Yes, there's a little more blood showing on her bandages.

Mostly silent throughout the exchange between blueriders, T'zur is, nevertheless, paying close attention. "Yes," he finally says, when Alida mentions going to the healer, and he stands like he means to pace her all the way there, though he's not, at least, eyeing her like some helpless damsel.

"Sweet Faranth, not you, too?" Alida notes to her wingmate, rolling her eyes heavenward as they step out towards the Healers' cavern. "Had another 'mate say they were gonna tell on me if I got too fiesty. Shiiiiiit."

"Not going to tell anyone. Just happen to be walking that way anyway," lies T'zur, all the while grinning knowingly, adjusting his stride to hers.

"I'll remember that, toots. Just keep that pretty yap shut, an' y'll not have to be the beneficiary uv' one uv my surprise 'visits' when I'm fully healed." The way the bluerider says 'visits' makes it certain it'd likely be a painful one.

T'zur rolls his eyes. "Sure, threats after I've already promised it, not all that helpful, you know," he advises, wryly. "But if you want to believe that it's your promise of violence that helped me keep my trap shut and not, you know, me choosing to, go ahead." And ''still'' he's pacing her, at least until they reach the entrance to the infirmary.

"Asshat..." is noted crustily of her accompanying wingmate as they continue onward...mostly in silence, now, as Alida's pain starts to increase. The Healers might have a crabby bitch on their hands, tonight.

"Yes, you are," T'zur cheekily sneaks in the last word (or three), before he about-faces, after depositing her into the healer's care. Ah, wingmates.
}}

Logs:A Decision

2016-08-14T03:48:48Z

R'hin: Created page with "{{Log |who=Alysce, Quint |what=Alysce finally makes a decision, though the manner in which she conveys it isn't well received. |where=Quint's Room, High Reaches Weyr |involves..."

{{Log
|who=Alysce, Quint
|what=Alysce finally makes a decision, though the manner in which she conveys it isn't well received.
|where=Quint's Room, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=25
|month=6
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.08.06
|quote="I was just searched, by a bronzerider."
|mentions=T'zur
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon alysce challenging.jpg, Icon quint eyes closed.jpg,
|log=Afternoon classes consisted of a very excitable bunch of children on a field trip to Nabol Hold for an in-person history lesson -- both the Journeymen and the riders accompanying the group seem relieved when the children are back in the care of their nannies and families. Quint's taking it easy, as a result, and while normally hanging out in the crafter's lounge, tonight he's lounging on his bed, back against the wall, strumming on the gitar. His shirt's partway unbuttoned at the collar, practically ''messy'' for the normally pristine harper.

There ''is'' a knock on Quint's door, but it certainly isn't enough of a warning before Alysce is spilling in through the door. She is still clad in only her red swimsuit, her skin darker than the last time the Journeyman saw her, which was certainly a much better use of her time than trips to Nabol. Whatever her intent, there is a moment when this intimate picture stops her short, but she quickly spills out before Quint can interrupt, "I was just searched, by a bronzerider."

It's one thing to have your apprentice bust into your room at night; it's quite another when she's wearing hardly anything ''and'' sprouting a surprise at you. Quint stares at Alysce levelly for a moment. "Did the bronzerider prevent you putting on clothes, or did you simply lose your common sense, apprentice?" his use of her title is deliberate, as he sets his gitar carefully aside on the bed before standing.

Surprise flickers across Alysce's expression in turn, followed quickly by a sharp annoyance as she questions dryly, "Seriously, Quint? Are you seriously going to do that ''right now''?" She remains at the door, fingers wrapped around the knob and only tightening now as she stares down her Journeyman in return.

Clasping his hands behind his back, Quint regards Alysce with only a slight flicker of expression -- frustration, perhaps -- before it's gone. "You are standing in my private quarters, and were presumably witnessed by others wearing very little while rushing in to doing so. I feel like ''right now'' utilizing your title is more than appropriate, don't you?"

Alysce's lips press into a tight line, her dark eyes narrowing on Quint with her own frustration more openly on display. Perhaps that's what spurs her to say flatly, "Well, ''apprentice'' isn't my title now, is it? ''Candidate'' would be more appropriate."

"That's your decision then... candidate?" Quint lilts the title, head tipping to one side. His expression is deliberately neutral, the sort of posture he adopts when generally when dealing with negotiations, frustrating children, and Lord Holders alike.

"That's my decision, Quint," answers Alysce with a sharper tone, her gaze sweeping over Quint before she turns on her heel to leave his room. At least she doesn't slam the door behind her?

All she gets in reward for her look is Quint's neutral expression, a steeled posture, and a silent nod by way of non-verbal response.
}}

Logs:A Girl's Prerogative

2016-08-07T02:03:01Z

R'hin: Created page with "{{Log |who=Alysce, Edyis, T'zur |what=Things are awkward all around between almost-but-never-quite-friends, girl-on-girl fights and old-acquaintances. |where=Snowasis, High Re..."

{{Log
|who=Alysce, Edyis, T'zur
|what=Things are awkward all around between almost-but-never-quite-friends, girl-on-girl fights and old-acquaintances.
|where=Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=4
|month=6
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.30
|quote="Well, I changed my mind. A girl's perogative, you know."
|mentions=Taikrin, Jo, Jocelyn, J'nason
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon alysce challenging.jpg, Icon edyis i dare you.jpg, Icon t'zur woah.jpg,
|desc=The Snowasis is rarely quiet, and even then, the high-ceilinged former
weyr is kept from echoing by the fantastical booths tucked into its
convoluted perimeter. The secluded seating spaces have been shaped from
the truncated stalagmites that escaped the smoothing of the main floor,
and are both softened and separated by colorful hangings that are thick
and opaque enough to make each corner its own private nook.

Some of the smaller stalactites still roam the ceiling, their jagged teeth
tracing a bumpy, inverted spine to the hearth. There, a thick rug with a
low klah table and comfortable armchairs and couches sit, their upholstery
and cushions changed sporadically to match the season: bright, light
colors in the summer, fresh greens and yellows in the spring, warm
autumnals in fall, and clear, rich hues for winter. Small tables litter
the rest of the cavern, enough to fit up to four people each, while stools
stand along the smooth wooden bar behind which is the passthrough window
to the kitchen. Glass-paneled cabinetry behind the bar provides a clear
view of the available liquors, the many colors reflecting the soft light
of glows tucked into strategic niches around the cavern.
|log=It's been a warm summer day, and the heat lingers through into the evening. The ledge is heavily populated, but that doesn't mean the Snowasis proper is empty; over by the darts board, Alpine and Glacier are matching up, their voices spilling across the room. T'zur, though sporting the Glacier patch, is not with the rest of his wing; instead, he's over playing dice with a mixture of riders and some residents, too. His shirt sleeves are pushed up, and he's leaning forward, invested in whatever game's going on; shortly after the dice come to a stop, he groans, eyes going skyward. He's not the only disappointed one, either; there's a more than a few that disperse at whatever outcome.

The flight jackets toggles come undone as Edyis strides into the Snowasis from the ledge, a chorus of laughter from the other Snowdrift riders who follow in. They part ways fairly quickly, the others headed for a table and Edyis headed straight for the bar, "A pitcher of your finest please," And while she waits ink-dark eyes fall on the wiry bronzerider. Grabbing the tray complete with empty cups, she smirks to herself passing him on her way to an empty table. "Have we met?"

Warm weather means that Alysce's clothes get to push more and more into the boundaries of decency. Today, it means that the white, sheer cotton tunic she wears is practically see through, hanging almost entirely off one shoulder in an impactical way. Because fashion. Her dark eyes are flashing over the bar, and it's only the sharp look in her even sharper features, the hint of annoyance and distance keeping others away who might otherwise have considered approaching her. She ''seems'' to be looking for someone, but it's T'zur that her eyes light on for a moment, watching Edyis approaching him as she perches on a stool at the bar.

"Doubt it," seems like a well-practiced response to a line he's heard many times: T'zur doesn't even glance at Edyis initially -- not when the dice are rattling around on the table again. He leans forward, even as he flicks a quartermark onto the table; apparently things don't go that well again. The noise he makes this time is exasperated, flickering hands as if divesting himself of something invisible. A sharp exhale follows as he turns with one, two steps towards the bar, eyeing Edyis sidelong with a flicker that might be familiarity. "Huh." He hasn't noticed Alysce yet, though his steps are carrying him that way.

Amusement flickers brightly in dark eyes as Alysce watches; what, she's just over here observing her fellow humankind like any good harper would. Only when T'zur starts towards the bar does her gaze fall away, swivelling innocently back to the wooden surface behind her and picking up her glass of wine. Her free hand lifts to muss through black hair, arranging it over one shoulder as she sips her wine. She will wait until he's taken a spot at the bar, though, and only then does she slide a look down the space between them to offer a casual, "Oh, hey there, friend." Like she hadn't known he was there, either.

Edyis is patient, even if the greenrider who snags the tray from her as she falls in step with T'zur isn't. "I'll be along shortly," Edyis comments off hand. "I guess you wouldn't remember, it was many turns ago. Still, I always thought you were the nicer between you and your brother." Her gaze shifts to Alysce then, or more aptly what she's wearing, then the greeting. Huh.

"From the flight," comes T'zur's initial assessment, tone implying that ''of course'' he remembers -- if with a slight grimace -- and it's only her latter words that earn a second, more considering look. "Huh," he says, in surprise. "Ed...yis, right?" The brownrider's gaze is followed, and the bronzerider blinks for a moment. Of course he's going to ''look'', because he can't help himself, but an awkward clearing of throat soon follows as he gaze averts, gaze seeking out the bartender as he steps up to the bar. Maybe he thinks Alysce is addressing Edyis?

"What, are we ''not'' friends now?" Alysce will challenge as T'zur ignores her, but her lips shape into a smile that seems unphased, almost pleased with his reaction. Whatever is behind the mask of amusement in the harper's features, it doesn't show when she shifts her gaze to sweep over Edyis in turn. She identifies Edyis easily at the hint that T'zur offers, pointing out to her, "You're that dragonrider that won the flight. People've been talking a ''lot'' about you."

"Yes." Ed responds to her name with a wry smile. "You got stuck babysitting me once upon a time?" She tilts her head. "Nevermind if you don't remember -" Alysce's comment, has ink-dark eyes studying the woman more intently. "Aye? And what have they been saying pray tell? I haven't paid much attention."

"Jay isn't around," is all T'zur says in response to Alysce, dismissive otherwise. "You don't have to pretend to be interested in anything I say for his benefit." Because his gaze is on the bartender, waving to get his attention, he misses Alysce's expression. "I remember," is his response to Edyis, before he orders ale, otherwise not interrupting the exchange between the two women, obviously listening.

Alysce lifts her fingers lightly, turning them over in a graceful, helpless gesture that holds them curving lightly upwards as she offers, "You know, the usual talk. What they ''always'' say about these things and your kind." Her hand is dropped back to her glass, curving around the base as she slides a sideways gaze towards T'zur. His accusation only gets a roll of her bare shoulder, though, as she adds before taking a sip of her wine, "Your friend is an ass. I don't care about his benefit at all, so."

Edyis has a smile like ice for the pretty young Harper. "My kind?" Her dark eyes glinting, "I'm afraid I don't know what the usual talk is, or even what you mean by ''my kind'' So please do share." She waves the bartender over and orders again, shooting down the rum as quickly as it arrives.

When his ale arrives -- ''after'' Edyis' rum, which earns her a ''look'', T'zur gulps down fully half the glass straight up. He gives a snort. "She means, rumor's saying you and the goldrider are fucking. But everyone says that about anyone who wins a flight, so..." he gives an easy shrug of his shoulders, before his gaze falls on Alysce. "Right. That didn't seem to bother you none before."

"What he said," Alysce answers, her fingers flicking in a gesture to T'zur as he explains for her. But she only meets his look by tossing her hair over a shoulder and smiling shamelessly. "Well, I changed my mind. A girl's perogative, you know."

Edyis smiles, oh so sweetly, except that there is something decidedly sharp in it. "Why don't you run along and throw yourself at whatever dick you came here half dressed for." A dismissive wave of her hand as her attention returns to T'zur, "Right because it's so unbelievable that a brown could outfly bronze? It happens in Igen all the time." Sullenly staring at her empty glass, and reaching for the bottle to refill it. "I believe I owe you a drink in congratulations anyway, since I didn't get to buy you one when you impressed."

"Fuck ''girls'' and their ''prerogative''." T'zur gulps down the ''other'' half of his ale, and is already waving to get the bartender back his way for a refill. His gaze flickers between Edyis and Alysce at that exchange, clearly unwilling to get involved in a girl fight, other than, you know -- watching intently. His eyes roll at Edyis' defensiveness, "Don't complain to me like it's my fault. Tziveth's about the size of a brown, I'm not saying shit." Still, he's not about to say no to a free drink, and his shoulder lifts and drops in what appears to be acceptance.

"Oh, original. Slut-shaming in a Weyr, is it?" counters Alysce dryly with a curve of her brow upwards at Edyis, shrugging her shoulders carelessly. "You might as well be a holder." But her gaze slides to T'zur and his curse, then back again, and she only makes a soft sound that ''might'' be a laugh before she picks up her wine glass and slides off her stool. That long, black hair gets flicked again as she retreats silently.

Edyis watches the hair flip and saunter off with a snort. "May not have been original but it served its purpose." Claiming the empty seat, "I've got his tab tonight." She murmurs to the bartender when he comes back to refill T'zur's mug. "That will come back to bite me in the ass later." She frowns at the bronzerider then, "What was all that anyway? You and her - I don't mean the shit about Akluseth winning."

T'zur glances over his shoulder and maybe, just maybe, watches said harper apprentice retreat. The expression on his face is a parade of emotions, to quick to determine, before he turns back just in time for the bartender to refill his mug, with a nod of thanks. He glances at Edyis, snorting. "I'm not a huge drinker. Can't keep up with most of Glacier; I think your mark stash is fine." He shakes his head to the latter question, "Don't know. Fuck girls," is all he's willing to say, before he realizes Edyis ''is'' a girl, and then he amends: "I've no idea."

Edyis laughs, "Even if you were I don't hurt for marks these days. Glacier's a good wing, some of my best mates are glacier. Well one was glacier before our wingleader poached her for a wing second. You should meet Jo sometime. She's a hell of a lot of fun." Edyis scratches her chin at the statement with a laugh, "Don't worry I'm sure you have them lining up to do that." Her second glass lifted slower, less fueled by pride.

Despite the fact that she's offered to pick up the tab, T'zur seems content to stay with his ale and nothing fancier. When she talks about his wing, he half twists in his seat so he can see her expression sidelong, at the very least. "It's a... interesting wing," is all he says, kind of cautiously. "Taikrin's... I've never flown with someone like her before." Perhaps because the latter comment's super awkward, the bronzerider just buries his face in his mug, rather than respond to ''that''.

"She's a good wingleader from what I've heard, hell she was even weyrleader at one point." Edyis remarks with a grin, though she doesn't miss the awkwardness at the last. "I would tell you it gets less awkward, but it really doesn't. There's nothing worse than waking up after a flight and getting called by someone else's name." Nursing her drink with a frown. "What made you decide to transfer to Reaches all of the sudden anyway?"

It's very possible it's even more awkward that she draws attention to the awkward in great detail, to judge by T'zur's discomforting shift of posture. Perhaps that's why there's a hint of irritation to his tone as he replies sharply: "I've been a rider just as long as you, I'm not some ''weyrling''. Tziveth's won plenty of flights."

Edyis frowns watching him shift. "I figured because you were a rider just as long, and hell you ride bronze. I'm the one looking for advice here or can't you tell?" Edyis swirls her glass, "I figure you and Tizveth are pros at the whole thing. I'm utterly out of my element."

"I'm not the one to ask," T'zur says, clearly uncomfortable. He might like the free ale but this topic of conversation with a girl is clearly not something he's at ease with. "Don't they give you the talk here?" he asks, bemused.

Edyis shifts a shoulder, "I almost went to blows because I thought she was insulting Akluseth." Edyis mutters, "So it didn't work very well then." She scratches at the back of her neck. "Look it was good seeing you and all. Not really sure what I was thinking, but enjoy the ale?" Aware of the ever increasing awkwardness.

T'zur gives Edyis curious look at her mention of insulting Akluseth. "Should talk to a different Weyrlingmaster, then? Or maybe, uh, talk to a girl, huh?" he suggests, faintly, mumbling into his mug before he gulps down a mouthful. "Yeah, um, let's get another drink sometime when you don't want to talk about your sex life. I'll uh, see you around," he's standing already, taking what's left of his ale with him as he heads back towards the dice tables.
}}

Logs:Knobbly-Kneed Fish-Bait

2016-07-30T03:43:38Z

R'hin: Created page with "{{Log |who=Drex, Molly, |what=Molly is a nice person, and then Drex happens. |where=Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=1 |month=6 |turn=41 |IP=Int..."

{{Log
|who=Drex, Molly,
|what=Molly is a nice person, and then Drex happens.
|where=Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=1
|month=6
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.29
|quote="I'm not weyrfolk. And I'm not weird."
|mentions=Farideh, Itsy
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon drex youknownothing.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 been a warm summer's day, with the heat lingering into the evening. The hearth in the nighthearth is still burning, but only to keep the ever-present stew warm, rather than for warmth. This time of turn, it's the chairs and couches furthest from the hearth that are the prime spots, cool and dark, and Drex is sprawled across one of the couches, a hand flung over his face, snoring loudly. There's a largely untouched bowl of stew on the table near to him.

Most people who wind up here know why they're here. They're here to eat, or to meet someone, or to find a quiet place to read or do needlework, sure. The red-haired girl who wanders in tonight, though, seems to have no such aim. There's a quick peek in, a slim-fingered hand resting on the wall by the entrance as though to more quickly make her exit if this turns out to be a place she doesn't belong. But nobody pays her any mind, and so she makes her way in, a wandering road around, towards the hearth to check out the contents of the pot, away from the hearth to check out the contents of the chairs. Not that she's bothering anyone. She's not lingering long enough to bother anyone. Not until she settles near someone who presumably won't notice her continued presence. Molly takes the bowl, tips it just long enough to see how much the contents have congealed, as though to use that to judge just how long this man's been here.

There's certainly a thin film on the top of the stew, but the bowl itself still feels warm enough that it can't have been there too long. Maybe the snorer is just that ''quick'' at falling asleep. As if he senses the girl's presence, Drex's snoring halts briefly, he twists momentarily, and settles down again, a minute or so passing before his snoring resumes.

When Drex stirs, Molly goes absolutely still, like a deer in headlights, except she wouldn't know what either deer or headlights actually were. Someone else might leg it under these circumstances, but she stays right there, frozen to the spot, until he seems to settle in again. And then she goes about arranging the bowl back exactly where he left it--or as close to it as she can get. Then she turns, looming over Drex for just a moment as she squints down at him. Proceeding to ruin all this discretion, she chirps, helpfully, "I think your food's getting cold."

One of the big problems with being in a weyr is that the weapons Drex is used to having just aren't there, so his one handed, sleepy fumble for a non-existent thing at his belt turns into an attempt to grab at whoever's looming above him. "...fuck?" the strangled word comes out halfway between startled and confused.

She might be small and light, and that would suggest some quickness, but Molly has all the coordination of a teenage girl with no coordination whatsoever. So, if she evades the hands, it's only by tripping over her own feet and going backwards several paces with a shriek that's apt to raise more than a few eyebrows. And possibly the dead. Her hands clamp over her own mouth. "Sorry," muffled. "Sorry, sorry." Probably not just to Drex. "You fell asleep," she tells him, still through her hands, like maybe he might be surprised by this.

It's the feminine shriek that pierces the half-awake's sailors awareness, his hands missing her as she trips backwards. One, two, three blinks of blank staring, and then he's chortling, slumping back onto the couch rather than doing anything so gallant as to try and help her. When his laughter abates, he shakes his head. "Every time I think you weyrfolk are fuckin' weird, you just... top it, y'know? Fuck. Do you get paid to wake people up and tell them they were asleep?"

"I'm not weyrfolk." Despite the fact that Molly is very literally in a Weyr right now. And she is probably folk of some sort. But she says it with big-eyed earnestness, and enough Tillek in her voice to be familiar. "And I'm not weird." This is more defensive. "Normal people sleep in beds," is her attempt at returning the perceived insult. "And eat their dinners instead of just letting them go to waste." Though her frame does not itself speak to a healthy appetite.

"You ''aint'' weird?" Drex echoes that in a bemused tone. "The fuck you looming over people while they're sleeping for, then?" He snorts at her assertion about ''normal'' people. "If you had a baby constantly crying and keepin' you awake, you'd be sleeping just about anywhere else, y'self." He eyes the forgotten bowl of stew with a narrowed gaze, as if she has a point on that score but isn't willing to vocalize it. "Aint going to waste. Gonna eat it now." And to prove it, he reaches for the bowl.

That's at least a good signal for Molly to actually find her feet and sit down in a chair. Properly. Like this normal person she's very sure she is. "If I had a baby, I'd probably be sleeping somewhere in the general vicinity of my baby," she observes, as any girl might who has born witness to plenty of other women with babies, and probably paid little attention to the fathers.

Drex gives Molly a look like she's ''definitely'' the crazy one. "Aint no one whose ever had a baby would actually say that. All they do at this age is cry and scream and shit and sleep," he says, with a hefty sigh, taking a mouthful of the stew. If he's put off by the fact that it's only somewhat warm and there's a film on the top, it certainly doesn't stop him taking a second mouthful, while he eyes the girl over the rim of the bowl. "The fuck's your deal, anyway?" is about as social question as he's likely to ask.

"They mostly eat and sleep at that age. They hardly ever cry if you keep them swaddled up. I don't think you're very good with babies." Says the girl who is almost certainly too young to have personal experience with this. But it doesn't seem to occur to Molly to think twice about that. Or to prevaricate when asked about her motives: "I got done with work and I was bored and I don't have any friends yet." A little frustrated flutter of hands.

Even if it's probably true, Drex is instinctively defensive, scowling at Molly. "You don't know shit about babies. This is my ''second''," he says, like ''he's'' done all the hard work. It's the latter that makes him snort. "I aint gonna be your friend," he says, pretty certain. "Aint there, y'know, ''girls'' you can go bother?"

The first might have drawn a bit more response, but Molly's focus is distracted by the rest of that, her face falling, a little black raincloud settling right over her with some threatening rumbles. Not a real raincloud, of course. Just a metaphorical one, a sniffle and shiny eyes. "Well, I wasn't asking you to be, anyway, was I? I was only trying to be nice. I didn't know you were going to be horrible. I thought maybe you'd be pleased that you got to eat a dinner that wasn't completely cold." The words are just coming bubbling out. "If I'd known you'd be horrible, I would have let you have a cold dinner because you ''deserve'' it." In her book, this seems to count as saying something really mean, a mic-drop kind of moment where she stands up with every intention of marching off. Just a slight delay there in actually doing it. Definitely not fishing for an apology.

If she's waiting for an apology, she's picked the wrong random. Drex bolts down another two mouthfuls of food, kind of eyeing Molly throughout her speech. "Didn't ask you to wake me up, none. I aint no weyrfolk, neither," he says, with determination. "Aint no need to be nice to ''me'', not unless you got a penchant for sailing and want to come see my ship," he's grinning at that last, at the thought of the sea, though it could be easily taken as some sort of ''line'', or euphemism, given the sudden enthusiasm he displays.

Molly does color at that last--and when she blushes, it's a wonder she has enough blood left pumping to keep from fainting, she goes so scarlet. Which flusters her enough to keep her from doing her dramatic exit, it seems. "You're here, aren't you?" Of course, so is she. "Where in the world are you keeping a ship? In the ''lake''? I've seen the lake." Implied: She's pretty sure about the lack of a proper ship, there, and she knows at least enough about this to identify one if she saw it. "And there's just... just... no reason to be acting like that if your wife just had a baby." There's her definitely-not-weyrfolk credentials, anyway.

"It aint ''here''," is said with an equally exasperated tone. "And I aint much for dragons, so we'd have to ride, assuming you know how to do that." Drex pauses a moment, "And my girl'd probably be upset, because she just gave birth, but ''fuck''. It's officially ''summer'' already." He's clearly such a charmer, aided by the fact that he adds sharply, "She aint my wife. Weyrfolk don't marry."

"So I could go get on a dragon and go see a ship anytime I wanted, and faster than with you. And not make your wi--girl upset. And you're horrible, so why would I want to go anywhere with you anyway?" Wasn't Molly supposed to be flouncing? She seems to have forgotten it, despite the many ways in which she attempts to communicate how done she is with all of this. "I've seen ships," now a bit huffy. "Yours can't be much good if you leave it behind all the time to go sleep on couches here."

And now, Drex's ego is well and truly pricked, dropping his spoon into his mostly empty bowl with a clatter. "My ship is better than ''any'' piece of shit sloop you've ever laid eyes on. She's the pride and joy, the flagship of High Reaches Hold. She can outsail about anything else on the water, and she looks damn fine doing it." Molly isn't the only one being huffy, here.

"Flagship of ''High Reaches'' Hold. All that says is that they don't know anything about boats there." Does Molly know anything about boats? Just a sort of secondhand pride, but enough of one to require defending against the idea that this horrible man could possibly have a ship worth seeing. "My dad, he isn't anybody, but I bet his is still nicer than yours. And he's off using his to catch fish and be useful. He's not napping." Molly's father probably has taken at least one nap in his adult life, but never mind that, it makes a good retort, one hand primly on her hip.

"You don't know shit about ships if you're calling 'em ''boats''," comes Drex's hasty retort. "Yer just some landlubber, thinking you know everything about ships because maybe you saw a few sail past while you were hiding behind your ma's skirts." He rolls his eyes to the latter, chin lifting. "My ship could flatten your da's ship without even shaking the Captain's titties, I'll bet."

"If I thought they were that worth looking at, I would have stayed home. And if yours was that good, you'd have stayed with her." The ship? The captain, who apparently at least has tits worth mentioning? "But no, you're here just to lay around and be ''crude'' and ''horrible''." These words are punctuated with the stabs of a pointing finger. "You're not a good sailor ''or'' a good dad," the conclusion of her argument. And then Molly finally scowls, or tries to, which does not do a great job at covering up the fact that she's near tears, and she finally turns to stride off. At a brisk pace. It could be called running away.

"Aint no dick to leave my girl when she's about ready to pop, no?" Even if Drex ''is'' hiding out here for a bit of piece and quiet now said baby is out. The stabbing of Molly's finger in his direction makes him stick out his chest, leaning forward to hiss, "You don't know shit about me, you knobbly-kneed, landlubbing... fish-bait!" And then she's striding off, and he's exhaling, like he's ''won'' somehow, eyeing the girl as she leaves.
}}

Logs:Getting A Say

2016-07-30T03:01:55Z

R'hin: Created page with "{{Log |who=Alysce, Quint |what=Alysce just wants a say. |where=Records Room, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=1 |month=6 |turn=41 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gamed..."

{{Log
|who=Alysce, Quint
|what=Alysce just wants a say.
|where=Records Room, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=1
|month=6
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.29
|quote="Have you made up your mind about putting in for a transfer, then?"
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon alysce innersmile.jpg, Icon quint.jpg,
|desc=Books. Scrolls. Bound hides. Maps. If it's a record pertaining to the
Weyr, it's likely to be in this roughly oval room with its
floor-to-ceiling cherrywood shelves, its multitude of slots for scrolls,
and its wide drawers for materials that shouldn't be rolled up or folded.
A scribe is usually on duty at the tall desk up front with its good view
of the room, and is able to help visitors find what they're looking for
via the big bound index on its rotating stand. Past the desk, several
tables stand in neat rows for note-taking, each stocked with glowbaskets,
scrap hide, paper and pencils. Additional lighting is provided by a
many-armed wrought-iron light fixture, its glows gleaming through
luxurious glass containers in fluted shapes instead of baskets.

To one side of the room, a gap between two sets of shelves outlines where
another set once stood, now replaced by a tapestry-covered aperture.
Peeking behind the tapestry reveals another cavern, this one likewise full
of shelves, but occupied by only a few boxes of older records and a
somewhat musty air of disuse. As well, two narrow but solid doors are
locked when the room is unattended and a discreet staircase provides
direct access from the Weyrleaders' weyrs.
|log=Alysce has been a bit distracted for the past few days, not that it has much impact on her ''usual'' level of performance given that it is a low bar already. Still, even as she sits at trying to copy a single sheet of music from High Reaches' records to send to the Hall, it's taken her hours. She sits at one of those tables with her chin in the hollow of her palm and her elbow against the wood as she stares blankly at the hide in front of her, half filled. The scribe at the desk is ignoring her, whether pointedly or he has just grown accustomed to her presence, who can tell. Otherwise, the records remain mostly empty in this quiet, warm, bright afternoon.

In strides Journeyman Quint, giving a nod towards the scribe but otherwise not disturbing the silence, even his footfalls muted through long habit. He slows when he spots his apprentice, his expression a mixture of contemplative and vexed, hands falling to clasp behind his back. His expression fades into his usual easy neutrality as he steps around within sight of Alysce, head tipped, waiting for her to notice him.

It takes a moment for the movement past her immediate focus to break through whatever thoughts have captured Alysce's attention. When it does, her ''first'' reaction is to start moving her pen against hide, resuming with a brief faltering what she was copying. What, she's totally been working this whole time. Only then does she greet, "Hey. Still getting this--," she lifts her pen to sweep it in a gesture at her copy, "-- done. Unless you need me for something more pressing."

"Mmhmm," her Journeyman doesn't believe it for a second, and he makes it clear he knows ''she'' knows he doesn't believe it, either. Moreover, Quint moves towards the other side of the desk, pulls out the chair, and settles into it, his gaze on her writing rather than ''her''. After several minutes of silence, he finally says: "I can release you to resident duties until the clutching, if that is what you prefer."

Alysce's pretense of copying stops completely at that offer, her dark gaze lifting and narrowing on Quint under the fan of darker lashes. It takes her another few moments of silence before she answers, "That depends. Have you made up your mind about putting in for a transfer, then?"

Without a pause, Quint responds: "I have not, but I will after ''your'' decision is made." His fingers flicker towards her, as if to say, ''the ball is in your court''.

Suspicion flickers over Alysce's sharp features even as she continues studying Quint quietly. "I won't stand if you can promise that you won't put in for a transfer," she says simply. "Not until we are both ready to." There's a tinge of a whine to the words, but also a subtler appeal to the Journeyman; one that someone certainly isn't mature enough to make plain.

"I won't promise that," Quint says, plainly, gaze lifting from her copying work to her, "And I'm disappointed that you feel like you must blackmail me into such a decision. If ''you'' wish to stay at High Reaches as a harper, then," he lifts a hand, flickering up a finger for each point: "Walk the tables, and use your parents influence to see if they can get you a posting here." His fingers close back into a fist, as he murmurs: "Otherwise, you go where I go, while you're my apprentice. And I go where the Hall dictates."

Alysce makes a quiet noise, as if he's only confirmed her suspicions with his answer, as she drops the pen back to the table and straightens. Her only answer is a snapped counter, as if it should be obvious, "I am not walking the tables, Quint. I don't ''want'' to walk the tables." A pause, to stop to consider her next words for once before she continues flatly, "If I am ''just'' your apprentice, if I don't get any say-- Then maybe I ''should'' stay and stand."

Quint's brow goes upwards at her, ''I don't want to walk the tables'', head tilted. "You don't get a say, Alysce, because ''I'' don't get a say. That is the nature of being a crafter -- your craft decides where you are posted. Even if I didn't put in a transfer ''now'', like as not the hall would decide for us, come the end of the Turn. At least this way there's a chance we might be given some choice of the available postings." He exhales slowly and silently, the tightness of fingers as they tap the table the only thing displaying his frustration. "As I said; should you choose to stand, that is your choice. Do ''not'', however," he pushes to his feet, giving him height over her, "Use it as a threat or a bargaining chip. This is your life, your ''future'', and should you choose this on a whim and live to regret it later, I will not be held responsible. You are, as you have pointed out, old enough to make your own decision."

"I know how it works. I'm not asking you to guarantee that we'll be here come the end of the Turn, but--." Alysce cuts off, her own frustration showing like a bright signal in her expression. He rises, and she looks up, following him with her gaze but not moving to stand. She falls silent for a moment, until she finally adds dismissively, "I don't want to be released into residential duties."

"Good," Quint says, after a long pause, gaze going distant as he looks past her for a moment. "Then, tomorrow, after the morning lessons, we'll have lunch, and we can talk about what preferences you might have for our next posting. As long as you understand I have very little choice over the matter, but I will keep your own preferences in mind."

"I'll make a list." It seems that Alysce doesn't know whether to accept the offer graciously or with her usual disregard; it ends up as an awkward statement instead, before she shrugs up a shoulder lightly. She does hit on an easier, teasing note as she adds, "Can we have our lunch in Snowasis, though?"

Quint gives her a look that, for a moment, might seem reproving, and then: "Just this once," as he steps away, pushing the chair in neatly under the desk. "So long as you have all that copying done today."

"We'll see," is Alysce's noncommittal answer, a smile flickering at the corners of her lips as she tosses dark hair over one shoulder. But once he leaves, she will certainly be a lot more focused on finishing her work.
}}

Logs:Decision Making

2016-07-23T00:35:31Z

R'hin: Created page with "{{Log |who=Alysce, Quint |what=Quint considers his next posting, and Alysce makes a decision. |where=Craft Complex, High Reaches Weyr |day=24 |month=4 |turn=41 |IP=Interval |I..."

{{Log
|who=Alysce, Quint
|what=Quint considers his next posting, and Alysce makes a decision.
|where=Craft Complex, High Reaches Weyr
|day=24
|month=4
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.18
|quote="Perhaps it's time to put in for a posting elsewhere -- another Hold, perhaps."
|mentions=Odrick
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon alysce challenging.jpg, Icon quint eyes closed.jpg,
|desc=A passageway hewn into the rock and heavily patched with cement leads a
short distance in to the bowl wall, with a door on either side. Lit by
regularly spaced glows, the white-washed walls have been covered over by
colorful tapestries, wall hangings and pieces of art made from metal and
wood. To the left of the entranceway, just a single step inside, a spiral
staircase opens out of the wall, leading upwards through the stone.
Further down, a doorway opens to either side of the corridor, while at the
far end, there is a hewn-stone staircase leading up to the residential
quarters, wreathed by two final doors to private quarters and the bathing
room.

The door leading to the east opens into an expansive room that seems to
provide both general working space - with long, bare benches and chairs -
and a cozy lounge complete with over-stuffed sofas and a few fuzzy
armchairs. Three tall windows are carved into the stone, and offer air and
light when the heavy wooden shutters are left open, though the lounge area
has to make do mostly with glows. A hearth at the back of the room
provides both heat and basic cooking facilities. The white-washed walls
are bedecked with decoration - from quilts, to tapestries, to wooden
carvings and metal sculptures.

The western door leads into another passage, off of which the main
workrooms have been built. The loading dock is at the northern end,
leading back out into the bowl, with the rest of the rooms leading deeper
and deeper into the wall.
|log=The afternoon's classes are done with; the excited children practically bubbling out of the classroom and into the increasingly warm spring afternoon weather. That doesn't mean a harper's work is done, however: there's lesson plans and homework to prepare and all sorts of other things -- perhaps those number amongst the hides on the desk in front of Quint, but the Journeyman is forgoing all those in favor of strumming a somewhat familiar tune -- one of those heard in childhood but so rarely as to be forgotten, head tipped like he's remembering something. The notes are soft enough that they don't much disturb others working in the lounge.

Alysce waits, as she ever does, for the children to file out and disperse before she pokes her head in for her own duties that conclude the day. And instead of immediately interrupting her Journeyman with his music, she first moves to drag over a fuzzy armchair, which may be an interruption in itself as its legs drag across the stone floor. Once it has been dragged within range of Quint's desk, the harper flops down into it, in an artfully careless movement that is anything but to anyone who truly knows her. Her booted feet get swung onto the edge of the desk, landing there, before she finally greets with a light, "What do you have me scheduled for tomorrow?"

The slight twitch of Quint's lips might indicate the harper is well aware of his apprentice's presence, even before she begins dragging the chair in his direction, yet the chords never waver, marching on until the end of the song, when his fingers still the strings' movement. Normally, the Journeyman is quick to respond to such a question, with everything planned out well in advance. Today, however, he simply regards her -- and her oh-so-casual posture -- silently for a lengthy moment. "What do you ''wish'' to do?"

"Morning classes with the rest of the day off for my own training?" Alysce proposes, way too innocently and professionally, for all that she's watching Quint over the tips of her boots.

"Mmhmm," without missing a beat, "And what, precisely, would your training consist of?" her Journeyman asks, sharp-eyed gaze fixed on her.

A smile flickers on Alysce's lips for the follow-up question, and it's a prepared answer that he receives: "Study and observation of Weyr life and riders' habits."

Quint doesn't ''quite'' sigh, but there's a shift of expression that Alysce might well recognize after so long with him. "Alysce, if you haven't ''studied'' and ''observed'' weyrlife enough in the last two and a half Turns, then I'm afraid we've wasted our time here." He strums the gitar for a moment, an ominous note. Almost half to himself: "Perhaps it's time to put in for a posting elsewhere -- another Hold, perhaps."

"Will we ever ''truly'' know enough about dragonriders, though? I hear some of them are downright ''dangerous''," Alysce answers back, amusement teasing along her words that is perhaps driven more by the thought of her own cleverness. It's the latter bit, though, that wipes away any hint of humor, with the apprentice's dark eyes narrowing slightly in a study of Quint. "Why now?"

"''People'' are dangerous. Having a dragon doesn't necessarily make them ''more'' or ''less'', though -- I have read studies that suggest a dragon can exacerbate or inhibit one's personality," Quint's musing aloud, strumming continuing, gaze shifting past Alysce, thoughtful. The latter question earns a wry twitch of lips, "Why now? Because I get restless every few Turns, and it'll take six months for the hall to decide who is going if not before Turnover." If he's saying this merely to tease her, there's certainly nothing in his posture to indicate it; he seems utterly serious.

Alysce makes a small noise of disagreement, catching in her throat. But when she speaks, it's to challenge, "What if I am not ready to go, Quint? Especially to a Hold, where we'd lose all of the ''good'' parts of being in a Weyr." A pause, before she continues, "The Holds are worse than the Hall. All of their rules and proper behaviors and-- They are ''boring''."

"The goal of a Journeyman is to ''journey'', and the goal of an apprentice is to learn new things." Quint says it in a well-practiced fashion; clearly not the first time he's said something similar. "As ''I'' recall you weren't all that thrilled about leaving the warmth of Boll to come here -- who knows, we could end up at Ista Hold, maybe even Southern. You need to learn to be comfortable in every setting, regardless of your personal feelings." His fingers still the strings, as if to emphasize the point.

Alysce quirks a brow up at that little lesson, likely not the first time that she's heard it. This time, though-- This time, she responds neutrally, flatly, "If you put in for another placement, Quint, I'm going to put my name forward for candidacy." Her boots fall from the desk and she straightens, waiting expectantly for his reaction.

"If you feel that you no longer wish to be a harper, I won't stand in your way." Quint's voice is steady, as is his gaze as he regards his apprentice. "But if you're making the choice out of some sense that you can force me into a different action, you should understand it will be to little effect, Alysce."

"You always get to control all my decisions, Quint. You ''always'' stand in my way. Even when you don't think so, even when you don't even know," Alysce answers to that, annoyance in her words as they tumble out unchecked. "Shells, even Odrick won't fuck me because ''you'' might disapprove." She doesn't press her threat further, though, but she does rise in one swift motion, as if she has every intent to retreat.

There's a growing tightness in Quint's expression at Alysce's words, falling into deliberately netural, practiced harper expression. While his gaze doesn't waver from Alysce, neither does he seek to stop her retreat.

The lack of response only earns an angered huff of noise, but Alysce answers the silence with a tight, "I'll see you in the morning for classes," before she turns on a heel and strides away.
}}

T'zur

2016-07-17T02:59:00Z

R'hin:

{{Profile
|picture=T'zur.jpg
|mother=Destina (Beowin Trader)
|father=[[R'hin]] (Deceased Rider)
|siblings=Semar (+3)
|friends=[[J'nason]]
|body={{wysk}}

==What You Shouldn't Know==
T'zur father is now-deceased High Reachian rider R'hin, a fact he doesn't widely share, but some few people are aware of.
 During weyrlinghood at Benden Weyr, he is rumored to have been the cause of an accident that injured another weyrling bronze.

{{Family}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Mother
{{!}}Destina
{{!}}Trader Family Head
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=931478400}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Brother
{{!}}Semar
{{!}}Trader
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1225900800}}
{{!}}}

== RP Logs ==

{{NewLogs | name = T'zur{{!}}{{!}}Tuzur }}

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

{{Icons}}
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Benden Hold, Benden Weyr, Nabol Hold, Traders, Western Islands, Bronzeriders, HRW Wings
}}

Logs:What Bronzeriders Do

2016-07-16T05:34:11Z

R'hin: Created page with "{{Log |who=T'zur |what=T'zur's weyrlinghood doesn't go overly smoothly. |where=Benden Weyr |involves=Benden Weyr |day=13 |month=4 |turn=38 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gamedate=2016...."

{{Log
|who=T'zur
|what=T'zur's weyrlinghood doesn't go overly smoothly.
|where=Benden Weyr
|involves=Benden Weyr
|day=13
|month=4
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.11
|mentions=J'nason
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon t'zur thoughtful.jpg, Icon t'zur tziveth spider.png,
|log="He's won a green... or three." That's what he'd told J'nason, talking up his game. That was what bronzeriders did, right?

But he hadn't won three. He'd won precisely ''one''.

----

When he'd woken up next to his clutchmate greenrider Nerani, he'd felt the thrill of victory. He'd won her.

He'd lain still, not daring to wake her, despite the urge to slide a possessive hand over her hip. Instead, he'd stared at a tapestry on the wall over the curve of Nerani's cheek. He hadn't recognized the place in the tapestry -- not precisely -- but it was a section of the road in northern Pern, bordered on one side by the foothills of a mountain that rose up. In the far distance, a dragon could be seen soaring. It reminded him of the open road, travelling with the Beowins, waking up each morning to the brilliant sky and whatever weather the day might choose to bring.

This was where he'd belonged. This was how it was supposed to be.

He hadn't dared move.

Only, when Nerani finally opened her eyes, it wasn't the warmth and delight he'd long imagined in his head: instead, she made a sound of disgust when she realized who it was. "You're not B'fev."

No, he wasn't. He'd been the weedy, thin, ''unimpressive'' bronzerider. Not like ''B'fev'', who had been bulky, strong, and stalwart. Everything a bronzerider should be. Everything that T'zur was ''not''.

He'd shrugged it off, but it galled him, festering and lingering throughout the remainder of their weyrlinghood together.

<< ''She'' is nothing. She will give you ''nothing''. >>

It was true, of course, in the way Tziveth meant it. She was a greenrider. But he still ''wanted'' her, wanted her to want ''him''.

<< She is nothing, >> Tziveth repeated.

He could almost, ''almost'' make himself believe it.

----

The way B'fev could just wake up and look so ''good'', the way he maintained his bulk without even ''trying'' had been galling. T'zur had ''tried'' -- tried to make himself like B'fev, to be the one that Nerani wanted, to even just simply ''outdo'' him at something, ''anything''.

That morning, Tziveth had assured T'zur he had it well in hand. He'd wondered -- but he hadn't asked.

When B'fev's bronze was injured during weyrling training later that day, it hurt. Not the accident itself -- although that did too -- but the words she threw at him, after. "You did it on purpose! You were jealous of him, because I wanted him, and he wanted me."

It was true, all of it.

He was.

He did.

<>

And now she ''was''.

----

He ran. He'd loved running before he Impressed, and he still did.

He would never have B'fev's bulk, never be ''impressive''. He might never quite live up to the reputation of other bronzeriders. But he would be ''something''.

<< You will be. >> Tziveth's sibilant whisper warmed him.
}}

Logs:Set 'em up, Knock 'em down

2016-07-16T05:20:38Z

R'hin:

{{Log
|who=T'zur, J'nason, Alida, Alysce,
|what=J'nason doesn't fit in Glacier, and T'zur fails at picking up the chick.
|where=Kitchens, HRW
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=15
|month=4
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.15
|quote="Me? I'm just a friendly guy in a new place, looking to make friends."
|mentions=Taikrin, Riorde, Jocelyn
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon t'zur drink.jpg, Icon J'nason Innocent.png, Icon AlidaAlwaysWatching.JPG, Icon alysce amused.jpg,
|log=Even though it's mid-afternoon, T'zur is slumped in one of the booths in the kitchen, one elbow resting on the table, eyes definitely closed. He looks exhausted, and no wonder -- rumor has it Taikrin put him through his paces the previous evening (culminating in some dragging around to this or that bar or game or both while grilling him the whole time.) There's a half consumed mug of klah and a largely untouched bowl of stew in front of him, going cold. Tziveth, meanwhile -- no stranger to the cold nor the snowfall of the day -- is exploring the skies of his home in lazy, long circles high above.

Oh the rumor mill - J'nason has PLUGGED HIMSELF IN. It's awesome. Plus they stuck T'zur in his same wing and J'nason went through some of the same things when he got here. (Though he held up fairly well due to a nice tolerance for alcohol.) Thus he'll follow the NEXT rumor chain to where T'zur is sitting and slides himself into the chair across from his fellow not-from-here bronzerider. "Well. Met our wingleader, huh?" His smile is WAY TOO BIG.

T'zur jerks awake, eyes unfocused for a moment before he squints at J'nason. "Uh. Jay?" kind of blearily, shaking his head and wincing in regret a moment later. He makes a pained noise, though -- perhaps mercifully -- doesn't immediately throw up this time, considering where the other bronzerider chose to sit. "Ugh. Yeah. She's a," he struggles to come up with the correct descriptor: "Bit of a ball breaker. Got to respect that, though," he admits, slumping into his seat and tugging a hand through his hair. "Did she, uh, ask you some, mmm, ''weird'' questions, too?"

"I prefer to sleep ''with'' the ball breakers." Jason leans back in his chair, grinning at the other man without a single ounce of pity for T'zur's delicate space. "And yup. An interesting experience." He leans his chair against a cabinet behind him. "So. Why the transfer dude?"

"Somehow," T'zur remarks with crooked grin, "I don't think you're getting into ''Taikrin's'' pants." He stifles a yawn, shifting briefly. "I ''hear'' she's shacked up with one of those exiles?" there's a lilt like he's not quite sure, since undoubtedly he's heard it from a relative stranger. At the latter question he grimaces. "I mean, it was a long time coming. There's a reason I was asking you about Ista that other time, and why I came to visit you there," he trails off, briefly. "And then I heard you were," he waves his hand, presumably indicating ''here''. "Poof. Why'd ''you'' transfer?"

"T'zur," J'nason sounds SUPER SERIOUS about this, "There is no such thing as a woman I wouldn't want to sleep with. Sometimes... it just takes ''time''." Alluding to the idea that Jason would totally wait to get into the Wingleader's pants. IT COULD HAPPEN OKAY. "Well, the public story is that I just wanted a change." J'nason does a half shrug, T'zur can have some of the real answer though, "Full answer- guess someone complained about our ''little'' fight during the flight."

It's mid-afternoon, and T'zur and J'nason are settled in one of the kitchen nooks, an untouched bowl of stew sitting in front of the former Bendenite. Who, incidentally, looks like he had a bad night. Or a good one, depending on how you view hangovers. T'zur's groaning, and not just because he's hungover, either: "Jay, that's just... fine. Five marks, you can't get into her pants before the end of the Turn," he holds out his palm for the former Istan to shake on it, he's ''that'' sure. It's the latter that makes him tip his head, and make a funny noise. "Huh. Really? We didn't... I mean, the..." he leans closer, muttering, "The twins aren't like... ''pregnant'' or anything, are they?"

''Someone'' was relatively mellow, sitting out at Glacier's table in the living cavern, ingesting her dinner, while her wingmates discussed and joked about the usual...especially the new faces acquired. And then, by dint of someone else's bad luck, some quick movement, and a need for another bubbly pie before they all disappeared, Alida's suddently *wearing* the hot filling of one of the things, and cussing like a master Miner. Give her a few moments to scrape off the blistering filling with burned fingers and scowl her anger at the stupid teen who got in her way, and the blonde is stamping towards the Kithens to try and acquire both a soapy rag and one more bubbly pie. And some cold water to soothe her fingers. Owie. As the bluerider enters, the leftovers of her frustration, hunger, and pain (oh, and that anger, of course) light her face. At this point, she could care less about other riders in here. Owie-owie-grrrr.

Alysce looks damned near pristine, then. The harper apprentice wears no sign of her rank; she doesn't even sport the usual harper blues anywhere on her person, instead wrapped into an oversized, cream-colored sweater that slips slightly off one shoulder and dark pants. Of course, this sweater also sports a similar stain to Alida's. She is stalking after the bluerider, telling her, "If this doesn't come out, you owe me a new sweater." She doesn't remain ignorant of the other riders, her dark gaze sweeping over them, but it is only followed by her turning away to hold her hand out to Alida and the soapy rag. "Who even eats these anymore? Like, seriously."

J'nason should never EVER take up gambling, because he just can't seem to ''not'' take a bet when it's offered to him. Especially one that involves him maybe-or-maybe not getting laid and thus getting better treatment in a wing. DOUBLE WORK TIME as he takes T'zur's hand to seal the bargin. But he can't help screwing with him, so with his own stage whisper he'll begin, "Well, Sheena didn't want to tell..." And then he's just going to whistle as Alida - we're gonna say he's learned her name sometime in the last seven and skip that part pretty please okay? Feel free to hate him already or whatever~ - comes in with pie alll over her, and then gets followed by another woman. "The color isn't bad on you-" J'nason helpfully calls out.

T'zur's momentary expression of victory and sealing what -- to him -- is an easy five marks -- ''quickly'' alters at J'nason's murmur. His eyes widen, and he huffs a breath, and then he snorts and mutters fervently, "''Dick''," slouching back into his seat. The motion that captures his wingmate's attention also turns his gaze, half twisting to eye the incoming pair with a stifled grin. "Did we miss a food fight? Ugh. Probably for the best. Don't think my stomach could handle the excitement." There's not really any sympathy in the bronzerider's gaze, instead blandly kind of assessing the girls with a grin aftwards.

Alida looks rather 'irked' that the teen is daring to follow her - given the reputation that the 'white wher' holds in the Weyr - the bluie finally whirling about on Alysce and glaring at her with heated, clear green eyes while lipping off a low, "Yer lucky I'm not jamming the rest up yer..." Temper, temper, woman. Leaving off the rest of *that* particular chain of voiced thought, the unknotted, palest-blonde clips off in aside to the Harper, "Y'll owe me the same then." Cue a sudden, evil little smirk-smile. "My sweater's worth three uv' yers." Truth: it's one of those 'Reachian cable knit affairs with particular patterns and a mix of sea-colors. A pretty penny, it cost. The rest of the teen's words are ignored in favor of hurrying to a Kitchen worker who finally helps 'lida with cold water, soap, a towel, and a hand with trying to work out that blackberry stain from her precious sweater. Whoever whistled gets a small jerk of a glare towards him - J'nason recognized quickly - his reponse evincing a flipping of the bird his direction. T'zur's noted in the interim; there's nothing of 'girl' about Alida, the ex-guard and Taikrin sort-of wannabe all business...and pain, right now. At the moment, her fingers are wrapped in a towel saturated with cold water, and the Kitchen woman is deftly scrubbing out what she can of berry stains. Of food fights, the blonde notes coolly, "Open yer mouth, and I'll shove the rest uv' this bubbly down it, sweety." Maybe with her fist included?

Alysce rolls her eyes in disbelief of Alida, and instead of coming back with any smart retort, she does the opposite: she ignores the woman. Instead, she offers dryly to the other dragonriders, "Well, it seems someone can't make up her mind about where to jam a bubbly pie. And neither of you can think of anything more clever." J'nason, in specific, gets a quirked brow and a smirkey smile. "It doesn't look bad on me? Really? That's the best you can do?" Her gaze slides briefly to Alida, and then to the boys, as she rolls her eyes again. "Dragonriders."

A snort of laughter for T'zur, "Only for you man." J'nason winks at T'zur - he's going to tease that man to DEATH AND BACK AGAIN. One arm hooks over the back of his chair so he can turn and face the woman completely. He's got a VIBE that neither of them are sleeping with him tonight. But that's okay. He's got his boy across the table (even if said boy might have to be poured into bed later). "Now Alida, is that any way to greet our newest wingpal?" Jason's just gonna coin that as a real word. His free arm stretches out towards T'zur, "T'zur, once of Benden, now in out ''happy'' little family- and sweetheart," his blue eyes turning to wink at the apprentice, "He was just mentioning how much he was looking forward to making some new acquaintances around here. Is that a way to start off a friendship?"

"And here Jocelyn said everyone at High Reaches was welcoming." Well, that's not ''precisely'' what she said, or in fact anywhere ''near'' what she said, but then T'zur couldn't feel all aggrieved otherwise. His gaze flickers from the grumpy bluerider to Alysce, making a face. "We aren't all bad. I may, Jay," a thumb is jerked towards his fellow bronzerider, "Is pretty bad, admittedly, but you shouldn't judge the rest of us based on ''him''," is said wryly. It's J'nason's words that draw his gaze back towards Alida with a grimace, "She's in Glacier too?" might almost be a groan, tightly heeled. Of course, the groan is probably for J'nason's words, and it's not just because he's still hung over that his head drops into his hands.

At least Alida sort-of shut up Alysce in regards to herself, so the Harper gets no more invective spewed at her, the roving-eyed J'nason instead focused on with pinpoint accuracy and shot at with an alto verbal arrow of, "Dipshit. You oughtta know Glacier well-enough by now ta ferget the bullshit." Indeed, that particular Wing is most definitely *not* full of delicately-spoken people. If they're anything else besides rought, loud, hard, and tough, then it;s likely quiet and watchful. Which begs the question of just WHY J'nason *is* in Glacier in the first place. As for T'zur, there's a slight bob of braided head, a quick assessment by pain-touched eyes, and a grunt of, "Heard abou'cha." ALready? News travels fast. As her fingers cool their aching, there's some very quiet words exchanged with the middle-aged woman who helps her, as well as a pair of nods, and a sigh. Noted fatalistically over her shoulder to anyone who might hear: "Nineteen outta' twenty bronzers're nothing but bad news." A quick, evil grin again is for T'zur's moan about 'lida being a Glacier-ite. Welcome to the crew.

"No, but it may be a good way to end one," Alysce counters back to J'nason's question, flashing a brightly, sharply edged smile back at him. Yet still, the harper doesn't move to leave; instead, she hops up on the counter there, leaning back onto the palms of hands as she watches the play between wingmates for the moment. To T'zur, she questions, "So, which one of you is Jay?" As if he didn't just point him out, as if they might be indistinguisable from each other.

J'nason knows exactly what he is doing when he reaches out to punch the other bronzerider's shoulder - hard, of course. Jason's gonna get him into shape SOON. Before Glacier can take and RUIN HIM. "Look at it like a challenge, aye?" Then back to the woman. He meets Alida's grumpyness with a smile that could totally break non-ice-woman (see, a Glacier pun!) hearts. "You'll make T'zur feel bad with words like that, as obviously," a wink for T'zur at his teasing, "I'm the one. Also, J'nason - Jason, Jay - whichever you choose. But I'm afraid I don't know your name?"

It's a welcome of sorts, and T'zur takes it, with a wry grin at Alida: "If I ralphed all over your shoes last night, well... I don't remember it, but I'm probably sorry." If he's nonplussed by her knowing all about him, it doesn't seem to show; maybe it has something to do with the hangover. Oddly, however, he seems pleased with his new wingmates assessment about bronzeriders. That lasts about as long as it takes for J'nason to punch him -- ''again''. "Ffffffffaaaaaark, man." T'zur ''might'' be moderating his language for the sake of that apprentice staring at them, or maybe not. He hunches back onto his side, muttering, "Jay's the dick one," vaguely in Alysce's direction.

Alida sure looks like ice, but there's nothing but fire left over behind those usually inscrutable, green eyes as he keeps on talking at her, introducing himself. Well, at least she's in lesser amounts of pain by now, and her sweater is mostly clear of stains, so she feels just enough equitability to retort, "If he's Glacier, he'll learn ta live...'r transfer out." See? She's almost chummy! Of J'nason, "Saw ya in drills." Glacier's big on drills when it's not slacking off or fighting something...like hangovers. Wait, whut? Pucked on *her* shoes? Blink. Oh. "Enjoy yer first 'Reachian goldflight, I take it?" Smirk. "No way *my* shoes." She avoids bronzers like the plague...their beds, anyway. And though the comment might've been meant for Alysce, Alida runs with it, barks out a hard snort of laughter at 'dick one,' which should make T'zur's head ache just a wee bit more. And then finally, finally, there's closure on the bubbly pie stain incident, and soon enough, Alida's accepting the gift of another of the things from the same Kithen lady with a soft thank you, then turning away to make her way out of the Kitchen. The worker calls in motherly fashion, "Go get that one burn numbweeded, or else." A quick grin between the two women and a meek-like "Yess'um" from Alida sees her heading back outside...towards one of the tunnels leading towards the Healers' area. The others talking at/with/to her? All they get is a scrape over of eyes, a thin smirk, and a nod before she slips away.

"Alysce," she answers easily enough, before continuing to clarify in some mimic of Jason, "Not Aly, or Lys, or any other name you can think of. Just Alysce." She doesn't seem to care ''too much'' about Alida's burns, selfishly only relieved that the other woman has stepped away from the available kitchen worker and her soap and rag as she slides off the counter and back to her feet. Except that she then drags her own sweater off, pulling the finally harper blue tank underneath halfway up her stomach. The sweater is handed off rather than doing the cleaning herself as she mumbles a thanks to the kitchen worker, before turning back to the boys. "What about the flight? Actually, don't tell me; I don't care."

"Hey, it's one of my greatest assets." J'nason lifts both hands up in a shrug of what-can-you-do-when-you-are-this-awesome, in response to T'zur's dick jab. Fingers come up to wiggle at Alida's back side, and as an aside to T'zur, "I think she likes me." He actually manages to say that with a STRAIGHT FACE. Hello Alida, J'nason has decided to be your new BFF. >:) Then to Alysce, "Well, that's good, as it would be rather confusing if you were Lys, seeing as there's already one here-" He holds up a finger to turn to T'zur, "Remind me to introduce her to you."

T'zur really doesn't look like he's taking in either Alysce's careful recitation of her name, nor Alida's headed warnings about the wing. He doesn't straighten from hunched posture, though he makes a face now and then, mostly at J'nason. "The flight was fun." Even if he lost. And got punched. J'nason is eyed somewhat bemusedly: "Another five marks for ''her''," a thumb vaguely directed towards the already departed bluerider. Perhaps he's not as serious about this offer, since he doesn't offer his palm, just snorts, and then grimaces.

Alysce marks T'zur's opinion on the flight only by offering her own sharp noise of disagreement. No, you're wrong. Instead of offering further comment, however, she replies to J'nason, "Yes, I know. Some greenrider who Impressed from their last clutch." She rolls a shoulder up in a shrug, dismissive, as she leans back against the counter again to wait.

"You're only saying that about the flight because I was able to hook you up after." J'nason has a HUGEly inflated opinion of his awesomness. But that's okay, because he's totally friendly about it, stretching out his legs in front of him like he doesn't have a care in the ''world''. (That will change if Glacier's WiL has anything to say about it probably.) "One gamble at a time, but look," A hand reaches out, plam out to show Alysce. "I think she's gotten the wrong idea about you." His attention turns towards the girl, "T'zur's not your typical bronzer." Implying J'nason really is, "He doesn't look much older than you, and he's new. Could do with a friend his age." And if Alysce chooses to sleep with him somewhere in the future THAT IS FINE TOO.

''That'' gets movement from T'zur; a jerk of surprise. "''You'' hooked ''me'' up? I remember it ''distinctly'' being the other way around." In that distinct way in which he was totally drunk but is sure it would never have played out the way his fellow bronzerider describes it. The former Bendenite looks ''particularly'' unimpressed with the description of himself as ''not'' a typical bronzerider, scowling briefly, though it fades as he eyes Alysce speculatively, in that way that might make it seem he's assessing her merits as ''more than friends''. "I mean, yeah, I could use a friend," he admits. "''This'' one is a dick," a thumb wags in J'nason's direction. He's taking full advantage of the cards he's been dealt, here.

"Calm down, you two. I am pretty sure ''neither'' of you did any hard work in getting hooked up during a flight," Alysce points out dryly to both of them, even making the move to flick her hair over one shoulder to accentuate the point. She meets T'zur's assessment with unimpressed dark eyes, her brow still curved upwards. But it's J'nason that she asks, "So, if ''he's'' not a typical bronzerider, what does that make you? Besides a dick."

"Me? I'm just a friendly guy in a new place, looking to make friends." Sincerity oozes from J'nason as he grins at the twenty something. It's really annoying, usually, to be around someone so completely comfortable in their own skin.

Maybe, just ''maybe'', the Bendenite tries to straighten a little and expand his chest a little more while he's being examined, before he sinks back into his seat when the harper's attention turns elsewhere. T'zur lets out a guffaw, clearly approving of Alysce's response, glancing at J'nason briefly, before he vainly attempts to drink some of the (now cold) klah.

"Just a friendly guy looking to make friends," is repeated flatly, soft amusement playing at the edge in her own words as Alysce sweeps her gaze over J'nason. "I haven't heard that once or twice or a million times. You know, you really should pick better lines to use on a harper. Or do you usually let your big, shiny dragon do all the talking for you?" The sweater, however, seems to be cleaned as much as it can be, and when the apprentice takes it back from the kitchen worker, she moves to join them at their table rather than retreating. She takes the seat by T'zur, across from J'nason, but adds with a side-glance to the former, "Why are you looking for friends?"

"Hephaisth?" Excuse J'nason for a moment, he's just going to choke and start //laughing//, he won't be good for much as he lifts up a finger to point at her like she just made the most ''funny'' joke in the whole world. Coughing his way to an end J'nason lets out a few more guffs and shakes his head. "You're a funny one. T'zur's got a sense of humor too, T'zur, tell her the one about the runner."

The grimace T'zur gives is probably for the cold klah, and not for Alysce's question, which gets a response after a beat: "Thought it'd be obvious. I moved here a day ago, and the only person I ''do'' know is a dick, as you've discovered," he flickers a glance to J'nason that might be apologetic, but... he's in! Maybe. Except... J'nason's put him on the spot with a runner joke, and his hangover isn't helping. "Um. What did the runner say when it fell?" He waits a beat for dramatic effect rather than any expectation of an answer, because he adds quickly: "I've fallen and I can't ''giddyup''!" Okay, it's ''lame'', but he tried.

T'zur might not be ''so'' in, because Alysce's dark gaze keeps sliding to J'nason, but perhaps that's just to check to make sure he doesn't choke on his laughter and die on them. "I'll tell you a secret: you don't want any friends here, anyways. They are pretty much all jackasses," she tells him lightly, shrugging a shoulder upwards briefly but offering a more friendly smile than the ones before. That joke gets a quirked brow, and the twenty year old really tries to maintain her don't-give-a-shit persona, but after a brief second a giggle/snort escapes. She tells him, "That was terrible. You should be ashamed."

See J'nason? This is him totally reaching out to steal T'zur's tea. He knows when to let his home-boy take it HOME. GO T'ZUR JASON BELIEVES IN YOU.

Maybe T'zur will be upset about the tea. Later. He's distracted by the fact that Alysce actually snorted as his joke. "It was terrible," he admits. "How about the one where the runner walks up to the bar and orders a drink. The bartender sets a glass in front of him, and says, 'It's okay, friend. You can talk to me. Why the long face?'"

Can you steal stolen tea? Because Alysce leans across the table to steal the tea back from J'nason, tsking as she tells the Istan transfer, "It looks like ''he'' could use it more, and it's probably your fault, isn't it?" She pins a Look on him, a challenging brow curved upwards. It's only T'zur's joke that pulls her attention away, and this time she might have been prepared for the terrible joke, since she only wrinkles her nose. She asks, "What is a pirate's favorite letter?" Pause. "A pirate's true love is the c."

J'nason claps his hands together because he is ''pretty'' sure that her innocent taking of his cup to give back to T'zur (at least, that's what he's PRETTY SURE she is doing) is a GOOD SIGN. Pushing himself up from the table Jason turns at an angel where Alysce can't see his wink to T'zur. "Well, long night, and tomorrow will be another day of someone trying to convince me that everyone in Glacier really ''is'' made of ice." And with that SUPER SMOOTH annoucement J'nason is going to leave the two ALONE. BWHAHAHA!

T'zur eyes the returned tea with somewhat of a surprise, and groans at Alysce's pirate joke. He holds up his hands, "I'm out. I can only ride the runner jokes so far before they collapse." When J'nason stands, his wingmate eyes him sidelong, and grins in mute thanks. "Hey, night man. Glad to see you here." There's a bit of that awkward silence transition as he glances back at the harper afterward. "So, uh. Harper, was it?"

Alysce might miss that wink, but it's not from lack of watching. Her dark gaze lifts after J'nason as he rises, only lingering in a moment's study, but then she turns back to T'zur with a flick of dark hair over her shoulder. "Yep," she answers easily. "But I've been here at High Reaches for almost three turns. Just so you know. I'm not some impressionable girl that's going to go crazy over a man who rides a dragon."

"Wasn't thinking that," T'zur is quick to deny, whether it's truth or not. He takes his tea back with a grateful smile, exhaling after the liquid's settled. "So, what do you do for fun? I've been here all of a day or so -- I mean, there's plenty to do, things to unpack and furniture to procure and things to hang -- but I figure all that can wait until I'm, uh, maybe ''less'' hungover," it's admitted without a trace of shame.

"Mostly, I get away from here," Alysce answers with a glance around them before settling her attention back onto T'zur. "Gathers, Southern, beaches. But Snowasis isn't bad and there's some nice spots to read and write." She finally shakes out her sweater, before drawing it back over her head and yanking it down with a flashed smile towards the bronzerider. "I'm sure your dick of a friend can help you with all that. I'm also not the kind of girl that helps people move or clean or hang anything, just in case you were thinking of asking."

"Huh. Plenty of rider friends to take you then? I guess there goes," T'zur flickers his fingers, "My hope of using ''that'' to lure your friendship," ruefully. He's watching her, unapologetically, as she pulls her sweater back on. As for the latter: "Wouldn't dream of it. Though I ''might'' ask for decorating tips when I've more of a mind," he tests the waters on that, head tilted.

Alysce really doesn't seem to mind the looking, shrugging her shoulder upwards at the question. "Some. And others that are willing to take a mark or two to go somewhere they were already going with a passenger." The latter suggestion gets the expected lift of an eyebrow and the flicker of amusement. "What, so you can get me up to your weyr?"

"A mark or two?" T'zur sounds surprised by that, whistling, then wincing as he clearly regrets it. "That's a fair rort there. You know," he taps fingers against the table, thoughtfully. "If residents here are paying that, we could work together to undercut them. Steal the business, you know? You hook them in, spread the word -- I'll find riders to help out." Once a trader, always a trader. He doesn't look embarrassed by her latter question, just grinning instead, "Well, ''yeah''."

"I would say that I'm not that type of girl, but I am," Alysce answers blandly to his grinning agreement, her fingers mussing through black hair as she sweeps a look over T'zur and then glances towards the exit of the kitchens. "But, you're not really my type. Actually, your dick of a friend is probably more my usual type. Sorry." Probably not all ''that'' sorry, though, since she only offers a half-smile to T'zur with the apology. "Mm. Will you be the one to start breaking kneecaps of riders to keep them from offering free rides to friends so our business grows, though?"

T'zur's grin widens at her first words, for all of three seconds before she stomps all over his ego and thoroughly trashes it in the process. "Oh. Right. Yes." Of ''course'' she likes Jay. He looks disappointed in that way that suggests it's probably not the first time he's been shot down in favor of ''that other bronzerider''. "Uh, what? Um. Maybe. Look, I have to uh... go." As she's blocking his way, he gestures his intent to leave.

Alysce's smile falters, but she nods. She slides to her feet, arching her back and stretching in an exaggerated gesture that she has probably ''practiced''. "I'll see you around, T'zur. If you're still looking for friends," she teases, lightly.

T'zur is a bad guest. Or, inhabitant, now -- he doesn't even put away his dishes in his haste to leave the now awkward situation. He ''does'' however look at Alysce as she stretches -- he can't help it -- and hastily departs with a mutter that might be a positive, but could just as easily be non committal response to the tease to allow him to leave with marginal dignity.
}}

User:R'hin

2016-07-16T03:40:26Z

R'hin:

== Log Stats ==

{{LogCountAll | player=Alts:R'hin}}

== Recent Scenes I've Played ==

{{NewLogs | name={{Alts:R'hin}}}}

== Played-With Cloud ==

{{Cloud | player=R'hin |exclude=R'hin;Devaki;Drex;Quint;T'zur}}

Alts:R'hin

2016-07-16T03:38:50Z

R'hin:

R'hin||Devaki||Drex||Quint||T'zur

User:R'hin

2016-07-16T03:38:22Z

R'hin:

== Recent Scenes I've Played ==

{{NewLogs | name={{Alts:R'hin}}}}

== Log Stats ==

{{LogCountAll | player=Alts:R'hin}}

== Played-With Cloud ==

{{Cloud | player=R'hin |exclude=R'hin;Devaki;Drex;Quint;T'zur}}

Dragon:Tziveth

2016-07-16T03:31:06Z

R'hin:

{{NorConDragon
|insta=Yes
|body===Temperament==
''"What do you want?"''

There will be times when Tziveth feels as alien to you as a stranger: you may come to understand a human's mind, through their deeds and words, more often than not driven by emotion and history. But dragons aren't tethered to such things, and the thoughts of the bronze with whom T'zur is paired ofttimes feel incomprehensible. It does get better. Time gives, if not understanding, at least accord, though weyrlinghood is a struggle of vast proportions, not the least of which is due to fast lengthening limbs and a barracks half full with girls in all their distant, tempting, glory, as alien as Tziveth once felt.

He is thoughtful, is your bronze. Merticulous. Patient. He studies with you, and at times might seem like he's more interested in the goings-on of humans than many dragons. Certainly, he's not afraid to ''nudge'' you, to talk with this person or that. The tendrils of his shadowy thoughts constantly seek out those places where dragons and humans alike harbour their secret wishes and desires.

He has amibtions, closely harboured, for you that will come out in time and in many, subtle ways. You might not realize for Turns down the track that the reason he nudged you into a relationship with that particular greenrider was that her father was a once-Weyrleader, and happy to share his wisdom and thoughts; or that bar you used to think you visited purely for dicing was actually the home of someone highly connected in the gambling dens. Small things, and subtle nudges over time might well see you in a position where he's pleased -- but never ''content'' -- for there is always something more to strive for, to drive you towards.

==Mindvoice==
His thoughts, at first touch, feel like a velvety blackness, cold, ''strange'', but not always frightening. The occasional sprinkle of lights appear like a cloudless night sky, and yet, betimes, the stars vanish unexpectedly, and there's a feel of movement in the darkness; when he seeks, it is like tendrils of darkness slipping out amongst the cracks, seeking purchase.. His voice is bassy of timbre, underscored by a distant sort of sibilant echo, though he far prefers the directness and honesty of thought to speech.

==Inspiration==
Frank Underwood, of House of Cards, mixed with the Shadows of Babylon 5.
}}

Logs:Forging New Traditions

2016-07-16T03:20:37Z

R'hin:

{{Log
|who=Bristia, Jo
|what=Savannah's leaving for Monaco the next day and Jo stops by Bristia and R'hin's place to see her off.
|where=R'hin's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=7
|month=1
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.29
|quote="Do ya ''wanna'' go back?"
|mentions=R'hin, Mielline, Taikrin, Keysi, Kyouri, S'din, Suireh, Riahla, T'zur
|type=Log
|ooc=Language. ''Backdated''.
|icons-new=Icon bristia.jpg, Icon jo swept.jpg
|log=The sun is setting when Saindyth gets the murmuring crowds and the shadows, signalling Tacuseth's touch along with a brief << Jo would like to visit before yours leaves, >>, the blue's proximity felt from her and Leiventh's ledge that has become familiar to him.

Saindyth has, it seems, grown used to the visits from the blue; his question is responded to with a burbling warmth, welcoming and inviting. << You are most welcome. >> The green is, as is her habit, perched up on the rim with other Savannah dragons, enjoying the last of the sun on what will be their last day at High Reaches. The ledge itself looks full; in a non-deliberate echo of their arrival, boxes are piled on top of one another, waiting for transport. The doors to both sides of the weyr are open, though the hearth on R'hin's side of the weyr is the that's burning, both the warmth and light serving to draw the visitor in that direction. Inside, it's a kind of organized chaos; the couch has served as a makeshift clothes horse, the table as temporary storage for a handful of knick-knacks, a locked wooden box, and a well-worn knife. The top of the liquor cabinet, now empty of its contents, also stores a handful of items, mostly letters and a few bits and pieces of personal items, jewelry and other things. Bristia moves amongst it all with fast steps, like a woman on a mission, choosing one of the three piles for each item she pulls out of the press.

<< Thanks, doll, >> comes from Tacuseth despite the subdued tones of his rider’s grief as he lands carefully on the full ledge - in a way as not to upset the boxes. Even Jo is slower to dismount as she looks around, wrapped in black leather pants and a newer, dark riding jacket. Her face lacks the easiness one is used to seeing on her as she looks around at all she can see from the ledge before walking towards R’hin’s side of the weyr until she pauses before Bristia. Silence reigns as the convict rider takes in all the items being stored before she focuses on the blonde’s back as she says, “It’s gonna seem like y’all weren’ ever here, won’ it, darlin’?”

"Like we never existed," Bristia agrees, with a kind of wry humor, tempered by well-worn grief of her own. She stops before Jo, regarding the bluerider, sharp blue once-harper eyes taking in the Snowdrift Wingsecond's expression. Wordlessly, she reaches out to squeeze the bluerider's arm, before releasing it. "Drink?" She's already moving, as if it's to be expected. "I found a bottle stashed at the bottom of the wardrobe. I think maybe even ''he'' forgot it was there. No glasses, though." If there's an unevenness at the reference to her former Wingleader, it's hidden in her voice, and she's already turned away, moving for the cabinet.

There’s a dark grimace from Jo on that answer, clearly against Savannah wing leaving but for now, she says nothing. That squeeze to her arm manages to clear up that grimace, however, and when drink is offered, “No better way, considerin’,” is her agreement, moving further into the weyr now to examine the progress of the move. When her dark gaze lingers on Bristia in the end, “Do ya ‘’wanna’’ go back?” she asks now, arriving to a table.

"There's lots of reasons to," Bristia says, with her typical temperance of opinion, straightening once she's located the dark-glassed, label-less bottle. She moves over and offers Jo the first drink, as the guest. "It isn't the first time, there's been as many reasons ''for'' as ''against''." The greenrider's lips thin, in remembrance, exhaling. "It's ''funny'', in a way, that both times are because of ''him''."

Taking the offered bottle with a nod as she one-handedly loosens the front of her jacket, "There's been more of yer home than here," Jo takes a guess before she takes a long drink, then passes it back. "I get that. Now that he's...." Pause. "...in yer boots, I 'spose I wouldn' wanna be here, either." Looking around now, she adds quietly, "Too many memories." Back to Bristia. "Ya known him a long time, haven' ya?" she asks now for the last.

Bristia gives an easy nod of agreement with that assessment, reaching to take the bottle once offered. She's looking down at it, initially, not drinking, as she answers: "We Impressed together. He was a right little ''ass'' back in those days, and he and the Weyrlingmaster S'din were each, so ''sure'' they were in the right. Got me in trouble as much as not, ended up running laps with him around the bowl almost every other day." She makes a face, though there's a fondness that curves her lips upwards. "He kind of... ''grew'' on me. Like... a creeping plant." Now she takes a drink, letting the liquid slide down her throat, exhaling and setting the bottle on the table within easy reach of the pair of them, reaching for the knife on the table. "It's not even the memories, honestly. There's as much of that at Monaco as here, moreso, in some respects. It's..." her finger traces the edge of the blade, lips thinning as it draws a thin line of blood on her finger. "I feel the onus to see it through. To stick with Savannah, even if we might not ''be'' Savannah, any more." Her blue gaze flickers towards Jo, as if seeking to determine whether the bluerider comprehends that, or not.

Hearing some of R’hin’s history seems to draw some of that easy smile to Jo’s lips as she listens. With a soft snort, “I would’ve joined,” she relates on running laps, shaking her head as she reaches for the bottle once more. “He grew on me that way, too. Had a way ‘bout him, that’s for sure.” She takes a drink as she listens to the rest, her dark eyes landing on the drawn blood on Bristia’s finger. Meeting her gaze from there, there’s a tiny nod and a, “That’s good. That’s good. ‘Til the very end, right?” Looking away as she brings the bottle to her lips, “Ya...let me know when it’s all done, right?” she asks now, frowning.

The bluerider's admission that the bronzerider had the same effect on her seems to lighten Bristia's expression, letting out a soft laugh. "Yes, well. He was ''something'', all right," she murmurs, vehemently. ''What'' isn't exactly elucidated, but then, perhaps it doesn't need to be. She sets the knife down, briefly sucking on her finger, while her gaze meets Jo. Her, "Of course," seems sincere enough, as she slides into one of the chairs, pulling the wooden box towards her. She produces a key from somewhere -- one of her pockets? -- and unlocks it, flipping through the contents -- which at a glance appear to be well-worn scraps of hide. Every now and then, she pulls one free, until a small amount rest on the table. These, she pushes towards Jo. "You might make use of these. Better than I would, at any rate." They're familiar, if one recognizes the stamped markers that indicate a debt owed, often used by gamblers. The names on them might not be familiar, but it's by no coincidence that the handful of markers she's pulled free list their place of residence as somewhere in the High Reaches sweep area.

"He was a real good friend when I needed one," Jo admits more soberly, settling into the chair opposite of Bristia as she takes another drink and sets the bottle between them. "Back when I didn' believe in friendships." Looking straight at her, "I could tell," she says now, "that he regarded ya highly. Somethin' tells me that he doesn' regard another easily. ''You''...''Him''...the wing....this place....will be missed." The words are earnest and genuine, the wingsecond pointed in her regard." Now she watches what the greenrider is doing with the hide. When a pile is pushed towards her, she picks the topmost one up to examine what's written. She picks up another and another before looking to Bristia and giving her a single nod of her head. "I'll be sure to look into them," she says in her thanks, one corner of her mouth lifting. "I wish I had somethin' to give in return, darlin'. But, ya have me. Even though I'm sure she's stayin' here, ya have Keysi, too. Anythin' ya need, Bristia, ya come to me. Have Saindyth reach out'n I don' care what time of day or night it is."

There's a flicker of surprise from Bristia, well-heeled with Turns of practice, at the bluerider's talk of friendship. Warmth spills throughout her expression, however, a natural disposition, at the words she will be missed. "And we will miss this place. Truly, it became a haven when we were exiled." While Jo reaches for the pile, the Savannah rider reaches for the bottle in turn, taking a generous gulp. With a quick smile, a half-shrug of dismissal, the former harper murmurs, "I'll settle for a once-in-a-while visit with the latest gossip. I imagine, given we're welcome back, High Reaches is no longer unwelcome. At least, while Kyouri is acting Weyrwoman, at any rate." There's a smile, now, for the latter words: "Thank you. And the same for you, too. Though," with a wry grin, as she glances at the bottle, "I'd prefer ''not'' dawn. Far too used to the late morning starts, I'm afraid."

"Savannah'n Glacier dart games in the Snowasis," Jo brings up with a touch of wistfulness, shaking her head. "Can't believe that shit has to be over now. Even with me in Snowdrift now....it ain' the same. Glacier's gonna miss ya'll. Ya gave'em good competition. It became tradition." She collects up the hides and opens her jacket to slip them inside into one of the inner pockets as she states, "I'll visit. Promise. I'll bring the drink next time'n we could sit out on the beach'n catch up. Or throw knives. Late mornin'," that brings a grin, "which," she pauses now to dip fingers to dig into her inner pockets once more to fish out a letter and lay it between them for Bristia to pick up. "I'm to deliver that to his son," she explains now, nodding towards it. "I reckon I would find him through Destina?"

"Traditions," Bristia says, with a twitch of lips, "Can be created anew. Perhaps, now that you're in Snowdrift, it will be Snowdrift and Glacier?" she suggests, with a tilt of her head. "The wings in an interval needn't be so separated. Competition in a Pass enhanced surviviability. In an Interval, one might term it a liability." She's giving a nod of her head at the offer of drinks, with a not-quite-serious, "I'll hold you to that. Especially the beach part -- that's one aspect I'm looking forward to." She's still holding onto the bottle, apt to take another drink -- it gets halfway to her mouth when Jo pulls at the letter, and then she lowers it, with a long pause, and a longer regard. "I reckon you could be right." She grimaces here, now, lips twisting. "He never talked about him. I imagine he thought distancing himself apt to provide a better upbringing than the twins experienced, in the shadow of their parents." That ''she'' disagreed with that sentiment is written all over her face, and in the way her fingers brush, but don't pick up, the letter. Her, "Stupid old fool," starts out exasperated, but ends in a sharp inhale of breath, as if checking whatever sharp emotion follows it, gaze cast downwards, shoulders tense.

"If Taikrin'n Mielline could get along," Jo says of traditions between the wings, something about it seem amusing to her. "But ya have a point. The wings here ''are'' far too isolated." The silence that follows suggests the wingsecond is thinking about it in full before talk of beach draws her back in with quiet laughter. "Good, darlin'. It's happenin'." And then, the letter. She goes silent and just watches the other woman, studying her face and its features as she speaks. After awhile, "I was never one to pry," she admits, frowning at the letter. "we all have our secrets'n, we do the best we could with what we got. He...must not know his father," suggesting she had read the letter, looking up at her. "I can't imagine how....well, my father was shit, so, I used to wonder if I was better off not knowin' mine. Knowin' him didn' do me one lick of good." Evenly, "I'll hunt this Destina down'n get this letter to him. I just thought ya should know."

After a silent moment, Bristia unfolds the letter, scans the contents, and exhales with a shake of her head in wordless judgement. "Perhaps he was better off," she says, finally, grudgingly. "Who can say? The fact that ''he'' made the choice, and didn't offer it to his son is, well..." she exhales. "Exactly the sort of idiotic, self-serving decision he'd have imagined as self-sacrificing." The heat with which she says the words is underscored by a complex grief, and it makes her silent as she lays the letter back down. The talk of Snowasis and Glacier's wingleaders earns a twitch of lips, brief: "''They'' needn't. R'hin watched more than played," the greenrider's fingers lift, shifting from the letter back to the bottle. "I heard you might have some ''sway'' with Mielline these days," with an unsubtle gesture towards her wingsecond's knot. She takes a deeper draught of the bottle, and with a voice still roughed by the alcohol, seeks Jo's gaze as she murmurs, "Thank you." ''Not'' for hunting Destina down. Not for delivering the letter. For the other, ''unspoken'' thing that hovers in the room between them.

With a grin to something Bristia says, "Fucked up a lot, did he?" Jo asks, shaking her head before the grin fades in the face of grief. "Doin' foolish things. Crazy things." She takes the letter and slips it back into her jacket, turning to say, "I doubt Mielline trusts me, but, she had let me grieve by skippin' some of my duties in favor of hide work in my weyr. That's somethin'. Dunno if I have sway with her ''yet''. Maybe she'n I won' be such a crazy idea after all." She watches the greenrider in silence now, meeting her gaze for that last and letting the silence stretch out between them. Eventually her dark gaze falls on where R'hin's room is, then the rest of the place that had become so familiar to her as she finally speaks. "I only hope that someone's there to do somethin' like that for ''me'', should the time come, darlin'." Meeting her gaze again, "That ain' enough to pay him back for his kindness, but it'll have to be." Pause. "I told Keysi," she let her know with a nod. "The way he regarded her....she needed to know. She understands." There's a significant look to that before it fades and she adds in hoarse voice, "It'll get better, darlin'."

"Of a surety," Bristia says, without hesitation, to the idea of R'hin fucking up. "I swear, the only thing that kept him haring off sometimes was Leiventh's practicality and the occasional reality check from me." It makes her smile, however, for all that. It fades somewhat at the silence that follows, and at Jo's words of hoping for someone to be there for her at her time. It's a silence in which the greenrider could offer, but she does not. She doesn't know Jo well enough, and doesn't presume to step into that role despite the ties that bind them. "It'll do," is what she says, instead, of paying back debts. There's a brief whitening of knuckles on the bottle as Jo mentions Keysi and the knowledge she's shared, but after a moment, she sighs. "I suppose it's right." The latter words earn a tired sort of smile: "I could say the same of you." She glances over her shoulder, at the bed beyond, and back. "I'm staying here, for our last night in High Reaches." There's a pause, and a change of tone, something more pointed: "If you wanted to stay, too, I wouldn't object." Even if there's nothing overtly sensual in the offer, her meaning is clear.

There's a 'huff' of laughter from Jo on R'hin's fuck-ups, the bluerider's grin one of nostalgia. "I dunno what Leiventh was thinkin', lettin' him pick the craziest-lookin' bitch outta all the females after a hatchin' feast to fuck," she tells the story of their meeting, but the tone is fond of the memory. On Keysi, "They wouldn' even let her see him," she tells Bristia, anger simmering beneath the surface. "None of us." But it's anger that fades in light of the last - the leather-clad woman staring back at her for those pointed words and only a brief silence to follow it. "Yeah. I'd like that, too."

The bluerider's laughter makes Bristia laugh, too, blue eyes shining with it, as she says, "I suspect Leiventh learned long ago not to get in the way of the things R'hin truly wanted." The anger makes her reach out, reach for Jo's hand, soothing. The assent makes the Savannah rider stand with alacrity, and unhesitatingly draw Jo towards the bed, pausing only to grab that bottle with her spare hand. One last night. One last goodbye. Surely R'hin would find it fitting.
}}

Logs:New Paths

2016-07-16T03:18:56Z

R'hin:

{{Log
|who=Edyis
|what=Almost a month later, there are decisions to be made and farewells to be said.
|where=Esvay Valley, Nabol, Outside of Monaco Weyr,
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Telgar Weyr, Monaco Weyr
|day=20
|month=1
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.20
|mentions=R'hin, Mielline, Jo, Bristia, Gretvyn, Alida, K'del, Cron, Farideh, Tuzur
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon edyis akluseth bond.jpg, Icon edyis considering.jpg,
|log=The snow crunched loudly beneath her boots, her breath frosting in the air, her cheeks flushed. Even in the endless blanket of white, Edyis knew the path up the hill to the place where she had said so many goodbyes. The fiery southern blooms she carried in her arms were starkly out of place in that colorless landscape. Their scent more vivid for the contrast with the cold.

<< You sure you want to do this alone? >> Akluseth's warm tenor drifting through her thoughts. <>

For a moment, she considered it. Edyis hated to admit it, but there wasn't a thing in her life she'd done on her own. It was always the strength of others she'd selfishly had to rely on. It was Gretvyn who'd pushed her to leave Esvay. K'del who'd managed to get the seed to help Nabol. R'hin who'd set up what was needed for Esvay to be free of Cron. Alida who'd taught her she could defend herself. Jo who'd taught her how to be a little wild. There were too many people to list, too many lessons to name them all. Each one had become a little piece of her.

''No. I'm good."

The crest of the hill was as barren as she remembered, the charred circle of stones that marked where the funerary pyres were built stood like jagged teeth in a gaping mouth, ready to devour whatever was left behind. It was where she'd said her final goodbyes to her mother, a woman she could only remember as small, frail and full of smiles. Where she'd watched the flames claim what the raid's fires hadn't when her father succumbed at last to his wounds. It was the place where Gretvyn had hastily been put to rest, and though his body had likely been betweened, it seemed a fitting place to pay her final respects to R'hin too, even if it was months after the fact.

She lay the flowers in the middle of the stones, maybe it was the holder in her that had need of such little rituals. Maybe it was the part of her that couldn't let go, that was still trying to figure out what his final lesson had been. Part of her couldn't help but smile at the thought that it had fallen on such deaf ears. She filled her lungs with cold air and exhaled slowly, perching on a nearby rock to think.

Her conversation with Bristia, still lingered in her thoughts, even if the Nabolese weather made the warmth and sunshine of Monaco only a few hours earlier seem as though it were only a dream. She had expected the new leadership to disband Savannah completely, but to hear the reality of it from Bristia's lips made her heart ache. All of them had already been through so much together, and while they grieved M'kris was treated ''innocent until proven guilty.'' The thought made her fists clench and brought to mind other unpleasant conversations.

In her heart, it was hard not to feel that it was a mistake to leave the head of the tunnelsnake intact where it could cause further damage. Guilt colored her thoughts again as she recalled the first time she'd made R'hin angry, ''"You don't take one life, you take two. Feyzeth doesn't deserve that. I'kris didn't either when the books are weighed up, but we don't compound fucked-up with more fucked-up, Edyis." ''

''If we had, wouldn't you still be alive?'' She wondered as she watched the great flakes of white drift from the sky. If someone hadn't slipped a dagger between Rone's ribs would Nabol ever have stabilized? She thought of Laine's friends then, the ones executed at Tevrane's orders. Could they have found a better path if they'd been shown mercy? And what of Jo, who had suffered for a crime she hadn't committed? She didn't have an answer, so she bottled up those things too. tucking them somewhere deep inside.

The question of what came next, Edyis realized, was the most difficult one. Every choice she'd made to this point was in pursuit of a dream that could never be. Savannah was gone, and likely would never be again, lightning never struck the same way twice. She had a list of dreams that were impossible, questions that would never have answers, and an ever decreasing list of what she could do about any of it. They were old frustrations, ones she thought she'd put to bed a long time ago, but that had a way of cropping up when she least expected it. The question was now, what could she do, and what did she want, and where would she belong?

Her thoughts shifted to the transfer papers sitting in her desk drawer, waiting to be filled out. The list of reasons why she hadn't done so, and all the reasons she still hung on to them anyway. She knew she wouldn't be able to put it off forever, but there was ''time'' before she would have to make a decision. She could work on keeping up with her contacts and the business side of things in her spare time until she figured out how to integrate it into her work with Snowdrift, figured out if Snowdrift could be where she fit.

<< Edyis? >>

Akluseth's voice pulled her from her thoughts. That familiar wash of guilt settled in, and she started marching down the hill again, back to where her lifemate was waiting. A fresh reminder of just how selfish she really was deep down. She wasn't just herself she had to figure out, but ''him'' too. Of the things she ''didn't'' deserve, the brown was at the top of the list. He'd suffered the brunt of her grief, selfishness, and neglect. "Yeah, Ak?"

<< Think the traders will have oil? >>

She laughed, so hard her chest ached, and tears welled up. He never judged her for it, never held her shortcomings against her for very long. Running a hand affectionately over his muzzle as he lowered his gaze to look at her expectantly. She ran a hand over his eye ridges thoughtfully. "Probably, you might even get to meet Tuzar, and he will probably talk me into paying three times what it's worth." She teases warmly.

<< You made up your mind yet? >>

She shook her head, "No, but; Its time. Time to build something new, to ''be'' something new." Scratching along his eye ridges and earning an approving rumble from the brown.

<< You sure you have that kind of patience? >> Akluseth asked, eyeing her skeptically. << Or the ability to curb that temper of yours? >>

"Ye of little faith." Edyis scoffed though that didn't stop her from laying on the affection. She checked his straps again, the new set had set her back a few marks, but they were worth it. There were no scars, the hide had healed perfectly, but she still felt the guilt of it.

The brown craned his neck to eye her, <>

"Doesn't excuse it," She notes, running her hands over his hide. When satisfied that there are no new sensitive spots, she pulls herself up. Preparing the image of Nabol.

<< Maybe not, but you are forgiven regardless. >>
}}

T'zur

2016-07-16T03:10:55Z

R'hin:

{{Profile
|picture=T'zur.jpg
|mother=Destina (Beowin Trader)
|siblings=Semar (+3)
|friends=[[J'nason]]
|body={{wysk}}

{{Family}}
{{FamilyEnd}}

== RP Logs ==

{{NewLogs | name = T'zur{{!}}{{!}}Tuzur }}

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

{{Icons}}
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Benden Hold, Benden Weyr, Nabol Hold, Traders, Western Islands, Bronzeriders, HRW Wings
}}

Tuzur

2016-07-16T03:02:57Z

R'hin: Redirected page to T'zur

#REDIRECT [[T'zur]]

Logs:Method Learning

2016-07-16T02:45:01Z

R'hin:

{{Log
|who=Edyis, R'hin
|what=R'hin holds up his end of their bargin.
|where=Grounds, Nabol Hold
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=1
|month=4
|turn=37
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.03.14
|quote="You'll travel with us. We'll see how you get on."
|mentions=Alida, Leova, F'manis, Tuzur
|type=Log
|ooc=As usual feel free to edit/add/remove/change anything I may have missed
|icons-new=Icon edyis considering.jpg, Icon r'hin.jpg,
|desc=>---< Grounds, Nabol Hold(#1890RJ) >-----------------------------------------<

A land of gently rolling hills and dark soil, Nabol stretches out across
the southern end of High Reaches' territory. Most of the land is devoted
to sprawling farms and orchards; even the fallow areas are overgrown
forests of apple and other fruit trees. A number of rivers and smaller
streams cut across the land, providing excellent irrigation. With the
temperate climate and abundant greenery, animals are widespread, frequent
visitors to the forests and fields. The main Hold rises abruptly up from
the land, a fortress carved into cliff faces that spring from the valley
around it.

All day long, from sunrise until nearly the middle of the night, a
miserable, cold drizzle falls from a layer of dull gray clouds.

>------------------------------------------< 1D 4M 37T I10, spring night >---<
|log=The first day of spring hasn't started off with a bang, but with a drizzle that appears, by all accounts, to have hung over Nabol all day. When they emerge from between, the air is only slightly warmer than between, Leiventh's tight descent fending off any chance of staying dry. The angular bronze lands, just outside the courtyard, and R'hin's quick to release his straps, turning with a quizzical look, as if prepared to help Edyis with hers.

Edyis looks very grateful for the coat from the she huddles into it. Her long fingers and practice making the release of her straps go swiftly. She slips down from the bronze with her customary appreciative pat to the dragon's hide in thanks. "I suppose at least, rain is better than snow." She decides before glancing to the rider in sudden mock suspicion. "Does this mean I owe you a separate turnday gift?"

The slight grunt from R'hin suggests he might disagree, though he's quick to climb to the ground after Edyis. Leiventh, as ever, seems oblivious to the appreciation, tucking in wings and tail neatly, falling into a still posture, eyes completely lidding against the rain. The Savannah Wingleader gives Edyis a ''look'' at her mention of his Turnday, and it earns a wordless, dismissive shake of his head. With a hand on her elbow, the bronzerider seeks to guide her in through the archway, turning left shortly after, heading towards a cave. The day is gloomy enough that the glows within are probably welcome, the space widening out into a big cavern suitable for storage. At present, it is host to wagons, their owners, and their items of trade, it would seem.

She just smiles sweetly under that look; her attention shifting from R'hin to what lays beyond the archway and around that turn. Dark eyes drink in the shapes and colors, items, wagons, and people; a million questions at the tip of her tongue but not voiced. Instead, Edyis pulls the coat more tightly about herself, looking to his lead for her cues.

It's still quite cool in the cave, but there are barrels here and there built up with fire that one can stop at for warmth. Most of the occupants are busy, though -- busy moving boxes and other items from where they've been stacked against the wall into their wagons. "The Beowins don't wait around for full spring. They'll be heading off in a couple of days," R'hin murmurs, as he leads them towards a particular wagon, where a woman close to his own age is directing the loading of her wagon, two young boys leaping to her instructions.

"Isn't that taking a calculated risk if there is a late snow in some of the mountain passes?" The question escapes almost before Edyis realizes she has uttered it, her eyes drawn to the loading of the wagon with increased interest, taking in every detail.

"They've been doing this for longer than you, or even ''I''," with a rueful grin, "Have been alive. Destina, and her father Garain before him, pay close attention to the weather." R'hin waits until the woman notices him, and then his grin turns into a dark chuckle. The woman stares at him silently for a moment, strides over, and throws her arms around him. Then with a look towards Edyis, "Is this her?" R'hin's, "Mmmhmm," is soon followed by, "Edyis, this is Destina." The woman corrects with a smile, "Tina."

Edyis nods appreciatively, but any questions about weather watching immediately stifled into silence by the sudden enthusiasm of Destina's hug, brown eyes going somewhat wide. She manages to recover her surprise somewhat sheepishly, a nervous but not at all unfriendly twist to her lips as she greets the woman, hands stuffed into her pockets. "It is a pleasure to meet you Tina."

Tina gives Edyis a careful up and down scrutiny, and then to R'hin: "Are you sure about this?" The bronzerider gives the slightest twitch of shoulder, then a nod. Tina turns her gaze back to Edyis: "You'll travel with us. We'll see how you get on. How long can you spare her?" This is, presumably, to R'hin, since she's looking at the bronzerider; R'hin's looking at Edyis in turn. "As long as she needs," he says, after a measured pause.

Shoulders held a little straighter under the scrutiny; it is when Tina announces that she will be traveling with them that the former scribe's face goes nearly blank of expression eyes shifting between R'hin and Tina. Several beats of silence pass, "However long you can put up with me." She answers finally.

Tina gives a brief snort. "As long as you can pull your weight... why don't you help my boys load the wagon?" she gestures towards the pair of teenage boys. Apparently pulling her weight involves physically as much as anything. R'hin gives what is (probably) an encouraging nod towards Edyis, then leans his shoulder into Tina's, murmuring something in a low voice. Edyis might get the edge of a thanks, but not the rest of it.
Edyis grins at pulling weight, "Give my excuses to Alida, Leova, and F'manis?" She asks of the Savannah Wing leader, before setting off at a cheerful jog to help the boys load the wagon, laughing all the while.

There's certainly no promises in the grin R'hin gives Edyis that he'll pass on such excuses. He and Tina spend some time exchanging what are presumably pleasantries, or perhaps further negotiations, before the pair part ways, and Tina gives a sharp command for the group to speed up. R'hin's gone, not even a farewell before he takes his leave, and leaves Edyis to the Beowins.
}}

Logs:Twinzoned

2016-07-16T02:16:08Z

R'hin:

{{Log
|who=J'nason, T'zur
|what=The morning after Aidavanth's flight, T'zur and J'nason wake up with a pair of twins.
|where=Baths, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Benden Weyr, Ista Weyr
|day=26
|month=3
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.10
|quote="You are clueless man."
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon J'nason Innocent.png, Icon t'zur naked.jpg,
|log=After the flight, the pair of foreign riders ended up at the bar again, by coincidence. There was some ribbing over T'zur's still bleeding lip (earning him a bit of sympathetic murmuring from a pair of twins) and J'nason's part in providing it -- drinks were exchanged in apology and, one thing leading into the next, the morning sees them waking up in the twin blonde's small room, complete with fuzzy-mouthed hangover.

T'zur ''groans''. "Dying."

J'nason wakes up at the sound of the other bronzer, his blond hair all askew on the pillow of the blond. Rather then try to sit up he'll do the most NATURAL THING in the world, he's going to bring his particular twin closer and try to kiss her neck to wake her up. Nevermind he doesn't know her name, ''obviously'' this is the best fix for his hangover. "Shhhhhh...." Clearly, not taking T'zur's dying seriously.

Waking up ''his'' twin is about the last thing on T'zur's mind right now. Another pained groan, and he pushes (scrambles?) to the edge of the bed, looking pale. There's rustling as his twin stirs behind him, just in time to see the Bendenite spill his guts out all over the floor. "EW! That's gross! All over my things!" well if her sister weren't awake she will be now, with that horrified exclamation.

"Shit man," this falling from J'nason's lips as ''his'' oh-so-soft twin goes from sleepy-giggle to sitting upright and sweeping her hair out of her eyes. "Ewwww!" Her voice is an echo of her sisters and she shoves against the blond-haired rider to slip off the otherside and pull a blanket over her. "Hey, hey now..." J'nason rolls himself to a sitting position and brushes his hair out of his eyes as he looks over. "Man, you're ''blowing'' it."

"You ''have'' blown it," T'zur's twin declares, hands on her hip, looking at her sister. "Next time, throw up on ''your'' things," is added with a flick of her blonde hair. Stumbling to his feet, T'zur reaches out a hand to the wall to steady himself for a moment, giving a bleary look towards J'nason that is not the least bit apologetic. "Drink?" because clearly that's the solution to this super awkward scenario.

"She.... Sheena." J'nason snaps his fingers as he dredges up the name of his bed-mate, and looking ''mildly'' hopeful that she's not going to take on her sister's ire? The way she's looking disgusted is not at all helpful so instead the man pushes himself up off the bed. He'll smile winningly at her, "Next time, just us?" But he won't wait for her to answer as he sweeps up his pants and shoves himself into them. They get left undone as his shirt gets swept up onto his shoulder. "How about a ''bath'' first man?" Mildly said to T'zur as J'nason rounds the bed and eyes the mess on the floor. "Get your pants on, we'll... send someone for this." Because J'nason SO IS NOT cleaning it up.

T'zur tries -- or at least his face scrunches up for a moment while he's looking at Sheena's sister, struggling to remember her name -- at least until he winces, clearly remembering his split lip, touching it with a wince and a scowl that earns a second wince. "Fuck," he says, expressively. Pants? Oh, yeah. The Bendenite grabs the wrinkled looking pants and shoves them on, finds his shirt (it's probably his, anyway, it mostly fits even if he doesn't button it up). "Fine, fine. Bath, then drinks." He casts what's meant to be a charming smile over his shoulder (ruined perhaps by his swollen lip), "Thanks for the great night, girls." There! Twins are so easy to avoid naming.

"You are clueless man." J'nason shakes his head - clearly his hangover isn't to the extent of the younger rider. Without a single bit of self-conscienceless over his naked upper half and open pants he hooks an arm over the other rider's shoulders and pushes him out of the room. (Hopefully T'zur doesn't mind looking completely gay for a bit~ J'nason sure doesn't.) "Baths." Eyes roam the empty hallway, "We'll have to find directions. THIS WAY." So confident. They'll go that way and hopefully find someone to point the way?

"I'm fucking ''hungover'' is what I am. And," T'zur gives his fellow bronzerider a dark scowl, "You fucking ''punched'' me." He tentatively touches his lip, makes a noise, and drops his hand. "Lucky you missed the nose, or we'd be having a second round this morning." He seems happy enough to follow in J'nason's wake, mostly because he seems so utterly confident he's going the right way, even if he might not be.

"Well." J'nason shrugs at T'zur's ire. They're BFFs now, what's a little punching between friends? Right? RIGHT. "The goldie told us to stay out. It's the polite thing to do. Fucking flights are always the most fun." He's TOTALLY grinning like getting into a post-possible-sex flight was one of the BEST ways to end a night. They turn a corner and there are suddenly PEOPLE, "Heyo! Baths?" His smile is dazzlingly confident even this early in the morning. Probably because he's showing off his chest. A weyrperson eyes the two strangers, shakes his head in a I-don't-want-to-know manner, and points. "Thanks much man!" A wave adds to the thanks.

The look T'zur gives J'nason is one of disgust. Yeah, BFF's all right. "Do you always do everything a woman tells you?" he mutters, shaking his head. When the local points them in the direction of the baths, he picks up his pace, stepping ahead like ''he's'' leading the way. The baths aren't wholly empty, but there's not a lot of occupants, and the Bendenite begins stripping immediately, eyeing the steaming baths with quiet relief.

"Always?" There's pure innocence in J'nason's voice, a clear sign he's about to fuck with T'zur. "The ''right'' lady giving the orders man..." Eyes close and his hand raises into the air like he's reaching for something divine and sweet. "It pays to let them think they're running the show." This show allows T'zur to easily take the lead but that's cool man, that's cool. J'nason follows with that smirk all over his face still, and takes his time shucking his pants off.

T'zur rolls his eyes at the overly dramatic display. "Whatever, man," he mutters. He steps into the nearest pool, hissing at the temperature, but continuing after a pause, diving under the water briefly before finding a ledge he can sit on, exhaling as he runs a hand through his hair. He's silent, for a time, as he reaches for the sweetsand and starts scrubbing, but it isn't long before he shoots a curious look at his fellow bronzerider. "How many have you won?" he asks, with a tip of his chin in the vague direction of the weyr they were in last night.

"Man, we have ''got'' to work on your woman skills." J'nason settles himself into the baths and takes some time to start the cleaning - though he'll look up with the question gets offered forth. "Gold flights? None, Hephaisth is an awkward fucker with weird proportions. He never lands the big ones. A scattering of greens though." J'nason eyes the other bronzer speculatively, "You? You can't be more than... twenty? Twenty one?" A stab at the other's age.

T'zur's scowling again, now. "I do all right," he replies, defensively. With a hitch of shoulders, and a hasty aversion of gaze, he adds: "Tziveth's won a green... or three." He ducks under the water to wash out the sweetsand from his hair, exhaling as he surfaces again, throwing an arm onto the dry ledge for balance. "About that," he admits, hastening to add: "Tziveth's nearing four, though. But he's, ''small'' for a bronze, and all angles, not bulk. Weyrlingmaster said it'd be a lucky day if he ever won a gold." A fact of which he clearly still feels resentful about.

J'nason's laugh is probably not at all going to make T'zur feel better about his dragon's resourcefulness - or his own manly prowess. Ducking under the water J'nason washes off the smell from his hair, though he'll miss the sweetness of his twin's hair. "Meh, fuck what the Weyrlingmaster's say." Seriously, clearly J'nason usually does. "It's the chase that matters."

The Bendenite is not ''so'' far removed from weyrlinghood that the response doesn't take him aback for a moment, before he guffaws. "Yeah. Fuck her," T'zur repeats, with feeling, grinning. He nods at that last, like it's a life lesson he's taking to heart. "First drink's on you man, for this," he points at his lip, as he stands in the water.

HOLD THE HORSES. J'nason's gaze fixes on T'zur with his eyes WIDE OPEN. "You're not telling me you ''didn't''?!" With the weyrlingmaster. If she's female. The offer of the drink gets waved off, "Come down to Ista some time. I'll put you up."

T'zur gives a graceful shrug of his shoulders, and a grin that's meant to say, ''fuck yeah I did''. "Might've," he goes for. But then, the ''might'' be exaggerating, but what's a ''little'' exaggeration between friends, right? "Ista, huh?" He runs a hand through his hair, looking thoughtful, pleased. "Sounds good." A beat, "I'd offer the same for Benden, but it doesn't have quite the same draw to it, y'know?"

The hungover puking does SO NOT do much of anything for T'zur's claim of having done anything of the sort with his Weyrlingmaster. J'nason will just roll his eyes and go, "riiightt man. Due, yeah, Benden is ''almost'' as much of the pits as this place." He rolls a finger skywards to take in all of High Reaches. "Sand, sunlight, crystal oceans... that's my place."

"This place doesn't seem to bad," T'zur says, after a pause, as he moves to the shallower end of the pool. "I mean, the people seem welcoming enough, and I'm a northerner by birth anyway -- don't much think I could stand the heat for days on end. What's so great about Ista anyway, besides the heat? I mean -- I could visit there ''anytime'', if I wanted the heat."

"Well, the ''people''." J'nason's grin there is all sorts of cocky. The ladies are for sure welcoming of foreigners~ "Nah, man. The heat isn't too bad. It's the tropics. Not like Igen or whatever. The OCEAN." Happy J'nason.

"Hm," T'zur muses as he steps out of the water, reaching for one of the fresh towels. He starts with his hair, rubbing it haphazardly and leaving it a tangled mess as he dries the rest of himself. "Guess I'll come by, see what you mean." He glances, embarrassed, towards the hallway. "I should try and find someone to clean up that mess. I feel bad for... Sheena and... um," he can't remember the other twin's name. Maybe his bro remembers?

J'nason just turns over in the water, enjoying the water and an extended soak. Never mind if he keeps his eyes on T'zur while he dresses, that grin still all ''sorts'' of there. "Probably something similar to Sheena." Because that's how Pern twins roll, right? "Did you ever even ''ask'' her name?"

"Um." T'zur's face squints -- albeit briefly -- while he tries to recall. "I drank a lot last night, man," he says, defensively. "Maybe... Shiela? Reena? I'll, um, try and find out," he says, as he pulls on his clothes, again leaving his shirt open.

T'zur is probably going to want to punch J'nason for that shit-eating grin of his and laughter that follows him about the room. Pulling himself out of the bath J'nason wraps a towel around his waist and goes looking for something to clean his teeth with. "HEy! Catch," to the other bronzer when the however-people-on-Pern-do it tosses the stuff at him.

The Bendenite actually manages not to scowl, but he does have to scramble to catch what the Istan tosses his way. T'zur barely glances at it: "Uh, thanks man. I'll have Tziveth bespeak Hephaisth soon." And he's traipsing out to brace his awkward reunion with the twins.
}}

Logs:Run-Ins

2016-07-16T02:14:21Z

R'hin:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

File:Icon t'zur tziveth.jpg

2016-07-16T02:12:11Z

R'hin:

File:Icon t'zur drink.jpg

2016-07-16T02:12:11Z

R'hin:

File:Icon t'zur tziveth spider.png

2016-07-16T02:12:11Z

R'hin:

File:Icon t'zur naked.jpg

2016-07-16T01:55:15Z

R'hin:

File:Icon t'zur kiss.jpg

2016-07-16T01:55:15Z

R'hin:

File:Icon t'zur woah.jpg

2016-07-16T01:55:15Z

R'hin:

T'zur

2016-07-16T01:54:24Z

R'hin:

{{Profile
|picture=T'zur.jpg
|mother=Destina (Beowin Trader)
|siblings=Semar (+3)
|friends=J'nason
|body={{wysk}}

{{Family}}
{{FamilyEnd}}

== RP Logs ==

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

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

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

File:Icon t'zur.jpg

2016-07-16T01:37:43Z

R'hin:

File:Icon t'zur thoughtful.jpg

2016-07-16T01:37:43Z

R'hin:

File:Icon t'zur bored.jpg

2016-07-16T01:37:42Z

R'hin:

File:T'zur.jpg

2016-07-16T01:36:48Z

R'hin:

Logs:Twinzoned

2016-07-16T01:33:09Z

R'hin: Created page with "{{Log |who=J'nason, T'zur |what=The morning after Aidavanth's flight, T'zur and J'nason wake up with a pair of twins. |where=Baths, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches We..."

{{Log
|who=J'nason, T'zur
|what=The morning after Aidavanth's flight, T'zur and J'nason wake up with a pair of twins.
|where=Baths, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Benden Weyr, Ista Weyr
|day=26
|month=3
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.10
|quote="You are clueless man."
|type=Log
|log=After the flight, the pair of foreign riders ended up at the bar again, by coincidence. There was some ribbing over T'zur's still bleeding lip (earning him a bit of sympathetic murmuring from a pair of twins) and J'nason's part in providing it -- drinks were exchanged in apology and, one thing leading into the next, the morning sees them waking up in the twin blonde's small room, complete with fuzzy-mouthed hangover.

T'zur ''groans''. "Dying."

J'nason wakes up at the sound of the other bronzer, his blond hair all askew on the pillow of the blond. Rather then try to sit up he'll do the most NATURAL THING in the world, he's going to bring his particular twin closer and try to kiss her neck to wake her up. Nevermind he doesn't know her name, ''obviously'' this is the best fix for his hangover. "Shhhhhh...." Clearly, not taking T'zur's dying seriously.

Waking up ''his'' twin is about the last thing on T'zur's mind right now. Another pained groan, and he pushes (scrambles?) to the edge of the bed, looking pale. There's rustling as his twin stirs behind him, just in time to see the Bendenite spill his guts out all over the floor. "EW! That's gross! All over my things!" well if her sister weren't awake she will be now, with that horrified exclamation.

"Shit man," this falling from J'nason's lips as ''his'' oh-so-soft twin goes from sleepy-giggle to sitting upright and sweeping her hair out of her eyes. "Ewwww!" Her voice is an echo of her sisters and she shoves against the blond-haired rider to slip off the otherside and pull a blanket over her. "Hey, hey now..." J'nason rolls himself to a sitting position and brushes his hair out of his eyes as he looks over. "Man, you're ''blowing'' it."

"You ''have'' blown it," T'zur's twin declares, hands on her hip, looking at her sister. "Next time, throw up on ''your'' things," is added with a flick of her blonde hair. Stumbling to his feet, T'zur reaches out a hand to the wall to steady himself for a moment, giving a bleary look towards J'nason that is not the least bit apologetic. "Drink?" because clearly that's the solution to this super awkward scenario.

"She.... Sheena." J'nason snaps his fingers as he dredges up the name of his bed-mate, and looking ''mildly'' hopeful that she's not going to take on her sister's ire? The way she's looking disgusted is not at all helpful so instead the man pushes himself up off the bed. He'll smile winningly at her, "Next time, just us?" But he won't wait for her to answer as he sweeps up his pants and shoves himself into them. They get left undone as his shirt gets swept up onto his shoulder. "How about a ''bath'' first man?" Mildly said to T'zur as J'nason rounds the bed and eyes the mess on the floor. "Get your pants on, we'll... send someone for this." Because J'nason SO IS NOT cleaning it up.

T'zur tries -- or at least his face scrunches up for a moment while he's looking at Sheena's sister, struggling to remember her name -- at least until he winces, clearly remembering his split lip, touching it with a wince and a scowl that earns a second wince. "Fuck," he says, expressively. Pants? Oh, yeah. The Bendenite grabs the wrinkled looking pants and shoves them on, finds his shirt (it's probably his, anyway, it mostly fits even if he doesn't button it up). "Fine, fine. Bath, then drinks." He casts what's meant to be a charming smile over his shoulder (ruined perhaps by his swollen lip), "Thanks for the great night, girls." There! Twins are so easy to avoid naming.

"You are clueless man." J'nason shakes his head - clearly his hangover isn't to the extent of the younger rider. Without a single bit of self-conscienceless over his naked upper half and open pants he hooks an arm over the other rider's shoulders and pushes him out of the room. (Hopefully T'zur doesn't mind looking completely gay for a bit~ J'nason sure doesn't.) "Baths." Eyes roam the empty hallway, "We'll have to find directions. THIS WAY." So confident. They'll go that way and hopefully find someone to point the way?

"I'm fucking ''hungover'' is what I am. And," T'zur gives his fellow bronzerider a dark scowl, "You fucking ''punched'' me." He tentatively touches his lip, makes a noise, and drops his hand. "Lucky you missed the nose, or we'd be having a second round this morning." He seems happy enough to follow in J'nason's wake, mostly because he seems so utterly confident he's going the right way, even if he might not be.

"Well." J'nason shrugs at T'zur's ire. They're BFFs now, what's a little punching between friends? Right? RIGHT. "The goldie told us to stay out. It's the polite thing to do. Fucking flights are always the most fun." He's TOTALLY grinning like getting into a post-possible-sex flight was one of the BEST ways to end a night. They turn a corner and there are suddenly PEOPLE, "Heyo! Baths?" His smile is dazzlingly confident even this early in the morning. Probably because he's showing off his chest. A weyrperson eyes the two strangers, shakes his head in a I-don't-want-to-know manner, and points. "Thanks much man!" A wave adds to the thanks.

The look T'zur gives J'nason is one of disgust. Yeah, BFF's all right. "Do you always do everything a woman tells you?" he mutters, shaking his head. When the local points them in the direction of the baths, he picks up his pace, stepping ahead like ''he's'' leading the way. The baths aren't wholly empty, but there's not a lot of occupants, and the Bendenite begins stripping immediately, eyeing the steaming baths with quiet relief.

"Always?" There's pure innocence in J'nason's voice, a clear sign he's about to fuck with T'zur. "The ''right'' lady giving the orders man..." Eyes close and his hand raises into the air like he's reaching for something divine and sweet. "It pays to let them think they're running the show." This show allows T'zur to easily take the lead but that's cool man, that's cool. J'nason follows with that smirk all over his face still, and takes his time shucking his pants off.

T'zur rolls his eyes at the overly dramatic display. "Whatever, man," he mutters. He steps into the nearest pool, hissing at the temperature, but continuing after a pause, diving under the water briefly before finding a ledge he can sit on, exhaling as he runs a hand through his hair. He's silent, for a time, as he reaches for the sweetsand and starts scrubbing, but it isn't long before he shoots a curious look at his fellow bronzerider. "How many have you won?" he asks, with a tip of his chin in the vague direction of the weyr they were in last night.

"Man, we have ''got'' to work on your woman skills." J'nason settles himself into the baths and takes some time to start the cleaning - though he'll look up with the question gets offered forth. "Gold flights? None, Hephaisth is an awkward fucker with weird proportions. He never lands the big ones. A scattering of greens though." J'nason eyes the other bronzer speculatively, "You? You can't be more than... twenty? Twenty one?" A stab at the other's age.

T'zur's scowling again, now. "I do all right," he replies, defensively. With a hitch of shoulders, and a hasty aversion of gaze, he adds: "Tziveth's won a green... or three." He ducks under the water to wash out the sweetsand from his hair, exhaling as he surfaces again, throwing an arm onto the dry ledge for balance. "About that," he admits, hastening to add: "Tziveth's nearing four, though. But he's, ''small'' for a bronze, and all angles, not bulk. Weyrlingmaster said it'd be a lucky day if he ever won a gold." A fact of which he clearly still feels resentful about.

J'nason's laugh is probably not at all going to make T'zur feel better about his dragon's resourcefulness - or his own manly prowess. Ducking under the water J'nason washes off the smell from his hair, though he'll miss the sweetness of his twin's hair. "Meh, fuck what the Weyrlingmaster's say." Seriously, clearly J'nason usually does. "It's the chase that matters."

The Bendenite is not ''so'' far removed from weyrlinghood that the response doesn't take him aback for a moment, before he guffaws. "Yeah. Fuck her," T'zur repeats, with feeling, grinning. He nods at that last, like it's a life lesson he's taking to heart. "First drink's on you man, for this," he points at his lip, as he stands in the water.

HOLD THE HORSES. J'nason's gaze fixes on T'zur with his eyes WIDE OPEN. "You're not telling me you ''didn't''?!" With the weyrlingmaster. If she's female. The offer of the drink gets waved off, "Come down to Ista some time. I'll put you up."

T'zur gives a graceful shrug of his shoulders, and a grin that's meant to say, ''fuck yeah I did''. "Might've," he goes for. But then, the ''might'' be exaggerating, but what's a ''little'' exaggeration between friends, right? "Ista, huh?" He runs a hand through his hair, looking thoughtful, pleased. "Sounds good." A beat, "I'd offer the same for Benden, but it doesn't have quite the same draw to it, y'know?"

The hungover puking does SO NOT do much of anything for T'zur's claim of having done anything of the sort with his Weyrlingmaster. J'nason will just roll his eyes and go, "riiightt man. Due, yeah, Benden is ''almost'' as much of the pits as this place." He rolls a finger skywards to take in all of High Reaches. "Sand, sunlight, crystal oceans... that's my place."

"This place doesn't seem to bad," T'zur says, after a pause, as he moves to the shallower end of the pool. "I mean, the people seem welcoming enough, and I'm a northerner by birth anyway -- don't much think I could stand the heat for days on end. What's so great about Ista anyway, besides the heat? I mean -- I could visit there ''anytime'', if I wanted the heat."

"Well, the ''people''." J'nason's grin there is all sorts of cocky. The ladies are for sure welcoming of foreigners~ "Nah, man. The heat isn't too bad. It's the tropics. Not like Igen or whatever. The OCEAN." Happy J'nason.

"Hm," T'zur muses as he steps out of the water, reaching for one of the fresh towels. He starts with his hair, rubbing it haphazardly and leaving it a tangled mess as he dries the rest of himself. "Guess I'll come by, see what you mean." He glances, embarrassed, towards the hallway. "I should try and find someone to clean up that mess. I feel bad for... Sheena and... um," he can't remember the other twin's name. Maybe his bro remembers?

J'nason just turns over in the water, enjoying the water and an extended soak. Never mind if he keeps his eyes on T'zur while he dresses, that grin still all ''sorts'' of there. "Probably something similar to Sheena." Because that's how Pern twins roll, right? "Did you ever even ''ask'' her name?"

"Um." T'zur's face squints -- albeit briefly -- while he tries to recall. "I drank a lot last night, man," he says, defensively. "Maybe... Shiela? Reena? I'll, um, try and find out," he says, as he pulls on his clothes, again leaving his shirt open.

T'zur is probably going to want to punch J'nason for that shit-eating grin of his and laughter that follows him about the room. Pulling himself out of the bath J'nason wraps a towel around his waist and goes looking for something to clean his teeth with. "HEy! Catch," to the other bronzer when the however-people-on-Pern-do it tosses the stuff at him.

The Bendenite actually manages not to scowl, but he does have to scramble to catch what the Istan tosses his way. T'zur barely glances at it: "Uh, thanks man. I'll have Tziveth bespeak Hephaisth soon." And he's traipsing out to brace his awkward reunion with the twins.
}}

Logs:Heartless Heartbreaker

2016-07-10T05:24:10Z

R'hin: Created page with "{{Log |who=Olivya, Quint |what=After leaving the Snowasis, Quint runs into Olivya. A proposition is made and accepted. |where=Inner Caverns / Quint's Room, High Reaches Weyr |..."

{{Log
|who=Olivya, Quint
|what=After leaving the Snowasis, Quint runs into Olivya. A proposition is made and accepted.
|where=Inner Caverns / Quint's Room, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|day=25
|month=3
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.09
|quote="I haven't propositioned you yet, darling. Believe me, when I do, you'll ''know'' it."
|type=Log
|ooc=Probably NSFW, goldflight aftermath.
|icons-new=Icon olivya flirt.png, Icon quint thumbsup.gif,
|log=Aidavanth is newly won -- and the celebrations have already begun, only ''some'' because it was a High Reachian brown -- and many more because it was a gold flight, and most people don't need much of an excuse. Quint's stepping down the stairs from the Snowasis and hurrying through the tunnel to the inner caverns, looking -- much more frazzled than he ordinarily does. There's a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his tunic looks like it's been tugged at. One of the kitchen's workers steps out into his path all of a sudden, and he rocks to a halt, exhaling sharply, blinking at her as if non plussed.

There is a certain thrill to a gold flight that even dragonriders aren't numb to; the stroke of tingling electricity along the nerves and the roil of emotions in the pit of the stomach. Olivya, however, manages to wear the after-effects of a flight well, her iced eyes brighter and her bright lips softer but little else changed in the way the Weyrlingmaster carries herself. Her gaze slides appreciatively after the kitchen worker, but it's Quint that it catches on. "Haven't gotten used to it yet?" she questions with warm sympathy. "I came to see if my assistant had any luck."

The kitchen worker leans close to Quint, and murmurs something. The harper exhales, studying her for a moment, but something draws his gaze towards Olivya as the Fortian approaches. With a murmur, he shakes his head at the woman near him, brushing hands down his tunic to try and smooth it. The gaze that the harper turns on the Weyrlingmaster is blank for a moment at her words, before the dots are connected. "Your assistant? Ah, Fortian?" Quint shakes his head, lips quirking briefly, "I'm afraid it's an in-Weyr win." He goes silent, reaching out to brush Olivya's arm with his fingers.

Liv's smile for the worker turns less soft and more sharp, a dangerous edge to play with in the corners of red lips. Perhaps she isn't ''so'' unaffected by the gold in the skies above. It seems, at least, she'll let the Harper's refusal stand on its own, at least, even as her fingers reach to catch those fingers as they brush her. With them, she'll move to tug him away, her voice dropping to a murmur as she asks, "Do you need a rescue? Too many people in love with the charming Journeyman to make it back to your room alone?"

"That's my second proposition of the night," Quint admits, with a low laugh, letting Liv draw him to one side. "Three... if you count yours." Which it seems he ''is'', stepping in close to her to murmur into her ear: "Walk me back to my room?"

"I haven't propositioned you yet, darling. Believe me, when I do, you'll ''know'' it," suggests Olivya softly, her lips softening again as she shifts subtly to allow him access to her ear. She lingers close for a moment, two, before she draws away to agree, "Of course. I am a dragonrider; we do have a responsibility to the halls and holds of Pern." But she isn't as intimately familiar with this Weyr, and thus she'll let Quint actually lead the way to his room.

"And yet apparently, you don't know when ''I'm'' doing it," the harper replies, amusement tugging the corner of his lips upwards. Only once she agrees does Quint slide an arm around the greenrider's waist, leading her on. It does require them to navigate out into the bowl again -- into the freezing, heavy rain -- counterpointing the heat of the crafter's area and Quint's own room, an odd-shaped room that is nevertheless warmly lit.

For a moment, when they are in the Bowl, Olivya's gaze flicks upwards to mark the pair in the sky, but she is relieves nonetheless to escape from the Reachian winter. It's at his door that she stops him, pressing him suddenly against the frame with the flat of one hand against his chest. "I didn't think you did that kind of thing," she answers truthfully, showing her hand baldly for once. "Are you? Propositioning me?"

Quint brow furrows, like he's not sure if he's been ''clear'' enough. Instead of answering with ''words'', as is his want, he strains forward against her hand, and seeks to meet her lips with his own, his arm around her waist seeking to pull her closer. Actions, surely, speak louder than words.

Well, that answers that. Olivya accepts the response with an immediate answer of her own as those fingers that were restraining him a moment before curl into the fabric of his shirt to pull herself closer under the pressure of his arm. Her red lips meet Quint's with an urgency spurred on by the queen in the air, driving her to seek ''more''.

That his need is met with her own is accepted, and Quint tugs them both into the room, shoving the door closed with a foot. That doesn't mean the door is done with, though; he presses the greenrider back against it, groaning briefly as he struggles to pull at her clothes without ripping them, the only sign of restraint in an otherwise unusually demanding nature.

A small laugh is ripped from Olivya's throat, perhaps at that restraint, as she reaches for the fastenings of her bright, red jacket to help him. The rest of her clothes are easier, especially with her help. Only once she is shamelessly, starkly naked does she reach for his clothes. Not taking any of the same care, she tears first at the buttons of his shirt, lips grazing along his jaw in what ''might'' be apology.

Her laugh earns another noise from Quint, fumbling with those buttons and perhaps losing one or two of hers in the process too, all unnoticed. When she's fully unclothed, he exhales, drinking her in, and then she's reaching for his clothes, and he's helping -- for once not caring that his perfect, crisp shirt is ruined. The bed might be the logical place to go next, but there's ''need'', and they're both here, their respective heights making it awkward -- at least until he lifts her up, and with an exhale of relief, seeks to satisfy both their needs.

Liv's long legs wrap around his hips as he lifts her, only an encouraging murmur escaping as they don't make it past the door. As he drives her further and further to the peak of her need, her nails end up marking his arms and back, teeth biting briefly against his shoulder as she shudders as the relief sweeps in waves over her. After, when she has to ease her legs to stand, shaking, and probably move to get her jacket or something-- She instead studies Quint, her fingers lifted to her own lips to brush at the color there to clean it.

There's something different in Quint's gaze, after. Something more relaxed, at ease -- the ''man'' rather than the ''harper'', breathing heavily yet steadying her as she seeks her feet, smile lighting his gaze. He stays that abortive movement by brushing fingers through her hair, tucking some of it behind her ear. Leaning close, he murmurs a single word into her ear: "Stay."

There is an arch into the gesture, the Weyrlingmaster drawing closer and her eyes fluttering shut briefly with a smile before she tips her head in an agreeing nod. "If only to see the broken hearts when I leave in the morning," she teases back softly, breathlessly, though. Her clothes are left discarded where they are, as she draws away to move towards the bed, only her fingers catching against Quint's lightly to lead him.

"Heartless heartbreaker," Quint accuses her, laughingly. He's more than willing to let himself be led, taking in the view as he follows. The bed isn't nearly as big as hers, but it's comfortable enough for the what sleep they'll get, covered in furs.
}}

Logs:Out Of Sorts

2016-07-10T03:43:51Z

R'hin: Bonus: Extra poses~

{{Log
|who=Edyis, Ja'son, Jocelyn, Kh'tyr, L'sha, Quint, Silva, T'zur
|what=Weyrfolk gather shortly before Aidavanth's flight, and everyone seems out of sorts.
|where=Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr, Benden Weyr, Ista Weyr
|day=25
|month=3
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.09
|weather=Heavy rain in the middle of winter only means that the temperature is only a few degrees above freezing; it's more miserable for the soaking torrents.
|mentions=Drex, Farideh
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn.png, Icon quint.jpg, Icon silva.jpg, Icon edyis.jpg, Icon kh'tyr hand.jpg, Icon l'sha.jpg,
|desc=The Snowasis is rarely quiet, and even then, the high-ceilinged former
weyr is kept from echoing by the fantastical booths tucked into its
convoluted perimeter. The secluded seating spaces have been shaped from
the truncated stalagmites that escaped the smoothing of the main floor,
and are both softened and separated by colorful hangings that are thick
and opaque enough to make each corner its own private nook.

Some of the smaller stalactites still roam the ceiling, their jagged teeth
tracing a bumpy, inverted spine to the hearth. There, a thick rug with a
low klah table and comfortable armchairs and couches sit, their upholstery
and cushions changed sporadically to match the season: bright, light
colors in the summer, fresh greens and yellows in the spring, warm
autumnals in fall, and clear, rich hues for winter. Small tables litter
the rest of the cavern, enough to fit up to four people each, while stools
stand along the smooth wooden bar behind which is the passthrough window
to the kitchen. Glass-paneled cabinetry behind the bar provides a clear
view of the available liquors, the many colors reflecting the soft light
of glows tucked into strategic niches around the cavern.
|log=The Snowasis is doing a brisk trade, though its occupants are either sparse enough or not yet drunk enough that the level of volume makes for easy, casual conversation. Quint's taken up one of the booths, and while he has a glass of wine, it's untouched at this point. There's a handful of hides on the table, but he seems to be set on people-watching rather than pretending to work.

Silva's on a mission. A completely coherent and dedicated mission. She's dressed simply enough right now, without the flair of PARTY that has hung over her for the last few weeks. But what she is looking for doesn't seem to be here. There's a hiss of frustration that moves through her teeth and she turns abruptly, like she's going to leave.

Coming in from the patio, nimble fingers are already working at the toggles of the Snowdrift rider's flight jacket. Cheeks flushed with cold, Edyis goes straight for the bar first, ordering a bottle of something with considerable bite, and eyes the rest of the room for familiar faces. Both harper and bluerider are eyed as she gets her glass and bottle, moving in an attempt to hook Silva's arm and drag her over to the table where the harper is sitting. "Come on let's go pick on the harper." A toothy grin flashed across her face. "Journeyman Quintus. Mind if we join you?"

Of course, the harper notices Silva, even if she doesn't notice him. Quint doesn't much seem to mind, though his expression is thoughtful as his gaze lingers on the retreating bluerider. There's momentary surprise in the harper's face when Edyis intercepts Silva, and he straightens, subtly, looking briefly pleased with himself before he schools his expression. "I don't mind at all," he replies to Edyis, waving his hand expansively at the booth in invitation. "Edyis, Silva. How are you both?"

Silva's startled when Edyis is suddenly ''there'', her focus having been on whatever is making her frown. She's a few steps towards the harper before she shakes her head and refocuses, the frown being transferred to the brownrider. Perhaps she would have shaken her off, except now they're here in front of Quint. Words get stuffed back and while she doesn't smile well, there is a tightening of her lips that ''could'' be a smile. "You first Edyis." A gesture not unlike Quint's. Silva will take the outside unless Edyis manhandles her into the seat.

Edyis simply grins at the woman, and if she catches that moment of smugness from the Harper it doesn't show right away. She doesn't seem keen on letting the Bluerider have the outside either. Once everyone is seated the cork on the bottle is popped and she pours a few fingers of the liquid into the glass tossing it down. "Freezing my non-existent balls off, and my dragon is being a pain in the ass but otherwise no complaints." Knocking back the glass before refilling it. "How about you Silva?" The question bearing more weight for all its casualness.

Quint's sharp gaze catches the shifting expressions of Silva's, his head tipped marginally. "Zaisyreth doing well?" he asks, leaning forward once they've both settled in. He doesn't reach for his glass to drink from it, merely to push it to one side. He takes in Edyis' imbibing and the words that follow with an exhale. "Things seem awfully tense today," he observes, tapping fingers on the table's top, gaze drifting across the bar, then back to his companions.

Deeep breaths all around. Nice, calm, deep breaths. Silva tries to wipe the scowl off her face, and replaces it with a slight frown which... is better? At least? She eyes Edyis' drink but makes no comment out of it. Instead she settles her arms across her chest and leans against the back of the booth. "You both want to know if I'm drinking myself senseless and fucking strange men still." Tenseness not commented on.

Edyis shrugs at the Harper's observation, going slower with the second glass now that the warmth from the first is starting to seep in. "Probably a green getting ready to rise. He's usually an ass about that time." The brownrider notes of her lifemate, which might explain the drinking. At Silva's comment, however. Edyis chokes on her drink. "Shit woman. I don't have to ask what you've been up to." The brownrider reminds her mildly irritated. "I just wanted to not be sitting alone while I drink." She mutters something unintelligible, refilling her glass again.

Quint looks momentarily ''aghast'' at the inelegant response. "No, Silva," he says, after a beat, keeping his voice even and low, much in the same way one might speak soothingly to a startled animal. "I asked how your dragon was doing. Will you sit and join us for a bit?" His glance flickers towards Edyis as she mentions a green rising, exhaling briefly. "Mm. I see."

Silva's gaze flips between the two people and some of her irritation fades. She does sit, probably out of guilty conscience, but the reasoning doesn't matter. "Zaisy's fine." The mention of the green even gets a response - "He didn't mention any greens, and he usually does." Not that the blue CHASES often, it's jut one observation of many. "Have either of you ever met the sea-crafter who hangs around here?"

Edyis sniffs. "Then maybe he's just being an ass for no reason then." Edyis shrugs off the blue's two-mark bits. Dark eyes lift and brows knit together. "Seacrafter?"

"I'm glad to hear it," Quint replies with genuine sentiment. He's no rider, to comment on the state of the Weyr's dragons, though he does closely watch the exchange, otherwise silent on that topic. "Seacrafter?" he echoes Edyis, surprised. "Not many seacrafters here, if any. Too far from water, I'd have thought. What does he look like?" he asks, curiosity roused.

"Maybe." If Zaisyreth has shared anything ''else'' the bluerider will just keep it to herself for now. Her stiffness relaxes a little bit, and she reaches up to brush at a piece of hair in irritation. "Black hair, looks like crap, um... darkerish skin. A nose that just begs for someone to hit him." She says the end with a bit of heat.

Edyis squints, as though trying to place whoever Silva's describing. " The only sailor I know of is the one Farideh keeps as a pet during the winters. Kind of - uneducated?" Maybe she's being polite. "Unless we've had some new folk come in from Tillek."

Quint purses his lips briefly, gaze distant as he racks his memory. "Doesn't sound familiar," he says, at least until Edyis speaks. With a tip of head, he says, "Crooked nose?" he asks, after a beat. "I've seen him around, though he doesn't seem to be much for speaking to harpers, I'm afraid."

Silva perks up when Edyis mentions Farideh, "Him. I want to find him." And if she does her tone sounds like it isn't for a happy how-are-you chat. There's a particular icyness to her tone. "I want to... educate him."

Both brows creep skyward. "I think you had better explain what happened," Edyis notes knocking back her drink with a deep sigh.
Quint's expression looks worried, nodding at Edyis' question. "Educate him?" he echoes, like he's absolutely certain that doesn't mean what it sounds like. "Are you uh, sure that's wise?"

Silva, making Edyis and Quint go ???? for the last turn. It's a gift. Tapping a finger along one arm Silva thinks very carefully about her answer. "He is woefully ignorant about a few things regarding dragons. Since no one else is teaching him, I will."

Edyis blinks, squints, and then guffaws. She can't even help it. "Even - if you - could, it wouldn't - be any good." Her words interspersed with laughter. "Pretty sure." Yeah good luck with that Silva.

Clearly, the answer is a lot less alarming than the harper was imagining, with Quint looking thoughtful (and slightly relieved). "It's not always easy for those coming from outside of the Weyr to fully understand how it works. Just, mm, be gentle," he advises. "Sometimes what you want to teach isn't something someone wants to hear." The harper, along with Edyis, are seated in one of the booths, with Silva leaning against the back, deep in conversation.

"Oh, he'll hear it." Silva's tone doesn't bode ANY GOOD AT ALL. It's probably a good thing Drex is bigger than her or she would actually maybe hurt him. "And I don't ''really'' care if he wants to hear it or not." That's a challenge she's just tossed at Edyis.

L'sha walks into the Snowasis and shakes some of the rain from his jacket, then heads to the bar, greeting a few friends as he makes his way through the crowd. He nods to one of the bartenders, who smiles and nods back, then begins to make L'sha's regular drink, an enormous blue fruity cocktail with a tiny paper umbrella stuck in it. As the bartender is mixing, he looks around the room for familiar faces, then grins and waves as he sees Edyis and Silva.

Anyone facing the beautiful (awful, horrible, ugly) weather of High Reaches today has a reason to frown, but non-native Kh'tyr has taken that frown and paired it with the general grumpy disposition of a soaked feline. He must have enough experience in his life to know better than to drip across the floors so he pauses just as he steps in from the Garden Patio Ledge in soaked leathers to wipe his muddy boots. This is a man in need of a stiff drink, a man who, as yet, doesn't seem to make note of much despite the sweep of the room his brown eyes make as he cleans those boots.

Edyis snickers, "Girl ''I'' can throw you over my shoulder like it's nothing. What in the blazes do you think you are going to do to teach him?" Cheeks flushed with more than just cold now as the brownrider further undoes the toggles on her flight jacket. "Though I'd love to see that maybe. What did the oaf go and do?" She catches the wave and returns it a little. Except that now the place is filling up and it is harder to keep track.

The watch dragon bellows a challenge from the star stones, answered with, << T'zur and Tziveth, of Benden, >> and apparently accepted in kind. The bronze that descends doesn't seek to touch the thoughts of the dragons of the Weyr, keeping to himself as he circles down and settling onto the bowl floor. It's some time before T'zur, a now rather drenched Benden rider walks in, tugging off helmet and goggles and pulling a hand through unkempt hair that seems to spring free once released. He's tramping in the wake of Kh'tyr's steps, adding to the wet floor, but trusting that another newly arrived, soaked rider will be seeking the same thing he is: a strong drink. "Recommendations?" he asks the Fortian, not much bothering with cleaning ''his'' boots.

Quint makes a noise, somewhat between a cluck of his tongue and a stifled sigh. "Well, mm. Perhaps have that conversation somewhere public, yes? Or at least have someone like, oh, Edyis, with you while you do it." Because the harper is now in the habit of volunteering the brownrider for things and expecting she'll just do it. He doesn't seem so curious about what the sailor did, though he does lean back to listen.

"I've got a plan." Silva works her way out, stung by Edyis' laughter. Whatever he plan IS she'll keep to herself - along with what Drex has done to earn the small bluerider's ire. "Edyis has done enough already." Cryptic Silva? Yeah, and then she makes her way out. OUT. Drex. Dead. Or something

L'sha takes his drink from the bartender with a warm smile, then sips it and once again fights his way through the crowd. Eventually, he gets to Edyis and Silva's table and waves. "Hi there! How are you two doing?" He nods to Quint, "Evening, Harper, we haven't met, I'm L'sha, green Rillaeth's." He quickly steps aside for the angry, exiting Silva. "Um, see you later!" He shrugs and turns back to the others, smiling cheerily.

Blond as death Ja'son waltzes his way right into the area, blue eyes sparkling and jacket undone. Clearly, he's insane and doesn't care what the weather outside is like. His dragon, bronze Hephaisth, has settled himself outside with a grumble for the gathering snow. The knot shows the pair of Ista, so this is REALLY weird weather. Nevermind that, this is a bar! And bars are for warming up. Plus he's going to assume everyone in this room loves him, his blond hair, and his blue eyes. "Well met High Reaches' finest!"

Kh'tyr's boot taps once more on the floor before his eyes draw to the Benden rider. His shoulders roll in a careless shrug, "I'd take damn near anything just now that would put some feeling back in my fingers." Obviously, the brownrider is a man of refined tastes. "I recommend something from the bar," is dryly delivered with an inviting flick of his fingers for the bronzerider to join him in heading that direction.

Edyis knocks back another glass, which makes it a whole hell of a lot harder to hide the glare at the Harper. GLARE. GLAAAARE. "Um. Good." She mutters squinting after the bluerider as she departs. "Quit volunteering me for things you tunnelsnake you." Is she addressing Quint? Hard to say as she gets to her feet, noticing the other riders and squints again. "Hey... is there like a convention going on?" Dark eyes searching out the foreign knots.

"Sounds like a man after my own heart," the younger Bendenite says, grinning. "T'zur, of Benden," he adds, offering a now-gloveless hand as he falls into step with Kh'tyr, gaze flickering around the Snowasis as they walk. "I'm told brandy is good for just that -- not ordinarily ''my'' choice of drink, however."

"Why does that sound," Quint begins, voice going faint and rueful as Silva departs, "Alarming?" he glances at Edyis, wryly. "Well, it's only because you appear to have done such a good job of it, so far," he says, without a trace of remorse. Exhaling, the harper starts to reach for his glass of wine -- untouched until now -- and takes a generous gulp. "Good eve, rider," he answers pleasantly to L'sha, gesturing towards a seat in apparent invitation. "Journeyman Quintus, of Harper. Pleased to meet you. Join us, won't you? And, mm, don't mind Silva. She seems a little out of sorts, this eve."

"And strangers!" Ja'son cocks his head to look around the bar, his cocky-grin only growing for the diversity on view. There's two choices - the natives, or the strangers. Drumming his fingers along his leg the Ista rider finally chooses the foreigners. "What brings you both to the land of ever-present snow men?" He's wide open with that smile - almost guileless as he settles himself between the two heading for the bar.

L'sha certainly loves Ja'son's blond hair and blue eyes, from the way he's ogling the Istan rider as he sips his cocktail. He turns back to the table and smiles warmly at Quint, taking the offered chair. "Why thank you! Well met, Harper Quintus." He waves a hand. "Oh, I know Silva, she's always like that." He looks around at all the commotion in the bar, then turns and shrugs at Edyis. "Dunno, but it's always nice to see new faces. "

Ink dark eyes narrow, and Edyis is full on staring at the man with the Benden knot, eyes narrowed as if in concentration. "Yeah, yeah you are an ass Quintus." But it isn't entirely meant as she's getting up. "One of those faces - is really familiar." The brownrider is standing up now. "Guard my bottle for me will you?" She eyes L'sha and Quint, as she stands to make her way in the direction of the newcomers.

"Kh'tyr, of Fort when I've been good." The older man returns with ease at odds with the still sour expression that remains after the hand is met and only eases once he's put in a drink order. "Brandy'll do," comes with an extreme lack of care for exactly what fills his cup so long as it's strong enough. He could ask the obvious - make the obvious small talk - instead, he leans his back to the bar and casts his eyes around before inquiring, "What do you reckon, a normal day for them?" as if he were trying to assess the growing numbers in the local watering hole.

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

Quint, if anything, seems to perk up at L'sha's answer. "Oh, you do? Friends?" he inquires, lightly enough, and yet the intent way he watches the greenrider for an answer suggests the question has more weight than it appears. His brows go upwards at Edyis' words, a noise -- like he's stifling a laugh -- concealed by the tip of his glass to his lips. He regards the brownrider bemusedly as she leaves. "Definitely something ''off'' today. Rising green?" he asks L'sha, like he might have some insight.

"Make that two," T'zur tacks onto Kh'tyr's order. He leans against the bar, watching the bartender work for a moment, before the Fortian's question draws his attention to the remainder: "I wouldn't know. First, uh, time here," a little ruefully. If the Bendenite is taken aback by Ja'son, he recovers swiftly enough, turning amiable grin on the Istan rider. "Curiosity," he answers, with a smile, and then -- as an amendment, "It might have been a challenge, too. I'm not sure. But mostly curiosity. Drink?" he half turns to the bartender: "Make that three."

L'sha smiles and nods, "Yes, I knew Silva when she was a weyrling." He slides Edyis's bottle over to himself and guards it like a bulldog. "Something going on, yep. Don't look at me, though, Rillaeth isn't glowing. I don't know of any other proddy greens, although statistically there probably are one or two. Quite a few foreign bronzerider knots about. One of the queens about to rise, maybe?"

Ja'son settles himself at the bar, the stool pulled under his body with the help of a foot. Rather then follow the lead of the others though, the Istan bronzer orders, "Whiskey, actually," and winks at the person behind the bar. Turning halfway he leans an arm on the bar so he can see the other two while resting at his ease. "Well, it's cold. That's pretty much HR," yes, he says the letters, "is famous for. And what about us?" A finger twirls to point at all three, "What are ''we'' doing here?"

Those with dragons in the Snowasis may gradually begin to grow aware of a low, curling tension that's wholly separate from what the weyrfolk are experiencing tonight. Has it been there all day? It's hard to tell, although it increases rapidly into the very palpable sensation of something warm and ''bright'' that telepathically spreads itself over the Weyr. In the living cavern, an increasingly preoccupied Jocelyn stops pushing food around her plate to go very still, expression suddenly startled. Those in the bowl are about to get quite the show; Aidavanth, brilliantly luminous with more than just the frequent oiling of the past several days, awakens and appears on her ledge stretching luxuriously, even provocatively with arching neck and spreading wings. Her rider doesn't have much time to give a panicked look around, to grab the sleeve of the nearest rider and tell them to make sure Irianke and Farideh ''leave'' before she makes a run for the bowl. There will be time later for apologies and 'I told you so's'; for now, the redhead sprints through the rain, barely reaching the stairs up to the weyrleader complex before the queen is suddenly airborne, barreling toward the feeding grounds where several resident males have already begun their hunts.

While Quint doesn't seem particularly interested in acquiring the bottle, neither does he seek to protect it, leaving that up to L'sha. Instead, he takes another sip from glass, and inhales in surprise about when L'sha speculates. "Ah. Oh dear." He clears his throat, gets his breath back, while eyeing said foreigners. "Any idea who it might be?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

L'sha heads to the patio ledge.
L'sha has left.
You head to the patio ledge.

L'sha braves the freezing rain to place the umbrella in the center of one of the tables, lock it in place and open it. His drink is now a bit diluted, but he shrugs and sips it anyway. The umbrella seems to be doing a decent job of keeping most of the rain off him, so he sits and pulls out a chair for Quint. "Well, it'll be tough to see them in the air, but they'll be out of sight soon anyway."

While Quint hunches into his jacket, he's not so unused to the weather that he retreats. Immediately, he tips his head upwards, but there's little to be seen from here other than the occasional glint of light of dragons' hides from the feeding grounds. They're not the only ones that are braving the weather for a glimpse, either. Setting the bottle near the middle of the table, the harper glances at the offered seat, and shakes his head in thanks, gesturing for L'sha to take it instead. "I've-- I feel a need to stand. That energy is... infectious," he admits, with a grimace, lifting glass to his lips.

L'sha closes his eyes and smiles, feeling the emotional tension in the air. "Mmm, yes, there's nothing quite like it. Unless you're actually ''in'' the flight, then it's much, ''much'' more intense. So you wanted to know which dragons are participating? Well, there's Akluseth and Edyis, of course, then..." He pauses for a moment to consult with Rillaeth. "Kh'tyr and brown Mograith from Fort, T'zur and bronze Tziveth from Benden and Ja'son from Ista. Rillaeth didn't catch his dragon's name, nor did the watchrider, apparently."

Even if the greenrider's eyes are closed, by habit Quint nods in answer to L'sha's question. He frowns briefly, thoughtfully. "Mm. Interesting -- many out-Weyr riders. Some posit it boasts well for a good clutch, to mix the bloodlines like that." When the dragons soar upwards, he watches the glints off their hides until the rain obscures them entirely, exhaling a sigh.

L'sha leans back to watch the dragons rise, getting a faceful of rain in the process. He doesn't seem to mind, though, and ducks back under the umbrella when they're out of sight. He sips on his drink and glances at Quint curiously. "This isn't your first time watching a gold flight, is it?"

"No," Quint answers with a grin, as if pleased by the observation. "Had postings at Ista and Honshu Weyrs before this. I'm glad I make it look like I'm an old hand," he chuckles, all but draining the contents of his glass. That perspiration on his forehead might just be rain, or it might be something else, but the harper still stands straight-backed.

"No," Quint answers with a grin, as if pleased by the observation. "Had postings at Ista and Honshu Weyrs before this. I'm glad I make it look like I'm an old hand," he chuckles, all but draining the contents of his glass. That perspiration on his forehead might just be rain, or it might be something else, but the harper still stands straight-backed.

L'sha's brow furrows briefly and he opens his mouth to say something, but thinks better of it and sips his drink. "So how do you like High Reaches after Ista and Honshu? I guess the weather is nicer there. Warmer, anyway. I've never been to Honshu, though." He looks up into the umbrella in the direction the dragons are going. "Sure you don't want to sit?"

"It's different," is the immediate, and typically non-committal harper response. After a beat, Quint chuckles: "Though granted, the weather does make a difference. But I've grown to rather enjoy High Reaches' winter, too. The children get such a thrill out of it; it's hard for that to ''not'' be infectious." He follows the rider's gaze upwards, exhales as he can't see anything, and nods a concession, moving over to take the seat opposite L'sha's. "Think she'll mind if we...?" he gestures to Edyis' bottle.

L'sha grins. "Yeah, I love the winter, too. Warm weather's nice, but I can only take the sun and the heat so much. I don't know how Istans and Igenites can stand it all day." He shrugs and sips his drink. "I don't think she'd mind if you took one drink. I'll stick with mine, though, I don't like hard liquor too much." He raises his glass. "Here's to a good flight and a good clutch!" He takes another sip.

"I imagine," the harper says thoughtfully, "It's whatever you get used to. Day time naps and lots of cold drinks worked wonders for me in Ista -- habits I picked up from the locals," Quint confesses, with a grin. With his companion's blessing, he reaches for Edyis' discarded bottle, pouring himself a half glass of the contents, in a display of self-will. The twitchiness with which he does it suggests he's not entirely immune to the emotions of the gold's flight, exhaling slowly as he takes a slower sip of the contents of his glass, now, murmuring, "To a fine clutch," he echoes.

L'sha clinks his glass with Quint's in a toast, then sips it and looks skyward again. "So, do you have anyone to spend the night with?" He asks this nonchalantly, as if merely curious.

The harper's too poised to look embarrassed by the question. "Not yet," Quint says, although he adds immediately, "But I'm afraid I'm rather partial to female companionship. I'd bet there'll be plenty of losing riders coming through here, soon, though," he says, with a smile. Up there, far distant, Aidavanth might be poised on the verge of being caught, though all the harper can tell is that it's suddenly warm, a flush going through him as he drains the rest of his glass.

L'sha nods. "Okay, I don't mind." He suddenly looks up towards the sky. "Oh..."

The greenrider's expression earns a sharp look from Quint, who, too, looks at the sky. Not that he can see anything. "Has she...?" he tilts his head, not so much listening as ''waiting''.

L'sha continues staring upwards for a moment. "She's close...she's caught! It's Akluseth! I don't believe it!" He stands suddenly, his chair pushing out and nearly toppling over. He leans out and shouts into the air and rain, "WOOHOO! Way to go, Akluseth!"

"Akluseth?" Quint echoes. "Edyis' brown? Interesting. Perhaps, like her rider, Aidavanth prefers High Reaches' bred," he likely isn't even aware he's saying it, muttered ruefully under his breath as he exhales. "I should," he waves vaguely, and stands awkwardly.

L'sha grins up at the sky for another moment, relishing the sensations washing over the entire Weyr. "Sure, why not? Best to keep it in the Weyr, in my opinion." He glances over at the slightly unsteady harper. "You okay there? Need a hand? I won't take advantage of you or anything."

Quint makes a sound that ''could'' be a stifled laugh, or, you know, something else. "No, no, I'm ah, fine. Thanks for the company, L'sha. Have a good evening." He's going off to find... something to satisfy this itch.

L'sha smirks. "Okay, have fun, then! I think I'll go track S'rin down." A mischievous grin slowly spreads across his face.

With a set expression, the harper heads out without a backward glance.
}}

Logs:Out Of Sorts

2016-07-10T02:11:48Z

R'hin: Created page with "{{Log |who=Edyis, Ja'son, Jocelyn, Kh'tyr, L'sha, Quint, Silva, T'zur |what=Weyrfolk gather shortly before Aidavanth's flight, and everyone seems out of sorts. |where=Snowasis..."

{{Log
|who=Edyis, Ja'son, Jocelyn, Kh'tyr, L'sha, Quint, Silva, T'zur
|what=Weyrfolk gather shortly before Aidavanth's flight, and everyone seems out of sorts.
|where=Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr, Benden Weyr, Ista Weyr
|day=25
|month=3
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.09
|weather=Heavy rain in the middle of winter only means that the temperature is only a few degrees above freezing; it's more miserable for the soaking torrents.
|mentions=Drex, Farideh
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn.png, Icon quint.jpg, Icon silva.jpg, Icon edyis.jpg, Icon kh'tyr.jpg, Icon l'sha.jpg,
|desc=The Snowasis is rarely quiet, and even then, the high-ceilinged former
weyr is kept from echoing by the fantastical booths tucked into its
convoluted perimeter. The secluded seating spaces have been shaped from
the truncated stalagmites that escaped the smoothing of the main floor,
and are both softened and separated by colorful hangings that are thick
and opaque enough to make each corner its own private nook.

Some of the smaller stalactites still roam the ceiling, their jagged teeth
tracing a bumpy, inverted spine to the hearth. There, a thick rug with a
low klah table and comfortable armchairs and couches sit, their upholstery
and cushions changed sporadically to match the season: bright, light
colors in the summer, fresh greens and yellows in the spring, warm
autumnals in fall, and clear, rich hues for winter. Small tables litter
the rest of the cavern, enough to fit up to four people each, while stools
stand along the smooth wooden bar behind which is the passthrough window
to the kitchen. Glass-paneled cabinetry behind the bar provides a clear
view of the available liquors, the many colors reflecting the soft light
of glows tucked into strategic niches around the cavern.
|log=The Snowasis is doing a brisk trade, though its occupants are either sparse enough or not yet drunk enough that the level of volume makes for easy, casual conversation. Quint's taken up one of the booths, and while he has a glass of wine, it's untouched at this point. There's a handful of hides on the table, but he seems to be set on people-watching rather than pretending to work.

Silva's on a mission. A completely coherent and dedicated mission. She's dressed simply enough right now, without the flair of PARTY that has hung over her for the last few weeks. But what she is looking for doesn't seem to be here. There's a hiss of frustration that moves through her teeth and she turns abruptly, like she's going to leave.

Coming in from the patio, nimble fingers are already working at the toggles of the Snowdrift rider's flight jacket. Cheeks flushed with cold, Edyis goes straight for the bar first, ordering a bottle of something with considerable bite, and eyes the rest of the room for familiar faces. Both harper and bluerider are eyed as she gets her glass and bottle, moving in an attempt to hook Silva's arm and drag her over to the table where the harper is sitting. "Come on let's go pick on the harper." A toothy grin flashed across her face. "Journeyman Quintus. Mind if we join you?"

Of course, the harper notices Silva, even if she doesn't notice him. Quint doesn't much seem to mind, though his expression is thoughtful as his gaze lingers on the retreating bluerider. There's momentary surprise in the harper's face when Edyis intercepts Silva, and he straightens, subtly, looking briefly pleased with himself before he schools his expression. "I don't mind at all," he replies to Edyis, waving his hand expansively at the booth in invitation. "Edyis, Silva. How are you both?"

Silva's startled when Edyis is suddenly ''there'', her focus having been on whatever is making her frown. She's a few steps towards the harper before she shakes her head and refocuses, the frown being transferred to the brownrider. Perhaps she would have shaken her off, except now they're here in front of Quint. Words get stuffed back and while she doesn't smile well, there is a tightening of her lips that ''could'' be a smile. "You first Edyis." A gesture not unlike Quint's. Silva will take the outside unless Edyis manhandles her into the seat.

Edyis simply grins at the woman, and if she catches that moment of smugness from the Harper it doesn't show right away. She doesn't seem keen on letting the Bluerider have the outside either. Once everyone is seated the cork on the bottle is popped and she pours a few fingers of the liquid into the glass tossing it down. "Freezing my non-existent balls off, and my dragon is being a pain in the ass but otherwise no complaints." Knocking back the glass before refilling it. "How about you Silva?" The question bearing more weight for all its casualness.

Quint's sharp gaze catches the shifting expressions of Silva's, his head tipped marginally. "Zaisyreth doing well?" he asks, leaning forward once they've both settled in. He doesn't reach for his glass to drink from it, merely to push it to one side. He takes in Edyis' imbibing and the words that follow with an exhale. "Things seem awfully tense today," he observes, tapping fingers on the table's top, gaze drifting across the bar, then back to his companions.

Deeep breaths all around. Nice, calm, deep breaths. Silva tries to wipe the scowl off her face, and replaces it with a slight frown which... is better? At least? She eyes Edyis' drink but makes no comment out of it. Instead she settles her arms across her chest and leans against the back of the booth. "You both want to know if I'm drinking myself senseless and fucking strange men still." Tenseness not commented on.

Edyis shrugs at the Harper's observation, going slower with the second glass now that the warmth from the first is starting to seep in. "Probably a green getting ready to rise. He's usually an ass about that time." The brownrider notes of her lifemate, which might explain the drinking. At Silva's comment, however. Edyis chokes on her drink. "Shit woman. I don't have to ask what you've been up to." The brownrider reminds her mildly irritated. "I just wanted to not be sitting alone while I drink." She mutters something unintelligible, refilling her glass again.

Quint looks momentarily ''aghast'' at the inelegant response. "No, Silva," he says, after a beat, keeping his voice even and low, much in the same way one might speak soothingly to a startled animal. "I asked how your dragon was doing. Will you sit and join us for a bit?" His glance flickers towards Edyis as she mentions a green rising, exhaling briefly. "Mm. I see."

Silva's gaze flips between the two people and some of her irritation fades. She does sit, probably out of guilty conscience, but the reasoning doesn't matter. "Zaisy's fine." The mention of the green even gets a response - "He didn't mention any greens, and he usually does." Not that the blue CHASES often, it's jut one observation of many. "Have either of you ever met the sea-crafter who hangs around here?"

Edyis sniffs. "Then maybe he's just being an ass for no reason then." Edyis shrugs off the blue's two-mark bits. Dark eyes lift and brows knit together. "Seacrafter?"

"I'm glad to hear it," Quint replies with genuine sentiment. He's no rider, to comment on the state of the Weyr's dragons, though he does closely watch the exchange, otherwise silent on that topic. "Seacrafter?" he echoes Edyis, surprised. "Not many seacrafters here, if any. Too far from water, I'd have thought. What does he look like?" he asks, curiosity roused.

"Maybe." If Zaisyreth has shared anything ''else'' the bluerider will just keep it to herself for now. Her stiffness relaxes a little bit, and she reaches up to brush at a piece of hair in irritation. "Black hair, looks like crap, um... darkerish skin. A nose that just begs for someone to hit him." She says the end with a bit of heat.

Edyis squints, as though trying to place whoever Silva's describing. " The only sailor I know of is the one Farideh keeps as a pet during the winters. Kind of - uneducated?" Maybe she's being polite. "Unless we've had some new folk come in from Tillek."

Quint purses his lips briefly, gaze distant as he racks his memory. "Doesn't sound familiar," he says, at least until Edyis speaks. With a tip of head, he says, "Crooked nose?" he asks, after a beat. "I've seen him around, though he doesn't seem to be much for speaking to harpers, I'm afraid."

Silva perks up when Edyis mentions Farideh, "Him. I want to find him." And if she does her tone sounds like it isn't for a happy how-are-you chat. There's a particular icyness to her tone. "I want to... educate him."

Both brows creep skyward. "I think you had better explain what happened," Edyis notes knocking back her drink with a deep sigh.
Quint's expression looks worried, nodding at Edyis' question. "Educate him?" he echoes, like he's absolutely certain that doesn't mean what it sounds like. "Are you uh, sure that's wise?"

Silva, making Edyis and Quint go ???? for the last turn. It's a gift. Tapping a finger along one arm Silva thinks very carefully about her answer. "He is woefully ignorant about a few things regarding dragons. Since no one else is teaching him, I will."

Edyis blinks, squints, and then guffaws. She can't even help it. "Even - if you - could, it wouldn't - be any good." Her words interspersed with laughter. "Pretty sure." Yeah good luck with that Silva.

Clearly, the answer is a lot less alarming than the harper was imagining, with Quint looking thoughtful (and slightly relieved). "It's not always easy for those coming from outside of the Weyr to fully understand how it works. Just, mm, be gentle," he advises. "Sometimes what you want to teach isn't something someone wants to hear." The harper, along with Edyis, are seated in one of the booths, with Silva leaning against the back, deep in conversation.

"Oh, he'll hear it." Silva's tone doesn't bode ANY GOOD AT ALL. It's probably a good thing Drex is bigger than her or she would actually maybe hurt him. "And I don't ''really'' care if he wants to hear it or not." That's a challenge she's just tossed at Edyis.

L'sha walks into the Snowasis and shakes some of the rain from his jacket, then heads to the bar, greeting a few friends as he makes his way through the crowd. He nods to one of the bartenders, who smiles and nods back, then begins to make L'sha's regular drink, an enormous blue fruity cocktail with a tiny paper umbrella stuck in it. As the bartender is mixing, he looks around the room for familiar faces, then grins and waves as he sees Edyis and Silva.

Anyone facing the beautiful (awful, horrible, ugly) weather of High Reaches today has a reason to frown, but non-native Kh'tyr has taken that frown and paired it with the general grumpy disposition of a soaked feline. He must have enough experience in his life to know better than to drip across the floors so he pauses just as he steps in from the Garden Patio Ledge in soaked leathers to wipe his muddy boots. This is a man in need of a stiff drink, a man who, as yet, doesn't seem to make note of much despite the sweep of the room his brown eyes make as he cleans those boots.

Edyis snickers, "Girl ''I'' can throw you over my shoulder like it's nothing. What in the blazes do you think you are going to do to teach him?" Cheeks flushed with more than just cold now as the brownrider further undoes the toggles on her flight jacket. "Though I'd love to see that maybe. What did the oaf go and do?" She catches the wave and returns it a little. Except that now the place is filling up and it is harder to keep track.

The watch dragon bellows a challenge from the star stones, answered with, << T'zur and Tziveth, of Benden, >> and apparently accepted in kind. The bronze that descends doesn't seek to touch the thoughts of the dragons of the Weyr, keeping to himself as he circles down and settling onto the bowl floor. It's some time before T'zur, a now rather drenched Benden rider walks in, tugging off helmet and goggles and pulling a hand through unkempt hair that seems to spring free once released. He's tramping in the wake of Kh'tyr's steps, adding to the wet floor, but trusting that another newly arrived, soaked rider will be seeking the same thing he is: a strong drink. "Recommendations?" he asks the Fortian, not much bothering with cleaning ''his'' boots.

Quint makes a noise, somewhat between a cluck of his tongue and a stifled sigh. "Well, mm. Perhaps have that conversation somewhere public, yes? Or at least have someone like, oh, Edyis, with you while you do it." Because the harper is now in the habit of volunteering the brownrider for things and expecting she'll just do it. He doesn't seem so curious about what the sailor did, though he does lean back to listen.

"I've got a plan." Silva works her way out, stung by Edyis' laughter. Whatever he plan IS she'll keep to herself - along with what Drex has done to earn the small bluerider's ire. "Edyis has done enough already." Cryptic Silva? Yeah, and then she makes her way out. OUT. Drex. Dead. Or something

L'sha takes his drink from the bartender with a warm smile, then sips it and once again fights his way through the crowd. Eventually, he gets to Edyis and Silva's table and waves. "Hi there! How are you two doing?" He nods to Quint, "Evening, Harper, we haven't met, I'm L'sha, green Rillaeth's." He quickly steps aside for the angry, exiting Silva. "Um, see you later!" He shrugs and turns back to the others, smiling cheerily.

Blond as death Ja'son waltzes his way right into the area, blue eyes sparkling and jacket undone. Clearly, he's insane and doesn't care what the weather outside is like. His dragon, bronze Hephaisth, has settled himself outside with a grumble for the gathering snow. The knot shows the pair of Ista, so this is REALLY weird weather. Nevermind that, this is a bar! And bars are for warming up. Plus he's going to assume everyone in this room loves him, his blond hair, and his blue eyes. "Well met High Reaches' finest!"

Kh'tyr's boot taps once more on the floor before his eyes draw to the Benden rider. His shoulders roll in a careless shrug, "I'd take damn near anything just now that would put some feeling back in my fingers." Obviously, the brownrider is a man of refined tastes. "I recommend something from the bar," is dryly delivered with an inviting flick of his fingers for the bronzerider to join him in heading that direction.

Edyis knocks back another glass, which makes it a whole hell of a lot harder to hide the glare at the Harper. GLARE. GLAAAARE. "Um. Good." She mutters squinting after the bluerider as she departs. "Quit volunteering me for things you tunnelsnake you." Is she addressing Quint? Hard to say as she gets to her feet, noticing the other riders and squints again. "Hey... is there like a convention going on?" Dark eyes searching out the foreign knots.

"Sounds like a man after my own heart," the younger Bendenite says, grinning. "T'zur, of Benden," he adds, offering a now-gloveless hand as he falls into step with Kh'tyr, gaze flickering around the Snowasis as they walk. "I'm told brandy is good for just that -- not ordinarily ''my'' choice of drink, however."

"Why does that sound," Quint begins, voice going faint and rueful as Silva departs, "Alarming?" he glances at Edyis, wryly. "Well, it's only because you appear to have done such a good job of it, so far," he says, without a trace of remorse. Exhaling, the harper starts to reach for his glass of wine -- untouched until now -- and takes a generous gulp. "Good eve, rider," he answers pleasantly to L'sha, gesturing towards a seat in apparent invitation. "Journeyman Quintus, of Harper. Pleased to meet you. Join us, won't you? And, mm, don't mind Silva. She seems a little out of sorts, this eve."

"And strangers!" Ja'son cocks his head to look around the bar, his cocky-grin only growing for the diversity on view. There's two choices - the natives, or the strangers. Drumming his fingers along his leg the Ista rider finally chooses the foreigners. "What brings you both to the land of ever-present snow men?" He's wide open with that smile - almost guileless as he settles himself between the two heading for the bar.

L'sha certainly loves Ja'son's blond hair and blue eyes, from the way he's ogling the Istan rider as he sips his cocktail. He turns back to the table and smiles warmly at Quint, taking the offered chair. "Why thank you! Well met, Harper Quintus." He waves a hand. "Oh, I know Silva, she's always like that." He looks around at all the commotion in the bar, then turns and shrugs at Edyis. "Dunno, but it's always nice to see new faces. "

Ink dark eyes narrow, and Edyis is full on staring at the man with the Benden knot, eyes narrowed as if in concentration. "Yeah, yeah you are an ass Quintus." But it isn't entirely meant as she's getting up. "One of those faces - is really familiar." The brownrider is standing up now. "Guard my bottle for me will you?" She eyes L'sha and Quint, as she stands to make her way in the direction of the newcomers.

"Kh'tyr, of Fort when I've been good." The older man returns with ease at odds with the still sour expression that remains after the hand is met and only eases once he's put in a drink order. "Brandy'll do," comes with an extreme lack of care for exactly what fills his cup so long as it's strong enough. He could ask the obvious - make the obvious small talk - instead, he leans his back to the bar and casts his eyes around before inquiring, "What do you reckon, a normal day for them?" as if he were trying to assess the growing numbers in the local watering hole.

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

Quint, if anything, seems to perk up at L'sha's answer. "Oh, you do? Friends?" he inquires, lightly enough, and yet the intent way he watches the greenrider for an answer suggests the question has more weight than it appears. His brows go upwards at Edyis' words, a noise -- like he's stifling a laugh -- concealed by the tip of his glass to his lips. He regards the brownrider bemusedly as she leaves. "Definitely something ''off'' today. Rising green?" he asks L'sha, like he might have some insight.

"Make that two," T'zur tacks onto Kh'tyr's order. He leans against the bar, watching the bartender work for a moment, before the Fortian's question draws his attention to the remainder: "I wouldn't know. First, uh, time here," a little ruefully. If the Bendenite is taken aback by Ja'son, he recovers swiftly enough, turning amiable grin on the Istan rider. "Curiosity," he answers, with a smile, and then -- as an amendment, "It might have been a challenge, too. I'm not sure. But mostly curiosity. Drink?" he half turns to the bartender: "Make that three."

L'sha smiles and nods, "Yes, I knew Silva when she was a weyrling." He slides Edyis's bottle over to himself and guards it like a bulldog. "Something going on, yep. Don't look at me, though, Rillaeth isn't glowing. I don't know of any other proddy greens, although statistically there probably are one or two. Quite a few foreign bronzerider knots about. One of the queens about to rise, maybe?"

Ja'son settles himself at the bar, the stool pulled under his body with the help of a foot. Rather then follow the lead of the others though, the Istan bronzer orders, "Whiskey, actually," and winks at the person behind the bar. Turning halfway he leans an arm on the bar so he can see the other two while resting at his ease. "Well, it's cold. That's pretty much HR," yes, he says the letters, "is famous for. And what about us?" A finger twirls to point at all three, "What are ''we'' doing here?"

Those with dragons in the Snowasis may gradually begin to grow aware of a low, curling tension that's wholly separate from what the weyrfolk are experiencing tonight. Has it been there all day? It's hard to tell, although it increases rapidly into the very palpable sensation of something warm and ''bright'' that telepathically spreads itself over the Weyr. In the living cavern, an increasingly preoccupied Jocelyn stops pushing food around her plate to go very still, expression suddenly startled. Those in the bowl are about to get quite the show; Aidavanth, brilliantly luminous with more than just the frequent oiling of the past several days, awakens and appears on her ledge stretching luxuriously, even provocatively with arching neck and spreading wings. Her rider doesn't have much time to give a panicked look around, to grab the sleeve of the nearest rider and tell them to make sure Irianke and Farideh ''leave'' before she makes a run for the bowl. There will be time later for apologies and 'I told you so's'; for now, the redhead sprints through the rain, barely reaching the stairs up to the weyrleader complex before the queen is suddenly airborne, barreling toward the feeding grounds where several resident males have already begun their hunts.

While Quint doesn't seem particularly interested in acquiring the bottle, neither does he seek to protect it, leaving that up to L'sha. Instead, he takes another sip from glass, and inhales in surprise about when L'sha speculates. "Ah. Oh dear." He clears his throat, gets his breath back, while eyeing said foreigners. "Any idea who it might be?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

L'sha heads to the patio ledge.
L'sha has left.
You head to the patio ledge.
}}

Logs:Where Bodies Are Buried

2016-07-10T00:15:44Z

R'hin: Created page with "{{Log |who=Alysce, Drex |what=A harper and a sailor run into each other in the hallway. |where=Hallway, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=25 |month=3 |turn=41..."

{{Log
|who=Alysce, Drex
|what=A harper and a sailor run into each other in the hallway.
|where=Hallway, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=25
|month=3
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.09
|quote="Did I catch you doing something bad? Were you about to steal something or murder someone or something?"
|mentions=Quint, Farideh
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon alysce challenging.jpg, Icon drex oh no you didn't.gif,
|desc=One of the many corridors that extends through the caldera of the High
Reaches bowl. Passages and doorways lead off in different directions.
|log=There are many tunnels that lead from the inner caverns to more obscure and unused parts of the Weyr, deep inside the caldera. And it's easy to get lost if you don't know your way, or don't have a glow. Fortunately, Drex has both, and he's not hiding either, stomping down one of the hallways with his grumbling, "Stupid fish-shitting weyrfolk."

Alysce isn't lost; there may have been some vague noises on the part of a certain Journeyman that she should explore more of the Weyr, and that may be what has led her down here. Her own glow is held limply at her side, illuminating her far-side in its light as she stands at the point of an intersection of tunnels. The harper is clad not very much like a harper at all, with perfectly tailored white pants and a dark jacket that looks to be modelled off those of a dragonrider's. (though it is certainly more for style than practicality. No dragonrider would seriously consider wearing a jacket that sacrifices pockets for a slimmer fit.) It's only at the sounds of the grumbling that she turns away from the etchings in stone she was studying, to query, "I haven't found even ''one'' of them that shits fish, you know. Drex." She doesn't forget a voice, or perhaps it is the way he walks that gives him away.

Hard to mistake that pristine, prissy harper for anything else; Drex slows as scowls as their paths intersect. "You," he snorts, eyeing her narrowly. "Only because yer pretty freakin' blind for a ''harper''," Drex says that word like it's something dirty. He halts some steps from her, adjusts the glow he's carrying so that it shines more ''at'' her, and asks accusingly, "What are you doing here? You aint supposed to be here."

"Uhm," is drawls out at that accusation, in that precisely prissy way that makes Alysce unmistakable. "Last I checked, I could be anywhere I wanted to be, thank you very much." Well, as long as her Journeyman allows, but she doesn't add that information to her sassy retort as she flashes a smile at Drex. As he adjusts his glow, so does she, lifting it to shine more pointedly on Drex in turn as her dark eyes sweep over him. "Why? Did I catch you doing something bad? Were you about to steal something or murder someone or something?"

"Oh, really? Thought I heard you complaining at the lunch table the other day you wanted to be somewhere warm with a beach so you could parade around with hardly any clothes?" Of course, that could have been some other teenage girl, because frankly, they all sound alike. His face shifts at that accusation, scowling deeper, but then abruptly, grinning. "Aye. About to ''murder'' someone," he growls convincingly, taking a step towards the harper with an outstretched hand.

"I think what I said was ''less'' clothes. You only wish it was hardly any," Alysce answers back flippantly, lifting her free hand to brush her dark hair over one shoulder in a dismissive gesture. But then there's that growled threat, and for a split second the harper looks like she may be convinced he ''would'', battled against perhaps common sense or some inherent belief of youth that no that could never happen to her. The latter wins out and she only bats at his hand. "You could ''try''. Even if you did, would you really want ''my'' ghost haunting you?"

"As if," Drex snorts. "Yer tits aint even worth looking at." Though he's staring now, because well, topic of conversation. When she bats his hand away, he drops it, but still does his best to ''loom'', aided by the shadows thrown around by the glows. "Aint no ghosts. Where I bury the bodies aint none comin' back," he says, with an overly confident grin, undoubtedly meant to throw of that common sense of hers.

"Oh, right. Unlike your girlfriend's, right? Who everyone wants to stare at ''her'' tits," recalls Alysce dryly, shrugging up a shoulder. She may have batted away his hand, but so much looming and intimidation is enough to get through to even her, and she takes one little step backwards, giving way ground even as she levels a challengingly look on Drex. "I'm sure. Even if you ''did'', you know, Quint would find my body and then I'd be able to haunt you. So, I win."

The scowl that Drex produces comes of genuine irritation. "They fuckin' do. Well, not when I'm lookin' at 'em, not ''anymore''." The dirty pirate radiates smugness at that single step, taking it as a victory. "Quint?" he echoes, "Oh, is that your precious Journeyman? Is he your ''heeeeroo''?" he sing-songs the word, mockingly. "Do you dream about him sweeping you away and ravishing your body?"

Alysce's eyes slide slowly into narrowed, dark daggers at Drex's words. And that step is regained even as she warns him in a hissed, "You know, not everyone is ''so scared'' of you, ok. Think about ''that'' before you think about saying one more word about, yes, ''my'' Journeyman. Because he's worth a thousand of you and a hundred of your little girlfriends." A moment, two, and then her hair is flipped again before she adds dryly, "And before you ask, no, I don't dream about you sweeping me off my feet either."

Drex's scowl deepens as she mentions his girlfriend. He's quiet for a moment, before he growls, "Do ya dream about me sneaking into your room and slitting yer throat?"

"I don't dream about you at all, promise," deadpans Alysce in return, dark eyes only showing irritation. If there's fear there, it's been tampered down behind it. But she then moves to brush past him dismissively, towards the way he came.

Drex, now, ''grins''. "You ''will''," he promises. While he shifts his weight like he means to block her, he falls back and allows her to pass, dimming his glow to near nothing. If there's a noise or two behind her as she leaves, it's surely not the dirty pirate. He's ''not'' that childish. Really.

There's only a sardonic, disbelieving huff from the harper, and perhaps a glance back or two despite the lack of light. She doesn't stop to retort, though, so Drex wins the last word this round.
}}

Logs:Give It Back

2016-07-03T05:14:32Z

R'hin: Created page with "{{Log |who=Drex, Silva |what=Drex finds a knife. Silva wants it back. |where=Hot Springs, High Reaches Area |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=4 |month=3 |turn=41 |IP=Interval |..."

{{Log
|who=Drex, Silva
|what=Drex finds a knife. Silva wants it back.
|where=Hot Springs, High Reaches Area
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=4
|month=3
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.02
|quote="I. don't. care. ''That'' is my knife. Give. It. Back."
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon drex youknownothing.jpg, Icon silva.jpg,
|desc=Even further north than the Weyr itself, a short flight between crags and
over crevasses that even a wing-scarred veteran of Fall might undertake, a
cluster of clearings lies low in the shelter of hardy trees and ancient
stone. The outer two clearings might have been lost to more stubbly trees
Turns ago, if it weren't for the centre-most: a natural pool of warm,
softly bubbling water several dragonlengths across, with enough space for
perhaps a half-dozen people and their lifemates. Though the air is cold
all Turn round, and snowdrifts frequently whiten the ground, the
geothermal activity heats the mineral-scented water to such a consistently
comfortable heat that it becomes a refuge for those who don't wish to
travel further afield to wash their dragons.
Of the clearings that abut the spring, the nearest is only a few steps
away, though it's small enough that only a few dragons can lounge at once.
A steep trail descends to its substantially larger neighbor, a
gravel-strewn crescent with enough space to spread out and enjoy the crisp
air and the mountain range's admittedly spectacular views.
|log=It's cold outside, but not here. Hear the warmth from the watersprings have warmed things enough that Silva's barefoot as she walks around the edges of the springs, moving from rock to rock. Zaisyreth is nearby, though not actually //here// on the edges of the springs. About half-a-spring away from her a bag sits with it's contents - a bottle, a knife, and some food - spilling out onto the ground. The sky above is crystal clear with every single star alight, and the moon giving enough to the earth that Silva can see clearly despite not having brought glows with her.

Walking up from the larger clearing, Drex is bundled in his coat, audible as much for the fact that he grunts now and then, on top of the sound of crunching gravel underfoot. He seems to be favoring his right arm, supporting it with his left, and picks his way carefully up. He's unaware of Zaisyreth's presence, angling as he is for the nearest spring, but it's the bag of stuff that he notices -- mostly because his foot catches it and he trips, all but face first, onto the ground with a startled yelp that echoes in the otherwise silent eve.

Spend more than a few sevens drunk every night and then attempt to turn around abruptly and you'll be as jumpy as Silva is. ESPECIALLY as she pretty much expected to be alone. (Zaisy fell asleep. The poor guy hasn't been sleeping well.) There's a seriously undignified sound that comes from her mouth as she slips off her rock into the water. Turning, face white under her natural tan, Silva stares at the lump that is an unknown-thing atm.

There's a pained sort of groan, as Drex rolls onto his back. A moment of silence, and then: "Fuckin' fish tittted ''ass''hole. Who the fuck leaves shit lying around?" His voice, not to mention the cursing, probably make it not that difficult to identify the owner. Pushing upright with his good arm, the sailor starts poking through the stuff around the bag -- pockets the knife with a pleased grunt, and then another one as he secures the bottle, uncapping it with the intent to gulp down a good portion of the contents.

It takes Silva more than a few seconds to recover her composure then.... He is STEALING HER STUFF. Important stuff. STUFF SHE HAD PLANS FOR LATER. The whiteness in her cheeks gets replaced with anger. Striding forward she moves towards Drex, clear murder in her eyes, though she'll stop very short. "Give it back. My knife."

Oh. ''Her''. Drex's expression says it all, fairly gloating as he gulps down the contents of ''her'' bottle. He's still seated, so she has the height advantage over him, though that doesn't seem to dissuade the dirty sailor from taking a second, generous gulp of her wine. "Aint yours. Found it on the ground, all abandoned. Nearly broke my fuckin' neck for it, too. You saying that was you?"

"No. That's my knife." A small slender hand is extended, palm up, and showing a jagged scar that cuts across the lifeline. Her voice is quiet, almost still as the stars above, though it's clear she's doing a careful job of keeping her temper in reign. "You'll find my name on it. Silva. S-I-L-V-A." As if Drex cannot spell.

"Aint yours," Drex disagrees. "It's on my belt." If he's aware of the scar on Silva's hand, or it's significance, he seems not to care. "I'm sweet on a girl called Silva? Gonna give it to her on her next Turnday." Instead of handing her the wanted knife, he hands her the mostly empty bottle.

Silva takes the bottle in her hand, breathing deeply. She even closes her eyes to try to reign in her temper but.... nope. It doesn't work. Instead she'll do a repeat of their last encounter and throws the bottle at the rocks between them. At least she doesn't hold onto it this time when it shatters, so it's just her unprotected feet that will get nicked by flying glass. "The. Knife."

The bottle lands close enough that the sailor flinches, at least, turning his head away in case any of the glass goes flying in his direction. "Woulda drunk that. Was being nice, leaving you some," Drex says, with a scowl. "Aint yours." He goes to cross his arms, gives a pained grunt and makes a face, before he shifts his weight with the intention of standing.

"I. don't. care. ''That'' is my knife. Give. It. Back." Silva bites off most of the words, keeping her voice pitched low. Somehow the shattering glass didn't wake up Zaisyreth from his slumber, and she is determined to keep it that way. "Give it back or I swear on my dragon's name I will find a way to murder you where you sit and I don't give a ''fuck'' what happens to me then." She actually sounds serious - though there's a hug size difference here.

Drex rises to his full height, and gives the girl a look. It is a mixture of amusement and challenge. "Yer gonna murder someone over a ''knife''? You dragonriders really have a fuckin' huge sense of entitlement."

"Right now I don't really give a damn about the fact that I'm a rider. ''You'' are stealing and invading an intimate moment of ''my'' life. Give. Me. Back. My. Knife." He's standing now, and Silva has to look up. There's no hint of fear in her gaze, more a mix of anger, bitter resignation and... excitement? It's confused.

"I was... what? ''Wait''," Drex grins, now. "Were you masturbatin'? I mean," he glances around at the public space, "I suppose every woman gets off in different ways, but, don't let me stop you," he gestures, as if for her to continue. "Won't even say nothin', promise." Which is something, for him.

That's enough. It's more than enough. Stepping forward - don't ask where Silva got the self composure to not scream when a few shards of glass dig into her exposed feet (that stuff HURTS) and moves to slap him - full handed, across the face.

It lands. "Ahh, ''fuck'', that ''hurt''," which is undoubtedly the whole ''point'', but Drex is offended, because, "Aint meant it to be dirty. I mean, if yer don't have a man to keep you happy, you gotta do what you gotta do, you know?" The sailor rubs at his cheek, alternately grimacing and scowling.

Silva closes her eyes, because ''damn'' her feet hurt, but she takes a deep breath and flicks them open again, pinning Drex with the look. "Then be that fucking man." It's pure challenge at the same time while Silva makes a grab for her knife.

"Aint sayin' I'm no pansy, neither," which seems to mean that Drex doesn't intent to return said knife. He's smirking at first when Silva makes a grab and barely twists his body to make it impossible for her to reach the knife at his belt, however in doing so her grab touches his left arm, and he ''howls'' in pain.

Silva's not the sharpest tool in the shed, but she can at ''least'' figure out that touching his arm=hurts=upperhand. So she's going to grab at that arm with one hand, with the other go after the knife again. No matter that the hot water is right next to them just waiting for stupid people to fall in fully clothed.

Now Drex goes into a defensive posture, belatedly trying to twist his arm away from Silva's reach, the fingers of his other hand rigidly trying to grab at the bluerider's wrist to free her grip and twist her away. He's panting, ''sweating'' even, trying to stifle another howl of pain as he twists, towards the springs.

Silva's barefeet can only take so much on the glass before Silva's going to have to give into the pain in her own feet. They are NOT an awesome pair, and if Silva's going to go down by all that is ''holy'' she is going to take him down with her, into that water because it would be ''much'' nicer to land there then on more class.

The splash would be more impressive if it weren't punctuated by inarticulate yells, flailing, and cursing to boot. Somewhere in that fall, Drex keeps a grip on Silva, and though he's a strong swimmer, it's harder with one arm broken. Also, somewhere -- during the struggle or the fall, the knife's gone awry. Maybe sunk to the bottom of that spring?

They're both going to drown. Well, it's likely, and likely enough that Zaisyreth wakes up at the yelling and for once isn't going to stand off. Moving swiftly the blue is by the side of the water and reaching his head in and he's just going to try to snag Silva's clothing and pull her out. No matter if he gets Drex instead.

There's an edge of something like panic in the sudden thrashing of Drex's struggle, only moreso when his coat gets snagged by a helpful dragon and he's dragged out. His grip on Silva's wrist is tight enough to drag her along with him.

Sputtering Silva is dragged from the water in Drex' hand. She would ''keep'' fighting with him, but there's a DRAGON in her head, and he's not being his normal chill self. Instead his eyes are whirling a bright red, and his blue hide seems almost white in the moonlight. He lets go of Drex the second both of them are out and is going to just STARE at him as Silva stands up and stumbles her way forward, "Stop! STOP!" But it's a mental battle and Drex is NOT included.

Drex is largely unaware of the battle going on; instead, he's panting and coughing up water, his already injured arm cradled carefully against him. He's shivering as he begins to pull himself together, and that's when he notices the dragon staring at him, and the sailor bares his teeth, stumbling to his feet and ''away' from the pair of them.

Nope, Zaisyreth has finally reached his limit on all of this. While there is NO WAY he's going to ''hurt'' Drex, he is going to draw a line in the sand. He's large enough that his one step takes as much as several of Drex's, his eyes remaining that fierce whirling red. "''ZAISY''" Silva's voice rings out and after that single large step the blue stops.

Part of Drex's reaction is panic, part pain; he's shivering still, but when the dragon moves ''towards'' him, he straightens and yells, while backing away: "Get the fuck ''away'' from me. ''She'' attacked ''me''! And then ''you'' attacked me! You think you can do whatever you want because you're a big fucking dragon, drag me around like I'm ''nothing''!" His eyes are wide, breathing heavily still, teeth bared.

Zaisyreth could ''probably'' speak directly to Drex. But that's not.... really his style. He's angry right now - a state he doesn't get very often. So while he's ''not'' going to move forward because Silva has firmly said NO he is going to sweep his rider under a wing and continue to stare at him in a no-fucking-way right now. Silva's voice comes in from under the wing, angry ''now'' because someone is yelling at ''her Zaisyreth!!'' "He was PROTECTING ME! You're like TWICE MY SIZE and you ''stole'' my shit! I'm ''bleeding'' and we were ''screaming'' and ''drowning!''"

Drex isn't weyrbred, and he certainly doesn't spend his spare time staring at dragons, so he isn't exactly certain what to make of the dragon's reaction. Instead, since Silva starts yelling at him, he starts yelling back at her: "Your ''idiot'' dragon is like fifteen times ''my'' size and was going to ''eat'' me, what the fuck are you yelling at ''me'' for?"

"Don't fucking kid yourself - Zaisyreth doesn't ''eat'' people." Silva sounds completely aghast that someone would even think that about her beautiful dragon. Shoving herself out from her wing she stares at Drek, staring at him. "When has a dragon EVER eaten ''anyone''?! Aren't you fucking a dragonrider?!"

"Oh, sure. That's why he was stalking me all hungrily and you were screaming his name. Because he really ''wanted to be friends''." Drex scowls, shifting his weight from foot to foot, a puddle of water starting to form at his feet. It's the latter phrase that receives an incredulous look. "You think I'm a-- what the fuck even?" He shakes his head, baffled and frustrated and freezing, and with a last, dirty look over his shoulder, starts to stop away. It's a long walk back in the cold, and in freezing clothes, but apparently he thinks that's a better path than staying with the crazy girl and her crazy dragon.

Silva is probably going to track down Drex later, and find out what the heck happened here (because she's not sure). But right now? Right now she's sober, wet, freezing, bleeding from where she stepped on glass, and Zaisyreth is finally letting weeks of his pent up concern over her flow through their mindlink in a wave that pretty much makes everything else ''no important'' right now. Drex is just going to have to ''wait''.
}}

Logs:Keep Out

2016-07-03T02:02:25Z

R'hin: Created page with "{{Log |who=Castivan, Drex |what=Castivan and Drex meet. And then they fight. |where=Inner Caverns, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=1 |month=3 |turn=41 |IP=I..."

{{Log
|who=Castivan, Drex
|what=Castivan and Drex meet. And then they fight.
|where=Inner Caverns, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=1
|month=3
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.01
|quote="It would seem we finally understand one another."
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon drex.jpg,
|desc=Within the labyrinth of interconnected chambers that make up the inner
caverns, this large, long cavern serves both as a crossroads and a
comfortable place for weyrfolk to sit, talk, and keep a nosy eye out for
who's going where. Colorful, seasonal tapestries add warmth to the smooth
walls and reduce echoes, while large niches house clusters of chairs, and
a waist-high stone shelf along one wall provides a perch for drinks or
work for residents on the go. Worn brass hooks often hold jackets or other
outerwear with workboots stationed beneath, the transitory nature of the
cavern lending itself to being treated as a sort of communal foyer where
snowy or muddy gear can be kept outside of living quarters. Smaller,
higher niches at regular intervals hold glowbaskets kept fresh during the
daytime and allowed to dim somewhat at night.

The largest tunnels lead to the main living cavern, to the bowl and to the
Weyr entrance, but it's still easy for the uninitiated to get lost within
this maze.
|log=It's a winter's night, which means most of the warm places of the Weyr are already staked out, full of crowds of cheerful people. Perhaps that's why Drex has established a claim over one of the larger niches within the inner caverns, repositioning chairs, rearranging them to his liking. Underfoot -- occasionally in the way -- a feline twines through the chairs, undoubtedly thinking this all a game of some sort.

"On my honor as a trader, her tits were this big." The stocky youth expands both arms, complete with requisite finger wiggling, as he makes his way through the inner hall with a pack of younger males. Unfortunately, it would seem Castivan's audience doesn't appreciate the story about the supposed busty pirate captain since they brush him. "Eh, no appreciation for the finer things." He mutters as his gaze shifts to where Drex is rearranging furniture.

Mostly, the arranging just seems to create a barricade to entry, and then the most comfortable (and largest) chair, taking a central space, along with a second chair on which to prop his feet. Onto this makeshift throne, Drex drapes himself, although not before the feline hops up and somehow manages to squeeze into the space behind his back, preventing him from properly relaxing. Belatedly, he notices the audience, and gives a scowl Castivan-wards that is usually sufficient to deter any further interest.

The scowl is taken as an invitation since he's hopping the makeshift barricade with ease and settling himself into one of the empty chairs. "You look like a guy whose got it all figured out. What's a guy gotta do around here to get some decent clothes?" Since Castivan's quite notably don't look like they will do much to deter the weather.

"Aint a public area," Drex says shortly, as he notices Castivan invading 'his' space. He even gives a flicker of fingers as if to dismiss the other, even when he's chosen a seat. It's the latter question that furrows his brow. "How the fuck should I know?" is the immediate response, scowl deepening. "Do I look like a weaver?" He half twists, turning his attention away from Castivan.

"If it were private man, there'd be a door on it. At least that seems to be the way those things usually work." And for extra measure, he props long legs up along the barricade, (chair-i-cade?) since Drex already did all the hard work. "Fuck, does the weather make all northerners as grumpy or is it just you? Who pissed in your beer?"

"You leapt over a bunch of chairs. Ought to be obvious to anyone but a complete fish-brained ''dolt'' that means for you to keep out. Or," Drex frowns, leaning forward, as if he's reached a conclusion, "You one of them ''simple'' ones?" He ignores the latter insult, other than a snort.

"Chairs are not a door. No door or curtain, no expectation of privacy. Besides you already went to the trouble of setting up this nice little spot. It'd be a shame to leave it go unappreciated. " He tones in an accent that marks him pretty easily as a southerner. "You are clearly one of those that walks around with a proverbial stick up your ass. "

"Well, duh," Drex rolls his eyes. "Guess you think naming all the things is helpful. Do you get full marks for that? A little clap from your ma?" He shifts his shoulders in one of those half-shrugs. "Aint my fault yer too dumb to realize yer not wanted."

Castivan says, "Nah, in your case I can already tell it's pretty hopeless. It isn't that I can't tell that I am not wanted. I just don't give a fuck.""

Unaccountably, Drex suddenly smirks.

Castivan grins crookedly. "It would seem we finally understand one another. I'm Castivan." Settling into the chair. "Not that you give a shit."

"I understand ya just fine," Drex stands now, and behind him, the feline stretches out into the warmth left behind. A couple of steps take him closer to Castivan, and without warning, he reaches back to punch the seated man in the face.

He should have expected it, The chair clatters hard, and Castivan is left staring at the cavern ceiling, while his face throbs. "Should have figured you were one of those." Getting up to his feet and grabbing the back of the chair and moving as though to set it back upright. Except that he flings it, ''hard'' directly at D'rex, putting as much space between the two of them as possible in the process.

Correction. He should have expected it, The chair clatters hard, and Castivan is left staring at the cavern ceiling, while his face throbs. "Should have figured you were one of those." Getting up to his feet and grabbing the back of the chair and moving as though to set it back upright. Except that he flings it, ''hard'' directly at Drex, putting as much space between the two of them as possible in the process.

Drex is apparently done with ''talking'', and while he looks ''pleased'' at the result, he's still smirking when that chair comes flying at him. He manages to fling up an arm to protect his face, although that doesn't actually stop the impact, and he staggers over under the weight of it. Groaning, he pushes the thing off him, his left hand clutching at his left arm gingerly.

Hopefully nothing broke, but it is too late for Castivan to be thinking about the consequences. Now is the time for him to do what he does best, which is run like hell. Or at least he'll try to. He might stumble over himself a bit in the process.

There's a thump from behind, but if Drex is pursuing he certainly doesn't catch up. The fight -- such that it is -- has drawn a few curious onlookers, though it happened so quickly that no one's tried to intervene.
}}

Logs:A Helping Hand

2016-06-19T04:59:16Z

R'hin: Created page with "{{Log |who=Silva, Quint |what=Silva is doing a walk of shame, and Quint tries to help. |where=Weyr Entrance/Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=18..."

{{Log
|who=Silva, Quint
|what=Silva is doing a walk of shame, and Quint tries to help.
|where=Weyr Entrance/Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=18
|month=1
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.06.18
|quote="I'm not lost Quint. Just... trying another path. No one's getting hurt. I mean, it's just... I don't know. I'm not hurting."
|mentions=Jocelyn
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Silva Thinking.jpg, Icon quint.jpg,
|desc=Cutting through the Weyr's massive outer flank, the tunnel from the
outside spills out into a smooth-cut space where wagons often pull in to
unload supplies or take shelter during bad weather. Crates and dollies
line one wall, ready to be pressed into service for carting stuff around.

Five other passageways, dimly lit by well-spaced glows, lead deeper into
the Weyr; a draft from the centermost hints at the bowl beyond.
|log=It is probably too early (or is it too late) for Silva to smell like she does as she makes her way down the hallway into the weyr proper. It's a heavy tang of alcohol like someone has spilled it on her. Her heavy make-up from whatever her activities the night before is smeared, and her dress is rumpled as if it spent the night NOT on a hanger. The sun rises behind her, having just barely gotten over the horizon. "Whatever, I got us home alright, okay?" And she's doing that craycray dragonrider thing that she does.

There's not a great deal of traffic coming in from outside the Weyr in the dead of winter, but that doesn't mean the tunnel is empty -- there's plenty of people using it as a short cut to the Weyr's inner rooms, particularly the Snowasis -- although at this time of day it's mostly weyrfolk hurrying towards their jobs and to start their day. A handful take note of the rider, giving her a mix of pitying and judgemental looks before hurrying off on their own tasks. One in particular, though, holds a deliberately more neutral expression, though there's a tugging of a frown in Quint's expression as he steps over to intercept Silva, waiting for her to notice him now that he's right in her path.

Silva's hangover includes a particular nearsightedness - or perhaps it's just that she's not focusing on anything but the argument she's got going on with the blue that is out ~there~ somewhere talking at her. (It does save her from the judgmental looks?) "Yeah, well... Quint!" Blinking Silva stumbles her way to a stop, her hand going to the strap of her dress that had just managed to slip over her shoulder and pulling it back up. Her eyes are bloodshot, which isn't something she can really do anything about. "Uh, hi."

The harper shoots out an arm as if to help steady her, though Quint lowers it when she stops of her own volition. "Hi," he replies, by no coincidence echoing her. ''His'' eyes are fine -- a full night's sleep or close enough to -- and steady as he watches Silva. For once, ''amazingly'', the normally wordy harper is otherwise silent. Like he's waiting or something.

"Um." Silva isn't quite sure what to say, other then to reach down and tug at the bottom of her much-too-high-cut dress, trying to arrange it in some way that is a little more modest, but then she stills, catching herself in the action. Letting her hands fall from her sides she tries to square her shoulder, and squints at him. "Journeyman, I apologize for almost knocking into you."

Whatever said Journeyman was looking for, ''that'' isn't it; Quint's expression shifts marginally, as does his body as he steps to one side. "Come with me," he says, in a tone that is well-practiced; that of teacher to student, elder to younger, full of authority. Already he walks, like he expects her to fall into line, setting a slow pace to meet hers.

Whatever else it is, this THING of Silva's has her being a ''tiny'' bit more polite. Sometimes. She's trying? Kinda? Confusion stretches itself across her features when he turns and beckons her to come along with him, and she'll utter a, "Uh?" before stepping forward to catch up with him. "Did something happen?"

Quint shakes his head, but remains uncharacteristically non-verbal. The walk isn't a long one; the entrance to the nighthearth not overly far. It's empty at this time of day, but as always there's warmed stew on the hearth, and perhaps more applicably, klah. He pours out two cups, while he gestures for her to take a seat near the hearth, a slight humming audible under his breath as he does so. "Sugar?" he inquires politely, with a glance over his shoulder.

A Silva who isn't hung over would probably more confused by Quint's lack of talkativeness, but it's too early, her head is hurting (plus she's probably still talking to Zaisyreth on the side, just not, like, crazy person outloud now). "Oh, uh, sure, but I was going," and she points over her shoulder towards the way to the baths. "You know." THERE.

"I won't hold you up long," Quint says, indicating that he intends to hold her up ''some'', which is likely the reason he proffers the mug of hot liquid -- a tacit peace offering for a hungover mind. "Please," he says, nodding towards a chair.

Another um hums behind her lips, though it never comes out completely formed. Instead she reaches out and takes the cup, before settling herself on the chair with it in her hands. That dress strap of hers has dropped again, but this time Silva doesn't reach to tweak it back up. A curl of hair has snuck its way out of the mussed up control and falls across her face. She has to twitch it away before she can lift the cup to her lips.

He waits -- waits until she's taken that first sip, that first swallow -- before he finally talks. "When I was little I did a lot of things that, as a man, I regret." It's an odd start, and Quint keeps his voice low as he talks, leaning forward on his seat towards Silva to make the conversation private, intimate. "At the time, I didn't see it as anything -- I was surviving, in the only way I knew how. If someone had stepped in, then, and told me I was doing harm, to ''myself'', to ''others'' -- I wouldn't have listened, wouldn't have ''believed''. But I think if someone had -- mm, -- made it known that, should I ever look for a way out of the situation I'd gotten myself into... offered a helping hand, if you will, that that... would've been something that, when I was ready, I might've accepted." It's a lot. A lot of words, maybe ''too'' much, in her current state. And so, the harper, ''Quint'' -- takes a breath, seeks her gaze, and murmurs: "If you get lost, and want to find your way back, I will help you."

Silva frowns at the beginning, because it is an odd way to start, but as he continues speaking her expression closes, and despite the headache and the impossibility of erasing ''all'' emotion of her face, she does an admirable job of pulling herself inwards. Composure drapes over her like a cloak she's trying to draw on to hide her shabby and ill kept presence. "I'm not lost Quint. Just... trying another path. No one's getting hurt. I mean, it's just... I don't know. I'm not hurting." It's a lie, but she says it because she should. "And other then you... and Jocelyn because it's her job, it's not like any one really cares. So it's fine, it's fine."

It's a lie, yes, and he knows that she knows it, too. "There's an old saying that comes to mind," Quint says, slowly. "The best lies are the ones you tell yourself." The harper leans forward, stretches a hand for his fingers to brush hers. "Zaisyreth cares," is all he says, of that last.

"Well, then, I'll just have to work till it's ''not'' a lie then. Or whatever." It's tacit admission that she knows that he knows about her knowing. (Take THAT ONE logic!) The cup settles down onto her lap and Silva pokes a finger into the liquid, stirring it slightly with her fingertip. "Zaisyreth... loves me for me. Whoever I choose to be."

Blue eyes continue to regard her evenly, and Quint nods at that first, acknowledging wordlessly. "Dragons... they understand when their riders hurt. But I wonder if they understand ''why'' their riders hurt?"

The small bit of foam at the surface of the cup gets pushed around by Silva's finger, and she seems almost entranced by it. Her other hand opens slightly, showing the pull of still-healing cut on the palm. She doesn't have words to reply to him on that particular comment.

The lack of response is no deterrent; he is a harper, after all. Instead, Quint pushes to his feet, and -- by no coincidence, given his earlier words -- stretches out a hand towards her as if to help her up.

Silva's eyes are caught by his movement, and they follow him as he stands. There's hesitation before she reaches out and takes his offer of help with her healing hand. "You don't need to... or whatever. I know what I'm doing. I just have a headache or whatever right now."

"Okay," the harper says, accepting her lie for what it is, as he helps her to her feet. "I was glad to see you this morning, but I shan't delay you from your... bath," Quint adds, with a rueful smile, as he releases her hand. "All I ask is, as a friend, think about what I said, mm?"

"Wingleader probably won't be super happy about, like, me being late and I ''might'' manage it if I'm quick." Though there's nothing she can do about the REST of her hangover. Work, super fun the morning after~ "Thanks for the klah." And then the lies will just have to linger between them as Silva tries to put on a fresh veneer of cheerfulness. She's too quick though, to turn away, the walk of shame more shameful today for actually having run into someone who catches more than the surface of that shame.

There's a slight thinning of lips, but Quint lets the lies lie, as it were. The harper watches her departure, with only an inaudible sigh accompanying the contemplation, before he turns to tidy up the mugs. That done, he resumes his path to his original destination.
}}

Logs:Cheap Beer

2016-06-19T03:15:43Z

R'hin: Created page with "{{Log |who=Drex, Edyis |what=Drex answers some questions in return for cheap beer. |where=Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=15 |month=1 |turn=41 |IP..."

{{Log
|who=Drex, Edyis
|what=Drex answers some questions in return for cheap beer.
|where=Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=15
|month=1
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.06.17
|quote="You two happy?"
|mentions=Farideh, Ethran
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon edyis.jpg, Icon drex.jpg,
|desc=The Snowasis is rarely quiet, and even then, the high-ceilinged former
weyr is kept from echoing by the fantastical booths tucked into its
convoluted perimeter. The secluded seating spaces have been shaped from
the truncated stalagmites that escaped the smoothing of the main floor,
and are both softened and separated by colorful hangings that are thick
and opaque enough to make each corner its own private nook.

Some of the smaller stalactites still roam the ceiling, their jagged teeth
tracing a bumpy, inverted spine to the hearth. There, a thick rug with a
low klah table and comfortable armchairs and couches sit, their upholstery
and cushions changed sporadically to match the season: bright, light
colors in the summer, fresh greens and yellows in the spring, warm
autumnals in fall, and clear, rich hues for winter. Small tables litter
the rest of the cavern, enough to fit up to four people each, while stools
stand along the smooth wooden bar behind which is the passthrough window
to the kitchen. Glass-paneled cabinetry behind the bar provides a clear
view of the available liquors, the many colors reflecting the soft light
of glows tucked into strategic niches around the cavern.
|log=It's late, but the Snowasis is still in full swing with a few wings competing at the dart boards and still more residents filling the tables. Edyis has settled at one of the less sparsely populated tables, the large pitcher and empty glasses perhaps suggesting either that arrivals are expected, or that the seats were recently vacated. Either way the former scribe seems at ease, flight jacket hanging off the back of her chair, and sleeves rolled to the elbow. Each hand braced on one side of what appears to be a large glass of cheap beer. Or something of that nature.

It's late, which means it's the perfect time for Drex to swan in. While winter means a break from life on the sea, there's plenty of work at the Weyr to keep him busy, and whatever he was tasked with today apparently involved a lot of manual labor, given he has that distinct scent of sweat clinging near him. The bar is packed enough that the sailor grimaces at the row of people waiting for their drinks, barely glancing at the game of darts with a distinct lack of interest. While he's standing there, slouched, and waiting, his gaze roves, and he spots Edyis, at her table, all alone. It's not that so much as the pitcher of beer that seems to stir him into movement in her direction, slouching over and into a seat at the table as if he were expected. With a (entirely unapologetic) grin, he reaches for the pitcher of beer.

Sweaty sailor far from home or not, his unapologetic grin is met with a slanted one from the Snowdrift wingrider. If he's not who she's waiting for it's impossible to tell given she offers him her warmest, "Look what the shipfish dragged in. I figured you'd be on a boat somewhere still, or do you winter here now?"

Drex doesn't look dissuaded in the least by the lack of welcome from the brownrider. He seems to take the lack of attempt to stop him as tacit invitation, and just helps himself to a glass, into which he splashes a generous proportion of the pitcher's contents. "In winter?" his look is scathing. His, "That's dumb," might have been more descriptive if he didn't choose that moment to lift the glass and gulp down a generous portion. "Ugh. This is the ''tourist'' stuff. Don't you like, get paid a fuck ton or something?"

She shrugs, lifting her own mug, setting it down just in time to burst out in hearty laughter at Drex's appraisal of the drink at hand. "If you mean what I get paid for wing duties, not really." She hedges still grinning. "I will try to remember to have a bottle of the really good stuff around next time I see you though." Whether she is serious or facetious is anyone's guess at this point. "What trouble have you been getting into lately?" After a long drink, she adds; "Anything fun?"

Clearly, Drex believes she's just making fun of him with that comment about the good stuff, scowling and hunching into his seat. Mind, he's still drinking the beer, because while the Weyr might've introduced his palate to some finer things here and there, at his heart he's still a dirty pirate, and he'll never turn down free beer, no matter how cheap. "Why?" the latter's asked warily, staring at her a moment before he lifts and drops a shoulder in one smooth motion. "Aint much to do in winter, 'cept fuck and fight, am I right?" he smirks a little. "Got my girl pregnant again."

Making fun or not making fun, she only smiles as he hunches into the seat with a scowl, dark eyes appraising at his 'why'. "Isn't it polite to make some sort of conversation with the people you are drinking with? Since I'm terrible at commenting on boobs - " the rest seems simple, at least in her head. As for what winter provides in terms of activities, the brownrider shrugs. "I suppose not. Seems like there's more fighting than fucking to be had of late?" It takes a minute for the word pregnant to register, and there's the faintest shake of her head. "Seems like you wind up with more of the former then." Blink. "You two happy? With having the little ones around I mean?" Caution mixed into her tone as sh studies him from over the rim of her glass.

"Aint that civilized, I guess," is Drex's conclusion after a moment of blank staring. Maybe it's been a long day, or maybe he's ''trying'' at least, since -- after he scratches at himself for a moment, he grunts, "Aint across what anyone else is doing. Seems a waste of winter not to be fuckin', though," is the sailor's sage advice. It's the latter question that makes him scowl, "Aint nobody's but mine and my girls. What the fuck does it matter to you?" the hostility, while abrupt, isn't exactly out of character for him.

"That's probably true." Edyis snorts into her glass in agreement of wasting winter. She mutters something inaudible into the glass before setting it back onto the table. The hostility might have been expected for all that her demeanor doesn't change, and the question is met with a lift of shoulders. "Just wonder sometimes what it's like is all." She brushes the answer off, or at least pretends to.

Drex, true to form, shows no interest in the muttered comment. Instead, he reaches for the pitcher to refill his near empty glass, despite his earlier complaints about the quality. He gives the brownrider another look, still suspicious, and then, with reluctance, finally says, "Aint all harper stories and puppies."

Her thumb traces the glass idly as she listens, a small nod given for the answer reluctantly given. When the pitcher is freed she claims it to refill her own mug. "But you were happy when she told you?" bracing her chin on one hand, elbow settling on the table.

"Well," Drex frowns, scratches some more (the smell of him is probably growing more apparent as he does so), "I mean yeah. Ethran's growing up now. Be nice for him to have a little bro to look after."

"Mm" Is Edyis's only answer. There's a moment where her expression goes distant, the tale tell sign of draconic communication. The mug is upended and the last of her beer chugged down unceremoniously, but the remainder of pitcher it would seem is left to the sailor's care. "Need to see a dragon about a man." She notes with a touch of humor. "Feel free to finish that off on your way to the baths." Snapping up her flight jacket, the words must serve as her farewell, since she's stepping off into the cold of the patio and the bowl beyond.

There's a puzzled look from the sailor, as much for her words (apparently the joke falls flat to Drex's ears), as the comment about heading to the baths, "I aint--" Drex begins, with a sniff, and then a wrinkling of nose. And maybe, ''maybe'', he does finish off the beer before he heads for the baths, but totally not because she suggested it, no.
}}

Logs talk:Angry Bottles

2016-06-18T04:55:01Z

R'hin: Comment provided by Drex - via ArticleComments extension

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

==Roz (15:29, 13 June 2016 (PDT)) said... ==

This is why we can't have nice things, guys!!!! DDDD:
==Drex (21:55, 17 June 2016 (PDT)) said... ==

No, this is why FARIDEH can't have nice things. (Because Drex will just destroy them >.>)

Logs:Creative Influence

2016-06-18T04:49:29Z

R'hin: Created page with "{{Log |who=Quint, T'gar |what=Quint is teaching a lesson; T'gar plays nice for the children. |where=Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=15 |month=1..."

{{Log
|who=Quint, T'gar
|what=Quint is teaching a lesson; T'gar plays nice for the children.
|where=Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=15
|month=1
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.06.17
|quote="I'm not really good at...speaking to children."
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon quint face.jpg, Icon t'gar silly.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.

The snowfall is light and intermittent throughout the day until it tapers
off completely into a frigid night. The ground is damp, though very little
sticks.
|log=It's been a cold day, though by a High Reachian winter's stands not the worst. The snow's been falling throughout the day, but even without that addition there's more than enough gathered on the ground for the afternoon's apparently unconventional harper lesson for the mixed class of children. Some are older and some younger, and they're paired up, while Quint walks between them, inspecting their creations. It looks like they're building mini snow forts, at first -- it's only on closer inspection one might realize they're each creating the major and minor holds that form High Reaches' coverage area, with the rock at the very center -- on which sits a wrapped package -- representing the Weyr in the formation. "Another ten minutes, boys and girls!" calls Quint, his voice pitched to carry: "And then we'll see whose paid the most attention to detail!" There's mostly groans and pained noises at this, the children hurriedly bending over their respective creations, trying to shape the snow.

A cold day means 'out and about' for one Taiga bronzepair. While Asaroth is keeping out of sight, T'gar looks to be simply - taking a stroll. His leathers are on, and his gait is leisure as he comes upon a class in session. Not one to disrupt it seems, he's unassuming in his meander through the students as he eyes some of the snow creations with open interest.

Most of the children seem oblivious to T'gar's presence; a couple of the older boys give him wary looks, but it's the harper that greets him with an easy smile: "T'gar, isn't it?" Quint tilts his head as if he might not remember; as if a trained harper might somehow be ''wrong''. He steps near, glancing past the bronzerider to whatever creation's caught his attention at the moment: "They're quite good, no? Though," he leans closer to murmur, "Some diverged ''quite a bit'' from expectations of realistic proportions, but, they ''tried''," he grins, and his expression changes, eyes widening as if something's only just occurred to him. "Actually -- if you have a moment..?"

Watching the work in action as he approaches Quint, in his Bitran accent, "So it is true what they say about harpers and memory," T'gar greets back in answer before turning his gaze on him. "What exactly are they making? Snowholds?" He has a moment. It's in the way he steps to the harper's side once his gaze falls back on the creations at work with hands on his hips.

Quint's brow visibly furrows. "Mm, you know what? I can't quite remember," he says, shaking his head, only a trace of a smile touching his lips. "As accurate as they can be from drawings. Most are too young to have traveled much, if at all," the harper answers smoothly, glancing over by habit when a few voices are raised in a momentary argument over whether it would be "cooler" for them to create a moat for Crom or not. The argument seems firmly won by the older boy, and the journeyman's gaze returns to the rider. "As someone intimately familiar with Reaches' holds, you would make an apt judge." He cocks his head to one side, his question just as wordless, and just as obvious as the rider's previous response.

Listening, "I think we did something like that back home," Rat relates as he watches the small fight. "Try to recreate Bitra. It was fun watching most of us getting it wrong. You want me to go around and judge their holds?" There's uncertainty in his tone as he asks, arching a look over at Quint. "I suppose I would know what I'm doing. I ''could'' tell that boy over there that a moat in Crom would make sense there." That could be his agreement to examine thier work.

"Well," Quint's voice is somewhat rueful, "If you're going to judge, you oughn't give them hints and tips -- otherwise they'll be upset when they do what you ask and you don't pick them." Still, the harper spreads his hands as if inviting the rider to do what he will; or maybe he just means for the bronzerider to inspect them, as he calls out: "One minute, everyone!" To a frantic scrambling of snow-packing and sculpturing.

Laughing, "A hard taskmaster, are you?" Rat teases with a look. "Very well. I can play fair when I want to." Then, after a moment's silence, "I don't think I see you around here all that often," he notes aloud. "You're from here, right? I didn't get much of a chance to introduce myself at the hatching in Fort."

"No, just realistic. Most children tend to take you at your word -- assuming you haven't lied to them before. I try not to break all their childhood dreams and wishes in one afternoon," the harper replies in a blithe undertone. The children get ''more'' than their minute of finished work, as Quint gives an easy smile, "Just over a couple of turns here, now. I imagine," without any sense of awkwardness, "We don't often run in the same circles." His gaze, briefly, flickers to his charges, then back to the bronzerider. "Well. The very least I can do is buy you a drink in thanks for your service, afterwards. Ready?" He asks the question, but doesn't appear to wait for the answer as his voice lifts: "All right, all right. Hands by your sides, everyone! We have a special guest judge this afternoon. T'gar, would you like to introduce yourself," he gestures, as if presenting the bronzerider on a stage at a gather, rather than to avid sets of many curious eyes.

"I don't deal with kids all that much," T'gar tells him with a shake of his head. "Unless they're the ones that keep their mouth shut as they shoveled shit next to me in the stalls. A couple of turns, huh? I figured I'd run into everyone here at one point, you know? Anyway, I won't turn down a free drink." but then, all talk cease when one is put on the spot to introduce yourself. He appears taken aback by all the stares before he steps forward and states, "Well. Name's Rat. T'gar's the name I was given. Um. I ride a dragon. He's bronze. He's crazy. Uh. Came from Bitra where I, uh, shoveled shit all day." Pause. "I mean, shoveled ''crap'' all day. You didn't hear that last bit. Mm. And I like bubbly pies." He looks to Quint.

As T'gar introduces himself, there's different reactions from the children -- some of the older boys -- old enough perhaps to stand in the next clutch -- straighten and pay closer attention, staring with rapt awe, while others whisper and giggle over the name "Rat", and some of the girls affect boredom. Quint, meanwhile, is well-trained enough that he doesn't even pause, swiftly stepping in when the bronzerider looks to him, as all the children giggle over that last. There might not be ''quite'' so much awe in a handful of those gazes, anymore. "Perhaps, mm, some better preparation next time -- that's on me, I did put you on the spot. So," the harper gestures towards the nearest snow offering, looked over by an older girl and a younger boy, "Would you like to examine the holds, and select the one you think best represents its respective real life hold?"

"I'm not really good at...speaking to children," T'gar leans over to explain to Quint despite all eyes on him. "If it was a group of ladies, well..." But then there's a task at hand and he nods and steps over towards the nearest creation as he says, "Right. Let me see...." Affecting a look of concentration (likely for the kids'), the bronzerider slowly traverses the group, looking at each creation with the occasional nod or grunt and giving nothing away on his tense face.

"Mm. Well, often I find it useful to talk to them like adults, except without the swearing," comes Quint's not-so-helpful ''now'' advice. Most of the pairs of children just stare at T'gar in a disconcerting fashion, although one of the older boys is game enough to declare, "Ours is clearly going to win, because I've been to Pars before and I know it better than anyone!" This earns some eye-rolling from other children nearby, though their teacher's presence at T'gar's side prevents any verbal responses. The harper, since he's not choosing, offers praise for each creation -- that one's attention to detail for the cobblestones of the courtyard, or that one's fireheights being well crafted, or this one's tiny little holder standing nearby.

"''Now'' you tell me," Rat says good naturedly, holding back a chuckle. "Not that talking to them like they're adults would be the best advice for me," he adds now, a touch wry. "I don't think they're parents would want me around them if that was the case. I think I've found the one that I like," he gives this last statement in the kids' direction, but it's clearly meant for Quint as he steps away from the last examined creation.

There's a nonverbal apology in Quint's expression, held back as much for their circumstance as, likely, the good-natured response from the bronzerider. "Ahh, the bronzerider's made a choice. Children, gather around," he gestures them closer. "As you know, the winners will receive whatever's in the box," he glances towards the rock as the class gathers around. "So, bronzerider T'gar -- which do you name winner?" he's as curious as any of the children about T'gar's selection.

Once the children are all gathered, T'gar watching in silence, once they're close he steps away from the group to take a slow meandering around the creations while Quint talks. He makes a few stops to certain ones - as if they were the winner - only to shake his head and move on to the next. A few he lingers around as if he's deliberating - his head turning between two creations next to each other - before he shrugs and abandons the attention. Finally, he stops at one creation that gets the brunt of his attention, nodding his head and turning towards the group with a flourish of hands towards it. "Who made this one? I think it's the most accurate one of them all. Craftsmanship's not bad, either."

There's whispering and muttering and shifting behind the bronzerider -- the children too impatient to a fault, waiting for him to pick. Quint's silent, watching, staying where he is while T'gar does another circuit. When he selects a winner, the harper grins and nods. "Mine, it's mine!" A girl's voice calls, quickly corrected by: "It's ''ours'', wherryhead!" The older girl pushes out of the crowd, beaming with pride, "See?" she immediately looks at her partner, a slightly younger boy, "I ''told'' you it was the best." The boy rolls his eyes, but looks pleased just the same, squinting up T'gar. "Did you ''really'' shovel shit?" the boy asks, wide-eyed. "Henny, shush! You're not supposed to say that," the girl tells him off, authoritatively, then turns faux apologetic look at the bronzerider. "He's young and dumb." "I'm ''not''!" The girl ignores the protest and asks, "What do you like about it? It's the flag, right? I did that!"

T'gar looks pleased - as if he made that creation himself as the children argue. He doesn't answer the boy right away - the girl beats him to it anyway - so he answers her first as he points out different parts that he liked. "The courtyard, the architecture," he explains with a nod, "and the flag ''does'' stand out. Makes me wonder how this would look carved into wood instead of snow. And painted. Can you imagine building some people all over it? It's ''definitely'' real from the wings of my dragon. Now," and now he turns to address the boy, "Yeah, kid. I did. Though you shouldn't say 'shit'. Not until you're 15. Promise me that, right? Can't have you all picking up bad habits after me. Wait awhile longer before you do." Beat. "But yes, I did. Before I Impressed. My pa ran the stables. Asaroth wanted me anyway."

The girl looks practically ''giddy'' from the praise, and it's not just because it's cold that her cheeks are suddenly flushed. Amazingly, the praise seems to render her speechless, while Henny is less enthused for the words afterwards, rolling his eyes again. "Bet ''you'' said ''shit'' all the time when you were stuck shovelling it." The girl with him looks positively outraged on his behalf, but before she can come up with something to say, Quint steps closer. "All right, all right. Class, you're dismissed -- you can destroy your creations before you go, if you want, but I think it would be nice to show off, if you wanted to keep them." Most ''do'' seem to lean towards the latter, but there's a handful who, with reckless abandon, destroy the snow-holds they created. "Thank you, T'gar," he says with a grateful nod towards the bronzerider. "Now, Henny, Ansi -- do you want to collect your prize?" He doesn't have to say much more than 'pri--'' before they're darting for the box. "Good choice," the harper approves, with a smile. "Turns out, you're not so bad with children after all."

"'Course I did," Rat answers the kid on his cursing, his smile easy. "That was only because my parents didn't care what they said around me. So, until you find yourself stuck shovelling it...." the rest, he leaves before tossing a wink at the flushed girl and watching them and the rest of the group run off. To Quint with a nod for his thanks, "That doesn't mean I can be around them everyday, you know," he says on his progress report. "I happen to hazardous only 'some' of the time. And it was entertaining."

"Well, in that case, I appreciate the restraint for this afternoon," the harper says, reaching out with the intent of clasping the younger man on the shoulder. Quint glances over his shoulder: Henny and Asri each have a hide in their hands, and Henny's crowing about how he's getting a ''free flight'' to ''anywhere'' he wants, and now his friends (and those who are many not-so-much-friends) are all crowding around the pair to see or to ask if they can go along. With a grin, the harper nods towards the Snowasis, "I can buy you that drink now, though I'm afraid I won't be able to stay, myself."

Nodding to that grip, "I'm happy to help out, sometimes," T'gar is easy in answering back with a toothy grin. "Got a name to uphold around here. Looks like the kids are happy with themselves," with a nod towards that group crowded around the winners. "Nice on you. Buy me the drink later. I've got sweeps to run anyway, but, when you're free, we'll have that drink. Sounds good to you?"

"Oh, there'll be a few upset, regardless," Quint says, matter of factly, "But I've planned a big trip for all of them once the snows melt a bit, so they've that to look forward to soon." His hand drops back to his side, easily, and he accepts the raincheck with an easy smile. "What an excellent suggestion. Enjoy your sweeps, T'gar, and give my regards to your dragon also, would you?"

"You must be a favorite teacher among them," Rat comments, chuckling. Nodding towards that last as he steps away, "I will. Take care of yourself until then, Quintus. Good to see you around, man."

"I'll settle for one they ''listen'' to," the harper replies with an easy chuckle. "Clear skies," Quintus calls, lifting a hand, before he turns attention briefly back to the children -- many still clustered around the winners, with other weyrfolk starting to drift closer, tugged along by their child, showing off their creation.

Better than one they will go out of their way to prank," Rat says that as if it's something he's done himself. "Alright, man. Clear skies." Then he's on his way towards the bowl, in much the manner of one that was on his way there in the first place.
}}

Logs:Angry Bottles

2016-06-13T03:25:00Z

R'hin: Created page with "{{Log |who=Drex, Silva |what=It's Turnover, and neither Drex nor Silva are acting their age. |where=Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=28 |month=13..."

{{Log
|who=Drex, Silva
|what=It's Turnover, and neither Drex nor Silva are acting their age.
|where=Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=28
|month=13
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.06.12
|quote="You should watch who you're calling loose there."
|mentions=Farideh
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon drex oh no you didn't.gif, Icon Silva Sardonic.jpg,
|desc=Massive in scale, the Weyr's main storage passage connects to the kitchen
on one end and the outbound tunnel on the other. Large enough to admit a
wagon laden with goods, the tunnel easily permits the unloading and
organization of supplies into the various storerooms.

Branching off from this corridor are multiple caverns, the nearer two
being 'open' stores from which residents can readily help themselves,
while the deeper stores are kept locked up tight with a posted sign and
inventory hung on a hook outside of each. An alcove next to the public
stores serves as a catch-all area for reshelving items whose destination
is uncertain; two sets of stone shelving and several bins hold these items
neatly until a stores assistant has a moment to deal with them.

Though the storage caverns vary in size, shape, and the smoothness of
their walls, all belong to the same system: whitewashed walls, swept
floors, and most importantly, neatly labeled and inventoried shelves
providing ample space to stow all the supplies a busy Weyr needs. Though
there's no direct internal lighting, a glowbasket may be brought in from
the niche outside each cavern, the better to ward off pests and the inky
dark of deep caves.
|log=The weather isn't exactly helpfully conducive to a pleasant Turnover; the heavy rain drives most people indoors, and those that are forced to be outdoors to bring in visitors do so in a hurried manner. The caverns are overflowing with bodies and noise, with food and drink and music, and so, perhaps, it's why the Weyr's semi-resident sailor has found somewhere suitably quiet to wile out the rest of the Turn. Drex has adopted one of the unlocked store rooms as his room for the evening, finding some blankets and making a makeshift nest in which he's reclining, a bottle of something resting near to his hand. His cheerful voice drifts out, perhaps inadvertently inviting inquiry: "If all of the girls were fish in the ocean, and I was a dollphin I would teach them the motion! I wish all of the girls were fish in a pool, and I was a dollphin with a waterproof tool~"

Silva //was// flirting with a guy, but that guy turned out to have a girl already, and so rather then //continue// to flirt Silva decided that slapping him across the face was more fun then trying to do anything further. This doesn't make the short rider any more popular so she sweeps through the rooms hunting something quieter. Drex's storeroom isn't at //all// quietier, but it does offer her a chance at a) a drink to capture back to her wery, and b) a snarky remark. "If you were a dolphin the fish would ''run'' sweetie, because, like, you'd be trying to eat them." A beat, "and you'd be super ugly."

Drex's immediate reaction is a scowl, since she's clearly interrupting ''his'' quiet time. Her remark earns a brief pause -- but it's only brief, as he pushes himself to his feet, pointing his rum bottle at her as he continues: "If all them young ladies was up for improvement, I'd give them some help with a ball-bearing movement," is sung complete with a suggestive wiggling of his hips and a laconic sort of grin. "Well," in his normal voice, after a head-to-toe assessment: "Maybe not ''all''..."

Silva flicks a glance towards Drex, before rolling her eyes and moving towards the shelves. She's clearly way more experienced with the layout down here then her years suggest she should be as she unerringly goes for the ones holding the best spirits which haven't been opened for the celebration upstairs yet. "That's not the kind of 'eating'," she says it like it's a dirty word, rolling it on her tounge before allowing it to drop forth, "that most girls want." His eyes on her aren't lost and she does put a little more swagger into her step, showing off the way her turn-day dress both clings and drapes //just// like it should.

"No?" Drex's grin widens, like he senses the irritation it causes and hones in on it. "Only girls who've never had it done properly'd say that." He takes a generous gulp from his bottle, and watches her examine the leftover bottles with a smirk. "Thought all you riders'd be teaching each other like," he makes an unmistakable gesture using fingers and tongue. "I'd watch an' give some pointers, if ya like?"

"Ugh," Silva reaches up on tip-toe to try to grab a bottle from the top shelf. It's //just// out of reach of her fingers and she glares upwards rather then looks back at Drex's induendo movement with his hands. "I," her tone is full of sauce, "doubt //seriously// that someone as loud mouthed about being good, is really as good as he claims. Else, he'd be getting //action// rather than drinking alone in a storeroom."

Drex is obviously flaunting ''his'' bottle with a little swish so that she can hear the liquid, before he crosses his arms and smirks while he watches Silva's attempts to reach the top shelf liquid. He gives an eyeroll at her response, "As if I'd sleep with just ''anyone''. You weyrfolk have been with more people than a pirate on his last sea voyage. Or any life-times voyage, come to think of it. Sides, my girl's got work to do tonight. Yanno," he makes kissy faces, "Pretend to like dull old men. Shouldn't you be doing that, too?"

"Piss poor man if you're letting your girl do that without being in eye range." Silva drops back to her feet and looks around. Ah, yes, there, a stool just for people like her. Marching towards it she sweeps it up in her arms and carries it over to the booze. Problem. Solution. Bam. "You should watch who you're calling loose there. I," Silva grabs her bottle and spins around to look, well, straight at him considering she's at his height upon that stool, "don't dally without some prep first."

"Aint that possessive," Drex says, with a shrug of shoulders. "Well," with a scowl, "Least not until her dragon goes all glowy, then all those bronzeriders try to throw themselves on her like they've just seen their first breast or somethin'," he's glowering in remembrance. The distraction means he doesn't look at Silva again until after she's claimed her own booze. "Eh?" he frowns, before a snort follows. "Oh. You're the sort that teases and taunts and never goes through with it, then? Lil' miss priss eh?"

"Or, you're just so pathetic that even if you //did// try to go with her, she'd not want you for fear it'd piss off someone important." Silva has to put some super attention on the bottle right now, and see if she can figure out a way to open it. Yes, she is looking to drink that whole thing ON HER OWN thank you very much. "And you?" She flicks a 'seriously' look up. "If you have just //one// girl, then what's up with the bragging about your ''skill''," sarcasm there, "and uh, fishery? Don't piss on me until you look in a mirror."

The sailor, surprisingly, actually seems to consider that a moment and guffaws a laugh. "Aye, probably true too. She's the one that made me wear this," Drex tugs at the collar of his clothes -- they're fine looking, and they certainly look good on him, yet there's an air of discomfort in the way the sailor wears them that screams that he's unused to such things. "My girl could crook her finger and any man in the Weyr'd come running. Think it speaks for itself that she only one she looks to is me." His chin goes up and everything, complete with smirk. While he might be aware of Silva's struggle with the bottle, he's neither moving to help her, nor does he think it at all strange that she's trying to snag a whole bottle for herself -- he has one of his own, after all.

Silva glances up at his clothes, finds nothing to fault in them, and frowns just because of //that//. Irritation after irritation compounds. It //should// be a celebration, but Silva is very much //not// in the mood. When she doesn't get the bottle open she jumps down from the stool and kicks it back to it's corner. "Screw you." Which is probably paramount to 'I just lost this word battle'.

And Drex knows it, too, judging by that shit-eating grin. "Just told ya, can't do it. Unless my girl agreed -- you're welcome to ask her?"

"I don't need to fuck someone else's guy just to get off." Silva's voice is curt as if something in the conversation has turned her attention into //true// ire. There's nothing like knowing she //should// probably be getting laid, but also knowing that it's a profoundly bad idea to choose some guy at random less it turn out to be something she //really// doesn't want.

"Aint judging," Drex says, just in case this is the reason for her sudden ire. "You weyrfolk are pretty out there, but I've been all over. You'd be surprised the sort of things people need to do to... get off," he smirks as he uses her words. "Don't let me stop you, though," he says, with an expansive wave, as he takes a gulp from his bottle, moving like he intends to follow.

Silva whirls around as his steps shows he //might// follow her. "Don't." There's a serious sharpness in her voice as she points at him with that bottle. "Go curl up in your pathetic little corner and wait for your ''girl'' to come get you after she's done dicking around with old men."

"What?" Drex goes for wide-eyed innocence, perhaps ruined by the knowing smirk. "Trying to keep me trapped here in the storerooms with you?"

"No, I'm leaving. You //aren't// coming." Silva whirls around and heads for the doorway, and what will probably be just one more move on a sticky slide of self-destruction because, hey, why not. She's not doing anything ~else~ with her life after all. Everyone needs hobbies.

This time, Drex waits until she clears the doorway before he, too, leaves. He's not exactly stealthy, but not trying to be either: just following at a distance at which he can't be accused of following Silva, exactly. He just ''happens'' to be heading in the same direction.

Outside the stores Silva doesn't break into a run - mostly because she's wearing stupid shoes that would be stupid to run in. She does walk briskly though, breezing past a group that turns to stare at her before shrugging and going back to their own attentions. Past them, and into a side hallway where no one is. In one move, pushed on by internal rage (and probably the fact that Silva can't seem to get the stupid thing open) Silva turns and smashes the bottle against the wall. The glass shatters in her hand, the liquid and glass spreading across the hallway. She takes it on her dress in a spectacular way, the light tan instantly stained red. It's hard, at first, to see the damage she does to her own hand in the move amid the red of the wine, and she freezes looking down at the shattered bottle in her hand, and the hand holding it as if they belong to someone else completely.

"Aww, come on, that's just ''sad''." Drex, leaning against the corridor further up, is just disappointed. "You couldn't even awkwardly hit on your Wingleader or something? Fish's tits," he says with a shake of his head. With a long suffering sigh, he gestures preemptorily at her, "Come on then."

Silva's attention is riveted on her hand and the shattered bottle. One finger at a time she opens her hand, till the neck slips down and pings against the floor and adding more to the mess down there. Bringing up her hand she looks at it. With most of the wine having dripped off it's clear she's cut herself at least once deeply, the blood welling up to drip down her arm in a thin stream. Sorry Drex, she seems completely entranced by the sight of her own bleeding and doesn't heed him.

"Oh, for fuck's sake. Useless bloody riders. Would think you've never been in a fight or nothin' before." Drex is just plain disgusted at this stage, stalking closer and reaching for her arm, if she'll let him, so that he can better see the damage to her hand.

When Drex reaches for her Silva snaps to, closing her hand (and probably digging shattered glass in deeper) and pulling it against her chest. "What do you ''want''?! Just go ''away''." The blood seeps through her closed fingers and begins to soak into the wine-splattered fabric of her dress. (Clearly, this one isn't going to be used again.)

"Trying to help, ''idiot''," because yelling at someone and insulting someone is clearly the way sailors gain trust. Drex makes a disgusted noise in his throat.

Well, the first time these two met, Drex threw her into the baths fully closed. There was no way this was going to go well. "Just get away from me. I'll take care of it." She's icy now, stepping back and looking down at her hand. "You don't give a damn, and I don't want you to give a damn. I'll take it to the healers or whatever."

"Fine then," Drex doesn't seem overly upset by her response, more bemused than anything. He folds his arms across his chest and just ''stares'' instead.

Clearly Silva has taken some leave of her senses, because instead of moving to act on her plan to go get cleaned up she just stands there looking down at her hand as it bleeds. "Fine then." It's a stand off now, to see who moves first.

The sailor stares at her for moments longer, and then he begins to mutter under his breath. Some of it is audible: "Fish-faced, dollphin-dongled landlubber," and some of it less so: as Drex skirts ''around'' the rider and to the other side, before stepping close -- like he's trying to herd her in the right direction like a simple animal.

Some of that icy composure that pressed in when rage shattered along with the bottle Silva whirls and comes face to face with the pirate. She's drawn up to her full height, but it's nothing compared to his and she has to look way up. "You're right." Cool. Calm. Collected. Bleeding from her hand. "I should have been more polite. My ''apologies''."

Drex, while used to the mercurial whims of a woman's moods, is astute enough to be wary of the change all the same. "Yeah, I am. But yer still bleeding all over the floor, so... ya gonna move or not?" A beat, "I mean, I can carry you over my shoulder to the healers, but think my girl might take exception to that."

Crisply, "No. I can take care of this. It simply suprised me." She nods once and turns on her toes to go towards the doorway. "You have somewhere to be at the moment." Wherever that //is//, Silva makes it plain is it //not// with her.

A shrug answers that. "Got everything I need right here," Drex lifts up the bottle -- he didn't abandon his prize possession, after all. Being oblivious to the normal social clues, clearly the sailor doesn't pick up on the fact that he's unwanted, trailing her at a distance again -- at least until they reach the more populated areas of the Weyr.

Normal people would go wind their way towards the healers. But Silva's got an option #2, and his name is Zaisyreth. She'll ignore EVERY stare that her wine stained and bloodied appearance causes to those few people to stare. Out of the weyr Silva moves till she meets up with her blue. Mutely she pulls herself one handed onto his back and they'll disappear upwards into the sky.

Maybe if Drex was closer he'd have done something. Maybe, but then... maybe not, because it ''is'' Drex. With a shrug, and another, "Flat-eared landlubbers," with a roll of his eyes, he disappears off to find somewhere warm and quiet to finish off his bottle.
}}

Logs:Turnover Talk

2016-06-11T01:50:44Z

R'hin: Created page with "{{Log |who=Catling, Quint |what=Quint visits his sister at Fort and meets weyrling Catling, discussing the upcoming Turnover. |where=Lake Shore, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr,..."

{{Log
|who=Catling, Quint
|what=Quint visits his sister at Fort and meets weyrling Catling, discussing the upcoming Turnover.
|where=Lake Shore, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|day=4
|month=13
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.06.04
|quote="Never been to a Turns End, nor yet a Gather. It's intimidating."
|mentions=Olivya,
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon quint.jpg,
|desc=The lake's shore is a broad crescent of golden-hued sand, stretching from
the southwest wall near the feeding grounds and around to the southeast
where the sand gives way to soil and leaf detritus from a cluster of hardy
mountain trees. Where the lake deepens, clear blue water darkens to murky
teal, hiding stony depths. Dragons often sun here and riders use the lake
for dragonwashing in the warmer seasons, while all of the Weyr's denizens
may enjoy walks and picnics among the large, smooth boulders that
interrupt the smooth flow of sand. Many of the Weyr's children also play
at skipping stones with the wide variety of rocks available along the
water's edge.

From morning straight through until well into the night, large,
soft-looking snow falls steadily.
|log=The sun is below the rim of the bowl when a dragon glides down to the lake, coming in to a graceful sweep above the water before landing next to the trees. The dragon has a bit of snow melting on him, looking like sugar dusted over cake. He is a gangling brown, ten months old, oddly graceful and awkwardly lanky at the same time. For a moment he mith seem to be riderless, save for the straps, but then a girl slides down his flank, using his leg to help dismount. She's a couple inches short of five feet, a wispy waif of a girl, and she looks up at him. "Let me get the straps off, and then I'll get you dried. Eh, better that than you getting back to the weyr all sopping wet. If you're sure you're not...." she lilts at him.

Out by the lake, two figures are taking an early evening stroll. One perhaps familiar -- Gisele, the blonde one of the oldest candidates of the recent clutch, now a seamstress -- and a taller man with similarities in feature enough to suggest a relative of some sort -- dressed unmistakably in harper blue -- even if his knot wasn't enough to identify him as such. The dusting of snow that covers their coats and hair suggest they've been out long enough for at least one circuit of the lake. The pair comes to a halt as dragon and rider land not far up ahead -- there's an odd look on Gisele's face, briefly, before she says something hasty to her companion and rushes off towards the bowl. Left bereft of his companion, the harper takes it on himself to continue the walk, right towards brown and his girl. "They've grown quite significantly since I last saw them. They always do, and yet it's hard to credit it when blink and look back, and they're," Quint gestures, ''up'', towards Riyoth's height, gaze appreciative.

"Suddenly enormous and once upon a time you can still easily remember they were shorter than you?" The girl turns her head, then nods. "Good evening, Harper." She bobs her head, then turns to unfasten the straps from around the brown. "I'm sorry if I upset her." She nods Gisele's way, then looks up at the man. "His name's Riyoth." The brown lowers his head to look at the man and the girl smiles. "And I am Catling, Riyoth's rider." She slides the straps off gently; they are well-made and worked to smooth supple softness. She shakes them briefly before looking at the Harper. "DO you need a towel? I have extras."

"From the stands, they were practically, ''this'' big," Quint agrees, holding finger and thumb a short distance apart. "Weyrling," the harper returns the greeting with aplomb, adding, "High Reaches' and Harper's duties to Fort," with the ease of someone used to the formalities demanded of weyrlings. "Well met. Quintus, Journeyman Harper, currently posted to High Reaches." He presses a hand to his waist, executing a half bow, a greeting that takes in dragon as much as rider. "A towel?" He seems surprised by that, for a beat. "Well, if you have one handy -- I'd planned to thaw out by the hearth before I sought a ride back. Though I didn't count on being abandoned by my sister, but siblings," he spreads his hands, as if to say ''what can you do''?

"Can't live with them, can't quite convince them to abandon you at the *right* time." THe girl smiles, then drapes the straps over her shoulder and bends to pull a carryall from her back. "I knew Riyoth would be a bit wet, so I brought some towels. I usually bring extras. And if you give us a chance for me to thaw a wee bit, we can fly you back. I already checked in, and duty's over for the day, so I'm free to fly you. I mean, if you don't mind a weyrling. Riyoth says hello, by the way. He's not too tired, and he has made the jump before."

Quint tilts his head, watching the girl as she speaks for a moment or two, before he answers: "I don't mind. I'd have thought you'd want nothing more than to crawl into a warm bed, though -- or has Liv began easing up on you lot already?" There's a quick smile as he refers to the Weyrlingmaster with familiarity. His gaze flickers to the brown, with a grin, "And hello to you, too, good dragon. Does the water bother him so?"

"Easing up? No.... but it's still a pleasure compared to before coming here," answers the girl. "The water doesn't bother Riyoth, but drying him off keeps him from getting the weyr too damp. Besides, it means I can check for ay places that need oiling, especially in this weather." Catling's brows quirk. "It's not real sunset yet, anyway, so a bit early to sleep. And I wouldn't feel right relaxing whilst you were abandoned here." She pulls a couple of towels from the carryall and passes them to the harper. They are herb-scented andsoft despite being stuffed in her pack. Then she pulls off her riding cap and gloves and sighs. "Though if you are hungry we can go after supper."

"Mm, well, ''abandoned'' might be putting it a bit..." the harper trails off, frowns briefly in the directly of his departed sister, and amends: "...correctly. I appreciate the rescue. Though," he lifts a finger, "Don't expect some ballad of daring rescue to be written. I'm not that easily swayed," is said with a genuine laugh, accepting the towel from the weyrling with a grateful nod. He runs it over his head, muffling his voice as he does so: "Oh, no. I wouldn't presume Fort's hospitality or so much of your time. I've observed all too closely how little you weyrlings have of it."

"Eh, well, it's my own time until morning, so that's a fair bit. And Riyoth doesn't mind one way or the other. Though either way I'll need a few minutes to get the other pair of straps. We were doing watchrider sweeps, and the snow wasn't keen on letting up. I want to put something dry and properly oiled back on him. So please, whichever suits your desire, Harper Quintus, and I will be at your service for the evening." Catling smiles, reaching up to dry the wet spots on the dragon, heedless of her own wet gear or hair.

When she indicates she needs some time to prepare, the harper gestures in that universal, ''take it'' way, a casual flick of his wrist. "A change of clothes for yourself likely wouldn't go astray, I imagine," Quint adds, easily, as he settles the now-damp towel over an arm. "How are things here, if you don't mind me asking? Gizzy says she's already busy with requests for Turn's end, so she's barely paying attention to the wider goings on. Frustrating, I admit, for the harper to hear. You must be, mm, two, three months off graduation?"

"He's ten months and a fortnight old," answers Catling, and some of the humble formality fades in the obvious rush of warmth and pride for her dragon. Her head lifts up, and there is someting different about her bearing, a confident strength. "Seems like it's flown just by. Soon we'll be tapped to a wing, and who knows what after." Her eyes go distant a moment, and she smiles up at the brown, nodding slowly. And then she blinks and shakes herself, and ducks her head a bit shyly. "Things are well here. People remember how to be happy, to have hope again....." Then her face pales. "Oh shells, Turn's End. I'd forgotten...."

There's a knowing smile that touches Quint's lips, as if he's all too familiar with the change that talking of one's dragon tends to bring out in their riders. "Then I hope you're chosen to the wing you prefer," is all he murmurs, after a moment. Her expression at the latter earns a tip of his head, and then: "Understandable enough, given what you've been busy with," a flicker of gaze towards Riyoth, then back to Catling. "Not to worry. You have time yet. Have you any plans?"

"Admittedly, none," answers the girl. "I haven't anything proper to wear yet and don't want to overburden anyone with a shamefully late request. Besides.... I don't know how to dance and I sort of avoided last Turn's End celebration. Because it was.... well. Awkward. This year? Maybe I'll offer to take watchrider duty so others can enjoy the day." She clears her throat. "Never been to a Turns End, nor yet a Gather. It's intimidating."

"''Never''?" Quint echoes, as if this is the most shamefully terrible thing in the world. "Well. It sounds as if this is the Turn to change all that, rather than avoid it. Surely Riyoth wouldn't begrudge you one night away from duty for that? Besides," the harper grins, "I've an in with a seamstress who might be willing to accommodate you, seeing as you rescued her stranded brother."

"Oh, I couldn't impose!" The girl flushes crimson. "It's just that before, I watched my brothers when my father and stepmother went off to Gather's or Turn's End. And there were the ovines to look after too, and I could manage them well enough." She inclines her head. "And sometimes there would be treats brought home, and so when the boys had eaten them and been cleaned up for bed, well then I had my loft to myself and a dance-floor in the straw where no one could watch my missteps. And the old broom past mending or the hay-rake made wonderful partners. Besides, I don't know any of the right dances nor any of the songs." Catling pauses, then turns towards her dragon. "Yes, if you could open them, but carefully. I'll get the sail-edges for you."

"It's no imposition. It's her job -- and it's one she loves," Quint assures her, waving his hand as if it's a done deal. "I'll ask that she makes time with you in the next couple of sevens. It sounds," he grins, "As if your time at Turn's end is long overdue. Not to mention a gather or two -- since you said you had mornings free, I'm sure you can sneak in one or two down south -- it'd be evening in your mornings, after all." With a cluck of his tongue, "Gathers aren't only for dancing, after all. Besides, I'm sure Liv will be imposing the etiquette lessons on all of you soon enough -- might as well start some time?" When Catling addresses her dragon, he adroitly takes a couple of steps back, though still within conversational range.

"Etiquette lessons? I thought we'd had those already... and I *did* have lessons from the harper as a child long enough to learn Holder etiquette. I mean, aye, some's different, but lot's the same, too. Though in my mind it's odd for to be getting respect I haven't earned yet." The dragon dips down low so the tiny young woman can reach his wings. "What else happens at Gathers? And what about Turn's End? And for the dress, I've hardly a mark on me."

"Mm? But no dancing lessons?" Quint tips his head, "Well, surely you can ask then. A few mornings a seven until Turn's end and you'll be as good as... well, not quite as good as a harper, but enough represent the Weyr well enough." The harper exhales briefly; there's a lot of questions there, and he tackles the easiest firsts, as he waits: "Gathers are about celebration. So there's plenty of unusual food and drink to try, traders and crafters bring their wares so you can get items you might not normally see pass by the Weyr. Not to mention being able to meet folk of all walks of life." The latter question about the dress is waved off with nary a word spoken, though whether she can see with her attention on the brown is another matter.

"I left home with the clothes I was wearing and a water-skin and some bread," muses Catling. "Which is all I could call my own anyway. So... what you're describing is so many worlds away I can hardly dream it. And again, I mean, I have no marks. I'm a girl with a dragon. So...." She flushes. "I'm probably asking stupid questions, and I beg your pardon, Harper Quintus. I don't *mean* to be stupid." The dragon's eyes whirl orange for a moment, and the girl goes very still. "Oh. Forgive me. I shouldn't be but a few more minutes, but I haven't seen to any of your needs. Are you warm enough? Hungry or thirsty? Please do pardon me... I'm just so used to seeing to Riyoth first of all."

"Sometimes, the best experiences of a gather are just that -- the experiences -- not necessarily buying anything. Besides, you have something you ''can'' trade," Quint gestures towards Riyoth. "If he'd be willing to transport a person or two, favors can be paid in kind." He shakes his head to her statement of stupid questions, "Better to ask and know, then not and never," before he lifts up his hands at the latter, "Oh, I'm quite capable of taking care of myself. Thank you, though. A rider need not excuse seeing to their dragon first and foremost," he assures her.

"Thank you." Catling makes her way from the wings to the easier-to-reach underbelly, and she grins. "He says I don't weigh enough to worry about two or three or so more people, even. Thanks, Riyoth." She opens her mouth to say something more, then flushes again and opens and closes her mouth fishlike a couple of times. "No. I will *not*," she finally says firmly. Then, looking at the Harper, she adds, "SOrry. Sometimes he can be.... ermm.... hem. But. A ride now and again.... that isn't worth a fine bit of crafting. At least though, I'm not too bad at working leather."

Curiosity flickers across the harper's expression at the silent exchange between rider and dragon, ending with an easy grin. He's too polite to inquire, however, and instead Quint says, "Perhaps not a Master or Journeyman stamped piece of work, but apprentices sell their wares there too, some better than others. I can't think of an apprentice that wouldn't love the thrill of a dragonride or two to some secret place, or to steal back home for an afternoon." A moment of consideration. "Most, anyway," is conceded a moment later.

"If it's too secret, it'd be hard to get to," admits Catling. "Because I wouldn't have the proper reference points. Still, while it's nice to be able to pop about anywhere..... oh, just to *fly*...." She draws herself up. "I feel for your sister. it's..... No, Riyoth! Stop it." The girl glares at the dragon, then turns her back to him. "Would you like to walk with me to get the straps, Harper Quintus, or would you like to wait here? Riyoth says you may stand near or against him as he is warm if you like to stay."

"I'll accompany you," the harper decides, without hesitation. He gestures, as if to allow Catling to precede him. Again, there's that ever-present curiosity at the exchange, but instead: "I've heard," he says, casually, "That riders will share secret places with other riders. Perhaps you can ask your wingmates, once you've graduated."

"Oh?" Catling flushes again as she passes the Harper and starts to walk towards her weyr. "There's that to look forward to also, then." She sighs, then clears her throat. "I'm sorry for my behavior. And Riyoth's. He always tries to push me to be a... better me, you see. A more assertive me, I'm positive. A more confident me. And he also wants me to make more friends.... So I apologize. It's.... sweet but rather embarrassing."

"Why are you apologizing for being who you are? Let alone your dragon being who he is?" Quint, if anything, seems entirely puzzled by that.

"Because he's still young and doesn't always know better and I 'should' know better and not let him embarrass me. Especially in front of a Harper." Then Catling sighs. "Well. Since he might intervene even worse, you might as well know. He thinks I think you're cute and should ask you to Turn's End. What do I even 'say' about that?"

Quint slows, then stops, regarding her easily for a moment, the practiced neutrality of a harper forefront in his expression. Voice soft, he says: "I think you should tell him that, being a harper, Turn's end is work for me. And I also think you need to explain to him that, as flattered as I might be, you're probably half my age, and there'll be plenty of suitable, age-appropriate young men at Turn's end for you." He keeps his gaze on Catling as he offers, "Perhaps I can try and explain it to him, while you collect your straps?"

"I... shouldn't have said anything, really," murmurs Catling, th pink reaching all the way to the tips of her ears. "I mean, yes, you are.... nice to look at, but I am only sixteen, and you make me think more of my father's friends than anything. Besides, I 'do' know it's work for you, and I'm sure this is.... It's just.... I wanted you to know 'why' I was being a babbling idiot. Because I've been ever so much better at not being a babbling idiot, but ever since that lecture.... Riyoth is a dear, and very supportive. But sometimes he gets rather too over-.... what is the word I'm looking for.... enthusiastic? In his support. If you'd like to talk to him, of course you may, but.... I can't guarantee he'd listen. Oh. Do you have anything you need to collect for your ride back? And do you have a hat for between?"

Silent throughout her initial response, Quint murmurs easily, "No harm done. I'll keep him company while we wait for you," he says, starting to turn away. At her question, he pauses, and pats the pocket of his coat. "All ready to go. See you soon?" he adds, turning with the intent of retracing where their footsteps have fallen in the snow, back towards the lake and the dragon there.

Riyoth has moved a bit away from the trees, and he is looking intently into the lake, as if he might find fish there. He turns his head, though, as the harper approaches, positioning himself to give the man some shelter from the snow. He has, apparently, been making claw-marks in it while waiting, as if the impressions somehow fascinate him. But now he turns a curious gaze on the man, whuffing out steamy breath.

The harper is silent at first, as he approaches the dragon slowly, nodding towards Riyoth once the dragon turns his gaze on him, taking advantage of the shelter he provides with obvious gratitude. It might even seem, at first, that his claim of wanting to speak to the dragon was an excuse, given his silence, but then finally: "Things are different for humans. What makes sense to you doesn't make sense to us. The same," Quint's lips twist, "Could be said of the reverse. The difficult part will be learning to accept those differences," he turns his gaze from the lake to the dragon. "I hope you do. It seems like she could benefit from you. And vice versa." He hunches into his coat, letting out a breath that plumes in the air, gaze now shifting to watch for Catling's approach. He doesn't appear to expect an acknowledgement of his words.

The dragon shuffles closer to the man, and he lowers his head so that his eyes are even with the Harper's, and he studies him intently. Then he gives a low rumble, though it is hard to say what it means. but his eyes are whiring bluey-green, and he opens his mouth to breathe out a waft of warm air. There is no meaty smell on his breath, rather a sort of spicey note. And then Catling appears, though she is carrying more than just straps.

The harper doesn't seem overly perturbed by the dragon's nearness; he's obviously lived in Weyrs for long enough to be used to them. Still, the rumble and subsequent breath, while Riyoth's that close, makes Quint shift his weight and dart his gaze back, while he waits in further silence for his rider to appear.

"He says you are maybe right though he isn't sure he understands, so he will think on it," Catling calls as she comes near. She holds out a sheepskin cape; the leather side has been backed with wool fabric of a rather mottled dye. "You looked cold when I left, and it's too close to Turn's End to risk a harper's health between. And a hat. It's not masterwork and it isn't pretty, but it's warm." It isn't much more than a sheepskin bag with the fleece turned inwards. I... apologize for offending, Harper Quintus." Then she pauses and holds out a bun. "Redfruit inside. Still a little warm."

"There are few pasttimes more worthy than thinking on the things that lead us to a better understanding of one another," Quint says, in a cadence that speaks of a teacher instructing a student, giving another nod to Riyoth. He seems surprised with the things Catling has brought and opens his mouth -- pauses, and accepts them instead with a nod of thanks. "You didn't offend me. Far be it for any man to be offended by a girl wanting to spend time with him. I should get back, though, if you're near ready," he adds, as he moves to slip the cape around him and lift the hat to his head.

"It only takes a moment to get the straps on," answers the girl. And she is quick about it, aided by the helpful Riyoth. First her straps, and then the auxiliary set for the Harper. "Riyoth, down please," she asks, then motions to one extended leg. "If you need help mounting, do let me know. I'll check your straps before we take off. And Riyoth, the gentle rise, please." Again there is that shift from awkward girl to competent rider, and she offers the harper a smile. "And if you have any message you wish to send to your sister, I'll hold at High Reaches to give you the time to mark it down or tell me directly. Thank you for.... understanding."

Quint moves away to give them room, watching silently. He's obviously familiar enough with riding that he shakes his head to the offer of assistance, waiting until Catling mounts first before he follows suit. "You've been more than enough help," the harper assures her, easily. "Ready whenever you are."

Catling climbs up, nimble and quick despite her size. And though the Harper seems to know what he's about, still the girl checks his straps, and her own before launching. awkward as she is, she is conscientious, and she nods when she is sure he is secure before fastening her own connecting straps and slipping on her cap and gloves. She leans forwards slightly, and then Riyoth gathers himself, launching into the snowy sky. The brown rises in a sweeping arc, giving a scenic view of the Weyr from above and the lands below. And then, as the light from the sun finally fades out, replaced only by a snowlit glow, they turn towards the north before vanishing into the darkling sky.
}}

Logs:Home Is Where Make It

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Logs:Home Is Where Make It

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Logs:Home Is Where You Make It

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R'hin: R'hin moved page Logs:Home Is Where Make It to Logs:Home Is Where You Make It: Naming fail~

{{Log
|who=Jo, Quint
|what=Quint and Jo catch up and make a deal.
|where=Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=21
|month=8
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.04.24
|quote="Hard to make a home, havin' to move every other turn."
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon jo.jpg, Icon quint.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's early morning, but the air is already warm enough to make it pleasant, a breeze keeping it from being too warm. There's some early starters making their way around the lake, and amongst them is Quint -- dressed for once not in his harper blues, but in more casual, loose clothing to aid running. His jogging is gradually but noticeably slowing down, until he's barely plodding along, a sheen of sweat forming across his brow.

Jo and Tacuseth is here, though, the pair is further down the shore towards the end of the lake. The blue dragon glistens in the morning light with fresh oil and bath, lounging close to the shore. As for the wingsecond, she's pouring over written sheets of hide, moving her attention between that and the view of the lake and her dragon and lost in thought.

Spotting a familiar face is as good an excuse as any to desist from running, and so, shortly after Quint catches sight of the familiar part, he slows to a walk, angling in their direction. He's breathless enough perhaps that, at first, he offers a nod, steps towards the shallows and bending to splash some of the water onto his face and neck. His, "She seems lost in thought for this early of a morn," appears directed towards Tacuseth rather than her rider, an amused observation to which, it seems, he expects no response. At least, not from the dragon.

When Quint is near, Jo's gaze transfers toward him. Tacuseth's head moves in his direction as if he understood his words. "I've never seen a harper run at leisure," is her called out greeting as she looks over the hides before putting them back into the rucksack by her. "He won' answer ya," she adds now, nodding in Tacuseth's direction.

After a few moments merticulously smoothing back damp hair, Quint moves from the shallows towards where Jo's seated. He remains standing, starting to stretch. "I wouldn't call it ''leisure'' so much as ''shame''," the harper admits, ruefully. "I'm sorry to admit I'm perhaps not as fit as I imagined -- and it's just lucky for me that my apprentice was much ''less'' fit than me so that I could set my pace to hers." With a glance over his shoulder, he adds with a quick smile, "I hadn't expected him to. But I feel that, sometimes it's nice just to acknowledge they're part of the conversation."

"So ya don' run often, ya mean," Jo surmises, grinning as she leans back. "Mm. I go for a run sometimes. Not as much as I used to since takin' this knot. I imagine doin' so for ya breaks up the routine, eh? How ''have'' things been? Yer sister?" she inquires now as he approaches.

"I'm afraid between lessons, and the lure of music and books, running doesn't often come at the top of the list as it must for someone with a more physical profession," Quint confesses, with a gesture to the Wingsecond. He continues to stretch, using the excuse of it, perhaps, to give him a moment before he responds to her questions. "I'm well. Since I got back from our journey I feel more invigorated. It's nice to spend time away from the 'norm' to give one perspective, I feel. Perhaps that's why us Journeyman are so frequently moved around," he muses for a moment, before he answers the latter, with only the smallest of hesitations, "Oh, she's well enough. She stayed on at Fort after the hatching, and by all accounts is well-settled in. Though part of me wonders how much of that is stubbonness now that she's made a decision -- but I suppose she's old enough live with her own decisions." He straightens, now, exhaling. "And you, Wingsecond? I apologize I haven't had much time for lessons of late -- I promise I will make time for you this seven, though. Perhaps a drink after?" he proposes.

"Journey'mn," Jo repeats that with a nod. "Ready to move on already? How long have ya been here in the Reaches already? It's good to hear yer sister's well. Perhaps Fort's meant for her, right?" She watches him stretch, leaning back on black leathered arms as she listens. She shakes her head on his apology, however, before answering back, "No need to apologize. This knot of mine keeps me runnin'. Why ya think I'm here with these hides so early?" It's an easy chuckle to that with a gesture towards the rucksack where she's placed them. "We'll do it when we both got time'n, ya know I'll never turn down a drink. Or, ya'll learn if ya don'."

"Oh, no. I feel invigorated enough from my trip that I've no wish to move on just yet. Besides, it's the Hall's decision." A quick smile is proffered, followed by Quint's pause to calculate an answer: "Not yet two Turns. I'm normally posted even two or three, so," he spreads his hands, as if to say it's anyone's guess. "Perhaps," he allows, as to Gisele's choice. "It does afford me more chances to visit her, when I've an excuse to be at the Hall." The harper's gaze follows hers, rueful twist of lips soon following. "Well, if you're bored of your own hides, we've plenty that could use copying. Old Master Jeroman's eyesight just isn't what it used to be."

"Hard to make a home, havin' to move every other turn," Jo comments casually, nodding at something he says. "Do ya enjoy Fort yerself?" There's short laughter on hides before she passes the harper a look on that offer. "Shit, like I need anymore work than the table-ton I've got, harper," is what she verbalizes. "Wing reports're bad enough. Ya can always stop by in read'em for me, ya know. Since we're offerin' each other work."

"I like to think that Pern is my home -- not that that's any statement of claim, mind you," the harper hastens to add, with a brief chuckle. "Just that, one can grow to love different aspects of different places, and call to you in different ways." Quint hesitates a moment. "Does that make sense?" As if, for once, he's not sure whether his glib tongue has quite conveyed his meaning. As for the offer of reading her reports: "I'd be more than happy to, Wingsecond," sounds like a genuine answer. "Shall we make it a once a seven event?"

"I can see that," Jo admits on home, seeming to study him now. "Keogh'll always be home to me, as much as here'n Greenfields. Ya give such a harper-like answer, by the way," she notes aloud, openly amused now. "That ain' the first time I've told'ja that, I reckon. Makes me wonder how ya were as Quintus the Man of Pern before He Became Quintus the Harper of Pern." That offer, it's likely by the chuckle that she's totally joking, but the banter doesn't stop there: "If ya bring the booze and somethin' to eat with ya, then, sure. We can do it on the nights where I'm not lookin' to get shit-faced, bloodied or only fucked."

"Keogh?" Quint sounds both surprised and pleased. "I traveled through there not five sevens ago on our way back. I can see the appeal of it," he says, with an approving nod. When she accuses his answer of being harper-like, he laughs, spreading his hands as if accepting the accusation. "Probably as much a harper as now, though unconsciously so," he says, though it's light in turn, as if he's following through with a joke. And while her offer remains a jest, he in turn takes it seriously -- after all, what harper ''wouldn't'' want to read through wing reports? "It seems to me that's a very specific sort of clause -- you wouldn't, by any chance, be taking advantage of a provincial harper, would you?" His head tips, dropping fast-drying hair forward out of its formerly neat arrangement.

"There's no appeal to Keogh," Jo relates, laughing. "Other than the kennel, darlin'. It's a cold'n hard place. What appealed ya to it?" She has to ask. As for the man before the harper, the bluerider shakes her head as she says, "Nah, nah. I don' believe it. The place molds the person. Most times. 'N ''me'', takin' advantage?" Jo can't even look innocent. "Nah, ya offered. I proposition, not take advantage. Ya'll be bored to tears readin' those reports."

Quint moves slowly, motioning his intent to take a seat on the rock near her shortly before he does. That done, he smooths back his hair before he answers, considered thought to the words: "There's something about an unhidden austerity. It speaks to a focus, a purpose. I liked that they didn't try to dress up who they were." A beat passes, before he muses: "I wonder if it dates, in part, to being taken over by Fax in the eight interval?" It seems he doesn't expect any sort of response to his musing, as he's exhaling as he gives a sidelong look to the bluerider. "Well, if I am, we can spend the evening focusing on your lessons, then." He extends his hand to her, palm up, as if to seal the deal.

On Keogh, "One thing I can say 'bout that place is, it never pretends to be anythin' other than what it is. Guess we never had the time to do otherwise. Despite everythin', ya know sometimes I do miss that simpler life it had." She does shrug on the matter of Fax - nothing seems to be coming in mind since there's no answer. Dark eyes dropping on that hand, and his offer, before she meets his gaze and gives it a firm grip. "Deal'n deal, darlin'," she answers, giving his hand a shake.

"It's refreshing, after dealing with so many who can't, mm, ''afford'' such a bland honesty," Quint says, after a time, letting his hand drop back after they shake over their deal. With a groan, he pushes to his feet. "Well, I'd best soak off before morning class. Let me know the night that meets your criteria, hm?" with a rueful smile, and a last nod towards the blue lounging near the shore, he sets a slow, easy pace back towards the bowl.

The chuckle is easy from Jo, and the woman watches Quint as he gets up to leave. "Alright," she waves him off, the woman clearly not leaving just yet. "I'll catcha soon, darlin'. 'Til then." She watches him leave before she returns her study back towards the lake and her dragon.
}}

Logs:Home Is Where You Make It

2016-04-30T03:10:48Z

R'hin: Created page with "{{Log |who=Jo, Quint |what=Quint and Jo catch up and make a deal. |where=Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=21 |month=8 |turn=40 |IP=Interval |IP2=..."

Logs:AU: What's Love Got To Do With It

2016-04-25T00:51:32Z

R'hin:

{{Log
|who=Drex{{!}}Thedrin, Edeline
|what=After the [[Logs:AU:_Know_The_Rulers|not-so-successful match up]] at Big Bay, Thedrin and his mother speak.
|where=Lady Holder's Quarters, Tillek Hold
|involves=Tillek Hold
|day=1
|month=5
|turn=36
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.04.23
|quote="You two would make such cute looking babies."
|mentions=Farideh, Daroda, Ustelan
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon drex youknownothing.jpg,
|log=The trip back from Big Bay was uneventful, if cold -- not even the thick, furred coat keeping out the freezing of between.

Edeline must have noticed Thedrin's mood, because she put a hand on his arm, leaning a little -- he was taller than her, now -- guiding him into her sitting room. "Help me with my jacket," she bid him, and dutifully, he helped her out of it, draping it over the back of a chair.

"Why ''her''?" Thedrin suspected the question sounded a little whiny, but he didn't care.

"Because we need a solid trade agreement on the east coast, and she'll give it to us," his mother replied easily as she sat down, without looking away from the mirror as she fiddled with her earrings. "It's a shame Lady Daroda never had children -- that would have been a much more suitable match for you, but I suppose we'll make do."

Thedrin bit back the abrupt urge to scream, ''Is that all we are to you?'', into his mother's face. Just barely. Instead, he took a breath. "I guess she's pretty," he allowed.

"Yes," Edeline smiled, "You two would make such cute looking babies."

He didn't quite hold back the grimace this evoked.

His ma must have caught him, because she gave him a sharp look. "It's your duty, Thedrin."

"Yes, ma," he replied, dutifully, stifling the part of him that wanted to scream again. ''Save it for the meadow.'' He pictured Yasmine as he'd last seen her -- her hair spread out on the grass as they lay in the meadow, giggling together as they contemplated their future together. He tried to picture Farideh doing the same, but failed -- she was far too ''stiff'' and ''proper'' to ever consider sitting on the grass, let alone lying on it.

"What about Yasmine, ma?"

"Hm?"

"You know, Lord Ustelan's great granddaughter."

"Oh, we already have plenty of alliances with Nabol, dear," his ma said, dismissively.

He might've been grating his teeth, but thankfully, she didn't notice this time.

"You'll grow to like her in time," his ma said, with the practicality that stung, like his feelings ''right now'' meant nothing.

''I don't want her.''

''I don't want ''her''.''

'''I don't ''want'' her.'''

"I don't..." the words stuck in his throat.

"Hm?"

"I don't... want a big wedding, ma," he said, lamely.

"Oh, don't be silly. All the notables will want to come. You are my heir, after all."

He'd ''practice''. He'd practice, and then say the words to her face.

In the meantime, he'd keep the silent scream in his head, only to be let out when he and Yasmine lay in the grassy meadow, feeling their voices bounce off the surrounding landscape.

Feeling at peace.
|Categories=AU Logs
}}

Logs:AU: Know The Rulers

2016-04-25T00:51:11Z

R'hin:

{{Log
|who=Drex{{!}}Thedrin, Farideh, Anatolia, Korek, Edeline, Potipher
|what=AU, in which Drex never gets kidnapped and becomes a pirate (and thus is still Thedrin), and Farideh remains at Big Bay rather than coming to HRW. This first meeting is about as amiable as [[Logs:Know_The_Rules|their real one]].
|where=Main Hall, Big Bay Hold
|involves=Tillek Hold, Igen Hold
|day=1
|month=5
|turn=36
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.04.23
|quote="Being from a place like Tillek doesn't make you better than anyone else."
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon drex oh no you didn't.gif, Icon farideh can't even.png,
|log=Invitations began to arrive at the Holds of dignitaries across Pern -- specifically those that Anatolia found worth her time and consideration -- a full two months prior to the date of the event. Ornate gold and emerald lettering scrolled the length of parchment, inviting its recipients to a party to be held in honor of the wife of the younger brother of Big Bay Hold.

Events held at Big Bay Hold are always a bit pretentious, owing in part to the temperament of its resident lady-in-charge-of-everything, and the night of Anatolia's turnday bash is not different. No expense has been spared, from the shimmering wall hangings and extravagant flower arrangements to the luxurious dinner offerings and infamous set of harpers hired to play. Guests arriving to the Hold on the eve of party would be welcomed by the customary proximity, sights, and smell, of the Bay, down the way, but inside the windows are shuttered against the sand and coolness of the night air.

Amid the bright colors, garish styles, and excessiveness of the Igen set, meandering sullenly through the crowded hall, filled with guests come to celebrate her mother's turnday -- or enjoy food and wine at Big Bay's expense, anyway -- is Farideh. She walks beside her sister, avoiding eye contact with the dignitaries that her sister makes a point of smiling at. "Stop slouching. ''Smile''," Teoma instructs, even as she smiles toward Lord and Lady Ista as they pass. "How do you expect to get married if you look like a petulant child all the time?"

"I don't ''want'' to get married," came out of Farideh's mouth, for the hundredth time, and for the hundredth time, her sister's eyes rolled. "Collect yourself before mother sees?" It wasn't a suggestion, and Teoma left her sister's side to mingle with their guests. Farideh resolved to stand by the beverage table and continue to sulk, because.. Farideh.

The west coast dignitaries don't often mix with the east coast -- not necessarily for any sense of rivalry as due to the distances. A dragon, of course, makes such distances mean nothing, and Tillek's relationship with its Weyr seems cordial of late. The response to the invitation is written in precise, flowery handwriting -- Tillek would be thrilled to attend, and would be bringing its heir, one Thedrin, as yet unattached despite his having reached seventeen.

At the door, the trio of Tillekians discard the thick coats that bore them in between, Lord Potipher attending Lady Edeline, while their son trails behind. Thedrin's clothes are clearly newly made, and stiff still, bearing the blue and white colors of his Hold. Tillek heir he may be, but he is still a teenage boy, and he scratches and shifts until his mother casts him a wordless look, after which he scowls and stares at the ground, hands in his pockets. "Why do they all dress like they fell into a pot of mixed paints?" he mutters.

"Shush, Thedrin," Edeline murmurs, leading them directly to the Big Bay holders. There's the usual exchange of pleasantries, during which Thedrin looks bored, until he's nudged by his mother into muttering something by way of greeting. And then it's onto Anatolia, with a similar set of greetings. This time, however, Thedrin is thrust forward as if for inspection, with a, "And this is my son, Thedrin." The look plastered onto the boy's face is a practiced (though not very ''well'' practiced) look of haughtiness, though there's a definite undertone of discomfort.

"I cannot tell you--" As the Tillekians come forward, Anatolia's attention swivels from her former company as easily as if she had not been mid-conversation as all. Her greetings and affectations are as polite as necessary, and indeed, her eyes are keen when the boy is thrust forward. "What a handsome boy, Lady Edeline," as if he isn't even ''there''. "This is my daughter, Farideh." It was easy enough for the Igen woman to motion to the help to locate and drag the brunette to her side, and on the tail end of her words, that's exactly what happens. Farideh stops resisting when she sees ''whom'' she's being brought before, and she bobs a respectful curtsey to the Lady and Lord Holders. Thedrin gets a baleful look. "It's nice to meet you," she murmurs, in a voice too quiet for Anatolia's liking-- the latter's expression says.

"It's always nice to see such a well-mannered daughter representing one's hold," the Lady Edeline replies, with Potipher nodding alongside her. The baleful look from Farideh -- of all people -- earns a lift of the boy's chin in response. Then: "Say hello to the girl," Edeline entreats. "In fact -- why don't you show her the new dance that that harper Ramion has been teaching you?" The brief flash of rebellion is just that -- brief -- and passes as Thedrin murmurs, "Yes, ma," and obediently holds out a hand towards Farideh.

That Anatolia eagerly agrees to Lady Edeline's proposition is likely hardly surprising, and nudges her daughter towards Tillek's heir. "What a splendid idea that is! Go along, dear." Farideh cuts eyes briefly towards her mother in an ambiguous expression, but quickly places her hand in Thedrin's and offers the other, slightly younger, teenager a polite smile. "I'd be delighted," doesn't sound quite as enchanted, really.

It's like as not this is not the first girl that Thedrin's had to endure politeness for the sake of his position, and while the slide of his gaze towards Farideh suggests he notes that lack of enchantment, he's at least well trained enough not to draw attention to it. Instead, when they reach the dance floor, he says, "Follow me, if you can. It's a fairly complicated dance; I don't expect you to pick it up." He's voice manages neutral, and he begins to lead her in a series of complicated steps. Not that far away, the Lord and Lady Tillek watch, while continuing to chat with Farideh's parents.

Anatolia and Korek appear genuinely pleased to talk to the other two, while their children dance, though the latter is more keen on talking work than the state of their childrens' affairs, as his wife seems to be. "I can follow just fine," Farideh informs Thedrin, haughtily, but following through on that statement isn't as easy. Her cheeks flood with color when she trips over his feet-- once, twice-- and she looks up, accusing, "Can't you ''slow down''? That's not very gentlemanly, you know." And once she remembers, she bats her eyes and smiles, so it doesn't look, to their parents, that she's as cross as she actually is.

One could get the impression that Thedrin is deliberately trying to show the Big Bay girl up, for there's a slight, pleased smile when she asks him to slow down. But slow down he does, marginally -- but probably enough for her to get a better sense of the complicated pattern. It's the batting of her eyes that earns a furrow of brow, and the first hint of a hastily suppressed scowl, like he thinks she's mocking him. "I'm sorry," Thedrin says. "I guess I shouldn't expect a girl from such a small place to know all the dances."

Eventually-- very slowly-- Farideh comes more at ease with the steps, and she ''might'' have even been pleasant about the whole exchange before his low-blow. "''Excuse me''? I know the dances that matter, not something so complicated it takes a harper to teach you ''how''. You're very rude. Did you know that? Being from a place like Tillek doesn't make you better than anyone else," she says, chin lifting higher.

The dance steps start to falter as Thedrin's grip tightens, jaw clenching. "''I'm'' rude? That's why you gave me a look like I was foisting myself onto you? I don't ''want'' you," he hisses in an undertone. The break in the music gives him the excuse he needs; he drops her hands and bows, just like he's been taught, before he turns and heads off the dance floor without a backwards glance at her.

Still, Farideh looks taken aback by his outburst, with surprised eyes that, all too quickly, find the disapproving stare of her mother in the crowd. "Wait-- you can't just ''run off''," she tells him, as she ''chases after'' the erstwhile heir. People will probably gossip-- what a shameless wanton she is, chasing after Lord Potipher's heir like that-- but in the moment she's only focused on ''not'' bringing the wrath of her mother down upon herself.

Thedrin doesn't look back, but he ''does'' slow down, just enough that she doesn't have to chase after him as such. "Why not?" he asks, sullenly, in response to her words, navigating through the crowds towards the drinks table. He snatches up the first glass he sees and thrusts it in her direction, "I'm going to have failed to do something right ''anyway''. Here, pretend I'm getting you a drink." Which is... kind of what he's doing, except he's hastily taking another glass and gulping down near the entire contents in one hit.

"Because they're ''watching''." Farideh gets straight to the point, her voice full of ''duh'' in the moment. "I don't want to get yelled at because ''you're'' rude enough to walk out without finishing the whole dance-- or whatever." She flourishes a hand, but accepts the drink, giving him a suspicious, narrow eyed stare from the side. "Thank you, for the drink. You're ''so'' kind," she says, extra loud, for all the people lingering about. "What? You don't ''want'' to be here?" she asks caustically, eyebrows arching upwards; her own voluntary attendance seems to be in question.

Thedrin affects just enough belligerence to indicate that he doesn't much care, even if the way he starts to gulp down his second glass of wine might suggest otherwise. "What, and you ''do''?" He shakes his head, gaze going across the crowd, avoiding his parents. "Everything's so bright. It's like walking into a weaver's tent. Don't you people see color properly?"

"It's my mother's party. Would ''your'' mother give you the choice to attend or not, if it was hers?" Farideh makes a face, effectively hidden by the glass she lifts to her lips. She doesn't manage to take a sip before his commentary drags her gaze from the contents of her cup to the assortment of people, many Igenites in colorful array. "Why ''not''? No one wants to wear only gray all the time, or black, or ''white''. It's fun. It's ''happy'' looking, not dreary and--" She rolls her eyes, then. "Are you always this cheerful?"

"I don't see anyone forcing you to chase me around," Thedrin points out, dark gaze going to her, now. "You've done your ''duty''." There's a not-quite-concealed roll of his eyes at her defensiveness over the color choices, timed -- completely by coincidence -- with her own roll of eyes. "Are you always this ''nosy''?"

"You obviously don't know my mother very well." The shifting crowd of party-goers gives them ''some'' protection from prying eyes, or enough that Farideh feels confident in the glare that she gives him. "I'm trying to be ''nice'' to a guest. You're a guest here. Not a very nice one, but still a guest." Setting aside her glass, without having consumed any of the contents, she lifts her chin, and nose, in the air. "Have it your way. Enjoy your evening, ''Thedrin''," and off she goes in a huff, in the opposite direction of their parents.. because even she's not that brave.

The exhale that follows her departure sounds like a sigh of relief. Thedrin downs another glass before he ventures away from the drinks table, not heading in the direction of their parents, either.
|Categories=AU Logs
}}