NorCon MUSH - User contributions [en]

Logs:Friendly?

2016-07-17T04:31:43Z

Silva:

{{Log
|who=T'zur, Silva
|what=Bar, button, weyr, wine, confusion.
|where=HRW Rider's Lounge
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=18
|month=4
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.16
|quote="Maybe we can, uh, help each other?"
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon t'zur kiss.jpg, Icon t'zur tziveth.jpg, Icon silva too pretty.jpg,
|log=The lounge is fairly packed tonight -- it's spring, after all, and with the weather turning better even the less social folk are venturing out. At one table in the midst of the lounge, a smattering of Glacier riders are drinking, talking loudly -- or arguing, more like -- about which bar is ''next''. T'zur is with them, leaning forward but not arguing any particular point, but rather looking like he doesn't need another early morning with a serious hangover -- he looks ''tired''. Quickly draining his mug, he mutters something about draining that other thing, and eases away from the table, walking quickly.

T'zur may be ending the night, but Silva is just ''begnining''. Having failed for so long to find the stupid pirate the bluerider has set the issue to once side (and for chance to make it happen.) She's dressed in an evening gown tonight with sleeveless arms - her bruises long since healed - well, until the next time. Her hair is done up and she is ''here'' for just the start of the evening. It really is too bad that T'zur exits his table right then because she walks right into him and reaches out to tangle her hands in his shirt rather then tumble towards the ground.

The noise of surprise T'zur exhales is more an ungainly ''oof'' and a brief stumble, than some manly clutch to rescue her, so it's a good thing she rescues herself. Unfortunately several of his buttons pop and go flying towards the floor. "Uh," his trader's eyes take a quick assessment of Silva and what she's wearing, and he grins. "Hello there. My apologies, I'm an absolute klutz." Also a liar, but it's a lie of convenience.

Silva now has a button in her hand. She gets herself righted and looks down at the button before looking up... and up some more at T'zur. A blink, then another, "I don't know you." She'll just be completely blunt as she steps away from him, looking down from his face, then back up again. "And I ''just'' ruined your shirt." There's more than a hint of frustration in her words.

"No," T'zur says, amused, to the first, and, "Yes," just as amused, to the second. "It's okay. I'm overdue to get new things, anyway. Really," he says, reassuringly. He tugs his shirt mostly closed, tipping his head as if listening to something, but his gaze is still focused on you. "Rider?" he guesses.

Reaching out Silva slips a finger into the fold of his shirt, feeling the progression of buttonholes. There's a twist to her lips that seems like regret, "It would be a shame... this isn't a bad shirt actually." Glancing upwards Silva checks the fit around his shoulders, "And it fits you pretty well." Her fashionista-ness is coming out- she clearly isn't drunk yet. "Blue Zaisyreth," she says it with a hint of distraction before, "I could sew them back on for you."

T'zur's brow furrows briefly throughout Silva's expression of regret over the shirt. "It's ''just'' a shirt," he reassures her. "And not even a shirt I particularly like or anything." It's hard to tell whether the silence that follows is bemusement at the bluerider's assessment, or simply the lack of any strong opinion on the subject. "I," and a pause, "And you?" With a flickered smile, "I'm T'zur, Tziveth's my bronze." The latter offer earns a grin, now: "Oh. That'd be nice, only -- I've just moved in, and I haven't a clue where anything ''is''."

Silva glances out of her shoulder at the position of the sun, biting her lip slightly. Finally, decisevly, she lets go of his shirt. "Go get us something to drink and we can go back to my weyr."

Silent while she studies the sun, T'zur instead studies the woman whose name he still doesn't know, head tipped to one side. If there's any objections on T'zur's part to being treated so peremptorily, it's a passing expression at best. With a crooked grin, he turns towards the bar, secures something (relatively) inexpensive, and seeks out the woman again.

"Your Tziveth up to taking both of us?" Silva reaches out for the bottle, turning it to read the label before glancing up with an eyebrow raised. "Zaisyreth's asleep."

"Of course," is T'zur's quick assurance, even if there's a slight shift of his expression a beat later. When she reaches for the bottle, he reaches to slide a hand around her waist, guiding her towards the ledge. Moments later, a dark bronze wings to a landing -- turning head to ''stare'' at the pair of them. Or probably more likely, ''Silva''. "After you?" the former Bendenite gestures.

>---< Lofted Dreams Weyr, High Reaches Weyr(#963R) >-------------------------<

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

It's a show of how much Silva's NORM has changed that she doesn't beat an eye when T'zur slips his arm around her waist and leads her out. The bronze is bigger then her Zaisyreth, but that only means she's going to show a ''lot'' of leg in the process. Her back is to the bronzerider though, so if he HAPPENS to look she won't notice. When they reach her ledge she slides off with a bit of distraction a move which leaves pretty much nothing under her dress up to speculation. "There are cups in the cupboard over there." She waves a hand in the direction of over-there.

It might be that T'zur is looking. But then she can't see to confirm, and by the time she's settled, T'zur's already climbing up behind her, settling in. He seeks direction, Tziveth veering towards the ledge she indicates, backwinging. There's a stretch of Tziveth's thought to the owner, touching the sleeping Zaisyreth and withdrawing moments later. Once both of his passengers are off, the dark bronze drops off the ledge, circling up in the skies again. T'zur's watching for a moment, before he follows Silva into the weyr, veering as directed towards the cupboard, while nosying about with his gaze. "I didn't get your name," he reminds, with a grin over his shoulder as he pulls out a pair of cups and moves to join her.

Silva's touch is everywhere. It's not the ''neatest'' place in the weyr, but it's not a pigstye. A faint scent of perfume hovers over everything. Kicking off her heels Silva digs into a drawer to find her thread and needles. "Most guys don't bother to ask. It's Silva. Ah-ha!" She pulls out some different threads and turns back towards the bronzerider to see which thread will match his shirt.

"Oh," T'zur says in tone that suggests he's aware he's made some mistake according to the woman code, but not quite sure what. His gaze tracks Silva, and when she offers her name, he grins. "That's a pretty name." There might be a moment of surprise that she's actually getting thread and needle -- before he starts unbuttoning the rest of his shirt, shrugging out of it and laying it across the table for her. "Were you a seamstress, before?"

Flicking a stray lock of hair out of her face Silva chooses a thread and discards the rest, then she turns back and blinks at his shirtlessness. "Thanks," She sounds completely surprised by the compliment, then shakes her head swiftly. "Nah, but knowing how to sew a button is child's play. You pour the drinks?" Just move on to that. Thinks totally make more sense when she's a bit tipsy.

T'zur does just that -- reaching for the bottle and pouring the liquid into the two glasses. It's a southern white, crisp and chilled -- he sets one of the glasses closer to Silva, and just drinks from the other without waiting. "I like your weyr," he says, as his gaze roves. "I looked at a few before I moved in, myself."

Silva takes up the shirt before, "I'm... going to have to replace all the buttons." Since they didn't actually pick up all the ones that popped off before. Irritation writes itself across Silva's features as she mentally kicks herself for forgetting. "Damn it." Silva's way too hard on herself. Turning she takes up the glass and is just going to drink it a ''little'' too quickly.

Apparently T'zur didn't think of that, either. In contrast to Silva, however, he seems completely unbothered. "Mm. Honestly, don't even worry about it," he waves a hand dismissively. "I'm probably overdue a trip to the weavers, regardless." The former Bendenite's studying the bluerider over the top of his glass, looking thoughtful.

Silva eyes her empty glass and turns towards the bottle so she can pour herself another glass. "Whatever. Nothing new." She moves away from him and settles down on a bench made more comfortable by a //lot// of pillows. "So. T'zur. New to the weyr?"

After a moment, T'zur refills his cup, picks up the bottle, and moves to join Silva. Not ''too'' close, though, setting the bottle between them on an empty space. "Brand new. Practically know not a single soul," he's exaggerating, but that's okay, right? "So if you want to shower me in tips or hints or secrets or... anything, I'd be grateful."

The snort from Silva is more than a little bit unladylike. She pulls her feet up and tucks them under her, leaning her head against the solid wood of the masthead which makes up her home. "I'm not well liked." She says it with bluntness that doesn't hold a bit of self-pity. It's like she's practiced it. "Not sure if my advice would do you any good."

Something twists its way across T'zur's expression, and into the timbre of his voice when he admits, "I wasn't ''either'', at Benden. Part of why I wanted to start anew, you know?" He tugs a hand through unkempt hair, thoughtfully. "Maybe we can, uh, help each other?"

Silva frowns at his admission, her eyes on his chest as she works on that second glass of wine. "What do you mean?" Something akin to speculation works its way into that evaluating look.

"I don't know," T'zur admits, like he hadn't thought he'd get as far as getting interest for the proposition. He seems to have forgotten he hasn't put his shirt back on, and is looking distantly at the far wall of her weyr, thinking. "Maybe... you can help me with my clothes. And I can... uh, bring you along to the Glacier outings? Some of them, anyway. They're... they can be pretty intense."

"Glacier wouldn't accept me." It's simply said with all the belief that Silva has. (She doesn't think much of herself - which is probably the reason for her next move.) Setting her glass to one side Silva reaches out to bring T'zur's gaze back to her. "Your hand was around my waist earlier."

"Yeah. Taikrin made it... ''didn't'' make it easy for me, either," T'zur admits, with a grimace. "I thought I was going to die the next day." He's distracted by that thought, and only belated does he look back at Silva. "I, uh... yeah. Sorry about that?" there's a lilt at the end, like he's not sure whether she's saying it to ask for an apology or not.

Silva blinks at the apology, before a half smile slips onto her lips. "You're a good guy aren't you?" It almost makes her pause, but no, instead she scoots forward, her dress falling to one side so her legs are almost completely uncovered.

"Depends," T'zur says, with a sudden grin as she moves closer, "If you like that kind of thing or not." He's quick to move the bottle out of the way, leaning forward, one hand drifting to brush against one of those bare legs, while he leans into try and kiss her.

It doesn't take Silva much encouragement to move into that kiss. In fact, she's going to take it one step further and just move herself right onto his lap. She'll let her actions take the place of more words.

Yes, that's pretty clear -- even to T'zur. Talk of exchanges and other such things will have to wait, as his attention is wholly focused on Silva, pulling her further on top of him. It won't take long before he's pulling off that nice blue dress of hers without a care for the speed with which he does it or what state it ends up in.

There's only one place this ends up - handwaving how they actually got there - Silva's bed on the second tier of her weyr. When they're done she disentangles herself, moving to one side. The glows are below and so this level is cast into shadows and it's hard to actually see her expression.

T'zur looks pretty comfortable -- and pretty sastified -- all things being even -- stretched out comfortably in her bed. When she moves to sit up, he glances over, silent for a moment, and then: "You want me to leave, right? It's okay, you can just say it," he says, pushing up, yawning.

Silva gives off sitting up, and instead lays back, one hand reaching out to snag a pillow and wrapping her arms around it. "You really //were// a nice guy." The words are //super// surprised as she whispers them. "I don't have a single bruise."

While the bluerider lies back down, T'zur doesn't, sitting up to watch her, unbothered by his nakedness. His forehead crinkles, like the first words aren't exactly ''welcome'', but it's the second words that make him take in a sharp breath. "Faranth's tits. Who have you been with that's been leaving ''bruises''?" He makes a face, somewhat between a grimace and a growl, but doesn't manage either overly well.

Silva only gathers that pillow closer to her brest, obscuring any view of her more interesting parts. It's like she's drawing into herself, much different from the forward way she's acted all evening. The anger in his words steals any answer she might give. She's not use to them ''talking'' after either.

T'zur lets out a breath. Perhaps he misunderstands; then again, perhaps he doesn't: "I'm not going to hurt you." His gaze rests on her for moments more, before he moves to stand, casting about the floor for his shorts.

"It's okay. I'm just... most of the guys that pick me up aren't like this." Silva sits up, still keeping herself curled around the pillow with the blanket cast over her legs. "You... don't have to go."

The bronzerider is momentarily distracted by finding his shorts crumpled into a ball in the corner. Shaking them out, T'zur pulls them on with a glance over his shoulder. "I know uncomfortable when I see it," he says, wryly. "No sweat. I still mean what I said earlier, though. You should think about it. Uh... have you seen my pants?"

"Hey, it's..." Silva finally uncurls herself, and slips out of the bed leaving the pillow behind. "T'zur, it's not like that." She reaches out to try to stop him from his search for his pants. "I meet most of my guys only after I'm drunk."

T'zur's brow creases briefly, but her touch stops him. He stares at her for a moment. "I get it. I do, but... it's cold. You should get back to bed." His eyes go unfocused a moment. "Tziveth needs me." It might be an excuse, it might not: either way, the bronze is winging in to land on the blue's ledge.

"T'zur..." But any and all fight has gone out of the bluerider, replaced with ''complete'' confusion. She steps backwards away from him, and sits back on her bed. Hair askew she'll watch the bronzerider as he moves to leave.

It might seem at first like T'zur's trying hard to avoid looking at her, but once he's located and put on his pants again, he flickers her a grin. "We'll grab something to eat sometime, yeah?" And then he's ''totally'' going to use that pole to slide back down to the bottom of the loft, finding his boots and his shirt, before padding out to join Tziveth.

For all of the //terrible// encounters Silva has had, this one is the worst. The worst because she can't figure out exactly what went wrong - or why she really ''didn't'' want him to leave. Only once Tziveth has left does she move from her bed, calling out to Zaisyreth to come home ''please''.
}}

Logs:Friendly?

2016-07-17T04:30:51Z

Silva: Created page with "{{Log |who=T'zur, Silva |what=Bar, button, weyr, wine, confusion. |where=HRW Rider's Lounge |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=18 |month=4 |turn=41 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gamedat..."

{{Log
|who=T'zur, Silva
|what=Bar, button, weyr, wine, confusion.
|where=HRW Rider's Lounge
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=18
|month=4
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.16
|quote="Maybe we can, uh, help each other?"
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon t'zur kiss.jpg, Icon silva.jpg, Icon t'zur tziveth.jpg,
|log=The lounge is fairly packed tonight -- it's spring, after all, and with the weather turning better even the less social folk are venturing out. At one table in the midst of the lounge, a smattering of Glacier riders are drinking, talking loudly -- or arguing, more like -- about which bar is ''next''. T'zur is with them, leaning forward but not arguing any particular point, but rather looking like he doesn't need another early morning with a serious hangover -- he looks ''tired''. Quickly draining his mug, he mutters something about draining that other thing, and eases away from the table, walking quickly.

T'zur may be ending the night, but Silva is just ''begnining''. Having failed for so long to find the stupid pirate the bluerider has set the issue to once side (and for chance to make it happen.) She's dressed in an evening gown tonight with sleeveless arms - her bruises long since healed - well, until the next time. Her hair is done up and she is ''here'' for just the start of the evening. It really is too bad that T'zur exits his table right then because she walks right into him and reaches out to tangle her hands in his shirt rather then tumble towards the ground.

The noise of surprise T'zur exhales is more an ungainly ''oof'' and a brief stumble, than some manly clutch to rescue her, so it's a good thing she rescues herself. Unfortunately several of his buttons pop and go flying towards the floor. "Uh," his trader's eyes take a quick assessment of Silva and what she's wearing, and he grins. "Hello there. My apologies, I'm an absolute klutz." Also a liar, but it's a lie of convenience.

Silva now has a button in her hand. She gets herself righted and looks down at the button before looking up... and up some more at T'zur. A blink, then another, "I don't know you." She'll just be completely blunt as she steps away from him, looking down from his face, then back up again. "And I ''just'' ruined your shirt." There's more than a hint of frustration in her words.

"No," T'zur says, amused, to the first, and, "Yes," just as amused, to the second. "It's okay. I'm overdue to get new things, anyway. Really," he says, reassuringly. He tugs his shirt mostly closed, tipping his head as if listening to something, but his gaze is still focused on you. "Rider?" he guesses.

Reaching out Silva slips a finger into the fold of his shirt, feeling the progression of buttonholes. There's a twist to her lips that seems like regret, "It would be a shame... this isn't a bad shirt actually." Glancing upwards Silva checks the fit around his shoulders, "And it fits you pretty well." Her fashionista-ness is coming out- she clearly isn't drunk yet. "Blue Zaisyreth," she says it with a hint of distraction before, "I could sew them back on for you."

T'zur's brow furrows briefly throughout Silva's expression of regret over the shirt. "It's ''just'' a shirt," he reassures her. "And not even a shirt I particularly like or anything." It's hard to tell whether the silence that follows is bemusement at the bluerider's assessment, or simply the lack of any strong opinion on the subject. "I," and a pause, "And you?" With a flickered smile, "I'm T'zur, Tziveth's my bronze." The latter offer earns a grin, now: "Oh. That'd be nice, only -- I've just moved in, and I haven't a clue where anything ''is''."

Silva glances out of her shoulder at the position of the sun, biting her lip slightly. Finally, decisevly, she lets go of his shirt. "Go get us something to drink and we can go back to my weyr."

Silent while she studies the sun, T'zur instead studies the woman whose name he still doesn't know, head tipped to one side. If there's any objections on T'zur's part to being treated so peremptorily, it's a passing expression at best. With a crooked grin, he turns towards the bar, secures something (relatively) inexpensive, and seeks out the woman again.

"Your Tziveth up to taking both of us?" Silva reaches out for the bottle, turning it to read the label before glancing up with an eyebrow raised. "Zaisyreth's asleep."

"Of course," is T'zur's quick assurance, even if there's a slight shift of his expression a beat later. When she reaches for the bottle, he reaches to slide a hand around her waist, guiding her towards the ledge. Moments later, a dark bronze wings to a landing -- turning head to ''stare'' at the pair of them. Or probably more likely, ''Silva''. "After you?" the former Bendenite gestures.

>---< Lofted Dreams Weyr, High Reaches Weyr(#963R) >-------------------------<

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

It's a show of how much Silva's NORM has changed that she doesn't beat an eye when T'zur slips his arm around her waist and leads her out. The bronze is bigger then her Zaisyreth, but that only means she's going to show a ''lot'' of leg in the process. Her back is to the bronzerider though, so if he HAPPENS to look she won't notice. When they reach her ledge she slides off with a bit of distraction a move which leaves pretty much nothing under her dress up to speculation. "There are cups in the cupboard over there." She waves a hand in the direction of over-there.

It might be that T'zur is looking. But then she can't see to confirm, and by the time she's settled, T'zur's already climbing up behind her, settling in. He seeks direction, Tziveth veering towards the ledge she indicates, backwinging. There's a stretch of Tziveth's thought to the owner, touching the sleeping Zaisyreth and withdrawing moments later. Once both of his passengers are off, the dark bronze drops off the ledge, circling up in the skies again. T'zur's watching for a moment, before he follows Silva into the weyr, veering as directed towards the cupboard, while nosying about with his gaze. "I didn't get your name," he reminds, with a grin over his shoulder as he pulls out a pair of cups and moves to join her.

Silva's touch is everywhere. It's not the ''neatest'' place in the weyr, but it's not a pigstye. A faint scent of perfume hovers over everything. Kicking off her heels Silva digs into a drawer to find her thread and needles. "Most guys don't bother to ask. It's Silva. Ah-ha!" She pulls out some different threads and turns back towards the bronzerider to see which thread will match his shirt.

"Oh," T'zur says in tone that suggests he's aware he's made some mistake according to the woman code, but not quite sure what. His gaze tracks Silva, and when she offers her name, he grins. "That's a pretty name." There might be a moment of surprise that she's actually getting thread and needle -- before he starts unbuttoning the rest of his shirt, shrugging out of it and laying it across the table for her. "Were you a seamstress, before?"

Flicking a stray lock of hair out of her face Silva chooses a thread and discards the rest, then she turns back and blinks at his shirtlessness. "Thanks," She sounds completely surprised by the compliment, then shakes her head swiftly. "Nah, but knowing how to sew a button is child's play. You pour the drinks?" Just move on to that. Thinks totally make more sense when she's a bit tipsy.

T'zur does just that -- reaching for the bottle and pouring the liquid into the two glasses. It's a southern white, crisp and chilled -- he sets one of the glasses closer to Silva, and just drinks from the other without waiting. "I like your weyr," he says, as his gaze roves. "I looked at a few before I moved in, myself."

Silva takes up the shirt before, "I'm... going to have to replace all the buttons." Since they didn't actually pick up all the ones that popped off before. Irritation writes itself across Silva's features as she mentally kicks herself for forgetting. "Damn it." Silva's way too hard on herself. Turning she takes up the glass and is just going to drink it a ''little'' too quickly.

Apparently T'zur didn't think of that, either. In contrast to Silva, however, he seems completely unbothered. "Mm. Honestly, don't even worry about it," he waves a hand dismissively. "I'm probably overdue a trip to the weavers, regardless." The former Bendenite's studying the bluerider over the top of his glass, looking thoughtful.

Silva eyes her empty glass and turns towards the bottle so she can pour herself another glass. "Whatever. Nothing new." She moves away from him and settles down on a bench made more comfortable by a //lot// of pillows. "So. T'zur. New to the weyr?"

After a moment, T'zur refills his cup, picks up the bottle, and moves to join Silva. Not ''too'' close, though, setting the bottle between them on an empty space. "Brand new. Practically know not a single soul," he's exaggerating, but that's okay, right? "So if you want to shower me in tips or hints or secrets or... anything, I'd be grateful."

The snort from Silva is more than a little bit unladylike. She pulls her feet up and tucks them under her, leaning her head against the solid wood of the masthead which makes up her home. "I'm not well liked." She says it with bluntness that doesn't hold a bit of self-pity. It's like she's practiced it. "Not sure if my advice would do you any good."

Something twists its way across T'zur's expression, and into the timbre of his voice when he admits, "I wasn't ''either'', at Benden. Part of why I wanted to start anew, you know?" He tugs a hand through unkempt hair, thoughtfully. "Maybe we can, uh, help each other?"

Silva frowns at his admission, her eyes on his chest as she works on that second glass of wine. "What do you mean?" Something akin to speculation works its way into that evaluating look.

"I don't know," T'zur admits, like he hadn't thought he'd get as far as getting interest for the proposition. He seems to have forgotten he hasn't put his shirt back on, and is looking distantly at the far wall of her weyr, thinking. "Maybe... you can help me with my clothes. And I can... uh, bring you along to the Glacier outings? Some of them, anyway. They're... they can be pretty intense."

"Glacier wouldn't accept me." It's simply said with all the belief that Silva has. (She doesn't think much of herself - which is probably the reason for her next move.) Setting her glass to one side Silva reaches out to bring T'zur's gaze back to her. "Your hand was around my waist earlier."

"Yeah. Taikrin made it... ''didn't'' make it easy for me, either," T'zur admits, with a grimace. "I thought I was going to die the next day." He's distracted by that thought, and only belated does he look back at Silva. "I, uh... yeah. Sorry about that?" there's a lilt at the end, like he's not sure whether she's saying it to ask for an apology or not.

Silva blinks at the apology, before a half smile slips onto her lips. "You're a good guy aren't you?" It almost makes her pause, but no, instead she scoots forward, her dress falling to one side so her legs are almost completely uncovered.

"Depends," T'zur says, with a sudden grin as she moves closer, "If you like that kind of thing or not." He's quick to move the bottle out of the way, leaning forward, one hand drifting to brush against one of those bare legs, while he leans into try and kiss her.

It doesn't take Silva much encouragement to move into that kiss. In fact, she's going to take it one step further and just move herself right onto his lap. She'll let her actions take the place of more words.

Yes, that's pretty clear -- even to T'zur. Talk of exchanges and other such things will have to wait, as his attention is wholly focused on Silva, pulling her further on top of him. It won't take long before he's pulling off that nice blue dress of hers without a care for the speed with which he does it or what state it ends up in.

There's only one place this ends up - handwaving how they actually got there - Silva's bed on the second tier of her weyr. When they're done she disentangles herself, moving to one side. The glows are below and so this level is cast into shadows and it's hard to actually see her expression.

T'zur looks pretty comfortable -- and pretty sastified -- all things being even -- stretched out comfortably in her bed. When she moves to sit up, he glances over, silent for a moment, and then: "You want me to leave, right? It's okay, you can just say it," he says, pushing up, yawning.

Silva gives off sitting up, and instead lays back, one hand reaching out to snag a pillow and wrapping her arms around it. "You really //were// a nice guy." The words are //super// surprised as she whispers them. "I don't have a single bruise."

While the bluerider lies back down, T'zur doesn't, sitting up to watch her, unbothered by his nakedness. His forehead crinkles, like the first words aren't exactly ''welcome'', but it's the second words that make him take in a sharp breath. "Faranth's tits. Who have you been with that's been leaving ''bruises''?" He makes a face, somewhat between a grimace and a growl, but doesn't manage either overly well.

Silva only gathers that pillow closer to her brest, obscuring any view of her more interesting parts. It's like she's drawing into herself, much different from the forward way she's acted all evening. The anger in his words steals any answer she might give. She's not use to them ''talking'' after either.

T'zur lets out a breath. Perhaps he misunderstands; then again, perhaps he doesn't: "I'm not going to hurt you." His gaze rests on her for moments more, before he moves to stand, casting about the floor for his shorts.

"It's okay. I'm just... most of the guys that pick me up aren't like this." Silva sits up, still keeping herself curled around the pillow with the blanket cast over her legs. "You... don't have to go."

The bronzerider is momentarily distracted by finding his shorts crumpled into a ball in the corner. Shaking them out, T'zur pulls them on with a glance over his shoulder. "I know uncomfortable when I see it," he says, wryly. "No sweat. I still mean what I said earlier, though. You should think about it. Uh... have you seen my pants?"

"Hey, it's..." Silva finally uncurls herself, and slips out of the bed leaving the pillow behind. "T'zur, it's not like that." She reaches out to try to stop him from his search for his pants. "I meet most of my guys only after I'm drunk."

T'zur's brow creases briefly, but her touch stops him. He stares at her for a moment. "I get it. I do, but... it's cold. You should get back to bed." His eyes go unfocused a moment. "Tziveth needs me." It might be an excuse, it might not: either way, the bronze is winging in to land on the blue's ledge.

"T'zur..." But any and all fight has gone out of the bluerider, replaced with ''complete'' confusion. She steps backwards away from him, and sits back on her bed. Hair askew she'll watch the bronzerider as he moves to leave.

It might seem at first like T'zur's trying hard to avoid looking at her, but once he's located and put on his pants again, he flickers her a grin. "We'll grab something to eat sometime, yeah?" And then he's ''totally'' going to use that pole to slide back down to the bottom of the loft, finding his boots and his shirt, before padding out to join Tziveth.

For all of the //terrible// encounters Silva has had, this one is the worst. The worst because she can't figure out exactly what went wrong - or why she really ''didn't'' want him to leave. Only once Tziveth has left does she move from her bed, calling out to Zaisyreth to come home ''please''.
}}

Logs talk:What Bronzeriders Do

2016-07-16T15:32:12Z

Silva: Comment provided by Silva - via ArticleComments extension

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==Alida (23:08, 15 July 2016 (PDT)) said... ==

O.M.G. Tziveth is a SHADOW?!?! Oh SHIT. We are ALL EFFING DOOMED.
==Silva (08:32, 16 July 2016 (PDT)) said... ==

It's okay bro, we can figure this out. No prob.

Logs talk:Melancholy Mistake

2016-07-16T05:17:01Z

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==Silva (22:17, 15 July 2016 (PDT)) said... ==

:( <-- that is all I have. A super sad face.

Logs talk:Kicking Puppies

2016-07-16T05:14:47Z

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==Silva (22:14, 15 July 2016 (PDT)) said... ==

All the BURN.

Logs:Set 'em up, Knock 'em down

2016-07-16T05:11:12Z

Silva:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Alysce," she answers easily enough, before continuing to clarify in some mimic of Jason, "Not Aly, or Lys, or any other name you can think of. Just Alysce." She doesn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Logs:Set 'em up, Knock 'em down

2016-07-16T05:10:22Z

Silva: Created page with "{{Log |who=T'zur, J'nason, Alida, Alysce, |what=J'nason doesn't fit in Glacier, and T'zur fails are picking up the chick. |where=Kitchens, HRW |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Alysce," she answers easily enough, before continuing to clarify in some mimic of Jason, "Not Aly, or Lys, or any other name you can think of. Just Alysce." She doesn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Logs:Liftoff

2016-07-15T19:33:25Z

Silva:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Logs:Out Of Sorts

2016-07-15T19:31:50Z

Silva:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Logs:BFF/Wingman

2016-07-15T19:30:16Z

Silva:

{{Log
|who=Lys, J'nason
|what=J'nason is lost, but Lys sets him straight in this new place.
|where=Central Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr
|day=12
|month=4
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.14
|quote="Do you always talk to yourself?"
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon lys amused.jpg, Icon J'nason.png,
|log=The stores are quiet with dinner in full swing in the living cavern. Not much of the noise that comes with such an affair makes it through the bustling kitchens and into the stores, but some does, providing a little background that might hide the shuffle of steps as Lys peruses the stores, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her slightly oversized flight jacket. Her path is meandering through the shelves, without apparent destination or much interest in the items she passes. Perhaps this just a way to pass the time away from the crowd.

"Hum." J'nason stops in the doorway to the stores, running a hand through his hair and leaving it tousled like he just walked through a windstorm. Blue eyes travel across the stacks. "This was not where I meant to end up. Well. Never a loss without a gain, some soap maybe..." And purposefully he'll step into the shelves as if this was exactly where he meant to be the whole time.

"Do you always talk to yourself?" might count as a pleasant opening remark given the reputation of 'Reaches women for being frigid. Lys comes round the end of the shelf as J'nason moves into them, stopping short to keep an arm's length between them.

"Sometimes!" J'nason turns a bright smile onto the woman, turning himself to lean against the stores. Never mind that he has no idea who she is, his smile is one of easy friendship mixed in with a little come-hither. "Helps pass the time."

Lys eyes him. There's so much to see: the smile, the blond, the-- crazy? That seems to be what she's trying to sort out. "Dragonrider?" might be more for confirmation than out of uncertainty. It comes with an inquisitive eyebrow while the rest of her expression suggests that his easy friendship hasn't hit its mark and the come-hither has gone a little wide.

"Guilty as charged." J'nason is not at alll bothered by the fact his come-hiter didn't work. Hey, sometimes a girl just needs a few drinks. Or she'll straight up reject him and //he// will get a few drinks. It's all good. Either way he has fun! "Just decided to give High Reaches a try." He doesn't drop a single hint that this move wasn't at //all// his idea. Of course, why blond-surfer-man would want to be in HIGH REACHES is //anyone's// guess.

"Decided to-" Lys stops, tone something closer to aghast than simply disbelieving. Her whole expression stops. She wrinkles up her nose and eyes him all over again. "Tell me you're visiting," is a kind of pleading, if not the kind he might hope to get from a pretty blonde.

J'nason probably shouldn't laugh, except he totally does, that grin on his face growing. "Nope, Gonna be staying for a while. You look like I'm replacing your best friend or something," Pushing himself up from the shelves J'nason turns his attention to the shelves and his search for soap. "But I promise you, I'll only add to your little weyr. J'nason - Jason if you prefer." The former Istan offers up his name.

For that laughter and the words that follow, Lys has a very put-upon sigh. "''Are'' you replacing my best friend?" She inquires with lifted brows. "I ''do'' tend to befriend the crazy ones," and she seems to have decided that he qualifies for that description, but not without another considering glance. "I also have a vacancy, for best friend." He gets a longer look as she steps up beside him. "What are you looking for?" Maybe she'll even ''help'', if they might be friends.

Reaching upwards Jason picks up jars and baskets then sets them down again. A flick of a gaze sideways at Lys holds a grin FULL of mischief. "I'm not a ''bad'' friend to have, and if the vacancy is ''open''...." Jason will totally slip right in there. "Figured if I got turned around then it would be best to find some soap while I'm here."

"Soap is a priceless commodity." Lys returns to the blond searcher with gravity, though if he's keen he might detect the humor under her tone. "I can't abide smelly friends," is intoned haughtily but then she slips him a sidelong glance and a slight grin. "Did you luck out and get one of the weyrs with a private bath?"

J'nason will just be happy he is totally clean except for a faint smell of sea-salt and sunshine. "Well, I'll just put that in my list of things to keep in mind as the best friend of....." He pauses dramatically for her to insert her name, "Nah, two levels which isn't bad. Hephaisth is settling in just fine flexible bastard he is."

"Lys, but I wouldn't brag about it." The greenrider offers the advice with a smirk. "Evyth's rider, with Equinox. Do you have a wing yet, Jason?" She gives the shelves a thoughtful look, "Two levels is nothing to sneeze at," she decides after a moment. "Maybe I'll get you a welcome gift. Cheap whiskey?" She inquires his tastes with a tilt of her head. Now that the name of his partner in crime has been uttered, a soft, warm mind reaches to greet him. With Evyth's touch comes the smell of all manner of delicious things, << Welcome to our home, Hephaisth. >>

"Lys. Not a bad name." As if Lys needed the blond surfer's opinion on her name. Except they're BFF's now, so maybe it's warrented? Or SOMETHING? "AHA!" J'nason turns from the shelves with a bag of soapsand in his proud possession. "Probably, but it's not Equinox." He won't tell her what it is because the player can't remember for the life of her what it is. "How about I, your new best friend, just have you show me where the ''good'' whiskey is?" Those delicious smells bang up against the acrid tang of the forge, Hephaisth's vocie a low rumble. << Aye, well. It is. That idiot rider of mine got us stuck here. >> (He's like a grumpy old man.)

"It's a perfect name," Lys returns with a curl of her lips that suggests she can fire him just as fast as she hired him for this best-friend gig should he choose to disagree. "My dragon chose it," at least explains ''why'' she might think that. "Do you not like J'nason?" It's a curious query. "I ''could'' show you where the good whiskey is. I could even show you where the good whiskey might be gotten a little cheaper than in Snowasis, but the convenience is hard to beat. I would've thought that someone like you," whatever that means, "would've found his way there already." This might have her rethinking his apparent intelligence. It marks Lys as the grumpier of the green pair, to be sure, since Evyth seems to be sugar and spice and all things nice. She's not unintelligent, though, so the remark from the bronze is taken thoughtfully. << Oh, I'm sorry your relocation wasn't under favorable circumstances. >> And she really is. It's sad for him, so it's sad for her on his behalf. << I do hope you'll come to love it. >> As she does, but then again, she was shelled here.

"Far be it from me to nay-say what your Evyth has named you." J'nason holds up his hands as if showing that he's totally innocent of any offense about her name. Look, she can't get pissed at him TOO badly, right? His shoulder meets the shelves again as he eyes her. "Meh, J'nason's good enough, but I always prefered Jason - even before Hephaisth decided to rename me." Jaynason -- J'nason, it works but.... meh. "Well, best friend, I just arrived so haven't quite sussed out the best holes yet. So I ''could'' go wander or you could show me." His teeth are way too white - that's probably on purpose. Hephaisth hrumphs mentally, though the irritation doesn't seem to be directed at the green specifically. << Well. We're here. Make the best of it. >>

"I suppose I could show you," Lys allows with a little puff of breath, to precede it after she's taken in the rest. "I don't have other plans tonight. Are you going to buy me a drink?" She might show him even if he doesn't, given the way she wiggles her hand to indicate he ought to follow, with his prize. Evyth leaves room for that irritation, doesn't try to fix it or lessen it, but rather offers simply, << If you have need of anything, please don't hesitate to ask. >> It's a friendly overture; she's a friendly dragon.

"I wouldn't be a gentleman," no one start laughing here okay, "if I didn't at ''least'' buy you a drink." The sandsoap gets put into a pocket for use later and he follows the greenrider. He's an easy conversationalist too - so he'll keep it going as best as possible. He'll even NOT put a move on her - for now. BFFs first, okay? Though he WILL absolutely flirt with any other women who come along. He can't help it.

And Lys? In her role as newly minted BFF, she plays an excellent wingwoman.
}}

J'nason

2016-07-15T19:27:01Z

Silva:

{{Profile
|picture=J'nason.jpg
|body=== Description ==
Blond as death he's got the whole surfer-bum look going on. His chin is squared off nicely, ears set just slightly higher than they would be on a normal person. His blue eyes twinkle under expressive eyebrows that can wiggle at a moment's notice. Lean and cut he walks with the careless grace of practice and composure.

== Hephaisth ==
Burned bronze stretches across the dragon's hide, layered like metal plates fused where they overlap. Divots pucker in odd places, making his joints seem larger or smaller as they shift and twist, back-set against the gears of muscles that lie beneath. Slightly misshapen, the glory of his torso is twisted from what could be the true genius of creation, and bulkier than his rear. Wings kissed with golden antique bronze, as though made to shimmer in sunlight, stretch like canvas over an ill-fitted window... but the left bears the marks of the disaster that oft strikes an inventor, as scars weave their way across the sail.
(Credit J'nason and Tweaks by Leova)

== History ==
* Parents are both riders, bluerider Jaylan and brownrider Mason
* Stood when twelve, but took 4 turns to impress bronze Hepaisth
* An accident during Weyrlinghood left Hephaisth with a crisscross of scars along one wing
* Ended up in at HRW during Aidavanth's maiden flight (starting a fight to keep some other men out of her room - it was self interest, really)
* Exiled (away from his beaches SAD SACK) from Ista to HRW in the aftermath

== Common Knowledge ==
* A partier and womanizer - though he never forces the issue if a woman (or man, that's possible) makes it clear the advance is unwelcome. (Friendly flirting is something else ALTOGETHER)
* Likes to drink and party, but rarely drinks to insensibility
* A bit reckless with himself, but he's fairly careful with Hephsaith, probably because of the weyrling injury
* Lazy, though apparently he's trying to work on that? Maybe? (probably not)

{{wysk}}

{{Family}}
{{FamilyEnd}}

== RP Logs ==

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

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

{{Icons}}
}}
{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Ista Area
}}

File:Icon J'nason Innocent.png

2016-07-15T19:16:23Z

Silva:

File:Icon J'nason Worried.png

2016-07-15T19:16:23Z

Silva:

File:Icon J'nason Thoughtful.png

2016-07-15T19:16:23Z

Silva:

File:Icon J'nason.png

2016-07-15T19:16:23Z

Silva:

File:J'nason.jpg

2016-07-15T19:16:22Z

Silva:

File:Icon J'nason Hephaisth.jpg

2016-07-15T19:16:22Z

Silva:

File:Icon J'nason Sad.png

2016-07-15T19:16:22Z

Silva:

Logs:BFF/Wingman

2016-07-15T04:59:17Z

Silva: Created page with "{{Log |who=Lys, J'nason |what=J'nason is lost, but Lys sets him straight in this new place. |where=Central Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr |day=12 |month=4 |turn=41 |IP=Interval..."

{{Log
|who=Lys, J'nason
|what=J'nason is lost, but Lys sets him straight in this new place.
|where=Central Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr
|day=12
|month=4
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.14
|quote="Do you always talk to yourself?"
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon lys amused.jpg, icon j'nason.jpg
|log=The stores are quiet with dinner in full swing in the living cavern. Not much of the noise that comes with such an affair makes it through the bustling kitchens and into the stores, but some does, providing a little background that might hide the shuffle of steps as Lys peruses the stores, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her slightly oversized flight jacket. Her path is meandering through the shelves, without apparent destination or much interest in the items she passes. Perhaps this just a way to pass the time away from the crowd.

"Hum." J'nason stops in the doorway to the stores, running a hand through his hair and leaving it tousled like he just walked through a windstorm. Blue eyes travel across the stacks. "This was not where I meant to end up. Well. Never a loss without a gain, some soap maybe..." And purposefully he'll step into the shelves as if this was exactly where he meant to be the whole time.

"Do you always talk to yourself?" might count as a pleasant opening remark given the reputation of 'Reaches women for being frigid. Lys comes round the end of the shelf as J'nason moves into them, stopping short to keep an arm's length between them.

"Sometimes!" J'nason turns a bright smile onto the woman, turning himself to lean against the stores. Never mind that he has no idea who she is, his smile is one of easy friendship mixed in with a little come-hither. "Helps pass the time."

Lys eyes him. There's so much to see: the smile, the blond, the-- crazy? That seems to be what she's trying to sort out. "Dragonrider?" might be more for confirmation than out of uncertainty. It comes with an inquisitive eyebrow while the rest of her expression suggests that his easy friendship hasn't hit its mark and the come-hither has gone a little wide.

"Guilty as charged." J'nason is not at alll bothered by the fact his come-hiter didn't work. Hey, sometimes a girl just needs a few drinks. Or she'll straight up reject him and //he// will get a few drinks. It's all good. Either way he has fun! "Just decided to give High Reaches a try." He doesn't drop a single hint that this move wasn't at //all// his idea. Of course, why blond-surfer-man would want to be in HIGH REACHES is //anyone's// guess.

"Decided to-" Lys stops, tone something closer to aghast than simply disbelieving. Her whole expression stops. She wrinkles up her nose and eyes him all over again. "Tell me you're visiting," is a kind of pleading, if not the kind he might hope to get from a pretty blonde.

J'nason probably shouldn't laugh, except he totally does, that grin on his face growing. "Nope, Gonna be staying for a while. You look like I'm replacing your best friend or something," Pushing himself up from the shelves J'nason turns his attention to the shelves and his search for soap. "But I promise you, I'll only add to your little weyr. J'nason - Jason if you prefer." The former Istan offers up his name.

For that laughter and the words that follow, Lys has a very put-upon sigh. "''Are'' you replacing my best friend?" She inquires with lifted brows. "I ''do'' tend to befriend the crazy ones," and she seems to have decided that he qualifies for that description, but not without another considering glance. "I also have a vacancy, for best friend." He gets a longer look as she steps up beside him. "What are you looking for?" Maybe she'll even ''help'', if they might be friends.

Reaching upwards Jason picks up jars and baskets then sets them down again. A flick of a gaze sideways at Lys holds a grin FULL of mischief. "I'm not a ''bad'' friend to have, and if the vacancy is ''open''...." Jason will totally slip right in there. "Figured if I got turned around then it would be best to find some soap while I'm here."

"Soap is a priceless commodity." Lys returns to the blond searcher with gravity, though if he's keen he might detect the humor under her tone. "I can't abide smelly friends," is intoned haughtily but then she slips him a sidelong glance and a slight grin. "Did you luck out and get one of the weyrs with a private bath?"

J'nason will just be happy he is totally clean except for a faint smell of sea-salt and sunshine. "Well, I'll just put that in my list of things to keep in mind as the best friend of....." He pauses dramatically for her to insert her name, "Nah, two levels which isn't bad. Hephaisth is settling in just fine flexible bastard he is."

"Lys, but I wouldn't brag about it." The greenrider offers the advice with a smirk. "Evyth's rider, with Equinox. Do you have a wing yet, Jason?" She gives the shelves a thoughtful look, "Two levels is nothing to sneeze at," she decides after a moment. "Maybe I'll get you a welcome gift. Cheap whiskey?" She inquires his tastes with a tilt of her head. Now that the name of his partner in crime has been uttered, a soft, warm mind reaches to greet him. With Evyth's touch comes the smell of all manner of delicious things, << Welcome to our home, Hephaisth. >>

"Lys. Not a bad name." As if Lys needed the blond surfer's opinion on her name. Except they're BFF's now, so maybe it's warrented? Or SOMETHING? "AHA!" J'nason turns from the shelves with a bag of soapsand in his proud possession. "Probably, but it's not Equinox." He won't tell her what it is because the player can't remember for the life of her what it is. "How about I, your new best friend, just have you show me where the ''good'' whiskey is?" Those delicious smells bang up against the acrid tang of the forge, Hephaisth's vocie a low rumble. << Aye, well. It is. That idiot rider of mine got us stuck here. >> (He's like a grumpy old man.)

"It's a perfect name," Lys returns with a curl of her lips that suggests she can fire him just as fast as she hired him for this best-friend gig should he choose to disagree. "My dragon chose it," at least explains ''why'' she might think that. "Do you not like J'nason?" It's a curious query. "I ''could'' show you where the good whiskey is. I could even show you where the good whiskey might be gotten a little cheaper than in Snowasis, but the convenience is hard to beat. I would've thought that someone like you," whatever that means, "would've found his way there already." This might have her rethinking his apparent intelligence. It marks Lys as the grumpier of the green pair, to be sure, since Evyth seems to be sugar and spice and all things nice. She's not unintelligent, though, so the remark from the bronze is taken thoughtfully. << Oh, I'm sorry your relocation wasn't under favorable circumstances. >> And she really is. It's sad for him, so it's sad for her on his behalf. << I do hope you'll come to love it. >> As she does, but then again, she was shelled here.

"Far be it from me to nay-say what your Evyth has named you." J'nason holds up his hands as if showing that he's totally innocent of any offense about her name. Look, she can't get pissed at him TOO badly, right? His shoulder meets the shelves again as he eyes her. "Meh, J'nason's good enough, but I always prefered Jason - even before Hephaisth decided to rename me." Jaynason -- J'nason, it works but.... meh. "Well, best friend, I just arrived so haven't quite sussed out the best holes yet. So I ''could'' go wander or you could show me." His teeth are way too white - that's probably on purpose. Hephaisth hrumphs mentally, though the irritation doesn't seem to be directed at the green specifically. << Well. We're here. Make the best of it. >>

"I suppose I could show you," Lys allows with a little puff of breath, to precede it after she's taken in the rest. "I don't have other plans tonight. Are you going to buy me a drink?" She might show him even if he doesn't, given the way she wiggles her hand to indicate he ought to follow, with his prize. Evyth leaves room for that irritation, doesn't try to fix it or lessen it, but rather offers simply, << If you have need of anything, please don't hesitate to ask. >> It's a friendly overture; she's a friendly dragon.

"I wouldn't be a gentleman," no one start laughing here okay, "if I didn't at ''least'' buy you a drink." The sandsoap gets put into a pocket for use later and he follows the greenrider. He's an easy conversationalist too - so he'll keep it going as best as possible. He'll even NOT put a move on her - for now. BFFs first, okay? Though he WILL absolutely flirt with any other women who come along. He can't help it.
}}

Logs talk:The Bandage Approach

2016-07-12T16:44:12Z

Silva: Comment provided by Silva - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:The Bandage Approach]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Silva (09:44, 12 July 2016 (PDT)) said... ==

My heart likes none of this.

Logs:Out Of Sorts

2016-07-12T06:35:11Z

Silva:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Logs:Liftoff

2016-07-12T06:32:14Z

Silva:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Logs talk:Resignation Whiskey

2016-07-12T04:25:21Z

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==Silva (21:25, 11 July 2016 (PDT)) said... ==

I can't figure out who I feel WORSE for.

Logs talk:Neither Friend Nor Ally

2016-07-12T02:45:01Z

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==Silva (19:45, 11 July 2016 (PDT)) said... ==

All the sads everywhere. :(

Logs:Togetherness~

2016-07-12T00:43:42Z

Silva: Created page with "{{Log |who=Silva |what=In the wake of Aidavanth's flight, Silva finds herself in a strangers weyr (no surprise), but also with the key to moving forward. |involves=High Reache..."

{{Log
|who=Silva
|what=In the wake of Aidavanth's flight, Silva finds herself in a strangers weyr (no surprise), but also with the key to moving forward.
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=25
|month=3
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.11
|quote=>> I'll be careful. Trust me beautiful. <<
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon Silva Thinking.jpg,
|log=Silva wakes slowly, slipping from sleep into wakefulness as if rising from deep water. Her dreams of grass and sunshine are left behind to be replaced with the sensations much more solid.

A blanket tossed carelessly over her half naked body.

Someone breathing nearby.

The kiss of chill from an unheated room upon her face.

Hair tangled behind her and tucked about a pillow.

A lack of headache.

That sensation pulls her into a pause of stillness, eyes closed against the light that is just beyond. Why doesn't she have a headache?

<< Because you did not drink. >> Zaisyreth provides the answer to her question without prompting, the savanna in his mind giving hint to the source of her dreams. << Aidavanth rose for her maiden flight, and Akluseth has caught. >>

Ahh. The memory comes slowly. She ''had'' been searching for that jerk pirate, to tell him off about being afraid of Zaisyreth. But there'd been a rush of riders from behind her and she'd followed them curious about where they were all going. She'd stood in the doorway and watched the three foreigners block the doorway with their scuffing, and keep anyone else from entering the room. She'd watched with carefully held laughter as the men scuffled while the High Reaches chaser idiots had stood by looking for their chance to get in beyond the scuffle. She'd been so caught up in watching them she hadn't noticed the rising heat in her own body, reacting to the rise of the queen.

And then it had ended. As if a string had been snapped the riders had fallen away from the doorway. One man, Silva breaks the memory to ask if he's the one laying next to her now, << Yes. >>, had locked eyes on her and like a moth drawn to a flame Silva had stepped into his arms.

It was a mix of fire and ice from there, all swept into the inferno of the flight desire, and wiped from her memory . There had been pain but it lacked the ''guilt'' that came from her drunken revelries of the past sevens. But what had been different?

Opening her eyes to the ''now'' Silva stares at the ceiling above. << Zaisyreth. Why don't you fly the greens? >>He'd never even stirred himself from his ledge when one of the greens took to the sky. << You tell me when it's happening - but you don't chase. >>Her eyes catch on a crack in the rock and she traces it without moving less she awaken the man beside her.

The blue is slow to answer this time, the wind kicking over the dried up grasses contemplative. << Hum. It has never seemed right. >> He opens up his mind to her, allowing her to drift among the grasses and look upwards at a crystalline sky. All of the different conditions that led to the perfect combination spread before her, Silva being one of those conditions. << Perhaps some day. >> Zaisyreth is not alarmed at the impossibility of ''perfection'' never being achieved. He has faith that it will happen.

Rolling out from under the blanket Silva is careful to not wake the man… Zh're - the name finally connects. Not her wing, but she knew the face. Collecting her pants Silva pulls them on, wincing as they hit what ''must'' be a large bruise across her back, and noting the smaller ones along her legs. A hint of guilt as she queries Zaisyreth, << Did I hurt you? >>She's comforted when he comes back with a negative.

She pulls her shirt into place over those pants, and rubs a hand along her arms to see what other damage had been inflicted on her body. New bruises on her arms, that was nothing new. Her face seems unscathed… no more worse then normal.

A small smile breaks across her face as she rubs a finger across one of those bruises, the pain constant and expected. So. There was a way to do this. To find the escape without hurting Zaisyreth.

She couldn't count on a flight every day. But maybe if she found the right combination of drink and partner…. << Don't worry. >>She reaches out to Zaisyreth, calming any anxiety that might begin to rise in his thoughts. << I'll be careful. Trust me beautiful. >>

He believed her. This is what she'd done wrong last time. Her beautiful Zaisyreth… she couldn't forget him. He'd been with her when Zh're had hurt her, but she'd cast the pain in a light that made it ''good''. If she could just do it again… >> We'll be there together Zaisy. >>
}}

Logs talk:In All Fairness

2016-07-11T02:11:13Z

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==Silva (19:11, 10 July 2016 (PDT)) said... ==

</3

Logs talk:Give It Back

2016-07-03T23:44:26Z

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==Alida (01:30, 3 July 2016 (PDT)) said... ==

I don't know who's more insane: Drex or Silva. ;)
==Silva (16:44, 3 July 2016 (PDT)) said... ==

Drex. Because Silva has Zaisyreth who is as //stable// as they come.

Logs:Hungover Morning

2016-06-29T01:15:05Z

Silva: Created page with "{{Log |who=Edyis, Silva |what=The morning after always comes after the night. |where=Edyis' Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=15 |month=2 |turn=41 |IP=I..."

{{Log
|who=Edyis, Silva
|what=The morning after always comes after the night.
|where=Edyis' Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=15
|month=2
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.06.28
|quote=Why shouldn't I care?"
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon edyis Serious.jpg, Icon Silva Crying.jpg,
|log=It had been a long night, and Ed woke on the couch. The dragons have already been tended to and the smell of savory spices hangs in the air suggesting that a breakfast suited for hangovers is cooking on the hearth. Seated at the table is Edyis, already dressed, and reading over a stack of reports. There is a basin of hot water ready for washing and clean clothes sitting on the counter nearby.

Waking up, not quite sure where she's at, is something Silva's come to get use to over the last few sevens. It's weird, but at least the hangover is normal and what she expects? Silva reaches out for Zaisyreth - no matter how much she lost herself he always knew where she was. But he's totally not making sense right now. She's in someone's ''weyr''? She'll just lay here for a few more seconds and try to puzzle out what ''that'' means. Zaisyreth isn't backwards in providing the 411, and finally Silva opens bleary eyes and pushes herself up onto one arm. Vision matches what Zaisy is saying but… lots of ??What?? Still going on. Okay. Focus on the important thing. WHAT IS SHE WEARING?

"There are clean clothes on the counter and breakfast too. You best eat something, I imagine your skull feels like there's a dragon standing on it considering how much you drank last night." Edyis calls from over her reports without looking up. A green firelizard coiled about the back of her neck lazily flicking her tail.

Silva rubs at her eyes, trying to make it less blurry, and then slowly slides herself out of bed. She's delicate in every single way, but those clothes… wow. She is just going to get them OFF and then cast around. "My dress?" Silva, focusing on the important things. Until she remembers the cascade of bruises on her body and she reaches out to grab up a quilt. She hasn't quite connected the fact that obviously Edyis has seen them already probably, considering this is NOT her dress from the night before.

"Washbin is over there, so is the ointment for the bruises. The dress, well you'd best not wear it again before it gets a good wash. I've got some extra work clothes over there as well, just return them when you get a chance. My sister may be a weaver but she still charges me for things." Edyis notes lifting her mug of Klah, and flipping the next page in the report. "I took care of oiling Zaisyreth too, but the poor guy didn't sleep very well."

Silva rubs at her temple, as if the motion will somehow make everything sudden snap into clarity. It doesn't, and Silva doesn't miss Edyis' comment about bruises. Red flashes onto her cheeks and Silva is firmly going to look down at the floor. Slowly she moves away and towards the pile of clothes. Just clothes. There's an attempt to get more out of Zaisyreth beyond 'where is she' like 'what happened last night' and… nothing. Zaisyreth is not giving that up. Silva's going to have to ask the person~ "Thank you," a beat, "For Zaisyreth." She beings to pull on the clothing stiffly, covering up those bruises again. A hand touches her face and she winces at the feel of makeup left on overnight. Something to distract her, "Your… pillow, sorry." It's probably a mess right now. Clothing on Silva stands there, looking super lost. Which question should she start with?

"Don't worry about it. Akluseth insists on his guests getting tended to." A small smirk curling on her lips with the admission. << Scratches are the BEST >> As for the pillow, the scribe waves it off. "It will wash out, I think we were both too exhausted to care by the end of the night." Nevermind how ''that'' sounds. It seems Ed isn't completely devoid of mischief, as she seems to offer nothing about the night's events of her own accord.

There is food, Silva heard that, but there is a tight knot that is a solid NO on the whole eating thing. Drawing her tongue over teeth fuzzy as butt she makes a face then finally turns to Edyis, "This… wasn't where I expected to be?" Not quite a demand for answers but totally a question.

Ed's attention lifts from the report to study the younger rider, "And where did you expect to wake up?" Letting the bluerider stew for a bit as she shuffles the papers into order, propping an elbow on the table and her chin in hand.

Silva reaches up to her hair, and if it is possible, her lips twist even further. She settles on the edge of the bed and starts to undo some of the braids from the night before. It is a tangled mess, but she has… time? Carefully Silva will try to dodge the question, "Not your weyr.. or any weyr?" Zaisy, be helpful please, no? :( "You… followed me?" Seriously trying to remember.

"Sorry to disappoint then." Edyis notes, "We went dancing, you'd had a little too much to drink and rather than have you try to between in that state, Akluseth and I brought you two home." It is the truth, just with a few chunks omitted. "You really do need to go see the healers today. Before your choices end in keening."

"I never between drunk." Firmly Silva says this, and it has more of a time of truth then most. A hand comes up and she covers her bruised arm. "No one is going to ''die''," She snaps, eyes of the floor. "I just fell. A few times. It's just fun. "

"I think we both know that that kind of damage isn't just from a fall." Edyis notes, getting up and moving over to the counter to refill her mug. She braces against the counter eyes still focused on the younger bluerider. "I've hit rock bottom enough times myself to know what it looks like in someone else Silva." Her voice soft with the confession.

Silva's not ready to admit anything yet - well, not ready to admit anything sober. Her gaze pointedly avoids the brownrider and she bites her lip on what are probably snarky words. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not doing anything wrong." She kinda believes it. Kinda.

Edyis is silent, studying the bluerider. Whatever Silva's words indicate the sternness and concern remaining in the brownrider's expression leaves no doubts as to whether or not the scribe believes her. "It's my choice. No one's going to die. I am not doing anything wrong." The scribe echoes, "If you really believed that deep down why hide the bruises? Why is your lifemate always on edge out of concern for you? Why go to places where all people see is an easy lay?" It isn't meant to be as harsh as it sounds.

"They're just //bruises//." Silva's grasp on her tongue snaps and she has to pull it back in with visible effort. Eyes closed, deep breath, damn the stupid headache which is keeping her from doing them better. "I ''hide'' them so people don't ask me questions and make a big deal out something that ''isn't''." The other two questions don't get answered.

Edyis's lips press together, and she exhales slowly. "It isn't just bruises Silva. This isn't about having ''fun'' it is about something else, and I think deep down you know that. Whether or not you are willing to admit it to yourself or anyone else."

"What is it you expect me to say?" Silva slumps against the wall, letting it take on some of her weight. Except she hits a bruise and there's a wince that crosses her face. "What did I say last night to make you dig on this?" Suspicious Silva Tone there.

Edyis sets the mug down and picks up the salve crossing across the room. Gingerly she indicates for the bruised arm to be held out, and if Silva allows, she starts working the salve into the bruises gingerly. "This is stuff I got from one of the people who taught me self defense, it speeds the healing considerably." For a while she doesn't answer the question, and it seems as though she doesn't intend to but at last. "You told me that you were less mean when you were hurting. That you thought you were useless because you were pregnant, and that your dragon loves you." She frowns at the last. "You know he feels it too don't you? If I hurt, Akluseth feels it unless I block the pain from him."

Silva stands as her arm gets taken and the salve applied. Her expression shutters, helped by a cloak of hair which falls forward. "I block it from him." It comes quietly. "He's just worried because it is different. He'll forget he's worried if it's just normal."

"How can you block it from him when you are so intoxicated you can barely manage walking?" Edyis notes softly, focused on the task at hand. "It isn't normal, and it isn't fair to him, but it is pretty clear you seem content to self destruct at this point." It's a good slave and the effects are almost immediate. "What did you want, before you impressed I mean. What was your dream?"

Silva opens her mouth to try to refute what Edyis notes, but nothing comes out. Can she be sure she is blocking him out? But then- if she's too drunk to block him, is she too drunk to feel it? These are heavy thoughts. Silence as she works her way through them before she settles on the most disturbing one. What if she can't feel it… but Zaisy can? "I need to stop drinking so hard…." Comes out on the exhale of a breath. It could totally be taken as progress? A shake of her head, just a twitch. "I didn't have any." Dreams that is. "Like, not that lasted very long. I liked clothes but never had the patience to be a weaver or whatever."

It's a start at least. Edyis nod along, working on the rest of those bruises. "My sister is a Journeyman weaver, all the quilts you see in here are her work." There is a tilt of her head at the thought, "If it's something you still love, you could see about maybe someone teaching you. I think Telavi sews, and there's a whole wing of craft riders now. Might give you that additional sense of purpose, and something constructive to put your energy into, but it's just a thought."

Silva spares a glance at the quilts. "Pretty." It sounds more or less sincere. Closing her hand she pulls her arm away unless Edyis pulls it back. She'll keep the jagged almost-a-scar now on the palm to herself. "Why do you care?" Silva's asked this already today, but it bears repeating without the tang of confusion or anger which it had before.

Edyis doesn't resist when she pulls the arm away. Lidding the jar, and setting it back on the counter. "Why shouldn't I care?" Studying the bluerider with a tilt of her head.

"You can't answer with a question. I'm no one to you. There's no reason. It doesn't make sense." A brisk rub of her hand along the now salved-up arm, it's got that slightly-wet chilled feeling until the salve works its way under the skin.

"Can't I?" A smirk curling the edges of her mouth, as she sets about to tidying up the place. "I guess you could call it a fatal flaw of sorts. I am incapable of standing idly by, not when there is something I can do about a situation."

Silva rubs at her eyes again, then nods slowly, like she understands. "You think you can do something." It comes as a mutter, the words squished together. Pulling herself upright, "Thank you for the clothing. I'll get out of your hair." And she'll start to make tracks towards the doorway as brisk as hungover can manage. (It's not very brisk.)

Edyis shrugs, "I don't know if I can help or not. But I've been there before, more or less. There were people who helped me through it." She watches the hungover trek to the door. "If you want someone to talk to, or just a place to crash, you both are welcome back here any time." The Brownrider calls after her.

Silva's strained her ability to be polite to pretty much a breaking point. So it's one last "Thanks." before she's out, acknowledging the offer, but not committing to it. Zaisyreth adds his own quiet thank-you to the brown, careful of his oft volatile rider until her head stops pounding.
}}

Logs talk:Fucking Harpers

2016-06-25T21:27:34Z

Silva: Comment provided by Silva - via ArticleComments extension

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==Silva (14:27, 25 June 2016 (PDT)) said... ==

ahahaha! <3 <3

Logs talk:Twenty Four

2016-06-25T02:30:18Z

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==Silva (19:30, 24 June 2016 (PDT)) said... ==

aww. :(

Logs:Later Plans

2016-06-20T00:43:24Z

Silva: Created page with "{{Log |who=Silva, Edyis, Edyis{{!}}Akluseth, Silva{{!}}Zaisyreth |what=Silva's got to get caught up on work, but that doesn't mean that Silva can't get bad ideas from Edyis. |..."

{{Log
|who=Silva, Edyis, Edyis{{!}}Akluseth, Silva{{!}}Zaisyreth
|what=Silva's got to get caught up on work, but that doesn't mean that Silva can't get bad ideas from Edyis.
|where=HRW: Rider's Lounge
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=21
|month=1
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.06.19
|quote=Edyis sighs, possibly regretting the decision.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Silva Thinking.jpg, Icon edyis Serious.jpg,
|log=Life's all fun and games until it comes to actually getting work done. And alas, Silva's behind. A reprimeand for being late a //few// too many times, and then straight up not having her work done has parked the young woman in the lounge tonight to try to dig herself out of that particular hole. She's dressed up like she's planning on going out later, her green dress striking and her hair done up in braids and beads. A wine cup sits not too far away, as Silva gets a jump on her later plans while also scratching out a report.

Though her days of bar tending are somewhat behind her, the Snowdrift brownrider is hardly a rare sight in either of the Reaches' two drinking establishments. She had been quietly studying the mural at the back, mug in hand. At least until the scratching of report writing catches her ears and Edyis turns to study the source with an amused, if not nostalgic smile. Light steps bear her over to the bluerider, "You know, doing paper work in a bar... Some might say that defeats the purpose of both activities."

Silva finishes the word she'd been writing before glancing upwards at Edyis. The end of her writing utensil gets tapped against the wood of the table and Silva lets out an elegant shrug for the comment. "The point of this bar is to be closer to where I have to drop this off before I blow off." Her free hand reaches for the cup and she downs the contents before eyeing it. Probably too early for this, but Silva's affecting a stance of don't-care.

Mirth settles into Edyis' expression as she hooks the chair and settles herself into it. "Found the flow to wing life then I take it?" Eying the report thoughtfully, before lifting her mug once more, studying the girl over the rim. "Sounds like you have plans?" A question without really being a question.

"It's work, I have to do it, or live with the consequences." Not what Silva wants to deal with as she tries something new with her life. She raises her glass up and shakes it at the bartender. More please? Yes, it is too early, go jump off a cliff kthanks. Her eyes fall down and focus on Edyis again. "Maybe." A short enough answer, "Why?"

"Mmm," Is the brownrider's ambiguous answer for consequences, though her brows lift faintly as she notes the exchange between rider and bartender. "Must be some rough consequences to have you gulping down cheap wine without a meal to go with it this early in the day." The observation is dispassionate, and without judgment though not without a touch of curiosity. "No reason, just curious I suspect." The brownrider offers in explanation of her own motivation in asking questions. "Last minute report, or something interesting going on in the world these days. It's felt far too quiet of late."

"It does what I need it to do," comes Silva's terse reply about the quality of the liquor she's drinking. She brushes a braid behind behind an ear and focuses all of her attention on the brownrider in front of her. "I really don't care - but I've been told to write it down, so I'm writing it." Flicking a page back Silva reads aloud what she's written, "More snow then expected and it is wet." Serious care she's giving to this report.

One hand props Edyis' chin as the terse reply is shot off, looking at Silva as though she's a little puzzle box or something of that nature. "What is it you need the wine to do?" The flippant attitude to the report earns a faint furrow of the brow. "Then what do you care about Silva?" The brownrider pulling the name from some dusty recess of her memory. "If I may ask."

"I'm going out, and I want to be loose, pass inspection?" The answer carries all of Silva's attitude before she closes her eyes, counts to a solid three, then opens them again. "That was wrong." Her tone is more polite, though stiffer, and decidedly artificial. "I just want to get this done, and get out. The amount of snow on the ground is completely irrelevant until someone else decides it isn't."

Edyis does try, she really does not to laugh at the immediate response from the younger blue rider. Still a smile creeps in at the edges of her mouth which she is quick to hide with her mug. The artificial answer gets a polite nod in kind. "It isn't irrelevant. Though I guess I can understand how it might feel that way." The former scribe waves over for a refill of her mug. "Snow means melt when the weather is warmer. It could potentially mean higher incidences of flooding in the spring or avalanches now. Things that may affect tithes or even the situations the weyr is called on to assist with." Not that the reasoning might matter at all to the younger bluerider. "Not that I don't understand a case of... should we call it cabin fever?" Or the need to get laid so to speak.

That attempt to not laugh only has Silva's back straightening, the artifical politeness only becoming more icy. "Again, it doesn't impact //me//, or Zaisyreth, unless someone decides it will. So I write it down. Hand it in. That's where my job ends." When Edyis' cup gets filled Silva's does also, and the young woman is quick to reach for it and take a drink. "I just have plans."

"No I suppose you wouldn't see the connections." The brownrider chuckles, "I'm sorry just, the choice of words. If you need wine to feel... loose, your doing it wrong." She shrugs, "Not that I'm against the enjoyment of various spirits for their own sakes." But there's a flutter, "Does he or she make you that nervous?"

Dead silence meets Edyis' words as Silva stares her down. Carefully, oh so carefully, Silva licks her lips. "I am not quite sure what you are talking about."

Edyis can't help it. The warm rush of laughter bubbles up beyond what the brownrider can contain. "Loose... tends to have various connotations attached to the word, I can see now that's not quite what you meant."

Edyis is laughing, but Silva is most ''assuredly'' not. "I don't really car... No." She shuts her lips and breathes deeply. Eyes flick closed so she can put a stamp on the sass about to fall out. "I'm going out, I'm going to enjoy myself, and it's none of your business what I'm going to do unless you have advice on where I can go."

There are tears, tears forming just at the corners of her eyes. "I'm sorry, I just... really misunderstood." Still chuckling at her own blunder. "You aren't in my wing, I don't rely on your reports. That's your wing leader and second's business." Still trying to catch her breath between laughs. "As to where to go, that entirely depends on what your idea of fun is."

No, the problem is that Edyis is understanding, at least a little, but Silva's still settling into that herself. "Somewhere it doesn't matter who I am." There's a hint of wistfulness in her tone.

Perhaps it's the wistfulness, as much as the phrasing that has ink dark eyes refocusing on the bluerider, as though seeing her for the first time. "Why do you want that not to matter?" Edyis asks after a few minutes, her voice more delicate with the question, something akin to concern seeping in at the edges of her expression.

Steel this time, as Silva gathers herself back up and gives a stern mental talking to - much to the chagrin of a particular blue in the back of her mind. "Do you know a place or not?" It sidesteps Edyis' question rather than answering and giving up more than she already has.

"I know of several, but as to which, well - that depends on the why." The brownrider intones softly, settling back into her chair with a pensive expression. "If you - if you just want to be someone other than yourself for a while, or you want a place where you can be yourself and no one you know from here will be, it's different than if you just want to go someplace to numb yourself, or even punish yourself." Steel met with softness, The Snowdrift rider watching Silva all the while.

"How about all of them, and I'll just choose from there?" Clearly, Silva's plans aren't as set in stone as her words earlier set themselves. She's making zero pretense of working on her report anymore, but instead has developed a keen interest in the wine in her cup.

Deep and restless, warm ocean currents reach out to the edges of thought. << Ed want's me to share a visual with you. Though she seems worried about the state of yours' mind. >> The brown's watery tenor drifts like silver fish on the tide. (To Zaisyreth from Akluseth)

Ed is quiet for some time, the answer clearly not putting her much at ease. Still, she isn't entirely against giving out the information since she does offer, "Friend of mine, her mom runs an Istan bar, not far from some great places to grab a meal. Good place to let go, and not be judged too harshly for it."

To Akluseth, Zaisyreth Dark clouds over troubled waves of grass reach out to touch the mind of the brown. << I will take it as yours give, and give it to Silva. >> He doesn't betray his rider's trust with more information then it is his place to share at the moment. He will say, though perhaps with less reassurance then the words could give, << She knows her own mind. >>

"Alright, any others?" Silva, clearly not too interested in asking too many questions that might give away her particular intentions. "Anywhere else?"

The image of a beach with black glittering sands and tropical plants settles into lovely blue green waters. Ista to be certain. << Girls are complicated. >> Perhaps it's meant to be reassuring or perhaps it's meant in brotherly solidarity. (To Zaisyreth from Akluseth)

Edyis exhales a little, thoughtful. "There's the Lava Lounge but it's the kind of place you have to have someone show you to remember how to get there. Great drinks, but they tend to frown on overly rowdy crowds, if I remember right."

Silva shakes her head on that one, "Not that one then." Just a little more slipping about what Silva might actually be looking for in her 'plans'.

To Akluseth, Zaisyreth Wooden chimes beating in the brush of dry wind across the swaying grasses signal agreement, if resignation. Things be what they be.

A deep sigh at Silva's answer, brow furrowing faintly. "There's another place I go, but I wouldn't recommend using your real name there. Or letting go of yourself so much that you or your lifemate can't scent trouble when it heads your way." More than intended slipping into the confession. "If you can at least hold your own in a brawl, and aren't particular about the kind of person that might invite you into a dark corner there..." Still there's reluctance and concern.

A perk in Silva's expression, though she'll stay quiet on the question on if she can hold her own in a brawl. (She's not exactly the strength and skill kind of person. Someone... probably? forced some self defense on her? Maybe?) "Where is that?" Totally trying to treat that particular location as nonchalant as the first consideration Eyis offered up.

Edyis is reluctant, but given the speed with which Akluseth sends the image of a seaside southern bar and a place to land out of sight, she may actually understand. "Just don't go alone." Ed's warning comes, "Not really the sort of place most girls enjoy, and certainly not a place most civilized folks would walk into." Which might suggest a familiarity with the place that is less than healthy.

"I'll keep that in mind." Silva glances down at the paper in front of her and lets out a small sigh. Yes, she needs to finish that too. A drink of wine before Silva sets it down and reaches to scrawl another word on her report. This is probably not the grandest thing ever written or read. But it'll be done? Purposefully she makes no promises or statements she fully does not intend to keep.

Edyis sighs, possibly regretting the decision, but there's duties of her own to see to. "Just... don't try too hard to be something you aren't, It never works out in the end." From personal experience, or just vauge advice it's difficult to tell since that seems to be the brownrider's farewell.

Silva lifts her eyes up at the farewell sound in the brownrider's voice. "Thanks." It sounds sincere enough, but then she really DOES have to finish this stupid thing before she can go do REALLY stupid things.
}}

Logs:Sticky Decisions

2016-06-19T04:58:41Z

Silva:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Logs:Bloody Clarity

2016-06-13T03:59:33Z

Silva: Created page with "{{Log |who=Silva |what=After she and Drex get into a tiff, Silva decides on a 180 in life. |where=Silva's Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=28 |month=13 |turn=40 |IP=Inter..."

{{Log
|who=Silva
|what=After she and Drex get into a tiff, Silva decides on a 180 in life.
|where=Silva's Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=28
|month=13
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.06.12
|quote="We'll try it that way."
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon Silva Sardonic.jpg,
|log="Red doesn't look very good on you." Silva slides down from Zaisyreth's neck, leaving behind a thin trail of red behind her. The blue paces with her as far as he can fit, humming quietly with worry over the fact that Silva is //bleeding// and not going to a //healer// for it. Normally chill as any dragon could be ''this'' development has the blue almost knotted with worry.

Silva is cool though. Her mind completely clear. Away from her dragon's warmth and caring she walks, sweeping into the weyr. First to go is the dress, wine and blood splattered as it is now, tossed carelessly into a corner heap. It'll get thrown away at some point. A distant part of her mind mourns the passing of the dress, it really was a cute one, cut just right to show off her features to the best.

Then water, she always keeps a pitcher-and-bowl here for quick clean-offs when the baths aren't an option. Beside it a white rag remains white for only seconds more before she dips it into the water and slowly, methodically, begins to wipe away at the blood still dripping from her hand. Pain stings as she wipes but it is sucked into the vortex of her clear mind. It continues to bleed but her careful wiping shows the shard of glass which split the skin. Setting aside the cloth she reaches out for a pair of tweezers and pulls the glass from her own skin.

Grasping the glass shard in her tweezers Silva lifts it up to the light, the blood quickly drying upon it and obscuring the transparency of the glass. Almost casually her bloodied hand grips onto the wet rag, applying pressure to eventually stop the bleeding so a bandage can be applied.

Turning the shard this way and that Silva is mesmerized by the play of light through the bloodied glass. Her voice sounds far away, and Zaisyreth's worried winds are even further, as she says, "Alright."

Seconds, minutes, hours - time loses all meaning as she stares at the glass. Finally, slowly, deliberately she puts the glass shard down. "Alright." She repeats again. "We'll try it that way." Standing she goes to find a bandage for her hand, then turns to look at her weyr.

If it was going to hurt anyway, shouldn't she at ''least'' get some fun out of it? Eyes pass across her closet and stop on a pure black dress she'd bought on a dare, but never actually thought she would ''wear''. Good hand pulls it down to examine the fit - tight, the neckline too deep for any sense of modesty, and the cut beyond scandalous. Slowly it gets a nod and she pulls it on. Shoes, those high-heeled black ones of course. Make up? The deep red, high blush. Hair is allowed to fall curly around her shoulders, with one side pinned back and the other falling half over one eye.

With the pain in her hand to keep her mind clear the decision to cast away any safety net and toss herself into the deep end seems like the only clear one to make.

<< Silva... >> The warning tone in Zaisyreth's voice clashes against her new found clarity, the wooden chimes hidden in large baobab trees clanging ominously.

"Nonsense. Let's go." Still one handed she pulls herself up onto the blue's back, and sits stiffly. "Time to try something new."
}}

Logs talk:Risks vs Rewards

2016-06-06T05:45:52Z

Silva: Comment provided by Silva - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Risks vs Rewards]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Silva (22:45, 5 June 2016 (PDT)) said... ==

Some day I'll log on and see people and this will TOTALLY happen. <3 <3

Logs talk:Dynastic

2016-03-23T11:15:37Z

Silva: Comment provided by Silva - via ArticleComments extension

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

==Alida (23:22, 19 March 2016 (PDT)) said... ==

I enjoy seeing K'del this way. ^^
==T'gar (17:20, 20 March 2016 (PDT)) said... ==

This was HILARIOUS. Love it. Want more of these two interacting~
==Silva (04:15, 23 March 2016 (PDT)) said... ==

She will show all if you! Soneday. Maybe. Well... hopefully.

Logs:Unknown

2016-03-07T02:44:30Z

Silva: Created page with "{{Log |who=K'del, Silva, |what=A Taiga party has Silva and K'del talking about what Silva doesn't quite understand. |where=HRW :Snowasis |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=11 |m..."

{{Log
|who=K'del, Silva,
|what=A Taiga party has Silva and K'del talking about what Silva doesn't quite understand.
|where=HRW :Snowasis
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=11
|month=3
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.03.04
|quote="Taiga's your wing, Silva."
|mentions=t'gar
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon K'del.jpg, Icon Silva Thinking.jpg,
|log=This winter evening finds the Snowasis solidly busy, most particularly with a group of Taiga riders who are feting their wingleader-- F'manis having recently become a grandfather for the second time-- with beer and pretzels. K'del stands back from the crowd, hovering about the bar with ''his'' drink rather than indulge in the more energetic celebrations centred about one of the tables. Whatever the young woman serving the bar has just said to him has clearly amused him; he grins, head shaking, as he murmurs something in return.

Silva's been invited to this shindig, but she's not getting involved. Unlike her pre-impression social-butterfly self, Silva's become a more contained person and less likely to toss herself out for just anything. She's across the bar from K'del, her eyes downcast as she plays with her curled hair. More self contained, maybe, but she's totally still interested in looking as GOOD as possible.

K'del's bar staff companion moves away, crossing towards another patron who actually seems to want to ''order'' something. It leaves the bronzerider to glance up, first to consider all those wingmates and then, further, towards Silva. It's the latter who catches more of his attention-- enough that, a few moments later, he lifts his glass and moves to slide in alongside her. "Silva," he says. "Enjoying yourself? You look nice."

Silva didn't really expect the Weyrleader to approach her, so while she isn't startled by his movement, she does seem suprised at his speaking to her. Fussing with her hair over her shoulder Silva shifts in place so she's slightly facing him. "Thank you." That sounds sincere enough. "You're not... in Taiga... are you?"

Mouth opening, K'del seems genuinely taken aback by that question, his smile fading to something more... well, ''bemused''. "Not very observant, are you?" he says, though at least ''that'' seems more amused than concerned. "Don't ''lead'' the wing or anything, and I'm not always at drills, but sure, I fly for Taiga. Have done for quite a few turns now. How're you settling in?"

"Oh well... I mean, like, I couldn't have known." It sounds a little petulant, and no, Silva hadn't noticed. She's turned out to be competent enough, but she's not //good// by any stretch of the imagination. Her eyes are downcast, "I guess it's fine and such. Different."

That K'del disagrees with Silva's ability to have known is plain from his expression; still, he seems disinclined to argue the point, instead shrugging and pausing long enough to take a sip from his beer. "It's always an adjustment," he says. "Going from weyrlinghood to the wings. 'least you've got T'gar with you, too-- you're not alone as a newbie. It'll get easier over time. Always does."

Silva, defensive now. It shows in how the young woman squares her shoulders and settles her arms across her chest and hugs them against herself. "It's not like we're best friends or like, anything. But like, whatever. I mean, it is what it is."

K'del is silent for several long seconds. "No," he agrees. "But you don't have to be best friends to..." He exhales, more a sigh than a breath. "It'll be spring, soon. Time to start checking in with all of the holders, as the snows thaw, and see what they need from us to prepare for the planting. Be a nice change from just flying sweeps, anyway."

"To work with them?" Silva hazards a way to finish K'del's sentence. "I guess I'm like, a little fuzzy still, on like, what exactly we have to do when the planting or whatever comes."

"Support each other. Learn from each other." K'del doesn't refute Silva's hazarded answer, but it's not agreement, either. He turns his glass in his hand, now, hesitating over the rest of what he has to say: 'authority figure explaining from on high' is written right through his expression. And, when they come, his words too. "Generally, it's not our job to ''do'' the planting-- but that doesn't mean there won't be ways in which we can help. Roads may need to be cleared; last minute supplies may need to be ferried. ''Our'' job is to support the holders to do their jobs."

"I kinda sucks at like, planting and whatnot, so that's probably good." Silva doesn't like to grub in the dirt. Fidgeting slightly Silva shifts herself so she's angled slightly towards the weyrleader. "I know like, we went through all of this in Candidacy, but like, I still don't really get ''why'' we have to do that."

K'del hesitates, albeit only for a few seconds. "Do you like eating, Silva? Being warm in winter? Having straps for Zaisyreth?" His fair brows lift as he asks the question, blue-eyed gaze intense and interested.

That look Silva casts over to K'del has overtones of 'duh' in it. Sadly, she doesn't realize the 'duh' in his own comments. "Uh, yes?"

"Well, then." K'del gives Silva a ''look''. "That's why we do it. We're in an Interval. If we let the holds forget why we're useful, why they ''need'' us, we've no guarantee that they'll continue to tithe. And if they don't tithe, we don't eat."

"Oh. Well." Silva, realizing she sounds stupid. Chagrin writes itself upon her face as a flush of red as she ducks her head. "I guess. I mean, like, I wouldn't want Zaisy to be hungry or whatever. And I suck at hunting with him."

It's probable that K'del means his smile to be encouraging rather than pitying, though that's easily misinterpreted. "Better for all of us if it's not something we have to worry about," he agrees. "Especially for our dragons. So: we'll just need to keep charming the holders, mm?"

Yup, Silva reads it wrong. Her dignity comes crashing down as she straightens up and raises her chin. "I can do //that//. Like, clearing roads is stupid, but I can lie to them just fine."

K'del opens his mouth. He closes it again. He takes a breath. (Teenagers!) "Reckon I believe you can," is probably intended to be conciliatory. "Though it's not ''lying'' as such, more... keeping them happy. Perception, more than anything." Still, he's awkward, now, gaze sliding away from the bluerider and towards their mutual wingmates.

Silva, watching K'del, rolls her eyes slightly, though she manages to put ''some'' amount of respect in it when she starts with "Sir," a pause, "If you're trying to get someone to think you're different then you are, then it's a lie."

"So you don't think we are useful to the holders? You think we're just ''pretending'' we are?" K'del glances back at Silva to ask that, his brows raised. "We're not lying to them. We're reminding them."

"Do ''you'' think that we do anything they couldn't do for themselves?" Silva returns the question, still wrapped up in her own dignity. "I mean, like, maybe we do it ''faster'' and what not, but like... they could clear roads and stuff with runners."

"The question is... do they have the ''time'' and the ''manpower'' to do it," replies K'del, showing no indication that he's offended by Silva's argument. "And then there are things... sometimes there are floods in spring. ''We'' can get warnings to them, warnings that they might not otherwise get. We can perform rescues from the air. We can drop in supplies to people whose roads are blocked. Yes, they can survive without us, but why should they? We ''are'' less useful to them during an Interval, but that doesn't mean we're not... doesn't mean we're not still worth feeding."

"It's not like they don't have children or whatever." Silva, still defensive on her point. Not... that she's trying to say that riders are useless or such, but right now she's being stubborn. "why don't like, we farm and try to like, take care of ourselves? I mean, I ''know'' we can't do that when like, death and whatever," thank god there isn't thread and Silva has to fight it, "is falling, but at least take ''some'' of the strain off?"

Surprisingly, K'del nods. "It's a thing that's been mooted before. We've even tried it-- blame Lord Crom for it failing, but never mind. But we need land to farm, and why would the holders give it to us? There're the western islands, but that's complicated all over again. It's--" He hesitates, then shrugs his shoulders. "Anyway. ''You'' don't want to get down into the dirt and farm, do you? Most dragonriders don't. Some accepted Search ''because'' it got them out of that life." He straightens, now, drawing his shoulders back as he does so. "Welcome to the complexities of weyr life in an Interval, Silva. Want to come rejoin the party with me, or are you happy hanging back here?"

"I don't have any friends here, and I kinda promised I wouldn't drink unless ther was like, someone to look after me." There's hints of something deeper there in Silva's words but she is NOT about to admit her mistake to the ''weyrleader''.

K'del's silence lasts one beat, two beats, three. "Taiga's your wing, Silva," he tells the bluerider. "And wings look out for each other. ''I'll'' keep an eye out, if you like. If you let them, so will the rest of the wing. But if you hold yourself apart..." His lips press together, his expression solemn. "It's your call, but that seems a pretty lonely future."

There's a hint in Silva's eyes that says that the bluerider isn't ''quite'' ready to believe K'del yet. But she does step forward with a small shrug and takes him up on his offer. Maybe not the LIFE of the party, bt at least the girl will interact a little more?

It's a start-- or, at least, K'del seems to believe it. True to his word, too, he'll keep at least half an eye on her for the rest of the evening, and a handful of the Taigan wingriders will deliberately engage their newest wingmate. Call it a win.
}}

Logs talk:Taiga's Newest

2016-03-06T06:23:43Z

Silva: Comment provided by Silva - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Taiga's Newest]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Alida (13:47, 2 March 2016 (PST)) said... ==

Watch out, world! ;)
==Silva (22:23, 5 March 2016 (PST)) said... ==

Aww. <3

Logs:Compounding Attitude

2016-02-21T06:26:09Z

Silva: Created page with "{{Log |who=Drex, Silva |what=They started off super innocent, then both managed to get insta mad. |where=Greenhouse / Bowl, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=..."

{{Log
|who=Drex, Silva
|what=They started off super innocent, then both managed to get insta mad.
|where=Greenhouse / Bowl, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=25
|month=1
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.02.20
|quote=I didn't do ''anything'' to earn your scorn.
|mentions=Farideh
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon drex oh no you didn't.gif, Icon Silva Sardonic.jpg,
|log=It's been a cool winter's day, though despite the weather outside, it's always warm and humid in the greenhouse. The comparison to outside's weather is quite a contrast, and probably the reason Drex has shed his coat, his short-sleeved shirt loose while he works. It appears that he's setting up a new bed of soil, swinging his pickaxe and turning over the dirt, the scent of it lingering throughout the greenhouse.

That warmth might be why Silva has retreated here, where she can take off a layer. She isn't much for the work that comes with farming, but she does like the little flowers that bloom before any fruit begins to go. That is where the greenrider wanders, reaching up to gently touch the petals gently and breathe in their soft scent. Slowly she weaves her way towards the bed of soil being prepared, but doesn't call out to the man.

The rush of colder air from outside that accompanies another arrival doesn't go unnoticed; Drex gives a grunt, pausing to lean on his pickaxe, squinting in the direction of the newcomer. Eyes narrow briefly -- like maybe he recognizes her -- and he's muttering, "Fardling ''great''," as he deliberately turns his back, lifting the axe again and swinging it towards the dirt. There's more muttering -- something about riders, and idiots, and other less than savory comments.

Silva's been fairly passive the last few months, with only slight flairs of her old attitude. But something about Drex's tone gets on a nerve she's been supressing. Color flushes into her cheeks and her hand lowers to her side. Carefully, oh-so-carefully Silva marches her way over to Drex. "''What''. Do you have a problem or something?"

Drex doesn't even sideye her march to his side, like maybe he's used to such things, finishing the swing of the axe before he deigns to answer, all without looking at her: "Plenty of 'em," he gives a half shrug, the gesture not fully completed. "One just walked right up to me." He makes to lift the axe again.

"Like.... ''no''." Silva folds her arm across her chest and stares down her nose at the man. (No matter that he's way bigger than her shortness. She manages it.) "I didn't even like, ''do'' anything to do. I mean, like, I was just in the same ''room''."

Drex ''grunts'', and it seems that expressive gesture is enough to sum up his response to Silva; certainly there's no worded response to her comment, swinging the pickaxe down again and examining his work, one boot toeing at the newly turned soil. It's like he's ''ignoring'' her in the hopes she'll go away.

Silva's small hands ball at her side and she stomps once onto the ground. "No. No. No. No. For ''once'' I didn't do ''anything'' to earn your scorn. I was just enjoying this pretty place and you decided I wasn't wroth anything, and that just isn't right. I'm ''trying''! ''Okay''?!" Drex. >:(

"You aint trying very hard. Didn't say nothin'," comes Drex's probably unhelpfully placid response, along with his very judging look. "Aint seen a hissy like that since Fari--" he goes quiet, apparently deciding not to share that particular part, instead taking a break by leaning on the handle of his tool.

"Since Fari what? Stood there and did ''nothing'' to have someone treat her badly?" Silva's fists are settled firmly on her hips as she stares at the man in angst. "If you treated her like that then you ''deserved'' the hissy fit."

Now that seems to have struck a sore point, enough that Drex stiffens and scowls. "Treated her like ''what''? You're the one that came up to me while I was working and started screeching like one of those avians when they find some leftover canine shit or something. Ask me, sounds like ya need to get laid and chill the fuck out."

Silva's not one to resort to physical violence, but something has her on ''edge'' with Drex's attitude. Without even thinking about it one hand comes up and full open palmed goes to slap Drex across the face. Her voice, at least, is quieter. "There was no call for that."

"The ''fuck''?" is Drex's reaction to that, dropping the pickaxe and rubbing at his cheek. He takes a step forward, looming over her for a moment, expression dark. "What are you, some kind of crazy chick? Aint even touched you."

Small silva should be more scared of this man who is way taller than her. But she's got her dander up, and there's a serious recklessness in action. "You have ''no right'' to say such things to me, no matter how horrid you think I am. I came here to enjoy something beautiful."

"Aint nobody stopping you," Drex scowls, pointing to the other side of the greenhouse. "You aint the boss of me. I can say whatever the fuck I want."

"I don't know why I even bother to exist. It's not like any of you are ''ever'' going to give me a second chance." Silva turns on her heel, that flat shoe she's wearing making a tiny hole in the soft dirt at her feet. A flip of her hair as she settles her shoulders. She's pulled the bitch persona full on, and strides towards the doorway and out.

"Woe is fucking you, life sucks when everything's handed to you and the Weyr babies you like you're some Blood's runt," is Drex's scowled words to the retreating weyrling's back.

Silva's at the doorway, pausing as she opens it up. A selfish part of her totally hopes he gets SICK from the mixing of cold and warm air. "You don't know ''anything''." The door behind her slams, but not enough to cause any damage to the glass it is made out of.

If there's a response, it's lost in the satisfying slam of the door. Drex, meanwhile, bends to pick up his pickaxe and resume his work like he was never interrupted, although there's possibly a bit more ''force'' to the swing he gives afterwards.
}}

Logs:All That Glitters

2016-02-15T01:07:23Z

Silva:

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn, Silva, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth
|what=Silva tells Jocelyn just what she thinks of her with unexpected results.
|where=Jocelyn's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=5
|month=1
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.02.14
|quote=I know you don't like me, and that's okay because I don't really like you either.
|mentions=Edeline, Farideh, Quint
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn headache.png, Icon Silva Thinking.jpg, Icon Jocelyn Aidavanth.jpg
|log=It's the next day, after Jocelyn and Quint kept Silva from making a really poor choice of intimate company. Not early, because Silva was in no shape this morning to go anywhere right away. Almost midday is when Silva feels alive enough to finally get about, but it is without her usual polish. No makeup, and her hair is just tied up in a ponytail. Now she's outside Jocelyn's weyr, drawing courage up. "Jocelyn?" Her voice /sounds/ strong enough as she rocks on her heels slightly outside.

Dragon> To Jocelyn, Aidavanth's warm, clear voice holds only a ''little'' surprise as she interrupts her rider’s focus with the sound of gentle taps. << Silva's here to see you. >>

Dragon> To Aidavanth, Jocelyn’s astonishment is palpable, even as she puts aside her note copying at her desk in favor of going to meet Zaisyreth’s. << She’s never sought me out before, >> the redhead muses as she crosses into the front-facing cavern. << What could she want now? >>

Dragon> To Jocelyn, Aidavanth would arch an eyebrow if she had one, pointing only to their shared sense of ‘’knowing’' in answer. << Be kind, >> is a gentle reminder.

Aidavanth, halfway to her preferred spot for surveying in the sun on her ledge, pauses briefly once she hears Silva's call before continuing outside. It's likely that she relays the bluerider's arrival to her lifemate, as Jocelyn appears some minutes after in the entryway, hands spotted with ink and expression, taken aback before she has time to smooth it into something carefully polite. "Silva." Eyes more gray than blue take in the girl's appearance for a long moment, then: "Come in." She turns without waiting to see if the other will follow, already moving to the elevator shaft to call for a fresh water pitcher. In the meantime, she half moves toward the sensible chairs at the table, but ultimately changes direction to sit on the edge of one of the armchairs near the bookshelf, eyebrows lifting expectantly. "Sit. The chair across from me won't bite."

Needless to say, this is awkward for Silva. When the minutes tick past she is ready to just turn and walk away and would have if Zaisyreth hadn't silently been pressuring her to stay patient. "Jocelyn," is all Silva gets out before the older weyrling us taking it right out of her hands. She follows, eyes moving around to take in the enormous weyr with surprise and envy. Following she takes the seat offered and smooths out her shirt fussily. Not too long does she allow the silence to continue before, "Why did you do that?" Genuine bewilderment, "Zaisy says you helped last night. Why?"

The sound of a mechanism at work heralds the arrival of their water, and Jocelyn rises to retrieve it from the trap-door in the wall, carrying the tray over to the table. She doesn't answer Silva immediately, pouring a generous glass before crossing back to her classmate, offering it to her with a pointed look that turns more thoughtful as she regards the teenager steadily. "I won't be very good at taking care of this place if I don't look after its people, " she says neutrally enough. It almost manages to be business-like, save for her eyes; there, her concern is permitted through, however subtly. A trifle awkwardly, "On a more personal level, " surprise, she ''does'' have one of those! "You looked like you could have ended up in a bad situation. It'd be irresponsible of me to watch something like that happen to you and not act in your best interest."

"So... it was just your responsibility?" Silva misses the look in Jocelyn's gaze, her eyes are fixed on the glass of water handed to her. She fidgets, almost imperceptibly in place, thumbs tracing invisible lines on the glass. "And you didn't tell anyone about what you found out. Was that your responsibility too?" A beat of silence before Silva blurts out, this time with a hint of heat, "I never asked you to, you know. I know you don't like me, and that's okay because I don't really like you either."

Jocelyn takes a step back as she relinquishes that glass to the other weyrling, retreating to her former perch on the edge of the seat across the way. "I didn't say that, " she begins, one hand lifting to pinch irritably at the bridge of her nose. That statement of Silva's belief in their mutual dislike, so bald, elicits a long, careful exhale. "And yet, you came here today, " the redhead says measuredly. "I'm going to assume that you didn't come into my home just to tell me that you don't like me, as you've long made your feelings eminently clear." Her lips press thin for a moment, hands curling at the edges of her trouser pockets. Suddenly, "Look, I'm terrible at saying things like this - but contrary to what you seem to believe, I don't want to see you get hurt or taken advantage of by someone with poor intentions. No one deserves that sort of treatment. Zaisyreth obviously sees something of worth in you, even if you're too entrenched in your adolescent concerns to see it in ''yourself''." Her tone stays frank as the words, pent-up for some time, push their way out. "Regardless of where you lived before the here and now, you're presently about to become a High Reaches wingrider. Does that mean I'll feel responsible for your well-being as long as I serve my home? Yes. That's my ''job''. But it's now ''your'' home, too. I don't know how they did things where you grew up, but I was raised to remember that we're not going to get far without our community. It doesn't mean that I have to ''like'' everyone, " thank Faranth, "but it ''does'' mean that I have to respect them. That includes you."

"No," she didn't come just to insult Jocelyn. Silva hadn't meant to do that at all. It's all she gets out before Jocelyn moves on though, and every word the gold weyrling speaks is like a knife and Silva flinches at most of them. She at least manages to look ashamed about her words, even as Jocelyn sideways seems to confirm that she ''doesn't'' like the teenager. "It's not that easy. Like you say it is. The whole suddenly being a part of a 'community' or whatever. You're so ''good'' at ''everything''." Totally oxymoron, Silva's eyes still not looking up. "It's like you were made for this." It's a whine and Silva hears it, her dislike for //herself// only growing with each word.

"You think I don't know that it's hard?" Jocelyn pushes back, finally permitting her own frustration to be ''very'' audible. "I've spent my whole ''life'' here, and even that hasn't been enough time to feel like I fit in well!" With the admission she likely didn't intend to give, she promptly deflates, rubbing unhappily at her temples. Her eyes squeeze shut for some minutes, breathing rapid. Quietly, "I'm not 'good at everything, ' as you put it. Clearly I'm not good at this, " and a hand lowers from her forehead to wave aimlessly at the space between them. "People. I worked hard to pick up useful skills and become competent at my job when I first worked for Giorda. Classes, numbers, ''learning'' were all easier to deal with than my lack of solid friendships as a child." And children ''can'' be cruel to one another, something that turns of growth haven't managed to erase. It's there, for a moment, in the silence after she speaks, the pain that grimaces briefly over her features before it's swiftly tucked away again. Gaze focused now on a book with a blue spine inside of the bookcase, she works to regain her composure, expression tight and ''tired''.

Silva sets down her glass on the arm of the chair, and wraps her arms around herself. There's shame written all over her expression, a feeling Silva doesn't let in very often, and it's more uncomfortable then the prideful arrogance she usually pulls on. "What are you going to do?" The question comes quietly, almost like Silva's asking for advice for herself then wondering what Jocelyn is going to do.

"If you're asking if I'm going to tell someone that one of Lady Edeline's people ended up riding for us despite her refusal, I see no need to unless that knowledge ends up endangering this weyr." Jocelyn's misunderstanding of to whom Silva's talking might be purposeful or genuine; it's difficult to tell. Wearily, "Why ''did'' you come here today? You could have asked about last night via Zaisyreth without ever leaving your pillows." Two spots of color remain high in the woman's cheeks, but she otherwise looks calmer than she did some minutes ago, almost ''curious''.

Silva draws her legs up against her chest, and wraps her arms around them. Head resting on her knees she finally looks up at Jocelyn. "I haven't told my family I impressed. They wouldn't understand. I don't understand." That being more the reason Silva doesn't want to go near home, more than the political backlash of Lady Edeline's displeasure. "But.. I meant like... what are you going to do about like... people. If ''you'' don't feel comfortable here after like... living here forever..." Her arms squeeze tighter around her legs. "I'm tired of feeling all alone. That's why I got all tangled up with that guy last night... he was so nice and like, it was nice to be paid attention to."

"They say we'll never be alone again, after having Impressed, " Jocelyn muses aloud, half in answer, "and that's certainly true. But as much as they do love us, it isn't going to quite fulfill everything, is it?" It's both a rhetorical query and an acknowledgment of what Silva's just expressed. "Feeling less than comfortable with people isn't going to change unless I work harder to push past it. Aidavanth ''helps'', certainly, but I've grown so accustomed to the feeling that it's - hard to be another way, " like a too-old, too-comfortable jacket. But perhaps that's a topic for another time, as she listens to the other weyrling further. "Was he really nice, " she probes carefully after a few moments, "or simply saying nice things to you? There's a difference, you know. Someone can say something nice, and even ''smile'' while working out how to pull the rug out from under your feet." No, she doesn't have trust issues at all. Haltingly, "It - takes time, at least for me, to work out someone's intentions, whatever the scenario. It's harder now than it was before. I have to assume until it's proven otherwise that people are interested in adding a connection with High Reaches to their acquaintance rather than, well." Me, goes unspoken with a wince.

"I love Zaisyreth." Very little else that Silva says these days is filled with such sincerity. "But... he's not a person, you know?" Prime example being the night before. Zaisyreth had no idea what to do as Silva dug herself into serious trouble. Finally the blue weyrlings unfolds her legs and leans forward. She's short enough that her feet don't sit flat on the floor, just her toes touch. "I'm not ''really'' interested in the weyr." Pure honesty, as the words come slowly. "You don't have to worry about that with me."

There's a small, genuine curve to Jocelyn's mouth for that expression of sincerity. It fades after, leaving the older weyrling looking briefly in the direction of the ledge. "No, " she agrees at some length, "he isn't." Pale eyes turn back to observe Silva's movements, flicking up to study her face in light of that unexpected honesty. For a moment, she's all but impossible to read, at least until her eyebrows slowly lift. "I don't have to worry about that with you, " she repeats dubiously, as though mulling the concept over. "Is that an offer of - " Friendship might be too strong of a word. She clears her throat, tone gentler for her next. "What, exactly, are you trying to say?"

"Don't tell anyone, okay?" That's a whole pile of secrets Silva's asking Jocelyn to keep. "I don't think we're allowed to not like, feel like that." Yes, silva does feel like the Weyr wants to control her feelings. It's probably part of the reason she's so morose so much these days. Her heels kicks against the seat, eyes having fallen down again. "I don't know like... I guess I shouldn't go to bars by myself. But like... I'm tired of staying inside all the time and like, not going out."

"Plenty of people must feel that way, " Jocelyn reasons with a little nod, "or they wouldn't have weyrmates." An almost-snort escapes her afterward, and there's a wry smile in its wake. "I don't mind my solitude. It's how I work best - but I ''do'' go places every now and then, as my schedule permits. You can too, you know. Take the time to travel with Zaisyreth. See some new scenery. Go to gathers, get the full experience and not have to worry about getting dragged into endless small talk with lords and ladies. You have a type of freedom that some people will only be able to dream of. Make use of it. Farideh's eyes almost bugged out with happiness when we went to visit the weavers at Boll. I'm sure you'd enjoy their showrooms and displays with all of those little squares of fabric and lace and Faranth knows what else."

"Oh." There's a shift there, as Silva draws back into herself. Whatever else she'd come to say gets sucked back behind her teeth and the younger weyrling pushes herself to her feet. "Journeyman Quint said that, too. A little bit back." Hands come up to brush hairs back out of her face as Silva looks towards the exit. "I should probably go. I wasn't really feeling good this morning, so I missed some stuff. I should like... go say sorry."

"He's not unknowledgable, that harper, " Jocelyn endorses reluctantly, standing as Silva gets to her feet. Carefully, "I hope that you're feeling better now." It isn't wholly a reference to the girl's hangover, either, judging by the considering look she gives. "I - " Pause, restart. "If you want to - talk to someone again, sometime, I don't know that I'm necessarily yours or everyone else's top choice for that sort of thing. But I'll listen." It's hesitant, but genuine in offer. "I've nearly a decade on you and I struggle daily with learning when to use my defenses and when to leave them at the door, so to speak." Interacting with people is ''hard'', says her grimace before her expression smooths. Her, "Thank you for stopping by, " flows more easily than the rest, as though delivered on a practiced autopilot.

"He's been nice to me." A hint there of 'nicer than most' lingers on the edge of her words. She rocks back and forth for a moment, licking her lips as if in preparation for saying something else before she shakes her head. "It doesn't matter really." It doesn't come out as painful as the one before, more tinged with serious regret. "Thanks for your help last night. I'll be more careful about stuff like being out and whatever." That is almost bubbly even. Silva fixes a smile on her face. "I'll see you around." And determined, she's going to take herself towards OUT.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs:All That Glitters

2016-02-15T01:06:06Z

Silva:

{{Log
|who=Jocelyn, Silva, Jocelyn{{!}}Aidavanth
|what=Silva tells Jocelyn just what she thinks of her with unexpected results.
|where=Jocelyn's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=5
|month=1
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.02.14
|quote=I know you don't like me, and that's okay because I don't really like you either.
|mentions=Edeline, Farideh, Quint
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Jocelyn headache.png, Icon Silva Thinking.jpg, con Jocelyn Aidavanth.jpg,
|log=It's the next day, after Jocelyn and Quint kept Silva from making a really poor choice of intimate company. Not early, because Silva was in no shape this morning to go anywhere right away. Almost midday is when Silva feels alive enough to finally get about, but it is without her usual polish. No makeup, and her hair is just tied up in a ponytail. Now she's outside Jocelyn's weyr, drawing courage up. "Jocelyn?" Her voice /sounds/ strong enough as she rocks on her heels slightly outside.

Dragon> To Jocelyn, Aidavanth's warm, clear voice holds only a ''little'' surprise as she interrupts her rider’s focus with the sound of gentle taps. << Silva's here to see you. >>

Dragon> To Aidavanth, Jocelyn’s astonishment is palpable, even as she puts aside her note copying at her desk in favor of going to meet Zaisyreth’s. << She’s never sought me out before, >> the redhead muses as she crosses into the front-facing cavern. << What could she want now? >>

Dragon> To Jocelyn, Aidavanth would arch an eyebrow if she had one, pointing only to their shared sense of ‘’knowing’' in answer. << Be kind, >> is a gentle reminder.

Aidavanth, halfway to her preferred spot for surveying in the sun on her ledge, pauses briefly once she hears Silva's call before continuing outside. It's likely that she relays the bluerider's arrival to her lifemate, as Jocelyn appears some minutes after in the entryway, hands spotted with ink and expression, taken aback before she has time to smooth it into something carefully polite. "Silva." Eyes more gray than blue take in the girl's appearance for a long moment, then: "Come in." She turns without waiting to see if the other will follow, already moving to the elevator shaft to call for a fresh water pitcher. In the meantime, she half moves toward the sensible chairs at the table, but ultimately changes direction to sit on the edge of one of the armchairs near the bookshelf, eyebrows lifting expectantly. "Sit. The chair across from me won't bite."

Needless to say, this is awkward for Silva. When the minutes tick past she is ready to just turn and walk away and would have if Zaisyreth hadn't silently been pressuring her to stay patient. "Jocelyn," is all Silva gets out before the older weyrling us taking it right out of her hands. She follows, eyes moving around to take in the enormous weyr with surprise and envy. Following she takes the seat offered and smooths out her shirt fussily. Not too long does she allow the silence to continue before, "Why did you do that?" Genuine bewilderment, "Zaisy says you helped last night. Why?"

The sound of a mechanism at work heralds the arrival of their water, and Jocelyn rises to retrieve it from the trap-door in the wall, carrying the tray over to the table. She doesn't answer Silva immediately, pouring a generous glass before crossing back to her classmate, offering it to her with a pointed look that turns more thoughtful as she regards the teenager steadily. "I won't be very good at taking care of this place if I don't look after its people, " she says neutrally enough. It almost manages to be business-like, save for her eyes; there, her concern is permitted through, however subtly. A trifle awkwardly, "On a more personal level, " surprise, she ''does'' have one of those! "You looked like you could have ended up in a bad situation. It'd be irresponsible of me to watch something like that happen to you and not act in your best interest."

"So... it was just your responsibility?" Silva misses the look in Jocelyn's gaze, her eyes are fixed on the glass of water handed to her. She fidgets, almost imperceptibly in place, thumbs tracing invisible lines on the glass. "And you didn't tell anyone about what you found out. Was that your responsibility too?" A beat of silence before Silva blurts out, this time with a hint of heat, "I never asked you to, you know. I know you don't like me, and that's okay because I don't really like you either."

Jocelyn takes a step back as she relinquishes that glass to the other weyrling, retreating to her former perch on the edge of the seat across the way. "I didn't say that, " she begins, one hand lifting to pinch irritably at the bridge of her nose. That statement of Silva's belief in their mutual dislike, so bald, elicits a long, careful exhale. "And yet, you came here today, " the redhead says measuredly. "I'm going to assume that you didn't come into my home just to tell me that you don't like me, as you've long made your feelings eminently clear." Her lips press thin for a moment, hands curling at the edges of her trouser pockets. Suddenly, "Look, I'm terrible at saying things like this - but contrary to what you seem to believe, I don't want to see you get hurt or taken advantage of by someone with poor intentions. No one deserves that sort of treatment. Zaisyreth obviously sees something of worth in you, even if you're too entrenched in your adolescent concerns to see it in ''yourself''." Her tone stays frank as the words, pent-up for some time, push their way out. "Regardless of where you lived before the here and now, you're presently about to become a High Reaches wingrider. Does that mean I'll feel responsible for your well-being as long as I serve my home? Yes. That's my ''job''. But it's now ''your'' home, too. I don't know how they did things where you grew up, but I was raised to remember that we're not going to get far without our community. It doesn't mean that I have to ''like'' everyone, " thank Faranth, "but it ''does'' mean that I have to respect them. That includes you."

"No," she didn't come just to insult Jocelyn. Silva hadn't meant to do that at all. It's all she gets out before Jocelyn moves on though, and every word the gold weyrling speaks is like a knife and Silva flinches at most of them. She at least manages to look ashamed about her words, even as Jocelyn sideways seems to confirm that she ''doesn't'' like the teenager. "It's not that easy. Like you say it is. The whole suddenly being a part of a 'community' or whatever. You're so ''good'' at ''everything''." Totally oxymoron, Silva's eyes still not looking up. "It's like you were made for this." It's a whine and Silva hears it, her dislike for //herself// only growing with each word.

"You think I don't know that it's hard?" Jocelyn pushes back, finally permitting her own frustration to be ''very'' audible. "I've spent my whole ''life'' here, and even that hasn't been enough time to feel like I fit in well!" With the admission she likely didn't intend to give, she promptly deflates, rubbing unhappily at her temples. Her eyes squeeze shut for some minutes, breathing rapid. Quietly, "I'm not 'good at everything, ' as you put it. Clearly I'm not good at this, " and a hand lowers from her forehead to wave aimlessly at the space between them. "People. I worked hard to pick up useful skills and become competent at my job when I first worked for Giorda. Classes, numbers, ''learning'' were all easier to deal with than my lack of solid friendships as a child." And children ''can'' be cruel to one another, something that turns of growth haven't managed to erase. It's there, for a moment, in the silence after she speaks, the pain that grimaces briefly over her features before it's swiftly tucked away again. Gaze focused now on a book with a blue spine inside of the bookcase, she works to regain her composure, expression tight and ''tired''.

Silva sets down her glass on the arm of the chair, and wraps her arms around herself. There's shame written all over her expression, a feeling Silva doesn't let in very often, and it's more uncomfortable then the prideful arrogance she usually pulls on. "What are you going to do?" The question comes quietly, almost like Silva's asking for advice for herself then wondering what Jocelyn is going to do.

"If you're asking if I'm going to tell someone that one of Lady Edeline's people ended up riding for us despite her refusal, I see no need to unless that knowledge ends up endangering this weyr." Jocelyn's misunderstanding of to whom Silva's talking might be purposeful or genuine; it's difficult to tell. Wearily, "Why ''did'' you come here today? You could have asked about last night via Zaisyreth without ever leaving your pillows." Two spots of color remain high in the woman's cheeks, but she otherwise looks calmer than she did some minutes ago, almost ''curious''.

Silva draws her legs up against her chest, and wraps her arms around them. Head resting on her knees she finally looks up at Jocelyn. "I haven't told my family I impressed. They wouldn't understand. I don't understand." That being more the reason Silva doesn't want to go near home, more than the political backlash of Lady Edeline's displeasure. "But.. I meant like... what are you going to do about like... people. If ''you'' don't feel comfortable here after like... living here forever..." Her arms squeeze tighter around her legs. "I'm tired of feeling all alone. That's why I got all tangled up with that guy last night... he was so nice and like, it was nice to be paid attention to."

"They say we'll never be alone again, after having Impressed, " Jocelyn muses aloud, half in answer, "and that's certainly true. But as much as they do love us, it isn't going to quite fulfill everything, is it?" It's both a rhetorical query and an acknowledgment of what Silva's just expressed. "Feeling less than comfortable with people isn't going to change unless I work harder to push past it. Aidavanth ''helps'', certainly, but I've grown so accustomed to the feeling that it's - hard to be another way, " like a too-old, too-comfortable jacket. But perhaps that's a topic for another time, as she listens to the other weyrling further. "Was he really nice, " she probes carefully after a few moments, "or simply saying nice things to you? There's a difference, you know. Someone can say something nice, and even ''smile'' while working out how to pull the rug out from under your feet." No, she doesn't have trust issues at all. Haltingly, "It - takes time, at least for me, to work out someone's intentions, whatever the scenario. It's harder now than it was before. I have to assume until it's proven otherwise that people are interested in adding a connection with High Reaches to their acquaintance rather than, well." Me, goes unspoken with a wince.

"I love Zaisyreth." Very little else that Silva says these days is filled with such sincerity. "But... he's not a person, you know?" Prime example being the night before. Zaisyreth had no idea what to do as Silva dug herself into serious trouble. Finally the blue weyrlings unfolds her legs and leans forward. She's short enough that her feet don't sit flat on the floor, just her toes touch. "I'm not ''really'' interested in the weyr." Pure honesty, as the words come slowly. "You don't have to worry about that with me."

There's a small, genuine curve to Jocelyn's mouth for that expression of sincerity. It fades after, leaving the older weyrling looking briefly in the direction of the ledge. "No, " she agrees at some length, "he isn't." Pale eyes turn back to observe Silva's movements, flicking up to study her face in light of that unexpected honesty. For a moment, she's all but impossible to read, at least until her eyebrows slowly lift. "I don't have to worry about that with you, " she repeats dubiously, as though mulling the concept over. "Is that an offer of - " Friendship might be too strong of a word. She clears her throat, tone gentler for her next. "What, exactly, are you trying to say?"

"Don't tell anyone, okay?" That's a whole pile of secrets Silva's asking Jocelyn to keep. "I don't think we're allowed to not like, feel like that." Yes, silva does feel like the Weyr wants to control her feelings. It's probably part of the reason she's so morose so much these days. Her heels kicks against the seat, eyes having fallen down again. "I don't know like... I guess I shouldn't go to bars by myself. But like... I'm tired of staying inside all the time and like, not going out."

"Plenty of people must feel that way, " Jocelyn reasons with a little nod, "or they wouldn't have weyrmates." An almost-snort escapes her afterward, and there's a wry smile in its wake. "I don't mind my solitude. It's how I work best - but I ''do'' go places every now and then, as my schedule permits. You can too, you know. Take the time to travel with Zaisyreth. See some new scenery. Go to gathers, get the full experience and not have to worry about getting dragged into endless small talk with lords and ladies. You have a type of freedom that some people will only be able to dream of. Make use of it. Farideh's eyes almost bugged out with happiness when we went to visit the weavers at Boll. I'm sure you'd enjoy their showrooms and displays with all of those little squares of fabric and lace and Faranth knows what else."

"Oh." There's a shift there, as Silva draws back into herself. Whatever else she'd come to say gets sucked back behind her teeth and the younger weyrling pushes herself to her feet. "Journeyman Quint said that, too. A little bit back." Hands come up to brush hairs back out of her face as Silva looks towards the exit. "I should probably go. I wasn't really feeling good this morning, so I missed some stuff. I should like... go say sorry."

"He's not unknowledgable, that harper, " Jocelyn endorses reluctantly, standing as Silva gets to her feet. Carefully, "I hope that you're feeling better now." It isn't wholly a reference to the girl's hangover, either, judging by the considering look she gives. "I - " Pause, restart. "If you want to - talk to someone again, sometime, I don't know that I'm necessarily yours or everyone else's top choice for that sort of thing. But I'll listen." It's hesitant, but genuine in offer. "I've nearly a decade on you and I struggle daily with learning when to use my defenses and when to leave them at the door, so to speak." Interacting with people is ''hard'', says her grimace before her expression smooths. Her, "Thank you for stopping by, " flows more easily than the rest, as though delivered on a practiced autopilot.

"He's been nice to me." A hint there of 'nicer than most' lingers on the edge of her words. She rocks back and forth for a moment, licking her lips as if in preparation for saying something else before she shakes her head. "It doesn't matter really." It doesn't come out as painful as the one before, more tinged with serious regret. "Thanks for your help last night. I'll be more careful about stuff like being out and whatever." That is almost bubbly even. Silva fixes a smile on her face. "I'll see you around." And determined, she's going to take herself towards OUT.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Logs talk:Not the Right Idea

2016-02-14T07:14:41Z

Silva: Comment provided by Silva - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Not the Right Idea]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Silva (23:14, 13 February 2016 (PST)) said... ==

<3 <3 <3 Quint and Jocelyn so hard core.

Logs:Fear Prohibits Growth

2016-02-07T06:13:26Z

Silva:

{{Log
|who=Silva, Silva{{!}}Zaisyreth
|what=Zaisyreth knows Silva better than anyone.
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=11
|month=13
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.02.06
|quote=<< You will not be able to grow if you keep fearing. >>
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon Silva Crying.jpg,
|log=<< You shouldn't be so afraid to return to the ground from which you sprung from. >> Zaizyreth's soft breezes swirl within Silva's mind, comforting in their steady consistency, as they carry the scents of the savanna with them. It's the closest he can come to a hug for her, and though it lacks the physical component it is almost as effective.

Silva kneels next to him, smoothing oil along his neck ridges and taking particular care to get every blue inch. "I'm not ''afraid'' to go back..." Except, Zaisyreth knows it's a lie, and Silva doesn't even manage to get the full thought out before Zaisyreth gently replies back.

<< You fear them finding out you are something different then you expected. You worry they will not love you, and that secretly they will be relieved you are no longer their problem. You fear finding out that perhaps you were so unkind to them that they will not care that you can no longer fully be one of theirs. >> All said smoothly and without pity. He's stating facts as they rest within Silva's mind, truths that only someone who ''does'' share her mind could possibly know. << You will not be able to grow if you keep fearing. >>

"Look it'll just... cause trouble okay? Aunt told them I'm doing well and don't want to come home. Eventually she'll tell them I met a holder at some gather, and ran off to get married and like... that'll be the end of it. They'll be happy, we can trade letters, but it would be hard to go visit since I'm so far away, okay?" Silva's got it all planned out. Except for the fact that not a single bit of this makes her happy as a single tear gathers at the edge of her eye and slowly begins to trace down a cheek. It leaves behind a darker stain from her eyelash darkener, and when the tear drops onto Zaisyreth's hide she reaches up to scrub at her cheek briskly.

"It's better this way. Besides. You love me, I don't need anyone else." With that sense of finality in her voice Zaisyreth lets the argument slide, but keeps up his gentle breezes in her mind, of course he loves her. Was there any doubt in that?
}}

Logs:Fear Prohibits Growth

2016-02-07T06:12:33Z

Silva:

{{Log
|who=Silva, Silva{{!}}Zaisyreth
|what=Zaisyreth knows Silva better than anyone.
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=11
|month=13
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.02.06
|quote=<< You will not be able to grow if you keep fearing. >>
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Silva Crying.jpg,
|log=<< You shouldn't be so afraid to return to the ground from which you sprung from. >> Zaizyreth's soft breezes swirl within Silva's mind, comforting in their steady consistency, as they carry the scents of the savanna with them. It's the closest he can come to a hug for her, and though it lacks the physical component it is almost as effective.

Silva kneels next to him, smoothing oil along his neck ridges and taking particular care to get every blue inch. "I'm not ''afraid'' to go back..." Except, Zaisyreth knows it's a lie, and Silva doesn't even manage to get the full thought out before Zaisyreth gently replies back.

<< You fear them finding out you are something different then you expected. You worry they will not love you, and that secretly they will be relieved you are no longer their problem. You fear finding out that perhaps you were so unkind to them that they will not care that you can no longer fully be one of theirs. >> All said smoothly and without pity. He's stating facts as they rest within Silva's mind, truths that only someone who ''does'' share her mind could possibly know. << You will not be able to grow if you keep fearing. >>

"Look it'll just... cause trouble okay? Aunt told them I'm doing well and don't want to come home. Eventually she'll tell them I met a holder at some gather, and ran off to get married and like... that'll be the end of it. They'll be happy, we can trade letters, but it would be hard to go visit since I'm so far away, okay?" Silva's got it all planned out. Except for the fact that not a single bit of this makes her happy as a single tear gathers at the edge of her eye and slowly begins to trace down a cheek. It leaves behind a darker stain from her eyelash darkener, and when the tear drops onto Zaisyreth's hide she reaches up to scrub at her cheek briskly.

"It's better this way. Besides. You love me, I don't need anyone else." With that sense of finality in her voice Zaisyreth lets the argument slide, but keeps up his gentle breezes in her mind, of course he loves her. Was there any doubt in that?
}}

Logs:Fear Prohibits Growth

2016-02-07T06:11:47Z

Silva:

{{Log
|who=Silva, Silva{{!}}Zaisyreth
|what=Zaisyreth knows Silva better than anyone.
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=11
|month=13
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.02.06
|quote=<< You will not be able to grow if you keep fearing. >>
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Silva Crying.jpg,
|log=<< You shouldn't be so afraid to return to the ground from which you sprung from. >> Zaizyreth's soft breezes swirl within Silva's mind, comforting in their steady consistency, as they carry the scents of the savanna with them. It's the closest he can come to a hug for her, and though it lacks the physical component it is almost as effective.

Silva kneels next to him, smoothing oil along his neck ridges and taking particular care to get every blue inch. "I'm not ''afraid'' to go back..." Except, Zaisyreth knows it's a lie, and Silva doesn't even manage to get the full thought out before Zaisyreth gently replies back.

<< You fear them finding out you are something different then you expected. You worry they will not love you, and that secretly they will be relieved you are no longer their problem. You fear finding out that perhaps you were so unkind to them that they will not care that you can no longer fully be one of theirs. >> All said smoothly and without pity. He's stating facts as the rest within Silva's mind, truths that only someone who ''does'' share her mind could possibly know. << You will not be able to grow if you keep fearing. >>

"Look it'll just... cause trouble okay? Aunt told them I'm doing well and don't want to come home. Eventually she'll tell them I met a holder at some gather, and ran off to get married and like... that'll be the end of it. They'll be happy, we can trade letters, but it would be hard to go visit since I'm so far away, okay?" Silva's got it all planned out. Except for the fact that not a single bit of this makes her happy as a single tear gathers at the edge of her eye and slowly begins to trace down a cheek. It leaves behind a darker stain from her eyelash darkener, and when the tear drops onto Zaisyreth's hide she reaches up to scrub at her cheek briskly.

"It's better this way. Besides. You love me, I don't need anyone else." With that sense of finality in her voice Zaisyreth lets the argument slide, but keeps up his gentle breezes in her mind, of course he loves her. Was there any doubt in that?
}}

Logs:Fear Prohibits Growth

2016-02-07T06:10:45Z

Silva: Created page with "{{Log |who=Silva, Zaisyreth |what=Zaisyreth knows Silva better than anyone. |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=11 |month=13 |turn=39 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gamedate=2016.02.06 |q..."

{{Log
|who=Silva, Zaisyreth
|what=Zaisyreth knows Silva better than anyone.
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=11
|month=13
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.02.06
|quote=<< You will not be able to grow if you keep fearing. >>
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Silva Crying.jpg,
|log=<< You shouldn't be so afraid to return to the ground from which you sprung from. >> Zaizyreth's soft breezes swirl within Silva's mind, comforting in their steady consistency, as they carry the scents of the savanna with them. It's the closest he can come to a hug for her, and though it lacks the physical component it is almost as effective.

Silva kneels next to him, smoothing oil along his neck ridges and taking particular care to get every blue inch. "I'm not ''afraid'' to go back..." Except, Zaisyreth knows it's a lie, and Silva doesn't even manage to get the full thought out before Zaisyreth gently replies back.

<< You fear them finding out you are something different then you expected. You worry they will not love you, and that secretly they will be relieved you are no longer their problem. You fear finding out that perhaps you were so unkind to them that they will not care that you can no longer fully be one of theirs. >> All said smoothly and without pity. He's stating facts as the rest within Silva's mind, truths that only someone who ''does'' share her mind could possibly know. << You will not be able to grow if you keep fearing. >>

"Look it'll just... cause trouble okay? Aunt told them I'm doing well and don't want to come home. Eventually she'll tell them I met a holder at some gather, and ran off to get married and like... that'll be the end of it. They'll be happy, we can trade letters, but it would be hard to go visit since I'm so far away, okay?" Silva's got it all planned out. Except for the fact that not a single bit of this makes her happy as a single tear gathers at the edge of her eye and slowly begins to trace down a cheek. It leaves behind a darker stain from her eyelash darkener, and when the tear drops onto Zaisyreth's hide she reaches up to scrub at her cheek briskly.

"It's better this way. Besides. You love me, I don't need anyone else." With that sense of finality in her voice Zaisyreth lets the argument slide, but keeps up his gentle breezes in her mind, of course he loves her. Was there any doubt in that?
}}

File:Icon Silva laugh.jpg

2016-02-07T05:26:30Z

Silva:

File:Icon Silva Sardonic.jpg

2016-02-07T05:26:30Z

Silva:

File:Icon Silva Thinking.jpg

2016-02-07T05:26:30Z

Silva:

File:Icon Zaisyreth.jpg

2016-02-07T05:26:30Z

Silva:

Logs talk:Mutual Discomfort

2016-02-07T05:21:00Z

Silva: Comment provided by Silva - via ArticleComments extension

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

==K'del (15:13, 18 January 2016 (PST)) said... ==

The icons are perfect. XD

(Also: oh, ''Jocelyn'')
==Roz (15:44, 18 January 2016 (PST)) said... ==

*slow claps*
==Silva (21:21, 6 February 2016 (PST)) said... ==

Jocelyn. <3 <3