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Logs talk:Making A Tapestry

2013-05-23T15:35:46Z

Riorde: Comment provided by Riorde - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on "[[Logs:Making A Tapestry]]"
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[[Azaylia/Comments|Azaylia]] ([[User:Dragonshy|Dragonshy]] ([[User talk:Dragonshy|talk]])) left a comment on Thu, 23 May 2013 08:51:28 GMT.

<comment date="2013-05-23T08:51:28Z" name="Azaylia" signature="[[User:Dragonshy|Dragonshy]] ([[User talk:Dragonshy|talk]])">
...Devakiiii. Stop hanging out with such ''freaky'' people. D: Nuuuh.
Every peek at his schemes just leads to more intrigue~
</comment>
[[Riorde/Comments|Riorde]] ([[User:Riorde|Riorde]] ([[User talk:Riorde|talk]])) left a comment on Thu, 23 May 2013 15:35:46 GMT.

<comment date="2013-05-23T15:35:46Z" name="Riorde" signature="[[User:Riorde|Riorde]] ([[User talk:Riorde|talk]])">
Devaki and Raum, my favorite amoral islanders. <3 <3
</comment>

Logs:Going Home

2012-11-10T01:36:05Z

Riorde: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Devaki, Riorde | where = Cove, High Reaches Hold | what = Riorde goes looking for Devaki. Islander grief. | when = Day 15, month 3, turn 30 of Interval 10 | gameda..."

{{ Log
| who = Devaki, Riorde
| where = Cove, High Reaches Hold
| what = Riorde goes looking for Devaki. Islander grief.
| when = Day 15, month 3, turn 30 of Interval 10
| gamedate = 2012.11.09
| quote = And we look after our own.
| weather = Wind, rain, and snow combine to make for miserable, sleety weather today.
| categories =
| mentions = Iolene, K'del, Raum
| ooc =
| icons = devaki.jpg, riorde worried.jpg
| log = Cove, High Reaches Hold

Waves pound the rocky coastline night and day along the edges of this small cove, just a short walk from the main hold. Standing watch, the tall column of the lighthouse stretches high into the sky above the beach its rosy stones sparkling faintly when the sun's rays catch just right. The beach stretches as far as the eye can see, eternally washed by the salty sea as it relentlessly carves pockets and crags out of the scattered boulders and spiny ridges of Reaches' shores.
----

Devaki's looking rather more scruffy than he's grown adjusted to since living at High Reaches Hold; the longish hair, scruffy beard and exhausted demeanor more reminiscent of their days on the Island than living in the lap of luxury. Of course, it could be (and probably is, for most Holders) attributed to the fact that he has a five week old child. Even with nannies, sleep is interrupted, even if it's just because Issedi has to rise. Even though it's a cold winters afternoon -- windy, with a hint of rain -- he's made his way down towards the cove, and that's where anyone will be directed, should they come to the Hold in search of him. The bridge of boulders makes for a small lee in which one can sit and watch the waves relentlessly, endlessly, coming in.

Thus does Riorde come picking her way down clothed in riding gear, a warm scarf and a warmer hat. A rider's knot grants her greater access to the Hold's elite, and if she's been cautioned that right now may not be the best of times, that Devaki might prefer solitude down there with the wind and the waves to the business of the Weyr and that perhaps she might be persuaded to conduct her business with someone equally qualified -- well. Riorde pays it no mind.

"''Ri''." Her name is uttered by Devaki as an exhale of relief the moment the crunch of her boots turns his gaze towards her. Solitude he might prefer, but Riorde is an exception to the rule it seems -- his arm outstretched, to enfold her, and to pull her into the lee of the boulder with him -- out of the rain. He doesn't say anything else, immediately, his tense posture easing marginally in her presence as he buries his face in her shoulder. Just breathing.

After so much time of deliberate avoidance, exchanging sweeps where needed and eschewing any contact whatsoever with the Hold, dissolving that carefully maintained distance is statement enough. Riorde doesn't say anything as she joins Devaki without hesitation, half-crumpling when she tucks herself in next to him, into the curve of his arm. Nothing for several long moments, silence filled with the so-familiar sound of the water rushing in upon the cove, pounding at the rocks and then sliding back out over the sand. Eventually, she stirs enough to say, "Dev. You look like crap." She looks no better, equally drawn, gaunt-faced, and weary.

"You as well," he murmurs into her hair. Devaki takes a deep breath, his arms tightening around her, the crashing of the waves a soothing, reminiscent sound. He pulls back just far enough to study her expression, fingers brushing over her forehead and pushing hair back behind her ear. "I've missed you," he says, quietly. Then, after a pause, something heavy, strained in his voice, "I miss ''her'', too. Tell me what happened, what you know?" A hint of anger now, fingers tightening briefly.

There's no concealing how raw she looks, eyes in particular. Riorde doesn't end there, though, on the note of how their mutual grief is made manifest. "You look more like you." She doesn't try to smile. She'd fail if she did. Quietly, she concurs, "Me too." Riorde doesn't clarify which missing she means, or if the concurrence encompasses both. "I don't know." Her gaze drops when she admits this in answer to his question; looking up a moment later, however, it's with the stark straight-forward stare that is so entirely her own, communicating a cold, clean anger. "When I find out who did it," she says, slow and deliberate, "I will kill them."

The other islander watches, takes in that cold anger. Devaki gets it. Would most demand to take that away from her? Demand to be there? The exile lord certainly doesn't. "Good," is all he says, forceful, expectant. She's said she'll take care of it, and he believes her. "If you need some assistance from the Other, you have only to ask; I'll release him to assist you." Raum is the ''expert'', after all. "Just... be careful. I can't take losing you, too." His voice cracks, a little, even though he tries to cover it up with a squaring of his jaw, and a look towards the sea. "Do you think... that K'del is involved?"

Satisfaction meets his response -- as much satisfaction as one can take in the promise of unachieved vengeance. "He might be able to help," Riorde says, perfectly willing to enlist Raum. "Help find whoever did it. So long as he leaves enough of him for me." Devaki's concern on her behalf, and the way it affects him audibly, makes her lean in against him, hand curling around the inside of his knee. "I think he loved her," she admits after a pause, grudgingly. "Even if he's an idiot. I don't think he would do that." The pause, this time, is longer. "She told me about you, you know. When we were Standing. I didn't tell anyone." Not even Devaki, apparently, concealing the fact that she had this illicit knowledge. "I know you loved her. I'm sorry."

With a release of breath, Devaki murmurs, "Than you shall have him." He finally returns gaze from the sea to her, leaning in to press lips against her forehead. Her opinion of K'del doesn't please him, judging by the slight narrowing of gaze. "If it wasn't for him, though, she wouldn't have been ''there''." It's the latter comment that makes him freeze -- rather than the location of her hand -- and his body tenses momentarily, giving him away. He aims for an even tone, mostly succeeding, though she knows him well enough to read the grief in his gaze before he looks down, in order to catch her hand with his own. "You did too. We all did. And we look after our own."

Riorde won't say more on K'del -- it's not as if she enjoys defending him by any stretch of the imagination. Nor does she press Devaki at all, leaving the words dropped into the space between them for him to do with them as he likes. "I did," she says, bereavement rising in her voice within the measure of those two short words. "We do." She turns her hand so she can lace her fingers through his, pressure hard where short nails dig in. "Dev," the islander begins, "I want to go back for the night. To our island. Remember her there." There's a question contained in those remarks, mute, that she doesn't ask.

There should be more of a hesitation. After all, he's a man with responsibilities. A wife. A newborn son. But there isn't -- she doesn't ''need'' to ask. "Take me with you," Devaki says, immediately. "If we can't... release her back to the sea, like we should -- we should make some sort of offering on her behalf, instead. Her grams would've wanted it. She would've--" he doesn't finish, emotion choking the words to silence. Instead, he lifts his hand, fingers twined with hers, and turns it so he can press his lips against the back of her hand.

"She's with her dragon, now," Riorde murmurs -- it's a measure of how she's been changed in the ways that Devaki hasn't, although she doesn't contradict him outright as to where Iolene's final resting place should be. Hearing how his words fail him, she bites her lip, and when her hand receives the kiss, there's a brief, brief moment in which she closes her eyes. "We'll make an offering," she concurs after a moment, swallowing. "Build a fire. I brought everything we need. Come on."

There's a clouded look in Devaki's expression as the brownrider mentions Iolene being with her dragon. He can't possibly understand, and Riorde's assertion doesn't please him, clenching his jaw briefly in reaction. Still, he doesn't seem inclined to argue at her urging, and, with his hand still twined with hers, leads the way out of the lee of the boulder, casting about for Sforzath.

In response, Riorde lays her free hand along the tense line of his jaw, holding it there a minute before she gets to her feet to make a run for her dragon, hand-in-hand. And, in short order, Riorde and Sforzath whisk the Holder away from his home to the one that stakes a claim on him still.

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Logs:Like A Fish

2012-11-07T22:27:42Z

Riorde:

{{ Log
| who = Riorde, Taikrin
| where = Riorde's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Taikrin won't go away and let Riorde grieve.
| when = Day 1, Month 3, Turn 30
| gamedate = 2012.11.07
| quote = You think just 'cause she was your friend, 'cause yer both from that place-- she was MY WEYRWOMAN TOO.
| weather =
| categories =
| mentions = Iolene, Leova
| ooc =
| icons = riorde_tough.jpg, taikrin.jpg
| log = The Women-Watching Weyr, High Reaches Weyr(#1381R)

Luckily for the dragon, the inside weyr boasts a couch with a hollow that has conformed to the shape of many bronze bodies over the turns. It progresses in a series of smaller bubbles back into the rock: the first is an evenly round affair, wide open to the outside and with shelves carved along the wall opposite the dragon's wallow to hold sundry draconic items. The second room is a bit cozier, though it manages to squeeze in all the necessities. The entryway is too small for anyone but a human, and closed off with a thick cloth hanging. Inside, there is a small hearth that is swept clean, and room for at least a couch and table, perhaps even a desk: there is an indented nook opposite the hearth that looks as though it might have held one in the past. Separated by another hanging, the next bubble cavern is large enough for a double bed with just enough room to squeeze by into the last, tiny cavern that holds the true prize of this weyr: a coveted bath, large enough for two if they're cozy.

----

Taikrin's convinced herself that it's just exhaustion that's greyed out Szadath's hide, that's darkened the circles under her eyes and left her pale. It certainly hasn't unstiffened her spine any. The brown lands on Sforzath's ledge only long enough for his rider to scramble off-- then he's back down, winging sharply to a vantage point where he can keep an eye both on the sleeping Hraedhyth and Iesaryth. "Hey. Riorde." Her voice is all business as she clomps her way into the weyr. "You up? Know you're home."

The weyr's quiet inside, but not empty. More than one bottle has been abandoned on the floor, out here in the outer bubble; the curtain drawn across the entrance to the next one in conceals how many more might be laying around in total. Sforzath's tucked into his wallow, ashen. He lifts his head as Taikrin strides in, just enough to show Riorde curled into the curve of where his shoulder meets his neck. Without opening her eyes, she mutters into her dragon in a voice gone raspy, "Go away."

Whether Taikrin is tone-deaf to the situation or simply doesn't care, the outcome is the same: "Come on, get up. I need you." She hesitates by Sforzath's wallow, arms folded across her chest, and insists, "I can't watch 'em both by myself, and I ain't sure I ''really'' trust everyone else to help out. They might fuck it up." She hasn't even finished giving her ultimatum before she pushes further into the weyr, straight to pull some clean clothes; she steps right around a bottle without even appearing to notice.

"Go away." A little more strength, this time. Riorde turns enough so that she can glare at Taikrin below Sforzath's neck, working up just enough energy to crack open her red-rimmed eyes. "Not going." The interior room is surprisingly clean, given the state of the weyr surrounding Sforzath.

Taikrin continues on gathering a clean shirt and (probably) clean riding pants. "We ain't got time for this, we've got to-- oh, hey, this is mine." The shirt she'd pulled aside from Riorde is held up, and then she's pulling her dirty one over her head to swap for her find. "Way I see it, we need to have one guard on each of 'em all the time close up, and then someone shadowing from behind just to be sure. You talked a lot with Brieli? If not, reckon you can start on Azaylia, familiar face and all." Beat. "Your bath clean?"

Riorde doesn't waste words arguing. She also doesn't move. While Taikrin busies herself in Riorde's weyr, the other brownrider shifts just enough to re-position her head, and then Sforzath's neck comes down as a barrier to shut her off from the rest of the world.

There's silence, too, on Taikrin's end. She stands perfectly still, clothes clutched too-tightly in her hands, and stares hard at where Riorde has sequestered herself. Finally she tromps back over to the brown on his couch, still clutching the garments, and demands of him: "Move."

Sforzath's no more obliging than Riorde is, especially when her muffled voice rises up to countermand Taikrin's order. "Not moving. Go away. What don't you understand? Go away." It's the most she's said thus far, and by the end of the third statement, she sounds exhausted.

Is the sound of Taikrin's teeth grinding audible? Because it should be. "I know you're upset, and probably hungover, and it flaming well sucks, but I need you to pull it together-- " Spots of color appear in Taikrin's cheeks, and the timbre of her voice is rapidly rising out of her control. "-- before another one DIES!"

"Upset?" The rising pitch of Riorde's voice is nigh well hysterical. Sforzath lifts his head too, so his rider can see who she's begun to scream at. "You don't know anything. Get someone else from Glacier. Go away. GET OUT." Riorde hasn't just got a three-quarters empty bottle in there with her; her fingers are wrapped around the hilt of a knife, the one Taikrin gave her at her first Gather several Turns ago.

Oh, good. Screaming. Taikrin likes screaming. She likes knives even better. "FUCK YOU. You think just 'cause she was your friend, 'cause yer both from that place-- she was MY WEYRWOMAN TOO. And now the only Weyrwomen we got left fucking NEED you to fucking get UP here and help me fucking keep them ALIVE before his fucking INCOMPETENCE gets one of THEM killed TOO!" Her arms are spread wide, as if inviting an attack.

The grip tightens, knuckles as white as her eyes are red. "Get THE FUCK out," Riorde screams right back, only sitting up because it doesn't really feel right to yell from half lying down. Not enough lung power. "I'm not the only rider in Glacier. You didn't even LIKE her. Don't fucking tell me what to do." The impact of the glass bottle she throws punctuates her response. It's wide; with all their practice slinging firestone, even with a raging hangover, even throwing with her off hand, Riorde could still probably hit Taikrin if she really tried.

Taikrin doesn't cry; it's not a thing she does. But her dark-circled eyes are red-rimmed, to match the ugly blotches of color in her pale cheeks. "FUCK YOU, I NEED YOU." In what's got to be the stupidest move of the century, she advances a few paces closer so that she can yell all the more effectively. "I can't fucking trust those fuckers, I NEED YOU to help me keep them ALIVE. They're fucking GOING TO DIE while you sit here and fucking CRY!"

"FUCK YOU." Riorde's hardly coherent enough to form a more cogent reply. She starts to scrabble up, first to her knees and then getting her feet under her, ducking low to clear Sforzath so she can come scream at Taikrin at even closer range. Within reach, should she strike out. "GET SOMEONE ELSE." She leads with her left, still having enough sense not to turn the blade on her girlfriend.

Taikrin probably could move. She could probably grapple or counter or twist or any of the many, many evasions she's developed such a skill for. Instead, she just stands there and takes it. Like a (wo)man.

Riorde doesn't pull her punch. Not even a little. So her fist goes smashing into Taikrin's face. Riorde follows the momentum of it forward, keeping her knife-hand clear. "You don't know ANYTHING."

Taikrin's going to have one bloody face and probably a black eye to boot. She grunts at the impact and staggers a few steps away. But then she straightens, swipes a hand at the blood trickling from where a tooth caught her lip, and taunts, "That's it? You're gonna have to learn me harder."

So Riorde goes swinging again. At least, this time, it isn't a repeat performance of a fist to the face as she goes for the gut instead. "Fuck you," she gets out once more before she's sobbing outright. "I'm going to kill them. I'm going to gut them like a fucking '''''fish'''''."

This time Taikrin moves, stepping in to limit the power of the suckerpunch to the gut-- and so she's closer to try and grapple-slash-hug Riorde. "Fuck YES we will."

Instead of struggling away, Riorde's weight collapses into Taikrin, and then she's crying messily into the other woman's neck mindless of the blood. The sobs shudder through her, but it doesn't prevent her from repeating, "I'm going to kill them." Her grip never slackens on the knife.

"Yeah, okay, don't worry baby, we're gonna kill 'em dead. I swear to you." This is Taikrin's version of comfort, though her embrace is warm and strong enough-- just a little bloody. The swelling in her cheek will soon have her eye mostly closed, but that just makes her promises all the more dire. "I swear."

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Logs:Like A Fish

2012-11-07T22:24:26Z

Riorde: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Riorde, Taikrin | where = Riorde's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr | what = Taikrin won't go away and let Riorde grieve. | when = Day 1, Month 3, Turn 30 | gamedate = 2012..."

{{ Log
| who = Riorde, Taikrin
| where = Riorde's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Taikrin won't go away and let Riorde grieve.
| when = Day 1, Month 3, Turn 30
| gamedate = 2012.11.07
| quote = You think just 'cause she was your friend, 'cause yer both from that place-- she was MY WEYRWOMAN TOO.
| weather =
| categories =
| mentions = Iolene, Leova
| ooc =
| icons = riorde_tough.jpg, taikrin.jpg
| log = The Women-Watching Weyr, High Reaches Weyr(#1381R)

Luckily for the dragon, the inside weyr boasts a couch with a hollow that has conformed to the shape of many bronze bodies over the turns. It progresses in a series of smaller bubbles back into the rock: the first is an evenly round affair, wide open to the outside and with shelves carved along the wall opposite the dragon's wallow to hold sundry draconic items. The second room is a bit cozier, though it manages to squeeze in all the necessities. The entryway is too small for anyone but a human, and closed off with a thick cloth hanging. Inside, there is a small hearth that is swept clean, and room for at least a couch and table, perhaps even a desk: there is an indented nook opposite the hearth that looks as though it might have held one in the past. Separated by another hanging, the next bubble cavern is large enough for a double bed with just enough room to squeeze by into the last, tiny cavern that holds the true prize of this weyr: a coveted bath, large enough for two if they're cozy.

----

Taikrin's convinced herself that it's just exhaustion that's greyed out Szadath's hide, that's darkened the circles under her eyes and left her pale. It certainly hasn't unstiffened her spine any. The brown lands on Sforzath's ledge only long enough for his rider to scramble off-- then he's back down, winging sharply to a vantage point where he can keep an eye both on the sleeping Hraedhyth and Iesaryth. "Hey. Riorde." Her voice is all business as she clomps her way into the weyr. "You up? Know you're home."

The weyr's quiet inside, but not empty. More than one bottle has been abandoned on the floor, out here in the outer bubble; the curtain drawn across the entrance to the next one in conceals how many more might be laying around in total. Sforzath's tucked into his wallow, ashen. He lifts his head as Taikrin strides in, just enough to show Riorde curled into the curve of where his shoulder meets his neck. Without opening her eyes, she mutters into her dragon in a voice gone raspy, "Go away."

Whether Taikrin is tone-deaf to the situation or simply doesn't care, the outcome is the same: "Come on, get up. I need you." She hesitates by Sforzath's wallow, arms folded across her chest, and insists, "I can't watch 'em both by myself, and I ain't sure I ''really'' trust everyone else to help out. They might fuck it up." She hasn't even finished giving her ultimatum before she pushes further into the weyr, straight to pull some clean clothes; she steps right around a bottle without even appearing to notice.

"Go away." A little more strength, this time. Riorde turns enough so that she can glare at Taikrin below Sforzath's neck, working up just enough energy to crack open her red-rimmed eyes. "Not going." The interior room is surprisingly clean, given the state of the weyr surrounding Sforzath.

Taikrin continues on gathering a clean shirt and (probably) clean riding pants. "We ain't got time for this, we've got to-- oh, hey, this is mine." The shirt she'd pulled aside from Riorde is held up, and then she's pulling her dirty one over her head to swap for her find. "Way I see it, we need to have one guard on each of 'em all the time close up, and then someone shadowing from behind just to be sure. You talked a lot with Brieli? If not, reckon you can start on Azaylia, familiar face and all." Beat. "Your bath clean?"

Riorde doesn't waste words arguing. She also doesn't move. While Taikrin busies herself in Riorde's weyr, the other brownrider shifts just enough to re-position her head, and then Sforzath's neck comes down as a barrier to shut her off from the rest of the world.

There's silence, too, on Taikrin's end. She stands perfectly still, clothes clutched too-tightly in her hands, and stares hard at where Riorde has sequestered herself. Finally she tromps back over to the brown on his couch, still clutching the garments, and demands of him: "Move."

Sforzath's no more obliging than Riorde is, especially when her muffled voice rises up to countermand Taikrin's order. "Not moving. Go away. What don't you understand? Go away." It's the most she's said thus far, and by the end of the third statement, she sounds exhausted.

Is the sound of Taikrin's teeth grinding audible? Because it should be. "I know you're upset, and probably hungover, and it flaming well sucks, but I need you to pull it together-- " Spots of color appear in Taikrin's cheeks, and the timbre of her voice is rapidly rising out of her control. "-- before another one DIES!"

"Upset?" The rising pitch of Riorde's voice is nigh well hysterical. Sforzath lifts his head too, so his rider can see who she's begun to scream at. "You don't know anything. Get someone else from Glacier. Go away. GET OUT." Riorde hasn't just got a three-quarters empty bottle in there with her; her fingers are wrapped around the hilt of a knife, the one Taikrin gave her at her first Gather several Turns ago.

Oh, good. Screaming. Taikrin likes screaming. She likes knives even better. "FUCK YOU. You think just 'cause she was your friend, 'cause yer both from that place-- she was MY WEYRWOMAN TOO. And now the only Weyrwomen we got left fucking NEED you to fucking get UP here and help me fucking keep them ALIVE before his fucking INCOMPETENCE gets one of THEM killed TOO!" Her arms are spread wide, as if inviting an attack.

only sitting up because it doesn't really feel right to yell from half lying down. Not enough lung power. "I'm not the only rider in Glacier. You didn't even LIKE her. Don't fucking tell me what to do." The impact of the glass bottle she throws punctuates her response. It's wide; with all their practice slinging firestone, even with a raging hangover, even throwing with her off hand, Riorde could still probably hit Taikrin if she really tried.

Taikrin doesn't cry; it's not a thing she does. But her dark-circled eyes are red-rimmed, to match the ugly blotches of color in her pale cheeks. "FUCK YOU, I NEED YOU." In what's got to be the stupidest move of the century, she advances a few paces closer so that she can yell all the more effectively. "I can't fucking trust those fuckers, I NEED YOU to help me keep them ALIVE. They're fucking GOING TO DIE while you sit here and fucking CRY!"

"FUCK YOU." Riorde's hardly coherent enough to form a more cogent reply. She starts to scrabble up, first to her knees and then getting her feet under her, ducking low to clear Sforzath so she can come scream at Taikrin at even closer range. Within reach, should she strike out. "GET SOMEONE ELSE." She leads with her left, still having enough sense not to turn the blade on her girlfriend.

Taikrin probably could move. She could probably grapple or counter or twist or any of the many, many evasions she's developed such a skill for. Instead, she just stands there and takes it. Like a (wo)man.

Riorde doesn't pull her punch. Not even a little. So her fist goes smashing into Taikrin's face. Riorde follows the momentum of it forward, keeping her knife-hand clear. "You don't know ANYTHING."

Taikrin's going to have one bloody face and probably a black eye to boot. She grunts at the impact and staggers a few steps away. But then she straightens, swipes a hand at the blood trickling from where a tooth caught her lip, and taunts, "That's it? You're gonna have to learn me harder."

So Riorde goes swinging again. At least, this time, it isn't a repeat performance of a fist to the face as she goes for the gut instead. "Fuck you," she gets out once more before she's sobbing outright. "I'm going to kill them. I'm going to gut them like a fucking '''''fish'''''."

This time Taikrin moves, stepping in to limit the power of the suckerpunch to the gut-- and so she's closer to try and grapple-slash-hug Riorde. "Fuck YES we will."

Instead of struggling away, Riorde's weight collapses into Taikrin, and then she's crying messily into the other woman's neck mindless of the blood. The sobs shudder through her, but it doesn't prevent her from repeating, "I'm going to kill them." Her grip never slackens on the knife.

"Yeah, okay, don't worry baby, we're gonna kill 'em dead. I swear to you." This is Taikrin's version of comfort, though her embrace is warm and strong enough-- just a little bloody. The swelling in her cheek will soon have her eye mostly closed, but that just makes her promises all the more dire. "I swear."

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Logs talk:Can't Protect Them All

2012-11-07T01:10:20Z

Riorde: Comment provided by Riorde - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on "[[Logs:Can't Protect Them All]]"
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

[[Azaylia/Comments|Azaylia]] ([[User:Dragonshy|Dragonshy]]) left a comment on Tue, 06 Nov 2012 22:53:26 GMT.

<comment date="2012-11-06T22:53:26Z" name="Azaylia" signature="[[User:Dragonshy|Dragonshy]]">
D: Aw, Taikrin... You're a good guard dog! Honest. <3
</comment>
[[K'del/Comments|K'del]] ([[User:K'del|K'del]]) left a comment on Tue, 06 Nov 2012 22:58:43 GMT.

<comment date="2012-11-06T22:58:43Z" name="K'del" signature="[[User:K&#39;del|K&#39;del]]">
Oh, Tai.
</comment>
[[Riorde/Comments|Riorde]] ([[User:Riorde|Riorde]]) left a comment on Wed, 07 Nov 2012 01:10:20 GMT.

<comment date="2012-11-07T01:10:20Z" name="Riorde" signature="[[User:Riorde|Riorde]]">
Taikrin. :(
</comment>

Logs:Drinking Alone Together

2012-08-15T06:35:46Z

Riorde:

{{ Log
| who = Leova, Riorde
| where = Southern Rim, High Reaches Weyr
| what = They drink. They don't say a lot. What they do say is telling.
| when = Day 1, Month 7, Turn 29
| gamedate = 2012.08.14
| quote = Would you like to black out?
| weather =
| categories = General
| mentions =
| icons = leova.jpg, riorde recumbent.jpg
| log = Southern Rim of the Bowl, High Reaches Weyr

Directly opposite the sharp spikes of the Reaches' characteristic spires lies the bowl's south rim, from above seeming pinched like a baker's pie crust to form this distinctive lip: a soft curve, several dragonlengths long but only four lengths wide before narrowing into impassable crags. It would have to be an apprentice effort, however, given how even the flatter area is riddled with cracks and hollows, dusted with glittery silicate quartz that is far more gritty than sweet.

Though the view down into the bowl is commanding, the views beyond it can be absolutely breathtaking on clear days: eternally snow-capped mountains descending to high-altitude meadows and the dark brush of evergreens, and greener valleys beyond even those, with only glimpses here and there of human habitation. But the views come with a risk: the wind can blow hard and strong, and whether looking inward or outward, there is no protection from the precipitous chasms that fall away from these heights.

----

The nights are so short this time of Turn, barely ever any dark, Rukbat seeming to spin around Pern's northern pole. It's so near to the top of the world. Not on the populated Star Stones, but up on the southern Rim, there's an old felt blanket strewn flat over the stone. On it, a woman flat on her back upon it, legs and arms out like a starfish. Near her, beyond the bottles, a dragon. Beyond them, the stars, whirling about them all.

Under Taikrin's tutelage, Riorde's picked up a certain set of skills. Earlier was for rowdiness in the Snowasis. Now is for ill-advised risks, dragoning-while-drunk. After a veering course around the spires with their winds and sudden shifts, Sforzath cuts across the bowl, gliding and falling and then attaining an updraft that brings him to a scrabbling stop right at the edge of the rim, wings flared for balance. His concentration, especially without Riorde's reinforcement, means his flare of recognition for Vrianth comes late, once he's caught himself and settled.

Vrianth's comes early, at least by comparison. Her warning? Not at all. Now her narrow head rakes out to sniff at him with flared nostrils, ichor-greener against the heathered olive of her face, against her intensely colored eyes. They aren't exactly green themselves, this night, but something darker and depthless. She scents the brown, scents what's on him. ''Who's'' on him. Her rider's only just gotten herself up to one elbow and already Vrianth's drawing on energy, drawing in questions, sending only a fillip of the former his way like a single lightless spark.

The scents are varied and many. The musk of his hide. Singed grass, sweet hay. The boozy bite of a cheap alcohol where taste is of no concern. Smoke, fragrant from burning woods, thick and heavy. Bitterness. The emotion's harnessed in other sensations: the acrid notes that unbalance the incense; the way the smoke stings. There's no distinction between these things; Sforzath compounds them all together and leaves it to Vrianth to untangle. Riorde has another untangling task: the straps she's buckled herself into. It takes awhile for her to work herself free.

Leova watches, for a little while, but it takes too long. She sinks back to star-watch. To let the stars watch her. To shut her eyes. There's no incline here, no ridge to protect them on any side. Vrianth, meanwhile, doesn't so much untangle as knot, braid them all up in the slow flow of smoke and the quicker drink's bite, prowl closer to Sforzath and see: will he back up, will he move to the edge? At least, once his rider's free.

Sforzath does not give ground. He sinks, allowing for an easier dismount but also a lower center of gravity, and stares straight at the green, letting that rider of his fend for herself. She sticks close to her dragon, stays in the center, and does not approach the edge. She does approach Leova, standing a little ways away with a buffer for personal space. For not intruding on one another's solitude.

Vrianth? Her head turns, her neck twists and then twists further, looping around towards the brown's neckridges and up to his wings and the delicate membranes there. Only her breath threatens to touch. Will he hold still, even for that? If she and her rider were added up, nose to tail, they would be longer than he. Her rider, though, lolls back on her side, on her elbow. "There's more," she says lazily, in that smoky voice of hers made richer, not clearer, by night. "I haven't drunk it all."

Only for a minute. Sforzath refuses to be rousted, but not from the preference for keeping himself apart that his rider evinces. Instead, he tries to beat Vrianth at her own game, twisting to combat her sinuousness. "Why not?" Riorde looks down at the greenrider, eyes pulling into a squint for focus.

So he twists, but what does he seek? To dodge, or to press and scent in return? Vrianth lets him do what he will do, for an instant or three. To see. Long enough for Vrianth's ''rider'' to wave a hand, that with the flex of shoulder-elbows-wrist-fingers seems more curved than it by rights should be. "I kicked Rhonda out," she says, her tongue lingering past the plosive of the 't.'

"Out? Not off?" Riorde looks towards the edge of the ledge for good measure but doesn't venture to the edge to see if the greenrider mentioned has become a splat far below. "Or are you sharing a weyr? Does Anvori know? Or is it a little place high up that you sneak off to sometimes?" The possibilities have a bite to them that Leova's liquor will either soften or sharpen. Her dragon sees no reason to choose one thing or the other; he ducks back first only to come in at an angled attack, taking in what he can in the short space Vrianth allows.

When Riorde looks, Leova looks, though she's looking at the brownrider instead over ''that'' edge. "If you ask her," the greenrider says, "She'll say she meant to, anyway." Or perhaps that's ''meant to. Anyway.'' Either way, it implies a certain ability to speak, after which Leova inquires, "Why don't you drink?" The words are spaced just enough to put emphasis on any of them, or none. Since Riorde, clearly, ''has.'' ''Vrianth'' has new oil and old firestone and not meat. It's been some time since she's fed. She sacrifices one dark, delicate-looking spar in her stretch to lap at one of his craggy neckridges... or its neighbor. Perhaps, just perhaps, she's not picky.

"Why ''don't'' I," Riorde repeats, phrasing it as a kind of defiant declaration. She drops down beside Leova and finds herself a bottle that still has alcohol in it, then helps herself without further ado. She's silent as she drinks, staring off with a hard, set look on her face. Meanwhile Sforzath satisfies himself with one long inhale, appreciation shading his response.

It's not as harsh as whisky, it goes down sweet and smooth with a kick like fireworks. Its label is handwritten, surely easier to make out in glowlight than by their stars. It's something that Leova watches Riorde drink, the movements of her jaw and her throat and what it does or doesn't do with her eyes. Then she looks away, back to Vrianth, who'll sample his other neckridge if he stays still and then lean in just a touch, a very physical spark rather than anything that's hide to hide. Right before ''she'' turns away.

Undoubtedly better than anything Riorde was drinking previously. The first pull is the quick gulp of someone used to knocking her liquor back rather than savoring it. She slows down thereafter, closing her eyes once towards the beginning to concentrate the effects of the alcohol. She doesn't look at Leova, not once, no matter how friendly her dragon's willing to get, settling into an overt regard where it doesn't matter if Vrianth returns it or not. He watches, and waits, on the lookout for further sparks.

Any sparks are in her eyes, when the light catches their facets, when she continues to prowl on over to their riders and settle where she could reach either if she chose. Her wings are tucked in, her back sinuous serpentine curves upon curves, only the sharp lines of their ridges angled. She doesn't so much wait as witness, doesn't do either so much as simply ''is where she is.'' When Leova says in a low voice, "Would you like to black out," she can look at his rider as well as him. As well as, or better.

Sforzath stays where he landed, low against the rock with his shoulders back in a crouch that signals readiness for sudden action, although there's no other movement on the rim once Vrianth has reached the riders. Riorde pays no more attention to the green than she does Leova, not even sacrificing a cursory glance from her far-off stare. "I don't know," she says, giving Leova that. "Is it something you decide?"

Nor does Vrianth warrant such, surely, given how she's settled. Why, her talons are closer to her rider's knee than anyone else. It's a curiously sanguine humor that leans on him: does this happen often? Does he... like it? "It can be," says her rider finally, taking up one bottle and sloshing it, slowly, by its neck. "I haven't in a long time." Her hair is loose about her shoulders, her tunic loose and shapeless, her trousers wide-legged linen and rucked up to her calves and no more.

In response, a throbbing rhythm fills the silence of the night, a drumbeat or closer still, a heart. Not for Vrianth alone; Riorde isn't aware of how her head starts to bob in time, just a little, between one drink and the next. "No, you wouldn't," she tells the other rider, bitter.

She cocks her head. ''They'' do. "What do you mean?" The words float within the beats.

Riorde finally looks over, resting the bottle on the stone beside her although her hand's still on the neck of it. "You drink by yourself to remember or you drink to forget. With blacking out, you're set on the second. What could you possibly have that you want to forget?"

That's direct. That would be telling. It's telling already, the catch of her breath like a hook to her gut. "Wrongs I've done." A ''fish'' hook.

The younger woman stares at the companion the night's given her unasked, forcing her gaze to fix when it starts to wander. She doesn't ask. She won't ask. Instead, she lifts the bottle until it's neither here nor there, not resting or at her lips, and waits for Leova to join her in one or the other. Remembering or forgetting.

"I don't think that's you, though." Leova says it softly, lets it rise up like so much smoke from the dark rock they lie on. And, now as passionless as that rock, "I could be wrong."

"The wrongs?" Riorde wonders. "The willingness?" There is nothing nice about her smile. "Or this?" The bottle, now at her lips.

"Try the next one," Leova says, instead. Her toes flex, stretch, and there's the cool rattle-slosh of glass across stone. It could break. It could be drunk. It could be ignored for its neighbor. It could fall and crash and splinter.

Riorde is about as obedient as she was as a weyrling. Which isn't to say that she doesn't follow Leova's advice, just that she considers the greenrider for a time before making up her own mind on the merits of the suggestion. She sets down her bottle, leaving it uncorked while she reaches to halt the progress of the one rolling (unbroken). "Okay," she agrees. The suck of a cork coming out pops as suddenly as a bubble bursting. "Thank you for sharing."

Those were the days, when the greenrider would wait with practiced, impervious patience. Now she twists onto her belly, hooking one foot's toes onto the other foot's heel, flexing to deepen the stretch. There's another beat, two, three, where she rubs her temples. And the drink ''does'' bubble and fizz, dark and earthy as a tonic that may not be entirely healthy but the taste, the taste is remarkable. Her low laugh's like that too, until she catches herself and turns aside.

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Logs:Drinking Alone Together

2012-08-15T06:33:42Z

Riorde:

{{ Log
| who = Leova, Riorde
| where = Southern Rim, High Reaches Weyr
| what = They drink. They don't say a lot. What they do say is telling.
| when = Day 1, Month 7, Turn 29
| gamedate = 2012.08.14
| quote = Would you like to black out?
| weather =
| categories = General
| mentions =
| icons = leova.jpg, riorde recumbent.jpg
| log = Southern Rim of the Bowl, High Reaches Weyr

Directly opposite the sharp spikes of the Reaches' characteristic spires lies the bowl's south rim, from above seeming pinched like a baker's pie crust to form this distinctive lip: a soft curve, several dragonlengths long but only four lengths wide before narrowing into impassable crags. It would have to be an apprentice effort, however, given how even the flatter area is riddled with cracks and hollows, dusted with glittery silicate quartz that is far more gritty than sweet.

Though the view down into the bowl is commanding, the views beyond it can be absolutely breathtaking on clear days: eternally snow-capped mountains descending to high-altitude meadows and the dark brush of evergreens, and greener valleys beyond even those, with only glimpses here and there of human habitation. But the views come with a risk: the wind can blow hard and strong, and whether looking inward or outward, there is no protection from the precipitous chasms that fall away from these heights.

----

The nights are so short this time of Turn, barely ever any dark, Rukbat seeming to spin around Pern's northern pole. It's so near to the top of the world. Not on the populated Star Stones, but up on the Southern Rim, there's an old felt blanket strewn flat over the stone. On it, a woman flat on her back upon it, legs and arms out like a starfish. Near her, beyond the bottles, a dragon. Beyond them, the stars, whirling about them all.

Under Taikrin's tutelage, Riorde's picked up a certain set of skills. Earlier was for rowdiness in the Snowasis. Now is for ill-advised risks, dragoning-while-drunk. After a veering course around the spires with their winds and sudden shifts, Sforzath cuts across the bowl, gliding and falling and then attaining an updraft that brings him to a scrabbling stop right at the edge of the rim, wings flared for balance. His concentration, especially without Riorde's reinforcement, means his flare of recognition for Vrianth comes late, once he's caught himself and settled.

Vrianth's comes early, at least by comparison. Her warning? Not at all. Now her narrow head rakes out to sniff at him with flared nostrils, ichor-greener against the heathered olive of her face, against her intensely colored eyes. They aren't exactly green themselves, this night, but something darker and depthless. She scents the brown, scents what's on him. ''Who's'' on him. Her rider's only just gotten herself up to one elbow and already Vrianth's drawing on energy, drawing in questions, sending only a fillip of the former his way like a single lightless spark.

The scents are varied and many. The musk of his hide. Singed grass, sweet hay. The boozy bite of a cheap alcohol where taste is of no concern. Smoke, fragrant from burning woods, thick and heavy. Bitterness. The emotion's harnessed in other sensations: the acrid notes that unbalance the incense; the way the smoke stings. There's no distinction between these things; Sforzath compounds them all together and leaves it to Vrianth to untangle. Riorde has another untangling task: the straps she's buckled herself into. It takes awhile for her to work herself free.

Leova watches, for a little while, but it takes too long. She sinks back to star-watch. To let the stars watch her. To shut her eyes. There's no incline here, no ridge to protect them on any side. Vrianth, meanwhile, doesn't so much untangle as knot, braid them all up in the slow flow of smoke and the quicker drink's bite, prowl closer to Sforzath and see: will he back up, will he move to the edge? At least, once his rider's free.

Sforzath does not give ground. He sinks, allowing for an easier dismount but also a lower center of gravity, and stares straight at the green, letting that rider of his fend for herself. She sticks close to her dragon, stays in the center, and does not approach the edge. She does approach Leova, standing a little ways away with a buffer for personal space. For not intruding on one another's solitude.

Vrianth? Her head turns, her neck twists and then twists further, looping around towards the brown's neckridges and up to his wings and the delicate membranes there. Only her breath threatens to touch. Will he hold still, even for that? If she and her rider were added up, nose to tail, they would be longer than he. Her rider, though, lolls back on her side, on her elbow. "There's more," she says lazily, in that smoky voice of hers made richer, not clearer, by night. "I haven't drunk it all."

Only for a minute. Sforzath refuses to be rousted, but not from the preference for keeping himself apart that his rider evinces. Instead, he tries to beat Vrianth at her own game, twisting to combat her sinuousness. "Why not?" Riorde looks down at the greenrider, eyes pulling into a squint for focus.

So he twists, but what does he seek? To dodge, or to press and scent in return? Vrianth lets him do what he will do, for an instant or three. To see. Long enough for Vrianth's ''rider'' to wave a hand, that with the flex of shoulder-elbows-wrist-fingers seems more curved than it by rights should be. "I kicked Rhonda out," she says, her tongue lingering past the plosive of the 't.'

"Out? Not off?" Riorde looks towards the edge of the ledge for good measure but doesn't venture to the edge to see if the greenrider mentioned has become a splat far below. "Or are you sharing a weyr? Does Anvori know? Or is it a little place high up that you sneak off to sometimes?" The possibilities have a bite to them that Leova's liquor will either soften or sharpen. Her dragon sees no reason to choose one thing or the other; he ducks back first only to come in at an angled attack, taking in what he can in the short space Vrianth allows.

When Riorde looks, Leova looks, though she's looking at the brownrider instead over ''that'' edge. "If you ask her," the greenrider says, "She'll say she meant to, anyway." Or perhaps that's ''meant to. Anyway.'' Either way, it implies a certain ability to speak, after which Leova inquires, "Why don't you drink?" The words are spaced just enough to put emphasis on any of them, or none. Since Riorde, clearly, ''has.'' ''Vrianth'' has new oil and old firestone and not meat. It's been some time since she's fed. She sacrifices one dark, delicate-looking spar in her stretch to lap at one of his craggy neckridges... or its neighbor. Perhaps, just perhaps, she's not picky.

"Why ''don't'' I," Riorde repeats, phrasing it as a kind of defiant declaration. She drops down beside Leova and finds herself a bottle that still has alcohol in it, then helps herself without further ado. She's silent as she drinks, staring off with a hard, set look on her face. Meanwhile Sforzath satisfies himself with one long inhale, appreciation shading his response.

It's not as harsh as whisky, it goes down sweet and smooth with a kick like fireworks. Its label is handwritten, surely easier to make out in glowlight than by their stars. It's something that Leova watches Riorde drink, the movements of her jaw and her throat and what it does or doesn't do with her eyes. Then she looks away, back to Vrianth, who'll sample his other neckridge if he stays still and then lean in just a touch, a very physical spark rather than anything that's hide to hide. Right before ''she'' turns away.

Undoubtedly better than anything Riorde was drinking previously. The first pull is the quick gulp of someone used to knocking her liquor back rather than savoring it. She slows down thereafter, closing her eyes once towards the beginning to concentrate the effects of the alcohol. She doesn't look at Leova, not once, no matter how friendly her dragon's willing to get, settling into an overt regard where it doesn't matter if Vrianth returns it or not. He watches, and waits, on the lookout for further sparks.

Any sparks are in her eyes, when the light catches their facets, when she continues to prowl on over to their riders and settle where she could reach either if she chose. Her wings are tucked in, her back sinuous serpentine curves upon curves, only the sharp lines of their ridges angled. She doesn't so much wait as witness, doesn't do either so much as simply ''is where she is.'' When Leova says in a low voice, "Would you like to black out," she can look at his rider as well as him. As well as, or better.

Sforzath stays where he landed, low against the rock with his shoulders back in a crouch that signals readiness for sudden action, although there's no other movement on the rim once Vrianth has reached the riders. Riorde pays no more attention to the green than she does Leova, not even sacrificing a cursory glance from her far-off stare. "I don't know," she says, giving Leova that. "Is it something you decide?"

Nor does Vrianth warrant such, surely, given how she's settled. Why, her talons are closer to her rider's knee than anyone else. It's a curiously sanguine humor that leans on him: does this happen often? Does he... like it? "It can be," says her rider finally, taking up one bottle and sloshing it, slowly, by its neck. "I haven't in a long time." Her hair is loose about her shoulders, her tunic loose and shapeless, her trousers wide-legged linen and rucked up to her calves and no more.

In response, a throbbing rhythm fills the silence of the night, a drumbeat or closer still, a heart. Not for Vrianth alone; Riorde isn't aware of how her head starts to bob in time, just a little, between one drink and the next. "No, you wouldn't," she tells the other rider, bitter.

She cocks her head. ''They'' do. "What do you mean?" The words float within the beats.

Riorde finally looks over, resting the bottle on the stone beside her although her hand's still on the neck of it. "You drink by yourself to remember or you drink to forget. With blacking out, you're set on the second. What could you possibly have that you want to forget?"

That's direct. That would be telling. It's telling already, the catch of her breath like a hook to her gut. "Wrongs I've done." A ''fish'' hook.

The younger woman stares at the companion the night's given her unasked, forcing her gaze to fix when it starts to wander. She doesn't ask. She won't ask. Instead, she lifts the bottle until it's neither here nor there, not resting or at her lips, and waits for Leova to join her in one or the other. Remembering or forgetting.

"I don't think that's you, though." Leova says it softly, lets it rise up like so much smoke from the dark rock they lie on. And, now as passionless as that rock, "I could be wrong."

"The wrongs?" Riorde wonders. "The willingness?" There is nothing nice about her smile. "Or this?" The bottle, now at her lips.

"Try the next one," Leova says, instead. Her toes flex, stretch, and there's the cool rattle-slosh of glass across stone. It could break. It could be drunk. It could be ignored for its neighbor. It could fall and crash and splinter.

Riorde is about as obedient as she was as a weyrling. Which isn't to say that she doesn't follow Leova's advice, just that she considers the greenrider for a time before making up her own mind on the merits of the suggestion. She sets down her bottle, leaving it uncorked while she reaches to halt the progress of the one rolling (unbroken). "Okay," she agrees. The suck of a cork coming out pops as suddenly as a bubble bursting. "Thank you for sharing."

Those were the days, when the greenrider would wait with practiced, impervious patience. Now she twists onto her belly, hooking one foot's toes onto the other foot's heel, flexing to deepen the stretch. There's another beat, two, three, where she rubs her temples. And the drink ''does'' bubble and fizz, dark and earthy as a tonic that may not be entirely healthy but the taste, the taste is remarkable. Her low laugh's like that too, until she catches herself and turns aside.

{{#ifexist: Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}} | <h2>Comments</h2>{{Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}}}} | }}

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<comments />

Logs:Drinking Alone Together

2012-08-15T06:27:11Z

Riorde: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Leova, Riorde | where = Southern Rim, High Reaches Weyr | what = They drink. They don't say a lot. What they do say is telling. | when = Day 1, Month 7, Turn 29 |..."

{{ Log
| who = Leova, Riorde
| where = Southern Rim, High Reaches Weyr
| what = They drink. They don't say a lot. What they do say is telling.
| when = Day 1, Month 7, Turn 29
| gamedate = 2012.08.14
| quote = Would you like to black out?
| weather =
| categories = General
| mentions =
| icons = leova.jpg, riorde recumbent.jpg
| log = The nights are so short this time of Turn, barely ever any dark, Rukbat seeming to spin around Pern's northern pole. It's so near to the top of the world. Not on the populated Star Stones, but up on the Southern Rim, there's an old felt blanket strewn flat over the stone. On it, a woman flat on her back upon it, legs and arms out like a starfish. Near her, beyond the bottles, a dragon. Beyond them, the stars, whirling about them all.

Under Taikrin's tutelage, Riorde's picked up a certain set of skills. Earlier was for rowdiness in the Snowasis. Now is for ill-advised risks, dragoning-while-drunk. After a veering course around the spires with their winds and sudden shifts, Sforzath cuts across the bowl, gliding and falling and then attaining an updraft that brings him to a scrabbling stop right at the edge of the rim, wings flared for balance. His concentration, especially without Riorde's reinforcement, means his flare of recognition for Vrianth comes late, once he's caught himself and settled.

Vrianth's comes early, at least by comparison. Her warning? Not at all. Now her narrow head rakes out to sniff at him with flared nostrils, ichor-greener against the heathered olive of her face, against her intensely colored eyes. They aren't exactly green themselves, this night, but something darker and depthless. She scents the brown, scents what's on him. ''Who's'' on him. Her rider's only just gotten herself up to one elbow and already Vrianth's drawing on energy, drawing in questions, sending only a fillip of the former his way like a single lightless spark.

The scents are varied and many. The musk of his hide. Singed grass, sweet hay. The boozy bite of a cheap alcohol where taste is of no concern. Smoke, fragrant from burning woods, thick and heavy. Bitterness. The emotion's harnessed in other sensations: the acrid notes that unbalance the incense; the way the smoke stings. There's no distinction between these things; Sforzath compounds them all together and leaves it to Vrianth to untangle. Riorde has another untangling task: the straps she's buckled herself into. It takes awhile for her to work herself free.

Leova watches, for a little while, but it takes too long. She sinks back to star-watch. To let the stars watch her. To shut her eyes. There's no incline here, no ridge to protect them on any side. Vrianth, meanwhile, doesn't so much untangle as knot, braid them all up in the slow flow of smoke and the quicker drink's bite, prowl closer to Sforzath and see: will he back up, will he move to the edge? At least, once his rider's free.

Sforzath does not give ground. He sinks, allowing for an easier dismount but also a lower center of gravity, and stares straight at the green, letting that rider of his fend for herself. She sticks close to her dragon, stays in the center, and does not approach the edge. She does approach Leova, standing a little ways away with a buffer for personal space. For not intruding on one another's solitude.

Vrianth? Her head turns, her neck twists and then twists further, looping around towards the brown's neckridges and up to his wings and the delicate membranes there. Only her breath threatens to touch. Will he hold still, even for that? If she and her rider were added up, nose to tail, they would be longer than he. Her rider, though, lolls back on her side, on her elbow. "There's more," she says lazily, in that smoky voice of hers made richer, not clearer, by night. "I haven't drunk it all."

Only for a minute. Sforzath refuses to be rousted, but not from the preference for keeping himself apart that his rider evinces. Instead, he tries to beat Vrianth at her own game, twisting to combat her sinuousness. "Why not?" Riorde looks down at the greenrider, eyes pulling into a squint for focus.

So he twists, but what does he seek? To dodge, or to press and scent in return? Vrianth lets him do what he will do, for an instant or three. To see. Long enough for Vrianth's ''rider'' to wave a hand, that with the flex of shoulder-elbows-wrist-fingers seems more curved than it by rights should be. "I kicked Rhonda out," she says, her tongue lingering past the plosive of the 't.'

"Out? Not off?" Riorde looks towards the edge of the ledge for good measure but doesn't venture to the edge to see if the greenrider mentioned has become a splat far below. "Or are you sharing a weyr? Does Anvori know? Or is it a little place high up that you sneak off to sometimes?" The possibilities have a bite to them that Leova's liquor will either soften or sharpen. Her dragon sees no reason to choose one thing or the other; he ducks back first only to come in at an angled attack, taking in what he can in the short space Vrianth allows.

When Riorde looks, Leova looks, though she's looking at the brownrider instead over ''that'' edge. "If you ask her," the greenrider says, "She'll say she meant to, anyway." Or perhaps that's ''meant to. Anyway.'' Either way, it implies a certain ability to speak, after which Leova inquires, "Why don't you drink?" The words are spaced just enough to put emphasis on any of them, or none. Since Riorde, clearly, ''has.'' ''Vrianth'' has new oil and old firestone and not meat. It's been some time since she's fed. She sacrifices one dark, delicate-looking spar in her stretch to lap at one of his craggy neckridges... or its neighbor. Perhaps, just perhaps, she's not picky.

"Why ''don't'' I," Riorde repeats, phrasing it as a kind of defiant declaration. She drops down beside Leova and finds herself a bottle that still has alcohol in it, then helps herself without further ado. She's silent as she drinks, staring off with a hard, set look on her face. Meanwhile Sforzath satisfies himself with one long inhale, appreciation shading his response.

It's not as harsh as whisky, it goes down sweet and smooth with a kick like fireworks. Its label is handwritten, surely easier to make out in glowlight than by their stars. It's something that Leova watches Riorde drink, the movements of her jaw and her throat and what it does or doesn't do with her eyes. Then she looks away, back to Vrianth, who'll sample his other neckridge if he stays still and then lean in just a touch, a very physical spark rather than anything that's hide to hide. Right before ''she'' turns away.

Undoubtedly better than anything Riorde was drinking previously. The first pull is the quick gulp of someone used to knocking her liquor back rather than savoring it. She slows down thereafter, closing her eyes once towards the beginning to concentrate the effects of the alcohol. She doesn't look at Leova, not once, no matter how friendly her dragon's willing to get, settling into an overt regard where it doesn't matter if Vrianth returns it or not. He watches, and waits, on the lookout for further sparks.

Any sparks are in her eyes, when the light catches their facets, when she continues to prowl on over to their riders and settle where she could reach either if she chose. Her wings are tucked in, her back sinuous serpentine curves upon curves, only the sharp lines of their ridges angled. She doesn't so much wait as witness, doesn't do either so much as simply ''is where she is.'' When Leova says in a low voice, "Would you like to black out," she can look at his rider as well as him. As well as, or better.

Sforzath stays where he landed, low against the rock with his shoulders back in a crouch that signals readiness for sudden action, although there's no other movement on the rim once Vrianth has reached the riders. Riorde pays no more attention to the green than she does Leova, not even sacrificing a cursory glance from her far-off stare. "I don't know," she says, giving Leova that. "Is it something you decide?"

Nor does Vrianth warrant such, surely, given how she's settled. Why, her talons are closer to her rider's knee than anyone else. It's a curiously sanguine humor that leans on him: does this happen often? Does he... like it? "It can be," says her rider finally, taking up one bottle and sloshing it, slowly, by its neck. "I haven't in a long time." Her hair is loose about her shoulders, her tunic loose and shapeless, her trousers wide-legged linen and rucked up to her calves and no more.

In response, a throbbing rhythm fills the silence of the night, a drumbeat or closer still, a heart. Not for Vrianth alone; Riorde isn't aware of how her head starts to bob in time, just a little, between one drink and the next. "No, you wouldn't," she tells the other rider, bitter.

She cocks her head. ''They'' do. "What do you mean?" The words float within the beats.

Riorde finally looks over, resting the bottle on the stone beside her although her hand's still on the neck of it. "You drink by yourself to remember or you drink to forget. With blacking out, you're set on the second. What could you possibly have that you want to forget?"

That's direct. That would be telling. It's telling already, the catch of her breath like a hook to her gut. "Wrongs I've done." A ''fish'' hook.

The younger woman stares at the companion the night's given her unasked, forcing her gaze to fix when it starts to wander. She doesn't ask. She won't ask. Instead, she lifts the bottle until it's neither here nor there, not resting or at her lips, and waits for Leova to join her in one or the other. Remembering or forgetting.

"I don't think that's you, though." Leova says it softly, lets it rise up like so much smoke from the dark rock they lie on. And, now as passionless as that rock, "I could be wrong."

"The wrongs?" Riorde wonders. "The willingness?" There is nothing nice about her smile. "Or this?" The bottle, now at her lips.

"Try the next one," Leova says, instead. Her toes flex, stretch, and there's the cool rattle-slosh of glass across stone. It could break. It could be drunk. It could be ignored for its neighbor. It could fall and crash and splinter.

Riorde is about as obedient as she was as a weyrling. Which isn't to say that she doesn't follow Leova's advice, just that she considers the greenrider for a time before making up her own mind on the merits of the suggestion. She sets down her bottle, leaving it uncorked while she reaches to halt the progress of the one rolling (unbroken). "Okay," she agrees. The suck of a cork coming out pops as suddenly as a bubble bursting. "Thank you for sharing."

Those were the days, when the greenrider would wait with practiced, impervious patience. Now she twists onto her belly, hooking one foot's toes onto the other foot's heel, flexing to deepen the stretch. There's another beat, two, three, where she rubs her temples. And the drink ''does'' bubble and fizz, dark and earthy as a tonic that may not be entirely healthy but the taste, the taste is remarkable. Her low laugh's like that too, until she catches herself and turns aside.

{{#ifexist: Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}} | <h2>Comments</h2>{{Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}}}} | }}

}}

<comments />

Logs:The Day Devaki Got Married

2012-08-13T06:09:14Z

Riorde: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Riorde | where = | what = Riorde does not attend her friend's wedding. | when = Day 25, Month 6, Turn 29 | gamedate = 2012.08.12 | quote = | weather = | catego..."

{{ Log
| who = Riorde
| where =
| what = Riorde does not attend her friend's wedding.
| when = Day 25, Month 6, Turn 29
| gamedate = 2012.08.12
| quote =
| weather =
| categories = General
| mentions = Devaki
| icons = riorde sforzath.jpg
| log = She asked for sweeps that day.

Cold air rushes up to meet them, and although they stick to plan at first, at a certain point she suggests curling up and into the mountains, and Sforzath agrees, restlessly eager for a change in routine. Alpine meadows unfold beneath them as their shadow skims over the surface of grass and rill and rock. Below, the cloudy green of a lake fed by melting snow.

The vastness of this hazy blue sky isn't her own, up here where the air is thin. Nor this craggy horizon, bleak and distant. Hers -- ''theirs'', a small, angry voice insists -- is expansive in its changing moods, an endless line where the sea and sky respond to each other, quickening into a tumult of cloudbanks and riotous foam or stilling into such calm that the eye deceives itself, becomes content with indolent indistinction. A horizon that goes on and on. The lingering poignancy of the last note of a song.

The mountains make them small. Makes her inchoate emotions smaller, buried and compacted until all that's left is the hard fist that makes up her core.

With the wind stinging her cheeks, Riorde tucks her chin deeper into her jacket and flattens herself against Sforzath. She can feel the slide of muscles under smooth hide, and she closes her eyes, welcoming the black and the roar of air in her ears and under their wings, willing her heart to slow to match the beats of his own rather than flutter at its own faster pace. As if the world could be distilled into only this.

In her mind's eye, she can see it anyway.

{{#ifexist: Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}} | <h2>Comments</h2>{{Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}}}} | }}

}}

<comments />

Riorde

2012-06-05T20:09:56Z

Riorde:

{{HrwProfile
|picture=riorde.jpg
|name=Riorde
|position=Brownrider, Glacier Wing
|dragon=brown Sforzath
|craft=
|birthplace=In Exile
|mother=Deirdre (deceased)
|father=Arran
|siblings=Eirdan (-5)
|children=None
|craft=
|friends=
|playedby=Olivia Wilde
|livejournal=http://riorde.livejournal.com/}}

== Background ==

[[Riorde/Prologue]]

Riorde grew up on exile island. She was rescued from exile island. Hopefully she will not be sent back to die there.

== Description ==

High, wide cheekbones, a strong, angular jaw and chin, and almond-shaped eyes give the young woman's face a vulpine cast accentuated by her thin, spare form. She fills out slightly at the hips but will never boast a full set of curves, too narrow for more than the bare minimum. Dark hair frames her square face, untidily trimmed and untidily worn. Her skin seems clear despite the elements, given colour from a life lived mostly outdoors except for her pale, unsmiling lips. Such beauty that she carries gives her no open ease, however, her bearing and undisguised green-eyed stare tending towards remote detachment, the encouragement of distance.

== WYSK ==

* Largely raised by her grandmother. One younger brother, Eirdan. Her father Arran was a fisher. Her mom died.

* Riorde doesn't like to talk much to most people, but she does like to use her fists.

* Barred from the sands after she, Rhaelyn, and Iolene hurt an egg but somehow managed to get on the sands anyway to impress brown Sforzath from Iovniath and Cadejoth's third clutch on Day 22, Month 6, Turn 26.

* Graduated into Glacier wing in Month 6, Turn 27. The only exile not to be tapped for either the Weyrleader's wing (Avalanche) or Snowdrift.

== Relationships ==

* [[Taikrin]]: rescuer, girlfriend, wingmate. They hit up the bars, hit on the chicks, and do not make a big deal out of the fact that they've been together off-and-on since Riorde arrived at High Reaches Weyr. Other Glacier riders would probably punch them if they did.

* [[K'del]], making Riorde's life hell from day one. Got in the way of <del>hero-worship</del> <del>hot sex</del> true love. Unforgiven.

* [[Iolene]], the little exile who could. Making an idiotic choice with K'del. Riorde loves her anyway. ''Fiercely.''

* [[Devaki]], the one who got away.

* [[Raum]]: gets the job done, but it would be stupid to trust him.

* [[E'gin]], infuriating. Perhaps they have more similarities than she wants to acknowledge.

* [[Emme]], childhood friend.

* [[Damaris]]: Searched her just to prove that she could.

== RP Logs ==

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

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

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

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

[[category:Characters]]
[[category:Exiles]]
[[category:Riders]]
[[category:Brownriders]]
[[category:Glacier Wing]]
[[category:Western Islands]]
[[category:High Reaches Weyr]]
[[category:High Reaches Area]]
[[category:Greater Pern]]

Riorde

2012-06-05T19:07:17Z

Riorde:

{{HrwProfile
|picture=riorde.jpg
|name=Riorde
|position=Brownrider, Glacier Wing
|dragon=brown Sforzath
|craft=
|birthplace=In Exile
|mother=Deirdre (deceased)
|father=Arran
|siblings=Eirdan (-5)
|children=None
|craft=
|friends=
|playedby=Olivia Wilde
|livejournal=http://riorde.livejournal.com/}}

== Background ==

[[Riorde/Prologue]]

Riorde grew up on exile island. She was rescued from exile island. Hopefully she will not be sent back to die there.

== Description ==

High, wide cheekbones, a strong, angular jaw and chin, and almond-shaped eyes give the young woman's face a vulpine cast accentuated by her thin, spare form. She fills out slightly at the hips but will never boast a full set of curves, too narrow for more than the bare minimum. Dark hair frames her square face, untidily trimmed and untidily worn. Her skin seems clear despite the elements, given colour from a life lived mostly outdoors except for her pale, unsmiling lips. Such beauty that she carries gives her no open ease, however, her bearing and undisguised green-eyed stare tending towards remote detachment, the encouragement of distance.

== WYSK ==

* Largely raised by her grandmother. One younger brother, Eirdan. Her father Arran was a fisher. Her mom died.

* Riorde doesn't like to talk much to most people, but she does like to use her fists.

* Barred from the sands after she, Rhaelyn, and Iolene hurt an egg but somehow managed to get on the sands anyway to impress brown Sforzath from Iovniath and Cadejoth's third clutch on Day 22, Month 6, Turn 26.

* Graduated into Glacier wing in Month 6, Turn 27. The only exile not to be tapped for either the Weyrleader's wing (Avalanche) or Snowdrift.

== Relationships ==

* [[Taikrin]]: rescuer, girlfriend, wingmate. They hit up the bars, hit on the chicks, and do not make a big deal out of the fact that they've been together off-and-on since Riorde arrived at High Reaches Weyr. Other Glacier riders would probably punch them if they did.

* [[K'del]]: making Riorde's life hell from day one. Got in the way of <del>hero-worship</del> <del>hot sex</del> true love.

* [[Iolene]]: the little exile who could. Making an idiotic choice with K'del. Riorde loves her anyway.

* [[Devaki]]: the one who got away.

* [[Raum]]: gets the job done, but it would be stupid to trust him.

* [[Damaris]]: Searched her just to prove that she could.

== RP Logs ==

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

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

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

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

[[category:Characters]]
[[category:Exiles]]
[[category:Riders]]
[[category:Brownriders]]
[[category:Glacier Wing]]
[[category:Western Islands]]
[[category:High Reaches Weyr]]
[[category:High Reaches Area]]
[[category:Greater Pern]]

Riorde/Prologue

2012-06-05T18:56:49Z

Riorde: Created page with "Asena lost the baby, of course. And then nearly bled out on the sun-bleached sand and rock they deposited her on, cursing the man who did it to her, her father for his helplessne..."

Asena lost the baby, of course. And then nearly bled out on the sun-bleached sand and rock they deposited her on, cursing the man who did it to her, her father for his helplessness, the rider who brought her there to die. It was the healer in their midst that saved her, a small notch against the grudges against men piling up one after another.

Asena had been a sunny child and teen, growing up the great household of High Reaches Hold. Her bright smile and eager-to-please ways elevated her from a simple baker's daughter to maidservant to the Lady, and it was that same smile and earnest girlishness that attracted the eye of Lord Beradin one day when he came upon her airing out her Lady's sheets on a clear mid-morning.

Who was she to say no? She was only a girl, and hardly knew how to, let alone what was happening to her.

After several more fumbled encounters, Asena had to stammer out her suspicions of pregnancy, and in a second she went from a momentary distraction from rumours of rebellion to another problem to be dealt with.

If there wasn't a revolution brewing, rebellion on his hands, he could have laughed off her claim to be pregnant. Him, siring a bastard at his age? His first thought was that the girl was clearly having him on, trying to conceal other fooling around. But that wasn't what mattered - what mattered was if it got out, was used against him. The last thing he needed was a bastard child claiming Bloodright, or a warden claiming it for him. The girl's panicky denials of any knowledge or exchange with his conspirators only sounded like confessions in his old, suspicious ears. Beradin simply added her to the lists of those sent to trial. Problem solved.

Asena went cold and dark in the days and months and Turns that followed her exile, and even when warming herself against the body of another in the nights for solace when the isolation was too much for her, Asena never made a sound.

Something of Asena's silences and cold mistrust survives in her great grand-daughter, Riorde. Asena never took a husband but did have a child some Turns after arriving on the island. It was these two women who largely brought up Riorde and her younger brother following the death of her mother, who was caught out unawares in one of the first unexpected Threadfalls of the comet Pass. Her father, though well-intentioned, felt it best to leave raising the children to the women of the family.

Asena's memory remained sharp until the day she died, when Riorde was ten. She told stories, sometimes, of the life she had lost; though Riorde was never completely sure how much to believe, particularly when comparing tales with the other children her age, she was inclined to trust the old woman. Surely there was more than this island, this sea, even if she hardly knew what.

Riorde

2012-06-05T18:55:49Z

Riorde:

{{HrwProfile
|picture=riorde.jpg
|name=Riorde
|position=Brownrider, Glacier Wing
|dragon=brown Sforzath
|craft=
|birthplace=In Exile
|mother=Deirdre (deceased)
|father=Arran
|siblings=Eirdan (-5)
|children=None
|craft=
|friends=
|playedby=Olivia Wilde
|livejournal=http://riorde.livejournal.com/}}

== Background ==

[[Riorde/Prologue]]

Riorde grew up on exile island. She was rescued from exile island. Hopefully she will not be sent back to die there.

== Description ==

High, wide cheekbones, a strong, angular jaw and chin, and almond-shaped eyes give the young woman's face a vulpine cast accentuated by her thin, spare form. She fills out slightly at the hips but will never boast a full set of curves, too narrow for more than the bare minimum. Dark hair frames her square face, untidily trimmed and untidily worn. Her skin seems clear despite the elements, given colour from a life lived mostly outdoors except for her pale, unsmiling lips. Such beauty that she carries gives her no open ease, however, her bearing and undisguised green-eyed stare tending towards remote detachment, the encouragement of distance.

== WYSK ==

* Largely raised by her grandmother. One younger brother, Eirdan. Her father Arran was a fisher. Her mom died.

* Riorde doesn't like to talk much to most people, but she does like to use her fists.

* Barred from the sands after she, Rhaelyn, and Iolene hurt an egg but somehow managed to get on the sands anyway to impress brown Sforzath from Iovniath and Cadejoth's third clutch on Day 22, Month 6, Turn 26.

== Relationships ==

* [[Taikrin]]: rescuer, girlfriend, wingmate.

* [[K'del]]: making Riorde's life hell from day one. Got in the way of <del>hero-worship</del> <del>hot sex</del> true love.

* [[Iolene]]: the little exile who could. Making an idiotic choice with K'del. Riorde loves her anyway.

* [[Devaki]]: the one who got away.

* [[Raum]]: gets the job done, but it would be stupid to trust him.

* [[Damaris]]: Searched her just to prove that she could.

== RP Logs ==

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

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

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

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

[[category:Characters]]
[[category:Exiles]]
[[category:Riders]]
[[category:Brownriders]]
[[category:Glacier Wing]]
[[category:Western Islands]]
[[category:High Reaches Weyr]]
[[category:High Reaches Area]]
[[category:Greater Pern]]

Logs talk:The Weyrwoman's End

2012-06-05T18:27:50Z

Riorde: Comment provided by Riorde - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on "[[Logs:The Weyrwoman's End]]"
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

[[K'del/Comments|K'del]] ([[User:K'del|K'del]]) left a comment on Tue, 05 Jun 2012 05:42:17 GMT.

<comment date="2012-06-05T05:42:17Z" name="K'del" signature="[[User:K&#39;del|K&#39;del]]">
<3 <3 <3
</comment>
[[Tiriana/Comments|Tiriana]] ([[User:Tiriana|Tiriana]]) left a comment on Tue, 05 Jun 2012 05:44:55 GMT.

<comment date="2012-06-05T05:44:55Z" name="Tiriana" signature="[[User:Tiriana|Tiriana]]">
I need a stabbity emoticon. :D
</comment>
[[Dragonshy/Comments|Dragonshy]] ([[User:Dragonshy|Dragonshy]]) left a comment on Tue, 05 Jun 2012 06:33:07 GMT.

<comment date="2012-06-05T06:33:07Z" name="Dragonshy" signature="[[User:Dragonshy|Dragonshy]]">
Now THAT, ladies and gents, is how you make an an exit. <3
Tiriana, out with a (literal) blaze of glory!
</comment>
[[Brieli/Comments|Brieli]] ([[User:Brieli|Brieli]]) left a comment on Tue, 05 Jun 2012 12:28:24 GMT.

<comment date="2012-06-05T12:28:24Z" name="Brieli" signature="[[User:Brieli|Brieli]]">
Scorched Earth.
</comment>
[[Riorde/Comments|Riorde]] ([[User:Riorde|Riorde]]) left a comment on Tue, 05 Jun 2012 18:27:50 GMT.

<comment date="2012-06-05T18:27:50Z" name="Riorde" signature="[[User:Riorde|Riorde]]">
I'd expect nothing less. Tiriana, my hero.
</comment>

Logs:Would Have Helped

2012-06-02T15:18:00Z

Riorde: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Devaki, Riorde | where = Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr | what = Old friends slip out to see each other unimpeded after High Reaches' hatching. | when = Day 8, Mon..."

{{ Log
| who = Devaki, Riorde
| where = Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Old friends slip out to see each other unimpeded after High Reaches' hatching.
| when = Day 8, Month 12, Turn 28
| gamedate = 2012.06.01
| quote =
| weather =
| categories = A Lord In Exile, Exiles
| mentions = Iolene, Raum
| icons = devaki.jpg, riorde.jpg
| log = The last time Devaki spent a winter at High Reaches Weyr, he was dressed in plain, ill-fitting hand-me-downs and a barely suitable blanket in place of a warm coat. Now, however, his clothing is well made, tailored, with a hefty coat -- and he's utterly comfortable in them. While the evening has been full of dancing and drinking -- more of the latter than the former, for his Lady-to-be -- the islander has slipped out into the cool winter evening for a moment's respite, head tipped back to watch as the snow drifts down. Waiting. For her.

It takes Riorde some time. Maybe there's a point in that, the delay, making Devaki wait for her out in the cold after their eyes had met and she's seen him excuse himself from the revelry. Riorde comes -- of course she'd come -- but in her own time, boots crunching across the hoary ground. She stops some distance off, and at first just stares at him, eyes hard. Eventually, she breaks that silence to ask, sardonic, "Are you enjoying yourself?"

The sound of boots crunching across snow serves as good a guard as Raum could be -- which is probably why the red-headed employee of Devaki's isn't present tonight. That, and his very presence could raise questions here. "Not in the least," the islander answers Riorde with a certain level of honesty and ruefulness, turning to watch her. His hands are pushed into the pockets of his coat for warmth, eyes fixing on her with an exhale that steams up the air for a moment. "Are you?" He takes a single step towards her, testing the waters, perhaps.

"Could have fooled me," Riorde says, voice dipping further into sarcasm. "You certainly look like you are." She straightens a little further, bringing her chin out of the shelter of her wool scarf. When Devaki takes that step, she stubbornly stays put, forcing action on his part while she refuses to yield. "It's everything you wanted, isn't it?" His question to her is, at present, ignored.

"Not ''everything''," Devaki disagrees, as another step brings him closer, and a third, within reach. He stretches out a hand as if to brush against her hair, but tentatively, like he expects rebuke at any moment, and yet continues all the same. "You know all I've ever wanted is the safety and well-being of our people, Ri. Even at the cost of -- everything else." Another breath is hissed out. "I ''wanted'' to write to you, but it wasn't safe." For her? For him?

Riorde holds still, but it's hardly a concession. Even as bundled against the cold as she is, still her frame manages to communicate rigid tension; so too her mouth stays set in its unsmiling line. The remark on safety garners a look from her, skeptical and unconvinced, but no direct retort. "You wrote once," she states, hard. "You could have written again. If you'd ''wanted'' to."

"You had a dragon," Devaki says, as if this is reason not to. His fingers settle against her hair, brushing snow off, focused on the task with the faintest of smiles. He's more matter-of-fact than apologetic, but there's something warm in his expression all the same that softens the words that follow, "You had work to do, things to focus on. Would you have stayed away? If you knew where I was and could be there at a moment's notice?"

Riorde brings her hands up then, but not for any returned fondness. She puts both hands in the middle of his chest and shoves, hard. At least she hasn't started swinging. "You don't," she snaps, volume rising, "get to decide things for me. How would you know what my life's been like? You ''left'', and you only told Io, and she didn't tell me for ''months.'' So fuck you, and your thinking you know best." She strings separate grievances together without a completely coherent thread other than her own wounded fury.

The sudden fury, and the strength with which she shoves is indeed, a surprise, and Devaki's forced back several steps, before slipping over unceremoniously onto his rear with an exhaled noise of surprise. His breath plumes in the air for a moment or two, as he gathers his wounded pride (behind) then, "You're right. I don't. I'm sorry." He looks up at her, says it evenly and honestly. "I ''should'' have written to you. But I was... I should have," he finally concedes.

Riorde looks vindictively pleased when Devaki ends up on his butt in the snow, and she steps forward to tower over him to maintain her advantage. "Do you think I'm dumb?" she asks, apparently not done yet, even with the apology. "You think I don't know what kind of things you might have to do to end up where you did? And that it's ''better'' that you did, for all of us who are left? You're right-- I would've come. I would've ''helped.''"

It's not hard for her to tower over him, and Devaki doesn't bother to rise yet, remaining in a position of supplication, though it's hard to tell whether it's deliberately done or not. "It was ''better'', too, that you didn't help, Ri. That no one can accuse you of involvement in anyway." He takes a breath, his head tilted back, gaze on her, "And it doesn't mean you can't help, ''now''."

Riorde crosses her arms over her chest and glares down at Devaki, the sort of scowl he'd recognize from their respective childhoods transported with her into full adulthood. "I feel like I should kick you while you're down," Riorde states, not mollified. For effect, she prods him with her booted toe. "You. Don't. Get to ''pick'' for me. It's my decision to make. It always was."

"If you're going to, do it now. I need to get up before I'm totally soaked through, or I lose a butt cheek," Devaki says, a low note of humor creeping into his voice. "I can't help it. I want to protect you, even if I know that you don't need it," there's something wry, boyish almost, apologetic-but-not in that cheeky way.

"Can I?" Riorde sounds thoughtful and looks like she's very well considering it. In the end, though, she sighs and stretches out her hand. "It's no fun if you let me. You're not supposed to sound so pleased about it." For her part, she's started to predominantly sound resigned.

There's absolute trust in the way that Devaki accepts that offered hand, as if he's aware that it gives her the opportunity to dump him right back down again, but he takes it all the same. "Sorry," the sandy-haired islander adds, but he's not that great at pretending to meekness, and instead grins. "I missed having someone to call bullshit on me," he says, something warm in his tone in contrast to her resignation.

Riorde nearly does, too; the temptation is lurking there in her gaze, written on her face. In the end, she just pulls him up and slaps the snow off his back, not gentle. "You fucking asshole," she answers, not meeting Devaki's eyes. With a slip back into the old oaths she never uses anymore, Riorde has one further malediction. "The sea take you."

There's an easing of Devaki's posture at that swearing, like ''this'' is something he's more comfortable with. "It hasn't yet, but it may still. We've a long way to go yet." Possibly the staggering as she slaps him is a little exaggerated. Possibly. "Has Raum been teaching you tricks again?" he asks, suddenly suspicious (and just maybe), a little jealous.

Riorde slaps him on the back one more time for good measure. "Last time I saw Raum, he dragged me off because I'm apparently a ''threat,''" she answers with a small smirk. "I don't think he'd teach me anything now no matter what I bribed him with." She takes a small step back so she can study Devaki all the better. "What did you bribe him with? Just opportunity?"

Dutifully, perhaps, there's an appropriate grunt as Riorde slaps him again. Devaki glances down at her, now he has the advantage of height again, momentary confusion in his features as she describes Raum's intercession. "I didn't know he did that," he says, genuinely surprised, and thoughtful, too. And then, with a smile, he says, "Raum can smell ambition, and opportunity. I think, more than anything, he wanted a purpose again. He's good at what he does," there's respect, albeit possibly a little grudging, for the Other. Then: "What do you still have to learn, that he could teach you?"

"I don't know. He's got more experience with any number of things that I probably don't even know about." But that she suspects, in any case. Riorde sounds disgruntled when speaking of Raum, and it heightens in her further acknowledgment. "He's got your back." She looks at Devaki steadily at this point. Most of the anger's seeped away, having found an outlet. Or at least the worst of it, anyway. "I wouldn't have put a knife in it, though. If either of us would, it'd be him. The minute he couldn't use you anymore. You know that, right?"

"I know," Devaki acknowledges. "Even more reason for me, for ''us'', to succeed." And as she looks at him steadily, the islander starts to reach out, starts to step towards her, an inadvertent thing, before he sighs. "I could use a warm drink, a warm bed. As much as I'd prefer to stay here." It's hard to tell whether it's just a statement or a proposition. Probably, he's hedging his bets.

"I'd help," Riorde says again, this time in a tone different than the one used prior, the one that had this statement colored primarily by hurt. "Not that I could do much, necessarily. But it's still my people, too. They don't-- get it." Her subject is vague, all-encompassing, and has something to do with the way that she glances away following Devaki's aborted gesture. Reminded of the cold, she looks at the snow and the frozen lake, and then finally back at the other islander with a small, not altogether happy smile. "Your fiancee's probably looking for you," she says. It's almost neutral. "I don't suppose you can slip away from her for all that long, can you."

"I know. Thank you." Devaki's voice is grateful, and, as she says, 'they don't get it', he nods in firm agreement. "They don't. But, one day..." and he's stepping closer, daring again -- if she'll let him -- to slip an arm about her waist. Because of the cold. "Probably not," he says, regretfully. "Not long ''enough'', anyway," he adds, with a sidelong look that has something in it that probably oughtn't be bestowed on a woman not his fiancee.

And Riorde lets him, even leans a little into Devaki's shoulder. Because of the cold. She tips her chin up to look at him better, turning to him in brief study. "I could give you a quick tour," she shouldn't be offering, but is. "Introduce you to Sforzath. Have you back home in time for supper." With the last, she's fallen entirely into a wry tease. It's neither easy nor light. A tease in full awareness of her limitations.

While Devaki doesn't miss a step -- he's too adept at covering up reactions for that -- there is a significant pause, before he allows with a smile, "I would like to meet him. If it wouldn't put you out too much." Her fingers settle comfortably into the curve of her hip as they walk, just like old friends out for a stroll.

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Logs:Issedi and Devaki's Engagement

2012-05-26T06:49:35Z

Riorde:

{{ Log
| who = Braeden, Brieli, Damaris, Devaki, Iolene, Issedi, K'del, Madilla, Raum, Rhaelyn, Riorde, Taikrin, Zev
| where = High Reaches Hold
| what = Lord Braeden throws a celebration for the engagement of Devaki and Issedi, and the formal recognition of the exiles. All is not ''entirely'' well with everyone.
| when = Day 15, Month 11, Turn 28
| gamedate = 2012.05.25
| quote =
| weather =
| categories = A Lord In Exile
| mentions =
| icons = raum.png, iolene.jpg, issedi.jpg, k'del.jpg, madilla.jpg, devaki.jpg, riorde_formal.jpg
| log = High Reaches Hold

----

Isolated on its westward-jutting peninsula, from the landward side High Reaches Hold appears burrowed deep into the mountain, with only a few shuttered windows overlooking the rows of cotholds that line the river road. Its double courtyards appear designed more for transportation or defense than for welcoming visitors. From the seaward side, the slant of the windows overlooking the fine deep bay attempts to ward off the sea winds, the higher stories evading the less pleasant odors prevalent at low tide.

Today, the courtyards are full to overflowing with visitors and locals alike. Most of the stalls have been set up further afield, lining the main road that weaves inwards to the hold, and filling the orchards. The courtyards are bustling too, however, with harpers on call to provide dance music as well as more sedate performances throughout the day and night.

However cold and bleak the Hold's setting may be, inside, its colors of dark blue and tan act as neutrals for the warmer, brighter hues of its llama-wool tapestries and rugs. Below the Hold, oval caverns house lengths of seasoned wood for its shipbuilders, and to its outskirts are several minor Crafthalls including a glass-smith's shop.

Though the Hold's main access is by sea, the river road leads to its Weyr and the rest of Pern, while minor roads lead to a few outlying Holds and the distant lighthouse.

Though overall pleasant, the temperature has dropped just below the freezing mark, enough to allow the lightest sprinkle of snow to fall from the skies.

----

Autumn is not an especially ideal time for a celebration up in these northern corners of the continent - but needs must, and High Reaches Hold is nothing if not resourceful. It's still only been a few months since the tragic death of Lord Rynien, but grief has been put aside, today, and the atmosphere is - though occasionally tense - certainly celebratory. The great hall has been turned over to the occasion, with harpers set up to play, and long tables bursting with food. Outside - well, there are bonfires and snowball fights, and big cauldrons of cider and klah, as well as the myriad of stalls that offer wonderful treats and interesting wares to those with the marks to spare.

Formal events require formal greetings, and K'del has already delivered his - he was perhaps a little terse with Lord Braeden, making it clear that perhaps he might have appreciated some consultation on these latest events, but it was all well within the limits of formal conversation. Now, with his formal duties done, K'del has headed outside to watch some of the children play with snowballs, and to warm his hands near one of the great cauldrons of cider as it bubbles away. He looks thoughtful, not quite ''uncomfortable'', but certainly not as celebratory as many others.

While Devaki has spent most of the morning by Issedi's side, the Lord Holder's sister is now dancing with her brother, to the cheering, clapping greeting of many of the residents. The former Exile has taken the opportunity to step away, hands smoothing down clothes that are probably finer than any he's ever owned, marked by a knot of High Reaches Hold. Outside, his gaze drifts over the children, and settles on the High Reaches Weyrleader with a slight narrowing of gaze. His steps in that direction are quick, deliberate. "K'del," there is no formality, and no warmth in the greeting, either, just a statement as he pretends to warm his hands in the same way the bronzerider does.

"Murderer." It's ''like'' a name, the way it rolls off K'del's tongue without him skipping a beat, without him even glancing up to regard the exile. He turns his hands over, warming the other sides in a fixated, gaze-straight-ahead kind of way; too busy to look at Devaki, too busy to give him his full attention. "Or should that be Lord Devaki, reclaimer of birthrights and no doubt the reason this area is about to devolve into chaos as Aughan takes his retribution?" And hello to you, too.

"Really? You whose predecessors sent entire families, all of the exiles' ancestors, to die on a barren rock, want to talk about murder?" Devaki keeps his voice low, keeps his expression pleasant to those who watch from a distance, but there's a subtle tension in the way his hands fold together, in the way he looks at the High Reaches Weyrleader. He takes a deep breath -- glances over his shoulder -- is that a familiar shadow of the Other there, or just coincidence? -- then back. "Lord Braeden," he says, with a forcibly even tone, though he can't quite smooth out all his anger, "Makes his own decision. No one can force him to do anything he doesn't want to do. He believed it right -- given all the ''evidence'' -- to provide some sort of recompense for what occurred."

The implication that his Weyr is responsible for what happened snaps K'del's up so that he can stare outright at Devaki, and then shake his head in disbelief. "My Weyr did what they were paid to do, no more and no less. We're a glorified delivery service-- do you always blame the messenger? Is that how it works?" In lifting his head, he catches the attention of someone else nearby, and attempts then to turn his expression to a smile; it doesn't completely work. "Believe it or not, ''I'' don't have a problem with Lord Braeden's decision. I just have a problem with you. ''Murderer''."

"Do you actually believe you can plead ignorance in all this? 'Oh, we didn't know we were sending entire families to die, we just dropped them off there?' Come on, K'del. Do you really think Pern will buy that?" Devaki keeps his voice low, but it's full of ''intent'', conveying his low-level of anger quite clearly, even if those nearby can't make out the words. He's dressed in finery befitting a Lord, sporting the knot of High Reaches Hold, and holding his fingers over one of the cider barrels as he... /talks/ with K'del. "But, if you want it to all come out, including that you and Tiriana took bribes from Lord Rynien to keep the Islanders imprisoned, well--" he spreads his hands.

"If you'll remember," says K'del, sharply, no longer able to keep his expression at even a quasi-smile, "all of that happened long before either of us was born. ''I'' am not responsible." His bare hands are shaking with barely concealed anger; the glance he aims at Devaki is no better. "That was no bribe. We ''rescued'' you. We didn't have to. If it weren't for us, you'd all still be out there, still languishing away." He's still managing to keep his voice low enough that it doesn't travel, but more than a few people have started glancing in their direction with curiosity. Not that it's distracted those playing in the new snow, not so far away: a group of children, a healer who has lost her hat and is darting about with dark curls bobbing freely around her shoulders.

A party in the snow. Only people who live in the mountains can come up with that sort of thing. Brieli is certainly not a native - that much is obvious by how warmly she's dressed and how the tall candidate hunches over into herself, as if it helps. She winds her way through the crowds, footing careful and slow over the slick ground - or possibly dallying to listen in on conversations that burst through the activity. As her steps take her nearer to the Weyrleader and the sharp-dressed man, she's quick enough to notice curious glances and follow them with her own dark gaze. Interesting.

"No, you are not. But neither do you take responsibility for what you ''are'' responsible for. For what your predecessors were responsible for." A harshness enters Devaki's voice, like he's having trouble controlling his demeanor, fingers clenching. His gaze, however, is drawn by movement nearby -- staring at the group of children, or possibly the healer with the group of children -- an odd expression on his face, briefly. It's almost like he's lost his train of thought, since he doesn't pick up the thread of the heated conversation. Instead, he reaches for one of the cups, filling it from the barrel and taking a deep, steady drink all in one motion.

Low and unhappy, K'del's reply is a simple one: "I hope you are never faced with making a decision that involves placing the needs of you and yours over the needs of others. You don't always get to take the high ground. Can't always be the better person." He doesn't move away, for all that he seems, at least in that moment, finished with the argument; instead, his gaze turns, allowing him to glance around at those assembled, and to make attempts at polished, formal smiles (even to Brieli). Meanwhile, out in the snow, the dark-haired woman is leaning down to scoop up a dark haired girl, who uses her extra height to peg a snowball at one of the other children. There's laughter - lots of it.

As that low, harsh voice carries, there's enough in it to edge Brieli closer, even unfold a little from her frigid little hunch. There's something about Devaki's words that have her expression shading slightly darker... though she'll summon a smile quick enough once K'del's looking around with that attempt at some sort of normalcy. At a bit of a loss - she's not playing in the snow or anything so innocuous, so she makes as if she's headed by the pair of men, merely giving the Weyrleader a nod as she passes. "Sir." Respectful.

From Amareth's neckridges, Rhaelyn ahems to her passanger, checking to make sure he's not taking liberties with his hands as Amareth banks and then makes a sudden landing in the clearing. "Well, we shouldn't be too late." Once they've touched down, she yanks off her helmet and fusses with her hair, leaving Zev to unfasten himself, or waiting his turn for her attention once the hairs are all in place.

There may be lots of laughter, but none from Devaki, certainly. Perhaps owing to his proximity to K'del. Or perhaps owing to K'del's words -- there's a stiffening of his posture, a recognition of the truth of the words. "I've made more of those than I care to admit," he finally says, stiffly. And a little uncomfortably, judging by the way he's looking at the Reachian Weyrleader, like he's suddenly seeing him in a new light. The moment of silence lengthens, as he, too, watches the children, mostly -- then finally, in a low undertone, "I know you won't believe me, but I did not kill Seani. She was one of mine; I cared for her." There's something in his voice all the same, a guilt and anguish that rides his voice and his expression both. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry--" he seems about to continue, but Brieli's arrival has him clamping down again, all false, inscrutable expression as he studies the woman openly. "Candidate," he says, "For Ysavaeth's clutch?" he glances at K'del, looking like he's struggling to keep an even expression.

From Amareth's neckridges, Zev goes ahead and unfastens himself and slides on down from the green Amareth's neck to the ground. And once there he puts on a grin as he turns and gallantly offers a hand up to his gracious ride to the festivities. "Offer you a hand down, Rhaelyn?"

The words in that undertone result in a visible reaction in K'del, one that doesn't imply that he ''does'' believe the other man: but certainly that he's listening, thinking, noting them. Certainly, he hasn't missed the emotion in them, and were it not for Brieli's pass-- "Brieli, good afternoon. Yes," he adds to Devaki, striving for an even tone that his expression doesn't match; he looks bothered, troubled. "For Ysavaeth and Cadejoth's clutch." Can he really be blamed for putting the emphasis on his own lifemate's name? "How is the party treating you, Brieli? Come and pay your respects to Lady Issedi's husband-to-be." More emphasis.

From Amareth's neckridges, Rhaelyn's eyes narrow at the hand offered up to her as she runs fingers one last time through her hair. The buckles dome unfastened next and at long last she gives a roll of her eyes and accepts the help down. "I imagine it's the very least you can do." Said in a quiet undertone as she slides down, careful for the skirts of her dress so she doesn't flash too much leg in the process.

If Brieli is bothered by either being studied or anything she's heard (or by interrupting), she certainly doesn't seem it - by her expression, she's very nearly oblivious. With a bright smile for the mask Devaki is wearing, she nods once, again. "I am. And I am at a disadvantage," she returns - but then K'del is offering an introduction. To her credit, her face doesn't change, and she simply offers a hand to the bridegroom. "Congratulations. I didn't have the opportunity to meet your intended, but she seemed quite lovely at the clutching feast." Even if the men are uncomfortable, she'll just pretend there's nothing weird going on. Clearly.

"And it's treating me well, thank you, sir. Though I'm a bit chilly, I admit." Brieli tells K'del easily.

The way Devaki's jaw clenches at that pointed emphasis from K'del would be difficult to miss, indeed: the former exile looks ill pleased. There's a slight brittleness to the words that follow, like he knows there's no way he could successfully aim for casual with this question: "Do you think Lady Iolene will be joining us this evening?" he does, of course, emphasize that title in turn. And while the blond seems more interested in the Weyrleader's response, he's polite enough to acknowledge the introduction, intent gaze settling on Brieli again. "A pleasure to meet you, Brieli. Devaki, formerly of the Island." If that addition is for K'del's benefit, he doesn't watch to catch the bronzerider's expression; instead, his head tips, and his smile grows, a shade more genuine, "The Lady Issedi is indeed, quite lovely. She's dancing with her brother, at the moment, but I'd be happy to introduce you later." He glances sidelong, then adds with a gesture towards the hall, "Perhaps we should take this inside. It would be a shame if the candidate should miss the hatching due to one of our celebrations."

Zev offers an arm to the greenrider he's arrived with, though he does it halfheartedly, as if he knows the odds of her taking it are somewhere between slim and none. "Where to first, make our greetings to the hosts or take a tour of the booths and tables to see what's here?"

"''Iolene''," no title there, "arrived with Cadejoth and I, earlier. I believe she's gone to talk a walk by the ocean, but we have plans to dance, later." K'del aims for bland and unconcerned, but doesn't quite manage it: he's still so obvious in his intent to to hurt. Still, he manages to aim another not-quite-true smile at Brieli and allow, "It is cold out here, certainly. Perhaps Devaki is right, and we should go inside. The dancing will warm us all up, if the people and fires don't." He, Devaki and Brieli are in front of one of the cauldrons.

Rhaelyn's attention doesn't linger on Zev, even though her hand stays on his fore-arm to allow him to escort her around. "I imagine we should find our way into the hall and see what's happening. I have to see for myself if Devaki is really here." Her lips twitch at the thought. "Do you think he'll....oh, I think that's him right there."

The title for the absent goldrider does arch Brieli's brows a touch, as might Devaki's reaction and tone; even so, "I hope she will. It's certain to be less stressful than the last party." She sounds a little less-than-certain at her last - given the tension in the current conversation, she looks as if she might not blame Iolene for dodging the whole thing. However, the offer of the introduction brings her back to her manners; flashing a grin to the (former) Islander, "I did notice the Lady likes to dance. And I'd be glad to offer my congratulations to her as well. Or is it best wishes for the bride? I can never remember." K'del's explanation of Io's status arches brows again, but she looks to the Hall, sounding grateful, "Thank you both, inside would be appreciated. I'm not used to the snow, and I can't take a shot or two to warm up." The last said lightly - not really.

Zev grins as the hand goes to his fore-arm and he turns his attention towards Rhaelyn's gaze. "Well, if you think that's him, let's go see for certain." He guides the greenrider away from the landing area and towards the assemblage, aiming towards the man she's pointed out as Devaki. "Why would you think he wouldn't be here?" He asks as they cross the distance.

She's surely been around here for a while, having hitched a ride with somebody, but now Damaris is coming out of hiding with a gaggle of people her own age, a mixture of Weyrfolk and those from here. She's actually being quiet for once, letting somebody else with the group tell all the stories and keep people entertained. She's too busy being attentive to everything else going on to bother with trying to be clever, as well.

It's hard for Devaki to cover up his reaction to K'del's mention of Iolene, the slight wince and clench of jaw visible, albeit briefly. "Good," he forces through in brittle tones, "Perhaps we'll get a chance to dance as well, later." But Brieli's ongoing attempt to ignore the tension allows him a somewhat more genuine response, even if it has the lingering tension of the ongoing conversation, "I believe she'd welcome either. And the opportunity to meet more people outside of the Hold. Shall we?" He gestures towards the doors leading back into the Hold, though Rhaelyn's approach catches his eyes, and he hesitates a moment. "Excuse me a moment. I'll see you both inside." His fingers wind together as he waits, preventing him from fidgeting with finery that wouldn't even be dreamed of on the Island: his gaze flickers briefly towards Zev, but fixes soon on Rhaelyn, an uneasiness in his gaze belied by the welcoming smile of recognition for the other Islander. "Rhae," he greets her with a low voice, a hint of hesitation, like he's not quite /sure/ how she might react.

K'del's expression shows only the faintest hint of satisfaction in observing Devaki's reaction to his words. He holds his tongue, and, as Devaki is distracted by the arrival of Rhaelyn and Zev, turns towards Brieli with an offer of his arm: "Shall we head indoors, then? I'm sure Devaki can catch up in time, should he choose to." Perhaps he could be forgiven for making it sound as though he'd rather the young Lord did not, but at least he manages a smile as he says it.

Rhaelyn's eyes sharpen as she answers Zev, "It could be some bit of trickery. I mean, he just up and vanishes off and now floats up with a highborn wife?" With a little upward tip of her chin she finally glances at her escort to see if he will side with her. "A trap or..." But now they are too close to the others for her to go on aloud about whatever theory she might be cooking. She gives a little fluff of her skirts with her free hand, allowing herself a long moment to size up her fellow islander and his new threads. "Weyrleader." A distracted head-bob to K'del and she's focused in again on Devaki like a firelizard on something shinny. "Dev..." Her eyes narrow a fraction, "I guess it really is you."

Starting for the indoors, Brieli might continue the pleasant small talk with Devaki, as if she's never heard a whisper of rumor about him - but then, there's other matters. "Of course," she leaves him with, likely just happy to be getting inside ASAP. Turning back to K'del as his arm is offered, she blinks before taking it easily, nodding for the suggestion. "Let's do that - and I'm sure he will if there's time. This sort of thing tends to have a lot of obligations for the people engaged." And, you know, if the Weyrleader chose to ''dodge'' Devaki for the rest of the celebration, he'd have a good excuse now.

"Quite the event, sir." Zev chimes in with a bit of warmth to Devaki, though he doesn't know him beyond the brief glances he got of all the islanders in the early days. He puts a hand over Rhae's on his forearm as his only response to her comments leading up to meeting the new Lord.

"It's good to see you," Devaki says to Rhaelyn, his smile faltering somewhat, like he's forcing himself to keep up the facade. "Who ''were'' you expecting?" he can't help but to ask, with a tip of his head. Another glance at Zev, and a nod to acknowledge his comments, "High Reaches Hold knows how to mark a momentous occasion, I'm pleased to say." He steps closer, leaning in to murmur to Rhaelyn, lifting a hand to touch her free arm lightly, if she doesn't move: "I ''told'' you I'd do whatever it took to restore our Blood." Louder, as he straightens, a more casual smile, "Perhaps you'll save me a dance for later, Rhae?"

It's only once K'del and Brieli are safely indoors and away from Devaki that the Weyrleader will release the candidate's arm, rather as though he's been using her to - what? Make a point? Something else? It's certainly unlike his usual character - more like the way he tends to act with Tiriana. He lets out a low breath of relief once they step into the warm, remarking to Brieli in a cheerful enough tone, "At least Lord Braeden knows how to put on a party. ''Are'' you a dancer? Or would you rather get a - non-alcoholic - drink and some food? Or, you know, you can abandon me right now and I'll go find someone official to make nice with."

Breaking away from the little gaggle of people she was walking with with some quiet apologies and plenty of smiles, Damaris ghosts over towards the group of Interesting People, putting on a pleasant enough smile. While her steps are slow, she's not quite stopping and staring, just slowing enough that perhaps she can overhear some on her way past and towards Inside.

The increasing chill is enough to send even the most enthusiastic of snowballers indoors. Madilla's at the head of the group, her dark hair loose and snow-filled, her five-turn-old daughter in hand. In her arms is a blonde-haired, toddler, squirming contentedly against her. Her steps falter as she passes not too far from the collection of people near the cider cauldron, and for a moment, she just stares-- and then she's off again, turning her face away from them and avoiding eye contact with anyone, so she can escort the children inside.

Rhaelyn's eyes shift back and forth along the line of visitors and native Reachian holders before her gaze settles back on Devaki, "It's good to see you, and that you are in one piece. As for who I might have been expecting?" She gives a shrug, admiting, "I don't know. Some...impostor. I didn't think you'd...." She doesn't finish the words though, because the touch distract her from that thought. There's a smile at last, less cold brittleness as the islander speaks to her in lower tones. "Of course I'll save you a dance. There's /so/ much we should catch up with." So many questions burning in her eyes, she might just set something on fire with the look alone but somehow she manages not to blurt them all out right then and there.

Brieli just might be curious about the reunion that's occurring as she walks away; she shoots a glance over her shoulder at the trio of Rhaelyn, Zev and Devaki, dark gaze narrowing before she can turn back. Once inside, she'll unfold to her full height again in the heat, like a flower rising to the sun. It's likely the good cheer from being warm that stops her from staring at K'del as he drops her arm - even she knows he's acting odd. Giving him a bit of the side-eye, she agrees, "It's all very festive, and I'm glad for that. And I'm a dancer, but not the best amongst them. I'd rather not have to follow all the steps." For that last, she'll give him a grin and note dryly, "You're a terrible burden, Weyrleader. I'm just bored to death by your very presence." And then she'll unwind her scarf.

Zev smiles as he gives Rhaelyn's hand another little pat then adds in a more jovial manner to Devaki, "I'll be sure not to monopolize her dancing time then, I'm not so greedy as to do that." He flashes a grin over to the greenrider, "Shall we go on in and get out of this cold?"

Devaki wants to follow the thread of Rhaelyn's unfinished sentence, that much is clear from his curious expression and the way he leans forward a little. But the shift of his gaze indicates that this isn't, perhaps, the company to do it in, and so he simply straightens. "There's certainly plenty to catch up. The ''rumors'' I've been hearing about the Weyr, for one..!" He tries to force light-heartedness into his voice but it doesn't quite ring true. "I appreciate that," he offers, easily, to Zev, "But, firstly, we should have a drink in celebration of Lord Braeden," he says, gesturing inside by way of invitation, nodding to Zev to include him in that, also, moving to follow those heading inside, crowding in behind Damaris.

Into the warmth she goes, glancing over her shoulder to get a good look at the faces that seem to be catching all of the attention. The young woman, once safely into the warmth, casts a swift glance around before she starts to drift in the direction of Brieli and K'del, lingering a bit back away until she's sure that she's been spotted, and only then approaching. Someone's in mouse-mode, tonight.

It's pretty obvious that K'del is now ''pretending'' that there's nothing odd whatsoever about his behaviour: he's suddenly all smiles, all cheerfulness. "Dancing is more fun when you're not on display so much," he allows, pulling open the buttons of his coat so that he can begin the process of disrobing (to the gather-best beneath, of course). "Hardy-har-har. Very funny. I-- Damaris, good evening. Having a good time?" It's only a vague glance that has him catching sight of the other candidate, but as he does, he aims in her direction a warm enough smile.

Rhaelyn's fingers drum lightly along Zev's arm and her smile at him turns ever so frosty, though she manages not to let any snide comment slip out. Instead she turns back to Devaki, "Well, now that your news is out of the bag...perhaps you'll make yourself available to old friends and we can get caught up when your attention isn't so divided. I have heard my share of rumors too. Who can you trust to tell, or know the real story?" Now she turns back to Zev, "Drinks sound nice yes?" As in: Go fetch.

Zev isn't slow on the uptake. He lets his arm drop just enough to let Rhaelyn's hand disengage, "I'll be just a moment then..." He moves ahead, leaving Rhaelyn back with Devaki as he makes his way on into the warmth and the promise of glasses of something interesting to sip upon. He takes his time, even after he gets the glasses, lingering off a ways to give the two a quiet moment to trade stories without his ears in range.

"I'll always make time for old friends," Devaki assures Rhaelyn, pausing a moment to study the greenrider as he adds, "I can trust an Islander, to tell the truth." If anything, the blond looks almost startled by Rhaelyn's request and the alacrity with which Zev obeys: he stares thoughtfully after the departing man. "You've trained him well, I see," he says to his fellow Islander, a mingling of admiration and uneasiness, too. He reaches out a hand to rest in the middle of her back with the intent of guiding her off to one side -- Lord Braeden can be seen dancing with Lady Issedi, and his eyes follow the pair on the dance floor for a time, before flicking to where the Weyrleader is with the candidates. "So, you're free to travel as you see fit?" he asks his companion.

"There are a lot of people here," Damaris advises K'del, as she puts on a smile and slips over to he and Brieli. She lifts her chin in greeting to the other candidate, drawing up a polite distance back from the pair and starting to pull off her own extra layer of clothing. "And a lot of very tempting alcohol that I am not allowed to drink." A brief pout, but it's all playful, put on. She shifts on her feet to watch the surroundings again, still keeping part of her attention on K'del and Brieli, but being attentive to the rest of it as well. Observant, as best she can manage.

Brieli can totally pretend if K'del wants to do that; besides, it's a party - who wants to dwell over more serious matters? Still, she's glancing towards the door, perhaps to see who's coming in next. She too spots Damaris, giving the other candidate an easy nod. "Do you find it's rather like being on display?" she asks the bronzerider. "I suppose it would feel like that, actually. People often watch people who are important in some way, yes?" Shrugging off her coat in favor of her short red dress, she tells Damaris, "It makes things a lot chillier if you can't have a nip to warm up. And there are an awful lot of people..." She trails off to take a look around.

"Old friends shouldn't play they are fog and vanish with the light of day." Rhaelyn notes, though not exactly unkind, even though her usual edge is in her tone. She doesn't look after Zev, just smiles at the compliment, "It's....he's....a work in progress." She catches Devaki's gaze and then follows his look to the dance floor, "You've done very well for yourself though. Pretty lady...." Her gaze stays there as she nods in response to the question, "Free as can be. Although I haven't fully tested any limitations. Yet."

"It's exactly like being on display," confirms K'del as he pulls his coat off and hangs it from one of the hooks oh-so-helpfully located on the wall behind them. He's wearing black and navy, beneath, looking every inch a High Reachian - identifiable even without his knot, though he's wearing that, too. "It's awful. Sometimes, I go to gathers down south, or anywhere, really, where I'm less likely to be recognised without my knot on. Just to get away from it." His own gaze considers the crowd, sweeping from one group of people to another, and lingering only briefly on Braeden and Issedi as they dance. "Sorry about the alcohol. Wish I could stretch the rules, but-- can't trust ''everyone'' to be on their best behaviour."

Zev makes a slow tour of the inner hall, exchanging nods and smiles with faces that are familiar and not alike. In general just taking the long way back to where he started, with a few glances from a distance towards Devaki and Rhaelyn's conversation to the side of all of the activity.

A group of holder women, all obviously high ranking if not 'Ladies' in the major hold sense of the term, hang around together in the corner, making eyes at Braeden. One mother steps up alongside her daughter and seizes her hand, attempting to push through the crowds, daughter in tow, to lead her towards the dancing Lord. Issedi's cheeks turn pink in the conversation that follows; as she retreats, Braeden is left to look awkward and out of his depth for a moment, before he accepts the hand of the girl presented to him, and continues the dance. He ''is'' a lovely dancer.

"Oh, no, it's fine, I was just attempting to get a smile," Damaris says, refocusing in on K'del and Brieli. A little fluttered smile, and she hangs her jacket up, stuffing her gloves into a pocket. "I just wanted to say hello. I'm sorry for interrupting." Another smile flashed, this one brighter, and she's dipping her head to the two of them and drifting back away, circling around through the people and settling back into observer mode. There's a lot to take in.

Hanging up her coat, Brieli has to smile at the idea of K'del sneaking off to dance in secret. Even so, "I can only imagine. The smaller gathers are more fun anyway, less formal, more dancing..." Again, the tall dark candidate trails off, this time for a less obvious reason; almost too quickly, "The few that I've been to out of the Hold were, in any case. And like Damaris said - it's more of a joke. Alcohol-warm isn't properly warm anyway." To the distracted blonde, "Hello, then. And you weren't really interrupting." But then, Damaris is off into the fray. Glancing K'del's way, she shrugs.

Happily, one of the things provided by Braeden this evening is childcare: having been missing from the action for a few minutes, Madilla now returns, her hair re-pinned and her clothes returned to immaculate, sans children. The healer crosses to the buffet tables, but fills her plate only sparingly; with it in hand, she retreats towards one of the further corners, content to watch the dancing without being amidst it.

"You really we--" K'del breaks off his words, which were probably largely a reiteration of what Brieli has just said; the expression he aims after Damaris is a perplexed one, one that is turned towards Brieli a moment later. His shrug matches hers, and he remarks, then, "Seems like you've been to at least a couple. Better than I ever managed, and I didn't even live in a major hold. Wasn't quite so interested in dancing back then, though, I suppose." He's not suspicious, though: just smiling. "Smaller ones are always better. Much more personal."

"That all depends on what they reappear with," Devaki responds to Rhaelyn in a low voice, an easy smile gracing his lips. He misses the exchange on the dancefloor, and the fact that Lady Issedi is now unaccompanied -- he remains wholly fixed on the Reachian greenrider. "She's... sweet," is all he's willing to say, of Issedi. Unlike him, of course, is the implication. But he's got more important things to speak of, his his voice lowers to a murmur, "I haven't been able to get a hold of Tom. If you should see him, send him down here -- I could use another Blood or two, to help. While we won't secure land for ourselves, not initially -- it's a start. Braden's even begun to discuss extending his holding to the Island, if Elder Shimana, or any of the others want to return there."

Food is collected, and a quieter sort of corner is found. Damaris settles herself in to pick at food and drink something, pulling her feet up beneath her in her chair and watching the people in attendance with some measure of curiosity. Interest, even if it's a little bit distant. It's all taken in.

Now unaccompanied, Issedi retreats towards one of the walls, both hands pressed towards the waistline of her dress as she watches her brother on the dancefloor; she looks almost concerned, except that she's trying so very hard to smile. She's not alone for long, of course: another of those mothers approaches her a moment later, daughter in hand. It rather begins to look like an onslaught: all these unmarried women, all these eyes on the young, unmarried Lord Braeden.

"I've been lucky, I guess. And sometimes I'd rather hear just a few people who play music for fun than the full-on Harper barrage. They're quite good at what they do, it's just a little... It lacks spontaneity?" Brieli isn't sure that's the right sentiment, but close enough. Glancing out to the dance floor, "It doesn't seem anyone else minds though, so what do I know?" This time, her shrug for K'del is more self-deprecating, and she offers a smile. Careful, as if she's not sure she should voice the words, "Everything seems to be going well, given... everything. I might be cautiously optimistic."

As Braeden exchanges partners, Rhaelyn's watching eyes take it all in, her lips compress before shaking her head and refocusing her attention back to Devaki, "Tom? Of course I can get him here for you. Hopefully you will not forget other islanders of blood. Just because some of us have an addition doesn't mean we aren't islanders to our core." She puts a hand to his arm, expression intense and eager.

Zev sees that hand of Rhaelyn's go onto Devaki's arm and the look in her face. It's enough that he cuts short his trip around the hall and moves towards the greenrider more directly and with a bit more pep in his step. He approaches the two islanders with the drinks he's acquired. "Here you go, hope you have had a good time catching up?" he asks with the question directed towards the greenrider.

K'del's 'mm' is one of quiet agreement, as his own gaze considers the harpers presently at work. But it's Brieli's latter remark that makes his smile twist and his attention turn back to the Candidate. "You mean, I didn't punch Devaki's lights out, and he didn't kick me in the balls." At least he sounds amused when he says it. "And no one has done anything along those lines-- though it looks like Braeden's about to get swarmed by Ladies-to-be. No, you're right: so far, everything is well. I'm relieved." And genuinely so, if his low exhale is any real indication.

"I wouldn't dare, even if you wouldn't let me forget," Devaki's tone is part fond, part reminiscent, patting Rhaelyn's hand in a reassuring sort of way as a low-throated laugh escapes him. "They'll be a place for all of us, Rhae. I promise you that." He leans forward, voice just as intent as her expression. It's only Zev's return that makes him straighten, his hand dropping easily back to his side as if they weren't interrupted, accepting one of the drinks from Zev. "Thank you. Shall we have a toast to the Lord Braeden?" only now does his gaze go towards the dance floor, noticing the besieged Lord, and the absence of his sister, with just the slightest of frowns.

Issedi excuses herself from the woman and her daughter only barely: both stare after her as she hurries away, looking faintly disgruntled. The young Lady strides rather faster than is probably proper towards the buffet tables, although her roundabout route takes her right past - and very nearly ''into'' - Damaris. Jumping back, just in time, she looks genuinely horrified: "Oh, no. I'm so sorry. I nearly-- Please forgive me."

"Nearly isn't actually," Damaris is quick to say, setting aside her plate and sliding up to her feet. "It's fine, nothing to forgive." A reassuring smile is offered up. "You're forgiven for the nothing that happened, though." Beat. "You alright? Why don't you have a seat, I'll get you something to drink and some food. This is a good quiet spot for hiding for a moment."

Ah, Devaki's reasurance is a little warm shot to Rhae's cold heart. She smiles and gives a mute nod of her head just as Zev rejoins them. "Ah Zev, thank you so much." Just for his benefit, she lets her hand linger on the new lord's arm a moment as she smiles at the woodsmith. "You were ever so missed." Reaching out for the drink with a most innocent flutter of lashes, "A toast to the Lord then, and a wish for his long life." The frown is noted, following his gaze across to the dance floor.

Arching brows, Brieli notes, "Actually, I meant that no one's showed up to challenge this whole thing or yell about what-should-have-been. But... now that you ''mention'' it, I did notice a bit of tension there." A lot. Knives could have cut the tension. "And I don't imagine that it all has to do with what he might have done. Not that I'm asking for any clarification - I feel I might be out of my depth on all of that." Or maybe she doesn't want to get too involved in any of K'del's personal problems. Glancing over to the young Lord, she tries very hard to look sympathetic, and fails. "How terrible for him," she says dryly, despite how uncomfortable Braeden might be looking about being the target of so many women. "It's not as if he doesn't need to be married, is it? And I'm glad of that." She does sound genuine in that, turning back to add, "You seem a bit - anxious. Not that there's reason not to be, but - it's not much of a way to live."

Zev raises his glass to the toast, "A toast to the Lord, that sounds like part of why we're here in the first place." He raises his glass to join in Rhaelyn's offer of a toast and only half turns to see where the two islander's are looking. Then he reaches his free hand to the greenrider's forearm, a light touch, just a finger and thumb taking hold as he asks, "Perhaps you would favor me with your first dance of the evening?"

K'del's mouth opens, but he stops himself before launching into anything in particular and instead, bestows upon Brieli a rueful smile. "It's a long and largely uninteresting story. He's Iolene's half-brother, did you know that? You're right, though - no challenges, no number of Aughan's forces showing up to try and kidnap Issedi and force him to marry her," which was, of course, a completely logical and plausible thing to happen, not at all, "Nothing like that. I'm relieved." Brieli's remark on Braeden makes him chuckle lowly, and he says, only, "Believe it or not, there's a point at which being swarmed stops being fun. Believe me. I-- no. It's not much of a way to live. Reminds me of when I was first Weyrleader, when we had tithes being stolen, and renegades, and-- I'm just tired. That's all. It'll get easier. Simpler. Soon."

"To Lord Braeden," Devaki murmurs, lifting his glass and taking the briefest of sips. He can't be unaware of the greenrider's hand resting on his arm, still, but he seems rather used to being used in such a way that he doesn't protest. His gaze is still on Braeden, however, and he leans in to murmur to Rhaelyn, "I shall make sure that you get a dance with the Lord later," before he starts to withdraw in apparent acknowledgement of Zev's request to dance with Rhaelyn.

"I'm--" Issedi seems unsure as to how she is, whether she is, indeed, alright, and eventually favors Damaris with a sweet, quiet smile. "I would appreciate that, actually. I'm not terribly good at these at the best of times, and being in the middle of it, the main attraction, as it were, is - it's a little much. Thank you?"

"You're welcome. Sit. Breathe. I'll fetch you food and drink, and then stand so that most people can't see you," Damaris returns, offering up an impish smile. "And if that doesn't work, I'll bite whoever I need to. They'll be so shocked they'll forget about bothering you." A flutter of her lashes, a gesture for her hidey-chair. "I'll be right back." And she's weaving through people to do just what she's said, cutting in lines as appropriate with an apologetic smile and an 'I have every right to do this' bearing. Food. Drink. They are acquired.

Rhaelyn lifts her glass for the toast as well, fixing Zev with a direct look for the first time that evening just before taking a sip from the glass. "I don't know..." she starts to protest the dance with Zev, even as his fingers capture her wrist. Her lips twist, part smirk, part scowl before transforming back into a smile for Devaki's sake, "I would -love- that." Then she's letting Zev draw her into the dancing, saying loudly, "You could have waited a moment...."

Zev puts on a smile as he leads Rhaelyn out onto the dancing area, his glass finished and set aside at the last table before he gets her to the floor and both of his hands move to guide her into the ongoing dance. "I suppose I could have, but I felt a strong need to get onto the dance floor."

Issedi's smile is genuinely grateful, edging on pleasantly surprised and amusedly shocked, for what Damaris has to say - it seems to please her, somehow, despite being almost certainly out of the norm for the kind of conversation she's used to. Settling in to Damaris' seat, the young Lady smooths over her skirt, gaze turning irrevocably back to her beleaguered brother. Still, when the Candidate returns, she's smiled at all over again.

"''Really.''" Brieli can't help but glance through the crowds to pick out Devaki again, as he lifts a glass with Rhaelyn. "That explains a few things," she tells K'del, but in a tone that makes it clear it doesn't explain ''everything'' - but then, she doesn't want to know, right? Looking back to the Weyrleader again, she grins to add, "And wouldn't that be a sight. Marching troops, all of that. Unlikely at very best." Something about what he says next sobers her a touch; tucking a loose curl behind her ear, tone easy, "I'll take your word for it. And I'd read that you were in charge then, as well - when I was trying to acquaint myself with all the history. I can imagine it must have been difficult for you."

Devaki pauses a moment to watch Rhaelyn and Zev disappear onto the dance floor. And then he begins to circulate throughout the hall, searching specifically for someone. It takes a couple of circuits before he finally spots Issedi, having to navigate the crowd to reach her. He's polite enough about it, but determined, arriving only moments after Damaris does. "I'd wondered where you'd got to," he murmurs in a low, sympathetic voice to Issedi, smile lighting his features, "Hiding out?" he leans to press lips against his fiancee's forehead, before straightening, his manner completely solicitous. And then he fixes on Damaris with an easy smile. "I'm Devaki."

Rhaelyn tosses back what's left in her glass in a willful, yet silent retort before laying her glass beside his. She's mute even as they begin the first steps of the dance before she hisses, "I didn't know you were -so- keen on dancing." Leaning in closer as they take a whirl around for the first few beats she continues, "You intruded on our conversation."

Plate and mug are brought back in short order, offered out to Issedi with an entirely over the top melodramatic sort of bow. Also, an impish grin. Damaris's eyes are touched with humor, the smile she's wearing all warmth. Once the plate and mug have been taken, she does indeed shift to stand so that she's screening the young Lady from the bulk of the people assembled, the candidate's posture mostly casual. If it blocks Issedi's view to her brother, well. That just can't be helped. She does recollect her own plate, so that she can stand there and eat. Mostly with manners. "Take what moments you can, m'lady," she suggests. "Eat up, gather your strength for the next round. While I will do my best to shield you, they're going to figure out where you've gotten to before too long."

K'del seems to register, only belatedly, that, "Not sure if I was supposed to say that. It might be a secret. I can't remember." He's - okay, not entirely sober, for all that he's been doing pretty well thus far. His opinion of Devaki is, well, fairly obvious. In any case, he's distracted enough by that that his companion's sobering hardly seems to register, and he continues on quite blithely. "It was. I was all of seventeen, remember, thrown into the middle of - mess. Not that much of my tenure as Weyrleader has been all that calm and easy, I suppose. It'll get better soon, though." He seems remarkably sure of it. "The wheels of change are in motion."

"Thank you so much," says Issedi, turn after turn of deportment training ensuring that she's nothing but polite as she accepts the plate and mug Damaris offers. "You're-- Oh, ''Dev''." As her fiance arrives, her expression blossoms, the warm smile of earlier entirely superseded by the intensity of this one. "Devaki, this is - oh, I'm afraid I haven't even asked your name." Her gaze turns back on Damaris, abashed and apologetic. "She rescued me. Holder Biriman's wife and daughter wanted to talk to me about Braeden, and it was awful. I wanted to kick her in the knee and storm away, but mother would be horrified."

Rhaelyn makes a show of struggling against Zev, testing the strength of his grip once or twice before relenting. "They might slip off somewhere..." Is her weak protest before lapsing into silence for a moment or two. Her sulky expression lightens at something that is said quietly to her and she leans her head in closer to whisper back.

Devaki seems content to remain standing, his fingers briefly resting on Issedi's shoulder before they drop away in order to offer a hand out to Damaris by way of greeting, presumably. "Issedi isn't much of a fan of crowds, despite everything. You think she'd be used to it by now," there's something teasing and yet also warm when he says it, glancing back towards the blonde. A low laugh escapes him, eyes brightening at Issedi's words, responding with, "If you'd kicked her in the knee, then you really ''would'' have been the fixture of everyone's attention. Leave the kicking to me... they expect that of a ''savage''," he says it lightly, like he's well used to the term sometimes applied to the exiles. Then, to Damaris, as if only noticing, "Was that a candidates knot I spotted?"

Brieli tells K'del in all seriousness, "I won't mention anything to anyone. I like Iolene - I wouldn't want to cause her any undue issues." As for Devaki, well. He's incidental at the moment. While some young women might have a problem with their companion not noticing their change in mood, the dark-haired candidate is hardly bothered, taking a moment to worry at a loose thread at her cuff. Careful, "That is young. it would be difficult to make decisions at that point - especially when some were life or death." With a purse of her lips for the thread, she looks up to K'del again, curious. "Are they." A pause. "That should certainly help with anxiety. Waiting for the other shoe to drop can be painful."

Zev takes Rhaelyn through a few swirls of the dance step as he chuckles, "Slipping off somewhere isn't the worst thing to do, if you ask me." He dances in close with the greenrider as they drift to the far edge of the dancing area.

"Damaris," she introduces herself quickly, flashing a smile. The offered hand is taken and shaken, lightly (after she's shuffled plate and fork into one hand). "It's nice to meet both of you." Once the handshake has been taken care of, she sets her plate aside again and folds her hands together behind her back, nodding her head to Devaki's question. "It is, yes," she agrees. To Issedi, she notes, "Rather than shin kicking, you should go for subtle stomping on toes. On accident. Because then you have a chance of getting away with it. Or tripping, with a glass of something. But really, the turning around because you're startled and accidentally backing onto her foot...well, it isn't like you did it on /purpose/."

K'del's relief is mostly channeled into approval, and genuine pleasure. He likes Iolene, Brieli likes Iolene: everyone wins! It does send his glance wandering around the room again, though, settling finally on the goldrider in question, who has ended up dancing with a young holder; she seems happy, and this, too, seems to please the Weyrleader. "It was," he says, turning his attention back on Brieli, more serious as the conversation warrants. "Hate the idea of putting anyone in that position, at that age. It's hard enough now. But - yes. Yes, they ''are''." His certainty is remarkable; his smile inscrutable. "Before the end of the turn, I hope. Bring on Turn 29."

"Don't be so vulgar." Rhaelyn warns in a low murmur, sliding first one hand and then the other along Zev's shoulders to lace her fingers at the nape of his neck and pet him there and behind the ear. "Although, I imagine one could get very /very/ lost in the dark corners of this particular hold. I recall something like that happening at the gather not too long ago...Only problem is, if someone sees you while you're 'lost'."

The glance Issedi aims up at Devaki is a besotted one, his teasing only making her more pleased. "We'll civilise you yet," she teases, before glancing back at the Candidate. "Oh, I ''like'' that," she says of Damaris' suggestion. "Thank you - Damaris. I'll have to remember that for next time. You're going to Stand for Ysavaeth's clutch, then? That must be tremendously exciting. I was watching the children play in the snow, earlier, and they kept chattering about it, and - I do hope we can attend. I've never seen a hatching before."

Zev chuckles as he spins Rhaelyn about again as they dance then settles into a slower step. "I suppose we shouldn't get lost then, it'd be a long trip back to the weyr if we were to miss the whole party for taking a wrong turn."

"Oh, I like this one," Devaki murmurs approvingly at Damaris' advice to Issedi. "We'll be sure to keep an eye out for you on the sands, come hatching day." The Islander, naturally, assumes they'll be there. "Of course we can attend -- your brother's Lord Holder now, and I doubt he'd deny you that." Unlike their late, (un)lamented father. "As for civilizing me, we'll see about ''that''." There's, perhaps, a slight tightening of his expression at the mention of Ysavaeth, though he hides it with a forced smile. "Where are you from, Damaris, if you don't mind me asking?"

Also picking out the goldrider, Brieli's expression is more thoughtful; her dark gaze darts from there to Devaki, back to the dancefloor again. With a sliver of a smile, she nods to K'del, allowing slowly, "I don't think most people know what to do with themselves at seventeen, let alone a Weyr. It seems almost bizarre, to allow that. To allow someone to accept that kind of responsibility. Without somme kind of help, or thought to how suited..." She trails off, shakes her head. "Never mind. I'm pleased to hear that," she says, her smile growing a touch, shading oddly amused. "Bring on Turn 29. Be careful what you wish for."

"I am," Damaris confirms for Issedi, flashing another grin. "And it is exciting. I hope you can be there, the party afterwards should be fantastic, and you will maybe even get to relax some without needing to hide in a corner." She lifts and drops her shoulders in an easy shrug, then glances to Devaki. A tilt of her head, but then he's offered an easy grin as well. "It'll be nice to see you both there. And I'm from - around Tillek," she explains. "Little cothold nobody's ever heard of. We grew grapes. I've been at the Weyr for a few turns now, though."

Rhaelyn's eyelash flutter is hiden by the veil of dark hair as she is twirled and spun. There's a startked gasp from the girl as the spin stops, catching her breath after the movement, "Yes....yes, probably right." She allows, brushing hair back behind her ear, trying to regain her cool composure.

"You're not the first to think that," says K'del, levelly, and utterly un-offended. "Nor will you be the last. It's not - an ideal way to do anything. Sometimes, the whole weyr system seems a little strange. Leadership decided in the beds of a few select dragonriders, right? Though," he allows, after a moment, "Leadership decided on an accident of birth is not necessarily any better." He doesn't seem to grasp ''why'' Brieli might be amused, and favours her, instead, with a smile that doesn't say all that much. "And what do you wish for, Brieli?"

Issedi has clearly not been many places at all, for her only contribution to follow Damaris' explanation of where she's from is a thoughtful, "Braeden liked Tillek very much. I suspect he misses it; he ''was'' there for turns and turns and turns. Perhaps we'll visit, sometime. Hopefully, Lady Edeline will have another baby, and there will be a feast for that." Because now that daddy is dead, Issedi may be allowed to attend! "I look forward to seeing you at the hatching, then. It will be terribly exciting. I suppose it must be happening relatively soon."

Zev continues to dance slowly with the greenrider, their conversation dropping off as there is almost a palpable shooting of daggers between their gaze, but even with the glares they still dance close.

Easily, "Many things seem strange to me, but I haven't lived in a Weyr long. And I can't say that you're wrong about leadership through birth; some seem better suited than others... And some just seem more ''interested''. Though I've heard people say that anyone who wants to lead isn't suited for it, I can't say that I agree with that either." Brieli tilts her head as she regards K'del for a moment, weighing the smile, giving the question serious thought. Or so it seems. "Peace of mind," she says, eventually. "Isn't that what we all want?" Then looking for the food table, "I should have something to eat. If you don't mind? Unless you're hungry."

"We should," Devaki tells Issedi, "Visit Tillek. Perhaps after the wedding? I've always heard good things, and I'm partial to the sea, myself. I think if things had gone differently I might have entered the seacraft." The latters directed towards Damaris, as if she might somehow be personally responsible for the positive rumors. "Would you ladies like another drink, perhaps?" he offers, easily.

"It's a nice place to visit," Damaris assures Issedi, nodding agreeably. "I'll look forward to seeing you, too." A quiet chuckle, and then she's laughing at Devaki's words, lifting a hand to wave off the offer of a drink. "I'm fine, but thank you, very much." She does reclaim her plate though, so she can steal a few more quick bites.

"Restricting it to reluctant leaders only rather does seem like - asking for trouble." K'del shakes his head, but doesn't seem to have a better system to offer, though there's something unsaid in his expression that leaves him looking thoughtful, and glancing back in Iolene's direction. "Peace of mind? Suppose it is. Well - I hope you get it. No, no, go on. Ought to go rescue Iolene at some point. ''Promised'' we'd get a dance in, and I hate to let her down. She's not exactly gotten out much, with Ysa on the sands."

Devaki's suggestion visibly excites Issedi, who nods enthusiastically before telling Damaris, "I'm hoping we can be married in the spring." A glance at Devaki, and then she corrects, "''Early'' spring. Once there are flowers worth having - I'd like local flowers, if we can manage it." She still has most of her food ''and'' her drink, so shakes her head to Devaki's offer, but says, "Go and get yourself something. I'll be quite safe, here." Damaris will protect her!

With a smile, "Well, thank you for escorting me in then, sir. And yes, it seems like she's been stuck near the sands - tell her I'll try to find her later?" Brieli offers K'del a little wave as she backs away, starting to weave her way through the crowds towards the food and drink. The further she is from the Weyrleader, the more deeply her brows furrow into a thoughtful frown. Not exactly great for picking up dance partners.

"The smell of the food's getting to me," Devaki admits, "And Edi's beaten enough savagery out of me to prevent me stealing her food... in public, anyway." He winks at Issedi and gives a rueful grin towards Damaris. As his fiancee starts talking wedding plans, he agrees easily, "Early spring," as he edges not-so-obviously away and makes for the food tables.

Rhaelyn's head shakes in silent denial. Or is that a warning? Her eyes flash as her lips move, but the words are for Zev alone to hear, not carrying over the sound of the music. There might be serious negitivity going on, but Rhae hasn't stormed from the dancefloor .... yet.

Damaris laughs, lifting a hand in farewell as Devaki sneaks away. A wry grin, and she refocuses in on Issedi. "You're adorable," she points out. "I'm sure people are too often intimidated to tell you that much, so I'll note it for you. Absolutely adorable. Early spring is a fantastic time for a wedding. If you do it before the last of the snow is gone, then the bright bright flowers against the white of snow would be fantastic. And it would mean that people wouldn't expect as long of a ceremony outside...which means a longer party inside, afterwards." Yes, get the young Lady talking about her wedding. And she's doing it on /purpose/, too. A few more bites of food are taken. Nomnom.

K'del's lazy salute is probably intended to convey a few different meanings, for he offers no more words to Brieli, and instead, turns to disappear into the crowd. A few minutes later, he resurfaces again, Iolene on his arm: they dance close, affectionately, and with obvious enjoyment. Take ''that'', Devaki.

It's completely coincidence that Madilla is fetching her own food at the same moment as Devaki heads in that direction. The moment she sees him, however? She's off and moving in the other direction, disappearing back into the crowd, with nothing more than a single, inscrutable glance in his direction.

The bounty of High Reaches Hold spread out before her, and Brieli isn't seeming impressed with any of it. If there were a line, she'd be holding it up - but thankfully, the hungry masses have thinned out. Now more of a dart-in-and-out affair, the tall candidate only gets in people's way ''occasionally'' as she picks out bits of this or that, but nothing in any great amount. She misses Madilla's in-and-out entirely, all cross with her plate.

It'd be hard for Devaki not to notice K'del, and consequently, Iolene, out on the dance floor. It slows his steps, casts his expression into a dark, unhappy scowl that persists even as he resumes his path to pick up food and a glass of wine. He spots Madilla -- or rather, her retreating figure as she turns and leaves the other way -- opening and closing his mouth in one motion, pointedly resuming his path. "I see K'del abandoned you for more interesting fare," he murmurs in Brieli's direction as he leans near her to scoop up some of the greens onto his plate. He tries, but he can't /quite/ hide the dislike in his tone.

Zev whispers back to Rhaelyn something, then with a smile spins her once to end their dance, then with an arm holding her about the waist guides her towards the food tables, "The dancing is the best part of the evening... but we shouldn't miss out on the food."

Issedi positively beams after her fiance, her sigh one of absolute contentment. When she turns back to Damaris, the first thing she says is, "Isn't he wonderful? I'd ''hoped'', but - I didn't think it would ever happen. The arrangement with Aughan was too important, I thought." Her cheeks turn pink at the other girl's assessment of her, though she seems pleased by it. "Thank you? Oh, that sounds lovely. What an excellent idea. I was thinking... do you think Devaki would like it if we went away, afterwards? On a boat. I know he loves the sea, and I'd like to ''see'' things."

"I am sure that if it's something that you want," Damaris assures Issedi, shifting on her feet to sort of block the other woman's view of everything, "He's likely to want to indulge you. And a trip on a boat..." Pause. She clears her throat. "I'm sure if that's what you want. You could probably ask for just about anything you wanted, really. And seeing things is very nice." Beat. "And yes, of course, he's wonderful. You two are terribly suited for one another."

Rhaelyn allows Zev to escort her off the dance floor, but as soon as they are past that line, she's shrugging away from the circle of his arm and making her way for the food alone. "Thinks he's so fancy...."

Barely turning around as she pokes as some salad with a spoon, Brieli tells Devaki, "You seem terribly interested in what he's doing. Odd for a man at his engagement party." Her cultured tones aren't offended - rather, she might just be giving out some advice. Or a warning. Moving on down the table, she turns to ask him bemusedly, "Does anyone eat fish at a party? Honestly?" Anyway... "Should I feel abandoned? Should I monopolize High Reaches' Weyrleader? I don't think that's polite."

Issedi is not entirely unconscious of the way Damaris is blocking her view, and nor does she seem to take the other girl's answer at completely face value: it makes her frown in thought, though the expression doesn't linger. Instead, another smile blossoms. "He does love to make me happy," she agrees. "He's good to me. So is Braeden. I'm sure we're going to be terribly happy with each other, and have lots and lots of adorable blonde babies." Her head tilts to one side: "Have you thought much about Impression? I hadn't spoken to many dragonriders before the clutching party, but they all spoke so fondly of their dragons I assume it must be like falling in love."

Riorde comes in late, and fashionable too. She's put in no small amount of effort to look her best in a satiny black dress that flatters her figure, hair swept up in a twist. She's certainly dressing for the part of the celebrating well-wisher, and she more or less looks like it too as she comes into the hall with pleasant little smile fixed in place, except that there's something intent in the way she scans the room.

"That's because he's ''dancing'' with--" Devaki catches himself, biting down on his response, fingers tightening briefly around his plate. "You're right, of course," he concedes, as if she's provided him with some worthy advice. Her question about the fish earns, for a moment, a blank stare, and then a hearty, pleased sort of laugh, agreeing, "Not myself, nor any of the Islanders -- we had more than our fare share of fish in our time. I suspect Lord Braeden thought it a tribute." He is -- more than happy -- to leave the subject of the High Reaches Weyrleader well enough alone.

K'del and Iolene dance, still, utterly oblivious to glances in their direction, or entrances of anyone else. Something the blonde goldrider says makes the bronzerider throw back his head and laugh; she seems pleased.

"Most men are more than happy to do what they need to to make their wives happy," Damaris explains, fork hand coming up to brush some of her hair back from her face. "And he seems the sort to do his best to give you whatever you like. So yes, I expect you will be very happy, with lots of adorable blonde babies." She chuckles softly, and then she's wrinkling up her nose at the question of Impression. "I haven't thought much about it, no," she says. "I...well, to me, it seems like something that it's impossible to guess at or explain or think up. I'm enjoying being a candidate, there's a lot of new experiences, and they keep me busy enough that I'm never bored...and for once, there's plenty of work that I don't mind doing. I've found that I'd prefer to work until I can't think, as of late. Because...well. It's been a very strange time for me. I'm trying not to set myself up for disappointment." And failing, but hey.

Rhaelyn grabs up a plate as though she might use it as a weapon and thinks better of it and just piles on the fingerfood as she scoots down the table of options. She looks pleased with herself for detatching herself from Zev and goes in search of wine, only to spot the arrival of the brownrider, but luckily that woman's attention.

Brieli's gaze flickers from Devaki to the pair of dancing riders, then to Devaki's poor abused plate. With an awfully sage nod for someone likely in her teens, "I thought perhaps I might be. And I think the dancing might be something you have to live with," she adds, sounding a touch regretful - possibly for the Islander's benefit. Offering a wide smile for that pleased laugh, she finds herself a roll, explaining, "It just seems like it's something you'd want to avoid. Fish-breath. Bones. Though if the Lord intended it as a tribute, I'll happily change my opinion. I wouldn't want to offend."

Zev makes his way around the other side of the table from the greenride as he fills up his own plate. Then he drifts near, but not quite within plate smacking range.

Issedi nibbles carefully at some of the food on the end of her fork, and gives Damaris a considering glance. "As long, in return, their wives give them what ''they'' need," she says, in the hushed kind of tone that well-bred ladies sometimes employ to talk about things that aren't entirely proper. "I know." She's been well versed. But the talk of Impression, that's easier, and perhaps more interesting at this stage of her life: "Oh, I see. Yes, that does make sense. It would be terrible to get excited by it, and then to - it must be such an interesting position to be in. Not knowing the future. Until these past sevens, I've never been in that position, and now I ''do'' know the future again, so--" But it's a future she's happy with, at least.

"The ''dancing'' is not what bothers me," Devaki admits with a grimace, as he secures his wine glass. He spots Rhaelyn's return from the dance floor, his gaze lingering on her briefly before returning to Brieli. The look he's given her is, well, rather considered, and he asks, "Are you Blooded, then?"

"It's...interesting, yes," Damaris agrees, chuckling under her breath again. The whole husband-and-wife thing? Yeah, she's not touching that, nope. She just clears her throat. Stuffs another bite of food into her mouth. Yum, food. That she had nothing to do with cooking. It's pretty awesome. "It's all very different and very interesting and...often very silly, if you can believe that. Some of the antics people get up to." A warm smile is offered. "I'm glad you like the future you're seeing. I personally try to focus the bulk of my attention on the present. It's the only thing I can do anything about."

Riorde winds up near the dance floor. There's something unapproachable about her that keeps her from partnering up to actually join the couples there, and for awhile she just watches, gaze caught by K'del and Iolene. Her smile stays put, but everything else about her is hard.

Rhaelyn adjusts a few food items on her plate as she bobs her head at Devaki as she passes by. She takes a glass of wine as Zev moves to her side. A long, serious drink is taken from the glass as she stands there.

Dryly, "The dancing wasn't all that I was talking about." Brieli glances over K'del and Iolene's way before telling Devaki in an easy aside, "I ''have'' had the opportunity to spend time with Io, and I quite like her." Just FYI. Again, she's unbothered by how he regards her, picking up a fork and knife to go along with her plate; looking up with lifted brows, "That's rather abrupt, isn't it? I'm not, as far as I'm aware. My family is... different. More informal."

Zev pops a few bits of food into his mouth as he settles into the cool quiet of Rhaelyn's wake. Despite the looks he has gotten from her after their dnce ended he still seems to hve a healthy appetite.

Given the glance Issedi shoots Damaris? She's relieved that the other woman doesn't touch her potentially risque remark; her smile is a little strained, though it blossoms again soon enough. "Silly. I'm not used to silly. I suppose it must be the stress? We're raised differently, here. Or - I was. My mother is concerned that Braeden is less protective of me than my father was, but I think, really, he's ''more'' protective, just in a different way. Are you enjoying the party? Speaking of the present."

"She's very easy to like," Devaki says of Iolene, and there's a heat to his voice that expresses itself on his face as frustration. With a slow breath, he adds, "I didn't mean any offense. You behave as if you are, so I thought perhaps -- sorry." He looks as if he's just a little off balance, glancing over his shoulder, then: "Would you like to meet the Lady Issedi? She's talking with one of your fellow candidates, Damaris."

The silly is considered for a long moment before Damaris is giving a light shrug of her shoulders. The last bites of food are finished off, and she sets her place down and aside, stretching a bit. "It isn't so much ha ha twee silly as it is - you people are silly, with the things that you do," she explains, putting on another impish smile. "But I'm sure it's the stress, yes." Beat. "And yes, I expect that you were raised quite differently here. Your life and mine have very little in common." A glance around, and then she refocuses. "Of course I am; I've got the most sought after conversation partner in the whole place. I get to go home and preen for hours about having been able to monopolize your attention as I did." The words are followed with the most innocent expression she can muster, eyelashes fluttered at the end.

Any other time, Rhaelyn might just freeze Zev out completely rather than the mild chill coming off her. "Thanks for the dance." She allows grudgingly between the sips of her wine. The drink is finished before she begins to pick at the food. "So, have you done work for any of these people? That table you are working on maybe?" Business talk is safe right?

"Oh. Well, I was brought up at a Hold, so -- I imagine it all kind of trickles down. And I've found if you make the effort, you can sound... however you want." For some reason, Brieli is a bit awkward and wordy in her response to Devaki, as if she weren't expecting an apology. Briefly sympathetic for the somewhat lost look he has about him, she adds, "No offense taken. And I'd be honoured to meet her." However, with a blink, "Damaris? She seemed so distracted earlier." Even so, she gives a little shrug and smile to Devaki; lead on.

Issedi's girlish giggle has her putting a hand in front of her mouth a moment later (she has to abandon her fork to do so, of course). "I don't know if I'm really that," she retorts, however flattered; her head tips in the vague direction of the dance floor, where her brother was last seen. "Braeden, surely. ''He's'' the one they're all throwing their daughters at. I'm glad that you're enjoying it, however. I suppose I'm the hostess, in a way, and so that means your enjoyment is my responsibility. I suspect the clutching party was really more fun, but I've time to learn these things."

The dancers dance away, and Riorde turns away too. Recognizable faces suddenly abound: first Rhaelyn, who the brownrider looks at coolly, without much expression; her smile's slipped away. Then, picking out others in a pause, she heads for another little group. "Damaris," she greets, smiling again, descending behind the candidate and then looking past her. "Oh, you must be Issedi." No Lady, just Issedi. It's forgivable, isn't it, given that it's exclaimed so warmly? "The lady of the hour."

Zev nods a bit, "I suspct that I have. Not certain though as a lot of the work is ordered by stewards and the like so I don't know exactly where things end up. If things get dull we could wander and look ender table cloths. And thank you for the dance. I wasn't sure we'd even get to tke one spin upon the floor."

"They don't want to /talk/ to him," Damaris points out, all innocence. See? That is a total innocent face. "Thus,you are the most desired conversation partner. Isn't that what I was...." She shifts on her feet, lifts her chin, looks up at Riorde. There's two moments of silence before she's brightening, flashing a brilliant smile up towards Riorde. "Riorde!" Yes, she looks terribly pleased to see the woman. "Lady Issedi, this is Riorde. Riorde. I'm so glad you're here, will you dance with me later?" Hopeful, hopeful smile.

Issedi blushes, her expression turning awkward; her train of thought is pretty obvious from her face, even if the conclusion she's come to is not necessarily exactly what was intended. In any case, it means Riorde's arrival is something of a relief, allowing her to turn her smile back on to high wattage, and lift both hands towards the brownrider in an obvious attempt to take her hand and squeeze it. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Riorde," she says. "I hope you're having a lovely time."

"You're very convincing," Devaki says, with a note of what sounds like approval. Or maybe admiration. Then, as he gestures, and starts to head in the direction, "Yes, Damaris, she -- she's been helping Issedi. Edi isn't much of a fan of being made the center of attention, which at a celebration like this--" the Islander makes a sympathetic noise, mostly watching Brieli, so it's only when they're most of the way to where candidate and Lady are stationed that he notices... Riorde. He stops dead. Then casts left and right, as if considering if it's too late to choose an alternative path. "So dead," he mutters under his breath, advancing again towards the group, albeit with more obvious reluctance.

Rhaelyn's nose crinkles, "I'm not looking under any tables." The firmness counters all of Zev's playfulness, just in case there might be some hope that she'd be tricked into it. "I imagine you have a lot more time to work on comissions these past few months." She nibbles at the food, attention straying towards Riorde's greeting and another bite of food is pushed into her mouth. It's like watching a car-crash about to happen. Oh no. Stop. Don't.

Zev gets a little distracted by the scene further out. He chews a few bites o food before he answers Rhaelyn's qyestion. "You are right about that. I have worked through just about all the comissions and orders for the weyr. I'm starting to fish about fo things to do in fact."

"Of course," Riorde agrees easily, her hand finding Damaris' elbow for a light, agreeable touch. Look, she's all smiles today. "Except I wouldn't dream of making anyone uncomfortable here. We wouldn't want to offend our hosts." She's looking at Issedi as she says it, stepping forward to meet her and shake hands when it's offered. "Oh, and you. Your fiance and I are old friends, you know," she drops into the conversation.

As the Harpers conclude their current set, the dancers vacate the floor, among them, K'del and Iolene. The pair part ways at that point, the blonde goldrider heading away from the great hall to presumably attend to ''something'' of importance (powdering her nose, probably), which leaves K'del at a loose end - all the better to go find another drink, and avoid kicking Devaki in the nuts.

"Thank you." As they walk towards the trap about to be sprung, totally unaware, Brieli might drop her voice low for a sentence as she and Devaki pass by a particularly loud group of revellers. After that, she can allow, "It is rather like being the prize runner or something. People come to see you rather than meet you; it's not very personal." It's only when he stops dead in his tracks that she too looks over to see Riorde with Issedi and Damaris - though she'll give him the side-eye for that mutter, she offers quietly, "Can't win tonight?" If Devaki is reluctant, she's putting on company manners and a lovely smile.

"Are you?" Issedi seems pleased, her posture straightening at Riorde's mention of her fiance. "Oh, I don't think I should mind if you danced together. It's only dancing, isn't it? Have you seen Devaki recently? I know he's missed his old friends. I'm just so glad he's here, now, and ''mine''." Such a happy, blushing, blooming bride-to-be.

"It's part of the lifestyle, though," Devaki responds to Brieli in an undertone, the fixed expression on his face hopefully closer to a smile than a grimace. "Doubtful," he adds, as an aside, pausing briefly with a sidelong look at the candidate, a low-voiced comment offered before his forces a brighter smile. "Edi -- I'd like you to meet another one of the candidates, Brieli. Oh... Ri. Hi." Yeah, he's aiming for casual-what-a-coincidence look, here. The fact that his fingers are clenched tightly around plate and glass might be a bit easier to spot, however.

A party like this draws people from all over, and, well. This is the Reaches. Things don't always go as planned. It's no wonder that the hold's guard contingent is out in full force, milling through the party, settling the odd dispute or drunken commotion, and yes, keeping an eye on their Lord and his family. Was that a flash of bright red hair, just over there? How--strange.

Rhaelyn makes an agreeing sound at Zev, the typical response for someone only half listening to the conversation. Realizing that she's split her attention, the greenrider offers Zev a coy little smile, "Anyway, we've had our dance, a drink and food. What next?"

The cavalry has arrived! Taikrin might be late, but then again-- maybe everyone else is early. The brownrider is clearly freshly scrubbed, and her nearly black leathers are finely tailored to her muscular figure. She pushes through the crowds, occasionally pausing up on her toes to scan over heads. It's pretty obvious that she's looking for someone-- perhaps to share the skin of wine she's slung over her shoulder?

"How generous of you," Riorde replies, hands now resting lightly at her sides. "I think I might just have to take you up on that. It's been far too long." Her smile doesn't slip, neither at the starry-eyed possessiveness of Issedi's nor when she turns to look at the two who've approached. There's a little nod for Breili, and then the rest of the brownrider's attention lands squarely on the groom to be. "Oh, Dev. How good to see you. Congratu''lations.''"

Just look at how Issedi's face lights up as Devaki returns; it's enough to make anyone sick, really. ''Surely'' that can't last forever. Her, "Hello, Brieli, it's a pleasure to meet you. I hope you're having a lovely time," is sincerely said, escaping before she can turn her gaze back on Devaki and his old friend. She's clearly expecting a joyful reunion, and what she gets is… not that. So she looks confused.

Zev finishes off the last bite on his plate. "We could take a walk round the outside to see what else there is to see. Or head back if you have earl duties tomorrow. Though I am sure you wouldn't stay later than you wished just on my account."

With a wrinkle of her nose, "Mmm. I wouldn't like it, I don't think." Brieli just might stifle a laugh as she approaches with Devaki, giving him the barest nod. As he introduces her to Issedi, she has a smile for the bride-to-be, echoing Riorde - though with more sincerity - "Congratulations. I hope you're enjoying your party - Devaki was just mentioning that they're not really your thing." And yes, let's all see what's happening with the brownrider. She returns her nod, flashing a brief smile.

Dragon> To Sforzath, Szadath projects, << Where is she? Give me the image. >>

Dragon> So much for niceties-- Szadath is no-nonsense and to the point. After all, there's this very nice green here who would really like to cuddle if his rider would just leave him alone. (Szadath to Sforzath)

Dragon> To Szadath, Sforzath is not in a complying mood. Maybe it's the way he was asked. Maybe it's Riorde. Maybe it's just Sforzath himself, or all three. In any case, there's a long moment of radio silence before he abruptly says, << No. >>

There's a slight wince from Devaki at the faint emphasis on Riorde's words. "Thank you," he manages to say, with aplomb. He sets both plate and glass down for a moment, and -- perhaps because he glances sidelong and catches Issedi's confusion, or perhaps he just likes to push his luck -- he gathers the brownrider up into a brief hug. "Really good to see you, Ri." And if it's cover for a murmur word or two well, it's quick and quiet enough to avoid notice.

Riorde> You sense Devaki's voice is tight with emotion, his voice a bare breath in her ear: "Missed you." The GALL!

Dragon> Balking Szadath? /Sforzath/? The brown's irritation is obvious in the sudden gust of chill wind, and the way his mind voice starts reverberating. << Yes. Where is she. >> (Szadath to Sforzath)

Dragon> This time the refusal's delivered with a building pressure that bespeaks a warning. The quality of Sforzath's mind intensifies, ashy, acrid. << No. >> (Sforzath to Szadath)

Taikrin's searching prompts a scowl when she doesn't seem to spot whatever it is she's looking for; the brownrider jostles more roughly than necessary against a pair of party-goers -- who seem to think better of rebuking her after a quick look -- on her way towards a stack of wine barrels set up by one of the tables against the wall.

She's fallen quiet, now that there is a Riorde to stand beside. Damaris looks longingly at a drink someone over there is holding, but she doesn't go after it, instead just returning her attention to those standing around nearby, attentive to the conversation. She's definitely keeping an eye up on Rirode now, though the smile is staying on her lips. Oh, the brownrider is being hugged. She inches away a little, so as to be sure she's not in the way. Quiet, quiet, quiet. Easy conversation seems to have dried up, now that there's all the people around.

Rhaelyn hesitates, giving the expanding group around Riorde and Issedi with a quick, but hungry look. "I would like to stay, but I admit that I really shouldn't indulge too much this evening. It doesn't mean you can't stay though." She pushes her plate aside as she turns back to Zev, sighing quietly.

Dragon> What does Szadath do in the face of building pressure? The same thing all order brothers do to their uncooperative little brothers: he pounces. Mentally. He throws himself into a non-verbal wrestling match, as if to wrest the information right out of his (smaller, younger) brother's mind. (Szadath to Sforzath)

Zev shakes his head a bit. "No. I came wuth you so might as well go back to the weyr when you ae read to hed out."

For the briefest moment, Riorde's smile slides right off in surprise as she's swept up in the hug. "Oh-- you, too," she says, little pauses gathering between the individual words. No resistance on her part; she even presses a quick, chaste kiss to Devaki's cheek -- which ''isn't'' cover for any quietly returned response. She links arms once released instead of stepping away and smiles, first across at Issedi. "Your fiance says I can steal you away. For a dance." And then the smile's turned on Devaki, the curve of it suggestive of something a little less benign.

"They're not, not really," admits Issedi, attempting another bright smile for Brieli, though the truth is she's distracted, and increasingly uncomfortable. The hug Devaki gives Riorde only makes things worse, her mouth narrowing into a thin line that speaks to embarrassment and discomfort, though it doesn't ''seem'' to be that just doesn't trust him. Even so, Riorde's words surprise her - she turns pink, and doesn't seem to have anything to say.

Rhaelyn gives a little shake of her head when there's no fireworks across the room. With a dusting of her hands she decides, "I think it's about time to go then."

Despite the protests of the steward tending the wine, Taikrin boosts herself first onto her knees, and then onto her feet atop the wine barrel. It wobbles ominously, but holds steady long enough for the brownrider to see what it is she wants to see. Still ignoring the man's fluttering protestations, she sets off through the crowd again, this time with stony determination-- and right towards the scene Riorde is about to make.

Dragon> To Szadath, Sforzath fights dirty. No -- viciously. There's no quarter given here. When he finally flashes an image to his brother, it's a taunt: the piece of the hall as seen from Riorde's vantage point, over Devaki's shoulder.

Even if the situation is uncomfortable, Brieli will continue on, giving Damaris a questioning glance before telling Issedi, "I feel a little badly for you then, with so many on the horizon. Hopefully, it won't be a long engagement." However, Riorde's statement has her struck a little silent herself, blinking between the brownrider and the bride-to-be. Then glancing around the room to gauge it - how might that go over?

"Ri!" Devaki exclaims, both surprised and caught off guard. He glances at Issedi, noticing her discomfort immediately -- it'd be hard to miss, really -- and reassures her, as best he can, "She's just teasing. We used to fish together, out on the Islands." Oh-so-deftly, he seeks to extract his arm from Riorde's, as he adds, "Besides, the first dance of the evening ''has'' to be with my fiancee. If she'd indulge me...?" he lifts a hand towards Issedi in invitation, though it's not clear whether he's doing it to save her, or to save himself, exactly. Probably a bit of both.

Zev smiles and offers the same arm he brought the greenrider in on. "Might I escort you back to Amareth then? I'm ready to head home as well."

Dragon> Dirty fighting is a way of life for Szadath-- he has no compunctions about throwing his weight around against his brother. That image is snatched at, and then a moment later he taunts back with one from Taikrin's own that partially lines up. << GOT YOU! >> And, because this is all fun and games, he withdraws with what generally passes as a comradely buffet of cold against the younger brown's mind. (Szadath to Sforzath)

Dragon> The smoke cloud that promptly blows back at Szadath might as well be a 'whatever.' (Sforzath to Szadath)

There's a curious look sent sidelong up towards Riorde, and Damaris frowns a little, reaching to put her hand on the woman's elbow, now and repeating that hopeful look. Tug, tug. Big eyes.

"What?" Riorde says, eyebrows lifting with well-feigned innocence. Devaki might slide his arm away from hers, but she doesn't let him go quite so easily. "She did suggest a dance. Damaris heard. You've got all the time in the world to dance with your bride-to-be. And exactly how long has it been since we saw each other last? Just one little dance, for old time's sake."

Rhaelyn gives a small nod to Zev and adds, "If you -must-." Although she doesn't just abandon him there, she walks at his side over to the awaiting dragon. "I am surpised you don't want to stay and try for more dancing."

"Early spring," says Issedi, taking comfort in the recitation of when her wedding will be, with the definite implication that she's looking forward to it; wishes spring were tomorrow, even, perhaps. There's something possessive about the look she gives her fiance, then, as she sets aside her plate and mug in order to accept the offered dance; she is ''not'' letting Riorde take this one. "I think I would like the first one," she says, aiming an apologetic glance to Riorde. "Perhaps you can catch up later." She speaks carefully, warily, uncomfortably.

Zev smiles as he walks with Rhaelyn. "When the person I'm interested in dancing with is ready to go, I don't see a point in lingering."

To Issedi, before she rises to dance, "Sounds lovely." Taking the opportunity to drift away from all the drama, Brieli loses herself in the crowd to find a place to pick over the food on her plate - and possibly some of the discoveries she's made over the evening.

All too bull-like, Taikrin runs roughshod right through the edge of the dancefloor, heedless of the grumbling she leaves in her wake. With wine skin still slung over her shoulder, she calls out as she comes up behind Damaris and her girlfriend, "Bloody flaming /shells/, Ri, you're dragon's the biggest pain in my ass this side of Crom." At least she sounds sober? The irritation melts away now that she's located her girlfriend, and she has a bright smile for her and Damaris-- and absolutely no recognition at all for Issedi and Devaki. "'Least you didn't manage to lose our girl, here." This, of course, in reference to Riorde's candidate that Taikrin has claimed as her own.

Rhaelyn gives Zev a bemused smile and quickly mounts up, "No more wine for you tonight." And once up, she offers him a hand up.

There is so much relief, when she sees the bull charging in their direction. Damaris ghosts back a few paces to make sure Taikrin has a straight shot to Riorde, then slips back up to stand beside her. "Taikrin," she says, and with a sidelong glance for Riorde, moves in to give a one-armed hug. Brief, quick, but it's definitely a hug. "I am so glad to see you." There's a Significant Look cast over towards Issedi and Devaki in indication.

With a slight twist of his wrist once Devaki takes hold of Issedi's hand, he spins her briefly, then starts to lead her to the dance floor. "The Lady has spoken," he says, to Riorde, the look he gives her an odd mingling of apologetic and wry. "We'll talk later," he promises, as he steps towards the middle of the hall, perhaps quickened by Taikrin's arrival. Settling in to join the rest of the dancers, he murmurs quietly to Issedi, "It could be sooner, you know. Our wedding. If you ''wanted'' it to be. I'm sure we could import flowers from down south, or something."

There isn't a hint of ill humor about her; Riorde concedes graciously. "Of course." But when she looks at Devaki, she's made inscrutable by the smile she's still sporting. "Later," she agrees before turning to take in Taikrin. "Why, what's he doing?" Riorde answers, like she doesn't know.

It's only once they've stepped well away from the little group (Taikrin gets barely a glance; Issedi is far too distracted, now) that Issedi seems to relax, falling in to position for the dance with the grace she's been taught so carefully. "Mother says there is so much to be prepared, and it wouldn't do to rush things," she points out, lifting blue eyes up so that she can stare, adoringly, into Devaki's. "And I'd like them to be ''our'' flowers. Local ones. It's not so many months away." Five. Six. "I can wait that long. Barely."

There's a ghost of curiosity in the way Taikrin looks after Devaki and Issedi, as if recognition /almost/ sparks, but then-- "Bein' an ass," the brownrider repeats. "I've been /looking/ for you like crazy, and he wouldn't tell us where you were." She unslings the wineskin from over her shoulder, pulls the stopper, and takes a swig straight from the mouth before passing it off to Damaris once she's free of that surprise hug. "Glad they let you get away. Here." Surprise-- it's definitely NOT wine in that skin.

"Barely," Devaki murmurs in echo as he spins Issedi around the dance floor. "Well, you know. We ''could'' always elope, get married. Then come back and have the proper wedding your mother wants," he suggests, with a particular kind of glint in his gaze. He could just be teasing, but then, perhaps not. He's adept enough on the dance floor that he doesn't really have to think too much about it -- giving time for his gaze to stray across the crowd now and then.

"You're going to get me in so much trouble," Damaris comments dryly, taking the skin and bringing it up for a good solid drink before she passes it back, flashing up a grateful grin. "Thanks. Are ''you'' going to dance with me, since Riorde won't? I haven't gotten to dance all night tonight, I've been behaving myself /so well/, and..." She just trails off into a pout, directing it at Riorde. POUTING HERE. HELLO.

Issedi knows that glint. It's barely been more than a sevenday or two, but - she's a fast learner. "And if I turn up pregnant," she murmurs back to him, taking great pains to make sure there's no way anyone can overhear her, "what then? No - we have to wait." But her glance is affectionate as she adds, a little more loudly, "I suppose the end of winter isn't so bad. We'll raise peoples spirits, as they get more and more tired of the cold." She leans in, moving to rest her head on his chest: so much for proper dancing, how about a slow dance.

"Sorry." Riorde sounds a little distracted, though she mostly manages to rein her gaze in and keep it to Taikrin and Damaris. Mostly. "No offense," she tells the candidate. "I just thought maybe it wasn't the right occasion. It being their celebration and us wanting to stay on good terms with the Hold. That sort of thing." Her gaze has drifted off again, towards the happy couple, and she's completely still, watching.

"You can be a very vexing woman, you know that, Edi?" But it's a compliment, coming from Devaki, and he seems content to concede her argument, or maybe just slotting it away for another time. For now, he settles easily into a slow dance that spans several songs.

"She wouldn't? Why not?" Taikrin seems genuinely baffled by this revelation. Her full attention turns to the other brownrider, and she holds the skin out for her to take while she demands, "Who sharding cares? You're a rider. On Szad's shell, what's gotten into you? This's a party, let's just do our thing-- get drunk, dance with all the girls, steal a couple and go home."

There's a look between Riorde and Taikrin, and Damaris's pout fades. She huffs out a little sigh, then puts on a more mild, mellow, normal sort of smile. "It's not a big deal," she says. "I'll go find some stranger to dance with. You guys. Have fun. I'll find somebody to get me back to the Weyr." She brings a hand up to give a little wiggle of her fingers, and then she's ghosting a few paces back and turning to slip off.

Riorde takes the skin, but the rest of what Taikrin has to give isn't accepted so easily. "There's more at stake tonight than just that, you know." She puts the skin to her lips and tips it back, staring at the other brownrider while doing so. The look lasts until Damaris starts to escape, and then Ri hastily says, "Oh, don't let her go off like that. Go dance with her before she winds up in a corner with some holder boy."

Taikrin is downright bewildered now, and more than a little irritated by it. "/What/? You're out of your mind-- who cares about holders marrying each other?" But then, yes, Damaris /is/ running away, and so Taikrin just shoots Riorde a /look/ and shoves off to find her, muttering all the while. "Yo, hold up, girl. I'll do it with you."

The strange one's been watching, of course, this whole time: even if he's done a good job of avoiding the main Weyr contigent--thus far. But now Raum steps forward, out of the crowd and up behind Riorde, one arm reaching too-familiarly around her shoulders before he starts for one of those out-of-the-way corners that still exist, even in these crowds. "Rider," he calls her, in that drawl of his.

She doesn't make it very far before Taikrin's catching her and she's stopping, putting on a patient look. "Riorde is upset," Damaris points out, tone as patient as her smile. "I'm fine, I just want to dance. I can find somebody to dance with me. She won't let me budge her, but you're her girlfriend."

"And she's being a pain in my ass too," Taikrin finishes smoothly. "So I'm going to dance with you." To emphasize her point, the brownrider moves to wrap an arm around Damaris's waist -- in a mostly friendly sort of way. "I'm not dealing with her moodswings tonight. C'mon. Dance with me." Maybe it's not the most romantic proposal ever, but-- Taikrin.

Riorde's smile tightens and turns into something else entirely. She glares at Taikrin's back, all that pleasantry dropping off now that there's no one to maintain it for. And she certainly doesn't keep up appearances for Raum when he materializes out of the blue. "''You,''" she answers. No titles, no names. There's something smugly, darkly satisfied when she says, letting herself be steered away, "I thought I'd find you here."

"I do ''not'' understand you two," Damaris complains, but even so there's a touch of pleasure creeping in. Because dancing! It may not be the exact outcome she was going for, but really it does not take much at all for her to stop trying to be altruistic and instead give in to the selfishness. Because Taikrin! And dancing! She wins. Or...something. She leans into the mostly friendly arm around her waist, sliding an arm back around the woman and heading for where the other people are dancing. "I wish you'd gotten here /earlier/."

"One must keep an eye on his Lord," Raum answers without looking at Riorde as he guides her away. "And remove the threats around him." Which means her, in this case, clearly; it's all written there in the equally self-satisfied cat-with-mouse smirk he cants her way.

"Tried. Came here as soon as we were finished up. I would'a been here /quicker/ if someone wasn't being coy about telling me where y'all were," Taikrin confides as she leads Damaris out onto the dance floor. "Here now though, so let's do this thing?" And, at first glance, Taikrin looks androgenous enough with her leathers and cropped hair compared to the frilly Hold women that they probably won't even get too many nasty looks!

"I'm not being cranky, just wistful, it would have been so much more fun," Damaris explains lightly, cheerful now that they've hit the dancefloor. She follows quite happily, settling into dancing with the other woman and totally ignoring any dirty looks that they might get. She's oblivious. Really! Totally doesn't know any better.

"Oh, aye," Riorde agrees, affecting an accent other than her own. "One must." She slings her arm around Raum's waist and off they go in that clearly acquainted way. Riorde cuts a strikingly elegant figure, as done up as she is; instead of the removal of an unwanted element, their progress out of the main gathering looks like something else entirely.

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Logs:Issedi and Devaki's Engagement

2012-05-26T06:43:05Z

Riorde:

{{ Log
| who = Braeden, Brieli, Damaris, Devaki, Iolene, Issedi, K'del, Madilla, Raum, Rhaelyn, Riorde, Taikrin, Zev
| where = High Reaches Hold
| what = Lord Braeden throws a celebration for the engagement of Devaki and Issedi, and the formal recognition of the exiles. All is not ''entirely'' well with everyone.
| when = Day 15, Month 11, Turn 28
| gamedate = 2012.05.25
| quote =
| weather =
| categories = A Lord In Exile
| mentions =
| icons = iolene.jpg, issedi.jpg, k'del.jpg, madilla.jpg, devaki.jpg, riorde_formal.jpg
| log = High Reaches Hold

----

Isolated on its westward-jutting peninsula, from the landward side High Reaches Hold appears burrowed deep into the mountain, with only a few shuttered windows overlooking the rows of cotholds that line the river road. Its double courtyards appear designed more for transportation or defense than for welcoming visitors. From the seaward side, the slant of the windows overlooking the fine deep bay attempts to ward off the sea winds, the higher stories evading the less pleasant odors prevalent at low tide.

Today, the courtyards are full to overflowing with visitors and locals alike. Most of the stalls have been set up further afield, lining the main road that weaves inwards to the hold, and filling the orchards. The courtyards are bustling too, however, with harpers on call to provide dance music as well as more sedate performances throughout the day and night.

However cold and bleak the Hold's setting may be, inside, its colors of dark blue and tan act as neutrals for the warmer, brighter hues of its llama-wool tapestries and rugs. Below the Hold, oval caverns house lengths of seasoned wood for its shipbuilders, and to its outskirts are several minor Crafthalls including a glass-smith's shop.

Though the Hold's main access is by sea, the river road leads to its Weyr and the rest of Pern, while minor roads lead to a few outlying Holds and the distant lighthouse.

Though overall pleasant, the temperature has dropped just below the freezing mark, enough to allow the lightest sprinkle of snow to fall from the skies.

----

Autumn is not an especially ideal time for a celebration up in these northern corners of the continent - but needs must, and High Reaches Hold is nothing if not resourceful. It's still only been a few months since the tragic death of Lord Rynien, but grief has been put aside, today, and the atmosphere is - though occasionally tense - certainly celebratory. The great hall has been turned over to the occasion, with harpers set up to play, and long tables bursting with food. Outside - well, there are bonfires and snowball fights, and big cauldrons of cider and klah, as well as the myriad of stalls that offer wonderful treats and interesting wares to those with the marks to spare.

Formal events require formal greetings, and K'del has already delivered his - he was perhaps a little terse with Lord Braeden, making it clear that perhaps he might have appreciated some consultation on these latest events, but it was all well within the limits of formal conversation. Now, with his formal duties done, K'del has headed outside to watch some of the children play with snowballs, and to warm his hands near one of the great cauldrons of cider as it bubbles away. He looks thoughtful, not quite ''uncomfortable'', but certainly not as celebratory as many others.

While Devaki has spent most of the morning by Issedi's side, the Lord Holder's sister is now dancing with her brother, to the cheering, clapping greeting of many of the residents. The former Exile has taken the opportunity to step away, hands smoothing down clothes that are probably finer than any he's ever owned, marked by a knot of High Reaches Hold. Outside, his gaze drifts over the children, and settles on the High Reaches Weyrleader with a slight narrowing of gaze. His steps in that direction are quick, deliberate. "K'del," there is no formality, and no warmth in the greeting, either, just a statement as he pretends to warm his hands in the same way the bronzerider does.

"Murderer." It's ''like'' a name, the way it rolls off K'del's tongue without him skipping a beat, without him even glancing up to regard the exile. He turns his hands over, warming the other sides in a fixated, gaze-straight-ahead kind of way; too busy to look at Devaki, too busy to give him his full attention. "Or should that be Lord Devaki, reclaimer of birthrights and no doubt the reason this area is about to devolve into chaos as Aughan takes his retribution?" And hello to you, too.

"Really? You whose predecessors sent entire families, all of the exiles' ancestors, to die on a barren rock, want to talk about murder?" Devaki keeps his voice low, keeps his expression pleasant to those who watch from a distance, but there's a subtle tension in the way his hands fold together, in the way he looks at the High Reaches Weyrleader. He takes a deep breath -- glances over his shoulder -- is that a familiar shadow of the Other there, or just coincidence? -- then back. "Lord Braeden," he says, with a forcibly even tone, though he can't quite smooth out all his anger, "Makes his own decision. No one can force him to do anything he doesn't want to do. He believed it right -- given all the ''evidence'' -- to provide some sort of recompense for what occurred."

The implication that his Weyr is responsible for what happened snaps K'del's up so that he can stare outright at Devaki, and then shake his head in disbelief. "My Weyr did what they were paid to do, no more and no less. We're a glorified delivery service-- do you always blame the messenger? Is that how it works?" In lifting his head, he catches the attention of someone else nearby, and attempts then to turn his expression to a smile; it doesn't completely work. "Believe it or not, ''I'' don't have a problem with Lord Braeden's decision. I just have a problem with you. ''Murderer''."

"Do you actually believe you can plead ignorance in all this? 'Oh, we didn't know we were sending entire families to die, we just dropped them off there?' Come on, K'del. Do you really think Pern will buy that?" Devaki keeps his voice low, but it's full of ''intent'', conveying his low-level of anger quite clearly, even if those nearby can't make out the words. He's dressed in finery befitting a Lord, sporting the knot of High Reaches Hold, and holding his fingers over one of the cider barrels as he... /talks/ with K'del. "But, if you want it to all come out, including that you and Tiriana took bribes from Lord Rynien to keep the Islanders imprisoned, well--" he spreads his hands.

"If you'll remember," says K'del, sharply, no longer able to keep his expression at even a quasi-smile, "all of that happened long before either of us was born. ''I'' am not responsible." His bare hands are shaking with barely concealed anger; the glance he aims at Devaki is no better. "That was no bribe. We ''rescued'' you. We didn't have to. If it weren't for us, you'd all still be out there, still languishing away." He's still managing to keep his voice low enough that it doesn't travel, but more than a few people have started glancing in their direction with curiosity. Not that it's distracted those playing in the new snow, not so far away: a group of children, a healer who has lost her hat and is darting about with dark curls bobbing freely around her shoulders.

A party in the snow. Only people who live in the mountains can come up with that sort of thing. Brieli is certainly not a native - that much is obvious by how warmly she's dressed and how the tall candidate hunches over into herself, as if it helps. She winds her way through the crowds, footing careful and slow over the slick ground - or possibly dallying to listen in on conversations that burst through the activity. As her steps take her nearer to the Weyrleader and the sharp-dressed man, she's quick enough to notice curious glances and follow them with her own dark gaze. Interesting.

"No, you are not. But neither do you take responsibility for what you ''are'' responsible for. For what your predecessors were responsible for." A harshness enters Devaki's voice, like he's having trouble controlling his demeanor, fingers clenching. His gaze, however, is drawn by movement nearby -- staring at the group of children, or possibly the healer with the group of children -- an odd expression on his face, briefly. It's almost like he's lost his train of thought, since he doesn't pick up the thread of the heated conversation. Instead, he reaches for one of the cups, filling it from the barrel and taking a deep, steady drink all in one motion.

Low and unhappy, K'del's reply is a simple one: "I hope you are never faced with making a decision that involves placing the needs of you and yours over the needs of others. You don't always get to take the high ground. Can't always be the better person." He doesn't move away, for all that he seems, at least in that moment, finished with the argument; instead, his gaze turns, allowing him to glance around at those assembled, and to make attempts at polished, formal smiles (even to Brieli). Meanwhile, out in the snow, the dark-haired woman is leaning down to scoop up a dark haired girl, who uses her extra height to peg a snowball at one of the other children. There's laughter - lots of it.

As that low, harsh voice carries, there's enough in it to edge Brieli closer, even unfold a little from her frigid little hunch. There's something about Devaki's words that have her expression shading slightly darker... though she'll summon a smile quick enough once K'del's looking around with that attempt at some sort of normalcy. At a bit of a loss - she's not playing in the snow or anything so innocuous, so she makes as if she's headed by the pair of men, merely giving the Weyrleader a nod as she passes. "Sir." Respectful.

From Amareth's neckridges, Rhaelyn ahems to her passanger, checking to make sure he's not taking liberties with his hands as Amareth banks and then makes a sudden landing in the clearing. "Well, we shouldn't be too late." Once they've touched down, she yanks off her helmet and fusses with her hair, leaving Zev to unfasten himself, or waiting his turn for her attention once the hairs are all in place.

There may be lots of laughter, but none from Devaki, certainly. Perhaps owing to his proximity to K'del. Or perhaps owing to K'del's words -- there's a stiffening of his posture, a recognition of the truth of the words. "I've made more of those than I care to admit," he finally says, stiffly. And a little uncomfortably, judging by the way he's looking at the Reachian Weyrleader, like he's suddenly seeing him in a new light. The moment of silence lengthens, as he, too, watches the children, mostly -- then finally, in a low undertone, "I know you won't believe me, but I did not kill Seani. She was one of mine; I cared for her." There's something in his voice all the same, a guilt and anguish that rides his voice and his expression both. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry--" he seems about to continue, but Brieli's arrival has him clamping down again, all false, inscrutable expression as he studies the woman openly. "Candidate," he says, "For Ysavaeth's clutch?" he glances at K'del, looking like he's struggling to keep an even expression.

From Amareth's neckridges, Zev goes ahead and unfastens himself and slides on down from the green Amareth's neck to the ground. And once there he puts on a grin as he turns and gallantly offers a hand up to his gracious ride to the festivities. "Offer you a hand down, Rhaelyn?"

The words in that undertone result in a visible reaction in K'del, one that doesn't imply that he ''does'' believe the other man: but certainly that he's listening, thinking, noting them. Certainly, he hasn't missed the emotion in them, and were it not for Brieli's pass-- "Brieli, good afternoon. Yes," he adds to Devaki, striving for an even tone that his expression doesn't match; he looks bothered, troubled. "For Ysavaeth and Cadejoth's clutch." Can he really be blamed for putting the emphasis on his own lifemate's name? "How is the party treating you, Brieli? Come and pay your respects to Lady Issedi's husband-to-be." More emphasis.

From Amareth's neckridges, Rhaelyn's eyes narrow at the hand offered up to her as she runs fingers one last time through her hair. The buckles dome unfastened next and at long last she gives a roll of her eyes and accepts the help down. "I imagine it's the very least you can do." Said in a quiet undertone as she slides down, careful for the skirts of her dress so she doesn't flash too much leg in the process.

If Brieli is bothered by either being studied or anything she's heard (or by interrupting), she certainly doesn't seem it - by her expression, she's very nearly oblivious. With a bright smile for the mask Devaki is wearing, she nods once, again. "I am. And I am at a disadvantage," she returns - but then K'del is offering an introduction. To her credit, her face doesn't change, and she simply offers a hand to the bridegroom. "Congratulations. I didn't have the opportunity to meet your intended, but she seemed quite lovely at the clutching feast." Even if the men are uncomfortable, she'll just pretend there's nothing weird going on. Clearly.

"And it's treating me well, thank you, sir. Though I'm a bit chilly, I admit." Brieli tells K'del easily.

The way Devaki's jaw clenches at that pointed emphasis from K'del would be difficult to miss, indeed: the former exile looks ill pleased. There's a slight brittleness to the words that follow, like he knows there's no way he could successfully aim for casual with this question: "Do you think Lady Iolene will be joining us this evening?" he does, of course, emphasize that title in turn. And while the blond seems more interested in the Weyrleader's response, he's polite enough to acknowledge the introduction, intent gaze settling on Brieli again. "A pleasure to meet you, Brieli. Devaki, formerly of the Island." If that addition is for K'del's benefit, he doesn't watch to catch the bronzerider's expression; instead, his head tips, and his smile grows, a shade more genuine, "The Lady Issedi is indeed, quite lovely. She's dancing with her brother, at the moment, but I'd be happy to introduce you later." He glances sidelong, then adds with a gesture towards the hall, "Perhaps we should take this inside. It would be a shame if the candidate should miss the hatching due to one of our celebrations."

Zev offers an arm to the greenrider he's arrived with, though he does it halfheartedly, as if he knows the odds of her taking it are somewhere between slim and none. "Where to first, make our greetings to the hosts or take a tour of the booths and tables to see what's here?"

"''Iolene''," no title there, "arrived with Cadejoth and I, earlier. I believe she's gone to talk a walk by the ocean, but we have plans to dance, later." K'del aims for bland and unconcerned, but doesn't quite manage it: he's still so obvious in his intent to to hurt. Still, he manages to aim another not-quite-true smile at Brieli and allow, "It is cold out here, certainly. Perhaps Devaki is right, and we should go inside. The dancing will warm us all up, if the people and fires don't." He, Devaki and Brieli are in front of one of the cauldrons.

Rhaelyn's attention doesn't linger on Zev, even though her hand stays on his fore-arm to allow him to escort her around. "I imagine we should find our way into the hall and see what's happening. I have to see for myself if Devaki is really here." Her lips twitch at the thought. "Do you think he'll....oh, I think that's him right there."

The title for the absent goldrider does arch Brieli's brows a touch, as might Devaki's reaction and tone; even so, "I hope she will. It's certain to be less stressful than the last party." She sounds a little less-than-certain at her last - given the tension in the current conversation, she looks as if she might not blame Iolene for dodging the whole thing. However, the offer of the introduction brings her back to her manners; flashing a grin to the (former) Islander, "I did notice the Lady likes to dance. And I'd be glad to offer my congratulations to her as well. Or is it best wishes for the bride? I can never remember." K'del's explanation of Io's status arches brows again, but she looks to the Hall, sounding grateful, "Thank you both, inside would be appreciated. I'm not used to the snow, and I can't take a shot or two to warm up." The last said lightly - not really.

Zev grins as the hand goes to his fore-arm and he turns his attention towards Rhaelyn's gaze. "Well, if you think that's him, let's go see for certain." He guides the greenrider away from the landing area and towards the assemblage, aiming towards the man she's pointed out as Devaki. "Why would you think he wouldn't be here?" He asks as they cross the distance.

She's surely been around here for a while, having hitched a ride with somebody, but now Damaris is coming out of hiding with a gaggle of people her own age, a mixture of Weyrfolk and those from here. She's actually being quiet for once, letting somebody else with the group tell all the stories and keep people entertained. She's too busy being attentive to everything else going on to bother with trying to be clever, as well.

It's hard for Devaki to cover up his reaction to K'del's mention of Iolene, the slight wince and clench of jaw visible, albeit briefly. "Good," he forces through in brittle tones, "Perhaps we'll get a chance to dance as well, later." But Brieli's ongoing attempt to ignore the tension allows him a somewhat more genuine response, even if it has the lingering tension of the ongoing conversation, "I believe she'd welcome either. And the opportunity to meet more people outside of the Hold. Shall we?" He gestures towards the doors leading back into the Hold, though Rhaelyn's approach catches his eyes, and he hesitates a moment. "Excuse me a moment. I'll see you both inside." His fingers wind together as he waits, preventing him from fidgeting with finery that wouldn't even be dreamed of on the Island: his gaze flickers briefly towards Zev, but fixes soon on Rhaelyn, an uneasiness in his gaze belied by the welcoming smile of recognition for the other Islander. "Rhae," he greets her with a low voice, a hint of hesitation, like he's not quite /sure/ how she might react.

K'del's expression shows only the faintest hint of satisfaction in observing Devaki's reaction to his words. He holds his tongue, and, as Devaki is distracted by the arrival of Rhaelyn and Zev, turns towards Brieli with an offer of his arm: "Shall we head indoors, then? I'm sure Devaki can catch up in time, should he choose to." Perhaps he could be forgiven for making it sound as though he'd rather the young Lord did not, but at least he manages a smile as he says it.

Rhaelyn's eyes sharpen as she answers Zev, "It could be some bit of trickery. I mean, he just up and vanishes off and now floats up with a highborn wife?" With a little upward tip of her chin she finally glances at her escort to see if he will side with her. "A trap or..." But now they are too close to the others for her to go on aloud about whatever theory she might be cooking. She gives a little fluff of her skirts with her free hand, allowing herself a long moment to size up her fellow islander and his new threads. "Weyrleader." A distracted head-bob to K'del and she's focused in again on Devaki like a firelizard on something shinny. "Dev..." Her eyes narrow a fraction, "I guess it really is you."

Starting for the indoors, Brieli might continue the pleasant small talk with Devaki, as if she's never heard a whisper of rumor about him - but then, there's other matters. "Of course," she leaves him with, likely just happy to be getting inside ASAP. Turning back to K'del as his arm is offered, she blinks before taking it easily, nodding for the suggestion. "Let's do that - and I'm sure he will if there's time. This sort of thing tends to have a lot of obligations for the people engaged." And, you know, if the Weyrleader chose to ''dodge'' Devaki for the rest of the celebration, he'd have a good excuse now.

"Quite the event, sir." Zev chimes in with a bit of warmth to Devaki, though he doesn't know him beyond the brief glances he got of all the islanders in the early days. He puts a hand over Rhae's on his forearm as his only response to her comments leading up to meeting the new Lord.

"It's good to see you," Devaki says to Rhaelyn, his smile faltering somewhat, like he's forcing himself to keep up the facade. "Who ''were'' you expecting?" he can't help but to ask, with a tip of his head. Another glance at Zev, and a nod to acknowledge his comments, "High Reaches Hold knows how to mark a momentous occasion, I'm pleased to say." He steps closer, leaning in to murmur to Rhaelyn, lifting a hand to touch her free arm lightly, if she doesn't move: "I ''told'' you I'd do whatever it took to restore our Blood." Louder, as he straightens, a more casual smile, "Perhaps you'll save me a dance for later, Rhae?"

It's only once K'del and Brieli are safely indoors and away from Devaki that the Weyrleader will release the candidate's arm, rather as though he's been using her to - what? Make a point? Something else? It's certainly unlike his usual character - more like the way he tends to act with Tiriana. He lets out a low breath of relief once they step into the warm, remarking to Brieli in a cheerful enough tone, "At least Lord Braeden knows how to put on a party. ''Are'' you a dancer? Or would you rather get a - non-alcoholic - drink and some food? Or, you know, you can abandon me right now and I'll go find someone official to make nice with."

Breaking away from the little gaggle of people she was walking with with some quiet apologies and plenty of smiles, Damaris ghosts over towards the group of Interesting People, putting on a pleasant enough smile. While her steps are slow, she's not quite stopping and staring, just slowing enough that perhaps she can overhear some on her way past and towards Inside.

The increasing chill is enough to send even the most enthusiastic of snowballers indoors. Madilla's at the head of the group, her dark hair loose and snow-filled, her five-turn-old daughter in hand. In her arms is a blonde-haired, toddler, squirming contentedly against her. Her steps falter as she passes not too far from the collection of people near the cider cauldron, and for a moment, she just stares-- and then she's off again, turning her face away from them and avoiding eye contact with anyone, so she can escort the children inside.

Rhaelyn's eyes shift back and forth along the line of visitors and native Reachian holders before her gaze settles back on Devaki, "It's good to see you, and that you are in one piece. As for who I might have been expecting?" She gives a shrug, admiting, "I don't know. Some...impostor. I didn't think you'd...." She doesn't finish the words though, because the touch distract her from that thought. There's a smile at last, less cold brittleness as the islander speaks to her in lower tones. "Of course I'll save you a dance. There's /so/ much we should catch up with." So many questions burning in her eyes, she might just set something on fire with the look alone but somehow she manages not to blurt them all out right then and there.

Brieli just might be curious about the reunion that's occurring as she walks away; she shoots a glance over her shoulder at the trio of Rhaelyn, Zev and Devaki, dark gaze narrowing before she can turn back. Once inside, she'll unfold to her full height again in the heat, like a flower rising to the sun. It's likely the good cheer from being warm that stops her from staring at K'del as he drops her arm - even she knows he's acting odd. Giving him a bit of the side-eye, she agrees, "It's all very festive, and I'm glad for that. And I'm a dancer, but not the best amongst them. I'd rather not have to follow all the steps." For that last, she'll give him a grin and note dryly, "You're a terrible burden, Weyrleader. I'm just bored to death by your very presence." And then she'll unwind her scarf.

Zev smiles as he gives Rhaelyn's hand another little pat then adds in a more jovial manner to Devaki, "I'll be sure not to monopolize her dancing time then, I'm not so greedy as to do that." He flashes a grin over to the greenrider, "Shall we go on in and get out of this cold?"

Devaki wants to follow the thread of Rhaelyn's unfinished sentence, that much is clear from his curious expression and the way he leans forward a little. But the shift of his gaze indicates that this isn't, perhaps, the company to do it in, and so he simply straightens. "There's certainly plenty to catch up. The ''rumors'' I've been hearing about the Weyr, for one..!" He tries to force light-heartedness into his voice but it doesn't quite ring true. "I appreciate that," he offers, easily, to Zev, "But, firstly, we should have a drink in celebration of Lord Braeden," he says, gesturing inside by way of invitation, nodding to Zev to include him in that, also, moving to follow those heading inside, crowding in behind Damaris.

Into the warmth she goes, glancing over her shoulder to get a good look at the faces that seem to be catching all of the attention. The young woman, once safely into the warmth, casts a swift glance around before she starts to drift in the direction of Brieli and K'del, lingering a bit back away until she's sure that she's been spotted, and only then approaching. Someone's in mouse-mode, tonight.

It's pretty obvious that K'del is now ''pretending'' that there's nothing odd whatsoever about his behaviour: he's suddenly all smiles, all cheerfulness. "Dancing is more fun when you're not on display so much," he allows, pulling open the buttons of his coat so that he can begin the process of disrobing (to the gather-best beneath, of course). "Hardy-har-har. Very funny. I-- Damaris, good evening. Having a good time?" It's only a vague glance that has him catching sight of the other candidate, but as he does, he aims in her direction a warm enough smile.

Rhaelyn's fingers drum lightly along Zev's arm and her smile at him turns ever so frosty, though she manages not to let any snide comment slip out. Instead she turns back to Devaki, "Well, now that your news is out of the bag...perhaps you'll make yourself available to old friends and we can get caught up when your attention isn't so divided. I have heard my share of rumors too. Who can you trust to tell, or know the real story?" Now she turns back to Zev, "Drinks sound nice yes?" As in: Go fetch.

Zev isn't slow on the uptake. He lets his arm drop just enough to let Rhaelyn's hand disengage, "I'll be just a moment then..." He moves ahead, leaving Rhaelyn back with Devaki as he makes his way on into the warmth and the promise of glasses of something interesting to sip upon. He takes his time, even after he gets the glasses, lingering off a ways to give the two a quiet moment to trade stories without his ears in range.

"I'll always make time for old friends," Devaki assures Rhaelyn, pausing a moment to study the greenrider as he adds, "I can trust an Islander, to tell the truth." If anything, the blond looks almost startled by Rhaelyn's request and the alacrity with which Zev obeys: he stares thoughtfully after the departing man. "You've trained him well, I see," he says to his fellow Islander, a mingling of admiration and uneasiness, too. He reaches out a hand to rest in the middle of her back with the intent of guiding her off to one side -- Lord Braeden can be seen dancing with Lady Issedi, and his eyes follow the pair on the dance floor for a time, before flicking to where the Weyrleader is with the candidates. "So, you're free to travel as you see fit?" he asks his companion.

"There are a lot of people here," Damaris advises K'del, as she puts on a smile and slips over to he and Brieli. She lifts her chin in greeting to the other candidate, drawing up a polite distance back from the pair and starting to pull off her own extra layer of clothing. "And a lot of very tempting alcohol that I am not allowed to drink." A brief pout, but it's all playful, put on. She shifts on her feet to watch the surroundings again, still keeping part of her attention on K'del and Brieli, but being attentive to the rest of it as well. Observant, as best she can manage.

Brieli can totally pretend if K'del wants to do that; besides, it's a party - who wants to dwell over more serious matters? Still, she's glancing towards the door, perhaps to see who's coming in next. She too spots Damaris, giving the other candidate an easy nod. "Do you find it's rather like being on display?" she asks the bronzerider. "I suppose it would feel like that, actually. People often watch people who are important in some way, yes?" Shrugging off her coat in favor of her short red dress, she tells Damaris, "It makes things a lot chillier if you can't have a nip to warm up. And there are an awful lot of people..." She trails off to take a look around.

"Old friends shouldn't play they are fog and vanish with the light of day." Rhaelyn notes, though not exactly unkind, even though her usual edge is in her tone. She doesn't look after Zev, just smiles at the compliment, "It's....he's....a work in progress." She catches Devaki's gaze and then follows his look to the dance floor, "You've done very well for yourself though. Pretty lady...." Her gaze stays there as she nods in response to the question, "Free as can be. Although I haven't fully tested any limitations. Yet."

"It's exactly like being on display," confirms K'del as he pulls his coat off and hangs it from one of the hooks oh-so-helpfully located on the wall behind them. He's wearing black and navy, beneath, looking every inch a High Reachian - identifiable even without his knot, though he's wearing that, too. "It's awful. Sometimes, I go to gathers down south, or anywhere, really, where I'm less likely to be recognised without my knot on. Just to get away from it." His own gaze considers the crowd, sweeping from one group of people to another, and lingering only briefly on Braeden and Issedi as they dance. "Sorry about the alcohol. Wish I could stretch the rules, but-- can't trust ''everyone'' to be on their best behaviour."

Zev makes a slow tour of the inner hall, exchanging nods and smiles with faces that are familiar and not alike. In general just taking the long way back to where he started, with a few glances from a distance towards Devaki and Rhaelyn's conversation to the side of all of the activity.

A group of holder women, all obviously high ranking if not 'Ladies' in the major hold sense of the term, hang around together in the corner, making eyes at Braeden. One mother steps up alongside her daughter and seizes her hand, attempting to push through the crowds, daughter in tow, to lead her towards the dancing Lord. Issedi's cheeks turn pink in the conversation that follows; as she retreats, Braeden is left to look awkward and out of his depth for a moment, before he accepts the hand of the girl presented to him, and continues the dance. He ''is'' a lovely dancer.

"Oh, no, it's fine, I was just attempting to get a smile," Damaris says, refocusing in on K'del and Brieli. A little fluttered smile, and she hangs her jacket up, stuffing her gloves into a pocket. "I just wanted to say hello. I'm sorry for interrupting." Another smile flashed, this one brighter, and she's dipping her head to the two of them and drifting back away, circling around through the people and settling back into observer mode. There's a lot to take in.

Hanging up her coat, Brieli has to smile at the idea of K'del sneaking off to dance in secret. Even so, "I can only imagine. The smaller gathers are more fun anyway, less formal, more dancing..." Again, the tall dark candidate trails off, this time for a less obvious reason; almost too quickly, "The few that I've been to out of the Hold were, in any case. And like Damaris said - it's more of a joke. Alcohol-warm isn't properly warm anyway." To the distracted blonde, "Hello, then. And you weren't really interrupting." But then, Damaris is off into the fray. Glancing K'del's way, she shrugs.

Happily, one of the things provided by Braeden this evening is childcare: having been missing from the action for a few minutes, Madilla now returns, her hair re-pinned and her clothes returned to immaculate, sans children. The healer crosses to the buffet tables, but fills her plate only sparingly; with it in hand, she retreats towards one of the further corners, content to watch the dancing without being amidst it.

"You really we--" K'del breaks off his words, which were probably largely a reiteration of what Brieli has just said; the expression he aims after Damaris is a perplexed one, one that is turned towards Brieli a moment later. His shrug matches hers, and he remarks, then, "Seems like you've been to at least a couple. Better than I ever managed, and I didn't even live in a major hold. Wasn't quite so interested in dancing back then, though, I suppose." He's not suspicious, though: just smiling. "Smaller ones are always better. Much more personal."

"That all depends on what they reappear with," Devaki responds to Rhaelyn in a low voice, an easy smile gracing his lips. He misses the exchange on the dancefloor, and the fact that Lady Issedi is now unaccompanied -- he remains wholly fixed on the Reachian greenrider. "She's... sweet," is all he's willing to say, of Issedi. Unlike him, of course, is the implication. But he's got more important things to speak of, his his voice lowers to a murmur, "I haven't been able to get a hold of Tom. If you should see him, send him down here -- I could use another Blood or two, to help. While we won't secure land for ourselves, not initially -- it's a start. Braden's even begun to discuss extending his holding to the Island, if Elder Shimana, or any of the others want to return there."

Food is collected, and a quieter sort of corner is found. Damaris settles herself in to pick at food and drink something, pulling her feet up beneath her in her chair and watching the people in attendance with some measure of curiosity. Interest, even if it's a little bit distant. It's all taken in.

Now unaccompanied, Issedi retreats towards one of the walls, both hands pressed towards the waistline of her dress as she watches her brother on the dancefloor; she looks almost concerned, except that she's trying so very hard to smile. She's not alone for long, of course: another of those mothers approaches her a moment later, daughter in hand. It rather begins to look like an onslaught: all these unmarried women, all these eyes on the young, unmarried Lord Braeden.

"I've been lucky, I guess. And sometimes I'd rather hear just a few people who play music for fun than the full-on Harper barrage. They're quite good at what they do, it's just a little... It lacks spontaneity?" Brieli isn't sure that's the right sentiment, but close enough. Glancing out to the dance floor, "It doesn't seem anyone else minds though, so what do I know?" This time, her shrug for K'del is more self-deprecating, and she offers a smile. Careful, as if she's not sure she should voice the words, "Everything seems to be going well, given... everything. I might be cautiously optimistic."

As Braeden exchanges partners, Rhaelyn's watching eyes take it all in, her lips compress before shaking her head and refocusing her attention back to Devaki, "Tom? Of course I can get him here for you. Hopefully you will not forget other islanders of blood. Just because some of us have an addition doesn't mean we aren't islanders to our core." She puts a hand to his arm, expression intense and eager.

Zev sees that hand of Rhaelyn's go onto Devaki's arm and the look in her face. It's enough that he cuts short his trip around the hall and moves towards the greenrider more directly and with a bit more pep in his step. He approaches the two islanders with the drinks he's acquired. "Here you go, hope you have had a good time catching up?" he asks with the question directed towards the greenrider.

K'del's 'mm' is one of quiet agreement, as his own gaze considers the harpers presently at work. But it's Brieli's latter remark that makes his smile twist and his attention turn back to the Candidate. "You mean, I didn't punch Devaki's lights out, and he didn't kick me in the balls." At least he sounds amused when he says it. "And no one has done anything along those lines-- though it looks like Braeden's about to get swarmed by Ladies-to-be. No, you're right: so far, everything is well. I'm relieved." And genuinely so, if his low exhale is any real indication.

"I wouldn't dare, even if you wouldn't let me forget," Devaki's tone is part fond, part reminiscent, patting Rhaelyn's hand in a reassuring sort of way as a low-throated laugh escapes him. "They'll be a place for all of us, Rhae. I promise you that." He leans forward, voice just as intent as her expression. It's only Zev's return that makes him straighten, his hand dropping easily back to his side as if they weren't interrupted, accepting one of the drinks from Zev. "Thank you. Shall we have a toast to the Lord Braeden?" only now does his gaze go towards the dance floor, noticing the besieged Lord, and the absence of his sister, with just the slightest of frowns.

Issedi excuses herself from the woman and her daughter only barely: both stare after her as she hurries away, looking faintly disgruntled. The young Lady strides rather faster than is probably proper towards the buffet tables, although her roundabout route takes her right past - and very nearly ''into'' - Damaris. Jumping back, just in time, she looks genuinely horrified: "Oh, no. I'm so sorry. I nearly-- Please forgive me."

"Nearly isn't actually," Damaris is quick to say, setting aside her plate and sliding up to her feet. "It's fine, nothing to forgive." A reassuring smile is offered up. "You're forgiven for the nothing that happened, though." Beat. "You alright? Why don't you have a seat, I'll get you something to drink and some food. This is a good quiet spot for hiding for a moment."

Ah, Devaki's reasurance is a little warm shot to Rhae's cold heart. She smiles and gives a mute nod of her head just as Zev rejoins them. "Ah Zev, thank you so much." Just for his benefit, she lets her hand linger on the new lord's arm a moment as she smiles at the woodsmith. "You were ever so missed." Reaching out for the drink with a most innocent flutter of lashes, "A toast to the Lord then, and a wish for his long life." The frown is noted, following his gaze across to the dance floor.

Arching brows, Brieli notes, "Actually, I meant that no one's showed up to challenge this whole thing or yell about what-should-have-been. But... now that you ''mention'' it, I did notice a bit of tension there." A lot. Knives could have cut the tension. "And I don't imagine that it all has to do with what he might have done. Not that I'm asking for any clarification - I feel I might be out of my depth on all of that." Or maybe she doesn't want to get too involved in any of K'del's personal problems. Glancing over to the young Lord, she tries very hard to look sympathetic, and fails. "How terrible for him," she says dryly, despite how uncomfortable Braeden might be looking about being the target of so many women. "It's not as if he doesn't need to be married, is it? And I'm glad of that." She does sound genuine in that, turning back to add, "You seem a bit - anxious. Not that there's reason not to be, but - it's not much of a way to live."

Zev raises his glass to the toast, "A toast to the Lord, that sounds like part of why we're here in the first place." He raises his glass to join in Rhaelyn's offer of a toast and only half turns to see where the two islander's are looking. Then he reaches his free hand to the greenrider's forearm, a light touch, just a finger and thumb taking hold as he asks, "Perhaps you would favor me with your first dance of the evening?"

K'del's mouth opens, but he stops himself before launching into anything in particular and instead, bestows upon Brieli a rueful smile. "It's a long and largely uninteresting story. He's Iolene's half-brother, did you know that? You're right, though - no challenges, no number of Aughan's forces showing up to try and kidnap Issedi and force him to marry her," which was, of course, a completely logical and plausible thing to happen, not at all, "Nothing like that. I'm relieved." Brieli's remark on Braeden makes him chuckle lowly, and he says, only, "Believe it or not, there's a point at which being swarmed stops being fun. Believe me. I-- no. It's not much of a way to live. Reminds me of when I was first Weyrleader, when we had tithes being stolen, and renegades, and-- I'm just tired. That's all. It'll get easier. Simpler. Soon."

"To Lord Braeden," Devaki murmurs, lifting his glass and taking the briefest of sips. He can't be unaware of the greenrider's hand resting on his arm, still, but he seems rather used to being used in such a way that he doesn't protest. His gaze is still on Braeden, however, and he leans in to murmur to Rhaelyn, "I shall make sure that you get a dance with the Lord later," before he starts to withdraw in apparent acknowledgement of Zev's request to dance with Rhaelyn.

"I'm--" Issedi seems unsure as to how she is, whether she is, indeed, alright, and eventually favors Damaris with a sweet, quiet smile. "I would appreciate that, actually. I'm not terribly good at these at the best of times, and being in the middle of it, the main attraction, as it were, is - it's a little much. Thank you?"

"You're welcome. Sit. Breathe. I'll fetch you food and drink, and then stand so that most people can't see you," Damaris returns, offering up an impish smile. "And if that doesn't work, I'll bite whoever I need to. They'll be so shocked they'll forget about bothering you." A flutter of her lashes, a gesture for her hidey-chair. "I'll be right back." And she's weaving through people to do just what she's said, cutting in lines as appropriate with an apologetic smile and an 'I have every right to do this' bearing. Food. Drink. They are acquired.

Rhaelyn lifts her glass for the toast as well, fixing Zev with a direct look for the first time that evening just before taking a sip from the glass. "I don't know..." she starts to protest the dance with Zev, even as his fingers capture her wrist. Her lips twist, part smirk, part scowl before transforming back into a smile for Devaki's sake, "I would -love- that." Then she's letting Zev draw her into the dancing, saying loudly, "You could have waited a moment...."

Zev puts on a smile as he leads Rhaelyn out onto the dancing area, his glass finished and set aside at the last table before he gets her to the floor and both of his hands move to guide her into the ongoing dance. "I suppose I could have, but I felt a strong need to get onto the dance floor."

Issedi's smile is genuinely grateful, edging on pleasantly surprised and amusedly shocked, for what Damaris has to say - it seems to please her, somehow, despite being almost certainly out of the norm for the kind of conversation she's used to. Settling in to Damaris' seat, the young Lady smooths over her skirt, gaze turning irrevocably back to her beleaguered brother. Still, when the Candidate returns, she's smiled at all over again.

"''Really.''" Brieli can't help but glance through the crowds to pick out Devaki again, as he lifts a glass with Rhaelyn. "That explains a few things," she tells K'del, but in a tone that makes it clear it doesn't explain ''everything'' - but then, she doesn't want to know, right? Looking back to the Weyrleader again, she grins to add, "And wouldn't that be a sight. Marching troops, all of that. Unlikely at very best." Something about what he says next sobers her a touch; tucking a loose curl behind her ear, tone easy, "I'll take your word for it. And I'd read that you were in charge then, as well - when I was trying to acquaint myself with all the history. I can imagine it must have been difficult for you."

Devaki pauses a moment to watch Rhaelyn and Zev disappear onto the dance floor. And then he begins to circulate throughout the hall, searching specifically for someone. It takes a couple of circuits before he finally spots Issedi, having to navigate the crowd to reach her. He's polite enough about it, but determined, arriving only moments after Damaris does. "I'd wondered where you'd got to," he murmurs in a low, sympathetic voice to Issedi, smile lighting his features, "Hiding out?" he leans to press lips against his fiancee's forehead, before straightening, his manner completely solicitous. And then he fixes on Damaris with an easy smile. "I'm Devaki."

Rhaelyn tosses back what's left in her glass in a willful, yet silent retort before laying her glass beside his. She's mute even as they begin the first steps of the dance before she hisses, "I didn't know you were -so- keen on dancing." Leaning in closer as they take a whirl around for the first few beats she continues, "You intruded on our conversation."

Plate and mug are brought back in short order, offered out to Issedi with an entirely over the top melodramatic sort of bow. Also, an impish grin. Damaris's eyes are touched with humor, the smile she's wearing all warmth. Once the plate and mug have been taken, she does indeed shift to stand so that she's screening the young Lady from the bulk of the people assembled, the candidate's posture mostly casual. If it blocks Issedi's view to her brother, well. That just can't be helped. She does recollect her own plate, so that she can stand there and eat. Mostly with manners. "Take what moments you can, m'lady," she suggests. "Eat up, gather your strength for the next round. While I will do my best to shield you, they're going to figure out where you've gotten to before too long."

K'del seems to register, only belatedly, that, "Not sure if I was supposed to say that. It might be a secret. I can't remember." He's - okay, not entirely sober, for all that he's been doing pretty well thus far. His opinion of Devaki is, well, fairly obvious. In any case, he's distracted enough by that that his companion's sobering hardly seems to register, and he continues on quite blithely. "It was. I was all of seventeen, remember, thrown into the middle of - mess. Not that much of my tenure as Weyrleader has been all that calm and easy, I suppose. It'll get better soon, though." He seems remarkably sure of it. "The wheels of change are in motion."

"Thank you so much," says Issedi, turn after turn of deportment training ensuring that she's nothing but polite as she accepts the plate and mug Damaris offers. "You're-- Oh, ''Dev''." As her fiance arrives, her expression blossoms, the warm smile of earlier entirely superseded by the intensity of this one. "Devaki, this is - oh, I'm afraid I haven't even asked your name." Her gaze turns back on Damaris, abashed and apologetic. "She rescued me. Holder Biriman's wife and daughter wanted to talk to me about Braeden, and it was awful. I wanted to kick her in the knee and storm away, but mother would be horrified."

Rhaelyn makes a show of struggling against Zev, testing the strength of his grip once or twice before relenting. "They might slip off somewhere..." Is her weak protest before lapsing into silence for a moment or two. Her sulky expression lightens at something that is said quietly to her and she leans her head in closer to whisper back.

Devaki seems content to remain standing, his fingers briefly resting on Issedi's shoulder before they drop away in order to offer a hand out to Damaris by way of greeting, presumably. "Issedi isn't much of a fan of crowds, despite everything. You think she'd be used to it by now," there's something teasing and yet also warm when he says it, glancing back towards the blonde. A low laugh escapes him, eyes brightening at Issedi's words, responding with, "If you'd kicked her in the knee, then you really ''would'' have been the fixture of everyone's attention. Leave the kicking to me... they expect that of a ''savage''," he says it lightly, like he's well used to the term sometimes applied to the exiles. Then, to Damaris, as if only noticing, "Was that a candidates knot I spotted?"

Brieli tells K'del in all seriousness, "I won't mention anything to anyone. I like Iolene - I wouldn't want to cause her any undue issues." As for Devaki, well. He's incidental at the moment. While some young women might have a problem with their companion not noticing their change in mood, the dark-haired candidate is hardly bothered, taking a moment to worry at a loose thread at her cuff. Careful, "That is young. it would be difficult to make decisions at that point - especially when some were life or death." With a purse of her lips for the thread, she looks up to K'del again, curious. "Are they." A pause. "That should certainly help with anxiety. Waiting for the other shoe to drop can be painful."

Zev takes Rhaelyn through a few swirls of the dance step as he chuckles, "Slipping off somewhere isn't the worst thing to do, if you ask me." He dances in close with the greenrider as they drift to the far edge of the dancing area.

"Damaris," she introduces herself quickly, flashing a smile. The offered hand is taken and shaken, lightly (after she's shuffled plate and fork into one hand). "It's nice to meet both of you." Once the handshake has been taken care of, she sets her plate aside again and folds her hands together behind her back, nodding her head to Devaki's question. "It is, yes," she agrees. To Issedi, she notes, "Rather than shin kicking, you should go for subtle stomping on toes. On accident. Because then you have a chance of getting away with it. Or tripping, with a glass of something. But really, the turning around because you're startled and accidentally backing onto her foot...well, it isn't like you did it on /purpose/."

K'del's relief is mostly channeled into approval, and genuine pleasure. He likes Iolene, Brieli likes Iolene: everyone wins! It does send his glance wandering around the room again, though, settling finally on the goldrider in question, who has ended up dancing with a young holder; she seems happy, and this, too, seems to please the Weyrleader. "It was," he says, turning his attention back on Brieli, more serious as the conversation warrants. "Hate the idea of putting anyone in that position, at that age. It's hard enough now. But - yes. Yes, they ''are''." His certainty is remarkable; his smile inscrutable. "Before the end of the turn, I hope. Bring on Turn 29."

"Don't be so vulgar." Rhaelyn warns in a low murmur, sliding first one hand and then the other along Zev's shoulders to lace her fingers at the nape of his neck and pet him there and behind the ear. "Although, I imagine one could get very /very/ lost in the dark corners of this particular hold. I recall something like that happening at the gather not too long ago...Only problem is, if someone sees you while you're 'lost'."

The glance Issedi aims up at Devaki is a besotted one, his teasing only making her more pleased. "We'll civilise you yet," she teases, before glancing back at the Candidate. "Oh, I ''like'' that," she says of Damaris' suggestion. "Thank you - Damaris. I'll have to remember that for next time. You're going to Stand for Ysavaeth's clutch, then? That must be tremendously exciting. I was watching the children play in the snow, earlier, and they kept chattering about it, and - I do hope we can attend. I've never seen a hatching before."

Zev chuckles as he spins Rhaelyn about again as they dance then settles into a slower step. "I suppose we shouldn't get lost then, it'd be a long trip back to the weyr if we were to miss the whole party for taking a wrong turn."

"Oh, I like this one," Devaki murmurs approvingly at Damaris' advice to Issedi. "We'll be sure to keep an eye out for you on the sands, come hatching day." The Islander, naturally, assumes they'll be there. "Of course we can attend -- your brother's Lord Holder now, and I doubt he'd deny you that." Unlike their late, (un)lamented father. "As for civilizing me, we'll see about ''that''." There's, perhaps, a slight tightening of his expression at the mention of Ysavaeth, though he hides it with a forced smile. "Where are you from, Damaris, if you don't mind me asking?"

Also picking out the goldrider, Brieli's expression is more thoughtful; her dark gaze darts from there to Devaki, back to the dancefloor again. With a sliver of a smile, she nods to K'del, allowing slowly, "I don't think most people know what to do with themselves at seventeen, let alone a Weyr. It seems almost bizarre, to allow that. To allow someone to accept that kind of responsibility. Without somme kind of help, or thought to how suited..." She trails off, shakes her head. "Never mind. I'm pleased to hear that," she says, her smile growing a touch, shading oddly amused. "Bring on Turn 29. Be careful what you wish for."

"I am," Damaris confirms for Issedi, flashing another grin. "And it is exciting. I hope you can be there, the party afterwards should be fantastic, and you will maybe even get to relax some without needing to hide in a corner." She lifts and drops her shoulders in an easy shrug, then glances to Devaki. A tilt of her head, but then he's offered an easy grin as well. "It'll be nice to see you both there. And I'm from - around Tillek," she explains. "Little cothold nobody's ever heard of. We grew grapes. I've been at the Weyr for a few turns now, though."

Rhaelyn's eyelash flutter is hiden by the veil of dark hair as she is twirled and spun. There's a startked gasp from the girl as the spin stops, catching her breath after the movement, "Yes....yes, probably right." She allows, brushing hair back behind her ear, trying to regain her cool composure.

"You're not the first to think that," says K'del, levelly, and utterly un-offended. "Nor will you be the last. It's not - an ideal way to do anything. Sometimes, the whole weyr system seems a little strange. Leadership decided in the beds of a few select dragonriders, right? Though," he allows, after a moment, "Leadership decided on an accident of birth is not necessarily any better." He doesn't seem to grasp ''why'' Brieli might be amused, and favours her, instead, with a smile that doesn't say all that much. "And what do you wish for, Brieli?"

Issedi has clearly not been many places at all, for her only contribution to follow Damaris' explanation of where she's from is a thoughtful, "Braeden liked Tillek very much. I suspect he misses it; he ''was'' there for turns and turns and turns. Perhaps we'll visit, sometime. Hopefully, Lady Edeline will have another baby, and there will be a feast for that." Because now that daddy is dead, Issedi may be allowed to attend! "I look forward to seeing you at the hatching, then. It will be terribly exciting. I suppose it must be happening relatively soon."

Zev continues to dance slowly with the greenrider, their conversation dropping off as there is almost a palpable shooting of daggers between their gaze, but even with the glares they still dance close.

Easily, "Many things seem strange to me, but I haven't lived in a Weyr long. And I can't say that you're wrong about leadership through birth; some seem better suited than others... And some just seem more ''interested''. Though I've heard people say that anyone who wants to lead isn't suited for it, I can't say that I agree with that either." Brieli tilts her head as she regards K'del for a moment, weighing the smile, giving the question serious thought. Or so it seems. "Peace of mind," she says, eventually. "Isn't that what we all want?" Then looking for the food table, "I should have something to eat. If you don't mind? Unless you're hungry."

"We should," Devaki tells Issedi, "Visit Tillek. Perhaps after the wedding? I've always heard good things, and I'm partial to the sea, myself. I think if things had gone differently I might have entered the seacraft." The latters directed towards Damaris, as if she might somehow be personally responsible for the positive rumors. "Would you ladies like another drink, perhaps?" he offers, easily.

"It's a nice place to visit," Damaris assures Issedi, nodding agreeably. "I'll look forward to seeing you, too." A quiet chuckle, and then she's laughing at Devaki's words, lifting a hand to wave off the offer of a drink. "I'm fine, but thank you, very much." She does reclaim her plate though, so she can steal a few more quick bites.

"Restricting it to reluctant leaders only rather does seem like - asking for trouble." K'del shakes his head, but doesn't seem to have a better system to offer, though there's something unsaid in his expression that leaves him looking thoughtful, and glancing back in Iolene's direction. "Peace of mind? Suppose it is. Well - I hope you get it. No, no, go on. Ought to go rescue Iolene at some point. ''Promised'' we'd get a dance in, and I hate to let her down. She's not exactly gotten out much, with Ysa on the sands."

Devaki's suggestion visibly excites Issedi, who nods enthusiastically before telling Damaris, "I'm hoping we can be married in the spring." A glance at Devaki, and then she corrects, "''Early'' spring. Once there are flowers worth having - I'd like local flowers, if we can manage it." She still has most of her food ''and'' her drink, so shakes her head to Devaki's offer, but says, "Go and get yourself something. I'll be quite safe, here." Damaris will protect her!

With a smile, "Well, thank you for escorting me in then, sir. And yes, it seems like she's been stuck near the sands - tell her I'll try to find her later?" Brieli offers K'del a little wave as she backs away, starting to weave her way through the crowds towards the food and drink. The further she is from the Weyrleader, the more deeply her brows furrow into a thoughtful frown. Not exactly great for picking up dance partners.

"The smell of the food's getting to me," Devaki admits, "And Edi's beaten enough savagery out of me to prevent me stealing her food... in public, anyway." He winks at Issedi and gives a rueful grin towards Damaris. As his fiancee starts talking wedding plans, he agrees easily, "Early spring," as he edges not-so-obviously away and makes for the food tables.

Rhaelyn's head shakes in silent denial. Or is that a warning? Her eyes flash as her lips move, but the words are for Zev alone to hear, not carrying over the sound of the music. There might be serious negitivity going on, but Rhae hasn't stormed from the dancefloor .... yet.

Damaris laughs, lifting a hand in farewell as Devaki sneaks away. A wry grin, and she refocuses in on Issedi. "You're adorable," she points out. "I'm sure people are too often intimidated to tell you that much, so I'll note it for you. Absolutely adorable. Early spring is a fantastic time for a wedding. If you do it before the last of the snow is gone, then the bright bright flowers against the white of snow would be fantastic. And it would mean that people wouldn't expect as long of a ceremony outside...which means a longer party inside, afterwards." Yes, get the young Lady talking about her wedding. And she's doing it on /purpose/, too. A few more bites of food are taken. Nomnom.

K'del's lazy salute is probably intended to convey a few different meanings, for he offers no more words to Brieli, and instead, turns to disappear into the crowd. A few minutes later, he resurfaces again, Iolene on his arm: they dance close, affectionately, and with obvious enjoyment. Take ''that'', Devaki.

It's completely coincidence that Madilla is fetching her own food at the same moment as Devaki heads in that direction. The moment she sees him, however? She's off and moving in the other direction, disappearing back into the crowd, with nothing more than a single, inscrutable glance in his direction.

The bounty of High Reaches Hold spread out before her, and Brieli isn't seeming impressed with any of it. If there were a line, she'd be holding it up - but thankfully, the hungry masses have thinned out. Now more of a dart-in-and-out affair, the tall candidate only gets in people's way ''occasionally'' as she picks out bits of this or that, but nothing in any great amount. She misses Madilla's in-and-out entirely, all cross with her plate.

It'd be hard for Devaki not to notice K'del, and consequently, Iolene, out on the dance floor. It slows his steps, casts his expression into a dark, unhappy scowl that persists even as he resumes his path to pick up food and a glass of wine. He spots Madilla -- or rather, her retreating figure as she turns and leaves the other way -- opening and closing his mouth in one motion, pointedly resuming his path. "I see K'del abandoned you for more interesting fare," he murmurs in Brieli's direction as he leans near her to scoop up some of the greens onto his plate. He tries, but he can't /quite/ hide the dislike in his tone.

Zev whispers back to Rhaelyn something, then with a smile spins her once to end their dance, then with an arm holding her about the waist guides her towards the food tables, "The dancing is the best part of the evening... but we shouldn't miss out on the food."

Issedi positively beams after her fiance, her sigh one of absolute contentment. When she turns back to Damaris, the first thing she says is, "Isn't he wonderful? I'd ''hoped'', but - I didn't think it would ever happen. The arrangement with Aughan was too important, I thought." Her cheeks turn pink at the other girl's assessment of her, though she seems pleased by it. "Thank you? Oh, that sounds lovely. What an excellent idea. I was thinking... do you think Devaki would like it if we went away, afterwards? On a boat. I know he loves the sea, and I'd like to ''see'' things."

"I am sure that if it's something that you want," Damaris assures Issedi, shifting on her feet to sort of block the other woman's view of everything, "He's likely to want to indulge you. And a trip on a boat..." Pause. She clears her throat. "I'm sure if that's what you want. You could probably ask for just about anything you wanted, really. And seeing things is very nice." Beat. "And yes, of course, he's wonderful. You two are terribly suited for one another."

Rhaelyn allows Zev to escort her off the dance floor, but as soon as they are past that line, she's shrugging away from the circle of his arm and making her way for the food alone. "Thinks he's so fancy...."

Barely turning around as she pokes as some salad with a spoon, Brieli tells Devaki, "You seem terribly interested in what he's doing. Odd for a man at his engagement party." Her cultured tones aren't offended - rather, she might just be giving out some advice. Or a warning. Moving on down the table, she turns to ask him bemusedly, "Does anyone eat fish at a party? Honestly?" Anyway... "Should I feel abandoned? Should I monopolize High Reaches' Weyrleader? I don't think that's polite."

Issedi is not entirely unconscious of the way Damaris is blocking her view, and nor does she seem to take the other girl's answer at completely face value: it makes her frown in thought, though the expression doesn't linger. Instead, another smile blossoms. "He does love to make me happy," she agrees. "He's good to me. So is Braeden. I'm sure we're going to be terribly happy with each other, and have lots and lots of adorable blonde babies." Her head tilts to one side: "Have you thought much about Impression? I hadn't spoken to many dragonriders before the clutching party, but they all spoke so fondly of their dragons I assume it must be like falling in love."

Riorde comes in late, and fashionable too. She's put in no small amount of effort to look her best in a satiny black dress that flatters her figure, hair swept up in a twist. She's certainly dressing for the part of the celebrating well-wisher, and she more or less looks like it too as she comes into the hall with pleasant little smile fixed in place, except that there's something intent in the way she scans the room.

"That's because he's ''dancing'' with--" Devaki catches himself, biting down on his response, fingers tightening briefly around his plate. "You're right, of course," he concedes, as if she's provided him with some worthy advice. Her question about the fish earns, for a moment, a blank stare, and then a hearty, pleased sort of laugh, agreeing, "Not myself, nor any of the Islanders -- we had more than our fare share of fish in our time. I suspect Lord Braeden thought it a tribute." He is -- more than happy -- to leave the subject of the High Reaches Weyrleader well enough alone.

K'del and Iolene dance, still, utterly oblivious to glances in their direction, or entrances of anyone else. Something the blonde goldrider says makes the bronzerider throw back his head and laugh; she seems pleased.

"Most men are more than happy to do what they need to to make their wives happy," Damaris explains, fork hand coming up to brush some of her hair back from her face. "And he seems the sort to do his best to give you whatever you like. So yes, I expect you will be very happy, with lots of adorable blonde babies." She chuckles softly, and then she's wrinkling up her nose at the question of Impression. "I haven't thought much about it, no," she says. "I...well, to me, it seems like something that it's impossible to guess at or explain or think up. I'm enjoying being a candidate, there's a lot of new experiences, and they keep me busy enough that I'm never bored...and for once, there's plenty of work that I don't mind doing. I've found that I'd prefer to work until I can't think, as of late. Because...well. It's been a very strange time for me. I'm trying not to set myself up for disappointment." And failing, but hey.

Rhaelyn grabs up a plate as though she might use it as a weapon and thinks better of it and just piles on the fingerfood as she scoots down the table of options. She looks pleased with herself for detatching herself from Zev and goes in search of wine, only to spot the arrival of the brownrider, but luckily that woman's attention.

Brieli's gaze flickers from Devaki to the pair of dancing riders, then to Devaki's poor abused plate. With an awfully sage nod for someone likely in her teens, "I thought perhaps I might be. And I think the dancing might be something you have to live with," she adds, sounding a touch regretful - possibly for the Islander's benefit. Offering a wide smile for that pleased laugh, she finds herself a roll, explaining, "It just seems like it's something you'd want to avoid. Fish-breath. Bones. Though if the Lord intended it as a tribute, I'll happily change my opinion. I wouldn't want to offend."

Zev makes his way around the other side of the table from the greenride as he fills up his own plate. Then he drifts near, but not quite within plate smacking range.

Issedi nibbles carefully at some of the food on the end of her fork, and gives Damaris a considering glance. "As long, in return, their wives give them what ''they'' need," she says, in the hushed kind of tone that well-bred ladies sometimes employ to talk about things that aren't entirely proper. "I know." She's been well versed. But the talk of Impression, that's easier, and perhaps more interesting at this stage of her life: "Oh, I see. Yes, that does make sense. It would be terrible to get excited by it, and then to - it must be such an interesting position to be in. Not knowing the future. Until these past sevens, I've never been in that position, and now I ''do'' know the future again, so--" But it's a future she's happy with, at least.

"The ''dancing'' is not what bothers me," Devaki admits with a grimace, as he secures his wine glass. He spots Rhaelyn's return from the dance floor, his gaze lingering on her briefly before returning to Brieli. The look he's given her is, well, rather considered, and he asks, "Are you Blooded, then?"

"It's...interesting, yes," Damaris agrees, chuckling under her breath again. The whole husband-and-wife thing? Yeah, she's not touching that, nope. She just clears her throat. Stuffs another bite of food into her mouth. Yum, food. That she had nothing to do with cooking. It's pretty awesome. "It's all very different and very interesting and...often very silly, if you can believe that. Some of the antics people get up to." A warm smile is offered. "I'm glad you like the future you're seeing. I personally try to focus the bulk of my attention on the present. It's the only thing I can do anything about."

Riorde winds up near the dance floor. There's something unapproachable about her that keeps her from partnering up to actually join the couples there, and for awhile she just watches, gaze caught by K'del and Iolene. Her smile stays put, but everything else about her is hard.

Rhaelyn adjusts a few food items on her plate as she bobs her head at Devaki as she passes by. She takes a glass of wine as Zev moves to her side. A long, serious drink is taken from the glass as she stands there.

Dryly, "The dancing wasn't all that I was talking about." Brieli glances over K'del and Iolene's way before telling Devaki in an easy aside, "I ''have'' had the opportunity to spend time with Io, and I quite like her." Just FYI. Again, she's unbothered by how he regards her, picking up a fork and knife to go along with her plate; looking up with lifted brows, "That's rather abrupt, isn't it? I'm not, as far as I'm aware. My family is... different. More informal."

Zev pops a few bits of food into his mouth as he settles into the cool quiet of Rhaelyn's wake. Despite the looks he has gotten from her after their dnce ended he still seems to hve a healthy appetite.

Given the glance Issedi shoots Damaris? She's relieved that the other woman doesn't touch her potentially risque remark; her smile is a little strained, though it blossoms again soon enough. "Silly. I'm not used to silly. I suppose it must be the stress? We're raised differently, here. Or - I was. My mother is concerned that Braeden is less protective of me than my father was, but I think, really, he's ''more'' protective, just in a different way. Are you enjoying the party? Speaking of the present."

"She's very easy to like," Devaki says of Iolene, and there's a heat to his voice that expresses itself on his face as frustration. With a slow breath, he adds, "I didn't mean any offense. You behave as if you are, so I thought perhaps -- sorry." He looks as if he's just a little off balance, glancing over his shoulder, then: "Would you like to meet the Lady Issedi? She's talking with one of your fellow candidates, Damaris."

The silly is considered for a long moment before Damaris is giving a light shrug of her shoulders. The last bites of food are finished off, and she sets her place down and aside, stretching a bit. "It isn't so much ha ha twee silly as it is - you people are silly, with the things that you do," she explains, putting on another impish smile. "But I'm sure it's the stress, yes." Beat. "And yes, I expect that you were raised quite differently here. Your life and mine have very little in common." A glance around, and then she refocuses. "Of course I am; I've got the most sought after conversation partner in the whole place. I get to go home and preen for hours about having been able to monopolize your attention as I did." The words are followed with the most innocent expression she can muster, eyelashes fluttered at the end.

Any other time, Rhaelyn might just freeze Zev out completely rather than the mild chill coming off her. "Thanks for the dance." She allows grudgingly between the sips of her wine. The drink is finished before she begins to pick at the food. "So, have you done work for any of these people? That table you are working on maybe?" Business talk is safe right?

"Oh. Well, I was brought up at a Hold, so -- I imagine it all kind of trickles down. And I've found if you make the effort, you can sound... however you want." For some reason, Brieli is a bit awkward and wordy in her response to Devaki, as if she weren't expecting an apology. Briefly sympathetic for the somewhat lost look he has about him, she adds, "No offense taken. And I'd be honoured to meet her." However, with a blink, "Damaris? She seemed so distracted earlier." Even so, she gives a little shrug and smile to Devaki; lead on.

Issedi's girlish giggle has her putting a hand in front of her mouth a moment later (she has to abandon her fork to do so, of course). "I don't know if I'm really that," she retorts, however flattered; her head tips in the vague direction of the dance floor, where her brother was last seen. "Braeden, surely. ''He's'' the one they're all throwing their daughters at. I'm glad that you're enjoying it, however. I suppose I'm the hostess, in a way, and so that means your enjoyment is my responsibility. I suspect the clutching party was really more fun, but I've time to learn these things."

The dancers dance away, and Riorde turns away too. Recognizable faces suddenly abound: first Rhaelyn, who the brownrider looks at coolly, without much expression; her smile's slipped away. Then, picking out others in a pause, she heads for another little group. "Damaris," she greets, smiling again, descending behind the candidate and then looking past her. "Oh, you must be Issedi." No Lady, just Issedi. It's forgivable, isn't it, given that it's exclaimed so warmly? "The lady of the hour."

Zev nods a bit, "I suspct that I have. Not certain though as a lot of the work is ordered by stewards and the like so I don't know exactly where things end up. If things get dull we could wander and look ender table cloths. And thank you for the dance. I wasn't sure we'd even get to tke one spin upon the floor."

"They don't want to /talk/ to him," Damaris points out, all innocence. See? That is a total innocent face. "Thus,you are the most desired conversation partner. Isn't that what I was...." She shifts on her feet, lifts her chin, looks up at Riorde. There's two moments of silence before she's brightening, flashing a brilliant smile up towards Riorde. "Riorde!" Yes, she looks terribly pleased to see the woman. "Lady Issedi, this is Riorde. Riorde. I'm so glad you're here, will you dance with me later?" Hopeful, hopeful smile.

Issedi blushes, her expression turning awkward; her train of thought is pretty obvious from her face, even if the conclusion she's come to is not necessarily exactly what was intended. In any case, it means Riorde's arrival is something of a relief, allowing her to turn her smile back on to high wattage, and lift both hands towards the brownrider in an obvious attempt to take her hand and squeeze it. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Riorde," she says. "I hope you're having a lovely time."

"You're very convincing," Devaki says, with a note of what sounds like approval. Or maybe admiration. Then, as he gestures, and starts to head in the direction, "Yes, Damaris, she -- she's been helping Issedi. Edi isn't much of a fan of being made the center of attention, which at a celebration like this--" the Islander makes a sympathetic noise, mostly watching Brieli, so it's only when they're most of the way to where candidate and Lady are stationed that he notices... Riorde. He stops dead. Then casts left and right, as if considering if it's too late to choose an alternative path. "So dead," he mutters under his breath, advancing again towards the group, albeit with more obvious reluctance.

Rhaelyn's nose crinkles, "I'm not looking under any tables." The firmness counters all of Zev's playfulness, just in case there might be some hope that she'd be tricked into it. "I imagine you have a lot more time to work on comissions these past few months." She nibbles at the food, attention straying towards Riorde's greeting and another bite of food is pushed into her mouth. It's like watching a car-crash about to happen. Oh no. Stop. Don't.

Zev gets a little distracted by the scene further out. He chews a few bites o food before he answers Rhaelyn's qyestion. "You are right about that. I have worked through just about all the comissions and orders for the weyr. I'm starting to fish about fo things to do in fact."

"Of course," Riorde agrees easily, her hand finding Damaris' elbow for a light, agreeable touch. Look, she's all smiles today. "Except I wouldn't dream of making anyone uncomfortable here. We wouldn't want to offend our hosts." She's looking at Issedi as she says it, stepping forward to meet her and shake hands when it's offered. "Oh, and you. Your fiance and I are old friends, you know," she drops into the conversation.

As the Harpers conclude their current set, the dancers vacate the floor, among them, K'del and Iolene. The pair part ways at that point, the blonde goldrider heading away from the great hall to presumably attend to ''something'' of importance (powdering her nose, probably), which leaves K'del at a loose end - all the better to go find another drink, and avoid kicking Devaki in the nuts.

"Thank you." As they walk towards the trap about to be sprung, totally unaware, Brieli might drop her voice low for a sentence as she and Devaki pass by a particularly loud group of revellers. After that, she can allow, "It is rather like being the prize runner or something. People come to see you rather than meet you; it's not very personal." It's only when he stops dead in his tracks that she too looks over to see Riorde with Issedi and Damaris - though she'll give him the side-eye for that mutter, she offers quietly, "Can't win tonight?" If Devaki is reluctant, she's putting on company manners and a lovely smile.

"Are you?" Issedi seems pleased, her posture straightening at Riorde's mention of her fiance. "Oh, I don't think I should mind if you danced together. It's only dancing, isn't it? Have you seen Devaki recently? I know he's missed his old friends. I'm just so glad he's here, now, and ''mine''." Such a happy, blushing, blooming bride-to-be.

"It's part of the lifestyle, though," Devaki responds to Brieli in an undertone, the fixed expression on his face hopefully closer to a smile than a grimace. "Doubtful," he adds, as an aside, pausing briefly with a sidelong look at the candidate, a low-voiced comment offered before his forces a brighter smile. "Edi -- I'd like you to meet another one of the candidates, Brieli. Oh... Ri. Hi." Yeah, he's aiming for casual-what-a-coincidence look, here. The fact that his fingers are clenched tightly around plate and glass might be a bit easier to spot, however.

A party like this draws people from all over, and, well. This is the Reaches. Things don't always go as planned. It's no wonder that the hold's guard contingent is out in full force, milling through the party, settling the odd dispute or drunken commotion, and yes, keeping an eye on their Lord and his family. Was that a flash of bright red hair, just over there? How--strange.

Rhaelyn makes an agreeing sound at Zev, the typical response for someone only half listening to the conversation. Realizing that she's split her attention, the greenrider offers Zev a coy little smile, "Anyway, we've had our dance, a drink and food. What next?"

The cavalry has arrived! Taikrin might be late, but then again-- maybe everyone else is early. The brownrider is clearly freshly scrubbed, and her nearly black leathers are finely tailored to her muscular figure. She pushes through the crowds, occasionally pausing up on her toes to scan over heads. It's pretty obvious that she's looking for someone-- perhaps to share the skin of wine she's slung over her shoulder?

"How generous of you," Riorde replies, hands now resting lightly at her sides. "I think I might just have to take you up on that. It's been far too long." Her smile doesn't slip, neither at the starry-eyed possessiveness of Issedi's nor when she turns to look at the two who've approached. There's a little nod for Breili, and then the rest of the brownrider's attention lands squarely on the groom to be. "Oh, Dev. How good to see you. Congratu''lations.''"

Just look at how Issedi's face lights up as Devaki returns; it's enough to make anyone sick, really. ''Surely'' that can't last forever. Her, "Hello, Brieli, it's a pleasure to meet you. I hope you're having a lovely time," is sincerely said, escaping before she can turn her gaze back on Devaki and his old friend. She's clearly expecting a joyful reunion, and what she gets is… not that. So she looks confused.

Zev finishes off the last bite on his plate. "We could take a walk round the outside to see what else there is to see. Or head back if you have earl duties tomorrow. Though I am sure you wouldn't stay later than you wished just on my account."

With a wrinkle of her nose, "Mmm. I wouldn't like it, I don't think." Brieli just might stifle a laugh as she approaches with Devaki, giving him the barest nod. As he introduces her to Issedi, she has a smile for the bride-to-be, echoing Riorde - though with more sincerity - "Congratulations. I hope you're enjoying your party - Devaki was just mentioning that they're not really your thing." And yes, let's all see what's happening with the brownrider. She returns her nod, flashing a brief smile.

''Dragon> To Sforzath, Szadath projects, << Where is she? Give me the image. >>''

''Dragon> So much for niceties-- Szadath is no-nonsense and to the point. After all, there's this very nice green here who would really like to cuddle if his rider would just leave him alone. (Szadath to Sforzath)''

''Dragon> To Szadath, Sforzath is not in a complying mood. Maybe it's the way he was asked. Maybe it's Riorde. Maybe it's just Sforzath himself, or all three. In any case, there's a long moment of radio silence before he abruptly says, << No. >>''

There's a slight wince from Devaki at the faint emphasis on Riorde's words. "Thank you," he manages to say, with aplomb. He sets both plate and glass down for a moment, and -- perhaps because he glances sidelong and catches Issedi's confusion, or perhaps he just likes to push his luck -- he gathers the brownrider up into a brief hug. "Really good to see you, Ri." And if it's cover for a murmur word or two well, it's quick and quiet enough to avoid notice.

''Dragon> Balking Szadath? /Sforzath/? The brown's irritation is obvious in the sudden gust of chill wind, and the way his mind voice starts reverberating. << Yes. Where is she. >> (Szadath to Sforzath)''

''Dragon> This time the refusal's delivered with a building pressure that bespeaks a warning. The quality of Sforzath's mind intensifies, ashy, acrid. << No. >> (Sforzath to Szadath)''

Taikrin's searching prompts a scowl when she doesn't seem to spot whatever it is she's looking for; the brownrider jostles more roughly than necessary against a pair of party-goers -- who seem to think better of rebuking her after a quick look -- on her way towards a stack of wine barrels set up by one of the tables against the wall.

She's fallen quiet, now that there is a Riorde to stand beside. Damaris looks longingly at a drink someone over there is holding, but she doesn't go after it, instead just returning her attention to those standing around nearby, attentive to the conversation. She's definitely keeping an eye up on Rirode now, though the smile is staying on her lips. Oh, the brownrider is being hugged. She inches away a little, so as to be sure she's not in the way. Quiet, quiet, quiet. Easy conversation seems to have dried up, now that there's all the people around.

Rhaelyn hesitates, giving the expanding group around Riorde and Issedi with a quick, but hungry look. "I would like to stay, but I admit that I really shouldn't indulge too much this evening. It doesn't mean you can't stay though." She pushes her plate aside as she turns back to Zev, sighing quietly.

''Dragon> What does Szadath do in the face of building pressure? The same thing all order brothers do to their uncooperative little brothers: he pounces. Mentally. He throws himself into a non-verbal wrestling match, as if to wrest the information right out of his (smaller, younger) brother's mind. (Szadath to Sforzath)''

Zev shakes his head a bit. "No. I came wuth you so might as well go back to the weyr when you ae read to hed out."

For the briefest moment, Riorde's smile slides right off in surprise as she's swept up in the hug. "Oh-- you, too," she says, little pauses gathering between the individual words. No resistance on her part; she even presses a quick, chaste kiss to Devaki's cheek -- which ''isn't'' cover for any quietly returned response. She links arms once released instead of stepping away and smiles, first across at Issedi. "Your fiance says I can steal you away. For a dance." And then the smile's turned on Devaki, the curve of it suggestive of something a little less benign.

"They're not, not really," admits Issedi, attempting another bright smile for Brieli, though the truth is she's distracted, and increasingly uncomfortable. The hug Devaki gives Riorde only makes things worse, her mouth narrowing into a thin line that speaks to embarrassment and discomfort, though it doesn't ''seem'' to be that just doesn't trust him. Even so, Riorde's words surprise her - she turns pink, and doesn't seem to have anything to say.

Rhaelyn gives a little shake of her head when there's no fireworks across the room. With a dusting of her hands she decides, "I think it's about time to go then."

Despite the protests of the steward tending the wine, Taikrin boosts herself first onto her knees, and then onto her feet atop the wine barrel. It wobbles ominously, but holds steady long enough for the brownrider to see what it is she wants to see. Still ignoring the man's fluttering protestations, she sets off through the crowd again, this time with stony determination-- and right towards the scene Riorde is about to make.

''Dragon> To Szadath, Sforzath fights dirty. No -- viciously. There's no quarter given here. When he finally flashes an image to his brother, it's a taunt: the piece of the hall as seen from Riorde's vantage point, over Devaki's shoulder.''

Even if the situation is uncomfortable, Brieli will continue on, giving Damaris a questioning glance before telling Issedi, "I feel a little badly for you then, with so many on the horizon. Hopefully, it won't be a long engagement." However, Riorde's statement has her struck a little silent herself, blinking between the brownrider and the bride-to-be. Then glancing around the room to gauge it - how might that go over?

"Ri!" Devaki exclaims, both surprised and caught off guard. He glances at Issedi, noticing her discomfort immediately -- it'd be hard to miss, really -- and reassures her, as best he can, "She's just teasing. We used to fish together, out on the Islands." Oh-so-deftly, he seeks to extract his arm from Riorde's, as he adds, "Besides, the first dance of the evening ''has'' to be with my fiancee. If she'd indulge me...?" he lifts a hand towards Issedi in invitation, though it's not clear whether he's doing it to save her, or to save himself, exactly. Probably a bit of both.

Zev smiles and offers the same arm he brought the greenrider in on. "Might I escort you back to Amareth then? I'm ready to head home as well."

''Dragon> Dirty fighting is a way of life for Szadath-- he has no compunctions about throwing his weight around against his brother. That image is snatched at, and then a moment later he taunts back with one from Taikrin's own that partially lines up. << GOT YOU! >> And, because this is all fun and games, he withdraws with what generally passes as a comradely buffet of cold against the younger brown's mind. (Szadath to Sforzath)''

''Dragon> The smoke cloud that promptly blows back at Szadath might as well be a 'whatever.' (Sforzath to Szadath)''

There's a curious look sent sidelong up towards Riorde, and Damaris frowns a little, reaching to put her hand on the woman's elbow, now and repeating that hopeful look. Tug, tug. Big eyes.

"What?" Riorde says, eyebrows lifting with well-feigned innocence. Devaki might slide his arm away from hers, but she doesn't let him go quite so easily. "She did suggest a dance. Damaris heard. You've got all the time in the world to dance with your bride-to-be. And exactly how long has it been since we saw each other last? Just one little dance, for old time's sake."

Rhaelyn gives a small nod to Zev and adds, "If you -must-." Although she doesn't just abandon him there, she walks at his side over to the awaiting dragon. "I am surpised you don't want to stay and try for more dancing."

"Early spring," says Issedi, taking comfort in the recitation of when her wedding will be, with the definite implication that she's looking forward to it; wishes spring were tomorrow, even, perhaps. There's something possessive about the look she gives her fiance, then, as she sets aside her plate and mug in order to accept the offered dance; she is ''not'' letting Riorde take this one. "I think I would like the first one," she says, aiming an apologetic glance to Riorde. "Perhaps you can catch up later." She speaks carefully, warily, uncomfortably.

Zev smiles as he walks with Rhaelyn. "When the person I'm interested in dancing with is ready to go, I don't see a point in lingering."

To Issedi, before she rises to dance, "Sounds lovely." Taking the opportunity to drift away from all the drama, Brieli loses herself in the crowd to find a place to pick over the food on her plate - and possibly some of the discoveries she's made over the evening.

All too bull-like, Taikrin runs roughshod right through the edge of the dancefloor, heedless of the grumbling she leaves in her wake. With wine skin still slung over her shoulder, she calls out as she comes up behind Damaris and her girlfriend, "Bloody flaming /shells/, Ri, you're dragon's the biggest pain in my ass this side of Crom." At least she sounds sober? The irritation melts away now that she's located her girlfriend, and she has a bright smile for her and Damaris-- and absolutely no recognition at all for Issedi and Devaki. "'Least you didn't manage to lose our girl, here." This, of course, in reference to Riorde's candidate that Taikrin has claimed as her own.

Rhaelyn gives Zev a bemused smile and quickly mounts up, "No more wine for you tonight." And once up, she offers him a hand up.

There is so much relief, when she sees the bull charging in their direction. Damaris ghosts back a few paces to make sure Taikrin has a straight shot to Riorde, then slips back up to stand beside her. "Taikrin," she says, and with a sidelong glance for Riorde, moves in to give a one-armed hug. Brief, quick, but it's definitely a hug. "I am so glad to see you." There's a Significant Look cast over towards Issedi and Devaki in indication.

With a slight twist of his wrist once Devaki takes hold of Issedi's hand, he spins her briefly, then starts to lead her to the dance floor. "The Lady has spoken," he says, to Riorde, the look he gives her an odd mingling of apologetic and wry. "We'll talk later," he promises, as he steps towards the middle of the hall, perhaps quickened by Taikrin's arrival. Settling in to join the rest of the dancers, he murmurs quietly to Issedi, "It could be sooner, you know. Our wedding. If you ''wanted'' it to be. I'm sure we could import flowers from down south, or something."

There isn't a hint of ill humor about her; Riorde concedes graciously. "Of course." But when she looks at Devaki, she's made inscrutable by the smile she's still sporting. "Later," she agrees before turning to take in Taikrin. "Why, what's he doing?" Riorde answers, like she doesn't know.

It's only once they've stepped well away from the little group (Taikrin gets barely a glance; Issedi is far too distracted, now) that Issedi seems to relax, falling in to position for the dance with the grace she's been taught so carefully. "Mother says there is so much to be prepared, and it wouldn't do to rush things," she points out, lifting blue eyes up so that she can stare, adoringly, into Devaki's. "And I'd like them to be ''our'' flowers. Local ones. It's not so many months away." Five. Six. "I can wait that long. Barely."

There's a ghost of curiosity in the way Taikrin looks after Devaki and Issedi, as if recognition /almost/ sparks, but then-- "Bein' an ass," the brownrider repeats. "I've been /looking/ for you like crazy, and he wouldn't tell us where you were." She unslings the wineskin from over her shoulder, pulls the stopper, and takes a swig straight from the mouth before passing it off to Damaris once she's free of that surprise hug. "Glad they let you get away. Here." Surprise-- it's definitely NOT wine in that skin.

"Barely," Devaki murmurs in echo as he spins Issedi around the dance floor. "Well, you know. We ''could'' always elope, get married. Then come back and have the proper wedding your mother wants," he suggests, with a particular kind of glint in his gaze. He could just be teasing, but then, perhaps not. He's adept enough on the dance floor that he doesn't really have to think too much about it -- giving time for his gaze to stray across the crowd now and then.

"You're going to get me in so much trouble," Damaris comments dryly, taking the skin and bringing it up for a good solid drink before she passes it back, flashing up a grateful grin. "Thanks. Are ''you'' going to dance with me, since Riorde won't? I haven't gotten to dance all night tonight, I've been behaving myself /so well/, and..." She just trails off into a pout, directing it at Riorde. POUTING HERE. HELLO.

Issedi knows that glint. It's barely been more than a sevenday or two, but - she's a fast learner. "And if I turn up pregnant," she murmurs back to him, taking great pains to make sure there's no way anyone can overhear her, "what then? No - we have to wait." But her glance is affectionate as she adds, a little more loudly, "I suppose the end of winter isn't so bad. We'll raise peoples spirits, as they get more and more tired of the cold." She leans in, moving to rest her head on his chest: so much for proper dancing, how about a slow dance.

"Sorry." Riorde sounds a little distracted, though she mostly manages to rein her gaze in and keep it to Taikrin and Damaris. Mostly. "No offense," she tells the candidate. "I just thought maybe it wasn't the right occasion. It being their celebration and us wanting to stay on good terms with the Hold. That sort of thing." Her gaze has drifted off again, towards the happy couple, and she's completely still, watching.

"You can be a very vexing woman, you know that, Edi?" But it's a compliment, coming from Devaki, and he seems content to concede her argument, or maybe just slotting it away for another time. For now, he settles easily into a slow dance that spans several songs.

"She wouldn't? Why not?" Taikrin seems genuinely baffled by this revelation. Her full attention turns to the other brownrider, and she holds the skin out for her to take while she demands, "Who sharding cares? You're a rider. On Szad's shell, what's gotten into you? This's a party, let's just do our thing-- get drunk, dance with all the girls, steal a couple and go home."

There's a look between Riorde and Taikrin, and Damaris's pout fades. She huffs out a little sigh, then puts on a more mild, mellow, normal sort of smile. "It's not a big deal," she says. "I'll go find some stranger to dance with. You guys. Have fun. I'll find somebody to get me back to the Weyr." She brings a hand up to give a little wiggle of her fingers, and then she's ghosting a few paces back and turning to slip off.

Riorde takes the skin, but the rest of what Taikrin has to give isn't accepted so easily. "There's more at stake tonight than just that, you know." She puts the skin to her lips and tips it back, staring at the other brownrider while doing so. The look lasts until Damaris starts to escape, and then Ri hastily says, "Oh, don't let her go off like that. Go dance with her before she winds up in a corner with some holder boy."

Taikrin is downright bewildered now, and more than a little irritated by it. "/What/? You're out of your mind-- who cares about holders marrying each other?" But then, yes, Damaris /is/ running away, and so Taikrin just shoots Riorde a /look/ and shoves off to find her, muttering all the while. "Yo, hold up, girl. I'll do it with you."

The strange one's been watching, of course, this whole time: even if he's done a good job of avoiding the main Weyr contigent--thus far. But now Raum steps forward, out of the crowd and up behind Riorde, one arm reaching too-familiarly around her shoulders before he starts for one of those out-of-the-way corners that still exist, even in these crowds. "Rider," he calls her, in that drawl of his.

She doesn't make it very far before Taikrin's catching her and she's stopping, putting on a patient look. "Riorde is upset," Damaris points out, tone as patient as her smile. "I'm fine, I just want to dance. I can find somebody to dance with me. She won't let me budge her, but you're her girlfriend."

"And she's being a pain in my ass too," Taikrin finishes smoothly. "So I'm going to dance with you." To emphasize her point, the brownrider moves to wrap an arm around Damaris's waist -- in a mostly friendly sort of way. "I'm not dealing with her moodswings tonight. C'mon. Dance with me." Maybe it's not the most romantic proposal ever, but-- Taikrin.

Riorde's smile tightens and turns into something else entirely. She glares at Taikrin's back, all that pleasantry dropping off now that there's no one to maintain it for. And she certainly doesn't keep up appearances for Raum when he materializes out of the blue. "''You,''" she answers. No titles, no names. There's something smugly, darkly satisfied when she says, letting herself be steered away, "I thought I'd find you here."

"I do ''not'' understand you two," Damaris complains, but even so there's a touch of pleasure creeping in. Because dancing! It may not be the exact outcome she was going for, but really it does not take much at all for her to stop trying to be altruistic and instead give in to the selfishness. Because Taikrin! And dancing! She wins. Or...something. She leans into the mostly friendly arm around her waist, sliding an arm back around the woman and heading for where the other people are dancing. "I wish you'd gotten here /earlier/."

"One must keep an eye on his Lord," Raum answers without looking at Riorde as he guides her away. "And remove the threats around him." Which means her, in this case, clearly; it's all written there in the equally self-satisfied cat-with-mouse smirk he cants her way.

"Tried. Came here as soon as we were finished up. I would'a been here /quicker/ if someone wasn't being coy about telling me where y'all were," Taikrin confides as she leads Damaris out onto the dance floor. "Here now though, so let's do this thing?" And, at first glance, Taikrin looks androgenous enough with her leathers and cropped hair compared to the frilly Hold women that they probably won't even get too many nasty looks!

"I'm not being cranky, just wistful, it would have been so much more fun," Damaris explains lightly, cheerful now that they've hit the dancefloor. She follows quite happily, settling into dancing with the other woman and totally ignoring any dirty looks that they might get. She's oblivious. Really! Totally doesn't know any better.

"Oh, aye," Riorde agrees, affecting an accent other than her own. "One must." She slings her arm around Raum's waist and off they go in that clearly acquainted way. Riorde cuts a strikingly elegant figure, as done up as she is; instead of the removal of an unwanted element, their progress out of the main gathering looks like something else entirely.

{{#ifexist: Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}} | <h2>Comments</h2>{{Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}}}} | }}

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Logs:Issedi and Devaki's Engagement

2012-05-26T06:40:16Z

Riorde:

{{ Log
| who = Braeden, Brieli, Damaris, Devaki, Iolene, Issedi, K'del, Madilla, Raum, Rhaelyn, Riorde, Taikrin, Zev
| where = High Reaches Hold
| what = Lord Braeden throws a celebration for the engagement of Devaki and Issedi, and the formal recognition of the exiles. All is not ''entirely'' well with everyone.
| when = Day 15, Month 11, Turn 28
| gamedate = 2012.05.25
| quote =
| weather =
| categories = A Lord In Exile
| mentions =
| icons = iolene.jpg, issedi.jpg, k'del.jpg, madilla.jpg, devaki.jpg, riorde_formal.jpg
| log = High Reaches Hold

----

Isolated on its westward-jutting peninsula, from the landward side High Reaches Hold appears burrowed deep into the mountain, with only a few shuttered windows overlooking the rows of cotholds that line the river road. Its double courtyards appear designed more for transportation or defense than for welcoming visitors. From the seaward side, the slant of the windows overlooking the fine deep bay attempts to ward off the sea winds, the higher stories evading the less pleasant odors prevalent at low tide.

Today, the courtyards are full to overflowing with visitors and locals alike. Most of the stalls have been set up further afield, lining the main road that weaves inwards to the hold, and filling the orchards. The courtyards are bustling too, however, with harpers on call to provide dance music as well as more sedate performances throughout the day and night.

However cold and bleak the Hold's setting may be, inside, its colors of dark blue and tan act as neutrals for the warmer, brighter hues of its llama-wool tapestries and rugs. Below the Hold, oval caverns house lengths of seasoned wood for its shipbuilders, and to its outskirts are several minor Crafthalls including a glass-smith's shop.

Though the Hold's main access is by sea, the river road leads to its Weyr and the rest of Pern, while minor roads lead to a few outlying Holds and the distant lighthouse.

Though overall pleasant, the temperature has dropped just below the freezing mark, enough to allow the lightest sprinkle of snow to fall from the skies.

----

Autumn is not an especially ideal time for a celebration up in these northern corners of the continent - but needs must, and High Reaches Hold is nothing if not resourceful. It's still only been a few months since the tragic death of Lord Rynien, but grief has been put aside, today, and the atmosphere is - though occasionally tense - certainly celebratory. The great hall has been turned over to the occasion, with harpers set up to play, and long tables bursting with food. Outside - well, there are bonfires and snowball fights, and big cauldrons of cider and klah, as well as the myriad of stalls that offer wonderful treats and interesting wares to those with the marks to spare.

Formal events require formal greetings, and K'del has already delivered his - he was perhaps a little terse with Lord Braeden, making it clear that perhaps he might have appreciated some consultation on these latest events, but it was all well within the limits of formal conversation. Now, with his formal duties done, K'del has headed outside to watch some of the children play with snowballs, and to warm his hands near one of the great cauldrons of cider as it bubbles away. He looks thoughtful, not quite ''uncomfortable'', but certainly not as celebratory as many others.

While Devaki has spent most of the morning by Issedi's side, the Lord Holder's sister is now dancing with her brother, to the cheering, clapping greeting of many of the residents. The former Exile has taken the opportunity to step away, hands smoothing down clothes that are probably finer than any he's ever owned, marked by a knot of High Reaches Hold. Outside, his gaze drifts over the children, and settles on the High Reaches Weyrleader with a slight narrowing of gaze. His steps in that direction are quick, deliberate. "K'del," there is no formality, and no warmth in the greeting, either, just a statement as he pretends to warm his hands in the same way the bronzerider does.

"Murderer." It's ''like'' a name, the way it rolls off K'del's tongue without him skipping a beat, without him even glancing up to regard the exile. He turns his hands over, warming the other sides in a fixated, gaze-straight-ahead kind of way; too busy to look at Devaki, too busy to give him his full attention. "Or should that be Lord Devaki, reclaimer of birthrights and no doubt the reason this area is about to devolve into chaos as Aughan takes his retribution?" And hello to you, too.

"Really? You whose predecessors sent entire families, all of the exiles' ancestors, to die on a barren rock, want to talk about murder?" Devaki keeps his voice low, keeps his expression pleasant to those who watch from a distance, but there's a subtle tension in the way his hands fold together, in the way he looks at the High Reaches Weyrleader. He takes a deep breath -- glances over his shoulder -- is that a familiar shadow of the Other there, or just coincidence? -- then back. "Lord Braeden," he says, with a forcibly even tone, though he can't quite smooth out all his anger, "Makes his own decision. No one can force him to do anything he doesn't want to do. He believed it right -- given all the ''evidence'' -- to provide some sort of recompense for what occurred."

The implication that his Weyr is responsible for what happened snaps K'del's up so that he can stare outright at Devaki, and then shake his head in disbelief. "My Weyr did what they were paid to do, no more and no less. We're a glorified delivery service-- do you always blame the messenger? Is that how it works?" In lifting his head, he catches the attention of someone else nearby, and attempts then to turn his expression to a smile; it doesn't completely work. "Believe it or not, ''I'' don't have a problem with Lord Braeden's decision. I just have a problem with you. ''Murderer''."

"Do you actually believe you can plead ignorance in all this? 'Oh, we didn't know we were sending entire families to die, we just dropped them off there?' Come on, K'del. Do you really think Pern will buy that?" Devaki keeps his voice low, but it's full of ''intent'', conveying his low-level of anger quite clearly, even if those nearby can't make out the words. He's dressed in finery befitting a Lord, sporting the knot of High Reaches Hold, and holding his fingers over one of the cider barrels as he... /talks/ with K'del. "But, if you want it to all come out, including that you and Tiriana took bribes from Lord Rynien to keep the Islanders imprisoned, well--" he spreads his hands.

"If you'll remember," says K'del, sharply, no longer able to keep his expression at even a quasi-smile, "all of that happened long before either of us was born. ''I'' am not responsible." His bare hands are shaking with barely concealed anger; the glance he aims at Devaki is no better. "That was no bribe. We ''rescued'' you. We didn't have to. If it weren't for us, you'd all still be out there, still languishing away." He's still managing to keep his voice low enough that it doesn't travel, but more than a few people have started glancing in their direction with curiosity. Not that it's distracted those playing in the new snow, not so far away: a group of children, a healer who has lost her hat and is darting about with dark curls bobbing freely around her shoulders.

A party in the snow. Only people who live in the mountains can come up with that sort of thing. Brieli is certainly not a native - that much is obvious by how warmly she's dressed and how the tall candidate hunches over into herself, as if it helps. She winds her way through the crowds, footing careful and slow over the slick ground - or possibly dallying to listen in on conversations that burst through the activity. As her steps take her nearer to the Weyrleader and the sharp-dressed man, she's quick enough to notice curious glances and follow them with her own dark gaze. Interesting.

"No, you are not. But neither do you take responsibility for what you ''are'' responsible for. For what your predecessors were responsible for." A harshness enters Devaki's voice, like he's having trouble controlling his demeanor, fingers clenching. His gaze, however, is drawn by movement nearby -- staring at the group of children, or possibly the healer with the group of children -- an odd expression on his face, briefly. It's almost like he's lost his train of thought, since he doesn't pick up the thread of the heated conversation. Instead, he reaches for one of the cups, filling it from the barrel and taking a deep, steady drink all in one motion.

Low and unhappy, K'del's reply is a simple one: "I hope you are never faced with making a decision that involves placing the needs of you and yours over the needs of others. You don't always get to take the high ground. Can't always be the better person." He doesn't move away, for all that he seems, at least in that moment, finished with the argument; instead, his gaze turns, allowing him to glance around at those assembled, and to make attempts at polished, formal smiles (even to Brieli). Meanwhile, out in the snow, the dark-haired woman is leaning down to scoop up a dark haired girl, who uses her extra height to peg a snowball at one of the other children. There's laughter - lots of it.

As that low, harsh voice carries, there's enough in it to edge Brieli closer, even unfold a little from her frigid little hunch. There's something about Devaki's words that have her expression shading slightly darker... though she'll summon a smile quick enough once K'del's looking around with that attempt at some sort of normalcy. At a bit of a loss - she's not playing in the snow or anything so innocuous, so she makes as if she's headed by the pair of men, merely giving the Weyrleader a nod as she passes. "Sir." Respectful.

From Amareth's neckridges, Rhaelyn ahems to her passanger, checking to make sure he's not taking liberties with his hands as Amareth banks and then makes a sudden landing in the clearing. "Well, we shouldn't be too late." Once they've touched down, she yanks off her helmet and fusses with her hair, leaving Zev to unfasten himself, or waiting his turn for her attention once the hairs are all in place.

There may be lots of laughter, but none from Devaki, certainly. Perhaps owing to his proximity to K'del. Or perhaps owing to K'del's words -- there's a stiffening of his posture, a recognition of the truth of the words. "I've made more of those than I care to admit," he finally says, stiffly. And a little uncomfortably, judging by the way he's looking at the Reachian Weyrleader, like he's suddenly seeing him in a new light. The moment of silence lengthens, as he, too, watches the children, mostly -- then finally, in a low undertone, "I know you won't believe me, but I did not kill Seani. She was one of mine; I cared for her." There's something in his voice all the same, a guilt and anguish that rides his voice and his expression both. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry--" he seems about to continue, but Brieli's arrival has him clamping down again, all false, inscrutable expression as he studies the woman openly. "Candidate," he says, "For Ysavaeth's clutch?" he glances at K'del, looking like he's struggling to keep an even expression.

From Amareth's neckridges, Zev goes ahead and unfastens himself and slides on down from the green Amareth's neck to the ground. And once there he puts on a grin as he turns and gallantly offers a hand up to his gracious ride to the festivities. "Offer you a hand down, Rhaelyn?"

The words in that undertone result in a visible reaction in K'del, one that doesn't imply that he ''does'' believe the other man: but certainly that he's listening, thinking, noting them. Certainly, he hasn't missed the emotion in them, and were it not for Brieli's pass-- "Brieli, good afternoon. Yes," he adds to Devaki, striving for an even tone that his expression doesn't match; he looks bothered, troubled. "For Ysavaeth and Cadejoth's clutch." Can he really be blamed for putting the emphasis on his own lifemate's name? "How is the party treating you, Brieli? Come and pay your respects to Lady Issedi's husband-to-be." More emphasis.

From Amareth's neckridges, Rhaelyn's eyes narrow at the hand offered up to her as she runs fingers one last time through her hair. The buckles dome unfastened next and at long last she gives a roll of her eyes and accepts the help down. "I imagine it's the very least you can do." Said in a quiet undertone as she slides down, careful for the skirts of her dress so she doesn't flash too much leg in the process.

If Brieli is bothered by either being studied or anything she's heard (or by interrupting), she certainly doesn't seem it - by her expression, she's very nearly oblivious. With a bright smile for the mask Devaki is wearing, she nods once, again. "I am. And I am at a disadvantage," she returns - but then K'del is offering an introduction. To her credit, her face doesn't change, and she simply offers a hand to the bridegroom. "Congratulations. I didn't have the opportunity to meet your intended, but she seemed quite lovely at the clutching feast." Even if the men are uncomfortable, she'll just pretend there's nothing weird going on. Clearly.

"And it's treating me well, thank you, sir. Though I'm a bit chilly, I admit." Brieli tells K'del easily.

The way Devaki's jaw clenches at that pointed emphasis from K'del would be difficult to miss, indeed: the former exile looks ill pleased. There's a slight brittleness to the words that follow, like he knows there's no way he could successfully aim for casual with this question: "Do you think Lady Iolene will be joining us this evening?" he does, of course, emphasize that title in turn. And while the blond seems more interested in the Weyrleader's response, he's polite enough to acknowledge the introduction, intent gaze settling on Brieli again. "A pleasure to meet you, Brieli. Devaki, formerly of the Island." If that addition is for K'del's benefit, he doesn't watch to catch the bronzerider's expression; instead, his head tips, and his smile grows, a shade more genuine, "The Lady Issedi is indeed, quite lovely. She's dancing with her brother, at the moment, but I'd be happy to introduce you later." He glances sidelong, then adds with a gesture towards the hall, "Perhaps we should take this inside. It would be a shame if the candidate should miss the hatching due to one of our celebrations."

Zev offers an arm to the greenrider he's arrived with, though he does it halfheartedly, as if he knows the odds of her taking it are somewhere between slim and none. "Where to first, make our greetings to the hosts or take a tour of the booths and tables to see what's here?"

"''Iolene''," no title there, "arrived with Cadejoth and I, earlier. I believe she's gone to talk a walk by the ocean, but we have plans to dance, later." K'del aims for bland and unconcerned, but doesn't quite manage it: he's still so obvious in his intent to to hurt. Still, he manages to aim another not-quite-true smile at Brieli and allow, "It is cold out here, certainly. Perhaps Devaki is right, and we should go inside. The dancing will warm us all up, if the people and fires don't." He, Devaki and Brieli are in front of one of the cauldrons.

Rhaelyn's attention doesn't linger on Zev, even though her hand stays on his fore-arm to allow him to escort her around. "I imagine we should find our way into the hall and see what's happening. I have to see for myself if Devaki is really here." Her lips twitch at the thought. "Do you think he'll....oh, I think that's him right there."

The title for the absent goldrider does arch Brieli's brows a touch, as might Devaki's reaction and tone; even so, "I hope she will. It's certain to be less stressful than the last party." She sounds a little less-than-certain at her last - given the tension in the current conversation, she looks as if she might not blame Iolene for dodging the whole thing. However, the offer of the introduction brings her back to her manners; flashing a grin to the (former) Islander, "I did notice the Lady likes to dance. And I'd be glad to offer my congratulations to her as well. Or is it best wishes for the bride? I can never remember." K'del's explanation of Io's status arches brows again, but she looks to the Hall, sounding grateful, "Thank you both, inside would be appreciated. I'm not used to the snow, and I can't take a shot or two to warm up." The last said lightly - not really.

Zev grins as the hand goes to his fore-arm and he turns his attention towards Rhaelyn's gaze. "Well, if you think that's him, let's go see for certain." He guides the greenrider away from the landing area and towards the assemblage, aiming towards the man she's pointed out as Devaki. "Why would you think he wouldn't be here?" He asks as they cross the distance.

She's surely been around here for a while, having hitched a ride with somebody, but now Damaris is coming out of hiding with a gaggle of people her own age, a mixture of Weyrfolk and those from here. She's actually being quiet for once, letting somebody else with the group tell all the stories and keep people entertained. She's too busy being attentive to everything else going on to bother with trying to be clever, as well.

It's hard for Devaki to cover up his reaction to K'del's mention of Iolene, the slight wince and clench of jaw visible, albeit briefly. "Good," he forces through in brittle tones, "Perhaps we'll get a chance to dance as well, later." But Brieli's ongoing attempt to ignore the tension allows him a somewhat more genuine response, even if it has the lingering tension of the ongoing conversation, "I believe she'd welcome either. And the opportunity to meet more people outside of the Hold. Shall we?" He gestures towards the doors leading back into the Hold, though Rhaelyn's approach catches his eyes, and he hesitates a moment. "Excuse me a moment. I'll see you both inside." His fingers wind together as he waits, preventing him from fidgeting with finery that wouldn't even be dreamed of on the Island: his gaze flickers briefly towards Zev, but fixes soon on Rhaelyn, an uneasiness in his gaze belied by the welcoming smile of recognition for the other Islander. "Rhae," he greets her with a low voice, a hint of hesitation, like he's not quite /sure/ how she might react.

K'del's expression shows only the faintest hint of satisfaction in observing Devaki's reaction to his words. He holds his tongue, and, as Devaki is distracted by the arrival of Rhaelyn and Zev, turns towards Brieli with an offer of his arm: "Shall we head indoors, then? I'm sure Devaki can catch up in time, should he choose to." Perhaps he could be forgiven for making it sound as though he'd rather the young Lord did not, but at least he manages a smile as he says it.

Rhaelyn's eyes sharpen as she answers Zev, "It could be some bit of trickery. I mean, he just up and vanishes off and now floats up with a highborn wife?" With a little upward tip of her chin she finally glances at her escort to see if he will side with her. "A trap or..." But now they are too close to the others for her to go on aloud about whatever theory she might be cooking. She gives a little fluff of her skirts with her free hand, allowing herself a long moment to size up her fellow islander and his new threads. "Weyrleader." A distracted head-bob to K'del and she's focused in again on Devaki like a firelizard on something shinny. "Dev..." Her eyes narrow a fraction, "I guess it really is you."

Starting for the indoors, Brieli might continue the pleasant small talk with Devaki, as if she's never heard a whisper of rumor about him - but then, there's other matters. "Of course," she leaves him with, likely just happy to be getting inside ASAP. Turning back to K'del as his arm is offered, she blinks before taking it easily, nodding for the suggestion. "Let's do that - and I'm sure he will if there's time. This sort of thing tends to have a lot of obligations for the people engaged." And, you know, if the Weyrleader chose to ''dodge'' Devaki for the rest of the celebration, he'd have a good excuse now.

"Quite the event, sir." Zev chimes in with a bit of warmth to Devaki, though he doesn't know him beyond the brief glances he got of all the islanders in the early days. He puts a hand over Rhae's on his forearm as his only response to her comments leading up to meeting the new Lord.

"It's good to see you," Devaki says to Rhaelyn, his smile faltering somewhat, like he's forcing himself to keep up the facade. "Who ''were'' you expecting?" he can't help but to ask, with a tip of his head. Another glance at Zev, and a nod to acknowledge his comments, "High Reaches Hold knows how to mark a momentous occasion, I'm pleased to say." He steps closer, leaning in to murmur to Rhaelyn, lifting a hand to touch her free arm lightly, if she doesn't move: "I ''told'' you I'd do whatever it took to restore our Blood." Louder, as he straightens, a more casual smile, "Perhaps you'll save me a dance for later, Rhae?"

It's only once K'del and Brieli are safely indoors and away from Devaki that the Weyrleader will release the candidate's arm, rather as though he's been using her to - what? Make a point? Something else? It's certainly unlike his usual character - more like the way he tends to act with Tiriana. He lets out a low breath of relief once they step into the warm, remarking to Brieli in a cheerful enough tone, "At least Lord Braeden knows how to put on a party. ''Are'' you a dancer? Or would you rather get a - non-alcoholic - drink and some food? Or, you know, you can abandon me right now and I'll go find someone official to make nice with."

Breaking away from the little gaggle of people she was walking with with some quiet apologies and plenty of smiles, Damaris ghosts over towards the group of Interesting People, putting on a pleasant enough smile. While her steps are slow, she's not quite stopping and staring, just slowing enough that perhaps she can overhear some on her way past and towards Inside.

The increasing chill is enough to send even the most enthusiastic of snowballers indoors. Madilla's at the head of the group, her dark hair loose and snow-filled, her five-turn-old daughter in hand. In her arms is a blonde-haired, toddler, squirming contentedly against her. Her steps falter as she passes not too far from the collection of people near the cider cauldron, and for a moment, she just stares-- and then she's off again, turning her face away from them and avoiding eye contact with anyone, so she can escort the children inside.

Rhaelyn's eyes shift back and forth along the line of visitors and native Reachian holders before her gaze settles back on Devaki, "It's good to see you, and that you are in one piece. As for who I might have been expecting?" She gives a shrug, admiting, "I don't know. Some...impostor. I didn't think you'd...." She doesn't finish the words though, because the touch distract her from that thought. There's a smile at last, less cold brittleness as the islander speaks to her in lower tones. "Of course I'll save you a dance. There's /so/ much we should catch up with." So many questions burning in her eyes, she might just set something on fire with the look alone but somehow she manages not to blurt them all out right then and there.

Brieli just might be curious about the reunion that's occurring as she walks away; she shoots a glance over her shoulder at the trio of Rhaelyn, Zev and Devaki, dark gaze narrowing before she can turn back. Once inside, she'll unfold to her full height again in the heat, like a flower rising to the sun. It's likely the good cheer from being warm that stops her from staring at K'del as he drops her arm - even she knows he's acting odd. Giving him a bit of the side-eye, she agrees, "It's all very festive, and I'm glad for that. And I'm a dancer, but not the best amongst them. I'd rather not have to follow all the steps." For that last, she'll give him a grin and note dryly, "You're a terrible burden, Weyrleader. I'm just bored to death by your very presence." And then she'll unwind her scarf.

Zev smiles as he gives Rhaelyn's hand another little pat then adds in a more jovial manner to Devaki, "I'll be sure not to monopolize her dancing time then, I'm not so greedy as to do that." He flashes a grin over to the greenrider, "Shall we go on in and get out of this cold?"

Devaki wants to follow the thread of Rhaelyn's unfinished sentence, that much is clear from his curious expression and the way he leans forward a little. But the shift of his gaze indicates that this isn't, perhaps, the company to do it in, and so he simply straightens. "There's certainly plenty to catch up. The ''rumors'' I've been hearing about the Weyr, for one..!" He tries to force light-heartedness into his voice but it doesn't quite ring true. "I appreciate that," he offers, easily, to Zev, "But, firstly, we should have a drink in celebration of Lord Braeden," he says, gesturing inside by way of invitation, nodding to Zev to include him in that, also, moving to follow those heading inside, crowding in behind Damaris.

Into the warmth she goes, glancing over her shoulder to get a good look at the faces that seem to be catching all of the attention. The young woman, once safely into the warmth, casts a swift glance around before she starts to drift in the direction of Brieli and K'del, lingering a bit back away until she's sure that she's been spotted, and only then approaching. Someone's in mouse-mode, tonight.

It's pretty obvious that K'del is now ''pretending'' that there's nothing odd whatsoever about his behaviour: he's suddenly all smiles, all cheerfulness. "Dancing is more fun when you're not on display so much," he allows, pulling open the buttons of his coat so that he can begin the process of disrobing (to the gather-best beneath, of course). "Hardy-har-har. Very funny. I-- Damaris, good evening. Having a good time?" It's only a vague glance that has him catching sight of the other candidate, but as he does, he aims in her direction a warm enough smile.

Rhaelyn's fingers drum lightly along Zev's arm and her smile at him turns ever so frosty, though she manages not to let any snide comment slip out. Instead she turns back to Devaki, "Well, now that your news is out of the bag...perhaps you'll make yourself available to old friends and we can get caught up when your attention isn't so divided. I have heard my share of rumors too. Who can you trust to tell, or know the real story?" Now she turns back to Zev, "Drinks sound nice yes?" As in: Go fetch.

Zev isn't slow on the uptake. He lets his arm drop just enough to let Rhaelyn's hand disengage, "I'll be just a moment then..." He moves ahead, leaving Rhaelyn back with Devaki as he makes his way on into the warmth and the promise of glasses of something interesting to sip upon. He takes his time, even after he gets the glasses, lingering off a ways to give the two a quiet moment to trade stories without his ears in range.

"I'll always make time for old friends," Devaki assures Rhaelyn, pausing a moment to study the greenrider as he adds, "I can trust an Islander, to tell the truth." If anything, the blond looks almost startled by Rhaelyn's request and the alacrity with which Zev obeys: he stares thoughtfully after the departing man. "You've trained him well, I see," he says to his fellow Islander, a mingling of admiration and uneasiness, too. He reaches out a hand to rest in the middle of her back with the intent of guiding her off to one side -- Lord Braeden can be seen dancing with Lady Issedi, and his eyes follow the pair on the dance floor for a time, before flicking to where the Weyrleader is with the candidates. "So, you're free to travel as you see fit?" he asks his companion.

"There are a lot of people here," Damaris advises K'del, as she puts on a smile and slips over to he and Brieli. She lifts her chin in greeting to the other candidate, drawing up a polite distance back from the pair and starting to pull off her own extra layer of clothing. "And a lot of very tempting alcohol that I am not allowed to drink." A brief pout, but it's all playful, put on. She shifts on her feet to watch the surroundings again, still keeping part of her attention on K'del and Brieli, but being attentive to the rest of it as well. Observant, as best she can manage.

Brieli can totally pretend if K'del wants to do that; besides, it's a party - who wants to dwell over more serious matters? Still, she's glancing towards the door, perhaps to see who's coming in next. She too spots Damaris, giving the other candidate an easy nod. "Do you find it's rather like being on display?" she asks the bronzerider. "I suppose it would feel like that, actually. People often watch people who are important in some way, yes?" Shrugging off her coat in favor of her short red dress, she tells Damaris, "It makes things a lot chillier if you can't have a nip to warm up. And there are an awful lot of people..." She trails off to take a look around.

"Old friends shouldn't play they are fog and vanish with the light of day." Rhaelyn notes, though not exactly unkind, even though her usual edge is in her tone. She doesn't look after Zev, just smiles at the compliment, "It's....he's....a work in progress." She catches Devaki's gaze and then follows his look to the dance floor, "You've done very well for yourself though. Pretty lady...." Her gaze stays there as she nods in response to the question, "Free as can be. Although I haven't fully tested any limitations. Yet."

"It's exactly like being on display," confirms K'del as he pulls his coat off and hangs it from one of the hooks oh-so-helpfully located on the wall behind them. He's wearing black and navy, beneath, looking every inch a High Reachian - identifiable even without his knot, though he's wearing that, too. "It's awful. Sometimes, I go to gathers down south, or anywhere, really, where I'm less likely to be recognised without my knot on. Just to get away from it." His own gaze considers the crowd, sweeping from one group of people to another, and lingering only briefly on Braeden and Issedi as they dance. "Sorry about the alcohol. Wish I could stretch the rules, but-- can't trust ''everyone'' to be on their best behaviour."

Zev makes a slow tour of the inner hall, exchanging nods and smiles with faces that are familiar and not alike. In general just taking the long way back to where he started, with a few glances from a distance towards Devaki and Rhaelyn's conversation to the side of all of the activity.

A group of holder women, all obviously high ranking if not 'Ladies' in the major hold sense of the term, hang around together in the corner, making eyes at Braeden. One mother steps up alongside her daughter and seizes her hand, attempting to push through the crowds, daughter in tow, to lead her towards the dancing Lord. Issedi's cheeks turn pink in the conversation that follows; as she retreats, Braeden is left to look awkward and out of his depth for a moment, before he accepts the hand of the girl presented to him, and continues the dance. He ''is'' a lovely dancer.

"Oh, no, it's fine, I was just attempting to get a smile," Damaris says, refocusing in on K'del and Brieli. A little fluttered smile, and she hangs her jacket up, stuffing her gloves into a pocket. "I just wanted to say hello. I'm sorry for interrupting." Another smile flashed, this one brighter, and she's dipping her head to the two of them and drifting back away, circling around through the people and settling back into observer mode. There's a lot to take in.

Hanging up her coat, Brieli has to smile at the idea of K'del sneaking off to dance in secret. Even so, "I can only imagine. The smaller gathers are more fun anyway, less formal, more dancing..." Again, the tall dark candidate trails off, this time for a less obvious reason; almost too quickly, "The few that I've been to out of the Hold were, in any case. And like Damaris said - it's more of a joke. Alcohol-warm isn't properly warm anyway." To the distracted blonde, "Hello, then. And you weren't really interrupting." But then, Damaris is off into the fray. Glancing K'del's way, she shrugs.

Happily, one of the things provided by Braeden this evening is childcare: having been missing from the action for a few minutes, Madilla now returns, her hair re-pinned and her clothes returned to immaculate, sans children. The healer crosses to the buffet tables, but fills her plate only sparingly; with it in hand, she retreats towards one of the further corners, content to watch the dancing without being amidst it.

"You really we--" K'del breaks off his words, which were probably largely a reiteration of what Brieli has just said; the expression he aims after Damaris is a perplexed one, one that is turned towards Brieli a moment later. His shrug matches hers, and he remarks, then, "Seems like you've been to at least a couple. Better than I ever managed, and I didn't even live in a major hold. Wasn't quite so interested in dancing back then, though, I suppose." He's not suspicious, though: just smiling. "Smaller ones are always better. Much more personal."

"That all depends on what they reappear with," Devaki responds to Rhaelyn in a low voice, an easy smile gracing his lips. He misses the exchange on the dancefloor, and the fact that Lady Issedi is now unaccompanied -- he remains wholly fixed on the Reachian greenrider. "She's... sweet," is all he's willing to say, of Issedi. Unlike him, of course, is the implication. But he's got more important things to speak of, his his voice lowers to a murmur, "I haven't been able to get a hold of Tom. If you should see him, send him down here -- I could use another Blood or two, to help. While we won't secure land for ourselves, not initially -- it's a start. Braden's even begun to discuss extending his holding to the Island, if Elder Shimana, or any of the others want to return there."

Food is collected, and a quieter sort of corner is found. Damaris settles herself in to pick at food and drink something, pulling her feet up beneath her in her chair and watching the people in attendance with some measure of curiosity. Interest, even if it's a little bit distant. It's all taken in.

Now unaccompanied, Issedi retreats towards one of the walls, both hands pressed towards the waistline of her dress as she watches her brother on the dancefloor; she looks almost concerned, except that she's trying so very hard to smile. She's not alone for long, of course: another of those mothers approaches her a moment later, daughter in hand. It rather begins to look like an onslaught: all these unmarried women, all these eyes on the young, unmarried Lord Braeden.

"I've been lucky, I guess. And sometimes I'd rather hear just a few people who play music for fun than the full-on Harper barrage. They're quite good at what they do, it's just a little... It lacks spontaneity?" Brieli isn't sure that's the right sentiment, but close enough. Glancing out to the dance floor, "It doesn't seem anyone else minds though, so what do I know?" This time, her shrug for K'del is more self-deprecating, and she offers a smile. Careful, as if she's not sure she should voice the words, "Everything seems to be going well, given... everything. I might be cautiously optimistic."

As Braeden exchanges partners, Rhaelyn's watching eyes take it all in, her lips compress before shaking her head and refocusing her attention back to Devaki, "Tom? Of course I can get him here for you. Hopefully you will not forget other islanders of blood. Just because some of us have an addition doesn't mean we aren't islanders to our core." She puts a hand to his arm, expression intense and eager.

Zev sees that hand of Rhaelyn's go onto Devaki's arm and the look in her face. It's enough that he cuts short his trip around the hall and moves towards the greenrider more directly and with a bit more pep in his step. He approaches the two islanders with the drinks he's acquired. "Here you go, hope you have had a good time catching up?" he asks with the question directed towards the greenrider.

K'del's 'mm' is one of quiet agreement, as his own gaze considers the harpers presently at work. But it's Brieli's latter remark that makes his smile twist and his attention turn back to the Candidate. "You mean, I didn't punch Devaki's lights out, and he didn't kick me in the balls." At least he sounds amused when he says it. "And no one has done anything along those lines-- though it looks like Braeden's about to get swarmed by Ladies-to-be. No, you're right: so far, everything is well. I'm relieved." And genuinely so, if his low exhale is any real indication.

"I wouldn't dare, even if you wouldn't let me forget," Devaki's tone is part fond, part reminiscent, patting Rhaelyn's hand in a reassuring sort of way as a low-throated laugh escapes him. "They'll be a place for all of us, Rhae. I promise you that." He leans forward, voice just as intent as her expression. It's only Zev's return that makes him straighten, his hand dropping easily back to his side as if they weren't interrupted, accepting one of the drinks from Zev. "Thank you. Shall we have a toast to the Lord Braeden?" only now does his gaze go towards the dance floor, noticing the besieged Lord, and the absence of his sister, with just the slightest of frowns.

Issedi excuses herself from the woman and her daughter only barely: both stare after her as she hurries away, looking faintly disgruntled. The young Lady strides rather faster than is probably proper towards the buffet tables, although her roundabout route takes her right past - and very nearly ''into'' - Damaris. Jumping back, just in time, she looks genuinely horrified: "Oh, no. I'm so sorry. I nearly-- Please forgive me."

"Nearly isn't actually," Damaris is quick to say, setting aside her plate and sliding up to her feet. "It's fine, nothing to forgive." A reassuring smile is offered up. "You're forgiven for the nothing that happened, though." Beat. "You alright? Why don't you have a seat, I'll get you something to drink and some food. This is a good quiet spot for hiding for a moment."

Ah, Devaki's reasurance is a little warm shot to Rhae's cold heart. She smiles and gives a mute nod of her head just as Zev rejoins them. "Ah Zev, thank you so much." Just for his benefit, she lets her hand linger on the new lord's arm a moment as she smiles at the woodsmith. "You were ever so missed." Reaching out for the drink with a most innocent flutter of lashes, "A toast to the Lord then, and a wish for his long life." The frown is noted, following his gaze across to the dance floor.

Arching brows, Brieli notes, "Actually, I meant that no one's showed up to challenge this whole thing or yell about what-should-have-been. But... now that you ''mention'' it, I did notice a bit of tension there." A lot. Knives could have cut the tension. "And I don't imagine that it all has to do with what he might have done. Not that I'm asking for any clarification - I feel I might be out of my depth on all of that." Or maybe she doesn't want to get too involved in any of K'del's personal problems. Glancing over to the young Lord, she tries very hard to look sympathetic, and fails. "How terrible for him," she says dryly, despite how uncomfortable Braeden might be looking about being the target of so many women. "It's not as if he doesn't need to be married, is it? And I'm glad of that." She does sound genuine in that, turning back to add, "You seem a bit - anxious. Not that there's reason not to be, but - it's not much of a way to live."

Zev raises his glass to the toast, "A toast to the Lord, that sounds like part of why we're here in the first place." He raises his glass to join in Rhaelyn's offer of a toast and only half turns to see where the two islander's are looking. Then he reaches his free hand to the greenrider's forearm, a light touch, just a finger and thumb taking hold as he asks, "Perhaps you would favor me with your first dance of the evening?"

K'del's mouth opens, but he stops himself before launching into anything in particular and instead, bestows upon Brieli a rueful smile. "It's a long and largely uninteresting story. He's Iolene's half-brother, did you know that? You're right, though - no challenges, no number of Aughan's forces showing up to try and kidnap Issedi and force him to marry her," which was, of course, a completely logical and plausible thing to happen, not at all, "Nothing like that. I'm relieved." Brieli's remark on Braeden makes him chuckle lowly, and he says, only, "Believe it or not, there's a point at which being swarmed stops being fun. Believe me. I-- no. It's not much of a way to live. Reminds me of when I was first Weyrleader, when we had tithes being stolen, and renegades, and-- I'm just tired. That's all. It'll get easier. Simpler. Soon."

"To Lord Braeden," Devaki murmurs, lifting his glass and taking the briefest of sips. He can't be unaware of the greenrider's hand resting on his arm, still, but he seems rather used to being used in such a way that he doesn't protest. His gaze is still on Braeden, however, and he leans in to murmur to Rhaelyn, "I shall make sure that you get a dance with the Lord later," before he starts to withdraw in apparent acknowledgement of Zev's request to dance with Rhaelyn.

"I'm--" Issedi seems unsure as to how she is, whether she is, indeed, alright, and eventually favors Damaris with a sweet, quiet smile. "I would appreciate that, actually. I'm not terribly good at these at the best of times, and being in the middle of it, the main attraction, as it were, is - it's a little much. Thank you?"

"You're welcome. Sit. Breathe. I'll fetch you food and drink, and then stand so that most people can't see you," Damaris returns, offering up an impish smile. "And if that doesn't work, I'll bite whoever I need to. They'll be so shocked they'll forget about bothering you." A flutter of her lashes, a gesture for her hidey-chair. "I'll be right back." And she's weaving through people to do just what she's said, cutting in lines as appropriate with an apologetic smile and an 'I have every right to do this' bearing. Food. Drink. They are acquired.

Rhaelyn lifts her glass for the toast as well, fixing Zev with a direct look for the first time that evening just before taking a sip from the glass. "I don't know..." she starts to protest the dance with Zev, even as his fingers capture her wrist. Her lips twist, part smirk, part scowl before transforming back into a smile for Devaki's sake, "I would -love- that." Then she's letting Zev draw her into the dancing, saying loudly, "You could have waited a moment...."

Zev puts on a smile as he leads Rhaelyn out onto the dancing area, his glass finished and set aside at the last table before he gets her to the floor and both of his hands move to guide her into the ongoing dance. "I suppose I could have, but I felt a strong need to get onto the dance floor."

Issedi's smile is genuinely grateful, edging on pleasantly surprised and amusedly shocked, for what Damaris has to say - it seems to please her, somehow, despite being almost certainly out of the norm for the kind of conversation she's used to. Settling in to Damaris' seat, the young Lady smooths over her skirt, gaze turning irrevocably back to her beleaguered brother. Still, when the Candidate returns, she's smiled at all over again.

"''Really.''" Brieli can't help but glance through the crowds to pick out Devaki again, as he lifts a glass with Rhaelyn. "That explains a few things," she tells K'del, but in a tone that makes it clear it doesn't explain ''everything'' - but then, she doesn't want to know, right? Looking back to the Weyrleader again, she grins to add, "And wouldn't that be a sight. Marching troops, all of that. Unlikely at very best." Something about what he says next sobers her a touch; tucking a loose curl behind her ear, tone easy, "I'll take your word for it. And I'd read that you were in charge then, as well - when I was trying to acquaint myself with all the history. I can imagine it must have been difficult for you."

Devaki pauses a moment to watch Rhaelyn and Zev disappear onto the dance floor. And then he begins to circulate throughout the hall, searching specifically for someone. It takes a couple of circuits before he finally spots Issedi, having to navigate the crowd to reach her. He's polite enough about it, but determined, arriving only moments after Damaris does. "I'd wondered where you'd got to," he murmurs in a low, sympathetic voice to Issedi, smile lighting his features, "Hiding out?" he leans to press lips against his fiancee's forehead, before straightening, his manner completely solicitous. And then he fixes on Damaris with an easy smile. "I'm Devaki."

Rhaelyn tosses back what's left in her glass in a willful, yet silent retort before laying her glass beside his. She's mute even as they begin the first steps of the dance before she hisses, "I didn't know you were -so- keen on dancing." Leaning in closer as they take a whirl around for the first few beats she continues, "You intruded on our conversation."

Plate and mug are brought back in short order, offered out to Issedi with an entirely over the top melodramatic sort of bow. Also, an impish grin. Damaris's eyes are touched with humor, the smile she's wearing all warmth. Once the plate and mug have been taken, she does indeed shift to stand so that she's screening the young Lady from the bulk of the people assembled, the candidate's posture mostly casual. If it blocks Issedi's view to her brother, well. That just can't be helped. She does recollect her own plate, so that she can stand there and eat. Mostly with manners. "Take what moments you can, m'lady," she suggests. "Eat up, gather your strength for the next round. While I will do my best to shield you, they're going to figure out where you've gotten to before too long."

K'del seems to register, only belatedly, that, "Not sure if I was supposed to say that. It might be a secret. I can't remember." He's - okay, not entirely sober, for all that he's been doing pretty well thus far. His opinion of Devaki is, well, fairly obvious. In any case, he's distracted enough by that that his companion's sobering hardly seems to register, and he continues on quite blithely. "It was. I was all of seventeen, remember, thrown into the middle of - mess. Not that much of my tenure as Weyrleader has been all that calm and easy, I suppose. It'll get better soon, though." He seems remarkably sure of it. "The wheels of change are in motion."

"Thank you so much," says Issedi, turn after turn of deportment training ensuring that she's nothing but polite as she accepts the plate and mug Damaris offers. "You're-- Oh, ''Dev''." As her fiance arrives, her expression blossoms, the warm smile of earlier entirely superseded by the intensity of this one. "Devaki, this is - oh, I'm afraid I haven't even asked your name." Her gaze turns back on Damaris, abashed and apologetic. "She rescued me. Holder Biriman's wife and daughter wanted to talk to me about Braeden, and it was awful. I wanted to kick her in the knee and storm away, but mother would be horrified."

Rhaelyn makes a show of struggling against Zev, testing the strength of his grip once or twice before relenting. "They might slip off somewhere..." Is her weak protest before lapsing into silence for a moment or two. Her sulky expression lightens at something that is said quietly to her and she leans her head in closer to whisper back.

Devaki seems content to remain standing, his fingers briefly resting on Issedi's shoulder before they drop away in order to offer a hand out to Damaris by way of greeting, presumably. "Issedi isn't much of a fan of crowds, despite everything. You think she'd be used to it by now," there's something teasing and yet also warm when he says it, glancing back towards the blonde. A low laugh escapes him, eyes brightening at Issedi's words, responding with, "If you'd kicked her in the knee, then you really ''would'' have been the fixture of everyone's attention. Leave the kicking to me... they expect that of a ''savage''," he says it lightly, like he's well used to the term sometimes applied to the exiles. Then, to Damaris, as if only noticing, "Was that a candidates knot I spotted?"

Brieli tells K'del in all seriousness, "I won't mention anything to anyone. I like Iolene - I wouldn't want to cause her any undue issues." As for Devaki, well. He's incidental at the moment. While some young women might have a problem with their companion not noticing their change in mood, the dark-haired candidate is hardly bothered, taking a moment to worry at a loose thread at her cuff. Careful, "That is young. it would be difficult to make decisions at that point - especially when some were life or death." With a purse of her lips for the thread, she looks up to K'del again, curious. "Are they." A pause. "That should certainly help with anxiety. Waiting for the other shoe to drop can be painful."

Zev takes Rhaelyn through a few swirls of the dance step as he chuckles, "Slipping off somewhere isn't the worst thing to do, if you ask me." He dances in close with the greenrider as they drift to the far edge of the dancing area.

"Damaris," she introduces herself quickly, flashing a smile. The offered hand is taken and shaken, lightly (after she's shuffled plate and fork into one hand). "It's nice to meet both of you." Once the handshake has been taken care of, she sets her plate aside again and folds her hands together behind her back, nodding her head to Devaki's question. "It is, yes," she agrees. To Issedi, she notes, "Rather than shin kicking, you should go for subtle stomping on toes. On accident. Because then you have a chance of getting away with it. Or tripping, with a glass of something. But really, the turning around because you're startled and accidentally backing onto her foot...well, it isn't like you did it on /purpose/."

K'del's relief is mostly channeled into approval, and genuine pleasure. He likes Iolene, Brieli likes Iolene: everyone wins! It does send his glance wandering around the room again, though, settling finally on the goldrider in question, who has ended up dancing with a young holder; she seems happy, and this, too, seems to please the Weyrleader. "It was," he says, turning his attention back on Brieli, more serious as the conversation warrants. "Hate the idea of putting anyone in that position, at that age. It's hard enough now. But - yes. Yes, they ''are''." His certainty is remarkable; his smile inscrutable. "Before the end of the turn, I hope. Bring on Turn 29."

"Don't be so vulgar." Rhaelyn warns in a low murmur, sliding first one hand and then the other along Zev's shoulders to lace her fingers at the nape of his neck and pet him there and behind the ear. "Although, I imagine one could get very /very/ lost in the dark corners of this particular hold. I recall something like that happening at the gather not too long ago...Only problem is, if someone sees you while you're 'lost'."

The glance Issedi aims up at Devaki is a besotted one, his teasing only making her more pleased. "We'll civilise you yet," she teases, before glancing back at the Candidate. "Oh, I ''like'' that," she says of Damaris' suggestion. "Thank you - Damaris. I'll have to remember that for next time. You're going to Stand for Ysavaeth's clutch, then? That must be tremendously exciting. I was watching the children play in the snow, earlier, and they kept chattering about it, and - I do hope we can attend. I've never seen a hatching before."

Zev chuckles as he spins Rhaelyn about again as they dance then settles into a slower step. "I suppose we shouldn't get lost then, it'd be a long trip back to the weyr if we were to miss the whole party for taking a wrong turn."

"Oh, I like this one," Devaki murmurs approvingly at Damaris' advice to Issedi. "We'll be sure to keep an eye out for you on the sands, come hatching day." The Islander, naturally, assumes they'll be there. "Of course we can attend -- your brother's Lord Holder now, and I doubt he'd deny you that." Unlike their late, (un)lamented father. "As for civilizing me, we'll see about ''that''." There's, perhaps, a slight tightening of his expression at the mention of Ysavaeth, though he hides it with a forced smile. "Where are you from, Damaris, if you don't mind me asking?"

Also picking out the goldrider, Brieli's expression is more thoughtful; her dark gaze darts from there to Devaki, back to the dancefloor again. With a sliver of a smile, she nods to K'del, allowing slowly, "I don't think most people know what to do with themselves at seventeen, let alone a Weyr. It seems almost bizarre, to allow that. To allow someone to accept that kind of responsibility. Without somme kind of help, or thought to how suited..." She trails off, shakes her head. "Never mind. I'm pleased to hear that," she says, her smile growing a touch, shading oddly amused. "Bring on Turn 29. Be careful what you wish for."

"I am," Damaris confirms for Issedi, flashing another grin. "And it is exciting. I hope you can be there, the party afterwards should be fantastic, and you will maybe even get to relax some without needing to hide in a corner." She lifts and drops her shoulders in an easy shrug, then glances to Devaki. A tilt of her head, but then he's offered an easy grin as well. "It'll be nice to see you both there. And I'm from - around Tillek," she explains. "Little cothold nobody's ever heard of. We grew grapes. I've been at the Weyr for a few turns now, though."

Rhaelyn's eyelash flutter is hiden by the veil of dark hair as she is twirled and spun. There's a startked gasp from the girl as the spin stops, catching her breath after the movement, "Yes....yes, probably right." She allows, brushing hair back behind her ear, trying to regain her cool composure.

"You're not the first to think that," says K'del, levelly, and utterly un-offended. "Nor will you be the last. It's not - an ideal way to do anything. Sometimes, the whole weyr system seems a little strange. Leadership decided in the beds of a few select dragonriders, right? Though," he allows, after a moment, "Leadership decided on an accident of birth is not necessarily any better." He doesn't seem to grasp ''why'' Brieli might be amused, and favours her, instead, with a smile that doesn't say all that much. "And what do you wish for, Brieli?"

Issedi has clearly not been many places at all, for her only contribution to follow Damaris' explanation of where she's from is a thoughtful, "Braeden liked Tillek very much. I suspect he misses it; he ''was'' there for turns and turns and turns. Perhaps we'll visit, sometime. Hopefully, Lady Edeline will have another baby, and there will be a feast for that." Because now that daddy is dead, Issedi may be allowed to attend! "I look forward to seeing you at the hatching, then. It will be terribly exciting. I suppose it must be happening relatively soon."

Zev continues to dance slowly with the greenrider, their conversation dropping off as there is almost a palpable shooting of daggers between their gaze, but even with the glares they still dance close.

Easily, "Many things seem strange to me, but I haven't lived in a Weyr long. And I can't say that you're wrong about leadership through birth; some seem better suited than others... And some just seem more ''interested''. Though I've heard people say that anyone who wants to lead isn't suited for it, I can't say that I agree with that either." Brieli tilts her head as she regards K'del for a moment, weighing the smile, giving the question serious thought. Or so it seems. "Peace of mind," she says, eventually. "Isn't that what we all want?" Then looking for the food table, "I should have something to eat. If you don't mind? Unless you're hungry."

"We should," Devaki tells Issedi, "Visit Tillek. Perhaps after the wedding? I've always heard good things, and I'm partial to the sea, myself. I think if things had gone differently I might have entered the seacraft." The latters directed towards Damaris, as if she might somehow be personally responsible for the positive rumors. "Would you ladies like another drink, perhaps?" he offers, easily.

"It's a nice place to visit," Damaris assures Issedi, nodding agreeably. "I'll look forward to seeing you, too." A quiet chuckle, and then she's laughing at Devaki's words, lifting a hand to wave off the offer of a drink. "I'm fine, but thank you, very much." She does reclaim her plate though, so she can steal a few more quick bites.

"Restricting it to reluctant leaders only rather does seem like - asking for trouble." K'del shakes his head, but doesn't seem to have a better system to offer, though there's something unsaid in his expression that leaves him looking thoughtful, and glancing back in Iolene's direction. "Peace of mind? Suppose it is. Well - I hope you get it. No, no, go on. Ought to go rescue Iolene at some point. ''Promised'' we'd get a dance in, and I hate to let her down. She's not exactly gotten out much, with Ysa on the sands."

Devaki's suggestion visibly excites Issedi, who nods enthusiastically before telling Damaris, "I'm hoping we can be married in the spring." A glance at Devaki, and then she corrects, "''Early'' spring. Once there are flowers worth having - I'd like local flowers, if we can manage it." She still has most of her food ''and'' her drink, so shakes her head to Devaki's offer, but says, "Go and get yourself something. I'll be quite safe, here." Damaris will protect her!

With a smile, "Well, thank you for escorting me in then, sir. And yes, it seems like she's been stuck near the sands - tell her I'll try to find her later?" Brieli offers K'del a little wave as she backs away, starting to weave her way through the crowds towards the food and drink. The further she is from the Weyrleader, the more deeply her brows furrow into a thoughtful frown. Not exactly great for picking up dance partners.

"The smell of the food's getting to me," Devaki admits, "And Edi's beaten enough savagery out of me to prevent me stealing her food... in public, anyway." He winks at Issedi and gives a rueful grin towards Damaris. As his fiancee starts talking wedding plans, he agrees easily, "Early spring," as he edges not-so-obviously away and makes for the food tables.

Rhaelyn's head shakes in silent denial. Or is that a warning? Her eyes flash as her lips move, but the words are for Zev alone to hear, not carrying over the sound of the music. There might be serious negitivity going on, but Rhae hasn't stormed from the dancefloor .... yet.

Damaris laughs, lifting a hand in farewell as Devaki sneaks away. A wry grin, and she refocuses in on Issedi. "You're adorable," she points out. "I'm sure people are too often intimidated to tell you that much, so I'll note it for you. Absolutely adorable. Early spring is a fantastic time for a wedding. If you do it before the last of the snow is gone, then the bright bright flowers against the white of snow would be fantastic. And it would mean that people wouldn't expect as long of a ceremony outside...which means a longer party inside, afterwards." Yes, get the young Lady talking about her wedding. And she's doing it on /purpose/, too. A few more bites of food are taken. Nomnom.

K'del's lazy salute is probably intended to convey a few different meanings, for he offers no more words to Brieli, and instead, turns to disappear into the crowd. A few minutes later, he resurfaces again, Iolene on his arm: they dance close, affectionately, and with obvious enjoyment. Take ''that'', Devaki.

It's completely coincidence that Madilla is fetching her own food at the same moment as Devaki heads in that direction. The moment she sees him, however? She's off and moving in the other direction, disappearing back into the crowd, with nothing more than a single, inscrutable glance in his direction.

The bounty of High Reaches Hold spread out before her, and Brieli isn't seeming impressed with any of it. If there were a line, she'd be holding it up - but thankfully, the hungry masses have thinned out. Now more of a dart-in-and-out affair, the tall candidate only gets in people's way ''occasionally'' as she picks out bits of this or that, but nothing in any great amount. She misses Madilla's in-and-out entirely, all cross with her plate.

It'd be hard for Devaki not to notice K'del, and consequently, Iolene, out on the dance floor. It slows his steps, casts his expression into a dark, unhappy scowl that persists even as he resumes his path to pick up food and a glass of wine. He spots Madilla -- or rather, her retreating figure as she turns and leaves the other way -- opening and closing his mouth in one motion, pointedly resuming his path. "I see K'del abandoned you for more interesting fare," he murmurs in Brieli's direction as he leans near her to scoop up some of the greens onto his plate. He tries, but he can't /quite/ hide the dislike in his tone.

Zev whispers back to Rhaelyn something, then with a smile spins her once to end their dance, then with an arm holding her about the waist guides her towards the food tables, "The dancing is the best part of the evening... but we shouldn't miss out on the food."

Issedi positively beams after her fiance, her sigh one of absolute contentment. When she turns back to Damaris, the first thing she says is, "Isn't he wonderful? I'd ''hoped'', but - I didn't think it would ever happen. The arrangement with Aughan was too important, I thought." Her cheeks turn pink at the other girl's assessment of her, though she seems pleased by it. "Thank you? Oh, that sounds lovely. What an excellent idea. I was thinking... do you think Devaki would like it if we went away, afterwards? On a boat. I know he loves the sea, and I'd like to ''see'' things."

"I am sure that if it's something that you want," Damaris assures Issedi, shifting on her feet to sort of block the other woman's view of everything, "He's likely to want to indulge you. And a trip on a boat..." Pause. She clears her throat. "I'm sure if that's what you want. You could probably ask for just about anything you wanted, really. And seeing things is very nice." Beat. "And yes, of course, he's wonderful. You two are terribly suited for one another."

Rhaelyn allows Zev to escort her off the dance floor, but as soon as they are past that line, she's shrugging away from the circle of his arm and making her way for the food alone. "Thinks he's so fancy...."

Barely turning around as she pokes as some salad with a spoon, Brieli tells Devaki, "You seem terribly interested in what he's doing. Odd for a man at his engagement party." Her cultured tones aren't offended - rather, she might just be giving out some advice. Or a warning. Moving on down the table, she turns to ask him bemusedly, "Does anyone eat fish at a party? Honestly?" Anyway... "Should I feel abandoned? Should I monopolize High Reaches' Weyrleader? I don't think that's polite."

Issedi is not entirely unconscious of the way Damaris is blocking her view, and nor does she seem to take the other girl's answer at completely face value: it makes her frown in thought, though the expression doesn't linger. Instead, another smile blossoms. "He does love to make me happy," she agrees. "He's good to me. So is Braeden. I'm sure we're going to be terribly happy with each other, and have lots and lots of adorable blonde babies." Her head tilts to one side: "Have you thought much about Impression? I hadn't spoken to many dragonriders before the clutching party, but they all spoke so fondly of their dragons I assume it must be like falling in love."

Riorde comes in late, and fashionable too. She's put in no small amount of effort to look her best in a satiny black dress that flatters her figure, hair swept up in a twist. She's certainly dressing for the part of the celebrating well-wisher, and she more or less looks like it too as she comes into the hall with pleasant little smile fixed in place, except that there's something intent in the way she scans the room.

"That's because he's ''dancing'' with--" Devaki catches himself, biting down on his response, fingers tightening briefly around his plate. "You're right, of course," he concedes, as if she's provided him with some worthy advice. Her question about the fish earns, for a moment, a blank stare, and then a hearty, pleased sort of laugh, agreeing, "Not myself, nor any of the Islanders -- we had more than our fare share of fish in our time. I suspect Lord Braeden thought it a tribute." He is -- more than happy -- to leave the subject of the High Reaches Weyrleader well enough alone.

K'del and Iolene dance, still, utterly oblivious to glances in their direction, or entrances of anyone else. Something the blonde goldrider says makes the bronzerider throw back his head and laugh; she seems pleased.

"Most men are more than happy to do what they need to to make their wives happy," Damaris explains, fork hand coming up to brush some of her hair back from her face. "And he seems the sort to do his best to give you whatever you like. So yes, I expect you will be very happy, with lots of adorable blonde babies." She chuckles softly, and then she's wrinkling up her nose at the question of Impression. "I haven't thought much about it, no," she says. "I...well, to me, it seems like something that it's impossible to guess at or explain or think up. I'm enjoying being a candidate, there's a lot of new experiences, and they keep me busy enough that I'm never bored...and for once, there's plenty of work that I don't mind doing. I've found that I'd prefer to work until I can't think, as of late. Because...well. It's been a very strange time for me. I'm trying not to set myself up for disappointment." And failing, but hey.

Rhaelyn grabs up a plate as though she might use it as a weapon and thinks better of it and just piles on the fingerfood as she scoots down the table of options. She looks pleased with herself for detatching herself from Zev and goes in search of wine, only to spot the arrival of the brownrider, but luckily that woman's attention.

Brieli's gaze flickers from Devaki to the pair of dancing riders, then to Devaki's poor abused plate. With an awfully sage nod for someone likely in her teens, "I thought perhaps I might be. And I think the dancing might be something you have to live with," she adds, sounding a touch regretful - possibly for the Islander's benefit. Offering a wide smile for that pleased laugh, she finds herself a roll, explaining, "It just seems like it's something you'd want to avoid. Fish-breath. Bones. Though if the Lord intended it as a tribute, I'll happily change my opinion. I wouldn't want to offend."

Zev makes his way around the other side of the table from the greenride as he fills up his own plate. Then he drifts near, but not quite within plate smacking range.

Issedi nibbles carefully at some of the food on the end of her fork, and gives Damaris a considering glance. "As long, in return, their wives give them what ''they'' need," she says, in the hushed kind of tone that well-bred ladies sometimes employ to talk about things that aren't entirely proper. "I know." She's been well versed. But the talk of Impression, that's easier, and perhaps more interesting at this stage of her life: "Oh, I see. Yes, that does make sense. It would be terrible to get excited by it, and then to - it must be such an interesting position to be in. Not knowing the future. Until these past sevens, I've never been in that position, and now I ''do'' know the future again, so--" But it's a future she's happy with, at least.

"The ''dancing'' is not what bothers me," Devaki admits with a grimace, as he secures his wine glass. He spots Rhaelyn's return from the dance floor, his gaze lingering on her briefly before returning to Brieli. The look he's given her is, well, rather considered, and he asks, "Are you Blooded, then?"

"It's...interesting, yes," Damaris agrees, chuckling under her breath again. The whole husband-and-wife thing? Yeah, she's not touching that, nope. She just clears her throat. Stuffs another bite of food into her mouth. Yum, food. That she had nothing to do with cooking. It's pretty awesome. "It's all very different and very interesting and...often very silly, if you can believe that. Some of the antics people get up to." A warm smile is offered. "I'm glad you like the future you're seeing. I personally try to focus the bulk of my attention on the present. It's the only thing I can do anything about."

Riorde winds up near the dance floor. There's something unapproachable about her that keeps her from partnering up to actually join the couples there, and for awhile she just watches, gaze caught by K'del and Iolene. Her smile stays put, but everything else about her is hard.

Rhaelyn adjusts a few food items on her plate as she bobs her head at Devaki as she passes by. She takes a glass of wine as Zev moves to her side. A long, serious drink is taken from the glass as she stands there.

Dryly, "The dancing wasn't all that I was talking about." Brieli glances over K'del and Iolene's way before telling Devaki in an easy aside, "I ''have'' had the opportunity to spend time with Io, and I quite like her." Just FYI. Again, she's unbothered by how he regards her, picking up a fork and knife to go along with her plate; looking up with lifted brows, "That's rather abrupt, isn't it? I'm not, as far as I'm aware. My family is... different. More informal."

Zev pops a few bits of food into his mouth as he settles into the cool quiet of Rhaelyn's wake. Despite the looks he has gotten from her after their dnce ended he still seems to hve a healthy appetite.

Given the glance Issedi shoots Damaris? She's relieved that the other woman doesn't touch her potentially risque remark; her smile is a little strained, though it blossoms again soon enough. "Silly. I'm not used to silly. I suppose it must be the stress? We're raised differently, here. Or - I was. My mother is concerned that Braeden is less protective of me than my father was, but I think, really, he's ''more'' protective, just in a different way. Are you enjoying the party? Speaking of the present."

"She's very easy to like," Devaki says of Iolene, and there's a heat to his voice that expresses itself on his face as frustration. With a slow breath, he adds, "I didn't mean any offense. You behave as if you are, so I thought perhaps -- sorry." He looks as if he's just a little off balance, glancing over his shoulder, then: "Would you like to meet the Lady Issedi? She's talking with one of your fellow candidates, Damaris."

The silly is considered for a long moment before Damaris is giving a light shrug of her shoulders. The last bites of food are finished off, and she sets her place down and aside, stretching a bit. "It isn't so much ha ha twee silly as it is - you people are silly, with the things that you do," she explains, putting on another impish smile. "But I'm sure it's the stress, yes." Beat. "And yes, I expect that you were raised quite differently here. Your life and mine have very little in common." A glance around, and then she refocuses. "Of course I am; I've got the most sought after conversation partner in the whole place. I get to go home and preen for hours about having been able to monopolize your attention as I did." The words are followed with the most innocent expression she can muster, eyelashes fluttered at the end.

Any other time, Rhaelyn might just freeze Zev out completely rather than the mild chill coming off her. "Thanks for the dance." She allows grudgingly between the sips of her wine. The drink is finished before she begins to pick at the food. "So, have you done work for any of these people? That table you are working on maybe?" Business talk is safe right?

"Oh. Well, I was brought up at a Hold, so -- I imagine it all kind of trickles down. And I've found if you make the effort, you can sound... however you want." For some reason, Brieli is a bit awkward and wordy in her response to Devaki, as if she weren't expecting an apology. Briefly sympathetic for the somewhat lost look he has about him, she adds, "No offense taken. And I'd be honoured to meet her." However, with a blink, "Damaris? She seemed so distracted earlier." Even so, she gives a little shrug and smile to Devaki; lead on.

Issedi's girlish giggle has her putting a hand in front of her mouth a moment later (she has to abandon her fork to do so, of course). "I don't know if I'm really that," she retorts, however flattered; her head tips in the vague direction of the dance floor, where her brother was last seen. "Braeden, surely. ''He's'' the one they're all throwing their daughters at. I'm glad that you're enjoying it, however. I suppose I'm the hostess, in a way, and so that means your enjoyment is my responsibility. I suspect the clutching party was really more fun, but I've time to learn these things."

The dancers dance away, and Riorde turns away too. Recognizable faces suddenly abound: first Rhaelyn, who the brownrider looks at coolly, without much expression; her smile's slipped away. Then, picking out others in a pause, she heads for another little group. "Damaris," she greets, smiling again, descending behind the candidate and then looking past her. "Oh, you must be Issedi." No Lady, just Issedi. It's forgivable, isn't it, given that it's exclaimed so warmly? "The lady of the hour."

Zev nods a bit, "I suspct that I have. Not certain though as a lot of the work is ordered by stewards and the like so I don't know exactly where things end up. If things get dull we could wander and look ender table cloths. And thank you for the dance. I wasn't sure we'd even get to tke one spin upon the floor."

"They don't want to /talk/ to him," Damaris points out, all innocence. See? That is a total innocent face. "Thus,you are the most desired conversation partner. Isn't that what I was...." She shifts on her feet, lifts her chin, looks up at Riorde. There's two moments of silence before she's brightening, flashing a brilliant smile up towards Riorde. "Riorde!" Yes, she looks terribly pleased to see the woman. "Lady Issedi, this is Riorde. Riorde. I'm so glad you're here, will you dance with me later?" Hopeful, hopeful smile.

Issedi blushes, her expression turning awkward; her train of thought is pretty obvious from her face, even if the conclusion she's come to is not necessarily exactly what was intended. In any case, it means Riorde's arrival is something of a relief, allowing her to turn her smile back on to high wattage, and lift both hands towards the brownrider in an obvious attempt to take her hand and squeeze it. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Riorde," she says. "I hope you're having a lovely time."

"You're very convincing," Devaki says, with a note of what sounds like approval. Or maybe admiration. Then, as he gestures, and starts to head in the direction, "Yes, Damaris, she -- she's been helping Issedi. Edi isn't much of a fan of being made the center of attention, which at a celebration like this--" the Islander makes a sympathetic noise, mostly watching Brieli, so it's only when they're most of the way to where candidate and Lady are stationed that he notices... Riorde. He stops dead. Then casts left and right, as if considering if it's too late to choose an alternative path. "So dead," he mutters under his breath, advancing again towards the group, albeit with more obvious reluctance.

Rhaelyn's nose crinkles, "I'm not looking under any tables." The firmness counters all of Zev's playfulness, just in case there might be some hope that she'd be tricked into it. "I imagine you have a lot more time to work on comissions these past few months." She nibbles at the food, attention straying towards Riorde's greeting and another bite of food is pushed into her mouth. It's like watching a car-crash about to happen. Oh no. Stop. Don't.

Zev gets a little distracted by the scene further out. He chews a few bites o food before he answers Rhaelyn's qyestion. "You are right about that. I have worked through just about all the comissions and orders for the weyr. I'm starting to fish about fo things to do in fact."

"Of course," Riorde agrees easily, her hand finding Damaris' elbow for a light, agreeable touch. Look, she's all smiles today. "Except I wouldn't dream of making anyone uncomfortable here. We wouldn't want to offend our hosts." She's looking at Issedi as she says it, stepping forward to meet her and shake hands when it's offered. "Oh, and you. Your fiance and I are old friends, you know," she drops into the conversation.

As the Harpers conclude their current set, the dancers vacate the floor, among them, K'del and Iolene. The pair part ways at that point, the blonde goldrider heading away from the great hall to presumably attend to ''something'' of importance (powdering her nose, probably), which leaves K'del at a loose end - all the better to go find another drink, and avoid kicking Devaki in the nuts.

"Thank you." As they walk towards the trap about to be sprung, totally unaware, Brieli might drop her voice low for a sentence as she and Devaki pass by a particularly loud group of revellers. After that, she can allow, "It is rather like being the prize runner or something. People come to see you rather than meet you; it's not very personal." It's only when he stops dead in his tracks that she too looks over to see Riorde with Issedi and Damaris - though she'll give him the side-eye for that mutter, she offers quietly, "Can't win tonight?" If Devaki is reluctant, she's putting on company manners and a lovely smile.

"Are you?" Issedi seems pleased, her posture straightening at Riorde's mention of her fiance. "Oh, I don't think I should mind if you danced together. It's only dancing, isn't it? Have you seen Devaki recently? I know he's missed his old friends. I'm just so glad he's here, now, and ''mine''." Such a happy, blushing, blooming bride-to-be.

"It's part of the lifestyle, though," Devaki responds to Brieli in an undertone, the fixed expression on his face hopefully closer to a smile than a grimace. "Doubtful," he adds, as an aside, pausing briefly with a sidelong look at the candidate, a low-voiced comment offered before his forces a brighter smile. "Edi -- I'd like you to meet another one of the candidates, Brieli. Oh... Ri. Hi." Yeah, he's aiming for casual-what-a-coincidence look, here. The fact that his fingers are clenched tightly around plate and glass might be a bit easier to spot, however.

A party like this draws people from all over, and, well. This is the Reaches. Things don't always go as planned. It's no wonder that the hold's guard contingent is out in full force, milling through the party, settling the odd dispute or drunken commotion, and yes, keeping an eye on their Lord and his family. Was that a flash of bright red hair, just over there? How--strange.

Rhaelyn makes an agreeing sound at Zev, the typical response for someone only half listening to the conversation. Realizing that she's split her attention, the greenrider offers Zev a coy little smile, "Anyway, we've had our dance, a drink and food. What next?"

The cavalry has arrived! Taikrin might be late, but then again-- maybe everyone else is early. The brownrider is clearly freshly scrubbed, and her nearly black leathers are finely tailored to her muscular figure. She pushes through the crowds, occasionally pausing up on her toes to scan over heads. It's pretty obvious that she's looking for someone-- perhaps to share the skin of wine she's slung over her shoulder?

"How generous of you," Riorde replies, hands now resting lightly at her sides. "I think I might just have to take you up on that. It's been far too long." Her smile doesn't slip, neither at the starry-eyed possessiveness of Issedi's nor when she turns to look at the two who've approached. There's a little nod for Breili, and then the rest of the brownrider's attention lands squarely on the groom to be. "Oh, Dev. How good to see you. Congratu''lations.''"

Just look at how Issedi's face lights up as Devaki returns; it's enough to make anyone sick, really. ''Surely'' that can't last forever. Her, "Hello, Brieli, it's a pleasure to meet you. I hope you're having a lovely time," is sincerely said, escaping before she can turn her gaze back on Devaki and his old friend. She's clearly expecting a joyful reunion, and what she gets is… not that. So she looks confused.

Zev finishes off the last bite on his plate. "We could take a walk round the outside to see what else there is to see. Or head back if you have earl duties tomorrow. Though I am sure you wouldn't stay later than you wished just on my account."

With a wrinkle of her nose, "Mmm. I wouldn't like it, I don't think." Brieli just might stifle a laugh as she approaches with Devaki, giving him the barest nod. As he introduces her to Issedi, she has a smile for the bride-to-be, echoing Riorde - though with more sincerity - "Congratulations. I hope you're enjoying your party - Devaki was just mentioning that they're not really your thing." And yes, let's all see what's happening with the brownrider. She returns her nod, flashing a brief smile.

''Dragon> To Sforzath, Szadath projects, << Where is she? Give me the image. >>''

''Dragon> So much for niceties-- Szadath is no-nonsense and to the point. After all, there's this very nice green here who would really like to cuddle if his rider would just leave him alone. (Szadath to Sforzath)''

''Dragon> To Szadath, Sforzath is not in a complying mood. Maybe it's the way he was asked. Maybe it's Riorde. Maybe it's just Sforzath himself, or all three. In any case, there's a long moment of radio silence before he abruptly says, << No. >>''

There's a slight wince from Devaki at the faint emphasis on Riorde's words. "Thank you," he manages to say, with aplomb. He sets both plate and glass down for a moment, and -- perhaps because he glances sidelong and catches Issedi's confusion, or perhaps he just likes to push his luck -- he gathers the brownrider up into a brief hug. "Really good to see you, Ri." And if it's cover for a murmur word or two well, it's quick and quiet enough to avoid notice.

''Dragon> Balking Szadath? /Sforzath/? The brown's irritation is obvious in the sudden gust of chill wind, and the way his mind voice starts reverberating. << Yes. Where is she. >> (Szadath to Sforzath)''

''Dragon> This time the refusal's delivered with a building pressure that bespeaks a warning. The quality of Sforzath's mind intensifies, ashy, acrid. << No. >> (Sforzath to Szadath)''

Taikrin's searching prompts a scowl when she doesn't seem to spot whatever it is she's looking for; the brownrider jostles more roughly than necessary against a pair of party-goers -- who seem to think better of rebuking her after a quick look -- on her way towards a stack of wine barrels set up by one of the tables against the wall.

She's fallen quiet, now that there is a Riorde to stand beside. Damaris looks longingly at a drink someone over there is holding, but she doesn't go after it, instead just returning her attention to those standing around nearby, attentive to the conversation. She's definitely keeping an eye up on Rirode now, though the smile is staying on her lips. Oh, the brownrider is being hugged. She inches away a little, so as to be sure she's not in the way. Quiet, quiet, quiet. Easy conversation seems to have dried up, now that there's all the people around.

Rhaelyn hesitates, giving the expanding group around Riorde and Issedi with a quick, but hungry look. "I would like to stay, but I admit that I really shouldn't indulge too much this evening. It doesn't mean you can't stay though." She pushes her plate aside as she turns back to Zev, sighing quietly.

''Dragon> What does Szadath do in the face of building pressure? The same thing all order brothers do to their uncooperative little brothers: he pounces. Mentally. He throws himself into a non-verbal wrestling match, as if to wrest the information right out of his (smaller, younger) brother's mind. (Szadath to Sforzath)''

Zev shakes his head a bit. "No. I came wuth you so might as well go back to the weyr when you ae read to hed out."

For the briefest moment, Riorde's smile slides right off in surprise as she's swept up in the hug. "Oh-- you, too," she says, little pauses gathering between the individual words. No resistance on her part; she even presses a quick, chaste kiss to Devaki's cheek -- which ''isn't'' cover for any quietly returned response. She links arms once released instead of stepping away and smiles, first across at Issedi. "Your fiance says I can steal you away. For a dance." And then the smile's turned on Devaki, the curve of it suggestive of something a little less benign.

"They're not, not really," admits Issedi, attempting another bright smile for Brieli, though the truth is she's distracted, and increasingly uncomfortable. The hug Devaki gives Riorde only makes things worse, her mouth narrowing into a thin line that speaks to embarrassment and discomfort, though it doesn't ''seem'' to be that just doesn't trust him. Even so, Riorde's words surprise her - she turns pink, and doesn't seem to have anything to say.

Rhaelyn gives a little shake of her head when there's no fireworks across the room. With a dusting of her hands she decides, "I think it's about time to go then."

Despite the protests of the steward tending the wine, Taikrin boosts herself first onto her knees, and then onto her feet atop the wine barrel. It wobbles ominously, but holds steady long enough for the brownrider to see what it is she wants to see. Still ignoring the man's fluttering protestations, she sets off through the crowd again, this time with stony determination-- and right towards the scene Riorde is about to make.

''Dragon> To Szadath, Sforzath fights dirty. No -- viciously. There's no quarter given here. When he finally flashes an image to his brother, it's a taunt: the piece of the hall as seen from Riorde's vantage point, over Devaki's shoulder.''

Even if the situation is uncomfortable, Brieli will continue on, giving Damaris a questioning glance before telling Issedi, "I feel a little badly for you then, with so many on the horizon. Hopefully, it won't be a long engagement." However, Riorde's statement has her struck a little silent herself, blinking between the brownrider and the bride-to-be. Then glancing around the room to gauge it - how might that go over?

"Ri!" Devaki exclaims, both surprised and caught off guard. He glances at Issedi, noticing her discomfort immediately -- it'd be hard to miss, really -- and reassures her, as best he can, "She's just teasing. We used to fish together, out on the Islands." Oh-so-deftly, he seeks to extract his arm from Riorde's, as he adds, "Besides, the first dance of the evening ''has'' to be with my fiancee. If she'd indulge me...?" he lifts a hand towards Issedi in invitation, though it's not clear whether he's doing it to save her, or to save himself, exactly. Probably a bit of both.

Zev smiles and offers the same arm he brought the greenrider in on. "Might I escort you back to Amareth then? I'm ready to head home as well."

''Dragon> Dirty fighting is a way of life for Szadath-- he has no compunctions about throwing his weight around against his brother. That image is snatched at, and then a moment later he taunts back with one from Taikrin's own that partially lines up. << GOT YOU! >> And, because this is all fun and games, he withdraws with what generally passes as a comradely buffet of cold against the younger brown's mind. (Szadath to Sforzath)''

''Dragon> The smoke cloud that promptly blows back at Szadath might as well be a 'whatever.' (Sforzath to Szadath)''

There's a curious look sent sidelong up towards Riorde, and Damaris frowns a little, reaching to put her hand on the woman's elbow, now and repeating that hopeful look. Tug, tug. Big eyes.

"What?" Riorde says, eyebrows lifting with well-feigned innocence. Devaki might slide his arm away from hers, but she doesn't let him go quite so easily. "She did suggest a dance. Damaris heard. You've got all the time in the world to dance with your bride-to-be. And exactly how long has it been since we saw each other last? Just one little dance, for old time's sake."

Rhaelyn gives a small nod to Zev and adds, "If you -must-." Although she doesn't just abandon him there, she walks at his side over to the awaiting dragon. "I am surpised you don't want to stay and try for more dancing."

"Early spring," says Issedi, taking comfort in the recitation of when her wedding will be, with the definite implication that she's looking forward to it; wishes spring were tomorrow, even, perhaps. There's something possessive about the look she gives her fiance, then, as she sets aside her plate and mug in order to accept the offered dance; she is ''not'' letting Riorde take this one. "I think I would like the first one," she says, aiming an apologetic glance to Riorde. "Perhaps you can catch up later." She speaks carefully, warily, uncomfortably.

Zev smiles as he walks with Rhaelyn. "When the person I'm interested in dancing with is ready to go, I don't see a point in lingering."

To Issedi, before she rises to dance, "Sounds lovely." Taking the opportunity to drift away from all the drama, Brieli loses herself in the crowd to find a place to pick over the food on her plate - and possibly some of the discoveries she's made over the evening.

All too bull-like, Taikrin runs roughshod right through the edge of the dancefloor, heedless of the grumbling she leaves in her wake. With wine skin still slung over her shoulder, she calls out as she comes up behind Damaris and her girlfriend, "Bloody flaming /shells/, Ri, you're dragon's the biggest pain in my ass this side of Crom." At least she sounds sober? The irritation melts away now that she's located her girlfriend, and she has a bright smile for her and Damaris-- and absolutely no recognition at all for Issedi and Devaki. "'Least you didn't manage to lose our girl, here." This, of course, in reference to Riorde's candidate that Taikrin has claimed as her own.

Rhaelyn gives Zev a bemused smile and quickly mounts up, "No more wine for you tonight." And once up, she offers him a hand up.

There is so much relief, when she sees the bull charging in their direction. Damaris ghosts back a few paces to make sure Taikrin has a straight shot to Riorde, then slips back up to stand beside her. "Taikrin," she says, and with a sidelong glance for Riorde, moves in to give a one-armed hug. Brief, quick, but it's definitely a hug. "I am so glad to see you." There's a Significant Look cast over towards Issedi and Devaki in indication.

With a slight twist of his wrist once Devaki takes hold of Issedi's hand, he spins her briefly, then starts to lead her to the dance floor. "The Lady has spoken," he says, to Riorde, the look he gives her an odd mingling of apologetic and wry. "We'll talk later," he promises, as he steps towards the middle of the hall, perhaps quickened by Taikrin's arrival. Settling in to join the rest of the dancers, he murmurs quietly to Issedi, "It could be sooner, you know. Our wedding. If you ''wanted'' it to be. I'm sure we could import flowers from down south, or something."

There isn't a hint of ill humor about her; Riorde concedes graciously. "Of course." But when she looks at Devaki, she's made inscrutable by the smile she's still sporting. "Later," she agrees before turning to take in Taikrin. "Why, what's he doing?" Riorde answers, like she doesn't know.

It's only once they've stepped well away from the little group (Taikrin gets barely a glance; Issedi is far too distracted, now) that Issedi seems to relax, falling in to position for the dance with the grace she's been taught so carefully. "Mother says there is so much to be prepared, and it wouldn't do to rush things," she points out, lifting blue eyes up so that she can stare, adoringly, into Devaki's. "And I'd like them to be ''our'' flowers. Local ones. It's not so many months away." Five. Six. "I can wait that long. Barely."

There's a ghost of curiosity in the way Taikrin looks after Devaki and Issedi, as if recognition /almost/ sparks, but then-- "Bein' an ass," the brownrider repeats. "I've been /looking/ for you like crazy, and he wouldn't tell us where you were." She unslings the wineskin from over her shoulder, pulls the stopper, and takes a swig straight from the mouth before passing it off to Damaris once she's free of that surprise hug. "Glad they let you get away. Here." Surprise-- it's definitely NOT wine in that skin.

"Barely," Devaki murmurs in echo as he spins Issedi around the dance floor. "Well, you know. We ''could'' always elope, get married. Then come back and have the proper wedding your mother wants," he suggests, with a particular kind of glint in his gaze. He could just be teasing, but then, perhaps not. He's adept enough on the dance floor that he doesn't really have to think too much about it -- giving time for his gaze to stray across the crowd now and then.

"You're going to get me in so much trouble," Damaris comments dryly, taking the skin and bringing it up for a good solid drink before she passes it back, flashing up a grateful grin. "Thanks. Are ''you'' going to dance with me, since Riorde won't? I haven't gotten to dance all night tonight, I've been behaving myself /so well/, and..." She just trails off into a pout, directing it at Riorde. POUTING HERE. HELLO.

Issedi knows that glint. It's barely been more than a sevenday or two, but - she's a fast learner. "And if I turn up pregnant," she murmurs back to him, taking great pains to make sure there's no way anyone can overhear her, "what then? No - we have to wait." But her glance is affectionate as she adds, a little more loudly, "I suppose the end of winter isn't so bad. We'll raise peoples spirits, as they get more and more tired of the cold." She leans in, moving to rest her head on his chest: so much for proper dancing, how about a slow dance.

"Sorry." Riorde sounds a little distracted, though she mostly manages to rein her gaze in and keep it to Taikrin and Damaris. Mostly. "No offense," she tells the candidate. "I just thought maybe it wasn't the right occasion. It being their celebration and us wanting to stay on good terms with the Hold. That sort of thing." Her gaze has drifted off again, towards the happy couple, and she's completely still, watching.

"You can be a very vexing woman, you know that, Edi?" But it's a compliment, coming from Devaki, and he seems content to concede her argument, or maybe just slotting it away for another time. For now, he settles easily into a slow dance that spans several songs.

"She wouldn't? Why not?" Taikrin seems genuinely baffled by this revelation. Her full attention turns to the other brownrider, and she holds the skin out for her to take while she demands, "Who sharding cares? You're a rider. On Szad's shell, what's gotten into you? This's a party, let's just do our thing-- get drunk, dance with all the girls, steal a couple and go home."

There's a look between Riorde and Taikrin, and Damaris's pout fades. She huffs out a little sigh, then puts on a more mild, mellow, normal sort of smile. "It's not a big deal," she says. "I'll go find some stranger to dance with. You guys. Have fun. I'll find somebody to get me back to the Weyr." She brings a hand up to give a little wiggle of her fingers, and then she's ghosting a few paces back and turning to slip off.

Riorde takes the skin, but the rest of what Taikrin has to give isn't accepted so easily. "There's more at stake tonight than just that, you know." She puts the skin to her lips and tips it back, staring at the other brownrider while doing so. The look lasts until Damaris starts to escape, and then Ri hastily says, "Oh, don't let her go off like that. Go dance with her before she winds up in a corner with some holder boy."

Taikrin is downright bewildered now, and more than a little irritated by it. "/What/? You're out of your mind-- who cares about holders marrying each other?" But then, yes, Damaris /is/ running away, and so Taikrin just shoots Riorde a /look/ and shoves off to find her, muttering all the while. "Yo, hold up, girl. I'll do it with you."

The strange one's been watching, of course, this whole time: even if he's done a good job of avoiding the main Weyr contigent--thus far. But now Raum steps forward, out of the crowd and up behind Riorde, one arm reaching too-familiarly around her shoulders before he starts for one of those out-of-the-way corners that still exist, even in these crowds. "Rider," he calls her, in that drawl of his.

She doesn't make it very far before Taikrin's catching her and she's stopping, putting on a patient look. "Riorde is upset," Damaris points out, tone as patient as her smile. "I'm fine, I just want to dance. I can find somebody to dance with me. She won't let me budge her, but you're her girlfriend."

"And she's being a pain in my ass too," Taikrin finishes smoothly. "So I'm going to dance with you." To emphasize her point, the brownrider moves to wrap an arm around Damaris's waist -- in a mostly friendly sort of way. "I'm not dealing with her moodswings tonight. C'mon. Dance with me." Maybe it's not the most romantic proposal ever, but-- Taikrin.

Riorde's smile tightens and turns into something else entirely. She glares at Taikrin's back, all that pleasantry dropping off now that there's no one to maintain it for. And she certainly doesn't keep up appearances for Raum when he materializes out of the blue. "''You,''" she answers. No titles, no names. There's something smugly, darkly satisfied when she says, letting herself be steered away, "I thought I'd find you here."

"I do ''not'' understand you two," Damaris complains, but even so there's a touch of pleasure creeping in. Because dancing! It may not be the exact outcome she was going for, but really it does not take much at all for her to stop trying to be altruistic and instead give in to the selfishness. Because Taikrin! And dancing! She wins. Or...something. She leans into the mostly friendly arm around her waist, sliding an arm back around the woman and heading for where the other people are dancing. "I wish you'd gotten here /earlier/."

"One must keep an eye on his Lord," Raum answers without looking at Riorde as he guides her away. "And remove the threats around him." Which means her, in this case, clearly; it's all written there in the equally self-satisfied cat-with-mouse smirk he cants her way.

"Tried. Came here as soon as we were finished up. I would'a been here /quicker/ if someone wasn't being coy about telling me where y'all were," Taikrin confides as she leads Damaris out onto the dance floor. "Here now though, so let's do this thing?" And, at first glance, Taikrin looks androgenous enough with her leathers and cropped hair compared to the frilly Hold women that they probably won't even get too many nasty looks!

"I'm not being cranky, just wistful, it would have been so much more fun," Damaris explains lightly, cheerful now that they've hit the dancefloor. She follows quite happily, settling into dancing with the other woman and totally ignoring any dirty looks that they might get. She's oblivious. Really! Totally doesn't know any better.

"Oh, aye," Riorde agrees, affecting an accent other than her own. "One must." She slings her arm around Raum's waist and off they go in that clearly acquainted way, and especially with her as done up as she is, cutting a strikingly elegant figure, their progress out of the main gathering looks like something else entirely than the removal of an unwanted element.

{{#ifexist: Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}} | <h2>Comments</h2>{{Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}}}} | }}

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Logs:A Clutching Affair

2012-05-11T05:59:53Z

Riorde:

{{ Log
| who = Azaylia, Braeden, Brieli, Damaris, Iolene, Issedi, K'del, Riorde, Shimana, Toren
| where = Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr
| what = The feast for Ysavaeth and Cadejoth's clutch.
| when =
| gamedate = 2012.05.10
| quote =
| weather =
| categories = General, Search 2012
| mentions =
| icons = iolene.jpg, riorde formal.jpg
| log = It's a feast! Sort of. Even though the eggs were expected a clutching feast is never quite the same magnitude as a hatching one. Still, there are people, there's food and drinks floating around on trays and a buffet at two opposite sides of the cavern. There's even dignitaries, mostly local ones, but a few Weyrleader pairs from distance lands might be recognizable scattered through the crowd. Of course, with recent events at High Reaches, this clutch would garner some curiosity, and the gossip that churns across the floor is the number of eggs and the existence of that one, not quite white one; (un)lucky number thirteen, indeed.

Noticeably absent is the striking figure Tiriana usually makes and if dragons are to be believed, Iovniath is not on her ledge either. Whether this has any bearing, the Headwoman and her staff seem to move around with more ease and there's more levity than there might have been in the caverns in the time since the flight. Giorda, dressed for the occasion in a flattering maroon dress, chats up High Reaches Hold's new lord.

Present, however, is K'del: he's pulled out some of his nicer clothes and has clearly had someone help him into them (his slinged arm can certainly have been no use). Despite that set-back, and perhaps partially because of Tiriana's absence, he's a lively figure this evening, beaming at everyone he passes. It's hard for him to carry a drink ''and'' shake hands, and to that end, he's currently hanging around near the drinks table draining his glass before he heads back out into the crowd.

It's no surprise that Damaris has managed to wiggle and talk her way out of work. Because there is a party, or a sort of party, or...well, it's a really good reason to not work. She is instead perched on the edge of a table with a group of people her own age around, generally hamming it up and being as entertaining as she can be, telling some story that involves making faces, lots of hand gestures, and laughter.

Brieli has apparently gotten the memo about this being a dress-up occasion, so she's found herself a decent dress to wear in a flattering shade of red, short enough to show off long legs. She's not quite attached to any group, content to edge around the party with a fluted glass in hand, pausing here and again to chat with this person; perhaps listen near this group. Damaris' lot have some of the kitchen girls she knows in the group - she starts to wend her way in that direction, dark gaze restless.

Work clothes have no place at such a celebration, and the gown that has served Azaylia as gather finery years ago has been aged just right. If there's such a thing formal-casual, the Herder's cultivating that look with her blue and gold ensemble, freshly knitted scarf pinned smartly to the side. Evidence of a growth spurt is forgiven by a pair of tall (borrowed) boots that hide calves which would otherwise be visible. Thankfully, her moldy old fur coat is nowhere to be seen. Smiles come easily to the Apprentice this night, managing steady snippets of conversation when she's pulled in. Otherwise the young woman is most comfortable skirting on the edges of it all, plate piled high with nibblies. From which she nibbles.

Looking just a touch apprehensive, Iolene slip into the living cavern from the inner caverns and pauses to watch first. Her teeth find her lower lip as she casts her gaze from side to side, eyes lighting up at K'del, until he's headed back into and lost in that crowd. Sweaty fingers clench at and wrinkle the dress she wears as she plucks a drink off a passing tray and downs it in one go. /People/. /People who are talking about her or her dragon./ Nervous? Nah, those strained lines on her face disappear slowly, with that shot of liquid courage and a deep breath later, Io walks further in, pausing at the fringe of Damaris's laughing group and ending up standing near the moving Brieli. "Hi," says the blonde girl, with a mangled attempt at a smile.

K'del seems a little lost without a glass in his hand, and drinking that whisky so quickly has already turned his cheeks faintly flushed. Still, he's got another bright smile to extend towards young Lord Braeden and his sister Issedi -- and a more serious clap to the shoulder that no doubt speaks to condolences over their recent loss. Lady Issedi is in bright spirits despite that, her gleeful excitement as audible as it is visible. Turning again, he ends up wandering in Azaylia's direction, his smile for the herder only a ''little'' hesitant. "Azaylia, hey."

Oh, look. Damaris sends that smile of hers first towards Brieli and then towards Iolene when the crowd grows, though she doesn't immediately stop the storytelling. No, the little story is finished first, not that the ending is terribly funny without the context of the beginning. When she does finish, she picks up her glass to take a big long drink from it, and then she's refocusing on Brieli and Io, lifting her glass in toast to the latter. "Evening," she greets. She's not really dressed any different than she is the rest of the time in quality, though her clothing is clean enough that it's likely she changed after working and before coming out. There's a Look sent towards a few of those who, upon realizing that Iolene is within their midst, make themselves scarce, but she just turns her attention back. "Nicely done." Wink. Warm, friendly.

Azaylia catches sight of Iolene. Well, snippets of who she ''thinks'' is Iolene, though at the time her attention split between people watching and what the delicious paste she's eating is made of. Distracted steps bring her closer to the gaggle of girls whether she realizes it or not- stopping only at a familiar voice that tears her eyes away from her plate. Where there might be a smidge of hesitation in his greeting, there's none to be found in the smile she offers the Weyrleader. "Hello." A glance to make sure no one's listening, "Uhm, am I... supposed to congratulate you and Cadejoth, too? If I am..." Her voice falters, not wanting to sound redundant.

"Hi," Brieli merely responds to Iolene - with an actual smile. She lifts her glass in a silent salute rather than offer any congratulations or formalities, even given the occasion, Ysavaeth, etc. Perhaps she saw the goldrider down that drink in one go? After a long drink of her own, she asks, "Who's more relieved now? You or her? I'd guess she is; you might be later." Her cultured tones are sympathetic, especially when some of Damaris' friends start making themselves scarce. For Damaris herself, she has a grin, a little wave of a near-empty glass. "You work in the kitchens, yes? I think I've seen you."

[DRAGONS] The bronze from Southern Weyr sends curt greetings, along with the slightest twitch at the absence of a Weyrwoman's dragon to greet. Is there admonishment in the typical formality of respect and greetings?

Riorde pretties herself up when she feels like it, with hair swept up and wearing that chic, simple black number she pulls out for special occasions; some day she'll get herself another dress. Riorde's on a mission, slipping by clusters of riders and other celebrants, purloining a glass of something pale and sparkling, and arrowing in on the lady of the hour. "Iolene," she hails, as bright and bubbly as her champagne, and tries to insinuate herself next to the goldrider in order to slip am arm around her waist for a light, friendly squeeze. For the occasion, she uses her clutchmate's full name. "Congratulations are in order, aren't they?"

K'del's grin, for Azaylia's remark, is cheerful enough. "If you want to," he says, with a shrug of his good shoulder. "Pretty sure Ysavaeth did all the work, though. Cadejoth just got the fun part." It's possible he regrets making that last remark, because his expression falters for a moment and then he's hurrying on, "Anyway, it seems like a good clutch. Nice to have something to celebrate, right?"

Lady Issedi's wandered to find herself a cachet of male riders to speak with, her brilliant smile belying the sorrow her family must have faced, or the troubling news of her imminent broken betrothal. No, Issedi's here to enjoy and revel in her first visit to the Weyr, and as pretty as she is, there's no lacking in possible companions as the Weyr males (and some females) pay court to High Reaches' (as rumor would have it) soon-to-be eligible heir-apparent. Her brother, on the other hand, watches indulgently from afar and scans the crowd.

[DRAGONS] In reply, Cadejoth's enthusiasm is effusive: such a lovely clutch we have! Ysavaeth and I are proud. Iovniath-- there is only, there, a faint rattle of his chains, a sad, isn't-it-a-pity-about-her that explains nothing.

Eyebrows lift, at Iolene's mouthed words. "Don't," she's quick to say, voice firm. Damaris sits forward and leans, reaching to try and pat Iolene's shoulder reassuringly. "I never stay out of trouble, but that's..." and she's seeing Riorde and pausing briefly before she sends a smile up that way, too. "That's pretty much how I like it. H'lo, Riorde." Another drink from her glass. "And I'm doing well, thank you." Her eyes catch briefly on K'del but don't linger, a moment given over to a scan of the crowd. Faces are noted, placed, and then she's looking back to the little circle around _her_ table. Preen. To Brieli she says, "I do, sometimes." Pause. "Most of the time. You've probably seen me, or at least heard someone cursing me. I'm Damaris." Yes, she's in rare form tonight.

[DRAGONS] Wisely, the Southern bronze says little, and the ensuing silence feels more as of a communication placed on 'hold' rather than completed, for shortly, he returns with a show of how disappointed he is, that carries with it the golden notes of his mate. Disappointed. That's how they'll play this, this southern pair.

Some people's voices seem naturally designed to carry. Off past Braeden, a trio of older riders are talking in voices that might have been intended to be muted: they are not. "Exile queen," dismisses one of them. "No doubt she'll make sure they all Impress exile friends. No more good, solid riders for ''this'' Weyr. No wonder Tiriana's gone off the deep end."

[DRAGONS] And in reply? Cadejoth, too, is disappointed. Such a pity: such a sad thing. If ''only'' Iovniath and hers were here to celebrate with them. If only they were ''able'' to. It's more subtle than might normally be expected from the bronze-- and his chains buzz with sandy heat.

"I want to." Azaylia gives a delicate nod, surely thinking she's coming off as decisive and firm in that moment. Nobody tell her otherwise. "So, congratulations." Now she does stop suddenly, tense for as long as it takes for the awkward moment to pass. "Well..." And yet she seems intent on prolonging the tension. "As long as Cadejoth is happy." Clearing her throat, she's eager for another topic, "It is. I really hope you and Iolene have a good night..." Concern for both perhaps misplaced, the Apprentice stiffens and turns her head. It's visible now, that concern from earlier, but all too soon her face smooths and she's offering the Weyrleader something from her plate.

With a grimace, "I'm glad you don't need to share that with her either. I can't even... it's be like having one baby after another. Well, maybe not precisely, but the poor thing." Brieli shudders a touch and finishes off her drink for good measure, catching a fresh one off the tray right after Iolene does. If she does it, it can't be that bad to follow suit. As Riorde arrives, she edges over to allow the brownrider to give Io a hug, noting to Damaris, "I'm Brieli. Sometimes, I help out. You lot seem to know the best gossip, so..." She trails off, that too-loud voice drawing her brows together in a frown.

Those voices that carry paint rose on Iolene's cheeks, where once they were lined in nerves. "Oh," says the blonde girl, the single syllable catching in her throat until she takes another, unladylike gulp of her bubbly drink. "/Riorde/." Sudden relief floods Io's voice and she takes a step back to admit another into this little circle of girls. "This is Riorde. That's Brieli. That's Damaris. And I seem to have scared all of Damaris's friends away. I think-," aiming at humor, but falling just shy, she opines, "-The sweat from watching Ysavaeth didn't all get washed out with my bath."

K'del waves away the offer of Azaylia's plate, explaining, "I need to keep my hand free. And clean, if I can. Everyone wants to ''shake hands'', and it's just--" Frustrating, if his expression is anything to go by. "Thank you, anyway. He's happy. I--" His head turns, seeking out Iolene in the crowd in a way that turns his own expression wary and concerned. "There are a lot of rumblings. About Tiriana not being here. It's going to make things hard for her." For Iolene, presumably. "Hope she's okay, too. Seems it, for now."

Braeden also kens to those voices that carry, a meticulously groomed brow lifting high up as he seeks out faces to attach to these words. As a casual aside to the woman standing by his side, he notes, "Can't ride if they're '''Holders''' again, can they?" The capital lettering audibly drips from his affable voice.

"Damaris," Riorde recognizes, pleasant enough with a smile to match. It freezes, caught in place as she overhears what she -- or Iolene, more likely -- was meant to overhear. She leans into Iolene for a moment, and before she lets her arm drop away, addresses the others from a position of solidarity. "Nice to meet you. Exciting, isn't it? Io and I grew up together -- we're all ''so'' proud of her." The expression admits more than just esteem, pitched with a prideful sort of defiance. "If you know who they are," she murmurs far more quietly to Iolene, "tell me later, and I'll see if we can't have a talk."

[DRAGONS] Benden's queen extends a greeting in Ysavaeth's direction, quietly apologetic. << You must be tired, of course. I don't like to intrude. You don't need anything? >> There's an undercurrent of regret in her tone, as though there ought to be another ensuring the well-being of a first-time mother, one who has failed in this duty as she sees it.

Azaylia takes it in stride, not ''too'' obvious in her growing smile though she manages to joke, "More for me." Though even as she partakes, her head is turning in the opposite direction of the Weyrleader's. When she looks back up, the Herder intends to catch his gaze, curiosity evident. "Maybe Tiriana just needed a quick break?" Optimism isn't too rediculous to the young woman. She bites her lip and motions with a hand in Iolene's general direction, "Do you want..? I mean, I haven't gotten a chance to say hello, either." Smile shrinks, small and understanding.

"Ought not let them Search at all," is someone's conclusion. "Holders. That's what they ought to be, the whole lot of them." He must have heard something of Braeden's remark - or perhaps it's just spreading, a quiet suggestion that infiltrates conversation around the room.

Toren comes out of the inner cavern and he's dressed in his gather best. He keeps along the edges as the party just seems to be starting. He moves over towards getting something to eat and he frowns as he hears the statements being made by the riders. He piles on the food onto a little plate and he finds a spot along the wall to lean against to just listen and see what's going on.

"Yes, we're great for gossip," Damaris agrees blithely with Brieli, sliding off of the table and down to her feet. What's left in her glass is drained, and it's set down. "Hearing it, spreading it," and she's sliding a few steps off to the side, blue eyes settling on the owners of those carrying voices. They're marked, and then she's turning back to the little group she's with. "It's very exciting," she agrees, once she's refocused on those nearby. "You didn't scare them off," she tells Io. "Pretty sure that lot was just shy, knew you'd be surrounded by adoring crowds soon, didn't want to compete." All so casually spoken, like of course that's why they fled.

Brieli gives a little wave as Iolene introduces her, only slightly distracted in her effort to sort out where aspersions were being cast from. At the goldrider's shot at humor, she forces herself to focus. Lightly, "Perhaps they were intimidated." Io's not exactly intimidating right now, but who knows? With an easy smile for Riorde, "Exciting that Io doesn't have to watch Ysavaeth pace anymore, as I understand, as well. But yes, I'd never seen eggs before. I - I didn't very much like the idea of watching the clutching itself. It seemed too... personal. Something. I suppose that's strange." She glances Damaris' way as she steps off, then helpfully provides an explanation; "Ah, right. They're not much out of the kitchens, yes?"

[DRAGONS] Ysavaeth is placid, graciously accepting as a ''queen'' should be, of these regards from afar. The excuse of being wearied that reverberates in her tremulous mental touch allows her the latitude of a lack of tangible words, in lieu of which is a wash of emotions: pride, adoration, gratitude. ''Thank you for caring. Thank you for mothering. Thank you for supporting us,'' where 'us' flares the muted image of Cadejoth and her soon-to-be brood.

K'del's laugh is not really genuine, and more tinged with awkward bitterness than anything else. "If that were the case," he tells Azaylia, after heaving a deep sigh, "We'd all be much happier for it. I'm afraid I don't-- her absence is being noted." He doesn't specify by who, or how, but it's obvious in the lines on his expression that he's not entirely sure whether this is good or not. Probably not. "Should we join them? Don't want to crowd her. Probably ought to go and pay my respects to more people, too." And doesn't he sound ''thrilled'' about that.

To Brieli; "I'm sure it's the smell." The rest of the bubbly getting gulped back brings some semblance of Iolene's gaiety, particularly as her smile strengthens. "You lot are either foolish or too nice to stick around me." One hand reaches out to squeeze Riorde's elbows and the blonde head ducks for a brief moment to murmur a few words, that, if she were sober wouldn't be audible, but as she's fast not being sober is quite over-hearable: "If by talk, you mean broken arms or noses, Ysavaeth would rather you didn't. I mean, ''I'' would rather you didn't. We don't need another reminder of Tiriana here. Let's just have fun, Ri, ok? Please?" And she concludes the 'whisper' with a kiss to the brownrider's cheek.

[DRAGONS] Elleth knows those emotions well, and in return, she provides a wash of motherly warmth and encouragement - even pride. << All will be well, >> she promises. << Rest. You have a beautiful clutch. >>

Braeden's smile lasts only until he spots an elderly figure seated by the hearth, distant and yet somehow still involved in the goings on. She's distinct by the cluster of folk who, with many an aquiline nose and Reaches blue eyes stand out as Weyrfolk who aren't of the Weyr. Slow steps pick him off that wall and towards this cluster of folk, his target the old woman, and with more respect than generally granted ''just'' the elderly, he bends at the waist and proffers a bow. "Might we speak, Shimana?" And from there, the world might just end.

Azaylia's lips purse ever so faintly, not attempting to shoe-horn actual mirth into the conversation by joining in with K'del's tarnished laugh. She glances over at Iolene and her mismatched entourage, "I don't want to crowd her either." She admits, perhaps a touch too quiet. Her words fail to gain in volume, "It might help, what with the..." Gaze roams the crowd, still unable to find the source of those undeserved remarks. She's already inching closer to the gaggle, "I'll bet just seeing you will help? I mean..." Azaylia's gaze drops and she clears her throat. "Just in case she's uncomfortable? I know I would be."

"That too," the brownrider agrees easily, grinning at Brieli before she sips her drink. "Lots of opportunities to see the eggs now. Just don't accidentally fall onto the sands or anthing." She states it blandly, but there's a glance sideways at Iolene that leads into listening to the goldrider's not-so-quiet whispers. "Just talk," Riorde answers, but Iolene knows her better than that. But in any case she smiles again and settles for returning the one-armed hug. "For you, Io," she says fondly, "Anything."

Another glass is snagged, and Damaris slides down along the table a little further in the direction of those voices, taking up a lean against the table's edge. She takes a good drink from her glass and actually falls to quiet for once, aside from her, "No, not much," commented to Brieli. New vantage point acquired, she drinks and watches, alternating between the group she's standing with (not as much attention) and those that just might be stirring the pot. She's definitely attentive, even if her expression is all smiles and friendly warmth.

"With the--" K'del doesn't finish his thought, even though he's nodding idly along with it. His attention's been caught by something across the room: by Braeden, by Shimana, by a confluence of events that only turns his expression more confused and uncertain than ever. "What the shell is he playing it?" he wants to know, under his breath - a comment that is almost certainly not directed in the herder's direction. "Uh-- you should go and say hello. And tell Riorde to watch herself, because I won't tolerate ''any'' trouble." Because he just can't seem to tear his attention away from the young Lord, now.

Toren breaks open a bread roll and puts some mashed tubers inside. He sees Braedon moving over and he slowly follows after him as Braedon seems to be up to something. He continues to eat and lean against the wall just listening.

Dryly, "Yes, it's a terrible burden. Both your smell and presence, weyrwoman. Someone's paying us, actually." Brieli gives one of her eyerolls, looking at Iolene and the others like seriously, come on. As the goldrider goes to 'whisper', the seamstress has the grace to pretend she can't hear it - but instead, looks in the direction of the hearths like so many seem to be, thoughtfully. That is, until: "Accidentally fall onto the sands?" She arches brows at Riorde, assuring her, "I'll try not to." Though she looks as if she's expecting there's a story in there. Damaris' reply gets a nod, and she doesn't distract the other girl - she's splitting her attention a little herself.

Issedi's laughter rings just a little louder in the wake of the muttered disgruntlement in regards to the exiles, and though it doesn't seem like she has eyes for anyone but the man who's claimed her arm for the evening, roguish brownrider flying in Snowdrift, the observant will catch those drop of her lashes as her head 'shies' away in a coquettish fashion, and in that drop, spy a glance spared for this brother of hers. The smile, when it lifts again to the brownrider, is pleased. "Come," says the lord's sister, "Let's dance, so you can show me just how easily your feet move." Other nights, she might be Issedi, daughter of Rynien, betrothed to Crom. But tonight, she'll be carefree.

The hand at Riorde's elbow tightens and then slips further into a half-hug around the brownrider's waist. "Goldrider," is Iolene's quick correction. "It's... complicated. But Tiriana doesn't allow us to fly in the queens' wing. And she said we're not ready to train to be a weyrwoman. So I'm just me. No rank really. So we fly in a fighting wing." Here, those dark eyes light up. "It's actually pretty interesting. I can see why it might be more interesting with something to fight, not that Ysavaeth can really flame but-... Didn't you-," a glance catches Issedi heading to dance with a brownrider, and turns confused back to Brieli, "Weren't you from Crom? Wasn't your Lord to be married to ''her''?"

Nibble. Headtilt. Azaylia continues to graze even as K'del's attention is stolen away, following his line of sight rather than trying to coax it back on her. His suggestion has her surprised, "O-Oh. Alright." All too quickly she's moving on, brows innocently furrowed as she mouths to herself. ''Who's Riorde?'' The Apprentice has finally picked her plate clean, abandoning it in its proper place before she reaches Iolene's group. There she'll hover, arms behind her back and watching their conversation with too-obvious interest. For those who might question who the tall tan shadow is, their curiosity will be met with a friendly, if oddly apologetic smile. The already small gesture is straining just a touch at Iolene's words, however.

With all eyes on him, not that he makes any show of noticing or caring, but likely most aware of it, Braeden takes the seat Shimana offers. The cluster of once exiles depart for places not far, though not within earshot. Shimana can be scary, and the two converse in what appears to be casual at first, short niceties sparred back and forth until the young Lord speaks in quiet, firm tones. And shortly, more rumors spread across the living cavern floor: ranging from such things as Braeden offering the exiles a home at the Hold to offering Issedi and himself in marriage to exiles of Shimana's choosing as a sign of good faith. Even more ludicrous is the talk of reinstatement.

It's only after Azaylia has begun to head towards Iolene's group that K'del manages to turn his attention from Braeden and his companion long enough to give her another glance. He looks apologetic, too, and for a few seconds afterwards Iolene gets another lingering glance. But he has fish to fry, and a room to track across, which carries him ultimately in Toren's direction. Falling alongside the Harper, the Weyrleader notes, quietly: "It's rude to try and eavesdrop like that. Even for a Harper. Besides," his voice is low, but he sounds almost amused, "they're being far too quiet for anyone to hear."

"It happens." Riorde keeps her tone light as she smiles across at Brieli. "More fun in a fighting wing," she then states on the heels of Iolene's explanation, determined about it. "You do far more than Tiriana does." Occasionally, the exile brownrider's attention drifts, picking out Shimana and her company, and at a certain point, she looks thoughtful through her sips of her diminishing drink.

Blink. Damaris's attention comes back, at Iolene's words, and she blinks a few times. Disbelief touches her expression, and then she's just rolling her eyes. No comment is made; she drinks her drinks, she watches and she listens. It's not just the spot by the hearth that she's watching, but the overly loud voices from earlier and those people over there, K'del. Really, she's being generally attentive. She does offer a smile of recognition up towards Azaylia when she steps up, lifting her glass in greeting. "Hey," she offers, gesturing with her chin to an open spot close to stand. Come, be welcome. Right there, not on the edge.

Toren does his best to look more interested in his food than what's going on around him. He is trying to listen and not look like he's listening. He does look up as he sees the bride to be dancing with a brownrider. He takes note of it as he takes a sip of his klah.

Brieli looks as if she's trying to puzzle out Iolene's explanation, dark eyes narrowing a little before, "It sounds complicated. As far as I knew, if you impressed a gold dragon, you were a junior weyrwoman. Not The Weyrwoman, but... Anyway. What do I know." She's about to ask Io and Riorde something - presumably about fighting wings - but the goldrider's question has her looking over at Issedi and her rider escort. "I didn't really see her often, but when I left - that was the case. That's... Well. Interesting." As Damaris greets Azaylia, she notes the herder as well, lifting a glass in greeting. "Good evening."

And Issedi dances and dances, attracting more gazes with her muted delight and the way her partners seem to keep changing every few steps. A bright floral spot of color in the middle of High Reaches' hyper-charged environment of everything Tiriana stands for and then... the others, it's not hard for people to gravitate to, or even smile at the High Reaches lady's joie de vivre. What little tension remains, in spite of Tiriana's absence, is slowly melting as more couples join in a high energy dance.

"You're ''supposed'' to say that." Iolene's words combine with her rolling eyes at Riorde's defense. "If you didn't, you wouldn't be my friend." The arm releases the brownrider and not one but two wistful glances steal to Issedi and her partners. "If you don't mind...?" Her voice trails off as she doesn't quite wait for a response from her companions, though there is a look of apology to Brieli that shifts to warmth at the sight of Azaylia, but that's pretty much it as the young woman casts off the gossip around her by losing herself into a dance with a random person she links arms with and drags out. There's ''dancing''! And Iolene's never been one to be good at not dancing when there's ''dancing'' going on.

Toren finishes his sip of klah and he looks up at K'del with a polite smile. He sets the klah on a nearby table and he gives a salute, as an apprentice should give a Weyrleader, "Greetings Weyrleader. Quite a celebration. 13 eggs is an amazing feat, congratulations to you and Iolene and to both of your dragons." He drops his voice, "Perhaps for anyone else, but for trained harper ears, you never know what you'll pick up. Besides I'm just a kid and no one tends to notice kids." He goes to get his klah and takes another sip of it in between bites of food, "Very good food my compliments to your cooks."

Like the awkward specter she seems to be, Azaylia floats ever so closer to Damaris, smile revived by her hospitality. "Thank you. Oh- and hello. You look very nice tonight." Offered to all the other women, however she's addressing their shoes at the time, head bowed bashfully. Though she makes it a point to lift it and hopefully catch Iolene's attention before she's whisking some soul away to dance. "Congr- oh. Hoofmuck." As close to a curse as she can muster, she doesn't seem too disappointed. "At least she looks to be having fun?" Pensive murmur is for those that remain, though Riorde and Brieli are offered a belated introduction. "I'm Azaylia."

Braeden eases back into the chair, his fingers steepling as he listens to Shimana, her volume a lot less controlled. But as the predictor of storms on the island, and the voice of the sea, perhaps it's understandable she's not used to muting herself. And so it goes, back and forth and back and forth, the two chat, Braeden to Shimana, Shimana to Braeden, until ultimately the young man stands and offers his hand to the exile elder. "Thank you." This gratitude is made clear, meant to be overheard. Shimana? Does not express such things, but there is interest piqued in those eyes of hers that track the Lord Reaches' path away. Her horde returns, with questions that don't get immediate answers.

K'del's nose wrinkles slightly at that salute, but his smile is cheerful enough. "Thank you," he tells Toren. "We're pleased with it. It's a decent enough number." He doesn't seem completely sold on the young harper's explanation, and indeed, seems very deliberately keeping his gaze away from the Lord and his conversational partner, even as they part. "Keep your ears open for anything else you hear. Seems like there's plenty going on, tonight, in one way or another."

"I am," Riorde agrees, grinning quickly before taking a step to the side to allow Iolene by. "Go on then." She still has an ear for the gossip, staying with the other girls as Azaylia comes up to replace the departing, dancing goldrider. "Riorde. Hoofmuck?" Ri echoes, something skeptical in the repetition. Her eyebrows remain arched as she glances away again to get another glance of the elder that she formerly deferred to -- in name, anyway.

"So do you," Damaris replies to Azaylia, and then with a warm smile for the little group she's turning to follow along after Io, though it takes her just a moment to spot the person that she pounces on to drag out to dance, clearly a friend of hers given the laughter and the mock protest, the 'help me' he throws back to his friends. Dancing! She may even enjoy herself.

Giorda drifts past the circle of women: Damaris, Brieli, Riorde, and Azaylia. At her side is her assistant and low words are spared, "Make sure to count all the silver afterwards and get an inventory of what decorations we've used. I've never trusted these parties much since those ''thieves'' used them to pickpocket their livelihood."

Toren smiles brightly at K'del and he gives a very slight nod, "You are very welcome." He continues to eat and lowers his voice again, "I shall do my best." He raises his voice again, "If you will excuse me Weyrleader, it has been wonderful talking to you, but I'm sure that there are many others that require your attention." He waits for K'del to dismiss him before he goes to put his empty plate in the right spot and mug of klah in his hand he starts to slowly make his way through the crowd.

Brieli is not accepting the look of apology from Io; nothing to apologize for - the tall brunette waves her off good-naturedly. Who could really deny her, especially with Issedi spinning the room into dance. Watching the couples with a slight, fond smile, she blinks back to Riorde and Azaylia. "Oh, I'm Brieli. Nice to meet you. Is hoofmuck worse than regular muck?" Her tone is definitely interested, even if she's stealing a peek at the same elder the brownrider is, the horde that surrounds her in search of information. As Giorda passes, her low words cause the girl's expression to sober; instead of answering, she merely nods twice, politely, lips pursed.

K'del tosses Toren a lazy, sloppy salute with his good hand - made sloppier by the fact that it's clearly not his dominant hand - and, after a moment more, twists his mouth into an expression more formal, and turns back to the crowd. He ''does'' have people to see: like the Weyrleaders of Benden, who chat to him in low, concerned tones off to one side. K'del just keeps shaking his head, back and forth, and looking worried.

Azaylia is suddenly worried on Riorde's behalf, as the brownrider echoes her improvised swear. A hand flies up to give her lips a light tap. Bad mouth! "That was terribly rude, wasn't it? Sorry." And then, "Oh! You're Riorde." As if a longtime question has finally been answered. She doesn't expand on that, though Damaris is stolen away by the music before she can answer. Thankfully, Brieli remains, if only to remind the Herder of her embarrassing oath. "Ah... it, like..." She hesitates to expand on it with such finery surrounding them, "Stuff. That's cleaned out of a runner's hoof. Uhmhm." She reaches out to a passing serving dish, plucking something bubbly to distract her mouth with. In mid-sip she chokes at Giorda's passing, delicate coughs thankfully dry.

The dancing eases from high energy to slower, more intimate, and Issedi goes from delighted to eyes-wide and taking a step back. Drunk riders, sometimes, have problems with boundaries, or recall the fact they're dancing with one of Pern's elite. The brownrider is left on the floor with a woman's handprint to his cheek, and Issedi's made a beeline for her brother's side. The siblings share a small smile; but for an instant, the younger one looks tired -- that frayed about the edges look where too much color and too much forced joy have only just masked the sorrow beneath it all.

It's only now, as Braeden and Issedi stand together as representatives of High Reaches Hold that the conspicuous absences of Tillek and Crom start to be noticed. Surely, even fashionably late can't mean ''this'' late?

Slow dancing isn't as interesting for Iolene as the fast ones, particularly not with the stablehand she ended up with in the end; a young over eager young man who well- you know the type. She's sweet though, patting the fifteen turn old's cheek and leaning into press a chaste kiss where her fingers were once before turning back to the crowds. He'll talk about it all night, surely, Iolene being an 'older woman' and all. Oh, there's food; little niblets of asparagus drenched in cheese set in a pastry shell. Why yes, Mr. Drudge sir, she'll have four, or as many that can fit into the cup of her hand.

In one corner, an enthusiastic young Apprentice Weaver kisses her boyfriend, a weyrboy, with desperate passion: there are tears streaming down her cheeks. "I don't want to leave," she says into the skin of his neck, as he wraps his arms tightly around her. "I just don't want to go, and I don't think it's ''fair'' that he can just decide I shouldn't be here."

"I'm Riorde," the brownrider confirms to Azaylia with a faint smile at her lips. Amused, yes, but there's something thoughtful and assessing underneath. She watches the teenager for several moments as she goes on to explain her expletive, then casually turns aside to exchange her empty glass for a full one. Food, thus far, she bypasses.

K'del's conversation with Cora and B'doran of Benden only lasts a few minutes; when he leaves the pair, his expression is suddenly unreadable, but not nearly as tight and thin as it was only a few minutes ago. His gaze catches on Iolene at the food table, but even if he catches her eye, the most he'll do is give her a grave nod before he turns back to the crowds and gets lost in them once more. There are ''people'' to see.

Toren passes by as he continues to just wander through the crowd. He turns away from the show of passion and he nearly bumps into Azaylia. He comes up short, "Hello there Azaylia." He gives a nod to Brieli as well, "Hello Brieli, I hope you both are enjoying the party." He gives a polite not to Riorde, "Hello Riorde."

K'del senses "Iolene does more than catch his gaze. She'll coincide to pass by him and brush fingers. Delicious little cheese-stained fingers against places that shouldn't be mentioned."

A High Reaches bluerider takes one look at K'del as the Weyrleader passes, and bursts into giggles: there's a grease-stain in an unfortunate location on his trousers, and he doesn't ''seem'' to have noticed. She points it out to the man next to her, nudging him in the side - the two laugh.

Downing her glass and immediately looking for another, Brieli nods to Azaylia. "I figured that it might be that. Is it that awful a thing to say?" She doesn't seem to think so, but she doesn't seem to be as entirely self-possessed as she was a moment ago; something's got her rattled. Watching Riorde watch the apprentice gives her some time to settle, as does the next glass in hand. Blinking in bemusement as Toren almost walks into Azaylia, she nods to the harper. "I am. I hope you are too - do mind where you're going, though - people have food and drink."

Iolene's demeanor visibly lightens in a more genuine way than wrought by dancing alone as K'del catches her gaze, even nods at her, and then passes by. She might even lean in to speak some words, but he's walking by so quickly. Sad. As her hand isn't quite good enough for the amount of food that would drown her sorrows, Io grabs a plate and starts stacking little appetizers onto it before stealing out back into the lower caverns.

Azaylia's attention is snared by the drama that is unsuccessfully contained by a corner of the room. The scene weighs heavily on her lips, frowning without realizing it in a show of too-genuine empathy. "No," She still manages to answer Brieli, though it takes her longer to tear her eyes away from something that's really none of her business. "I mean, it's probably still rude. I used to say it instead of, uhm, actual curses. Back at the..." Voice falters, swallow. "...'Hall." And then, a squeak! Though Toren's familiar and not to scary, "Hello Toren. Yes, I am." Not a lie now that she's once again distracted by the festivities. Riorde will get a few glances stolen her way, the Apprentice curious and observing the so-called troublemaker.

Toren bows his head, "I apologize for my clumsiness, I didn't mean to run into any one, it's just it's not polite to stare." He gives a smile to Azaylia, "I'm glad you are having a good time. Well I am hoping that I will get to play later." He takes a drink of his klah, "Have either of you had a chance to do any dancing yet?"

"Hello." Riorde studies Toren for an uncomfortably long moment, smile notwithstanding. The smile never reaches her eyes, and the assessment she'd turned on Azaylia now switches to the harper. "Have we met?" She's too pretty and poised to be a troublemaker, really -- ''far'' too elegant. K'del must have been mistaken.

Dance, dance. Damaris stays out on the floor even through the slow dancing, though she's certainly not switching partners. Current partner, safe. She waits a good while after Iolene's disappeared to finally abandon the dance, dragging her friend with her over to the drinks and talking quietly. Time to catch her breath. And also drink.

K'del, still blithely aware of that unfortunately located stain on his pants, continues to weave his way through the crowds, ending up in low conversation with Southern's Weyrleader, a man who very carefully keeps his gaze on K'del's face. They're not far from the drinks tables, although at the moment neither are paying anyone else any attention. "Unfortunate," the other Weyrleader says, low and full of meaning.

Brieli is so not interested in whatever drama is going on with I-don't-want-to-go, etc. The squeaking is interesting, however - she arches brows at Azaylia, surprised by it. Toren's explanation gets a nod and she notes, "It's Azaylia that needs the apology, I believe. And I imagine there'll be a chance to play. I haven't gotten to dancing, but I don't do much of it myself." Looking into her glass, "Not tonight, anyway."

"Well, I want some dancing. I wore my dress," Riorde issues as a complaint. "Here." She drains her second flute at quite an impressive rate, given that it was at least half-full, and holds the empty glass out to Toren with the expectation that he will oblige her and hold it while she, in turn, goes off in search a dance partner.

Another glass of something is fetched, and Damaris turns to ghost away both from the table and her friend, but then she's catching sight of the two Weyrleaders and decides instead to linger. There is nearby leaning (though out of immediate earshot), and she puts her superficial attention out on the dancing people. Sip, watch, pay attention.

She may have to force the unfamiliar sting of alcohol down, but Azaylia empties her glass with a sigh. Toren's question has her giggling softly, shaking her head, "No no, I don't dance. Though it's lovely to watch." Brieli's insistance has her scrunching her face, drink aiding her in finding too much amusement. "It's fine, honest." Empty glass stem is twirled between her fingers, clearly a distracted action as a line of gossip involving Iolene and K'del reaches her ears. The delicately spun glass suddenly snaps between thumb and pointer finger, though her face remains innocently unaware for a moment longer. There's another squeak to pique Brieli's interest, staring down at the two halves she's cradling in each hand. "..." No damage done to herself, just weyr property.

Toren gives a smile to Riorde, "I think that we have met before, probably at the local tavern. I play there a once or twice a sevenday." He thought that he had apologized, but as he has come to find out once just isn't enough. He turns to Azaylia, "I'm sorry that I almost bumped into you. It was rude of me." He says in a sincere tone of voice as he gets offered the glass. He looks at it and he sighs softly as he plays the good apprentice and takes it. He'll hold it for Riorde, "And you look lovely in that dress." He smiles, "Well you should it's good fun. I'm sure someone will be along to ask you." He offers Azaylia the glass that he now has, "Here I'll trade you."

Nor does this conversation last very long, but again, K'del seems satisfied by the outcome. Southern's R'jare takes his leave completely, collecting his Weyrwoman and then heading with her towards the door. K'del watches after the pair of them, considering, before he turns about to head for another drink. Whisky cures all.

Riorde's complaint brings something of a smile to Brieli's lips, as does the presumptive way she holds out her glass to the harper. The second squeak from Azaylia does, in fact, draw the seamstress' interest, and she looks over and sighs softly. "You won't be the only one to break a glass or four - put it aside?" As Toren offers his in trade, she gestures with her own glass - problem solved. "Honestly, you can likely give it to one of the people cleaning up. It's a party, glasses get broken." Which is maybe why she gets rid of hers - she downs the rest of the bubbly in her flute and sets it aside on a nearby table.

"I drink there once or twice a day," Riorde responds dryly, still smiling as she deposits the glass with Toren and takes herself off. She moves purposefully, cutting a straight line for Damaris without any hesitation. Her smile's back, present as she comes to a halt just a little close for comfort, fingers reaching lightly for the other woman's elbow. "Having a nice time? Have you danced? You should dance with me."

"Going well, tonight," Damaris observes as soon as K'del is in earshot, offering up a little impish smile his way. She does step out of the Weyrleader's way, so that he can collect his so very necessary glass of whisky. And oh, then there's Riorde, and she's right there, and the kitchen girl goes a little wide eyed, lifting her chin to look at Riorde squarely. "Oh," she says. "I am, I did, but. Oh, of course." Of course...she's looking a little flustered. Blushing, if faintly. Still, she downs what's in her glass, sends a look K'del's way, and then straightens from her lean. "I'll try not to step on your toes."

Azaylia tries not to show just how mortified she is, though she's all to eager to trade Toren. "That's so sweet of you." Said with a sigh of relief, face still heavy in the same way a canine puppy's is when it's done something wrong. "I- I know. I just... didn't want to be one of them. The people." Fingers flick casually to the more rowdy riders, not realizing how badly that can be taken. That same hand reaches up, the Apprentice fanning at her face at a sudden heat hits her- certainly one glass can't go so quickly to her head? "Excuse me," She murmurs towards Brieli and Toren, "I think I need a breath of fresh air." Smile is genuine, making no excuses for some other agenda- and indeed Azaylia will look for the closest exit to stand next to. Actually go ''out'' into the autumn night? No thank you!

For Damaris, and her remark, K'del has a smile that's almost-bright; his nod is long enough that there might well be extra meaning in it. His mouth opens at Riorde's offer, rather as though he's about to object, and there's warning there. But he says nothing: he even smiles.

Toren takes the broken glass and he moves to throw it away. He comes back to see Azaylia is about to leave and he waves to her, "See you later Azaylia." He gives a nod to Brieli, "If you'll excuse me I'm going to wander more. Enjoy the party." He starts to mingle again.

Riorde looks pleased, with her smile briefly widening. The smile remains as she glances over at K'del long enough to meet, and hold, his gaze. "My toes have had worse," she says to Damaris, holding out her hand with her palm up. "They can take it."

The smile that is given K'del-wards just before she takes Riorde's hand is reassuring. Damaris lifts her chin at him, and then she's turning to place her hand in the offered one, putting on a warm smile. Any awkwardness is shoved down, pushed out of sight, and she moves to follow the other woman out to the floor. "We'll see," she says, all innocence. "I broke someone's foot once. It was terribly not pretty."

Something about Riorde's holding of his gaze unnerves K'del; his narrows, and even Damaris' lifted chin doesn't seem to soothe him. "Riorde," he says, carefully. "Don't-- " Don't what? He doesn't seem to be able to specify. "Be smart." Don't be smart? No - it seems to be a separate statement.

As both the harper and herder apprentices wander off into the night and the crowds, Brieli's mood is now somewhat somber and muted. She gives a little wave Toren's way as he makes his way off to mingle, and melts into the darker edges of the cavern to watch and listen for as long as she can stand it. Eventually, she'll slip back down into the caverns, taking a page from Io and a plate or two of food with her.

"Weyrleader," Riorde says, mocking. Faintly, faintly. "You have so little faith in your riders." More lightly, to Damaris: "Shall we?" She spins Damaris out, out, and away from K'del. "So," she says for a conversational starter, "how are the kitchens? Any dropped pans? Is that how you break people's feet?"

Dragon> To Cadejoth, Sforzath ghosts in, faint at first and then strengthening, a presence paired with the spicy-sweet scent that feels like an unarticulated complaint, an appeal.

Dragon> To Sforzath, Cadejoth is distracted, tonight, his thoughts filled with eggs, and a now-sleeping queen. Still; << Sforzath? >>

Oh. There's briefly reluctance to the edges her expression, at something that goes between K'del and Riorde, but Damaris doesn't back down at this point, just smoothing her smile and being spun out and away from the Weyrleader. Contrary to her commentary about breaking feet, she's a fine dancer. "The kitchens are the kitchens," she says dryly, rolling her eyes and offering up a smile. "Full of gossip and tasty food. I have not dropped anything lately, alas. The weather hasn't been terribly cooperative. You're well, I hope?"

He may not have won the battle, if, indeed, he was intending to, but K'del does not leave the battlefield, either: his good arm crosses over his bad arm, that latest glass of whiskey long since abandoned. He watches the dance, brownrider and kitchen worker, leaning up against a table and looking, by now, a little tired. The crowds are beginning to thin out - many of the dignitaries have already departed. He's got time.

Dragon> << Cadejoth. >> The recognition, first, and then for a long moment thereafter, nothing. Would Sforzath even bring his uneasiness to the bronze, were it not that the queen -- his queen, too -- is sleeping? Finally: << She hears what they say. >> (Sforzath to Cadejoth)

Dragon> ''His'' queen. Their queen. Cadejoth is silent for long moments after that last remark, his chains clicking into silence. << Is it true? >> (Cadejoth to Sforzath)

Toren continues to mingle with those that are still around. He doesn't do much talking and he just listens to the conversations going on. He keeps to sipping his klah as he does his best to keep his eyes and ears open.

"Alas," Riorde parrots, playing. For all that she knows how to dance, she's less adept at leading; a few fumbled footsteps show that quickly enough. "We're as well as can be." She subjects Damaris to a casual sort of examination, head tilted just so. "You're not bored with the kitchens? I would be, same thing day in and day out."

"It's an open secret that I am," Damaris laughs as the words are spoken, and for all that there are fumbled footsteps, she deigns to ignore them, letting Riorde work out this leading thing while doing her best to minimize the obviousness of said difficulty. It's habit. Oh look, that fumble was _totally_ on purpose, see. "But not so bored that I'm unhappy. They let me go do other things, when it gets to be too much. I spent quite a bit of time in the stables this summer. It's not a bad place to be, though." One hand comes away from Riorde so she can wave it around vaguely. "They could put me in the laundry. Could you imagine that?" Mock horror. "How is Taikrin?" Not even any awkwardness in the asking, though she's maybe being a little bit over-attentive to Riorde when the words are spoken.

Someone ''else'' wants some of K'del's time? Of course. He's attentive, though, and full of smiles: yes, it's been a lovely evening, yes, it's a good clutch, yes, it's a pity that Tiriana couldn't make it. Yes, yes, yes.

Dragon> To Cadejoth, Sforzath may be holding in his temper, but the pressure mounts, pressing, building. The resentment in his answer adds further weight, dropping into place with a clink. << We're better than they think we are. >>

Dragon> At the best of times, Cadejoth is not the most observant, the most careful with his words. And tonight is-- different. << So you claim, >> he allows. << What do you want, Sforzath? To prove yourselves? To claim my queen? >> A rattle of bones could - almost - be described as territorial. (Cadejoth to Sforzath)

"Laundry was always my least favorite," Riorde says, remembering. Her lip curls slightly before she eases her expression back into that agreeable smile. "She's fine. Glacier's throwing a party of our own for the clutch, but I wanted to show up for Iolene. I'll head over in a bit, though." She concentrates, ostensibly on the dancing while her gaze remains fixed on Damaris. Eventually, she puts out in an offhand manner, "You could get out of the kitchens. If you wanted. You could stand."

"Well, tell her I said hello," Damaris requests, relaxing a little at the reaction the question gets. Whew! "We should all get drinks again sometime. On purpose. Without anything blowing. What?" It's about then that the suggestion sinks in, and to her credit, she does not actually stumble or trip. She loses the beat for a moment and sort of falters gracelessly, but she's picking it back up swiftly. "I suppose I could," she says, giving Riorde a look that's more typical of her-to-the-brownrider: a little bewildered. "Isn't that a lot of work, though?" It's the important question.

Dragon> To Cadejoth, Sforzath has little patience for games. Smoke leaks out of containment, at first in a trickle and then threatening to billow, gusts of it. << What's ours. >> He does not name the claims themselves. Cadejoth should ''know.'' They all should. Sforzath has nothing more to say.

Dragon> To Sforzath, Cadejoth is dismissive, somehow. << If you say so, >> he says, before drifting back towards his eggs, his queen, his weyr.

It's doubtful whether K'del actually caught the question being asked, given he's only vaguely glancing at the dancing women in between carefully chosen remarks to his current companion. It's more likely, however, that he's caught the way Damaris falters, and even if she ''does'' pick it back up again, it's got his eyes narrowed. "Excuse me," he says, vaguely, stepping away from his companion and towards the dance floor.

Toren can see the party is dying down and it is getting a bit late. He goes to head out.

"I suppose there's work involved," Riorde allows, pausing to allow Damaris the chance to collect herself. "But it's interesting. It changes. It's-- freeing." She spies K'del over the other woman's shoulder and looks at him as he approaches, expression pulled into one that's pleasantly questioning.

There's a half-step back taken when Riorde pauses, and Damaris does take a moment to gather herself back together. The glance over her shoulder is caught, and so she looks, too. Oh, K'del. Relief ghosts every so briefly through her gaze, but she soon turns her eyes back up to Riorde. "It would...be not so boring," she grants slowly, her tone heavy with thought. The wheels in her head are spinning so fast. No smoke out her ears yet, though. "What would I have to do?" Pause. "I mean right now, not. In general."

Even now, K'del doesn't seem entirely certain on what is being discussed - but that isn't going to stop him from sidestepping in alongside the pair, arms still crossed, brows still raised. "Everything all right here?" he wants to know, expression questioning to Damaris, particularly in light of that relief, and suspicious to Riorde. Poor Riorde.

"Oh, tell the headwoman, I suspect." Riorde is rather loose on the details. "Or K'del. There he is now." The brownrider brings them both to a halt so she can turn towards the Weyrleader. She's smiling when she says, "Sforzath thinks Damaris should be a candidate for Ysavaeth's clutch, and I agree." Has Damaris even met her brown? Not the point. The point is this: the very public declaration of the offer extended to Damaris by this exile rider. She's not looking to see if the riders from earlier are still present, keeping her eyes fixed on K'del in anticipation of a response not just from Damaris, but from him as well.

Starting to reply, Damaris closes her mouth when Riorde speaks. Oh. Gears in her head, almost audibly grinding, and she tugs herself insistently out of Riorde's grip so that she can step to K'del's side. He's looked at sidelong for two heartbeats -- there is absolutely no mistaking the questioning-for-approval look she gives him, plain for the whole cavern to see -- and then it's from his side that she looks back to Riorde and nods her head. "I will," she finally agrees. "Thank you, Riorde, and thank you to Sforzath, as well. I'm honored." No attempt to keep her voice quiet.

Whatever K'del was expecting, it's not this: this, that leaves him hesitating for a moment, watching Riorde rather as though he expects her to throw something else into it any mix. But he must be aware of what was said earlier, and perhaps that's why he raises his voice when saying, eyes turning now towards Damaris in an approving way, "Excellent! We need all the good people we can get; speak for both of us when I say Iolene and I are pleased." No doubt it attracts some attention - for a number of reasons - from those remaining; he doesn't seem to notice, or care. "The Headwoman, yes. She'll sort you out. Uh-- congratulations, Damaris."

"Excellent," Riorde repeats, pleased in her own way. It's a darker sort of satisfaction. "I hope it suits you." She's pointedly keeping her full attention on the other two, chin lifted. "If you don't mind, I think I'll excuse myself; I should be off to find my wing."

"Thanks, Riorde," Damaris repeats more quietly, expression only uncertain for an instant before she's putting back on her cheerful smile. "I'll see you around sometime soon." A few more moments of watching before she's turning her eyes up to K'del and totally putting on her surprise face. "I think I need a drink -- maybe two -- before I go talk to the Headwoman," she tells him. "Maybe I should do that in the morning. And. Thanks."

K'del's got eyes on Riorde even now, even as she's departing - something he doesn't remark on. To Damaris: "Good. Excellent. Come on-- let's get a drink, then. Celebrate." Which he'll do before it's time to head back home.

Riorde has another smile for both of them, inclusive, before she heads out with her head still high to eat and drink and be merry with the wing that took her in.

Something so just sailed over her head, and the worst part is that she knows it. Damaris isn't poking at that ant's nest though, instead just happily going off to drink, 'celebrate', and try to regain her balance. It's been an interesting night. Morning...yes. Morning, she will talk to the Headwoman. Properly hungover. That's normal, right?

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Logs:A Clutching Affair

2012-05-11T05:51:36Z

Riorde:

{{ Log
| who = Azaylia, Braeden, Brieli, Damaris, Iolene, Issedi, K'del, Riorde, Shimana, Toren
| where = Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr
| what = The feast for Ysavaeth and Cadejoth's clutch.
| when =
| gamedate = 2012.05.10
| quote =
| weather =
| categories = General, Search 2012
| mentions =
| icons = iolene.jpg riorde formal.jpg
| log = It's a feast! Sort of. Even though the eggs were expected a clutching feast is never quite the same magnitude as a hatching one. Still, there are people, there's food and drinks floating around on trays and a buffet at two opposite sides of the cavern. There's even dignitaries, mostly local ones, but a few Weyrleader pairs from distance lands might be recognizable scattered through the crowd. Of course, with recent events at High Reaches, this clutch would garner some curiosity, and the gossip that churns across the floor is the number of eggs and the existence of that one, not quite white one; (un)lucky number thirteen, indeed.

Noticeably absent is the striking figure Tiriana usually makes and if dragons are to be believed, Iovniath is not on her ledge either. Whether this has any bearing, the Headwoman and her staff seem to move around with more ease and there's more levity than there might have been in the caverns in the time since the flight. Giorda, dressed for the occasion in a flattering maroon dress, chats up High Reaches Hold's new lord.

Present, however, is K'del: he's pulled out some of his nicer clothes and has clearly had someone help him into them (his slinged arm can certainly have been no use). Despite that set-back, and perhaps partially because of Tiriana's absence, he's a lively figure this evening, beaming at everyone he passes. It's hard for him to carry a drink ''and'' shake hands, and to that end, he's currently hanging around near the drinks table draining his glass before he heads back out into the crowd.

It's no surprise that Damaris has managed to wiggle and talk her way out of work. Because there is a party, or a sort of party, or...well, it's a really good reason to not work. She is instead perched on the edge of a table with a group of people her own age around, generally hamming it up and being as entertaining as she can be, telling some story that involves making faces, lots of hand gestures, and laughter.

Brieli has apparently gotten the memo about this being a dress-up occasion, so she's found herself a decent dress to wear in a flattering shade of red, short enough to show off long legs. She's not quite attached to any group, content to edge around the party with a fluted glass in hand, pausing here and again to chat with this person; perhaps listen near this group. Damaris' lot have some of the kitchen girls she knows in the group - she starts to wend her way in that direction, dark gaze restless.

Work clothes have no place at such a celebration, and the gown that has served Azaylia as gather finery years ago has been aged just right. If there's such a thing formal-casual, the Herder's cultivating that look with her blue and gold ensemble, freshly knitted scarf pinned smartly to the side. Evidence of a growth spurt is forgiven by a pair of tall (borrowed) boots that hide calves which would otherwise be visible. Thankfully, her moldy old fur coat is nowhere to be seen. Smiles come easily to the Apprentice this night, managing steady snippets of conversation when she's pulled in. Otherwise the young woman is most comfortable skirting on the edges of it all, plate piled high with nibblies. From which she nibbles.

Looking just a touch apprehensive, Iolene slip into the living cavern from the inner caverns and pauses to watch first. Her teeth find her lower lip as she casts her gaze from side to side, eyes lighting up at K'del, until he's headed back into and lost in that crowd. Sweaty fingers clench at and wrinkle the dress she wears as she plucks a drink off a passing tray and downs it in one go. /People/. /People who are talking about her or her dragon./ Nervous? Nah, those strained lines on her face disappear slowly, with that shot of liquid courage and a deep breath later, Io walks further in, pausing at the fringe of Damaris's laughing group and ending up standing near the moving Brieli. "Hi," says the blonde girl, with a mangled attempt at a smile.

K'del seems a little lost without a glass in his hand, and drinking that whisky so quickly has already turned his cheeks faintly flushed. Still, he's got another bright smile to extend towards young Lord Braeden and his sister Issedi -- and a more serious clap to the shoulder that no doubt speaks to condolences over their recent loss. Lady Issedi is in bright spirits despite that, her gleeful excitement as audible as it is visible. Turning again, he ends up wandering in Azaylia's direction, his smile for the herder only a ''little'' hesitant. "Azaylia, hey."

Oh, look. Damaris sends that smile of hers first towards Brieli and then towards Iolene when the crowd grows, though she doesn't immediately stop the storytelling. No, the little story is finished first, not that the ending is terribly funny without the context of the beginning. When she does finish, she picks up her glass to take a big long drink from it, and then she's refocusing on Brieli and Io, lifting her glass in toast to the latter. "Evening," she greets. She's not really dressed any different than she is the rest of the time in quality, though her clothing is clean enough that it's likely she changed after working and before coming out. There's a Look sent towards a few of those who, upon realizing that Iolene is within their midst, make themselves scarce, but she just turns her attention back. "Nicely done." Wink. Warm, friendly.

Azaylia catches sight of Iolene. Well, snippets of who she ''thinks'' is Iolene, though at the time her attention split between people watching and what the delicious paste she's eating is made of. Distracted steps bring her closer to the gaggle of girls whether she realizes it or not- stopping only at a familiar voice that tears her eyes away from her plate. Where there might be a smidge of hesitation in his greeting, there's none to be found in the smile she offers the Weyrleader. "Hello." A glance to make sure no one's listening, "Uhm, am I... supposed to congratulate you and Cadejoth, too? If I am..." Her voice falters, not wanting to sound redundant.

"Hi," Brieli merely responds to Iolene - with an actual smile. She lifts her glass in a silent salute rather than offer any congratulations or formalities, even given the occasion, Ysavaeth, etc. Perhaps she saw the goldrider down that drink in one go? After a long drink of her own, she asks, "Who's more relieved now? You or her? I'd guess she is; you might be later." Her cultured tones are sympathetic, especially when some of Damaris' friends start making themselves scarce. For Damaris herself, she has a grin, a little wave of a near-empty glass. "You work in the kitchens, yes? I think I've seen you."

[DRAGONS] The bronze from Southern Weyr sends curt greetings, along with the slightest twitch at the absence of a Weyrwoman's dragon to greet. Is there admonishment in the typical formality of respect and greetings?

Riorde pretties herself up when she feels like it, with hair swept up and wearing that chic, simple black number she pulls out for special occasions; some day she'll get herself another dress. Riorde's on a mission, slipping by clusters of riders and other celebrants, purloining a glass of something pale and sparkling, and arrowing in on the lady of the hour. "Iolene," she hails, as bright and bubbly as her champagne, and tries to insinuate herself next to the goldrider in order to slip am arm around her waist for a light, friendly squeeze. For the occasion, she uses her clutchmate's full name. "Congratulations are in order, aren't they?"

K'del's grin, for Azaylia's remark, is cheerful enough. "If you want to," he says, with a shrug of his good shoulder. "Pretty sure Ysavaeth did all the work, though. Cadejoth just got the fun part." It's possible he regrets making that last remark, because his expression falters for a moment and then he's hurrying on, "Anyway, it seems like a good clutch. Nice to have something to celebrate, right?"

Lady Issedi's wandered to find herself a cachet of male riders to speak with, her brilliant smile belying the sorrow her family must have faced, or the troubling news of her imminent broken betrothal. No, Issedi's here to enjoy and revel in her first visit to the Weyr, and as pretty as she is, there's no lacking in possible companions as the Weyr males (and some females) pay court to High Reaches' (as rumor would have it) soon-to-be eligible heir-apparent. Her brother, on the other hand, watches indulgently from afar and scans the crowd.

[DRAGONS] In reply, Cadejoth's enthusiasm is effusive: such a lovely clutch we have! Ysavaeth and I are proud. Iovniath-- there is only, there, a faint rattle of his chains, a sad, isn't-it-a-pity-about-her that explains nothing.

Eyebrows lift, at Iolene's mouthed words. "Don't," she's quick to say, voice firm. Damaris sits forward and leans, reaching to try and pat Iolene's shoulder reassuringly. "I never stay out of trouble, but that's..." and she's seeing Riorde and pausing briefly before she sends a smile up that way, too. "That's pretty much how I like it. H'lo, Riorde." Another drink from her glass. "And I'm doing well, thank you." Her eyes catch briefly on K'del but don't linger, a moment given over to a scan of the crowd. Faces are noted, placed, and then she's looking back to the little circle around _her_ table. Preen. To Brieli she says, "I do, sometimes." Pause. "Most of the time. You've probably seen me, or at least heard someone cursing me. I'm Damaris." Yes, she's in rare form tonight.

[DRAGONS] Wisely, the Southern bronze says little, and the ensuing silence feels more as of a communication placed on 'hold' rather than completed, for shortly, he returns with a show of how disappointed he is, that carries with it the golden notes of his mate. Disappointed. That's how they'll play this, this southern pair.

Some people's voices seem naturally designed to carry. Off past Braeden, a trio of older riders are talking in voices that might have been intended to be muted: they are not. "Exile queen," dismisses one of them. "No doubt she'll make sure they all Impress exile friends. No more good, solid riders for ''this'' Weyr. No wonder Tiriana's gone off the deep end."

[DRAGONS] And in reply? Cadejoth, too, is disappointed. Such a pity: such a sad thing. If ''only'' Iovniath and hers were here to celebrate with them. If only they were ''able'' to. It's more subtle than might normally be expected from the bronze-- and his chains buzz with sandy heat.

"I want to." Azaylia gives a delicate nod, surely thinking she's coming off as decisive and firm in that moment. Nobody tell her otherwise. "So, congratulations." Now she does stop suddenly, tense for as long as it takes for the awkward moment to pass. "Well..." And yet she seems intent on prolonging the tension. "As long as Cadejoth is happy." Clearing her throat, she's eager for another topic, "It is. I really hope you and Iolene have a good night..." Concern for both perhaps misplaced, the Apprentice stiffens and turns her head. It's visible now, that concern from earlier, but all too soon her face smooths and she's offering the Weyrleader something from her plate.

With a grimace, "I'm glad you don't need to share that with her either. I can't even... it's be like having one baby after another. Well, maybe not precisely, but the poor thing." Brieli shudders a touch and finishes off her drink for good measure, catching a fresh one off the tray right after Iolene does. If she does it, it can't be that bad to follow suit. As Riorde arrives, she edges over to allow the brownrider to give Io a hug, noting to Damaris, "I'm Brieli. Sometimes, I help out. You lot seem to know the best gossip, so..." She trails off, that too-loud voice drawing her brows together in a frown.

Those voices that carry paint rose on Iolene's cheeks, where once they were lined in nerves. "Oh," says the blonde girl, the single syllable catching in her throat until she takes another, unladylike gulp of her bubbly drink. "/Riorde/." Sudden relief floods Io's voice and she takes a step back to admit another into this little circle of girls. "This is Riorde. That's Brieli. That's Damaris. And I seem to have scared all of Damaris's friends away. I think-," aiming at humor, but falling just shy, she opines, "-The sweat from watching Ysavaeth didn't all get washed out with my bath."

K'del waves away the offer of Azaylia's plate, explaining, "I need to keep my hand free. And clean, if I can. Everyone wants to ''shake hands'', and it's just--" Frustrating, if his expression is anything to go by. "Thank you, anyway. He's happy. I--" His head turns, seeking out Iolene in the crowd in a way that turns his own expression wary and concerned. "There are a lot of rumblings. About Tiriana not being here. It's going to make things hard for her." For Iolene, presumably. "Hope she's okay, too. Seems it, for now."

Braeden also kens to those voices that carry, a meticulously groomed brow lifting high up as he seeks out faces to attach to these words. As a casual aside to the woman standing by his side, he notes, "Can't ride if they're '''Holders''' again, can they?" The capital lettering audibly drips from his affable voice.

"Damaris," Riorde recognizes, pleasant enough with a smile to match. It freezes, caught in place as she overhears what she -- or Iolene, more likely -- was meant to overhear. She leans into Iolene for a moment, and before she lets her arm drop away, addresses the others from a position of solidarity. "Nice to meet you. Exciting, isn't it? Io and I grew up together -- we're all ''so'' proud of her." The expression admits more than just esteem, pitched with a prideful sort of defiance. "If you know who they are," she murmurs far more quietly to Iolene, "tell me later, and I'll see if we can't have a talk."

[DRAGONS] Benden's queen extends a greeting in Ysavaeth's direction, quietly apologetic. << You must be tired, of course. I don't like to intrude. You don't need anything? >> There's an undercurrent of regret in her tone, as though there ought to be another ensuring the well-being of a first-time mother, one who has failed in this duty as she sees it.

Azaylia takes it in stride, not ''too'' obvious in her growing smile though she manages to joke, "More for me." Though even as she partakes, her head is turning in the opposite direction of the Weyrleader's. When she looks back up, the Herder intends to catch his gaze, curiosity evident. "Maybe Tiriana just needed a quick break?" Optimism isn't too rediculous to the young woman. She bites her lip and motions with a hand in Iolene's general direction, "Do you want..? I mean, I haven't gotten a chance to say hello, either." Smile shrinks, small and understanding.

"Ought not let them Search at all," is someone's conclusion. "Holders. That's what they ought to be, the whole lot of them." He must have heard something of Braeden's remark - or perhaps it's just spreading, a quiet suggestion that infiltrates conversation around the room.

Toren comes out of the inner cavern and he's dressed in his gather best. He keeps along the edges as the party just seems to be starting. He moves over towards getting something to eat and he frowns as he hears the statements being made by the riders. He piles on the food onto a little plate and he finds a spot along the wall to lean against to just listen and see what's going on.

"Yes, we're great for gossip," Damaris agrees blithely with Brieli, sliding off of the table and down to her feet. What's left in her glass is drained, and it's set down. "Hearing it, spreading it," and she's sliding a few steps off to the side, blue eyes settling on the owners of those carrying voices. They're marked, and then she's turning back to the little group she's with. "It's very exciting," she agrees, once she's refocused on those nearby. "You didn't scare them off," she tells Io. "Pretty sure that lot was just shy, knew you'd be surrounded by adoring crowds soon, didn't want to compete." All so casually spoken, like of course that's why they fled.

Brieli gives a little wave as Iolene introduces her, only slightly distracted in her effort to sort out where aspersions were being cast from. At the goldrider's shot at humor, she forces herself to focus. Lightly, "Perhaps they were intimidated." Io's not exactly intimidating right now, but who knows? With an easy smile for Riorde, "Exciting that Io doesn't have to watch Ysavaeth pace anymore, as I understand, as well. But yes, I'd never seen eggs before. I - I didn't very much like the idea of watching the clutching itself. It seemed too... personal. Something. I suppose that's strange." She glances Damaris' way as she steps off, then helpfully provides an explanation; "Ah, right. They're not much out of the kitchens, yes?"

[DRAGONS] Ysavaeth is placid, graciously accepting as a ''queen'' should be, of these regards from afar. The excuse of being wearied that reverberates in her tremulous mental touch allows her the latitude of a lack of tangible words, in lieu of which is a wash of emotions: pride, adoration, gratitude. ''Thank you for caring. Thank you for mothering. Thank you for supporting us,'' where 'us' flares the muted image of Cadejoth and her soon-to-be brood.

K'del's laugh is not really genuine, and more tinged with awkward bitterness than anything else. "If that were the case," he tells Azaylia, after heaving a deep sigh, "We'd all be much happier for it. I'm afraid I don't-- her absence is being noted." He doesn't specify by who, or how, but it's obvious in the lines on his expression that he's not entirely sure whether this is good or not. Probably not. "Should we join them? Don't want to crowd her. Probably ought to go and pay my respects to more people, too." And doesn't he sound ''thrilled'' about that.

To Brieli; "I'm sure it's the smell." The rest of the bubbly getting gulped back brings some semblance of Iolene's gaiety, particularly as her smile strengthens. "You lot are either foolish or too nice to stick around me." One hand reaches out to squeeze Riorde's elbows and the blonde head ducks for a brief moment to murmur a few words, that, if she were sober wouldn't be audible, but as she's fast not being sober is quite over-hearable: "If by talk, you mean broken arms or noses, Ysavaeth would rather you didn't. I mean, ''I'' would rather you didn't. We don't need another reminder of Tiriana here. Let's just have fun, Ri, ok? Please?" And she concludes the 'whisper' with a kiss to the brownrider's cheek.

[DRAGONS] Elleth knows those emotions well, and in return, she provides a wash of motherly warmth and encouragement - even pride. << All will be well, >> she promises. << Rest. You have a beautiful clutch. >>

Braeden's smile lasts only until he spots an elderly figure seated by the hearth, distant and yet somehow still involved in the goings on. She's distinct by the cluster of folk who, with many an aquiline nose and Reaches blue eyes stand out as Weyrfolk who aren't of the Weyr. Slow steps pick him off that wall and towards this cluster of folk, his target the old woman, and with more respect than generally granted ''just'' the elderly, he bends at the waist and proffers a bow. "Might we speak, Shimana?" And from there, the world might just end.

Azaylia's lips purse ever so faintly, not attempting to shoe-horn actual mirth into the conversation by joining in with K'del's tarnished laugh. She glances over at Iolene and her mismatched entourage, "I don't want to crowd her either." She admits, perhaps a touch too quiet. Her words fail to gain in volume, "It might help, what with the..." Gaze roams the crowd, still unable to find the source of those undeserved remarks. She's already inching closer to the gaggle, "I'll bet just seeing you will help? I mean..." Azaylia's gaze drops and she clears her throat. "Just in case she's uncomfortable? I know I would be."

"That too," the brownrider agrees easily, grinning at Brieli before she sips her drink. "Lots of opportunities to see the eggs now. Just don't accidentally fall onto the sands or anthing." She states it blandly, but there's a glance sideways at Iolene that leads into listening to the goldrider's not-so-quiet whispers. "Just talk," Riorde answers, but Iolene knows her better than that. But in any case she smiles again and settles for returning the one-armed hug. "For you, Io," she says fondly, "Anything."

Another glass is snagged, and Damaris slides down along the table a little further in the direction of those voices, taking up a lean against the table's edge. She takes a good drink from her glass and actually falls to quiet for once, aside from her, "No, not much," commented to Brieli. New vantage point acquired, she drinks and watches, alternating between the group she's standing with (not as much attention) and those that just might be stirring the pot. She's definitely attentive, even if her expression is all smiles and friendly warmth.

"With the--" K'del doesn't finish his thought, even though he's nodding idly along with it. His attention's been caught by something across the room: by Braeden, by Shimana, by a confluence of events that only turns his expression more confused and uncertain than ever. "What the shell is he playing it?" he wants to know, under his breath - a comment that is almost certainly not directed in the herder's direction. "Uh-- you should go and say hello. And tell Riorde to watch herself, because I won't tolerate ''any'' trouble." Because he just can't seem to tear his attention away from the young Lord, now.

Toren breaks open a bread roll and puts some mashed tubers inside. He sees Braedon moving over and he slowly follows after him as Braedon seems to be up to something. He continues to eat and lean against the wall just listening.

Dryly, "Yes, it's a terrible burden. Both your smell and presence, weyrwoman. Someone's paying us, actually." Brieli gives one of her eyerolls, looking at Iolene and the others like seriously, come on. As the goldrider goes to 'whisper', the seamstress has the grace to pretend she can't hear it - but instead, looks in the direction of the hearths like so many seem to be, thoughtfully. That is, until: "Accidentally fall onto the sands?" She arches brows at Riorde, assuring her, "I'll try not to." Though she looks as if she's expecting there's a story in there. Damaris' reply gets a nod, and she doesn't distract the other girl - she's splitting her attention a little herself.

Issedi's laughter rings just a little louder in the wake of the muttered disgruntlement in regards to the exiles, and though it doesn't seem like she has eyes for anyone but the man who's claimed her arm for the evening, roguish brownrider flying in Snowdrift, the observant will catch those drop of her lashes as her head 'shies' away in a coquettish fashion, and in that drop, spy a glance spared for this brother of hers. The smile, when it lifts again to the brownrider, is pleased. "Come," says the lord's sister, "Let's dance, so you can show me just how easily your feet move." Other nights, she might be Issedi, daughter of Rynien, betrothed to Crom. But tonight, she'll be carefree.

The hand at Riorde's elbow tightens and then slips further into a half-hug around the brownrider's waist. "Goldrider," is Iolene's quick correction. "It's... complicated. But Tiriana doesn't allow us to fly in the queens' wing. And she said we're not ready to train to be a weyrwoman. So I'm just me. No rank really. So we fly in a fighting wing." Here, those dark eyes light up. "It's actually pretty interesting. I can see why it might be more interesting with something to fight, not that Ysavaeth can really flame but-... Didn't you-," a glance catches Issedi heading to dance with a brownrider, and turns confused back to Brieli, "Weren't you from Crom? Wasn't your Lord to be married to ''her''?"

Nibble. Headtilt. Azaylia continues to graze even as K'del's attention is stolen away, following his line of sight rather than trying to coax it back on her. His suggestion has her surprised, "O-Oh. Alright." All too quickly she's moving on, brows innocently furrowed as she mouths to herself. ''Who's Riorde?'' The Apprentice has finally picked her plate clean, abandoning it in its proper place before she reaches Iolene's group. There she'll hover, arms behind her back and watching their conversation with too-obvious interest. For those who might question who the tall tan shadow is, their curiosity will be met with a friendly, if oddly apologetic smile. The already small gesture is straining just a touch at Iolene's words, however.

With all eyes on him, not that he makes any show of noticing or caring, but likely most aware of it, Braeden takes the seat Shimana offers. The cluster of once exiles depart for places not far, though not within earshot. Shimana can be scary, and the two converse in what appears to be casual at first, short niceties sparred back and forth until the young Lord speaks in quiet, firm tones. And shortly, more rumors spread across the living cavern floor: ranging from such things as Braeden offering the exiles a home at the Hold to offering Issedi and himself in marriage to exiles of Shimana's choosing as a sign of good faith. Even more ludicrous is the talk of reinstatement.

It's only after Azaylia has begun to head towards Iolene's group that K'del manages to turn his attention from Braeden and his companion long enough to give her another glance. He looks apologetic, too, and for a few seconds afterwards Iolene gets another lingering glance. But he has fish to fry, and a room to track across, which carries him ultimately in Toren's direction. Falling alongside the Harper, the Weyrleader notes, quietly: "It's rude to try and eavesdrop like that. Even for a Harper. Besides," his voice is low, but he sounds almost amused, "they're being far too quiet for anyone to hear."

"It happens." Riorde keeps her tone light as she smiles across at Brieli. "More fun in a fighting wing," she then states on the heels of Iolene's explanation, determined about it. "You do far more than Tiriana does." Occasionally, the exile brownrider's attention drifts, picking out Shimana and her company, and at a certain point, she looks thoughtful through her sips of her diminishing drink.

Blink. Damaris's attention comes back, at Iolene's words, and she blinks a few times. Disbelief touches her expression, and then she's just rolling her eyes. No comment is made; she drinks her drinks, she watches and she listens. It's not just the spot by the hearth that she's watching, but the overly loud voices from earlier and those people over there, K'del. Really, she's being generally attentive. She does offer a smile of recognition up towards Azaylia when she steps up, lifting her glass in greeting. "Hey," she offers, gesturing with her chin to an open spot close to stand. Come, be welcome. Right there, not on the edge.

Toren does his best to look more interested in his food than what's going on around him. He is trying to listen and not look like he's listening. He does look up as he sees the bride to be dancing with a brownrider. He takes note of it as he takes a sip of his klah.

Brieli looks as if she's trying to puzzle out Iolene's explanation, dark eyes narrowing a little before, "It sounds complicated. As far as I knew, if you impressed a gold dragon, you were a junior weyrwoman. Not The Weyrwoman, but... Anyway. What do I know." She's about to ask Io and Riorde something - presumably about fighting wings - but the goldrider's question has her looking over at Issedi and her rider escort. "I didn't really see her often, but when I left - that was the case. That's... Well. Interesting." As Damaris greets Azaylia, she notes the herder as well, lifting a glass in greeting. "Good evening."

And Issedi dances and dances, attracting more gazes with her muted delight and the way her partners seem to keep changing every few steps. A bright floral spot of color in the middle of High Reaches' hyper-charged environment of everything Tiriana stands for and then... the others, it's not hard for people to gravitate to, or even smile at the High Reaches lady's joie de vivre. What little tension remains, in spite of Tiriana's absence, is slowly melting as more couples join in a high energy dance.

"You're ''supposed'' to say that." Iolene's words combine with her rolling eyes at Riorde's defense. "If you didn't, you wouldn't be my friend." The arm releases the brownrider and not one but two wistful glances steal to Issedi and her partners. "If you don't mind...?" Her voice trails off as she doesn't quite wait for a response from her companions, though there is a look of apology to Brieli that shifts to warmth at the sight of Azaylia, but that's pretty much it as the young woman casts off the gossip around her by losing herself into a dance with a random person she links arms with and drags out. There's ''dancing''! And Iolene's never been one to be good at not dancing when there's ''dancing'' going on.

Toren finishes his sip of klah and he looks up at K'del with a polite smile. He sets the klah on a nearby table and he gives a salute, as an apprentice should give a Weyrleader, "Greetings Weyrleader. Quite a celebration. 13 eggs is an amazing feat, congratulations to you and Iolene and to both of your dragons." He drops his voice, "Perhaps for anyone else, but for trained harper ears, you never know what you'll pick up. Besides I'm just a kid and no one tends to notice kids." He goes to get his klah and takes another sip of it in between bites of food, "Very good food my compliments to your cooks."

Like the awkward specter she seems to be, Azaylia floats ever so closer to Damaris, smile revived by her hospitality. "Thank you. Oh- and hello. You look very nice tonight." Offered to all the other women, however she's addressing their shoes at the time, head bowed bashfully. Though she makes it a point to lift it and hopefully catch Iolene's attention before she's whisking some soul away to dance. "Congr- oh. Hoofmuck." As close to a curse as she can muster, she doesn't seem too disappointed. "At least she looks to be having fun?" Pensive murmur is for those that remain, though Riorde and Brieli are offered a belated introduction. "I'm Azaylia."

Braeden eases back into the chair, his fingers steepling as he listens to Shimana, her volume a lot less controlled. But as the predictor of storms on the island, and the voice of the sea, perhaps it's understandable she's not used to muting herself. And so it goes, back and forth and back and forth, the two chat, Braeden to Shimana, Shimana to Braeden, until ultimately the young man stands and offers his hand to the exile elder. "Thank you." This gratitude is made clear, meant to be overheard. Shimana? Does not express such things, but there is interest piqued in those eyes of hers that track the Lord Reaches' path away. Her horde returns, with questions that don't get immediate answers.

K'del's nose wrinkles slightly at that salute, but his smile is cheerful enough. "Thank you," he tells Toren. "We're pleased with it. It's a decent enough number." He doesn't seem completely sold on the young harper's explanation, and indeed, seems very deliberately keeping his gaze away from the Lord and his conversational partner, even as they part. "Keep your ears open for anything else you hear. Seems like there's plenty going on, tonight, in one way or another."

"I am," Riorde agrees, grinning quickly before taking a step to the side to allow Iolene by. "Go on then." She still has an ear for the gossip, staying with the other girls as Azaylia comes up to replace the departing, dancing goldrider. "Riorde. Hoofmuck?" Ri echoes, something skeptical in the repetition. Her eyebrows remain arched as she glances away again to get another glance of the elder that she formerly deferred to -- in name, anyway.

"So do you," Damaris replies to Azaylia, and then with a warm smile for the little group she's turning to follow along after Io, though it takes her just a moment to spot the person that she pounces on to drag out to dance, clearly a friend of hers given the laughter and the mock protest, the 'help me' he throws back to his friends. Dancing! She may even enjoy herself.

Giorda drifts past the circle of women: Damaris, Brieli, Riorde, and Azaylia. At her side is her assistant and low words are spared, "Make sure to count all the silver afterwards and get an inventory of what decorations we've used. I've never trusted these parties much since those ''thieves'' used them to pickpocket their livelihood."

Toren smiles brightly at K'del and he gives a very slight nod, "You are very welcome." He continues to eat and lowers his voice again, "I shall do my best." He raises his voice again, "If you will excuse me Weyrleader, it has been wonderful talking to you, but I'm sure that there are many others that require your attention." He waits for K'del to dismiss him before he goes to put his empty plate in the right spot and mug of klah in his hand he starts to slowly make his way through the crowd.

Brieli is not accepting the look of apology from Io; nothing to apologize for - the tall brunette waves her off good-naturedly. Who could really deny her, especially with Issedi spinning the room into dance. Watching the couples with a slight, fond smile, she blinks back to Riorde and Azaylia. "Oh, I'm Brieli. Nice to meet you. Is hoofmuck worse than regular muck?" Her tone is definitely interested, even if she's stealing a peek at the same elder the brownrider is, the horde that surrounds her in search of information. As Giorda passes, her low words cause the girl's expression to sober; instead of answering, she merely nods twice, politely, lips pursed.

K'del tosses Toren a lazy, sloppy salute with his good hand - made sloppier by the fact that it's clearly not his dominant hand - and, after a moment more, twists his mouth into an expression more formal, and turns back to the crowd. He ''does'' have people to see: like the Weyrleaders of Benden, who chat to him in low, concerned tones off to one side. K'del just keeps shaking his head, back and forth, and looking worried.

Azaylia is suddenly worried on Riorde's behalf, as the brownrider echoes her improvised swear. A hand flies up to give her lips a light tap. Bad mouth! "That was terribly rude, wasn't it? Sorry." And then, "Oh! You're Riorde." As if a longtime question has finally been answered. She doesn't expand on that, though Damaris is stolen away by the music before she can answer. Thankfully, Brieli remains, if only to remind the Herder of her embarrassing oath. "Ah... it, like..." She hesitates to expand on it with such finery surrounding them, "Stuff. That's cleaned out of a runner's hoof. Uhmhm." She reaches out to a passing serving dish, plucking something bubbly to distract her mouth with. In mid-sip she chokes at Giorda's passing, delicate coughs thankfully dry.

The dancing eases from high energy to slower, more intimate, and Issedi goes from delighted to eyes-wide and taking a step back. Drunk riders, sometimes, have problems with boundaries, or recall the fact they're dancing with one of Pern's elite. The brownrider is left on the floor with a woman's handprint to his cheek, and Issedi's made a beeline for her brother's side. The siblings share a small smile; but for an instant, the younger one looks tired -- that frayed about the edges look where too much color and too much forced joy have only just masked the sorrow beneath it all.

It's only now, as Braeden and Issedi stand together as representatives of High Reaches Hold that the conspicuous absences of Tillek and Crom start to be noticed. Surely, even fashionably late can't mean ''this'' late?

Slow dancing isn't as interesting for Iolene as the fast ones, particularly not with the stablehand she ended up with in the end; a young over eager young man who well- you know the type. She's sweet though, patting the fifteen turn old's cheek and leaning into press a chaste kiss where her fingers were once before turning back to the crowds. He'll talk about it all night, surely, Iolene being an 'older woman' and all. Oh, there's food; little niblets of asparagus drenched in cheese set in a pastry shell. Why yes, Mr. Drudge sir, she'll have four, or as many that can fit into the cup of her hand.

In one corner, an enthusiastic young Apprentice Weaver kisses her boyfriend, a weyrboy, with desperate passion: there are tears streaming down her cheeks. "I don't want to leave," she says into the skin of his neck, as he wraps his arms tightly around her. "I just don't want to go, and I don't think it's ''fair'' that he can just decide I shouldn't be here."

"I'm Riorde," the brownrider confirms to Azaylia with a faint smile at her lips. Amused, yes, but there's something thoughtful and assessing underneath. She watches the teenager for several moments as she goes on to explain her expletive, then casually turns aside to exchange her empty glass for a full one. Food, thus far, she bypasses.

K'del's conversation with Cora and B'doran of Benden only lasts a few minutes; when he leaves the pair, his expression is suddenly unreadable, but not nearly as tight and thin as it was only a few minutes ago. His gaze catches on Iolene at the food table, but even if he catches her eye, the most he'll do is give her a grave nod before he turns back to the crowds and gets lost in them once more. There are ''people'' to see.

Toren passes by as he continues to just wander through the crowd. He turns away from the show of passion and he nearly bumps into Azaylia. He comes up short, "Hello there Azaylia." He gives a nod to Brieli as well, "Hello Brieli, I hope you both are enjoying the party." He gives a polite not to Riorde, "Hello Riorde."

K'del senses "Iolene does more than catch his gaze. She'll coincide to pass by him and brush fingers. Delicious little cheese-stained fingers against places that shouldn't be mentioned."

A High Reaches bluerider takes one look at K'del as the Weyrleader passes, and bursts into giggles: there's a grease-stain in an unfortunate location on his trousers, and he doesn't ''seem'' to have noticed. She points it out to the man next to her, nudging him in the side - the two laugh.

Downing her glass and immediately looking for another, Brieli nods to Azaylia. "I figured that it might be that. Is it that awful a thing to say?" She doesn't seem to think so, but she doesn't seem to be as entirely self-possessed as she was a moment ago; something's got her rattled. Watching Riorde watch the apprentice gives her some time to settle, as does the next glass in hand. Blinking in bemusement as Toren almost walks into Azaylia, she nods to the harper. "I am. I hope you are too - do mind where you're going, though - people have food and drink."

Iolene's demeanor visibly lightens in a more genuine way than wrought by dancing alone as K'del catches her gaze, even nods at her, and then passes by. She might even lean in to speak some words, but he's walking by so quickly. Sad. As her hand isn't quite good enough for the amount of food that would drown her sorrows, Io grabs a plate and starts stacking little appetizers onto it before stealing out back into the lower caverns.

Azaylia's attention is snared by the drama that is unsuccessfully contained by a corner of the room. The scene weighs heavily on her lips, frowning without realizing it in a show of too-genuine empathy. "No," She still manages to answer Brieli, though it takes her longer to tear her eyes away from something that's really none of her business. "I mean, it's probably still rude. I used to say it instead of, uhm, actual curses. Back at the..." Voice falters, swallow. "...'Hall." And then, a squeak! Though Toren's familiar and not to scary, "Hello Toren. Yes, I am." Not a lie now that she's once again distracted by the festivities. Riorde will get a few glances stolen her way, the Apprentice curious and observing the so-called troublemaker.

Toren bows his head, "I apologize for my clumsiness, I didn't mean to run into any one, it's just it's not polite to stare." He gives a smile to Azaylia, "I'm glad you are having a good time. Well I am hoping that I will get to play later." He takes a drink of his klah, "Have either of you had a chance to do any dancing yet?"

"Hello." Riorde studies Toren for an uncomfortably long moment, smile notwithstanding. The smile never reaches her eyes, and the assessment she'd turned on Azaylia now switches to the harper. "Have we met?" She's too pretty and poised to be a troublemaker, really -- ''far'' too elegant. K'del must have been mistaken.

Dance, dance. Damaris stays out on the floor even through the slow dancing, though she's certainly not switching partners. Current partner, safe. She waits a good while after Iolene's disappeared to finally abandon the dance, dragging her friend with her over to the drinks and talking quietly. Time to catch her breath. And also drink.

K'del, still blithely aware of that unfortunately located stain on his pants, continues to weave his way through the crowds, ending up in low conversation with Southern's Weyrleader, a man who very carefully keeps his gaze on K'del's face. They're not far from the drinks tables, although at the moment neither are paying anyone else any attention. "Unfortunate," the other Weyrleader says, low and full of meaning.

Brieli is so not interested in whatever drama is going on with I-don't-want-to-go, etc. The squeaking is interesting, however - she arches brows at Azaylia, surprised by it. Toren's explanation gets a nod and she notes, "It's Azaylia that needs the apology, I believe. And I imagine there'll be a chance to play. I haven't gotten to dancing, but I don't do much of it myself." Looking into her glass, "Not tonight, anyway."

"Well, I want some dancing. I wore my dress," Riorde issues as a complaint. "Here." She drains her second flute at quite an impressive rate, given that it was at least half-full, and holds the empty glass out to Toren with the expectation that he will oblige her and hold it while she, in turn, goes off in search a dance partner.

Another glass of something is fetched, and Damaris turns to ghost away both from the table and her friend, but then she's catching sight of the two Weyrleaders and decides instead to linger. There is nearby leaning (though out of immediate earshot), and she puts her superficial attention out on the dancing people. Sip, watch, pay attention.

She may have to force the unfamiliar sting of alcohol down, but Azaylia empties her glass with a sigh. Toren's question has her giggling softly, shaking her head, "No no, I don't dance. Though it's lovely to watch." Brieli's insistance has her scrunching her face, drink aiding her in finding too much amusement. "It's fine, honest." Empty glass stem is twirled between her fingers, clearly a distracted action as a line of gossip involving Iolene and K'del reaches her ears. The delicately spun glass suddenly snaps between thumb and pointer finger, though her face remains innocently unaware for a moment longer. There's another squeak to pique Brieli's interest, staring down at the two halves she's cradling in each hand. "..." No damage done to herself, just weyr property.

Toren gives a smile to Riorde, "I think that we have met before, probably at the local tavern. I play there a once or twice a sevenday." He thought that he had apologized, but as he has come to find out once just isn't enough. He turns to Azaylia, "I'm sorry that I almost bumped into you. It was rude of me." He says in a sincere tone of voice as he gets offered the glass. He looks at it and he sighs softly as he plays the good apprentice and takes it. He'll hold it for Riorde, "And you look lovely in that dress." He smiles, "Well you should it's good fun. I'm sure someone will be along to ask you." He offers Azaylia the glass that he now has, "Here I'll trade you."

Nor does this conversation last very long, but again, K'del seems satisfied by the outcome. Southern's R'jare takes his leave completely, collecting his Weyrwoman and then heading with her towards the door. K'del watches after the pair of them, considering, before he turns about to head for another drink. Whisky cures all.

Riorde's complaint brings something of a smile to Brieli's lips, as does the presumptive way she holds out her glass to the harper. The second squeak from Azaylia does, in fact, draw the seamstress' interest, and she looks over and sighs softly. "You won't be the only one to break a glass or four - put it aside?" As Toren offers his in trade, she gestures with her own glass - problem solved. "Honestly, you can likely give it to one of the people cleaning up. It's a party, glasses get broken." Which is maybe why she gets rid of hers - she downs the rest of the bubbly in her flute and sets it aside on a nearby table.

"I drink there once or twice a day," Riorde responds dryly, still smiling as she deposits the glass with Toren and takes herself off. She moves purposefully, cutting a straight line for Damaris without any hesitation. Her smile's back, present as she comes to a halt just a little close for comfort, fingers reaching lightly for the other woman's elbow. "Having a nice time? Have you danced? You should dance with me."

"Going well, tonight," Damaris observes as soon as K'del is in earshot, offering up a little impish smile his way. She does step out of the Weyrleader's way, so that he can collect his so very necessary glass of whisky. And oh, then there's Riorde, and she's right there, and the kitchen girl goes a little wide eyed, lifting her chin to look at Riorde squarely. "Oh," she says. "I am, I did, but. Oh, of course." Of course...she's looking a little flustered. Blushing, if faintly. Still, she downs what's in her glass, sends a look K'del's way, and then straightens from her lean. "I'll try not to step on your toes."

Azaylia tries not to show just how mortified she is, though she's all to eager to trade Toren. "That's so sweet of you." Said with a sigh of relief, face still heavy in the same way a canine puppy's is when it's done something wrong. "I- I know. I just... didn't want to be one of them. The people." Fingers flick casually to the more rowdy riders, not realizing how badly that can be taken. That same hand reaches up, the Apprentice fanning at her face at a sudden heat hits her- certainly one glass can't go so quickly to her head? "Excuse me," She murmurs towards Brieli and Toren, "I think I need a breath of fresh air." Smile is genuine, making no excuses for some other agenda- and indeed Azaylia will look for the closest exit to stand next to. Actually go ''out'' into the autumn night? No thank you!

For Damaris, and her remark, K'del has a smile that's almost-bright; his nod is long enough that there might well be extra meaning in it. His mouth opens at Riorde's offer, rather as though he's about to object, and there's warning there. But he says nothing: he even smiles.

Toren takes the broken glass and he moves to throw it away. He comes back to see Azaylia is about to leave and he waves to her, "See you later Azaylia." He gives a nod to Brieli, "If you'll excuse me I'm going to wander more. Enjoy the party." He starts to mingle again.

Riorde looks pleased, with her smile briefly widening. The smile remains as she glances over at K'del long enough to meet, and hold, his gaze. "My toes have had worse," she says to Damaris, holding out her hand with her palm up. "They can take it."

The smile that is given K'del-wards just before she takes Riorde's hand is reassuring. Damaris lifts her chin at him, and then she's turning to place her hand in the offered one, putting on a warm smile. Any awkwardness is shoved down, pushed out of sight, and she moves to follow the other woman out to the floor. "We'll see," she says, all innocence. "I broke someone's foot once. It was terribly not pretty."

Something about Riorde's holding of his gaze unnerves K'del; his narrows, and even Damaris' lifted chin doesn't seem to soothe him. "Riorde," he says, carefully. "Don't-- " Don't what? He doesn't seem to be able to specify. "Be smart." Don't be smart? No - it seems to be a separate statement.

As both the harper and herder apprentices wander off into the night and the crowds, Brieli's mood is now somewhat somber and muted. She gives a little wave Toren's way as he makes his way off to mingle, and melts into the darker edges of the cavern to watch and listen for as long as she can stand it. Eventually, she'll slip back down into the caverns, taking a page from Io and a plate or two of food with her.

"Weyrleader," Riorde says, mocking. Faintly, faintly. "You have so little faith in your riders." More lightly, to Damaris: "Shall we?" She spins Damaris out, out, and away from K'del. "So," she says for a conversational starter, "how are the kitchens? Any dropped pans? Is that how you break people's feet?"

Dragon> To Cadejoth, Sforzath ghosts in, faint at first and then strengthening, a presence paired with the spicy-sweet scent that feels like an unarticulated complaint, an appeal.

Dragon> To Sforzath, Cadejoth is distracted, tonight, his thoughts filled with eggs, and a now-sleeping queen. Still; << Sforzath? >>

Oh. There's briefly reluctance to the edges her expression, at something that goes between K'del and Riorde, but Damaris doesn't back down at this point, just smoothing her smile and being spun out and away from the Weyrleader. Contrary to her commentary about breaking feet, she's a fine dancer. "The kitchens are the kitchens," she says dryly, rolling her eyes and offering up a smile. "Full of gossip and tasty food. I have not dropped anything lately, alas. The weather hasn't been terribly cooperative. You're well, I hope?"

He may not have won the battle, if, indeed, he was intending to, but K'del does not leave the battlefield, either: his good arm crosses over his bad arm, that latest glass of whiskey long since abandoned. He watches the dance, brownrider and kitchen worker, leaning up against a table and looking, by now, a little tired. The crowds are beginning to thin out - many of the dignitaries have already departed. He's got time.

Dragon> << Cadejoth. >> The recognition, first, and then for a long moment thereafter, nothing. Would Sforzath even bring his uneasiness to the bronze, were it not that the queen -- his queen, too -- is sleeping? Finally: << She hears what they say. >> (Sforzath to Cadejoth)

Dragon> ''His'' queen. Their queen. Cadejoth is silent for long moments after that last remark, his chains clicking into silence. << Is it true? >> (Cadejoth to Sforzath)

Toren continues to mingle with those that are still around. He doesn't do much talking and he just listens to the conversations going on. He keeps to sipping his klah as he does his best to keep his eyes and ears open.

"Alas," Riorde parrots, playing. For all that she knows how to dance, she's less adept at leading; a few fumbled footsteps show that quickly enough. "We're as well as can be." She subjects Damaris to a casual sort of examination, head tilted just so. "You're not bored with the kitchens? I would be, same thing day in and day out."

"It's an open secret that I am," Damaris laughs as the words are spoken, and for all that there are fumbled footsteps, she deigns to ignore them, letting Riorde work out this leading thing while doing her best to minimize the obviousness of said difficulty. It's habit. Oh look, that fumble was _totally_ on purpose, see. "But not so bored that I'm unhappy. They let me go do other things, when it gets to be too much. I spent quite a bit of time in the stables this summer. It's not a bad place to be, though." One hand comes away from Riorde so she can wave it around vaguely. "They could put me in the laundry. Could you imagine that?" Mock horror. "How is Taikrin?" Not even any awkwardness in the asking, though she's maybe being a little bit over-attentive to Riorde when the words are spoken.

Someone ''else'' wants some of K'del's time? Of course. He's attentive, though, and full of smiles: yes, it's been a lovely evening, yes, it's a good clutch, yes, it's a pity that Tiriana couldn't make it. Yes, yes, yes.

Dragon> To Cadejoth, Sforzath may be holding in his temper, but the pressure mounts, pressing, building. The resentment in his answer adds further weight, dropping into place with a clink. << We're better than they think we are. >>

Dragon> At the best of times, Cadejoth is not the most observant, the most careful with his words. And tonight is-- different. << So you claim, >> he allows. << What do you want, Sforzath? To prove yourselves? To claim my queen? >> A rattle of bones could - almost - be described as territorial. (Cadejoth to Sforzath)

"Laundry was always my least favorite," Riorde says, remembering. Her lip curls slightly before she eases her expression back into that agreeable smile. "She's fine. Glacier's throwing a party of our own for the clutch, but I wanted to show up for Iolene. I'll head over in a bit, though." She concentrates, ostensibly on the dancing while her gaze remains fixed on Damaris. Eventually, she puts out in an offhand manner, "You could get out of the kitchens. If you wanted. You could stand."

"Well, tell her I said hello," Damaris requests, relaxing a little at the reaction the question gets. Whew! "We should all get drinks again sometime. On purpose. Without anything blowing. What?" It's about then that the suggestion sinks in, and to her credit, she does not actually stumble or trip. She loses the beat for a moment and sort of falters gracelessly, but she's picking it back up swiftly. "I suppose I could," she says, giving Riorde a look that's more typical of her-to-the-brownrider: a little bewildered. "Isn't that a lot of work, though?" It's the important question.

Dragon> To Cadejoth, Sforzath has little patience for games. Smoke leaks out of containment, at first in a trickle and then threatening to billow, gusts of it. << What's ours. >> He does not name the claims themselves. Cadejoth should ''know.'' They all should. Sforzath has nothing more to say.

Dragon> To Sforzath, Cadejoth is dismissive, somehow. << If you say so, >> he says, before drifting back towards his eggs, his queen, his weyr.

It's doubtful whether K'del actually caught the question being asked, given he's only vaguely glancing at the dancing women in between carefully chosen remarks to his current companion. It's more likely, however, that he's caught the way Damaris falters, and even if she ''does'' pick it back up again, it's got his eyes narrowed. "Excuse me," he says, vaguely, stepping away from his companion and towards the dance floor.

Toren can see the party is dying down and it is getting a bit late. He goes to head out.

"I suppose there's work involved," Riorde allows, pausing to allow Damaris the chance to collect herself. "But it's interesting. It changes. It's-- freeing." She spies K'del over the other woman's shoulder and looks at him as he approaches, expression pulled into one that's pleasantly questioning.

There's a half-step back taken when Riorde pauses, and Damaris does take a moment to gather herself back together. The glance over her shoulder is caught, and so she looks, too. Oh, K'del. Relief ghosts every so briefly through her gaze, but she soon turns her eyes back up to Riorde. "It would...be not so boring," she grants slowly, her tone heavy with thought. The wheels in her head are spinning so fast. No smoke out her ears yet, though. "What would I have to do?" Pause. "I mean right now, not. In general."

Even now, K'del doesn't seem entirely certain on what is being discussed - but that isn't going to stop him from sidestepping in alongside the pair, arms still crossed, brows still raised. "Everything all right here?" he wants to know, expression questioning to Damaris, particularly in light of that relief, and suspicious to Riorde. Poor Riorde.

"Oh, tell the headwoman, I suspect." Riorde is rather loose on the details. "Or K'del. There he is now." The brownrider brings them both to a halt so she can turn towards the Weyrleader. She's smiling when she says, "Sforzath thinks Damaris should be a candidate for Ysavaeth's clutch, and I agree." Has Damaris even met her brown? Not the point. The point is this: the very public declaration of the offer extended to Damaris by this exile rider. She's not looking to see if the riders from earlier are still present, keeping her eyes fixed on K'del in anticipation of a response not just from Damaris, but from him as well.

Starting to reply, Damaris closes her mouth when Riorde speaks. Oh. Gears in her head, almost audibly grinding, and she tugs herself insistently out of Riorde's grip so that she can step to K'del's side. He's looked at sidelong for two heartbeats -- there is absolutely no mistaking the questioning-for-approval look she gives him, plain for the whole cavern to see -- and then it's from his side that she looks back to Riorde and nods her head. "I will," she finally agrees. "Thank you, Riorde, and thank you to Sforzath, as well. I'm honored." No attempt to keep her voice quiet.

Whatever K'del was expecting, it's not this: this, that leaves him hesitating for a moment, watching Riorde rather as though he expects her to throw something else into it any mix. But he must be aware of what was said earlier, and perhaps that's why he raises his voice when saying, eyes turning now towards Damaris in an approving way, "Excellent! We need all the good people we can get; speak for both of us when I say Iolene and I are pleased." No doubt it attracts some attention - for a number of reasons - from those remaining; he doesn't seem to notice, or care. "The Headwoman, yes. She'll sort you out. Uh-- congratulations, Damaris."

"Excellent," Riorde repeats, pleased in her own way. It's a darker sort of satisfaction. "I hope it suits you." She's pointedly keeping her full attention on the other two, chin lifted. "If you don't mind, I think I'll excuse myself; I should be off to find my wing."

"Thanks, Riorde," Damaris repeats more quietly, expression only uncertain for an instant before she's putting back on her cheerful smile. "I'll see you around sometime soon." A few more moments of watching before she's turning her eyes up to K'del and totally putting on her surprise face. "I think I need a drink -- maybe two -- before I go talk to the Headwoman," she tells him. "Maybe I should do that in the morning. And. Thanks."

K'del's got eyes on Riorde even now, even as she's departing - something he doesn't remark on. To Damaris: "Good. Excellent. Come on-- let's get a drink, then. Celebrate." Which he'll do before it's time to head back home.

Riorde has another smile for both of them, inclusive, before she heads out with her head still high to eat and drink and be merry with the wing that took her in.

Something so just sailed over her head, and the worst part is that she knows it. Damaris isn't poking at that ant's nest though, instead just happily going off to drink, 'celebrate', and try to regain her balance. It's been an interesting night. Morning...yes. Morning, she will talk to the Headwoman. Properly hungover. That's normal, right?

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Logs:Amareth's Maiden Flight

2012-03-11T03:01:48Z

Riorde:

{{ Log
| who = Rhaelyn, Riorde, Taikrin
| where = Storage Caverns, HRW
| what = Amareth is rising unexpectedly in her maiden flight, and Taikrin and Riorde are drawn helplessly into the chase.
| when = Mid-day, day 11, month 3, turn 28 of Interval 10
| gamedate = 2012.03.10
| quote = No... that's not the way of it... I don't chase -you-.
| weather = Cool, clear
| categories =
| mentions =
| icons =
| log =

=== Western Bowl, High Reaches Weyr ===

The bowl's vast dirt floor extends in a rough oval from west to east, only sparse clumps of grass surviving between the crisscrossed pathways of daily traffic. To the northwest stand massive gates to the world beyond, allowing people, livestock, and tithes to pass beneath some of the seven jagged spires that stand sentinel over that area of the bowl. In late afternoons, their spindly, fingerlike shadows stretch over that end of the bowl all the way to the living cavern's hulking brass doors in the far north.

Eastward, the bowl sprawls on toward the lake, sloping slightly downward to allow runoff from rain and snowmelt, but to the south it's caged by more cliffs of dark, rough-cut granite. Rocks poke up from the ground here, a few large boulders and many smaller outcroppings worn smooth in spots by time and use. A few ground weyr entrances dot the wall, the most frequented ledge set up like a patio while the largest ledge services the Weyrleaders' complex, directly beside the huge entrance to the hatching sands. A more human-sized entrance, left of that, leads to the galleries.

----

Perhaps it's a good thing that it's in the middle of the day when Rhaelyn finds that her Amareth is lounging out in a patch of sun. Alone, which isn't typical for the usually social little dragon. "Everyone leave you? Well, it's just as well, we should get going to Crom." Crossing over to the green who doesn't even lift her head, Rhae squints at her lifemate. "Well...? C'mon, get up."

It's late enough in the day that Glacier has been released from wing duties, but early enough that Taikrin hasn't yet started on her daily dose of booze. She appears perfectly (sadly) sober as she swings down off Szadath's back to squint at the sky. "Y'reckon the weather's alright down at Southern, too?" she asks of the brown, who doesn't appear to acknowledge her. Rather, Szadath is focused with razor-sharp intensity on where Amareth lounges a couple dragon-lengths away. The fact that his eyes are whirling red-green-yellow doesn't seem at all alarming to Taikrin, who perhaps has gotten used to the brown's unsettled state after so long. Rather than call him on it, she elbows him in the neck and asks, again, "Did you /ask/ someone down there?"

As the brown arrives, Amareth makes her first movement so far, a little ripple through her neck as it arches and then a delicate stretch from her forelegs. She's keen on watching Szadath while coiling her tail up around her haunches, making a corkscrew of her tail as though to protect her backside from prying eyes. She's all but ignored her rider until Rhae slaps the green's shoulder with her gloves. Amareth's whirling amber gaze shifts from her wary watch of the landing dragon onto her rider and she hisses darkly at Rhae. "Oh, that's un.called.for." Rhaelyn breaths, putting hands on her hips. "You can just get your ass up." A thick gasp for whatever retort is given, "Oh, you little -bitch-."

"Well, did you ask /Sforzath/ if Riorde is getting her ass... down... here?" Taikrin's demand all of a sudden trails off into uncertainty; she's finally noticed where Szadath's attention has gone, and doesn't seem all to pleased with it. "Yeah, I reckon Amareth looks okay, but you can't--" Her lips clamp together, and she scowls across the bowl at the green and her rider. "You stay here!" she demands sharply over her shoulder as she strides over towards Rhaelyn to ask abruptly, "Are you two leaving?"

Maybe it's Szadath, or maybe intuition, or maybe just timing. Sforzath wings down to the bowl, presumably from his ledge, and Riorde, all freshly bathed, swings down calling a sing-songy, "Oh Taiii-krin!"

There's a long moment of crackling silence as woman and dragon lock eyes. One can only imagine that volumes being screamed back and forth from the way Rhae's shoulders slowly inch towards her ears and the redder her face becomes. It's only when Taikrin voices her question that Rhae whirls on the brownrider, "I -would- be flying off to Crom for a very important date, but this cow won't get her fat ass off the ground. I don't know what's gotten into her." And the green doesn't exactly look glowy, that dark hide apparently masks things real good. Rhae's mood doesn't improve as Szadath lands. Amarethh though, she trills brightly and suddenly scoots to her feet all gracefully. "We're out of here..." But even as Rhae goes to reach for the straps to pull herself up, the green springs into the air.

As Riorde arrives, Taikrin glances over her shoulder and waves a hand, but then she's glaring back at Rhaelyn and insisting, "Well you better-- oh. Fuck." No sooner does Amareth take off into the air than Szadath, who had been growling bloody murder at the arriving brown, leaps up into the air right after her with a furious bellow. Pale and strident, Taikrin demands of Rhaelyn, "What the flaming shells d'you think you're doing? You can't be here!" Anger -- and something else -- thickens Taikrin's Cromian accent perceptibly. "Riorde!"

That playful cheer of Riorde's disappears abruptly, gaze hardening and sharpening as she looks beyond Taikrin to Rhaelyn and her now departing green. When she speaks again, it's wary. "Taikrin?" Sforzath, behind his rider, is caught in the eerie sort of still suspense that gathers in the moment right before something /happens/ -- and then suddenly there he goes too, exploding into the air.

Rhaelyn stumbles back as she just barely avoids getting knocked by the green's swift departure. Screaming out a shrill volley of vulgarities after the green, Rhaelyn glares in the direction her lifemate is taking. "Tell him to stop bothering her Taikrin! This is your fault!" But Riorde isn't spared from the daggers in the greenrider's eyes when Sforzath joins in the chase, "You make them stop! I have plans!" Amareth slows once she's in the air, letting both browns match her speed, angling towards one and then the other. Then she drops from the sky. Her landing in the feeding pens is sudden, the landing hard but sure, taking a beast down with a tangle of claws, limbs and wings. The scream from the green as she tears into the beast's belly gives Rhae a shudder. "...a...." The greenrider's expression is suddenly void, mouth falling open, eyes vacant.

"Riorde." There's a world of meaning in the way Taikrin says the brownrider's name, made all the more urgent by how she's reaching out to grip Riorde's forearm. Fear, resignation, helplessness, and a bleedover of excitement from Szadath make a heady combination, one that has sweat beading on her forehead despite the chill in the air. "I can't make him stop." There's little that could stop Szadath at this point in the game, at any case. He's hot on Amareth's heels, bellowing challenges both vocally and in the blizzard-swirled fury of his mind. Blooding is an afterthought, something that happens automatically: not once does his gaze leave the dark green's form.

"You can't go anywhere," Riorde tells Rhaelyn, a rather disgusted, condescending snap at odds with the way that she's started to stare at her clutchmate. "Didn't you pay attention to /anything/ in weyrlinghood? You can't go anywhere when she's like this." Riorde finally pulls her attention off then greenrider, helped by the pressure on her arm. "It's okay," she tells Taikrin, trying to make it sound like it really is, except it's /Rhaelyn/, and this mostly makes her sound pissy. Sforzath simmers with energy too of another sort as he settles in a crouch, watching. And encouraging, with that incense-and-smoke tone of his thick and heavy: << Yes, like /that./ >>

That vacant, void look on Rhae's features stays there, not seeming to hear or see the pair of women as she slowly sways from side to side in the wake of her suddenly proody dragon's passion. Despite this, because of it perhaps, she's saying something to Amareth through their link because even as the green's narrow muzzle starts to angle towards the steaming insides of the kill, she's stopped. Or, she stops. A raw, furious scream of anger tears from the dragon's throat at being denied food and instead goes for the throat to partake of blood only. As the blood flows, Rhaelyn's eyes close and open, ever so slowly. Everything is different now. "You'll never catch us." Suddenly coy, with a sultry look through her lashes at the pair of brownriders. One shoulder lifts towards her chin as she purses her lips in a slutty pucker. "Never...catch...us...." Amareth screaming and weaving in the feeding pens, wings flicking open and closed, trying to trick the males to take to the air before her. She fakes a turn and suddenly leaps into the air going left when she'd been angled to the right for her takeoff. Trickery!

Taikrin wavers in and out of the pull of Szadath's focus, which only serves to make her look kind of sick. Her grip on Riorde's arm tightens, and the brownrider pulls in closer, possessive despite the way her glazed eyes are staring at Rhaelyn. "We should-- we should go," she manages to grind out in a voice made husky. She swallows convulsively, swiping her free hand across her forehead. "Need to be-- not here." Szadath false-starts, but only once; when Amareth finally does dart into the air he's ready for business. He shoulderchecks a blue would-be pursuer, bouncing off his slighter frame to correct his angle of pursuit. There are no words here within him, only a steady pulse through his mind of: mine, mine, mine.

At one of those feints, Riorde's brown takes the bait only to have to double back mid-air. It could be worse--he's nimble, for a brown--but still there's ground to be made up, and /Szadath/ up ahead. Riorde's mood does not improve. "Fuck it Sforzath, you're /smarter/ than that." Taikrin's hand on her arm keeps her grounded enough to voice this; Riorde hasn't entirely disappeared into her dragon, and as she's brought in close beside the other brownrider, Ri even drags her eyes off Rhaelyn for a split-second. "It's fine, you're fine, let's go somewhere--" And it's her turn to pull at Taikrin while hissing, "/Rhaelyn./ Move your ass."

Impishly, the green makes her way into the air at her own pace. Fast for certain, but playing at a sore wing, angling close to a big bronze and lashing his muzzle with the whip thin length of her tail and then barrel-rolling out of his clutches as he fumbles to tangle with her. The roll drops her through the air with a sigh of fluttering wings until she pulls up at the last moment, causing a puff of dust to swirl at the far end of the bowl. Now, of course, she has to angle up through a cloud of males all making their attempts at her dark, sleek form. With talons out and jaws agape, the green plows through the center mass, scratching, clawing and biting anything in her way. There's a pretty pout for the two women making their departure away from her, "No...that's not the way of it....I don't chase -you-." The greenrider's laugh is merry, her smile vapid as she turns and walks in the other direction, hips swish-swishing.

"/Shit/, Szadath, don't--" Whatever Taikrin had been imploring the brown is lost as her feet start moving of their own volition in pursuit of Rhaelyn. Never once does she let go of Riorde's arm, though she might well topple the other woman over when she stops halfway across the bowl to hunch over. "/Fuck/, I'm gonna be /sick/." Even so, pale and mouth pinched and half curled around herself, she can't fight the pull that's dragging her, step-by-step, after Rhaelyn. Szadath's flight falters, and suddenly he finds himself in the midst of the pack. There is advantage to be had even here, though: he gives voice to his rage with another bellow and lashes out at a pair of blues jostling too close -- violence to match Amareth's violence. And then he's /through/ and chasing again, heedless of the ichor on his talons and the long scratch down his own flank.

"Fucking Rhaelyn." Riorde, exasperated, doesn't keep her voice down. "She's such a fucking /bitch./ Wrong way!" she yells after the greenrider, stumbling when she's caught unawares and pulled in the opposite direction. "No, you're okay, you're okay--" Riorde keeps repeating this, voice lowered in the attempt to sound supportive. Mostly, though, she just sounds tense, unable to put her hand on Taikrin's back when the brownrider doubles over-- that's the arm Taikrin's got --and so crowding in against her side instead. "You're okay, come on." The lack of attention she's giving to the flight itself isn't helping Sforzath in the slightest. His focus, already off, has yet to recover. He tries to power ahead and into the pack, but misjudges a gap and is suddenly swinging wide to avoid a set of talons.

Rhaelyn's laugh is playful, even taunting as she flashes a wink over a shoulder, "Don't be such a fussy-butt. C'mooon." Then she's jogging across the bowl towards the inner caverns. "Never catch meeee'iiieee" Floats back towards the other riders as she ducks away from a slack-jawed bluerider in her way. In the sky, Amareth trumpets a challenge to her males as she spirals up and up and up away from the bulk of the chasers. Her thoughts are of the passion and desire and hunger for this flight and her escape.

----

==== Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr ====
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 outsde each cavern, the better to ward off pests and the inky dark of deep caves.

----

They must make quite a sight, passing through the living caverns: the taunting greenrider, and a pair of brownriders who look like they could be drunk -- or hung over, in Taikrin's case, with her grim expression and sweaty pale features. But she does manage to pull herself together enough to make it to the storage caverns, even if it doesn't really register that they're /in the storeroom/. Instinct demand she call after Rhaelyn, "Get your ass BACK HERE," just as instinct has her loosening her grip on Riorde's arm. Szadath, now with relatively clear airspace, pushes forward again with a sprinter's force; he's screaming his anger for all to hear, and so /help/ the other males who try to get in his way.

"What the hell is this," Riorde demands, lost somewhere in the caverns -- where those the /kitchens/ they went through? "What the hell, Rhaelyn?" Riorde, contained thus far to helping Taikrin along and making sure she doesn't keel over between here and there, lets loose with clear annoyance. Sforzath reflects it; he's desperately trying to get back in the game, swerving and veering and angling for advantage that he just can't seem to find.

Sure, this might come back to bite Rhae later on, but right now, she's just trying to lead her would-be-suitors on a merry chase, lost in Amareth's headspace. "MMmm..." She lounges back against one of the crates, smoothing hands along her sides and down her hips, "Oh dear...seems there's no way out for me." When she tries to focus on Riorde, it's almost comical, the way her head tips to one side and the slow, hungry look that she gives the other woman, "What?" Ever so innocent, utterly clueless that she might be doing something wrong. "Why don't you get your hands off'a her?" Poking out her lower lip in an honest pout, but her dragon's emotions are in the driver's seat. Up in the sky, Amareth's upward spiral is taking a toll on the young dragon's wings. As the air thins, so her speed dulls and every pull of wings is a struggle, but she's not done yet, not going to let that blue right on her tail get her. But others are closing in around her, giving her little room to escape as her strength fades.

Caught up in the game, /finally/, Taikrin smokily demands of Rhaelyn, "Why, where do /you/ want my hands?" Somehow she's managed not to be ill in that madcap dash, but she also hasn't quite managed to relinquish physical contact with Riorde, either. It keeps her grounded against the way she's being pulled into Szadath whether she likes it or not. Viciousness incarnate, each outgust of breath is accompanied by an abbreviated version of his bellow. He's reaching first not for Amareth but that blue who's so hot on her tail; claws sink into the bright blue hide, and with a tug Szadath is pushing past the startled dragon to make his own pass at Amareth. "I-- I-- /shit/." So much for that window of familiar flirtatiousness: Taikrin is looking /really/ out of sorts now.

In another moment with clearer heads, it might be funny the way Riorde unconsciously mimics Taikrin: "Why, do you want my hands on you?" Her annoyance cuts out immediately. Lacking any etiquette whatsoever, Riorde tries to shake loose of the other brownrider and step towards Rhaelyn with the intention of following through; as concerned as she may have been about Taikrin, now, with the question posed, the baser instincts shoved down surge to the fore. /Finally/ -- unrepressed, Sforzath finds his edge. The way he slides past another brown is all finesse, but the way he rakes him in the process, that's just underhanded.

There's no response to either women as they take the bait. Instead, she's struggling to catch her breath, much like the tired, flight-weary Amareth. The hands that had been slipping seductively over her body crawl up to her throat as the greenrider sees through her dragon. Trapped all around by brown and blue and a twinkle of bronze bellow. "....wait....it's not over yet...." the words are spoken in a whimper, trembling through the huff and gasp of her breath. Amareth's wing beats come slower, struggling now and her attention splintered as she looks around for a path of escape. Blue wings obscure the left suddenly and she cups her wings to her side to make a dive, only to find herself slamming into Sforzath. The impact is hard enough to make her bark out in pain as she avoids getting tangled, but the change of direction angles her directly into Szadath's airspace. Tired wings fail to respond quick enough and again her body is colliding into the older brown with little chance of slipping free this time.

If this was a romance story, Taikrin would cling to Riorde, would beg her not to leave, would declaim her undying love with the last ounce of willpower... but Taikrin is no romantic and this is no story. With Szadath twisting mid-air to greedily grasp at Amareth, Taikrin is lost to all sensibility. She shoulder-checks Riorde without seeming to have any idea of who it is she's blowing past, barking harshly, "MINE!" She still looks pale and sweaty, and maybe her arms are shaking, but she's also, for this moment, ninety percent Szadath and Szadath demands /now/ /now/ /now/ that she reach out and bend Rhaelyn against her body much like the brown is doing with her lifemate.

Almost, almost. The impact forces Sforzath out in the opposite direction rather than into Amareth, and while he tries to counterbalance and reach for the green, she's falling away before he can complete the maneuver and then gone. Riorde's stumble isn't entirely caused by the way Taikrin blows by her. "Aw, /fuck/," she gets out, catching herself on a storage carton, and glares at both of them for a moment, right hand forming into a fist with half an intent to send slamming into one of them (but which one?) before she controls herself, whirls around, and disappears.

Riorde has left.

The greenrider gasps and cries out in the shared pain of that too close bond with her lifemate ping-ponging between the males. "Noooo! Nooo...." Like Amareth, she struggles in Taikrin's hold, twisting and resisting. Up until Szadath /has/ her...truly has her caught and captured. Breathless and trembling, Rhae goes slack in the brownrider's hold, even going so far as to press and rub back against her thanks to the flood of desire and pleasure her dragon is enjoying.

There's pure instinct at operation here: Taikrin is merely an avatar for Szadath's needs at this point. Her hands, tearing at Rhaelyn's clothes, are /demanding/, and when she forces the slighter woman to bend for a kiss, it's /rough/. Perhaps it's not how Rhaelyn might have imagined her first flight -- being pressed up against a splintery crate while being ravished by an insensible older woman, an insensible /Taikrin/. But, when she's operating on instinct like this, without time to dwell on all the subconscious feelings that left her in such a state, Taikrin is very, very good at this post-flight business. Maybe it's not a total loss?

Where Taikrin is a good and thoughtful lover, Rhae is on the other side of the spectrum. Not only awkward and clumsy but not particularly generous with returning favors. Perhaps the haze of flight-lusts will mask some, or all of that for Taikrin. Perhaps the dragon's enjoyment of the event will bleed over into the pure awfulness that is Rhae-love'n. It's certainly short lived. The dragon's have hardly settled onto the bowl before Rhae is coming 'to' and reaching for her clothes. "You can go...." Trying to untangle from the body as well as from her dragon's mind.

Taikrin is far slower to come back to herself, and still pretty clearly dazed in the aftermath -- it must have been good /enough/, whatever the greenrider's talents. When Rhaelyn moves to leave, Taikrin reaches out blindly to pull her back down. "Hang on a minute, Ri, what's the rush?" It's entirely possible she doesn't even realize who she's talking to, because the way she's pressing up against the greenrider's back and kissing her neck has the feel of something... intimate. Personal, even.

The only protection against the offensive physical attention is the cloak herself in that Rhae-chill. Stomach flip-flopping in response to that forced intimacy. "Get -OFF- me." Giving a firm push to Taikrin's shoulder and wrenching away with a shudder, "Go run to Ri if you want to...finish up." Another attempt to free herself, more forceful this time. In the bowl, Amareth doesn't have the same interest in getting away, even as her connection with her rider returns to normal.

At first, there's confusion: "The 'shells?" and then, dawning realization and horror: "The /fuck/?!" It all seems to crash down on Taikrin in the moment when she's pushed into the crate by Rhaelyn: Szadath's smug assurances to Amareth of, << Hey, that was great. You're pretty good at that, hot stuff. We should do it again some time>>, the filthy storeroom, the lack of her girlfriend, /Rhaelyn/... the trembling returns, full-force, and suddenly Taikrin finds herself on her hands and knees on the stone floor, buck-naked and pale, sicking up the remainder of her lunch.

Getting dressed is more important than paying Taikrin any attention. Particularly at the sound of vomiting. Instead Rhae is up and pulling her clothes in prim, icy detachment. As the last few buttons of her tunic are fastened, she turns back to give Taikrin a haughty look. "You are disgusting. Pathetic. Just /wait/ until I tell your wingmates how you handled yourself." Amareth gives a nuzzle to the brown, << You should not have let the others get to close to me. Next time, you will do better. >> Because that's what the flight is all about right? Flying fast and the best.

Now that the heat of the moment has passed, Szadath has no compunctions against crowing of his superiority long and loud. << Had to make it more interesting for them. Next time I won't let them even dream of having a chance. >> Taikrin's moment of illness is mercifully short, though the cook has to clean up /this/ mess isn't going to be super pleased. "Fuck off," Taikrin growls harshly form around the hand she's swiping her mouth with. "I'm fine. Too much to drink. Wasn't expecting /you/." Too bad she doesn't smell like she has a breath of alcohol on her. "Where's Riorde?"

There's a smirk for Taikrin and Rhae tosses over an old rag for her to wipe up with. "Riorde ran off with her tail between her legs because she didn't want to watch you fucking me. I mean...you /did/ fuck me. Wow, how is that going to work out for the two of you? Just a flight right? Couldn't control things?" She gives a shrug of her shoulders and smiles before turning, making a stroll for the door.

Still disoriented, Taikrin's first attempt at putting her shirt on has it not only backwards but with her head coming out the arm sleeve of her tanktop; not her finest moment. "Fuck off," she repeats, a little more coherence in her voice. "Just a flight. We came /together/." As if they totally planned it that way. Uh-huh. Still, it'll be several more minutes at the least before Taikrin can put herself together enough to be seen in public.

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Logs talk:Amareth's Maiden Flight

2012-03-11T02:58:31Z

Riorde: Comment provided by Riorde - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on "[[Logs:Amareth's Maiden Flight]]"
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

[[Evali/Comments|Evali]] ([[User:Evali|Evali]]) left a comment on Sun, 11 Mar 2012 00:54:36 GMT.

<comment date="2012-03-11T00:54:36Z" name="Evali" signature="[[User:Evali|Evali]]">
Oh Rhaelyn, you are such a bitch. I rarely want to hug Taikrin, but ...
</comment>
[[Riorde/Comments|Riorde]] ([[User:Riorde|Riorde]]) left a comment on Sun, 11 Mar 2012 02:58:31 GMT.

<comment date="2012-03-11T02:58:31Z" name="Riorde" signature="[[User:Riorde|Riorde]]">
Riorde gonna slap a bitch.
</comment>

Logs:Since The Flight

2012-03-03T09:49:37Z

Riorde:

{{ Log
| who = Taikrin, Riorde
| where = Taikrin's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Riorde's had enough.
| when = Day 15, Month 2, Turn 28
| gamedate = 2012.03.02
| quote = You should've been there so I wouldn't be the only damn horny loser.
| weather = Steady, today's snowfall sticks, creating dunes on the bowl floor.
| categories =
| mentions =
| icons = taikrin.jpg, riorde recumbent.jpg
| log = Gnarled Roots Weyr, High Reaches Weyr

The short, steep tunnel into the interior of the weyr is rough at the start from the efforts of those once-magnificent trees, but further in even they haven't been able to move the slick stone floor. The hearth is large and well-stoked, and the heavy wooden shelves on the wall are bare save for rough timber logs propping them up. A mix of thick, brightly colored hangings and old tattered canvass curtain off the storage alcove on one side of the room and the low-ceilinged sleeping room on the other. Cracks along the walls leak in the wetter seasons, but the oddly round rooms are still in good condition, though they seem awkwardly placed in relation to each other. There's just enough room for a decent-sized couch pressed up between the entrance tunnel and the hearth, though it's cozy and well-protected from the chill outside.

The small amount of furniture consists of heavy wood-and-iron pieces too heavy to move out, including a pretty decent-sized bed tucked into the sleeping alcove and a desk pressed against the opposite wall from the fire. There's a large, beautiful rag-tied rug spread before the hearth, padded with an assortment of pillows both large and small. Though much of the dust has been swept out, the weyr has only a barely-lived in feel, and there's obviously quite a lot still to be done.

----

The snowfall out on the ledge makes Sforzath's landing slippery; his talons scrabble, his feet slide, and then he stabilizes, wings and tail position for balance. They slump though, weariness evident as he settles down while Riorde comes slamming into Taikrin's weyr without any sort of by-your-leave. "Taikrin!" She enters at a yell. "Damn fucking green flights -- where are you?"

As usual, Taikrin's weyr is more or less trashed. An irate looking Szadath is curled up on his couch (because when is he not looking irate, these days?), leaving the ledge unattended for Sforzath's wild landing. The brownrider herself is sprawled out in front of her fire and looking pretty sloppily out of sorts. Those are /probably/ the same leathers she was wearing yesterday, and she's definitely working her way through yesterday's whisky bottle. "What?!" she calls back in a voice that's at least mostly sober -- if a little irate herself. "'M in here, where's the fire?"

Riorde is more or less stripping on her long-legged striding towards the fire. The warm winter flight jacket's the first major item to go, dropped unceremoniously right after scarf and hat and gloves. Wool sweater next, halfway in. Her thin top last, ripped off over her head right before she straddles Taikrin. "You," she emphasizes, poking a hard finger at Taikrin's chest, "should have been there so I wouldn't be the only damn horny loser."

Outside -- Sforzath isn't sticking around to sulk alone in the snow. He takes off again shortly after Riorde's inside, vanishing off into the night for the warmth of his own wallow. In any case, Riorde doesn't plan to leave anytime soon.

"Hey, hey, woah--" It's not often that anyone gets the drop on Taikrin this way, though lately it's been more and more the case when a flight's involved. "Give me a half a sec, yeah?" She manages to save the remaining whisky bottle from spilling out all over the rug, and though she sets it aside quickly enough to rest her hands on Riorde's hips, her heart doesn't appear to be entirely in it. "Had-- had things to do. Can't go chasin' off after every green. Guess it didn't go real great?" From his couch, Szadath gives an irritated bellow and grinds his talons audibly into the stone.

"You don't chase after ''any'' green." Riorde's hands ball into fists, clutching the material of Taikrin's shirt in her grasp. "That's a stupid excuse, and you know it and I know it and don't fucking ''pretend'' anymore." Her hips are moving under Taikrin's hands, but if anything the brownrider's glare just becomes even more accusatory. "I shouldn't have even bothered coming here. I could've just picked up one of the riders afterwards. Maybe even a ''man.''" But here she is, grinding on her girlfriend.

Taikrin's hands had been helping, of their own accord: she is but a woman, and cannot resist. But then Riorde is making accusations, and the brownrider goes still. Her expression is first wounded, then angry, and then just tired. "So what? It don't matter, anyways." Szadath certainly seems to think it matters, given the gouges he's putting into his couch. "Why didn't you?" Never mind that her fingers are digging into Riorde's hips, all at odds with her casual question, as if to prevent the very /idea/.

"Of course it matters." Riorde dismisses that statement as she bends even closer to Taikrin, all sharp angles and lean muscles and bare skin. One fist relaxes, but only so she can slide her hand up into Taikrin's short-cropped hair. "You're not the same. ''It's'' not the same." At the question, she backs off just enough to get a better look at the other woman, though her hands don't drop away. "I don't know." Which isn't entirely true, since she follows with, "I like it better with you."

Ouch, low blow. "Fuck, Riorde, what d'you want me to say?" At least Taikrin doesn't sound angry. Just-- passively resigned, like she'd been waiting for this. "Sorry I ain't good enough anymore? Sorry." She seems content to lay back, fingers dug too-hard into Riorde's hips, and not quite meet the other woman's gaze. "I'm not-- it's the best I got, okay?" Szadath disagrees. Apparently he's sick of listening to this enough that he all at once pushes out of his couch, lumbers to the ledge, and takes off into a blistering flight up towards the spires. "What do you want from me?"

It'd be better if Taikrin were angry; they'd fight, scream at each other and battle with fists, and likely end up fucking. Instead, Riorde just rolls off Taikrin, flopping over onto her bare back alongside the other brownrider. She stares up at the stone ceiling and lets out a long, frustrated sigh. "It's obvious that you're not happy. That Szadath's not happy. I want you to fix it."

"No, see-- I /am/, wait, hold on." That finally spurs Taikrin into motion; she rolls over onto her side, and then up onto her knees. "Don't-- it's just, it's complicated, okay? I don't want you to-- what do you want me to do?" Taikrin's request seems genuine enough, even if the overtures she's making are kind of awkward: a hand on Riorde's rib cage just below her breast, while the other clasps at her fingers. "It's fine, see, I'm just a little drunk, and you surprised me, so-- you just gotta give me a minute, yeah?"

"Taikrin, stop." Riorde gives the other brownrider a look equal parts resigned and pitying. Neither of which bode well for recovering the moment, if ever there was one. She gives Taikrin's fingers a little squeeze though before going on to say, "You have to actually want to. Not just humor me. It doesn't ''work'' on me. I remember what you were like before."

Taikrin looks hurt, but not altogether surprised, when Riorde rebuffs her. "I don't," she admits after a moment. "Remember about before, I mean. I don't-- remember what it felt like, from before The Flight." It must be something in particular she's talking about, because the capitals are all but audible in her voice. She settles back down next to Riorde, laying back on her side with her head pillowed against her arm. "You're sure it ain't... always been like this?"

Riorde turns to her side, mirroring Taikrin's position. The fight's gone out of her, tension dissipating from her frame. "You don't?" The lift in her voice admits surprise. "No. It wasn't." Ri's quiet a moment, considering Taikrin in the light cast from the fire. "You wanna tell me about it?" The Flight. She's never asked.

"No. Yes. I don't know. I don't think about it." Taikrins modus operandi: avoid, avoid, avoid; deny, deny, deny. "It was okay, I thought we were good, you know? Before she went up that time. We were fine. It was fine. But then she went up again." She's rambling, aided by the whisky bottle she leans across Riorde's torso to retrieve and start swigging from. "I dunno. I can't. Reckon I'm fucked up forever? Szad reckons so." Her accent is thickening with distress, though she hasn't had enough time to get that drunk.

Riorde lies there half curled up and watching Taikrin as she starts to talk, then pulls herself up to sitting after she hits the whisky. "He can't really think that." Ah, the faith of one's dragon; it's what Ri picks up first as the most important piece of the jumbled jigsaw bits Taikrin lays out for her. "What happened when she went up again?"

"Sure he can. Loves me anyways, but he can think it. Reckon probably I broke him, too, yeah?" Mmmm, whisky. It must help, given how quickly Taikrin is polishing off that bottle. "Not her. Before. I remembered-- from Fort. That time, with the two? When they almost?" All at once she's angry: for a moment it looks like she's going to throw the bottle, or punch someone, or maybe both, but instead she just grinds her teeth together. "They almost got us /killed/, those fucking Fort idiots with their fucking golds and their fucking-- fucking-- /idiots/." It's not something Riorde might have heard about-- Fort's fighting golds was before the exiles were discovered.

Riorde starts to reach for the bottle, but stops with her hand halfway out when Taikrin looks set to smash it. Her hand drops onto her knee, and a line of concern pulls her eyebrows in. "I-- don't know what you're talking about," she admits in that unhappy tone she gets when her lack of typical Pern knowledge reveals itself and sets her apart, outside normal society. "You'll have to tell me."

Angry Taikrin is good, at least, because angry Taikrin is at least emoting and talking and /sharing/, even if it's expletive-laden. "The whole fucking Fort goldflight fuckup, when they got that junior killed because they went up together. Szadath was-- he was /right there/ and he almost /had her/ and then they were /fighting/ and the whole thing was /fucked up/ and they could have /killed him/ and I can't let him /die/." The crux of it; she's more or less shouting by the end of her tirade.

Riorde stays quiet throughout it all, eyes on Taikrin widening. Not much, but enough. Silent at first, Riorde lets out her breath in one long whistle. "Fuck." With feeling. She shares the word and, to a certain extent, the sentiment.

At first, she doesn't entirely realize that she's said it all out loud: it must be an argument Taikrin's had a million times in her head, because she's got that fixed dragonrider expression. Then there's color in her cheeks, and she's looking at Riorde like she doesn't quite know what to say, except, "I didn't-- so-- I don't know what to do. I can't let him go."

Riorde's response is to scoot in next to Taikrin, fitting herself against the other brownrider's side. It saves the need for the two women to look each other in the eye, as Ri rests her chin on Taikrin's shoulder and puts her arm around her waist. It's companionable, this time, rather than demanding. "Fuck-ups like that aren't supposed to happen. We had it drilled into us. It won't happen again. But you're killing him like this." She lets her low comment sink in, sharp chin still resting there with a slightly heavy weight. "If we went together, we could watch out for each other."

"It's so lame," Taikrin moans over a bark of almost-laughter. "Can't even go to a flight without getting sick all over the floor and flipping my shit." But she leans against Riorde's support, eyes half-closed. The best she can offer is, "Maybe."

With her face hidden from view, Riorde grimaces. She rubs the small of Taikrin's back, at a loss for any suitable response beyond that of touch. Still she tries, and maybe the trying itself is enough. "We'll figure it out."

{{#ifexist: Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}} | <h2>Comments</h2>{{Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}}}} | }}

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Logs:Since The Flight

2012-03-03T09:48:56Z

Riorde:

{{ Log
| who = Taikrin, Riorde
| where = Taikrin's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Riorde's had enough.
| when = Day 15, Month 2, Turn 28
| gamedate = 2012.03.02
| quote = You should've been there so I wouldn't be the only damn horny loser.
| weather = Steady, today's snowfall sticks, creating dunes on the bowl floor.
| categories =
| mentions =
| icons = taikrin.jpg, riorde recumbent.jpg
| log = Gnarled Roots Weyr, High Reaches Weyr

The short, steep tunnel into the interior of the weyr is rough at the start from the efforts of those once-magnificent trees, but further in even they haven't been able to move the slick stone floor. The hearth is large and well-stoked, and the heavy wooden shelves on the wall are bare save for rough timber logs propping them up. A mix of thick, brightly colored hangings and old tattered canvass curtain off the storage alcove on one side of the room and the low-ceilinged sleeping room on the other. Cracks along the walls leak in the wetter seasons, but the oddly round rooms are still in good condition, though they seem awkwardly placed in relation to each other. There's just enough room for a decent-sized couch pressed up between the entrance tunnel and the hearth, though it's cozy and well-protected from the chill outside.

The small amount of furniture consists of heavy wood-and-iron pieces too heavy to move out, including a pretty decent-sized bed tucked into the sleeping alcove and a desk pressed against the opposite wall from the fire. There's a large, beautiful rag-tied rug spread before the hearth, padded with an assortment of pillows both large and small. Though much of the dust has been swept out, the weyr has only a barely-lived in feel, and there's obviously quite a lot still to be done.

----

The snowfall out on the ledge makes Sforzath's landing slippery; his talons scrabble, his feet slide, and then he stabilizes, wings and tail position for balance. They slump though, weariness evident as he settles down while Riorde comes slamming into Taikrin's weyr without any sort of by-your-leave. "Taikrin!" She enters at a yell. "Damn fucking green flights -- where are you?"

As usual, Taikrin's weyr is more or less trashed. An irate looking Szadath is curled up on his couch (because when is he not looking irate, these days?), leaving the ledge unattended for Sforzath's wild landing. The brownrider herself is sprawled out in front of her fire and looking pretty sloppily out of sorts. Those are /probably/ the same leathers she was wearing yesterday, and she's definitely working her way through yesterday's whisky bottle. "What?!" she calls back in a voice that's at least mostly sober -- if a little irate herself. "'M in here, where's the fire?"

Riorde is more or less stripping on her long-legged striding towards the fire. The warm winter flight jacket's the first major item to go, dropped unceremoniously right after scarf and hat and gloves. Wool sweater next, halfway in. Her thin top last, ripped off over her head right before she straddles Taikrin. "You," she emphasizes, poking a hard finger at Taikrin's chest, "should have been there so I wouldn't be the only damn horny loser."

Outside -- Sforzath isn't sticking around to sulk alone in the snow. He takes off again shortly after Riorde's inside, vanishing off into the night for the warmth of his own wallow. In any case, Riorde doesn't plan to leave anytime soon.
"Hey, hey, woah--" It's not often that anyone gets the drop on Taikrin this way, though lately it's been more and more the case when a flight's involved. "Give me a half a sec, yeah?" She manages to save the remaining whisky bottle from spilling out all over the rug, and though she sets it aside quickly enough to rest her hands on Riorde's hips, her heart doesn't appear to be entirely in it. "Had-- had things to do. Can't go chasin' off after every green. Guess it didn't go real great?" From his couch, Szadath gives an irritated bellow and grinds his talons audibly into the stone.

"You don't chase after ''any'' green." Riorde's hands ball into fists, clutching the material of Taikrin's shirt in her grasp. "That's a stupid excuse, and you know it and I know it and don't fucking ''pretend'' anymore." Her hips are moving under Taikrin's hands, but if anything the brownrider's glare just becomes even more accusatory. "I shouldn't have even bothered coming here. I could've just picked up one of the riders afterwards. Maybe even a ''man.''" But here she is, grinding on her girlfriend.

Taikrin's hands had been helping, of their own accord: she is but a woman, and cannot resist. But then Riorde is making accusations, and the brownrider goes still. Her expression is first wounded, then angry, and then just tired. "So what? It don't matter, anyways." Szadath certainly seems to think it matters, given the gouges he's putting into his couch. "Why didn't you?" Never mind that her fingers are digging into Riorde's hips, all at odds with her casual question, as if to prevent the very /idea/.

"Of course it matters." Riorde dismisses that statement as she bends even closer to Taikrin, all sharp angles and lean muscles and bare skin. One fist relaxes, but only so she can slide her hand up into Taikrin's short-cropped hair. "You're not the same. ''It's'' not the same." At the question, she backs off just enough to get a better look at the other woman, though her hands don't drop away. "I don't know." Which isn't entirely true, since she follows with, "I like it better with you."

Ouch, low blow. "Fuck, Riorde, what d'you want me to say?" At least Taikrin doesn't sound angry. Just-- passively resigned, like she'd been waiting for this. "Sorry I ain't good enough anymore? Sorry." She seems content to lay back, fingers dug too-hard into Riorde's hips, and not quite meet the other woman's gaze. "I'm not-- it's the best I got, okay?" Szadath disagrees. Apparently he's sick of listening to this enough that he all at once pushes out of his couch, lumbers to the ledge, and takes off into a blistering flight up towards the spires. "What do you want from me?"

It'd be better if Taikrin were angry; they'd fight, scream at each other and battle with fists, and likely end up fucking. Instead, Riorde just rolls off Taikrin, flopping over onto her bare back alongside the other brownrider. She stares up at the stone ceiling and lets out a long, frustrated sigh. "It's obvious that you're not happy. That Szadath's not happy. I want you to fix it."

"No, see-- I /am/, wait, hold on." That finally spurs Taikrin into motion; she rolls over onto her side, and then up onto her knees. "Don't-- it's just, it's complicated, okay? I don't want you to-- what do you want me to do?" Taikrin's request seems genuine enough, even if the overtures she's making are kind of awkward: a hand on Riorde's rib cage just below her breast, while the other clasps at her fingers. "It's fine, see, I'm just a little drunk, and you surprised me, so-- you just gotta give me a minute, yeah?"

"Taikrin, stop." Riorde gives the other brownrider a look equal parts resigned and pitying. Neither of which bode well for recovering the moment, if ever there was one. She gives Taikrin's fingers a little squeeze though before going on to say, "You have to actually want to. Not just humor me. It doesn't ''work'' on me. I remember what you were like before."

Taikrin looks hurt, but not altogether surprised, when Riorde rebuffs her. "I don't," she admits after a moment. "Remember about before, I mean. I don't-- remember what it felt like, from before The Flight." It must be something in particular she's talking about, because the capitals are all but audible in her voice. She settles back down next to Riorde, laying back on her side with her head pillowed against her arm. "You're sure it ain't... always been like this?"

Riorde turns to her side, mirroring Taikrin's position. The fight's gone out of her, tension dissipating from her frame. "You don't?" The lift in her voice admits surprise. "No. It wasn't." Ri's quiet a moment, considering Taikrin in the light cast from the fire. "You wanna tell me about it?" The Flight. She's never asked.

"No. Yes. I don't know. I don't think about it." Taikrins modus operandi: avoid, avoid, avoid; deny, deny, deny. "It was okay, I thought we were good, you know? Before she went up that time. We were fine. It was fine. But then she went up again." She's rambling, aided by the whisky bottle she leans across Riorde's torso to retrieve and start swigging from. "I dunno. I can't. Reckon I'm fucked up forever? Szad reckons so." Her accent is thickening with distress, though she hasn't had enough time to get that drunk.

Riorde lies there half curled up and watching Taikrin as she starts to talk, then pulls herself up to sitting after she hits the whisky. "He can't really think that." Ah, the faith of one's dragon; it's what Ri picks up first as the most important piece of the jumbled jigsaw bits Taikrin lays out for her. "What happened when she went up again?"

"Sure he can. Loves me anyways, but he can think it. Reckon probably I broke him, too, yeah?" Mmmm, whisky. It must help, given how quickly Taikrin is polishing off that bottle. "Not her. Before. I remembered-- from Fort. That time, with the two? When they almost?" All at once she's angry: for a moment it looks like she's going to throw the bottle, or punch someone, or maybe both, but instead she just grinds her teeth together. "They almost got us /killed/, those fucking Fort idiots with their fucking golds and their fucking-- fucking-- /idiots/." It's not something Riorde might have heard about-- Fort's fighting golds was before the exiles were discovered.

Riorde starts to reach for the bottle, but stops with her hand halfway out when Taikrin looks set to smash it. Her hand drops onto her knee, and a line of concern pulls her eyebrows in. "I-- don't know what you're talking about," she admits in that unhappy tone she gets when her lack of typical Pern knowledge reveals itself and sets her apart, outside normal society. "You'll have to tell me."

Angry Taikrin is good, at least, because angry Taikrin is at least emoting and talking and /sharing/, even if it's expletive-laden. "The whole fucking Fort goldflight fuckup, when they got that junior killed because they went up together. Szadath was-- he was /right there/ and he almost /had her/ and then they were /fighting/ and the whole thing was /fucked up/ and they could have /killed him/ and I can't let him /die/." The crux of it; she's more or less shouting by the end of her tirade.

Riorde stays quiet throughout it all, eyes on Taikrin widening. Not much, but enough. Silent at first, Riorde lets out her breath in one long whistle. "Fuck." With feeling. She shares the word and, to a certain extent, the sentiment.

At first, she doesn't entirely realize that she's said it all out loud: it must be an argument Taikrin's had a million times in her head, because she's got that fixed dragonrider expression. Then there's color in her cheeks, and she's looking at Riorde like she doesn't quite know what to say, except, "I didn't-- so-- I don't know what to do. I can't let him go."

Riorde's response is to scoot in next to Taikrin, fitting herself against the other brownrider's side. It saves the need for the two women to look each other in the eye, as Ri rests her chin on Taikrin's shoulder and puts her arm around her waist. It's companionable, this time, rather than demanding. "Fuck-ups like that aren't supposed to happen. We had it drilled into us. It won't happen again. But you're killing him like this." She lets her low comment sink in, sharp chin still resting there with a slightly heavy weight. "If we went together, we could watch out for each other."

"It's so lame," Taikrin moans over a bark of almost-laughter. "Can't even go to a flight without getting sick all over the floor and flipping my shit." But she leans against Riorde's support, eyes half-closed. The best she can offer is, "Maybe."

With her face hidden from view, Riorde grimaces. She rubs the small of Taikrin's back, at a loss for any suitable response beyond that of touch. Still she tries, and maybe the trying itself is enough. "We'll figure it out."

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Logs:Since The Flight

2012-03-03T09:44:07Z

Riorde: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Taikrin, Riorde | where = Taikrin's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr | what = Riorde's had enough. | when = Day 15, Month 2, Turn 28 | gamedate = 2012.03.02 | quote = You ..."

{{ Log
| who = Taikrin, Riorde
| where = Taikrin's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Riorde's had enough.
| when = Day 15, Month 2, Turn 28
| gamedate = 2012.03.02
| quote = You should've been there so I wouldn't be the only damn horny loser.
| weather = Steady, today's snowfall sticks, creating dunes on the bowl floor.
| categories =
| mentions =
| icons = taikrin.jpg, riorde recumbent.jpg
| log = Gnarled Roots Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
The short, steep tunnel into the interior of the weyr is rough at the start from the efforts of those once-magnificent trees, but further in even they haven't been able to move the slick stone floor. The hearth is large and well-stoked, and the heavy wooden shelves on the wall are bare save for rough timber logs propping them up. A mix of thick, brightly colored hangings and old tattered canvass curtain off the storage alcove on one side of the room and the low-ceilinged sleeping room on the other. Cracks along the walls leak in the wetter seasons, but the oddly round rooms are still in good condition, though they seem awkwardly placed in relation to each other. There's just enough room for a decent-sized couch pressed up between the entrance tunnel and the hearth, though it's cozy and well-protected from the chill outside.

The small amount of furniture consists of heavy wood-and-iron pieces too heavy to move out, including a pretty decent-sized bed tucked into the sleeping alcove and a desk pressed against the opposite wall from the fire. There's a large, beautiful rag-tied rug spread before the hearth, padded with an assortment of pillows both large and small. Though much of the dust has been swept out, the weyr has only a barely-lived in feel, and there's obviously quite a lot still to be done.

----

The snowfall out on the ledge makes Sforzath's landing slippery; his talons scrabble, his feet slide, and then he stabilizes, wings and tail position for balance. They slump though, weariness evident as he settles down while Riorde comes slamming into Taikrin's weyr without any sort of by-your-leave. "Taikrin!" She enters at a yell. "Damn fucking green flights -- where are you?"

As usual, Taikrin's weyr is more or less trashed. An irate looking Szadath is curled up on his couch (because when is he not looking irate, these days?), leaving the ledge unattended for Sforzath's wild landing. The brownrider herself is sprawled out in front of her fire and looking pretty sloppily out of sorts. Those are /probably/ the same leathers she was wearing yesterday, and she's definitely working her way through yesterday's whisky bottle. "What?!" she calls back in a voice that's at least mostly sober -- if a little irate herself. "'M in here, where's the fire?"

Riorde is more or less stripping on her long-legged striding towards the fire. The warm winter flight jacket's the first major item to go, dropped unceremoniously right after scarf and hat and gloves. Wool sweater next, halfway in. Her thin top last, ripped off over her head right before she straddles Taikrin. "You," she emphasizes, poking a hard finger at Taikrin's chest, "should have been there so I wouldn't be the only damn horny loser."

Outside -- Sforzath isn't sticking around to sulk alone in the snow. He takes off again shortly after Riorde's inside, vanishing off into the night for the warmth of his own wallow. In any case, Riorde doesn't plan to leave anytime soon.
"Hey, hey, woah--" It's not often that anyone gets the drop on Taikrin this way, though lately it's been more and more the case when a flight's involved. "Give me a half a sec, yeah?" She manages to save the remaining whisky bottle from spilling out all over the rug, and though she sets it aside quickly enough to rest her hands on Riorde's hips, her heart doesn't appear to be entirely in it. "Had-- had things to do. Can't go chasin' off after every green. Guess it didn't go real great?" From his couch, Szadath gives an irritated bellow and grinds his talons audibly into the stone.

"You don't chase after ''any'' green." Riorde's hands ball into fists, clutching the material of Taikrin's shirt in her grasp. "That's a stupid excuse, and you know it and I know it and don't fucking ''pretend'' anymore." Her hips are moving under Taikrin's hands, but if anything the brownrider's glare just becomes even more accusatory. "I shouldn't have even bothered coming here. I could've just picked up one of the riders afterwards. Maybe even a ''man.''" But here she is, grinding on her girlfriend.

Taikrin's hands had been helping, of their own accord: she is but a woman, and cannot resist. But then Riorde is making accusations, and the brownrider goes still. Her expression is first wounded, then angry, and then just tired. "So what? It don't matter, anyways." Szadath certainly seems to think it matters, given the gouges he's putting into his couch. "Why didn't you?" Never mind that her fingers are digging into Riorde's hips, all at odds with her casual question, as if to prevent the very /idea/.

"Of course it matters." Riorde dismisses that statement as she bends even closer to Taikrin, all sharp angles and lean muscles and bare skin. One fist relaxes, but only so she can slide her hand up into Taikrin's short-cropped hair. "You're not the same. ''It's'' not the same." At the question, she backs off just enough to get a better look at the other woman, though her hands don't drop away. "I don't know." Which isn't entirely true, since she follows with, "I like it better with you."

Ouch, low blow. "Fuck, Riorde, what d'you want me to say?" At least Taikrin doesn't sound angry. Just-- passively resigned, like she'd been waiting for this. "Sorry I ain't good enough anymore? Sorry." She seems content to lay back, fingers dug too-hard into Riorde's hips, and not quite meet the other woman's gaze. "I'm not-- it's the best I got, okay?" Szadath disagrees. Apparently he's sick of listening to this enough that he all at once pushes out of his couch, lumbers to the ledge, and takes off into a blistering flight up towards the spires. "What do you want from me?"

It'd be better if Taikrin were angry; they'd fight, scream at each other and battle with fists, and likely end up fucking. Instead, Riorde just rolls off Taikrin, flopping over onto her bare back alongside the other brownrider. She stares up at the stone ceiling and lets out a long, frustrated sigh. "It's obvious that you're not happy. That Szadath's not happy. I want you to fix it."

"No, see-- I /am/, wait, hold on." That finally spurs Taikrin into motion; she rolls over onto her side, and then up onto her knees. "Don't-- it's just, it's complicated, okay? I don't want you to-- what do you want me to do?" Taikrin's request seems genuine enough, even if the overtures she's making are kind of awkward: a hand on Riorde's rib cage just below her breast, while the other clasps at her fingers. "It's fine, see, I'm just a little drunk, and you surprised me, so-- you just gotta give me a minute, yeah?"

"Taikrin, stop." Riorde gives the other brownrider a look equal parts resigned and pitying. Neither of which bode well for recovering the moment, if ever there was one. She gives Taikrin's fingers a little squeeze though before going on to say, "You have to actually want to. Not just humor me. It doesn't ''work'' on me. I remember what you were like before."

Taikrin looks hurt, but not altogether surprised, when Riorde rebuffs her. "I don't," she admits after a moment. "Remember about before, I mean. I don't-- remember what it felt like, from before The Flight." It must be something in particular she's talking about, because the capitals are all but audible in her voice. She settles back down next to Riorde, laying back on her side with her head pillowed against her arm. "You're sure it ain't... always been like this?"

Riorde turns to her side, mirroring Taikrin's position. The fight's gone out of her, tension dissipating from her frame. "You don't?" The lift in her voice admits surprise. "No. It wasn't." Ri's quiet a moment, considering Taikrin in the light cast from the fire. "You wanna tell me about it?" The Flight. She's never asked.

"No. Yes. I don't know. I don't think about it." Taikrins modus operandi: avoid, avoid, avoid; deny, deny, deny. "It was okay, I thought we were good, you know? Before she went up that time. We were fine. It was fine. But then she went up again." She's rambling, aided by the whisky bottle she leans across Riorde's torso to retrieve and start swigging from. "I dunno. I can't. Reckon I'm fucked up forever? Szad reckons so." Her accent is thickening with distress, though she hasn't had enough time to get that drunk.

Riorde lies there half curled up and watching Taikrin as she starts to talk, then pulls herself up to sitting after she hits the whisky. "He can't really think that." Ah, the faith of one's dragon; it's what Ri picks up first as the most important piece of the jumbled jigsaw bits Taikrin lays out for her. "What happened when she went up again?"

"Sure he can. Loves me anyways, but he can think it. Reckon probably I broke him, too, yeah?" Mmmm, whisky. It must help, given how quickly Taikrin is polishing off that bottle. "Not her. Before. I remembered-- from Fort. That time, with the two? When they almost?" All at once she's angry: for a moment it looks like she's going to throw the bottle, or punch someone, or maybe both, but instead she just grinds her teeth together. "They almost got us /killed/, those fucking Fort idiots with their fucking golds and their fucking-- fucking-- /idiots/." It's not something Riorde might have heard about-- Fort's fighting golds was before the exiles were discovered.

Riorde starts to reach for the bottle, but stops with her hand halfway out when Taikrin looks set to smash it. Her hand drops onto her knee, and a line of concern pulls her eyebrows in. "I-- don't know what you're talking about," she admits in that unhappy tone she gets when her lack of typical Pern knowledge reveals itself and sets her apart, outside normal society. "You'll have to tell me."

Angry Taikrin is good, at least, because angry Taikrin is at least emoting and talking and /sharing/, even if it's expletive-laden. "The whole fucking Fort goldflight fuckup, when they got that junior killed because they went up together. Szadath was-- he was /right there/ and he almost /had her/ and then they were /fighting/ and the whole thing was /fucked up/ and they could have /killed him/ and I can't let him /die/." The crux of it; she's more or less shouting by the end of her tirade.

Riorde stays quiet throughout it all, eyes on Taikrin widening. Not much, but enough. Silent at first, Riorde lets out her breath in one long whistle. "Fuck." With feeling. She shares the word and, to a certain extent, the sentiment.

At first, she doesn't entirely realize that she's said it all out loud: it must be an argument Taikrin's had a million times in her head, because she's got that fixed dragonrider expression. Then there's color in her cheeks, and she's looking at Riorde like she doesn't quite know what to say, except, "I didn't-- so-- I don't know what to do. I can't let him go."

Riorde's response is to scoot in next to Taikrin, fitting herself against the other brownrider's side. It saves the need for the two women to look each other in the eye, as Ri rests her chin on Taikrin's shoulder and puts her arm around her waist. It's companionable, this time, rather than demanding. "Fuck-ups like that aren't supposed to happen. We had it drilled into us. It won't happen again. But you're killing him like this." She lets her low comment sink in, sharp chin still resting there with a slightly heavy weight. "If we went together, we could watch out for each other."

"It's so lame," Taikrin moans over a bark of almost-laughter. "Can't even go to a flight without getting sick all over the floor and flipping my shit." But she leans against Riorde's support, eyes half-closed. The best she can offer is, "Maybe."

With her face hidden from view, Riorde grimaces. She rubs the small of Taikrin's back, at a loss for any suitable response beyond that of touch. Still she tries, and maybe the trying itself is enough. "We'll figure it out."

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Logs talk:Snowasis Barfight

2012-02-27T13:33:40Z

Riorde: Comment provided by Riorde - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on "[[Logs:Snowasis Barfight]]"
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

[[Taikrin/Comments|Taikrin]] ([[User:Taikrin|Taikrin]]) left a comment on Mon, 27 Feb 2012 07:53:37 GMT.

<comment date="2012-02-27T07:53:37Z" name="Taikrin" signature="[[User:Taikrin|Taikrin]]">
Woe, it wouldn't let me have 'Snowasis Barfight #1343324' as the title.
</comment>
[[Riorde/Comments|Riorde]] ([[User:Riorde|Riorde]]) left a comment on Mon, 27 Feb 2012 13:33:40 GMT.

<comment date="2012-02-27T13:33:40Z" name="Riorde" signature="[[User:Riorde|Riorde]]">
Woe.

My own bath~
</comment>

Logs talk:Whisky is Greater Than Wine

2012-02-21T16:12:26Z

Riorde: Comment provided by Riorde - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on "[[Logs:Whisky is Greater Than Wine]]"
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

[[Riorde/Comments|Riorde]] ([[User:Riorde|Riorde]]) left a comment on Tue, 21 Feb 2012 16:12:26 GMT.

<comment date="2012-02-21T16:12:26Z" name="Riorde" signature="[[User:Riorde|Riorde]]">
Ain't cheating if Ri's invited to the party! Just saying.
</comment>

Logs:Going to Die

2012-01-20T05:31:55Z

Riorde:

{{ Log
| who = Riorde, Taikrin
| where = Snowy Mountainside, High Reaches Area
| what = Taikrin teaches Riorde how to ski.
| when = Day 23, Month 10, Turn 27
| gamedate = 2012.01.18
| quote =
| weather =
| categories = General
| mentions =
| icons = riorde wintery.jpg, taikrin.jpg
| log =
---------------------------------------------
Snowy Mountainside, High Reaches Area

Not far from High Reaches Weyr, the mountains become sharp, raw, and snowcovered no matter the time of turn. This set of slopes, around a high mountain meadow, is completely unaccessible save from dragonback. That just means the pristine snowfall is all the more enticing.
---------------------------------------------

"I'm going to die." It isn't the first time Riorde's declared this. It won't be the last. Hunched over the shaped wooden slats Taikrin's connived, cajoled, or wrestled her into attaching to her feet, Riorde, who normally has very little fear of activities involving heights and risk, stares down the incline and then twists at the torso to accusingly point her pole at the other brownrider. "Die. Horrifically. And then Sforzath will go between and it'll all be your fault. Dragon-killer."

"You'll be fine," Taikrin manages to choke out, in between gasping for breath and laughing like /she's/ going to die. "It's /easy/, we been doin' it since we were kids. You just point down hill and go. I mean, if you fall, it's just /snow/, it's soft!" Just to prove her point, she side-slips a little ways down the hill, then pulls it in just below Riorde. "C'mon, you know Sforzath'll catch you if you like go flying off a cliff or somethin'." Because there is one of those, on the far side of the glade where the dragons are lounging in the snow. "Just give it a shot!"

"Tell that to my dead body." Riorde at least drops the pole. "Least with climbing cliffs you can grip, you've got control - who the hell came up with this? Fardling /insane/ is what it is. If I go off a cliff, Sforzath'll rip you a new one. And then catch me." Protests registered, she gingerly pushes off, skis angling downward at a diagonal in a wide V as she was coached.

"Hey, when you wanna get down from the mine in a hurry, it's the only way to go. Safer, too, than trudging down some stupid icy track behind some stupid runner in a stupid cart." Taikrin has definite opinions on this, yes. When Riorde pushes off, Taikrin follows, letting herself slip backwards down the slope to keep pace. Showing off? Maybe! "There, see? Ain't so bad! You got this! Knew you'd be fine. If a bunch of five turn olds can manage it, you can too!"

"Runners /are/ stupid," agrees Riorde, who has never ridden one. "No way I want some dumb beast between my thighs." The V of her skis is completely exaggerated, preventing her from gathering any speed. Riorde has a look of fierce concentration nonetheless. "Crazy mountain people." Taikrin included. "How do I turn? Am I supposed to turn?" Does she just point her skis downward and go?

"Like this!" Taikrin offers, oh-so-helpfully, as she flips herself around, shoots straight down ten feet, then cuts a quick, sharp turn before skidding to another stop. "Easy. Just point your feet down, see what happens!" Thankfully, they're high up enough that there really aren't many trees to crash into, nor are any obvious rocks poking out from the mountainside. "I'll catch you if you fall, promise."

Now Riorde looks impressed. "I...don't think I can do that," she calls down to Taikrin, dubious and cautious. She still hasn't come out of her baby-skiier V. She does at least narrow the V, at first a little and then, gathering courage she she doesn't immediately fall over as she starts to pick up a little speed, a little bit more. Her turn isn't nearly as slick and sharp as Taikrin's, especially when she starts to flail around, apaprently forgetting that she has poles attached to her hands. That might make the catching part difficult. "Woah!"

Maybe catching wasn't Taikrin's most brilliant plan, but she's sticking to it. Her skiis dig into the mountain as she holds steady, prepared to grab onto Riorde should she actually make impact. "You got this, you're fine!"

In the flailing, Riorde recovers her center of balance enough to pull her nearer pole in to avoid smacking Taikrin in the head with it. Still, she hasn't stopped entirely, sending her colliding into Taikrin. There isn't enough speed for a fall, really, so it'll settle with a surprised grunt, and then, even more surprised, "Hey, I'm still standing up. Lemme do that again."

Maybe the way Taikrin wraps her arms around Riorde isn't entirely necessary, but hey-- she's helping! "Good to go. C'mon, point yourself down and let's go." The flat glade isn't all /that/ far below them, after all. "Race you down there!" Maybe it's not fair, but when has she ever cared about that? With a maybe-inappropriate squeeze, Taikrin points herself downhill again and races -- /races/ -- to the bottom.

"Point myself down and go?" Riorde repeats, not at all sure about the sound of that, but then Taikrin's gone and she's speaking to the air. "Hey! You /suck./ SUCK." Valiantly, she wiggles out of her V and tries to follow. Taikrin's teaching style, apparently, follows the learn-by-doing method with a ridiculous learning curve. Riorde starts to pick up speed, and then starts shrieking in a most un-Riordely fashion, and finally falls in a tumble of limbs and poles and skis in the air.

Nobody ever said Taikrin was a good teacher. She's already at the bottom by the time Riorde takes her tumble, and seems genuinely surprised by it. "Crap-- Riorde!" She attempts to struggle up the hill in her skies, then gives a curse and kicks off the leather ties holding her skis to her boots. Maybe trying to climb the steep slope when she's sinking knee deep in the snow wasn't the best idea, but by Faranth she's going to try! "Hang on, you're okay, I'm comin'!"

Down at the bottom of the valley, Sforzath hasn't picked himself up to come to Riorde's aid, so she's still alive at least, uninjured. "I'm okay," Riorde yells, on her belly facing downhill. After the shrieks subsided, muffled by the powder, the giggles started - something Taikrin may never have heard coming from her before. She's giggling wildly as she rolls onto her side, trying to turn herself around by picking her legs up and kicking them up above her head -- a sort of flip.

There's snow all down Taikrin's jacket, probably down her boots, and clinging to her hair as she pauses, gasping to catch her breath, a good ten feet below Riorde. When the giggles start, she makes a helpless noise and redoubles her efforts. "You're okay! I'm comin'!" Maybe she's mistaken those unfamiliar giggles for sobs? "Hang on, y'didn't break anything, right?" The last few feet are covered in wild, flailing leaps as she tries to get to Riorde's side.

Something about Taikrin's appearance and her leapfrogging through the snow sets Riorde off again. "I'm fine," she gets out, now mostly right way round but struggling to get back up on her skis and not making any progress in the deep powder. "Help me up, we'll go again." The fall, it seems, has inspired her enthusiasm.

"Wait, are you...?" Aggrieved, Taikrin sits back on her heels and stares up at Riorde. "Flamin' shells, I thought you were really hurt! That ain't funny." She's all out of sorts as she tries to get to her feet, sinks thigh-deep, then falls back down on her ass. "Help you up, help /me/ up!" An icy wind blows, bringing with it Szadath's sparkling amusement with the whole situation.

"I told you I was okay, didn't I?" Riorde's hair has come loose from under her hat in the tumble, knotting up with snow. She grins down at Taikrin, one more fall away from more relentless giggles. Carefully, she stabilizes herself and manages to lever herself up to standing. "I can barely get my/self/ up," she points out, edging down and standing helplessly just above Taikrin. She extends a pole, but that's about it.

"You were making these terrible sounds, like you were dying!" It's not exactly an endearing statement, but Taikrin's looking pretty disgruntled at this point. "Couldn't even hear you right what with bein' way down there and all." Another attempt to stand, as she reaches for the pole, and another flop over, though at least she managed to catch herself with one arm before she faceplants. "Scorch it!"

Riorde's grin hasn't withered, but she rolls her eyes. "I was /laughing/. If I'm dying I'll sound like this--" and she proceeds with a series of long, wavery groans. Not the sexy kind. She only quits once Taikrin falls over again. She slides down sideways closer still, tucks the pole beneath her arm, and this time reaches down a hand. "Here."

"Yeah, whatever," she grumps, flailing in the snow to regain at least a little of her footing. Taikrin reaches up to take Riorde's hand; there's a moment of stillness as she looks up at the other brownrider, and then a wicked smirk curls one side of her mouth upwards. All of a sudden she exclaims, in falsetto, "Ohhh noooo!" and falls forward against Riorde with enough force to probably push the both of them back down against the mountainside.

Riorde /knows/ that smile, knows that something's up. Suspicions raised, but she isn't quick enough to withdraw her hand-- so down they go again, Riorde exclaiming, "Hey!" in a falsely aggravated tone. "I just got back up!" But while they're down, Riorde might as well rub snow in Taikrin's face.

Snow in the face is no comparison to the snow that Taikrin is shoving down Riorde's pants, laughing all the while. "HA! Now we're both down here, only fair!"

And now Riorde is squealing, shrieking, alternately trying to shove Taikrin away or push fistfuls of snow under her collar and down her shirt. "Go away, get /off/, that's fucking cold! Taik-/rin/!" Stretching the name out into a complaint, then: "Sforzath! You're so useless, come flame her or something!"

Taikrin roars with laughter, despite the snow trickling down her her jacket and soaking her shirt. "Serves you right!" Finally satisfied with her efforts, she flops off of Riorde to sprawl on her back in the snow. "There. Now you're ready to go down the rest of the mountain."

Riorde reaches around to try to shovel snow out of the seat of her pants, but regardless of her efforts, her butt's now icy. She glares at Taikrin to communicate just how disgruntled she is about, you know, /cold./ "I hate you. Sforzath does too, for the record. And Szadath's ugly." Beat. "Let's go again."

"That he is," Taikrin agrees, all amiability. "Lazy, too, on account of how he's gonna let me die up here rather than help me get down." Because that thirty or so feet she's got to go downhill are just TOO HARD. She flops over onto her belly and tries to crawl downhill, but sinks up to her shoulders in the powdery snow. "Die!" she exclaims dramatically, as she flails helplessly in the snow. "DIE!"

Pink-cheeked, Riorde's laughing again thanks to Taikrin's dramatics. No more suggestions of help from her. "Well," she begins, getting the skis under her and hoisting herself back upright, poles used to brace herself against the gentle grade of the slope, "I guess we'll dig our your remains in the spring. Tragic. And here I was going to suggest how great my bath would be after freezing ourselves out here. I suppose I'll just have to have my bath alone." Riorde lets out a gusty sigh, then pushes off, angling away from Taikrin to criss-cross her way down the bowl where her dragon's waiting. Flippantly, she waves a pole behind her: goodbye!

Taikrin pauses, mid-caterwaul, to look back at Riorde. "Bath? There's a bath?" All of a sudden she's the competent mountain-bred child, flipping over onto her butt and slip-sliding down the hillside. "Nobody said nothin' about a bath!" she calls down to Riorde as she half pulls herself down to the glade where she'd abandoned her skis. "Wait! I think I'm gonna live!!!"

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Logs:Going to Die

2012-01-20T05:31:17Z

Riorde: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Riorde, Taikrin | where = Snowy Mountainside, High Reaches Area | what = Taikrin teaches Riorde how to ski. | when = Day 23, Month 10, Turn 27 | gamedate = 2012.0..."

{{ Log
| who = Riorde, Taikrin
| where = Snowy Mountainside, High Reaches Area
| what = Taikrin teaches Riorde how to ski.
| when = Day 23, Month 10, Turn 27
| gamedate = 2012.01.18
| quote =
| weather =
| categories = General
| mentions =
| icons = riorde wintery.jpg, taikrin.jpg
| log =
---------------------------------------------
Not far from High Reaches Weyr, the mountains become sharp, raw, and snowcovered no matter the time of turn. This set of slopes, around a high mountain meadow, is completely unaccessible save from dragonback. That just means the pristine snowfall is all the more enticing.
---------------------------------------------

"I'm going to die." It isn't the first time Riorde's declared this. It won't be the last. Hunched over the shaped wooden slats Taikrin's connived, cajoled, or wrestled her into attaching to her feet, Riorde, who normally has very little fear of activities involving heights and risk, stares down the incline and then twists at the torso to accusingly point her pole at the other brownrider. "Die. Horrifically. And then Sforzath will go between and it'll all be your fault. Dragon-killer."

"You'll be fine," Taikrin manages to choke out, in between gasping for breath and laughing like /she's/ going to die. "It's /easy/, we been doin' it since we were kids. You just point down hill and go. I mean, if you fall, it's just /snow/, it's soft!" Just to prove her point, she side-slips a little ways down the hill, then pulls it in just below Riorde. "C'mon, you know Sforzath'll catch you if you like go flying off a cliff or somethin'." Because there is one of those, on the far side of the glade where the dragons are lounging in the snow. "Just give it a shot!"

"Tell that to my dead body." Riorde at least drops the pole. "Least with climbing cliffs you can grip, you've got control - who the hell came up with this? Fardling /insane/ is what it is. If I go off a cliff, Sforzath'll rip you a new one. And then catch me." Protests registered, she gingerly pushes off, skis angling downward at a diagonal in a wide V as she was coached.

"Hey, when you wanna get down from the mine in a hurry, it's the only way to go. Safer, too, than trudging down some stupid icy track behind some stupid runner in a stupid cart." Taikrin has definite opinions on this, yes. When Riorde pushes off, Taikrin follows, letting herself slip backwards down the slope to keep pace. Showing off? Maybe! "There, see? Ain't so bad! You got this! Knew you'd be fine. If a bunch of five turn olds can manage it, you can too!"

"Runners /are/ stupid," agrees Riorde, who has never ridden one. "No way I want some dumb beast between my thighs." The V of her skis is completely exaggerated, preventing her from gathering any speed. Riorde has a look of fierce concentration nonetheless. "Crazy mountain people." Taikrin included. "How do I turn? Am I supposed to turn?" Does she just point her skis downward and go?

"Like this!" Taikrin offers, oh-so-helpfully, as she flips herself around, shoots straight down ten feet, then cuts a quick, sharp turn before skidding to another stop. "Easy. Just point your feet down, see what happens!" Thankfully, they're high up enough that there really aren't many trees to crash into, nor are any obvious rocks poking out from the mountainside. "I'll catch you if you fall, promise."

Now Riorde looks impressed. "I...don't think I can do that," she calls down to Taikrin, dubious and cautious. She still hasn't come out of her baby-skiier V. She does at least narrow the V, at first a little and then, gathering courage she she doesn't immediately fall over as she starts to pick up a little speed, a little bit more. Her turn isn't nearly as slick and sharp as Taikrin's, especially when she starts to flail around, apaprently forgetting that she has poles attached to her hands. That might make the catching part difficult. "Woah!"

Maybe catching wasn't Taikrin's most brilliant plan, but she's sticking to it. Her skiis dig into the mountain as she holds steady, prepared to grab onto Riorde should she actually make impact. "You got this, you're fine!"

In the flailing, Riorde recovers her center of balance enough to pull her nearer pole in to avoid smacking Taikrin in the head with it. Still, she hasn't stopped entirely, sending her colliding into Taikrin. There isn't enough speed for a fall, really, so it'll settle with a surprised grunt, and then, even more surprised, "Hey, I'm still standing up. Lemme do that again."

Maybe the way Taikrin wraps her arms around Riorde isn't entirely necessary, but hey-- she's helping! "Good to go. C'mon, point yourself down and let's go." The flat glade isn't all /that/ far below them, after all. "Race you down there!" Maybe it's not fair, but when has she ever cared about that? With a maybe-inappropriate squeeze, Taikrin points herself downhill again and races -- /races/ -- to the bottom.

"Point myself down and go?" Riorde repeats, not at all sure about the sound of that, but then Taikrin's gone and she's speaking to the air. "Hey! You /suck./ SUCK." Valiantly, she wiggles out of her V and tries to follow. Taikrin's teaching style, apparently, follows the learn-by-doing method with a ridiculous learning curve. Riorde starts to pick up speed, and then starts shrieking in a most un-Riordely fashion, and finally falls in a tumble of limbs and poles and skis in the air.

Nobody ever said Taikrin was a good teacher. She's already at the bottom by the time Riorde takes her tumble, and seems genuinely surprised by it. "Crap-- Riorde!" She attempts to struggle up the hill in her skies, then gives a curse and kicks off the leather ties holding her skis to her boots. Maybe trying to climb the steep slope when she's sinking knee deep in the snow wasn't the best idea, but by Faranth she's going to try! "Hang on, you're okay, I'm comin'!"

Down at the bottom of the valley, Sforzath hasn't picked himself up to come to Riorde's aid, so she's still alive at least, uninjured. "I'm okay," Riorde yells, on her belly facing downhill. After the shrieks subsided, muffled by the powder, the giggles started - something Taikrin may never have heard coming from her before. She's giggling wildly as she rolls onto her side, trying to turn herself around by picking her legs up and kicking them up above her head -- a sort of flip.

There's snow all down Taikrin's jacket, probably down her boots, and clinging to her hair as she pauses, gasping to catch her breath, a good ten feet below Riorde. When the giggles start, she makes a helpless noise and redoubles her efforts. "You're okay! I'm comin'!" Maybe she's mistaken those unfamiliar giggles for sobs? "Hang on, y'didn't break anything, right?" The last few feet are covered in wild, flailing leaps as she tries to get to Riorde's side.

Something about Taikrin's appearance and her leapfrogging through the snow sets Riorde off again. "I'm fine," she gets out, now mostly right way round but struggling to get back up on her skis and not making any progress in the deep powder. "Help me up, we'll go again." The fall, it seems, has inspired her enthusiasm.

"Wait, are you...?" Aggrieved, Taikrin sits back on her heels and stares up at Riorde. "Flamin' shells, I thought you were really hurt! That ain't funny." She's all out of sorts as she tries to get to her feet, sinks thigh-deep, then falls back down on her ass. "Help you up, help /me/ up!" An icy wind blows, bringing with it Szadath's sparkling amusement with the whole situation.

"I told you I was okay, didn't I?" Riorde's hair has come loose from under her hat in the tumble, knotting up with snow. She grins down at Taikrin, one more fall away from more relentless giggles. Carefully, she stabilizes herself and manages to lever herself up to standing. "I can barely get my/self/ up," she points out, edging down and standing helplessly just above Taikrin. She extends a pole, but that's about it.

"You were making these terrible sounds, like you were dying!" It's not exactly an endearing statement, but Taikrin's looking pretty disgruntled at this point. "Couldn't even hear you right what with bein' way down there and all." Another attempt to stand, as she reaches for the pole, and another flop over, though at least she managed to catch herself with one arm before she faceplants. "Scorch it!"

Riorde's grin hasn't withered, but she rolls her eyes. "I was /laughing/. If I'm dying I'll sound like this--" and she proceeds with a series of long, wavery groans. Not the sexy kind. She only quits once Taikrin falls over again. She slides down sideways closer still, tucks the pole beneath her arm, and this time reaches down a hand. "Here."

"Yeah, whatever," she grumps, flailing in the snow to regain at least a little of her footing. Taikrin reaches up to take Riorde's hand; there's a moment of stillness as she looks up at the other brownrider, and then a wicked smirk curls one side of her mouth upwards. All of a sudden she exclaims, in falsetto, "Ohhh noooo!" and falls forward against Riorde with enough force to probably push the both of them back down against the mountainside.

Riorde /knows/ that smile, knows that something's up. Suspicions raised, but she isn't quick enough to withdraw her hand-- so down they go again, Riorde exclaiming, "Hey!" in a falsely aggravated tone. "I just got back up!" But while they're down, Riorde might as well rub snow in Taikrin's face.

Snow in the face is no comparison to the snow that Taikrin is shoving down Riorde's pants, laughing all the while. "HA! Now we're both down here, only fair!"

And now Riorde is squealing, shrieking, alternately trying to shove Taikrin away or push fistfuls of snow under her collar and down her shirt. "Go away, get /off/, that's fucking cold! Taik-/rin/!" Stretching the name out into a complaint, then: "Sforzath! You're so useless, come flame her or something!"

Taikrin roars with laughter, despite the snow trickling down her her jacket and soaking her shirt. "Serves you right!" Finally satisfied with her efforts, she flops off of Riorde to sprawl on her back in the snow. "There. Now you're ready to go down the rest of the mountain."

Riorde reaches around to try to shovel snow out of the seat of her pants, but regardless of her efforts, her butt's now icy. She glares at Taikrin to communicate just how disgruntled she is about, you know, /cold./ "I hate you. Sforzath does too, for the record. And Szadath's ugly." Beat. "Let's go again."

"That he is," Taikrin agrees, all amiability. "Lazy, too, on account of how he's gonna let me die up here rather than help me get down." Because that thirty or so feet she's got to go downhill are just TOO HARD. She flops over onto her belly and tries to crawl downhill, but sinks up to her shoulders in the powdery snow. "Die!" she exclaims dramatically, as she flails helplessly in the snow. "DIE!"

Pink-cheeked, Riorde's laughing again thanks to Taikrin's dramatics. No more suggestions of help from her. "Well," she begins, getting the skis under her and hoisting herself back upright, poles used to brace herself against the gentle grade of the slope, "I guess we'll dig our your remains in the spring. Tragic. And here I was going to suggest how great my bath would be after freezing ourselves out here. I suppose I'll just have to have my bath alone." Riorde lets out a gusty sigh, then pushes off, angling away from Taikrin to criss-cross her way down the bowl where her dragon's waiting. Flippantly, she waves a pole behind her: goodbye!

Taikrin pauses, mid-caterwaul, to look back at Riorde. "Bath? There's a bath?" All of a sudden she's the competent mountain-bred child, flipping over onto her butt and slip-sliding down the hillside. "Nobody said nothin' about a bath!" she calls down to Riorde as she half pulls herself down to the glade where she'd abandoned her skis. "Wait! I think I'm gonna live!!!"

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Logs:Dragons Are Impossible

2012-01-20T05:02:01Z

Riorde:

{{ Log
| who = Riorde, Riorde{{!}}Sforzath, Evali, Evali{{!}}Yanijath
| where = Garden Patio Ledge, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Evali and Riorde chat; Sforzath and Yanijath do more than that.
| when = Day 26, Month 10, Turn 27 of Interval 10
| gamedate = 2012.01.19
| quote = I might be a little drunk. It's Glacier -- they never stop.
| weather = A layer of patch clouds covers the sky. The air feels cool and damp, but there is no rainfall today.
| categories = Exiles
| mentions = Devaki, Emme, Kiami
| icons = riorde.jpg, riorde sforzath.jpg, evali thoughtful.jpg, evali yanijath.png
| log = It's a nice quiet night for Evali, turning into quite the ideal; she's got a perch on a bench, a good view, a glass of wine, and a book. The book may not have much of anything /in/ it, and she is taking advantage of the parts of the iron bench that aren't occupied by other people to use it as a table. Setting the wine down, she picks up a piece of charcoal and starts to sketch the overhang's climber. Occasionally, she's been speaking aloud to Yanijath, who is visible down in the bowl, coloring hard to miss especially on an otherwise grey backdrop. "No, you cannot have wine. Still. It has not changed in the past ten minutes. Dragons do not drink alcohol. Yes, I do mean that."

"Sforzath tried it." Riorde's troublemaking remark issues from behind, where she's stolen up to greet Evali with a cheeky grin. "Boo." The brunette's just stepped out from the Snowasis, carrying her own drink with her -- a mug though, not a glass, with steam rising from the contents therein. The light off the glows placed outside for the evening colors her cheeks strangely where color's risen: the mixed contribution of the change in temperature, inside-to-out; the flush from hot alcoholic drinks. "Did I get you? Did you hear me?" This seems important to Ri.

"Yes," Evali replies, a mixture of startled surprise and welcoming good cheer all at once. "You win; you probably also want to sit?" Riorde does not apparently need to answer the question, though; Evali has already put the charcoal behind her ear (where a few strands of blonde hair are now more grey), picked up her glass and cleared off enough space for another person to fit. Yanijath, down in the bowl, flexes her wings. Maybe they'll let her come up there and taste it? What's that? Sforzath already did? How unfair!

Dragon> To Sforzath, Yanijath bubbles up and bubbles over in the brown's mind, curiosity overflowing in a mug resembling Evali's view of Riorde's, fuzz and staticky shapes where steam belongs. << What does it taste like? >> she pries, firm and nosy and unashamed about her invasive, pushy questions.

Dragon> From up on his ledge, Sforzath's smoke and incense drift out, shifting in accordance to Yanijath's question. He picks out a remembrance of wine from Riorde's mind (he's forgotten) and offers it up for the green's delectation: dark and heady, velvet-smooth, a burgundy that touches on blood-red. The iron, metallic tang of blood's there, too, Sforzath's little addition. It matches the color after all. << There. Do you like it? >> (Sforzath to Yanijath)

"Good. I haven't lost it." Riorde smiles her satisfaction and, as soon as the space is cleared, drops into the seat alongside Evali. It occurs to her, "Unless you've lost it too." She sighs gustily, a reflection on that possibility, then leans in with little attention to personal space. She's angling for a view of the drawing, putting one arm over the back of the iron bench. "What've you got?"

It's a fairly decent drawing, if also fairly boring; Evali certainly isn't attempting to hide it. "A spicy wine whose name I've forgotten; it pays to be friends with the vintner," she begins to explain, with a tiny smile, entirely tuning out Yanijath's commentary. "Unless you meant the notebook, in which case it is herbalry -- I figured you meant the drink. Speaking of, just how intoxicated are you?" It's not a judgemental statement; it's offered up with a head tilt and a light, friendly expression. She just wants to know.

Dragon> There is still nothing but good cheer and excitement in Yanijath -- but perhaps unfortunately for Sforzath, it has multiplied sevenfold. Everything. Is /wonderful/. Isn't it exciting? Because: << That was /amazing/, >> she gushes, near vibrating with enthusiasm. She flickers out mental images of dancing and flying as if she's confused about how the two are meant to intertwine, if they are at all, but they, too, are things that are amazing, so shouldn't she share? << You get to taste all the good things. Evvy doesn't let me have her drinks. >> (Yanijath to Sforzath)

"I meant the drawing, but the wine's more interesting." Riorde's unapologetic and blunt, bordering on rude but without the intonation that would mark it as intentional. Her chin comes up quickly, and then the brownrider leans back and away from Evali, from her question, looking a bit startled -- if embarrassed. "I'm not. Not very, anyway. I don't think." How much of a judge she is for that, though-- well. "Sorry."

"No need!" Evali is quick to offer reassurance -- and, if anything can be taken from her expression, guilt. "You are not bothering me; I was just wondering. I am /sure/ the wine is more interesting, there is not much going for the drawing. Some of the others are better --" Rather than continuing to speak, she offers out the notebook, switching her headtilt to the other direction. Eventually, she finishes, "If you wanted. There are some grapes, it may count for both."

Dragon> To Yanijath, Sforzath commiserates because, well, it's Yanijath, partner in crime, and even if he can't remember the specifics there's still the feeling of it. Co-conspiracy, a sly sort of pulse at the edge of perception. But /she/ feels it, surely. << Poor you. >> A tease sung out, vowels stretched into sing-song.

Dragon> Yes, poor Yanijath indeed: she plays right into it, though it is obvious she's playing, hamming up the idea of her terrible suffering. << I only get to eat old herdbeasts, I have to sleep outside, >> which is, of course, not true, and surely Sforzath knows it, << she does not put colors on my talons like she does on hers! I am miserable. It is so hard to be me! >> (Yanijath to Sforzath)

When Riorde settles back, taking the notebook, there's a studied way in which she doesn't impinge on Evali's territory and get /too/ close, an unspoken over-consciousness normally absent. She puts the mug between her thighs so there's both hands free to flip the pages, even if it's only out of politeness. "You're good. These are good." She pauses on a picture of some delicately leafy plant that she doesn't recognise, and looks sidelong at her clutchmate, sheepish. "I might be a little drunk. It's Glacier -- they never stop."

Unable to help herself, Evali giggles at that confession -- and then immediately looks half-embarrassed, half-guilty again for her reaction. "Trying to break you in?" she asks, moving fallen hair from her face for the thousandth time that day. "Or is it a wing requirement? To always be drunk. Snowdrift likes that I garden," she adds, as if sitting there and sketching with a glass of wine is doing wing duty. "And I -- suppose? I have a lot of time to practice, now. Not so many chores." And so unlike home, where there was always washing for her, goes unsaid.

Dragon> The beat quickens: a drum, a heart, the throb of blood in the veins. << Poor you. What are you going to do about it? >> The challenge is subtle, lingering around the edges, couched in what sounds like an honest question. (Sforzath to Yanijath)

"A bit of both, I think. It's like that anyway, but there's the whole new girl thing. Does Snowdrift have that?" Riorde balances the notebook on her knee, still on the same picture, and picks up her mug once more. Getting caught out as being not-quite-sober apparently hasn't cowed her enough to forgo the mulled wine. "Yeah," she agrees, head tilting away as she subjects Evali to a thoughtful look. "It's different now. Funny not seeing you lot as much anymore, you know."

Dragon> To Sforzath, Yanijath is mystified; she's caught in Sforzath's rhythm, but has no complaints. << I can do something about it? >> is her first answer, bold statement not considering the fact he is taking her to task. << I complain. And I talk and talk and talk and talk and talk while she works! It gets me oiled, when I do that. >>

"At least nobody lives too far away." Evali's voice is distant for a moment; likely, she's thinking of her brother, and how long it's been since she slept with her head in his lap. It's a memory that never fades, and Yanijath so often asks to meet him -- but she forces it away, and doesn't speak of it. "If you like the drawings, you are always welcome to see the garden. On my ledge. It changes often enough it is really worth multiple visits." There was a question there, and after another sip of wine Evali remembers to answer it. "There is some. Discomfort with new people, discomfort with islanders. But Mielline likes me all right, and I have Emme with me during drills."

Dragon> << Sure. >> Sforzath's breezy answer sweetens his incense to the point that it's almost, almost cloying, leavened with a hint of sandalwood. << You can't just talk. You have to Do. >> No specificity to this ideal of action, just an impulse of motion. Flight's there in the stirring of wind over and under the wings, and again his take on the taste of wine, all thick and hot. << If she doesn't let you, you should take it. >> (Sforzath to Yanijath)

Dragon> To Sforzath, Yanijath is clearly thinking about it; the shared mental image is that of her joining the humans on the ledge, pushing her muzzle into Evali's glass, dipping her tongue in. Inside Yanijath's mind, there is plenty of space for her there, and she should have no trouble drinking from that glass. << You are very wise, Sforzath. I would think you were older than me if I didn't know better! >>

They've been too close, these exiles, not to be attuned to each other's moods. Studying Evali in that moment brings a shadow to Riorde's expression, and she looks away, out to the darkness gathering in the Bowl. "That's good," she says, distant herself before forcing out a smile. "Sure, I'd like that sometime. I saw it when we were all looking, but it's all a blur now, you know? And I bet it's different now that you live there anyway."

Evali nods, gesturing at the picture Riorde's had open. "It looks like that, now? I mean. Not just the one plant. But that is mine." Some of the sadness passes; she's got to smile, what with her pride for the plants, and it almost makes her forget how much she misses Devaki, and how not too long ago she lost a sister. Yanijath, of course, helps, forcing those thoughts out and replacing them with the idea that Evali wants to give her wine. "And dragons are impossible," she adds, with an affectionate sigh.

"Is it?" Riorde looks down at the notebook again with the abstracted air of having nearly forgotten about it. She passes it back, still open with her thumb marking the place. "What?" Her gaze narrows with sudden suspicion and a frown, that despite being turned on Evali with the way Riorde faces, isn't actually directed at her. "Sforzath." The name comes out as a warning, aloud for Evali's sake, as she pays heed to the consciousness she's learned to push to the back of her mind. "He's doing-- something. To Yanijath. Sorry," she apologises a second time; her turn to look guilty. "Weyrlingmasters had a reason to keep them apart, didn't they."

Dragon> To Yanijath, Sforzath quickens with delight, though there's also a small sense of disappointment in the way that the honeyed sweetness falls away. << I know. >> No false modesty. << I have good ideas. >>

"For the safety of the other weyrlings," is Evali's conclusion, there; she's still smiling, and repeats, "No need. To be sorry. She asks for it, and you cannot mind every move he makes or you would go insane." While she seems exasperated, it is only that, and only with Yanijath. "He isn't bothering us; she is only being herself. And she likes him, so she'll be easily influenced. She is just as much trouble on her own, I promise." In the bowl, Yanijath seems to be considering taking off. Stops. Flaps her wings. Stops. "I think she is also figuring out she cannot comfortably fit here."

Dragon> << Yes. >> Yanijath has her own discordant harmony to add to the beat, though it is tempered with the irritation of finding that there is really no way to steal Evali's glass without getting tangled up in furniture. What a pristine disappointment that is. She is grasping at metaphorical threads for a good idea (though, if offered, would happily tug on real ones) and seems to come up with one out of nowhere: << I do too! Like -- we should race. >> Right now. And buzz Evali and Riorde. (Yanijath to Sforzath)

The guilt eases, and she grins back at Evali, though wariness hasn't abated from her expression. "Guess you're right." Riorde takes the out offered, but still looks up in the direction her weyr and Sforzath's ledge lies, playing with the end of a piece of her hair. In the dark and the shadowed glowlight, maybe Evali will miss how she flushes for a second time. "Not without knocking over the tables. Guess it depends on how destructive she's feeling."

"Thankfully," says Evali, after a brief assessment of Yanijath's generally unclear mental state, "not very, at the moment. She seems more interested in flying." There's an awkward beat, as Evali pauses and rephrases, "I mean literally. Not euphemistically. Although I suppose it is not a euphemism so much as simplification, and part of me wishes she /would/ get on with it." While always bright as a dragon can be, Yanijath has still shown no signs of glowing. Now who's flushing? That would be Evali, if not them both.

Dragon> This, Sforzath latches onto with whole-hearted enthusiasm (or nearly; there's still the faintest of disgruntlements lingering on, sulphuric). On his ledge overlooking the queens' weyrs, he spreads his wings and pushes off, dropping quickly before leveling out to soar, and then to pick up speed, and then: << Quick: now! >> A picture of the heights forms the rest of his suggestion. (Sforzath to Yanijath)

"Well, when she's ready," Riorde says diplomatically -- or noncommittally. Her shoulders relax however, and she leans back, resuming the stance she'd settled into when she first sat down on the bench, except that this time it's the other elbow that's propped up on the back, to the far side. "Yeah. The waiting'll get to you. Sforzath hasn't chased anything, except for the time with Rielsath, but that was only because all the others were. Didn't want to be left out. He looks, though, so I keep thinking he'll go up after some green -- and then he doesn't."

Evali opens her mouth -- and that is as far as Evali gets, as Yanijath is definitely meeting Sforzath's challenge. Finished with talking about it, she shoots up from the bowl, circles, and buzzes just as close to over the riders' heads as she can possibly do without crashing into anything. Which, of course, startles Evali right out of being able to speak ... and into spilling the wine she'd just taken a sip of down the front of her white blouse. "/Yanijath!/" she hisses, noisily, but the dragon is already gone before she can even hear her rider's admonition -- shooting like a dart after Sforzath. She'll talk later, she has to catch up! "Well," Evali sighs. "I think I have to go change."

Riorde flinches, ducking her head and looking up as Yanijath passes close overhead. Her drink sloshes too, but it's back between her knees and her trousers are already stained from oil. "Shit. /Sforzath!/" She's louder than Evali was, blaming her own dragon even though he's left the buzzing to the green and is instead intending on a flight that cuts close around and through the Spires, testing them both. "Yeah. Okay. See you later, yeah?"

"Come by sometime, see the plants," Evali offers, despite having no clue of Riorde's actual interest in plants -- she just likes having company. "Hopefully we won't end up with another surprise race, or at least it'll be a little less dangerous." Despite the situation, Evali does seem amused by the dragons' antics. A little. She stands, giving Riorde another smile and a tiny wave, and then it's off into the bar to hand over the empty glass and to the greenhouse where she's left an extra jacket. Someday, Yanijath might even come back to take her to their weyr.

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Logs:Dragons Are Impossible

2012-01-20T05:01:26Z

Riorde:

{{ Log
| who = Riorde, Riorde{{!}}Sforzath, Evali, Evali{{!}}Yanijath
| where = Garden Patio Ledge, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Evali and Riorde chat; Sforzath and Yanijath do more than that.
| when = Day 26, Month 10, Turn 27 of Interval 10
| gamedate = 2012.01.19
| quote = I might be a little drunk. It's Glacier -- they never stop.
| weather = A layer of patch clouds covers the sky. The air feels cool and damp, but there is no rainfall today.
| categories = Exiles
| mentions = Devaki, Emme, Kiami
| icons = riorde flirt.jpg, riorde sforzath.jpg, evali thoughtful.jpg, evali yanijath.png
| log = It's a nice quiet night for Evali, turning into quite the ideal; she's got a perch on a bench, a good view, a glass of wine, and a book. The book may not have much of anything /in/ it, and she is taking advantage of the parts of the iron bench that aren't occupied by other people to use it as a table. Setting the wine down, she picks up a piece of charcoal and starts to sketch the overhang's climber. Occasionally, she's been speaking aloud to Yanijath, who is visible down in the bowl, coloring hard to miss especially on an otherwise grey backdrop. "No, you cannot have wine. Still. It has not changed in the past ten minutes. Dragons do not drink alcohol. Yes, I do mean that."

"Sforzath tried it." Riorde's troublemaking remark issues from behind, where she's stolen up to greet Evali with a cheeky grin. "Boo." The brunette's just stepped out from the Snowasis, carrying her own drink with her -- a mug though, not a glass, with steam rising from the contents therein. The light off the glows placed outside for the evening colors her cheeks strangely where color's risen: the mixed contribution of the change in temperature, inside-to-out; the flush from hot alcoholic drinks. "Did I get you? Did you hear me?" This seems important to Ri.

"Yes," Evali replies, a mixture of startled surprise and welcoming good cheer all at once. "You win; you probably also want to sit?" Riorde does not apparently need to answer the question, though; Evali has already put the charcoal behind her ear (where a few strands of blonde hair are now more grey), picked up her glass and cleared off enough space for another person to fit. Yanijath, down in the bowl, flexes her wings. Maybe they'll let her come up there and taste it? What's that? Sforzath already did? How unfair!

Dragon> To Sforzath, Yanijath bubbles up and bubbles over in the brown's mind, curiosity overflowing in a mug resembling Evali's view of Riorde's, fuzz and staticky shapes where steam belongs. << What does it taste like? >> she pries, firm and nosy and unashamed about her invasive, pushy questions.

Dragon> From up on his ledge, Sforzath's smoke and incense drift out, shifting in accordance to Yanijath's question. He picks out a remembrance of wine from Riorde's mind (he's forgotten) and offers it up for the green's delectation: dark and heady, velvet-smooth, a burgundy that touches on blood-red. The iron, metallic tang of blood's there, too, Sforzath's little addition. It matches the color after all. << There. Do you like it? >> (Sforzath to Yanijath)

"Good. I haven't lost it." Riorde smiles her satisfaction and, as soon as the space is cleared, drops into the seat alongside Evali. It occurs to her, "Unless you've lost it too." She sighs gustily, a reflection on that possibility, then leans in with little attention to personal space. She's angling for a view of the drawing, putting one arm over the back of the iron bench. "What've you got?"

It's a fairly decent drawing, if also fairly boring; Evali certainly isn't attempting to hide it. "A spicy wine whose name I've forgotten; it pays to be friends with the vintner," she begins to explain, with a tiny smile, entirely tuning out Yanijath's commentary. "Unless you meant the notebook, in which case it is herbalry -- I figured you meant the drink. Speaking of, just how intoxicated are you?" It's not a judgemental statement; it's offered up with a head tilt and a light, friendly expression. She just wants to know.

Dragon> There is still nothing but good cheer and excitement in Yanijath -- but perhaps unfortunately for Sforzath, it has multiplied sevenfold. Everything. Is /wonderful/. Isn't it exciting? Because: << That was /amazing/, >> she gushes, near vibrating with enthusiasm. She flickers out mental images of dancing and flying as if she's confused about how the two are meant to intertwine, if they are at all, but they, too, are things that are amazing, so shouldn't she share? << You get to taste all the good things. Evvy doesn't let me have her drinks. >> (Yanijath to Sforzath)

"I meant the drawing, but the wine's more interesting." Riorde's unapologetic and blunt, bordering on rude but without the intonation that would mark it as intentional. Her chin comes up quickly, and then the brownrider leans back and away from Evali, from her question, looking a bit startled -- if embarrassed. "I'm not. Not very, anyway. I don't think." How much of a judge she is for that, though-- well. "Sorry."

"No need!" Evali is quick to offer reassurance -- and, if anything can be taken from her expression, guilt. "You are not bothering me; I was just wondering. I am /sure/ the wine is more interesting, there is not much going for the drawing. Some of the others are better --" Rather than continuing to speak, she offers out the notebook, switching her headtilt to the other direction. Eventually, she finishes, "If you wanted. There are some grapes, it may count for both."

Dragon> To Yanijath, Sforzath commiserates because, well, it's Yanijath, partner in crime, and even if he can't remember the specifics there's still the feeling of it. Co-conspiracy, a sly sort of pulse at the edge of perception. But /she/ feels it, surely. << Poor you. >> A tease sung out, vowels stretched into sing-song.

Dragon> Yes, poor Yanijath indeed: she plays right into it, though it is obvious she's playing, hamming up the idea of her terrible suffering. << I only get to eat old herdbeasts, I have to sleep outside, >> which is, of course, not true, and surely Sforzath knows it, << she does not put colors on my talons like she does on hers! I am miserable. It is so hard to be me! >> (Yanijath to Sforzath)

When Riorde settles back, taking the notebook, there's a studied way in which she doesn't impinge on Evali's territory and get /too/ close, an unspoken over-consciousness normally absent. She puts the mug between her thighs so there's both hands free to flip the pages, even if it's only out of politeness. "You're good. These are good." She pauses on a picture of some delicately leafy plant that she doesn't recognise, and looks sidelong at her clutchmate, sheepish. "I might be a little drunk. It's Glacier -- they never stop."

Unable to help herself, Evali giggles at that confession -- and then immediately looks half-embarrassed, half-guilty again for her reaction. "Trying to break you in?" she asks, moving fallen hair from her face for the thousandth time that day. "Or is it a wing requirement? To always be drunk. Snowdrift likes that I garden," she adds, as if sitting there and sketching with a glass of wine is doing wing duty. "And I -- suppose? I have a lot of time to practice, now. Not so many chores." And so unlike home, where there was always washing for her, goes unsaid.

Dragon> The beat quickens: a drum, a heart, the throb of blood in the veins. << Poor you. What are you going to do about it? >> The challenge is subtle, lingering around the edges, couched in what sounds like an honest question. (Sforzath to Yanijath)

"A bit of both, I think. It's like that anyway, but there's the whole new girl thing. Does Snowdrift have that?" Riorde balances the notebook on her knee, still on the same picture, and picks up her mug once more. Getting caught out as being not-quite-sober apparently hasn't cowed her enough to forgo the mulled wine. "Yeah," she agrees, head tilting away as she subjects Evali to a thoughtful look. "It's different now. Funny not seeing you lot as much anymore, you know."

Dragon> To Sforzath, Yanijath is mystified; she's caught in Sforzath's rhythm, but has no complaints. << I can do something about it? >> is her first answer, bold statement not considering the fact he is taking her to task. << I complain. And I talk and talk and talk and talk and talk while she works! It gets me oiled, when I do that. >>

"At least nobody lives too far away." Evali's voice is distant for a moment; likely, she's thinking of her brother, and how long it's been since she slept with her head in his lap. It's a memory that never fades, and Yanijath so often asks to meet him -- but she forces it away, and doesn't speak of it. "If you like the drawings, you are always welcome to see the garden. On my ledge. It changes often enough it is really worth multiple visits." There was a question there, and after another sip of wine Evali remembers to answer it. "There is some. Discomfort with new people, discomfort with islanders. But Mielline likes me all right, and I have Emme with me during drills."

Dragon> << Sure. >> Sforzath's breezy answer sweetens his incense to the point that it's almost, almost cloying, leavened with a hint of sandalwood. << You can't just talk. You have to Do. >> No specificity to this ideal of action, just an impulse of motion. Flight's there in the stirring of wind over and under the wings, and again his take on the taste of wine, all thick and hot. << If she doesn't let you, you should take it. >> (Sforzath to Yanijath)

Dragon> To Sforzath, Yanijath is clearly thinking about it; the shared mental image is that of her joining the humans on the ledge, pushing her muzzle into Evali's glass, dipping her tongue in. Inside Yanijath's mind, there is plenty of space for her there, and she should have no trouble drinking from that glass. << You are very wise, Sforzath. I would think you were older than me if I didn't know better! >>

They've been too close, these exiles, not to be attuned to each other's moods. Studying Evali in that moment brings a shadow to Riorde's expression, and she looks away, out to the darkness gathering in the Bowl. "That's good," she says, distant herself before forcing out a smile. "Sure, I'd like that sometime. I saw it when we were all looking, but it's all a blur now, you know? And I bet it's different now that you live there anyway."

Evali nods, gesturing at the picture Riorde's had open. "It looks like that, now? I mean. Not just the one plant. But that is mine." Some of the sadness passes; she's got to smile, what with her pride for the plants, and it almost makes her forget how much she misses Devaki, and how not too long ago she lost a sister. Yanijath, of course, helps, forcing those thoughts out and replacing them with the idea that Evali wants to give her wine. "And dragons are impossible," she adds, with an affectionate sigh.

"Is it?" Riorde looks down at the notebook again with the abstracted air of having nearly forgotten about it. She passes it back, still open with her thumb marking the place. "What?" Her gaze narrows with sudden suspicion and a frown, that despite being turned on Evali with the way Riorde faces, isn't actually directed at her. "Sforzath." The name comes out as a warning, aloud for Evali's sake, as she pays heed to the consciousness she's learned to push to the back of her mind. "He's doing-- something. To Yanijath. Sorry," she apologises a second time; her turn to look guilty. "Weyrlingmasters had a reason to keep them apart, didn't they."

Dragon> To Yanijath, Sforzath quickens with delight, though there's also a small sense of disappointment in the way that the honeyed sweetness falls away. << I know. >> No false modesty. << I have good ideas. >>

"For the safety of the other weyrlings," is Evali's conclusion, there; she's still smiling, and repeats, "No need. To be sorry. She asks for it, and you cannot mind every move he makes or you would go insane." While she seems exasperated, it is only that, and only with Yanijath. "He isn't bothering us; she is only being herself. And she likes him, so she'll be easily influenced. She is just as much trouble on her own, I promise." In the bowl, Yanijath seems to be considering taking off. Stops. Flaps her wings. Stops. "I think she is also figuring out she cannot comfortably fit here."

Dragon> << Yes. >> Yanijath has her own discordant harmony to add to the beat, though it is tempered with the irritation of finding that there is really no way to steal Evali's glass without getting tangled up in furniture. What a pristine disappointment that is. She is grasping at metaphorical threads for a good idea (though, if offered, would happily tug on real ones) and seems to come up with one out of nowhere: << I do too! Like -- we should race. >> Right now. And buzz Evali and Riorde. (Yanijath to Sforzath)

The guilt eases, and she grins back at Evali, though wariness hasn't abated from her expression. "Guess you're right." Riorde takes the out offered, but still looks up in the direction her weyr and Sforzath's ledge lies, playing with the end of a piece of her hair. In the dark and the shadowed glowlight, maybe Evali will miss how she flushes for a second time. "Not without knocking over the tables. Guess it depends on how destructive she's feeling."

"Thankfully," says Evali, after a brief assessment of Yanijath's generally unclear mental state, "not very, at the moment. She seems more interested in flying." There's an awkward beat, as Evali pauses and rephrases, "I mean literally. Not euphemistically. Although I suppose it is not a euphemism so much as simplification, and part of me wishes she /would/ get on with it." While always bright as a dragon can be, Yanijath has still shown no signs of glowing. Now who's flushing? That would be Evali, if not them both.

Dragon> This, Sforzath latches onto with whole-hearted enthusiasm (or nearly; there's still the faintest of disgruntlements lingering on, sulphuric). On his ledge overlooking the queens' weyrs, he spreads his wings and pushes off, dropping quickly before leveling out to soar, and then to pick up speed, and then: << Quick: now! >> A picture of the heights forms the rest of his suggestion. (Sforzath to Yanijath)

"Well, when she's ready," Riorde says diplomatically -- or noncommittally. Her shoulders relax however, and she leans back, resuming the stance she'd settled into when she first sat down on the bench, except that this time it's the other elbow that's propped up on the back, to the far side. "Yeah. The waiting'll get to you. Sforzath hasn't chased anything, except for the time with Rielsath, but that was only because all the others were. Didn't want to be left out. He looks, though, so I keep thinking he'll go up after some green -- and then he doesn't."

Evali opens her mouth -- and that is as far as Evali gets, as Yanijath is definitely meeting Sforzath's challenge. Finished with talking about it, she shoots up from the bowl, circles, and buzzes just as close to over the riders' heads as she can possibly do without crashing into anything. Which, of course, startles Evali right out of being able to speak ... and into spilling the wine she'd just taken a sip of down the front of her white blouse. "/Yanijath!/" she hisses, noisily, but the dragon is already gone before she can even hear her rider's admonition -- shooting like a dart after Sforzath. She'll talk later, she has to catch up! "Well," Evali sighs. "I think I have to go change."

Riorde flinches, ducking her head and looking up as Yanijath passes close overhead. Her drink sloshes too, but it's back between her knees and her trousers are already stained from oil. "Shit. /Sforzath!/" She's louder than Evali was, blaming her own dragon even though he's left the buzzing to the green and is instead intending on a flight that cuts close around and through the Spires, testing them both. "Yeah. Okay. See you later, yeah?"

"Come by sometime, see the plants," Evali offers, despite having no clue of Riorde's actual interest in plants -- she just likes having company. "Hopefully we won't end up with another surprise race, or at least it'll be a little less dangerous." Despite the situation, Evali does seem amused by the dragons' antics. A little. She stands, giving Riorde another smile and a tiny wave, and then it's off into the bar to hand over the empty glass and to the greenhouse where she's left an extra jacket. Someday, Yanijath might even come back to take her to their weyr.

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Logs:The Goldrider and the Gambler

2012-01-17T00:47:58Z

Riorde:

{{ Log
| who = Ali, Riorde, Taikrin
| where = Riorde and Taikrin, on their whirlwind tour of all the bars of Pern, rescue Ali from the grabby hands of a drunken gambler. /So/ drunk, that at one point, he propositions Taikrin. /Taikrin/.
| what = Casino-Bar, Bitra Hold
| when = Day 5, Month 10, Turn 27 of Interval 10
| gamedate = 2012.01.13
| quote = A drink. And a tumble. /Then/ we're even.
| weather =
| categories =
| mentions =
| icons = riorde flirt.jpg, taikrin.jpg
| log =

It is an autumn dusk, 18:06 of day 5, month 10, turn 27 of Interval 10.

There are a lot of bars at Bitra: it is, after all, a large Hold well-known for its amusements. The one Taikrin has chosen to bring Riorde to is one of the nicer establishments located not a terribly long stumble from the landing fields. It's a huge, squat, three-story stone building with the look of something built post-Pass. There's gaming on the lower two floors, while the third caters to entertainment of a more intimate nature. It's to the first floor that the brownrider brings Riorde this fine warm evening, and the long, well-polished bar that runs nearly the length of the wall. "-- and so, he thought he had all my marks, right? Except turns out I had this queen hidden up my sleeve, and he was so /drunk/ he didn't even see me slide it out! Swear on Szad's shell I wasn't more'n fourteen, and I had this guy /totally/ sandbagged."

Ali's not exactly a frequent visitor to places like this. In fact, she just looks out of place, somehow, even though she's clothed casually, in a dress - no knot to speak of. At one of the tables near the bar, there's a rowdy card game going on - plenty of cheering, and insults being thrown back and forth. The dark-haired Fortian somehow doesn't seem to fit in that crowd, and yet there she is - at the table, playing along - her vexation and frustration all but visible as to suggest she's been steadily losing. There's a drink near to her hand, only half-touched.

A date? Maybe; at least on this floor, wingmates aren't in evidence. "Uh huh." Leaning against the bar alongside Taikrin, Riorde sports a tone that is just a touch tolerant. "You gonna teach me how to slide cards up my sleeves, too? Seems like it might come in handy. Glacier keeps taking my marks." She takes her cue on gamblers' morality from Taikrin in this, though palming cards might get them blackballed in Bitra. The younger brownrider shifts, the lazy lean pivoting toward Taikrin, and lets her eyes wander over the other woman's shoulder. Riorde pauses with her gaze on Ali, short fingernails clicking against the glass in her hand as her brow furrows slightly. "Hey." Her tone adjusts, a change in direction. "Isn't that the girl Quinlys was with?" Specifying, "In Boll. With the dancing."

"Maybe I'll teach you hide to slide somethin' else up your sleeve," Taikrin shoots back, leering. "Takin' newbie's marks is a time-honored tradition, I'll have you know. You'll appreciate it more in a coupl'a turns." The leer softens as Riorde leans in, but whatever it was Taikrin was about to say is left hanging as she too twists to peer over her shoulder. "The one she flamed out on?" There's still a lingering resentment there: Taikrin hadn't /wanted/ to count the grope, called it fumbling and sloppy. "Huh. Might be. Szad did say she was Fort." There's a beat of silence as she watches, then, "Don't look like she's doin' much better here, huh?"

Outside... outside? Isyath might not be visible, but there's something in her presence that makes herself known to both Szadath and Sforzath. That not-so-subtle attraction of a proddy gold close to rising, drawn mates to her like a moth to flame. The dark skies might hide her gleaming form, but her mental voice travels much further. Ali remains oblivious to the study, engrossed in the game- tossing down another hand of cards with a noise of disgust. She starts to rise, but her neighbor- a much older, grizzled man- leans over and pulls her back down. Can't hear what he's saying, of course, but that leering smile suggests plenty, as does that wandering hand. The Fortian girl goes rigid, leans over, and knocks his chips off the table. /Chaos/. People see the chips bouncing across the floor and dive to claim them before anyone else.

The leering. Riorde's used to it, just rolls her eyes with the intention of being thought unflappable. Other than that exaggerated gesture, she continues to stare at Ali with a fixity that grows and grows as, outside, her dragon's interest sharpens too. Does Riorde realize why? Maybe, maybe not. Either way, color rises quickly in her cheeks. Answering Taikrin without looking away from the table the Fortian's at, Riorde agrees, "Yeah. Wonder what she's doing here. Maybe we should..." But then there's chaos, and the suggestion turns into decision: "Come on." Riorde touches Taikrin's arm lightly as she moves past, right into the thick of it. She turns sideways to slide past the people grabbing at chips, drink held high in an effort to get by without spilling it. "Hey," she calls over, reappearing on the other side of a man on his knees protecting a small hoard of chips in the circle of his arms. "Need a hand?"

Taikrin must not realize, either, for all Szadath has gone fixed like a bloodhound on a scent. Silent, yes, but a looming stormfront of cold and smoke and /intensity/. In his rider, it shows up as cheecks flushed by more than just drink, and a hand hooking loosely around Riorde's hip as she follows her contentedly through the mill of people. Look, she's not even fighting for marks! "Probably shouldn't let her get mauled by this lot," she agrees sanguinely. She edges herself between Ali and the original offender, wearing her best lopsided grin. "Thought y'might've wanted a hand," she adds.

The Fortian goldrider was never that good, nor comfortable with, the self-defense lessons. So the chaos proves a suitable distraction for her to attempt to slip away, only- the leering man is decidedly unhappy about having his night's earnings scattered to the wind. Breathlessly, Ali darts around a kneeling man, an odd gleam of something like excitement in her eyes, and a flush of color to her cheeks. Riorde's call to her is timely, just as she casts about for a place to dash- her smile is nothing short of grateful as she slips in behind Taikrin and continues to back away. The disgruntled gambler sizes Taikrin - and Riorde too - with a look, kind of smirking.

Riorde, admittedly, isn't much to look at when it comes to a fight: too pretty, too thin. And now, smiling as she comes a halt positioned slightly behind Taikrin when the other brownrider comes to the fore, looking over her shoulder. "Or a drink," she amends for Ali, smiling still and briefly taking her eyes off the man in order to extend her glass, with its fingerful of copper-colored liquor. "Here." Riorde wants her hands free, if only just to rest them lightly on her hips.

Oh, good, a fight. While she might actually be the shortest of the three woman, there's a warning in the way Taikrin tilts her head at the gambler, arms loosely at her side, and shows every tooth in her head. "Sorry 'bout the mess," she smirks right back, anything but. "Reckon our friend here's about done in for the night. Little too much to drink, you know how it is. Take her to get a water, yeah Ri?" she adds, over her shoulder, with wiggled eyebrows. Then, to the gambler, "What's your poison? Send you one over, too, thanks for keepin' an eye on our girl."

"I don't normally-" Ali hesitates, but takes the glass from Riorde. Tentatively, she sniffs at it, but doesn't drink- distracted by, and wary of the gambler. /He's/ got his hands on his hips, glaring past towards the Fortian woman. "She owes me more than just a drink. A seven's earnings, more like. Are you-" his gaze assesses Taikrin, consideringly, "-willing to substitute?"

The smile falls off in an instant with Ri, named now, about to protest; the fingers on her knife-hand are flexing, with the knife Taikrin once gave her secreted down her calf-high boots. Another sidelong glance at Ali decides her though. "Come on," she says in low tones. She doesn't /mean/ to sound suggestive: that's all Sforzath. "She can take care of herself."

Something in Taikrin's carriage makes her seem all the taller; an echo of Szadath, who has likewise puffed himself up /just in case/ someone might be watching. "Playin' against this lot?" she snorts, disbelieving, and fixes her hands on her hips in a mirrored stance. "Reckon you'd'a been down another coupl'a seven before the night ended. Reckon she did you a favor, even." Her chin juts out, all confidence. She doesn't even bother to look over her shoulder to be sure they've gone. "All's fair at the card tables, yeah? So, how about that drink?"

Suggestive or not, Ali welcomes it: she notices Riorde's hand on her knife, but doesn't let that deter her from following the Reachian woman. Although she does toss a glance over her shoulder at Taikrin. "She looks it," the Fortian murmurs. "Thank you," she says, vehemently, to Riorde. The gambler grows more confident as Taikrin's left alone -- although there's something in the woman's countenance that makes him hesitate, all the same. "A favor?" he blurts, incredulous. His gaze narrows, and he steps closer, reaching to put a hand on Taikrin's hip. "A drink. And a tumble. /Then/ we're even."

Riorde gestures for Ali to proceed her: another line of women (the kind with knives and fists) between the goldrider and the gambler. "It's nothing," Riorde assures, stepping around a pair of men counting their windfall marks. Otherwise, the floor has more or less cleared; at least they're not stepping over bodies. "Have to look out for each other. He got what's coming to him." It isn't finished, but Riorde speaks like it is, calling out to the bartender before they've even arrived: "Two waters, two whiskies." A glance to Ali, and the drink she hasn't touched. "Or whatever else you'd like."

At first, Taikrin's just incredulous: she lets out a bark of laughter, forehead wrinkled in disbelief, because /wow/. Then, "Two drinks, on account of you bein' the funniest man I've had the fortune to run into tonight." She's still smiling, but the expression's gone hard, harder even than the grip of her calloused fingers on his wrist. "Don't nobody say I don't appreciate a good laugh." Her voice drops, low and threatening with the promise of violence, as she stares him down.

Ali's unsettled enough that she simply nods in agreement with Riorde's suggestion of drinks. The glance at the drink in her hand draws her own gaze there, as if just remembering. It's hard to make a joke about drinking from someone else's glass in a place like this: she squares her shoulders, and throws back a mouthful of the liquid, the coughing and spluttering that follows enough to suggest that she rarely indulges. "It's not nothing. Does she- does she do that a lot?" Her fingers flicker back Taikrin's way, along with a look, but there's no visible violence from their perspective, yet. The gambler's smirk lasts right up until Taikrin's grip on his wrist tightens, then he lets out an inadvertent yelp. Something in the brownrider's expression makes him pale, all of a sudden. "T-two drinks, did you say? That sounds about fair."

Riorde looks back over her shoulder once they reach the bar to take in the face-off; she hasn't /heard/ violence. Yet. "Yeah," the brownrider says, sounding a bit fond about it. "She's a good person to have around. Watches your back. You're--" Riorde gives the goldrider a long look, the pause coming as she remembers her lessons, and a name. "Ali, aren't you? I'm Ri. High Reaches. Let's get something-- lighter?" She looks off toward the bartender rather helplessly. After all that time drinking with Taikrin, Riorde doesn't really know what lighter consists of.

"Yeah, hey, that's what I like to hear," Taikrin relents, all smiles once more, as she gives her foe a comraderly slap on the arm. "Send 'em right over." There's an urgency in the back of her head, subtle and draconic, that insists she wind her way back towards Ali /now/. "Heeeeey," she greets, grinning crookedly, as she picks around the last of the bystanders to clap one hand on each of their shoulders. "How we doin'? Everyone survived? Got all the fingers? And the drinks?" Because both are of equal importance.

Ali looks briefly flustered, and not because of anything Riorde says as much as realizing Riorde knows exactly who she is. "Yes. You're- oh." A sudden recognition flits across her expression. "I remember you. You're- one of the exiles." Where a wariness should creep into her expression, there is, instead, a careful sort of interest, instead. When Taikrin arrives, unharmed and in good spirits, the Fortian seems pleased. "Plenty of each," she says, with a smile. "I need to- find a bathroom. I'll catch up with both of you in a few?"

"/I/ wasn't exiled," Riorde points out, mild but with emphasis on the first word. "But I know what you mean -- yes." She looks round as Taikrin comes up to them, smile widening into a grin. "That was practically /gentle/." She leans into Taikrin slightly, glancing back to Ali as the goldrider excuses herself. "Sure. Drinks waiting for you when you get back. Just don't run into any more drunk idiots and make us come looking for you, alright?" She says it lightly enough, but there's a note of warning there. Should they suspect more warning, they really will turn into one mean brownrider search party.

"Yeah, okay," Taikrin remarks, all easy-going good-nature except for the hungry way she's watching Ali move away. "Don't get lost. Hate to have to start a brawl to pull you out this time, yeah?" She's leaning back into Riorde, body language wide open and awful cozy. Since Ali won't be drinking what's been left on the bar, in the meantime, the brownrider has no compunctions against downing it herself. Efficiency! To Riorde, "You get her name?"

There's a brief hesitation and a long look from Ali as Riorde leans into Taikrin. Quite a few things are read into that gesture, and all of it flusters the young Fortian. "I'll- try not to," she says, half apologetically, to Taikrin, before she slips off into the crowd.

"Ali," Riorde supplies, watching the goldrider go. "That's Ali. From Fort. The goldrider. We had to learn all their names. Pictures on a deck of cards. Wonder what she's doing here all alone?" The question might be idle, sure, but there's that slight slight note of the predatory. Sforzath. Or maybe Taikrin's just rubbing off on her.

"Ali, the goldrider? /The goldrider/?" Things are sparking in Taikrin's head, finally, and she gives a start. If she hadn't already fled, and if Szadath were even a hair more interested, there might be more panic than just her sudden jerk. "/Faranth/--" But if Riorde hasn't put it together, she's not going to enlighten her. She covers the reaction with an awkward grin, leaning more heavily into the other brownrider as a distraction. "-- yeah, I wonder. Guess we'll just have to keep her company." /Company/.

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Logs:Fort Gone Wild

2011-12-30T21:08:46Z

Riorde:

{{ Log
| who = Riorde, Taikrin
| where = The Glass Fountain, Fort Weyr
| what = The brownriders slum up Fort's very fancy bar on what might or might not be a date.
| when = Day 16, Month 8, Turn 27 of Interval 10
| gamedate = 2011.12.28
| quote =
| weather =
| categories = General
| mentions =
| icons = riorde skeptical.jpg, taikrin.jpg
| log =
---------------------------------------------
The Glass Fountain, Fort Weyr

Despite its subterranean locale, the creamy wall paint, pale woods, and frosted glass give the cavern a light, airy feel. Oil lamps reflect softly in the polished wood of high-backed booths, glimmering through the opaque glass dividers that help lend intimacy to the seating arrangements; round-backed seats with deep, terra-cotta colored padding and the addition of strategic, lyric shapes painted in a subtle red shade at regular intervals around the walls add a little depth to the color palette. The sweeping, half-circle shaped bar with its top of smooth stone, backed by cut-glass-fronted cabinetry flows gracefully into the soft lines and mellow colors that dominate the Glass Fountain.

All the atmosphere aside, the main attractions of the room are clearly the massive, multi-pronged chandelier that hangs from multiple chains from the ceiling and the re-worked leak - which no longer resembles a leak at all, having been channeled through glass to become a beautiful piece of art. A curving wave and a series of glass bubbles guide the water past a bank of glows, allowing the light to shine through the water and turn it into a sparkling fountain. From its dark, dim, shabby history, the Glass Fountain has become - frankly - a swanky place with lattice-stands to hold the menus with their selection ranging from typical 'bar food' to high-end dishes and fancy desserts.

Obvious exits:
Inner Caverns

---------------------------------------------

Fort is definitely not Taikrin's favorite place, but in the name of showing Riorde a good time, she's willing to even brave the bad memories held by the first Weyr. She's ultra-brash to hide her discomfiture, leading Riorde up and down corridors in search of, well, this place. Once inside, she can't help but gawk for a moment like the hillbilly miner girl she is at heart, but then it's all bravado and arrogance. "See, their brews ain't so good down here, but they got some pretty things on account of bein' so old, you know?" So what if they look out of place? She'll happily lead the way to the bar, chatting all the while. "Reckon we can find something decent to drink, though."

Riorde can't quite play it cool; she can't stop staring at the focal point of all this elegance, that chandelier. Even following Taikrin towards the bar, she twists around to keep it in her sights and executes a full pivot to take in the rest of the room. "You didn't say it was -- like this," she tells Taikrin, voice hushed and subdued. "I could've worn something nicer. My dress." Even with a fairly new set of leathers on for the jaunt to Fort, Riorde glances down at herself, self-conscious. "We didn't really stop here when we were learning the between points. All of Fort isn't like this, is it?" Something in her voice suggests that she hopes not.

"Ehhh, it's no big deal." Taikrin refuses to show signs of intimidation, even though her leathers are older and less crisp-looking than Riorde's-- and the bartender is watching her resignedly when she turns to grin cockily at Riorde. "And I like how y'look in leathers." A pair of seats at the bar are claimed, and Taikrin continues her commentary as she slips into one of the stools. "I ain't really explored around here all that much, t'be honest. Been around Southern a mite more. I hear all the weyrs up here got baths though, and the Weyrwoman ones are all big enough to fit a whole cothold in."

Smooth movement as the younger brownrider slides onto the other stool can't keep her from acting gauche; except for the quick smile she favors Taikrin with, Riorde has shifted from staring at the surroundings to eying the people in them like they, too, are somehow exotic and peculiar. "All of them?" she repeats, studying a group of riders not so far away who look normal enough; she watches them closely for any sign of a slip, some ineffable sign of otherness. "People said I was lucky just to get my little one. They've got things like that just because they're older, right?"

"Got 'em 'cause they're the first," Taikrin corrects, maybe a little smugly, but also maybe a little jealously. "There's supposed to be a lot of old stuff floatin' around here. Might be fun to poke around later, see what we turn up?" This particular quirk in Taikrin's grin implies that this poking around might also involve some dark closets and secluded niches. She's distracted from her leering only by the throat-clearing of the bartender, and gets halfway through asking for 'the usual' before she remembers where she is, flushes, and orders instead, "Whatever's good, yeah? Best brew in the house?"

"Same thing." Riorde finally looks back at Taikrin, perhaps because of the suggestion-- or perhaps because one of the riders caught her gawking and politely-but-pointedly raised an eyebrow. Riorde tries a similar expression with Taikrin, not taking her seriously, an amused sort of I-see-through-you half-smile serving for response. "I'll try what they've having," she leans forward totell the bartender, gesturing down the way toward a drink that fits with the decor: something blush-colored served in a martini glass with a curved stem, decorated with a twist of a citrus peel.

Riorde's drink is girly-fancy, and Taikrin is /dying/ to make fun of her for it; it's written all over her face, though she somehow manages to bite back the words themselves. Rather, she tries to keep it conversational. "I /do/ hear things are kind of weirdly small in some weyrs, though, like they had way too many greens? Though... I wonder what that'd be like, a Weyr full of mostly just greens. Seems like nobody'd ever get any sleep... and maybe they made themselves some /especially/ interesting rooms, like. You think?" Okay, so maybe that's not quite as conversational as most people would call it; the bartender is certainly giving Taikrin an odd look as he deposits Riorde's girly-drink and Taikrin's mug of amber beer.

Riorde /is/ girly -- at least girlier than Taikrin, though that isn't saying much -- and not about to take any flack for indulging in it. Her back is straight and spine long as she pins a rather imperious look on the other rider, brushing the hair she's deliberately kept long forward over one shoulder. "Sounds like your idea of the perfect Weyr," she answers dryly, reaching for her drink. "Though, does Szadath even look at greens? Or just golds?" Does Riorde know she's broaching a touchy subject with that idle inquiry?

It's the kind of question Taikrin would usually laugh off or make light of, but here, in this Weyr, the question turns her face a kind of sickly pale shade and all she can do is make a noncommital noise and hide her expression behind a pull from her beer. A long, /deep/ pull from her beer.

Although Riorde's expression isn't mobile, her narrowed eyes show concern as she watches Taikrin, not exactly knowing what she's done to cause that atypical reaction -- it was just a question, wasn't it? "Taikrin?" she ventures. A pause. "Bet you'll think my drink's rubbish, it's got some kind of fruit in, but it's strong -- want to try?"

Two thirds of a beer later, Taikrin's recovered enough equinamity to attempt at grin at Riorde from over her glass. "He likes what he likes," she answers breezily, before doing her best to move on as quickly as possible. "Your drink is /girly/ and probably sweet and I reckon I'd be happier finding out what it tastes like by kissing you." Beat. "'Cause I like sweet and girly on /you/ just fine, but I reckon I'd never live it down if someone caught /me/ drinkin' it." She's leering openly, her expression nearly comical in its exaggeration.

Without knowing exactly what happened, half an eye on the almost empty pint glass, Riorde adjusts. "Not that sweet." Accompanied as it is with a quirky grin, her correction takes the form of banter. "And there's nothing wrong with a little experimenting. /I/ don't care what anyone thinks about what I drink." Emphasis turns her declarative statement into a challenge.

"Good. Then you drink all the funny girly drinks, and I'll drag your drunk ass out of here." There's a sharp bite to Taikrin's flirting, despite herself, and her laugh is a little too strident. "Seems to me it works out okay for both of us, yeah? Maybe we'll just steal one of those fancy old weyrs; they can't be usin' /all/ of 'em."

"That /is/ why you brought me here isn't it?" The sharpness is unmistakably mirrored in Riorde's tone for all that superficial flirting being just that--superficial. And for the sake of making a point, she overlooks the fact that the visit to Fort started with her own suggestion to see something besides seedy crossroad taverns. Before finishing her drink with two long swallows, Riorde tilts the glass towards Taikrin in a mock-salute. "Then I'd better catch up."

"Well, obviously." Still, the more she drinks -- and Taikrin will drink a lot -- the more genial she'll get. First chance she gets, though, it'll be hightailing it back the High Reaches, because Fort is a Very Scary Place, where Bad Things Happen. And, if Taikrin ends up /very/ drunk, Riorde might even get an emotional, discombobulated version of exactly why that is. Or Taikrin might just end up passed-out-drunk after a couple sloppy attempts at making out. Fifty-fifty!
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Logs:Turnday Reconciliation?

2011-12-23T02:58:58Z

Riorde:

{{ Log
| who = Riorde, Taikrin
| where = Garden Patio Ledge, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Taikrin just ''happens'' to invite Riorde for a drink and suggest a trip South on the day of Riorde's turnday.
| when = Day 12, Month 5, Turn 27
| gamedate = 2011.11.28
| quote =
| weather = The weather today is very pleasant. A few clouds chase each other across the mostly clear skies, and a soft breeze picks up in the afternoon to make for a fine day.
| categories =
| mentions =
| icons = riorde on the go.jpg, taikrin.jpg
| log = Dragon> There's an extra observer to the end of the Boreal drills today, big and hulking and brown and lurking on a lower ledge that is most definitely not his. And then, once he's sure that the weyrlings have been released, he interjects in an icy-hot gale wrapping around an image of Garden Patio Ledge. << Yours. She is to meet us. Here. >> He withdraws with a sense of grumbling, and when he returns his tone is moderated /ever/ so slightly. << If she's not otherwise engaged. >> (Szadath to Sforzath)

Dragon> Today, at least, everything seems to have been in order with the wing shadowing; even if some of the older riders grumbled, none of the weyrlings were left behind. Sforzath is invigorated rather than tired, buzzing with what can only be competition. An echo of this competitive challenge thrums through when he responds, after a pregnant pause. << Is she? >> Images flicker of other weyrlings, other friends; a taunt, a tease. His interest is up, but he modulates his next response to sound belabored. << I suppose she can make the time. >> And not long after, he delivers his rider: dark hair wet and skin pink from a hasty scrub, in a plain black tanktop with her nicer jacket thrown on over to cut the breeze on the short descent. (Sforzath to Szadath)

Taikrin has put a lot of effort into looking like she didn't put in any effort at all: she's casually sprawled across one and a half chairs, at a particularly nicely situated table on the edge of the ledge, and casually sipping on a mug of dark beer. Szadath is not in sight-- presumably he's still up on his borrowed ledge. Still, perhaps he's keeping an eye out, because Taikrin is fast to notice Riorde and faster still to lift her mug-wielding hand in silent greeting.

While Riorde comes up the steps, Sforzath wastes no time in removing himself to his ledge, which though not sharing the same view as Szadath, is /his./ "You've got good timing," Riorde greets as if she's unconscious of having been watched. She keeps playing nice as she pulls out another chair rather than depriving Taikrin of her footrest and asks a polite but pointless question. "Did I keep you waiting?"

"Eh, you know. Ain't got much goin' on today." Taikrin waves her mug magnanimously at the empty chair, a smile playing around her lips. "How y'all likin' Boreal? Or is it Icicle today?" As if she didn't know perfectly well! "Good day for flyin' and drills, yeah? Hey, you want a drink?" A passing waiter catches her attention, and without skipping a beat she snags his attention and orders, "Gimme a whisky for our girl!"

Curious and watchful yet smiling with which the same civil pleasantry she approached the brownrider, Riorde sits down and takes off her jacket, baring her shoulders to the sun. "Oh-- sure. Thanks." The order's already been taken, and Riorde's response comes after the waiter's already hastened off. "Icicle. They fly great, but they haven't exactly been -- they're playing with us," she modifies rather than speak too condemningly of the wing. "But the drills were good."

"Eh, uptight assholes." It's Taikrin's standard dismissal for all the wings who aren't Glacier. "Sforzath likes drills? Ought to get him up playin' with Szad-- he's so good at it, you know? Glacier don't drill too often, but sometimes F'rint lets us play at leading a triad or wingsecondin'. Good excercise." She glances over at Riorde, her expression cagey, then asks oh-so-casually, "So, you got plans for your after-drill-business? Y'all're free for the night, yeah?"

That dismissal certainly sounds familiar; Riorde's smile briefly drops into true amusement. She pulls back a moment later and answers as she adopts a more relaxed pose, putting one elbow over the back of her chair. "Sometimes. He gets bored quickly, so not if they're always the same." Looking at Taikrin, a flicker of interest cuts through her otherwise controlled expression. "We're free," she confirms, interpretation left up to Taikrin as to whether she's answering one question or both.

"Hah! Glad to hear it." All pretenses of casual disinterest are dropped as Taikrin leans forward, expression intent. "Got to thinkin', me. Sure I must'a promised you a trip, sometime or another. How d'you feel 'bout takin' a proper trip down south? None of this weyrling exploration crap, a /real/ trip somewhere warm. With a beach. And a bar. /On/ the beach." She hesitates, uncertainty momentarily visible before she squashes it ruthlessly behind a crooked smile. "Maybe even invite some of your clutchmates, once we find a good spot? The cool ones, anyways."

"Did you?" The point, of course, isn't whether Taikrin promised previously - she's offering now, and Riorde is visibly intrigued despite the offhand reply. Her drink's appeared, allowing her to prolong anything further as she weighs the offer, sizing up Taikrin at the same time. "Sounds like fun," she resolves after a long, potentially agonizing lull, a decision delivered with a smile that nevertheless holds something back.

Taikrin's smile, grown thin with how long it takes Riorde to answer, brightens with triumph. "Got just the place in mind, figure, well-- Szad can ping up, uh, Ysavaeth? Or whoever else you want? That blue, what's his-- oh, right, Olveraeth?" Because despite her stalking, Taikrin really doesn't seem to know all that many of Riorde's friends. "Real laid back place, just outside of Southern. Used to riders floatin' around, but it ain't usually crawlin' with 'em. It's still--" Her eyes go distant as she taps her fingers, trying to count out hours. "-- pretty sunny down there, Szad says."

Riorde isn't lingering over his drink, not when there's Southern sun in the offing. She doesn't quite toss it back like she's seen Taikrin do before, but it's still gone before long. "Why don't we go check it out first?" she suggests, trying to play it off casually though her regard is close and attentive. "Can give them a heads up any time - no rush, right?"

Triumph! "Right, no rush!" Except that now Taikrin is definitely rushing to pop to shove her chair back and pop to her seat. A shadow passes overhead as Szadath carves through the air to land nearby in the bowl. "You need anythin' we can't pick up down there?" She is, apparently ready to go here and now; her gaze is likewise intent on Riorde, as if expecting the weyrling to change her mind at any moment.

"Uh--" Riorde, caught off guard by Taikrin's suddenness, raises her hand and runs her fingers through her damp hair. "Just have to go get a helmet." Sforzath, apparently, is keen on this venture (a great deal more so than time on cold beaches on rocky abandoned islands) since he's quick to follow the bigger brown down to the bowl floor. "Just, um, show it to me and we'll meet you there?"

Taikrin hesitates, just before pounding down the steps to the bowl floor, then flashes a bright smile. "Sure, no problem. Szad'll send it--" No sooner has she spoken then Szadath is sharing the image with Sforzath, of verdant jungle and soft sand and a cute quadrangle of buildings leading out to a colorful veranda of flapping cloth. "S'warm down there, don't go gettin' too bundled, yeah?"

And then they go and get drunk. Presumably other people show up!

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Logs:Turnday Reconciliation?

2011-12-23T02:56:49Z

Riorde: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Riorde, Taikrin | where = Garden Patio Ledge, High Reaches Weyr | what = Taikrin just ''happens'' to invite Riorde for a drink and suggest a trip South on the day ..."

{{ Log
| who = Riorde, Taikrin
| where = Garden Patio Ledge, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Taikrin just ''happens'' to invite Riorde for a drink and suggest a trip South on the day of Riorde's turnday.
| when = Day 12, Month 5, Turn 27
| gamedate = YYYY.MM.DD
| quote =
| weather = The weather today is very pleasant. A few clouds chase each other across the mostly clear skies, and a soft breeze picks up in the afternoon to make for a fine day.
| categories =
| mentions =
| icons = riorde on the go.jpg, taikrin.jpg
| log = Dragon> There's an extra observer to the end of the Boreal drills today, big and hulking and brown and lurking on a lower ledge that is most definitely not his. And then, once he's sure that the weyrlings have been released, he interjects in an icy-hot gale wrapping around an image of Garden Patio Ledge. << Yours. She is to meet us. Here. >> He withdraws with a sense of grumbling, and when he returns his tone is moderated /ever/ so slightly. << If she's not otherwise engaged. >> (Szadath to Sforzath)

Dragon> Today, at least, everything seems to have been in order with the wing shadowing; even if some of the older riders grumbled, none of the weyrlings were left behind. Sforzath is invigorated rather than tired, buzzing with what can only be competition. An echo of this competitive challenge thrums through when he responds, after a pregnant pause. << Is she? >> Images flicker of other weyrlings, other friends; a taunt, a tease. His interest is up, but he modulates his next response to sound belabored. << I suppose she can make the time. >> And not long after, he delivers his rider: dark hair wet and skin pink from a hasty scrub, in a plain black tanktop with her nicer jacket thrown on over to cut the breeze on the short descent. (Sforzath to Szadath)

Taikrin has put a lot of effort into looking like she didn't put in any effort at all: she's casually sprawled across one and a half chairs, at a particularly nicely situated table on the edge of the ledge, and casually sipping on a mug of dark beer. Szadath is not in sight-- presumably he's still up on his borrowed ledge. Still, perhaps he's keeping an eye out, because Taikrin is fast to notice Riorde and faster still to lift her mug-wielding hand in silent greeting.

While Riorde comes up the steps, Sforzath wastes no time in removing himself to his ledge, which though not sharing the same view as Szadath, is /his./ "You've got good timing," Riorde greets as if she's unconscious of having been watched. She keeps playing nice as she pulls out another chair rather than depriving Taikrin of her footrest and asks a polite but pointless question. "Did I keep you waiting?"

"Eh, you know. Ain't got much goin' on today." Taikrin waves her mug magnanimously at the empty chair, a smile playing around her lips. "How y'all likin' Boreal? Or is it Icicle today?" As if she didn't know perfectly well! "Good day for flyin' and drills, yeah? Hey, you want a drink?" A passing waiter catches her attention, and without skipping a beat she snags his attention and orders, "Gimme a whisky for our girl!"

Curious and watchful yet smiling with which the same civil pleasantry she approached the brownrider, Riorde sits down and takes off her jacket, baring her shoulders to the sun. "Oh-- sure. Thanks." The order's already been taken, and Riorde's response comes after the waiter's already hastened off. "Icicle. They fly great, but they haven't exactly been -- they're playing with us," she modifies rather than speak too condemningly of the wing. "But the drills were good."

"Eh, uptight assholes." It's Taikrin's standard dismissal for all the wings who aren't Glacier. "Sforzath likes drills? Ought to get him up playin' with Szad-- he's so good at it, you know? Glacier don't drill too often, but sometimes F'rint lets us play at leading a triad or wingsecondin'. Good excercise." She glances over at Riorde, her expression cagey, then asks oh-so-casually, "So, you got plans for your after-drill-business? Y'all're free for the night, yeah?"

That dismissal certainly sounds familiar; Riorde's smile briefly drops into true amusement. She pulls back a moment later and answers as she adopts a more relaxed pose, putting one elbow over the back of her chair. "Sometimes. He gets bored quickly, so not if they're always the same." Looking at Taikrin, a flicker of interest cuts through her otherwise controlled expression. "We're free," she confirms, interpretation left up to Taikrin as to whether she's answering one question or both.

"Hah! Glad to hear it." All pretenses of casual disinterest are dropped as Taikrin leans forward, expression intent. "Got to thinkin', me. Sure I must'a promised you a trip, sometime or another. How d'you feel 'bout takin' a proper trip down south? None of this weyrling exploration crap, a /real/ trip somewhere warm. With a beach. And a bar. /On/ the beach." She hesitates, uncertainty momentarily visible before she squashes it ruthlessly behind a crooked smile. "Maybe even invite some of your clutchmates, once we find a good spot? The cool ones, anyways."

"Did you?" The point, of course, isn't whether Taikrin promised previously - she's offering now, and Riorde is visibly intrigued despite the offhand reply. Her drink's appeared, allowing her to prolong anything further as she weighs the offer, sizing up Taikrin at the same time. "Sounds like fun," she resolves after a long, potentially agonizing lull, a decision delivered with a smile that nevertheless holds something back.

Taikrin's smile, grown thin with how long it takes Riorde to answer, brightens with triumph. "Got just the place in mind, figure, well-- Szad can ping up, uh, Ysavaeth? Or whoever else you want? That blue, what's his-- oh, right, Olveraeth?" Because despite her stalking, Taikrin really doesn't seem to know all that many of Riorde's friends. "Real laid back place, just outside of Southern. Used to riders floatin' around, but it ain't usually crawlin' with 'em. It's still--" Her eyes go distant as she taps her fingers, trying to count out hours. "-- pretty sunny down there, Szad says."

Riorde isn't lingering over his drink, not when there's Southern sun in the offing. She doesn't quite toss it back like she's seen Taikrin do before, but it's still gone before long. "Why don't we go check it out first?" she suggests, trying to play it off casually though her regard is close and attentive. "Can give them a heads up any time - no rush, right?"

Triumph! "Right, no rush!" Except that now Taikrin is definitely rushing to pop to shove her chair back and pop to her seat. A shadow passes overhead as Szadath carves through the air to land nearby in the bowl. "You need anythin' we can't pick up down there?" She is, apparently ready to go here and now; her gaze is likewise intent on Riorde, as if expecting the weyrling to change her mind at any moment.

"Uh--" Riorde, caught off guard by Taikrin's suddenness, raises her hand and runs her fingers through her damp hair. "Just have to go get a helmet." Sforzath, apparently, is keen on this venture (a great deal more so than time on cold beaches on rocky abandoned islands) since he's quick to follow the bigger brown down to the bowl floor. "Just, um, show it to me and we'll meet you there?"

Taikrin hesitates, just before pounding down the steps to the bowl floor, then flashes a bright smile. "Sure, no problem. Szad'll send it--" No sooner has she spoken then Szadath is sharing the image with Sforzath, of verdant jungle and soft sand and a cute quadrangle of buildings leading out to a colorful veranda of flapping cloth. "S'warm down there, don't go gettin' too bundled, yeah?"

And then they go and get drunk. Presumably other people show up!

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Logs:A Certain Kind Of Establishment

2011-12-23T02:49:14Z

Riorde:

{{ Log
| who = Emme, Quinlys, Riorde, Taikrin, Tiriana
| where = Seedy Tavern, High Reaches Area
| what = Taikrin invites the weyrlings out drinking; they run into Tiriana.
| when = Month 5, Turn 27
| gamedate = 2011.12.01
| quote = "I don't know. Knife games. Cards with dangerous looking people."
| weather =
| categories =
| mentions =
| icons = emmeline.png, quinlys.jpg, riorde don't mess.jpg, taikrin.jpg, tiriana.png
| log = Seedy Tavern, High Reaches Area

----

A little ramshackle and moss-grown around the edges, most riders would probably have a fit about the green condition this place is in. Perched on the side of the road between High Reaches Weyr and Crom Hold, this is your typical small waystation comprising a four-walled building with a main room filled with dilapidated tables and chairs, a splintery bar and copious quantities of bad beer. There's a kitchen at the back and a single large room where cots can be set up for sleeping. A small beasthold provideds shelter for up to a half-dozen runners.

----

Riorde's turnday last sevenday, down at a quaint little beachside cothold / bar just outside Southern Weyr, was likely a revelation for the more sheltered weyrlings. Drinking, dancing to bad (but enthusiastic!) music, more drinking, a little debauchery, Taikrin buying rounds left right and center-- it's probably no surprise that Szadath is so supremely confident when he broadcasts to the weyrlings post-drills: << We're going here. Hurry up and get dressed or you'll miss out. >> The image itself is nothing much to look at, but a sense-memory of racuous fun infuses the whole thing with vibrant life. Once people start arriving, though, it seems quiet enough: Szadath is lounging alone, on the far side of the cothold from where it looks like a modest trade caravan has set up camp for the night, and Taikrin herself is talking animatedly with one of the few men still outside guarding the wagons.

While it's not something that Emme normally does. Okay, -ever- does... apparently having a few drinks and seeing how non-exiles dance to bad music appealed to her today. Or, Rhazekth became *curious* and when he is *curious*, she really has little choice but to follow along and make the best of things. Thus, when he lands with a gentle backwing, she slides down his side and rubs her hands against her sides nervously before looking around. Lalalala. Nothing to see here.

Weyrbred through and through, and not exactly one of the ''youngest'' and most innocent amongst the weyrlings, There are probably few revelations Taikrin can make to Quinlys-- which doesn't seem to reduce her enthusiasm for the excursion. Olveraeth's ''<< We'll be there, >>'' is firm in that scholarly way of his; his peculiar-sounding rumble can be heard soon after, as he circles down to a landing not far from Szadath. Hopping down, Quinlys yanks free her jacket, and looks amused; "Big plans to turn this place upside-down, Taikrin?-- Emme, hi. Come on, let's see what's going down."

Taikrin turns briefly to watch the weyrlings' landing, then again once they're both on the ground. She claps a hand on the trader's arm with a coarse laugh, then ambles her way over to intercept Emme and Quinlys. "Says two of his lads ain't half bad with a gitar, and one of Jym's kids's gotta flute, reckon we might have some dancin' after all!" Granted, this place looks a bit rougher than most as far as dancing is concerned, though Taikrin doesn't seem to notice. With a magnanimous, arms-spread gesture, she heads towards the waystation proper. "You guys make it in okay? Expecting more?" Her expression is guileless -- at least, as guileless as Taikrin ever gets -- but her gaze flickers back up towards the sky as if she expected her ex to appear there any second.

"Hey Quinlys." Emme's greeting is cheerful at least, her gaze taking in the unique ambience of the place with a clearly curious expression. "You come here before? Can't say I've seen anywhere like it." Not that she minds. At least not overly much. "Taikrin, hi! Rhaelyn might join us. But not quite sure yet. I imagine others will filter in. It's alright for us to be here, right?" Yeah, cause -Taikrin- is the right person to ask about that.

Quinlys is not someone inclined to beating around the bush, and after all these months of weyrlinghood-- "I have no idea if Riorde is coming or not. Rh-- right." She bobs her head in Emme's direction, to confirm, shrugging her shoulders in a way that suggests she has no idea about anyone else. "Of ''course'' we're allowed to be here; we're allowed to be anywhere, now. And we're ''wingseconds'', so we get to help decide." She's pretty firm about this, and grins at Emme; then, to Taikrin, "Good place. Different. Now. Booze?"

There's a flush to Taikrin's cheeks when Quinlys mentions Riorde, though she tries to play it off with a surprised look a moment later. Rather than acknowledge it directly, she instead leads them indoors. "'Course it's fine. Been comin' here for turns; it's on one of my sweeps. Known Trader Ziam since forever, too." Beat, and a sly smile. "'Sides, you girls are riders now. You're welcome wherever you flaming well want to go." The bar inside is relatively full, with a mix of folks who look used to roughing it: most of the trader train, a couple of odd travelers, and a set who must be miners, descended from the nearby hills. She heads unerringly towards the bar, talking over her shoulder all the while. "Yeah, yeah, booze-- hold your runners. Quick word-- if you don't know what somethin' is, ask me before y'drink it. And don't let any of these jerks sucker you into a drinkin' contest, yeah? I don't fancy havin' to mop you up off the floor."

"Well sure, mostly. Anywhere. I just thought..." Emme's voice trails off. She's not about to call attention the wariness the exiles are still treated to if they aren't. And hey yeah, shinier knot! Quinlys' quick emphasis on booze earns her an amused smile from the harper hopeful. "Right, booze." she agrees, guilelessly. And just as naively follows Taikrin's lead into the bar. "Maybe I'll just stick with beer. That's safe right?" Except for the taste anyway. And she looks so hopeful. Is anyone going to tell her it tastes like runner piss? Anyone?

Smirking, but not in a malicious way, in response to Taikrin's flush, Quinlys is nice enough not to pursue the train of conversation, and instead, follows the brownrider into the bar. "The beer is probably better than the wine, but the whisky is probably better still. None of it will be much good, though, chances are," is the bluerider's assessment. To Taikrin: "No drinking contests, right. Don't worry so much, Taikrin. We're not ''all'' useless at this kind of thing." That doesn't mean she doesn't give the interior of the bar a good, thoughtful glance before she heads for the barkeep.

"Dunno, Quinlys; thought I heard you took 'em all to /Ista/ for /whores/. Can't be too careful, and I reckon Meara'd skin me if I accidentally got one of you dead from booze poisoning." Taikrin can match smirk for smirk, especially since they're not talking about Riorde anymore. To Emme, "Well, beer's safe in that it's probably not gonna kill you, but it tastes like piss." They've made it to the bar, close enough for the bartender to guffaw and remark back, "I don't care who's piss you been drinkin' Taikrin, so long as you pay for it." Apparently familiar with both the bartender and his abuse, the brownrider only makes a face before introducing, "Oi, Jym, watch it! Brought a coupl'a weyrlings out with me, delicate ears, you know? Emme, and Quinlys. Reckon they want some whisky, yeah? The /good/ stuff, mind, not that crap you gave me last time."

"You're ruining all the fun," says one unexpectedly familiar voice from behind Taikrin. Tiriana cuts her way through the crowd easily enough, as ever; and she pauses at the bar to lean against it and flag the bartender herself. "For me as well," she echoes the brownrider's order before turning back to the weyrlings. "No drinking contests? Next you'll be forbidding them from fighting, Faranth."

"Yeah, we're not all useless. Just me." Emme jokes, giving Quinlys an arm nudge before dutifully heading towards the guillo... er, the bar. "Wait, who went to Ista for what now? For... whores? What are whores?" And then her lips turn into a disappointed frown at the news that the beer tastes awful. She just sort of nods at the bartender, meekly going along with this idea to knock back some whiskey. And then... there's the evil weyrwoman of doom. "Why would we get into a fight?" Boggle.

After grinning at Emme for that joke and nudge, Quinlys is blase: "The whores were a... side-effect. Byproduct. Whatever. And anyway... who put you in charge?" The bluerider is so busy talking that she manages to entirely miss Tiriana's presence until turning her head back towards the brownrider-- she swallows, then throws together a smile. "Weyrwoman!" Emme's question? Utterly ignored. Or forgotten; it's hard to tell. "We could totally get into a fight. Us against-- I don't know. ''Someone''. It'd be fun. E'gin would murder us, probably."

"Hey, whatever, you guys end up dead? I'm gonna tell Meara I tried my best, and whichever one of you survives can explain it to-- Weyrwoman!" Surprise, then cautious delight, spreads across Taikrin's still-slightly-sunburned face. "Hey, they can do whatever they want, I'm just sayin', I ain't gonna be draggin' their asses out." The bar, though relatively crowded, is quiet. For now. "Well, maybe a little draggin', but only if it's fun." The drinks arrive, and Taikrin is quick to snatch up the mostly-clean glass to knock back her shot of what is clearly a drink only a few steps removed from grain alcohol, no matter what they're actually calling it. Only once she's had that bracing drink does she explain for Emme, "Whores. Painted girls. And boys, I reckon. You know, for the rent?"

Emme looks first at Taikrin, and then at Quinlys. "I think it's best if we plan mutual destruction in that situation. So neither of us has to explain." she decides, nodding once and firmly before she picks up the glass that presumably is hers - and promptly sniffs the alcohol first to try and be sure it won't kill her. Alas, nothing can prepare oneself for the burn of something akin to paint thinner. Thus, her eyes water and her next breathe is something like a wheeze. "Painted girls. And boys. For rent? People rent themselves out?" Does Tiriana knows this too? Wide eyes land on the Weyrwoman next, as if expecting her to corroborate this.

"It's not rent, it's a job," Tiriana says, sounding confused, even exasperated by this confusion. Turns in and she's still spending her valuable drinking time educating tomorrow's leaders? "What, you didn't have them on the islands? There's always that one girl that'll fuck anything with three legs for a pretty shell, right?" She looks from Emme to Quinlys and Taikrin in confusion.

Quinlys is slow to take her drink and slower to drink it; that's why she's still halfway through the shot as the conversation develops, and that, too, is why she chokes on the rotgut liquor. Fanning herself - as though it will help - the redhead can't help herself but lean back against the bar and choke out, finally, "''Shells''." Clearly, she has nothing intelligent to add to the conversation, but reassures Emme, anyway, with a cheerful, "And there's nothing wrong with anyone doing that! As long as it's by choice, anyway. Me, I prefer the freely willing."

Riorde and Sforzath are a little slow in responding to the summons -- likely this has something to do with the way she slunk around the next day when she finally managed to crawl out of bed. She comes in grumbling -- but hey, she's here. "Why," she raises her voice in complaint as she locates the others and cuts a path that conveniently has her winding up alongside Taikrin, "are we in another sodding bar?"

"They have sex for... shells? Marks? /Really/? People pay to... you know, get some?" This is clearly news to Emme, despite Taikrin's exasperation. "N-no. No, there wasn't really. Everyone had to get married at some point. And even if they didn't, I mean, there weren't that many of us. So the ones who would 'fuck anything with three legs' did it for free. I mean, shells didn't keep anyone fed or clothed so why..." Her poor brow just furrows, and she drinks more, no matter how stupid her coughing makes her look. "Right, willing. I think I'd prefer willing. Ri, hi."

"Well, people who're dead ugly or their dragons are too terrible to catch the right greens, or, you know. They gotta pay." Taikrin says it lightly, but there's disapproval and disdain in her voice, that she hides by-- being utterly and totally surprised that there's suddenly a Riorde at her elbow. Apparently Szadath didn't warn her, because she staggers back against the bar with a very unmanly yelp. "Riorde! When did you-- I didn't think you-- how did-- uh-- hey." Too little too late, she tries to play it casual. "So, uh. Happy you could make it. We were just talkin' about, uh--" She winces; whores. "Booze's terrible, you oughta have some. Another round, Jym!"

"There was a guy, ran 'em down at Ierne," Tiriana muses for a moment, as she reaches for her own drink to take a shot. Afterward, "Daddy shut him down, though. We don't take much to upstarts." She lifts her shoulders, a vague shrug. Bemused, she casts a glance then to Riorde. "What else did you expect?"

Quinlys wipes her mouth with the back of her hand as her dirty glass gets set back down on the bar; she makes a face, but doesn't protest the ordering of the next round. "Riorde," she greets, when her hand comes away again. And, "I think it's more common in holds, where people are... funnier about these things." Beat. "Your father should have just taken the business over, Weyrwoman, and kept the marks for himself. That's what I'd do. If people are fool enough to pay-- well, I'd rather get the money than not."

There's been a lightening of Riorde's mannerisms towards Emme in the last seven; something about drinking more than she'd ought to wound up with Ri making confessions of 'it's not your fault, it's Elgin's,' so now she's downright nice, cracking a smile. "Hey Emme." Her smile pulls to one side with amusement as she eyes Taikrin. "I shouldn't," she demurs unconvincingly, not putting up much of a fight as she almost immediately turns back to the others while Jym is getting those drinks ready. "So Pern's just bars, basically," she answers Tiriana. With dry humor, "Huh. No one told us that."

This will give Emme much to ponder, as she sucks back horrible alcohol. "That makes some sense, I think. Holds." She nods, trying to seem like a little less of a simpleton now that the initial surprise and confusion has passed. She even seems intrigued by the exchange between Quinlys and Tiriana there. Shutting down the upstarts vs. scoring some cash. There's a good morality lesson here somewhere, which is obviously why she pays close attention for the answer. Notably, her shoulders also lose some of their tension when Riorde actually smiles at her for the first time in ages; to which she obviously offers one in return.

"All the /fun/ parts of Pern are bars," Taikrin corrects as she recovers some of her equanimity. "The parts worth seeing, anyways." The next drink is taken slower, used as something over which she can make a point of not staring at Riorde by looking way too intently at everyone else. Over on the other side of the bar, there's a ruckus of activity as someone shoves a table against the wall, onto which three guys - two with gitars - climb up and begin working out the beginnings of a melody together. "Eh, whores're dirty business. Don't reckon it's worth the marks to keep 'em going. Anyways, they just attract losers, and I reckon the Weyrleader don't want losers hangin' around, yeah?"

"She's right there," Tiriana is in firm agreement with Taikrin there, at least. "Anyway, yes. It's better in a hold, where the not-for-profit options are pretty limited. Weyrs, there's too many free sluts to make it really worthwhile. And nobody cares who's fucking who, either, so you can't even get a little more out of them for being discrete."

In lieu of answer on the topic of whores, Quinlys takes another drink, slamming her empty glass back down on the wooden bar: take that. "Booze is better, anyway," she decides. "It's not something you can get for free in the first place, not generally. A natural commodity, not something you can commoditi-- whatever." If her attention turns towards the attempts at music, it doesn't linger. instead, to Emme and Riorde, "There're plenty of not-bars worth visiting, too. Though I guess it depends on if scenery does it for you. Or watching hatchings. Or-- other things. Stuff."

"According to /you,/" Riorde retorts with a bit of a bite -- though not much, especially as her eyeroll is accompanied by a grin. Even with her initial protest, no one has to force a drink into Ri's hand, and she picks up a glass without even needing prompting. Her eyebrows lift at the way Quinlys slams that glass down, and apparently she takes it as a challenge of sorts, since she tosses back that bad booze and puts her glass back down with a bang on the bartop. Not without incurring a cost though. The weyrling practically doubles over with a sudden coughing fit, and anything she might have said is lost.

All sorts of new phrases for Rhazekth to internalize and utilize in the worst manner possible. Things like 'free sluts' and 'not for profit options' and 'whores'r dirty'. It's a veritable smorgasboard of salacious word choices that he can twist to his liking and then present to Rielsath to remember in their giant book of swears! Outside, his talons even scrunch in the dirt happily with his excitement over this. Maybe that's why Emme flushes. Or maybe it's just that the alcohol is already having an impact on her. "Scenery. Maybe we should go trying to find the best scenery as our next weyrling outing." is suggested, glancing hopefully at the other 'lings. While trying not to gawk at all the blunt discussion being thrown around. If she slurs a little, and her feet tap to the music starting to play....wellll. "Ri? Breathe!"

"Oi, easy!" Taikrin pounds Riorde on the back, in a way that's probably meant to be solicitous, though she's working hard to suppress her mirth. "Ain't I warned you about this stuff?" On the makeshift stage, the three performers seem to have worked out what to do, because their noise is starting to sound more like music and less like, well, noise. The first one is a folk song, common to the area, about the miner's daughter, the farmer's son, and some very unhappy chickens. Over the building racket, Taikrin adds, "Scenery's boring; you'll see all of it soon enough on sweeps. Ain't no reason to be wastin' your precious free time to see it /now/. This's better." Drinking rotgut. Listening to terrible music. Mingling with slightly smelly people. Fun times!

"Scenery, overrated," Tiriana agrees, flagging the bartender for another drink. "Maybe you should go find a whore to entertain you if you're so bored of bars. I'm sure Southern has any number of them; it's that kind of place." Riorde earns a clap on the back and a mildly disdainful look as Tiriana takes another shot of alcohol; "Hold it together, Faranth. Lightweights, makes me ashamed for my Weyr."

Two drinks down, and all Quinlys can do, as Riorde coughs, is laugh: her cheeks are flushed, and it clearly isn't embarrassment. It doesn't stop her from ordering another drink, either, and musing, "Music's all very well, but it seems silly to come to this kind of 'stablishment without... I don't know. Knife games. Cards with dangerous looking people." Beat. "What brought ''you'' here, Weyrwoman?"

Emme still likes scenery, dammit. But she's not about to argue the point with either Taikrin or Tiriana thanks. Instead, "Knife games?" Perk. Why that, of all things, appeals to -her- of all people... one of life's mysteries! "You should show me how to play knife games." is prompted, regardless of who answers. She doesn't even realize she has another drink in her hand and endures more eye-watering when she sips at the new glass.

Riorde visibly rocks from the force of Taikrin's 'help,' and then Tiriana's, putting one hand high on her chest as if that will somehow make the burn dissipate faster. Recovering, she straightens up and declares, "A mouthful of saltwater goes down easier than /that./" Her pride's on the line between Quinlys' laughter and Tiriana's comments. "I'm /fine,/" she insists, facing the Weyrwoman with a stubborn expression. "Just wasn't expecting it. And I don't need a whore. But I will have another." So there.

The next song is bawdier, whores and bandits and double-crosses, and a few of the drunker tables are starting to sing. Loudly. And badly. Now that Riorde is more or less recovered, Taikrin draws her hand back, only to plunge it into the pocket of her riding jacket to retrieve a well-worn dice up. "Gambling? Reckon we can get it started. Here, I know these guys--" She tears off from the group, bellying up to a table of drunk, surly-looking miners. "OI! You lot feel like losin' some marks? Me and the ladies here figure you lot got too much money floatin' around, needs losin'." From the look of their clothes and hygiene, they can't have all /that/ much money, but the taunt is well-met. There's a return launch of insults as another cup of dice appears and room around the table is cleared, while Taikrin grins cheekily back at the Weyr-contingent.

"Wait, are we playing dice games or knife games?" asks Tiriana, her brows furrowing up as she peers from their would-be victims to Taikrin and back. Her eyes narrow. "Whatever, it all ends the same. I'm in," she decides, probably ominously.

Quinlys fastens a wary glance on both of her weyrling compatriates, but holds her tongue; "Dice, for now," she answers, presumably for Tiriana. "But I'll have to teach Emme the knife one some other time. I'm," she stands up, drawing herself away from the bar, but not away from her latest drink. "In, too. Let's take their marks and make a scene."

"Haven't got my knife on me," Riorde reflects, sounding rather sad about it and unlikely to make the same mistake twice. She lets herself be drawn in alongside Quinlys, giving the other weyrling a lingering, thoughtful look. "You never strike me as the sort to make a scene," she comments before giving the miners her best impression of Rhaelyn with a haughty toss of her head and a smirk.

Taikrin probably hasn't had enough to drink for the slur she's got in her voice, and the too-wide smile-- she seemed fine a moment ago, after all. "'M Tai," she introduces, sloppily and with an ever-thickening accent that's quite similar to the miners' own, as she rattles her dice and cup to start the first round. "'N this's, uh, Ri, an' Lys, an' Tir, an', uh, Emme." She frowns, briefly, at the breakdown in her hasty pseudonyms, then shrugs. "We're playin' straight shoot, yeah?" The question is punctuated with a rattle of her dice up, and then she dumps it upside-down, dice still hidden. "Whatta we got?" Let the betting commence. It's mostly small marks indeed being tossed down, a variant of craps bets. A couple of the younger specimins slink casually around the table to smirk at the out-of-place women, while another goes to fetch drinks that are, if possible, stronger than the rotgut whisky.

Quinlys? She's an enthusiastic participant in the dice games that follow, drinking her fair share right up until the point where she goes slightly pale and, wordlessly, excuses herself to go outside for a sneaky spew. She'll probably be back, though; she's up for a long night's fun and games, vomit aside.

"Ti," Tiriana corrects, with the air of impatient longsuffering brought out by drunks everywhere. "It's just Ti." She slides in at the table herself, leaning over to watch the proceedings (and incidentally give a nice view of cleavage (babies are good for something)). The small-beer bets, though, have her scoffing openly. "Really? /Really/? And here I thought we were going to play for some real money."
Finding a space around the table, Riorde pays the others close attention, enough that someone might take it as encouragement (if they're not staring at Tiriana's boobs). Really, though, her scrutiny is an attempt to pick up cues rather than admit she's never actually played dice before. "Here," she pronounces, fishing out a wooden mark piece of her own - notably, it's not the big money Tiriana's goading the miners toward, though neither is it the smallest value on the table.

Of course they're oggling Tiriana's boobs. And Riorde's backside, and well-- there isn't a lot to oggle on Taikrin, but that doesn't mean there aren't a variety of rude comments being aimed in her general direction. She, notably, hasn't put any money down on her own roll; she clearly enjoys getting marks /out/, more. "Hey, don't scare 'em off the roll, Ti. Don't want these poor guys t'get scared and run away, now." It works as if they'd planned it, more marks appearing while some cheeky bastard in the back suggests maybe they should be playing strip instead, while another plies the riders with a fresh round of drinks. The music drones on, still bawdy, and there's a blink-and-you'll-miss-it trading of punches on the far corner of the bar.

"You first," is Tiriana's blunt counter to the offer of strip poker. She leans back at that, as if suddenly becoming conscious of just how on display she had been for that moment. "Here," and she drops her own small mark piece on the table as well, in fitting with the theme. To Taikrin, with a sigh, "Fine, fine. I'll play nice for now, just for you.

"I'm going to need a lot more to drink before that happens." Riorde's remark rides on the heels of Tiriana's. And drinks appear, just like that: magic. Riorde doesn't pass it up, even if there are men about waiting for the tops to come off; she rather pointedly ignores them and looks at Taikrin instead. "Well?"

She makes a show of it, rattling the dice around some more, nearly lifting the cup to tease a reveal, but it's only once the huge miner across from her starts getting annoyed that Taikrin pulls it up with a flourish to reveal... snake-eyes. Those that bet on her striking out on the first roll whoop with triumph, and off the dice go to the other side of the table. "Ahhhhh, fuck," she gusts, her voice careless, as she plucks a drink from the hands of a young man who seemed to want to press the second glass onto Riorde, too. "What, you want to see /them/ naked, Ti-- Ti?" She gags around her drink, theatrically. "How about I pay y'all to keep your clothes /on/, yeah?"

Riorde, unsurprisingly, bet on Taikrin. That initial loss for someone who's only recently started to learn the value of money and consequently hoards it has her muttering, "Fuck me" -- not the best choice of words given some of the responses she gets back. Rather than give them an answer, Riorde favors the men with an incredulous, disdainful stare. "I'm gonna check on-- Quin," she announces. "Back in a minute." Because she wants those marks back, dammit.

OOC: I am HOPING someone else has the rest of this! Update: Ri put up her bit!

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Logs:Congrats, Sorta

2011-12-23T02:42:20Z

Riorde: Created page with "{{ Log | who = E'gin, Evali, Riorde, Sa'zl, Taikrin | where = Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr | what = The weyrlings have graduated and E'gin's going to be a daddy thanks to winning ..."

{{ Log
| who = E'gin, Evali, Riorde, Sa'zl, Taikrin
| where = Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr
| what = The weyrlings have graduated and E'gin's going to be a daddy thanks to winning Rielsath's flight. And speaking of flights, Evali's due for one.
| when = Day 5, Month 7, Turn 27
| gamedate = 2011.12.15
| quote = Just because you knock up a goldrider doesn't mean people have got to like you for it.
| weather =
| categories =
| mentions = Lujayn, K'del, Iolene
| icons = e'gin.png, evali.jpg, sa'zl.jpg, riorde.jpg, taikrin.jpg
| log = It is late in the afternoon at High Reaches, Avalanche ended it's afternoon drills a few minutes ago, and most of the wing went to grab a late lunch. E'gin, however, did not follow. Saddled up in a stool at the bar, the male is the middle of ordering a shot of something or other. He's smiling, beaming even, which perhaps is all the sadder that he celebrating something alone at the counter.

Riorde's induction into Glacier hasn't ended with drills and sweeps. It's no surprise that afternoon finds her here, with her new wingmates introducing her to the finer points of certain gambling games that appear to involve a pack of cards and a set of dice. The waitstaff's shorthanded, so when the drinks run out, Riorde volunteers (or is volunteered; fetching for the table the price of being the greenest member) to get the next round and winds up near E'gin. Waiting to order while the bartender deals with someone else, she glances at the younger islander, but that's all the recognition she gives him.

"Riorde." E'gin's purposefully trying to keep his tone dry, but happiness skirts around the edges. His glass is set before him, and he fingers it for a moment, twirling the liquid so that is swishes almost over the edges. Suddenly, he turns to look at her, the pulling up of the corners of his mouth uncontainable. "Let me buy you a drink, you don't have to stay here to drink it, I just feel like it is etiquette to buy someone a drink at a time like this. Please?" He turns his gaze back to the bar.

For all the signs Riorde gives, she might as well not have heard E'gin speak. She continues facing forward, hands resting on the bar as she waits her turn, but her eyes flickering to the side gives her away. Her response is slow in coming, pitched low and even when it does: "Whoever taught you your bar etiquette left out the part where apparently it's not highly looked upon to drink by yourself." But then she gives a little, nearly dismissive wave that also gestures towards the bartender, now coming towards them. "I won't say no to a drink."

If E'gin notices that Riorde ignores him for a while, he doesn't mention it, "Oh, well. I know that, but not much I can do about that." Turning back towards her, "And it isn't really bar etiquette, it is more like celebration etiquette, but I suppose I'm shouldn't really do that alone either..." Reaching into his riding jacket, which is set on the stool next to him, he pulls out payment. With a soft grin to the bartender he waves a hand at Riorde, "Whatever she wants is on me, and make is top shelf."

"So why are you?" Even with E'gin buying her a drink -- a good drink at that -- Riorde, standing alongside the other newly promoted rider, doesn't make any pretense at friendship. She stares at the alcohols neatly arranged in the cabinetry behind the bar, trying the patience of the bartender in her inability to decide. "Oh, one of the whiskies," she eventually throws out, playing off her choice as casual when it's really predicated on absolutely no knowledge of top-end liquor. "Surprise me."

E'gin waits quietly for Riorde's drink to arrive, despite his offer to allow her to walk way, he's still trying to be polite. Her drink order, he nods, "Good choice," Sliding the marks across the counter, there is a certain sadness behind his grin as he studies Riorde for a moment, "Why am I celebrating?" The grin slides into a full smile, "I'm going to be a father, Ri." Habit makes him slide back into using nicknames, despite their icy relationship at the moment.

"Since /when/, you sly dog?" It's not as if Sa'zl actually knows what a 'dog' is, or why one is supposed to be particularly sly, but he's been taught as long as he can remember back that someone who's been particularly lucky with the ladies -- much less facing impending fatherhood -- /is/ one. At any rate, E'gin's patient waiting is repaid -- not in kind, at all, but rather by Sa'zl sneaking up behind him in time to hear that last part and pummel him one on the shoulder. Sa'zl's grin completely fails to make it clear if he's teasing or oblivious.

"Alone," Riorde clarifies, sliding it into the space just before E'gin's explanation. Her hand closes on the glass, and she turns half-way to look him in the face -- he has her attention now. "Oh," she says after a minute; it's not the resounding congratulations likely expected. "When did you have time with all your wingleadering to find a girl?"

Sa'zl gets a waggle of his eyebrows and a chuckle, "I suppose, it was really mostly Vysravth." This explanation goes to both Sa'zl and Riorde, who has regained his attention, "Lujayn. I don't think you can say 'I found a girl'...so much as Vysravth caught one and now we've had a picnic." Who needs a normal relationship. "Have another?" Not that she's even started the one she has, "To babies?" He lifts his glass toward her, with a nod to Sa'zl.

Evali, too, walked in on that -- on hearing E'gin say something about being a father. Did she hear, clearly, who it was? No -- not until Riorde's comment, and then the further conversation definitely clarifies it. Feeling horrifically guilty about the eavesdropping, she actually approaches the table of clutchmates to pipe up, "Congratulations," in a slightly-louder-than-her-normally-soft voice. Is it blatant that she hopes he will persuade Lujayn to let her attend the birth? Clearly. "Is there a seat for me here?" Maybe next to Riorde, instead of the guy who upset Io, or the huge bluerider ...

Poor huge blueriders; nobody loves them, until they're trying to hide behind a wall that /isn't/ conveniently portable. Sa'zl's grin doesn't change at all, which either means he /was/ oblivious or he has the best poker-face in all of High Reaches. He also leans waaayyyyyyyy over the bar, murmuring something to the bartender, and -- before /too/ much longer -- has, with that worthy's assistance, produced a fresh wineskin and four glasses (so far, for now). "You're not supposed to drink /whiskey/ in order to congratulate someone," he tells them patiently. "You're supposed to drink sparkling white wine! It's /traditional/."

"Oh, that." Riorde's tone is impeccably dry. "To babies," she agrees, but her lack of heartfelt agreement undermines it even as she clinks glasses. She takes a sip of her drink, trying to appreciate the whisky that's been hitherto completely out of her budget -- not to mention that Glacier seems to pride itself in drinking alcohols often harsh and hard -- then makes room for Evali. "Here, I'm not sitting," she says, stepping out of the way so that she can get at the available stool. "Balls for your traditions," Ri then says to Sa'zl with a rough, impatient sort of humor. "Isn't anything traditional about a baby outside of marriage either."

"What's all this about a baby?" Look, it's Taikrin, snuck up behind Riorde as if it were no big thing. Those observant might have seen her enter, bee-line it for the Glacier table, then promptly detour over to lurk behind Riorde with a cocky grin. She raises a finger to the bartender when he glances over, then rests hands on her hips as she steps out from behind the other brownrider. "One of you all's got knocked up already?" She slants a look at Riorde that pretty clearly says 'better not be you' before staring at Evali's midsection with some interest.

"Of course there is a seat for you, Evali," E'gin is clearly unaware that the 'little tiff' he had with Iolene has gotten out, "Should we drink whatever makes us happy when we celebrate?" Whiskey seems like a good enough idea, as E'gin sips his own, but still he won't say no to more alcohol, especially with the chilly nature of this party. "Sparkling wine? Can't say I've ever tried it." He turns so that his back is towards the bar and he can see those who have gathered, a finger to the barkeep, "This one is on me too," he says nodding toward the recently ordered Taikrin, "Me, well not /me/. I knocked someone else up."

"Me, too," Sa'zl solemnly intoned, and then failed to clarify, busily pouring all those glasses full of the sparkly, fizzy white wine. Champagne goes /great/ with whiskey, right?

The expressions on Evali's face change fairly rapidly: from first startled at suddenly Taikrin, to uncomfortable as the older brownrider looks at her as if perhaps /she/ is the pregnant one, to giggles as E'gin admits that he is the one who is knocked up. It must be the mental image of E'gin knocked up. But as she settles on her stool, she tries to calm herself down and not break into a total /fit/ of giggles, she speaks up with, "Sparkling wine is actually quite wonderful. Though I do not know if it was white when I tried it before?"

Riorde turns rapidly around as Taikrin speaks up behind her, a quick, undisguised smile materializing before she represses what it might reveal, contours changing to one that's slighter though still friendly. She gives Taikrin the wide-eyed look of an innocent 'not-me' before tilting her head towards E'gin. "Elgin -- Lujayn." Then, "They send you over to get the drinks? Sorry-- I got held up." Her whisky lifted again, this time as the excuse.

"Oh." That's less interesting, E'gin knocking someone up, and so Taikrin offers only a half-shrug to Evali by way of apology. "Sparkling wine's for little babies," she intones, with all the weight of someone well-versed in the art of drinking, but then relents. "Guess maybe it fits?" There's a momentary distraction as she reaches across Riorde to retrieve her drink as it's deposited at the bar, then a low whistle as she looks from Riorde to Lujayn. "Shards, kid. You work fast." Then, to Riorde, from over her glass of whiskey: "Nah, it's cool, just gettin' mine. Guys're busy fightin' about which is gonna take more of your marks, now you got 'em to spend."

E'gin seems to take Taikrin's lack of interest as a compliment, and he lifts his glass in her direction, "Sprkling wine for babies? You guys have some strange baby raising habits around here." Teasing plays in his voice, "Work fast? No. Vysravth does." He explains again, now that more people have arrived. "I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have a kid on the way if except for that meddling brown." He eyes Riorde and then Taikrin and then Riorde again, "Gaw, your wing is so much more exciting than mine."

"I always like recommendations," Evali the aspiring alcoholic tells Taikrin with a smooth smile. "If my tastes are not up to your par. The journeyman vintner lets me taste his work a lot -- there are kinds that burn, I enjoy them." And yet she is not a Glacier, and she's quite happy in her wing. "Do you -- want a baby, E'gin?" Evali is trying to adjust to this idea of having a child outside of marriage, and she is forcing herself not to actually comment on it. "Will the two of you need help?"

Rather thoughtfully, at about this juncture -- all four glasses have sparkles in them, now, and the bartender might even bring another glass by for Taikrin at some point -- Sa'zl sort of /announces/, to the group at large, "There's nothing /un/-traditional about having babies outside of marriage, if you're specific about which traditions you're honoring, really. I think I turned out okay." Pregnant and all.

Riorde meets Taikrin's pronouncement with a show of dismissive bravado, rolled eyes and a snort. She's drinking slowly, nowhere near close to starting on that champagne, either because she's trying to appreciate the fine whisky as she should or, more likely, because she's trying to pace herself for when she goes back to the Glacier table. "You're in /K'del's/ wing," Ri points out to E'gin, as if that says it all. She's curious about his answer to Evali's question and watches the soon-to-be father except for when her glance briefly slides down to the bluerider at the other end. "/You/ think you did," she ribs Sa'zl.

Most of the weyrling/exile by-play is lost on Taikrin: she's pretty uninterested in this whole babies and wedlock business. Rather, she takes to schooling Evali. "Pssh, y'can't listen to a vintner, they'll have you drinkin' overpriced watered-down crap. Y'gotta have the good stuff. Whiskey, maybe, or one of the brews some of the guys make. There's a real fine whiskey they get in, from this tiny cothold up north past the Hold-- worth tryin'. Like smoke, you know?" There's a smug grin about how exciting Glacier is, and she nudges Riorde at E'gin's statement, eyebrows raised. "Ain't so bad, Glacier. Teach people all /kinds/ of important things, you know?" Like about whiskey. And not having babies.

"Of course I do..." E'gin grins at Evali, "I mean, it was a surprise but it feels..." He pauses to assess his feelings, "It feels good, and I helped raise Aella after our parents passed so it's not like it is entirely, but this is going to be mine, Evali." He pauses to grin wickedly at her, "Besides, if we start breeding with them they'll have to accept us right?" The question is all playful, but he's turning to Riorde with a nod, "Yep. Very structured, so at least I know when my off time will be and stuff. How's Glacier treatin' you?"

"Like smoke," Evali echoes, and she looks -- intrigued, pleased, a little bit excited. "I should like to try that. He gave me some that tasted like fire, so it would be nice to have something that tastes like smoke." Unless it was that smoke was something worth trying, but that would never occur to her either. Boldness, likely forced by Yanijath, leads her to ask of Taikrin: "May I try your drink? Just a sip?" Before she returns to the safe champagne a la Sa'zl.

Sa'zl grins goofily at Riorde, and shoves a glass of champagne at her. No, really, try it!!! "Yes, yes I do, and I did," he assures her, adding, "and if that's the vintner I think I'm pretty sure he's mostly experimenting with making his wine /more/ concentrated, not less. Watery-er. Not that." A gulp of his oh-so-finely-appreciated sparkles, and he's pointing that grin at E'gin instead. Pregnant men, unite! (Something like that, at least.)

Ri keeps half an eye on the conversation going on between Taikrin and Evali, and in an interlude notes, "Think this one's more sweet than smoky. You can try it too, if you like." She puts her tumbler, empty save for a sip, down as she turns back to consider E'gin. "Just because you knock up a goldrider doesn't mean people have got to like you for it." Riorde, bubble-bursting, sounds unimpressed and reaches for the glass that Sa'zl had poured and now holds out to her. The smile that had disappeared resurfaces briefly when Taikrin nudges her, and although she ostensibly answers her fellow graduate, a glance goes to the other Glacier rider when she says, "Yeah, it's not bad." Although the words aren't effusive, a sense of satisfaction carries them.

Taikrin shrugs, then holds out her half-full glass for Evali to try. "This ain't the best stuff, but it's okay. Give it two sips, see if you like it, yeah?" The talk of goldriders makes her figdet, her grin slipping sideways a moment before she can recover it. "Reckon she'll prolly just dump the little squirt on a fosterer, yeah? Ain't like she'll have all that time to take care of it, 'specially seein' on how she's a goldrider." More brightly, she offers to Evali, "Anyways, ain't somethin' most of you have to worry about, on account of how much goin' between we do. Takes care of things, or so I hear." Because Taikrin doesn't fraternize with boys, after all!

"It was a joke, Riorde. Clearly people don't have to like me, which is why it was..." E'gin waves off the conversation by simply not finishing it, downing the rest of his whiskey, he takes the class of bubbly-wine, "Anyone need anything?" A nod to Riorde's comment receives a nod, he doesn't say it, but the lack of comment a statement that he is happy for her. Still Sa'zl is to the other side, grinning at him. E'gin raises an eyebrow, and then his glass to the man, "This one to alcohol, and getting blitzed tonight." Offering his glass for celebatory clinking. Evali gets a chuckle, but Taikrin's comment gets a half hidden frown. "Maybe, he asked how much I wanted to be involved..." The male has retreats back into his own head for a moment before shaking it and returning to with a grin, "In any event, it is an excuse to get drunk, right?"

And suddenly, Evali has drinks to try all around -- which certainly has her satisfied. She takes a tentative sip of Taikrin's, and then a fuller one, before returning it with a conclusive, "It is interesting. I believe it would grow on me, were I to encounter it again." She hesitates, then, to clear her palette more than anything else -- though she has nothing but air and her own mouth to do it with, so it may not be the best cleansing -- before taking an equally slow sip of Riorde's drink and concluding, "I think I like that one, as well," after returning it. As to getting drunk, and excuses thereof? "If you are drinking instead of caring for your child, I will be sure that you suffer," she points out in a cool, even and sociable tone that is of course typical Evali, but what harm could she really do? before continuing, "but as for now? I have only been drunk once before."

"I don't think he can really do anything to care for said child /now/," Sa'zl muses, pointing a champagne glass at Evali. Next! "So we can probably give him the benefit of the doubt, and figure he'll do better than that. Although to be fair there are a lot of people who don't, and some of them nobody even thinks anything about it."

In the moment that Taikrin mentions the expediency of between, the half-smile Riorde wears is frozen in place-- and then she tries that champagne. "That's what they told us," she remarks along a similar vein, that of hearsay, and with no recognition that she's mixing drinks, finishes the last bit of her whisky. "It's not like how we grew up, Elgin." Riorde, insistent on this point, can't seem to just let it go and let her fellow brownrider bask in his happiness. "She's not going to have the time to raise them -- and you probably won't either."

E'gin studies Evali for a moment, considering how to answer but then Sa'zl takes care of him. Men unite, "Yah, already helped with Aella after my parents passed, remember?" There is a soft sigh from the male as he turns to Riorde, but he doesn't say anything. There is a passing look that one some level he knows he deserves it. Turning to the barkeep is waves a hand, exchanges some words about how much he owes for the group, settles up and slides out of his stool. "I appreciate you guys celebrating with me. It's been nice." And with that he strides out of the Snowasis.

"Don't need an excuse to get drunk," Taikrin reminds E'gin as she recovers her drink from Evali and polishes it off. "Anyways, you know, I reckon she's just askin' on if you want the kid to know who you are, maybe visit in the nursery. Some of the guys don't want a kid to know, 'specially if they ain't super sure." But then he's leaving, so she only shrugs after him and turns back to the others. "Anyways, babies ain't somethin' we got to worry about, so-- don't. Drinks're better. Poor kid's way over his head, I reckon."

"That is what they told us," Evali essentially echoes Riorde, as she sips the offered champagne. Perhaps unsurprisingly, she sounds rather forlorn about it instead of the pleased one might expect. "I will always worry about babies, though. Not -- my own, perhaps. But there is no Thread, so I should hope I may continue delivering until we start to study dragonhealing." More champagne. The relatively green greenrider attempts to drown her sorrows, and it is at least partly a success. "And perhaps I will be lucky and she will not rise."

"There are greenriders who have children," Sa'zl murmurs softly, more of an aside than not, to Evali. "They just have to do it on purpose, y'know? Not by accident, the way someone else who doesn't travel so much might."

Riorde watches E'gin leave, expression giving in to a guilty regret-- but only when his back is turned, as he walks away. She settles on the stool E'gin's left vacant and turns to repond to Evali. "If that's what you want, no reason why you shouldn't be able to, right? Why'd you want to keep Yanijath from doing what she's meant to do, though? That can't be good for her."

Suddenly interested, Taikrin's head snaps back to Evali at that admission. "She ain't, yet? Risen?" There's an echo of Szadath in her expression, somehow, or perhaps more a feeling of the weight of the brown's interest that might only be perceptable to other riders. It takes her a moment to refocus herself, tearing her gaze away with difficulty first to where Riorde was, and then to where she's apparently resettled herself while Taikrin wasn't paying attention. Faux-casual, "Nobody can stop a green - or gold - when she takes it into her head to go up."

"I -- no," are all the words that Evali can find, suddenly, and her hand tightens around the champagne glass until her knuckles are white. "I would not /stop/ her. But she has not done so yet, and perhaps she is simply choosing not to? She was born so little, though. Spindly. Always eating. She is still always eating and she has barely ever really grown." Well, she was two feet long when she hatched and is almost twenty now, but to Evali, perhaps ... "I just wondered if maybe she -- would not. She does not talk about it. I worry for her health, but I would also rather not -- go through it." Of course, by now Evali is so pale it's obvious she's embarrassed a bit. It's unlike her, to actually /express/ these kinds of thoughts.

"The morning after is usually a lot more embarrassing than the night before," Sa'zl offers, trying to be helpful. "Or day before, if it happens during the day, I mean. /During/, you're not really paying atte-- this isn't helping. Okay. Sorry." He raises the wineskin and his eyebrows, offering a top-up.

Ri, angled in a way that gives her a view of Taikrin's expression, concentrates her attention on the other brownrider for a minute, lips pressed together with-- something, and lips skewing to the side. Still with that sort of half-smile, she attends to Evali again. "Don't be ridiculous, Ev. We'll all have to -- you know that." Practical Riorde, in the habit of bursting bubbles tonight. The only ones she isn't deliberately trying to pop are rising in her champagne flute. Which she's started to empty rather fast, and now pushes towards Sa'zl in response to his mute offer. "Has Yggdratth...?" She doesn't have to finish it.

"You'll be fine," is Taikrin's rather curt dismissal of Evali's worries. "She'll be fine. She's green, ain't she? Greens always go up." She shudders all over, like a dog shaking water from its fur, then curls up a deliberate smirk for Riorde. "Shells, you'd think the lot of you were bloody virgin weyrlings or somethin', carryin' on like you are. Drink your drink, an' fret about somethin' else, yeah? Like maybe how y'all're drinkin' girly drinks with all those bubbles. How 'bout somethin' with a little bite?" Just like that, she steps deftly upto the bar again, nudging herself right up against Riorde's stool while she waves a hand to get the bartender's attention.

"I think it has something to do with proportions," is Sa'zl's maybe-maybe-not vague and somewhat sideways answer, which is to say: yes. Yggdratth is that cool. And Sa'zl, having grown up in this weyr, is calm enough to reach over the bar -- his arm, after all, is long enough that he /can/ -- and then there's a glass mostly full of beer, and a bottle of more-or-less-quality whiskey, and then a glass that's full of mostly-beer, which gets handed off to Taikrin before the bartender's even worked his way back down to this end.

"I hope," is all Evali really manages to say in response before Sa'zl has spoken, and she's stuck trying to twist her head around what he just said. "Was that actually the answer to the question?" she asks aloud, to everyone and no one in particular. It may be rhetorical; it may just be what happens when you ask Sa'zl a question. Speaking up to affirm that while not a weyrling, she /is/ a virgin, thank you very much, at least dawns on Evali as a bad idea.

"Whatever." With little patience for vagueness, Riorde more or less dismisses Sa'zl and his lack of an answer. "/I/ don't care," she tells Taikrin, another sort of lofty dismissal, an effort to remove herself from the brownrider's field of criticism. "Sforzath doesn't really care, either." With an eye on Sa'zl's maneuverings, she remarks, "Guess you're paying." It won't stop her from taking what's been set out. She leans to one side so she can see Evali around Taikrin, who's now in the line of sight, and moderates her tone to something kinder in a quick attempt to reassure. "It'll be fun."

Taikrin has never yet refused free booze, because that's definitely what this is: free booze. She takes the bottle of whiskey, nevermind that he might be trying to give her the mostly-beer, and takes a pull straight from the bottle. "Sforzath don't care /yet/," Taikrin drawls, her smile turning wicked as she watches Riorde from the corner of her gaze. "Reckon he's just a slow grower, though, ain't done maturing maybe. Kind of a late-bloomer?"

Certainly, it's free booze -- or else, as far as Evali can tell, are they even meant to be paying? "Yanijath seems displeased by the idea Sforzath would not care," she passes along, for lo, Yanijath would complain all night if she did not. "This conversation may be encouraging her. We will see, I suppose. I will learn, if we do enter the craft. As for fun ..." She has no idea what to make of it.

"No," Sa'zl said patiently, and attempted to trade the shocked beer for the bottle of whiskey, by uttering the magic words: "I'm not paying for the full bottle, so if you're keeping that it's on /your/ tab, Taikrin, not on mine! You should try it like this, though, it's fuzzy /and/ whiskey. Cheaper and drunker that way."
No dragons or riders found.

"He's not slow. He went after Rielsath." Acting over-sensitive, Riorde reminds Taikrin of the fact a second before the realization catches up to her that she'd rather not bring that up, and she quickly glances away. "He's just not that interested, for now -- but maybe he will be when it's Yanijath's turn?" The turn into a question gives Riorde's response an appeasing quality as she shoots Evali a grin. "They've always gotten along."

"Y'can't mix 'em like that," Taikrin dismisses out of hand, even while she holds the bottle tighter to her chest. "Ain't right. And anyways, I reckon our good buddy already saw you lift it, so it's on your head." The indicated bartender has, in fact, glanced down that way-- though he doesn't seem altogether concerned. To hide her discomfiture when Riorde brings up Rielsath's flight, she merely concedes the point with a shrug. "Maybe. Sometimes they just-- don't, for a while. It's perfectly okay, too." Is that a little defensiveness? Might be, at least before she drowns it in whiskey again. "Don't matter." It's something of a running joke, at this point: for one reason or another, Szadath hasn't been up after a female since the last time Iskiveth went up.

Evali is unable to resist the urge to return the smile, even despite her terror of the entire flight issue -- at least she /trusts/ Riorde! "Yes," she agrees, twirling her hair awkwardly around her finger and then finishing off her champagne. "She would, I am sure, like it if he were. She is also now whining about wanting to be oiled, so I should probably --" Her expression as she stands, leaving drinks and pleasant company behind for the evening, is lined with regret. Finally learning to socialize as the dragon wants, and now she is demanding.

Sa'zl just rolls his eyes, then, at Taikrin. "Your loss," he decides, and wanders out -- making sure to clarify with the bartender, on the way, just whose tab that bottle should find itself on. (E'gin's, maybe?) Theoretically speaking, the boilermaker will end up finding its way off to Evali eventually, if there's a time when she only needs one hand for the oiling for a little while. She, at least, has always seemed open to trying new drinks!

"See you soon, Ev -- don't be a stranger just cause you're in a different wing now, yeah?" The comment necessarily, perfunctorily extends to Sa'zl, though Riorde doesn't show nearly the same sort of affection for her non-exile clutchmate. Once they've gone, Riorde can turn rather smugly to Taikrin to say, "Hear that? She wants him to chase."

"Yeah, whatever, weyrling greens go for what they know, 'cause they don't know much." Taikrin's got a half-smile, to take some of the bite out of her words, but they're still pretty sharp. "What she wants now don't necessarily mean nothin' about what she might want when she goes up. Seen it happen plenty of times." There's that feeling of Szadath again, heavy and aggressive. "Anyways, it's fine." And with another heroic effort, she turns back to Riorde - close, very close - and smiles. "Anyways, flights're flights. Just a matter of life. Now we've run all the weyrlings off-- happy with what you got?"

Riorde's own smile falters from the tone Taikrin takes, only to be replaced in a surer, cockier version. "Yeah, well, we'll see." She, or Sforzath through her, plays it cool. Without intending it as a move to shift away, Riorde puts her elbows on the bar and leans forward into a casual lounge. "You mean Glacier? Yeah. Course." Short and direct, without explanation, Riorde speaks in a definitive affirmation with intent attention settled on Taikrin, free to do so with the others' departure.

While Riorde's attention is on her, Taikrin's drifts back to the bottle she's got her hand wrapped so tightly around. "Glad. Told you, they were pretty impressed with you." She leans back against the bar, glancing at Riorde only in short looks. "Been okay? Been busy, me, but I meant to, you know. Ask."

"Yeah. Been fine." The two short phrases aren't much of an answer, small-talk -- or talking around other things -- taking over in the absence of the others. The shift in Riorde's expression could be disappointment, but her tone is even as she slides off her stool, signals the bartender, and says, "Anyway, I was sent over for drinks, so suppose I better get them."

"Ehhh, reckon they grabbed someone else to do it, by now. We ain't well-known for waitin'. 'Specially when there's drinks involved. But," she relents, glancing sideways at Riorde, "More rounds're always welcome. I'll help you carry?" Taikrin is still subtly uncomfortable, and the overbearing presence of Szadath hasn't much softened; the distraction of things to carry is siezed on eagerly. "You playin' rounds today, or just betting?"

"Sure," Riorde accepts, placing the order, and then it's just a matter of explaining the game as she left it and confessing the points she hasn't grasped: conversation without demands until they've rejoined the wing.

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Logs:Egg Go Smash

2011-11-24T03:15:17Z

Riorde:

{{ Log
| who = Iolene, Rhaelyn, Riorde, Tiriana
| where = Hatching Galleries / Hatching Sands, High Reaches Weyr
| what = What should be a quiet morning of staring at eggs turns into ... well... the Weyr might have reason now to consider the exiles personas non grata.
| when = Day 1, Month 3, Turn 26
| gamedate = 2011.07.08
| quote = "FUCK. FUCKITY FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK. FUCK. Both of you suck. SUCK!"
| weather =
| categories = Exiles
| mentions = Taikrin
| icons = iolene.jpg, rhaelyn.jpg, riorde don't mess.jpg
| log = The weather is horrible. Sploshy bootprints trail up from the entrance, drying in the heat rising off the hatching grounds but still making a direct path to where Riorde sits at mid-level in the galleries. Her wet gear is laid out alongside her, including footwear - not accustomed to it in the first place, no one's told her it could be poor manners to take it off in public and put it where other people are destined to sit.

Oh, how quickly people's blood thins. How quickly, Iolene has become accustomed to the niceties of life: boots, a warm jacket, and now this venture into the heated hatching sands. While Riorde's situated and her shoes are getting comfortable on the seat next to her, Io's just walking in from the super wet outdoors, her wool outergear dripping. Clearly, no one's taught her the finer points of dressing for rain rather than just cold. Upon arriving, her attention latches immediately to the curiosity of /giant/ inedible eggs, before those dark eyes turn and find Riorde. Cues are taken and shortly Iolene's own gear finds itself plopped on the bench below the other islander's with the girl leaning forward, all too belatedly, to make a cute face and go, "Boo!" right in front of Riorde's face.

Riorde is a spoilsport. "Heard you," she tells the younger girl, not even smiling for the cute face. And Iolene's cute faces are really cute as cute faces go. A soft spot kicks in a minute later though, and Riorde finds it in her irritable heart to smile, just a little. "Hi."

From somewhere in the depths of her pants pockets, Iolene retrieves a rather squashed roll, quick to split it in half and offer the larger of the two sides to Riorde. It looks... well, as unappetizing as a squashed breakfast roll can look. Knees to bench, back to the sands, Io looks squarely upon the dark haired woman, head tilting to one side curiously. "Indigestion?" is her, not so serious, guess of what the ailments a cute boo-face cannot fix.

"The worst," Riorde relates, also not serious, well aware that the excuse is flimsy shelter to hide behind. She takes the half of the roll that's offered and starts picking it apart. Most of gets to her mouth, with crumbs falling to the floor for some drudge to sweep up. "Come to see how dragons get born?"

Rhaelyn comes alone into the galleries. Bundled under two jackets and a rather ornate fur hat pinned with several trailing feathers. Seems a little too fancy for this place, but the hand-me-downs are often a hodge-podge of selections. "Hello." Spotting familiar faces she heads right for them, tromping away.

There's a little flicker of relief that lightens Iolene's eyes as Riorde takes her well-meant, if squashed, offering and picks at it. Taking this as a good sign, the younger girl picks at her own roll, rolling each tiny piece into an even firmer ball and popping that into her mouth. "You should eat better," and though it has the vocal timbre of an admonishment, clearly, /clearly/, the flimsiness of the excuse has sunk into Io's brain as she leans forward on her knees, close enough to try and push back a lock of Riorde's hair. It's meant to be consoling. Sort of. "Yeah. I didn't get to see them the other night. After Turnover," the girl's voice trails off. "After then, I don't think I like joining in on parties here much. Strange things happen. Oh, hey," as Rhaelyn approaches, the blonde turns with a lifted hand for the fellow islander.

Pinching off bits of bread squashes it even further, but Riorde isn't picky about what she eats. Bread is still new enough to be exciting whatever form it comes in. "Probably," she admits, acknowledging the merit in Iolene's advice. She doesn't pull away from the other girl, and this time her smile is a little sadder but more genuine. "I know what you mean." Parties. Riorde didn't go, either. She turns her head towards Rhaelyn, and the hair that Iolene pushed back immediately falls back right where it was before. "Hey," she echoes, eyes on the hat. "Where'd you get that?"

Rhaelyn's nose crinkles up in response to the actions of the weyr parties, "You are better off not being there last night." For a moment it looks like she's going to burst into the story but bites at her tongue to keep silent. Instead she removes the hat, it is damp while the hair within is still glossy and dry. "I got it in the last delivery of things." The hat is offered out for the others to see it better, feathers and all. "It's nice and warm."

"They're-," Iolene completes the turn that started with Rhaelyn's arrival to twist and spy out the eggs again. "A lot bigger than I thought they would be. Softer looking too. Shells. Can you imagine how many people could be fed with just one of those eggs?" Joking, albeit in a muted way, Io turns back to Riorde first and it's then, in the deliberate ignoring of Rhaelyn's hat, that the tiniest flare of teenage jealousy is visible beneath the surface of the blonde's cheered countenance.

"Looks like it." While Iolene seems a little jealous, for her part Riorde sounds a little dubious and just a bit scornful, like there's other things she could say about how the hat looks and is biting them back. "How many fish do you think would fit inside?" she asks, picking up the macabre humour where Io left off. Having finished her half of the roll, the girl rubs her buttery fingers against her seat rather than wiping her fingers on her trousers. Eventually, she comes round to asking about party from the other night, a bit reluctant to allow Rhaelyn an opportunity to talk about herself. Obliging her curiosity wins out. "What happened?"

Rhaelyn doesn't notice the jealousy, or doesn't register Iolene's look as such. Her lower lip pokes forward when the blonde isn't satisfyingly interested in her find and then there's Riorde's expression. She pulls the hat back and lays it over her lap as she settles down in her usual sulky huff when she's not the center of attention. The talk of eatting the eggs gets a sickened look, "I bet it's chewy inside. But better than that seaweed pie we had to eat." Oh the memories. For a moment it looks like she might ignore Riorde asking about the previous night but c'mon, she can't resist, "Alright, so..." turning to face the other two now, "This horrible brownrider was slobbering drunk. She was throwing herself at anyone that moved. Then, when she found out I was an exile, she flipped out and called 'me' a slut. Like /I/ was the one falling all over myself."

Iolene pulls her braid forward, playing fingers about the turquoise ribbon threaded through the strands, as if part of the braid itself, the continual rub of the back of her fingers against the satiny material almost like an act of self-consolation. A response to Riorde is stopped before her parted lips can speak when Rhaelyn recounts her story. And so she listens, it is, after all, the hat she's ignoring and not Rhaelyn herself, and the girl's eyes widen, the stare broken infrequently by the most owlish of blinks. "Were you-," the girl hesitates, looking a mix between entranced and dubious, "Were you acting like she thought? Maybe inadvertently? Did you drink any of their crazy juice?"

Riorde resolves not to look interested in the story, but the pretense falls apart as soon as the 'she' is out, identifying Rhaelyn's drunk brownrider as female. She shifts uncomfortably, crossing and recrossing her ankles. "Which brownrider?" She just has to ask it on the heels of the questions Io's posed, dragging her gaze back up and half-dreading an answer.

"I was being 'friendly'." Rhaelyn says firmly, and with a wide length of denfensivness at Iolene's insinuation. "Is it my fault that she sees 'sex' in anything that smiles?" There's a brisk shake of her head in response to the drinking, admiting, "I was going to drink, but she made me spill it all over myself. /She/ must have had a lot of that crazy juice though, her eyes were all red. Who would actually take her up on having sex with her? Smelly and drooly everywhere. Yuck." Sure, she might drag it out a bit, for Riorde's pain and discomfort, but not on purpose surely, "Taikrin, the one who is always buying exiles drinks and talks like a man."

Soon, it's less Rhaelyn's story that interests Iolene and more Riorde's discomfort. Iolene looks between the two other exiles, back and forth before her blue eyes linger on Riorde. Rhaelyn's bristling, however, does not go unnoticed, and after a moment of silence from the youngest of the three girls, Io favors Rhae with a frank study, "I only asked about drinking because I know it can lead to awkward situations. Situations you don't always want to get yourself into and I know people do things when they drink that stuff that they normally might not do, and sometimes. Sometimes, some people forget what they've done." As for the rest of what the girl says, it's unaddressed in favor of the knees she rests on sliding out so she might exchange her lower bench to sit by the distinctly uncomfortable Riorde, an arm offered about the other girl's waist chummily in lieu of words.

"You probably /were/ acting like a slut." Riorde can be tactless and harsh, but the sudden dip towards cruelty is atypical even for her. She hunches into herself, shoulders near her ears, conspicuously tense and bad-tempered. As Io slides down next to her, Riorde glances at the other girl with a hint of surprise for the gesture and, in greater measure than the surprise, glumness.

Rhaelyn, again, shows her usual lack of empathy for her fellow exiles by fixing a blank look between the uncomfortable Riorde and the consoling by Iolene. "What?" Riorde's insult keeps her from dipping too far into the troubles of others though, "Oh, shut up you cow. That woman is a bitch and everyone knows she'll screw anything that moves." Rhae being cruel isn't something new or unexpected really.

The arm about Riorde hesitates as /Riorde/ pulls out the big guns and suddenly, Io is at a loss for what to do exactly or who to stand by. Her arm doesn't move, but it does fall lax. "Ri," the single syllable nickname falls, alarmed. "/Rhae/," even more shocked. "You /guys/!" Helpless: that's what she is in the face of all this conflict.

Riorde's apologetic look at Iolene is incomplete as she turns to face Rhaelyn with a hot glare. "She is /not!/" Riorde turns explosive, each word gathering in force. She leaves the second smear on Taikrin's character alone, either afraid to out herself or uneasy about just how much truth there is in it.

Rhaelyn smells the blood in the water. She leans in closer to Riorde, ignoring the plea to stop from the sweet mannered Iolene. There's a sudden poke at the center of Riorde's chest with the poiny edge of her finger. "I hear," Rhaelyn's tone dips into the nasty edge that is so like her, "That she has them two at a time because she can't get enough. And that she's not allowed to be around us exiles, because she's already seduced a number of sweet, young, girls."

It's too bad Riorde and Rhaelyn don't have the right parts, Io has a way to resolve fights rather quickly, but only among boys. Kneeing is not quite as effective with girls. And then Rhaelyn shocks Iolene's, exiled but still really holdbred mind into pieces. "With-," blink, "Girls?" What? What manner of nonsense is this? You can't make babies with girl on girl action! If Rhaelyn smells blood in the water, Iolene discerns something similar and though she remains by Riorde, a little less staunchly than before, that lax arm does fall all the way. "Why are you being so mean? We're /supposed/ to get along."

Riorde is utterly still as Rhaelyn's finger jabs her breastbone. The offense is there, manifest in the way her glower blazes out. Riorde, who considers herself neither young nor sweet, reacts in a fashion predictable for her. She lashes out with her right fist, aiming for Rhaelyn's face. The girl knows how to throw a punch.

Rhaelyn isn't much of a fighter, the physical hasn't ever been her weapon of choice. So, she's not thinking of protecting that precious face of hers as the fist comes flying at her. Even if she were ready, she'd likely not be able to dodge that blow. The fist connects with her cheek with a solid crack and a scream of pain rips from the dark-haired exile. For a moment, Rhae bows forward, cupping the side of her face with a trembling hand, disbelief making her tearing eyes wide with the shock. Her lower lip trembles and for a moment it seems she might back down and relent. Rage and pain blind the thinking side of her brain though. "YOU BITCH!" The war-cry echos around the cavern as she lunges for Riorde with one hand clawed and the other reaching out to grab a fistfull of hair.

For all she's been bred a hunter, Iolene looks /aghast/ when violence is wrought against other people, particularly amongst /her/ people, and when Riorde throws the first punch, the naive little blonde's mouth drops in horror, covered quickly by her lifted hands. "Stop. Stop! /STOP/!" as if repeating herself in increasing volume might actually break up a girl fight. But her place in this disagreement is that of the bystander, up until Rhaelyn turns it into an actual cat fight and the once hunter, now somehow still underfed if nourished skinny girl, tries to propel herself in between the two girls. It will, likely, result in pain or complete ineffectuality.

Riorde looks darkly satisfied as her fist connects. "You /deserve/ it," she snaps out a justification, partially telling herself it too to quell the first glimmer of doubt as Rhaelyn screams and doubles over. All of that fades as Rhaelyn launches herself at her. There's plenty of hair to grab, drawing forth a gasped intake of pain, and she instinctively tries to turn away in what turns out to be a shove at Iolene and a tumble down the tiers that is sure to result in several bruises.

Rhaelyn tires her best to keep a secure grip on Riorde's hair, attempting to give the handful a yank back and forth but then Riorde is falling down the stairs, hair ripped out of her grasp and Iolene right in her path, "Get out of my way! Io! Get away. I'm going to teach her..." A solid shove goes to Iolene and she goes stomping down the steps after Riorde. Another grap made for Riorde, hair, clothes, whatever, with every intention of removing her from the galleries altogether, even if that means to deposit her into the sands.

When Riorde shoves and tumbles, so too does Iolene follow, her landing only softened by the presence of Riordes body, however (not) plush that might be. The teenager grunts and rolls off the exile, mostly to avoid Rhaelyn's grabby hands. As much as she wishes she'd stop being a baby and not cry, here's another instance where Io's tearing up again, though not from pain. "Stop," is her fourth, probably still ineffectual, tearful mumble. "Why can't you be /nice/? Ever? Why are you such a-, such a-, such a /bitch/?" The expletive is flung at Rhaelyn, wherever the girl ends up.

Most of the ripping might be out of Rhaelyn's hands, but there's at least a bit of it that is ripped out entirely and has Riorde putting her palm to her head as she stumbles to her feet. She tries to help Iolene up too, without malice for the younger girl and stepping forward to try to put herself between Io and Rhaelyn as the other dark-haired exile comes stomping down. "Do you even /know/ how to hit?" she practically snarls at Rhaelyn, ready and waiting for the other girl to come at her. "Or do you bat your eyelashes and try to get some boy to do it for you?" As Rhaelyn grabs Riorde shoves and steps back against the rails, trying to get enough distance to get in another swing. She hits fast and dirty without much direction, off-balance herself, almost going over.

Rhaelyn's teeth click together in very unladylike manner as she hisses at Iolene, "/I/ am the bitch? She is the one who hit me! I'm not going to..." Her eyes fly open wide again at the insult but she spits back, screaming, "At least I'm not a lady-lover!" Since, even if it's not true, it seems to be a hit bellow the belt for Riorde and more like her usual fighting style. Too much talk and not enough action is her downfall though, she takes a hit to the jaw and another to her nose before she gets the hand up to deflect the flail of punches coming her way. Blindly she reaches with her other hand to snare Rio's hair again, tugging the girl closer and then shoving out. Out and over the railing. Unfortuately, her own footing is anything but balanced as she over extends herself.

"You-, you-," stammering, Iolene has to stop to think when Rhaelyn shoots back logic at her. "You baited her!" There! But she's taken so much time to think that she misses the ensuing aggression, and /gasps/ when the two go over the edge. Living all those years with Rilka has done its damage and she wails, "The sea monster's going to /eat/ you alive."

Narrowed eyes meet Rhaelyn's insult - if insult it is. Riorde doesn't deny anything, doesn't even look panicked or upset. Instead, with a bit of a taunt to her tone, she fires back, "At least I can /get/ a lover." The surprise of going over the edge of the galleries takes the breath right out of her, but in her last minute before she tumbles out, she snags Rhaelyn by shirt and hair to take her down with her. A gasp as she hits the sands six feet below, landing hard and not even trying to get another punch in at first. It takes a minute for her to recover enough to call up to Iolene with momentary confusion, "Sea monster?" -- Dragon. Right. Riorde has forgotten all about Iovniath.

Rhaelyn screams as she wobbles at the edge, grabbing with a hand at the railing to try to stop her fall. No good. The momentum and Riorde's weight on her and the pull of her hair. Down she goes, screaming again in outrage and then in pain as she splats into the sand. The impact knocks the air out of her and gasping she claws her way to Riorde, nose drip-dripping blood. "Not...going to have....time to eat you." It's a real horror-show, that nose bleed.

Iolene looks to Iovniath anxiously, and down to the scuffle just at the base where sand meets galleries. "Get back up here. You guys can beat each other up here. Get out of there." There's only a moment of indecision before Io's made it to the stairs down and taken the safe way down, standing at the very bottom step and holding out her hand. Her eyes? They're imploring: please come here so she doesn't have to step closer to the brooding sea monster.

"You're the one who's bleeding," Riorde points out as she pulls herself up. Nevertheless, she staggers away from Rhaelyn in an attempt to recover her bearings, unwittingly wandering further onto the sands and not looking back to see where she's going. "Do you /want/ me to finish you off?" There's the option in that to run off crying; some of the fight has gone out of Riorde now that she's no longer in the stone tiers. "Go on, run back to Io," she taunts, undoing some of the extended possibility for a cease-fire.

Rhaelyn wipes the back of her hand over her nose at the remark that she's bleeding and the smear of warm blood makes a stripe across the arm and her face, not making it any better. She casts a hateful look over her shoulder at Iolene, who is just trying to guide them to safety, but Rhae is having none of it. The taunt from Riorde pushes her over the edge, the bleeding exile scrambles to her feet and makes a mad rush for her, aiming to body-slam her into the hot sand, head low, shoulder aimed just right.

Iolene's dark eyes flare open at Riorde's taunt, though targeted to Rhaelyn, hits the blonde girl squarely in her soft-hearted little heart. Not only is a possible cease-fire over, so is Iolene being afraid enough not to venture onto the sands, and there she goes, kicking up sand with her bare feet stomping all over the place, and in the adrenaline only given strength by anger, ignores how her feet might blister. She's about to reach for both of their ears and haul them away physically, in a long observed Grams move, but then Rhae's body slamming Riorde, which leaves Iolene staring again. "FUCK. FUCKITY FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK. FUCK. Both of you suck. SUCK!" Only Io can go from expletives to toddler taunts in the same breath.

Riorde tries to dodge Rhaelyn, but it doesn't entirely work as she's still unsteady her feet. What happens instead: Rhaelyn's shoulder hits Riorde on one side, and the momentum carries them both into one of the still-soft eggs. Riorde falls down, likely with Rhaelyn, and all of a sudden stops fighting completely. "Fuck." She picks up the word from Iolene and puts it to new use.

Iovniath, however, has /not/ forgotten about the girls. She's been asleep through most of this, resting soundly after the ordeal of clutching and putting up with new-mother Tiriana again. But now? The crashing is what wakes her, and she flutters her wings vaguely for a moment as she comes to--and then realizes what's happening. For just a moment, the gold stares at the wrestling girls that are now on her sands and, worse--oh so much worse--rolling into her /egg/. And then, rising up in full icy fury, her wings spreading out over her, she ROARS.

It's the least that Rhae can do, bleed all over Riorde once she has her down. Down in the hot sand, ready to grab a couple handfulls of hair and...."Oh!" There's a mushy-soft egg against her, rubbery-like and "Eeewww!!!!" All else she might say or do dies in the wake of the roar that makes every hair on her body stand up on end. The only option is the scream in terror right back.

To say Iolene panics is possibly the understatement of the Interval, but none of her reaction is displayed physically. A draconic roar is something entirely different from anything she's been hearing lately coming from dragon throats. Instead, the blonde islander is absolutely still. So utterly, perfectly still as she stares up at Iovniath. Please, please, those big big eyes say what she's unable to voice, /don't eat me/.

"/Rhae/!" Riorde is the first to scramble to her feet and in a sudden reversal, tries to get the other islander to stand up too. "RUN!" The flight part of Riorde's fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, and without waiting, she tears towards the exit.

Rhaelyn tries to get her suddenly jelly-filled legs to obey her. Toes dig in, kicking up sand but she doesn't seem to get traction fast enough. Like one of those horrible nightmares where you can't /go/ anywhere. At last she does get those limbs under her and she's pelting for an exit, grabbing for the fear-struck Io, "Cmon! Cmon! Go go GO!!" Trying to catch up an arm, or bit of clothing to drag their non-combatant from the battlefield.

It's the hand on her arm that undoes her and her legs seem to follow of their own accord when Rhaelyn pulls. Funny, how a dragon roaring is enough to stop a seemingly unstoppable cat fight. And suddenly, just as they're about to exit the sands, Io's look of fear turns to one of a muted frustration: Where was Iovniath five minutes ago? But that's a thought for another day.

The girls flee, and Iovniath doesn't chase them, though she does stalk over her eggs and loom threateningly above them as they flee. She hovers, particularly over the injured one; she curls a paw around it protectively and puts herself between the eggs and the entrance. But she's more concerned now with protecting her clutch than punishing wrongdoers: she'll leave that for her rider.
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Logs:Weyrling Stalking

2011-11-24T03:14:13Z

Riorde: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Riorde, Taikrin | where = Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr | what = Riorde and Taikrin meet for a drink. No one dies (but Riorde thinks murderous things about E'gin). |..."

{{ Log
| who = Riorde, Taikrin
| where = Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Riorde and Taikrin meet for a drink. No one dies (but Riorde thinks murderous things about E'gin).
| when = Day 20, Month 4, Turn 27
| gamedate = 2011.11.22
| quote = Kid's got balls. Or luck.
| weather =
| categories = Exiles
| mentions = E'gin, Quinlys
| icons = riorde amused.jpg, taikrin.jpg
| log = Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr
----

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.

----

Dragon> In the last few days since the weyrlings' return to the Weyr, even the dragons bound to former exiles have caught wind of the disgruntlement rippling through the spring air. When Sforzath reaches out to the other brown, there's a tense, alert undercurrent that sweeps up in regular waves. << She, >> Riorde, present a sense and a flash of her face, << wants to know if your rider would like to have a drink. There. >> The Snowasis, seen from his perspective outside. (Sforzath to Szadath)

There's no reply from Szadath, beyond a vague sense that he acknowledged and understood the message. Nevertheless, it doesn't take long for Taikrin to hurry-then-meander into the Snowasis. Despite her attempts at casualness, her hair is faintly damp and she has a fresh-scrubbed look about her. She pauses at the entrace from the lower caverns to scan the crowd, casual-like, with hands shoved into the pockets of her beat up riding jacket.

Riorde sits up straight at the end of the bar, hands laced around a mug of something warm with steam curling off the top. The stools to either side are vacant, with most patrons occupying tables or the chairs placed around the hearth rather than the less comfortable seats available at the bar; Riorde's chosen her spot based on visibility rather than comfort. The weyrling's brought something to read with her, so her attention's on that rather than on the entrance, although she looks up every so often. In doing so, she catches sight of Taikrin, and after a slight hesitation, straightens further and lifts a hand to draw attention to herself.

Taikrin hesitates too, in that instant when she spots Riorde, but before the weyrling has noticed her. Her figure stills, only to jolt back to life when their gazes meet. Then she's all crooked smiles and easy saunters as she drops lightly onto the stool to Riorde's right. "Hey." Her gaze flickers over the book, but lingers on the mug. "What're you drinkin'?"

"Hey." Riorde sounds slightly stilted even in that one word, even though (or maybe because) she makes an effort to sound normal. She drops her gaze as soon as Taikrin's settled next to her and closes her book; from the looks of it, what Ri's got is light reading. "Oh-- I don't know. I asked for something hot, and he made it." She indicates the bartender down the way with a little lift of her chin, then pushes her mug over an inch. "Can try it if you like."

"Yeah?" When Taikrin leans over to peer into the cup, she's particularly careful to maintain a good span of distance between their bodies. "Ain't so much into the hot ones he makes." Instead, she leans way over the bar to grab the attention of the bartender with a wave of her hand, and make a gesture that probably means 'the usual', given the answering nod she gets in reply. "Whiskey's good enough for me. So..." She drawls to silence, at a loss, then offers a moment later, "Everythin' alright?"

"Oh." Awkward silence; Riorde tries to fill it in but possibly only succeeds highlighting that awkwardness when she says, "Well, I like it." She pulls her mug back by the handle and picks it up to take a small drink. See, proof. She likes it. "Oh. Yeah. I mean, kind of. People are being a bit funny around us because of Elgin." By the time she gets to the name, she's started to sound a little annoyed. "Don't think Polaris likes us much. We're flying with them this week."

"Yeah, well, people don't look real kindly on a brown catching a gold, 'specially if it's a real young dragon. Weyrling, even." Taikrin's even avoiding making exile jibes, though it must be hard; at least she's some semblance of her cocky grin back. "Polaris is a bunch of tightwads. Y'all're better off without bein' around that lot too much. You know, kid's got balls. Or luck. 'Least we waited 'till we weren't weyrlings no more!" She's interrupted, then, by the arrival of a glass of whiskey, which she promptly picks up, salutes Riorde with, then sips at. Tamely. "Real balls."

Riorde doesn't seem terribly impressed by Taikrin's assessment of her clutchmate and fellow former exile, since she meets the salute with a sour contribution. "Fucking Elgin." She deserts her perfect posture and leans forward over her drink in a slump. "He better not screw it up for the rest of us." Her grumbling is more than that of a sore loser, with apprehension in her regard as she turns her head to look at Taikrin again. "They're not all talking like Polaris, are they?"

"Hey, whatever, kid got lucky. He'll either have all the wings after 'im, or none, know what I'm sayin'?" Her amusement at Riorde's reaction is mild -- and a little cocky. "Either way, ought not to reflect on you much at all. Ain't like they talk to me, though. I mean, I hear the gossip, but me an' the Wingleader ain't sharin' secrets, and I sure as shells ain't hearin' stuff from the other wings. We don't-- get on." Taikrin props an elbow on the bar, then rests her head against her balled fist. "Can't imagine why, popular girl like me."

"He always gets lucky," complains Riorde, wanting the last word -- or sympathy. "He's always got to be so fucking ''perfect.''" A quick, amused smile pops up for how Taikrin references herself. Then, suddenly conscious that her question might have been construed as fishing for information, she's quick to offer a disclaimer. "I was just wondering. Because, you know, the guy I'm shadowing in Polaris keeps making these comments about us. Us exiles. I was just wondering if it was just them."

Taikrin shrugs her free shoulder, totally unconcerned -- fishing expedition or not. "Sorry I don't know more t'tell you. Ain't really somethin' that comes up much, around the poker table or when we're drillin' or whatever." But then her gaze fixes on Riorde, intent and measuring behind the crooked smile. "'Cept most of 'em were impressed with you, at least. Not so much most of the babies in your class, but couple of 'em commented on how they liked your, uh. Guts?" It's clearly not the word she originally meant there, but it'll have to do.

"Really?" Riorde tries to play it cool, but with the way her smile forms and overshadows all her aggravation, the young brownrider's unmistakably pleased. "Well-- I've probably got you to thank for that." If not for the 'guts', then at least for the introduction and the opportunity to show them off. "Otherwise I'd have just done the shadowing and gone home." This time, when she lifts her drink, she tilts it towards Taikrin.

Insufferably pleased, Taikrin raises her own glass to return the salute, then drains it dry. "Glad to help. They're my-- my--" Her lips twist together as she tries to pull up the proper word, then shrugs and offers lamely, "-- crew. Wing. Whatever. Look out for each other, yeah? A good lot, most of 'em. Good to have on your back. Thought you might get on, you know?" While she struggles with words, the legs of her stool tilt back and forth as she rocks her weight around in the most outward display of nervous energy. "How many more rotations you got left, anyways? Feels like your time's goin' so fast."

Funny how a situation that ended with thinly veiled insults and strained relations turns into an opportunity for compliment only a short time later. "Right." Riorde has nursed her drink long enough that what's left in the bottom is only lukewarm. She tips it forward in her cup before drinking the last of it. "Uh. There's Taiga, and then the four lower wings. So five, and then we pick two. And then we're done."

"Huh. That really ain't all that long at all." Canny, now, though she's trying to hide it behind that smile, Taikrin adds, "Got an idea what you're lookin' for? What you're gonna pick?" Two can play at this fishing game! She taps a finger pointedly against the bar top. "Reckon there might be marks ridin' on it, s'all I'm sayin'. Most of the other babies too, but-- maybe I got a couple extra ridin' here, is all I'm sayin'."

Riorde cuts a look across at the other woman, sharp but smiling slightly. The silence before Riorde's response is considering, this time, instead of awkward. "If there's marks," she finally replies in a slow, measured way, "then I suppose it's not really fair if I say anything one way or another."

Taikrin makes a gesture of helplessness with her free hand, lapsing back onto her crooked grin. "Can't blame me for tryin', yeah? What's the use of havin' inside information if I ain't gonna use it?" Her gaze cuts across the room, towards where a trio of Glacier riders are huddled together around a table. "Once the pools start gettin' big enough, people'll be stalkin' weyrlings all over the place. Chasin' their greens. Sendin' ''their'' greens to tease the boys. All's fair. So," she wheedles, "It ain't really a ''matter'' of bein' cheating, if we're all doin' it.."

Riorde laughs freely, her head tipping back and her grin remaining as she goes on to say, "Can't just tell like ''that.'' That's no fun. Besides," she points out, smile controlled as she puts on a serious air, "there's still five wings left to pick from."

Riorde's laughter brings a matching grin of delight to Taikrin's pale features, though maybe there's something wistful in it, too. "So what you're sayin' is that I'm gonna have to work hard to get it out of you, if I want to win my marks. 'Cause, you know," an eyebrow raises pointedly as her voice lowers, "I really ''do'' like to win."

The weyrling looks at Taikrin steadily with a smile whose character has started to change, mirth no longer the only impetus for it. "Then I guess you'll be working hard." With the gauntlet thrown, Riorde slides off her stool and picks up her book. "Think maybe we should catch up with Quinlys and the others -- better warn 'em that you all are coming after them." And, Riorde opting for the company of her class? Maybe the camping trip did achieve some sort of bonding purpose after all.

There's a flash of disappointment, here and gone again as Taikrin smothers it beneath a show of supreme overconfidence. "Yeah yeah, warn 'em all you like. It ain't gonna save 'em from it. And, you know--" She picks up her nearly-empty glass of whiskey and gestures with it in a sort of farewell, "-- y'all might like it. Bein' chased. Just sayin'."

Perceptive and paying attention, Riorde stalls behind her stool. It's the overconfidence that she responds to though, rolling her eyes. "Yeah, well, we'll see." There's a healthy dose of skepticism in her voice, then tempered to thoughtfulness -- manufactured, however, to suggest that this is a tease, a goad: "Depends who's doing the chasing." Her smile is quick and bright, tossed over her shoulder as she goes off to in search of the other weyrlings.

Chasing. It's been a long time since the brown pair have chased anything; outside, in the bowl, Szadath abruptly rouses from his brooding wallow and wings with single-minded purpose towards the feeding grounds for a meal to drive some of the unhappy gray from his hide. And while Taikrin holds her cocky overconfidence until Riorde turns away, with a laughingly echoed, "We'll see!" she turns thoughtful and, well, a little predatory once the weyrling has left.

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Logs:Goldflights Can Kill You

2011-11-24T03:03:25Z

Riorde: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Riorde, Taikrin | where = Hot Springs, High Reaches Area | what = Dragons are soaking sore muscles and bruised egos a couple days after Rielsath's flight. | when =..."

{{ Log
| who = Riorde, Taikrin
| where = Hot Springs, High Reaches Area
| what = Dragons are soaking sore muscles and bruised egos a couple days after Rielsath's flight.
| when = Day 16, Month 4, Turn 27
| gamedate = 2011.11.21
| quote = Might even end up under some heaving filthy bronzerider or something.
| weather =
| categories =
| mentions =
| icons = riorde sforzath.jpg, taikrin.jpg
| log = Hot Springs, High Reaches Area(#1636R)

----

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.

----

There are precious few male dragons here soaking away the pains today, despite what one might suspect of their post-flight needs. Some have found a green, others more isolated spots to soothe sore muscles. That means there are only a pair of greens and Szadath here today, and the former are just clearing out as the brown gingerly wallows into the water, his lifemate a few paces behind him. Taikrin has the tell-tail redness to her skin of someone just back from the South-- she certainly didn't acquire a sunburn on an overcast day like the Reaches is offering today.

Riorde, like a couple others of her lot, did not immediately head back to the island after Rielsath's oh-so-thoughtful welcome back. But with the camping trip at an end shortly thereafter, Riorde heeds the grumbling of her disgruntled dragon-- first that flight, then back to that cold rocky beach to add insult to injury --and picks a place meant to soothe the sore muscles that go with his bruised ego and jealousy. << ''Much'' better, >> the brown announces, not limiting his opinion to his rider as they appear in the sky above the hot springs and begin a slow, wide circle down. << Warm water. Warm water is better by ''far.'' >>

It hasn't been quite long enough for the ignomy of bowing out of another gold flight, only to have her won by a ''lesser'' brown, to have faded from Szadath's mind; perhaps he can't be blamed for his sullen response: << It would be better if there was fire. Or ''someone'' to enjoy it with. >> It's broad-banded too, enough so that one of the green injects the mental equivalent of sticking her tongue out before the pair take off back to the Weyr. And Taikrin? She's trying very hard to pretend that the pair flying are just like any other, and that maybe if she keeps her eyes closed while she leans back against the lip of the hot spring, it'll all just go away.

With a willing audience, even a sullen one, Sforzath keeps right on going. << Lots of fire. Fire makes water boil. >> Now, he adds a picture to go with his commentary, the sea of some not-so-unfamiliar island bubbling and evaporating thanks to a vivid stream of what looks like lava flowing down the sloping shore and into the water. The small brown lands in the nearest clearing, taking the spot of the departing green. Riorde can't help but notice who the other brown is; maybe that's why she takes her sweet time in divesting Sforzath of his straps.

It's not enough fire for Szadath: he injects his own interpretation of himself, bellowing gouts of flame many orders of magnitude greater than he really ought, to boil a whole herd of meat animals in the springs... complete with bellowing screams and acrid smoke. Pleasant. << MORE fire. I need MORE. >> Maybe Taikrin is watching Riorde. It's possible. There's a little crack of an eye open, and she's sort-of kind-of facing the newly arrived brown pair. Just, you know, in case.

<< Yes. Like that. >> Sforzath sounds dry in a way that is immediately reminiscent of his rider. He aims for the springs as soon as his straps are off, not waiting for them to even be pulled out of the way; Riorde has to move quickly to pull them away from his feet. She dumps them in a pile as soon as he's stepped free, then starts getting ready to enter the pool herself, half turning away as she starts to disrobe. Modesty, kind of.

<< You wouldn't understand, anyways, >> Szadath grumbles, disgruntled. The springs are large enough that he needn't move away to avoid any unnecessary contact with Sforzath, though he's subtly mantling in such a way as to look as large and imposing as possible. << Not about fire. >> A flash of gold escapes his mind, dark and smokey, before being clutched back in as tightly as a favored toy. And, okay, Taikrin is definitely looking, now that Riorde is half-turned away. She can't help it!

<< I wouldn't? >> Sforzath sounds more curious than challenging, almost prompting, especially after that glimmer of gold reaches him, and he in turn reaches for more. The weyrling brown is significantly smaller than his big brother, but the comparison doesn't seem to affect him even with Szadath's stance; for once, his wings lay flat on his back rather than the points of his shoulders lifting, too tired for more in these days after getting caught up in a gold flight. Riorde drops her jacket on top of the straps and momentarily hesitates before pulling off her shirt-- but she hasn't got a change of clothes with her, so Taikrin or no Taikrin, first a sweater and then a thin shell get dropped along with the jacket. Knowing her destination, she hasn't bothered to wear underwear on top. A couple of dark bruises lie along her hips, visible now that her shirt's off, but Riorde doesn't immediately drop her trousers. Instead, in a subdued tone, she asks over her shoulder, "Would you mind?" Because she can see Taikrin. Dragon eyes.

Damn, damn, damn, caught. "Sorry," Taikrin flushes, dropping back down in the water and looking away, but then seems to realize what it is she's doing and, though she's still looking away, drawls back, "Ain't like I ain't seen it all before, anyhow." And hello to you too! << No. You would not. >> That golden glimmer is HIS treasure! Possession slams down like a trap, jealously hoarding the tiny flame in his mind all to himself. He puffs himself up yet bigger, frustration and dissatisfaction oozing off of him in waves. It seems to make Taikrin hesitate, because she holds off on needling Riorde in favor of directing a sidelong look at Szadath. Then, "You doin' alright?" Because she saw the bruising.

It must be said that Riorde doesn't sound offended -- even embarrassed would be a stretch. Just tired. "Yeah, well." An answer that isn't an answer, and nothing more forthcoming. Sforzath dismisses Szadath when the other brown won't share (though refusal makes him that much more curious) and instead drifts over towards the one remaining green with a studied switch of interest and attention. Szadath, he's now ignoring. Her dragon's deliberate attempt to lavish attention elsewhere draws Riorde's tolerant smile as she turns back around once fully undressed and quickly enters the water, hissing through her teeth with a sharp, whistled intake at the difference in the temperatures. "Yeah, we're fine," she answers, choosing to interpret Taikrin's question in a particular way. "Sforzath really had no business with it. He's too small, but he was already there, and you try telling him that."

"Heard you got caught up in that," Taikrin allows, still uncomfortable enough that she's focusing her gaze strictly on her smouldering dragon. "First time he's gone up, ain't it? Or he been after a green or two, already?" It's mostly rhetorical, because she doesn't much pause before adding, "Hell of a thing, ain't it? 'Specially a goldflight. 'Specially when you're chasing." There's nostalgia in her voice, but then discomfort and a flush to her cheeks and white lips, and she's all at once changing the topic. "Had a good time on your island?"

Without left any time to respond, Riorde just nods despite the fact that Taikrin isn't looking at her. "It was--" The younger woman starts to say, and then reddens and veers towards safer ground: her dragon, not her. "I don't think he would've chased, except that he was there, and the rest of them were there, and he didn't want to be left behind." She says it all quite quietly, like that will keep Sforzath from hearing. A futile exercise, when the dragon's in your mind--yet he's purposely busy filling her head (and the green's) with how lovely she looks with her hide all wet and glistening. Except that the green is far too mature to be taken in by some upstart weyrling brown. "Yeah. It was-- good. Interesting." Riorde glances at her dragon, who hasn't given up on the green out of pride, although his own interest is only perfunctory to begin with. "It's different now."

"It's different now," is Taikrin's slow agreement. Her eyes slant towards closed again, though they remain just open enough to allow her to peek at Riorde in a totally un-subtle way. "Weird, how they make you do things you never thought you would, y'know? Y'just want to do what's best for 'em, but-- it's hard." She scratches idly at the sunburn on her exposed shoulder, which is not ''quite'' ready to peel-- but probably will be soon. Then, she offers, "Sorry, about before. I didn't-- well, y'know. Glacier. I ''did'' warn you."

One too many mocking comments from that green about Sforzath's youth and utter lack of sex appeal (such as, just ''how'' long did you last in Rielsath's flight?) have him turning away in a huff with a shower of even ruder remarks. Riorde's suppressing laughter, but the greenrider's looking nettled and annoyed as she finishes washing her dragon's hide. "Yeah," Ri agrees, reflecting, as she drifts around the rim of the pool in order to locate a place to sit. "S'alright." She should probably apologise herself, but doesn't, sounding slightly uncomfortable until she switches back to talking about the island. "He didn't really like it that much. I think cause it's not his too. It was just mine, and that was before him, and he kept going on about how place was important..." Riorde pauses in the awareness that she's going on in the need to share this with someone, and purposely watches Sforzath rather than Taikrin as the brown sinks down as far as he can go in the warm water. A surge of self-consciousness makes her quieter. "He was better when he was around Ysavaeth."

Amusement sweeps through on a gust of chilled air, Szadath's frozen laughter silent but palpable. << Your touch sucks. >> At least he's not broadcasting to the green, too? "Szadath gets like that too, sometimes, when we go back home, or to see people I used t'know? He ain't had a-- I think it always leaves kind of a bad taste in his mouth. He don't ''remember'', exactly, why he don't like it, but he just-- does." Queens make Taikrin uncomfortable now, enough so that she doesn't volunteer anything at all about Iskiveth or Rielsath or any of the others. Instead, "He'll be better after he finds himself a green or two." And she's looking at Riorde again, a question in her gaze that she can't quite find the words to express.

What Sforzath lacks in suaveness, he makes up for in biting acerbity. << Oh, let's see you do better. Didn't you drive that other green off earlier? >> Riorde hasn't moved to start scrubbing at Sforzath's hide; apparently the purpose of this trip was more for a long soak than any real need to get clean. "I guess." This line of not-quite-questioning must be making Riorde ill-at-ease, since she's sinking up to her chin. "I don't think he'll try again soon," she carries on nonetheless, "but that's fine."

<< Only because she's boring. They both are. >> Is if to emphasize his point, Szadath rises up briefly out of the water and shakes his wings out, flinging droplets every which way. It doesn't seem to bother Taikrin, who barely even flinches when she gets splashed; she's too focused on Riorde to really mind his antics. "He'll forget in another sevenday, max, and then-- you can't hold him back, y'know." Why does Taikrin look so guilty about this? "It ain't good for him... and then he'll just go after someone you probably don't like." To deflect from her own pallor, she adds on in a weak attempt at humor, "Might even end up under some heaving filthy bronzerider or something."

Sforzath, at this point, is inclined to agree with Szadath, even if that means that, well, he's agreeing with Szadath. Riorde's out of the splash-zone, though Sforzath isn't. "Guess so." A noncommittal answer if ever there was one. She turns red after Taikrin's final comment. Bright red. At least the steam rising off the surface of the water obscures her otherwise obvious embarrassment to a large extent. Sforzath finds it funny, undefined amusement coming off him in a quickening tempo evident despite the silence he maintains. Riorde tucks the wet ends of her hair behind her ears and, a little awkwardly, wonders, "Did you ever...?"

Taikrin is fascinated in a horrified kind of way at all the interesting colors Riorde is turning-- there's enough familiarity there to know when something's not quite right. Her mouth is hanging open, a little, so that she splutters at the question. "I-- well, once Szadath caught this dude's green, and it was a little tough tryin' to figure out what parts go where, but-- he's good to me. Mostly." Except for now, when he's making wavelets while he resettles himself under the steamy water. "He didn't-- you didn't-- you ''are'' okay, yeah?" Genuine concern there, finally, breaching through her surprise.

Briefly, very briefly, there's amusement at Taikrin's description of that greenflight in question, with a flicker of a smile that quickly pulls back and disappears. "I'm ''fine,''" Riorde insists with a firmness meant to close the subject. Except that she goes on, intending to allay suspicions with what in effect acts as a confirmation. "Wasn't like that." Like what? She doesn't specify.

"Wasn't like what?" Taikrin is quick to jump onto that, expression intent and maybe a little intimidating, because now she's splashing through the water towards Riorde like a woman with a mission. "Because Faranth help me if you got jumped by one of those assholes after the flight, I will fly right back there and end them ''right'' now." Szadath is interested again, in a grumpy sort of fashion. << At least yours managed to catch something, is it? >>

It is about now that the third rider in the hot springs decides that she has absolutely no interest observing flight-induced death threats, rolls her eyes, mutters something about idiot macho brownriders, and pulls herself out of the pool. Riorde, startled, would step back except that she's already sitting in a natural hollow along the edge of the pool with no where to go except sideways or forward. "Like what you think." Her eyes wide and round as she holds her ground. Taikrin bearing down on you can be scary - why did she never notice this before? "He's not an asshole," she protests, damning herself. As for Sforzath. He must have an inkling of consequences, but he and his rider have been at odds all week, so he issues a short thrum of confirmation; loyalty at least keeps him from naming names.

"Are you ''sure'' you're--" She nearly reaches out to manually inspect Riorde; at the last possible second Taikrin realizes that might actually be a terrible idea, and is so left with her arms hanging awkwardly out in mid-air for a few moments before she tucks them across her chest. At least she's less scary-looking that way? Awkwardly, "I just, you know-- don't want t'see you gettin' hurt is all. Guys after a flight can be-- rough. Just lookin' for a convenient hole, you know?" And then, for no apparent reason, "Sorry." But Szadath? His sullenness ignites, icy hot railing against his enforced impotence. << Must be nice. >>

Embarrassed isn't the half of it; with Taikrin closer now, the dusky red shadows appearing on the younger woman's cheeks are plainly evident. "I'm fine," she insists for what seems like the millionth time. "I can take care of myself. If I had to. But I didn't-- I mean, he wasn't-- " She takes a breath to stop herself from stammering further and looks at Taikrin squarely despite the way that she's still flushed and uncomfortable. "He likes me." Sforzath has settled down in the wake of the second green's departure. He doesn't bother to cover up a certain smugness at the other brown's reaction, after all that thinly veiled aggression. << It was. >>

Szadath is beyond posturing now-- there aren't any females to see it, in any case. Now he's just a low-simmering pot of pent up aggression and frustration, and that smug answer is met only with the worldless dull roar that is the hum of Szadath's mind. "I-- he what?" At first she's confused, as if she couldn't possibly be hearing properly; then comes surprise, and awkwardness, and maybe a little (tiny) bit of hurt. "Oh. Well, uh. Reckon that's good." One of her arms unwinds to scrub at the back of her head, and she shuffles back a half-pace or two so her lowered gaze isn't just staring at Riorde's chest. "Didn't figure."

"Figure what?" As part of the recovery from her obvious discomfort, Riorde goes on the offensive with a series of questions. "That someone might like me? That a guy might like me? What's so wrong with that?" She puts her arms over her chest, but she looks more sulky than defiant when her shoulders round and her chin tucks in. "You ''told'' me to go -- meet other weyrlings." This, clearly, is all Taikrin's fault.

"No! Yes!" It's too easy for Taikrin to go defensive, and she's flushing brighter beneath the heat and sunburn. "Nothing! I just-- I didn't think, okay? I wasn't thinkin' then and I ain't thinkin' now, and ''fuck'', I'm sorry, okay? It's been--" There's no words to describe her situation, only helpless, rueful laughter as she draws her hand down over her face. "Forget it. Sorry. Didn't mean nothin' by it." Szadath simmers. Simmer, simmer, simmer.

In lieu of the response Riorde doesn't immediately have, she puts on a deep, glowering frown that moves from Taikrin to a general reflection on the wide pool. "Nevermind." Her fatigue draws out the word meant to be kept clipped, with a faint sigh appended. For a time, Riorde doesn't say anything, but she's stealing little looks at the other rider, and eventually she grudgingly excuses Taikrin with the words, "It's alright."

And now she's trying to psyche herself up into this idea of Riorde and some other guy, and it's really pretty sad. "Because, y'know, y'ought t'be happy an' try it out--" Her accent thickens, as it's wont to do when Taikrin is particularly upset about something. "Anyways, reckon I ought t'go a'fore Szadath chews a hole through a rock or somethin'. Don't want him passin' on the fucked up crap he's got in his head to Sforzath, thinkin' it's alright." The brown out-and-out growls at this, then lurches from the water in a frenzy of jerky motions that might be intended to dry his hide-- or might just be movement for the sake of movement. Lamely, she tries to add, "'M glad you, uh. Made out okay. After Rielsath. 'Cause goldflights-- they can kill you."

Riorde doesn't look particularly comforted, with the changing character of her frown making her glum. The springs are big enough that Sforzath doesn't have to make room for Szadath, but he moves further away nonetheless, displacing the already disturbed water further.

"Yeah." Riorde rallies into a marginally more positive tone and even manages a thin, poor excuse for a smile. She keeps quiet thereafter, until, just before the other brownrider leaves, she voices with an unsteady, uncertain lift, "Taikrin?"

Taikrin still has one leg in the pool; she pivots, crouching on the stone lip in all her violently scarred glory (there are some new ones, bright pink and angry, across her torso), to make an attempt at nonchalance. It's pretty bad. "Yeah?"

Riorde tries to observe some rules of decorum by keeping her eyes fixed on Taikrin's face to an admirable extent. "I'll see you around?" The questioning nature of what she says then and following rings audibly. "I hope I didn't fuck it up." She rubs sweat away from her hairline, pushes wispy wet pieces of hair off her forehead, and adds, "With your wing."

"Yeah?" She can't help but sound maybe a tiny bit hopeful. It's in her nature. "Don't worry about them, they're a bunch of assholes. Reckon they were pretty impressed t'see you got a pair of balls on you, though." There, briefly, is Taikrin's charmingly lopsided grin. "Ain't a lot of people who ain't, well, them, who'll give me shit." With that pleasant thought, she pulls herself totally out of the pool (with complete unconcern for how bare-ass naked she is) to go and dry off.

"Okay." Riorde keeps her response short and sweet and simple. It wouldn't do to be caught mooning after Taikrin after she pretty much made a point of stating that it's bad behaviour, so she pulls herself over to Sforzath. His wings rise and fall and flutter with agitated, cross adjustments, but there's no doubt that he's happy to have her at his side with how his neck curves around towards her, his eyes taking on a shade that imparts greater ease.

If only Szadath were so happy; he's snappish when it comes time for Taikrin to mount up, and both look ill-at-ease. Look at the horrors that mating flights (or the lack thereof) can bring!

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Logs:Weyrling Camping Trip Begins

2011-11-22T02:58:07Z

Riorde:

{{ Log
| who = Iolene, Riorde, E'gin
| where = Exile Island
| what = Three different reactions to being back on the island and a confrontation.
| when = Day 8, Month 4, Turn 27
| gamedate = 2011.11.21
| quote = Sometimes, working hard is more fun than the easier option.
| weather =
| categories = Exiles
| mentions = Devaki, Emme, Kh'ry, Ch'vaz
| icons = iolene.jpg, riorde wistful.jpg, e'gin.png
| log = It's a cold, foggy sort of day and unpleasant by any of their new standards for living but when Ysavaeth appears from between and alights heavily onto the rocky shore, Iolene's only impact onto the ground is only seconds later. She's unfazed by the changes, the effusive joy coloring her face and shaping her features revealing that comparative to her recent bouts of happiness, this is Io at her best. Her arms stretch her head tips back and she takes in the day with all its disgusting winter turning into springness for what it is. It's home.

Dragon> To Ysavaeth, Sforzath is all hard bright edges, flint and jagged stone and the pale sunlight glinting off the water. Unsettled, a sharper intrusion than he means. A complaint he brings to Ysavaeth's court. << What is so great about all of this? >>

Iolene takes her time, not noticing the lifted hand or Riorde being there first. Her eyes are closed, her head tipped back, with a sudden stream of tears trickling down the sides of her cheeks. A note of concern emerges from Ysavaeth behind her, as the large dragon tries to figure out a way to get cozy on the rocky shore, and failing, trundles over to gently drop her nose into the blonde's hair, causing Iolene to slowly open her eyes and look up. "This is where I grew up, Ys." The lanky girl tiptoes up and plants a kiss to the dragon's under-maw before sinking back down and looking around. This is when Riorde is noted and a moment's, distinct, hesitation, then leads to a few steps forward to the brownrider. "How-... how are you?" It's a shorter version of: how are you feeling? Are you ok? Is it what you expected? Do you hate it here now?

Dragon> To Sforzath, Ysavaeth is silent, allowing the sharp intrusion to go unnoted in a regal sort of gentleness. She considers the pale sunlight glinting off his waters and the flint and jagged stones that sharpens the complaint he brings, and in response, there is no real rebuke. This time at least. << If it makes them happy, shouldn't we let them have this moment? She's almost as happy as-, >> a beat is followed by a reluctant confession, << Almost as happy as the day we found each other. >>

Riorde can wait. She drops her hand and watches Iolene's reaction at first with a small smile and then, growing conscious that perhaps it's not fit for her to intrude on the personal exchange between the gold and her rider, more uncomfortably, stealing little glances at the other pair. "Hi," she replies, turning back only after Iolene takes the initiative. She smiles a smile that grants entry past her typical restraint, a smile that is sad and sweet and happy all at once. "I'm okay. I'm fine. I couldn't imagine sitting here again." But then she looks out past Iolene to where Sforzath is discontentedly prowling around, and her smile dims.

Dragon> The sound of the pebbles Sforzath's kicking up and crunching together in little clatters amplifies in his mind. << I suppose, >> he grudgingly concedes only to continue in the following moment, << But why can't she like this just as much? >> A flash of /his/ home, the mountains and the snow and the spring wind kicking up and swirling around in excited little eddies. (Sforzath to Ysavaeth)

Dragon> To Sforzath, Ysavaeth's response is droll as she flashes images of the island on approach with its fogged over land and rocky-scape. << Maybe when she has lived in our home for as long as she has here, she might love it more. >> A succession of images from Iolene's head, plucked without the owner's knowledge, is shared in a flipbook style: the rocky shores at summer and the legs of chubby toddlers at play. The first frost that brings with it huddling in huts, cold but comfy with friends. The calm of the ocean when out fishing. The love that pulsates in every bit of Iolene's being ripples throughout each split second memory.

Ysavaeth, with Sforzath as a distraction, has relinquished her worry of Iolene which has allowed the young goldrider to drift further from the rocky shore to where Riorde waits. It's a sedate approach, at odds with the growing smile splitting her face or the impulsive hug that wraps about Riorde. "I'm so glad though. I'm so happy that I can say a proper goodbye." There's no doubts in her winter-paled features that ''this'' is her purpose here, those dark blue eyes casting about to take in the changes and releasing a small sigh. "It's hard to believe we grew up here."

Dragon> To Ysavaeth, Sforzath registers his familiarity with the scenes Ysavaeth's showing by picking out a few similar moments. The top of the cliffs and a windy sort of peace; the last, chilly dip in the river that can be considered enjoyable in late summer; the miniature wonder of a tidepool; balancing out on the wet rocks with a group of other girls and boys and seeing who falls in first as the waves sweep up. Love feels different when it comes from Riorde, carries something painful, fierce and sharp and protective. << Maybe. >> But he doubts, and in his mind starts to jealously boil away the sea.

"Is that what you want to do?" Riorde's voice is soft. "Say goodbye?" She holds on to Iolene, a hug that turns into huddled closeness. "I miss it, Io. I miss the sea. I miss everything."

Being practical dreamer is an oxymoron where compromises are made daily between desire and the understanding of reality. For Iolene, the eyes that drink in the landscape and its changes come back, however reluctantly, to Riorde so that dark blue might look into green frankly. "Ysavaeth could never live here. I don't think I could anymore either. It's so much easier," says the blonde teenager as her arms slip down Riorde's side to hold in a loose finger-hold at the woman's waist, "To live without when you don't know better exists. It's too hard to imagine being hungry again, Ri."

Riorde answers with a small, embarrassed smile that admits the reality Iolene calls up into her nostalgia. "I know. I don't think I could go back to how hard it was, either. Sforzath thinks I'm being stupid." She watches her dragon ruefully, who has at least stopped stomping and is now exploring the shallows, pretending he isn't interested in the crabs and spiderclaws clustered in a little rocky pool that's started to appear as the tide goes out.

Confidentially, though not quite so much given the tabs her dragon keeps on her, Iolene leans forward and murmurs, "If Ysa wouldn't mind, maybe we could be happy here. But I don't know if I could feed myself and keep her fed too." It might very well be mostly tease, except the way Io's gaze drifts up the cliff. Never mind the other weyrlings, a hand snakes out and grabs Riorde's to drag her up and up to the island's tallest point, "Come on, let's climb."

Sounding as if she hates to acknowledge it yet bound to do so anyway, Riorde notes, "Sforzath wouldn't like it. He likes the mountains and the snow -- maybe if he'd been born somewhere like this, but he wasn't." The older girl lets herself be pulled up and lets that act as a break in her mood too, since she grins brightly at the suggestion, throws out the challenge of, "Race you!" and is all too happy to have concentration on the proper footholds eclipse everything else.

Being a dragonrider hasn't imbued her with any supernatural strength or agility, and yet, some part of Iolene remembers. She remembers how to race and how to run with a carefreeness long lost to captivity in the Weyr. Long strides keep her close enough to Riorde, and equal concentration keeps her silent (but for a heavier breathing) as she manages her toe and hand holds upwards. It's only as they approach the top and her hands push her up the rest of the way that a laugh catches in her throat. "Oh, Ysa," aloud for Riorde's benefit, as her dragon isn't anywhere actually near anymore, "Sometimes, working hard is more fun than the easier option." Which, in this case, would be being dropped off by a dragon. A grin steals across to where Riorde might be.

"Damn," Riorde gasps out as she scrambles up the last part of the climb and flops first on her belly before rolling over onto her back, stretching out with what seems like contented exhaustion, "you're like a spinner." She laces her fingers together behind her head and lets go a sigh. "Wonder if some of the others would like this. Could teach them the ways up first, then have a race for the ones who weren't afraid to climb."

"Down is always harder," opines Iolene, not moving from the state she was in when she first pulled herself up and over, on her belly, eating dirt. "This used to be a lot easier too." Back in the day. "I'm sure some would." The pause she allows is one of those lingering moments that fill with an, as yet, unspoken tease. She'll even giggle softly into the dirt before rolling over onto her back to look up into the cloud-filled sky. "I imagine Ch'vaz wouldn't mind learning how and where to climb. At least from you." Not Io though.

"Yeah, cause you can't see where you're going," Riorde agrees. "But you can always go down the long way -- or have the dragons come up." The latter addition is remembered, ruefully. No one has to choose between the hard way and the long way anymore. The weyrling turns her head to look over at Iolene, wrinkling her nose in a pretend-scowl undermined by the way she struggles not to grin. Allowing herself to sound young, Ri answers, "Oh what''ever.''"

"At least he knows you're alive," says the teenager. But in spite of her mild bitterness, or maybe due to it, Io pulls herself up to her feet and walks a slow path to the edge of the cliff, looking down upon what remains of the settlement she grew up in. "It hasn't even been two turns but it feels like forever ago." Her mouth twitches and a gaze casts backwards to where Riorde is. "Do you think-," a finger climbs to twirl about a lock of blonde hair. "Do you think I could've married Devaki if we had never left? Would you have? Or someone else?"

"I guess so." Slightly skeptical, there's more that Riorde could go on to say, but she keeps it in and saves it for later when Iolene stands up. Ri gets up to join the other girl, looking out at the sea rather than at their ruined huts. "I don't know. Neither of us wanted to get married, remember?" For what seems like an innocent answer, Riorde struggles with emotion, swallowing and avoiding Iolene's gaze. "But I suppose we would've had to eventually."

"I did," is Iolene's quietest confession, sound a little ashamed of it all as she says those two little words. On the high cliff that overlooks the wrecked settlement, what remains of those huts and lifestyle they all shared at one point, Iolene and Riorde stand. Their dragons are on the rocky shore, one decidedly more placid with where they are than the other. "I wanted to. Some day. It hurts Ysavaeth sometime, when she realizes just how much I wanted to have that life but I wouldn't give her up for anything. No one. Nothing. Do you think-," but her question never materializes.

Arms curled across himself, bracing against a familiar cold E'gin strides silently up to the top of the cliff. His thoughts are else where, his eyes vacant, and it isn't until he is relatively close that he notices other voices. Suddenly he becomes aware of his surroundings again, right about the time that his bulky lifemate glides into for a landing on the shore below. Vysravth offers the other occupants a rumbled greeting, as E'gin realizes that he is probably too close to sneak a way. Finishes the distance between himself and the women with a wave and a strange smile. "Hi." The simple word full of emotion and thoughtfulness, "How you guys doing?" His tone low and soft, conveying a reverance for the solemnity of his question and greeting.

Perhaps surprisingly, given Riorde's vocal anti-marriage position both on and off the island, she now looks at Iolene with sympathy. "Sometimes I think I did too. Maybe it would've been good, with the right person." Her eyebrows arch in a silent prompt for the rest of Iolene's question that the other girl can take or leave, and some of the open question in her expression remains as she turns, hearing E'gin's voice behind them. "Hey." Ri has barely given the other brownrider the time of day for some time now, but today she manages a short, quick smile. "I'm alright."

It's the strange smile that Iolene notes first, after E'gin's words interrupt the girl moment so that the blonde turns to look. There's a small smile for the brownriding wingleader of Cirrus and a lifted hand that wiggles fingers both in greeting and beckon. "I'm saying goodbye." Which doesn't answer how she's doing, but that's soon coming forth after a pursed press of her lips. "I think I'm ok. I was going to braid a wreath of flowers together and throw them into the water for granny and then visit the caves before we put up a fire. We're putting up a fire right? Do you," she spares a sidelong look for Riorde, though the light tease of her words are directed to E'gin, "Need me to go fishing?"

Riorde receives a nod from E'gin, and a the right corner of his mouth curls up in a I'm-glad-you're-okay grin, before he turns to Iolene contemplating the girl for a moment. "No, Io, take your time doing what you need to do." He raises a hand to emphasize his point. "Besides, fishing is my job." The thin smile that creeps across his face betrays the fact that he's looking forward to it. "It's my own little way of saying goodbye...but you are more than welcome to join." He turns to Riorde, "Both of you are welcome if you'd like." His arms cross again after a pause, "Do you wonder what we'd be doing if we were here now...I mean if we hadn't left, you know? It was only a turn, but it feels so long ago, and like we are all so much olders. We were just kids weren't we?" His questions-statements stream out without pause, like he's working out his thoughts as the words spill.

"You go," Riorde tells E'gin, excusing herself. "I'm going tomorrow. I want show Sforzath spots on the other island tomorrow." Her tone is even, but her nostalgia resurfaces in her eyes, in the way she looks slightly wistful. "I'll make sure the fire's going for when you get back." The you could either be singular or plural, according to what Iolene wants to do. "Married, probably," she says to E'gin's question, making herself shrug. "Doing what we'd always done."

"Married," echoes Iolene. There's a twitch of a funny look for E'gin as he speaks but with teeth falling down upon her lower lip, the blonde doesn't voice anything further on the subject of fishing, taking off on the final question with, "I don't think we're considered kids after we can work and find something useful to do honestly. I don't- I think we'd be married with our first kids on the way sometime soon." Lanky limbs sink onto the damp ground, her legs dangling off the edge of the cliff as she looks down upon the settlement. "Grams would still be alive. Grandpa too. So many people would probably still be alive and yet, I guess with the storm that came back then, a lot would've died also. What do you think?"

"Married?" E'gin sighs heavily, though there is a lack of sadness about the lost concept. "Can't imagine I'd have done well that, or that I would have ended u paired with anyone who liked me much." He chuckles softly, "Perhaps, this all saved some unlucky girl from ending up with me, though I guess those dragons were like raising something like a child, at least at first...A very hungry, strong, itchy child." He grins at Iolene, "No, we aren't any more, but it seems like we were." E'gin frowns softly at the back of the goldriders head, before slipping onto the ground beside her, his head turning to look at her, "Maybe they would be." He pauses, his tone is matter of fact but laced with sympathy, "Maybe, but that storm was awful, we would have lost more if we stayed," He reaches out a hand resting it on her shoulder, "Io, it would have been more..." His hand falls slowly back into his lap as his eyes fall upon their old home, his brows pulling together in a mixture of feelings that have no name.

"Well-- it wasn't really about how much you liked someone." Riorde can't help but glance briefly at Iolene, though the other girl's now facing away and looking out. The young woman doesn't move to join the other two, instead wrapping arms around herself as she stays standing. At first she says nothing, with her omission letting E'gin answer for them both, until she murmurs, "Either way, we lose."

Iolene looks sidelong at E'gin as he comes behind her and pats her shoulder. She manages a smile, wry, "I think you've been on the mainland too long if you thought marrying here was for liking anyone. I still can't believe they let Tom and Seani get divorced." But the mention of Tom's ex-wife, now dead, draws Iolene short and her already winter pale skin pales further. "I still haven't been able to figure out who might have killed her. I feel like- I feel like someone knows something they won't tell us. For our own good." There, there's another note of bitterness that the Iolene of two years ago would likely be incapable of. "Now that we came back, do you think we're happier now away from here?"

"No, I don't think that's why we got married around here, but I know some people did end up liking each other..." E'gin frowns softly at the thought of his parents. He looks back over his shoulder at Riorde's comment and then glances at Iolene at her question and he sighs softly, thoughtfully. His pause, and indicatation that he trying to decide if he tell them. Clutching the edge of the cliff with his hands, he lets his head hang downward as she speaks quietly, "I am- I think. I have more -potential- now. Here my life was decided for me. There I have some say in it..." His eyes settle on the brown below. "I have a chance to do things, be someone, make a change..." He glances back at Riorde his eyes full of regret for feeling this way, "We lost some, I think we gained more...You can be who you want now Ri. You're not bound by the rules, get married, make babies...You decide." His gaze fall back on the abandoned houses of their past, "I'm sorry." A genuine apology.

"I thought," Riorde starts after Iolene starts to speculate about Seani's killer, then stops short, lips pressing together. She walks to the edge, taking up a position next to Iolene, but doesn't drop down to sit. Glancing over Iolene's head when E'gin addresses her, the other brownrider looks back with a long, even look. "I know," she says simply. "That's why I stood."

The discussion of potential is one that presses Iolene's lips thin; a would-be privileged member of the exiles and now vaulted into a position she's still struggling to understand, but a position nonetheless. And, in the past, these discussions between her and E'gin have generally gone in circles. But there's that slim hand of hers that uses E'gin's side as leverage to stand again that turns into a light pat. She might not agree, so says her expression, but no hard feelings, yes? All in the smallest little pat and apologetic look flashed downward. "More choices," begins the untrained goldrider delicately, "Doesn't always mean a better life. But, I wouldn't give up Ysavaeth for the world anymore so the point is moot I guess. I'm going to go find my old haunts." She steps past Riorde, but not before brushing her lips to the woman's cheek in a friendly goodbye. "Be safe up here. Don't," she manages a quick, tiny little grin, "Race down the mountain like we raced up it. I'll see you guys around the fire later."

E'gin looks up as places a hand on his shoulder and stands and gives her a wave that indicates tha the doesn't mind she doesn't agree. He watches the gold rider disappear down the path before his gaze flickers back to Riorde. He looks up at the female with a sad grin, "I know. I can't imagine you here, tied down to something you've got too much - spunk - for that." He studies her for a moment looking away, "You've been ignoring me." He comments, no judgement a simple observation. He points to a gathering of bushes on the outskirts of a mostly hidden hideaway of water, he chuckles to himself, "Us boys use to watch you...the girls... swim there, in the bushes." He snorts in the laughter of innocent memories.

Riorde's "Bye" trails after Iolene as the goldrider heads off. As she turns back to look out at the island below, her eyes inadvertently meets E'gin's to prompt mild discomfort; she looks away quickly to continue her perusal of what activity she can see in the settlement and further beyond on the beach. "Have I?" Instead of ignoring his comment or denying it, Ri turns it into a mildly mocking challenge of his assessment, voice lifting. She glances at him again, then looks in the direction he points. "We knew, you know. Sometimes. You boys were bad at staying quiet."

"And I have done something to earn your discontent?" E'gin's question offered with a half-smile, leaning backwards and propping himself up with his arms he watches the girl, "Yes, we thought we were being so quiet, but looking back I recall quiet a bit of shoving, teasing and giggling." He pauses watching the girl, "How come you guys never called us on it?" He chuckles softly and raises an arm to waggle a finger at her before settling it back down, "And it isn't like you guys didn't pull your fair share of pranks on us." He faces falls, "I suppose we did have some fun, back then, eh?"

Riorde's eyebrows arch as she glances at E'gin again; she isn't making this easy. "You tell me, o wingleader mine. Have you?" The rest of his remarks and questions, both rhetorical and not, go unanswered as she waits in that pose of ready observation, crossing her arms over her chest to add one more cool layer between herself and E'gin.

"So this has something to do with me being wingleader again?" E'gin sighs heavily, sitting back up to study the world below him, "I didn't choose that Ri..." He pauses, standing, at least he's willing to take a guess, "Ah. Is it because I didn't ask you to be a wing second." He doesn't seem deterred by her crossed arms as he takes a step toward, "I mean, Riorde, you have to know why?" His arms hang heavily at his side, he'll at least offer his question with his defenses down, creases forming in his forehead and around his mouth.
"I didn't ''want'' to be wingleader," Riorde starts up in quick, vicious protest. "I don't care if you are or -- or ''Kh'ry'' is." She picks someone she thinks improbable to accentuate the point, then, having launched herself into a tirade, shuts up abruptly as E'gin hits the nail on the head. The same watchful attention, but this time with a distinctly bitter undercurrent.

"Ri?" E'gin starts and then ends simply with out held hand and, "See?"

Riorde doesn't react visibly beyond the way her jaw moves when she clenches her teeth together. Then, speaking with clear, cold pronunciation: "Fuck you, Elgin." She allows a space for the words to sink in. "You think you know everything."

"I don't think I know everything." E'gin's words tempered in volume only, "I just know, that for whatever reason your temper goes crazy whenever you're around me." The tone mixed with anger and frustration, "How can I work with you if everything I say pisses you off to a point where we can't talk constructively about it?"

Riorde's expression is the equivalent of the 'Oh really?' that she doesn't say. "So this is," she states with a deliberate slowness, "all my fault. Have you never considered that you talk too much?" The other brownrider's mouth twists to one side in a smile that bespeaks derision rather than friendliness. "And we did call you boys on your shit. I distinctly remember dumping a bucket of water on Xoami's head one night and telling him not to look at me again."

"Didn't I just say, that what /I/ say pisses you off?" E'gin sighs slightly, he offers the female's comment a slight smile, but shakes his head, "I think we should try and figure this out. I never mean to upset you, Ri, what is it about me?"

"Do you?" Each of these short questions sounds increasingly mocking. "That would make you happy, wouldn't it. If everyone gets along with you and thinks you make all the right choices." Riorde, with these remarks, hardly seems willing to accept the white flag E'gin's waving and let bygones be bygones. "I worked harder than Emme -- I wanted it more -- I ''trained'' for it -- and that doesn't matter to you just because I don't want to be your best friend. ''That's'' what it is about you." Displeased to begin with, Riorde's looking even less agreeable by the time she finishes, "So no, I don't want to 'try and figure this out.' I want to take some of the others out collecting crabs and get the fire going and get started on dinner. And I don't have to ask your leave to do it either, because this is as much my island as it as yours, even if you can tell us all what to do back at the Weyr."

E'gin watches her and her tirade rather emotionalessly. "Okay, if that is how you feel." Is all he says when she finally reaches the end, and turns back around, settling himself on the edge of the cliff without looking back at the girl.

"It is," Riorde replies, but as firmly as she says it, somehow it strikes her as ineffectual as she speaks it to E'gin's back. So, after one hard stare at him, waiting to see if anything more's to come, she spins around and starts down the path -- only to realise that she'd rather not spend the time it takes to go down that way. So at a distance, pointedly facing away from E'gin, she waits for Sforzath to show up (and he's taking his own sweet time, less than happy for his own reasons).

Awkward stand-off commence!

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Logs:Weyrling Camping Trip Begins

2011-11-22T02:57:03Z

Riorde:

{{ Log
| who = Iolene, Riorde, E'gin
| where = Exile Island
| what = Three different reactions to being back on the island and a confrontation.
| when = Day 8, Month 4, Turn 27
| gamedate = 2011.11.21
| quote = Sometimes, working hard is more fun than the easier option.
| weather =
| categories = Exiles
| mentions = Emme, Kh'ry, Devaki
| icons = iolene.jpg, riorde wistful.jpg, e'gin.png
| log = It's a cold, foggy sort of day and unpleasant by any of their new standards for living but when Ysavaeth appears from between and alights heavily onto the rocky shore, Iolene's only impact onto the ground is only seconds later. She's unfazed by the changes, the effusive joy coloring her face and shaping her features revealing that comparative to her recent bouts of happiness, this is Io at her best. Her arms stretch her head tips back and she takes in the day with all its disgusting winter turning into springness for what it is. It's home.

Dragon> To Ysavaeth, Sforzath is all hard bright edges, flint and jagged stone and the pale sunlight glinting off the water. Unsettled, a sharper intrusion than he means. A complaint he brings to Ysavaeth's court. << What is so great about all of this? >>

Iolene takes her time, not noticing the lifted hand or Riorde being there first. Her eyes are closed, her head tipped back, with a sudden stream of tears trickling down the sides of her cheeks. A note of concern emerges from Ysavaeth behind her, as the large dragon tries to figure out a way to get cozy on the rocky shore, and failing, trundles over to gently drop her nose into the blonde's hair, causing Iolene to slowly open her eyes and look up. "This is where I grew up, Ys." The lanky girl tiptoes up and plants a kiss to the dragon's under-maw before sinking back down and looking around. This is when Riorde is noted and a moment's, distinct, hesitation, then leads to a few steps forward to the brownrider. "How-... how are you?" It's a shorter version of: how are you feeling? Are you ok? Is it what you expected? Do you hate it here now?

Dragon> To Sforzath, Ysavaeth is silent, allowing the sharp intrusion to go unnoted in a regal sort of gentleness. She considers the pale sunlight glinting off his waters and the flint and jagged stones that sharpens the complaint he brings, and in response, there is no real rebuke. This time at least. << If it makes them happy, shouldn't we let them have this moment? She's almost as happy as-, >> a beat is followed by a reluctant confession, << Almost as happy as the day we found each other. >>

Riorde can wait. She drops her hand and watches Iolene's reaction at first with a small smile and then, growing conscious that perhaps it's not fit for her to intrude on the personal exchange between the gold and her rider, more uncomfortably, stealing little glances at the other pair. "Hi," she replies, turning back only after Iolene takes the initiative. She smiles a smile that grants entry past her typical restraint, a smile that is sad and sweet and happy all at once. "I'm okay. I'm fine. I couldn't imagine sitting here again." But then she looks out past Iolene to where Sforzath is discontentedly prowling around, and her smile dims.

Dragon> The sound of the pebbles Sforzath's kicking up and crunching together in little clatters amplifies in his mind. << I suppose, >> he grudgingly concedes only to continue in the following moment, << But why can't she like this just as much? >> A flash of /his/ home, the mountains and the snow and the spring wind kicking up and swirling around in excited little eddies. (Sforzath to Ysavaeth)

Dragon> To Sforzath, Ysavaeth's response is droll as she flashes images of the island on approach with its fogged over land and rocky-scape. << Maybe when she has lived in our home for as long as she has here, she might love it more. >> A succession of images from Iolene's head, plucked without the owner's knowledge, is shared in a flipbook style: the rocky shores at summer and the legs of chubby toddlers at play. The first frost that brings with it huddling in huts, cold but comfy with friends. The calm of the ocean when out fishing. The love that pulsates in every bit of Iolene's being ripples throughout each split second memory.

Ysavaeth, with Sforzath as a distraction, has relinquished her worry of Iolene which has allowed the young goldrider to drift further from the rocky shore to where Riorde waits. It's a sedate approach, at odds with the growing smile splitting her face or the impulsive hug that wraps about Riorde. "I'm so glad though. I'm so happy that I can say a proper goodbye." There's no doubts in her winter-paled features that ''this'' is her purpose here, those dark blue eyes casting about to take in the changes and releasing a small sigh. "It's hard to believe we grew up here."

Dragon> To Ysavaeth, Sforzath registers his familiarity with the scenes Ysavaeth's showing by picking out a few similar moments. The top of the cliffs and a windy sort of peace; the last, chilly dip in the river that can be considered enjoyable in late summer; the miniature wonder of a tidepool; balancing out on the wet rocks with a group of other girls and boys and seeing who falls in first as the waves sweep up. Love feels different when it comes from Riorde, carries something painful, fierce and sharp and protective. << Maybe. >> But he doubts, and in his mind starts to jealously boil away the sea.

"Is that what you want to do?" Riorde's voice is soft. "Say goodbye?" She holds on to Iolene, a hug that turns into huddled closeness. "I miss it, Io. I miss the sea. I miss everything."

Being practical dreamer is an oxymoron where compromises are made daily between desire and the understanding of reality. For Iolene, the eyes that drink in the landscape and its changes come back, however reluctantly, to Riorde so that dark blue might look into green frankly. "Ysavaeth could never live here. I don't think I could anymore either. It's so much easier," says the blonde teenager as her arms slip down Riorde's side to hold in a loose finger-hold at the woman's waist, "To live without when you don't know better exists. It's too hard to imagine being hungry again, Ri."

Riorde answers with a small, embarrassed smile that admits the reality Iolene calls up into her nostalgia. "I know. I don't think I could go back to how hard it was, either. Sforzath thinks I'm being stupid." She watches her dragon ruefully, who has at least stopped stomping and is now exploring the shallows, pretending he isn't interested in the crabs and spiderclaws clustered in a little rocky pool that's started to appear as the tide goes out.

Confidentially, though not quite so much given the tabs her dragon keeps on her, Iolene leans forward and murmurs, "If Ysa wouldn't mind, maybe we could be happy here. But I don't know if I could feed myself and keep her fed too." It might very well be mostly tease, except the way Io's gaze drifts up the cliff. Never mind the other weyrlings, a hand snakes out and grabs Riorde's to drag her up and up to the island's tallest point, "Come on, let's climb."

Sounding as if she hates to acknowledge it yet bound to do so anyway, Riorde notes, "Sforzath wouldn't like it. He likes the mountains and the snow -- maybe if he'd been born somewhere like this, but he wasn't." The older girl lets herself be pulled up and lets that act as a break in her mood too, since she grins brightly at the suggestion, throws out the challenge of, "Race you!" and is all too happy to have concentration on the proper footholds eclipse everything else.

Being a dragonrider hasn't imbued her with any supernatural strength or agility, and yet, some part of Iolene remembers. She remembers how to race and how to run with a carefreeness long lost to captivity in the Weyr. Long strides keep her close enough to Riorde, and equal concentration keeps her silent (but for a heavier breathing) as she manages her toe and hand holds upwards. It's only as they approach the top and her hands push her up the rest of the way that a laugh catches in her throat. "Oh, Ysa," aloud for Riorde's benefit, as her dragon isn't anywhere actually near anymore, "Sometimes, working hard is more fun than the easier option." Which, in this case, would be being dropped off by a dragon. A grin steals across to where Riorde might be.

"Damn," Riorde gasps out as she scrambles up the last part of the climb and flops first on her belly before rolling over onto her back, stretching out with what seems like contented exhaustion, "you're like a spinner." She laces her fingers together behind her head and lets go a sigh. "Wonder if some of the others would like this. Could teach them the ways up first, then have a race for the ones who weren't afraid to climb."

"Down is always harder," opines Iolene, not moving from the state she was in when she first pulled herself up and over, on her belly, eating dirt. "This used to be a lot easier too." Back in the day. "I'm sure some would." The pause she allows is one of those lingering moments that fill with an, as yet, unspoken tease. She'll even giggle softly into the dirt before rolling over onto her back to look up into the cloud-filled sky. "I imagine Ch'vaz wouldn't mind learning how and where to climb. At least from you." Not Io though.

"Yeah, cause you can't see where you're going," Riorde agrees. "But you can always go down the long way -- or have the dragons come up." The latter addition is remembered, ruefully. No one has to choose between the hard way and the long way anymore. The weyrling turns her head to look over at Iolene, wrinkling her nose in a pretend-scowl undermined by the way she struggles not to grin. Allowing herself to sound young, Ri answers, "Oh what''ever.''"

"At least he knows you're alive," says the teenager. But in spite of her mild bitterness, or maybe due to it, Io pulls herself up to her feet and walks a slow path to the edge of the cliff, looking down upon what remains of the settlement she grew up in. "It hasn't even been two turns but it feels like forever ago." Her mouth twitches and a gaze casts backwards to where Riorde is. "Do you think-," a finger climbs to twirl about a lock of blonde hair. "Do you think I could've married Devaki if we had never left? Would you have? Or someone else?"

"I guess so." Slightly skeptical, there's more that Riorde could go on to say, but she keeps it in and saves it for later when Iolene stands up. Ri gets up to join the other girl, looking out at the sea rather than at their ruined huts. "I don't know. Neither of us wanted to get married, remember?" For what seems like an innocent answer, Riorde struggles with emotion, swallowing and avoiding Iolene's gaze. "But I suppose we would've had to eventually."

"I did," is Iolene's quietest confession, sound a little ashamed of it all as she says those two little words. On the high cliff that overlooks the wrecked settlement, what remains of those huts and lifestyle they all shared at one point, Iolene and Riorde stand. Their dragons are on the rocky shore, one decidedly more placid with where they are than the other. "I wanted to. Some day. It hurts Ysavaeth sometime, when she realizes just how much I wanted to have that life but I wouldn't give her up for anything. No one. Nothing. Do you think-," but her question never materializes.

Arms curled across himself, bracing against a familiar cold E'gin strides silently up to the top of the cliff. His thoughts are else where, his eyes vacant, and it isn't until he is relatively close that he notices other voices. Suddenly he becomes aware of his surroundings again, right about the time that his bulky lifemate glides into for a landing on the shore below. Vysravth offers the other occupants a rumbled greeting, as E'gin realizes that he is probably too close to sneak a way. Finishes the distance between himself and the women with a wave and a strange smile. "Hi." The simple word full of emotion and thoughtfulness, "How you guys doing?" His tone low and soft, conveying a reverance for the solemnity of his question and greeting.

Perhaps surprisingly, given Riorde's vocal anti-marriage position both on and off the island, she now looks at Iolene with sympathy. "Sometimes I think I did too. Maybe it would've been good, with the right person." Her eyebrows arch in a silent prompt for the rest of Iolene's question that the other girl can take or leave, and some of the open question in her expression remains as she turns, hearing E'gin's voice behind them. "Hey." Ri has barely given the other brownrider the time of day for some time now, but today she manages a short, quick smile. "I'm alright."

It's the strange smile that Iolene notes first, after E'gin's words interrupt the girl moment so that the blonde turns to look. There's a small smile for the brownriding wingleader of Cirrus and a lifted hand that wiggles fingers both in greeting and beckon. "I'm saying goodbye." Which doesn't answer how she's doing, but that's soon coming forth after a pursed press of her lips. "I think I'm ok. I was going to braid a wreath of flowers together and throw them into the water for granny and then visit the caves before we put up a fire. We're putting up a fire right? Do you," she spares a sidelong look for Riorde, though the light tease of her words are directed to E'gin, "Need me to go fishing?"

Riorde receives a nod from E'gin, and a the right corner of his mouth curls up in a I'm-glad-you're-okay grin, before he turns to Iolene contemplating the girl for a moment. "No, Io, take your time doing what you need to do." He raises a hand to emphasize his point. "Besides, fishing is my job." The thin smile that creeps across his face betrays the fact that he's looking forward to it. "It's my own little way of saying goodbye...but you are more than welcome to join." He turns to Riorde, "Both of you are welcome if you'd like." His arms cross again after a pause, "Do you wonder what we'd be doing if we were here now...I mean if we hadn't left, you know? It was only a turn, but it feels so long ago, and like we are all so much olders. We were just kids weren't we?" His questions-statements stream out without pause, like he's working out his thoughts as the words spill.

"You go," Riorde tells E'gin, excusing herself. "I'm going tomorrow. I want show Sforzath spots on the other island tomorrow." Her tone is even, but her nostalgia resurfaces in her eyes, in the way she looks slightly wistful. "I'll make sure the fire's going for when you get back." The you could either be singular or plural, according to what Iolene wants to do. "Married, probably," she says to E'gin's question, making herself shrug. "Doing what we'd always done."

"Married," echoes Iolene. There's a twitch of a funny look for E'gin as he speaks but with teeth falling down upon her lower lip, the blonde doesn't voice anything further on the subject of fishing, taking off on the final question with, "I don't think we're considered kids after we can work and find something useful to do honestly. I don't- I think we'd be married with our first kids on the way sometime soon." Lanky limbs sink onto the damp ground, her legs dangling off the edge of the cliff as she looks down upon the settlement. "Grams would still be alive. Grandpa too. So many people would probably still be alive and yet, I guess with the storm that came back then, a lot would've died also. What do you think?"

"Married?" E'gin sighs heavily, though there is a lack of sadness about the lost concept. "Can't imagine I'd have done well that, or that I would have ended u paired with anyone who liked me much." He chuckles softly, "Perhaps, this all saved some unlucky girl from ending up with me, though I guess those dragons were like raising something like a child, at least at first...A very hungry, strong, itchy child." He grins at Iolene, "No, we aren't any more, but it seems like we were." E'gin frowns softly at the back of the goldriders head, before slipping onto the ground beside her, his head turning to look at her, "Maybe they would be." He pauses, his tone is matter of fact but laced with sympathy, "Maybe, but that storm was awful, we would have lost more if we stayed," He reaches out a hand resting it on her shoulder, "Io, it would have been more..." His hand falls slowly back into his lap as his eyes fall upon their old home, his brows pulling together in a mixture of feelings that have no name.

"Well-- it wasn't really about how much you liked someone." Riorde can't help but glance briefly at Iolene, though the other girl's now facing away and looking out. The young woman doesn't move to join the other two, instead wrapping arms around herself as she stays standing. At first she says nothing, with her omission letting E'gin answer for them both, until she murmurs, "Either way, we lose."

Iolene looks sidelong at E'gin as he comes behind her and pats her shoulder. She manages a smile, wry, "I think you've been on the mainland too long if you thought marrying here was for liking anyone. I still can't believe they let Tom and Seani get divorced." But the mention of Tom's ex-wife, now dead, draws Iolene short and her already winter pale skin pales further. "I still haven't been able to figure out who might have killed her. I feel like- I feel like someone knows something they won't tell us. For our own good." There, there's another note of bitterness that the Iolene of two years ago would likely be incapable of. "Now that we came back, do you think we're happier now away from here?"

"No, I don't think that's why we got married around here, but I know some people did end up liking each other..." E'gin frowns softly at the thought of his parents. He looks back over his shoulder at Riorde's comment and then glances at Iolene at her question and he sighs softly, thoughtfully. His pause, and indicatation that he trying to decide if he tell them. Clutching the edge of the cliff with his hands, he lets his head hang downward as she speaks quietly, "I am- I think. I have more -potential- now. Here my life was decided for me. There I have some say in it..." His eyes settle on the brown below. "I have a chance to do things, be someone, make a change..." He glances back at Riorde his eyes full of regret for feeling this way, "We lost some, I think we gained more...You can be who you want now Ri. You're not bound by the rules, get married, make babies...You decide." His gaze fall back on the abandoned houses of their past, "I'm sorry." A genuine apology.

"I thought," Riorde starts after Iolene starts to speculate about Seani's killer, then stops short, lips pressing together. She walks to the edge, taking up a position next to Iolene, but doesn't drop down to sit. Glancing over Iolene's head when E'gin addresses her, the other brownrider looks back with a long, even look. "I know," she says simply. "That's why I stood."

The discussion of potential is one that presses Iolene's lips thin; a would-be privileged member of the exiles and now vaulted into a position she's still struggling to understand, but a position nonetheless. And, in the past, these discussions between her and E'gin have generally gone in circles. But there's that slim hand of hers that uses E'gin's side as leverage to stand again that turns into a light pat. She might not agree, so says her expression, but no hard feelings, yes? All in the smallest little pat and apologetic look flashed downward. "More choices," begins the untrained goldrider delicately, "Doesn't always mean a better life. But, I wouldn't give up Ysavaeth for the world anymore so the point is moot I guess. I'm going to go find my old haunts." She steps past Riorde, but not before brushing her lips to the woman's cheek in a friendly goodbye. "Be safe up here. Don't," she manages a quick, tiny little grin, "Race down the mountain like we raced up it. I'll see you guys around the fire later."

E'gin looks up as places a hand on his shoulder and stands and gives her a wave that indicates tha the doesn't mind she doesn't agree. He watches the gold rider disappear down the path before his gaze flickers back to Riorde. He looks up at the female with a sad grin, "I know. I can't imagine you here, tied down to something you've got too much - spunk - for that." He studies her for a moment looking away, "You've been ignoring me." He comments, no judgement a simple observation. He points to a gathering of bushes on the outskirts of a mostly hidden hideaway of water, he chuckles to himself, "Us boys use to watch you...the girls... swim there, in the bushes." He snorts in the laughter of innocent memories.

Riorde's "Bye" trails after Iolene as the goldrider heads off. As she turns back to look out at the island below, her eyes inadvertently meets E'gin's to prompt mild discomfort; she looks away quickly to continue her perusal of what activity she can see in the settlement and further beyond on the beach. "Have I?" Instead of ignoring his comment or denying it, Ri turns it into a mildly mocking challenge of his assessment, voice lifting. She glances at him again, then looks in the direction he points. "We knew, you know. Sometimes. You boys were bad at staying quiet."

"And I have done something to earn your discontent?" E'gin's question offered with a half-smile, leaning backwards and propping himself up with his arms he watches the girl, "Yes, we thought we were being so quiet, but looking back I recall quiet a bit of shoving, teasing and giggling." He pauses watching the girl, "How come you guys never called us on it?" He chuckles softly and raises an arm to waggle a finger at her before settling it back down, "And it isn't like you guys didn't pull your fair share of pranks on us." He faces falls, "I suppose we did have some fun, back then, eh?"

Riorde's eyebrows arch as she glances at E'gin again; she isn't making this easy. "You tell me, o wingleader mine. Have you?" The rest of his remarks and questions, both rhetorical and not, go unanswered as she waits in that pose of ready observation, crossing her arms over her chest to add one more cool layer between herself and E'gin.

"So this has something to do with me being wingleader again?" E'gin sighs heavily, sitting back up to study the world below him, "I didn't choose that Ri..." He pauses, standing, at least he's willing to take a guess, "Ah. Is it because I didn't ask you to be a wing second." He doesn't seem deterred by her crossed arms as he takes a step toward, "I mean, Riorde, you have to know why?" His arms hang heavily at his side, he'll at least offer his question with his defenses down, creases forming in his forehead and around his mouth.
"I didn't ''want'' to be wingleader," Riorde starts up in quick, vicious protest. "I don't care if you are or -- or ''Kh'ry'' is." She picks someone she thinks improbable to accentuate the point, then, having launched herself into a tirade, shuts up abruptly as E'gin hits the nail on the head. The same watchful attention, but this time with a distinctly bitter undercurrent.

"Ri?" E'gin starts and then ends simply with out held hand and, "See?"

Riorde doesn't react visibly beyond the way her jaw moves when she clenches her teeth together. Then, speaking with clear, cold pronunciation: "Fuck you, Elgin." She allows a space for the words to sink in. "You think you know everything."

"I don't think I know everything." E'gin's words tempered in volume only, "I just know, that for whatever reason your temper goes crazy whenever you're around me." The tone mixed with anger and frustration, "How can I work with you if everything I say pisses you off to a point where we can't talk constructively about it?"

Riorde's expression is the equivalent of the 'Oh really?' that she doesn't say. "So this is," she states with a deliberate slowness, "all my fault. Have you never considered that you talk too much?" The other brownrider's mouth twists to one side in a smile that bespeaks derision rather than friendliness. "And we did call you boys on your shit. I distinctly remember dumping a bucket of water on Xoami's head one night and telling him not to look at me again."

"Didn't I just say, that what /I/ say pisses you off?" E'gin sighs slightly, he offers the female's comment a slight smile, but shakes his head, "I think we should try and figure this out. I never mean to upset you, Ri, what is it about me?"

"Do you?" Each of these short questions sounds increasingly mocking. "That would make you happy, wouldn't it. If everyone gets along with you and thinks you make all the right choices." Riorde, with these remarks, hardly seems willing to accept the white flag E'gin's waving and let bygones be bygones. "I worked harder than Emme -- I wanted it more -- I ''trained'' for it -- and that doesn't matter to you just because I don't want to be your best friend. ''That's'' what it is about you." Displeased to begin with, Riorde's looking even less agreeable by the time she finishes, "So no, I don't want to 'try and figure this out.' I want to take some of the others out collecting crabs and get the fire going and get started on dinner. And I don't have to ask your leave to do it either, because this is as much my island as it as yours, even if you can tell us all what to do back at the Weyr."

E'gin watches her and her tirade rather emotionalessly. "Okay, if that is how you feel." Is all he says when she finally reaches the end, and turns back around, settling himself on the edge of the cliff without looking back at the girl.

"It is," Riorde replies, but as firmly as she says it, somehow it strikes her as ineffectual as she speaks it to E'gin's back. So, after one hard stare at him, waiting to see if anything more's to come, she spins around and starts down the path -- only to realise that she'd rather not spend the time it takes to go down that way. So at a distance, pointedly facing away from E'gin, she waits for Sforzath to show up (and he's taking his own sweet time, less than happy for his own reasons).

Awkward stand-off commence!

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Logs:Weyrling Camping Trip Begins

2011-11-22T02:54:46Z

Riorde: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Iolene, Riorde, E'gin | where = Exile Island | what = Three different reactions to being back on the island and a confrontation. | when = Day 8, Month 4, Turn 27 ..."

{{ Log
| who = Iolene, Riorde, E'gin
| where = Exile Island
| what = Three different reactions to being back on the island and a confrontation.
| when = Day 8, Month 4, Turn 27
| gamedate = 2011.11.21
| quote = Sometimes, working hard is more fun than the easier option.
| weather =
| categories = Exiles
| mentions = Emme, Kh'ry, Devaki
| icons = iolene.jpg, riorde wistful.jpg, e'gin.png
| log = It's a cold, foggy sort of day and unpleasant by any of their new standards for living but when Ysavaeth appears from between and alights heavily onto the rocky shore, Iolene's only impact onto the ground is only seconds later. She's unfazed by the changes, the effusive joy coloring her face and shaping her features revealing that comparative to her recent bouts of happiness, this is Io at her best. Her arms stretch her head tips back and she takes in the day with all its disgusting winter turning into springness for what it is. It's home.

Dragon> To Ysavaeth, Sforzath is all hard bright edges, flint and jagged stone and the pale sunlight glinting off the water. Unsettled, a sharper intrusion than he means. A complaint he brings to Ysavaeth's court. << What is so great about all of this? >>

Iolene takes her time, not noticing the lifted hand or Riorde being there first. Her eyes are closed, her head tipped back, with a sudden stream of tears trickling down the sides of her cheeks. A note of concern emerges from Ysavaeth behind her, as the large dragon tries to figure out a way to get cozy on the rocky shore, and failing, trundles over to gently drop her nose into the blonde's hair, causing Iolene to slowly open her eyes and look up. "This is where I grew up, Ys." The lanky girl tiptoes up and plants a kiss to the dragon's under-maw before sinking back down and looking around. This is when Riorde is noted and a moment's, distinct, hesitation, then leads to a few steps forward to the brownrider. "How-... how are you?" It's a shorter version of: how are you feeling? Are you ok? Is it what you expected? Do you hate it here now?

Dragon> To Sforzath, Ysavaeth is silent, allowing the sharp intrusion to go unnoted in a regal sort of gentleness. She considers the pale sunlight glinting off his waters and the flint and jagged stones that sharpens the complaint he brings, and in response, there is no real rebuke. This time at least. << If it makes them happy, shouldn't we let them have this moment? She's almost as happy as-, >> a beat is followed by a reluctant confession, << Almost as happy as the day we found each other. >>

Riorde can wait. She drops her hand and watches Iolene's reaction at first with a small smile and then, growing conscious that perhaps it's not fit for her to intrude on the personal exchange between the gold and her rider, more uncomfortably, stealing little glances at the other pair. "Hi," she replies, turning back only after Iolene takes the initiative. She smiles a smile that grants entry past her typical restraint, a smile that is sad and sweet and happy all at once. "I'm okay. I'm fine. I couldn't imagine sitting here again." But then she looks out past Iolene to where Sforzath is discontentedly prowling around, and her smile dims.

Dragon> The sound of the pebbles Sforzath's kicking up and crunching together in little clatters amplifies in his mind. << I suppose, >> he grudgingly concedes only to continue in the following moment, << But why can't she like this just as much? >> A flash of /his/ home, the mountains and the snow and the spring wind kicking up and swirling around in excited little eddies. (Sforzath to Ysavaeth)

Dragon> To Sforzath, Ysavaeth's response is droll as she flashes images of the island on approach with its fogged over land and rocky-scape. << Maybe when she has lived in our home for as long as she has here, she might love it more. >> A succession of images from Iolene's head, plucked without the owner's knowledge, is shared in a flipbook style: the rocky shores at summer and the legs of chubby toddlers at play. The first frost that brings with it huddling in huts, cold but comfy with friends. The calm of the ocean when out fishing. The love that pulsates in every bit of Iolene's being ripples throughout each split second memory.

Ysavaeth, with Sforzath as a distraction, has relinquished her worry of Iolene which has allowed the young goldrider to drift further from the rocky shore to where Riorde waits. It's a sedate approach, at odds with the growing smile splitting her face or the impulsive hug that wraps about Riorde. "I'm so glad though. I'm so happy that I can say a proper goodbye." There's no doubts in her winter-paled features that ''this'' is her purpose here, those dark blue eyes casting about to take in the changes and releasing a small sigh. "It's hard to believe we grew up here."

Dragon> To Ysavaeth, Sforzath registers his familiarity with the scenes Ysavaeth's showing by picking out a few similar moments. The top of the cliffs and a windy sort of peace; the last, chilly dip in the river that can be considered enjoyable in late summer; the miniature wonder of a tidepool; balancing out on the wet rocks with a group of other girls and boys and seeing who falls in first as the waves sweep up. Love feels different when it comes from Riorde, carries something painful, fierce and sharp and protective. << Maybe. >> But he doubts, and in his mind starts to jealously boil away the sea.

"Is that what you want to do?" Riorde's voice is soft. "Say goodbye?" She holds on to Iolene, a hug that turns into huddled closeness. "I miss it, Io. I miss the sea. I miss everything."

Being practical dreamer is an oxymoron where compromises are made daily between desire and the understanding of reality. For Iolene, the eyes that drink in the landscape and its changes come back, however reluctantly, to Riorde so that dark blue might look into green frankly. "Ysavaeth could never live here. I don't think I could anymore either. It's so much easier," says the blonde teenager as her arms slip down Riorde's side to hold in a loose finger-hold at the woman's waist, "To live without when you don't know better exists. It's too hard to imagine being hungry again, Ri."

Riorde answers with a small, embarrassed smile that admits the reality Iolene calls up into her nostalgia. "I know. I don't think I could go back to how hard it was, either. Sforzath thinks I'm being stupid." She watches her dragon ruefully, who has at least stopped stomping and is now exploring the shallows, pretending he isn't interested in the crabs and spiderclaws clustered in a little rocky pool that's started to appear as the tide goes out.

Confidentially, though not quite so much given the tabs her dragon keeps on her, Iolene leans forward and murmurs, "If Ysa wouldn't mind, maybe we could be happy here. But I don't know if I could feed myself and keep her fed too." It might very well be mostly tease, except the way Io's gaze drifts up the cliff. Never mind the other weyrlings, a hand snakes out and grabs Riorde's to drag her up and up to the island's tallest point, "Come on, let's climb."

Sounding as if she hates to acknowledge it yet bound to do so anyway, Riorde notes, "Sforzath wouldn't like it. He likes the mountains and the snow -- maybe if he'd been born somewhere like this, but he wasn't." The older girl lets herself be pulled up and lets that act as a break in her mood too, since she grins brightly at the suggestion, throws out the challenge of, "Race you!" and is all too happy to have concentration on the proper footholds eclipse everything else.

Being a dragonrider hasn't imbued her with any supernatural strength or agility, and yet, some part of Iolene remembers. She remembers how to race and how to run with a carefreeness long lost to captivity in the Weyr. Long strides keep her close enough to Riorde, and equal concentration keeps her silent (but for a heavier breathing) as she manages her toe and hand holds upwards. It's only as they approach the top and her hands push her up the rest of the way that a laugh catches in her throat. "Oh, Ysa," aloud for Riorde's benefit, as her dragon isn't anywhere actually near anymore, "Sometimes, working hard is more fun than the easier option." Which, in this case, would be being dropped off by a dragon. A grin steals across to where Riorde might be.

"Damn," Riorde gasps out as she scrambles up the last part of the climb and flops first on her belly before rolling over onto her back, stretching out with what seems like contented exhaustion, "you're like a spinner." She laces her fingers together behind her head and lets go a sigh. "Wonder if some of the others would like this. Could teach them the ways up first, then have a race for the ones who weren't afraid to climb."

"Down is always harder," opines Iolene, not moving from the state she was in when she first pulled herself up and over, on her belly, eating dirt. "This used to be a lot easier too." Back in the day. "I'm sure some would." The pause she allows is one of those lingering moments that fill with an, as yet, unspoken tease. She'll even giggle softly into the dirt before rolling over onto her back to look up into the cloud-filled sky. "I imagine Ch'vaz wouldn't mind learning how and where to climb. At least from you." Not Io though.

"Yeah, cause you can't see where you're going," Riorde agrees. "But you can always go down the long way -- or have the dragons come up." The latter addition is remembered, ruefully. No one has to choose between the hard way and the long way anymore. The weyrling turns her head to look over at Iolene, wrinkling her nose in a pretend-scowl undermined by the way she struggles not to grin. Allowing herself to sound young, Ri answers, "Oh what''ever.''"

"At least he knows you're alive," says the teenager. But in spite of her mild bitterness, or maybe due to it, Io pulls herself up to her feet and walks a slow path to the edge of the cliff, looking down upon what remains of the settlement she grew up in. "It hasn't even been two turns but it feels like forever ago." Her mouth twitches and a gaze casts backwards to where Riorde is. "Do you think-," a finger climbs to twirl about a lock of blonde hair. "Do you think I could've married Devaki if we had never left? Would you have? Or someone else?"

"I guess so." Slightly skeptical, there's more that Riorde could go on to say, but she keeps it in and saves it for later when Iolene stands up. Ri gets up to join the other girl, looking out at the sea rather than at their ruined huts. "I don't know. Neither of us wanted to get married, remember?" For what seems like an innocent answer, Riorde struggles with emotion, swallowing and avoiding Iolene's gaze. "But I suppose we would've had to eventually."

"I did," is Iolene's quietest confession, sound a little ashamed of it all as she says those two little words. On the high cliff that overlooks the wrecked settlement, what remains of those huts and lifestyle they all shared at one point, Iolene and Riorde stand. Their dragons are on the rocky shore, one decidedly more placid with where they are than the other. "I wanted to. Some day. It hurts Ysavaeth sometime, when she realizes just how much I wanted to have that life but I wouldn't give her up for anything. No one. Nothing. Do you think-," but her question never materializes.

Arms curled across himself, bracing against a familiar cold E'gin strides silently up to the top of the cliff. His thoughts are else where, his eyes vacant, and it isn't until he is relatively close that he notices other voices. Suddenly he becomes aware of his surroundings again, right about the time that his bulky lifemate glides into for a landing on the shore below. Vysravth offers the other occupants a rumbled greeting, as E'gin realizes that he is probably too close to sneak a way. Finishes the distance between himself and the women with a wave and a strange smile. "Hi." The simple word full of emotion and thoughtfulness, "How you guys doing?" His tone low and soft, conveying a reverance for the solemnity of his question and greeting.

Perhaps surprisingly, given Riorde's vocal anti-marriage position both on and off the island, she now looks at Iolene with sympathy. "Sometimes I think I did too. Maybe it would've been good, with the right person." Her eyebrows arch in a silent prompt for the rest of Iolene's question that the other girl can take or leave, and some of the open question in her expression remains as she turns, hearing E'gin's voice behind them. "Hey." Ri has barely given the other brownrider the time of day for some time now, but today she manages a short, quick smile. "I'm alright."

It's the strange smile that Iolene notes first, after E'gin's words interrupt the girl moment so that the blonde turns to look. There's a small smile for the brownriding wingleader of Cirrus and a lifted hand that wiggles fingers both in greeting and beckon. "I'm saying goodbye." Which doesn't answer how she's doing, but that's soon coming forth after a pursed press of her lips. "I think I'm ok. I was going to braid a wreath of flowers together and throw them into the water for granny and then visit the caves before we put up a fire. We're putting up a fire right? Do you," she spares a sidelong look for Riorde, though the light tease of her words are directed to E'gin, "Need me to go fishing?"

Riorde receives a nod from E'gin, and a the right corner of his mouth curls up in a I'm-glad-you're-okay grin, before he turns to Iolene contemplating the girl for a moment. "No, Io, take your time doing what you need to do." He raises a hand to emphasize his point. "Besides, fishing is my job." The thin smile that creeps across his face betrays the fact that he's looking forward to it. "It's my own little way of saying goodbye...but you are more than welcome to join." He turns to Riorde, "Both of you are welcome if you'd like." His arms cross again after a pause, "Do you wonder what we'd be doing if we were here now...I mean if we hadn't left, you know? It was only a turn, but it feels so long ago, and like we are all so much olders. We were just kids weren't we?" His questions-statements stream out without pause, like he's working out his thoughts as the words spill.

"You go," Riorde tells E'gin, excusing herself. "I'm going tomorrow. I want show Sforzath spots on the other island tomorrow." Her tone is even, but her nostalgia resurfaces in her eyes, in the way she looks slightly wistful. "I'll make sure the fire's going for when you get back." The you could either be singular or plural, according to what Iolene wants to do. "Married, probably," she says to E'gin's question, making herself shrug. "Doing what we'd always done."

"Married," echoes Iolene. There's a twitch of a funny look for E'gin as he speaks but with teeth falling down upon her lower lip, the blonde doesn't voice anything further on the subject of fishing, taking off on the final question with, "I don't think we're considered kids after we can work and find something useful to do honestly. I don't- I think we'd be married with our first kids on the way sometime soon." Lanky limbs sink onto the damp ground, her legs dangling off the edge of the cliff as she looks down upon the settlement. "Grams would still be alive. Grandpa too. So many people would probably still be alive and yet, I guess with the storm that came back then, a lot would've died also. What do you think?"

"Married?" E'gin sighs heavily, though there is a lack of sadness about the lost concept. "Can't imagine I'd have done well that, or that I would have ended u paired with anyone who liked me much." He chuckles softly, "Perhaps, this all saved some unlucky girl from ending up with me, though I guess those dragons were like raising something like a child, at least at first...A very hungry, strong, itchy child." He grins at Iolene, "No, we aren't any more, but it seems like we were." E'gin frowns softly at the back of the goldriders head, before slipping onto the ground beside her, his head turning to look at her, "Maybe they would be." He pauses, his tone is matter of fact but laced with sympathy, "Maybe, but that storm was awful, we would have lost more if we stayed," He reaches out a hand resting it on her shoulder, "Io, it would have been more..." His hand falls slowly back into his lap as his eyes fall upon their old home, his brows pulling together in a mixture of feelings that have no name.

"Well-- it wasn't really about how much you liked someone." Riorde can't help but glance briefly at Iolene, though the other girl's now facing away and looking out. The young woman doesn't move to join the other two, instead wrapping arms around herself as she stays standing. At first she says nothing, with her omission letting E'gin answer for them both, until she murmurs, "Either way, we lose."

Iolene looks sidelong at E'gin as he comes behind her and pats her shoulder. She manages a smile, wry, "I think you've been on the mainland too long if you thought marrying here was for liking anyone. I still can't believe they let Tom and Seani get divorced." But the mention of Tom's ex-wife, now dead, draws Iolene short and her already winter pale skin pales further. "I still haven't been able to figure out who might have killed her. I feel like- I feel like someone knows something they won't tell us. For our own good." There, there's another note of bitterness that the Iolene of two years ago would likely be incapable of. "Now that we came back, do you think we're happier now away from here?"

"No, I don't think that's why we got married around here, but I know some people did end up liking each other..." E'gin frowns softly at the thought of his parents. He looks back over his shoulder at Riorde's comment and then glances at Iolene at her question and he sighs softly, thoughtfully. His pause, and indicatation that he trying to decide if he tell them. Clutching the edge of the cliff with his hands, he lets his head hang downward as she speaks quietly, "I am- I think. I have more -potential- now. Here my life was decided for me. There I have some say in it..." His eyes settle on the brown below. "I have a chance to do things, be someone, make a change..." He glances back at Riorde his eyes full of regret for feeling this way, "We lost some, I think we gained more...You can be who you want now Ri. You're not bound by the rules, get married, make babies...You decide." His gaze fall back on the abandoned houses of their past, "I'm sorry." A genuine apology.

"I thought," Riorde starts after Iolene starts to speculate about Seani's killer, then stops short, lips pressing together. She walks to the edge, taking up a position next to Iolene, but doesn't drop down to sit. Glancing over Iolene's head when E'gin addresses her, the other brownrider looks back with a long, even look. "I know," she says simply. "That's why I stood."

The discussion of potential is one that presses Iolene's lips thin; a would-be privileged member of the exiles and now vaulted into a position she's still struggling to understand, but a position nonetheless. And, in the past, these discussions between her and E'gin have generally gone in circles. But there's that slim hand of hers that uses E'gin's side as leverage to stand again that turns into a light pat. She might not agree, so says her expression, but no hard feelings, yes? All in the smallest little pat and apologetic look flashed downward. "More choices," begins the untrained goldrider delicately, "Doesn't always mean a better life. But, I wouldn't give up Ysavaeth for the world anymore so the point is moot I guess. I'm going to go find my old haunts." She steps past Riorde, but not before brushing her lips to the woman's cheek in a friendly goodbye. "Be safe up here. Don't," she manages a quick, tiny little grin, "Race down the mountain like we raced up it. I'll see you guys around the fire later."

E'gin looks up as places a hand on his shoulder and stands and gives her a wave that indicates tha the doesn't mind she doesn't agree. He watches the gold rider disappear down the path before his gaze flickers back to Riorde. He looks up at the female with a sad grin, "I know. I can't imagine you here, tied down to something you've got too much - spunk - for that." He studies her for a moment looking away, "You've been ignoring me." He comments, no judgement a simple observation. He points to a gathering of bushes on the outskirts of a mostly hidden hideaway of water, he chuckles to himself, "Us boys use to watch you...the girls... swim there, in the bushes." He snorts in the laughter of innocent memories.

Riorde's "Bye" trails after Iolene as the goldrider heads off. As she turns back to look out at the island below, her eyes inadvertently meets E'gin's to prompt mild discomfort; she looks away quickly to continue her perusal of what activity she can see in the settlement and further beyond on the beach. "Have I?" Instead of ignoring his comment or denying it, Ri turns it into a mildly mocking challenge of his assessment, voice lifting. She glances at him again, then looks in the direction he points. "We knew, you know. Sometimes. You boys were bad at staying quiet."

"And I have done something to earn your discontent?" E'gin's question offered with a half-smile, leaning backwards and propping himself up with his arms he watches the girl, "Yes, we thought we were being so quiet, but looking back I recall quiet a bit of shoving, teasing and giggling." He pauses watching the girl, "How come you guys never called us on it?" He chuckles softly and raises an arm to waggle a finger at her before settling it back down, "And it isn't like you guys didn't pull your fair share of pranks on us." He faces falls, "I suppose we did have some fun, back then, eh?"

Riorde's eyebrows arch as she glances at E'gin again; she isn't making this easy. "You tell me, o wingleader mine. Have you?" The rest of his remarks and questions, both rhetorical and not, go unanswered as she waits in that pose of ready observation, crossing her arms over her chest to add one more cool layer between herself and E'gin.

"So this has something to do with me being wingleader again?" E'gin sighs heavily, sitting back up to study the world below him, "I didn't choose that Ri..." He pauses, standing, at least he's willing to take a guess, "Ah. Is it because I didn't ask you to be a wing second." He doesn't seem deterred by her crossed arms as he takes a step toward, "I mean, Riorde, you have to know why?" His arms hang heavily at his side, he'll at least offer his question with his defenses down, creases forming in his forehead and around his mouth.
"I didn't ''want'' to be wingleader," Riorde starts up in quick, vicious protest. "I don't care if you are or -- or ''Kh'ry'' is." She picks someone she thinks improbable to accentuate the point, then, having launched herself into a tirade, shuts up abruptly as E'gin hits the nail on the head. The same watchful attention, but this time with a distinctly bitter undercurrent.

"Ri?" E'gin starts and then ends simply with out held hand and, "See?"

Riorde doesn't react visibly beyond the way her jaw moves when she clenches her teeth together. Then, speaking with clear, cold pronunciation: "Fuck you, Elgin." She allows a space for the words to sink in. "You think you know everything."

"I don't think I know everything." E'gin's words tempered in volume only, "I just know, that for whatever reason your temper goes crazy whenever you're around me." The tone mixed with anger and frustration, "How can I work with you if everything I say pisses you off to a point where we can't talk constructively about it?"

Riorde's expression is the equivalent of the 'Oh really?' that she doesn't say. "So this is," she states with a deliberate slowness, "all my fault. Have you never considered that you talk too much?" The other brownrider's mouth twists to one side in a smile that bespeaks derision rather than friendliness. "And we did call you boys on your shit. I distinctly remember dumping a bucket of water on Xoami's head one night and telling him not to look at me again."

"Do you?" Each of these short questions sounds increasingly mocking. "That would make you happy, wouldn't it. If everyone gets along with you and thinks you make all the right choices." Riorde, with these remarks, hardly seems willing to accept the white flag E'gin's waving and let bygones be bygones. "I worked harder than Emme -- I wanted it more -- I ''trained'' for it -- and that doesn't matter to you just because I don't want to be your best friend. ''That's'' what it is about you." Displeased to begin with, Riorde's looking even less agreeable by the time she finishes, "So no, I don't want to 'try and figure this out.' I want to take some of the others out collecting crabs and get the fire going and get started on dinner. And I don't have to ask your leave to do it either, because this is as much my island as it as yours, even if you can tell us all what to do back at the Weyr."

E'gin watches her and her tirade rather emotionalessly. "Okay, if that is how you feel." Is all he says when she finally reaches the end, and turns back around, settling himself on the edge of the cliff without looking back at the girl.

"It is," Riorde replies, but as firmly as she says it, somehow it strikes her as ineffectual as she speaks it to E'gin's back. So, after one hard stare at him, waiting to see if anything more's to come, she spins around and starts down the path -- only to realise that she'd rather not spend the time it takes to go down that way. So at a distance, pointedly facing away from E'gin, she waits for Sforzath to show up (and he's taking his own sweet time, less than happy for his own reasons).

Awkward stand-off commence!

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Logs:Exile Balls

2011-11-22T02:38:24Z

Riorde:

{{ Log
| who = Celadion, Riorde
| where = Candidate Quarters
| what = Celadion's teaching kids how to make fishing lures while Riorde's sulking. They talk about their predicament.
| when = Day 25, Month 2, Turn 26
| gamedate = 2011.07.07
| quote = Like we can't determine our own good for ourselves.
| weather =
| categories = Exiles
| mentions =
| icons = celadion.png, riorde thinking.jpg
| log =
Candidate Quarters, High Reaches Weyr(#286RAJ)

----

Two caverns lead one right into the other from a hallway just off the Common Room. Taking advantage of the high, vaulted ceiling, bunk beds march in four neat rows of five beds each allowing up to forty people to sleep in one cavern. Functional and spartan in atmosphere, there's little in the way of decoration here, just the one tapestry depicting a hatching on the wall of the first cavern and eggs on the sands in the second.

Each bunk is made up when there are candidates in residence, with standard sheeting, gray woollen blankets and somewhat lumpy pillows. A trunk stands at both the head and foot of the bunks, providing a little space for the occupants to store their belongings while the wait for the eggs to hatch. The archway between the two spaces is covered over with a hide hanging, easily hooked back when both caverns are in use, but tacked into place when only the first is needed. A proper wooden door closes out noise and drafts from the hallway.

----

Although a lot of exiles have been spread thin going to classes or various jobs assigned to them, a group of youngsters and Celadion are still in the barracks. Around one of the cots, he is demonstrating how to make fishing line from reed rather than from the mainland-stuff. "So, if you just practice with that a bit, and let me know if you have any questions." The dark man takes a step back to let the younger men try their hand with it.

Rather than go to class or find another way to busy herself and be useful, Riorde has chosen to indulge her bad mood by lounging around the barracks, surrounded by the rest of the island folk. She lies on her stomach with a book between her hands, but Celadion's impromptu lesson is garnering a great deal more of her attention than anything else. "Don't know why you're teaching them," she grumbles, pitched audible enough for the complaint to reach his ears. "Since there's nowhere to practice and they won't let us go elsewhere for it."

Celadion moves across the room, just a short distance to where Riorde is reading. His head tips and he looks over at the youngsters having fun with the 'old fashioned' way of making the fishing line. It might be noted that one or two weyr-children have been smuggled into the brood as well. "There is plenty of fishing to be had at the lake. It's good for them to remember our ways. Where we are from. We can't have them forget."

"There's fish in the lake?" Riorde's eyebrows lift in surprise as she tilts her chin up to meet Celadion's gaze. "I suppose I thought they only came from the sea." Her grumpy tone breaks enough to let her sound rueful. She gestures with one of her hands while the other holds down the pages and her place. "I didn't mean we should forget. Just, you know, can't very well cast a line when we're stuck in here, can we."

Celadion's smiles are rare these days, but one flutters over his features now at the remark about fishing, "I have been bringing in a small catch. They are different fish of course." Puzzlement wars with the smile, making it hitch slightly in one cheek, "I don't know what you mean. No one has stopped me from fishing the lake. Of course we're tied here like prisoners--I would rather be sea-side or back on our island but...." His shoulders roll with a sort of discomfort at the reminder of being held captive.

Lifted towards the light and with her hair falling back, Riorde's features have the reddened touch of sunburn - nothing she could ever gain at winter in the Reaches. She's been mum about where she's got it, but it's not that hard to figure out that it certainly wasn't at the Weyr. "I just never thought to try fishing in it. Thought it'd be like a spring - deep, fresh water but empty." No smiles from Riorde, only dark scowls and dissatisfaction. "For our own good," she relates with a vicious edge. "Like we can't determine our own good for ourselves."

The change in coloring had gone unnoticed by Celadion until now. Being closer to the younger exile, he can actually see the change that the sun has done to her skin. More puzzlement over this and little censoring not to ask, "What happened to your face? It looks like you've been out gardening in summertime. And yet, it's not summer, nor do I think you garden much here. What's going on?" Piecing her broodiness alongside the new coloring, it's enough to draw the question out.

"I was out gardening in the summertime," Riorde deadpans, holding a straight expression against her inclination to smirk. She runs with it further to explain her bad mood. "You know I hate gardening." To change the subject, she gestures towards the youth Celadion's been teaching. "Give me a bit? Haven't made one in far too long."

There's a frown for the deception, "That doesn't make any sense. Really, what have you been up to?" Press-press. Waiting a moment longer, watching her to see if she'll bend and give some history to what happened, Celadion doesn't respond right away to the request. "Hhhmm? Oh, certainly." At the pouch at his hip he draws out some of the familiar reeds, though these are not the island sort but stuff found lake-ward here at the weyr.

Riorde can be stubborn when it suits her and now stares silently up at Celadion in an effort to out-wait him. She looks satisfied when he pulls out reeds for her to play with, and she lets her book fall shut as she reaches to take them. "Thanks." Her nimble fingers go to work. "I know we haven't always been friends," she says then, a phrase that sounds like the start to something more. Except she doesn't go on.

A look drifts over to those at the cot but none of them require Celadion's attention. So his gaze drifts back to Riorde, not impressed at her lack of 'sharing' but shelving being nosey about it. He draws out a length of reed himself but only gets as far as measuring it out before her comment makes him look at her in question, "Hmm....I guess we haven't." Watching her in silence, apparently he's waiting for her to continue her thought.

A long silence passes between them while Riorde twists and ties, fraying the ends until she's created a suitable lure. "There." She puts it on the cot just in front of her. "One more for the next time you go fishing." She sets to work on a second, glancing at Celadion in the meantime as she completes her thought. "I heard that you were going to marry Kima. I never told you sorry."

The offered lure is looked at and then taken up at last with a small smile of thanks. "You make quick work of them." Cela's complement is quiet as he admires her work and then tucks it aside within the pouch. Her comment makes him nearly drop the length of twine he's toying with and his head comes up, his expression guarded. "I...yes. I had thoughts that it might be a good match. Thank you." He is about to let that be the end of his comment but he has to ask, "Do you think she would have been happy?" Knowing that he's not Riorde's favorite person, she might be honest.

The bad mood doesn't run so deep that Riorde can't give Celadion a quick smile for his compliment. Then she looks down again, allowing him his privacy as she brings up the match that almost was. Riorde's fingers slow and then still, and when she looks up again, she considers him frankly. "We weren't friends like we were when we were younger. But yes, I expect she would've been." If she's lying, at least she does it well.

The lie, if it is that, is one of mercy for the young man. Celadion's head tips away so she can't see the raw expression that's too close to the heart to cover up with a mask. Long fingers pull the threads together a little too firmly, "It seems like a very long time ago." There's a depth of sorrow in that statement that is more than just the loss of the young lady. "I think my bloodline will die with me."

Riorde studiously looks at the reed she's twisting into a lure, working slower this time. "It does," she agrees quietly. His second statement draws her regard, quick and fleeting at first to make sure she's not intruding merely by looking at him. "Don't say that," she says, firm and a little fierce. "Just because we've left, doesn't mean we just all fade away. And you're -- there's time."

Celadion makes a short, disgusted sound under his breath, a faint but distinct noise. That's the only sound for awhile as he finishes his lure and makes a few last knots in the trailing edges of it. "Perhaps you're right. Although I think they'll need to neuter me before I settle down here and what sort of children could I father then?" He glances over at the children and their work, "Perhaps fostering the offspring of our dead kinfolk will have to be enough for me. They don't pair up the way we did back home. There is no family here."

Riorde laughs outright, the hard coarse sound spilling out of her throat before she thinks to hold it back in case Celadion thinks her tactless. "Maybe Evali'll do it if you ask her nicely." She follows the direction of his gaze back towards the children and looks between them and Celadion. "Are you fostering /all/ of them?" The openness brought with laughter is lost as she considers what he says towards the end, looking down at the lure again with a frown. "No, not the way we did," she murmurs; the words sound like agreement, but there is something else besides. Looking up, she asserts, "We're each other's family now."

Celadion's lips purse and then form a nasty smirk for that laugh, "No, I think I'll have some mainlander so it with rusty scissors or something. I'm sure they will get their jollies off on it. They can jar them up and display them...Exile balls, to prove we are good and tame. Then they might allow us to roam free without fear of what we might do. Pollute their bloodlines with our taint." Yes, that is one thing he's assuming--the reason behind their lockdown. As for the children he would foster, there's a small shake of his head, "I would like to take as many as they'd let me, but it's fairly clear they are not going to allow us to foster our own--no matter how we might beg for it. We are at their 'mercy'."

Riorde doesn't shrink from the crude words and the coarse picture it conjures. Instead her own smirk mirrors Celadion's. "I don't think they're worried about bloodlines." Her relatively innocuous comment has an edge to it. She tosses out the second lure to join the first. "Well, if they won't let you foster, keep doing what you're doing," she endorses Celadion and his instruction. "They shouldn't forget."

His finished lure joins hers inside the pack. "Riorde? Where do you stand in your feelings for this place? These mainlanders. Are you happy here with this new life? At first I thought you were and now you seem...disheartened." He gives the other matter a rest, the answer will only come as time unfolds. There's a nod about the teaching of the children, as limited as it might be for now.

Riorde doesn't answer at first. With a lingering frown, she pulls herself up to sitting, swinging her legs off her cot. "It's too simple to say that everything here is either good or bad," she says in the way of an equivocal answer, her gaze penetrating in its solemnity as she finds her feet. "There are things here that I couldn't have on our islands. That I wouldn't want to give up without a fight. But there are things that they don't want to give us still." From the set of her jaw, she looks like she intends to fight back.

"I don't understand. What here could you possibly want to fight for?" Celadion utters a little snort of laughter, "Apparently I am missing out on the bright side of things here."

Riorde's answer is a mysterious little smile and, flippantly, "Klah." She might as well not answer at all. "Perhaps I'll get some now." She picks her book up off her bed and goes out to wander barefooted through the caverns.

Celadion rolls his eyes, "Disgusting. A bunch of weyr-lovers....the whole lot of them..." Sad and disapointed, he watches Riorde leave, one less person to have for his cause.

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Logs:Exile Balls

2011-11-22T02:34:49Z

Riorde:

{{ Log
| who = Celadion, Riorde
| where = Candidate Quarters
| what = Celadion's teaching kids how to make fishing lures while Riorde's sulking. They talk about their predicament.
| when = Day 25, Month 2, Turn 26
| gamedate = 2011.07.07
| quote = Like we can't determine our own good for ourselves.
| weather =
| categories = Exiles
| mentions =
| icons = celadion.png, riorde thinking.jpg
| log =
''Candidate Quarters, High Reaches Weyr(#286RAJ)
Two caverns lead one right into the other from a hallway just off the Common Room. Taking advantage of the high, vaulted ceiling, bunk beds march in four neat rows of five beds each allowing up to forty people to sleep in one cavern. Functional and spartan in atmosphere, there's little in the way of decoration here, just the one tapestry depicting a hatching on the wall of the first cavern and eggs on the sands in the second.
Each bunk is made up when there are candidates in residence, with standard sheeting, gray woollen blankets and somewhat lumpy pillows. A trunk stands at both the head and foot of the bunks, providing a little space for the occupants to store their belongings while the wait for the eggs to hatch. The archway between the two spaces is covered over with a hide hanging, easily hooked back when both caverns are in use, but tacked into place when only the first is needed. A proper wooden door closes out noise and drafts from the hallway.''

Although a lot of exiles have been spread thin going to classes or various jobs assigned to them, a group of youngsters and Celadion are still in the barracks. Around one of the cots, he is demonstrating how to make fishing line from reed rather than from the mainland-stuff. "So, if you just practice with that a bit, and let me know if you have any questions." The dark man takes a step back to let the younger men try their hand with it.

Rather than go to class or find another way to busy herself and be useful, Riorde has chosen to indulge her bad mood by lounging around the barracks, surrounded by the rest of the island folk. She lies on her stomach with a book between her hands, but Celadion's impromptu lesson is garnering a great deal more of her attention than anything else. "Don't know why you're teaching them," she grumbles, pitched audible enough for the complaint to reach his ears. "Since there's nowhere to practice and they won't let us go elsewhere for it."

Celadion moves across the room, just a short distance to where Riorde is reading. His head tips and he looks over at the youngsters having fun with the 'old fashioned' way of making the fishing line. It might be noted that one or two weyr-children have been smuggled into the brood as well. "There is plenty of fishing to be had at the lake. It's good for them to remember our ways. Where we are from. We can't have them forget."

"There's fish in the lake?" Riorde's eyebrows lift in surprise as she tilts her chin up to meet Celadion's gaze. "I suppose I thought they only came from the sea." Her grumpy tone breaks enough to let her sound rueful. She gestures with one of her hands while the other holds down the pages and her place. "I didn't mean we should forget. Just, you know, can't very well cast a line when we're stuck in here, can we."

Celadion's smiles are rare these days, but one flutters over his features now at the remark about fishing, "I have been bringing in a small catch. They are different fish of course." Puzzlement wars with the smile, making it hitch slightly in one cheek, "I don't know what you mean. No one has stopped me from fishing the lake. Of course we're tied here like prisoners--I would rather be sea-side or back on our island but...." His shoulders roll with a sort of discomfort at the reminder of being held captive.

Lifted towards the light and with her hair falling back, Riorde's features have the reddened touch of sunburn - nothing she could ever gain at winter in the Reaches. She's been mum about where she's got it, but it's not that hard to figure out that it certainly wasn't at the Weyr. "I just never thought to try fishing in it. Thought it'd be like a spring - deep, fresh water but empty." No smiles from Riorde, only dark scowls and dissatisfaction. "For our own good," she relates with a vicious edge. "Like we can't determine our own good for ourselves."

The change in coloring had gone unnoticed by Celadion until now. Being closer to the younger exile, he can actually see the change that the sun has done to her skin. More puzzlement over this and little censoring not to ask, "What happened to your face? It looks like you've been out gardening in summertime. And yet, it's not summer, nor do I think you garden much here. What's going on?" Piecing her broodiness alongside the new coloring, it's enough to draw the question out.

"I was out gardening in the summertime," Riorde deadpans, holding a straight expression against her inclination to smirk. She runs with it further to explain her bad mood. "You know I hate gardening." To change the subject, she gestures towards the youth Celadion's been teaching. "Give me a bit? Haven't made one in far too long."

There's a frown for the deception, "That doesn't make any sense. Really, what have you been up to?" Press-press. Waiting a moment longer, watching her to see if she'll bend and give some history to what happened, Celadion doesn't respond right away to the request. "Hhhmm? Oh, certainly." At the pouch at his hip he draws out some of the familiar reeds, though these are not the island sort but stuff found lake-ward here at the weyr.

Riorde can be stubborn when it suits her and now stares silently up at Celadion in an effort to out-wait him. She looks satisfied when he pulls out reeds for her to play with, and she lets her book fall shut as she reaches to take them. "Thanks." Her nimble fingers go to work. "I know we haven't always been friends," she says then, a phrase that sounds like the start to something more. Except she doesn't go on.

A look drifts over to those at the cot but none of them require Celadion's attention. So his gaze drifts back to Riorde, not impressed at her lack of 'sharing' but shelving being nosey about it. He draws out a length of reed himself but only gets as far as measuring it out before her comment makes him look at her in question, "Hmm....I guess we haven't." Watching her in silence, apparently he's waiting for her to continue her thought.

A long silence passes between them while Riorde twists and ties, fraying the ends until she's created a suitable lure. "There." She puts it on the cot just in front of her. "One more for the next time you go fishing." She sets to work on a second, glancing at Celadion in the meantime as she completes her thought. "I heard that you were going to marry Kima. I never told you sorry."

The offered lure is looked at and then taken up at last with a small smile of thanks. "You make quick work of them." Cela's complement is quiet as he admires her work and then tucks it aside within the pouch. Her comment makes him nearly drop the length of twine he's toying with and his head comes up, his expression guarded. "I...yes. I had thoughts that it might be a good match. Thank you." He is about to let that be the end of his comment but he has to ask, "Do you think she would have been happy?" Knowing that he's not Riorde's favorite person, she might be honest.

The bad mood doesn't run so deep that Riorde can't give Celadion a quick smile for his compliment. Then she looks down again, allowing him his privacy as she brings up the match that almost was. Riorde's fingers slow and then still, and when she looks up again, she considers him frankly. "We weren't friends like we were when we were younger. But yes, I expect she would've been." If she's lying, at least she does it well.

The lie, if it is that, is one of mercy for the young man. Celadion's head tips away so she can't see the raw expression that's too close to the heart to cover up with a mask. Long fingers pull the threads together a little too firmly, "It seems like a very long time ago." There's a depth of sorrow in that statement that is more than just the loss of the young lady. "I think my bloodline will die with me."

Riorde studiously looks at the reed she's twisting into a lure, working slower this time. "It does," she agrees quietly. His second statement draws her regard, quick and fleeting at first to make sure she's not intruding merely by looking at him. "Don't say that," she says, firm and a little fierce. "Just because we've left, doesn't mean we just all fade away. And you're -- there's time."

Celadion makes a short, disgusted sound under his breath, a faint but distinct noise. That's the only sound for awhile as he finishes his lure and makes a few last knots in the trailing edges of it. "Perhaps you're right. Although I think they'll need to neuter me before I settle down here and what sort of children could I father then?" He glances over at the children and their work, "Perhaps fostering the offspring of our dead kinfolk will have to be enough for me. They don't pair up the way we did back home. There is no family here."

Riorde laughs outright, the hard coarse sound spilling out of her throat before she thinks to hold it back in case Celadion thinks her tactless. "Maybe Evali'll do it if you ask her nicely." She follows the direction of his gaze back towards the children and looks between them and Celadion. "Are you fostering /all/ of them?" The openness brought with laughter is lost as she considers what he says towards the end, looking down at the lure again with a frown. "No, not the way we did," she murmurs; the words sound like agreement, but there is something else besides. Looking up, she asserts, "We're each other's family now."

Celadion's lips purse and then form a nasty smirk for that laugh, "No, I think I'll have some mainlander so it with rusty scissors or something. I'm sure they will get their jollies off on it. They can jar them up and display them...Exile balls, to prove we are good and tame. Then they might allow us to roam free without fear of what we might do. Pollute their bloodlines with our taint." Yes, that is one thing he's assuming--the reason behind their lockdown. As for the children he would foster, there's a small shake of his head, "I would like to take as many as they'd let me, but it's fairly clear they are not going to allow us to foster our own--no matter how we might beg for it. We are at their 'mercy'."

Riorde doesn't shrink from the crude words and the coarse picture it conjures. Instead her own smirk mirrors Celadion's. "I don't think they're worried about bloodlines." Her relatively innocuous comment has an edge to it. She tosses out the second lure to join the first. "Well, if they won't let you foster, keep doing what you're doing," she endorses Celadion and his instruction. "They shouldn't forget."

His finished lure joins hers inside the pack. "Riorde? Where do you stand in your feelings for this place? These mainlanders. Are you happy here with this new life? At first I thought you were and now you seem...disheartened." He gives the other matter a rest, the answer will only come as time unfolds. There's a nod about the teaching of the children, as limited as it might be for now.

Riorde doesn't answer at first. With a lingering frown, she pulls herself up to sitting, swinging her legs off her cot. "It's too simple to say that everything here is either good or bad," she says in the way of an equivocal answer, her gaze penetrating in its solemnity as she finds her feet. "There are things here that I couldn't have on our islands. That I wouldn't want to give up without a fight. But there are things that they don't want to give us still." From the set of her jaw, she looks like she intends to fight back.

"I don't understand. What here could you possibly want to fight for?" Celadion utters a little snort of laughter, "Apparently I am missing out on the bright side of things here."

Riorde's answer is a mysterious little smile and, flippantly, "Klah." She might as well not answer at all. "Perhaps I'll get some now." She picks her book up off her bed and goes out to wander barefooted through the caverns.

Celadion rolls his eyes, "Disgusting. A bunch of weyr-lovers....the whole lot of them..." Sad and disapointed, he watches Riorde leave, one less person to have for his cause.

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Logs:Exile Balls

2011-11-22T02:33:56Z

Riorde:

{{ Log
| who = Celadion, Riorde
| where = Candidate Quarters
| what = Celadion's teaching kids how to make fishing lures while Riorde's sulking. They talk about their predicament.
| when = Day 25, Month 2, Turn 26
| gamedate = 2011.07.08
| quote = Like we can't determine our own good for ourselves.
| weather =
| categories = Exiles
| mentions =
| icons = celadion.png, riorde thinking.jpg
| log =
''Candidate Quarters, High Reaches Weyr(#286RAJ)
Two caverns lead one right into the other from a hallway just off the Common Room. Taking advantage of the high, vaulted ceiling, bunk beds march in four neat rows of five beds each allowing up to forty people to sleep in one cavern. Functional and spartan in atmosphere, there's little in the way of decoration here, just the one tapestry depicting a hatching on the wall of the first cavern and eggs on the sands in the second.
Each bunk is made up when there are candidates in residence, with standard sheeting, gray woollen blankets and somewhat lumpy pillows. A trunk stands at both the head and foot of the bunks, providing a little space for the occupants to store their belongings while the wait for the eggs to hatch. The archway between the two spaces is covered over with a hide hanging, easily hooked back when both caverns are in use, but tacked into place when only the first is needed. A proper wooden door closes out noise and drafts from the hallway.''

Although a lot of exiles have been spread thin going to classes or various jobs assigned to them, a group of youngsters and Celadion are still in the barracks. Around one of the cots, he is demonstrating how to make fishing line from reed rather than from the mainland-stuff. "So, if you just practice with that a bit, and let me know if you have any questions." The dark man takes a step back to let the younger men try their hand with it.

Rather than go to class or find another way to busy herself and be useful, Riorde has chosen to indulge her bad mood by lounging around the barracks, surrounded by the rest of the island folk. She lies on her stomach with a book between her hands, but Celadion's impromptu lesson is garnering a great deal more of her attention than anything else. "Don't know why you're teaching them," she grumbles, pitched audible enough for the complaint to reach his ears. "Since there's nowhere to practice and they won't let us go elsewhere for it."

Celadion moves across the room, just a short distance to where Riorde is reading. His head tips and he looks over at the youngsters having fun with the 'old fashioned' way of making the fishing line. It might be noted that one or two weyr-children have been smuggled into the brood as well. "There is plenty of fishing to be had at the lake. It's good for them to remember our ways. Where we are from. We can't have them forget."

"There's fish in the lake?" Riorde's eyebrows lift in surprise as she tilts her chin up to meet Celadion's gaze. "I suppose I thought they only came from the sea." Her grumpy tone breaks enough to let her sound rueful. She gestures with one of her hands while the other holds down the pages and her place. "I didn't mean we should forget. Just, you know, can't very well cast a line when we're stuck in here, can we."

Celadion's smiles are rare these days, but one flutters over his features now at the remark about fishing, "I have been bringing in a small catch. They are different fish of course." Puzzlement wars with the smile, making it hitch slightly in one cheek, "I don't know what you mean. No one has stopped me from fishing the lake. Of course we're tied here like prisoners--I would rather be sea-side or back on our island but...." His shoulders roll with a sort of discomfort at the reminder of being held captive.

Lifted towards the light and with her hair falling back, Riorde's features have the reddened touch of sunburn - nothing she could ever gain at winter in the Reaches. She's been mum about where she's got it, but it's not that hard to figure out that it certainly wasn't at the Weyr. "I just never thought to try fishing in it. Thought it'd be like a spring - deep, fresh water but empty." No smiles from Riorde, only dark scowls and dissatisfaction. "For our own good," she relates with a vicious edge. "Like we can't determine our own good for ourselves."

The change in coloring had gone unnoticed by Celadion until now. Being closer to the younger exile, he can actually see the change that the sun has done to her skin. More puzzlement over this and little censoring not to ask, "What happened to your face? It looks like you've been out gardening in summertime. And yet, it's not summer, nor do I think you garden much here. What's going on?" Piecing her broodiness alongside the new coloring, it's enough to draw the question out.

"I was out gardening in the summertime," Riorde deadpans, holding a straight expression against her inclination to smirk. She runs with it further to explain her bad mood. "You know I hate gardening." To change the subject, she gestures towards the youth Celadion's been teaching. "Give me a bit? Haven't made one in far too long."

There's a frown for the deception, "That doesn't make any sense. Really, what have you been up to?" Press-press. Waiting a moment longer, watching her to see if she'll bend and give some history to what happened, Celadion doesn't respond right away to the request. "Hhhmm? Oh, certainly." At the pouch at his hip he draws out some of the familiar reeds, though these are not the island sort but stuff found lake-ward here at the weyr.

Riorde can be stubborn when it suits her and now stares silently up at Celadion in an effort to out-wait him. She looks satisfied when he pulls out reeds for her to play with, and she lets her book fall shut as she reaches to take them. "Thanks." Her nimble fingers go to work. "I know we haven't always been friends," she says then, a phrase that sounds like the start to something more. Except she doesn't go on.

A look drifts over to those at the cot but none of them require Celadion's attention. So his gaze drifts back to Riorde, not impressed at her lack of 'sharing' but shelving being nosey about it. He draws out a length of reed himself but only gets as far as measuring it out before her comment makes him look at her in question, "Hmm....I guess we haven't." Watching her in silence, apparently he's waiting for her to continue her thought.

A long silence passes between them while Riorde twists and ties, fraying the ends until she's created a suitable lure. "There." She puts it on the cot just in front of her. "One more for the next time you go fishing." She sets to work on a second, glancing at Celadion in the meantime as she completes her thought. "I heard that you were going to marry Kima. I never told you sorry."

The offered lure is looked at and then taken up at last with a small smile of thanks. "You make quick work of them." Cela's complement is quiet as he admires her work and then tucks it aside within the pouch. Her comment makes him nearly drop the length of twine he's toying with and his head comes up, his expression guarded. "I...yes. I had thoughts that it might be a good match. Thank you." He is about to let that be the end of his comment but he has to ask, "Do you think she would have been happy?" Knowing that he's not Riorde's favorite person, she might be honest.

The bad mood doesn't run so deep that Riorde can't give Celadion a quick smile for his compliment. Then she looks down again, allowing him his privacy as she brings up the match that almost was. Riorde's fingers slow and then still, and when she looks up again, she considers him frankly. "We weren't friends like we were when we were younger. But yes, I expect she would've been." If she's lying, at least she does it well.

The lie, if it is that, is one of mercy for the young man. Celadion's head tips away so she can't see the raw expression that's too close to the heart to cover up with a mask. Long fingers pull the threads together a little too firmly, "It seems like a very long time ago." There's a depth of sorrow in that statement that is more than just the loss of the young lady. "I think my bloodline will die with me."

Riorde studiously looks at the reed she's twisting into a lure, working slower this time. "It does," she agrees quietly. His second statement draws her regard, quick and fleeting at first to make sure she's not intruding merely by looking at him. "Don't say that," she says, firm and a little fierce. "Just because we've left, doesn't mean we just all fade away. And you're -- there's time."

Celadion makes a short, disgusted sound under his breath, a faint but distinct noise. That's the only sound for awhile as he finishes his lure and makes a few last knots in the trailing edges of it. "Perhaps you're right. Although I think they'll need to neuter me before I settle down here and what sort of children could I father then?" He glances over at the children and their work, "Perhaps fostering the offspring of our dead kinfolk will have to be enough for me. They don't pair up the way we did back home. There is no family here."

Riorde laughs outright, the hard coarse sound spilling out of her throat before she thinks to hold it back in case Celadion thinks her tactless. "Maybe Evali'll do it if you ask her nicely." She follows the direction of his gaze back towards the children and looks between them and Celadion. "Are you fostering /all/ of them?" The openness brought with laughter is lost as she considers what he says towards the end, looking down at the lure again with a frown. "No, not the way we did," she murmurs; the words sound like agreement, but there is something else besides. Looking up, she asserts, "We're each other's family now."

Celadion's lips purse and then form a nasty smirk for that laugh, "No, I think I'll have some mainlander so it with rusty scissors or something. I'm sure they will get their jollies off on it. They can jar them up and display them...Exile balls, to prove we are good and tame. Then they might allow us to roam free without fear of what we might do. Pollute their bloodlines with our taint." Yes, that is one thing he's assuming--the reason behind their lockdown. As for the children he would foster, there's a small shake of his head, "I would like to take as many as they'd let me, but it's fairly clear they are not going to allow us to foster our own--no matter how we might beg for it. We are at their 'mercy'."

Riorde doesn't shrink from the crude words and the coarse picture it conjures. Instead her own smirk mirrors Celadion's. "I don't think they're worried about bloodlines." Her relatively innocuous comment has an edge to it. She tosses out the second lure to join the first. "Well, if they won't let you foster, keep doing what you're doing," she endorses Celadion and his instruction. "They shouldn't forget."

His finished lure joins hers inside the pack. "Riorde? Where do you stand in your feelings for this place? These mainlanders. Are you happy here with this new life? At first I thought you were and now you seem...disheartened." He gives the other matter a rest, the answer will only come as time unfolds. There's a nod about the teaching of the children, as limited as it might be for now.

Riorde doesn't answer at first. With a lingering frown, she pulls herself up to sitting, swinging her legs off her cot. "It's too simple to say that everything here is either good or bad," she says in the way of an equivocal answer, her gaze penetrating in its solemnity as she finds her feet. "There are things here that I couldn't have on our islands. That I wouldn't want to give up without a fight. But there are things that they don't want to give us still." From the set of her jaw, she looks like she intends to fight back.

"I don't understand. What here could you possibly want to fight for?" Celadion utters a little snort of laughter, "Apparently I am missing out on the bright side of things here."

Riorde's answer is a mysterious little smile and, flippantly, "Klah." She might as well not answer at all. "Perhaps I'll get some now." She picks her book up off her bed and goes out to wander barefooted through the caverns.

Celadion rolls his eyes, "Disgusting. A bunch of weyr-lovers....the whole lot of them..." Sad and disapointed, he watches Riorde leave, one less person to have for his cause.

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Logs:Exile Balls

2011-11-22T02:33:25Z

Riorde:

{{ Log
| who = Celadion, Riorde
| where = Candidate Quarters
| what =
| when = Day 25, Month 2, Turn 26
| gamedate = 2011.07.08
| quote = Like we can't determine our own good for ourselves.
| weather =
| categories = Exiles
| mentions =
| icons = celadion.png, riorde thinking.jpg
| log =
''Candidate Quarters, High Reaches Weyr(#286RAJ)
Two caverns lead one right into the other from a hallway just off the Common Room. Taking advantage of the high, vaulted ceiling, bunk beds march in four neat rows of five beds each allowing up to forty people to sleep in one cavern. Functional and spartan in atmosphere, there's little in the way of decoration here, just the one tapestry depicting a hatching on the wall of the first cavern and eggs on the sands in the second.
Each bunk is made up when there are candidates in residence, with standard sheeting, gray woollen blankets and somewhat lumpy pillows. A trunk stands at both the head and foot of the bunks, providing a little space for the occupants to store their belongings while the wait for the eggs to hatch. The archway between the two spaces is covered over with a hide hanging, easily hooked back when both caverns are in use, but tacked into place when only the first is needed. A proper wooden door closes out noise and drafts from the hallway.''

Although a lot of exiles have been spread thin going to classes or various jobs assigned to them, a group of youngsters and Celadion are still in the barracks. Around one of the cots, he is demonstrating how to make fishing line from reed rather than from the mainland-stuff. "So, if you just practice with that a bit, and let me know if you have any questions." The dark man takes a step back to let the younger men try their hand with it.

Rather than go to class or find another way to busy herself and be useful, Riorde has chosen to indulge her bad mood by lounging around the barracks, surrounded by the rest of the island folk. She lies on her stomach with a book between her hands, but Celadion's impromptu lesson is garnering a great deal more of her attention than anything else. "Don't know why you're teaching them," she grumbles, pitched audible enough for the complaint to reach his ears. "Since there's nowhere to practice and they won't let us go elsewhere for it."

Celadion moves across the room, just a short distance to where Riorde is reading. His head tips and he looks over at the youngsters having fun with the 'old fashioned' way of making the fishing line. It might be noted that one or two weyr-children have been smuggled into the brood as well. "There is plenty of fishing to be had at the lake. It's good for them to remember our ways. Where we are from. We can't have them forget."

"There's fish in the lake?" Riorde's eyebrows lift in surprise as she tilts her chin up to meet Celadion's gaze. "I suppose I thought they only came from the sea." Her grumpy tone breaks enough to let her sound rueful. She gestures with one of her hands while the other holds down the pages and her place. "I didn't mean we should forget. Just, you know, can't very well cast a line when we're stuck in here, can we."

Celadion's smiles are rare these days, but one flutters over his features now at the remark about fishing, "I have been bringing in a small catch. They are different fish of course." Puzzlement wars with the smile, making it hitch slightly in one cheek, "I don't know what you mean. No one has stopped me from fishing the lake. Of course we're tied here like prisoners--I would rather be sea-side or back on our island but...." His shoulders roll with a sort of discomfort at the reminder of being held captive.

Lifted towards the light and with her hair falling back, Riorde's features have the reddened touch of sunburn - nothing she could ever gain at winter in the Reaches. She's been mum about where she's got it, but it's not that hard to figure out that it certainly wasn't at the Weyr. "I just never thought to try fishing in it. Thought it'd be like a spring - deep, fresh water but empty." No smiles from Riorde, only dark scowls and dissatisfaction. "For our own good," she relates with a vicious edge. "Like we can't determine our own good for ourselves."

The change in coloring had gone unnoticed by Celadion until now. Being closer to the younger exile, he can actually see the change that the sun has done to her skin. More puzzlement over this and little censoring not to ask, "What happened to your face? It looks like you've been out gardening in summertime. And yet, it's not summer, nor do I think you garden much here. What's going on?" Piecing her broodiness alongside the new coloring, it's enough to draw the question out.

"I was out gardening in the summertime," Riorde deadpans, holding a straight expression against her inclination to smirk. She runs with it further to explain her bad mood. "You know I hate gardening." To change the subject, she gestures towards the youth Celadion's been teaching. "Give me a bit? Haven't made one in far too long."

There's a frown for the deception, "That doesn't make any sense. Really, what have you been up to?" Press-press. Waiting a moment longer, watching her to see if she'll bend and give some history to what happened, Celadion doesn't respond right away to the request. "Hhhmm? Oh, certainly." At the pouch at his hip he draws out some of the familiar reeds, though these are not the island sort but stuff found lake-ward here at the weyr.

Riorde can be stubborn when it suits her and now stares silently up at Celadion in an effort to out-wait him. She looks satisfied when he pulls out reeds for her to play with, and she lets her book fall shut as she reaches to take them. "Thanks." Her nimble fingers go to work. "I know we haven't always been friends," she says then, a phrase that sounds like the start to something more. Except she doesn't go on.

A look drifts over to those at the cot but none of them require Celadion's attention. So his gaze drifts back to Riorde, not impressed at her lack of 'sharing' but shelving being nosey about it. He draws out a length of reed himself but only gets as far as measuring it out before her comment makes him look at her in question, "Hmm....I guess we haven't." Watching her in silence, apparently he's waiting for her to continue her thought.

A long silence passes between them while Riorde twists and ties, fraying the ends until she's created a suitable lure. "There." She puts it on the cot just in front of her. "One more for the next time you go fishing." She sets to work on a second, glancing at Celadion in the meantime as she completes her thought. "I heard that you were going to marry Kima. I never told you sorry."

The offered lure is looked at and then taken up at last with a small smile of thanks. "You make quick work of them." Cela's complement is quiet as he admires her work and then tucks it aside within the pouch. Her comment makes him nearly drop the length of twine he's toying with and his head comes up, his expression guarded. "I...yes. I had thoughts that it might be a good match. Thank you." He is about to let that be the end of his comment but he has to ask, "Do you think she would have been happy?" Knowing that he's not Riorde's favorite person, she might be honest.

The bad mood doesn't run so deep that Riorde can't give Celadion a quick smile for his compliment. Then she looks down again, allowing him his privacy as she brings up the match that almost was. Riorde's fingers slow and then still, and when she looks up again, she considers him frankly. "We weren't friends like we were when we were younger. But yes, I expect she would've been." If she's lying, at least she does it well.

The lie, if it is that, is one of mercy for the young man. Celadion's head tips away so she can't see the raw expression that's too close to the heart to cover up with a mask. Long fingers pull the threads together a little too firmly, "It seems like a very long time ago." There's a depth of sorrow in that statement that is more than just the loss of the young lady. "I think my bloodline will die with me."

Riorde studiously looks at the reed she's twisting into a lure, working slower this time. "It does," she agrees quietly. His second statement draws her regard, quick and fleeting at first to make sure she's not intruding merely by looking at him. "Don't say that," she says, firm and a little fierce. "Just because we've left, doesn't mean we just all fade away. And you're -- there's time."

Celadion makes a short, disgusted sound under his breath, a faint but distinct noise. That's the only sound for awhile as he finishes his lure and makes a few last knots in the trailing edges of it. "Perhaps you're right. Although I think they'll need to neuter me before I settle down here and what sort of children could I father then?" He glances over at the children and their work, "Perhaps fostering the offspring of our dead kinfolk will have to be enough for me. They don't pair up the way we did back home. There is no family here."

Riorde laughs outright, the hard coarse sound spilling out of her throat before she thinks to hold it back in case Celadion thinks her tactless. "Maybe Evali'll do it if you ask her nicely." She follows the direction of his gaze back towards the children and looks between them and Celadion. "Are you fostering /all/ of them?" The openness brought with laughter is lost as she considers what he says towards the end, looking down at the lure again with a frown. "No, not the way we did," she murmurs; the words sound like agreement, but there is something else besides. Looking up, she asserts, "We're each other's family now."

Celadion's lips purse and then form a nasty smirk for that laugh, "No, I think I'll have some mainlander so it with rusty scissors or something. I'm sure they will get their jollies off on it. They can jar them up and display them...Exile balls, to prove we are good and tame. Then they might allow us to roam free without fear of what we might do. Pollute their bloodlines with our taint." Yes, that is one thing he's assuming--the reason behind their lockdown. As for the children he would foster, there's a small shake of his head, "I would like to take as many as they'd let me, but it's fairly clear they are not going to allow us to foster our own--no matter how we might beg for it. We are at their 'mercy'."

Riorde doesn't shrink from the crude words and the coarse picture it conjures. Instead her own smirk mirrors Celadion's. "I don't think they're worried about bloodlines." Her relatively innocuous comment has an edge to it. She tosses out the second lure to join the first. "Well, if they won't let you foster, keep doing what you're doing," she endorses Celadion and his instruction. "They shouldn't forget."

His finished lure joins hers inside the pack. "Riorde? Where do you stand in your feelings for this place? These mainlanders. Are you happy here with this new life? At first I thought you were and now you seem...disheartened." He gives the other matter a rest, the answer will only come as time unfolds. There's a nod about the teaching of the children, as limited as it might be for now.

Riorde doesn't answer at first. With a lingering frown, she pulls herself up to sitting, swinging her legs off her cot. "It's too simple to say that everything here is either good or bad," she says in the way of an equivocal answer, her gaze penetrating in its solemnity as she finds her feet. "There are things here that I couldn't have on our islands. That I wouldn't want to give up without a fight. But there are things that they don't want to give us still." From the set of her jaw, she looks like she intends to fight back.

"I don't understand. What here could you possibly want to fight for?" Celadion utters a little snort of laughter, "Apparently I am missing out on the bright side of things here."

Riorde's answer is a mysterious little smile and, flippantly, "Klah." She might as well not answer at all. "Perhaps I'll get some now." She picks her book up off her bed and goes out to wander barefooted through the caverns.

Celadion rolls his eyes, "Disgusting. A bunch of weyr-lovers....the whole lot of them..." Sad and disapointed, he watches Riorde leave, one less person to have for his cause.

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Logs:Exile Balls

2011-11-22T02:33:00Z

Riorde: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Celadion, Riorde | where = Candidate Quarters | what = | when = Day 25, Month 2, Turn 26 | gamedate = 2011.07.08 | quote = Like we can't determine our own good fo..."

{{ Log
| who = Celadion, Riorde
| where = Candidate Quarters
| what =
| when = Day 25, Month 2, Turn 26
| gamedate = 2011.07.08
| quote = Like we can't determine our own good for ourselves.
| weather =
| categories = Exiles
| mentions =
| icons = celadion.jpg, riorde thinking.jpg
| log =
''Candidate Quarters, High Reaches Weyr(#286RAJ)
Two caverns lead one right into the other from a hallway just off the Common Room. Taking advantage of the high, vaulted ceiling, bunk beds march in four neat rows of five beds each allowing up to forty people to sleep in one cavern. Functional and spartan in atmosphere, there's little in the way of decoration here, just the one tapestry depicting a hatching on the wall of the first cavern and eggs on the sands in the second.
Each bunk is made up when there are candidates in residence, with standard sheeting, gray woollen blankets and somewhat lumpy pillows. A trunk stands at both the head and foot of the bunks, providing a little space for the occupants to store their belongings while the wait for the eggs to hatch. The archway between the two spaces is covered over with a hide hanging, easily hooked back when both caverns are in use, but tacked into place when only the first is needed. A proper wooden door closes out noise and drafts from the hallway.''

Although a lot of exiles have been spread thin going to classes or various jobs assigned to them, a group of youngsters and Celadion are still in the barracks. Around one of the cots, he is demonstrating how to make fishing line from reed rather than from the mainland-stuff. "So, if you just practice with that a bit, and let me know if you have any questions." The dark man takes a step back to let the younger men try their hand with it.

Rather than go to class or find another way to busy herself and be useful, Riorde has chosen to indulge her bad mood by lounging around the barracks, surrounded by the rest of the island folk. She lies on her stomach with a book between her hands, but Celadion's impromptu lesson is garnering a great deal more of her attention than anything else. "Don't know why you're teaching them," she grumbles, pitched audible enough for the complaint to reach his ears. "Since there's nowhere to practice and they won't let us go elsewhere for it."

Celadion moves across the room, just a short distance to where Riorde is reading. His head tips and he looks over at the youngsters having fun with the 'old fashioned' way of making the fishing line. It might be noted that one or two weyr-children have been smuggled into the brood as well. "There is plenty of fishing to be had at the lake. It's good for them to remember our ways. Where we are from. We can't have them forget."

"There's fish in the lake?" Riorde's eyebrows lift in surprise as she tilts her chin up to meet Celadion's gaze. "I suppose I thought they only came from the sea." Her grumpy tone breaks enough to let her sound rueful. She gestures with one of her hands while the other holds down the pages and her place. "I didn't mean we should forget. Just, you know, can't very well cast a line when we're stuck in here, can we."

Celadion's smiles are rare these days, but one flutters over his features now at the remark about fishing, "I have been bringing in a small catch. They are different fish of course." Puzzlement wars with the smile, making it hitch slightly in one cheek, "I don't know what you mean. No one has stopped me from fishing the lake. Of course we're tied here like prisoners--I would rather be sea-side or back on our island but...." His shoulders roll with a sort of discomfort at the reminder of being held captive.

Lifted towards the light and with her hair falling back, Riorde's features have the reddened touch of sunburn - nothing she could ever gain at winter in the Reaches. She's been mum about where she's got it, but it's not that hard to figure out that it certainly wasn't at the Weyr. "I just never thought to try fishing in it. Thought it'd be like a spring - deep, fresh water but empty." No smiles from Riorde, only dark scowls and dissatisfaction. "For our own good," she relates with a vicious edge. "Like we can't determine our own good for ourselves."

The change in coloring had gone unnoticed by Celadion until now. Being closer to the younger exile, he can actually see the change that the sun has done to her skin. More puzzlement over this and little censoring not to ask, "What happened to your face? It looks like you've been out gardening in summertime. And yet, it's not summer, nor do I think you garden much here. What's going on?" Piecing her broodiness alongside the new coloring, it's enough to draw the question out.

"I was out gardening in the summertime," Riorde deadpans, holding a straight expression against her inclination to smirk. She runs with it further to explain her bad mood. "You know I hate gardening." To change the subject, she gestures towards the youth Celadion's been teaching. "Give me a bit? Haven't made one in far too long."

There's a frown for the deception, "That doesn't make any sense. Really, what have you been up to?" Press-press. Waiting a moment longer, watching her to see if she'll bend and give some history to what happened, Celadion doesn't respond right away to the request. "Hhhmm? Oh, certainly." At the pouch at his hip he draws out some of the familiar reeds, though these are not the island sort but stuff found lake-ward here at the weyr.

Riorde can be stubborn when it suits her and now stares silently up at Celadion in an effort to out-wait him. She looks satisfied when he pulls out reeds for her to play with, and she lets her book fall shut as she reaches to take them. "Thanks." Her nimble fingers go to work. "I know we haven't always been friends," she says then, a phrase that sounds like the start to something more. Except she doesn't go on.

A look drifts over to those at the cot but none of them require Celadion's attention. So his gaze drifts back to Riorde, not impressed at her lack of 'sharing' but shelving being nosey about it. He draws out a length of reed himself but only gets as far as measuring it out before her comment makes him look at her in question, "Hmm....I guess we haven't." Watching her in silence, apparently he's waiting for her to continue her thought.

A long silence passes between them while Riorde twists and ties, fraying the ends until she's created a suitable lure. "There." She puts it on the cot just in front of her. "One more for the next time you go fishing." She sets to work on a second, glancing at Celadion in the meantime as she completes her thought. "I heard that you were going to marry Kima. I never told you sorry."

The offered lure is looked at and then taken up at last with a small smile of thanks. "You make quick work of them." Cela's complement is quiet as he admires her work and then tucks it aside within the pouch. Her comment makes him nearly drop the length of twine he's toying with and his head comes up, his expression guarded. "I...yes. I had thoughts that it might be a good match. Thank you." He is about to let that be the end of his comment but he has to ask, "Do you think she would have been happy?" Knowing that he's not Riorde's favorite person, she might be honest.

The bad mood doesn't run so deep that Riorde can't give Celadion a quick smile for his compliment. Then she looks down again, allowing him his privacy as she brings up the match that almost was. Riorde's fingers slow and then still, and when she looks up again, she considers him frankly. "We weren't friends like we were when we were younger. But yes, I expect she would've been." If she's lying, at least she does it well.

The lie, if it is that, is one of mercy for the young man. Celadion's head tips away so she can't see the raw expression that's too close to the heart to cover up with a mask. Long fingers pull the threads together a little too firmly, "It seems like a very long time ago." There's a depth of sorrow in that statement that is more than just the loss of the young lady. "I think my bloodline will die with me."

Riorde studiously looks at the reed she's twisting into a lure, working slower this time. "It does," she agrees quietly. His second statement draws her regard, quick and fleeting at first to make sure she's not intruding merely by looking at him. "Don't say that," she says, firm and a little fierce. "Just because we've left, doesn't mean we just all fade away. And you're -- there's time."

Celadion makes a short, disgusted sound under his breath, a faint but distinct noise. That's the only sound for awhile as he finishes his lure and makes a few last knots in the trailing edges of it. "Perhaps you're right. Although I think they'll need to neuter me before I settle down here and what sort of children could I father then?" He glances over at the children and their work, "Perhaps fostering the offspring of our dead kinfolk will have to be enough for me. They don't pair up the way we did back home. There is no family here."

Riorde laughs outright, the hard coarse sound spilling out of her throat before she thinks to hold it back in case Celadion thinks her tactless. "Maybe Evali'll do it if you ask her nicely." She follows the direction of his gaze back towards the children and looks between them and Celadion. "Are you fostering /all/ of them?" The openness brought with laughter is lost as she considers what he says towards the end, looking down at the lure again with a frown. "No, not the way we did," she murmurs; the words sound like agreement, but there is something else besides. Looking up, she asserts, "We're each other's family now."

Celadion's lips purse and then form a nasty smirk for that laugh, "No, I think I'll have some mainlander so it with rusty scissors or something. I'm sure they will get their jollies off on it. They can jar them up and display them...Exile balls, to prove we are good and tame. Then they might allow us to roam free without fear of what we might do. Pollute their bloodlines with our taint." Yes, that is one thing he's assuming--the reason behind their lockdown. As for the children he would foster, there's a small shake of his head, "I would like to take as many as they'd let me, but it's fairly clear they are not going to allow us to foster our own--no matter how we might beg for it. We are at their 'mercy'."

Riorde doesn't shrink from the crude words and the coarse picture it conjures. Instead her own smirk mirrors Celadion's. "I don't think they're worried about bloodlines." Her relatively innocuous comment has an edge to it. She tosses out the second lure to join the first. "Well, if they won't let you foster, keep doing what you're doing," she endorses Celadion and his instruction. "They shouldn't forget."

His finished lure joins hers inside the pack. "Riorde? Where do you stand in your feelings for this place? These mainlanders. Are you happy here with this new life? At first I thought you were and now you seem...disheartened." He gives the other matter a rest, the answer will only come as time unfolds. There's a nod about the teaching of the children, as limited as it might be for now.

Riorde doesn't answer at first. With a lingering frown, she pulls herself up to sitting, swinging her legs off her cot. "It's too simple to say that everything here is either good or bad," she says in the way of an equivocal answer, her gaze penetrating in its solemnity as she finds her feet. "There are things here that I couldn't have on our islands. That I wouldn't want to give up without a fight. But there are things that they don't want to give us still." From the set of her jaw, she looks like she intends to fight back.

"I don't understand. What here could you possibly want to fight for?" Celadion utters a little snort of laughter, "Apparently I am missing out on the bright side of things here."

Riorde's answer is a mysterious little smile and, flippantly, "Klah." She might as well not answer at all. "Perhaps I'll get some now." She picks her book up off her bed and goes out to wander barefooted through the caverns.

Celadion rolls his eyes, "Disgusting. A bunch of weyr-lovers....the whole lot of them..." Sad and disapointed, he watches Riorde leave, one less person to have for his cause.

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Logs:Horizons

2011-11-22T01:13:40Z

Riorde:

{{ Log
| who = Riorde, Taikrin
| where = Lower Caverns, HRW and Southern Beach
| what = It's sunny but Riorde won't go outside. Taikrin offers to take her on a clandestine trip instead.
| when = Day 23, Month 2, Turn 26
| gamedate = 2011.07.06
| quote = Lessons're important. They get to the one where they tell you not to go haring off with strange brownriders?
| weather =
| categories =
| mentions = Teris
| icons = riorde beach.jpg, taikrin.jpg
| log = The rare, sunny day has driven a great many of the weyrfolk outside today, despite the chill in the early afternoon air. Taikrin is one of those -- or rather, she ''was''. Now she's returning to the caverns, wearing nothing but a long-sleeved shirt and loose pants, and ''steaming''. Literally. Her cheeks are flushed bright pink, and she's visibly a little sweaty as she flops down right in the entrance of the cavern to wrestle off her snowy, muddy boots.

The islanders aren't used to a life lived indoors, shut away from the wind and the sea. Even when they took to their caves, it was only as forced reprieve from the elements, lasting only as long as was necessary and often not even that long when hunger or necessity or cabin-fever got the best of them. Thus most of the exile-weyrfolk have piled outdoors along with the just weyrfolk-weyrfolk, and thus it is all the stranger that Riorde has chosen to hole up inside, claiming a two-seater sofa and burying her nose in a book. Perhaps it's the relative solitude that appealed to her. Perhaps something else.

Now shoe-less, Taikrin shambles further inside with the loose-limbed grace of someone who has just finished a great deal of exercise. The further in towards the warmth she goes, the less she steams-- until, when she spots Riorde laid out on the couch, she's barely doing it at all. The brownrider hesitates, nearly goes past on her way towards the bathing caverns, then changes course to flop the upper half of her body along the top of the couch and offer, with a cheeky grin, "Hey."

Even engrossed or at least concentrating, some habits die hard. The sound and sight of movement out of the corner of her eye pulls Riorde's attention away from the book, although she doesn't actually look up until Taikrin's nearly upon her. Then, as the brownrider drapes herself over the couch, Riorde looks at her with a big-eyed gaze that's rather unreadable until she concedes a cautious smile a second later, holding back a fuller version. Poorly though - a wider smile threatens to take over. "Hey," she mimics, marking her place in her reading with her finger; she's not far into it, making laborious progress.

"Whacha doin'?" At least the cold and relative lack of clothing has kept Taikrin from getting too fragrant, despite the slight sheen of moisture visible on her skin. Her gaze flicks down towards the book, dismisses it, then trails slowly back up. "Flamin' too nice of a day to be hangin' around inside, ain't it?"

Riorde holds up her book rather than answering, giving it a wave in front of her own face. She stretches a little, having been in one position for too long, and obtains a subtle pop in her spine for her efforts. "So I hear," she replies, not really answering, and tries a deflection. "What are you doing?"

Never having been an avid reader, Taikrin wrinkles her nose at the book. She even goes so far as to swat in the general direction of the offending tome. "Just had a good run, me. Nearly beat Szad in the sprint down the lake-- he likes to cheat, though, so I reckon it's basically like I won." She lifts off the couch, stretches upwards as though in response to Riorde, then leans her arms against the top of the couch in a slightly more dignified manner. "Really, why're you hangin' around in here?"

The book is easily batted away, landing in Riorde's lap. She loses her place without fuss. "A run," the younger woman repeats, considering it as if it were held out to her as a suggestion. "Maybe running in snow like this wouldn't be so different from running in sand." The idea holds appeal, heard within the muted shift in her tone that evidences an itch for activity. "Just, you know. I like being alone." Riorde gives answer but continues to looks at Taikrin in hesitation, indecisive about sharing more - though of course she's shared a lot more than reasons to stay indoors. "It doesn't feel right," she eventually confesses, a halfway house answer.

"Gets everythin' movin' well enough, at least. 'Specially the mud around the lake, from where the dragons melted it all? Skinny thing like you, reckon you'd make it through without hardly even sinkin'in too far." It's a tease, complete with raised eyebrow and less than G-rated smile. Which gaves way to confusion and what might be a hint of concern. Or it maybe hunger. Or maybe a little of both. "What don't feel right?"
... Taikrin.

Riorde smiles too, at first for the imagined feel for mud between her toes and then in response to Taikrin's, turning startled and shy but also smug. "There's no sky," Riorde blurts out, off-balance and moved to disclosure. Her smile shrinks. "No horizon."

"No sky?" Taikrin draws back, startled, and looks up at the roof of rock overhead as if she could see straight through to the sky overhead. "Reckon it's pretty blue, today. But what d'you mean, a'course you can-- oh. But you can't." With a rueful laugh, she slides down the back of the couch again until she's just propped up on her elbows. "See it every day from the ledge of my weyr, more or less. Forgot that you ain't got a way to see it, bein' land-bound and all. That's all what's botherin' you, why didn't you say so? Me and Szad're happy enough to take a flight, 'specially on a restday." She pauses, and that smile makes a return. "'Course, then you might ''owe'' me..."

"There's all those walls," Riorde continues, suddenly expansive and not stopping now that she's started, even if it means talking over Taikrin here and there. "I go out and it all feels so constricted, like it's going to cave in, and the lake isn't an ocean, not even close, and it's no use pretending otherwise -- really?" She draws herself up short. The ingenuous look she turns on Taikrin has much in common with the expression she had held shortly after meeting the brownrider, as if this offer in some way saves her from some sort of peril and she can't quite believe it. Except now that look is also coloured with a different sort of knowledge, too. "I'm sure we could arrange something."

"Reckon we could probably go see some ocean or other too, if y'ain't too picky. Real warm down at Southern, this time of turn. Might be liable to get burnt, but." If Taikrin has any idea of the magnitude of what she's offering Riorde, she's playing it pretty cool: she's all casual offerings with lascivious overtones. "Shame to miss out on such a fine day here, but it'd be good flyings, at least. If y'ain't too busy readin' or nothin'. You got any flying gear? Jacket, at least?"

"What, this?" Riorde practically flings the book away from her as she scrambles off the couch. Just after, she stoops to retrieve the slim volume, not accustomed to being careless with property. For a moment when she straightens, she looks unaccountably delighted before her guarded nature sets in and tempers the expression. "Warm is good," she says agreeably, not actually understanding what Southern warm would mean. "I've got a jacket. What's warm enough on the ground should be warm enough for flying, right?"

"Uhhh, not really. Needs t'be leather, an'-- you know what? I got a spare set in my weyr. You're a lot taller, but-- uh. Sure it's fine." Taikrin's expression gets a little lip-pursey weird for a minute, and it's easy to see that she's nearly the same height as Riorde herself. But she shrugs her way out of it, straightening herself and scrubbing a hand through her short hair. "Tell you what, I gotta go get my stuff from my weyr anyways, why don't me and Szad meet you out in the bowl in a coupl'a minuntes? Just-- try not to say anythin', yeah? Don't wanna be hostin' a field trip, now. Was thinkin' somethin' a little more... private." That grin, it means nothing good is going to happen. Or... maybe something very good? It's hard to tell.

The comment on heights brings out Riorde's curiosity, but she says nothing to question it, focusing instead on the promise of a real vista that includes the sea. The intimations of a private nature have their draw, too. "I can be discreet." Her earnestness is closely related to eagerness. "I'll just go put this away." Her book, gestured with again.

The jacket that Taikrin brings back for Riorde is probably both a little short and too wide, but it'll get the task done-- as will the riding helmet and gloves. Taikrin isn't quiet, precisely, but more inclined towards the physical: help mounting whether it's needed or not, strong arms to steady her passenger mid-flight, all sorts of subtle little personal space intrusions. Szadath himself is eager to be up and out, and flies with his usual athletic flamboyance to do a couple of loops around the Weyr -- look, horizon EVERYWHERE -- before disappearing between to the overwhelming heat of a muggy, sunny Southern day, where he spirals lazily above the brilliant sea.

Riorde almost doesn't notice her familiar anxiety in the few minutes it takes to leave the Weyr. She waits just inside the yawning entrance between caverns and bowl, stepping out when she spots Taikrin, and with the idea of ocean and real, unenclosed sky before her, she holds onto that until they're up in the air, and then the breath she's been holding comes out with the relaxed whoosh of relief: a reaction opposite to many newcomers to dragonflight, whose nervousness makes them seize up the more altitude is gained. All that constriction comes back with the short trip between - if it's the absence of horizons that Riorde finds hard to abide, then between is hellish, but at least it's short. Her pounding heart might as well be audible; as close as Taikrin is, it could likely be felt, and there's no mistaking the way Riorde inadvertently clutches at the rider. "''Hot!''" she exclaims in surprise, turning her head towards where she thinks Taikrin's ear should be, staring and staring. The ''sea.''

''Southern Beach(#1636R)
Golden stand stretches in both directions for as far as the eye can see, broken only by the occasional encroaching cliff, the ancient stone formed into rockpools and outcroppings. Inland, open sand is gradually taken over by lush greenery: dense forest extending all the way back to distant mountains that might even be days of walking from here. The ocean, too, stretches out unbroken: there's no other land to be seen, nothing but blue and blue and blue until the point at which it hits the horizon, where blue meets another kind of blue, in the endless, cloudless sky.
A tent-like structure has been strung up between trees and a few tall posts, providing shelter from the hot sun. There are no tables, and no chairs, beneath it, however: just a few haphazardly slung blankets, providing only the most basic comfort. A few paces beyond the edge of the tent is a bonfire built from driftwood.
The water is shallow, here, protected by a sandbar a few lengths out.''

Riorde might be able to hear Taikrin's laughter in her ear, though it's just as likely the hot breeze will snatch it away; more likely, she can feel it vibrating out of the brownrider just as Szadath's amused rumbles echoe through the brown's body. He wheels around, turning sharply enough to strain his riders against their straps as he tips them over that expanse of ocean, then levels up just long enough to plow into the empty beach in a shower of sand and water. "Welcome to Southern!"

Taikrin's laughter cues Riorde's, and it spills out uninhibited. No one can see her grin so it is wholly her own, huge and dimpling and delighted. Most of it remains when Szadath lands as if Riorde's unable to contain it once it's unleashed. "It's hot!" she says a second time, unable to fully comprehend how air can be this hot and humid. "Like the baths." It's the only point of comparison in her limited experience.

Taikrin releases Riorde to make short work of removing her jacket, and flings it as far up the beach as she can manage. "Shells yeah, it is. You like?" Taikrin's own grin is delighted, even moreso at Riorde's child-like enjoyment of something that's become commonplace for the brownrider herself. She thumps Riorde on the shoulder then shimmies down the straps without Szadath's help. "Like the baths, but ''better''. Sand's hot, water's warm, and Szad says there ain't another person within a klick today." Which might, technically, make this a kidnapping.

Riorde's fingers work at her throat to unfasten the snaps so she too can shrug out of her borrowed jacket and, in echo of Taikrin's grand gesture, throw it in the opposite direction. "I don't know if I've ever ''been'' this hot!" Which explains why she's fixated on the weather. Riorde follows Taikrin's progress down, more careful given her inexperience but enthusiastic enough to not pay it as much attention as she probably should. She nearly slips, catches herself, and finally thumps down onto the sand -- ''real'' sand, not mixed with rocks. "Shells." A curse she's picked up encapsulates her disbelieving wonder before, without warning, she flings herself at Taikrin, utterly exuberant.

"Y'do look pretty hot from here." Taikrin is being pretty blatant about staring at Riorde as she dismounts, and warm weather hasn't made her any less corny. "Y'al-- oof!" It's a good thing Taikrin is nothing but solid muscle, because otherwise she might do more than just stagger backwards a couple of steps. Her arms come up to wrap around Riorde, and she lets out a bark of helpless laughter. "Shells, girl-- easy. Don't want to break somethin' before we got a chance to enjoy ourselves!"

Riorde is too thrilled to be anything except amused and forgiving of Taikrin's line. "''I'm'' not going to break something," she returns with a bit of mischief in the way she stresses the first word, though the words themselves don't have much sense to them. She steps away - the point was the display of gratitude, not an intent to linger - and crouches so she can undo the laces of her boots. "It's wonderful," she says from there, glancing up. "I know we're not supposed to miss it, but. Thank you."

Taikrin releases Riorde, albiet a little reluctantly, to continue shucking off her clothes. "Hey, we're happy for any excuse t'get out of the Weyr, y'know? Don't know how I ever made it through the winter, before, without a little break." With typical dragonrider immodesty, she's down to nothing but underwear in short order, and proceeds to start unbuckling Szadath's straps as well; the brown appears interested in little but looking out over the ocean, and as soon as the buckles are undone, he wiggles out of them and lumbers down towards the water. "S'okay to miss your home, y'know."

Perhaps surprisingly, Riorde displays no holder-like scruples about naked bodies - the islands simply had no room for such luxuries. She's peeling off clothing too as soon as the boots are off, layer by winter layer. "Our winters," she says with the voice of fact rather than remembrance, "were all salt-fish and too many people in the caves and you'd get out at the first sign of clear weather." She doesn't say anything else about where she came from and certainly nothing more about missing it, watches Szadath instead. Reminding herself for the upteenth time that dragons are not just animals, she asks, "Does he like being out, too?"

"Winters in caves-- don't like thinking about that much, me." Whether from personal experience or something else, she doesn't clarify; instead, she brushes sand from her hands and gestures for Riorde to follow towards the moderate shelter of the battered old canopy. "He likes the snow more'n most, but-- all dragons love sand and heat, y'know? And swimming," she adds hastily, as the brown plunges headlong into the water and starts swimming. "He's happier when he's got Iskiveth t'share it with, but he's okay with bein' alone, too."

Happily for Taikrin's peace of mind as well as her own, Riorde doesn't go on. She jogs forward a step or two to join Taikrin and leaves her clothes scattered behind her. "Don't know anyone who doesn't like swimming," she answers, expanding the statement to include Szadath. "Why Is-ke-vith?" She only mangles the gold's name a little, knowing it on hearing but stumbling over unfamiliar syllables.

"I ain't much of a swimmer," Taikrin admits offhandledly as she flings herself down onto the sand, then props herself up on one elbow to smirk at Riorde. "'Cause they get on like, well, dragons from the same shell. 'Cept she's gold. Clutchmates, y'know? They're-- real similar. Szad's pretty sure she set the moons in the sky, and he's her favorite source of fire. Even had a clutch together, on account of Szadath being so awesome." She gestures for Riorde to join her, then smirks in a cat-in-the-cream way. "That was a flamin' thing, it was. Figure how it was when Iovniath went up, 'cept times about a million."

Riorde's eyebrows arch to convey her incredulity when Taikrin says the unthinkable. She looks out at the water, no longer squinting under the shade of the canopy. Settling down next to the rider outweighs her desire to throw herself headlong into the warm waves so she saves it for later and arranges herself alongside Taikrin in a lazy, sandy sprawl. "That would be..." She doesn't come up with an appropriate word. "Something. You should have heard some of after Ee-yov--" Riorde gives up on the name. "That gold flew. It was all, 'my husband slept with a man,' and 'my wife slept with a ''woman'',' and 'my daughter's ruined for marriage' - bet there'll be a load of babies. But not me," she adds hastily, like that needs to be said.

"Kinda wish I could'a stayed, you know?" Taikrin raises an eyebrow, implications clear. "'Cept it was real important we made sure Iskiveth and Teris left clear, and then Szad really wanted t'go with her since I wouldn't let him chase after Iovniath, so--" It's sort of got the sound of a Pernese soap opera... at least as much as Riorde's tale. "Poor sots. As if flight-sex even ''counted'' for anything." Which apparently, in Taikrin's estimation, it doesn't. "Anyways, ain't nobody offered to take 'em between? Solve that problem right quick. And-- good. Girl like you's too pretty to be havin' babies."

Riorde gets a look of pleased embarrassment, unused to the idea of herself in this light. Still listening, she drops her gaze and idly watches the sand she sifts through her fingers, digging a shallow hole and depositing the sand in front of it. "Oh, probably. I keep forgetting about -- that. And I ''entirely'' agree." The babies part, not the pretty part. Firmly, "No babies for me."

"See, this is what I keep tellin' Teris! She can't let Iskiveth get caught by anyone else, otherwise she's gonna end up knocked up if she ain't careful!" Taikrin laughs, as if sharing Pern's biggest joke, then considers, "You met Teris, right? Heard she was doin' somethin' or other to do with your, uh, situation. Blonde girl, awful serious?"

Riorde makes a noise of polite laughter contained behind a close-mouthed smile, though she doesn't really know what's so funny. She puts her elbow in the hole she's created and turns towards Taikrin, on her side. "Don't think so. I mean, I think I know who she is. But haven't actually talked to her. I just keep my head down, go to the lessons they've got set up."

"Ah, well, don't reckon it matters. Didn't bring ''you'' down all this way just to talk about ''Teris''." Taikrin raises herself up on her elbow, the better to look down on Riorde. "Keepin' your head down, that's good. Lessons're important. They get to the one where they tell you not to go haring off with strange brownriders?" Her voice drops as she looms closer, lips curving upwards in a private little smile.

Still held up on her elbow with her jaw on the hard cushion of her fist, Riorde shifts to a more open posture in subtle welcome of Taikrin's attentions, the other arm now lying along her side in conformity with the line of her body. "No," she answers, her tone straight but her smile crooked and undisguised - later, she wants to swim, but now, it's the furthest thing from her mind.

"Good, wanted t'give you that one myself." Taikrin is happy to be on top -- more than happy. In the bright light, Riorde might notice the impressive scarring that Taikrin has going on - most of which would have probably been difficult to see in low-light conditions. The flush of pink in her skin from the heat makes them all the more prominent: older, pale traceries all over her hands and arms, several thick ugly lines on her torso - those have the look of knife wounds of varying ages. That is, they might be visible before Taikrin is kissing Riorde again with plenty of enthusiasm.

Riorde has her faint scars, but nothing like Taikrin's - places where she fell on the rocks or cut herself, marks of labour rather than violence. "If this is the lesson where I'm ''not'' supposed to run off like this," she says into a pause, uncomplaining that she's ended up on her back with the sand sticking to her heat-slicked skin in a way that is comfortingly familiar and strangely not, "I don't think I'm a very good student."

"Well," Taikrin murmurs in response, "Nobody said I was a very good teacher, neither. Guess we're just gonna have to do remedial lessons. Lots and lots of remedial lessons. 'Till you really got the... point." The brownrider punctuates her statement with purposefully wandering hands, and then seems pretty disinclined for words when, after all, actions get it across SO much more clearly.

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Logs:Horizons

2011-11-22T01:13:20Z

Riorde:

{{ Log
| who = Riorde, Taikrin
| where = Lower Caverns, HRW and Southern Beach
| what = It's sunny but Riorde won't go outside. Taikrin offers to take her on a clandestine trip instead.
| when = Day 23, Month 2, Turn 26
| gamedate = 2011.07.06
| quote = Lessons're important. They get to the one where they tell you not to go haring off with strange brownriders?
| weather =
| categories =
| mentions = Teris
| icons = riorde beach.jpg, taikrin.jpg
| log =
The rare, sunny day has driven a great many of the weyrfolk outside today, despite the chill in the early afternoon air. Taikrin is one of those -- or rather, she ''was''. Now she's returning to the caverns, wearing nothing but a long-sleeved shirt and loose pants, and ''steaming''. Literally. Her cheeks are flushed bright pink, and she's visibly a little sweaty as she flops down right in the entrance of the cavern to wrestle off her snowy, muddy boots.

The islanders aren't used to a life lived indoors, shut away from the wind and the sea. Even when they took to their caves, it was only as forced reprieve from the elements, lasting only as long as was necessary and often not even that long when hunger or necessity or cabin-fever got the best of them. Thus most of the exile-weyrfolk have piled outdoors along with the just weyrfolk-weyrfolk, and thus it is all the stranger that Riorde has chosen to hole up inside, claiming a two-seater sofa and burying her nose in a book. Perhaps it's the relative solitude that appealed to her. Perhaps something else.

Now shoe-less, Taikrin shambles further inside with the loose-limbed grace of someone who has just finished a great deal of exercise. The further in towards the warmth she goes, the less she steams-- until, when she spots Riorde laid out on the couch, she's barely doing it at all. The brownrider hesitates, nearly goes past on her way towards the bathing caverns, then changes course to flop the upper half of her body along the top of the couch and offer, with a cheeky grin, "Hey."

Even engrossed or at least concentrating, some habits die hard. The sound and sight of movement out of the corner of her eye pulls Riorde's attention away from the book, although she doesn't actually look up until Taikrin's nearly upon her. Then, as the brownrider drapes herself over the couch, Riorde looks at her with a big-eyed gaze that's rather unreadable until she concedes a cautious smile a second later, holding back a fuller version. Poorly though - a wider smile threatens to take over. "Hey," she mimics, marking her place in her reading with her finger; she's not far into it, making laborious progress.

"Whacha doin'?" At least the cold and relative lack of clothing has kept Taikrin from getting too fragrant, despite the slight sheen of moisture visible on her skin. Her gaze flicks down towards the book, dismisses it, then trails slowly back up. "Flamin' too nice of a day to be hangin' around inside, ain't it?"

Riorde holds up her book rather than answering, giving it a wave in front of her own face. She stretches a little, having been in one position for too long, and obtains a subtle pop in her spine for her efforts. "So I hear," she replies, not really answering, and tries a deflection. "What are you doing?"

Never having been an avid reader, Taikrin wrinkles her nose at the book. She even goes so far as to swat in the general direction of the offending tome. "Just had a good run, me. Nearly beat Szad in the sprint down the lake-- he likes to cheat, though, so I reckon it's basically like I won." She lifts off the couch, stretches upwards as though in response to Riorde, then leans her arms against the top of the couch in a slightly more dignified manner. "Really, why're you hangin' around in here?"

The book is easily batted away, landing in Riorde's lap. She loses her place without fuss. "A run," the younger woman repeats, considering it as if it were held out to her as a suggestion. "Maybe running in snow like this wouldn't be so different from running in sand." The idea holds appeal, heard within the muted shift in her tone that evidences an itch for activity. "Just, you know. I like being alone." Riorde gives answer but continues to looks at Taikrin in hesitation, indecisive about sharing more - though of course she's shared a lot more than reasons to stay indoors. "It doesn't feel right," she eventually confesses, a halfway house answer.

"Gets everythin' movin' well enough, at least. 'Specially the mud around the lake, from where the dragons melted it all? Skinny thing like you, reckon you'd make it through without hardly even sinkin'in too far." It's a tease, complete with raised eyebrow and less than G-rated smile. Which gaves way to confusion and what might be a hint of concern. Or it maybe hunger. Or maybe a little of both. "What don't feel right?"
... Taikrin.

Riorde smiles too, at first for the imagined feel for mud between her toes and then in response to Taikrin's, turning startled and shy but also smug. "There's no sky," Riorde blurts out, off-balance and moved to disclosure. Her smile shrinks. "No horizon."

"No sky?" Taikrin draws back, startled, and looks up at the roof of rock overhead as if she could see straight through to the sky overhead. "Reckon it's pretty blue, today. But what d'you mean, a'course you can-- oh. But you can't." With a rueful laugh, she slides down the back of the couch again until she's just propped up on her elbows. "See it every day from the ledge of my weyr, more or less. Forgot that you ain't got a way to see it, bein' land-bound and all. That's all what's botherin' you, why didn't you say so? Me and Szad're happy enough to take a flight, 'specially on a restday." She pauses, and that smile makes a return. "'Course, then you might ''owe'' me..."

"There's all those walls," Riorde continues, suddenly expansive and not stopping now that she's started, even if it means talking over Taikrin here and there. "I go out and it all feels so constricted, like it's going to cave in, and the lake isn't an ocean, not even close, and it's no use pretending otherwise -- really?" She draws herself up short. The ingenuous look she turns on Taikrin has much in common with the expression she had held shortly after meeting the brownrider, as if this offer in some way saves her from some sort of peril and she can't quite believe it. Except now that look is also coloured with a different sort of knowledge, too. "I'm sure we could arrange something."

"Reckon we could probably go see some ocean or other too, if y'ain't too picky. Real warm down at Southern, this time of turn. Might be liable to get burnt, but." If Taikrin has any idea of the magnitude of what she's offering Riorde, she's playing it pretty cool: she's all casual offerings with lascivious overtones. "Shame to miss out on such a fine day here, but it'd be good flyings, at least. If y'ain't too busy readin' or nothin'. You got any flying gear? Jacket, at least?"

"What, this?" Riorde practically flings the book away from her as she scrambles off the couch. Just after, she stoops to retrieve the slim volume, not accustomed to being careless with property. For a moment when she straightens, she looks unaccountably delighted before her guarded nature sets in and tempers the expression. "Warm is good," she says agreeably, not actually understanding what Southern warm would mean. "I've got a jacket. What's warm enough on the ground should be warm enough for flying, right?"

"Uhhh, not really. Needs t'be leather, an'-- you know what? I got a spare set in my weyr. You're a lot taller, but-- uh. Sure it's fine." Taikrin's expression gets a little lip-pursey weird for a minute, and it's easy to see that she's nearly the same height as Riorde herself. But she shrugs her way out of it, straightening herself and scrubbing a hand through her short hair. "Tell you what, I gotta go get my stuff from my weyr anyways, why don't me and Szad meet you out in the bowl in a coupl'a minuntes? Just-- try not to say anythin', yeah? Don't wanna be hostin' a field trip, now. Was thinkin' somethin' a little more... private." That grin, it means nothing good is going to happen. Or... maybe something very good? It's hard to tell.

The comment on heights brings out Riorde's curiosity, but she says nothing to question it, focusing instead on the promise of a real vista that includes the sea. The intimations of a private nature have their draw, too. "I can be discreet." Her earnestness is closely related to eagerness. "I'll just go put this away." Her book, gestured with again.

The jacket that Taikrin brings back for Riorde is probably both a little short and too wide, but it'll get the task done-- as will the riding helmet and gloves. Taikrin isn't quiet, precisely, but more inclined towards the physical: help mounting whether it's needed or not, strong arms to steady her passenger mid-flight, all sorts of subtle little personal space intrusions. Szadath himself is eager to be up and out, and flies with his usual athletic flamboyance to do a couple of loops around the Weyr -- look, horizon EVERYWHERE -- before disappearing between to the overwhelming heat of a muggy, sunny Southern day, where he spirals lazily above the brilliant sea.

Riorde almost doesn't notice her familiar anxiety in the few minutes it takes to leave the Weyr. She waits just inside the yawning entrance between caverns and bowl, stepping out when she spots Taikrin, and with the idea of ocean and real, unenclosed sky before her, she holds onto that until they're up in the air, and then the breath she's been holding comes out with the relaxed whoosh of relief: a reaction opposite to many newcomers to dragonflight, whose nervousness makes them seize up the more altitude is gained. All that constriction comes back with the short trip between - if it's the absence of horizons that Riorde finds hard to abide, then between is hellish, but at least it's short. Her pounding heart might as well be audible; as close as Taikrin is, it could likely be felt, and there's no mistaking the way Riorde inadvertently clutches at the rider. "''Hot!''" she exclaims in surprise, turning her head towards where she thinks Taikrin's ear should be, staring and staring. The ''sea.''

''Southern Beach(#1636R)
Golden stand stretches in both directions for as far as the eye can see, broken only by the occasional encroaching cliff, the ancient stone formed into rockpools and outcroppings. Inland, open sand is gradually taken over by lush greenery: dense forest extending all the way back to distant mountains that might even be days of walking from here. The ocean, too, stretches out unbroken: there's no other land to be seen, nothing but blue and blue and blue until the point at which it hits the horizon, where blue meets another kind of blue, in the endless, cloudless sky.
A tent-like structure has been strung up between trees and a few tall posts, providing shelter from the hot sun. There are no tables, and no chairs, beneath it, however: just a few haphazardly slung blankets, providing only the most basic comfort. A few paces beyond the edge of the tent is a bonfire built from driftwood.
The water is shallow, here, protected by a sandbar a few lengths out.''

Riorde might be able to hear Taikrin's laughter in her ear, though it's just as likely the hot breeze will snatch it away; more likely, she can feel it vibrating out of the brownrider just as Szadath's amused rumbles echoe through the brown's body. He wheels around, turning sharply enough to strain his riders against their straps as he tips them over that expanse of ocean, then levels up just long enough to plow into the empty beach in a shower of sand and water. "Welcome to Southern!"

Taikrin's laughter cues Riorde's, and it spills out uninhibited. No one can see her grin so it is wholly her own, huge and dimpling and delighted. Most of it remains when Szadath lands as if Riorde's unable to contain it once it's unleashed. "It's hot!" she says a second time, unable to fully comprehend how air can be this hot and humid. "Like the baths." It's the only point of comparison in her limited experience.

Taikrin releases Riorde to make short work of removing her jacket, and flings it as far up the beach as she can manage. "Shells yeah, it is. You like?" Taikrin's own grin is delighted, even moreso at Riorde's child-like enjoyment of something that's become commonplace for the brownrider herself. She thumps Riorde on the shoulder then shimmies down the straps without Szadath's help. "Like the baths, but ''better''. Sand's hot, water's warm, and Szad says there ain't another person within a klick today." Which might, technically, make this a kidnapping.

Riorde's fingers work at her throat to unfasten the snaps so she too can shrug out of her borrowed jacket and, in echo of Taikrin's grand gesture, throw it in the opposite direction. "I don't know if I've ever ''been'' this hot!" Which explains why she's fixated on the weather. Riorde follows Taikrin's progress down, more careful given her inexperience but enthusiastic enough to not pay it as much attention as she probably should. She nearly slips, catches herself, and finally thumps down onto the sand -- ''real'' sand, not mixed with rocks. "Shells." A curse she's picked up encapsulates her disbelieving wonder before, without warning, she flings herself at Taikrin, utterly exuberant.

"Y'do look pretty hot from here." Taikrin is being pretty blatant about staring at Riorde as she dismounts, and warm weather hasn't made her any less corny. "Y'al-- oof!" It's a good thing Taikrin is nothing but solid muscle, because otherwise she might do more than just stagger backwards a couple of steps. Her arms come up to wrap around Riorde, and she lets out a bark of helpless laughter. "Shells, girl-- easy. Don't want to break somethin' before we got a chance to enjoy ourselves!"

Riorde is too thrilled to be anything except amused and forgiving of Taikrin's line. "''I'm'' not going to break something," she returns with a bit of mischief in the way she stresses the first word, though the words themselves don't have much sense to them. She steps away - the point was the display of gratitude, not an intent to linger - and crouches so she can undo the laces of her boots. "It's wonderful," she says from there, glancing up. "I know we're not supposed to miss it, but. Thank you."

Taikrin releases Riorde, albiet a little reluctantly, to continue shucking off her clothes. "Hey, we're happy for any excuse t'get out of the Weyr, y'know? Don't know how I ever made it through the winter, before, without a little break." With typical dragonrider immodesty, she's down to nothing but underwear in short order, and proceeds to start unbuckling Szadath's straps as well; the brown appears interested in little but looking out over the ocean, and as soon as the buckles are undone, he wiggles out of them and lumbers down towards the water. "S'okay to miss your home, y'know."

Perhaps surprisingly, Riorde displays no holder-like scruples about naked bodies - the islands simply had no room for such luxuries. She's peeling off clothing too as soon as the boots are off, layer by winter layer. "Our winters," she says with the voice of fact rather than remembrance, "were all salt-fish and too many people in the caves and you'd get out at the first sign of clear weather." She doesn't say anything else about where she came from and certainly nothing more about missing it, watches Szadath instead. Reminding herself for the upteenth time that dragons are not just animals, she asks, "Does he like being out, too?"

"Winters in caves-- don't like thinking about that much, me." Whether from personal experience or something else, she doesn't clarify; instead, she brushes sand from her hands and gestures for Riorde to follow towards the moderate shelter of the battered old canopy. "He likes the snow more'n most, but-- all dragons love sand and heat, y'know? And swimming," she adds hastily, as the brown plunges headlong into the water and starts swimming. "He's happier when he's got Iskiveth t'share it with, but he's okay with bein' alone, too."

Happily for Taikrin's peace of mind as well as her own, Riorde doesn't go on. She jogs forward a step or two to join Taikrin and leaves her clothes scattered behind her. "Don't know anyone who doesn't like swimming," she answers, expanding the statement to include Szadath. "Why Is-ke-vith?" She only mangles the gold's name a little, knowing it on hearing but stumbling over unfamiliar syllables.

"I ain't much of a swimmer," Taikrin admits offhandledly as she flings herself down onto the sand, then props herself up on one elbow to smirk at Riorde. "'Cause they get on like, well, dragons from the same shell. 'Cept she's gold. Clutchmates, y'know? They're-- real similar. Szad's pretty sure she set the moons in the sky, and he's her favorite source of fire. Even had a clutch together, on account of Szadath being so awesome." She gestures for Riorde to join her, then smirks in a cat-in-the-cream way. "That was a flamin' thing, it was. Figure how it was when Iovniath went up, 'cept times about a million."

Riorde's eyebrows arch to convey her incredulity when Taikrin says the unthinkable. She looks out at the water, no longer squinting under the shade of the canopy. Settling down next to the rider outweighs her desire to throw herself headlong into the warm waves so she saves it for later and arranges herself alongside Taikrin in a lazy, sandy sprawl. "That would be..." She doesn't come up with an appropriate word. "Something. You should have heard some of after Ee-yov--" Riorde gives up on the name. "That gold flew. It was all, 'my husband slept with a man,' and 'my wife slept with a ''woman'',' and 'my daughter's ruined for marriage' - bet there'll be a load of babies. But not me," she adds hastily, like that needs to be said.

"Kinda wish I could'a stayed, you know?" Taikrin raises an eyebrow, implications clear. "'Cept it was real important we made sure Iskiveth and Teris left clear, and then Szad really wanted t'go with her since I wouldn't let him chase after Iovniath, so--" It's sort of got the sound of a Pernese soap opera... at least as much as Riorde's tale. "Poor sots. As if flight-sex even ''counted'' for anything." Which apparently, in Taikrin's estimation, it doesn't. "Anyways, ain't nobody offered to take 'em between? Solve that problem right quick. And-- good. Girl like you's too pretty to be havin' babies."

Riorde gets a look of pleased embarrassment, unused to the idea of herself in this light. Still listening, she drops her gaze and idly watches the sand she sifts through her fingers, digging a shallow hole and depositing the sand in front of it. "Oh, probably. I keep forgetting about -- that. And I ''entirely'' agree." The babies part, not the pretty part. Firmly, "No babies for me."

"See, this is what I keep tellin' Teris! She can't let Iskiveth get caught by anyone else, otherwise she's gonna end up knocked up if she ain't careful!" Taikrin laughs, as if sharing Pern's biggest joke, then considers, "You met Teris, right? Heard she was doin' somethin' or other to do with your, uh, situation. Blonde girl, awful serious?"

Riorde makes a noise of polite laughter contained behind a close-mouthed smile, though she doesn't really know what's so funny. She puts her elbow in the hole she's created and turns towards Taikrin, on her side. "Don't think so. I mean, I think I know who she is. But haven't actually talked to her. I just keep my head down, go to the lessons they've got set up."

"Ah, well, don't reckon it matters. Didn't bring ''you'' down all this way just to talk about ''Teris''." Taikrin raises herself up on her elbow, the better to look down on Riorde. "Keepin' your head down, that's good. Lessons're important. They get to the one where they tell you not to go haring off with strange brownriders?" Her voice drops as she looms closer, lips curving upwards in a private little smile.

Still held up on her elbow with her jaw on the hard cushion of her fist, Riorde shifts to a more open posture in subtle welcome of Taikrin's attentions, the other arm now lying along her side in conformity with the line of her body. "No," she answers, her tone straight but her smile crooked and undisguised - later, she wants to swim, but now, it's the furthest thing from her mind.

"Good, wanted t'give you that one myself." Taikrin is happy to be on top -- more than happy. In the bright light, Riorde might notice the impressive scarring that Taikrin has going on - most of which would have probably been difficult to see in low-light conditions. The flush of pink in her skin from the heat makes them all the more prominent: older, pale traceries all over her hands and arms, several thick ugly lines on her torso - those have the look of knife wounds of varying ages. That is, they might be visible before Taikrin is kissing Riorde again with plenty of enthusiasm.

Riorde has her faint scars, but nothing like Taikrin's - places where she fell on the rocks or cut herself, marks of labour rather than violence. "If this is the lesson where I'm ''not'' supposed to run off like this," she says into a pause, uncomplaining that she's ended up on her back with the sand sticking to her heat-slicked skin in a way that is comfortingly familiar and strangely not, "I don't think I'm a very good student."

"Well," Taikrin murmurs in response, "Nobody said I was a very good teacher, neither. Guess we're just gonna have to do remedial lessons. Lots and lots of remedial lessons. 'Till you really got the... point." The brownrider punctuates her statement with purposefully wandering hands, and then seems pretty disinclined for words when, after all, actions get it across SO much more clearly.

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