NorCon MUSH - User contributions [en]

HRW:Search/FAQ

2016-09-07T04:35:57Z

Varied:

== Who is on the search committee (SearchCo)? ==

A list of search committee members is available by typing “hsc .who/all.” This list will be populated closer to the actual start of Search. Anyone on the committee is available to answer questions or refer you to the person who can get you the answers, so please feel free to page or +mail any member; to reach all members, you can use “+mail knot:hsc” to send to the entire committee. If they are unable to answer your questions, please +mail hrwadmin on the game or email admins@hrweyr.net.

Please be patient when you are working with a committee member. In some cases, an answer may not be available immediately, and one member may want or need to check with the rest of SearchCo to avoid providing you with any incorrect information.

== Whose clutch will this be? ==

TBD.

== Who can apply? ==

NB: Character requirements are more guidelines than rules. If you have a good reason for breaking them, we’ll listen!

* Characters must be between the ages of 15 and 25 at the time of Search.
* Characters must not be married or engaged to be married.
* Characters must not be a senior journeyman or higher. In rare cases, journeymen may be Searched with permission from the craft; this may be with a caveat that, if they Impress, they should informally take up their craft again after graduation.
* Characters must not be pregnant.
* Characters must not have any kind of physical or mental disabilities that would impair their ability to fight Thread (were there still Thread to fight).
* Characters who do not receive permission from their current area leader will not be Searched. High Reaches Weyr residents are automatically given permission to apply. Unknotted folks do not have an area leader and thus do not need permission.
* Applicants with an alt on Search Committee may not apply for Traditional Candidates. 
* Applicants cannot have more than one character applied to the same Search Cycle.

== How do I apply? ==

Fill out the search application [http://searchapps.hrweyr.net/main/ here].



== When does OOC search start? When does it close? ==

TBD. 

== When does IC search start? When does it close? ==

IC search coincides with the clutching; a tentative calendar is available [[HRW:Search|here]]. As of that date, IC search will be open, and search riders will begin bringing candidates to the Weyr. IC Search will remain open up until the hatching.

== Will I be notified if I am not going to be searched? ==

Yes. We will send a notification to all applicants sometime after the close of OOC Search. 

== When is the hatching? ==

TBD.

The exact date and time will be announced as the date approaches, with consideration given to times that work best for candidates and other members of HRW.

== How long is weyrlinghood? ==

Overall, the program will last about 4-5 months RL or approximately 1 turn IC. After the first 3 months RL (9 months IC), weyrlings will be ready to go *between* and be graduated to senior weyrlinghood, where they will have more freedom and be treated almost as full riders; hopefully, this will both allow for people to enjoy dragons while they are growing and keep weyrling players from getting bored with the same-old-stuff. For details, please review the weyrling pages at [[Weyrlings]].

We are always open to feedback in regards to our weyrlinghood. Please contact the admins on the game either through +mail hrwadmin or email admins@hrweyr.net.

== Will there be a gold at this hatching? Should I apply gold-only? ==

TBD.

== What qualities does SearchCo look for in a candidate? ==

For all candidates, SearchCo is looking for people who contribute to High Reaches Weyr overall. We’re proud of the diversity of this area and the quality of RP that the players here have fostered, and we want to continue the tradition of fun, inventive roleplay. There are no specific criteria that will guarantee search or Impression, because we evaluate each applicant on their own merits, though there are some qualities that we look for in general.

Obviously, we want active RPers to help contribute to our area. Activity doesn’t require you to make MUSHing your full-time job; for most of us, we try to commit ourselves to at least one quality scene a week.

OOC maturity is a must. HRW is an area with a very diverse group of players and characters, and a good separation of IC and OOC is necessary.

Well-developed, dynamic characters fit in at HRW. We welcome both good-guys and bad-guys, with the common theme being that the character has depth. We encourage people to help foster light-hearted RP as well as in-depth plots, and having a character that can shift between plot-intensive RP and day-to-day scenes will help you fit in with the dynamic of High Reaches Weyr.

We also look at the dynamics of the candidacy group as a whole. As weyrlinghood is a particularly bonding-intensive time, we are more likely to Impress candidates who have taken the time to roleplay with others and fostered a bond, whether it’s IC good or IC bad. This is not to say this is a popularity contest or ‘let’s play ostracize someone,’ but we feel active roleplayers are more active for having bonded and gotten to know each other well.

== What qualities does SearchCo look for in a bronze applicant? ==

The criteria for bronze Impression don’t change much from that of any other Impression. We still want mature, active, dynamic RPers that contribute to HRW as a whole.

The caveat for all bronze applicants is to be prepared for the additional IC and OOC expectations. Like it or not, players look to bronzeriders for more than they would a blue, green, or brownrider. Even if you never obtain any IC rank, you still need to face a bronze Impression with an understanding that people are going to expect you to be more active and more engaging. It’s a higher profile Impression, and we encourage all bronze applicants to really evaluate if they are ready as players to subject themselves and more importantly their characters to the fish-bowl of metallic Impression.

== Is High Reaches looking for any specific character types? ==

Yes. If you check our search page, you will see a page listing desired character concepts for this hatching under [[HRW:Hooks|Hooks]]. You don’t have to play one of those concepts! Those are just suggestions for people who are looking for an easy way to integrate into the area.

== How many people will you search? ==

We do not have a limit on the number of candidates we search. All applicants will be evaluated on their individual merits to determine if we are going to search them.

== How many people will Impress? ==


We have a maximum of 10 Impressions. We may Impress fewer than this number, but we will not Impress more than this.

In addition to standard Impressions, we will be offering the possibility of insta-candidates/weyrlings for those not interested in undergoing the more traditional search/candidacy route.

== What is the process for going stand-only? ==

The term "stand-only" refers to applicants who wish to be considered for candidacy but not Impression. This can be a great way to flesh out a character and get to know an area without the long-term commitment of Impression.

To apply as a stand-only candidate, please fill out the general application; please note your desire to be considered stand-only. An application for a stand-only candidate does not guarantee search.

== Can I be married, have children, be disfigured or disabled? ==

Your character cannot be married, as marriage disqualifies a person from candidacy IC. While you can have children, your character cannot currently be pregnant, nor can they be the responsible parent for their children; children must be fostered, as a weyrling cannot have the burden of child-rearing.

A character can be disfigured as long as the disfigurement doesn’t present itself with a physical disability; candidates must be physically fit. Severe asthma or severely bad eyesight or hearing would also prevent a person from being eligible for search. If you aren’t sure if your character’s disability or disfigurement would exclude them from being a viable candidate, please contact SearchCo.

== What should I do if I’ll be without access or my online times change? ==

Please contact SearchCo if you plan to be AFK for longer than a few days during candidacy; we just like to know what's going on! Please let the Weyrlingmaster know if you will be gone for more than a week as a weyrling.

If you expect to be significantly absent during a considerable portion of candidacy (longer than a week), this may impact your chance to be searched or Impress. Candidacy is a fairly short window of time, and missing a significant portion of this will lessen the time you have to be a part of the group; it will also make it more difficult for SearchCo to get to know you and determine if you will be a good fit for HRW.

If you know in advance that you will be gone for a long period of time during either candidacy or weyrlinghood, please consider going stand-only and waiting for a future hatching. A few days or even a week probably won’t be a problem, but longer than that may make it difficult to be searched, Impress, or really experience weyrlinghood.

== Can I apply even though I have a dragon on NorCon, or have in the past? ==

Yes. It is up to you if you wish to disclose your dragonrider alts to SearchCo.

== I have a question that’s not answered here! ==

Please +mail or page us on the game! Or email us at admins@hrweyr.net

Thank you for reading! We’re looking forward to a great cycle.

HRW:Search

2016-09-07T04:26:38Z

Varied:

'''OOC Search is currently closed, though we do accept instas.'''

== Search Calendar ==

{|style="padding: 0px
|-
|style="width:150px" |''''''
|OOC Search opens
|-
|''''''
|Flight window
|-
|''''''
|Gold clutches. IC Search open.
|-
|''''''
|OOC Search closes. General application deadline.
|-
|''''''
|Insta Candidates Open.
|-
|''''''
|Possible hatching dates.
|-
|''''''
|Insta Candidates close.
|}
== Important Information ==

<DPL>
namespace=HRW
titlematch=Search/%
shownamespace= false
replaceintitle=%Search/%,
</DPL>

== Applications ==

TBD

HRW:Search

2016-08-26T00:08:48Z

Varied: Updated dates! Almost done!

== Search Calendar ==

{|style="padding: 0px
|-
|style="width:150px" |'''July 9'''
|Aidavanth rises!
|-
|'''July 10-11'''
|OOC Search opens with first round of insta applications.
|-
|'''July 24-26'''
|Aidavanth clutches. IC Search opens.
|-
|'''July 30'''
|Final application deadline for first round of applications. Second round begins.
|-
|'''August 29'''
|Final application deadline: instas close.
|-
|'''Thereafter'''
|Hatching!
|}

== Important Information ==

<DPL>
namespace=HRW
titlematch=Search/%
shownamespace= false
replaceintitle=%Search/%,
</DPL>

== Applications ==

* [http://searchapps.hrweyr.net/insta-app/ Initial Insta Application]
* [http://searchapps.hrweyr.net/insta-final/ Final Insta Application]

High Reaches Weyr

2016-07-13T01:13:09Z

Varied:

{{Weyr
|area=High Reaches Area
|hooks=The Interval is always interesting for the weyrbred…. where 'interesting' does not actually necessarily mean ''interesting''. There's no thread to fight, and far fewer dragons to Impress or clutches to stand for; for some, the opportunity may never come, especially if young people from the holds keep being brought in to stand, too. The past two decades at the Weyr have been interesting ones, with goldriders murdered and banished, renegades hanged, star stones destroyed, and exiles rescued. Even now, High Reaches' Weyrwoman and one of her juniors are foreigners, and even though K'del is Weyrleader (yet again), change is inevitable: it's simply difficult to know ''what'' the future will bring.

Some potential concepts:

* '''Not Impressed''': Impression may have always been on the radar for you, weyrbred as you are. But what happens if there's no dragon for you? What ''else'' is there? And why bring in so many holdbred candidates, when you're still waiting?
* '''Anti-Igen''': The Igenites are infiltrating; they must be! High Reaches should be for the ''High Reachians''!
* '''Pro-Igen''': It's not as though High Reachian leaders have done all that well. Perhaps it's just ''time'' for a change. Anyway, what's wrong with Igen?
* '''Rule the World''': With recent leadership changes, are you a resident or rider who's looking for a step up? Is it for the stipend, the bragging rights, or what you can ''do'' with it? Is it time for more women, more green/blueriders, more craftriders, more ''different'' types of leaders? Or do you just want a bigger weyr?
* '''But I've always flown with <wing>!''': With fewer and fewer riders to fill the wings, how long until K'del starts streamlining? Does this mean someone else will be in line for the spot you wanted? And love 'em or hate 'em, what if you won't be flying with the people you're ''used'' to?
}}

HRW:Search

2016-07-12T05:37:59Z

Varied:

'''OOC Search is upcoming!'''

== Search Calendar ==

{|style="padding: 0px
|-
|style="width:150px" |'''July 9'''
|Aidavanth rises!
|-
|'''July 10-11'''
|OOC Search opens with first round of insta applications.
|-
|'''July 24-26'''
|Aidavanth clutches. IC Search opens.
|-
|'''July 30'''
|Final application deadline for first round of applications. Second round begins.
|-
|'''August 13-14'''
|Possible hatching dates.
|-
|'''August 17'''
|Final application deadline: instas close.
|}

== Important Information ==

<DPL>
namespace=HRW
titlematch=Search/%
shownamespace= false
replaceintitle=%Search/%,
</DPL>

== Applications ==

* [http://searchapps.hrweyr.net/insta-app/ Initial Insta Application]
* [http://searchapps.hrweyr.net/insta-final/ Final Insta Application]

HRW:Search/FAQ

2016-07-12T05:35:42Z

Varied:

== Who is on the search committee (SearchCo)? ==

A list of search committee members is available by typing “hsc .who/all.” This list will be populated closer to the actual start of Search. Anyone on the committee is available to answer questions or refer you to the person who can get you the answers, so please feel free to page or +mail any member; to reach all members, you can use “+mail knot:hsc” to send to the entire committee. If they are unable to answer your questions, please +mail hrwadmin on the game or email admins@hrweyr.net.

Please be patient when you are working with a committee member. In some cases, an answer may not be available immediately, and one member may want or need to check with the rest of SearchCo to avoid providing you with any incorrect information.

== Whose clutch will this be? ==

Jocelyn's Aidavanth and Edyis' Akluseth. The weyrling dragons' names don't all have to begin with A, though!

== Who can apply? ==

NB: Character requirements are more guidelines than rules. If you have a good reason for breaking them, we’ll listen!

* Characters must be between the ages of 15 and 25 at the time of Search.
* Characters must not be married or engaged to be married.
* Characters must not be a senior journeyman or higher. In rare cases, journeymen may be Searched with permission from the craft; this may be with a caveat that, if they Impress, they should informally take up their craft again after graduation.
* Characters must not be pregnant.
* Characters must not have any kind of physical or mental disabilities that would impair their ability to fight Thread (were there still Thread to fight).
* Characters who do not receive permission from their current area leader will not be Searched. High Reaches Weyr residents are automatically given permission to apply. Unknotted folks do not have an area leader and thus do not need permission.
* Applicants with an alt on Search Committee may not apply for  the first round.
* Applicants cannot have more than one character applied to the same Search Cycle.

== How do I apply? ==

Fill out the initial search application [http://searchapps.hrweyr.net/insta-app/ here]. The [http://searchapps.hrweyr.net/insta-final/ final application] is available as well, and you can fill that out as soon as you feel ready or else by the deadline. This will give SC time to give you feedback so that any adjustments can be made for a cohesive clutch.

== When does OOC search start? When does it close? ==

The first round of applications started July 11. This round will have first crack at the available dragons. Final applications for the first round are due July 30th, while the second round's are due August 17 (shortly after the hatching); that said, we highly encourage finishing your applications as soon as possible to maximize time with other candidates/weyrlings and the Weyr at large!

== When does IC search start? When does it close? ==

IC search coincides with the clutching; a tentative calendar is available [[HRW:Search|here]]. As of that date, IC search will be open, and search riders will begin bringing candidates to the Weyr. IC Search will remain open up until the hatching.

== Will I be notified if I am not going to be searched? ==

Yes. We will send a notification to all applicants sometime after the close of  final applications.

== When is the hatching? ==

The hatching will most likely be August 13-14.

The exact date and time will be announced as the date approaches, with consideration given to times that work best for candidates and other members of HRW.

== How long is weyrlinghood? ==

Overall, the program will last about 4-5 months RL or approximately 1 turn IC. After the first 3 months RL (9 months IC), weyrlings will be ready to go *between* and be graduated to senior weyrlinghood, where they will have more freedom and be treated almost as full riders; hopefully, this will both allow for people to enjoy dragons while they are growing and keep weyrling players from getting bored with the same-old-stuff. For details, please review the weyrling pages at [[Weyrlings]].

We are always open to feedback in regards to our weyrlinghood. Please contact the admins on the game either through +mail hrwadmin or email admins@hrweyr.net.

== Will there be a gold at this hatching? Should I apply gold-only? ==

There will be no gold at this hatching.

== What qualities does SearchCo look for in a candidate? ==

For all candidates, SearchCo is looking for people who contribute to High Reaches Weyr overall. We’re proud of the diversity of this area and the quality of RP that the players here have fostered, and we want to continue the tradition of fun, inventive roleplay. There are no specific criteria that will guarantee search or Impression, because we evaluate each applicant on their own merits, though there are some qualities that we look for in general.

Obviously, we want active RPers to help contribute to our area. Activity doesn’t require you to make MUSHing your full-time job; for most of us, we try to commit ourselves to at least one quality scene a week.

OOC maturity is a must. HRW is an area with a very diverse group of players and characters, and a good separation of IC and OOC is necessary.

Well-developed, dynamic characters fit in at HRW. We welcome both good-guys and bad-guys, with the common theme being that the character has depth. We encourage people to help foster light-hearted RP as well as in-depth plots, and having a character that can shift between plot-intensive RP and day-to-day scenes will help you fit in with the dynamic of High Reaches Weyr.

We also look at the dynamics of the candidacy group as a whole. As weyrlinghood is a particularly bonding-intensive time, we are more likely to Impress candidates who have taken the time to roleplay with others and fostered a bond, whether it’s IC good or IC bad. This is not to say this is a popularity contest or ‘let’s play ostracize someone,’ but we feel active roleplayers are more active for having bonded and gotten to know each other well.

== What qualities does SearchCo look for in a bronze applicant? ==

The criteria for bronze Impression doesn’t change much from that of any other Impression. We still want mature, active, dynamic RPers that contribute to HRW as a whole.

The caveat for all bronze applicants is to be prepared for the additional IC and OOC expectations. Like it or not, players look to bronzeriders for more than they would a blue, green, or brownrider. Even if you never obtain any IC rank, you still need to face a bronze Impression with an understanding that people are going to expect you to be more active and more engaging. It’s a higher profile Impression, and we encourage all bronze applicants to really evaluate if they are ready as players to subject themselves and more importantly their characters to the fish-bowl of metallic Impression.

== Is High Reaches looking for any specific character types? ==

Yes. If you check our search page, you will see a page listing desired character concepts for this hatching under [[HRW:Hooks|Hooks]]. You don’t have to play one of those concepts! Those are just suggestions for people who are looking for an easy way to integrate into the area.

== How many people will you search? ==

We do not have a limit on the number of candidates we search. All applicants will be evaluated on their individual merits to determine if we are going to search them.

== How many people will Impress? ==

This experimental cycle offers the possibility of insta-candidates/weyrlings, and thus does not have a strict maximum, though we are unlikely to Impress more than the normal limit of 10.


== What is the process for going stand-only? ==

The term "stand-only" refers to applicants who wish to be considered for candidacy but not Impression. This can be a great way to flesh out a character and get to know an area without the long-term commitment of Impression.

To apply as a stand-only candidate, please fill out the general application; please note your desire to be considered stand-only. An application for a stand-only candidate does not guarantee search.

== Can I be married, have children, be disfigured or disabled? ==

Your character cannot be married, as marriage disqualifies a person from candidacy IC. While you can have children, your character cannot currently be pregnant, nor can they be the responsible parent for their children; children must be fostered, as a weyrling cannot have the burden of child-rearing.

A character can be disfigured as long as the disfigurement doesn’t present itself with a physical disability; candidates must be physically fit. Severe asthma or severely bad eyesight or hearing would also prevent a person from being eligible for search. If you aren’t sure if your character’s disability or disfigurement would exclude them from being a viable candidate, please contact SearchCo.

== What should I do if I’ll be without access or my online times change? ==

Please contact SearchCo if you plan to be AFK for longer than a few days during candidacy; we just like to know what's going on! Please let the Weyrlingmaster know if you will be gone for more than a week as a weyrling.

If you expect to be significantly absent during a considerable portion of candidacy (longer than a week), this may impact your chance to be searched or Impress. Candidacy is a fairly short window of time, and missing a significant portion of this will lessen the time you have to be a part of the group; it will also make it more difficult for SearchCo to get to know you and determine if you will be a good fit for HRW.

If you know in advance that you will be gone for a long period of time during either candidacy or weyrlinghood, please consider going stand-only and waiting for a future hatching. A few days or even a week probably won’t be a problem, but longer than that may make it difficult to be searched, Impress, or really experience weyrlinghood.

== Can I apply even though I have a dragon on NorCon, or have in the past? ==

Yes. It is up to you if you wish to disclose your dragonrider alts to SearchCo.

== I have a question that’s not answered here! ==

Please +mail or page us on the game! Or email us at admins@hrweyr.net

Thank you for reading! We’re looking forward to a great cycle.

HRW:Search/Gold Policy

2016-07-08T01:02:57Z

Varied: /* What does HRW want in a potential goldrider? */

== What does HRW want in a potential goldrider? ==

This is possibly the most loaded question there is out there, but we’ll try our best to explain.

What we look for in a gold Impression is consistent in what we look for in our other Impression decisions. There are, of course, always additional factors to consider – there can only be one gold (if that), and goldriders are far less easily disposed of or replaced than other characters. We are looking, therefore, for a player with commitment to the character and area, one who can hold her own with the personalities at High Reaches and take a lead role in ongoing plot and story.

Goldriders are not automatically staff members at High Reaches; we will not be selecting a goldrider on the basis of her suitability for administrative duties. We will, however, still be considering OOC personality, attitude and leadership capabilities. Open, honest and productive communication is also vital. High Reaches' goldriders work closely with the IC and OOC admin teams; further, goldriders are still considered by many Pern players to be the face of the Weyr both IC and OOC. As players, they are representative of the kind of maturity, ethics and responsibility as well as the general attitude of the Weyr itself.

There is no hard and fast rule as to what qualities we are looking for, in particular, but some thoughts are listed below:

* Someone with initiative, willing to jump in to plot and RP and put her own stamp on it.
* Someone with the strength of personality and writing not to get lost in the shuffle of a Weyr that has fairly charismatic characters.
* Someone with a character strong enough to turn the limitations of the Junior Weyrwoman role into ongoing, interesting RP. This does not necessarily mean ‘strong willed’ or ‘loud’; simply, we are interested in complex characters with hooks and threads of their own.
* Someone able to maintain a consistent level of activity and presence within the area. We do not expect anyone to be available all day, every day, but regular RP is a must.
* If you’re interested in gold — though this is useful for any character — something to think about is how your character’s experiences and personality might complement, contrast, and/or reinforce those already at High Reaches, and what the motivations driving her might be.


== What is HRW’s gold policy? ==

Goldriders are automatically considered to be feature characters at High Reaches; thus, they must abide by the terms set out in our [[HRW:Policy/Feature_Character|Feature Character Policy]].

HRW:Search/FAQ

2016-07-08T01:02:50Z

Varied:

== Who is on the search committee (SearchCo)? ==

A list of search committee members is available by typing “hsc .who/all.” This list will be populated closer to the actual start of Search. Anyone on the committee is available to answer questions or refer you to the person who can get you the answers, so please feel free to page or +mail any member; to reach all members, you can use “+mail knot:hsc” to send to the entire committee. If they are unable to answer your questions, please +mail hrwadmin on the game or email admins@hrweyr.net.

Please be patient when you are working with a committee member. In some cases, an answer may not be available immediately, and one member may want or need to check with the rest of SearchCo to avoid providing you with any incorrect information.

== Whose clutch will this be? ==

Jocelyn's Aidavanth.

== Who can apply? ==

NB: Character requirements are more guidelines than rules. If you have a good reason for breaking them, we’ll listen!

* Characters must be between the ages of 15 and 25 at the time of Search.
* Characters must not be married or engaged to be married.
* Characters must not be a senior journeyman or higher. In rare cases, journeymen may be Searched with permission from the craft; this may be with a caveat that, if they Impress, they should informally take up their craft again after graduation.
* Characters must not be pregnant.
* Characters must not have any kind of physical or mental disabilities that would impair their ability to fight Thread (were there still Thread to fight).
* Characters who do not receive permission from their current area leader will not be Searched. High Reaches Weyr residents are automatically given permission to apply. Unknotted folks do not have an area leader and thus do not need permission.
* Applicants with an alt on Search Committee may not apply for  the first round.
* Applicants cannot have more than one character applied to the same Search Cycle.

== How do I apply? ==

Fill out the initial search application  when it is posted. The final application will be available as well, and you can fill that out as soon as you feel ready or else by the deadline. This will give SC time to give you feedback so that any adjustments can be made for a cohesive clutch.

== When does OOC search start? When does it close? ==

The first round of applications will start July 9-10. This round will have first crack at the available dragons. Final applications for the first round are due July 30th, while the second round's are due August 17 (shortly after the hatching); that said, we highly encourage finishing your applications as soon as possible to maximize time with other candidates/weyrlings and the Weyr at large!

== When does IC search start? When does it close? ==

IC search coincides with the clutching; a tentative calendar is available [[HRW:Search|here]]. As of that date, IC search will be open, and search riders will begin bringing candidates to the Weyr. IC Search will remain open up until the hatching.

== Will I be notified if I am not going to be searched? ==

Yes. We will send a notification to all applicants sometime after the close of  final applications.

== When is the hatching? ==

The hatching will most likely be August 13-14.

The exact date and time will be announced as the date approaches, with consideration given to times that work best for candidates and other members of HRW.

== How long is weyrlinghood? ==

Overall, the program will last about 4-5 months RL or approximately 1 turn IC. After the first 3 months RL (9 months IC), weyrlings will be ready to go *between* and be graduated to senior weyrlinghood, where they will have more freedom and be treated almost as full riders; hopefully, this will both allow for people to enjoy dragons while they are growing and keep weyrling players from getting bored with the same-old-stuff. For details, please review the weyrling pages at [[Weyrlings]].

We are always open to feedback in regards to our weyrlinghood. Please contact the admins on the game either through +mail hrwadmin or email admins@hrweyr.net.

== Will there be a gold at this hatching? Should I apply gold-only? ==

There will be no gold at this hatching.

== What qualities does SearchCo look for in a candidate? ==

For all candidates, SearchCo is looking for people who contribute to High Reaches Weyr overall. We’re proud of the diversity of this area and the quality of RP that the players here have fostered, and we want to continue the tradition of fun, inventive roleplay. There are no specific criteria that will guarantee search or Impression, because we evaluate each applicant on their own merits, though there are some qualities that we look for in general.

Obviously, we want active RPers to help contribute to our area. Activity doesn’t require you to make MUSHing your full-time job; for most of us, we try to commit ourselves to at least one quality scene a week.

OOC maturity is a must. HRW is an area with a very diverse group of players and characters, and a good separation of IC and OOC is necessary.

Well-developed, dynamic characters fit in at HRW. We welcome both good-guys and bad-guys, with the common theme being that the character has depth. We encourage people to help foster light-hearted RP as well as in-depth plots, and having a character that can shift between plot-intensive RP and day-to-day scenes will help you fit in with the dynamic of High Reaches Weyr.

We also look at the dynamics of the candidacy group as a whole. As weyrlinghood is a particularly bonding-intensive time, we are more likely to Impress candidates who have taken the time to roleplay with others and fostered a bond, whether it’s IC good or IC bad. This is not to say this is a popularity contest or ‘let’s play ostracize someone,’ but we feel active roleplayers are more active for having bonded and gotten to know each other well.

== What qualities does SearchCo look for in a bronze applicant? ==

The criteria for bronze Impression doesn’t change much from that of any other Impression. We still want mature, active, dynamic RPers that contribute to HRW as a whole.

The caveat for all bronze applicants is to be prepared for the additional IC and OOC expectations. Like it or not, players look to bronzeriders for more than they would a blue, green, or brownrider. Even if you never obtain any IC rank, you still need to face a bronze Impression with an understanding that people are going to expect you to be more active and more engaging. It’s a higher profile Impression, and we encourage all bronze applicants to really evaluate if they are ready as players to subject themselves and more importantly their characters to the fish-bowl of metallic Impression.

== Is High Reaches looking for any specific character types? ==

Yes. If you check our search page, you will see a page listing desired character concepts for this hatching under [[HRW:Hooks|Hooks]]. You don’t have to play one of those concepts! Those are just suggestions for people who are looking for an easy way to integrate into the area.

== How many people will you search? ==

We do not have a limit on the number of candidates we search. All applicants will be evaluated on their individual merits to determine if we are going to search them.

== How many people will Impress? ==

This experimental cycle offers the possibility of insta-candidates/weyrlings, and thus does not have a strict maximum, though we are unlikely to Impress more than the normal limit of 10.


== What is the process for going stand-only? ==

The term "stand-only" refers to applicants who wish to be considered for candidacy but not Impression. This can be a great way to flesh out a character and get to know an area without the long-term commitment of Impression.

To apply as a stand-only candidate, please fill out the general application; please note your desire to be considered stand-only. An application for a stand-only candidate does not guarantee search.

== Can I be married, have children, be disfigured or disabled? ==

Your character cannot be married, as marriage disqualifies a person from candidacy IC. While you can have children, your character cannot currently be pregnant, nor can they be the responsible parent for their children; children must be fostered, as a weyrling cannot have the burden of child-rearing.

A character can be disfigured as long as the disfigurement doesn’t present itself with a physical disability; candidates must be physically fit. Severe asthma or severely bad eyesight or hearing would also prevent a person from being eligible for search. If you aren’t sure if your character’s disability or disfigurement would exclude them from being a viable candidate, please contact SearchCo.

== What should I do if I’ll be without access or my online times change? ==

Please contact SearchCo if you plan to be AFK for longer than a few days during candidacy; we just like to know what's going on! Please let the Weyrlingmaster know if you will be gone for more than a week as a weyrling.

If you expect to be significantly absent during a considerable portion of candidacy (longer than a week), this may impact your chance to be searched or Impress. Candidacy is a fairly short window of time, and missing a significant portion of this will lessen the time you have to be a part of the group; it will also make it more difficult for SearchCo to get to know you and determine if you will be a good fit for HRW.

If you know in advance that you will be gone for a long period of time during either candidacy or weyrlinghood, please consider going stand-only and waiting for a future hatching. A few days or even a week probably won’t be a problem, but longer than that may make it difficult to be searched, Impress, or really experience weyrlinghood.

== Can I apply even though I have a dragon on NorCon, or have in the past? ==

Yes. It is up to you if you wish to disclose your dragonrider alts to SearchCo.

== I have a question that’s not answered here! ==

Please +mail or page us on the game! Or email us at admins@hrweyr.net

Thank you for reading! We’re looking forward to a great cycle.

HRW:Search

2016-07-08T00:37:02Z

Varied:

'''OOC Search is upcoming!'''

== Search Calendar ==

{|style="padding: 0px
|-
|style="width:150px" |'''July 9'''
|Aidavanth rises!
|-
|'''July 10-11'''
|OOC Search opens with first round of insta applications.
|-
|'''July 24-26'''
|Aidavanth clutches. IC Search opens.
|-
|'''July 30'''
|Final application deadline for first round of applications. Second round begins.
|-
|'''August 13-14'''
|Possible hatching dates.
|-
|'''August 17'''
|Final application deadline: instas close.
|}

== Important Information ==

<DPL>
namespace=HRW
titlematch=Search/%
shownamespace= false
replaceintitle=%Search/%,
</DPL>

== Applications ==

TBA

Logs:Storytime at the Snowasis

2016-05-29T05:44:38Z

Varied:

{{Log
|who=Anvori, Telavi
|what=Anvori is doing the books and Telavi's embroidering; she puts her foot in her mouth less than she thinks she does.
|where=Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=3
|month=11
|turn=32
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2013.09.19
|quote="You're not going to be able to sleep much tonight at all. Unless," he ventures, "That's the point."
|mentions=G'then, Varian, Veylin2, Via, Z'ian
|type=Log
|icons=anvori.png, telavi thoughtful.jpg
|log=At the witching hour, the hearth is low, with just enough coal and wood to keep the immediate area warm, the books are out behind the counter and a pencil is stuck behind Anvori's ear. Indeed, it's far easier to find the owner in ''his'' bar at the start of the evening busy time until well after closing. The unused stools are upturned and placed on top of the counters, chairs are pushed into each table, and the cavern looks relatively clean. There are only a handful of people here, a few at the bar, and one in the coziest worn down chair by the fire.

There have been nights of late where Telavi's been the one in the chair or, even better, the couch; she's frequented the Snowasis more often in the past couple of sevens, not even acquisition-oriented or, necessarily, with her Boreal wingmates. If she's never a big spender-- though she does tip generously where warranted-- still she attracts at times people who are. Tonight's worn down to sitting alone at the bar, however, by all appearances comfortably, with a few extra glows to let her embroider now that it won't disturb anyone; perhaps those help with the books, too. At the end of the next part of her motif, nothing too outrageous with its slate blue leaves on brown, Tela goes to take another sip and is ''denied''; she hesitates, perhaps gauging the time, then looks over to Anvori after all with that wide, shallow mug still in hand: waiting until he too seems to pause... or seems like he won't.

He's not scribbling just yet, just turning the pages from a few months ago, to a time when he wasn't quite as present. A hand splays across one page, one finger trailing down to match day's totals to the week's and then to months, and every so often, he indents the hide with the tip of his nail to create a distinct ''notice me'' mark. For later. It's in his inconsistent, but frequently so, sweeps of the bar that he finds Tela in front of him, utilizing the glows he's gathered for his work, with the empty mug in hand. A smile threatens, but never fully makes it past the creased tired of his face and Anvori reaches blindly for the klah pot and a clear bottle of something or other. "You're not going to be able to sleep much tonight at all. Unless," he ventures, "That's the point." The other hand, with the clear-liquid bottle, pours about a shot and a half worth of something delectably pepperminty.

"I'm getting used to it," Telavi gives him in return, sparing a brief, appreciative smile as she watches him pour. Her voice is quiet in deference to the hour, its Benden accent smoothed. "Next seven, I expect to be up all night and not seeing daylight except for sweeps. Oh, and wearing black." Her glance drifts to his books, less an attempt to read upside down, more passingly curious about his handwriting, his columns, how neat and even they are or are not.

The older man skips a beat, the pucker of his brow line indicating his bewilderment as he latches on to one of the few things Telavi says: "Wearing black? Anticipating some mourning?" He goes back to glancing at his columns once pot and bottle are put down. They're neat and legible on one side, precisely so, and a little more scattered on the other.

"Oh, no. It just seems as though it should be part of the theme, blending in and all." The younger woman's voice makes it light, easy, unhurriedly teasing the trope more than anything. "People I know can work the black leather during the daytime, dramatic and all, but I'm just not there yet." Clearly a failing on her part. And, after a sip of her refreshed drink, "Thank you."

"There are stories," Anvori begins with, his pencil plucked from behind his ear and utilized as a spinning instrument rather than a writing one, "Of beings, who were once people. Stayed up too late, drank too much klah. First," his voice lowers conspiratorally, "Their eyes turned reddish from the lack of sleep. Then their canines descended into fangs." A hazel eye disappears behind a wink. "But you know, just a story I've heard." The pencil drops, deliberately, though it's not placed, and Anvori reaches for his own glass, and pours out a double of some sort of whisky. "What are you working on?"

''Stories''. It's the sort of word that draws Telavi closer as though on some invisible line, or perhaps it's more of an angle: a slight, steepened lean that has her gaze lifting to the man as ever did a niece's to her uncle, for all that hers is back at Benden. She's smiling then, can't help it, brighter at the wink and the closing and the ''drop'' that summons a quiet but utterly unselfconscious laugh. After a moment, "Just a story, of course. Is that the sort of thing you tell your daughters and... your children, isn't it, now? ''This'' is just," and she gives it a wry look, "a blouse I'd like to wear in the next seven or so, and I could wear it unadorned, but it's so much nicer ''with''."

He recognizes that vanity. It sparks a light in those tired eyes that fades a little into something a little more mellow at the recollection of his ''children''. "Not yet. Perhaps some day. Via would probably spin the story into something truly terrifying and be thrilled, and then have trouble sleeping at night later." Oh, parenthood. "She's a character, that one. Growing up too fast. They all do," is the age old, repetitive mantra of parents everywhere. "What stories were you told, growing up?"

Seeing it, she smiles all over again, and after another sip of cooling klah, picks up her needle and resumes. Her pattern isn't marked, beyond a chalk center line; she stitches freehand, the leaves similar but different, even but fanciful. "I can just ''imagine''," seconded by a wry nod for growing up fast, as though she were so very old and wise herself. "I felt a little of that, seeing the hatchling greens outside the barracks. Stories? Mmm. We had the usual with dragons, being a Weyr and all; there was also the Lord with six, or was it seven wives? and they got along swimmingly and had him under their thumb, or so Nanny Frieda had it, and it wasn't until I was twelve that I heard it any other way." And then, oh the tragedy of having been betrayed! relates her amused, expressive face.

"A Weyr?" Quizzical brows arc upward and he's distracted from his almost-return to the account books by this, "But not... Reaches, I am venturing." ''He doesn't get out much, don't mind him,'' is written all over his disarming sort of head tilt and full bodied shrug.

"Benden," Tela provides. "Where everyone is descended from Lessa or F'lar or both," this with a pert smile that shows one dimple, and only one. But her upward glance's reminded her of his work, so she adds, "But I shouldn't keep you from your books. ''Not'' that I'm not suddenly curious how the Snowasis did in the time of short tithe, relatively, and since... but that would be nosy," she says with a sigh of regret. And then, of course, ''she'' has the luxury of being able to stitch and listen-- or talk-- at the same time.

That. ''That'' shatters Anvori's exterior or somnolence and draws forth a laughter that's not heard as often these days as it once was. "Give my regards to your great-great-great-great grandmother then. I've wondered what kind of woman she was." And then some. Every boy's fantasy, right? Right? But as for the books? He just reaches for the pencil and places it to mark his place on the ledger lines. It remains opened, but he does lean forward to brace his hands on the counter top, shading himself over the books. "Anvori. And you seem to know enough about me but I'll be frank, my brain doesn't retain names well so if we've met before, I apologize."

"Next time I time it, I surely will," Tela's pleased to assure, the more warmly for that laugh of his. Though when he leans so, she grows hesitant, apology rising in her eyes like the blush on her cheeks. She never has looked for numbers, and she doesn't now. "Telavi. I ride Solith? In Boreal wing?" Especially with his hands planted like that, she doesn't reach out with hers. "It's just, oh. When you were closed for business when they were born, you see, then we all knew they were there to ''be'' born and... I'm sorry, I don't mean to go wittering on. Curiosity gets away with me sometimes," she admits, genuinely penitent, "more than it should."

"Ah, the Weyrleader's wing. Nice," Anvori says off-handedly, feigning a lack of notice of her hesitance or apology. It's waived away without significant attention or mention. "It's nice to have some sort of stability in the Weyr finally. After things were unsettled for so long. I hope his age helps balance out the Weyrwoman's youth." A beat, as if appraising Telavi, "That is, I mean," there might be a faint note of a tease there, "What are your thoughts on your wingleader?"

She offers him a smile for it, even so, lest he think she takes it for granted. After another sip, her hand steady, Tela pushes out a breath and on the next one says, "My ''wingleader''... aside from being the most fantastic wingleader that even wingled?" Her glance at the bartender holds a bit of humor again; her mouth purses briefly. "I'd say he's practical. It matters that things get done, he gives some direction but doesn't specify everything to the last detail. It feels like he has goals even if we don't always know what they are, yet, the specifics anyway. Though 'still getting to eat,' that definitely counts as a goal." Her brows tilt up at the older man: how's that?

For the lengthy opinion piece on Z'ian, Anvori has but a smile. And a final shot of something for her mug. "For the road. You know where to return the mug." But then he's reaching for his ledgers and closes it to tuck under his arm and turns for the office behind the bar. "Good night."

"Good night," Telavi murmurs after him. "Thank you--" and with that she quiets, the only peace she can give him before the door once again closes. As for the shot... it'll help wash down that taste of foot in mouth.
|when=It is an autumn late night, day 3, month 11, turn 32 of Interval 10.
|categories=General
}}

Logs:Mission: Greenhouse

2016-05-29T05:44:16Z

Varied:

{{Log
|who=Jo, Leova
|what=Vrianth sends Leova. Leova finds Jo.
|where=Greenhouse, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=18
|month=6
|turn=33
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2013.12.07
|quote=“Come to fantasize about me?”
|mentions=Anvori, N'thei, Rhonda, Varian, Veylin2, Via, Z'ian
|type=Log
|icons=jo suspicious.jpg, jo tacuseth shadows.jpg, leova prowl on-the-move2.png, leova vrianth smile-in-the-dark.jpg
|log=It would be no surprise to find Jo here late at night. The black leathered rider is towards the back, having snagged one of the long tables topped with plants and a stool to write a letter. It looks like she’s been here for awhile, judging by the half-filled opened bottle beside her on the table and the fact that she looks well and truly occupied with her task.

After some time, there are footsteps, not loud. They pause on the threshold, then travel unhurriedly to the source of light, to the light-bringer in black. The greenrider's not so much dark-clad as just as typically brown-clad, her dark auburn hair showing its usual summer sun-bleaching at its tips. She toes herself out a stool to sit across from Jo. Barring an interruption, she'll just watch her wingmate for some moments.

Jo can hear the footsteps, but that doesn’t prompt her enough to move and see who is coming. It’s just the flicker of a hide that moves in indication that the greenhouse is in fact not empty. Once Leova sits, she has written up the first page and has turned the hide over before her writing stylish has finally paused just above the sheet - as if the pause meant she needed a moment to think about what she was going to write. Then, abruptly, she looks up from the blank sheet to eye Leova. A brow lifts a bit at her before she breaks the silence with, “Come to fantasize about me?” Yeah, she’ll just take that silent staring to mean just that. At least there’s that amused glint in her dark eyes to indicate that she could be joking. ‘’Could be’’.

"For fantasizing," Leova remarks with a lift of her own brows, "Wouldn't have to find you. Jo." But the dragonhealer smiles, one-cornered, and the intonation's explained with a name. "Vrianth... felt I should come. Despite my desire for sleep. What's up?" She does glance in the direction of blankness. It's her wingmate, though, with whom her gaze stays.

“For more source material, sure,” Jo is quick to counter, passing her wingmate a crooked grin as she straightens up. “Vrianth wanted ya to come ‘’here’’? Why here?” Whatever the pause on the other side, the writing stylish doesn’t connect to the hide and so when Leova asks, there’s a slight shrug and the stylish gets laid down on top of it. “Writin’ old friends,” is her explanation, propping her elbows on the table as she reaches for her bottle. “Sometimes I can write better in here than I do up in my weyr. Yer ‘mate’s sleep already?” she asks then as she tips the bottle to her lips before lifting it towards her in silent offer.

Leova's eyes narrow, but in laughter. "Nice one." And, "''I'' don't know. Ask Tac?" Vrianth may have a plan, but her rider just has a shrug. Leaning her own elbow on the table, she's got a nod for here, a nod for asleep, and acceptance for the bottle from which she drinks unflinchingly. "Twins too. ''Shouldn't'' really be out. But." Another drink, and she offers the bottle back. "Hoping we don't have more rebuilding, on the morrow."

Jo just flashes Leova a briefly winsome grin on the first, but the next one draws a slight furrow of her brows. “Would she tell Tac?” she chooses to ask instead of answer, studying the woman before her now. “Is that green of yers conspirin’ somethin’ against ya?” The bottle is given over, nodding on the twins and the latter. “Well. Unless Vrianth sent ya here to talk to me….” is all she could surmise on her wingmate being out and about this late in the night. “Rebuildin’. I’m sure Taikrin’s so excited about it if there is to be.” As in, she knows their wingleader would be pissed. “What’s yer take in all of this?” She takes the bottle back and takes a drink.

"If she were conspiring ''with'' him. Don't know as it's against me, though." ''Against'' her, or against ''her'', either way. "Otherwise, seems likely." Leova's got a short laugh for Taikrin, mentioning, "Enough reasons for her to get 'excited' without adding more. All of this, though? Don't mind a certain amount of helping. If the Farmcraft gave over ''their'' time, be fine with ferrying," within the usual Vrianth-imposed limits. Leova runs her hands through her short hair, holding it even further from her skin in the lingering warmth of the greenhouse. "And volunteers, those're good. But don't know as resentful untrained helpers are... helpful. You?"

Laughing shortly, “Tac would have no reason,” Jo states on conspiring, that being easily dismissed with confidence. “He isn’ the sort, darlin’.” She listens in silence to the rest, though, nodding her acknowledgement thereof, here and there. When it comes to her, “I have no take,” comes far too easily. “I’m not a fan of gettin’ involved in any hold business, but, perhaps that’s the reason why I’m not the one in any position of leadership. I suppose there’s a future in this farmin’ business though,” she notes with slight dubiousness as she looks around them, “even though there would be those that will consider all this….’’beneath’’ us.” She’s not naming names. She’s not even naming herself. “Still,” she goes on to add, meeting her gaze once more, “it’s not as if there’s Thread in the skies these days. Some holders would see us ‘riders doin’ nothin’ but sticking fingers up our ass all day.”

"If you say so," Leova says with another of those one-cornered smiles. Taking Jo's word for it, maybe. Not arguing, maybe too. "Won't say you always have a take," comes out affectionately. It's her turn, then, to nod and nod again. "Something to be said for visible work. Visible help. If it is helping, not getting in the way. Though I reckon they're thinking more about each other's ass." Then, "How long before they became 'them'? For you."

Snerking, "Well, I guess I do," Jo has to amend on takes, tipping the bottle back for a drink before passing it back over. "Just, not much of one. I'm used to not questionin' if it don' involve me. Guess that makes me a bit selfish." She doesn't look apologetic, either. "What do ya mean, though? Before they became ''them''?"

Leova's roll of the shoulders holds more amusement than concern. The tip of the bottle towards Jo, though, that's appreciation. She's slower to drink this time, the humidity curling her hair fractionally darker, her gaze roving amidst all that shadowy green before returning to the bluerider. "Us, riders. Holders, them. If it is that."
Fingers brushing her own lips and the bottom of her own face as she regardsthe greenrider,

Fingers brushing her own lips and the bottom of her own face as she regards the greenrider, Jo has to pause and muse over the clarification before lips curve into something curious. "I was more a guard than I ever was a holder," is her explanation, her arms propped on the table as she leans, "and I didn' become a guard, so that's sayin' somethin'. I never did quite fit into a box. Even now. Not sure if it's ''that''. Yer holdbred, right?" she asks, turning it back on Leova.

"They so different?" Leova asks, quizzical. "Or maybe: different, how? Don't know as I've ever heard it from you, anyhow." She's got a low nod for holdbred. "Bred," gets a wry tinge, "and raised. No guards 'round our cotholds, either." Her thumb traces the edge of the label. She doesn't read it, not now, anyhow.

"Never heard me speak on Keogh, ya mean?" Jo prompts with some humor. "I guess there's a difference when it comes to my father. He never raised us as if we were holdbred. It was always...bein' a guard with him. Maybe a little different when it came to me. I think he was plannin' on marryin' me off if I hadn' ran. Want more?" Drink, perhaps she means. "Do ya miss it?" That's for being a holder.

"Mm. Word or two there, I reckon. Maybe even three and four," Leova says, deadpan. "Just, not so much the differences. Can't say as I run into many girl guards to begin with, wouldn't know if they're married. Or is that his way of getting you out?" She drinks more, slow-like, then passes the bottle back with a low laugh. "No. Well. Parts maybe. But I get on better this way. Wish there were a magic dumbwaiter up to my weyr for Anvori and the littles, is all, and no way of them falling off."

Snorting, "Oh no," and Jo shakes her head slowly, "my father wasn' interested in havin' a female guard for a daughter. Even if I was better than most my brothers in their stupid trainin'. That was his way of gettin' rid of me'n gettin' somethin' in return for it." She takes the bottle back with a nod for Leova's answer, stating, "I suppose improvin' life at the Weyr could be more of a project for us 'riders than farmin', then. How's he and the kids doin', anyway? I imagine ya don' get all that ''much'' sleep up there." She briefly raises the bottle towards her.

"Not a dowry but a bride-price?" Leova asks, a curl to her mouth. But about the life at the Weyr, "Suppose it would. 'Course, I do like to eat, most days. And we're good. Tired." She shakes her head for the bottle, this time. "Not the right kind of not enough sleep, if you catch my meaning," not something she ordinarily talks over, but they've known each other longer than most by now. "''And'' we might be taking on another. Don't much want to, but. Family. Got news of Z'ian?"

Flapping a hand at her, "Maybe he was goin' to toss me to some random bastard for booze?" Jo didn't care. It was a past that didn't happen. Since Leova refuses the drink, she takes another one herself. "Yeah, catch yer meanin'," she notes on not enough sleep with a little smirk touching her lips. "Get that remedied, darlin'. Shit, yer addin' another to yer ''weyr''?" That gets both brows, and when the former Weyrleader is brought up, there's only the slightest of pauses before she answers. "Recovery's slow, but he's gettin' there. Still refuses to come back. Not that the choice is there, with the injury'n all. I worry a little less each seven, so I guess that's progress." More than one sentence. Maybe that's progress, too.

"Better have been some particularly fine booze," Leova says, dry. "What alcohol would you pay for a girl as you were then? And. Don't know about our weyr, but here, ''the'' Weyr. Cousin's boy, his daughter. Rough story, been visiting though. Still working it out with her folks. ''Hope'' it's almost done. She's got to go somewhere." Matter-of-fact though her tone stays, there's something troubled about her expression, those amber eyes. "And I thank you for the update, too. Won't ask if you've got less reason to worry, or if you're getting over the worrying. Only so much a woman can do, some days."

"Ale, at best," Jo remarks on herself turns back. "Not the murky kind at least. She would see all of this differently. That girl." After a beat, she sets the bottle down before continuing with, "I dunno much about family, but for ya, if one has to be here, then I'm sure they'll fit in just fine. I'm suspectin' there's a story there," and she regards Leova steadily, but at least she's not flat out asking for said story. On Z'ian, there's the non-chalance that comes to the fore when it comes to her showing any outward emotion. "Can' protect him if he's not here," seems to be her basis for worrying, but it's also in agreement to what Leova says. "Somethin' like this, one of brothers would say that life goes on."

"Reckon the girl I was, she would too." Leova's shrug is flatter this time. It's no immediate reaction to that look of Jo's, but a considered response: "Rough one, like I said. Some families don't care for who their daughters take up with," and something grim about the greenrider's tone suggests it's for good reason. "But. As you say. Life goes on. And him, if he's not here, guessing less of a target on his back."

"Girl I was was as shy as one of these delicate plants," Jo notes, it bringing something crooked to her smile. She's certainly not now. "Tough one, indeed. And yeah. Less of a target. Better that way." And Tacuseth? He reaches out and touches Vrianth with shadows and the slow beat of some drum. He's curious. Maybe he's prompted by his rider but one wouldn't know.

Leova's gaze does ''not'' swing over to the cacti. Instead, "Mm. Nice not to be, hm? Though don't know as I was ever ''that''." Vrianth, as it happens, is amenable to being shadow-touched when it's that particular blue. At last, tonight. She might even be... expectant. << And what do you want? Tacuseth. >> Warm, there in the night.

Giving a half-shrug, “The world has a way of changin’ ya,” Jo seems to agree with that touch of humor. “I do wonder what ya ‘’were’’ like, though.” Meanwhile, Tacuseth is indeed fond of his greens. Not that he’s laying claims to Vrianth. Well, not openly so. Perhaps he’s about as suave as his rider in that regards. His shadows blanket her mind, a lazy sleepiness that is equally just as warm. << To see what game yer playin’, >> comes with his amusement, images of her rider and his. There’s a pause before he does add, << And, to chase down somethin’ ‘’juicy’’. >> Hungry? Maybe.

''Juicy''. << What, >> Vrianth asks Tacuseth, << would be worth your while? >> Glimmers of energy chase beneath that blanket, increasingly luminescent as they edge into the visible spectrum. Better: what could be worth ''hers''? She does not deny that she has a game, does Vrianth. Nor does she name it, though perhaps, '''perhaps'' it's a hint that that energy traces the outline of the clutchmate that just now shares her ledge. A clutchmate who, at least in Vrianth's mind, is certainly smaller than she. As for Leova, "Don't know as I'd have much to do with the girl I was." Which may say something for whether she'd want to introduce her to ''Jo''.

<< Better question involves what would be worth ‘’yers’’, sweets? >> Tacuseth is not one for subterfuge like his rider, so his curiosity is piqued by the green. He shares in her outline of the clutchmate - theirs or their riders’? - his shadows darkening as he tries to figure out the game. Leova’s answer, meanwhile, draws a simple grin from Jo in pause before she lifts her bottle briefly towards her wingmate and takes another drink. Passing a look to the thin stack of hide before her as she straightens, “Well, darlin’,” she drawls out, releasing her hold on the bottle in favor of gathering up the notes and tucking them into the inside of her jacket, “Sucks that that green of yers is rockin’ yer slumber tonight. Unless she gives any insight, I’ll see ya around at drills, okay?” The writing stylus gets tucked just above her left ear as she stands.

<< Telling, >> Vrianth determines unhurriedly, << would mean you didn't discover it on your own. Tacuseth. >> Would that be cheating? Would she care? Would she even prefer that he attempt what advantage he can? She ''does'', with the darkening, fill in at least one blank for him: Ishawith visits her, Ishawith of Boreal. ''Two'' of them, then. It's a large ledge, even with the space taken up by the fruit trees. Wyaeth's, it was once. Vrianth's forever, if she has her way. "It does that." Leova. Dry. "None to me, not yet. Clear skies anyhow, hm?" She doesn't speak of ''Jo'' and sleep. Nor does she move to walk the other rider out. "And good hunting."

<< Ishawith. >> There’s silence from Tacuseth as if he is trying to recognize his significance, so the only explanation he could come up with was a wry, << Do ya need me to come by? Regulate, darlin’? >> he sends then, the shadows further darkening as his focus pulls away just a bit - just as abruptly as Jo tucks that bottle under one arm pauses and sends a frown Leova’s way. “Ishawith?” She openly questions the name, much the same way her dragon does. “Is that green of yers…?” There’s a flutter of fingers that’s ‘’suppose’’ to mean that there’s proddiness about! “Is that why she sent ya down here?”

<< ''Need.'' Perhaps not ''need''. Though... >> Leova's eyes narrow, the green's rider abrupt in her turn. Then, easing, "Not yet. Though," a breath after Vrianth's, "''She'' is." Ishawith. Rhonda's Ishawith. "Wouldn't think," but Leova shrugs, not pretending to follow all the intricacies of ''all'' of Vrianth's plans.

Both rider and dragon appear dubious at this point, with Tacuseth sending with clarity, << ...There’s a proddy green on yer ledge. >> Should that be a question? One’s not really sure, but the way he sends it could be. Jo, for her part, is frowning at the name of the rider before she prompts, “What’s Rhonda doin’ at yer weyr? I thought…?” She looks towards the entrance, then at Leova for a moment before blinking once.

Regardless: << You noticed. >> Was told. Close enough. "''Rhonda's'' not at my weyr," Leova says mildly. "Just her dragon, cluttering up the place." But evidently Vrianth's... ''social''.

<< Why is there a proddy green on yer ledge? Vrianth. >> comes from Tacuseth, just as Jo is stuck frowning at Leova. “Soooo...ya get random proddy dragons on yer ledge, then? Is that normal? Why would she send ya down cuz a proddy green? Is there somethin’ I’m missin’?”

Her name, from him, gets its own halo of luminescent not-quite-color. But, << Why not? >> It's there for Tacuseth to pick up on if he notices: the layers of familiarity, the knowingness, and ''something'' teasing about the edges. << She does not disturb ''me''. Would she disturb you? >> He's not worried about such a thing, is he? Leova's not so much worried as bemused: that frown, from ''Jo''. "Not so random. They visit quite a bit. Wouldn't say she sent me down ''because'' of her," but there's the shrug just before she pushes to her feet and heads towards the vestibule and the descending stair: she doesn't know. "Likely something we both are. Wouldn't recommend worrying about it, anyhow, won't get either of us anywhere."

Jo continues to watch Leova as she answers, the frown slowly wiping away to something unreadable as it’s almost clear that there’s another question on her lips to Vrianth’s antics. But then, whatever that comes seems to just fade away, her own bemusement evident in the brief shake of her head. “I think I must be missin’ somethin’ here,” she remarks with that crooked grin petering back in place, “and I am far too exhausted this night to figure out what. Get that green of yers to get ya to bed, eh? Yer not gonna like the mornin’ the longer ya stay up.” This coming from her. As for Tacuseth? ‘’He’’ seems just about as lost as his rider, his whisps of shadows starting to thin out as he sends back, << Why would she disturb me? She’s not on ‘’my’’ ledge. >> Simple logic from this dragon. Familiarity, he picks up on, but the rest? It becomes one of the littlies’ missing puzzle piece.

<< No, >> agrees Vrianth. << But you are not here. >> Neither will her rider be in the greenhouse for very much longer. "Would say the same to you, but," there's that lift of one shoulder. "Like to imagine you get to sleep in, hm? ''Someone'' should get to." Leova's got a slow smile, a swifter parting wave, and then she's disappearing down the stairs. Vrianth, humor ghosting invisibly through the wisps: << Good night, Tacuseth. >>

Tacuseth seems not sure how to answer the first, so he falls to his default: his humor. The shadows shudder in it before dissipating, sending in return after a brief moment until all tendrils of his presence is gone, << And ya, Vrianth. >> As for Jo, there’s a half-shrug from her before she says, “I do what I can. Night, Leova.” She lingers behind just a bit longer to gather her things, and then she, too, is gone into the night.
|when=It is a summer night, day 18, month 6, turn 33 of Interval 10.
|categories=A Crisis Of Succession
}}

Logs:Lilabet's Family

2016-05-29T05:43:39Z

Varied:

{{Log
|who=Lilabet, Madilla
|what=It's only partially Raija's fault that Lilabet has been thinking so intensely about family.
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=0
|month=8
|turn=33
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2013.12.25
|mentions=Anvori, B'tal, Dilan, Delvana, H'kon, Leova, Raija, Varian, Veylin2, Via
|type=Vignette
|icons=madilla lilabet.jpg, madilla.jpg
|log=Lilabet (not ''Lily'', thank you very much) doesn't really remember her father, now. She was only little when he died, of course, and it's only to be expected. She knows him through her mother, and through her father's family: most of ''them'' are at High Reaches, and so she's always been included in things.

She knows a lot about B'tal's family, and about B'tal himself. Some of it, she's been told explicitly; some of it, she's worked out for herself, piecing together what people say… and what they don't say.

She likes being one of them; she likes ''belonging''.

It's one thing she's always had over Dee, at least until now, and that's… difficult. He has siblings, and a father who is real and solid and ''there'', and he's a Lord, and even if Dee isn't, and is never going to be, it's… She's jealous sometimes.

She's jealous of Delvana, too. Sometimes. At least Vana remembers her mother, and she has uncles and aunts and cousins on both sides of the family.

Lilabet has B'tal's family, yes, and she has Madilla, but Madilla is so silent on her own family. ''I have another grandmother out there'', Lilabet says to herself, and marvels at the thought. ''There's somewhere else I belong, too.''

But where? She knows that her mother is from a hold in the Fort region, and she knows that they sent Madilla to be trained at the Healer Hall and that she was supposed to go back again, but didn't. She knows that the oatmeal-coloured wool shawl Madilla keeps in her press, wrapped up for protection, belonged to the woman who is Lilabet's grandmother.

But that's like knowing nothing at all.

----

It's a gratifying thing, being asked to watch Auntie Leova's children of an evening: it's a sign that she really is grown up and responsible. She likes the twins, who are pretty adorable now that they're not just squirming, screaming babies, but real little people. She likes Via, too, and likes to feel like a big sister, older and wiser, in comparison.

Of course, they're sleeping when Lilabet watches them, but she's there just in case they wake up. She likes exploring, and imagining what ''her'' weyr will be like, one day, when she's a Greenrider (unless she's a Harper, of course).

One night, Via wakes up. Lilabet fetches her a glass of water and then sits by her, promising faithfully to stay until Via falls asleep again. Via tells her all about 'Vee', her invisible friend, and Lilabet tucks ''her'' in, too. She tells them both a story about the adventures of Via and Vee, and how they see far-off places and meet interesting people, and learn all about themselves and the people who live in the stars, who are really family.

She's quite pleased with the story, though she's pretty sure Via fell asleep long before it ended. It stays with her, though, as she sits there in the dim light and imagines what it would be like to… to…

It's then that she realises what she ''really'' wants, in exchange for watching the kids.

----

It frustrates and irritates Lilabet that Auntie Leova won't say yes without talking to Madilla first, which basically misses the ''entire point''. She tries not to show it, but suspects it's obvious, anyway: she's sulking, and as everyone knows, no one likes a sulker.

But it's still not fair. In her head, she was going to visit, and they'd fall over in delight. She'd tell them about Dee and about H'kon and about mama and all the things she's done.

And then they'd want to come with her and see, because… because… well! Just because Madilla has decided not to see them, doesn't mean that they have decided not to see her.

She imagines coming back to the Weyr with them, and finding mama, and…

It would be a good thing, wouldn't it? Such a good thing.

But it's not a surprise, if mama knows already.

And what if mama says no?

Mama, who seems so intent upon making ''family'' for other people's children, but what about her own?

----
----

It's one more piece of the mess, really, in the end. One more broken piece.

'Broken' may be the wrong word. Madilla's not sure, though, what the right word might be. She suspects it may be more that, once upon a time, families were those nice, easy, square jigsaw puzzles: predictable. And now, they're just not. Or hers aren't, anyway.

Hers has no tidy corner pieces - or, at least, not enough of them. Branches sprout out in this direction and that, and they're not tidy: they're still growing. And there are missing pieces.

She's tried for so long to pretend that there's nothing wrong with Lilabet and Dee having missing pieces, that it doesn't ''matter'' because they still have her, but… she's always known, deep down, that these things always matter.

Still, there's something staggering about having it brought home so plainly - and for it to happen ''now'', when there's confusion about so much else.

It bothers her, that she and H'kon have had so much difficulty communicating clearly over this. Over family. Until now, she's always felt like they were… well, that she understood him, probably in a way that most people didn't. And now, abruptly, she's conscious that that's not always the case.

And now that she knows that, that she ''thinks'' she knows and understands more of what's going on in his head over this, she's still not sure where it leaves them.

She's always wanted another baby. Hasn't she imagined it a hundred times? A little dark haired baby with green eyes, a tiny little furrowing brow: a baby born into a real family from the start. A serious baby, like Lilabet was. A baby that would nonetheless make H'kon smile.

It bothers her that Lilabet would go behind her back to try and find the rest of her family.

It bothers her that all she's ever wanted is family, and it still feels like she's not good enough at holding it together.

Is it fair, bringing Raija into this? Raija, who won't ''ever'' knowingly have as much blood family in her life as Lilabet and Dilan.

Is it fair for Raija not to even have that much?

It's not a choice, of course: that decision has already been made. Madilla's not really sure how the pieces fit together, now, and whether they'll ever match up the way she wants them to, but it's still going to happen.

And the baby… she's only thirty (one). There's time.

One day, maybe, there will be that dark-haired, green-eyed baby.

And in the meantime, there's Lilabet and Dilan. There's H'kon. There's Raija.

And Madilla's just got to figure out how the pieces align.

And which gaps to try and fill.

----
----

"It's your decision," Madilla says to Lilabet, quietly, walking hand-in-hand with her daughter around the edge of the lake. "They don't know about you and Dilan, but that doesn't mean they'll refuse you entrance. We haven't talked in a long time, but it's not because we didn't - don't - love each other. But you know my reasons, now, and you're old enough to decide for yourself."

It's hurt, laying it all out there. She can't tell if Lilabet is condemning her for her weakness in walking away, or if she understands, or if she really is too young after all.

"You don't have to tell me. You don't have to decide, now. If you want to go, and Auntie Leova is willing to take you, you have my permission. It's up to you, Lily."

----

Lilabet finds herself hesitating.

She's come this far, and now all she can think about is what she told H'kon, that day by the lake:

::"''I ''wanted'' my family to be mother and father and grandparents and uncles and cousins, but it isn't.''"

It ''isn't''.

Her family has a H'kon. It has an Uncle Devaki, and an Auntie Leova, and all that go with them, and now it has a Raija, too.

The rest can wait.
|when=Month 8, Turn 33
|categories=
}}

Logs:Turndays, Tea, and Tragic Tots

2016-05-29T05:43:18Z

Varied:

{{Log
|who=Leova, Madilla
|what=Leova takes Madilla out for her turnday. Madilla's bleeding heart strikes again.
|where=Ruathan Waystation
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=6
|month=8
|turn=33
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2013.12.21
|quote="We could have her given over to the nurseries, you see, but I, we, hoped for someone we knew would be wonderful for her. After the way she started off, ''no one'' wanting her."
|mentions=Anvori, Delifa, Delvana, H'kon, Jinja, Lilabet, Raija, Raj, Varian, Veylin2, Via
|type=Log
|icons=leova behind-grass.jpg, madilla.jpg
|log=Substantial stone walls and broad eaves lend coolness to the Ruathan waystation on this summer's afternoon, even as unshuttered windows invite in both warmth as well as a hint of a breeze. As the hostess unloads their tray, the teapot and the first tray of little sandwiches, she chatters lightly about the large caravan that had been through just yesterday and my goodness, Madilla's Turnday, what a lovely day for it! Leova glances at the healer with silent humor, leaving it up to ''her'' whether to correct that it's really the day before: as much 'for the occasion of' that Turnday as the dress that the greenrider's letting herself be seen in.

"Just perfect," agrees Madilla with a brightly undaunted smile, evidently seeing no particular need for the correction, though that twisted corner of her mouth may indeed be aimed at the greenrider. "And don't these sandwiches look lovely." It's later, after they've been left to their repast, that she adds, "And so do you, Leova. Thank you - this is perfect." Her own dress is, of course, far less unusual, and even the more ornately decorative borders of hems and sleeves are no longer quite so out-of-character for the healer (she is, after all, no longer growing).

For her part, Leova will endeavor to not trail her less-ornate but still decorative cuffs in the tea. "Thank you," she says in her turn, for the compliment. "I thought you might like to get away to something different. How has it been, lately? Fewer patients, I'd imagine. More patience?"

Madilla doctors her tea with lemon and lifts it towards her mouth, inhaling steam. "Fewer patients, certainly. I'm less certain about the ''patience''. Sometimes, perhaps. I have an apprentice who seems determined to cause me grief, though that's probably just to do with her age. It ''is'' hard on them: all those rules, when so many people around them have none." It may be a gripe, but she's still smiling - rueful, but not moody or unhappy.

"That the dark-haired girl, should I guess what kind of trouble? Seems older than the 'I'll swap jars of supplies around, because that'll be funny' sort of trouble," Leova says, wry in her turn. She sips after Madilla does, though her tea has cream. "Relieved Via's got a while to go before that. Which reminds me. Think Lily's at the point where she could keep an eye on ours, after we'd put them to bed? If she's minded to trade her time for a little something extra, anyhow."

A thoughtful look settles upon Madilla's features at the mention of her daughter, leaving her to consider in silence for several seconds as she sips at her tea. "I'm sure she'd be pleased to," she says, with a quick little nod. "I recommend calling her 'Lilabet' and talking to her as if she were an adult; she's responsible, but she's going through a stage. Better ''that'' stage than Jinja's, I suppose, which is more… well, ''she's'' eighteen, and wants to go out with boys and dance until dawn."

"Will do," Leova says, reflective. "Her full name, hm? Will let you know what she says. Not that Anvori doesn't have a list when it comes to that, but better a friend's daughter to benefit, I reckon." The older girl, though: "''Jinja'', right. She pops her head in regular-like, though it's been a few days, given how the last time's... let's just say she saw something inappropriate for the table." There's a one-cornered smile. "What do you even do with her?"

"It will make her turn to be asked," says Madilla, firmly. "''Anything'' to prove that she's not a little girl anymore. I suspect it's all because she feels left behind, with Delvana at the Hall, now, and writing back about all the things she's getting to do." By her expression, she's well aware of the contrast between those two healer apprentices, Delvana and Jinja, and their respective view of apprenticeship. Of the latter girl, "Oh dear. I'd say poor Jinja, but… I'm willing to be lenient. I turn a blind eye to a lot of things." She eyes her sandwich rather than the greenrider. "But she needs to learn to be more discreet about it."

Leova considers the opaque liquid in her cup for a moment, then looks back at Madilla. "Can see that. At least Delvana still writes, though. ''Hope'' she'll take her under her wing when she gets to the Hall, if she's still that sort of girl." As for Jinja, "And that's not something you can really say, can you? 'Don't make me see what you're up to.' Or can you? Might've said it once or twice to weyrlings," back with I'daur, "but they're a bit different."

Madilla chews thoughtfully on her sandwich and says, finally, "I hope so. She's a good girl, Vana. She's - generally - been a good influence on Lily. And vice versa, I suppose, especially right after Delifa died. Two half-orphans, as it were." It's as she reaches for her tea cup again that she adds, "You can try. In a way... sometimes I wonder if it does more harm than good, all those rules. With weyrlings, early on, it makes good sense, but teenagers are always going to be teenagers, aren't they? They know best." It's wryly said. "I ''think'' she'll be a decent healer one day, at least."

Perhaps it's the mention of Delifa that lowers Leova's gaze again. "Perhaps so." She begins to peel one half of the sandwich back, peering at the insides before closing it up again. "Reckon so. Hard to believe mine will be that too, someday. There's something to be said for a ''little'' more freedom, but then again. If she drinks too much, if she ''does'' too much, if it gets in the way of her work..."

It's Madilla's turn, then, to glance up, and to consider Leova for a few thoughtful moments before she answers. "Yes," she agrees. "And therein lies the problem. If it gets in the way of her work, or if there's any chance of it getting back to the Hall… I hate to think of it being Lily, one day. And Dee, in turn. Is it better or worse that Lily will likely be somewhere else, while she goes through that stage? I honestly don't know." She stops, and then her mouth twists into an easier smile. "Not something to worry about today, at any rate, though."

"And it's her profession. Not just something she does because she can, that she fell into. Not just something that's expected." Quiet amber eyes have taken to studying Madilla in turn, and then Leova says, "I have to think that if Lily gets wild, it'll be because she means something by the thing she's doing, not just acting out over any old thing. And," but there's the woman back again, with a refill on tea, and little cakes and fruit as a second course. Some of the fruit isn't from around here, might even be from the same sack that the greenrider had given over to their hostess when they arrived.

A firm nod answers that first remark of Leova's; a smile, those comments on Lilabet. The interruption - during which she offers more delighted compliments - nonetheless only temporarily forestalls her quiet, "I hope so. I expect so. I can't imagine it being-- well." She smiles. "How are ''your'' three, anyway? And Anvori?"

"From your mouth to Moreta's ears, hm?" Leova adds after a moment, "Strange, a bit, talking like this. Where we are now, the question for the cakes isn't 'which' but 'which ''first'.'' But... they're fine. Vey," Veylin, "is growing into more of Via's things we'd saved," the clothes that were gifts, primarily, not to be automatically passed back to stores. "Via still has her fancies. Varian... I told you he'd gotten to toddling finally, hadn't I? About a sevenday ago? ''Know'' you told me so, but still was a relief that he ''did''."

Madilla's smile, confirmation for that first remark, and turning almost wickedly pleased in agreement for that second, is almost wistful as Leova continues. "You did," she confirms, "and I'm still relieved and pleased for you. It's hard, I know, when you're still waiting for it to happen. They're not really babies anymore, are they? Though I don't envy you the two at once, and so ''mobile'', now. Still."

"So ''very'' mobile," Leova says with resignation. She reaches for the teapot, offers Madilla a refill and then takes care of her own, but she doesn't yet drink. Her fingers shift almost imperceptibly on the cup's handle, as though she'd like to fidget but won't. "About Anvori," she says finally. "He's good, he's ''wonderful'' with them, and he gets us help when we need it. Only. You remember, my cousin's boy?"

Sympathy shows itself in Madilla's expression, but doesn't linger. She accepts a refill, adding more lemon, and makes no attempt to break the silence - though nor does she study Leova in anything more than a cursory kind of way. When the greenrider ''does'' speak, the healer hesitates, mouth open as though she's about to speak for several moments before she finally does. "Yes," she murmurs. "Of course."

"He still hasn't turned up. Raj," Leova clarifies belatedly, "not Anvori." She exhales. "Wasn't going to ask this ''here''. But. He's, Anvori is, worried about raising a third their age, not that she isn't a little older, but... Madilla? Would you, would you ''consider'' fostering? The little girl."

Madilla's hand tightens, almost imperceptibly, on the handle of her cup. She exhales: a little sigh, both wistful and heartfelt, the kind that suggests she's instantly thinking of the little girl, above and beyond anything else. "Of course," she breathes, though her cheeks have turned pink. "I-- I can't stand the thought of her not having somewhere to go. It's just that, well." She stops, looking momentarily troubled. "H'kon and I only recently agreed that we should avoid having more children, but… she needs me. Us. ''Someone''. We'll work something out."

Leova's have flushed in their turn, wind-chapped though they are. "You and he... but you might take her, and not your ''own''... ''Madilla''." She drinks, quickly, an excuse to blink back too much emotion. "We could have her given over to the nurseries, you see, but I, we, hoped for someone we knew would be wonderful for her. After the way she started off, ''no one'' wanting her."

"In a way," says Madilla, after a moment, her shoulders drawn back and her tone firm, "it makes far more sense. We should be caring for the children who already exist… ''every'' child deserves someone who loves them. It's just… not fair." Her tone, by the end, is wavering: she's got emotions of her own, though none that stop her from sounding determined.

"It's not," Leova says plainly. Then, "I ''don't'' want it to mean you don't get another child of your own, though, Madilla. One that's with the man you care for, the man of your own."

Madilla is silent for several long seconds, and then shakes her head, firmly. "No, no. This is good, I think. It's not… we'd ruled out the idea of having a baby, Leova. ''This'' is quite different. I'll still have to… talk it out, but I think I can do this. I ''want'' to do this."

"He doesn't want to?" Leova asks hesitantly, and yet she can't not be relieved. She doesn't need to curve her hands around her cup for warmth, and yet she does it anyway. She can't not say, "Thank you, Madilla. ''Thank'' you."

"He's so busy," is Madilla's explanation. "I am, too, of course, but… differently. He wouldn't want to do it less than wholeheartedly, and…" It sounds as though she has (mostly) convinced herself. "You're welcome, Leova. Honestly. Truly. I will do my absolute best for her, I promise." She has to drop her gaze towards her cup, now, and from there to the cakes. She takes one, eating it in a way that is very nearly methodical.

"Not like people ever get un-busy," Leova points out, and follows suit. Only, she ''is'' methodical.

"And..." Madilla isn't looking up as she speaks again. "Accidents do happen."

"They do." Purposefully or otherwise. Leova says, "If there were an accident... he wouldn't expect you to stop it, I hope."

Madilla's cheeks are pink again. "I don't believe so," she says. And, "I wouldn't. ''Couldn't''." Her breath escapes, ragged. Then, rather too quickly: "These cakes are delicious."

"Good. I like them too," says Leova, who may not have ''tasted'' a one. "Is an accident... on its way?"

"No." It's amazing how Madilla can make that single syllable sound both relieved and disappointed. "We joked, after we made the decision, that I'd probably instantly-- but no. ''We'' made that decision, Leova. It's not like... he pressured me, or anything. It's fine." She'll even plaster a smile, thin but still visible, onto her face. "How old ''is'' Raj's little girl, now?"

Leova eyes Madilla like she can see ''right through'' that smile. But: "Good. For the 'we.'" And, "Older than the twins." Her gaze goes distant, if briefly. "Turn and a half, maybe. Not nursing anymore, so there's that... she's got dark hair, lots of it, the auntie puts it in braids. She's not ''ill''-cared for." Just not wanted.

Madilla, however, gives Leova a placid glance in return. "Good," she says, nodding enthusiastically. "It's a good age, for the upheaval, I think. I'm sure it will be traumatic at first, but she'll forget. Do you... think it's likely that she'll be claimed back, one day? Or at least... will they be interested in her?"

Leova laughs, low. Madilla, she's more confident than ''she'' is. But: "Didn't sound like they'd be interested, but they might." She's not laughing now. "The rest... when I was going to take her in, myself, they wanted me to talk to a harper. To foster her official-like, not just that but adopt her, so even if I died then the Weyr would take care of her. So they wouldn't have to take her back."

Madilla isn't laughing, either. "That's awful," she says, bluntly, but with feeling. "That they… that poor child. ''Well''." It's decisive. "One way or another, she's going to get a home - a proper one." It also, it seems, requires more tea.

"When you're ready," Leova says. "Even just to see. I'll take you." With that, she holds out her own cup: another round, all around, and then sweets.
|when=Day 6, Month 8, Turn 33
|categories=General
}}

Logs:Changing Up

2016-05-29T05:42:02Z

Varied:

{{Log
|who=Leova, Suireh/ST{{!}}Maris
|what=Leova feels old to play Cinderella. Maris is a master of a fairy godmother.
|where=Maris' Quarters, HRW
|day=22
|month=13
|turn=34
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2014.06.13
|quote="Let's take it slow."
|mentions=Anvori, K'del, Taikrin, U'sot, Varian, Veylin2, Via
|type=Log
|ooc=Thank you to Suireh for STing!
|icons=leova sunrise sunset in-between.jpg
|log=A wiry woman, hair greyed throughout, straightens herself, back uncurling and an ungainly push from the ground unbending her knees. Slate eyes look critically down at the hemline of the skirt, before a dry voice advises, "You may think it needs to be shorter, but shorter is less in style this season and you've the winter to think about. If you pair it with a nice set of heels the tanners could cobble together for you, it should be about the right length for winter gather fun." And before the Polaris greenrider can protest, Maris flickers fingers, turns her back to start writing in a hide, "I've an appointment you've run into. We'll speak again when next I fit you."

It's a cozy little room, Maris' quarters, the weaver apparently preferring her own room to the clutter of the workrooms. Not that the clutter here is any better, but it's cozy. It's home. Everything is in its place and that's happy making for people far too set in their ways to change. By the closed door in the hallway, there's a bench with a fabulously embroidered cushion atop it and a small stack of 'reading' supplies; where 'reading' is in quotes simply because they're more bound together sheets of designs. There's a fire in the hearth and the distinction between work area and sleeping area is made by a heavy tapestry.

If the weaver's impatient, Leova's had practice with not seeming so. Practice, even, with not ''being'' so. Arriving some minutes before she was due, after a glance flicked the other greenrider's way, she'd had a token look at the designs and settled into jotting notes on her slate. For this, she's as simply clad as ever: boxy tunic, trous, riding boots with recently-cleaned soles. While she waits until that greenrider's moved past to stand and approach the weaver, amber eyes seek Maris out well before then. It's been a while.

Slate meets amber briefly, in a throw away glance behind her shoulder and a careless gesture to the sitting area next to the pedestal. However short, that split second glance somehow conveys sentiment: welcome, relief, and a distinct warmth that's fleeting. The paperwork Maris works on is finished with a neat line through a final 't', and then she's turning, hands braced to the table to consider Leova in a long, silent appraisal. It's a dance played as often in their infrequency of seeing each other: the loser? Whoever speaks first.

The greenrider approaches, but doesn't sit. Rather, she pivots once Maris looks to her, a slow motion that takes her full circle: yes, this is how she looks. Still. Cropped hair and all, though it's less sun-rusted this far into the Turn. She doesn't favor the one scarred hand, nor hide it from the weaver's gaze. And since she doesn't mind losing, not for this: "Have plans for Turnover?"

"Oooh," the brittle voice smooths with that elongated syllable, trailing off into a breathless exhale of the mildest triumph. She won, see. "You know me," she doesn't, but the facade is always nice, "I'll be shacked up with one of the uncles who can still manage to navigate a woman's body." There is, of course, a healthy dose of wry humor infused into this statement. Maris pushes herself off the table and comes up a few steps from Leova, making a circular perimeter around the greenrider, making a little sniff here and reaching out to curl a lock of that cropped hair about her pinky before releasing it. "I see children haven't ruined you entirely."

Does Leova get a bonus, when she lets Maris win? "Good luck with that," the greenrider says quite wryly in her turn, the more so for having the luxury of a weyrmate who's technically an uncle if not the decrepit variety. But. She stills at the touch. Turns her head. Regards Maris, quiet. Until, "No, but give them time. How ''is'' your grandson?"

"He hasn't managed to impregnant ''all'' the girls at the Farmercraft, for which I'm thankful. And you should be too. The world does not need to be populated by a litter sprung from his loins. They'll rue the day when they denied him the opportunity to be Searched by Igen." There's a story there that doesn't get told. Maris eases back, her gray eyes still in constant appraisal of the woman before her and then finally smiles, deepening the well-aged wrinkles about her face. "Did I mention? You should be saluting me now, Vrianth's rider. The biddies at the Hall have finally approved my promotion. Honorary, no doubt. I imagine they think I'll fade off into the sunset with my new found Mastership."

"Thank you, Faranth," the dragonhealer duly murmurs. Lifts her eyes skyward, even, or at least to Maris' ceiling. Then to Maris, not lifted at all. She has a one-cornered smile to match the other woman's, even if what lines she does have don't measure up. "Congratulations. Not going to ''send'' you off, are they? Somewhere warm? With sunsets twice a day."

"It may come as a shock to you, greenrider of a Weyr, but such cold assignments are not for the weak of heart and not as popular as one might think." Maris gestures to the pedestal when it becomes clear Leova isn't going to sit. "They're probably more than happy I will stay right where I am, was born, was raised, will die, rather than mess with their Hall politics." The eye roll doesn't manifest in her actual features, but it's thickly ladden in her tone. "Are sunsets twice a day something you might be looking for though, m'dear?" A rolled measuring tape appears from a pocket, released to unroll and swing like a yoyo-less yoyo near her knees.

Leova does remove her boots, first, tucking the laces neatly beneath their tongues. Her socks are, as ever, darned where once they had holes. Upon mounting the pedestal she stands straight, though she does keep her feet her shoulders' width apart and one hand automatically clasping the other wrist behind her hips. "Good 'nough. None of those for me, no, though this time of winter... would like to actually ''see'' one, hm? Got a good ledge for it, but no." Silence, for a moment. "Might be changing up my duties some, though." She doesn't have to say, just between them. They know. "Might affect my clothes. U'sot wants me to make a decision. Haven't talked to Taikrin yet."

"Moreso than a child does?" Maris brushes her thumb lightly against what might have once been a milk stain. It's fleeting and mostly on the way for her hands to go about Leova's body in order to start getting measurements. The numbers are never said aloud. They're not even written down until she's done, which she isn't just yet. But they're always precise. "Lift." Her arms presumably, as Maris' hands come up along the sides of the greenrider's torso. "And what does your better half think?"

Leova tenses, forcibly relaxing a moment later. She's wearing, as ever, the tight binders. A shake of her head is her reply, whether Maris needs it or not. Also as ever, she follows directions. Lifts. Waits. "She is not keen on that idea." As ever. "Too much waiting around. Flying without me, it's not the same." Though the weaver hadn't asked, "He likes it. I'd be around more. We could have lunch more regular-like. More responsibility, though, filling in when it's needed. Like with Cadejoth." She makes her grimace brief. "And knows that if Vrianth's not happy," ain't nobody happy.

"The life of a rider sometimes reminds me of marriage," remarks Maris. "Except your partner doesn't always progress past the maturity of a teenager. It was never the life for me." The bindings allow the weaver to touch a little more closely, to get the measurement all the tighter; knowing her client. "I have something that might interest you. If you're interested."

"Mm." She's not, quite, smiling. "If you think it might. Worth a look, to be sure." Leova adds, closer to neutral than reluctant but only just, "Thought about changing things up."

Maris pats Leova's cheek in a motherly fashion, with just that splash of maternal condescension, the kind that's not really superior or ill-meant, but somehow all-knowing. A smile creases the old woman's features once more as she departs Leova's side to go towards the large wardrobe on one side of the room and opens it. Rifling through the various fabrics, the now Master pauses, gently caresses one and pulls its hanger out: a lovely champagne concoction with shimmering gold highlights threaded into the chiffon-esque fabric. "It'll need to be taken in around the waist, you've lost quite a bit since our last venture. But I could have it ready for Turnover. For whatever you and your ''man''," the emphasis is slight, perhaps teasing, "Decide to do then. I hear there's a winter ball at Bitra."

Leova doesn't object the way she might have done fifteen Turns ago, twenty, twenty-five. Thirty, nearly. Nor does she watch Maris move away, looking instead into the middle distance. Until Maris speaks. Then she looks. That nearly-thirty-ago Leova may not be there anymore. Twenty-five-ago has a certain repressed longing in her eyes. Today's says, "It looks rich for my blood." She has no Blood.

"Consider it a loan. It was my final project as a journeyman. It deserves to breathe and see life. I expect it back in one piece afterwards. Please," Maris adds, "Don't stand too close to the hearth. ''Dance'' for all the turns I haven't been able to out of honor for my age." As if Maris doesn't dance anymore. "It should suit your figure. You'll let me know if adjustments should be made. There's a built in support system." The dress, she drapes over the side of the couch and she returns, presumably to renew her measurements: arms, neck, and inner thighs left.

How many women are wandering around the Weyr with a figure that this dress would suit? With the coloring, likewise? The longing vanishes beneath Leova's deliberate deliberation, and slow appreciation, and agreement. "I won't say no. Thank you, Maris." She swallows once, and then suddenly Maris may be able to measure her thighs, but not elsewhere because her hand is over her face.

This is new. So new that for a moment, a tangible perplexity hangs in the air as Maris's expression twitches with indecision of what to do: continue and measure, pretend not to notice, or... an arm slips about Leova's shoulder, slipping unobtrusively and then descending with the lightest feather touch. It then lifts so calloused fingers can pet through the greenrider's hair. She's quiet, the new-made Master, and takes a step back, giving the once Tillekian space. She waits.

She gasps, a hiccuping noise that she strangles before it can become a sob. Her head stays bowed as Maris steps back. She nods. She lifts her hand. Even then, it takes Leova a minute before she looks back. She wears no eye makeup, no makeup at all, and so it has not smeared.

For a weaver, Maris lacks the expected niceties of handkerchiefs, but she does have scrap fabric. It's within reach, just right there, and yet-... The weaver holds out a hand, taking the liberty to reach out and grip Leova's hand. Her fingers are strong, the callouses running deep from her finger tips to the palm. They're rough, working people's hands, a touch of the reality of Maris' life beyond the facade of put together attire and carefully cultivated exteriors.

Leova's is the scarred hand, pale lines now against the brown. It has calluses too, despite the time spent oiling Vrianth. They have that in common. The woman says to the other woman, quietly, "Maybe I don't have to disappear anymore." Any word could be weighted. None of them are. None except, "Thank you. Let's take it slow." Except for that dress, that night.

Take it slow. Even without the desire evinced by Leova, Maris is the type to be slower than normal. Measurements are taken, small talk made of Turnover plans and discussions of necklines and hemlines and what the greenrider previous to Leova wanted -- all very nonchalant but gauging nonetheless. And when the hour is up, the dress passed on with a not-normal-to-them hug, one-handed thought it might be. "Take good care of it. Shine at Bitra, let them ask who it's made by and let's give those dust-gatherers at Weaver Hall have something more to worry about."

Leova will, she promises more with her expression than with words. She'll let Maris know how it went, said in words but only a few. In the end, she'll also leave ''on time''. Even with the gift of a borrowed dress, with a hug, with a held hand... some things just can't be allowed to change.
|Involves=High Reaches Weyr
|when=It is winter, day 22, month 13, Turn 34 of Interval 10.
|categories=
}}

Logs:Incapacitating Dragons

2016-05-29T05:41:41Z

Varied:

{{Log
|who=G'laer, Leova
|what=How would you do in a dragon? Leova and G'laer discuss. ''Hypothetically.''
|where=Dragon Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=12
|month=1
|turn=35
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2014.06.19
|quote="So long as no one takes it into their heads to start attacking dragons..."
|mentions=Rone, Varian, Veylin2
|type=Log
|ooc=So way, way back-dated to before G'laer and H'vier were friends. But, like, when ''else'' do people talk about this! Many thanks to Leova for being flexible about so very very back-dating!
|icons=g'laer trustme.jpg, leova on-the-move.jpg
|log='''Dragon Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr

''The vast cavern has much the same odor of redwort and numbweed as the human infirmary, though here it's seasoned with coppery ichor rather than the iron of blood. It's also laid out similarly though on a much more massive scale, its walls lined with a number of places for patients, in this case large dragon couches recessed into the floor for ease of access; nearby cots provide space for riders. Tucked into the western curve is a huge circulating pool of warm water, by which are kept vats of oil.''

''The healers' duty station is a counter on the north side of the room, a checkpoint before the storage rooms behind it that are now shared with the human infirmary, hosting supplies that are as neatly labeled and carefully scrubbed as the rest of the infirmary. The senior dragonhealer has an office there as well, and human-sized double doors have recently been built as a direct route to the human infirmary, while opposite a wide winding tunnel leads to the east bowl.''
----

The wind howls above a Bowl floored with layer after layer of ice. Snow's stockpiled against the surrounding cliffs, and about anywhere else a dragon won't land and humans haven't walked. By rights the dragon infirmary ought to be busy: sprains and strains from crashes, chapped and patchy hide, lethargy from the unrelenting cold. It's not. It's quiet. The rusty-haired dragonhealer on duty has sent all but one helper off, and has herself resorted to copying not-so-legible hides anew.

G'laer isn't a dragonhealer. He isn't even properly a trainee. But he has been helping for some time with mixing salves and tinctures and poultices for the stores and he occasionally imitates a trainee with surprising focus and interest. But since he's not really official, he keeps his own hours and is rarely predictable, but since he come often enough that stock is never low (unless the greater stock of the Weyr is low), not many mind. He exits from the storerooms carrying an empty crate and stowing it where it belongs for future supply runs. He yawns on his way over to Leova, not bothering to cover it. "Busy day," is his greeting comment, in his usual neutral tone, though a slight twitch at the corner of his lips might suggest for one who's paying attention the facetiousness in the words if the words don't do that for themselves.

"Might run out of numbweed, this rate." Leova's low, smoky voice alludes to a chuckle, for all that her own expression doesn't alter. She watches him a few steps' worth, then returns to her work. The movements of her quill are longer than writing would have required, precise, exact. The sketch expands. It's not quite a facsimile of the original: here and there are sections simplified, others detailed.

"I guess that's how things go in Interval." G'laer returns with another slight twitch to the edge of his lips, though it's no less serious. "So long as no one takes it into their heads to start attacking dragons," what with the crazy things that have happened with the Holds in recent turns, "we'll see a lot more like this I shouldn't wonder."

"So long," Leova affirms: heard and witnessed. She cross-hatches the beginnings of the border. Doesn't look up. Does say, a few strokes onward, "Could do with less damage dragon-to-dragon too."

"Yes, but at least how ''that'' happens is fairly straightforward." G'laer observes, his brow wrinkling, still apparently stuck back on the last. "How would they even do that? People to a dragon, I mean." Maybe he's thinking of Teisyth who spends so much time with him at Crom where the Vijays are wintering. Certainly ''those'' people have no love of most 'Reaches riders, one would think.

"'Very carefully.'" Leova looks up, now: to study the other greenrider. "How much hurt we talking about? ''Vrianth'' doesn't care much for high shrill noises." Such as the twins'. Not quite on the other end of the spectrum, "Arrow to the eye, you tell me: how tough a shot you reckon that is."

"I don't know. How much hurt would they want to do, do you think? I mean, killing a rider is probably easier than killing a dragon, but I suppose they do have some weaknesses that could be exploited?" G'laer sounds uncertain, possibly thinking to his knowledge of dragon anatomy, or perhaps simply deferring to Leova as the expert. "Arrow to the eye wouldn't be overly difficult if the dragon weren't moving. Are the lids terribly thick when they're all closed? Do you think a person could get close enough to the average dragon without them waking to make that kind of a shot on a still target?"

"Depends on the dragon," says Leova, wry. She's capped her ink and now begins to clean her pen. "Tend to sleep better at home, mostly, though. Not so much out and away. Be interesting to test them, actually: not the arrow part," of course! "but the sleeping and sneaking." A dark splotch threatens to stain one finger. She keeps working, looking at the other greenrider now and again. "Arrow... you might lose the eye." Her nostrils flare, her lip curls, but her voice is steady as though she's unaware of either. "Don't think it would get up to the brain, though, not 'less it was a hatchling. You seen any hostility out there, to dragons?" As opposed to their riders...

"Not in any real way. Doesn't mean I don't wonder what the Vijays think every time they see a 'Reaches dragon on the Crom heights." G'laer relates what might be either reassuring news or the stuff of nightmares. "Get many more days like this one and you'll have to undertake the study. I'd volunteer to do some sneaking, but I wonder if it doesn't matter whether it's a rider or someone unbonded. I wonder sometimes if our minds end up more receptive to dragons on the whole in some way, sort of akin to those who can hear all dragons or if it doesn't matter. Could make a study of that too, with the right assortment of volunteers." The male greenrider's stance is ever at least a little at the ready, though he's more or less relaxed in his philosophical state of mind, content to linger where he is and talk just now.

"Mm." Leova says it mildly, but then, her various roles in the Vijays' capture aren't at all well-known. "Reckon it might. Openness... and plain and simple ''smell'', one way or another." She leans her elbows on the counter, leans over them. "Don't imagine there'd be a hard time finding volunteers among the younglings, not if they think there'd be a chance on Impressing easier. ''Dragons'', now..."

"True. I suppose smell and their vision helps them well enough when they're awake, in terms of if they were to get attacked." G'laer muses. "I wonder if the younglings would really serve well for it in any case. If someone were to take it into their heads to take on a dragon, wouldn't they pick somebody who was trained, to do the job?" One hand reaches to scratch a finger against his jaw briefly. "I can only imagine Teisyth volunteering. She'd be so excited about it that she'd never manage to get to sleep in the first place. Then sleep through anything because she was so tired when she finally did sleep." Oh, Teisyth.

Oh, Teisyth. Leova spares a slight but abiding smile for his dragon. Though, "Younglings will do about anything, sensible or not, if they get it into their heads. But. Meant them for the study. Receptivity."

"Oh, I see." G'laer acknowledges the correction. "I was still thinking about what a dragon might have to defend against. The guard in me." The last is offered by way of explanation.

"Hamstringing." It comes out flat. "Hind leg'd be the worst." The dragonhealer considers the man. "Something tossed that sticks and flames at the same time. Run across anything like that? Acid, the strong stuff smiths have, again to the eyes. Headknobs. Lower muzzle too. Or wing membrane, worse'n a cut."

"Hamstringing. Suppose that would make getting off the ground nigh impossible." G'laer's tone is thoughtful, and he turns toward where there's a poster of dragon anatomy mounted on the wall. "Tar would do well enough for that sort of thing. And Crom has a bountiful supply." What with all those coal mines. "Hm," is all the reaction the acid idea gets. But probably just because he's not a Smith; where would he get any experience with that kind of thing?

"How would you toss the tar? Slingshot? Then again," Leova says. "There's always a flamethrower." Speaking of acid. It's as dry as, "Half-surprised we didn't see that in Nabol. Maybe the price's too high."

"Personally? I'd do it on an arrow. The tar ought to stick well enough for the flame to do damage." G'laer answers back, "But a slingshot might do. If it were coated so the tar didn't stick to ''it''." His lips twitch and his brows draw together just a touch as he considers, "Holders do have an ample supply of flamethrowers. Maybe we ought to be tracking how much fuel for them is being traded to where." To be prepared in case anyone gets funny ideas. "We were fortunate with Nabol." Now he does frown. "Most would've been completely unprepared if it'd gone a different way from what I can tell."

"Maybe so. Maybe some of 'em would be glad to get the flamethrowers off their hands, come to that. For a price." The older greenrider stretches her knuckles, just short of cracking them. "An Interval price, not like they don't have to be kept up. But. Different way, which way? Rone?"

"Seems the sort of strategic thing a Weyr might do to reduce the possible negative outcomes as the Interval draws on. We're still so early in it." G'laer's words bring to mind the thought: what else might yet happen? "A different way, in the way you suggest. If Rone had decided to come against the Weyr. If dragons had been targets. I don't think most who Impress now, or even many who've Impressed these last turns understand what it is to be a warrior; not like it was when there was Thread to fight. I imagine." He can only do that. Imagine.

"Mm. Can't count on another comet, one way or another." A moment passes. Leova says, "Quite the difference, fighting Fall. Fighting your own kind." If not for all.

"If it came, I wonder who would fight and who would cower." Obviously G'laer thinks some would. Slowly, he shakes his head.

"Now? Too many." Leova glances outward, towards where the Red Star would be, as though she could see it through solid rock. Or the comets. "Back then, we were used to it. What we were meant to do. Never truly knew, when it trickled off, which would be the last."

G'laer nods slowly. "I think in some ways we were better off then, but I suppose I can't really speak to that, never having known it but as a child." Surely his parents fought, and that is something more than ignorance but less than knowing.

"Which." The elder greenrider looks at the younger with a different sort of focus: the lines about his eyes and elsewhere. The way the flesh sits on his bones, head and neck and hands. The line of his hair, its color, its density. The lift of her brows makes her words, at last, a question.

"No wasting time-" G'laer begins after a thoughtful pause, but it's just then that there's suddenly no time to waste, a draconic cry heralding the arrival of the injury of the day, effectively ending the philosophical discourse and putting all hands to work.
|when=Day 12, Month 1, Turn 35
|categories=
}}
[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]
[[Category:Dragonhealing_Logs]]

Logs:Four Days After

2016-05-29T05:41:22Z

Varied:

{{Log
|who=Anvori, Leova
|what=[[Logs:Death_in_the_Family,_Part_1 | Anvori's father died.]] Now he's back.
|where=Anvori's quarters
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=9
|month=2
|turn=36
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2014.10.28
|quote="Are you going to be mad at me for long?"
|mentions=Edolan, Riahla, Suireh, Varian, Veylin2, Via
|type=Log
|icons=leova prowl on-the-move2.png, anvori.png
|log=His arrival is as he said it would be: ''four days after the funeral, just after lunch''. He might have been spotted putting his Tillekian marked runner into the stables. Or stopping by the Snowasis to check in briefly, pick up some books, and wander out. Or even dropping by the kitchen for a bite to eat, carrying a tray of food back though the lower caverns to his room. They might have seen him depart his room, sans tray, and drop by the nurseries, and may have granted him smiles as three little children race to him and nearly bowl him over with hugs. But it's his room he ultimately retires to, with the food, without the children (who are left behind with promises of later). And it's the seat at the desk that now claims one wall of his quarters, that he sits with his back to the door, with his books, his food, and an empty vial by his mug of tea. He is clean-shaven, clean in general for someone who wasn't seen dropping by the baths (but maybe the Weyr gossips missed that part; he's certainly far more plush and not ''as'' nice to look at now as he once was).

The door opens, slowly. There's a woman behind it with the right to open it without knocking, but she has anyway. It was less a true knock than a resting of her palm against the wood, twice, thrice, before the handle moved beneath her hand. Her hair's combed, shaped even, less untidy than when she herself had first come to the Weyr. It's been that way for quite some time. The sun-rust, though, that was cut while he was gone. "Anvori," she says his name to him, the way Vrianth never has and his runner never will.

Her arrival was expected, and it shows in the way his shoulders tense fractionally, and that sharp drawn breath sounds in the otherwise quiet room. It's that moment where he seems to have expected ''more'' after the name and when none comes, immediately relaxes, pivoting at the hip to drape an arm over the back of his chair and give Leova a pretty good simulation of a wearied smile; a smile that tries to aim for tired from travel and tired from the two weeks of ''family''. "Hey you," that, at least is completely sincere, the endearment underlining simple words. It precedes him rising and him crossing the room to stand before her for one second too long before those arms wrap about her. "You. Missed you."

She hugs him, tight. She doesn't try to take his breath away, not by force. "Missed you," she agrees, confirms, affirms. His mouth is familiar to her mouth in more than words, and she familiarizes herself all over again. "We all missed you," but they don't do this, not like this. She does.

She ''does''. And it pleases him, the upward climb of his mouth felt in all the various way he re-familiarizes himself with her and while she might not aim to take his breath away, the kissing does tighten the hold he has over her shoulder and back and press him-to-her and her-to-him all the more closely. "I was wrong," is what he says in a moment to breath, and then pulls away just slightly. "It was wrong of me to not ask you to come with me." This is admitted freely, in earnest voice and eyes, even if his lashes might shift away for a half-beat. "How was holding up the fort here?" With the 'we all'' who missed him too.

"We managed." Holding up the fort. But then, "Look here." At her. She'll see what his lashes do then.

Anvori steadies his gaze on her. There could be quippy words to accompany this action, something to take the odd tenseness out of the air. Such as: ''I'm looking'' or ''Always.'' But he's silent, with only one quirked eyebrow to punctuate his ''looking''.

"What happened?" Might be, Leova just means the funeral.

He can't help it, that tell, his eyes shift again before veering back immediately. He remembers, too late. Still, he pretends it didn't happen and replies, "What you'd expect. We sent him out on a boat. We paid our respects. There was family. Maybe a little too much family, and then I left when I could. Suireh stayed behind to care for mother." He eases back. "Haven't had much to eat yet today. Have you? Want to share? I made sandwiches." As he does.

"How is she? Riahla?" They're an even better tool for temporizing than sandwiches. Belatedly, "Your mother?" It doesn't mean Leova's chin isn't a little too firmly set, the way it has been since she'd seen that flick yet again, but even that can wait for the girls.

The desire to start over might sit strongly with Anvori, palpable in the way his eyes suddenly shift again, this time emotionally rather than tracking-wise. The combination of longing and hope and then cooled resignation when the set of Leova's jaw is discerned. He eases further back and then turns his back to return to his table and retrieve a sandwich and his mug. A bite that claims half the wedge, some chewing, a not so hurried swallow. "She's... she's coping. I'm afraid I didn't wait until morning to leave so I don't know how her night went. She elected to keep my mother company. I... cou- didn't stay." Riahla's story waits until he's finished the other half of the wedge.

She watches him eat, and then she moves around him to his table, to ntake a wedge of her own. She moves a little stiffly. She doesn't ask him to share after all, or call him on his not handing it over. She's not so old, or so prideful, that she can't get it herself. He just sent his father out to sea. ''But.'' Glass rolls. The vial.

He ignores the fact she got herself a sandwich. Those eyes don't even flicker as he watches her do this. Or when that vial rolls. That one he very studiously ignores and takes a small sip from his mug. "Riahla is unfazed. I mean, she's bothered. She's sad, but it's taking less emotional toll on her and I wonder if it is, in part, because of Zeth."

"Good." The woman glances at her fingers, then eats. Each bite is small, but not dainty. "Reckon it helps. But then she always did have more bounce." Resilience. Then, "You wanted to get out of there that bad?"

"Faranth help me, yes." While his greeting might have been sincere, this carries conviction; a very abashed conviction. "We never got along much in life. But in death... I started to remember everything we had done, where we did get along where... It seems miserable to constantly think and regret and being there was just a reminder of regrets." His better sense catches up with him and his sudden confession ends abruptly. Anvori reaches for another sandwich, and holds fast to his mostly undrunk mug.

"Aye." Sandwich or no, mug or no, Leova reaches to clasp his forearm in commiseration as she can. She hasn't talked about her own family, her own parents, hardly at all: not as an actual conversation so much as references here and there, and the rare times when she's in her cups. Regrets, she too has them.

Maybe he's tired of dancing around whatever pegacorn is in the room. "Are you going to be mad at me for long?" There's resignation again and a contemplative stare at the hand on his forearm.

Her grip tightens involuntarily, and then she jerks her hand back. At least it's the sandwich-arm and not the other one. "I'm not," wasn't anyway, "mad."

"Oh." Well ''shit''. "Ok. I am sorry. I really am. I should have let you come." Cause /that's/ an even better choice of words.

"No, no, you didn't want me to come." ''That's'' going to help too.

Anvori pauses. He doesn't move, when she does. He doesn't attempt to eat the sandwich. But his body is tense, stiff suddenly with all the tenseness that's permeating the air in these apartments. "Sure," is his clipped response. ''If that's what you want to believe.'' No matter how true what she says is.

She eats, deliberately. It frees her hands, or will. If he's still looking at her that way when she's done, "''I was going to take you.''"

"Sure." He's gone into quiet mode. Give up mode. Curt mode. The mug gets a lot more attention now, downed in just a few gulps and set down with such noiseless gentleness that belies the situation. "I'm going to lie down. Had a long day." Week. A beat. "I promised Via we'd have an indoor picnic tonight for dinner." It's an invitation without an actual invitation.

She knows that mode. "We can fly somewhere and have a real one. I don't mind."

"Whatever." Pause. "You want." It could've been a dangerous moment, and he knows it with the deliberate pause. "I'm going to lie down now." Anvori repeats and makes his way from the main room to the bedroom.

Her hands tighten on her belt. "You do that." Calm. It's after her weyrmate departs that Leova reexamines the desk. It's that or follow him. There are crumbs to place into a little pile. Books to examine, and stack. The vial to turn over, then sniff.

She recognizes it. But she'll deal with it later.
|when=Day 9, Month 2, Turn 36
|categories=
}}

Logs:Wishes

2016-05-29T05:39:29Z

Varied:

{{Log
|who=Anvori, Leova
|what=After Teris dies, weyrmates Anvori and Leova have to address what-ifs [[Logs:Need|again]].
|where=Dragonhealers' Office, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=27
|month=6
|turn=36
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2014.12.09
|quote="I don't think I can trust myself not to just want you to live forever."
|mentions=Madilla, Teris, Varian, Veylin2, Via
|type=Log
|icons=leova roaming.jpg, anvori.png
|log=An uneasy truce has settled between the weyrmated pair as life claims their attention and what little time they have together is in silence, a little fraught, but companionable enough for the turns together. Via needs a parent accompanying her on a trip to Harper Hall, which her mother takes. Veylin, the younger, trips and breaks a finger and has an exciting overnight stay in the infirmary, which her father takes. Dragonhealing, the bar, life. At night, the nights they have to themselves, he holds her, pets her hair, but is nominally silent. After a week, life almost seems to be returning to normal. And then there's Teris again. It's nearly a seven ''after'' the goldrider has claimed her own life that Anvori finally says something. Or rather, doesn't say anything. He seeks her out, his steps heavier than the norm, finding her in the dragonhealing offices and knocks on the door, out of courtesy, before stepping in. He's made it past all the guards, the formalities of the desk and some veneer of the charm he's used to convince her assistants to let him pass remains fleeting on his features. The name, "Leova," is proceeded by an uncomfortable cough. His hands play with a sheet of paper in his hands.

Those assistants must have been protective of the woman who leans over the deep desk, long-armed, straining. She can't recover Iskiveth. Can't recover Teris. ''Can'' recover the cap to her ink pen, though even that drops at her name. For him, she abandons what she'd sought to save. She turns. Amber eyes seek Anvori. "What?" Is it Varian's turn?

Wordlessly, Anvori slides the paper onto her desk. The conciseness of the note is shaky, and doubled over, as if he had to write it twice to make sure he meant it: [ Write it all down for me. So I know what to do. I'll honor all your wishes. ] He waits. He's usually so good at waiting, but today -- today he's not good at anything other than standing (no, hovering really), and tangibly waiting for a response. It crackles in the air about him, the unnerved quality that overcomes the brief foray into flirtatious charm outside these walls. He waits, with audible breath, that crackle of ''something'' in the air, and watches, hazel eyes beady and fixed to Leova to catch anything of importance in how she looks or feels -- things his weyrmate might not say.

The way she looks at it, it's not his handwriting. The way she looks at it, it might be his father's that she's never seen. She looks at him as though to double check. Leova looks at Anvori in all his energy, here in what's becoming her place, here away from home. Vrianth crackles with her own live wire. "Take a chair," Vrianth's rider says, quite calm. She doesn't say to ''sit''. It's more like, ''hold on''.

Obey and honor, right? He sits. Folding those tense hands in his laps. Some small part of him that's still the Anvori of old tries to break the tension with a quip: "Maybe I should have tied that around a bottle of old liquor."

Her brows lift. "Would be for you," Leova says with dryness. With love, too; "Not even a child for after." She pushes back her hair, turning towards the door. The paper's still in her hand. She toes the wedge into place, to keep it closed, in a way that might be more for him than for her. With the door, the closed door at her back, she looks at her weyrmate. Then she completes the circuit back to her desk. It doesn't take long. It's barely a line, in graphite, nothing so permanent as ink.

By the time she's at the door, he's half rising, before sitting abruptly when she comes back. There's the art of pretending not to care while still craning to read that Anvori, for all his turns as a barkeep, has not perfected. Or maybe, it's just this situation where he doesn't bother with pretenses. "Is that it?" is what he finally voices, unable to make out the line from where he is, where she writes, what she writes.

It's: [In case of Teris. Yes?] She shows him, grave amber eyes above plain grey lines.

What a let down. There's relief. That it wasn't just one line. That it wasn't so easy for her to write. But then there's tension that... it wasn't the answer he wanted. He nods, mute again.

[ For you. For them. Both. ] This time, when Leova writes that one line, those five words, she doesn't look away from him. This time, her lettering is less regular, the paper braced on the palm of her hand. This time, when she shows him the words, her writing-stick points to that last word in question. She doesn't require of him, a second time, to make his own mark.

This time, he speaks: "Both, if you wish. But me. I don't want you to live if that's not what you want to do. But I don't think I can trust myself not to just want you to live forever." If it's in writing now... His eyes finish the statement he can't quite bring himself to say aloud. ''If it's in writing now, when you're rational and not grief-struck.''

Leova nods, slow. She wraps the paper about the writing-stick, rolling it, then sets both down behind her. She doesn't look away from Anvori for long even when she does turn for supplies. "S'all right to ''want'' it. I won't mind." Now or... later. "Here." She has a chair to place facing his, a board for her knee, paper to write on. Actual ink. Fresh paper, when she presses the nib too hard and it stains. She says it out loud. "I can't live without Vrianth." A new line. This time it's silent. "Don't make me." Silent. "Let me go." Silent. "Don't let anyone stop me." Not silent. "I love you, Anvori." Silent. "I'm sorry." She signs it, she dates it, she can't crease it. The ink is still black and wet.

For all he tried to look before, he doesn't even try now, not when the realities of it are sinking in with each word she does and does not say. "I don't want to see what you've written," even if he's heard it, or what might be some of it, "Until it happens. Lock it away. Give it to Madilla to give me when. I... I love you, Leova." The voice is that of a broken man, preemptively grieving for something that might never happen. Who then rises, and walks out.

He's left, and the ink hasn't even dried. When she sees her weyrmate again, the paper will be gone. If her hands have stained, she'll have scrubbed those too, scrubbed them raw.
|when=Day 27, Month 6, Turn 36 of Interval 10
|categories=
}}

Logs:In Case Of

2016-05-29T05:39:03Z

Varied:

{{Log
|who=Leova, Madilla
|what=Plum cake and rebellion.
|where=Sunset Across the Lake Ledge, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=Healer Hall, High Reaches Weyr
|day=13
|month=9
|turn=36
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.01.01
|quote="What can we do."
|mentions=Anvori, H'kon, R'hin, Raija, Raj, Satiet, Teris, Tevara, U'sot, Varian, Veylin2, Via
|type=Log
|ooc=Backdated.
|icons=madilla.jpg, leova roaming.jpg
|log=It had been sealed, that letter Leova had left with Madilla. Madilla, her friend. Madilla, the Weyrhealer. Madilla, who had been caught up in a swarm of questions upon her return to High Reaches Weyr. It wasn't until later, with summer lengthening and daylight shortening, that the dragonhealer sought out the human healer for aught but smaller things. Work was permissible. Children were, most days. A short meal, or tea, those were welcomed. ''Respites''. So much as a whisper of Vrianth's death... that took the waiting time, the fading of the days, the inquest still ahead.

Sunlight still glints off the lake. The trees' leaves have not yet fallen, and they whisper secrets over the bench they shelter, but only to each other. There is as yet no shortage of wheat. Not known. Not in these parts. Leova bites into the slice of plum cake and, tasty as it is, she still brushes away its few small crumbs that fall.

That letter didn't need an explanation, and it didn't need comment; it has been filed away, now, relegated to a locked drawer where - please, please, ''please'' - it can stay forever. There's been so much else to worry about; so many things to manage. And now… it's only days, now, until the inquest; days that weigh heavily upon the healer, though she's not been forward in talking about them - indeed, rather the opposite. She's quiet, too, now, her feet flat upon the stone ledge beneath them, her posture straight.

The cake, though; that makes her sigh. It's ''good'', even if she doesn't say as much.

Leova's turned her head to look at her friend. "Can get you a pillow," she says, turning up one corner of a smile. "Let you can lean back." She's starting to stand.

"That'll just make me feel old," says Madilla, who nonetheless rolls her shoulders back, stretching. "No, no, I'm fine. Sit. ''Sit''." It's not an order… but it could be.

Leova looks at her, that smile deepening. "Don't have to give orders here, you don't." That's for the ''could be''. Her sitting, for she does that, is for the ''it's not''. "Happen to like pillows. Bring a fur out here, sometimes."

Madilla's, "Sorry," is said with a laugh, wry and amused. "One gets used to it. At work, and at home, too, sometimes. As it happens, I like pillows, too. And furs-- good for making the most of the space, right? Even once winter comes." 'Winter' has her idly stretching her toes, as if to make the most of the not-yet-wintry weather.

'At home?' lifts Leova's brows in query until... "Yes, of course. The children." Though her gaze does check with Madilla: ''is'' H'kon housebroken? Not-speaking of menfolk: "Don't much like to think of winter." She picks at what crumbs remain. Piles them up. "Don't much, well. If you don't mind a little work-talk." She's got some.

The children, confirms Madilla's nod, those dark brows raising just briefly in response to that checking gaze: what? Surely not. Although there ''is'' Arekoth… "No," she agrees, not-quite-solemn but still verging towards it. "I don't want to think of winter, either, but-- go on. Work-talk is always fine."

Vrianth, of course, is nowhere in sight. Doesn't mean Leova doesn't look for her anyway, amber gaze tilting momentarily above them towards where the rangy green ''watches''. "Yes. Well." She swallows. "It's the Teris thing," has some apology. "That letter I gave you, back when." The one with her and Anvori's names on it.

Madilla is quieter, in answering this. "I've locked it away," she says. "Forever, I hope. But-- it will be there; I'll have it." But she'll turn her face towards Leova, now, to watch her friend with an unreadable expression. Waiting, really. For… for the conversation that's to come.

"What are you thinking?" Is it a matter of ''thinking''?

"I'm…" but Madilla stops, shakes her head. "It's what I ''feel'' that makes the difference."

"What do you mean?" Leova asks.

Now, Madilla turns her gaze back towards the lake, so far below them, pausing to work through her thoughts - her ''feelings'' - before she comes up with an answer. "Everything's complicated," she says. "I feel so much for all of you; who had to face your own situations. Guilt. Sorrow. Horror."

"Don't." It's immediate. It's followed by Leova pressing her hands over her eyes. "You can, I mean," she says before she lowers them, before she wipes them on her knees. "If they did, maybe they'd understand. But you? You know. Already."

Madilla's expression is an apology, stark upon her pale face-- that summer tan, the one gifted by her months away, is long-since gone. "I do," she agrees. "As much as I can." Not enough; too much.

"I don't want you to hurt again," Leova says intensely. "Don't want to hurt you." But she has to say this.

"No," says Madilla, immediately-- fast, and just as intense. "No, say what you need to. I need you to."

Leova says it. "Anvori. He won't be able to, if Vrianth's lost, if I'm not yet with her. He asked me to write it out. I did." More than sunset dilates her eyes. "If someone brings me to the healers, the way they did her. If someone else takes over," the way they did. "What can I do? Now. To make sure."

For a moment, there's something in Madilla's expression reminiscent of the overwhelmed child she once was; the apprentice struggling to deal with the enormity of a weyrwoman's end, that same apprentice steeling herself to help a friend get rid of a child, despite her own beliefs. But she swallows, straightening her posture all over again, and answers, very quietly: "I'll have it put on your file. Your wishes, recorded. I'm… I want to take it up with the Masterhealer. I want to make sure this never happens again. I promise, I'll do ''everything I can'' to make sure of it."

"Do you think she would listen?" Leova, quiet. "Do you think she would care?"

Honestly? "I don't know. I hope so. I want… to push for education. Exposure. ''Understanding''. I don't know what the inquest will find," and clearly, Madilla's thoughts as to that impending date are conflicted, "But I ''have'' to believe we can do better. I don't want to be a healer, if my craft can condone such cruelty."

"Your craft, ''we'' can't do without you." Leova.

Madilla's gaze drops towards her feet, and she gives a little unhappy nod. "And I don't know what I would do without it. So I have to make my case. I have to… make this work. For you. For ''all'' of you."

"More pressure." Leova. "I'm sorry." Leova, not taking it back. She ''can't''.

"No," says Madilla, quickly, glancing up and across. Her eyes may be glassy, but her gaze is firm. "It's important. It's… it's maybe the ''most'' important thing I can do. Right now."

<s>More important than babies?!</s> "What can we do." It can't be a question. She can't count on an answer.

"Help me to educate." Madilla is surprisingly sure, on this front. "I want to start a formal program; all healer apprentices need to spend time in a Weyr. I'll need dragonriders to… to try and ''explain''." It's clearly not yet a whole idea or proposal; the furrow of her brow suggests she's still working it through in her head.

"Yes. ''Know'' you show them some, here. But." Leova's mouth tightens. "Officially or not. You bring 'em here..."

Madilla's, "Thank you," comes out on an exhale.

Belated: "U'sot, reckon he'll sign on."

"Good." Solidly, this time. "Dragonhealers-- there's a weight to that. People who've flown 'fall, too." Madilla presses her hands flat upon her thighs, presses hard.

"Officially or not," wry. Leova adds, "Can always flame something."

It makes Madilla smile… almost.

"Bring out the scars." That's wry too. <s>Bring out yer dead!</s>

"''Yes''." It's just short of intense.

"If she doesn't answer right," more slowly. "Might need to train people: ''don't'' bring to healers." Leova looks not-quite-apology at Madilla. "Or certain ones."

It's the possibility that Tevara ''won't'' answer right that bothers Madilla, given the timing of her shadowed expression; not the latter comment. "I'll… have a list of healers," she says. "If it comes to that. Or you just… take people between, right then and there. We'll work something out."

"If I'm. If someone is, does." Leova breathes out. "Need to know what line matters to Healer, what won't piss the place off as they take our healers away."

Wryly, "I need to be careful, too… I need to make sure they don't send me away."

"'''Aye.'''"

"But I can manage that. We just… keep it quiet." And then, after a breath: "It doesn't happen often, at least."

"There'll always be somebody as likes to tell." Then, "No."

"I'm not ashamed. I'll stand by it. Whatever we need to do."

"Don't need pitting our Weyr," practically, "our weyrleaders 'gainst the Hall."

Madilla's nod is slow. "Quiet, quiet. Keep… keep anyone too official out of it." Except Madilla; this is ''hers''.

"Aye." Then: "Need people as who ''would'' take a body ''between''." Pause. "Or give over the draught. But that's not ''with'' her."

''With her''. Madilla's breath catches, just for a moment; then, she steels herself, and says, "It's something that should be on the healer file of all dragonriders; what they would prefer, in that case."

"Can talk to them. Ask 'em to come in, one by one. See you," Leova says. "Not a body else."

"Yes." Madilla's answer is prompt.

"Not saying," Leova thinks out, "Can't change their minds, say to stay, if they wanted to." But who'd want to?

"Yes, of course. But it just means there's something there, on their files, to back up… to back up what they're saying."

"What Anvori said. So's he doesn't have to ''remember''. So's it's not on him." Leova says, plain, "''Not'' on him. My choice. Shouldn't have to bring him in."

It's an uncomfortable thought; Madilla's hesitation, after, and the way she stares off into the distance, is likely because of thoughts on her ''own'' situation. But, "Yes." And, "I'd look out for him. If it came to that."

"'Preciate it." More than that.

"And the children." Quiet. Solid.

"Yes. Shells, yes." Not heart''broken'', but cracked. Fast: "You know what H'kon wants."

Quietly, just above a whisper: "H'kon wouldn't be H'kon without Arekoth." There's understanding, there, and acknowledgement. It doesn't mean the thought doesn't break Madilla's heart.

Leova can't speak. She can't. She looks up again, up high. She holds a hand up: wait.

As it happens, Madilla can't bring herself to say anything else, anyway. She waits. Her eyes? They're glassy again.

So Leova says something. Leova says, "R'hin. Going to find R'hin."

"R'hin." That's easier to say; to exhale on. "Yes."

Not this instant. Leova isn't going anywhere. "He'll make things happen. Reckon for me, if he has to. He will."

Madilla's nod shows no doubt. "I believe it," she confirms. "That's good." Her voice is still delicate, fractured glass, but nothing is breaking.

"It won't happen." Not to her. Not volunteering him to off anyone else either, seems like. "But." Leova's gaze strays to the last of the plum cake. ''It's'' not ominous at all, it's sweet and tasty and rich with the summer's ripening, transformed by human hands. It's tasty, but she doesn't have to have it to live. She says with a quiet, final laugh, "Imagine if they opened that letter, it told them they had to be friends."

For a moment - just a moment - Madilla is still and silent, and then? Then she laughs. "Like Satiet's letters," she says.

Satiet. "I can't do that," Leova says, not laughing now. "Can't write letters to the girls, to the boy. If I ''knew''," she'd like to think so. Now? "I can't."

"I know," says Madilla. She's not laughing, either.

"Can we.... Is this enough? For now?"

Can Madilla cope with any more? No doubt that accounts for the quiet relief when she says, "Yes. It's enough. I don't... " Pause. "It's enough. For now."

"For now."
|Categories=The Death of Teris Logs
}}
[[Category:The_Death_of_Teris_Logs]]

Logs:Backup Plan

2016-05-29T05:38:36Z

Varied:

{{Log
|who=Leova, R'hin
|what=Leova's [[Logs:Any As Needs It|talked to H'kon]]. Next step: R'hin. It's a different step.
|where=Homestead Built For Two Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|day=25
|month=10
|turn=36
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.01.15
|quote="He'll hate me, you know. More than he does ''now''..."
|mentions=Anvori, Bristia, Joremy, Madilla, Miska, Riahla, Suireh, Teris, U'sot, Varian, Via, Veylin2, Wulfan
|type=Log
|icons=r'hin.jpg, leova prowl on-the-move2.png
|log=Electricity, too dark for the visible spectrum, flows. It's when their times intersect, Leiventh and Vrianth's, that she descends for his ledge. Rain slants off her wings, off Leova's shoulders, off the greenrider's hood as she walks directly for the weyr itself.

Rain has rarely bothered Leiventh. He is near invisible, in his perch up on the rim of the bowl, though bright eyes and cold winds surround Vrianth in answer, the green's descent undoubtedly getting his attention. There's no protest, however. Bristia's weyr is dark, but R'hin's is lit, visible from the outside. The door is not locked, and the weyr's warm, the hearth burning low to keep off autumn's chill. Hides are spread across the table, but R'hin is seated on the couch, carefully oiling a set of straps, a familiar routine for a rider, and a familiar, welcoming scent, too. He doesn't look up; maybe Leiventh warned him. Maybe not. "I hope you come bearing gifts," he says, attention still on the straps.

"I don't." Leova walks deeper in, not without looking around. She's slower to sit, on the couch's opposite arm. "But I can help with the work." Amber eyes slant the other rider's way, even before she discards her coat. Before she'll reach for the leather. Vrianth had looked in, before she'd closed the door. Whatever the rangy dragon's nosing at now depends on what's there. She might even stay just for stone.

With a noise that is partway between snort and grunt, R'hin says, "Luckily for you I'm not a lesser man, or I'd turn you back out into the rain." Her voice is familiar, and recognized, and so he doesn't look until she draws nearer, slanting her a sidelong glance, pale eyes surprised, perhaps, at the offer. He doesn't protest, and the slight tip of head seems to be acknowledgement. Neither Leiventh nor Saindyth seem the sort to keep any knicknacks or keepsakes; the wallows however are comfortable and scented of the familiar dragons.

"Wouldn't be here," wry like she's quoting. Leova leans to choose a strap without the fresh-oiled sheen, finds it attached to the one he's working on, picks another. A rag's worth of oil, that's next. She doesn't say more just yet.

Another noise, this time more obviously amused, as R'hin settling into a comfortable silence, like Leova just showing up randomly to help him oil Leiventh's straps happen all the time. That or he's used to exercising patience, even if there's an obviously curious flicker of pale eyes in her direction as she settles in.

She works for a while, meticulous. Might be, it takes a while for Vrianth to settle. "The Teris thing," she says at last. "Don't reckon that it's over."

He quirks a brow at her, inquisitively.

"This 'training program.' Haven't heard anything about abiding by a rider's wishes. You?" She's taking her time with the well-used leather. She doesn't stop even when she speaks. "This 'committee.' Even with Madilla heading, they say."

"Doesn't matter," R'hin says, with an air of easy dismissiveness. "Isn't their choice, or their jurisdiction."

"Don't want another Miska, ''allowed'' to do that."

He looks at her, steadily. After a beat: "She had choices available to her."

Amber eyes lift, dark on grey. "Finally."

A pause; a minute shake of his head. "I offered to take her. She didn't accept." A beat. "''Couldn't''," he amends, after a moment. "But she had the ''choice''."

"'Couldn't'?" The leather stops within her palm, wider than Vrianth's.

Lips thin, and pale eyes return to the leather he's working on. His voice changes; darker, reminiscent. "Sometimes, after, they can't stand to be near the Weyr. Near riders. Their dragons."

''She'' doesn't look away. "Right after?"

A flash of something briefly in his expression, before he looks at her steadily, questioningly.

"When they can't stand it. That right after, already?" She loosens her grip. "Or when there's been that delay."

"Sometimes both. It depends on the person." Despite her clarification, despite ''his'' answer, there's still that quizzical expression when he regards her.

"Mm." Then, "We didn't see much Fall. Didn't work, much, in the dragon infirmary until after." She considers him, settled as though she really did show up to help this way all the time, settled and yet not at ease. "U'sot. Well."

Pale eyes take in her demeanor, and, after a moment, R'hin pushes up, walking towards the sideboard. He takes a moment to make a selection, a small, dark bottle. He opens it as he walks back towards the couch, offering it to her, first.

She receives it, opens it, all with a quiet near-ceremony. Her eyes are on him when she drinks. A second sip later, she passes it back. "Sweet." Sweet''er''.

He grins, like he's pleased with her reaction, and accepts the bottle, taking an easy gulp, too. He recaps it, but sets it between them within easy reach.

It lasts her. "Came to say," she says. "Want you to help us, R'hin, if ever it went down that way."

His brow twitches upwards, betraying surprise. Maybe he's playing dumb; maybe he's thinking it over.

She has straps to oil. She does so.

He looks at her, steadily, while she works, pale eyes unblinking. "Yes." None of his usual bargaining, seeking favors or questions. Just that grave, single, syllable of agreement.

For that, her gaze turns back to the other rider. She inclines her head, deliberate. "Chose you," she says, "to count on."

He, too, nods, pale eyes unwavering on hers, expression unusually grave.

Her brows lift, this time, subtle as the angle of her head.

"He'll hate me, you know. More than he does ''now'', your boor."

"Yes." She's quiet, that moment. "Would regret that much, if I could."

"I wouldn't. Won't, if it comes to that." Is that reassuring?

"Wouldn't tell on you, if you did." There's that slight lift to her mouth, one corner's worth.

A faint, more familiar, glitter of pale eyes answers, as he offers her the bottle, again.

She accepts, again. She drinks, again. It's only after he's had his turn, if he does, and after some time. "Wrote a letter, for Madilla, for my file, for ''him''." Her loved one. "Better not come to that. But. You should know."

He does, of course, like it's ''expected''. She drinks; so does he. His brow furrows at that, but he nods. "The kids?" Does she want to leave ''them'' something?

"Not that kind of letter." In the next breath, "Mostly." Immediately, "But not. Not, '...'" becoming just, "'....' No last words."

That, apparently, is worthy of offering the bottle again. "Can always change your mind on that later, as they get older. Via's not far off apprenticing, if she wanted to. Few turns."

"''Can'' do," dry even before she drinks. Before she gives him a look that's just as much, there on her daughter's name, considering through another draught.

"Hard to let 'em go," he says. "Heard mine came and saw you." If there's rancour about that, it isn't visible in the bronzerider's expression.

"Always good to see them," she says, that plain. More rueful, "Not have to chase them down."

"Mm." Beat. "Isn't so easy when they get ''wilful'' and ''independent''."

"No." That one-cornered smile, once more. She drinks, sighs, hands it back. "So busy at Igen, that one. But." Slow, slow. "Long as there's not another bout of skin falling off, like to think she'll do all right. All those ''changeovers'' less contagious."

R'hin's expression tightens, like maybe that's news to him, and he doesn't seem particularly happy about it, either. "They have bigger things to worry about at Igen than disease," he says in a dark tone. "She oughtn't linger there. Last time I saw that many guards in a major hold..." his jaw tightens. But he does, after a moment, drink, in an obligatory fashion.

"Aye?" She'd let the oiling go. Now she leans to re-soften the rag.

"Anywhere but Igen," is all he says, finally. Surely she can pass that message on, and with more weight than if it'd come from the wayward harper's father.

She nods. Yet it comes with, "'Last time'?"

He doesn't explain, despite prompting, only says, "Only scared, precarious or ambitious Holds make such a show of force. All of those are dangerous."

"Mm." The movement stops. "Not saying anything aught new, R'hin." It's mild.

"For Suireh." It's not quite pleading, but not far off it, either.

She exhales. "Of course."

Perhaps it's with gratitude, now, that he offers her the bottle again.

Surely not to keep her from prompting again. She doesn't ask. She takes it.
|Involves=High Reaches Weyr
|when=Day 25, month 10, Turn 36 of Interval 10
|categories=
}}

Logs:Paying Your Debts

2016-05-29T05:38:13Z

Varied:

{{Log
|who=Leova, R'hin, Enwei
|what=Leova and R'hin repay their respective debts to a healer in what seems like an easy experiment at face value, but is... not so much. For either of them.
|where=Healer Hall
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=22
|month=11
|turn=36
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.01.23
|quote="Doing our part to save Pern, and all that."
|mentions=I'daur, Vesik, K'del, Satiet, N'thei, Anvori, Suireh, Riahla, Via, Varian, Veylin2, Bristia
|type=Log
|ooc=After reading [http://www.nytimes.com/2015/01/11/fashion/modern-love-to-fall-in-love-with-anyone-do-this.html this fascinating article], we decided to [http://www.nytimes.com/2015/01/11/fashion/no-37-big-wedding-or-small.html try the experiment] on two very reticent characters.
|icons-new=Icon leova.jpg, Icon r'hin.jpg,
|log=The greenrider's watching the door. When it's R'hin who walks into the barren little room, enlivened only by a couple of soft chairs, a rug and a folding table of refreshments, she ''almost'' doesn't look surprised. Dry, "Who ''really'' planned this thing?"

R'hin's expression says far more than any words might; he's trailing Enwei into the room, stopping in the entrance and rocking back on his heels when he spots Leova. There's a sharp exhale, gaze narrowing briefly, at ''her'', rather than the healer, suspicious in kind. "Enwei," he addresses the healer, all-too-casually; ''she'' grins, both at his expression and at the greenrider, too.

"I'm very grateful you're both willing to assist." Enwei doesn't even stumble on the word ''willing'', blandness riding over that the favors were ''owed'' and paid out to the healer Journeywoman, or her compatriots. Carefully, she sets a sheaf of hides down on the table, tapping them. "The instructions are in here. Follow them all, and tomorrow, you'll come back for individual interviews with me. I really," and Enwei ''smiles'' now, pleased, "Appreciate you assisting my research. This is going to be invaluable for my Master's."

Leova has a slight shake of her head for R'hin. Her gaze moves to this Enwei, then, the healer she'd all but ignored. It stays there, to a stranger reflective and even mild. "Understood." That tone's a hair too flat for merely mild. So is, "Doing our part to save Pern, and all that."

"Yes. Saving Pern. Good, I like that," Enwei says in a tone that suggests she might well ''use'' that. Maybe even steal it for the title of her research. The bronzerider's still blocking the door, and so she gives him an even look that, after a beat, causes the Savannah rider to grudgingly concede to sliding sidewards, allowing the healer to exit. The door gives a very ordinary sounding ''click'' when it shuts behind her.

R'hin, for his part, gives the hides a cursory glances, and walks instead to examine the offerings on the refreshment's table. "Must've been a big debt," he says, easily, not bothering to throw a glance over her shoulder. "Me, I can think of worse things than ''talking''. Been ''asked'' to do worse things than talking, so..." an amused, familiar chuckle comes from his direction.

"Can tell me what you owed," Leova says, less mild and more dry once more. "Don't mind." Another thoughtful look to where Enwei disappeared, and she's rounding her chair to take up those hides. ''She'' leafs through them, now and again hmning to herself, certain of those remarks for R'hin's benefit rather than her own. "Maybe it's even in here. 'What did I do that was worse. Worst.'"

"You ''first''," R'hin replies laughingly, with no expectation that she ''will'', and an understanding that he won't, ''either''. There's the familiar ''pop'' of a bottle being opened, and the splash of liquid. "Best start with the white -- they didn't even bother to leave something to keep it cool." The ''heathens'' is implied. As he walks back over, offering her one of the glasses, his brow rises. "Is this part of Enwei's experiment?" he says, with low-throated laughter, "Or are you just really that curious."

"Could do," Leova remarks with a one-cornered smile. Call her bluff. Just try. She accepts the glass, setting it safely on the chair's arm before shaking out her shoulders. "''That's'' for bringing it up. Shells, R'hin. I just don't know about this." It's not what she ''does''.

''He'' gives a shrug, then shifts around so that he can lean over Leova's shoulder to peruse the hides she's holding. Clucking his tongue, R'hin says, "Not so adventurous in your old age? Settling down's really ''changed'' you," he remarks, with familiar glibness. "'Who would I want as a dinner guest? Anyone in the world?'," he reads. "That's ''easy''."

She doesn't twitch, though there may be a solidity to the set of her shoulder that wasn't there before. She even angles the hides to make it easier. "It's ''easy to pull out an answer''," Leova notes. "But if you only had the one chance? 'Course. The longer it takes to answer," the longer they're here? Something else? She doesn't deliberate much longer. "I'll go with the Masterharper. Quiz him about our girl." His turn.

R'hin's browse rise at her suggestion of ''drawing things out'', but he gives an easy shake of his head, moving past her and over to the other arm chair. He stretches his legs out, crossing one boot over the other, taking a generous sip. A twitch of lips answers her pick, but his comes soon after: "Fax."

"Not much of a conversationalist," Leova mentions. What with being dead and all. "Not going to say why?" Though she'll relent if it must: "'The next wants to know if you'd like to be famous." She eyes him. "'More famous,'" has an indugent quality before, "In what way." Possibly she made that last up, but then would she, even if he hadn't looked over her shoulder?

"It didn't say they had to be ''alive''," R'hin says, with a shrug. "If she didn't mean not-dead-people, she should've clarified. Wouldn't ''you''," he leans forward, adjusting his glass adroitly so he doesn't spill a drop, "Want to know what sort of man he was? Why he did what he did? How he did it? How ''one man'' put the Weyrs so thoroughly on their back foot?" ''He'' certainly would, and it doesn't sound like he admires the man so much as a need to satisfy his own curiosity. The next question is easy: "No. ''I'' like anonymity." But ''her''? His head tips as if to guess at her answer before she gives it.

"I'd want to know," Leova admits, and she ''could'' deny it but. She doesn't. She even slides back down into her chair, adjusting it with a heel on the way so it's more aslant. "But it's not what I'd pick, R'hin. Not over something else. Not," she stops with a one-shouldered shrug and carries it into the next topic's laugh, low. "Not hardly," suggests understatement, right before she turns the hide around so he can read it aloud.

"An opportunity like that..." R'hin clucks his tongue, as if it's one ''he'' couldn't pass up. His brows go up in a ''no?'' fashion, chuckling under his breath, at ''her'', of course. "No songs of Leova's ride for you, then?" He takes a long, savoring drink from his glass, the proffering of hides forcing him to uncross his stretched legs to lean close enough to see. "Mm. Do you ever rehearse what you're going to say to people before you talk to them, and why?" He grins, ''knowingly''. "All the time. Because ''anticipation'' is ''advantage''." A flip of his wrist towards the greenrider, as if to say ''over to you''.

"Not a whole lot of people I'd want to know it," Leova underscores. The way she side-eyes R'hin suggests he might not be one of them. Might ''intend'' to suggest. "No songs, no story, no picture books. And, 'course I do. Saves time." Among other things. "'What would constitute a ''perfect'' day for you,'" turns out dubious indeed, and worth her first drink.

"''I'd'' like to hear it," R'hin says, with a chuckle. "Bet Bristia'd write something for you. I'll ask her, later," he says, as if making a mental note to himself, rather than asking the Glacier rider's permission. He ''does'' however, seem surprised at her answer to the latter, giving a ''huh'', and a long, considering regard of pale eyes. "Should've figured. You're always so... ''measured''." Hard to tell whether he means that as compliment or not. The next question has him shaking his head, and the response is tossed out facetiously, indeed: "Every day with Leiventh."

She looks at him, sharply. The moment doesn't, won't, last. She doesn't tell him not to, doesn't invite more attention to the mix. By contrast, she receives 'measured' in a suitably corresponding way and, for Leiventh, "I believe you." Facetiously said or not. Leova's gaze is level. "'Course, now I have to say Vrianth ''and'' something. Something pieced together, something taught, something... made better than it was."

The ''something'' earns a quizzical look from the bronzerider, and a brief gesture of fingers, as if to say, ''go on''. Apparently vague isn't overly satisfying.

Leova eyes those fingers like she might have snapped them if ''he'd'' snapped them, pointedly, before meeting his gaze again with a shrug. "Don't have to be any one thing." It's slipped deeper into her accent like an old housecoat, but with the ring of truth. "Going to read?" Apparently Leova isn't living to satisfy R'hin... and neither does she live to thwart him.

"Just... Vrianth and ''something''," he echoes, dubiously. R'hin stares at her for a moment, finally stirred to movement by taking a drink. His gaze falls to the hides, and with a sudden grin, starts to hum -- it's familiar, the Ballad of Lessa's ride, and abruptly he starts to sing in a low baritone, "Yet promise lives by those of heart, salvation lies in gleam of eye; revealed by Leova, greenrider! undaunted by a wise guy." He's mangled the lyrics, deliberately, laughing.

Leova doesn't blush often, nor do her brown cheeks show it well. She presses her lips together, that most visible sign of discomfiture not leaving until he's a line or two in... and then those amber eyes narrow. ''Right'' when he's done, "''R'hin''." Only, how can she not laugh? Barely. Sliding even further into the depths of her chair, her expression nearly a laugh on its own, she moves quickly. "Fine, have that one. I sang the 'get up already' song to the twins," her twins, "this morning. 'If you were able to live to the age of ninety, would you rather think or look like a thirty-Turn-old for the last sixty?'"

The bronzerider is ''pleased'' with himself, clearly, but more pleased at the reaction. "A much better refrain than the original, don't you think?" R'hin tips his glass to her in toast, draining out the rest of it, balancing it on the arm of his chair. "That's easy: I'd keep the ''mind'' of the ninety-year-old and the body of a thirty-year-old. Why would you give up all those Turns of knowledge and experience?" he makes a noise, like that one was an ''easy'' giveaway. And yet, he ''does'' wait for her answer, too, pale eyes glittering.

Leova merely smiles, deliberately close-lipped at that. But for the other, "Same," she says, though not as readily. "''Don't'' want to wind up as one of the droolers, hm? But then ''between's'' got a cure for that. Speaking of." But ''he'' has to read it. So say the rules. She's following the rules when she holds the hide high.

"Think ''they'' help us keep our minds sharp," R'hin speculates, undoubtedly referring to their dragons. "Not a thing the healers can bottle up and send out, though." With a shrug of shoulders, he makes a face at her, pale eyes shifting from her face to the hide she holds up. "Do you..." he trails off, expression mutating marginally into something tighter -- but then that's a lot for ''R'hin'', before he continues in a voice that's suddenly lacking his previous humor: "Do you have a secret hunch about how you will die?"

"Better, if they know what's good for 'em." But Leova's regarding him even before he starts reading, close, close. She doesn't override his reactions with anything light, doesn't dredge them down with an anchor of sorrow. "''Between''," comes as not only repetition but near-relief. Her pause is perhaps-unexpectedly delicate. "For Turns... I had a plan." This pause is longer, but poised on the brink.

R'hin's not putting off his ''own'' answer, but he doesn't say anything yet, waiting for the greenrider to tip over into the edge of sharing. He pushes to his feet, walking deliberately towards the refreshments table, the splash of liquid indicating his purpose. That it gives her a moment of privacy, artificial as it is, is probably deliberate. That it gives ''him'' some is, perhaps, more so.

"You remember I'daur," Leova says to begin with. Her head's turned only enough to glimpse him from the side.

He doesn't turn, fully. "We picked him as our Weyrlingmaster. To make things... better." A dryness in the response, as he takes a gulp from his glass.

"Pieced or otherwise," comes with a half-smile. Her smoky voice drifts, not aimlessly but as though on some quiet current one can't quite see. "He'd told me about their accident. Everyone knew they had one, but Zunaeth... we had in mind to find out just when, and just how, and over time we did. At night I'd show her, and she'd remind me, and we could see it. We could ''go'', when it came to that."

"Why?" R'hin asks, simply, turning to face her, now. ''Why'' would they do that.

"They say you can't change what you didn't change." Her gaze is like her voice. "Reckoned when we got that far, we're dying anyhow, we could /try/. Maybe, somewhere, there'd be a Zunaeth who made it whole."

The bronzerider gives a nod to that; confirmation. Personal experience? R'hin picks up the bottle and walks to her side, offering her a refill. "So," with a smile, a hint of his more usual lightness: "Singing Lessa's song was not far off. Except it wasn't the ''five Weyrs'', but the ''Weyrlingmaster'' you sought to save."

She accepts the libation if not the libretto. "Would have done," Leova says simply. "'The Weyrlingmaster,' suppose that's as good a translation as any." And as insufficient as many.

He hums a few more lines of the ballad, but perhaps mercifully doesn't break into song again.

"Your turn," Leova adds at the very end, in time.

He ''sighs'', like she's interrupted some masterpiece in progress, but complies after a fashion, once he's reclaimed his chair. "A bar somewhere. Back of a bar, somewhere. A knife." His gaze goes ceiling-wards. "Probably from behind. A man whose face I've probably seen before but no longer remember. Leiventh'd go without me. That's the only part of it I'd regret." For a ''hunch'', the details seem fairly specific.

"Is... that a dream?" Her wondering voice is quiet, for all that he can overlook what's loud. "When do you feel it?"

"Late at night. When I'm alone." A dream then? He doesn't confirm.

She doesn't need him to. There's quiet, for a little while. "They want," rises out of that quiet. "three things we think we have in common." ''They'' want, for all that she gives it no emphasis.

He's staring past her, like he doesn't hear her. Maybe he doesn't, at first, processing it slowly. "We love our families," the Savannah rider finally says, in a low voice, with a grimace, "But we struggle to show it." He tugs a hand through his hair. "Neither of us make apologies for putting our dragons first." Frowning, now, as if he finds a third difficult -- or maybe seeks to find the best way to phrase it. "We would die, for the right thought, the right ''ideal''." It's only at the last that pale eyes seek the greenrider, as much to gauge her reaction, as a prompt for ''her'' response.

If he also doesn't see her, see her own grimace, she doesn't bring it to his attention. It's fading anyway, maybe faded, by the time he seeks her out. "Don't give myself that credit," Leova says, looking right back at the other rider. "That last. Not when it means Vrianth." Validating the second. "Won't say you're not right about family. ''Can't''. But that last? Suppose I would, if needs must. Fall, protecting, that's not the same as an ideal. A thought worth her, don't know what that would be."

"I'daur," is all he says, in counter to her waving off that credit.

"How's he, ''they'' an ideal." She might give him a chance. ''But''.

"You almost ''died'' trying to spare someone something they'd long grown adjusted to. Because of the idea of a ''Zunaeth who made it whole''." He mimics her tone and phrasing precisely, deliberately. "That's an ideal."

"Didn't. Only ''would've'', if Fall did get us." Leova stops there, but it has the cadence of a recitation halted.

"Would've, could've, should've," R'hin seems to think the semantics don't matter.

''Some'' would count it agreement that Leova says, "Gratitude time," and points. Right there it says it.

R'hin holds up both hands, as if to indicate she should slow down. "Now there, missy. What about ''your'' three? Surely you can't just ''agree''."

"I think I can," Leova tells him, deadpan. 'Think'? ''Know.'' "You got the good ones. What's left? Two eyes, two legs, so on."

A dismissive snort answers that, ''do better'', the expectant flicker of fingers seems to say.

Leova glances at the door. If it weren't for the healers, no doubt she could keep ''this'' up all night. Then she eyes him, considering.

''Helpfully'', R'hin stands, and does a full, slow spin, as if doing so might jog an answer.

She relents, laugh-lines deepening, into a low chuckle. She also doesn't reply right away, apparently content to let hm do his thing and watch. In time, "We're far from where we started out." One. "We've reasons to be where we are, to do what we do. Didn't just fall into it." Three. "We don't," Leova says, "take things for granted."

With a cluck of his tongue, R'hin's opinion on her comments, "Vague, vaguer, vague''st''," he smooths down his shirt and sinks back into his chair. "You should be one of those fortune tellers. And," he gives a low-throated chuckle, "You missed out on the obvious, ''we're both good looking''. Disappointing, Leova, very disappointing." But it seems he'll allow the answers, since he doesn't press, instead giving a thoughtful twist of lips before he answers the next, what he's ''grateful'' for. The obvious answer is Leiventh, and yet; "People who believe in me, despite being ''me''," is his chosen answer.

"Look, R'hin," Leova says tartly, shaking her head as he sits. And then she ''sighs''. "You and your hot air. Shells." It's her turn to fill up drinks, or something. "Believe in you for what, I wonder," isn't even sarcastic. Or demanding. Sliding back into her seat, this time sideways with a knee hooked over the chair's arm, "'Grateful' isn't good enough for Vrianth. Call it, not having screwed over more than I have." Earlier, a pause had suggested continuation. This one doesn't. But she'd left the hides behind, on accident, so she reaches out for him to hand them over.

R'hin gives a shake of his head, as if her ''asking'' means he can't ''explain'', and he doesn't try to. Having perhaps anticipated the answer from the greenrider, there's little surprise there. Dutifully, he passes over the hides, though not before he recites the next question: "If you could change anything about the way you were raised, what would it be?" Now ''this'' answer the bronzerider's interested in, pale eyes settling on his companion.

"'The way I was raised.' It's not like they didn't ''try'' to keep me in line," Leova says with a curl to her lip. She pushes out a breath. Stares at the hide like the words would change somehow. Says, finally, "My mother did better than I do. My father," she shrugs, whatever. Except, amber eyes lifting to pale at last, "What he could've done, the biggest difference he could've made, isn't how he raised ''me'' but something I saw. That he could've done. That he didn't do." Does it count? If he won't, she won't.

"Yes," R'hin's chuckling under his breath now, pale eyes glittering, "I bet you were ''quite'' the little rascal. Difficult to control, always off... climbing a tree, or falling over something, into, through ''something''." But amusement fades from his expression as she continues, a crease appearing on his brow. "He should've protected you from seeing it?" He doesn't ask ''what'' is. He gives her that much. And, too, he appears to allow it to count.

"''Something''," is dry and, somehow, not quite benign. It disappears into weariness. "No. He... should have done something, R'hin. Someone, one of ours, don't know if he could ''have'' helped her but he didn't. Shells, I think back now and it's not like I saw everything, not like everyone told me everything, so maybe he did but... I never saw it. Reckon maybe ''he'' never saw it." As something that was his business, as something that was a problem at all.

The other rider's finger taps against his glass, though pale eyes don't waver from her. Considering her words, considering ''his'', too. After a lengthy moment, what he finally says is: "You didn't try and change it."

"Oh, no." Beat. "I made things worse."

No beat; his question is immediate: "Would you have gone back and ''fixed it'', like you tried with Zunaeth, if you could?"

"I should." She hasn't. She won't. She... can't?

His voice is whisper soft, almost inaudible: "But you haven't, because you ''didn't''."

"No." Agreement. Negation. "Don't..." Her fist finds her heart, overlies it like a rock. "That it ''could'' happen." That it works that way. And: "Vrianth."

He's on his feet, not moving for ''her'' but the table, off to one side. There's the sounds of clinking, splashing, and then he's coming back to her side, pressing a cool glass into her hand, the liquid dark, the scent of it strong.

Not for her at all, ''no''. With the glass cool in her hand, cooling her hands, "I'm very selfish, you see."

"No," he disagrees with her, firmly, as he takes his seat again.

Her laugh is all but soundless. She drinks, cooled hand and heated tongue, and tips her head back.

"If I could change anything," he leaves her to her silence, but picks up the slack, voice even, "I would change where I was raised. ''Anywhere'' else." R'hin's jaw tightens. "It would've made things ''different''." Not ''better'', just ''different''.

''Different''. The greenrider doesn't turn her head, but her eyes do move. They stay on him, until at last she rouses herself to say, "Wouldn't you know it." She reshuffles the wineglass from the chair's arm, setting it aside to keep the other one. And the hides. "They want us to give life stories, now. In four minutes. In detail." She doesn't have to emphasize that last. She doesn't.

''That'' makes him stop, and, three heartbeats later -- by no coincidence -- he gives a low-throated chuckle. "That wily minx," he says, voice an odd mixture of admiration and antipathy. Now it's his turn to switch to something stronger, abandoning his wineglass on the table in favor of the same liquid he'd chosen for her. "Four minutes." Is that even ''possible''?

"Long as she's not listening at the door," full agreement. Otherwise known as: ''Leova's'' not spilling. Enough that it's to R'hin. "Show me how it's done, hm?"

"Good..." R'hin's already moving to the door, cracking it to check, "...point. She's not." Listening at the crack. "Didn't think she ''would'', it'd spoil her ''experiment''," he notes, wryly. He doesn't, however, retake his seat, instead choosing to lean against the door -- to give them both some more space, to listen for listeners, or ''something''. There's subtle indicators, even for someone used to covering up their reactions: a slight tenseness in his posture, in the way he holds his glass; he doesn't want to go first, ''either''. "I..." he shakes his head, lets out a throaty laugh, and says, "It's hard to know where to start. I'm -- I ''was'', Bitran, born and bred." Strangely, that is the hardest part for him to get it, and it makes him pause, take a breath. His gaze isn't on her; it's not an invitation for comment so much as a chance to gather his thoughts.

Another confirmation: they weren't locked in. Leova turns in her chair to accommodate, not to stare. Not to ask over the experiment. That space he creates for them, he's welcome to it, but it might say something ''for'' that experiment that she's more settled than she could have been. Or for having worked with runners, with weyrlings, with the wounded. But then... it isn't her turn to speak. Not even for that change in tense.

"I was -- I spent a lot of time at the tables. Learned a ''lot''," he grimaces. "I was ''good''. Addicted. And Bitrans ''cheat'', and the house ''always wins'', no matter how good you are. I got in debt, got my family in debt. They bailed me out... once, twice... ''three times the fool''," he sing-songs that last, closely followed with a bitter laugh. "Some of the debt, they said, couldn't be paid in marks. There were things I ''did''," he stops. Doesn't elaborate. "And there was a boy that died." He stops again.

"Was killed," he corrects himself.

And then, with a grimace, he amends, "Was murdered."

Almost inaudibly, on his exhale: "Depending on who you ask."

The dragonhealer doesn't stop him, doesn't slow him. She most certainly doesn't ask. If he looks, she's there, but he doesn't even have to do that. Her turn is coming.

R'hin continues, his voice less natural, more constrained than normal. "My parents decided -- too little, too late -- that it was wise to move. I spent a couple of turns at Keogh with them," he says it, casually, like it's ''nothing'', "And then I joined the Beowin traders, because I was bored, and I ''couldn't''..." he hisses, catches himself, and takes a breath. More evenly, he says, "The Beowins become my family. They spend the winters at Nabol, I met a weyrwoman there once stealing an apple from Lord Nabol's orchard," there's a sudden, fleeting smile for the memory of Satiet, "And..." he spreads his hands, as if to say ''that's it''. Life Before Leiventh.

She witnesses it all. "You made it here." It's quiet, measured, not to dismiss. "Going to ''try'' not to 'rehearse.' Too much." Too far ahead. "L'sen found me, L'vae, at Tillek. The Hold, I mean. In the stables. Never would have thought I'd be a stablegirl." It's reflective, a little distanced, but nothing ''there'' speaks of regret. It doesn't mean the stable doesn't slip back into the smoky song of her speech. It doesn't mean she doesn't look at him at all. "Not because I ran away from Blood or nothing. Born in a small hold, raised in a small hold," not smallhold, not ''the'' Hold. "Traders came by ''maybe'' thrice a Turn." She sips, she takes it slow. She clears her throat against what wants to stay swallowed. "Not so small as to not have the others to run with. That much, you were right about that."

It's probably significant, the way R'hin gulps down the entirety of his glass without any regard for the quality. Her ''try'', not ''rehearse'', earns a genuine, rueful smile, as if he's all-too-aware how hard that can be. He gives her the same courtesy she gave him: attentive silence, sometimes studying her sidelong, sometimes giving her space to collect her thoughts.

"'Difficult to control.' Well, and they hadn't ''time''." Leova's deep in her chair, one boot drawn up, arm hooked about her knee. "Don't know what I'm going to do about ours," hers and Anvori's, "when they're there... Anyhow. Seems too proud to say, I could have my way with them when I wanted. Lean 'em into things. Out of things. Just had to ''want''. Not as though they didn't like it." It could be a different person, that laughing-eyed girl, from the weatherworn woman who sits here now. That inspiring girl. That manipulative girl. It's ''supposed'' to be different. And still, even more removed, "They didn't ''all'' like it. Sometimes that made it better."

There's a low-throated chuckle, for ''theirs'', sympathetic. R'hin doesn't have any advice on that score, and not the best track record even if he'd a mind to share any. The musing look he gives her is as if perhaps it's not far off what he might have ''suspected'', moving over towards the table to refill his glass, glancing over his shoulder at her, with a quirk of brow as he holds up the bottle.

The offer's enough for Leova to finish off what she's got, to offer her glass back again. Once she does, "It's an old story, anyhow. Old the rest of the way too. You got your hold boys, good as far as they go. You got your old crafter leaving and a new one, a ''fine'' one, in his place... apprenticing, you weren't about to do that, but a ''journeyman's'' something different. It's not like... his ''ties''... were ''there''." If R'hin knows what she means, and by the set of her mouth, she doesn't expect surprise.

Dutifully, R'hin refills her glass. "...and holders worry about ''weyrfolk''," he says, with a wry twitch of lips, setting the bottle back down. He doesn't yet reclaim his seat, shifting back nearer, but not quite at, the door.

"Aye." Hers is wry too, oh yes. "So, that's how I wound up back at the Hold," Leova says. She keeps her glass low. She won't hide. She'll even make something like a joke of it, a fine icing of humor that doesn't pretend not to reveal the self-criticism beneath. "Minus the detour when things went wrong, mind. Couldn't stay ''there''." No, no, couldn't let that happen. "But we'd family a ways a way, and as I said, I had a way of getting my way. I managed." Not, perhaps, that easy. "And nigh as soon as I could, I left again a different way."

"So... resourceful, determined," R'hin holds up one, then two fingers, then after a beat, a third: "Unbroken. Count those towards my praises for you later, should ''that'' question come up."

Her brows tighten together. "Did you even ''hear''," only Leova exhales. Eyes him. One corner of her mouth turns up and then, slowly, the other. She swaps knees, circling an arm around the other instead. "Easy one?" Last one? "Your turn to read." She's still got the hides, technically, but she tilts them so he can see.

"I ''heard''," R'hin returns. "You were a young girl, drawn to a powerful, older man, pulled no doubt by fanciful dreams and promises. It happens. It's on ''him'', not ''you''. But you, ''you managed''." He pushes away from the door, and nears her, glancing down. "Gain any one quality or ability," he recites, making a grimace as he takes a bracing gulp from his glass, before answering with rough voice: "The ability to trust people."

"I knew what I wanted." Leova's ''firm'' on that. But for that quality, wryly: "Here I was going to say, reading minds."

The idea of ''reading minds'' makes him shake his head. "I'd not want to know what people really think of me," is R'hin's opinion as he reclaims his chair -- sort of -- leaning on the arm of it, one hand on the back to steady himself, lifting his glass as he waits for the next, tipping his head towards her. "You know," with a smile, "We could skip a few. Enwei would never know."

"Mmm." Then, eyeing him, "She ''would'' know. She'd ''look''. She's a ''healer'', R'hin." Young Leova may not have had such standards, or 'Leova,' but this woman... is trying. "Maybe some will overlap," she allows, turning the hides around. "'If Moreta came back,'" maybe not the original words, "and could tell you the truth about yourself, your life, the future, whatever, what would you want to know."

"Look?" R'hin echoes. "We're not exactly writing this down." ''Better not be'', the brief narrow of gaze seems to suggest. ''That'' doesn't need much consideration, at least. "I'd want her to tell me how the girls turn out. If they're... ok. ''Happy''."

"Look ''at us''. Healers ''know these things''," and what's a poor rider to do? Leova's expression changes as he continues, though. Quiet, "And if not, 'how to change it,'" she supplies. "Maybe I should pick that." But. "How to fix this, this ''thing'' that's been going on with the dragons. How to set it right."

R'hin's, "Mmhmm," is clearly humoring her. He ''nods'', at her amendment, and the flicker of fingers suggests that, in this case at least, he'd be willing to let her take the same answer. Her final answer, though, is surprising: "With the eggs?" He shakes his head, slowly, not ''dismissive'', so much as ''accepting''. He leans forward, reading mostly-upside-down: "Is there something you've dreamed of doing for a long time? Why haven't you done it?" There's a quiet chuckle from the bronzerider, his answer to the question immediate, rather than waiting for her to go first: "Just... leaving. Leaving the Weyr for good. Living alone, on a beach, or in the jungle somewhere. Living off the land. But..." as for why not? Well, he seems to think that mostly obvious: "Leiventh." ''His'' needs outweigh R'hin's.

"With the eggs, or with ''before'' the eggs." That last's quiet. Precise. Unelaborated. But for the ''beach''... "That'd be something," Leova says, quiet but not precise. Intrigued. "As you say. Leiventh. Vrianth. But." A quick breath, "It could happen." She's slower to admit, "Haven't been dreaming of aught like that. Good with what I am doing, already. Doesn't mean I don't think ahead, try and decide right. Doesn't mean I don't sometimes want different as what I have. But.... 'Dreaming' sounds so out of reach. Wistful. Watching the clouds go by." She rolls one shoulder. "Here we go, anyhow: 'What's the greatest accomplishment of your life.'"

"Dreamer Leova," R'hin tries to complicate that title, but the grin that soon follows suggests he doesn't think it suits her overly well. He's interested, perhaps, in her ''side project'', but the gleam of eye doesn't turn into anything verbal; perhaps he's tucking it away for later. It's the latter question that requires some consideration. "Much as I'd like to claim the girls... don't think I have much right to be attributed ''that''," with a twitch of lips. So... "Making Satiet Weyrwoman." He's unapologetic about that, too.

"You can ''claim'' it," Leova notes, amused. "What all did you do? Making it happen. 'Greatest accomplishment': don't think about it that way." She sets her glass aside to pick at her sock, newly discovered to have squished into her boot and all. "I don't know. Done some work for the Weyr, as needed. Helped out where I could. Didn't tell a few people to jump ''between''," this with a one-cornered grin. "That's got to count. But it sounds, well. Everyday, put that way." She's got the hide, she's got the next question: can she go on?

R'hin gives a little flicker of fingers. It could be, ''not elaborating'', as much as ''go on'', though he gives her a ''look'' for her answer. "That's very non-specific," but he appears to be giving her a pass, for now.

Leova lifts her brows at him, one slightly more than the other: ''so'' kind. "Friendship. What do you value most in a friendship." Easy one, given her immediate answer: "Got each other's back."

Easy for him, also: "Bluntness." R'hin must've read ahead to the next, since he asks, "Your most treasured memory?" An immediate smile, genuine and reminiscent, "Holding the twins for the first time." Again, ''not'' Leiventh.

"''Really''." Leova's pursed her lips. She ''can't'' smile. Then she just plain doesn't. "Can tell you weren't the one expected to milk," she says. Since she has to answer too, though, "Don't carry one of those around." Something to give him, though: she hunts for that. "Used to have one, back before Vrianth: there was this time with Little... told you I worked in the stables. Big runner, called her 'Big Foot,'" and her voice plays the humor deadpan. "She was a hauler. Sun was coming in golden, and I was cleaning tack and she was looking over my shoulder, and it was grand. I remember that it was. Don't remember it so well." If he sees the difference.

"A moment," R'hin says, after a beat of silence. "That's nice," he says, genuinely pleased.

"If Vrianth hadn't gotten rid of it, now." It's dry, but it's not a grudge. It's also not, even after twenty-odd Turns, having forgotten. Then Leova's looking at the hide again. "Most horrible memory. Great." She exhales. "Running out, back when. Not even all the dragons dying, dragons and dragonmen."

R'hin, too, grimaces, this requiring a bracing gulp of liquid. "The first comet Threadfall. Hearing dragons -- through Leiventh, too, in pain. Having them all look to ''me'' for answers. And... Jorea." He exhales. Again, his glass is lifted, in silent toast, letting the liquid slip down his throat. "Trying to... just ''talking'' to her, after she'd lost Iseuth, and not being able to ''make it right''," he says, with a bitter sharpness, turning his head away, pressing his free hand to his forehead for a moment.

"Shells." Not surprise. Just a quiet, answering sibilant. Leova looks away when he looks away, gets up and walks away. Not a lot of room ''to'' walk, but she takes it, a slow and measured pace. "Think I know the names." Her fingers drum against her thigh as though they could pull her Records right ''here'', where she needs them. "What was she like? They like. Before." So they're not forgotten, not just names.

He needs that moment, of privacy, of silence. And, neither, does R'hin seem inclined to ''dwell'', or ''elaborate''; he doesn't answer her question, instead taking another, draining gulp from that glass. Still not looking at her, he leans forward to take the hides. Staring at them, but also ''not''.

Seeing that, again Leova looks away, that one small grace. Her bootsteps fall, quiet. Slower now. When they stop, it's with the leather-blunted press of shoulder against stone.

Eventually, he speaks again: not to answer her questions, but to ask the next. There's a roughness in his voice as he says, "If you knew... you would die in a year, what would you change about how you're living, if anything?"

The stone reflects her reply, the quiet ''huh'' of not-surprise. "Cheerful." She rakes a hand through her hair, left longer than it had been a couple Turns past, still not ''long''. "Spend more time with Anvori, give him what I can. The girls, kids, too. Tell U'sot no, for real this time."

"Is that old man propositioning you again?" There's a blandness to his voice -- none of the unusual ''color'', but the words are more familiarly ''him'', at least. He seems to accept her answer without question, adding his own: "Not a lot I'd do different. Try to act like... there's not a lot of time, anyway. Like to spend time with the girls, but they've got their own lives."

Dry: "What can I say. I'm a lucky woman." She is, even just in this. There are still a lot more male wingleaders, male wingseconds, and the dragon infirmary isn't a whole lot different. "'Their own lives'? You say that like they wouldn't want to see you. Like you don't keep ''tabs''."

"They're grown up. They don't want to live in the shadow of their father, or their father's reputation." R'hin is accepting, in that much, at least. "Leiventh talks to Zeth frequently. Or," a little smile that makes it to his voice, warming it: "Zeth talks ''endlessly'' to Leiventh. And Suireh," he sighs. "I used to sneak into every performance. She never knew I was there."

"''Zeth''." Leova, or rather Vrianth, ''not'' resigned. "Of our dragons, let's keep it that way." Warmer, "If you go before I do, I'll tell her, you know." Not that she was there ''all'' the time, herself. Not quite.

Pale eyes still marked with a gleam -- not of pleasure, something else -- settle on her for a moment, and R'hin gives a nod of his head, in assent. He sets aside the hide, and stands, walking towards her, stopping a pace away -- within her personal space.

She lifts her brows, quizzical, if unpaired with an uptilt of her chin. He'd left that hide behind.

"We could just tell her we've done the rest." He's ''done''; is she?

"You could." Amber eyes don't laugh, this time. "You give?" In or up, "I won't lie."

"We have to do it together." It's not quite wheedling, but not far off, either.

On an exhale, she emends, "I won't lie for this."

He, too, exhales, but it's one of resignation. "Go on, then," R'hin jerks a head towards the hides, while ''he'' heads for the drinks.

She pushes off. She goes, she reads, and then there's a ''sound'' through her teeth. "You're reading ahead, aren't you. Or is it... ''really''? Friendship? That's a whole lot like that other question."

"Skip," is R'hin's opinion, in between refills of his glass.

She looks. Then she ''looks'' over her shoulder. Really? He wants to jump into this one? "'What roles,'" Leova reads out loud, one small slip away from following the rules. "'Do love and affection play in your life.' Refill mine too, would you?" There's a note of ''please''.

R'hin shakes his head; seemingly at the ''question'' rather than her request for additional reinforcements in the form of alcohol, given the answering splash of liquid suggests he's complying. "I love High Reaches. She is my mistress. She has guided, coerced, enforced and protected me in many ways, for most of my life." Undoubtedly that's not what the question is intended for, and he strides over, offering her the glass as he adds: "I've known love, and it's often done more harm than good. Affection misguides and misjudges even as it ''gives''. I'm happy with the loves I've known, and my eternal mistress," it is a typically, ''R'hin'' kind of answer, but no less honest for all that.

She takes that glass and then, as long as she's over there, his seat. There's always hers. "High Reaches is my home," Leova gives R'hin in return. "Guess I've done what I've known would help. What I've been told would. What I've hoped would. But I feel... ''better'' for being here. Don't know her as intimately as you, haven't ''moved'' her like you." She glances from him to the door, then the hide. 'Affection,' it says. She doesn't back down from saying it. "Think affection gives. It may misguide, it may misjudge, but it.... 'soothes' isn't the word I want. Makes things go better, though. Makes people go better. Maybe it makes it harder to cut ties when that's got to be done. But it's like sunlight when the winter's been dark, warm, not sun off ice as you can't see."

R'hin regards her acquisition of ''his'' seat with a twitch of brows, and a silent toast before he takes a sip from his glass. While she has his full attention, it's clear on this point he doesn't agree; but he humors her, it seems, by not attempting to argue, which is extremely conciliatory for ''him''. He moves over to lean against his chair, enabling him to see the hides over her shoulder. "Compliment each other... You have nice hair. And you smell nice. And your dragon is pleasant. And you drink like a fish when the occasion calls for it." Apparently that is a compliment, too. "And your eyes are... very evocative. ''Expressive''."

Not arguing means that they needn't linger, and Leova's hardly intent on talking of love. "We're supposed to alternate," she says with a dry look back over her shoulder. "Think that's important. Also reckon you might be the first to call my Vrianth anything so bland as ''pleasant''."

"I never insult nor overly flatter a lady larger and more fearsome than me," R'hin says, and at her admonishment, he gives a not-very-apologetic grin. "I don't always pay attention to the rules. And," he holds up a hand, quickly, "That can't be one of your compliments, as amazing as I am."

"More particular than ''pleasant'' would be flattery? ''R'hin''." Except it's not precisely playful, with or without the nudge to his knee. "Canny," Leova settles on instead of 'humble.' "But you know that. Count-on-able." She's still regarding him as she continues. "Can make things happen. Keep," not the same letter but the same sound, "track of your daughters. Can... and have, R'hin, let them go."

"I thought you didn't agree with that?" Letting them go, presumably.

"Not the way you did it. Letter or no letter."

"But you still think it's a positive characteristic?" He's amused.

"Reckon they're turning out all right. ''Reckon''," Leova says, quiet, "you could have made it work. Would have. But you didn't, when they'd already lost their mother, tear them up in a fight."

R'hin shakes his head, disagreeing: "I couldn't make ''me'' work, let alone make it work for ''them''." He gestures, with one hand, to the hides; with the other, he's taking another gulp: apparently the question deserves it.

Whether or not Leova changed her mind, "So you did it right." She doesn't touch him with more than her gaze. She just moves on, just reads. "'How close and warm is your family,' did you have a happier childhood than most." She also gives him time for more gulps if he needs it. "Mm. Family, here? Warm, aye. Anvori's better at... close," Leova both wistful and grateful for her weyrmate. More subtle is that twinge of guilt. "Don't know about happier than most, but happy enough. Happy enough to not just want anywhere else."

"Family, here," R'hin echoes, and there might be a detectable note of relief that ''she'' doesn't focus on the ''past'', and thus neither does ''he''; "You know better than I. I love the girls, but we are not... I'm a ''rider'', before I'm a ''father''. I think they're happy enough." And ''he's'' happy enough to press onto the next question, reading over her shoulder again: "How do you feel about your relationship with your mother?" He makes a noise in the back of his throat: "That is a mindhealer question, if ever I've heard one." He gestures; ''she'' can go first, ''he'' needs a moment. To drink.

"Where's the father in this?" Leova mutters, but consents to comply. "''Feel'' there's not much of one. Might like it different, but it wouldn't be, couldn't be. Not any good. Your turn." That didn't take long.

It is an autumn night, 22:53 of day 25, month 11, turn 36 of Interval 10.

"I haven't spoken to mine in..." R'hin pauses, possibly to calculate, then gives up with a sharp exhale. "For the best, for everyone."

''Leova's'' certainly not counting. "Hear, hear." She rubs the side of the hides between her fingers, gauging how much room is left, but with a sigh goes on. Not that he can't see, but, "We have to make three true 'we' statements. As in, 'We are both in this room ''feeling''... blank.'" The kicker? "''Each''."

She adds, quickly, "Alternate."

R'hin gives her a sidelong ''look'', like he suspects she's making it up, and leans over to check the hide to make sure, with a noise. "We are both in this room getting drunk and hoping this will end." He gestures, ''your turn''.

Leova gives him an ''approving'' look, of all things. "We are both in this room getting drunk and hoping this will end and... ''not'' going to reward Enwei by going crazy so she can keep us around full-time."

He chuckles in approval at her amendment. "We are both in this room regretting owing a healer a favor, and undoubtedly planning how to pay off any other debts that might get traded that way, again."

"Might, ''we'' might even," Leova rewords to follow instructions, "both be in this room, thinking of how to get these healers to owe ''us'' debts. And what to do with said debts should we get them."

The ''knowing'' grin of R'hin's suggests he's thinking the very same thing. "We are both in this room feeling... ''exposed''." He'll put it out there, if she won't.

She won't. She ''wasn't''. Leova slides a look back at R'hin, even if that's vindicating: did he ''have'' to? "We," she says. Sighs. "Are both in this room feeling like we'd never, ever have done this otherwise. Maybe even surprised that we ''did''." Not that it's over yet.

Of course he had to; it's his modus operandi. R'hin nods at her assessment, exhaling. More reading: "Complete this sentence: 'I wish I had someone with whom I could share...'" he pauses, glances at her, then, after a beat, two, three: "The dark parts of myself that Leiventh can't comprehend."

Those amber eyes widen: that, out of nowhere. Or... not ''nowhere'' so much as ''between''. "I wish," Leova says slowly, as though walking along a path whose destination's unseen, "...that I had someone with whom I could share..." but she can, can't she? what can't she? "...the, ''this''." Her hand moves to her heart again, not a rock this time but looser, gripping, a tangle. "My knots. What people don't understand, and riders don't either... where it wouldn't be a betrayal of anyone."

R'hin's exhale is slow, but he nods, like he understands. It moves him, moves him to stand, to walk away, to get distance, to refresh his drink and make a show of it, over by the table.

Leova sinks back. She shuts her eyes. She doesn't even drink. For a while, she doesn't speak. After that while, she opens her eyes and finds their place: the place on the list. "'If you were going to be a close friend with your partner, please share what would be important for him or her to know.'"

That one is easy; he answers it without needing to think: "I can't be trusted."

Slightly, suddenly, she straightens. Steadily: "I trust you to be yourself."

It makes him, unaccountably, laugh. One those those sorts of honest, belly-laughs.

It makes her, not unaccountably, smile. She slides the hides into the side of the chair, and stretches, crackles popping along her shoulders before she stops. "''Was'' there water?"

"Mm?"

"Over there. That one pitcher." The one that's opaque. Lidded. Not smelling of klah, but not smelling of something else.

He checks, opening the lid, sniffing the contents experimentally, splashing some out into a glass. He shifts his body, slightly, just so -- so she can see, sticks a finger in the clear liquid, puts the tip of his tongue to it, testingly, before taking a small, wary sip. Throws a glance over his shoulder, all-faking-serious-like: "Think you might be safe, kid."

"Wait," she recommends. "There could be delayed effects. Setting your hair on fire and so forth."

"Fair point," he concedes. "Let's wait ten minutes to see if I faint." ''Meanwhile'', he'll come back over, easing those hides away from where she's tucked them, looking. (''Cheating''? Peeking ahead?)

She doesn't ''stop'' him. She ''does'' seek to put him to work. "Go ahead, read the next."

His laughter, her indulgence, his new drink -- some combination thereof -- puts him in a good enough mood that there's a lightness, a ''warmth'' and humor when he reads, aloud: "Tell your partner what you like about them; be very honest..." he chuckles, briefly. "I ''like'' that you're comfortable with silence, with space, and not space."

"'I ''like'','" she repeats after him, playing with the repetition. Maybe just playing. "That you come up with, mm. ''Particular'' things. That you notice. That you aren't all," ''all''? "...closed."

"For tonight, only," he warns her, but there's a humor that touches the words, too. And, because he's read ahead, he laughs, and passes the hides to her.

"Before tonight," ''she'' warns ''him'', and sits up enough to take the hides. And read. And... laugh. "Embarrassing moment? Nothing like switching gaits." Leova reconsiders R'hin. "How to choose? There's, 'Yes, your whittling knife was ''right'' on the other side of your mug'. There's, 'That man looking in on your novice quizzing when you got muscles mixed up, that was ''the'' Istan dragonhealer..."

"Hm. Doesn't seem ''overly embarrassing''. Not the ''most'', surely." R'hin says, with a cluck of tongue, picking up the thread smoothly. "There was this girl, that I really liked. She had this... long, dark hair," he pauses, reminiscent, hand lifting as if to trail along an imaginary head of hair. "And we hung out a lot, as teenagers. And I... ''wanted'' her, really badly, for ages, but she had a boyfriend and... you know." He shakes his head, expression implying, ''boys''. "Anyway, months later, she'd broken up with her boyfriend and she took me to this out of the way place and just... ''bam'' -- undressed right in front of me with no warning, and I..." he's laughing, but there's the expected hint of embarrasement there, too, for his awkward teenage self: "I'd built it up in my head so much it was like my brain just ''froze'', and I just... I ''stared'' at her, and didn't say anything. It kind of freaked her out... a lot. We didn't talk after that." He gives an amused snort, before pale eyes seek her out, again: "Surely you can top ''that''."

Leova's gotten into the story, from near-laughing to rueful to something like a groan. "''R'hin''." Then, "Not so much. Yours is funny, 'least, the way you tell it. Not then, but looking back. Mine," she rolls her shoulders again, short, tight. "They wind up more like, 'walking in on someone you didn't want to,'" though at least she didn't get thrown out of a tower window. "'Everyone else is wearing dresses like you used to.' Or. 'Father's yelling you're a slut in front of half the Hold.' I'll settle for baby spit-up on my just-changed shirt."

"Not ''then''," R'hin agrees, firmly. "I couldn't look sideways at girls with long, dark hair for ''Turns''." The amusement fades, however, as she continues, and -- in the space where an awkward pause would usually follow, asks the next: "When did you last cry in front of another person?" A beat. "Does Leiventh count?" Of course he does; what is he saying? He doesn't wait for her to allow it: "Six and a half months ago." Which seems a fairly specific period to ''remember''.

If anyone says R'hin's never kind, Leova has another reason to dispute it. The problem: saying, or more importantly not-saying, ''why''. She picks up the beat even though it means a pause. Thinking, thinking. "Ah." She has a half-smile, three-quarters rueful. It stays through the next beat, too. "Mine, mm, in this last seven. Twins. I," and then she leans forward. "Thing is. R'hin. You're not hearing the good parts. Not of them, not of my folks. You're hearing 'bout me helping the twins and right when I think we're set... them fussing and tearing up and breaking out the 'go away, they want ''Daddy'', Daddy-Daddy-Daddy,' no one else will do."

Except that she could never ''prove'' it, and he'd always ''deny'' it. "I'd have guessed you'd be the ball-breaker in the relationship," R'hin says, laughingly, pale eyes flickering over her expression.

''Exactly''. It doesn't stop Leova from eyeing him. "Don't think I don't know about that thing you do." She twitches her brows at him. "''Also''. He deserves it, Anvori does: not like he doesn't spend the most time with them, of the two of us, and he's also ''better''. I have Vrianth, but I also ''get'' Vrianth." A getaway. More quietly, "Know you like to see me get my back up when you dismiss him. But I don't want to have you believing it."

With wide eyes: "''What'' thing?" The ''playing innocent'' thing, or ''some other'' thing? R'hin nods, for ''her'' getting Vrianth: it makes sense to him, even if there's a brief grimace. "I don't forget what he did for the twins," he says, if rather grudgingly at that. "Too much water to ever get past all the shit between us, though."

Him innocent, her enigmatic: for the moment it had lasted, before such intentness. She nods, once. Says, without looking at the hides, "'I like'... that you can listen, and take that seriously. And I ''like''," Leova further admits, "that you can be funny about it. Even when it's exasperating. I miss that."

"You miss ''exasperation''? But you have the ''boor''," R'hin's quick to reply, retreating to the other chair, ''her'' chair, to claim it has ''his''. "I ''like'' that your hair is ''not'' long and dark." He's laughing. "And I like," he's read ahead: does he remember they only had to say one thing, or is he just following her lead? "...that you accept and see my flaws as positives."

"Miss ''being'' that," Leova tells him, and shakes the hides at him and his flaws while she's at it. Exasperated. ''Exaggerated.'' "Anything too serious to joke at?" isn't actually rhetorical. Not if he's read ahead.

"Threadfall." He's read ahead, and he had that answer ready.

Question is, how ''far''. "I do. Did," Leova says simply. "With my wing. When it was happening." When Vrianth was new and ''eager''. "Part of how we got by, I reckon."

"When it was happening," R'hin concedes that, but not ''now''. "Not by people who weren't there; couldn't understand."

"That's the thing, isn't it? Who's doing it. How." Leova lifts a shoulder, lets it fall. "Who's joking, how they do it." It must have been ten minutes. He hasn't fainted. Doesn't mean that, when she sits up to reach for her glass, it's the one with the water instead of the liquor. "We hadn't flown it for long. Not Turns on Turns or nothing. But..."

"But..." enough that she's ''allowed''. "If you were to die, what would you regret not having told someone?" It's not ''exactly'' the phrasing used, and not the entirety of it, but then R'hin's doing it from memory.

"No quibbling over, well, I'd be dead and it wouldn't matter?" Leova hesitates through a drink, amber eyes deliberative. "Don't know. Most things I ''have''. That I love them. But maybe it's better to say it all over again. Or maybe, that they should have ''amazing'' lives, that they're wonderful, that I didn't want to leave? Then there's where I came from. Maybe they need to know, to be careful."

"It ''always'' matters. The dead leave a mark." R'hin is being serious again, enough so that he leans forward, gaze fixed on Leova, to impress as much. Or perhaps he's ''that'' interested in her answer. "You'd regret not telling them, -- warning them -- not to make the same mistake?"

"Meant, more, wouldn't be around to regret," Leova says rather wryly. She holds his gaze. "Maybe. Not like I don't say 'be careful', here, 'be kind,' there, 'just because she gives you her favorite doll doesn't mean you should keep it.'" One corner to her mouth edges up. "'Think ahead.' I could warn them about cousins." About inclinations.

"I think it's meant to be about the stuff you... you ''want'' to say but can't. Like... telling my girls I'm proud of them. That I'm happy with their life choices, and I don't have ''expectations'' for them to do anything else than be ''happy''." Which is R'hin's answer, as it happens. He grimaces. "Can't ''tell'' 'em that, straight out. They'd think I was being... well, ''me''."

"Likely." She considers him. "Don't mean it's not worth saying. Even if they won't believe it quite yet. They'd look back and remember." A breath. "Or... you could always write it down. If that isn't," deadpan, "too much like ''evidence''.

He shakes his head; disagreement with her assessment. "No," to her suggestion of writing it down. "But you'll tell them, if it comes to that. They'll believe ''you''." And it makes him smile, a twist of lip turning it sad, the thought of it, or maybe the fact that his children would believe ''her'', over ''him''.

"Assumptions," Leova says gently, not unkindly. What might be, though openly in her expression is that she doesn't ''want'' it to be, "You're right, though. Don't believe they do think you're proud of them. Where they're going. Maybe Riahla, now.... But."

"But.." and he's gesturing impatiently, clearly uncomfortable and wanting to move ''past'' this, to the next question.

She keeps looking at him, amber gaze steady and ''seeing''. It doesn't mean she doesn't move along with him. She looks down at the hides. Whatever Leova sees, that incomplete question asked meeting with a nod for the question still answered, what it leads to is that she reads."Your weyr burns. Your weyr, wherever you have all your things, whatever. 'After saving your loved ones, you have time to safely make a final dash to save any one item.' And then of course it's 'what' and 'why.'"

"A necklace. With a key on it." R'hin hesitates, undoubtedly, on the ''why'', staring at his now-empty-glass. "Because, long ago, I gave it to Satiet. Thought... maybe one of the girls might want it, someday." ''Someday'', but ''now'', he still has it in his possession.

"Mm." Leova gets up. Gets the refill: for him if he wants it, after her. "Hope it opened what you," both, "wanted." He gets the hides, too, though the last page is bent around where it had been sewn to the rest: not much left.

R'hin nods; he does, ''of course'', holding up his glass helpfully, and toasting her silently in appreciation when she's done. "Not really," he replies, with a low-throated laugh, shaking his head a little. He sets the hides to one side, though: he's instead watching the greenrider, thoughtfully.

"Don't know how you'll choose between them," Leova says wryly. She leans over her chair's back, near to languid, glass in hand. "Mine, mm. I've my trinkets, and a necklace of my own." If not, perhaps, quite like his. "I thought of Via's toy, she has a soft one, 'Vee.'" He can guess who ''that'' was named after, surely? Via's toy, though she's older than Vey and Var. "But then: Anvori's book. It'd have to be. I'd even let melt," her brows have lifted over dramatic eyes, "N'thei's ring."

"Wait for one to lose my love and respect, ''presumably''," R'hin says, with a low-throated laugh, as for how he'd ''choose''. There's a ''snort'', for her mention of the former Weyrleader. "Did he try to ''woo you'' with trinkets and gifts?"

"Ah, yes." How could she forget! Then Leova's laughing, quietly and deeply but all the lighter for it. "Imagine. No. Don't tell: it's his rider's ring, but he ''left'' it. In my weyr," ''Vrianth's'' weyr, no longer Wyaeth's weyr. In her keeping. "I never did give it back."

"Why Leova," R'hin is shocked, genuinely ''shocked'', and only exaggerating a ''little'', with fingers pressed to his heart: "You little thief! He's probably off somewhere, bemoaning its loss, and you'd let it ''burn''. You're a cruel, cruel woman." That pale eyes are glittering, and there's a low thread of amusement through it all kind of spoils the drama, however. "I like that in you. Count that as my compliment, if there's another round of that." If he's read ahead -- which he has -- he knows there isn't. ''This'' one's a freebie.

More laughter. "''N'thei''. '''Bemoaning'''." It doesn't mean she doesn't look, momentarily, reflective. Might be, it's only because of, "You know. Could ask K'del sometime, you could." Would that be cruel? She'll take the compliment with a lift of her own glass, a sip, and... a wrinkle of her nose, because she's not looking at him anymore. "'Of all the people in your family, whose death would you find most disturbing? Why." ''Why'', says her tone. Why do they ask these things. '''Why'''.

R'hin's brow lifts in momentary surprise. "K'del? What's ''he'' got to do with it?" And of course, he's ''curious'', and he has to know, leaning forward to express his interest. He'll forgoe an answer for now, not with ''much'' more interesting things at play.

"His weyr actually got burned," Leova points out, that simple. It's even been long enough, and enough of a distraction from ''disturbing'', that she can be amused. "Well. 'Got burned,' as though somehow it didn't happen on his own. Maybe he inspired it."

"Ask," he challenges her, instead, "And let me know what he tells you." After a suitably fortifying drink, R'hin adds, "Ask a few of the others at random, too. I'd love to know whether ''he'' rehearses conversations. Though I can guess his answer to whom he last ''sang''."

"Hold your breath," Leova recommends, dry. Nor does she literally rise, though her mouth tightens momentarily ''before'' R'hin makes his own suggestions. "Disturbing death. Mm." She taps her fingers, less indecisive than decisive, less decisive than ''checking''. Finally comes the admission, not lightly but steadily, "Via. Reckon Anvori's might be the hardest, but Via... she's not ''supposed'' to." Which doesn't address the twins.

R'hin's not unaware that she's pushed on, and her change in demeanor from something light to something darker -- it makes him look at her intently. Not for her ''answer'' -- that's probably expected.

That's the thing about known attachments, attachments ''vowed in front of a crowd'' no less. Sometimes, they measure up in private. "Here." She sips and then, having made the gesture less precarious, raises her glass towards the hides. "Your answer, R'hin. And then," a quiet roll of humor and disbelief, "the last."

R'hin's still staring at her, in that intent, speculative way, then -- with no prompting, away. ''Not'' towards the hides in his possession, where she indicates, but ceiling-wards. "My father. Because he's... he's the stalwart. And you always want to know those exist, even if you don't talk with them. They'll ''always be there'', just in case, if you change your mind, or..." he shrugs. He doesn't continue; not yet.

"We did have different fathers." Leova, quiet.

"We did," he concedes. "Funny," and it ''is'' funny, enough to stir him to a smile, "How it keeps asking us to ''compare'' and not to ''contrast''. People find familiarity in shared interests. You realize," with a snorted breath, "This whole thing has been one big mindfuck."

"'Tell me,'" Leova says, her voice deep and steady and rolling, "'about your mindfuck.'"

"Not ''mine''," R'hin corrects. "''Us''. ''We're'' the experiment."

"Of course we are," Leova says, more in her natural voice. "What do ''you'' think they're going for?" Not as though she hasn't a clue. More: curious about his.

He shakes his head; not because he doesn't have an answer, likely so much as not ''wanting'' to answer. Not wanting to have it aloud. "Tell me," R'hin says, "What to do with someone who knows all your secrets. The ones you haven't told anyone. The ones that could ''hurt'' you. What to do with someone whom you don't know how to predict, exactly." Time to go onto the final round.

She hears ''that''. It's reflected in her gaze, what he doesn't speak. When he does, she straightens some, one hand sliding across the faded upholtery. Her glass doesn't unbalance, doesn't spill. It could be facetious. "Live with it." It's not. The way she says it, it's simple. It's not. Not with that ''live''.

R'hin finally averts gaze from the ceiling, to ''look'' at her again, expression clearly saying ''really?'' in an expressive enough way that he doesn't have to verbalize it. He doesn't believe in her sentiment.

Some days, she can't afford sentiment. Some days. "Once," Leova says to R'hin. "You had me all but kill you."

"I did?" Does he not remember, or is he playing? Hard to say.

Leova: "''Invited''."

A flip of wrist, as if to say, ''go on''.

"What's an alternative," quiet.

"What do you mean, ''invited''?" he counters.

"You were passing out. You didn't say to ''stop''."

Oh, ''that''. He grins, at the memory. "That was ''training''." He picks an imaginary bit of fluff off the arm of his chair. "I like teaching. Think I would've been a harper, if I'd felt and urge to be a bit ''more of a dick'' than I currently am."

Leova laughs, not out of nowhere. "Training that could've killed you," she says tartly. "But. Going to guess your answer: distract, deflect, avoid."

"You wouldn't have." he seems ''sure'' of that much. Not, noteably, ''couldn't have''. And, after a measured beat of consideration for her guess at his answer: "No." It's said with a smile, that is at once joking, and ''not'', and typically, inherently, ''R'hin'': "Mutual destruction."

"Aggravating enough." To tempt her, then or now. But no. Leova keeps that half-smile when she regards him. When she asks, "What does that look like." Like there could be more than one.

R'hin gestures, expansively. "Spanning turns and continents. Lives ruined, bloodshed. You know."

"The usual, then." Leova nods soberly.

"The usual." R'hin's smiling.

"Let me know when you get bored of common existence," Leova even suggests. "Might arrange something."

"I ''promise''." She'll be his first call.

She toasts to it. But: "'Fraid anything else is commonplace after that. 'Less I could pull a ''personal problem'' regarding Fax and F'lar out of my hat."

But he's looking at her ''expectantly'', all the same. "If you wanted," he's smiling. "You can ''owe'' it to me. Later."

"Only," Leova notes. "If you never trade it away. Accept no substitutes." That's what got them ''here''.

"I would ''never''." It's possible R'hin's ''genuinely'' insulted by the suggestion that he would. He glances to the hides, again, chuckling in rueful appreciation of the healer's phrasing, it would seem. "She really ''is'' fucking with us." He turns it around so she can see. 'Stare at each other, without speaking, for four minutes.'

Leova stares at R'hin, all right. Only it's not without speaking. "That's on the back. What's she doing, putting that ''on the back''." Then she eyes it again. To compare the handwriting?

In turn, ''he'' stares at ''her''. Only she's not starting the experiment, because: "You're talking." And breaking the rules, clearly. He stands, and steps closer, offering the hides for close inspection. It certainly ''does'' seem consistent, and there's no writing tools in here, anyway. "She's fucking with us," he asserts. But, nonetheless, he appears game to ''try''.

Leova, always breaking the rules! ''Given'' the hides, she doesn't bother with them, dropping them off onto the seat of her chair before she, too, turns. "Yes. Yes, she is." ''She'' has her chair's back to lean on and look up from. ''He'' has height. Of course then, after a little time has passed, she gets a smile and asks. "Who's counting?"

"Shh," he scolds her, pale eyes on her amber ones, "You just ''reset'' it."

The amusement in those eyes might be reflected in a smile, but then he'd have to look away. Look away, too, to see how she mouths, 'Fine,' without actually ''saying''.

He can't ''see'', but he can see the muscles move in her face, just as ''she'' can no doubt see the slight crinkling of eyes when he smiles. It's not awkward, not yet, not at ''first''. But as the first minute drags into the second, and they're still looking at each other...

...there's a ripple of electricity without, quite, words. Not that Vrianth's minded to follow human rules, but she is ''paying attention''. Leova blinks, not for the first time. More deliberate this time. She shifts against the chair.

...and cold, in turn, from Leiventh. The affairs of humans have never stirred his interest, and the bronze keeps at bay. There's no shifting, from R'hin. Hard to tell what the time is, without looking away. That's the dilemna. Unbidden, however, the bronzerider lifts a hand to brush at her hair. Is he ''cheating''? Is he ''laughing at her'' while he's cheating? The glimmer of pale eyes might suggest so.

...and pricking, if not necessarily of anyone's thumbs. Perhaps the back of her rider's neck, Leova ''looking'', amber eyes wide and then narrowing. ''So'' much cheating. ''She'' puts her hands pointedly behind her back.

He leans, closer, too.

Which forces her to adjust her angle, to still meet his gaze. To the extent that they ''are'' forced. Her jaw moves, only then the exhales's silent.

Yup. He's definitely laughing at her. But then that is just ''R'hin''. Once he's determined that he can't bait her into a response, he seems content to wait it out, pale eyes steady on her amber ones.

Not talking, that's one thing. Not ''doing''.... there's the sound of short nails against upholstery, once. Frustration. Then she settles. Then she's just ''looking''. If R'hin has any rings around his eyes, rings ''in'' the irises of his eyes, missing eyelashes, the odd scar only glimpsed from the side... she might see them, and then they might no longer matter.

Whatever else she discovers, this much is true: he's steady, gaze unwavering, now.

It's what she's used to doing. It's what she ''does''. She does it. And then this too will end.

And it does, in a way. Whether R'hin was counting, or whether he just ''decided'' it ended. He leans near, again -- bends down, this time -- to press lips against her forehead, breaking that eye contact in the process. And then he's leaving, ''not'' looking back.

''Not'' seeing... what there is, and isn't, to see.
}}

Logs:Welcome, Harper Sparrow

2016-05-29T05:37:46Z

Varied:

{{Log
|who=Leova, Sparrow
|what=Sparrow's mending. Leova's waiting. Sparrow talks about whys, and Leova makes her an offer.
|where=Resident Common Room, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=3
|month=5
|turn=37
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.03.23
|quote="Should I?"
|mentions=Anvori, Varian, Veylin2, Via
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon leova lurking-waiting.jpg,
|log=Outside, it feels rather as if the sky wants to open up, as though the clouds want to release all the rain they have. Inside, however, it's warm and dry and snug, and there is a mug of klah on the table next to Sparrow. 
She's picked a large and comfortable chair, though it might be more proper for her to work at a table given her task. In her spare time, rather than research, she seems to be mending a dress by hand. Her needle and the thread are both quite fine, and the thread is almost surprisingly well-matched to the color of the material she's repairing. 
The klah, sadly, has gone quite cold while it waits for her to finish, but her eyes are almost painfully intent.

The same greenrider who strode deeper into the residents' caverns a couple hours ago, a child on either hip and another trotting ahead of her, now retreats. Not that she doesn't glance back over her shoulder, but it's brief. There's less overt purpose to her now, more of a desultory wandering: a pause here, a crack of her knuckles there, a brief exchange with a pair of aunties that she abandons before it can get too far. Her next stop happens to be the chair by Sparrow's, upon whose back she leans rather than taking a proper seat. Then she cracks her knuckles. ''Again.''

Sparrow hasn't been watching the greenrider -- she's been clearly intent on making tiny repairs, raveling the edges of fabric back together -- but the way the woman wends her way around the room is not going entirely unnoticed. She's constantly straying into peripheral vision. A murmur here. An amble there. Sparrow's only reaction, thus far, has been to press her lips together even more firmly and continue with her work. 
The knuckle cracking, though. It's perhaps lucky that her hair is such a thick cloud, or it might be more apparently how the sound makes her hair stand on end. It... always looks like that. But she continues mending, mending... 
And when the sound comes right in her ear, she clenches her jaw and lets out a tiny snort through her nose. Time to be polite. 
"If there's anything you're looking for, ma'am," Sparrow begins, "I'd be delighted to help you find it."

Those first words gain a glance over, the first that actually holds rather than drifting over the girl and off again. "Mm. Wish you could." Her voice is smoky-low, its blurred accent hearkening to Tillek. "Not so much a matter of finding as waiting, is the thing." She doesn't pop her knuckles again, at least, though she leans more heavily into her forearms' brace, and the chair gives a faint creak of complaint. After a moment or five, "What're you working on?"

The black-haired woman hesitates but nods politely at the comment. "Well. If I can do anything..." She reaches out and snags her mug, given that she seems to be taking a brief break, and takes a sip of what is now quite tepid klah. A faint grunt of annoyance, but no more than that, and she sets the mug aside once more. She lets the break carry on, though, rubbing her fingertips and her eyes, blinking rapidly before she finally takes up needle and garment again. 
She's just starting to concentrate when the woman speaks again. Lips press together faintly. "Fiddly work," Sparrow replies. "This dress got caught on something sharp." And indeed, there's a big L-shaped rip in a conspicuous place. "One of the younger apprentices. It's her favorite, so I'm doing her a favor and fixing it up for her. By the time I'm done," she adds, a hint of pride coloring her voice, "there shouldn't even be a pucker."

The rider looks, of course. Leans, even, to look ''better''. "Kind," she says. "Reckon she'll appreciate it." Then, with a glance to seamstress rather than project, "Or will she owe you her firstborn?" It comes with a smile tilting up one corner of her mouth. ''Favors.''

An amused smile curls up at the corner of Sparrow's mouth. "Kindness of my heart," she murmurs. "She's far from her old home, it's her favorite dress... and I admit, gratitude isn't the worst thing in the world. And I like to keep the old skills up. I used to be pretty good at this."

"''Old'' skills," comes with a question in its repetition, complete to a lift of the greenrider's brows.

"My parents wanted me to be a Weaver." Sparrow's paying attention, but she's at least splitting it now between the mending and the chatting. "Like my mother. And my father. And my brothers and sisters. I wanted a bed to myself and to be able to read and learn things and know things. I had to fight to get into the Harper Hall. But I admit... the work feels like home. When I sit in the warmth of the fire and work and I hear the voices around me, it's... nice."

"Can see that," the greenrider says after a moment, slow and thoughtful. "All those things... Where ''is'' home? And I'm Leova, by the by. Vrianth's."

"Mmm? Oh! Sparrow. From Pars Hold. I haven't been here especially long." She's starting to relax slightly; most of the hard bit appears to have been done, which appears to be more like needle-weaving than ordinary stitching. She settles back in her chair and gestures to one of the others: "Make yourself comfortable, of course." After she takes another drink from her mug -- apparently cold is better than none at all -- she adds: "Not quite so many riders back home as here, of course."

Leova nods by way of acknowledgment. Not that she sits. Leaning, still, "No, can't imagine so." It's pleasantly dry. "Very different, so far? From Hold and Hall. Other than the riders underfoot."

"Pars Hold is small," Sparrow murmurs. There's only a few more whirls of her thread to go, and then she's running the end under the already-finished stitching, weaving the last thread in with all the others. The color is exact -- she must have used a thread pulled from the garment's hem to do the mending. "Smaller than the weyr, anyway. With herds and herds of llamas. Probably more llamas than people. Definitely more llama smell than people. And in a small place like that, with a big family like I have... I knew everyone, it seemed like, and everyone knew me. And everyone expected me to be just like my mother or my sisters or my aunt. So here, no one expects me to be anyone but me. Which is great. Really great. It's... just that I didn't realize how much that meant I was going to have to figure out who that was."

As Leova listens, her hands gradually curve together, as though about some invisible mug of her own. "Mm." Sympathy's there. Empathy, even. "Hope it helped, at the Hall," she says eventually. "'Less they just expected you to be like the other 'prentices? Or so much work as makes it hard to figure out anything not on exams."

"It helped," Sparrow admits. Her demeanor's easier now; the intensity's gone, and she's even smiling. "You have to specialize, to an extent. I mean, they expect you to learn at least a bit of everything, but when one senior apprentice can help you with harp technique and that one can help you with history or geography or even just teaching technique... in some ways, the work helps you carve out who you are. Or at least what people see."

"So," Leova eyes her. No, ''squints'' at her. "What do you people see in you? People as know what to see, that is," friendly humor in her voice. While she's at it, she swaps eyes to squint at Sparrow with.

There's almost a visible moment of restraint as Sparrow carefully doesn't ask 'why are you so interested?' It's in the look she gives Leora, though; a squint of her own, or at least a wrinkled brow. But it clears and she shrugs:
"I'm not usually in the habit of making other people's conclusions for them," she replies. "I... question things. It's why I wanted to be a Harper. I want to know all the whys. I don't take anything for granted. But I suppose... I suppose the real reason I came to the weyr was to figure that out for myself. What I am, when I'm not defined by my family. I'm still working on it."
Another quirk of the corner of her mouth: "Have you figured that out for yourself yet? Who you are?"

That one-cornered smile reappears, deepens, at those ''whys''. "Like to think I have," Leova says amiably. "Took me a while, but so it goes. Then Vrianth showed up, and had to do it all over again, and more." Her voice is rich with fondness, complicated and true. "Then again, some, though that's more like making room. Should last me a few more Turns."

"What's that like?" The words are out of her mouth before she seems to realize it, and she can't drag them back, so Sparrow's forced to own them after a brief hesitation. "The connection between you two. I'm -- I'm sorry if it's prying."

The quick lift of her hand, that's negation. "Don't mind," Leova says, settling back. "Just. Hard to describe, hm? Some aren't so close. Some closer, maybe." Her gaze goes briefly distant. "Like breathing her in, and not breathing air after. Took a right while to get adjusted, mind."

Sparrow takes a short moment to spread out the dress and re-fold it, glancing over the table to ensure it's absolutely clean -- and even taking a moment to brush her hand over it -- before setting the folded fabric down. But then she's curled in the big chair, her mug in her hands, settling her elbow on one arm of it and observing Leova with interest. "I can't imagine that," she murmurs. "I expect it must have been. What was it like, that first time?"

Leova watches those attentions, that care. But: "First time with Vrianth, you mean? Or something else."

"Uh. With Vrianth, yes, I think. I don't... quite know how the whole process works. I mean," Sparrow adds, waving a hand a little, "of course I've read about it, but that's rather different to talking to someone who's been through it."

"Hm." Leova straightens from the chair, standing squarer, but relaxed: parade rest. "''That's'' easier. Get 'eligible young men and women,' set 'em up in simple clothes so's the hatchlings won't get distracted, put them out there as fodder and the dragons hatch and... pick. Not necessarily who you'd expect, neither. Ask our weyrlingmaster that. That sound like what you read?"

"That sounds like what I've read, yes," Sparrow replies, "but it's not -- You're... connected. And sometimes I feel like my head is too small to fit ''me'', let alone anyone else."

"Can see that," Leova says. "Mind, you got access to their head, too, 'least I do. But ... like I said, a lot of adjusting. Didn't talk for the longest time." She lifts a shoulder, lets it fall. "How many Turns you got, by the by?"

"Twenty-two. Halfway to twenty-three. It's different for everyone then, I guess? Does it... change you as a person? I suppose it's hard to know whether it changes them, given that you're together from their birth." Sparrow drains the rest of her mug before adding: "I shouldn't be interrogating you. You were waiting on someone? Something?"

"Change, aye. Some more than others. ''Some'' say it just made them more 'them,' but don't know as they can look back and know it rightly, if they were truly changed." Leova contemplates her. Briefly, "Waiting on my weyrmate. He'll get here when he gets here, or else a message will." Less so, amber gaze continuing to encompass the younger woman, "You could Stand, you know."

Blink. Blink-blink. Sparrow opens her mouth, closes it. "I... can't say I'd ever considered it," she replies. Carefully. "I know I'm of age for it."

"Barely," Leova agrees. "'Round the age I was, come to that."

"Barely," Sparrow agrees. It's the word she was thinking when she'd said she was of age. "Should I? I know that's probably an impossible question to answer." But she's asked it anyway.

"No 'should' to it." There's that one-shouldered shrug again. Leova's gaze is intent. "Not like it's Pass, like we need all the bodies we can get to throw at Fall. And you'd have to be prepared to go to Igen if it came to that. But. Why don't you think on it, Sparrow. Talk to some riders, if you want. Some people as have to put up with riders. Think on what it might be, and what you'd regret. Don't want to? That's fine, more than fine, too."

"Right. Right." Sparrow's brow wrinkles again as she looks into the greenrider's face, putting her head on one side. She gives her a long look before nodding again and finishing off her mug. "I'd -- yes, I'd better get the dress back," she says at last. "But it's been good talking to you, Leova. And I'll see you again, maybe." She moves to rise, gathering up her belongings and turning away, but she pauses and looks back. "I ''will'' think about it," she says.

"No rush," Leova says, only to add more dryly, "Until it is. Good night to you." She waits until the younger woman's gone before making her way back into the caverns: if not to intercept, then to listen at the door.
|Categories=Clutch 115 Logs, Search Logs
}}

Logs:Settled Enough

2016-05-29T05:36:27Z

Varied:

{{Log
|who=E'dre, Leova, Veylin2
|what=Clutchmates visit. E'dre is happy to hold Veylin and Leova is happy to stretch her back.
|where=Ground Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=15
|month=7
|turn=32
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2013.08.16
|quote="Are you surprised it's my second time of it? How far we've come since we became riders."
|mentions=Anvori, A'ryk, Elayne, Varian, Via
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon E'dre Smile.jpg, Icon leova awlm cubs yap-yap.jpg
|log=It's a ground weyr they're stationed in, Leova frustrated when E'dre shows up, Vrianth even more so. "They were going to let us out yesterday," the greenrider says to her clutchmate, pacing, just one of the tiny twins held up to her shoulder with the other nowhere in sight. She doesn't make introductions. "Not that I like flying with them. But. How're ''you''? What's the news?"

"Are you seriously going to ask that of me right now?" E'dre counters, moving in and looking around quickly. "This place is not for your family. Fine. A ground weyr. But this place isn't set up /right/." He bustles around and pushes some chairs and a table around, talking as he rearranges. "I mean, really, Leova. Reaches hasn't changed. I brought a gift." He settles the table on the complete opposite side of the weyr and settles into a chair. "It's clothes." Of course. "And some blankets. Now. Bring me that baby, please? I haven't cuddled a newborn in a long time."

"Reckon ''so''," Leova argues right back. Not that she stops him from rearranging. "Tired of these. Things. Need something different." That smoky voice stays low, baby-tending low, but there's a quiet urgency to it too. "Funny. Feels like it has." Changed. But she walks his way, careful. "Sure you remember how? She's ''little''." Amber eyes regard him with tiredness-hazed suspicion.

There's a point to prove, clearly, to reassure the new mom. So E'dre nods his head and rises, moving to the package he's left on the table. He opens it up, rummaging around until he retrieves the soft fur blanket. He settles it over his shoulder before reaching for the baby. Once Leova has graced him with the infant, he'll gently tuck the blanekt around and then proceeds to rock the baby with a low humming noise. A wink is thrown Leova's way and a gesture towards the chair. "Come now. 'Little'. Elayne was 'little' once, too.." he trails off to hum, content in his swaying side to side to keep the baby sleeping. "Where's the father? The other..?" he trails off. "Do I know their names yet?"

''That's'' better. Now that he's settled, Leova begins the transfer, cautiously. "How old is she now? Anvori's got Var. Varian. Veylin's named after his mother," definite complexity in Leova's tone there too, beneath all that weariness. Amber eyes intent on the newborn, she steps back just as cautiously, rolling her shoulders with relief. "Don't much like to be set down."

"Lovely names," E'dre responds, quick to apply praise with a warm smile as he continues to sway in a rather feminine rocking. "Elayne? She's almost two turns and a half now..," he pauses, considering, "They grow /so/ fast Leova." He sighs and snuggles in closer to Veylin. "Mmm. Twins. Hardwork. Is he working on moving you all home?" he asks, meaning Anvori. "If you need my help, I'm here.."

"Via's four," Leova says with a grimace. "And a half. Yes. Some of my things go to our ledge. Most to our room, though. We have to, really. The wetnurses..." Her grimace only deepens, and it's just as well that she's not holding Veylin at the moment. She twists again, her back popping this time. "You know, E'dre, we could handle it. But I'm going to say yes, and thanks. For the... blanket? too. We just haven't had much sleep. You know."

"Turns, they fly by..," E'dre murmurs, shaking his head. "Do you need a nap? I'm here, she's sleeping, you can go and curl up on that bed," he twists his head in the direction of the bed that's in viewing distance. "I understand. I.., well, A'ryk..," he turns red and quiet at that, "anyway," he continues, voice soft, "I remember it being hard and sleepless." He steps forward, nodding towards the package. "Please. There's more." There is! Another fur, at least three outfits per infant to wear easily in Reachian weather. "I made them," he says with a small smile. "First thing I've created in almost a turn."

"Could use a nap," Leova won't turn that down. "In my ''own bed''," wistful before she musters herself up again. "It'll come. Anyhow." Her look to him holds sympathy, and no fresh questions about his former weyrmate. With that she goes through the presents, holding up the outfits, admiring them, commenting on this and that. "Pretty something, E'dre. Makes them even ''more'' of a something, I mean, your first in all that time. Because of taking Acting?" Or the other mess.

"Four months at that will keep you from any hobby," E'dre answers with a soft chuckle, "Acting. That, is. And just taking on Weyrsecond in the first place." He has a full smile of pride as Leova looks at the clothing and seems pleased them. He continues to rock back and and forth, content in keeping the newborn asleep. "I'm glad you like them. I went off of Elayne's first few sets of clothing, so they should all fit now and for a month or so. Room to grow."

"Nothing I'll have to worry about. Nothing most would have had you worrying about," Leova adds, dry. "Thanks." Again. "Reckon for all that they're small, less stitching and fabric, they still take a whole lot of attention. Planning, and all. Glad that knot's off your shoulder?" Her gaze lingers on her daughter, only to slide away, only to return.

E'dre notices the glances and steps forward, easing the baby back into Leova's arms with a smile. "I know that look," he murmurs, "you're missing her already." He pauses to add a kiss to Leova's cheek, something he hasn't done before. "Yes. It feels good to have it gone. Are you surprised it's my second time of it? How far we've come since we became riders." He moves into the chair opposite her and leans forward to finger one of the small shirts he made. "Not as hard as some dresses." He glances at her, adding, "and how're you? Lots of changes here.. are you two still settled here? Are they treating you well?"

The look Leova casts E'dre might verge on doubtful, but she accepts her daughter nonetheless, and with a one-cornered smile. "Far enough for all of me. Settled enough that we're likely to bring Via back, once the twins are a little older. ''Hope'' the worst is over, now." But the harvest tithe still isn't in, now is it. Between the two of them, there are enough things to talk about until Anvori comes back with the even tinier boy, and she can make use of E'dre's offered help until no trace of them in that guest weyr is left.
|categories=General
}}

Logs:Outnumbered

2016-05-29T05:34:10Z

Varied:

{{Log
|who=Anvori, Leova, Varian, Veylin2,
|what=Exhausted weyrmates attempt to deal with their infant offspring and each other. It's hard.
|where=Anvori's Quarters, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=18
|month=7
|turn=32
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2013.08.17
|quote="We were outnumbered a long time ago."
|mentions=E'dre, Via
|type=Log
|icons=anvori.png, leova tired.jpg
|log=Baby in a basket. Second baby in a second basket. Leova sits on the floor, leaning sideways against Anvori more than backwards against the loveseat, amber eyes flickering over them like they'd wake up if she looked too long. One of them has already started to stir, squirming against its wrappings before going still again. "They outnumber us now," she says, low.

"We were outnumbered a long time ago," replies Anvori, his voice equally low and also tired. He reaches forth to press a calming hand atop squirmy's swaddled belly, turning the small pressure into a caress of his thumb against the shape of his squished arms. "I don't mind." The arm around his weyrmate's shoulder tightens, gentle with his fingers slipping down to rub her upper arm. "Did you want another?" Is that a tease? He seems absolutely serious. Maybe, if you ignore the glint in his hazel eyes.

Leova can't see his eyes, and perhaps she should know better, but she's tired. The beginnings of relaxation from the caress turn into a flex of muscle that isn't as solid as it had been before all that bedrest. She turns, and then she ''can'' see her weyrmate's eyes, only to narrow her own. "No others. With our luck, we'd have triplets," she says gloomily. "And then quadruplets, if I hadn't thrown myself off a cliff first." She might sound like she's joking.

A wry smile shapes on Anvori's lips, his lashes lidding briefly as he exerts a tired sigh. "You or Vrianth first, you think?" Conspicuously, he's not in that listing of either or. "Oh, Ell." It's not often used, her initial rather than her name, and the way it's exhaled now is like a long extended prayer, the 'l' sound exceeding normal length limits. "Do you need anything? Should I-," he pauses, as another stir from the girl this time along with the soft mewling of an infant indicates ''something'' going on, and then it subsides, and even happy father looks relieved. Stay asleep, babies.

"Maybe on Vrianth. So she can catch me." Leova's trying. She looks at him, then leans in to rub her nose carefully against his, the way he'd started doing it to her these Turns ago, then... freezes with his pause. The sound subsides, she subsides, with a frayed sigh of her own. "It's just like... I don't feel like... When did it come back, before? I don't even remember." And he's been such a shoulder to her. Helping. Doing. How can she rightly complain to him more?

The tired makes deciphering her statements too difficult, perhaps, for he does a quite un-Anvori-like thing and goes, "When did what come back before?" The bridge of his nose pinches as he pries his eyes open, only to close them again to nuzzle his nose affectionately against her cheek and then down, drifting into her neck. "I think the boy looks like you. Has your nose. Your. Ever. So. Cute. Nose."

Her nosy-nosy-nosy-nose? Or perhaps it's Vrianth with the long and nosy nose. "When did I... " He interrupts her. Touching her interrupts her. Leova sighs, more of a catch in it this time. She doesn't lean over to examine their son, not when she has to turn her head to try and protect her neck. "You can call him Var now, you know. Your boy, your proof of virility."

He takes a long look at her, pulling away from her neck and the arm about her stiffening somewhat. The look turns into something mild, the lines of his face retreating as he merely nods and repeats, "Var," leaving it at that. There's further retreat though, as he shifts his body, however subtly and however unintentionally, to find himself closer to the basket of his son, outstretching that finger again to trace the lines of his too tiny body in the air. Lest Vey be ignored, the other hand reaches out to do the same a split second later.

That's what she wanted, surely. It's a fatherly thing to do, and a mother should want that for her children. Which means Leova could only be crossing her arms because she's cold.

The air tracings must work some kind of poor magic, for Veylin wakes with that piteous mewling once more, and the finger that hovers, stills, uncertain. He waits, listening, waiting, hoping, and the crying just intensifies, and the moment's indecision disappears, his fingers scooping beneath the small bundle to lift and cradle her close to his bare chest. Which doesn't stop the crying, but what more can a parent do? "Shhhh shh shhhh," is Anvori's fatherly soothing, while bouncing gently in place.

Leova watches them for a few moments, amber eyes a dark brown in the light, holding her breath. Veylin keeps crying. ''Varian'' starts crying. She waits. But it's too late, she can't hold her breath anymore. She has to unfold her arms if only to pick him up and do the same thing as the baby's father, her weyrmate. "I love you," she says quietly, rubbing her nose against their baby's still-soft head and its fine hair, inhaling. He hiccups, gasps, mewls again, quiets. Maybe she's talking to him, maybe those were the magic words, but Leova continues, "Anvori?" and again there's that thin sound.

If he's heard those magic words, Anvori gives no indication, opting to stand instead to give the bouncing a better go, full knees, gently rocking and the constant shushing in their daughter's ear. It's more effort, and takes longer time, but soon, the fuzzy-haired baby quiets, drifting back into sleep. It's only then, as he continues to rock Vey back and forth and back and forth, that he responds, the hesitation only heard in the breath taken in at first, "Leova?"

Magic words indeed, if they can quiet a baby without even being said to him. Still on her knees, her muscles still ''tired'' from that long forced stillness, Leova can only practice that soft jostling rock and sway. Var cries again, thinner, as though reminding himself that he still can. "You're better at this," she says wearily. "You're still better at all of this." Of course that's when Var starts being the one to try for her neck, and then start rooting lower, when already she has so little to give.

Thin-pressed lips, not so oddly like his more known sister, but odd for the time and place the likeness comes, whiten and then release. He'll allow her another of his attempts at peace, "I'm not as tired as you are. My body's not recovering still." He's not as... ''tense'' as she is, is what he might say, but a glance back at her with Var has him swearing, albeit inaudibly (but those lips form in all the right ways for expletives), at what babies do by nature. He plasters a chagrinned look on his face and offers the sleeping Vey, "Let's trade. My legs have a few rotations around this room left. And barring that- our neighbors can afford to hear a baby cry up and down the hallway. No one really needs to sleep at-," whatever o'clock this is.

Leova had thanked E'dre for help in moving. She's had to thank so very many other people. For her weyrmate, she has to look grateful, and she is, though she's too tired to make the best job of it. Of making it show instead of letting it pass through her like a ghost. He's right. He's right about what he didn't say, too. That's even before he offers and she wedges a hand on the base of the loveseat, levering herself up. Then she can balance on its edge and make the trade, let the cushions cushion her. "She'll be back soon," the wetnurse. "It was just a break." That may be wishful thinking. "Thank you." This time she can make the gratitude show a little more.

He could offer to find her, but there's an appraising look out of the corner of his eye that makes that open mouth turn more hang dog than ''about to say anything of importance''. Instead, he shuts his jaw and makes the trade; in this, the two of them have some rapport, passing one baby into the free crook of an arm and accepting the other into the opposite side. Var, however, did not get the memo that daddy has magic powers and continues to make those infant noises that aren't quite shrill enough to be grating just yet. Just wait a few more weeks. Anvori begins to walk, a slow, rocking, bouncing, steady pace around the room. Around that couch Leova balances herself on. He circles her in a wide, slow loop. "You don't have to do that. Thank me. I mean." If she didn't know. "They're my children too." It's the ''proof of his virility'' after all, is somehow unspoken but conveyed in the shifting eyes that draw his attention conspicuously from Leova back to the boy bundle in his arms and the seeming, slight crink in his neck as he walks the loop away.

"But swapping made it easier for me," Leova says over the top of little Veylin's head. "Not just them." Her smoky voice is weary. Wearier, for trying to talking him into letting her be grateful, or whatever this is that they're doing. She sways, hip to hip, shoulders balancing the movement so she doesn't fall over, but also taking a moment to sniff the top of Vey's head too as though it might have somehow changed. Her cries, when she does cry, aren't yet grating. She still, mostly, smells ''right''.

"You either." He pushes this ''whatever it is'' dance. "I love you. There's no gratitude in love." It's very simple for him, even as tired as he is. Var still exercises his, not quite perfect lungs, though the sounds are weakening their resolve in light of the triple attack of sway, intermittent shh, and bounce-walk. However, not crying just means he's distracted again and trying to root against Anvori's bare chest, which elicits an unchecked chortle. Enough of a sound and vibration to startle the little boy's blue eyes open. And then there's the d'awww look, and a verbalized sigh, "I wonder if his eyes will stay blue."

Leova can nod, given that. "All right." It's all but silent. Her eyes track him as he walks. Unfocus when he goes out of range. Roll upward, not like a teenager but by someone too tired to really turn her head, at the mention of ''blue'' eyes. "I wonder... who will get teeth first." It could be a game.

"Vey. She's feisty," is Anvori's immediate response. "Grow hair faster?" He's stopped moving now, just rocking and bouncing in place as he looks to Leova. There might even be a glint of hope flickering in the back shadows of his eyes.

"Vey," her too, and Leova's wry about it but amused, too. She smiles at him, tiredly but there. "First to say 'Vrianth'?" Vey three?

Anvori purses his lips, smiles in an impish way reminiscent of the name he voices, "Via."

"That's cheating," claims his weyrmate, narrow-eyed. "Cheating ''and you know it.''" Then, "Kiss me."

He's holding a baby, who is trying to latch onto his nonexistent boob, though there's a man-nipple there. And they're playing a game and suddenly the game turns into a request. A demand? No, by the lack of irritation on his face, he's taking it as a request. His return loop is slow, but not hesitantly slow, just cautious of jostling the baby in arms. He slowly drops to his knees, and leans in to kiss the inside of her thigh, and smiles upwards.

Leova has a one-cornered, no, a two-cornered smile as she tracks his approach, eyes closing briefly until suddenly they're open again. On his... knees. Kissing her thigh. Her... thigh. She ''looks'' at him, all bemused, then reaches out with stockinged feet to try and capture his body without disturbing either baby... and lightly give her feet a shake. "You." What else can she do? "''You.''" If he's not smug yet, could be he should be.

If there's relief in him, he's doing a good job at not showing it. Not yet at least. Later, he might nurse a glass of brandy alone out here while she sleeps, but for now, he needs to find that wet nurse, help her change her dressings, tuck her in to bed and make sure there's food close by for everyone. But then, maybe then, there will be some medium drinking alone time.
|categories=General
}}

Logs:Mother to Mother

2016-05-29T05:33:38Z

Varied:

{{Log
|who=Leova, Tahvra, Tayte, Tuila, Varian, Veylin2, Via, Yvalia
|what=Tayte asks Leova for advice in approaching Anvori about ''another'' hiatus from Snowasis.
|where=Inner Caverns and Tayte's Room, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=10
|month=6
|turn=35
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2014.08.04
|quote="And a ''good'' sandwich never goes awry."
|mentions=Anvori, Giverne, K'del, Madilla, Marysia, Miska
|type=Log
|ooc=Talk of miscarriage/pregnancy complications. Back-dated - thanks to Leova for being date-flexible!
|icons=tayte tahvra.jpg, tayte yvalia2.jpg, tayte.jpg, leova awlm scruff.jpg
|log='''Inner Caverns, High Reaches Weyr

''Within the labyrinth of interconnected chambers that make up the inner caverns, this large, long cavern serves both as a crossroads and a comfortable place for weyrfolk to sit, talk, and keep a nosy eye out for who's going where. Colorful, seasonal tapestries add warmth to the smooth walls and reduce echoes, while large niches house clusters of chairs, and a waist-high stone shelf along one wall provides a perch for drinks or work for residents on the go. Worn brass hooks often hold jackets or other outerwear with workboots stationed beneath, the transitory nature of the cavern lending itself to being treated as a sort of communal foyer where snowy or muddy gear can be kept outside of living quarters. Smaller, higher niches at regular intervals hold glowbaskets kept fresh during the daytime and allowed to dim somewhat at night.

''The largest tunnels lead to the main living cavern, to the bowl and to the Weyr entrance, but it's still easy for the uninitiated to get lost within this maze.
----

It's always chaotic of a morning down here, what with families congregating outside the caverns where the aunties tend the littles. At seven and a half, Via's intent on helping like a big girl even if Varian and Veylin and the girl from down the hall, Tuila, don't ''want'' to be herded. Still, Leova manages to get the youngest ones taken into custody after Varian's favorite auntie convinces him to stop clinging to his mother's leg. Next is Via, who holds just as tightly to her mother's hand as she tows her towards the room where she and her age-mates will begin the day. Via may be reticent with her words, but not with the glad waves and even hugs with which she greets her friends. When she leaves her mother, it's with a hug and backward steps to make ''sure'' Leova isn't going anywhere until she's turned around. Leova doesn't. She watches her girl, her eldest girl, feels Vrianth's electricity in the back of her head. She's just about to leave when one of the younger aunties taps her shoulder: the harper would like to see her later. There's no time to quiz her, not with another child's parent grabbing the auntie's attention. Leova doesn't force her way in.

At seven and not quite a half, Yvalia, too, is helpful to her mother though she has only one charge. One of her hands is in little toddling Tahvra's and with a one and a half turn old setting the pace, it's been a leisurely walk from the craft complex, even with Tavi being carried for parts of the journey. Surely Miska would not approve of this kind of lifting, but Tayte will not deny her youngest this, especially on so long a walk. Tahvra is all smiles, quickly distracted by the chaos and swept up in it by one of the nannies after a kiss to her forehead from her mother. Yvalia gets one too before she's off and Tayte angles to intercept Leova, who is the real reason the blonde is doing her own dropping off today. "Leova, can you spare some moments?" Her alto is raised only enough to be heard, manner downright grave by comparison to the other times the women have spoken, largely in passing.

"Hm?" A half-turn, a look that does nothing to ease the fine line between the older woman's brows, these lead into a silent moment in which her gaze stays quite focused. "Yes," Leova decides, stepping out of the main thoroughfare. "What's going on, Tayte?"

The look-round Tayte gives all the chaos beside them as she follows the older woman is decidedly one which seeks the ears in the walls. "Might we find somewhere a little more private? I'd rather not be overheard."

"That's fine. Your quarters?" Leova's also shorter, but now that the children are safely transferred, she carries herself with the sort of grounded composure that leads others to wait or walk around them. Once they pick a destination, she'll automatically move to the opposite side of Tayte from the wall, a walking bulwark.
----

'''Tayte's Room, High Reaches Weyr

''The peculiar shape of this room suggests that it was unintentionally expanded, cement holding the ceiling together towards the peculiarly shaped alcove build into the back corner. It's larger than most personal quarters as a result, and though the uneven walls mean nothing sits flush, there's plenty of room for more than the usual amount of furniture.

''The larger lobe of the lopsided kidney shape that the room has might be considered a studio room. A large bed is tucked into the roundest part of the alcove, though there's a gap behind where the straight headboard does not meet the wall. It's piled high with furs and pillows. In this curve there's also a wardrobe, a dresser, and nightstands. Hooks extending from the ceiling over the dresser have been rigged with two layered chain-link that holds a number of bottles of alcohol of different varieties. The highest drawer in the dresser which is bizarrely the largest locks with a key.

''Opposite it, closer to the door, is a hearth that's had a throw rug and loveseat set in front of it, along with a few low tables. A set of shelves and a small desk sit opposite the curve of the smaller end of the room. Around the curve and into the little lobe, one finds a great change. There's color ''everywhere'' instead of the muted things in the front half. Scarves and streamers hang from little hooks installed in the ceiling, their lengths varying, and a crib is set up in the middle with two small boxes that have toys poking out of their not-quite-shut lids. There's a tall table stocked with all the tools a mother needs (well, those that are safe to be at toddler height) and a small dresser and wardrobe. The furniture is all hand-me-downs but in decent enough condition to make the occupants comfortable.
----

"Yes, if you don't mind taking it slow." And they do. Once the door is shut behind them and they're settled with hot drinks taken from the lounge along their way, Tayte takes a breath. "I need your advice." Her limited experience with Leova has taught her not to dally on her way to a point. "I've already taken two long hiatuses from work in Snowasis and I find myself now in a position of needing to ask for a third, but I desperately do not want to lose my place there permanently. I thought of offering to do bookkeeping and the like in the meantime, but I wasn't sure how that would be received and I was hoping you could give me advice about broaching it." She looks to Leova, humble and not altogether hopeful.

"Why?" Simply. Perhaps Leova should know, but she's been busy.

Tayte must have known she would be asked, but she still needs to draw a deep, brave breath before she says. "Pregnancies. I miscarried the first, and another since. I'm with child again and I've been advised to modified bed rest for the duration. The healer seemed especially concerned for my work in Snowasis since it's so much standing and moving and occasionally lifting. I've spoke to Weyrvintner Saelin and am tendering my resignation to the Craft on the first of the month as I cannot afford another hiatus there and the risks facing this child are already too great." Her voice stays calm, but her knuckles whiten around her mug.

Leova listens to the woman, steadily. She doesn't so much as distract herself a swallow's worth of klah from the mug in her hands, though her gaze does for a moment consider Tayte's midsection. "I'd say I didn't know a body could resign," she says finally. "You know too much, hm? Except Anvori's own mother did it. I'd ''hope'' they'd give you a leave of absence at least. But. First, Tayte." Amber eyes, yellow amber, rest on the other woman. "Congratulations, above all else."

"Thank you." Tayte answers quietly. "I've only just found out and haven't made it known, yet. There is some complication with the parentage and I would prefer to keep things quiet as much as possible until telling won't be necessary." At some point, she will show. "I think it's fairly rare that one does, but I've always preferred bartending to the craft. And… Well, my last hiatus had me back at the Hall assisting my master and I made some," her cheeks tinge with embarrassed color, "political missteps, shall we say. Combine that with my research here not yielding positive results and… well, Saelin isn't unkind, but she did not argue against my decision."

Leova nods, a short and less-than-comfortable inclination of her head: it happens. It's not ''unfamiliar''. Madilla's not here with her easy, expressive sympathy for anyone and maybe everyone. Leova makes do. "I'd been on that, the bed rest and then not just part bed rest, with the twins." That was an awful time, something subtle about her tone implies. She had Vrianth, of course, both help and hindrance. "Reckon if you tell my man what you just told me, like you just told me, he'll do what he can. Won't say it's easy to replace you, mind, even for a Turn. Might be hard not to imagine all the things as can go wrong. Remember back to how he's been these Turns, though. ''Got'' to think it'll turn 'round right. And this Weyr takes care of its own."

Tayte didn't come to Leova for sympathy, but for the advice she's just dispensed. The blonde's nod is firm. "Anything I can bring him in hopes that we'll start things off in a good mood?" It's not a bribe, of course, but maybe a peace offering is what she's seeking.

Leova deliberates for a moment, then shakes her head. She's barely into it, though, when she stops and there's that one-cornered smile for the first time. "Mostly, catch him at a good time. Not too early, not too late, not too busy, hm?" As though she expects Tayte to be aware of what's when, as though the reminder might not even be needed. "And a ''good'' sandwich never goes awry."

There's another head nod to acknowledge this bit of advice. "Any particular fine spirit I can bring him a bottle of to take home?" Or put under the counter, depending on Anvori's proclivities. Tayte gives a glance over to her dresser, "I've a collection of rare bottles and I wouldn't mind parting with one even on just the chance that things will remain well between us and I'll be able to resume my duties once the child is born." She at least sounds determined about the last. No quaver to be heard in her alto despite her past misfortunes.

"You might well know better than I," Leova isn't loath to admit, before she lists what she does know. Afterward, she considers a careful moment before asking, "Spotting?"

There's a swallow from the soon to be former vintner and a solemn nod. "The healer tells me what I mistook for odd light cycles the last two months has been spotting. But the baby is still--" There. Tayte looks down at her mug. "The last miscarriage was at the start of the turn. Things hadn't been right since then." With her cycles. So perhaps Leova can see how she would make such a mistake.

She can. She nods. "I had it with Veylin and Varian," not just 'the twins,' "too. Midway, or thereabouts." Another careful moment passes. Leova says then, "Marysia and Giverne, they were a great help. Don't know if you know them? Don't know how busy they are these days, but I'll ask them to look in on you. 'Less you'd rather stay private."

"No. It will have to become known at some point and with two daughters, I will need help. K'del is supportive, of course, but busy," Weyrleaders, really! "and it's not ''his'' concern directly." Or ''his''. Tayte shifts her mug a little in her hands. "I'm not acquainted with Marysia and Giverne, but I would be much obliged to you for asking. I hope modified bed rest will be all that is necessary." Her eyes linger on Leova's face, a silent mark of kinship for their shared experiences, quiet appreciation there for the greenrider's candor.

"Not surprised." Leova drinks her klah as Tayte continues, slow swallows rather than discreet sips. "Will talk to them this afternoon. Are you... looking at having your daughters join those in the nursery for the evenings?"

The thought has Tayte looking briefly pained. "They have spent some time there in the evenings when I had night shifts, but--" That's ''different''. "I'd prefer not, as much as possible. I'm sure their fathers would feel the same." Not that it's a bad thing, of course. Just not what she would want for them. "My girls bring me more joy than stress, though it's hard to explain to Tavi that I shouldn't pick her up." There's a look of regret for that.

"It's important to Anvori too. He's also," Leova hitches a shoulder, "the one who can make that happen. A weyr's not safe, leastways mine isn't." Anvori also doesn't have Vrianth in his head. Speaking of, "Aught more I can do for you today?"

There's another nod for the first, and an involuntary short intake of breath for the second sentence. A smaller nod shows she's understood the meaning. Then finally Tayte shakes her head, "No, thank you, Leova. You've already been very kind with your help. I truly appreciate it." She won't keep the greenrider, but will move to rise to show her to the door and turn the key in the lock.

The inclination of Leova's head is somehow grave. Then she's standing, moving, wishing Tayte and her family well as she departs. If she hears the lock's click from the other side, it's no reason not to keep on going.
|when=Day 10, Month 6, Turn 35
|categories=
}}
[[Category:RP_Logs]]
[[Category:General_Logs]]

Logs:Aught, Naught

2016-05-29T05:32:30Z

Varied: Created page with "{{Log |who=Leova, Quint |what=Leova and Quint have a parent/teacher conference. That means the twins. |where=Harper Classroom, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |d..."

{{Log
|who=Leova, Quint
|what=Leova and Quint have a parent/teacher conference. That means the twins.
|where=Harper Classroom, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=11
|month=12
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.05.28
|quote="Break up the group, and you break up the power."
|mentions=Anvori, Jo, Suireh, Varian, Veylin, Veylin2, Via
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon quint.jpg, Icon leova awlm scruff.jpg,
|log=It's late afternoon, and the excited calls and yells of the young class that has just been released from the harper classroom can still be heard. The aftermath of their departure is apparent, too, within the classroom; chairs and desks pushed slightly askew in their haste to seek out the best snows of the day. At the front, Quint is seated, writing copious notes with the ease and precision of a practiced harper. It's soft, almost inaudible, the humming noise that comes from his direction, easily missed.

Her only perfume is redwort and disinfectant, this mother who enters steadily after a moment beyond the door. Moments. Leova walks down the aisle without adjusting those chairs, those desks, despite her glance that passes over them. Her boots scrape, briefly, when she stops a few paces off. "Journeyman," she says. And with Via at the Hall, resignation inflecting her low voice, "What is it this time?"

Blue eyes flicker upwards at the scrape of boots, the harper watching without comment, though the way Quint's mouth twitches briefly as he notes the woman's look at the desks and chairs says plenty enough. So too, perhaps, does the fact that he doesn't try to conceal the expression. Setting his writing instruments down, he rises, dusting chalk from his hands before he gestures in invitation for Leova to sit. In response to her resignation, the harper's tone is sympathetic: "It's difficult being a twin, I imagine."

It's a small chair. She might sit on its edge regardless. She does tuck her boots in at first, then squares them up for better balance: balance, as long as it's not pulled out from under her. "I hear that," Leova says. ''And yet'', might as well be.

Quint, at first, moves as if to lean against the desk, but when he sees Leova sitting, he strides to the desk next to hers, pulling out a similarly small sized chair and attempting to emulate her grace -- harder, perhaps, with his height. He exhales, as if deliberately telegraphing a difficult topic of conversation, before his eyes lift to meet Leova's. "We don't, generally, run two classes of the same age group. There's enough in the group that we ''could'', at need." He waits a beat, not for dramatics but as one trained to use timing to make a point: "Would you consider having them in separate classes, should it come to that?"

There's a slight tug to her mouth that ''recognizes'' his movements, that appreciates them. Leova's initial nod is slow, but it's followed by a quick, "Yes. Some days they might like it better than others. But it's not about their liking it, is it."

"No," the harper agrees, readily. "It's about what's best for them, even should they personally disagree. Many find it difficult to divorce that sentiment from the cry of their child, however." Quint says it with a tilt of head, as if seeking a response of some sort.

"You have a lovely way of speaking," the dragonhealer observes. "Can see why Via... thought well of you." Enough stalling. "Nigh on thirteen, she'll have her next Turnday at the Hall." ''Enough.'' Her jaw firms. The distance disappears. "We'll manage. Not as they won't see each other at night, at lunch, after all."

There's a quick smile, not so much habitual as acknowledging the compliment. "I'm afraid I can't take all the credit for that -- part of it belongs to the Hall," Quint says, with a quiet chuckle. He doesn't seem to mind the diverge, and in fact encourages it: "A few more Turns might see her posted out, even. She's a quick study. Has she given thought to where she'd like to be posted?" is asked with an interested tip of his head. For the latter, he nods, absorbing in silence a moment -- maybe giving ''her'' a moment -- before he continues, in a voice of authority and certainty both: "Each will benefit. Varian from standing on his own, and Veylin for finding a role other than that of protector."

"Thought, aye. We'd known it wouldn't be likely to be here, given the givens. She has..." Leova's posture is infinitesimally more relaxed. "Ideas." Options. Wonderings. Sketched-out and otherwise. There's a wry tip to the apprentice's mother's mouth at the journeyman's change in tone, even as she goes with it. "Believe Anvori will find it so also. Wish he could be here, but we had someone fall ill, he had to fill in." Her thumb moves fractionally, the scarred thumb, but otherwise her hands stay still. "Think you'd swing it so those boys are in her class, not his?" ''Those'' boys.

"''Ideas'' are good," Quint says, in a half-laughing, yet appreciative way. "Mm. Well, I hope she gets what she's hoping for, when the time comes. Speaking of which -- Turn's end is coming up. I'm looking forward to having another apprentice underfoot." It's subtle, the way ''looking forward'' is said with a fleetingly brief grimace, there-and-gone in an instant, followed by a twist of lips. "Someone to keep my own apprentice on her toes. Competition is a great motivator, I've found." He nods for her mention of Anvori, murmuring sympathetically, "There seems to be something going around -- though given the weather, not surprising." His brows go upwards at her latter request, and rather than answering immediately, he leans back in his chair -- albeit, ''carefully'' given they're made for smaller bodies than his. "Some, perhaps," he concedes, after a moment. "The thing about groups is -- they are powerful because they are a ''group''. Break up the group, and you break up the power -- and things reform. Sometimes for the better." One might well get the impression it's for more than one or two simple reasons he aims to split the classes this coming Turn. The harper gives a reassuring smile, "Don't worry. I'll keep an eye on things."

Her chuckle is low, more resonance than much sound: looking forward, indeed. But with the other issues at hand, Leova doesn't speak more of her eldest girl. She listens, quiet, amber eyes intent. ''Recogition'', there for the groups, the power. "Miniature wings you have there," she says, wry. "Reckon you'll be posted long enough to teach the, ah. Influx?"

"You're not the first to suggest parallels. I've been drawing some notes from a wingsecond, actually," Quint confesses, wryly. The harper doesn't try and pretend he doesn't understanding her latter meaning. "Given I've been here just on two Turns now, and most of my postings are just shy of three, I think that particular challenge will fall to other hands." If anything, the timbre of his voice might well suggest that Quint is almost disappointed by that, and yet: "A Journeyman's role is to ''journey'', after all," is said with ease.

Leova's brows tilt for that wingsecond, interested, but accepting rather than questioning. "Given thought to where you'd like to be posted?" borrows his own words in a way that's Tillek-inflected even now.

Quint's lips twitch, briefly, in recognition, but he answers readily enough: "Oh, I've no particular mind. I've been posted all over -- northern and southern. Might be nice to go somewhere warm after the winters here, though the southern continent can be as unbearable in its heat as the northern places in their winters. Or say, Igen -- I'd heard a lot about the trading clans in and around there that intrigues me. But no -- I am the servant of my craft," with a jaunty half-bow, ruined by the fact that this overbalances him enough that he pushes to his feet with a grin that is half embarrassed, half rueful.

"Igen, and its traders, ''has'' become more talked about here of recent Turns," Leova says, deadpan. She gains her own smile, then, and cue or no, takes his movement to gain her feet: "Anything else about my offspring? Turning their work in? At least they're not off-tune when they ''sing''."

When she gains her feet, too, Quint appears more at ease, though he navigates around the desk to straighten the chair behind it. "They excel at reading and writing -- at math too, if they put their minds to it," which, judging by the brief, wry expression, doesn't always happen. "Have they -- you? -- any idea what they intend for their future?"

Leova hovers: it's her children's teachers' territory, not proper caverns nor sky. His words don't meet with surprise, ''including'' the math, though there she has her own rueful glance up and away. Back to the harper, her reply not immediate. "It varies. Impression generally figures into it, but this is a Weyr. And Vari, if he'd stop getting ''sick''... Harper, there's sister, aunt, grandmother already, hm? For better or worse. ''Would'' like to see them looking to a Crafthall. Do you..." here's a mother's hesitation before one kind of expert, "see anything in them?"

Quint continues to straighten and adjust the various chairs and desks, almost as a distraction than anything. "I feel like Veylin could become quite a great teacher, if she's a mind to follow in her sibling's footsteps to the hall. Varian..." he pauses, to find the right words for her to hear: "I suspect the next Turn or so will make his path clearer. He does seem ill a lot, though -- more prone to what others shrug off. Does he have relatives down south that might be willing to oversee his care for a time? Perhaps he'd benefit from the warmer weather?" He's watching her, but sidelong, like he's trying to allow her a moment's privacy while simultaneously sharply interested in the answer.

After a chair or two, Leova joins in. Brisk. Efficient. Her dark auburn hair's close-cropped, the sun-rust cut off, but she doesn't move to conceal her expression in any case: just ''to'' move, to ''do''. The quick nod for Vey has not simple agreement but confirmation, a tugged half-smile implying other words. For Varian... her hands cup around one chair's back, leaning on it more than moving, and the torn quality's reflected in her voice well before she looks his way. "No relations. I ''know'' people. But. That's a lot farther than a classroom." Quickly, "When did you know? What you wanted to be?"

There might well be a gleam of satisfaction in Quint's gaze as Leova joins him in straightening the classroom, though it isn't betrayed in the twist of his fingers as he pushes another chair under its desk. "Well. Fostering's not such a bad idea, especially if he aims to be a dragonrider. Exposure to other Weyrs could be good for him," the teacher suggests, easily. It's the latter question that makes him pause to consider. "I didn't -- or at least, I didn't know I wanted to be a harper until the day before I apprenticed, pretty much. You could say it was a spur of the moment decision, but -- sometimes you just do something because you know it's ''right''." He glances at Leova, as if to see how she feels about that particular sentiment.

Not so much torn as... conflicted, perhaps. "How did it come about? If you don't mind my asking," might buy the greenrider time, or understanding.

The harper hesitates, but it's so brief as to be mistaken for consideration of the best way to straighten the desk in front of him, which he does as he answers, "I saw a harper sit in judgement of a man and his actions. It -- I suppose it spurred ''me'' to action," Quint says, lightly.

HIgh Reaches hasn't been immune to judgement in Leova's lifetime. In Vrianth's. "Speaks well," Leova says now, with quiet respect. She's silent for a little while then, retrieving a forgotten slate, searching out the stack and then placing it atop. It's blank, after all. "What do you think of crafters, as who Impress?"

His, "Mm," is a well-practiced, if non-committal response. Quint smiles a little, as he says, "Why do I feel like this parent-teacher interview turned into a teacher-teacher interview?" It doesn't stop him answering, however: "I feel like, in most cases, it's a waste of talent. One cannot split ones attention between the passions in one's life, and a dragon -- from what I've observed and been told -- doesn't care to be second best. I'd be disappointed if any of my apprentices chose to stand," he answers, with an honest gravity. "That said, I can understand the lure."

Her gaze swings over to him, surprised, and then Leova admits to a one-shouldered shrug: she won't dispute it, and ''that'' leads to a chuckle. "Aye." Dragons. "Understand that too, to be sure." After a moment, "Find it right, in our infirmary, to have dragonhealers who aren't riders as well as those who are. For when the emotion's contagious."

"Seems wise," is Quint's only comment on that, allowing silence to follow, as if waiting for whatever the dragonhealer might want to ask next.

Her nod acknowledges his words without looking over, and then she's comfortable in the silence that's only quiet scrapes of furniture moved and even softer footsteps. When the last are in place, "Will speak with my weyrmate," Leova says then. "''Might'' not trouble the healers again, just yet, see how your different classes take on. Might be it'll be better, then," though her wry half-smile doesn't hold much truck in escaping illness along with the gang of boys. "Aught else, Harper?"

"Might," Quint acknowledges that, too. "Worth a try, if nothing else. Talk to Anvori. Let me know where you land." He straightens, from straighten''ing'', a quirk of lips given. "Naught else, rider." He gives a nod for her, possibly in mute thanks of her assistance getting the classroom back in order. He moves for his desk, throwing back over his shoulder: "They're good kids. They'll be fine."

It's the mother who says, "''Hope'' so." And, "Our thanks, for your time." The door's quiet as it closes behind her.
|Categories=Crafter Logs
}}

Logs:Glitteratus

2016-03-02T01:02:38Z

Varied: The other players didn't get icons back in the LJ days! Fixed.

{{Log
|who=Anvori, Leova
|what=Anvori makes sandwiches. Leova brings fruit.
|where=Kitchen, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=23
|month=3
|turn=19
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2009.03.18
|quote="From who those sandwiches were originally for."
|mentions=Edeline, Potipher, Riahla, Satiet, Suireh, Thedrin
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon anvori.png, Icon leova drinking thirsty watching.jpg
|log=While the bustle of lunch starting in the living cavern directly affects the hubbub of the kitchens - cooks working at overspeed to meet potential demands - Anvori is one of the few spots of calm. Instead of taking part in the revelry of lunch time at High Reaches Weyr, he's standing placidly at the end of one of the kitchen islands, a loaf of bread, jars of some sort of pepper spread, and various thin sliced meats and cheese at ready. There's lettuce leaves and tomatoes midst the other various vegetables on a plate, that given the cutting board and knife at his elbow, was self-prepared. The world could be ending around him, and there pensive-faced Anvori would stay, standing, putting together several sandwiches with meticulous precision.

Such a contrast to the quiet nighthearth with the disquiet at its heart. Isn't it? A Glacier greenrider slips from the inner caverns into the eddies of people at work, pausing here, walking more quickly there, the better to go along with the flow. There's a sack in her arms, closely and gently held the way a child might be, a young child that doesn't fret and pull and swing from one hand. Along the way, the path takes her near to where Anvori works and, why not? She steps off it, around the island's corner, the better to set the sack atop clear space where it wouldn't, shouldn't, interfere with the task he's set himself. Gently.

Is it a child? He surely can't tell with the briesft glance he casts upwards onto the lump that appears nearby - the attention paid merely the passing interest towards movement in his vicinity, before he's back to putting together another sandwich. Bread. Knife swirled spread. Then, he pauses, fingers hovering over the decision he must now make of which cheeses and which meats to put in between the slices. "What d'ya think? Salami or sweet-baked ham? Provolone or cheddar?" Hazel eyes lift beneath the salt and pepper of his raven hair (hair which is sorely in need of a trim), a smile following quickly thereafter as he seeks out the owner of that particular sack, child, thing.

She's settling the sack, opening its mouth with her thumbs, rolling it over itself with its contents still in shadow, but the question lifts her gaze and in a moment of surprise she's smiling too. "Provolone," Leova recommends to him, and now that smile's made it into her voice, even as she looks down to getting her own task finished: unrolling the sack further. Plucking out its contents with quick, careful fingers: a plump must-be-Southern fig, and then another and another, but she sets the first between them before making a little pyramid for the others. "Rest, depends on what you'll do with it before you eat it. And salami keeps better. The ham... might as well eat it if you got it, hm?"

The smile that fixes itself onto Anvori's features is such a far cry from the fire and whiskey of their previous and only encounter. And whether that meeting has been passed off as a distant memory of drunken nights and wistful yearnings or there's recollection of Leova is unclear from the way those glittering hazel eyes fall from studying Leova's face to the way her hand pulls apart the sack and starts scattering its wares on the counter. The smile, it not only persists but grows in minute increments with each fig's appearance, until he's unable to resist and reaches out to pluck the top of the pyramid away. "Could make sandwiches with the salami and wrap halves of these in the ham too."

So much can happen in even just over a Turn, at Tillek at the very least. And here? Whether or not Leova senses Anvori's temptation, she doesn't guard her little plump prizes, only keeps stacking. Until temptation's too much, until he moves to steal one. That's when he gets a sidelong look, distinctly amused, rather than a swat. "Could do. Better if they're warmed, though. So they open up, start..." what's the word? She looks at him like he should have a better one, the next fig caught between thumb and forefinger, "Melting? Into each other. If you can say that of a fruit."

It's at 'warmed' that Anvori cuts a look through the bustling kitchen, as if by stare alone he might part the gaggle of people surrounding their relative calm, and look to see if the stoves are in use. They likely are and after mere seconds of fruitless staring, the Tillekian gives up with the slightest shrug and devil-may-care smile that's punctuated by an idle, almost boyish upward toss of that fig that's then caught at the last minute before it might fall too low to catch. Serious, he isn't, not in his teasing inquiry that again takes in Leova from waist on up and then back down-up again. "Impressed?"

Leova follows his glance, though leaves off even sooner than he, the better to carefully and quickly stack more fruit: figs, but then the larger, rounder apricots that follow, glowing like so many velvety jewels against the granite. Which isn't to say that she can't notice the play, roll her eyes good-humoredly rather than shy from the look-over. "Maybe if you caught it between your teeth," she allows in like tone. Only, a few more stacked apricots later, she tugs her flight jacket just a little more closely about her and asks, "What's the news out of Tillek? I still have your whiskey, you know."

He listens with the absentmindedness of one preoccupied with something -else-. Something having to do with her nose, or perhaps her face in general. It's as she touches on the subjects of Tillek and whiskey that a quizzical curve of his brows lifts. "Have-," Anvori's pleasant tenor pauses, his head tip as uncertain as the hazel eyes that again refocus on Leova. "Have we met? I'm almost certain we have and from what you say, and yet-." Apology colors his face, not with a blush, but with the brightness of a self-deprecating smile. "I don't know that I'd have forgotten an encounter with you." He does have the temerity to add, the fleeting, teasing smile visible before he turns faux attention back to his stacks of sandwiches, "Was our interlude at least memorable? Should I be kicking myself for forgetting?"

His question lifts her gaze from the fruit again, hazel to hazel, just for a moment until he goes on. Leova starts to nod, but then Anvori's talking further, abbreviating the gesture. ''Again'' her gaze flicks up, only this time her eyes narrow on him instead of roll. "Very kind," the greenrider says, just one corner of her mouth tucking up along the way for his sallies, and then what she rolls is the latest apricot in his direction before getting back to stacking. Again. "Once, though I've seen you now and again in the Snowasis," because who wouldn't have? "I'm Leova. Vrianth's. Out of Tillek, before." More apricots, and more, until the sack's about empty, and she fishes gingerly within to make certain. "And," so graciously! "Reckon you might have done the kicking already, the next morning. All that moonshine..."

What he might not remember clearly, still (all that moonshine, of course), he cleverly attempts to mask now with full apology bright in his glittering eyes. ''And'' in the plate of sandwiches he scoots over. "Peace offering," he states, grinning wryly, "For the amount of kicking of my own petard I mus- did on your behalf. I don't usually drink that much." Ah, the memories must be returning. "Tillek, you know. Bad business all around. But the Lady Edeline and her son are doing well." If there's any flicker of tenseness in the tenor, it's hard to discern without listening for it. "At long last Tillek has a male heir to continue its line." Beat. "Lee-ooh-va."

"Bribery," Leova counters, shaking out the sack and a bit of twig or two in the process, which she then has to pick off her sweater. "Don't know about that." Doesn't know about looking at those so-glittering eyes again either, apparently, though there's that crook to her mouth again as she folds up the sack, stuffs it in a pocket. Dusts off her hands. Reaches over to separate the sandwiches, with a litte apricot-and-fig fence between them: clearly he must have half, and of course the Weyr gets the rest of the delivery. All that can be done while listening, listening closely. "That I'd heard. Was wondering if you knew anything more like..." and ''then'' she's looking up. "''Anvori''." It's almost a plea. "Not like that. And you're ''distracting''."

The brackets about his mouth indent, pushed further inward by the growing smile across his features. The plea elicits a reaction, though not in the way that might be desired. Now that she's looking, Anvori can't help his smile, nor the way his eyes relinquish what irritation the subject of Edeline and her child might have roused; relinquish, melted into his generally easy-going nature. And that smile again. Though his eyes drop to watch the build of an apricot-fig fence between the sandwiches, they don't linger there long, hazel escaping to find the fig in his own hands, which he brings to his lips to test the toughness of the skin with a test nibble. "I know as much as the next person. How would a fisherman's son gain private audience with the Lord and Lady Tillek?" Despite how bitter the words are, it's layered in an overly good-natured tone. Then, a concession, "They seem... happy enough, Leova." Her name isn't elongated in the same way, but the faint emphasis exists even in its shortened version.

Rather than immediately eat, herself, Leova rests her elbows on the counter's corner that separates them, leather against granite with the barest clink of metal contacting, somewhere. Slouching her shoulders lets her look up at him, chin on hands, leaning a little hipshot as counterbalance. And that lets her study Anvori's expression as well as his tone, for which she says more gently, afterward, "Was thinking of... people, actually. Word on the docks, the bars, wherever. Not so much the Lady, nor her lord. Her heir."

Anvori's breath catches when her intent is clarified so. It's always either what's said or what isn't said, and the interpretation therein of vague questions that leads to more conclusions. And perhaps aware that his interpretation of her curiosity has betrayed more of his thoughts than he wishes, the brewer is silent; silent as he puts the once-nibbled fig onto the cutting board and begins halving them so the juicy seeds and ripe flesh within are now exposed to the air. If she continues to watch, his profile, bent over the work of halving one fig and considering what to do with it, is shadowed. His eyes, obscured by long lashes, are dropped. His jaw, working its way towards a response, is visible. "You should eat one of the sandwiches."

She does watch. And, a little while later, she complies: reaching out to gradually free one half of a sandwich from its mate, careful of the crumbs, of the bits of filling that like to escape. Still leaning, Leova brings it to her mouth, bites in, and carefully chews. She can wait. Can see what he'll do, or not do, with the rest.

He doesn't have to look to her to see what she does, the peripheral of his vision is enough to get the gist. So he's aware when she complies and in response, the hunched set of his shoulders relaxes fractionally. "Good?" Finding equilibrium, if only in the mundanity of small talk, Anvori turns his cheek up so he might study Leova and her forward lean. "It should be good. It's a fruit spread I picked up from a cook at the Hold. It tastes better- warmed." Toasted. Warmed. "In Nabol, I'm told they put slices of apple in the middle of a ham and cheese sandwich."

"It's good," Leova quietly confirms in return, and without even the infinitesimal hesitation that might proceed a reply meant to be polite. Her lashes fall when his lift, when he describes the jam's origin, and she rolls the next bite in her mouth like that would help her figure it all out. "''Even'' better. Well. Berries," is her guess, and she separates the halves to peek in before glancing up again. "They say, they put apples in about everything, Nabol way. Can't recall... but seems like it would be good. Melty cheese." Makes everything good! Now's the hesitation, though not quite from politeness: "It's food then, for you? Not just brews?"

"Just brews." Anvori uses the last pieces of bread to press the halved figs into, with a layer of cheese and ham ontop. No jam spread. This is the sandwich he cuts into four triangles, picking up one to munch on himself. "But you learn the art of sandwiches, at the very least, when you're on the road. Can't be eating road-side tavern food forever, no?" Sandwich in hand, he turns to lean against the table, opposite of Leova's frontal lean in. "The word on the docks is that Tillek is stable. The memory of their fallen Lord distant and amnesty granted the once-lady and her son-... well, good news always trumps the bad ones, though some still question how Lord Tillek passed on so suddenly. Lord Potipher-. He's a good man."

Just brews. "Costs too much," Leova agrees between bites, eyeing the triangles, though then she continues on the half-sandwich she'd started and not hurriedly, either. "Though. Don't reckon it ever tasted as good as this, just what it took to keep a body from growling.... Anyhow. That it's going well, that it's stable, I'm real glad to hear that. Hope it doesn't get shaken up again. That everything's... binding, and people keep believing."

"Believing?" At his wryest, Anvori's tonal qualities sound remarkably similar to that of Satiet's, and with a brow that hitches up once more, he looks past his shoulders down upon the leaned Leova. While one hand retains hold of his sandwich, a little messily at tht with a fig oozing forth, the other precedes the turn of his body, back the same direction as the greenrider, all so he might push back some of her hair. Or at least the air where her hair might be, but really isn't. It could just be a ploy to run his fingers past her cheek. "That Potipher sits at home and knits doilies while his wife rules the Hold? Or that Edeline has stepped back dutifully from her Blood-granted rights?" Aware that he's verging away from his carefully cultivated persona, the hand at her cheek pulls away, turning into a 'halting' gesture. "Don't let it get around. The pretty man with liquor has a brain too." His smile emerges once more, cresting up lopsidedly along one side towards the sly little wink. "Tell me about yourself, Leova."

"Believing," is Leova's very quiet confirmation, and it would be as easy to dodge his feint as it would have been to protect the fig to begin with. Or easier. Instead, she waits to see what Anvori does here too. Her eyes track his fingers, to see if they're messy too? before they've gone too far. And then they're just gone. For what he's had to say, she says, "That Tillek's run well, will continue to run well, will keep going and that's one less worry keeping everyone up at night." ''Then'' she holds up both hands instead of one, though one's occupied by her own sandwich: ''now'' she can halt. Really. "As you wish." For either? Both? Amused, "What would you like to know?"

Aware that having Leova be an open book, or at least the semblance of one, is a rare deal, Anvori considers the greenrider a long, steady, non-flirtatious moment. He could ask anything of her, though she may not answer, and all he comes up with is a cheeky: "So what's so distracting?"

"The way you..." Leova eyes him. Waves a crumb at him as though that cheekiness were all part and parcel of the same. Winds up with, "Glitter." Not quite right, maybe, but what she's got.

"Does it distract you in interesting ways? My-," the grin, though it doesn't widen his mouth, is heard heavily in his voice, "Glitter?" Whether he's succeeded in derailing further conversation from the serious, only time will tell: skirting the edge of whatever had him pensively considering his mountains of sandwiches earlier or the subject of Edeline and her husband. "You're a very attractive woman and I confess," his tenor lowers to jive with the drop of his torso as he bends and braces his elbows against the counter, "My own distraction once you've come to stand by me." The last of his first triangle is popped into his mouth. A second is plucked.

At even the very beginning of that, Leova squeezes her eyes shut, shut, shut, but it's not as though it's going to ward off his voice any, and so she opens them. And lo, he's still there. So she eyes him, at least when she's not putting off replying in favor of, look, chewing, which surely one can't be expected to do all at the same time. Which may be why he goes on, if he hadn't intended such already, and that leaves her with a dry, "Do you." Then, "And what have I distracted you from? Anvori."

Anvori, silent, looks to Leova with those glittering hazel eyes and that smile that hovers somewhere in the good-natured lines of his face and in the faintest pull of his lips. He watches as her eyes shut and then open, and find that he's still there. And he watches while she chews and then speaks dryly. It's a sad sort of watching, one that's not quite looking at -her- as much as looking beyond the physical to that 'distraction,' that in the end, he voices as he pushes back from the table, keeping his hands busy with the cleaning endeavors while he speaks. "From who those sandwiches were originally for, Leova. See? Distraction." He even punctuates that last word with flickering spirit fingers.

That narrows her gaze, distracts ''her'' from something of her distance. "Won't say I'm not curious," Leova says finally, but neither does she ask. Nor does she ask after one of the remaining quarter-triangles, though there's something about the way she looks at it until, suddenly, her eyes fly to his face. "Take some fruit with you. Some of both, to taste like summer."

She doesn't have to ask when he's willing to tell. Anvori finishes cleaning up, all except wiping down the counter, for which he'd need a rag for but instead looks helplessly at a passing kitchenmaid. He must do this alot for she rolls her eyes and acquiesces, departing with a giggle as he irreverently pats her bottom on her way out. "For my sister. It's ok. She cancelled on me. So I'll be taking my wares off to my nieces." What's left of them at any rate. For all his lighthearted attitude, it's hard to completely mask the concern shadowing his eyes. "Next time, I promise. I promise I won't forget who you are, Leova." Plate in one hand, the other reaches over to brush the back of one finger against her cheek, "You're a distraction worth remembering."

Leova straightens as the counter's wiped, the better to busy herself with the fruit and, once he says ''nieces'', swapping out figs for apricots except for one that's tucked off to the side. For him? Or for the girls, to practice tasting so maybe someday they'll enjoy figs too. "They'll like the apricots better," she says, not looking up, not having to see his concern to recognize it in her own. And she doesn't look up until she's seen the plate into his hand and the rest of what he says lifts her gaze to his, even before he touches her. What she says is, gently again, "When you remember," if he remembers, "Ask me for your moonshine back. And thank you, for lunch."

"Do you one better, since I can't imagine many moments where I won't be remembering you," says Anvori. "I'll come look for you the next time I remember my moonshine." With both hands to his plate, one last glance is given the counter, before he too, like the kitchenmaid before, is off.

Which means that Leova spills into helpless laughter as she waves him off, has to wipe her eyes even before abandoning her fruit-delivery in favor of the ''rest'' of lunch. A rider's got to eat. But in the meantime? Distraction.
}}

Logs:Glitteratus

2016-03-02T01:00:33Z

Varied: They meet again, over a Turn later. Anvori has a crush on Edeline, who just had a baby.

{{Log
|who=Anvori, Leova
|what=Anvori makes sandwiches. Leova brings fruit.
|where=Kitchen, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=23
|month=3
|turn=19
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2009.03.18
|quote="From who those sandwiches were originally for."
|mentions=Edeline, Potipher, Riahla, Satiet, Suireh, Thedrin
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon leova drinking thirsty watching.jpg,
|log=While the bustle of lunch starting in the living cavern directly affects the hubbub of the kitchens - cooks working at overspeed to meet potential demands - Anvori is one of the few spots of calm. Instead of taking part in the revelry of lunch time at High Reaches Weyr, he's standing placidly at the end of one of the kitchen islands, a loaf of bread, jars of some sort of pepper spread, and various thin sliced meats and cheese at ready. There's lettuce leaves and tomatoes midst the other various vegetables on a plate, that given the cutting board and knife at his elbow, was self-prepared. The world could be ending around him, and there pensive-faced Anvori would stay, standing, putting together several sandwiches with meticulous precision.

Such a contrast to the quiet nighthearth with the disquiet at its heart. Isn't it? A Glacier greenrider slips from the inner caverns into the eddies of people at work, pausing here, walking more quickly there, the better to go along with the flow. There's a sack in her arms, closely and gently held the way a child might be, a young child that doesn't fret and pull and swing from one hand. Along the way, the path takes her near to where Anvori works and, why not? She steps off it, around the island's corner, the better to set the sack atop clear space where it wouldn't, shouldn't, interfere with the task he's set himself. Gently.

Is it a child? He surely can't tell with the briesft glance he casts upwards onto the lump that appears nearby - the attention paid merely the passing interest towards movement in his vicinity, before he's back to putting together another sandwich. Bread. Knife swirled spread. Then, he pauses, fingers hovering over the decision he must now make of which cheeses and which meats to put in between the slices. "What d'ya think? Salami or sweet-baked ham? Provolone or cheddar?" Hazel eyes lift beneath the salt and pepper of his raven hair (hair which is sorely in need of a trim), a smile following quickly thereafter as he seeks out the owner of that particular sack, child, thing.

She's settling the sack, opening its mouth with her thumbs, rolling it over itself with its contents still in shadow, but the question lifts her gaze and in a moment of surprise she's smiling too. "Provolone," Leova recommends to him, and now that smile's made it into her voice, even as she looks down to getting her own task finished: unrolling the sack further. Plucking out its contents with quick, careful fingers: a plump must-be-Southern fig, and then another and another, but she sets the first between them before making a little pyramid for the others. "Rest, depends on what you'll do with it before you eat it. And salami keeps better. The ham... might as well eat it if you got it, hm?"

The smile that fixes itself onto Anvori's features is such a far cry from the fire and whiskey of their previous and only encounter. And whether that meeting has been passed off as a distant memory of drunken nights and wistful yearnings or there's recollection of Leova is unclear from the way those glittering hazel eyes fall from studying Leova's face to the way her hand pulls apart the sack and starts scattering its wares on the counter. The smile, it not only persists but grows in minute increments with each fig's appearance, until he's unable to resist and reaches out to pluck the top of the pyramid away. "Could make sandwiches with the salami and wrap halves of these in the ham too."

So much can happen in even just over a Turn, at Tillek at the very least. And here? Whether or not Leova senses Anvori's temptation, she doesn't guard her little plump prizes, only keeps stacking. Until temptation's too much, until he moves to steal one. That's when he gets a sidelong look, distinctly amused, rather than a swat. "Could do. Better if they're warmed, though. So they open up, start..." what's the word? She looks at him like he should have a better one, the next fig caught between thumb and forefinger, "Melting? Into each other. If you can say that of a fruit."

It's at 'warmed' that Anvori cuts a look through the bustling kitchen, as if by stare alone he might part the gaggle of people surrounding their relative calm, and look to see if the stoves are in use. They likely are and after mere seconds of fruitless staring, the Tillekian gives up with the slightest shrug and devil-may-care smile that's punctuated by an idle, almost boyish upward toss of that fig that's then caught at the last minute before it might fall too low to catch. Serious, he isn't, not in his teasing inquiry that again takes in Leova from waist on up and then back down-up again. "Impressed?"

Leova follows his glance, though leaves off even sooner than he, the better to carefully and quickly stack more fruit: figs, but then the larger, rounder apricots that follow, glowing like so many velvety jewels against the granite. Which isn't to say that she can't notice the play, roll her eyes good-humoredly rather than shy from the look-over. "Maybe if you caught it between your teeth," she allows in like tone. Only, a few more stacked apricots later, she tugs her flight jacket just a little more closely about her and asks, "What's the news out of Tillek? I still have your whiskey, you know."

He listens with the absentmindedness of one preoccupied with something -else-. Something having to do with her nose, or perhaps her face in general. It's as she touches on the subjects of Tillek and whiskey that a quizzical curve of his brows lifts. "Have-," Anvori's pleasant tenor pauses, his head tip as uncertain as the hazel eyes that again refocus on Leova. "Have we met? I'm almost certain we have and from what you say, and yet-." Apology colors his face, not with a blush, but with the brightness of a self-deprecating smile. "I don't know that I'd have forgotten an encounter with you." He does have the temerity to add, the fleeting, teasing smile visible before he turns faux attention back to his stacks of sandwiches, "Was our interlude at least memorable? Should I be kicking myself for forgetting?"

His question lifts her gaze from the fruit again, hazel to hazel, just for a moment until he goes on. Leova starts to nod, but then Anvori's talking further, abbreviating the gesture. ''Again'' her gaze flicks up, only this time her eyes narrow on him instead of roll. "Very kind," the greenrider says, just one corner of her mouth tucking up along the way for his sallies, and then what she rolls is the latest apricot in his direction before getting back to stacking. Again. "Once, though I've seen you now and again in the Snowasis," because who wouldn't have? "I'm Leova. Vrianth's. Out of Tillek, before." More apricots, and more, until the sack's about empty, and she fishes gingerly within to make certain. "And," so graciously! "Reckon you might have done the kicking already, the next morning. All that moonshine..."

What he might not remember clearly, still (all that moonshine, of course), he cleverly attempts to mask now with full apology bright in his glittering eyes. ''And'' in the plate of sandwiches he scoots over. "Peace offering," he states, grinning wryly, "For the amount of kicking of my own petard I mus- did on your behalf. I don't usually drink that much." Ah, the memories must be returning. "Tillek, you know. Bad business all around. But the Lady Edeline and her son are doing well." If there's any flicker of tenseness in the tenor, it's hard to discern without listening for it. "At long last Tillek has a male heir to continue its line." Beat. "Lee-ooh-va."

"Bribery," Leova counters, shaking out the sack and a bit of twig or two in the process, which she then has to pick off her sweater. "Don't know about that." Doesn't know about looking at those so-glittering eyes again either, apparently, though there's that crook to her mouth again as she folds up the sack, stuffs it in a pocket. Dusts off her hands. Reaches over to separate the sandwiches, with a litte apricot-and-fig fence between them: clearly he must have half, and of course the Weyr gets the rest of the delivery. All that can be done while listening, listening closely. "That I'd heard. Was wondering if you knew anything more like..." and ''then'' she's looking up. "''Anvori''." It's almost a plea. "Not like that. And you're ''distracting''."

The brackets about his mouth indent, pushed further inward by the growing smile across his features. The plea elicits a reaction, though not in the way that might be desired. Now that she's looking, Anvori can't help his smile, nor the way his eyes relinquish what irritation the subject of Edeline and her child might have roused; relinquish, melted into his generally easy-going nature. And that smile again. Though his eyes drop to watch the build of an apricot-fig fence between the sandwiches, they don't linger there long, hazel escaping to find the fig in his own hands, which he brings to his lips to test the toughness of the skin with a test nibble. "I know as much as the next person. How would a fisherman's son gain private audience with the Lord and Lady Tillek?" Despite how bitter the words are, it's layered in an overly good-natured tone. Then, a concession, "They seem... happy enough, Leova." Her name isn't elongated in the same way, but the faint emphasis exists even in its shortened version.

Rather than immediately eat, herself, Leova rests her elbows on the counter's corner that separates them, leather against granite with the barest clink of metal contacting, somewhere. Slouching her shoulders lets her look up at him, chin on hands, leaning a little hipshot as counterbalance. And that lets her study Anvori's expression as well as his tone, for which she says more gently, afterward, "Was thinking of... people, actually. Word on the docks, the bars, wherever. Not so much the Lady, nor her lord. Her heir."

Anvori's breath catches when her intent is clarified so. It's always either what's said or what isn't said, and the interpretation therein of vague questions that leads to more conclusions. And perhaps aware that his interpretation of her curiosity has betrayed more of his thoughts than he wishes, the brewer is silent; silent as he puts the once-nibbled fig onto the cutting board and begins halving them so the juicy seeds and ripe flesh within are now exposed to the air. If she continues to watch, his profile, bent over the work of halving one fig and considering what to do with it, is shadowed. His eyes, obscured by long lashes, are dropped. His jaw, working its way towards a response, is visible. "You should eat one of the sandwiches."

She does watch. And, a little while later, she complies: reaching out to gradually free one half of a sandwich from its mate, careful of the crumbs, of the bits of filling that like to escape. Still leaning, Leova brings it to her mouth, bites in, and carefully chews. She can wait. Can see what he'll do, or not do, with the rest.

He doesn't have to look to her to see what she does, the peripheral of his vision is enough to get the gist. So he's aware when she complies and in response, the hunched set of his shoulders relaxes fractionally. "Good?" Finding equilibrium, if only in the mundanity of small talk, Anvori turns his cheek up so he might study Leova and her forward lean. "It should be good. It's a fruit spread I picked up from a cook at the Hold. It tastes better- warmed." Toasted. Warmed. "In Nabol, I'm told they put slices of apple in the middle of a ham and cheese sandwich."

"It's good," Leova quietly confirms in return, and without even the infinitesimal hesitation that might proceed a reply meant to be polite. Her lashes fall when his lift, when he describes the jam's origin, and she rolls the next bite in her mouth like that would help her figure it all out. "''Even'' better. Well. Berries," is her guess, and she separates the halves to peek in before glancing up again. "They say, they put apples in about everything, Nabol way. Can't recall... but seems like it would be good. Melty cheese." Makes everything good! Now's the hesitation, though not quite from politeness: "It's food then, for you? Not just brews?"

"Just brews." Anvori uses the last pieces of bread to press the halved figs into, with a layer of cheese and ham ontop. No jam spread. This is the sandwich he cuts into four triangles, picking up one to munch on himself. "But you learn the art of sandwiches, at the very least, when you're on the road. Can't be eating road-side tavern food forever, no?" Sandwich in hand, he turns to lean against the table, opposite of Leova's frontal lean in. "The word on the docks is that Tillek is stable. The memory of their fallen Lord distant and amnesty granted the once-lady and her son-... well, good news always trumps the bad ones, though some still question how Lord Tillek passed on so suddenly. Lord Potipher-. He's a good man."

Just brews. "Costs too much," Leova agrees between bites, eyeing the triangles, though then she continues on the half-sandwich she'd started and not hurriedly, either. "Though. Don't reckon it ever tasted as good as this, just what it took to keep a body from growling.... Anyhow. That it's going well, that it's stable, I'm real glad to hear that. Hope it doesn't get shaken up again. That everything's... binding, and people keep believing."

"Believing?" At his wryest, Anvori's tonal qualities sound remarkably similar to that of Satiet's, and with a brow that hitches up once more, he looks past his shoulders down upon the leaned Leova. While one hand retains hold of his sandwich, a little messily at tht with a fig oozing forth, the other precedes the turn of his body, back the same direction as the greenrider, all so he might push back some of her hair. Or at least the air where her hair might be, but really isn't. It could just be a ploy to run his fingers past her cheek. "That Potipher sits at home and knits doilies while his wife rules the Hold? Or that Edeline has stepped back dutifully from her Blood-granted rights?" Aware that he's verging away from his carefully cultivated persona, the hand at her cheek pulls away, turning into a 'halting' gesture. "Don't let it get around. The pretty man with liquor has a brain too." His smile emerges once more, cresting up lopsidedly along one side towards the sly little wink. "Tell me about yourself, Leova."

"Believing," is Leova's very quiet confirmation, and it would be as easy to dodge his feint as it would have been to protect the fig to begin with. Or easier. Instead, she waits to see what Anvori does here too. Her eyes track his fingers, to see if they're messy too? before they've gone too far. And then they're just gone. For what he's had to say, she says, "That Tillek's run well, will continue to run well, will keep going and that's one less worry keeping everyone up at night." ''Then'' she holds up both hands instead of one, though one's occupied by her own sandwich: ''now'' she can halt. Really. "As you wish." For either? Both? Amused, "What would you like to know?"

Aware that having Leova be an open book, or at least the semblance of one, is a rare deal, Anvori considers the greenrider a long, steady, non-flirtatious moment. He could ask anything of her, though she may not answer, and all he comes up with is a cheeky: "So what's so distracting?"

"The way you..." Leova eyes him. Waves a crumb at him as though that cheekiness were all part and parcel of the same. Winds up with, "Glitter." Not quite right, maybe, but what she's got.

"Does it distract you in interesting ways? My-," the grin, though it doesn't widen his mouth, is heard heavily in his voice, "Glitter?" Whether he's succeeded in derailing further conversation from the serious, only time will tell: skirting the edge of whatever had him pensively considering his mountains of sandwiches earlier or the subject of Edeline and her husband. "You're a very attractive woman and I confess," his tenor lowers to jive with the drop of his torso as he bends and braces his elbows against the counter, "My own distraction once you've come to stand by me." The last of his first triangle is popped into his mouth. A second is plucked.

At even the very beginning of that, Leova squeezes her eyes shut, shut, shut, but it's not as though it's going to ward off his voice any, and so she opens them. And lo, he's still there. So she eyes him, at least when she's not putting off replying in favor of, look, chewing, which surely one can't be expected to do all at the same time. Which may be why he goes on, if he hadn't intended such already, and that leaves her with a dry, "Do you." Then, "And what have I distracted you from? Anvori."

Anvori, silent, looks to Leova with those glittering hazel eyes and that smile that hovers somewhere in the good-natured lines of his face and in the faintest pull of his lips. He watches as her eyes shut and then open, and find that he's still there. And he watches while she chews and then speaks dryly. It's a sad sort of watching, one that's not quite looking at -her- as much as looking beyond the physical to that 'distraction,' that in the end, he voices as he pushes back from the table, keeping his hands busy with the cleaning endeavors while he speaks. "From who those sandwiches were originally for, Leova. See? Distraction." He even punctuates that last word with flickering spirit fingers.

That narrows her gaze, distracts ''her'' from something of her distance. "Won't say I'm not curious," Leova says finally, but neither does she ask. Nor does she ask after one of the remaining quarter-triangles, though there's something about the way she looks at it until, suddenly, her eyes fly to his face. "Take some fruit with you. Some of both, to taste like summer."

She doesn't have to ask when he's willing to tell. Anvori finishes cleaning up, all except wiping down the counter, for which he'd need a rag for but instead looks helplessly at a passing kitchenmaid. He must do this alot for she rolls her eyes and acquiesces, departing with a giggle as he irreverently pats her bottom on her way out. "For my sister. It's ok. She cancelled on me. So I'll be taking my wares off to my nieces." What's left of them at any rate. For all his lighthearted attitude, it's hard to completely mask the concern shadowing his eyes. "Next time, I promise. I promise I won't forget who you are, Leova." Plate in one hand, the other reaches over to brush the back of one finger against her cheek, "You're a distraction worth remembering."

Leova straightens as the counter's wiped, the better to busy herself with the fruit and, once he says ''nieces'', swapping out figs for apricots except for one that's tucked off to the side. For him? Or for the girls, to practice tasting so maybe someday they'll enjoy figs too. "They'll like the apricots better," she says, not looking up, not having to see his concern to recognize it in her own. And she doesn't look up until she's seen the plate into his hand and the rest of what he says lifts her gaze to his, even before he touches her. What she says is, gently again, "When you remember," if he remembers, "Ask me for your moonshine back. And thank you, for lunch."

"Do you one better, since I can't imagine many moments where I won't be remembering you," says Anvori. "I'll come look for you the next time I remember my moonshine." With both hands to his plate, one last glance is given the counter, before he too, like the kitchenmaid before, is off.

Which means that Leova spills into helpless laughter as she waves him off, has to wipe her eyes even before abandoning her fruit-delivery in favor of the ''rest'' of lunch. A rider's got to eat. But in the meantime? Distraction.
}}

Logs:Meeting Anvori

2016-03-01T07:51:13Z

Varied: Clearly up too late. Icon.

{{Log
|who=Anvori, Leova, K'del{{!}}Cadejoth, I'daur{{!}}Zunaeth
|what=Leova finds more of Anvori's sore spots than she meant to. Vrianth checks in on Cadejoth and is fishy with Zunaeth.
|where=Nighthearth, HIgh Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=16
|month=2
|turn=18
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2008.11.05
|quote="Tell me of my fame."
|mentions=Persie, Satiet
|type=Log
|ooc=L & A may have been in the same room before (he tends bar, after all) but this is where they met.
|icons-new=Icon anvori.png, Icon leova prowl on-the-move2.png, Icon leova vrianth smile-in-the-dark.jpg, Icon k'del cadejoth.jpg, Icon i'daur.png
|log=It's late, the glow baskets half-shuttered along the corridors and in the public caverns, much of the Weyr has begun to turn in for the night. There are, of course, exceptions, and amongst those exceptions is the sole occupant of the nighthearth. With his knees parted and a slouch affecting the posture of his torso, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey with its matched half-full glass at hand, Anvori sits on the couch before the hearth, hazel gaze contemplative into the dancing flames.

In those public caverns, people come and go, even if it's less frequently now. One of the leatherworkers, he of the handlebar mustache who recently survived a bout with weyrlings, drops by for a bowl of soup and a grunt that might be greeting. Not that he stays: instead, he takes his bowl with him without fuss or a pause longer than what it takes to ladle the fishy stew. And then it's quiet. For a while. And eventually there's movement behind him, bootsteps, a shift of leather against leather and then wool against leather. No hurry. And then hands curving over the edge of the couch's back, not too close to him, and she's leaning to look at those flames too.

He's not unaware of the comings and goings, but the leatherworker who finds his meal and then leaves, marks no difference in the brewer's thoughtful expression. There's no cordial greeting. No affable smile. No quick wit or comment to raise the joviality of the cavern, and when the man leaves, the slim held shoulders slouch all the more, as if Anvori aims to disappear into the cushions. Which is all easier said than done when a second arrival sounds behind him and instead of leaving, a hand drops so near. And he inhales slowly, exhaling even slower in an audibly measured breath to fill the awkward silence of two people sharing the same space without words.

Flames. Whiskey. Knees. "Sorry to disturb you," the woman says in that smoky voice of hers, low and not a little tired, though also not as though she's going to stop disturbing in the next breath or two. She shifts. Finds the sweet spot on the couch's back, the solid place within the upholstery that will support her upper arms when her elbows slide forward, linked hands going up to support her chin. Exhales slowly, near-silently, since it's her turn.

His tongue wets his lips, wiping away any remnant whiskey from them. Then his mouth disappears into itself, sucked inward so his teeth grind on the soft flesh around his lips. A second audible exhale releases his lips from his teeth and parts his mouth so that his dry, "If it were my intention not to be disturbed, I'd have started drinking in my room." The low-filled drink swishes with a languid swirl of his wrist. Without looking backwards to match the smoky voice with its tawny face, Anvori inquires, "Need a drink?"

"Figured," she says unapologetically, nearly as dryly but for the splash of humor. She does glance his way, firelight catching her eyes before she turns back to the hearth again, lets it warm her skin even diffused by distance. Consideringly, "Could use one." A little different. "But not, I think. If it makes you feel on duty."

Dragon> She's a current of awareness, of attention, heading his way as she has now and again over the last sevendays. << Cadejoth. >> It could be a whisper, but there's nothing furtive about it. Just quietness: is he awake? (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

Dragon> << Hello, Vrianth. >> His response comes quickly, as solid in mind as he is thin-boned in body - and with his own current to it, the zing of electric ''aliveness'', the rasp of metal on metal. (Cadejoth to Vrianth)

The reflection of fire compounds the sudden light in his hazel eyes, a momentary return of congeniality. "Wouldn't feel on duty if I just kissed you, 'magine." He ''then'' looks to match a face to that smoky voice, turning his head to look upon Leova's profile. "Then you'd get your whiskey or the ephemeral taste of it, and I wouldn't feel on duty, ne?" But his tease falls short when his slow spread smile fails to maintain the glitter of his eyes. Instead, the half-filled glass held in his far arm crosses over his chest to offer to her, warning low, "It's rough."

Dragon> She draws on that zing, the energy akin to hers. Tastes it. Could send it back, but doesn't. Yet. What she does share is a wordless sense of presence, of stone that blocks all the wind except that which sweeps by her extended muzzle, the scents of stone and distant trees and snow. And dragons, many dragons, but that's not what she's focusing on now. His turn. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

He gets a narrowed look back at him: one that after that moment's surprise hints at sympathy rather than excitement, and never mind that the firelight gives warmth to her features in in a way that green glowlight cannot. "Think it would be hard on your neck," she mentions instead, amiably. And reaches for the glass, careful to make sure she's got a hold before lifting it from his hand: who knows how full the bottle was when he'd started, but that's not a chance that calls to be taken. "Though I appreciate," the whiskey? "The effort."

Dragon> To Vrianth, Cadejoth examines those senses, exploring them, though not in great depth: he is not a deep-thinking, reflective dragon, after all. In response, he shares the half-dark of the barracks, the rustle and thud of moving dragons, the clean, warm scent of the pages being read by K'del, who flashes into view just briefly - a hunched figure, leaning low over a nearby glow. There is, too, a sense of caging: he ''yearns'' for the beyond.

Dragon> For that exploring, there's more to find: the sense of the nearby blue, versus the bronze, the other green. Stone and snow and soil, too. The warmth lifts along that hunched back as though it could unknot him into a stretch. << Where do you want to go? Cadejoth. >> Anywhere. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

Dragon> To Zunaeth, Vrianth borrows the flicker of another, inner-caverns hearth, complete with fishy stew, to light her way towards his. And ups the fishy smell some more. Just because.  Dragon> To Vrianth, Zunaeth endures. Not without a sigh that flickers at the fires of his own mind, but he's remarkably tolerant, fish and all. Though he does warm after a second, furnace-like as his touch takes over the heat she gives.

Dragon> To Vrianth, Cadejoth leans in, awake with the aliveness of it all - the soil, becoming visible once more, the stone, the beginning-to-melt snow. Without intending to, his answer is a repetition, told with feeling. << Anywhere. I want to ''see'', Vrianth, and ''do''. I want to see the places K'del reads about. >> Unspoken: weariness, with all the reading, all the do-nothingness. Impatience. Tail flicking, flicking, constant flicking.

Dragon> Pleased Vrianth. It worked. She lets the fishy smell fan away on his sigh, superimposes the sense of whiskey that they're told is ''rough'', for all that by now the smell might seem invisible. And curls her way into that furnace of his, once again unthinking that she could be burned. << Is it quiet? >> (Vrianth to Zunaeth)

'Quite full,' would be his ready response if she but asked, but he lacks the cognizance to read intention in even the careful handling of the glass he extends, never mind the sympathy that lights her look towards him. "S'funny. People go to bars to drink and find companionship. They go to the living cavern to interact. But people come here to escape in as public a place as they can. To find quiet and solace, a place to wallow, but with that bright, flickering hope of being interrupted and asked what's wrong with their life." Apparently Anvori's capable of high verbosity despite any level of intoxication; perhaps a trick of his trade, and in the collected put-togetherness of his voiced thoughts, he finds some level of humor for a wry smile surfaces once more to deepen and crinkle the lines about his face. "So why've you come to this little cavern?"

She listens. Drinks, and her eyes close in a flattened-out grimace before she takes a deeper breath and makes it drop away. Again he gets a glance, ''drink'' and ''solace'' and ''wallow''. And for his question she sniffs the whiskey, as though that might make the difference. "This isn't your moonshine, is it? And." The corner of her mouth turns up, but it's the far corner, even if it might show in her voice. "To ask you what's wrong with your life. Of course."

Dragon> It's only pleasant warmth, though, when Vrianth curls against him: that dry, cozy sense of heat. << It's quiet, >> he affirms, with a flashed image of the barracks, all silent and still, just this once. (Zunaeth to Vrianth)

Dragon> To Cadejoth, Vrianth can focus even more closely: ice-crusted soil held within stones, her stones, stones of which she is possessive indeed: oval ones, set as a framework to supplement the mountain's bones. << What he reads. Does it make pictures for you? In his mind? >> And there's some sympathy there: she will not say that it will be ''soon''. But if she could, she would.

Dragon> Curiosity ripples through Cadejoth's mind at these stones, Vrianth's stones, set just so - stones that are not part of the mountain, but still... But his mind does not stay still enough to cogitate too hard on this. << He does, >> he confirms, a hint of sulky despite this admission. << And they are interesting. But not real. >> ''Real''. There's a nasal note to his voice, here, a whine. Not good enough. (Cadejoth to Vrianth)

Dragon> There's a teasing sense that Vrianth ''could'' make it other than quiet, could flow into those barracks and make life ''interesting''. But she doesn't. It's such cozy warmth, after all, and she breathes him in and breathes him out, laced with her own energy to warm his bones. For a while there's just silence, peaceable silence. Only eventually, << Poor Cadejoth. >> Leashed. (Vrianth to Zunaeth)

Dragon> << We made them. >> Perhaps not the stones themselves, but their orientation, the way they ''stay''. And: << Not real, >> Vrianth agrees, for all that she filters away some of that whine, and doesn't quite hide that she's doing it. << Not yet. >> Not helping, perhaps. She seeks something that might: << Your exercises. You are doing them? So your wings will be strong enough. >> So that he can fly, a true dragon at last. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

"Ah," in his third audible exhalation of the night, there's also hints of a smile kept at bay. "You're good to humor an old man, darling." Because he is, of course, so very old and so put upon by the weight of the world. He doesn't reclaim his glass, instead folding one hand over the other and resting it loosely over his chest as he slouches just that much more, head tipped back to study the ceiling. Heavily, his head then lolls to the side to look towards Leova's hands, the glass she holds, and traveling up slowly to come to a final rest at her chin. "Aye, t'is. T'is what I brew to get as drunk as I can in as few sips as possible."

"Humored older men than you," Leova returns in a tone that she just doesn't even attempt to make deadpan, and holds up the glass enough that she can squint one-eyed at the fire through it: fire through glass, fire through whiskey-and-glass. Her chin stays more or less where it is when she's not talking, no secret birthmarks or moles with foot-long hairs growing out. Just a chin, and the column of her neck, increasingly shadowed down to her throat. "And why do you plan to get drunk? This time."

Dragon> << ''Made'' them. >> This does impress Cadejoth, who considers the stones with more interest, now. He's aware of her filtering, conscious enough to perhaps pull that tone back from his voice, just a little, when he speaks again. << No, not yet. But it is a ''long time'' before it will be real, isn't it? >> The clanking of his chains is not quite bad tempered, but - he is pouting. <> Resigned. << My wings will be strong. And I am still thin, so I'm light. That's good, right? >> Fly: he projects an image of himself, in flight, proud. ''Yes''. (Cadejoth to Vrianth)

Dragon> This time, Vrianth doesn't provide details unasked-for, just a pulse of energy that's assent and pride wrapped up into one, with the more shared pleasure for his being impressed that way. And for pulling back that tone from his voice, even if it is just a little. Brave Cadejoth! Rather than reply to the ''long time'' just yet, << Light, not-light, as long as you are strong enough. That is what matters. >> Is her Secath light? Zunaeth, flickering flame in her thoughts? But then, her voice dropping hushed as a whisper for him alone, << And it will be a long time. Before you can go ''there''. But before you fly... >> They're different, those times, though she doesn't explain why. Nor does she explain, yet, the sudden taste of not-so-long or maybe even ''soon''. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

"Because." There might be more words that follow that because, but a sudden press of his lips, displeasure unvoiced, suddenly checks himself. Anvori pulls his gaze from Leova, her chin, and the shadows that play along her neck, though there's a moment where the hazel eyes glance across, then return to linger at the hollow of the woman's neck. But to the fire his gaze goes, followed shortly by a smile that stretches thin across his good looks with a glimmer of white teeth as his smile grows. "Anvori," he finally introduces himself, though there's a lilt at the end, not quite questioning, after all he does know his own name, but colored with the uncertainty of whether an introduction is actually needed.

"Anvori," she repeats, not quite a sing-song, not ''quite'' dutifully. And, "Leova," she gives him in exchange. "Vrianth's." So he knows where her loyalties lie. "You're famous, you know." That smile's deepened. "Across Pern, nearly. Or at least northwest to south." Leova tilts the glass before her eyes, lets the whiskey rock so gently like still-calm seas, before she sips.

Dragon> Brave! Yes, Cadejoth likes this, and he ''is'' brave, and strong, and smart (hasn't K'del said so, after all? And K'del is always correct). But it's better for Vrianth thinking so, too. << Strong. Then I will make sure I am. We will fly so far, and so fast! >> It takes him a moment to digest this last suggestion, a querying note, then a growing - glowing! - realisation, until his thoughts positively thrum with this vague, amorphous hope of ''soon''. << How soon? >> He puts it into words, grasping for the concept with both paws. (Cadejoth to Vrianth)

Dragon> Does she find that certainty, that excitement endearing from the still-little dragon? If she does, she keeps it to herself, aside from the underpinnings of electric humor that could be accounted for in other ways. << Very fast, >> Vrianth agrees, and there may also be an indulgent note amid the anticipation, however sincere. Shaping that glow around the two of them, << Can you try, Cadejoth? To keep it to yourself. >> To not tell the other dragons. And if he does, she'll ''know''. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

Is it a name he's heard before? His eyes narrow and his brows knit, thinking quite hard with what's left of his addled brain. But any thinking gets put on hold when news of his notoriety trips forth in sing-song from the greenrider's lips. "Oh?" Pleased, with the light returning to his suddenly wide eyes, Anvori slips an arm down the length of the couch, towards Leova, so the very tips of his fingers tremble so near the elbows that brace against the couch's sweet spot. "Tell me of my fame." 'Distract me from my trivial woes,' says the heightened and false sense of brightness in his eyes.

So Leova looks askance down her arm, to her elbow, and the wiggling fingertips there. Gives them a look. And stays right where she is. "Famous Anvori," she agrees. "From the highest of the High Reaches, to down Telgar way, and no doubt beyond." Now she does move, if only to free her far hand with the glass and aim to place it atop the back of his hand. For balance. "It was what you did at the Brewfest, you know. Accomplished what no man's been able, nor woman either, or so it's said. Has to do with your sister." Her head tilts, reading his expression: surely not a problem? Or is it.

Dragon> To Vrianth, Cadejoth, positively a-thrum with his own excitement, could be forgiven for missing altogether Vrianth's humor, let alone any suspicion that it might be aimed at him - there are solid things to consider, like flying, and these interest him far more. << Yes, yes, yes, >> he promises, words energetic, syllables bounding after one another, and a deep promise set in to them. Vrianth is a Superior, a Mentor, part-leader of his pack - if she asks, the unspoken, unreferenced implication in his touch indicates, he will do anything at all.

Dragon> And he gets a warm rush of approval for it, heady with her electric sense of self: Vrianth does not ask for Cadejoth to succeed-or-else, only that he ''try''. << In the next sevenday, >> she tells him, the time reference borrowed surely from her rider, one that might take ''his'' rider to interpret. << Or two. So it should be. >> No guarantee. But that's the way it should be, the right-with-the-world, the ''plan''. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

What pleasure there was in Anvori's face stills at Leova's words. Stills further at her concluding tease. Parts his lips and then presses his mouth down in a gesture all too familiar and yet different on his decidedly un-Satiet-like features. "Oh. Oh?" Perhaps he's not quite so drunk; he straightens far too quickly to be that drunk. His reaching, flirtatious fingers pull back too abruptly. "Well-," even stilted, or maybe because, his smile flashes charming to the greenrider, "Perhaps another time you can tell me of my accomplishments and what it has to do with my dear sister. Famous Anvori needs to go find a comfortable bed with or without the comforting arms of someone soft and warm and possibly just a little too drunk to care who Anvori might be before he's too drunk to find such beds. Good night. Leova." And like that, he bolts leaving his whiskey and glass in Leova's care.

"Oh," Leova agrees easily enough, more focused on his changing expressions, enough that she rescues the glass not quite in time: it bounces into the upholstery, spilling before she can rescue it from its fall, and by the time she looks up he's all but gone. "Good luck with that. Anvori." She says it all the same, even if he mightn't hear. And her fingernail taps against the glass. And she keeps looking after him, narrow-eyed, before coming to some decision and leaving. The bottle goes with her. The glass, righted but empty, stays on its own.

Dragon> Like many children, Cadejoth positively preens in that approval, all but prancing - it's a given that his tail is tapping at the floor faster than ever, in the barracks, no doubt driving his rider positively mental. << ''Soon'',>> he repeats, well pleased, after a moment's pause in which he digs up this fact from, presumably, K'del. <> But excited, too, a metallic zing singing through him, the taste of metal in the air. (Cadejoth to Vrianth)

Dragon> Such a zing! << Soon, >> Vrianth repeats, and there's a sense of sooner-the-better. And then, right as she adds, << We will teach you, >> another impulse strikes her. << Unless... ''Zunaeth'' chooses to do so first. You might watch him. >> Stalk him? << Show him that you are ready. >> And, at least to her, the older bronze has an appeal all his own: the shared protectiveness, the patience, the glimpse of now-distant what-had-been turned over and over to remember, herself-and-rider (and rider!) drafting after him on some unnamed adventure. The humor. And the hearthfire that she, at least, can enter and not burn. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

Dragon> To Vrianth, Cadejoth is instantly entranced by this idea, projecting an image - with a question mark to reassure that it is, in fact, a good one - of himself, stretching wings out, doing little hops, more stretches, so strong and big! He has respect for Zunaeth, too, another leader of his pack, though his impression of the bronze is more distant - but then, Vrianth is here and now, and that matters. His consciousness flicks some amount of vague interest at this unnamed adventure - but his mind is overwhelmed with the imagined sensation of flight, too much so to be truly interested.

Dragon> << ''Just'' like that, >> and Vrianth tucks away her vision-of-Zunaeth to radiate that much more approval for Cadejoth, along with the sense that ''that'' is something he can do when he's feeling twitchy. Something he can practice to get even stronger, and who knows, even bigger. Half as afterthought, << Only, you must be careful with your wings. >> No wings? No flying! And then, all at once, she lets him feel wind along hide as she abandons her ledge and flings herself out into the sky. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

Dragon> Something to do? While K'del is ''reading''! It's like the idea strikes with a thunderbolt, helped along by Vrianth, of course, but partly Cadejoth's own, too. << Like that. But not actually ''beating'' wings, right. Because I want to actually fly, properly.>> But: ''oh''. His reaction to flight is, though he can't know it, much the same as K'del's, and his mind arches forward to embrace the sensation, the rightness, the quiet yesyesyes, filling him. Ah. Yes. << ''Right''. >> (Cadejoth to Vrianth)

Dragon> He gets a Cadejoth-sized spark for it, too, burning like the sun. And for the fun of it, as well as for that reaction of his, Vrianth takes a turn around the Spindles under Belior's just-past-full light. Upward, fast but not too fast, certain. Around, quick and dexterous. Down... gliding, gliding, taking all the time she can before landing at last before her rider, to bring her Leova home. All that, and a last pulse of energy that might as well be, ''good night''. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

Dragon> To Vrianth, Cadejoth holds on to every movement, holds tight, until that last pulse of energy. Then, he releases, drawing back to himself with a final zing of his own - more muted, now, though, for sleep is coming to him, too. Good night.

Dragon> Time has passed in the outer world, who knows how long, and Vrianth's been up to ''something'' even while she stays right here with Zunaeth. (And flies down to the bowl. And picks up her rider again, to bring her home. And who knows what else, but surely what matters is the deep-running satisfaction with herself and with him, and now the sleek sensation of oil being rubbed into her tender hide.) And now, the younger dragon sighs the long firelit sigh of a job well done. Good night. (Vrianth to Zunaeth)
}}

Logs:Meeting Anvori

2016-03-01T07:49:28Z

Varied:

{{Log
|who=Anvori, Leova, K'del{{!}}Cadejoth, I'daur{{!}}Zunaeth
|what=Leova finds more of Anvori's sore spots than she meant to. Vrianth checks in on Cadejoth and is fishy with Zunaeth.
|where=Nighthearth, HIgh Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=16
|month=2
|turn=18
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2008.11.05
|quote="Tell me of my fame."
|mentions=Persie, Satiet
|type=Log
|ooc=L & A may have been in the same room before (he tends bar, after all) but this is where they met.
|icons-new=Icon leova prowl on-the-move2.png, Icon leova vrianth smile-in-the-dark.jpg, Icon k'del cadejoth.jpg, Icon i'daur.png
|log=It's late, the glow baskets half-shuttered along the corridors and in the public caverns, much of the Weyr has begun to turn in for the night. There are, of course, exceptions, and amongst those exceptions is the sole occupant of the nighthearth. With his knees parted and a slouch affecting the posture of his torso, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey with its matched half-full glass at hand, Anvori sits on the couch before the hearth, hazel gaze contemplative into the dancing flames.

In those public caverns, people come and go, even if it's less frequently now. One of the leatherworkers, he of the handlebar mustache who recently survived a bout with weyrlings, drops by for a bowl of soup and a grunt that might be greeting. Not that he stays: instead, he takes his bowl with him without fuss or a pause longer than what it takes to ladle the fishy stew. And then it's quiet. For a while. And eventually there's movement behind him, bootsteps, a shift of leather against leather and then wool against leather. No hurry. And then hands curving over the edge of the couch's back, not too close to him, and she's leaning to look at those flames too.

He's not unaware of the comings and goings, but the leatherworker who finds his meal and then leaves, marks no difference in the brewer's thoughtful expression. There's no cordial greeting. No affable smile. No quick wit or comment to raise the joviality of the cavern, and when the man leaves, the slim held shoulders slouch all the more, as if Anvori aims to disappear into the cushions. Which is all easier said than done when a second arrival sounds behind him and instead of leaving, a hand drops so near. And he inhales slowly, exhaling even slower in an audibly measured breath to fill the awkward silence of two people sharing the same space without words.

Flames. Whiskey. Knees. "Sorry to disturb you," the woman says in that smoky voice of hers, low and not a little tired, though also not as though she's going to stop disturbing in the next breath or two. She shifts. Finds the sweet spot on the couch's back, the solid place within the upholstery that will support her upper arms when her elbows slide forward, linked hands going up to support her chin. Exhales slowly, near-silently, since it's her turn.

His tongue wets his lips, wiping away any remnant whiskey from them. Then his mouth disappears into itself, sucked inward so his teeth grind on the soft flesh around his lips. A second audible exhale releases his lips from his teeth and parts his mouth so that his dry, "If it were my intention not to be disturbed, I'd have started drinking in my room." The low-filled drink swishes with a languid swirl of his wrist. Without looking backwards to match the smoky voice with its tawny face, Anvori inquires, "Need a drink?"

"Figured," she says unapologetically, nearly as dryly but for the splash of humor. She does glance his way, firelight catching her eyes before she turns back to the hearth again, lets it warm her skin even diffused by distance. Consideringly, "Could use one." A little different. "But not, I think. If it makes you feel on duty."

Dragon> She's a current of awareness, of attention, heading his way as she has now and again over the last sevendays. << Cadejoth. >> It could be a whisper, but there's nothing furtive about it. Just quietness: is he awake? (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

Dragon> << Hello, Vrianth. >> His response comes quickly, as solid in mind as he is thin-boned in body - and with his own current to it, the zing of electric ''aliveness'', the rasp of metal on metal. (Cadejoth to Vrianth)

The reflection of fire compounds the sudden light in his hazel eyes, a momentary return of congeniality. "Wouldn't feel on duty if I just kissed you, 'magine." He ''then'' looks to match a face to that smoky voice, turning his head to look upon Leova's profile. "Then you'd get your whiskey or the ephemeral taste of it, and I wouldn't feel on duty, ne?" But his tease falls short when his slow spread smile fails to maintain the glitter of his eyes. Instead, the half-filled glass held in his far arm crosses over his chest to offer to her, warning low, "It's rough."

Dragon> She draws on that zing, the energy akin to hers. Tastes it. Could send it back, but doesn't. Yet. What she does share is a wordless sense of presence, of stone that blocks all the wind except that which sweeps by her extended muzzle, the scents of stone and distant trees and snow. And dragons, many dragons, but that's not what she's focusing on now. His turn. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

He gets a narrowed look back at him: one that after that moment's surprise hints at sympathy rather than excitement, and never mind that the firelight gives warmth to her features in in a way that green glowlight cannot. "Think it would be hard on your neck," she mentions instead, amiably. And reaches for the glass, careful to make sure she's got a hold before lifting it from his hand: who knows how full the bottle was when he'd started, but that's not a chance that calls to be taken. "Though I appreciate," the whiskey? "The effort."

Dragon> To Vrianth, Cadejoth examines those senses, exploring them, though not in great depth: he is not a deep-thinking, reflective dragon, after all. In response, he shares the half-dark of the barracks, the rustle and thud of moving dragons, the clean, warm scent of the pages being read by K'del, who flashes into view just briefly - a hunched figure, leaning low over a nearby glow. There is, too, a sense of caging: he ''yearns'' for the beyond.

Dragon> For that exploring, there's more to find: the sense of the nearby blue, versus the bronze, the other green. Stone and snow and soil, too. The warmth lifts along that hunched back as though it could unknot him into a stretch. << Where do you want to go? Cadejoth. >> Anywhere. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

Dragon> To Zunaeth, Vrianth borrows the flicker of another, inner-caverns hearth, complete with fishy stew, to light her way towards his. And ups the fishy smell some more. Just because.  Dragon> To Vrianth, Zunaeth endures. Not without a sigh that flickers at the fires of his own mind, but he's remarkably tolerant, fish and all. Though he does warm after a second, furnace-like as his touch takes over the heat she gives.

Dragon> To Vrianth, Cadejoth leans in, awake with the aliveness of it all - the soil, becoming visible once more, the stone, the beginning-to-melt snow. Without intending to, his answer is a repetition, told with feeling. << Anywhere. I want to ''see'', Vrianth, and ''do''. I want to see the places K'del reads about. >> Unspoken: weariness, with all the reading, all the do-nothingness. Impatience. Tail flicking, flicking, constant flicking.

Dragon> Pleased Vrianth. It worked. She lets the fishy smell fan away on his sigh, superimposes the sense of whiskey that they're told is ''rough'', for all that by now the smell might seem invisible. And curls her way into that furnace of his, once again unthinking that she could be burned. << Is it quiet? >> (Vrianth to Zunaeth)

'Quite full,' would be his ready response if she but asked, but he lacks the cognizance to read intention in even the careful handling of the glass he extends, never mind the sympathy that lights her look towards him. "S'funny. People go to bars to drink and find companionship. They go to the living cavern to interact. But people come here to escape in as public a place as they can. To find quiet and solace, a place to wallow, but with that bright, flickering hope of being interrupted and asked what's wrong with their life." Apparently Anvori's capable of high verbosity despite any level of intoxication; perhaps a trick of his trade, and in the collected put-togetherness of his voiced thoughts, he finds some level of humor for a wry smile surfaces once more to deepen and crinkle the lines about his face. "So why've you come to this little cavern?"

She listens. Drinks, and her eyes close in a flattened-out grimace before she takes a deeper breath and makes it drop away. Again he gets a glance, ''drink'' and ''solace'' and ''wallow''. And for his question she sniffs the whiskey, as though that might make the difference. "This isn't your moonshine, is it? And." The corner of her mouth turns up, but it's the far corner, even if it might show in her voice. "To ask you what's wrong with your life. Of course."

Dragon> It's only pleasant warmth, though, when Vrianth curls against him: that dry, cozy sense of heat. << It's quiet, >> he affirms, with a flashed image of the barracks, all silent and still, just this once. (Zunaeth to Vrianth)

Dragon> To Cadejoth, Vrianth can focus even more closely: ice-crusted soil held within stones, her stones, stones of which she is possessive indeed: oval ones, set as a framework to supplement the mountain's bones. << What he reads. Does it make pictures for you? In his mind? >> And there's some sympathy there: she will not say that it will be ''soon''. But if she could, she would.

Dragon> Curiosity ripples through Cadejoth's mind at these stones, Vrianth's stones, set just so - stones that are not part of the mountain, but still... But his mind does not stay still enough to cogitate too hard on this. << He does, >> he confirms, a hint of sulky despite this admission. << And they are interesting. But not real. >> ''Real''. There's a nasal note to his voice, here, a whine. Not good enough. (Cadejoth to Vrianth)

Dragon> There's a teasing sense that Vrianth ''could'' make it other than quiet, could flow into those barracks and make life ''interesting''. But she doesn't. It's such cozy warmth, after all, and she breathes him in and breathes him out, laced with her own energy to warm his bones. For a while there's just silence, peaceable silence. Only eventually, << Poor Cadejoth. >> Leashed. (Vrianth to Zunaeth)

Dragon> << We made them. >> Perhaps not the stones themselves, but their orientation, the way they ''stay''. And: << Not real, >> Vrianth agrees, for all that she filters away some of that whine, and doesn't quite hide that she's doing it. << Not yet. >> Not helping, perhaps. She seeks something that might: << Your exercises. You are doing them? So your wings will be strong enough. >> So that he can fly, a true dragon at last. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

"Ah," in his third audible exhalation of the night, there's also hints of a smile kept at bay. "You're good to humor an old man, darling." Because he is, of course, so very old and so put upon by the weight of the world. He doesn't reclaim his glass, instead folding one hand over the other and resting it loosely over his chest as he slouches just that much more, head tipped back to study the ceiling. Heavily, his head then lolls to the side to look towards Leova's hands, the glass she holds, and traveling up slowly to come to a final rest at her chin. "Aye, t'is. T'is what I brew to get as drunk as I can in as few sips as possible."

"Humored older men than you," Leova returns in a tone that she just doesn't even attempt to make deadpan, and holds up the glass enough that she can squint one-eyed at the fire through it: fire through glass, fire through whiskey-and-glass. Her chin stays more or less where it is when she's not talking, no secret birthmarks or moles with foot-long hairs growing out. Just a chin, and the column of her neck, increasingly shadowed down to her throat. "And why do you plan to get drunk? This time."

Dragon> << ''Made'' them. >> This does impress Cadejoth, who considers the stones with more interest, now. He's aware of her filtering, conscious enough to perhaps pull that tone back from his voice, just a little, when he speaks again. << No, not yet. But it is a ''long time'' before it will be real, isn't it? >> The clanking of his chains is not quite bad tempered, but - he is pouting. <> Resigned. << My wings will be strong. And I am still thin, so I'm light. That's good, right? >> Fly: he projects an image of himself, in flight, proud. ''Yes''. (Cadejoth to Vrianth)

Dragon> This time, Vrianth doesn't provide details unasked-for, just a pulse of energy that's assent and pride wrapped up into one, with the more shared pleasure for his being impressed that way. And for pulling back that tone from his voice, even if it is just a little. Brave Cadejoth! Rather than reply to the ''long time'' just yet, << Light, not-light, as long as you are strong enough. That is what matters. >> Is her Secath light? Zunaeth, flickering flame in her thoughts? But then, her voice dropping hushed as a whisper for him alone, << And it will be a long time. Before you can go ''there''. But before you fly... >> They're different, those times, though she doesn't explain why. Nor does she explain, yet, the sudden taste of not-so-long or maybe even ''soon''. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

"Because." There might be more words that follow that because, but a sudden press of his lips, displeasure unvoiced, suddenly checks himself. Anvori pulls his gaze from Leova, her chin, and the shadows that play along her neck, though there's a moment where the hazel eyes glance across, then return to linger at the hollow of the woman's neck. But to the fire his gaze goes, followed shortly by a smile that stretches thin across his good looks with a glimmer of white teeth as his smile grows. "Anvori," he finally introduces himself, though there's a lilt at the end, not quite questioning, after all he does know his own name, but colored with the uncertainty of whether an introduction is actually needed.

"Anvori," she repeats, not quite a sing-song, not ''quite'' dutifully. And, "Leova," she gives him in exchange. "Vrianth's." So he knows where her loyalties lie. "You're famous, you know." That smile's deepened. "Across Pern, nearly. Or at least northwest to south." Leova tilts the glass before her eyes, lets the whiskey rock so gently like still-calm seas, before she sips.

Dragon> Brave! Yes, Cadejoth likes this, and he ''is'' brave, and strong, and smart (hasn't K'del said so, after all? And K'del is always correct). But it's better for Vrianth thinking so, too. << Strong. Then I will make sure I am. We will fly so far, and so fast! >> It takes him a moment to digest this last suggestion, a querying note, then a growing - glowing! - realisation, until his thoughts positively thrum with this vague, amorphous hope of ''soon''. << How soon? >> He puts it into words, grasping for the concept with both paws. (Cadejoth to Vrianth)

Dragon> Does she find that certainty, that excitement endearing from the still-little dragon? If she does, she keeps it to herself, aside from the underpinnings of electric humor that could be accounted for in other ways. << Very fast, >> Vrianth agrees, and there may also be an indulgent note amid the anticipation, however sincere. Shaping that glow around the two of them, << Can you try, Cadejoth? To keep it to yourself. >> To not tell the other dragons. And if he does, she'll ''know''. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

Is it a name he's heard before? His eyes narrow and his brows knit, thinking quite hard with what's left of his addled brain. But any thinking gets put on hold when news of his notoriety trips forth in sing-song from the greenrider's lips. "Oh?" Pleased, with the light returning to his suddenly wide eyes, Anvori slips an arm down the length of the couch, towards Leova, so the very tips of his fingers tremble so near the elbows that brace against the couch's sweet spot. "Tell me of my fame." 'Distract me from my trivial woes,' says the heightened and false sense of brightness in his eyes.

So Leova looks askance down her arm, to her elbow, and the wiggling fingertips there. Gives them a look. And stays right where she is. "Famous Anvori," she agrees. "From the highest of the High Reaches, to down Telgar way, and no doubt beyond." Now she does move, if only to free her far hand with the glass and aim to place it atop the back of his hand. For balance. "It was what you did at the Brewfest, you know. Accomplished what no man's been able, nor woman either, or so it's said. Has to do with your sister." Her head tilts, reading his expression: surely not a problem? Or is it.

Dragon> To Vrianth, Cadejoth, positively a-thrum with his own excitement, could be forgiven for missing altogether Vrianth's humor, let alone any suspicion that it might be aimed at him - there are solid things to consider, like flying, and these interest him far more. << Yes, yes, yes, >> he promises, words energetic, syllables bounding after one another, and a deep promise set in to them. Vrianth is a Superior, a Mentor, part-leader of his pack - if she asks, the unspoken, unreferenced implication in his touch indicates, he will do anything at all.

Dragon> And he gets a warm rush of approval for it, heady with her electric sense of self: Vrianth does not ask for Cadejoth to succeed-or-else, only that he ''try''. << In the next sevenday, >> she tells him, the time reference borrowed surely from her rider, one that might take ''his'' rider to interpret. << Or two. So it should be. >> No guarantee. But that's the way it should be, the right-with-the-world, the ''plan''. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

What pleasure there was in Anvori's face stills at Leova's words. Stills further at her concluding tease. Parts his lips and then presses his mouth down in a gesture all too familiar and yet different on his decidedly un-Satiet-like features. "Oh. Oh?" Perhaps he's not quite so drunk; he straightens far too quickly to be that drunk. His reaching, flirtatious fingers pull back too abruptly. "Well-," even stilted, or maybe because, his smile flashes charming to the greenrider, "Perhaps another time you can tell me of my accomplishments and what it has to do with my dear sister. Famous Anvori needs to go find a comfortable bed with or without the comforting arms of someone soft and warm and possibly just a little too drunk to care who Anvori might be before he's too drunk to find such beds. Good night. Leova." And like that, he bolts leaving his whiskey and glass in Leova's care.

"Oh," Leova agrees easily enough, more focused on his changing expressions, enough that she rescues the glass not quite in time: it bounces into the upholstery, spilling before she can rescue it from its fall, and by the time she looks up he's all but gone. "Good luck with that. Anvori." She says it all the same, even if he mightn't hear. And her fingernail taps against the glass. And she keeps looking after him, narrow-eyed, before coming to some decision and leaving. The bottle goes with her. The glass, righted but empty, stays on its own.

Dragon> Like many children, Cadejoth positively preens in that approval, all but prancing - it's a given that his tail is tapping at the floor faster than ever, in the barracks, no doubt driving his rider positively mental. << ''Soon'',>> he repeats, well pleased, after a moment's pause in which he digs up this fact from, presumably, K'del. <> But excited, too, a metallic zing singing through him, the taste of metal in the air. (Cadejoth to Vrianth)

Dragon> Such a zing! << Soon, >> Vrianth repeats, and there's a sense of sooner-the-better. And then, right as she adds, << We will teach you, >> another impulse strikes her. << Unless... ''Zunaeth'' chooses to do so first. You might watch him. >> Stalk him? << Show him that you are ready. >> And, at least to her, the older bronze has an appeal all his own: the shared protectiveness, the patience, the glimpse of now-distant what-had-been turned over and over to remember, herself-and-rider (and rider!) drafting after him on some unnamed adventure. The humor. And the hearthfire that she, at least, can enter and not burn. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

Dragon> To Vrianth, Cadejoth is instantly entranced by this idea, projecting an image - with a question mark to reassure that it is, in fact, a good one - of himself, stretching wings out, doing little hops, more stretches, so strong and big! He has respect for Zunaeth, too, another leader of his pack, though his impression of the bronze is more distant - but then, Vrianth is here and now, and that matters. His consciousness flicks some amount of vague interest at this unnamed adventure - but his mind is overwhelmed with the imagined sensation of flight, too much so to be truly interested.

Dragon> << ''Just'' like that, >> and Vrianth tucks away her vision-of-Zunaeth to radiate that much more approval for Cadejoth, along with the sense that ''that'' is something he can do when he's feeling twitchy. Something he can practice to get even stronger, and who knows, even bigger. Half as afterthought, << Only, you must be careful with your wings. >> No wings? No flying! And then, all at once, she lets him feel wind along hide as she abandons her ledge and flings herself out into the sky. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

Dragon> Something to do? While K'del is ''reading''! It's like the idea strikes with a thunderbolt, helped along by Vrianth, of course, but partly Cadejoth's own, too. << Like that. But not actually ''beating'' wings, right. Because I want to actually fly, properly.>> But: ''oh''. His reaction to flight is, though he can't know it, much the same as K'del's, and his mind arches forward to embrace the sensation, the rightness, the quiet yesyesyes, filling him. Ah. Yes. << ''Right''. >> (Cadejoth to Vrianth)

Dragon> He gets a Cadejoth-sized spark for it, too, burning like the sun. And for the fun of it, as well as for that reaction of his, Vrianth takes a turn around the Spindles under Belior's just-past-full light. Upward, fast but not too fast, certain. Around, quick and dexterous. Down... gliding, gliding, taking all the time she can before landing at last before her rider, to bring her Leova home. All that, and a last pulse of energy that might as well be, ''good night''. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

Dragon> To Vrianth, Cadejoth holds on to every movement, holds tight, until that last pulse of energy. Then, he releases, drawing back to himself with a final zing of his own - more muted, now, though, for sleep is coming to him, too. Good night.

Dragon> Time has passed in the outer world, who knows how long, and Vrianth's been up to ''something'' even while she stays right here with Zunaeth. (And flies down to the bowl. And picks up her rider again, to bring her home. And who knows what else, but surely what matters is the deep-running satisfaction with herself and with him, and now the sleek sensation of oil being rubbed into her tender hide.) And now, the younger dragon sighs the long firelit sigh of a job well done. Good night. (Vrianth to Zunaeth)
}}

Logs:Meeting Anvori

2016-03-01T07:47:39Z

Varied:

{{Log
|who=Anvori, Leova, K'del{{!}}Cadejoth, I'daur{{!}}Zunaeth
|what=Leova finds more of Anvori's sore spots than she meant to. Vrianth checks in on Cadejoth and is fishy with Zunaeth.
|where=Nighthearth, HIgh Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=16
|month=2
|turn=18
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2008.11.05
|quote="Tell me of my fame."
|mentions=Persie, Satiet
|type=Log
|ooc=L & A may have crossed paths before, but this was when they '''met'''.
|icons-new=Icon leova prowl on-the-move2.png, Icon leova vrianth smile-in-the-dark.jpg, Icon k'del cadejoth.jpg, Icon i'daur.png
|log=It's late, the glow baskets half-shuttered along the corridors and in the public caverns, much of the Weyr has begun to turn in for the night. There are, of course, exceptions, and amongst those exceptions is the sole occupant of the nighthearth. With his knees parted and a slouch affecting the posture of his torso, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey with its matched half-full glass at hand, Anvori sits on the couch before the hearth, hazel gaze contemplative into the dancing flames.

In those public caverns, people come and go, even if it's less frequently now. One of the leatherworkers, he of the handlebar mustache who recently survived a bout with weyrlings, drops by for a bowl of soup and a grunt that might be greeting. Not that he stays: instead, he takes his bowl with him without fuss or a pause longer than what it takes to ladle the fishy stew. And then it's quiet. For a while. And eventually there's movement behind him, bootsteps, a shift of leather against leather and then wool against leather. No hurry. And then hands curving over the edge of the couch's back, not too close to him, and she's leaning to look at those flames too.

He's not unaware of the comings and goings, but the leatherworker who finds his meal and then leaves, marks no difference in the brewer's thoughtful expression. There's no cordial greeting. No affable smile. No quick wit or comment to raise the joviality of the cavern, and when the man leaves, the slim held shoulders slouch all the more, as if Anvori aims to disappear into the cushions. Which is all easier said than done when a second arrival sounds behind him and instead of leaving, a hand drops so near. And he inhales slowly, exhaling even slower in an audibly measured breath to fill the awkward silence of two people sharing the same space without words.

Flames. Whiskey. Knees. "Sorry to disturb you," the woman says in that smoky voice of hers, low and not a little tired, though also not as though she's going to stop disturbing in the next breath or two. She shifts. Finds the sweet spot on the couch's back, the solid place within the upholstery that will support her upper arms when her elbows slide forward, linked hands going up to support her chin. Exhales slowly, near-silently, since it's her turn.

His tongue wets his lips, wiping away any remnant whiskey from them. Then his mouth disappears into itself, sucked inward so his teeth grind on the soft flesh around his lips. A second audible exhale releases his lips from his teeth and parts his mouth so that his dry, "If it were my intention not to be disturbed, I'd have started drinking in my room." The low-filled drink swishes with a languid swirl of his wrist. Without looking backwards to match the smoky voice with its tawny face, Anvori inquires, "Need a drink?"

"Figured," she says unapologetically, nearly as dryly but for the splash of humor. She does glance his way, firelight catching her eyes before she turns back to the hearth again, lets it warm her skin even diffused by distance. Consideringly, "Could use one." A little different. "But not, I think. If it makes you feel on duty."

Dragon> She's a current of awareness, of attention, heading his way as she has now and again over the last sevendays. << Cadejoth. >> It could be a whisper, but there's nothing furtive about it. Just quietness: is he awake? (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

Dragon> << Hello, Vrianth. >> His response comes quickly, as solid in mind as he is thin-boned in body - and with his own current to it, the zing of electric ''aliveness'', the rasp of metal on metal. (Cadejoth to Vrianth)

The reflection of fire compounds the sudden light in his hazel eyes, a momentary return of congeniality. "Wouldn't feel on duty if I just kissed you, 'magine." He ''then'' looks to match a face to that smoky voice, turning his head to look upon Leova's profile. "Then you'd get your whiskey or the ephemeral taste of it, and I wouldn't feel on duty, ne?" But his tease falls short when his slow spread smile fails to maintain the glitter of his eyes. Instead, the half-filled glass held in his far arm crosses over his chest to offer to her, warning low, "It's rough."

Dragon> She draws on that zing, the energy akin to hers. Tastes it. Could send it back, but doesn't. Yet. What she does share is a wordless sense of presence, of stone that blocks all the wind except that which sweeps by her extended muzzle, the scents of stone and distant trees and snow. And dragons, many dragons, but that's not what she's focusing on now. His turn. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

He gets a narrowed look back at him: one that after that moment's surprise hints at sympathy rather than excitement, and never mind that the firelight gives warmth to her features in in a way that green glowlight cannot. "Think it would be hard on your neck," she mentions instead, amiably. And reaches for the glass, careful to make sure she's got a hold before lifting it from his hand: who knows how full the bottle was when he'd started, but that's not a chance that calls to be taken. "Though I appreciate," the whiskey? "The effort."

Dragon> To Vrianth, Cadejoth examines those senses, exploring them, though not in great depth: he is not a deep-thinking, reflective dragon, after all. In response, he shares the half-dark of the barracks, the rustle and thud of moving dragons, the clean, warm scent of the pages being read by K'del, who flashes into view just briefly - a hunched figure, leaning low over a nearby glow. There is, too, a sense of caging: he ''yearns'' for the beyond.

Dragon> For that exploring, there's more to find: the sense of the nearby blue, versus the bronze, the other green. Stone and snow and soil, too. The warmth lifts along that hunched back as though it could unknot him into a stretch. << Where do you want to go? Cadejoth. >> Anywhere. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

Dragon> To Zunaeth, Vrianth borrows the flicker of another, inner-caverns hearth, complete with fishy stew, to light her way towards his. And ups the fishy smell some more. Just because.  Dragon> To Vrianth, Zunaeth endures. Not without a sigh that flickers at the fires of his own mind, but he's remarkably tolerant, fish and all. Though he does warm after a second, furnace-like as his touch takes over the heat she gives.

Dragon> To Vrianth, Cadejoth leans in, awake with the aliveness of it all - the soil, becoming visible once more, the stone, the beginning-to-melt snow. Without intending to, his answer is a repetition, told with feeling. << Anywhere. I want to ''see'', Vrianth, and ''do''. I want to see the places K'del reads about. >> Unspoken: weariness, with all the reading, all the do-nothingness. Impatience. Tail flicking, flicking, constant flicking.

Dragon> Pleased Vrianth. It worked. She lets the fishy smell fan away on his sigh, superimposes the sense of whiskey that they're told is ''rough'', for all that by now the smell might seem invisible. And curls her way into that furnace of his, once again unthinking that she could be burned. << Is it quiet? >> (Vrianth to Zunaeth)

'Quite full,' would be his ready response if she but asked, but he lacks the cognizance to read intention in even the careful handling of the glass he extends, never mind the sympathy that lights her look towards him. "S'funny. People go to bars to drink and find companionship. They go to the living cavern to interact. But people come here to escape in as public a place as they can. To find quiet and solace, a place to wallow, but with that bright, flickering hope of being interrupted and asked what's wrong with their life." Apparently Anvori's capable of high verbosity despite any level of intoxication; perhaps a trick of his trade, and in the collected put-togetherness of his voiced thoughts, he finds some level of humor for a wry smile surfaces once more to deepen and crinkle the lines about his face. "So why've you come to this little cavern?"

She listens. Drinks, and her eyes close in a flattened-out grimace before she takes a deeper breath and makes it drop away. Again he gets a glance, ''drink'' and ''solace'' and ''wallow''. And for his question she sniffs the whiskey, as though that might make the difference. "This isn't your moonshine, is it? And." The corner of her mouth turns up, but it's the far corner, even if it might show in her voice. "To ask you what's wrong with your life. Of course."

Dragon> It's only pleasant warmth, though, when Vrianth curls against him: that dry, cozy sense of heat. << It's quiet, >> he affirms, with a flashed image of the barracks, all silent and still, just this once. (Zunaeth to Vrianth)

Dragon> To Cadejoth, Vrianth can focus even more closely: ice-crusted soil held within stones, her stones, stones of which she is possessive indeed: oval ones, set as a framework to supplement the mountain's bones. << What he reads. Does it make pictures for you? In his mind? >> And there's some sympathy there: she will not say that it will be ''soon''. But if she could, she would.

Dragon> Curiosity ripples through Cadejoth's mind at these stones, Vrianth's stones, set just so - stones that are not part of the mountain, but still... But his mind does not stay still enough to cogitate too hard on this. << He does, >> he confirms, a hint of sulky despite this admission. << And they are interesting. But not real. >> ''Real''. There's a nasal note to his voice, here, a whine. Not good enough. (Cadejoth to Vrianth)

Dragon> There's a teasing sense that Vrianth ''could'' make it other than quiet, could flow into those barracks and make life ''interesting''. But she doesn't. It's such cozy warmth, after all, and she breathes him in and breathes him out, laced with her own energy to warm his bones. For a while there's just silence, peaceable silence. Only eventually, << Poor Cadejoth. >> Leashed. (Vrianth to Zunaeth)

Dragon> << We made them. >> Perhaps not the stones themselves, but their orientation, the way they ''stay''. And: << Not real, >> Vrianth agrees, for all that she filters away some of that whine, and doesn't quite hide that she's doing it. << Not yet. >> Not helping, perhaps. She seeks something that might: << Your exercises. You are doing them? So your wings will be strong enough. >> So that he can fly, a true dragon at last. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

"Ah," in his third audible exhalation of the night, there's also hints of a smile kept at bay. "You're good to humor an old man, darling." Because he is, of course, so very old and so put upon by the weight of the world. He doesn't reclaim his glass, instead folding one hand over the other and resting it loosely over his chest as he slouches just that much more, head tipped back to study the ceiling. Heavily, his head then lolls to the side to look towards Leova's hands, the glass she holds, and traveling up slowly to come to a final rest at her chin. "Aye, t'is. T'is what I brew to get as drunk as I can in as few sips as possible."

"Humored older men than you," Leova returns in a tone that she just doesn't even attempt to make deadpan, and holds up the glass enough that she can squint one-eyed at the fire through it: fire through glass, fire through whiskey-and-glass. Her chin stays more or less where it is when she's not talking, no secret birthmarks or moles with foot-long hairs growing out. Just a chin, and the column of her neck, increasingly shadowed down to her throat. "And why do you plan to get drunk? This time."

Dragon> << ''Made'' them. >> This does impress Cadejoth, who considers the stones with more interest, now. He's aware of her filtering, conscious enough to perhaps pull that tone back from his voice, just a little, when he speaks again. << No, not yet. But it is a ''long time'' before it will be real, isn't it? >> The clanking of his chains is not quite bad tempered, but - he is pouting. <> Resigned. << My wings will be strong. And I am still thin, so I'm light. That's good, right? >> Fly: he projects an image of himself, in flight, proud. ''Yes''. (Cadejoth to Vrianth)

Dragon> This time, Vrianth doesn't provide details unasked-for, just a pulse of energy that's assent and pride wrapped up into one, with the more shared pleasure for his being impressed that way. And for pulling back that tone from his voice, even if it is just a little. Brave Cadejoth! Rather than reply to the ''long time'' just yet, << Light, not-light, as long as you are strong enough. That is what matters. >> Is her Secath light? Zunaeth, flickering flame in her thoughts? But then, her voice dropping hushed as a whisper for him alone, << And it will be a long time. Before you can go ''there''. But before you fly... >> They're different, those times, though she doesn't explain why. Nor does she explain, yet, the sudden taste of not-so-long or maybe even ''soon''. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

"Because." There might be more words that follow that because, but a sudden press of his lips, displeasure unvoiced, suddenly checks himself. Anvori pulls his gaze from Leova, her chin, and the shadows that play along her neck, though there's a moment where the hazel eyes glance across, then return to linger at the hollow of the woman's neck. But to the fire his gaze goes, followed shortly by a smile that stretches thin across his good looks with a glimmer of white teeth as his smile grows. "Anvori," he finally introduces himself, though there's a lilt at the end, not quite questioning, after all he does know his own name, but colored with the uncertainty of whether an introduction is actually needed.

"Anvori," she repeats, not quite a sing-song, not ''quite'' dutifully. And, "Leova," she gives him in exchange. "Vrianth's." So he knows where her loyalties lie. "You're famous, you know." That smile's deepened. "Across Pern, nearly. Or at least northwest to south." Leova tilts the glass before her eyes, lets the whiskey rock so gently like still-calm seas, before she sips.

Dragon> Brave! Yes, Cadejoth likes this, and he ''is'' brave, and strong, and smart (hasn't K'del said so, after all? And K'del is always correct). But it's better for Vrianth thinking so, too. << Strong. Then I will make sure I am. We will fly so far, and so fast! >> It takes him a moment to digest this last suggestion, a querying note, then a growing - glowing! - realisation, until his thoughts positively thrum with this vague, amorphous hope of ''soon''. << How soon? >> He puts it into words, grasping for the concept with both paws. (Cadejoth to Vrianth)

Dragon> Does she find that certainty, that excitement endearing from the still-little dragon? If she does, she keeps it to herself, aside from the underpinnings of electric humor that could be accounted for in other ways. << Very fast, >> Vrianth agrees, and there may also be an indulgent note amid the anticipation, however sincere. Shaping that glow around the two of them, << Can you try, Cadejoth? To keep it to yourself. >> To not tell the other dragons. And if he does, she'll ''know''. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

Is it a name he's heard before? His eyes narrow and his brows knit, thinking quite hard with what's left of his addled brain. But any thinking gets put on hold when news of his notoriety trips forth in sing-song from the greenrider's lips. "Oh?" Pleased, with the light returning to his suddenly wide eyes, Anvori slips an arm down the length of the couch, towards Leova, so the very tips of his fingers tremble so near the elbows that brace against the couch's sweet spot. "Tell me of my fame." 'Distract me from my trivial woes,' says the heightened and false sense of brightness in his eyes.

So Leova looks askance down her arm, to her elbow, and the wiggling fingertips there. Gives them a look. And stays right where she is. "Famous Anvori," she agrees. "From the highest of the High Reaches, to down Telgar way, and no doubt beyond." Now she does move, if only to free her far hand with the glass and aim to place it atop the back of his hand. For balance. "It was what you did at the Brewfest, you know. Accomplished what no man's been able, nor woman either, or so it's said. Has to do with your sister." Her head tilts, reading his expression: surely not a problem? Or is it.

Dragon> To Vrianth, Cadejoth, positively a-thrum with his own excitement, could be forgiven for missing altogether Vrianth's humor, let alone any suspicion that it might be aimed at him - there are solid things to consider, like flying, and these interest him far more. << Yes, yes, yes, >> he promises, words energetic, syllables bounding after one another, and a deep promise set in to them. Vrianth is a Superior, a Mentor, part-leader of his pack - if she asks, the unspoken, unreferenced implication in his touch indicates, he will do anything at all.

Dragon> And he gets a warm rush of approval for it, heady with her electric sense of self: Vrianth does not ask for Cadejoth to succeed-or-else, only that he ''try''. << In the next sevenday, >> she tells him, the time reference borrowed surely from her rider, one that might take ''his'' rider to interpret. << Or two. So it should be. >> No guarantee. But that's the way it should be, the right-with-the-world, the ''plan''. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

What pleasure there was in Anvori's face stills at Leova's words. Stills further at her concluding tease. Parts his lips and then presses his mouth down in a gesture all too familiar and yet different on his decidedly un-Satiet-like features. "Oh. Oh?" Perhaps he's not quite so drunk; he straightens far too quickly to be that drunk. His reaching, flirtatious fingers pull back too abruptly. "Well-," even stilted, or maybe because, his smile flashes charming to the greenrider, "Perhaps another time you can tell me of my accomplishments and what it has to do with my dear sister. Famous Anvori needs to go find a comfortable bed with or without the comforting arms of someone soft and warm and possibly just a little too drunk to care who Anvori might be before he's too drunk to find such beds. Good night. Leova." And like that, he bolts leaving his whiskey and glass in Leova's care.

"Oh," Leova agrees easily enough, more focused on his changing expressions, enough that she rescues the glass not quite in time: it bounces into the upholstery, spilling before she can rescue it from its fall, and by the time she looks up he's all but gone. "Good luck with that. Anvori." She says it all the same, even if he mightn't hear. And her fingernail taps against the glass. And she keeps looking after him, narrow-eyed, before coming to some decision and leaving. The bottle goes with her. The glass, righted but empty, stays on its own.

Dragon> Like many children, Cadejoth positively preens in that approval, all but prancing - it's a given that his tail is tapping at the floor faster than ever, in the barracks, no doubt driving his rider positively mental. << ''Soon'',>> he repeats, well pleased, after a moment's pause in which he digs up this fact from, presumably, K'del. <> But excited, too, a metallic zing singing through him, the taste of metal in the air. (Cadejoth to Vrianth)

Dragon> Such a zing! << Soon, >> Vrianth repeats, and there's a sense of sooner-the-better. And then, right as she adds, << We will teach you, >> another impulse strikes her. << Unless... ''Zunaeth'' chooses to do so first. You might watch him. >> Stalk him? << Show him that you are ready. >> And, at least to her, the older bronze has an appeal all his own: the shared protectiveness, the patience, the glimpse of now-distant what-had-been turned over and over to remember, herself-and-rider (and rider!) drafting after him on some unnamed adventure. The humor. And the hearthfire that she, at least, can enter and not burn. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

Dragon> To Vrianth, Cadejoth is instantly entranced by this idea, projecting an image - with a question mark to reassure that it is, in fact, a good one - of himself, stretching wings out, doing little hops, more stretches, so strong and big! He has respect for Zunaeth, too, another leader of his pack, though his impression of the bronze is more distant - but then, Vrianth is here and now, and that matters. His consciousness flicks some amount of vague interest at this unnamed adventure - but his mind is overwhelmed with the imagined sensation of flight, too much so to be truly interested.

Dragon> << ''Just'' like that, >> and Vrianth tucks away her vision-of-Zunaeth to radiate that much more approval for Cadejoth, along with the sense that ''that'' is something he can do when he's feeling twitchy. Something he can practice to get even stronger, and who knows, even bigger. Half as afterthought, << Only, you must be careful with your wings. >> No wings? No flying! And then, all at once, she lets him feel wind along hide as she abandons her ledge and flings herself out into the sky. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

Dragon> Something to do? While K'del is ''reading''! It's like the idea strikes with a thunderbolt, helped along by Vrianth, of course, but partly Cadejoth's own, too. << Like that. But not actually ''beating'' wings, right. Because I want to actually fly, properly.>> But: ''oh''. His reaction to flight is, though he can't know it, much the same as K'del's, and his mind arches forward to embrace the sensation, the rightness, the quiet yesyesyes, filling him. Ah. Yes. << ''Right''. >> (Cadejoth to Vrianth)

Dragon> He gets a Cadejoth-sized spark for it, too, burning like the sun. And for the fun of it, as well as for that reaction of his, Vrianth takes a turn around the Spindles under Belior's just-past-full light. Upward, fast but not too fast, certain. Around, quick and dexterous. Down... gliding, gliding, taking all the time she can before landing at last before her rider, to bring her Leova home. All that, and a last pulse of energy that might as well be, ''good night''. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

Dragon> To Vrianth, Cadejoth holds on to every movement, holds tight, until that last pulse of energy. Then, he releases, drawing back to himself with a final zing of his own - more muted, now, though, for sleep is coming to him, too. Good night.

Dragon> Time has passed in the outer world, who knows how long, and Vrianth's been up to ''something'' even while she stays right here with Zunaeth. (And flies down to the bowl. And picks up her rider again, to bring her home. And who knows what else, but surely what matters is the deep-running satisfaction with herself and with him, and now the sleek sensation of oil being rubbed into her tender hide.) And now, the younger dragon sighs the long firelit sigh of a job well done. Good night. (Vrianth to Zunaeth)
}}

Logs:Meeting Anvori

2016-03-01T07:47:02Z

Varied: After having posted a vignette of their daughter getting ready to go to Harper, here's the scene where they met. To give a sense of the timeframe, Cadejoth is a puppy.

{{Log
|who=Anvori, Leova, K'del{{!}}Cadejoth, I'daur{{!}}Zunaeth
|what=Leova finds more of Anvori's sore spots than she meant to. Leova finds more of Anvori's sore spots than she meant to.
|where=Nighthearth, HIgh Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=16
|month=2
|turn=18
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2008.11.05
|quote="Tell me of my fame."
|mentions=Persie, Satiet
|type=Log
|ooc=L & A may have crossed paths before, but this was when they '''met'''.
|icons-new=Icon leova prowl on-the-move2.png, Icon leova vrianth smile-in-the-dark.jpg, Icon k'del cadejoth.jpg, Icon i'daur.png
|log=It's late, the glow baskets half-shuttered along the corridors and in the public caverns, much of the Weyr has begun to turn in for the night. There are, of course, exceptions, and amongst those exceptions is the sole occupant of the nighthearth. With his knees parted and a slouch affecting the posture of his torso, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey with its matched half-full glass at hand, Anvori sits on the couch before the hearth, hazel gaze contemplative into the dancing flames.

In those public caverns, people come and go, even if it's less frequently now. One of the leatherworkers, he of the handlebar mustache who recently survived a bout with weyrlings, drops by for a bowl of soup and a grunt that might be greeting. Not that he stays: instead, he takes his bowl with him without fuss or a pause longer than what it takes to ladle the fishy stew. And then it's quiet. For a while. And eventually there's movement behind him, bootsteps, a shift of leather against leather and then wool against leather. No hurry. And then hands curving over the edge of the couch's back, not too close to him, and she's leaning to look at those flames too.

He's not unaware of the comings and goings, but the leatherworker who finds his meal and then leaves, marks no difference in the brewer's thoughtful expression. There's no cordial greeting. No affable smile. No quick wit or comment to raise the joviality of the cavern, and when the man leaves, the slim held shoulders slouch all the more, as if Anvori aims to disappear into the cushions. Which is all easier said than done when a second arrival sounds behind him and instead of leaving, a hand drops so near. And he inhales slowly, exhaling even slower in an audibly measured breath to fill the awkward silence of two people sharing the same space without words.

Flames. Whiskey. Knees. "Sorry to disturb you," the woman says in that smoky voice of hers, low and not a little tired, though also not as though she's going to stop disturbing in the next breath or two. She shifts. Finds the sweet spot on the couch's back, the solid place within the upholstery that will support her upper arms when her elbows slide forward, linked hands going up to support her chin. Exhales slowly, near-silently, since it's her turn.

His tongue wets his lips, wiping away any remnant whiskey from them. Then his mouth disappears into itself, sucked inward so his teeth grind on the soft flesh around his lips. A second audible exhale releases his lips from his teeth and parts his mouth so that his dry, "If it were my intention not to be disturbed, I'd have started drinking in my room." The low-filled drink swishes with a languid swirl of his wrist. Without looking backwards to match the smoky voice with its tawny face, Anvori inquires, "Need a drink?"

"Figured," she says unapologetically, nearly as dryly but for the splash of humor. She does glance his way, firelight catching her eyes before she turns back to the hearth again, lets it warm her skin even diffused by distance. Consideringly, "Could use one." A little different. "But not, I think. If it makes you feel on duty."

Dragon> She's a current of awareness, of attention, heading his way as she has now and again over the last sevendays. << Cadejoth. >> It could be a whisper, but there's nothing furtive about it. Just quietness: is he awake? (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

Dragon> << Hello, Vrianth. >> His response comes quickly, as solid in mind as he is thin-boned in body - and with his own current to it, the zing of electric ''aliveness'', the rasp of metal on metal. (Cadejoth to Vrianth)

The reflection of fire compounds the sudden light in his hazel eyes, a momentary return of congeniality. "Wouldn't feel on duty if I just kissed you, 'magine." He ''then'' looks to match a face to that smoky voice, turning his head to look upon Leova's profile. "Then you'd get your whiskey or the ephemeral taste of it, and I wouldn't feel on duty, ne?" But his tease falls short when his slow spread smile fails to maintain the glitter of his eyes. Instead, the half-filled glass held in his far arm crosses over his chest to offer to her, warning low, "It's rough."

Dragon> She draws on that zing, the energy akin to hers. Tastes it. Could send it back, but doesn't. Yet. What she does share is a wordless sense of presence, of stone that blocks all the wind except that which sweeps by her extended muzzle, the scents of stone and distant trees and snow. And dragons, many dragons, but that's not what she's focusing on now. His turn. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

He gets a narrowed look back at him: one that after that moment's surprise hints at sympathy rather than excitement, and never mind that the firelight gives warmth to her features in in a way that green glowlight cannot. "Think it would be hard on your neck," she mentions instead, amiably. And reaches for the glass, careful to make sure she's got a hold before lifting it from his hand: who knows how full the bottle was when he'd started, but that's not a chance that calls to be taken. "Though I appreciate," the whiskey? "The effort."

Dragon> To Vrianth, Cadejoth examines those senses, exploring them, though not in great depth: he is not a deep-thinking, reflective dragon, after all. In response, he shares the half-dark of the barracks, the rustle and thud of moving dragons, the clean, warm scent of the pages being read by K'del, who flashes into view just briefly - a hunched figure, leaning low over a nearby glow. There is, too, a sense of caging: he ''yearns'' for the beyond.

Dragon> For that exploring, there's more to find: the sense of the nearby blue, versus the bronze, the other green. Stone and snow and soil, too. The warmth lifts along that hunched back as though it could unknot him into a stretch. << Where do you want to go? Cadejoth. >> Anywhere. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

Dragon> To Zunaeth, Vrianth borrows the flicker of another, inner-caverns hearth, complete with fishy stew, to light her way towards his. And ups the fishy smell some more. Just because.  Dragon> To Vrianth, Zunaeth endures. Not without a sigh that flickers at the fires of his own mind, but he's remarkably tolerant, fish and all. Though he does warm after a second, furnace-like as his touch takes over the heat she gives.

Dragon> To Vrianth, Cadejoth leans in, awake with the aliveness of it all - the soil, becoming visible once more, the stone, the beginning-to-melt snow. Without intending to, his answer is a repetition, told with feeling. << Anywhere. I want to ''see'', Vrianth, and ''do''. I want to see the places K'del reads about. >> Unspoken: weariness, with all the reading, all the do-nothingness. Impatience. Tail flicking, flicking, constant flicking.

Dragon> Pleased Vrianth. It worked. She lets the fishy smell fan away on his sigh, superimposes the sense of whiskey that they're told is ''rough'', for all that by now the smell might seem invisible. And curls her way into that furnace of his, once again unthinking that she could be burned. << Is it quiet? >> (Vrianth to Zunaeth)

'Quite full,' would be his ready response if she but asked, but he lacks the cognizance to read intention in even the careful handling of the glass he extends, never mind the sympathy that lights her look towards him. "S'funny. People go to bars to drink and find companionship. They go to the living cavern to interact. But people come here to escape in as public a place as they can. To find quiet and solace, a place to wallow, but with that bright, flickering hope of being interrupted and asked what's wrong with their life." Apparently Anvori's capable of high verbosity despite any level of intoxication; perhaps a trick of his trade, and in the collected put-togetherness of his voiced thoughts, he finds some level of humor for a wry smile surfaces once more to deepen and crinkle the lines about his face. "So why've you come to this little cavern?"

She listens. Drinks, and her eyes close in a flattened-out grimace before she takes a deeper breath and makes it drop away. Again he gets a glance, ''drink'' and ''solace'' and ''wallow''. And for his question she sniffs the whiskey, as though that might make the difference. "This isn't your moonshine, is it? And." The corner of her mouth turns up, but it's the far corner, even if it might show in her voice. "To ask you what's wrong with your life. Of course."

Dragon> It's only pleasant warmth, though, when Vrianth curls against him: that dry, cozy sense of heat. << It's quiet, >> he affirms, with a flashed image of the barracks, all silent and still, just this once. (Zunaeth to Vrianth)

Dragon> To Cadejoth, Vrianth can focus even more closely: ice-crusted soil held within stones, her stones, stones of which she is possessive indeed: oval ones, set as a framework to supplement the mountain's bones. << What he reads. Does it make pictures for you? In his mind? >> And there's some sympathy there: she will not say that it will be ''soon''. But if she could, she would.

Dragon> Curiosity ripples through Cadejoth's mind at these stones, Vrianth's stones, set just so - stones that are not part of the mountain, but still... But his mind does not stay still enough to cogitate too hard on this. << He does, >> he confirms, a hint of sulky despite this admission. << And they are interesting. But not real. >> ''Real''. There's a nasal note to his voice, here, a whine. Not good enough. (Cadejoth to Vrianth)

Dragon> There's a teasing sense that Vrianth ''could'' make it other than quiet, could flow into those barracks and make life ''interesting''. But she doesn't. It's such cozy warmth, after all, and she breathes him in and breathes him out, laced with her own energy to warm his bones. For a while there's just silence, peaceable silence. Only eventually, << Poor Cadejoth. >> Leashed. (Vrianth to Zunaeth)

Dragon> << We made them. >> Perhaps not the stones themselves, but their orientation, the way they ''stay''. And: << Not real, >> Vrianth agrees, for all that she filters away some of that whine, and doesn't quite hide that she's doing it. << Not yet. >> Not helping, perhaps. She seeks something that might: << Your exercises. You are doing them? So your wings will be strong enough. >> So that he can fly, a true dragon at last. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

"Ah," in his third audible exhalation of the night, there's also hints of a smile kept at bay. "You're good to humor an old man, darling." Because he is, of course, so very old and so put upon by the weight of the world. He doesn't reclaim his glass, instead folding one hand over the other and resting it loosely over his chest as he slouches just that much more, head tipped back to study the ceiling. Heavily, his head then lolls to the side to look towards Leova's hands, the glass she holds, and traveling up slowly to come to a final rest at her chin. "Aye, t'is. T'is what I brew to get as drunk as I can in as few sips as possible."

"Humored older men than you," Leova returns in a tone that she just doesn't even attempt to make deadpan, and holds up the glass enough that she can squint one-eyed at the fire through it: fire through glass, fire through whiskey-and-glass. Her chin stays more or less where it is when she's not talking, no secret birthmarks or moles with foot-long hairs growing out. Just a chin, and the column of her neck, increasingly shadowed down to her throat. "And why do you plan to get drunk? This time."

Dragon> << ''Made'' them. >> This does impress Cadejoth, who considers the stones with more interest, now. He's aware of her filtering, conscious enough to perhaps pull that tone back from his voice, just a little, when he speaks again. << No, not yet. But it is a ''long time'' before it will be real, isn't it? >> The clanking of his chains is not quite bad tempered, but - he is pouting. <> Resigned. << My wings will be strong. And I am still thin, so I'm light. That's good, right? >> Fly: he projects an image of himself, in flight, proud. ''Yes''. (Cadejoth to Vrianth)

Dragon> This time, Vrianth doesn't provide details unasked-for, just a pulse of energy that's assent and pride wrapped up into one, with the more shared pleasure for his being impressed that way. And for pulling back that tone from his voice, even if it is just a little. Brave Cadejoth! Rather than reply to the ''long time'' just yet, << Light, not-light, as long as you are strong enough. That is what matters. >> Is her Secath light? Zunaeth, flickering flame in her thoughts? But then, her voice dropping hushed as a whisper for him alone, << And it will be a long time. Before you can go ''there''. But before you fly... >> They're different, those times, though she doesn't explain why. Nor does she explain, yet, the sudden taste of not-so-long or maybe even ''soon''. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

"Because." There might be more words that follow that because, but a sudden press of his lips, displeasure unvoiced, suddenly checks himself. Anvori pulls his gaze from Leova, her chin, and the shadows that play along her neck, though there's a moment where the hazel eyes glance across, then return to linger at the hollow of the woman's neck. But to the fire his gaze goes, followed shortly by a smile that stretches thin across his good looks with a glimmer of white teeth as his smile grows. "Anvori," he finally introduces himself, though there's a lilt at the end, not quite questioning, after all he does know his own name, but colored with the uncertainty of whether an introduction is actually needed.

"Anvori," she repeats, not quite a sing-song, not ''quite'' dutifully. And, "Leova," she gives him in exchange. "Vrianth's." So he knows where her loyalties lie. "You're famous, you know." That smile's deepened. "Across Pern, nearly. Or at least northwest to south." Leova tilts the glass before her eyes, lets the whiskey rock so gently like still-calm seas, before she sips.

Dragon> Brave! Yes, Cadejoth likes this, and he ''is'' brave, and strong, and smart (hasn't K'del said so, after all? And K'del is always correct). But it's better for Vrianth thinking so, too. << Strong. Then I will make sure I am. We will fly so far, and so fast! >> It takes him a moment to digest this last suggestion, a querying note, then a growing - glowing! - realisation, until his thoughts positively thrum with this vague, amorphous hope of ''soon''. << How soon? >> He puts it into words, grasping for the concept with both paws. (Cadejoth to Vrianth)

Dragon> Does she find that certainty, that excitement endearing from the still-little dragon? If she does, she keeps it to herself, aside from the underpinnings of electric humor that could be accounted for in other ways. << Very fast, >> Vrianth agrees, and there may also be an indulgent note amid the anticipation, however sincere. Shaping that glow around the two of them, << Can you try, Cadejoth? To keep it to yourself. >> To not tell the other dragons. And if he does, she'll ''know''. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

Is it a name he's heard before? His eyes narrow and his brows knit, thinking quite hard with what's left of his addled brain. But any thinking gets put on hold when news of his notoriety trips forth in sing-song from the greenrider's lips. "Oh?" Pleased, with the light returning to his suddenly wide eyes, Anvori slips an arm down the length of the couch, towards Leova, so the very tips of his fingers tremble so near the elbows that brace against the couch's sweet spot. "Tell me of my fame." 'Distract me from my trivial woes,' says the heightened and false sense of brightness in his eyes.

So Leova looks askance down her arm, to her elbow, and the wiggling fingertips there. Gives them a look. And stays right where she is. "Famous Anvori," she agrees. "From the highest of the High Reaches, to down Telgar way, and no doubt beyond." Now she does move, if only to free her far hand with the glass and aim to place it atop the back of his hand. For balance. "It was what you did at the Brewfest, you know. Accomplished what no man's been able, nor woman either, or so it's said. Has to do with your sister." Her head tilts, reading his expression: surely not a problem? Or is it.

Dragon> To Vrianth, Cadejoth, positively a-thrum with his own excitement, could be forgiven for missing altogether Vrianth's humor, let alone any suspicion that it might be aimed at him - there are solid things to consider, like flying, and these interest him far more. << Yes, yes, yes, >> he promises, words energetic, syllables bounding after one another, and a deep promise set in to them. Vrianth is a Superior, a Mentor, part-leader of his pack - if she asks, the unspoken, unreferenced implication in his touch indicates, he will do anything at all.

Dragon> And he gets a warm rush of approval for it, heady with her electric sense of self: Vrianth does not ask for Cadejoth to succeed-or-else, only that he ''try''. << In the next sevenday, >> she tells him, the time reference borrowed surely from her rider, one that might take ''his'' rider to interpret. << Or two. So it should be. >> No guarantee. But that's the way it should be, the right-with-the-world, the ''plan''. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

What pleasure there was in Anvori's face stills at Leova's words. Stills further at her concluding tease. Parts his lips and then presses his mouth down in a gesture all too familiar and yet different on his decidedly un-Satiet-like features. "Oh. Oh?" Perhaps he's not quite so drunk; he straightens far too quickly to be that drunk. His reaching, flirtatious fingers pull back too abruptly. "Well-," even stilted, or maybe because, his smile flashes charming to the greenrider, "Perhaps another time you can tell me of my accomplishments and what it has to do with my dear sister. Famous Anvori needs to go find a comfortable bed with or without the comforting arms of someone soft and warm and possibly just a little too drunk to care who Anvori might be before he's too drunk to find such beds. Good night. Leova." And like that, he bolts leaving his whiskey and glass in Leova's care.

"Oh," Leova agrees easily enough, more focused on his changing expressions, enough that she rescues the glass not quite in time: it bounces into the upholstery, spilling before she can rescue it from its fall, and by the time she looks up he's all but gone. "Good luck with that. Anvori." She says it all the same, even if he mightn't hear. And her fingernail taps against the glass. And she keeps looking after him, narrow-eyed, before coming to some decision and leaving. The bottle goes with her. The glass, righted but empty, stays on its own.

Dragon> Like many children, Cadejoth positively preens in that approval, all but prancing - it's a given that his tail is tapping at the floor faster than ever, in the barracks, no doubt driving his rider positively mental. << ''Soon'',>> he repeats, well pleased, after a moment's pause in which he digs up this fact from, presumably, K'del. <> But excited, too, a metallic zing singing through him, the taste of metal in the air. (Cadejoth to Vrianth)

Dragon> Such a zing! << Soon, >> Vrianth repeats, and there's a sense of sooner-the-better. And then, right as she adds, << We will teach you, >> another impulse strikes her. << Unless... ''Zunaeth'' chooses to do so first. You might watch him. >> Stalk him? << Show him that you are ready. >> And, at least to her, the older bronze has an appeal all his own: the shared protectiveness, the patience, the glimpse of now-distant what-had-been turned over and over to remember, herself-and-rider (and rider!) drafting after him on some unnamed adventure. The humor. And the hearthfire that she, at least, can enter and not burn. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

Dragon> To Vrianth, Cadejoth is instantly entranced by this idea, projecting an image - with a question mark to reassure that it is, in fact, a good one - of himself, stretching wings out, doing little hops, more stretches, so strong and big! He has respect for Zunaeth, too, another leader of his pack, though his impression of the bronze is more distant - but then, Vrianth is here and now, and that matters. His consciousness flicks some amount of vague interest at this unnamed adventure - but his mind is overwhelmed with the imagined sensation of flight, too much so to be truly interested.

Dragon> << ''Just'' like that, >> and Vrianth tucks away her vision-of-Zunaeth to radiate that much more approval for Cadejoth, along with the sense that ''that'' is something he can do when he's feeling twitchy. Something he can practice to get even stronger, and who knows, even bigger. Half as afterthought, << Only, you must be careful with your wings. >> No wings? No flying! And then, all at once, she lets him feel wind along hide as she abandons her ledge and flings herself out into the sky. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

Dragon> Something to do? While K'del is ''reading''! It's like the idea strikes with a thunderbolt, helped along by Vrianth, of course, but partly Cadejoth's own, too. << Like that. But not actually ''beating'' wings, right. Because I want to actually fly, properly.>> But: ''oh''. His reaction to flight is, though he can't know it, much the same as K'del's, and his mind arches forward to embrace the sensation, the rightness, the quiet yesyesyes, filling him. Ah. Yes. << ''Right''. >> (Cadejoth to Vrianth)

Dragon> He gets a Cadejoth-sized spark for it, too, burning like the sun. And for the fun of it, as well as for that reaction of his, Vrianth takes a turn around the Spindles under Belior's just-past-full light. Upward, fast but not too fast, certain. Around, quick and dexterous. Down... gliding, gliding, taking all the time she can before landing at last before her rider, to bring her Leova home. All that, and a last pulse of energy that might as well be, ''good night''. (Vrianth to Cadejoth)

Dragon> To Vrianth, Cadejoth holds on to every movement, holds tight, until that last pulse of energy. Then, he releases, drawing back to himself with a final zing of his own - more muted, now, though, for sleep is coming to him, too. Good night.

Dragon> Time has passed in the outer world, who knows how long, and Vrianth's been up to ''something'' even while she stays right here with Zunaeth. (And flies down to the bowl. And picks up her rider again, to bring her home. And who knows what else, but surely what matters is the deep-running satisfaction with herself and with him, and now the sleek sensation of oil being rubbed into her tender hide.) And now, the younger dragon sighs the long firelit sigh of a job well done. Good night. (Vrianth to Zunaeth)
}}

Logs:Via's Leaving

2016-03-01T06:27:14Z

Varied: Vignette!

{{Log
|who=Leova, Via,
|what=Via is packing for the Hall.
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|involves=Harper Hall, High Reaches Weyr
|day=24
|month=2
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.02.29
|quote=Via was there first. Second, but first.
|mentions=Anvori, B'tal, Damir, L'vae, Lilabet, Madilla, Raj, Riahla, Suireh, Varian, Vesik, Veylin2
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon leova awlm rub-up lioness-with-cub.jpg, Icon leova vrianth wings.jpg
|log=She's packing for the Hall.

----

She's twelve. Leova's packing for her, mostly, but Via knows which quills and which oddments she can keep, the fine necklace from her father and the soft scarf from her aunt, blue as a northern avian's shell. The little bell from her other aunt, its clapper muffled with wax. The pieced quilt... stays with her parents. The black-haired doll went to live with the twins long ago, along with all its clothes.

The necklace is from both of them, really, but Leova feels as though it's Anvori's choice and she has nothing. Her palms are bare. The scars don't count.

Via won't get to take much. The Hall provides for its apprentices, the better to keep them all the same as much as can be managed, to polish their differences in different ways.

Leova would feel better if Suireh were there still. Whether or not she had the Craftmaster's ear, she has her own eyes and ears, and Leova has to think she cares. They get along, the two of them in silence, if that can be said to be ''getting along''.

Vrianth says they're... it translates to 'happy' well enough. Or 'community.'

The Hall is a good place to be. The plague hit it, how could it not with the Hold right ''there'', but the healers are there also and it's a crafthall. Her daughter will learn at a crafthall. Her daughter, a crafter. She will make things, and neither of them knows wholly what.

----

She clutches at Via sometimes, her narrow wrist, until her yellow eyes lift and her mouth quirks the way Anvori's likes to and Via hugs her and then she can let go.

She tugged against pregnancy and even afterward she couldn't stay and stay and stay but that doesn't mean, that ''never'' means she doesn't love her.

She loves her, and she loves the twins, but Via was there first. Second, but first.

When Vrianth doesn't understand things, she takes them apart until she does. She didn't understand how her rider changed, why she didn't ''stop'' when it felt as it felt, no matter what her man said. Vrianth would have ''stopped'' it for her. Leova couldn't let her. Taking it all apart was one thing, and putting it back together another.

Putting Via back together ''differently'', maybe.

Leova hasn't looked at that as closely as she could.

----

She won't take the quilt to be washed, not right away. She'll keep it in her weyr, where Varian won't spill anything on it and Veylin won't run off with it but Anvori might lurk beneath it and growl at her the way he did at Via when she was little, to make her laugh. Or maybe she'll just sit with it by the windows when it's warm enough that she can.

The windows that she made, ''had'' made, like L'vae's.

----

Lilabet knows what it's like to be a Weyr girl at that very same Hall, and Lilabet is there. Lilabet is a good girl, a kind girl. Her parents weren't married either, not even a little bit, while Via's are weyrmated but it still doesn't count. Her mother is a master, though, while Via's is also a healer but just a dragonhealer, not ''ranked'', nothing the other children will even want to understand. Leova doesn't know how much Lilabet will look out for Via, she's busy with promotions and that safely-posted boy, but she likes to think she might.

----

They have a plan, she and Vrianth. They will fly above the Hall, and Vrianth will ''reach'', and then Leova will know.

Vrianth always knows.

(Vrianth may not need to fly to the Hall. She may just ''need to fly''.)

Via might know. Leova has to wonder whether she'd know if Vrianth didn't want her to. It's a question she doesn't have to ask.

----

Soon Via will leave, and she might never come back. She might not Stand. She might, like Suireh, not Impress. She might, like Riahla, Impress elseWeyr. She might be taken by a dragon, or plague, or a man.

All Leova knows is that Vrianth will know.

She counts on that.
}}

Logs:Via's Leaving

2016-03-01T06:24:44Z

Varied: Created page with "{{Log |who=Leova, Via, |what=Via is packing for the Hall. |where=High Reaches Weyr |involves=Harper Hall, High Reaches Weyr |day=24 |month=2 |turn=40 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gam..."

{{Log
|who=Leova, Via,
|what=Via is packing for the Hall.
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|involves=Harper Hall, High Reaches Weyr
|day=24
|month=2
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.02.29
|quote=Via was there first. Second, but first.
|mentions=Anvori, B'tal, Damir, L'vae, Lilabet, Madilla, Raj, Riahla, Suireh, Varian, Vesik, Veylin2
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon leova awlm rub-up lioness-with-cub.jpg, Icon leova vrianth wings.jpg
|log=She's packing for the Hall.

----

She's twelve. Leova's packing for her, mostly, but Via knows which quills and which oddments she can keep, the fine necklace from her father and the soft scarf from her aunt, blue as a northern avian's shell. The little bell from her other aunt, its clapper muffled with wax. The pieced quilt... stays with her parents. The black-haired doll went to live with the twins long ago, along with all its clothes.

The necklace is from both of them, really, but Leova feels as though it's Anvori's choice and she has nothing. Her palms are bare. The scars don't count.

Via won't get to take much. The Hall provides for its apprentices, the better to keep them all the same as much as can be managed, to polish their differences in different ways.

Leova would feel better if Suireh were there still. Whether or not she had the Craftmaster's ear, she has her own eyes and ears, and Leova has to think she cares. They get along, the two of them in silence, if that can be said to be ''getting along''.

Vrianth says they're... it translates to 'happy' well enough. Or 'community.'

The Hall is a good place to be. The plague hit it, how could it not with the Hold right ''there'', but the healers are there also and it's a crafthall. Her daughter will learn at a crafthall. Her daughter, a crafter. She will make things, and neither of them knows wholly what.

----

She clutches at Via sometimes, her narrow wrist, until her yellow eyes lift and her mouth quirks the way Anvori's likes to and Via hugs her and then she can let go.

She tugged against pregnancy and even afterward she couldn't stay and stay and stay but that doesn't mean, that ''never'' means she doesn't love her.

She loves her, and she loves the twins, but Via was there first. Second, but first.

When Vrianth doesn't understand things, she takes them apart until she does. She didn't understand how her rider changed, why she didn't ''stop'' when it felt as it felt, no matter what her man said. Vrianth would have ''stopped'' it for her. Leova couldn't let her. Taking it all apart was one thing, and putting it back together another.

Putting Via back together ''differently'', maybe.

Leova hasn't looked at that as closely as she could.

----

She won't take the quilt to be washed, not right away. She'll keep it in her weyr, where Varian won't spill anything on it and Veylin won't run off with it but Anvori might lurk beneath it and growl at her the way he did at Via when she was little, to make her laugh. Or maybe she'll just sit with it by the windows when it's warm enough that she can.

The windows that she made, ''had'' made, like L'vae's.

----

Lilabet knows what it's like to be a Weyr girl at that very same Hall, and Lilabet is there. Lilabet is a good girl, a kind girl. Her parents weren't married either, not even a little bit, while Via's are weyrmated but it still doesn't count. Her mother is a master, though, while Via's is also a healer but just a dragonhealer, not ''ranked'', nothing the other children will even want to understand. Leova doesn't know how much Lilabet will look out for Via, she's busy with promotions and that safely-posted boy, but she likes to think she might.

----

They have a plan, she and Vrianth. They will fly above the Hall, and Vrianth will ''reach'', and then Leova will know.

Vrianth always knows.

(Vrianth may not need to fly to the Hall. She may just ''need to fly''.)

Via might know. Leova has to wonder whether she'd know if Vrianth didn't want her to. It's a question she doesn't have to ask.

----

Soon Via will leave, and she might never come back. She might not Stand. She might, like Suireh, not Impress. She might, like Riahla, Impress elseWeyr. She might be taken by a dragon, or plague, or a man.

All Leova knows is that Vrianth will know.

She counts on that.
}}

HRW:Weyrlings/Month4/Rules

2015-11-29T07:10:30Z

Varied:

{{WeyrlingNav | title=Month4}}
:''Month 3 – Month 4

== Weyrling Rules ==

* A little drinking is allowed. Getting drunk will have consequences other than the hangover, however.
* No sex. Handholding, kissing, flirting, less than casual hugging – blind eyes, unless your dragon starts freaking out to everyone. 'Cause that’s no fun (even though it’s really funny).
* No restrictions on where within the Weyr you can go. Dragons no longer need you every moment they are awake.
* Dragons may roam anywhere ''on the ground'' they please as long as they are physically capable and do not cause trouble. They may not fly unsupervised.
* Dragons can now hunt their own meals on the ground.
* No unauthorized flying, or testing the limits of how high/far your dragon can go.

HRW:Weyrlings/Month4/Duties

2015-11-29T06:59:17Z

Varied: Syncing duties and rules.

{{WeyrlingNav | title=Month4}}
:''Month 3 – Month 4

== Daily Schedule ==

The weyrlingmasters expect you to be on time, ready, and clean at all times. There is no excuse for having messy areas in the barracks and being unable to keep up after your dragon by now. Again, the daily schedule may vary from this, this is only an example.

{|
|-valign="top"
|style=width:50px;{{!}}06:00
|Wake up and get ready for the day. It is your responsibility to be able to get up in time without help from the weyrlingmasters.
|-valign="top"
|07:00
|Morning calisthenics, laps around the bowl for riders (sometimes holding a sack of firestone, sometimes not), wing exercises for your dragons to strengthen their muscles.
|-valign="top"
|07:40
|Breakfast/free time, though it is advised that you eat. Needy dragons are to be ignored. They’re not babies anymore. At least, not completely.
|-valign="top"
|08:00
|Dragon feeding time. They should all be hunting in the low-fenced pen of older beasts. Perhaps they might complain about how much tougher their meals are?
|-valign="top"
|09:00
|Lectures. (Please refer to the lectures sub-topic under activities.) Everyone should have passed their remedial exams, if they have not, any extra work will be done on their own time.
|-valign="top"
|12:00
|Lunch hour/free time, though it is advised that you do eat.
|-valign="top"
|13:00
|Practical lesson applications: Ground drills and formations practices.
|-valign="top"
|16:30
|The rest of the day is free to do as you please once you have completed your chores.
|}

== Daily Duties ==

* Show proper respect to everyone else.
* Tend to all the needs of your dragonet. They remain your first priority.
* Oil and bathe your dragon, and keep your cot and couch clean and neat.
* Ground drills to practice what formations you’ve learned already.
* Dragons can fly within the Weyr once cleared to do so, with less supervision towards the end of the month (see: [[HRW:Weyrlings/Month4/Rules|rules]]).
* Drinking in moderation is permitted.
* A little physical contact will be overlooked.

Logs:Bouts Of Sentimentality

2015-10-21T00:30:16Z

Varied: s'

{{Log
|who=Jo, Faryn
|what=Faryn comes upon a drinking Jo and the two commiserate loss in their own ways.
|where=Riders' Lounge, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=22
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.11
|quote="You look like shit."
|mentions=R'hin, M'kris, Farideh, Rategar,
|type=Log
|ooc=Back-dated.
|icons-new=Icon jo pensive.jpg, Icon faryn sad.png
|log=It’s evening in the Reaches. Jo continues to be a wraith between partial wing duties and her weyr. This evening, however, finds her up at the lounge - cradling a mug of something amber-hued at a table to the side as she seems to be lost in her thoughts. It’s new, dark leathers that she wears, distinctive from the black leathers she’s used to wearing about the Weyr.The lounge isn’t as crowd as Snowasis would be at this time of night, but most of the tables are occupied by riders from the looks of them - and they seem to be leaving the wingsecond to her own devices.

Faryn’s here already, inexplicably exiting the rear storage room and shoving something into the bag she carries as she goes, scanning the gathered faces with a neutrally distant curiosity and equally neutral recognition of some. Her path doesn’t deviate for any of them. Single-mindedly, she weaves through the tables for the ledge, and pauses only when the nearest face belongs to the shadow of a bluerider who--’’well’’. Her features cloud with something unpleasant (distrust?) and Faryn drops into one of the free seats without a word.

Jo was on the verge of taking a measured sip of her ale when she suddenly finds a new occupant at her table. There’s a pause of the mug going to her lips, the woman’s already lingering frown strengthening as she looks at the contents of her mug for longer than is necessary. Perhaps she can see Faryn from its glass since the mug doesn’t come down fast enough. It’s lengthy, the silence. Jo lets it linger before that mug makes contact with the table and she studies it further before she asks, “Wanna drink?” There’s no greeting.

Faryn is uncharacteristically patient, watching Jo through the distorted bottom of the glass without a word and without fidgeting, at least not after she pulls her bag up into her lap. Her answer is flat. "No. You look like shit." Neither is wholly unkind, and the first has no bearing on the second, but her intonation is the same all around.

“I could say the same ‘bout ya,” comes from Jo, the woman finally looking at Faryn with her own dark gaze. Then, “I’m fine.” It sounds like she’s been saying these two words on repeat since the Crom gather. “What’s goin’ on with ya?” she asks now, looking at the bag. “Awfully far up from the ground.” Beat. “Ya need a drink.” Maybe Faryn looks thirsty.

"You try sleeping in a barracks with a bunch of children and tell me how you fair," Faryn challenges quietly, but she’s still focused on studying Jo’s face. “I handle business where it comes up. Today, it was here. Tomorrow…” Her slender shoulders lift in a shrug. “I don’t. You don’t either. You look like shit,” she repeats, emphatic. She leans forward, resting her elbows on the edge of the table and linking her fingers together, loose-wristed and dangling just in front of her face. “I’ve been meaning to….” Faryn stops, inhales, and breathes a low sigh, shaking her head like she’s thought the better of the sentence.

“A candidate,” Jo guesses, her look on Faryn. “No longer the stables. Rat’s one, too.” Pause. “I need more,” she says of drink, looking at the level of her mug. “I look fine. Been meanin’ to ‘’what’’?” Her words and answers mingle together, and it seems like she’s not noticing. Perhaps she’s had too much to drink already, but if so, she’s holding it well. “Candidates can’ drink, right? I don’ ‘member mine. I’m sure I’ve nicked a few sips durin’ that time anyway.”

Faryn nods, the sharp and straight cut of her bangs flipping up. “Yeah. Last chance. I haven’t been in the stables in forever. You know that.” Doesn’t she? Did Faryn not tell her? Perturbed, Faryn’s index fingers begins tapping out a little rhythm on the back of the opposite hand. “I know he is. I thought I told you to drop him. He’s going to be ‘’trouble’’ and not the good kind. What’s he here for?” That’s not the question she means to ask, and it doesn’t require an answer. “We can drink,” she agrees, on the last lap skate around the meat of things, “but I don’t want to, right now. I’ve been meaning to talk to you. About Crom.”

Crinkling her face a bit, briefly, “Haven’ seen ya,” Jo says, draining her mug. “Ya haven’ told me ya met him. So, ya met him.” Despite looking like shit, the convict rider is expecting some kind of report on the newly-minted candidate. There’s an anticipatory air between them, even. But then, there’s talk of Crom, and it’s clear Jo’s going to need a refill for ‘’that’’ particular topic. She turns to try and flag someone down to order more drinks for them. While doing so, “What ya wanna know ‘bout Crom?” she asks now, the taste of guardedness in her tone. “Tell me ‘bout Rat first. Why ya think he’s trouble.”

“I hope he falls from the hay loft and breaks his neck,” Faryn tells Jo generously, and if while the bluerider is trying to flag down waitstaff the weyrwoman’s assistant is covertly shaking her head in negation, with meaningful eye contact to boot, well. Maybe the waiters ‘’won’t’’ see her, or maybe they’ll just ignore her. “I sent you a note about him. He lies too smoothly. Too proud, too...he makes me nervous, Jo, and he doesn’t take ‘’no’’ for an answer. Can’t you trust my gut this one time? I know I fucked up, but not about him. Now.” A beat. “What...happened, Jo? The harpers are going to say whatever they think happened, eventually. I want to hear it from ‘’you’’.”

"Tell me how ya really feel," Jo remarks on that first assessment, with only a touch of humor. The barkeep comes by and she's brief in detailing what to order for them both. Faryn gets a dubious look from the man for her eye before he returns to his counter. "We all have our vices," she notes once the man leaves them alone, not exactly defending Rat. "'N his bein' 'round is out of my hands. I'll keep it in mind though, 'case he ever steps outta line. I'll fuck'em up." The woman doesn't look like she's joking about that, her tone taking on a dark edge. As for the last, it seems expected. The convict rider studies the younger woman sitting before her for a long moment before she answers, "He'n I got to Crom together. He found out M'kris was around'n he wanted me to get'im for him since the man likely wouldn' come on his own. I did, they argued, they fought'n R'hin got stabbed in front of me." It's a story well rehearsed by now, the telling of it almost monotoned. Perhaps Jo entered the numbing phase of her grief.

Unsurprisingly, the almighty power of the mark wins out again; Faryn isn’t surprised. “I doubt I’m going to be the only person with a problem with him,” she suffices about Rat with a small grimace, not bothering to linger on him as a subject. Her warning is because she’s obligated to it; trying to persuade Jo is not part of the deal. Their second topic isn’t less uncomfortable, it’s just more relevant, and it’s the only direction to move. “That’s it, then.” Her gaze drops to the table, and she presses her forehead against her linked hands. “I supposed when he went, he’d take whatever got him down with him. Not--’’that’’. Not now.”

"He's a candidate now," Jo states, as if that might matter. She doesn't linger on Rategar, either, the bluerider watching Faryn closely for her reaction. Her silence is markable, the one that follows as the bartender comes by with drinks for them both. It's whiskey, two small glasses. When Faryn's gaze drops, "'Spose he did," she answers on the last, her demeanor heavy. "Saw ya at the gather," she notes now, perhaps finding that easier to talk about. "Where did'ja go?" That Faryn ran was noted. Maybe Rat had seen her go and mentioned it to Jo, too.

“Yeah. You said. Like, a minute ago.” Faryn studies Jo in return, searching her face while the drinks are delivered. “And here’s hoping he gets nothing but disappointment out of it. Knock him down a peg or two. It did me.” She’s located whatever she’s looking for, though, and notes, “You should really stop drinking. It’s not good to be ‘’numb’’, Jo. I know, it’s shit that he’s gone and it’s more shit you had to -- I don’t want this to go somewhere that makes us lose you, too.” There, she said it. Despite her objections to drink she shoots back the whiskey to wash the bad taste of sentimentality out of her mouth. “For a walk.”

Once the drinks arrive, “How so?” Jo asks on Faryn being knocked down a peg or two, her brows furrowing a titch. She takes up the glass, right when Faryn gives her suggestion, the woman pausing from downing it whole as she seems to give her words thought. It’s a heavy silence that meets all of what she says, that penetrating gaze on the candidate along with something akin to a ‘’glare’’. Then, she downs it in one go before she says, “That’s pro’bly the sweetest thing ya’ve said to me yet.” Because, she’s noting it. Setting the empty glass carefully down, “Ain’ nothin’ gonna happen to me yet, girl,” her voice is rough as she says it from downing the whiskey too fast. “Gonna take much more’n this to get rid of ‘’me’’. Girl just needs to get her hard right, is all. Usually, knockin’ out a few folks helps with that. A walk.” Her chin lifts just a bit. “Is that, he meant somethin’ to ya, too?”

“It’s just...humbling,” Faryn replies, putting the empty glass on the table upside down and nudging it to the edge. If Jo’s glaring, Faryn doesn’t care. So long as there aren’t fists or--shit, ‘’knives’’--she is fine with taking the brunt of Jo’s annoyance with her. “Mark your calendar. It’ll be the last. I don’t have time to waste on niceties. I have a reputation to maintain, and if you tell anyone I’ll tell them I think you’re a murderer and was telling you so.” If, perhaps, not a murderer of R’hin. “Just be careful,” is where she’ll leave it, a simple enough request. Her own reply is not a glare, but a shake of the head and a brusque, “No.” Her eyes slip past Jo to, yes, flick her fingers out to hail the server and indicate her empty glasses with two fingers pronged.

“Took a long while before havin’ Tac in my head humbled me a bit,” Jo admits with a slight shrug to her. “Impressin’em affects folks differently. ‘N, everyone already thinks I’m a murderer’n all manner of bad things. Surprise’em by claimin’ I’m ‘’normal’’, ‘n ‘’decent’’ instead. Ya might get a far better reaction.” That’s to her telling anyone that Faryn has a sentimental bone in her body. Still, that the candidate cares enough to say so has the wingsecond acknowledging it with a nod and a look that says more about it than what she could say verbally. She watches the other for her answer, hailing that server as she says, “He had that way ‘bout him, didn’ he?” Yeah, she can see right through that answer, her gaze studying.

“Nobody’d believe that. It’s almost funny,” ponders Faryn darkly, “despite all the ‘’bullshit’’ with Monaco at Roszadyth’s flight, and all the history? It’s hard to tell for sure who they want to have killed him more: M’kris or ‘’you’’. Doesn’t matter either way, does it? People suck.” Indeed they do, the server among them for his slowly sauntering pace. Faryn’s hand draws into a loose fist and she raps her knuckles on the table near her glass. “He ‘’sucked’’. Fuck him,” she says, venomous, even if everyone else knows better than to speak ill of the dead. “He’s gone either way. I can rest easy knowing he won’t interrupt my ‘’life’’ by abandoning me in the mountains or taunting me my entire lunch hour about things that aren’t his business.”

“Folks do, at that,” Jo remarks on people sucking, her tone arched. She even joins Faryn in the look being given to the slow server. She even seems to be in agreement of the assessment for R’hin, though it does finally draw the glimmers of a grin somewhat forming on her lips for it. “Just like’em to go out like this,” she remarks to that dryly. “If he was here, I’d hit’em. Or try to. I’d pro’bly end up fuckin’ him’n beatin’ on his chest. Why would be abandon ya in the mountains?” As for taunting, “Gimme a month,” she offers her. “I’ll take his place’n taunt ya ‘bout shit that ain’ my business. ‘Least I can do.” It’s almost even humor as the server finally arrives at their table.

“Murdered? Seems right in some ways,” she agrees, “wrong in a lot of others. I guess dying in his sleep was right out, too boring. And," pointedly, “gross. I don’t want to think about you having sex. Or him. Or you both--’’shells’’.” Faryn wrinkles her nose, frowning at the bluerider with displeasure. “Why not?” is of abandonment, and though she parts her lips to continue the server finally brings them refills and Faryn is relieved of the burden of explaining, at least briefly. “I’d rather you didn’t,” she says instead of picking up the old thread of her thoughts. She’s slower with this new glass, sipping it as it’s meant to be. “I get along fine without being routinely harassed, believe it or not.”

“Maybe ya’ll never have to worry ‘bout that for a long time to come,” Jo says on going out, the woman shaking her head. “Ya don’ seem like ya have any enemies. ‘Less ya pissed in someone’s pie or somethin’.” This. This seems easier to talk about than any current events, though at the face Faryn makes to her having sex, there’s a look and a, “Ya think I’m fucked up cuz I see him like a brother, do ya?” She takes up her refilled glass before continuing. “I don’ see him abandonin’ ya in the mountains. Anyway. Someone needs to keep an eye on ya. Dunno why, just….he had a knack with findin’ folks with potential.”

"I just think you're fucked up, full stop." Faryn barks a laugh. "Joke's on you, then," she says, "because he picked me up from Tillek and left me in a holding in the Benden mountains for a month." It's an unfair half-story she doesn't elaborate. "I think, sometimes, he just ''wanted'' to see something in me. Not sure he ever really did." Small frown. "Doesn't matter now."

“Thanks a lot,” Jo states dryly on the first, with just a twist of the corner of her mouth. “Left ya? why a holdin’ in the mountains? R’hin wouldn’ just…” Would he? Jo pauses on that as if she would amend what she was about to say before snorting and finally bringing that glass to her lips. “Found him fucked up on a beach in Monaco one time,” she admits now, as if in relevance. “He’s found ‘’me’’ all screwed up more’n once. He saw somethin’ in a lot of us. Even me. Reckon if the bastard had reason to leave ya in the mountains, he had his reasons. Ya don’ hate him.” It’s not a question as she lingers on her drink.

"Welcome!" Chirped, with false glee. "I was Steward, while I was there," may shed light on the situation, just a little bit. “It was a good distraction after the hatching.” Jo’s recollection elicits a wry smile from Faryn. “Fucked up beaten or fucked up drunk?” she wants to know, “Or both?” Though that, like everything, hardly matters. What does matter is that shake of the head in the negative, counterpoint to her words. “He had a way of making me feel this tall.” She squints at Jo through fingers a half-inch apart. “I could hate him. Probably should. But no, I don’t. I just--don’t know.” More sentimentality? More booze, down the hatch!

This being news to Jo, "Steward. ''You''?" she is looking Faryn over with the frown of open curiosity. "Did'ja like it?" On the memory of R'hin, there's a softer snort from her as she answers, "'Lil of both. I remember the riders there comin' at him'n I got in their way. Sometimes I think..." There's a pause as if she's lost her thought, the frown less on curiosity and more on uncertainty before she grunts and drains her glass as she says, "Doesn' matter. He pushed everyone he came across, didn' he? So I've heard. It wasn' like that with us. Ya don' hate'im. Neither do I. He had his way of carin'. Didn' make ya go soft." Next round of booze.

"Steward. Me," confirms Faryn neutrally, her teeth catching the inside of her cheek and drawing her entire mouth off to the side in what seems to be displeasure, but her eyes -- they're a little sad. "I did. I ''thought'' I did. I thought I wanted to...to help people a little more than just in the stables, so I left the Craft and thought I'd figure it out. Then it all...." Snowballed, demonstrated by the over-and-over looping of her fingers. "Sometimes you think what," she presses, softly. If the server notices, her gesture this time is for one refill, not two, indicating her imminent departure.

Jo listens, leaning back now that her glass is empty as Faryn speaks. She nods towards the end to it, her frown more prominent and grave as she says, “Maybe he was tryin’ to help ya find all that out in the end. Without him, ya wouldn’ve gone, would’ja?” But Faryn is prompting for the return to the previous, and there’s a silence before she quietly says, “Sometimes I think, ‘’wonder’’, if he had seen somethin’ like this comin’ even back then. The way he was, darlin’. Never know, right? Thanks for the drink, Faryn,” she says now, having seen the hand signal as the server approaches. “I’ll come by the barracks sometime after drills.” The ‘’thanks’’ may not be said aloud, but it’s there in her gaze.

Faryn’s smile is rueful as she gathers her bag up and slings it over her shoulder. She pauses, nudging her glass away from the edge of the table and propping her hip there briefly, looking down at the bluerider dubiously. “I can’t accept that he knew. If he ‘’knew’’, and he let everyone--?” She undertones a grunt, frowning. “Better not knowing. He wouldn’t tell us if he were here, anyways.” Her last is a wave of the hand to dismiss the offer, and a brisk shake of the head as she turns away. “Unnecessary. Get yourself right, Jo. Maybe when you do, I’ll come visit you.”

With a slight shrug, Jo seems to concede what Faryn says on the late bronzerider with a brief, “Well. Just as well, darlin’. Just as well.” Because to all the rest, the convict rider claims her new round of whiskey just delivered with a brief raise in her direction as if in a toast. “Do that.” As Faryn goes, Jo remains.
}}

Logs talk:Orphaned

2015-10-12T00:34:16Z

Varied: Comment provided by Leova - via ArticleComments extension

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

==Jo (23:03, 10 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Oh Suireh. ;-;
==Leova (17:34, 11 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

The minor major seventh, and that she's not good with drums. The mourning.

(At least both parents are gone now, so no more hurting. Right? XD >.> )

Logs talk:Bitter Tears

2015-10-12T00:31:22Z

Varied: Comment provided by Varied - via ArticleComments extension

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

==Jo (14:42, 11 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Oh Faryn. ;_; Her reaction was very much HER and I loved this vig for that.
==Varied (17:31, 11 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

''wouldn't he be ''just'' that brand of asshole? Hasn't he been nothing ''but'' that particular brand of asshole?''

It's his ''job''.

Even hard on her. :/

Logs talk:Locks, Messages, and the Impossible.

2015-10-12T00:20:47Z

Varied: Comment provided by Varied - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Locks, Messages, and the Impossible.]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Jo (12:19, 11 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Poor Edyis. D: Like a thief into the night, until the locks change.
==Varied (17:20, 11 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

This speaks to me, in its entirety.

''In truth, she just missed him, all those discussions and lessons over a glass of good wine. Of course, if she told him that, he'd just mock her for it. The thought made her laugh, as she found she even missed that about him. She wasn't cut out for Savannah, and deep down it wasn't Savannah that she missed. It was a part of something, that feeling that there would be people who were always there. Who she wanted to be there for.''

I wonder if she'll try for the last part, the people and being part of something, with Snowdrift.

Logs:Back to the Star Stones

2015-10-10T00:41:10Z

Varied: 2008.

{{Log
|who=Leova, Shanlee
|what=Shanlee and Kaylith take Leova and Vrianth up to the Star Stones. Their conversation ranges. Vrianth gets oiled.
|where=Star Stones, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=2
|month=11
|turn=15
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2008.03.31
|quote=<< She should dance. >>
|mentions=Jaeni, L'vae, R'hin
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon leova company.jpg, Icon leova vrianth gravel big-rocks.jpg,
|log=It had been a long morning. Especially with the sky calling: crisp, clean, painfully bright. Vrianth had stayed curled up in her dark couch while Leova changed into some of Milani's new clothes and headed out for exercises, and rather than eating in the living cavern, Leova had brought some of the egg pastries back to the barracks. It was Moll who had called them to order afterward, which was probably just as well. Vrianth had gone willingly enough to practice in the air with the others of their clutch who were already flying, throwing herself into the aerial drills and only snapping at too-slow Stilkith's tail once. Leova, though, was stuck listening to Hayda talk about requisitions. And talk. And talk. So when Shanlee had stopped by to invite them up to the Star Stones afterward, they both jumped at the chance. Not that Vrianth was pleased at finding out Leova would have to ride on Kaylith. Not at all. But she shadowed the elder green, stopping here and there on nearby ledges as they flew higher than Vrianth was accustomed to, and wrapped herself around her Leova as soon as she had dismounted. With T'rgo having headed down for some klah what with Shanlee being up here, there they were. Women. Dragons. Two green dragons now, instead of one. Sky.

Vrianth senses that Kaylith's mind washes up against the weyrling green's, testing the waters, bubbling out a finger of curious prodding, << You are small as I was. >> amused. Swirling away and drifting back in to offer encouragingly, << You fly well already, Vrianth. Soon you will carry yours with ease. >> adding a ripple of blue, << We will show you and yours many wondrous place. Together we will go. >> Beyond and beyond still, she stretches out a plethora of destinations nearly available.

As has become custom for her when visiting upon so high, Shanlee's gaze goes first deep down into the bowl and its activity then slips out to horizons distant of the lands beyond the Weyr. Then it deposits onto Leova and her young green, lifemate as a smile graces the Weyrsecond's lips, "She's awfully protective of you." Funny how she'd read that wrap of draconic body around the weyrling as such.

Kaylith senses Vrianth doesn't take to the prodding too well, to the touching, but her gravelly voice does agree, << Soon. >> Not just someday. And she does look at the destinations Kaylith shows her, but mostly she looks over the mountains. For now.

Leova's looking at the mountains too, some of the time, but mostly she's looking at her dragon. It takes a mental nudge but after a moment Vrianth loosens up enough that Leova can get to the oilskin hooked to her belt, uncork it, and start warming up the oil in her hands. "Want some too?" Almost as afterthought, "I don't mind." And protecting, being protected, sometimes it's much the same to Vrianth.

Vrianth senses that Kaylith retracts her touch thoughtfully. Withdrawn but not gone. Still there is the slow ebb and flow of her mind, keeping to the shorelines of consciousness, lapping in and out.

"Hmm?" drawn from wherever her mind has wandered too, Shanlee shakes her head, "No, we're good thanks." Kaylith however draws her head up looking expectant then drops it back down to where it had been resting on her forepaws. Less disappointed, more watchful, her own gaze settled out over the ledges of the bowl rather than to beyond the Weyr. A crooked smile appears as hands tug at the scarf around her neck, "Neither do I," to being protected.

Kaylith senses Vrianth is roused enough to attempt banking Kaylith's thoughts where they touch hers, not to keep them away entirely but to dam them into becoming less the lap of the ocean than the evenness of the lake. Less a knock at the door than simply being.

And Leova simply nods, pressing warm hands to cool hide, letting the sun warm them even as the wind cools them. What she looks at now is what she's doing: the way the oil rubs into the grayer and brighter greens of Vrianth's long neck, her hands gentle enough not to hurt, firm enough to work the oil all in. Vrianth sighs out a breath, lets her inner lids close over dim blue eyes, beginning to relax.

Leaning her back against Kaylith's shoulder, Shanlee's silent for many long
moments just watching as Leova works the oil into her green's hide. Canting
her head slightly to one side, the other woman is contemplated, until finally,
"You're very quiet today, Leova. Something on your mind?"

Vrianth senses that Kaylith is somewhat amused by this prospect and pulls the flow of her thoughts back, back, back edging slowly away from Vrianth. Around the curve in the stream, drying the riverbed before her as she retreats, playing hide and seek. Where's she gone? Behind this boulder? Around that bend?

Kaylith senses that Vrianth notices the withdrawal with part of her attention, notices how it could be a game, but she's not to be enticed. Not today. Or, at least, not immediately. She stays where she is, soothed, soothing. There are mountains beyond them, after all.

Leova's breathing slows, regulates as she works, evening out as Vrianth's does. Shanlee's question comes as a surprise, enough to lift her eyes. "Most days I talk so much?" She makes a sound, too quiet to be a laugh, and presses her forehead into a neckridge for a moment. "Too many things... Tell me what's been on your mind." Give her something else to think about.

 Vrianth senses that Kaylith might seem a little disappointed by the sluggish flow of water that trickles back in along the riverbed, but she's dealt with harsher, pricklier, less friendly minds before and is patient. As such she simply slips her thoughts around and passed Vrianth on towards the foothills of those mountains the younger green seems so interested in.

Wry laughter shorts out from Shan, "A regular gasbag you are," teasing Leova. Sliding down Kaylith's side to end in a crouch with her back still leaned in again the very handy draconic prop, she considers her mentee's question for a moment. Slight shoulders shift against emerald hide and her answer is perfectly honest, "Old friends. The past, the future," listing some of her thoughts in a reflective tone. Shifting it back onto the weyrling, "Starting with just one might help," prompting for the other to speak her mind freely should she wish.

Leova can chuckle at that. "Past. Future. But not the now?" She keeps on with her work that surely shouldn't count as work, given how much she enjoys it, how much Vrianth does too. Her palm cups the side of Vrianth's neck where the artery pulses with the beat of the green's great heart. "Strategy. Tactics. Glacier. Haven't seen L'vae much. Always going the other way. Your friends?" She gets herself more oil.

Kaylith senses Vrianth is what she is. Not harsh. Not prickly. Perhaps not friendly at the moment, but not unfriendly. Though she does not think of it, perhaps Bremuth would be proud. Or not. That would require the display of pride.

Vrianth senses that Kaylith flows on past, drifting around curves, splashing up against rocks. Always seeking. Forever moving forward, finding and discovering new courses to understand and navigate. Bubbles of enjoyment for each new vista, each new experience evident.

Another shrug from Shanlee, "Now is now. Not much to think about is there right now? You're here, I'm here, they're here. We're talking," simple. Too simple. Features tighten ever so lightly at Leova's query but its to her brown clutchmate that the Weyrsecond makes reply, or at least reply in the form of a statement, "You miss him." Slipping now from that crouch into a position that has knees drawn up and arms hanging over their tops, the redhead cants a look upward to where the weyrling lavishes attention on her lifemate, "Something about Glacier that you need clarification on?" easily slipping past mention of friends.

Leova's sideways nod agrees with the supposed simplicity of it all. They're all here. She's oiling. Vrianth's being oiled. And with Shanlee not in the mood to talk about her friends, it conveniently doesn't pressure Leova to add more about hers. "Just the basics. Favorite formations. Default formations, maybe. Changes from when R'hin was running it. How you break in someone without much experience to run the show." She glances sideways and down at Shanlee. "How you see its future." That should hold them for a while.

Kaylith senses that Vrianth begins to drowse, the bubbles rising and shining in the distance. Perhaps they shape and rise and break in the beginnings of her dreams.

Vrianth senses that Kaylith ever so slowly drifts further and further down the stream, stealthily slipping away from Vrianth as she drowses off. Herself seeking out the minds of others to wash against, to wrap her mind around and commune with.

Leaning her head back against Kaylith's side, one could almost assume that Shanlee is drifting off into slumber much as Vrianth appears to be, except that is for the line of alertness to the petite frame. Her words come lazily even while the topic is handled in a businesslike sense, "R'hin led," end of story, firm. A soft sigh expels and the Weyrsecond elaborates further with a dry touch of humor, "Beat him into submission?" the quarter grin fades into sincerity once again, "Glacier needs to be familiar with -all- fighting formations -all- of the time and be able to adapt and change at the call of the lead dragon without question as we lead the other wings. We have no room for errors," a light frown forms, eyes snap open and glint determined green onto Leova, "Losses are unacceptable as are injuries."

"Beat him. Into submission." Leova's tone can be just as dry. "If that's what you really want me to write on the report. Not very specific. Did you poke his eyes out? Hamstring? Or, wait. No injuries allowed." She doesn't poke at Vrianth's eyes but she does press the heel of her hand harder into the muscle near the base of her neck, working deeper to soften things up. And to keep her from going to sleep entirely.

Kaylith senses that Vrianth isn't permitted to sleep as deeply as she would like, it seems, but neither does she fully wake. Off go the bubbles. Drifting.

Vrianth senses that Kaylith flashes the barest, muzziest hint of an image out into a bubble, then pops it before Vrianth can get a full sense of what it was to be. Likely on stern mental reprimand from her rider.

Shanlee quirks a corner of her mouth upward, a fine brow lifting in amusement, "No injuries allowed in the air," she corrects, then leans her head back against Kaylith again from where it had lifted, "So long as you draw blood and he's left breathing, whatever works," she could be serious there, or perhaps its just her dark sense of humor at play. Kaylith shifts her head up from her forepaws and drops an amused look on to her rider, likely prodding her mentally with some or other memory that brings a rare blush to pale cheeks and a light dig of elbow from her rider to her side, "No, love. That's...just, no," chuckling and shaking her head. Back to Leova, "I hope you're finding time to just be. There's other things beside wing reports, drills and classes you know."

"You don't say. Have to remember that." Leova shifts from the deep rubs to pretending to write it on Vrianth's hide, but as it's with oil, the green doesn't mind. She leans a little, lets her near wing fall open a little so it can be reached too. Such thin wingsails, looking so deceptively fragile, to support her so. "And not especially. No." That's Leova, giving Shanlee a quizzical look. But not asking.

And that's exactly the sort of thing that does intrigue the younger green. Enough, along with her rider's attentions, to waken her further. << Oh, tell me. She's laughing. >> So it must be all right! (Vrianth to Kaylith)

Vrianth senses that Kaylith sneaks out from behind the boulder she'd been hiding behind after that bubble was popped and paints a very, very misty picture. A dancer, long hair flowing about her, light of foot and seductive in movement. Too vague to identify the figure, too quick to mull over. There and then gone again, no verbal comment attached to it. Just a secretive burble of liquid.

Grinning that crooked grin up to Leova, "You should try it. Has the most interesting results sometimes," Shan lifts a long finger in caution, "Though I must warn, you likely won't come off lightly either." Chuckling as the other woman writes an oily note onto Vrianth's hide, the wingsails of the young green given appreciative inspection, "Amazing how they hold themselves and us up with such fragile means." The quizzical look is met with a light rolling of eyes, "She likes to fiddle around in my head and then offer them up as her own form of sage advice," the Weyrsecond offers some sort of clarification, "Or just, you know. Share it with dragons she really has no business doing so with," her own green getting an eyeballing.

Leova makes a doubtful noise, low in her throat and just short of a grunt. Or a snort. Then, smearing the faux writing with the palm of her hand, "Want me to pretend we didn't notice?" Except she goes right on to say, "Did you /really/ dance for him? Like that? Or just want to?"

Kaylith senses that Vrianth sends approval, sends appreciation. Sleepy-looking on the outside, she's not-so-sleepy here. Not any longer. 

At first confused, "Notice..." Shan begins then the implications of her dragons mischievous delving set in and the Weyrsecond wears an expression of outright mortification, "Jays, no!" standing swiftly to her feet the little green that is hers is given a hard jaw-clenching look, "Stop your nonsense! You're not funny!" Uh, oh. Her back had been turned to Leova, and now she turns a cunning smile displacing any of the earlier response, "In his wildest dreams, he wishes I had."

Vrianth senses that Kaylith rather than being pleased for the appreciative approval, appears somewhat chagrined. Offering somewhat meekly, << Mine says I'm to show you the truth. >> in terms of the Weyrleader at any rate. Here an array of images following several blazing arguments is offered up, interspersed with another of those vague ones that shows her rider bruised and Wyaeth's bleeding.

Kaylith senses that Vrianth drinks in her images with piqued interest. Such energy! Interest that peaks with a hungry, << You got him? >> 

Of course he did. Has Shanlee ever seen Leova smirk before? Has anyone at the Reaches? Jaeni, maybe. And she's smirking now. "Of course," she says encouragingly. "Just his dreams. Good thing. Don't know what you see in him. Something of a brute, isn't he."

Vrianth senses that Kaylith offers the equivalent of a mental shrug, the flow of her thoughts washing up against a boulder and then splashing back, <> a dark, hole-in-the-wall type image is given out in explanation that not even a weyrling dragon would fit into. Stoutly, << Mine can hold her own. >> 

Approval, however odd flickers in Shan's eyes, her own expression turned smirking in mirror of Leova's, "We've reached an understanding," vague. That is until the weyrling says what she does, green eyes narrow and the thinning of lips is almost imperceptible, but being as how she now speaks with a weyrling, mentee or not, the Weyrsecond measures her next words carefully, "We don't always see eye to eye."

An understanding? Against the wall? It's on the tip of Leova's tongue but Shanlee's shift in expression gives her just enough warning. Just barely enough. "We noticed," she says. Just as evenly, and it's hard to tell just how careful she is with her adjectives, "Hard spot to be in."

Kaylith senses that Vrianth returns warily, << Perhaps she should not go in there. With him. >> Hold her own or not.

Vrianth senses that Kaylith's next response is rapid turn of liquid that resembles chortling, << Or perhaps he shouldn't go in there with mine. >> to whom should the warning be sent? 

Shanlee's mouth twists into pursed lip formation of dark amusement; understanding reached without verbalization, the nod of head confirmation enough, "Sometimes one needs to exercise every last string of" searching for just the right word, "strategy and tact when it comes to duties, aye?"

"True everywhere, apparently." Leova grimaces. Looks away, down the length of Vrianth's tail towards the Bowl below.

Kaylith senses that Vrianth returns slowly, << Perhaps not. >> There's speculation there, its target not immediately apparent. What is, however: << She should dance. It... delights her. She might almost have wings. >> Not dance for anyone. Just dance for herself.

Vrianth senses that Kaylith's response this time is openly approving of this suggestion and as such the image she shares with Vrianth is filled with warm enthusiasm. That of an unnamed section of beach, the hour approaching night as painted by the purpling of the sky above, her rider with eyes closed and arms raised swaying and moving to an internal rhythm. Small sadness slips in and taints the water of her mind, << She won't do it for another. Gets cross if I suggest it. >> 

Both brows lift simultaneously in querying prompt from Shanlee, just the one word spoken, "Really?" then small silence as she follows Leova's glance downward, "Personally, I prefer directness," here she frowns a little, "Beating around the bush simply confuses." Says she, the professional beater of shrubbery.

Vrianth senses that Kaylith slips in as an afterthought, << Does yours dance? >> her waters slow and eddy as she awaits response.

"Does, doesn't it. Don't you wish everyone remembered it." Leova's tone is dry but not to excess. She doesn't look up. There's a lake down there to look at. The waterfall. She starts to return to the earlier topic, then looks sideways at Vrianth's head and the intense gleam of her eyes. Out loud, "No. I don't dance." Not since Vrianth's known her, anyway. " And Sh'dor says they got cheese tarts again."

Kaylith senses Vrianth wonders, << Why would you want her to do it for another? It is lovely just for her. Just for you. >> The same.

Vrianth senses that Kaylith begins to slip her mind away, offering distant splashings and an echoing, << Because it is a part of who she is. >> the flow of water slowing and thinning to not much more than a trickle now as she confers with her rider about a strategy meeting she has in the records room.

Shanlee appears sheepish in the light of Leova's response and offers up a smile that conveys that, "Aye, well. First you got to have trust, then honesty can follow." Pushing up to her feet and dusting her behind off, the Weyrsecond nods her mentee's way, "Think I'll grab some of those before heading down to meet with B'sil. An empty belly never finds focus." His or hers? Amusement edges in at the others comment spoken out loud, "You should try it," yet another thing the red-haired greenrider suggests as she mounts up and offers Leova a hand up and Vrianth an apologetic glance.
}}

Leova

2015-10-10T00:22:35Z

Varied:

{{ProfileTabs
|position=Greenrider (Glacier Wing), Dragonhealer
|mother=Presumably she had one.
|father=Ditto.
|children=Via (it's short for something, right?) and twins Veylin and Varian, all by Anvori
|friends=weyrmate [[Anvori]] ([[Suireh]] and [[Riahla]]), [[L'vae]], [[Madilla]], [[Milani]], [[Rhonda]], Sh'dor, [[U'sot]]
|playedby=Still taking suggestions. ''Vrianth'' is played by D'Anna Biers of BSG. In green.
|livejournal=[http://leovaried.livejournal.com leovaried]
|body=
== Description ==
At 5'5", it's that much easier for Leova to blend in with a crowd, particularly when wearing the boxy jacket that conceals her curves. She doesn't often fuss with her looks and her short, sun-rusted hair is low maintenance as well. Tawny skin is further browned by sun and wind, doing little to soften the feline cast to her features, and her dark-fringed eyes are the yellow amber of a masterminer's prize.

At first glance, she's dressed much as she had for stable work, with heavy boots that still see daily polish and plain brown pants that let her stride lengthen. Her high-necked shirt is just as brown and just as plain, but it and the trousers are cut to taper to her waist rather than bunching up at the belt the way her older clothes did. A thick fleece-lined jacket with a wingrider's knot on one shoulder regularly accompanies her, worn when needed, slung over one arm when not.

== Vrianth ==
The dusty olive of a fitted wool coat shapes this lithe green, and while she may never entirely fill out her lean, powerhouse physique, a different sort of maturity refines the angles of her narrow face. Large eyes, their facets keenly whittled and their color uncommonly intense, convey strong emotions and the sense of hidden schemes. Down the far-reaching curve of her neck and across sculpted shoulders and haunches, the patina of densely woven gray-heathered green alternates with twists of brighter burnish, while shadows dark as charcoal gather about her joints. Long-sparred wings, nearly as dark and appearing too delicate to enable flight, reveal an undercurrent of ropy resilience through sails that have the fine, faded sheen of a silvery sisal lining. A nonchalant strength slides fluidly through her rangy frame, sporadically visible in the ripple of muscular movement and especially in the swish of her elegantly long tail.

= WYSK =

* ''Basics''
:* ''A little less basic''

#* Leova and Vrianth have Taikrin of Glacier as their wingeader. She also has a part-time dragonhealer gig under U'sot, so it's a good thing that Glacier doesn't drill much.
#* The pair has never had a single steady job. They started out in Snowstrike under C'del, AWLMed under I'daur (Rielsath x Malsaeth), got shipped off to Glacier under N'thei and then ''F'rint'' when Snowstrike was disbanded, AWLMed a couple times under Meara (including Iovniath x Cadejoth #1), and then went back to Glacier again.
#* Wing-wise, they get the job done. Leova's quietly butch (where 'quiet' approaches 'taciturn') and Vrianth's electric, emphasizing agility and power over endurance wherever possible.
#* Dragonhealing-wise, Leova specializes in rehabilitation and (by necessity) weyrling complaints. She's also had to add care of the elderly, like it or not.
# Leova spends quality time with bartender [[Anvori]], whom she weyrmated shortly before bearing their daughter, Via. They later had twins Veylin and Varian. Vrianth spends quality time, or at least a good chunk of her flights, with Sh'dor's blue Idriloth.
# ''More?''
:* Leova Impressed Vrianth from Teonath and Wyaeth's only clutch near the end of the Comet Pass. The two got to fight some Thread, though not enough for their tastes, and escaped even the disastrous Final Fall without being scored.
:* They were part of the original "silver thread" weyrling leadership track along with ''I'ro'', ''Sh'dor'', ''S'trun'', and later [[L'vae]].
:* Vrianth, or maybe it's Leova, doesn't Search much: just Evayne and W'chek{{!}}Whitchek for Iovniath and Cadejoth's first clutch, Inviere and Vyshani for their second, and a few more as the Turns have gone by.
:* Leova whittles off and on. She also has added retaining walls to their ledge to support apple and plum trees, and large (shuttered) windows like L'vae's to their weyr. Even though she's in Glacier and often can be found as part of the boisterous bunch at the Snowasis, she's frugal and doesn't actually gamble much. Maybe she needs the marks for home remodeling.

= WY'''Shouldn't'''K =
:* Bore a son, Raj, before coming to HRW. [[Raija]] is his daughter, [http://ncmush.net/Logs:Meet_The_Family adopted] by [[Madilla]] and [[H'kon]]. Raija's blood relation is a well-kept secret, though she also has those amber eyes.

:[[File:Icon_raj.jpg|100px|Raj]] [[File:Icon_madilla_raija_baby.png|100x|Raija]]

= Background =
{{:Leova/History}}

== Relationships ==
* Clutchmates*: Carisandra, E'dre, ''F'ren'', Gr'kaif, Jaeni, Fraya, ''I'ro'', Laylia, Niena, Lujayn, L'vae, Niena, ''Rhonda'', ''Sh'dor'', ''S'trun'', and Viviana.
* Weyrlings* (1): Eila, Hali, K'del, L'rell, P'ax, Rascela.
* Weyrlings* (2): Ajatha, B'tal, Ebeny, H'kon (retroactively), Iabri, K'ndro, Mirax, W'chek, and Z'yi.
----

( * = PCs and important ''NPCs'' )

=Other=
== Soundtrack ==

I went with an older era for Leova's music to reflect how, in some ways, she was stuck out of time.

{{{!}} class="wikitable"
{{!}}

'''Leova:'''

* Young Leova... Dean Martin, [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YsgL35RCGcc "Sway"] 
''When marimba rhythms start to play'' 
''Dance with me, make me sway'' 
''Like a lazy ocean hugs the shore'' 
''Hold me close, sway me more...'' 
''When we dance you have a way with me'' 
''Stay with me, sway with me...''

* ...getting herself into trouble: Ruth Brown, [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OA2U5Rh8-qg "Wild, Wild Young Men"] (incomplete) 
''Wild, wild young men / Like to have a good time'' 
''Wild, wild boyfriends / Like to lose their minds...'' 
''Wild men hoot and holler / And they yell hoo-ee'' 
''They can scream and break down / But they don't kill me.'' 
''Wild, wild young men / Scandalize my name...''

* Doris Day, [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aKPjxVHgFPs "Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps"] 
''If you can't make your mind up / We'll never get started'' 
''And I don't wanna wind up / Being parted, broken-hearted'' 
''So if you really love me / Say yes'' 
''But if you don't, dear, / Confess'' 
''And please don't tell me / "Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps..." '' 
(It's the music and the title more than the rest of the lyrics, even when Leova's being sung to rather than singing.)

* Lesley Gore, [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vNb-8gLcXLs "You Don't Own Me"] 
''You don't own me / I'm not just one of your many toys'' 
''You don't own me / Don't say I can't go with other boys'' 
And don't tell me what to do / Don't tell me what to say'' 
''And please, when I go out with you / Don't put me on display 'cause'' 
''You don't own me / Don't try to change me in any way'' 
''You don't own me / Don't tie me down 'cause I'd never stay''

* Aretha Franklin, [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6FOUqQt3Kg0 "Respect"] 
''What you want / Baby, I got it'' 
''What you need / You know I got it'' 
''All I'm askin' / Is for a little respect...'' 
''R E S P E C T / Find out what it means to me...'' 
''Now, I get tired, but I keep on trying''' 
''You're runnin' out of foolin', I ain't lyin' '' 
''Yes, respect, all I need is respect...''

* Ruth Brown and B. B. King, [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pfuQ4ZF0nF4 "Nobody's Business"] 
''There ain't nothing I can do, or nothing I can say,'' 
''Some folks will criticize me '' 
''So I'm gonna do just what I want to anyway,'' 
''And don't care if you all despise me.'' 
''If I should take a notion / To jump into the ocean'' 
''It ain't nobody's business if I do...'' 
''And if my friend ain't got no money / And I say, "All right, take all of mine, honey," '' 
''It ain't nobody's business if I do.'' 
''If I lend her my last nickel / And it leaves me in a pickle, '' 
''It ain't nobody's business if I do... '' 
(There are lots of versions, but I like this one for how the singers interact. ("Lord... Lord, Lord, Lord." "Yes?"]

{{!}}

'''Leova and Vrianth:'''

* Nat and Natalie Cole, [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B-iTZlhHVHI "Unforgettable"] 
''Unforgettable, that's what you are'' 
''Unforgettable, though near or far'' 
''Like a song of love that clings to me'' 
''How the thought of you does things to me'' 
''That's why, darling, it's incredible'' 
''That someone so unforgettable'' 
''Thinks that I am unforgettable too...''

'''Vrianth:'''

* Battlestar Galactica [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l4UPJv08c1k intro] rather than theme (and [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cpQBU9JEAqk alternate version] without the voices). Cylon time! The music would fit even without the association. I particularly like the transition.

* INXS, [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=syuxasimWZ8 Mediate]. This song came to mind for its style, but then the words work too. 
''Fascinate / Deviate / Reinstate / Liberate'' 
''To moderate / Recreate / Or detonate / Annihilate / Atomic fate''

* Nancy Sinatra, [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SbyAZQ45uww These Boots Were Made For Walking.] For when Vrianth is in a... mood.

* Kenny Loggins, [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=58QOBqAWNzE Danger Zone]. Top Gun! 
''Headin' into twilight / Spreadin' out her wings tonight '' 
''She got you jumpin' off the track / And shovin' into overdrive... '' 
''You'll never know what you can do'' 
''Until you get it up as high as you can go '' 
''Out along the edges / Always where I burn to be '' 
''The further on the edge / The hotter the intensity...'' 

{{!}}}

=Logs=
== RP Logs (see also: LJ) ==

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

=Icons=
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{{Character-Categories
|Categories=Tillek, Tillek Hold
}}

[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]
[[Category:Sattle_Hold]]
[[Category:Tillek_Hold]]
[[Category:Riders]]
[[Category:Greenriders]]

Leova/History

2015-10-10T00:16:51Z

Varied: Old, so old. Not updated.

== Job History ==

Leova and Vrianth rode Fall for Snowstrike during the Comet Pass, then swapped AWLMing and riding for Glacier into the Interval, concentrating on Glacier and dragonhealing after that.

''This version is stolen from the old leovaried LJ and not complete.''

=== Original ===

* She doesn't talk about it.

=== Stablehand ===

* Worked as a stablehand at Granite Hold, Tillek (in the foothills of the Western Mountains, not far from the Fort and Ruathan borders).
* Was at Tillek Hold on Granite's business.
* 5'5", rusty auburn hair, brown skin tanned darker, amber eyes, still has all her fingers and toes.
* Was about eight Turns old when the Interval officially began.
* Whittles for fun and... not so much profit.
* Takes care of her own tools.

=== Candidate ===
''(as of day 11, month 5, Turn 15 of the Interval)''

* Was Searched by L'sen and blue Neiveth from Tillek's stables. Moll and green Vmireth Searched Louvaen later that same scene.
* Was one of the "L" candidates with Louvaen, Laylia, and Lujayn.
* Didn't talk much.
* Didn't giggle at all.
* Along with Niena, won the candidate scavenger hunt.
* Had Jaeni cut off most of her hair a couple days before the hatching.
* Got Viviana to alter her robe and gave her a bead carved with a "V".
* Received a great care package from Tillek. (Lady Tillek.)

=== Weyrling ===
''(as of day 31, month 8, Turn 15)''

* Impressed Beyond the Limits Green Vrianth.
* Talked even less.
* Eventually started talking again.
* Was mentored by Shanlee, who also mentored Niena.
* Was one of the original four weyrlings put on the "silver thread" track.
* Got even less sleep.
* Moved into Wyaeth's old weyr.
* Eventually helped Vrianth fix her flaming problem.

=== Snowstrike wingrider ===
''(as of day 11, month 3, Turn 16)''

* Tapped by B'yan. Other Snowstrike riders from that clutch: Fraya, Niena, (NPC) W'jar.
* Was impatient to fight Thread before it went away.
* Started studying dragonhealing with Rilsa.
* Vrianth was flown first by Mecaith of Telgar.

=== Assistant weyrlingmaster ===

* Tapped by I'daur. Other AWLMs were C'mryn and Persie.

=== Glacier wingrider ===

* Tapped by N'thei.
* Promoted by U'sot to dragonhealer aide ''(as of day 13, month 4, Turn 19)''

=== Assistant weyrlingmaster ===

* Tapped by Meara. Other AWLMs were A'son, C'sel and Persie.

Logs:Summer's Blown Away

2015-10-09T01:01:51Z

Varied:

{{Log
|who=L'vae, Leova
|what=Leova/Vrianth and L'vae/Bremuth meet one windy night. (Q: What do you do with a tranquil lake? A: Throw a rock in it.)
|where=Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=6
|month=9
|turn=15
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2008.03.17
|quote=<< You seek. >>
|weather=The evening is clear, not a cloud to be seen, giving you a perfect view of the stars. The smaller Belior winks as a waxing crescent while Timor winks as a waning crescent. The wind whips harshly past you, boiling the lake's surface.
|type=Log
|ooc=
|icons-new=Icon l'vae.jpg, Icon leova prowl on-the-move2.png, Icon leova vrianth smile-in-the-dark.jpg
|log=If they had been facing towards the bowl, they might have noticed someone approaching. Or maybe they would have been just too engrossed in each other anyway. Vrianth is crouched back on her hindquarters, wings out, letting the strong winds rock her. Leova is standing next to her, arms out, palms flat at the same angle. Vrianth's eyes are single-lidded. Leova's eyes are slitted. They play with the wind.

It is Bremuth who is first to intrude, the young brown making his lone way across from the barracks. His head is held lower than normal, on account of the wind, and a hint of tension even shows in wingarms as they hold sails safely folded. He stops a ways back from the pair playing in the wind. Watching. L'vae does appear shortly, however, long strides carrying him westward from the living caverns. He pauses beside the brown, sliding his hands in his pockets as a grin is lifted towards the other weyrlings. "Nice night," is called, for all his words may be whipped away by the gusts.

Vrianth and Leova look back at exactly the same time. Later on, perhaps, they will be able to perform the maneuver of Vrianth's circling to enclose Leova with her wings with more finesse, but as it is, Leova doesn't duck quickly enough and Vrianth doesn't lift her wings high enough and Leova gets knocked on the shoulder. Not hard. But there's anxiety on the wind now, Vrianth not keeping her emotions solely to herself and her lifemate, at least until Leova stands the rest of the way up again and rubs Vrianth's neck and the yellow sparks diminish in the young green's eyes in favor of rising, curious green. "What happened to summer?" the human calls.

(Bremuth to Vrianth) Bremuth loosens his own thoughts, soothing and placid. There is appreciation there also. For the wind, and the feeling of it.

Bremuth again is the first to act, the first to move. He pads forward slowly, closing the distance to Vrianth and Leova. His own sapphire gaze turns up to the girl and then settles on his sister. He stops a pace away. Close but not too close. L'vae follows in his brown's wake, a hand loosening from its pocket. The other remains buried, its wrist holding a book close against his hip. But that free hand, it gestures up. The wind catches at the palm, swaying the arm. "I think it must have blown away," is offered as he nears. His own eyes fix on Leova, smiling bright.

Perhaps, then, all became well that much sooner for the touch of Bremuth's thoughts. In any case, now Leova's smiling too. She hadn't been talking much at all since Vrianth found her, not in words. Perhaps the wind has begun to blow that away, too. "She wants to see summer," the woman says into the moving air, the dragon coiling about her even as Vrianth stretches out to sniff Bremuth, to sniff his rider, not touching. Not quite. "Nearly a Turn. Waiting."

"And what of winter?" L'vae asks curiously. Bremuth doesn't so much as shift as Vrianth stretches towards him, jade and cobalt chasing in a slow race across the facets of his eyes. His weyrling is not so immobile, turning a smile down to the exploring green. His own gaze tilts, lingering on that keen gaze before sliding to Leova. "You'll likely be joined in the sentiment, once the cold comes again. Do you think there's much chance we'll have another mild year like our last?"

"Winter comes," Leova guesses, looking at Vrianth as though that would help her check, only to become entranced with just watching her. Vrianth is, with the wind as it is, not nearly as inquisitive in motion as she might have been. Instead, she settles back onto her haunches where she can block her Leova from at least some wind, and looks back at Bremuth. And his rider. And how they touch, or do not touch. Finally Leova sighs and finds words again, a few at a time. "Yes. She knows it will be soon. Perhaps not mild. Not again. But she does love it warm so."

L'vae nods, his freed hand finding its pocket again. The wind forms small wings of his shirtsleeves, billowing them out from his elbows. Bremuth remains standing, giving himself to the wind. The gusts rock him, though he keeps his feet, and make pockets in his folded sails that mimic his rider's false wings. "How do you find it? Knowing now," the young man asks after a minute. "How it is." This seems to draw the brown's attention, for Bremuth turns his chin slightly up and towards his weryling.

Vrianth observes from her grounded perch, also, how Bremuth and his rider look at each other. Or do not look at each other. Bremuth looks, now, and she does not disturb it. Her rider has to think back, and then think some more. Eventually she murmurs, "Four lungs. Think it's four, anyway. Two hearts. Same breath..." Same blood. She starts to roll her eyes at herself but just winds up looking at Vrianth again.

Watching Leova intently, L’vae listens. Strains to hear those murmured words before the wind takes them. He is quiet in their wake, following his friend’s eyes to the green that has claimed her. “Physical.” The single word is dropped. Bremuth shifts again, this time sinking to his haunches while his gaze levels back to Vrianth. “Allowed, to be me.” He offers his own perspective. “And in that, to be one.” But there’s still a curve to his lip, still self-conscious. “I don’t know that I’ve... let go. As much as you.” And hasn’t that always been true?

"Part." Vrianth's gaze rests on Bremuth, brighter now for the attention. She sees how long he will look. "Good for him," her rider says. Has Leova let go? Or has she been swallowed up? Vrianth's eyes can fascinate, the keenness to their glow, the colors within them. The totality of her would fascinate even more. "Or wings I never had.... Do you need to?"

Bremuth’s serenity isn’t hoarded, nor is it forced outward. It is merely there, warmly coalescing about him. His being is but another lake, whipped by the wind – changed yet unchanged, cradled by old stone and blanketed by a sky of older stars.

L’vae seems he may be considering those very questions, even as he gets swept up in watching the currents of Vrianth’s keen gaze. “Yes.” He answers absently. As the word fades from his lips, he tears his eyes away from the green and swings them back to Leova. “No... I don’t know.” Again his gaze moves, now dropping down to the brown at his side. The brown whose eyes, sparkling pools of tranquility, have yet to leave Vrianth. The arm without the book lifts again, hand rubbing up behind his neck. It’s a long moment. “I don’t know who I am.” Softly. Honestly.

Vrianth witnesses the lake. She observes it for some time, more time than her lifemate may be aware of. And since Bremuth's presence is what it is, changing and unchanging, she finds a great need to throw a rock into it. Which is what she does: or tries, a curious ball of her-ness sent on a high arc up and then down towards it, to try and splash and see just how deep he goes.

Leova, meanwhile, is listening. Mostly she looks back at L'vae, but sometimes she checks on her dragon and his and then hers again. She doesn't say anything for some time, amber eyes reflecting him and what he's said. "Guess you'll find out," Leova finally says, a little wry: she's there too. Not /there/, but there. She remembers to flex her knees a few times, the way they had been taught for the sands, and smiles a little in remembering. And then Vrianth makes her move.

“Yeah,” L’vae agrees, a smile curling softly back on his lips. Fingers slow to a halt, still hanging from the back of his neck. The bent elbow sways, buffeted by the wind. His eyes remain on Bremuth, and there is perhaps the smallest of twitches to his brow. But, mostly, the brown’s calm seems to have extended to his weyrling so that the young man lapses into silence without tension.

What is water, to a rock? Bremuth neither flinches, nor resists. His peaceful fluidity parts, yielding to her plummet. Action, without action. Strength in flexibility. Bremuth, quite simply and serenely, is. There is no core to drive to, no bottom to scrape. And yet, currents stir – softer than the winds that scour their physical forms. As a stream may erode stone with time, he courses gently over that balled Vrianth-ness. More inviting than insistent, that envelopment in the awareness of all that surrounds them. A thought rises, its foreign concreteness echoed in the odd accenting of the words. << You seek. >>

She falls. No bottom. No core. Simply velocity. Through. Within. At some point out of time she responds: from awareness of invitation to willingly shifting her shape to see what the currents make of her, and then that rough gravel answer, << You. >> But the way Vrianth shifts is an even greater reply, awareness growing and changing, until as swiftly as she had made her earlier decision she decides again. And diffuses. It's intimate, her-ness increasingly all through his-ness, as though atom touched atom. They. Enlightenment, perhaps. 

Leova must be aware of some of this, of her lifemate's startling leap. She starts to say something, eyes gone black in rings of amber.

Closer. Less diffuse now, and more... dissolving. Too far. She seeks to breathe. Panics. The water electrifies with her shout.

Bremuth welcomes her, sharing his unpresuming certainty and his peaceful compassion. If she seeks him, this is what he is and it is given without hesitation. Undemanding intimacy, yes, and serene ripples of something like joy for their harmony. A harmony that is then broken by her panic – Vrianth’s electric discord is acknowledged by chasing flashes of silver across his awareness. Beacons, perhaps, offered for her guidance. << There is not control. >> Words come again, calm and in that accented tone. << Only be. >> A flicker again, light dancing on the planes of certain motes within the cloud. << You. >> 

L’vae is alerted, possibly through Bremuth, perhaps in noticing that Leova seems about to speak. Now there is certainly a furrow to his brow as he moves, taking the steps that bring him closer to his friend. Her face is searched, the look in her eye met with worry. “Leova?” he queries, his hand now reaching out for her shoulder. A glance is flashed towards Vrianth, towards Bremuth. “What is it? Are you all right?”

Concern swarms hotly in L’vae’s mind, shot through with stabs of helpless confusion. “What are you doing? What’s happening?” (To Bremuth from L’vae)

L'vae senses that Bremuth is untroubled. << Vrianth seeks. >> And to him, that explains it all.

Bremuth senses that L'vae isn’t exactly satisfied by this, confusion only growing as he tries to properly comprehend the dragon’s meaning.

She hasn't words for it. Leova doesn't. Not that Vrianth...

She will not relinquish. Will not float. Will not drift. It is well that he does not seek submission, for she will not submit. 

She begins to raise her hand. Nerves and muscles trigger in minute electrical impulses. She breathes neither in nor out.

Remember, however... that, she might do. She is herself. And more: her other self, her heart's delight. Spread her out, disorient her, still she is her selves. She is not to be disconnected. And much as those silver flashes signal himself within his self, all the elements of her are stars within her constellation.

Leova and Vrianth> << We are us. >> 

Their hearts beat.

They are. They are not calm, but they are no longer frightened. 

They breathe.

One of them senses, through the other, this not-place for the first time. These currents. These glints of silver light. Her exclamation is wordless. They do not need words. They buoy each other.

Which of course means that the first one wants to experiment again.

The second one, after a fraction of a heartbeat that is forever, reminds her of a different sort of lake. With pebbles. And fish. Little flashes of silver... that she can eat. << Look around again, and then we will go. >> 

She is still raising her hand. She has that distant, inward, talking-to-dragon look that is still so new. She's smiling.

Frowning, still searching, L’vae watches Leova. Watches as the rise of her breath halts, and then resumes again - takes in her smile and that distant look without being wholly reassured. A deep breath of his own is expelled in a quiet sigh. His eyes close, and he fades back a step, then two. When they open again, it is after his face has turned towards the barracks. “I was going to read.” There’s little emotion in his voice. “Try not to get swept away, out here?” There’s little expectation that any attention will be given to the words. So little, in fact, that without a glance back the young man leans into the wind and starts for the barracks.

Bremuth serves witness to the ebb of fear, the refusal to surrender. There is a brief, discordant crystallization that rimes about his thoughts. Disappointment. But it is not dwelt upon. He’s flowing again, balance without stasis. And now changing, even more. Evaporating, moving away, distilling his essence from Vrianth’s.

They look. They notice the crystallization, the not-liquid, the not-lake. 

She looks, her hand lifted, only to find him already moving away. Near-gone. It's as though time has sped for him and not for them, as though he's been driven by the wind instead of into it.

And as they simultaneously notice Bremuth's slow distillation, Vrianth's immediate pleasure overrides Leova's confusion. That they can do! The green dragon deepens her appreciation for his hospitality, as it were, and in the next instant her constellation has vanished. Back into their own heads. Quicker than a heartbeat, more final than between.

Leova's smile has deepened, but it's Vrianth's, confusion still in her eyes. "Good night?" she thinks to call, after, and it's a tossup as to which will dominate her voice. Quieter, "Good night..."

As their thoughts draw apart, Bremuth’s posture finally shifts. His chin inclines downward, lids sinking lower over facets dancing with cerulean and jade. The wind seems to take hold of him, too, lifting along his keel until haunches are raised. The bleak length of his tail snakes out as if caught up in the gusts that rustle and sigh through the folds of his sails. The stark brown blows away across the bowl, towards the young man who holds against the wind to wait for him - L’vae, who pauses to turn a look back and lift an arm in a broad arch to Leova and her lifemate before the pair continues on their way.

Leova lifts her arm. An arch. A mirror. And then Vrianth takes her out, back out into the wind.
}}

Logs:Summer's Blown Away

2015-10-09T00:58:06Z

Varied: 2008. Moody!

{{Log
|who=L'vae, Leova
|what=Leova/Vrianth and L'vae/Bremuth meet one windy night.
|where=Lake Shore, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=6
|month=9
|turn=15
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2008.03.17
|quote=<< You seek. >>
|weather=The evening is clear, not a cloud to be seen, giving you a perfect view of the stars. The smaller Belior winks as a waxing crescent while Timor winks as a waning crescent. The wind whips harshly past you, boiling the lake's surface.
|type=Log
|ooc=Q: What do you do with a tranquil lake? A: Throw a rock in it.
|icons-new=Icon l'vae.jpg, Icon leova prowl on-the-move2.png, Icon leova vrianth smile-in-the-dark.jpg
|log=If they had been facing towards the bowl, they might have noticed someone approaching. Or maybe they would have been just too engrossed in each other anyway. Vrianth is crouched back on her hindquarters, wings out, letting the strong winds rock her. Leova is standing next to her, arms out, palms flat at the same angle. Vrianth's eyes are single-lidded. Leova's eyes are slitted. They play with the wind.

It is Bremuth who is first to intrude, the young brown making his lone way across from the barracks. His head is held lower than normal, on account of the wind, and a hint of tension even shows in wingarms as they hold sails safely folded. He stops a ways back from the pair playing in the wind. Watching. L'vae does appear shortly, however, long strides carrying him westward from the living caverns. He pauses beside the brown, sliding his hands in his pockets as a grin is lifted towards the other weyrlings. "Nice night," is called, for all his words may be whipped away by the gusts.

Vrianth and Leova look back at exactly the same time. Later on, perhaps, they will be able to perform the maneuver of Vrianth's circling to enclose Leova with her wings with more finesse, but as it is, Leova doesn't duck quickly enough and Vrianth doesn't lift her wings high enough and Leova gets knocked on the shoulder. Not hard. But there's anxiety on the wind now, Vrianth not keeping her emotions solely to herself and her lifemate, at least until Leova stands the rest of the way up again and rubs Vrianth's neck and the yellow sparks diminish in the young green's eyes in favor of rising, curious green. "What happened to summer?" the human calls.

(Bremuth to Vrianth) Bremuth loosens his own thoughts, soothing and placid. There is appreciation there also. For the wind, and the feeling of it.

Bremuth again is the first to act, the first to move. He pads forward slowly, closing the distance to Vrianth and Leova. His own sapphire gaze turns up to the girl and then settles on his sister. He stops a pace away. Close but not too close. L'vae follows in his brown's wake, a hand loosening from its pocket. The other remains buried, its wrist holding a book close against his hip. But that free hand, it gestures up. The wind catches at the palm, swaying the arm. "I think it must have blown away," is offered as he nears. His own eyes fix on Leova, smiling bright.

Perhaps, then, all became well that much sooner for the touch of Bremuth's thoughts. In any case, now Leova's smiling too. She hadn't been talking much at all since Vrianth found her, not in words. Perhaps the wind has begun to blow that away, too. "She wants to see summer," the woman says into the moving air, the dragon coiling about her even as Vrianth stretches out to sniff Bremuth, to sniff his rider, not touching. Not quite. "Nearly a Turn. Waiting."

"And what of winter?" L'vae asks curiously. Bremuth doesn't so much as shift as Vrianth stretches towards him, jade and cobalt chasing in a slow race across the facets of his eyes. His weyrling is not so immobile, turning a smile down to the exploring green. His own gaze tilts, lingering on that keen gaze before sliding to Leova. "You'll likely be joined in the sentiment, once the cold comes again. Do you think there's much chance we'll have another mild year like our last?"

"Winter comes," Leova guesses, looking at Vrianth as though that would help her check, only to become entranced with just watching her. Vrianth is, with the wind as it is, not nearly as inquisitive in motion as she might have been. Instead, she settles back onto her haunches where she can block her Leova from at least some wind, and looks back at Bremuth. And his rider. And how they touch, or do not touch. Finally Leova sighs and finds words again, a few at a time. "Yes. She knows it will be soon. Perhaps not mild. Not again. But she does love it warm so."

L'vae nods, his freed hand finding its pocket again. The wind forms small wings of his shirtsleeves, billowing them out from his elbows. Bremuth remains standing, giving himself to the wind. The gusts rock him, though he keeps his feet, and make pockets in his folded sails that mimic his rider's false wings. "How do you find it? Knowing now," the young man asks after a minute. "How it is." This seems to draw the brown's attention, for Bremuth turns his chin slightly up and towards his weryling.

Vrianth observes from her grounded perch, also, how Bremuth and his rider look at each other. Or do not look at each other. Bremuth looks, now, and she does not disturb it. Her rider has to think back, and then think some more. Eventually she murmurs, "Four lungs. Think it's four, anyway. Two hearts. Same breath..." Same blood. She starts to roll her eyes at herself but just winds up looking at Vrianth again.

Watching Leova intently, L’vae listens. Strains to hear those murmured words before the wind takes them. He is quiet in their wake, following his friend’s eyes to the green that has claimed her. “Physical.” The single word is dropped. Bremuth shifts again, this time sinking to his haunches while his gaze levels back to Vrianth. “Allowed, to be me.” He offers his own perspective. “And in that, to be one.” But there’s still a curve to his lip, still self-conscious. “I don’t know that I’ve... let go. As much as you.” And hasn’t that always been true?

"Part." Vrianth's gaze rests on Bremuth, brighter now for the attention. She sees how long he will look. "Good for him," her rider says. Has Leova let go? Or has she been swallowed up? Vrianth's eyes can fascinate, the keenness to their glow, the colors within them. The totality of her would fascinate even more. "Or wings I never had.... Do you need to?"

Bremuth’s serenity isn’t hoarded, nor is it forced outward. It is merely there, warmly coalescing about him. His being is but another lake, whipped by the wind – changed yet unchanged, cradled by old stone and blanketed by a sky of older stars.

L’vae seems he may be considering those very questions, even as he gets swept up in watching the currents of Vrianth’s keen gaze. “Yes.” He answers absently. As the word fades from his lips, he tears his eyes away from the green and swings them back to Leova. “No... I don’t know.” Again his gaze moves, now dropping down to the brown at his side. The brown whose eyes, sparkling pools of tranquility, have yet to leave Vrianth. The arm without the book lifts again, hand rubbing up behind his neck. It’s a long moment. “I don’t know who I am.” Softly. Honestly.

Vrianth witnesses the lake. She observes it for some time, more time than her lifemate may be aware of. And since Bremuth's presence is what it is, changing and unchanging, she finds a great need to throw a rock into it. Which is what she does: or tries, a curious ball of her-ness sent on a high arc up and then down towards it, to try and splash and see just how deep he goes.

Leova, meanwhile, is listening. Mostly she looks back at L'vae, but sometimes she checks on her dragon and his and then hers again. She doesn't say anything for some time, amber eyes reflecting him and what he's said. "Guess you'll find out," Leova finally says, a little wry: she's there too. Not /there/, but there. She remembers to flex her knees a few times, the way they had been taught for the sands, and smiles a little in remembering. And then Vrianth makes her move.

“Yeah,” L’vae agrees, a smile curling softly back on his lips. Fingers slow to a halt, still hanging from the back of his neck. The bent elbow sways, buffeted by the wind. His eyes remain on Bremuth, and there is perhaps the smallest of twitches to his brow. But, mostly, the brown’s calm seems to have extended to his weyrling so that the young man lapses into silence without tension.

What is water, to a rock? Bremuth neither flinches, nor resists. His peaceful fluidity parts, yielding to her plummet. Action, without action. Strength in flexibility. Bremuth, quite simply and serenely, is. There is no core to drive to, no bottom to scrape. And yet, currents stir – softer than the winds that scour their physical forms. As a stream may erode stone with time, he courses gently over that balled Vrianth-ness. More inviting than insistent, that envelopment in the awareness of all that surrounds them. A thought rises, its foreign concreteness echoed in the odd accenting of the words. << You seek. >>

She falls. No bottom. No core. Simply velocity. Through. Within. At some point out of time she responds: from awareness of invitation to willingly shifting her shape to see what the currents make of her, and then that rough gravel answer, << You. >> But the way Vrianth shifts is an even greater reply, awareness growing and changing, until as swiftly as she had made her earlier decision she decides again. And diffuses. It's intimate, her-ness increasingly all through his-ness, as though atom touched atom. They. Enlightenment, perhaps. 

Leova must be aware of some of this, of her lifemate's startling leap. She starts to say something, eyes gone black in rings of amber.

Closer. Less diffuse now, and more... dissolving. Too far. She seeks to breathe. Panics. The water electrifies with her shout.

Bremuth welcomes her, sharing his unpresuming certainty and his peaceful compassion. If she seeks him, this is what he is and it is given without hesitation. Undemanding intimacy, yes, and serene ripples of something like joy for their harmony. A harmony that is then broken by her panic – Vrianth’s electric discord is acknowledged by chasing flashes of silver across his awareness. Beacons, perhaps, offered for her guidance. << There is not control. >> Words come again, calm and in that accented tone. << Only be. >> A flicker again, light dancing on the planes of certain motes within the cloud. << You. >> 

L’vae is alerted, possibly through Bremuth, perhaps in noticing that Leova seems about to speak. Now there is certainly a furrow to his brow as he moves, taking the steps that bring him closer to his friend. Her face is searched, the look in her eye met with worry. “Leova?” he queries, his hand now reaching out for her shoulder. A glance is flashed towards Vrianth, towards Bremuth. “What is it? Are you all right?”

Concern swarms hotly in L’vae’s mind, shot through with stabs of helpless confusion. “What are you doing? What’s happening?” (To Bremuth from L’vae)

L'vae senses that Bremuth is untroubled. << Vrianth seeks. >> And to him, that explains it all.

Bremuth senses that L'vae isn’t exactly satisfied by this, confusion only growing as he tries to properly comprehend the dragon’s meaning.

She hasn't words for it. Leova doesn't. Not that Vrianth...

She will not relinquish. Will not float. Will not drift. It is well that he does not seek submission, for she will not submit. 

She begins to raise her hand. Nerves and muscles trigger in minute electrical impulses. She breathes neither in nor out.

Remember, however... that, she might do. She is herself. And more: her other self, her heart's delight. Spread her out, disorient her, still she is her selves. She is not to be disconnected. And much as those silver flashes signal himself within his self, all the elements of her are stars within her constellation.

Leova and Vrianth> << We are us. >> 

Their hearts beat.

They are. They are not calm, but they are no longer frightened. 

They breathe.

One of them senses, through the other, this not-place for the first time. These currents. These glints of silver light. Her exclamation is wordless. They do not need words. They buoy each other.

Which of course means that the first one wants to experiment again.

The second one, after a fraction of a heartbeat that is forever, reminds her of a different sort of lake. With pebbles. And fish. Little flashes of silver... that she can eat. << Look around again, and then we will go. >> 

She is still raising her hand. She has that distant, inward, talking-to-dragon look that is still so new. She's smiling.

Frowning, still searching, L’vae watches Leova. Watches as the rise of her breath halts, and then resumes again - takes in her smile and that distant look without being wholly reassured. A deep breath of his own is expelled in a quiet sigh. His eyes close, and he fades back a step, then two. When they open again, it is after his face has turned towards the barracks. “I was going to read.” There’s little emotion in his voice. “Try not to get swept away, out here?” There’s little expectation that any attention will be given to the words. So little, in fact, that without a glance back the young man leans into the wind and starts for the barracks.

Bremuth serves witness to the ebb of fear, the refusal to surrender. There is a brief, discordant crystallization that rimes about his thoughts. Disappointment. But it is not dwelt upon. He’s flowing again, balance without stasis. And now changing, even more. Evaporating, moving away, distilling his essence from Vrianth’s.

They look. They notice the crystallization, the not-liquid, the not-lake. 

She looks, her hand lifted, only to find him already moving away. Near-gone. It's as though time has sped for him and not for them, as though he's been driven by the wind instead of into it.

And as they simultaneously notice Bremuth's slow distillation, Vrianth's immediate pleasure overrides Leova's confusion. That they can do! The green dragon deepens her appreciation for his hospitality, as it were, and in the next instant her constellation has vanished. Back into their own heads. Quicker than a heartbeat, more final than between.

Leova's smile has deepened, but it's Vrianth's, confusion still in her eyes. "Good night?" she thinks to call, after, and it's a tossup as to which will dominate her voice. Quieter, "Good night..."

As their thoughts draw apart, Bremuth’s posture finally shifts. His chin inclines downward, lids sinking lower over facets dancing with cerulean and jade. The wind seems to take hold of him, too, lifting along his keel until haunches are raised. The bleak length of his tail snakes out as if caught up in the gusts that rustle and sigh through the folds of his sails. The stark brown blows away across the bowl, towards the young man who holds against the wind to wait for him - L’vae, who pauses to turn a look back and lift an arm in a broad arch to Leova and her lifemate before the pair continues on their way.

Leova lifts her arm. An arch. A mirror. And then Vrianth takes her out, back out into the wind.
}}

Logs:First Day of Autumn, Second Day of Dragons

2015-10-08T15:13:48Z

Varied: 2008.

{{Log
|who=Fraya, Leova, Lujayn
|what=Vrianth and Leova leave off exploring the training room so Vrianth can explore Rielsath, Rhadruth, and Fraya. There is oiling.
|where=Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=1
|month=9
|turn=15
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2008.03.16
|quote=That utterly smitten look. Again. Still.
|type=Log
|ooc=Dragon formatting preserved for posterity, now with added italics. We didn't have DTUs yet and made do!
|icons-new=Icon lujayn.jpg, Icon lujayn rielsath.png, Icon leova.jpg, Icon leova vrianth smile-in-the-dark.jpg
|log=Vrianth prowls one step ahead of her lifemate, brushing up against Leova's thigh. The doorway won't always be easy to navigate, and she won't always be able to fit in at all, not even with a hand on her silvery-sailed wings to help keep them close. But now she does, now she explores, and Leova has that utterly smitten look. Again. Still.

Lujayn finally sets aside the oil paddle, leaning back to look over her work. "And doesn't that feel much better," She reminds Rielsath, who is surveying the barracks in silence. "He sounds nice," Lu adds to Fraya with a smile. "From what Rielsath says, I mean, and everything you say." She turns to see Leova, eyes brightening yet again as Rielsath offers a croon of greeting to her sister. "Hey, Leova."

Vrianth curls a tight turn around Leova's legs, enough that the weyrling has to steady herself with a hand on that graceful neck, fingers slipping between neckridges. And isn't that what Vrianth must have had in mind all along? Now she emerges from Leova's other side and pads toward the familiar oil buckets. Slowly. Exploring. She croons to her elder sister, lower, rougher, and as she looks about the cavern her eyes are intensely green-shot blue.

''Vrianth to Rielsath> The young sister with the keen-faceted eyes prowls about your mind in the echoes of her returning croon, her thoughts the warm gravel-against-gravel reminiscent of their sire's speech. << You like this. The... paddle. >> She has more words than her beloved lifemate. She takes them. Hers.''

Fraya peeks at Vrianth and Leova, smiling gently and her head not leaving Rhudrath. The brown rumbles lowly, slowly it bubbles to a croon and leaves his throat in a happy tone. Fraya giggles softly slowly trailing into a full blown fit of laugher. "Oh! Oh Rhadruth.. Oh..." She trails off, covering her mouth. "Shh. Rhadruth. I'll tell you later..."

''Rielsath to Vrianth> Rielsath says, << Oh, that thing? It keeps me from itching, I s'pose. >> She stretches, languid in sunbeams. << It's better when Lujayn has to catch me first. >> A bright, mischevious glint.''

Vrianth contemplates Rielsath a moment longer, eyes even greener now, and twists sharply around her lifemate yet again. Caught you. Leova laughs. She murmurs something that isn't really words, and Vrianth moves on, approaching the much larger Rhadruth now. The lean-limbed green reaches out her muzzle to sniff towards his nose, leaning, her wings fanned back for balance.

"What's so funny?" Lujayn asks at once, attention taken from the returning Leova by Fraya's breathless laughter. Rielsath moves to peer towards Rhadruth equally curiously, though Vrianth receives a longer inspection complete with a happy whuff of air as the green moves on.

''Vrianth to Rielsath> Vrianth radiates the sensation of ''skin'' and oil and hide and ''hers'' for a possibly overwhelming moment, as intense as it is brief. But she returns as quickly to words. << Is it? And do you pounce upon her, also? >> Mottled paws. Tawny hair.''

''Vrianth to Rhadruth> Vrianth radiates the sensation of ''skin'' and oil and hide and ''hers'' for a sudden moment, talking to another but lapping over onto Rhadruth too. But it's gone as quickly, focused on Rhadruth himself. Closely. Curiously. He makes his lifemate laugh. How interesting. She sniffs him.''

''Rielsath to Vrianth> Rielsath replies with confidence, the warmtn in every word so inviting. << Oh yes, it's much better, >> The joy of play, freedom and open air all around. << 'Course I don't pounce her, though. She wouldn't be able to oil me if I did that. >> There's always some goal at the end, no matter the means taken.''

Fraya glances at Lujayn with a blush, giggling more. "Ah.. Nothing. Rhadruth is just.. Asking silly things." She beams a grin at the gold weyrling. "Don't worry about it, Lujayn." She looks to Leova as she laughs confused by the other girl's silence but she says nothing on it. Rhadruth considers Vrianth, rumbling with amusement and turning his head to give a gently nudge in greeting before curling against his rider again.

''Rhadruth to Vrianth> Rhadruth sends feelings of amusement and content and sending a scribbled and cartoonish picture of a gold dragon and eggs before her. Then dragons in the sky, protecting the Weyr but it lacks the gold dragon and the image returns to the gold on the sands with her eggs. Amusement comes forth once more before it fades but, Rhadruth's warm and tight embrace remains.''

''Vrianth to Rielsath> Vrianth lets that warmth tingle across her thoughts, gravel sun-touched for a moment. << If you are sure. >> She herself might be, might not be, but either way she lets it slip aside.''

Vrianth immediately leans into that nudge, rubbing up against Rhadruth's head and leaving her scent there. She curves her neck back when he curls up against his rider, though, and sniffs at Fraya now, but from a significant distance. Meanwhile, Leova crouches by the oil bucket and starts rubbing some to warmth between her hands.

Lujayn stretches out, unknowingly in mimicry of her lounging dragon, and listens to silent thoughts. "Can do," She replies less sharply to Fraya as Rielsath's tail sidles along her ankles, playful even in the drowsy afternoon. The pair is soon napping lightly, drifting in and out of vague dreams that keep Rielsath's tail twitching - but at least it's silent.

Rhadruth rumbles once more as Vriath leaves her scent upon him but he makes no movement to be rid of it. Instead he rests against his rider, eyes whirling lazily with content and amusement as he watches his green clutchmate. Fraya's watching the interaction between the two with a happy sigh before her eyes shift towards Leova curiously.

''Rhadruth to Vrianth> Rhadruth sends a picture, of his rider drawn with a child-like grace with crayons and cartoonish. Words form slowly and his big voice rumbles pleasantly. << This is my Fraya. My rider. I think that she smells wonderful. >> And his voice stays but the embrace is still there.''

Even as Fraya looks away from Vrianth, she grows distracted, her head turning and her crouch deepening as her large eyes spark greener yet. Tail. Twitching. Prey. She could... pounce. Never mind that her sister is considerably larger than she even now. She could... But just then Leova, who had been rubbing her hands together, claps them. Vrianth flows toward her instead, talons scrabbling against stone, and curls all around her lifemate to get oiled behind her headknobs and get lots of oil on Leova, too. When the woman can think to look up, it's to give Fraya a bit of a smile. Dragons. Who'd have thought?

''Vrianth to Rhadruth> And Vrianth observes this picture too before she goes. His Fraya. Whom he likes-loves-is. Whose smell he so enjoys. She knows her smell now, too. Rhadruth's rider's smell... << Yours. >> And then she slips away the rest of the way, towards her lifemate and her oiling and her touch and he might feel it, she's not being careful to be discreet, she's so happy. Hers.''

Fraya smiles back at Leova, closing her eyes but stroking her dragon lovingly. She whispers softly to him, the two sharing a whispered conversation. Slowly, Fraya begins to doze off and the brown following slowly with a contented rumble to fill the barracks.

And within that rumbly sound, the slosh and rub of hands against hide can barely be heard as Vrianth gets what she needs from her rider. And as her rider, therefore, does too.
}}

Logs:Seven

2015-10-08T14:42:32Z

Varied:

{{Log
|who=H'kon
|what=H'kon feels (melodramatically) inadequate.
|where=H'kon and Madilla's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=9
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.07
|mentions=Madilla
|type=Vignette
|ooc=Trigger warning: infertility.
|icons-new=Icon h'kon pleading.jpeg,
|log=H'kon lay on his side in the dark, next to Madilla, one arm bridging the gap, but space still between them. His hand rested on her abdomen, and he could feel her breaths beneath his thumb; steady, sleeping breaths. He half-counted them, repeating numbers, starting over, losing himself to the loops and patterns.

Seven, he would always reach. Seven, he would often repeat. Seven times, now, that their attempts had proved fruitless. One, two, three, they hadn't bothered her so much. Not as these last few months, when he could feel the sadness of her, straight through his chest. But he'd known, hadn't he, been counting from the first.

It had been a convenience before. The women he'd chosen were generally not those he'd have wanted any alliance with, and he'd known not all of them were conscientious about their trips between. It had worked in his favour, then. Now...

H'kon withdrew his hand as the nth seven devolved again to one. The space between them was greater still.

Perhaps it had been the wine, the atmosphere, the sense of pride and important at being there, his love on his arm, both of them in all their finery and before so many others. That night, it had not been an invasion; that night, he'd allowed it to be a boast. Perhaps it had gone to his head.

Perhaps, again, it was only a sliver of honesty. Madilla must have known his heart on the matter, these past turns; only Arekoth knew him better. Perhaps he'd simply not been able to bring himself to divert her with what was too close to a lie.

But that was self-serving. That decision was no kindness, but another sort of lie, and a crueler one, for what it promised and what it would not deliver.

''I want another baby. I want ''your'' baby.''

He'd let it get to the baser part of him, where it soothed that bit of jealousy he'd never been fully rid of, jealousy born early on, before her children had come to be his family also. Another failing from him, leading only to more still.

H'kon turned over, to his other side, right up to the edge of the bed, a chasm between them now, the distance of planets, where all he'd not been able to give her was left to solidify in the cold.

He forced his breathing to slow, counting each breath to seven, and he wondering how high a number he might reach before they could tolerate it no longer, and would put an end to it.
|Categories=General Logs, Angst Logs
}}

Logs talk:Seven

2015-10-08T14:41:23Z

Varied: Comment provided by Leova - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Seven]]
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==Madilla (15:28, 7 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

D:
==Faryn (16:18, 7 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

;_;
==Edyis (18:21, 7 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

D: so heartbreaking.
==Farideh (18:27, 7 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Oh, H'kon. Why. :(
==Alida (18:55, 7 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Poor H'kon. :(
==Leova (07:41, 8 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Awful.

Logs talk:Rosvelth's Candidate

2015-10-07T06:33:43Z

Varied: Comment provided by Varied - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Rosvelth's Candidate]]
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==Varied (23:33, 6 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Rhey names Rosvelth? Lycinea ''must'' be inspiring. I like watching them pick at each other.

And ''Rosvelth''. Yes, make sure everyone knows she's his. XD

Logs talk:Coda

2015-10-07T06:28:07Z

Varied: Comment provided by Leova - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Coda]]
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==Edyis (21:16, 6 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Aww, Alida. -hugs-
==Leova (23:28, 6 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

That is one pricey burial, with his instruments. How sad for Alida. I appreciated the note of their more private rituals, it really rang true.

Logs talk:Where Are The Linens?

2015-10-07T06:22:31Z

Varied: Comment provided by Leova - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:Where Are The Linens?]]
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==Leova (23:22, 6 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Wouldn't have survived without nannies. Even with an Anvori. Good luck. May ''you'' not have twins.